Adrift in Sea and Sky

 Adrift in Sea and Sky

       

       Mid‑September in southern Italy is a season with commitment issues.  The worst of August’s heat has finally loosened its grip, yet the warmth still doggedly persists like a guest ignoring hints that the evening is over.  With our remaining time in Italy slipping away, now was not the time to barricade ourselves indoors.  We had an entire New England winter ahead for hibernation.  So, our little troop, still comprised of Lenny, JoAnn, Maria Elena, and me, happily surrendered to the quiet tug of the open

The Open Door on Via Gelso
Welcomed Us

road and pointed ‘Bianca’, our faithful Fiat, east toward the Adriatic.

Once again, we were on the prowl for adventure.  The sea, part myth, called us like a Siren, promising cool breezes and a horizon wide enough to retune any soul.  That was all the encouragement
we needed to book a two-night stay in coastal Giovinazzo. 

Our hostess, Natalina of the AquaMarina B&B, proved indispensable by helping us solve the first puzzle every visitor faces: where to stash the car without accidentally committing an offense.  We were headed straight toward a ZTL zone, where medieval urban planning collides with modernity in a “thou shalt not enter” area designed to keep visitors like us from doing anything reckless, like parking.

Benched in the Piazza

We arrived early, found the recommended parking area in Parco delle Rimemoranze, and settled onto benches to await the arrival of our host.  People drifted past in the usual southern Italian choreography, but one gentleman seemed particularly invested in orbiting us.  His movements had the grace of a kabuki performer who’d misplaced his script. 

As it turned out, Natalina sent him to collect us along with our luggage, but his shyness, paired with limited English, only added to his hesitation.  Rather than approach directly, he circled with increasing uncertainty, like an aircraft awaiting clearance to land.  The ice finally broke when I offered a simple “Ciao, sono Paolo.”  He brightened immediately, we shook hands, and off we went to Via Gelso in the heart of the old town.  My appreciation for him only grew when he hoisted our suitcases up twenty-five steps from the street to the apartment and then up yet another staircase to our bedrooms.  At that point, he could
have run for mayor, and I would’ve voted for him.

Don't Count Them. They Turn!

The AquaMarina B&B sits in the historic center and scored immediate points for being charming, spotless, and miracle of miracles, fully functional, as though every switch, appliance, and plumbing fixture had recently signed a nonaggression pact.  This time of year, we passed on using the fireplace but the hum of the air conditioning splits in every room was melodic.  And the space was generous: thankfully gone were bedroom layouts with beds tightly spaced only inches from the sidewalls that you had to strategize your entry and exit like a military operation.  

Among Puglia’s coastal towns, Giovinazzo stands out for its compactness and authenticity: a medieval core directly on the

AquaMarina B&B, Giovinazzo

water in one of those rare places where the past isn’t polished like a Disney attraction; it’s simply inhabited, woven into daily life the way a sea breeze swaths itself into the fabric of a sail.  Still absent a non-disclosure agreement not to broadcast this to the world, I can say Giovinazzo hasn’t been overrun by mass tourism, though I sense the future is tapping politely at the door.  

More than pleased, we soon found ourselves strolling the seafront.  Not to be understated, however, this seafront is not the typical rock-littered sandy affair but an actual 15th century seawall that hosts an impressive, well-maintained promenade along Via Ruggiero Messere. 

Along the way, we stopped at Il Canaruto, near the harbor.  Joann had her sights set on finding a refreshing affogato. Affogato, meaning “drowned” in Italian, blends hot espresso with a sacrificial scoop

of cold vanilla gelato.  Wait too long, it becomes a drink.  While she enjoyed her find, the rest of the us indulged in Negronis and Aperol Spritzes while overlooking the picturesque harbor.  

Giovinazzo’s history dates to the BC Bronze Age.  Much later, like many villages along the coast, it became a small, Roman fortified settlement valued for is access to the sea.  The compactness of the harbor adds to its efficiency.  One side of the compact provides anchorage for small boats to tie up.  Docks jut from the harbor’s seawall on the opposite side.  Between the two extends a ramp shaped area allowing small craft to be pulled to the security of dry ground for safety and repair.

For centuries, its people have lived in a surf and turf

existence between two worlds.  The high, stony plateau that forms a backbone running through Puglia, crowded with olive groves, represents one.  And nearer the sea, out of necessity, peasants thankful for the food it provided, became fishermen.  Today, Giovinazzo’s identity, where life flows like the tides, remains inseparable from the sea.  

