Island Hopping

 

Island Hopping

We must be island people.  Lately, at least, it 

Awaiting the Magic to Begin

appears so, though not so much me.  Maria Elena, originally from an island in what better place than Rhode Island, has always had an affinity for the sea.  As for me,  basically a tree hugger, whether sea or ocean, they’re nice to visit.  With so much sun, sand, and usually people, its charms soon wane on me in the time needed of about a week.  There was a time, however, when I’d spent far too many months on the remote island of Guam in the Pacific.  Nevertheless, I’m always game to test a proposition, and in a way, explore self-imposed boundaries.  Whether they are modified or not is another story, but I haven’t been back to Guam.

Writ Large, the Intriguing Sign
Above the Fireplace Mantle 

All the World's a Stage

    We’d recently been to the island of Corfu in the Ionian Sea.  It was a place big enough, that when inland, you easily lost any sense you were on an island.  The glint from the sea was soon replaced by narrow lanes woven through verdant hillsides.  One evening, in fact, leaving the sprawl of coastal resorts behind, we ventured inland to a rather un-notice eatery in an out-of-the-way village.  Luckily, our driver knew how to get to this hidden gem.  I’ll share it here with the caveat you tell no one lest its innocence disappears in notoriety.  It is the Taverna Stamatis.  The name alone is rather interesting.  I recall asking our all-at-once owner, hostess, server, maître-d, and I’m sure at times cook, Margaretta, what a rather prominently displayed sign above the fireplace said.  

Maybe we ought to know what it said to avoid some faux pas.  Was it some cipher on how to behave, that ignorant of its message, we might infringe on some house rule?  After all, being on an island, it was paramount to keep our heads above water.  Translated, it became clear.  Though I’m sure, with some loss in
translation, its meaning is unmistakable.  We knew of the Slow Food Movement.  It originated in Italy in 1989 in response to the growth of the fast food industry.  This plaque laid it out with a policy mantra that oblivious, non-polyglot patrons could not comprehend.  Patrons like us, whose knowledge of Greek is limited to long-ago math and physics class Greek symbols, would be at a loss.  They might complain if they experienced slow service.  Thankfully, I’d asked.  We were after all on an island, on island time, so what was the hurry.  With no cruise ship to catch, ours was strictly a leisurely escape.  It also hinted that their patrons were local Greeks, not frenetic tourist, always on the move, eager for new sights, and another selfie.  That made it even better. 

It was only 8 P.M., early even for hungry Greeks.  Apparently, we needed to stretch things out a little, especially after Margherita, overworked as she was, took a moment to tell us it was going to be a big night.  The idea of unhurried, mindful dining appealed to us.  We’d forget about calories, carbohydrates, and fats at least for tonight.  Delay would certainly extend our stay, but with any luck, not beyond when the taxi shuttle services called it a night.  That is unless we made friends.  As we 

Too Much Tzatziki?
Not for much Longer.

sipped our first bottle of local unlabeled wine, people gradually trickled in, some in groups, to fill the long tables awaiting them.  Many seemed acquainted.  Some were smartly dressed.  Apparently, something was afoot, and we’d gratefully stumbled right smack into it.

The menu featured traditional Greek food but was silent about what was to follow.  Even with the welcomed distractions, dinner was fabulous.  We were far from Italian shores, with no sign of pasta of any size or shape on the menu.  Instead, it featured starters, meats, and veggies.  We enjoyed  a mountain of white tzatziki, some smooth baked feta we corralled with bread, and grilled mushrooms before Maria Elena and I shifted to our main courses that arrived in keeping with our plan to stretch our stay as long as possible.  Mare chose unmarinated lamb chops reported to actually taste like lamb, while I went for the wood oven-prepared pork shank cooked overnight with black beer and mustard.  I must admit, it was so tender, it fell off the bone.  

As we continued with our feast, musicians arrived, set up, and soon began to play.  We learned that the violinist, though young (seemingly everyone is these days), was renowned throughout the

Our Greek Musical Entertainers

island.  He had to have been born with a fiddle in his tiny hands, for he could stroke those strings seemingly without paying attention while talking to his mates, or with it propped vertically on his leg.  It was clearly an extension of himself.  He was accompanied by two other accomplished artists who played what appeared to be long-necked cousins of the mandolin and offshoots of the Greek lute known as a bouzouki.  A female singer, with a small drum, added to the threesome.  Soon people were spontaneously on their feet, holding hands, dancing in a circle or in long lines that snaked through the tables, moving to their intoxicating rhythms.  In fact, we moved our table back a bit to let them through more easily.  Everyone, absent the two of us, sang along to the traditional tunes this foursome created, no doubt heavily dipped in ancestry.

