Puglia

My siblings and I all committed to a biking tour together in Puglia, Italy, almost a year before its mid-May start date. The main reason was a joint celebration of significant milestones for each of us at the time. I was the oldest brother and was turning seventy, and our lone sister, Alice, sixty-five. Pete, two years my junior, had just successfully survived head/neck cancer plus a rash of aftermath complications. And Tom, the youngest, had formalized his upcoming early retirement at age sixty-one. Even though we’d all reserved e-bikes, none of our spouses had any interest in riding thirty miles daily for nearly a week but had all been enthusiastic about us going on the trip on our own...who knew when the four of us would have an opportunity to share an adventure like that again at our advancing stages of life?

We each lived in different places – me in San Diego, Alice in Portland, Pete in Phoenix, and Tom was relocating from central New Jersey to New Mexico – but we’d remained very close over the years. We’d each had reasonably successful careers before retirement. I’d been an elementary school principal, Alice a real estate agent, Pete ran a beer distributorship, and after briefly playing professional golf, Tom had risen up the USGA administrative ranks until becoming the director of its Junior Amateur Division.

The stated rationale for Tom’s move to Albuquerque was his wife’s desire to be closer to relatives where she’d grown up; she was a family law attorney for a national firm who’d arranged a transfer there. Although Tom wasn’t crazy about relocating to New Mexico, his wife stressed that the timing was ideal. Their daughter, Hannah, was about to start high school and their two sons were already on their own attending college in the Midwest. She further argued that with the money they’d make selling their big home in New Jersey, they could afford both a house in her hometown and a vacation cabin in the mountain village of Ruidoso, a place fairly close by that she knew Tom liked. With muted reluctance, he’d eventually agreed.

It was late September, and the three of them weren’t even a full month into the move, when Tom’s wife dropped her bombshell message to him while he was at the cabin alone repainting its kitchen. He sent the news to the rest of us in our group text string:

“Well, my wife just emailed me yesterday that she wants a divorce after 25 years of what I’d always considered a happy marriage. No warning and no inkling that she was unsatisfied in any way. Waited until she’d orchestrated my early retirement and the move west that I opposed so it couldn’t be undone. I was served with divorce papers this morning that included proposed basic terms: I keep the cabin and two-thirds of my retirement, she gets the house in Albuquerque, no alimony, and we split everything else financially including child support for Hannah and the boys’ remaining college costs. Custody arrangements for Hannah TBD, but the papers state that she wants to live with her mom and that’s a three-hour drive from Ruidoso. My wife is a topnotch family law attorney, so how do I fight that? I feel like I’ve been run over by a fucking tank!”

Afterwards, of course, we all talked with him often and had him come spend stints with each of us.  In spite of our best supportive efforts, he remained a mess. Mostly we listened to him vent and lament, alternating between bursts of disbelief, grief, and tortured outrage. The divorce became final quickly, before the end of the year.  As for time with Hannah, Tom was dismayed to only be granted five days monthly and alternating major holidays. He and his ex-wife usually exchanged Hannah at a highway rest stop roughly halfway between Albuquerque and Ruidoso a couple of times each month for his regular visits.

But Tom put on his best face when we met towards late afternoon at our first masseria near Fasano at the eastern top of Italy’s “heel.”  Like most of those throughout that region advertised as Puglia’s “undiscovered” coast, Masseria Torre Cocoro was a converted working farm built in the 16^th century: a collection of low, white-washed, stone buildings draped in bougainvillea spread out among endless olive groves. It was utterly bucolic, peaceful, and charming. After quick embraces and hellos among the four of us, we only had time to unpack quickly before our meet-and-greet with the other riders and our tour guides, followed by a warm-up ride. We gathered in a gazebo next to the property’s chapel, then took turns introducing ourselves and our reasons for coming. In addition to us, there were three couples from Austin, all of whom were close friends and serious riders who’d been on several previous bike tours. An older man named Ed, who lived in Denver, had brought his daughter, May, as a forty-fifth birthday gift to her. The trip served as a honeymoon for two middle-aged women from Toronto, and the final participant was a young woman, Brooke, from Sioux Falls, riding to honor her recently deceased mother who’d been an avid road cyclist.

Our guides, Sandro and Giuliani, took over next. They were both in their late thirties, spoke passable English, and played off one another in a good-natured, non-judgmental manner.

