HONK! A truck blasts its horn at me as it passes. I’m absentmindedly walking in the actual road, and seem to have a hand on my own breast. Oops. Best not to get arrested for public lewdness on my first trip to Italy. I pause for water. I’ve been walking for hours (actually about fifty-five minutes). My sandals have worn blisters on my feet. The sun is beating down on me and sweat is pouring down my face, arms, legs. I can’t believe I haven’t come upon a single village or anything. The bend in the road I’m approaching will be the fourth time I’ve said, “I’ll just see what’s around that bend and then turn around if it’s nothing good.” Each previous bend revealed only more winding shoreline, white sand, hazy blue waters . . . and another bend.
If I have one admirable characteristic, it’s the fact that I don’t give up easily. Once I’ve invested in an idea, I will see it pay off—if it kills me. Will calls it stubbornness. I call it tenacity. How was I going to find Sebastiano if I didn’t find a little fishing village?
Finally, around bend number seven, I see a small wooden dock stretching into the water. It reminds me of one at my mother’s bed and breakfast, old and falling apart. But there is a small motorboat tied up nearby, and two more dinghies further on. The hillside is dotted with a few tiny houses. Not a soul in sight. I guess this is as good as I’m going to get. In the distance I see larger fishing boats, but I simply cannot walk any further. I walk out to the end of the little dock. The water is clear and beautiful, deep enough for a swim, but not over my head. Perfetto. I smile, thinking of Ernesto. I spread out my sarong on the splintering wood, set down my backpack, pull off my sandals, and unpack my picnic. The cheese has sprouted a nice layer of mold. I wrap it back up. Instead, I smear the molten contents of the foil that previously held a chocolate bar onto one of the croissants and devour it. By the time I’m finished I have chocolate on my face, neck, fingers, and elbow (no idea).
I pull off my sundress. Remembering the locals go topless at many beaches in Italy, I work up the courage to actually try it myself. I look around. Nobody in sight. Two seagulls on the beach, arguing loudly over a piece of decaying crab, are my only companions. I slide into the cool water. Fuck it! But then, “What if someone drives by?” Modesty whispers inside me. I thought I’d ditched her in Rome. What a pain in the ass. She’s always piping up just when things are about to get fun. I ignore her and untie my bikini top. My breasts float gently in the water. I submerge myself and peel off the rest of my suit—my figa is free! I toss my suit onto the dock.
In my natural mermaid state, I dive under the cool, clear water, swimming as far as I can in one breath. I resurface and realize I’m only about five yards away from the dock. I do the breaststroke. I swim with my feet together like a tail, and rapidly sink. I float on my back, aiming my breasts skyward, letting the sun kiss my entire naked body through the clear water. Perfetto! Pleased at how easily I float, I squint at the white puffy clouds above me. The Mediterranean Sea is much older than the Gulf of Mexico. It’s saltier. That’s why I’m floating more easily. (Not the nonstop pasta, pizza, and gelato.) I splash my feet with joy. My shoulder scrapes against something slimy.
Yelping, I turn, freaked out. It’s only a little buoy, floating and bobbing on the surface of the water, covered with algae. I peer downward and see a crab trap at the other end of the tether. It’s wedged against some rocks. Curious, I dive down to see if anything is inside. The water is clear but salty, so I only open my eyes a bit. Through the cracks in the wooden cage, I see . . . tentacles! WHAT? Surprise robs me of all the air in my lungs as bubbles rush upward. I resurface quickly. There’s an octopus in there! A real, live, beautiful Mediterranean octopus! Something I’d never dreamed of seeing in the wild. How fantastic. And horrible! He’s caught in that awful crab trap. With horror, I have a vision of that beautiful pink creature carved into pieces and dressed with lemon and olive oil on somebody’s plate tomorrow. Maybe even tonight! I have no time to waste.
THINGS TO REMEMBER WHEN FREEING OCTOPUSES FROM TRAPS:
1. Don’t.
2. It’s stronger than you are, and apparently smarter.
3. It’s not stuck. It’s enjoying a meal.
4. It will exit the way it entered, through the cracks.
5. Crab traps come with locks.
6. Bashing something underwater is harder than it looks.
7. If some of the tentacles are out of the cage, do not gently pull on them trying to help the octopus escape. It’s trying to escape from you.
