Chapter 20
OUR WELCOME ABOARD PACKET CONTAINED a map of downtown La Maddalena, although it had been mimeographed so many times as to be almost illegible.
Down on the street, I squinted at it, trying to find the Excelsior or some other landmark that might help orient us.
There was very little to go on—a church, a movie theater, city hall, and a small building close to the ferry lines labeled Italian Post Office.
Not to be confused with the American post office, I assumed.
In the center of the map was a star labeled Piazza Rossa, or Red Square, and I suggested we head in that general direction.
We took a narrow side street two very short blocks and arrived at a wide promenade lined with shops.
As Tom had predicted, they were now open and doing a brisk business.
Some of the shops sold souvenirs—small painted shells and plastic dolls dressed in the same garb the woman at the airport had been wearing, though most of them seemed to cater not to tourists but to the island’s residents.
There was a barber and a butcher, a pharmacist and a stationer, and I began to see how I might spend my first several weeks on the island just running errands.
The streets were considerably more crowded than they’d been when we arrived at the hotel, but no one looked like they were in a particular hurry to get anywhere. Well, except for a rambunctious group of schoolchildren, who ran past us at warp speed.
The promenade emptied into the Piazza Rossa, where a hulking municipal building sat in one corner.
The piazza was surfaced in red brick and lined with bars and cafés that extended outside.
At each café, there were brightly colored wicker chairs, positioned around small laminate tables that bore the names of alcohol brands I didn’t yet know.
Past the piazza was the church and a gelateria and a furniture maker of some description.
When we reached a teeny-tiny harbor labeled Cala Gavetta on our map, we turned back and made our way up a narrow side street that wound behind the church and past a number of homes that came all the way up to the street.
Eventually, we popped out in front of a steep set of stairs that led to an imposing building we decided had to be a school or a monastery or maybe both.
On a tall stone archway above our heads read the words Istituto San Vincenzo.
I bought my first piece of focaccia at a bakery just down the hill, and when I took a bite, I thought I might die of happiness.
“You have to try this,” I said to Paul, although a big part of me didn’t want to share.
For dinner, we ate a real meal—pasta with artichokes and lamb—at a restaurant on the main drag, and on the way back to the Excelsior, I found the market Tom had told us about.
“Let’s duck in here,” I said to Paul, “and grab something we can eat for breakfast tomorrow morning.”
The market was nothing fancy, a few shelves of cookies and cakes and that type of thing. A jar of what looked like liquid chocolate caught my eye, and I picked it up and tried to pronounce the word: “Nutella?”
I know what you’re thinking. How did I not know what Nutella was? Well, I’m telling you that in 1974, the only people who knew what Nutella was were Italians, and maybe a few Germans.
Paul looked at the jar. “What are we supposed to do with that?”
On the label was a picture of a perfect slice of white bread spread thick with chocolate goo. “We’re meant to eat it on bread.”
“Who would do that?” Paul asked, like I’d suggested we eat our own feces, but I was already walking toward the counter with the chocolate spread in hand.
“Me!” I said, laughing.
A few minutes later, as Paul begrudgingly paid for the Nutella and a loaf of bread, I noticed a flyer taped to the wall near the door.
All the words were in Italian, but I didn’t need to be able to read them to understand that the flyer was about us.
In the center of the paper was a circle made to appear as if one were looking through the scope of a gun or maybe a missile launcher or something.
In the crosshairs was a big missile—USA stamped across it—that hovered over a hand-drawn map of La Maddalena.
I knew without reading a word that this flyer had something to do with the protests Tom had warned us about, but I had no idea what. When I moved a little closer, I noticed four words in tiny block lettering: IL PARTITO COMUNISTA ITALIANO.
“You see this?” I said to Paul, pointing at the flyer. He stopped and stared at it for a few seconds. “What’s it say?” I asked, but he was already opening the shop door and ushering me out onto the street.
“Nice job keeping your head down,” said Paul when we were outside.
Suddenly, I felt foolish. Tom had told us to try to blend in, to act less American. And making a big deal out of that flyer in front of the clerk was a pretty American thing to do.
“Sorry,” I said.
As if to demonstrate that we were fine, Paul took the jar of Nutella from me and unscrewed the lid.
“Hey!” I said half-heartedly as I watched him dip his finger into the spread.
“You’re welcome to join me,” he offered, so I did, and we stood there in the middle of the street licking chocolate off our fingers.
“It’s not bad,” said Paul finally.
“Are you kidding me? Not bad?”
“Okay, fine.” He screwed the lid back on the jar and returned it to me. “It’s fucking delicious.”