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?"

   
   

J.J.

After driving for thirty-plus years while traveling abroad, Charley got sick of it. We decided our new policy would be to hire someone local to get behind the wheel who could speak decent English, unless we were with a tour group (which we'd only done twice, when we couldn't make all the arrangements ourselves). If someone else were driving, we could relax and enjoy the surroundings without getting lost or having an argument.

John Jennings drove us from Kenmare, Ireland, on the southwest coast through the Dingle Peninsula, Ring of Kerry, Lakes of Killarney, to Kinsale, Ardmore, Cobh, Blarney, and up to Dublin on the east coast.

A retired 6-foot Waterford police detective with bushy gray eyebrows overhanging piercing olive eyes, he showed up the first morning in a biker's jacket that matched his eyes. A trimmed gray mustache gave his squared face a rugged Sean Connery look. I could picture him in an interrogation, never taking his eyes off a suspect. "Call me J.J.," he said.

I asked him where he was from. "I'm from Waterford," he said, "but I spent last night in a B&B over the mountains. It's only about fifteen minutes from where I picked you up." We proceeded to retrace the exact route through the mountain passes that J.J. had traversed to meet us. It took us thirty minutes.

"Why didn't you stay closer?" I said.

"There was a gym in one of the hotels near where I booked, and I like to stay in shape. But the gym wasn't open. Besides, B&B's in Kenmare, where you stayed, are too dear (pricey)."

"What else do you do for excitement?" I asked.

"I climbed St. Patrick's Mountain to the shrine three times on my hands and knees in rock and gravel," he said.

"You must feel very blessed," I said.

I sat in the rear directly behind J.J., whose driver's seat was on the right but who was, of course, driving on the left side of the road. His gray hair was sheared to a stubble, police-style, surrounding his bald 60-year-old dome. A half-inch tentacle from his beard sprouted untended to the left.

J.J.'s right hand never strayed from the wheel, while the long fingers and soft flesh of his left hand gestured in the air to emphasize his constant tales. Strawberry-blond wisps of hair escaped the cuffs of his jacket. His hands belied his avocation as a rugby player throughout his thirties.

While maneuvering through fog on the Dingle Peninsula, weaving around banks of peat and through stone tunnels in the mountainous Killarney National Park, passing lorries and bikers on roads wide enough for a single car approaching Kinsale, and circling round-abouts outside Cork, J.J.'s left hand would scrunch together, supplicating for understanding, or jump up and down to imitate the actions he was describing. We learned of Gaelic Games in his youth on a pitch longer and wider than a soccer field, where'd he had to change afterward on the embankment into rained-out clothes to bike home; of his All-Ireland basketball championship game in the 60's representing County Mayo; of the farm his father owned, whose horses competed in local Sunday jumping competitions.

Since J.J. was so tall as a youth, he couldn't jump in competition on his own horse. "Dad told me to tend another horse while my best friend did the jumpin' in the ring on mine," he said. "My friend was shorter than me.

"'And whatever you do,' Dad said, 'don't let him eat the grass. It will give him a stomach ache.'

"For three hours I pulled that horse's neck up off the turf every time he tried to eat.  Ohh, my arm was achin'.

"Meanwhile, my best friend won first prize. He brought my Rory out to me and Dad said, 'Since you trained him, why don't you ride him to pick up the trophy?'

"I did just that. I rode up to the judge and took hold of that silver urn and turned Rory around to head out. Everyone was cheering like crazy. That's when Rory decided to buck and I went flying forward and landed on my arse. Managed to hold onto the trophy, though. I still have it.

"Now when we get to Blarney Castle, Pamela and Charles, the Stone is 100 steps up inside. You must go to the top and lean backwards while you hang over the wall to kiss the Stone. You'll be given the gift of eloquent speech." He turned in his seat to face us with the smile of a leprechaun.

Seems J.J. had been multiply blessed - three times by St. Patrick, and once by the Blarney Stone!

