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I’m stretched out on a lounge chair set on a rock on the island of Capri, staring at
one of the world’s most beloved views: The faraglioni.
Those white limestone formations, rising from the turquoise sea, have long
inspired stories. The ancients believed that one-eyed giant Polyphemus, angered by
his father, God of the Sea Poseidon, threw these rocks down from the heavens.
Homer wrote that sirens sang from them, luring sailors to their death. Odysseus,
to escape their perils, ordered his men to put wax in their ears and tie him to his ship’s mast, so he could safely hear their marvelous voices.
Faraglioni stories are gentler nowadays. Boats pass under their arches and tourists
are told: If you make a wish under the rocks, it will surely come true.
The story that brought me here came from my Uncle Joey. He’s my oldest living
relative, only son of my Italian immigrant grandparents. Before any trip to Italy, I
visit him on the Jersey shore. It’s a departure ritual, connecting me with my roots
before getting on the plane – a homage to my grandparents who inspired me to
visit Italy decades ago–a trip that led to more trips, travel writing, and designing
tours of the Bel Paese.
And so, the ritual begins with the ding-dong doorbell. I hear the jokey voice of
Uncle Joey responding, “Who is it?”, and then he greets me with a double cheek
kiss, that comes with a whiff of citrus from his Aqua de Parma cologne. Once he
was a towering figure, with a head of black curly hair. Now, at 85, we practically
stand eye-to-eye. With each visit there’s less hair and more ears and nose.
It’s always a comfort to be in Uncle Joey’s living room, surrounded by things I
remember from Nana and Papa’s house. All are neatly arranged, all in their proper
places. There’s the bronze statue of David next to the fireplace, Venetian mirror
over the mantel, and coming in from the kitchen, Uncle Joey carries a wooden tray
painted gold, from Florence, holding stemmed glasses of vermouth on the rocks.
“Vermouth—that’s what they drink in Italy,” Uncle Joey says, in his lecturing tone.
Except for the fact that I can legally drink booze, in Uncle Joey’s living room I’m
always a child, needing to be taught the ways of the world. Or rather the ways of
Uncle Joey’s Ideal World, forever around 1963, when in his eyes, all was in their
proper place.
Going with the flow, I don’t tell him that nowadays what they drink in Italy is
Aperol spritz. Why would I wreck this arrangement? The older I get, the more I
appreciate my uncle’s Old School Style. While time races by, Uncle Joey keeps
everything still.
We toast “salute”, and another precious object catches my eye — a music box made
of inlaid wood. Back come memories of its enchanting tune, that turned me and my
sisters into ballerinas, twirling in Nana and Papa’s parlor in their big house,
imagining some faraway paradise.
Now I realize this music box must have been a souvenir from my grandparents’
trip to Sorrento. In my recent travels I’ve seen Sorrento artisans in workshops,
creating designs like the music box lid. It’s a craft called intarsia, passed down
through generations, over centuries. The song the music box played was “Isle of
Capri”, a 1930s hit, about the island that lies a short ferry ride from Sorrento.
The lyrics told a melancholy tale of boy meets girl on this Isle of Capri, she’s
married, there’s a sweet kiss, and finally the boy sails away.
Setting down my vermouth, I pick up the music box, amazed it still plays,
considering what a workout this thing got back when my sisters and I would
pounce on it as soon as we arrived at my grandparents’ house, winding it over and
over, until we were called to the Sunday dinner table. Uncle Joey raises his glass and sings along: Twas on the Isle of Capri where I met you….
The tune launches him into talk of a time he had in Capri in Italy’s La Dolce Vita
1960s days. Most of all he goes on about a legendary beach club — called Canzone
del Mare, which means Song of the Sea. “In Marina Piccolo, that’s where you go, that’s where EVERYBODY goes,” Uncle Joey says, adding, “Richard Burton, Liz Taylor, Greta Garbo…” – as if I’d arrive to find them there today.
The vermouth warms me as Uncle Joey carries on. He tells me that the club
belonged to a popular British singer, Gracie Fields, who “sang all those songs
during the war.” He says Gracie fell in love with Capri on an Italian vacation,
loved it so much she bought a former fort in Marina Piccolo that she turned into
her home, and in 1950 she turned the rocky beach in front of that home into the
beach club — Canzone del Mare, with a pool made in the shape of Capri, and a
restaurant, where, once in a while she’d take to the microphone and sing.
“And she was there, when I was there with your grandfather,” Uncle Joey says, his
eyes lighting up with amazement, as if she just walked into the room. “We were
sitting at the pool and she came down the steps, this very attractive blonde, so
charming, welcoming everybody!”
But the biggest attraction of Canzone del Mare, Uncle Joey says, waving his hands
as if conducting a symphony, was the view. “Right in front of you, coming out of
the water, are those big white rocks, the faraglioni—that means big lighthouses, in
Italian. The beach, the water, the rocks — you feel like you’re in a postcard!”
Weeks later I’m far from Uncle Joey’s living room, on the island of Capri.
Coincidentally, Capri had been in my plans for a break after hosting a tour group in
Sorrento. I’d rented a big AirBnB with a galfriend, that had a terrace where I spent
day times writing while Helen would wander off for shopping in the boutiques of the
nearby Via Furlovado. In the evenings we drank Lacryma Christi wine and
watched the sunset.
