the beginning

**Strawberries! Are in town and they are splendid! Huge, red, sweet, and succulent, and so cheap as not to be believed.

***I have been laid low by a bitch of a chest cold. I hope to be back in form by the end of the week...

Meanwhile...


There I am on the treadmill and running for all I’m worth – face shiny with moisture, getting more and more red (that’s how you tell the real blondes and redheads by the by), my trusty and loved iPod blasting away in my ears with Springsteen and Guns ‘n Roses cheering me on, and I find myself ogling, I mean really there’s no other name for it, the handsome chap on my left who is also running. Then looking out to the front I notice that cute guy I had noted earlier who has a ‘way’ about him, a handsome thing as well, who is on the floor snapping out pushups as easily as handing out business cards, with the sweat glistening off his taut biceps and his flat abdomen; then the young trainer by the weights starts doing his “I’m a real athlete” stretches right in front of my treadmill. Up and down, up and down he goes, stretching those inner thighs. The upshot here is that I am having sexual fantasies about strangers, and grinning like a fool! My only hope is that they either think I am really enjoying my music tracks or I’m simply nutty, which is a concern of mine as it may be true. As I find myself percolating testosterone, I’m thinking that sex in Italy might be a really good idea.

I have no moral or ethical concerns over the matter– I’m not married, he’s not married. I certainly don’t have any objections to sex without marriage. All right I have an almost non-existent history of it, but I don’t object! I am blessed, or cursed, with an excess of self-esteem, that talk show staple, that concerns me in much the same way as those who don’t have any, since it is apparently the norm not to have any - so I’m not too terribly worried about taking my clothes off, albeit I think at this stage of my life I prefer candlelight to being naked on the beach in the afternoon sunlight. As we have discussed before I really like sex, and I miss it. So what is the problem? Not a problem really, just a lack of the familiar. And therefore my only conclusion has to be that sex should be on the agenda for Italy. What’s that old saying, “Women need a reason for sex, men just need a place.” It appears that my testosterony self has both.

So now I must check my lingerie drawer to make certain I have the right amount of lacy, silky stuff and if not I must make a run to La Vie en Rose.

The big decision made, I prepare to pack. My instructions when I queried Hassan, “What should I pack?” was cryptic.

“As little as possible and something for dinner.” A man after my own heart…

Once again the trip began with Ali the chauffer-body guard and a trip to the Casablanca airport, this time, where Hassan’s plane was waiting to take me to the airport in Naples. “A car will be waiting to bring you to the villa. I’m sorry I can’t meet you there but in order to have this time without interruption, which is my intention, I must finish up here and meet you there. Will that be all right?”

The phrase from Col. Jack O’Neill comes to mind, “Yeahsureyoubetcha.”

The flight from Casablanca to Naples was a little over three hours and a private jet is the only way to fly. In addition to the two pilots up front I had my own flight attendant, Aisha, who plied me with café au lait and offered sweets and fruits of all kinds. I had silk cushions for my head, a couch on which to stretch my legs out for reading, and unlimited room for carry-ons. Yes, the private jet route is the way to travel. I forgot how much I like this and very much I hate commercial.

Customs in Naples was taken care of in a private office and took no time at all. I was then escorted to my waiting limousine and the trip to Positano. I had asked Hassan to arrange matters so that it would be daylight still during the drive down. The Amalfi Coast is one of the world’s beauties and brilliant to behold. As we entered Positano the sun had just begun to touch the waters of the Mediterranean and give birth to the nightly light show – the soft shades of amber, gold, pink, and salmon always make me sigh with delight. It was about fifty degrees or so and there were sailboats still out, and the tourists boats to Capri were bringing back their day visitors. Then the car began to climb the hills in that pattern of ascending circles like a top spinning. We came in above the town and then took a road that led us around the pedestrian area where no cars are allowed, and back over the top to the villa that sits clinging to the side of the hill above the town below.

I was greeted at the door by the butler. *Signore Hassan will be here in one hour. Would you like to go to your room and refresh? Would you like something to eat or drink?”

If the French language is silk to the ear, then Italian is sable. “Yes, some tea would be lovely. Thank you.”

Another old saying? Making plans is an excuse to hear the gods laugh….

Ciao for today lovely readers.