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Naples Marina Seen from Grand Hotel Vesuvio
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Living the Dream
There is waste in dreaming.
I mean in negative dreaming. These
pesky night marauders that occasionally punctuate my nightly reveries scale
from forgetting my passport to having my wallet stolen - just enough to
block-out more pleasant notions and thankfully put me wide awake in an instant.
But these aren’t the dreams I want to
describe. Instead, I’ll focus on dreams of
the conscious variety, the dreaming that allows
us to become what we
aspire to. I saw
something to this effect recently, a saying on an inspirational plaque. I agree, dream about achieving something
enough and it may become the catalyst for a plan to transform a dream into reality
… some veiled, willed destiny presently beyond our grasp, what may be, what
will be, if we had our druthers. In a way, dreaming is a whimsical type of
internal planning mechanism, where dedication to a desire helps us define our
lives. In my own small way, I’ve closed my eyes many a time and
let my imagination loose in a dream of what might be. It helps explain why occasionally I’ll buy a lottery
ticket and while awaiting the drawing, get my dollars’ worth dreaming of what
I’d do with the winnings. I must say
that while I go through the motions of my plan to win, sporadically buying
tickets, as of yet my winnings have not materialized. Lotteries are such fickle things though, way
beyond our control. As a youth, I dreamt
of becoming a pilot. How I’d do that I
had no idea, but in this case the stepping stones would for the most part be
under my control. My single-minded
determination eventually willed
me into a cockpit. At other times, in a flight from the
reality of the moment, I’ve had simpler imaginings as for instance of us standing
atop what Romans jokingly refer to as the “Wedding Cake” (Monumento a Vittorio Emanuele II), sandwiched between the Forum and
Piazza Venezia, surveying the breadth of Rome, a view even Rome’s Caesars never
enjoyed. It’s something we’ve not yet
experienced, but know we will. Then
again, maybe in a relaxed daydream state, you, as I, have walked maze-like
passages bordering on streets, in a medieval stone and cement cluster of
beehive dwellings, once home to ancient humanity. When our Cinque
Stelle tour finally arrived on the streets of Calitri, our son, Chris,
experienced a déjà
vu moment as his dream moved to fulfillment, a blur in the divide between what
he’d imagined and his present surroundings there among the network of cobbled, hallway-like
streets of Calitri. Clearly at times we get
to live our dreams.
Our arrival in
Calitri had been delayed some, though certainly not because we were late in checking out of Castiglion del Bosco, which would have incurred a 500 Euro penalty for each hour we were late. No, we were certainly motivated to depart on
time. The drive from Castiglion to Calitri in our Renault Espace spacecraft had for the most part
been uneventful. An error in
navigation,
i.e. taking a longer route, caused by believing a sign verses what GPS “Margaret”
advised, was the culprit. The drive from
Tuscany, north of Rome, was long enough without adding to the jaunt, which we
somehow managed to do as we followed the ridge-running, zig-zag, up and down
course that awaited us. Chris wanted to
see Italy and I assure you our route offered him that opportunity. We made a few stops in this dream-like
landscape, the first being to the picture-perfect Abby of Sant’Antimo, dating
from the time of Charlemagne. Most
recently a community of Gregorian
chanting Benedictine monks call it home.
The abbey is inspirational, the centerpiece of a beautiful valley not
far from Montalcino. It was from here
that what looked to be a shortcut, proved instead to be the long way to just about
anywhere.
When we finally
arrived in Calitri it was late afternoon.
We’d made one stop for gas and some lunch at an Autogrill on the A1 Autostrada. Where we come from they sell bottled liquor
at the rest areas. In Italy, Chris
learned that they serve pasta! We made an additional stop
in Lioni at one of our favorite watering holes, Memphis, styled after the musical history of Memphis, Tennessee. Chris wanted to order a martini, but we
advised he not try. Translating just how
“dirty” he wanted his drink, that is if they made martinis, would have been a
challenge. Besides, they didn’t have his
Ketel One gin nor any dry vermouth! His five-star attitude hadn’t worn off
yet. Instead, we toasted our
almost arrival with Aperol Spritzes.
