Last might in Vico, so it's a good thing there's live music.
Back up the hill to Tito's we go for (as the poster with the very '60s folk-looking drawing enticed), "Mistural Live! Duo Acoustico Marcello Gione & Maurizio Pisa 9:30."
Prime table near the stone wall and tonight's wine was yet another version of the local grape, this time an Aglianica del Vulhere Torre Quarto.
Although billed as "acoustico," one of the guys often played an electric guitar rather than an acoustic, unlike his partner with the lovely voice (and ability to reach Stings' upper range when necessary).
We got there early enough to beat the crowd and eat a light supper, Sorrento's fab lunch having satisfied on so many levels that not a lot was required.
By the time the duo finished their meal and several glasses of red wine, the place was a whole lot more crowded and our stellar view of an hour ago was now lost to an 8-top of pretty (Italian) people.
So many scarves! So much Italian leather!
There was a table up front with a great view, but it turned out to be reserved for a party coming from Naples.
No problem; we got another 2-top with a straight shot view of the two musicians.
The set was all over the place - Chris Isaac's "Wicked Game" with some great electric guitar, Keane's "Everything's Changing," Alan Parsons Project "Eye in the Sky" and all executed well.
Stings' "Englishman in New York" benefited from the unexpected sounds that accompanied it - an ambulance roaring up the street with its distinctive European wail or a wine glass breaking on a tile floor.
It was spontaneous percussion at its best.
While most of the people in the room talked and laughed over the music (definitely not a listening room environment), chances are they couldn't help noticing the variety of it all, from "Light My Fire" to "Do You Really Want to Hurt Me?" with Duran Duran in between.
It seemed to be fun for the band, too, or maybe that was just all the red wine.
After a while, the two began showing off, seamlessly dropping bits of one song into another and back again.
After almost two weeks with my live music needs being met by gypsies on the subway and accordionists in the streets, I was seriously into some guitars and voices.
That said, that absolutely perfect intersection of music, memory and coincidence presented itself before the duo played, when MTV was on the big screen and a relatively obscure 1987 song came on.
It happens to be the lead-off song to my favorite mixtape of all time, a gift of 20 years ago that I still listen to on occasion.
Hearing it in a random pub in Vico Equense after never having heard it anywhere but on that tape seemed to make time stand still for a few moments.
The video was beautiful, shot in black and white and lyrically visual in the way suggested by the song's title, "Wonderful Life."
Look at me standing
Here on my own again
Up straight in the sunshine
No need to run and hide,
It's a wonderful, wonderful life
No need to hide and cry
It's a wonderful, wonderful life
Indeed it is.
Showing posts with label vico equense. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vico equense. Show all posts
Tuesday, October 16, 2012
Thursday, October 11, 2012
Cuttlefish with a VIew
Failure to find the sea ensures that we will eat nothing but seafood tonight.
As further consolation, we choose Erase, a restaurant that sits at the top of the cliff overlooking the road I took down to the marina this morning.
On a terrace with open windows and a view of the lights of Vesuvius, our waiter, a consummate and long time pro, inquires of our wine choice.
When I dare to mention a Nero d'Avola, he gasps.
"It's Sicilian!" he says with clear contempt.
Alrighty then. Once again we choose the local grape, this time I Feudi di Villanova.
Two large bowls of cuttlefish with celery and walnuts provide contrasting textures and please the Neapolitan no end.
Our waiter hovers until he is certain every bit has been consumed, kind of like my Richmond grandmother used to do to us as kids.
Gnocchi with zucchini and shrimp follows and the zucchini is so fresh tasting we feel sure it was picked yesterday.
A plate of broccoli rabe is bursting with flavor and perfectly sauteed.
Everyone raves about the seafood here (and deservedly so) but the local vegetables are every bit as noteworthy.
Both dishes have been huge and we find ourselves unable to order dessert.
It's been known to happen.
