Racing the Sun(3)

“So how long are you staying here for?” I ask.

“My three months is up in a month.”

I make a frowny face. “That sucks.”

She shoots me an impish smile. “I’ll be back. Luca is making sure of that.”

“Who is Luca?”

“The man I’m going to marry.”

And then she launches into another story, this one far more exciting than the last one. On her second week of working here, she ended up running into a local cop. He was hot, and it was love at first sight. Now that she has to leave the country (Americans can only be here for three months at a time), Luca is building a case to bring her back in seven months. If they can prove they’re serious about each other and intend to marry one day, she can get a permit to work here for longer.

“Wow,” I tell her when she’s finished. “I was just thinking this town was like a movie set, and now this is like movie love.”

She blushes. “I know it’s rather fast. No one takes our relationship seriously, not even his mother. But I do love him and he loves me and I know this is the right thing to do. So why not take the chance, you know? If it doesn’t work out, at least I’ll have a hell of a story.”

“You already do have a hell of a story.” I’ll admit that even though I think it’s sweet and romantic, the jaded and cynical side of me thinks it is a bit ridiculous that she’s doing all of this for a man, that you could even fall in love that fast. But that’s probably because I’ve been screwed over by men a few times already on my travels.

“See,” she says, pulling out her phone and showing me a picture. “This is Luca. You’d stay for him, wouldn’t you?”

I let out a low whistle. Luca is hot. Dark-skinned with piercing, light eyes. And he’s tall, too. Not that that’s too out of the ordinary—it’s just that everyone warned me that Italian men would be short and hairy. So far, I haven’t found that to be the case at all.

“Nice,” I say to her. “Well, I wish you both the best and hope it all works out.”

She shrugs. “Life works out the way it wants to.”

“Uh-huh.” And then I remember the real reason why I came to talk to her. “Listen, I’m having some financial difficulties at the moment. You know, overdid it a bit in London and all that. Anyway, I was wondering if you knew if there was any work available for someone like me?”

Her eyes narrow slightly. “Well, there’s no work here.”

Relax, I think. I’m not after your job.

“Oh, I don’t mean here, per se. I just meant in town. Or in the area. Even Sorrento or Salerno.”

She purses her lips and thinks. “Well, there would be jobs in Salerno, but you don’t want to work there. Have you tried the English café down the street? Sometimes they need English speakers. There’s also a work notice board for foreigners. Usually the jobs posted are one-offs for guys, like a day spent painting a house or something like that. But sometimes you can get lucky.”

This sounds promising. “And it’s just down the street? It’s a long street . . .”

Amanda smiles, pulls out the hostel map, and begins to mark up a path for me. “Follow the road all the way to here and then take these stairs here. You’ll come to Bar Darkhouse. Beside it, kind of tucked in the back, is Panna Café.”

“Thank you,” I tell her, folding the map before shoving it in my bag.

I walk down the streets with an extra spring in my step. The air is fresh (when you’re not inhaling diesel fumes) and the sun is warm, baking my bare arms. I’m feeling a bit optimistic about the whole money problem now. If Amanda can find work here, I can, too.

That should also go to say that if Amanda can find love here, I can, too. But thankfully, that is the last thing I’m looking for. I’ve had enough fun and heartbreak during this trip, falling for boys who either have their hearts set on someone else (like Josh in New Zealand) or who love you and leave you (like the Icelandic boy, Kel, who I spent a sex-filled week with in Prague). No, the next guy I was going to fall for was going to be a Nor Cal boy when I returned back home to San Jose. No drama, no heartache, no tragic goodbyes.

No fun either, I think to myself, but I quickly push that thought away.

The café is easy enough to find but it takes me a while to get there. The town is so pretty and tightly packed with storefronts, and I want to linger in every single one of them. Eventually, I get there and order an espresso at the bar. Unlike most cafés in Italy, this one actually has tables and chairs where you can sit down and sip your drink, obviously catering to tourists. But at this point I’ve gotten used to doing quick shots of coffee while standing up. It’s at least more efficient.