Pat in Italy

Reflections a year later

2010-04-04T18:09:00.002+02:00

So you know what I've learned about finishing a blog and then leaving it dormant on the web? Whenever I tell someone about my blog, or they hear about it, or they stumble upon it, they see the last post I wrote. If they have some time on their hands or want to find something out about me, they'll maybe read a few more posts down the list, but I doubt anyone is going to the older pages unless they fall upon them during an unrelated web search. Why does this matter to me, and why have I decided to break the silence after a year? Well, I could say it's because I miss the act of writing, the catharsis and the thrill of expressing myself to an audience, but these feelings alone were not enough to bring me back. The real reason I have returned to the blog, if only for this post, was to firmly plant something above these numero-centric entries.

What a complete misrepresentation of my blog that all those numbers represent! It was never about the numbers; no, it was about freedom and generosity and the time to stop in the middle of a field, eat a lunch of bread and oranges while sitting on the ground, and take a nap with my backpack as a pillow. It was not about the number of times I stepped in poop or how many football fields I walked; it was about coincidences that made my mouth twitch with joy, about dishes eaten, animals spotted, and ancient ruins explored in awe-inspiring solitude.

This evening, so many days later, I reflect, and not for the first time, on how different my life is now. How different I have become, I would even venture. Somewhere in the process of finding a job in Rome, settling into a life there, yanking myself out right as I truly started to fit in, and finally plopping myself down in New York with no money and no job, I lost the vigorous ebullience that characterized every word of this account. Today I struggle to remain patient as I weave through an endless mass of humanity, cursing under my breath at their comparatively slow pace and forgetting with each passing day how I used to be able to wait three hours without the slightest hint of impatience. Or I feel compelled to spend all my free time in the pursuit of money, simply in order to afford my absurdly overpriced stay here. In the process, I push back the memories of all the lunches I picked from trees and bushes, and how tickled an unexpected cache of blackberries used to make me feel.

Even so, I know deep down that I do not have to act this way. I instinctively make regular contact with my past, and though I am outwardly cursing my own silliness while I type in the familiar address to my own blog, I lose any notion of frivolity once the page loads. In fact, I feel rather as though I have come home from a long and weary journey. My bedroom is the list of old posts at the bottom left, and each month is a box full of my most precious belongings from a bygone day. I pick through them at random, averting my eyes from the page as I click so as to surprise myself with the memory that I find before me. Each post conjures up a plethora of details that remained unwritten, and I form vivid recreations of places and conversations and feelings. Keeping this blog has allowed me to preserve and nurture these priceless memories, and so my attachment to them may explain why it is I recoil at the idea of leaving the blog with facts and figures at the top. No, this was never about the numbers.

Nor is it about lost glory days or a self-pity party! As my father has wisely said on more than one occasion, this is just a small chapter in my life. And I truly feel that my time in Italy was exactly that: a blissful and characteristic encapsulation of the buoyant idealism of my mid-twenties. But now I find myself in the beginning of a new chapter, and though it so far lacks exotic adventures and major physical feats, it is replete with hard-earned lessons, flourishes of hopeless but heartfelt romance, decisions that are presently altering the course of my life, and a brilliantly colorful cast of friends who inspire, respect, and support me.

This new chapter will probably not be recounted in blog form, but the old one stands before you. So if you came because you wanted to learn more about me or my trip, then go read about my frolic with the ibexes, the time 10 euros was taken from me and later returned, my stint on the vineyard, the string of good fortune starting in Salerno, and the group of lifelong friends I made in Reggio Calabria. Read anything you like, but please, whatever you do, don't stop at the numbers!

By the Numbers - Miscellaneous

2009-04-01T19:54:00.002+02:00

Miscellaneous

Highest Elevation	10800	Col di Lauson, Aosta
Lowest Elevation	0	Sea Level
Starting Weight of Bag	40 lbs
Peak Weight of Bag	44 lbs
Ending Weight of Bag	28 lbs
Starting Weight of Pat	170 lbs
Peak Weight of Pat	170 lbs
Ending Weight of Pat	162 lbs
Times offered a ride	6
Times I accepted	1	See Removing the Asterisk post
Days Camping in first 2 months	20
Days Camping after that	0	Campsites closed
Times I used a laundromat	1
Times Stepped in Poop	1	In Palermo. Think for a minute about how small a number that is in 6 months.
Negative Experiences (not including poop ordeal)	2	Not bad for 6 months of traveling alone!
Masses Attended	4
Items Lost	4	Pedometer, 3€ calling card, 2 plastic squeeze bottles
Pairs of Shoes Consumed	3
Times I wore my fancy, 50$ hat	4
Beethoven Sonatas Studied	32
Posts that Reference Beethoven	12
Posts where I excuse my lack of posts	8
Number of Blog Posts (not including this series)	165	That's .91 posts per day of the trip!
Car Accidents Witnessed	0	!!!
Mayors, Ex-Mayors, and Vice Mayors met	3
Times stopped by the police	3
Epics heard via books on tape	3	Iliad 2x, Odyssey
Long Distance walkers met on the trail	5
Journals filled	4
Thank You Postcards Sent	20

The Uncountables

Coffees Offered

Times I peed on the side of the road (must have been all those coffees)

Good experiences

Times I said Thank You

Number of times asked "are you going skiing?"

Times that was not funny

Kilos of pig products consumed

Liters of wine consumed (best guess: 60 liters)

By the Numbers - Money

2009-03-31T19:44:00.001+02:00

	Euros	Dollars
Total Spent	6493.47	9170.12
Average per day	35.29	49.84
Average per week	247.03	348.88
Average per month	1058.7	1495.2
Average Exchange rate	1.4
Max Exchange rate	1.59
Min Exchange rate	1.25

Note: Calculations of totals and averages in dollars based on daily exchange rate. Also, total spent reflects amount spent on the actual walk, and does not include preparatory costs or insurance.

Totally Free Days	16
Days Under 10 Euros	30
Days Over 100 Euros	1
Days over 50 Euros	40

Avg/day by region	Euros
Aosta	40.74
Piemonte	21.57
Liguria	19.3
Toscana	24.44
Lazio	8.53
Campania	15.94
Calabria	28.21
Sicilia	16.67
Others	15.94

Averages by type	Euros	% of total
Lodging	14.71	41.70%
Total Food	11.53	32.70%
Non-Dinner Food	2.29	6.80%
Transport	1.2	3.40%
Phone	1.78	5.00%
Internet	1.16	3.30%
Misc.	1.9	5.40%
Liquor	1.37	3.90%

Note: discrepancies in averages and percentages are due to €300 bulk spent in Paris without separation into categories, and therefore not included in calculations

By the Numbers - Time

2009-03-30T19:34:00.003+02:00

Average MPH/KPH	3.4	5.47
Hours per day average	4.5

	Number	Percentage
Days Walking	117	64.60%
Days at Rest	64	35.40%
How many of those rest days were consecutive (3 or more days in a row)?	46	25.40%
Days I rested because of Injury	1	0.55%
Days I rested because of bad weather	0	0.00%
Days I was hosted by friends	45	24.86%
Seasons Witnessed	3

Latest Sunset Witnessed	09:19:00 PM	Echevennoz	07/13/08
Earliest Sunset Witnessed	04:34:00 PM	Tropea	12/02/08

Region	Days Walked	Days Rest	Total Days
Aosta	7	1	8
Piemonte	13	4	17
Liguria	12	14	26	7 RD in Paris
Toscana	13	2	15
Lazio	20	22	42	7 RD at work
Umbria	1	0	1
Campania	20	3	23
Basilicata	1	0	1
Calabria	11	16	15	12 RD for Xmas with the Giunta
Sicilia	19	2	33

By the Numbers - Distance

2009-03-30T19:20:00.000+02:00

Distance	Miles	Kilometers
Distance Walked	1782.86	2870.4
Average per day	15.23	24.37
Longest Day	22.81	36.72	Pizzo-Tropea
Shortest Day	4.4	7.08	Savona-Celle Ligure

Days more than 10 miles (16.1 km)	102
Days less than 10 miles (16.1 km)	15
Days more than 20 miles (32.2 km)	10	6 of which were in December
# of 60-mile 3 days	3
# of 100-mile 5 days	1
# of marathons walked	68	Every 1.7 days of walking, and every 2.65 days total
# of Football Fields Walked	31381	268 football fields per day walking
# of Soccer Fields Walked	26091	223 Soccer Fields (1at 110m) per day walking

Comparisons to the US	Miles	Kilometers
My Walk	1783	2870
San Diego - Memphis	1837	2958
SD - New Orleans	1828	2943
SD - Des Moines	1724	2776
NYC - Denver	1763	2838
Quebec - Miami	1765	2841
Edmonton - SD	1704	2744

Distance by Region	Total Miles	Average Miles	Number of Days
Aosta	72.17	10.31	7
Piemonte	175.39	13.49	13
Liguria	163.36	13.61	12
Toscana	211.19	16.24	13
Umbria	18.8	18.8	1
Lazio	278.04	13.9	20
Campania	304.35	15.22	20
Basilicata	21.91	21.91	1
Calabria	204.95	18.63	11
Sicila	331.89	17.47	19

Distance by Month	Total Miles	Average Miles	Number of Days
July	162.92	11.64	14
August	230.28	13.55	17
September	327.07	15.57	21
October	232.23	14.51	16
November	401.19	16.05	25
December	335.3	18.63	18
January	93.06	15.51	6

Removing the Asterisk

2009-03-13T15:23:00.002+01:00

2/17 - From Frera Inferiore to Frazione di Fey - 1KM, 300 meters, or .81 miles

On July 22, 2008, I walked* from Ceresole Reale to a plot of land next to a river near the tiny cluster of houses collectively called Frazione di Fey. Here is the blog post, in case you are interested.

What I did not write about in that blog post was that I accepted a ride from the lady who worked in the tourist office. I remember it vividly: I was kneeling next to a fountain, filling up my 1.5 liter water sack, when a minivan pulled to a stop 15 feet in front of me. The lady got out, said hello, and offered me a ride to Fey, the town she had instructed me to reach only 45 minutes before, saying that I could camp nearby and eat at the Trattoria there. I of course said no thank you, I had better walk, but she beckoned me over, saying "c'mon, it's close by!" I resisted, weary from a tiresome hike in the hot sun but determined to stay true to my objective, but she insisted, and I gave in. I blame my overwhelming desire to please others more than my fatigue, and certainly more than the lady, who after all was only trying to help, but whatever the case, I turned off my GPS, threw the bag in the backseat, and hopped in.

