With Thursday being the brutal travel day it was, we (some might say) squandered a calm and sunny Friday relaxing and wandering the lanes of Positano, rather than setting out for other towns by water. Saturdays weather left nothing but the biggest "traghetti" servicing the largest & busiest ports (i.e., not Positano), so we were stuck with another day in town, or subjecting ourselves to the toture of the Amalfi Coast roads (see http://sienawedding.blogspot.com/2008/10/ravioli-in-rain.html ). On Sunday, the weather returned to "warm and friendly," and we finally got out on the water for a trip to the island of Capri.
The ferry ride out was a joy. We got to see the Amalfi coast out to the point, and then could see Napoli and Mount Vesuvius in the distance, before turning into Capri Porto.
The port is a tourist pit, and it begged us to leave quickly. We saw a sign that innocently pointed around the corner to "Capri Centro," or the center of Capri. I mentioned to Nancy this would be the real Capri, with nice cafes and a Duomo. Without a moment's hesitation, we were on our way. We walked. And we walked. And we walked and walked and walked. When there was no more "up" left, we were still going up! We kept walking. Up. When we were done with that, we walked some more. You get it?! We walked a lot!!
Finally, we reached a street, crossed it, and the path opened up into - oh good googly moogly - more steps and more walking. Abrupt cut ...
INTERMISSION - Hum quietly to yourself "per tre minuti."
... back to our story. During the break, our heroes reached Capri Centro, and it was all that was promised. We grabbed some panini to regain our strength, and ducked into the Duomo for the end of Sunday Mass. The words and music were foreign, but the rhythm of the service was completely familiar to anyone who's sat through a couple thousand Roman Catholic services as Nancy has. Even to me, evil Protestant that I am in this country of near-monopoly by the Roman Catholic Church, with mere dozens of masses under my belt, I picked up the "e anche con voi" at the right point.
Back in the square after Mass, we slipped up a lane labeled "Belvedere," knowing there was a beautiful view at the top.
As in Act I, we walked and walked and walked. Along the way, we stopped at a beautiful overlook (*a* beautiful view, not *the* beautiful view) for pictures, and were offered help taking a picture of us together by two lovely Australian women in their early 60's. They were traveling together and were at the end of their two week trip. One grew up in Tasmania (although she exhibited none of the characteristic grunting, drooling, snorting or random spinning around that I've noticed from every other being from Tasmania I've encountered along the way ... she didn't even pop a whole rabbit or passing cat into her mouth during the entire duration of our lengthy conversation), and - having grown up surrounded by beautiful views all her life - she had no interest in a hotel room with a beautiful view, but wanted a spacious room. Her travel partner wanted the beautiful view, which generally came with less space for the money. Despite the battle, the room with a view generally won out, and they both seemed okay with that outcome. The ladies indicated we were the fourth couple from abroad they'd run into who had come to Italy to get married. I'll take that as a good sign, or at least claim we've started a trend, true or not.
Some more walking, and we reached *the* "Belvedere" and it *was* a beautiful view of ... those three cool rocks ... that the boats drive between ... with names that I would recall and share with you ... if I had been paying attention when reading about Capri ... but I don't remember, so I will call them Manny, Mo, and Jack, and come back years from now to correct this blog, lest this fact end up in Wikipedia as the true origin of the names of the Pep Boys. Well the photo above shows the view, made even more beautiful by "la mia fidanzata." We lingered a bit to relax as we had the terrace to ourselves, then we left and walked some more.
This brings me to my second subject: why Italians are either very thin or very fat (see footnote below #). Many of Italy's towns - whether big or small - have narrow lanes, lots of steps, and little room for cars. Capri, Positano, Ravioli, Venice, and the Cinque Terre are all different in their own ways, but all have a similar feel, as if you've just glued your feet to a stairmaster, surrounded by a gorgeous but colorized Fellini film. Every trip to and from dinner is a workout. Every jaunt to the corner store is aerobic. A voyage to a "belvedere" is like running a 10K. Add to this the favorite evening activity in many small Italian towns, "la passagiata": an evening spent strolling the streets, visiting with neighbors and measuring each others calf muscles with a metric measuring tape.
This - I am convinced - is why a full Italian meal is so big and involved. For all the walking, they need to compensate with food, just to keep from starving to death. Dinner has a minimum of four parts, each part - if done right - is accompanied by a different wine. The Antipasti are the appetizers, and an Antipasto dish can be a meal unto itself. The next course is "il Primo Piato", or the First Plate (not entirely accurate as I'm certain the Antipasto was served on a plate, but I believe it's more of a warning that there are more plates to come than it is an actual plate count). The "Primo Piato" is generally "Pasta" (or as we say in the States, "Pasta"). You might think by the name that "Antipasto" would cancel out "Pasta," making for a calorie-free meal, but this is apparently not the case. Next up, if everyone is counting it right, is "il Secondo Piato" or the Second Plate. This is usually a meat or fish dish and will finish you off for sure if the first plate didn't. After all this, you are expected to order "il Dolche" or the Dessert. If you don't order dessert, a woman claiming to be your Italian grandmother will bring you dessert, and no amount of arguing will stop her. It's also worth mentioning - in case you think you're clever and can get away with eating only a portion of each dish - if you leave so much as a morsel on your plate for any of the four courses, the waiter will start grilling you asking what was wrong with the food. You will swear the food was fine, but he will continue with the inquisition. Soon other waiters will join him, pointing to your plate and asking similar questions. Eventually your Italian grandmother will appear at your side and pinch your cheek and ask if everything is okay at home. It's usually safest just to walk in, claim you ate on the plane and order only dessert and an espresso. You'll still walk away full.
There is a constant battle between the walking and the eating. There never really is a balance in the battle; both sides are too strong. In the end, one side or another starts to win and to draw you to its own dark side. Two years ago, walking won out. This year, it appears to be the food. That is why we walked back to the boat. I didn't even mention the Funicular, when it caught my eye. We walked to the boat, and walked from the boat to our hotel, and again walked to an enjoyable dinner before retiring for the night.
In the end, as much as I like the food, I hope the walking wins.
Tomorrow: Our trip from Positano through Napoli (where we had the best pizza we've ever tasted) to Firenze and Siena.
Ciao!
- Brent & Nancy
# - for the record, I would like to state that I do not condone the use of stereotypes or generalities when describing the people of any nationality or ethnic origin, particularly a country of people so beautiful, charming and diverse as I have been privileged to enjoy here in Italy. There are fat Italians, skinny Italians, Italians who climb on rocks, big Italians, little Italians, even those with chicken pox. I merely focus on the thin and fat of it all because I am quickly making the transition from skinny obnoxious American to fat obnoxious American.
- M. Brent
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