January 5, 2005

Exploring Italy and the Limits of Love (Part 1)

A writer tests the limits of love on the Italian freeways

By Jeremy Lipps
Staff Writer

Editor’s note: Times staff writer (and Bret Harte Lacrosse coach) Jeremy Lipps and his fiancée, Candice Quast, went to Italy this October to celebrate their engagement and to fulfill a promise to her family. The following is the first part of a look at the ups and downs of a foreign vacation and how true love wins out in spite of the perils of a Californian in a car in another country. Look for part two next week!

The first thing Candice and I did when we got off the plane at Rome International and went through customs was rent a car. Probably not the brightest thing in the world, after traveling for 24 hours, but Candice had our schedule planned out and we had to follow it; I discovered that my scheduling was no longer valid since the engagement. So things like naps, food and restrooms would have to wait, unless she needed them.

Jeremy Lipps and Candice Quast at the Greek amphitheatre in Taormina, Sicily.

Once on the highway from Rome toward Naples, things went quite smoothly. The Italian Autostrada is better than any drive on Highway 101. But once we reached Naples, the driving turned not just scary but horrifying. My suggestion of parking and looking on foot was rejected because I had already blown my credibility on three false ID’s of Mt Vesuvius. I never knew there were so many other mountains around Naples.

So we plunged into the seemingly lawless streets of Naples looking for the Piazza Garibaldi. The ability of the Italians to seemingly maneuver a compact car in and out of a space the size of a card board box is not only convenient for parking on a crowded street but also for zipping around lost Americans.

The Piazza Garibaldi was ringed by a swift current of Smartcars, Vespas and taxis flying around like some mini version of Nascar. As far as I could tell, the right of way goes to the guy whose bumper is leading.

Sleep?
Finally, realizing we were close to our hotel, I quickly stashed the car in a parking lot and we checked into the Starhotel’s Terminus. There’s nothing like finding your hotel after 30 hours of traveling, with, I must say, not a little bit of stress.

The hotel cost $129 a night, which we found at hotels.com. It was worth every penny because I would have paid that much for a cardboard box in a dirty alley if I could have slept in it. It was a typical European mini-room, but very modern and with the always ominous bidet.

After a shower, we headed out for some famous pizza Napolitano with the local delight, mozzarella di buffola. We enjoyed nice conversation with an Israeli man and his wife and even shared a bottle of wine with them. I was unfortunately at the end of my line, and my goal of making it to 10 p.m. was coming up short at 7 p.m. I crashed hard and called it a night. Deep sleep followed, for awhile.

I promptly woke at 2 a.m. bright eyed and bushy tailed and ready to start the day. Unfortunately, I was a bit off schedule because the day wasn’t due to start for another seven hours. As the beep frequency of horns increased, I watched the sun come up over Vesuvius and awaken Naples for another frantic day.

The headline of La Repubblica read that the mafia had killed Francesco Fortugno, a Calabrian politician, the day we arrived. We were blessed as we set off for Mafia country. On the way out of town, I also read in the Lonely Planet Italy guidebook that anything near Piazza Garibaldi is unsafe and to avoid it at all costs. I kept that to myself, better to let Naples go down in flames than risk any more of my credibility.

Ruins and Calabria
We continued our southerly direction and stopped in Pompeii where a busload of Germans beat us to the entrance. It is difficult to exactly capture how powerful this buried town is, all the nuances of everyday life in any little town locked in stone. From election slogans still on walls, to pubs where one could easily sit and enjoy a drink, if only they served beer, the only thing missing from Pompeii were the people.

Just when Pompeii began to feel like a biblical Disneyland to us, we came upon the frozen forms of people choking their last breaths, writhing in suffocating agony. Our guidebook told of Pliny the Elder whose fate was sealed by Vesuvius, unable to make the physical effort to escape. It was a nice touch of detail to bring life to the city. The book was generally helpful, if not specifically vague, but it is difficult to put Italy in a book of any length.

Once we’d seen everything we wanted to see in Pompeii, we headed south toward Tropea and our next hotel, which I purchased from a time-share property trade service for $330 for seven days.

Driving in Italy
On the five-hour drive. we learned a few things about driving in Italy. Be sure to stop at all the tollgates, whether the arm is down or not. The Italians take their tolling very seriously, but just in case you miss the automated ticket dispenser, the term for no ticket is “non bigliette.” They still fine you.

When driving on the Autostrada, the right lane is for puttering and loafing anywhere from 30 to 60 mph and the left lane is for suicidal BMW owners who travel well over 100. Who was driving all these black BMWs so fast around Calabria?

The delicate pillars of the Temple to Hera at Paestum.

The countryside was dotted with lovely clusters of red tile roofs around little steeples. Cliff-side towns clung to the hills above, valley towns sat in mist and BMWs flew by. As we traveled south, there were fewer tourists.

