My solo trip to Ischia
some recs, mostly revelations
I flew back from my week-long solo trip to Ischia two Sundays ago. As I boarded the final leg of my return trip I scanned through the concealers page of the Kosas website on my phone. I estimate that I returned to Brooklyn ~ 4 shades darker. Somewhere between Tone 07N and Tone 08N. My old, now pale, Kosas concealer was packed up in my carry-on with the rest of my makeup which I never actually wore on the trip.
When I told people I was taking my first solo trip everyone congratulated me and told me how liberating it would feel not to compromise with anyone else, not to be liable to anyone else’s whims. But no one told me about the makeup. No one told me that without friends, a boyfriend, or any travel companion I wouldn’t feel the need to channel Sophia Loren. I could leave the Glossier bag at home. I let the sun and saltwater turn my hair to straw too and I never took out any of the nice dresses I’d packed.
Instead, I spent each day at various beaches or thermal parks wearing only sunscreen and one of the three bikinis I’d packed. No one told me to prepare for this either though. Have you ever spent seven days straight with your ass out? I hadn’t, and it sounds kind of hot, but what about with everything else out too?
I had been prepared to explore my relationship with myself on this trip, I neglected to consider what it would mean for my relationship with my body.
I booked this trip at the start of summer, a few weeks after the day I was rushed to the hospital and had emergency surgery. I booked it as my “Something to Look Forward to”—a consolation prize for medical trauma. Thousands of dollars in medical bills could wait, first I needed a flight to Italy.
My entire medical fiasco lasted about six weeks and during that period I’d never felt so out of control of my body before, like it was something alien to me. I’d never felt so physically bad. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was scared of my body. Ever since then I’ve been plagued by a strain of body dysmorphia unlike any insecurity I’ve harbored before. It’s disappointing because for the last few years I’ve actually felt at peace with my body. I exercise, I eat well enough, I treat myself with kindness etc etc. But that peace has flickered in and out these past few months.
I have a kind of dysmorphia that feels delusional because its severity is so fickle. Sometimes I like my body (I admit, usually before noon), I feel accepting and grateful for what it has carried me through.
There are other times where I don’t like photos of myself, or I feel some sort of paralysis while getting dressed. I get stuck in this thought cycle that revolves around my appearance but it feels different than just negative body talk. It’s anchored by some dread lodged deep within me; a symptom of the grief I’m still working my way through.
I got stuck in this cycle one night early on in my trip. I’d gone down to a restaurant in the port called Ristorante Da Bellezza. It’s my favorite kind of restaurant to visit when traveling meaning it’s a family owned place with plastic table cloths, there’s one woman who runs the whole thing, there are random potted plants as centerpieces, and the tables in the corners are piled with…there’s no other word for it: stuff.
While I waited for my dinner I pulled out my phone and looked through photos from an event the week prior. Immediately I started wondering has my ****** always looked that way? Yes, no, maybe. Why is my ***** so ******? And then a big platter with four pieces of bruschetta was brought to my table. I put my phone away and started to eat.
*
On Ischia the specialty is rabbit—Coniglio al Ischitana—a whole rabbit stew. It’s braised with wine, tomatoes, garlic and herbs. I read online somewhere that the Spanish brought rabbits to the island, and the dish was born as a response to their abundance. There is also, of course, boundless seafood on every menu. Mussels, clams, prawns, squid, anchovies, and fish. I had it all—grilled, fried, tossed with pasta, served with a lemon wedge.
But at its heart, Ischia is an agricultural island. The volcanic soil lends itself to lush vegetation. Each day I walked along a back pathway connecting my hotel to the port. It was quiet but I could I hear the sound of waves crashing at the bottom of the cliffs. I’d walk past houses, plots of land, and churches. On my walk I’d stop to look at pomegranate trees, plots of squash, olive trees, and vineyards. Even when I was stranded at a random bus stop on the island there were berries growing around me. And everywhere I went: trees with lemons the size of an iPhone. They were craggy, bulging, and bulbous, not like the ones you find here that have been smoothed and tamed by our food system. They looked borderline mutant—as nature intended.
