The day of nearly overwhelming generosity

11/18 - Vallo della Lucania to Marina di Ascea - 18.79

Rita had laid out a magnificent table for my breakfast, with a cappuccino, three different types of home-preserved marmalade (fig, blackberry, and cherry), homemade honey, various pastries, and juice. We had a nice long talk as I feasted, and when I was done, she gave me a big jar of honey, an apple, a banana, and an orange.

After she dropped me off at our meeting place, I thanked her again, and took a short side rip to Novi Velia, a city on the hilltop above Vallo della Lucania. It was a charming little place, with medieval courtyards and a tower dating back to the the Lombard invasions. Since I had a ways to go, I did not linger, but moved on to San Biase, a captivating little village on a river. I was told to look for the water mill, which unfortunately was closed, but I walked all around the river's two banks, embarking on a little impromptu hike in the tall dewy grass to see what the surrounding area was like.

Once I had explore the entire town, which did not take long, I asked an old lady for directions, and after a short chat, ended up with three smallish apples that she had just picked from her tree. While they were maybe the ugliest apples I had ever seen, I think you know what I'm going to say: they were some of the best that I have eaten, fresh and crunchy and tart and full of flavor. As I munched, I wondered whether I liked the hill towns or the beach towns more. It doesn't really matter, I guess, but I've learned that the old notion that hill people are less friendly and more reserved is a false generalization.

Smiling at the chirping birds and pines intermingled with ancient, broad-trunked olive trees in full harvest splendor, I began my descent back to the coast. After stopping four times throughout the course of the walk to talk to people, I was in peril of only finishing after dark, but of course I was happy to stop each time. I even met an American girl from Westchester, New York, who had come to stay on the ancestral farm with Grandma for a few months. I hoped for an invitation at least to meet Grandma and check out the farm, but was also happy with the mandarin oranges and pomegranate she kindly gave me. Americans don't invite strangers into their homes like Italians do, and more than anything I believe this comes from a deep-seated fear, and too many horror movies. Oh well.

The sun was setting as I neared the coast, with one last stop at a farm produce stand, where I found myself handed a bunch of hot peppers. I bought some fennel and some apples, just to be nice, and as a way of repaying the lady for her generosity, and kept going. When I finally did reach the town of Marina di Ascea, I walked for some time looking for a place to sleep, and ended up backtracking quite a bit to finally reach my destination, a pizzeria/hotel. Oh, it bears mentioning that someone bought me a bag of chips as I walked down the street asking about lodging.

Would you believe me if I said that the weight of this generosity completely overwhelmed me, actually causing me pain in the shoulders? Well, it's true. In one day, I had received: four apples, a pomegranate, an orange, a banana, a jar of honey, a bag of potato chips, a bunch of hot peppers, and three mandarin oranges. Wow. Refusing to carry around this delightful burden tomorrow, I had an interesting dinner consisting of these items, some leftover bread, a can of tuna, my fennel (last time I ever purchase that, by the way), and some chocolate. It tasted like shoulder relief. I know, I shouldn't complain, and in truth I was deeply touched by the generosity and warmth I had received on this lucky day.

Vallo della Lucania - Heading back inland

11/17 - Acciaroli to Vallo della Lucania - 18.15 miles

Franco's hot water heater was broken the weekend that I stayed with him, so I did not shower on 11/15 or 16. Since I had just slept in the restaurant with no shower facilities, I was about to start day three without showering. This, of course, is unacceptable in any case, but especially after walking 5 or 6 hours two of the last three days. So, what did I do on that brisk fall morning? I took a bath in the sea.I really don't fare well in cold environments. My housemates from college in Philadelphia will confirm that, when coming home after an evening walk in the cold (from class, not for fun, I can assure you), my first words were always that "man was not made to live in these conditions." And it is true, if you think about it. Well, dips in the sea in mid-November belong in that same line of reasoning, but I had to get clean somehow. I stripped down to my boxers, waded in, smiling bitterly as I realized that the water was shallow for about fifty long yards from the beach, and stood there wondering if I had the courage to submerge myself completely. I counted to ten twice, let my legs give out from under me, and experienced that dreadful loss of breath feeling as the frigid morning sea took the wind straight out of my lungs.
Still, I must say that I did a respectable job washing up, availing myself of my fancy "lathers in salt water" soap that I had brought along for this very reason. I even shampooed, and took the time to rinse it all out. I know, I know, bravest guy you know. Then, walking the long trek back in that shallow water, I stood and let the sea breeze and lazy 9 AM sun dry my body.

