The Lady gets a glow up

In early May we finished our transatlantic crossing from New York City to Barcelona. After a 5am immigration wake up call, I stashed my suitcases in my stage manager’s empty cabin and hopped on the shuttle to the airport where I was just in time to slam a cappuccino, wolf down an iberico ham baguette and catch my EasyJet flight to Geneva. One of my oldest and bestest friends lives in Geneva with her husband and two kids. Her home regularly serves as my base when I’m bopping around Europe. She generously allows me to cat around her house for weeks at a time in exchange for cuddles, companionship at the grocery store and the occasional load of laundry.

This visit was no different, with one exception; my mom came. A few months ago Mom expressed a desire to take a trip with me. My two week hiatus from the ship in Europe seemed like the perfect fit. As soon as she arrived at my friend’s charming, flower draped cottage in the city, we jumped in the car and headed up into the mountains. Bestie is an avid skier and gets to live that dream in her perfect chalet in Morzine in the french alps that she and her husband finished building right before covid. But this week is inter-season in Morzine. Not enough snow to ski and too muddy to mountain bike, so the lifts close down and the town goes to sleep. Bestie hates to sit still and was tired of the long cold spring, so she packed up her kids and headed to Sicily for the week leaving Mom and I alone in her big empty mountain house. Poor us.

Good thing neither of us has any interest whatsoever in skiing or mountain biking. Three restaurants open in town is enough for us. We enjoyed grocery shopping together and I got the blessed opportunity to play mom to my mom and cook dinner every night. We went on hikes and got caught in the unseasonably late snow more than once. The waterfalls were roaring and the wildflowers were fighting for their lives. Waking up to snow falling in the mountains in May and having an excuse to light the fireplace was a welcome surprise. We went in the hot tub everyday and spent long slow mornings and evenings talking unhurried about life and art and family and history and God and everything else that came to mind. We sampled the local chartreuse and genepi and Mom did her watercolor at the big table while I read Corey Ann Haydu’s debut adult novel “Mother’s and Other Strangers” under a blanket on the couch. They were precious days.

And then the week was over! I drove Mom back to Geneva and put her in a cab at 7:30 in the morning. I spent a few more days with Bestie and her family, participating in the chaotic domestic bliss when I wasn’t writing in the garden/creeping on the hot Italian gardener from behind my laptop. The day came to say goodbye to my beloved friend and head south toward the unknown catastrophe known as “dry dock” awaiting me in Palermo.

Dry dock is when they take the ship out of the water and fix everything that’s broken. Ships are required to do a dry dock every four-ish years and it’s my current lady’s time. I re-joined the ship at the tail end of the ordeal, day twelve of fourteen. Once in Palermo, I walked the half mile from the shipyard’s main gate and arrived at my loud, dirty construction zone floating miraculously in the air. My cabin was full of contractors and tools so I was given someone else’s cabin for the night. My company brought me back before the end of dry dock because I was needed to re-tech my show, but other than that I was useless, in the way and deeply over stimulated. There was nowhere to sit that wasn’t covered in plastic. So that first evening I went out to dinner with some of my favorite ship friends and enjoyed a delicious pasta alla norma and flirted with the server in my subpar Italian while reacquainting myself with why I love Italy so much.

The next day was our last in Palermo. I will spare you the gross details about my key card not working and the safety training I had to sit through even though I’d only been gone for 10 days and how many times I had to stand in line at the crew office. I crossed the gangway at noon and flew away free as a bird toward the siren song of Sicilia. I walked the two miles into old town and revisited a sandwich shop I’d once enjoyed for it’s arancinetti five years earlier.

Ok wait there’s a backstory here.

Five years ago I was nannying for a friend for six weeks in Budapest while her husband was shooting a tv show for Disney. During that six weeks we had a twelve day break from production and my friend decided to get out of Budapest which was hotter than every literal and figurative definition of hell and go to Sicily. Once we arrived at the lovely country house that had been rented for the occasion, my dear friend lovingly peer pressured me into downloading tinder. I did. We made a game of it. That’s how I met Angelo. The story of my short love affair with Angelo doesn’t belong in this blog, but suffice to say we shared a special connection. We made love in my hotel room in Cefalu and ate warm blackberries wild off a bush and swam together in the ocean. I purchased from him a black leather backpack that he had made with his own hands and after we kissed a chocolatey gelato kiss goodbye I carried with me a spark of hope that I might see him again someday.

That day came. When I arrived at the Fincantieri shipyard in Sicily, I messaged Angelo that I was going to be in Palermo for one day and would he be at his shop. He replied that yes he would. When I got there the shop was closed so I sent him a photo of me standing outside. He said he would be back in 20 minutes. So I took a walk. I drank an amaro and wandered through the winding streets taking in the ancient architecture and lusting after the lemoncello I would not be allowed to bring onboard. I stopped at the window of a cute little shop to admire the tiny brass jewelry inside when suddenly I hear my name “ANNA!”. I look up and there he is, Angelo, my Sicilian. He was inside the shop I’d been admiring, delivering some purses for the owner to sell. Serendipity? Fate? Small town? Who cares, it felt like magic.

We walked together for coffee. He took me to his shop. I picked out a small leather purse and he made me a custom strap so that I could wear it around my waist. We talked about his daughter and my writing and his girlfriend and how life changes or doesn’t in five years. The connection between us was still there. He is a kind, thoughtful and gentle man. The kind of man I seem to need regular reminders still exists. We hugged goodbye and I promised to see him again in another five years.

As I floated back towards the ship, the magic of that day decided it wasn’t done with me yet. I suddenly came upon shelves of books lining the street. The man sitting there showed me to the english language section of this shocking al fresco library. I gasped in awe. Tens of thousands of books, row after row, spiraling around the cobblestone courtyard and burrowing farther inside a centuries old building. I turned around and found myself face to face with Pietro, the proud owner of this library. He told me he is rich in books, that I can take what I want and put money into the box if I choose. I picked three books and put money into the box. I said “Grazie Señore” to which he replied “No, non Señore, Peter”. Ok Peter, Thank you. We took a picture together. He walked me around the corner to his friend’s beautiful and luxurious cafe and hotel. He bought me a coffee and told me he wished I didn’t have to go. He allowed me to practice my Italian while we spoke of language and books and Sicily. Before I walked away he said “Palermo e magica”. Yes Peter, yes it is.

Our lady ship was 93% ready to go and corporate time waits for no contractor. MOST of the new carpet was laid, new furniture in place, new menus items tasted. Just behind every crew door sat piles of drop cloths and broken pallets where hopefully no one would notice how close we came to not quite making it. Shit was dusty but Civitavecchia, 2600 new passengers and 150 incoming crew were ready for us just up the Italian coast. The following morning I awoke to the familiar and yet unfamiliar sensation of the ship rocking. We were floating again. Sailing away.

That day was bad. It hurt. My ego wanted to be in pain, to suffer, to wallow in doubt and regret like a pig in shit. I fought it. I will not let my ego dictate this life. That thing I said, the way he took it, that misunderstanding, the unanswered text, that little bird who got caught on the ship and won’t make it back to land. I let them all go over and over.

Instead I thought of Angelo and how our connection stayed quiet for years, changed and yet remains. I thought of my mom and how beautiful and wise she is, how deep and unwavering our love will always be. I thought of my Bestie and how wildly different our lives are and yet our friendship has survived across decades and continents. I thought about pasta alla norma and tiny flower buds pushing through the snow and the white chocolate raspberry cookie at Oh Martine in Geneva and Pietro with his books. I promised myself that tomorrow would be better.

It was.