Two Worlds

The spirits of Ischia's former sirens hover around Sant' Angelo, the island's old fishing village. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Get the truth about one of Italy’s most popular islands – and its people – by reading my new weekly blog installments (every Monday morning right here on this site)

Chapter Four – Ischia’s Sirens

Women in Ischia are almost as beautiful as the men. What they lack in physical perfection, they make up for with sensuality. They ooze sex appeal. No matter their age or how big their pasta paunch, they sway their hips and speak with their cleavage. Their eyes mystify. On the beach, they wear string bikinis, all the better to tie up the men whose eyes will fall on them. With their bronzed bodies oiled up, they lay out on the beach with little more on their minds than what they’ll have for dinner, what they’re going to wear, and who will get cozy with them tonight. The most cunning among them are certain to reveal just enough skin to lure men without appearing like butane, which will earn you a scarlet A in Ischia. Unlike America, where blondes have more fun, brunettes are in demand on this island. Women wear long, sleek, shiny chestnut hair and smiles as wide as the Mediterranean. White teeth reflect the hot sun. Made of plenty of mozzarella and Parmigiana, those breasts are real, baby – and they come with an ample booty to match. That kind of ass snuggles your jeans and hypnotizes all who look at it. Even those soft bellies glisten and because they eat with wild abandon and are proud of their healthy bodies, they wear the bulge with confidence. In fact, men might desire them even more than their skinny counterparts in other parts of the world. There’s more to look at – and to grab.

Take Lisa*. When she hit 20, she lost a lot of weight, dyed her blond hair black, and updated her wardrobe so that it now rivals that of Paris Hilton. She has been Roberto’s girlfriend for seven years. Roberto and his best friend Tony call her Barese, the name of an Italian soccer player famous for defending the goal, because she is always on the defense. “Where are you going, Roberto?” she asks. “Who will be there? Will there be other women?” Lisa once stomped out of Valentino, the dance hall and bar where Roberto works as a waiter because another young woman said hello to her man.

Constantly accusing Roberto of cheating, he has come to take it as a joke. He does not display a jealous streak at all, but she more than makes up for it. While Roberto is off with his friends, Lisa is supposed to be studying tourism – like all the other Ischitani kids – at university. Whenever she feels like it, she goes to Naples to take an exam. Most of the time, however, she lounges on Maronti beach with her friends, some of whom are male.

Although she packs on extra skin from before she lost the weight, she wears a skimpy bikini that flaunts her rear end as if she were a museum and it was the Hope Diamond. And her bikini top is rolled over, so it barely covers her nipples, and she won’t get any unfortunate tan lines. Indeed, tan lines might be her biggest concern.

While Roberto is her steady boyfriend, she occasionally goes for coffee with one of the carabinieri, Peppe, who obliviously carries around a beer gut and balding head as though he’s George Clooney. Lisa’s girlfriend, Donatella, tags along with one of Peppe’s friends, so it all looks like an innocent group of amici catching up and gossiping. But after the coffee break, which can last from five minutes to five hours in Italy, the two couples part ways. Lisa and Peppe head to his place for afternoon delight, even though the rest of the world thinks they’ve gone home to be with their respective boyfriend and girlfriend. Peppe, who is divorced with three kids and alimony to pay, is among the few young men in Ischia, who lives alone without his parents or any siblings.

Just as Peppe and Lisa are about to enter his home for their weekly rendezvous, Lisa receives a text message from Roberto. “Ti amo e non vedo l’ora di andare al mare con te. Ma sta sera saro’ con amici. A domani bellissima mia.” Translation: “I love you, and I can’t wait to go to the beach with you. But tonight I’m with friends. Until tomorrow, my beautiful.” Lisa and Peppe settle into the couch and the passion builds. Kisses on the neck, a caress to the back, and Lisa feels ecstasy but no guilt. After all, Roberto, who is off playing cards at the piazza’s local pub with his boys, will be lucky enough to see her tomorrow, when they will cuddle on the beach as if the carabinieri don’t exist.