I had been watched during this whole spectacle by two British people from Birmingham, who had traveled all the way down to Campania in their camper. With maws straight out of the Big Book of British Smiles (a Simpsons reference, and though I can't find the exact clip, here is the remix version), they also had a keen British sense of humor, and I ho-hoed my way to dryness while they shared their observations of Italian culture. Of particular interest to them was the sorry state of Italian beaches, sometimes filled with pollution and trash. And they should know, as they had a metal detector, and were about to cover the whole beach of Acciaroli, which was remarkably clean, according to them. I told them that I had lost whatever it was they were going to find and thanked them in advance for returning it to me, we shared one last jolly haw-haw, and I shivered back to the restaurant, all the while praying that I never ever ever spend my vacations painstakingly combing beaches for valuables. I wonder what percentage of metal detectors have paid for themselves and the time spent by their owners in valuables found? Gotta be in the single digits...

By the time I was ready to go, Gino had come to the restaurant, and after exchanging information, he made me a gigantic prosciutto tomato sandwich. I thanked him profusely for his hospitality, and headed inland toward my day's destination.

I had a fairly large list of destinations to reach that had been prepared for me at Il Brigante, and two of those destinations were East of Acciaroli, away from the sea. Even though it was out of my way, and I would be losing a day by climbing a mountain in the direction of colder weather, I was curious to see what the inland portion of this National Park looked like. It was beautiful, with large fields of winter crops interspersed with forests, small villages, and creeks. I made a slow ascent, happy to be inland again, and with dusk I reached Vallo della Lucania.

Not quite. With a mile to go, I was stopped by two curious men on their farm, and we had a chat. They offered me a coffee, I accepted, they said they sold horses, and then began to ask a lot of probing questions about my journey, and specifically my ability to fund it, and the overall cost. There are times when I answer, and there are times when you are selective about what you divulge, and I had decided from the outset that this was one of the latter times. I chose wisely: more family members came, I found myself talking to five of them, and out of nowhere, my main contact and the principal interlocutor said, "we're gypsies, you know." I didn't bat an eyelid, and my brain forcibly suppressed by hand's urge to check my pockets. My retort was "I thought you guys roam around," learned that they were "settled gypsies," asked a lot more questions, complimented them on their exotic musical culture, and seeing that it as nearly dark, politely took my leave of them, thanking them for the coffee and the conversation. As I walked away, I thought "Holy Shit. I just sat and talked with five gypsies about being an American walking in Italy. They saw all my gear, the various electronic bulges in my pockets (GPS, camera, phone, mp3 player), and I came out unscathed." Actually, I acquitted myself quite nicely, shaking hands with Constantine, Salvatore (with the uni brow, classic) and the rest of the gang. And I thought once again of an expression that has proven true many many times on this trip, and will serve me well for the rest of my life: male non fare, paura non avere (do not evil, have no fear). Lastly, I thought that from now on, anytime anyone says something about Gypsies, I will in all likelihood be the only person in the room who has had an extended conversation with Gypsies on their own turf. I did not expect it, but am glad to add it to the list of experiences.

Having reached Vallo della Lucania, I went through a variation of the familiar theme: met a helpful kind-hearted old man, walked around town asking his acquaintances about cheap lodging, found the seminary but no one to open the doors, and ended up stumbling onto the phone number of two Bed & Breakfasts, one of which responded. An hour later, Rita picked me up in the main piazza and we went to her home a bit outside of town.

Rita was warm and curious from the get-go, and by the time we had reached her house, she had already invited me to eat with her and her son. She showed me to my room, I took a hot shower, and walked down to her house for a truly delicious meal. Rita's mother, who I met, was from Emilia-Romagna, the Italian capital of hearty eating, and it was clear Rita's cooking had benefited from that region's culinary tradition. We lingered a while at the table, cleared the palate with some fruit, and then I returned to my room upstairs for a deep sleep.

Leaving good friends and making new ones

11/16 - S. Maria di Castellabate to Acciaroli - 15.25 miles

I had made some really good friends these past few days, and I was tempted to stay when Franco told me I was welcome. However, the wanderer in me won out, and it was time to press my luck and see how things came out for me. Franco dropped me off where he had picked me up, and I was on my way. In any event, as with Paestum, I see myself coming back here again. Actually, I know I will be back, on April 4th, as I have been invited to Marcello and Mariassunta's wedding, the reception of which will be held at Tenuta Capodifiume. This honor goes a long way in demonstrating the warmth of these people, and once again, my good fortune. To think that it all started with a hankering for some fresh cheese...

