Procida

I could bore you with the transit mishaps on our way to Procida, the nearest and smallest of the islands in the bay of Naples. But henceforth, unless stated otherwise, assume that we were two minutes late for what ever train or bus or ferry we intended to take, but that, in the end, we managed to arrive at our destination. And so it was with Procida.

It is as real and beautiful and void of tourists (with the exception of August) as we had been led to believe. These islands are volcanic, nothing flat about them, so it took some effort to climb to the back side of the island where the rows of pastel houses read like the tubs of gelato you’re sizing up for the possibilities. Peach, blood orange, crema, pistachio, strawberry, vanilla, and lemon sorbet perched side by side, and stacked one upon the other. Bound by the blue sky and the swarthy sea, it was a sight that made the exhaustion of getting there well worth it.

The very first person we met on the island was a retired seaman who had heard us speaking to one another and asked us where we were from. When we answered Oregon, he smiled and said how beautiful it was. “So you’ve been there?”

“Oh yes, many times.” …and to Portland, and to Astoria. The small world stories keep piling up.

While we waited for the ferry at the end of the afternoon, we sat in the piazza by the port and watched the children in their costumes playing with confetti, making piles of it, tossing it in the air, and generally making fun out of not much. It was the last day of carnivale (which is why there was no school and why we were free to explore Procida).

When I was 4 years old and going to school in Rome, my teacher, whose name I can’t remember, but who was a lay person, not a nun, made for each and every child in the class, a costume out of crepe paper. And although this sounds cheap and as though the final product would be rather pathetic, it was quite the opposite. The costumes were elaborate and colorful, and mine had a skirt and a petticoat and bloomers and a parasol, that she also made. I believe somewhere in the bowels of my basement there is photographic evidence. And I remember thinking that she made the best costume for me, because I was her favorite. It probably wasn’t true, but it was nice to believe. And it really was the best costume. I hadn’t thought of that time in decades, but these kids brought it back to me.