A walk follows, only there are not nearly as many people promenading tonight as there were Sunday when we last did this.
When enough time has lapsed, we head to Gelateria Gabriele for mousse, one chocolate, one coffee and eat them on a bench watching the street theater of Vico Equense.
It's loud, it's funny and it's very Italian.
I am used to it, since it's my third time at Gabriele (although only his first).
Yes, third. In three days.
Clearly I don't need to fit into my bathing suit, so why not?
If Vico can't give me the sea, it damn sight better give me the gelato.
And wine. Lots of wine.
As further consolation, we choose Erase, a restaurant that sits at the top of the cliff overlooking the road I took down to the marina this morning.
On a terrace with open windows and a view of the lights of Vesuvius, our waiter, a consummate and long time pro, inquires of our wine choice.
When I dare to mention a Nero d'Avola, he gasps.
"It's Sicilian!" he says with clear contempt.
Alrighty then. Once again we choose the local grape, this time I Feudi di Villanova.
Two large bowls of cuttlefish with celery and walnuts provide contrasting textures and please the Neapolitan no end.
Our waiter hovers until he is certain every bit has been consumed, kind of like my Richmond grandmother used to do to us as kids.
Gnocchi with zucchini and shrimp follows and the zucchini is so fresh tasting we feel sure it was picked yesterday.
A plate of broccoli rabe is bursting with flavor and perfectly sauteed.
Everyone raves about the seafood here (and deservedly so) but the local vegetables are every bit as noteworthy.
Both dishes have been huge and we find ourselves unable to order dessert.
It's been known to happen.
A walk follows, only there are not nearly as many people promenading tonight as there were Sunday when we last did this.
When enough time has lapsed, we head to Gelateria Gabriele for mousse, one chocolate, one coffee and eat them on a bench watching the street theater of Vico Equense.
It's loud, it's funny and it's very Italian.
I am used to it, since it's my third time at Gabriele (although only his first).
Yes, third. In three days.
Clearly I don't need to fit into my bathing suit, so why not?
If Vico can't give me the sea, it damn sight better give me the gelato.
And wine. Lots of wine.
A Pie in the Eye
Since I was told by a Neapolitan to eat only seafood or pizza here, today was pizza day.
My first stop was the local museum where artifacts dating back to the 4th and 5th centuries b.c. were on display in three small rooms, some not even behind glass.
Etruscan and Roman vases, jewelry, funerary jugs, bowls and such were dug up nearby, thereby proving just how long the area of Vico Equense had been inhabited.
The Renaissance got nothing on this part of Italy.
After the audio tour by a woman in a clipped British accent, I went wandering the streets again, stopping to buy fruit (a couple of the shopkeepers are starting to recognize me now) and to change dollars to Euros, a process that had the teller recounting the money no less than four times).
Up near the piazza where the old men sit and talk about the women who walk by, I was thrilled to come upon a poster advertising live music Friday night and made a note of where and when.
I am long overdue for more than gypsy subway buskers.
As I strolled the streets, all of a sudden it began to rain and I took cover under a construction overhang to wait it out.
It was actually quite pleasant; I had a view of the garden of a villa across the street and watched as the tropical pants were soaked and greener looking by the time the shower stopped.
Eventually, I came upon Pizzzaeria di Franco and ducked in to find two women having espressos and waiting it out.
Caffeine was of no interest to me but lunch was and the pizza looked good.
Choosing a slice of ham and corn pizza, I took a chance on the unlikely sounding combo only to be quite satisfied with the combination of flavors.
Sweet corn and the ubiquitous salty ham were a match made in heaven.
On the walls were old black and white photos, presumably of Franco and his son (?) grandson (?) rolling out dough and shaping pies.
By the time I left, the streets were barely wet and the Italian sun was back out in force.
Everyone here tells you that the sun always shines in Italy and they are not far off.
