I’m home and I don’t want to be. I want to fly back to Italy, to board a train that snakes through the graffiti and garbage of Naples, to stay in a hotel room with a toilet that runs and an elevator next door that makes thumping noises as I sleep. I want to wake up late and live only for lunches and dinners like the gnocchi in a sauce so perfect that I dream about it, the marinara in my veins instead of blood. I want to speed down roads so narrow that my driver, his hair wavy as the Mediterranean, makes every turn a three-point. I want to wander through a town murdered by volcanic ash and meet the people living above it today, denying that it’s their turn next. I want to curl up in a ball near the feet of my Amalfian gondolier as he hurls me through a hole in the cliffside and into a pool of water that condensed sunlight and dumb luck have transformed into a wild aquamarine light show. I want to dive into this electric-looking water like the Japanese tourists who braved the jellyfish and the jagged rock and the question that was on my mind: How the fuck will you get back in the boat? I want to sing with the pirate, a refrigerator box of a man with a wine cork in his ear, who took our captain's bribe and got me into this beautiful hole in the middle of the sea near the middle of the planet and so far away from my home. I want to go back.
|The Blue Grotto off the coast of Capri, Italy.|