One Italian Summer

by Rebecca Serle

She loved to describe Positano, a tiny seaside town, as “pure heaven.” God’s country. She loved the clothes and the food and the light. “And the gelato is a meal itself,” she said.

There was this great little restaurant, Chez Black, in the marina. We’d eat pasta and clams

When we finally come into Positano, I see what he means. From high up on the winding road, you can see the entirety of the town. Colorful hotels and houses sit chiseled into the rocks as if they were painted there. The entire town is built around the cove of the sea. It looks like an amphitheater, enjoying the performance of the ocean. Blue, sparkling, spectacular water.

Restaurants high up in the hills with no menus and endless courses of farm-fresh food.

The city bells chime seven. It is evening in Positano. I remember my mother talking about the Church of Santa Maria Assunta, and the ringing bells that alert the town of the hour.

“You have a boat ride for tomorrow. To Da Adolfo beach club, and a reservation for lunch.

“Tony told me you are having the ricotta ravioli tonight. Excellent choice. I always put a little lemon in to brighten it up. I hope you enjoy.”

The tomatoes come out. Tony sets them down proudly. “Buon appetito,” he says. “Enjoy.” I pick up my fork, spear a tomato, and taste the most heavenly, sweetest, ripest, saltiest thing I’ve ever encountered. I swallow them, glorious and geranium red, along with my grief. I devour the plate, along with another basket of bread. Then the ravioli arrives—creamy and light, ricotta clouds. Delicious. I add the lemon, as instructed.

The life force in this meal, in every bite, is like another ingredient. I can feel it nourishing me.

The bells chime once more, indicating a new hour has passed. As if on cue, the yellows and oranges of the sky begin to give way to lavenders and pinks and baby blues. The light moves from drunken, heady, and golden to delicate, fleeting. The ships on the shore bob along, a chorus to the sinking sun. It’s magnificent.

Morning in Positano is reminiscent of the evening, but even lovelier. The marina is swathed in blue light—the day hasn’t fully broken open yet. A hint of a chill still hangs in the air, ready to be blown away by the first speck of sun.

Viale Pasitea is the main and only road that leads down to the ocean, unless you take the steps. In and around shops and pensiones, hotels and markets, there are staircases leading up into the hills of Positano and down to the sea. Hundreds and hundreds of stairs.

The dome in the center of town belongs to the church, where the bells ring out. Right now they are silent, but as I pass by the square where the Church of Santa Maria Assunta stands I see the ocean. It’s down one short flight of stairs and then a pathway filled with shops. When I get down, there is a clothing stand, then the restaurant, splayed out right in front of the sand.

“You’ll love it!” she says to me. “It’s a restaurant in this little cove. They have the best seafood!”

“Remo works at Buca di Bacco,”

I’m taking you to La Tagliata. It’s this incredible restaurant high up in the hills. You won’t believe it.

“Give me a bag of pretzels over a bar of chocolate any day,” my mother used to say.

I follow him up the street onto Via Cristoforo Colombo. After a minute or two, we stop in front of a restaurant on the left-hand side. It’s two stories, with a terrace on the second level overlooking the street and ocean. Adam shakes hands with the maître d’. He points across the street to where there are two tables, right on the street, that look like they’re literally hanging over the ocean.

“La Tagliata,” she says. “It’s run by Don Luigi and his wife, Mama. All their food is from their own farm. They don’t have a menu, so you just

drink the chilled white wine and wait for whatever they’re serving up tonight.” Carol turns her head to me. “I really hope you’re hungry.”

there are two dinner sittings—5 p.m. and 8 p.m. There are no menus, as she said, and the wine flows freely. “This doesn’t seem real,” I say. “I’ve truly never seen anything like this.”

I don’t see how you would ever leave. The magic of Italy seems to be in its ability to connect to some time out of time, some era that is unmarked by modernity. There is so much peacefulness in being present, right here.

From our perched spot you can see all blue, clear water and the three rocks of Faraglioni. They rise out of the ocean like Viking warriors, stacks of the sea. A hundred meters high, like cliffs themselves. The middle rock is an archway, where you can pass through.

If you kiss while entering through the archway of the middle rock, you will be happy in love for the next thirty years.

We order. A plate of grilled vegetables, seared octopus, creamy burrata and vine tomatoes, and lobster pasta. A tossed green salad and light dinner bread round out the meal. I eat. And eat and eat. “I could constantly consume food here,” I say. “I feel like I’m bottomless.” “I know,” Adam tells me. “I told you. The food is amazing. Italian food has that effect. When the ingredients are high quality and simple, the meal is satisfying and doesn’t sit on you.”

We head to Pizzeria Oliva, a place Adam loves in the Sanità neighborhood—a very working-class area. They make all kinds of pizzas—lemon zest with ricotta, basil, and pepper, and a classic Neapolitan. We also order a fried concoction with smoked mozzarella that is divine. “This shouldn’t be legal,” I say to Adam after the first bite. “Good, right?” Adam grins at me as he watches me eat. “Certifiable.” From there we hit up another favorite of Adam’s—a small shop that is no more than a window stand about ten minutes walking from Oliva. Unlike the last place, this one is all traditional. We get a classic Margherita pizza, and then Adam motions for me to follow him down to the sidewalk. He takes a few paper napkins and lays them out, gesturing for me to sit. I do. In the street there is pleasant commotion. A few teenage boys talk in fast Italian, kicking a soccer ball back and forth. Two women in their forties linger in front of an apartment entryway, gesturing with their hands. Bikers pass by. It’s peaceful, a word that, a few short hours ago, I’d never think I’d use to describe Naples.

“The difference between being good and bad at something is just interest,” Carol says. “Would you like to learn?” “Yes,” I tell her. “Lemon ricotta pasta and tomato salad.”

The trip to Capri, the afternoon in Naples. “It’s possible actions only have the weight we give them,” she says. “We can decide what something means.”

“You follow the same road down, and then by the church, you turn up. It is a big red building—you cannot miss it. If you get lost, you can just ask. Everyone knows the Sirenuse.” “Thank you,” I say. I do as she instructed. I take the path down to the ocean, and when I almost get down to the marina, I follow the road up. On the right-hand side, right on Via Cristoforo Colombo, is the Sirenuse. It is set back from the road with a small driveway, the outside of the building a deep and striking red.

History, memory is by definition fiction. Once an event is no longer present, but remembered, it is narrative. And we can choose the narratives we tell—about our own lives, our own stories, our own relationships. We can choose the chapters we give meaning.