We began walking, with only his vague directions to guide us. We dragged our suitcases uphill, on roads that were not made to accommodate lost, Canadian girls and their summer wardrobes. Finally, we turned onto a street with lively fruit-sellers and people in beachwear strolling in from a day in the sun. A small lavender sign jutted out from a narrow, stone building. It had “Le Scalette” written on it in a white script. We had arrived.
“Le Scalette” means little steps. I didn’t anticipate that the name would literally describe our first Italian hideaway. In order to reach the door, we had to climb two stone staircases with our luggage in tow. At the top of the second set (which was much steeper than the first), we reached the hotel’s large wooden door.
Over the next two days, we continuously joked that Terracina was not the place for us. We did not have cell phone reception, and no one could explain to us why. We were refused items that were plainly listed on menus. People either served us hastily or immediately began speaking to us in English. I felt disconnected from the Italians around me.
On our last evening in Terracina, we dressed up for dinner on the boardwalk. We spotted a busy pizzeria and waited at the entrance to be seated. A blonde waitress rolled her eyes and motioned for us to sit anywhere. She quickly approached to take our order. My friend enunciated each syllable, and simultaneously pointed to our choices. When the waitress made a suggestion, my friend misunderstood and repeated the original order. Our blonde waitress exhaled audibly and snatched the menus from us. Her curly, blonde hair bounced as she rushed toward the kitchen.
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