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?"

   
   

An Interview with Award-winning Travel Author Margie Miklas

I met Margie at the Florida Writer's Association Conference in 2014.  She and I were selling our books next to each other and discovered we shared a love of Italy, among many other things (including Prosecco).  Margie's book MEMOIRS OF A SOLO TRAVELER - MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH ITALY won a bronze medal at that conference in the travel category.  She is now working on a novel.

Pam:  Although you connect with numerous friends and family on your travels through Italy, your two books, Memoirs of a Solo Traveler – My Love Affair with Italy and My Love Affair with Sicily, recount your travels solo. What motivated you to travel alone to Italy?

Margie:  After I visited Italy for the second time, I knew that I wanted to return for an extended period of time. And I knew that it was unlikely that anyone I knew could get enough time off or have the money needed to travel for a couple of months. So I decided to do it myself.

Countryside outside Caltagirone, Sicily.
Photo courtesy of Margie Miklas

Pam: What were the benefits and pitfalls of travelling alone?

Margie:  For me the benefits include the ability to travel at my own pace and do exactly what I feel like doing without having to consider anyone else's agenda. Also I am free to meet up with others at my leisure and meet new friends with no time constraints. My agenda can be somewhat flexible without having to consider another person or person's intentions. The downside is the cost of the hotel room and eating alone. However I use the time at restaurants to people watch, and sometimes I even engage in conversation with others seated close to me. I have even invited someone else to share a table with me, and we subsequently became friends.

Pam:  How did you learn to speak Italian?

Margie:  I used a number of tools, Rosetta Stone, Pimsleur CDs, online sites. Then I enrolled in Italian classes though a local Meet-up Italian group. At first I took group classes, and eventually I had private classes for a year and a half with my Italian teacher in preparation to go to Italy alone for three months.

Pam:  Your writing reads like a travel diary, exploring not only your experiences as you encounter a foreign culture, but also your feelings of frustration, exhaustion, and inner peace. How would you describe your writing?

Margie:  I would call it conversational. I write as if I am telling a story to you in my living room. I want the readers to feel like they are with me along the way. That is why I wrote those first two books in first person present tense.

       Winding road of Savoca, Sicily.      
Photo courtesy of Margie Miklas

Pam:  How did blogging help during your travels? When did you find time to write during your trips?

Margie:  Well, I made time when I traveled alone, and I also used a small recorder later. I find it much harder to keep up blogging when I travel with others on a busier agenda. I carry a small notebook and jot down notes, names of places and people, what I might see or hear. Now with an iPhone, I make use of the voice recorder to do the same. I also use my photos to jog my memory about more details when I write about my experiences weeks or months later.

Pam:  You also write for LaGazzetta Italiana, a monthly newspaper based in your home town of Cleveland, Ohio. How is the experience of writing for a newspaper different  from blogging?

Margie:  It is the same inasmuch as I do not get paid. I write out of a passion for Italy. Writing for a newspaper is different from blogging since there usually is a word count minimum and maximum, and  usually only one photo is used. I also have to think of the audience, which is similar yet different from readers of my blog.

Pam:  Can you describe the ONE experience that could never have happened anywhere but Italy (excluding having relatives there)? 

Margie:  Yes. I scheduled a cooking class in a small village in Sicily, in an agriturismo. We got lost trying to find it and arrived more than an hour late, despite a few calls to the property. Just as we arrived, the owner, who happened to be a count, was in the driveway with his keys to his car.  After greeting us with hugs, he informed us that he was going to leave to try and find us. Incredible!

Margie Miklas cooking  in class in Sicily.
Photo courtesy of Margie Miklas

Pam:  Aside from visiting your heritage, why do you feel so at home there?

Margie:  I think it is the way the local Italians treat people. In my experiences, complete strangers seem to go out of their way to help, to make me feel like family. They have invited me into their homes. They engage in conversation easily. It is the people that I cherish the most in Italy.

Pam:  Your third book was published this spring, a photographic essay on Italy. Have you had training or education in photography?

Margie:  I recently completed my third book, Colors of  Naples and the Amalfi Coast and it was published at the end of April. It is a dream come true for me because I have wanted to do a photo book for more than ten years. I have always been interested in photography, especially landscape photography. I took a photography course at a community college when I first moved to Florida thirty years ago. I used to sell some of my framed photographs at art festivals, and have won a few awards as well. So my love of photography is not new.

Photo courtesy of Margie Miklas

Pam:  What do you aim to achieve over the course of your writing career?

Margie:  I'd like to continue writing my blog as well as write more books. I am currently working on a novel, a completely different genre, a psychological thriller. I hope to complete it in 2016.

Margie Miklas is an American writer with a passion for Italy. She writes the blog, margieinitaly. Follow her on Twitter, FaceBook , Instagram, and Pinterest. She is the author of the award-winning book, Memoirs of a Solo Traveler – My Love Affair with Italy and also My Love Affair with Sicily and the recently released Colors of Naples and the Amalfi Coast.

Old Reliable

It seems every family has a favorite restaurant, one they never tire of.

It could be the particular food, the servers, the ambiance, or the price that brings us back year after year - or all of the above.  It's a place the family relies on for birthdays, anniversaries, graduations, or even weddings.

If the restaurant survived the decades of recession, it's probably family-owned.   I'm not talking a pizza joint or a chain restaurant here, the kind we frequented after our sons' hockey games or baseball practices for a quick meal.  I'm talking a place where the tables are covered in white linen with cloth napkins and there is a fresh rose as the centerpiece, maybe a candle, too.

Outside Trieste, Italy

Our family loves all things Italian, especially the food, so we used to take our young sons to DiMeglio's in Woonsocket, R.I., to celebrate the end of school or a birthday of Charley's or mine.  At that point the boys still had birthday parties for their friends.

On the sidewalk outside DiMeglio's you could smell simmering tomatoes, basil, and freshly-shaved Parmesan. The spaghetti sauce (gravy) had simmered all day in a gargantuan gleaming  pot.  Portions covered eleven-inch white dinner plates, so we always had left-overs to take home.  It wasn't a big place, squeezed beyond some warehouses and near some mills, but the owners knew their customers.  Mrs. DiMeglio, in her apron, greeted us with a hug - we became so welcome that our older son was a frequent visitor to the chefs in the kitchen. Diners sat close to each other, getting into animated conversations that often necessitated raising our voices to be heard.


Then DiMeglio's closed.  The family who remained weren't interested in continuing the long hours, and the rent soared. We began going to the Old Canteen on Atwells Avenue in Providence, R.I.  A little more formal than DiMeglio's -  the paint was pink, soft music played, and a mural of Venice dominated one wall.

We celebrated graduations and engagements there with champagne and Veal a la Mike. We celebrated house completions and house sales.  We celebrated birthdays and births and book publications.  Last week Charley and I went back to reminisce over a marriage that's lasted 50 years.

Joe Marzilli, the owner, was no longer there.  His son greeted us as we opened the door from the front staircase on the street.  Sammy, the busboy in his sixties who always brought extra garlic bread to our table, was no longer there.

But the pink walls remained, and the candlelight, and the pink leather chairs. The waitstaff's smiles were there, though they were no longer exclusively male.  The sauteed escarole and spaghetti a la Canteen (with chicken livers and mushrooms) and artichokes in l'olio and garlic and my faorite Prosecco were still there, and the Italian families from "the Hill."  Our "old reliable" made time stand still, even though we hadn't.