One Italian Summer, page 3
I hand my bag over to the chauffeur named Renaldo—the hotel was nice enough to send someone to collect me from the train station—and climb in the back of the sedan. The car is a Mercedes, as plenty of run-of-the-mill taxis are in Europe, but it still feels indulgent. A Honda Civic dropped me off at LAX.
“Buongiorno, Katy,” Renaldo says. He’s a stout man, no more than fifty, with a contained smile and what I imagine is a patient temperament. “Welcome to Naples.”
The drive out of Naples is picturesque—apartment buildings with women hanging clothes on the line, small terra-cotta houses, the wild tangle of greenery—but when we get to the coast, the real delight begins to set in. The Amalfi Coast is not so much splayed out before us as beckoning us closer. Hints of clear blue sea, houses built into the hillside.
“It’s absolutely beautiful,” I say.
“Wait,” Renaldo tells me. “You wait.”
When we finally come into Positano, I see what he means. From high up on the winding road, you can see the entirety of the town. Colorful hotels and houses sit chiseled into the rocks as if they were painted there. The entire town is built around the cove of the sea. It looks like an amphitheater, enjoying the performance of the ocean. Blue, sparkling, spectacular water.
“Bellissima, no?” Renaldo says. “Good for photo.”
I grip the side of the car and roll down the window.
The air is hot and thick, and as we wind down—closer and closer to town—I begin to hear the sounds of cicadas. They sing out, the delights of summer in full swing.
We picked June for the trip because it was still a little ahead of tourist season. Once July hits, it’s a madhouse, my mother said. Best to go in June when things were a little less touristy, a little less crowded. She wanted to be able to stroll the streets without being jostled by influencers.
I was sent lists of dinner reservations to make and places to visit from friends. Boats to rent for day trips to Capri, beach clubs along the ocean requiring water taxi service. Restaurants high up in the hills with no menus and endless courses of farm-fresh food. I sent them all to my mother, and she planned the entire thing. In my hands is our itinerary, marked down to the minute. I tuck it into my bag.
As we descend I’m met with the stirrings of small-town summer life. Older women stand on stoops, chatting. There are men and women on Vespas, the sounds of late-afternoon activity. A smattering of tourists along the tiny sidewalk have their phones out, snapping pictures. It’s summer in Italy, and even though it’s nearing five o’clock, it is still bright and sunny. The sun is high in the sky, and the Tyrrhenian Sea sparkles. White boats sit out on the water in rows, like flower beds. It is beauty beyond measure—the sun seeming to touch everything at once. I exhale and exhale and exhale.
“Ah, here we are,” Renaldo says.
We pull up to the Hotel Poseidon, which is, like the rest of the town, nestled into the hillside. The entrance is all white, with a green carpeted staircase. Brightly colored flowers sit in potted plants by the entrance.
I open the car door and am immediately greeted by the heat—but it feels welcoming. Warm in its embrace, not at all oppressive.
Renaldo takes my suitcases out of the trunk and climbs the steps with them. I take out the money I exchanged at the airport—one of Carol’s rules was to never exchange money at the airport, she said the exchange rate was terrible, but I was desperate—and hand him some crisp bills.
“Grazie,” I say.
“Enjoy our Positano,” he tells me. “It is a very special place.”
I climb the steps to the entrance and then am greeted by a blast of cool air from the open lobby. To the left, a spiral staircase leads up to a second level. The welcome desk is to the right. And behind it is a woman who appears to be in her fifties. She has long, dark hair that swings down her back. Next to her is a young man who speaks in clear, enunciated Italian.
“Ovviamente abbiamo un ristorante! È il migliore!”
I wave at the woman, and she smiles a warm and welcoming smile back.
“Buonasera, signora. How can I help you?”
She’s beautiful, this woman.
“Hello. Checking in. It’s under Silver.”
Something knocks on my sternum, cold and hard.
“Yes.” The woman’s face softens into compassion. There is a tenderness behind her eyes. “It’s just you with us this week, sì?”
I nod. “Just me.”
