Gaeta Day one

Gaeta-

Coming into the tiny city of Gaeta is just about the same as any other tiny Italian town. Slightly decrepit, old, ramshackle buildings with narrow alleyways and winding streets. Expressive, loud people who speak little to no English for the most part, but are willing to be helpful if you plead long enough in broken Italian. Like most Italian towns, the population is mostly older, over 50-somethings, mingling with the younger generation-- the ones too young to get out of the small town yet. The teens, as annoying as they are in any culture or language the world round, wreck havoc with newcomers, generally speaking loudly in rude Italian about how 'the stupid tourists are here again!'.
The town itself is mostly residential, but there are two military sections of town (the Italian and the American) as well as the coast guard and a Scuola Nautica (Boating school). The apartment buildings have plenty of signs "Vendersi" and "Affitasi," to let or to buy. It's a town which thrives off of the, mostly Italian, tourism trade. In late July thru the end of August the streets are packed to bursting with loud Italian tourists, awaiting their chance to brown in the sun and enjoy the beautiful bay waters.
On one side of town lies the Marina, the yacht club, and the specialist boutiques (where an arm, a leg, and your firstborn child are required to buy anything). But in "Gaeta Antica," the historic district, the prices might be the same but the stores more quaint and the roads more winding. One can walk the promenade (built after World War II, when the Germans bombed out most of the buildings in Gaeta Antica) and watch the sunset over the mountains. The lights of the other side of the bay, in WWII the American coast, slowly sparkle and gleam off the crystal waters. Even fog, not uncommon this time of year, can't distract from the innate beauty of the place. The old prison, closed after the last prisoner, a Nazi convicted of killing hundreds, escaped in his wife's suitcase, stands ominously on the bluffs. The tower reaches into the sky like something from the middle ages, and delves down through the mountain, and even further down to below the sea level. Even in the daylight there's an eerie feeling about the place, ominous and dark.
In the residential district, things are quiet for the most part. A four and a half minute walk from the apartment I stayed in the beach spread out like something from an Aegean dream. Slightly cool for the early summer, the water was still calm and clear, if not a little cold for real swimming. Families come, parents sunning and watching their children play in the sand and surf, as gypsies and peddlers walk around with bracelets and trinkets. No one really bothers anyone else, and aside from the Ombrellini renters, the beaches are free.
In the early afternoon we wandered back to the apartment and ate homemade minestrone and frittata, sat around talking of nothing and everything. The couple we're staying with tell stories of their years in the restaurant business, their 59-year marriage, their children, and how it used to be. The best phrase is always "To cut a long story short.." because never once has it shortened a story. Always wandering, but entertaining, stories of pre- and post-war Gaeta fill the tiny kitchen. Windows and doors stand open to catch the breezes as the sounds of everyday life fill the air.
Sure, the sounds of traffic can get tiresome, but the birdsong fills the empty times. Families yelling to one another across the balconies fills the early evening, and the smell of fresh-baked bread and home-cooked dinners floats on the cool evening breeze.
Siesta, a wonderful tradition even in Italy, takes up the lazy afternoons, and gelato runs fill the evenings. Sitting on the balcony at night, sharing a glass of wine and sweet cakes, the world seems quiet and restful, at peace with everything.
Real life will come, hectic as always, but until then, the wonders of Gaeta rest in slow, lazy afternoons and long walks in the evening.