Incident in Portofino

Still enjoying our honeymoon, Lottie and I had progressed from Cap d'Antibes to Rapallo travelling along the Italian Riviera through Sanremo, Alassio, Savona and Genoa.

Some guests at the hotel where we were staying had enthused about the beauty and charm of Portofino which could be reached by boat in 30 minutes.
Intrigued by the high encomium we made the decision to undertake the journey in order to explore the place, in particular the Castello Brown and the lighthouse perched on the farthest point of the territory.

On arrival, we were enchanted by this fishing village and holiday resort with its picturesque harbour and multicoloured houses.
From the piazzetta we climbed a steep path and at about a third of the way we reached the castle, named after a British consul who had acquired the ancient property in 1870 and made it his residence.

The castle’s pleasant garden and lovely sea views were breathtaking and the interior was fascinating with the Browns' pictures on the wall and their furnishings decorating the rooms.

Also enjoyable were the black and white photos of old celebrities from the 50's & 60's on
the second floor.

Our trek continued until we got, through the Mediterranean Pine forest, to the Faro, the Portofino's lighthouse. We had been told that dolphins might be seen swimming near the coast but to our inadequate naked eyes this vision never materialised.

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As the Faro's little bar offered only soft drinks and light snacks, we were now in a restaurant in the piazzetta where we enjoyed a first-class meal.

“I am going to find the little room, the one the the Italians call il bagno”, I said to Lottie, “if
the waitress calls, order a double espresso for me.”

When I returned to the table I saw that Lottie was frowning.

“What's the matter?” I enquired.

“ I had a glimpse of a girl coming out of the bar who I assumed to be a waitress and you are not going to believe this: she was the spitting image of Jessica.”

“The odd thing”, she continued, “is that she looked at me and disappeared back inside. Then a waiter came who, when I asked him about the girl, said that all the waiters in this restaurant are male.”

“There you are then, maybe she was a customer. And besides Jessica is in Nepal; don't you remember the postcard she sent from Kathmandu?”

While we were discussing my niece's whereabouts, I noticed a man at the next table who seemed to be eavesdropping on our conversation. He was a stereotypical English old gentleman.

“My apologies for intruding”, he said to me, “but your good lady is not mistaken. There is a young waitress; she served me breakfast early this morning. Perhaps she does not wish to be approached.”

While we were looking at him, astonished, he picked up a copy of the Times from the table, raised his hat, said “I bid you good day” and went.

What happened next was more extraordinary. I switched on my phone and rang Jessica to see where she was. Her mobile was completely dead, no tone, no voicemail: complete silence.

We were contemplating who to contact next when two officious looking people, a distinguished man and a well dressed woman, came towards us. They introduced themselves as functionaries of the British Consulate, informed us that an emergency situation had occurred and all U.K, citizens were to repatriate immediately before flights were stopped.

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We are now in my London's flat scratching our heads regarding Jessica's apparent disappearance.

© Luigi Pagano 2020