A message from the Present

9/22 - 5:30 PM Italy time

Friends, just when I started to catch up, I now believe I will have to fall behind again. As it turns out, Lorella (see blogs below for backstory) has found me a place in which to celebrate the grape harvest. Thank you Lorella!!!

I will be in Castiglione in Teverina for the next 5-10 days, living the farmer's life with Ludovico and his family. If they have internet, I will keep updating the blog. If not, there will be a silence, and I will do my best to write all the days' accounts so that I can explode with a flurry of blog posts on my return. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy these last blog posts: they relate some of my favorite memories so far.

This will probably be hard work, but has been one of my dreams within my bigger dream (which so far is going swimmingly well, I might add!), so I hope you will root for me to have a great time and learn a lot about picking grapes, making wine, and working on a farm.

Wish me luck!

Pat (from Viterbo, 80 km North of Rome)

Chianti, Siena, and a wonderful coincidence

9/10 - San Gimignano to Trasqua, near Castellina in Chianti - 17.46 miles
9/11 - Trasqua to Siena - 9.92
9/12 - Siena - Rest!

The walk to Trasqua, a villa in the middle of nowhere, took me through parts of Tuscany that were relatively undiscovered by tourists. The Colle di Val d’Elsa were quite charming, but were ringed by some industrial sections and busy roads, so I guess they had barely missed out on being a tourist destination themselves. I sat on a large platform with a view of the town below for my lunch, next to an elevator that seemed to be a vital component of the city’s pedestrian traffic. I was tempted to take it, but held back the urge, stumbling down the steep ramp-stairs that had been the primary path up and down the hill for centuries.

By far the most memorable stretch of this walk was the final part, a seemingly endless dirt path up and down hills, with no signs except the signs restricting hunting, which were everywhere. I was about to lose hope, and started scoping out places to pitch my tent, when I saw a lone man walking toward me. I asked him if there was a campsite ahead, and to my relief, he told me it was 200 meters ahead.

The campsite was so remote, I have no idea how anybody would decide to go to it, but on my arrival, saw that it was almost full. Then I found out from the lady that we were in the middle of the Chianti region, and that Trasqua was a vineyard and villa, and it made more sense.

After setting up my tent, I headed to the restaurant in the campground and ate very well, with the typical super-thick spaghetti, called Pici, and a chocolate pear cake that was out of this world. I made friends with the waitress, a pistol from Campania named Pasqualina, and promised to come visit when I reached that area. I had a shot of limoncello on the house, and hit the sack. Tomorrow was going to be a big day, as I was nearing Siena.

Just before bed, I text messaged the girls, telling them where I was going, and asking them to grab my student ID at the internet café in Volterra, should they still be there. Shot in the dark, I thought, but I figured I had nothing to lose.

Trasqua to Siena – a short walk

Leaving Trasqua on my way to Siena, I realized how so many people had made it to this remote campsite. Going the other way, the walk to a large road was short, and the onramp to the freeway just a bit further. However, this walk was really precious for me, as it took me right in the midst of several large vineyards before dumping me onto the road leading into Chianti. I was walking out of Chianti, but was glad to have had the opportunity to see at least a little corner of this world-famous region.

I was on the outskirts of Siena before I knew it, and seeing that I had a luxury of time, stopped to fill up my water bag in a small town called Uopini. There I saw a bar that was just screaming for me to enter. I think it was the advertisement for porchetta (which we all know I like… a lot) as well as the sign saying “sala interna” (indoor seating) with a drawing of an x-ray of a pregnant belly with the silhouette of a baby drinking a beer, that tipped the scales for me.

I had a porchetta sandwich (hold everything but porchetta, please) and a lunchtime beer, which is a rarity, as friends don’t let friends drink and walk. Still, I only had a short way to go (that’s what they all say!), so I savored it as rare treat.

There were only a few more miles separating me from one of my favorites cities in all of Italy, and I was excited to reach the outer walls of the town. I found it much larger than I had remembered, attributing this notion to the fact that I had by now passed through so many tiny villages along the way. When I first saw the view of the historic center from across a valley, I sat for a while taking it all in, recalling happy memories of my previous visits, including one during the famous Palio, a horse race around the main piazza of the town.

A quick word or two seems fitting for Siena’s famous Palio, as this is a delectable little tradition that has continued for hundreds of years. The town is separated into seventeen contrade (singular: contrada), neighborhoods with their own banners, churches, colors, symbols, meeting places, and rich histories. Each contrada has a proud tradition, and represents a horse in the Palio, which occurs twice a year, amid great pomp and revelry. The race is a lightning-quick affair, lasting a minute or so as the horses gallop three times around the Campo. Preceded by hours of sweaty, cramped expectation in the middle of the Campo, the race is followed by a great celebration and days-long partying in the victorious contrada, and deep and heartfelt despair, lamentation, and suggestions of cheating and race-fixing in all the other contrade. There are many other aspects to this unique event, but I am not so knowledgeable as to be able to recount them, and rather than plagiarize from the web, I provide the Wikipedia link for those interested.

Hoping to find a room with the church in the historic center, I made the call, and found it to be very expensive. When calls to the four cheapest hotels in town did not bear any fruit either, I settled for the hostel, which was a bus ride away from the center. As I was eager to take my backpack off and explore the town in peace, I made my way there immediately.

Fifteen minutes on the bus later, I hopped off in front of the hostel, accompanied by five or six other backpack-clad travelers, and got in line. At that very moment of my arrival, who should I see but Franziska and Julia, who were walking toward the door. We were very excited to see one another, and celebrated the happy coincidence of our reunion. As I still had to check in, I agreed to meet them outside, where they were waiting for their clothes to dry, and once I had my room, set to do some washing of my own, using the sink and hanging the clothes to dry.

I then found the girls below, and after waiting for their clothes to dry, we headed into the center of town together. Since it was around dinnertime, we wasted little time in finding a place to eat. As luck would have it, one of the contrade was hosting a huge dinner in a piazzetta for all their residents, and approaching the delicious aromas of roasted meat, we decided to eat there ourselves.

We feasted on sausage, pork steaks, cheese, chickpeas, wine in unmarked bottles (the best kind. Each bottle tasted different!), and I even initiated the girls into the mystical cult of porchetta. By far the best part of this experience, however, was sharing the company of these two girls, with whom I enjoyed the serendipitous coincidence of meeting once again. We passed a wonderful evening together, certainly one of the best of my trip so far, and one that I will always remember fondly.

