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?"

   
   

Snapshots from Italy I - A Return to Ischia

This is dedicated to the memory of those who perished this week in the terremoto (volcano) of central Italy. May they rest in peace.



For seventeen years we have visited the Italian island of Ischia.

Aragonese Castle   474 B.C.

The island faces Capri and is a 45-minute hydrofoil ride across the sea from Naples. Every year the general manager, Giovanni, at our hotel and the staff at the front desk (Mena, Pino, Salvatore, Britt) welcome us to our favorite room high on the hillside behind the lobby. Our knees get creakier each year as we ascend the endless stone steps and descend to the lobby, dining terrace, pool, and sea.

Down to the pool and sea

Pool and tower rooms

Each evening we dine al fresco (and each morning we walk miles to work off the pasta). From the hotel's dining terrace we watch the splendor of lavender, orange, and pink sunsets fade over fishing boats returning to their ports far below.

Dining terrace with two hungry seagulls

A surprise anniversary cake overlooking sunset

One evening at dinner a couple from Birmingham, England, approached our table.  "I couldn't help but overhear," the woman said, "that you've been here before."

"Yes, it's our seventeenth time on the island," Charley said.  "We love it here!"

"We've been twice before to this hotel and love it because it's only a three-hour plane ride from London to Naples. We're half-way through our ten days. Where are you from?"

"Delray Beach, Florida, and the coast of Massachusetts."

The next day we walked along the main street in the town below the hotel, Lacco Ameno.  We stopped to talk when we saw the Englishman standing outside one of the shops. "Wife's inside, buying out the place," he said.  We could see her bent over a glass case of coral jewelry.

Disguised in dark glasses and a baseball cap, Charley shook the Englishman's hand.  "We're staying at the Mezzatorre, where you're staying," Charley said.

The Englishman looked at him without recognition.  "Oh, you're from the States?"

"Yes, we're from Delray Beach, Florida."

"Funny, I just met another guy from Delray Beach who's staying at our hotel."

Harbor in Lacco Ameno, Ischia

That's the story of Charley's face - everyone thinks he's someone else. One time a guy in an airport stared at him across the terminal while we waited for our flight. Finally he screwed up his courage and approached Charley.  "I think I know you. Didn't I go to high school with you in Omaha, class of '69?"

Charley graduated from high school in Fall River, Massachusetts, and it was definitely not in '69!

A Dispute in Italy

     We left Barcelona overdosed on Spanish history, bizarre structures, tapas, crowds, Gaudi, and Miro. Next stop:  Naples.

     Over the years we have fallen in love with southern Italy.  Life is exuberant and loud.  Neapolitans are brash, grabbing life as it comes and squeezing tight, as evidenced by the antics of twosomes on scooters or in passionate embraces whenever the mood strikes.  Neapolitans have ruled and been ruled, many times. They know in the course of human events, cultures are fleeting.  The sea lies in front of them, with Vesuvius behind.

     Men gather to discuss world events, local problems, and familial disputes.  Their voices rise, as their hands move up and down in prayer position.  Sometimes they squeeze their fingers together, pointing inward, as if they'd burned themselves.  For hours they stand there talking and yelling, yet nothing seems to get resolved.

   
     The three-quarter-mile road to our hotel on the island of Ischia was under construction for eighteen months.  The hotel owner was in a dispute with his neighbor, who shares the driveway, as to who should pay to fix the road.  Meanwhile, guests could either walk up the hairpin turns high over the Bay of Naples or wait at a staging area for the hotel to retrieve them.

     Last year, we noticed stones from the wall along the driveway tumbling down the hillside. Walkers could become ghosts, swallowed by gaping voids that delineated the sides of the promontory. "This is a prestigious hotel and I don't understand why the owners can't negotiate a settlement," I said to Charley.  "They're a member of a chain that must demand inspections."

     "You'd think they'd have paid off the neighbor," Charley, the pragmatist, said.

     "There has been a dispute as to who owns the part that needs fixing," the hotel manager told us.  "They won't accept our offer."

     This year, a new rock wall appeared where the driveway had been disintegrating.  The neighbor constructed a ninety-degree angle where the property divided.  The walls create such a narrow turn that taxis can't make it through.  Unless they're in Lilliputian cars, hotel guests must wait for shuttles to bring them to the hotel.  I could hear the neighbor saying, "Gotcha!"