Strolling back to the hotel along the road that follows the bay, a man came up behind me and inquired what language I spoke, Italian, French or English.
When I admitted to English, he responded, "I hope to dream you when I go to sleep tonight."
I probably made a mistake thanking him, because his answer was "Fantastico!"
At this point, I had the sense to walk away.
I had visiting to do in the evening and while attending the sick, the rain returned in force.
Waiting it out meant that by the time I hit the streets, they were deserted.
Apparently in Vico, weather determines restaurant hours and by 10ish, my choices were few.
I found a welcoming open door at Wembley, an unlikely British place with a few customers escaping the rain and not much more going on.
When I inquired about food, I was instructed to go downstairs where I found not another person.
There was a vaulted ceiling made of stones, an old black and white photo of Merchisson Castle School class of 1888 through 1889, some vintage cameras and a sign for the British Ladies Open 1929.
Besides the absence of intelligent life, it hardly seemed like my kind of place.
Just as I turned to leave, a server came down, eager to serve.
I wound up ordering a sausage and broccoli pizza, which, when it arrived, turned out to be sausage and broccoli rabe, fine with me.
I ate maybe a third of the good sized pie before throwing in the towel, much to my the amazement of my server.
Explaining that I was full, he left me alone with my pie as if to give me time to finish it off.
But apparently what he had done was alert the kitchen because moments later two of the cooks arrived to find out what I did not like about my pie.
Ever try to assure pizza makers that you have just reached your threshold for food?
I have and they do not believe you.
After much Italian and English back and forth, we settled for me taking two leftover containers home so no one would have hurt feelings.
Oh, and by the way?
Fantastico as it was, I have had enough pizza for a while.
Let us just say that I hope to dream seafood when I go to sleep tonight.
My first stop was the local museum where artifacts dating back to the 4th and 5th centuries b.c. were on display in three small rooms, some not even behind glass.
Etruscan and Roman vases, jewelry, funerary jugs, bowls and such were dug up nearby, thereby proving just how long the area of Vico Equense had been inhabited.
The Renaissance got nothing on this part of Italy.
After the audio tour by a woman in a clipped British accent, I went wandering the streets again, stopping to buy fruit (a couple of the shopkeepers are starting to recognize me now) and to change dollars to Euros, a process that had the teller recounting the money no less than four times).
Up near the piazza where the old men sit and talk about the women who walk by, I was thrilled to come upon a poster advertising live music Friday night and made a note of where and when.
I am long overdue for more than gypsy subway buskers.
As I strolled the streets, all of a sudden it began to rain and I took cover under a construction overhang to wait it out.
It was actually quite pleasant; I had a view of the garden of a villa across the street and watched as the tropical pants were soaked and greener looking by the time the shower stopped.
Eventually, I came upon Pizzzaeria di Franco and ducked in to find two women having espressos and waiting it out.
Caffeine was of no interest to me but lunch was and the pizza looked good.
Choosing a slice of ham and corn pizza, I took a chance on the unlikely sounding combo only to be quite satisfied with the combination of flavors.
Sweet corn and the ubiquitous salty ham were a match made in heaven.
On the walls were old black and white photos, presumably of Franco and his son (?) grandson (?) rolling out dough and shaping pies.
By the time I left, the streets were barely wet and the Italian sun was back out in force.
Everyone here tells you that the sun always shines in Italy and they are not far off.
Strolling back to the hotel along the road that follows the bay, a man came up behind me and inquired what language I spoke, Italian, French or English.
When I admitted to English, he responded, "I hope to dream you when I go to sleep tonight."
I probably made a mistake thanking him, because his answer was "Fantastico!"
At this point, I had the sense to walk away.
I had visiting to do in the evening and while attending the sick, the rain returned in force.
Waiting it out meant that by the time I hit the streets, they were deserted.
Apparently in Vico, weather determines restaurant hours and by 10ish, my choices were few.
