From juicy lemons to mouldy oranges: Accepting the many faces of Sorrento

A month ago, I was crying uncontrollably on the bus from Sorrento to Napoli – sad to be leaving the people I met and heartbroken for saying goodbye to the most beautiful place on Earth. I was the only passenger on the bus, and every time the driver and I emerged from a tunnel and the bright, glimmering coastline revealed itself again, I burst into more tears because I was reminded of how much I would miss the sea. It was a hot early September Sunday and I was sweating in my linen t-shirt and shorts.

Now it’s early October. The breeze is fresh and cooling, the sun rays still strong. Autumn has returned to Sorrento and so have I. Sitting on a metal bench in the little park where ragazzi smoke weed at night, looking directly at the deep blue sea and the island of Capri floating on top of it.

How beautiful, life came full circle. A month has passed since I first saw the narrow streets of Naples, criss-crossed with colourful laundry. A month has passed since I first spiralled my way down the Positano serpentines on the back of a Vespa, swallowing back tears of awe for the unbelievable rocky landscape dotted with lemon vendors. A month has passed since my first fishing trip, my first granita, my first sfogliatella!

The air isn’t humid anymore and somehow it makes the town of Sorrento and its locals seem clearer, calmer, more focused. Girls have swapped strappy sandals and skirts for biker boots and jeans. Boys wear bomber jackets when they ride their scooters. The little shops with lemon-print aprons, beach dresses and ceramics no longer lure you in because it’s not a hot summer night and rather than yellow souvenirs and flowing cotton fabrics, you lust after cashmere and suede. Certain things don’t make much sense to me here this time of year. The palm trees and orange bushes seem lost without the sticky heat of the holiday season. The mosaic in the main piazza seems out of place without the shiny tanned legs of tourists walking past it, gelato dripping down their forearms.

But the view of that vibrant sea, an occasional yacht passing by and an island sitting confidently in the distance - that still works. Somehow it is so simple, so powerfully breath-taking, it speaks for itself no matter the accompanying season. Whether it’s hot or cold, whether you are in love or lonely, this view makes sense. Unlike the rest of the touristy town, this view looks good in any context because it doesn't care about it; in fact it doesn't care about anything at all.

I wonder what this weekend will bring and whether my love for the peninsula will last after experiencing it without the pink glasses of a Sorrento-virgin-tourist. I am no longer excited for that first dip in the sea, for the first lick of gelato, the first lemon bought at the market. My feet are not sliding in sweaty flip flops, they are sturdy and secure in tightly laced shoes. In my bag? No sun-cream or stacks of Euro notes, but a notebook and a set of keys.

When deciding whether we love a location, its atmosphere, its people, its perfume – how important is the context of our visit? If I believe I really love Sorrento and the Amalfi coast because in the summer I fell for its colours, climate, food and people, will I still love it on chilly October evenings, without the tan-lines, late limoncello nights at the beach and the butterflies of a summer romance?

Perhaps a parallel can be made with destinations and people. If we fall in love with a person when they are looking and feeling their best - glowing, healthy and happy thanks to a careless summer - will we still love them come November? When the winter blues hit, the tan is long gone and lazy afternoons at the beach turn into rush hour sweat and never-ending deadlines. If we don’t, does that mean the love we felt in August wasn't real? Were we really just in love with the idea of a summer romance, rather than with the person who made it happen? Just like meeting your therapist or teacher in the supermarket, reuniting with your summer fling in the middle of autumn can be a bit confusing. It's a test that some flings won't pass.

---

When I arrived this afternoon, the sun was glaring and I felt its satisfying burn on my skin. The oranges hanging loosely on the trees looked juicy. The salty smell, il profumo del mare, was sweet. But now it’s almost five o’clock and the sun just disappeared behind the mountain which shields the terrace where I’m sat writing. My fingers feel a bit numb, cold in the autumn evening air. Mosquitos have bitten their way around my ankles and the rays that burned my cheeks only an hour ago are gone until tomorrow. I can’t smell the sea anymore and I notice the oranges in the trees are unripe and mouldy. I am under a mountain in the middle of nowhere. It sounds idyllic but there is nowhere to go unless you have a Vespa full of petrol or company more capable than the neighbour's cat. Context matters.

But context is also relative and can depend on expectations. Perhaps if I wasn't expecting to feel the way I felt a month ago, I wouldn't be so shocked to find the same location looking so different. If you can disconnect the fairytale associations from your summer romance, it might be able to turn into something more concrete. Not as dreamy, but stronger and more resilient to the blazé of day to day normality.

Next time I come to Sorrento - for I know I will - I won't expect the citrus to be ripe and the town to be buzzing. I will open myself to whatever Sorrento wants to offer me next and allow our romance to mature into something more stable - remembering its beauty from the summer, but accepting its personality in the winter.