The ride was extremely short, and when we arrived, I remember her saying "see, you barely skipped anything. You were practically there!" before she drove away.

That evening, I walked from the Trattoria, where lovely Antonella made me a wonderful dinner even though the Trattoria was closed, to my tent, at least as long if not longer as that bit I had skipped. The next morning, I returned to Fey for breakfast, and then repeated that tract a third time as I headed to my next stop, Pont Canavese. I reasoned away the bit I had skipped, thinking that I did the next bit three times as a way of making up for it.

I am not certain when that little stretch of road started to weigh on my soul, but it took a few weeks, long enough for me to realize that I would not ever skip another centimeter of my walk. Nor am I certain when I decided that I would have to go back at all costs to walk that road, but my first utterance of it was in Rome, to my good friend Gregorio.

As is always the case, the act of saying something out loud makes it impossible for me not to do the thing that I said out loud, so it was just a matter of time, and I aimed for late January, when I would be in the North once more, visiting my host family in Padova. Deciding to forgo a lovely surprise, I called Antonella, and after updating her on my journey and present whereabouts, asked her whether she was open for me to come pay her a visit. Bad news, she said, they were under 6 feet of snow and there were no buses running to the nearest train station. I would have to try again in the Spring.

Crushed, I nonetheless kept my resolve, and waited a few weeks. As luck would have it, my friend Ronny came to Venice a few weeks later, and we attended Carnevale together. As I was once again in the North, I called Antonella once more, and learned that the situation had stabilized, and that I could come that following Tuesday.

So I took a train from Venice to Milano (3 hours), then from Milano to Torino (2 hours), then from Torino to Rivarolo (1 hour), then from Rivarolo to Pont Canavese (20 minutes), and then a bus to Frera Inferiore (20 minutes).

The bus dumped me right in front of the fountain, and I took a look around. The setting sun blazed weakly over a winter wonderland, a blanket of snow covering the valley, with mountains all around me.

I took a freezing cold sip from that same fateful fountain where I had left off 7 months before, clapped my hands together for warmth, and started walking, taking a copious amount of photos as I grasped the surreal quality of this self-created deja vu.

It took me 12 minutes to walk from Frera Inferiore to Frazione di Fey, to get the closure I so desperately craved. To say I was satisfied does not begin to describe it.

Antonella was waiting for me, having prepared a special mountain winter meal for just the two of us: three kinds of local cured meats, polenta with seasoned cheese, home-raised, organically nourished rabbit from her in-law's farm, and for dessert, a thick piece of slightly sweet, semi-soft cheese.

Around 9PM, she drove me to nearby Noasca, where she insisted on taking care of the hotel, saying I was her guest. So it was that the next morning, I did in 32 degree February just what I would have done in 75 degree July: I walked to Fey, one hour exactly, and best of all, I repeated that 1 kilometer 300 meter tract, ending up once more in front of Antonella's trattoria.

We exchanged blessings, shared a few big hugs, and I caught the noon bus, which got me back to Rome at 10:30 PM. It took over 17 hours of travel and two days, but I had earned the ability to tell my grandchildren, many many years from now, that I once walked from Switzerland to the far west tip of Sicily without skipping one inch of the trail. Asterisk removed.

Pictures from the last half of Sicily

2009-03-12T17:44:00.003+01:00

I have avoided these last few blogs for a while, aided by the legitimate excuse of needing money and work, but it is about time I take this cute little blog out, shoot it, die a little inside, and go back inside for some warm apple pie, having learned an important life lesson.

As far as I can tell, I have 3 more posts left, including this one. The next one will come shortly, while the other will take awhile, as I have to sort through the data in order to create a "by the numbers" post.

Part of me always wanted to end this process with something really meaningful to say, but I have since realized that I have said everything I want to say, and that ending with that perfect conclusion paragraph is really really difficult when you're only two months out of a life-changing experience such as this one.

So, let me just say thank you to all of you who have supported me, encouraged me, and sent good energy my way over the last few months. Oh, and please continue to do so, because rejoining the working world is no walk in the park, either!

Here are the photos:

Palermo Revisited

Trappeto to Scopello

Riserva lo Zingaro to San Vito lo Capo

Riserva Monte Cofano and the walk to Custonaci

Monte Erice

Trapani

Marsala

Food, flora, and fauna (this one's good)

Reflections from Marsala

2009-03-12T15:00:00.000+01:00

1/9/09
I'm finished. It is starting to sink in, slowly working its way into my psyche. I feel lonely, adrift in the world. I do not want to go on, knowing it is over: nor do I want to stop. And it is not uncertainty of my future or some fear of what lies ahead. I have grown so accustomed to having a set goal, an objective, a point on the map to be reached, that now I feel empty without it.

My denial stage manifested itself in a long walk to Marsala, to reach a symbolic objective, the westernmost tip of Sicily, lest I regret later not having reached it now. Still, even if it was artificial, it helped me begin to sort through these feelings. I guess I needed to take a walk to clear my head.

The euphoria, the feeling of accomplishment, is also present, of course. I do not like to mention it to myself, for fear that pride will rear his ugly head, but it is only fair to admit that it is here with me, a big knot in the pit of my stomach. I know that when the turmoil of feeling lost has past, there will always be the glowing ember of accomplishment to keep me warm. It is, of course, the most obvious emotion, the easiest to describe, and perhaps the easiest for you, the reader, to understand.

But what about the others? Regret is a constant whisper, but when exposed to the light of my scrutiny, it shrivels into an imaginary concern.

Nostalgia is certainly a key player in this melodrama of mixed emotions, fueling hours of escape from the hum-drum, and I am confident that it will remain so. Nor is this a new discovery: many times during the way I have let my imagination transport me into solitary confinement, bearded and in the fetal position, reciting the names of towns where I slept in chronological order, forwards and backwards, with an image or memory to accompany each name. I am positive that I will thus be able to avoid insanity should I ever need to go to my "happy place." It is no coincidence that my favorite word in the world (is it even possible to have a favorite word? Yes.) is saudades, Portuguese for nostalgia, though with much greater depth of meaning.

Humility deserves mention, as I come to grips with my immaturity, naivete, lack of knowledge and of grit. There are always the examples o those who did it better or were more adventures, who lived on one euro a day, cooking roadkill in a tin paint can. No matter how proud I am of my accomplishment, I will always be haunted by further, faster, stronger, cheaper, smarter, and so on. And you know, I am grateful for that, because humility is the key to greatness, and I will forever walk that path, hoping never to reach it.

And I know I play this tune ad nauseum, that I really need a new hero, but my mind always goes to Beethoven. He knows what it's like to reach it (op. 111), what it's like to fail (op. 13), what it's like to suffer in the midst of heroic greatness (op. 73, II), even what it's like to stand on the mountains looking down at Joy incarnate (op. 125, III), and knowing within the depths of his soul where that Joy comes from (op. 125, IV). Not only does he know, but he gives us the gift of sharing it in the most profound and heartbreakingly, astonishingly beautiful way.

Which brings me to my next emotion, the most important one of all, never the first one to pop out, but like hope flying out last of Pandora's box, the one that stays with me. I refer to gratitude. I could go on for pages and pages enumerating and categorizing all the reasons to be grateful, but for once I will keep it to myself. Anyhow, looking back over the posts from these last six months will bring to light all the times I have been thankful, and for what reasons.

So what did I set out to achieve? A good friend, concerned that my decision to walk was based on an unhealthy desire to escape my then current life situation (and maybe it was, in part), asked me just what it was I hoped to find at the end of 1780 miles. I did not know at the time, and I do not know now just why I set off on this little stroll, but I do know that somewhere along the road I found God. And not the "I see the light, hallelujah," fall off the horse, join a monastery kind of finding God. No, it's much more simple than that.

The God I found is about love, gratitude, and providence. Love for all of you, for myself, for every moment of my precious life, and for every single detail that makes the whole so full of wonder and joy. Gratitude for the reasons I did not go into above, but which are sprinkled throughout the account of my travels. And providence, sweet sweet providence, the walker's best friend, the force that keeps us safe from harm, that always shows us the way forward, that gives us food and shelter and Love, and that rewards us with the clarity of vision that in turn allows us to be grateful.

Now, don't come knocking down my door with pamphlets about your religion, the best one, because I don't want to hear it. I'm not signing up anywhere, and I don't plan on preaching any more than I already have. If you believe in God, be happy that I found God too, and please pray for me to understand better with age and maturity. If you don't, be happy that I'm happy. I'm happy for you, too.

Still, having found God does not make it any less empty, here at the tip, where I stand alone, surrounded by a restless, dusk-gray sea. And yet, I find myself snuggling closer and closer to that emptiness, knowing that it too shall pass, replaced with one dominant emotion after another, for the rest of my life. So is that the key to true happiness, accepting the transitory nature of our mind-state, and learning to live with uncertainty? I don't know. All I can do is wait patiently for the answers to come with Time.

Marsala

2009-03-11T20:00:00.000+01:00

1/9 - Trapani to Marsala - 19.80 miles

What do you do when you have walked 116 days out of the last six months, and you have nowhere else to go? How do you sort out the emotions that come the day after, a flash-flood of uncertainty that drowns any attempt at recovering control? Where do you go to get back on track? For me, it was clear that morning what I would do: take a walk, to Marsala.

Yes, it was escaping reality, yes, it is anti-climactic, and yes, it makes for a messy finish, but I needed one day to let the end sink in, and this was better than walking aimlessly about town. Furthermore, my friend Carlo had innocuously but insidiously informed me that Marsala, not Trapani, was the far west tip of Sicily, and there was absolutely no way in Hell that I was going to let it go at "wow, you were so close." So, having made a promise to myself to go no further, to stop the madness after Marsala, I set off.

Mission accomplished. Besides sorting through my various emotions, I saw the famous salt pools between Trapani and Marsala, spotted wild flamingos, bought two bottles of the famous Marsala wine as gifts for friends, and most importantly, touched the furthest west tip of the furthest west rock on the furthest west beach in the furthest west city of Sicily (which is, funny enough, not the furthest west region. That distinction belongs to Sardegna, which I did not visit or cross on foot. Don't even think about it...)

No time to contemplate. No exaggeration here: literally the moment I touched that rock, my mother picked up the phone, dialled the numbers she knew so well, and called her son, precariously balanced on top of an algae-covered rock, staring at the sunset over the Mediterranean. "Are you done yet?" "Yes, Mom, I'm done."

