I was 7 years old the first time I visited Italy.
Life for me was different. The year was pre-recession. My buck teeth hung heavy in my mouth like unweathered shells. My stylist was my mother who sourced from the Mt. Kisco TJ Maxx or Woodbury Commons’ Roxy and Jackie Rogers outlets. And my brothers were both my enemies and my favorite playmates on planet earth.
My young memories of that original trip are faded and covered with the natural muslin of time.
Hazily, I remember sounds like small night fireworks or street performers twirling glowing rings. I can hear my older brother Karl whine as he got stung by a bee near Lago di Como. I can feel the small rocks me and Willy threw from behind the terrace bushes to prank our parents during their afternoon meal.
And I can hear the giddy laughter that me and Willy had, rehearsing skit after skit two tiny jesters flopping onto an uncomfortable mattress in Milan that we kept pretending was the world’s most comfortable cloud.
18 years later, with my buck teeth fixed, I returned.
I started planning this trip back in January when I took a winter’s pause. I wanted to travel again to Italy and had trouble deciding where to go. I landed on Ischia with dreams of Southern coats and because I had fallen in love with the architecture of the Mezzatorre hotel.
But since I make less than 6 figures and own just a Chase freedom Credit card I instead looked at AirBnbs around the area near Mezzatorre, called Forio. There, I found accommodation with 2 amazing local hosts with 1 extra bedroom. I booked it almost immediately.
Without a single friend cosigned for the trip I was happy enough to just have something on the books to look forward. I figured I would pitch the trip to a friend later.
Well, luck be a lady named Danielle. Who, when I pitched the Ischia trip to, gave an instantaneous yes. She also shared the divine timing of it all! For months she had been reading Elena Ferrante’s quartet about her mystic Napoli-born characters. Since winter, Dani had told me to pick these books up and start reading but time had slipped me by.
To my delight, the characters spend a good deal of time in Ischia within the novels. This natural coincidence was enough fodder and it was decided: Dani and Allegra are going to Ischia this summer.
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Now, I could sit here and tell you what I packed. I could show you my eBay purchases or share my tips for traveling with just one carry on and a backpack. But I much rather tell you a story.
Besides, this is Substack, a place where you need only click one page away to find a traveler’s packing list or 10 Places to Eat, See, and Shop in Ischia, Italy.
But with me, as I have you here right now, come a bit closer so I can set this scene.
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The time was 7am and Heathrow airport felt like cardboard. I landed off the NY redeye from JFK and could feel the sandbag weight of exhaustion fogging my brain.
I caught Dani from her flight from LAX. We had a meal at Fortnum’s counter that might as well have been Church communion wafers. My apetite was shit and the 9 hour layover lingered above us like a mocking desert apparition.
We did not buy airport lounge passes. We fucked up. But by the 5th hour it was too late anyway. At hour 7 I decided to put velcro curlers in my hair to keep myself from falling asleep. In my daze, I nicknamed this process Heathrow Hair Salon. It worked! The ritual action of setting my hair kept me awake and we made it to hour 8 with a bit more fire under our asses. We prepared to board the 2 hour connection to Napoli and an ease settled over me until I realized the next Italian-sized hurdle: the fucking ferry.
Have you ever taken the ferry from Beverello port? Word of advice. Plan nothing and learn fluent Italian/ Napoli dialect.
My 54 day Italian Duolingo streak failed me and my Type A planner personality was given a swift “affunculo”. The Beverello port doesn’t give a fuck about your feelings. Because boats are boats. And I an American tourist. So it’s okay to laugh when the gorgeous dismissive Italian woman tells you the ferry tickets you bought in advance are for a ship company that has stopped running for the day. And it’s okay to laugh when you have to spend the $48 again for new tickets.
On the ferry we mostly sat in silence. Off the tip of my British friend Elizabeth, we did not look at our phones to avoid seasickness.
By then my travel day was nearing 24 hours. Was it worth it? I can’t fucking see anything. That Italian woman thinks I’m a dumbass. She’s probably right. God Duolingo sucks.
I cursed these things under my breath and begged for the shore.
Our boat docked and me and Dani wheeled our luggage out. A local taxi driver picked us up and delivered us to the Airbnb.
We slept like rocks. God bless the circadian dumbell of a day’s travel exhaustion to whisk you into a fat slumber. Because we woke up and felt bitchin’!
We had made it to Ischia, there was an Italian copy of Ferrante’s My Brilliant Friend in our room and fresh-cut gardenia in a small glass vase.
Because of our joy, the rest of the days on the island became a blur. Have you ever forgotten what day it was during a summer’s rest? We did. So like my 7-year old self, it now all plays in my memory as fragments.
There is the lap of waves on San Montano beach, where I wrote both of our names in the sand.
There is the smell of freshly cut jasmine that Enzo placed on our breakfast table in the test tube shaped vase.
There is the Italian of botched directions, sinistra for left and destra for right, with loyal Dani by my side as navigator and I translator.
There is “uffa” and the giggles from locals as I said this regional Napoli word, loosely translated to “ugh” or “oy vey” something I learned from my Bulgarian coworker who lived in Italy.
There is the warm black rocky sand of Maronti beach that my toes sunk into like putty.
There is the circle of friends gathered around Madonna di Zaro in the hill behind the touristy hotel, silently greeting their queen.
There is the strawberry gelato that looked more fresh in Ischia Porto than in Lacco Ameno and the red bus I got nauseous on that Dani knew how to ride with ease.
There is the heart-shaped soap and the Sophia Loren shrines posted to the back wall of the meat shop.
Because a place is made up of all its parts, I am only a visitor to the whole of it. But when I visit, even for a split second, through the wave of a shopkeeper or the smell of jasmine, it can feel like I have been there forever.
Ischia let us peak into this portal and me and Dani took turns standing on eachother’s backs to see.
I read Ferrante and felt happy to be with my own Brilliant Friend who knew what bus stop to get off at for Maronti beach, where in the books the protagonist Lenu also visits.
Over icy water with a thick lemon garnish we listened as Tina our AirBNB host told us the cliche of American tourists coming to Ischia just because they wanted to live out Ferrante’s book. We laughed and told on ourselves, that we had partially done the same.
Tina helped me dry my laundry and when she found me awake one morning outside the room stirring about she asked me why I was always up so early.
“I’m Italian.”
And I am. On both my Mom and Dad’s sides. My mother’s grandparents came from Naples. Allegra, in Italian, means cheerful. Allegranaza, cheerfulness. It is my dead giveaway and made finding tourist objects easy.
And Allegranza it was. The waves were quick to wash away our names. That day I wrote them in the sand on San Montano beach I dotted Dani’s name with a heart over the I. I had to rewrite mine several times to keep up with the shore.
And away, it all fades, as I sit here on a Saturday morning, at my work desk at my quiet office job. It’s not so bad. Just last night I found the now chipped aqua espresso mug painted with “Allegra” on the side. It was in the camera bag I hadn’t opened since landing. And I have it to keep, along with a keychain-filled souvenir bikini.
The layover, the curlers, our fatigue, the gardenia, a pink covered book, the black beach, Dani’s cheetah purse, a gelato after dinner, Tina’s gray tank top it all circles in me and feels like a hug. Soothing and warm.
Because without memory there is no life. And I will hoard every last one, in the den of my mind, to choose from, on a rainy day, when it all floods back.
Beaming and hoping to book a trip myself now
Allegra this was so beautiful. I believe your Italian soul felt at home and there were some bits in this post in which I could feel that nostalgia. The same one any Italian has towards their country.
And by the way, they should add Napoletano language to Duolingo too because nessuno outside Naples li capisce anyway!