The walk was full of beautiful scenery, and even a nice hike up and down a mountain. Actually, the muddy conditions, combined with the lack of path maintenance and a recent fire, made this another wilderness adventure, and I found myself following the beaten paths made by animals. Even though it got messy, and I almost fell multiple times, and I was clearly in someone else's olive grove, it was still exhilarating to make my own path, and force my way down a hill. It makes me think of pioneers and explorers, picking their way through vast mountain ranges, encountering dead ends, big ravines, and patches of dense thorn bushes: any job openings in that booming sector?

I used some fig tree leaves to wipe the mud off my shoes, emitted some manly grunts of satisfaction as I looked at one more mountain conquered, and continued down the coast. The stop for the day was Acciaroli, which the sign told me was once the home of Ernest Hemingway. Since I arrived early, around 3, I ate my lunch on an absolutely gorgeous, pristine beach, and then began to look for lodging.

Things did not look good for me. I wandered around the town, asked at the bar, asked the old men, went to the nuns, and came out 0 for 5. The only place open was a three-star hotel right on the beach, which wanted to rob me with the outrageous price of 65€. Defeated, I almost accepted, but out of principle I decided to make one last sweep, knowing that at least I would not be homeless. My first stop was in the big fancy restaurant occupying the prime real estate on the boardwalk, Ristorante Mediterraneo. I asked the pizza chef, who was standing outside, what I should do, and he agreed with me that the hotel was charging an unfair price. We started going over the options, I mentioned I had a sleeping bag, and he pointed to a wooden construction open to the elements on the beach. I considered it, was assured of the safety of such a decision, and just then the restaurant owner emerged. Gino was a big guy, and was simply overflowing with generosity. He asked to hear my story, and was thrilled to hear that I was an American. The reason, he said, was that he used to be a professional boxer, and had fought many times in the US. He told me dinner was on him, and five minutes later, said I could sleep on the floor of the restaurant, as they did not have any rooms.

I am still in awe of these people, especially in the Cilento, and their ability to be so open and giving. My dinner was a seafood feast, with an appetizer large enough to feed a family of four, a pasta dish that did not skimp on the scampi, an artichoke-prosciutto-olive pizza made just for me by the pizza chef, and I had to turn down the secondo, a first for me on this trip. Gino loved to see me enjoying this bounteous feast, and came over often to tell me boxing stories (fought 126 times, lost only 11). I also met his family, and befriended his 16-year old son Giovanni, who brought the Playstation III from home and showed me the latest video games.

Saying goodnight to everyone as they left, I saw Gino off, and assured him that he could trust me all alone in his 600-seat restaurant. It had not even crossed his mind. Would you have trusted me? I thanked my lucky stars as I made my bed, brushed my teeth in the men's room, and joyously added another entry on my list of different types of lodging: dining room of a seafood restaurant, with sea views.

A rest day of pure pleasure at S. Maria di Castellabate

11/15

Marcello and Mariassunta have a real estate office in S. Maria, selling land, vacation apartments, and homes in the area. Knowing that I had worked in this realm once upon a time, and was therefore familiar with the terminology, they asked for my help in translating their listings into English. Apart from being thrilled to have the opportunity to give back for once, I was actually excited to work, if only for a few hours. So, upon waking at Franco's house, I walked to the real estate office, and as I was late as usual, I blamed the crazy traffic I had encountered.

They let it go, just this once, and I got down to work. Here's the site, with my translations: http://www.casecilento.it/siteuk/ . If you're looking to invest in some property in Italy, this is one of the most beautiful and under appreciated areas of Italy that I have visited, so buy away.

All that hard office work made me hungry, so I went back to Franco's house for lunch. What did the big-time deluxe seafood restaurateur make me for lunch? A recipe called water and salt. Ingredients: dried bread, tomato, basil, garlic, hot peppers, olive oil, and of course, water and salt. The water moistens the bread, and the dish is served cold with your Italian beer of preference, or wine if you're celebrating something. You think "wow, pulling out all the stops for his guest," and maybe pity me, but our friend Franco was driving home a point that I have learned through experience. In Italy, the fresh and wholesome quality of the ingredients makes the simplest food taste better than any elaborately planned meal. Franco had prepared me his favorite dish, and showed me once again why I love Italian cuisine so much.

