Garbage and Lemons

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I wasn't even suppossed to be here. I was kidding myself, self trickery to make me think that i could afford to take a 'vacation' within another 'vacation'. I did follow her though, all the way to bloody Ischia.

"I'm taking you to an island, off the coast of Napoli. You're going to love it, you can't say no."

I supposse that random invitations are the best thing when encountered during travelling. Fearful at first, I know now that one must leap. And so I did, and landed firmly on the platform of a ferry leaving busy Port Beverello in Napoli, heading for sunny Ischia. To be perfectly honest, the only thing that I remember most clearly...are the ferry boats to and from the island. Its not just a saying, whatever REALLY happened on the island...stays on it.

It was Friday and everybody arrived at the same time, looked at each other and knew. I dont know if it was a repitivie happening, people meeting like this, the same random mix of thinkers and dreamers that caress hostels all over the world. I should know this, but I got wrapped up in the wonder of it all. The most mentally destructive group of people I ever belonged to. We all got well aquainted that night over whiskey.

Saturday was spent climbing rocks and hunting octopus and digging a fuck-off hole that was nice to lie in and drink boiling champange. That night was no different, drummng out sounds at the family resturant and waving scarves wildly at one another yelling words we didnt even know the meaning of. The bonfire on the beach was relaxing and im thankful that somebody else got a relflective picture taken of themselves, I was too busy making earrings.

Sunday morning each propped up on elbows smoking fags in our beds, looking around the dorm for a liquid to wash away all the filth in our throats, left over from words said and the sights swallowed from the previous night. Champange sunday was born, and at 1 euro each...the eight of us would never go thirsty again. I dont know how or why we all started crying, I think it was around six at night on the terrace, each non existant from eight hours of hot champange, busking on cobble streets and fighting with lazy italian policemen. It was a good cry and with the setting of the sun that night, it was normal for acidity to creep up.

The next days were filled with grateful stray dogs we helped by ripping open plastic bags on street corners. I faintly remebering stealing a fishermans boat and I definetly remember loosing my favorite sequined floral coin purse. I dont remember the difference between Monday and Tuesday, only that I cooked the group a meal that we couldn't taste and Tuesday was filled with the same island haze.

The barbeque on Wednesday woke us up a little , but we were still conked out and seeing monkeys dance to every drum and guitar we played. Still singing strange songs about a kid named Jackson and his boots. I dont remember how the meat tasted but i knew i had to eat it.

The games ended on Thursday, and I remember waking up a little clearer. I had my money sorted out now ( I managed to get robbed twice in the haze), and I decided that Saturday would be the day to leave. It felt like I was ripping myself away, and on Saturday, it felt pretty refreshing knowing I was getting off of the island. If only I had known then...Napoli wasnt the sort of place to look forward to.

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Comments

[blikewhoa]

a 'fuck-off' hole sounds like a nice haven from any storm