I was always a little dubious about this place. The guide books had nothing good to say about it but I figured it would be a good base for exploring the Amalfi Coast.
Apart from wanting to kill the loud, unruly child banging about in the next carriage, the train from Rome to Naples was fine: quick and comfortable.
The journey from Naples to Sorrento on the local trains, however, was a different matter. The platform at Naples station was dark and grotty and the train itself was packed. I suppose it’s not much different from the London Underground though, so I tried to hold back the criticism. We stood the whole 50 minutes to Sorrento, trying avoid making eye contact with the young crack addict swaying about in the vestibule, and noticing how each town we passed through looked more tumble-down than the last. It was raining, which didn’t help.
We took a taxi from the station, (where I clocked the hundreds of people queuing for the SITA buses that do the Amalfi Coast run), to the Hotel Cristina.
The hotel was lovely and smart, the room was spacious with an amazing view (or so we assumed, as right now, we couldn’t see a damn thing for the thick storm clouds).
Not wanting to leave the hotel in that weather, we ate in the hotel restaurant. I won’t mention how shockingly un-Italian it was, and how we were the only people in the restaurant under 60 years old. At least we knew we’d be eating out the rest of the time.
We woke up the next day to, guess what? MORE BAD WEATHER.
We were so frustrated and disappointed by now, but it was out of our control.
So, to Pompeii.
Following on from our enjoyment of an Italian style breakfast in Rome, (two cappuccinos and two pastries at Paticceria D’Angelo for the sensible price of £3) we walked into a bar on the way to the train station and asked for the same. However, the cappuccinos that came out were not your normal Italian sized ones, they were more like Starbucks' and they tasted as weak as piss. The pastries weren’t dainty freshly baked
cornetti, they were big fat jam doughnuts. What the hell was this place? I reeled in horror as, from inside the bar, I slowly decoded the back-to-front writing on the awnings outside “T-O-U-R-I-S-T B-A-R”. Noooooooooooooo!
Then came the bill: £10. You shysters!
Now seriously disgruntled, and looking at the world through anger tinted specs, we took the same graffiti-covered local train as yesterday and followed the hoards of other tourists to the ruined city of Pompeii. I hadn’t realised how huge it was – absolutely massive. However, it wasn’t as well attended to as I would have hoped. I didn’t see any official guides anywhere to help people around the site (just thieving con-artist unofficial guides) and I noticed building materials lying around, mosaics covered in dirt and leaves etc. Why weren’t they taking pride in this national treasure? Taking tourism for granted perhaps? The attitude in the canteen was shocking. The staff didn’t even look us in the eye when they handed us our roast pork slops. Where was the delicious Italian food from this nation of cooks? It was sad, very sad, that a country should feel it has to dumb itself down for its foreign visitors. I was hoping the Italians would be the sort to say eat our food or starve.
Back in Sorrento we wandered round looking for restaurants that a) weren’t serving low grade spag bol or lasagne or b) weren’t charging the earth. It started to absolutely pour with rain, but we persisted trekking the streets with our Jack-in-the-Packs working overtime. We couldn’t believe how difficult it was to find a simple, local, Italian restaurant with reasonable prices. It was impossible. I was fed up with the Italians for mercilessly ripping off tourists, fed up with the tourists for being there, and fed up with the incessant bad weather! Tired and wet, we gave in to two cappuccinos and two cakes for a £15 and planned that night’s dinner. We’d give ourselves the standard of food we expect, but for the price we’d expect - we’d make it ourselves. We’d get what we needed from the deli at the supermarket and eat in our room. And so we did.
Of course, sods law, on our way back to the hotel laden with self catering produce, we did find what looked like a great local pizza restaurant. We noted it for tomorrow night.
Next morning, with only three days left of our Italian tour, we walked down to the Marina Grande. The sun started to come out and the whole place looked and felt a lot better. Clearly the bad weather had been having a big effect on our enjoyment.
We took a picnic lunch but suffered the continual nagging of restaurant touts as we wandered back and forth trying to find a spot to sit and eat. When we did, we soon attracted the company of a smelly tramp asking for a cigarette. Brilliant.
At Marina Piccolo the tourist ferries to the isle of Capri were standing room only, packed like sardines with fat Americans off the cruise ships. It didn’t look like an experience we would enjoy.
Perhaps we could hire our own boat. We looked into it, made a few phone calls and the next day we were out on the water as captains of our own motorised duck making our own way to Capri. Luckily the sun was out, the sky was blue and it was great fun. We took a picnic lunch made by our new best friend who worked in the supermarket deli and spent the whole day out there. We docked at Capri and left the boat with one of the harbour workers (for a few euro of course), then made our way around the coast of the island and anchored for lunch at our own private cove. It was absolutely brilliant. This was the sort of thing we liked, away from others, doing our own thing, independent, interesting, explorative.
Back on dry land and burnt to a crisp we re-hydrated with a couple of beers and then went for dinner at the one and only restaurant that met with our approval in Sorrento: Pizzeria Franco.
Our last day in Italy began with hot weather and a dilemma. Now that we finally had some sunshine, should we spend the day by the pool relaxing, or should we climb Mount Vesuvius?
After some serious deliberation, Vesuvius it was. That meant back on the train to Pompeii - un-pleasant, but at least we had a seat.
We bought our tickets for the public bus to vesuvius train ticket window in Pompeii and were told to get the bus from “the square”. So we walked to the square, but no bus stop in sight. Who could we ask? Every Italian was a rip-off merchant, they’d only try and send us to the other dodgy private bus companies. I chose the most innocent looking person I could find: a man selling orange juice. We went where he told us, but there was no sign, no indication that it was a bus stop. I turned around and noticed a bit of paper stuck to a door that said “Tourist Information”. Curiouser and curiouser. Where would this white rabbit lead us? Well, he confirmed the bus stop, but sent us on a real wild goose chase for a cash machine, which, to cut a long story short ended up with us missing the bus and having to wait an hour for the next one.
