Two Affairs to Remember: Two weeks! Two Affairs! One Sicily!

Chapter 1

I was christened Jane Austin.

Austin with an ‘i’ not an ‘e’.

It wasn’t my Dad’s idea to saddle me with the name of a literary genius. Blame your mother, he remarked good-naturedly. Besides. ‘Austin’ isn’t spelt the same is it?

No, I acknowledged. But it’s pronounced the same. People expect me to be … well … literary. It’s embarrassing. You know literature is not my forte.

My Mum, Patricia, rather endearingly felt that Jane Austen’s Regency England was the social milieu into which she should have been born. Her words, not mine. Mum’s favourite film of all time was Pride and Prejudice - the first one that is - the black and white version starring Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier. But, unlike Mum, I was a complete dunce at English Literature.

I have told Miss Austin many times that she will never write really well unless she practises more. Mrs Beasley, my English Literature mistress parodying Lady Catherine de Bourgh. She was very good.

Mrs Beastly had a penchant for tricky words: ‘maladroit’ for example. Miss Austin, I look forward to that happy day when you realise that being maladroit is all rather tedious. She had a point. Although in my defence, I wasn’t deliberately being maladroit, I genuinely was all fingers and thumbs, some might say clumsy, and for reasons too embarrassing to mention, it wasn’t accidental that my school chums called me ‘Calamity Jane’. That is until my best friend, Madeleine Barker, came up with ‘Texie’ during a brain-storming session in the sixth formers’ tuck shop.

Austin, Texas. Come on. Catch up.

Did I mind? Of course not. I rather enjoyed the cachet of an American nickname.

Then in 1995, just as I was settling into my second year at university getting down and dirty in a local archaeological dig, along comes Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle for six consecutive Sunday nights in the BBC’s dramatisation of Pride and Prejudice. Austen mania swept the nation and Jane’s novel, originally published in 1813, was universally acknowledged as a cultural phenomenon, rousing insatiable global interest, particularly in America, and a surge of curiosity about my real name. Did I mind the ribbing in the university refectory? Not really. I’d long accepted I would never be able to live up to my famous namesake.

KPO was Dad’s motto and I did. Kept plodding on that is. I achieved a Bachelor of Arts degree, majoring in archaeology, of which I was immensely proud. My parents had beamed throughout the congregation ceremony, applauding exuberantly from the front of the packed auditorium.

Dad had chosen the previous day to pickle twelve jars of walnuts. In vain, Mum had scrubbed his hands with bleach to remove the brown pickling vinegar stains from his fingers. Whenever I bleach the loo, I always think of you, darling, walking up on that stage in your academicals. Such a lovely day. Thanks Mum.

Let’s have one of just you and Mum, Dad said, eyeing us up through the lens of his Olympus Trip camera. Mum and I chatted through clenched smiles while Dad fiddled around with the film speed. OK, girls. Nice, natural poses. Say cheese, please, Louise, he said conversationally, snapping away in the manner of all celebratory photographers. That should be enough. Take one of me with Janie will you, Pat?

Hide your hands then, Jack. No! Not in your pockets. That’s better.

It had been a wonderful day. My parents had driven to the Cotswolds; we’d celebrated over dinner in a local hotel before travelling home together the next day to Snowdrop Hill, a charming village just outside Broadwalk, where I’d grown up in one of the much-photographed chocolate box cottages near the village’s Manorial pile.

Naturally I’d taken all this for granted. As children do.

Dad had worked for ‘the Major’ at Snowdrop Hill Manor for many years, working his way up to head gardener of a team that had dwindled from a dozen or so to just four, and was now administered by the family’s legal trust. It was very much along the lines of the UK’s National Trust and English Heritage, but much smaller with less red tape.

Dad’s love of the land had rubbed off on to me. Consequently, he had freely volunteered my services at the Manor during university holidays. I grumbled at the time but I knew Dad was right to suggest that a CV enhancing ‘trust volunteer’ would impress future employers far better than ‘relief village barmaid’.

Mum had shamelessly put him up to it of course. A National Trust house volunteer herself over the years, her creative imagination for storytelling had led to a whole range of roles and a jolly good excuse for dressing up and gossiping in some of the Cotswolds’ most beautiful country houses: My darling Jane, ‘costumed interpreting’ please, Mum insisted.