   

Snapshots from Italy III - Hiring a Taxi in Ischia

Haggling with the taxi drivers in Ischia was "Fun at first," Charley told me.  On alternate mornings we walked the winding half-mile descent to the town of Lacco Ameno below our hotel, then along the coastline another mile-and-a-half to Casamicciola, the town beyond.  On our return we stopped for a light lunch in the marina facing Vesuvius, across the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Mt. Vesuvius across a marina on Ischia

All the shops were closed between 1-4 p.m. on the island, likewise with the hotel shuttle from town.  With a torn Plantar Fascia ligament (mine) and joints complaining from old football injuries (Charley's), we sometimes grabbed a taxi back to our hotel before heading to the pool or the sea.

Lunch stop in Lacco Ameno, Ischia

During the lunch hours in Lacco Ameno, the cab drivers sat along a wall, like birds on an electrical wire. The first time we approached them we made the mistake of asking the driver sitting in the last cab (closest to us) to take us back. No other drivers were sitting in their cabs.

Sunday after church, Lacco Ameno, Ischia

The driver whose cab was first in line hurried off the wall and began shouting at the driver we'd approached, sweeping his arms in large window-washing motions, while their noses got closer and closer and their voices louder and louder. The driver we'd approached ushered us into his van, hurling insults while flinging his free hand toward his pursuer. Thankfully, we've never seen anyone resort to punches in Italy.

Flea market on Sunday, Casamicciola, Ischia

"Un momento!" I said.  "Quanto costa?"

"Quindici Euros."

"Fifteen?  It's only a mile and half up the road!" Charley said.

"Prezzo minimo, signore," he said.

Our driver started his engine and we roared past the curses of the first driver, our necks lurching forward and Charley's leg dangling from the open door.

The next time we approached the lineup, none of the drivers got off the wall.  In fact, they wouldn't even look at us.

"Mezzatorre Hotel?  Quanto costa?" Charley said.

"Venti (20)" was the response.

"No, not twenty!  Fifteen," Charley said.

"Non, venti."

"You enjoy yourselves, have a good rest!  We'll walk," Charley announced.

And we did!

Halfway up the steep, circuitous hotel driveway a renegade driver stopped next to us. "Dieci (ten)," he said.

We jumped in.

Snapshots from Italy II - Our Morning Walks

Our hotel on the Italian island of Ischia sits on a promontory overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea between the towns of Lacco Ameno and Forio.  We spend each morning walking miles up and down the hillsides to work off the pasta (not always a successful remedy!).  One of our favorite walks winds through the forest above our hotel, past the Italian film director's house (which sits at the end of a dirt road), past a bocce court as the road becomes asphalt, along the coast to an overview of Forio. Then we wind down cobblestone streets past the Church of San Francesco de Paola, past the beach resorts in Forio and the marina, to a cafe in town for a cold drink.

View from our hotel promontory

Tower rooms in our hotel and pool

At the beginning of this walk to Forio we must descend our hotel's half-mile driveway. Part-way down there is a sign that reads, "Madonna di Zaro" (Madonna of the Hillside).

Charley and I ascend the dirt path through the forested hillside toward the shrine, which sits atop winding wooden steps.  On this walk, we are not alone. In a dirt car-park, taxis and a van wait in leafy shade for their customers, who begin to file singly down the steps after their supplications. Scattered next to the vehicles are picnickers' plastic bottles, sandwich wrappers, melon rinds, and the condom evidence of lovers' trysts.

Having been blessed by the Madonna, the group assembles to board the van.  "You sit in back (in Italian)," one woman directs.
                                                                              "No, I sit next to my husband in the middle," the other woman answers.

"Take a different seat!" she hears.  "Angelo and I want middle."

Angelo and his wife get their wish.  If only the Madonna had the power to cleanse the wooded hillside as she had (dubiously?) cleansed the petitioners' souls!

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Overlooking the town of Forio, Ischia

Down a serpentine, one-way street on our way to Forio, we wait to enter the blind curves till we hear no engines. We slow at families' niched shrines and again at the Church of San Frencesco de Paola (half-way down the twist of S-turns) before entering the narrow tunnel just past the church's pink facade.  In the middle of the tunnel we hear a car approaching from behind, but there is no place to disappear. The tunnel is just wide enough for one car.  The horn blares at Charley, behind me on the cobblestones.  "You honking at me?" he yells.  "Slow down and wait!"