“Welcome,” she says, placing her hand on her heart. Her face radiates a smile. “Positano is a wonderful place to be alone, and Hotel Poseidon is a wonderful place to make friends.”
She gives me the keys to room 33. I climb the stairs to the landing level, then take the small elevator to the third floor. I have to close the doors before the machine will move. It takes nearly five minutes to go up the two flights, and I commit to taking the stairs for the duration of my time here. That was another one of Carol Silver’s rules—never take the elevator if you can take the stairs, and you’ll never have to work out a day in your life. When I was living in New York, this was definitely true, but it doesn’t quite work as well in Los Angeles.
My room is at the end of the hall. There is a small lending library just outside, stocked with books. I use the key and turn the doorknob.
Inside, the room is sparse and filled with light. There are two twin beds, made up with white sheets and small quilts, that sit across from two matching dressers. On one side of the room is a closet, and on the other is a set of French doors that are flung open, welcoming in the afternoon sun. I walk to them and then step out onto the terrace.
While the room is small, the terrace is nearly sprawling. It looks out over the entire town. The panoramic views span from the hillside down through the hotels and homes and shops to the sea. Right underneath me to the left is the swimming pool. A couple is in the water, hanging off the side, glasses of wine on the ledge. I hear the splashing, the clink of glassware, and laughter.
I am here, I think. It is really Italy below me. I am not watching a movie in my parents’ den or on the couch at Culver. This is not a soundtrack or a photograph. It is real life. Most places in the world I have never touched, never met. But I am here now. It is something. It is a start.
I inhale the fresh air, this place that seems to be dripping in summer. There is so much beauty here; she was right.
I go back inside. I shower. I unpack everything right away, my mother’s daughter, and then I wander out onto the terrace again. I sit down on a lounger and tuck my feet underneath me. All around me Italy swells. I feel the air thick with heat and food and memory.
“I made it,” I say, but only I can hear.
Chapter Four
The city bells chime seven. It is evening in Positano. I remember my mother talking about the Church of Santa Maria Assunta, and the ringing bells that alert the town of the hour. They sound far-off, distant, dreamy, a far cry from the “Beacon” alarm setting on my iPhone.
I go to the closet and find the dresses I brought. I choose a short white ruffled dress and slip into a pair of gold flip-flops. My hair is dry from the shower and hangs in frizzy ringlets down my back. In my normal life, I blow it dry and begin the long process of straightening it, but in the past few weeks I’ve done little more than wash it twice a week. For a long time, it hung limp, unsure what to do without direction. But now the curl is starting to come back, reawakening to its original form.
I rub some tinted moisturizer into my skin, swipe blush across my cheeks. I apply lip gloss, grab my room key, and head downstairs.
I arrive on the second level, like the woman at reception instructed, and am met with the pool and a terraced restaurant. My mother told me about the terrace. The way it hangs over the whole town, like it’s suspended.
Couples sit in white chairs covered with red upholstery overlooking the scenery, and waiters in white collared shirts carry trays of bright Aperol spritzes and small ceramic dishes filled with snacks—plump green olives, hand-baked potato chips, salty cashews.
A young man approaches me. He wears black pants and a white shirt with Il Tridente, the hotel restaurant’s name, stitched in red lettering.
“Buonasera, signora,” he says. “Can I help you?”
I realize I left my itinerary upstairs. I have no idea if we had reservations for tonight here, or somewhere else, even, but I haven’t eaten since a panini at the train station, maybe seven hours ago.
“Is it possible to have dinner here?” I ask.
He smiles. “Of course,” he says. “Anything is possible. We are at your service.”
“Grazie,” I say. It sounds harsh and so American. “Thank you.”
He gestures for me to follow him out onto the terrace. “Right this way.”
Half of the terrace is the pool and lounge chairs, with a row of small tables for drinks and food, but to the right is a covered area, dripping in vines and flowers, with lanterns strung overhead like lights. There are white metal tables covered with white-and-red-checkered cloth, and waiters in slim ties weave in and out of the glass doors.
