Clare's Angel

-----Clare threw a fit in the middle of particularly trying day and ended up meeting an angel.

The Italians have a particular interest in Blonde, curly-haired children (something to do with putti angels?) and Clare has learned how to say, in no uncertain terms: Don’t bug me. Of course, it sound something like, donna bugga meah, so no one knows what she’s saying but us, but the message is unequivocal. She tired of her head being pet, her hand being stroked, he cheek being pinched. The only part she loves is when they melt and hand her a crusty roll of bread and say “ho fame, bella?” You’re hungry? And for them, she always is.

So the other day as we transferred from Positano to Salerno via ferry and were waiting at the train station when she decided that she had had enough. I had walked her around endlessly, pushing nonworking elevator buttons, watching trains, taking pictures in the silly photomat, and nothing was soothing the terrific tired that was coming on. She stood in the middle of the train station and had a meltdown, complete with stamping feet and tears and utter frustration. A dark haired man who looked suspiciously American walked over to where Tom stood stooped over the crying mass of Clare, and stepped in. He stood her up, brushed her tears away with a thumb pad, took her hand and stroked until she was listening. I was 10 ft away, sitting on our bags near Troy (more later) and watching. Tom was 5 ft away, having backed up tentatively when this man stepped in. Clare stopped crying. Her face melted from Red to cream.

Her arms relaxed. I watched, terrified that this man would scoop her up and run, and enthralled that it was working. He swept her up in his arms and squeezed her. He walked her over to a window sill and sat her in it, talking softly. She listened. For god’s sake SHE LISTENED! He just held her hand and patted, pointed at me as I took disbelieving pictures, and waved. I was too far away to hear what he was saying, but Tom said he spoke no English; he just kept telling her in Italian that he knew she was tired, she had a long way to go, and that it was all going to be okay.

They stayed that way for 10 minutes or so, with Tom nearby, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, me sitting and waiting, absorbing the experience, and her, drinking it all in. I don’t know who he was or where he was from , but he had a transformative effect on Clare. She slept in the train on the way home (stroked and kissed, of course, by the dark, youngish, Roman God sitting next to me) and she was angelic for the rest of the day. She is, amazingly, Laura, 100%. My little sis Laura always preferred men, resisted women, and crumpled many a well-meaning mama with her impatience at the feminine wiles. Clare likes testosterone, deep voices, and the simplicity of men. (Her mother can’t complain).