After lunch, we took a trip to see Pasquale, who owns a hotel and restaurant in the nearby frazione of Ogliastro Marina. As it turns out, Pasquale has two aunts and three sisters living in San Diego, so we had a lot to talk about. Moreover, these three sisters owned two authentic Italian restaurants in San Diego (trattoria Positano in Cardiff and Hillcrest - though the Hillcrest one has been since sold - and another restaurant in Del Mar), and it turns out I had been to two of them. Very small world! Pasquale poured me a glass of Cointreau, gave me the full tour of his hotel, Il Cefalo, and then introduced me to his parents, who had also been very frequently to San Diego, and knew it intimately. We then left the hotel to check out Punta Licosa, but not before Pasquale's Mother gave me a local specialty, dried roasted figs with almond and fennel tucked inside, and separated by leaves of laurel. Delicious and a nutritious bomb of energy.

We just caught the falling of dusk at Punta Licosa, which was in the midst of a very large personal holding of some member of Italy's nobility. it was very interesting to see this gigantic swath of property, a choice piece of real estate, and know that it was all still owned by one family, who interacted daily with the rest of the local population. With that, we returned to S. Maria, where I wrapped up some more website translations, we had an evening aperitivo, and we headed to another friend's house in Agropoli to eat pizza and watch Inter Milano - Palermo. It was a low-key Saturday night, and a good end to a relaxing day.

Another wonderful day

11/14 - Paestum to Santa Maria di Castellabate - 13.84 miles

I was very worried that I had not kept my side of the deal with Raffaele's father-in-law, waking up instead at 9 AM to wait for Raffaele to drive me back to the farm near Paestum. However, Raffaele reassured me that he had spoken with his father-in-law, and that I was not committing a grave error of disrespect. Relieved, I had a leisurely morning coffee with Raffaele and his brother Antonio, who switched off work days with Raffaele. After talking traveling for quite a while with the well-traveled Antonio, we all went to their Uncle's farm, another large production house of mozzarella di bufala. There, I got to see and learn the whole process, and tasted mozzarella that had been made just seconds before. It is impossible to eat mozzarella any fresher than that, my friends. After petting a water buffalo or two and eating some homemade dairy-based cream pie with another coffee, Raffaele and Antonio showed me their beach club, and took me back to the farm where I had last stopped. There we shared the hopes that this friendship would grow with time, they offered me their hospitality should I return, and I realized that Paestum had now become a permanent fixture on my vacation cycle. Amazing how a decision made at random can lead to such a serendipitous encounter, and a friendship that will hopefully last for generations. Did I ever mention how fortunate I am?

It gets better, believe it or not. My next destination was Santa Maria di Castellabate, where Raffaele's good friend Franco had offered, sight unseen, to be my host that very evening. So, leaving Paestum, I came to the town of Agropoli, and after climbing to the top for some views and a peek at the castle, I entered the Parco Nazionale del Cilento e Vallo di Diano.

Luckily for me, I stumbled into a mountain biker bar, and soon had precise instructions for how to reach S. Maria by walking path, through some of the most beautiful coastline in the country. So, turning right at the broken gate by the abandoned tennis court, I soon found myself in virgin brush land overlooking a multicolor sea.

This was an interesting walk. I found and fully explored a large abandoned mansion, went the wrong way on a beach, tried to make my own path up a creek bed and muddied myself thoroughly, backtracked through some really heavy thorned brush, and descended on the neighborhood before S. Maria just before dark.

Franco found me on the path to his house, and immediately gave me the full tour of the area, taking me to the best views and the calm harbor, telling stories and relaying the history of the region. When he was done, we met up with his buddy Pasquale for an aperitivo, and then with his other buddy Marcello and his fiance Mariassunta. Together, the five of us headed to a wine bar back in Agropoli, where we had a delicious dinner with some stellar wine.

Now, I had forgotten to mention a few crucial details that make this situation all the more interesting. Franco is the owner and operator of a world-class 30-seat restaurant, Taverna del Pescatore, that serves only fish. He is widely respected in the area, and is extremely knowledgeable and keenly perceptive about food and presentation, not to mention the fact that he is a sommelier. I mention this because the restaurant/wine bar we attended was keenly focused on providing Franco and his guests with a top-notch quality experience. So, all the stops were pulled, the best cheeses served with excellent wine pairings, and the extra food brought to the table at no extra charge. To top it all off, I had cordially wished one of the owners, a runner, a good day while on my walk earlier that day, and so won his immediate approval and good graces. So, even though my meal was offered by Franco, Pasquale, and Marcello, the restaurant offered it as well.

