Ortigia

somewhere in the south of Italy was a small island off the coast of Siracusa where the city fell gently against the green sea to the east. the people burned with laughter and life in the small lagoons beneath the stairs where they read their books in the water until they needed shelter from the sun. a place where the people were slow and gorgeous in the heat of the Italian summer and the beaches were lined with coloured umbrellas and big green pebbles that you could slip on as you entered the sea.

there was a makeshift platform which rose above the water with big plywood planks and yellow railings where everyone would lay in the summer. as you rested your head you felt every step vibrating across planks of wood from the people passing by to cool off in the water. there was an old man who you could watch teaching his nephew how to dive off the rocks deep into the afternoons as the sun rose high and the water shimmered effortlessly. he had tanned olive skin and tattoos and thick black pants that weighed him down in the water, but most of all he was happy.

in the evenings you could sit at the café above the water on the Lungomare d’Ortigia drinking spritz and smoking cigarettes with the beautiful girl from the Netherlands that had the white skin and faint orange hair. they would serve crisps with the Aperol and you could watch the people passing by towards the church until late in the night, listening to conversations that you didn’t understand, but they made you smile and feel good.

staring into the sun, sweating by the windows in the evening as the church bells rang and the sandstone began to cool. eating ricotta ravioli at the restaurant above the beach with the red sauce and the bread stand in the corner of the room. feeling love watching the green water shimmering in the morning light with the sun warm on your back, realising that it wasn’t what you looked at that mattered here, it was what you saw.

soft jazz music in the evening as the blue air took over the horizon, dipping bread in the tomato sauce with black pepper. falling in love, maybe with yourself and how you felt in this place with the clear warm water and the cafés in the narrow streets and the library with the small collection of english books.

how when I spoke the language here I felt at home and I felt good for the first time in a while. a sinking heart settled in the beauty of the Italian sea knowing that I would be fine by myself, and that there were some things that even time could not mend.

how in a place where the locals closed their eyes to rest, mine kept searching, for it would take time for me to realise that life wasn’t happening around you here, it was coming from within you.