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."
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."
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