What a day! We went back to Franco's, stayed up till 3 talking philosophy and drinking grappa, and I hit the sack hard.

Paestum and Mozzarella di Bufala

11/13 - Torre Kernot to Paestum - 8.78 miles

After running for the only morning bus to my destination, I boarded with the whole cast and crew of yesterday evening (much less animated this rainy morning), and in 45 minutes was back where I had left off. From here it was more beautiful pine tree reserves along the dunes of a never ending stretch of empty beach (forgot to mention that about the previous day's walk) and when that ended, I set my sights for the ruins at Paestum. The temples there are certainly among my favorite ruins, and i was happy to pay the 4€ to get in. I wandered around in the driving rain for an hour, marvelling at the Greek ruins that were older than the Parthenon, and arguably in better condition, and took various pictures under the shelter of trees, so as not to destroy a second camera. When it was time for me to get moving, I asked the ticket office employees where I could get a good mozzarella sandwich (remember, three ingredients tops in any sandwich!), and when they suggested I visit the bars and restaurants along the main tourist drag, I knew I was getting some horrible advice.

This area of Italy, this zone of Campania, this particular portion of the province of Salerno, is the world capital of mozzarella di bufala, the highest quality mozzarella in the world, arguably. There was no way I was going to screw around with some plastic trash industrially shoved onto decorative plates for 5€. So, leaving the temples, I walked onto a farm with direct sales of mozzarella di bufala, passing the actual water buffaloes as I entered the sales office / restaurant.

At the same time, a family of three pulled up, and held the door open for me as I trudged in, sopping wet. It was clear that they knew the owner, since the wife and three year old child walked directly into the kitchen. The husband stayed behind, and asked me about the poles, though in a polite and genuinely curious way (as opposed to the skiing question, or as I more recently heard "here in Italy it's the handicapped that use canes."). We began to talk, and I figured out he was the son-in-law of the owner. He asked what I wanted, I felt too embarrassed to say 200 grams of bufala to go, please (I wanted to buy bread and tomatoes and make my own sandwich), and sensing my embarrassment, he ordered for me, a plate of bufala, tomato, bread, and prosciutto. We sat down to talk, my food was served, and he sat down nearby with his family to eat lunch.

We kept talking, however, and soon he brought over a glass of wine, from the house vines. Then his wife offered a plate of pasta, the owner and father-in-law grew more curious about my story, and soon demanded that I bring my plates over to sit with them. They piled on the secondo and contorno, a beef steak with stewed broccoli leaves, another glass was poured, and the conversation grew livelier. When I asked the owner, who wakes up at 4 each morning to personally supervise the milking, how the process worked, he offered me a deal: you sleep here on me, and I'll show you tomorrow morning. We shook hands, more wine was poured ("you're not walking anymore, so drink up"), and when the owner got up from the table for his post-prandial snooze, he emphatically gestured that "this one doesn't pay."

Raffaele, the son-in-law, took me on a tour, and in the process explained that this was one of the largest and most successful bufala farms in the region. Then, as we got into his car, he explained that his farm, a wedding and banquet facility, was one of the most prized pieces of real estate in the area, and was where I would be sleeping.

Situated on the site of a natural spring which has been constantly producing water for over a thousand years, Tenuta Capodifiume (literally, head of the river) was indeed a precious piece of real estate, a combination of fertile farmland and manicured Tuscan-style estate underneath two imposing peaks to the East. Raffaele took me on a tour of the facilities, offered me a post-lunch digestive grappa of the highest quality, and showed me to me guest house. With my head spinning, and not from the grappa, I took a few minutes to let this all sink in, and took up Raffaele on his offer to wander the grounds. I muddied my shoes walking the fertile soil, saw the bubbles from the constantly surging springs, chatted with the friendly ducks, saw the hydroelectric installations which powered the site and generated revenue, and felt like a landowner, if only vicariously, and for a breathtaking afternoon.

After a nap in the luxuriously comfortable bed and a multi-jet massage/shower, I headed to the restaurant for dinner, where I found Raffaele and a buddy playing cards, watched by five full-time kitchen staff. I was immediately brought an aperitivo, the staff politely heard my story, and we headed into the kitchen in order to pick out the fish we would eat that evening. After seeing that indeed all the mollusks and prawns were still alive, and the fish caught that same morning, I got a full kitchen tour, talked technique and knives with the chef, and sat down for a first class meal, one of three guests in an absolutely beautiful locale.

