By Kathy Giuffre
In an try and break out from her demanding existence as a unmarried operating mom of 2 younger boys, Kathy Giuffre books a year-long journey for 4 in a tropical paradise. on the final minute, her boyfriend proclaims he's not becoming a member of them, and Kathy unearths herself in an unlivable apartment in Rarotonga, a tiny speck in the midst of the South Pacific Ocean. Her not likely savior is Emily, an 82-year-old Maori lady with a wide white condo at the fringe of the sea, which the 2 ladies proportion with callous missionaries, the ghosts of Emily’s ancestors, and, in short, a weird and wonderful couple from japanese Europe. As time passes, Kathy is seduced by means of the island and its humans and via emotions she hasn't ever earlier than skilled. this can be an inspirational tale approximately having the braveness to look for whatever larger and discovering it—serenity, sensuality, and, eventually, love.
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Extra resources for An Afternoon in Summer: My Year on a South Sea Island, Doing Nothing, Gaining Everything, and Finally Falling in Love
Now then, I have a woman here with her two darling children. They’re Americans, but they’re very nice anyway. And she needs a place — can I send her round to see you? Yes. Now don’t put them down in the little house; take them in with you. Yes. Yes. ” Three minutes later the boys and I were back in the car, heading along a road just outside town to a village called Panama. (I later learned it had been named after a wildly disastrous government scheme to harness the power of the tides by digging a canal inland from the beach and letting the water flow in and out and turn a turbine.
I would ask. “Oh, later,” his secretary would say. ” “New Zealand,” she said. ” “Oh,” she said airily, “later. Maybe next week. Or the week after that. ” Despite living in an air-conditioned hotel room, it still seemed very adventurous to be on Rarotonga, as though we were characters in a Joseph Conrad novel, or Fletcher Christians in a remake of Mutiny On The Bounty. The real mutiny had, indeed, happened just nearby, when the Bounty was transporting breadfruit tree saplings from Tahiti to the West Indies, where the starchy fruit was meant to be used as a cheap source of food for African slaves.
I would sit on the empty sand and stare out at the line of breakers that marked the reef and try to come up with Plan B. Mr Tarau was never at his office when I called, during those fleeting moments when the phones were working. ” I would ask. “Oh, later,” his secretary would say. ” “New Zealand,” she said. ” “Oh,” she said airily, “later. Maybe next week. Or the week after that. ” Despite living in an air-conditioned hotel room, it still seemed very adventurous to be on Rarotonga, as though we were characters in a Joseph Conrad novel, or Fletcher Christians in a remake of Mutiny On The Bounty.