Trapani

2009-03-08T15:40:00.000+01:00

1/8 Erice to Trapani - 9.54 miles

For my last official day of the walk, the nature path gods smiled upon me once more, as I managed to tumble down Mt. Erice with minimal use of roads. I simply walked down the mountain, weaving across hills, through pastures, and over rocks, with a few encounters with sheperd dogs to keep me on my toes. I also spoke with a few farmers, who though surprised to see me, were happy to help find the path to get down. So it was that I arrived at the foot of Mt. Erice quicker than I hoped, and faced the outskirts of Trapani.

As it is with every "last" experience, I found myself trying to memorize details, and above all, to think big and be profound about what I was doing. I would not say that I failed in this endeavor, only that I came up short, and naturally so: expectations always trounce reality, as I have seen oh so many times along the way.

I will save my breath and your time by fast-forwarding to the last stretch, the historic center of Trapani. As I reached my long awaited finish line, I felt most strongly the urge to shout out to everyone, to inform them of my grand triumph, to gather the children 'round and tell them a tale or two. Then I would settle down and realize that this moment was about me and my journey and not about recognition or applause, but all the while smiling and thinking "But if only they knew!"

Back and forth, craving attention and savoring detached introspection in waves, I finally reached the end, a squat two-story tower at the end of a long promenade. I wanted the final steps to be devoid of humanity, just me and my glorious accomplishment, but saw various motorcycles, cars, and daytime chatters enjoying the afternoon sun, and waved off my frivolous exigency. Nothing's perfect. I reached the tower, and touching the stone wall, thought, "so this is it." But not yet: I noticed a little passageway around either side that led to the rear, where a 5-foot drop to the rocks below announced the end of my walk.

I took a picture, examined the rocks, was happy to be alone and hidden behind the tower, and turned to go. Yeah right. I jumped that railing, edged my way down a steep set of stairs hewn into the sea wall, and carefully walked out onto the rocks, catching a picture of the tower from behind.

Turning around, I saw the rocks grow jagged and sparse as they stretched out into the sea, thinning to a sharp point, brave pioneers lashed by wind and waves. "No way I'm going out there," I thought, as I removed my shoes, zipped off the pant legs, and hid my backpack. "You've gotta stop somewhere," I murmured, as I gingerly stepped on the sharp, painful volcanic rocks covered with algae. "No way I'd have made it all the way out there anyways," I calculated, as I returned to my backpack, only to grab my sandals, and try once more.

And then it was all about not falling in, not breaking a bone, testing the algae before putting my whole weight on the rock, and just like that, all reflection and profound self-discovery went out the window. I could not tell you how long it took to reach that last rock, to lay on my belly, lean as far down as I could, and touch the very tip of the last piece of earth, a bit of rock bravely sticking out of the mass of water beyond. But I can tell you that it was worth the effort. I never stopped short, never took the cheater's way out, and now I had reached the last possible point, the last volcanic rock of an extended journey.

Well, this is it, this is what I've been waiting for. Remember this. Take some pictures and a movie. Mark the waypoint on the GPS. Get your feet wet. Ok, fine, but what about the ZEN moment, the Ahhh... of eternal understanding that comes included, the prize in my cracker jack box? No such luck, at least not for now.

What did I think about?
1. I wonder if someone took my backpack, wouldn't that be ironic.
2. I hope I don't get hurt on the way back.
3. I guess it's not the end, but the journey that means the most.
4. I'm hungry.
5. What do I do now?
6. I wonder if anybody else has ever been out here before?

Why do I admit that I was reduced to banality at my supposed moment of great realization, when I could easily have artificially implanted kernels of wisdom in my head post-walk, and it's all the same to you? Because this whole blog has served to share my thoughts, observations, and emotions, and it would be shameful of me to alter them at the very moment when they should be most candid, most real. I recently said that life does not come in a pretty package. I strongly feel that way, but more importantly, I see great beauty, awe-inspiring beauty, in that fact. And, you know, I must return once more to my favorite philosopher, Marcus Aurelius, who told me at 17 that it is not the world that is imperfect, but my perception of it as imperfect that makes it so. Changing my perception, I change my reality, and that is exactly what I did; I created a paradise, a life-changing experience, by taking a walk, a modern pilgrim on the shoulder of the state highway.

Monte Erice, and the land of Canaan

2009-02-28T15:20:00.002+01:00

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)

2009-02-26T15:09:00.000+01:00

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

2009-02-25T01:50:00.001+01:00

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

2009-02-23T14:50:00.000+01:00

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?

2009-02-23T14:09:00.003+01:00

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

2009-02-20T14:00:00.000+01:00

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

2009-02-20T13:44:00.002+01:00

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

2009-02-12T10:00:00.001+01:00

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

2009-02-10T17:20:00.000+01:00

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

2009-02-10T17:16:00.002+01:00

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

2009-02-10T17:14:00.001+01:00

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

2009-02-04T17:04:00.000+01:00

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.

The stop/go rain day, and a trip up the hill to Solunto

2009-02-02T16:38:00.000+01:00

12/20 - Termini Imerese to Bagheria - 17.71

Thinking back on this day, I clearly remember one aspect above all else. When I got off the train, it was raining, so I put on my impermeable clothes. However, the walk was uphill for the first stretch, and I was soon sweating profusely. When I was nice and wet on both the inside and outside of my jacket, it stopped raining, so I took the opportunity to take off my backpack, remove the blue rain cover, lift the lid, unclasp the clasp, loosen the 2 (that's two) drawstrings, stuff the jacket inside, and resume walking.

The bright Sicilian sunshine, just having this moment made its appearance, warmed me up, but only for three minutes, when it started to pour again. Sighing, I walked in the rain for about five minutes, but since it was not letting up but only growing stronger, I put my bag down, removed the blue rain cover, lifted the lid, unclasped the clasp, loosened the 2 (yep, two) drawstrings, and pulled out my jacket.

My shirt was pretty wet under my jacket, but it was destined to get only wetter, as the sun came out thirty seconds after I put on my jacket, and started baking me again. This time I walked ten minutes in the sun with my jacket on, expecting rainfall at any moment. But it was suddenly summertime, not a cloud to be seen, so I dropped my backpack, removed the blue rain cover, lifted the lid, unclasped the clasp, loosened the 2 (Due) drawstrings, stuffed in my jacket, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Within one minute, and not a second more than one minute, I felt the first drops, and for the first time on my trip, I felt the pelting of hail stones, dumped as if from a giant bucket over my head. I could not believe it; there were still no clouds, it was not even that cold, I was in Sicily, and here it was hailing, and me without my jacket on.

All I could do was laugh, shaking my head at the improbability of what had just happened. And that wasn't the end, either: I had two more on-off on-off changes that day, and was uncomfortable the entire time, or at least most of it.

In one sense, I'm glad this happened in such an extreme fashion, because it serves to illustrate one of those minor annoyances of this kind of trip that teach patience and humility toward nature. Simply taking off and putting on a jacket is not so big of a deal, but when you add the heat generated by exertion and the added chore of dropping and lifting a 40 pound bag with five steps to open, you begin to resign yourself to walking in the rain uncovered or sweating like a hot dog in a Circle K.

Secondary in my mind was the walk up to the Solunto ruins just outside of Bagheria. Fairly well preserved for its age, the ancient Phoenician town of Solunto was in good shape, having been pretty much left alone since its destruction by the Saracens.

It is still impossible for me to glaze over the fact that I was one of two people in this giant site, and that most of my time there was spent wandering alone. I ate my lunch on a grassy knoll overlooking my day's walk on one side, and the city of Palermo on the other. I had always thought of Palermo as some exotic and faraway land, perhaps never to be explored, and here I was looking down at it in the midst of 2,500 old remains. Rain or no rain, life is pretty damn great.

Since Bagheria was not exactly a booming metropolis nor a charming village, I decided to take the train to Palermo, explore and sleep there, and return by train the next morning.

Palermo is a bit grimy, a bit raw, but at the same time fresh, interesting, and full of culture. I found a cheap hotel on the main drag, listened to the owner cook dinner with her daughter through the one inch opening separating my room from the kitchen, smiled at the grittiness of it all, and went out for my first Palermo meal.

Termini Imerese, a chocolate lunch, and a night at Cefalù

2009-01-30T13:30:00.002+01:00

12/19 - Cefalù to Termini Imerese - 21.43

Rising early, I was soon on the train to Cefalù, where I got back on the highway leading to Palermo. The day's stop was Termini Imerese, and the walk took me past giant orange groves and a small stretch of pines, where I ate an all-chocolate meal, lunch of champions. As you might imagine, I felt a bit strange after all that chocolaty goodness, so I struck up the courage to purchase two oranges from a fruit truck along the side of the road. Instead of the usual annoyance with such a small purchase, described two posts ago in further detail, I got a decidedly positive response, in that the fruit vendor waved me away when I tried to pay, saying Merry Christmas. Now, before I go on, I have to make it clear that I am not begging for food. I mention this because my mother is really worried that people will think I am out of money, and therefore need to beg for food. Nope, that is not the case; rather, the people in this part of the country especially are extremely generous, and I have simply been the recipient of this generosity numerous times.

It was grey and rainy when Termini first came into sight, and the last two hours of my walk were next to the large, imposing power plant, suspiciously located on the water's edge, sucking any beauty and positive energy straight out of the atmosphere.

The town of Termini Imerese was slightly depressing, seeming more like a British industrial town than anything else. I walked around looking for affordable lodging, came up empty, asked at a bar, received a free coffee (something that would not have happened so easily in a British industrial town, by the way. And no mom, I didn't beg for it) and some options, found them all way more expensive than what I was accustomed to paying, received a wink-wink suggestion to sleep at the train station, and in the end, stepped off the train at Cefalù.

So I got to sleep in Cefalù after all, at a Bed & Breakfast right on the water. I was late for dinner, choosing instead to explore the town, and ended up receiving all the leftovers from a pizzeria/rosticceria after befriending the owners, including all the fatty fried foods for which Sicily is famous. Again, no begging, just kind people and good timing.

Chocolate for lunch, fried balls of rice for dinner, and I think I lost weight that day. Screw the whole get in shape to look good line of motivation; life can be full of guiltless culinary pleasure when you exercise.

Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART III

2009-01-28T13:06:00.000+01:00

Part 3

Over 2,000 of us are seated at giant wooden tables covered with linen tablecloths and protected from the elements by giant canvas tents that are, in truth, somewhat unnecessary, given the unseasonably warm Siclian night. There is music, live and merry, with the cymbals of tambourines crashing out the rhythm, while groups of youngsters dance in a circle, joy painted on each face as they move in perfect unison.

