If It's Tuesday, This Must Be Naples

Saturday, 18th October

How marvelous, a holiday that doesn’t start with an alarm going off at stupid o’clock.  We got off to a flying start on the grand tour, largely by flying to Palermo.  We dropped the car off at the valet parking (love it), and went to the Speedy Boarding Plus check-in.  One day, everyone will cotton on to Speedy Boarding, and then we will all be back to square one.  Lots of screaming infants on the plane, mercifully none near us.  There was a nasty drop due to an air pocket, just as we were coming in to land.  Apart from the blood-curdling scream that this produced, Xanthe was remarkably quiet for all of the flight. 


Our hotel in Palermo was a little bit weird, not least of which being that it wasn't actually IN Palermo, and the fact that it was more than slightly orange.  Serves us right for booking through Easyjet.

We found a little restaurant near the hotel, which was very much in the ‘you’ll eat what you’re given’ mode.  We had ‘Frutta di mare mista,’ and an excellent ‘pesce grigliata, con salata.’  Perry surprised me by eating a substantial amount of the salad.  And it was mostly green.  There was a little debate over what sort of ‘pesce’ it was.  I thought it might be bream, and the waiter told us it was a ‘sarago.’  We dined ‘al fresco,’ overlooking the little bay, and it was charming.  Online, back at the hotel, I googled it.  Bream, bingo!

Sunday, 19^th October

A reasonably early start, leaving the Palm Beach Hotel (it was a hotel, but a bit short on the palm, or beach, front) at nine.  Breakfast was dominated by French Saga louts, all wearing shorts – revealing distinctly dodgy, wrinkly knees.  It was hard to work out who were the chavs, and who the chav-nots.  We had a moderately hair-raising journey to Palermo Stazione Centrale.  The train took two hours and twenty minutes to reach Milazzo, and we were taken to the hydrofoil by an ageing hippy.  He looked like an Italian ‘carne-pane’ (Meatloaf?), and his ‘antichita’ Fiat stalled repeatedly on the way to the port.  We are struggling with the local dialect.  And the locals are struggling with our Battersea-isms.  My Italian is a grubby mix of French, Latin and Spanish, but we are coping.  We took the hydrofoil to Lipari, just making the onward connection to Salina by ‘la pelle della nos denti.’

The hotel is a rustic triumph, perched on the mountainside, with a not quite infinity pool, (a palm tree pops up to destroy the effect) and a spa.  Xanthe has declared it the best hotel she has ever stayed in, as usual.  We sat on the main roof terrace, and drank cocktails before supper.  Unfortunately, the mosquitoes here are vicious.  Some of the worst I’ve encountered.  Ever.

Monday, 20^th October

Troy and I were up remarkably early today.  Considering.  Considering we didn’t have to be.  Actually it was quite nice for a change.  The morning was spent chilling by the pool, and trying to take a decent photo of the giant blue bees which are everywhere.  We all hit the spa this afternoon.  It is a proper ‘terme,’ with a variety of different mineral baths. We steamed (in a traditional tholos), Jacuzzi-ed, kniped and hydrotherapied with the best of them.  Supper out of the hotel tonight, although it took a little while to find the restaurant.  Off to Napoli ‘domani.’

Tuesday, 21^st October

Up before any larks were, at six.  We had an anxious moment when the taxi hadn’t turned up by ten to seven.  We are so used to our cars turning up at least quarter of an hour early, that it’s unnerving to deal with the southern Mediterranean taxi ethos.  We got to the port at San Marina in ample time, only for the ferry to be nearly ten minutes late.  The first stop was Lipari, where a gaggle of ‘ragazzi’ got off to go to school, accompanied by some exasperated looking adults, who must have been their teachers.  I thought it might be easier just to have a floating school that circumnavigates the islands.  Although that might make sport a little tricky.  They could always go swimming.

Next stop Vulcano, and at this point it was looking increasingly unlikely that we would make the 9.52 train to Napoli.  We should have arrived at Milazzo at 8.50, but didn’t in fact land until 9.20.  I got myself to the front of the disembarkation queue, (this week is turning me into a bit of a militant traveler), and legged it for a taxi.  ‘Milazzo Stazione!’  I barked at the taxi driver, and he sensed my level of urgency.  It took just over five minutes to the station, and I ran to the ticket office.  Three minutes later I was in possession of a first class family ticket to Napoli Centrale, and we trundled the cases as fast as we could, to Platform 4, to meet the express service from Palermo Centrale to Roma Termini.  Only to find that it was running thirty minutes late.  You can see a theme emerging here.  All that rushing about for nothing.  Pesky Russians.

