Many of you already know that Elizabeth Gilbert's much-acclaimed
memoir, "Eat Pray Love" is a personal favorite of mine. Her tale of
her attempts to rediscover her identity post-divorce as she traveled the world
has been a bible of sorts for my own past 3 months of travel. My copy of the
book is almost ready to lose its cover and is littered with coffee stains and
frantic pen marks highlighting passages that resonated with my own experience
or that I felt were so perfectly articulated.
When I decided that this book would be my sole read for my three month journey,
I worried I may grow bored with the story the second time around. However, my
intuition told me to take it along regardless. I tried to savor the bite size
chapters throughout my ten weeks of travel and inadvertently found my own
journey mirroring that of Gilbert's in many ways. Rather than finding pleasure
in food as she'd done in Italy (the food in Spain is no comparison to the
luscious pizza and pasta she enjoyed in Roma), I found my own joy in the form
of late nights dancing in Spain, singing in the streets with my students and an
occasional kiss to attractive European men who happened to cross my path (or in
a certain case, when they showed up at my hostel door). By the time I reached
Germany, it was time to put away the dancing shoes for a while and hit the
floor with almost daily yoga and moments of connecting with God to help me
persevere through moments of homesickness, stress from my job and the
world-view shattering history that litters Germany's landscape.
By the time I parted ways from my students, I was ready for the "beaches
of Bali," where Liz Gilbert spent the final section of her book. Here she
chronicled her attempts to find balance amidst the pursuit of pleasure and
spirituality. Well, at least this is what she claims to write about during her
time in Indonesia. This pursuit of balance is what she originally set out to
achieve, but instead she met a handsome Brazilian man who swept her off her
feet, ending what is otherwise a delightful story of female independence and
empowerment in a somewhat sickening Fairy Tale fashion. Well I was determined
to head to the beach (Positano, Italy rather than Bali, Indonesia) to
accomplish Gilbert's original mission.
Before I get too far into the story, let me say that I never actually wanted
to go to Positano. My girlfriends and I had all made plans to rendezvous in
Rome and fly over to Eastern Italy where we'd ferry over to Croatia for a week
in the undiscovered gem of Europe. We had even booked our airline tickets, but
on my final day in Paris, I received an email from home notifying me that
Croatia was off. My heart sank, head swam and stomach churned. I had put all my
energy into planning the 2-week trip for my sister and I and I had no more
energy for travel plans. I wanted to go to Croatia, dammit! I easily downed a
half bottle of cheap, but delicious French wine as I begrudgingly packed my bag
(remember, this was before the part of the trip when I used my spiritual
resources to cope) and wound up with a nasty hangover to accompany me on my
travels to Strasbourg.
I spent the next week trying to figure out a plan B. Finally, we all agreed to skip
the flight to Eastern Italy and instead would head south to the Amalfi Coast. I
still hadn't completely shed my bitterness at having my dreams of Croatia
smashed, but a reunion with college friends was far more important. Moreover,
this trip had given me every reason to believe that all things happen for a
reason. In Eat, Pray, Love Elizabeth Gilbert quotes a Sufi poem that says,
"long ago God drew a circle in the sand exactly around the spot where you
are standing right now." So although I thought I was going to
Croatia, I really was never going anywhere but Positano.
I'm not sure who ended up deciding that Positano would be our exact destination
on the Amalfi Coast. We wound up renting a villa that entirely too large for
only the 4 of us, but its grand patio overlooking the sea was the perfect
location for morning yoga, writing and evening gourmet dinners courtesy of our
fellow traveler who just happened to be an aspiring chef! I honestly felt my
heart would beat out of my chest in pure joy every morning when I awoke to the
sun rising over the multi colored houses lining the hillside and every evening,
after a long day at the beach, when we'd watch the blood orange moon rise over
the horizon and toast to being world travelers at only 24. By our third night,
we were ready to mingle with the locals and so we headed down to the village's
one disco, "Music on the Rocks." I assumed that we'd be greeted by a
local strumming his guitar while sitting perched up on the cliffside at the
beach, but we were pleasantly surprised to discover a legit disco where we
danced with the locals late into the night (even a couple of twins who happened
to be Dolce and Gabana models). A.M. yoga, meditating on the beach, drinking
and dancing until dawn...I was actually doing this balance thing right!
We quickly befriended our eccentric Australian landlord and decided to celebrate
our second to last night going to his favorite local family owned restaurant, Ristorante Saraceno d'Oro.