They explained how to operate both the touring and e-bikes, as well as the padded storage kits mounted with water bottles to our back racks, the GPS guiding system we’d all downloaded onto our cell phones that included both of their contact numbers, and the route we’d take on the warm-up ride. The ride was only eight miles long and essentially traced a large rectangle around the masseria’s massive property and several neighboring ones. They provided some interesting historical information about the olive orchards we’d be passing through that had been the backbone of Puglia’s economy for centuries, and the narrow roads among a myriad of low, handmade, stone walls on which we’d mostly be travelling that had originally been paths connecting large farms. Finally, they described how one of them would drive the transport van ahead of the riders each day, stopping here and there to provide direction and support, while the other followed the pack on a touring bike of his own to address any needs or emergencies and be sure no one was left behind or became lost.

We walked down to the far corner of the masseria’s parking lot where the guides had arranged our bikes, each labeled with the matching number on our helmets and storage kits. All of the Austin crew was riding touring bikes, as was Brooke, and to our surprise, Ed. The rest of us mounted our e-bikes and practiced using the four levels of battery-powered gear assistance on a few laps around the parking lot. Then we were off, the Austin group leading the way, and the rest of us single file in no particular order, being careful to keep the several bicycle-length gaps between us that the guides had directed. Sandro drove the transport van ahead of us while Guiliani trailed on his touring bike.

The first two sides of the rectangle meandered here and there along a gently undulating landscape through olive orchards, occasional small vineyards, and furrowed fields just beginning to show new growth. The riding wasn’t difficult. I kept my e-bike’s power assistance to a minimum and simply gazed about taking everything in. My siblings rode just ahead of me, and from the speed of their peddling and slow swivel of their heads, I guessed they were doing much the same.

Sandro was waiting for us at the start of the rectangle’s third side where we stopped on a rise for our first sweeping vista of the Adriatic Sea about a mile away down the hillside. The sun was beginning to lower over the western hillsides dotted with rows of olive trees, the sky there marbled with pale streaks of saffron and orange.

The Toronto couple straddled their bikes next to me gazing at the spectacle, too.

“Pinch me,” one of them said.

“Beautiful,” her partner responded quietly. “Just unbelievably beautiful.”

We finished the rest of the ride in leisurely fashion and were back in the masseria’s parking lot not much more than an hour after leaving it. A few high fives were exchanged, as well as thanks to the guides, then we walked back to our rooms with our helmets and storage kits to prepare for our welcome dinner where participants would have the chance to get better acquainted with one another.

~

The masseria’s restaurant was dominated by mahogany features, low-lit and not busy, as we gathered around several tables that had been arranged towards the back to accommodate our group. The four of us found ourselves across from Brooke, Ed, and May where we heard more about their backgrounds. Brooke told us a bit about her remote work as an editor of scientific abstracts. Ed was about to turn seventy-eight, still dabbled in the houseware sales business he’d started in the late 60s, and donned one of several distinctive British driving caps we’d come to realize rarely left his bald dome unless it was covered with a bike helmet. When Pete mentioned that he hadn’t seen May’s name on the guest list sent to all participants, she told us that was because she’d recently changed it from Jessica. She went on to explain that this seemed fitting because she was in the process of completely re-establishing her life’s priorities and goals, and May was the month of her birth; she’d just left her longtime corporate HR job in their hometown of Denver after a difficult second divorce and moved to Sedona, Arizona, where she was training to become a doula and New Age life coach. Tom joked that he needed to sign up with her for some life coaching, to which the siblings all laughed, but May simply nodded earnestly at him with striking, almond-shaped eyes the same chestnut color as her mane of long, flowing hair.

Dinner ended fairly early because everyone wanted to turn in to fight jet lag before our first lengthy ride the following morning. Participants’ accommodations were scattered across the grounds, but the four of us had ours in a cluster towards property’s highest point adjacent to its small acreage of fennel, eggplants, and artichokes. Tom helped himself to a half full bottle of pinot noir left on the table and carried it by its neck back along the pathway to our rooms. A chorus of cicadas and crickets in the surrounding orchards serenaded us on our way, and a waning gibbous moon cast a silver sheen on the sea off in the near distance. We stopped when we got to our cluster, inhaled the rich, loamy scent of recently turned earth, and gazed up at stars blanketing the sky’s huge black dome.

“My,” Alice said softly. “This place is really something.”

