Positano — Tale of a Sunset

After climbing up and down a thousand stairs, I finally sat down.

Maybe because in Positano, sitting down for a drink is like hanging a sign that says tourist around your neck. And up until that moment, I still wanted to believe I knew where I was going.

But the heat was pounding against the back of my neck, my legs couldn’t decide whether to keep going or give up, and the ice cream I’d bought a while ago was now snaking down my wrist, dripping and wandering, just like I had been on those endless stairs.

I sat down at a bar, afraid to open the menu.

The wicker chairs looked like the kind they only use in places where nobody sits down. Too new, too shiny, like someone spent the whole morning lining them up with a ruler and a prayer.

The blue and white umbrellas were stabbed into the sand with surgical precision, so neat they made you want to ask how much they charged just to sit under one.

Everything was so perfectly arranged that even the tourists looked like part of the scenery. Everything seemed calculated, designed for tourists who never ask for prices.

And there I was, trying to convince myself it was worth paying whatever it took for a bit of shade.

One more guy who swore he hadn’t come for Instagram’s Positano. But there I was, surrounded by the Positano from the postcards. The one that seems perfect, that somehow made me believe I wasn’t going to fall for it.

Who was I kidding? Who was I trying to fool? The guy who came to see the real Positano? The authentic one? If I was being honest, I was no different from anyone else.

And that spritz I didn’t want to order but was going to order anyway — who was I fooling? I’d even taken the same picture as everyone else, from the same angle, with the same bright sea in the background.

One more guy who said he wasn’t like the rest. But there I was, doing exactly what they were doing. And if I was being honest, I wasn’t even sure what I was looking for.

And that’s when I saw him.

The old man was right there, sitting next to me. White shirt rolled up to the elbows, half a cigarette burning between his fingers, eyes fixed on a point I couldn’t see.

And somehow, without looking at me, he started talking.

— You wanna know what’s really going on here? — he said.

Before I could answer, he nodded toward a couple standing by the fountain.

She’s taking a picture of her gelato. He’s staring at his phone like he’s waiting for a call that will never come.

— The girl — says the old man — she’s posting a caption that says “Best gelato of my life.”

But she hasn’t even tasted it. It melted while she was looking for the perfect filter. And him? He’s trying not to think about what he found on his phone while she was in the bathroom.

I look at the guy. His eyes are glued to the screen, but he’s not seeing anything. The girl says something to him, and he nods, not hearing a word.

— And the photo of the gelato? — says the old man. — You know where it’s going?

— Where?

— To that sea of photos where they all look the same, fighting for a like before they sink for good.

I look around.

The square is full of people doing the same thing. Selfies. Poses. Shouting in English. Suitcases wobbling over cobblestones. Tourists stopping every five steps, zooming in and out on their phones, like they’re waiting for Google Maps to show them a Positano that doesn’t exist.

And the old man is still there, watching.

— See the guy in the white t-shirt? — he says, pointing to a guy climbing the stairs with his phone held high, hunting for the perfect shot.

— Yeah.

— He’s been looking for two hours for the viewpoint he saw on Instagram. The one that looks like a balcony floating over the sea. But that balcony doesn’t exist. It only exists in the photo. But he keeps climbing, see? Because he’s convinced that if he finds it, he’ll find what he came looking for.

— And what’s he looking for?

The old man shrugs.

— Maybe something he thinks he’s missing.

A group of girls is taking pictures with limoncello in hand, repeating the same toast over and over.

— See the one in the red dress? — says the old man.

— Yeah.

— Today she liked a photo of her ex. But she didn’t tell her friends. So now she’s trying not to think about it. That’s why she keeps toasting. That’s why she keeps smiling. That’s why she keeps taking the same picture.

Next to them, a sign reads “Boat Tour to Li Galli – Sirenuse Islands.”

— There — says the old man, nodding at the sign —. They used to say those islands were where the sirens lived. The ones that lured Odysseus and made him lose his way.

I look at the girl in the red dress, raising her glass of limoncello with that same practiced smile.

— Is that so wrong? — I ask.

The old man shrugs.

— No. In that same sea, centuries ago, Odysseus was also looking for something he was never going to find.

In the fountain, an older man sits alone. He’s got a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers, but he doesn’t take a drag. In his other hand, a notebook he opens and closes, opens and closes, as if he can’t decide which of the two is holding him there.

— And that guy? — I ask.

— That guy was a photographer. Took the best shot of Positano anyone’s ever seen. The one everyone comes here looking for. Positano empty. No tourists, no lights. Just the sea and the sky, all gray.

— And what’s he doing now?

— Now he’s still looking for that Positano. But he doesn’t know that the Positano in the photo never existed.

— What do you mean it never existed?

— It was a trick of the light. A reflection. A moment that happened while he was scratching the back of his neck.

But he’s convinced that if he stays, he’ll see it again.

I look at the old man. His skin is sunbaked, his eyes fixed on the fountain, like he’s waiting for something too.

— And you? — I say.

— What about me?

— What are you looking for?

The old man puts out the cigarette against the bench, brushes his hands off as if he’s shaking off grains of sand from another time.

He looks at me for the first time and smiles, but it’s one of those smiles people rehearse their whole life to say nothing.

— Nothing — he says. — I already found it.

He gets up slowly, with no rush to get anywhere. He adjusts his pants, flicks the cigarette into a drain, and disappears into the crowd.

And I stay there, nailed to the chair, as if the sun suddenly got heavier.

Maybe the old man never existed. Or maybe he was just a story someone told me, the kind you hear after a few drinks, when you’re not quite sure what’s real and what isn’t.

Or maybe the old man was just another tourist. One of those who come, take a picture, leave, and tuck it away in the same folder where all the forgotten photos go.

And there’s Positano.

With its houses stacked like Tetris blocks, with its stairs that go up and down and up again, with its blue umbrellas that keep standing, even if the wind tries to take them down.

The sea keeps crashing against the rocks, because that’s what the sea does: crash, insist, repeat.

And we keep taking pictures, because that’s what we do: snap, insist, repeat.

But some things can’t be captured. Not with the best filter, not with the best light.

What it feels like to close your eyes and smell the sea. The nudge in your throat when you see the same sunset you’ve seen a thousand times, but today it hits differently.

Those are the only pictures worth keeping.

And if you remember them, you carry them with you.

And if you don’t, the sea takes them.