I must admit, we
were done-in after our daylong drive. At
least I was. Eager to get to the house,
we left most of our belongings behind and exiting the piazza through a tunnel
into the Borgo, headed to our home. We
were both eager to see Chris’ reaction to our humble abode. At the door, I fumbled for the keys, lost at
the bottom of my backpack, but soon all the tumblers and sliding bars were breached and we were inside. After a quick tour,
which due to its size didn’t take long, we climbed the stairs to
our terrace that overlooks the expanse of the Borgo and more. It was an OMG moment when from behind him on
the stairs we both heard him exclaim, “Oh My God” as he stepped onto the
terrace and took in the view from our eagle’s nest. We only wished we’d been able to catch the
expression on his face at that moment.
It would have more than repaid us for all the work it had taken to make
it happen. As he took it all in he
remarked, “It’s a lot nicer than you made it sound, mom.” Well OK, maybe in a protective move we had
lowered expectations some over the years. Don’t expect much and in-kind you won’t be disappointed.
Perhaps we had downplayed things. On the upside, you just might be astonished
by what does materialize. Over the years,
we’d made steady improvements. Only
weeks before, in anticipation of his arrival, we’d added long needed head and
footboards to the guest bedroom. Nothing
but the best, right? Too our pleasant surprise he was impressed and we were pleased.
We’d been able
to share our dream with our son. The
stars, more than simply five, were shining.
It wasn’t long
after and we were enjoying wine right there on our rooftop terrace until long after the greeting
“buòn giorno” had properly turned to “buòna sera”. The wine by then had gotten a handhold on us and
a late-day torpor had set in. We were too
tired to prepare something for dinner ourselves, so instead we opted for dinner
at Locanda dell’Arco, only a short
walk from our door. It is a wonderful spot
to enjoy the finest in local Irpinian dining overseen by a friendly family staff. Elegant and inviting by anyone’s
standards, it makes its home in a grotto hollowed from the mountainside. Mare enjoyed an eggplant dish while Chris and I forked into
pillows of homemade ravioli as together we shared in a bottle of the Baron’s
wine who owned the Palazzo Zampaglione just
above our heads.
During our fleeting
segue to Calitri from our Cinque Stelle tour, we sampled more than just the Locanda. Early the following morning, we took a walk around town
stopping at three cafes: Mario’s for introductions
and coffee of course, Ideao Galose
for its modern twist and to say hello to Francesco, and then to Zabatta’s for its classic pastry and another
try at getting Mrs. Zabatta to smile.
Full of coffee and pastry by then, we returned in time for a late breakfast
on the terrace. The day obliging, we later
walked the borgo, along with Maria Elena this time, making our way as far as
the Santa Lucia Church where a grand view back toward the borgo made it all the
more worthwhile. Late that same day Chris
put myself in low gear and headed off for a Castle tour. Subsequently, to help recover from his climbing
exploration, we stopped off at Roxy Bar
for beer and a Naples verses Rome soccer grudge-match. Our day concluded with another dinner out,
first with a stop-off at
Double Jack’s
for drinks. Jack’s proprietor, Bruno,
knew the makings of a proper martini down to the particulars of Chris’ precise
instructions, which always seem to confound me concerning stirring, dryness,
twists, and “dirtiness”. Served up
properly, Chris was more than impressed and dumbfounded when he learned their
modest cost in comparison to what he customarily laid out for the same concoction
in Manhattan. I am now sworn not to let
Bruno know! Chris’ aches and pains now
soothed somewhat, we next headed to Tre
Rose, an establishment that while void of cocktails shaken or stirred,
serves up local comfort food like cingul
and canazza pastas by the bowlful. You can always expect to have a good time in
the company of owners Michale and Canio, while Mimmo, in his Tre Rose official vest, sees to our every
need. That night was no exception.
Although nothing was said, I suspect that after a few days Chris
had tired of Calitri’s unhurried pace. While
he’d found a place far away from the
busy everyday pace of places like Florence and Milan, our local version of
the big city lifestyle he was accustomed to had soon dwindled to just about nothing. He’d seen all the nightlife that Calitri had
to offer by then and there was so much of Italy yet to see. His brief off-the-beaten-path stay at mom and
dad’s place concluded, the next day we departed to pick-up our Cinque Stelle trail, this time in Naples,
a place that never rests.
