‘Would you like a digestif? Limoncello? It’s on the house.’ The waiter, dressed impossibly tight, black jeans, white-tight t-shirt, thick leather belt, ankles bare above leather loafers, hipster beard, sculpted hair—you get the picture—tilts his head and we shrug a why not?
‘ Si. Grazie. We would love limoncello.’
I sighed. How perfect. The sky turns lilac with pink wisps. It’s a hand-painted pastel wash over silk . The Isle of Capri sits on the horizon, cross perched atop, a beacon of faith and a landmark for fishermen.
We sit on the terrace of a brand new hotel on the Amalfi Coast of Italy. We’d skirted by the tourist towns of Positano and Sorrento and landed in a quiet village of fishing boats, music in the piazza and locals cheering on their team in Euro16.
The food is a five-star tasting plate of Italy’s finest prosciutto, tomatoes, so red and luscious they ARE summer, creamy pecorino, chewy bread dipped in thick olive oil and Modena balsamic—a veritable feast for the senses. Limoncello is the icing on the cake.
Two weeks earlier we’d been contemplating a month of camping in the Kimberley region of WA–a far cry from the azure coast of Amalfi. A car accident in our expedition vehicle put a stop to that.
In the chill of a winter at home on Tuesday night, we mourn a smashed up car and the dashed two-year plans with our friends. An email arrives.
The email tells Steve he is invited to try out for an endurance motorbike trip by Ducati for their 90th Anniversary. They were launching a new off-road bike and wanted seven riders to take it around the world and show what it could do.
The only problem was that we’d have to fly to Italy on Friday. (I say we because, as my husband said, a trip to Italy is cheaper than divorce. You’ll have to come as well) I was very happy to fly there and see my friends while he played on a new Ducati.
So now I’m trying to write in the Oblate Library in Florence, a 13th-century building that caters for students (and writers) from around the world. From the cafe, there is a spectacular view over the Duomo and Brunelleschi’s Cupola.
I’d lost my writing spark for a while and I was hoping that being in the library would help set the tone for some good, honest work. I was feeling flat. Lost. Wondering how to recapture the way words flowed from the pen to the page like honey from a spoon. Or limoncello, or Prosecco, or Pinot Grigio or Chianti. (There’s a theme here!)
This unexpected trip began with lemons. An accident, disappointment. It’s ending with a day spent in the library. The hours passing like minutes. The words flowing like wine, and hopefully, with the flourish and music of Italian life.
After the library, I’m meeting a friend for apertivo and dinner. We’ll sit in a piazza near Santo Spirito and listen to the strains of three tenors. We’ll eat and drink. The sun will set on another beautiful day. We’ll talk, and laugh, share, maybe even shed a tear. As we part, unsure of when, or where, in the world we will see each other again, we’ll toast each other and celebrate the way that life has given us lemons, but has also given us a moment to sip limoncello.