The sounds of a feast threaten to drown out their performance, as lively middle-aged men flutter from table to table, slapping other middle-aged men on the back, boxing the ears of screaming toddlers, raising glasses in a constant toast to health and life. The women chatter and laugh heartily, lulling to a whisper every now and then as confidences are shared and gossip spreads. A husband singles out his wife, rudely issues a command, a lively yelling match ensues, the men jokingly taunt their buddy, who, fueled by the support of the audience, grows only louder. You can see they've done this before, both are veterans of the game, and it looks like all will have to settle in for the long haul, when an elder approaches, slowly but with an authoritative gait, and to everyone's glee, slaps his son, the husband, upside the head. A command, a challenge in dialect, issues forth form the old man, who despite his age still manages a stentorian voice, and the audience dissolves in laughter, happy for such a humorous end to the conflict.

Peace is restored, glasses of locally produced, light violet wine are raised, and the merriment continues to grow. The food is everywhere, filling the long tables as dozens of different dishes are brought out. People tear off the chunks of bread to sop up the last, oily remnants of mind-blowing sauces, using hands in the meal-time rite called Fare la Scarpetta, or "do the sole of the boot," a direct translation of which is impossible. Of course, everyone knows you shouldn't do it in public, how impolite to sop up the sauce with bread using your hands!, but yet everyone does it anyway while they think nobody else is looking, especially when the sauces are as good as they are this evening. Helpings of different dishes are scooped onto plates, the food has no limit but no one is eating in a hurry anyways; this feast will last until everyone falls down with exhaustion, dragging each other home with the light of dawn.

The dogs are in on the action too, squealing with delight at their unexpected good fortune, gobbling up any and all morsels that reach the floor. They move in a pack, nobody seems to pay them any mind, and after all they are harmless, knowing full well who to avoid, and who to approach, always cautiously and circuitously.

In the midst of this flurry of bright colors, of torch-lit revelry and savory odors is the table reserved for the mayor, the town doctor, the priest, and the guest of honor, yours truly. In the midst of our revelry, the mayor stands up, hushes the crowd by clinking his wine glass, and begins to speak. He thanks everyone for coming to the first of what will be a three-day festival, and with a grand gesture, motions for me to stand up, at which point the whole assembled crowd erupts in applause, dozens of hands patting me on the back. "To Patrick, the walker who brought ten euros all the way from Lamezia to our lovely town of Rodì Milice!" I look over at Ninno and Angela, who wave at me; they've been invited to the celebration too, of course.

I prepare to speak:

But I should stop here, and get on with the real story. Walking along for all the days between Lamezia and Rodì Milice, I developed quite an elaborate scene in my mind, letting my imagination run wild with how I would be received with my tale. I tried to calm down and retain some sense of reality, knowing that I was leading myself to certain disappointment with whatever happened to me upon reaching Rodì Milice.

So why tell the story then, if you already know that it will end in disappointment? Why mess up the package with the pretty bow? I'll tell you why: because life rarely ever comes in a fancy package, perfectly proportioned and pleasing to the eye. If it's a bit crooked, misshapen, and bulky, it's because it's real. Don't try to change the package, edit for content, and so on, I remind myself; simply tell it like it happened, and try to change your own perception of the story in the telling of it.

The day I was set to arrive at Rodì Milice was the day after the freak storm that turned the highway into a river. As I recounted a few posts ago, the sun was shining, there was a buzz as people assessed the damage and got to work putting their towns back together, and I was in high spirits.

My detour was not terribly long, about an hour, but it was all uphill, so the reward of reaching the top was great. I surveyed the beautiful farmland and pastures on rolling hills all around me, and remembered Ninno's praise of his hometown. This was it, all right.

Walking the last stretch uphill, I finally reached the town government building, called the Comune (pronounced Co MOO Nay, or Neigh, for you farm animal lovers out there), where Ninno's nephew worked, or so I hoped. When I saw it, and just as I was about to enter, I had to hold myself back, overcome by the emotion derived from my own actions. I recognized even then how silly it was, getting choked up about a gesture sprung entirely from my own imagination, but there was no reasoning through it, and so I had to wait a bit until I regained composure.

I stepped into the building cautiously and with frequent little pauses, quietly listening for voices that might lead me directly to my destination; I did not want to announce my mission in a random hallway to some office assistant, after all. When I saw an open door down a hallway to my right, I approached, and knocking, announced my arrival. The three people in the office looked up with surprise, then amusement; surely they had not expected a sweaty foreigner at the door.

Nor were they expecting my story, told as it was with a wavering voice, fraught with emotion. "I was looking for _______, the vice mayor." They looked at me with blank stares, obviously waiting for me to spit it out. "I have come from his Aunt and Uncle in Calabria on foot, and I would like to speak with him." I could not help but be ambiguous; why the hell was I here, again? To hand over ten euros to a government official? It didn't make any sense unless I told the whole story, and there was no way I was going to do that, not in the state I was in.

Even though I was the opposite of expansive, the three officials were immediately responsive. He wasn't here, he's out and about as usual, they joked, but let's try and reach him. The one lady offered me chocolate, one man kept me entertained, while the other tried to reach the vice mayor. No luck, he wasn't answering. I sat still, terrified of giving up so easily after nearly two weeks of buildup, but losing hope of getting to carry out my self-appointed task. They continued to call, even reaching his wife at home, and asked her to help track him down, as there was a matter of great urgency back at the office.

A few minutes later, the phone rang, and there he was, calling back to find out what emergency needed attention. Based on the officer's responses and expression, I could tell we had interrupted something, and when they put me on the phone for me to explain, _______ was very short with me. "And what do you want? ... Yeah, yeah, I know, my Aunt and Uncle, in Calabria, right ... Listen, I'm at lunch with my in-laws right now, so you'll have to wait till I'm done." A bit offended, and therefore defensive, I shot back, "I have to walk to Tindari today and arrive before sunset, so I can't wait long." Before he could respond, the officer grabbed the phone, and bless his heart, said "You've gotta come meet this kid. He's walked all the way from Calabria to meet you and he can't wait all day."

The conversation ended soon after, and the official looked at me affectionately, with a father's expression. "You must be hungry. Go to the bar up the street and get something to eat, and by the time you come back, he'll be here, I'm sure." I did as I was told, feeling very strange about this whole situation but curious to see how it would work itself out. Opening the door to the bar, I could tell the barista expected someone, but that he certainly did not expect someone like me, and I took satisfaction in saying "I was told to come here by the Comune." He sprang to action, offering me all sorts of snacks, but I was used to simple eating at lunch, just some bread and a fruit or two, and stopped him short at a couple items. He insisted on fruit juice, a true luxury for someone used to drinking tap water out of a plastic sack, and I could tell he was carrying out orders from the official, who had called ahead.

He asked what I was doing here, I gave the short answer, he asked more questions, and slowly teased out the long answer, which soon had the staff of three enthralled. They offered more food, a positive sign, and when I turned it down, a coffee, which I accepted. I sipped it slowly, was surprised to feel it actually calm me down rather than make me even more nervous, and when I had finished and tried to pay, the barista waved me way. "Don't worry, it's on the Comune."

I thanked the staff, waved goodbye, and walked back to the Comune, where a very antsy and excitable ________ was pacing back and forth, smiling broadly. All hailed my entrance, the vice mayor stuck his hand out, apologizing for his delay in coming, and I could tell that the office staff had paved the way for me. With a flurry of waving arms and quick talk, he ushered me out of the building, but not before I said goodbye and thanked the staff for their help.

We headed toward his car, he helped me load the bag, and when we were both inside, he announced, "I'm going to drive you to Tindari." I panicked; that was the last thing I had expected to hear. "No, I have to walk." "Don't be ridiculous. It's the least I can do." "No, you don't understand, I can't skip any part of the trail." "Don't offend me. It's a pleasure to help you." "No, please, you're doing me a great disservice. I'll have to walk all the way back and restart from where I left off." "Are you kidding me? It's far to Tindari, you know." "Please, I beg you. Don't drive me to Tindari." "Are you sure? Promise me." "I swear by everything that's holy that I don't want you to take me to Tindari." "Ok, I'll just take you up the road a bit." "NO!!! If you're going to take me anywhere, take me back down to the state road where I turned to head up to Rodì Milice." "Are you sure? You can skip a boring part of the road if I take you further ahead. C'mon, it's no big deal." "_______, please, believe me, I wanted to walk down from Rodì Milice. Taking me to the turnoff is more than enough." "Ok, but it's your choice." "Yes."

Crisis barely averted, he asked me a few questions, we talked about Ninno and Angela, and when we were approaching my turnoff point, I tried in my smoothest way to introduce the story of the ten euros, and slip him the ten euros without him thinking ill of the idea. When I did so, he just laughed it off into the abyss of the ludicrous, and when I insisted, telling him how much it meant for me to pass this money on and support his city, he turned serious, told me that he would not accept it under any circumstances, and that I should take it to the Sanctuary at Tindari if I wanted to give it away. I think I even offended him, and realized at that moment how strange it must seem, and how it could easily be misconstrued as an attempt at charity. Anyways, I could tell he didn't really care about my story, and was just getting me out of his hair so he could return to his regularly scheduled programming.

I thanked him for the unwanted ride, assured him for the 47th time that I did not want a ride to Tindari, waved goodbye as he sped off, and walked the fifty feet backward, to the exact spot where I turned up the hill to Rodì Milice in my abortive effort to create a powerful ending to my story.

This trip up the hill, so emotionally charged, ended with me at the bottom again, feeling empty, and positively dripping with irony. How else could this have ended, Pat? With a big hug, best friends forever, fireworks, and Willy Wonka promising me the whole god-damned factory to reward my returning the ten euro gobstopper?

In the end, I was just an errand in an otherwise normal day for someone who really didn't care. Nothing is worse than apathy when you're expecting emotion.

Still, I could not help but smile as I walked on toward Tindari. A fitting metaphor for my walk, this little adventure: it's not the completion, but rather the journey there that is so fulfilling.

I dipped into the first church I saw, a nice and humble one, and stuffed the ten euro bill into a slot without a second thought. Then, since I was alone, I took my time to remember the way it looked, smelled, sounded, and felt, and seeing an open notebook with various prayers scrawled by pious believers, I wrote a prayer of my own:

Thank you for everything that you have given me. Please forgive me my pride and self-importance, and allow me to be patient, humble, and to love everyone and everything with all my soul.

Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART II

2009-01-27T13:05:00.001+01:00

Part 2

A few weeks back, I wrote in passing about a lunch invitation I received between Mortilla and Pizzo. Here's the full story:

I had seen a number of orange tree nurseries throughout the course of the day, and as I passed each one I felt my appetite for oranges increase. When I saw that one of the nurseries ahead had set a tower of crates full of oranges along the side of the road, I turned into the driveway. This process is always somewhat awkward and uncomfortable for me, as my request for two or three oranges is nearly always met with a long sigh, an impatient snort, or at the very least a sullen silence. You see, most people buy four or five kilos of oranges at one time, so my purchase is peanuts in comparison. Call me oversensitive, call me weak-willed, call me what you will, but until you have had the experience of disappointing a fruit vendor as many times as I have over a short span of time, you can not possibly know how it feels.

So, firming up my resolve and preparing my "oblivious to your annoyed look/set on eating oranges at any psychological cost" face, I approached the house, only to discover that the family was eating lunch. Ay ay ay - not only was I wasting the nursery owner's time with a tiny purchase, I was also interrupting the most important hour(s) of a Calabrian's day. Still, it was too late to turn back, say "nevermind, wrong house," and escape, so when the owner came out, frowning but not unfriendly, I told him what I wanted. He nodded silently, I apologized to the two ladies cautiously peeping out from the dining room, and followed sheepishly behind the owner to the roadside crates.

He told me to pick what I wanted, and so I did, selecting delicious-looking navels and two juicy mandarins. Then, without a word, he made way back down to the house, and rather quickly, as it had just started to rain. I followed, and pressed against the house to avoid getting wet, let my backpack fall from my shoulders, so I could pack the oranges and remove my rain gear. While I was doing this, I heard one of the ladies shuffle out toward the front door, and when she was beside her husband, she asked me what I was doing there.

I began to tell my story, all the while covering my backpack and donning my rain jacket. The man listened closely, stone-faced but engaged, but his wife only heard the beginning, and soon reentered the house, only to emerge with a sandwich, which she handed to me. Having finished packing, I was urged to eat, and was motioned to sit down on the front steps. Husband and wife started to reenter the house, when the wife, having reconsidered, told me to come in from the rain.

Panino in hand, I walked gingerly into the house, and with shoulders hunched in weary wayfarer fashion, approached the table. I was immediately put at ease by their kindness and simplicity (much like Valentino had described to me just a few days before), and thanked Angela with each item she lay before me. The three of them, Ninno, Angela, and their daughter, had already eaten lunch, but they sat patiently as I ate mine, composed of cheeses and bread and a bomba calabrese (a spicy tapenade made of minced hot peppers, garlic, oil, anchovies, sundried tomatoes, salt, and a few other ingredients that I now forget), then sampled the same delicious oranges as the ones I had just purchased. Fully satisfied, I leafed through a book on Rodì Milice, Ninno's hometown in Sicily, as Angela prepared coffee. I asked him questions about the town, his impressions of Calabria vs. Sicily, and listened as he wistfully recounted the orange trees there: "you can climb up into a tree in the morning, pick until lunchtime, and still there are oranges left to pick when you get back." He was particularly proud of the book's dedication, written by his Nephew, the vice-mayor of the town, and had me read it aloud.

After Angela brought the coffee, we watched some news, commented on world events, and as I still had a long distance ahead of me, I excused myself from the table.

We all walked outside together, and after flipping up the hood on my rain jacket, I reached into my pocket and pulled out coins to pay for the fruit. "Don't worry," Ninno said, and though I wanted to pay, I knew it was useless to insist. Instead, I hugged each of them in turn, thanked them for taking me in, and was on my way.

Wait, shouted Angela, and scampering up to me, shoved something into my hand. I looked down, saw a folded bill, and started repeating No No No No No No, trying to give the money back, by force if necessary. I told them I didn't need money from them, that I appreciated the gesture but that they should save it for someone truly in need, but again there was no use. A little ashamed and still in shock, I looked at each of them with profound gratitude, and this time I was on my way for real. I had never received such direct charity from someone before, and can say that it is one of the more humbling situations I have experienced.

When I was about 100 yards away from the nursery, I looked down at my clenched fist, slowly opened it, and registered the denomination of the bill. Guess how much it was? Ten Euros.

Calabria had taken two fives and given me a ten in return.

For the next 30 minutes or so, I walked in the gray drizzle, letting this string of events sink in, once more with the music off. I was very moved, in awe of what I had just experienced, but this time there was no crying, no excess of emotion. I simply realized that these ten euros were not mine, that I had to pass on this same bill, representative as it was of an other-worldly phenomenon. So to whom should I give these ten euros? The first thought, the easiest solution, was to pop into a church and stuff it into one of the many guilt-inducing slots. I considered this for a while, but the more I thought about it, the less it inspired me. I pictured priests getting the strands of gold replaced on their vestments, or sending it on to some huge vat of money tucked somewhere deep in the Vatican, and I was not satisfied. Of course, the church could also be a force for good, giving it to needy orphans and so on, but why should I go through a middle man when I could do the same myself? The answer to that particular question came in the form of a bunch of farm sheds under an overpass, directly to my left. I considered spontaneously appearing, the bill in hand, and realized that things could go less than perfectly. What if ten was not enough, and they robbed me blind? What if they were indignant at my assuming their poverty? No, this ten was destined to go somewhere else, a place where it would not go to waste or serve to glorify me, but instead be given in the same spirit in which Ninno and Angela had given, the spirit of hospitality and new friendship.

And then it hit me, a flash of inspiration that made up my mind, so logical and so cinematic at the same time. No matter where it was, no matter how long it took, I was going to Rodì Milice, Ninno's birthplace, and would give the ten euros to his nephew.

Ten Euros, or How I ended up at Rodì Milice - PART I

2009-01-26T13:04:00.000+01:00

As it is long, this post is divided into three, scheduled to appear one per day over the next three days.

I lost faith in humanity only once during my journey, on the state road no. 18 linking Salerno to Reggio Calabria. It was a sunny day, the first after a stretch of rainy, cloudy, windy days, and my spirits were high. I was marching down the coast of Calabria, making good progress, uninspired by what I had seen in the last few days, but ever hopeful for one of those magical moments that change the direction of my trip, always for the better.

Earlier that day, I had even felt the exhilaration of near-miss, when a man stopped me for a half-hour chat about walking. He was a Santiago di Compostela veteran, a big-time walker and a teacher to boot, my kind of guy, but he was from Cosenza, in the mountains, and there was no chance I was heading up there. Even so, he offered to show me around should I happen to pass through, and I was just happy to break the monotony, as it had been a week since I had met anyone on the journey besides hotel and restaurant employees.

I was listening to Bach's Italian Concerto, lost in the music as a way of tuning out the constant hum of cars as they sped within inches of where I walked along the shoulder, when I spotted a car that had slowed to a stop on the other side of the road. Thinking nothing of it, I nonetheless removed one ear bud, and so heard the man's request for directions.

When you see a man with a giant red backpack and trekking poles striding along your local highway, do you think he's a local, and therefore able to answer your navigational questions? No, you don't. I knew there was another question to follow, the standard Calabrian question "where are you from," accompanied by a smile and a curious shake of the head. I answered, he was surprised, the "what are you doing here" question followed, and before I could react, he had pulled a U-turn on this busy two-lane highway and was now next to me, facing in the opposite direction from where he had originally been heading.

My heart started to beat just a bit faster, not quite out of fear so much as of animal preparation, but I was on the whole very calm. This man had two children in his harmless Peugeot station wagon, about four and seven years old, and was not threatening, just curious. He asked a few more questions, I politely answered, asked me if I was looking for work, I said no, and without skipping a beat, he asked if I had change for a 20. My bullshit artist alarm started to sound, but the children were my guarantee, so I handed him two fives, even though I had two tens in my pocket, as a way of cutting my losses should he drive off. Instead of a ten, he handed me a credit card, and quickly added "listen, I don't have it now, but I'll be right back with it." I demanded my money back, he said "look, here it is, no problems man." He handed back the two fives, and began the story. His daughter, the four-year-old, had hit her head playing, and he needed to take her to the hospital. First he needed gas, but the nearest gas station wouldn't take debit or credit, and he had no cash. However, he owned a nearby hotel, just a mile down the road, and his wife was there. I could go to the hotel, get the money from his wife, wait for him to return, and would be his guest, free food and lodging, and even work if I wanted.

I knew he was lying, but I looked at his son's angelic face, and his daughter, lying face down on the backseat, so I gave him the benefit of the doubt, just enough to test his story. Where was she hurt? Playing along the side of the road (Lie #1). If the hotel was so close, why not drive back to get the money from his wife, who was there? She's in the kitchen, and can't hear me, and I don't have the time (But you have time to ask me questions about my walk? Lie #2). Do you have a business card? No, just my brother's, who owns an auto body repair shop in town (If he's your brother, why would he write his name on the back of the card? Lie #3). Where is your daughter's wound? Show him the wound, son (there's no wound, the girl doesn't respond to her brother's touch, and yet the father isn't that worried. The son shakes his head with a pitiful glance. Lie #4). And yet my stomach turned when I saw these little children, so well-trained by their father, so ready to con a stranger out of a pitiful amount of money. How pathetic, how base it all was, the sniveling, curly-haired Calabrian father, the beautiful child actors, boldly telling lie after lie when the girl's supposedly injured head was actually 100% intact.

"Listen," I murmured, almost whispered "I have not had a single bad experience throughout this whole walk." I was begging him with all my soul, silently pleading with him to move on, give it up, don't destroy these adorable children for ten euros. He all but snarled at me: "you think I would lie to you for such an insignificant sum? Ten euros is nothing, c'mon, you can spare it." I was so crushed, so disgusted, sensing this con artist willing the ten euros out of my pocket.

And so I gave in, defeated, and handed him the ten euros. "On your honor," I said, in my meekness, and limply shook his hand. He repeated his first statement, looked at me with repugnant and indignant eyes, as if I were the villain in this encounter, and as he sped off, I saw his son plastered to the rear window, both palms on the glass, smiling triumphantly at me.

I turned off Bach and walked a mile or so down the road in silence. When I came across the first gas station, presumably the one that only took cash, I asked, out of twisted curiosity, about the man and his hotel. The three or four people gathered around did not answer at first, asking instead "where are you from," and when I had answered the same questions I had answered just thirty minutes prior, I repeated my own questions. They squirmed, pretended to know the hotel and its owner, and I saw them lie to protect a man they didn't know, rather than admit to a foreigner that a Calabrian could possible be a horrible human being. I saw it, drank the glasses of water offered to me as a consolation, and just before leaving, asked one last question to the attendant. "Do you accept credit/debit?" "Sure," he said, and that was all I needed to hear.

