I pointed to a Louis Vuitton knockoff near a dozen fakes on a street in Naples, Italy. “How much for the bag?”
"Fifty-five Euro," said the West African vendor.
"Too much," I said, continuing my stroll down Via Toledo with my husband Hank and the evening crowd.
But the vendor followed, shoving the plastic purse at me. "Sorry, lady, try another price. Hey, lady, you want this!” Hank and I sped up, and two of the vendor’s countrymen joined what became a chase. At the front Hank and I sprinted and dodged Neapolitan citizens enjoying the final minutes of sunlight.
Blocks later I glanced back and saw the men melting into the evening street scene and, between breaths, Hank and I asked each other: Why were they chasing us? Were we about to be robbed or hurt? That's when I realized shopping for fakes was hardly a bargain and vowed to never buy knockoffs again – only the real deal. But how could I get satisfaction on a budget?
At dinner that night in a pizzeria, my adrenaline dropped to normal as Hank discussed the restaurant’s wine offerings with the waiter. To me the words nose, top note, and legs seemed frivolous for something as utilitarian as wine. In Italy, the vino rosso casa was always fine.
“To our twentieth anniversary,” said Hank, handing me a glass of Sangiovese. As we clinked glasses it didn’t seem possible so many years had passed since our wedding, although two kids and a remodeled home back in Seattle was proof. I took a sip and ordered a pizza Margherita.
The next day we set sail with hundreds of other off-season tourists to the island of Capri. Normally we avoided these traps, but I wanted to check off "Blue Grotto" on our travel scorecard.
When our rowboat captain finally brought us to the three-foot opening in the cliff wall, he paid the beefy boats-men controlling the entry. They counted our Euros and added them to the piles in a plastic cooler, giving us low expectations. But our five minutes in the grotto were hypnotic. "Put your hand in the water and see how blue it is," said our rowboat captain. Yes, the water was blue: insanely neon blue, with an intensity refracting off every surface to give the impression we were inside a gemstone. I asked the captain what gave the grotto its color, but he repeated his single line of English: “Put your hand in the water and see how blue it is.” Clearly the secret would never be revealed by him.
In our dazed state, Hank and I were rowed to the dock on Capri Island and followed the crowd to....
