Monte Erice, and the land of Canaan

1/7 - Custonaci to Erice - 13.91

My groin still bothered me, but I was now two short days away from my destination, and had no intention of stopping. I moved slowly through olive groves, picked my way through a marble factory, walked along the empty boardwalk, and after asking for directions from the local elders, began the climb up to Erice. Luckily, I had my third straight day of nature paths, and was thankful for the tremendous view that spanned over what I had just walked. When I got to the top, I walked through one last pine grove, up a steep (and painful) bank, and had suddenly reached the enchanted medieval town of Erice.

The winter population of this famous summer destination was around 250, 1/10th of the summer population, and I enjoyed the empty cobble streets, which transported me back 100s of years. I wandered aimlessly, letting myself get lost in this maze of a town, when all of a sudden I came to a clearing, looked out toward the horizon, and found myself staring at Trapani, my land of Canaan.

I shouted spasmodically, raised my arms in victory, laughed uncontrollably, and repeated over and over the words "I made it." Six months of expectation, and here I had stumbled on a magnificent, and suitably dramatic view of my final stop. I could almost touch it, and I savored the immense satisfaction of my great victory, oblivious to the frigid wind mercilessly whipping my face. I will never forget the euphoric invincibility of those precious moments, when I let the scope of my accomplishments sink in. It was as if I had already finished.

But I hadn't, not yet, and I had to find a place to sleep. So I did, as I had so many days before, and through the owner of my rented room I met the owner of the bar below, who gave me a good price on some local dishes and wine. As he closed at 8, I took the food upstairs with me, prepared a little celebratory feast for myself, and contemplated what the next day would bring.

Finally, as I was restless, full of energy, and drunk with my accomplishment and the local white wine, I bundled up to the best of my ability, braced myself, and went out for a ramble in the cold, deserted town.

I must have walked a good 40 minutes, accompanied by the town mutt, who showed me around and kept me entertained with his antics, while the heavy cloud surrounding the town obstructed a night view of Trapani. I enjoyed seeing this delightful hilltop town in a way that most people never see, at its most empty, with all the windows shuttered against the cold, a unique and mysterious time capsule.

Arrggh, my groin! (yes, Simpsons fans, a direct reference)

1/6 - San Vito Lo Capo to Custonaci - 15.22 miles limped

Somewhere along the walk the day before, I had managed to strain my groin. From the moment I woke up, a sharp and stinging sensation made each movement excruciatingly painful, and as I prepared my bag, I wondered how I was going to make it out of San Vito Lo Capo. There was no way I was going to stay in this town for another wasted day, so I grit my teeth, and limped out of town, pausing every twenty minutes for a rest.

I will remember this day for the extreme pain I stubbornly bore, and not for much else. The sun was warm and shining brightly, I skirted the sea in a much smaller reserve, Monte Cofano, broke into an old Arab tower, napped on a boulder, and slept in a B&B facing Mount Erice, covered in a shroud of mist and obstructing my view of Trapani.

Riserva Lo Zingaro

1/5 Scopello to San Vito Lo Capo - 15.57 miles

I woke up in Scopello, a tiny town on the fringe of a nature reserve called Riserva Lo Zingaro (Gypsy Reserve, though there were no gypsies, don't worry). The place I had slept had been recommended to me back in August by Andrea and Silvia (from Genova), who had been here twice before and were in love with the area, and it was indeed a lovely, family-run establishment. After a delicious breakfast and long chat with the owner, who generously presented me with bread, jam, and fruit for lunch, I followed the signs to the reserve.

The man at the ticket booth held a long and passionate discourse on the folly of marriage, presenting a misogynistic and pessimistic case. He sat all day in the booth with no one to talk to, then went to a second job washing dishes, and returned home to his wife of 35 years, who only give him grief and made him feel small. I could not help but feel great compassion for this tormented soul, and tried to cheer him up, with little success.

I must have stood there, with backpack strapped tight, for over a half-hour, but when he began to repeat himself, I made good my escape, wishing him a change of heart or a path of mental escape. Still, I had some tasty food for thought as I began to explore the reserve, and was happy that his negativity had not stifled my good spirits.

The reserve was beautiful, a sea of brushland and small date palms, with several precious beaches tucked away in hard to reach inlets. I took the low road, forgoing the view of the steep hills directly above me for the ability to access the water. Having discovered that the reserve was quite small, I took my sweet time, thoroughly exploring different roads, eating a leisurely beach lunch, and relaxing in my isolation. This stretch of coast, somewhat comparable to the Cinque Terre in size, was the only other place where I had to pay to walk, but at least I only saw four people the whole time, while the Cinque Terre made walking feel like a long wait in a slow-moving line.

The rest of my day's walk took me up and down some seaside hills, through a great many cow, goat, and sheep pastures, and ended at San Vito Lo Capo, a recently and hastily constructed seaside tourist trap that was in 100% hibernation mode for the winter. I overpaid for my hotel, explored what felt like a ghost town, and hit the hay early.

