13 Little Blue Envelopes(31)
She finally found an American quarter at the bottom of the bag. It seemed as good an offering as any. She lobbed it softly onto the grass between two of the statues, then pulled out the next letter. It was painted all over with pictures of tiny cakes.
“Okay,” she said, tearing open the seal. “What now?”
137
#6
Dear Virginia,
Sorry. If there was ever a moment to use your
proper name, this seemed like it. (This is one of
those things that isn’t funny . . . isn’t it?)
So here you are, standing around in a big
courtyard of broken stuff, probably surrounded by
tourists. (You are not a tourist . . . you are on a
quest. You are a quest . . . ioner. Ooh. I should
stop, huh?)
Anyway, what do we learn from this, Gin? What
do our girls the vestals tell us?
Well, for a start, single chicks are powerful
chicks. And in some situations, dating can be bad
for you. However, since at least a handful of the
vestals risked everything for a little loving, we
also know that . . . sometimes, it just feels like
it’s worth it.
See, I had a problem, Gin. I was very into this
idea of being a single woman, committed to a
higher purpose, like the vestals. The way I saw it,
the great artists didn’t want to be comfortable.
They wanted to struggle—alone—them against the
world. So I wanted to struggle.
Whenever I got too comfortable anywhere, I felt
like I had to move on. I did it with all kinds of
things. I quit whenever I started liking a job too
much. I broke up with guys whenever things got too
serious. I left New York because I was just too
content. I wasn’t moving forward. I know that it
must have been hard when I left without a word . . .
but that’s how I always did it. I would sneak off
like a thief in the night, maybe because I knew
there was something just a little bit wrong about
what I was doing.
At the same time, I still have this thing about
Vesta . . . this love of the home. Part of me wanted
to embrace that. I love this idea of a goddess who
guards the fire, blesses the house. I am a mass of
contradictions.
One of her other symbols was bread, anything
baked. Bread was life itself to the Romans. On
Vesta’s holiday, animals used to be decorated with
garlands of cake. Garlands of cake! (Screw flowers.
Can you imagine any garland better than a garland
of cake? I can’t.) So, let’s take this idea and
celebrate Vesta with some cake. But let’s do it the
proper Roman way.
I want you to ask a Roman boy out for cake. (Or
girl, if that turns out to be your preference. But
good luck with that—Roman women are tigresses.)
For the sake of argument, I’m going to say boy
because Roman boys are some of the most amusing
creatures on earth. You are a beautiful girl, Gin,
and a Roman boy will tell you that in his own
special way.
Unless things have changed a lot, Gin, I am going
to guess that this will be hard for you. You were
always so shy. It bothered me because I was worried
that people might not get to know the wonder that
was and is my niece Virginia Blackstone! But fear
not. The Romans will help you. If there was ever a
city to learn how to ask a stranger out, this is it.
Get out there, tiger. Let them eat cake.
Love,
Your Bundle of Issues Aunt
Boys and Cake
This bordered on being a nightmare scenario. This was adding insult to injury.
She followed the tour group out of the Colosseum and
meandered along with them for almost an hour, stewing over this latest command. Go see old virgins! Now ask a strange boy out, you shy, retarded thing!
She didn’t want to ask a boy out. She was shy (thanks for bringing it up). Plus, the guy she liked was in London, and he thought she was crazy. Salt. Wound. Together at last.
The tour group stopped in a large square with a crowd in the middle, all gathered around a fountain, clearly very old, carved into the shape of a sinking boat. Some dipped their hands in and drank the water. The group suddenly dispersed, leaving Ginny to her own devices once again.
She was thirsty. Her every instinct told her that she shouldn’t be drinking fountain water, especially really old fountain water, 143
but lots of people were doing it. Plus, she really needed a drink.
She took her empty bottle from her bag, found an opening along the edge, and tentatively reached out to the spray. She took a long sip and was rewarded with cold, fresh water—water that tasted very safe. She drained her bottle and filled it again.
When she turned around, three little kids were running at her. Strangely, one was holding a newspaper. They were all girls, and they were extremely beautiful, with long, very dark brown hair and bright green eyes. The tallest of the girls, who couldn’t have been older than ten, came right up to Ginny and started flapping the newspaper at her, shaking the pages. In the next second, a tall, kind of thin guy with a huge book suddenly leapt up from where he was sitting and started running at her as well, yelling things in Italian. Ginny involuntarily took a step back and heard a little squeal. She felt her foot come into contact with a tinier foot and her daypack make contact with a small, helpless face. She realized that the little girls were all circling, sort of dancing around her, and any move she made might result in taking another one of them out with her feet or bag, so she froze and started apologizing, even though she realized that they probably would not understand a word she was saying.