Last weekend I found myself on the rooftop of a hostel in
Sorrento, drinking wine, and having a heart to heart with some people from my
program. The question was posed: “what’s your favorite moment of this trip?” I’ve
had my last day of class, said goodbye to some amazing friends, and the first
leg of my summer is officially over. I keep wondering, what is my favorite moment of this trip? The
answer is that there isn’t one moment, there are a hundred different moments,
some brighter than others, and they are all a dream.
Italy is a dream. It is a place
rich with history, savory like proscuitto, baked gold in the sun, and surrounded by
brilliant waters. For my whole life I have dreamed of Italy. I have dreamt of
walking through rows of grapes on the Tuscan countryside, of eating pasta in a
rustic café, of sipping cappuccino in the early morning mist. The layers of
history are dreams themselves, half forgotten whispers that come to life in the
crumbling ruins of Pompeii or the Coliseum. Ah yes, Italy is a dream, all the
way from the cliffs that plunge into the Mediterranean, to the villas shrouded
in grape vines, to the towering cypress trees and the smell of bread wafting
from the bakeries.
In the past
month my dreams of Italy have solidified into reality. The memories I have are
dreamlike in themselves – I have to pinch myself to remember they truly
happened. They are rose tinted memories that will age like wine into a warm,
full-bodied, exquisite mouthful of nostalgia…
The first
glimpse of the Duomo of Florence up close is simply awe-inspiring. It hits you
in the chest and steals your breath away, makes your eyes pop, pulls your
eyebrows up, and your jaw down. The Duomo is not aggressive, however. But calm.
She is a sophisticated beauty who knows how good she looks, and commands the
spotlight with graceful ease. She is mysterious, coquettish, complicated and,
of course, devoutly and humbly religious - reminiscent of the Virgin Mary
herself. From a distance, atop Piazza Michelangelo, I watch the sun rise over
the city. Florence is calm in the mornings, before it rumbles to life with the
shouting street vendors, and before it drinks in the seething summer heat. The
lazy Arno begins to turn pink with the sky, as light touches the tower of the
Palazzo Vecchio, and the great bulk of the lovely Duomo. Birds sing their
morning anthem, and a new day dawns.
I find
myself on a rickety, one-person chairlift, climbing the mountain of the Island
of Capri. My feet are missing the weight of skis, and are instead adorned in
homemade leather sandals. There is no snow. Instead, a blanket of emerald grass
unfurls into the iridescent waters below. White washed houses, brilliant purple
flowers, and lush trees dot the landscape, as I rise ever higher above it all.
I am deliriously happy, warm from the gentle morning sun, cooled by the salty
breeze that plays on my skin. I can’t drink in enough of this beautiful island,
of the cliffs rising from the water, of the smell of sea and forest. This
moment is perfection. The sun will never drift behind the clouds, the breeze
will never cease, the water will forever remain as brilliant as a blue diamond,
and the yellow flowers sweeping my feet will simply never wilt.
My belly is
full of fresh pasta, olive oil, garlic, and bread. I lean with friends on the
iron gate of someone’s garden in Ana Capri. “Isn’t it the most perfect garden
you’ve ever seen?” One of them asks. “It’s perfectly European,” I reply, and it
is. There are peppers hanging to dry above a wooden door. Baskets of fruit and
colorful flowers and a bright red Vespa surround the little courtyard. As we
watch, an old man with skin like Italian leather and wrinkles as deep as the
sea emerges from the house. “Ciao, can I help you?” He asks. The next thing I
know we are on the other side of the iron gate, standing amongst the fruit and
flowers, the recipients of true Italian hospitality.
The old man, Pepito,
introduces us to his dog Vincent. His wife, Lucia, brings us
fresh-from-the-oven pastries with dried fruit and powdered sugar. We speak in
broken Italian and English, and manage to communicate with laughs and smiles
and wild Italian hand gestures. This old couple defines Italian values – the
importance of good food, shared in a true home. They speak of their family,
display a cross above their door, live simply, close to the earth and ocean,
and smile often. Their warmth is as infectious as the Mediterranean sun.
The
afternoon sun beats down a pebble beach in Capri, and I escape the heat by
plunging into the turquoise water. It is so clear I can see the coral and rocks
at the bottom, through the gentle waves. I swim out a distance and turn around
to appreciate the view of the island. The simple fact that I am there, in that
blue, blue ocean, is almost too much to handle. My face hurts from smiling so
much. I rise and fall with the waves, hesitant to ever leave.
The sun is
setting off the coast of Sorrento. I stand n a rooftop, a glass of white wine
cool in my hand. Wine in Italy is an art, a way of life. Wine is the flavor of
the country, wine is the blood of Italy. Standing on that rooftop the
importance of the drink is heavy in my mouth, filling my senses, and warming my
soul. I watch as the sky catches fire. The clouds blush like a lover, and the
sun gently kisses the sea. My body is warm from the Mediterranean sun, my skin
has been scrubbed by the salty ocean. I am tired in the way you are after
spending a day in the salt and sand – spent, but absolutely content. The water
dances with fairy dust as the sun slowly sinks into the sea, and I close my
eyes in an attempt to hold it there forever.
It is
nighttime now, and on the streets of Rome I have found a giant TV screen,
erected in a campo for the World Cup. I am surrounded by blue jerseys, face
paint, air horns, and waving Italian flags. I am adrift in a sea of patriotism.
The crowd swells in unison with the flashy blue figures on the screen. We rise
up as the ball flies toward the goal, and come crashing down in a rush of boos
and sighs as the ball ricochets off the post. The game is ending, and the crowd
erupts into a storm of cheers and shouts. “Italia!!!” We have won. Above the
cheering masses, four bronze horses strain to pull a chariot up to heaven. The
figure of Victor Emanuel II watches us all from atop the Capitol Hill.
The sky
explodes and I feel the booms and crackles in my chest. My neck is strained
upwards so I can watch the entire sky sparkle above the city of Florence. On
this, Saint Johns day, I celebrate with the Florentines beneath flashes of red,
white, and green. I watch as glittering tendrils burst and drift to the ground.
Sounds of ooh and ahh don’t need translation. There is no language barrier in
our childlike wonder.
And on my
last night in Florence with my friends from the trip, I eat the most delicious gelato
on the steps of the beautiful Duomo, who glows under the stars. We watch as
tourists snap pictures, as the street vendors try and catch your attention with
flashing lights and laser pointers, and we listen to a violinist play her sad
tune. My friends all left the next morning, off to Paris and Dublin and home to
the States, while I welcomed my family to the city of Florence. I moved out of
my apartment, and tomorrow I say farewell to Florence.
These are,
I believe, my memories of Italy, although the line between dreams and memories
gets foggy for me sometimes. When I think of this past month I won’t remember
the bad days. I won’t remember the unbearable heat, the rude waiters, the
missed train. That’s the difference between dreams and memories – dreams are
distilled perfection, while memories are made of rougher stuff. I am happy to
let Italy reside in the realm of my dreams – this country makes that easy.
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