Back on the trail - Trappeto to Scopello, and Bill the walker

1/4 - Trappeto to Scopello - 19.02 miles

My return to Trappeto felt like reentering an alternate universe. I was the only passenger to get off the two-car train, and found the tiny station completely deserted, just beginning to warm up in the early morning sunshine. I powered on the ol' trusty GPS, waited as it came out of its hibernation to find itself right where it left off twelve days before, and with a grunt under the weight of my backpack, found the forward momentum I needed to resume the journey.

I truly had not expected to find myself still walking in 2009, already over the 1500 miles I had conservatively but arbitrarily allotted myself, but it was impossible to find a reason to complain. I was in a particularly beautiful chunk of Sicily, the sun was out, I had all day to walk, and I was doing exactly what I wanted to do, and near the completion of a goal I had set for myself a long time ago. Yes, my spirits were high, the wind was at my back, and even the landscape cooperated, offering up one of the most beautiful stretches of fields and rolling hills that I had so far encountered.

So I walked, savoring and reflecting on one of the last days, watching the world awaken from its lazy Sunday slumber, and it was in this state of mind that I met Bill. Bill had started in Marsala, my ending point, and was planning to saunter along my path, ending up in Napoli by Spring. However, I could see Bill was doing things a little differently. He had rigged an old threadbare bag with hand-sewn reinforcements, had a second, smaller backpack around his chest, and was carrying two large plastic bags. In other words, he had all the trappings of a hobo, the kind I would have crossed the street to avoid in any other circumstance, but who I quickly saluted and approached, having identified him as a fellow walker.

An Englishman from Manchester, Bill had decided to become a real traveler eight years ago, and had walked, biked, hitchhiked, and ridden trains all over Southern Europe. When he ran out of money, he returned to the UK, worked odd jobs (the latest was in construction) until he had saved the minimum to leave, and then took off. He slept in abandoned buildings or tucked away in various corners, foraged in supermarket garbage bins for recently discarded food, went to charity centers whenever he found them, and was progressing at around ten miles per day. So it was that with 500€ he planned to walk six months, until the weather in the UK became bearable again.

Bill used a large, semi-rusted tin can to cook meals (it's lightweight, he boasted, and I thought back on the fancy miracle-metal all-purpose lightweight pan that I had jettisoned back in August), had crafted a guitar from twine, baling wire, and a 2x4 ("just add an empty plastic bottle for the sound cavity and it makes pretty good music"), and was toting around 30 kilos (66 pounds, compared to my 35) altogether.

Absolutely crazy, you say. But the most ticklish part of it all was that he wasn't. He shared his disappointment that his mother and sister never asked what he was doing, never took interest in his stories and what he had learned. He praised walking for the complete freedom and control of time it afforded him (sound familiar?). And when I asked him to name the most important thing he had learned in eight years of traveling, he looked off wistfully into the expanse of blue to his right, and said: "every ripple, every drop of the water that we see has been organized that way by a higher power, and that higher power has never ceased to look after me and keep me from harm. I believe that we are placed here on Earth to live as closely in harmony as we can with that higher power, and that is why I continue to walk." Amen, Bill.

We shook hands, I gave him a small gift that had been given to me, and as I walked away, I thought long and hard about Bill's choices, and whether I had done my walk the right way. The first sensation I felt was envy: Bill was doing it the old fashioned way, the way of the true traveler, relying on luck and ingenuity, and above all, Providence to see the world. I thought about all my fancy, store-bought gear and felt so foolish, so plastic and helpless, knowing that I would never be that kind of traveler. Bill's freedom was absolute, concrete, while mine was purchased with money and on borrowed time.

Then I thought about the inherent trade off of Bill's travel style, that of breaking contact with society. Once you gain absolute freedom, you are no longer constrained by society, true, but nor can you reenter it without giving up a portion of that freedom. This is, in essence, the social contract, and a man like Bill had torn his up along the path. While I was certainly skirting society's fringes,looking in with an outsider's perspective, I was never fully out, either. Yes, people stared and sometimes turned their backs on me, but they also welcomed me into their homes, shared their lives and hopes and stories with me, and taught me about their culture. This social contact, as I hope you will agree, is one of the most attractive and fulfilling parts of a journey such as this one, and it was the realization of its importance that ultimately quelled my sense of envy. They were different adventures, mine and Bill's, but I had chosen the one I wanted, and did not regret the consequences.

What do you think about when you walk?

There was a day that I almost lost it, a very difficult day with lots of constant rain. As a way of distracting myself from an uncomfortable and unpleasant reality, I withdrew into my thoughts, and decided that I would post a chunk of them in a blog post later on, as an answer to the often-asked question "What do you think about when you walk?" Strangely enough, I remember much of my thought process for most of the walk, and after some editing, have presented it here in the order I thought it out. So here goes, my first attempt at stream-of-consciousness writing.

The original Blog Post
The Album

Are you forgetting anything passport wallet gps mp3 camera chapstick toiletries nope all there leave the keys on the inside she said close the door last chance sure I didn't forget anything? well too late now. GPS on, what am I looking at today, do I have a signal shit it's really raining hard, this thing takes forever patience pat there it is 19 miles but looks pretty roundabout, I'll ask when I get down the hill. Deep breath, ready for some rain?

