“I’ll send you a postcard from Capri, Rosalie.”
“Don’t call me that, and don’t forget to email me everything you’re doing.”
“She will. She’s keeping notes in a diary. Every single thing!” says Yang. I shoot her another glare and hang up the call.
End Call - ROSALIE TAYLOR - 7:06 p.m.
“Your mother really loves you,” says Yin with a hint of envy.
“Well, I’m her only kid, so it’s non-negotiable.”
“Not true. Mine’s a lawyer,” says Yin. “She can negotiate her way out of anything.” Yin falls quiet as the bus slows for another hairpin curve, and suddenly we see Positano sprawled below us.
“Come to dinner with us tonight, mate. So I have someone to talk to in English.”
“Oui, you must come and meet my friends,” Yin agrees. “One is an architect, one is a pilot for Alitalia, one is in business, and one is a well-known photographer. He’s French-Italian. Oh! Arrête, pas dans le bus!” she cries. Yang has her hand up Yin’s skirt. Perhaps this is why I miss that last, vital piece of information.
Chapter 12
How Not to “Find My iPhone”
Positano, Italy: Early Wednesday Morning
We do not need to relive what happened on this night, while Modesty lay passed out on the floor of my alcohol-soaked brain. So, here are the CliffsNotes, to remind you.
HERO: sauced American writer.
FATAL FLAWS: pride, lust, and thinking she can fake it.
PLOT: while negotiating for return of unflattering photos by engaging in lewd sexual activity outside bathroom, writer assaults French-Italian photographer and loses entire contents of purse while fleeing.
Pensione del Sole, Positano: Wednesday, 1:02 a.m.
I’m back in my room, but freaking out about my lost stuff. I can’t find Yin and Yang, because the name of their hotel is in my phone, which I now do not have. That’s two phones in ten days if you’re counting. Despite the trek back down the six thousand stairs (in my torn dress with vomit on it) retracing my steps, and the empty-handed climb back, I’m still not exactly sober. Unwisely, I pull out my tablet.
VIDEO CALL
Call - Will Kittridge - 1:07 a.m.
“You lost your phone and your wallet?” he asks, sweaty, still in his softball jersey. I have a memory flash to the hard wooden bleachers, watching him play “copball” as I called it. He was the catcher of course, the glue that holds the team together.
“Extenuating circumstances,” I say as I lean back on the bed.
“What happened to your dress, Marina? Did somebody do that to you?” He’s calm but intensely protective. It makes me want to climb through the screen into his arms.
“No. I’m fine—”
“Tell me the truth, right now. I will get on a plane tonight.” His voice is even but the emotion behind it makes my stomach flutter.
“Will, it was me. I tore it trying to climb in my window because I lost my room key along with everything else in my bag when it fell open, okay? Who gives someone a designer bag that flies open and launches your valuables out like a piñata? This is clearly all Sarah’s fault.”
“Clearly. Why didn’t you call Sarah?”
“It’s my wallet and phone. You’re the police and there are police here. Aren’t all of you on cop Facebook or something?”
“It’s called Interpol, and they don’t give a shit about your phone, Marina. Did you lose your passport?”
“No, they took it when I checked in and put it in the safe. It’s a thing they do at the hotels.”
“You have your tablet. Did you turn on ‘find my phone’?”
“It has that?”
“Yes, but you have to switch it on. Go into the app, I’ll stay online with you.” I minimize the video window, so I can hear him but not see him anymore as I click around on the tablet. “It should be in your settings.”
“Found it.”
“Open it and tap ‘find my phone.’ A map should pop up, showing your location as one dot, and your phone as another.”
“The blinking one?”
“Yes. That’s it. Good work.”
“Now what do I do?”
“Go find it, Marina. I’ve gotta jump in the shower.”
I have an involuntary memory flash to the extremely hot showers we used to take together after his softball games. Will was the sort of guy with just enough chest hair, and not too much. He looked great naked, but he looked fucking amazing when he was wet and naked. He was six foot one, and I was five nine, so our bodies fit together perfectly standing up. The whole bathroom would fill with steam, water pouring over both our bodies, chasing soapsuds down his chest, across his perfect abs.
