Where Butterflies Land On Your Arm

9:30 a.m. April 6th, 2012

I have already been scoped by a local. Nicola, who has lived here for his whole life--tutti giorni-- spotted me on the Spiaggia Grande as I searched for a ferry to Amalfi. After asking some people if a ferry would be leaving today and being told, "No, non ci sono oggi,"I began hunting for an easy way to get back up to the main road. There were only 350+ steps on a narrow and very vertical stairway, so easy in this case = less of a StairMaster experience.

The sun was strong, the clear Mediterranean water sparkling and placid. I lean in to photograph some bougainvillea on a stone wall. Before I know it I am swept into a conversation with Nicola, who takes me under his wing and quickly plies me with questions about my plan for the day. I tell him about my intention to go to Amalfi, and he whips out his cell phone, punching buttons vigorously. A rapid-fire Italian conversation occurs. 

 

"Kat-leen, mio amico, he works at the dock. He says there is un traghetto to Amalfi that leaves at 10:30. "Abbiamo un'ora per avere un caffè." And with that, I am off to have a coffee with a local. 

 

We walk to the nearest bar, which is next to Chez Black right on the beach front. Nicola orders me a cappuccino, and himself an espresso. This is one of the many reasons I love this country. When I would have resigned myself to a nausea-inducing bus ride to Amalfi, a local steps in and finds a way to not only save my day, but to take an hour out of his to enjoy a coffee with an American. Nicola asks what my plans are, and quickly begins adjusting my itinerary. 

 

"Ravello. It is much more beautiful--there are villas with gardens on the cliffs. And it will be warmer." As Nicola stands to get back to work, he slyly asks for my number, telling me he can't remember the name of a restaurant in Ravello that is a must. This smoothly turns into a dinner invitation and Vespa ride later tonight. 

 

I am practically dancing as I board the ferry. To truly appreciate the engineering, persistence, and fortitude of the people of this region, the ferry is the only way travel. The views of the villages from the sea are worth every cent of €7. 

Positano.

I arrive to Amalfi and buy my bus ticket to Ravello. Another twisty, turny, guardrails-far-too-low 45 minute drive up the cliffside and I am where I need to be. It is absolutely perfect. Looking down over the edge of the ridge, I can see private gardens, vineyards, and then the sea, its turquoise framing the pea green new growth of the vines. I walk through the tunnel toward the Piazza Duomo and the side streets that will take me to the Villa Cimbrone. 

Villa Cimbrone

The Villa Cimbrone is a hotel and tourist stop. The villas roots date back to the 11th century, but little of the original structures remain. The current villa was constructed in the early 1900s, but its gardens and position high above the world is what makes it so special. Orange and lemon groves dot the land below the villa. The scent is intoxicating--flowering bougainvillea, warming terra cotta tiles, citrus and the sea. I am in heaven. 

The majority of tourists are Italian; turns out Easter weekend is a favorite for Italians looking to go on holiday. Instead of locking themselves away in the historic churches and cathedrals across the country to practice Catholicism, young Italian families are here near the boot heel soaking up the beginning of spring and enjoying a weekend away from home. 

On my own, I ask couples and families, "Vuole una foto insieme?" and am granted a photo op of my own after taking pictures of the smiling, fashionable families. I am sitting at a table on the grassy patio overlooking the sea, enjoying my first of many gelati. I have my little black book out, scribbling anecdotes about the magic of the day with one hand as the other maneuvers the small gelato spoon from the frutti di bosco to my mouth. A flutter catches my attention near the peripheral of my vision. A white butterfly, small with rounded wings dances in the faint breeze near me. And then it lands softly on my writing hand. I hold perfectly still, caught up in the magic. The butterfly doesn't linger, and I am once again on my own, but completely in the moment. 

 

A few minutes later an Italian gentleman sits at the table next to mine. He smiles at me, and I say ciao. He comments on the weather in Italian, and I manage to respond, thanking my good judgement in resuming Italian lessons. The signore asks if I am German, which has been a popular guess today. I reveal that I am in fact an American.

"You are not very americana, in the way I have seen. Your Italian is good, and your smile," he says to me. He smiles. "E' bene." And with that, he stands to leave. He pats my shoulder and I return to my gelato, pleasantly overwhelmed and entirely satisfied.

