I’m not sure why I was surprised that Sorrento has become one of
the go-to playgrounds for the Brits and Irish.
It’s a short flight and the weather here is many orders of magnitude
better. So I’m not surprised that on the
menu at the café in the main square I see the Full English Breakfast, something
introduced to me by my business partner during a trip to Hong Kong last
year. If you’ve ever experienced this
gastronomic oddity, you know the real reason why we declared our independence
in 1776. Mandy has not, so I order
it. Included are eggs, toast and Parma
ham (in lieu of the traditional bacon), some weird, mostly cold, gray hot dog
(in lieu of the traditional “bangers”, English sausages), baked beans and a
slice of unripe tomato sitting on some wet iceberg lettuce. Mandy is appalled. I tell her that the reason this exists is for
optimism. No matter what happens next,
you day is guaranteed to get better.
Lemons permeate the culture here, celebrated in the fabrics,
ceramics, food and, of course, the lemoncello.
The area is covered in lemon fields, and the trees, loaded with fruit, are
everywhere you look. We make our way to
the last working grove in town, leaving the tourist area and walking through work-a-day
Sorrento. The groves have been operated
by the same family for generations and it’s nice that they are preserved
here. The tasting room is just tacky
enough to qualify as a 60s roadside attraction, and the cello is the best we
have tasted, less sweet than most.
We head back to the center of town. All the British vacationing has inevitably
morphed into a significant expat population with the pubs and restaurants to
support them. Fish and chips, pints and
liters of good beer and 24 hour football – European football that is – are always
right at hand. Except for Sunday in the
fall. Apparently the NFL has taken a
foothold across the pond, so this afternoon the big screens in The English Pub
are tuned to the Dolphins Patriots game, the crowd loudly cheering each
play.
We stumble across an art exhibit that turns out to be Gallery
Raffaele Celentano, home of the celebrated Italian photographer. Celentano’s work beautifully captures the
whimsy, irony and emotion of life in Southern Italy, the location as much a
personality as the people in each shot.
One of his iconic works is a shot of nuns pushing each other on a
balcony swing overlooking Sorrento. That
balcony is right out back, so I try my hand at the art with my favorite
model. Raffaele is here today, so
meeting the artist makes seeing his work all the better. In an adjoining gallery, there is a Sophia
Loren exhibit documenting the Italian bombshell’s career through photos.
We had planned on going the “beach” today. It’s not a traditional beach as the rock
cliffs drop sharply into the sea, leaving little room for sand. Instead, these man-made beaches involve pairs
or groups of lounge chairs with umbrella arranged in neat rows on long docks
made specifically for the purpose and forming a nice swimming area. It’s been threatening rain all day so our
beach plans are scrapped but we’re still thankful as weather has been near perfect
this entire trip. In fact, we watch as a
crew of men work to pack one of the beaches away for the season, folding up the
long row of colorful changing rooms and pulling up the deck.
The rain finally arrives right before dinner. Yesterday our Captain recommended Del Fino in
Marina Grande so we made reservations.
Leaving our flat, we run into a couple just in from Boston taking
shelter under the same canopy as us.
They’re looking for the same restaurant but came to the wrong
marina. We share a cab and I wait an
entire 4 seconds before bringing up the Super Bowl. I’m good like that. I introduce myself to the hostess, who lights
up when I mention my Italian name. A guy
could get used to this. Dinner is a
delightful array of local seafood made by a team of chefs who know exactly how
to handle it. For the first time in my
life, I feel like I know what I’m doing when I look at the wine list, picking a
Nobile di Montepulciano Riserva (it helps that we just came from there). Paying the bill, we strike up a conversation
with the hostess who still lights up every time she calls me “Pasqualeayyy!” She sends each of us off with a tiny blessed
mother charm, telling us how fortunate she is and wanting to share her
blessings with us.
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