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Lesson learned.
After practice, it’s tempting to throw myself down on the hotel bed and take a midday nap. The traffic noise outside my hotel has kept me awake at night. It’s not that the noise is so loud, but it reminds me how far from Finland I am. 6600 kilometers, to put a number on it.
I checked.
Sleep beckons, except I’m starving. So I throw my gym bag down and remove my sweatshirt. Then I tuck my phone and my wallet back into my shorts and head back out to find some lunch.
Outside, the sidewalk is crowded with pedestrians crossing in every direction. People in New York walk fast—like they’re all late for something.
I don’t know where I’m going, but I choose a direction and commit. I’m rewarded a few minutes later when the buildings get shorter and the sidewalk less crowded. There are small shops and bars.
This neighborhood near my hotel is lively. It would be nice to live here, except it’s too far from the rink. I’m supposed to call a real estate professional and ask him to help me find an apartment. But I have yet to do so. Most of my waking hours are devoted to hockey. And after practice, I’m too tired to call a stranger and try to string more English sentences together.
Speaking English with the team feels like running down the gas in a car. After several hours, there’s nothing left in the tank. By noon every day, my brain has done all the English it can, and I’m just done.
That’s why I keep turning down my teammates’ invitations to lunch. I know they’re just being polite, anyway. Talking to me is a lot of work.
As I reach a tree-lined corner, I slow down and examine the restaurant on the other side of the street. The neon sign which readsRomano & Bianchiis both hip and inviting. The building has garage-style doors that roll up to admit the late summer sunshine. A couple is visible in the open air, with a mostly-eaten pizza in front of them on the table.
The pizza looks fantastic, and I’m so hungry that my stomach rumbles on cue. As I cross the street, I have the worst urge to snatch their leftovers and eat them like a hungry dog.
Yes, I know that’s frowned upon in polite society. So I point my feet toward the open front door instead.
Luckily, I love pizza, and I can alsosaypizza, because the word is the same in Finnish.
I stride through the front door before I can change my mind. There are a dozen or so tables which are mostly empty by now. It’s a little late for lunch. In fact, there’s a sign on the podium inside the door which says LUNCH 12-3, DINNER 5-10.
A quick glance at my watch makes my heart drop. It’s 2:52.
Oh no.
A woman is already striding purposefully toward me, though. Her shiny, dark ponytail bounces as she turns her face in my direction. Suddenly, the dread of having to speak to strangers notches down a couple of clicks. For one thing, she’s exquisitely beautiful, with a heart-shaped face and warm-toned, deeply tanned skin.
Even better—there’s a warmth to her dark brown eyes that calms me right down, even as she begins speaking words that I don’t understand. Except one of those words waslunch.
“Please,” I say. “Lunch.”
She spins elegantly around, heading for a table at the window on the empty side of the room. She moves with casual, feminine confidence that is appealing.
Okay,veryappealing. And if I’m honest, I enjoy the sway of her ass in her short black skirt.
When she reaches the table, she turns around. I raise my chin to a respectable angle just in time. Although I’m still taking in every last detail—her high cheekbones, and the way her dark blue blouse compliments her rich coloring. Her lipstick is shiny and perfect in a way that makes me want to kiss it off her. She’s wearing a name tag readingChiara, and I wonder if that’s a common name in America, or not.
She sets the menu down and says something quickly that I miss. But context is everything, and by the gesture she makes toward the kitchen, and toward the smart watch on her wrist, I’m positive she told me to hurry up and choose something.
I squint at the menu, quickly locating the pizza section. Then I pull out my phone and begin translating the toppings. “Prosciutto” is some kind of ham. The thought of it just makes me hungrier. “Basil” is easy because the Finnish word isbasilikaa. But “mushroom” requires me to tap in the word, because we call thoseherkkusieniäin Finnish.
And the waitress is already back, smiling at me and asking the only sentence I’ve understood so far. “Would you like pizza?”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“What do you like on top?” Her smile is so pretty that it wrecks me a little. Everything I’ve just translated dives right out of my head. “Uh, you…” I say.
She blinks.
“Sorry. I…” I bury my face in my hands. “Have little English. I mean—please you tell me what is like on pizza.”
Ugh. Even I know that’s a horrible sentence. I want to die of embarrassment.