A family shrine

Of course, the woman doesn't understand a word!  She waits till we exit the tunnel before shouting curses as she passes.

On the roads hugging hillsides on Ischia, sidewalks are built as a brief nod to the tourist, then they disappear. Crosswalks are mere suggestions. Charley decides that since crosswalks are meaningless, he can cross where he pleases.  He grabs my hand and holds his free hand up like a traffic cop, defying two lanes of traffic to stop or hit us.

Forio, Ischia

Once we get past the beaches, we hug the sides of cobblestone houses and produce shops while cement trucks and faces frozen behind glass in tour buses whiz at forty-five mph within twelve inches of our sucked-in stomachs. Young girls with their arms around their boyfriends' waists zoom around us on cycles, the boyfriends yelling back to them and flinging one hand in the air with fingers together like blown kisses for emphasis. Taxi drivers never disrupt their phone conversations around blind curves. We stand on the asphalt's six-inch shoulder, waiting till Charley can swing out into the curve with me following. He uses a sideways pushing motion away from us, certain that motorists coming out of the curve will see him and make NASCAR moves to avoid us. Ahead of him, housewives in flip-flops with their groceries defy the drivers without ever looking up.

Forio, Ischia

In front of one market, a car slows to claim its parking space.  It's the same space where Charley is walking. "Hey, stop!" he yells to the female driver, who stops within three feet of his upright palms.


Out jumps Nana, with her cloth grocery bag. "Quoi?  Quoi?" Nana asks.

In other words, "What's your problem?  Don't you know my daughter owned a motorino (motorbike) when she was six?"

.

Fruit and vegetable vendor in Forio

Blind curve on Ischia

Another blind curve on Ischia

                                     

A Busy Time

My hairdresser in Florida, Jill, has two girls, ages sixteen and thirteen.  Summer, the older, pitches for her high school softball team, which recently competed in its regional semi-finals.

The tournament was in Homestead, Florida, between Miami and the Keys.  It's where Hurricane Andrew hit in 1992 and a good ninety minutes from their home in Delray Beach.  Also about as far away as you can get from Tallahassee, where the family was supposed to attend Jill's step-daughter's graduation from Florida State the day after the tournament.

"I just got off the phone with Summer's coach AND the division president," Jill's husband, Mike, said.  "I thought they could reschedule the game for the previous night, but the division president won't allow it."

"Did you really think they'd change a tournament for one player?  Why don't you go up to Tallahassee for the family dinner on Friday night?  I'll take the girls to the tournament in Homestead.  The three of us will drive straight through to Tallahassee after it's over, and the girls can sleep in the car. At least we'll be there to get good seats for the graduation," Jill said.

"But I can't drive the truck all the way up to Tallahassee," her husband said.

"You take our car and I'll rent one for me and the girls."

Halfway to Homestead that Friday Jill's rental died. They waited for AAA and got back on the road an hour later, arriving at the tournament as the national anthem blared through the p.a. system.  Summer pitched five innings and her team won. The state finals would be the following weekend.

They woke Mike up in his hotel in Tallahassee at 1 a.m. and arose at 6 a.m. for the graduation.  Parking was impossible, but they found a spot for their SUV ten blocks away.  Jill wore new orange heels to go with her sundress.  Two blocks before the stadium, one of her heels caught in a crack and tore away from the sole. "At least the blood goes with my red and orange dress," she said, as her husband helped her up off the sidewalk and offered his handkerchief.  Jill completed the walk in bare feet.

That afternoon, after spending time with the graduate, Mike, Jill, and the girls drove to Ocala, where their friend, Al, owned some cabins.  "I haven't seen this place, but how bad could it be?  We're only going to stay one night. Besides, they're treating us to dinner at their restaurant," Mike said.

Al greeted them warmly and led them to their cabin.  "We'll see you at the restaurant in about an hour," Mike said.  He plopped his carry-on bag and Jill's onto their bed.  Dust rose up in a cloud.  Jill pulled the bedspread back.  The blanket looked like Swiss cheese.

