Twenty-four hours on the island of Capri where the Faraglioni finally got their turn — but the hotel, the lemonade and a whirlpool had plans of their own.
The first time I saw Capri, it was under a grey sky and Christmas lights. The sea was grey, the streets were decorated for Christmas, and Capri felt more like a winter excursion than the Mediterranean fantasy people come here for. Marina Grande, the funicular, the Piazzetta, a few streets and a handful of sea views — enough to say I had been to Capri, but not enough to feel that I had really seen it.
So Capri remained on my list of unfinished journeys.
This time I arrived at 14:50. Exactly twenty-four hours later, at 14:50, the same boat was taking me back towards Naples.
In theory, twenty-four hours is quite enough to do serious damage to a Capri sightseeing list. Anacapri, Monte Solaro, the Blue Grotto, perhaps a boat trip around the island, the Piazzetta, the Faraglioni, lunch somewhere with a view and a few other things — provided you are sufficiently ruthless with your own holiday.
I spent part of those twenty-four hours in the whirlpool. Several times. I have no particular regrets.
The First Rule of Capri: Get Rid of Your Luggage
Arriving in Capri with luggage has its own logistics. Porters wait at the harbour holding hotel signs, take your bags and deliver them to your accommodation later. For someone travelling with two large suitcases, the luggage service makes perfect sense.
I had one small cabin suitcase.
Before arriving, I had asked the hotel whether I could simply take it with me on the funicular. They directed me to the porter, so I did as I was told. I could probably have carried it with me without any trouble, but in the crowds around the harbour and the funicular it was still much nicer to have nothing but a backpack.
The funicular was full, but there was none of the queue I had feared. I got on the first departure and a few minutes later stepped out directly onto the Piazzetta. This was already the Capri I had expected: people everywhere.
What followed was a brief period of mutual distrust between Google Maps and me. The street it was sending me down did not look particularly convincing, but this time the map was smarter. A few minutes later, I walked into Pazziella.
And that was where the rhythm of the whole trip changed. The welcome was almost indecently warm.
The stay had already been paid for; I only needed to show the physical credit card for incidentals. I expected the usual hotel routine: here is your key, breakfast is from this time to that time, the lift is over there, enjoy your stay.
Instead, Massimiliano suggested that we sit outside.
Prosecco, juice, water?
I was on Capri. Of course I chose lemonade.
The Hotel That Started Ruining My Plans
We sat down with a map of the island. He asked whether I had been to Capri before, what I had seen then, how much time I had now and what interested me. He explained how to get to Anacapri, where to take a bus, where a taxi made more sense, what I could walk to, how to organise Monte Solaro and even how the Blue Grotto could fit into the day differently from the way I had imagined.
He came up with a very good plan for me. In the end, Giardini di Augusto was almost the only part of it I followed.
The problem was not the plan. The problem was Pazziella.
Pazziella had joined Marriott’s Luxury Collection that season. Yet this is no large resort: just 25 rooms and suites spread across two villas, a few minutes from the Piazzetta but hidden behind gardens and greenery.
I had booked the cheapest Deluxe room. For €686.
The sentence “I booked the cheapest room for €686” sounds, anywhere outside Capri, like the beginning of an intervention by concerned friends and family. On Capri it is apparently just booking information.
As a Bonvoy Platinum member, I had hoped I might be able to use a Nightly Upgrade Award, but Pazziella did not offer that option. No drama: I had booked a room I would have been perfectly happy to receive.
At check-in I was given the Camerelle Suite: thirty-nine square metres indoors, another nineteen square metres of private patio, sun loungers and a large whirlpool.
When I later checked what the Camerelle Suite had been selling for on that exact night, the rate was around €1,700. That was when I came up with the first version of my completely unsustainable financial theory. I had paid €686 and received something being offered for roughly €1,700.
Therefore, I had “earned” about €1,014.
I know. Money does not work like that. Let me enjoy this for a little longer.