Naples proved no different from many of our earlier
stops - a whirlwind. The wind began to
howl soon after we returned our rental to the airport and arrived
at our hotel
by taxi. We were staying at Grand Hotel Vesuvio, a distinguished
five-star establishment that is as much a landmark as Castel dell’Ovo, which faces it from the sea, across a short causeway. Because our rooms suffered from spotty
internet reception, the wind moved us to rooms at the front of the hotel facing
the sea, a marina, the imposing castle, and an arcing view extending from
Pozzuoli (where Sophia Loren grew up and did prison time for tax evasion)
around to the left off toward Sorrento and the end of the Amalfi Peninsula. Who needed the internet with that view! This view of the Bay of Naples was amazing and
we could have sat there enjoying it along with some red wine for hours but that
would have to wait for that incessant wind soon had us moving again.
Our first objective was the National Archaeological
Museum. We caught a taxi to the museum where we thoroughly enjoyed a private tour. From an early age, Chris had enjoyed history
and archaeology. I recall, long before
the adventures of “Indiana Jones” and the tomb raiding exploits of “Laura Croft”,
how he’d eagerly devour the National
Geographic when it arrived in our mailbox and go on to tell us tales of the
temples of Abu Simbel, Jordan’s rose colored Petra, and Schliemann’s discovery
of lost Troy.
One of the venues our guide led us through was the not to be
missed, the once forbidden, so-called "secret cabinet" of erotic art.
It was full of suggestive art, everyday
items of an explicit sexual nature, pieced together from the excavations of both
Pompeii and Herculaneum. It
was apparent that Romans held a robust appreciation for sex and boldly depicted
it throughout their homes in everyday objects, figures and scenes. It proved to be a wow showcase of the
well-endowed, full of naughty satyrs, perky oil lamps, and depictions of sexual
encounters and secret trysts. There were
many red-faced, blushing tourists among us who appeared somewhat troubled by
the explicit imagery. Contrary to our
puritanical predilections, these everyday items presented an ancient people’s
appreciation for the erotic, which they deemed totally normal, and like a
rabbit’s foot, symbols of good luck. Many
nowadays might consider the objects lewd and vulgar, though personally, after
first blush, I found it rather funny. In
the company of frisky, well-endowed satyrs, we found it to be an equal amalgam of philanderer, Don Juan, lecher, Casanova, stud, and
from some of the grips, outright masher. We’d
visited this restricted collection before and can report that not a thing had changed during our absence with
everything as erect as we’d previously found it.
But enough with the
naughty. There is no better way in my estimation to get a feel for the human
energy of Naples, a city like none other, than to walk its streets. Words to describe it miss the mark. It must be experienced. And what better way to experience Naples than
to stroll, or better put,
wonder with no destination in mind, through the historic
heart of the city known as Spaccanapoli.
Stretching east-west from Piazza Gesù Nuovo along Via Benedetto Croce and continuing along
for a few more streets, this narrow passage literally splits (spaccare) the city in half, accounting
for its name. It’s an adventure where
just about anything can occur from street entertainers to street thievery, which
also includes overpaying. With a good
pair of shoes and a grip on our wallets, we picked up the trail a few streets
behind our hotel with a cut across Piazza
Plebiscito, directly in front of the massive Palazzo Reale, once home to Spain’s Bourbons, and in due course, the
House of Savoy. From glitzy uptown we
soon made the transition to the visceral nakedness of downtown Naples. The transition, though gradual, was
noticeable as it broke to the underside of life in the streets, heralded by what
else but a sign for a strip joint. Leaving
the lap and pole dances behind we walked the length of Spaccanapoli finally
finishing up on San Gregorio Armeno, referred to as the Christmas everyday
street and a tourist destination of its own.
It is known worldwide for its workshops where cribs and nativity
figurines of all shapes and sizes came to life to be carried off by the
hundreds of shoppers that rummage through its stalls.
With the sea to our right and Vesuvius looming to our left, we
next headed for Pompeii, a place frozen in time. It was a toss-up on whether to visit Pompeii
or closer Herculaneum, but Chris chose Pompeii.