The dessert was a mouth-gratifying chocolate lava cake, of which I ate two, as Raffaele passed his along to me. Then we had some first class grappa, played a local Neapolitan card game called Scopa, and went to our rooms, at which point I, tittering like a school girl, called my family to share my continued great fortune.

Walking away from Salerno

11/12 - Salerno to Torre Kernot - 18.48

Sadly enough, it was time to leave the Amalfi Coast, and move on from Salerno. Since the hostel was well-kept, inexpensive, and in a great location, I wanted to stay as long as was feasible, so I had the luxury of one last day without the backpack.

I took a quick trip to the Giardino della Minerva, an interesting garden planned along the lines of cold, hot, humid, and dry, and the degrees to which each plant exhibited those qualities. I won't try to explain it, but it was interesting to see some of the plants I had noticed on my walk, and have them organized in this way.

On my way out of Salerno, I ran into Agostino, a fellow dice player, who was on his way to work (at 10:00 AM, the way it should be). He bought me a coffee and explained where to go, and I hugged the coast for the majority of the day's walk. There's not too much I can say about this day that won't scare my mother, but hey what the hell, I might as well tell it like it happened. I saw a gypsy camp with an RV circle by the forest, it rained cats and dogs and I was forced to crouch under a pine tree for half an hour as I waited for it to pass, as I had left Salerno with beautiful sunshine and no jacket (tisk, tisk), and after waiting an hour at the bus stop we picked up eight African prostitutes who I had seen along my walk, and who were much more surprised to see me than I was to see them, in order to take them back to Salerno. I asked the bus driver after they got off if they caused any trouble, and he said no, besides the loud banter and laughter. Actually, there were a lot fewer now than before. Hard times even for the whores...

You shake your heads at my day as if I had suffered some tragic misfortune, but I must admit that it was enjoyable all the way through, another experience to put in my ever-bulging pocket of experiences. Just think: the next time someone says "Gee whiz, I wonder what whores are like at quittin' time," or "this one time I saw a guy stand in the rain from my office window, I wonder if he survived," I'll be able to say, for the millionth time, "well, when I walked across Italy." dot dot dot

Dinner, of course, was at Il Brigante, another stellar home-cooked meal with my good friends. At closing time, we went to the bar around the corner for a drink or two, hung out with the neighborhood guys my age, and I even got to play some piano. After a martini, caipirinha, and some aged rum (all on the house, part because of my friendship with Sandro, and part because of the piano playing), I exchanged info with Sandro and said goodbye, but not before offering in vain to pay him for the meals I had so thoroughly enjoyed at his restaurant. This was generosity unparalleled, and a taste of what was to come.

A day never to forget

11/11 - Praiano to Amalfi - 10.43 miles

It was time to finish what the previous day's strike had kept me from finishing, a relatively short stretch of coast. Changing buses at Amalfi, we were soon driving along the road that I would walk, and I was greatly encouraged by the number of absolutely beautiful little beaches. In fact, I was so charmed by these beaches, and by the absolutely perfect weather, that I decided to make this a beach day, my first since Vernazza, as far as I could recall. I got off the bus at Praiano, bought my lunch, asked about beach suggestions, and headed down, down, down to the local beach spot.

It was not up to snuff. I had one beach day left in the year, I figured, and I would be damned if I would spend it in the shade on an ugly little beach with a sub par view of Positano. Well, it was not as bad as all that, but I knew I could do better.

Back in 2003, my hostel friends Gemma and Outback Jack had taken me to a piece of paradise on this same coastline, and I had never forgotten that beach. On the bus ride this morning, I thought I had seen the tunnel followed by a bridge that had been etched in my memory, and I decided to find it. Describing it from memory at Praiano's tourism office, the lady told me where she thought it was, and I got to walking.

She was right! Actually, I recognized it on my own, and my heart leaped to see it absolutely abandoned, quiet and inviting in its loneliness. I skipped down the stairs, mind reliving precious memories and at the same time making new ones. I dropped my lunch bag, took off all my clothes except my boxers, took a deep breath, and waded in.

The November Mediterranean took my breath away as I submerged completely, trashing wildly toward the patch of water kissed by the late morning sun. My body adjusted to the water surprisingly quickly, and I swam out far enough to see a sizable chunk of coastline. So this is what heaven is like.