“For you,” he says. “The best table we have to offer.”
He leads me over to a two-top on the edge of the terrace, right up against the wrought iron fence. The view is breathtaking. A front-row seat to a sun that seems as if it will never set. All around the light is golden and liquid and heavy, like it’s just beginning on its second glass of wine.
“This is beautiful,” I say. “I’ve never seen a place like this before.” Every corner is just begging to be photographed. I think about the camera I have tucked away upstairs. Tomorrow.
He smiles. “I am so glad you are happy, Ms. Silver. We are here to help.”
He leaves, and another young waiter appears with a menu, a bottle of still water, and a basket of bread.
I unfold the white napkin and pull out a slice, still warm from the oven. I spill some olive oil into an oval plate, hand-painted with blue fish, and dip. The bread is delicious, the olive oil tangy. I eat two more slices immediately.
“Something to eat and drink?”
The waiter is back, hands tucked by his sides.
“What do you recommend?” I ask. I haven’t even opened the menu.
At home we don’t cook; we mostly order in or go to my parents’ house. Eric likes Italian food, but the vaguest remnants satisfy him. We get pizza from Pecorino, or even sometimes Fresh Brothers. Chinese takeout from Wokshop, salads from CPK. Once a week, I pick up a roast chicken from the market—Bristol Farms or Whole Foods—and some bags of broccoli and carrots. I have always felt a little bad for Eric that I did not inherit my mother’s skill in the kitchen, but he always says he’s just as happy with a sandwich as he’d be with a steak.
It strikes me that I’m not sure I’ve ever been out to eat alone. I cannot recall sitting down at a table, opening up a napkin, being poured a glass of wine, and picking up a fork without some level of conversation.
He smiles. “Tomato salad and the homemade ravioli. Simple. Perfect. You want wine, too, no?”
“Yes.” Definitely, yes.
“Excellent, signora. You will be very happy.”
He leaves, taking the menu with him, and I sit back into my chair. I think about my mother here, all those many years ago. Looking out over this same view. Young and carefree, with no idea what the future held for her or how things would turn out. I find myself wishing that I had a blank slate. That I hadn’t already entangled myself so deeply—marriage, a house, a life that is not movable, at least not without destruction.
“Ms. Silver.”
I hear a voice behind me. It’s the woman from the front desk. She stands, her hands held in front of her. She’s wearing a crisp white button-down and a pair of jeans.
“Hi, good evening,” I say.
“Yes, good evening. You look well. Positano is already good for you.”
I look down at my dress. “Oh, thank you.”
“Are you settling in?”
I nod. “Yes, it’s gorgeous here, thank you.”
She smiles. “Good. My name is Monica. I realize we did not get to properly meet downstairs. This is my hotel. Anything you need, you ask us, okay? We are your family here.”
“Okay,” I say. “I really appreciate it.”
“You have a boat ride for tomorrow. To Da Adolfo beach club, and a reservation for lunch. It is early in the season, so it will not be a problem if you want to schedule it for a different time. Perhaps you can rest here and explore the town a bit tomorrow.”
She smiles that warm, open smile. I look out over the remaining pool loungers.
“That would be great,” I say. “Thank you. That sounds better.”
“Perfetto,” she says. “Tony told me you are having the ricotta ravioli tonight. Excellent choice. I always put a little lemon in to brighten it up. I hope you enjoy.”
I laugh. It surprises me, it has been that long. “He chose for me.”
“One should always let waiters choose food, and builders choose wood,” she says. “Something my father used to say.”
She begins to back away, and I stop her. “Monica,” I say. “Thank you.”
She smiles. “You are most welcome.” She surveys the terrace. “It’s a beautiful night.” She turns her attention back to me. “Tomorrow I’m going to Roma on business for a few days, but anything you need, my staff will take care of. We hope you enjoy your stay, Ms. Silver. We are so very glad you have come to us here.”
She leaves.
Come to us here.