"There's no signal here," Summer announced.  "No cell phone and no internet.  Great!!"

"I know.  We couldn't use the GPS either," Mike said.

They rallied to eat.  The menu consisted of fried everything - catfish, shrimp, and scallops, to name a few. Jill and her daughters pushed the heavy food around their plates, but Mike dug in  The bill arrived for $60.  "I thought we were Al's guests," Jill whispered to Mike.

"So did I."  The family was on the road by 6 a.m. the following morning.

Summer's state championship game would be played the following weekend in - you guessed it - Tallahassee.  "Try to find a teammate whose parents are going," Mike said.

Mallorca, Spain

We flew nonstop from Dublin to the island of Mallorca, Spain.  A transport was supposed to meet us at the airport to take us up the coast to our hotel.  After we retrieved our bags and exited the luggage area, we scanned the signs.  No "Carey."

We waited fifteen minutes.  There was a cluster of people in the middle of the terminal.

A man in a dress shirt and tie came toward us.  He displayed a nervous smile.  "Are you Carey?" he said in almost - English.

"Yes," Charley said, no smile on his face.  "Where have you been?"

"My name is Juan Lopez," he said, extending his hand.  "I've been waiting at the meeting place."

"Meeting place?  What meeting place?  We've never been here.  We got our luggage and came through the nearest exit," Charley said.  I was trying not to giggle.

"In the middle," Juan said, pointing.  "Where everyone meets."

"Except all the drivers who came down here, near our luggage," Charley mumbled.

We relaxed by the pool and walked the wide promenades along the beach for two days.   A guide was going to drive us across the island on the third day.  "Hello, remember me?  I'm Juan," he said.

Juan drove us to a winery in Santa Maria, as well as an olive oil factory and Saturday market in Soller.  He never stopped translating. One hand went up in the air off the wheel, a finger pointing out the correct pronunciations. "Here, 'Macia' wine, it's pronounced 'Mathia,'" he said.  "The Spanish 'S' is a 'C' on Mallorca, but is pronounced like a 'TH.'"  I kept my gaze focused out the window.  We were going seventy mph with a one-armed driver.

"Limoneros," Juan said, pointing to thousands of acres of lemon trees in the plateaus.  "Cabras, goats," he said, pointing to the hillsides.

For lunch, Juan drove us up hairpin turns to a restaurant two kilometers above Porto Soller.  The view was spectacular. After lunch we wound down along coastal 'S' curves ('C' curves in Mallorca, pronounced 'TH' curves), past villages crumbling off cliffs and Hollywood stars' homes. On a 'TH' curve in Deia, Juan took both hands off the wheel to demonstrate the round shape of potato cakes covered in chocolate   "There, in restaurante," he said.  "Famoso," he added.  I didn't give a rat's ass about potato cakes.  I just wanted Juan to get both hands on the wheel .

In Valldemossa, Juan explained that "shopping" had made the town famous with a French woman.

"What kind of shopping?" I said.

"I forget how you say his name in English."

"You mean a man brought his French mistress here and made the town famous hiding out?"  Charley's imagination was having a good time.

"No, not hiding out. Shopping," I said.

"No shopping, living, no hiding out.  Shopping," Juan said.

"You just said no shopping," I pointed out.  "And why would he bring her to this small village to shop?"  I could think of better places to get a designer collection!

I opened my guidebook.  Turns out Chopin ("shopping") had brought his mistress, French writer George Sand, to live on the coastal mountainside.  Sand described it as "the winter from hell."

