Incontinent on the Continent

by Jane Christmas

  It was not the first time this had happened on the trip, and I barely masked my anger. I was well aware of the “stupid tax” that Chris, the property manager in Alberobello, had told me about, but I was finding that in many places, even if you spoke a bit of Italian and knew your way around the euro currency, you were targeted for simply being a foreigner.

  We settled the bill, and I staggered out defiantly, though perhaps a bit wobbly, with the half-empty bottle of wine ordered at dinner stowed in my purse.

  “How was your dinner?” asked Maria brightly when we returned to the hotel.

  I mentioned the incident involving our bill.

  Her face flushed with rage. She immediately picked up the phone, dialed the restaurant, and gave someone at the other end an impressively blistering tongue-lash, the gist of which, as far as I could tell, was, “If I’m going to recommend your establishment to my guests then you better cut the crap. This is what gives Italy a bad name.”

  “Allora, I am sorry,” Maria said gravely, hanging up the phone and composing herself. She smoothed her trousers as if she had been physically involved in the dustup. “The restaurant is sorry, too. They invite you to return and your meal will be free.”

  We thanked her and declined the offer.

  The lack of guests at the Hotel Villa Margherita allowed us to get to know Maria and her family a little bit during our stay.

  Her Italian parents had immigrated to Montreal, where she and her brother were raised. For reasons that were not shared, the family minus the father returned to Sorrento and bought the hotel. At just twenty-four, Maria was a mature and astute businesswoman.

  Often, when my mother and I returned to the hotel after a sightseeing excursion, Maria’s extended family would be hanging out in the lobby. Some of them would be watching TV; the grandmother would be playing with an excitable toddler strapped in a stroller; a sister-in-law would be lounging on a wicker sofa, flipping through a magazine; Maria’s brother would be in the hotel’s restaurant working on repairs; and Maria herself would be canoodling with her boyfriend in a corner. In this little Sorrento hotel, life played out in all its glorious passion. This is what I love about Italy—the live-out-loud life.

  “What do you think of Maria and that fellow of hers?” asked Mom as we made our way to our respective rooms one evening. There was a disapproving tone to her voice, so I already knew her opinion.

  “I think it’s wonderful that they’re allowed to kiss and show affection in front of everyone.”

  I said this without mentioning that our own family had taken a dim view of public displays of affection, even between married spouses. “It shows there are no secrets. It’s good for the family dynamic—you see your daughter kissing a guy and you know that guy might be your son-in-law one day. So you forge a rapport with him and start drawing him into the family unit. Quid pro quo gets established. Eventually, he’s truly like your son and he knows he can’t get away with abusing your daughter. If he’s not committed to the family then he won’t be committed to your daughter. I see lots of psychological and sociological benefits to being permissive with your adult child’s sexual expression. I mean, within reason.”

  “That’s a lot of malarkey,” snorted Mom. “Kissing in public is undignified.”

  THE SUN was shining the next morning.

  “Quick!” I said to Mom. “Let’s go out and see the sights.”

  We decided to go to Capri.

  We drove through Sorrento’s bustling roads and down through an impressively deep chasm toward the port. We parked the car, and Mom, her walker, and I shuffled onto an awaiting hydrofoil.

  Mom decided that this would be a good time to start singing “The Isle of Capri,” and she looked around, hoping those within earshot would join her in song.

  “You’re too uptight, Jane,” she said, noticing my rolled eyes, and continued singing alarmingly off key, as is her wont.

  I made the usual embarrassed smiles to our unimpressed and glaring fellow passengers, most of whom were young, haughty, and glamorous.

  The hydrofoil was the floating epicenter of Black Sunglasses and Bored Looks. This was where “cool” came to chill. Sunglasses are as prevalent as cell phones in Italy—no one is seen without either. And while my stance on cell phones remained unbowed, I noted that Italians’ cell phone conversations were shorter and quieter than those of North Americans.

