The Waiter

 A memory prompted by International Women's Day

In March 1994 Fester and I took our first, and so far only, holiday as a couple. 

We travelled by train, and ferry to and around Italy, stopping overnight in Paris.

His mantra at the time was “Have credit card will travel”; meaning no hotels were booked, we simply found an acceptable one near the railway station.   

We stayed in Turin, Milan, Padua and Florence and visited Venice, Assisi, Pisa, Sienna and the Italian Alps. 

We would breakfast on freshly squeezed orange juice, coffee and croissants in a street or station café, pick up the makings for a picnic lunch in a street market and go to a restaurant for dinner.

 

I have lunched on prawns and fresh bread in an open air seafood market with my feet dangling over the Grand Canal in Venice. 

 

Not the sort of holiday you can do with a child or two in tow.

At the time I was five months pregnant with Ferretfingers and positively blooming. 

As we sat having our lunchtime picnic many Italians, walking past, would smile and say 

“Buon appetito”.

 

Back in the nineties International Women’s Day wasn’t something we did in Britain (or at least I’d never heard of it).  Not so in Italy where, since 1946, there has been a tradition of giving women mimosa on 8^th March as a symbol of respect.  We saw, and I wondered at, all the ladies out with bunches of yellow blossom and there were vases of them everywhere we went.

Including the café where we breakfasted.

 

Most Italian waiters are cheerful and friendly; however, whilst this one smiled warmly at me he positively glared at Fester, who had obviously made no effort to show suitable respect to his pregnant partner.

When he went to pay the bill, and I was gathering up our things, the waiter could contain himself no longer. 

He plucked a spray of mimosa from the vase by the till, swept around the counter, and with a slight bow, a flourish and a soft respectful “Signora”, presented it to me.

He then looked at Fester as if he was something he’d just wiped off his shoe and stalked to the back of the café.

 

Fester, naturally, didn’t notice a thing.