Travelogue, Ischia, Italy, 2018

     We have been traveling to the same island of Ischia, off the Amalfi coast of Italy in the Tyrrhenian Sea, for nineteen years. No matter where else our travels take us, we hop a hydrofoil from Naples to relax, climb the hillsides (in a futile attempt to work off the extra pounds), and swim in the Gulf. Our visit usually coincides with our anniversary in June.

A view from our hotel on Ischia toward Naples and Mt. Vesuvius

     Ischia faces Capri but lacks Capri's glitz. It is characterized by fishing villages that have exploded into resort towns. There are no cruise ships or designer boutiques. Towns spill over the lush thermal hillsides into each other and motorbikes veer in every direction on the winding roads lined with fuchsia bougainvillea. Mt. Vesuvius across the Gulf of Naples and Mt. Epomeo above our heads remind residents and visitors that the area is ripe for volcanic activity, as evidenced by an earthquake last year in Casamicciola, one of the towns on our walking route.

Flea market on Sundays, Casamicciola, Ischia

Town of Forio, Ischia

     Our hotel was a former lookout tower sitting on a promontory facing the mainland. In its "-1" rooms in the "basement" are the thermal waters of the spa and all other spa amenities. Rooms are spread throughout the tower, as well as across the hillside. The climb is not easy over the cobblestones and up the stone steps to our room in the forest, but going down takes no time when we're hungry! Dining is al fresco in a separate pavilion overhanging the pool and sea.

Dining pavilion at our hotel and tower above pool.

     After nineteen years, we know the staff and their families well. Each year the same faces return. We experiment with our limited Italian, though they all speak English.  
    At our anniversary dinner under the stars this year Charley raised his glass to mine. "Happy  number 53, honey," he said.

Anniversary cake

     "Oh, I think you've got the date wrong," I replied. "It's not till tomorrow. I thought you knew the day we got married," I teased..
     "Today's not the 26th?" he said, checking his calendar watch. "My watch must be wrong."
     "That's ok. We'll celebrate tomorrow night when it IS the 26th."
         
     "Well, not to ruin the surprise, but like I've done every year, I ordered a cake from the maitre d' for our anniversary. I guess I'll have to change it right away." With that, he jumped up to speak to Salvatore and reschedule the cake for the following night's dinner.
     "No problema," Salvatore said (a familiar response in Italy). "We'll have it ready tomorrow evening, Mr. Carey."
     After dinner we began receiving text messages of congratulations from family, there being a six-hour time lag back in the States. I texted them all back, saying, "Thanks for remembering us, but our anniversary is actually tomorrow."
     "That's strange," I said to Charley. "Why are they congratulating us today?"
     "Well, what does your phone say?" I reopened my phone and read "June 26" on its face - our anniversary! I'd completely lost track of the days. I guess that's what a vacation was for?
     "I'm so sorry, honey! Your watch was right. Happy Anniversary!"
     "Well, you won't be getting your surprise cake till tomorrow night. I feel like the grandfather in the movie 'Moonstruck,' after he sees his engaged granddaughter (Cher) with another man. I'm so confused," Charley said, burying his head in his hands, laughing.
     "You know, we're having a guest for dinner in two nights. Maybe they could hold the cake till then."
     "No way I'm going to ask Salvatore to change it again," Charley said.
     The next night we enjoyed vanilla cream cake decorated in fresh berries while the other guests and staff sang to us. "Thanks, everyone, but it was actually yesterday," Charley explained to the dining room. He didn't tell them why we were sharing our cake with them a day late.


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     Pasquale owns the leather shop in the town of Lacco Ameno, along one of our walking routes. We had purchased several wallets and travel bags from him and returned for Charley's new wallet two days before our departure this year. Pasquale was seated at a desk/cashier table, reading a document.
     "It's my taxes," he said in English. "I pay too much! I have two rental properties and a house. I pay 1400 Euros. Then I pay 400 Euros for garbage collection and 20% of my income to the federal government."
     "Raise your rents," Charley the banker said.
     "I can't. The tenants have low-paying jobs and no-one wants to buy the properties. I made a big mistake. Someone offered to buy my house ten years ago but my wife didn't want to leave. So we added 950 square feet and now we can't sell it. It's too big. The taxes keep going up."
     Charley took out his white handkerchief and rubbed his eyes. "I'm crying for you," he joked, thinking of the taxes we pay in the U.S. Pasquale began laughing.
     On our last day on the island we walked past the leather shop. Pasquale was sitting outside. Charley took out his handkerchief and waved it at the shop owner. Pasquale removed his from a pants pocket and waved it back, laughing with his American friend.

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Just enough room to park!

      Italians park anywhere they like, whenever they like. If there is enough space to fit only the hood of the car, they will edge it in. The remainder might hang out, filling a pedestrian walkway or blocking a street.
     Or they might park at an angle to fit the front left bumper in, blocking cars nearby from getting out. They abandon cars to run into pesharias (fish markets) and pet stores (see above photo).
     A garbage truck in Lacco Ameno stopped horizontally across the road. It blocked both directions of traffic, while recycling bottles crashed into the void of the truck. Garbage bins were next, stinking the street.
     When one lane of blocked traffic began honking, the garbageman yelled, "Quoi??" (What??) "Do you want my job?"