On the way to Assisi: Foligno

We ate breakfast on the terrace in Amalfi, served by skinny Renaldo who buzzed and hummed about, making an occasional nervous foray into conversation about his marriage to a Russian woman from Eastern Siberia, his three year old child, how he works all night and goes home to play with his child before sleeping in the afternoon – all in Italian mind you. The young man who helped Bill carry our bags to the car, down the numerous flights of stairs, was not nearly as affable.

“For one night in this hotel you need all these bags?” We didn’t bother to explain that bringing all the bags into the hotel wasn’t our decision. The young woman who helped us unload informed us that “Your car will be parked in a public garage,” and insisted everything be removed before giving it to the attendant to park.

Even our GPS had a hard time finding the Delfina Palace Hotel in Foligno where we would spend two nights while visiting Assisi. A new 4-star hotel, the Delfina was a sprawling but mostly empty hotel set in a formal landscape of gardens in a rural setting along the Via Romana Antica outside Foligno. It was the only place we stayed that had an abundance of empty parking spaces – unusual in a country with too many cars and too many tourists. During our first night visit, we saw only five people -- two men and a woman in the lobby bar, the girl behind the desk and the waiter in charge of the breakfast room but our room was spacious, making up in comfort what it lacked in activity.

Deciding that we did not want to eat in the sprawling empty dining room, we headed into Foligno to find a place to dine and got hopelessly lost in a tangle of dark streets. A young woman in a still open flower shop personally took us to Lassame Lento, a tiny, hidden, and unimposing little trattoria where we feasted among single working men on varied antipasto selections, tagliatelle with tartuffe (truffles), house wine, and for desert a delicate panna cotta with fresh berry sauce.

Our evening in Foligno came to a close as we walked back to our car, preceded by three Franciscan Friars in their habits, laughing and eating ice-cream cones as they walked.

Positano and the wine of memory

Bill and I woke to our final morning in Piano di Sorrento to the sound of children's voice emanating from a small school one block away: the Scuola Via della Acacha -- A public elementary school with a choir of little ones that sang like angels.

As if the Pied Piper were leading a group of singing children down the streets of the town, I felt the pull of that music. The children were still singing as we pulled away from the Maison de Titty and began our trip to Positano.

I know it sounds extreme, but Positano holds the wine of my most potent memories. It was there, many years ago, that the sight of small school children dressed in blue smocks and pinafores skipping home for lunch, brought an ache to my heart. There where we ate freshly caught fish on the beach and bought baskets of strawberries and wine. There in a hotel overlooking the sea --where the bougainvillea-covered patio shielded us from the sun as we ate breakfast, where in a room filled with the scent of blossoming lemon trees and soft afternoon breezes -- that we made love for the first time.

Make a Smilebox slideshow

As in all the towns along the Amalfi Coast, one does a lot of climbing in Positano. Cars cannot negotiate the town proper and we considered ourselves lucky to find a parking space way, way, above the town. We descended via a narrow stair-and alleyway down the cliffside, arriving at Fornillo's Spiaggia, a beachside hotel where Bill drank espresso and I sipped a frosted glass of freshly squeezed orange juice (which one finds all over Italy, even at highway rest-stops) under a lovely open gallery.

I was surprised by the number of tourist in the town proper. By October the crowds have usually thinned. Thirty-five years ago, if my memory serves, there were no crowds. It was just a small fishing town clinging to the Amalfi Coast. High-end shops didn't cluster under its arcades, and I remember only a few small restaurants. But as then, the town was radiant with flowers cascading from every balcony and terrace and adorning windows and stairways.

No longer there, was the plaque on the wall outside the cathedral telling the story of the miraculous statue that had washed up on the beach, but within the Cathedral, behind iron gates a statue of the virgin stood to the left of a side altar. I'd never seen the statue. When Vittorio and I were there the cathedral was closed, so I can't verify the statue's existence behind those gates.

When Bill and I sought a place to eat lunch, none resembled the simple trattoria where Vittorio and I had eaten. We had a fine meal, though, at a restaurant called La Cambusa where we sat on under a bright orange awning above the beach and watched the artists below at work. I had mixed feelings about having to leave the town so soon after lunch. I wanted to do more exploring, but more of the gorgeous Amalfi Drive lay ahead of us and one doesn't want to miss one curve or one view by driving in the dark.

Slide Show of our first days in Italy: Rome

This should have been posted before the Ostia Antica to Amalfi as the slides in this smilebox preceded that trip by four days.

Make a Smilebox slideshow

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 . . .