Despite the fit that Venice threw while we were there, we managed to find some serious food.

Even in the storm, I was able to find my favorite restaurants.  Whether it was Grom for incredible, fresh gelato,

or Pizza al Volo for the best veggie pizza ever,

my old haunts materialized before us.  I was even able to find the most remote of my previous dinner places on the first try.

Trattoria della Madonna is marked by a big, green lantern.  As I went to tell the Ant this, I found myself looking at it.

Like last time, I found the Madonna an elegantly simple restaurant.

Serving seafood specialties and seasonal vegetables, I find it a delight to point my waiter in a direction – vegetarian, meat, fish – and let him bring something good.

Tonight, we had a great dinner of Bolognese and pasta e fagioli

And snapper (it came whole and was boned for the Ant) and veggies.

The Ant loved her snapper, and I was unable to finish the huge plate of vegetables.  Though I stuffed as many of the carrots, peas and veiny beans down my throat as I could.

And then I ordered dessert.

Not because I was hungry, but because you can’t really go to the alleged birthplace of tiramisu and not have it.  Can you?

I think I cannot.

Regardless, it was a good first night of food.  But we had another.  After considering the menus of both Casi nobili, and Ristoteca Oniga, we decided to go with Oniga for our second night of food.

Oniga is a really warm place.

It glows with hospitality.  I sat next to the owner’s Staffordshire terrier, asleep in her bed.

And we were soon in conversation with the two couples on either side of us.  Of course, it helped that we were crammed in like sardines, but still.  While we considered the menu, we shared travel tips and recommendations for food.  The Ant and I found ourselves the resident experts on Venice, Rome and Siena, and we were glad to share what knowledge we had with our dining companions.

Tonight, I settled on a giant gnocchi and the Ant on a spaghetti with clams.

The gnocchi were the exact right firmness, even though they were twice the size of any gnocchi I’d ever had.  And the sauce was a lovely, delicate blend of tomato, basil and bufala mozzarella – three of my favorite things.

The Ant raved about her spaghetti, and we passed along the recommendations to our friends around us, who were asking how it was.

Next came another whole fish for the Ant, and something the waiter had thrown together for me.

It was cheese.  More bufala mozzarella.  And the most absolutely astounding tomatoes I think I’ve ever had.  I’d guess they were plum.  Maybe Roma.  But they were sweet and dressed with balsamic.  Really good balsamic vinegar.  And there was a dollop of fresh pesto.  I made little stacks of cheese, pesto and tomatoes piled on bread.

And then I ordered dessert again.

A meek bus girl came over to take our plates, and asked if we wanted something sweet.

“What do you recommend?”  I asked in some kind of Italian that she recognized.

“Ciocolata,” she smiled enthusiastically.  I nodded and settled in, eager to see what she would bring.

Yeah, it was chocolate.  Cake.  With some kind of maybe creamy-nut filling.  And fudgy frosting.  And a drizzle of chocolate sauce.

This, my friends, is why I ask for recommendations.

The Ant leaned over to one of the couples, and I leaned over to the other.

“You have to order this.  No, I don’t know what it is.  She just said, ‘ciocolata’.”  They all nodded and thanked us for the recommendation.

We finished up our little espressos, paid the bill, said goodnight to the dog and our new friends, and headed out into the night, to our little room a couple of blocks away, jacked up on caffeine and sugar, and blissfully exhausted.

Venice is a drama queen.  Oh, please she is too.

You see?  There she is queening out.  Again.

Listen, last time I was there, she threw a big old fit and flooded me out.  Perhaps you remember.

Okay, maybe you don’t, but she totally did.  Big.  Old.  Queen.

I thought we’d be cool this time, but no.  The bitch was all worked up when we got there.  Sure, she’s fierce and magical and beautiful and all of that, but she can storm.

The first night we tried to embrace it.  It was all exotic and passionate

And Venice was good to us.  She gave us some spectacular views.

Which was nice.  But I didn’t really need the attitude.  Venice is gorgeous without trying.  I wish she’d just stop for a minute.

I don’t think she realizes how overwhelming she can be.

Like the second day.  We thought we’d go see the Doge’s Palace and maybe Saint Marks, but NO!  She pitched a damn fit.

Look at that water she threw at us from all directions.  Just look at it.  Ridiculous.

So we waited it out as much as we could, but by that time we were totally soaked.  Totally.  It’s not like cheap-ass umbrellas from the street vendors actually last.  Oh no.  Venice had that thing turned inside out in about no time at all.

She did stop to pose for a picture now and again.

But the second we stopped paying attention to her, she got all bent out of shape.

And she kept threatening us.  With huge mood swings.  First she was way up.

