The most romantic way to get to the Lipari Islands, the rugged volcanic archipelago north of Sicily, is by overnight boat from Naples. Bring dinner to eat on board, pass Capri in the disappearing light, and be lulled to sleep by the sea. Set your alarm for 5 a.m., then crawl out of your bunk and onto the deck, your face to the wind. The night is so black that the Pleiades are as distinct as the seven islands themselves.
Then, out of nowhere, a flare of blood orange lights up the sky, showering sparks like shooting stars. It is Stromboli, the volcano that stands as sentry to the islands, at once warning visitors of the fierceness of the place and proclaiming its wild beauty. Homer was the first to mention these islands, which Americans refer to as the Aeolians. Here, Aeolus, the god of the winds, greeted Odysseus with a bag of breeze to ensure his safe passage. But when Odysseus’ crew, curious, opened the bag, they were blown from rocky shore to shore, left to fend for themselves in the most treacherous waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. These are dry, inhospitable islands where all living things—figs, herbs, apricots, rabbits—struggle so hard for survival that they are bursting with the intense fragrances and flavors of a brief but concentrated life.
I am returning after three years to satisfy a hunger I’ve had ever since—for the spicy perfume of pale pink caper flowers, for fish that swim in turquoise waters, for sweet cherry tomatoes that explode in your mouth like Stromboli, for pasta with fennel and sardines. I’m returning to simply do nothing—il dolce far niente, as the Italians say—in a place where there are only rocks and sea and the happy prospect of your next meal.
As the sky lightens, the island of Stromboli comes into view, its whitewashed houses stacked up by the port. I once made the arduous climb up the volcano to see it erupt red against the orange sunset, booming down a black lava slope into the ocean. There are some things so magnificent they can’t be repeated, not without being spoiled—in this case, by the lines of tourists you were too enchanted to notice the first time. So I don’t disembark. But I remember Stromboli’s charm, its narrow streets, and its nervous atmosphere in the shadow of the volcano. And then there’s the carnation-colored house with a plaque commemorating the place where Ingrid Bergman and Roberto Rossellini had an affair while filming Stromboli. (Previously, Anna Magnani, who had been living with Rossellini and was promised the lead, dumped a bowl of bucatini with red sauce over his head before fleeing with the crew to Vulcano, to make an equally forgettable film by that name.)
If there were a plaque somewhere in the Aeolians to commemorate a love affair of my own, it would be on Filicudi, one of the remotest and most desolate islands. There, for ten days, I stayed with a French professor in a white house at the top of a steep hill overlooking the port and the other craggy islands beyond. We did nothing but read, swim, make love, and decide where we wanted to eat that day. I always voted for Villa La Rosa, for the pasta with wild fennel fronds and sardines, which tasted exactly like the island’s aromatic sea breezes. As with Stromboli, Filicudi was a place I could never return to for fear of spoiling the memory of those magical days.
That still leaves five islands to explore, though, each with a unique personality. Panarea, small and precious, attracts chic Italians and honeymooners, but it’s all tranquillity in the off-season. Lipari is the largest and most industrialized island, with a fascinating museum filled with relics from all the ships that have sunk in these violent seas since before the first Greek settlers arrived. Salina is sleepy and agricultural, covered with vineyards that bear grapes for the region’s distinctive Malvasia wine. Vulcano, the island closest to Sicily, is heavily touristed on its hot-bubbling shores, but the mountain’s uplands are home to pastures that yield some of the world’s best ricotta cheese. Small, outlying Alicudi has no cars, few tourist facilities—really, nothing at all.
I’ve come to the islands this time with my Italian friend Giovanna, a Giulietta Masina look-alike, with the same impish flair. Giovanna isn’t content to far niente on the islands, but wants to explore all the tastes, sights, and activities I missed before. “Zampetta, zampetta,” she says, meaning: “A little paw here and a little paw there, and we’ll try everything.” Va bene.
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