Lost and not wanting to be found

Finally, some free time!
That morning we had an early trip to Vecchia Murano, to watch the art of Venetian glass blowing. After an hour or so we were famished.
Now, where to? The three of us – Alex, Jessie and I – head towards Piazza San Marco.
Down a narrow set of stone stairs. Up and over a thin white bridge; underneath, a gondolier serenades a young couple through the city’s water streets.
Which way? Left! No, right! Wait… We’re lost.
A half-hour crawls by in Venice’s noontime sun.
We slip into a side alley – finally a bit of shade! The stone buildings on either side radiate heat, making the alley feel like a stone oven.
A door swings open to our left. We peer inside. Nobody.
“Aperto!... Grazie, Grazie!” says a deep opera-like voice. These two words are part of our meager Italian lingo and so we step inside.
An older lady rushes towards us with a smile taking up her whole face. The smell of fresh sauce and herbs sneaks into my nose.
Mama Mia!
She shuffles us towards a table with three menus near a massive window. Our eyes flit over all the meals. It was only our second day in Italy and we had yet devour a local dish.
I settle for a classic: spaghetti and meatballs. As I fumble through my order, the lady – straight out of a Sopranos episode – waits with confusion painted on her face. Little de we know pasta is just an appetizer in Italy; she wants us to order a real meal.
After assuring her, “Yes, all I want is the spaghetti,”; she makes her way towards the kitchen. Her husband comes over and asks about drinks.
A thought pops into my mind: it’s March 13th! My best friend, Jay’s, birthday.
We’re on a school trip and all well under the legal drinking age. No matter. It’s my best friend’s birthday – I’m celebrating with a beer!
Alex and Jessie know Jay as well and are on board with having a drink in his honour. We look at the husband who is confused at why it’s taking us so long to order. I lift a finger, “uno momento”, in horribly broken Italian.
I get up and head for the door, poke my head outside. No teachers in the alley.
I head back to the table and we all order the cheapest beer they have: something German. Our three pints come back and we clink glasses before lifting them to our lips and take a swig.
I remember two things about that restaurant. One: the spaghetti was – and still is – the best I’ve ever had. The second? The beer was absolutely disgusting!
What’s the old saying? “When in Rome”. Well, for us: When in Venice.