8:45 AM: Beginning

This room is glorious.  I’m lying on my back in the plush king bed, completely naked, basking in the warmth of the morning sun.  A warm breeze blows in off the Mediterranean, passing though the shear curtains covering the opening to my private veranda. 

What a great beginning to this vacation. 

I haven’t slept this well in weeks.  Based on the already substantial angle of the solar rays, I must have been tired.  No doubt a result of the long travel day from Lyon, France, combining bus, train, ferry, and cab rides.  No complaints by me, any adventure is better than sitting around at home.

Relaxing contently, breathing in the invigorating salty air, I heard a chime.  It sounds far off, potentially from a local church.  I strain my ears, old and weak as they are, trying to locate the noise.  It rings again, the same cadence and frequency.  Must be the local belltower.  If I can count off the tolls, I should be able to figure out what time it is.

A third buzz comes, seemingly louder and longer this time.  That must be because of my heightened audible awareness.

Suddenly, my focus on the bell cadence is interrupted by the electronic click of the door lock access, followed by the soft tread of shoes on the shimmering tile floor. 

Startled, I grasp for the Egyptian silk sheets, and am just able to get a thin piece of fabric over my groin region before a lovely Spanish woman turns the corner.  Am I dreaming?

Fortunately, this lady is even more startled, and abashed, than I am.

“Sorry sir,” she stammers.  Then follows up, “I rang the call button.”

That explains my delusional church theory.

“No worries,” I reply.  Apparently, I’ve slept well beyond the standard guest hours for this resort.

“I’ll come back later,” the beautiful lady, clad in a trim, white, maid outfit, coos, already headed for the exit.  “Can I get you anything?”

My lude thoughts quickly come up with a few things, but fortunately my mouth is classier than my mind. 

“No madam, merci,” I answer, eyes fixed on the curvaceous figure as she exits my chamber.

Content that privacy has been regained, I attempt to roll out of bed and start the day.  This seemingly simple act doesn’t go well. 

Something in my back cracks loudly, and my whole body seizes up in rigid pain.  I must have wrenched a muscle in my haste to cover up minutes earlier.  This getting old shit sucks.

Slowly, I ease my body off the soft mattress, and half crawl towards the bathroom.  Hopefully a shower will loosen up my aging joints.  I’ve got a big day of hanging out with the extended family ahead.

9:30 AM: Boudoir

Showered and clothed, I’m now ready to start the day.  My lower lumbar region’s still stiff, but fortunately functional after a hot, steamy, water treatment. 

My wife passed away several years back, so I’m on my own for this journey.  As such, my plan is to relax, enjoy time with good people, stay out of trouble, and help out as much as possible.

This is the largest family vacation we’ve ever embarked on.  Per European tradition, we always meet up for a big event during the month-long August holiday.  But traveling to the island of Sicily, with four generations in tow, represents another level of logistics.

My daughter and her husband, both lawyers, are apparently having an excellent year, building on their already productive litigious careers.  Typically, couple-based law firms struggle, but the chemistry between them seems perfect.  They’re both Type A workaholics. 

Without any kids, and likely none pending, they have plenty of disposable income, thus have taken on this family holiday planning with unexpected vigor.

Fortunately for our lineage, and unfortunately for them, my younger daughter has already graced us with a trio of boys.  Her divorce a few months ago, shortly after the last birth, was ugly, and, as such, she’s excited to join in on any trip where someone else is paying.  Especially if free babysitting is available.

To that end, I better check in and see what my tasks are for the day.  Hopefully, I can facilitate a smooth week.  I’m most worried about my daughters’ combative relationship, considering their different personalities, and socioeconomic standing.  But there are plenty of other wild cards in this house to worry about as well.  The next 5 days should be interesting.

Still contemplating the multitude of potential social ignition points, I walk down the hallway to the far end, where the second-floor master suite is located.  Original impressionist artwork hangs in generous quantities, complementing the carpeted corridor, which is thick and colorful.  This house is massive, elegant, and lavishly furnished.

Finding the door to my older daughter’s room ajar, I knock gently, then enter.  With this formal building layout, I’m sure they have a common area which moderates access the private bedroom space.

As it turns out, I’m completely correct on one front, and very regrettably wrong on the other.

The first giveaway should have been the noise, but, in my 6th decade on this earth, my hearing is starting to wane.  I hear a repetitive slapping sound, like a rubber band snapping against a table top.  These sharp bursts are complemented by a lower, guttural, baritone murmurs.

A few more steps into the room reveals the source of this commotion, much to my dismay.

My assessment of this room as an entryway holds water.  It’s a comfortable space, with two upholstered chairs facing each other, a well-stocked mini bar, and hooks along the wall to hang outdoor clothing.