I found a welcoming open door at Wembley, an unlikely British place with a few customers escaping the rain and not much more going on.
When I inquired about food, I was instructed to go downstairs where I found not another person.
There was a vaulted ceiling made of stones, an old black and white photo of Merchisson Castle School class of 1888 through 1889, some vintage cameras and a sign for the British Ladies Open 1929.
Besides the absence of intelligent life, it hardly seemed like my kind of place.
Just as I turned to leave, a server came down, eager to serve.
I wound up ordering a sausage and broccoli pizza, which, when it arrived, turned out to be sausage and broccoli rabe, fine with me.
I ate maybe a third of the good sized pie before throwing in the towel, much to my the amazement of my server.
Explaining that I was full, he left me alone with my pie as if to give me time to finish it off.
But apparently what he had done was alert the kitchen because moments later two of the cooks arrived to find out what I did not like about my pie.
Ever try to assure pizza makers that you have just reached your threshold for food?
I have and they do not believe you.
After much Italian and English back and forth, we settled for me taking two leftover containers home so no one would have hurt feelings.
Oh, and by the way?
Fantastico as it was, I have had enough pizza for a while.
Let us just say that I hope to dream seafood when I go to sleep tonight.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Give My Regards to Broad Street
I'm on my own for dinner, something I have a lot of practice at, albeit not in Italy.
Confident I can find a satisfying place to spend an evening, I set out up the hill.
I am less than two minutes in when a smiling man walks toward me, saying, "May I have the pleasure to kiss you?"
Whoa.
I give him credit, though. Most men just undress you with their eyes, and at least he stated it up front.
Taking that as a good reason to find a place off the street, I duck into Tito's Pub for a bite.
My androgynous-looking server (I still have no idea whether to say her or him) welcomed me with limited English and a glass of Prosecco before I could even open my mouth.
Well, if you're going to ply me with bubbles, sure, I'll stay.
It was then that I noticed the enormous screen on a nearby wall, long one of my pet peeves.
But, what's this? On the screen is MTV.
Maybe it's my television illiteracy, but I had no idea MTV even showed on TV anymore.
And, even better, it was a show called "Star Wars," essentially battling videos by John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
Lennon's "Stand By Me" video was a charming home movie of John and Yoko looking very in love followed by Paul's "Goodnight Tonight" with the band in tuxes and slicked back hair.
Paul looked very young and adorable, Linda looked like an '80s version of the '40s. This was fun.
Since I didn't have anyone to talk to, this seemed like fine entertainment for someone who couldn't chat up the staff, as is her usual way.
The wine menu was all bottles, but I managed to convey my wishes and received a glass of Agliancio in return.
With no one with whom to share my meal, I kept it simple with fried prawns in salt and pepper sauce, only a little surprised when I saw that the prawns were fried in their shells.
Crunchy, nicely seasoned and no doubt full of fiber, the eight large prawns were more than filling.
I had a side of fresh sweet corn in butter and it was easily two ears' worth of corn covering the plate.
Meanwhile, John did a live in NYC version of "Instant Karma" and Paul did a war-torn video for "My Brave Face," playing multiple solider parts.
My attentive server hovered about, eager to ensure I had everything I needed.
Are you kidding? Lennon doing "Jealous Guy" with old Beatles footage interspersed?
I was doing great.
It was some time after Lennon's "Woman" and McCartney's "No More Lonely Nights" that my server cleared my table.
Before I could decide what I wanted next, there was Lennon's "Working Class Hero" and Paul's "Pipes of Peace."
Next thing I knew, my server was putting Limoncello in front of me, so I wasn't going anywhere.
There was John doing "Imagine" and Paul doing "Press" and I was sipping the nectar of Sorrento.
I could have left after "Star Wars," but I lingered for George Michael, the Clash, the Eurythmics, Lenny Kravitz and an Italian called Zucchero doing a soulful horn-filled take in Italian on "Take Me to the River."
