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.