Tuesday, December 31, 2024

Tutt’Appost (Part IV, The Poor Man’s Capri)

 Tutt’Appost (Part IV, The Poor Man’s Capri)

Here in Part IV of Tutt’Appost, as the curtain

Medmar Ferry, Naples to/from Ischia

rises, our cast remains the same – JoAnn, Maria Elena, Lenny, and me.  It is September, and the scene is the main port of Naples as our foursome waits in line while cars and trucks board the Naples ferry destined for Ischia Porto on the Island of Ischia.  Ischia Porto serves as the primary gateway to Ischia, a leisurely destination where visitors can enjoy the island's renowned thermal spas and its Mediterranean atmosphere. 

There was a persistent drizzle to put up with as we waited our turn to board, but it was a small price to pay considering what we’d already endured (see Tutt’Appost, Part III, A Travel Timeline) in our determination to reach the neighboring island of Ischia.  From past experiences, we've learned that sometimes you need to go in the opposite direction to reach your destination, and this felt like one of those moments.  The inconvenience was, indeed, a small price to pay for what lay ahead.

As the mooring lines were removed from the pier’s bollards and we began to move, a soothing sense of satisfaction and relaxation enveloped us.  All we’d endured just getting from Sorrento to this

Welcome to Ischia Porto


port, our hectic rush and hurry inside the terminal, the steep climb to the passenger deck, followed by a scramble for seating, had been an effort of will, and we’d made it.  We managed to sit together and relaxed a fraction as things quickly settled into a routine, evident as the crewmen began a drink and snack service.  By this time, it was late morning, and the sea had calmed considerably from the white-capped sea we’d observed earlier that morning in Sorrento, making for a comfortable transit across the Bay of Naples.

We entered Ischia Porto through a narrow opening, guided

Walking from B&B to the Port

by a red navigation light to our left and a green one to our right.  Just about centered in the port, our ferry performed a pirouette maneuver to position the ship for a gradual reverse approach to the dock.  This lively, year-round port is an almost circular harbor lined with fishing vessels, a flotilla of colorful boats, luxury yachts, Corpo delle Capitanerie di Porto coastguard vessels, and mammoth shuttle craft like the one we arrived on.  Word has spread far and wide about Ischia’s appeal.  Today, the port serves two primary functions: one focused on leisure, the other on commerce, which keeps the island supplied with necessities, and what I suspect locals consider far less essential, throngs of tourists.  The result is a bustling maritime hub blending modern activity with the island's rich history and scenic charm.  

We stayed on the “working” side of the port, where taxis whisked eager arrivals to their destinations, and rental autos and scooters were readily available.  Once the ship had docked, the ramp descended with a metallic clank, signaling a rush of 

Our Second Floor Terrace

vehicles exiting and the arrival of a new throng of eager tourists much like ourselves.  Thankfully, our destination was nearby.  Our accommodation, the B&B Terrace on the Port, was a stone's throw from the water, tucked away on a narrow side street between a convenient market and a ferry ticket office on Via Iasolino.  Only steps away from the busy port, our location offered easy access while filtering the noisy clamor of this active area.

Anna, our gracious host, greeted us following a short walk from the ship and led us to her spacious, beautiful two-bedroom apartment with two bathrooms.  The addition of a cozy living room and fully equipped kitchen made it feel like home.  Though just arrived, we were all 

Our Home Away's Kitchen


of the opinion that we wouldn’t hesitate to stay there again.  Its pictures didn’t do justice to what we were seeing.

Interestingly, this B&B hadn’t been our first choice.  Originally, we had tried to book rooms at the Central Park Hotel, located between the historic Castello Aragonese and downtown.  For months, we had called in vain to reserve two rooms.  Although it was mid-September and school was again in session, Ischia’s enduring charm continued to attract visitors.  We had stayed at Central Park many times in the past and were eager to introduce Lenny and JoAnn to its thermal spa,

Mare and JoAnn in the Pool at
Central Park Hotel

generous buffet breakfasts and large waterfall pool, complete with a convenient bar for refreshing cocktails, set amidst an enchanting Mediterranean garden.

It was after Anna showed us around and explained the details, including keys, passwords, and TV operation, that Maria Elena casually asked her if she would contact Central Park to see if we could use their garden pool.  She agreed to try to make arrangements.  To my surprise, within hours, she returned with the good news that we were welcome to use it.  What I hadn’t known was that her uncle owned the hotel!  As I hugged her, I couldn’t help but think how having friends or family in high places can make all the difference.  Things were moving along just fine, tutt’appost.