Bougainvillea.

The First Supper

Positano is stunning. After enduring the absurdity that is Napoli (head-on collision near-misses, inappropriate scratching in public, locals cutting the lines, overloaded buses, etc. etc. etc.); hopping on the wrong train; a nausea-inducing, cliff hugging bus ride; and then a hike down 75 very uneven stairs; I have made it. And it only took 18 hours. Ha. ** (Note to Self: Fly into Rome or Venice next time, where one doesn't have five more hours to travel after getting off the plane.)


Even with the over-the-river-through-the-woods travel day, I am completely hyped up. My joy of all things Italian took over the second I landed, and with my luggage safely stowed in my room at Casa Teresa, I venture out for some sightseeing of Positano. And for the first time in Italy, I head out without my Rick Steves guide book. I want to look at this new place for the first time with my own eyes, with no suggestions or tips to cloud the magic of exploration.  


Because of my experience with Cinque Terre, I am not daunted by the stairs that lead to stairs, that lead to another staircase to stairs. I follow the arrows painted on the sidewalk that say "Spiaggia"--beach. The first thing I notice is the lack of turists. I run into a family from Germany, and a student from China, by and large I am on my own. It is glorious. The last time I was in Italy it was summer and everyone and their cousin had seemed to descend on the nation, clogging the sidewalks with their luggage, polluting the air with their non-Italian language, and gobbling gelato all at the same time. 




The second thing I notice is one of my favorite parts about Italy. Charming dilapidation. For some reason, peeling paint here takes on an endearing, photogenic quality that few areas in the U.S.A. can pull off; it just looks like neglect back in the states, but here the chipping blue flakes whisper of history, a witness to the passing of time in a country that cradled the childhood of modern civilization.



This is blissful. It is me with my camera, exchanging a few words with locals as they come home from the grocery with the makings for dinner. My eyes adjust to seeing again--it is like I had forgotten how to look while I was gone. The place settings at Ristorante Il Forno glitter, the red Vespa parked next to yellow and violet flowers is a feast of color contrasts. The wisteria vines, laden with grape-shaped clusters of blossoms sway gently in the breeze, framing the entrance to an ocean-view hotel. My eyes prick with tears from the sheer beauty of it all. All I can think is I am home. I haven't felt this perfect balance of pure excitement and unadulterated peace since I left nearly two years ago. 


Italy. Land of my life. Life in the sun. Perfectly flawed, somewhat backward in its customs, yet steadily (if slowly) embracing the changes of the 21st century. This is the country that holds my heart. 


My dinner is a lucky find, considering I am lost in my emotional reconnection with my home. I ask a local couple for a place where I can buy something simplice, and they direct me to a latteria. Buying a panino with mozzarella from a store dedicated to all things milk is an easy choice. I add fresh pesto and some prosciutto and squish all the tasty between to thick slices of rosemary ciabatta bread and head home a happy woman. 


The night is so beautiful that I go outside to the the main dining patio to enjoy my simple dinner. As I settle in, Teresa, the owner of the hotel, insists I have a real al fresco dining experience. Armed with acqua frizzante, a bottle of her house wine, and a place setting, she bustles around me and executes the quickest dinner set-up I have ever witnessed. She even adds a cushion to my chair. 

She tells me to take my time and enjoy the view, then leaves me in peace. I sit, looking at the lights of the houses and restaurants clinging to the cliffs around me. I sip the red wine, reveling in its not-quite-full-bodied flavor. Soon, Teresa's Shih-Tzu is yipping at me, irritated by my invasion of her domain. She is quickly miffed that I am not afraid of her ferocious display and saunters back into Teresa's quarters, not even tempted by my peace offering of prosciutto to stay and make my acquaintance.   


I lean back in my chair, look at the moonlight glistening off of the Mediterranean Sea. I am here. This is real. It finally sinks in and I revel in the reality. Ten days. So it begins. 

