A Summer In Europe (10 page)

Gwen met her eye, bobbed her head in agreement and exhaled . . . because she
could
. Because she wasn’t yet petrified in ash.

After the morning tour, there was a split. Whoever was tired and wanted to go back to the hotel would be sent back via train from Naples. Hans-Josef, in a hired van, would transport them to the train station and have a large cab at the ready to meet them at the station in Rome, returning them to the hotel by early afternoon. Also, at the Naples station, he would be picking up the passengers who’d slept in late or who’d spent the morning meandering through the streets of Rome but who now wanted to join the afternoon jaunt to the Isle of Capri. So, he would be gone for a couple of hours taking care of this exchange.

Heat and fatigue claimed quite a few of the early birds: Hester, the honeymooners Sally and Peter, even Connie Sue and Alex. But Aunt Bea professed herself to be as energized as ever, and Gwen had heard of the island but knew little about it. Well, nothing about it, actually, besides what she’d read in the tour company’s brochure. The accompanying photo had succeeded in piquing her curiosity, though, and she felt a surprising burst of fortitude as the moment to depart for the latter half of the day’s excursion approached. She felt, most oddly, as if something momentous was on the verge of happening.

It did not, however, appear to be happening with any immediacy.

In fact, the bus ride with Guido to the Amalfi Coast, while providing breathtaking views, was still somewhat tiring, even with Gwen knowing she’d get a few hours respite from being under the watchful gaze of Hans-Josef and, thus, no teasing or suggestive remarks from her aunt. Gwen was under the mistaken impression that she could finally sink into her seat and relax. She pulled out her iPod and found the songs on her Andrew Lloyd Webber playlist, but she’d only made it halfway through the title track from
Starlight Express
before Aunt Bea nudged her.

“Look at the scenery, Gwennie! It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Gwen removed one earbud and nodded. “Yes. Lovely.” She put the tiny headphone back in her ear and continued listening, her eyes drifting shut at the soothing, familiar melody ... until her aunt nudged her again.

“This day is just gorgeous! And Italy is zipping by us outside. Don’t you want to
see
it, my dear? Don’t you want to
interact
with it?”

Gwen regretfully set down her iPod, removing both earbuds this time and clicking off the music in an attempt to give her aunt the attention she needed. It wasn’t that Aunt Bea wanted Gwen to interact with Italy inasmuch as she wanted Gwen to interact with
her
.

“I have been seeing it and it’s gorgeous,” she told her aunt truthfully. “I spent the morning looking at everything, and now we’re headed on a lovely drive to Sorrento. It’s all been very pretty from the bus window. Very interesting.” Although she refrained from explaining that she still felt detached from Europe somehow. Even with the fascinating history lessons. Even with everything she’d read or heard about it through the years. She couldn’t quite ... connect.

“Yes! The world is
out there,
you know! You need to keep your eyes open. Get to know the people. Embrace the wonder of Europe,” Bea insisted, unable to disguise the mild reprimand in her voice. But then, Bea was an extrovert. It did little good to tell her that the world was
in here,
too. That it was also in Gwen’s private and deliciously solitary communion with her favorite music. That the swell of the orchestral strings calmed her soul and gave her a shot of rejuvenation. Enough to keep her going through the energy-draining
interactions
she was having with all of those people
out there.

Only when, in spite of herself, Aunt Bea finally dozed off for the last ten minutes of their drive did Gwen get a bit of that needed recovery time. A couple of songs from
Evita
were just enough to help her transition to the next phase of their travel journey.

A hydrofoil to Capri awaited them on the coast—a little vessel they shared with a handful of others from a different tour. It would be a while still before Hans-Josef made it to the island, but Guido was going with them and he’d said watercrafts—either hydrofoils or ferries—departed every half hour or so. He also said it would only take them about twenty minutes to traverse the Gulf of Naples from the town of Sorrento, on the exquisite Italian coastline, to the gorgeous island City of Capri, where they’d get to pass the afternoon and early evening. Gwen was eager to be on the water.

Upon docking, Aunt Beatrice, Zenia and Matilda professed unbearable starvation and, as this was their late lunch stop, Gwen was talked into going out to eat first and exploring the island second.

