Who wouldn’t love an exciting and romantic trip to Italy? I presume very few. As incredible as Italy is, this narrative is not the flowery sort. It is a tale entailing the nightmarishly long journey I unwittingly set us up to endure when I booked our flights. Yes, all roads lead to Rome, but I learned the hard way that Capri is not at the other end. Well, not in a direct route sort of way. So, how does one arrive at their hotel on the Italian isle where Roman Emperors once basked? With a great big pain in the ass.

With our Italian dream trip beginning on the isle of Capri and concluding in Rome, we could have purchased two one-way segments and flown into Naples, enabling us to set foot on soil already overlooking the sea. Instead, I opted for Choice B, which saved a couple of hundred dollars by getting round-trip tickets to Rome. My failed logic presumed that since Naples is only two-hours from Rome by rail, it would be a scenic and uneventful trip between the two lovely cities–a trip well-worth saving the money to make. In hindsight, one would greatly benefit not to add another mode of transport to the already astounding litany of means necessary to reach this destination. Admittedly, the trek to Capri probably isn’t so arduous if you aren’t attempting it immediately following a trip through customs, which followed the red-eye to Rome, which followed a two-hour layover, which followed the first segment of the flight, which left at noon on the day before. It doesn’t help to have copious amounts of luggage, the biggest piece of which was designed by a logically-inept moron who thought to place the wheels toward the center, allowing me the infuriating privilege of toting around a seventy pound weeble-wobble on which I had to balance my thirty pound carry-on.

In my own defense, when making the aforementioned decision,there’s no way I could have foreseen the unfortunate situations that managed to befall us. Already exhausted from the overnight flight, our first challenge was finding, and getting tickets to, the commuter train to take us from the airport (where I first experienced culture shock Italian style) to the much bigger Eurostar station. To ease some of our fatigue and discomfort, we decided to splurge and upgrade our rail ticket to first-class en route to Naples, entitling us to a semi-private, climate-controlled cabin with extra cushy seats and food service. Yet after a great deal of difficulty involved in boarding this miserably hot and stuffy train, we were informed that, on this bright and humid summer day, the godforsaken air conditioning had broken. So, not only did we have the hassle of removing all of our luggage from said cabin after the initial hassle of getting it in there, we lost a fair amount of money in our first exchange with the Euro considering our upgraded first-class tickets purchased us seats to an insufferably hot and uncomfortable two and a half hour excursion…in coach. They promised to refund us once we arrived, but as luck would have it, the validity of the voucher got lost in translation.

We eventually arrived in Naples and disembarked from our 150-minute sauna. Starving and exhausted, we secured a taxi to take us to the port. I, myself, don’t particularly believe in the power of prayer; however, inside this death trap which compares a ride in a NYC cab to a stroll through Central Park, I figured this would be as good a time as any to explore it’s capabilities. Wide-eyed and white knuckled by the time we reached the port, we hurriedly escaped the vehicle and got in line to buy our tickets to the hydrofoil. For anyone considering a jaunt to Capri, I strongly advise you read my post entitled, “No Cuts, No Buts, No Coconuts,” before attempting to purchase these passes. Otherwise, your journey ends here.

Despite the voyage only lasting forty-five minutes, the sardine factor made the conditions on the hydrofoil even more atrocious than that of the train. On course of this miserable floating vessel, finally headed for the dad blasted island, in our 25th hour of traveling, having been deprived of food, rest, or a cool breeze for an indefinite amount of time, all enthusiasm dried up and my demeanor became less than agreeable. I began developing immense regret for ever having conceived of this “escape” in the first place. Quite simply: I lost it. I thoroughly expressed to my husband that I wanted off the damn boat and not when we arrived at Capri. Now. For no amount of natural beauty could possibly be worth this hell. What had I been thinking by leaving our children with my parents and dropping this kind of cash to merely perish in a foreign country where nobody even knows our names? Utilizing his keen senses, my husband perceived the desperation in my voice (rather, I was very explicit in expressing it) and by the grace of the travel goddess, he was able to make his way to a refreshment counter and by obtaining a life-saving beverage, managed to prevent me from jumping ship. Moral of this paragraph? Never underestimate what a few sips of tepid Coca-Cola can do for the weak and weary.