One day, I took the bus 45 minutes to Cavo dell’Isola, a small cove just outside the town of Sant Angelo. The bus dropped me off just a few feet away from the path leading down to the beach. Across the way was a shack, Chiosco Cava Grado, where an Italian man in a bandana named Enzo was juicing oranges and lemons in rapid succession. He told me the best choice was to do a combo so I watched him press the juice of an orange and lemon into a small glass while the spray of citrus zest traveled through the air. He then turned to what looked like an AMC ICEE machine and topped my glass off with an icey sludge. I took a sip so refreshing I felt I was in an early 2000’s Neutrogena commercial. Trying to describe a flavor is embarrassing so I’ll just say it tasted like the most citrus citrus you could find on earth. I went back for a second glass after the beach—and risked missing my bus in order to do so. Again, I took one sip and I felt like every cell in my body had woken up.
Again and again I was left gobsmacked by the produce tucked into each of my meals. My financial “strategy” for this trip was to be frugal with my lunches. I’d order a cheap saltimbocca (the sandwich, not the veal cutlet dish) with shitty bread and cheese pressed together but would find the most peppery, downright spicy, arugula wedged inside. For dinner, I often had some sort of seafood pasta but again the most arresting bites were the just barely stewed sungolds mingling with clam juice and starchy pasta water.
I could tell you that the food on Ischia is so life affirming it overrides any insecurity you have and inspires you to just MANGIA! That’s more or less what happens in that one Eat Pray Love scene where Julia Roberts proclaims she’s done fixating on her body, is “going for it” and is “having a relationship with her pizza.” And it’s not lost on me that that scene was filmed just 20 miles away in Naples. But, I actually don’t believe that you can magically travel to Italy and undo a bunch of trauma with a plate of pasta. Sorry.
I’ll say this instead: you can hate your body anywhere you are in the world. But if you want to visit a place where dinner feels sacred and a glass of juice is an invitation for rebirth then Ischia is a good place to start.
After the bruschetta came, my plate of spaghetti and clams arrived and I ate the entire plate before asking the woman running the restaurant to call me a taxi because it had just started storming. When I got to my hotel I had one of the worst cases of indigestion that has probably ever occurred on earth; or at least on Ischia. I couldn’t wait to do it all over again the next day.
As the week went on I ate more bruschetta, more clams, I sat on more beaches. I took silly videos of myself at the thermal parks and beaches and managed to stop zeroing in on my body. I found that the longer I was alone, the more at peace I felt with my body. There was no one to perform for, no one to compare myself with. I was stuck with myself, both body and mind. At the thermal parks I did cold plunges and sat in the hammam trying to ground myself. I was hyperaware of every feeling passing through my body. I’d take long bus rides without listening to any music (had to save my phone battery to make it the whole day) and would sort through my thoughts. I did a lot of reflecting on the medical situation that drove me to Ischia and it was all very healing.
I also couldn’t help but remember the last time I’d been to Italy. It was spring of 2022, with my ex boyfriend. And I remember returning to Brooklyn unsure if I had just had the best or worst trip of my life. In the same way you can hate your body anywhere you are in the world, you can be miserable anywhere you are in the world. Or, in my case, your boyfriend can be miserable anywhere he is in the world. I remember there was one day when we got into a fight so painful it took me an entire year to tell anyone what had happened. It’s the only thing I’ve ever kept from my therapist.
After seven days of eating every single meal alone and barely speaking to anyone, I left Ischia with the certainty that it is never worth being with someone who makes you feel alone. There are some trips you’re meant to take on your own.
This isn’t really a recommendations newsletter but here are some quick recs:
Watch the sunset from Forio or somewhere on the west side of the island. I watched it from Chiesa del Soccorso and it was very beautiful.
Negombo and Poseidon are two thermal parks, I thought Negombo felt more relaxing and posh but I loved the beach at Poseidon too.
Restaurant I went to by the port was Ristorante Da Belleza. Very no frills home cooking which is what I always end up wanting to eat while traveling.
Garden of Eden was worth it for a posh beach club day. Make a reservation. You have to reserve a minimum of two beds but I loved having one big bed to sprawl out on.
Gasparotto—best gelato, funky flavors. In Lacco Ameno.
I took the bus everywhere and felt like it was pretty reliable. If I had gone with another person I would maybe have rented a car/scooter.
Taking a solo trip (in between two workshops that are tied to an academic fellowship I'll be completing this summer) and have almost settled on Ischia but feeling overwhelmed trying to decide on lodging (I'm a Type A girlie who is currently drowning at work with more projects that even I can manage so adding one more decision-making task to my plate is sending me over the edge). Can I ask where you stayed -- and, of greater importance, would you recommend where you stayed?
This is so good 😭😭😭