Day 7 - Living the Dream on the Blu Mediterraneo

Day 7 of La Mia Avventura Italiana was the one I'd been looking forward to the most: a small-group boat tour of the Amalfi Coast, including two stops for swimming and a three-hour interlude on the famous Island of Capri.

After parking my reliable but boring Opel Crossland in a massive—and strangely deserted—underground garage right next to a lime green Ferrari (who'd steal an Opel when you can nab a Ferrari, right?) I hightailed it to the nearby Port of Salerno and the headquarters of Blu Mediterraneo, the vendors for this "product" (Tripadvisor, lol).

There, the lovely Morgana, first mate to Captain Luigi, summoned me and NO ONE else to our luxury mini yacht. At least for the first leg of my voyage, I'd have her, er, them all to myself.

Naturally, I milked my private cruise for all it was worth, lounging on the padded bow like a Roman Senator on holiday, sipping sparkling water, and etching vistas on my tablet.

Meanwhile, my sea chariot sliced through the glorious Blu Mediterraneo as the sumptuous Amalfi coast rolled by in an endless spool of 4-D frescos.

I was especially thrilled to spot La Rondinaia (The Swallow’s Nest), near the top of the mountain overlooking the sea in Ravello, the home—and definitive lofty perch—of our greatest American political essayist and one of my favorite novelists, Gore Vidal.

I met him only once during his 86 years after a talk he gave on his short but searing exposé of the USA called Imperial America: Reflections on The United States of Amnesia. My autographed copy is a prized possession, which I keep next to Saul's… and Philip's… and Joseph’s.

Gore Vidal at La Rondinaia — Photo Credit: https://www.larondinaia.com/gore-vidal/

Vidal, who passed away in 2012, often remarked that since he split his time between homes in Italy and the Hollywood Hills, he didn't live in the United States at all. Perhaps this gave him the perspective he needed to slice through the faux-partisan charade of American Politics and see it for what it is: bread and circuses for the masses. Meanwhile, the "Uni-party," aka "the Property Party, with two right wings," robs the people blind in service to Wall Street and Military Industrial Complex. But enough of that bollocks; these memories are too vivid and wonderful for politics!

Cruising into the Port of Amalfi, it was hard to suppress my unearned triumphalism as I waved like a beauty queen on a Rose Bowl float to the tourists who packed the dock. At the same time, their would-be conveyances bobbed and weaved in a careful water dance, jockeying for a berth at the crowded dock.

As we waited for our spot, I admired the multi-colored structures that rose above the rolling blue waves and up the steep green-studded limestone mountains to the cloudless summer sky, all of which gave me the distinct impression of living in a magnificent simulation—so beautiful, so achingly picturesque, and so quintessentially Italian, that it couldn't be real—although the gentle breezes on my bald head and the occasional mists of ocean spray worked hard to convince me otherwise.

Once docked, Morgana fetched the rest of our group: five attractive American medical students plus two pairs of RNs, including two adorable young nurses from Australia enjoying a grand six-week holiday. With all this medical expertise at the ready, the Gods were taking extra special care of me that day.

Rounding out our group of 12 was a rugged and amiable British couple, who were kind enough to spray sunscreen on my back and even rub it in a little after the effortlessly sexy but always professional Morgana politely declined. Naturally, in the movie version, she'll offer seductively and usher me below deck.

From Amalfi, we cruised southwest to our first swimming spot of the day, near the tiny islands of Li Galli, famous for their pristine waters. I couldn't wait to jump in since I was nearly two hours into my journey and desperately needed a dunk. The water was bracing but perfect with just the right amount of roil. And I was glad for the noodles tossed out to us by Morgana since my right arm was still sore from the pinched nerve I'd been dealing with since I left LA.

I haven't mentioned it until now, but my shoulder hurt so severely Sunday night before my trip that I almost canceled it! Now, after jumping in that ocean and bobbing beside my boatmates, I was happy I didn't fall prey to the fear or the pain—even if it meant switching from the sporty Fiat 500 I'd reserved online to the sluggish Opel with its automatic tranny, and suffering—and I did suffer—for the 12-hour flight to Rome and the several days after. Funny how the pain subsided when the fun and the food rolled in! The body is remarkably resilient when the mind gets out of the way.

After the swim, we set out for Capri, which soon rose out of the sea like a massive green iceberg. Luigi docked at the bustling port, and Morgana handed us each a generous Caprese sandwich, which I promptly fed to the gulls. I didn't travel to Capri to eat a Caprese sandwich from Salerno!

The Aussies and I formed an impromptu trio, and we cabbed it to the top of the island, where we immediately scored lemon sorbet in cups made of actual lemons.

Three hours on this island, so dense with beauty, history, and shopping, was like "Capri, the Amusement Park Ride" at a surreal Italo Disneyland. Still, we savored each moment, wandering the windy walk streets filled with fellow travelers—many glam, most not—window shopping at the luxury boutiques, checking menus for just the right bite, and snapping photos that would cement us in this place and time forever.

The girls were kind enough to snap photos of me at a magnificent overlook. I instantly realized what a schlepper I looked like in my black Vuori swim trunks and Amazon Essentials 50 SPF swim top. I needed a Caprisian makeover, and quick!

And so, with my companions' polite and oh-so-sweet indulgence, I popped into the first men's boutique that caught my eye and dropped two-hundred euros on a gorgeous green linen shirt chosen for me by the owner Vincenzo, who dissuaded me from the orange. He even had his assistant iron it out and roll up my sleeves three times to complete the look.

Two-hundred euros for a linen shirt, you ask? Well, that's about what I paid for something of similar quality back in the States. But this was more than a shirt. This was a memory. And I'll have it forever, even after the moths get it, unlike the hardy but boring buck mason I'd purchased at the Century City Mall.

Back on the boat, I stowed my new prized linen and basked in too much sun, apparently, as we sailed to the end of Via Tragara for another glorious swim, this time near the Faraglioni rock formations. As I bobbed on my noodle and did my best not to be pulled by the current into the rocks, I had to admire the dozens of luxury yachts anchored in the sheltered waters. Where better to catch some rays and avoid those pesky international trade sanctions… or the IRS?

Then it was one last stop at the oasis of Punta Campanella before our return to Amalfi, where I bid my new friends farewell in the late afternoon light before enjoying my second solo cruise back to Salerno.

Back at the hotel, I reflected on the awesomeness of this day, a triumph of advanced planning and spontaneity. All I can say is, hats off to Tripadvisor! So far, they were two for two! And I was tired, the good kind of tired, from energy—and time—well spent.