Days later, we cashed in our free pass to enjoy the amenities of the Central Park Hotel.  The central bus station was only minutes away from where we were staying, and with an all-day

Central Park's Poolside Watering Hole

bus pass, we arrived on a beautifully warm afternoon, perfect for a dip in the pool.  While we were there, we met the owner, Anna’s Zio, as he sat at the table next to ours near the bar.  At some point in our conversation, I apparently said magic words when I commented on how much the hotel’s setting resembled a tropical garden.  I remarked that hidden within this peaceful garden oasis, you'd never expect to find such a lovely retreat.  He reacted with excitement and related how this was his intent from the start, to create something

Awaiting the City Bus

like Central Park in NYC.

The picturesque port area became our home base.  To one side, nestled behind a small flotilla of private moorings, vibrant waterfront cafes and restaurants offer a delightful mix of authentic Italian cuisine, stunning views, and an occasional novel exchange with the Tyrrhenian Sea.  These eateries range from casual trattorias to upscale dining spots, each offering a unique experience.  Many feature outdoor terraces where guests can enjoy traditional fish and pasta dishes while overlooking the harbor.  The displacement of water from the arrival of large vessels momentarily raises the sea level in the port so much that seawater occasionally overflows onto outside restaurant seating areas.  The extent of these spills, of course, depends on the size of the vessel, with patrons’ reactions ranging from jocular laughter to startled annoyance.  

The picturesque port area became our home base.  To one side, nestled behind a small flotilla of private moorings, vibrant waterfront cafes and restaurants offer a delightful mix of authentic Italian cuisine, stunning views, and an occasional novel exchange with the Tyrrhenian Sea.  These eateries range from casual trattorias to upscale dining spots, each offering a unique experience.  Many feature outdoor terraces where guests can enjoy traditional fish and pasta dishes while overlooking the harbor.  The displacement of water from the arrival of large vessels momentarily raises the sea level in the port so much that seawater occasionally overflows onto outside restaurant seating areas.  The extent

Water Overflows the Pier at Taverna Antonio


of these spills, of course, depends on the size of the vessel, with patrons’ reactions ranging from jocular laughter to startled annoyance.  

As the sun sets, these restaurants spring to life, with both locals and visitors savoring meals al fresco.  The distant glow of Mount Epomeo, the highest mountain on this volcanic island, adds to its magical ambiance.  Practically every evening, we ran a gauntlet of friendly barkers and sandwich board announcements in front of these portside restaurants, urging us to take a seat.  This charming culinary experience was complemented by the aroma of freshly baked pizza, pasta, grilled fish, and local specialties like coniglio

Ischia Porto Restaurant Row with
Taverna Antonio in the Center


all'ischitana
(Ischia-style rabbit).  Interestingly, the wild rabbit population has long been depleted.  Today, rabbits are imported to keep the tradition alive.  I can attest to this fact with authority because we once arrived on a ferry crammed with rabbit cages.  Steeped in the island's traditions and Mediterranean flavors, it would have been wonderful to sample them all, but there were more to choose from than the number of dinners remaining over our stay.  We worked up an appetite the next day while walking around the city.  For lunch, we didn’t hesitate to select Taverna Antonio, while true to form, water licked our feet as it overflowed from the port beside us.  

Antonio and Luciana Cervera are third-generation members of the family-owned and operated Taverna Antonio, a first of its kind on the island.  Established in 1950 by their father, Don Antonio Cervera, an early pioneer of tourism in Ischia, the Taverna began as a humble cellar transformed into a gathering spot for the island's first visitors and artists.  Today, Antonio and Luciana continue to manage the taverna, warmly welcoming guests like us to the island.  True to their Italian roots, their foremost concern is

Welcome to Taverna Antonio


always your hunger, driven by an instinctive desire to feed you.

Nestled on Via Porto, along the restaurant-lined eastern side of the port, this place is not just where they grew up but has become a cherished destination for anyone returning to relive the comforting taste and aroma of home.  Every day, they lovingly follow the recipes of their mother, Tina, crafting dishes with the finest ingredients, predominantly organic.  After several visits to the Taverna, it quickly became our "go-to spot."  The Taverna captivates not only with its exceptional food, honesty, and inviting atmosphere but also with the warmth of its hosts, particularly Antonio, whose genuine desire to connect and engage in enlightening conversation makes it a true home away from home.  For all these reasons, we decided to stay close to the Taverna for the rest of our stay.  There was another reason as wellEarly on during our stay, one restaurant in another part of town messed up our bill by charging us in US dollars instead of Euros without asking.  Luckily, Lenny caught it, and we avoided paying additional fees. 