This is going to be a long day - has the water entered my shoes yet? Let's tighten the drawstring on the hood, that's better, oops there goes my left foot I wonder why it's always the first to soak through does that mean I step harder with my left or distribution problems or bad posture or maybe because I always walk on the left side and the road puddles on the sides who knows? There goes the right, geez I've only gone 50 meters - remember to put that in the post, but convert to yards then feet, pretty much the same - what is it again? 1 in=2.54 cm 1.00/2.54, 30x2 + 30x.5 is 75 too low, 40x2 + 40x.5 = 100 so a little over 36 inches and under 40 close enough to say 3 feet to a meter, so 150 feet.

Where am I going? Lean forward, cover the GPS, I'm surprised it hasn't broken from all the water that's landed on it. Left-right-left-left too complicated, I'll just eye it and let my nose lead me. Hey wow awesome view should I risk getting the camera wet? Here's an overhang, will the picture still come out ok? Hate this new camera, damn it - hey look a cactus growing out of an abandoned house, don't slip down the stairs now, hey someone added 4-inch wide 4x2.54 = 8+.2 8.2 cm concrete ramps on these stairs I wonder why? Wheeling up a cart, driving up a moto? Depends when they did it I guess

Wow that's a fat yellow lab - is he friendly? Don't show fear pat, smile and show him you're friendly - where's his master? Too well-fed to be a stray hi big guy, yeah you're sure happy, even in the rain, huh? Time to give you a good scratch - what am I going to do with all this hair sticking to me and nowhere to wash off oh well that's what the rain is for, one more scratch, don't lean on me too hard now boy, I hope his master doesn't mind - ok buddy time to go, see you later - no, don't follow, I can't take care of you, that's a good guy, ok one last rub, now I gotta go, man I wish I had a dog on this walk, but what would I do with one? Better not think about it, you have enough trouble by yourself...

Geez, so many steps, so much water, look cactus fruit should I grab one, they're ripe no too much bother with the rain gotta keep moving, long day anyway. Roundabout, which way, GPS says left but I wanna see Nicotera marina, turn right, now I have to cancel the navigation or else this thing won't shut up. Wow my feet are really soaked now, avoid the puddle, car, car, car can they even see me? Let's put on some music when there's an overhang to protect the player shit I needed to take a left back there, looks like a good road though, lots of trees and no cars - I should pee here but where? Man, smells like rainy trees, I need to write about this smell at some point but what can I say to describe rainy tree smell? Sometimes you just gotta go out for a walk in the rain to smell rainy tree smell hey rain cover, let's put on the music now, time for some good concentrated listening - Beethoven string quartet it is, you always scroll right to him, don't you?

Ok Pat concentrate, forget about wet feet, gotta pee, ok, when you find a hidden corner - wait, start again, you weren't listening - I like the start, 123 123 hey this isn't in 4s, oh Beethoven, you trickster - hey I really gotta write down all the things I listen for, how I listen, I wonder if people would care to read it who cares, it's a good exercise and even if nobody reads or listens it's still worth it. This is so good, so involving, deep, I wish people would put in the effort, how many times can I say it? You're gonna wear people out with it Pat, gotta calm down and not scare them away so how do i do it in a way that's engaging? The music itself is engaging, you just have to show them how to listen and Beethoven will take it from there hey my trip and blog writing is kinda like Beethoven's work output, early middle late period, the early period was full of details and a little more stuck in a certain style, middle is heroic and full of bigger more meaningful works, posts get longer, then my late period should really be amazing, one powerhouse after the other, lots of different approaches in style, more about ideas and impressions rather than step by step descriptions yeah but the who the sam hell am I to compare any of the crap I put on paper to Beethoven? Well whatever the case, I gotta put down the analysis on paper, but what examples to use? How about this quartet, seems interesting enough but early Beethoven so close enough to classical period, easier to absorb and understand, ok but now I've lost concentration, start again.

[6 minutes of concentrated listening]

Gotta pee, gotta pee, gotta pee, this place will have to do, pretend like you're looking at the pretty olive grove, back to the road, no sense trying to hide, you have a huge blue plastic bag on your back ahhhhhhhahhhhhahhh - shit, car, is it the Carabinieri? What a horrible way to get myself kicked out of Italy, no just a normal car - why is it that there were no cars for the last half hour, then one in 30 seconds of peeing - yup, there's a second car, never fails, oh well too late now, just hope this isn't their olive grove much better, how did I need to pee so badly when I haven't drunk - or is it drank, never get that one right - any water? Osmosis through my feet, haha. Wow I'm cold oh no gotta start the quartet again, lost concentration

[25 minutes of quasi-concentrated listening]