Then way lower.

Then up again, and over the banks.

She even flooded Saint Mark’s at one point.  Just to show she could.  It wasn’t like she flooded anything else.  Just the main square.  Enough to make us worry.

At one point we just went home.  Venice seriously needed a nap.  So we took a little break and let her sleep it off.

Maybe it was her time of the month.  I don’t even know, but when we all woke up, she was calm.

I’m sure she regretted some of the things she’d done.  We listened to one boat owner as he bailed his boat for a couple of hours.  I’m sure he’ll forgive her eventually.  And then there was this guy.

Yeah, that’s hard to take back.

After our trip to the south, the Ant and I headed to Barga, via Venice, via Rome.  We just spent one night in Rome.  A stop-over to save us from 9 hours on the train.

We stayed at the Hotel Aberdeen, a hotel I’d stayed in 6 months earlier.  I remembered it being a decent hike from the train station, so I prepared the Ant for the long walk in the sun.  Unfortunately, when I consulted the map I’d used on the earlier trip, I mistook the “X” I’d penciled in for the hotel, and not the Japanese retail store my friends had asked me to visit.  I figured this out about 25 minutes into the walk.

Fortunately, however, I remembered enough of the city to be able to navigate us back on track.  After climbing one of Rome’s hills.  Rome has hills?  Have you heard?  Seven, evidently.  I felt really lucky that the Ant was too consumed with trying to breathe to notice the enormous circle we’d taken.  I knew she’d figure out just how far we’d gone the next day when we took the 10 minute walk to the train station.  Hopefully, by then, she’d have forgotten the hour we spent in the heat.

It took us a little bit to recover.  But we were in Rome, and we didn’t want to waste that.  So we threw our stuff down and headed back out to eat.  I’m only going to say that we experienced bad pizza in Italy.  We promised each other never to speak of it again, so that’s all you get.  It was bad.

And then, mostly because I felt bad about the wild goose chase I’d just led us on, we spent the rest of the day touring the phallic symbols and rough men of Rome.  Yes, that’s what I said.  So here’s a little montage for my straight women, gay men, and other friends.  Enjoy.

The Ant kept sneaking up to the policemen and whispering, “Rome is rough.”

We did visit the Pantheon for me, which was nice.

And I took a ride a lion – one of my favorite pastimes.

And then we had some of the best gelato ever.

This is where Rick Steves excels, in my opinion.  Gelato and pizza.  I wish we’d listened to his advice earlier in the day…(shiver).

I asked the guy behind the counter what his favorites were, and he turned to the guy sitting on a stool behind the register.  “Ask him.”

The older, bearded gentleman smiled and waved his hands as he started listing all of his favorite flavors.  When he said “chocolate,” he closed his eyes and made the face of a lover remembering his partner.  “Mista,” he finally said to the boy with the scoop.

I walked away with a beautiful assortment of flavors including fig and the beloved chocolate.

And to finish the night, we headed to our trusty pizza standby, Pizza Zaza.  For a collection of the most excellent pizza we’ve had.  Potato and squash blossom, margherita and plum tomatoes.

I truly wish I could share with you the delight of squash blossom pizza at Zaza.  But I can’t, so here’s my best attempt.  Imagine a thin, crispy wafer of the most delicately salted, earthy, yellow cheese.  It’s better than that.

If you are going to Rome, please, please, please go there.  If you’re going to Rome and you think you might not be able to find it, please, please, please take me with you.  I’m serious, people.

We scarfed the ridiculous amount of pizza as we watched the staff set up an outdoor tv for the World Cup match.

The little outdoor seating area filled with locals watching the match before the Italians played, warming up their engagement, becoming louder and more animated.

If we hadn’t traveled from the south that day, I would have stayed here and watched with them.  Taken in the passion for food and sport and life.  Listened as the church bells rang from the spiral tower of San Eustacchio.  As it was, we were tired, so I took a little video.

And watched the delivery boy tape the pizza to his scooter.

And we headed back for the night.  And maybe we swung through some vendor tents.

And then back by Trevi.

Because it love it.  And the chestnut vendors there.

My nights in Rome have been magically hazy.  I think because of how completely exhausted I have been at the end of the days there.  My memories are less pictures of cops in riot gear and more feelings, full of the cool, creamy sweetness of exceptional gelato, and the glow of magazine carts.

Our last, major excursion in the south was to the isle of Capri.  Accent on the first, people.  CA-pri.  There you go.

Honestly, I’m not a huge fan.  Again, I’m sure it’s much better in the off season.  (Like everything else.)  The day we went, it was a demonstration of just how commercial and overrun a beautiful place can become when it’s known as a hangout for the rich and famous.

