Nowhere Else To Be
It starts early with the clink of silverware, Italians speaking softly, lest they wake the patrons paying high prices to sleep nearby. In the footprint of one American mansion, the Italians have placed a hotel, two modest homes, gardens, and the passage between all of them.
Italians, like Americans, get louder as the day goes on. To my ears, their voices are melodic and earnest. Just steps from the hotel, is the church with its square the size of a soccer field out front. Activities in the square include almost everything but during our stay it was mostly for the tourists and locals to sit or walk through to the beach far below until late afternoon. By early evening, elementary school children began bike riding in mysterious but intentional patterns. At dusk, it becomes the province of older boys who play to exhaustion (the viewers, not theirs). Playing on cement, their skills must rise quickly. A boy falls, cries out his hip is hurt and boys rush from both teams to see if he will stand or be carried off. After a time, with much arm language, rising and falling worried, bossy voices, he gets up and the match resumes. Watching, nodding, and gossiping nearby are mothers and grandmothers holding court of their own that I suspect rivals the churches in stature.
It's after the games, the boys retreat to the hilly cement that keeps their small homes attached to the hills reaching to the sea. They negotiate between terraces for tomorrow’s meet up times and finish any arguing about tonight’s game. The boy I’m watching jumps steps and short walls easily as he clearly negotiates with his mother to keep talking to his friend living one level closer to the sea. He’s lost this battle as his speech slows with his disappointment and he disappears into his home.
What stirred in me was remembering my own freedom at that tender age. A child whose world ends at night, outside, after friends are called in, not at the edge of a screen. I grew up that way too. A girl in a small town, raised by a mother who worked hard and trusted I’d get in the door before she did. I’d linger even after the last kid was called in, because I could.
Raising my two sons and moving frequently, I encouraged them to get outside. Even when they went, there were increasingly few other children outside to play with, let alone, field an impromptu soccer game.
Without enough intention, my parenting defaulted to what was already changing in America. More TV time, passively encouraging the longing and wanting of endless consumerism. There are no Amazon trucks in Amalfi — or if there are, they're invisible competition with the local unmarked vans with drivers known to the shopkeeper or resident who spend time catching up with them before shouting a happy wave goodbye. At home, the round-the-clock trucks replaced something. I'm still working out exactly what.
What I was really watching in that square was innocence with nowhere else to be.
As beautiful as the sea, the ships, and the hills are in Praiano where we stayed, it was the sweet sound of boys playing outside intensely with laughter on a cement square of their church under watchful eyes that I will take away as my best memory.
My worst memory was a game of chicken with a tour operator. I blinked last. Through our travel agent we signed up for a full day semi-private boat tour to Capri with this exact description:
“The excursion includes hotel pick-up around 8:30 am with a comfortable shuttle directly to Marina di Praia, a small village where the boat docks. The boats are comfortable, equipped with all amenities including restrooms. Guests don’t need to worry about anything, just relax and enjoy the experience. You can trust the captain and his crew who speak English and are available to make the day enjoyable, offering water, soft drinks, and light snacks to guests.
Towels are available on board for guests to use after stops for swimming!
Before reaching the Blue Island, you will be able to enjoy views of the coastline from the boat, which stretches freely from Positano to Punta Campanella, providing a neat and linear landscape. Once at Capri, guests will disembark at the port, where they will have 3or 4 hours of free time to explore on their own, either shopping in the center or stopping for lunch. After returning aboard, the tour around the island will continue with swimming stops in areas recommended by the crew.”
The weather on the trip to that point had been Amalfi perfect as any depicted in travel marketing. Without a comment from our server at dinner about the weather being a “small worry tomorrow”, I probably wouldn’t have checked the forecast. Lightning, heavy rain, thunderstorms . . . checks to make sure I’m looking at the Amalfi forecast instead of home.
“Is the Capri small group boat tour tomorrow still on in light of forecast with lightning, thunderstorms, and heavy rain? What does “confused seas” mean? Please confirm weather policy. Thank you.” √√, I message in What’s App to the tour company.