Yep, gotta remember this, perfect beginning piece haven't listened like that in a long time, where have I been all these years - hey! Gershwin, now there's a great composer - is it just my perception or has my head been in the sand for this long? time to renew this hey what the hell is that? an octopus roadkill - now that's a new one how did it get here? Flood, no someone threw it off the truck I bet but why? looks good to me, still fresh, car, car, move over ha I wonder what they think with me staring down at the road, they probably don't even see octopus roadkill, just some weirdo I wonder if that guy who crossed Europe on 1€ a day and ate roadkill would've braved this one well if you can eat mangled cat with intestines pouring out then this is probably a delicacy, how the hell could he do it, how did he know what to eat, the smell test? Man, he can have all the acclaim and attention he wants for that one, no freaking way I'm eating octopus roadkill. Man Italians litter all the time, even octopi, but hey it's pretty clean here, I can enjoy the greenery - it's fall here, that's for sure, look at all the leaves and dead flowers, seed shells, what kind of tree is this? Gotta learn the tree names but how and with what time? God how little I know when it comes down to it. This is fall, eh, I wonder how many people stop to see the fallen leaves, to realize that these trees are alive, follow a process, and are happy for all this rain. Well, I'm happy if you're happy, tree, but I wonder if you roots are as thoroughly soaked and swollen as mine are?

Crossroad, turn right, any cars, yep, smile for them, what are you looking at, can't a guy take a walk during a violent downpour? Looks warm and dry in there, keep smiling, Pat, you've given them something to talk about at lunch, if they even saw you, who knows, people can be so oblivious, so robotic - when's the last time you walked in the rain besides this walk anyways?

My right shoulder hurts, why didn't my physical therapist respond, gotta remember to follow up when I get to internet, gosh hope it doesn't stay like this forever, take a deep breath Pat, time to learn good posture it's your fault it hurts from your stooping, for overpacking, no sense bitching, people have worse problems, stand up straight now, keep walking - I'm hungry gotta find food, but where the hell am I? 4.6 miles to town, that's 1 hour 32 minutes at 3/hour. I'm going more like 3.5 though so more like 1 hour 20 something minutes, well let's hope you find something open, you know how these Calabresi are with their lunch hours. Any orange trees near the road - none yet, keep going and you're bound to find something holy crap look at that, this is a serious flood I've walked into, all this muddy rain water must pollute the sea - I mean this swollen river's really moving. I don't think this is an ordinary day. And here I am walking through it, with giant holes in my shoes I'm cold just think of the soldiers who invaded Russia with cardboard boots, this is a walk in the park - they should make all the top brass and politicians walk in extreme conditions with poor equipment not to make them suffer but so they realize how much it influences morale. it makes all the difference in weather like this car, good thing to realize in understanding war Pat, and also accepting the fact that your morale is low well at least my jacket and pants and backpack cover keep the rain out atta boy think positive.

Am I crazy? Have I gone crazy? I feel very separate from society, and am certain people would call me crazy if they forced me to talk right now. Maybe I am crazy or maybe they're closed minded, a little from column A, little from Column B is this whole walk idea crazy? Ha how many times have they called me crazy on this trip, but people call things like this crazy when they don't see themselves capable of undertaking them aha! but that's just what a crazy person would say, but doesn't my accepting the possibility of being crazy exclude me from being crazy? and who has the crazy-o-meter anyways, to tell me I'm crazy - and how can you judge crazy in one encounter? I would only talk in abstract terms if I met someone, to hell with small talk, if I meet someone I'm going straight for the jugular hey look that farm is completely flooded what a disaster what can I do to help look at these people gaping at this poor guy as he surveys the damage maybe I can help "la posso aiutare?" Yeah he's right, nothing I can do anyways, the water's past his knees and the rain's not letting up. Well no use just standing there watching him helpless and miserable like all these people, never stop to look at a car wreck or someone else's misfortune, what a sick thing it is when you think about it why do we have the strong instinct to see explosions and disasters, why does work stop in an office when we hear a car crash, I don't think it's out of sympathy or concern but because we secretly, subconsciously delight in others' misfortune, that Lost in the Cosmos author was right. Well I can't avoid the impulse to look, but I can control that impulse, truly desire to help and move on when there's nothing to be done, still a picture is in order to catalogue the event, but does that make me a hypocrite? I know I wouldn't take a picture of a car crash, I didn't back in Gaeta so maybe when it's a natural disaster and no human lives are in danger it's okay or is that justification to keep me from feeling like a hypocrite? Well you moved on, offered to help, and wanted to remember the disaster because you walked right through it, I don't think that comes from that impulse to see other's misfortune but rather to celebrate my own perseverance in walking - beware the sin of pride Pat.

My feet are really swollen I wonder if I'll lose toenails, stand up straight, hip forward, feel the abs and upper thighs, how much left till lunch I'm hungry should I put on music no I'm almost there and no sense risking the Zune in this rain you're so lucky, so far only having lost a camera just don't push your luck the Zune and the GPS are the most important. How much left till town 3.2 so a bit less than an hour if I don't stop to take take pictures what time is it okay start now now get to town in less than one hour, go.