As we approached the resplendent sight that is Capri, with glimmers of sunlight reflecting from the azure-colored water, enough optimism crept into my soul to bring a sigh of hope. Docked, and basking in the awe of the magnificent landscape and Mediterranean architecture, we were greeted by our hotel staff who then relieved us of our burdensome luggage. I began to see the light at the end of the tunnel–however, no fat lady was singing yet. We still had to herd with the masses and wait for the funicular which ascends to the island’s epicenter. How the ‘fun’ got in funicular is apparent to anyone who has ridden one of these tortoise-paced apparatuses during summer in a tropical climate, which proves additionally entertaining in a country that does not appear to maintain passenger quotas.

Once at the plateau, the doors opened. Alas! We had arrived! The two-day journey was over! Had I not been so emotionally and physically depleted, I would have reveled in my excitement. We haggardly disembarked the incline to discover that our transfer would not only deliver us directly to the front doors of our hotel, but didn’t cost a penny! The method of transport carrying us to our oasis after this ridiculously long pilgrimage? In Italian it is: nostri piedi. Translation: our feet. As in, walking the agonizing mile of hilly terrain.

As we finally stumbled to the massive front doors of our hotel, which was magnificently situated on a cliff overlooking the sea, I was suddenly struck with yet more bad news. I realized that in the midst of my fatigue and the hurry to disembark the hydrofoil, I had failed to collect my garment bag containing my very favorite clothes. As one beautiful dress after another flashed through my mind, I almost began to weep. Computing the new figures in my head, my calculations provided that we likely lost money by not flying into Naples.

At that very moment, I knew I had no choice but to throw caution to the wind. Without pausing to consider the consequences, I let down my guard and immediately plunged into a new and passionate love affair…with Italian wine.

I experienced culture shock for the first time within minutes of arriving in Rome. We had just exited the plane from our ten-hour, transatlantic flight when I was taken aback. It wasn’t the language barrier, although I didn’t speak a lick of Italian. It was the airport security officer standing before me, sporting some very heavy artillery. “My, what big guns you have!” shrieked my mind, not referring to the muscular mass bulging through his sleeve. Yes, these guns were bona fide assault rifles. Unsure whether the purpose of such machinery was to intimidate or annihilate, I knew one thing for certain: Italians don’t jack around with homeland security.

Lazy and optimistic me. I did not take the time to learn a little Italian before embarking on our romantic Roman holiday. I speak un peu French, but that didn’t get me far in France, and I imagine would be significantly less helpful in Italy. I was more concerned with the statistical possibility of the two of us dying in a suicide bombing on Capri than I was the language barrier. Luckily, one of us planned ahead.

As it turns out, Italy boasts a wealth of English-speakers who do not seem to mind using it. However, that is not to say that learning a little Italian won’t make things easier. For instance, eager to make his impressive European debut, my husband listened to “Italian on CD” relentlessly for three weeks. I’m ashamed to admit I did tease him. However, I was forced to eat my words when his Italian saved the day while buying train passes. With his wealth of communication skills and extensive knowledge of numbers 1-10, he was thus able to indicate precisely how many tickets we needed while simultaneously showing the ticket clerk two fingers. I fear what may have taken place without his newly acquired verbiage. Instead of indicating a quantity, his gesture may have been misconstrued as simply, “peace out.”

Moral of the story: if you’re going to take the time to learn a foreign language, focus on numbers representing quantities greater than your available digits.

To avoid wasting time in lines, the Italians have cleverly engineered their own system. This state-of-the-art technique is aptly called, survival of the fastest.  Word to the wise: do not, I repeat, do not allow more than eight centimeters to come between yourself and the person in front of you at any given time when standing in line. And note, I use the term “line” very loosely. There are often groups of people seemingly organized in a linear fashion, all headed in the same direction, and appearing to have a common goal.  However, the fact that it mirrors what we, here in the States, refer to as “waiting your turn” is merely a coincidence. In addition to the aforementioned advice, one must refrain from people watching (outside of anyone not posing an immediate threat), shoe tying, sneezing and/or blinking. If you fail to heed this or my eight centimeter warning (and I have seen it happen with less), the opportunity to claim your spot will be seized. In such case, one must speak up and speak loudly, as you will quickly learn, it is a long and weary wait for the soft-spoken.

In summary, simply think of AAA.  If, to the best of your abilities, you always remain Agile, Alert, and Assertive, you too will be one step closer to SILA (Successful Italian Line Advancement).

Buona fortuna!

