Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 30)
Chapter 10 Part II
Cindy Bradford
After the next two days in Innsbruck Patrick headed south to the walled city of Assisi, birthplace of St. Francis, and then on to southern Italy. He didn’t detrain in Rome, but rather continued on to Monte Cassino to view the monastery and abbey, perched high above the valley. Then it was on to Pompeii.
For the next two weeks, Patrick took in the sights of Capri and Sorrento, impressed with the rocky rose-tinted coastline of Capri and the charm of Sorrento, situated on a plateau high above the waters of the Bay of Naples.
He could see Vesuvius again although this time from much further away. The trendy shops and boutiques were of no interest to him, but he found the museums interesting and the cafes fun. Again, his hotel room was much more expensive than he had expected, but the view of the harbor was worth it. He spent the next few days reading and planning the remainder of his trip.
On his last night in Capri, Patrick decided to treat himself to a nice restaurant. The host seated him at a table by a window near two ladies, he guessed to be in their early seventies who were speaking English. Knowing he would soon be sitting in a windowless classroom instead of enjoying views like this, he lingered, looking out the window at the setting sun and turquoise water below, thinking of the many beautiful vistas on his trip. When he turned around he noticed the two women were looking at him, smiling. Since their plates had already been taken away, and he knew he would not disturb their dinner, he smiled back and asked, “Where are you ladies from, if I may ask? I have heard your accent and it sounded American.”
“We thought you might be from America,” one of the women said slowly.
The other lady quickly added, “Tulsa. Tulsa, Oklahoma. And you?”
Patrick replied, “Boston, by way of a few other short stops.”
“Why don’t you join us for dessert, young man?”
“I don’t care for dessert, but I would like to join you for a cup of coffee, maybe.”
“I’ll have the local peaches and a scoop of yogurt sorbet,” the first woman told the server, and then said, “I’m Rose, and this is Grace.”
“I’ll have the same,” Grace said, nodding and smiling at Patrick.
“Have you been here before?” Patrick asked.
“Oh my yes, we come every year. Isn’t it a serene paradise?” one of the women asked.
“Yes. I was surprised it is so small.”
“Only four miles long and less than two miles at its widest point,” Rose said, sounding like a school teacher from his junior high school.
“Have you seen the Blue Grotto?”
“Yes, it is the deepest blue I believe I have ever seen. I guess the hole in the cave’s roof gives it that color,” Patrick replied.
The school teacher, as Patrick thought of her, said, “I remember that some English writer, his name escapes me now, once wrote that the grotto belongs ‘to the immense categories of things that cannot be described, because their beauty cannot be appreciated only by the eyes.’ I find that so very true.”
Grace, the smaller lady, who Patrick decided had probably never worked outside the home said, “We have been coming here since two years after my husband died, for ten years now, I guess. Her husband died first, nodding toward her friend, then mine. They were both in the oil business in Tulsa. Have you ever been to Tulsa?”
“No.”
“Nice and clean city; not much crime and nice people.”
“Would you ladies like to walk around, to the central square?”
They looked at each for less than a second and responded, “yes,” at the same time.
“We don’t usually go out of the hotel much at night alone, but a tall American can surely protect us from any harm.”
Rose added, “We have never heard of any problems, but one never knows.”
Patrick paid his check and they signed their dinner to their room. When they stood, each lady took one of Patrick’s arms and they went venturing out into the night.
After they had walked awhile, Rose offered, “Why don’t we go in this little bar for a nightcap? My treat.”
After another hour of talking, Patrick learned that, indeed, Rose Holland had been a teacher, seventh grade, but only for a few years.
“I am just bossy. I know that is why you guessed it,” she laughed. “I guess we need to call it a night, do you think, Grace?”
“I suppose, but I have so enjoyed this nice young man.”
Walking them back to their room, Patrick stopped, “Thank you for a great evening. It was nice to talk to Americans. I’ve been alone for much of my journey,” he said, feeling a little nostalgic, if not homesick.
“Come see us if you are ever in Tulsa.”
He smiled, realizing that he didn’t even know Grace’s last name.
The next morning he traveled by bus through the mountainous scenery to the ferry that took him to Sicily, stopping for the night in Taormina. After reading so many fictional accounts, he thought how fun it was to see Sicilian life in reality. Bustling and beautiful with almond and orange blossoms adding scent to the scenery, the landscape made him wonder why the movies only showed the Mafioso and never mentioned the spectacular views and rich heritages.
Patrick found Palermo, the capital, with interesting squares and market places, churches and palazzos in every style from Moorish to Baroque, to be his favorite, but time was running short. Admitting to himself that he hated to leave the panoramic views he knew he must and was somber as he caught the boat to Naples. At first he tried reading, but soon he found himself staring out to sea.