The two of you end up in Atrani, tucked into the mountain behind Amalfi. You allow yourselves to be convinced by a twenty year old expatriate Australian that it is the best place on the coast -- at least it has the cheapest hotel. He is outraged by Italy's expense. He is leaving to go to Greece where he informs you that you can see better things for cheaper.

"That's where all the original stuff is anyway. Yeah," he drawls bitterly. "Yaknow the Roman's just copied the Greeks to begin with." His long stringy blonde hair, frayed jeans, and concave chest remind you of a type from another era. Looking at him you imagine it's twenty years ago and he's your friend's thirteen year old boyfriend. You look at Donna affectionately. You are happy you ended up with her and not a scrawny boy from that other era. She is happy too. She loves Atrani. It looks picturesque in the dark.

Atrani is medieval and you think the smell of mold from the bathroom of the hotel could be Romanesque in origin, as old as the bronze doors of Il Duomo. But the town has a beautiful piazetta and the next day you drink due cappuccini looking out over the white washed church, the rocks that rise behind it, the baroque iron work of the balconies on the houses, the marble faces sprouting tubes of water into a fountain. The blue sky is ribbed with dots of clouds. You smile. You do not feel doomed. You feel you are on the verge of a beautiful day.

You realize, however, that the doom is getting stored somewhere. Stored and exponentially multiplied for every day that you ignore it. You know that when your plane lands back in New York, the spell will be broken. Perversely this makes you happier. You feel triumph to put it off another day. You stretch out your legs against the café's wrought iron railing. After all, you are still on the ascent. You still have your whole vacation before you.

"We should get going," Donna says, glancing at her watch.

You agree. The plan is to hike up the stone path to Ravello, the town that sits on top of the mountain the two of you sit beneath. You are excited to go but somehow reluctant to start off; you would like to linger longer over your cappuccino and the picture perfect landscape. She snaps the guidebook shut and looks around restlessly.

Donna announces that she is going to get provisions for the hike and will meet you by the market in five minutes. She is up and gone before you can say `Wait.' You watch as she walks across the piazetta towards the fruit market. You are at once angry and resigned. Donna has never been the contemplative type. Anything she can't change, she ignores. She disappears inside the market. You can't decide if you are searching for signs of change or accumulating evidence against her. Maybe both.

Certain traveling things are beginning to seem normal. Since neither of you speak the language and the phrase book disappeared in Rome, you are never quite certain of the destination of the bus or the train or the boat. You are never quite certain which meal you ordered, the amount of wine that will come, or the time the shop closes. And you are never ever clear about the price of anything. You are forever turning to the English, the American, the Australian, even the English-speaking German and asking "does that mean..." You remember you used to sneer at people who did that. When you traveled before, you always knew the language.