                                  Momma's Recipes at Taverna Antonio

Early one morning, we took an EAV Autolinee bus to Sant’Angelo, a picturesque town located on the coast on the opposite side of the island.  From the start, the bus was full, and we had to stand, but

Len Holds On In A Filled Bus


not for long.  Shortly after our departure, the bus broke down.  This was something new as everyone stood by the side of the road waiting for a replacement bus.  When it arrived, we scurried aboard and were able to sit for the remainder of the journey as others got on and off at various stops.  Our route, as they put it, was “anti-clockwise,” first from Ischia Porto, passing through Casamiccicola, then on to Lacco Ameno, Forio, and Panza before reaching Sant'Angelo.

Sant’Angelo has changed since our last visit.  With the introduction of more businesses over the years, it has begun to develop a commercial air.  One thing that hadn’t changed was where the bus dropped us off.  Because of the steep descent into the town and the difficulty of turning around once there, the bus stop remained located at the top of a ridge above the town.  The 

View Walking Down To Sant'Angelo

walk down, however, offers a spectacular view of the coastline, including Sant’Angelo itself, known for its natural hot springs, and Spiaggia di Sant’Angelo, a beautiful small, pebbly beach.  With its charming streets, vibrant local culture, and stunning natural landscapes, Sant’Angelo offers a peaceful escape from the more touristy areas of Ischia, inviting visitors to slow down and savor the moment.  It remains a rather small, authentic Italian coastal village, far removed from the hurried pace of more crowded tourist spots on Ischia making it a favorite for visitors and locals alike seeking to bath themselves in the rhythm of Mediterranean life and natural beauty.  

Both Maria Elena and JoAnn looked forward to shopping.  Meanwhile, Lenny and I patiently looked forward to lunch somewhere inviting for its cozy appeal by the shore.  In the meantime, we

Inside La Conchiglia (The Shell) Ristorante

entertained ourselves poking around ceramic and art shops when not people-watching.  When time for lunch arrived, we chose La Conchiglia (the Shell), a restaurant overlooking the sea where the waves, likely remnants of the storm that had threatened our arrival, crashed upon a sheltering stone breakwater.  The Shell’s cuisine is typical of Ischia, focusing on fresh, local ingredients, seafood, and traditional Mediterranean dishes.  Fish and shellfish are staples, often served simply grilled or as part of a rich pasta dish.  Well-sated, we returned to the bus stop aboard an Ape-style vehicle, realizing that our visit had more than lived up to its promise.

As the time of our departure from the island drew near, a situation similar to what had occurred in Sorrento unfolded as we learned of another approaching storm.  I was beginning to form the

A Pranzo (Lunch) Smorgasbord at La Conchiglia

impression that life on or by the sea is a fickle affair.  I could only imagine what it was like years ago when weather forecasting was nonexistent.  Once again, we faced the prospect of temporary homelessness, though I realized that the arrival of our replacements at the B&B would be equally unlikely.  Thankfully, as close to the port and ticket offices as we were, we would be sure to hear the latest news.  We packed our belongings the night before in case we needed to make a hasty departure in the morning.  At 5 AM, when the ticket offices opened, I planned to be there to gauge the situation.

Not long after I woke and rubbed the sleep from my eyes, I was surprised.  Oh, the alarm worked fine, but I had also expected to be greeted by the howl of a storm.  Instead, it was deathly quiet as I stealthily left the apartment, crossed the terrace, bound down the stairs, and  

Something Tutt'Appost About Italy ... the Food Never Stops

quickly navigated the alley to the port.  There had definitely been a storm, but it had passed, leaving only a residue of puddles and toppled chairs behind.  Surprisingly, I’d slept through it.  When I reached the ticket office, I found it was still closed, which I interpreted as a bad sign.  There was, however, a large ferry moored where we had arrived.  It was brightly lit, with the maw of its ramp down, ready to ingest a caravan of pedestrians and vehicles.  I took this as a good sign.