We all mumbled our ascents, then one by one made our way into our separate rooms. When I turned off the lights in mine, I glanced outside and saw Tom sitting on his front terrace still studying the night sky, his face grim in the moonlight. As I watched him tip the wine bottle, take a pull from it, and set it back between his legs, something clenched a little inside of me.

~

I awoke the next day with a slight soreness beneath one of my lower molars on the right side and felt a bit of a knot there as I used fingertips to probe my jaw line. But that was quickly forgotten when we emerged outside where the morning awaited about as perfectly as it possibly could have: sun-splashed, mild, windless, and full of clean, white light.

After breakfast, we began the morning’s ride along meandering pathways identical to the previous afternoon with Sandro and Guiliani having switched support roles. After about a half hour, a salty tang in the air hinted at the coast itself which we came upon quite abruptly. It dropped dramatically over rocky outcroppings to the aqua-blue sea. We headed south along a wider, black-topped road where we watched waves break foamy white onto the rocks and lone fishermen here and there along shorter bluffs tossing lines languidly into the water.

The four of us rode towards the back of the pack along the coast for the next hour or so until we turned inland again along another narrow pathway and resumed a gradual climb into more rock-walled groves and fields. We passed through several villages with their multi-storied stone and red-shuttered buildings curving with the road. Giuliani had the van parked under a tree in the central plaza in one of those where he’d set up a folding table holding open Tupperware containers of nuts, dried fruit, crackers, and hunks of Parmesan cheese. We dismounted, and most of us helped ourselves to the fare along with slugs from our water bottles while others went into a nearby bar for a coffee or to use the restroom. Leather-skinned old men huddled together on benches around the square, most wearing black caps, smoking, or holding canes which they raised genially to us in greeting. Freckled late-morning light streamed dustily onto the cobblestones through the treetops.  The four of us found a spot in the shade, took off our helmets, and nibbled from the snack table.

“Well,” Pete said, “it’s not Central City in Phoenix, but I guess it’ll do.”

We all chortled agreement.

I asked, “Your butts sore?”

Tom rubbed his. “Mine is, but these biking shorts do help.”

“You look very sexy in them,” Alice told him.

Tom whacked her upper arm playfully and said, “You, too, sweetie.”

The truth was Tom still did look good in almost any outfit. He was decidedly taller than the rest of us and had retained his graceful, athletic build, as well as the pleasing, chiseled lines that had always distinguished his face. It was hard to imagine that his ex-wife had left him for someone better looking; in fact, Tom claimed that she hadn’t become involved with anyone else at all. Neither had he, although Ruidoso wasn’t exactly a mecca for older single males seeking female companionship. And he’d also had to take on several personal coaching gigs on the qualifying tour to augment his new financial circumstances that necessitated him being on the road a fair amount, further lessening any relationship opportunities even if he’d been inclined to pursue one.

Alice noticed me making yawning motions with my mouth and said, “What’s up with your jaw?”

I shrugged. “Woke up with a toothache.”

Pete frowned at me. “You look like one of those old-time baseball players with a wad of chewing tobacco in his cheek.”

“Yeah,” I said rubbing it gingerly. “Afraid it’s gotten worse.”

Sandro whistled through his teeth, remounted his bike, and the rest of us followed suit.

The next portion of our ride was less than two hours long and brought us to another sprawling masseria deeper in the countryside that involved an active olive press and bottling operation. We all sat around a long wooden table in a cave-like room that had once held olive crushing machinery and still displayed various artifacts. The four of us got split up in seating; I was bracketed by Brooke and our guides. Every item served for lunch came from the masseria’s substantial garden and included garnishing suggestions with a variety of their olive oils that were for sale. I was only able to manage to chew using one side of my mouth before swallowing some of their softer vegetables.

Towards the end of lunch, Guiliani saw me massaging my puffy jaw, pointed with furrowed brow, and said, “I think you need to see dentist.”

When I shook my head trying to affect casual dismissiveness, a particularly intense jolt cursed along my jawline, and I grimaced instinctively, rubbing it. Guiliani lifted his cell phone from the table and stood up. “I go outside and call the reception desk at our masseria. See if they can make you appointment in Fasano.”

“Not necessary...” I mumbled, but he was already walking away, his phone to his ear.

Sandro and Brooke were both staring at me. Sandro tucked a pointer finger into the back of his mouth’s right side, pulled his cheek away, and told me, “Do this.”