What I didn’t anticipate is that the door to the rest of the suite would be wide open, yielding an unencumbered view to the bedroom space, and more relevant, an elegant, 4-post, bed.  These sturdy wooden corner supports are being put to good use. 

Attached to the top of each column is a length of white rope, with the other end tied to the appendage of an unidentifiable human lying on their back. 

Fortunately, the view of the face, and most of the body, is obscured by the second person on top of the first, straddling the torso.  Though much more of this person’s frame is visible from my vantage point, identification is equally challenging, since the upper figure is clad almost entirely in a skin-tight, black latex, suit, with built-in hood, gloves, and booties.

I stand there frozen, taking in the unfathomable scene.  The source of the odd noises now become all too obvious, and all too real.  The upper form is holding a short leather whip, similar to what you would use for riding a horse.  In this case, there’s some riding going on, but the mount is certainly not a pony, based on the muted, but decidedly human, grunts being emitted by each successive impact. 

I quickly turn to leave, but clumsily catch my big toe on the leg of the table adjacent to one of the lounge chairs.  It’s takes all my strength to not cry out in pain.  Fortuitously, feeling the terror of potential detection, I’m able to remain mute.

Unfortunately, my barefoot impact has disturbed a vase of dried flowers provided as part of the welcome decor.  The ceramic container teeters for what seems like an eternity, then topples, away from me, and out of reach.  The fragile vessel hits the arm rest, slowing the descent enough to avoid shattering, when it finally lands on the rug-covered ground. 

However, the weighty thud is loud, and distinctive, enough that it’s bound to travel to the adjacent bedroom, alerting the passionate lovers.

Peering back into to boudoir, I catch a flash of red, as the upper participant turns in my direction, but don’t spend much time lingering on the meaning or visage.  I make my escape, closing the hallway door tightly, to make sure no other guests have to suffer through the same experience I just did.

It’s going to be a stressful holiday at this rate.  Definitely, not what I was hoping for.

10:00 AM: Bushes

I’m back out in the fancy hallway, dazed and confused.  I need to get outside to clear my head.  Looking out the window, I spot a small garden, with a crushed stone walking path.  Some fresh air would do me good right now.

Swinging through the kitchen, I find someone has conveniently already gotten the automatic coffee pot going.  However, this low-grade liquid isn’t going to satisfy my caffeine addiction, which has been honed over the past half century.

Conveniently, like every other element of this mansion thus far, the place is fully stocked.  A shiny traditional hand-press expresso machine sits at the far end of the counter, long pump arm raised as if it’s beckoning me.  I willingly comply to the siren’s call.

A double ristretto later, I’m feeling like a man again.  An old man still, but the invigoration of the dark amber liquid pulsing through my veins is doing its job.

Content with the coffee stimulation, it’s time to explore the outside grounds. 

What looked like a tiny green area from above, turns out to be quite expansive.  As I follow the winding footpath, I bend down to examine the various foliage.  Here in late summer is the perfect time for blooming; native plumeria are providing a full display of white and pink, with their accompanying pungent spice aromas of vanilla and cinnamon.

The garden is a venerable cornucopia of flora, apparently the warm, sunny, climate, combined with moist, westerly, winds off the Mediterranean Sea, provides ideal growing conditions.  Plump green succulents abound, some I recognize from my upbringing on the European mainland, others are completely foreign.

Eventually, I reach a small courtyard, oval in shape, and covered with large flagstones, laid in a neatly spaced pattern, perfectly flush with the crushed gravel filler.  In the center of the open area is a birdbath, also ovular, a miniature version of the plot’s perimeter.  Flanking the bath are a pair of simple benches, dark, weathered, wood, with a thick covering of moss growing up the stout legs.

I take a seat on the right offering, enjoying the soothing warmth of the sun, the sweet aromas of the flowers, and the delicate chirps of the birds.  My entire body relaxes.  I can almost get the image of head to toe black rubber out of my mind.

Looking up, I’m staring directly at a life size marble stature.  It’s a young adult male, based on the chiseled facial features, and defined muscular physique.  Aside from a wreath of holly on his head, the form is completely naked.  Instinctively, I glance down to the lower torso, checking endowment.  Not bad. 

The posture of the statue is tilted forward into the courtyard, one hand extended outward as if reaching for me.  Or something beyond.

Standing and turning, I follow the sculpture’s gaze down the length of the agora.  There is a second statue opposite the first.  I didn’t notice it before because most of the artwork is tucked into the hedgerow. 

Interesting.  I move forward for a closer examination.