Residents on the Rocks 
Before the Seawall

Daily life in Giovinazzo moves at a rhythm like the tide.  In early morning, the air smells of coffee, salt, and yellowish limestone beginning to warm in the sun.  In the harbor, fishermen return with crates of octopus and fish as early shoppers gather to scoop up the day’s bounty to the clatter of opening shutters competing with church bells.  Mid-
morning finds shoppers afoot, toting shopping bags to fill with their daily needs.  Elderly residents, displaying a level of efficiency that would humble DoorDash, lower baskets from balconies like fishermen casting nets, then hoist up bread, produce, or bottles of wine from savvy venders.  By late morning, like tidepools draining of water, the town gradually empties as shops close for the combined reposo (rest period) and lunch break so traditional in southern Italy.  During this time the town takes on the aura of a ghost town, vacant and quiet but for the clatter of utensils along with voices escaping open windows.  As the heat gives ground by afternoon, Giovinazzo springs to life again as seafront promenades fill with families pushing prams, beachgoers, children playing soccer, couples hand in hand, along with amazed visitors like us.  How they get there I’m not certain, but some gather on the breakwater rocks to chat in the cooling air.  Families cluster in groups and sit by their doorways, some in patches of shade, others chat balcony to balcony or occupy church steps that double as benches.  Gelaterie, bars, and cafés fill.  As evening stars begin to gather, activity livens, the piazzas overflow, and restaurants seats are prized possessions.  Once claimed, diners are encouraged to linger late into the night their conversations adding to the steady pulse of the sea, the mixture of laughter, and the sound of toasting “Cin cin!” or “Salute!” of clinking glasses. 

In a Warren of Meandering Streets

    I am notorious for meeting and talking with anyone I meet.  It was on the advice of two local women, I met sitting on a bench, that we cancelled a reservation Maria Elena had made.  Instead, we enjoyed dinner at Al Porticciolo Osteria featuring a wide choice of hearty and delicious dishes.  Maybe it was a relative’s place, and they habitually steered visitors there, but I’ll take this seafood sanctuary any day. 

We enjoyed another memorable dinner at Hostaria San Domenico, specializing in authentic Pugliese cuisine.  It took some searching, wandering through narrow medieval lanes to finally locate this inn in the web of passageways between neighboring sea walls.  It was tucked in an intimate courtyard with an atmosphere accented with flowers and homes I only dream of affording, its only drawback an aroma I suspect came with calories. 

A courteous staff member immediately welcomed us, and we were seated in the courtyard to enjoy a peaceful al fresco experience in this beautiful escape.  The warm limestone walls turned the courtyard into an intimate open-air dining room absent the usual pictures,

Hostaria San Domenico - Al Fresco Amid
Plants and Yellow Limestone

paintings, bric-a-brac cluttered shelves, and wine racks choaked with bottles.  We were immersed in warm breezes, the chime of occasional church bells, and overhead, a mosaic of stars, making the charming atmosphere feel less like dining in a restaurant and more like being folded into the slow cadence of nightly southern Italian life. 

While I recall the cool refreshment of the white wine and a starter of calamari, names of the other courses evade me primarily because the waiter offered so many homemade pastas and seafood.  By the end of the evening, somewhere between the calamari, homemade pasta, and additional glasses of chilled white wine, the restaurant had ceased feeling like a place we’d discovered and instead felt like a place that had briefly adopted us.                                                

Piazza Vittorio Emanuele and the
Fountain of the Tritons

Walking back, we stopped for after dinner drinks. My choice, the unique flavor of a Montenegro digestivo.  Even while served in bulbus snifter stemware filled over an inch deep, they were modestly priced at only €4.  As I wobbled back toward Via Gelso and a soft landing for the night, those balloon-shaped glasses lingered in my mind. In Giovinazzo, even cocktails seemed reluctant to keep me earthbound. 

One evening as the sun set before us, we exited the seafront labyrinth of ancient town arches into Piazza Vittorio Emanuele, the main square and center of the old town.  I can’t imagine how many such named piazzas there are among the towns and villages of Italy, but the size of this square must rank high in this lineage of piazzas.  Trapezoidal in shape, it is framed by former grand palaces, a cathedral, and is host to the Fountain of the Tritons.  The mythic Tritons, human above the waist and fish-tailed below symbolically ties Giovinazzo to the power

To See Them Maneuver the 
Madonna [Click Here]

and mystery of the sea. 

