Two days sitting on the sundeck on the fourth floor of our hotel with ice on my ankle was all I could take. Sitting reading poetry, I wrote the following in my journal:
Paint is mottled on the old church building with a steeple topped by a small dome with a saint or a cross on the top worn to a nub above faded red tile roofs. An older man walks out in a fine Italian suit and shoes. He is with a much younger man in jeans and a polo shirt who is speaking Italian rapidly to the older man. There are two small red towers on the edge of the shore, just like chess pieces. The beautiful pine trees with sinuously curved trunks are shaped like mushrooms. All the jumbled, busy buildings of Sorrento are framed by the long, complete, blue expanse: the Bay of Naples. Behind it all is the wide, blue triangle, the slanted cone of Vesuvius.