Chapter 1 #2
‘It sounds perfect. When I saw the advert online, I knew this was just what I was looking for. I can imagine why it gets so busy; the whole of Italy must want to come here for their summer holiday.’
Having left her bag in her room she was given a tour of the building.
It was higgledy-piggledy and full of charm.
Light streamed through the windows, bouncing off the whitewashed walls.
The rooms were full of the half-unpacked contents of travellers’ backpacks.
Little alcoves displayed beautiful patterned blue tiles, and brightly coloured lemon trees in terracotta pots rested on mosaic tables.
‘These are the rooms for the guests. We can sleep forty people at any one time, and we have a mixture of dormitories and doubles or family rooms,’ explained Floriana as she tottered along the corridor.
‘Here is our little bar,’ she said as they entered a spacious room to the side of the building that led out onto the terrace.
‘It is run by a man called Luca. It is normally quite busy.’
‘Is it just for guests?’ Libby asked.
‘No, no, it is for anyone who wants to use it – we have a regular crowd of locals who come by. You will get to know everyone soon enough, don’t worry,’ she laughed. ‘In Positano, everyone knows everyone.’
She pointed up. ‘At the very top of the building is our apartment. We tend to spend our evenings there when we can these days, for a bit of peace and quiet. We are not as young as we used to be, you know.’
They made their way back to the terrace, which was decked out with tables and chairs that gleamed in the afternoon sun.
‘This is where the guests normally eat breakfast. One of your jobs will be to serve croissants and coffees in the morning, as well as taking bookings, answering the telephones and checking guests in and out. Don’t worry, I will explain everything to you later when you have settled in. You’ll get the hang of it in no time.’
Antonio, who reminded Libby of a cheerful garden gnome, was busy in the kitchen behind reception. ‘Would you like some lunch?’ asked Floriana. ‘Please join us, we are about to eat.’
‘I’d love to,’ Libby said. ‘Can I do anything to help?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Antonio. ‘It’s almost ready.’
He brought out a basket of bread and a huge platter of mozzarella, sliced tomatoes and basil.
As she ate, Libby could hardly believe how delicious such simple ingredients could taste.
The creamy mozzarella melted in her mouth, the sun-ripened tomatoes burst with flavour, and the fragrant basil mingled perfectly with the nutty richness of the olive oil.
It was poles apart from the bland tomato and mozzarella salads that she had eaten so many times in England.
Her mouth watered at the prospect of three months of such culinary delights.
She had always enjoyed cooking and was determined to add more Italian dishes to her repertoire by the time she got home.
She looked at her new employers as they ate their lunch.
Floriana’s greying hair curled softly around her ears and her smile reached the corners of her eyes.
Both Antonio and Floriana had wonderfully deep wrinkles etched across their faces, each line a reminder of a memory or experience from what had evidently been rich and long lives.
She bet they had a story or two to tell.
They told her about their children, who had moved away as soon as they had reached their twenties.
Their daughter lived in nearby Sorrento, while one son was in Naples and the other in Rome.
Apparently, they would be coming home at various stages over the summer.
‘You must miss them,’ said Libby. ‘I can’t believe anyone would want to move away from such a beautiful place.’
‘Many of the younger generation leave Positano to find work elsewhere,’ said Floriana.
‘It’s a shame but it’s not easy for them all to earn a decent living here,’ explained Tonio. ‘We were lucky because we have this place.’
‘I bet the house prices are extortionate.’ Libby wondered if the locals had become priced out from buying local properties, unable to compete with rich holiday-makers and foreign investors.
‘It’s also seasonal here. You can find yourself worked off your feet in the high season and then twiddling your thumbs and struggling to make ends meet when the season comes to an end.
’ Libby hadn’t considered this before. Perhaps, if you put yourself in the shoes of those who were actually born and bred here, life in Positano wasn’t as picture-postcard idyllic as it appeared on the surface.
After lunch, Floriana explained in detail what would be expected of her.
‘You will have to be up at six a.m. – sorry it is a bit early, I know, but breakfast starts at six thirty, so you will come down and set up beforehand. We have a delivery of fresh croissants from the bakery every day between six and six fifteen. We get plain, almond, chocolate and custard croissants. Each guest has one croissant included and a choice of coffee.’ Floriana told her how to operate the coffee machine and froth the milk.