The fountain was completed in 1933 with design details that came in triplicate: three Tritons, eels, shells, supporting figures, and a tri-lobed basin.  By repeating groups of three, its local designer, Tommaso Piscitelli, emphasized the idea of three becoming one in clear symbolic reference to the Christian Trinity.  It was this landmark that served as our evening anchor, where we joined the local life as children darted about, families flowed along the promenade like a slow evening current, and we sat, so close to the fountain that misty spritzes occasionally fogged my glasses.

Religious devotion remains woven into everyday life here.  This was apparent when quite by accident, while exploring a different route to the seafront, I stumbled upon, let me call it, a ‘preparatory’ religious event.  On the steps of one of many churches, much like their ancestors, men were gathered to move the statue of the church’s patron.  Poles were inserted either side of a massive statue of a Madonna and Child.  In some earlier miracle I hadn’t witnessed, the statue had already been maneuvered outside.  I watched as they lowered the statue down the stairs, through a maze of oldtown streets, skirted the Tritons in Piazza Vittorio Emanuele and up the stairs into the Church of San Domenico bordering the square.  To complete this trek through old town a troop of men rotated in and out, hoisting the supporting poles on

their shoulders for their portion of this heavyweight relay. 

I don’t always walk about looking skyward, but here, the panorama of a never-ending sky, finds me gazing up.  On more than one occasion, the pilot still in me, seeking the source of the growl of an approaching aircraft, or at times, the slither of an especially stealthy cloud, finds me scanning the “footless halls of air," in that “untrespassed sanctity of space” so poetically expressed by John Gillespie Magee in his 1941 poem High Flight (poem’s text quoted here in italics).  

As a teenager, a framed copy of High Flight hung beside my bed, its language equal parts decoration and the exciting rush of the endless freedom of flight.  It stirred much the same feelings in me the next day, when a red wayward balloon, yearning for its freedom, “joined the tumbling mirth of sun-split clouds” and “wheeled and soared” into my line of sight.  I watched as it climbed higher and higher, trailing not a contrail but a thin string to ever so briefly note its course across the sky.  My imagination took hold: from whose hand had

Our Giovinazzo Balloons in
Calitri Await Their Passenger

it slipped and where was going?  I came closer to an answer only later while browsing in a small
Giovinazzo shop on a street whose name I don’t recall. 

Maybe it was coincidence, maybe fate, but shortly thereafter I discovered them: red ceramic balloon-shaped decorations, their backs flattened, their fronts bulging from the wall.  They could lie flush, at rest, yet even in their stillness they projected a resistance to being grounded.  I bought three different sizes, all in fire engine red.  When composed they would serve as a whimsical yet poetic touch to what we call our “Stairway to Heaven” staircase which leads to our Calitri rooftop terrace.  I wanted not one but three; one balloon would have been a gesture but three suggested a story, their different sizes indicative of ascent.  Grouped on the wall, they would give the illusion that the ‘strings holder,’ (depicted on a separate canvas below them by our granddaughter, Harper) was being lifted aloft, carried upward by wind and whim, to join Gillespie’s “long delirious burning blue.”  The connection of the balloons to the poem, triggered in Giovinazzo, alluded to something else, however.

That solo runaway

Early Draft of Harper's 3D
Balloons on Canvas

balloon stirred associations that reached far beyond the Adriatic.  In the symbology of Western art, Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel ceiling offers a biblical version of ascent.  The “almost touch” between the fingers of Adam and God captures the instant before God gives life to Adam.  Man does not touch God and God keeps his distance.  Yet in the very last line of High Flight, Magee metaphorically does exactly that ...  he “Put out my hand and touched the face of God.”

It wasn’t until I stood beneath that Vatican ceiling years earlier that the juxtaposition fully settled in.  I wondered now whether flight narrows the distance between awe and arrogance.  Have we come so far, achieved so much, that the distance between man and God feels negligible?  Perhaps altitude alters perspective.  Perhaps flight briefly loosens gravity’s hold not only on the body but on the imagination and something divine slips in through the margins.  I have not been above 45,000 feet, but even at that altitude there is the feeling that what is before you, awe-inspiring and humbling, is far beyond happenstance.  I prefer to think Magee was not claiming equality with the divine but in a fleeting moment of overwhelming awe, describing the sensation that eternity had brushed briefly against him in the sky.  He felt, if only for an instant, like touching the mystery of his Creator.  From

Circled - Tail of a Tornado Aircraft on
Seafront Promenade 

now on, each time I climb or descend our “Stairway to Heaven,” I’ll instead look at those balloons and favor reverence as the explanation.  