This figure is a woman, the most obvious clue being the long, fine, hair which flows all the way down her back.  Most of the face is obscured, along with the rest of her front, which is pointing into the well-manicured bushes.  Her backside is highlighted by petite buttocks, and slender calves.  One leg is raised and angled towards me, an instructive posture, which suggests the woman is fleeing.

With growing intrigue, I move towards this statue.  Something about the pose makes me want to see her facial expression.  However, the hedge is so thick and tight that I can’t simply walk around to the front side of the sculpture. 

Fortunately, the bent leg, with bare foot aimed skyward, ends up at my shoulder level, as a result of the raised platform mount.  This stance yields a convenient gap between the leg and pedestal that I can just fit my head through.

Squeezing in, I gingerly rotate my tender spine 180 degrees, and look up in anticipation.  From this low angle, I should be able to see the nether region, breasts, and face in ascending order. 

However, despite the low light in this alcove of foliage, the shaping is clear.  The front of the statue is not a statue at all.  From my position, all I can see is rough marble, uncarved, and covered with a fine layer of green lichen slime.  There are no discernable human features.  This artist only completed half the piece.  If that.       

What are the motivations, and meaning, of this pair? 

Returning to the male model, who’s face and genitals are on full display, I contemplate my options.  There are no easy access points on this lad’s rigid stance, at least not without climbing the carved rock, and peering over the gentleman’s head.  My physique is not cut out for that kind of scaling expedition. 

Instead, I decide to simply wedge my body between the hard, smooth, white stone of the sculpture’s calf, and the dense, abrasive, green shrubbery of the hedge. 

Half way in, I’m regretting this plan of attack.  The pointy needles of the evergreen wall scrape against my face, and I can already feel an itchy tingle on my skin.  Either way, now I’m committed.

This rear recess is even more dark, and secluded, than his female counterpart across the courtyard.  In fact, I can’t see anything on the back side of this statue.  Reaching my hand up, I grope around blindly.  Eventually, my warm, compliant, palm meets cold, rigid, stone. 

It takes me a minute to make my decision, like 3-D brail, using touch as my primary sensory perception tool.  My conclusion is clear, and convincing. 

The back of this sculpture is also rough and uncarved.  

Extracting myself from the shrubbery, I touch my hand to my face, which yields a red stain on my fingertips.  Also, I can already feel the warming heat of blood rushing to my cheeks.  Hopefully just a few scratches, and not one of the many allergic reactions I seem increasingly prone to as my age advances.

Turning away from the confusing pair of half-carved statues, I head back towards the aloe plants I spotted on the way into the garden.  Their moist flesh should be able to provide some soothing relief.

11:45 AM: Brunch

There’s an impressive food spread on the large dining room table.  Good thing, because I’m famished.  It’s not even noon yet, but the experiences of the morning have sapped nearly all of my strength. 

This generous banquet should help.  A myriad of sandwiches assembled in fresh baguettes, heaps of stuffed olives, a medley of seasonable vegetables, and, of course, the obligatory tray of sweet desserts.  I’m not getting any younger.  Maybe I’ll just start at that end. 

Moving towards the table, small plate in hand, a white flash catches my eye, immediately followed by an intense odor.  I can’t place the smell initially, but turning to my right, the source becomes immediately clear.  On a chair against the wall is a baby, lying on its back, completely naked, all four appendages pointing skyward like a vulnerable turtle.

The child’s pale butt is less than a meter from the booze cart, and not much further from the food spread.  Her mother is working hard with the moist wipes, making sure every crevasse is clean and tidy, before applying the new diaper.

I’ve changed a baby or two in my time, and understand that sometimes there is a sense of urgency.  Still, in a 700 square meter mansion, you would think there might be a more private alcove to tend to these lavatory needs. 

As I watch, the dirty diaper is folded and deposited in the open tin waste basket on the ground next to the bar.  Picking up her child with one hand, the woman uses her free hand to plop a few sandwiches and some vegetables onto a fine china saucer.   

As lady turns, I recognize her as my second cousin.  She nods in acknowledgement, then approaches me for the obligatory kiss on the cheek.  I lean in instinctively, but am acutely aware of the potential sanitation issues. 

I bend forward at the waist, keeping my arms back as far as possible.  This stance causes my back ailment from this morning to balk in protest, but I suffer through. 

My posture results in a misdirected connection, her lips just grazing my check, then I quickly reciprocating at a bad angle, which causes my kiss to land slightly adjacent to her ear.  That could have been awkward.  I pull away quickly, hoping to forget the entire incident. 

Just as I think I’m clear, she offers up her plate of snacks.  Knowing what those hands touched before the veggie tray, and still catching a lingering, unmistakable, whiff of toddler poo in the air, I politely decline.  Finally, the duo of poor hygiene moves along.   

Suddenly, I’m not hungry. 