  I didn’t have to listen to someone’s loud and excruciatingly detailed recounting of their annual medical examination or reports of bowel regularity or how much pasta cost at the local grocery store compared with a competitor’s price.

  Nothing screams “not cool” like a walker. While my mother was lost in her little wartime singsong, passengers either stared at her like she was a crazy woman or stole furtive looks of disgust at the walker You would have thought that a bloodstained gurney had been rolled onboard.

  A young woman sitting kitty-corner to me was almost reeling at the fact that she had to sit with two relics and a walker. She stared at me contemptuously, as if holding me solely responsible for the aging process. I locked eyeballs with her defiantly and felt a cruel smirk emerging on my face. “One day, young lady, your long, glossy chestnut hair will be streaked with gray, your pert boobs will settle somewhere around your navel, and you’ll wake up one morning to find wrinkles on your face (you and some of your more charitable friends will call them ‘laugh lines,’ but it won’t help) and a weird puckering on your once flat, smooth tummy. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll become incontinent. I do hope so—it might add texture to your personality.”

  The red walker was rocking unsteadily against the movement of the hydrofoil as I tried unsuccessfully to hold onto it. An infuriating design oversight of this particular walker was its lack of a strong locking mechanism. Like a testy and rambunctious two-year-old, the walker escaped my clutches and rolled against the wall, where three Italian crew members were discussing the mechanics of the gangplank and did their best to ignore the commotion. They did not offer to tether the walker to a railing and, in fact, did not even acknowledge the walker, not even when it eventually banged into the knees of a snoozing passenger. Definitely not cool.

  In the meantime, the hydrofoil glided quietly across turquoise water beneath a high ring of fluffy clouds that created a dome effect. It was like sailing through a marine cathedral. Mount Vesuvius lurked in the background.

  When the hydrofoil docked at Capri we let all the busy cool people push and elbow their way off the boat first, and proceeded at our own pace to the island’s main drag.

  “I want to see the Blue Grotto,” I said to Mom. “Will you be OK until I return?”

  She smiled and nodded, and toddled off to contentedly troll the numerous souvenir shops and fast-food eateries of which Capri has an unhealthy abundance. I scurried to a nearby ticket booth to purchase passage on the next boat to the Blue Grotto and grabbed the last seat on one that was about to pull away from the dock.

  If you have not come to Capri to shop its overpriced shops you have likely come to experience the Blue Grotto, one of those curiosities of nature. Pictures of it show a dark cave with stunningly bright blue water that looks as if it has been lit from the bottom of the sea, which in a way it has. The light comes from an opening farther underwater through which sunlight passes, producing an eerie but brilliant otherworldly glow.

  The sun came out as our motorboat, crammed with about a dozen passengers, skipped over the choppy waves of the Tyrrhenian Sea, past rocky cliffs topped with the pastel-colored homes of the superrich.

  It was a short trip, perhaps fifteen minutes. At the mouth of the grotto we joined a small flotilla of similar boats that had gathered in a loose (how Italian!) queue. We waited to be transferred into skiffs that would take two of us at a time into the mysterious and infamous cave. It looked like it was going to be a bit of a wait.

  As we sat bobbing in the water, I observed the tricky business of actually getting inside the grotto. The top of the cave en
trance is low to the water line, and visitors are conveyed through the small opening in wooden skiffs in which they must lie absolutely still and prone. They are guided by boatmen who carefully maneuver the skiff with the help of guylines or chains permanently attached to the cave entrance. However, all this skill is rather moot if a sudden sea swell occurs midentry: the skiff and its occupants could be smashed to smithereens.

  I glanced nervously at the sea and became an instant expert in monitoring wave activity. Hmm. This could be dicey. The water had become choppier. I wondered how Mom, who was contentedly cruising the souvenir stalls, would cope if I was suddenly cast into the sea.

  Just then a muffled groan came from the waiting passengers. The grotto’s gatekeeper had given the signal—crossing his thick hairy arms then stretching them quickly apart— “finito.” All further visits that day were cancelled because of too-high swells.