This is a nice road, lots of trees, but it doesn't look as good as - car, move to the left, avoid the puddle, big step now to that shallow spot - it does from above, views are always nicer than being in the midst of the land, but then again views always make me want to walk through what I'm seeing. When will you be truly satisfied, when will you find your pastoral landscape well you already did in Valle d'Aosta, but even then that did not feel complete, but I guess that's what makes explorers explorers, there's always another hill, a different trail, a different time of the year to see something, I wanna keep exploring, even when I reach Trapani just keep going, give up everything and just go on and on - you can't no money, responsibility to family, and it's gotta end sometime, Pat, you can't just keep going and going forever, fine but why so soon? How can I get paid for this without having to sell out, beg for money, or be forced to self-promote? You can't, something's gotta give, or you just have to stop, like you set out to do before. Fine, but then what's next - Pat stop it, no use rehashing this, no amount of thinking will prepare you further, enjoy your freedom but no I want to think about it dammit, so what's next, how can I go back to a desk and computer, how can I fit back into society now? You'll do it, you've always done it, get right back into it, humans are adaptable, but will you be this happy? No. That's the question car move to the left avoid the puddle, that was close, look up again, remember to look at the trees and the farms and the buildings, what does rain sound like don't just look down at puddles all day or you'll miss what's around you. Oop, there's the shoulder pain again, stand up straight, tighten the hip belt, upper-lower shoulder straps, that's a bit better, readjust, I'm hungry, how much left, 2.2 miles at 3.5 is around 40 minutes, a bit less, no orange trees, I miss blackberries car behind, sounds like a truck, right again, another skill to put on the resume, haha - what kind of job will I do not again Pat get over it, enjoy this while you can.

Palermo with a local and his friends

January 2,3

When people used to ask me where I would sleep in Italy, I always used to say that people I met on the walk would have me hopefully have me stay with their relatives further on. This had happened very few times, and with friends, not relatives, but after my ten day stint in Reggio Calabria, I finally had a family lead. Antonio's Aunt and Uncle live in Palermo, but as they were out, there was only his 18-year old cousin, Salvatore. Still, Salvo (short for Salvatore) promised at least to show me around, and I was happy to have a guide.

After the long return back to Palermo, I met up with Salvo and his lifelong friend, conveniently also named Salvo, and within minutes I received the invitation to stay for two nights. Happy to have passed the smell test, I gratefully accepted, and we got right down to business, with a stop for an arancino. This fried ball of rice has a clump of tender minced meat in the middle that simply melts as it glides down your throat, and I resisted the temptation to get a second one, as we were going back to Salvo's for dinner.

The following day was jampacked with activity. After picking up another one of Salvo's friends, we went off to Mondello, judged to be one of Italy's 5 most beautiful beaches, and just outside the center of Palermo. I wasn't blown away, but it was nice, and I got a lemon granita, or what we know as an Italian ice but far superior, to commemorate the visit. After a stroll and a few pictures, it was up to Monte San Pellegrino for some stellar views of Palermo, the surrounding mountains, the coastline, and expanse of sea. Another arancino was in order, this one as big as a softball and even tastier than the one from the day before. When that was destroyed, we made a stop for lunch with Salvo's Dad, and then Salvo dropped me off with the other Salvo and some other mutual friends, who were thrilled to have an American guest interested in seeing the real Palermo.

So, together with four tour guides, i saw the main sites: the duomo, the fountain in front of the Comune, various structures from the Normans, Arabs, and Spaniards, old neighborhoods, Martorana shops (named after the marzipan-based food sculptures imitating fruit and other objects), and on and on. There is something very ticklish about a group of high school students just bursting with newly-learned information, so ready to discuss any topic at length. Everyone had an area of expertise, lots of dates were questioned and corrected, and I benefited from the zeal of my young guides.

After an evening mass at the "brotherhood" church, a mixture of new age Catholicism and Southern Baptism with a surprisingly large and loyal following, we all went out for kebabs. These kebabs were a step above the ordinary run-of-the-mill stuff peddled throughout Italy, and further confirmation that Palermitani take their food very very seriously. Finally, we made a stop at a fancy beer joint, a stop I suspect was in my honor, and I savored a Belgian brown ale while Salvo the Second had a 9% Norwegian lager, and two others split a Becks. Boy was I shocked when my suggestion for round 2 was shot down, despite the fact that everyone was 17-19, prime drinkin' days for the average American lad. In a way, I was happy to have my offer denied: I had been an Augustus Gloop for too long, and needed to get back to the lean n' mean mentality of a long-distance walker.

A little self-promotion

The first article that talks about my travels (click the nex button toward the bottom of the article to go to page 2)!

Daily Pennsylvanian, my University's daily newspaper

Enjoy,
Pat

Reggio during the Holidays, a trip to Gambarie, and New Years

Gambarie and life in Reggio
View the Gambarie Album

I often stated during my ten-day stay in Reggio Calabria that it was definitely harder than walking, and I really was not joking. As everyone was on vacation for two weeks (yes, Italians receive the same amount of time for Christmas as most Americans get all year), a party atmosphere prevailed for my entire stay, and I did not go to bed before three or wake up before 11. After all that healthy living, this lifestyle took its toll on me, and I realized that I had outgrown it, since after all I had lived four years of it during college.

