[title type="h5"]Monday, April 28, 2014.
We Find The Beautiful Side Of Naples. And Pizza.[/title]
The slow glide into the harbor at Naples gives us plenty of time for breakfast on the deck, where we discover that the sprinkling of rain that chased us into the ship last evening in Palermo has turned into a dark, mean-looking grey sky.
But it's not so bad that we hesitate to head out. The number of attractions is large. There's the Amalfi Coast to the north, Capri and Ischia across the bay, Mount Vesuvius, Pompeii and Herculaneum. And, hardly least, the city of Naples itself. We are warned once again that there are pickpocketers and worse in the town, and that we should avoid isolated areas. This would not be a problem. Everywhere we go we encounter lots of people, most of them well groomed and stylishly attired. (Italians as a whole are the best-dressed people on earth).
As we remember from our other three visits to this ancient port (the Greeks established it and let it die twice before the Romans got here), a phalanx of taxis wait to have their services requested for the day. We talk with some of them and learn that the wishes of Mary Ann and her sisters will not likely be fulfilled. "You can go to Capri," one of them says of the 45-minute hydrofoil trip to that astonishingly beautiful island. "But with the weather, you might not get a boat back. It's not the season yet. You will find only coffee shops open. None of the big stores or restaurants! Not until next week!"
Mary Ann wanted to climb to the top of Vesuvius. "Don't bother," said another taxi driver. "See the clouds around the mountain? You will go up and see nothing but fog!"
Of course, these guys are hustling their own specialty--driving people around the city and up to Pompeii and beyond. But when I check in at the booth where tickets to Capri are sold, we learn that the cabbies tell the truth: it is quite possible that we will get stranded on the island.
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The bus to Posillippo, the most beautiful part of Naples.[/caption]
To my astonishment, the girls decide to take my suggestion. We board one of those open-top buses that will take us into the most affluent quarter of the city, Posilippo. It's on a steep, high ridge running along the coast and facing into the bay, giving a magnificent view from almost any vantage point. Mary Ann is particularly transported by the sights, and says that her opinion of Naples has changed entirely. This, clearly, is the place to walk around, shop, dine in the trattorias, and enjoy.
Alas, that plan will have to wait until next time. The higher we go, the more rain comes down, and the colder it gets. It was never a downpour, but up on the open top deck of the full bus, there is no place to escape. None of us have umbrellas or raincoats. I am wearing a new blazer with a small hole in the sleeve that makes it worthless, so I am somewhat protected. (After I offer it to the girls.)
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Castel Nuovo.[/caption]
Still, the girls' enthusiasm for this place is undampened. By the time we get down to the magnificent medieval Castel Nuovo--a building so massive that it seems to appear prominently in almost any view of the city--the sun is filtering through. A little.
In front of the Castel, the bus route ends. We are told that to continue our jump-on, jump-off tour, we would have to change buses. But I can't seem to get anyone to sell tickets even to the ride we just finished. The lady on the top deck tells me to go downstairs. The guy downstairs says to go back upstairs. I try and try, but when we walk away we have still not paid a lira for our bus ride.
We walk. First, a tour of Castel Nuovo, which seems much smaller inside than outside. Then we enter the largest centrum in Europe, with buildings both very old and very new, and wander around. We stop for espresso and pastries and ask directions to the wide pedestrian passageway we remember from our last trip. Even with a light drizzle and depressing overcast skies, the way is full of people, at least half of whom appear to be natives.
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Shop full of pastries and chocolate in Naples.[/caption]
The girls love the stores, and leave me looking all around for them as they pop in and pop out. I'm on the lookout for Pizzeria Brandi, which claims to have originated the pizza as we know it in 1780. We find it, but it's closed on Mondays. (Many, many businesses here keep that schedule.)
The inevitable happens. In a large piazza, I am standing alone, with none of the four women to be seen. As usual, an attempt to send a text message is thwarted by a lack of connectivity. After standing around for fifteen minutes, I turn towards a large chocolate shop, to which I expect MA to return sooner or later. She and her sibs do that, before I even get there. They have sighted the second-best pizzeria, this one ready to serve us.
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Rosati Pizzeri's oven.[/caption]
Pizzeria Rosati reminds me so much of the place we visited last time that I'm surprised when the waiter says that Bill Clinton never ate there. That's what I most recall from the earlier pizzeria, now renamed "Il Pizzaiolo del Presidente." These places all look a lot alike, with very similar wood-burning, stone-and-brick ovens.
We have two pizzas, much thicker than typical but otherwise good. I hold everything up by ordering a salad. (I keep forgetting that women don't eat when a man wants to eat.)
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Pizza at Rosati.[/caption]
One way in which we agree is that we have had a full day, a very full cruise and pre-cruise, and that we are tired. The sisters accompany me back to the ship. But when Mary Ann sees what time it is, she dismisses the whole sorry bunch of us, grabs a cab, and heads to Mount Vesuvius. When she gets there, she finds her intention of walking up to the top unrealistic. The fog is as dense as had been reported. The two striking sights are the lushness of the vegetation and the winding quality of the road heading to the top. She turns the cab around and heads back to the ship, where she boards a few minutes before the gangway goes up.
That's my wife, all right.
It's the final night of our long vacation. The days we spent in Belgium seem to have occurred months ago. That means it must have been a very good tour.
Tom's Pre-Dinner Martini Club meets one last time, back in the Explorer's Club. I am interested in seeing how this will play with the handful of people who are listening to the classical pianist and violinist as if they were attending a religious service. Two nights ago, one of them approached me with a challenge to our right to be here.
"I understand you are with the group from New Orleans," he said. "I hear that you are very influential in this group." I shrugged my shoulders, and he continued to sprinkle fertilizer around. "We come here every night to listen to the classical musicians. Your people are a bit boisterous, and they make it hard to concentrate on the music."
"Well, we're from New Orleans, and we celebrate music," I said. "The way audiences laugh during operas. You know. And we also celebrate drinking. This is a bar, after all," I said, swooping my arm towards the rather large bar, which was staffed by three waiters and a mixologist. "And we're on that side of the room, away from the music."
"Yes, but I wonder if you could find any other place to have your gatherings," the man says. I tell him that directing the Eat Club is like herding cats. But I say I'll try. I know that the next night we will be in the midst of our wine tasting at this time, so he would think I took his request seriously. But tonight is the final night of the cruise, when everything is happy and loose. And we are back in the Explorer's Club, easily our favorite place to meet for a pre-dinner drink. One of the reasons is that we like the classical musicians, too. The man and his four friends ignore the forty of us. At least, I hope he did.
Dinner in the main dining room is no better than the others. Mary Ann wanted to dine in the buffet and then begin packing. I join her for a few minutes, long enough to see that the menus in the buffet and the dining room tonight are nearly one hundred percent identical. I don't think I've ever seen that on a cruise before.
After dinner, I adjourn to the piano bar, where Kenn is holding forth well. I try to leave him a tip, but he says it isn't allowed. I say that's his problem, and I leave the Jackson to, I hope, attract more of its kind.
[title type="h6"] Yesterday || Tomorrow[/title]