I did. He peered inside, then winced. “Very red along the gum and swollen. He’s right: you need to be seen.”

Guiliani returned to the table a moment later. “Offices are all closed now and won’t reopen until around four. But reception will start trying to get you in somewhere then and will call me when they have something.”

I nodded and mumbled, “Thanks.”

On the way back to our bikes, I summarized the plan that Guiliani had put into motion with my siblings to which they all expressed hearty agreement. We began the afternoon ride about two, which was essentially a wide loop further inland that would eventually bring us back to our masseria. I tried to ignore the growing discomfort associated with my tooth, but that became harder and harder to do as the swelling grew to the size of a quarter-grapefruit. Finally a little after four, as I could see the steeple on our masseria’s chapel approaching in near distance, we came upon the transport van along the side of the road. Guiliani stood outside it waving his arms in my direction. My siblings pulled up with me alongside him.

“A dentist will see you,” he told me. “I drive you there now. Come quickly. I put your bike in back.”

He ignored my attempts to thank him as we drove away and just sped silently along the narrow roads until we reached the city center of Fasano about fifteen minutes later. He navigated the crowded streets before double-parking in front of a utilitarian office building. He glanced up at it, pointed, and said, “Second floor. Dr. Rottuno. Call me when you’re done. I look for place to park.”

Along with several other people, I squeezed into the tiny elevator at the building’s entrance and got off at the second floor directly into a crowded waiting room with a glass window behind which sat a woman in what appeared to be a nursing uniform. She held up a hand to stop me as soon as I tried to explain in English why I was there, nodded, and pointed to the only open spot on a padded bench. Perhaps thirty seconds later, an interior door opened, and a short man about my age dressed in scrubs and a surgical cap scanned the waiting faces until his eyes found mine, then gestured to me to follow him.

We walked down a short hall into the same sort of exam room that would be found in any American dental office, where he said, “Please, sit.”

He inclined the back of the patient chair as soon as I’d settled into it and stepped away to snap on rubber gloves. His manner was gruff and taciturn, so as he did, I was startled to see that the socks he wore were adorned gayly with fish and seashells in a background of ocean blue.  He tilted the spotlight on an adjustable arm above his head, leaned over me, and said, “Open.”

When I complied and he’d peered into my mouth, his wince mirrored Sandro’s. He straightened quickly, peeled off his gloves and scribbled something on a pad he took from a pocket. He ripped off the page, handed it to me, and said, “Bad infection. Root. Take this to farmacia next building.” He pointed. “Antibiotic. Feel better...” He pressed his lips together and tipped his head back and forth considering. “One, two days. When you go home?”

I held up a handful of fingers.

“You go to your dentist immediatamente. For the surgery.”

“Root canal?”

His eyes widened in pleased recognition as he nodded. Then he pointed again, and I followed him back to the interior door of the waiting room.

“Wait,” I told him and took out my wallet from the money belt around my waist. “What do I, how much...”

He covered my hand with his own, shook his head, and when his eyes met mine, they held genuine warmth. “Nothing. Niente. Buon viaggio.”

“I want...” I said.

But he’d already opened the door and gestured to another patient who followed him back down the hallway. I shook my own head, reluctantly replaced my wallet, then took the elevator downstairs. A few minutes later, I was holding a five-day treatment box of Amoxicillin and calling Guiliani’s cell phone number. While I waited for him in front of the pharmacy, I glanced up at the dentist office and thought more about Dr. Rottuno and his socks, an idea forming slowly in my mind.  Unlike American pharmacies, along with the filled med, I’d been given back the scrip, which held a stenciled heading with detailed dentist office information. I folded it carefully and put it inside my money belt.

~

When we got back to our masseria, I found almost everyone from our tour gathered in merry groups around the pool and jacuzzi. Tom, Pete, and Alice were stretched out on lounge chairs at the near end, a waiter from the adjoining outdoor bar serving them drinks from a tray. They waved as I came up to them and lowered myself onto the edge of an empty chaise.

“Well?” Pete asked.

“So, yeah,” I told them. “Brought to a dentist. Saw me right away and gave me a prescription for an antibiotic. Already took the first dose. He said I should see my own dentist as soon as I get home. Sounds like I’ll need a root canal but that I should feel better in a couple days.” I paused as they all looked at me. “Very no-nonsense, but a terrific guy. Wouldn’t take any payment from me, not a cent.  Just told me to have a nice trip.”