Uno Settimane

One week until I have my second love affair. I’ve stayed faithful since I left. How could I not? In eighteen months I have yet to experience anything as dazzling as what I had two summers ago. My love has only become stronger, more persistent, and I am convinced that there is nothing I will ever see that will move me as deeply and completely. And it isn't just me who has had this cathartic love and unending lust--I am not alone, but I don't mind sharing as there is plenty of wonder to be partaken.

Italy. My future boyfriend/husband/lover will have to share me with Florence and Riomaggiore. These cities have pieces of my soul; as long as they are the guardians, I know all the best parts of me are safe to continue flourishing.

Italy makes it easier for me to see. The Italian love for everything bella and their ease with exclaiming it at the moment of discovery shows me how to open my eyes again—to appreciate daily pleasures. I can tap into my creativity, my passions for language, history, art, architecture, food, photography, writing—all the things I don’t have time to dedicate to while I am in the States.

These months leading up to my trip have been such a pleasure; the first bit of work-life balance since I started my job last May. Weekly Italian lessons with Giuseppina on Saturday mornings are the highlight of my week. Sipping a cappuccino, we review the passato prossimo and often used phrases, like Ho prenotato una camera per due persone and Io vorrei un Negroni, per favore. And of course, the most important: when to use bella, bene, and buona—beautiful, well, and delicious/good. Firenze is bella, things are going bene, and pizza and Maria are buona.

The plan:

April 5-8: Positano. The one coastal town I never had the pleasure of visiting. Two nights at Casa Teresa, with days spent exploring Amalfi and hiking to an abandoned tower. Evenings spent dancing at Music on the Rocks, a club carved out of the cliff. (see: http://www.musicontherocks.it/ )Best part: the club begins its 40th anniversary celebration the weekend I arrive. Timing couldn't be better.


April 8-10 Rome. The Eternal City for Easter. A once in a lifetime accidental blessing. I failed to look at a calendar and ended up lucking out. Palatine Hill, the Colosseum, the Borghese gallery. I’ve found a fantastic little bar in the Trastevere called Freni e Frizioni for a perfect aperitivo experience. My Italian tutor will soon divulge her favorite restaurants and trattoria shops. A trip to the Capitoline museum to see the She-Wolf bronze made by the Etruscans and enhanced in the 15th century with the addition of Remus and Romulus (to better fit the myth of Rome’s founding). So much to see and so little time; thankfully two panoramic views of the city are available to me: climbing the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica and a quick elevator ride to the top of the Vittore Emanuel building.


April 10-12 Riomaggiore and the rest of Cinque Terre. Back to see Ivo and with luck, Paolo. Two nights where I can enjoy dinner with friends, the wonders of small town life, and perhaps another evening of spontaneous karaoke on the side of a cliff overlooking the Ligurian Sea. I hope to fit in a little tanning or hiking, too. Perhaps the little vineyard walk I traversed last time….


April 12-16 Florence. La terra della mia vita. To be home again will be one of my greatest pleasures. Friday the 13th is for pure enjoyment of my home city. Climbing the dome of the Duomo—and entering the church at all—will be a first for me. Shopping in the leather market of San Lorenzo, revisiting the Piazza Michelangelo (this time without an unwelcome Italian date in tow). A reunion with my main man—Michelangelo’s David, of course— and later Alessandro and Giovanni at Twice nightclub will make for a glorious 24th birthday. Not to mention the beni culturali  week begins on April 14th, which means I will be seeing David for free on my birthday (all national museums are free of charge, except the reservation fee. #winning.). And somewhere between all the museum visits and churches; all the the tacchino, pomodoro, e pesto panini and pizza from Dante’s; between all the “Ciao bella”’s and people-watching; somewhere between all of that I will walk the Ponte Carraia with a gelato in hand and photograph a sunset from the most perfect spot in the world.

Ben presto con saluti da Italia, (Soon with greetings from Italy)

Kait

 

La Casella. The Box.

Today is the day. After three weeks in my condo (of which I have been in town for only six days total) I have time to open the box. I wanted to wait until I could really enjoy it. This box was the one that was most important. If the moving truck had randomly caught fire on the way to Wisconsin, this is the box I would have told them to save. It is only a few inches deep and the length of my arm, but what it holds are the tokens of my happiest days.

I pull the tape.