Something was a dead give away. I have yet to pinpoint exactly what element it was. I mean, I know I don’t look Italian. But I do have a great deal of Swedish and German blood running through my veins. Is it really that big of a stretch to think I could be European? Whether it was my attire, my attitude, or my appearance, they knew. On several occasions, I was approached and greeted in English. The telltale sign that I wore my nationality on my sleeve came, when at a museum, I was scolded not once, but twice, in my mother tongue. The first incident was the result of an innocent mishap, as I was unaware the flash would operate on my camera. Moments later, I committed my second offense by almost touching an intriguing table boasting a beautiful tile mosaic. Really, I try to be on my best behavior! I don’t know what came over me, but something about that unique and historic table begged me to get a closer look utilizing my tactual senses. As if acting on it’s own will, my hand lifted, then floated closer, index finger in position. Just at the moment I was expecting it to relay the surface’s texture to my brain, I was startled from behind. Unexpectedly, a sharp, exacting tone exclaimed, “NO touching!” I instinctively ceased my intention and turned to see the source, which was a woman wearing authentic museum personnel garb. I had not uttered so much as one English syllable within earshot of this stern ‘Guardian of Relics’. So how did she know? Perhaps, it’s a simple case of defaulting orders in English. Maybe they teach the motto in Roman museum guard school, “when in doubt, use English to shout.” Or, maybe it’s just me, oozing the unmistakable aura of an American.

Rome & Capri

Expect to spend lots of dough. Europe can be very expensive and Italy is no exception. Capri, in fact, exemplifies this rule. Without disclosing actual figures, we could have had a brand new, stripped-down Kia in place of our nine-day Roman holiday (celebrating an anniversary served as our justification to over-indulge). To avoid blowing loads of cash, plan ahead and have a budget. However, don’t find yourself skimping so much that it hinders the experience. Keep in mind to allow more than you think you’ll need because inevitably there will be costs you hadn’t anticipated. **Note, our figure included flights which were $1,200 apiece. I will soon be adding a post reviewing our hotels. Going during the off-season, you can save LOTS of money (usually Nov-March).

Remember to take a conservative ensemble to visit the Vatican. They do turn people away if your attire does not meet the requirements. Shoulders, knees, and cleavage must all be covered to get into St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Vatican museum (which houses The Sistine Chapel).

May, June, & September are the best times to visit Capri according to locals. It’s probably fair to say the same for Rome, as July and August are the hottest months, and the busiest on Capri. We visited in June, and what I’ll say is this: Girls, pack the clips and plan to wear your hair up. I initially resisted this as I had just invested a small fortune getting my hair cut and highlighted for the trip. I persevered in my struggle until lunchtime the first day, at which point I wished I would have had her cut off six inches more.

Hire a guide or book a tour, especially in Rome.

Many times you can do this through your concierge. In some

cases you can book on-site, such as the coloseum. I highly recommend some sort of tour as your experience will be greatly enriched having the knowledge and insight a guide will provide about these significant points of interest. Simply seeing the forum is remarkable, but not nearly as impressive without knowing the importance behind each monument. We hired a private boat tour around the isle of Capri, including a visit to the Blue Grotto, on our last morning before leaving for Rome. I highly recommend doing this. It was a wonderful way to say “arrivederci” to the remarkably beautiful island.

If you’re on a tight budget, the coloseum also offers audio tours for a reasonable rate (only 4 Euros in 2006). Or, if you’re really on a budget, although not a reliable plan, and I categorically do not endorse this, you can try to slip into an English-speaking tour already in progress.

Half and full-day excursions from Rome are also offered. If you have 3 days or less, stay within proximity of Rome’s epicenter, utilizing that time exploring all this amazing city has to offer. If you have several days, you may enjoy an excursion to marvel in some fascinating ruins or Italian countryside. Pompeii is definitely worth a visit! Also interesting (and not very far) is Tivoli which boasts at least two UNESCO World Heritage sites and a castle. I personally would not recommend a day trip to Capri from Rome. The voyage is too far and arduous to briefly set foot on the isle. Capri makes a better day trip if you’re nearer the Almafi Coast. However, know that droves of cruise ships dock nearby enabling literally thousands of day-trippers to infiltrate the island every day. If interested in visiting Capri and Rome, I would suggest staying at least two nights on the isle to truly experience it’s unique ambiance and to make the journey worth the effort.

Eat plenty of gelato. This would be my single most important piece of advice. There are tons of flavors, it’s super good, and it’s everywhere. Best of all, their portions are small so you can try a new variety whenever the craving hits you and not stretch out the clothes you’ve packed. Many days we had some twice and I actually lost weight on the trip! So, I say, “viva la vita dolce!”