8. A scared octopus will squirt ink.
9. Octopus ink contains Tyrosinase, which will badly irritate your eyes and make you lose your sense of smell for a while.
I burst through the surface of the water, yelling in pain, eyes burning like fire, arms flailing like a—well there’s nothing that comes close really. Wading blindly out of the water, I hear a voice and stop in my tracks. I pry one burning eye open with a grimace and find myself standing naked in front of a very angry man. This is not Sebastiano. But it may be his grandfather.
“Cosa stai facendo alla mia trappola?” There is no sympathy here. Not even a trace of appreciation or amusement at the fact that I’m standing naked in front of him. He’s pointing at the trap, so it’s obviously his.
“Do you have water?” I ask. “My eyes are on fire! I can hardly see.” But what I do see is the woman on the porch of the small house on the hill who begins to yell at us both.
“Sciattona Americana! Cosa stai facendo con mio marito?” she yells angrily. “Vattene, sciattona Americana!” I don’t need to know the words—her meaning is clear.
The husband yells back at her. I take this opportunity to limp quickly over rocks, using one eye like a pirate, and get back to my bag on the dock. I wrap my sarong around me, pour the rest of my bottle of water into my eyes (I will regret this later), slip my sandals on, and grab my swimsuit. With squinted eyes, I make it back to the road. As I go, I repeat the Italian phrase I’ve come to know best: “Mi dispiace molto.” (I’m very sorry.)
Chapter 14
How Not to Hitchhike
Viale of Bloody Blisters and Humiliation, Capri: Wednesday, 3:49 p.m.
The road is definitely much longer on the way back. My blisters are bleeding. My mouth is dry. I’m once again drenched with sweat. Also, the sun is definitely hotter than it was before, now bouncing off the asphalt and frying me from all directions like a convection oven. My eyes are still burning and my salty skin itches. But, on the bright side, I can’t smell the fish and exhaust of passing motorists anymore.
In fact, I can’t smell anything. This sensation is more than slightly disturbing, but I distract myself by brainstorming different scientific applications of this special quality of octopus ink. Just imagine if we could improve the lives of people who worked around terrible smells all day: garbage men, elephant trainers, daycare workers, or those ladies in the Macy’s perfume department. One quick squirt of octopus ink up your nose before work, and you’d be invincible for hours. Granted, the application technique needed some work, but the idea was solid. The biggest challenge was going to be acquiring the ink humanely, since an octopus inking is basically the equivalent of a human shitting his pants.
Viale of Unending Torture, Capri: Wednesday, 4:17 p.m.
I’m still walking and I haven’t even reached the little shrine yet. How does the old lady that lights the candles do this walk every day? No wonder she has orthopedic shoes. I decide to rest—there’s a nice rock in the shade. I take off my sandals to examine my blisters. Won’t be wearing my ridiculously uncomfortable stilettos anytime soon. My shoulders are burnt. My water bottle is empty. Crap. That’s when I hear a rustling in the bushes behind me and jump up in alarm. Mountain lion? Goat? I take a few steps into the road, away from the sounds, and a black and white dog emerges.
“Oh, hi pup,” I say. I love dogs and have a compulsion to pet every dog I see, despite the fact that I’ve been bitten twice. This one is a cute, midsized mutt with a collar. He’s someone’s pet.
Harmless, I decide. He looks at me, his head cocked, tail stiff. Apparently the jury is still out on me. I rummage in my bag and pull out the moldy cheese. Dogs love cheese. Especially moldy cheese, right? He’s already sniffing the air. “Come on boy, have some cheese.”
His tail wags a bit. Realizing he’s an Italian dog and probably speaks Italian, I try, “Formaggio, mmmm.” He takes a step toward me. I hold the cheese out and he creeps closer to me. “Buono, mmmm.” I sniff the cheese (I can’t smell it, thank God), and hold it out to him again. He takes a final step, stretching his neck out, and gingerly takes the cheese from my hand. Yes! I now speak Dog Italian. I reach out to pet him and he growls and lunges. I jump back, terrified. The dog grabs the cheese and takes off toward the port. “Asshole! I gave you moldy cheese!” The dog disappears. I start walking again. Slowly.
