About AN ITALIAN AFFAIR When Laura Fraser's husband leaves her for his high school sweetheart, she takes off, on impulse, for the Italian island of Ischia, to nurse her shattered ego. There she meets M., an aesthetics professor from Paris with an oversized love of life. What they both assume will be a casual vacation tryst turns into a passionate, transatlantic love affair, as they rendezvous in Marrakech, Lago Maggiore, Stromboli, London, and San Francisco--each encounter a delirious immersion into place (sumptuous food and wine, dazzling scenery, lush gardens, and vibrant streetscapes) and into each other. And each experience also becomes for Laura another step toward a fully recovered sense of her emotional and sexual self. Both travelogue and memoir, An Italian Affair is wonderfully made of rich, sensual detail, with the irresistible honesty of a story told from and about the heart. "Luscious. . .Fraser is such a charmer, so smart, honest, observant, incisive and funny, that within a few pages the reader is entirely hers." --Washington Post "Sweet, smart. We are smitten from the start. . .How Fraser makes such familiar material fresh and alluring is the heart and soul of this likeable, assured memoir." -- O Magazine "[This] sexy memoir gives new meaning to the word wanderlust." -- Glamour "Fraser's narrative is both a grand travelouge and a thoughtful look at reclaiming independence."--Conde Nast Traveller

{Chapter Three} SANT' ANGELO At breakfast you say good morning to the signora and nod to a gentleman at the table next to yours. You notice he isn't German and wonder about him. He looks remarkably like Bob Dylan did ten years before, only less craggy, with shiny brown curls, a beaklike nose, and watery blue eyes. He is wearing a long soft denim jacket and a tapestry vest and a thick silver bracelet. No one joins him at his table; he seems to be alone. You're studying the pages you ripped out of your guidebook when the man starts asking the signora some questions about the island in Italian. Curious, you join in and ask her something yourself about the hike up the volcano, never making eye contact with the man. But when the signora leaves, you offer him a look through the guidebook chapter on the island. You speak to him in the third person formal, Lei. He takes the torn papers from your hands. "You travel light," he observes in Italian, and glances through the pages. He doesn't seem to read much English, so you take the pages back and explain what you know about the island from your two days' experience. You chat; he asks how long you've been traveling, and when you're leaving, and you tell him you're probably leaving that morning but you still aren't sure, you might want to climb the dormant volcano first. You find out that he is from Paris, but half-Italian, which is why he speaks the language so well. An art teacher. You ask if he teaches in high school, and he says, no, at a university, a professor. He asks about you, and you say you're a journalist, freelance, you write for women's magazines, general interest, that sort of thing. He says he first guessed by looking at you that you were German, but your accent is good and he can't tell where you're from. You say you're from San Francisco, which you always say instead of America. "Ahh," he says, "San Francisco deve essere una bella città." It must be a beautiful city. He turns his chair toward you slightly and crosses his legs. "Sei lontana da casa," he says. You're a long way from home. He has slipped into the second person familiar, tu. You're just traveling around, you explain, and one of your Italian friends had recommended Ischia. You like stretching the summer out by being in a place where the water is still warm in late September. "Anch'io," he says. Me too. Your brain parts company with your mouth for a moment and you tell him he has a face like Bob Dylan. He seems surprised at what a direct and personal thing that is to say, you American you, and you quickly add "ten years ago," though it's probably closer to five, and he doesn't really look displeased. Amused. "Wasn't it strange," he says, "that Bob Dylan just played for the pope in Bologna? Has he become a Catholic or what? And what's with the hat?" "It's always hard to know what religious phase Bob Dylan is in," you say. "But the hat was way too cowboy." "The day the Stones play 'Sympathy for the Devil' for the pope," he says, "I'll become a papist." You like his sensibility and can't help giving him a smile before returning to your coffee. After a few minutes he mentions that if in fact you do decide to climb the mountain instead of leaving that morning, he'd be pleased to join you, if you'd like the company. You shrug: Why not. Pompeii can wait. In a few minutes you meet outside the pensione and climb aboard a crowded bus. You notice that he, like you, has brought along a beach bag. He leans close to you and asks your name. "Laura," you say, with the pretty rolling Italian pronunciation. He tells you his name and you say, in your best schoolbook Italian, that it is a pleasure to meet him. He holds out his hand to shake, making fun of your formality. The bus takes you to the highest road on the island and you walk another three kilometers until the road turns into a small brushy footpath and reaches the summit, Mount Epomeo. From there, you really know you're on an island, water on all sides, Capri just obscured by the clouds. You sit on volcanic rocks overlooking everything while he smokes an unfiltered cigarette. "There's no sight I love more than grapevines with the ocean in the distance," he says. You talk about all the islands you've been to, Stromboli and Sardinia, Crete and Santorini, and find you've both climbed to the top of Formentera, the tiny island off Ibiza. You go further afield and talk about other places you've traveled in the world. You tell him one of your best stories already, about the time you interviewed Yasir Arafat in his villa in Baghdad ten days before the Persian Gulf War--how there were giant paintings of a white stallion on one wall and Saddam Hussein on the other, how unbelievably charismatic Arafat was in person, how all his bodyguards with machine guns jumped when they heard the noise your automatic camera made when it rewound the film. You're eager all of a sudden for this Frenchman to think you're something more than a ditzy American who