…
The email I received said:
“Go to Newark airport, go to the United booking desk and give them your name. Take proof of identity. Pack for five days, light.”
It was going to be, supposedly, a magical mystery tour. I read in a travel magazine that a company offered five-day inclusive trips to anywhere. You do not get the destination, just what to take. Then, just be prepared for anything.
I paid the money and waited until last evening when the email came.
I was ready.
When I presented my credentials as requested, I found myself going to Venice, Italy, a place I had never been before.
When I looked it up, it said it took about 10 hours to get there with one stop in between. Enough time to read up on the many places to go and see, though according to the instructions, everything had been arranged in advance.
I could also take the time to brush up on my schoolboy Italian.
When I got off the plane at Marco Polo airport, in Venice, it was mid-morning, but an hour or so was lost going through immigration and customs. A water taxi was waiting to take me to a hotel where I would receive further instructions. I was hoping it would be on or overlooking the Grand Canal.
At the airport, I wondered if there was going to be anyone else on this trip or whether I would be doing it alone. I’d read that sometimes like-minded people were put together for a shared experience.
We had to agree and then fill out an extensive profile so they could appropriately match people. Sometimes, people join at different times along the way. You just never knew what was going to happen.
That random unpredictability was just what I needed, having just gone through a breakup after a long period of peacefulness and stability, and frankly, I would not have chosen this type of tour if I had not.
It was a pleasant half hour or so winding our way through the canals, having paid the driver extra to take a long route. I’d not been to Venice before, but I had read about it, and while some of the negative comments were true, it didn’t diminish the place in my eyes.
And the hotel, on its own island overlooking the main canal, was stylish and elegant, and my room was exactly where I’d hoped it would be. I think I spent the next hour just looking out at the city and the boats going by, like a freeway, a never-ending stream of traffic.
A knock on the door interrupted what might have been described as a dream.
On the other side of the door was a smartly dressed youngish lady in a uniform of sorts, who looked like a summer day.
“Mr Benson, my name is Conchetta, and I will be your guide for tomorrow. I am delivering a folder with the places we will be going for your perusal.” It was the most exquisite, accented English I’d ever heard and just wanted to hear more.
She handed me the folder with a smile. “Until tomorrow.”
And left me wondering what just happened.
…
The next morning I went downstairs to the restaurant where breakfast was served and found a wide variety of different items that could serve any number of different tastes.
Mine ran to cereal, followed by bacon and eggs on last to fruit and coffee.
I brought a newspaper down with me, mostly to practise my very bad Italian, and had set it to one side after finding a table.
A waiter came and filled my cup with coffee, black, no sugar, my preferred type for breakfast. Then it was simply a matter of watching the other people come and go.
Ten or fifteen minutes passed with the usual arrivals, and being the peak time, there was a wait. Except some people who thought they were more privileged than others and pushed forward.
I’d seen the particular gentleman the previous evening when he checked in and was making a point about having booked the best room in the house, a statement I last heard in an old Hollywood movie. Mr J. Dexter Pierpoint.
Now it seemed he was too important to wait in line, virtually shoving a woman ahead of him out of the way. The staff at the door were trying to deal with him, and the melee had attracted everyone’s attention.
Meanwhile, in what had to be karma, the lady was shown in without having her room checked, a privilege she thanked them for.
It took five minutes to get Mr J. Dexter Pierpoint under control, by which time my attention came back to the lady. It might not have except she was standing next to my table, looking for somewhere to sit.
“If you can put up with a much less boisterous American, you may want to sit here. I do not take up much room.”
She turned slightly to see who was addressing her and then smiled.
“I have nothing against Americans, well, perhaps just one.” She inclined her head lightly to give me a second look over, perhaps trying to decide whether to accept the offer. “Thank you.”
She sat. Her breakfast was healthy. Muesli, I think, and multigrain bread. She had the appearance of someone who looked after themselves, a few years younger than me, but at a guess, recently retired, either a schoolteacher or librarian.