A car passes me, and I see a toddler wave at me from the passenger seat. That was nice. I suddenly remember that people here are very nice (unless you’re meddling with their crab traps—or their husbands). Why am I walking? I should just stick my thumb out and get a ride back to the port. Easy. Somebody will surely stop. A nice Belgian couple on vacation with their baby perhaps? A local grocer on his way to the post office? Harvey Keitel? A mentally unstable butcher’s apprentice looking for a fresh piece of meat to practice carving? On second thought, maybe I’ll keep walking. It can’t be that much farther.
Aunt Catherine, my father’s sister, would not be proud of me right now. She walked for eight weeks along the Camino de Santiago, a pilgrim’s trail in Spain, for her sixtieth birthday. Next, she plans to do the Pacific Coast Trail. Having recently seen Wild, I’d stupidly promised to accompany her, and I’m now regretting that with every step. It’s been half a day of walking, and I’m falling apart. What is wrong with me? I thought I was young and fit.
After another fifteen minutes, all my convictions collapse. I want a ride. I try to block out the Unsolved Mysteries episode I’d seen on TV as a child, where the girl is last seen getting into a 1986 brown Camaro with a hand-painted fender. I try not to remember how mad Will was when Laurel and I hitched from Miami to the Suwannee Music Festival in college. “You’re lucky you weren’t found in the trunk of some nutjob’s car. This is why hitchhiking is illegal.” Wait, is hitchhiking illegal in Italy? Surely not.
DO’S AND DON’T’S FOR HITCHHIKING IN ITALY:
1. Do: walk on the edge of the road.
2. Don’t: stick your leg out a little.
3. Do: stick your arm and thumb out.
4. Don’t: change your mind and retract both leg and thumb.
5. Don’t: decide to wait until you can see who is in the car first.
6. Don’t: see a woman and her kids and put your thumb out too late.
7. Don’t: see a man driving alone and hide behind some rocks.
8. Don’t: see a truck with old geezers and put your thumb out too late.
9. Do: throw caution to the wind, close your eyes, and stick your thumb out.
I hear a car pull over. I open my eyes. It’s the police. Shit.
AT THIS POINT, IF: a police jeep is pulled over with its lights on . . .
YOU SHOULD: walk calmly up to the window and say, “Buongiorno.”
DO NOT:
1. Try to run the other way. You won’t get far on your bloody stumps.
2. Put your hands in the air. This is not American TV.
3. Ask if hitchhiking is illegal. It is. But they don’t care.
4. Pretend you have injured yourself, limping up to the jeep. Later you’ll forget which foot is supposed to be hurt.
My heart pounds as I limp (right foot) up to the window of the jeep. Inside are two port policemen. The driver looks younger than I am, his partner early thirties. I expect them to issue me another fine or at least tell me hitchhiking is dangerous.
“Ciao,” smiles the driver.
“Ciao,” I reply.
“Lei Americana?”
“Sì, I’m American.”
“You are hurt?” he asks, looking down at my foot. “I walked too far.”
“Andiamo al porto,” says his partner, “We go to port. Prendiamo un caffè” Then, to his partner, “Come si dice?”
“You want to go to take a coffee with us?” the driver asks. I process this. I’m not under arrest. I’m an attractive American girl in a swimsuit and sundress. These are Italian men, who would like to practice their English. I’m fairly sure I smell terrible, drenched with sweat, but I still can’t smell much so I hope they can’t either.
“Sì, grazie.” I smile.
“Ok-ay,” says the younger driver, just as his jeep stalls out. He looks embarrassed as he starts it up again.
“Ti piace la musica country?” asks the older one, but he doesn’t wait for a reply. Of course all Americans like country music. “Gianni Cash!”
“No, non di nuovo,” protests the young driver. His partner ignores him, fiddling with an older model phone, rigged via life support cables to the stereo. Suddenly, “Cry! Cry! Cry!” blasts from the speakers. Today, I love country music.
Bar La Vela, Marina Grande, Capri: Wednesday, 5:02 p.m.
I’ve dubbed my new Italian police pals Tango and Cash. Enjoying a latte, I relate what happened this morning with the octopus, as well as how I lost my wallet the night before. I’m not sure if it’s the stories they find highly entertaining or my broken Italian-English-charades routine. My sense of smell is starting to return when Cash, the older one, lights up a cigarette at the table. He’s having espresso and cigarettes. Tango, the young one, is having gelato con panna (whipped cream). With hat and sunglasses off, I realize he’s much more handsome than I’d realized. Maybe it’s the uniform, or the fact that he rescued me from dehydration and death by vultures, but Tango’s looking cuter by the minute.
