Sunday, August 22, 2004
For a change, I decided to go to Capri and see what all the fuss was about. I've been before and loathed it, s now Im hoping that familiarity will stymie contempt. I opted for a ferry rather than a hydrofoil not just for reasons of expense, but mainly because there were so many obese Americans in the hydrofoil queue it would have a) been a lopsided and possibly dangerous voyage, and b) felt more like a trip round Staten Island than a cruise in the Med.
At the ferry terminal all the people in the queue were Italian. The ferry also costs half as much and allows you to sit outside on deck in the sunshine.
The amount of white lard on display is much reduced on this boat, and to top off a perfect moment it has a bar where a very good cappuccino can be bought.
A chug through the nice blue waters and a burnt neck later we arrived at Capri. Once, I’m sure, this was a lovely island. Now it is completely overrun with day trippers, mainly American – see above) and, taking a leaf out of their book, Italian children, who are going the same way obesity wise.
Some sad old romantic called Capri “a piece of Paradise fallen from the skies”, but then he wasn’t faced with a queue for the funicular railway that challenged that at Lenin’s tomb. Blinded by the acreage of Hawaiian shirts on display I sat for a discontented hour on the ‘beach’. It is in fact a small strip of land covered in gravel and sand, which, if Alan Titchmarsh was here, would soon, with a couple of bonsai and a bamboo pipe, be turned into a Japanese garden.
What was completely incongruous was that I was surrounded by young German people. I felt as if I were holidaying in Hamburg, especially with the amusing sun lotion pranks that were being played, rather than one of the beauty spots of Italy.
I say beauty spot. In fact beauty spot/mole – what’s the difference? As you approach Capri on the ferry the dominant building is a concrete block with chimneys. Half Stasi HQ and half laundry block, it just shouldn’t have been allowed.
However, at the top of the island, out of hearing of American and German voices things improved, and I sat quite happily for a couple of hours taking in the views.
I wanted to beat the exodus back to Naples so plumped for an earlier ferry back. There was quite a queue of trucks and vans at the quayside, and when one of the drivers started whistling absent mindedly I didn’t pay much attention. It was picked up by the entire queue of traffic, thirty or so Italian tradesmen whistling together, and it was then that it struck me as odd. Not O Sole Mio, Not Mia carina babbo, but a full blooded version of “My Old Man said Follow the Van” – The Allies landing down the coast at Salerno at the end of the war have a lot to answer for. If I hadn’t been so dumbfounded I would, of course, have run up and down the queue of vans dividing them into two teams: one for My Old Man, and the other team of more accomplished whistlers, to perform Pack UP Your troubles at half speed, thereby dovetailing perfectly. As it was I disappeared into the ferry and slept soundly all the way back to Naples.
At the ferry terminal all the people in the queue were Italian. The ferry also costs half as much and allows you to sit outside on deck in the sunshine.
The amount of white lard on display is much reduced on this boat, and to top off a perfect moment it has a bar where a very good cappuccino can be bought.
A chug through the nice blue waters and a burnt neck later we arrived at Capri. Once, I’m sure, this was a lovely island. Now it is completely overrun with day trippers, mainly American – see above) and, taking a leaf out of their book, Italian children, who are going the same way obesity wise.
Some sad old romantic called Capri “a piece of Paradise fallen from the skies”, but then he wasn’t faced with a queue for the funicular railway that challenged that at Lenin’s tomb. Blinded by the acreage of Hawaiian shirts on display I sat for a discontented hour on the ‘beach’. It is in fact a small strip of land covered in gravel and sand, which, if Alan Titchmarsh was here, would soon, with a couple of bonsai and a bamboo pipe, be turned into a Japanese garden.
What was completely incongruous was that I was surrounded by young German people. I felt as if I were holidaying in Hamburg, especially with the amusing sun lotion pranks that were being played, rather than one of the beauty spots of Italy.
I say beauty spot. In fact beauty spot/mole – what’s the difference? As you approach Capri on the ferry the dominant building is a concrete block with chimneys. Half Stasi HQ and half laundry block, it just shouldn’t have been allowed.
However, at the top of the island, out of hearing of American and German voices things improved, and I sat quite happily for a couple of hours taking in the views.
I wanted to beat the exodus back to Naples so plumped for an earlier ferry back. There was quite a queue of trucks and vans at the quayside, and when one of the drivers started whistling absent mindedly I didn’t pay much attention. It was picked up by the entire queue of traffic, thirty or so Italian tradesmen whistling together, and it was then that it struck me as odd. Not O Sole Mio, Not Mia carina babbo, but a full blooded version of “My Old Man said Follow the Van” – The Allies landing down the coast at Salerno at the end of the war have a lot to answer for. If I hadn’t been so dumbfounded I would, of course, have run up and down the queue of vans dividing them into two teams: one for My Old Man, and the other team of more accomplished whistlers, to perform Pack UP Your troubles at half speed, thereby dovetailing perfectly. As it was I disappeared into the ferry and slept soundly all the way back to Naples.
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