“You should slow down. Savor your meal,” Matilda instructed, reminding Gwen of her friend Kathy’s frequent advice. Matilda demonstrated by expertly swirling her spaghetti marinara and spearing a fat portabello mushroom with the tip of her fork. She placed them both into her mouth and chewed, a wave of rapture washing over her face.

Gwen raised her eyebrows and studied her rigatoni. It wasn’t swirlable but, just so she wouldn’t get any further lectures from Bea or her aunt’s friends, she tried to make a showing of euphoria when it came to eating her lunch.

The little café was situated nicely on an outdoor patio with a view of the island’s main port, Marina Grande, on one side and the floral-covered hills on the other. The display of colors was awe-inspiring—vivid reds, brilliant pinks, royal purples, lush greens, deep blues. These tropical flowers (“Bougainvillea,” Matilda said, correcting her when she commented on them) were everywhere, adding an air of festivity to their luncheon.

Much as Gwen considered it a pleasant pastime to sit and look at the sea and landscape, she found herself anxious to actually walk in it.
Interact
with it, as her aunt would say. So when Bea, Zenia and Matilda wanted to linger over coffee and discuss their favorite prime numbers, a topic that arose periodically in the S&M club, Gwen elected to wander off on her own on the pretense of trying to get a picture of the famed Blue Grotto.

“Just be careful you don’t slip,” Aunt Bea instructed. “There are lots of stairs. Probably more than three hundred thirteen.” Her favorite prime was 313.

Zenia consulted her watch. “And don’t forget, Hans-Josef is meeting us in the little harbor area here”—she waved her hand in the general direction of the small square near the water, populated by cafés and shops—“in four hours, or approximately two hundred and forty-one minutes,” she added, showing off, since 241 was prime, too. “If you miss the boat back, you’ll have to stay on the island all night.”

Matilda rolled her eyes. “She would not. She’d just take a later hydrofoil to Sorrento—I believe there’s one at about 6:07,” she said, raising a victorious eyebrow at her clever insertion of
her
favorite prime. “But she’d miss the bus ride back to Rome and would have to get to the hotel another way. Probably by train.” She paused. “That could be interesting, though.”

“Do you think maybe one of those handsome Italian men on those cute motor scooters could zip her back to Rome?” Aunt Bea speculated. “I’ve always wanted to ride on one of those things. A strapping young Roman with a full head of black hair, tanned olive skin and a rippling set of abs that I’d hold on to as he steered us through—”

“Okay, then!” Gwen interrupted, having had quite enough of her aunt’s romantic fantasy. “I won’t be late, and I’ll see you ladies later.” She backed away from their café table with a wave and a smile. “Enjoy your coffee.”

She heard them chuckling behind her as she skirted away but, for a few hours at least, she was independent and free.

In the past few days, Gwen had been exposed to more famous sites than she could count, although, being a child of a mathematically inclined family, she
tried
to count them. That afternoon, however, proved to be a different experience for her. Although she’d put the Blue Grotto on her checklist for the day, she couldn’t find anything else that approached that level of touristy fascination on the Isle of Capri. A motorboat tour beginning in Marina Grande took her on a short visit to the smaller harbor, Marina Piccola, and then into the Blue Grotto, where tourists practically had to lie on the bottom of the boat in order to be rowed into the little cave.

It was interesting. She snapped a picture or two—it really
did
look blue in there—and she could see why the locals avoided it for so many years before finally investing in its tourist potential. Apparently, legend had it that the little grotto was inhabited by witches and monsters. Gwen didn’t see any of those. She did, however, spot the Britsicles near the landing back in the main harbor. Hmm. Hans-Josef must have arrived on the island with the others from the tour.

She wandered around Marina Grande for a few minutes alone and came upon a funicular—a tramlike thing—that took visitors up to the village of Capri. She was told there was a chairlift that could cart passengers up even farther, to the very top of the island, where she could visit the Belvedere of Tragara, a panoramic promenade lined with expensive villas.

She shrugged at that news. She was curious about the promenade, not about the villas. Not the expensive newer villas or the ruins of the Imperial Roman ones, which were also considered an attraction on the island. Capri may have been a resort since the time of the Roman Republic (a helpful historical tidbit gleaned from Guido on the boat ride over), but it was the scenery not the houses that intrigued her.

