“Well, I don’t have much of a tolerance. Unfortunately I inherited the Asian flush gene from my mom,” Lucie joked.
“I see,” Olivia murmured, not understanding what Lucie meant and thinking that Charlotte had been right when she said last night that Lucie was “a good kid.” Her own college years in Paris had been quite a different story.
The two of them walked out of the hotel and Lucie, by habit, started veering left toward Via Ignazio Cerio.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Olivia asked.
“Aren’t we heading to Via Camerelle?” Lucie asked, referring to Capri’s most famous shopping street.
“Hell no! You can’t walk through town before five, are you crazy? We’ll be trampled to death by tourists! Locals and those of us in the know avoid town at all costs between the hours of ten and five, when all the hydrofoils from Sorrento and Naples arrive and spit out thousands of day-trippers.”
“Really?”
“Lucie, trust me, don’t even think of being seen in town until after five, when the last boat has left for the day. That’s when the island becomes magic again and all the bright young things come out from hiding and head to the piazzetta for drinks.”
“I had no idea,” Lucie said, amused by Olivia’s insistence.
“Well, learn from me, kiddo. I’ve been coming to Capri every summer for years.”
“But aren’t we going to miss all the sandal shops if we avoid town?”
“Not at all. Because there is only one sandal shop you need to go to, and I’m going to take you there via the back route, where we can avoid the huddled masses and their snot-nosed, sticky-fingered enfants.” Olivia expertly guided Lucie through a maze of back lanes snaking behind the hotels. The quiet little streets seemed a world away from the rest of Capri, even though they were only a few blocks away from the main square.
They found themselves in the heart of a neighborhood where the walls rose up high on both sides, making Lucie feel as if she were deep within a remote medieval hill town. The patina of glitz so ubiquitous throughout the rest of Capri had vanished. Here, the white walls were gray with dirt and the windows didn’t gleam. There wasn’t a single luxury hotel or designer boutique anywhere in sight, but instead they passed a tailor, a little grocery stall with crates of fresh produce stacked outside, and a trio of boys playing soccer along a wall.
Lucie found the rustic modesty rather charming and beautiful in its own way. “How did I miss this whole neighborhood?”
“You think the locals all shop at Prada? This is the real ’hood, where the shops cater to people who actually have to live here year-round. Look at that old tailor working away in there…isn’t he absolutely adorable? And these little tykes trying to kill each other over a ball. Christ, this one’s going to break his neck!” Olivia observed, carefully sidestepping a laughing boy as he slammed his body full force against the wall trying to defend the ball.
As they walked by a hair salon with faded posters of models in the window that, judging by the hairstyles, hadn’t been changed since the mid-1980s, Olivia continued her monologue: “The true beauty of this island is in its people and all these authentic areas off the beaten path. Think of all the tourists who only come to Capri for one day and rush around trying to see everything on the tourist map but miss all this. Or the ones who arrive at Marina Grande, take a boat out to see the Blue Grotto, and don’t even realize that the town of Capri is actually on top of the mountain and not part of the harbor below. I think they should actually ban day-trippers and require all visitors to spend at least three nights on the island. There should also be a fashion assessment before they can get off the boat—no tacky tourists. Now stop!”
Lucie stopped dead in her tracks, suddenly alarmed.
“Take a deep breath!” Olivia ordered.
Lucie relaxed and inhaled deeply.
“Tell me, what do you smell?”
“I don’t really smell…anything,” Lucie lied politely. The odor of cat piss was so strong, it made her eyes water.
“You’re smelling the real Capri here. La vera Italia!?” Olivia announced, before marching on. Turning down an impossibly narrow lane, they descended a flight of stone steps and found themselves in front of a tiny, unpretentious shop that looked like it had been carved into the rock face of the hill centuries ago.
“This is Da Costanzo, my favorite sandal maker.”
Lucie stepped into the shop and felt like she had been transported into Aladdin’s cave. Thousands of leather cords, buckles, and gemstones in every color imaginable hung along the walls of the shop, and arrayed all over the floor and on shelves were the most stylish sandals Lucie had ever seen.
“Buongiorno, Antonio! Buongiorno, Alvina! Come stai? This is my friend Lucie from New York. Tell her what she absolutely needs to have this season.” Turning to Lucie, Olivia said, “Now, Antonio’s been making all these sandals by hand for decades. His father, Costanzo, who was the original sandal maker, touched the feet of Jackie Kennedy, Sophia Loren, and Clark Gable. Imagine that!”
“Oh, wow,” Lucie said. She tried to picture one of those legendary icons standing in the same little space she was in, but all she could think of was poor Costanzo having to handle thousands upon thousands of sweaty, stinky feet every day.
“Everyone is wanting the rose-gold leather this year,” Antonio said, reaching over from the stool where he sat making the sandals every day and handing Lucie a sandal with two simple cords of shiny leather crisscrossing the big toe and wrapping around the ankle.
“Try it on. Feel how soft the leather is,” Antonio’s wife, Alvina, said with a warm smile. Lucie slipped a pair on and was amazed by how comfortable they were.
“So chic! So sexy! So minimalist! It’s the Donald Judd of sandals! You could wear this to the beach and head straight to cocktails!” Olivia pronounced. “Antonio, I want one, please. But could you do me a pair on the black leather sole?”
“Of course,” Antonio replied.