Working with the waves, I gained a hold on some jagged rocks, lifted myself out of the water, and soon I had a seat facing the vast expanse of azure water in front of me. I must have sat there for over an hour, drying completely in the baking sun. I look at my watch: 11:10 on 11/11. As close to perfection as one could get, I thought. So, after catching 11:11:11 on 11/11, I swam back to shore, ate my lunch, and reflected for another 45 minutes, watching the shifting shadow of the arch as the sun moved along its path. These precious moments brought me as close as I have come to feeling that time has stopped for me.

What's the name of the beach, Pat? Where is it located? Go find it, my friends; if I were to tell you, it would not feel so good as when you found it yourselves, resplendent in its natural beauty. And when you do find it, think of me, and give a chuckle at the thought that I came across the same beach five years later, and on foot.

So, where to from here? I climbed the steps, resumed my trek, found a nature trail leading directly above my beloved beach, climbed up into a grotto using a rope to negotiate the steep ascent, listened in silence to the birds and the droplets of water falling from ancient stalactites, kept climbing the trail to a town a bit higher up, descended, and ended up back at Amalfi, just in time for the 4:00 bus.

After a rest, some washing, and a big internet cafe trip, it was time for dinner, so I headed to the place where everybody knew my name, and found the same excellent treatment awaiting me. Have you ever been to a family-run restaurant where the owner delights in your arrival, and immediately seats you at the "family table" with his oldest friends? It feels like home. Sandro knew me by now, and without asking, told the waitress to bring me the best plates being served. One liter pitcher of the house red on the table, serve yourself, more where that came from, how's the seafood pasta, bring both desserts, he's indecisive, and so on.

As I spoke with Luciano, his old friend, the restaurant emptied out, the dishes were cleaned, but the wine was still flowing at the family table. We were just getting started. Tuesday is dice night, and around 11 the usual suspects started to show up. By the time we were all assembled, there were six of us, and we started to play. Here's the game: four dice and a cup for each person. The first person bets a certain number of dice, wagering that there are that many under all the cups, say 7 twos. The next person has to go higher, either with 8 or more 2s, or 7 threes, 9 fours, 7 sixes, etc. Ones are wild, however, and betting them counts as double, so in this example, the next person could bet 4 ones, and the next person would have to bet 9 of something, or 5 ones. If the next person wishes, they can call your bluff, at which point all lift their cups to reveal what they have. If the bet was actually true, then the person who called the bluff loses a die: otherwise, the last bettor before the bluff call loses a die. Last one with dice left wins.

Simple enough, right? Why get so excited about a simple game? The reason is that I have never played a more animated game in my life. Every call was followed by cat calls, hoots of incredulity or derision, appalled gasps and frequent repetitions of the same call: "eight threes," "EIGHT threes," "eight THREES," "EIGHT THREES," and so forth. Then, every lost die requires a play-by-play that indeed could only be performed by the same people who break down every millisecond of a soccer match. All in all, I found myself on the inside of something that I never thought I would see, a dice game with the local cronies in a family restaurant in Southern Italy. Even then, as I watched these men hoot and holler, I took myself outside the situation, and laughed until my insides shook. How the sam hell did I end up here?

At 1:55, it was me who ended the evening, as my hostel's curfew was at 2. I got up, thanked everyone, and was accompanied to the door by Sandro. "But I haven't paid!" "Don't worry, we'll see you tomorrow."

The Amalfi Coast and the rally

11/10 - Amalfi to Salerno - 17.94 miles

The bus to Amalfi was a bit late in coming, as are most buses here, but I was soon on my way to Praiano, the last stopping point. First I had to change buses at Amalfi, but there was one small obstacle that prevented me from reaching my destination.

Part of me was content when the bus driver brusquely spat out that word of words, so infamous amongst tourists here in Italy: sciopero. I am speaking of the Italian strike, and specifically the public transportation strike, that this time caught me unawares. Nearly always on a Monday or Friday (did you say 3-day weekend?), this strike is so frequent, so preplanned, and so short lived, that it has lost all sense of gravity. The only thing it does is inconvenience Italians, thus striking up resentment, not support. For us non-Italians, tourists and travelers, it can range from a minor annoyance to a trip changing, flight missing catastrophe. For me, it meant that I was not going to Praiano today, meaning that I would have to come back tomorrow to finish the Praiano-Amalfi stretch. There are worse tragedies. Since I was not going to waste the day, I started toward the main drag of the town, and soon was climbing steps.