These allusions to flight were reinforced when we came upon the Deriva del Tornado (“Tornado Tail”), a memorial featuring the vertical tail of a Tornado interceptor displayed in a corner of the seawall along with the prayerful poem Preghiera dell’Aviatore (Aviator’s Prayer).  Like High Flight, this entreating invocation is the prayer of an Italian aviator, who climbs into the heavens seeking the wings, the gaze, and the talons of eagles.

In a way, I experienced my own trinity beginning with an American aviator’s poem, allied with the sky and its allusion of contact with divinity.  It paired with a wayward balloon’s escape from someone’s grasp, climbing,

Italian Aviator's Prayer

bringing flight to mind by its motion and freedom of direction.  Afterwards found me purchasing ceramic balloons.  My trinity became complete when we came upon the vertical tail of an Italian fighter symbolic of the need for stability and control during flight.  Indeed, a devout trinity as subtle as the Triton fountain.

In the end, Giovinazzo lingered less as a destination than as a sensation, a place suspended somewhere between stone and saltwater, between gravity and ascent.  Its seawalls hold the Adriatic back much the way memory holds time in check, not completely, but enough that life continues here unimpeded to the rhythm it always has, along the same lanes their ancestors walked.  It isn’t cheeky Cannes, no Devil Wears Prada ensembles here.  Closer to earth, its inhabitants, dressed for reality, are better prepared to mend a net or coax a grounded boat back to the sea.  Beneath her balconies, bells, and endless skies, everything seemed, but for an unfettered balloon, quietly tethered to something larger: fishermen to tides, prayers to heaven, residents to routine, travelers to awesome wonder.  Perhaps that is why the town stays with me still.  Not because of any single meal, piazza, or sunset, but because, for a few drifting September days, Giovinazzo allowed me to feel again what flight has always promised: that somewhere between earth and sky, if we are fortunate, we occasionally brush against the sublime.

From That Rogue Tourist,
Paolo

Wandering Corso Umberto

 

Returned to Calitri After Weeks in Sicily
                                                            Photo credit: Giuseppe Di Maio

Wandering Corso Umberto

Following our return to Calitri, considering our earlier pace, days took on a pleasant, offbeat rhythm.  Some of us needed rest; others, myself included, required something closer to full-scale recuperation.  In fact, after a two-week tour de force through Sicily, a breather felt not only deserved but quietly inevitable.

The order of the day, clearly understood though unwritten, was to do nothing which, it turns out, demands a certain discipline.  Retirement already flirts with the soft edges of self-indulgence, where any

Our Rooftop 'Recupra-torium'

(If only there were such a Word)

given day can slide, imperceptibly, into sedentary hedonism.  So no, this wasn’t exactly a hardship.

Sometimes we like to laze, you know, just lie around, practicing the fine Italian art of unhurriedexistence.  Italians call this philosophy of life “dolce far niente,” the sweetness of doing nothing.  It helps, of course, to be in Italy: sipping cool white wine on our terrace beneath a shading umbrella, the air moving to the native rhythmic voice of Chiara; napping until the campanile bells nudge us back to consciousness; stepping out for a due gusti (two flavor) cone of gelato; or reading a book this time with a fortifying red untroubled by itineraries, absent tours, stairways , crowds, or ‘what-next’ decisions to make.  In Calitri then, the tonic, for once, was blissfully simple, do nothing at all.   

Being in Italy, even at a relaxed lazing tempo, is a noble endeavor.  It is Italy after all.  Just being there is special.  Without question, it is a distant, long ride from the States, but Italy, an emotion more than a country, remains a place hard to live apart from.  Like a yummy dessert, Italy is to die for and only reasonable to entertain leaving when I’ve developed the cultural equivalent to a ‘double chin.’  And just as there is an overabundance of possible ‘desserts’ to enjoy, even after twenty years of visits, there remains much of Italy yet to sample.  It’s that draw,

Amalfi Peninsula with Salerno and Vietri 
 to the Far Right

that itch, that soon lures us to put aside the books, tanning lotion, wine, stuff our totes, lock the door, and be off.  It was soon that time again, but not to overdo it, we took a day trip to Vietri sul Mare, a nearby favorite of ours along the Amalfitana coastline where it joins Salerno.

