10. The Mix-up
The Mix-u p
Lucy
As much as I enjoyed my day with Elio, I’m actually relieved to have some time to myself to explore the little town of Portovino.
I really wanted to invite him to join me, but it felt weird, not to mention unprofessional.
The last thing I need is for people to think I’m only doing this job to date the drivers.
The sun is beginning to dip, casting a golden glow over the cobblestone streets.
The town feels like something out of a dream—its charm every bit as enchanting as the pictures, with every corner offering a postcard-worthy view.
The late afternoon air is warm, the kind of thick summer heat that wraps around you like a soft blanket.
For the first time since arriving in Italy, it feels a little like a vacation.
I stroll toward the heart of town, where the night market is already in full swing.
The scent of sizzling street food mingles with the tang of citrus from the nearby fruit stands, and I detect an underlying freshness from the distant sea breeze, which lingers in the air.
It’s a symphony of smells—spicy peppers, rich garlic, and herbs mixing with the clean scent of soap from a nearby artisan’s stall.
I naturally wander to the food stalls, and the produce is so plump and colorful, I’m almost mad that I’m staying at a hotel so I can’t shop for my meal tonight.
Almost . Because I did find a cute little trattoria I can’t wait to try.
While the food at the Rossi Motorsports canteen was top quality, it wasn’t authentic homemade Italian.
I’m sampling cheese from a local artisan when my phone rings.
“ Scusa ,” I say to the nice lady who just offered me the most amazing cheese. I grab my phone and turn around to answer.
“Hey, you!” chirps the ever-cheery voice of my roommate, Daisy. “How’s Italy? Is it la dolce vita ?”
I smile. “Right now, it definitely is. I’m at this cute market, and the architecture is gorgeous! You’d love it, Daisy. I’ll send you pics.” Daisy and her boyfriend are both architects in Chicago, so I know she’ll be more interested in the buildings than the food.
“Okay, I’m officially jealous ,” she says, drawing a chuckle out of me. “How’s the feature going? I had a peek at the website. It looks pretty cool.”
“Honestly, it really is,” I say, sitting down on a bench and watching people pass by. “I thought I’d hate Formula 1. I never really had an interest in the sport, but it’s fun. This entire world is a lot bigger—and more popular—than I’d imagined.”
“And the guy you’re covering? Is he as much of a player as you expected?”
Daisy was there when I was preparing for my trip and discovered the guy I’d be shadowing was on the front pages of the tabloids every week, a different girl on his arm every time.
“Um. He’s all right. So far, he hasn’t demonstrated any obviously gross behavior, but he’s a man, and there’s still time. ”
“Oh, come on. Always expecting the worst in people.” We definitely differ on that front, but that also means we balance each other out well.
“The guy has been hitting on me every day. Even if he’s nice and funny, I know better.”
“Ohhh, he hit on you! That’s great. I know I said it before, but that’s the perfect rebound guy for you. Sexy, foreign, and living on another continent.”
“Right. ’Cause you’d be the kind of girl to have a vacation fling?” I snort. “You and I differ on many things, but not on that.”
“Maybe so, but that’s not a good thing. You should be out there having fun. ”
“I am, but I’m also working. And I’m not about to cross that line, especially not with him. That situation has disaster written all over it.”
“Fine. I’m just glad you’re enjoying yourself. Have you gone shopping yet? Should I be expecting the debt collectors?”
I stand up from the bench and start walking. “Haha, very funny. I haven’t had the chance yet, and thanks to you interrupting my evening, I haven’t bought a single thing at this cute market.”
“All right, I’ll leave you to it. I’m meeting Asher for lunch anyway.”
“Say hi for me. Talk soon.”
“And please, try to have fun. I know how you like to withdraw into yourself and be a loner after a breakup, but this workation is the perfect opportunity for you to change that. If not with the F1 driver, then with someone else.”
I shake my head. I hate when Daisy sees right through me like that. I do have that tendency, but it has nothing to do with my avoidance of Elio. I’m just not the vacation fling girl. I can always get back in the saddle once I’m home.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, because I know she’ll keep badgering me if I don’t.
“Bye, Daisy.” Hanging up, I head back into the market and stroll past a few clothing stalls without stopping.
There’s no point in looking at clothes. I never have much luck finding my size sixteen at small boutiques and markets in the US, so there’s no way I’ll find it here.
Instead, I stop at a stall with colorful shawls that are absolutely exquisite.
It’s one of those things that when you see it, you think, ‘I nee d this, and I need it in every color imaginable.’
I end up buying three, although I’ll give one of them to Daisy—probably.
I pay the woman, trying my best to understand what she says, then keep exploring the market.
But I don’t get very far, because the stall next door sells these pretty gemstone necklaces.
I’m trying one on when the seller waves a hand to catch my attention.
I look up, and he points behind me. “ Qualcuno ti sta chiamando. ”
Having no idea what that means, I turn around, only to find a woman hurrying toward me. “Alessia! Aless,” she says, waving at me.
I scrunch my face in confusion, glancing behind me, but the woman is headed straight toward me, and there’s no one else around.
“Alessia,” she says again, approaching me. Then, she stops dead in her tracks, her frown mirroring mine. “Oh, scusa, pensavo che fossi qualcun altro. ”
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian. But I don’t think I’m the person you’re looking for.”
“Sorry,” she says, looking me up and down again before hustling away.
I just stand there, dumbstruck. What the heck was that?
The rest of the evening is fantas tic. I found a bunch of cute accessories and knick-knacks at the market, and the trattoria did not disappoint. In fact, I plan to come back another day to check out the arancini.
As I walk back to my hotel, my mind drifts once again to that weird exchange at the market earlier.
That woman mistook me for someone else—there’s no doubt about that—but she seemed so sure I was her friend.
And the disbelieving look on her face when she realized I wasn’t who she thought I was? Definitely weird.
I’ve heard about doppelg?ngers, but is that really a thing? Could I have one here in Italy?
As the thought crosses my mind, I find myself thinking about Mom.
I can’t remember the name of the town she hailed from, but I know it’s in this region, somewhere near the Amalfi Coast. What if I have family here?
The question gnaws at me, a quiet ache that won’t go away.
What if that woman stopped me because there’s someone here who looks like me?
A sister or a half-sister I never knew about, or maybe a cousin—someone whose blood ties me to this place in ways I can’t even imagine?
When I return to my room, I start working on the article, retracing today’s events. Even if it wasn’t a day at the track, I’m happy with the snippets I got, and I know Frank will be too. You can’t get more intimate than p ictures of Elio’s house and a video of him driving one of his sports cars.
But as I upload the video, my mind wanders back to Mom.
Grabbing my phone, I decide to write an email to Elaine, my mom’s best friend.
If there’s one person who knows about Mom’s mysterious childhood, it’s her.
I never thought I’d go down this path while I was here, but something about this place, about the air and the old stone streets, brings everything to the surface.
Being here makes me miss Mom in ways I can’t explain.
It also makes me regret never pushing her for more stories about her past. Even if I knew it was a touchy subject, I should have pressed harder. She was my only family.
All I know is that she had a sister. What if she’s still here? What if she’s been living just around the corner this whole time? I owe it to myself to find out. Opening the email app on my phone, I start typing.