We were in New Pompeii now, so we decided to eat lunch, but three weeks in this country had left us scarred with lessons learnt about where we should and shouldn’t eat and we couldn’t settle on anywhere. Lesson 1: don’t eat around squares, they will be selling at a premium and you will get ripped off. Lesson 2: don’t eat near tourist areas, you will get ripped off. Lesson 3: don’t eat from a place where nothing is priced, you will get ripped off.
What do you do when lessons 1, 2 and 3 leave you with nowhere to eat? Go to McDonalds.
Yes, the Golden Arches just appeared out of the blue and saved us from our torment. Now, I hate McDonalds and everything it stands for, so believe me, choosing McDonalds in Italy, supposedly the food capital of Europe, was a serious low point. I, of course, blamed the Italians for bringing me to this. On the last day of our three week trip, they had finally beaten us. Even in Japan, supposedly the most expensive place in the world, I never had such problems.
Cut now to the bus journey. Higher and higher we go up Vesuvius. The views get better at every turn, we are nearly there, we can see the summit, and then… hang on… we’re going down, what’s this?
So, the bus stops in a car park with one shop. The driver gets off and a woman gets on, and in a dodgy accent she tells us, “My father who is very ill is inside the shop and he will give you the information you need and the tickets you need for the trip to the top.”
Oh, whatever love, give us a break. Everyone on the bus knew it was a con and no-one moved. Then she told us that we might as well get off because the bus was going to park here for 20 minutes. So we got off, and while others were hounded into buying bottles of water and the like, Dom and I steered well clear and moaned some more about the cheek of these people – and this was a public bus too!
Thirty five minutes later and we were all back on the bus waiting impatiently to leave, but the driver was still outside smoking a fag and talking on his phone. One of the Americans decided to do something about it and cajoled the driver back on the bus (not without objection I might add). The cheeky f*ck!
It was literally about 30 seconds more drive to the top of the mountain where we did our climb, saw the crater, marvelled at the views over the Bay of Naples and came back down for a beer. Despite everything, it was worth it.
Of course, it wasn’t over yet.
We got down in time for the 15:00 bus, and at 15.20 a bus turned up but we were told this was the 16.30 bus. We were totally unconvinced, but the driver just hurled abuse at us in Italian and went off to get himself an ice cream. We were proved right, when at 16.05 the 16.30 bus turned up and our driver told that driver to go back down again. They were clearly working it so they didn’t have to do all the timetabled trips in a day, spanning out the drive at their little side line café on the way up. For me, this was the final nail in the coffin for Italy.
I know you can’t generalise, but it seems like Italians from bin men to bus drivers, café owners and taxi drivers are as corrupt as they come. No wonder the Italian mafia are so successful – it’s in the genes!
We drove back through the outskirts of Naples, catching sight of the
stinking, rat infested piles of rubbish that have been building up here over the last year and recalled the good and the bad sides of Italian life.
Molto interessante.
Venice and Rome were amazing, Florence and Sorrento were not. Tuscany was somewhere in between. Maybe we should have done Italy in short bursts, maybe we should have avoided such tourist-filled areas, shoulda, woulda, coulda...
We have certainly learnt that we like backpacking adventure holidays, honeymoon or not, and we like some feeling of independence away from the crowds and we didn’t achieve that with Italy.
Arrivederci.
Read a very similar experience of the area by Pauline on Slow Travel
Labels: travel
Awakened by the calling cockerels and braying mules, fuelled by strong coffee and a bowl of cereal, we were all packed up and in our open sided safari truck by 8am and bombing along the road out of Maun town.
Before long Tarmac became dirt track, our pace slowed, and the truck powered its way through thick sandy troughs and pools of flood water. Gradually the undergrowth got thicker and the trees greener and when we passed through the buffalo fence it felt like we were entering Jurassic Park as we eagerly anticipated our first proper wildlife sighting.
It didn’t take long: before we reached the poling station we had stopped for egrets, a secretary bird, a fish eagle and a giraffe! WOW. We click-click-clicked with our cameras unaware that these sightings were only the first of many many more. But the first are definitely the sweetest and the most magical.
At the poling station, the mokoros (canoes carved out of tree trunks) were parked up at the water’s edge, ready to carry us on the next leg of our journey into the Okavango Delta, the largest inland river delta in the world.
Our poler, Miram, beckoned us to take a seat in her mokoro where she had fashioned back rests from our bags, covered by our sleeping mattresses. Miriam looked at least fifty, and we were mightily impressed, if not somewhat embarrassed to be chauffeured along on this African gondola by a woman who we felt should have been resting while we young ones did all the hard work. 
Poling was clearly something she was used to, as she deftly navigated the calm, clear channels of water, perfectly balanced barefoot at the back of the vessel. Meanwhile, Dom and I were marvelling at the stunning surroundings – the expanse of perfect blue sky above the walls of reeds, opening to pools covered in lily pads - but we were not completely relaxed. It would take us a couple of canoe trips before we were no longer worried about falling in, dropping our cameras or being attacked by hippos – we had yet to lose the inhibitions of civilisation. 
We were an hour on the water before we arrived at our camp on one of the islands in the Delta in a clearing in the shade of a huge sausage tree. The team of polers had kindly set up the tents for us, so we chose our homes for the next two nights and helped Peter, our guide, prepare lunch. 
Time for a swim, and a wash - in the river. I can’t think of any better way to cool off in the sweltering midday sun.