A day of Lounging in Siena

After eight days of walking 130 miles, I deserved a rest, and was thrilled to spend it with Franka and Julchen in this beloved little city. The three of us had a “traveler’s day,” short on sightseeing but wonderfully full of wandering, exploring, lounging, and laughter. We got off the beaten path, meandered into a psychological hospital with nicely maintained grounds and a good view, marveled at the giant thunderstorm that came from nowhere and even brought hail, and milled around the Campo telling stories and teaching each other German and Italian. Finally, to wrap our day in true traveler fashion, we picked up dinner at the supermarket, and feasted on a table at the hostel. Perfect!

OK, I won’t beat around the bush any longer: I had myself a little romance, in one of the most romantic cities of one of the most romantic regions in one of the most romantic countries. But that’s all your hear from me: what sort of a gentleman would I be if I were to kiss and tell, after all?

A glorious day

9/9 – Volterra to San Gimignano – 18.43 miles walked

I was greatly satisfied with my accommodations at the seminary, and after a delicious and abundant breakfast, decided that I should try to find my way into religious houses more often. To this end, I asked for the list, which turned out to be a thick book, and wrote down every religious house in the province of Siena, where I was headed. Having completed this time-consuming but useful activity, I was allowed one more piece on the piano, and having thanked the staff, walked out of the seminary.

“Leaving so soon?” I froze in my tracks: it was the girl from yesterday! Quickly regaining my composure, I told her I had to keep walking, and then described my trip a bit. I found out that she and her friend were from Berlin, on a three-week backpacking vacation in Italy, and we talked a bit about her experience so far. When I told her I was walking to San Gimignano, she said that she and her friend were planning on renting a motorcycle to go there as well. Telling her to wave hi if she saw me along the way, I turned to leave, and immediately regretted having neglected to ask for her email or some other contact info, only catching her name, Franziska. Feeling it would be pathetic to turn around now, I kicked myself for another missed opportunity, and figured that if it was meant for me to see her again, I would see her and her friend on the road, and make sure to get it then.

This was already turning out to be a great day: had a large breakfast, played some piano, talked to a cute girl, and now I had managed to get a free piece of pizza from the bread lady, simply because I asked for directions and made the human contact. I love this country and its people, and no, it’s not just because they give me things for free! I make a couple more stops, at the fruit store and at the market for some salami, and head back down the hill toward San Gimignano.

I had not gone very far when, all of a sudden, there were two girls riding tandem on a motorcycle, flagging me down. My heart leapt at the sight, and I crossed the road to meet them as they parked. We had a good chat, lasting about a half hour, as they questioned me further on my trip and the motivation for it, and we shared our experiences in Italy. This time I did not fail to get the contact info for both of them. Before they left, Franziska and Julia offered me some sweets, and I childishly accepted with a stupid grin on my face. They fished them out from under the seat of the moto, and I accepted them gratefully. Stowing them in my pack, I said “I wish I could give you something in return.” “You already have,” replied Julia, without hesitation, and it will forever stay in my head as one of the most meaningful and humbling compliments I have so far received on my journey.

Making a few jokes about the time it would take each of us to reach the same destination, I wished them a safe journey and saw them whiz off around a corner. Now it was me and the road again, and lots and lots of hills, up and down, for a few miles.

When I saw the place where the bread lady had told me to turn, I did as she instructed, silencing my GPS, which indignantly beeped (I’ve never met a machine so bitter and indignant as a GPS whose advice is not being followed). This road had ample shade and millions of blackberries, so I figured that I must not have made the wrong decision. Still, doubt gnawed on my soul, and thirst parched my throat, as I had run out of water, so when I saw an Agriturismo, I entered to ask for some water and directions. The owner was kind and friendly, offering me bottled watered (ooh la la), and gave me the local’s directions on cutting through the forest to San G.

After making the right turn onto the estate of Castelvecchio, I had my lunch in the forest, sitting on the ground along with the various insects, to whom I have grown quite accustomed. To illustrate: as I held a tomato in my hand, ready to take the second bite, a bee came to check it out. I held the tomato still for him, and he spent a good fifteen seconds checking it out. After he left, I took another bite, but he came back with three of his buddies. Now I had four bees crawling on my hand, and not for a moment was I frightened or skittish. Instead, I placed the tomato, half-eaten, on the ground, left as an offering to the bees. Besides, I had another tomato, and I imagined how interesting that honey would taste, with hints of tomato. Besides bees, I always have a variety of flies ants, and spiders close by, eager to explore this invader who has so unceremoniously sat upon their home. Okay, okay, I’ll stop here, lest you begin to fancy that I’ve lost my mind altogether.

My forest eaten and enjoyed, I continued down the gravel road, and here we come upon the Castelvecchio forest story which I recounted earlier, on 9/10. Since I was drunk with joy while recounting it last time, I will not spoil it by adding anything here, except that the thought crossed my mind that I would miss the girls on their return trip, and had probably seen the last of them. Oh well, I thought: gotta move on.

I was worn out from my forest trek, as well as the steep uphill walk to San Gimignano, by the time I arrived at 7:30. The reward had been the magnificent views of that little town with its many towers, but I could not sleep on that reward, so I had to find a place to sleep.

Availing myself of my newfound information, I headed for the convent. No amount of begging and puppy dog faces could get me in the gate, as they were obstinately full, but they sent me to the “Agostini” monks, who told me they hadn’t rented rooms for 13 years. So much for my research this morning, I thought. Still, the monk on the intercom sent me to a restaurant which rented rooms. The restaurant only had a, guess what, matrimonial suite, so he sent me on to a lady down the street, who might or might not have a room to rent. With darkness rapidly falling, I rang the intercom: “do you have a single room?” “Yes.” I asked how much, and finding it was 5€ more than what I had seconds earlier set for myself as a limit, I took it anyways. No way was I going to walk a mile and a half back down the hill in the dark to sleep in my tent on account of 5€.

With the last bit of energy, I walk up three flights of stairs, only to find out that the available room is across the street. So, 5^th time was a charm, and I got a nice old widow as my hostess to boot. Since she had a burn on her hand, I even got to play nurse with my first aid kit, then went down to grab a pizza to go, ate it in the dining room, read and fell asleep fully clothed and with the light on. It had been a long, but glorious, day.

The longest walk yet

9/8 Peccioli to Volterra – 19.44

Lorella’s husband dropped her off at the Agriturismo, and we were soon pounding the pavement with our trekking poles. I heard a bit about Lorella’s past, her family, her decision to take up walking, and a bit about the region and its history. As this was the first time I had walked with someone since my first day walking, it was good to have some company, share technique, exchange philosophies, and just chatter a bit.

