Cara Italia
Gli Amanti Di Capri (The Lovers of Capri)
June 1st, 2018, 11:49pm
“Cara Italia,
Today we explored the island of Capri. I thought I was going to love the beach, but the sand wasn’t really sand – it was rocks, hot rocks. My favorite part instead was the boat tour.”
The lovers of Capri were born near the Adriatic Sea. Only God knows how they found each other near such a small island. They lean on one another for support, as couples do. They are proud of their love – you can tell by the way they’re open about their attraction and welcome others to bask in it.
The lovers of Capri share the name Stella. This is fitting because they share everything else.
Operating as one soul and one entity is a part of their notoriety.
Stella is a part of the Faraglioni, a trio of ginormous rock formations that lure tourists to Capri every year. They soar 100 meters above the surface of the water. It is unknown how long the trio have resided in the Adriatic. Over time, locals took advantage of the arch in Stella’s belly as a passage for boats.
While in Capri, our tour guide said, “If you kiss your lover while traveling through the arch, you will be together forever… and if you don’t have a lover, you can kiss the rock for luck in finding one.” Many guides nicknamed Stella the “kissing rocks” for this reason.
Most young people studying abroad do not have lovers to leash along with them. Naturally, this left only one other option. Part of me really just wanted the experience. The other part really wanted a partner. I wondered if everyone else felt the same.
We scrambled to the railings, kneeling on the hard plastic chairs built into the side of the boat. I looked down at the cerulean water rippling away from the engine. It sparkled in the sunlight, as if the Earth was draped in a sequined dress. As we approached Stella, I could see vertical grooves naturally etched into her from the tide. The moss desperately clung to her sides, thriving in the moisture and sunlight. The shade from Stella’s height swallowed us, welcoming us beneath the arch.
“We’re going to slowly get closer to the side, don’t lean too far over the edge.”
The boat drifted closer to the wall inch by inch, the engine softly purring every couple of seconds. I looked down. The cerulean blue didn’t look so friendly anymore, when I was so far over the railing. I leaned back.
“Now’s your chance!”
I looked over at my friends fearlessly kissing the rock, their hands gripping the metal rail, their torsos dangling.
Lauren leaned back after kissing the wall. She looked over at me and smiled. I had grown to envy her bravery and spontaneous attitude, especially in this moment. It attracted others like a magnet, in a way I never could.
I looked down. The cerulean blue smashed against the rock, against the boat. The sound slipped into my ear and rattled my bones. I trapped a breath in my throat and hinged my stomach over the rail. My lips gently grazed against Stella just as the boat started to pull me the other away. The cool moisture stuck to my lips like icing on a cake.
What I admire the most about the lovers of Capri is that they invite others to take a piece of their magic with them.
Al Dente (To the Tooth)
June 20th, 2018, 11:38pm
“Cara Italia,
The other day I passed Prof. Brigid in the street. She stopped me and asked why I was alone, and then told me that I should always ask her if she’s free to eat with me. She said she didn’t want me to feel alone.”
I didn’t want to go to the cooking class. I was tired (so tired), but everyone else besides Kaeli had opted out, and I knew Professor Brigid had worked hard to organize it for us. Also, I was in Italy, being given the opportunity to learn how to cook. It’s self-explanatory.
The cooking instructor wasn’t a professional chef, but she was a local, which was honestly probably better. She invited us to her home to make and eat the dinner together. The kitchen walls were tiled, the counters marbled. A spice rack hung to the right of the stove, which had gas burners. My stove at home was electric and gas burners always made me nervous.
I missed home.
I enjoyed the comfort of being in a space that was lived in. Although I had been living at my residence hall for the past four weeks, the room didn’t feel like mine. You have to break in a place the same way you break in a pair of shoes. It takes time to be able to slip your feet into them and know that they’re yours, to memorize the creases and the arch. The instructor’s home didn’t feel like my home, but I knew it was home to her from the way magazines were piled lazily on a side table. The way her hands moved to the fridge handle without looking. The way her walls were covered in photographs and pictures, captured moments on display.
