MARCH 18, 2022 – The day arrived when Chantal, Jean-Pierre, and Michel had to return to France. Ana, as spontaneous as she was charming, suggested that she and I accompany them to Genoa, where we’d split for Turin to visit another set of her friends.
The French trio and I had become steadfast comrades. Their wits mixed with Ana’s to fuel our journey up the Istrian Peninsula, through Trieste and over to Venice, where we spent the entire night carousing along the canals. There, initially to entertain my friends, I gave another command performance of mime and impersonations of passers-by. In time this “street act” attracted a sizable, laughing crowd of the impersonated. (Stay tuned for an elaborative post.)
At sunrise we continued our drive across Italy to Genoa. Not wishing to say “Au revoir!” the Gauls invited me to rejoin them after my side trip with Ana. I readily accepted.
Having arrived in Genoa late in the day, Ana and I stayed the night before venturing to Turin. A potential romance was reported home: “In Genoa Ana and I had our first chance to really talk alone . . . I think I rather surprised her with my observations. She confided in me that no one else had come so close to understanding her.” At the time, I thought Ana possessed feelings well masked by her intellect and vivacity. I’d stumbled into her life and reached those feelings unexpectedly.
In the hotel lobby I witnessed Ana’s remarkable facility for language. Already keenly aware of her skill, I’d been ignorant of its refinement. In my letter home, I wrote, “[Ana] served as translator for the Italian receptionist and a French guest. Both were amazed when Ana presented her Yugoslav passport: Ana spoke both Italian and French so well that the receptionist thought she was Italian and the Frenchman thought she was French.”
After a look around Genoa, we found our way to Turin, where we stayed with Ana’s friends—an engaging trio of artists.
Late one day, the five of us drove to the nearby mountains for some light hiking. We concluded our trek after sundown; full darkness descended as our crowded Fiat reached flat terrain. My companions were speaking Italian at the pace of our racing vehicle when . . . EEEERRRRKK! . . . the driver stomped on the brakes. To my fright and everyone else’s inexplicable laughter, we were driven in reverse—at breakneck speed—to a T-intersection we’d just passed. The intersecting road twisted madly past large trees along the edge of the pavement. We went a kilometer or so down this deserted country way and made a sharp U-turn.
From a dead stop the driver cranked the Fiat through its gears, careening curve-to-curve, narrowly escaping the trees along the way, until we swerved back onto the main road. The Italians thought it was the funniest thing they’d done all day. My request for an explanation went unanswered; the side trip found no mention in my letter home.
The next day I left for France—and Ana returned to Yugoslavia.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
