There’s humidity. And then there’s betrayal.
Capri began, as it often does, with delusion.
Glenda said the words that now live rent-free in my trauma archive:
“Let’s walk, Tatie. The view will be worth it.”
She said this with the sincerity of a woman wearing espadrilles and optimism. I—a French-British construct with heat-induced disdain and a folding fan scented of bergamot—merely raised a brow.
We were dropped at Marina Piccola, Capri’s version of a welcome mat: all shimmer and suggestion, like a man who texts “u up?” at 4 p.m. on a Tuesday. Glenda, radiant and reckless, pointed uphill toward La Piazzetta—as if one simply ascends into elegance.
“We’ll go through the historical pathway,” she chirped. “Via Krupp!”
Darling.
Via Krupp was closed.
Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. No—physically, bolted shut like the gates of emotional availability on a dating app.
So instead of a gentle, flirtatious stroll through manicured curves, we began our Spartan audition:
The Stairs.
Stairs that laughed at cardio.
Stairs that mocked dignity.
Stairs that felt like an ancient punishment for under-tipping a gondolier.
I aged three years on those steps. My chignon gave up around step 137. Glenda’s linen stuck to her like repentance. Rashid, bless him, looked as if Capri itself had offended his blood pressure.
Somewhere between Salita per i Martiri della Sanità and Via Ignorance, I stopped speaking. I merely breathed judgment.
“Almost there!” Glenda gasped, with the joy of a woman hallucinating a spritz.
When we reached La Piazzetta, I could have kissed the terrazzo. Instead, I ordered a €12 espresso and whispered threats into the foam.
But Glenda? She won.
She beamed like a Roman goddess in recovery.
We ate. We recovered. We walked through Giardini di Augusto, where the bougainvillea mocked us with its ability to thrive without sweating.
And on the way down—Glenda danced.
Oh yes, danced.
Gravity, it seems, was finally on her side.
Mine too. Though I refused to admit it until my second gelato.
Moral of the Story:
In Capri, never trust a closed road, a scenic detour, or a woman in linen with a dream.
But do trust her to get you there—sweaty, blistered, victorious.
And late for dinner.
All Around The World 