The Stevie Suite
“To a room with some lace and paper flowers. Back to the gypsy that I was.”
One of my favorite things to do when I travel is to visit places that people I love have visited. I don’t know why, but it brings me more joy to visit a mediocre restaurant that one of my friends ate at ten years ago than it does to eat at the newest, hottest restaurant in town.
So when I first began planning this trip, I thought, ‘I wonder what Stevie Nicks did when she came to Italy in 2010?’ Now, how did I know she visited Italy in 2010? Because she wrote a song about it! “Italian Summer” came out on her 2011 masterpiece In Your Dreams and includes what I believe to be her longest sustained note in a song. It’s really gorgeous.
And with that one thought, I was off…I started by re-watching the documentary made about the making of the album (also called In Your Dreams). And in this documentary, Stevie talks at length about her trip to Italy and the circumstances around her writing the song. She also happens to mention which hotel she stayed at: Palazzo Sasso in Ravello on the Amalfi Coast. So, I get online and search for Palazzo Sasso in Ravello on the Amalfi Coast. But, no luck. There is no Palazzo Sasso in Ravello on the Amalfi Coast. Bummer, right? Out of luck, right? Move on and find something better to do with my time, right? Wrong. You know me better than that.
But wait, I just realized that some of you reading this may not know me. Or if you do, you may not know what’s behind my life-long obsession with this woman. So, to put this blog post in context (and to amp up the drama a bit), I will first explain why I love Stevie Nicks. I now present to you…
A “Brief” Primer on Steven’s Love for Stevie Nicks
It all started out quite simply. My mom loved Fleetwood Mac and used to play them all the time in our house. One of my favorite memories of being a kid is when we would be getting ready to go out to dinner on the weekend and as Rumours was ending, she would absolutely blast “Gold Dust Woman.” Like, as loud as our 80s speaker system could muster. The windows of our house would shake and my dad would grimace and my mom and I would dance in the middle of our living room while Stevie belted “And go hooooooooome.” Just a typical weekend night in the Saftig household, y’all! It was really quite magical.
And I guess you could say that that explains my love for Fleetwood Mac. But my love for Stevie Nicks specifically emerged with a bit more subtlety. Picture it: It’s 1987 and my mom and I are cruising around in our Ford Aerostar with the windows down, and Fleetwood Mac’s latest single comes on the radio: “Little Lies.” Of course, my mom and I are stoked, so she cranks it up. And as we’re singing along, something stirs deep in my heart in the those few dreamy seconds after Christine McVie sings the chorus and Stevie’s vocals trail hers: “Tell me lieeeees.” Stevie’s voice is at its most gravely. By this point, the woman had been ripping her vocal chords to shreds every time she sang “Rhiannon” on stage. So in 1987, her voice had evolved to a tone that reminds me of when you hear a song with a really low bass line and you can actually feel it vibrate deep in your bones. And that’s what Stevie’s voice did to my little body every time she echoed Christine’s in “Little Lies.”
So. The song ends. My mom turns it down. And I say, “Mom, who sings the part after the lady with the high voice sings?” Because, you have to realize, I had no idea who any of the band members were at this point. I knew what they looked like from the backs of the album covers, but I didn’t know their names or what instruments they played or even any of the drama amongst them. I just knew that I loved their music.
My mom turns to me and said something that would change my life: “That’s Stevie Nicks.”
At this point in the story, I present to you the following montage: Steven listening to Fleetwood Mac’s entire discography (post-1975), but with rapt attention on Stevie’s parts in every song. Steven “borrowing” his mom’s tape of Bella Donna and listening to it every single night as he falls sleep. Steven asking his mom to buy Timespace: The Best of Stevie Nicks, trying to sell her on it by reading all of the hits included on the back, while surreptitiously leaving out the new song “Sometimes It’s a Bitch” for fear that his mom will not let him buy the album if she knows that there is a song with a curse word in it. Steven finding a list of Stevie’s solo albums in the liner notes to Timespace and then, one-by-one, buying each of those albums and devouring them with an intensity that can only be described as a hunger. Steven going to see Fleetwood Mac for his very first concert, screaming himself hoarse every time Stevie hit the stage after a costume change (which was often). Steven buying the CD Street Angel from the Wherehouse on the day it was released and then taking his dinner to his room so that he could listen to the album for the first time with complete and utter focus. [Fade out.]
But now, dear reader, I’m afraid we come to the darkest part of this story. Because, amidst all of this joy in my life from Stevie’s music, something was brewing underneath the surface. It started out very small and just a bit uncomfortable. Like a pebble in my shoe. But gradually, it grew and grew until eventually it took over my every thought, my every movement, my every moment. I was realizing that I was gay.