There were some redeeming elements to the trip.  The ride out, while long, was beautiful.  We skipped along the coast, stopping at several Amalfi Coast towns.  We took in the caves, lighthouses and cathedrals again.

They were, after all, beautiful.

And we had a terribly entertaining deckhand.

The approach to the island was fairly dramatic.

I find that cliffs make everything seem glamorous.

Capri is most famous for its “Blue Grotto,” a cave that emits a beautiful, blue light due to the light being reflected through the water and off of the limestone.  We didn’t make it there.  Overhearing that the rough seas and mobs of tourists had made the entrance to the cave “hell” from a private guide who was talking on his cell phone to one of the boatmen at the cave, we decided that we’d forgo the trip out.

Instead, we opted to head up the side of the island via funicular.  In fact, we decided to follow the guide and his two American clients.  They seemed to have a plan that included a walk around the tip of the island, and some food.  We like food.  And we like local recommendations for food.  So, we fell into stalking mode.  I’ve been wandering around alone for long enough to be pretty good at following paid guides without actually paying.  Yeah, it’s a skill I don’t usually brag about.

Knowing that we could catch them at the top of the hill, we bought our tickets and climbed aboard the funicular.  Now, those of you who have watched Amazing Race will know what a funicular is.  For everyone else, it’s a kind of wonky boxcar that takes people up the side of a hill/mountain.  It’s at an angle.  All of it.  In order to keep people standing up straight, the car is strangely angled up , creating a Wonka-vator effect.

But by that time we were starving, and the Ant had to pee.  A lot.  After some coaxing, I approached our hijacked guide.

“Excuse me.  It seems like you know this place pretty well.”  I’d had to interrupt after waiting a few minutes for a break.

“A bit.”  He smiled.  His clients did not.

“Is there anywhere you’d recommend to eat?”  We couldn’t wait any longer to follow him into a restaurant.

“Hmm.”  He proceeded to take several minutes to tell me that the place he would usually recommend was closed on Wednesdays, and that there were plenty of places back down by the funicular.  About 15 minutes hike back down the mountain.

“Thank you.”  I tried to act grateful and not irrationally frustrated.  We’d followed him, on my suggestion, to a dead end at the top of a mountain.  Fantastic.

If we had to walk back and start over, at least the view was pretty.

This part of the island seemed far less frequented than the rest.  Quiet and unassuming, villas hid behind hedges and locals walked the streets.

We found our way back to the main square and headed into the Medieval part of town.  I think we stopped at the first restaurant we found, grateful for a place to sit.

The white walls were hung with black and white pictures.  A single-browed youth stood in a black apron, serving smiling celebrities.  A young man with the same brow leaned in, smiling next to glamorous women.  A man, with a shock of black hair embraced the customers as they posed together.

I looked up and noticed a man, with graying hair and eyebrows coming together in the middle standing against the wall next to the kitchen door.  He surveyed the room.  Not a celebrity in sight.  Just a table of Japanese women and a couple of Americans, too exhausted to talk.

We ordered lunch, a couple of pasta dishes that were good, a cheese plate and desserts to match.

Then we headed back into the insanity to do a bit of shopping and snap some pictures with the rest of the crowd.

There were some beautiful parts of Capri.  If I could squint my eyes, and vanish the hoardes, I could see how pretty it was.  What had brought generations of royalty here.

But it wasn’t sustainable.

We walked into a shop to buy a gift for my Grandfather.  The Greek flag watch had caught our eye as we walked by.  In Italian, we worked through the item, the price, and whether we could easily change the battery.  As we went to leave, the woman behind the counter stopped me.

“Italiana?”  Seriously?  She wanted to know if I was Italian?  After a conversation in my broken language?

“No.  Americana.”

“Pero, parla l’Italiana.”

“No, un poco.”  I seriously didn’t speak Italian.  Only the littlest.

“Pronuncia bene.”

“Grazie!” I beamed.  Nobody had ever told me that I pronounced the language well.  For someone who nearly worships words, this was a high compliment.

We smiled at each other and bid goodbye.

The next few hours were marked by a ride down the funicular, where we listened to a woman screaming at the attendants in an accented English and Italian mixture.  I mused at the tiles in the station, thinking of her as the crazed barbarian, and us as the serene mountain goat.

Once at the bottom, we purchased our tickets for the return boat ride, bought a couple of granite (slurpies) and camped on a little strip of beach to watch the piercingly clear water holding up the small boats that bobbed on its surface.

I even found some time to post a few items to the interwebs.

