No, not merely swimming in the sea or sunbathing on the beach or eating seafood in one of the local restaurants. To experience the sea requires something more. To taste its essence one has to pass through this island; and by “pass” I mean “live” however briefly, the symbols and intensities of Procida.
I think about this as I climb the steep road towards Terra Murata, the ancient fortified village perched on the highest point of the island, which served as a defensive refuge against centuries of Saracen pirate raids. As you follow the protective wall, you have the beguiling privilege of being accompanied by this phrase etched along the wall: L’ESPERIENZA DEL MARE ABITA QUEST’ISOLA. In English: the experience of the sea inhabits this island. Allegorical and existential at the same time. It has the tone of a warning because the moment you step out of the port landing a few meters away to your right, a 19th-century cut-out wooden painting of Christ crucified is staring at you. Yes, the first errand of the visitor is to meet Christ.
Observe his face; it is far from the pitiful sorrow and suffering we often find in most Crucifixions. Instead, here the face is one of vigilance—the face of a fisherman when out in the sea—his wide, staring eyes resemble those of an eagle during a hunt. He is watching the port where visitors arrive and depart. We are warned at the outset to behave as travelers and not as tourists. This is the most solemn form of welcome from any island in the Phlegraen archipelago.
Because this island is a refuge not only for the locals but for the visitors as well. It is not a place to be devoured; therefore, we are asked to act not like pirates but as faithful wanderers. Mass tourism has already inflicted irreversible damage and desecration in the world. The task is to wander not to devour, with reverence, not rapaciousness. The island of Procida promises a different kind of fun. A fun which has something to do with its mythological origin. In Roman lore it is believed that the island was named after the nurse who took care of the Trojan hero Aeneas. Prochyta, the nurse, was buried by the hero on these very shores. The island as nurse—for Procida understands our malady; though we are not heroes, we battle our own woes, our weariness, our quiet desperation, and like the mythical city of Troy, the cities we live in are being sacked by pollution, by the ugliness of corruption and by all sorts of crises. Perhaps we too need a respite. Despite its proximity to the metropolis (some twenty kilometers southwest of Naples), the island wants us to shrug away our habits and gestures, our way of thinking, even our sense of our very being that city culture has concocted in us.
If you keep on walking past through Christ, you’ll get to Silurenza beach. A spacious, free beach where one can take comfort in the shade beneath the wall roofed by trees, shrubs, and flowers. Here you can watch the ferry boats come and go, and in the distance, not far away, the panoramic view of Monte di Procida, a rugged volcanic cliff carved with hilltop towns. Now dip into the clean, clear water, into the dark sand bottom of the sea. If you have goggles with you, marvel at the fish and corals around you. That first dip after the long voyage; the fresh, buoyant feeling as though everything is let go—absolutely everything that life becomes a blessing.
Hop from one beach to the next.
On the western side of the island, by electric bike or by bus, you can reach the Pozzo Vecchio beach. It is here that certain scenes were shot from the wonderful 1994 film The Postman (Il Postino). A story of a miraculous encounter between the exiled Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, played by the French actor Philippe Noiret and Mario, a half-literate local from a fishing village portrayed by that Neapolitan comic genius Massimo Troisi. As I write, I notice beside me a young mother in her early twenties playing with her daughter of about three named Gianna, who has eyes exactly like her mother’s. Big, melancholy, black eyes. Her beautiful, sad face gives the impression that she is a single mother, a local of this island because of her recognizable accent. Her sun-tanned skin, long luscious dark brown hair, wide lips, and those big soft eyes remind me of the young Maria Grazia Cucinotta, who in the film played Beatrice, with whom Mario the postman fell in love. And I, somehow, fall in love with this single mother.
The unlikely friendship between the great poet and the humble postman resolves in the discovery of poetry not simply as literature but as a living presence which nourishes his love for Beatrice and his growing sense of justice against the encroaching menace of mafia politics on his island. Poetry intensifies his sense of place and purpose in the world.
In the film, Neruda advises the awed Mario: “When you explain poetry, it becomes banal. Better than any explanation is the direct experience of emotions that poetry can reveal to a soul willing to understand it.” As with poetry, the same can be said of Procida. The emotions of the island cannot be explained; you have to go there.
While swimming or taking a walk, you will notice a phrase attached in the middle of the stone wall that encloses the beach: ASCOLTA I RITMI LENTI DETTATI DAL MARE E DAL VENTO (Listen to the slow rhythms dictated by the sea and the wind). To acquire the rhythm of slowness in a world where fast tempo is the scheme of life, where speed is synonymous with development and progress: two ingredients of ecological suicide. To be gloriously slow in the abyss of fast changes is a revolutionary stance.
