“I told you we’d be fine, Maria.”

We're on the loungers by the pool, on the rooftop of the four-star hotel. Renata is relaxed, comfortable in her gold one-piece swimsuit, thick-rimmed sunglasses, and bathed in a cloud of perfume. I remain stubbornly silent, as I have throughout the trip: I can't stand being forced to do what I don't like. I just wanted to stay home: doing my gardening, cook for my grandchildren.

"It was so good to insist and bought you the ticket. It must be five degrees Celsius in Bologna now. And foggy." She laughs, as if someone had told her a funny story.

I pretend to be asleep, but meanwhile I observe from behind my dark glasses. The other customers are Colombian families with small children and older American couples, our age. Their accents are too heavy, which I find almost unbearable after a lifetime spent teaching British English.

"And Cartagena is so wonderful. I've traveled everywhere, but I feel better here. Everyone's kind. And above all: There. Aren't. Italians." She spells the last words out loud, wanting to show me that no one else understands her.

Every now and then she has these oddities that make me smile. She talks constantly, but it's pleasant. After Guido's long illness and so much silence, I was lucky to meet her in our painting class: she sticked to me like a teenager.

"You look different already, you know? You don't have those terrible cobwebs around your eyes anymore. And I can see it in your body, even if you act so rigidly. You're relaxing, that's the truth."

I've actually always loved lying in the sun. The light and warmth are different from Cervia, where I spent my whole life with Guido and the boys, but I'm starting to like the place. I'm just too proud to tell her.

Two men in their seventies, definitely Americans, pass and greet us with a smile, raising their cocktails. "They look nice. In the US they have a name for North Americans who pass the winter in Cartagena; the hotels are full."

This time I smile, sit down on the lounger, take off my sunglasses and take her hand.

“Yes, I read it online, Renata: they call them snowbirds. They’re like migratory birds that arrive in the winter and return home in the spring. Just like us.” I stare at her, I want my words to be very clear. “Without you, I’d still be stuck at home, alone. I have to thank you, because you’re a great friend. And I’m doing well.”

She stares at me over her dark glasses, a surprised look followed by a loud laugh, which makes people turn around.

"Maria! You spoke! Thank you, Lord! I no longer hoped for it." She squeezes my hand, smiles with love. "Very well, we 're going to have fun tonight."