The one feeling that dominated as I trudged into town, bag seemingly weighing double, was fear that I would see this car again. I had memorized the license plate after seeing his son in the back window, already smug at seven, and now the adrenaline pumped every time I heard a car approach from behind. Was he coming back to rob me? What lies would he invent now? Taking a deep breath, I fell back on my Marcus Aurelius training to help put a stoic lens on the situation, but behind the tint was the unavoidable feeling of betrayal, not by this petty thief but by humanity. Would I be able to trust anyone again on this walk? What if another car stopped to ask me for information? Would I lose out on all future positive experiences because of the fear of one more bad one?

I took a seat on the boardwalk right as I entered Paola, Calabria, looked blankly at the late afternoon sun, and returned the sullen, distrustful stares of passersby, so tired of these god-damned gawkers lacking all sense of decency as they stared me up and down, but then refused to return my evening's greetings. Fuck you, you pretentious, backward simpletons. You don't know me, you don't know why I'm here, and you don't deserve to know. If you're not going to be civil, then mind your own business.

So I sat, wallowing in my own resentment and fear and shame, when an old man walked by with his dog for the second time in the ten minutes I had been sitting there, and actually returned my salutation. "Where are you from?" I cringed at the same fateful question, but this time I received a different response to my answer. "You're lying to me," he said, and believed it. Taken by surprise, I forgot my worries, proved my American identity with some English, and soon I was playing with the dog and chatting with this old man, who made me feel safe, no longer vulnerable. I asked about lodging nearby, he suggested a place down the boardwalk, and said they were low priced. With a lack of tact that the naive call honesty, I asked for him to repeat his name, and he immediately caught on: "So you want to carry my name to the hotel, eh? Ok, fine, but you have to promise to comport yourself well." "Of course," I said, hand on heart, and I saw his eyes twinkle with compassion and affection.

"My name is Valentino S______; I'm the man who brings the Algida ice cream (Mi chiamo Valentino S; sono l'uomo che porta l'Algida). Have you eaten anything today?" I had eaten two oranges all day, and told him so, or at least without the "all day" attached (no need to start the violins a playin'), and he said to me "stay here. Don't move. I'll be back in ten minutes." I did as I was told, staring back at the sunset, and reflecting on why it was that I had just met the Good Humor man (Algida is owned by Unilever, which also owns Good Humor) at this precise moment, just when I was feeling such anger and frustration.

He came back with a plastic grocery bag held closely to his thin but by no means feeble frame, and with a smile to make ice melt, proceeded to describe the contents of the bag. Two sandwiches sealed in plastic, one of prosciutto crudo, the other of egg and cheese, an apple, a pear, a bar of chocolate, and a beer, thoughtfully opened in advance. So that's why he had held the bag so closely to his chest, I thought, and for some reason that particular detail struck me with a pang of intense emotion. He wanted me to eat, was so happy at my positive reaction to the sandwich, "one of Algida's large product line," and quietly explained why he had me wait on the boardwalk. "You see, my wife is very ill, and she cannot see guests. I must be home to help take care of her, but I need to take the dog for a walk each day, and that is when I get to go out. Please excuse me for my lack of hospitality."

I pictured this conjugal scene, the tender affection with which this lovely man cared for his dying wife, imagined the attention to detail he showed with the opened beer writ large with the love he bore this eternal partner, and I forgave with all my heart the man who had conned me earlier.

"Valentino, you may not know it, but you have reaffirmed my faith in humanity. Something very ugly happened to me just over an hour ago, and I was sitting here feeling very unhappy. Thank you for your kindness." He did not ask what happened, but looked at me in silence, studying my face. "You know," he finally said, measuring each word, "we Calabrians are a difficult people, but we are beautiful in our simplicity and our frankness. If you open you heart to us, we will repay your kindness many times over."

His expression lightened, I registered what he said and soberly nodded in assent, and we said goodbye, as he had to return to his wife.

And I will never forget how I watched him leave, slowly making his way along the crosswalk, under the overpass, and back to his house. Once he was gone, I turned back to the sun, just at that moment disappearing under the horizon, and the sandwich he had given me stuck fast to the giant lump in my throat. I took a sip from the bottle, cold and moist with condensation, washed down the sandwich, and began to cry. I sat at that bench, oblivious to my surroundings, and sobbed like a child, head in hands. Yes, I was releasing those negative feelings, letting them drain out of my soul, far away from me and my silly walk, but the real reason I cried then, and the reason I cry as I write this nearly two months later, tears blurring the pages of my journal, was out of love and gratitude and tenderness for this old man, this bringer of ice cream, and for his darling, dying wife.

I had a good cry on that bench, felt the brisk sea breeze of dusk start to blow, and when it was time for me to stand back up, I realized that I had learned a valuable lesson about trust and attitude and the power of a well-timed act of kindness.

This is, in itself, a story of conflict, anger, resolution, and acceptance, a self-contained, neatly packaged tale, all of it true, and conveniently sized. But I have learned that life does not work that way, and as with this story, there is always more to tell...

Photos of the First Half of Sicilia

2009-01-25T13:08:00.000+01:00

All,

Here are my photos from the first half of Sicilia, from Messina to Cefalù. Enjoy!

Taormina

Messina to Torregrotta to Barcellona to Rodì Milice to Falcone

Tindari and Gioiosa Marea

Capo d'Orlando and San Fratello

To Santo Stefano di Camastra

To Cefalù

Hanging out in Santo Stefano

2009-01-24T16:22:00.001+01:00

12/18 - A day of rest at S. Stefano

It had been a late night for the second time in two days, and the incomparably hospitable group of guys insisted that I stay another day, and see a little bit what life here was like. Though at first I was inclined to leave, having toyed with the idea of finishing before Christmas, and anxious to explore more of Sicily, I had one of my periodic perspective calibrations. When would the next time come around that I would get to meet such a great group of friends, and have the insider's perspective on a Sicilian town? While I was in control of my time, the best idea was to invest in these wonderful friendships, learn all I could, and continue to build memories. The rest of Sicily would be waiting for me tomorrow. Of course, this line of reasoning has a limit, at the point when a warm welcome turns tepid, but this day was still within that limit, and I was sure of having made the right decision. Finally, just to close the discussion, I recognized that this "calibration" was a complete turnaround from my decision just a few days prior to stop lollygagging in the Sicilian mountains, but I decided that a guaranteed positive experience like this one could not be missed, and after all, it was just a one day pause.

What made the decision still sweeter was that I got to sleep in, take my time getting ready, and not have to bother packing up. Oh, the delight one receives from such simple luxuries! As Vincenzo was busy, I sidled on over to Gino's shop, Decor, one of the many ceramics stores in town. Intending to simply pay him a visit, I quickly became enamored of the handiwork, quality, and artistry of the ceramics, and spent a sizable chunk of time asking questions and examining different pieces. I was so impressed by his Uncle's skill that I bought two pieces for my mom as a Christmas gift, and two pieces for myself, which in itself as notable, as it is the only time that I have purchased a memento for myself throughout my entire trip. Just take a look at these pieces, both of them one of a kind, hand painted by Gino's Uncle, and then think about the amount of talent and experience it takes to perfect this craft: knowing how the colors will change, mixing in the right amount of water to avoid cracks or bubbles, applying the enamel, firing it twice for the exact right amount of time, and even hand working those beautiful curves in clay. I will never look at ceramics in the same way.

Having satisfied my desire to purchase a piece of S. Stefano, which in a sense was one small way of saying thank you to such a hospitable town, Gino and I moseyed the 50 yards down to the Tabaccheria where Alberto works, managed by his girlfriend Paola. There the three of us shot the bull for a bit, the generous Alberto handed me a bag full of chocolate bars and an international photo card, and when they headed home for lunch, I headed back to the B&B for a little rest, writing in the journal, and listening to music. Actually, it was here that I wrote the bulk of my four-post music analysis.

That evening, I took a tour in an old ceramics factory turned aristocratic house turned museum, and when it was time for dinner we happily found ourselves back at Ritrovo Felice (Italian-English speakers will enjoy my cheesy redundancy), Pepe's fabulous restaurant. I met two more guys, Vincenzo (the other Vincenzo's cousin) and Ciccio, and sampled more delightful dishes, including a giant, succulent pork shank, which made me feel like a Hun chieftain. Since everyone was pretty dead from the night before, I said my goodbyes, promised to return, and went back to the B&B. The road was calling.

The walk to Cefalu, and back to S. Stefano

2009-01-20T19:05:00.000+01:00

12/17 - S. Stefano di Camastra to Cefalù and back - 21.90 miles

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There is nothing so comforting as knowing that you have a place to sleep, and after spending a raucous evening with the guys, who insisted that I stay at S. Stefano, or at the very least return the following evening, I was told not to worry about lodging.

Walking to Cefalù was easy enough, with a sprinkle or two of rain but nothing to complain about (after all, a little rain here and there never hurt a soul), and a pleasant but not life-changing path along the state road. My only lingering memories are my lunch spot atop a boulder in the midst of the charred remains of bushes, where I took a short nap, and my first pastry shop cannoli, a culinary treasure that has nothing to do with that cardboard crap they pass off as cannoli back in the US. Globalization, where are you with my fresh cannoli, overstuffed with fresh ricotta and complete with candied orange peel? If you can't deliver on that, what the hell are you good for?

Upon my arrival at S. Stefano, I was picked up by Pepe, one of the guys from dinner the night before, and the most vocal proponent of my return. He had told me "don't worry about lodging," and he delivered, taking me to the B&B owned by his good friend Vincenzo. The B&B, called I Colori dell'Arcobaleno, had a unique floral design and color scheme for each room, with plenty of clever details in the choices of fixtures, art, furniture, and decor to match the scheme. Smiling at the idea of the smelly backpacker occupying the "rose room," I nonetheless appreciated the eye for detail displayed by Vincenzo.

After a refreshing shower (sometimes it's easy to forget that I had just walked over 20 miles, my third longest day of the trip), Vincenzo took me down to the indoor soccer field, where his buddies were playing a closely followed and hotly contested league match. We had a couple beers, cheered and jeered both squads, and together with Albeto and Gino, two other members of the group, made plans for the evening. Before I move on, please picture me knocking back Peronis with the boys, shouting encouragement as the local squads play for keeps on the indoor soccer pitch. You can't get much more local than that.

Or can you? Like most of Italy, but especially here, it's not hard to plan your evening. Pick a restaurant, arrange a meeting time, knowing full well that it's flexible by at least an hour, and the only thing left to consider is whether you're drinking beer or wine, and what you'll eat.