Although I enjoyed ‘inside’ volunteer work, particularly during the Christmas holidays, I’d much preferred to work outside in the gardens, and whenever possible, put my name forward to assist in local archaeological digs or conservation work. However, now that I’d graduated, I wanted to distance myself from volunteer status and earn some cash. I’d been interviewed for three archaeological and horticultural positions and been reassured that letters informing me of the outcome would arrive in due course. None of the positions were perfect, although one was better than the other two: an opportunity to earn a post graduate diploma in landscape design while actually receiving a small salary, free lunches, and all the tea and coffee I could drink. All were foot-in-the door positions but once in with the National Trust or English Heritage I knew I would be in a great position to apply for other jobs as and when they became available.

I couldn’t afford to be too choosy. There were other graduates out there going for the same positions.

Dad! I don’t want to be a volunteer any more. I’ve got to earn some money! I can’t live off you and Mum. I’m 22! I don’t need any more experience in planting and pruning, and cataloguing seeds. Liz said I can work in the local pub full time until I get a proper job. Besides it’ll be fun. Being a barmaid has CV enhancing skills too you know. It’ll be another string to my bow.

Jack. For heaven’s sake! Stop teasing Janie. Give it to her.

What? Give me what?

Dad smiled and nodded in the direction of the mantelpiece. Mum and me thought it was time you had a little adventure. You’ve worked very hard for the last three years and you deserve it.

There was a bulky brown envelope tucked behind the clock. I walked over to take a closer look. This?

Dad nodded. Go on, love! Open it.

What is it? I said curiously, looking inside the envelope and pulling out the contents. ‘Sicilian Adventure’ leapt off the page. Oh my goodness! My eyes scanned the itinerary below: ‘Arrive Palermo, 4 star hotel in Taormina, 10 days/9 Nights.’ Wow! How did you know this is the one place I wanted to go to in the whole world?

You mentioned it once or twice, Dad smiled, looking around for his pipe.

So often in fact, Janie, that I’ve become rather interested in visiting myself. No! Not with you, sweetheart. Flora and I thought we might get a group together from the WI and plan a visit next year. Although Flora said she prefers the idea of a Mediterranean cruise and when all is said and done, sitting at the Captain’s table does rather appeal. Mum smirked obviously imagining herself and Flora in cocktail gowns seated either side of Captain Gorgeous.

Dad and I exchanged a knowing look that Mum blatantly ignored.

Anyway, sweetheart. As I was saying, Sicily sounds very educational and whenever you mentioned it I jotted down the place names.

"Really?

Yes, really. I’m not a complete bubblehead you know. Ask me anything you like about the Bikini Girls of Villa Romana del Casale?

The mosaics? I said in surprise I wrote a paper on the Roman Villa where they were discovered. It was built during the fourth century near Piazza Armerina.

I know. I read it, Mum said smugly. Very interesting. The Villa contains the richest, largest and most complex collection of Roman mosaics in the world.

Precisely.

Dad looked bemused. "Well done, Pat. Janie, your Mum’s been very enterprising.

Yes, Mum. Well done you, I said looking again at the itinerary.

Mum grinned. Flora and I got together and planned it a couple of months ago. She was pretty sure Maddy wouldn’t mind where she went and I knew you were keen on Sicily, so we went to see Janet who’s working in that new travel agency in the village. ‘Broad Horizons’ it’s called and she got us a big discount through the office computer. She didn’t need to speak to anyone on the phone. Just keyed in the details and pressed the send button and it was all booked. Isn’t that marvellous?

Yes, Mum. But what if I’d failed my exams?

No chance of that. That’s what you told us isn’t it?

Mmm, I said distractedly looking at the itinerary again. The university doesn’t like to fail anyone unless they are complete nobheads. Oh! Sorry, Dad!

Dad thought it very unladylike to use any form of bad language, although he wasn’t averse to using occasional swear word himself, but only under his breath or in male company.

Thinking out loud, I said, "The hotel is in Taormina. So we are on the right side of the island. We should be able to visit the Bikini Girls quite easily. I’m so excited. Oh crikey! We fly out in three days time?"

It’s all arranged, sweetheart, Mum said giving me a hug. Your Dad mentioned it to Liz so that she wouldn’t be put out. I said I could help out in the bar if she got really stuck.

