From Napoli

11/3 -

So I wander into a pizzeria, looking for a quick meal after a long day of wandering, and almost five hours performing what amounts to data entry, transferring handwriting to digital format. I look at the menu, taped to the plexiglas separator behind which stands the pizza chef and his ingredients. Since the chef is looking at me with expectation, I feel pressure to pick quickly, and I ask for a fried ripieno, something I had never seen before, and thought I might as well try.

Looking at me with an expression that is infinitely tired, he replies "forno," and with a flick of his head, motions toward the roaring wood fire oven. Okay, strike one. My bad. I smile and say in my best "street" Italian, "what you got that's fresh?" This time he laughs at me. "Fresh? Everything here is old, a few days at least. This is a pizzeria." I won't look for an explanation of why statement b so necessarily follows statement a. I swallow hard, forehead burning. Strike two. Here's my last shot, before walking out in ignominy amidst laughter from the entire city, condemned to try my luck foraging with the numerous stray dogs. I pick a pizza, any pizza, the one with salami and onions, safe bet, not the cheapest ("cheapskate") or the most expensive ("rich boy tourist"). He nods assent, I exhale, and in order to regain my composure (and because I have to pee), I ask for the bathroom. I go upstairs, realize that the pizzeria and restaurant was up here, and that I ordered directly from the pizza kitchen. Too late now. I walk through, pee, wash my hands, realizing that this as the first time I had done so since 9:30 that morning, and my mind races through all the dirt and sketchy situations I have encountered.

Coming back down, I see him making pizzas, but they're not mine. The delivery boy waits while he prepares six Margherita pizzas (tomato, mozzarella, salt, basil, and that's it). The man is an artist, a graceful dancer with the pizza oven spatula, and in three minutes he has prepared, inserted, turned, cooked, and dumped all six pizzas in their waiting boxes. I am awestruck. I also see that I am the only idiot ordering anything except a Margherita. Again, too late now.

While I stand awkwardly placed in front of both the staircase and the cash register - he's already had to move me out of the way of the spatula once, and there won't be a second time, not again - I see him make two more pizzas this way. Then a voice from upstairs comes screaming down, followed by a man, and boy is he livid about something. I edge out of the way, now blocking the entrance, and watch these two have a full-blown argument. What was it about? I don't know. Why, you say? Don't you speak Italian? Yes, but that's just it: they're speaking the Neapolitan dialect, like everyone else here, and I only understand about 10%, if I concentrate hard. What I do manage to pick up is that the second man, who I assume is the manager, is calling the pizza chef lazy and/or slow, and the pizza chef is telling the manager that he should spend one day, just one day (he repeats over and over) in his place.

There was never, for one moment, any thought that a customer was witnessing this scene. Apparently, they didn't catch that whole "customer comes first" lesson. I just play fly on the wall, hoping that the stress of the situation doesn't translate itself into my pizza, but I see him make it as he argues, and with the same artistry he spins it round in the oven, cooks it evenly, and plops it in a waiting box. It's clear they've been down this road before.

He asks if I want a drink, I ask for a large Peroni, he says 7€, I pull out a 20€, he asks for a 10€, I don't have a smaller bill (blew it again, Hook), and I get my change. Then, out of nowhere, he smile this sunshiny, genuine smile, thanks me, and wishes me buon appetito. I compliment his chops at the oven, he says thanks again, and I walk out.

Deciding I want a dessert too (they are famous for their desserts, pizza, and coffee here), I walk with my open beer and pizza down the block, find a gelato place, and since it starts to rain, I decide against taking it all back to the hostel. I sit myself down on a stop in front of a closed butcher shop, eat my pizza, and drink my beer.

Pat, it's 9 o clock in Napoli. Aren't you scared? No! In fact, people speed up when they see me, scared of the vagrant with his duct taped feet wearing sandals in the rain, drinking a large beer on a stoop. I realize I would be scared of me too. I probably would speed up and avoid eye contact, come to think of it. I smile at the thought.