However, this realization came only at the end, and as I am not the type to go home when something is going on, and neither is Enzo, we made sure to live it up as much as possible. There was lots of card playing nights and parties centered around gambling (poker, bingo, and randomly enough, baccarat), which though I mostly watched from the sideline were interesting from a cultural perspective (not to mention that the holiday sweets were always bounteous). Besides these evenings, we milled around the Corso and hit up bars often.

There was even an excursion to a mountain cabin above Reggio, to a little town called Gambarie. The Aspromonte, in the interior of Calabria, featured year-round snow, countless nature trails, ski slopes, and a sleepy square of shops and food markets. Having decided only that day to head up, we spent the early afternoon buying lots of food, and when we had picked up all the guys at their houses, we drove the 45 minutes up, blasting traditional humorous songs in the Calabrian dialect.

The cabin was charming, a two-story rustic building filled with appropriate decorations and furnishings, and the first order of business was to build a blazing fire. Once we were nice and warm, we settled in for some card playing, with an entertaining variant of Uno using Neapolitan playing cards.

There was also lots of story telling, meat eating, and wine drinking. Actually, it bears mention that each person had brought bottles of wine made by their relatives in the country, that this was a common practice and an acceptable alternative to buying wine in stores. Sure, the quality was not top-notch, but each bottle was delicious in its own way, tasting like the earth that produced it and reminiscent of ancient customs.

The next morning was warm enough for us to go on a nature hike in the woods, and between hopping over streams and searching for mushrooms, we managed to appreciate the dominant beauty of this area. Having worked up a hunger, we had a lunch of giant sandwiches and beers, and enjoyed each other's company until the coming of evening, when it was time to descend back to reality.

New Years
View the New Years Prep album - lots of food shots!
View the New Years party album

As you might expect, the planning for New Years revolved around Italy's favorite pastime, eating, and we were lucky to have an ace up our sleeve in Antonio, who had taken courses in Italian cuisine and had even worked a bit as a chef. The tradition with this group of friends was different from the norm, as they ate an all-fish dinner on New Years Eve.

Enzo and I headed over to Antonio's place around three, and he was already up to his elbows in seafood. We all kept him company, performed simple tasks like shelling shrimp and de-scaling fish, and went out to buy a few last-minute items, as well as some white wine from Campania and Sicily. It was interesting to me that wines from other parts of the country more world-famous for their production, such as Piedmont, Tuscany, and Trentino Alto Adige, were never seriously considered, and that wines from other countries were non-existent in the store. They all say "why pay more for a foreign wine when your next door neighbor makes it better for dirt cheap?" And I can see where they're coming from, even if I disagree.

After a quick trip home to dress up a bit (Enzo lent me some clothes, another manifestation of his extremely generous nature), we came back to Antonio's, and saw an absolute bonanza, a true feast of mouth-watering proportions. There was swordfish roulade (or involtini, as they call them), seasoned sardines, shrimp risotto, a giant fish baked under salt, octopus salad, handmade ravioli filled with shrimp, swordfish sashimi, stuffed calamari, and more.

The meal lasted three hours, included various courses, and was more than anyone could handle. It was time to start partying.

We watched the countdown on TV, everyone counting aloud together, and then the pop of multiple bottles of prosecco (not champagne, mind you) punctuated the passing of the New Year, along with hollering, singing, and jumping up and down. Everyone exchanged hugs, blew on noisemakers, and went outside to light off fireworks. They weren't alone either: Reggio sounded like a war zone, with huge explosions sounding off every few seconds, followed by joyful squeals.

And just for a moment, a brief minute or two, I missed my home, my family, my friends, and my country. I had been away a long time, and I sighed a secret sigh amidst the delirious festivities.

It really only did last a few minutes, though, and I returned to the group, who were just then flinging fireworks off the balcony and tittering enthusiastically. Deciding to share a bit of my New Years traditions, I found Glenn Miller's version of Auld Lang Syne on YouTube, the classic big band version of that indispensable New Year's anthem, and soon had everyone dancing.

We danced a bit, the noisemakers and kazoos only grew louder with each glass of prosecco, and then we did the bar shuffle, exchanging greetings with all of Reggio, and running down the main drag in a dance train. After the bars closed at 4:30, it was off to a house party, where we continued the festivities until 7:30 or so in the morning.

I was an absolute wreck the next day, worn out from the compounded effects of 9 straight days of craziness. It was time for me to get back on the road, and I was more than ready.

A Video (in Italian) of me discussing my travels with my 2003 host family

L’Italia a piedi [Patrick ci racconta...]

This 8:40 video is an edited version of a one-hour conversation I had with my host family from Padova, just outside Venezia. After my walk, I promised to go visit them, and stayed there for three days.