We were so ready to leave the little island that we boarded our boat 40 minutes early and watched, horrified, as ships from Naples unloaded still more people onto the protesting docks.

The ride back, however, was a delight.  First, we were mistaken for – wait for it – Canadians!  That’s right!  Some lovely people behind us tapped us on the shoulder and asked if we were from the Great White North!  Then they told us that Idaho was close enough.  I like Canadians.

We spent the next two hours chatting with them about everything.  They were lovely people who were just ending their 3 week trip to the country.

We took each other’s pictures and exchanged contact information.  It is always a delight to meet new people, and Roy and MaryLou were extra delightful.  After about an hour, Roy asked me a question about our President.

“I can’t tell your politics,” he said deadpan.

I laughed hard, and slapped him on the shoulder.  I’m still not sure if he was kidding.  I love Canadians.  Have I mentioned that?

The second thing that made the ride back extra lovely was the light.  It was absolutely stunning.  Almost as if it was coming from under the water, shining up.

It made the lighthouses and jewel-like cities sparkle more than usual, and made the boats look like they were floating in air.  Or Jell-O.

Even the docks were alive, sparkling like diamonds

The docks.

Here’s the thing, we didn’t take off from the docs of Salerno.

Hmmm.  As we pulled into the slip we realized our error.  We were coming into a different port in Salerno.  About 2K from where we should be.  If there’d been an option, we would have taken it.  But there wasn’t, so we walked.  Through the streets, through parks, along the water.

And we reminded each other that, even though we were tired, and burned out from a long, exhausting day, life was beautiful.  We were in Italy.  And we’d just been mistaken for both Italians and Canadians.

Bella, eh?

“Napoli e bella.”  We’d heard it pretty much every time we mentioned to anyone that we’d be in the south of Italy.  At least from the folks in Italy.  One of my good friends had spent time there, and she was also a big fan, but other than that, I’d heard that Naples was dirty, dangerous, and really nothing great.  Still, “Napoli e bella,” echoed in our ears.

“I think we should do Naples.”  The Ant and I were planning our last week in the south.  “I mean, our family is from there.”

“Yeah,” she agreed.  “If grandpa was here, he could tell us all about it.”

On our trip to the north, we’d been hesitant to tell people where our family was from.  Naples has a reputation, and Campo Basso, where my great grandmother was from, doesn’t seem to be much better.  The usual response we would get was a, “mmmmm” and a changed subject.  But here, far south of Naples, it seemed to be the crown jewel, a beautiful metropolis.

Our day started as it usually did, with a cappu, a pastry, and a ride on a bus.

A pretty darn crowded bus.

Then a ride on a train.  The a ride on a subway car.  One that went from empty to packed in approximately 20 seconds.

If Rome is the best of everything, Naples is the most of everything.  It’s intense, like bone marrow cooked down to its absolute essence, earthy, pushy.

We were only spending one day in Naples, so we wanted to hit the highlights.  Museum and pizza were high on the list.  When we emerged from the subway, we were hot and disoriented.  We’d watched a grandmother struggle aboard the car and, practically collapse into a seat that was quickly vacated by a hoard of giggling high-school aged girls.  She fanned herself with a collapsible fan she pulled from her purse and muttered rapidly about the heat.  The girls sat on each other’s laps to make room for her and rummaged in bags to find water to offer her.

Now, above ground, we were rummaging for our own water bottles, and I was looking for the “big, red building” that Rick Steves had described as marking the National Archeological museum.  Now, Rick has done me very well in the north, but his apparent ignorance of/loathing of the south was starting to annoy me.  (Yes, Frank you were right.)

As I looked up the street, up a hill, I saw at least 3 big, red buildings.

“Um, maybe it’s one of those,” I tried, gesturing feebly at them.

“Kristin!”  The Ant wasn’t amused.  And I wasn’t even joking.

I shrugged, and we headed up, sweating freely in the midday sun.

It turned out that the museum was a fourth big, red building.  Fortunately, it was closer than the others.  After trying to enter a metro entrance marked “Museo,” we finally found our way inside.  The museum is known to house many of the treasures that were stripped from Pompei when it was discovered.  The frescoes and mosaics were cut out and removed to become part of the royal collection.  I was most excited to see the mosaics and the “secret room,” a collection of erotic art commissioned by the wealthiest home-owners in Pompei.

Unfortunately, the mezzanine level, which houses both the mosaics, and the secret room was closed.  No erotic art for us.  Well, kind of.

We entered the galleries and began our appreciation of the art.

The Ant really had a deep understanding of the Farnese gallery.  I think it was the fine relation of the human form that captivated her.

I, on the other hand, identified with the “labrys-bearer,” and “fish-wrangler” as I like to call them.