In my case, even this was taken care of in advance. The restaurant we chose, Ritrovo Felicità, was owned by Pepe, and I could sense immediately that he was ready to outmatch the fabulous experience I had shared with him the previous evening. For protocol's sake, he asked me what I had in mind, I knew better than to pick something from the menu, and my reward was a meal fit for a king. Awash in a bottomless carafe of red wine, gnocchi in a truffle sauce, fried cheese wrapped with prosciutto, a loaded pizza, an abundant plate of meat, I had a moment of clarity, and decided that it's only fair to amend my first statement of the post: there's nothing so comforting as knowing that you have a place to sleep except knowing and befriending the owner of a top-notch Sicilian restaurant and have him decide your meal for you.

Right in line with the friendly competition between restaurants, Pepe brought out all the bottles, including an unforgettable chocolate cream liqueur and cream of limoncello made by his mother, and once he closed the restaurant around one, we had his full attention as we picked at the remains of the food, sampled desserts, compared life experiences, and joked around until 4:30 in the morning. When it was time to go, he shooed us all out, and as a welcome gesture to me, announced that the entire meal for all four of us was on the house. What else can I say?

Santo Stefano di Camastra

2009-01-20T19:00:00.000+01:00

12/16 - San Fratello to Santo Stefano di Camastra - 17.30 miles
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One day of that wind was enough for me, I had decided, and it was time to get back to the coast, where the air was warmer. My trip to the Nebrodi mountains would have to wait; in any case, I was well aware that this desire to explore the mountains of Sicily was more a fear of finishing that anything else. As I have said before, I hate fear, and so I resolved not to take a long side trip, and instead finish naturally, the way I finished the other regions.

The next logical step in this thought process was to take the bus down from San Fratello, as I had already walked the only road leading up from the coast. Ten miles of redundant walking equalled a half-day, and I could not justify to myself. Still, I felt a tinge of regret as we blew by breathtaking vistas, which though previously viewed were nonetheless new to me, kissed as they were by morning sunlight. My consolation was getting to hear a conversation in the dialect between the bus driver and a passenger, which lasted just long enough for me to hear, enjoy, reflect, mull over the thought of pulling out my audio recorder, weigh the possibility of having them notice, decide to do it anyway, open the bag, unzip the case, pull out the audio recorder, and turn it on. I recorded silence for the rest of the twenty minute trip. Of course.

Once I reached the same road that I had left to climb up to San Fratello, I got off the bus, and made way to Santo Stefano di Camastra. The town began with a grouping of five or six large ceramics stores, each full of colorful ceramics pieces in various shapes and sizes. Though I was curious, I decided to keep going, knowing that I could not buy anything anyhow. Instead, I walked along the perimeter of the town, looking for phone numbers of B&Bs along the way. I found a couple, called them, tried to bargain, and when they did not budge, I decided to keep looking.

After reaching the end of the town, I doubled back along the main corso, and was rewarded with an especially beautiful tradition, that of the Sicilian funeral. A band, consisting mainly of brass and percussion instruments, was playing in the main piazza of the town as a large procession of black-clad mourners followed the hearse. Everyone had gathered to witness the ceremony, and I felt transported back in time, at least until I saw one of the principal mourners, a girl in her late twenties, chatting on the cell phone amidst her weeping relatives. What a delicious contrast between traditional and modern, of somber reflection and oblivious frivolity.

Once the procession had passed, and the band stopped playing, I entered a Tabaccheria, asked the owner about a place to stay, and was told to go to Trattoria Gianini, which apparently also had rooms. When I arrived, I spoke a while with the waiter, who was the nephew of the B&B owner, and nephew to a different Uncle, the trattoria owner. We made a deal that involved both the room and dinner, all in all a better deal than looking for both separately, and soon I was on my way to the room.

As they had just entered the business, the B&B was brand new, and I enjoyed the new smells and bright, fresh paint. I took a hot shower, washed some clothes, and soon it was time to head to dinner.

What a treat. Asking for suggestions, I ended up with a tagliatelle loaded to the brim with delicious, juicy artichoke hearts, and a local fish, orata, cooked with caramelized onions and pine nuts. The preparation was aesthetically pleasing, and for me a delightful touch was the beautiful ceramic work all around me. The plate, carafe, lampshades, and centerpieces were all intricately decorated, creating a marvelous effect that I soon discovered was S. Stefano's claim to fame.

As I sat in a post-meal daze, smiling at everything around me and letting the meal work its way down, I was approached by the waiter, who pointed me out to his Uncle, the chef and owner of the trattoria. Within 45 seconds of conversation, this culinary master had invited me to his table, where he was having a glass of wine with two friends. I sat down, they offered me a glass, I politely declined, they told me that I had to have at least one glass to cheers, and there it began.

Friendships formed, tales were told, and soon Mario the restaraunteur with American culinary experience had pulled out three bottles of different liqueurs. We sampled each one, a cream of coffee, a grappa, and a chocolate liqueur, and pronounced them all delicious. Another friend came, more bottles appeared, and before I could blink there were fourteen bottles on the table, and we had tried each of them at least once.

After a dessert and more toasting, we all got up from the table, laughing and a bit tipsy. I was congratulated on all sides for being able to keep up so brilliantly, and I secretly thought the same way about them keeping up with me. I also realized at that moment, in my 100% clarity, that one of the keys to being accepted as a traveler, especially a male one, is to be able to hold your liquor well, to be able to accept any drink offer without turning into a babbling idiot. Because every drinking bout, from the purely social and friendly to the case race, is a kind of test, and the need to prove yourself is always somewhere underneath the good wishes and pats on the back. And it's not just an American phenomenon, either: I have experienced this phenomenon on three different continents, in a plethora of unique situations. Those of you non-drinkers may disagree, saying that it was not necessary to drink to really see the inside of this situation, but I challenge you to turn down a glass of wine or a grappa offered to new friendship here in Sicilia and see if you are still as well-received as before the drink was offered.

Arms around one another's shoulders in pure merriment, we moved as a unit to an empty bar, where we had a drink (I stepped down to beer while they upped the ante to scotch), talked some more, and stayed out until three. What a crazy night, completely out of nowhere as it was. I have Mario to thank for it, as his generosity and boisterous nature allowed me to make new friends.

A walk uphill to San Fratello

2009-01-20T18:58:00.000+01:00

12/15 - Capo d'Orlando to San Fratello - 20.75 miles

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My little two-hour excursion to Piraineto could hardly be called an exploration of inland Sicily, so I decided to give it another go, this time to San Fratello, the gateway to the Nebrodi, a mountain chain and regional park in Central Sicily.

Awaking early, I left the hotel at Capo d'Orlando, flirted with the barista as I ate a delicious chocolate croissant and sipped a cappuccino, and off I went exploring.

Soon enough, I found the road that slanted uphill, and three to four hours later, I was clearly in the foothills. One of the first things I had heard about San Fratello was that it was renowned for its horses, and that the breeding and training of horses here was a fine mixture of art and science. I had imagined gigantic pastures with hundreds of horses galloping about, performing stunts and running faster than the wind; instead, I saw a few squat-looking horses lazily tugging at weeds. Looking back at it, I get the feeling that I missed the boat somehow, that some guidance by a local would have led me into the "real" horse zone, as opposed to the outer "pony" zone. I guess I'll just have to go back.

One thing that did not disappoint was the countryside, an ideal pastoral landscape with trees, farmland, pastures, olive groves, and rustic country homes. Best of all, I was arriving right at sunset, so I had the dramatic backdrop of a painted skyline to complement the land's varied bounty.

I would have stayed outside even longer, drunk with the overwhelming beauty of my surroundings, but a fierce mountain wind had picked up dramatically, infiltrating my lightweight outer wear and literally chilling me to the bone. So, relying on a steep uphill to keep me warm through exertion, I hustled the last mile or two, and finally arrived at the hotel.

Unfortunately, the wind only grew stronger, and from the groaning sounds it made as it blew down the street past my poorly insulated window, I knew it was not "take a walk and explore" weather. As a result, I passed the evening in my hotel room, with a trip upstairs for dinner.

The dinner was interesting, as I got to experience firsthand the other notable characteristic that distinguishes San Fratello from every other town in Italy. Ever since the Norman invasions of Sicily more than 900 years ago, San Fratello has spoken a Franco-Italian dialect that is unique to its population of around 4,500. So, even Sicilians from towns ten miles away understand little to nothing of San Fratello's dialect. Their language reminds the historically-minded thinker that this little hamlet has essentially lived in its own bubble for dozens of generations, and that modern Italian as it is spoken today is only widespread as of 60 or 70 years ago, when Fascism and television stepped in. For the most part, dialects are disappearing in Italy at an alarming rate, preserved mostly by the elderly, the uneducated, and joke telling youngsters. And it's a shame too, since a dialect speaks volumes about traditions, beliefs, and in the case of San Fratello, outside influences.

For those of you who refuse to believe that dinner alone is better than dinner with company, you will hopefully concede that being alone allowed me to concentrate fully on the conversations of the locals as they dined. And what did it sound like? Well, for lack of better terms, a Sicilian speaking street French with a more staccato rhythm than what French or the Sicilian dialect usually sound like.

Actually, it was a tad frustrating, as I understood nearly zero of what was going on around me. What's the use of all that Italian training when you can't understand people in Italy? I could not imagine trying to do a walk in a country where I did not speak or understand the language. How isolating and scary, what a demanding test of character it would be!

With a pair of cannoli to finish off the meal, I retired back to my room, and without hesitation, turned on the television. Often my great enemy, it became my great friend, a source of comfort, if only for tonight.

Gioiosa Marea to Capo D'Orlando, and the Jazz Trattoria

2009-01-16T21:03:00.001+01:00

The Album

12/14 Gioiosa Marea to Capo d'Orlando - 17.02 miles

With a third sunny day in a row and some nice new shoes, I was in the mood to do some exploring in the foothills, so that I could see what Sicily was like away from the coast. The town I chose to visit was called Piraineto, another semi-abandoned hill town with stellar views of the sea, as well as the green farmland further South.

I climbed up to the top, fully explored the cobbled roads, climbed up to the medieval tower and out to the outermost church, and walked down the other side, tumbling down my own forged path in the midst of fragrant lemon groves. Still, this little excursion only served to whet my appetite, and so I decided to reserve at least one or two days for some more inland exploration.

