Believe the Branches

March 4, Tuesday

The de-de-da-de of my alarm sang at 6 this morning – the first noise of the day. By 6:02, I was pulling the breakfast necessities from the shelves and fridge. Still in my multi-layered pajamas, I slipped back into the room as soon as the coffee flowed through the spout of the two-chambered coffee maker. Exchanging my layers for wind-proof ones, I got dressed and then took my usual breakfast place in the corner of the kitchen. Certainly not treated as the most important meal of the day here, breakfast doesn’t get the two extra chairs from the lab. Julia and I usually stand, leaning against the cold, low countertop and dunking our cookies into our coffee and milk. Today was no different. As I cupped my mug and stared out the kitchen window (conversation is also limited in the morning), I noticed the tree branches waving in the wind. Those branches are our first signal of the day’s actual weather. The previous night’s forecast can never tell you as much as those branches. Forecast beats programme, but branches beat forecast every time.

Despite the branches, the three of us left for the harbor at 7 (again, Bruno stayed behind). I had already asked Andrea about the wind while I was doing the morning dishes. Her response was about as clear as anything she tells us, “Yes, no. For that reason, I checking.” Both Bruno and Andrea often begin their responses with “Yes, no” – sometimes I can figure out which one they mean by context clues of what follows. Not this time.

As soon as we cross the street in front of the house, we have a clear view of the beach. Waves broke over each other as they rushed for the shore. But we kept going. Andrea scrunched her lips like the standard rabbit impression, before the buck teeth and nose twitch come out. But we kept going. The wind steadily increased as we got closer to the harbor. But we kept going. All of the trawlers nestled comfortably in the harbor – the truly professional fishermen wouldn’t be fishing today. But … we kept going. The three of us climbed aboard the fish farm boat. Zipping up my jacket and battening down my hood, I took my place on the bow. Ready, set, bring on the horizon!

The moment we cleared the harbor, we knew we should’ve stayed at the house. The boat see-sawed up and down as the bow rode up on the surge of the swell, then plummeted into the valley of water left behind. Conditions didn’t improve at the fishery. We did have a sighting early on, a brief 25 minutes of intermittent dolphin observation. About the time we lost track of them for more than 15 minutes (and therefore the end of the sighting), the wind picked up.

The highest winds we clocked measured 20.8 m/s (75km/hr = 41-47 knots). According to the Beaufort scale (9), we were experiencing a “strong squall,” featuring “removed tiles and fireplaces, large waves, thick wakes of foam and spray raised and reduced visibility.” And that’s only what we clocked. Eventually, we put the gear down and held on to the railings instead. Had we kept the anemometer on, we might have broken through to the next level – tempest with uprooted trees, then storm, then hurricane.

Dolphin scouting lost its priority when waves started breaking over the bow. I happened to be stationed there, looking for the lost dolphins. Andrea must have been watching the sea outside of the fish farm because she called me from around the corner. No sooner had I turned to face her on the stern than a huge wave came crashing up over the bow, drenching the back of my hood and jacket. I just missed really getting soaked (and soaking my camera). Andrea was not so lucky. Braving the corner to call me, she took the wave on with her face. For the next hour, the three of us crowded together on whatever side of the boat happened to be leeward at that moment – and tried our best to stay out of the crew’s way.

The crew scrambled around the cages and across the deck. On the smaller boats in the fishery, the skippers were doing all they could to keep on their feet and their boats out of the cage they tied up to. All brought out the bright orange waders and raincoats. There would be no losing them in the sea today. The fishermen here can never not work, since they need to at least feed the fish in all 21 cages every day (if not fish and transfer and clean as well). The boss, Clemente, was back today from having a cold. He knew the workers cut corners on time when was out, so today – despite the waves and the boats pressing into the cages – they worked extra hard. Clemente stood on one of the cages in his orange waders, holding a line and chewing gum – smiling away like it was a day at the beach. Well, an ideal vacation day-at-the-beach. Not a tempest day-at-the-beach.

When our boat went back to Pontone with the day’s first (and possibly only) catch, we climbed off over the tires suspended from the side of the concrete landing. Unsteady on solid ground, covered in salt and beaten by wind, we headed back to the house. The branches were right. Branches beat forecast beats programme.

Since we returned 2 hours before expected, Bruno was not at the house. And since they only have one house key, we were locked out. Andrea went off somewhere to call him. Meanwhile, the post came.

The daily mail delivery might not seem like something that should make the day’s summary – even by someone as wordy as myself. But this little town’s mail system is so bizarre to me, its worth noting. Julia and I were sitting beside the line of failed garden pots when a woman came through the gate. She had semi-successfully died her hair a dirty blonde – her roots gave away her Italian blood. Teased to apparent perfection, the multi-textured hair fell over her fur collar and gold hoop earrings.

“Buon giorno,” she offered, unfazed at the two naturally blonde, clearly non-Italians. We have been here a month – she knows who we are. Everyone, it seems, knows who we are. She briskly but amicably walked down the slope towards us.

“Buon giorno,” we echoed back.

“Bengaro?” She asked.

Under my breath, I muttered to Julia, “This isn’t going to be pretty.” Then, louder and to the woman, “Como?”

She walked right up to me and held out a stack of letters banded together. I read the top one. Via Armando Diaz 4 – the address was correct. The handwriting was definitely European. The name – I had no idea. I shook my head and gave my best I’m-sorry-I-can’t-help-you smile.

She bent Bengaro’s letter back over the rubber band and pointed to the next envelope. This one was addressed to Angela. Same address, same European style handwriting. “Nooo,” I responded with a slow, apologetic head shake.