When my mother tells the story of when I was born, she says it was a freezing cold winter night. They were, at the time, living in an apartment in Silver Lake, not far from Sunset Boulevard. The apartment was more like a tree house, according to my mother. It had a steep flight of stairs and an oak tree that ran straight through the living room.
It had been her place, which my father had moved into right after they got married. I couldn’t imagine my mother on the other side of the 405, let alone in Silver Lake—an artsy, bohemian community even now, today. She’s a Westsider through and through—classic. But they brought me home from the hospital to that place, wrapped in a white wool blanket. My mom said that it was the only time in Los Angeles she’d ever seen it snow.
She’d labored for twenty-six hours at Cedars-Sinai hospital before I arrived. “All hair,” she told me.
“You looked like a baby ape,” my father would add.
“That’s how we knew you were ours,” my mother said.
Come to us here.
I no longer belong to my mother. I do not belong to my father, who no longer belongs to himself—shuffling around the house that was theirs, piecing together the schedule—on what days does Susanna come and clean? I do not belong to my husband, whom I’ve told I may no longer want to be my husband at all. I do not know where home is anymore. I do not know how to find my center without her, because that’s what she was. I was Carol Silver’s daughter. Now I am simply a stranger.
The tomatoes come out. Tony sets them down proudly.
“Buon appetito,” he says. “Enjoy.”
I pick up my fork, spear a tomato, and taste the most heavenly, sweetest, ripest, saltiest thing I’ve ever encountered. I swallow them, glorious and geranium red, along with my grief.
I devour the plate, along with another basket of bread. Then the ravioli arrives—creamy and light, ricotta clouds. Delicious. I add the lemon, as instructed.
It feels like I haven’t eaten in months—perhaps I haven’t. The microwavable meals, untouched, thrown away still encased in plastic. The bags of stale chips, the mealy apples. Those were food, maybe, but not sustenance. The life force in this meal, in every bite, is like another ingredient. I can feel it nourishing me.
The bells chime once more, indicating a new hour has passed. As if on cue, the yellows and oranges of the sky begin to give way to lavenders and pinks and baby blues. The light moves from drunken, heady, and golden to delicate, fleeting. The ships on the shore bob along, a chorus to the sinking sun. It’s magnificent. I wish she could see it. She should have seen it.
A few tables over, a couple asks Tony to take their photo. They both lean across the table, framed by the overhead vines. I think about Eric, thousands of miles away.
If he were here, he’d go right up to their table. He’d offer to take a few more shots, if they wanted that. Then he’d inquire as to where they were from. In ten minutes’ time, he’d be asking them to join us, and then we’d be spending the rest of this holiday on a double date. Eric talks to everyone—the checkout clerk at Ralphs, the lady in line in front of him at the movie theater, the vendors at the farmers market. He knows the detailed family tree of our postman, George, and most people who come within a ten-foot radius of him on a Tuesday. It drives me nuts, because it means we’re never alone. Also, I hate small talk. I’m not good at it. Eric is a professional. I like to disappear in my day, be anonymous. Eric would wear a T-shirt that had FREE TO HEAR ABOUT YOUR EAR DOCTOR APPOINTMENT FOR THE NEXT FOUR AND A HALF HOURS in bold lettering.
I told Eric I’d never go on a cruise with him because by the second day there would be nowhere to hide. I’ve often wondered why he can’t just keep to himself. Why he’s always insisting on interjecting into everyone’s day, making himself known, taking up space with inane conversation.
The couple thanks Tony and goes back to their meal. I realize suddenly that if I stay down here any longer, I will run the risk of falling asleep at the table.
I go upstairs, pulled by the food and wine and night air. I take my cell phone out onto the balcony and call Eric. The phone rings three times, and then his familiar voicemail picks up: Hi, it’s Eric. Leave me a message, shoot me a text, and I’ll get right back to you. Thanks, bye.
“I made it,” I tell him. “I’m here.”
My voice hovers as I wonder if there is more to say, if I should try and describe this place, if I should give him some guidance, some direction, something to plant in my absence. But I do not know what that would be. I hang up before the exhale.