Once again, our Sicilian foursome, Lenny, Joann, Maria Elena and I, clambered into our little Fiat.  How we manage has become a well-practiced maneuver but still on the level of a circus clown act, though not as funny.  Dropping into town rather late in the morning, we found the only parking lot I was familiar with filled.  While I hesitated outside the entry gate for a time hoping someone might leave, the authoritative wave of a policeman motioned us ahead to a street that veered sharply downhill toward the sea while assuring us we’d find a spot.  We did, on the side of the road facing downhill, so steep I cut the wheel into the curb, just in case.  Then in a Houdini-like wiggling move I managed to maneuver out through the inches of space my door was allowed to open into a streetside hedge.  As I said, a clown-show, but we’d arrived safely. 

Vietri sul Mare is famous for its tradition of ceramic craftsmanship going back to the 15th century.  Often called the gateway to the Amalfi Coast, it feels more like a lived-in village than a polished resort choked with tourists.  Compared to other Amalfi towns, it’s not overrun.  It’s smaller, breathable, and feels more authentic than places like Positano and Amalfi farther out along the peninsula.  It maintains a

Vietri sul Mare

strong identity rooted in craftsmanship and everyday life.

The town spills down a hillside toward the sea.  However, the heart and commercial spine of this rather compact and intimate town, Corso Umberto I, is thankfully level.  We arrived at one end of this busy thoroughfare when we dropped into town to the crowded parking lot.  From there the corso extends about a quarter mile to terminate at a small-tree-lined piazza.  Walking it feels like drifting through a living gallery.  A constant visual rhythm is evident – every doorway, staircase, and alley reveals something decorative or unexpected. 

Store fronts overflow with hand-painted ceramics, many in

A Ceramic Table Market

complex majolica patterns inspired by the sea and countryside.  You name it, plates, tiles, vases, colorfully tiled tables, fine art, and geometric patterns fill shop after shop.  It is a wonder they all stay in business, but the filled parking lot we experienced may explain it.  But there is an advantage to so many outlets: if you missed it earlier, regret you hesitated to buy something, or just couldn’t decide, there is no need to go back for it will certainly reappear, especially one item and color, yellow lemons.  Symbolic of the region, thick-skinned Amalfitana lemons in dominant yellow motifs are everywhere.  

Restaurants and small cafes accented the way in an appeal that offered something absent in the shops, a place to sit, set aside parcels, and enjoy a relaxing break.  There was even the thoughtful placement of a bench in a strategic place where the corso abruptly turned.  From benches to church domes, all are decorated with bright ceramic, the buildings in warm Mediterranean tones.

We were brought to a halt by a funeral procession, not the

Typical Shop Display

familiar line of idling cars, but a solemn column of people on foot, gathered to mourn one of its own, advancing slowly toward us.  It is a scene woven into daily small-town life.  We witnessed similar scenes in Calitri, where loss is never private; everyone knows everyone, and grief belongs to the entire community.  

Along Corso Umberto, the rhythm of daily life fell silent.  Conversations faded, shopkeepers paused mid-gestures, hats were doffed; a few people crossed themselves, and here and there, tears were brushed away.  Commerce yielded briefly, without protest, to reverence.

Through this suspended world, the procession continued forward.  A hearse emerged from a nearby church crowned with bright mosaics, followed by mourners who walked with quiet purpose.  Around them, in vivid contrast, life lingered.  The displays of colorful majolica lay untouched, the vibrant mixing of shoppers froze, the idled half-finished cappuccinos cooled on café tables, all seemed to recede into moments that demanded stillness. 

The hearse carrying the deceased, a rare, out of the ordinary breed, was also striking.  Its form, like its passenger, bore the mark of transformation. 

An Unexpected Encounter

Here a Maserati Ghibli, altered by a custom coachbuilder, had been cut, stretched, and re-bodied the original sedan into something elegant and austere.  On its stylish flank, symbolic of mythic strength, a medallion exhibited Neptune’s three-pronged trident spearhead, conveying Vietri’s tie to the sea.  Also emblematic, a photograph of the deceased was hosted on its rear window as a final farewell to all, bereaved and strangers alike.  Surprisingly, it presented the face of a young woman.  This was no ordinary farewell.  In this case, whoever she had been, appearances inferred she had mattered.  It is easy, even with only a smidgen of information to form opinions, be they right or wrong.  