“Hmm,” Alice said. “Can’t imagine that happening in the states.”

“Exactly what I thought.”

Pete gave the waiter his room number and ordered me a Peroni. May and Ed passed by us on their way to the jacuzzi, both carrying cocktails, and we watched them lower themselves gradually into the steaming water. Ed still wore his biking shorts along with a different-colored driving cap from the evening before. May had on a simple one-piece bathing suit, but it flattered her slender body, especially compared to the loose, bohemian garb she’d worn to the welcome dinner.

Softly, Alice said, “Don’t suppose too many doulas look like that.”

The rest of us chuckled except Tom, who only smiled from his spot at the end. After a long moment, he said, “She told me at lunch that she’s lost thirty pounds. Had a rough stretch after her last divorce, kind of went off on a self-destructive binge. Her ex was a real piece of work.” He looked over at the rest of us. “Her words, not mine.”

“I bet you can sort of relate,” Pete said.

Tom shrugged and took a sip of his wine, the corners of his mouth retaining a hint of smile. The waiter brought my beer, and a few minutes later, Ed and May climbed out of the jacuzzi. Ed was called over by the Austin group to congratulate him on keeping up with the pack all day long on his touring bike.

May stopped by our chaises, water dripping from the bathing suit that did little to hide the contours beneath it. She looked at me with concern and said, “How’s your tooth?”

“Dentist put me on a med, so better soon, I hope.”

“Looks sore.” She stood silhouetted against the setting sun. “You know I can do some Reiki treatment on you if you want. Only takes a few minutes.”

“I think I’m okay.” I felt myself flush. “Thanks, though.”

“Well,” she said. “If you change your mind...”

We watched her walk over to her chaise, wrap herself in a towel, and stretch out on her back.

“She can do some Reiki on me,” Pete chuckled. “Any damn time she likes.”

“You stop...she’s younger than your own daughter,” Alice reminded him. “And you already have the sweetest wife on the planet.”

“This is true,” Pete muttered, nodding. “Abolutemente.”

No further conversation ensued. I thought of my spouse then; I suppose the others thought of theirs, too. Pete probably had the solidest marriage I’d ever encountered; he and his wife seemed to have stayed as much in love as they’d been as high school sweethearts. My wife had begun sleeping in our guest room a couple of months earlier. She’d done that at first when she had a bad cough and said she didn’t want to keep me awake, but then she just never returned to our shared bed. Neither of us said anything about it, and we remained companionable in every other way. Alice and her husband had been sleeping separately for years due to his chronic snoring. And Tom, of course, had his recent unsettling marital situation to mull over some more.

~

That evening, the four of us joined the Austin group in the nearby seaside village of Savalletiri for dinner, which for me involved only a Caprese salad after my dentist visit. As the meal went on, the lively conversation turned to Ed and how well he’d ridden that day. I asked if he’d been a big cyclist back home.

One of the husbands shook his head. “Nah, he told me he just started doing spin classes at his gym a few months ago to prepare. Has a free senior membership there through his Medicare plan.”

“Well, good for him,” Alice announced, raising her glass.

“Brooke, as well,” one of the wives said. “She did great all day, too, and told me she only rides around their neighborhood sometimes with her husband and two kids. Showed me pictures of them on her phone. Seemed really proud. Sweet lady.”

“Got a little choked up when she talked about her mom at the pool,” another wife said quietly.

“Who wouldn’t?” remarked the third.

The conversation turned jovial again for the rest of the evening. We were all back in our rooms at the masseria, most of us still fighting some jet lag, before ten.

~

We rode north the next morning along the coast, stopping midway for snacks and to visit the archeological site of Ignatia before eventually reaching our destination: the large coastal town of Monopoli. We had a few hours on our own there for lunch and to explore. The four of us strolled together through the maze of pedestrian streets and cobbled alleyways.

By then, my molar problem had already improved enough to join my siblings in a pizza lunch at a little café. While we were finishing our meal, an urchinlike boy came up to our table and performed a few simple tricks with a yo-yo.  As Alice handed him a couple lira in coins, I saw a faraway look in Tom’s eyes; I realized then that the last time I’d seen a yo-yo was when he’d got one in his Christmas stocking when he was about five.

