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