My father stood beside the wilted orange tiger lilies on the side of our house. So small and fragile compared to the grand spectacle in the sky. A meteor shower, a celestial trajectory of cosmic debris. Thousands, bright and fast, cascaded from the infinite galaxy to Earth. Earth, where my father and I stood, awestruck. I squinted to take it all in, despite my poor vision. “You’ll never see this again in your lifetime,” he said. His voice was ominous, echoing off the siding.
I fought to find the features of his face in the dark, grasping the unattainable, like catching a shooting star in a jar for keepsake.
“Naples is just like New York City, in that it offers no grace period to adjust…”
Ask anyone and they would tell you that cities like Rome, Florence, and Venice are, hands down, bucket list items. You gotta see the canals! The Sistine Chapel! The statue of David! they would echo like that nasally woman in Seinfeld (“You gotta see the baby!”) For me, it’s Naples.
“…even birds skittering for morsels on the ground are moving too fast for the slumbering pace of Atrani’s daily agenda.”
At the foot of Piazza Umberto lies a scallop shell white church dating back to the 10th century, unassuming curb appeal compared to the other gaudy, baroque-era cathedrals in Italy. A sign outside warns of a local legend that it’s bad luck for newlyweds to walk hand-in-hand down its steps post-nuptials, lest you bring ill-will upon your marriage and curse yourself for a rocky road ahead of early divorce and untimely death.
“A city as exciting and cultural and historic and artistic as this…it’s meant to be earned.”
Adriatic waters calmly splash against the ritzy yachts in the harbor. Preteens scheme in the plaza, wreaking havoc outside an ongoing mass, “bicicletas!” at their hips. A chorus line of soaring palm trees separates the new town from the old. Impregnable stone walls as ancient as dirt protect the cathedral of San Nicola from the revelers convening at bar-hop row. Old women use their thumbprints to meticulously form individual orecchiette, lay them out to dry on folding tables outside their homes. The business district of banks and office buildings makes way for a wide esplanade of high end fashion stores and expensive steakhouses. Beggars roam the streets, boldly approach outdoor diners, gently place roses on tables in exchange for some coin. Potbellied men bake their epidermises in Speedos at Bread & Tomato Beach (Pane & Pomodoro to locals). This is Bari, pronounced ‘Bah-di’, and it was, without a doubt, my favorite part of Italy.
Without the pebbles boulders flat rock ravines or trenches dug out by years of erosion the frenetic bubbling water would flood the soil sidewalks city streets and then nature would be off-balance. For with every impulsive action must exist a steady reaction and hence, sediment was formed, not to barricade the unpredictable river, but rather to gently and naturally mark its place amidst the chaos and guide it safely home to the ocean.
“…surrendering fully to Montezuma’s ever-present air of namaste.“
Air sickness, long overnight layovers, sketchy car rentals, misinterpreting the colones to dollars conversion, sand fleas, planes grounding for inclement weather, getting lost on Costa Rican back roads, screaming geckos while trying to sleep, missing our ferry, barely making check-in times, and a near-deadly stomach virus mere weeks before the trip were just a few things that plagued our one-week vacation to Costa Rica. But it was just what the doctor ordered.