We took a slightly longer inland route for the ride back to the masseria and didn’t arrive until after five. By then, the sun had already crept below the tops of the olive trees, their gnarled bark backlit to a grayish tint. We had an early shuttle bus to our next destination farther south the following morning, so everyone ate dinner separately on their own in the resort restaurant. The four of us appeared to be the last group to do that, but we did come across Brooke and May sitting at the indoor bar on our way out; they invited us to join them for a nightcap, but only Tom accepted, the rest of us deferring in order to hit the sack.

It was quiet on the pathway on the way back to our cluster of rooms, no chorus of insects, but the same blanket of stars stretched from one ebony horizon to the other.

“I think May and Brooke have bonded a little over their mothers,” Alice told us. “Guess May lost hers not too long ago, too. Heard them talking about it at breakfast.”

“Great that they have,” Pete said.

I nodded, though neither of them could see me in the darkness.

~

To transition to the new location the next morning, Sandro and Guiliani drove the transport van towing a trailer behind it with our bikes. The rest of us, dressed in our biking gear, were driven in a small motor coach. I sat on the aisle in the front with Ed, Pete and Alice were across from us, and Tom had a spot in back next to May. We headed south through rolling hills and sparsely populated countryside.

At one point, Ed turned to me and said, “Seems you and I are officially the old farts of the group.”

I laughed out loud.

“Pretty neat about the four of you doing this together,” he said. “Celebrating milestones like you described.”

“Yep.” I nodded. “Nice for you to be doing the same with May.”

“It was her idea. Told her I’d take her wherever she liked, and she chose this. Would never have even occurred to me on my own.” He huffed a short chuckle. “But she’s always had a crooked hair, been a free spirit. Got that from my wife.”

I watched him press his lips together into a short line, then said quietly, “Heard about her passing away recently. Sorry about that.”

He took a turn nodding. “Yeah, I miss her. Married exactly six decades.”

“Wow.” I thought of my own golden anniversary coming up in a few years. “That’s something.”

“I miss May, too, now that she’s moved away.” He straightened in his seat and gave a little sigh. “She’s following her heart, though. I admire that.”

I nodded some more and watched him turn his head to the window where the sea was just visible in the distance under a sheaf of cumulus clouds. Maybe it was because our father had been a salesman and a no-frills guy, too, that I felt a special affection for the fellow septuagenarian next to me. I resisted a sudden instinct to pat his knee.

It took us a little more than an hour to arrive at the walled city of Acaya where we started on our lone ride for the day in even better weather.  We rode through the city’s ancient archway onto country roads marked as bicycle paths and free of traffic. After about a dozen miles, we came to the heart of the Salento peninsula, climbed a bit through winding village streets, and met Sandro where he waited with the transport van and snacks at a square high above the sea. The 180-degree views were remarkable; he told us that on a clear winter day, you could sometimes see the snow-capped peaks of Albania across the Adriatic.

Afterwards, we rode north along the sea, passing beaches and rocky shore before arriving after another dozen or so miles at the seaside village of Torre dell’Orso. We followed an intricate series of turns until we came to what appeared to be a small inn at the village’s outskirts where Sandro met us again outside the transport van. He explained that we would take part there in a cooking class with the owner and her daughter. We followed him into through a dark entryway and out onto a patio shaded by almond trees. Two women, one very old and the other middle-aged, waited behind a long table adorned with cooking supplies; they resembled each other, and both wore black dresses with white aprons.

After pairing us up, the women instructed us over the next hour in the making of two traditional Puglian dishes that would become part of our luncheon to follow: orecchiette, a type of pasta whose shape resembled a pig’s ear, and Focaccia barese adorned with heirloom tomatoes and pitted olives. Tom and May were a pair, and towards the end of the Focaccia preparation, I watched May throw a pinch of salt at Tom, giggling. He grinned and did the same to her with some of their remaining flour. When she hip-checked him in mock retort, I realized that it was the most lighthearted I’d seen Tom since before his move west.

After the full meal, the ride to the new masseria was a bit of a slog, but the effort was worth it when we came upon its lovely setting. Also, a short distance from the coast and nestled among olive groves, the buildings had an elegant, slightly Grecian feel to them. All the rooms had back patios with lounge chairs under covered awnings; our four were in a row separated by half walls.

