snapshot [Camogli, Italy]

from September:

i. A lone bus rattles it way up a winding hill that leads to our home for the next couple of days. As I can see it rounding the bend and passing an ancient cathedral about two miles from here, I settle down to write a few more words. My fellow is already tying his shoes, eager to explore. I'm still wading through jet lag, a blur of new sights and a language already pulling its bow tightly around my heart. Buongiorno, our neighbors call up to us.

Up here, the air is clean and soft. Portofino hugs the coastline which I can see from our bedroom window, pine green shutters pressed against the house to let in the whisper of a breeze. Outside, a silvery cat plays with grape vines, tossing the stems back and forth, as if they were strings. Our host has left us some white clusters to try and the fruit is heavy with sweetness and sun.

ii. Everything seems to move at its own pace in this fishing village. Shop owners sit outside of their establishments, chatting with those that pass by. For hours, they sit and talk. I am drawn into this way of life and its simplicity. I reach for words I don't yet know. Bellissimo negozio, I want to say. Instead, I smile and will myself to try again next time. Giovanni and I wander down narrow steps that lead us to the water's edge lined by a sprawling beach, shops, restaurants, and bars. It all seems a bit hazy from the sun, even the buildings seem lighter, their elaborate designs are fainter. Our faces are reddening, a constellation of freckles exploding across my nose. Down here, the air lingers. Everything is bathed in this heat.

Markets sell chestnuts, and basil by the bunches. I stop at every shop I see, staring at the plums with their perfect round bodies, color of midnight. I buy persimmons and their soft flesh grabs at my mouth. Everyone here thinks my husband is a native Italian and when a man points at himself then at Gio, I laugh at the words that fall in broken English. We are the same, he says. You and me, look. Yet isn't that true? Aren't we defined by our humanity? Yes, yes sir. We are the same.

We find food at a small focaccia shop and feel as though something is wrong when we leave only eight euros shorter and with a bag filled with recommendations from the attendant. Lei parla inglese? We ask her. Un po, she responds. We've realized that everyone responds the same way to that question. Whether they actually speak a little English is what we have to find out. Some people seem fluent, while others, truly only know a little. Yet this woman speaks our language easily and as much as I am captured by hers, I breathe a sigh of relief. Try the onion, she says, pointing to the flat bread covered in caramelized onions. We buy that, the pesto and mozzarella, regular focaccia drenched in oil, and pastries dripping with chocolate and jelly. I've never seen anything like the food here, an explosion of flavor and simplicity.

The market square smells of seafood and cappuccinos. Cafe's line up with their veranda's overlooking a small bay, twinkling lights strung up over tables. Sparkling glasses are filled with wine again and again, regardless of the time of day. Boats are waiting by the pier and I point at one bearing my husband's name.

We wander until the sun begins to beat down on us with a will we cannot fight. Getting back on the rattling bus, we take our seats and slide open the windows next to us. A stranger refers to Giovanni as my husband and I am taken aback. Oh, yes. That's right. It all still feels so new, but here we are and we kiss on the bus and kiss in the yellow kitchen of our hilltop home and he's my husband.