writes for women's magazines. He's curious but unimpressed, which you like, and the conversation shifts from what the British and Americans are still doing in Iraq to French politics, then to Bill Clinton. "American politics are ridiculous," he says. "Who cares who the president sleeps with? At least Kennedy had better taste in women." "We are far too puritanical," you agree, "whatever the woman looks like." At Mitterand's funeral, he explains, his mistress was right there with his wife. Much more civilized. The problem with Americans, he says, is they think a little affair will destroy a marriage. How can they be so claustrophobic? It puts far too much pressure on the marriage. That's what will ruin a marriage. That, you think, and falling in love with someone else. A troop of tourists, hiking with boots and walking sticks, arrive at your rock outcropping, so you leave. On the way down the mountain, wandering through little terraced orchards with lemon and fig trees, the professor asks about your marriage. We're just traveling, he says, you can tell me anything. You tell him the story in brief--so in love, married only a year and a half when he left, abruptly, hard to say why, a complicated psychological scenario. "Did you have time for affairs?" he asks. "No," you say. "But I think my husband did." "Well, that is all history. That is all behind you now, yes?" "Sort of." You continue down the trail for a while, and then you ask him if he is married. "I'm not talking," he answers, in English. "That answers the question," you say. Okay, he says, he's been married for ten years and has two children. You tell him you know better than to ask whether he's had time for any affairs, and he smiles--you're learning fast. You find yourself wondering whether you would have an affair with a married man, and decide that in the United States, you would not. But you aren't in the United States. You're outside your country, your language, and really, your life. And he--well, he is French. The French are notorious for their extramarital liaisons; as far as you know, it's a way of life. The idea titillates you, but it seems unlikely that you'd have an affair with him anyway. He's too remote, sophisticated, too different from any man you've ever known. You don't even speak the same language. He isn't even flirting with you. He seems to enjoy your company, and that's all, that's nice. You ask him what a married man is doing traveling by himself on an island in the Mediterranean. He explains that it's understood in his household that, once a year, he needs his solitude. He has to get away from Paris and just sit on an island and far niente, do nothing, so that he can be his Mediterranean self for a while. He needs to be able to relax completely, which is impossible to do in Paris. He is part Italian and part Arab, and he has to spend some time being an Oriental man, living where the days are warmer and slower. It's in his blood. After you make it down the mountain, you find a place for lunch, which the French professor eats with a precise sense of ritual. You just want a salad, and he says you have what you want, women are always just eating salad, but he's having a real meal. He has a salad, a roast pork panino, and then a coffee, and finally he slowly smokes a cigar. When he stubs out the cigar, he suggests a swim. You mention a beach you've heard about, the Sorceto, where hot water bubbles up from the rocks. You consult his map and find a bus to take you to the far side of the island, and then you walk down a steep trail to the beach. He leads you, taking your hand, stepping gingerly over slippery wet rocks, past some high boulders to the part of the beach away from all the people. After a long swim, you wade in the hot springs, and then lie down on the pebbles for a nap, stretched out next to him. "So what do you think?" he asks. You have no idea what to do with that open-ended question. You think you know what he means, but you aren't sure. "Bel posto," you answer. Lovely spot. The two of you lie there quietly, soaking up the sun for a while. He tries again, more direct this time. "Allora," he says. Now then. "What do you think of me?" You know the situation has all the makings of an opening, an exciting opportunity, but you just aren't sure, you're somehow scared. You turn the question around, not about to risk anything. "You tell me, professor," you say. "What do you think of me?" He weighs his words. "Una ragazza piacevole." A pleasant girl, he says, or maybe pleasing, or pleasurable. He makes the word sound like he's just bitten into a ripe peach. "It's a nice coincidence that we met at the pensione, no?" he asks. "We seem to be on the same frequency." He taps his temple. "That's rare." "Umm." You dig into the pebbles and realize the rocks on the beach aren't warmed from the sun but from inside the earth. The farther you dig down into the rocks, the warmer they are. You lie on your stomach and just when you are drifting off you feel a warm, smooth stone placed lightly on the small of your back and all the desire you thought was dead radiates from that rock throughout your entire body. And then his hand touches you where the rock had been and traces soft patterns all the way down to the very bottom of your spine.         Excerpted from An Italian Affair by Laura Fraser Copyright© 2001 by Laura Fraser. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.   About AN ITALIAN AFFAIR An Interview with Laura Fraser An excerpt: Chapter 3 of AN ITALIAN AFFAIR "Sant' Angelo" Photographs from the time and locations portrayed in the book ESSAYS BY LAURA FRASER On Writing A Book About One's Own Personal Life Why I Stopped Being a Vegetarian Why It's Rude to Diet in Public The Question of Marriage Tips to Fit in With the Locals Travel Packing Tips RECIPES Southern Italian Pasta Sauce Other Recipes ITALIAN PHRASES Handy Italian Phrases for Lovers

AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY Laura Fraser has written for Salon.com, Vogue, Glamour, Mother Jones, Self, The San Francisco Examiner, Gourmet, and Health, among other publications. She has taught magazine writing at the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California at Berkeley. She lives in San Francisco. An excerpt: Chapter 3 of AN ITALIAN AFFAIR "Sant' Angelo" Photographs from the time and locations portrayed in the book ESSAYS BY L