  We sullenly made the trip back to Capri’s harbor. No refunds. No rain checks. Just a “try again tomorrow.” I was supremely disappointed.

  Mom had settled herself in a café at the far end of the souvenir promenade and had just ordered tea when I joined her. I placed an order myself.

  “What a shame that you couldn’t get in,” she said. “What will you do?”

  I shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to come back to Capri another time.”

  When I had finished my tea I announced that I was going to walk to the center of town to check it out. “There’s an arrow over there pointing to the centro storico. ”

  “OK. I’ll look around a bit more here and make my way back to the ferry,” she said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  I set off to explore, happy for a chunk of time to myself. I followed the arrows and the steps. Up and up I continued. The sun beat down on me as I climbed along a blindingly white, walled passageway. On either side of the white stucco walls were gardens and small homes with a view of the turquoise sea. Occasionally a burst of red bougainvillea cascaded over the wall and broke the bleached monotony. It was pretty, but the novelty quickly wore off. The walk became a long, demanding trek of interminable steps.

  Thirty hard minutes later, dripping with perspiration, my face flushed from sunburn and exhaustion, I arrived at the top.

  Turning a corner I entered the town’s main piazza. Scads of cloth-covered café tables and bamboo club chairs were occupied by the Black Sunglasses Gang, their smooth, tanned, beautifully sculpted faces turned toward the sun as they sipped their afternoon Campari.

  On the edge of a wall was an arrow and the word “funico-lare.” As I was soon to discover, a funicolare conveys people from Capri’s harbor to the hilltop town, and I had completely missed the sign. I wish I could be like the people who know there is a funicolare and who don’t arrive in the midst of an elegant setting with sweat-stained clothing and wild hair.

  Unlike me, Capri is tidy. It is an evidently well-heeled place, the type of place that looks as if it has never dealt with homelessness, traffic congestion, pollution, or needle-exchange centers. The people lounging on the café chairs or sauntering along the shop-lined lanes seemed blissfully unaware and unconcerned about anything but their own gratification. A sense of moral superiority washed over me as I surveyed this state of slothful decadence.

  “They should be doing something useful with their time,” I said to myself. Was that my mother speaking? Or was that the voice of someone who wished to be draped over one of those café chairs, too?

  The novelty of posh boutiques and hotels and gelato shops faded quickly, which tends to happen when I don’t have money, so I looked around for something less expensive to grab my attention.

  I spotted an ambulance. It was the narrowest vehicle I’d ever seen, toylike in its design, and I followed it through the winding, skinny streets. It stopped near a hotel, and when the back of it was opened I saw that it was no wider than a stretcher. Other service vehicles in Capri were similarly adorable—how else would they get through a warren of streets barely wider than an arm span? To North American eyes, design in Italy often seems rendered in miniature.

  Being prone to frequent bouts of stubbornness, especially when my ignorance and stupidity have been uncovered, I defiantly took the steps rather than the funicular back down to the ferry. Partway down, I came upon a group of teenage American boys who were part of a school trip. (Two questions here:

  Since when did North American schools start organizing class trips to Capri? And is it possible for me to redo high school?) I overheard the boys’ worried conversation about whether they would be late for the return ferry to the mainland.

  When they spotted me, there were hushed, rushed decisions to appoint one of them to ask me the time. One young fellow began madly f lipping through an English-Italian phrase book.

  “Pardon, signor, I mean, signorina,” he stammered as a few of his mates huddled around him and stifled a giggle.

  “Sì?” I answered with a smile, deciding not to correct his use of signorina.

  “Che . . . ” then whispering to his friends asked, “Is it pronounced chee or kay?”

  “It’s pronounced kay, I think,” one of them replied.

  “OK, che ora . . . ”

  “No, no!” demanded another friend. “Ask her where the ferry is?”

  “Um, dove . . . ”

  “It’s pronounced dough-vay, you idiot.”

  “Then you ask her!”

  “Would it be easier just to ask me in English?” I interjected helpfully.

