by Laura Fraser
I SPEND ANOTHER couple days in Paris with Charlotte, wandering the streets, visiting museums, eating long lunches, and finding little shopping areas. With all the beautiful clothes and jewelry, we are still mainly interested in food; the only things we buy are mustards and salts from a gourmet shop on Île-St.-Louis. On our last day, we’re on a busy street near a bookstore, and I see a familiar figure emerge, with his curls and scarf. Out of everyone in Paris, I randomly run into the Professor on the street. I walk up to him and shake my head wordlessly.
He kisses me on both cheeks. “Incroyable,” he says. “You see? We keep meeting each other.” He glances at his watch.
“Ciao,” I say. Hello and good-bye. Ciao, ciao.
“Ciao, Laura,” he says, pulling away. “Ciao, bella. Ci vediamo.” We’ll see each other.
I WISH IT were as simple as the Professor made it sound, to just be my strong self and start traveling again. But I’ve had one good trip with my cousin, so I feel I can venture out again as long as I’m not alone.
On the way home, I stop off in New York to break up the trip and call Gustavo. He is busy but glad to hear from me, and one evening he takes me to a Brazilian restaurant, where we eat big chunks of meat, drink hearty red wine, and talk about movies. The restaurant is cozy and warm, and he speaks to the owner in Portuguese. He touches me affectionately, the way Brazilians do. We go back to where I’m staying, and I’m glad to feel that same chemistry, drawn to his irresistible sexiness. We kiss, but he can’t understand why I keep pulling away, repeatedly getting up to get a glass of water or use the bathroom. I don’t want to tell him, it seems like too much information, too intimate—strangely, for all that we’ve been intimate—but then I finally stammer out that I haven’t felt comfortable with men since I was sexually assaulted several months ago. I say “sexually assaulted” as a euphemism but hate that it takes so many more syllables to say.
“I’m sorry about that,” says Gustavo and touches my cheek. I’m glad he isn’t reacting as though it’s a huge horrible deal, the way a couple of my women friends did. “But I think—what’s the expression you use in English?” he asks, his big brown eyes searching mine. Then he has it. “I think you better get back up on the horse.” And then he pulls me toward him, puts his familiar arms around me, safe, holds me tight for a moment, and starts kissing me again. I let myself go; I do want to get back to being myself, to feeling sexy, to being able to make love, to trust. Even though I know I’m not going to be with Gustavo in the long run—and maybe because of that, because there is no great emotional risk—I feel comfortable with him, with his animal self, who finds the animal within me again, who wakens her and plays with her and strokes her softly until morning.
IN MAY, ANOTHER opportunity to go to Italy falls into my lap; Gourmet wants me to write a story about the cuisine of my favorite islands in the world, the Aeolians, the archipelago north of Sicily. This is a dream assignment, but I’m hesitant. A year after my trip to Samoa, I still do not want to travel by myself, even in a country I know well, where I speak the language. I’m uncomfortable, too, with the idea of eating at all those restaurants by myself. You can’t enjoy meals in Italy so much if you eat alone, the food doesn’t taste as good. And I’m conflicted about returning to a place where I had a romantic love affair.
There are some places to which you should probably never return. The Professor mentioned that to me several years ago, when we were on a boat to the Aeolian Islands, watching the volcano on Stromboli blowing smoke into the dawn like an Italian lighting his first cigarette of the morning. The Professor had climbed the volcano years before and never wanted to go back, for fear that the lines of tourists with their headlamps and walking sticks would forever mar the memory of his astonishing overnight trip to the edge of the erupting crater. “But you must go,” he told me, blowing a few smoke rings himself. “Absolutely.”
I did climb Stromboli on that trip, with a couple of amusing Italian men I met on a hydrofoil zipping between the islands. After a steep and rocky hike to the summit, we watched as molten red lava spewed into the sunset and rolled down the mountain, crashing into the ocean with a hissing boom. It’s a sight I’m forever grateful I didn’t miss. But walking down in the twilight, I knew, as the Professor had, that I’d probably never want to make that trek again. And now I’m not sure I want to return to the Aeolians at all.
