Wow. What a day. My hands are still shaking as I walk down the steps and, as is becoming the norm after travelling cross-country, I’m beginning to feel a bit sub-human. From Florence to Naples to Ischia it has been a crazy ride, an exhausting, exhilarating day.
This morning I woke up at 7am to catch the train from the Santa Maria Novella station in Florence to Firenze Rifredi, only the next station down, about five minutes away, but wanting to allow time for the guaranteed surprises of the Italian transport system, I’d given myself an extra 2 hours and 55 minutes. To my surprise the connection went fine and the train was actually on time, in fact, I had over 2 hours to spare. Luckily, the Firenze Rifredi station has a small adjoining café and I was able to sit there in front of a large cast-iron window and watch the sun come into bloom over the city. I consumed two cappuccinos and two croissants and although completely bleary and bug-eyed, I was able to do some journaling.
While writing, I observed that every time the train from Florence arrived, a hoard of Italians rushed into the coffee shop. They created a typical Italian line in the form of a clump and reached eagerly up to the counter, vying for their morning medicine: espresso, pastries, tobacco. One chubby red-nosed older Italian man, leisurely enjoying his croissant, came over to me, tapped me on the shoulder, wiggled his fingers in the air as if writing a book, grinned, and said “brava,” “molto brava.” I thanked him and smiled. Brava in Italian generally means good, but often implies more than good, such as smart or excellent, and is usually used to compliment someone for doing something worthwhile, or to hit on women. I thanked him and laughed quietly. I laughed because scribbling away in my journal falls pretty short of smart or excellent, because in Italy it has become second nature to have men more than twice my age try to flirt with me, and because all the while he had powdered sugar from his pastry dusted on the tip of his nose.
The train for Naples arrived exactly on time. I applauded the Italians for this. The Italian transport system has the reputation of being haphazard, lackadaisical, inconsistent, reckless; the list goes on and on. While I agree with the belief that riding a train throughout Italy, or all of Europe for that matter, can certainly be haphazard and reckless, and that in no way is the time given or even for that matter the destination indicated necessarily correct, I am proud to say today all was perfect. I validated my 9.00€ ticket to Naples, packed myself into a cabin with six others, and sat back to enjoy the five-hour ride that on the way, would stop in every single little town.
I slept through the entire ride all the while, listening to my dying iPod and with my head banging against the window. During brief spurts of consciousness I looked out to see rolling hills, classic cypresses, archetypal stone buildings, and tiny hilltop towns. Later, I awoke to the smell of food. Yep, 2:00p.m., the exact hour for lunch in Italy. I noticed my entire cabin seemed to be eating at precisely the same time. One elderly lady ate an entire ball of mozzarella, one couple sliced pecorino onto thick slabs of focaccia, and a young man with a beer belly vigorously chomped on his prosciutto and tomato sandwich. When I got to Napoli Centrale, the main train station in Naples, I rushed off the train and went to find an ATM before I took a taxi to catch my ferry. Classicly, I think this has happened every time I’ve been to Napoli Centrale, the ATM was broken, and we all had to wait in line for the bank teller to fix it. It then took another half hour for everyone to take out money, by which time there was not much money left in the machine, and I had to take out significantly less than planned. This would not have been a problem except part of me suspected there wouldn’t be ATMs or possibly even credit card machines where I was headed.
Outside Napoli Centrale, I went to find a taxi. When the driver told me it would cost 15€ to get to the port, I laughed out loud. I then had to go back inside the chaos that is Napoli Centrale and find a coffee shop where I could buy a bus ticket for a reasonable price. The hilarity was that Porto Molo Beverello, the main port in Naples, is less than 10 minutes away, and easy walk. If I hadn’t had bags and felt prepared to deal with the heat, with the depth, or with the confusion of Naple’s sidewalk markets, I would have walked. However, I did not, and the fact that the taxi driver was trying to hugely scam me was another sign of the place I was.
The bus in Naples has always been fairly easy to navigate and significantly cheaper than a taxi. At 1.90€ a ticket, as long as you don’t mind older men with gold teeth hitting on you and telling you to hide your backpack from robbers, the bus is the best option. I recognized the port in time and jumped off. At the port, although I had pre-booked a ticket, apparently the wrong thing to do, as pre-booking ferry tickets online are at least twice if not three times the cost of buying them upon arrival, I still had to wait in line for a ‘real’ ticket. With my ‘real’ ticket I went to pier 8 and got in line for the ferry I was told would take me to Forio, Ischia (remember this, as it is vital later). I waited in line again, well, the Italian version of a line, a massive clump of people pushing and shoving, and when the ferry arrived, made a mad dash for it like everyone else.