Heading for the exit, I pass the wine caddy.  I spot the telltale black and gold script text on cream colored label.  This is one of my favorite Beaujolais, straight from the historic region just an hour north of my home, a mecca for growing Gamay grapes.  

I need to save this wine.  Moving in, nose puckered, I snatch up the nearly full bottle, along with the largest, sturdiest, wine glass available.  The bottle is cool to the touch, exterior sweating small droplets of water.  The catering team must have pulled this offering out of the fridge when they laid out the brunch spread.  Perfect.

Time to get some fresh air.  I’ll settle for a late lunch.  First, I need to wash my hands, and this goblet.

12:30 PM: Beach

Having changed into my swim attire, and finished a glass of the excellent red wine, I push through the screen door, stepping out onto a massive porch.  Considering the ungodly sum we must be paying for this waterfront spot, I may as well take advantage of the location.   

Our rental compound, a fitting description considering its size, sits on the southeastern coastline of the island.  We’re just outside of Syracuse, right where the boot of mainland Italy would kick the landmass football of Sicily, if its pendulum motion continued forward.  

The view is amazing. 

A swath of beige sand extends into the turquoise blue waters of the Mediterranean less than 100 meters away.  Further out in the sea, the colorful sails of schooners bob in the gentle breeze.  Across the watery expanse of this broad bay, the skyline is defined by steep-walled, rocky, cliffs, topped with lush, rolling, greenery.    

Sitting in white wicker chairs at the far end of the deck are the three oldest people on this trip, my mother being the eldest of the bunch.  I give the elders a cursory wave; I don’t feel like interacting with any more humans right now.  I’m not sure if any of the trio can see this far, as none acknowledge my appearance on the porch.

Oversized beach towel in one hand, and the remainder of the Beaujolais in a large plastic cup in the other, I descend the short flight of stairs to the sand, and set off, bare feet curling pleasurably into the soft granules.

Heading directly to the water’s edge, I stick my sandy big toe in apprehensively.  It feels like a lukewarm bath.  Excellent.  Maybe I’ll get a little sun, then go for a swim.  I’ve got no obligations, at least for the next few hours.  The freedom of vacation feels refreshing.

I start wandering down the beach in aimless exploration.  The huge house we’re staying in is dwarfed by the even more expansive and sprawling grounds.  I’ve already spent a few hours this morning meandering in the front gardens, now I have a quarter kilometer of beachfront on the Mediterranean Sea to peruse.  I don’t even want to ask my daughter what the nightly rental on this place is.

After finding a few colorful pieces of rounded glass, several clusters of flowering marine fennel, and a spiny shell crab which repeatedly alludes my grasp, I come to a sandy berm, tufted with grass, which I assume to be the property line.  Shuffling up onto this mound confirms my theory, as a row of bungalows, and a beach teaming with families, dot the landscape beyond. 

No thanks.  I’ll be staying in the secluded privacy of this property.  

Descending back down the knoll, I unfortunately spill the last of my wine.  No worries, I already salvaged this tasty beverage from impending doom.  The alcohol is definitely doing its job.  I need a nap.

Laying the huge beach towel down in a bright patch of sand, I sprawl out, pulling my short swim trunks up as much as I deem comfortable, and appropriate.  The sun’s rays feel great on the wrinkled skin of my upper thighs, which haven’t seen the light of day in years. 

Seemingly moments later, I feel a splash of sand on my face.  Looking up groggily, I realized this disturbance has been caused by a teenage girl passing by.  From my awkward angle, and dazed condition, I don’t recognize her, but she appears to know me, addressing me by name. 

Sitting up, blood rushes back to my body, apparently me head was slightly below my feet for the recent tanning session.  And apparently, I’ve been out here for more than a few minutes.  My arms and legs are looking pretty rosy.  Then I peer down at my chest, and become even more concerned.  How long have I been passed out?

“What time is it?” I inquire to my niece.

“It was 3 PM when I left the house,” she replies casually. 

That explains the sun exposure.  I’ve been absorbing the harsh rays for several hours.  It was a good nap, but I’ll be paying for it later when my skin starts peeling off.

I’m already committed now, so may as well subject my back to the same treatment, in an effort to promote an even tan.  A 15 minutes session should be sufficient under the mid-afternoon rays, provided I don’t doze off again.

Rolling over onto my front, I stuff my balled-up shirt under my forehead to avoid any blood flow issues this time.

Less than 3 minutes later, I realize there’s no way to get comfortable on my stomach.  In fact, the tender skin feels like it’s on fire, even against the soft fabric of the towel.

Flipping over in frustration, I sit up, and take stock of the situation.  It’s really warmed up during the past few hours.  I can feel the UV radiation beating down.  The blue water looks quite refreshing, considering my overheated condition. 

