The author’s seventh book hits shelves in March.
Rebecca Serle has a cure for your wanderlust.
Or you’re free to hear the audiobook version above, read by none other thanLauren Graham.
Rebecca Serle is the author of ‘One Italian Summer’.Courtesy of Rebecca Serle; Atria Books
From Naples, you better find a ride down the coast to Positano.
I land in Rome thirteen hours after leaving LA surprisingly refreshed.
I’m not a good flier, never have been.
But I’m strangely calm on the flight.
I’ve always loved a train.
I am not in my home; I am not in hers.
I am somewhere new, where I have to be nimble, alert, present.
Here there is not space for thought, just action.
“They had the kindest staff,” she said.
“Really good people.”
The hotel was oldeverything, my mother used to say, is old in Italy.
But it was charming and beautiful and warm.
It had so much character and life, my mother said.
And the terrace was to die for, somehow constantly bathed in sunlight.
A Honda Civic dropped me off at LAX.
“Buongiorno, Katy,” Renaldo says.
“Welcome to Naples.”
The Amalfi Coast is not so much splayed out before us as beckoning us closer.
Hints of clear blue sea, houses built into the hillside.
“It’s absolutely beautiful,” I say.
“Wait,” Renaldo tells me.
“You wait.”
When we finally come into Positano, I see what he means.
Colorful hotels and houses sit chiseled into the rocks as if they were painted there.
The entire town is built around the cove of the sea.
It looks like an amphitheater, enjoying the performance of the ocean.
Blue, sparkling, spectacular water.
“Bellissima, no?”
“Good for photo.”
I grip the side of the car and roll down the window.
They sing out, the delights of summer in full swing.
We picked June for the trip because it was still a little ahead of tourist season.
Once July hits, it’s a madhouse, my mother said.
Best to go in June when things were a little less touristy, a little less crowded.
She wanted to be able to stroll the streets without being jostled by influencers.
I was sent lists of dinner reservations to make and places to visit from friends.
Boats to rent for day trips to Capri, beach clubs along the ocean requiring water taxi service.
Restaurants high up in the hills with no menus and endless courses of farm-fresh food.
I sent them all to my mother, and she planned the entire thing.
In my hands is our itinerary, marked down to the minute.
I tuck it into my bag.
As we descend I’m met with the stirrings of small-town summer life.
Older women stand on stoops, chatting.
There are men and women on Vespas, the sounds of late-afternoon activity.
A smattering of tourists along the tiny sidewalk have their phones out, snapping pictures.
The sun is high in the sky, and the Tyrrhenian Sea sparkles.
White boats sit out on the water in rows, like flower beds.
It is beauty beyond measurethe sun seeming to touch everything at once.
I exhale and exhale and exhale.
“Ah, here we are,” Renaldo says.
The entrance is all white, with a green carpeted staircase.
Brightly colored flowers sit in potted plants by the entrance.
I fire up the car door and am immediately greeted by the heatbut it feels welcoming.
Warm in its embrace, not at all oppressive.
Renaldo takes my suitcases out of the trunk and climbs the steps with them.
“Grazie,” I say.
“Enjoy our Positano,” he tells me.
“It is a very special place.”
To the left, a spiral stair- case leads up to a second level.
The welcome desk is to the right.
And behind it is a woman who looks like it’s in her fifties.
She has long, dark hair that swings down her back.
Next to her is a young man who speaks in clear, enunciated Italian.
“Ovviamente abbiamo un ristorante!
E il migliore!”
I wave at the woman, and she smiles a warm and welcoming smile back.
“Buonasera, signora.
How can I help you?”
She’s beautiful, this woman.
It’s under Silver."
Something knocks on my sternum, cold and hard.
The woman’s face softens into compassion.
There is a tenderness behind her eyes.
“It’s just you with us this week, si?”
“Just me.”
“Welcome,” she says, placing her hand on her heart.
Her face radiates a smile.
She gives me the keys to room 33.
I climb the stairs to the landing level, then take the small elevator to the third floor.
I have to exit the doors before the machine will move.
My room is at the end of the hall.
There is a small lending library just outside, stocked with books.
I use the key and turn the doorknob.
Inside, the room is sparse and filled with light.
I walk to them and then step out onto the terrace.
While the room is small, the terrace is nearly sprawling.
It looks out over the entire town.
The panoramic views span from the hillside down through the hotels and homes and shops to the sea.
Right underneath me to the left is the swimming pool.
A couple is in the water, hanging off the side, glasses of wine on the ledge.
I hear the splashing, the clink of glassware, and laughter.
I am here, I think.
It is really Italy below me.
I am not watching a movie in my parents' den or on the couch at Culver.
This is not a soundtrack or a photograph.
It is real life.
Most places in the world I have never touched, never met.
But I am here now.
It is a start.
I inhale the fresh air, this place that seems to be dripping in summer.
There is so much beauty here; she was right.
I go back inside.
I sit down on a lounger and tuck my feet underneath me.
All around me Italy swells.
I feel the air thick with heat and food and memory.
“I made it,” I say, but only I can hear.
