Hot Dog Rolls for breakfast and a day in Capri

As if she'd been awaiting the exact moment of our arrival on the patio for breakfast the next morning, Rita –Titty’s mother (of La Maison de Titty), hurried out with tiny éclairs with Nutella, coffee, and . . . of all things … hot dog rolls. These rolls tickled our funny bones. We’d hoped for the small hard rolls we’d slathered with butter and jelly in Rome but had gotten hot dog rolls. We did have prosciutto and cheese, however, and I found that these together with jelly (don’t cringe) on dried tostini (melba toasts) made a satisfactory breakfast.

Michele, Titty’s father, was waiting for us when we emerged with our cameras and carry bags from our room to drive us to the port in Sorrento. After showing us where to wait for the ferry to Capri, he disappeared, reappearing again suddenly with two bus tickets for our return trip to Piano di Sorrento that evening. Touched by this generosity, we found it easy to forgive La Maison de Titty the hot dog rolls for breakfast.

Determined to do Capri by bus, we waited for half an hour in the hot Capri sun before Bill, bless him, decided to hire one of the open-topped cabs waiting to ferry the more spend-thrift tourists around the island. I felt like a movie star with my sun glasses and straw hat as we cruised up and down Capri’s lush roads on Luigi’s tour. First stop was the Blue Grotto, where with Bill tucked between my legs, and a sweet Canadian woman tucked between Bill’s legs – her husband in front behind the oarsman, we ducked simultaneously as the small boat surged into the luminescent cave, our boatman’s tenor shimmering off the rocks and echoing throughout the chamber.

From the Blue Grotto, Luigi took us to Anacapri where we spent a wonderful hour wandering through San Michele, the roman villa that famed physician and author Axel Munch built with what remained of Emperor Tiberius’s old palace. Though crowded with tourists, the site elicited in me a great sense of inner quiet as I roamed about taking photos of the columned porticoes, exquisite gardens, and magnificent views. From there it was back to Capri via Marina Piccola, the exquisite bay with its amazing pinnacled rocks.

Back in Capri, having paid Luigi too much, we went in search of the Gardens of Augustus with views of the surrounding terrain and sea, and then – seeing from that vantage point what looked like a monastery – down to the Cloisters of San Giacomo, which were unfortunately closed by the time we reached them. From there we wandered through narrow alleys and side streets back down to Capri – a walk which could have been called a Tour of Capri Cats because kitties were everywhere: tucked under bushes and into the niches of walls, lying on columns and stairways, or leaping after flies.

My favorite memory of this trip, however, is not of the scenery or sites, but of Bill’s laughter as he watched the dynamics between a couple nearby.

“Give me some water, will you?” the wife demands of her husband, turning to chat with a group of tourists. Her husband gets a bottled water from the sack he’s carrying and holds it out to her. She keeps on chatting. He keeps on offering the bottle. For a good five minutes he stands there, lifting the bottle toward her, until he finally gives up, shrugs, and puts the water back in his bag. Charlie Chaplin could have made hay with this seedling.

Piano di Sorrento, Le Maison de Titty, and Ristorante Betania

Having raced at speeds of over 160 kph on the autostrada the night before, I find it amusing that I should greet that very same autostrada with relief the following morning. Escaping the snarled suicide rush of autos, bicycles, motorcycles, trucks, buses, and pedestrians around the Naples Termini felt miraculous. We were finally “out-a-there.” (Apologies to all Naples lovers.)

Photo L to R: Michele, Rita, Titty, Beryl, Bill

The drive to Piano di Sorrento, where we would spend the next two nights at Le Maison de Titty, was gorgeous with fantastic views of the bay. Finding Piano di Sorrento was another matter. We drove right past the small sign announcing that town and were well on our way to Salerno when a phone call to the owner got us back to the town of Piano di Sorrento, north of the city of Sorrento. The hidden backstreet where the B&B was located continued to evade us. Unable to connect again with the owner, whose phone was busy) we asked a motorcyclist waiting next to a small church. Rather than giving us verbal directions, he led us to Via Legittimo, a narrow cobbled street where the number 38 identified the B&B's location. As we rang the bell in the wall, a solid metal gate opened slowly to reveal a lovely secluded garden. Titty, a exuberant young woman with that wonderful fly-away curly hair I’ve noticed on so many Italian women welcomed us and after showing us our room, settled us at an outside patio and served us coffee with a torte made by her mother Rita while her dad Michele presented a host of siteseeing options and suggestions for places to dine that night.

