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I remember my first trip to Italy way back in the day. My first stop was Rome. After taking in some of the beauty of the Eternal City's architecture and iconic ancient ruins, I began to focus on the Romans themselves. I was struck by how elegant many of the older Roman ladies were - coiffed hair, make up, smart clothes, good shoes, and tasteful jewelry. They looked their age but had not traded in style for a pixie cut and a track suit. I couldn't get enough of watching these ladies go about life on the streets of Rome.
On this trip to Italy, many years after that first one, it seems that I am seeing more of Italy's female characters - senoras that, how shall I say, appear to have less class and more crass, less Sophia Loren and more Sophia Petrillo, less grand and more bland, less style and more denial, less...well, you know what I mean.
I am writing this while sitting on the rocks at the beach in Capri's main harbor (I hope no senora is reading over my shoulder, or I will end up minced and made into meatballs).
Anyhoo, there is this woman in front of me. She is alone. When I first noticed her, she was sprawled out on the rocks scarfing down a humongous panini. Now she is knee high in the water looking for rocks or shells. She is, how you say in Italian, grande and she is not shy about letting it all hang out of her bathing suit. Each time she bends over in front of me, her legs and behind look like a light bulb. Yikes.
Earlier in the week, I was at the airport in Genoa before sunrise. These two ladies rolled in sporting huge shades even though it was still dark. They were announcing their arrival like someone cared. They were in outfits that they must have put together in the dark with their shades on. In their unfiltered world, they probably thought they were working it. But the whole thing was not working - they looked like Ab Fab's Eddie and Patsy after a bender. One of them had a wig on that was so high, she must have had to check it as over-sized luggage.
And as I was watching these two train wrecks, I noticed another old woman wandering around the terminal talking to everyone in Italian, whether or not they were listening (and whether or not they spoke Italian).
The day before on a boat from Portofino, some drunk senora was doing the same thing, telling everyone that she was from "Roma!" as she beat her chest Celine-Dion-style. And speaking of Celine, another old bird was on the boat doing her best Titanic-movie impersonation, bending over the bow with her arms outstretched. Now to put this in perspective, this was a slow-moving, open boat with maybe 20 seats. Someone should have shoved her overboard and been done with it.
So while this lady in the water in front of me is a big can of kooky, she is not even a contender for biggest kook of my trip. But wait, there is a development. From stage left, another woman has come onto the scene. She also is alone. In high heels, she is pulling her rollerboard across the rocks while holding a big can of beer in her free hand. She has this huge mass of frizzy brown hair that looks like she just emerged from an explosion (or maybe she was hanging her head out the window of the hydrofoil on the way over like a dog from a car). Now she is setting up shop to the left of the other bird and she is stripping down to a tiny, white bikini that serves no real purpose. It doesn't truss her in any way, shape, or form. She makes the other bird look like she's wearing a burka.
Now she is applying dark-brown bronzing cream in big scoops on her pale white rolls and face. The clumps look like mud...or even worse. She is attempting to work the clumps in but she has a lot of real estate to cover so only the areas around where she applied a scoop get coverage leaving streaky, brown blotches on her white skin. She looks like a Guernsey. And she has forgotten about the clump on her back so that is just stuck there. It looks like she fell asleep on the "good night" chocolates left on the pillow at her hotel.
Now she has her beer back in one hand, a ciggy in the other, and she is wobbling around the rocks. Oh dear, now she's bending over too - another light bulb - I've had enough of that for one day, thank you.
Now she is back at her base camp, and she is sprawled on her back on the rocks with her arms stretched out over her head and her legs wide open, feet toward me. More frizzy brown hair. Good grief.
Italy, I know you have beautiful people - some of the world's most beautiful. You have an elegant, romantic, and lovely country, with people to match. I'll never forget those stylish women in Rome so many years ago. But why am I not encountering them on this trip? What is up?
As I avert my gaze from the "beachings", I see people enjoying the sun at tables outside a nearby restaurant. Most are chatting away but I see one older woman on her own, sitting quietly. She is impeccably groomed from her tailored outfit to her well-coiffed snow-white hair. She is clutching her handbag and looking straight ahead as if lost in thought. She has the look and eyes of someone who has seen so much through a long life but has carried herself with poise and grace throughout. She's it! She's the type of Italian woman I so admired in Rome so many years ago!
Ah, thank you Italy! You have delivered! After a big bunch of batty, you've given me a grain of grace. I was starting to doubt you but my faith is restored. Che bella!
I turn back to my view of the old birds in bikinis on the beach. Oh dear. Come pazzi!
Capri is so beautiful, it should have its own soundtrack - something operatic with a lot of timpani drums. The music should begin as you approach the island, build to a thunderous crescendo while you are there, and then soften to maybe one plaintive violin when you are departing.
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| www.capri.net |
OK, that's a little overly dramatic. But the way the island juts out of the water and clutches for the sky. The craggy rock cliffs set against the blue sea. Lemons the size of grapefruits hanging from the trees. Beautiful smells to match the jaw-dropping views. Elegant hotels tucked into the sides of the hills. Quaint churches. It's all so elegant.