The music and dancing went off like it was an audition.  Maybe the entire evening was an audition, though certainly not for us.  Are you familiar with Nia Vardalos?  I bet you are.  She is the Canadian actress, director, producer, and screenwriter who wrote and starred as Toula in the pop culture sensation, My Big Fat Greek Wedding (watch it here).  She had eaten at Taverna Stamatis weeks

Window Onto an Experience

earlier.  This night, some of her advance team would arrive.  They did and sat at the table alongside ours.  From an attractive actress vying for a screen-double position and the location director from Athens, we learned that a sequel was in the works, would be out in December of 22, and if things remained as planned, would include scenes from Taverna Stamatis.  We wondered if we’d recognize the taverna or be able to find our little table for two on the big screen.  As Marie Elena finished the last of her lamb chops, even absent a bottle of Windex popularized in the film, she just may have channeled the line made famous by that movie, “He don’t eat no meat?  What you mean he don’t eat no meat?  Oh that’s OK, that’s OK, I make lamb!”  People talk about language immersion.  That night, off somewhere in Greek mountains at a place I’d no idea how to get to or home from, we‘d been outright immersed in an experience.  It had been Mamma Mia, Opa, and My Big Fat Greek Wedding rolled into one. 

We made it back with the help of one of the waiters who

Ischia View Toward 
Castello Aragonese

made some calls, and our adventure continued.  Some weeks later we found ourselves on another island, in a different sea.  This time it was a volcanic island in the Gulf of Naples in the Tyrrhenian Sea.  At our feet lay enchanting Ischia, along with nearby Procida.  We had visited Ischia in the past and were comfortable with it.  Its secrets, from volcanically heated seawater to the undersea ruins of the Roman town of Aenaria, lay shallower to us.  Ischia is often referred to as “The Poor Man’s Capri.”  It is not as well visited as nearby Positano and tiny Amalfi.  Both of these are on the list of destinations of note, with their imported cruise ship tourists today replacing the Saracen invaders of old.  Today’s Ischia, however, is getting there, for there are more than thirty ferry crossings to and from the mainland daily.  Getting aboard one of those ferries in Naples or Pozzuoli only continues the fun.

We had departed Calitri on a surprisingly cool morning, headed toward Avellino, to eventually arrive at the Naples Airport.  No, we weren’t going to fly from there, simply park our car, and transfer by bus to the port.  But ‘flying’ had occupied my mind, though it had nothing to do with a winged vehicle.  Unregulated wannabe Formula One drivers used to be confined to Naples, but now the A-16 Autostrada leading to Naples seems wide open for anyone to try their hand.  The BMWs, Mercedes, big Renaults, and Alfa Romeo types had far more horses than I; Their horses could fly.  It didn’t help our need for speed that we were burning GPL (Gas di Petrolio Liquefatto) either.  With less energy than gasoline, the few horses we did have in our stable were also malnourished.  Things moved fast, very fast.  As an example, while a look in the review mirror might indicate all-clear, no sooner would I switch lanes when flashing headlights announced the surprise arrival of another roadrunner practically in my trunk.  That slowed them, but usually, they would woosh past little Bianca (our Fiat).  The smallness of Bianca only exaggerated the difference.  They also knew where the traffic cameras were and dutifully slowed, but when safely passed, they’d lite their afterburners and zoom away at warp speed.  I can tolerate all that.  It is on two-lane roads, when speedsters cut back to rejoin my lane after passing me, that I find troublesome.  I’d been taught to wait until I saw the car I’d just passed in my rearview mirror before turning.  Seems this technique is not taught in their driving schools.  I swear I swerved a number of times to avoid approaching contact and honked an equal number of times to weakly indicate my displeasure (our horn isn’t much either).  It is amazing how a Doctor Jekyll-Mr. Hyde personality transformation consumes Italians when a steering wheel, rather than a hypnotic pocket watch, is dangled before their eyes.

Embarkation at the Naples docks was equally a fun sport.  It is one thing to visit a place once every few years, like us after a five year hiatus, versus every day.  People unfamiliar with the rhythm of a place, that between visits can be transformed dramatically, have no idea where to get a ticket, which queue to join to get one, and which of many ill-marked wharves to wait for their particular ferry.  Ticket windows independently service their particular boats and routes.  Many listed Ischia as a destination.  You’d have to check with a few to find out the best departure time for you, then join that line.  There are also multiple ports on Ischia, so where exactly they’d drop you off was also important.  Throngs of people surged in the ticket lines and at least once again to ensure they had a place onboard.  Such are the hurdles travelers must experience and 

Central Park Terme on the Island of Ischia

learn to adjust to, exacerbated further by the July heat.