I turned off the Autostrada for the small town of Tropea. The Tyrrhenian Sea was on our right. At the top of a large hill overlooking Tropea was our resort, the Hotel L’Olivera. Candice covered her eyes as we scaled the serpentine road in the rental car.

After only three of her uncontrolled outbursts about my speed on the cliff-side road, we arrived. It was late in the season, mid October, but a few guests lingered. Our room was fairly modern, but still a bit rustic with few appliances.

The view, however, couldn’t be beat. Our room overlooked the beautiful ancient walled city of Tropea and the Tyrrhenian Sea. The main road, Corso Vittorio, leads to Piazza Ercole, which then leads to a spectacular view of the coastline as it fades up the boot of Italy.

Near family
We chose Tropea because my fiancée’s family is from Calabria and we had planned a visit. Tropea is also 50 miles from Sicily and among the prettier spots along the coast.

Piazza Ercole is lined with pizzerias and boutiques. Young Italians straddle Vespas and laugh in the street. Old men stand in circles for hours talking about anything and everything. They wave their arms and leave the circle in mock rejection, disagreeing over who is the greatest Italian soccer player, or possibly local politics drives them out, but they always return with more arm waving to make another valid point.

Our first night we dressed up and went to a nice-looking restaurant in an intriguing cellar setting. The dinner proved that not all Italian food is delicious. Although the pasta carbonara was good, the other course of mystery meat in tart sauces was inedible. The meat was jerky-like or what might be called meat gum.

The one tasty nugget we took away was the boisterous conversation coming from the waiter and his family in the kitchen as he told an enthusiastic story, acting out a high-pitched female voice and imitating the police siren, “nee noo, nee noo.” After contemplating whether we should stick the mystery meat in Candice’s purse or leave it, insulting this man’s poor mother, we asked for the bill, paid and snuck out giggling and saying “nee noo, nee noo” all the way home. We were asleep by 7 p.m.

The road to Sicily from Tropea is said to be among the most beautiful coastlines in Italy. The small cliff top town of Scilla is famous for its big rock. Legends say a fearsome six-headed sea monster named Scyla lives under the rock. On the road south of Scilla, the island of Sicily opens up across the strait.

Aspen in Italy?
Reggio Di Calabria was absolutely a nightmare of chaos on the roads that put our new relationship to the test. After a quick visit to the Museo Nazionale for a look at the exquisite Greek bronze statues, we escaped Reggio to Sicily. A quick ferry ride across the busy Strait of Messina and we were headed for Taormina, Sicily.

Taormina is very much like Aspen, Colo. Both are pristinely beautiful, both host large film festivals and both are doing extremely well financially. Taormina stretches from the Ionian Sea up Mount Tauro, where a small square serves as the hub for shuttles.

Two pedestrian streets lead away from the little square. To the left, the road heads up to an ancient Greek amphitheater, with a view that was certainly worth any admission, no matter what the players were performing. The other road led to a row of lush shops and boutiques and its own view.

There are also many side alleys and restaurants to explore. A stroll around Taormina is well worth a day or two.

Family day
The next day was the big family day. We started the drive by stopping in the amazing town of Pizzo, northeast of Tropea. Pizzo is home of the famous tartufo, or chocolate ice cream ball, and about as beautiful a place as you can imagine. The small hidden cliff-side square looks out over the sea. Unless you stop and look for the square you will never find it.

We went to visit the Infelise family in a small hill town called Piane Crati outside of Cosenza. As we arrived, the smell of pasta wafted over us. Mathilde, a cousin to Candice’s great grandfather, was an older woman of about 75. She beckoned us in, excitedly explaining that the donkey lived under the stairs and the front room used to be a workshop. Our interpreter and family friend, Mariagrazia, could barely keep up.

Lunch, the main meal of the Italian day, was a feast of courses. First Mathilde’s daughter served penne Bolognese, then stuffed eggplant and bread, then steak, then a dessert of fruit, cheese and cakes and finished it all with espresso.

I struggled through each course at Mathilde’s urging, “Mangia, mangia,” she insisted. I was Rocky and she was my coach, pushing, demanding. Later Mathilde cupped Candice’s face sobbing out names of people lost to time but mixed with joy that she was not forgotten three generations later. It was a touching moment as tears crossed oceans and ages. But we had to be off, we had to be in Rome by the next day.

That night as we drove the Autostrada north through the mountains, an obnoxious thunderstorm hit. The rain was so heavy that each drop exploded on the windshield, drowning the wipers. Each bolt of lightning illuminated the mountains, revealing ancient walls and towers that still stand watch over the small towns of Calabria and Campania.

Early the next morning we headed for Paestum, an ancient Greek and Roman site famed for three fantastic temples that impress even ruin-weary fiancées. The early morning sun lit the stone a bright pink orange. Cart tracks on the cobblestone roads, as in Pompeii seemed to echo of donkey carts and street traffic. An interesting museum across from the ruins features funerary art and some great artifacts from the Roman era. But the mighty Rome lay ahead.