Chapter 17
TOM TOOK US DIRECTLY TO the Excelsior Hotel, which was an imposing four-story building that sat across the Via Amendola from the ferry terminal. “Home sweet home,” he said as he pulled up to the curb.
I got out of the car and stood on the empty sidewalk, staring up at my new—albeit temporary—home while the guys got our bags out of the back of the car.
“Just pay for whatever you need tonight,” said Tom as we made our way into a small lobby. “Tomorrow you can go to the bursar and get your TLA.”
Paul had already told me that, for as long as we were living out of suitcases at the Excelsior, we’d qualify for a temporary lodging allowance, which covered the hotel, as well as meals and other incidentals. “Where’s the bursar?” Paul asked Tom, but Tom just waved him off.
“I’ll show you everything tomorrow. How about I meet you back over here at oh eight hundred hours?” Paul nodded, and Tom looked at his watch. “There’s a small market around the corner, but it’s probably closed right now.”
I looked at my own wristwatch. It was a little after three.
“Don’t count on anything here being open between one and four,” said Tom. “That’s when all the shopkeepers go home for their siesta.”
We said our goodbyes and Tom turned to go, but then he stopped in the middle of the lobby and did a one-eighty.
“I almost forgot,” he said when he was in front of us again.
“There’ve been a couple of protests recently.
” We must have stood up a little straighter, because Tom rushed to reassure us.
“Not a big deal,” he said. “Mainly people from off the island.”
“What are they protesting?” I asked.
“Us. The Gilmore. A bunch of lefties are all riled up about the nuclear reactors on the subs. They think we’re going to leak nuclear waste all over the archipelago, if we haven’t already.”
Paul let out a short laugh, like the very idea of a leak was not just remote but impossible.
“Things had been pretty quiet here recently,” said Tom, “but then all that stuff went down in Japan, and it’s got a lot of Italians feeling like chumps for not doing more.”
“Japan?” I said, but Paul gave me a look that said later.
“We’re telling our people to keep their heads down.”
“Should we not go out?” I asked, but the question didn’t make sense even as I said it. After all, we’d just been at a restaurant in Palau, and Tom hadn’t acted like we were breaking any rules.
Tom rushed to reassure me. “You can go out. Definitely. Just don’t draw a lot of attention to yourself. Try to blend in. You know what I mean?”
I did, but then I thought of the woman on the ferry and how I had immediately known she was an American without her ever opening her mouth.
I was five-eight with auburn hair, hazel eyes, and my Irish father’s pale skin, which burned and then freckled in the sun.
There was no way I’d ever be mistaken for an Italian, even if I traded in my Keds for a pair of Bruno Magli pumps.
What I didn’t yet understand—what I couldn’t yet understand—was that much of what gave me away as American had nothing to do with my physical features or my clothing.
It was my loping gait, my exaggerated wave, even my laugh, which was a little too loud.
Small traits, all of them, but together they added up to something big and brash and also a little bit unwieldy.