Lorella and I walked a good six miles together, about two hours, and then she turned back home, as Monday was her one day each week to spend with her family. She left me on a breathtakingly sparse stretch of road, away from the din of cars, in the midst of large expanses of farmland; as a parting gift, she gave me her own rubber tips for my poles, since mine were worn through. She’s just that kind of person, you see.

Having once again proven the fact that there is no such thing as a mean-spirited walker/hiker, I walked down a road bursting with blackberries on both sides. Foraging as I walked, I soon met the grand character Fausto, from Castelfiorentino, who with his wife was gathering blackberries by the kilo. We chatted for a while, he told me to look him up should I head to Castelfiorentino (they all know me there, he said, and I believed him!), and I smiled as I walked away at this chance encounter in the Tuscan countryside.

This piece of my walk was like a trip to Mars, as I walked past acres of barren land, with the soil turned over after the wheat harvest. Once again I was strongly reminded of Giorgio di Chirico, that pioneer surrealist, and promised to give him a closer look when I was back to unlimited internet time. From what I have seen, he really nailed the mid-to-late summer stillness of rural Italy, with deep blue skies and mile-long shadows.

Fumbling in my pocket to take another picture, I heard a jingle jangle, and suddenly it hit me that I had carried away the keys to my room at the Agriturismo. Feeling horrible, I availed myself, and not for the last time, of Lorella’s assistance. Undaunted by my predicament, she directed me toward another Agriturismo she knew along my path, and soon I reached it, but found it closed. However, a young man in a tractor was watching over the land while the owners took a quick vacation, and was happy to take the keys, and even let me use the hose to refill my water sack. Samuele, who had also been to many of the places on my walk and had recently bought a little piece of land with his wife, showed me around, and obligingly taught me a bit about grain, and the differences between types. We talked farming for a while, increasing my desire to work on a farm at least a little here in Italy, and soon my break was over: time to move on.

The walk up the hill to Volterra was long and difficult, as the town rises like a “punishing fist of stone” (Fausto’s words, poetic and prophetic) from the countryside. I powered through, utilizing my handy trick, the one I use when I need just a little respite from the weight of my backpack. This trick works in the following way: I put both trekking poles in one hand, swing them under my pack, and with the top of the handle supporting one side, and the bottom of the handle supporting the other, I gently lift the poles so that they take the weight off my shoulders. Of course, this just redistributes the 40+ pounds to a different muscle group, but psychologically it provides a brief but vital rest for my tired shoulders. Anyways, that’s my trekking pole trick, and I’m surprised I haven’t talked it before, since I use it at least once a day. So, using the trekking pole trick, I made straight for the hostel with my last bit of strength, only to find it closed. The campground was a mile and a half back where I had just come from, so I retraced my steps.

On the way, however, I saw out of the corner of my eye the announcement for a newly opened hostel. As it was a real estate office window, I asked the agent standing in the doorway about it, and we fumbled together to find it on my GPS. 10 minutes into our search, she suddenly said “you know, it’s pretty far away, and there’s a seminary right down the road where a lot of young people go. I heard it’s really well priced, too.” Twitching with every muscle of my face as I stifled the overwhelming urge to spew sarcasm from every orifice (gee whiz, ma'am, thanks for wasting my time. How about you wear the backpack next time we do this?), I politely thanked her, and walked to the seminary. After having walked my longest day ever the day before, I topped it just one day later, by a half mile.

The man in the seminary was certainly a character, and made me walk all over the place as he took care of all sorts of business before showing me to my room. As he showed me the Luca della Robbia terracotta from the 15^th century, he said “your Christopher Columbus wasn’t even born yet when he created this, ha!” What could I say?

I asked him about a piano, and he said “strange request, but I like it.” He promised me fifteen minutes, heard me play for four, told me with a big smile on his face that he had just seen me reach ecstasy, and then slammed the keyboard shot on my hands: now we were ready to go to my room.

Not quite: we were stopped one last time by two girls about my age, and I saw him put on another show. “Is there any way I can be of service to you ladies?” They struggled to ask him something in Italian, but getting nowhere, switched to English. Since he spoke no English, I immediately switched into translator mode, brimming with pride all the while. “Where could we find a good place to watch the sunset?” “Sit over there, and face West.” Laughing on the inside at his answer, I translated for the girls, who resigned themselves to this unsatisfactory response to their question.

I was struck by the beauty of these girls, and one of them in particular, but I was in a seminary, after all, so I had to behave myself. Finally shown to my room, I stared dumbstruck at my fabulous view, and smiled as I fondly remembered Silvia, the doctor and mother of Anna. She had given me a useful tip, which was now proving quite true: “if you can, stay in religious lodgings, as they are usually cheaper than the rest and occupy the best pieces of land.” Wise words from a wise woman.

Like the recapitulation of a classical period piano sonata, the rest of my night was pretty formulaic and expected, and needs no detailed analysis or interpretation: dinner, gelato, sleep.

Porchetta, the Arno, and Peccioli

9/7 – Buti to Peccioli – 18.94

September 7th was a Sunday, and as such, the majority of my walk was lonely, through what felt like a ghost town. Particularly striking was a long straight road, featuring billiard table showrooms, motorcycle part factories, and large birch tree farms, all completely devoid of human life. I pushed past this row of commercial-industrial establishments, smiling to myself at how this area, very much in the middle of Tuscany, would be the last place a visitor would expect to see. Now that I think back on it, I find it rather exhilarating, but in the moment I must admit that it was a bit dreary.

Porchetta

Then I saw the van, much like the ones used to serve lunch at construction sites. He sign advertised “porchetta,” which I immediately knew to be some sort of pig product, and therefore of intense interest to me. I approached the van, and there it was, a roasted pig sitting on the counter above the glass display case, shimmering in its porcine glory.

I asked the friendly lady for a porchetta sandwich, and commented on the ghost town I had just passed through. She was obviously curious to see a traveler in those parts, and asked me what the story was. I told her, and saw her heart melt in front of me. “Whatever you do,” she said, with feeling, “remember to call your mother, because she must be sick with worry.” “I do,” I said, “every few days. She is worried sick, though, no matter what I tell her.” “That’s what mothers are for,” she nodded, and told me about her own children and their travels. She then gave me the sandwich at a discount, and made sure that I realized it was a good one. I thanked her profusely and took a seat to enjoy my slice of heaven.

