“We’re not far from the ocean. Next week, we’ll go to the beach.”
“I won’t survive a week in this.”
He laughs. “Here, let’s go in here and you can look for some gifts to send home.”
It’s a brilliant plan. The shop he leads me into is small but nearly empty, and more importantly, there’s a window unit pumping out cold A/C that I can stand right in front of. I close my eyes and put my face right up to it until I’m sure my nose has frostbite. After, I peruse the aisles, picking up little things for my family and friends. I get my parents some olive oil harvested from a farm near Rome, and for Kristen and Melissa, I pick up two small bottles of limoncello.
In the stationery section, I grab a handful of cheesy postcards I can use throughout the few weeks I’m here. The shop also has a whole display of cards with embossed initials for people who want a personalized touch. I see N and think of Noah.
It’s not the first time he’s made an appearance in my thoughts this morning. Not the second or third time, either.
Back near the limoncello, there were small chocolate bars lined up in neat rows. The one with almonds would have been too tempting for him to pass up. He’s a chocolate fiend. It’s the same reason I thought of him when I saw there were zeppoles dipped in a chocolate ganache back at the café. I have memories spliced together in my head of every time Noah’s walked past my classroom door with a treat from the teachers’ lounge in hand. He’s never once passed up a dessert. And if it’s chocolate? Fahgettaboutit.
On the street outside the souvenir shop, a group of boys were playing a pick-up game of soccer. I know Noah plays in a rec league back home. He was on scholarship in college, in fact, on track to go pro and everything, but he blew out his knee his junior year. I looked into his career one night when I’d had an extra glass of wine and my curiosity got the best of me. It’s wild what you can find on YouTube. There were highlight reels and recruitment videos all put up by his high school and college coaches and never taken down. I watched every video I could get my hands on, hyper-focused, mouth slightly agape, and then, realizing how far I’d gone into Stalkerville, I slapped my laptop shut and stuffed it underneath a couch pillow.
I wonder if Noah would have asked the boys outside the shop to let him kick the ball around for a bit. Or maybe I need to stop thinking about what Noah would or would not do if he were with me. Who. Cares.
I take the stationery with the embossed N and flip it around.
Lorenzo tells me the store can package and ship my souvenirs for me for a small fee. I pay it, glad to skip a trip to the post office.
“Should we walk some more?” Lorenzo asks as we head outside.
“For a bit, but then I should head back just to make sure everything is okay with the kids. They’ll be on lunch break soon.”
The morning plays out like no date I’ve been on before. Lorenzo isn’t a common love interest so much as an experienced tour guide. As someone who knows so little about history, especially European history, I soak in every word he says like a sponge.
We’re almost back to the school when he insists we stop over at a church. It’s not open to the public yet, but he pays a security guard to let us sneak in for a few minutes before the crowds descend. I know there have to be hundreds of churches in Rome, but when we walk into the dark chapel, I realize immediately why Lorenzo has brought me to this one. I’m struck by the most astounding sculpture. The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa by Bernini, he tells me. One of the most important examples of Baroque art in Rome.
The sculpture actually consists of two figures sculpted in white marble: a woman shown lying on a cloud, and an angel standing above her, holding a golden spear aimed at her heart.
“It depicts Teresa of Avila and her encounter with an angel,” Lorenzo explains. “Bernini captured the exact moment of her religious ecstasy, the second before the angel pierces her heart and leaves her with a great love of God.”
The sculpture is dramatic and lifelike. Saint Teresa’s dress is made of draped silk, intricately carved by Bernini’s masterful hands.
“It’s a little controversial too. Art critics are divided about Teresa’s expression, whether she’s experiencing an intense state of divine joy, or…” Lorenzo clears his throat and wipes a hand across his lips, trying to stifle a smile. I suddenly get it. An orgasm. Teresa very nearly looks like she’s moaning with pleasure. Damn Bernini.
“Some devout Catholics expressed outrage that Bernini would debase such a holy experience by depicting it this way. Others argue that it’s merely a spiritual awakening.”