At the end of the school year, I flew to Italy with a good friend of 40 years. We had both been to Rome before, spending our first day climbing Capitoline Hill, viewing the vistas of the Roman Forum, throwing coins into Trevi Fountain.
I remembered Edith Wharton’s short story, “Roman Fever,” where two middle-aged women return to Rome after the death of their husbands, but luckily my friend and I had no secrets to reveal to one another. Her daughter, a successful musician and tour guide, lives in Rome now; she joined us for our walk around the city, and her Italian sweetheart made us a late evening fish dinner in their downtown apartment.
The next day we took a train to Naples, where I had lived my last year in high school while my father served in the NATO headquarters. Naples was as I remembered it: dirty alleyways, zooming cars and friendly people. I was surprised by the revival of the Napoli Centro with narrow shops along cobblestone alleyways, inviting us in to examine pasta, leather, ceramics.
Hidden cultural gems, that I don’t remember paying attention to in my teens, surrounded us in unexpected corners. We found the carved marble figure of the “Veiled Christ” in the Cappella Sansevero and a magnificent Caravaggio painting, The Seven works of Mercy, in the church of Pio Monto della Misericordia, and the beautiful, massive Duomo of Napoli.
We took a bus up to the modern neighborhood of Posillipo, where my family had lived. My school was no longer there, and I did not remember our Via Petrarca address, but I recognized the view across the Bay of Naples to Mt. Vesuvius. I once wore a gold charm around my neck depicting this scene. We saw the outlines of the Isle of Capri, my mother’s favorite spot, and Ischia, the island where my senior class played the day following our prom.
I ate pizza Margherita with mozzarella, tomato sauce, and basil in a pizzeria with Bill Clinton’s photograph hanging on the wall. We toured a cameo factory with delicate jewelry carved from shells, much like the white rose ring I bought at seventeen. I tried my first sfogliatella, a pastry of sweet Ricotta cheese folded into a triangle of layered phyllo.
After two days, we rode along the Amalfi coast to Sorrento, the city of lemon soaps, lemon candies, and Limoncello. I remembered this town as one parents loved for “mile long” pizza and shops of inlaid mahogany furniture and ceramics.
We continued up the narrow road until we reached our inn 134 steps down a cliff in the village of Praiano. With a stunning view of the Tyrrhenian Sea, this community became our base for four days. We walked a pathway of colorful ceramic sea creatures placed in stonewalls.
We took crowded buses with erratic schedules to the towns of Positano, Amalfi and Ravello. We toured the flower gardens of the Villa Rufolo, a 13th century family home with Arabic, Sicilian and Norman architecture and enjoyed a walk through St. Andrew’s Cathedral in Amalfi with a basilica of sacred objects, a crypt holding the relics of St. Andrew’s body, and a baroque cathedral.
One afternoon we walked along the coastal road and through tunnels in search of the Emerald Grotto. Nativity scenes created with miniature carvings stuck along the hillsides delighted us. On our return, we ran into a thunderstorm, and hail pelted down on us.
Drivers whisked by, a few laughing, a few taking photos of two soaked ladies marching through rising water. In younger years, we might have been offered a ride! We explored Positano, a bustling village known for linen.
Later we boarded a ferryboat to Capri. I had remembered this magical island where my parents loved to wander, window shop, and eat cannelloni. I was not disappointed by the vistas of the isle’s highest points, particularly the “three sisters,” large pillars of limestone jutting out of the blue grotto. Capri today seemed overly crowded with tourists and shops of unnecessary trinkets and overpriced leather, jewelry and perfume.
We flew from Naples to Catania, Sicily, where we met my friend’s sister and her daughter again. We stayed nearby in Acireale to walk around the active Mt. Etna and the charming town of Taormina, where workers were preparing a 3rd century BC Greek amphitheater for an evening performance.
We jumped off limestone rocks into the refreshing Ionian Sea and later explored the stunning Duomo of Catania. We ate freshly fried eel and squid from street vendors in Aci Castello and sang in the Ear of Dionysius, a man-made, curving cavern cut into the rock within Siracusa’s Neapolis Archaeological Park. My friend’s daughter, fluent in Italian with a keen knowledge of Greek and Roman history, guided us throughout our discoveries.
After wandering through the delights of Siracusa’s Ortigia section and listening to my friend’s daughter sing in a vegan restaurant, we drove to Ragusa, where we tasted treats in Modica, the city of chocolate, and poked our heads in the churches and cultural sites of the small town of Noto.
After four days, we drove to the southern tip of Sicily, Marzameni, and headed north towards Agrigento, where we stopped to walk through the Valley of the Temples in the ancient city of Akragas. We made the slow, winding drive north through the mountains of Sicily to finally reach Palermo’s Centro Historico.
I fell in love with Italy again, the red and pink bougainvillea climbing the walls and archways, the taste of watermelon gelato, white fish fried with crushed pistachios, fresh peaches and cherries from roadside vendors, the first sip of cappuccino each morning.
I found magic in traveling with loose plans. Sometimes we never made it to our destinations because a sight or treat lured us away. We took turns driving through chaotic city streets and country roads, finding relief whenever we located an autostrada.
We sang in the car and stayed up late to enjoy leisurely meals and talk about our lives. Sometimes getting lost helps us find what we are looking for. The joy of living each day fully in Italy brought me a peace and a desire to return.
(Candice Dale lives in Concord.)