Lanie, I tell myself, channeling Meg and Rufus, you’re in a parking lot at the threshold of the Amalfi Coast. You’re scared. It’s natural. Take it one step at a time.

I put the key in the ignition. I close my eyes and think of BD. I think of my mother. I think of Elizabeth from Two Thousand Picnics in Central Park.

I start the engine.

The Ducati hums beneath me. I ease off the clutch and gently roll the throttle. The bike and I glide forward. There aren’t many cars around, so I take my time getting acclimated, letting my heart rate slow. I make a few loops, learning how the bike responds. When I feel ready, I exit the lot—and feel a warm slap of sun on my skin.

I whoop as I merge with the traffic, keeping my eyes on the stretch of road where I want to be. I remind myself to breathe, to keep my chin up for balance, to release the tension in my shoulders. The bike wobbles as I come to my first stop in traffic. I will not drop this bike, I vow through clinched teeth as traffic moves again and I wobble back into motion.

I’m on a highway outside Naples. The road is long and straight. The wind is calm, the sky deep blue. I can take it easy. I don’t have to be anywhere until the launch tomorrow night.

Twenty minutes in, I’m jubilant. The traffic has thinned, the Ducati corners beautifully, and I’m riding south on a winding sun-drenched road threading through some of Italy’s most picturesque towns.

The air grows fragrant with springtime scents—lemon and honeysuckle, and every now and then a salty blast of sea. The hills become steep, with only an occasional guardrail. Ahead on my left, the sleeping giant Mount Vesuvius comes into view. I hadn’t planned on any stops on the hour-long drive between the airport and Il Bacio. I thought I might be jet-lagged or struggling with the bike. But when I see the sign for the turnoff to the famous archeological site, I take it. I’ve never been one to let a good sign pass me by.

I park the bike in a dusty lot filled with white tour buses. I pay the entrance fee, grab a brochure, and wander through a maze of ancient streets.

I stand in the center of Pompeii’s forum, invisible columns rising around me. I touch the stones and get goose bumps, imagining a future visitor to New York City, wandering an excavated Central Park. Could she put her hand on a remnant of the Gapstow Bridge, reach back through time, and touch my life? Could she feel what that site meant to me?