Racing the Sun(6)

I’m also wondering who this mysterious Desiderio Larosa is, and just what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.





CHAPTER TWO


Amalfi Blue. It’s a color that’s been used to describe shades of wall paint and eye shadow and nail polish, but even then it doesn’t hold a candle to the real thing. The water around the Amalfi Coast is an extremely jewel-colored, saturated blue that literally takes your breath away.

The water around the island of Capri takes it one step further. It’s so clear and vibrant and changes from the richest royal blue to shimmering aquamarine; it looks like a pool of sun-splashed glass. I’m so engrossed with the color of the water as we approach the narrow marina that I barely notice the island rising up from the ocean in front of me. When I finally do look up as I’m getting off the ferry, I feel as if I’m being hit over the head with it.

“Come,” Felisa barks at me as she stomps off the teetering ramp and onto the cement dock. If it wasn’t for the couple behind me, bumping into me with their giant suitcases, I probably would be standing in one place, staring straight ahead forever.

I know I’ve been here for a second but Capri is fucking gorgeous. Brightly colored gondolas dot the turquoise water while pastel houses crowd the bustling shore, stretching up onto terraced green stone hills. The focal point is Mount Solaro, an overwhelming monolith smack in the middle, like a jagged tooth sticking out of a giant’s jawbone. If I squint, I can even see cars navigating its razor-thin curves.

I shiver despite myself, remembering the road to Positano, and quickly hurry off the boat before Felisa yells at me again. Since it’s the start of summer, the crowds are thick and anxious and I feel like I’m being swept down the dock, losing sight of Felisa, until I see her stern eyes peering at me from beside a taxi. Not just an ordinary taxi but a convertible.

“Are we taking this?” I ask her, super excited about riding in a topless taxi. Now, this is something to put on Instagram.

“No,” she says coolly. “Come, hurry.” And then she turns, crossing the street filled with a melange of awestruck tourists, fast-talking locals out to make a buck, and an array of cabs and motorcycles. Somehow they all seem to clear a path around her. This woman must be known about town, or she has some supersonic people-repelling shield around her. I wouldn’t be surprised if the latter were true.

I adjust my purse on my shoulder, suddenly aware that a crowd like this could be a breeding ground for pickpockets, and race across the street after her, bumping into people and nearly colliding into the wall of a street-side café.

She walks through an arcade, and when I follow I discover we are in some half-underground tunnel, and a streetcar is slowly sliding down a track toward us.

Felisa quickly pays for our tickets—which I guess is nice of her, since I’m so discombobulated by everything—and soon we’re in a packed funicular car, gliding up a hill. Within minutes we’re out of the dark and into the light, the wide windows of the car displaying the island below. I can see the marina with its myriad of ferries, hydrofoils, and boats and the rustic houses that cling to the sides of the cliffs.

When we reach the top and exit the funicular, I find myself stupefied once again at the view. It’s much more apparent at this height that Capri is one giant, magical place filled with villas, culture, and pretty people. Oh, and shops. All the shops. As I follow Felisa through the pedestrians-only street through the maze of what is known as Capri town, I’m floored by the shopping opportunities. Dolce & Gabbana, Fendi, Gucci, Balenciaga line the elegant paths, beckoning even the cheapest person to peruse their window displays.

I am that cheapest person, especially now, but Felisa’s glare overpowers my urge to see Prada’s latest offerings, so I hurry after her down the long winding lane until the shops turn to cafés and restaurants and the tourists begin to peter out.

Here I am again stunned by the views. The so-called “street,” Via Tragara, takes us past house after gated house, where glimpses of the dramatic south coast of the island come into view between patches of lemon trees and climbing vines. The houses here all have names like La Gentilina, Villa Celeste, and Villa Grotta Azzurra and tease you through the gates. I want to stop and marvel at them and think about who lives in them and what it must be like to wake up each day with a view like that, to have breakfast and coffee on the edge of the world.

But Felisa is now making a clucking noise like an angry chicken and I keep up the pace. I’ve only got my handbag on me and I’m starting to wonder, if I have to spend the night here, what the hell I’m going to wear. I don’t have my face wash, my toothbrush, deodorant—nothing. It’s enough to send me into a bit of a tizzy but I take a deep breath and keep walking.