T A B L E_T A L K

Idyllic, French paradise or overrated kitch? Share your thoughts on rural Provence in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk

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__NAPLES IN A NEW LIGHT .|. PAGE 2 OF 2

With my hat pulled down over my eyes, I didn't see the man's arms that grabbed my waist, swinging my body sideways into his chest. Prepared to kick and punch, I swiveled out of his reach and ripped off my hat. He smiled. Pudgy pink cheeks blossomed in his wrinkled face. "Come, bella rosa. We dance."

A conga line of teenagers, the same rowdy bunch from the boat, snaked inside and upstairs and all around the beachside ice cream parlor. Its pastel colors blurred as my dance partner spun me out of the rain and into the sweet shop. I broke free of his arms and steadied myself against a wall, stunned. Dozens of faces, mouths wide in hysterical laughter, heads bobbing and wet hair flying, bounded in time to Italian rock music pumping from speakers overhead. Leading the train was the old man who had whisked me in from the downpour. I later learned his name was Carlo, and this was his shop. He had surrendered to the kids after their Capri field trip rained out, and he had a handsome son that I must meet. This could be fun, I thought. I sat down and ordered a beer and strawberry gelato.

Each new song brought more cheers and wild dancing. Carlo was the master of ceremonies while his son, a young man with wickedly sexy dark eyes and stubbled chin, scooped gelato and spun tunes for the frenzied masses. The kids' uninhibited display was humbling. I cursed myself for brooding over the weather when these Italian youths saw it as an opportunity to party. A cyclone of arms and legs whirled by my table; one of the spinning limbs knocked my beer into my lap. "Scuzi! Oh, signorina!" A young woman broke free of the chain to help me mop up the mess. She ordered me another beer, sat down and leaned close to be heard over the music and laughter.

"You are alone?" Her liquid, brown eyes opened wide with curiosity. I explained as best as I could in Italian about my trip. She made it clear she preferred English. Her name was Rosalia and she lived in Herculano at the base of Mount Vesuvio, the volcano that destroyed Pompeii in A.D. 79. I asked her if she was scared to live so close to an active volcano. Her eyes filled with tears as she gripped my hand and told me how much she loved Herculano, and how she prayed every day for Mount Vesuvio to be still. Again, I was humbled by such exposed emotion. I reached for her other hand, but she was up in a flash, with my camera, snapping pictures of me, her excited pals, twirling Carlo and his handsome son.

I joined the scores of soggy tourists, surely far more than the ferry's capacity allowed, on the last and only boat back to Naples at 5 p.m. Sailing conditions had worsened, and the boat rocked more violently than before. Rosalia and three of her friends adopted me and we steadied ourselves on a forward deck bench. Conversation was punctuated by nauseated groans each time the boat dropped, which seemed to be at every other word. Antonio, a skinny kid in glasses, amused us with his puking pantomimes, hoping to distract us from the sickened passengers that were losing it all over the ship. "No vomito oggi!" I said, and they giggled as we all clutched our stomachs.

The four of them bombarded me with questions. They were curious why, at 23, I was not yet married; and even more perplexed that I was traveling alone. I asked why Italian kids were always on field trips.

Sounds of laughter and clapping drew my attention to a red-faced man entertaining the deck crowd with his drunken prancing and singing. He honed in on a single woman, dressed in clinging white jeans and a loose tank top. Her long, curling hair fell on her tan neck and shoulders, bare except for a thick, golden necklace. She smiled invitingly at him, and he offered his hand. They danced completely oblivious to the cheers, and sickness, all around them. As his songs grew louder, he spun the woman in faster circles, and their bodies synchronized with the bounding ship.

The ferry was a few miles offshore when the sky cleared and a ray of low sunshine illuminated Capri. My God, it is an island paradise, I thought. Stark cliffs plunged into the sea, ending in bursts of grottoes and crags. The island looked like a floating alpine mountain, with steep, tree-lined rises and jagged trails. The ocean sparkled like emeralds where the sun hit, and was as black as onyx under the hovering clouds. I knew then why so many sang the island's name.

With hugs and promises to write, I reluctantly parted from the school kids at the port of Naples to face the long road back to my hotel. It would be dark soon -- the lurking hour. With arms crossed protectively over my chest, I cleared a path down Corso Umberto. As I walked, my thoughts drifted back to the young faces and chilled strawberries, lifting me from the chaos of the street. A leer -- I smiled. A grope -- I winked. Naples is beautiful, I realized. Look at how the Castel de Uvo lights the curved port like a jeweled crown; see how noble the opera house stands. The city bewitched me.

Mariano, the hotel proprietor, pinched my chin so hard upon my return that I felt his fingers with each sip of Chianti that night. I wished my mother had been there to share the wine, that I might repaint her memories with what I witnessed that day. The Italians may seem crazy, and in Naples, sometimes dangerous, but they are blessed with the desire to dance in a rainstorm and welcome a stranger. She need not worry about her only daughter alone here. I was safe.
SALON | April 27, 1998

Deb Fellner is the Travel and Lifestyle editor for @Home Network. She has written for Spiv and Women's Wire, and for Wanderlust about climbing Mount Sinai.