Sandwich, you think. With the usual fixins: bread, pork, tomatoes, lettuce, onions, two kinds of cheese, avocadoes, sun dried tomatoes, sesame seeds, roasted pepper, hummus, tabouleh, sauerkraut, mustard, kalamata olive tapenade, sal-peppa-ketcha (UPenn alums will understand that one), and a ginormous pickle on the side. Wrong! We’re talkin’ bread and pork, period. When you see a sandwich here, and it says speck and brie, or mozzarella and tomato, don’t open it to see if they added too much mayo. You got what you asked for, and that’s it, basta! So it was with my porchetta sandwich; she sliced off heaping chunks of pork from the dead, seasoned carcass, stuffed a piece of bread with the glistening morsels, not forgetting to throw in some glazed and salted skin, and voila! Man, I wish I could have taken a picture of that pig and the lady, but alas, it was not the time or the place for such frivolity. I only got a picture of the sandwich, and as I took it in a hurry, it came out pretty blurry. So you’ll just have to use your imagination and picture the Italian version of Lunchlady Doris heaping on an extra portion for this out-of-place walker. Now, if you don’t like pork, I probably just made you vomit your lentil-paprika-eggplant-shitake sandwich with baba ghanoush-tzatziki-sriarcha sauce. However, if you’re like me, and would choose pig as the only animal you’d eat from now on should you have to choose (Mel, I know you’re with me on this), then this was the ultimate reward for a desolate stretch of road.

Passing the Arno, Tuscan countryside

Thanking Lunchlady Giuseppina (I’ve forgotten her real name, but that was the flavor of it, anyways), and replying once again that I would call my Mother frequently, I continued to Pontedera, crossing the famous Arno on the way. This river (pictured) happens to pass through both Firenze and Pisa, and I had for one second a pang of regret for having skipped both. Then I thought better of it, felt glad to see this river at a spot very few others would ever see, and kept on walking.

Past Pontedera, I began to see large expanses of sunflowers, dead and drying in the sun (and can't find the picture of it to share with you, oops). I was a little bummed that I missed the dazzling spectacle of thousands of sunflowers in full bloom, but remembered that starting earlier would have meant missing the wildflower explosion I witnessed in Valle D’Aosta. Nothing could beat that.

Still, there is a certain consulting company to which I had previously applied that features a photo with thousands of sunflowers and one head and shoulders above the rest. I would have loved to take a picture in the middle of one of those sunflower fields, standing head and shoulders above the flowers, and then send it, along with my resume, to that consulting firm. I can picture the look on their faces now as they open that jpeg, and the moment of realization hits them. It was not to be, unfortunately, though I did have a good healthy giggle about it.

A long, tedious stretch later, I was finally within view of my resting point for the day, Peccioli. I took advantage of the conveniently placed gazebo to LIE (not lay, can’t fool this old dog, not again) down for an hour or so, and was soon ready to tackle the last stretch of hill.

Peccioli

I arrived just as the bells started to chime, at 6:00 PM, and was immediately taken with this charming little town. A coffee at the local bar bought me the whereabouts of a hotel and an Agriturismo. A quick call to the hotel ruled it out as a viable option, and I quickly made my way to the Agriturismo, eager to reach it after a long day’s hike. I walked down where they had told me to walk, but when I had walked a good half-mile, I turned around to make sure I was not walking down the wrong road. A talk with the local old men, by now undisputed in their position as best information givers, convinced me that I had not gone for enough, so I headed back down, admittedly frustrated.

I took a turn down a dirt road, feeling that this was surely it, and walked another quarter mile, ending up on a farm which was clearly not what I wanted. Then the rain started to pour hard and fast as the surprised farmer explained the correct path. I helped him unload his truck, seeing that he needed a hand in this sudden storm, and turned back up the dirt hill, now thoroughly wet.

Around a bend about 75 feet from where I had stopped in the first place, I now saw the clear indications for the Agriturismo. I had just finished my longest walk of the trip, 18.94 miles, without counting that last stretch. The Agriturismo was expensive, as they only had a matrimonial suite (heard that one before) but I was now thoroughly out of options.

It was now dinnertime, so back up the hill I went to town, and landed at a pizzeria/dessert store/wine bar. I had a calzone, my first of the trip and a bit out of place for the region, but absolutely delicious all the same. When I had eaten my fill of the calzone, salad, and delicious house red wine, I sat and people-watched a bit.

As the waitress gathered my plates, she suddenly asked, apropos of nothing “are you a walker?” I was not wearing my “please ask me about my walk across Italy t-shirt,” since it was dirty at the time, so I was quite taken aback that she had guessed so accurately. I asked her if she saw me on the road somewhere, but she hadn’t. As I found out, Lorella was the owner of the restaurant, and an avid walker. She had caught on early to the “Nordic Walking” craze, which uses trekking poles and a specific walking rhythm and posture.

Within seconds Lorella and I were in full, excited conversation, sharing stories and laughing about the coincidence. She shared with me her recently-finished book, a journey through cypress-lined paths in Tuscany, linked with her life experiences, philosophy, and Nordic walking. I thought this sounded like an excellent idea for a book, and was impressed by her presentation, as well as her inside knowledge of the area, which after all was her home base.

By now, the restaurant was completely closed, but I sat around with Lorella, her mother, husband, and two of her girlfriends for quite some time, laughing about coincidences and feeling, for the thousandth time, extremely fortunate. Lorella vowed to help make my walking experience a fruitful and unforgettable one, and I believed that she would; it was clear that once she made up her mind to help, this lady meant it. I love this kind of person, one who sticks by their word and is tireless in their desire to help others. May I be the same way all my life…

Having agreed to walk together tomorrow morning for part of the walk to Volterra, she insisted on offering the fabulous dinner free of charge, and we parted friends.

Lucca to Buti - A day like any other

9/6 Lucca to Buti - 16.88 miles walked

So much did I like these walls, in fact, that I decided to walk around the entire perimeter before setting out. This would be a great thing to do at eight in the morning, or perhaps during an evening devoted entirely to this leisurely pursuit. But I am a hopelessly late sleeper, and was eager to take a big bite out of Tuscany, so I started 11 AM, planning to walk the walls and then continue without pause on my walk South.

It was a little over two miles around the perimeter, which might sound very small to you, but to me meant a good forty minutes. On the bright side, I saw a lot of Lucca that I had not seen the day before, including this tower with trees growing on it (look, a tower with trees on it, Vernita! NOW I'VE SEEN EVERYTHING!!!!!!), and came away once more with a favorable impression. Feeling glad to have skipped Pisa for this, I purchased three gigantic peaches, ate two on the spot, and left that medieval wonderland.