As I rise to my feet, I realize there’s another towel right next to me.  It’s got the same color and texture mine.  Must be from our rental house.  Which makes sense, since lying on it is the same niece who disturbed my previously, now completely naked, except for her tiny bikini bottom, and a pair of oversized sunglasses. 

Startled, I almost tumble over onto her, but fortunately my sketchy balance wins out.  We have access to a huge private beach, yet she chose to post up right next to me.  This is awkward. 

Sure, us French are a fairly open culture, but some lines need to be drawn when it comes to family interactions.  She seems as rigid as a corpse, either asleep, or completely oblivious to any social challenges this scene might cause. 

I should probably forgo the swim, and I head back to the house.  This could look bad if any other members of our party, or anyone, happens to walk by.  Nobody likes creepy old men.  Plus, I could use a glass of fresh water, considering how much I’ve sweated out in the past few hours.

3:45 PM: Babysitting

This is one of the comfiest stools I’ve ever sat on.  The upholstery fabric is decorative but plush, the underlying padding firm but compliant.  This quality seat cushion is supported by a sturdy base: three evenly spaced, wooden spiral legs, with grippy metal, claw feet.  I can envision my grandmother perched on a similar ancient stool, executing her precise needlework.

Granted, I usually prefer a standard armchair.  However, with the current status of my torched torso and appendages, from the extended tanning session earlier, I’m trying to avoid any unnecessary skin contact.

This is the most accommodating spot I’ve found for executing my current task.  Babysitting duty.  I wasn’t informed of any rule forbidding drinking on the job, so I’m sipping on a freshly opened bottle of Chianti.

One of my grandchildren, the oldest of the three, is exploring the play room.  Granted, it used to be a sitting room, but with the quantity of toys that have been piled into this space, the children are definitely staking claim to this area. 

I figure taking my turn as a chaperone for an hour is the least I can do.  Good timing by me, since only two of the half dozen young kids on this trip are currently in the pen.  Between the stuffed animals, building blocks, costume chest, and assorted board games, I could entertain myself in this environment.  Maybe my mind isn’t far off from that of a 5-year-old these days.

Boy, this is a good vino.  It’s got all the key elements: color, aroma, flavor, texture.  I might need to head back to the minibar for a refill before this vintage disappears.

Looking up over the red-tinged rim of my wine glass, I spot my two marks.  Both are boys, one who I know well, the other I just met.

My grandchild, courtesy of my youngest daughter, and my ancillary related, second nephew-in-law, random kid, are currently having a grand old time playing with tiny, metal, toy cars.  Based on appearances, this pair is likely less than a year apart in age.  They seem to be getting along well, since they haven’t thrown the miniature, candy apple red, Ferrari, or used the die-cast, matte black, Range Rover as a weapon yet.

Neither seems overly strong on the communication front, which makes sense considering one is from France, the other from Spain.

Their lack of verbal interaction doesn’t seem to be inhibiting their enjoyment.  They race their autos around the room, making the prerequisite motor noises, which are universal in any language.  Looks like fun, maybe I’ll join them.  I spot a bright yellow, model dump truck in the menagerie of playthings.  My favorite. 

As I reach down to pick up this small rig, sore lumbar, suntanned chest, and stubbed toe, conspiring against me, reality sets in.  I’m going to need some more oil to facilitate rolling around on the floor with these kids. 

Looking up, I see the boys have huddled around a tall plant in the corner of the room.  They are stationary, supported by the pot’s rim, and engaged, driving their own chosen vehicles across the floor, up the side of the heavy ceramic vessel, and into the dirt on the back side.  This seems like as good a time as any to grab a wine refill. 

Taking one more glance at my captives, I stand on rickety bones, stretched tendons, and fatigued muscles, then scurry for the dining room. 

I’m back in under two minutes, with a full glass of succulent, blood-red, nectar.  Initially, it appears the scene hasn’t changed.  I take a deep sigh, happy with my covert replenishment.  Then I take a closer look at the situation.

Sure, the two young boys are still hanging around the same pot, but their center of focus has changed.  As has their attire.  Both youngsters have taken off their pants.

I’ve been out of the childrearing game for a while, so don’t remember exactly when toddlers transition out of diapers.  Regardless, it doesn’t take an experienced nanny to grasp that these young lads are not wearing their absorbent undies.  Or any bottoms whatsoever, at this point.

They are both simultaneously pissing into a potted plant.  It looks like a ficus, with a sturdy wooden stalk branching out into a plethora of broad green leaves, but I’m no horticulturist.

My mind is conflicted, a combination of proud amusement, mingled with a hint of distress.  Honestly, we’ve all been in the same boat in our formative learning years.  May as well give them a little leash, and see how this situation materializes. 