“No? Okay. Grazie. Ciao.” In one breath, she covered four different tones. A smile and a head nod later, she was clipping back up the walk in her black fashion boots. The long heels clicked on the tile. The massive poof of hair, with the back-of-the-head imperfections that she surely didn’t know about, bounced off the brown fur lining her neck and shoulders.

No Bengaro and no Angela here, and no letter for me in that stack. I have been waiting on one from mom for almost a month – its 2 weeks overdue. Julia saw my face drop and told me that the letter is probably just stuck in Rome somewhere or in Olbia. Unlikely, but I’m still holding out. That’s why my ears perked up again when another postal worker waltzed up to the open gate. She didn’t bother talking to us, just started sliding mail into the boxes.

This second postal woman was more of a sight than the first. Her painted-on tight black pants were also tucked into her high-heeled, shin-high black boots. Despite the faux fur-lined hood, the cream-color jacket with random zippers and too many studs was clearly not intended to keep her warm. The oversized hood flopped on her back like a lazy bear cub. The jacket ended in 4 inches of ribbed elastic that hugged her midriff. A black and grey leopard-print, spandex top peeked out from under the jacket and rolled up on itself in the back, revealing a bronzed strip of skin that we’ll generously call her “lower back.” Even if she had bothered to smooth out the leopard layer, it still would not have reached the top of her beyond-low-rise pants. Her dye job was even less successful than her co-worker’s, unless the look she is going for is smudged-blonde dangling from (yet not hiding) jet-black roots. All I could see of her face was a petite nose overpowered by huge sunglasses that wrapped across the center third of her face and disappeared under streaks of blonde and black. For a few hours every morning (except Sundays of course), she trounces around town just like this – going door to door, gate to gate, box to box. A uniform is more foreign to her than English. If the local postal service decided to instigate a uniform, or even a dress code, I’m betting she would quit – especially if she got a look at the boxy blue starch-fests of the USPS. But she has nothing to fear – little ol’ Golfo Aranci would never begin to consider the need for professionalism.

Shortly after the postal fashionista strutted around the corner and onto the next address, Andrea reappeared around the gate. Hiking boots, ribbed khakis on at least day 4, a Kermit-green turtleneck fleece and uniformly black hair pulled back with an ‘80s schrunchee – a biologist through and through. I wonder what the locals think of this Paraguayan-Japanese transplant who doesn’t even try to keep up with the Italian fashion sense. Whatever their opinion of Andrea’s wardrobe and lifestyle, I like her all the more for it.

She had found a phone to call Bruno to come back with the keys. While we waited for him, she pulled out the mail that her opposite had just shoved into the box. Flipping through it as she walked down the path towards us, she started crooning in her sing-song voice. “Oh… Stephanie. Look what arrived to here. A letter for you!” She waved a padded white envelope. “And Jew-lee-ah, oh my here is one for you too. Oh – two for you! So popular Jew-lee-ah,” she teased. We took our mail. The three of us sat between the terracotta pots in a row and opened our mail. My letter was from Colin, which was sent 13 days after mom sent hers. When I had read the card and slipped it back inside the double envelopes, Andrea asked, “Iz from your mom?” She knows I’ve been waiting for 2 weeks and she has asked at the post office for me. I shook my head and explained the timestamp on the letter. She looked puzzled. “Ummmm… I dun know. May-ve your letter is in Rome or Olbia. Armando Diaz in Olbia and the people there have your letter. … May-ve your mom got some-sing wrong on the address. The local codigo or some-sing. I dun know in English – como se dice codigo?” Needless to say, the fate of my letter wasn’t determined.

When Bruno returned with the keys, we had a little free time while he made lunch. Andrea left for Olbia with the landlady. So lunch was a little awkward as the three of us ate without moving the table to the center of the kitchen. I tried starting a conversation about the weather, giving Bruno an opening to a soapbox tangent. It only partially worked, but broke up the silence of our rushed meal. We are Carbonara, which I believe I already gave the recipe for. Its pasta with raw eggs and cheese added at the end to coat and cook. Ho-hum. Ho-hum. We had our standard free time off until four, when we started transcription and other lab work. Andrea returned in the early evening and helped us with the bioacoustics. My escape clause was on printed on the programme and posted on the lab book case: it was my night to make dinner.

Before Andrea gave me a general overview of the recipe, she asked Bruno in Spanish “Now is Stephanie going to cook your guiso or my guiso?” He groaned from the lab and bolted into the kitchen. Andrea smiled and left with “Ok, Bruno show you.” The threat of Andrea’s version of the Spanish chicken dish was enough to get him involved. Although it required a lot of stirring, the recipe was not as complicated as Bruno suggested. I probably didn’t need to stir as much as I did, but I have learned when-in-doubt: keep stirring. Andrea came in and told me I didn’t need to stir constantly, but I told her that it wasn’t going to burn or stick on my watch. I’m still making up for overcooking the pasta last week.

The guiso was delicious – I’d like to think it was in part due to my constant stirring. Of the roughly 40 new recipes I have collected while being here, this is definitely in my top 5. I will be making at again at home. The taste is never the same when you try to recreate a meal, but I wrote down everything and made my best guess as to the quantities. For example, Bruno poured red wine into the pot for 6 seconds at a constant, liberal pour just shy of splashing. I have no idea how much wine that is, but that’s what I knew and that’s what I recorded. When I get home, I have a lot of cooking experimentations and conversions to do. The easy ones will be the grams to ounces, kilograms to cups. Some of my recipe collection will be a stateside failure, but I hope the guiso translates. And just in case, I will be stirring the whole time.