One Italian Summer(23)
He leans forward. So close I can smell the sweet berries and espresso on his breath. “For me? Definitely.”
Chapter Eleven
I wake up early again. The sun is just barely cresting the horizon; it’s not even 6 a.m. I take some tea out onto the patio, overlooking the sea, the whole town bathed in that same hazy blue light.
I parted ways with Adam at the elevator last night. He’s on floor two—a suite, he said, with a great view. I laughed. Everywhere has a great view in this place.
Right now, this morning, all I can think about is her. I’m anxious to see her tonight, anxious to know if she’ll show up, anxious to discover whether yesterday was all a lucid dream, just a little too real around the edges. I feel the caffeine hit my system, but instead of making me jittery, it seems to make me more alert, like I’ve just put on glasses. And I know, in the way only certainty can present, that it really was her, that she’s here. That somehow I have stumbled into some kind of magic reality where we get to be together. That time here does not only move slower but in fact doubles back on itself.
It doesn’t even seem that unbelievable. The crazier thing, the far more baffling, is that she is gone.
I go back inside and set my mug down. I go to pull some ChapStick out of my carry-on when I see our original itinerary for the trip, the one I stuffed down in the bag just a day ago. I take the crinkled paper out. There are restaurants on there—Chez Black, of course, the lemon tree restaurant in Capri. And then written on this morning’s agenda is hike up to the path of the gods.
I remember my mom telling me about this. How when she was here she’d take the steps all the way up to the top of Positano, to where there is a path that links Bomerano and Nocelle, the towns above.
I pull out my tennis shoes, a pair of shorts, and a sports bra. I’ve never been super athletic, but I’ve always enjoyed exercise. I started playing soccer in elementary school and didn’t stop until junior year of high school, when I tore my meniscus. In college I discovered swimming, and when we lived in New York, bike rides along the Hudson kept me sane. For the most part these days, I go to the gym or the Pure Barre studio around the corner from our house.
I grab my baseball hat, douse myself in sunscreen, and slip downstairs.
It’s just Marco at the desk this morning, looking perky for such an early hour.
“Buongiorno!” he tells me.
“Good morning, Marco,” I say.
“You off for the walk?” He moves his arms by his sides like he’s skiing.
“I was going to do the steps up to the Path of the Gods,” I say.
Marco reacts, sweeping the back of his hand against his forehead.
“So many stairs!” he says, like I’ve just suggested the impossible. “Up and up and up!”
“Is the start or entrance close?” I ask.
He points out the door to the right, and I get a glimpse of the street—still sleepy at this hour.
“You find the stairs, you go.” He points his finger straight to the ceiling. “You keep going and then you get there.”
“Thank you!” I wave, but Marco stops me.
“Wait!” he calls.
He returns with a bottle of water stamped with the hotel’s insignia. “The Positano sun is strong,” he says.
I thank him and leave. A few paces up there is a clothing store with all types of elegant linens hung in the window—tablecloths and napkins and lace-trimmed handkerchiefs—and a shop next to it with a granita machine. I see the bright yellow lemonade churning and churning. And then there, to the left of the store, is the first flight of stairs. I take them up. Stone steps, one after the next, after the next. Up, up, up. They wind to the side of small hotels and houses. I peek in the windows at the stirrings of life. After sixty seconds, I’m out of breath.
I can’t remember the last time I went on a walk, let alone a run or to the gym. I am out of shape, out of practice, unfamiliar with pushing my body this hard. My legs have stood still this last year. They have stood still while my heart and gut and soul ran in circles, screaming, hysterical, but I notice that moving my body, now, seems to have the opposite effect. While I am sweating, gasping, my insides are quiet. All I can think about right now is the next step.
Marco is right: the stairs are steep and seemingly endless. But after about ten minutes of heart-pumping cardio, I reach a landing. Out of the immediacy of Positano, the town becomes more residential. Nonne begin to sit outside, chatting with neighbors over morning coffees before their households awaken. I wave to a woman sweeping her stoop. She waves back.
I’m struck by the timelessness of Italy. It is not the first time I’ve had this thought—that the Italy I’m returning to, now, is not all that different from the one my mother first fell in love with thirty years ago. The country has been around for thousands of years. Unlike America, progress is rated differently. It happens slower. Houses are limewashed in the same color palette used for a hundred years; institutions prevail. Churches and icons have been here for centuries, not just decades. The same dishes return year after year.
After another five minutes of climbing, I’m thoroughly drenched. I unscrew the cap off the bottle Marco gave me and drink appreciatively. I survey my surroundings.
I’ve reached the end of the stairs, and from here there’s a dirt-and-stone path that disappears into much more natural surroundings. This must be the mouth of the Path of the Gods. From a quick summary on our itinerary, I learned that the Path of the Gods gets its name from a legend. Apparently, the gods used the path to come down to the sea and save Ulysses from the Sirens that enticed him with their singing. For centuries, it was the only way between the towns of the Amalfi Coast. It is well traveled and well loved.