Dov’é il ponte? Che ore sono? My Italian phrase book is first, with all my notations. A sheet of notebook paper that was clearly touched, scribbled on, folded and refolded falls out. All of my train station notes from the entire trip.

Spezia to Riomag leave SMN 6:08 a.m.

arrive 10:08 a.m.

9:13 to CAMUCIA

14:34 from CAMUCIA to MPUL arrive 15:24 (3:30)

MPULCIA to FLSMN 18:03 arrive 20:39

Vicchio 13:24 arrive 14:20. Call Danny’s cell.

Next is my Lonely Planet Florence guide. It looks nearly new, barring my comments inside. I did the No.1 thing to do—the Uffizi gallery. Botticelli’s Birth of Venus. My God is she glorious. Textbooks don’t do her justice…. But I missed No. 2. Climbing Brunelleschi’s dome. Il Duomo. No worries. In April I will climb the 463 steps.

I pull out a silver box of my mother’s that she was going to throw out until I told her I remember playing with it as a young girl. Instead of holding my mother’s jewelry, it now contains my remaining Euros I never converted back to dollars. I want to be prepared in case I decide to spontaneously fly back one day. Like I nearly did this year for the Fourth of July. I had the ticket selected. All I had to do was click and I would have been on my way….

And then there they are. My three black Moleskine notebooks. Probably the most precious items I possess. Every thought and every moment I jotted down on the same type of notebook Hemingway used.

“June 28^th, 2010 4:30 a.m. EST—I never knew something this big could take off the ground. My seatmate is a lovely young woman—petite and ever so European. She’s headed for Paris to complete her art history research project….”

“I am in love with this place. It is true: you can love to things equivalently and wholly. Cinque Terre reflects the other half of me. The part that likes things simple. Gas stove, no television. Relying on people for entertainment. I am drawn to the city of Florence because of its vibrancy, but I am equally drawn to Cinque because of its solitude. In neither place do I feel lonely, but nor do I feel truly complete. I yearn for Florence while in Cinque. I desire Cinque when in Florence. It is perfect.”

“Ivo is an interesting man. I’ve found my thesis.”

Trinkets from the Galleria dell’Accademia. David, David, David. The one man I will love forever and wholly because he will never disappoint me. My “Dress Me Up” David magnets (they were too cute/funny to pass up), bookmark featuring only David’s backside (It is just as beautiful as the front but gets significantly less attention. Unfortunate.).  

Sea glass from the beach in Cinque Terre. The printed bag from my pearl earrings I bought on the Ponte Vecchio. A glass tray from the famous Venetian island of Murano.

Every item has a memory attached to it, has the power to transport me back. Only eight more months. My 24^th birthday will be spent in la terra della mia vita. And that is the only thing I could wish for. 

É Quello che é: It is what it is.

So how do the local Florentines feel about the cast of Jersey Shore arriving in their city?


In a recent conversation:


Danny: I met Alessandro last week at the Red Garter
Me: Aww! Did you have fun?
Danny: Yes, I went with a couple of friends
Me: Meet some new Americans?
Danny: Yes lots of them. [The place], it's full. Especially now that the jerseyf***ingshore is in town.
Me: My apologies. They are horrible.
Danny: Yes. Yes they are.


With that out of the way...


This is the first time, in a long time, that I have felt connected to Italy. Walking down State Street in Madison, Wisconsin, there are little cafés with umbrellas. Just like those of the trattoria I would enjoy my Monday night dinners in. The street is so alive. Bars, restaurants, and theaters are separated by apartment entrances. The front doors aren't as dramatically beautiful as the palazzo doorways, but they are similar enough that ghost images of the Via degli Serragli enter my mind.

The warmth, the humidity. I wouldn't be surprised if the Arno river is behind a building, lazily meandering past the city, lending its unwelcome moisture to the night air. 

I haven't enjoyed people-watching since leaving Florence, and finally I have found a city full of interesting people. Florence's gypsies are Madison's hobos; friendly, disheveled, harmless, but too clever to trust. The thin, model-like residents of Italy have been replaced with active, toned men and women. Though sense of style is lacking, Madison's citizens make up for it with their "Mid-Western Friendly" personalities. Walking from Paul's Club (my new haunt that features an indoor oak tree), there are couples holding hands, laughing and speaking in such hushed tones that I can almost pretend I'm back on Florence's streets. Friends chat together at outside tables, nursing drinks and sharing stories. Everyone has their group, but people still smile at one another, aware that they are all connected to each other through the perfectly clear night.