The family:
Host father Mario Galzigna, a University professor of Psychology and Epistemology at Università Ca Foscari in Venezia (his blog)
Host mother Maddalena Mapelli, a middle school Italian teacher, and editor of a blog turned book, Ibridamenti, which is a collective of various Italian intellectuals speaking on a variety of subjects
Host brother Matteo, a concert pianist, all-around genius, and dear friend
Host sister Sara, an 11-year-old violinist and a budding intellectual mind

Heady stuff. Anyhow, if you can understand Italian, this is a nice little video about my travels, and I hope you enjoy.

Christmas in Reggio Calabria

The possibility of spending Christmas alone was something I had considered, but never seriously thought would happen. In the end, I was right, and just to make me feel loved, I received five separate unsolicited invitations. Lucky for me, the first one to officially come in was the closest one geographically, and I was happy to take the six to seven hour trip across the island of Sicily, by sea over the strait of Messina, and down the coast to Reggio, to the waiting car of my good friend Enzo.

Within minutes of my arrival, I was already in full family mode, getting to know Enzo's sisters Giusi and Rita, and catching up with Enzo's mom. Everyone made me feel truly welcome, and I fit right in.

My reunion with all the guys went just as smoothly, and we partied in the streets until three or so on the night before the 24th. I remember being shocked at just how quickly I felt close to all these guys, as if I had known them for years, and this sensation only grew during the ten days I spent in RC.

Christmas eve started with a trip to Reggio Calabria's main corso, essentially a long promenade in the center of town, lined with shops and packed at any time of the day and night. Enzo and I exchanged auguri, or greetings, with anyone and everyone, and it really seemed that everyone knew each other in this city of +200,000. Dinner was spent with all the siblings at the house of Enzo's mother, who had prepared a delicious fish dinner per tradition, with some family variations. There were nine of us at the table, and in Enzo's Aunt's apartment next door there was another group of thirty or so cousins, great uncles, little nieces, and so on, ages 2 to 85. Every year after dinner, Santa Claus (Babbo Natale) makes an appearance in full dress, with a huge sack of presents for the whole family. The last three years had seen a Calabrian Santa Claus, played by Enzo, but as the kids were starting to catch on, the family decided that it was time for a different Santa Claus.

Once this was decided, it was no longer possible for me to meet the rest of the family, as the kids would see and realize the hoax. Therefore, most of dinner was spent distracting and blocking increasingly curious children from entering our dining room.

When dinner was over, and dessert had been served, devoured, and digested, it was time for me to get into my costume, put on the beard, and assume the character. My back stiffened, legs bent, pace slowed, face assumed a permanent smile. I was ready, almost: fumbling in Enzo's Mom's makeup bag, I found the eyeliner, and added the grey of age to my face by blotting and blurring around nose, under eyes, and on the sides of my mouth. I don't think anyone was prepared for such a serious approach to the Santa role, but for me this was more than just a three-minute-out-of-character-hand-out-presents kind of performance. I hope to play Santa many times in my life, experience the joy of seeing the eyes of little children light up in wonder and delight, bounce my sister's children on my lap, and this was my first go at it, so it had to be all-out. An audition for myself, if you will.

Nobody expected what was comin': the little ones were stupefied, having expected to see their cousin, and could not but believe that Santa had really made it this year. The parents had me speak some English to prove my non-local authenticity, we all belted out a round of Jingle Bells, and I proceeded to invite each and every family member, from the little ones to the oldest grandparents, onto my lap. They went wild: the little ones squealed with delight, the parents turned into children, and the grandparent's eyes twinkled as they slowly settled onto my lap, whispering a heart-felt thank you for putting on such a special performance to give the little ones a memorable Christmas.

When each of the 20+ presents had been delivered, group photos had been taken, and even Enzo received a gift, it was time to get back on the sleigh. My assistant the Befana, or the good witch who comes to clear out all the holiday celebrations on January 6th, played by Giusi, Enzo's sister, helped Old St. Nick out of the room, and off I went into the not-so-frosty Calabrian night.

I performed a quick change, cleaned off the makeup, and after some hiding, escaped with Enzo without a single child seeing me. What a joyful memory, how fulfilling to get to be the giver of all those presents! The first run at playing Santa Claus was, all in all, a galloping success, and there were already calls for a return in 2009. I think I found my calling!

Enzo and I went back to the main drag of town, where everyone had gathered to see one another and exchange season's greetings. Lots of joyous hugs and kisses were bestowed, I was graciously included in the revelry, and stories of my Santa exploits were recounted. People described in great detail the sumptuous meals and compared family traditions and recipes, lots of jokes and general merriment filled the air, and so we passed a good bit of time, until everyone headed to bars. Yes, bars, and I was a bit scandalized as well, that is, until everyone reminded me that Christmas Eve isn't the holiday, just Christmas Day.

The last walk of the year - Trappeto

12/22 - Sferracavallo to Trappeto - 22.01
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This day marked my first sighting of a sign pointing to Trapani, and I was absolutely giddy with the thought of being so near the end. 99 kilometers, it read, three days if I raced to the finish, but as it was already the 22nd and Christmas was two days away, I knew I would get to take my time.