I call my friend Giovanna in Bologna. I met her when she was doing a house trade in San Francisco ten years ago; I visited her in Bologna, and she came back and stayed with me for a month, nothing an Italian considers an imposition—really, a favor to a single friend. Giovanna would cook dinner every night, making dishes I didn’t think were possible with American ingredients; it was only when I visited her in Bologna that I realized the dishes could taste even better, just from ingredients grown on Italian soil.
I mention the story idea to Giovanna, the fact that a magazine is going to pay my way to the islands, we can share a hotel room, and they’ll take care of all the meals with a friend. Then I launch into how I’m not sure I should go, if it will spoil the memory to return, how I’m not really up for a trip by myself.
“Dai,” she interrupts me. Come on. “Andiamoci!” she says. Let’s go!
And so I find myself once again in Naples, to meet Giovanna at the dock, where the hydrofoil will take us to the islands. Giovanna, a Giulietta Masina lookalike with the same impish flair, shows up with eggplant-colored hair, orange jeans, and a bright pink sarong for me to wear on the islands. We greet each other in a flurry of kisses on each other’s cheeks.
When the hydrofoil slows down and the islands first come into view, they look dry and inhospitable; they are desolate places where all living things—figs, capers, apricots, rabbits—struggle so for survival that they are bursting with the intense fragrances and flavors of a brief but concentrated life. Suddenly I am hungry: for the spicy perfume of pale pink caper flowers, for fish that swim in turquoise waters, for sweet cherry tomatoes that explode in your mouth like Stromboli, for pasta with fennel and sardines.
We spot the island of Stromboli, its whitewashed houses stacked up by the port. I don’t want to mar the magnificent memory of that place, so we don’t disembark. I remember Stromboli’s charm, though—its narrow streets and its nervous atmosphere in the shadow of the volcano. And then there’s the carnation-colored house with its plaque commemorating the place where Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini had an affair while filming Stromboli. (Previously, Anna Magnani, who had been living with Rossellini and had been promised the lead, overturned a bowl of bucatini with red sauce on his head before fleeing with the crew to another island, Vulcano, to make an equally forgettable film by that name.)
If there were a plaque somewhere in the Aeolians to commemorate a love affair of my own, it would be on Filicudi, one of the remotest and most desolate islands. There, for ten days, I stayed with the French professor in a white house at the top of a steep hill overlooking the port and the other craggy islands beyond. We did nothing but read, swim, make love, and decide where we wanted to eat that day. I always voted for Villa La Rosa, for the pasta of wild fennel fronds and sardines, which tasted exactly like the island’s aromatic sea breeze. As with Stromboli, Filicudi is a place where I can’t return, for fear of spoiling the memory of those magical days. Those days with the Professor were too perfect, that relationship too precious; I don’t want to touch it, to pretend that you can have everything in life over and over again, but preserve it in the amber of memory.
That still leaves five other islands to explore, though, each with a unique personality. Panarea attracts chic Italians and honeymooners but is all tranquillity in the off-season. Lipari is the largest and most industrialized island, with a fascinating museum filled with relics from all the ships that have sunk in these violent seas since before the first Greek settlers arrived. Salina is sleepy and agricultural, covered with vineyards that bear grapes for the region’s distinctive Malvasia wine. Vulcano, the island c
losest to Sicily, is heavily touristed on its hot-bubbling shores, but up the mountain’s uplands are home to pastures that yield some of the world’s best ricotta cheese. Small, outlying Alicudi has no cars and few tourist facilities—really, nothing at all.
On my last visit, all I wanted to do on the islands with the Professor was what the Italians consider an art, far niente—do nothing. Giovanna isn’t content to far niente on the islands; she wants to explore all the tastes, sights, and activities I missed before. “Zampetta, zampetta,” she says, meaning “A little paw here and a little paw there, and we’ll try everything.” Va bene.
For several days, Giovanna and I explore the beaches and hills of Panarea, then eat our way around Lipari. At one, we have an exquisite caponata; in another, a fish stew made with tomatoes, capers, and dried bread. Yet for all those good meals, a corner of my hunger remains unsatisfied. I haven’t tasted pasta with fennel fronds and sardines yet. Nor will I find the dish I want on Lipari. For that, we would have to go to Filicudi.