A Magnolia Tree, a Cold Pool and the First Whirlpool
Massimiliano showed me around the hotel. He pointed out the pool, the bar and the gym, explained how the two buildings were arranged, then took me to the suite. He showed me everything, including the whirlpool controls and how the terrace was screened from view. Prosecco and a small welcome treat were waiting for me.
He had been so kind that I gave him a small tip at the end. He did not object.
The only problem was my suitcase. At the harbour I had been told it would arrive in about fifty minutes. An hour and a half later it was still nowhere to be seen, and my swimwear was inside. I messaged the hotel and almost at that exact moment a receptionist appeared at my door holding my red cabin suitcase.
While waiting, I had managed to drink the prosecco, eat what had been left in the room and answer a few messages, so it is not as though I had become the victim of a humanitarian disaster.
I changed and went to the pool.
I had been told it was slightly heated. It turned out that the emphasis belonged very firmly on slightly. I tried to get in. I got in, reconsidered and got out. It was simply too cold to enjoy.
So I lay down on a sun lounger, then moved to the one beneath the enormous magnolia tree. Massimiliano told me the tree mattered so much to the space that the hotel had effectively been designed around it. Even Michelin, in its description of the hotel, singles out the pool beneath the canopy of the great magnolia.
Still slightly wet from my unsuccessful attempt at swimming, I wrapped myself in a towel, lay in the shade, occasionally looked at my phone and mostly did nothing. Over the years, doing nothing has become one of the things I am rather good at while travelling.
Later I went back to the room, filled the whirlpool, stayed outside for a while, then lay down and turned on Netflix.
Capri could wait.
The Waiter Who Became a Different Person in Thirty Seconds
That evening I went down to the hotel restaurant. There was nobody there. I do not mean there were no guests; I mean there was nobody to serve me.
I went to reception and asked whether dinner was actually being served. Massimiliano immediately stood up, came with me and started looking for and calling the waiter.
When the man finally appeared, he shouted at Massimiliano. In front of me. Something along the lines of: why the panic, why was he bothering him, what was the problem now?
I looked at him.
I do not know exactly what my face looked like, but apparently it was perfectly understandable without translation.
Half a minute later, the man in front of me was no longer the one shouting at a colleague. He had become a perfectly informed, attentive and highly professional waiter. He explained the menu, the wines, the olive oils and how they paired with the food.
And that was when the whole thing became even stranger: he was obviously very good at his job. He brought warm bread and an olive oil which, he explained, had been chosen specifically to start the meal. A different oil arrived with the caprese, selected to work with the tomatoes.
The caprese itself was not simply a few slices of tomato and mozzarella either. Different tomatoes, cow’s-milk fior di latte, and flavours put together with remarkable precision.
It was fantastic.
Perhaps that should not have been surprising. The hotel restaurant is called Campanella by Quattro Passi, and the concept is overseen by Fabrizio Mellino, the chef who took Quattro Passi in Nerano to three Michelin stars. Campanella has none of its own, but that does go some way towards explaining why such a simple-looking plate was treated with almost laboratory seriousness.
Then came homemade pasta with courgette and courgette flower, local cheese and a glass of wine from the slopes of Vesuvius which the waiter had recommended specifically for the dish.
Again, it was excellent.
He offered dessert, but at that point my body decided we were done.
Had the first thirty seconds of the evening not happened, I would almost certainly have left him a tip. In the end, he told me the wine was on him. That was quite enough for me.
During the dinner, I simply messaged the hotel on WhatsApp to say that his behaviour towards both his colleague and me had been, let us say, unusual, and asked whether everything was all right with the restaurant and kitchen. I did not ask for a manager, compensation or anything of the sort. When they apologised, I even replied that they should give the man a little time if he was clearly having a bad moment.
I thought that was the end of it. It was not.
Evening Capri Lost to the Whirlpool
After dinner I did not go straight back to the room. I left through the hotel’s side entrance directly onto Via Camerelle and followed it towards the Piazzetta.