Once again, we chose to stay at the Central Park Terme Hotel in the town of Ischia Porto.  Later, while sitting at the Neptune Bar, a little hootch clad in bamboo beside the pool, we got to meet lifeguard and stand-in bartender, Umberto.  Along with a fellow guest, a slummier from Milan named Gianpaolo, we took notes on where to have dinner and of course, gained an appreciation for particular Ischia wines.  Yes, sinner that I am, visits to food establishments, with their intense aromatic

Our Hotel's Neptune Bar

messaging continues to outnumber my visits to churches, calling to us with the peal of their bells every quarter hour.  That first night, now well armed, we ate at one of the recommended establishments to one side of the port laced with private cruisers, their fantails arrayed for private dining.  Absent any invitation to come aboard a single yacht and join in, we instead dined at O’Purticciull Ristorante that had been waiting there for us since 1968.  For starters, we enjoyed porcini mushrooms and alichi fritte.  With our newfound appreciation of the local wines, our wine choice was an excellent straw-colored local white, Vigna del Lume, by Antonio Mazzella.  Keeping to a seafood theme, for our main courses, we enjoyed an always pleasing Spaghetti

O'Purticciull Ristorante at the
Port of Ischia

alle Vongole, but for the carnivore rogue among us, ignoring proper wine paring etiquette, the choice was sliced Tagliata di Scottona su Letto di Rucola with shavings of Grana Padana cheese.  Those poolside recommendations we’d been given were right on the mark.

While there one day, we purchased all-day bus tickets that gave us the ability to hop on and off.  It was reminiscent of another Ischia bus ride years earlier.  Then, as on this day, we stood in the heat of the day.  Yes, it was hot, crowded, and with a shortage of seats, we’d stood.  Unlike that day, we wore masks which only made it more oppressive.  Buses and trains are the last strongholds of mask wearers ordained by Italian law.  We had no idea since airlines dropped the requirement the day we’d arrived in Italy.  Seeing masks being worn, we assumed it was by choice.  I

Excellent Ischia Bus Line
Steps from Our Hotel

was quickly re-educated on the matter when a badge-wielding plainclothes officer demanded we put on masks or get off.  He had a tone of authority that went with the job.  Short two masks, we quickly obliged and bought some.  When we returned, the bus now overfilled, I could understand that this newfound closeness demanded it.  We were arrayed like pick-up sticks, not yet dropped on the table but still standing upright in the cylinder.  The next day, ourselves now obediently masked, we observed as another officer fined two female tourists 49€ each as they stepped from the bus maskless.  We’d been lucky. 

We hopped off in Forio, an energetic port town on Ischia’s western coast noted for its ceramics and a 2002 Papal visit.  Everyone was on the move.  With no particular place to go before continuing our orbit of the island, we sat at a shaded café by a busy intersection and observed the goings-on: a municipal cop directing traffic, suitcase towing tourists going every which way along with ever so scantily clad bathing beauties.  Contrary to usual movement, at least to me, where the left to right fractional to Need a Traturn of a knob increases things, we chose to travel counterclockwise around the island.  It 

Island Streets Busy Enough to Need 
a Traffic Director

was in hope that with each turn of the bus’s wheels, this movement might slow down the world around us, reduce the hectic pace, and provide a glimpse of Ischia yet untouched.  If counterclockwise is unconventional, well, that’s us, and that’s what we did as we passed through little towns and hamlets, some so small, they didn’t merit a bus stop.  True to the unconventional, as if our bus, reminiscent of needles on a clock, were moving in reverse, so the landscape grew wilder, as though traveling back to an earlier time.  Self-reliant countryside homes had extensive gardens; their hills pierced with sticks supporting tomato vines with spare poles leaning in nearby corners.  Small belvedere piazzas (from Italian words, bel, meaning ‘beautiful,’ and vedere, meaning ‘view’) near ancient churches teetered on the edge of an infinite panorama that extended from the island’s wildness to a cerulean-colored sea.  Only the glaring inclusion of an occasional satellite dish

Beginning Our Climb into
Ischia's back Country

reminded us of the here and now.

