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.