Page 50 of Angel

His mate paused and pursed his mouth suggestively, licking his lips.

I half rose from the hard seat and jerked my chin at him

‘Basta, she’s my wife,’ I growled in fluent Italian, boring my glare straight into his skull until he flipped his eyes away. ‘Have some freakin’ shame.’

He ambled off, his expression sheepish, as Roxy shot me an amused glance.

We shared a wry eye roll as I relaxed and sat back down, wondering how much longer the wait would last.

Thirty minutes later, a miniature orange-and-silver bus arrived.

It was about a third of the size of a standard Nashville school transport.

We entered a packed interior, with scarcely enough room to sit.

Stepping over feet and luggage, we squeezed into two narrow seats at the very back, surrounded by a chaotic mix of locals and tourists.

Across from us, a couple of sun-baked Italian nonnas clutched plastic grocery bags loaded with fresh basil and tomatoes.

They chatted a mile a minute in a rapid-fire dialect as the coach swayed.

Right next to them stood a cluster of loud, sunburnt college kids in linen shirts and oversized sunglasses.

They stank to high heaven of coconut sunscreen and cheap spritzes, aggressively checking Google Maps on their phones.

An old local man in a faded flat cap, wedged into the corner, seemed unbothered by the noise, reading a folded copy of Gazzetta dello Sport.

Meanwhile, a stylish young influencer type was precariously balancing a massive straw beach tote and a designer camera bag, trying, and failing, not to stumble into a group of vocal French backpackers who appeared done with the heat.

Every time the bus hit a switchback turn up the cliffside, we all shifted like sardines in oil.

Eliciting a symphony of curses, apologetic grunts, laughter, and frantic overhead-handrail grabbing.

The tiny engine roared as the vehicle tackled the terrifying turns winding up toward Anacapri.

We finally escaped the humid metal can at the summit.

The island was divided into three main sectors: Capri town, with the major port; Anacapri, high on the hill; and the rugged countryside.

Capri and Anacapri maintained a centuries-old rivalry over who was the definitive destination.

Separated from Capri by a treacherous twisting road, Anacapri covered the entire western half of the island, once populated by rugged mountaineers and farmers.

It was a different universe compared to the frenzied crowds pouring off the mainland hydrofoils.

Down below, tourists endured overwhelming lines for the funiculars, buying generic clothes printed with blue majolica designs while selfie sticks threatened to knock lemons out of the orchard trees.

Roxy pulled a dog-eared guidebook from her bag as we walked, her dulcet cadence cutting through my brooding thoughts.

‘Perched high over the sea, the town’s name originated from the Greek word anás, meaning above.’

‘Is that right?’ I muttered, still recovering from the trauma of the over-packed bus.

‘Listen to this,’ she continued, her eyes scanning the text. ‘They have annual religious festivals like Sant’Antonio’s procession and the Settembrata. Where the locals decorate the pavements with carpets woven from broom blossoms and flower petals.’

Still pissed off by the entire trip, I gritted my teeth.

Yet somehow as she went on, the melodic rhythm of Roxy’s voice began to soothe and relax me.