Mind you, this was the early 90s and I had grown up with an extended family that was viciously and vocally homophobic. So this somewhat small aspect of myself became the only thing I could think about. I would pray at night to wake up straight, only to open my eyes in the morning and realize that it hadn’t worked. Looking up at the ceiling, tears would stream down my face and pool into my ears. But this wasn’t just something that happened once or twice. It happened over and over and over, because each night I figured that if I prayed hard enough, or had been a good enough boy during the day, that my wish would be granted the next morning. But I hadn’t. It wasn’t. And it never was.
If this sounds extra dramatic, I promise you, I’m trying to tell this part of the story as factually as I can. It was horrible.
But in the midst of that darkness, there was one thing that brought the smallest glimmer of light into my heart. The internet was dawning and I found friends and a community in a Stevie Nicks chat room. One of the people I met online sent me tapes of demos Stevie had recorded over the years. Cassette tapes and cassette tapes of unreleased songs, remixes, and alternate takes. The songs were often raw and of terrible quality. Stevie’s voice sometimes cracks. She forgets the words. She talks over the music. She fails to live up to the perfect image that I had of her. And it was through listening to those demos, having the opportunity to experience Stevie Nicks in this unfiltered way, that showed me a path out of the darkness.
I started to write my own songs. Sometimes I put them to music on the piano we had in our house. But usually I just scribbled them into tattered notebooks, obscuring the gender of my subjects with a tactic that Stevie often employs: using the pronoun “you.”
And, with time, I began to emerge from the darkness. I first came out to the wonderful gay man who had sent me the cassette tapes of demos. I met my first boyfriend. I came out to the beloved rector of my dorm at Notre Dame. I came out to my closest friends. And then I came out to my family.
As my spirits lifted and I became more confident in myself, I held on fiercely to my love of Stevie Nicks. She was no longer just a singer to me. She was the magic talisman that had sustained me through the darkest moments of my life. She was the water that kept me alive as I crawled through a seemingly never-ending desert. She was the one person creating pieces of art that gave me a reason to stay on this earth…a new song, album, collaboration—or even a brief soundtrack appearance—was always on the horizon. Or, in Italian: “orizzonte.”
So, now, hopefully, with that background, you can understand why it was so important to me to figure out where Stevie Nicks stayed when she visited Italy and wrote “Italian Summer.”
Seeking Stevie
As you’ll recall, I did not find a Palazzo Sasso. I did, however, discover that the Palazzo Sasso had been renamed Palazzo Avino, and was very much open and receiving guests. I was overjoyed. But once I found this out, I decided that just staying in the hotel where Stevie stayed when she visited wasn’t enough. I wanted to stay in the exact suite that she stayed in. So, I started to do more research. I pulled up the list of suites and started to examine them for how “Stevie” or “Not Stevie” they were. I started with the most expensive suite and decided that it was “Not Stevie.” Too dark. Too masculine. So I kept looking. And then I saw it.
Grand, dramatic drapes held aloft by golden baroque bannisters. Billowing, gossamer curtains. Marble floors. Massive paintings. And a fainting couch that looked seaworthy.
The Orizzonte Suite.
I emailed the hotel. It went something like this. “Hi. I’m Steven. I really love Stevie Nicks. Can you tell me what room she was in when she stayed with you in 2010?” They responded a few hours later. It went something like this…
“Greetings, Mr. Saftig. It was the Orizzonte Suite. Would you like to book it for a future visit?”
A Properly Dramatic Arrival
Fast-forward to April 2022. I take a train from Rome to Salerno, which is a little south of Ravello. However, in order to get up to Ravello—which is perched high above the ocean on the same mass of land as Sorrento and Amalfi, extending out into the Mediterranean Sea—I had to take a taxi. Luckily, my friends in Rome had given me a heads up that taxi drivers can sometimes try to take advantage of you if they find out that you’re going to an expensive hotel.
So, when I arrived in Salerno and hopped into a taxi, I played it cool. I only spoke Italian and kept it brief, so as not to make any potential mistakes that can sometimes happen when I get a bit more verbose. And when the driver asked me where I wanted to go, I simply said “Ravello,” making sure to roll the “r” a bit to give it some extra oomph. And off we went.
The car filled with a cool sea breeze and as we began to make our way along the winding, twisting road that hugs the coast, I thought, ‘Way to go, Steven. This guy totally believes that you’re a local. Maybe he thinks you’re visiting some family up in Ravello. Or going on a hike that you’ve done a million times.’ I felt my shoulders relax as I settled in to enjoy the ride.
But, like all locals who probably take taxis in this part of the country, I kept an eye on the meter. It was a little lower on the console than I would have preferred, but no matter. I knew the ride should cost about 60 Euro. And after ten minutes of driving, the meter said….34 EURO?!?! But we had another 50 minutes to go! How were we already at 34 Euro? At this rate, the ride was going to cost at least 200 Euro (when the private car the hotel offered to send me was only going to cost 130 Euro. At which point, I think ‘Why, oh why, did I not accept that ride?’)