And I start to think about Napoli, about the episode I have just witnessed, about the past day here, and about the past few days in Campania. I realize that I have been subconsciously fighting this region, placing everything in contrast with the North, to what I have seen and done so far. Then I acknowledge that at least I have understood that the ill at ease I have been feeling, the frustration and unhappiness, is simply culture shock. This is day three of understanding that, and I pat myself on the back for having identified it early; I see it as the sign of becoming a true traveler. But despite recognizing the feeling I have had as culture, I have nevertheless rejected this region, judged it too quickly, and looked for its shortcomings instead of its redeeming qualities.

It hits me then and there, on that stoop in the warm and humid Monday evening, that this too is a challenge. Nobody said that walking twenty miles would settle it, that serving women would come with Tuscan wine and Valle d'Aostan salamis and bathe me in my 10€ 4 star hotel. Part of the allure of this walk for me, indeed one of the major reasons I embarked on it, was to set a difficult challenge for myself, one with unforeseen obstacles and no guarantees, and see it through to the end, with no exemption.

You know, it has not all been easy for me. I have created many of my own advantageous situations by energy and positive disposition, have relied on the wheel of fortune and the generosity of others to an unprecedented degree, and have smiled and nodded yes with all my soul every time a new and often difficult decision has presented itself. Not to mention that in many ways I have mortgaged my future so as to do this trip the way it should be done. So why would I shy away from this new and greatest challenge instead of seeing it as another opportunity to test my strength and determination and mettle and integrity? I do not know why I did, but sitting there on the stoop, I knew that I would not shy away anymore.

Looking back, I see that part of me saw my arrival in Rome as the end. I had a pre-determined route (the Via Francigena), an active social scene awaiting me, and after all, the ultimate goal (as far as I can tell now) has been to find a job there. But it was just the halfway point. Things change now. The area is unknown: the money is starting to run low: the clothes are losing their sheen and still stink a little even after I hand wash them: I don't understand the language to the extent I did before: tourist information is hard to come by, and is often too localized to be of any use: campgrounds are closed, stripping me of my most affordable lodging option: the novelty of my trip has worn off, and my long and frequent silences have lost me most of my audience, already drowning amidst (perceived or real) economic woes and around the clock election coverage: winter is coming, starting with frequent rainstorms. Bring it on.

My mother very wisely tells me to stop, tells me nobody is keeping me on this track, or will think any less of me for stopping. She's right (right?), and her words arise from great concern for her little baby. She hears me mutter the truth of my situation (for, after all, I would never lie to her, and anyways it would do no good, as I am as transparent as they come in my dishonesty), and hears the uncertainty, and we should be frank here, the fear of the unknown. But it is in these mutterings that she has missed the message, and I cannot blame her, because so have I, even as I muttered it.

There is no more powerful and meaningful lesson that I can learn from this walk than the one I will learn after finishing this second half. This trip, a veritable pleasure cruise, a delight for the senses, would only be a long-term vacation if it were not for the rainy days, the blisters forming on top of blisters, and the feelings of helplessness in an alien and sometimes unfriendly land. It is by entering this crucible that my character will be tempered, and the full scope of this voyage, this dream dreamed through so many tosses and turns, post-work commutes, and empty Sunday evenings, will be realized.

So, once again, please forgive my absences, and, I will be the first to admit, the book report quality accounts that have popped up once or twice as of late. It is impossible to be inspired every day, and least of all when one has twenty days worth of stories to recount. I truly do not know where the next few weeks will take me, now more than over, but I will do my best to observe, enjoy, and share my increasingly exotic surroundings. And on a timely basis, too.

The worst of the culture shock has passed, and the lessons have been learned. Don't bullsh*t the pizza chef and waste his time, acting out the equivalent of an Oxford lad asking for a fresh salad (with escaroles, please) at a Waffle House in Birmingham, Alabama. Calm down, they're not honking at you; they just love to lean on the damn horn at every possible moment. Stop swearing that the next person who asks you if you're going skiing is going to get a trekking pole here the sun doesn't shine. If the rabid-looking free-roaming mutt runs out of his yard at full speed and looks like he is going to tear out your Achilles tendon, square up and show him who the alpha dog is. Most of all, don't apply old rules to new situations. It's time to see what the South is all about.

Happy 1000, Pat.