Taking Tuscany (10 page)

After dinner Adriana tells Mama and Daddy that we're going for a beach walk. We end up at the Sea Palace Beach Club, a dance club cabana with a live band. Adriana leads me to an outside table, where people are actually dancing barefoot in the sand. I must be the youngest person here.

After our sodas arrive, two guys come over and sit at our table, uninvited. They start speaking to us in Italian. Adriana responds in pig Latin. The guys look completely baffled. Even I can join in on this one. So I ask her in pig Latin why she doesn't want to talk to them.

“Arried-may,” she says.

I look at their hands—ep-yay
.
Yep, wedding rings. “Uck-yay!”

They finally get the hint and go away.

Moments later a dreamy guy—with no wedding ring—asks Adriana to dance, and she accepts. That leaves me sitting here alone. Before long, the parasailing salesman wanders by. “
Buona sera,
” he says.

“Oh, hi … er …
buona sera.
”
And no, I don't want to go parasailing in the dark.

“
Vuole ballare
?” Would you like to dance? he asks.

“No.”

“
Neanch' io
,” me neither. He says his name is Antonio, and that he doesn't like to dance. “May I sit at your table?”

“Go ahead, just don't ask me to go parasailing again.”

He points to the guy with Adriana and says that's his uncle.

“
That's
your uncle?”
The guy who drove the boat for the lunatic in the sky?

He nods.

Great.
They probably both had a good laugh over what a screaming ninny I was.

He says his uncle wants him to practice speaking English so he can talk to the American tourists about parasailing. Since parasailing is very new along the Riviera, most tourists have never heard of it before. In perfect English he says, “My uncle said you were very brave—especially when you had to land in the water.”

“He … said that?”
Apparently he didn't realize I had passed out from fear.
“Your English is so good—why have you been speaking Italian to me all this time?”

He shrugs. “Just embarrassed.”

“Of what?”

“Of … how I sound.”

“Your English sounds better than my Italian, that's for sure.” I laugh. “Can I ask you something, Antonio?”

“What?”

“If someone were up in the air, and suddenly started screaming her head off, would anyone in the boat or on land hear her?”

“The people in the boat wouldn't hear much except the motor, and the people on the beach wouldn't hear too well because of the distance and wind. They might know someone is yelling, but not what she's saying.”

“So let's say if someone were up there yelling ‘Help, get me down, I don't want to die or get eaten by sharks!' you might not be able to tell what she was saying?”

Antonio looks at me and smiles. “No, I didn't know what you were saying …”

“Oh.”
I guess I could have handled that inquiry a little better.

“Don't worry, I won't tell. You were brave enough to go up. I haven't even done that yet.”

“
Really
?”

“Really—afraid of heights.” Antonio looks up and sees his three brothers and hails them over to the table. “Would you like to meet my family?”

“Uh, sure.” I quickly recognize them as the guys who launched me off the beach.

I'm sitting here at the Sea Palace Beach Club, laughing my head off with four
grandioso
Italian guys who all look like they starred in
The Godfather,
when who should walk up to our table but Daddy.

Daddy personally escorts me and Adriana back to our hotel room. He stops by the cabana just long enough to inform Mama that Adriana's beach walk resulted in my entertaining the Italian Mafia at our table—solo. Speaking of solo, not one to miss out on an opportunity, Mama's dancing her way, solo, through the poolside cabana, handing out her business cards to the night crowd.

When we get back to our room, escorted by Daddy, we get the lecture of our lives. There will be no more beach walks after dark on this trip.

I'm trying to think of a creative way to remember this night and it finally comes to me. I've always wanted to know what it feels like to receive a postcard from an exotic destination. And knowing that Daddy picks up the mail makes this idea even more fun. I go to the lobby and pick out a postcard with a scene of the Sea Palace Beach Club on it. Disguising my handwriting, I write:

Dear A. J.,

It was a pleasure to meet with you at the Grand Sea Palace Beach Club. I'm so pleased you've made the decision to join our organization. You seem like such a brave girl, I'm sure you will be an asset in helping to advance our cause. Welcome aboard. We'll be in touch.

Fondly,

Your Godfather,

Joe Spumoni

Italian Mafia

8

A Grand Old Hallelujah

As of this morning I have moved base camp to the to the pool area. Since completing
Moon over Milan
, I no longer need the privacy required by an author when working on a novel. At my new camp I've discovered a small gray mouse staked out in the shrub beside my chair. I've been watching him all morning, skirting back and forth beneath the lounge chairs of a few unsuspecting Frenchwomen. He scurries around gathering their fancy French pastry crumbs, and hustles back under his shrub. I panic every time someone nearly steps on him, which is why I plan to keep my camp right next to his hideaway. I'm playing lifeguard for the little fella. Pretty sure I'm the only one who has noticed him so far.