As we check the hydrofoil schedules for the next day, I am reluctant to return to Filicudi still, but I am more afraid that I will never taste that fennel pasta at Villa La Rosa again.
When we get to the island, to my relief, nothing has changed—its rocky beaches and hills terraced with ancient stone walls are still there. We rent kayaks to explore the island and, carefully navigating a jellyfish soup, come across a blue grotto. Occasionally, on some invisible cue, two thousand tiny, silvery fish arc into the air. We paddle back, ravenous, and hike the steep path cutting up the side of the hill, to Villa La Rosa perched above.
“Magnifico,” Giovanna says when we pause to catch our breath and stare out at the sea. Finally at the villa, we sit at a cool table on the airy, colorful terrace. The waiter warns us that they have only two pasta dishes that day. One with almonds—I hold my breath—and maccheroncini ai finocchietto. “It’s made from the wild fennel growing around here,” the waiter explains. Ahh.
The aroma arrives first, the sardines of the sea mixed with the fennel fronds of the island. With the plate in front of me, I pause, my desire mixed with a fear of disappointment. But the pasta is perfectly al dente, with grated bread crumbs on top and a few raisins peeking out; the fennel fronds and sardines have a wild, simple taste that satisfies me to the soul. I offer Giovanna a bite, but she refuses. “That is your pasta,” she says. “And this is your island.” Of the seven, she herself would pick Panarea.
I am in the very restaurant where I realized my affair with the Professor would come to an end, when he told me I was the perfect woman for vacation and left “not forever” unsaid. But right now, no trace of sadness lingers. The Professor and I had a wonderful time, and now I have the good luck to be back with a dear friend, having that same exquisite pasta, made from the same fennel fronds growing all around outside, perfuming the air. Even the wine tastes like the dry, herbal breeze. After the pasta comes grilled totano, a tender, savory giant of a squid stuffed with crunchy, olive oil–baked bread crumbs. And then a couple of perfect apricots from a tree. There should be a plaque up at Villa La Rosa, for the best lunch I’ve ever eaten.
I’m content here with my friend, the atmosphere, and our lunch; content for the first time in the year since I was in Samoa, in the two years since I turned forty. La bella vita continues in life if you let it, whatever the circumstances, and you don’t have to be with a man the whole time to enjoy yourself. It’s sweet to be with a lover, to be sure, but there’s nothing wrong with being with one of your best friends, enjoying one of the most satisfying meals of your life, out tasting what the world has to offer, chiacchierando, chatting the way only women can.
“So,” says Giovanna, “tell me about your boyfriends.”
“No boyfriends,” I say, ordering an espresso. “I have been going on a few dates here and there.”
“You always say that, and then you tell me about four different men who are crazy about you,” she says, pressing her fingers together in front of her. “You always have something simmering on the stove.”
“Not right now. Right now I’m happy to be here.” I gesture at the view of the sea.
“Giusto,” she says. That’s right.
“I mean, I suppose you can always find someone to go out with if you want to,” I say. “It’s about whether or not you want to.”
Giovanna bursts out laughing. “So the situation is not desperate.”
“There are always all kinds of stories,” I say. “For me, more short stories than novels.” I tell her I’ve had a few fun dates, but nothing ever felt quite right.
“È così,” she says. It’s like that.
“Lately I’ve been feeling like I want someone more stable, someone who will stick around. It’s the first time in my life I’ve wanted a man around so he could take care of me, give me protezione.” I don’t explain to her why I need to feel protected; I’m just glad I can even talk about dating again.
Our espressos arrive. Giovanna recently broke up with her husband, a big, clever, narcissistic personality who had likely been cheating on her for years. (Once when I was staying with them, Giovanna went to pick up friends at the airport; he looked at his watch, said, “We’ve got half an hour,” with a sexy smile, adjusted his pants, and, though he was kidding, I knew he would’ve been happy for me to take it seriously.) Giovanna is fairly upbeat, though it hasn’t been easy. She spends most of her time with her family and wide circle of female friends. She tells me she’s ready to start seeing other men.
