“Really? How come?”
“Lots of people feel that way. America is a fascinating country.”
It’s not really an explanation, but she’s also not wrong.
We get out onto the street and she says, “Okay. Today, we walk. Yeah?”
I nod and she heads to our left. Most of the shops and restaurants I’ve experienced so far here have been to the right, so already, I feel like I’m heading into new territory.
“It’s not far,” she promises, and I fall into step next to her.
“What are we doing today?”
“Well…” She stops at a corner, and we wait for traffic.
Have I mentioned the traffic in Rome? Drivers here are nuts. Like, certifiable. Too fast, careless, reckless. Worse than drivers in Massachusetts, and that’s saying something.
“You said you needed romantic inspiration, and one of the things I find couples enjoy greatly is taking a cooking class together.”
“Okay, you’ve piqued my interest,” I admit.
“Good.” We don’t have to go far. In about fifteen minutes, we reach our destination—a small restaurant that I probably wouldn’t have even noticed if I was hurrying down the street. Marina holds the door open for me. “Let’s cook.”
It’s a pasta-making class. I can see that as soon as we walk in and are led to the back of the tiny restaurant, then down a very narrow flight of stairs. There are a few other people there, and the space is surprisingly large, given the small area we justwent through upstairs. There are six tables set up, three on each side, and one in the front where a woman stands. She’s wearing a white chef’s coat and a smile, which gets even bigger when she sees Marina, and she squeals like a teenager at a boy band concert.
Marina goes to her and they hug, clearly happy to see each other, babbling in Italian and laughing. After a moment, Marina holds out an arm to me and says, “Anna, this is my friend, Lily Chambers.”
I hold out a hand to shake Anna’s but she waves it away and hauls me into a tight hug. “Any friend of Marina is a friend of mine,” she says in perfect, accented English. “Welcome.”
I thank her and she indicates one of the three empty tables for us. The other three are occupied by what I observe to be a married couple (they’re wearing matching wedding bands), a family of three (the young daughter looks just like the father), and another couple, marital status unavailable to me.
Two burgundy aprons are folded neatly on the table, along with utensils and bowls. Marina hands me one, then puts the other on herself. It looks great on her, of course. She pulls her hair back into something messy and cute as what looks to be a family of four filters in from the staircase: a mother, father, and two twin boys of maybe eight or nine. They take the table behind us.
“I think we’re all here,” Anna says. “We’ve got quite a mix today, and everybody speaks English, so that’s what I’ll teach the lesson in, okay? Let’s go around the room and say where we’re from, shall we?”
“Introvert’s nightmare,” I whisper to Marina, who grins at me. The first couple is from Australia, the family of three is from Germany, the couple behind them is Canadian, and the family of four is also from Australia. “I’m from the United States,” I say. “Specifically New York.”
Anna gives a nod. “We usually have more Americans, so you’ll have to represent your country on your own.” She smiles at me, then looks at the class and holds out her arms as she says, “Today? We make pasta.”
From a doorway to her right, which I hadn’t noticed before, three more people in chef’s coats enter the room carrying trays. They supply each table with ingredients. Eggs and water and semolina, to name a few.
“Have you done this before?” I ask Marina.
Her smile is instant. “I’ve taken Anna’s class dozens of times, and I’ve made pasta with my mother about a million.”
I frown. “I hope it won’t be too boring for you.”
“No way. I’m going to enjoy watchingyoumake pasta.” She bumps me with a shoulder, and for reasons I can’t explain, I like her answer. Then she lowers her voice and leans close. “I think you should pay attention to that couple.” She indicates the married pair from Australia. He’s tall and a little gangly, and she’s cutely plump. They haven’t stopped smiling since we got here. “Anna says they’re on their honeymoon.”
“Well, that explains the canoodling,” I say in a whisper.
Marina’s dark brow furrows. “Can—what?”
I laugh quietly. “Canoodling. Like, being touchy-feely, heads close together, that kind of thing.”
“Oh. Being in love, you mean.”
I blink at her once before nodding. “Yeah. That.”