Actually, I lingered for a lot more, but I wouldn't want it to get around that I took pleasure in a screen for an evening, even if it was a big screen.
Taking a cue from the last video I saw, Queen's "The Show Must Go On," I headed back out into the streets of Vico Equense.
"You are so beautiful. Would you like to walk?" a stranger almost immediately asks me upon stepping outside.
Such shameless flattery. Such nerve.
Just another night in Vico Equense.
Confident I can find a satisfying place to spend an evening, I set out up the hill.
I am less than two minutes in when a smiling man walks toward me, saying, "May I have the pleasure to kiss you?"
Whoa.
I give him credit, though. Most men just undress you with their eyes, and at least he stated it up front.
Taking that as a good reason to find a place off the street, I duck into Tito's Pub for a bite.
My androgynous-looking server (I still have no idea whether to say her or him) welcomed me with limited English and a glass of Prosecco before I could even open my mouth.
Well, if you're going to ply me with bubbles, sure, I'll stay.
It was then that I noticed the enormous screen on a nearby wall, long one of my pet peeves.
But, what's this? On the screen is MTV.
Maybe it's my television illiteracy, but I had no idea MTV even showed on TV anymore.
And, even better, it was a show called "Star Wars," essentially battling videos by John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
Lennon's "Stand By Me" video was a charming home movie of John and Yoko looking very in love followed by Paul's "Goodnight Tonight" with the band in tuxes and slicked back hair.
Paul looked very young and adorable, Linda looked like an '80s version of the '40s. This was fun.
Since I didn't have anyone to talk to, this seemed like fine entertainment for someone who couldn't chat up the staff, as is her usual way.
The wine menu was all bottles, but I managed to convey my wishes and received a glass of Agliancio in return.
With no one with whom to share my meal, I kept it simple with fried prawns in salt and pepper sauce, only a little surprised when I saw that the prawns were fried in their shells.
Crunchy, nicely seasoned and no doubt full of fiber, the eight large prawns were more than filling.
I had a side of fresh sweet corn in butter and it was easily two ears' worth of corn covering the plate.
Meanwhile, John did a live in NYC version of "Instant Karma" and Paul did a war-torn video for "My Brave Face," playing multiple solider parts.
My attentive server hovered about, eager to ensure I had everything I needed.
Are you kidding? Lennon doing "Jealous Guy" with old Beatles footage interspersed?
I was doing great.
It was some time after Lennon's "Woman" and McCartney's "No More Lonely Nights" that my server cleared my table.
Before I could decide what I wanted next, there was Lennon's "Working Class Hero" and Paul's "Pipes of Peace."
Next thing I knew, my server was putting Limoncello in front of me, so I wasn't going anywhere.
There was John doing "Imagine" and Paul doing "Press" and I was sipping the nectar of Sorrento.
I could have left after "Star Wars," but I lingered for George Michael, the Clash, the Eurythmics, Lenny Kravitz and an Italian called Zucchero doing a soulful horn-filled take in Italian on "Take Me to the River."
Actually, I lingered for a lot more, but I wouldn't want it to get around that I took pleasure in a screen for an evening, even if it was a big screen.
Taking a cue from the last video I saw, Queen's "The Show Must Go On," I headed back out into the streets of Vico Equense.
"You are so beautiful. Would you like to walk?" a stranger almost immediately asks me upon stepping outside.
Such shameless flattery. Such nerve.
Just another night in Vico Equense.
Monday, October 8, 2012
Cheering for Naples
It all begins with a promenade.
So we dress and start up the hill toward the town square, along with scores of other people doing the same.
Despite cobblestone streets, I see women in all kinds of cute shoes and feel under dressed in my flat sandals.
Lesson learned.
Fireworks are still exploding periodically on the hill as we circle around the fountain and head back down for dinner.
We stop at Terra Mia, a place with a sleek dining room, tile floors and a patio under a cloth-draped gazebo.
