The Inside Diaries

Calimyrna

Melanija found herself at the back porch terrace of a certain gentleman's estate...or was it terrasse? She preferred the latter, she silently mused as she seated herself at the miniature circular table, a linen donned atop along with four white waxen candles about a worn brass candelabra. Figs, too—

She took one, balancing its rotund mass in the palm of her hand—the rest, each an identical lime green color, continued to bob afloat in a sturdy ceramic banquet plate-like container.

"Calimyrna figs," a voice called out. Fernando. He emerged, bearing a long baking pan, parchment paper atop.

"This looks complicated," she couldn't help but remark, glancing below at her own fig and back at the pan. He shook his head, smiling to himself. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," he murmured, setting the pan down atop the table, once Melanija had shifted the ceramic container to make room. "I think you overthink things...I learned this recipe when I was seven."

"Ok, now you're scaring me—" Was there nothing this guy couldn't do? "You're, like, perfect—"

Noting her expression, he replied. "Not really. Biking. Terrible. Never got the hang of it—"

"Right—" she followed his motions, dropping each rinsed fig atop the pan. "What's next?"

"We put this in the oven at 20 Celsius. Or 68 Fahrenheit. For twelve hours."

"That's a long time," Melanija mused aloud.

"But you get freshly-dried fruit in the end. Nature's candy. It's worth it, I promise."

"If you say so..."

A couple hours later, she found herself paddle-boarding alongside him, silhouettes of majestic palm trees dancing in the distant sand, the water a gorgeous, breathtaking aquamarine. And was that a volcano in the distance? She hoped it was dormant. Left hand atop right, plunge, paddle. Repeat. First came pushing off the sandbar, then some degree of wobbling—then complete, unremitting freedom.

When did the sky become so blue? She tore her sight away from the waves around her to bask in the late morning glow, her toes firmly fixed atop the sun-bleached surfboard, its crimson pattern still emanating through despite its age. Then, she noticed something else.

Clouds. Many, many clouds—

She motioned to Fernando, pointing skyward and he immediately understood. Paddling back to shore, they gathered their gear, hurrying off just before a tropical thunderstorm emerged, rain pouring in every direction.

"My place—" she motioned. I have to feed Catticus.

He nodded, themselves piling into his tiny vehicle, thankfully roofed in entirety. Thus, they sped off, pearls of raindrops hurrying themselves off his windshield to fly away asunder. She checked her phone. Six more hours.

Entering her abode, they removed their shoes and made to dry off. Catticus snaked himself around Fernando's legs as the latter provided pets and sweet murmurs. "Who's a good floofy kitty? Yes you are, yes you are," he crooned as Melanija rolled his eyes. "What?" he asked.

"He is very mischievous—" came the answer as she headed to the kitchen to fix them both a hot cup of tea. Both he and Catticus followed.

"But his flooring mischief brought us together, no?" Fernando's eyes twinkled, and Melanija had to admit, he did have a point.

"Catticus' part-time job: playing Cupid," and the pair laughed as the teakettle came to a slow whistling boil. Several minutes passed as they each blew on their tea, she and Fernando. Earl Grey tea. The kitchen filled with the heady scent of bergamot as Melanija turned on a jazz playlist from her phone, the thrum of piano keys, saxophone, and sultry song emanating forth from her device. "Do you ever get tired of this?"

"Of...?" He tilted his head. What exactly?

"The island life. Its serenity. Its slow pace...the non-urgency..." she clarified, as he shook his head.

"Never."

"Really?"

"Well...there was that one time..." he paused, but noticed her intrigued expression. "A sort of...Rumspringa?" The Amish term for teenagers—or older—having a taste on unrelenting freedom, or so it went. "A Paisagem tradition, before taking over the property. Seeing the world, or small snippets at a time."

"Where'd you go?" Melanija leaned forward, taking a slow sip of her tea.

"Here and there. America—North and South—Asia—France—a quick stopover in Aix-en-Provence, but—" he paused.

"But?"

"There was no place like home. The relaxed pace. The conversations. The scenery. I missed it too much—and when my father retired, well—"

"You took over."

He sipped his tea, his eyes meeting hers, nodding. "Yes. As a matter of fact. Didn't really have a choice, since most of the family was gone or immigrated, or y'know—"

Melanija's eyes softened. "You've done a great job with it. I think your family would be proud. Your ancestors included."

"Thanks..." his hand covered hers. "That means a lot." He leaned forward, herself doing the same, bridging the distance—just a kiss atop the lips—

Catticus meowed loudly, interrupting the moment. "Oh kitty," Melanija sighed. "Your timing is really..."

"Opportune?"

She laughed, her eyes glittering as the storm raged on outside, but Fernando paid no heed, for all the wonders of the world were encapsulated in her—this—Melanija. This blossoming romance.

And soon enough, after snacks, a movie on her laptop, then another, those six hours turned into nine, ten, then eleven. After Catticus was fed his evening meal (and once the storm abated), Melanija and Fernando departed for Paisagem to check on the figs in the oven.

Twenty minutes later, entering his kitchen, the pair were met with a delicious aroma of baked fruit. Glancing at her, he indicated a pair of mitts atop the nearest drawer. It's time, he seemed to say. Opening the oven, steam billowed out in silvery tendrils, the fruit having turned a deeper hue, its innards sweetened with time. Allowing for the morsels to cool for ten minutes, they took a handful with them to the nearest shoreline, where a hammock was present, luckily moisture-wicking.

Tassels and a pillow too, she noticed as she stepped in, then he, as they contentedly consumed their post-prandial snack.

She sighed. This was the life.