Narrative Story

“What if I bought you some gelato? Would you come with me then?”
“Yes,” I said without hesitation, practically jumping into her car. It smelled like her and was extremely clean. I would follow her every day after school in the center of town. She would sit in her chair behind the counter stringing pearls. She said one day she might give me a necklace if she had extras. When she saw my face peeping through the window, she would beckon for me to come in and I would do so, timidly.
Franca was one of my few friends in Scandiano, Italy. There was a great view of the hills from my bedroom window and I went hiking there a few times. My mom moved the family, my brother and me, there while she was on sabbatical. It was my freshman year. The people were so very kind and the language was so beautiful that I fell in love at once with the country. The first day we were in town, our neighbor came over with a huge piece of chocolate. Since then she’s known my weakness for sweets and that’s how she got me into her car that day. We went to Reggio Emilia to pick up an order for her jewelry store and I got the Stracciatella ice cream she had promised me. Later, Franca taught me how to make Italian tortelli. She rolled the dough as I put the paste in the middle.
School was very difficult, having to learn Italian subjunctive grammar and Latin verbs. Especially the oral exams, which I answered in broken Italian. The Italian kids weren’t too interested in an outsider like me and mostly kept to themselves. A girl from Morocco and one from Ukraine would talk to me a lot and help me understand the assignments. Whenever I was done with my homework and had nothing to do (the TV was broken), I would head up to Franca’s apartment. She would let me pick the cherries and figs that grew on her trees in the backyard.
It was autumn, the leaves were starting to turn colors, and suddenly it was Halloween. I invited a few classmates over to celebrate this bizarre American holiday. We had all dressed up as witches with our black hats. Most of the houses we visited were oblivious to the trick-or-treating system. One lady gave us a piece of nut cake she had just baked and another gave us a basket of sticky cough drops. In the apartments, we rang the doorbells and yelled for them to throw us candy. They floated down in plastic bags delicately, sustained by the wind for a few seconds. We also had a five minute encounter with an elderly man who couldn’t understand what we wanted from him.
My stepfather, Danilo, brought us to his dusty attic once to taste his homemade vinegar. It was the most delicious liquid I had ever tasted. The sweetness of the balsamic and the burn of the acid was a perfect combination. I would sneak spoonfuls of it from his kitchen when he wasn’t looking. We picked white grapes when he brought us to his vineyard. After squashing the sweet grapes, we tasted his wine from the previous year. I loved it so much that I drank enough to smack my eye when I tried to find my nose. On his green farm he had a herd of goats. I immediately fell in love with the adorable Pepe and trained him to give me kisses and sit on my lap.
The next holiday was Thanksgiving. We invited Franca, her husband Franco, and Danilo to dinner. I made turkey with stuffing and mashed potatoes. The pie was made from a real pumpkin that we squashed and had a very distinguished flavor. It was nowhere near as good as my grandmother’s but it was special because it was eaten with my new Italian family. Franca had practically adopted me as her granddaughter. We had a gallon of corn relish left over, which we gave to every person we knew, passing it off as a popular American delicacy.
On the day before we left, the house was full of tears. After going through that whole experience I was leaving with the fondest of memories and new friends for life. As promised, Franca gave me a little box. I knew immediately what treasure lay inside.