Did you, love? Dad gave Mum an uncertain look. I might not want you pulling pints for those handsome young men in the village.

What young men? Mum exclaimed, I have eyes only for you, Mr Austin, she said coquettishly.

Oh! That’s alright, then. Talking of pints, I might just pop down the road for one. Would you care to accompany me, Mrs Austin?

The phone began to ring. I think that may be for you, sweetheart. Flora said she’d surprise Maddy with the news about now.

Thank you! Thank you! Thank you! It’s just the best present you could have given me! I hugged Mum again and bent down to kiss Dad as he picked up the phone.

Yes, she’s here, love. Hang on, I’ll hand you over, Maddy.

I grabbed the phone. Maddy? Shrieeeeeek! I know. I know. We are going to Sicily! I can’t believe it. Of course! I’ll come over now shall I? Ten minutes? OK! See you soon.

Mum smiled. Let me guess? You want to borrow my car, Go on then!

Thanks, Mum.

Drive carefully, sweetheart.

I will. Thanks Mum. See you later! I said grabbing the keys from the hall table.

Chapter 2

"Buongiorno. Welcome to Sicilia. My name is Raffael Vitali and I am employed by the University of Catania, the oldest university on the island. I was born here in Sicily and work in Taormina on the eastern side of the island. The Study Centre has asked me to introduce you to, what I consider is, the Pearl of the Mediterranean. But first I would like to know what you think it is like to be Sicilian, to live here, on the island. Please tell me your name and then your thought or idea. We will start with this young lady here and work to her left." Raffael nodded to the smiling, dark haired girl sitting in the front row. He doubted there would be little originality from this latest group of high school students from America.

My name is Elizabeth, Sir. When I think of Sicily I think of its cool history. You said your university is the oldest on the island. When did it start up?

Good question, Signorina Elizabeth. It was founded in 1434. Yes, we do have a ‘cool’ history. Thank you. Raffael sighed inwardly and nodded to the gum-chewing student beside her.

"Spaghetti and O Solo Mio and tomato sauce bubbling on the stove and the smell of herbs from the kitchen garden."

Good. Your name is?

Alyssa, Sir. This is Brianna and I know exactly what she’s going to say, Alyssa glanced slyly at her neighbour.

Shush. You don’t too. Brianna’s cheeks flushed and she looked down at her lap.

Signorina Brianna?

Um ... yes Sir. Is it true children take care of their parents and grandparents when they get older by building another level on the roof of their own villa? So the seniors have somewhere to live but can still be independent.

It has been done in the past and no doubt will be done in the future. But it really depends on individual circumstances. Is there anything you would like to add?

Only that it’s a bit cruel making seniors climb stairs every night.

Raffael nodded, ignoring Brianna’s affected giggles, and gestured to the stocky boy sitting to her left.

Kyle, Sir. Being Sicilian is not the same as being Italian, right?

You could argue being Italian is not the same as being Sicilian. We will be touching on this point later. Thank you Kyle. Next.

"My name is Bailey, Sir. My mother is Sicilian and she is always happiest when the whole family is home for birthday celebrations and Thanksgivings and Christmases. She taught me and my brothers that family is first and foremost the most important things in our lives."

Raffael smiled. Your mother is a very wise woman. Please give her my regards. Yes. Prego. Go ahead.

I’m Renée. I’ve been told that Sicilian men are excellent lovers.

Raffael thought for a moment, returning her stare. That would depend upon your definition of excellence, Signorina.

Mm. Actually that's the question Brianna planned to ask, but didn’t dare. There were stifled giggles, silenced by Raffael’s irritated glance. I’ll tell you what else Brianna was going to say. Rumour has it that Sicilian men don’t know how to cook, are all little boys at heart and live with their mothers until they get married because they need to be adored.

Renée! You promised not to say anything, hissed Brianna.

You asked me to promise. I didn’t promise anything.

Raffael thought of his mother at home in the Villa. She would be expecting him to join her for supper this evening. Signorina Renée’s disparaging tone and smug expression provoked him to reply: Arguably, it is the female’s main role in life to look after her husband and family. Raffael pointed to the young man sitting next to Renée, Prego, he said, ignoring the look of annoyance that flashed across Renée’s face.