With my options limited, I went to the ship to learn what I could about the situation.  Had it just arrived, or had it been stranded the night before?  Was it preparing to leave?  As I approached, I could just make out the silhouette of a man dressed all in white holding what I interpreted from the presence of a rubbery antenna, some sort of radio.  He wasn’t a mirage but the captain!  In pleasing to hear English, he explained he would depart at 6 AM and this was the only ship for the day.  I thanked him for the information, about faced, and in my best Paul Revere fashion, made for the B&B to raise the alarm.

We were headed for the ship within minutes of my arrival.  While I got the tickets, Maria Elena, JoAnn, and Len clicked and clacked their suitcases across the cobblestone wharf toward the awaiting ferry.  I was lucky to get in line while it was still short, positioning me about fifth or sixth in the queue.  By the time I departed, the line had grown considerably, extending right out the door.  Clearly, word had spread.  Returned to the ship, I passed out the tickets, dropped off our luggage in a storage room, and climbed the near vertical staircase to the passenger hall.  Just over an hour long, it had already been a busy, tiring day for me as I contentedly flopped into a seat for our return to Naples.  I was confident all was tutt’appost (just fine) but that was but a fleeting sensation. 

As the engines started, my confidence grew that we would be able to depart the island that only days earlier we had struggled to reach.  I was sure of it as the anchor was raised and we began to move.  But once we left the calmness of the port and entered the rolling sea, my confidence waned.  Our ship, recall, was large, but I couldn't help but wonder if the captain I’d met earlier might be entertaining second thoughts and consider returning to the safety of port.  The evidence was plain as day obvious.

You’d need to imagine the scene—on both the port and starboard sides of the passenger area, large windows had long since replaced tiny portholes.  From our seats, I could monitor the rolling sway of the ship by looking through them.  Dawn had arrived but not by much, casting a pale light across the sky at the top of each window.  Below, the gray image of the sea stretched out to the horizon, sharing the view with the sky.  With each roll of the ship, the amount of sky and sea visible through the windows changed.  In some cases, the scene to one side was totally of the sea, while in the opposite windows, at the same time, the view was all sky.

Not having served in the Navy, I can’t speak from direct experience, but I would expect this ‘thermometer effect’ to involve gradual ups and downs.  To the contrary, the fluctuating roll we experienced was far more intense.  In the large aircraft I flew, a bank of more than 30 degrees was termed “an unusual attitude.”  I’ve no idea how “unusual” this much roll was and didn’t want to know how much our ship could withstand, but from my perspective, it was abnormal, although I admit some of my unease lay in the fact that I was not in control. 

Nevertheless, this severe rocking, testing the limits of our buoyancy, lasted for what felt like an eternity.  For three-quarters of the journey, the sea remained rough, and I mean that in the politest possible sense.  Then, ever so gradually, as if sensing our approach to Naples, the wind quieted, and in reply, the sea’s energy began to abate, calming as we drew near.  This couldn’t have been timelier, for as we maneuvered into a narrow unloading pier, the sea still charged three attempts before we finally succeeded in docking and could disembark.  Arriving once more to the comforting stability of terra firma, I looked skyward and muttered a prayer of thanks for surviving the journey and that I’d never served in the Navy! 

We returned from Ischia, often referred to as “The Poor Man’s Capri,” with new memories and older ones renewed.  We made it back to Casa Calitri hours later, dropped our bags at our feet immediately after entering, and headed for much-deserved and long-anticipated naps.  It had been eight days since we’d departed, which had included our stays in Sorrento and Ischia.  I can’t speak for the others, but as I finally lay my head down to rest, one last time following this extended period, I thought all was well, tutt’appost

From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo



Friday, November 29, 2024

Tutt’Appost (Part III, A Travel Timeline)

 Tutt’Appost (Part III, A Travel Timeline) 

I’ve noticed that since we arrived in Italy,

Our Misty Calitri Morning View

the days have been growing shorter.  Each morning, as I gaze east from our terrace, the mountains of the Appian Way—once the path that led Roman legions on their way to the Adriatic Sea and beyond—form our horizon.  Lately, I’ve noticed how the light of dawn grows more hesitant to appear.  I suspect it is nature’s way of urging us to gird ourselves in preparation for winter's approaching dark ages.  She may also be hinting that we have been here long enough.  If that isn’t sufficient signaling, the sun has gradually shifted its imaginary path, arcing ever lower and farther south.  In response, as a form of acknowledgment, we’ve already shifted our clocks back an hour here in Italy.  Which brings me to posit a riddle:

What is free, though priceless?  Something you can't own, only use. You can't keep it either, but you can certainly spend it.  And one final hint … if you lose it, you can never get it back.

