by kc dyer
I realize, with a start, that I have tears in my eyes, and hoping the pilot hasn’t noticed, I quickly wipe them away.
But a moment later, her gloved hand appears in front of me holding a tissue.
“I’m glad you appreciate what you see,” she says quietly in my head.
“Does it make you cry too?” I say back to her, but she just laughs and taps her headphones.
Right. She can’t hear me. And I cannot imagine her tearing up over a view she’s likely seen hundreds of times, anyway.
I gaze out over the water, tracing the long tail of a tanker ship chugging southward toward Africa. I’m peering down, seeing if I can pick out just what kind of ship it is from the air, when Delia is back in my head.
“Your turn,” she says, and by the time I look over at her, she’s holding both hands in the air, off the steering column.
Without thinking, I grab my own wheel, and the plane wobbles, dangerously.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit,” I hiss between teeth clenched so tight I can feel my jaw locking.
“Relax, Gia,” comes Delia’s voice in my head. “It’s not really a wheel like in your car—more like a joystick, so just keep loose and we’ll be fine!”
And once again, she proves to be right. We continue to wobble a little while she points out the dials I should watch to keep the wings steady.
I hear a sudden noise from the back of the plane and look up to see my dad has materialized beside my seat.
“Woo HOO!” he cheers, pointing to my hands on the wheel.
At least, I think that’s what he says. I make the mistake of releasing one hand to tap my earphones at him, and the plane yaws off to the right, sending him stumbling into the empty seat behind the captain’s.
Delia’s laughter rings in my ears as I manage to even things out once more. By dint of sheer determination, I’m able to ignore his antics in the background and keep us in the air for another whole minute or two before she takes pity on me and regains control.
My spiritual lightness never does quite return, but I remember what Raj said about weaving my experiences into my storytelling and decide that steering a plane, even if only for a minute or two, has got to find a place in one of my upcoming submissions to Charlotte.
In the distance, a layer of cloud appears for the first time, coalescing around what must be the island of Sicily. To our right, the land mass of Italy suddenly rises up, the blue of the sea smashing itself into white foam against the shore.
Across the windscreen, a sudden spattering of rain appears, and I feel the engine shift beneath me as the plane begins to descend. The clouds shroud us briefly in a grey fog, disorienting after all the blue sky and water, but then they are above us again. Below us, a breathtaking vista unfolds. From this vantage point, I can’t really tell where the island of Sicily ends and the tip of Italy’s boot begins. What I can see is the unmistakable silhouette of Mount Etna rising just in from the coast. The ground—or what I can see of it—around the mountain is black as pitch, and the peak is hidden, wreathed in cloud.
The plane’s descent is almost as swift as the takeoff, and in moments, we are circling the airport, away from the mountain and south of the city of Catania. As the blinking lights of the runway appear below us, I can see fine lines of mist draping the trees; the whole lush view crowned with the smoke-wreathed peak of Mount Etna in the background.
As we roll to a stop outside the terminal, Delia Uccello reaches across to shake my hand. “Well done, Captain Gia,” she says. “It’s been a pleasure flying with you.”
And in the absence of a flight attendant, it is she who squeezes past me to open the cabin door and drop the steps down to the tarmac. As the three passengers descend, she shakes each of our hands again, wishes us a good journey onward, and then trudges off to chat with the man who is refueling the plane.
Inside the terminal, we have a longer wait than we did on departure to go through security, although the European Union status of both countries means there is no customs line.
My dad, all signs of his earlier exuberance on the plane gone, stands quietly ahead of me in line. After several futile attempts to engage with him about my new prowess as a pilot, I give up and log on to the internet with my phone. I’m worried about the aftereffects of the mushrooms and whether there is some contraindication with the meds he is currently on.
I think about Googling, but instead, I take the easy way out and text Devi. It’s the crack of dawn in New York, but she must be on an early shift, because she replies right away.
To tell you the truth, I’ve actually read some interesting studies on psilocybin. There’s no worry about addiction, and it seems that it does very little long-term damage, at least compared to other drugs. There was one old doc when I was in third year who swore it was not just a good experience but one that changed his life forever—for the better!
Altogether, this is pretty reassuring. But it’s not until I slide my phone back into my pocket that I realize that Devi’s text repeats, almost word for word, what she told me inside that cave on the coast of Crete.
Except, of course, that she wasn’t exactly there at the time.
chapter twenty-two
SICILIAN SATURDAY
Pizza Siciliano
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, in Catania, Sicily
As a New Yorker, born and bred, the word pizza has a very specific meaning to me. However, I am an experienced enough nibbler to know that this word doesn’t mean the same thing in Chicago or in Seattle. So finding the vocabulary to express the shock, the delight, the sheer joy of the authentic Sicilian version . . .
As we walk across the main concourse in the Catania airport, there is no doubt that we have left Greece behind. Unlike the airport in Crete, where the ceiling is made up of huge sheets of glass that allow the dappled blue sky to bounce off the white walls, this Sicilian airport is dark and metallic. But it’s just past one p.m. local time, and the food hall is buzzing with loud Italian voices.