Of course, she could equally be a top MI6 agent because all I knew about her was that she had a British accent.
“I apologise for my fellow citizens’ brashness. It seems an element of our people seem to think the world owes them a favour. I do not.”
“You don’t need to. It just seems like the world has gone crazy. I hope it’s not in the water.”
She had a look on her face, one that made it impossible to tell if she was serious or not.
“Do you talk over breakfast, or should I sit in companionable silence?” Best to find out if she’s a talker or a quiet one so that I could not be construed as ruining it one way or the other.
“You mean you want to interrogate me?”
“I rather think it might be the other way around.”
“What would you do if I were not here?”
The waiter came with coffee, but she was a tea drinker. There was no surprise there.
“Go back to studying the room and its inhabitants, hazarding guesses about who and what they are.”
“For what reason?”
“So that people think I have a purpose being here.”
“Do you?”
Another waiter delivered a pot of tea. I could see the tag sticking out of the top. English Breakfast.
“Not really. It’s the first morning of a tour, Venice is the first stop.”
“But that is a reason is it not? You’re on holiday, or as the Americans call it, vacation.”
“I have another name for it, but that’s a long story you don’t want to hear. My name, by the way, is Jay, named after Jay Gatsby of the F Scott Fitzgerald novel. My mother was an avid reader.”
It elicited a smile. “I gather you get that comparison a lot.”
“Yes. It’s better to get it out of the way and move on.”
“I am Millie, short for Millicent to which I refuse to answer if you use it. There is no relation to any character in any book that I know of. My mother didn’t read books, just magazines.”
She poured some tea out of the pot into her cup and stirred it for about a minute, then took a sip. It looked quite dark, which meant strong. I preferred tea weaker.
She looked around at the hustle and bustle, taking a moment to look at each person, and then came back to me.
“What category did you put me into?”
I looked at her, having switched from bemused to something else. Was it a challenge, and if I didn’t get it right, she’d lob a breakfast roll in my direction.
“Is that the same category of question; do I have a death wish?”
There was, all of a sudden, a hint of laughter in those blue eyes. I suspect once upon a time she was a very beautiful blonde. Still was very attractive, though I told myself I was not here to pass judgment.
“Death wish it is. Retired schoolteacher or librarian. Or just for something different, a top spy for MI6.” There, it was said.
She laughed outright. “I’ll own up to the librarian. As for the rest, possibly a dream I had once. Now, about you? Let me guess, a retired executive of a multinational company.”
I guess I had the look. I was not in a suit this morning, I had dressed down to a tie, vest, and jacket.
“Close. My family has owned a shipping company for a century or so, starting with one ship, and now, it’s so successful that they don’t need me. Someone suggested I take a world tour.”
“By yourself?”
“My wife died about five years back, and I thought I found someone else, but it didn’t work out. I think I still hadn’t got over Ellen.”
“It’s hard. My William passed two years back. I miss him but I have to move on, so I’m told.”
She looked up, and I could see a young girl, late teens perhaps, searching the room and then stopping at Millie.
“Oh, dear. She found me.”
“Your granddaughter, I presume?”
“My son didn’t like the idea of me visiting Italy alone. Had this strange idea I might be taken by a fancy young Italian boy. She’s here as his spy. Apparently, she speaks fluent Italian.”
“And perfectly capable of fending off the would-be Italian Romeo’s.”
“That too.” She stood. “Thanks for offering me a seat. We may or may not run into each other again, but it was interesting.”
Another smile, and she was gone.
The first day, and I’d already said more to a stranger than I had in years. I hadn’t realised that my life had got so boring or that I had so irrevocably wrapped myself up in my job that I’d missed everything else going on around me.
Perhaps that was why my last relationship failed.
Perhaps that’s why my children had practically forced me into getting away from everything, what Harry, my eldest son had said, “Take the time to wake up and smell the roses.”
I saw Conchetta, the guide appear in the doorway, and realised it was my cue. The first day, quite literally, of the rest of my life.
…
© Charles Heath 2024
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