Mrs. Kennedy and Me: An Intimate Memoir, Clint Hil [large ebook reader TXT] 📗

minor swerve would send you careening into the sea below. The views were spectacular, however, with colorful stucco villas terraced into the steep and rugged terrain, with the sparkling acqua water below. Mrs. Kennedy loved it.

As our small motorcade entered the main piazza in Ravello, it was like we were driving into a festival—all in honor of Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline. Colorful hand-painted Welcome Jacqueline signs hung outside nearly every shop and restaurant, and the cobblestone streets were lined with townspeople and tourists, all waiting to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Kennedy and Caroline. We were greeted by the mayor, a group of dancing children, a live band, and, much to my dismay, an army of photographers. There must have been seventy-five or eighty photographers jostling and shoving each other to get in better position for their shots, and the police were having a difficult time keeping them behind the police lines that had been set up. While Mrs. Kennedy waved and smiled graciously, I could tell that she had the same immediate concerns that I did. Creating the privacy she desired on this trip was going to be an even bigger challenge than we had anticipated. We were going to have to do something about the press.

Finally we made our way through the chaos to the Villa Episcopio, where Mrs. Kennedy, Caroline, and the Radziwills would stay for the next two weeks. Perched high above the Mediterranean Sea, the nine-hundred-year-old stone villa was solidly built into the steep rocky hillside, like an eagle’s nest, overlooking the stunning beauty of the Amalfi Coast. Originally a bishop’s residence, and once occupied by King Vittorio Emanuele III, the villa with its stone archways and wrought-iron entry gates was like something out of a fairy tale.

As we walked through the cavernous living room, out to the veranda, it was like we were suspended one thousand feet above the crystal blue sea with a panoramic view of the entire area. Mrs. Kennedy turned to her sister and said, “Oh, Lee, it’s just magnificent.”

Lemon and orange trees grew all across the hillside, filling the air with their fragrant aroma, while red and fuchsia bougainvillea grew in long draping vines up and around the archways and gates. In all my travels, I had never seen a more beautiful setting.

While the villa had unmatched views, it was a long way from the water, so an additional house had been rented that had beach access. The Conca dei Marini beach was not an expansive strand like those in Cape Cod or Palm Beach, but a small spit of pebbly sand surrounded by high rocky cliffs. The beach house was actually more like a cliffside cottage, built into the rocks about one hundred and fifty feet above the beach, accessible by a narrow and very steep stone stairway. It was much smaller than the villa, but very comfortable, and its key purpose was to be used as a place to get out of the sun, for changing in and out of beach attire, bathroom facilities, and midday meals.

In order to get to and from the main villa and the beach house on the steep, windy roads, we had acquired the use of two open-air motorized beach buggies that held six or eight passengers. Made by Fiat, they were fun little vehicles—kind of like a cross between an oversized golf cart and a Volkswagen beetle. I’m not sure who enjoyed them more—the agents or the children.

All of the agents, meanwhile, had rooms at the Hotel Palumbo, which was conveniently located just a short walk down the street from the Villa Episcopio. Like most of the places in this elite area, the Hotel Palumbo was quite pricey, but the advance agents had arranged a deal with management that made it affordable for us. We were living with and among the rich and famous, but we had to do it on sixteen dollars a day.

Unlike the official state visits, there was no set schedule for this trip. Advances could only be conducted once Mrs. Kennedy told me what she wanted to do, and I knew often we would have no advance notice at all.

“Just come to the villa each morning, Mr. Hill,” Mrs. Kennedy told me, “and we’ll take each day as it comes.”

I was deeply concerned about the press—especially the overly aggressive Roman freelance photographers, the original paparazzi. Fortunately the Italian police were just as concerned, and they immediately laid down some ground rules for the overzealous photographers: no beach, water-skiing, or swimming pictures; no photographs at the entrance to the villa; photographers will be allowed to stand in the public garden forty meters from Mrs. Kennedy; they may photograph her from a distance in Ravello or boarding a speedboat in nearby Amalfi.

Clint Hill in working attire, Ravello, Italy

I had seen how these paparazzi operated, however, and I was not convinced they would follow the “rules.”

The morning after our arrival, I got up, had a quick breakfast of a biscotti and espresso, and packed a bag to bring along with me. There would be no need for a suit and tie, but I had to be ready for waterskiing, a cruise on a yacht, or anything else Mrs. Kennedy might want to do. There was no agenda. Once we left the area of the villa there was no opportunity to go back for something you forgot or to change clothes, so I had to be prepared for just about anything. I dressed in a black golf shirt with black trousers, and filled an airline flight bag with everything I might need: bathing suit, my Secret Service Commission book, diplomatic passport, and extra ammunition. I slipped my handgun into my holster and wore my shirt on the outside to cover it, but when I wore my swimsuit, the gun would have to go in the airline bag, too. The last thing to go in the bag was a bar of chocolate and a small package of nuts I’d stashed away