Summer in Italy
When my senses came alive. *Chapter 41*
It’s the perfect day for writing. Completely grey and drizzling rain, light thunder rolls and the drain pipe dripping outside the window. The linen duvet makes the bed feel like vacation. My computer is propped on some pillows. There’s plans to go to the pool later if the storm passes but dragging this comforter to the couch, turning on old episodes of Barefoot Contessa and falling back asleep sounds equally as delightful.
The first time I went to Italy, I arrived on a train in the pitch black of night. My bosom buddy, Kristin, made the incredibly adventurous decision to forgo her flight back to the States so she could come with me to meet my mother, Bonnie, in Tuscany. We’d been studying abroad in London for the summer. It was my first time overseas and I’d spent hours in internet cafes emailing my parents and Live Journaling about how homesick I was. Anxious and sad and excited, my virgin voyage across the pond.
Mom had studied abroad in Cortona, Italy in the late 70s and jumped at a reason to finally return. She’d found a hillside villa in Mercatale, a blink of a town in the Tuscan countryside, owned by a lovely German couple who spent their summers at their city flat. Bonnie arrived a few days before Kristin and I departed London, she couldn’t describe the beauty, “just wait til y’all get here.”
Having no concept of how to travel, I’d packed two large suitcases and a carry-on bag for my study abroad trip. Navigating train platforms with that load in the summer heat, I still shiver with embarrassment at the memory, I was sweaty. And that is how we arrived at the Terontola train station past midnight. Confused, exhausted and with enough suitcases to build a military fort. Bonnie would pick us up in her rental Alfa Romeo, stick shift, “like what she learned to drive”, an ultimate thrill for her, but first we had to find her.
Facing the station from the platform where we’d stumbled from the train, we noticed what seemed to be a walkway between tracks. Dragging my two big suitcases behind and pushing my small one in front, we weren’t halfway across before two Carabinieri were yelling and plowing towards us. My Italian began and ended with two words and a phrase, ‘grazie’, ‘ciao’ and ‘buona sera’ (my favorite). Needless to say, being bombarded by foreign police in the middle of the night when you’re wheeling 100 pounds of a luggage is disarming. It’s better I had NO idea what they were screaming, I probably would have vomited, traversing the tracks the way we were is highly illegal and dangerous. Ushered into the train station police office, ashamed and kind of scared but mostly exhausted and starving, I began sobbing, a dumb American college kid as basic as they come. By some unexpected miracle, my tears instantly shifted the officers behavior from militant to motherly. Their language became songlike and soothing, speaking to Bonnie (who actually understands Italian) on the phone and helping us finally locate her. They piled our bags into the trunk and I bashfully uttered a “grazie, grazie mille”, as Bonnie shifted into first and we were off.
Windows down, we wound our way out of Terontola and around the mountains to the next town. Kristin was the first to comment, “the smell!” Indescribable, what I now know as star jasmine, that sweet, enveloping essence, flower, nectar, intoxicating. That night felt like living a poem, romantic and sensual. Warm Italian breeze and overwhelming scent, I finally felt excited about travel.
The villa was made completely of stone, hundreds of years old. It was cool even without air conditioning. My bed was twin sized and had a light linen quilt. For the next 16 hours I slept, drugged by the clean mountain air. When finally I awoke, staring up at two hundred year old rafters, breeze wafting in through the open window, light airy curtains dancing into the room, I was new. It was afternoon and I emerged hours after Bonnie and Kristin had already headed to the pool with spritzes and bright orange, dripping melon.
Barefoot across the chilly limestone floors, I ducked under the tiny Tuscan door and out to the most fantastic of views I’ve ever, to this day, experienced. Tears well up and my throat clenches remembering. The mountain directly across from the one we were tucked into, green and lush. A field of sunflowers teeter-tottering in front of a two lane road. Above me, grapevines with under-ripe bunches hanging and creeping vines that flowered into hot and soft pinks. A stone staircase that led down to the pool and a pergola to seek shade and enjoy late afternoon cheese and Tuscan bread, flavorless, a perfect vehicle for sopping up spicy olive oil.
There was a swing reached by tiptoeing through strawberry patches. I braided my hair in two and pinned them up to the top of my head like Heidi. This was the most evocative summer of my 20 year old life. Before I’d consciously realized how important it is to savor a moment, Italy made it impossible not to. Salty prosciutto, bubbly Prosecco, all the cheese, my first Negroni. Mimi’s, the bed and breakfast we could walk to that served us a seven course meal with no menu and slightly chilled red wine out of a ceramic pitcher. This is where I learned about delight.
It laid the foundation for what I’ve continued building, adding floors and doors and windows. Sitting here now, back a little sore hunched over in bed, sun peaking through the clouds, birdsong replacing the dripping of the pipe, teary eyed writing about memory. I will probably be heading to the pool soon with Kristin, who now has a five year old son. The boy I call my firstborn who I had the honor to help raise during lockdown days. Star jasmine blooms on the patio of the restaurant where I work, life continues to unfold. What a magical, wonderful adventure.
READING
I haven’t caught up on my Substacks because I’ve been so into my book, Great Circle by Maggie Shipstead.
WATCHING
The Big Lebowski. I mean, good Lord is this movie hilarious.
LISTENING
Hmmmm, well, did you listen to my latest solo podcast?
On Sunday, I had the pleasure of attending Farrah Storr’s memoir workshop. It inspired me to continue writing about nostalgia and memory, especially through the senses of smell and touch. Memoir is my very favorite form of expression and I want to spend more time leaning into reflection.
I hope you’ve had a nice week. It feels officially like HOT summer all of the sudden and I’m embracing the constant state of damp that will envelope the next three months. Have a lovely last few days of May.
Happy June!
xoxo.
it’s all about the journey, thanks for bringing us along…