With the hints I’ve provided, you likely said ‘time,’ and you’re correct.  I didn’t contrive this riddle.  Not at all.  Mine is no more a contrivance than what others have created—those who ‘invented’

The Sands of Time

 the concept of time to begin with and codified it with water clocks, hourglasses, calendars, and atomic clocks with an error of only one second in up to 100 million years*.

Early in his career, Albert Einstein realized that time was not absolute.  To a big-thinking theoretical physicist like Einstein, a second was not always a second everywhere in the universe.  Could time be nothing more than a method of making sense of growing up and growing old while the world changes around us?  Is this human construct, time, simply a matter of days, hours, and seconds that determine the pattern of our lives?  As Einstein explained, time is essentially an “arbitrary construct.”  As he put it: 

“People like us … know that the distinction between past, present, and future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion.” In other words, time is an illusion.” 1

Neuroscientist Abhijit Naskar put more light on it when he wrote:

“Time is basically an illusion created by the mind to aid in our sense of temporal presence in the vast ocean of space. Without the neurons to create a virtual perception of the past and the future based on all our experiences, there is no actual existence of the past and the future. All that there is, is the present.” 1

No past, no future?  It was my High School English teacher, Miss Teevan, bless her soul, not Einstein, who taught me to write with time in mind, calling them ‘tenses’ where with just the change of a letter, words move from past all the way to future.  These spheres separate into familiar domains: the present, that fleeting transient waystation where we live and breathe that separates a finite past from an infinite span termed the future.  Beyond tenses, the present is transient, a page just read joins the past where with the turn of a page, the future presents itself.  Time stretches and bends, yet we remain, like the ink on a page, marked by the passage of every second, yet forever a part of it.

Evidently, thinking about time can get deep and trigger a headache or two.  Relativity, black holes, event horizons, and spaghettification, a term surprisingly unrelated to pasta or Italy, emerge to fog our comprehension.  Although I can’t quote who first said it, all I know is if past, present, and future can fold into each other and are one and the same, I understand why time, that benefactor as well as thief, who takes everything from us, flies. 

As I stood on the terrace many a morning in the dawning hours looking off into the distance at the world stretched before me—to my left, the past, a million-year-old extinct volcano weathered and ancient, tells a story of long-forgotten eons, of what was; to my right, a mountaintop observatory perched like a sentinel, speaks to the present—the measured science of our existence, representing the choices we make, the questions we ask;—while straight ahead unchanged in its serenity, a silver-edged moon beckons us forward, drawing us toward what lies beyond our grasp at the moment, a moon grinning at me in the foreground of infinite space.  Each is a dance of time, part of a whole, folding and stretching, tugging and pulling, while we stand in the middle as it flows by.  In a reflective way. I understand how time and place can come together. 

Time, as morphable as it apparently can be, it seems like only yesterday (today’s memory called the past I guess) when we again departed Calitri.  Knotted up in past, present, and future as I am, and this being more than simply an attempt to ‘kill time’ by replacing your precious seconds reading these words, our departure lay somewhere in the milieu of time I think called September.

Again, there were four of us,

Naples Ferry Port Behind Castle Nuovo

Maria Elena, me, and our house guests JoAnn and Lenny.  Phase one of this getaway involved driving to Naples, parking ‘Bianca,’ our Fiat, and hailing a taxi to the Molo Beverello ferry terminal.  That went smoothly.  The next phase involved a 45-minute cruise to Sorrento, located on the northern side of the peninsula that juts from the mainland, beginning near Solerno.  About an hour later, we boarded and enjoyed a pleasant cruise on a smooth sea across the Bay of Naples to Sorrento, where we arrived at the foot of its formidable cliffs.  To the clickety-clack chatter of our luggage, we soon added to the hawkish cacophony of the port’s tangle of buses.  Mare 

Crossing the Bay -
Sorrento to Ischia Porto

and I had not visited Sorrento in many years, while Lenny and JoAnn had been there a few years earlier.  Together, with our collective memories, we looked forward to our reintroduction over our three-night stay.