Valldemossa, Majorca, Spain

Tales from the DMV

     We followed the green arrows till we found a building marked, "Tax Assessor."  A line wound out the door and down the sidewalk.
     "Oh, God!" was my immediate reaction.  "This must be the place!"
     It was eighty-five degrees in south Florida, and I'd forgotten a visor.  Charley wore the Red Sox hat he kept in the trunk of his car, which I wouldn't be caught dead in because it made my long face look emaciated.  He carried a brief case and I carried a tote.  Inside were the documents we needed to renew our drivers' licenses - Social Security, current licenses, passports or birth certificates, bills showing our residential address.  True to form, Charley had thrown in at least six extra documents.
      "How long did you wait?" he asked someone leaving the building.
     "'Bout three hours," was the muffled answer.  Charley shook his head.
     Every ten minutes we moved six feet.  For naive reasons, we believed that when we crossed the threshold, we would attain nirvana, or at least air-conditioning.  Within an hour we got inside, only to discover to our horror that the line snaked around stanchions.  It was like a game - if you reach the goal in front of you (the door), you may proceed to the next goal (two desks up front).  Charley doesn't do well with games, unless they are on a field or a court.  He began mumbling.
     It was not a good sign.
     Behind each desk, an employee checked documents.  If you handed the correct documents to her as requested, she rewarded you with a "GO" (a lettered number).  If not, you got a "GO HOME."
     A disruption arose up front.  "Why doesn't the name on your Social Security card match the name on your passport?" the clerk asked a diminutive woman in stiletto heels and heavy mascara.  How the woman had stood in line in those heels I couldn't imagine, but she did have well-developed calves.  She tried to explain in broken English, until her daughter intervened.
     "See, miss, my mama, she de-vorce in Honduras.  She was Senora Raul Giacomo, BIG man in Honduras.  Now she Alicia Colon again!"
     "Then she'll have to show me the divorce papers to prove she divorced legally."
     "No!  No hay posible!  My mama luckee to get de-vorce from that Son-of-Bitch!  She no go back there for paper.  No, no!  He keel her!"  The clerk rolled her eyes, repeated her request for divorce paper, and denied "GO."
     At the other desk, a deep female voice demanded our attention.  A woman of immense girth with a flaming orange scarf wound a foot high on her head bellowed, "I's an A-MER-'kin!  Kin't you tell by lookin' at me?  I's not starvin' like no African!  I was bawn here!  What cit'zen papers I suppose' to hav'?"
     "A passport or your birth certificate."
     "I ain't got no passpor'!  I don't go NOwhere.  I's an A-MER-'kin and I ain't got no need to go NOwhere!  Birth certif''kit?  I ain't got none!  I was bawn at my house.  My mamee's DEAD!  How kin I bring her here?"
     Another "NO GO."
     By the time we moved to the front of the line, Charley's head was shaking, his lips were pursed, and his foot was tapping.  I knew what that meant.  He had found a way to rectify the ungodly wait.  "All they have to do here," he said to everyone within two rows, "is have an employee go up and down the line, naming the documents we need.  Half the line would disappear!"
     "Please, God, don't let the clerk hear him," I prayed.
     We lucked out and went to the far desk.  I think the clerk was so happy that we had everything in order that she passed a thin smile our way.  I guess she hadn't heard Charley.  We received E226 and E227 and thanked her profusely.
     The lettered numbers allowed us to proceed toward the next goal (the sitting area at the front of the room).  Of course, all the chairs were taken, so we stood on the side of the aisle.  A loudspeaker and a monitor announced the lucky letter and number of the person who could proceed to a specified ticket counter.  We heard "J14" called, followed by "W175," in random sequence.  Apparently those who had made appointments six months ago were on the fast track.  Charley went to the men's room.
     We ended up at counters next to each other, twenty minutes after we'd passed "GO."  E226 and E227 had followed H11 and H13.  "You should try showing 'Desperate Housewives' on that screen," Charley said to the woman who would be granting his license.
     "Then we'd really have a riot," she quipped.
     He attempted to engage her again.  "Is there a secret to getting out of here in less than three hours?  We just got postcards to come in for renewals, but we couldn't get an appointment before we leave for the summer."
     The clerk shook her head, mimicking Charley's earlier action.  "With no appointment, you'd have to wait till all you 'Snowbirds' leave.  The beginning of the month is always lightest, at noontime."
     "Well, I have a simpler solution for you," he began.
     When I heard that, I jammed my documents and receipt in my tote and grabbed his sleeve.  "Thank you both very much," I said to our clerks, wheeling Charley toward the exit.  "See you in eight years!"