Immigration 4: Cappuccino in the Blue

Visualize a warm summer day. You are on the island of Capri in the Mediterranean. The sky, blue with a few light clouds flitting about here and there. The wind, strong enough to be noticed but warm and in a strange way comforting. The sea air is not as refreshing as the Pacific nor as potent as the Atlantic, but it is soothing. You feel at peace.

Looking about, you realize you are standing on a cliff with the sea spread out in front of you, its color, the blue of brochures that you never believed possible, but it is. Behind you is a grassy field and off to the right there’s a little cafe. The establishment is non-descript but it does have a little patio with tables and chairs.

You focus on a table. Seated there is a man, across from him a little girl. He’s fairly young, late twenties, early thirties. She’s about 10 with shoulder length brown hair that is being messed about by the wind. They’re smiling and seem to be having a nice time. A waiter approaches, the man says something and hold up two fingers, the waiter nods and walks away as the man and girl continue their talk.

The waiter returns with two cappuccinos. One is placed in front of the man and the other in front of the girl. You smile because you realize that this is the girls first cappuccino. What’s the give away? She’s acting way too nonchalant, it’s funny, because for all her relaxed demeanor, her eyes are lit up like a couple of stars. She reaches for her drink with two cautious little hands, bringing it to her lips. It’s obvious she doesn’t know what to expect. Her first sip is experimental. She’s not sure if she likes it. She takes another sip and then she drinks and you know somewhere in her mind this moment is being imprinted in her memory. And you reflect on some of your own firsts.

Returning your attention to the pair you realize the table is now empty and the man with the girl who, you assume is, his daughter are nowhere in sight. Disappointed, your mind wonders. Perhaps they decided to go on an excursion. Perhaps to the Blue Grotto, somewhere beneath these cliffs?

Maybe, they’re getting into a small boat and begin moving along the warm waters of the Mediterranean. The girl’s nervous, the boat is small and a bit bouncy, her arm muscles are flexed as she keeps a vice-like grip on her seat. It’s likely that her heart is beating fast as the tiny boat approaches the ancient rock face with the gaping maw of the Grotto’s entrance. She’s probably a little afraid though her Father’s presence abates her fear a little. As they enter the cave, the temperature drops and she shivers and quivers in the dark. Her mouth goes dry as her eyes adjust. She blinks a couple of times as if giving her eyes the opportunity to remove the magical kingdom they decided to display, not believing that her vision was that of reality. The blue is a wonder. And her face breaks into a smile as she looks over at her Father whose face reflects her own joy.

Of course this is all your imagination, your mind creating stories out of a simple vision. It’s simply a perhaps. Or maybe it is not and the little girl, it is me.