Five after five in the morning. The boat leaves for Napoli at six. My landlord will drive me to Ischia Porto at five thirty.
As you can see I’ve decided to dress up for my flight via Lufthansa to JFK in New York. Pale blue jeans, loafers, a black turtleneck sweater, a beaded necklace I bought from one of those Senegal street merchants in Forio, and a tourquoise crescent moon on a cord I got last year when I explored the nearby island of Ponza. Also a blue blazer with a silver enameled Alpha Sigma Lambda academic honor society pin on its lapel, a leatherbanded watch, and my big gold Moravian college class ring with large aquamarine gemstone.
Laptop and Camera bags are packed. I decided I’ll take my videocam after all. I’m not taking my two now obselete Nikon N90Ss to sell or trade in because B&H immediately told me, via a surprisingly prompt email reply yesterday, that they have no market for these cameras, despite their perfect condition. Makes sense. EVERYBODY is dumping film cameras in favor of digital. So I’ll just keep the lunks as historical artifacts, along with my enormously heavy Bronica and two lenses.
I’ve got a batch of music CDs and a Sony player with little earpieces. Beethoven late quartets, piano and violin concertos, plus solid gold Rock & Roll and Mississippi Delta Blues. One book: “Adoption Nation,” by Adam Pertman. Usually I take Joyce, or his biographer Ellmann, or the great Stuart Gilbert study of Ulysses. Most of what I’ve learned about my favorite author came over the past couple of decades from airplane or airport or hotel study.