Legend tells us that Ischia was home to Typhoeus, who created volcanoes and fathered the three-headed dog Cerberus, who guarded the gate to Hades, and Chimera and Sphinx. Stunning but cunning, Sphinx spoke in riddles and you could only get passed her if you correctly unlocked her mysteries. Meanwhile, the sirens, with their beautiful human heads and elegant bird bodies, stood guard over the nearby island of Capri. With their sweet melodies, they lured sailors to crash their ships. Whether mysterious riddle, angelic face, or hypnotic song, the island women carry a legacy of tricking men – and sometimes each other – to get what they want. They are all-powerful, and nowadays they are no longer half-bird, half-woman singing in the open sea. Now, they are hidden among the people and they look like you and me.

Even I was fooled by more than one Ischitana siren, by more than one Ischitano playboy. And I can’t be sure that one of them is not playing me like my great grandfather’s mandolin right now. Once I was blind, but now I see. When I first started heading to Ischia as an adult on my own, I was intoxicated by the dolce vita or sweet life, and I was inhaling it as if it were Dunkin Doughnuts, and my boyfriend just left me. And that’s when I met trouble…

*Some names and identifying characteristics of the real people involved have been changed.

Tune into this Web site, Two Worlds, every Monday for the latest installment in my blog about my experiences in Ischia, and every other Monday to ItaliansRus.com for the latest Our Paesani column about all things Italian. Di Meglio is also the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.

This thermal spa is typical of the places the new generation of Ischitani go to get tan and meet people. © Photo by Francesca Di Meglio

Get the truth about one of Italy’s most popular islands – and its people – by reading my new weekly blog installments (every Monday morning right here on this site)

Chapter Three – Italian Men Past and Present

This [2003] vacation in Ischia – a return to my roots – was as much about taking a break from that crazy job as it was about questioning my life’s choices and finding myself again. In addition to finding myself, I was hoping to find an Italian man, even if but for a distraction.

From the moment I put my feet on the plane that would take us from Rome to Naples, there were men surrounding me. First, there was Enzo, who was returning home from his engineering job for the Easter break. He was a typical Neapolitan with broad shoulders, bronzed skin, and wavy black hair. He chatted me up on the plane from the start. First, he asked about my work and life in America. Then, he moved onto how pretty he thought my eyes were. I had never met such a forward man before (besides the ones with whom I was related, who I witnessed picking up other ladies). It was like I had just landed on Mars, and this was a whole new species before me.

In college, I barely dated. In fact, I didn’t even share a kiss with anyone. I had many male friends, who came to me with the problems they were having with other girls. I’d nurse their broken hearts but witnessed few opportunities for love for myself. The few boys who showed the slightest bit of romantic interest in me either scared the hell out of me or had a back-up girlfriend on the side. Since I’d never be the other woman – that’s just not my style – they fell into the “friends” department, too. In those few years out of college, I lived at home with my parents and worked hard to launch my career at women’s publications. I had forgotten what men looked like all together.

Of course, my Italian relatives in the States were concerned I’d never marry. They’d say, “You miss-a the boat-a.” So, in their glorious wisdom, they’d try to fix me up. One of my cousins chose a guy whose family hailed from Naples because she thought he’d fit in great with the family. She would go on and on about how his parents had a house in Italy, and he was such a great nurse, and he was so cute, and he seemed like a real catch – until he was always unavailable for a date and my cousin ran into him and his boyfriend doing wheelies on a carriage at IKEA, where they were shopping for furniture for their apartment. Another cousin tried to set me up with a banker from China, who was cute and wealthy – and in love with my cousin’s sister-in-law. Another cousin brought me out to eat with the mushiest kid you’ve ever met; he might have cried more than I do. When my cousin’s mothers tried to get in on the act, I drew the line and headed to the homeland.