We are the only people on the patio, but the servers proceed to light terra cotta saucers of candle wax to add to the charming ambiance.
We are joined by other tables on the patio.
I have been warned by the Neapolitan that in Vico, we will be eating seafood and pizza.
Pshaw. I have no problem eating nothing but either.
Our server, 26, handsome and able to speak Italian, Spanish, English and Portuguese, brings us a basket of bread knots.
Warm from the oven, it is dough with a filling of eggplant and the tiniest bit of tomato sauce and Perorino on top.
Divine.
We tell him our choice of wine, only to be told they are out of it.
Picking a second, he says they are out of it, too.
What do you have, we inquire. House wine, he says, just house wine.
What then is the point of a wine list, I ask.
"Just for fun," he says, returning with a small carafe of white wine.
Well, even house wine requires a bottle, we say and he grins and returns with the bottle we originally ordered.
Okay, so Neapolitans are jokers,
He delights in having fooled us and we are happy to be drinking Villa Matilde 2007 Falerno del Massico.
Everyone is smiling.
Meanwhile, we have found a place where, like so many in Florence, they are slaves to the '80s.
That's fine when it's the Smiths, but less so when it's Power Station.
Even so, we are having a ball.
The fantasie di mare is truly that and the array of seafood on it dazzling.
Prawns (head-on, natch), oysters, mussels baked in shell with bread crumbs, shrimp in a creamy cocktail sauce, sliced octopus, salmon with red peppercorns and bluefish crowd a platter.
Every bite tastes like the sea, fresh and briny.
Next we order linguine with sea truffles, eager to learn what a sea truffle is.
Our waiter, now our best friend, explains that they are deep water clams obtained from 25 to 40 meters under the sea.
Moments later he returns with a grin, saying, "We are out of sea truffles for real."
Not for joke, I ask?
"No, for truth," he says sheepishly.
We adjust and order paccheri with amberjack, eggplant (or as menus in Italy always say, "eggplants") and Provola cheese.
The pasta is like ziti but bigger, the amberjack is delicate and with an almost creamy mouthfeel and bright red tomato bits add color.
The combination of flavors is bright and again, entirely evocative of the sea.
Our waiter is pleased that we are so satisfied with our second choice.
He tells us he wants to move to NYC and experience "more and bigger things."
My companion asks if I miss Richmond. Rich who?
Because we have somewhere to be, we ask our waiter for a dessert recommendation and he tells us to go to Gelateria Gabriella.
Assuming that a native knows of what he speaks, we ignore the dessert list and finish our wine and conversation.
Suddenly we hear a cheer rise up and have no idea why. when we go inside to pay, we find out.
Soccer is on the TV, the kitchen staff is crowded around it and Naples is up by one.
All of a sudden, we've run out of time for sweets and head to our final destination, that of a local couple who live in an apartment building overlooking the bay.
When offered an espresso, I decline, explaining that I don't drink coffee. Clearly my Italian hostess is shocked.
I glance at the picture of the Pope over her stove and wonder if she will say a prayer to him for me and my failures.
Do they make people who don't drink coffee, her expression seems to say.
But because she is Italian, she must find something to serve me and offers me her homemade Limoncello.
It is beautiful, thick and tasting of true lemon flavor and I sip it appreciatively.
She asks if I've brought a bathing costume (I have, of course) and recommends a spot to experience the water while I'm here.
Her English-speaking son suggests day trips to Pompeii and Capri in a charmingly accented voice that surely serves him well in his job as a recruiter for Princess Cruise Lines.
With the last sip of Limoncello, we say our goodnights to head home to bed after a long day of traveling.
A week of this place? I think I'll do just fine.
So we dress and start up the hill toward the town square, along with scores of other people doing the same.
Despite cobblestone streets, I see women in all kinds of cute shoes and feel under dressed in my flat sandals.