At Messina Maritime, the train did a remarkable thing.  It got on a ferry.  In fact it split in two, and got on the ferry.  We got off and went deckside for some fresh air.  After the short crossing from Sicily to mainland Reggio Calabria, the train settled it’s issues, got back together again, and continued along the coast to Naples.  I dozed happily, listening to my meditation playlist of various Paul McKenna tracks, and was rudely awoken by Aerosmith, insisting that I ‘Walk This Way.’  How did that get on the playlist?  By the time I got to Napoli Centrale, I was neither thinner, nor richer.

Naples seems to be the underbelly of Southern Italy, every street is hung with washing, and there is constant tooting and beeping from the near stationary traffic.  It seems incredibly poor, with none of the shops that one would associate with a major Italian city.  Although proud of its Greek heritage, Neopolis looks like the backdrop to one of Fellini’s darkest films.  We checked into the Villa Ranieri.  This used to be an aristocrat’s home, but the wallpaper was peeling off the walls because of the damp.  It was trying to punch higher than it’s weight, claiming a four star status, but generally falling apart at the edges.  In fact, if Claudio Ranieri did run a hotel, that’s exactly what it would be like.

The concierge recommended a restaurant to us, and we walked about fifteen minutes (downhill) to it.  It had closed down.  However, we did find a little pizza bar nearby.  We had a good meal, which came to around fifty euros, including the tip, for four massive pizzas (we really didn’t need one each), two desserts, three beers, three soft drinks, and a bottle of wine.  Staying in an underbelly can have its advantages.

Wednesday, 22^nd October

A civilized start time for our trip to Milano.  The hotel boasted of ‘the best breakfast in Naples.’  So, good job we didn’t stay anywhere else then.  It was the usual plastic cheese and cheap cold meats, enlivened by the offering of coca-cola and profiteroles.  What?  For Breakfast?  Bring it on.  The coffee was first class though, as were the toiletries (not at breakfast, in the room - doh!).  Small mercies.

We hopped in a cab to the airport.  The flight at the gate before ours was going to Lourdes, so there were lots of folk in wheelchairs.  Their faith didn’t manage to get the flight off on time, so I don’t hold out much hope for a pile of abandoned wheelchairs at Lourdes airport for the return leg.

Milan was overcast and drizzly, and there’s only one thing to do in Milan anyway.  So we hit the shops.  I spent a ludicrous amount of money on a new collar for Oly.  We went to a potty restaurant in the evening, the décor, service, and music were all great, but sadly the food left a lot to be desired.  And cost three hundred euros.  Come back, Napoli, all is forgiven.

Thursday, 23^rd October

We walked to Milano Centrale – which is not unlike Grand Central, NY.  On the way, Xanthe and I made a detour, to one of the many bead and jewel shops we had spotted the night before.  There were loads of gorgeous chunky faceted beads and drops, with chunky silver clasps.  We chose heavy faceted garnets, smooth turquoise pebbles, and crisply clear amethysts.  Just as in the eastern parts of Europe, these gems are sold by weight, the boy serving us winced when he saw the price.  His boss said that he would do us a wholesale price, so we chose a further large multicoloured quartz, a massive flat turquoise, and a pendant with three rough rubies and a freshwater pearl.  The total bill came to less than eighty euros for cash.

Having established that there was no ‘carozza mangiare,’ (what is it with Italians that they can get on a five hour train, with only a mouthful-sized espresso for sustenance?), we armed ourselves with ‘panini e bebite.’  Surely this was the point at which nothing could actually get cocked up on our precarious travel arrangements.  Or so you might think.  No more than ten minutes into the journey to Nice, we were informed that because of a strike by the SNCF staff, the train would be terminating in Ventimiglia.  Ah.  And there were no guarantees of onward travel.  I ran through the possibilities, trying to (a) not panic, and (b) not have a paddy.  We could try to get a coach from Ventimiglia to Nice – did such a beast exist?  We could hop in a taxi to Nizza Centrale – how much would that cost?  We could try to change our hire car booking to collect in Ventimiglia – was there a Europcar office?  Although my French could cope with these complex issues, I was sure ‘mi Italiano’ would not.  I elected to throw our travel arrangements into the hands of The Fates, and trust that karma, entropy, and the universe, would provide the answer.

A couple of hours later, karma, entropy, and the universe, hadn’t emailed, faxed or phoned.   We munched ‘nostre Panini in cilencia.’  I continued to churn over the possibilities, and came up with – nada.  Yes, I do know that’s Spanish.  About twenty minutes before our scheduled journey execution in Ventimiglia, it seemed our sentence had been commuted.  There was a regional French train scheduled from Ventemille to Nice, which would get us in only forty-five minutes late.  Result!  Now, the Iltalians might have sea-faring trains, but the French can go one better – double decker trains!

Oh, how great to be back in our little house in the mountains in the Var.  And a whole two sleeps, although only thirty six hours, until we are home in not-so-sunny Battersea.