Before heading down the street to the restaurant we got the inside scoop on who
was who (mother, son-in-law, aunt, etc.). All of the names and relationships
went right over my head. We'd only be eating there once anyways, what was the
point in memorizing this?
Upon arriving at Saraceno d’Oro,
we were instantly greeted with the best Italian hospitality--complimentary
champagne to start the night off right with a toast to a fabulous week in
Positano. We enjoyed grilled Mediterranean vegetables, mouth-watering pizza,
more champagne and the local specialty licquor- limoncello (compliments of the
house!). During the meal, we put faces to the names and personalities we'd
heard about earlier. Then, tragedy hit. At least this is what it was in the
eyes of someone desperately avoiding anything (or anyone) that might distract them
from their mission to balance time with friends with time for yoga. My attempts
to avoid Elizabeth Gilbert's Balinese "mistake" were about to go
right out the window.
Halfway through dinner the
brother-in-law (or maybe nephew? or cousin? I still hadn't figured out how
everyone was related. Maybe I should've paid more attention to the tutorial
from earlier) of the restaurant owners wandered up the street from his own
restaurant down the road. Coincidence? Probably not, our landlord suspects that
one of the waiters at Saraceno had wandered down to tell him about the four attractive
American girls he did not want to miss meeting. We giggled like 8th grade girls
as we met charming, attractive Lorenzo who spoke English in a perfectly sexy
Italian accent. We learned he had recently broken up with his girlfriend (who
we learned throughout the night was from the Dominican Republic. But, was also
Irish. And blonde? Needless to say, the visual image morphed quite drastically
as we picked up more details). He had also just returned from Naples that
morning were he tested to become a boat captain. Did he want to come to Music
on the Rocks with us to celebrate? It turns out that this very night was
"Alexander Night," a weekly celebration on the night that his friend
Alex has off work. There was always a party on this night.
After Lorenzo headed back to
work, we finished our limoncello, took some necessary photos and headed down to
M.O.R. (our nickname for the disco). On the way, we stopped at Ristorante
Mediterraneo where Lorenzo worked. He'd have to meet up with us after it
closed, but in the meantime, could we please head down the street to the next
bar where his friend Alex was and surprise him? Of course we could so we set
off in search of this stranger. As it turns out, he wasn't hard to find. In
fact, he started talking to us before we could even get the words out that we
were there to see someone named Alexander. He was so delighted and surprised
that he joined our table and bought us shots of a local special liquor. We were
introduced to another friend, Enzo, and learned all about the risk of sharks in
Positano (or "Scooter Sharks" rather, the sleazy Italian guys that
zoom around the windy streets of Positano in search of vulnerable female
tourists). We also heard about Alexander's latest boat-- "Paradise Love
Boat III" (the first two were "stolen" by the sea,) before
heading back up the road to retrieve Lorenzo. As we waited for Lorenzo to count
out the money, Enzo jumped behind the bar to serve up more local specialties (liquor
from artichokes? Not so bad) and our landlord showed up with Lorenzo's mom to
join in on the drinks. Just as we were getting set to make the long trek down
the hill to the disco, Lorenzo's friend (or maybe his cousin? Everyone seems to
be cousins in that town) showed up in his taxi and offered us a ride. Perfect!
We finally all rendezvoused
at Music on the Rocks a while later and the dance party began! It was more of a
little dance circle than anything else, with no one really singling out another
person in particular to dance with, except for the occasional spin or one of
the guys cutting in to save us from a local creepster (A "Scooter
Shark" sans scooter). Of course, if there was anyone in particular we wanted
to dance with, they could arrange that as well. Hmmm...Did I dare tell them who
I wanted to twirl me across the dance floor? I'd been watching Lorenzo out of
the corner of my eye as he'd chatted it up with people all throughout the club,
always smiles, and occasionally gracing up with his presence in our communal
dance party. But why ruin the fun with the prospects of disappointment when I
was having such a great time as merely an audience member? I didn't think I
stood a chance against some of the leggy, tanned girls in the club and
moreover, I had been hurt by guys from Europe in the past; there was no point
in risking that disappointment again. But as luck would have it, my skills at
miscommunication trumped my lack of assertiveness and a little later in the
night I mentioned to Lorenzo that my friend and I were heading back inside to
dance, which he mistook as an invitation to dance with me. And the rest, as
they so clichély say in the movies, is history. We danced until they kicked us
out, as our tired friends sat out on the sidelines, kicking off their heels and
snapping photos. We parted ways promising to meet again the next day--maybe
even on Paradise Love Boat III--and I floated up the 300 stairs leading from
the beach to our villa.
