The island of veterans, inspired by fosco without praising it

We met in Ischia, we lonfi veterans. Let me explain. On the green island, precisely in Ischia Ponte, in a little house by the sea at the foot of the Aragonese Castle, a classmate had moved years ago. So for the meeting that we, the class of III A at the Alessandro Manzoni High School in Milan, maturity (sic) 1970, have been doing since those days (first every ten years, then every five, then as time runs out, at least once a year) we chose this very island. Ischia is perfect in April, just after the Easter holidays. The air is warm, the plants are green in the lightest tones, flowers abound and tourists are scarce. The sea water is still a little chilly for bathing, only one of the eight of us - a third of the class; when asked, some had replied that they could not and regretted it, others had replied nothing at all - Marco, dares to enter the water at the Fumarole beach, near the hot springs.

Ischia is also perfect for getting around, by bus and on foot, up and down, we high-school veterans of the second half of the 1960s. Reduce, however, says the Treccani, is one who returns after a long absence, due to risky exploits and adventures, exile, and, in particular, war. We do not feel like that (although going to school in the centre of Milan in those adventurous years was). We do not return, it is not our home, it is only for Gina. Some have already come to the island, they have visited the delightful Archaeological Museum in the Villa Arbusto complex in Lacco Ameno; they have paused in amazement in front of the Cup of Nestor, deciphering a few words with their school Greek. "I am the cup of Nestor", says the cup, which speaks of itself in the first person, "easy to drink - whoever drinks from this cup will immediately take it the desire of Aphrodite with her beautiful crown". The characters go from right to left as in Phoenician writing, but fortunately the cup is placed in front of a mirror and something is understood.

No museums then for this meeting on the island of veterans (?), just nature. First, the La Mortella Gardens, an apotheosis of Mediterranean and even semi-tropical vegetation, orchids, ferns, water lilies, huge trees with garish blooms with impossible names: Spathodea campanulata with red flowers, Brachychiton acerifolius with coral flowers or Thunbergia mysorensis with yellow and red flowers. We stop for lunch near the Thai pavilion, like good thrifty children of the 1950s who did not know luxury and waste, even if they came from good middle-class Milanese families; we take out sandwiches and sandwiches and an exquisite savoury pie with ham and ricotta cheese left over from the night before and consume them without making a single crumb.

Yes, because the night before, as soon as we had landed and taken possession of our hotels or B&Bs, full of flowers and colourful ceramics, the companion who lives on Ischia had provided dinner: savouries, sandwiches and the like (as well as Ischian wines). So that evening we dined, but above all sang, on the Federico guitar. We sang a dated but well known repertoire: De André and Dalla, De Gregori and the Nomadi, and much more, including Gian Pieretti's famous Il vento dell'Est . Yes, Gian Pieretti (who was he?), who sang the song in 1966 (!). We discovered and fully adopted the political interpretation proposed by Pietro, now a banker and economist. The girl goes to the East, with her long hair blowing in the (Eastern) wind because she went there to learn about real socialism, but then she returns, with the Red Army, to find the man who loved her, and who she hoped would never cry or be cold.

So, to pick up the thread of the narrative, we take the remains of the dinner to the gardens, the day after the cantata. Back at the base (Ischia Ponte), we end the day with a fish dinner, a huge snapper 'all'acqua pazza', this time citing and remembering episodes such as football matches or the falling in love of these and those.