I think we should all be there for our Moms, Sir. My name is Richard and this is my third trip to Sicily. I want to live here. You’re sure right about it being a pearl in the Med. General Patton once said that Sicily is the most invaded island in all the world. That’s what I love about it. The Greeks. The Romans. The French. Or were they called Normans then? Whatever. It’s an archaeological paradise. The food’s not too bad either. I’m hoping I can stay on for a few days at the end of this vacation week. I’m living with a real neat family.

Raffael mentally applauded the young man’s enthusiasm. A good American trait. Were your ancestors Sicilian, Richard?

I wish!

Raffael smiled. Prego. Who is next.

"Mount Etna and Syracuse. Sorry, Sir. I’m Ashley. You asked what we thought it was like to be Sicilian. I’ve read about the Mafia and I’ve seen The Godfather films and I guess some Sicilian families are in the Mafia. I heard about the drug-dealing, prostitution and other illegal stuff that goes on, and I know cops and judges have been assassinated, some quite recently, so I guess the Mafia still has influence here, right?"

Raffael nodded slowly. Unfortunately, organised crime is a vast underworld structure with different masks covered by shadows and silence and so, most of the time, is unrecognisable. Raffael was not a natural speaker until he spoke from the heart. He glanced at his watch, and smiled. That is a good point to make, Signorina Ashley. Grazie.

A rosy cheeked girl shyly raised her arm. My name is Anna, Signor Raffael. I think if I was Sicilian, I wouldn’t want plans for the bridge linking this island to southern Italy to go ahead.

Once again, Raffael replied from the heart, I think Signorina Anna, it is only Sicily’s construction workers and politicians who would want this bridge to go ahead. Very good. Very good. Yes, young man?

Sir. I guess being Sicilian means being proud of your country. Heck, you’ve got everything here. A unique culture, olive groves, wineries, beautiful scenery and architecture and … and … just everything is totally awesome.

Thank you. Wineries are called vineyards in Sicily, and in the rest of Europe of course. Your name is?

James. But my friends call me Jimmy. This here is my buddy, Tyler.

Tyler raised a friendly hand. I sure agree with everything, Jimmy here said, Sir. Awesome. Totally awesome. I guess being Sicilian means you use your hands a lot. To express yourself when you speak. Everyone we’ve met so far speaks with their hands flapping around all over the place.

Raffael raised his eyebrows and gestured with upturned hands and a shrug of his shoulders. Si! I guess so!

***

Driving the ancient red Alfa Romeo Spider along Via Nazionale, Raffael felt sporadic raindrops hit the back of his hands. The weather matched his mood. He felt weighed down by recent events and longed for a cigarette.

Raffael reflected that as an academic, clearly he was not at the top of his game. He rarely enjoyed teaching assignments. Research and writing was his thing but recently he’d been sidelined to an administrative desk job that bored him to death in a university department run by an imbecille. Raffael’s principle fault was that he was honest when, politically, it was wiser not to be. Consequently, he had few close colleagues or friends and chose to think he preferred it that way.

Disconsolately, Raffael braked sharply and drove the Alfa into a lay-by often used by tourists to photograph Isola Bella, a small island located in the picturesque bay near Taormina. With one hand on the large steering wheel, he leant across to open the passenger glove box and rummaged around for the pack of Marlboro Siciliano. The worn black leather seat creaked as Raffael got out of the car and stood looking at the panoramic view before him. His marriage was in tatters and now it looked as if his career was going the same way. He needed to be … what? Writing? In the field? Archaeology had been his obsession for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t seem to have any enthusiasm for that right now. Rolling the MS between his thumb and forefinger, Raffael gazed at the hazy moon reflected in the calm Ionian Sea.

He suddenly thought of Maria. They had often driven along this road and occasionally stopped here to take in the view. It was here that Maria had shared her plans with him. She was moving Italy. He had been excited for her. Friends since childhood, their relationship had remained platonic throughout their teens and into their early twenties. She lived in Florence now. They had lost touch many months ago. Maria’s lively chatter would have dispelled his melancholy.

Raffael gave into temptation and lit the cigarette, inhaling the smoke into his lungs, savouring the effects of the nicotine entering his bloodstream. He watched a lone fishing boat in the distance noting the V-shaped ripple form and spread as it headed for deeper waters.