There is a gelateria in this town. They serve pistacchio gelato, almost as perfect as Gelateria Carraia. My office restaurant (the word cafeteria doesn't do the place justice) serves Nutella, cioccolato, espresso, frutta di bosco... (the list goes on) gelato Monday, Wednesday and Friday for $1. Just like the 1 Euro servings. A heavenly treat that takes me back to last summer.

Italy calls me. Every day. But for now I will enjoy the little tastes. The reminders of the glorious place my soul calls home. Because it is what it is--é quello che é. There is no way for me to get there any faster than I am managing right now. I will have a casa there soon enough. For now, I will enjoy my gelato, remember the bella vita of my dream land, and take advantage of all the amazing opportunities coming my way. Because a lush and full life is what la dolce vita is all about.

4. p.m. Florence Time. June 28th, 2010

With my drive to Madison and my new adult life only a week away, I wanted to take the time to relive the approach to Florence onboard the itty-bitty cigarbox of a plane. As I will be driving to Madison I won't have the opportunity to chronicle the trip in the same way--writing and driving would probably end poorly. 
Read and remember. This made me even more excited for my return home. 

___________________________

From the air, the forests of Germany press in on the sides of Frankfurt's airport--unlike any metropolitan airport I've ever seen. Perfectly square fields in varying colors of green are laid out neatly in the cleared areas. Neighborhoods are equally regimented for maximum space efficiency. A river runs south--the same direction this cigar plane is headed. The strip of water is wide and even, the banks a uniform width. It seems that Nature has opted for precision and evenness in the German landscape, something I've never seen before. 
***
Just flew over the Alps. Gorgeous unlike anything I've ever seen. The lakes at their base are vast. My years of map research makes it easy to distinguish Bellagio, the town of Como clinging to the edge of the water under the shadow of the mountains.

Then the landscape flattens out. Spotted with what looks like farm plots and arrow-straight glints of railroad tracks. The Po River comes into view, slicing a blue streak across the otherwise evergreen and rich brown land below. Ripples of earth begin hinting of hills and valleys, a prelude to the famous Tuscany. 


And there is Parma, grown around the river's edge. Nearby forests cover the tops of Romagna's Alpan Alps. 

And finally, finally, Tuscany. The plane descends.

There is the Arno, the dividing feature of Florence, moving lazily under the Ponte Vecchio. The Duomo is visible for a moment--its immense terracotta colored dome my personal beacon. Come see. Come taste. Come live. I'm here. Sono qui.

Straying North of the Italian Border

In this post I venture away from my Italian home to revisit my German roots. The following entry is a long awaited update to my 'Over the Border' post back on July 19th, 2010.  I wrote a proper entry and submitted the article (if you want to call it that) the the 20th Armored Division's Dispatch magazine. The Dispatch is sent to all the surviving members of the 20th, as well as their relatives. My piece was published in April's edition. 


Hope you enjoy--and I promise to return to my sun-filled, dreams-are-reality Italian posts as soon as I am inspired again. Shouldn't take long. 


Dachau Through the Eyes of a Liberator’s Granddaughter

By Kaitlin Walter

The early morning air is cool and damp. Dew coats the crushed gravel path. My group of forty college students is silent except for the crunching of our feet. The quiet, meditative peace here contrasts with the vibrant city less than two minutes away. Forty thousand Germans call the modern city of Dachau home. It looks much like the other suburbs of Munich with its well-tended gardens, clean streets, and postcard perfect houses covered in climbing roses. Walking through the hushed forest, it is hard to believe I am walking toward one of the most evil remnants of Nazi-controlled Germany.

André, our guide, leads us to a courtyard where he explains the rise of Hitler, the start of WWII, and Dachau’s role in achieving the Nazi’s goals. André’s words float over me. I know the broad history of WWII. I know the detailed history of Dachau. That war and this place are woven into my family. My grandfather, Adolph William Walter III, was here at Dachau’s downfall. I am the first of my family to see the camp since its liberation.