He’s also pretty nervous around me. When my foot accidentally brushes his under the table, he jumps a little, smearing whipped cream from his gelato onto the tip of his nose. He’s got blue eyes and dark brown hair, cut short. There’s a little scar on his left cheekbone, under his eye. Cash tells me that Tango’s only recently completed his port police training. I wonder if there was a lesson on picking up stray girls, or if this is a skill Italian boys are born with. The tiny scar is intriguing.
“Were you in a fight with smugglers?” I ask Tango, gesturing to my own cheek to indicate his scar.
“Come smug-lers?” asks Cash.
“You know, criminals who take the drugs on the boats,” I explain.
“Ah! Miami Vice!” Cash finds this hysterical.
“Yes,” I say, pleased. Tango looks embarrassed.
“He was big fight—with surfing board,” says Cash, laughing. “After looking Patrick Swayze Point Break movie.”
“I try to do surfing,” explains Tango, irritated at his partner. “Only one time.” Now, I feel bad for bringing it up.
“Well, surfing is hard,” I say. “It takes more than once.” Tango puts his sunglasses back on, feeling self-conscious. “No, let me see.” I reach up and take them off. This gets Cash’s attention. “It’s cool. It makes you look tough,” I say. Tango likes this. I reach up and gently touch the scar. “Kinda sexy,” I nod. He blushes.
Cash starts laughing again and says something in Italian. Tango shakes his head, shrugs. But Cash keeps goading him. Tango looks at me, uncertain. Cash puts his cigarette out—he means business.
“You stay at Capri tonight?” asks Cash.
“No, I’m taking the ferry back to Positano,” I reply. “I have friends there.”
“Boyfriend?” Cash asks.
“No, girlfriends,” I answer. Cash grins, pokes his partner. Tango relents.
“My friend has a birthday party tonight. Would you like to come there with me?”
“That sounds fun, but my room where I’m sleeping tonight is in Positano,” I say.
“You sleep here, with him,” says Cash. I raise an eyebrow at him. Tango just gives me a nonchalant shrug and a nod, tryi
ng to look cool, but I notice beads of newly formed sweat on his brow. “Perché no?” asks Cash. Why not?
CONS:
1. No ID or money.
2. No idea who this guy is.
3. New friends in Positano.
PROS:
1. No ID or money. Can’t go out anyway.
2. He’s cute.
3. I can’t resist a man in uniform.
It’s a tie. Their radio squawks loudly on the table. A gritty voice on the other end says something about dogs? Tango stands, relieved. I stand up too.
“Smugglers?” I ask with a smile.
“We must go, the dog is in the hotel pool again,” explains Tango.
“And they call you? Why?”
“He is throw-up-ing in pool.”
“But, you’re the police.”
“Sì, però, it is . . . come si dice, delicato . . . .”
“Delicate?”
“Sì,” Tango nods.
“Why, whose dog?” I ask. I’m just about to mention the dog I saw.
“A famous actor,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“I saw him!” I say triumphantly. I’m sure it was Keitel now. But, then I realize he wasn’t whistling at me, he was calling his dog. The same dog I called an asshole and fed moldy cheese. And now, he’s “throw-up-ing” in the pool. Tango leans in and awkwardly kisses me goodbye on both cheeks.
“He is finish here, later, at six.” Cash points to a small office on the other side of the marina, in case I change my mind about staying with Tango.
“That’s my ferry,” I say, pointing.
“Ok-ay. No problem. Ciao, bella,” Tango says sweetly. Cash also kisses me goodbye and whispers into my ear.
“He virgin.” Cash’s face is über-serious as he nods toward Tango. He walks to the jeep. I stare in surprise. Why’s Cash telling me this? Because I’m a sciattona Americana? Tango starts the engine and waves innocently, no idea his partner just ratted him out. I smile back. He gives me the surfer shaka hand sign, like he’s in California. Adorable. He smiles and revs the engine. The jeep stalls out again. This kills me. I try not to laugh as they drive away. I look at the ferry, now docking. Must re-evaluate.
A Not So Lonely Planet Page 8