One of the American students had reminded Raffael of Maria - the one who had spoken about her mother being happiest when in the company of her family. They had been a pleasant enough group and he hoped he hadn’t seemed too stand-offish. They would be gone in ten days’ time and a new group in their place, so it didn’t really matter. Had they enjoyed his lecture? He said the same thing every week; described the sightseeing opportunities in Palermo, the archaeological delights at Segesta, the medieval town of Erice, and Agrigento’s Valley of the Temples.

Raffael smiled suddenly, remembering how the group had perked up when he had suggested they should sample some of finest Marsala wines in the vineyards. He knew they were under 21. How bizarre of America to have such stringent drinking rules. He had lost a couple of the girls’ attention when talking about Syracuse and the mosaics at Villa Romana del Casale. Perhaps they were not interested in ancient architecture. Those two would enjoy Taormina. Far more glamorous. He’d rounded everything up with a couple of minutes on the volcanic activity of Mount Etna before inviting them to follow him back to the lobby and the meeting point for the evening trip to the local ristorante specializing in Sicilian cuisine.

Raffael made his usual excuses of a prior engagement but had been flattered nonetheless when the students had given him a hearty round of applause and appeared disappointed that he was not accompanying them.

Raffael knew he’d been chosen for this erroneous task - as he saw it - not because of his academic prowess but because he looked quintessentially Sicilian. Typical southern European olive skin and black wavy hair resembled his Greco-Romano ancestry and a hint of Norman/French ancestry was given away by Raffael’s light blue eyes. It was a compelling combination and although Raffael was aware that his looks attracted attention, he didn’t dwell on it.

The last thing he wanted now was another relationship.

Raffael got back into the car. The raindrops were getting heavier. Merda! It was no good putting the hood up. It leaked like a sieve. If the rain got any heavier within the next few minutes he wouldn’t make it back to the Villa without getting soaked. If necessary he’d take cover at the stazione di servizio or stop at the hotel.

It didn’t occur to him to get rid of the Alfa Romeo.

Chapter 3

"So what does ‘puttana’ mean?

Maddy flicked through the little Essential Book of Foreign Swear Words. It says ‘Bitch, floozy, slag, tart, whore’. ‘Figlio di puttana’ means ‘offensive whoreson’ or ‘son of a bitch’. Are we on the right coach do you think, Texie? Maddy was peering out of the window. We both lurched forward as the driver braked sharply, opened his window and gesticulated at whatever had caused him to break sharply in the first place. There were only three of us left on the coach and we had been driving east from Aeroporto di Palermo for what seemed like hours since mid-afternoon.

Look at it this way; at least we don’t have to do the island tour now, Maddy.

Mmm. We must have seen every hotel north of Sicily. Look! Mount Etna is getting really close now.

I leaned across excitedly to get a better view. Look at the snow on the top. It looks beautiful. We must be getting close. The brochure said you should see the volcano really well from the hotel. So, Maddy. What’s Sicilian for ‘cock’ or ‘dick’?

"Er ... hang on ... ‘cazzo’ or ‘minchia’, but there’s also ‘testa di cazzo’ and that’s a more colourful way of saying it and can mean ‘head of dick’."

Dickhead, we giggled simultaneously.

There was a snort of laughter from the only other passenger a few seats ahead of us.

I thought he was asleep, I whispered, peering into the aisle. Two feet were draped horizontally over the armrest.

So did I. Thank goodness we hadn’t got to ‘vaffanculo’. That’s a red hot one, Maddy whispered back.

Really? Let me see, I grinned. Oh! See what you mean. I recognise this one already, I said referring to the opposite page where a raised middle finger gesture had been helpfully sketched alongside the explanation. Where did you get that book?

"Student bookshop of course. I got it for 25p because someone had drawn a large cazzo over the ‘foreplay favourites’ section."

Impolite!

Very discourteous. Look! There’s another sign for Taormina. At last.

Good. My bottom is completely numb. These seats aren’t very comfortable are they? Is there any water left, Maddy?

Mmm. Bag on the seat in front.

At that moment, the driver switched the sound system down and announced in heavily accented English that we would be arriving at Hotel Vitali very soon. Godfatheresque music resumed from the tinny sound system. Maddy and I grinned at each other in excitement and began to gather up our stuff.