Italian men reminded me of masculinity, and I associated them with strength and dependability. Even though I knew there were good and bad people in every culture, I just assumed most of them, especially the ones from Ischia, would be like my papa’ and uncles and cousins and grandfathers. They would live for family and work harder than anyone I know. They’d be serious and committed. If one of them chose me for a wife, he would make me his number one priority.

Later on, I learned that life is not as simple as I made it out to be. Ischia had changed since my Italian men had left the island. This was a new breed of men in Ischia. They wore a mask that made them look and sound similar to my people, but there were subtle distinctions. It would take a few years for me to realize it, but there was something different and disturbing about this new generation of men in Ischia.

My peasant people in Ischia are all but gone. Replacing them are overgrown teenagers who work in the hotels, restaurants, bars, nightclubs, and travel agencies. While my father and his siblings made due with hand-me-downs and shoes that had leaves for soles, today’s islanders are decked out in Armani and Prada whether or not they can afford designer labels. If you want to do something special for them, you will bring them a Ralph Lauren Polo shirt from America. They zip around the island on their vintage Vespas in a rainbow of colors or Smart cars that carry with them a certain prestige but can’t transport more than two people at a time. They worship the sun and look like bronzed statues with not even a hair out of place. They’re often so pretty that it is painful to look at them.

Take Roberto*. From top to bottom, he is delicious. Despite his salt-and-pepper hair and being nearly 40, he seems forever 17. His wavy hair reaches the nape of his neck, and falls in front of his eye as he talks. It’s the kind of hair that has him always looking like he just got out of bed. It perfectly frames his tan face and that crooked smile. When he looks at a woman – any woman – with those crystal blue eyes, he has her convinced she is the only person in the room with him. On the beach when he takes off his shirt, he reveals just enough muscle to prove he is not trying too hard to look this good. In the winter, he wears a button-down shirt, American blue jeans, a scarf around his neck that drapes and dips into his chest, and a pea coat.

Roberto lives at home with his parents, brother, and sister, and their families. He works as a doorman at one of the hotels near his house. With little responsibility even during the high season, he manages to get one day off work per week to bum on the beach by day and dance and drink with his friends by night. His girlfriend of seven years is in no rush to get married because she’s younger and still going to university (many don’t graduate until they are 30 years old in Italy). Roberto is in even less of a hurry to settle down. Why should he? Mammina does his laundry and cooks his meals. And he comes and goes as he pleases.

While Roberto remains pretty faithful to his longtime girlfriend (barring a drunken kiss with an old classmate three years ago), flirting comes as naturally to him as making meatballs comes to Mammina. He knows not to cross the line despite the many, many temptations. What he doesn’t know is that his well-educated girlfriend with the parents who own three of the most popular restaurants on the island and who never seems to flirt, is about to get him embroiled in a love triangle with a carabiniere (considered to be like the fake, moronic police) that will have repercussions that no one in his right mind could imagine beforehand. By the time all is said and done, families will be split apart, seeds of doubt will seep into numerous relationships, and friendships will be over and done. And I myself won’t even want to return to Ischia, the island I once loved like home.

Meanwhile, we all should have been paying more attention to the gossip about the carabinieri on the island. It was like an alarm warning us of the dangers to come. The police officers sure do get around on Ischia, and they’re not fighting crime. Roberto’s friend Fernando has had two girlfriends who cheated on him with different carabinieri. Another carabiniere broke up his own marriage and ran off to Miami with his lover, who had been married to someone else, too. They both left behind their teenage children.

Frankly, however, no islander is a saint. For every Adam who bites into the apple, there is an Eve who helps convince him it’s a good idea. Women in Ischia are almost as beautiful as the men. What they lack in physical perfection, they make up for with…

*Some names and identifying characteristics of the real people involved have been changed.

Tune into this Web site, Two Worlds, every Monday for the latest installment in my blog about my experiences in Ischia, and every other Monday to ItaliansRus.com for the latest Our Paesani column about all things Italian. Di Meglio is also the Guide to Newlyweds for About.com.