"'One does not go to Italy for niceness' was the retort; 'one comes for life'" - E.M. Forster, A Room with a View
My friend and I are squeezed next to the doors of the train with at least 40 people in a space made to fit 10 comfortably. An Italian hit on me before I even left passport control that morning, everyone is loud, and there is a couple making out in the corner so intensely that I can no longer tell who is who. Benvenuto a Italia!
Everything is beautiful to me. The rickety train, the old sailor who tells us about Naples, and the orange groves outside the window all have their own perfection. Perfect does not mean nice, calm, or orderly in Italy. Instead, I would say that there is a celebration of imperfections that nudges you to enjoy your own. Graffiti covers the walls and the pastel stucco on buildings is crumbling in patches. It adds to the charm. On the train it begins to rain, which is ironic, because we have left England to run away from the rain. Still, it feels different. The drops sprinkle in through the open windows, but the sun is still out and the air smells like lemons, so we don't mind.
Sorrento is blantantly touristy, but embrace it. Naples is known for being too dangerous even for many Italians, so it is a relief to come to this small town above a port where the buildings are yellow, pink, or peach. The small harbor (reachable by a side alleyway) is like a painting come to life. It is filled with small family-owned fishing boats that crowd the docks and are beached on the sand. There is a seafood restaurant with outdoor seating that serves mainly Italians, probably because tourists can't find the alleyway. The bright blue water laps up against the wharf in gentle cycles. Off to the right is a group of old fishermen mending nets, fishing, and laughing loudly in the afternoon sun. They are all tanned and smiling, and they all wear sweaters softened by time. If you pressed your face into those sweaters, I know you'd smell ocean water, tobacco, and wine that can never really be washed away. Teenage girls lean over the stonewalls above the port and call down to the boys. I don't need to understand Italian to smile at the universal language of flirtation. For a long time, I don't want to leave. But the serious questions come back to us, even in Sorrento.
Will we have our gelato before pasta, or after? Before. Try the melone.