I watch, appreciating the aim of their dueling, arched, streams, which will minimize my obligatory clean-up efforts in a few minutes.  

However, the comedic effect of the scene is quickly overshadowed by the return of the real parents.

Rising from my lovely stool, I preemptively apologize to the crazed woman approaching and screaming at me.  Fortunately, I get a brief reprieve as she becomes completely distracted, turning her scolding angst onto her child, who’s pants are still on the ground around his small ankles.  She obviously doesn’t grasp how much fun it is to try spraying your member around like a fire hose, especially as a young, and impressionable, lad. 

A few minutes later, it’s pretty clear she is not nearly as entertained as I am.  My Spanish is poor at best, but I recognize a few vulgar curse words intermixed with the incessant babbling directed my way.  The language is not an issue as much as the volume.  This heavyset woman, with a thick Castilian accent, seems to have only one volume level.  Ruidosa.

My ears are ringing, and my alcohol thinned blood is starting to boil.  I like family as much as the next grandparent, but everyone has their limits.  Time to take the high road.

At least my daughter isn’t around for this display of parenting ineptitude; though I’m sure the way maternal gossip travels, this event will be widely shared amongst the ladies on the porch later.

I glance down at my gold-plated watch, a retirement present from four decades on the Crédit Lyonnais payroll, working all the way up to a regional bank branch manager.  Based on the angle of the thin black hands on the stark white background, it looks like my hour of babysitting duty is up.

I have other, more important, obligations to execute tonight, which should help the extended family not have a nervous breakdown on day one.  Hopefully, I can redeem myself, considering the string of transgressions I’ve perpetrated thus far today.

Grabbing the trunk of the small tree with one hand, I give it a shake, causing small droplets of piss on the leaves to fall down into the dry potted earth.  This indoor shrub needed some water anyways. 

Picking up my full glass of wine with my clean hand, I leave the hysterical lady of unknown relation to handle the scolding, clean-up, and toy car extraction, which now sit in the moist soil under the plant.  At least the Range Rover is made for off-roading.

5:15 PM: Banquet

It’s early evening, and I’m standing at the kitchen counter.  Most of the women are having cocktails on the covered patio in the lawn, and the men are trying to figure out how to operate the small sailboat that came with the house, leaving the indoors open for me to prep meats for dinner. 

I didn’t do the shopping, but know what’s on the menu tonight.  Traditional French rabbit stew.  We have a mix of European nationalities on this adventure, several a result of marrying into the family.  But we’re going to stick to our primarily French roots for the main course of this inaugural vacation meal.

I’m not a avid cook, but fortunately this recipe is one of my specialties.  I still use the same approach my mom taught me long ago, before I headed off to college, concerned I would starve away from home.

Poking around in the fridge, I final find the brown butcher paper amid a maze of fresh vegetables, hard cheeses, and chardonnay bottles.  

Dropping the hefty package down on the sturdy, built-in, cutting board, I check the barcode label.  5 kgs of “coniglio”; that’s a lot of rabbit meat. 

Unrolling the package reveals an interesting finding.  These are whole animals, fur, innards, and ears removed, but with most the other key skeletal features intact.  They resemble naked mole rats.  I’ve butchered some interesting critters over the years, but this is an entirely new experience.

I’m a grown man, and I’m not relenting on my duties now.  Poking around through the various obvious drawers doesn’t yield any productive cutting utensils.  Looks like I’ll have to go to town on these carcasses using what could easily be confused for a butter knife. 

Fortunately, before diving in, I make one more visual pass through the kitchen.  The cookware and amenities here are too well stocked not to have a proper set of chef knifes.  On my final inspection, I realize there’s a gap between the fridge and the pantry cabinet, just wide enough for a sizable knife block.  Jackpot.

Suddenly flush with options, I select the heavy rectangular butcher’s knife for destructive deconstruction, and the small, flexible blade, paring knife for delicate deboning.

Time to get to work.  I need to break these full bodies down into the standard 6 pieces: trimmed pairs of haunches, ribs, and shoulders. 

I drop the first pale skinned, rabbit cadaver down on the chopping block, and consider my options.  Who knew coneys were this scrawny, and this boney?  That fluffy fur is deceptive.  At least small bones mean weak bones, thus minimal resistance.  The cleaver makes quick work of the rear half of the animal, meaty, muscular, thighs yielding at the hip joint. 

The ribs have negligible meat, but lots of sinew and cartilage, which will add flavor to the stew.  A powerful blow near the neck clears the rib cage, then I split the bone laden torso in half right down the spine.

The remaining piece on the cutting board is the front appendages, small medallions of meat attached to each forefoot appendage.  Fortunately, the grocery butcher took care of the head.