I can’t stop thinking about Devi’s text as I trail along behind my dad toward the exit. I’m torn between feeling calmed by her reassurance that the mushrooms likely will do him no harm and entirely freaked out by the fact that the hell-dweller version of Devi gave me this information already while I was in the depths of my own unfortunate trip into the heart of darkness.
“A moment, darling.” My dad suddenly dumps his bags at my feet, and I see with a sinking heart that he is heading into the men’s room. Worse, he has the free copy of the Greek paper he was given on the plane tucked under one arm. This means I’ll have at least fifteen minutes, and perhaps as long as a half an hour, to kill.
With a sigh, I head out to look around. The airport isn’t large, so I find myself an abandoned luggage cart for the bags and go in search of something to eat. I’m just perusing a glass case filled with at least ten varieties of pizza when my phone pings. Worried that it might be Devi, reconsidering her stance on my dad and his mushrooms, I scramble to pull it out of my pocket.
Instead, I discover it’s a text from Raj. I stare at his name stupidly for a moment, but then realize with a pang of guilt I must have given him my number sometime during that night of too much lotus-infused wine.
I tap his message.
Gia—it’s Raj. Sorry to bother you, but I haven’t heard from your dad. We had a FaceTime booked for last night to plan our next meetup, but he didn’t call. Is everything okay?
My usual low-grade annoyance with my dad returns, but there’s no way I’m going to tell Raj what really happened. Oh, yeah, sorry, my dad was tripping balls on mushrooms; he must’ve forgotten to call.
Not a chance.
Instead, I step forward to the counter and order two slices of pizza to take away. Then I take shots of all the varieties of pizza behind the glass of the food kiosk, even though they look identical to pizza from every stree
t vendor I’ve ever seen in Manhattan.
Only then do I feel calm enough to flip open my texting app and send Raj a message that all is well, Ari is fine, and will likely contact him once we are settled at the guesthouse in Capo Mulini.
My dad leaps out of the men’s room at last, looking refreshed and more like himself again. He accepts the slice of pizza with gratitude and steers me outside toward the taxi rank.
“How far do we have to go, Pops?”
He smiles at me fondly. “Ah, koritsi, you remind me of when you were a little girl. ‘How much farther, Papa?’ you would ask just as soon as you were buckled into your car seat.”
I roll my eyes. “I’m just trying to get a sense of the distance, is all. If it’s going to be a couple of hours, I’ll bring my work into the car with me.”
“Is only a few minutes, darling. Put away your work. Enjoy the view!”
And so, even though the last thing I feel like doing is what I’m told, I sit back and take in my first taste of Sicily.
As soon as we are clear of the airport, the taxi motors onto a road that borders the sea. My father, in a rare demonstration that he can actually use technology, pulls out his phone and begins tapping out a text.
Ah. I hope this means Raj is getting an apology, after all.
The cab driver has a local radio station on, which seems to specialize in thrash metal, an odd choice for this jewel of an island basking in the midday sun. Also, it’s an old vehicle, with no air-conditioning, so both front windows are wide open. I try to settle in the sweet spot slightly to the right of center in the back seat, where I can stay cool without being entirely buffeted. But as soon as he’s done texting, my dad cranks down his own window, so I’m subject to the full force of the airflow from all sides. My hair, which usually retains a natural wave I’m generally quite happy with, has decided to go full out curly on this trip, and at the moment, it’s all I can do to keep it on my head.
The drive turns out to be mercifully short, and after a further riotous chorus or two from the radio, the taxi screeches to a halt in a shower of sand near a pier jutting like a crooked, beckoning finger into the ocean. I can’t see any sign of a guesthouse. In fact, the pier looks to be part of a marina, with boats small and large bobbing down the length of it. The sun has disappeared behind some low, grey clouds, and here by the water, a light breeze is blowing, bringing with it a musical tinkling from the rigging of the moored vessels. Beyond the pier, the jagged outlines of two rocky islands float what looks like little more than a stone’s throw from the shore.
Ari leaps out of the taxi without a glance back and strides purposefully toward the docks. I can see a figure waving from a small motorboat bobbing in the first berth.
My back crackles as I step out of the cab—so unused to all this travel that it clearly needs to complain out loud. I roll my shoulders a few times and retrieve my bag from among an assortment of empty beer cans in the trunk of the taxi.
As I do, my dad comes strolling back, accompanied by a young woman wearing a set of orange coveralls, the longest false eyelashes I have ever seen, and a Sun Devils ball cap.
“Darling, this is . . .” he begins.
“Margarita,” interjects the young woman. Her coveralls are unzipped low enough that the black lace of her bra is clearly visible.
She leans forward and knocks her elbow into mine by way of greeting.
“Can’t be too frikkin’ careful, specially workin’ in the tourist industry,” she adds. Her accent could not be more American.
“From Tempe, Arizona,” she says when I ask. “Left home to see the world for a few years right after high school. I got family here, and I landed in Italy just before the virus struck. Found a job, and I’ve been here ever since.”
My dad reaches into the trunk to retrieve his backpack.
“Margarita has agreed to rent us her motorboat for a couple of hours, darling. I’d like to go over and have a stroll around the islands before the sun goes down. Join me, won’t you?”