Starting to get hungry, we ran through the collection of frescoes and tools.

And then checked out the sundial room, which, at noon every day, shows the date with a single shaft of light thrown onto the calendar on the floor.

Finally, we headed into the room of Greek sculpture.  From the first time I looked into the stone and bone eyes of the Greek statues in Athens, I’ve felt an affinity with these objects.  A near kinship.  When I look into the faces of Roman marble busts, I don’t see myself.  When I look into the eyes of the Greeks, I do.

Also, their asses.

And then we saw a really fascinating modern exhibit.  One with Medusa.

I once went for Halloween as Medusa.  You know what they don’t tell you in the US?  She’s Intersex.

No, really.  It’s part of the myth.  It just gets left out.  Fascinating.  I might have modified my costume a bit.

After Medusa, we were able to cross the museum off our list.  All that was left was pizza.  Pizza.  In Naples.  Rick had not been super helpful thus far, but he did have the names and locations of two famous pizza places listed in his Naples section.  I somehow convinced the Ant that it was necessary to eat at one of these two restaurants.  And also that I’d be able to navigate us through the streets of Naples to them.  Fortunately, they were across the street from each other.  And so we started walking.

There were a lot of people.  And a lot of shops.  And a lot of cars and scooters, and flags waving.

There was a lot of gum on the sidewalk.  There was a lot of graffiti, too.

“Dirty” is the way I heard it described.  In guidebooks, from other tourists, and from the people we met at lunch.

“She thinks it’s dirty.”  The couple next to us was visiting.  She from Madrid, he from Rome.

“I like it,” I said.  Not as though I was trying to be contrary.  Naples really had a feel to it.  Unsettled, seething – but interesting.

“Earthy.”  That’s the word I applied to the city.  Maybe the word I’d apply to myself.  Not sure.

“How do you eat so much.?  Magra.”

“He says you’re so skinny.”  The woman was translating the Italian to English.  Beautiful.  And he spoke to her in Spanish.

I smiled.  The Ant and I had just polished off two pizzas.  Two pizzas that turned out not to be ours.

In the bustle of the upstairs pizza parlor, the din that rose from the family-style tables crammed together, someone had misunderstood.  When they set the two pizzas in front of us, I wondered.  Then I pretended that they were two different types – our types:  margherita and 7 cheese.  I even swapped with the Ant.  Then we traded pieces, willing our taste buds to experience the 7 different cheeses.  Yes, we were that hungry.

As I gobbled, I thought about the other people who might be equally hungry, waiting for pizzas that wouldn’t come.  There were people inquiring about pizzas everywhere.  This seemed a common issue.  And then the third pizza arrived.

This was what a 7 cheese pizza was supposed to look like.  Ahem.

The waiter looked at our neighbors who told him we’d already eaten.  He shrugged and smiled and left us the pizza.

Our new friends looked at us.  The people on our other side stared.

“I’ll share!”  I declared.  They all waved their arms, distancing themselves from the fugitive pizza.

When we left the restaurant, it was with a pizza box under my arm.  There was no way I was going to let that thing go to waste.

“You’re going to carry that through Naples and on the train back to Salerno?”

“Yes, but if I find someone to give it to, I’ll do that,” I told the Ant.  She agreed.  In Portland there would be a dozen street kids asking for it the second I left.  But here, I ran into nobody who was even asking for money.  I found this odd in a city as earthy as Naples.

Walking back toward the museum and the metro stop, we ran into our friends Andrea and Irene from the restaurant.  We chatted about the city, and exchanged contact information.  Andrea told us not to show our cameras or money in the street.  Then we continued on, taking in the glory of the city.

The Ant didn’t so much share my love of Naples.

The day was just getting hotter.  Thinking of the crammed train ride ahead of us, we bought a bottle of water, found a park bench, and hydrated.  Then I grew a little restless.

“It’s time to move,” I said to the Ant.  It just felt like we’d been on that park bench a little too long.

When we stood up, a scruffy, bearded man put out his hand and asked for money.

“Una pizza buona?”  I asked, handing the box to him.

His face lit up.  “Si.  Si!  Buona.”

“Ciao,” I said and we walked along toward the station, past several big, red buildings.

That night I had an email from our new friend.

“Kristin, you didn’t eat too much pizza?” came the Italian question.

“No, don’t worry.  I gave it to a man on the street.”

“Well, then he surely saw an angel today.”  I loved that he thought of a woman with pizza as an angel.

Do you see why I love Naples?   A place where graffiti artists compete for your attention with fascist architecture, and angels walk the streets doling out pizza.  This is my kind of earthy.  Napoli e bella.