Sun, sea and the good life. Christiane Tauzher and family enjoying the holidays in Italy. But the “Dolce Vita” only lasts for a short time. Chaos takes its course on a trip to Vesuvius.
Easter in Italia: Hunt for eggs with the sound of the sea, let the Italian spring fan you, shout “Buona Pasqua” to the left and back, “Dolcevitern” until you drop.
Full of expectation and bursting with anticipation, we left for Naples on the Monday before Easter. The teenager had packed the largest suitcase from our luggage pool for a six-day vacation and, as it turned out later, had taken almost nothing useful with her. This was less due to the weather than to the unfortunate circumstances that were brewing like a thundercloud over our family. The misfortune began at the foot of Vesuvius, which we wanted to climb at the request of the smallest family member. At first, the teenager was fine that her little brother suddenly complained of knee pain and could no longer walk. She hadn’t been so keen on sacrificing half a day to an old volcano and a ruined city.
The taxi driver drove us to Naples’s largest children’s hospital, where the now swollen knee was examined after a four-hour wait. When the doctor told us in a grave voice that he wanted to “keep” us in the hospital overnight, I agreed – not knowing what to expect. At this point, my stomach, which had been looking forward to the two Ps of pizza and pasta, looked like a crater.
And now it’s going downhill…
Before I moved into the eight-person hospital room with the seven-year-old, I asked my almost grown-up daughter to get me something to eat. Visits to the ward were not permitted without exception. A little later the teenager came back with loads of biscuits and rubber bandages. I rummaged through the bags twice, hoping I’d missed the slice of pizza I wanted. In a rage, I stuffed my mouth full of gelatin bugs. “I don’t understand why you’re angry,” the teenager said, “you wanted to eat. I brought you food.”
I let the arguments go and saved my strength for my sick son, with whom I shared a hospital bed for the next two nights. The teenager moved into a small hotel nearby with her father. After the first night, she called me and complained that being cooped up in 20 square meters with her father was “no nice work”. I, who had not slept a wink under a glaring neon light and constant beeping noises, laughed hysterically. “It was clear that you wouldn’t understand me,” she said when saying goodbye and added another question: “Can I take the ship to the island alone?” You don’t need me here anyway…” Olaf agreed, I didn’t really care about anything at that point. I think it was because I had to keep the FFP2 mask on even when I slept.
The island we were talking about, where we rented accommodation over Easter, is my place of longing: Capri – the cradle of the Dolce Vita.
The teenager pulled away from Dannen with her monster suitcase, boarded the ship with big black shades and off she was, on her way to paradise. Then we didn’t hear much from her. Dolcevitern probably took a lot out of her.
After three days and two nights I discharged ourselves from the hospital, my brain felt like a prune after 72 hours behind the mask.
Olaf picked us up. We jet after the teenager in the speedboat. It was Maundy Thursday and I was typing a shopping breakfast list into my phone, which I sent to the teenager, noting that the shops would close at 6pm. She wrote back with a snort that she was tired now and that she didn’t want to have breakfast anyway, that she was hungry now and that it was cold in the house. I stared at the screen, then with the last of my strength I typed, “GO SHOP NOW! SEE YOU LATER! THE END.”
We, Olaf, the little Austrian patient whose bacterial infection had vanished into thin air, and I, were just stepping onto Caprese soil when my cell phone rang again. I handed it to Olaf, rolling my eyes. He didn’t say anything for a long time, then his eyes widened and I saw and heard words coming out of his mouth that sounded like “keep calm” and “we’ll be right there” and “everything will be fine”. Then he took a deep breath in my direction. “She passed out,” he said, “and passed out in front of the sausage counter in the supermarket. She thinks she broke her ankle.”
I grabbed a parked car. I automatically grabbed my face to rip off the mask that was obviously blocking the flow of oxygen to my brain. But where I suspected the mask was only my nose and mouth. So everything I had heard had to be true. I felt like laughing aggressively hysterically.
I knew what to expect in front of the sausage counter. In addition to an injured second child, the accusation that everything was my fault because I had forced her to shop for breakfast. Without me she would never have left the safe bed.
I felt 300 years old. The taxi flew past small cafes and colorful drinks. I wanted to drink them all dry.
“It can’t really get any worse now,” said Olaf and laughed.
How wrong he was.
Sequel follows…