So I did just that, strolling down the road and watching as the fast-paced buzz of outer Palermo calmed to roadside retail, then small-town speed, and finally the malaise of semi-rural gardens and pastures. After a trip to buy a bag full of pastries, a must-do as I was leaving the confines of Palermo and had no idea when I'd be back again, I pigged out on the bready sweets on a small mound in the middle of an empty plot of land. Lunch spots spring up in various shapes and sizes.

The rest of the walk was through farmland, olive and orange groves, horse pastures, and a sprinkling of houses, all set against the backdrop of mountains rising dramatically from the sea, blocking off Palermo from the rest of Sicily. I saw one of my favorite pastoral landscapes of the trip, beautiful in its tranquil simplicity, and when the sun fell, I found myself in the town of Trappeto.

A few quick phone calls gave me the idea of what a room cost, but when none of them satisfied me, I walked into a seaside restaurant, made a deal with the owner that included dinner, and headed up to my room for a nap. All that strolling makes a soul tired, you know.

My dinner was simply delicious, a seafood based feast which included a devouring of an entire fish, eyeballs and all, for the second course. The owner took a shining to me, so the wine was self-serve, and I had a giant plate of fruit set before me to finish the meal. They really do know how to set a delicious table, these Sicilians. It is completely different from what Americans consider Italian food, and as such answers the classic American question about Italy: "How could you eat the same ethnic food every day?!" The answer: you could prepare a different Italian dinner every day for a year and never eat the same thing twice, and your health would improve dramatically, to boot.

The walk away from, to, and through Palermo

12/21 - Bagheria to Palermo to Sferracavallo - 19.69

For all my travel expertise, sometimes I simply blow it. Having purchased my return ticket to Bagheria the evening before, I woke up this morning already certain of having missed the train. Sure enough, I was one minute too late, and it being Sunday, the next train was in two hours.

Well, no sense bitching, I thought, and got to walking, this time away from Palermo instead of towards it. It was a strange way to get to know the city, leaving instead of arriving, but the alternative meant wasting a sunny day sitting on my hands.

I bought some fantastic pastries for breakfast, taking advantage of being in Palermo, arguably the pastry and dessert capital of Italy, haggled with a fruit vendor for two oranges, and after a walk straight down a 1960s post-fascist apartment block full of angry, silently threatening characters, reached the coast.

The walk was pretty standard aside from a stretch of "make your own trail," my favorite walking activity, especially when it works out without me having to backtrack. I struggled and growled my way through a bamboo thicket reminiscent of Junior Varsity football strength exercises, jumped over a railing or two, walked through a lush field of weeds, picked my way over boulders, and crossed an illegal dumping ground. Good stuff.

Having reached Bagheria on foot, I returned once more to Palermo, and started to cross the whole town, but this time took a different route through the city, into one of Palermo's characteristic markets. It's funny how we adapt, how quickly we forget fear and discomfort; just two months ago I was petrified of the market in Napoli, which was a lot more open and orderly than this one. Now, fully adjusted to the ways of Southern Italy, and actually quite fond of them, I strolled through the bustle with just the right mixture of caution, curiosity, and tranquility. I bought a fried sardine sandwich, topped with a dash of salt and pepper and served in some brown wrapping paper (the kind that turns transparent as it absorbs grease, mmm), found it absolutely delicious, walked up and down a few representative alleys, and was on my way.

My destination was the Youth Hostel, apparently on the edge of town, and when I reached it at sunset, I immediately regretted the choice. I was paying two euros less than what I had paid at my centrally located hotel to share a room with someone and lose another night to explore Palermo. Still, I was already there, and the bus would take at least an hour, so I decided to simply suck it up and stay put.

As far as hostels go, this one was pretty unique, as it was a converted tourist village with little cabins connected by lushly landscaped pathways. I shared my room with someone who apparently was living there, but as he was not home, I took advantage of my private time to get some rest.

My hostel roommate was surprised to see me, but quickly recovered his composure and introduced himself. Gregory and I were soon buddies, and as it was time for me to go eat dinner, he accompanied me down to the row of restaurants on the beach. As he had already eaten, the choice of restaurant was up to me, so I picked a sandwich shop on the water. The most famous sandwich in Palermo is con milza, or veal spleen, and everybody had raved about it, so I gave it a try, along with a large beer. Though not quite my kind of texture, it was certainly tasty, and I followed it with a porchetta (a delicious type of cooked pork, one of my favorites) and spicy salami sandwich. In the meantime, Gregory and I traded stories, and he talked in sketchy terms about a business plan he had formed and was just starting to implement.

When we got back to the hostel, I agreed to sit through his pitch on video telephony, was happy for him and his choice but also relieved for the easy out I had, that of lacking startup capital. This was not my type of thing, I knew, but I admired Gregory's courage for coming from France, plopping himself down in a hostel outside of Palermo, and starting from scratch. It is certainly not an easy thing to do, and I was sorry for him, as he had no plans for Christmas and was not returning home.

I wished him the best of luck, wrote down a number of places for him to visit on foot later in life at his request, and said goodnight.