Lesson learned.
Fireworks are still exploding periodically on the hill as we circle around the fountain and head back down for dinner.
We stop at Terra Mia, a place with a sleek dining room, tile floors and a patio under a cloth-draped gazebo.
We are the only people on the patio, but the servers proceed to light terra cotta saucers of candle wax to add to the charming ambiance.
We are joined by other tables on the patio.
I have been warned by the Neapolitan that in Vico, we will be eating seafood and pizza.
Pshaw. I have no problem eating nothing but either.
Our server, 26, handsome and able to speak Italian, Spanish, English and Portuguese, brings us a basket of bread knots.
Warm from the oven, it is dough with a filling of eggplant and the tiniest bit of tomato sauce and Perorino on top.
Divine.
We tell him our choice of wine, only to be told they are out of it.
Picking a second, he says they are out of it, too.
What do you have, we inquire. House wine, he says, just house wine.
What then is the point of a wine list, I ask.
"Just for fun," he says, returning with a small carafe of white wine.
Well, even house wine requires a bottle, we say and he grins and returns with the bottle we originally ordered.
Okay, so Neapolitans are jokers,
He delights in having fooled us and we are happy to be drinking Villa Matilde 2007 Falerno del Massico.
Everyone is smiling.
Meanwhile, we have found a place where, like so many in Florence, they are slaves to the '80s.
That's fine when it's the Smiths, but less so when it's Power Station.
Even so, we are having a ball.
The fantasie di mare is truly that and the array of seafood on it dazzling.
Prawns (head-on, natch), oysters, mussels baked in shell with bread crumbs, shrimp in a creamy cocktail sauce, sliced octopus, salmon with red peppercorns and bluefish crowd a platter.
Every bite tastes like the sea, fresh and briny.
Next we order linguine with sea truffles, eager to learn what a sea truffle is.
Our waiter, now our best friend, explains that they are deep water clams obtained from 25 to 40 meters under the sea.
Moments later he returns with a grin, saying, "We are out of sea truffles for real."
Not for joke, I ask?
"No, for truth," he says sheepishly.
We adjust and order paccheri with amberjack, eggplant (or as menus in Italy always say, "eggplants") and Provola cheese.
The pasta is like ziti but bigger, the amberjack is delicate and with an almost creamy mouthfeel and bright red tomato bits add color.
The combination of flavors is bright and again, entirely evocative of the sea.
Our waiter is pleased that we are so satisfied with our second choice.
He tells us he wants to move to NYC and experience "more and bigger things."
My companion asks if I miss Richmond. Rich who?
Because we have somewhere to be, we ask our waiter for a dessert recommendation and he tells us to go to Gelateria Gabriella.
Assuming that a native knows of what he speaks, we ignore the dessert list and finish our wine and conversation.
Suddenly we hear a cheer rise up and have no idea why. when we go inside to pay, we find out.
Soccer is on the TV, the kitchen staff is crowded around it and Naples is up by one.
All of a sudden, we've run out of time for sweets and head to our final destination, that of a local couple who live in an apartment building overlooking the bay.
When offered an espresso, I decline, explaining that I don't drink coffee. Clearly my Italian hostess is shocked.
I glance at the picture of the Pope over her stove and wonder if she will say a prayer to him for me and my failures.
Do they make people who don't drink coffee, her expression seems to say.
But because she is Italian, she must find something to serve me and offers me her homemade Limoncello.
It is beautiful, thick and tasting of true lemon flavor and I sip it appreciatively.
She asks if I've brought a bathing costume (I have, of course) and recommends a spot to experience the water while I'm here.
Her English-speaking son suggests day trips to Pompeii and Capri in a charmingly accented voice that surely serves him well in his job as a recruiter for Princess Cruise Lines.
With the last sip of Limoncello, we say our goodnights to head home to bed after a long day of traveling.
A week of this place? I think I'll do just fine.
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