Long, hot, wet kisses, his body pressed against mine. He would wash my hair and I would arch my back, rubbing my soapy ass onto his big, gloriously firm—
“I’ve gotta go, I’ve got a date.” The sexy shower flashback comes to a screeching halt. Date? I click back on the video chat window and suddenly he appears again. But I immediately wish I hadn’t done this. His shirt is off and he can see my expression.
“Oh?” I say, trying for casual. “So, Cowboy’s back in the saddle?” I fake smile.
“Just some girl my mom wants me to meet.”
“That’s great.” There’s a long, awkward silence. Then I notice something. “Hey, what’s the yellow blinking bar on the bottom of the map? Nineteen percent?”
“That’s . . . sub optimal. Your phone battery only has nineteen percent left.”
“What happens after that?”
“You’re out of luck, Mermaid.” The sound of my pet name is like a knife in the heart. “You better get going. Good luck.”
“You too.” I reach for the button, but can’t tap it off. He gives me a wink and then suddenly—
End Call - Will Kittridge - 1:15 a.m.
I stare at the screen. His handsome, bittersweet smile is frozen, and then gone. The whole time we were dating, he never hung up first. It was a thing. Not anymore, apparently. Moving on. Both of us. I’ve kissed two guys in the past few days. So why did I now feel like I wanted to throw up?
Suddenly the yellow blinking bar on the tablet turns red. The numbers beside it say thirteen percent. Thirteen doesn’t come after nineteen! What the hell? I grab the pad of paper on the desk and frantically write down the name of the road where my little phone dot is. Viale Santa Cristina, borders that cute little park, next to a tiny church. I hope it’s where my wallet fell out too. Wait. I zoom in. You’ve got be kidding me! The cute little park has the symbol of a cross on it. A cemetery.
Chiesa di Santa Maria delle Scogliere, Positano: Wednesday, 1:25 a.m.
I find my lip gloss halfway down the hill. Not far from this is my compact, the powder inside exploded. I hope the phone had a softer landing. I walk down one more flight and there is the little church. Well-worn stones, weathered but strong. It seems like it’s been here forever, as much a part of the cliffside as the rocks it’s built from. To my great relief, the little courtyard on the side of the church is not an actual cemetery. There’s a little shrine and a couple of ancient headstones with the writing worn off, but the full-blown Halloween-style, pee your pants cemetery I’d been picturing is nowhere in sight. There is, however, a lot of high grass that hasn’t been cut in . . . ever?
PROCEDURE FOR CANVASING CHURCHYARDS AFTER MIDNIGHT:
1. You cannot use the flashlight on your phone to find your phone.
2. Begin on one end and crawl on all fours in a zig-zag formation, sweeping the grass and gravel with your arms and hands.
3. If you find a bone, don’t assume it’s human. But don’t touch it.
4. If you find any coins, put them on the shrine, not your pocket.
5. If a large stray dog suddenly appears, stand up quickly. Throw a small rock near it, but not at it, just to show it who’s boss.
6. If the one-armed man who owns the dog you mistook for a stray sees you do this, apologize profus
ely.
7. Do not ask why he’s out for a walk with his dog in the middle of the night.
8. Do not mention that he reminds you of Magwitch, the creepy ex-con from Great Expectations. He doesn’t speak English anyway.
9. If he offers his phone for you to call yours, don’t refuse because you don’t want Magwitch the Night Walker to have your number. (It won’t matter who has your number if you don’t have your phone.)
10. When your phone rings in the corner of the yard and you run to it with the wild, euphoric joy of a mother reuniting with her lost child, tears in your eyes, don’t then try to act casual and say, “Cool, grazie.”
Chapter 13
How Not to See The Blue Grotto
Ferry to Capri, Mar Tirreno: Wednesday, 11:15 a.m.
When traveling, it’s important not to let minor setbacks like losing all your cash, credit cards, and ID, or small inconveniences like spending three hours at the police station just to fill out two forms, ruin your good time. Credit cards can be cancelled online, but I opt for the twenty-four hour “good faith waiting period,” believing my fellow man will not disappoint and the wallet will turn up. Ferry tickets purchased in advance online can be retrieved via email and are valid all day. Americans are taught to depend on our plastic and “not leave home without it.” But Aeneas sailed the Mediterranean without a credit card. Surely I can spend the day on Capri.