But I'll tell you one thing that is not elegant on Capri: me when I am there. It's not like I don't try. I pack smart clothes and stroll the streets. I try to look effortless when I am sitting at a restaurant. But I also want to see every inch of this glorious place and I'm on a budget. So I am not being squired around in a motorized cart that was arranged by my chi-chi hotel. I'm hoofing it - up the 924 Phoenician Steps to Anacapri like in my previous post or exploring the side streets and lanes in the town.
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| www.comunedianacapri.it |
Today I'm high on the island in Anacapri. I dodge the tourist-heavy main streets and end up in a pleasantly quiet old part of town. There I stumble into the Chiesa Monumentale di San Michele - a pretty little church with a most extraordinary draw. The floor is made entirely of tiles depicting the biblical story of Adam and Eve. You have to navigate around the perimeter of the church on these thin raised scaffold boards that protect the tiles from tourist traffic.
Ahead of me is a group of sturdy German men, under whose feet the scaffold boards groan and creak. They tip-toe along trying to lighten their loads, and they have their arms outstretched like they are tight-rope walkers. I'm thinking that the boards are going to give way at any time and we are going to fall onto the delicate tiles in a shower of toothpicks. But we make it. They seem more relieved than I.
Back out in Anacapri, I am thinking about calling it an afternoon when I see this big wheel turning in a roundhouse. I go over to check it out. I discover that it is some sort of chair lift that appears to take a scenic trip further up the mountain. So on a whim, I go in and buy a ticket.
Before I know it, I pop back outside through a door. This guy grabs my arm and places me over a faded red dot painted on the concrete platform. Before I can process what is happening, a chair bangs into the back of my knees and I fall into it. The chair rocks back, the guy flips a flimsy aluminum bar down over my lap, and I am off, launching off the platform and looking at a huge drop down.
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| tripadvisor.com |
Now, as a non-skier, I have never been on a chair lift and this one is not sturdy like the Germans back at the church. It appears to be made of flimsy aluminum and looks like it needs some TLC. My chair is attached to the cable above by this thin aluminum bar and my chair lurches each time it crosses one of the metal towers that stretch way down to the ground and support the whole contraption. I can see a lot of rust and I can hear a lot of creaking. Good grief. What have I done. This contraption is going to fall apart. It has been exposed for God knows how long to sun and salty sea air. It looks like it was built during Mussolini's time.
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| Keith Haring |
I picture a haughty Italian coroner signing off on my death certificate with a flourish citing the cause as "Death by Misadventure", next to a photo of my body splatted against the rocks looking like a Keith Haring drawing.
So I freak out and go into a full-on panic attack. I mean this thing does not look state of the art. It looks like some dodgy carnival ride and I am easily 50 feet above the rocky ground heading for the top of a mountain. I clutch the bar but my hands are sweating so badly that they keep slipping off. I get dizzy and think I am going to fall out of this chairway to hell.
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| tripadvisor.com |
I look up and see that the ride seems to go on forever. That doesn't help. And it is one way - there is no turning back and no stop button. I alternate taking one hand off the bar to wipe off the sweat and replacing it with a death grip by the other. And I begin talking myself through it out loud, quoting positive affirmations that don't really make sense.
To avoid looking ahead, or God forbid down, I try to focus on the chair ahead of me, but my attention is diverted to the chairs coming down the other side.
I burst out laughing. What I see looks to be an Asian seniors' tour looking as funny as I no doubt do, dangling in these swing-like chairs. Coming toward me is a smiling, elderly Asian woman, holding an umbrella over her head with one hand to shield the sun and taking pictures with the other hand. Here she is hands-free enjoying the ride and I am clutching the pole of my chair like I am about to fall off the edge of the earth.
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| en.wikipedia.com |
The Asian seniors inspire me to get a grip and I start to enjoy the ride. It is exhilerating. I am gliding high over people's houses and gardens, including one garden that is festooned with a fully-dressed mannequin and all sorts of shell creations, as well as a bird's nest with fake birds and a fish pond with fake fish in it. Hundreds of hours of work but crazy as all get out. I wonder how many tourists he's had to scoop out of his yard?
When I reach the top, and I mean the top, a guy flips up the bar, dumps me out of the chair, and pushes me off to the right to avoid getting clothes-lined by the chair behind me.
Now I am literally at the top of the island. There is nothing but blue sky above and wind swirling around me. The view takes my breath away. It is panoramic - the Med, the island, the iconic Faraglioni rocks jutting out of the water, the harbor, Mount Vesuvius off on the mainland. I am so high, I can see tomorrow from here.
There are Roman ruins scattered around the mountain top and at the edge of a cliff, I look straight down to a beach far, far below. Yachts that are anchored look like small white dots against the blue sea. Seagulls are gliding in the wind far below me. I feel like I am flying - like I am looking out of an airplane but without the filter of the plane and window.
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| tripadvisor.com |
After many pictures, I head back to the lift. I am placed on another faded red dot, a chair cuts me off at the knees, and I am off, though this time the guy doesn't flip down the bar. I guess he thinks by now I've got it figured out.
The ride down is actually scarier than the ride up, because you are on top of the world looking down so you have a keen sense of how high up you are (and how far you can fall). But just at the onslaught of another panic attack, I see another group of seniors, this time Americans, ahead of me. They are laughing, turning in their chairs to take pictures of each other, and thoroughly enjoying the experience. So I do too.
Sometimes you just have to stop over-thinking things, sit back, and enjoy the ride.
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