Originally published May 12, 2010
Two weeks ago today I sat in a little trattoria in Rome, Italy, enjoying a light supper and waiting for my son Kevin to arrive. I’d spent the afternoon getting a manicure and pedicure in a typically Italian salon and was admiring Alesia’s efforts to make my hands and feet look gorgeous.
Kevin finally came. We saw, and we conquered. It was a spectacular five days. Then he left for Venice and I came home still sporting the red polish Alesia said was the “in” color for Italian women these days.
Now that I’ve returned to my regular regime of swimming three times a week, the Roman red has faded and chipped. No American version would have held up any better, but I’ve held off removing the remnants because every time I look at my nails I remember a glorious time in Rome with my older son.
We saw the Coliseum, the Trevi Fountain, the Spanish Steps. We ate authentic Italian bread and visited a mozzarella bar, renowned for 27 different kinds of that succulent cheese. We drank and talked and walked and talked and drank some more. Kevin even found an English copy of “The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest,” something that’s not yet available in the United States. I read the 700+ page book in one sitting on the airplane home.
My manicure was a special reminder of this trip, but today I conceded to myself that it had to go. The chips were so great that they did a disservice to both Alesia and me. So I dragged out the bottle of remover and slowly wiped each nail clean. The memories, however, cannot be removed.
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