Taking Tuscany by Renée Riva Read Free Book Online

tried to help Nonna into the front seat. She told him to get his cotton-pickin’ hands off of her. Poor Daddy. He really tries, but Nonna won’t give him an inch. He has to drive all the way to San Gimignano enduring Nonna’s commentary on what a scemo del villaggio he is. Village idiot.

    San Gimignano is a walled medieval city upon a hill. It’s perched on one of the highest lookout points, partway between Siena and Florence. Daddy insists on parking at the bottom of the hill so we can all work up an appetite getting up there. I think he needs to air out a little after listening to Nonna all the way here. He’s probably hoping it will wear her out so she’ll have less to say for the rest of the afternoon.
    It’s a steep trek to the top, but once you get there, you feel like you’re on the top of the world. There’s an open marketplace where people sell their goods, artists paint pictures, and restaurants have a panoramic view as far as the eye can see. It’s as good a place as any to turn fourteen.
    â€œOkay, birthday girl, choose your bistro!” Another birthday tradition in this family—we either get to choose the meal we want Mama to cook for us, or the restaurant we want to eat at. We’ve all wised up over the years. Beyond macaroni and cheese, everyone’s better off with plan B. Of course, I choose the restaurant at the summit. That works for everyone but Nonna, who complains the entire way up. It’s all worth it once we reach the top, though. We’re seated at an outdoor table with a knockout view. And a darn cute waiter to go with it.
    Everything is white tablecloths and napkins here, the kind you don’t want to spill anything on. The waiter comes by and asks for our drink order. I’m doing my best to explain in Italian what a Shirley Temple is. He keeps nodding, but I’m not sure he really gets what I’m saying. I tell him “7UP con lo sciroppo rosso,” 7UP withred syrup. Won’t be the first time something I’ve ordered comes back wrong. It’s become entertainment for the entire family to see what these Italians come up with when we try to order something American style.
    Without warning Mama reaches into her humongous metallic red handbag and pulls out a big gold box. “Open it!” she says.
    There is always cause for hesitation when Mama’s excited about something she’s picked out for me. I don’t recall the last time I actually liked something she bought for me—I think it may have been a pink jumper when I was three years old.
    I slowly untie the big gold bow, while trying to peek under the lid—just to know what to brace myself for. Oh, good golly. I’ve trained myself to smile no matter what … but … this? I lift out the most horrific one-piece, shimmery silver unit that looks like it’s made from fish scales. “What is it?”
    â€œIt’s a jumpsuit.” Mama looks thrilled over her selection.
    â€œA jumpsuit?” As in something so incredibly ugly you want to jump off a cliff in it?
    â€œAdriana helped me pick it out on our shopping trip in Rome. Adriana says …”
    I know, I know … it’s the latest thing in fashion this year.
    â€œâ€¦ it’s the latest thing in fashion this year.”
    Maybe for reptiles. “It’s very … shiny. Thank you.” I’ll be sure and wear it the first day of school so everyone can establish right from the get-go that I’m a total dork. Thank goodness for uniforms.
    â€œGo try it on while we’re waiting for our drinks,” Mama insists.
    Are you joking? “Here?”
    â€œSure. Just slip it on in the ladies’ loo—I’m dying to see it on you.”
    It’s futile to fight Mama once she makes up her mind that she wants to see something on you. The last time she pulled this was in Florence, where she insisted I try on some black leather pants