What to recall about the walk to Buti? Well, the beginning of the Tuscan countryside, at least how I had already imagined it. Little one-street towns with very little movement. An earth-shattering and soul-draining lack of public water fountains, something upon which I had come to rely very heavily. This marked the first time I had to go to a bar to buy water, a half-liter that I greedily drank in one gulp before filling up my trusty water sack in the bathroom.

Nothing else really sticks out about this day. When I got to Buti, I asked at a bar about where to sleep, grabbing a small "courtesy" beer in the process (it's rude, of course, to ask information at a bar without buying anything). The locals told me about a restaurant with some rooms to rent, and liking what I heard, I made my way there.

The restaurant only had matrimonial suites, which, though I could hardly have known at the time, would be a common response to my inquiries for lodging in Tuscany. I negotiated a good deal, dinner included, and promised to make a minimal mess. After washing my clothes in the shower, all the while making a minimal mess (no, really, I was respectful, I promise), I headed down for a splendid dinner, which I can still taste now: ravioli stuffed with cheese and figs in a saffron cream sauce, followed by pizza topped with fresh porcini mushrooms (welcome to mushroom season, Pat!), washed down with the obligatory half-liter of home-grown red. After a dessert and coffee (here coffee = espresso, unless you specify differently. I will treat the word from now on in the same manner), I slept like a prince in my king sized matrimonial bed, while my clothes dried on the windowsill.

No special message, no deep insight, just another day in paradise, picking my way randomly across Italy. Goodnight!

Camaiore to Lucca, the walled city of music

9/5 - Camaiore to Lucca - 16.09 Miles walked

The result of my grand tour along the Tuscan coastline with Efisio was that I was now a day's walk from where I had stopped the evening before. I caught the local bus next to my campsite, which took me back to Lido di Camaiore, and then I had to catch another bus to head up to Camaiore proper, a good 20-25 minutes. Oh, just an interesting little side note: a very common Italian name for the bus, especially a regional bus, is Pullman (pronounced pool-mahn), after George Pullman, a Chicago industrialist famous for inventing the Pullman Sleeping Car. Check out the wikipedia article (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/George_Pullman), if the fancy strikes you. I've always found this to be a very fascinating example of American names infiltrating the Italian language.

Anyways, I'm glad to get out that little tangent, which has been taking up space in my mind for a couple months now. As I was saying, I now had to catch a Pullman, and found out at the ticket booth that I had just missed it by about three minutes. The next one was in thirty minutes, which was a problem, as I was already late to start my walk. I shuffled over to the bus stop, grumbling a bit about my bad timing, when here came the bus (can't bear to keep calling it a Pullman) I had supposedly missed. How could I have forgotten that the Italian clock is at least five minutes late at all times? I chuckled to myself, told the bus driver it was a good thing he was late, got a rise out of two old ladies, and took my seat.

Before I could get too comfy, I was dumped off at the stop, and started on the road to Lucca. It was on this piece of walk that I started to realize with great satisfaction that Tuscany was absolutely covered with forests. I saw some great stretches along the hills east of Pisa, and once I had gone up and over a big hill, it was time for a break. Here, lying on a stone wall with a view of a few rows of vines, I had my lunch, stretched, and took a short nap. I loved this little village, especially for the voices which came from a house down the street: a grandfather caring for his little grandson, and teaching him life's little lessons. I don't even think there was a single shop here, just a few houses, and I didn't dare to explore further. Leave them alone, Pat, appreciate from afar the precious, fleeting nature of this place.

So saying, and making a conscious effort to forget the name of the town, lest it become, heaven forbid, another Vernazza, I pressed on.

Sooner or later, I finally reached Lucca, the walled city, and saw that it was indeed well-maintained. I hadn't known how to interpret everybody's assertions that one could walk on the walls, and at once saw that it was even greater I had imagined it would be. The width of the walls was enough to accommodate a truck, let alone walkers and bikers, and I was impressed that they had stayed intact over all this time.

Availing myself of this novel species of road, I made a beeline for the hostel, so that I could further explore this city without the added weight of my pack. When I arrived, I found that the hostel was fully booked, but just my luck, the lady agreed to give me a couch, at least, and first dibs in case of a no-show. I barely even heard her, so eager was I to relieve myself of my burden, and after stashing it in the baggage deposit room, I went for (another) walk.

My feet hurt and I was really tired, but I really liked it here and wanted to see what it had to offer. I had heard about free evening classical music concerts from the tourist info center, so I made my way straight to the appointed spot, and was rewarded for my effort with the final piece of a harp concert. Informing myself about the next concert, which promised to be a knockout, I took a much-needed seat at the piazza Napoleone and rested a bit.

It could not be for long, however, as I had to settle my lodging situation, change into my evening concert dress (whatever shall I wear?), eat dinner, and make it back for the concert. I accomplished all of this quickly, and was even fifteen minutes early to the concert. Glad I was, too, for unlike the bus this morning, the hall was already packed, and I arrived just before the rush. Instead of standing room only, which after my walk would be a certifiable form of torture, I got a seat with a great view of the piano's keyboard.

With the elderly society lady next to me fanning herself enough for the both of us, I settled down to an excellent concert, consisting of the following pieces (for the music lovers):

Beethoven Violin-Piano Sonata No. 8
Schubert Introduction and Variations on "Troncke Blumen " Op. 160 for flute and piano
Beethoven Seven Variations on "Bei Mannern" WoO 46 for cello and piano
Mozart Piano Sonata KV 330
Encore pieces - Prokofiev Gavotte and Debussy (?)

What a delightful chamber music selection, and what a beautiful chamber in which to hear it!

After the show, I helped myself to hors d'oeuvres, including chocolate covered strawberries, drank a few glasses of prosecco, and decided there and then that I really liked Lucca. Judging from the packed crowd at the concert, music was highly valued here, something of great importance for me. Furthermore, though by no means undiscovered, most people foolishly chose Pisa instead of Lucca, so it was not completely overrun, at least while I was there. Finally, who could not love these walls, which have successfully repelled skyscrapers, planned communities, and strip malls? Built to keep out raiding parties of barbarians so many centuries ago, couldn't it be said that these walls still successfully served the same purpose, defending culture, tradition, and history from the barbarism of modern construction? Now, I don't want to offend anyone here: new construction has its place, and I have enjoyed the fruits of new construction all of my life. But oh how refreshing to have been able, just for one day, to feel so safely insulated from all that is new.