Having several hours of daylight at our disposal, Bill and I set off to explore the town and find the waterfront. We needed exercise and Piano di Sorrento gave us plenty of that. We never did find the waterfront but instead got wonderfully lost in a maze of narrow alley’s frequented by motorcyclists and residents in their autos that flattened us against the walls and ornate gates behind which hid beautiful homes and magical gardens. In one such garden -- abandoned -- a striped tabby-cat lolled in the dappled sunlight a top a broken pillar.

A steep climb back toward the B&B to find the restaurant Michele had praised so highly required more detective work as we made our way past a park, church, and into and up another narrow alley.

Don’t let the pizza-kitchen-entrance to Risorante Betania deceive you. Behind that deceptive façade is a wondrous cave-like room – dark and candle lit – with only a few tables and a handsome young waiter.

And, for love of God, don’t miss dining at Ristorante Betania either. Our meal there stands out as one of the VERY BEST of all the wonderful meals we ate in Italy. An artistic masterpiece of an antipasto -- fresh buffalo mozzarella, puff pizza, crusted rice balls, melon balls, prosciutto, grilled zucchini, and carrots in balsamic vinegar – preceded the melt-in-your-mouth fall-off-the bone shank of lamb and roasted potatoes. Served with a great house wine and thick crusty bread to sop up all the juices. For dessert crème brulé and panacotta.

Sated and wondrously relaxed we made our way back to the secret garden at Le Maison de Titty and our lovely, secluded room.

At a loss in Naples

The center of the city and not the Docks at Naples was what we were looking for when we arrived in Naples late the night of October 10, my 69th birthday. The docks are a poorly lit jungle of dead ends and warehouses that we escaped only when a kindly policeman came to our rescue and told us how to get back onto the highway and what exit to take.

Described on its web page as "situated next to Piazza Garibaldi, in the heart of Naples, only 200 meters from the central railway station," the Hotel Garden on Corso Garibaldi. should have been easy to find but the area around the railway station was such a confusing tangle of dim and dirty streets that it took three phone calls to the Hotel receptionist before we found the modest little hotel situated within a block of buildings on one side of the Piazza.

Though "parking" was listed as a hotel amenity, we could find no hotel parking lot so we pulled into an empty place across the street. “Oh you must not park there,” we were told. Another employee drove with him to show him the way to the public parking lot located several blocks away.

When he returned he looked a bit pale. “Did you notice that the Kalos has a vicious scratch along the passenger side?” he asked. I hadn’t noticed it. It must have happened while we were checking in, I suggested. This scrape was to worry us for the entire trip as we were not sure what to do. “We’ll ask Giulio,” I suggested and so we put off reporting the scrape.

My birthday had so far been a combination of both highs and lows. Our room, sparely furnished and decorated in a 50s style was not exactly a “high” but it was clean, spacious, and had a bidet (we were to become very fond of these wonderful cleansing devices throughout our trip and found them in every home or hotel we visited). Things were beginning to look up. When the receptionist told us that despite the late hour we’d find restaurants open, our situation brightened substantially.

Starving (it was by now after 9:30 p.m.) we went in search of dinner. I was about to walk over what I thought was a dirty piece of cardboard when I saw a foot sticking out from under it. “Bill, there’s a person there,” I whispered, grabbing his arm. There were other pieces of cardboard similarly inhabited in the lot where we’d first parked. Who were these poor unfortunates I wondered, and in what kind of a neighborhood was the Hotel Garden located?

When we found the Ristorante de Mimi on the street directly behind the hotel my impression of the neighborhood went up several notches. So did seeing a bright red Ferrari parked nearby.

Our meal was the high of our trip to Naples. While we sipped wine and savored a delicious dinner, a Romeo seated near us in a red sweater-vest nibbled on the hands and arms of the blond with him, interrupting his meal only to kiss her passionately; while next to us the owner of the restaurant fawned over a table of big sated-looking men. The supposition that only corrupt politicians and/or Mafiosi would be accorded such ongoing constant attention (we did not see any money offered in exchange for the food and service) brought a sense of intrigue to the end of our day despite the realization that this section of Naples was not what we'd have chosen had we known better.

Don't do Naples on your birthday

On my 69th birthday, we left Rome for Naples. This was not a wholly good idea, unless one thrives on travel tension.

October 10, 2008 started off innocently enough. We took a taxi to the Termini station where Avis has a rental pick up. Easy right? The taxi ride yes. Renting the car anything but.

Walking several blocks from the rental desk to the pick-up garage would not have been a problem if the carts we rented worked. But they didn't. When the first cart's wheels locked, we got another. When this also refused to move, we complained. The response? Termini’s luggage carts were not allowed outside the building. Their wheels lock automatically. So much for luggage carts.