After unpacking, I fell asleep on my back patio trying to read and didn’t awaken until the late afternoon’s gloaming had begun. I heard Alice and Tom talking on Tom’s patio next door and could tell by his tone that he was venting some more about the unexpected turns in his life. I poked my head around the wall and saw the two of them stretched out on the lounge chairs there holding glasses of wine, a partial bottle on the small table between them.

Alice stood up immediately and handed me her glass. “Perfect timing. I took over from Pete and now my counseling shift is over. Your turn with the patient.”

She disappeared inside, and I took her place. I looked over at Tom and asked, “So what’s the topic of conversation?”

“Oh, same old crap. You know.”

“Sure.”

“Spewing isn’t going to change anything. The whole ‘woe is me’ bit is getting pretty tired.”

But that didn’t keep him from spending the next half hour retreading past injustices about the move west. I just listened, sipped, and watched the light descend towards full evening.

When there was finally a pause, I interjected, “How about your new life coach? She been a help at all?”

He gave an amiable snort and took a sip of wine. “She has, actually. She’s not as kooky as she might appear. Quite insightful, really.”

I looked towards the sound of footsteps approaching from inside his room, then said, “Speak of the devil.”

May stood in the open doorway to the patio. She looked at Tom and said, “I knocked, but no one answered. The door was ajar, I heard voices out here, so...” She held up a corkscrew. “I just wanted to return this to you.”

I repeated the same exchange that Alice had with me, then after May had taken my place with my glass on the lounge chair I’d occupied, I went back around my wall. I could hear them talking quietly as I entered my bathroom to shower and dress for dinner.

~

Our last day on the bikes involved what the touring company’s literature described as “one of the most beautiful rides in Italy.” It began on country roads through sleepy villages and was shaded most of the morning by unusually large olive and oak trees.

After a picnic lunch at an organic farm, we rode on gentle, rural pathways through quaint, coastal towns before following cliffs bordering the Adriatic to Cape Otranto at Italy’s easternmost tip, our penultimate destination, where we took a series of group photographs against the breathtaking vistas that surrounded us on all sides. I suppose most of us were a little overcome with some combination of awe and nostalgia realizing that we had only a dozen miles of bike touring left together. We completed that slowly and, it seemed, almost regretfully.  No one said much when we turned in our storage kits, water bottles, and helmets for the last time to our guides at the end of the ride, nor on the way back to our rooms to get ready for our farewell soiree.

~

The dinner was held around a big table in a separate room off the masseria’s main restaurant. Sandro and Guiliani sat at its head and invited us to share particular memories or highlights about the trip, which a number of us did, always followed by a rousing toast. Laughter abounded, wine flowed. As dessert was served, Sandro and Guiliani presented Ed with a “Most Outstanding Rider” biking shirt that we’d all surreptitiously signed. While everyone at the table applauded, May planted a kiss on her father’s cheek. My heart warmed when I saw Tom meet her eyes across the table, give her a thumbs up, and smile.

Finally, we all took turns saying our goodbyes to the guides and slipping them their tip envelopes. Both would be leaving together early the next morning to drive the bikes and transport van back to Masseria Torre Cocorro for the start of the next group’s tour, while we’d board another motor coach for our final night in Lecce before flying home.

~

Lecce, known as “the Florence of the South,” was the region’s largest major city and former provincial capital, famous for its stunning Baroque architecture, rich history, and vibrant culture. We arrived there just before noon, checked into the centrally located Hotel Patria Palace, and then were free to roam and explore. Many of us lunched at one of the wide assortment of sidewalk cafes then took an audio walking tour using another app supplied to us by the touring company for our cell phones. After some final souvenir shopping along narrow streets, most of us ended up on the hotel’s rooftop bar for a final drink together and to watch our last sunset famously turn the soft, pink-tinged local stone a unique golden color.

Everyone had the same ungodly wake-up call at three the next morning in order to take the motor coach to the Brindisi airport for separate flights, the first of which departed shortly after dawn. Pete, Alice, and I had an early dinner together at the hotel restaurant before turning in for a few hours’ sleep; Tom had disappeared around midafternoon while shopping for a gift to bring Hannah and none of us had seen him since.

When that middle of the night call came, it startled me from a dream about my wife. Our tour group all had rooms along the same third floor hallway, and as I quickly dressed I heard doors open and close and the roller wheels of suitcases travel down the marbled hallway towards the elevator. I soon joined that caravan, uttering a sleepy greeting here and there.

