ABSTRACT
there are many Capris, of course; superimposed, like the impressions made by different inks in a color reproduction, they form the ultimate and complete picture, which perhaps only the local gods can see. There is, first, the obscure and forgotten everyday home of the Capresi, who are born, live, and die here, as if it were a place of no special distinction, and who buy, sell, or inherit rocky olive groves, houses, or little vineyards, which—for others—are picturesque and poetic details in a divine landscape. Secondly, there is the Capri of the Neapolitans, who cross the bay on the white ferry boats with their children and grandparents to celebrate a feast day; for them it is more or less what Coney Island is for New Yorkers. (Capri, for the rest of the Italians, is a hard-to-reach and somewhat different summer resort, made more interesting by the presence of so many odd foreigners.) Then there is the Capri of travel-folders and all-inclusive tours. BafHed and tired tourists, dressed in nylon, dawdle a few hours between two boats, buy straw hats with the word "Capri" embroidered on the brim, mail blue-tinted post cards, and eat pizza. They are herded everywhere in a hurry; see little, as if in a trance; and are not interested in what they see anyway, as they only came to be able to say "I was there too." The Capri of the longer-staying tourists usually disappoints them. Why should it be so famous, they ask themselves; it is nothing like Cannes or Monte Carlo, has no row of palatial hotels on the waterfront, no Casino, no exclusive beach, no Sporting Club with gala soirées? Most of them leave with the vague suspicion of having been swindled.
