An Unbalanced Life

May 6, 2024

Today? Well . . . my day was panic, then bliss, then panic.

It began with breakfast at our hotel. I made my usual rounds at the buffet. Scramble eggs, bacon, vanilla yogurt with muesli and fresh pineapple, and hot black tea. The eggs were a tad cold and your Italian version of a tater-tot was not what I hoped, but there was something, far, far . . . far . . . more troubling.

“No pastries?”, I asked Cathy.

I caught her mid-stir as, with a twist of her spoon, she converted the milk-foam-heart atop her cappuccino to a swirl. She looked around, and laughed beneath her breath, “Think you can make it?”

“I dunno.”, I said. “That’s asking a lot. I might get light headed going down the steps to the boat.”

You have to understand the stairways in Positano. They’re like someone drew a graphic for a general contractor’s licensing exam with every conceivable Uniform Building Code violation and asked the test taker to circle each one.. The pitch of the stairway is damn near vertical. The treads are about 4″ deep, worn smooth, and slope downhill. and the rise varies between 8″ and 16″ tall. Handrails often . . . for no apparent reason and when most in need . . . disappear, leaving the visitor to go free flight and rely entirely on balance.

As a general rule, I lead an unbalanced life. In pastries and perambulation.

Luckily, as I fretted on the challenge ahead, the waiter showed up with a handsome wood rack displaying each of the hotel chef’s finest flaky creations.

“Well.”, I said. “Maybe just one.”

Cathy and I made our way down to the dock for today’s adventure, a boat ride from Positano around the island of Capri and four hours ashore to explore. Cathy loves the ocean and is experienced around docks and boats. Me? I kept humming to myself the them to Gilligan’s Island.

“Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale, a tale of a fateful trip, that started from this tropic port, aboard this tiny ship.”

As we stood in line for our ticket, we couldn’t help but overhear the struggle of the woman in front of us as the credit card machine refused her card. Cathy was struck by her uncanny likeness, in appearance, attitude, and life history, to a close friend of hers, Jannie Ramatici.

In just a day, we became good friends. Her name is Christy Radecic. She hails from San Diego, is a professional photographer, a grandmother, and thanks to her airline shipping her luggage to some faraway port other than Positano is facing the prospect of a trip without anything other than the clothes on her back and her camera.

Now this . . . this Rob . . . this is adversity. Christy is facing the prospect of having to explain why all of her selfies show her wearing the same “I LOVE CAPRI” shirt, day after day after day, yet she doesn’t complain, is fearless, and confides in Cathy the whole ordeal is “really kinda liberating.”

Me? I’m still thinking Gilligan’s Island, considering summoning my best Thurston Howell III impression and, after leaning on Cathy to take off my damn shoes, wonder if I can jump into the boat without requiring the assistance of the Skipper, Little Buddy, the professor and Mary Anne.

“The mate was a mighty sailing man, the skipper brave and sure, five passengers set sale that day, for a three hour tour, a three hour tour.”

On Christy’s advice . . . she has been to Capri before . . . we set forth on the next leg of our adventure. . . the exercise in terror known as a Capri bus ride.

Imagine a roadway. Let’s say 16′ wide. Make it 16’1″ wide. Now imagine a bus. Like this one. Let’s say 8′ wide. Driven by . . . we’ll call him Emerson Fittipaldi.

With me?

Now imagine yourself, as Cathy was, squished against the window on the oncoming traffic side. And imagine an identical bus is coming right at us and it’s driven by a guy . . . oh, I don;t know . . . we’ll call him Parnelli Jones. Let’ say the two busses are both doing 35mph and neither is braking.

Still with me?

I wish I could load video clips on this app I use to post blogs. Cathy took videos. And even those do not convey the hair’s breadth that separates the two busses as they pass. I’m telling you . . . the entire tourist industry on Capri depends on the advent of the retractable side view mirror. Without that innovation, the island would be brought to a grinding halt.

And I mean, grinding.

And if that weren’t enough, add to the mix the kamikaze scooter riders who bob and weave, look for windows of opportunity to pass, and seize on the moment the two busses are about to collide near a 2000′ drop to the sea to make their move. I stole this still shot from Cathy’s video as Evel Knievel took us on the right.

But wait . .. . there’s more.

Arriving in Anacapri, we decided to just look at the chairlift to the top of Monte Solari. Just look, that’s all. Maybe if Cathy was next to me. Maybe if it had a descending safety bar, I could make it. Just keep my eyes on Cathy. Don’t look up. Don’t look down.

We’ll just check it out.

Turns out, the chair lift is a single. And . . . well . . . I’ve got my chute, right

What the hell!

Flopping into the chair, backpack in front, with a hearty backslap and thumbs up from the strong arms of Giovanni at the bottom was no problem. It was the dismount at the top that now had my attention. Timing the running landing might be a stretch.

Did I mention my unbalanced life?

The trouble started when focused, as I was, on sticking the landing, I forgot to raise the safety bar in front of me. I was watching Cathy effortlessly slip from the chair into a canter when Giovanni’s brother . . . we’ll call him Carlo . . . started frantically signaling to me to raise the bar. I had no clue what his wild gesturing meant. I was like Don Adams in the famous Get Smart episode “Tequila Mockingbird”, when the beautiful castanet clicking dancer is signaling to Maxwell Smart, and he is so clueless he just keeps mimicking her hand gestures.

I was coming in hot and I couldn’t quite tell if Carlo’s expression was pissed or panicked. With only a second or two until touchdown, I realized what he was signaling, raised the bar, and with his friendly help managed to stay upright.

I’d give myself a solid 9. Maybe an 8. The East German judge is always tough.

Monte Solari was in the clouds when we landed, but the clouds soon parted and the view was worth the shaky in-flight entertainment.

A little shopping in Anacapri, pile in the bus, stroll along the harbor, sip some Proseco on the boat, and we’re back to Positano.

Did I mention the stairs. There’s a lot of stairs in Positanto. (That’s our hotel room . . . just up and left of the dark brown one . . . at the top.)