servers, tomato mashers and garlic presses, sewing needles and brooms and pestles-and-mortars, and all kinds of gadgets, as well as fresh-ground coffee.
On the other side of the square was the small pharmacy where I used to go for Band-Aids for my frequent scrapes and cuts and aspirin for Jon-Boy’s headaches after too much grappa. Next to it was the barber’s shop with a striped pole outside where Jon-Boy would occasionally get his hair cut.
Up on the green hillsides were little streets of white houses, their flamboyant gardens ablaze with color, and anchoring the tip of the inlet was a pretty tenth-century stone church. Below was the harbor, with its row of old fishermen’s cottages, a beautiful place to linger at sunset over a drink.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Pirata had escaped the tourist invasion, most likely because there was no space for a grand hotel. Plus the main road ran a few miles inland, diverting passing traffic from this little section of the coast. Miraculously, it remained the village I remembered from my childhood.
“Follow me,” I said to Jammy, leading her unerringlyacross the gorgeous little square and under the arches, turning left along the harbor to Jon-Boy’s old haunt, the Caffè Bar Amalfitano. Like Angelo’s place, it had been smartened up a bit, with a blue awning to shade its terrace tables and more comfortable chairs than the heavy wooden ones of old. But the tantalizing aroma of fresh pizza snaking from its tiled kitchen was the same, and from the bar came the familiar smell of the draft beer Jon-Boy used to enjoy. I noticed that the carafes of flowery local wine that miraculously appeared on the table as soon as you took a seat were the same, too, as were the frosted jugs of iced water and the stubby green glasses.
The proprietor was new, though. He was young and fresh faced, giving the pair of us the flirty eye as he greeted us. He announced that he was Aldo, plunked the carafe of wine on the table, then flourished his pencil over his pad and raised an eyebrow, waiting for our order.
“Buona sera, signore,”
I said, giving him a smile as I ordered a pizza Margherita—large size—and a plate of
calamari fritti,
also large size.
Aldo hurried away, then came quickly back with a bowl of Parmesan cheese, a dish of olives, a plate of tiny orange-colored tomatoes—picked this morning, he told us—plus a bowl of garlic-and-lemon
aoili
for the calamari, and a hunk of rustic bread.
I poured wine into our green glasses and lifted mine in a toast. “To my house in Amalfi,” I said to Jammy.
“Oh God, Lamour, you
cannot
be serious.” Jammy’s face was pinched with anxiety. “You
can’t
live there. Besides, you don’t know how much work the house needs.” She looked at my smiling face and saw she was getting nowhere. “Anyhow, you have to at least forget about the cow,” she added with a sigh.
“Daisy is already in my future,” I said, tasting the wine. “And let’s not forget the chickens.”
She groaned. “You’ve
got
to come home, Lam,” she pleaded.
“Please.”
She took a sip of her wine. “This is quite good,” she added, sounding surprised.
Then Aldo arrived bearing a basil-scented cartwheel-sized pizza and a huge platter of fresh calamari still sizzling from the frying pan.
“Buon appetito,”
he said, flashing us a smile.
As I bit into that first hot, aromatic slice of pizza a sense of well-being came over me. I
loved
this place. I
loved
this
caffè bar
. I
loved
the pretty harbor and the charming medieval piazza. I
loved
my hillside and my little golden house and the food and the wine. Of course the house would need work, but I looked forward to it, as I did to re-creating the garden with Mifune. And I looked forward, as I had not looked forward to anything in years, to being on my own and completely self-sufficient. I knew it was only when I had achieved that independence that I would find myself again as a woman. And a woman with no
On the other side of the square was the small pharmacy where I used to go for Band-Aids for my frequent scrapes and cuts and aspirin for Jon-Boy’s headaches after too much grappa. Next to it was the barber’s shop with a striped pole outside where Jon-Boy would occasionally get his hair cut.
Up on the green hillsides were little streets of white houses, their flamboyant gardens ablaze with color, and anchoring the tip of the inlet was a pretty tenth-century stone church. Below was the harbor, with its row of old fishermen’s cottages, a beautiful place to linger at sunset over a drink.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. Pirata had escaped the tourist invasion, most likely because there was no space for a grand hotel. Plus the main road ran a few miles inland, diverting passing traffic from this little section of the coast. Miraculously, it remained the village I remembered from my childhood.
“Follow me,” I said to Jammy, leading her unerringlyacross the gorgeous little square and under the arches, turning left along the harbor to Jon-Boy’s old haunt, the Caffè Bar Amalfitano. Like Angelo’s place, it had been smartened up a bit, with a blue awning to shade its terrace tables and more comfortable chairs than the heavy wooden ones of old. But the tantalizing aroma of fresh pizza snaking from its tiled kitchen was the same, and from the bar came the familiar smell of the draft beer Jon-Boy used to enjoy. I noticed that the carafes of flowery local wine that miraculously appeared on the table as soon as you took a seat were the same, too, as were the frosted jugs of iced water and the stubby green glasses.
The proprietor was new, though. He was young and fresh faced, giving the pair of us the flirty eye as he greeted us. He announced that he was Aldo, plunked the carafe of wine on the table, then flourished his pencil over his pad and raised an eyebrow, waiting for our order.
“Buona sera, signore,”
I said, giving him a smile as I ordered a pizza Margherita—large size—and a plate of
calamari fritti,
also large size.
Aldo hurried away, then came quickly back with a bowl of Parmesan cheese, a dish of olives, a plate of tiny orange-colored tomatoes—picked this morning, he told us—plus a bowl of garlic-and-lemon
aoili
for the calamari, and a hunk of rustic bread.
I poured wine into our green glasses and lifted mine in a toast. “To my house in Amalfi,” I said to Jammy.
“Oh God, Lamour, you
cannot
be serious.” Jammy’s face was pinched with anxiety. “You
can’t
live there. Besides, you don’t know how much work the house needs.” She looked at my smiling face and saw she was getting nowhere. “Anyhow, you have to at least forget about the cow,” she added with a sigh.
“Daisy is already in my future,” I said, tasting the wine. “And let’s not forget the chickens.”
She groaned. “You’ve
got
to come home, Lam,” she pleaded.
“Please.”
She took a sip of her wine. “This is quite good,” she added, sounding surprised.
Then Aldo arrived bearing a basil-scented cartwheel-sized pizza and a huge platter of fresh calamari still sizzling from the frying pan.
“Buon appetito,”
he said, flashing us a smile.
As I bit into that first hot, aromatic slice of pizza a sense of well-being came over me. I
loved
this place. I
loved
this
caffè bar
. I
loved
the pretty harbor and the charming medieval piazza. I
loved
my hillside and my little golden house and the food and the wine. Of course the house would need work, but I looked forward to it, as I did to re-creating the garden with Mifune. And I looked forward, as I had not looked forward to anything in years, to being on my own and completely self-sufficient. I knew it was only when I had achieved that independence that I would find myself again as a woman. And a woman with no
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