So, here I am, free from the fetters of capitalism, wind whipping through my unwashed hair, swimsuit under my sundress, backpack with everything I need: my journal, half a bag of trail mix, one bottle of water, a rapidly melting chocolate bar, a hunk of cheese I’ve been carrying since Rome, and two squished croissants wrapped in napkins from the free continental breakfast this morning. As we plow through the blue-green waters, frothing and churning cappuccino-like foam around the sides of the ferry, I spot something fast and gray leaping from the water. A dolphin. Then another. I point, and the people around me begin to take photos. The dolphins race in front of us, dive underneath us, leaping and plunging. I laugh like a child. Yes, I’ve seen dolphins all my life. I’m from Florida. I’ve even swum with them. But these are Mediterranean dolphins. They’ve been to Sicily, Tunisia, Spain, Sardinia, and Gibraltar. Their ancestors saw Vesuvius erupt, their great-grandporpoises watched submarine battles. These dolphins are dope. The playful pod follows us for about fifteen minutes before disappearing as quickly as it came.
Yin and Yang have still not answered any of my texts this morning. Maybe accidentally sexually assaulting a dinner companion and losing your wallet is not a valid excuse for a dine and dash?
ME: hey girls, sorry again
ME: lunch on me when I get new plastic
ME: heading to Capri if you want to meet
Crickets. I put the phone away. That’s fine. Better actually. What better way to truly appreciate the isolated beauty of a Mediterranean island than spending some time alone? This is exactly what I need. My phone chirps. I grab it quickly.
YANG: All good. Have fun DLT.
ME: not mad?
YANG: busy
ME: doing?
YANG: APAD
ME: ?
A photo pops up. Holy shit! I turn it sideways, trying to figure out which girl is actually holding the phone and how, but then I quickly turn the phone off and put it away so nobody thinks I’m looking at porn. The girls are busy. All pussy, all day. Suddenly wondering what Frantonio is doing today, I take my lonely figa for a walk along the shore.
Viale of Tranquil Independence and Serenity, Capri: Wednesday, 1:00 p.m.
I slowly make my way along a little road that winds along Capri’s coast. Why spend time poking around the crowded tourist shops in port, with no money to spend?
My brave plan had been to rent a scooter and tour the perimeter of the island, but now, without driver’s license or credit card, I will have to do it on foot. I strike off, choosing the road less traveled. This one meanders lazily along the coast with wide bends and curves, a thin line of rocky shore on my left, cliffs and million euro villas on my right. The gravel along the side of the road crunches under my sandals. The warm sun is a nice break from the wind on the ferry. I look up at the stunning private homes: glass picture windows, gurgling fountains, bright flowers spilling out of window boxes, classical statues. Who owns houses like these?
HOUSE 1: must belong to a French fashion designer, who is currently sketching a haute sheer tank top with a row of tiny pockets, an espresso on one side of her easel and a glass of wine on the other.
HOUSE 2: must have been purchased by a Swiss banking company for company retreats, but right now the CFO is dodging objects his Japanese mistress is hurling at him because she’s just found out his wife is pregnant.
HOUSE 3: a five-story monstrosity, which is surely owned by Tony Stark, who has been here a grand total of two times.
HOUSE 4: an elegant little shack with solar panels all over it must belong to Elon Musk, who bought it because he heard Tony had one.
HOUSE 5: with the blue shutters must be the haven of an elderly porn star who waited a bit too long to retire so she could afford an elevator in her hideaway.
Suddenly I hear a sharp whistle. A man has walked out onto the patio of one of the houses above me on the hill. Is he whistling at me? He turns around as he whistles again . . . it’s Harvey Keitel. I’m one hundred percent certain of it. He’s wearing blue bikini briefs and a furry rug of gray chest hair. Harvey Keitel is whistling at me! I look down and keep walking. I can’t explain why, but I’m suddenly nervous. Am I trespassing? Harvey Keitel is one of those celebs who are hard to separate from their characters. It’s him. Absolutely no doubt in my mind. I’m ninety percent sure. I wish Yang were here. Why do you always see cool things when you’re alone? I glance back, but now he’s gone back inside. It’s him. I’m seventy-five percent sure.