We’d turned off the autostrada a few miles back and were now travelling slowly along the coast road. We both stared out of the window, our senses captivated by unfamiliar sights and sounds: tall palm trees, terracotta pots overflowing with lush, exotic shrubs, municipal water fountains, hotels lit up against the sky, elegant apartments with balconies smothered in vibrant blowsy blooms, foreign number plates, churches, beautiful old buildings and now, as the sun began to dip, a necklace of twinkling lights around the coastline.

A blend of aromas too. Diesel mainly but I think this was from our coach.

We lurched to the right as the driver negotiated the long vehicle around a tight corner crunching his way through the gearbox to an accompaniment of squealing brakes.

This is us! This is us! I just saw a sign with an arrow pointing to Hotel Vitali!

Where? I can’t see it. Does it look OK?

"OK? It’s more than OK, Maddy. Look at that entrance. Goodness, I wish I felt a bit more presentable. Do we look like a couple of puttanas do you think?"

"Better than looking like a couple of testa di cazzos."

"Or minchias. Please, please, please let us have a room with a balcony overlooking the sea or the swimming pool."

Or both. And twin beds not a double. And two bathrooms.

And a bottle of fizz in the room.

Every night. With canapés.

We giggled as the sound system crackled into life again and the driver indicated that we had arrived. He got out of his seat and limped down the three steps to the exit door, leaving the engine idling. Fumes belched out of the exhaust, making my eyes sting.

Maddy and I were already halfway down the aisle carrying our bags and jackets, shirt sleeves rolled up, top buttons undone. It had been wet and cold when we left Birmingham Airport. Now it was hot and sultry and fabulously foreign.

Looks like we just missed a shower, Maddy said. Look at the puddles in the drive.

Could be sprinklers for the landscaping, I suggested. Oh! Look at the waterfall. Left of the entrance. Over there! There’s a little blue grotto. I was peering through the windows. There were seats inside the grotto behind the waterfall. It was just too pretty.

The other remaining passenger, quite boyish looking with short brown curly hair and a five o’clock shadow, was now sitting up and stretching. Half smothering a yawn, he declared, Are we here already? How absolutely marvellous. Thank you for not killing us en route, Franco.

Franco acknowledged this comment with a semi-friendly gesture and stepped off the coach. Bending down to lift the side door open, Franco unhooked a pole to reach our suitcases. Unsure of whether to tip or not, we didn’t. Franco shrugged his shoulders and busied himself with a brush and dustpan.

Maddy and I extended the suitcase handles, draped our jackets over the top and, wheeling the cases behind us, headed for the glitzy reception, trying to look confident and sophisticated but not in a puttanarish way. Obviously.

Do you think they’ll speak English? I asked Maddy.

Course they will. Everyone but the English speaks at least one other language.

There was a gratifying buzz of foreign conversation as we walked through the revolving doors into the marble foyer opposite a large restaurant and bar. A pianist performing a discrete jazz medley in the lobby complemented the early evening dining banter perfectly.

We were checked in by Ronaldo, who said in immaculate English that he was delighted to welcome us to Hotel Vitali, and could we complete the necessary registration forms and hand over our passports which would be returned to us tomorrow. He explained the hotel layout and said someone would be over momentarily to help us with our luggage.

No need, I said panicking slightly, remembering we only had large denomination lire notes and I couldn’t remember how much they were worth. It’s not that the English are mean. It’s just that we are not a tipping nation. So when we are abroad we feel embarrassed because we don’t know the drill. That’s my excuse anyway. Besides I was absolutely gasping for a drink. I could see Maddy eyeing up the bar.

Shall we order a couple of large ones and take them up to our room, Maddy?

Absolutely! Start the holiday off with a bang, so to speak.

Titter ye not, I grinned. Registration accomplished, we headed across the foyer towards the bar.

Bar or a table? I think we may have to wait to be seated. Can’t see a table anywhere but there’s space at the bar.

Prefer the bar. You go first.

I followed Maddy and we snuck into the gap between a corpulent German obviously wearing his very best disco shirt and a cocktail quaffing couple consulting a menu. Pulling the suitcases against the bar, we hoisted ourselves inelegantly on to impossibly tall chairs, and wriggled into a more comfortable position.

A team of uniformed staff whizzed back and forth behind the bar, shaking cocktails, juggling bottles and generally showing off. One of them elaborately set out paper coasters before