An Afternoon in Summer: My Year on a South Sea Island, Doing by Kathy Giuffre

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By Kathy Giuffre

In an try to break out from her tense lifestyles 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 is not becoming a member of them, and Kathy unearths herself in an unlivable residence 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 girls proportion with callous missionaries, the ghosts of Emily’s ancestors, and, in brief, a weird and wonderful couple from jap Europe. As time passes, Kathy is seduced by way of the island and its humans and by means of emotions she hasn't ever sooner than skilled. this is often an inspirational tale approximately having the braveness to look for whatever larger and discovering it—serenity, sensuality, and, finally, 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

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There was a basket of taro and a basket of taro leaves, called “rukau” when they are cooked. There were pawpaws, and sometimes tomatoes or watermelons. There were fresh-baked baguettes, and we could buy the local news paper and some travel-worn English candy bars from a cooler against the back wall. Sometimes we would buy food at one of the stores and eat sandwiches in our room or at the beach, but mostly we ate at the Maitai Café in the centre of town — where wild chickens aggressively hunted for food scraps under, and occasionally on, the tables — or at the Blue Note Café, which was part of a building called the Banana Court.

This was quite unnecessary. ) There are no traffic lights or stop signs on Rarotonga. There is, however, a traffic circle in downtown Avarua right by the Seven Coconut Trees — which are touted by our guidebook as a tourist attraction. Surrounded as they are by approximately seventy thousand other coconut trees, the appeal of these seven trees to tourists seems to be quite minimal. Anyway, it’s funny how simple things can quite suddenly seem very complicated when you try to do them backwards and upside-down at forty kilometres per hour.

In any event, Malcolm was now on the case, monitoring Mr Tarau’s global position. This was done most efficiently from the bar at Trader Jack’s right on the edge of the harbour, to which all news on the island was instantly relayed. Consequently, within hours of Mr Tarau’s arrival, Malcolm had him on the phone and got directions to the house. We hightailed out to the village of Aroroangi to finally see our long-awaited dream home. Oh. My. God. On an island almost painful in its beauty, an island for which scores of nineteenth-century British sailors had run the risk of being flogged to death for desertion, an island whose lure had launched at least a thousand ships, an island that had threatened to undermine the missionaries’ whole theological edifice because of the distinct suspicion they had somehow stumbled into the prelapsarian Eden, on this island Mr Tarau owned the only ugly house.

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