Angel in a Yellow Dress

June 12, 2024 ~ Cagliari, Sardinia

“Angel in a Yellow Dress”

The charcuterie board was pushed across the counter to my husband’s surprise. He had gestured to the meats and cheeses through the glass counter but perhaps should have googled the Italian word for sandwich.

“What’s this?” he demanded.

“Just eat it,” I hissed at him hoping he wouldn’t refuse to pay or, worse yet, make a scene.

“Okay, okay,” he grumbled, taking the tray and heading for the orange couch tucked behind a mahogany coffee table. Surrounded by floor-to-ceiling wine bottles, the space was the Italian version of Central Perk Coffee minus Ross and Rachel.

“How do you get a taxi here?” I asked the customer next in line, hoping he spoke English.

“You pray.”

Not quite the answer I was looking for, my expression must have given away my anxiety.

“Where are you going?” he asked with a thick accent.

“The port. We have to get back to the ship.”

He launched into detailed directions filled with landmarks unfamiliar to my ears. We had trekked up the zig zag of steep hills with the Cathedral of Cagliari as our sole destination. His words, although spoken in fairly fluent English, were meaningless.

“Or you can take the elevator,” he suggested as an afterthought.

I perked up. “Elevator?”

“Yes, it’s around the corner past the Elephant Tower. It will take you right down to the plaza without any of the hills or steps.”

“Oh wow! Grazie!” I took my cheese and headed for the couch.

***

“It’s this way,” my husband announced while holding up his phone.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive.”

I checked my watch, grateful that we had plenty of time to get back to the port. I thought of the speedboats that chased the departing ships every evening carrying the lollygaggers back on board. How hard was it to get to the pier on time?

My eyes were drawn to an elderly woman appearing on her terrace three stories up. Her thin arms and legs stuck out of her sundress, a shower cap on her head. She was unconcerned with the Americans in the alleyway beneath her as she tended to her plants. The image was striking, and I snapped a quick photo before a car came out of nowhere blasting its tinny horn. I jumped back startled, not realizing the narrow cobblestone alley wasn’t pedestrian only.

Following behind the GPS chorus of “turn right in 25 feet, turn left in 50 feet”, my thoughts wandered to a documentary I had seen about blue zones. I realized that Sardinia had been featured for an unusual number of centenarians. The locals walked up and down the steep hills for family dinners like I commuted from my den to my dining room. The daily rigorous exercise suggested a simple explanation for their longevity.

I had to give the locals credit; their stamina far exceeded mine at half their age. “Downhill will be easier,” we had joked with burning thighs on the way up to the cathedral. The notion of riding an elevator was luxurious. We just had to find it.

Twisting and turning, the alleys became darker and narrower with shadows lurking in every corner. Garbage littered the steps at unmarked doors and the graffiti suddenly felt menacing. We picked up our pace, anxious to find the elevator and put the ordeal behind us. Our conversation dwindled down to mere syllables to conserve energy. I was fighting fear with every step.

The sun suddenly hit me hard as the cheerful GPS voice led us out of the shadowy maze. I squinted, placing a hand over my eyes, and looked around for the promised elevator. The scene was familiar, even with my sad sense of direction, and I was shocked to see the elderly woman on the terrace. No! After all that distance we had traveled, we were back where we started. How was that possible?

It took a few seconds to realize I was utterly and completely lost. Panic crept into the edges of my psyche. The elevator must have been a joke, I realized, similar to the infamous bridge for sale. I felt sick.

“This is wrong,” I shouted out, my voice shrill and unpleasant to my own ears. Sweat formed on my forehead and back of neck. My mouth became dry.

“No, it’s right. I’m following the GPS exactly. We’re almost there,” my husband replied, his eyes on the phone despite the stream of misguided directions.

“We are going in circles,” I insisted.

“We’re not. Trust me.”

“I’m telling you we are lost. We’re never going to make it back in time, the ship is going to leave without us.” We would be the dumbasses holding up the ship, the ones on the speedboat while the passengers laughed from their window seats at the buffet.

We continued on, trying a new fork in the road. A row of terra cotta buildings hugged the right side of the street with their wrought iron terraces stacked one atop the other. As we passed a slight bend, restaurants appeared on the left, complete with outdoor tables and maître d’s. The Mediterranean Sea came into view, sparkling invitingly in the distance. I longed to be seated.

“Excuse me, where is the elevator?” My husband approached the wait staff, interrupting their conversation. The young men and women stared at him in bewilderment.

“Can I help you?” A voice from behind floated through the air. I turned around.

“Please! Is there an elevator somewhere around here, or is that a joke?” I pleaded with the stranger.

“Yes, come with me.”

I followed the woman in the yellow dress back to the archway near the Elephant Tower. Hadn’t we walked under that several times already, trying all variations of twists and turns? Just one degree to the left or right made all the difference as a rickety box came into view.

I looked at it with disappointment; that relic couldn’t possibly be in working order. After pressing the button several times, the door creaked open, and the stranger beckoned us inside. Oh, hell no.

“I don’t think this is safe?” The words croaked out as my chest became tight.

“You are safe with me.” She stepped inside and as if hypnotized, we followed.

The door clattered shut. I fought images of being locked in, shaking the iron gate, pounding on the walls for someone, anyone, to hear me and let me out. I stared intently into the stranger’s blue eyes as if for an anchor.

“You’re okay,” she repeated, “you’re with me.” She pressed a nondescript button, and we began to move.

The silver strands in her brown hair caught the sunlight and sparkled. The simplicity of her words calmed me. I kept my gaze locked in her blue eyes as we descended.

Exhaling as the door opened, I was thrilled to see the wide open sunny plaza. Parents stood on line waiting for gelatos while their children impatiently chased each other around the plastic tables. Our massive ship sat majestically on the horizon.

***

Standing on the balcony, I looked through the binoculars as the ship pulled away from the pier. I scanned the picturesque town and zoomed in on the Cathedral of Cagliari and Elephant Tower. The maze of alleyways was tucked out of view. I said a silent thank you to the angel in the yellow dress.