I AIN’T COMING HOME by SILVERTIDE. Story by Lauren O’Hagan.

Ischia, Italy. August 2005.

His name was Carmelo.

Or at least that’s what I called him. I never did find out what it really was.

It was the summer of 2005, I had just turned 14 and was on holiday in Italy with my parents and two brothers. We were doing a two-week coach tour of the country and by Day 5, we ended up in Ischia, a small island off the coast of Naples.

Ischia was everything I’d imagined it to be from the old Italian movies I loved to watch: blazing sunshine, cobbled streets lined with orange and lemon trees, old men sitting on benches, brightly-coloured mopeds rushing by.

As we made the steep ascent from the port up the hill to our hotel, traditional music piped out from the gift shops around us, flooding the streets with the sounds of accordions and mandolins. Being the sulky teenager that I was at the time, I cussed and turned up my Sony Walkman louder to drown out the cacophony.

My Walkman had been tuned the whole summer to Show and Tell, the debut album of Silvertide – a little known US band who really should have made it, but for some reason never did. Throughout the endless and boring coach rides, Show and Tell had kept me company as I basked in its vintage rock feelgood vibes (think AC/DC meets Rolling Stones meets Black Crowes).

My parents had told me several times throughout the holiday to take a break from listening to my Walkman, but I had paid them no heed. Yet when I entered the lobby of the Hotel Gran Paradiso, there was something – or rather someone – that made me stop in my tracks, hit pause and pull out my earphones.

Carmelo.

I guess Carmelo was what you’d call a typical Italian. Olive skin, dark brown eyes, black slicked-back hair. He was dressed in a smart waiter’s uniform and looked just a few years older than me. Must be a summer job, I thought.

Our eyes met across the reception and it was like I’d been hit by a bolt of lightning.

“Ciao,” he greeted.

“Ciao,” I uttered back shyly.

I watched Carmelo from afar every day as I lazed around the swimming pool, my lounger strategically arranged to face the dining room so I could steal glimpses of him over the top of my sunglasses. Sometimes he would notice and smile or wave and I would quickly turn away.

He could barely speak English. I could barely speak Italian. But somehow, we communicated with one another, almost playing a silent game. The evenings when he waited on our table, I would blush and he would drop cutlery on the floor or I would nervously cough and he would spill a glass of water. This awkward to-ing and fro-ing earnt me relentless teasing from my brother.

Then came Gala Night. A special open-air musical performance to mark the end of the week.

I knew this was my only chance.

When my family and the other guests were outside enjoying the music, I snuck back into the dining room to find Carmelo, alone, cleaning the tables.

He looked up as I walked in.

“Can I have a photo?” I asked, pointing to my camera.

“I take of you?” he replied, misinterpreting my words.

“No, of us, di noi due,” I clarified, gesturing towards him and then me.

He nodded and dropped his cloth on the table. He walked towards me, stopped and placed his arm around my shoulder. With shaky hands, I held the camera up before us and clicked. Then, he turned my face towards him and gave me a soft kiss on the cheek.

“Buonanotte, bella,” he said.

I practically danced out of the dining room and went straight upstairs in a daze. I lay down on my bed, closed my eyes and put on my Walkman, immediately skipping to Silvertide’s I Ain’t Coming Home. It was a song that had grown in meaning for me the longer I spent in Ischia.

Ain’t turning back it’s my time to fly
Too many decisions and not enough time
But I always did like the thrill living in the unknown
So back off momma cos I ain’t coming home

Yes, I really didn’t want to go back home, a dreaded return to reality after living in a fairy tale for the past week. A tear fell down my face at the thought that my first kiss from Carmelo would also be the last.

I never saw him again.

Seventeen years on and I still have the photo of us together. For some reason, I just can’t bring myself to throw it away. I sometimes wonder what he’s doing now. If he even remembers me. And any time I put on Silvertide, I’m immediately transported back to that Gala Night in Ischia in August 2005.

Stereo Story #705