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!