Italy Part 1 – Naples and the Amalfi Coast

I have just given up salt & vinegar crisps, American giant marshmallows and all other sweet things, and stepped on the scales this morning and NO CHANGE. What is the point?

I came back from two weeks in Italy, full of bread and ham and pizza and Prosecco, and was secretly wondering where the great Mediterranean diet was actually hiding. The only time I had a bread- or pasta-free meal was the complimentary platter we received outside the Opera House in Palermo in Sicily.

We sipped our drink, thought about the Godfather, talked to a wonderful elderly couple, and nibbled olives and ham and roasted peppers. Behind us the fabulous staircase glimmered in the street lights.

I thought our random companions might be lovers, or an estranged couple meeting one last time. He was Sicilian, she American, but there was no romance. Their fathers were brothers, one emigrated, and one stayed put. The cousins only met in 1979 when her mother died, and her father told her of the family she had in the old country. Now the cousins meet up every two years.  We watched them walk off arm-in-arm, swallowed up in the crowds and on into the darkness.

My birthday holiday was amazing. Forget Michael Palin, or Phileas Fogg. When I got back home I tipped out my handbag and the tickets for the proverbial trains and boats and planes all looked like pieces of our holiday jigsaw. Not the chauffeur-driven limousine for us, oh no. We clutched overhead handrails on the Naples-Sorrento train at rush hour, we zipped across the Bay of Naples on a ferry, traversed Sicily on the train, buzzed about in busses and taxis, and took the huge overnight ferry from Naples to Palermo. We even dropped to the depths of Naples and got on the Metro.

Naples was gritty, dirty, full of intriguing alleyways, picturesque with household washing hanging out of windows. Graffiti was everywhere, even covering trains and platform signs. Some were just glorified scribbles, some were sending messages and some were downright fantastic.

Please note what is written above John’s head!

That first night I couldn’t stop humming Peter Starstedt’s ‘Where do you go to my lovely?’ as we picked our way through the rubbish to the fabulous restaurant which had giant murals of Sophia Loren.

We ate pizza which was delicious, but I couldn’t help ogling the diners on our right. They had a plate made out of pizza dough, filled with shellfish. I looked at the menu all in Italian, it looked like double Dutch to me. The following night I did order it (courtesy of the waiter) and it was vaguely disappointing.

Prawns were mushy and there were only two little Vongole shells but the sauce was nice on the spaghetti. First hint of letting out the waistband.

We did love wandering through the labyrinth of streets, seeing churches, art, miniature Neapolitan nativity scenes created in Christmas baubles, and whole houses and animated scenes created out of cork.

We had just bought a ladle made from olive wood when I saw a coffin just behind John’s shoulder. We were suddenly caught up in a funeral. It was quite traumatic. We were swept along to the Piazza Maggiore or somewhere, the streets were so narrow, the mourners so many and all sobbing, and us like two colourful imposters stuck in the middle. The march seemed to go on forever.

We loved the veiled Christ in Cappella Sansevero by Guiseppe Sanmartino. The marble is so realistically carved, and so intricate, you almost expect to see the veil lift as Christ inhales and exhales. Oh my, and the fisherman with his net. It was just so amazing.

The train to Sorrento was like a cattle truck. John was clutching his wallet and I was treated to several smelly armpits as more and more of the city’s workforce piled on. It wasn’t until after ten stops that we finally got a seat.

Sorrento was buzzing with tourists. It was like another planet. We decided to visit the church of San Francisco, only to be caught up in a wedding. It was obviously a very classy do. John admired the black Maserati car and the guys in blue suits and sunglasses guarding it. I admired the super-high heels and high fashion that fluttered around the bride. In the old days we wore veils on our heads, but today it seems the fashion is to wear a micro-mini skirt and a matching veil that falls to the ankles to protect the modesty of one’s knees. How those elegant creatures walked on the cobblestones I do not know – but the drone does, as it was filming everything.

And of course we had to climb Vesuvius and visit Pompeii. The hike from the bus is about 820m. We tasted the sulphur and saw the rising gases. It was quite dramatic, and the crater is quite ominous. The day was clear and we saw the beautiful island of Capri swathed in mist and the whole sprawl of Naples and the Bay of Naples at our feet. Coming down was quite hard. I didn’t expect to be doing this on my recuperating ankle!

It was rush, rush, rush through the umbrella pines to join the tour of Pompeii. John was struggling to make a ham and cheese sandwich which we gobbled on the ancient roman roads, avoiding the ruts of the iron chariot wheels.

It was so normal, the houses, the shops, the ovens, the lupanare brothel with the ‘menu’ of what you might expect in each room. The beds were stone and very hard, obviously not meant for a whole night session. (Perhaps they had straw mattresses back in the day?)

We saw the plaster moulds of bodies, all curled up and seeking refuge from the eruption, also an exquisite gold bracelet. It was quite moving.

A better guide might have brought the experience more alive, but it was amazing. All preserved in ash from 79AD. And the human history showing us that we haven’t changed that much really.

