I spent the better part of the past 24 hours in a fevered fog, which was also alarmingly interrupted by a colossal toddler nosebleed. Most of the my morning was passed laid out on the floor in the living room. Lunch and a garden visit with Miss Busy followed.
Our sitter arrived after lunch and took Eleanor out to play, along with her own 8 year old daughter, who is adorable. I crawled up to Victor’s top bunk and immediately rolled over into a dreamless sleep.
After dinner we all agreed that it was the perfect time to head out to the park. Eleanor got her sandals on before Victor, so I wanted behind with him while Jason and Miss Busy headed out first. I begged Victor to join me for some medicinal gelato. He was an easy convert to my plan, and we walked up Carducci to the ATM for cash. Victor is very good at cash withdrawals. he probably has all our pins memorized now. In fact, I am sure of it.
We walked to Procopio on Pietrapiana.
“Get me some gelato,” Jason texted me.Victor selected fragola/panna, with sprinkles on top. I went for caffe bianco/baba rhum. Jason would be enjoying fragola/limone e basilico.
“Come on,Victor!” I urged him as we trotted along the street in a race against time with the extra coppa of gelato for Jason. I stopped to manage minor drips and to proactively like the sides.
“Come on! Come on!”
We arrived at the park in Piazza d’Azeglio and Eleanor was now on the slide. We quickly transferred the third coppa to Jason, and I went to the big kid swings to oversee our two sweaty, sticky charges. I looked around and quickly noted that were were well into Expat Hour: 8:30 pm, a decidedly unsalubrious hour for any Italian child to continue playing in the park. (Plus, ORA DI CENA.) I noted southeast Asians, many pale children, a handful of Africans in the calcetto mini arena.
I ran to throw my refuse away in a trashcan nearby, and saw out of the corner of my eye that a much bigger boy was trying to take the swing from her. I could tell in her initial whimper that she was gearing up. I walked faster back to the swing.
The boy’s mother, however, beat me to it. and immediately knelt down and started speaking to Eleanor, who was still miffed and fussing. I walked up and greeted her. She was in full hijab.
Are these your boys? I asked her.
No, no Italian, she said.
You… Italian?
No, I said. Americana.
Wow! she said, her eyes widened.
Umm, grazie? I said. Not so great at the moment, but ok.
My sister USA.
Dove? I asked.
No English… no English.
We were unable to determine the location of the sister.
We worked out that the woman was from Egypt.
Cairo? I asked.
Yes, yes, she nodded.
She was really nice.
Her boys, aged about 3, 7, and 10, eyed us.
You.. Arabic?
No, not really, I said. Shokran, afwan, merhaba, mumtaza, la.
She laughed with obvious pleasure.
Mumtaza!
Umm, not really but thanks. You … tourist?
Furrowed brow.
Poco tempo? Tourist?
No English, no English.
Her little boy had to pee so she took him around to the back hedge where everyone does this. Victor and Eleanor begged to play squirt guns, which I had brought in a large cloth bag from the apartment. We all went to fill them up with water from the fountain.
The two older boys looked with longing from the edge of the playground. They were handsome; the middle one had a small scab on his nose where it looked like it may have taken a direct hit from some sort of flying toy. Jason, Victor, and Eleanor started hosing each other down. The Egyptian boys smiled. You could see their hands itching to play. The oldest boy wandered off, but the middle boy stayed. Jason finally turned to him and offered him our SuperSoaker.
Here, take it, he said. Go get him, motioning to Victor.
That little Cairene boy’s evening suddenly got 100% better, He and Victor whooped and hollered, chasing each other around the pavement, freely squirting each other. Victor was totally cool with dad handing off the SuperSoaker to another boy – in fact, he seemed overjoyed that another boy was squirting him back.
The mother came back from the pee excursion and began to take video on her phone of the squirt gun festival. The games continued. Eleanor appeared to be writing her name on a wall with her little squirt pistol. She eventually squirted a few dirty pigeons but wasn’t really feeling it. Soon, it got darker, and the mosquitoes came out, so we asked the Egyptian boy for the squirtgun back, and poured the remaining water into the drain.
Shokran, shokran, the mother said.
Buona notte, we said. Buona notte.
Eleanor waved from my shoulder, Ciao.