I shifted in my seat to get a better view of the meter. We cruised along for a while. Then he rests his hand on the gear shift, just below the meter, and…presses the button several times, causing the meter to jump up at least 10 Euro in the matter of a few seconds.
“No, no, no, no!” I said, using my best Italian pronunciation of the word. And all hell broke loose. He started yelling at me and saying a lot of things in Italian that he probably did not say to true locals, including the word “polizia” several times. I finally broke character and said, in English, “You are not being honest!” He continued to yell and I tried to rack my brain for any Italian I knew that could help in this situation and came up totally empty. So I said, “Pull over! I’m getting out.” He pulls over and continues to rant about something or other until I finally understand the following question: What hotel are you staying at? He set the trap and I dodged it effortlessly: “Non c’e importa!” which roughly translates as None of your business! More yelling, more words. And finally, I understand another word: “cento!” One hundred! I respond, “ottanta!” Eighty! And like that, we were bargaining. “Novanta!” Ninety! “Ottanta cinque!” Eighty-five! Things got a little quiet. He grumbles a few more words, turns off the meter, and pulls back onto the highway. But he is pissed. He starts driving really fast and the car suddenly feels very hot. He takes of his jacket. I take off mine. He starts tailgating the car directly in front of us. I firmly grasp the handle by the door. And we begin hurdling towards Ravello, both of us fuming.
After about twenty minutes of this, me saying to myself over and over, “Do not throw up Steven. You cannot show weakness right now,” we come to a red light. He lets out a deep sigh and turns around in his seat to look at me, gives me a thumbs up and says, “Mi dispiace. Tutto bene?” I’m sorry. Are we all good? “Si,” I say, giving him a thumbs up. The light turns green. He rolls the windows down some more, and drives the rest of the way at a relaxed speed.
Eventually, we get close to Ravello and he asks me where I want to be dropped off. I finally divulge it: “Palazzo Avino.” Turns out that you can’t actually drive right up to the hotel, so we arrive at the town square and he helps me with my bags. I hand him 85 Euro and we smile at each other because we both won. He got more than the ride should have cost and I avoided getting swindled as much as I could have.
I turned and started hiking up a massive hill to a pink castle in the sky. Palazzo Avino.
To a Room with Some Lace…
The entrance to Palazzo Avino is actually quite unassuming. Just a glass door off a small lane. But behind that glass door is another glass door that looks straight out to a stunning view of the sea, so, you know, they make the most of it.
The welcome was very warm and when I told the receptionists at the front desk about my experience in the cab on the way there, they seemed very proud of me and confirmed that the price I paid was fair. Before showing me to my room, I was given a tour of the property. It is, indeed, incredible. The hotel itself is five stories high, but behind the hotel is a series of levels that progressively descend toward the sea (“toward” the sea, not “to” the sea. Ravello is way, way up there.) Every level is landscaped with gorgeous greenery, flowers, lemon trees, and trickling fountains. One level has a beautiful pool. Another, an outdoor gym. One level is just a grassy expanse with a bench underneath a trellis of lemons. It’s all quite lovely.
And then, finally, I was shown to my room, the Orizzonte Suite. I’ll let the pictures do most of the talking here, but it’s as grand and beautiful as I hoped. There was a balcony off each of the four French doors, two of which face south, two facing east. I immediately opened up all of the windows and let the sea air fill the room. And the view from the room is, of course, stunning.
Wait, what am I doing? I should just let Stevie describe it.
“The sun comes through the silken drapes
The room begins to glow
All in cream-colored ivories
And soft yellows”
Yeah, I mean, what she said. It’s beautiful.
And then there was the view…
The next 48 hours were like a dream. I decided that I wanted my time in Ravello to be rejuvenating, so I didn’t drink the whole time I was there. I wanted to sleep well and recover a bit from the incredibly intense pace of the past few weeks. So I ate wonderful meals, worked out in the outdoor gym, got a massage, and spent a lot of time by the pool.
But mostly, I wrote. I wrote about the experiences I’ve been having. I got caught up on older blog posts. I worked on new blog posts (including this one). And I listened to “Italian Summer” over and over and over. I’ve always loved the song, but getting to hear it in this context, the place in which it was written was indescribable. I reflected a lot on what Stevie has meant to me all these years and how important she continues to be in my life.
I also started to wonder about what’s next (after I finish traveling). As someone who leans towards the “planner” side of the spectrum, it’s quite an edge for me to be on this adventure without having any idea what I’m doing after this. It’s scary, actually. But, for now at least, I think that my time in Italy is all about staying in the moment, not fearing (or even looking forward to) what’s ahead. Because ultimately, you can never “reach” the horizon. By definition, it is never where you are. And if you try to pursue it, it just moves further and further away. So, the whole point of a horizon is to just enjoy it, right from where you are. And I am here.
