6:17 am
Montauk, New York
The sun was rising over the ocean, pouring through the undressed windows in the living room where Séb and I were sleeping on the pull-out coach, and feeling the early morning breeze coming in from the beach.
I heard footsteps, the same footsteps that I had been hearing for the past hour but chose to ignore, as I was trying to squeeze in at least another hour to sleep off my wine hangover. After an hour, the footsteps had stopped next to the arm rest of the couch that was inches away from my face. Having no choice but to wake up, I pried open my glued-shut eyes to find a miniature version of my grandfather looking at me. It was 91 year old Uncle Leo. Ginger's grandfather. My grandfather's brother, who hate each other and only speak at funerals and weddings. At funerals they are pleasant, and at weddings they ignore each other but as the night progresses, a drunken relative forces one to come over to the other to say hello, snaps a photo of them and thinks the vendetta is over. It will never be over, but like the most of the junior members of our family, we've chosen to not take sides hence why I was welcomed at Uncle Leo's beach house. At least I thought I was...
Uncle Leo had been padding in and out of the living room since 5 am, waiting for someone to wake up to entertain him. I know this because my grandfather does the exact same thing, except our version of Uncle Leo makes up songs about coffee and dancing cakes in a Sinatra-esque falsetto, luring everyone to wake up.
I had barely talked to Uncle Leo the night before during the ruckus of our twenty person dinner, and out of respect of the fact that he is my great-uncle and was sleeping in his home, I forced myself awake. "Good Morning, Uncle Leo," I said in a haze, closing one eye in order to focus my vision on a man who was eying me down as if I had slept in until noon. I touched my face and could feel the dried up zit cream flaking off my face, my dehydrated mouth telling me that my lips were tinted that familiar shade of dark red from last night's wine, and my hair tangled up in a knot that had flopped to the side of my head. I was quite a vision. While looking at Uncle Leo, I went to grab Séb to nudge him awake by placing my hand next to me, but my hand fell flat on the pillow. No Séb. I looked to my right which confirmed the fact that he was not there.
"Cutie Pie flew the coup, eh?" Uncle Leo said looking back at my curious face as I sat in the empty bed, "No more cutie pie!" he declared louder in his thick Italian accent that is similar to my grandfather's, only his has an essence of sandpaper from the three extra years he has on him. Knowing well that Séb, "cutie pie" didn't choose his birthday week in Montauk to end things with me, or worse, that Uncle Leo hadn't killed him, I played along with his six am suspicions, and I feigned shock that I had been dumped by dramatically throwing the covers of my head. I could hear him revving up his voice for a long sentence about the difficulties of life, but a smiling Séb saved me and walked in from the beach with his camera around his neck. "Cutie pie return," Uncle Leo said looking at Séb, and then in slow motion turning to look at me, "You must do something right."
Séb walked over to Uncle Leo and shyly greeted him, addressing him as sir, and offered to make him coffee. While the two fumbled around in the kitchen, preparing breakfast, I snuck away to the bathroom to brush my embarrassing Barolo stained teeth, comb out my knotted beach hair, and to moisturize my dry skin. Emerging from the bathroom, a less horrifying version of myself, I found Uncle Leo and Séb pouring espresso in three large mugs filled with steamed milk. We put out some cookies and sat at his big oak dining room table with the hot sun bleeding through the skylights on to the left side of my face. He looked at Séb with his cloudy blue eyes, the same color as my grandfather's and informed him that coffee is very important in Europe. Séb being polite, didn't inform him in his own thick European accent that he was well aware of this, and just nodded as if this was a new fact. Uncle Leo then leaned over and began to sing a song about coffee in Italian. Only looking at Séb. This lasted a good minute.
Uncle Leo entertained us with stories about how he sent Michelle Obama a handwritten letter, telling her she can come over anytime to his garden and pick his wild radicchio. Michelle responded with a warm letter declining his offer due to the fact that her busy schedule wouldn't allow her to make a pilgrimage to his garden in Queens, to pick his wild radicchio. He also sent a letter to her husband, and made it clear that it was a different kind of letter packed with suggestions on how he can solve America's debt by ending the life support option for patients living on ventilators for years in the hospital. "You pull plug, you walk away, you say I no do it, problem solved." He did not receive a response from President Obama.
He then launched into stories of his childhood in Italy, which led to him telling us the history of our Italian family. I assumed it was for the benefit of Séb that he was explaining who each family member was, but it wasn't until he mentioned that my grandfather, the no-good knucklehead who ruined the family was when it occurred to me...Uncle Leo had no idea who I was. In French, Séb pleaded with me not to tell him in fear that we would get kicked out, but how could I not? It was bound to come up at some point this week, and I didn't want to deepen the vendetta by withholding information, and that his estranged brother's granddaughter and French boyfriend were squatting at his beach house.
"Uncle Leo!" I said, making sure he could hear me. In shock from my raised voice he swiftly turned to me, "Hey!" he responded. "I'm related to you," I said slowly and clearly. "You are?" Uncle Leo, who now had my attention set down his coffee mug. "What's the connection?" he asked. I felt Séb's fear who was worried about what would happen next. I forget that Italian families can come across as scary beasts. "I'm Antonio's granddaughter," I informed him. Uncle Leo perked up at the sound of his name. "Antonio? My brother?" he asked, looking at me in confusion, "You know my brother?" I gently leaned over, and placed my hand on the table to express that I meant no harm. "Yes, very well," I said, "He's my grandfather." He looked at me, looked straight ahead through the sliding doors out onto the beach, looked at Séb, and then back at me, "What a small world!" he announced with his hands up in the air. Uncle Leo let the information roll off of his back and continued on to a story about how he bought the beach house because of the large kitchen, and when he once drove through a mound of hay on his Vespa in Italy.
It's a small world? Okay, we can accept that, moving on. We later learned that before I let the cat out of the bag on who I was, Uncle Leo thought that Séb and I were friends of Ginger that we had just met on the beach, and by coincidence, we all happened to be related.
Séb and I absolutely I adored our morning with Uncle Leo, regardless of the fact that he had no idea who we were, and expressed his distaste for my grandfather. It's not my fight to fight, and know better to offer my opinion when it comes to siblings where feuds can date as far back to the sandbox. Uncle Leo is someone that I see about once a year, this year with the weddings and unfortunate tragedies, it's been more than usual, and I truly appreciate every encounter. I'm glad that Séb experienced how special he is, and little by little, we are collecting and creating these memories creating our own small world.
