Sisterchicks in Gondolas! Read Online Free Page B

Italian, but ‘espresso’ is an Italian term.”
    Sue and I nodded, but honestly, I hadn’t paid much attention before. Although I did love ordering a caramel
macchiato
every now and then, just so I could say the lilting word aloud. Especially if I decided to have the
venti
size.
    “Are you ready for me to try to impress you with my Italian?” Steph asked.
    “Of course we are,” Sue said sweetly.
    “Espresso
comes from the phrase,
espressamente preparato per chi lo richiede
, and that means, ‘expressly prepared for the one who requests it.’ Paolo holds to that tradition. Each cup is made expressly for you. It’s an Italian hospitality thing.”
    “It’s a wonderful hospitality thing.” I returned to my cup for another sip.
    Across from the café, a young man stepped into the shade of one of the four-story buildings and opened a violin case. He tuned up and began to play out in the open, as if this were a great concert hall and today was first audition. We were the only audience sitting and listening.
    “How beautiful,” I murmured.
    “Vivaldi.
Four Seasons.”
Sue hummed along with the tune that was only slightly familiar to me. “He’s very good. And look at him, just standing out there in the middle of the street, playing his heart out. You would never see something like that where we live.”
    “You’ll see musicians everywhere in Venezia,” Steph said. “And you’ll hear a lot of Vivaldi while you’re here. Vivaldi lived in Venezia, you know. Venetians love to perform his work. Make sure you go to San Marco at least onenight while you’re here. My favorite orchestra is at the Florian, but all of them are good. You’ll be charged a lot just to sit and listen, but that’s part of being in Venezia, right?”
    I wasn’t sure what Steph was talking about, but I was sure that Sue’s tour book would explain what the Florian was and why we should go listen to the orchestra playing there.
    Steph pulled a few coins from her purse, and Sue and I did the same. We managed to come up with enough euros to cover the bill Paolo had left on the table.
    “What about the tip?” Sue asked.
    Steph brushed off the notion. “You can round up the total if you like. Locals don’t tip at the small cafés and
trattorias
. Only tourists.”
    “At the cafés and what?” Sue asked.
    “Trattorias. They’re the small lunch places. They look like bars and have simple menus with sandwiches and some pasta dishes. Some are called
osterias.”
    Sue gave Steph a confused look.
    “You’ll figure it out. There are lots of places to eat here. All you have to remember is that if you want to be treated like a local, don’t leave a big tip at a small place like this. It’s practically an insult. You can tip at the nicer restaurants if you want, but the service fee usually is included.”
    “That’s a change from home,” Sue said.
    “A lot of the men here who work as waiters do this as acareer choice. They’re not working their way through school. This is their dream job. They love to serve and to socialize. Paolo, for instance, is the fourth-generation owner of this café. His great-grandfather, also named Paolo, started the café more than a hundred years ago. And most Venetians would consider this a ‘new’ café. Venezia is a tight, traditional community. They still see themselves as pretty independent from the rest of Italy.”
    We all called out our farewells to Paolo. He blew a kiss at us. Well, I’m sure the kiss was aimed at Steph, but it still was nice to be next to her when the kiss came her direction.
    Steph pretended to ignore the attention and led us across the Campo Apostoli in the opposite direction from the lone violinist. Her skirt swished with each step she took down an alleyway in her clicking, low-heeled sandals. Sue and I trotted behind, coaxing our wheeled luggage over the uneven pavement and trying to prove that for a couple of “mature” women, we still rocked. Well, rocked according to