So Italian
Happy second anniversary to Flower Child! Thank you SO MUCH for being here — without you, I’d be writing into the void.
I began this newsletter two years ago on September 27, coming up in a few days. Coming up in just one day is my birthday. That reminded me of another birthday that I’ll always remember, 23 years ago. It happened in Italy, and I came close to not making it there at all.
I turned 40 in Positano, a gorgeous town on Italy’s Amalfi coast. I highly recommend that, especially if you have any negative feelings about turning 40. I was apprehensive about the birthday, perhaps because I wasn’t quite where I wanted to be in my life at the time.
Oddly, turning 60 a few years ago felt much better to me. That’s not to say I don’t wish I had the energy and looks of my 40-year-old self. That’s not to say I like everything about getting older. But I did have more positive feelings about 60 than I did about 40, which was a tough age for me. Still, being in beautiful Positano for that milestone 23 years ago certainly eased the blow.
My friend Julie and I flew to Italy four days after 9/11, on the first day that international flights left the U.S. We didn’t know till the night before whether we’d be able to go; while others worried about future terrorist attacks, we watched the news closely to see if we’d make it to Italy. (To be clear, I really didn’t think there was an imminent likelihood of another attack.) The airline instructed us to arrive at the airport four hours in advance, so we did. None of the ticket counters were open yet, and the airport was a mess, filled with people who’d been stranded there for days. All the flights were delayed by at least four hours, and it took us 24 hours to get from San Francisco to Milan. But we made it.
After a brief stay in Milan, Julie and I went our separate ways for a few days. I was visiting my aunt in Fano, a town that isn’t a big tourist destination, and Julie was going somewhere more desirable like Tuscany or Umbria. Then, we planned to meet up again in Positano, joining my sister and a couple of her friends for a week.
I arrived in Positano before Julie. The apartment that five of us would share had a view that impressed even the locals we invited over, and at that time, a few months before the euro was introduced, it was only $600 for the week — $120 each! Plus, it came with a cell phone that we could use, which I sometimes took with me on outings. Cell phones were just starting to become popular in the U.S., but Italians were way ahead of us. We’d be at a remote bus stop up in the hills and a phone would ring. Several stout, old, traditional-looking Italian women, wearing skirts or dresses with thick stockings and low-heeled pumps, would look in their purses to see if it was theirs. I think my aunt was the last holdout in the country — likely the only Italian who still didn’t have a cell phone on the day she died in 2020. Yet she wasn’t stout or traditional-looking. Go figure.
One day, I was at the beach when my cell phone rang. I took it out of my purse to find that it was Julie calling, letting us know she’d be arriving a day late because of a train strike. I still don’t understand how strikes with a set start and end time can be effective, but that’s the Italian way. Back then, the Italian train website even had a button labeled “Scioperi” (“Strikes”), where you could see what strikes were coming up and plan your trip accordingly. How convenient!
So there I was, my cell phone ringing in my purse, with a friend calling to let me know about a train strike.
I felt so Italian.
A group of five single American tourist women is a powerful magnet to Italian men in Positano. Bartolo, a tour guide one of our friends met on the flight over, was eager to show us the sights while trying to hook up with her. One day, he picked us up on the beach in a little motor boat and took us to Capri, where he guided us all over the island for free, wining and dining us along the way. At the end of the day we pulled the boat into the Blue Grotto and swam inside, just in time to see the water turn a vivid aquamarine blue when the sun struck it just right. When we returned to the boat, Bartolo poured us champagne in real glasses. It was like “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”
Each of the guys we met had a sidekick, usually a friend or cousin they’d known their whole life. Bartolo’s cousin latched onto one of our group. We gave all the guys we met nicknames, only a few of which I recall now. I don’t remember the actual name of mine, but we called him “Sweater Man” because he was one of those well-dressed Italian guys who always had a sweater thrown over his shoulder. I felt like a slob compared to him; he didn’t seem to mind. He wasn’t someone I would have taken too seriously back home, especially given that at the age of 38, he was still living with his mother — a signal that he’d probably expect a woman to cook and clean for him, and part of a trend that was keeping many Italian women from getting married. But he certainly added some fun to an already great vacation.
Like so many Italians, Sweater Man had a scooter. One day he picked me up on it and drove me partway up Mount Vesuvius, asking me periodically, “Sei venuta oggi perché sei innamorata di me?” (“Did you come along today because you’re in love with me?”) Sitting behind him, I could barely disguise my laughter. I mean, I’d just met the guy! I tried to tell him that, in my limited Italian, but I don’t think I convinced him. We believe what we want to believe.
It didn’t matter. It was a beautiful day, and I was on a scooter with an Italian guy driving on hairpin turns up a scenic volcano, somehow (barely) avoiding hitting cars and other scooters.
I felt so Italian.
As I sat on the beach on my last day in Positano, I found myself starting to cry. Italy is a hard place to leave. I couldn’t face the thought of tearing myself away.
Then I realized I didn’t have to — quite yet. My sister and another friend were staying in the apartment for a few more days, so I’d have a place to stay. I walked up the hill to the internet cafe and managed to change my flight. Then I emailed my boss and let him know I’d be taking a couple more days off. It was the dot-com boom, and my job at Macromedia was pretty relaxed.
I went back to the beach and had a pistachio ice cream and a coffee, both better than anything you’d get almost anywhere back home.
I felt so Italian.
Eight years later I returned to Positano with Rafael, on our honeymoon. The place with the great pistachio ice cream was still there.
Awesome story. Love the pics!
Such a lovely post! Thank you....