We found the correct bus, which proved a godsend.  It took us to the beating heart of the tourist area, busy Piazza Tasso.  It wasn’t far, but being an uphill climb, it went a long way toward averting a heart attack.  Our destination, “Villa in Priora,” located outside of Sorrento, would have to wait while we took a break for lunch at a pizzeria that bordered the bustling piazza.  Our re-introduction to the city proved disappointing when the maître d’ proved short on hospitality and insisted we order two pizzas when we only wanted one.  He was apparently unfamiliar with the adage that "the customer is always right," that customer satisfaction is paramount and trumps the daily cash intake.  Disappointing as it was, as Maria Elena will often interject, it would not be our first and certainly not our last encounter with less-than-welcome service, nor our last meal.

Despite the awkwardness, we managed to enjoy the pizza, if not the experience.  There was a kind of quiet defiance in the air as if we were all silently agreeing that the bad taste left by the maître d’ would not ruin the rest of our day.  The sounds of laughter and chatter filled the air, making it easy to remember why we had come back to Sorrento in the first place.  After all, a good trip, like a good pizza, is made up of both the savoring moments and the slightly burnt edges.

The Interior of "Villa in Priora"

    Len next negotiated a taxi ride to the villa and on our arrival, finding the gate locked, we waited for Rita, the property manager, to arrive.  I could have taken our car on this jaunt, but thankfully, I hadn’t.  Motorcycles were everywhere including the one Rita arrived on.  Our accommodations were stylish with a stunning picture window view of the bay with Vesuvius as a distant backdrop.  Following Rita’s somewhat overly detailed explanation of the importance of abiding by the trash rules, we explored the place and settled in.

We kicked off our stay later that evening when Alexandro picked us up and shuttled us to Lo Stazzichino, a Michelin Guidebook-listed restaurant set in an outdoor garden situated in the center of nearby Sant'Agata.  At the entry we were greeted by Mimmo (a nickname for Domenico or Domenic), the owner, and from his apparel, the chef

Our Lo Strazzichino Reception

as well.  We were surprised by the reception.  Our theory was that they were expecting someone else as we arrived, though, for the remainder of the night, we never saw this courtesy repeated.  The evening unfolded under the warm embrace of a Mediterranean night, with the faint scent of herbs in the air and the soft murmur of conversation.  Each dish seemed like an offering from the land and nearby sea—simple yet profound, the way true Mediterranean food should be.  The pasta, handmade and tender, paired perfectly with the rich, bright flavors of locally grown tomatoes and fragrant basil.  As the night wore on, we ate, drank, and savored every bite, a welcomed contrast to the earlier tensions of the day.

In the days that followed, we were busy shopping, touring, and, of course, enjoying dinners.  One tour was especially informative.  It involved a product famous throughout the area, lemons, the stuff of limoncello like none other.  We were picked up by Raffaele, a young man who, in addition to laboring at his family-owned farm also oversaw operations, including picking up guests.  He imparted that La Masseria had a “farm to table” motto with an emphasis on quality, not quantity.  First off, Raffaele, with the enthusiasm of someone truly connected to his work, shared the farm's commitment to sustainable practices.  The Sorrento Peninsula is home to these coveted succulent and oil rich lemons, with the farm’s name, Masseria, a clear reference to these coveted lemons.  In addition to their thick-skinned and fragrant Massa lemons, the farm's focus on quality products also includes amber, low acidity, extra virgin olive oil high in healthful polyphenols.    

On our arrival, we joined other guests and together toured the farm.  It was not large, though certainly large enough for the family, nephews including cousins.   It involved a walk under olive tree

Graft Visible Toward Center of Photo


nets, to the accompaniment of an explanation of the life cycle of an olive.  There was also the standard barnyard population of chickens, in this case of the ‘tenor’ variety named for famous Italian tenors like Pavarotti and Caruso, and a homey, mud-filled pigsty of enormous beasts prepping to soon become prosciutto crudo hams.  As we stood there, surrounded by the groves, the sky stretching in a warm, golden haze above us, I couldn’t help but think about how these simple elements—earth, sun, water, and the timely themes of tradition—had come together to create something so essential to the region’s culture.  The lemons, the olive oil, the food—it was all a reflection of the place itself, set in time.  Theirs was a way of life, a legacy tied to the land.