40 minutes later, I’m on my last boney body.  Figures, just when I’m getting into a rhythm. 

Washing the animal remnants off my hands in the sink, I look out through the broad kitchen window.  I spot my daughters in the yard, standing close together, engaged in what appears to be an intense conversation.  No doubt another of the seemingly perpetual string of arguments that occur any time they get together. 

My younger daughter is swaying unsteadily, as she points a wobbly finger at her sibling.  She’s obviously drunk again.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, apparently. 

My eldest daughter’s red pony tail flips back and forth rapidly as she tries to defuse the situation.  Maybe she was right about excluding her sister on this trip, with the divorce proceedings so fresh.  I just wanted to get the whole family together.  Nothing to be done about the situation now, time to get back to work.  Hopefully we can at least enjoy a civil family meal in a few hours.  

Usually, I would let the rabbit pieces marinade in the Dijon mustard for a few hours, but after my beach and babysitting adventures, we don’t have time for that.  The last thing you want on a vacation is a bunch of hungry people, lingering around in the kitchen, and griping.

Coating the pointy pieces in the coarse yellow paste, I drop them in the medium heat pan, and commence browning.

Butchering complete, the rest of the recipe is simple.  One pour of wine for the stew, one pour of wine for me.  Plus, some various aromatics.  Carrots, celery, and potatoes chopped.  Onions, garlic, and shallots diced.  Thyme, parsley, and rosemary minced.  Everything goes into the heavy Dutch oven to simmer, and let the flavors meld. 

My work is done, and I only nicked myself with the knife once, when an onion slipped on the cutting board.  Not bad, considering my bad luck thus far today. 

I’m only responsible for the main dish, confident the various other participants will be anxious to put their mark on this first night communal meal.  Our French, Spanish, and German heritages, combined with the bountiful local nourishment offerings of Sicily, should make this a diverse, and tasty, banquet.

It smells amazing in this kitchen already.  If I could just be on a fly on the wall for that next few hours, that would be incredible from both an aromatic stimulation, and conversational amusement, standpoint. 

However, I should probably go check on the guys out in the sea.  Not sure what an old Frenchman, who grew up in the center of Europe, 300 km from any water source, will be able to contribute to this operation, but we shall see.

It seems like a rite of passage, and a good way to avoid the various womenfolk I’ve already instigated on this trip.

9:00 PM: Broadcast

I never though sitting down could feel so glorious.  Italian leather is known worldwide as a preferred seating material for a reason.  It probably doesn’t hurt that I’m finally giving my aching back a rest, after nearly an hour slaving away at kitchen sink, which is designed for someone at least a foot shorter than me. 

We need more teenagers on this trip, to put on dish duty.  That should work out nicely in the next few years, provided I live that long, and get invited back.

Settled in contently, with a china plate of macarons sitting on my swollen belly, and a rocks glass of Armagnac in my wrinkled hand, I survey room.  We’ve got a pretty diverse group, four generations of extended family engaged in various activities. 

A majority of the crew is on their personal electronic devices.  In fact, as I take a more detailed tally of the situation, I realize the only ones not staring at a screen are the young kids, with fingers too small to have a cell phone, and the old folks, with eyesight too weak for tablet viewing. 

However, the largest screen in the room, a massive, wall mounted, TV, stands dark and silent.  Maybe I can deftly turn on a football match without bothering anyone.  The various European Leagues are just getting going for the season, so a few of my beloved French squads and players are still relevant.

In a stroke of luck, one of my first of the day, the TV remote is sitting on the tile covered end table, right next my chair.  Easily within arm’s reach, without even spilling a crumb of this delicious dessert.

Subtly, I pick up the controller, and examine the object.  I’m used to the simple item with 4 buttons that I have at home; this device has at least 20 options, with a rainbow of colors, and tiny font that I can’t read, even if I was sober.

Pretty much every controller I’ve ever encountered has a green button near the top to activate power, so I go with that plan.  The wide screen flickers to life.  Great success.     

Jubilation at figuring out this modern electronic device quickly turns to despair.  The image on the wall size monitor resolves quickly into focus: tan flesh, repetitive gyrations, close-up camera angles.  Definitely not a football match.  The visual stimulation turns out to be the least of my worries.

Apparently, the last person using this entertainment system decided to leave the sound just a few notches below damaging decibel levels.  My hearing is pretty poor at this advanced stage of life, but the reverberations from the speaker are loud, clear, and identifiable. 

Groans and moans.  Ooohs and uuuhs.  Lively utterances I haven’t experienced for a while, but still recognize.  Apparently, many others in the room do as well, since the previously social media subdued silent majority has now come to life.  And not in a good way. 

