Ida Liked to Meet Her
Standing on the Ponte Sisto Bridge in Italy not two weeks ago, I was listening to a couple of street musicians—one guy with a standard guitar and the other with what I’d call an ukulele.
John was not far, but still back at I Dolci Di Nonna Vincenza pastry shop selecting some pre-dinner dessert cannoli (Yes, this is an appetizer dessert also known as “first dessert”). We were headed to Trastevere across the river for gnocchi “first dinner” and I didn’t want to miss the sunset on the bridge along the way. John didn’t want to miss the cannoli. On foot and aimed toward the nobler route, I suggested we meet on the Ponte Sisto. I’d wait for him there.
I know it makes no good sense to be in a funk when you’re on vacation, but whatever. I was. I was funky. I’ve found that life tends to illustrate examples of juxtaposition wherever it wants. Even and maybe especially over the Tiber in Rome. There had been a series of unfortunate events and I was feeling a little beleaguered that day, a little beaten up. I don’t know, perhaps I was carb-starved; I hadn’t eaten pasta in a solid hour.
Standing on a five-hundred-centuries-plus-old-bridge, sparsely littered with people, I watched the sun beginning to set behind the smiling, sweetly singing musicians. The young men grinned when I took their photos. The smiles grew bigger when I tossed a couple of euros in the velvety guitar case at their feet.
I looked out at the Tiber and remembered many years ago when I’d walked down there alone and got a whiff and a stinky, rude awakening. There’s some real funk down there below the bridge. I quickly ascended the steps that day and since then, enjoy the river view from above, on the bridge as I was today.
You know how you can sometimes feel someone looking at you? I had that vibe. So I looked to my right and saw her. I made eye contact with the fifty-something woman standing maybe five feet away from me. Her body was sort of angled sideways toward Trastevere, but with her head turned toward me as she smiled, like she was trying to not be so obvious. She failed at her attempt. I smiled back at her and she slowly inched toward me. As the musicians continued to sing and strum, she leaned in and half-whispered. I couldn’t pinpoint her accent, but I assumed it was an Italian hybrid. She used her hands to thoughtfully punctuate the heart I could see in her eyes.
There was something about her. I was instantly drawn into her gaze and I stood rapt.
What came out of her mouth was that I “looked very nice.” She said she liked watching me because I had a beautiful spirit. She cupped her hands a few inches from my face the way my gramma Josephine used to, but without going the extra inch and pinching my cheeks like gramma would. She asked me where I was from and why I was in Rome. I told her my name, that I was vacationing with my husband who was getting cannoli, and I asked what her name was. She said Ida. She said she moved to Rome long ago to marry her husband, who’s Italian. She put her hand to her chest, still smiling, and said, “I’m from Nazareth.”
There were pauses, but Ida never broke her kind smile. I bet I hadn’t stopped smiling, either. It all felt a little awkward but in a sweet way that I didn’t want to stop. Eventually, I said, “Okay, well, it was nice to meet you, Ida,” and she reached her hand to to take mine.
We said goodbye and I truly can’t remember who walked away first. I felt calm, complete, clean.
Thinking about the encounter, I began zig-zagging toward the Trastevere end of the bridge when I looked back and saw John approaching. He looked curious. He’d seen me shaking hands with the woman.
I told John the story and that her name was Ida.
He smiled and said, “Ida liked to meet her.”
I don’t know what made me happier, John’s quick pun (he’s coming along nicely), or the fact I’d met a woman from Nazareth, who raised me from the funk.