It was fascinating to learn that the ladders used for harvesting are custom-made for each person, with the spacing between the rungs tailored to the length of their legs. They also used electric-operated vibrating rakes to dislodge the olives.  But real enlightenment came when we moved on to the lemon trees.  While familiar with agriculture scientist George Washington Carver’s contributions to crop rotation and peanut cultivation,  I knew nothing about grafting plants, a practice that demonstrates how technology and tradition come together to optimize the harvest.  Simply astonishing, we were shown how the twigs of Massa lemon trees are grafted to young bitter orange tree rootstock—and only the bitter orange tree variety.  With time, the bitter orange tree hosts then grow to bear lemons instead of oranges.  To illustrate this process, Raffaele pointed to a noticeable “buckle” in the branch, called a graft union.  The union, which resembled a burl, encircled the entire branch or trunk where the graft had taken place, clearly marking where the two plants had fused.  As we continued to discuss this fascinating technique, the conversation shifted from farming to food.  The entire group was soon found exchanging thoughts on gastronomy, indulging in a classic multi-course Italian meal, and savoring the fruits of the farm we had just learned so much about.

On another evening, after shopping along 

Inside the Mary Leather Shop

bustling Via San Cesareo, where Maria Elena bought a square tablecloth, I purchased an Italian belt at the “Mary Leather Shop” with Mary’s personal assurance claiming it would last forever.  Apparently, she hadn’t noticed my white locks.  Would that her guarantee covered both the belt and me.  We then returned to Piazza Tasso where a pre-arranged shuttle via an Ape (ah-pay) open-air vehicle awaited us.  I recall traveling through narrow back streets on its fantail facing backward.  Motorcycles zipped past us like swarming bees, which was fitting since the Ape (bee) is named after them.  No one ever said travel is boring.  White-knuckled, at least in my case, we arrived safely at Ristorante Da Filippo.  The restaurant, popular with locals, was situated in a charming garden-style setting with 50-75 tables, creating a relaxed and inviting atmosphere for our dinner.

JoAnn and Lenny had been to Ristorante Da Filippo before.  Preparing for this trip, JoAnn read some less than exuberant, even negative reviews.  As the one who made the reservation, she was having second thoughts on whether we should go.  Earlier that day, while checking out of a CONAD market, she'd fortunately been given what she interpreted as a “sign.”  It was there that she met a man, also in line, who surprisingly wore a Da Filippo T-shirt.  This, along with a glowing recommendation from a real estate business owner, was the nudge she needed to reignite her hopes that their experience would 

Interior of Ristorante Da Filippo

once again be as memorable as it had been during their previous visit.  It felt almost miraculous when the same man JoAnn met at the market, Michele, turned out to be our waiter.  As if that weren’t enough, the owner, Enzo, also stopped by our table to personally greet us.

Enzo offered an extensive menu.  While pizzas occupied an entire page, the emphasis was clearly on seafood.  It was difficult to decide on what to order, so we chose to share various dishes.  There were simply too many of our favorites to pick from.  We started with arancini (pronounced “ah-ran-chee-ni”), those golden, panko-crusted risotto rice balls, each stuffed with small cubes of mozzarella cheese.  We followed this with a refreshing octopus salad and delicate zucchini flowers, surprisingly still in season.   Maria Elena and I savored the alice fritti (fried anchovies) while our friends, who I suspect were not keen on the idea, enjoyed a whole fish filleted tableside.  We seemed to have been the first to arrive, but as the time arrived to depart, not only were we filled, but so was the restaurant, while others patiently waited at the entrance.

While the food was excellent, what we found intriguing was how our wine was served.  Instead of arriving in the typical carafe, it was decanted into a pitcher.  But there was a twist: the pitcher also

Yummy Peach Slices in Vino

contained slices of fresh peaches.  This was a custom we hadn’t encountered before.  Wine infused with fresh sliced peaches, vino al pesche, is believed to have originated in southern Italy, particularly in our region, the Campania Region, where their summer bounty is especially plentiful.  The peaches enhance the wine’s flavor.  Enhancing the flavor of a wine may hint at an explanation for its existence.  Curious about this tradition, I asked why it was done.  Wasn’t the flavor of the wine enough on its own?  The consensus of my limited survey revealed that because the shelf life of an open bottle of red is limited, once it begins to “go bad", adding peach slices extends its life as drinkable wine versus being repurposed as wine vinegar.  This led me to wonder if a similar logic explains why sangria is so popular in Spain.  Though we aren’t particularly fond of roasted chestnuts, our opinion changed when we were offered castagne soaked in wine.  The wine, it turned out, transformed the chestnuts into a treat we actually enjoyed. Here in a turnabout, the wine rescued the chestnuts.  As for the left-over peach slices, once the wine runs dry, they can be enjoyed as a unique dessert, with or without sugar.  Whatever the reasoning behind it, we didn’t hesitate to enjoy this delightful combination.  As in the restaurant that evening, there’s no need to wait for wine to sour.  Add your peach slices and savor this dolce vita (sweet life) with a glass of Chianti or Nero D’Avola.  And as we returned to our “for a few days” villa from Sorrento, we'd become inured to another wild, death-defying ride, grateful for the adventure—and the wine.

