Racing the Sun(21)

But the fact is, that scenario would only last a week. And then I would really be shit out of luck. I’m cut off from my parents, and I have no friends to loan me money (they’re all as broke as I am). I can either find another job or I’m really fucking screwed. And the chances of me finding another job that supplies me with a hundred euros a week, plus room and board, is next to impossible.

So while I slog up the hill in Positano, past all the little boutiques overflowing with ceramics and limoncello, past vine-covered restaurants and lumbering tourists, I make up my mind.

Once I arrive at the hostel, I manage to get my money refunded for the rest of the week. Amanda, the front desk girl who fell in love with the hot Italian cop, gives me her phone number and tells me to call her if I ever want to meet up or if I have any problems. Then I say goodbye to Ana and Hendrik, who happen to be cooking lunch in the communal kitchen. They were kind of worried when I didn’t show up last night but figured I’d met someone. Funny how they keep on figuring this about me, even though I’ve never hooked up with a boy since they’ve been around. Maybe they figure it’s long overdue. I can’t argue with that. I tell them to e-mail if they happen to go to Capri and I wish them luck on their journeys.

Ana seems sad but I know the minute I’m gone they’ll continue on like nothing has happened. That’s the thing about traveling couples. They never really integrate into the backpackers’ way of life the same way the solo traveler does. No matter where they go or who they see or what they do, they will always have each other. Me, I sometimes feel like I lose a bit of myself every time I have to say goodbye to a person or a place.

But this time I don’t feel any loss or sadness. I feel excitement. As I watch them make cheap packaged meals in the kitchen, I’m reminded that all of my meals are taken care of now. I don’t have to eat like a pauper off of borrowed plates. I don’t have to share my room with seven other people or wait in line for the toilet or—as has happened a few times—shower with other women. I don’t have to watch my stuff all the time or feel like it’s seconds from being stolen.

At that thought I go and get my backpack out of the lockers, pull the straps over my shoulders, and get out of the hostel. It may be the last time I see one for quite a long time.



* * *



I get back to Capri a bit earlier than I expected, benefitting from good timing with the hydrofoils. There’s a bit of a pinch in my throat when I see the mainland disappear in a haze. I wonder if I, too, will be like Derio now, trapped on this rock in the middle of the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Maybe because of this isolated feeling, I drag my feet a bit as I head back to the house. When I take the funicular to the crowded streets of Capri town, I decide to explore a bit. Everything is so expensive and posh and geared toward locals and well-off tourists that it’s hard to find some place to go. It’s the afternoon now and I’m dying for a pint of beer or a glass of rosé to take the edge off but I don’t want to spend five euros on a small glass, even though I got about a hundred euros back just by canceling my stay at the hostel. I need every penny for the plane ticket back home.

I go down one path, which leads up some stairs past a church and out of the busy town center and find my holy grail, finally: an Irish pub. In all the countries and cities I’ve been to, no matter how lonely I’ve felt or isolated because of language barriers, I have always found my English-speaking brethren either drinking in or working at an Irish pub.

Here seems to be no exception. I walk into the small joint, all dark wood walls, brass accents and green leather seats, and see two white boys who look at me and smile. One with a shaved head seems half drunk and gives me the overly appreciative up and down. Well, at least I’ve impressed someone today, though once again I’m conscious that I didn’t even change clothes at the hostel. After this drink, the next thing I’m doing is taking a two-hour shower.

“Hello, Blondie,” the drunk guy says with a thick English accent. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Wow. That was fast. I eye him and then his friend. His friend is quiet, smiling shyly at me, and kind of cute with thick brown hair and small blue eyes.

“Sure,” I say to him, satisfied that they’re just a couple of drunk and soon-to-be drunk backpackers. “I’d like that.” I sit down across from them and am promptly introduced to Cole from Birmingham, England, and Charles from Louisville, Kentucky. They met in Amsterdam, bonded over weed, and decided to see the Mediterranean together.

“So cute,” I comment.