Buster and Efisio

9/4 – Massa to Pietra Santa to Camaiore, with an unexpected stop in Viareggio
15.98 miles walked

Pietrasanta

I am happy to report that the pain went away by morning, and that, as of now, has not returned. A bit sad to leave, but ready to make some distance, I headed South toward Pietrasanta. This little town, like Sarzana a few days before, was very charming, and had the appearance of having prospered over the previous centuries. This was the city from which Michelangelo obtained a lot of marble, including the large block from which he carved his famous Pieta. These days, the famous artist seemed to be Botero, of chubby-figured fame, whose art peppered the city. Once more biting my lip in regret for not being able to devote an entire day to this little gem, I continued on, and was soon back on the main road, dotted with marble factories.


Instead of heading down the Tuscan coast, which I hear is beautiful, I made the decision to head inland, so I could reach Lucca, and from there head down into the heart of Tuscany. This required a left turn into the mountains toward Camaiore, which seemed like the perfect stopping point non the way to Lucca. I asked the local fountain of knowledge, a group of old men drinking an early afternoon glass of wine, and they gave me the secret road, away from the highway. Thanking them, I took that important left turn, and started walking up the hill.

Buster

The other story that sticks out in my mind during this day was my acquaintance and friendship with a certain Buster, as I called the black neighborhood dog. I think he must have escaped from home, because he was happy-go-luckily roaming around the street. When he saw me, he barked once, then came over for a sniff. I showed him I was one of the good guys, gave him a good scratch, and soon had myself a very entertaining road companion.
I checked the collar for any ID, as it was not the best idea to have a dog roaming a windy, hilly road, but could not find any address or number. Without knowing what to do, I kept walking, but it was soon clear that I had gained a companion, liked it or not. He would trot fifty yards ahead, sniff around, look back to make sure I was coming, wait for me to reach him, then trot off again. When I chanced to pass him, he would wait a while to make it seem like he wasn’t following me, but soon he would be at my side again. I loved how concerned he was with showing me that he was an independent, thoroughly modern canine, but how he broke down every time and kept following me. He was trying so hard to show me how cool he was, but trying even harder to show me that he didn't care what I thought about him. I have a 30 second video of this, and wish I could paste it on here to show you guys, because it's a real gem.

As you can tell, this was a real thrill for me, and I even pictured the two of us walking the rest of Italy together, having all sorts of crazy adventures and getting into trouble. “OH BUSTER, you silly dog, not again!” For a moment, I actually contemplated taking on a dog. Then I came to my senses, realized that it would be impossible to properly care of dog, who probably had a home and owners looking for him. Already scared out of my wits as I saw him narrowly avoid death by car, I started asking people about him, to see if they recognized him as a neighborhood dog. Nobody did, and even looked at me distrustfully, expecting some sort of scam.

When I reached Camaiore, I decided I would have to sternly send him away, and made it clear he was not welcome. This was really difficult, but I figured it would be a lot more difficult to part after a few days of companionship. Then I pictured an Old Yeller type scene, or holding him in my arms as he painfully died from a car accident (which was bound to happen), and decided he had to go immediately. One day I will have my first dog, and it will be one of the happier phases of my life, but now is not that time. Sorry, dog lovers.

Efisio the Sardinian

Still thinking of my ol’ pal Buster as I entered Camaiore, I was quickly accosted by a man in his late 40s. “You a pilgrim?” “Well, a sort of pilgrim.” “On the Via Francigena?” “Well, parts of it.” “So you choose what you want, eh? Sounds good. My name’s Efisio, I’m the guy that spray painted all those yelllow indicators for the Via Francigena.” And so I made a new friend, just like that. He told me that Camaiore was a hotel wasteland, a fact that I had suspected, but since I had just entered, did not know for sure.

We went to the only hotel around, one he had just left, having negotiated a discount for pilgrims. It was too pricey for me, even with the discount, so he motioned for me to get into his car, and helped me take off my backpack. He told me he would take me to Lido di Camaiore, the beach town portion of Camaiore, back down the hill.

Don’t get into the car, Pat! He’ll rob you and leave you penniless on the freeway, laughing to his friends about how he duped another pilgrim! I can hear you all screaming even now. But this is my crazy trip, damn it, and I smelled a good soul, and from the hotel had seen that his story checked out. He really wanted to help, so with his country-bumpkin brother-in-law from down south with the bad teeth but a joyous smile, we made our way to Lido di Camaiore, to another hotel he knew.

This hotel was full, so he drove me to the tourist office to get information about campsites or other hotels. Next he drove me to a campground in Lido di Camaiore, which turned out to be closed. Rather than just leave me on my own, he then drove me another 15 minutes to Viarregio, the neighboring beach town, where there was another campsite. Finally, after going an hour out of his way, he left me at the campground, and we even hugged as we parted, exchanging contact information. This guy, who loved walkers even though he himself had done very little of the path (though he did walk the Santiago di Compostela path in Spain, he was endearingly proud to point out), drove me all over the province in an attempt to help me out. That’s just how it is sometimes with the people that I meet. I continue to be astonished and refreshed by the selfless generosity of others. So should I have gotten into the car? Maybe not. But how else would I have found an affordable campsite, learned a bit about the sorry state of the Via Francigena’s direction markers, and met a purely good man who just wanted to help out a pilgrim? The answer is simple: I wouldn’t have.

Because I feel guilty...

I am really trying to get caught up here, everyone. I hope to find another internet cafe in the next few days and transfer all this writing to blog posts, but in the meantime, amidst the imagined din of fists banging on the table, here are some photos of Toscana. I had planned to do the whole region's photos in one big post, but maybe this is better, after all, since there are so many photos.

If you are patient, you can wait until I have written about these places, and so enjoy the photos that much more. If not, look away, as they are a feast for the eyes even without a back story. If you are really committed, you can look now, read the posts when they appear, and then look again.

Anyways, do take a look, as it does not get much more beautiful than what you'll see here. Enjoy, and smile for me!

With love,
Pat

Sarzana to Massa-Carrara to Pietrasanta
Camaiore to Buti to Peccioli
Volterra and San Gimignano
Trasqua, in Chianti, to Siena, via Colle di Val d'Elsa

Massa-Carrara, and a day off for an injured foot

9/1, 9/2 - Sarzana to Massa, via Carrara -
17.72 miles walked

I woke up ready to explode off the starting point, which happened to be a little patch of gravel. Happy to get an early start, I made my way toward the center of Sarzana. What a beautiful town! This little burg, which I had never even heard of, was not only very charming, but also seemed to have been very prosperous over the centuries. I walked through it in the same way I always do, passing through one interesting-looking street and then moving on. This time, though, I felt a pinch of regret that I could not linger longer, perhaps learn some interesting facts and see some art, and only then move on.

