by kc dyer
“You can sit here,” says Federico, waving an arm into the room. Apart from the table, which has five or six stools spaced around it, each bolted to the floor, there is a single love seat, one of its arms attached with duct tape, in a worn, mustard-colored tweed.
Federico and Margarita disappear, and soon we are pulling away from the dock. I stuff all the fast-food containers into a bin, slide the dirty dishes to the other end of the table, and settle in, determined to get some writing done. My dad wanders to the back of the boat and gazes mournfully out as Sicily recedes behind us. Above his head, I can see a single puff of black cloud in a clear, blue sky.
It is not shaped like a smoke ring.
* * *
—
About half an hour into what is supposed to be a three-hour journey, the wind picks up. I can attest to this because my iPad spontaneously lifts off the still slightly sticky table and slams down again. There is a flash of color as one of the ship’s flags is ripped away by the wind and flung into the wake far behind us. I look around to see my dad has disappeared, and the place where he had been standing is awash in spray. I quickly pack my electronics away in my bag and, holding on with both hands, climb up the steel mesh stairs to the ship’s bridge.
There, I find my dad standing, knees bent, firmly planted by one of the windows. At the wheel, Federico’s insouciant attitude has disappeared, as he has to navigate waves that quickly grow to three feet high.
Now, three feet doesn’t sound like much, but I’m here to tell you, my stomach insists otherwise. I try standing beside my dad, but the erratic up-and-down motion makes me instantly sick. Staggering back down the steps, I aim for a toilet I remember spotting near the back, but before I can so much as open the door, a strong arm scoops me up from behind. Seconds later, I’m retching over the back of the boat while Margarita holds my hair away from my face. “Less to clean up when you do that out here,” she says, grinning.
Nonna Rosa’s cooking has never been so poorly treated.
When it’s clear the tanks are empty, Margarita disappears back up to the bridge. I stand by the side, damp with spray, and try to catch my breath.
Any relief I feel from being sick is short-lived, mostly because the wind doesn’t let up, and in spite of Federico’s best efforts, La Fortuna does not stop bucking. My nausea, even after losing all of Nonna Rosa’s brunch, shows no sign of ebbing. I’m so miserable, I curl up, unable to escape the stench of old fish, and try not to cry.
I’m not sure how long this dreadful situation lasts before my dad takes pity on me. He clears off the seedy-looking love seat in the back of the main cabin, finds a blanket, and creates a little nest. After he guides me over, I spend the rest of the journey with my head on his shoulder, eyes squeezed closed and jaw clenched, as he tells the story of Poseidon’s feud with Odysseus into my hair.
In the end, our planned three-hour shortcut takes, in fact, a little more than seven. Seven hellish, never-ending hours. I’m not sure what La Fortuna—or perhaps Federico—has done to him, but Poseidon takes full measure of his revenge on us today.
The wind dies down as we approach the port town of Lipari on the Aeolian island of the same name, and we stagger off the dock just before ten o’clock at night. I literally have nothing left—no energy, no strength of character, no will to live. And so it happens, when we arrive at our guesthouse, that I find myself in the very odd position of being cared for by my dad.
While he signs us in, I drop onto my bed with all my clothes still on and with the world still rocking. Ten minutes later, my dad appears with a cup of ginger tea that he insists I sip. After the tea, with my stomach settling for the first time since we boarded La Fortuna, I feel well enough to clean my teeth and get into my pj’s. Sometime later, my dad returns to tuck me into bed, and I fall asleep like a twelve-year-old as he reads aloud a selection of tourist pamphlets from his spot in the easy chair across the room.
chapter twenty-six
TUESDAY
Aeolian Whitefish
Gia Kostas, special correspondent to NOSH, on the Tyrrhenian Sea
Just for a moment, try to remember the best meal you ever had that was built around a fish. Haddock and chips from newspaper on a London street corner? Ahi tuna pan-seared to perfection beside a beach in Maui? Well, here’s a recipe to add to your “best of” file. It begins, of course, with a fish taken fresh from a raging sea . . .
I awaken the next morning to a gorgeous, blustery day outside my window. Clear, blue skies reflect the brilliance of the Tyrrhenian Sea, and every trace of my seasickness is gone. Lipari is the second-smallest of the Aeolian island chain, and in the light of day, I am slapped in the face by the sheer beauty of the place. These islands are volcanic in origin, though Lipari does not have its own active volcano. Only the aptly named Vulcano and its brother Stromboli still like to make their beginnings known. From my window across the water, I can see a gentle wisp of smoke above the top of what I think is Stromboli.
No smoke rings, though.
My dad must have gone to his own room sometime after I fell asleep last night. The only hint that he was here at all is the small stack of tourist pamphlets on the table beside the easy chair.
I wash and brush in record time, determined to get something—anything—into my very empty stomach. On my way out the door, I scoop my bag off the chair and knock the top pamphlet onto the floor. As I stoop to pick it up, one of the headlines catches my eye. I have to read it twice before the meaning actually sinks in. When it does, I clutch it so hard it crumples, and then I head downstairs to find my dad.