This proclivity, a form of caricature, often humorous, really is not unique.  Instead of neutral social descriptions, people often prefer something more visual.  Italian, a vivid, image-based language, serves this purpose well, affording Italians a visually expressive way, fortified with hand movements, to describe people.  Noses especially, being central and distinctive, afford Italians an easy, verbal shorthand.

     There is a homespun amusement regarding the head-on visibility of a person’s nostrils that has evolved into a nonsensical pseudo-science is referred to as ‘nostrology.’  A nostrological factor of zero

Nostrological Factor of 10

is perfect and represents the case where the nostrils, not visible, are level with the ground.  Negative ‘nostrology’ exists when the nose tips downward producing a negative cant to the nostrils while a positive rating is assigned when you can see into someone’s nose as they approach.  The nose of a pig would rate a plus 10!  Unlike most tests, here is one you’d like to score zero.  As silly as it is, now aware of it, it won’t be long before you note the phenomenon, like children calling out Volkswagen Beetles while riding in the back seat.  Chuckle as we may, we all do it.

I sank onto a worn wooden bench while Maria Elena and Joann were occupied with serious shopping.  As if reserved for me, two local women involved in relaxed conversation shuffled aside to offer me room.  Rapid musical Italian that somehow makes even arguing sound romantic swirled past me.  With nowhere to be, I let my gaze drift across the steady stream of passersby, each face a small story unfolding in expression.  Espresso cups clinked like tiny cymbals at a café across from us and a scooter zipped by with the urgency of a “keep it warm” pizza delivery.  I had no agenda beyond sitting still in the noble pastime of people-watching.  Part of it is observation, part imagination, and, if I’m honest, part completely unfounded character analysis. 

Italian culture is often more direct about appearance, its language style capable of turning everyday observation into something vivid, expressive, comical.  There is more to noses here than nostril gaging.  Describing a nose can subtly imply elegance, strength, warmth, or awkwardness.  Even the great masters, like da Vinci or Michelangelo, were fascinated with facial proportions.  There is often a word or hand motion involved in its playful belief that facial features reveal personality. 

Being a rogue I gave it a try.  An older gentleman with a cane was the first to catch my attention.  He strode past with what Italians categorize as a magnificent Romanesque naso aquilino, curved in a negative "nostrological" cant like an eagle's beak. I conjured the thought that this nose had opinions of its own and expected them to be respected.  Behind him, a young woman laughed with what Italian’s rank as a naso all’insù.  Translated, this means "upturned nose," which being the case, I awarded her a positive “nostrological” rating.  I imagined her outlook on life involved an air of permanent optimism, like she’d never once worried about a late flight or sneered at a bad espresso.  A little later, a cheerful man with a naso a patata, knobby like a potato, ambled by, his round, soft nose giving him the somehow trustworthy look of someone whose nose always knows where to find the best lunch, though is slightly suspicious about pastries. 

As the sun continued to rise toward afternoon and warm the worn bench slats, the parade continued: bold noses, delicate ones, and a few that looked like they’d taken a scenic detour along the way.  Then, just as our foursome reunited, along came a woman featuring a perfectly straight naso francese, espousing the merits of stereotypical attractiveness.  So straight and elegant by the centuries-old French standards it espouses, it made me instinctively sit up straighter, as though in a glance she might grade my posture.  In this brief experiment, I realized that people-watching in an Italian town is a bit like flipping through a beautifully illustrated magazine, except here in Vietri sul Mare, the characters are moving, talking, all the while being judged for not only facial layout, but no doubt for their dress, right down to their choice of gelato in an attempt to derive personality.  I was an amateur, but it nevertheless was a fun sport to play even while you’re benched.  

As we slowly continued along Corso Umberto, with every few steps, we were tempted to pause and explore something of interest.  Ceramics dominated the scene, their glazed colors catching the light, but it was something less visible that drew my attention: the evocative musk scent of real leather.  Beautiful

A Leather Accented Italjet Electric Bike

handmade bomber jackets, supple shoes, and last-a-lifetime pocketbooks filled the windows.  I might have lingered at the threshold, content to admire them from a distance, but it was the sight of a bicycle parked outside that caught my eye and pulled me in.

I’ll not soon forget the Italjet E-bike displayed there, priced at a whopping 6600€.  It had a sleekness that felt both modern and familiar, the kind of design that stirred something half-remembered.  I recall saving up as a kid for a bike.  It had a button I had to press to sound its bell and tassels streaming from my handlebars, something that qualifies as “retro” today.  I’d even put cards on the spokes to mimic a burping muffler.  Unlike this beauty, my bike also didn’t have a clock embedded in the stem below the handlebar, which might explain why I was perpetually late getting home.