At the bottom of the island, around the six o’clock position, we stopped at lovely Sant Angelo where Chancellor Angela Merkel would vacation.  From there, we switched buses and drove to Panza, then on to Serrara to again change buses before arriving in Fontana.  Our growing remoteness saw fewer passengers and ever smaller busses.  At one point, the only two onboard, we could choose any seat.  We climbed along narrow hairpin roads skirting Mount Epomeo, Ischia’s highest point.  The views about midway up its slopes were spectacular, and the reassuring skill of the driver remarkable.  Luckily, he knew his route well.  At one point, the road narrowed enough that it essentially became one-way, with a traffic light controlling the alternating flow.  In the past, we have stopped for sheep to cross, even cinghiale (wild boar).  Here the pesky critters were other buses converging on us from the opposite direction, seemingly always at a turn.  We yielded

Ischia's Pilastri Aqueduct

on one occasion and crept backward.  The other bus was larger.  I’ve no idea how they do it, but with mirrors retracted and inches separating us, we crept past the behemoth to the guidance of its driver, now dismounted.  Back somewhat on the flats, we drove through Fiaiano, along appropriately named Via Acquedotto, and passed beneath what I thought was a Roman aqueduct.  Had we actually gone back in time?  Not a chance.  Although it looked like a relic of Roman vintage, it was actually a ‘recent’ 16th-century design, if we can agree that the sixteenth century qualifies as recent.  We were far from being Magallanes, but we’d managed to circle the island. 

That evening, we chose a place for dinner we’d passed many times on earlier Ischia visits but had never taken time to venture inside.  Back then, we were staying at a nearby hotel.  Walking by, we could easily see inside and hear inviting music.  That night, it was exactly as we remembered it.  That in itself is amazing.  Staying with what works for 64 years is definitely a recipe for success.  We hadn’t a reservation, and in high season considered ourselves fortunate to get a table.  The Giardino degli Aranci is located on Via Enea, a pedestrian street in the historic center of Ischia Porto, and a giardino (garden) it definitely is.  From street level, we descended into a dining area.  We had entered a courtyard open to the sky, replete with trees adorned with glowing lanterns and dangling lights resembling the oranges (aranci) of its name which added to the natural setting. 

An especially noteworthy feature was the fine service we experienced.  Any waitperson, not necessarily the same one who’d seated you, would quickly arrive to help with just a glance or wave of

Don Andrea Impagliazzo at
the Tambourine

your hand.  It certainly made for prompt service.  While we enjoyed a surf-and-turf dinner composed of a rib-eye steak and grilled swordfish, which we shared, it was the dolce that was a surprise.  Following a dissertation on what sweets were on hand, Mare chose the last mentioned with no idea what it would be since it was described simply as dolce del giorno (dessert of the day).  What arrived was something like a domed puff ball, looking much like those ‘Hostess Snoballs’ we enjoyed at recess as kids with cream and cake in the middle.  With two forks, we made short work of it.  In addition to the offerings which filled many menu pages, its walls served as a historical archive.  Walking the alcoves on either side of the garden courtyard, I came upon faces, posters, and autographs of former celebrity guests from all over the world who have stopped by.  They ranged from icons like Sinatra and Sophia Loren to political notables and renowned artists.  Like

Walls Adorned in History

them, we were hosted by Cavaliere Don Andrea Impagliazzo, owner and ever-popular toast of the town.  Occasionally, he’d add to the animated voices of the entertainers by joining the festivities, thumping a tambourine to the accompaniment of their Italian guitars.  Here, there is clearly a passion for Ischia, evident in the songs presented and the messages of pride in Ischia that legendary Don Andrea would convey.  If he’d been a crooner like Sinatra, “New York, New York” would have certainly morphed to “Ischia, Ischia!”

Now returned, we have had time to sift through our impressions of those two special island evenings — one a Greek countryside taverna in Corfu, the other a celebrated Italian ristorante in Ischia Porto.  No doubt location played a role.  It may be false to try to compare the experiences due to their locations.  By this, I don’t mean island-wise but because one was off in a remote area while the other was set in a tourist venue.  One was with locals in the mountains where Maria Elena and I and one other couple were, let’s say, the only outsiders.  The other involved tourists in a tourist mecca.  Both had their merits and unique appeal.  Maybe a more balanced comparison would have resulted if, while circumnavigating the island, we’d hopped off our Ischia bus at a more remote foodie outpost.  Possibly something worth considering the next time.  Nevertheless, it may just come down to us, and what we enjoy.  While Taverna Stamatis may someday evolve into a movie set, the Giardino already felt like one with the same folkloric act presented nightly.  We felt more in a tourist’s world there, in a well-rehearsed climate.  Call it a draw?  No, I don’t think so.  In the Teverna, intimate, unrehearsed, and engaging as it was, for just a few hours, we felt like Greeks. Opa!

From That Rogue Tourist
Paolo