He’s sitting in a spot by a sunny window in the tiny dining room of the guesthouse. The house itself is little more than a cottage, painted a jaunty yellow with white trim around all the windows. From the size of the breakfast room, the place can’t possibly hold more than four guest rooms or so. My dad is alone, apart from a single other diner, reading an Italian tabloid covered in what I assume are lurid headlines: SCANDALO De Governo! and Problemi Fiscale!
Even with no Italian, I feel headlines like that can’t really bode well.
“Good morning, my darling,” my father cries, as cheerful as the headlines are gloomy. He jumps up to give me a kiss on the cheek, and I see he’s wearing a suit jacket and tie.
For the sake of the newspaper-reading guest, I accept the kiss without a fuss, but I drop the pamphlet literally on top of Ari’s soft-boiled egg as I take my own seat.
As he hastily moves it aside, a young woman arrives to take my order. Using the translation app on my phone, I ask her to bring me her own favorite breakfast items on the menu, and she beams and disappears into the kitchen.
“A very good idea, koritsi,” my dad says, digging into his egg and toast. “Getting a sense of what the locals eat should work very well for your . . .”
“What is this?” I snatch up the pamphlet from where he has tucked it behind the saltshaker.
“I don’t know, I’m sure,” he says, eyeing me warily now. “It is a tourist flyer, I think. Don’t you know? You’re the one who threw it at me.”
I have to bite back my reply when the server reappears with a tiny cup of steaming-hot espresso.
“Grazie, Loura,” my father says as she sets it carefully in front of my place.
“My pleasure,” Loura says, beaming. “Mi mama—my mother, she is making ’er special French toast just for you. I will bring when is ready.”
She disappears again after refilling my dad’s tea, and the old man reading the newspaper at the other table follows her out. I take advantage of the empty room to crush the pamphlet in my fist and shake it at my dad.
“Yes. You’re right. It is a brochure. It’s a brochure for the ferry trip here from Sicily.”
He looks at me blankly. “So? We are going north after this, koritsi. To Gallura. Not back to Sicily. We don’t need a ferry.”
I sig
h in exasperation. “Pops. I don’t want to go back. It took us, like, six hours to get here yesterday in your girlfriend’s boat. Or seven.”
He looks hurt. “Margarita is not my girlfriend. Merely a wonderful friend who helps us when we need it, yes?”
“If you say so. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that it took us over six hours. We could have hopped a ferry from . . .” I have to stop ranting to check the now deeply creased pamphlet. “From the marina we passed right by in Milazzo, which would have had us here in an hour and a half. An hour and a half, Pops.”
He shakes his head, and after carefully wiping the remains of the egg from his plate with his last bite of toast, pops it in. “Not a chance—not in that weather,” he insists. “I’m quite sure the ferries were not even running.”
I jab him with my elbow and point out the window, where a ferry is docking into a large berth below us. Beside the ferry, an enormous trimaran bobs at anchor, its lines festooned in colorful flags that snap in the wind.
“It’s just as windy right now as it was last night. I bet you anything I would have been less sick on the ferry. And even if I wasn’t, we would have been here twice as fast!”
He shrugs. “Darling, how could I know it would get so bad? Anyway, we are here now, and you have a lovely day in front of you. I have one short meeting, and then will join you for a quiet day. We write and rest and recover, yes? Then tomorrow, it’s on to Sardinia.”
Glancing at his watch, he smiles at me, a drop of vivid yellow egg yolk on the corner of his mustache. “I’m off to meet a colleague, koritsi. I will see you back here in a couple of hours, yes?”
Before I can say a word, the server comes in, staggering under the weight of her heavily laden tray. “Ah, Loura,” my dad says as she begins to unload the vast array of dishes onto the table in front of me. “Please tell your mama how much I enjoy my breakfast.” He kisses his fingertips and then pats her fondly on the shoulder.
“See you later, darling,” he says, giving me a jaunty wave.
With the tiniest bit of grim satisfaction, I decide against telling him about the egg on his face. Instead, I turn to see what Loura’s mama has come up with.
* * *
—
My dad’s meeting must have been super successful, as he doesn’t show his face back at the guesthouse until after three. By this time, I’ve mostly cooled down about the ferry.
Mostly.
The breakfast was enough to feed a family of six, with the added bonus of it being an Aeolian specialty, and was therefore perfect inspiration for my next NOSH entry.
The windy day outside has meant that writing on the back deck of the guesthouse is just not practical, so I sit inside beside a window with a view of the harbor below. Breakfast carries me through the rest of the day, though not without quite a bit of work. When I decline Loura’s offer of lunch, her mother emerges from the kitchen looking worried. I put the translation app on my phone to good use explaining that no, I’m not ill, just still full. Even so, every time Loura freshens my coffee, it is accompanied by a variety of tiny, perfect biscotti and small, scrolled butter cookies.
I’m definitely not going to starve in this place.
It’s been a good working day all around, actually. By the time my dad arrives back, I’ve managed to complete one full assignment, including pictures, and sketch out a further two more.
He sits down across from me with a sigh and loosens his tie.
