by Amanda Castleman

The view from Casa Eugenio's, a pensione gem.

Indeed they were saying it every 30 seconds or so, there on Ischia, an island in the Bay of Naples. The festive spirit ran strong at the cliff-top spa, aided by tangy shots of yellow liquor, sweetly sour limoncello. Children skidded and shrilled on wet pathways, a puppy yapped from his wire cage and strangers chatted, embraced. Buon'anno! Auguri!

Eager to soak up Italian culture, I lingered in the pools, eavesdropping. It wasn't difficult. People spoke very loudly, like actors playing to the cheap seats. Or perhaps they just wanted to be heard above all that surf, seagulls and shrieking offspring.

Merry groups crowded into the boiling plunge bath. Without fail, as a toe immersed, the Italians announced "C'e caldo!" How hot!

Or, playing with understatement, "C'e freddo!" So cold!

At some point, I comforted myself, it will stop. Someone, somewhere, will tweak the phrase, branch out, innovate. But no, for two days I wallowed in the warmth, until caldo and freddo were seared into my brain. Most incredibly, each tired phrase was greeted with a fresh bout of giggling. C'e freddo! Now that's funny!

It's not what you say, but the way that you say it, I realized. The Italians chattered to be friendly, not to express some burning insight. The impulse was purely jolly. Hey look! All those chumps are freezing up there on the ski slopes and we're sipping espresso in our bathing suits. La Dolce Vita!

We had reason to be smug. The island is lush, teaming with bougainvillaea and greenery, even in winter. The scenery is spectacular (remember the cinematic vistas in The Talented Mr. Ripley?). Embraced by the Tyrrhenian Sea, Ischia remains a well-kept secret, nearly unspoilt by tourist taint. (CONTINUE...)