~crown of feathers~

June 28th, 2008

Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song, namely their silence. And though admittedly such a thing never happened, it is still conceivable that someone might possibly have escaped from their singing; but from their silence certainly never. Franz Kafka, 1917

I had learned through the little research I did before leaving that the point where the Sirens once sang was off the tip of the Amalfi Coast by a seaport called Nerano. Naturally, I had to pay homage.

We had a walk along the ridge above the sea, with the butterflies and Queen Anne’s Lace. Ali said, “It wouldn’t be an afternoon with Kimmi without a long, sweaty hike.” Then he ooohed and aaahed like mad for the distant view of Capri.

In Nerano proper we had some lunch and Ali wandered off, returning with swim fins for himself and a raft for me. YAY! Then we slipped into the very waters where the sirens swam. It was a gorgeous ocean to splash in and so much silly joy. An excellent way to spend our last day after the to-ing and fro-ing (and hiking, boo-hoo.)

Afterward–sunburnt and sea salted–I finally made my birthday self-portrait (a little tradition from way back): a siren at thirty-nine. Here is also a portrait on my fifth birthday, in the forests of Utah, wearing my mom’s Casablanca sun hat. It’s not exactly a Seirene feather crown, such as the Muses once plucked and wore, but it will do…

That night a howling rain storm swept over the coast, warm and wet and very dramatic. We borrowed umbrellas from the hotel and had a splendid time, including dinner and the aforementioned mojitos at the gorgeously old-school 50s-glam Fauno.

We popped in to a shop on the main drag where we bought Ali a new shirt. I couldn’t believe he let me talk him into that one. Everyone needs a little something new from time to time! I scampered about in a completely uncharacteristic short short skirt or a clingy little black dress the whole of our stay. Clothes are a costume, it’s fun to play. Anyway, the shirt suits him.

Later that night we decided that the siren song was likely Funiculì, Funiculà, which would kill just about anyone.