We picked June for the trip because it was still a little ahead of tourist season. Once July hits, it’s a madhouse, my mother said. Best to go in June when things were a little less touristy, a little less crowded. She wanted to be able to stroll the streets without being jostled by influencers.
I was sent lists of dinner reservations to make and places to visit from friends. Boats to rent for day trips to Capri, beach clubs along the ocean requiring water taxi service. Restaurants high up in the hills with no menus and endless courses of farm-fresh food. I sent them all to my mother, and she planned the entire thing. In my hands is our itinerary, marked down to the minute. I tuck it into my bag.
As we descend I’m met with the stirrings of small-town summer life. Older women stand on stoops, chatting. There are men and women on Vespas, the sounds of late-afternoon activity. A smattering of tourists along the tiny sidewalk have their phones out, snapping pictures. It’s summer in Italy, and even though it’s nearing five o’clock, it is still bright and sunny. The sun is high in the sky, and the Tyrrhenian Sea sparkles. White boats sit out on the water in rows, like flower beds. It is beauty beyond measure—the sun seeming to touch everything at once. I exhale and exhale and exhale.
“Ah, here we are,” Renaldo says.
We pull up to the Hotel Poseidon, which is, like the rest of the town, nestled into the hillside. The entrance is all white, with a green carpeted staircase. Brightly colored flowers sit in potted plants by the entrance.
I open the car door and am immediately greeted by the heat—but it feels welcoming. Warm in its embrace, not at all oppressive.
Renaldo takes my suitcases out of the trunk and climbs the steps with them. I take out the money I exchanged at the airport—one of Carol’s rules was to never exchange money at the airport, she said the exchange rate was terrible, but I was desperate—and hand him some crisp bills.
“Grazie,” I say.
“Enjoy our Positano,” he tells me. “It is a very special place.”
I climb the steps to the entrance and then am greeted by a blast of cool air from the open lobby. To the left, a spiral staircase leads up to a second level. The welcome desk is to the right. And behind it is a woman who appears to be in her fifties. She has long, dark hair that swings down her back. Next to her is a young man who speaks in clear, enunciated Italian.
“Ovviamente abbiamo un ristorante! è il migliore!”
I wave at the woman, and she smiles a warm and welcoming smile back.
“Buonasera, signora. How can I help you?”
She’s beautiful, this woman.
“Hello. Checking in. It’s under Silver.”
Something knocks on my sternum, cold and hard.
“Yes.” The woman’s face softens into compassion. There is a tenderness behind her eyes. “It’s just you with us this week, sì?”
I nod. “Just me.”
“Welcome,” she says, placing her hand on her heart. Her face radiates a smile. “Positano is a wonderful place to be alone, and Hotel Poseidon is a wonderful place to make friends.”
She gives me the keys to room 33. I climb the stairs to the landing level, then take the small elevator to the third floor. I have to close the doors before the machine will move. It takes nearly five minutes to go up the two flights, and I commit to taking the stairs for the duration of my time here. That was another one of Carol Silver’s rules—never take the elevator if you can take the stairs, and you’ll never have to work out a day in your life. When I was living in New York, this was definitely true, but it doesn’t quite work as well in Los Angeles.
My room is at the end of the hall. There is a small lending library just outside, stocked with books. I use the key and turn the doorknob.
Inside, the room is sparse and filled with light. There are two twin beds, made up with white sheets and small quilts, that sit across from two matching dressers. On one side of the room is a closet, and on the other is a set of French doors that are flung open, welcoming in the afternoon sun. I walk to them and then step out onto the terrace.
While the room is small, the terrace is nearly sprawling. It looks out over the entire town. The panoramic views span from the hillside down through the hotels and homes and shops to the sea. Right underneath me to the left is the swimming pool. A couple is in the water, hanging off the side, glasses of wine on the ledge. I hear the splashing, the clink of glassware, and laughter.
I am here, I think. It is really Italy below me. I am not watching a movie in my parents’ den or on the couch at Culver. This is not a soundtrack or a photograph. It is real life. Most places in the world I have never touched, never met. But I am here now. It is something. It is a start.