Now that Capri has become so over-loved, with 15,000 travelers a day arriving at
its port, I knew staying a while was key to enjoy it. I took walks in the early
mornings and evenings, when day trippers were gone. And as always, just as on
past visits, the faraglioni beckoned.
Yes, I’ve ridden the boats and wished under their arches. I’ve hiked to arrive at
belvederes to take in the wonders of the faraglioni from many angles. I’ve dined at
ristorantes toasting with their beauty in the background. I’ve even been to the
popular da Luigi beach club to swim with the faraglioni towering close by.
But I’d never been to Canzone del Mare, and Uncle Joey’s words stuck with me.
And even though the beach club did not make any of the recent “Where to Go in Capri” lists of the travel
magazines, there was a chorus of locals backing Uncle Joey up. Every time I
mentioned Canzone del Mare to Caprese I met in shops and restaurants, they’d
make that same wavy hands gesture, and then with dreamy looks in their eyes, sigh
out words that sounded like a siren’s song…che bellezza, il mare, i
faraglioni…Canzone del Mare…
Those locals were concerned about saving me from disappointment, and added: “The
movie stars aren’t there anymore. Now they all stay on their yachts in the Marina Piccola
harbor.” They told me that the club was…tradizionale, vecchio stile…”
“So it’s old school?,” I hopefully asked a chef. He wasn’t quite sure of the expression but nodded. And then added a whisper of advice, “Be careful in the ristorante. Don’t order the spaghetti alle vongole, they reheat the clams!”
So, on my last morning on the island, I took the zig-zag path to Marina Piccola,
where a vintage sign for Canzone del Mare appeared next to a parking garage.
Taking the steps to the ticket booth, I was glad to see this was a Capri crowd-free
spot–its glory days have passed. All that remains of La Dolce Vita times here are
black and white blown-up photos of signorinas of yesteryear in wide-brimmed
straw hats, cat-eye sunglasses, and pointy breasted bathing suits, striking
cheesecake poses.
The other crowd deterrent is the entrance cost – 80 euros, twice as much as the
other clubs on the island. “But half of it – 40 euros — you use as a credit for the
restaurant,” the attendant explained. I was in on this deal. The restaurant is so
awful that they build eating there into the total price, so you have to go. Though
I’m not a traveler that often gets taken, in this case I surrendered. It was the price to pay for putting myself inside a vintage experience.
Stepping into the dressing rooms I could have joined the angry Trip Advisor
complainers with their rants about dilapidated wicker furniture, crummy showers,
and most shockingly faded towels – the one the beach boy handed me was so worn
out I could barely read the “R-E” in Canzone del Mare.
But I’d gotten into the spirit of this place, and for me, the fade was what gave
Canzone del Mare its charm, its fading glamour, or flamour, as Instagrammers
hashtag it. Perhaps being here was my destiny, because a few days back I’d
celebrated my sixty-fifth birthday here in Capri, with friends I’ve made during
travel years, blowing out a candle stuck into a delizio del limone pastry.
I was feeling the fade. I caught my reflection in the dressing room mirror. Yes, I
was wearing a bikini, Italian signora style. And there it was: puffy middle,
deepening crows’ feet around the eyes, graying roots at my temples.
Enough. I slid on a cover-up, put on my big sunglasses and floppy hat. I took the
arm offered to me by the attentive ragazzo as he led me to a seaside rock, where,
with flourishes, he adjusted my lounge chair and set up the umbrella for la signora.
It was a perfect position to fall under the spell of the faraglioni.
I lay there melting in the mid-day sun’s glow, and then took my dip in the sparkling
waters of the sea–shallow, calm, so clear I could see to the bottom, marveling at
the pale turquoise color that turned to midnight blue on the horizon.
At lunchtime on the patio restaurant, ivory tuxedoed waiters zig-zagged about, and
I heeded the words of my chef friend, keeping my order simple with prosecco and
a mediocre caprese salad.
Woozy from bubbly and sun, back at the lounge bed I closed my eyes and the
gentle lapping of the waters and echoey shrieks of bambini on the pebbled beach
lulled me to memories…other beaches, other bikinis…
Building sandcastles with my sisters on the Jersey shore, where we decorated
turrets with strewn cigarette butts and beer caps. The fascination with our
lifeguard’s v-shaped bronzed back and red Speedo. The teenage years in my pink
bikini with my Coca-Cola towel and transistor radio playing a scratchy Carly
Simon’s “You’re So Vain”.
A chill came. It was late afternoon and the sun had slipped behind Monte Solaro. I
opened my eyes to see a smattering of shadowy beachgoers packing up and
catching a boat on a distant dock.
It was time to leave, but I didn’t move. I felt captured by a stillness. It was quieter
now, even waves seemed to stop. I had the view all to myself. The view of the
faraglioni that captured Gracie Fields, Uncle Joey, and who can say how many
before me.
Back came the enchanting music box song. And back came a feeling of deep
comfort, as I wrapped the towel around me, and the beach day faded. Everything
was in its proper place. The sea, the rocks, the sun, and me.
******
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