I would like to add that down the road to Pozzo Vechio alongside is the municipal cemetery. I invite you to take a glimpse through the metal gate and admire the splendid tiny buildings and domes representative of the island’s local architecture and wonder about: cemetery and the sea. Something about these two places that informs your brief journey in this island. Something nourishing and at the same time terrifying. The sea with its expanse and possibility, the cemetery with its certainty and limit. You lie in the dark warm sands, arms wide open, legs apart, eyes gathered by the brilliant blue sky. If you have not come to some realization that this surging feeling of temporality is what makes this life so beautifully intense, then you have barely experienced the sea. You have failed the island. Just twelve hours after the filming of The Postman ended, Massimo Troisi died of heart failure. He was 41.
In the main street harbor, Via Roma, there is a bar where you can try the traditional Lingua di Procida—a typical crispy puff, oblong-shaped pastry stuffed with lemon custard produced from the island’s indigenous lemons. This citrus fruit abounds on this island. There is not a garden without a lemon tree. Anywhere you breathe, a scent of lemon reaches your nostrils; especially on the dining table as you feast on insalata al limone (lemon salad) and spaghetti al limone (spaghetti with lemon). Lemons accompany you wherever you go.To which I may add—wherever you choose to eat, whether in a restaurant or a trattoria, your appetite is never disappointed.
To the beach. Ciraccio is a pleasing beach with a lengthy shoreline good for strolling, surrounded by high cliff walls and large tuffs; spacious enough for big family picnics, and the seabed slopes gradually, which makes it quite safe for children and unpromising swimmers. From where I lay behind me is an ongoing construction site, probably a new hotel separated by a wooden whitewashed wall on which a glaring graffiti in navy blue ink is written: IL MARE COME UN ARTIGIANO (The sea as an artisan), by a naturally poetic local. Is this not the most apt homage to the sea—to compare it with an artisan? An artisan works, makes, creates, transforms, transports, moulds, designs—exactly what the sea does to an open soul. Besides this phrase is another one with the exact calligraphy and color which completes the reverent meditation on the sea, without doubt by the same hand: LONG LIVE PALESTINE. Despite the charms and dangers the sea inspires, it is the immediate feeling of freedom, if not love, that surprises and purges us when we are in the sea. I think of the brave flotillas on their way to the besieged Gaza Strip.
You may have noticed by now that Procida is an island of words. Among the streets, squares, passageways and beaches you discover that the island around you is rich with words. Almost always you encounter a quote by the prodigious writer Elsa Morante, whose 1957 novel Arturo’s Island is set on Procida. A coming-of-age story of a local boy who discovers the marvels and profanities of desire through the wild beauty of his island.
“Ah, I wouldn’t want to live in any city,” says Arturo. “Cities have always seemed to me like temporary, confused encampments… For me, an island is an entire, absolute homeland.”
I am standing on the high cliff-top in the little piazza dedicated to the great writer, Belvedere Elsa Morante. Park your e-bike on the side, stand by the railing, allow yourself to be defeated by this rare loveliness in front of you. The pastel-hued towns, the hot glaring sun, the medieval fortress, the Castle of Avalos, the dark-green sea half-cloaked in boats and yachts, the citrus groves that overwhelm the air.To your surprise, you discover, like Arturo, that you too are bursting with puzzlement and desire.
I sit down again to write. I’m in Piazza Fontana dei martiri, the public square of the village. It is quite evening. In such an hour old, townsfolk gather here for a chat, for despite the size of the island there is always something to talk about life. The church on my side rings its bell. Religious passion is a living passion in this island. Below, in the piazza of the iconic seaside village Marina Corricella is buzzing with restaurants and pubs. The boats are lightly swinging in the breeze. Not far away, the last ferry boat of the day is leaving the port. The anchors are up, the black smoke of the engine rises in the air. Around me, the long, vivacious stretch of the harbor with its colorful buildings, clamorous restaurants and shops, the quiet little churches, the locals tirelessly working, the visitors going back to their hotels after a long day’s sea bathing, the whole fruitful July, the scorching summer, the dying glow of the sunset, already I am sweating with memories. One day we must leave the island and go back home, for there is a book to read, a film to watch, a responsibility to carry, perhaps a life to change.
As the dusk hanging over the cliffs combines with the sea, there is a feeling of wild and at the same time pious exhilaration in the visiting of this island. Wildness and piety, something we have lost along the way. Like Mario the postman, what we need perhaps is a miraculous encounter with poetry both as literature and as a living element to discover the poetic in life—that which cannot be commodified, something indestructible, incorruptible, unquantifiable, like awe, like justice, like love. From one of the restaurants in the piazza along the harbor, I can hear the cool, soothing voice of the great Neapolitan singer-songwriter Pino Daniele singing his song, which is also a prayer—our prayer: Dammi una seconda vita. Give me a second life.