  I wish I had a photograph to show you of their shocked faces. It was priceless.

  “It’s OK, I just look Italian,” I smiled.

  “We’re supposed to be at the ferry by three thirty,” one said.

  “It’s quarter to three now,” I said, checking my watch. “I’m heading there, too, so you should make it in time as long as you don’t dawdle. Where are you guys from?”

  “The States. Vermont.”

  “North American schools do trips to Capri now?” I asked.

  The boys looked at me with that “Uh, duh!” expression.

  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you go from signo-rina to fossil in ten seconds.

  THE NEXT morning I fetched the car, and Mom and I drove to the shops off Sorrento’s Piazza Tasso with the happy aim of shedding some euros. We had done no shopping since arriving in Italy, unless you count the handful of fridge magnets I had purchased along the way.

  Mom was looking for a rain jacket. She has twelve at home, but it had not occurred to her to pack one for our trip.

  I pulled a stylish coppery-brown jacket off the rack and asked her to try it on. It fit perfectly and looked very elegant on her.

  “Well, I don’t know,” she said, looking at her reflection in the mirror.

  “What?” I asked. “It’s perfect! It makes you look stylish and sleek.”

  “I don’t think it’s me.”

  “But you always talk about wanting to update your wardrobe. Why are you drawn to the same frumpy clothes?”

  “I beg your pardon? My clothes are classic. I’ve had some of them for forty years.”

  “My point exactly,” I argued. “Why are you so resistant to change? You ask for my opinion and help and then you don’t listen. Never mind. Suit yourself.”

  In the end she bought it, but I must check her closet at home and see if she has kept it.

  We ventured into a few other shops, but the smallest amount of exertion was now too much for Mom’s legs.

  She wanted to go back to the hotel and rest. I was just getting into the shopping spirit! I walked her back to the car and bit back the urge to give vent to all the boredom and irritation that was roiling inside me.

  I was tired of constantly changing our plans to suit Mom’s disabilities and being limited to where we could go or what we could do. I felt terrible for even thinking such thoughts. It wasn’t entirely her fault after all, but a part of me wanted to berate her. “Maybe if you had looked after yourself rather than spending so much e
nergy on old homes you might have been able to get around easier in your later years.”

  Everything I did or wanted to do was subject to her limitations and wishes. What about my limitations and wishes? This was my trip, too. I felt like parking her at the Hotel Villa Margherita for a few days so I could run free and see the side of Italy I wanted to see—the coastal cafés, the small hidden restaurants that served the food people raved about, the clusters of real people who live away from the tourist areas, maybe a distillery where they make Sorrento’s signature liqueur, limoncello. This wasn’t a holiday; it was like visiting Italy under a probation warrant.

  Occasionally she let me off the leash, but I could tell from the look in her eyes that she was doing so reluctantly. She knew I would stumble across something fascinating, and it would make her miserable that she had missed it.

  To keep me close at hand she would try to get me to nap when she napped. Nap? I’m in Italy! I didn’t come here to nap!

  “And excuse me,” I wanted to say, “I’m not one hundred and twenty years old, in case you hadn’t noticed. I do not nap.”

  But Mom would insist, and when I objected she would point to my rising irritability as justification.

  “You know you always get bitchy when you don’t get enough sleep,” she would admonish.

  No, actually, I get bitchy when I have to drag a fucking walker and an incontinent gimp from one end of Italy to the other, I felt like saying.

  Of course, I did not utter these sentiments. I didn’t dare. So much of what passes between mothers and daughters is unsaid. Those tight smiles between women have nothing to do with Botox.

  Instead, I dutifully delivered her back to the comfort of the hotel. As soon as Mom was settled in her room, I closed her door softly, then turned around and set off on foot back to the Piazza Tasso.

  Sorrento is a bit of a historical oddity. It has managed to keep a low profile throughout its long history, which dates to pre-Roman times. This must have required some skill, because it is located directly across the bay from big, boisterous, hairy-chested Naples.