Soon, we are headed toward the site, and I begin to feel the prick of tears in my eyes. Granddad walked this way. My mind tries to imagine the sounds, the smells, and the sights he and the 20^th Armored Division experienced. What my imagination conjures is horrible enough, but I know the reality was worse. Granddad and his friends were in their twenties when they liberated Dachau; I am here in my early twenties to see their accomplishments.

The gate comes into view, the words “ARBEIT MACHT FREI” glaring down at us. An e-mail from Granddad before my arrival told me what to look for:

“We liberated Dachau on April 29, 1945. Look for the large bronze plate by the main gate. It names our divisions TGE liberator of the main camp. My 412th armored field artillery battalion took down the gates!!! 2nd Lt. Green 's tank did the honors.”

When I look to my right, I see the plaque, dedicated to the 20^th Armored Division. Reading the inscription, an overwhelming feeling of pride and love for my grandfather and his fellow soldiers hits me. I walk toward the plaque and touch the raised text with fingers damp from my tears. My closest friends know about Dachau’s significance for me, and let me absorb the moment.

I enter the camp through the gate, overlooking a massive courtyard. There are two reconstructed barracks buildings, with a long stretch of land beyond. Everything is a shade of white, black, or grey, with the exception of the bright green trees lining the path. They look out of place.

We head into the barracks and see the sleeping quarters, the bathrooms, the sink areas. Exhibit signs share quotes from prisoners about the living conditions and display pictures of prisoners’ everyday lives. Looking out one of the few windows, I see the concrete slabs of the former barracks. Rows and rows of them, reaching so far into the distance I can barely see the end.

A long walk takes us past the slabs, each marked with a number. A small bouquet of flowers rests next to No. 9. At the rear of the camp, multiple religious memorials have been constructed: the Mortal Agony of Christ Chapel, Protestant Church of Reconciliation, a Jewish Memorial, and the Russian-Orthodox Chapel. Each is hauntingly beautiful, an oasis of redemption and reflection away from the images of hatred and death.

André leads us to the crematorium and the gas chamber that was never used thanks to the liberators’ arrival. There is little lighting, making our shadows faint and indistinct in this building of death.

Afterward, I walk along a wooded path that shelters marble memorials. One says ‘Never Forget,’ another is the ‘Grave of Thousands Unknown’. A little further I pass by the execution wall, covered with little indentations from bullets. It is strange to engage with modern memorials of love and forgiveness, only to face another remnant of Dachau’s horrific past.

We end the day at the maintenance building that once housed the shunt room, prisoner baths, and other general functions. The entire history and typical operations and experiences endured here are outlined through black and white photographs, testimonies, and a twenty-minute film.

As my group heads back toward the gates to leave, I have my friend Eliza take a picture of me by the 20th’s plaque. Never before have I felt so aware of the blood running through my veins; I share my lineage with a man who not only is brave beyond measure, but who is also full of love, compassion, patience, and advice. I am deeply honored and thankful to be tied to such an incredible group of men, and promise I will never forget.

Epilogue

After the morning visit to Dachau, my group returned to Munich to enjoy other Bavarian experiences. We visited all of Munich’s beer gardens over the course of three days (where I ate more sauerkraut and sausage than I have in my entire life). During a biking tour of the city, we visited Nymphenburg Palace and the Englischer Garten where I had the chance to swim in the Eisbach (the fast moving ‘Ice Stream’ that brings water down from the mountains). Before leaving for Munich, Granddad told me in an e-mail: “At Munich take your photo in front of the Haufbrau house, a little to the right of the entrance and you will have a third generation comparison photo.” I took his directions one step further: my friends and I purchased authentic Bavarian dirndls and lederhosen and wore them to the Hofbrauhaus for dinner. I took my picture looking every bit of my German heritage. And now, I officially have a costume for Halloween for the rest of my life. Everywhere I went, I carried my grandfather’s memories with me and wondered, Did the 20th drive this way? Did they see these same buildings? Was Granddad ever here? Those thoughts made every moment in Germany dear to my heart.