I narrow my eyes at him. “I thought it was supposed to be a quick meeting. You haven’t been off wearing yourself out again, have you?”
“No—no. Just a meeting, koritsi. It went very well too.” He reaches into his briefcase and produces his trusty coil notebook and uncaps the pen that he was given when his emeritus status was confirmed.
“What are you working on?” I ask as he pats his pockets for his reading glasses.
“Oh, just a little project. If it comes together, I’ll tell you more about it.”
We sit in silence then, both lost in our work for a while. I’m not sure how long later, he tosses his pen down, looks up at me over his glasses, and sighs.
“You work so hard, my girl. And soon—you will be a married woman.”
He reaches over to squeeze my hand. “I want to enjoy every minute of this adventure we share together. After the wedding, you will have no more time for your papa.”
I roll my eyes at him. “You know that’s not true. Nothing will change. We can still go to ball games, right?”
He shrugs. “What if Anthony wants to take you to the ball games? After all, he proposed at a ball game, did he not?”
I wince a little at the memory. “That was just for—” I stop myself and try again. “He was trying to do something that I like, I think. He wanted it to be special.”
Devi’s voice echoes in my mind. Yeah—just you and forty thousand of your closest friends.
My dad waves his hands wide. “As long as he makes you happy, koritsi. That is his most important job. He is a lucky man.”
“Thanks, Pops,” I say, and the two of us settle back down to work in silence. But the warmth of his words carries me all the way through the rest of the day.
* * *
—
The following morning, we board the trimaran I had spotted berthed next to the ferry the day before. The Celere sits solidly on the pier below our guesthouse, not even rocking in the waves. The wind, if anything, has risen from the day before, and I clutch a little care package that Loura’s mother—who, it turns out, is not only the cook but the owner of our guesthouse—has put together for me. This takes the form of a little mesh bag filled with tea bags and some mysterious-looking candy I’ve never seen before.
“Eet has ginger,” Loura says, translating for her mom. “There’s peppermint tea, too, and barley sugar for stomach.”
All of which is very welcome.
The Celere is huge and sits low and steady in the water as we board, which is almost as reassuring as my care package. It also does not stink of fish, which doesn’t hurt either. The sleek lines of this vessel are amazing, and I’m not at all surprised to learn that it is a repurposed ferry designed for quick passage across Mediterranean waters. There are a dozen or so passengers aboard, though it’s clear it could hold many more. I don’t tell the first mate, who gives me this information, that I thought all trimarans were pleasure craft and instead just nod and take a few notes for my next NOSH article.
The captain, who is a very large, very blond Frenchman, invites all the passengers up to the bridge as we depart. I think about refusing, but clutching my bag of ginger tea, I decide to give it a quick peek. As we leave the harbor, the enormous sails above us billow full to contain the wind, and the boat rockets out into the Tyrrhenian Sea. But almost as soon as we turn away from Lipari, while the wind still blows, the waves settle down to a gentle surge. Above the wake of the boat, the volcanic peaks of the island chain recede into the distance.
It’s not until we have been aboard a day that I learn this was the boat Teresa Cipher had originally booked us on for the trip to Lipari. Not only does the Celere offer a smoother ride than Federico’s motorboat; it apparently made the crossing from Sicily in under an hour.
When I confront my dad about this, he surprises me. Instead of making excuses, he is repentant and promises me to use only ExLibris-approved transportation for the rest of the journey.
This feels like good news. And it doesn’t hurt that this boat is so fast and comfortable. With the wind at our back, the Celere doesn’t have to fight the waves, instead skimming along the water’s surface in a way that feels almost like flying. The biggest added bonus for me is that every trace of my seasickness has vanished.
Apparently there is state-of-the-art satellite Wi-Fi onboard, so I plant myself for the day in one of the large and elegantly appointed lounges, far away from th
e sea spray, and work on my next column. The Sicilian feast prepared single-handedly by Nonna Rosa has left me struggling a little to find the words to do it justice. For inspiration, I open one of Charlotte’s recent e-mails that actually includes circulation numbers. Whatever I have been doing so far seems to be working, and it appears this is making my editor happy.
People are starved for travel stories. This adventure you’re on is really catching fire.
I read the words catching fire over a few hundred times, until I have to stop because my face is starting to hurt from my giant smile. It somehow makes things even better that I get to shine a light on a few of the places my dad loves so much.
When an announcement goes over the public address system that we’ll be docking at Gallura in less than an hour, I head upstairs to look for my dad. I find him standing near the front of the enclosed deck, staring through the dark at the lights of the island that are just winking on in the distance.
I give him a peek at Charlotte’s e-mail on my phone, and he reaches an arm around to hug me.
“I’m so proud of you, Gianna,” he says, his voice barely carrying over the low thrum of the ship’s engines. “You have made something of yourself, and all on your own.”
“Maybe.” I tuck my phone away. “I mean, I’m only contracted for the one series, so it’s not like it’s a regular gig. But it’s a start, I hope.”
“So it is,” he says, squeezing me again. “Better than my start. Did you know I ran away from school when I was sixteen?”
