Tropea, Tropea, my Darling

by Paige Lehmann

Can I describe Tropea without mentioning her luxurious beaches that stretch into an infinity of sand and sea, the towering, wind-swept Stromboli and the nothing that I fall slave to, languishing in the liquid orange caress of a sun that seems created only for Tropea, only for her beaches, only for me and my fellow sun bathers on the edge of the Tirreno sea?

Can I mention, then, the children that flirt with the waves of the sea, playing in her petticoats and skirts, and the older children collecting pieces of tile that drift on the surface of the sand, mixed with so many small stones and shells? These youths on the verge of girls and boys mixing, mingling, but not yet comfortable in their skin, not understanding the mystery of the other sex, but knowing that they don't belong playing in the sea's skirts with their younger, dancing and delighted playmates?

Is there more to Tropea than her long beaches, her lavish umbrellas and brown bodies tanning on multicolored towels among a litter of romance novels, drinks, sunglasses and bottles of tanning oil? Of course there's the promenade in the city proper, where the little bookstore opens her door with Italian, German and French novels waving their pages and beckoning one to know different tongues, to dive into other worlds, but why would I want to leave Tropea in the pages of a book once I'm finally here, and after it took so long to reach this mystical island of old-world Italian, a bubble in the technologically laced, modern Italian industry? I rummage through the pages and, after touching several countries, leave this tiny store and visit the city's other, more alluring attractions.

Like the ice-cream on the edge of the promenade- that slippery, icy, and heady delicacy that scrapes into my cup and waits for me to slowly devour her while sitting beside Tropea's ancient cannons that remind the traveler that the Calabraise love their city and once, years and millennia ago, died for her. I can leave the lookout with the cannons and walk to the Cathedral with her US bombs from World War Two that hang by the giant wooden doors, beside the paintings of Mary and Jesus. I can read about the day that Tropea was bombed and the local priest prayed that she be saved and not one of sixteen bombs exploded.

But Tropea is filled with daily miracles.

A slight walk along her historical center calls me back to the beach, this time near the fisherman's church that sits on the island almost entirely surrounded by water, where my partner and I signed our names in the large, dusty pages of the visitor's book two years ago, and he told me the last time he visited it was with his other girlfriend. And we played with the kittens in the garden and looked out over the other infinity, where the sea never ends and you're glad to be on the edge of the world, if the edge of the world means Tropea and Italy.

Tropea is a photograph on my mother's mantel; it's a mystery and a dream and a movie and a lifetime of centuries of wandering, searching for the meaning in a day, in a moment, in a second of luxury while yawning and stretching on the beach. It is a ship that brings us back to ourselves, and cradles us in experienced hands, rough and loving, hardworking and smooth, and as we lay on our towels and muse on nothing but existence, the boys walk by, collecting the flowered tiles in the sand and the girls, by themselves, are giggling.

© 2006 Paige Lehmann

A San Francisco native, Paige’s work has appeared in the SoMa Literary Review, Living Perugia, Denali and The Eugene Weekly.

Feel free to contact her at Isis_pal @ yahoo.com