staring at the sea

I was born a beach girl. Westhampton Beach that is. I have always thought of the journey of life as a walk along the beach, the setting and rising sun marking the passing of time. And forever near a beach I would like to remain. Thankfully, my Italian is a boy of the Mediterranean. Very often we travel to his sea. Monterosso al Mare. Incidentally, the only one of the Cinque Terre with beaches.

With the many tourists in town as well as sun-seeking Milanese, safer to hide beneath an unbrella.

These last summer days I am exploring the wild and less inhabited Levanto beaches. Molto bello!

Staring at the sea I reflect upon the many beaches I have walked thus far in my life. And have come up with my top 5. (Not including my local Long Island beach, those of Monterosso, and the turquoise waters of Corsica.)

1. The 17 barely inhabited beaches of Fernando de Noronha, Brazil

2. The many remote beaches of the Fourni Islands, Greece

3. The beach island of Gili Trawangan, Indonesia

4. The elite sands of Jose Ignacio, Uruguay

5. The beaches of Tulum, Mexico

The next 5 remain to be discovered…

at last

At last, the wedding song. Did we have one? Not officially.

Many months ago when the fairytale began, my Italian and I happened to be in my hometown of Westhampton Beach while the great Etta James was performing. She being one of my all time most loved singers. Me being ecstatic to see her perform live, to say the least. And yes, she sang At Last.

This could very well have been our wedding song, as it is for so many, but instead it remains discreetly in the soundtrack of our love story.

What the wedding singer did perform was a Napolitan classic, requested by my dear friend Maria, a Napolitan girl herself. Not planned yet perfectly timed, Ti voglio bene assai became our song.

Here, where the sea shines
and the wind howls,
on the old terrace beside the gulf of Sorrento,
a man embraces a girl
he wept after,
then clears his throat and continues the song:

I love you very much,
very, very much, you know;
it is a chain by now
that melts the blood inside the veins, you know…

He saw the lights out on the sea,
thought of the nights there in America,
but they were only the fishermen’s lamps
and the white wash astern.
He felt the pain in the music
and stood up from the piano,
but when he saw the moon emerging from a cloud
death also seemed sweeter to him.
He looked the girl in the eyes,
those eyes as green as the sea.
Then suddenly a tear fell
and he believed he was drowning
I love you very much,
very, very much, you know,
it is a chain by now
that melts the blood inside the vein you know…

The power of opera,
where every drama is a hoax;
with a little make-up and with mime
you can become someone else.
But two eyes that look at you,
so close and real,
make you forget the words,
confuse your thoughts,

So everything became small,
also the nights there in America.
You turn and see your life
through the white wash astern.

But, yes, it is life that ends
and he did not think so much about it
on the contrary, he already felt happy
and continued his song:

I love you very much,
very, very much, you know,
it is a chain by now
that melts the blood inside the veins, you know…

I love you very much,
very, very much, you know,
it is a chain by now
that melts the blood inside the veins, you know…

homemade traditions

One of the most memorable chapters of my life took place on a recent sunny day high up on a cliff, overlooking the Mediterranean. Throughout our Greek island-hopping honeymoon (many adventures which I will soon share), thoughts of our wedding left me feeling warm and somehow, complete. All the many months of planning this international affair (with the aid of a certain gracious Italian sister and uncle), were well worth it. (Originally we were tempted to elope!)

As so well articulated in my Italian’s speech, our love story is a cross-cultural one, with roots in the US, France, Poland and of course Italy. This was represented by our mix of friends and family as well as in our celebration.

We enacted the beautiful Italian tradition of the groom greeting the bride at the door of the church and handing her the bouquet. (What a moment!) The church service was a religious tradition which we had both grown up with. No bridesmaids or groomsmen but rather, four witnesses to acknowledge our union.

Being covered with congratulatory cries of “Auguri!” and rose petals was a moment to cherish.

So many other details set the scene, each proving how much love and care was expressed by all.

Compositions of pale blue hydrangeas mixed with white roses and a touch of lily of the valley, representing innocence on the sea (my interpretation), carefully selected by the local florist.

My bouquet of white roses and white ranunculus composed by my mother, flowers being one of her passions. (This designer mom also made my veil!)

Following an apero, a 12-course meal began (Italian style), filled with tastes from the sea. Apparently an Italian wedding is not a good one unless the guests have eaten more than enough.

The meal ended very sweetly, with a local dessert wine, sciacchetra, expertly concocted by my Italian’s father (with our names on the label – surprise!)

The cake was a special (secret) recipe from the local pasticceria, delicious! My Mom lovingly crafted the ceramic couple to top it off. Perfect.

What my Italian and I were happiest with in the end was all the fun that was had. Evident in the singing and even, dancing! Someone once told me Italians don’t dance at weddings. Certainly we challenged this tradition. The revelry began as the sun set beyond the cliffs. And it went on, and on…

Only to arrive home to the final surprise – a bed filled with rice. Another Italian tradition.

wedding on the sea

Two hundred steps above the sea to the monastery…

With little angels to guide the way.

In the late afternoon sunlight the princess meets her prince.

A sacred moment following the exchange of vows, in English and Italian.

A kiss as ‘husband and wife’.

The view of  forever.

journey complete

When I first discovered Cinque Terre in 2007, after several days spent in Monterosso under the Mediterranean sun, I was ready for a hike, 12 kilometers to be exact. I took the train to Riomagiorre at the opposite end and my journey began.

I fell in love with Manarola, set so enchantingly upon the sea. (How could you not?)

I became taken with each village and it’s views. Within the Cinque Terre a new world unfolded and I found myself thinking about the lives of these people so isolated from the rest of the world. How inhaling the sky and the sea was part of their daily ritual. I continued on my path, climbing up the steep steps and down again. Corniglia soon became my vista.

When I reached Vernazza I was not only physically spent from the hours of hiking but was in need of a little time to reflect. And a glass of local wine. The sun was setting, and I joined the many stray cats lounging on the rocks for the most spectacular natural light show. (Incidentally, I had heard that the hike back to Monterosso was the toughest part of the trail.)

I was not meant to finish that hike. It wasn’t the right time. (And I’m a firm believer in timing.)

Until now. My Italian and I ventured via train to Vernazza, beneath a temperamental sky, to brave the trail I had left untraveled. The views were even more breath-taking than I had remembered.

Between intermittent rays of sun and rain with barely a soul in sight, we followed the steep 3.5 kilometer path, laughing, singing (not a talent I possess) and a little story-telling. We slowly made our way to what I consider the most beautiful panorama of all.

Home. Journey complete.

fruitful days

I am beginning to know the seasons according to the fruits they bear. For the past two years I have looked forward to the Fall for the grape harvest, one which I whole-heartedly participate in, picking, stomping and eventually, drinking the wine. Now, as Winter has turned to Spring, the last of the oranges and many a lemon fill the landscape, ripe for the picking, and tasting. The olive trees patiently await their turn, as do the grape vines, barren of any signs of life.

As I busy myself picking the most succulent of fruit, careful not to step on a strawberry patch as I admire the view of the sea, my Italian’s father carefully grafts the grape vines, anticipating the upcoming harvest. He returns daily to the land, to nurture seeds he has planted, or to plant new ones. I am fascinated by the evolution taking place before my eyes, and understand well what drives the soul to the seed. Very simply, it’s the satisfaction of assisting in the miracle of creation. And certainly, enjoying the fruits of your labor.

In the coming months the yellows and oranges will be replaced by the reds of strawberries and cherries. These blossoms will have metamorphosed into peaches. And I will be there to pick them.

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