Iberian Summer Cruise - (a short story) - part 1

Sally Margaret Mills! Won’t you stop jumping around and please behave?” Mother shouted at me over her fashionable Martini glass, as fashionable as the ensembles that she used to wear. Mother was all about Chanel and Yves Saint-Laurent two-piece suits – and show-stopping evening wear – always in line with the expensive trends of the time and whatever the 35th First-Lady was wearing. It was the start of the glamorous sixties. Jackie O was a fashion icon from the instant she stepped into the White House, and Mother regularly followed her photos in all the glossy magazines.

I adored my parents, adored Mother, but I had the impression that I was not first and foremost in her life.

“Where is your father, now? They said we’ll be docking in about fifteen minutes.”

I was seven years old in 1962 and my father had convinced Mother to go on an eight-day summer cruise of the Iberian Peninsula, starting in Barcelona. She had quickly agreed to the idea of an “exotic” escape – everything outside the States was exotic to her – no doubt planning to have something different to boast about at her next party.

Aunt Delia and Uncle Fred had already been on this tour and could not stop talking about the wonderful sights. My father had always wanted to visit Europe so he immediately decided to try it.

Mother wanted to leave me behind – at home with Loretta, the help we had then. Luckily, my father insisted that this was also an educational trip for me, assured her that I would be too excited to misbehave, and I was allowed to join them on the vacation. This was a life-changing experience for everyone, in many ways.

I made a lot of new friends on that cruise, most of whom didn’t speak English. But kids don’t need much to understand each other; I even learned several foreign words; a few swearwords too, much to Mother’s displeasure.

It was the morning of our final stop; obeying Mother’s instructions, I quit playing hopscotch to look into the distance ahead. This final excursion was already very promising: Lisbon was clearly in sight now, inviting us with its bright orange roofs, multi-coloured façades, and tall green treetops peeking out here and there.

Mother turned her round, oversized sunglasses towards my father, who had just arrived at her side: “There you are, Marvin, dearest!” she said to him. “Do you think it will be hot in Lisbon? I don’t want to catch too much sun on the excursion. Gibraltar was impossibly hot, and Seville was an extension of this. I hope the food here is better. Are we going to walk all the time again? I don’t want to get tired.”

“Delia said that Lisbon is quite charming”, my father said with his warm enthusiasm, “that the locals are friendly, and the fish is so fresh and tasty. They have tram-cars here, just like in Chicago. Wouldn’t you girls love to ride in one? And we can always take a cab, Arlena, if we need to. We’ll have a great time, girls!”

Mother merely pursed her lips. A minute later she was returning to the cabin to "touch up” her make-up. She returned wearing a stylish hat and the emerald necklace that my father had recently given her to mark their tenth wedding anniversary – a costly replica of one worn at a White House gala.

"Do you have to wear that necklace on the excursion?”

“Why Marvin, we have to make a good impression,” she dismissed him.

“On whom?” my father countered, not really wishing to start an argument.

Moments later we were docking at Lisbon harbour. Mother walked proud and triumphant in her Chanel and Tiffany creations, faultless from the carefully coiffed hair to the nail polish matching the colour of her outfit. My father held on to my hand and together we followed the other passengers ashore. As we walked toward the meeting point, I imagined us to be intrepid explorers, ready to discover the secrets of Lisbon, armed with our little baskets, and colourful hats and head-scarves.

Having received information on the time passengers were expected to meet back there in order to return to the ship, each family or couple went on their separate sightseeing tour.

--- End of part 1 ---

This story was written by me under my pen name Nadia Lym, and recently published in the Anthology "Living, Loving, Longing Lisbon"

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Imagem de Engin Akyurt por Pixabay