I took an early morning tender to the port from our boat docked offshore (seen center) so I could have a solo run along the beach road, into the island’s center. I was not disappointed. Closed-up seaside resorts, lovely public parks, off-season hotels, restaurants abandoned until late spring, perfectly deserted streets just waiting for the inquisitive runner. I met some Italian ladies from Taranto, also on vacation, just sitting on a bench, warming in the sun. And by the time I headed back to the boat to shower and then return to town with Jay, I already felt at home on the volcanic island. (Maybe because Ischia has been, since 1984, a twin city to Cambridge, MA, though at present the relationship, like the volcano, is inactive.) I opted not to visit the Museum of Torture, but wish I could have seen the many thermal baths that dot the island. Or the one-time homes of Ibsen, Auden and Capote. Even the film locations for Elizabeth Taylor’s Cleopatra. Next time.