The motor coach idled just outside the lobby doors, its driver loading luggage underneath. I handed him mine, climbed aboard, and took my same seat at the front, nodding to Pete and Alice across from me. Most of the others were on board, too, dozing or staring blankly outside into the dark, empty street. After a few minutes, the driver climbed into his seat and sounded his horn twice. When he shifted into gear, I reached forward and tapped his shoulder because I hadn’t seen Ed or May get on, and I heard Pete tell Alice that Tom hadn’t either.

“Wait,” I told the driver. “Not everyone is here yet. I’ll go upstairs and check.”

The passenger door hissed open, I climbed down and trotted back inside. When I came out of the elevator on the third floor, I saw Ed midspan with his suitcase at his feet, knocking on a door and calling May’s name. I came up beside him, and he looked at me confounded, then said, “No answer.”

Tom’s room was directly across the hall, so I pounded on that door and shouted his name. Several seconds later, it opened a few inches and Tom’s face appeared in the gap along with a sliver of his bare body. I felt Ed lean across my shoulder as May became visible a handful of feet behind Tom at the bedside under the wash of the ceiling light. She held a crumpled sheet under her chin that covered her midsection to the floor. She was naked, too, her eyes wide. I felt myself blinking.

“We’re not coming,” Tom said. His voice sounded unusually composed and firm. “We’re going to stay for a while. May wants to see the Amalfi Coast, hike down from Mt. Vesuvius to Pompei. Supposed to be magical.” He paused, then said, “We called the front desk, let them know, got things squared away.”

Over my shoulder, Ed muttered, “You’re staying.” It wasn’t a question.

May nodded. “We are, Daddy. You have safe trip home. And thanks...I love you.”

Tom looked from her to us and told me, “I’ll text you guys.”

The door closed slowly, and Ed moved away from my shoulder. We looked at each other for a long moment until he shrugged and said, “Well, they’re adults. They’ll figure it out.”

Until then, I hadn’t noticed that the outer edges of his eyes were also downturned like our father’s, tender and gentle. I said, “I guess so.”

When the motor coach sounded its horn next, the blasts were urgent and prolonged. I followed Ed with his suitcase down the hall where we rode the elevator to the lobby in silence. We both boarded, took our previous spots behind the driver, and I told him, “Okay, we can go.”

As he put the coach into gear again and crept away from the curb, I looked over at Pete and Alice who were both staring with knitted foreheads at me. “He’s fine,” I told them. “He’s staying here with May. They’re going to do some more travelling together.”

The arch of my siblings’ eyebrows in response was identical. Gradually, they both turned and faced the big windshield together where the coach’s headlights pierced the inky blackness. Ed was turned away, too, towards his window, clutching his suitcase on his lap.

~

At the airport, we all had to go through customs, and there were a number of lines for that, which we joined in multiple configurations depending on their length. I was at the back of the longest one. Some moved faster than others, which resulted in people in our group passing through at intervals to the area where passengers headed to their gates. The Austin crew, Tom, and Ed all made it through first and were on the same flight to Rome that was leaving the soonest, so they waved to the rest of us and hurried on their way; I thought I saw Ed tip his cap to me before he followed the others. The Toronto couple, Brooke, and Alice made it through next, gave me similar waves, and went off for their shared connection in Berlin which was departing just a bit later. I was the only one connecting out of Milan and wasn’t leaving for more than an hour, so I was in no particular hurry.

I eventually made it to my gate. I bought a coffee from a kiosk, found a seat in the waiting area, and took my last Amoxicillin with a swallow from my cup. I’d decided that I’d send Dr. Rotunno a thank you card and a pair of socks when I got home; there was a shop down by the bayfront that sold all kinds of socks with lively, colorful graphics of San Diego. In the card, I’d tell him how much I appreciated his kindness, how uncommon it had been.

I sat reflecting on things, slowly finishing my coffee. When my flight finally began boarding in designated groups, I texted my wife that I was on my way; I paused, then added, “Miss you” and sent it on its way. I thought back to our courtship and the late night we first went skinny-dipping together under a full moon at her family’s lake cabin. It was quite a memory. I gave a little chuckle like Ed had when he’d told me about his wife and how May resembled her. I was pretty certain that he had plenty of other special memories like that. Tom and May were making some of their own at that very moment. Dr. Rotunno may well have been also. Waiting there for my boarding group to be called, I hoped that more people than not were doing much the same, too.