However, this is not that kind of trip. I could walk fourteen feet and see something that could blow my mind every day, but once I start thinking like that, it's akin to the regret one feels for not having read every book in the public library. Sure, you are missing some absolute gems, but there is only so much time in one lifetime, and you can only check out so many books at once, right?

So, marking it down on my long list of places to visit by car when I make my triumphant return, I kept moving.

Then I entered Tuscany, and soon ran into a large supermarket, where I purchased Italian toiletries. I said a meaningful and nostalgic goodbye to Alpine Force, which, after all, had been along for the ride on so many of my scent memories, and replaced it with the emasculating "delicato" deodorant. So much for that "deodorant as an extension of my current heroic condition" thing...

But wait!!! How could you have treated your grand entrance into Tuscany in such a cursory fashion? For shame! Before you start throwing the rotten produce, let me explain; my physical entry into Tuscany, the land of rolling hills, vineyards, and the heart of the Renaissance, was even less magnificent. In fact, there was no sign at all, despite my being back on the Via Aurelia, one of the main roads to Rome. Did I miss it, you say? I highly doubt it: I'm not quite speeding by, after all. So, that was my anti-climactic arrival in Tuscany, and that is what I pass on to you. Isn't that what this blog is about: vicariously experiencing Italy through Pat's eyes?

Well, whatever it is, there is no way you would vicariously want to experience the pain that shot into my right foot just about when I arrived at the supermarket. I don't know what I did, but it was bad, and the result was shooting pain all the way up my leg with every step. Still, I'm a warrior, and with the aid of what had been the final application of Alpine Force (had I been wearing "Delicato," my goose would surely have been cooked), I climbed the hill to Carrara, city of marble.
The entire area was dominated by marble. Many of the buildings had elements of marble incorporated into the structure, steps and walls and floor tiles were in various qualities of marble, and looming above the whole region, the mountains looked as if they were covered in glaciers, white from the abundance of marble they still contain after hundreds of years of mining.

I still was not sure about my lodging when I arrived at the tourist information booth, but decided that, despite the pain I was feeling, I would make it to Massa, another four or five miles down the road. First, though, I had a great info session with the girl in the booth, who had traveled extensively in the South of Tuscany and gave me some great leads for future travel destinations. She then found an affordable, homey hotel for me in Massa, and sent me on my way.

The hotel was perfect for me; very cozy, old-fashioned but well-kept, and best of all, family-run. I had an excellent dinner of home-stuffed pasta, wild boar in a tomato and olive sauce, and wine from the vines out back. Heading back to my room, I heard a hilarious discussion from my window, below which all the old neighborhood fogies had assembled. When that died down, I turned on the ol' boob tube, a very great rarity, and watched the end of Pretty Woman. Seeing that as the perfect end to a tough day, I hit the sack, hoping that my foot would feel better in the morning.

It didn't. My right foot is a fairly pivotal team player in this game I have been playing, so I decided it was best to give it a rest for one day, and get some errands done in the meantime.
Now, you may remember my six-hour internet day from a few posts ago. That was this day, and since I already went into my day's activities then, I will only treat them briefly here. Pharmacy, haircut, straight-razor clean up (my first, one of life's more satisfying experiences), T-shirt purchase, failed cellular phone plan change, and some face time with the computer screen.

After that, it was back to the hotel for another wonderful homemade dinner, and with strong hopes and an application of the magical pain relieving pomade, I went to bed early.

Back to the Present - an impromptu post on the morn of my third month

Friends,

It is 11:30 in the morning on the 10th, and it is high time I get to walking to my next destination, which, I feel very tickled to say, is currently to be determined. Anyways, I passed out yesterday around 9:45, earlier than I had intended, exhausted from a truly difficult but extremely rewarding stretch of trail, which I will describe in due time. As a result of my premature trip to the land of Nod, I was not able to go to an internet cafe here in San Gimignano until this morning, and was therefore not able to share more of my trip with you.

So, as a result, I sacrificed the relatively cool weather of the morning to come type out some blog posts for you, but after this it is definitely time to go.

The reason for this intermediate post is that I am well aware that my last point ended on a somewhat negative nellie note. Please trust me when I say that the next day's walk was much better, and that the days since have been some of my best so far. I cannot wait to write about them and share them with you!

Just to end on a high note, here's a little tale of something that happened to me yesterday. This was one episode of many that happened over the course of one day, and I normally wouldn't go into such detail, but this blog is in need of a little pick-me-up, so here goes. I wandered into a gigantic private vineyard/estate, which I had been told to cross through and then ask directions on where to go from there. I passed through row after of row of vines, as well as a few olive groves, and finally reached an old rundown barn, with a napping man outside. He pointed me further on to another house, about a kilometer down the road (and still on this immense property). Two men answered my calls from the house, which was even more abandoned, and told me to go back where I came from, as that was the way to San Gimignano.

Frustrated, I walked back to the original napper, who was now playing cards with his buddy. I told them what happened, they threw down their cards, and got up to accompany me. Now, I didn't catch their names, but I learned that they were here working on the harvest. One was from Morocco, the other from Tunisia, and they were celebrating Ramadan. They thought I was Italian for most of the walk, and I was willing to let them think so: after all, Americans aren't exactly the favorites among North African Muslims these days. However, it finally came to light that I was not Italian, and I was ready for anything when I finally told them I was half-American. Now, I must be honest here that I said "half-Brasilian" first, hoping to cushion the blows which I imagined were imminent. So what did they do when they heard I was American?

Nothing. They asked me about America, asked if it was possible to get work there, told me they didn't like Bush but liked Obama, and then we changed the subject altogether, to the subject of wild boars and the havoc they wreak, if I remember correctly. We walked a good 30 minutes together, and they led me into a forest. Now, I have to admit that the thought crossed my mind that I was miles away from any town in the middle of a dense forest with these two guys, and that there was no way I could have run away, but they were exceedingly friendly, and after all, had already walked a mile and a half with me, so I pushed any bad thoughts out and kept walking.

And that was it. They pointed me in the direction where I needed to go after pretty much walking me all the way there. After they left me, I smiled at the way that whole episode had played out, and marveled at my luck for these two guides, without whom I would never ever have found the correct path. Now you can tell me that it was not wise to do what I did, but please let me gently reply that I could never have had any idea how that situation would have played out, and that choosing to turn back would have delayed my arrival to San Gimignano by about 90 minutes, meaning that I would have arrived at 9:30, well after dark. There was no alternative, and I think that my actions in this little story are very characteristic of the attitude I have adopted for these past two months. Never say no to an experience, always smile and act with respect and kindness toward everyone you meet, and look for the best in everyone.

