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.