Page 53 of Fa-La La-La Land
No one likes “Wonderful Christmas Time,” but everyone’s willing to forgive Paul McCartney for that crap because of songs like “Yesterday” and “Eleanor Rigby.” What I’m about to do to Christmas is unforgivable.
I doubt that being in Italy will sort me out, even with Stella by my side. We’ve got a day trip planned to Florence—a city built on art and inspiration—to see works by the likes of Michelangelo and Botticelli. Don’t imagine that’ll make me feel better about inflicting lyrics like, “Snow is fallin’, hearts are callin’, everybody’s feelin’ right,” on the world. I read them to Stella, and not even she could keep from wrinkling her nose at the stench of those lines.
I’m honestly more stoked about Paradise than Florence. The more Stella talks about her hometown, the more I wonder if that’s where I’ll find my spark again. No cathedrals or master artists there, but it sounds like it’s got a warmth and joy I’ve been missing.
By the time we land in Pisa, I’ve watched three movies and made zero notes on “Under the Christmas Lights.” We’re met by a driver, Giulio—a distant cousin of Gia’s—who takes us to her small hometown of Stagno. It’s nothing like Rome or Florence. Looks a bit like a California town, just older. Rolling hills, bougainvillea, no palm trees.
“This is where you grew up, Mamma?” Stella asks, her disappointment plain.
“It’s a big city compared to Paradise,” Gia says from the front seat of the tiny car that makes Derek look like a Great Dane stuffed in a chihuahua’s carrier. “But it looks smaller than I remember. So many boarded-up houses and buildings.”
“Reminds me of Barstow. Only smaller,” Derek mutters—not a compliment.
Gia talks rapidly to Giulio in Italian while I study Stella’s face, wondering if she’s regretting the trip. Maybe we should’ve gone to Rome. No one can be disappointed in Rome—and I know a brilliant gelato place there.
Then Stella squeals, “Oh look! McDonald’s! We don’t have that in Paradise.”
She taps Giulio’s shoulder and points.
“No!” Gia cries. “No McDonald’s!”
Giulio glances between them but can’t resist Stella’s smile, so he turns into the drive-thru. Gia throws up her hands, complaining loudly in Italian while Giulio tries—and fails—to calm her. I can’t help laughing.
“What’s funny?” Stella asks.
“We’re in Italy—home of the best food on the planet—and the first thing you want is Macca’s?”
She shrugs. “I like their Diet Coke.”
Derek snorts a laugh. First time he’s smiled since we stuffed him in this clown car.
We go through the drive-thru, and Stella orders two Diet Cokes and some fries, even though Gia’s family has a massive dinner waiting. I eat fries with her anyway.
I regret it as soon as we reach Angela’s house and see the feast. The smell of garlic, tomatoes, and basil fills the air. Platters of chicken parmesan, veal, pasta, and focaccia crowd the table. My mouth waters as a teenage girl walks past with bread. She spots me, does a double take, and I press my finger to my lips. A wink and a smile seal our silent deal.
Gia and Angela are attached at the hip, tugging Stella along to meet everyone in the room. I smile and stay out of the way, watching Stella light up as she’s introduced to cousins, aunts, uncles—people who already adore her. When she introducesme as her friendRhys Smith, no one bats an eye except my focaccia girl, who grins like we share a secret.
Four hours later, Gia’s right—we’re stuffed. I crash on the couch while Gia and Stella share a bed. The next morning, I wake aching everywhere but perk up when Angela hands me a cappuccino and fresh pastries. I eat everything she puts in front of me.
First on the list: teaching Stella to drive a Vespa. Angela’s kept the one Stella’s dad used to ride, and it still runs—mostly. It’s easy enough for Stella, with all her years on ATVs. While she’s circling the streets of Stagno, I half expect she’ll be underwhelmed, but an hour later, when she parks in front of the house, her smile says otherwise.
I meet her on the walkway to the front door. “Was it everything you imagined?”
Stella takes off her helmet, shakes out her hair, then kisses me. “Yes. And so much more.”
“So you reckon you can cross it off your list, or do you need to drive that thing across all of Italy?” If so, we’ll miss the next ten Paradise Christmas parades.
She shakes her head. “I just wanted to do something my dad had done. I could almost feel him next to me. Does that sound crazy?”
I pull her close. “Doesn’t sound crazy, and I’m glad you’re not planning to ride that thing coast to coast. You’d be pushing it most of the way.”
Later, with Gia chatting a million miles an hour in Italian with her family all stuffed in the small house, Stella and I leave for Camp Darby near Pisa, where her dad was stationed. Gia doesn’t feel the need to go back, but for Stella, it’s a chance to see the world through his eyes.
At her insistence, we’ve arranged a meet-and-greet for the soldiers and their families. Generally, I like that sort of thing,but I was hesitant—didn’t want the trip to turn into a Rhys James event. It ends up being the best part. Hearing their stories reminds me how unimportant my job really is, and also how music still matters. If it brings joy to people, that’s enough.
Reckon that’s more important than having fans love me. Or even making the kind of music that fills my soul. If I have to play a role, at least it’s a role that brings people a bit of happiness.
I don’t perform—it would’ve needed clearances we don’t have—but I sign a few autographs and take photos. Everyone’s kind. If it were up to me, the visit would stay private, but Stella says all publicityisn’tgood publicity, but good deeds make good content.