If he were discovered, most tourists would scream, then insist on having him exterminated. That's what separates the merciful from the morons in this life. “Hey, Dino, save me the crumbs from your box of animal crackers, will ya?”

“What for, so you can feed them to the dumb mouse?”

“What mouse?”

“The one that swiped all of my peanuts yesterday while I was busy diving for gold.”

“How do you know it was a mouse?”

“Do you have a better name for that furry little gray thing with two tiny ears and a long tail?”

“Where?”

“Staked out in the bushes right next to your chair.”

“Oh, fine. Just save me the cracker crumbs, will you?”

Dino hands me the little box with a few whole crackers still left.

“Thanks.” I discreetly toss the crackers into the bushes.

After getting sunburned on both sides of my body, I feel like a well-done rotisserie pig and pack it all up for the day. To avoid going by the gift shop altogether, I take the stairs instead. I'll take my money with me and buy my souvenirs after supper. I won't look at
Paradise—
I'll walk straight in, look only at the souvenirs, and purchase them. Jesus would not want me to go in debt to buy
Paradise.

An hour later we're on our way to dinner.
Don't look … don't look … it's …
“Oh my gosh—it's on sale!”

“What's on sale?” Mama asks.

“Paradise—
they're
clearing out
Paradise
! I have to buy it …” I pull out my wallet and start through the door.

“A. J., we're going to eat.”

“Hold on, Daddy, I need to buy
Paradise
.”

“Paradise? I didn't realize it was for sale.”

“Well, it is, and now it's half price.”

“Really? The Lord must be having a hard time getting occupants up there.”

“Oh, Daddy, that's not even funny to make jokes about heaven.”

“Can't we deal with heaven later?” Adriana moans. “We're all hungry and want to eat right now.”

“Yeah, bag heaven, I'm hungry,” Dino adds.

Something inside of me snaps. “How can you all stand here and say that eating is more important than heaven? Don't you care what Jesus went through to be able to get you there? Do you think He was
comfortable
up there on that cross? Does this mean
nothing
to you? Is that all you care about—
food
?” Now I'm crying while I'm at it.

My sister has that look that tells anyone walking by that she is
not
even remotely
related to me. The rest of the family looks like they deserve all the pity they can get because they
are
related to me.

“A. J.,” Daddy says, quietly, but firmly, “is there a reason why you can't wait until after supper to buy this?”

“Yes, there's a reason. I've had this vision in my head ever since I was three years old. It's been my calling to be a keeper of His critters. That's why I rescued Sailor, that's what my critter cemetery is all about. I want to qualify for the animal-keeper position in heaven. I've walked past this painting all week but couldn't afford to buy it. And here it is on clearance. If I don't buy it, someone else will, and if they do, I will be so upset I'll probably go absolutely insane and out of my mind!”

Daddy looks over at Mama. “I'm fairly sure I would go absolutely insane and out of my mind without heaven
too.”

Mama cocks her head to one side. “Isn't that an oxymoron? Buying paradise?”

Everyone looks at each other.

“It just strikes me funny—getting material over paradise.” Mama shrugs.

I take her shrug as a green light.

All eyes are on me as I slip inside and place my lira on the counter. The shop lady heard it all and has already pulled
Paradise
out of the window display. She wraps it up in butcher paper and tapes it up for me. Then I set off with my family for the Grand Old Sea Palace Restaurant as the proud new owner of
Paradise.

After stuffing myself silly on
gnocchi
and
polenta—
potato dumplings and cornmeal mush—I set out on a sunset stroll for my last evening at the sea. One of the highlights of my trip has been observing the wildlife around here—the mouse by the pool, sea birds at sea, and dogs playing on the beach, fetching sticks like Sailor always did. There are some gigantic seabirds that look like they could carry a whale in their beaks. They even take their naps perched on the bows of wooden fishing boats anchored in the bay, where they're rocked to sleep by the waves. It's very peaceful to watch. Funny thing, they don't seem afraid of humans at all, and I'm wondering just how tame they are. I've decided to find out.

One of the birds by the rocks doesn't even budge when people walk by, so I'm slowly working my way over there without scaring him away. I start to talk to him in a soft, gentle voice, hoping to gain his trust. A young fisherman is loading up his net near the rocks where the bird is resting. “
Scusate
,
signori
?” I ask.

He looks up and nods.

I ask him if the birds are friendly.

“
Sì, molto amichevole
.” Yes, very friendly, he tells me.

“Really? They won't bite me?”

“No,” he says. He motions for me to pet the bird, and smiles kindly.

