Planes, Trains, Automobiles, Hydrofoils, Funiculars, and....Italian Wine

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 Emporer's once basked? With a great big pain in their ass.

I had contemplated flying into Naples, since we'd be utilizing it's port, but we were flying out of Rome, so it was cheaper to make it a round-trip ticket. My failed logic was, “Naples is only two-hours from Rome by rail. It should be easy enough to get their on our own.” Right. Let's add to the already astounding litany of means necessary to reach our destination. The trek to Capri probably isn't so arduous if you aren't attempting it immediately following the red-eye to Rome, which followed a 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. It's wheels were placed toward the middle, so of course, the seventy pound p.o.s. was constantly tipping over!

In my own defense, I couldn't have foreseen the unfortunate situations that managed to befall us. In attempts to ease some of our fatigue and discomfort, we decided to splurge and upgrade to first-class en route to Naples, entitling us to a semi-private, climate-controlled cabin with extra cushy seats and food service. Yet we boarded the miserably hot and stuffy train to discover that the godforsaken air conditioning was 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 two and a half hour excursion...in coach. They promised to refund us, but it must have gotten lost in translation.

We eventually arrived in Naples and disembarked from our 150-minute sauna. Starving and exhausted, we secured a cab to take us to the port. I, myself, don't particularly believe in the power of prayer; however, inside this cab which made a NYC taxi ride feel like a stroll through Central Park, I figured it couldn't hurt. Finally at the port of Naples, we got in line to buy our tickets to the hydrofoil. For anyone considering an escape 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 it only being forty-five minutes, the sardine factor made the conditions on the hydrofoil even more atrocious than that of the train. En voyage of this miserable floating vessel, finally headed for the dad blasted island, in our 25^th hour of traveling, having been deprived of food, rest, or a cool breeze for quite some time, my demeanor became less than amiable. I began to develop immense regret for ever having left home. In other words, I lost it. I thoroughly expressed to my husband that I wanted off the damn boat and not when we arrived at Capri. Now. No amount of natural beauty could possibly be worth this hell. Luckily he was able to make his way to a refreshment counter, and in obtaining a much-needed beverage, saved me from jumping ship. It's amazing 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 in 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. But it wasn't over yet. We still had to wait with the masses 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. Thank God it didn't have far to go.


Reaching the plateau, the doors opened. Alas! We had arrived! The two-day journey was over! Had I not been so 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 taking us to our oasis after this ridiculously long pilgrimage, was not what I had in mind. In Italian it is referred to as, “nostri piedi.” Translation: our feet. As in walking the mile of hilly terrain. Hiking. Hoofing. Inching.

Then I was struck with the 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 all of my favorite clothes. According to my calculations, we were no longer in the green by flying into Rome.

The very next moment commenced my passion for Italian wine. Any available variety of Italian wine.