Katie Botkin

The old lighthouse door. Photo by Katie Botkin.

A Letter from Katie Botkin in Rome:

We’re heading to the only uninhabited island in the archipelago, to Alex’s favorite spot for a private interlude. Fatma does not understand what he means when he says he likes to go there for some open-air fun with special people, since, after all, we are special people too.

We back the boat up against a stone pier and I jump out with the rope. I find a hole in the rock and tie the boat to it, yanking it as I do with any gear placement on a rock climbing route to make sure it’s not going to slip out. Then we clamber up to Alex’s secret hideaway, which turns out to be an abandoned lighthouse, crumbling at the seams.

Getting up the spiral staircase involves navigating large mounds of plaster dust. I’m not sure how safe this is, but I decide to trust Alex. At the top, the view is spectacular, though the wind whips us violently. We see nothing but the water and some ships in the distance. “This is what I mean,” says Alex “It’s completely private, and you can see anybody who’s coming close.”

I squint into the sunlight. Fatma is saying she’d like to spend a month here. I’m not sure I agree; after all, this was once a spot of exile. The Emperor Augustus kept his granddaughter, Julia, here for something like 20 years. But Fatma is charmed. If you get bored, she says, you just move your chair over a little, and you’ve got a different view. Of course, I’d bring my dog. It would be great.

We traipse back down to the boat. I’m afraid that my knot may not have held and the boat will have drifted away, but it’s still there. We find a sheltered inlet and lean over the edge of the boat looking at the sea creatures through the perfectly clear turquoise water.

A postcard view of the fortress and the Adriatic. Photo by Katie Botkin.

A Letter from Katie Botkin in Rome:

As our ferry rolls into port, I can see the Castello delle Badia, an ancient fortress atop a hill across the bay. It was meant to defend Italy against Turks and pirates, so of course I want very badly to go explore it. But the ferry is rolling into the wrong island. However, as we disembark, Alex announces that we’re going to be renting a small motorboat for exploration purposes. Hence, I am soon running up and down the fortress’ narrow streets (“They were narrow so they could roll boulders onto the invaders,” says Alex) and up to the lookouts, above the sparkling, clear waters of the Adriatic.

The dried grasses blow gently in the wind against the rocky outcroppings. It is just as I have imagined the islands of the Adriatic, when I lay awake as a child reading of Grecian conquest. Besides which, I have my very own Alexander the Conqueror to show me around. Though the place is supposedly overrun with tourists in August, now there is nobody but us and some seagulls when we make it around to the outside fortress wall. The wall is sloped outwards at the bottom slightly. I study it for a second, and tell Alex and Fatma that I could climb it. They don’t believe me, so I demonstrate. “Yeah,” says Alex “but they would roll boulders onto you before you could get to the top.” He points to a sizeable murder hole in the ramparts. Later, as we circle the island by boat, scouring the walls for weakness, I point to an even better point of attack. “I think we could conquer this island,” I say. “There doesn’t seem to be many inhabitants.”

Alexander the Conqueror, however, does not think this will work in the long run. He thinks Italy will rush to reclaim it. I suppose he should know, since he’s in the Coastguard-Navy. In fact, he would probably be the one to fly overhead and attack from the air.