Buongiorno,
When we left you last time (which was a while ago now – trying to complete these travel stories while back in the real world is both difficult and depressing) Olivia had just tried to begin an Italian tile renovation with her head and we had been side stepping random outbreaks of Italian violence. Thankfully the rest of our time in Italy was a bit more peaceful.
We figured a good way to find a more sedate environment was to head across to the island of Capri. Krys and I had been there in our pre-kids life, and had hired a boat that I navigated around and anchored in different little coves to go swimming. But it was clear from last time that my boating skills (like almost all of my other man skills) are very limited – as evidenced by my attempt at ‘anchoring’ seeing us return to find our boat drifting in a channel far away from where we left it (why didn’t anyone tell me an anchor was meant to hit the bottom?). So this time Krys was keen to hire a boat with a driver – while losing a boat is one thing, losing one with two kids onboard is probably less acceptable. I was resistant to the idea – in part because it meant admitting to another skill inadequacy but also because I pictured our Italian boat driver to be some 6ft4 charming bronzed Adonis with a jaw line as sharp as his 8 pack, with teeth as shiny and white as his slightly too small speedos (perhaps I’ve given this a little too much thought?). Thankfully what we got was a chunky and largely uncommunicative young man who only opened his mouth long enough to put another cigarette in it.
And he was perfect – not just in terms of making me feel ok in getting out my pasta and lemoncello padded tummy, but also his ability to find endless little nooks and crannies of Capri where we could jump into the crystal blue waters and swim as a family. We spent the day exploring caves and grottos, dragging our two kids wrapped in so many flotation devices that they looked like miniature blow up dolls behind us (in retrospect comparing my kids to a blowup dolls is probably not an ideal analogy). And the day was topped off by some entertaining locals. In one grotto another boat complete with 4 attractive ladies was anchored next to us, and as they sipped champagne they regaled us with a forceful rendition of a joyous Italian song. Then for the encore they took their tops off. I can’t help but think that we could be looking at the winners of Season 5 of ‘Italy’s got Talent’, even if the singing was a little off key. Now every time Krys hums along to a song on the radio I can’t help but request an ‘Italian’ ending. She claims that doing it in peak hour traffic to the end of ‘The Wheels on the bus’ isn’t appropriate. But if you happen to find yourself next to a blue Mazda at around 7am along the Grand Parade I’d recommend you keep your eyes open. One day she’ll cave.
Our other method for avoiding the crowds was by taking some long hikes through the clifftop bushes of the Amalfi Coast. Although it became apparent that our preparation for these walks was as ill thought through as Krys’ decision to marry and make babies with me (at least the making babies was a lot less arduous for her? Well the conception part anyway). Our hiking days would invariably start with no plan for a walk at all. But after hitting the bacon and eggs for the 4th straight day rather than the muesli then struggling to fit into our swimmers (I had severe mankini overhangs and breakouts) we’d feel compelled to seek out a small walk for some exercise, then would keep walking as we’d figure a decent enough walk count as our daily exercise and we could start drinking at lunch. So we’d invariably find ourselves deep in a forest wearing thongs and shorts while carrying two bored kids who just wanted to go home and watch Puffin Rock. And then we’d start crossing paths with puffing American tourists who were all decked in the latest North Face gear, the sturdiest of hiking books and navigating the rocky paths using hiking sticks. The looks we would get weren’t admiration but looks of ‘what the hell are you doing here dressed like that and carrying kids you irresponsible parents’. They must have thought we’d ventured deep into the forest to abandon the children. The thought did cross my mind occasionally. But who am kidding – if anyone in the family was going to be led deep into the forest and left to find their way home it would be me.
But these hikes helped prepare us for the chaos of Positano. Positano is an impossibly beautiful town, but its beauty comes from magnificent pastel coloured homes cascading down an incredibly steep slope. And all connected by one narrow road jammed with cars and a network of step laden trails. Thankfully we met up with Deryn and Jurgita there (Krys’ brother and his partner) so had some extra hands to help out with the kids. Sadly they were stationed on the other side of the valley, so we were left to haul kids back up the 250 steps to the apartment ourselves at the end of the day. But having the extra hands around for dinner meant we could indulge a little more than normal. Krys and I had always tried to limit our drinking to a level where we could maintain the competence equal to one complete person while we had the kids with us. Given that my competence starts at 0.3 of a person this didn’t leave a whole lot of room for Krys to dilute her side of the equation. But with the 2 extra people we figured we could share the competence load, and soak most of the evenings in lemoncello.
And it was at one of those dinners that we had what we thought was impossible – a poor Italian dinner. And this dinner coincided with Jurgita wearing a beautiful new dress, but one that she was reluctant to wear unless she could source some pins for around the chest area to maintain some modesty (the Italian clothing cut is somewhat on the aggressive side, and Jurgita wasn’t willing to be an ‘Italy has Talent’ participant just yet). Krys had brought the pins with her to dinner but the service was so abrupt that all thoughts of clothing alterations were lost among rushed demands for orders then entrees hastily dumped on tables. I’m surprised there weren’t demands for us to wash our own dishes. But as the dinner wore on this created an issue. Cleavage for men is like a tractor beam – and like that need to take a breath when held under water for a long period of time the urge to look is almost impossible to resist. I have never focused so hard on the stale bread on the table in my entire life but I think I was successful in avoiding glances that would have led to some very awkward family conversations. However now a bite of stale bread throws up a confusing mix of emotions for me.
After plenty of exposure to the relaxed Italian attitude, I finally managed to convince Krys to try a European cut bikini. It was a typical European very high cut, white string bikini with lemons on it. And I’m not sure if it was the cut or the lemons, but it had the unintended side effect of making me VERY hungry. Krys has been reluctant to wear it much since a few European outings. I think in part due to the amorous response it always induced from me but also while it is a common outfit on Italian beaches, it is probably a bit too much exposure for a midweek child swimming lesson at a suburban pool.
We have since struggled with Italian recycling and looked to swap a child for some orange juice after a long walk, but more on that later.
Ciao.
Trent, Krystal, Emelia, Olivia and a fond memory of lemons.
smallthoughts 