Home of the VIP

Refreshed we woke to a warm sunny morning quietly enthusiastic about Capri. Alysia was especially excited to find fresh bread and, wait for it… a toaster. She broke out our tube of tourist torture paste (Vegemite) and indulged in the taste of home sweet home.
To get to the ferry we walked down 100 stairs to the floor of a small valley in the cliff face. The water couldn’t even be termed choppy in the bay of Naples and was even calmer in the bay of Capri. We certainly didn’t baulk at getting out of the twin hull and straight onto a timber, five-metre vessel for our tour around the isle of Capri. We were shown the white grotto (cave), green grotto, then dropped off at a beach for a 40-minute swim - very precise in the Contiki fast-paced way. The water was beautiful even if the rocky beach made us wish we were home. Very salty, it was therapeutic for Alysia and her big toe, which had just been bloodied by a clumsy tour-goer. Alysia and I took turns watching our gear on the beach, even if no one else seemed worried. Further around the island we passed through a natural archway over the water that was probably better than I first gave credit.
A few minutes later we arrived at the entrance to the famous blue grotto, the swimming hole of the Roman emperor Tiberius - one of the first playboys. It was he popularised the island though there seems to be some conjecture as to if he found the place. It quickly became a holiday spot for the Roman senators anyway. Today, the grotto wasn’t getting the pants off the ladies but it was fleecing the tourists at precisely 11.50 euro to jump in a tiny rowboat that fit five people to disappear through a small hole in the cliff side. Bobbing around outside the entrance to this sea cave were maybe a dozen tourist boats like ours and perhaps as many wooden dingys. At all of maybe three metres long the pilot would stand with oars in hand and work them back and forward rising and falling over the boat wash. The Italians chatted back and forward over the two-way radio and used a lot of hand gestures, some familiar, some not. It’s another language. The prognosis as shared by Katia was not good - it would be a 90-minute wait. Many on our other boat weren’t keen so they went on to another beach for a swim. We had come around the world and were determined to do as many of these once-in-a-life things as possible. We bobbed away without a care and made some small talk. Half an hour later it was our turn.
Swinging over the side we lowered ourselves one at a time with a little more finesse than some of the other people we had watched. Our boatman levered away at the oars like he was born doing it, over to a bigger boat where we paid the money to enter. Going blind, I was seated on the floor of the bow, entering the tunnel. We lowered our heads as one to pass through, such little leeway there was, as our boatman ditched his oars and pulled us in along a chain suspended from the cave roof. In a few seconds we were inside and released a combined gasp of amazement. The only light entering the cave was that from beneath us, through the water, reflected off the white sand beneath. It was truly azzure - the most brilliant shade of blue one might ever see in the natural realm. I happily shot some video while our boatman worked hard for a tip, singing to demonstrate the acoustics. How we wished we could swim in there but it was “forbidden”. It was lucky I took video because Alysia’s camera simply wouldn’t focus and I doubt my Canon would have either - it would have to have been a manual job. And our time was up, we were in there for all of two minutes, yet this did not detract from the experience.
Back at port we ate some lunch, more pasta for Alysia and a generous bruscetta for me - so fresh, so good. And filling, so there was little reason for a few of us not to walk the 750 metres up to the town proper. There were a few stairs but it was mainly just walking up hill through the narrow laneways. Shade was quickly sort where available given the oppressive heat and humidity - we were all soaked by the top. But what to do once there? It was all Prada, Dolce and Gabbana - basically just fashion brands for the rich. Get me back to the beach.
The water was so good even if the pebbles were packed with people on the shore - luckily there was a little more room once wet. And kids being kids there was no staying dry as they splashed their siblings and parents, we were just caught in the cross fire. As 4pm drew closer and our time to regroup, some of the guys and girls were gathering for beers. I was desperately tempted but just as happy to dry off ready for the trip back. Only trouble was, waiting for the ferry in the sun, I was just as wet again in a few moments.
Off the ferry in Sorrento there was only one thing standing between us and a shower, all those bloody steps we had bounced down that morning. It was a steady slog but the last 12 steps were near torture. The fact there was no water pressure back at the room was literally torture, I’m sure some were thinking. While they cursed one another from their shower stalls I went to get supplies. The supermarket was open and inside I found some cheaper sunscreen and some stain remover ready for our next stoush with the laundry - white clothes and travelling don’t mix. I even found some water (the tap stuff was horrible) and paid. I just couldn’t bring myself to buy a one euro (1.50 AUD) litre bottle of wine even though it was probably fine. The cold largies of Peroni lager were more tempting, still I resisted. I really had to get back and blog.
An hour in Alysia fell to the temptation of those cheap beers and went to grab a couple. I’m dreading going back home because I will surely have to share my coldies with her now. They went down well too, evaporating the hour until we went for dinner. And a late dinner it was. As a group we walked to the restaurant at 8 but didn’t eat until closer to 10. Not even the woman with the bloody nose, we encountered on the way there, could fill the gap with speculation over what happened. The food was welcome and we devoured almost every last morsel. More pasta and more thinly sliced, dry meat, drowned in gravy in case you wondered. Besides we were all keen to check out the cocktail place Katia had told us about. So, getting close to 11 we made our way out the doors and down the busy street. It was a real tourist town, complete with street artists extracting tips. Our rush was all but for nothing though as we stood and perspired at the cocktail bar but it is high summer in the south of Italy; it’s what we signed up for. And the cocktails were worth the six euros, even if the venue was uninspiring. Thankfully we were among a handful to grab the balcony - above the carved valley we walked earlier that day - to enjoy my mojito. Alysia enjoyed the fruit tingle too but the club to dance and have fun, just a distant promise on the horizon. Better to call it a night she thought. And I wished I possibly had too, despite enjoying another couple of mojitos and hitting that club. It was well worth it to see Dicko, a guy on our tour originally from Tamworth, dirty dancing with the dirty woman we dubbed Mumma Cougar. Very sweet and outrageously funny. But how would I feel in the morning?
I got back to the room and was surprised to find Alysia awake. That’s just the beauty of wifi and Skype I guess, having just chatted away with the parents. But now was time for sleep.
Sam (August 21)