Afterwards we were glad to slurp Prosecco back in our room in Sorrento. The ankle was swollen but holding up.

The isle of Capri beckoned. So, off we went on a trip around that fabled island, seeing the green grotto, the white grotto but not the blue. The sea was turquoise, the millionaire’s mansions and the magical limestone rocks were all familiar as if we’d seen them before. I think they are used a lot in advertisements.

Capri itself was busy busy, and the shops very very expensive.

Cruise ships had disgorged their passengers en masse so we shared the views, the ice cream and the beautiful gardens of Caesar Augustus with people from all nations.

Ana Capri, further up the island and accessed by a series of S bends, by contrast was quieter, and we ate an ice cream cake in peace, (waistband ever expanding). It was gentle, and the Villa San Michele had the most stunning views. Walking back, we were met with a black hearse. It was a rectangular box with glass sides, rather like the Sleeping Beauty’s resting place. The villagers had followed the hearse and all the shopkeepers came out and taxi and bus drivers stood and paid respect. We too stood. It was quite powerful. The coffin was removed and taken by a more modern vehicle to the jetty where presumably it would be going to rest on the mainland somewhere. So –  two funerals and a wedding so far.

Back in Sorrento as we cruised past the endless shops selling Limoncello and fridge magnates, we suddenly came across an exhibition of the paintings of Marc Chagall, a Russian-born painter. I loved his rich colours and his fantastic animals and his dream like pictures.

The massive ferry we got to Palermo was like a cruise ship. We had en suite rooms, decks, just everything. As we set sail from Naples a huge flock of seagulls chased the ship, dive bombing in clouds into the froth of the breaking bow waves. I have never seen anything like it. Maybe fishes were rising to the light? Whatever – it was a splendid dinner time for the birds.

We did meet a gentleman who refused to fly. He went everywhere by boat, ship or ferry, and has done for the last thirty years. To get to the wedding he was here in Italy for, he had to get the Queen Mary from New York over to Britain first. This required full dinner jacket for three nights of a seven-day cruise. Well, from what I could see, no dressing up on this ferry was required!

Palermo was once the grandest city in Europe. It is a fusion of Arab, Norman, Byzantine and Renaissance gems. We walked and walked, crisscrossed the gridded streets, entered churches with exquisite murals on the ceilings, got lost in the dusty web of backstreet markets. I thought I was in the Middle East.

Huge blocks of real estate are given over to the Carabinieri.  There seems to be a huge police presence and we are told that the Mafia has no longer such a stranglehold of the country. Although organised crime lives on, the thuggery and violence of the 1980s has diminished. We walked for what felt like miles in the hot sun. We reached the Catacombe dei Cappuccini and saw the mummified bodies and skeletons of 8000 people who had died between the 17^th and 19^th Centuries. They were placed according to their earthly power, gender, religion and professional status.  We saw a section for lawyers, priests, children. There was even a section for virgins.

Both of us felt shell-shocked afterwards. John said there was a lot to be said for cremation. I was just horrified by the state of the jaws and teeth.

For light relief we decided to go to the Puppet Show. John was quite growly about this, as he didn’t want to watch some kid’s show. It was a family affair; the grandfather, then the father and now the son and his son all make and perform the knightly tales of valour and bravery. To me there was a lot of violence and swords and killing and beheading. Very chivalric stuff. John was agog and totally loved it!

We came out and had to sit down and eat a ‘cannoli’ cake. It was just so exciting.

For me, the highlight of our stay in Palermo was not the delicious street food, not the fun of strolling along the Corso Vittorio Emmanuele and the Via Maqueda, but the day we bought bus tickets and struggled with three busses to get to the church at Monreale.

We had no idea what to expect. We only went because ‘the cousins’ had recommended it that night by the Opera steps.

It is a masterpiece of the Norman era (1172-1176) and comprises Byzantine, Romanesque and Arab architecture. It is considered one of the most beautiful churches in the world. And it is. We arrived at Monreale in time for coffee and cake (of course), then wandered over and stayed for the whole of the Mass. The church was full, the tourists were huddled at the back, and the sun shone on the 46 massive gold mosaics depicting Bible stories. Ahead was a huge, majestic image of Jesus that dominates all, His eyes following everything and everyone. I felt very emotional for the whole of the hour I stood in that place, looking and listening to the music and the service. I needed a tissue.

Later we bought a book, and read about the plans of the church and what the stories were depicting. Obviously I recognised the baptism of Jesus, Joseph’s dream, Noah and his ark, the miracle of the fishes but what was this, the ‘healing of Peter’s mother-in-law’??? I don’t know that one.

The beautiful Arabic writing and patterns were superior to anything that I have seen in the mosques in the Middle East. What a fabulous find.

We found a restaurant selling ‘traditional Sicilian food’, so we chose pasta con le sarde. It was awful. Literally a can of sardines between us on a bowl of spaghetti and a bill for 24 euros. Sort of thing you might feed your cat. It is supposed to be the national dish of Sicily. Maybe one day we will taste it cooked properly.

We did feel that we were being ripped off a lot on this holiday. Still, the church was magnificent.