What had originally been
planned as a 5-day stay in Positano slowly turned into eight. Two of the girls
had flights to catch, but Christina and I stayed behind, wondering if we'd
really ever find motivation to leave. We returned to Saraceno d'Oro, allowed
Lorenzo to spoil us at his restaurant, where we dined in four-hour stretches,
always meeting new friends who sketched our portraits or serenaded us with
their guitar. We made friends on the beach who offered us free beach chairs
during the day and took us out squid fishing in the depths of the night. We
even made it out on Paradise Love Boat III for a tour of the coast and a swim
to the shore to collect mussels for dinner. We raced around on motorbikes and
danced until nearly morning.
With every day I was falling
more in love with Positano. I had lived walking distance from the beach last
spring in Alicante, but had only gone a handful of times and here I was in
Positano, almost in tears when the sun fell behind the cliffs at 6pm (of course
this may have had something to do with the fact that leaving the beach meant a
30 minute trek uphill to the villa). I watched with envy at the children
playing on the shores. What luck they have to grow up amidst such a picturesque
and tranquil setting! And what joy for their parents and grandparents to watch
each generation learning to swim in the salty sea. Of course, I could never be
a successful Italian. I suck at cooking (at least in comparison) and would fail
at the art of doing nothing. Christina and I lay on the beach one afternoon
discussing how lovely it would be to enjoy a life where you had nothing to do.
You could read, paint, practice languages, play the piano...our list went on
and on before we realized that our American concept of "doing
nothing" would never fly in Italia. Still, lounging on the beach with the
biggest dilemma being "Should I read, meditate, siesta or swim?" got
very comfortable.
I'm sure I could've lived
that life for several more weeks, but thankfully (or maybe not? I still haven't
decided) I had a date to meet my sister in Rome on Tuesday morning. I toyed
with the idea of flaking out, but the imagined consequences, along with Lorenzo's
encouragement to "be the good example," persuaded me to follow
through with meeting her. However, not before a final night in Positano for San
Vitto Day (their village saint). Christina and I enjoyed our fireworks send-off
and headed to M.O.R. for one last time, to wait for Lorenzo. All of the words
we'd been holding in since we met (and maybe should've kept inside forever?)
came tumbling out, as we danced, went out on a friend's boat and road through
the hills of Positano on his scooter. If it wasn't for the overpriced taxi I
had scheduled to rush me to the Naples train station on Tuesday morning, I
don't know if I would've ever made it out the door. All of my obligations to my
sister seemed so much less important as I watched the sunrise over Positano in
the arms of this Italiano.
Nevertheless, I inevitably
had to go, promising to return soon. I greeted my sister and Trisha in Rome in
much worse shape than they were after a night of no sleep. Then came the two
weeks of me gushing every last detail of my week in Positano. At the end of our
hallway in Rome was a photo of Positano, a cruel, daily reminder of where my
heart longed to be. By the end of the first week, the girls had started
referring to Positano as "La La Land" and were certainly tuning out
my constant onslaught of stories. I tried to get back into the groove of
seeking balance. I did a little yoga and went out dancing, but I, the girl who
traditionally refused to leave a dance club in Spain before 6am without a fuss,
found myself more than ready to retire at 2 am. What had happened to me? None
of these guys could dance like Lorenzo, no one smiled like him and I had no
desire to give any of them the chance to prove if they could kiss like him.
So where did I go wrong? How
did I wind up being so swept away in the moment only to find myself lonely and
heartsick in Spain, the country I claimed affinity to? Towards the end of her
section in Indonesia, after she's decided to risk liking the Brazilian guy,
Elizabeth Gilbert is told, "to lose balance sometimes for love is part of
living a balanced life." Kahlil Gibran says something similar in his book,
The Prophet,
"But if
in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's
threshing floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all of your laughter,
and weep, but not all of your tears."
Living a life of balance
does not mean living in a constant state of equilibrium, or even a perfect
pairing of late night dancing and early morning prayer. I want my balanced life
to also include my heart beating beneath my ribs in joy for the moments I am
living now, even if they may be fleeting and lead to long summers interspersed
with an aching in my chest, distracted only by scheming ways to return to
Positano. I want to have this, even if only to repeat this cycle all over
again.
It looks like Elizabeth
Gilbert didn't go astray after all.