And, possibly, it was that very thing—the overwhelming amount of nature on Capri, not merely a collection of old disintegrated stone buildings—that finally succeeded in fully capturing her curiosity and raising her wonderment to the nth degree. Had the island always been this picturesque? This vibrant, leafy and bright? She’d lived her entire life in Iowa, taking a few short trips here or there, but certainly not traveling anywhere a Midwesterner would consider exotic. She’d never even gone to Florida for spring break or to Mexico for a girlfriend’s bachelorette party or to Jamaica for any reason whatsoever. She’d never seen anything like this island paradise, aside from photos or TV shows, and truly felt herself to be a stranger in a strange—but stunningly beautiful—land.

She rode the funicular up to the village and window-shopped for a while, trying to decide if the promenade was worth a visit, when she spotted a young girl giggling on a path nearby. Capri had staircases crisscrossing the island from top to bottom—the hardiest walkers didn’t need a tram or a chairlift—and Gwen knew instinctively, from the girl’s familiarity with the path, that this child was a resident not a tourist. She was about eleven, maybe twelve years old. Dark hair, curling at the tips, flowed behind her as she skipped down the stairs. A man, probably her father, and holding a paper sack filled with something, trailed behind her.

Gwen edged closer to the walkway so she could see what the child was doing. She watched as the girl’s strong, tanned legs carried her down the stairs with the speed of a baby gazelle. The child was racing the wind, laughing as she descended. Flinging her arms out to the sides and, then, above her head, and catching a few crimson bougainvillea petals with her grasping fingers.

An embodiment of youth. And joy. And life.

Gwen wanted to be a part of it, too.

By the time she’d reached the path, the girl and her father were gone, but Gwen looked down the staircase and took a few tester hops in descent. Her sneakers may have been dust covered after wandering around Rome and Pompeii, but they were still new and cushiony. She sprang down the next set of steps, the air filling her lungs as she swallowed a whoop of delight at the dizzying rush of wind on her face and the roller-coaster flip of her belly. It was a carnival ride, only it was under her power to set the speed of the drop.

She paused and glanced from left to right on the path, breathing hard, although not from fatigue; after all, she did a forty-five-minute spin class every weekday. She could see no one in any direction and she hoped the reverse was also true. In some ways she felt like a girl on the school playground who’d just discovered a fantastical piece of equipment, brand-new to the children. A vertical merry-go-round-like thing, where the riders spun wildly and, then, straightened into a line and plummeted down an open slide.

Gwen spun once in place—she remembered doing things like this as a kid!—and then plunged down the stairs again in a giddy, light-headed flight to the level below. The flowers blurred by in a swirl of dazzling pastels as she whisked past them. She might be hovering at the dangerous age of thirty, but when she did this sprint against the air currents and the tropical breeze, she felt young.
Alive!
A thrilling feeling she hadn’t remembered experiencing since she was as little as that dark-haired girl.

She wiped a few beads of sweat off her forehead and took a moment to feel the sun warming her cheeks, her heart beating and sending blood pumping through her limbs, her lungs breathing in the floral-scented air, her feet solidly on the paved staircase. Then she laughed to herself and flew down another set of steps, as if the wind might really catch her this time.

She couldn’t say how long she did this. A half hour? An hour? She felt only a fleeting dance of time, rippling across the dimensions of space and making her lose track of it. So strange for her! She resisted the familiar urge to check her watch and, instead, bounded down another flight, laughter bubbling from her lips.

Finally, her spellbinding game was broken by a swift movement, caught in her peripheral vision. A flash of color that didn’t originate from the island’s natural flora. It was yellow. Gwen turned to look at it. The yellow was a sleeve that turned out to be attached to the bright soccer jersey the young British-Indian boy, Ani, was wearing. The teen was waving to her from a café patio several yards away, grinning. She grinned back at him and lifted a hand in a corresponding wave but, before she could let herself reveal the full extent of her joy in this gorgeous day, her gaze caught another couple of faces—Ani’s father and Hans-Josef, the latter of whom was eyeing her rather confusedly. The two of them were standing beside a table, chatting with each other, and Gwen felt, uncomfortably, that she’d been under surveillance by the trio. She smiled tightly and turned to slip away—more serenely in departure than in arrival—but it appeared she’d overlooked yet another grouping.