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| Positano ~ 1971 |
I have no idea how or why. After I pulled the plug on
going to Zermatt, I got to thinking about time and the economy of staying
closer to Rome. My little Italy on $10 a day book recommended the Amalfi
Coast, and my (then new) Michelin guide to Italy said this of Positano: “This
fisherman’s village, today one of the most important resorts on the Amalfi
Coast, lies in a delightful setting**. Positano is much frequented by
foreigners, both in winter and in summer, and artists find an infinity of
subjects there. The houses, white cubes scattered on the slopes among terraced
gardens facing the sea, are of the Moorish type with flat roofs and balconies
beneath arcades.” I caught the train from Florence to Rome to Naples and
then took a bus to Positano. I was going to see for myself, and hopefully get
in a little down time on the beach.
One of the great epiphanies I had on this trip was that of seeing Italians taking the month of August off to relax and rejuvenate. The beach was a charging station. I saw it in Mondello, in Sicily, with my family. They had a nice house there, where they broke away from the hustle and heat of Palermo. And to this day I wonder at the Italians ability to step off and let the world go about its craziness, while tanning, swimming, eating, playing cards, napping, making love, and all the things one does when one has all the time in the world. What the Yaqui shaman Don Juan Matus called “stopping the world.”
I wanted some of that.
Landing in Positano, I easily found lodging in one of those white cubes facing the sea. The ceiling was vaulted, and the play of light on it throughout the day, was mesmerizing. This would be a time for reflection. I didn’t need to see anymore of Italy, this wouldn’t be my only trip. I was going inside.
I took long hikes down to the beach, and when I got there,
I jumped into the sea and swam, and then laid on the graveled beach until my
toes tingled. I found a little trattoria where they had the freshest seafood
and the crispest white wine I’d ever had. I was in the process of metamorphoses,
with Bacchus guiding my journey. Little did I know where it would take me over
the next 50 years. What did I know? I was 20, my brain hadn’t fully formed at
that point. There was a war and a low draft lottery number waiting for me back
home. I would grow these little wings that would bring me back to Italy when I
needed to reanimate my soul.
That sleepy little fishing village, back then, wove
its web around me, cocooned me, fed me, bathed me in its light and my wings
began to sprout. Just little bumps at first. But a beginning.
Italy has been this multi-faceted orb in my life –
part truth, part fable. I’ve fantasized on what it is, which it really isn’t,
except for me. I’ve dealt with some harsh realities in Italy too, life and
death ones. So, it hasn’t been a walk in the park. But what happened to me in
that first trip, one month in Italy in 1971, changed the trajectory of my life
in extraordinary ways. Oh yes, wine had
had a part in it, but by no means was it ever just about wine. I could give up
wine today. I don’t think I’ll ever give up Italy.
Coda, and adieu to a member of the family...
