One Italian Summer(8)

“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.