The reply was cordial and quick. “Hello, So far the tour is on. We will update you tomorrow morning if anything chanfes (sic) due to bad weather conditions.”√√
Trading my instincts for optimism, the shuttle delivered us to the dock where we greet our crew, the six other passengers and board the boat. Fifteen minutes into the hour long sail over to Capri, I’m happily taking pictures as we pass “Dolphin Island” as our captain tells us it’s local name because seen from above it is in the shape of a dolphin. Thirty minutes in, fog is descending somewhat quickly and while the coast can be seen, it’s not pretty anymore, just gray and muted. About forty five minutes in, the rain is steady, the visibly pregnant lady who’d been riding on the bow giggling has shimmied down soaked through and now standing under cover next to the captain who is on his phone speaking Italian waving his hand that the caller on the other end can’t see. The captain lets us know the storm is over the marina at Capri and we’ll “hide” on the other side of the island until it passes. Remember the forecast lightning? Chaotic spears of light puncture the heavy air quickly followed by searing then crackling thunder. Passengers are looking at each other in disbelief. Once on the other side of the island where it is still raining but not storming, the captain weakly tries to share some history of the island in between phone calls presumably to ask when we might dock safely at the marina. Twenty minutes later, we are in the dock, even our shoes placed in a box for transport are soaked. The captain decides this would be a good time to ask, “Would you like a towel?” They are wet but drier than us so we take them.
As we’re getting off the boat he says calmly as only an Italian boat captain can, “I may not make it back to pick you up.” Before anyone can speak, he adds, “If I cannot, simply go to the ferry, take it to Positano, and we will get you home.” My husband, Murray, who for this exchange, is blessed with hearing loss, keeps moving toward the pier where we will walk into town.
“I’m sorry, what did you say? We need you to come back and pick us up. Should we stay on and go back now? Is the weather clearing or are there more storms coming?”
I have no idea how much of this translated but he shrugged, said “It should get better, just if it doesn’t, I cannot come back. The ferry you need if over there”, pointing to a very congested area, as if everyone was trying to get off Capri.
We walked the quarter mile to town and that’s when the skies really opened up. Darting into a bistro, the owner practically pushed us right back out. He’d seen this movie before. In gestures, he told us “no service, go up that hill”. Back into the downpour we went. Murray saw the sign with WC (water closet) and stick figures under and we hustled up and past eight other people with unfamiliar accents but universal smiles, taking refuge wherever it could be had. The attendant apparently had the good sense to leave before the skies broke. Soon the skylights above us were releasing the rain that could no longer be contained above. We videoed (presumably for our heirs) the flash flood with moving debris just outside the door.
When it was over, we made our way to the ferry station, booking the next available to Positano. The ride in the ferry was a little smoother than the small boat over with nothing to see outside the windows except the up and down waves of water marinating us. Positano was not offloading passengers easily or quickly as the planks to the pier would not rest long enough for safe crossings. Once we were over, we called the tour company. Shaking, I asked where our ride was.
“Ma’am, you must go to our booth there and talk to them.” The two women in the booth seemed to have been expecting a crazy mad American. I obliged. “My husband and I are nearly 70 years old. I have never been in that heavy of a storm in open water. We are soaked and tired. We want to go back to our hotel. Please find us the ride you promised.” They, however, insisted no one could give us a car ride, we must go back to Marina de Praia by boat.
“The seas are calm ma’am. We will call Lorenzo to take you.”
Lorenzo, maybe 30, with beautiful slicked back black hair, sleek Italian aviators, shorts da mare, yacht loafers and a smile to replace the sun, jumps onto the pier reaching his hand out. “Buongiorno, I am Lorenzo, and I will take you both back to Marina de Praia where your ride will take you to your hotel.”
It is still raining hard with high winds. We look at each other and decide to follow. Lorenzo, too young to appreciate risk or sensitive to our utter disgust with the company so far, sails through the “confused seas” with abandon. Murray and I are seated at the back hanging on with a death grip to the only metal on each side of us. Lorenzo looks back grinning that smooth smile after particularly rough bumps to see us fly up, slam down and return our heads to between our knees.
I still love Italy, boats, and the seas but I won’t make that trade twice.