Capri at night was in full swing: people, lights, tables, conversations, constant movement. The Piazzetta itself was packed, although the surrounding restaurants were surprisingly less full than I would have expected.
I could have sat down for another drink. I did not. I went back to the hotel.
I filled the whirlpool, took the prosecco out onto the terrace and sat down in the warm water.
Sometimes when you travel, you know you “should” be somewhere else because you came to see a city, an island or a landmark. At that moment I felt no moral obligation whatsoever towards Capri. I know myself well enough that I had more or less known this was how it would end before I even arrived.
A little later it was Netflix again, and then, without much of a plan, I fell asleep.
The Breakfast That Cancelled Lunch
The next morning started with breakfast.
And once again, Pazziella mounted a serious attack on my itinerary.
Breakfast is a combination of buffet and à la carte, although the dividing line is not particularly strict. Some things you can take yourself, the same things can be ordered to the table, while other dishes exist only à la carte.
I started with Eggs Benedict. They were fantastic. Then came prosciutto crudo, Italian salami, several cheeses and a green salad with tomato and, once again, olive oil with a clearly defined role.
That was the savoury part.
Then I demonstrated that a person can make a remarkable series of poor decisions during a single breakfast. A Nutella croissant, some cake, torta caprese, and several biscuits that looked far too appealing to ignore. Two cappuccinos. Freshly squeezed lemon and orange juice.
And then, because something was clearly still missing, a large plate of fruit with raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, pineapple and two kinds of melon.
A calorie bomb.
But I did not have lunch later, so we will say it was all part of a very carefully considered plan. It was one of the best hotel breakfasts I have had in recent memory — not simply because of the amount, but because almost nothing felt like generic hotel food.
Afterwards I went back to the room, freshened up and finally decided to take the island a little more seriously.
The Capri I Missed the First Time
I stepped back onto Via Camerelle.
In the morning it looked completely different from the night before. There were no serious crowds yet, and it was empty enough for me to look at façades, shop windows and details rather than simply the people in front of me.
I headed towards Giardini di Augusto.
At the entrance I encountered perhaps the stupidest logistical detail of the entire stay. Admission was €2.50, but I could not simply pay the man in front of me in cash or by card. I had to scan a QR code and buy the ticket online.
Of course the website did not cooperate immediately. I explained to the man at the entrance what I thought of the system. He was not especially moved.
After a little digital wrestling, I got in. And almost immediately forgave him.
Because then the Faraglioni appeared.
Eleven years earlier I had left Capri under a grey sky without ever seeing this. Now, at last, there was the Capri from books, films and photographs — rocks rising out of the sea, intensely blue water, sun and greenery framing the view.
On the other side, Via Krupp unfolded below me, cut into the cliff on its way towards the sea, while all around me was a neat, flowering garden.
This was my big moment: ah, so this is why people come back.
And almost at the same time, I realised that I would have to come back again. For the second time, Capri had managed to remain unfinished. I am beginning to suspect it does this deliberately.
The Scent I Brought Home from Capri
On my way back from the gardens, I almost naturally ended up in Carthusia.
Carthusia is not simply another perfume shop on the tourist route. The brand was founded on Capri in 1948, links its story to the nearby Certosa di San Giacomo, and its laboratory still stands only a few steps from Giardini di Augusto.
You could smell the fragrances before going inside.
I had intended only to have a quick look. That is a dangerous sentence.
First we looked for something for my office. After trying several options, we settled on Corallium, a fresh, aromatic and woody fragrance with exactly what I wanted: Mediterranean character without smelling like a generic citrus room freshener.
Then the sales assistant asked what I normally wore. I mentioned Jo Malone.
Instead of simply reaching for the first perfume that seemed close enough, she opened the Jo Malone website, found my fragrance and began studying its notes.
I liked that. She was not guessing. She was working.
Intenso di Nero was the first serious contender, but a little too strong for me. We tried several more until we reached Carthusia Uomo.