It doesn’t take long to leave civilization behind. This is what I want. I breathe in the fresh salt air, scented with fish, flowers, and exhaust from the occasional two-stroke engine that passes me by with a lawnmower-like hum. I’m enjoying the walk. I pass a little shrine built into the side of the hill, featuring a blinding white statue of Mary. Faded silk flowers in brass pots. Tall red candles in glass. I can just picture the old lady who walks out here every evening at sunset to light them. Her wooden cane and black orthopedic shoes, her black socks, long skirt, and the scarf on her head. She’s seventy-nine but still has a cigarette hanging from her mouth. I wonder what she would say about Harvey’s blue bikini briefs. I keep walking.
I’ll just find a quaint little fishing village, take some photos for my mother, and have a swim. Who wants crowded beach clubs with rented umbrellas and lounge chairs? This way I’ll find my own patch of paradise, have my little picnic on a secluded beach and, who knows, maybe take part in the local custom of topless sunbathing. I smile at this thought. Perché no? Why not? Probably the handsome son of a local fisherman will see me emerge from the crystal blue waters like a mermaid, my hair perfectly fanned out across my breasts. He’ll offer me a towel (which I forgot) and ask if I’ve seen the famous Blue Grotto.
“No, I haven’t seen anything,” I’ll reply.
“Bene, I want to show you everything,” he will say, taking my hand and leading me to a wooden dinghy. “La Grotta Azzura is full of boats and tourists. There are caves all through these majestic cliffs, many even more beautiful.” Then with his biceps straining against his white T-shirt, he’ll row us through a bay peppered with rocks, over coral reefs and schools of fish, along a winding shoreline, until our little boat bumps against a giant rock shaped like a sandcastle. Here, the tiny boat will slip into a beautiful, cool cave of shadows, with light reflected off the water, dancing on the walls. Shining, backlit drops of cold spring water from the heart of the mountain will rain down on us from the cave ceiling, as our voices echo softly.
“This is my favorite cave,” Sebastiano will say (that’s his name). “I’ve never shared it with anyone.�
�� Here, he will tie up the boat and pull off his shirt and shorts. His body is lean and fit, an athlete’s body. His muscular chest and legs are a deep tan. Wearing only his underpants, he’ll dive gracefully into the dark water. I’ll laugh as the boat rocks and then suddenly stop laughing as he climbs out of the water, onto a rock. His underpants are now gone. Standing on the edge of the rock, he will look sheepishly at me over one of his broad shoulders. “Mi dispiace,” he will apologize, “I can only swim without clothes. It is how I grew up.” Water dripping down his muscular back and off his perfectly shaped ass, he will remind me of a statue of a Greek god.
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed,” I’ll say nonchalantly. Then he’ll smile and jump into the air, splashing down into the water, rocking the boat wildly. He’ll be under so long that I’ll get worried and look over the edge, peering into the depths. Suddenly, he’ll emerge with a triumphant grin, holding a large conch shell.
“I have a large conch,” he will smile. “It is beautiful, no?”
“Sì. You do have a very nice conch.”
“You like conch?”
“I do like conch.”
“If you want my conch, you must come and get it,” he will laugh. And I will slip out of the boat and glide through the shallow water toward him. Placing the shell on a nearby rock, Sebastiano will reach out, pulling me into his arms, wrapping my legs around his waist, and kissing me with gusto. Thrusting his salty tongue inside my mouth, he’ll hold my body close to his, his strong hand gripping my ass. With his other hand, he’ll pull my wet hair gently but firmly back as he bites my neck playfully. I will kiss him back, feeling my pulse race as the soft waves beat against our bodies. I’ll reach down beneath the surface of the water between us and take his large, beautiful conch in my hands, gripping it gently as his fingers slip into my bikini—
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 7