Mishap in the air! Mishap on the Cobbles of Ercolano!

Perhaps the most noteworthy event of our flight from Portland to London was discovering that our Premium Economy seats, which actually reclined to within one degree of where the body understands that sleep may commence, were not so thoughtfully engineered that popping back wouldn’t topple the stubby wineglass of the lady behind you, causing a great deal of distress for both parties. I only did it because the person in front of me had swung theirs all the way back, to no inconvenience or injury in my quarters. Startled words that edged accusation into the delicate DMZ between rows were issued toward the back of my head; a limp and defensive attempt at explanation was muttered in response. Not wanting to deal with unresolved drama along the only path to the restroom, I soon thereafter stood and apologized with eye contact and sincerity, which disarms far more often than it escalates.

Heathrow was an uneventful washing machine of souls, tumbling and streaming and otherwise indicating a total and chaotic national surrender to the challenges of managing foreigners. I was unimpressed by this, coming from a people whose chief export is the impression of order and dignity. And the bread at Pret wasn’t as good as I remembered. If a food stall at a Major League Baseball game offered a sandwich on a pretzel bun, it was this.

My first act as a guest of Napoli was to forget my phone in the cab, engendering a very grouchy, hungry, and tired hour which Lauren gamely endured. She found us a hole in the wall bar at our final destination, Ercolano, from which soon issued forth an eye-popping procession of bread-based cuisine. Forget what you know about Italian bread; this was even better, the likes of which simply may not be possible with the awful domestic flours on whose intestinal kludge the American belly swells and groans.

It is now the next morning. Sans phone, I slept in dreamless perfection on luxurious and pillowy white bedding of tender but grippy hand, and six hours later awoke to a fourth-floor view of the gulf, just shimmering into life. Soon more astounding bread, matched with prosciutto cotto, tender cheeses, and piquant condimenti filled our plates in the centuries-old stone basement of our villa, and my first caffeine in four months arrived in the form of a wholesome cappuccino. And then another, and then a small chocolate croissant and wedge of musky, velvetine white melon.

As we dined, the hostess brought my lost phone to the table, violently refusing a tip for the old cabbie, Pepe, who had returned it. I was going to give him a €50, but so be it. Her little brown dog Tobia (Toby? “toe-BEE-ya”) looked back at me as they walked away from our table, as though to make sure I did not leave the unwanted tip.

And now, changing into a more commodious shirt, I prepare for our day trip to Herculaneum and Pompeii.