I start hammering on the remote buttons, my newfound technical prowess now completely alluding me.  Unfortunately, aside from the volume up trigger, I’m not able to have any influence on the memorizing, but illicit, content being displayed to the entire room.    

Realizing the button-covered piece of plastic in my hand is useless, I leap up, and head for the TV itself.  Three long strides and a lunge later, I reach the wall where the television is hung. 

Predictably, there is not a single marking, switch, or light along the front of the frame.  Reaching behind the screen, I grope around blindly.  At this close proximity to the speakers, I realize how loud, and obvious, the volume is. 

As the sounds of sexual climax crescendo through the air, and likely on the screen which my face is pressed directly against, I find a raised button on the back of the panel.  Smashing it down, the speaker noises cease, and the LED glow flickers out, ending the heat being emitted on my scratched cheek just millimeters away from the glass pixels.

Turning to face the living room, I’m met by more than a dozen pairs of wide eyes.  Some shocked, some intrigued, some confused, some enlightened.  My 5-year-old granddaughter, 15-year-old nephew, my 85-year-old mother.  

Apparently, there are ways to pull people’s gaze from their online accounts.  Maybe next time, I’ll try a less extreme tactic. 

Stammering an apology, I grab my glass of booze off the end table and make my escape, conveniently routing through the kitchen.  I’m going to need a refill after that episode.

10:00 PM: Bathing

Positioned at the sink of my private bathroom, I’m so fatigued from the long day that I need to use my arms on the countertop as a brace to remain standing.  My back goes into another set of spasms.  I hold on in painful anguish until the twinges subside.

Stripping down slowly, I lumber into the shower without even waiting for it to heat up.  My body is numb to the brisk shock of cold water; it’s nothing compared to what I’ve been through today.

10 minutes later, after a thorough scrub down, I’m feeling a little better.  If only I could apply the same cleansing process to my memories that my skin is currently getting.  Unfortunately, the things I’ve seen today cannot be forgotten with a simple rinse.

Stepping onto the soft comfort of the lavish bathroom mat, I let the moisture drip off my body naturally, rather than reaching for a towel.  I favor my left foot, as my right big toe is already swollen and the color of a blueberry, throwing my balance off, but I’m fortunately able to remain upright. 

A few minutes of stoicism later, I realize the heavy humidity of the air is going to make a full air dry impossible.

Grabbing a towel, I go to work on the various nooks and crannies that are still moist: behind the ears, under the belly roll, between the toes, the grundle region.  All are now clean and dry.  Except for my chest, covered in fine white hairs, which I fear touching, even with this gentle terrycloth offering, for fear the charred, tender, skin will tear off.  

Lastly, I mop my hair, medium length where it grows, and definitely thinning.  Wiping down the fogged mirror, I move in for a closer inspection.  Yep, the stressful activities of today have definitely contributed to accelerated hair loss.  And I don’t have any to spare.

Moving back, I take in my entire frame in the full-length mirror, which has finally cleared.  The person who stares back at me is barely recognizable.

Aside from a thin patch of pale white skin across my groin, my entire front is dark pink, and getting redder by the second.  I look like the Crimson Avenger from the DC comics I read as a teenager.  In fact, that was probably the last time I had a sunburn this severe.

Grabbing one of the conveniently provided cotton swaps, I clean my soggy ear canals.  This extraction process works well on one side, but not so much on the other.  After my second probing, I realize the damaged ear is the one which was facing Mrs. Screechy during my brief babysitting session, and pressed up against the speaker during my TV porn fiasco.  Granted, I’m getting old, but exposure to these excessive decibel levels doesn’t help.   

Next, I take a generous dollop of moisturizing cream, another of the mansion’s seemingly unlimited amenities, and gently apply it to the raw scratches on my cheek from the garden bushes.  Coarse stubble causes my fingertips to snag in spots, but the cream has a luscious soothing effect on my damaged skin. 

I need a shave.  That mundane activity might help my mind and body get back to some form of normalcy.  However, with my accident-prone nature recently, probably better not to risk it tonight.  Extending my arm out horizontally, I watch it twitch uncontrollably, likely a combination of the booze and the stress.  Yep, operating a razor right now is definitely a bad idea.   

Applying a new Band-Aid to my left pointer figure, I’m happy to see that the knife cut is clean and shallow.  A mere flesh wound relative to my other ailments incurred recently.

Content with my body maintenance, I gently climb into bed.  The mattress is incredibly soft and compliant.  The light of the full moon filters in through the sheer curtains.  Within minutes, I’m passed out, contently dreaming of a Spanish maid in a tight-fitting white outfit. 

My mind is finally at peace, until reality, and the continued family craziness, returns in the morning.