Our largest suitcase, which handle broke at Fiumicino airport the night we arrived, together with our other medium- and small-sized suitcases, made a do-able situation difficult. When Bill's attempt to transport three bags collapsed onto the sidewalk, I turned back to the desk.

"We need to have the car dropped off HERE," I told the clerk, reminding him that I’d seen a car delivered to another couple. Ten minutes later a languid young man in a red jacket drove up in our Chevy Kalos, double parked it in front of the station and disappeared. Getting our bags into the car was easy. The tiny trunk actually held the two largest bags, and the rest fit easily onto the back seat.

Like shedding a heavy wool coat, we shrugged off tension and relaxed as our Garmen directed us out of Rome toward Ostia Antica, which we'd been told we "must not miss." A lovely lunch at a small restaurant in the nearby town followed by a leisurely walk midst the wondrous pines and ruins of the ancient port city put us in a celebratory frame of mind, which began to unravel by the end of the first half hour of what was a three hour traffic jam outside Rome.



Once out of Rome, however, the reverse occurred. The drive to Naples on A1, the autostrada leading to Naples, tested our nerves and our Chevy Kalos to the limit. The Kalos was not built to drive at 150 km an hour, neither were our nerves. The autostrada is a misnomer. Raceway would be a better term.

It was very dark and very late when we finally reached the outskirts of Naples, whereupon our trust Garmon failed us. It told us to turn when we were already well beyond where we should have turned (at such speeds, who could blame the poor machine) and so we got lost in Naples's Harbor, where as we drove into one dead end after another we felt like the foreigners we were.

To be continued . . .

Those gorgeous Italian women

At the small restaurant on Via Mario Fiori we checked the prices for breakfast -- 25€ ($38) for an American breakfast, 35 € ($53.20) for an English breakfast, 18€ ($25.70) for a continental breakfast.The cheapest breakfasts are eaten at a café bar – standing up. Order your coffee and biroche, pay the cashier, eat at the bar. Sitting down costs more. At the open air café on Via Frattina, we decided to sit anyway. I wanted to watch the people on that busy street, especially those gorgeous women of Rome who make jeans and a button down shirt look glamorous. Of course those jeans are often worn with high boots or stiletto heels (how they manage to stride so elegantly in those ankle-breakers is beyond me). The jewel-toned scarves they’ve tossed loosely over their shoulders or about their necks add just the right touch as do their shiny leather bags large enough to hold computers.The men weren't so bad either! These police in formal dress certainly cut an impressive swath along Via Frattini.

One of those gorgeous women is Vittorio’s niece Teresa who looks as lovely today as she did the last time I was in Italy 30 years ago. We had dinner with her companion Giulio in a hidden treasure of a restaurant, Osteria Casa Della Ioria (Chacco er Carettiere) which is tucked between a brick walkway along the Tiber and a bridge. This description of the Osteria's location might be colored by my imagination as I don't have a photo to refer to. I do, however, remember the antique cart in the entrance from which the Osteria drew its other name – Chacco er Carettiere. Perhaps Chacco means warehouse in old the Roman dialect. Carter's warehouse? Can anyone help here?

The Vatican and The Pope

For the audience with the Pope, Bill wore a dark suit and tie and I wore a long skirt and long sleeved blouse in dark colors as suggested in our information packet. Dark colors on hot days add up to a bit of discomfort. Many either didn't know or had discarded the bit of information about dark colors, and had come more wisely dressed in light shirts and slacks but from the absence of color in this photo one might think I'm exaggerating.

Many of us arrived early enough to find seats and waited patiently as the crowd swelled. It seemed to take forever for anything to begin happening.

We thought the audience was beginning, when a monsignor got up to announce his group from Germany; but no, this prelate went on and on, introducing every school, college, seminary, and church there. And then, alas, we had another long wait.

When a great surge of clapping and cheering broke out, we knew the Holy Father had arrived. We could follow his progress via the large TV screens located throughout the St. Peter's Square, but were too far away to get a good view ourselves.

As you can see, veryone is stretching to catch that photo, jumping onto their chairs which made it difficult to see over their heads. From our vantage point, the pope is a tiny white spec in the middle of the photo.

A telephoto lens captured this shot of the Holy Father. After he arrived at the dais, St. Paul's Epistle to the Philippian's (chapter 3 verses 4-14) was read aloud in the languages of the many gathered there. Then each group from the nations speaking those languages was introduced to a great waving of flags and hats accompanied by loud song and ecstatic cheering. We grinned when after the English version was read to hear that Bishop Schnurr of Duluth was there with a group of pilgrims from Minnesota -- all of them located up near the dais. We were not part of that group but cheered from afar.

