LEISURE LETTER 91: IN TRANSIT
Midway through the month of August. All of Naples, all of Italy, cooks like pizza. Flying down the boot, sweltering Mediterranean thunderstorms rattled aerobus 317 all the way to the tarmac. From the window of 13F, old Vesuvius looked quite angry, smoking, sputtering, fuming at the mouth. Lightning cracked the stormy volcanic range, sending shivers down through Pompeii. Over at Aeroporto Nazionale di Napoli, I felt safe... I was probably out of range.
"Buona sera," I told the passport man – it’s probably the first time I’ve spoken these words to a real Italian (all of my Italian I learned from The Godfather). The passport man smiled and stamped my booklet, setting me free. The first thing I did was buy a piece of focaccia spattered in rich pomodoro sauce. Looks like I’ve made it.
With 24 hours to kill, I will settle softly into this land, so old and yet so new. By some strange instinctual caprice, it is like I already know exactly what to do... or at least I fancy it that way. Double espresso overlooking the port of Pozzuoli. By 9 a.m., it is hotter than a big pizza oven, yet I am still inclined to take the espresso hot, with a cool glass of acqua, con gas. At noon I found shade in the hypogeum of the flavian amphitheater. Here it is calm, cool, and quiet – all of the games are over, though by means of a sensitive apparatus you might still perceive the clash of brass and shield, the tigers’ screech, the thousandfold roar of voices, the stomping of feet.
The chaos of Naples hums like a distant opera, full of life and disorder. Ancient cobblestones, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, gleam slick under the midday sun. Narrow alleyways twist and turn unpredictably, smelling of garlic, fish, and motor oil. The noise—honking horns, rapid-fire Italian, the clinking of cutlery on ceramic plates—drifts up, mingling with the screeching seagulls that patrol the shoreline. Yet here, by the port, sipping my espresso and gazing out over the turquoise expanse, I feel like I’m hovering above it all. A temporary observer, detached, though soon to be swept up in the rhythm of it.
I walk along the promenade, where tourists in wide-brimmed hats and linen shirts mingle with locals, some selling leather goods from carts, others shouting the daily catch from their boats bobbing in the harbor. The sea is a deep, inviting blue, shimmering under the brutal sun. Somewhere out there is my destination: Ischia. The island has been calling to me for months, whispering promises of thermal springs, verdant hills, and the quiet solitude of a forgotten paradise. But first, I must navigate Naples, the chaotic gateway to my escape.
In the late afternoon, the heat presses down relentlessly, the air thick and shimmering with it. I decide to escape the stifling streets and head toward the waterfront, where the breeze offers some relief. At a small café overlooking the harbor, I order a chilled bottle of chinotto, the bittersweet Italian soda made from myrtle-leaved oranges. To pair, I ask for a plate of the bruschetta pomodoro. The tomatoes burst with flavor, their sweetness balanced by the peppery notes of the basil and the sharpness of the olive oil. As I sit there, enjoying this simple but perfect meal, the sounds of the harbor wash over me—the gentle clinking of boat masts, the murmur of conversation, and the distant cries of seagulls. For a moment, the heat and the hustle of the city seem worlds away, replaced by the soothing rhythm of the sea.
After lunch, I wander through the narrow streets, losing myself in the labyrinthine alleys, where laundry hangs between buildings like colorful banners celebrating everyday life. The afternoon sun casts long shadows, and the city’s ancient walls seem to breathe with history. I stop briefly at a gelateria, indulging in a cup of lemon sorbet, the tartness cutting through the heat like a cool breeze. Each bite feels like a small victory over the sun, a fleeting moment of relief before I’m back in the thick of it.
Time stretches in the lazy, unhurried way it does in Southern Italy. The hours blend together, marked only by the shifting light and the growling of my stomach as evening approaches. As the sun dips lower, casting a golden glow over the city, I find myself once again at the port where I will stay the night in a small hotel. Tomorrow – the ferry to Ischia.
As the ferry pulls away from the port, the city shrinks in the distance, its ancient silhouette framed by the soft August sky. The sea breeze is cool against my face, a welcome reprieve from the heat of the day. Ahead, Ischia looms on the horizon, a green jewel rising from the sea. I close my eyes and imagine the quiet beaches, the cool blue waters of Neptune.
Naples fades behind me, and with it, the frantic pace of mainland life. Ahead lies the promise of something new. An island, a bit of fresh air, another espresso.