Anyways, here is the forest that I crossed through, which saved me a large expense of time and effort, as I would have had to go around this forest on a busy street had it not been for these two guides. If you open the picture, look behind that branch that protrudes on the right side of the picture, and you will see some of the vines. If you keep looking left, you will see the second abandoned house, and to the left of that, an olive grove. If you look down from the vines, you will see some ruins from the 12th century. This is Castelvecchio San Gimignano.

I wish all of you a pleasant day, and hope to write again in a few days, when I reach Siena, by way of Chianti (yes, out of the way, I know, but would you skip it?).

Wishing myself a happy two-month anniversary, and a happy +500 miles to (hiking) boot,
Pat

Portovenere to La Spezia to Sarzana - a dreary march away from the water

9/1 - Portovenere to La Spezia to Sarzana
17.72 miles walked

The walk from the refuge to the center of Portovenere was a short downhill affair lasting about fifteen minutes, and marked the end of many days of ups and downs along the sea. Of course, Italy is a country of hills - actually, many, many more than I had anticipated - so this was not the end of hills in general, just those stretching along that part of the Ligurian coast.

Portovenere is a beautiful little port town, with many similar features to the Cinqueterre. There are lots of beaches, a couple islands, and some dramatic architectural-historical landmarks, especially the church, which seems to thrust its way out of the rocks. I could have easily lingered here all day, but I was eager to cover some distance, and reach Tuscany by the following day. Simply put, I was ready for a change of scene.

So I covered some distance, making great time all the way to La Spezia, home of the vast and terror-inflicting Italian navy. This military stronghold was also the city where I had planned to meet Franca, Teresa's daughter, for lunch. Franca was kind enough to wait around for my arrival at 2:30, and we had a late lunch together, followed by a gelato (it's never too late, or early for that matter, for a gelato). Franca then showed me a bit of La Spezia, though it was a big city and my time was limited. Still, it was a pleasure seeing her once again and chatting some more about the rigors of work, the necessity of vacations, etc.

Actually, I probably stayed a little longer than I should have, as I still had a good eight or nine miles to my campground when I left at 5:00.

The walk, which was away from the water, was a bit somber, especially as it cut through a notably dreary portion of industrial landscape. I smiled and trudged along but was not exactly thrilled to walk next to a putrid, polluted, brackish stream of plant runoff. It is tough to go from the deep blue Mediterranean to that grey sludge in the same day, but fortunately it did not last long, and I was soon marching through increasingly charming little towns, suburbs of La Spezia.

The final piece of the walk was a long bridge over a river, and as the sun set behind me I darted as quickly as I could over the bridge and the oncoming traffic, which happened to be coming from a freeway off ramp. A couple kids on their motos cursed at me, pointing to the unoccupied sidewalk to my left, which unfortunately was blocked off by a three-foot-high barricade. No way in hell was I going to clamber over anything after seventeen miles, so I just pushed on, forcing cars to give me a wide berth by my menacing stare.

Needless to say, I was missnig comfy cozy Vernazza by the time I walked down the gravel ramp to my campsite, itself also a gravel square facing the mosquito-infested river, which was obscured by a tall fence. As I went to bed, I mused that I was getting all the smells and insects of the river without the view. Great.

The rest of the Cinqueterre, a tribute to Homer, and Portovenere

8/31 - Vernazza to Muzzerone, overlooking Portovenere
14.24 miles

The walk along the cliffs to the next three towns was picturesque, but I would not be telling the whole story if I did not admit that I was less than pleased this time around. After so many miles walked along so many different types of terrain, it was a gigantic pain in my neck (and not only from the backpack) to have to walk with so many other people. All the plastic ciaos, gra-si-ays, and smiling nods were overwhelming to the point of nausea, and I booked it through those couple of miles as quickly as possible. So sad, you say, shaking your head at my impatience and trail snobbery. Still, I maintain that there is nothing worse than a beautiful stretch of land that has been stuffed full of people to the point of resembling an amusement park. It completely ruins the majesty of the surroundings, at least for me. And that's how I feel about that.

Since I was heading toward Portovenere, I at least got to have my own respite from the maddening crowds, starting right after a walk through Riomaggiore. From there it was up the slopes to Santuario, where already the atmosphere had changed dramatically, and was once again breathable. I took a cat nap on a bench overlooking the sea, went the wrong way back toward Riomaggiore for a good mile (who's the expert hiker now, eh Pat?), then walked up a demanding trail to the crest of the mountain chain. I took this crest, largely unmolested, all the way to the cliffs overlooking Portovenere, and it was here that I finished my audio reading of the Iliad (had I mentioned that I had been listening to it since the northwest tip of Piedmont? If not, oops). As I sat looking out over the islands of Portovenere, I took a minute to reflect on the immensity and profound beauty of what is without a doubt my favorite literary work. How does this poem resonate so harmoniously with so many people after so many thousands of years? How has it survived despite being exclusively an oral tale for a large part of its existence? I silently thanked all those anonymous bards who kept the tale alive through marvelous feats of memorization, and smiting both my thighs, bade them carry me forward to the outskirts of Portovenere, to a mountain refuge overlooking the water and the islands.

As has happened a few glorious times before, I had a bunk room all to myself, and with a thud I let my backpack fall from my shoulders. The first day back from a period of rest is always tough. I went to read on the hammock, which I must admit was much less comfortable than it looked once I actually tried to lay on it, and settled down to a lavish six course seafood feast, one of my best so far. While I didn't take any photos of the dishes (sorry!), here is the rundown, for the foodies: filet of anchovies drizzled with olive oil and local herbs, steamed mussels in a vegetable broth, filet of local fish (something akin to whitefish) with salt and rosemary, bucatini with prawns, fritta di mare with fried anchovies, whole prawns, and calamari, and finally, biscotti dipped in a shot of orange liqeur. This all from two rock-climbing sailors who also had time to run the refuge and shoot the breeze with guests.

After a solid sleep, I arose early to hit the road, planning to reach the edge of Liguria by the end of the day. I said goodbye to my host, received a name to look up when I reach Calabria, and parted with a new friend. "Never caught your name," I said. "My name is Ettore" which, my dear friends, is Italian for Hector, honored among Trojans. Couldn't make it up if I tried.