Arrival
The first time I
saw Gabi was from the back seat of a tiny Fiat, fishtailing on flying gravel as
we rounded a steep, hairpin turn. We
rocketed up the hill towards the house, and I gripped the armrest in fear,
staring at flashes of pink stucco and green balcony, flickering between tree
limbs. A heavy gray mist hovered around
us, scattering raindrops on windows, as my husband’s cousins worked their tiny
cars up the winding road. I gripped my
daughter, balanced on my knees, and tried not to look at the deep, open ditch
running beside us. I smiled confidently
at my two uncertain sons wedged in next to me, and I hoped George was coping
with our youngest, squeezed on his lap in the car that careened up the hill
before us. I watched in horror as that
car spun momentarily, executed a dangerous sharp turn, then dived in beside a
tall hedge. We repeated the same impossible
maneuver to enter a small driveway that led past an ancient, vine-covered
house. We rounded the corner, scattering
squawking chickens in the courtyard of what would be our home for the next
year.
View of the house from the road
View of Gabi from Bertola
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