December 1985 Vonelli invited Lizzie and me to the Isle of Wight. We were sitting in a Bastille cafe. Lizzie had a show on TV that night. Her song was playing on the radio. I had to work at the Balajo later. There wasn’t much holiday spirit on the Rue De La Roquette.

“We’ll do the Tennyson Walk in the morning and eat a traditional Christmas dinner at Lord Ventnor’s house.” The art dealer signaled the barman from another round of ‘rouge’. Each glass of the tres ordinaire vin rouge cost nine new francs.

“Sounds good.” I had spent several weeks on the Isle of Wight basking in the graciousness of Lord Ventnor’s hospitality.

“I hear a ‘but’.” Lizzie had lived in New York in the 70s and her ear caught my hesitation.

“I’ve spent every Christmas with my parents in Boston.”

“And you are how long?” The singer tangled a long lock with her finger.

“Not a boy.”

“Then it’s a plan. I’ll arrange everything.” Vonelli toasted our adventure.

The next morning I phoned my parents and said that I would see them after the New Year and on December 23rd the three of us trained to Les Havre to catch the Southampton ferry.

We drank wine in Alan’s cabins and then visited the gaming hall. The weather was typically rough for the crossing. At one point a wave lifted the ship’s bow so swiftly that all the players around the 21 table were lifted from their seats and then slammed back down. The croupier called the hand over and the captain advised the gamblers to retire to their cabin.

Lizzie and I bid Alan tonight.

The tousled hair singer was nominally my girlfriend and sex calmed my mal de mer. The only other cures were drowning and land.

The next morning we docked in the English port of Southampton.

Another ferry transported us across the Solvent to the Isle of Wight. Lord Ventnor was waiting at the dock and drove us to his house in his VW van. Vonelli bought lobsters on the way to eat for lunch.

We drank wine and after our meal Lizzie and I retreated our own bedroom for another nap.

That evening Alan and she played “Mais où Sont Passées les Gazelles?’ her African-influenced hit for Bob’s children. He accompanied her guitar on piano. I could see that they were interested in each other and I gave them free rein that evening. I was too drunk to give into jealousy.

Christmas morning was festive with gift-giving and drinks, after which Lord Ventnor drove his heir, Vonelli, Lizzie, and me to the Needles at the western end of the Isle of Wight.

“Some people say Tennyson walked this path during his stay here, but I think it was named for him simply because he lived here.” Lord Ventnor was in good shape for a man his age. He was almost forty. “Me, I walk it once a month.”

Our party got out of the van. Our host’s wife would meet us on the other end. A group of fox hunters were assembled before the hotel. Their red coats clustered at the entrance to the bar at Alum’s bay. Lord Ventnor waved good-bye to his wife and escorted us to the trail. The weather was temperate and the sun stripped away the clouds, as we ascended the gentle slope to Tennyson Downs.

The ocean was calm, but it was evident Ventnor’s teenage son had a crush on Lizzie. The singer was pretty in a very continental way. She kissed my cheek at the top of the bluff and said, “I like Alan.”

“Like?” The word had many variances.

“Yes, like.” Her intonation narrowed them to one. She lit a cigarette. They were never far from her touch. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” It was the truth. We were really just friends. “You two stay here and I’ll go up to London tomorrow. That work for you?”

“Yes.” Something on her face said that this exchange was gone more smoothly than she had expected, since women always seek drama.

The rest of the hike passed in stages. Vonelli and Lizzie separated from Lord Ventnor, his son, and me. The father and son laughed at Vonelli stealing my date.

“He stole her from you too,” I said to the son, who frowned for the rest of the trek.

On Boxing day Vonelli and Lizzie drove me to the ferry.

Only one train was running to London.

My plane was leaving for JFK that evening.

If everything went according to schedule then I would be in Boston tomorrow.

I bought a ticket and Vonelli carried my bag to the gangway.

“Sorry about this.” His smile was contrite.

“No worries.” I shrugged without regret. “I’ll find a way to get over it.”

And by the time I arrived in Southampton the Isle of Wight was as far away as Africa.

The next day my mother was happy to see me and my father was glad to have his second son home. And so was I, for left-over turkey tasted better the next day and no one made apple pie like my mother.

It was good to be home.