“Are you ever afraid of getting involved with someone new because you don’t trust yourself not to make another mistake?” I ask her. “Do you sometimes date men you know aren’t right just because you’re sure they won’t break your heart?”
Giovanna sighs. “Look,” she says. “All men are stronzi.” Loosely translated, this means that all men are turds; but it isn’t as harsh as it sounds in English. In Italian, stronzi can be sort of affectionate, like saying all men are dogs, but they can be good dogs.
I nod. I more or less agree.
“You just have to let men be men,” she says. “They’re different from women. Sometimes you Americans forget about that, you’re so interested in having the man do the dishes, share his feelings, and pick out the perfect earrings for you. Sometimes it seems like you’re looking for a man who will be your best girlfriend. But you don’t really want that. You want a man. You want a stronzo.”
“You’re right,” I say. I mean, there’s no way I’m doing all the dishes, but I do want a man who is a man. “A good stronzo.”
“Sì.”
But the problem, I tell her, is that I can’t tell one stronzo from another, a good dog from a bad dog, and I don’t want to get bitten again.
“Relationships are sometimes wrong, but so you made a mistake, not a fatal error,” Giovanna says, downing her espresso in one quick gulp. “You’re smarter now.”
I pick up the sliver of lemon rind on the espresso saucer and take a tiny bite. “In English, we have a term, an acronym, for bad relationships, bad experiences,” I tell her. “AFOG. Another Fucking Opportunity for Growth.” I tick the letters off on my fingers.
“Afog,” she pronounces in her Italian accent, and we both laugh.
We head back down the hill to the ferry, the light fading, Stromboli shooting sparks into the darkening sky, and make it back to our hotel. In the morning, after coffee, Giovanna leaves for Palermo, and I go to Naples, then back to Rome and home. We kiss cheeks, and she waves as I board the boat.
When I disembark in Naples, in the port area, I realize it’s not the best part of town and I’m alone. I feel frozen for a second, things seem unfamiliar, and then I take a deep breath. I have been here before. I tuck in my jewelry, hold my passport and money close, and act as though I know where I’m going.
It’s February, and I’m celebrating my forty-fourth birthday, throwing a pizza party with my friend Guillermo, the Italians and Latin Americans competing against each other to
see who can make the perfect crust, the guests happy for whatever combination of arugula, prosciutto, mozzarella, or mushrooms comes out of the kitchen next. I’m grateful for my lively group of friends, and many tell me, leaving the party, that they met so many interesting people.
Sandra helps me clean up, collecting wineglasses and washing dishes. “This was fun,” she says, as we dry the last of the pile.
“Definitely,” I say, flicking back the olive green boa my Italian friend Tonia gave me earlier in the evening. I pour us another glass of wine and we finally sit, sinking into the couch.
“Here’s to a great year,” she says, and we clink glasses. We revisit the guests—who was funny, who was the handsome guy with the gray hair, who didn’t show up, when did so-and-so get divorced. “There were some really nice, interesting, smart men here,” Sandra observes. “Why aren’t you dating any of them?”
“There’s a different, complicated reason for each one,” I tell her. “Let’s just say I’m lucky to have a lot of great friends.”
“Things haven’t exactly been easy for you in the past couple years, especially with men.” She folds a dish towel. “I suppose it doesn’t get easier for any of us after forty. It’s tough terrain.”
I nod. She’s faced a lot of challenges herself: a child with learning difficulties, trying to keep her family afloat financially, having to move to the suburbs to find an affordable school. Almost anyone who is middle-aged can give you a long list of things that have gone wrong or that didn’t turn out the way they expected. But at least by now we have some measure of experience and wisdom to deal with it all. “Things definitely aren’t easy for anyone.”
I have made progress, I tell her, in getting over my setback, a difficult experience that left me skittish with men, more aware of my vulnerability. I have even come to think that it’s probably not such a bad thing that I am more in touch with that side of myself. But though I’ve dated a couple of men, even for a few months each, I still feel buffeted around by my fears. I’m also still unsure how to reconcile my wanderlust and desire for companionship and a home. In other words, I am right where I started when I headed out into my forties.