On board, after people finished pushing and shoving and throwing their suitcases around, it was quite pleasant, and I enjoyed the ride. As we passed through the Tyrrhenian Sea people ate croissants, drank coffee, and smoked cigarettes. I sat on my bag near the front of the boat and ate yet another nutella croissant. I waited there to avoid the second rush of people that would occur when we docked. However, I did not avoid the rush. With lots of people pushing and falling over bags, the poor staff tried to put up the rail connecting us to the dock. This was difficult as apparently most Italians would rather breach the gap between the ocean and the dock than wait for the ladder to be put up and walk safely to shore. With difficulty, I got off and boarded the bus in what I thought was Forio. I had directions to the hostel and wanted to confirm I was going the right way, but there was no hope of that, since the bus ride was so hysterical and overpacked I could not make my way to the front to speak with the driver.
When I first walked into the piazza in what I believed to be Forio, I saw my bus, the CS, completely jam-packed with people hanging out the windows and doors. The driver could not depart for a good fifteen minutes because he could not make people get off the bus to make space to close the doors. Obviously, I waited for the next bus, but of course so did about 50 other people so that when it pulled up there was another mad rush to the door, and by pushing and yelling, I boarded.
The bus ride from what I thought was Forio was supposed to be 5–10 minutes, so you can imagine my confusion when 25 minutes later there was still no sign for the hostel. Wall to wall people, I shoved myself to the door and got off the bus — god knows where — just in time for the sunset. A bit panicky as it was now getting dark, I turned on my American phone and used my ridiculously over-priced data to see if I could walk to the hostel. Imagine my confusion when Google Maps said Paradise Beach Hostel was 38 minutes away! I quickly learned that I was in Lacco Ameno, a seaside town halfway between Ischia Porto and Forio, and that obviously I’d disembarked in the wrong town, on completely the other side of the Island and about as far away from Forio as you can get. If the ferry had gone to Forio after dropping me in Ischia Porto, I have no idea, but either way, I wasn’t on it.
I decided I’d had enough and went to take a taxi, although I’d been prewarned by Shaun, the owner of Paradise Hostel, that this was selling my soul to the devil. Shaun was right and the idea was quickly dismissed as the taxi driver tried to charge me 25€. Ha! I didn’t think so! So I was back to the curb waiting for the bus, and trying to enjoy the sunset, even though at this point I was a bit perplexed. Eventually, another taxi pulled up and told me 5€ to Forio, (on a side note, I think there is a bit of inconsistency with the taxi drivers there), and I eagerly jumped in. When I told him the actual address of my hostel the fare went up to 10€ but at that point I really didn’t care. In the end it was a very pleasant ride. My taxi driver, Angelo (?), was very kind and dropped me off exactly where I’d asked. It turned out he even knew my friend who owned a restaurant in Forio. He gave me his card and told me if I ever needed anything to call him or his family.
At long last I made it to my hostel! I sighed and a ridiculously big grin spread across my face as I looked up to see the plastic orange and green sign adorned with a palm tree announcing the location of Paradise Beach Hostel. But in typical Italian island fashion, before reaching the hostel, I had to traverse my way down a long and winding, steep island path in the twilight. I passed grapevines, trees, cats and in the distance heard dogs barking. I could see the last of the sunset spreading over what looked like the ocean and I realized I didn’t much mind the trek.
I got to the hostel and opened the door to find Shaun waiting for me at the front desk with his puppy Tequila. Thank god I was easily checked in. I was told to drop my bags off in my room and to come back up, for the staff and all the guests were going out for a pizza at a restaurant down the street, and I was invited.
I sat there at Il Fuoco, the local pizzeria and average Italian restaurant in Cuotto (we were actually one tiny town over from Forio), and I smiled at the collection of people around me. There was Shaun, the hostel owner and island resident for three years who was from New Zealand, a teenage couple from France, two guests from Chili, an American girl and boy traveling indefinitely, a couple of Australians (there are always Australians in hostels) and a student from Kosova. I ordered a classic Pizza Napoletana, my favorite, with anchovies and capers, a liter of wine, and dug in. Shaun told me a story of how the islanders, Ischians, wouldn’t sell him things such as grass seed or curtains or anything really for his hostel. When I asked why, he told me it was because they believe he’ll misuse them. He said because he’s a foreigner and hasn’t been living on Ischia for generations, the Ischians firmly believe he won’t know how to properly plant grass seed or hang curtains, and that because of his inability to do these things the Ischian way, he will throughly mess up the rhythm of life on the Island.
I ate too much, and as we headed back I smelt of anchovies and capers. While journaling on the outside ocean terrace before bed, I met Daniel from Newcastle, who was working at the hostel for free in exchange for room and board. He has been traveling around Italy using HelpX, a website that connects workers to employers and allows them to trade labor for room and board. We had a few shots of limoncello, the typical sweet Italian liquor, took a look at the pool overlooking the ocean, which was next to my room I might add, and went to bed. For the first time in nearly a year, I didn’t set an alarm.
