Miss, That Costs Extra

I was crouched beside a stone fountain when Clara Bellini told me a photograph would cost extra. "Just one?" I asked. "One photo is included in the walking tour. You already have the included photo." "I was looking at the fountain in that one." "You were looking at the fountain in that one," she agreed. "This one would include you." A couple near the fountain glanced over. I stood, brushing grit from my jeans, and felt my face warm. The whole point of booking a local guide had been to avoid looking like a tourist who needed rescuing. Now I was negotiating over a picture in front of a fountain I couldn't even pronounce. "I thought you were supposed to make people feel welcome," I said. "I am." Clara lifted her phone. "That's why I took the first one." Her voice stayed easy, but her hand was already lowered. She wore a cream linen shirt tucked into dark trousers, and a canvas satchel crossed her chest. Her dark hair was clipped at her nape. If I had passed her at a hotel desk, I might have mistaken her for the person who owned the hotel, or the person who knew exactly why the owner was late. "I'm joking," I said. "I know. Do you want the picture?" "Yes, please." She took it. I smiled too hard, then looked at the result. The fountain towered behind me. My smile looked like it had been assembled from parts. "Could you do another one?" "That's another photo." "Of course it is." "Do you want me to take it?" The question landed more gently than the words deserved. I gave her the phone again. She took another shot, this time waiting until I stopped holding my breath. It was better. "Thank you," I said. "You're welcome. That will be three euros." "I assumed." Clara tapped her phone. "You can pay at the end." I had hired her through a booking site for a three-hour walk in Bellacosta, a small seaside city in the fictional country I had selected because it was far enough away to make my ordinary life feel temporarily irrelevant. The site had described her as an Italian-American guide with a background in hospitality and a gift for helping nervous visitors feel at home. It had not mentioned the extra-photo rate. I was thirty-four, recently unemployed by choice, and on my first solo trip in six years. I had spent most of the previous decade being the reliable person: answering messages, remembering birthdays, and making plans everyone else said they were too busy to make. Then I quit my job at a marketing firm after realizing I had used "after this quarter" as an answer to every question about what I wanted. My plan had been to spend five days in Bellacosta without asking anyone what I should do. At eleven that morning, I had asked Clara what I should do. We walked uphill through narrow streets painted the color of honey and faded rose. Clara told me which balconies belonged to old fishing families and which had been added when the waterfront became fashionable. I listened, asked questions, and let her point me toward the places I would never have found alone. "You speak English like you grew up in it," I said. "My mother did. My father grew up here. I split time between Bellacosta and Maine until I was fourteen." "So you're half Italian, half American." "I'm all the things I grew up with." She glanced back. "But yes, that's the short version." The phrasing was so polished that I almost laughed. Clara had a way of making everything sound like a neat answer, even when she was clearly refusing to make it simple. We reached a tiled overlook above the harbor. I stopped at the low wall and watched the ferries move between the docks and a green headland. I had expected the view to feel spectacular. Instead it made me aware of how alone I was. "I can take one more picture," Clara said. "I'm not going to ask." "I didn't say you were." "I was thinking it." "Thinking doesn't cost extra." I laughed, and for a moment the tightness in my chest loosened. Then my phone buzzed. A message from my older sister, who had known I was traveling alone but had been checking in more often since I quit my job. Lena: Did you get to the harbor? Send me a picture so I know you're having fun. I typed, Sure, then paused. "Can you help me answer something?" I asked. Clara looked at the phone in my hand. "I can translate a message for five euros. If you want help deciding what you want to say, that's coaching, and I charge by the hour." I lowered the phone. "You have a price for everything." "No. I have a price for work." "It's a text to my sister." "And you asked me to do something with it." The wind lifted the hair at Clara's temple. She didn't look annoyed. She looked like she had said the same sentence before and learned to keep it simple. I wanted to tell her that being asked to decide what to say was not work. It was just what people did for one another. But I had booked her because I wanted someone to do things for me. I had even selected the listing because of the phrase "emotional support for solo travelers." "What does the five euros get me?" I asked. "A translation. If you want me to advise you on the content, that's different." "I'll just write it myself." I sent Lena a photo of the harbor without myself in it. The message I added said, It's beautiful here. It was true, and it wasn't the whole truth. Clara checked the time. "We have an hour and twenty minutes left. Do you want to see the old market, or would you rather sit somewhere with coffee?" "Market." "Good. It's on the route." "I'm sorry I keep asking you to do things outside the route." "Don't be sorry. Just ask first." She started down the hill. I followed, carrying my phone and the embarrassing feeling that I had already turned a paid tour into a test neither of us had agreed to take.