The more careful readers will have noticed a minor incongruity in my account, namely the fact that a bus took me from Salerno to Amalfi, but a strike prevented me from reach Praiano from Amalfi. Bravo! But you might not be able to explain why this is so, since the truth defies all logic, at least for those used to US strikes. The answer is that the buses run from 7-9 AM, and from 1-4 PM, but not in between or after. Why? Because the state passed a law saying that the strikers had to take the children to and from school. And the strikers diligently obey. Of course. So, the point of the story is that I had made it to Amalfi at 9:05 AM, and there were no more buses until 1.

After asking four or five striking employees, all of whom were just milling around in front of the buses, smoking cigarettes and shootin' the bull, I made sure that I understood the bus schedule, so as not to be left behind. Then, smiling to myself at my good fortune (for no Italy travel account is complete without a public transportation strike), I climbed up to Ravello, a mountain town above Amalfi. I do not remember ever having climbed so many steps. I climbed over 1,500, smashing my previous record of 999 in Napflio, Greece.

When I arrived, I drank a gallon of water, and basking in my oodles of time as a result of the strike, fully explored this charming medieval hilltop town. I even saw the summer concert schedule, and was in complete awe at the lineup. Never have I seen such a dynamic and well-rounded concert season, packed with events for four straight months. I drooled as my vision of a residence on this coast became even more colorful and palatable.

After taking in the view, it was time to head back down, this time toward Minore, further up the coast. I did another large number of steps, remembering that up is always better, despite the sweatiness of it all. I was happy to be back near the water after my two hour excursion, and after buying some lunch, got to walking.

As the last bus passed around 3:30, I had to find a bus stop at the right time, or else risk missing it. Memorizing the schedule, I skipped from stop to stop, and soon I had covered a good stretch of coast. Then, sitting down for a quick lunchtime orange, I realized with satisfaction that if I walked quickly, I could skip the bus altogether and walk to Salerno. So, feeling very empowered at my independence from the strikers, I started the long trek. Best of all, I nearly reached Salerno by the time I saw the last bus pass. It was late, of course.

How I found myself at a communist newspaper rally / fundraiser

When I had been invited back to Il Brigante the evening before, it was already clear that this was not going to be an ordinary meal. Sandro had in fact told me that he had put together a fundraiser dinner for Il Manifesto, the Communist daily paper here in Italy. Now, I'm no Communist, but I liked Sandro, I liked Il Brigante, and I never say no to an opportunity to learn about another facet of Italian culture. Communism has had an influence on Italy ever since the partisan resistance against Mussolini won the people's admiration by delivering them from war, hunger, and fascism. The Marshall Plan effectively put the kibosh on Communism as a viable political entity here, but they were allowed to remain in the background, bringing in a small percentage of votes and a larger percentage of sympathy.

Like most other print newspapers today, Il Manifesto is suffering from a decreased readership, more online readers but no online sponsors, and higher distribution and operating costs. Faced with extinction, the newspaper threw dinner/rally/fundraisers all around Italy, and Campania's fundraiser happened to be at Il Brigante.

I arrived at 9:15, fifteen minutes after the official start time but well before the real start time. Sandro immediately and excitedly welcomed me in, and introduced me to the moderator, a reporter for Il Manifesto as well as another major Italian paper. My story was recounted, but only part ways, as the mention that I was American elicited a "well Sandro, that's hardly his fault!" Finding myself in the lion's den, I swallowed an urge for a pithy retort, laughed it off, and took my seat. After all, it's not his fault he's an Italian Communist, poor bastard...

We tried to figure out how to save the paper, a machinist and 1960s agitator with a fedora spewed venom at a youngster who suggested the paper hire an Internet Marketing Specialist (oh, the sweet, sweet irony), everyone yelled, nothing was resolved, the basket was passed around twice, I kept my mouth shut about my feelings toward the day's strike, and at 10:45 dinner was served. Right on time.

My dinner company was entertaining: a lady high up the chain in the province of Salerno's department of tourism and culture, a friendly couple in their 60s, and a red headed firebrand with an opinion about everything. Besides a few heated minutes where the redhead had a bit too much wine and essentially made me listen through all his anti-American sentiments by posing a question with no question mark, to which I responded "so what's your question?", the evening was pleasant, and very interesting for me. Not to mention that the food, like the day before, was delicious, prepared with love. I just hope this doesn't come back to haunt me later!