Still fresh and Mediterranean, but with a warmer, woodier depth. She put it on my skin. A few minutes later, nothing else interested me.
I left Carthusia with a fragrance for the office and a perfume for myself. That is what I consider an entirely reasonable tourist souvenir.
Six Euros? On Capri? Almost a Bargain.
A few dozen metres later, I came across freshly squeezed lemon and orange juice. Six euros. On Capri, I almost assumed I had misheard.
The man took a fresh lemon and orange in front of me and squeezed them. By Capri standards, almost a bargain.
With the juice in hand, I slowly made my way towards the Piazzetta, took a few more photographs, stopped in front of the church and looked at some of the shop windows. The prices in them quickly restored Capri normality.
Then I went back to Pazziella.
“I am under magnolia tree.”
I changed into my swimwear and gave the pool a second chance.
The pool did not take advantage of the opportunity. Still cold.
So I went back to the same lounger beneath the magnolia and opened WhatsApp.
Is it possible to get a lemonade by the pool?
Sure.
I am under magnolia tree.
Perfect.
A few minutes later, the lemonade was beside me.
That was approximately my biggest logistical problem of the morning.
I sat in the shade, looked at the garden, answered messages and drank my lemonade. Then I went back to the suite and filled the whirlpool once again.
Because if a person has a private whirlpool on the terrace and only a few hours of the stay left, I really see no reason to pretend to have character.
I arranged check-out for one o’clock. As a Platinum member, I could probably have started negotiating for an even later departure, but there was no need. The boat was at 14:50 and everything was already relaxed enough.
And then I received the bill.
How to “Earn” More Than €1,000 by Spending €686
There were no additional charges on it. Dinner — removed. The other drinks — removed. My increasingly worrying quantities of lemonade — removed.
I had asked for none of it.
I had not complained the previous evening expecting compensation, nor had I asked to speak to a manager. The hotel had simply seen what happened and decided that it was not the level of experience they wanted to provide.
That impressed me more than the value of what they had taken off the bill. A mistake can happen even in an excellent hotel. What a hotel does afterwards says far more about it.
But then my financial talent kicked in again.
The difference between the €686 I had paid for the Deluxe room and the roughly €1,700 being asked for the Camerelle Suite that night was about €1,014.
Add dinner at around eighty euros, the other drinks and at least five lemonades that had disappeared from the bill.
My total “earnings” had now exceeded €1,100.
I had spent €686 on one night in a hotel and somehow managed to convince myself that I had earned more than a thousand euros in the process.
That is, of course, not how money works. But I was extremely pleased with the calculation. Perhaps the first rule of luxury travel is this: the more you spend, the more creatively you can explain to yourself how much you saved.
Exactly Twenty-Four Hours
After check-out, I ended up beneath the magnolia again. They offered me another lemonade. Of course they did.
On the way out, they also gave me a ticket for the funicular. I headed towards the Piazzetta, crossed it one more time, descended towards Marina Grande and arrived back in the same harbour crowds where the whole story had begun.
I no longer particularly felt like walking. I went to the pier and waited for the boat. At 14:50 I sailed towards Naples. Exactly twenty-four hours after arriving.
Had I finally seen Capri this time? More of it than the first time.
I saw Via Camerelle almost empty in the morning and crowded at night. I crossed the Piazzetta, finally stood in front of the Faraglioni, watched Via Krupp fall towards the sea and found a scent that will remind me of the island for some time yet. I ate one of the best caprese salads I can remember, did serious damage to the hotel breakfast, drank an amount of lemonade that was beginning to look like a personal project and spent an unreasonable amount of time beneath a single magnolia tree.
I did not go to Anacapri. I did not go up Monte Solaro. I did not see the Blue Grotto. I did not walk Via Krupp.
The first time, I left Capri feeling that I had not really seen it. I came back to correct that.
Twenty-four hours later, I had finally seen the Capri I missed the first time. The problem is that, in trying to finish Capri, I had simply made a new list of reasons to return.
It looks as though I will have to come back again.
