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

Mondo Weirdo
Toilet tricks in Asia; aircraft flambé in Toronto
(04/24/98)

Africa Solo
By Kevin Kertscher
A filmmaker learns a lesson about giving from three small children in the heart of West Africa
(04/23/98)

Absinthe makes the heart grow
By Taras Grescoe
On a pilgrimage in Barcelona's bohemian barrio
(04/22/98)

Seduced and sated in Costa Rica
By J. Kingston Pierce
From morphos and macaws to coatimundi and poison-arrow frogs, this tiny Central American country offers a mind-altering overabundance of wildlife
(04/21/98)

Running with the bulls
By Andrew Taber
Horny tradition: Dodging pissed-off bovines in southern France
(04/20/98)

naples in a new light

BY DEB FELLNER | Men lurked along the sidewalk, eyes invading my body as I hurried from the Naples train station to my hotel. Vendors hungry for tourists stood anxiously over suitcases of cheap sunglasses and fake leather purses. Alleys fumed with stale urine after an overnight rain. My mother and I had maneuvered through this same course the night before, marching with arms crossed over our chests and elbows stiff to block the hands that reached for us. "This is the last place on earth a mother should leave her daughter alone," she had said worriedly over our final carafe of Chianti together.

But Mom was eager to return home to California; the guilt she felt for leaving my dad alone had finally overwhelmed her. Though our 30-day European tour had been long, my heart ached as the train whisked her away to the airport, leaving me alone in the city for three more days.

We had become accustomed to the crazy Italian way by the time we arrived in Naples. In Venice, father-and-son pairs tag-teamed their charms on us. A gelato store owner in Florence grabbed my chin with so much gusto, the bruise stayed for days. Roman drivers chased us from crosswalk to sidewalk in a mad game of Italian Frogger. The pazzo pace became quite comical to us, and we giddily recounted our adventures each night over a carafe of Chianti. But Naples was different. It was the first place we felt unsafe. Instead of charming gestures and fatherly pinches, we confronted vulgar propositions and uninvited contact. Perhaps we had grown tired of traveling, or missed prudish Americans, but our nightly recollections turned sour. I feared this bad attitude would ruin Naples for me.

Now mom was gone, and the sky threatened another downpour. I had to escape the city. My guidebook told of an island paradise, just an hour away by ferry, that promised "beauty... and a mythical appeal which attracted Roman emperors." My ears rang with the memory of a fellow traveler singing, "Caaaaapri. You must see Caaaaapri." I imagined long walks in sunny gardens, languid boat rides through rocky grottoes, red wine and sunset. Capri would be my sanctuary. I ran the few miles from my hotel to the port and caught the next boat to the island.

The ferry dipped low, then rose high, bobbing sickeningly between the sea and sky. A bunch of teenagers skidded across the rolling deck, laughing as their bodies slammed against the railing. "Caaaaapri! Caaaaapri!" a girl crooned. It seemed no one could say the island's name without singing. Raindrops fell behind my glasses and bounced into my eyes. I rummaged through my overstuffed backpack for a hat.

"Why did I bring so much shit?" I grumbled to myself.

"Whut iz sheet?" a young man beside me asked. After my 10-minute Italian-English-charade, he asked if I had to use the toilet.

By the time we docked on the island, the sky had let loose a torrent of rain that would make El Niño run for his mother. I was certainly missing mine. The umbrella she left me broke immediately in the blowing downpour, and I took refuge in the nearest cafe.

I should have brought a deck of cards, I thought, amazed at how boring I found myself after only an hour. I opened my Italian-English dictionary and began to study. Bored -- annoiarsi. Homesick -- nostalgico. It was 3 in the morning in California, not quite a decent hour to call home. Poor -- povero. I ordered my third cappuccino with the lira that was budgeted for the next day. Another drowned American ducked into the cafe. "Ferries all stopped!" he spat out breathlessly. Rumors raced along the island's cafe row that all boats back to Naples had been canceled because of rough sea conditions. I took a wet jog to the pier to check the ferry schedule for myself.

N E X T+P A G E+| Come, we dance!