The next morning, I woke up wincing from the ear-scratching voice of someone in the room.
"Ugh-what," I said, squinting my eyes at the figure beside my bed.
Who the heck would it be this early of a morning.
"Miss, my name is Bianca. Madame asked for you to come downstairs for breakfast before your appointment."
I left the bed grudgingly and head toward the bathroom. "Appointment? what appointment."
"I don't know miss," Bianca called out.
"Fine, I'll be right out.
I showered as fast as possible but took my time to search for something pleasing to wear.
Would want to look a fool, would we?
I turned to ask Bianca for her opinion to discover she had made herself invisible as soon as she had delivered her message.
I guess I can manage on my own.
The dining room as fabulous as every part of the house, the long rectangular dining table was made of opaque glass, the long-legged chair made of mahogany wood contrast to the table giving the room a glamorous yet homely feel, the chandelier in the middle of the room wouldn't skip your notice, everything around the room looked so grand.
How could I not be aware of this last night?
"Sit down, breakfast is on its way."
Of course, good morning, I said, bending halfway by the waist to kiss her cheeks.
Good morning love, slept well?
"Like a grizzly bear," I replied.
"Aunt Basile, I wanted to ask you why you eat still African food?" I glanced at her when I settled in a chair.
"The fact that I'm live America, doesn't change my taste, even the Jorgias eat African dishes and they are Americans," Basile replied.
"Cool" I stated, I was becoming more curious of these neighbors she was always praising.
And I think she's doing it on purpose.
Grabbing the last piece of my pancake, the smell of syrup, teased my nose.
I shouldn't eat another bite, but I can't help myself.
The cook must have added something to the pancake. A pancake can't be this yummy.
"Are you done? we have an appointment with the spa center, wax, stylist, and the boutique. Also, I got a language tutor for you, she teaches Spanish and Greek."
"Uh, I get Spanish, but what do I need Greek for?" I asked.
"Don't worry about it. Up-up now we got to go."
"Okay", I said, following her out not before taking one last lick of the syrup on my plate. -----------------------------------------------------
San Diego is California's second-largest town, its famous for its beaches, tourist resort, airport, plenty of shopping plazas with luxury hotels.
"Come on, child." Basile tugged my arm impatiently. "we should finish on time we are seeing the Jorgias right after this."
Why wasn't I given this information? I asked, folding my arms on my chest as I try staring down at her.
It didn't work.
It was sudden, She said, walking briskly, not even slowing for a second.
"Ok, first stop; spa and wax," I said, catching up to her.
We walked into the building in front of them, the wall sign read, "Colette's spa." As we approached, the receptionist directed them to their spa-wax room.
We were accosted to a dimly lit room with light lamps hanging at the ceiling, the room smelled fresh and nice, enticing me to relax, the tension in my shoulder easing at the first whiff of scented herbs.
We were ushered into tiny rooms and asked to take off our clothes, then lay down on bamboo beds for the treatment session.
It was truly satisfying, to get this pampered session now and then. I sighed, thoughtfully.
"This feels like heaven," Aunt Basile smiled.
You know it has been a while since I had a spa.
"Why don't you?" I asked.
"Too busy with Work." Aunt Basile replied.
"I understand you are busy working, I'm sorry for taking up your time with me being here," I said, realizing that my being in San Diego might be imposing on her. And bless her kind heart, she wouldn't complain.
She narrowed her eyes at me. "Don't ever say something like that ever again!"
"You are can never impose for you are a daughter to me, whatever I do for you is my business. So don't diminish your importance to me."
Her voice softened. "Whatever happened isn't your fault ok? do not blame yourself, understood?"
"Yes ma," I stated, chuckling over her use of the authoritative parent's tone.
And Aunt Basile is nothing close to authoritative.