I glance across at the nearest jagged stack of rock. “That looks more like a mountain climb than a stroll, Pops. I wish you’d mentioned your plans to me earlier.”
“Spur of the moment decision, darling. These are the Isole dei Ciclopi—the famous islands of the Cyclops. It’s literally a tourist haven—the place is covered in walking paths. Come. Let me show you!”
“I’m happy to tour you both around, fer sure,” adds Margarita. “It’s the most frikkin’ amazing place, I swear. The locals say that these islands were the stones thrown at old Odysseus when he angered the Cyclops.”
I look over to the islands. Beyond them, just along the horizon, the cloud appears to be breaking up, and there is a line of blue where the sky meets the ocean. I think about it for a solid second or two and then shake my head.
“I’m on deadline, Pops. I thought we were driving straight through to the guesthouse. You go ahead. I’ll just find a bar or a coffee shop or something and try to hook up to some Wi-Fi while I wait for you. I need to get another story in to Charlotte by tomorrow, and I haven’t even started.”
“Well, if you don’t want to come, Guido here can take you to your hotel.” Margarita bats those long lashes at the taxi driver, once, twice; and clearly smitten, he’s already nodding.
My dad rifles through his travel folder.
“We’re staying at the Pensione Castilo,” he says.
“I know that place,” says Margarita. I’m beginning to think she runs this entire village single-handedly. “They have a terrace above the water—it’s frikkin’ gorgeous.”
“Excellent idea,” says my dad heartily. “Margarita and I will go explore and give you some peace and quiet to get your work done.”
I narrow my eyes at him, but he just beams, gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, and hurries off toward the little motorboat.
“I’ll keep an eye on him, I promise,” says Margarita before jogging off to catch up to my dad.
“But who’ll keep an eye on you?” Needless to say, my grumble falls on deaf ears.
“Thees Margarita, she ees such a beautiful woman,” says Guido as we walk back to the taxi. “Americano, yes? So beautiful.”
“That’s what I’m worried about.” With a sigh I can’t quite suppress, I climb into the front seat.
Guido starts up the taxi, and to the delicate sounds of Radio Catania—backing track courtesy of Slayer—we drive off to find me some Wi-Fi.
* * *
—
While online during the wait for my dad in the airport, I learned that Catania is a city second in size only to Palermo on the island of Sicily, with a population around three hundred thousand. The part of it we’re driving through now seems fairly densely packed, especially along the shoreline. Many of the houses are crammed together behind walls of crumbling grey stone and creeping vines. The earth-toned buildings with their terra-cotta roofs blend in with each other, enlivened here and there by a brilliant flash of color, where homeowners have painted their front doors in every shade of the rainbow.
The dock where Margarita moors her motorboat to drive over to the Cyclopean Islands turns out to be located in a place called Aci Trezza. According to Guido, we are just heading a little farther north along the coast to find the guesthouse perched atop Capo Mulini.
As we drive along the coast, the sun breaks through the clouds behind us, lighting up the horizon. The roads in this region are so narrow, oncoming cars have to duck into spaces against the curb to let others by. This means a lot of sudden stops and starts, but amazingly, everyone seems to put courtesy first. It does not hurt, either, that the vehicles are all so tiny.
The view of the ocean dominates everything until we pull onto a small rise above the town, and suddenly there is Mount Etna to the north, much closer than I expect. Clouds still wreathe themselves around the peak, and it looms over the whole r
egion like a gently smoking giant.
Just as suddenly, Guido steers us into a narrow lane, and Etna disappears. Instead we are surrounded by mist-laden trees, everything lush and green in the late afternoon light. The taxi screeches to a halt in a gravel parking space, nestled in behind a tiny villa. The guesthouse is perched on a promontory above the village, with a view that takes in the entirety of the Ionian Sea, spreading out before us like a rolling azure blanket. Along the coast to the south, the three stony peaks of the islands rise out from the water like sentinels.
“This is an amazing view.” I take a deep breath of the fresh sea air as I climb out of the car.
But Guido is already revving his engine. He pauses long enough to crank up the radio, then peels out of the lot, waving the handful of cash I gave him out the window in farewell.
* * *
—
While the tiny Italian lady who meets me at the door speaks almost no English, when I point to my dad’s name on her register, her eyes light up. I follow her as she bustles up a miniature winding staircase. In spite of the heat, she’s dressed entirely in black; including knee-length skirt, high-necked blouse, heavy cardigan, and thick black stockings. The only color she displays is on her feet, which are sporting neon-purple Nikes. I follow those bright sneakers up narrow, steep steps, with each worn riser creaking melodically underfoot. On the second landing, she pauses, puffing a little, at a door with a postcard of the Cyclopean Islands thumbtacked in the center.
“Tuo papa,” she says and rests her hand briefly on the door. After catching our breath a moment, we continue our upward climb. At the top of the stairs, she turns a key in a door that has been cut at an angle to accommodate the sharp slope of the ceiling. The postcard on this door is of an ancient castle I’m sure I spied as Guido raced past on our way here. Later, I learn this is the Castello di Aci, a fortification that has loomed over this coastline since at least the Middle Ages.
