He turns to me, his harsh face turns to a glow as his eyes fall on me and he leans towards me to speak because the room is filled with dishes and beer mugsclinking.The waitresses wear Bavarian styled uniforms and their arms are laden with plates and trays.
“Dritë e syrit,” he replies as he hugs me to him like he would a small child.
“Papa, how are you?” I hug him and even though I’m five feet six, he’s inches taller.
“Fine, fine.” He releases me. “Did you have a good time?” His voice is heavy and his eyes look tired.
“Always.” I smile; he knows I love to ski.
I move from my dad to the man beside him, who has several years on Papa but he has taken me in like he would if I was his own. “Uncle Besnik.”
We exchange a hug and kiss each other on each cheek. He’s more like a second father than an uncle. I’ve always called him uncle even though we are not related.
“Drink with us,” Papa encourages me. His face has a reddish flush to it, which is common for the altitude and the sunburn from the sun’s glare off of the snow. Not that he’s on the slopes much.
“No, thanks.” I smile demurely.
Papa chuckles and orders another drink, but his boisterous behavior tells me he’s been drinking for some time.
There’s nothing wrong with having some fun. He seems to be a bit stressed lately so this mini vacay came at a good time.
The flower shop is always busy before Christmas, but I took the time off knowing my employees can handle things for a few days. I rarely get away and when I do, it’s not for long. Soon, the holidays will be here, and I’ll be working around the clock.
Overall, life is good.
“Ah, have a drink, Prende,” Besnik nudges me. He considers us his family, and as far as I know, he doesn’t have one of his own. And to avoid spending the holidays alone, he spends the holidays with us and always has a seat at our dinner table.
“Maybe just an Amaretto vodka with raspberry-white chocolate liqueur.” I give in, knowing I can’t refuse them any longer because it’s a foregone conclusion at this point. They tend to act more like brothers at times. In my heart, I know this is their way of including me into their boys’ club, so I drink because it will make them both happy.
I’m not one to drink but, it will warm me up and maybe help me sleep. The air here is fresh and all the physical activity tires me out, as it should.
“Coming right up,” Besnik replies, turning to the woman behind the bar and flirting with the young, pretty bartender that passes by. He’s never shy with the ladies even when he knows it’s going nowhere. Whenever I ask why he never married, he always says he can’t be faithful to just one woman.
I remember Papa saying he and Besnik went to school together back in Kosovo. It was around the time of the Serb and Kosovo conflict, when my ancestors were murdered, he took Papa under his wing and they fled to Italy together. Not long after, Papa met Mama in a small community of Albanians who were already established in Italy and the rest is history as they say.
Papa and Besnik never talk about what they experienced growing up but I’ve read about it in school and am happy to be born in Italy where we’re safe. I hear Albania is beautiful and it’s just across the water from Italy, but I doubt I’ll ever visit my parent’s homeland.
“Have you made any friends?” Papa asks.
Besnik hands me my drink and now I’m under their scrutiny. Like an insect in a biology lab I am always being examined, but I’m not a little girl anymore who needs them to scare away bad men.
“No, just skiing mostly.” I’m not bothering to tell him I spoke to some young Italian guys who were chatting me up in the ski lift. The less he knows, the better. I don’t want to be interrogated tonight, especially here in front of the jet set crowd.
I clearly don’t fit in as I see the women all dressed in finery. And who wears expensive jewelry on vacation? I would be afraid I’d lose it, or someone would steal it. Their makeup and hair rival that of movie stars. Most of the time I don’t even wear makeup.
That’s why I love to ski, I get lost in my head, and feel no need to compare myself to others. I relax as I take a sip of my drink enjoying the flavors on my tongue and the warmth in my belly. I watch a couple sitting at the bar necking and giggling and briefly wish I had a boyfriend in my life.
By now I should have outgrown my insecurities around others my own age, but I’m my own worst critic.
I sip some more as the guys carry on with their friends at the bar. I’ve never been the social one. I’m the wallflower, the girl from that 80s movie about dancing. Only I’m Baby, and I’ve been put in the corner. If it wasn’t for the adoring eyes of my parents, I don’t know if I’d be where I am today. Men around here like to take women in with their eyes first and their checkbooks later.
I look down at the ski jacket masking what I view as non-existent breasts compared to all the women here who have perfect bodies. Men love big butts as much as they love big boobs and these ski clothes do nothing to show off my curvy buttocks, which is what would get me noticed, ironically.
Papa is pointing out a good-looking man passing by and predicting he will talk to me. I’m not that unfortunate in the looks department and I know I should have a serious boyfriend by now.
However, between school, the flower shop and taking care of mama, I never had any time to myself, let alone time to devote to someone special. During her final years, all I remember is being tired and drained all the time and barely able to take care of myself.
Maybe Papa puts so much pressure on me to succeed because he wants me to be better than him. He wasn’t good in school so he pushed me to pursue a higher education. He never wanted to see me stuck doing something I hated.