The next three days we stopped at three ports, each on its own volcanic island among the Canary Islands. Eristo celebrated with towel camels on my bed.
I still heard that tune the musicians had played that I swore I knew, but couldn’t identify. That unnamed earworm was the main irritant of these pleasant few days.
Either Petronella was relaxing or I was getting used to her.
We joined excursions the first two days touring islands. Seated in what the guides called motor coaches and I’d call a bus. Taking photos through windows or at the predetermined stops. Sitting among our fellow passengers.
Some of our fellow passengers.
We didn’t see Odette and the Marry-Go-Rounders or Catherine and Bob or the spa girls.
We met wonderful people from all over the world, yet with a strong streak from the Midwest. Friendly, funny, and no-nonsense. Not only salt of the earth, but with a dash of pepper.
It made me so homesick that the first night I wrote a long email to my parents, musing about possibly moving back to the region. They’d love the email whenever they got it, though who knew when that would be. You guessed it, no internet.
On the tours, around the pool, playing trivia, these people were reminders of my childhood. A species that had been rare in my past fifteen years. They now seemed almost as exotic as the black-sand beaches, frozen lava fields, collapsed volcanoes, and ash-smothered landscapes outside the bus — excuse me, motor coach — windows.
And my, oh my, did I learn about cruising. These seasoned travelers talked cruising like it was fantasy football league.
What website offers the most up to date information. Which ship’s limping along toward refurbishment, which one recently came out of a rehab glowing and renewed. How and when to get deals. Wait until the last minute and take what you get? Book far ahead and be locked in? Is it worth it to own stock? Are onboard credits or price reduction better value?
Best itineraries? Swear by a travel agent or go it alone? Use the cruise line for plane tickets or book your own? And then you get the truly important choices, like early or late seating for dinner, which shows to attend, the odds of winning at the casino or bridge or bingo?
If anyone sets up a scoring system, Cruising with Experts could sweep the seas.
I enjoyed these people a lot.
Still, by the third island, I missed Aunt Kit’s narrower but deeper dives into the surroundings.
Absent her organization, I still yearned for more exposure to the natives than a solitary tour guide.
With a bit of bait and switch, I bundled Petronella off on a tour of the island of La Palma, then I walked into the port town of Santa Cruz. I wandered the streets, snapped photos of flowers and architecture, stopped at the church Christopher Columbus last prayed in before heading toward the unknown, contemplating how unanswered prayers — since his were likely for safe arrival in the East Indies — could open new worlds.
I was contemplating that unoriginal thought and vowing to close off the topic of my future for the rest of the day when I heard the name “Leah.”
The speaker sounded American. I didn’t recognize the female voice and, sure, there could be other Leahs around. I stepped behind a tall spinner rack of calendars featuring Canary Island sights anyway. That way I could hide if Leah was there or eavesdrop if she wasn’t.
“…I’m sure it’s her. I did my research and I’m positive,” the voice said.
“That’s fine, darling. But what are you going to do with the information?” Ralph. I was sure of it. Almost sure.
I peeked around a calendar featuring an aerial view of Teneguía volcano.
Ralph. And Maya. I suppose I hadn’t recognized her voice because I’d heard it only when it was clogged with tears.
She looked a lot better when she wasn’t crying.
“I want her to know that I know. She thinks she’s so high and mighty. But I want her to know.”
He sighed. “Can’t you let it go? I never should have agreed to this cruise. You said you were okay with it, but—”
“I would be okay if she weren’t so vicious. She’s a horrible, horrible person. Do you know what she said to that poor woman who waits hand and foot on that bigshot author?”
Excuse me?
Having completely misrepresented the situation, Maya continued, “Not that Petunia or whatever her name is understood the slam when Leah said—”
“I don’t know what she said and that’s the way I want to keep it. You’ve got to stop obsessing about her. Sometimes I feel like I’m still married to the woman. That’s how much you let her into our lives.”
“Let her in? She pushes in. She won’t stay out.”
She continued on in that vein as they left the store, turning to the right. I caught a glimpse of Ralph’s weary profile before they passed out of sight.
As I left my spot behind the spinner rack, I caught the expression of the man behind the counter. It needed no translation. Crazy tourist came through loud and clear. At least there was a twinkle in his eyes.
It was the twinkle that made me buy that volcano calendar. One of my young nephews would love it.
I had a leisurely lunch at a sidewalk café several blocks off the main street, surrounded by locals.
Maya and Ralph stayed in my head, though.
Maya, especially. And not only because of the crack about Petronella waiting on me hand and foot.
I wished I knew her makeup secret, because no sign remained of the blotchy, tear-tracked puffiness. If it looked as good on camera as it did in the harsh overhead light of the little store—
Never mind.
Old habit not yet broken.
At the end of this cruise, I wouldn’t need to worry about how I looked on camera.
In fact, whatever I did in the future, avoiding TV interviews would be advisable. Being recognized as my famous author persona could be bad all around.
On the upside, even famous authors are seldom instantly recognizable by most people outside of a bookstore. Take them out of context and they walk amongst us unnoticed.
On the other hand, it might not hurt if I made a few adjustments to my appearance.
I could go back to contacts, instead of the glasses I’d worn to look older and wiser.
Let my hair return to its wild-thing curls (and frizz) instead of the sleek flat iron look of the past fifteen years.
Oh.
I sat up straight.
Without TV cameras adding ten pounds, I could have brownies again.
In fact, I should put on more than ten pounds to be sure I didn’t look like I had on TV.
Starting tonight, I was ordering a second dessert in addition to my dessert contribution to sharing around the table.
A dessert of my very own.
This was the most cheerful view I’d had of my future since Aunt Kit sat me down to say she was retiring.
I chatted with shopkeepers as I bought a book for another nephew, a stuffed animal for my baby niece, a scarf, spare sunglasses, and lotion, then ambled back to the ship, looking forward to sharing impressions at dinner with Catherine and Bob and — yes — Petronella.
A day apart did wonders for my patience with my unchosen companion.