As I inch my way closer, the bird eyes me back, cautiously. His head is so cute and fuzzy up close. He really does look friendly. I reach my hand toward him.… Suddenly his huge beak opens, then nearly snaps my hand off. Jerking away, I shoot a glare over at the fisherman. He's laughing his head off, like this is just the funniest joke he's played on anyone in a long time. He walks over to the rocks and holds his hand out to me, still laughing
.
“
Sei una grande, signorina
,” he says, which means that I'm a good sport
.

No, just really stupid.

He gives me a hand up the rocks. “
Voi Americani matti volete toccare tutto
.” You crazy Americans want to touch everything.

I awake to the sound of the wind. My last day at the Grand Old Sea Palace. Looking out at the bay, I realize this is going to be one wild day at sea for those fishing boats. I have been waiting all week for those waves to pick up enough momentum to take me bodysurfing. On an average day this bay is too calm to get a ride back to shore on the crest of a wave. But today is the day.

I gobble up the last bite of my croissant, gulp down my orange juice, wipe my mouth, and announce: “Welcome to the 1972 Grand Old Surfing Championships on the Grand Old Salty Bay—first contestant up, A. J. Degulio. In other words I'm going surfing.”

Mama looks up from her morning paper, takes a sip of espresso while peering out at the bay. “A. J., those do not look like friendly waters today, at all. The pool might be a better option until that wind dies down.”

“But that's why I'm going in the bay. I've been waiting all week to catch a wave. Don't worry, I'll be careful.”

“Yeah, I've heard that before. Remember, this is our last day, so don't do anything idiotic. And remember, we all have to be packed up and ready to check out by noon.”

Entering the bay, I notice I'm not the only daredevil out here, which is a good sign. I plunge fearlessly into the icy waters of the Mediterranean and kick my way out to the breakers and catch a wave. The first swell is a snap. You just have to know when to start paddling back toward shore—before that wave crests on top of you. You also need to know when it's time to bail, before it curls on the shoreline, rolling you along with it.

Heading back out, I spot a set of swells mounting in the distance. Must be from some cargo ship or something big. If I can catch one of those waves after they've taken on some wind, I should have a pretty darn good swell to ride.

About halfway out I realize I'm the only surfer still in the bay.
Where'd everybody go?
Maybe they all chickened out. I've been swimming my entire life and have overcome the worst of wind and water tragedies. I can pretty much handle anything the water has to throw at me.

After sizing up the set of swells rolling in, I am ready and waiting. Swimming out to greet the first wave, I vaguely hear someone who sounds like Mama, yelling something that vaguely sounds like my name. Not a good time to get distracted. At this point it's either sink or swim.

But between the time I thought this would be a good idea and now, the wave has somehow doubled in size. Swimming like crazy for shore, I have a sinking feeling: too little too late. I'm riding this wave whether I like it or not.

The monster swell catches up with me. I'm helplessly swept up into the mini-tsunami heading toward shore at a very forceful rate of speed. The picture of
Paradise
flashes through my mind. About the time I decide I'm not quite ready to die, I'm lifted up into the crest of the wave … higher and higher … and higher. Forcing myself to open my eyes, I find myself surprisingly … surprised. I can actually see where I'm going from up here. My fear unexpectedly turns to exhilaration. I'm riding on top of the world … fully free … fully alive … then the wave curls. In an instant I'm slammed to the bottom of the ocean by the sumo-wrestler wave.

Down …

Down …

Down …

Doomed.

Preparing myself with the notion of being buried alive in an underwater grave, I'm suddenly jerked back up … then twisted … turned … and re-slammed. I believe that was the second wave that just broke. Fighting to surface for air, I lose the sense of which way is up. Seconds short of my lungs bursting, I am spit up on shore like Jonah from the belly of the whale. The wave retreats after its merciful delivery, beaching me on the wet sand … I'm alive … I think …
Hallelujah
.

Mama is all over me. “A. J., are you breathing?”

I nod, face down in the sand.

“How could you do something so idiotic? Didn't you hear me yelling to get out of the water?”

While I'm busy coughing and urping up half of the sea, Mama sends Benji to run and get me a towel. She helps drag my battered body back to the pool area. It won't surprise me if a fish flies right out of my mouth. I probably have an entire aquarium swimming around in my stomach. It's always nice to bring back a little memento from the beach. So this is the note I'll be ending my holiday at sea on.

Travel Journal Entry

Train Ride Home, August 1972

Highlights from My Seaside Holiday

The first thirty seconds of parasailing

Riding the crest of the wave

Almost petting a sea bird

My first dance club experience

Purchasing “Paradise”

Lowlights from My Seaside Holiday

The last nine and a half minutes of parasailing

Riding out the curl of the wave (I'm still picking sand out of my teeth)

Almost getting my hand bit off by a sea bird

My last dance club experience (highlight within the lowlight: Adriana took the fall for endangering and corrupting her innocent little sister)