After that she showed her how to take bookings and record them on the computer, what to do when new guests arrived and how to check them out.
Libby took notes, but it didn’t seem anything too complicated.
Her many years of temping, darting about different jobs and industries trying to figure out what she wanted to do with her life, had armed her with a flexible and comprehensive skill set, if nothing else.
Libby wasn’t officially starting until the next day, so after she had asked all the questions she could possibly think of, she set off to explore.
Her hours would be 6 a.m. until 6 p.m., with two days off a week and a two-hour lunch break.
In the evenings there was another girl, Giulia, who came to take care of the guests until the reception desk closed at midnight, and someone else called Andrea, who was in charge of the cleaning and laundry.
Floriana assured her that both she and Antonio would be around most of the time during the day, and in the evenings there was Luca, who ran the bar with extra help from a young girl called Maria.
‘Now, cara, you must go out and look around. Have you been to Positano before?’
‘Not for many years, but I think I should be able to remember most of it. It’s the kind of place you never forget!’
‘Yes, and it’s hardly very big. But here, take one of these just in case.
’ Floriana passed her one of the hand-drawn maps on the reception desk.
‘Look, we are here, this is the centre and this is the main beach – though my favourite is the little beach here,’ she said, pointing to a smaller cove to the west of the Spiaggia Grande.
‘You can walk across from here along the sea front.’
Libby went back to her room and changed into her bikini and a light sundress. She was glad to be out of her sweaty shorts and T-shirt. Buzzing with excitement she set off once more down the haphazard steps that led away from the yellow door.
She wove her way down the steep descent to the centre of the village, veering down the famous Via dei Mulini, with its tapestry of entwined wisteria making a natural canopy overhead.
Memories came flooding back from her early twenties as she passed a little bar to her right, in which she could remember sitting with her group of friends, drinking carafes of wine and listening to live music.
A critical voice flashed into her mind asking her what, exactly, she had achieved in the meantime.
Here she was again, spending another summer by herself, abroad, rootless.
This was not what she had thought she would be doing in her thirties.
She quietened the voice with reassurances that she was here for a reason, to practise her Italian and help herself get a real job, a serious job; to sort her life out once and for all.
The tiny streets were still lined with shops selling local wares.
Pop-up jewellery stalls jostled with jewel-bright clothes that had been draped artistically outside shop fronts.
Rows and rows of soft leather sandals in every colour of the rainbow stood next to towering displays of citronella candles, lemon-shaped soaps and colourful pottery.
Libby’s mouth watered as she passed gelato shops full of enticing flavours like tiramisu, Nutella, and wonderful words that rolled satisfyingly off the tongue like ‘stracciatella’ and ‘frutti di bosco’.
It was a joy for Libby to use her Italian again after so many years.
She had chosen Italian as a degree subject for two reasons: the beauty of the language and her passion for Italy itself.
With its art, opera, architecture, stunning scenery and food, she couldn’t think of a culture in which she would prefer to immerse herself for four years of her life.
She felt guilty that she had let her Italian slip, and she was determined to regain the fluency she had achieved at university.
She regretted her carefree, noncommittal attitude to life in her twenties, drifting aimlessly through the years without sorting out what she actually wanted from life.
It felt good to finally have a secure career path planned for when she got home.
Libby’s spirits soared as she jumped from the bottom step, landing with a gentle thud on the sandy Spiaggia Maggiore.
She decided to take Floriana’s advice, so she made her way along the pathway that led to the smaller Spiaggia del Fornillo.
She was rewarded with breathtaking views of the dazzling sea that sparkled under the fierce heat of the sun. She was dying to get in the water.
Removing her dress in one fell swoop, she kicked off her flip-flops and padded down to the seashore.
The sand felt amazing underneath her feet.
She couldn’t think of the last time she had been barefoot on the sand under a cloudless sky in such glorious heat.
She luxuriated in the sun as it warmed her skin, mesmerised by the gentle ebb and pull of the tide as it lapped the shore.
Taking a deep breath, she started to walk forwards into the turquoise water.
It was cool and crisp and crystal clear.
Her warm skin protested for a moment or two as she immersed herself in the sea.
She could see her feet perfectly, even when she reached waist height.
Taking the plunge, she dived forwards and dipped her head under the water.
It was unbelievably refreshing. After a few minutes’ swimming around, she came back to the beach and lay on her towel to dry off, dozing in the sunshine.