After slicing the vegetables, toasting the bread, boiling the water, cooking the pastas (plural), sizzling the sauce, setting the table on the balcony, lighting the candles, pouring glasses of water, we sat. Professor Brigid sat next to me, or across from me, I can’t recall. But I remember reading the expressions on her face as she talked about her mother and about God. I respected her, not really in the typical way a student respects a professor. I respected her as the person I could have been, if I had pushed myself to dream and believe as much as she had.
I wish I could say I remembered the entire preparation of the dinner, or my first taste of the fresh bruschetta. I wish I remembered the cooking instructor’s name, or the way her Italian roots influenced the inflection of her tone. I wish I could say the sky looked like an oil painting of oranges, reds, and yellows as the sun set below the balcony.
All I remember is admiring my company and the words they shared. And that I should always cook my pasta with salt already boiled into the water, al dente.
Il Susino (The Plum Tree)
May 16th, 2018, 10:16pm
“Cara Italia,
I feel sort of lonely and empty right now. I haven’t really clicked with anyone yet, and everyone has their one best friends with them. I feel like the odd one out again. I wish I had just one person.”
I was in Rome, Italy. 19-years-old. I had just finished my freshman year of college. One day into my five-week excursion, I wrote that journal entry.
Acceptance was always something I struggled with throughout high school. I had grown up watching movies where there was a clear dichotomy between two groups: the popular crowd and the losers, the pretty girls and the ugly ones, the accepted and the excluded. I thought that these movies depicted what life was like. I thought I had to prove my worth to others by behaving a certain way, dressing a certain way, saying certain things.
Acceptance was always something I struggled with; not only from others, but within myself.
June 22nd, 2018, 10:05pm
“Cara Italia,
I didn’t think I would actually meet people I liked. I hope I can see them again one day.”
The plums were gone, and I’d probably never taste one again.
I can still picture Dre perfectly when we came back to the Gianicolo Residence that night. Her jaw slack, her arms up in the arm, her eyes scanning the branches with incredulity. “Where are the goddamn plums? How can we continue our plum tradition without the plums?” she asked no one in particular.
We were upset because of course, that night of all nights, the plums were gone. And then we started laughing, because of course, that night of all nights, the plums were gone.
The plum tree sits in the middle of Gianicolo. Its roots interrupt the tiles laid onto the ground, like an octopus breaking out of the ocean, and its branches reach two stories high. The tree is alone, but it is happily producing purple plums. Leaning casually against the tree is a makeshift pole with a net attached for students to pick the plums.
When my friends and I would come back, after a night of drinking and eating and laughing, we would take turns catching plums. The Italian resident assistants would saunter out of their rooms to yell at us for being too loud, but we just couldn’t help ourselves.
I couldn’t remember the last time I had laughed so hard, with so many people.
The plums were the perfect snack. They had a thin skin that broke easily against my teeth. The insides coated my mouth in a waterfall of juice. We joked that they would prevent hangovers because they were so hydrating. If you weren’t careful, though, the juice could stain your fingers.
On our last night in Rome, we came back to find the plum tree bare of any plums. We sat and talked about our favorite memories over the past five weeks, continuing half of our tradition.
Looking back, I realize the plum tree was our own Pantheon, our own Trevi Fountain.
We had unknowingly created our own history in a historical city.
Our bond would remain strong and stubborn, just as it’s impossible to rid yourself of a plum stain once the juice has already settled into the grooves of your skin.
When I came to Italy, I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect to meet a group of people that changed my perspective on life. They laughed with me, not at me. They sang with me in the streets at midnight, drunk on red wine and fun. They stopped me in the street, just to remind me that they were there for me, when they didn’t know I needed it most.
Under the branches of a plum tree, they taught me how to love myself, by being myself.
Cara Italia, questo è per te. Grazie.
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