"7But whatever was to my profit I now consider loss for the sake of Christ. 8What is more, I consider everything a loss compared to the surpassing greatness of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whose sake I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ 9and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ—the righteousness that comes from God and is by faith. 10I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, 11and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead." The Holy Father commented on these verses urging us to know Christ and to make Christ the center of our lives. Though our Italian is limited, Bill and I understood, almost as if we were participating in the first Pentecost when all those listening to the apostles heard them speaking in their own languages.

We moved from the sacred to the profane when on our way back to our apartment we encountered a crowd gathered around a group of young men as they spun, leaped, and gyrated to the rhythmical pounding of drums. Though not prayer in the sense we usually apply to this word, these young men were definitely celebrating the miracle of the human body and the gift of athletic dexterity.

To see historic Rome cheaply and at your leisure, take the #110 open archeobus from Termini – an inexpensive way to tour all the important city sights. One ticket allows the rider to get off whenever they wish to tour a particular site and to get back on another #110 bus when they are ready to continue the tour. Don't count on being able to listen to the tour descriptions however. On each open air bus #110 bus we took, people were continually moving from place to place trying to earphones that worked. Bill and I gave up and simply enjoyed the ride and the sights.

The view is splendid the top of the #110 bus, and from its lofty height I caught sight of Sister Clare Andre, a nun from my old monastery in New Jersey waiting in line. I yelled to her from the top of the bus but she didn’t hear us. Click here to read the earlier post telling of the chance and amazing meeting with Sister Clare Andre while waiting in line at the Vatican for tickets to the Papal Audience.

Walking Rome at Night

We spent most of our first full day in Rome either walking or standing. Having spent hours waiting on line for our tickets to the Papal audience, and flying through the Vatican museum before it closed, we stopped for some refreshments at a small cafe at the base of a long flight of stairs leading to the Metro. As Bill had never eaten gelato before, we ordered cups of mocha/chocolate gelato. Bill was so smitten that gelato in different flavors became an afternoon tradition for the rest of our journey.

Photo of a Roman Soldier out of his element

Concerning Gelato: “Let’s Go: Italy,” one of the most helpful of the tourist guides we’d brought along, described the difference between homemade or factory produced gelato. Gelato served from plastic containers is factory produced. Stainless-steel means homemade. Checking the color of the banana gelato is also a good clue. If it is bright yellow, it is factory produced. Slightly grayish banana gelato means homemade. Same with lemon. Homemade lemon is white whereas factory produced is yellow.

When we arrived back at the Piazza di Spagna we encountered an irritable Roman Soldier who’d somehow arrived there from the Roman Forum and was directing traffic with his sword and swearing at a huge group of chanting youth crowding the intersection. We hurried past him to our apartment where we rested until it was time to go in search of supper.

Fountain of Trevi at Night

“Where shall we go?” Bill asked. I suggested we head toward the Fountain of Trevi – a glorious sight at night and one Bill must see. Certainly there would be a good restaurant there. We headed out, confident we could find the Trevi Fountain by following the city map in our “Let’s Go” guide – a task not so easy at night when the print is small and the city streets dark and often narrow. It was the sound of rushing water that verified we were heading in the right direction. The fountain is huge and the water cascading from it voluminous. At night the fountain shimmers in blue and white light and the immense statues of Neptune, the sea-horses pulling his chariot and guided by Triton seem lifelike. Caught up in the visual, I forgot the tradition of standing with back turned to the fountain to toss a coin over one’s shoulder to make a wish.

Catacombs under the Vittorio Emanuele II Monument

Unwilling to merge with the throngs of tourists crowding the nearby restaurants, Bill and I walked in the general direction of the Piazza Venezia, a busy thoroughfare over which looms the Monument to Vittorio Emanuele II, erected over archeological ruins to celebrate Italy’s unification.

It’s not easy to cross the streets in Piazza Venezia. The traffic there is fast and heavy, so, though we headed in what we thought was the direction of the Coliseum and Roman Forum we ended up walking past the Capitoline Hill and the Theater of Marcello (which that night I thought was the Coliseum) and ended up near the Jewish Museum in the Jewish quarter next to the Tiber. This was a fortuitous turn of events for it was there that we finally found a place to eat. Nona Betta is an “authentic kosher restaurant” with empty tables on the sidewalk that beckoned to us to “sit and eat.” Which we did with great joy, dining sumptuously on penne picata, gnocchi parmesan, and a fennel, radiccio and orange salad.

Theater of Marcello

It was after 10 p.m. when we finished eating. Unable to find a taxi, we began our long walk back to the Piazza di Spagna and our apartment, on the way passing the Teatro and Area Sacra Argentina, and the Pantheon.