The Italjet was another species entirely.  Its leather accents explained why it was on display there.  The handles, seat, and a pocket to slide the battery into, decorated with quality leather, added to its elegance.  A vintage knucklehead headlight and finely spoked wheels added to its retro look.  Italians, after all, have a well-earned reputation for speed, and this particular jewel could glide up to 28 miles per hour, carrying you anywhere from 31 to 43 miles before needing

Samples of Lucia's Artistry

a recharge.  Not bad, I thought, for something that, at a glance, might pass for a memory.

At #69 Corso Umberto we stepped into Zuma Ceramiche, the fine‑art studio of Lucia Carpentieri.  She related how as the daughter of artists, she approached painting at a young age in her

Lucia

father’s studio.  I was struck by the sweep of her early training, marked by the study of great masters of Italian painting from Caravaggio’s drama to the Venetian painter Giovanni Bellini (yes, the namesake of the cocktail).  It then progressed to the refined Renaissance touch of Federico Barocci and the mid-19th century romantic intensity of Francesco Hayez.  There was also attention to the oleographic technique (oleo in Italian meaning oil and graph, printing), a 19th‑century method for producing high‑quality prints that cleverly “faked” the look of oil paintings for those who couldn’t afford the originals.  But ceramics eventually became her expressive language.  In 2015, Lucia opened her first workshop in the historic center of Avellino, not far from Calitri, before later relocating to Vietri sul Mare.  

The result is an astonishing gallery of her own making.  Her pieces entertain enchanting references to optical art weaving geometric precision into illusions of depth and motion.  Lucia’s stylistic use of crisp

Grouping of Cornicelli Amulets 
to Protect from Evil

black and white patterns is remindful of three‑dimensional tessellation (where the repeating pattern looks like it stacks but your brain insists it doesn’t) to forge a balance of maintained order within a hypnotic sense of dynamic movement.  Brava Lucia!  

Continuing to wander without a plan, we eventually reached the end of Corso Umberto, or perhaps, in hindsight, its beginning.  Piazza Vincenzo Solimene, with its tree-lined view stretching toward the sea, feels less like the end of the line and more like an introduction to the town.  From here, we glimpsed a sanctuary of Vietri ceramics that announces itself long before you step inside.

You can’t miss it.  The structure is entirely clad in bright enamels, arranged in a sweeping mosaic motif.  Embedded across its facade are sixteen thousand discarded vases, glazed in copper green and

Solimene Ceramics Factory

terracotta pieces cascading downward in a conical drapery.  It is a bold preview of what lies inside.  Completed in 1954, the Solimene Ceramics Factory is an architectural marvel.  Its striking form is reminiscent of the Guggenheim Museum in New York, particularly in its spiraling interior. 

Today, the factory remains a living workshop where craft becomes art, and tradition continues to evolve across every painted surface and fired form.  The process unfolds vertically, guided by a continuous ramp that winds through each level.  Along this path, the stages of ceramic production reveal themselves in sequence, each workspace contributing to the transformation.

     On the upper levels, pieces are fired before beginning their gradual descent.  Arriving in the main atrium they are painted and decorated.  Here, the sheer abundance is overwhelming.  Stacks of plates, cups, and vases fill the space, inviting you to linger.  Many pieces, leftovers from large batches, are customized for restaurants and bear the names of their intended
destinations.  

You move carefully through it all, sidestepping bowls, pitchers, and vases that feel equally at home as decoration or daily use.  The tiles echo those embedded in walls throughout the town, reinforcing the quiet sense that this place is tied to Vietri.

Careful -- Watch Your Step

And perhaps, that’s the true ending to our walk: not a final destination, but rather a realization.  In Vietri, the line between wandering and arriving disappears.  Every street leads you back to the same idea, that beauty here is not preserved behind glass in a Gucci or Tiffany storefront, but made, handled, and lived with every day.  My Vietri experience was built from small, sensory moments ― the art, the artists, the crafts, people remotely appraised from a bench, another aboard her final ride (possibly the beginning of a new journey) ― rather than big attractions.  I leave it there, at what was an end, though depending on the direction you face, maybe a beginning.

From That Rogue Tourist, 
Paolo