CITY OF PRETTY When in Portofino
The looming Rapture on Saturday 21st May was the least of my worries. My past few weeks have been testing, in fact it all has just gotten more layered. The mood persists. The weather is also still undecided, work is still slow, and my social life currently non-existent. Boo!
A dear Italian friend of mine invites me to spend the weekend at her holiday house on the Italian Riviera, a treat for just the two of us. It is exactly what I need – a honeymoon escape of love and clarity, sunshine, seafood, and a warm ocean. This time I don’t miss my flight, and I arrive in Milan to 32 degrees Celsius. I immediately feel some weight dropping off my shoulders as the driver awaits me at the entrance. Italian men are very chivalrous indeed, and I always over-pack. I have forgotten how aggressively the Italians drive when we speed off towards Parma, but he understands my urgency and not a moment too soon I am reunited with my saviour: Serena.
After two hours of winding highways weaving in an out of tunnels in Sere’s car we arrive on the coast late at night. The smell of jasmine in bloom and lingering speedboat fuel is intoxicatingly glamorous, heightened by the suspense of not being able to gauge my surroundings. In the morning I am awoken by Sere’s accented chirp urging me to ‘get up baaabe, it’s beautifuuuul’ while dancing at the foot of my bed in a bikini.
Sleeping in on a holiday is a waste of time! I walk onto the terrace to be accosted by the most flabbergasting view. The Mediterranean Sea expands as far as I can see. Polkadotting this crystal-blue mirage are luxury yachts, sailing school optis and speedboats. With binoculars we play ‘spot a celebrity’, sipping on freshly ground Italian espressos to wake up.
It is OTT romantic here: old world charm cafes bordering on luxury brand boutiques, palm trees and wild roses, bleached-out striped sombreros and narrow streets congested by lovers on Vespas. We hang out on deck chairs indulging in each other’s company whilst eating homemade gnocchi with pesto and seafood galore, drinking wine, bottomless, dipping into the bay just below the house for a cool-off and working hard on our tans.
For two days I wear little more than a bikini, let alone shoes. Along with the layers I have left my worry hat behind in London. At night we take an aperitivo on the village square of Portofino. Every woman over 50 has had a complete facelift, made obvious by unnaturally full lips and eyes that are open VERY wide. Immaculately turned-out socialites with diamonds dripping off their fingers, necks and ears, with designer stilettos wedging between the cobblestone whilst hanging on the arms of men in white Armani jeans, comb backs and cashmere V-necks. It’s that sort of calibre.
We are the youngest women here by a leap - to the demise of the queen bees and a spark to some wandering eyes. We aren’t looking for husbands, capisce? Focus is diverted to the sky as fireworks light up those graying crowns. After 20 minutes of bated breath and gasping, Sere and I take a break when our necks are positively unimpressed. Another 30 minutes and the display of shooting dollar bills into the sky is finally finito. It could have been the rapture happening right there and then for all I know; we just didn’t crack an invite.
Topping off a perfect weekend we drive past some paparazzo with lenses directed onto a massive yacht. Then Serena reads that Leonardo Di Caprio is staying in Portofino for the weekend and we joke that we should have been looking for that husband after all. I leave at night dreading the thought of heading back to the reality of London life, but hoping I’ll be able to fend off the grey for a few days at least. Armed with electric-green pesto and golden-brown pins, I reluctantly pull all my layers back on.