After all, of the two, it had the greater reputation and he thought that
if asked whether he’d visited Pompeii while in Italy and he said he’d toured
Herculaneum instead, most people would have screwed their faces into a
questioning expression, mainly due to their unfamiliarity with Herculaneum. Whichever the destination, it was a question
whether, like the ancient inhabitants of these ill-fated cities, we’d survive
the trip. I’d heard of “The Girl with
the Dragon Tattoo” but not yet of “Valeria of the Careening Taxi”. She too had her share of tattoos, although
she may have kept her dragon under wraps, likely on her heavy foot.
Replicant or real, she drove like a banshee, lurching
about as though in one of those epic race scenes from Ben Hur.
While
her arms were festooned with personal body art, mine remained anemically white
as I gripped the hand-hold throughout our madcap dash to Pompeii. I didn’t understand her need for speed
especially since she’d agreed to wait there for us for two hours while we
explored Pompeii.
As old as it was, it was all new to
Chris. Though he’d read about Pompeii, it was an altogether different matter to walk its streets among corner water basins, stepping stone crosswalks, urine collection pots, fast-food shops with their
sunken terracotta containers intact, and
wander its deserted homes and gardens,
some of which took-up entire blocks. He
especially enjoyed the amphitheater, the oldest in the Roman world with a capacity of 20,000 spectators. Maria Elena and I enjoyed it too because it gave us a chance to sit down. Positioned as it is in a peripheral area of the city, its builders had clearly anticipated a traffic jam, not of cars, but of pedestrians. Not unlike soccer games these days, sometimes there were riots. We learned of one, in 59AD, twenty years before it was destroyed, between the people of
Pompeii and those of nearby Nocera. It was so bloody that the Senate of Rome
voted to close the arena for 10 years.
Talk about a suspension, Tom Brady!
After all this intense racing about, you can imagine how tired we
were. We needed to sit, sag, and relax
somewhere, at least until the adrenaline rush subsided once we said goodbye to
Valeria. She was nice enough to hand me
her card in case we’d like to go somewhere else in the coming days. I gladly accepted it though with not the
least of intent to ever use it. It was The Transatlantico across the causeway
at the foot of Castle dell’Ovo that came to our timely rescue. There among a bobbing fleet of pleasure boats
in the marina, we sat outside on a dock-like affair and enjoyed the
evening. The drinks of course were of
the martinis variety. Chris, more
practiced in martinis than either of us, led the way while we followed his lead.
These were later accompanied by wine and
seafood dinners worthy of Neptune’s favor.
We enjoyed our wonderful meals in a nautical atmosphere unmatched in
location - the sea lapping hulls ranging from humble skiffs to luxuriant yachts
while the daunting silhouette of Vesuvius dominated the distant horizon. While
the boats may have been securely tired down, our appetites were unmoored. Our tabletop soon groaned from the weight
of heaping-full entrées, a veritable smorgasbord of alici fritte (fried anchovies - something I’ve raved
about before), pasta alle vongole (a
fave of Mare’s), insulata caprese
(everyone’s favorite), pesce spada
(swordfish) and risotto alla pescatora
(fisherman style risotto with mussels, clams, calamari and shrimp) into which I
vanished.
We went long and stressed that very liberal Italian
practice of not delivering the bill to the table until requested … so much so
that when we called for it we were the last to leave. It punctuated the end of our visit to Naples,
for with the dawn and following an amazing breakfast at the Vesuvio (yet more food), we found
ourselves aboard a high-speed train to Rome.
We’d apparently chosen an opportune time to depart. As we exited the hotel to an awaiting cab,
not Valeria’s, we discovered police officers and police cruisers by the
entrance, along with a tour bus. Apparently,
Rome’s soccer team, Roma, had come to
town to play arch-rival Naples once more.
The powers that be were taking no chances. With the past so close at hand in
Italy, all I could think of was that riot of 59 AD. It seemed not much
has changed in the interim.
Andiamo,
we were off. Another fabulous day in Italia had begun and there were so many more dreams to
realize. Next stop, Roma.
From
That Rogue Tourist
Paolo