It was Tutt’Appost to this point, but that was about to dramatically change as quickly as the weather can.  In fact, the weather was the culprit.  On the morning of our departure, we woke up to a bleak situation.  When it came time to leave keys behind and depart the Sorrento area for our next destination, the nearby island of Ischia, we heard from the property manager that ferry service was doubtful.  Our three days in Priora concluded with a trail of thunderstorms that left the sea in a boil.  The rough sea, the residue of the storm that had passed in the night, halted us in our tracks.  A normally easy ferry ride to Ischia refused to cooperate.  No ferries were arriving, and those already in the bay would not depart for at least a day.  While we could see Ischia, there was no immediate way to reach it.  A quick check with our manager revealed that extending our stay at the villa wasn’t an option, and one night’s accommodation anywhere else for four seemed equally hopeless.  Meanwhile, the clock would soon be ticking “ca-ching, ca-ching” with every passing minute on our waiting accommodations in Ischia.  We desperately needed a second opinion and possibly a Plan B, or even a Plan C.

We were fortunate to have our driver, Vincenzo, who arrived as planned to shuttle us to the docks.  He suggested we head there and assess the situation ourselves, confident that his contacts would help.  However, his ride turned out to be another stressful journey—though, thankfully, not quite on par with our earlier vehicular escapades, for in stark contrast to our previous drivers, Vincenzo drove upsettingly slowly.  Unlike his Jekyll and Hyde predecessors, he didn’t morph into a Formula One driver, when behind the wheel, even though the road, all downhill, was inviting.  No, Vincenzo seemed to embody a philosophy of relaxation and calm and too frequently uttered "tranquillo" as we leisurely made our way.  It was as if we had stumbled upon a modern-day laidback Huck Finn, unhurriedly guiding a horse-drawn buggy while philosophizing about the merits of not worrying in proper tutt’appost (all is OK) fashion.  All that was missing from the scene was seeing Vincenzo chewing on a piece of straw.  Personally, at that moment, I was far from swayed by his tranquil outlook.  Instead, I found myself wondering where the other drivers had gone when a quick arrival might have made a difference.

When Vincenzo finally arrived at the port, he opened the window and inquired about our chances of getting out.  His contact replied that the port was indeed shut down, and there wasn’t a chance of getting to Ischia directly by ferry.  There was, however, a roundabout way for us to get there.  From the port, Vincenzo took us to the Sorrento Train Station, where we could board a train and backtrack to Naples.  While not all sea traffic was running, some larger ships were still operating from Naples.  At the rail station, I ran inside to check the schedule.  One train was departing in ten minutes from binario (track) one.  We made it, and many stops later, including one at Pompeii, we arrived at the Garibaldi Rail Station in Naples.  There, we fortunately hired a taxi driver who, understanding our plight, helped us get to the ferry terminal.   Our guardian angel taxi driver even brought me inside to the correct ticket purchase window.  I quickly bought tickets, and minutes later, we were on our way to Ischia.  Our AirB&B “Terrace on the Port” in the heart of the village of Ischia Porto, a stone’s throw from the port, awaited.  We’d made it, and once more, all was well (tutta’appost). 

These musings capture moments in time.  I like to think that by recording my thoughts and experiences, I can freeze time, that my yesterdays are not gone.  It may just be a travel essay about recent, now past events, but much like how an orange tree can be transformed into a lemon tree, reading these words allows the past to flow into your present.  Much like the man on the moon, whose smiling face remains ever visible across past, present, and future, in the timeless sky over Calitri, time, like the face of a clock, moves in its own way, has its way with us, forever shaping our lives.

From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo


*  Atomic clocks are designed to measure the precise length of a second. Where a second is the time it takes a Caesium-133 atom in a precisely defined state to oscillate exactly 9 billion, 192 million, 631 thousand, 770 times.

  1. What Did Einstein Mean By Time is an Illusion? https://interestingengineering.com/science/what-einstein-meant-by-time-is-an-illusion