First I had to reach the next major destination, Capo d'Orlando, a beach town, somewhat similar to Gioiosa Marea. Here the day's highlight was a jazz bar / trattoria, where I ate a meal of Sicilian proportions and made friends with the music-loving owners. Since there was no act playing that night, I finished the antipasto course, which consisted of six or seven different places of local delicacies, and hopped on the old upright piano.

My playing was pretty atrocious, but everyone seemed to like it, and throughout the course of the meal I got up to play a few more times, realizing with each piece just how out of practice I had become. Piano is such a jealous instrument; sometimes I am very discouraged by the fact that just a few days or weeks off can cost weeks of recovery time, meaning that suitable playing requires constant upkeep.

Still, no matter how discouraging it is, I find myself always crawling back, tail betwixt legs, and starting from what always feels like scratch. Kind of like a ruthless lover, now that I think about it.

Time to back away from a beloved tangent... We passed around different desserts, filled the carafe from the barrell, talked US politics and history until closing time and beyond, and when it was time to go, they gave me a heavily discounted bill, and wished me a happy continuation of my journey. Looking back, this evening is memorable for me in that something other than my walk, in this case piano and a knowledge of jazz, was what endeared me to these people, and allowed me to see the "inside." Even though I love the attention that my walker's status affords me, it was good to remember that I am not just a one-trick pony. In the end, I think it's safe to say that people are attached to passion, especially when they see someone go to great lengths for that passion. Add the element of passions in common (music, Italy, and so on), mix in an extroverted and warm character such as that found in most Italians, top it off with the possibility of seamlesss, or at least fluid, communication, and you begin to explain how I continue to find myself in such a delicious situation.

Tindari take two, and down the other side

2009-01-16T20:57:00.001+01:00

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12/13 - Falcone to Gioiosa Marea - 18.61 miles

Climbing up to Tindari was even better the second time around, as it was the beginning of my day, and the sun was shining. I made it all the way up to the Sanctuary this time, took a stroll around inside, and admired the electronically animated nativity scene.

Back outside, I was soon approached by a boy, nine years old and full of energy. He raced up on his bike, started asking questions, ran around with my trekking poles, and before I knew it, I had made a new friend. We chatted for a while, giving me an opportunity to practice talking with kids. You see, I am firmly in the Alyosha Karamazov camp, where it is possible to treat children with respect and speak to them openly without going down to a lower level or making them come up to an artificially high one.

I answered his questions openly and honestly, patiently explaining things he did not understand, and asked questions about Tindari without belittling him or his knowledge. Then, shaking his hand, I took my leave, but as I was on foot and he on a bike, he soon caught up, and out of nowhere, presented me with a bag of chips. Touched by this spontaneous, unsolicited act of generosity on his part, I insisted on sharing the chips with him, and so we began to hang out some more.

Still, I am not a complete fool, and I know what you're thinking. The child molester alarm is sounding in your corrupted mind, and I freely say so, because it was sounding in mine loud and clear. Man with backpack enters town of 150 or so, befriends nine-year old boy, shares bag of chips. At this point, it was time for me to go, but I was faced with a dilemma. I could not explain why I needed to leave, as there is a large difference between speaking openly to children and talking to them about sexual predators, maybe for the first time. Unable to explain, I also did not want to leave him bewildered at why his new friend did not want to spend more time with him. His solution was to take me home for lunch, and nor was that a good idea, as I did not want his parents thinking that I had tricked their son into giving me a free lunch. The last available option was to say I already had my lunch, but this then led to a tour of the "best picnic spot in town."

Great. He leads me up onto a grassy knoll amid an olive tree grove, and soon I am petrified at what this kid is getting me into. Still, I am more petrified that he might figure out why I am petrified: after all, the mere nonchalance of his toting around a perfect stranger suggests that he has no fear, or no reason to be afraid. I decide to play along, since after all my conscience is clear and my motives are genuinely innocent. And be careful, you who judge me naive or inexperienced with children; remember that the US is a very different place from small-town Sicily.

Soon I have shared my entire food collection with this child, whose hunger is more ravenous even than mine, and he starts rifling through my backpack, more and more excited by all the strange new toys. He's running around with my GPS, wearing my gloves and using my trekking poles, listening to music on the portable speaker and drinking from my water bag. He asks for a shiny new dollar bill, I happily oblige, and he declares that I shall never leave.

While I am having fun sharing all my toys, I am still afraid at the idea of trying to explain just what I was doing up on the hill, but I don't show it, choosing the honest out of needing to continue lest I arrive after dark. I get the "5 more minutes 5 more minutes" plea, and before I have to lay the law down, we hear his Mom calling. Oh no, I think, wondering what the electric chair will feel like, and he runs off, still wearing my gloves.

I quickly pack up, heart racing, and prepare to explain myself, still aware that my intentions have always been pure. Then, to my surprise, he comes back, no sign of worry on his face. "Don't you have to go to lunch?" "No, she just wanted to know where I was." I accompany him back down to the road, he tries to keep me around, we exchange secret handshakes and I ride his bike at his behest, but then it's really time to go, and we howl ciao as distance separates us, and our screams are no longer audible.

Well, you've already judged me, and I can't blame you, but I learned an important lesson about Italy. The terrible crimes that are commonplace in the US are unheard of here, and so a sense of trust and calm dominates where we have paranoia and "don't talk to strangers" as a mantra, reamed into our childrens' brains before they can walk. When a Sicilian mother, traditionally a she-bear when it comes to protecting her young, entrusts her son to a stranger for a lunchtime picnic, then there's no reason I should worry either. So, in conclusion, the Alyosha Karamazov approach works; I maintained an honest and sincere rapport with a child, and fostered and true and spontaneous friendship. Now that is what I call a positive and memorable experience.

That's all I have to tell about the day. I descended from Tindari, made it to Gioiosa Marea a bit after sundown, and slept peacefully in a well-run B&B owned by a very friendly couple.

Barcellona to Rodi Milice to Tindari, and back down again to Falcone

2009-01-16T20:00:00.003+01:00

Link to the photos from Messina to Torregrotta to Barcellona to Tindari

12/12 Barcellona to Tindari, and back down the hill to Falcone - 18.37 miles

The next morning was sunny, and I could not have been more thankful, as it could just as easily have been another day without any progress. As it was, I was perfectly fine with repeating the two miles, and after stopping in to thank the family once more for their hospitality, I crossed my last stopping point.

The rains had done some very serious damage, destroying houses, flooding all lawns and farms, completely paralyzing the drainage systems, and covering the roads with debris. I walked through a war zone, happy to have stopped when I did, and felt sorry for the people whose lives had been so rudely shaken by a very angry rainstorm.

Moving on, I took a three or four mile detour to a city called Rodì Milice, where I had business to take care of relating to a previous encounter, all of which I will relay in detail at a later date. After being dropped off back on the road I had left to climb to the town, I continued onward toward the hilltop sanctuary of Tindari, which sat on a bluff overlooking the coast in both directions.

This was no small hill, and I was a good 80 to 90 minutes climbing up to the tip, reaching the village of Locanda right as dusk fell, and just as it began to rain. I asked around for lodging up top, and found that there was only one option. When a call to this B&B resulted in failure due to water damage, I was without options, and for the first time on my trip, felt that it was possible I would have to walk back down the hill in the rainy night.

Silly me, how could I have such little fate in the firm and guiding hand of Providence, who has never left me without a roof over my head. A man and his son, who had come up to Locanda to buy some homemade cheese, heard me describe my travails, and offered to drive me back down to Falcone. Further, the man introduced me to the owner of a restaurant in the town where I ended up staying, ensuring good treatment and a fair price.

The restaurant owner, in turn, allowed me to "carry his name" to the hotel owner a bit out of town, and in that way I secured a low price on my room, which would otherwise have been much higher, as the hotel owners closer to town were all taking advantage of the water damage to artificially inflate their prices. In comparison to B&B Monika at Torregrotta, this was hospitality with money in mind, and so I was happy to walk a mile out of the way to be able to stick it to them.

When I came back for dinner, I saw that the restaurant was completely full with the Italian army, who had been called in to deal with the national emergency that I had just walked through. Still, despite the abnormally busy restaurant staff, my dinner was delicious, bountiful and reasonable priced, and I went to bed thanking my lucky stars for continued good fortune.

You know, I once heard that Homer's epics contain certain phrases or epithets that fill out the verse in a given number of syllables, like "Aegis-Bearing Zeus" (5) and "Zeus, King of Gods and Men" (6). Looking back at my various entries, it is fair to say that "thanking my lucky stars for my continued good fortune" has played a similar role. Not that I am comparing myself to Homer, of course; it's just that after six months of talking about the same general subject, it is hard to stay fresh, and I guess in some small way, I know how Homer must have felt, especially when describing the various combat verses. Good thing I am almost finished, ha.

Messina to Torregrotta, and the unforgettable walk to Barcellona

2009-01-16T19:40:00.001+01:00

12/10 - Messina to Torregrotta - 20.56 miles

Now that I had shoes, and was therefore covered in case of rain, I decided to push my luck and look for Goretex shoes as well. It was clear that these shoes I had purchased would not hold up for six hours in rainy conditions, and while I was annoyed with myself for having bought the salesman's pitch, I did not regret the purpose. At least, I thought, I had a nice pair of shoes for when the walk was over. After a 0 for 4 start to the day, making it more than 18 failures (have you ever gone 0 for 18 when looking for something? It is a wretched feeling), I left Messina, and started climbing the hill that would take me to the North coast of the island.

Guess what? It started to rain, and as I crossed the Colli S. Rizzo, my new shoes were put to the test. It poured, I listened to Beethoven's Sonata Op. 109 and the accompanying lecture by Schiff, and when I reached the top of the hill, my shoes felt dry. So what did I do? I took them off, of course. They were causing me pain (as new leather shoes tend to do), so I put on my old shoes, the ones with the holes. Within feet I was swimming, but at least my feet didn't hurt, and it was in this way that I reached Torregrotta, where a trip to the bar for a caffeinated piece of information yielded the name and number of a Bed & Breakfast, B&B Monika.

I found the accommodations warm and welcoming, and was soon on friendly terms with Monika, the German expat, her son Patrick, an acid jazz-rock fusion composer, and the rest of their family. Monika gave me the insider connection on a delicious restaurant nearby, where I was treated like family, and even mothered me a bit herself, with a bag of fruit to tide me over for the next day's lunch. There's a huge difference between hospitality from the heart, and hospitality for money's sake, and in this case, I was happy to find excellent treatment by truly friendly people, an excellent start to my walk across the North coast.

12/11 - Torregrotta to Barcellona - 9.60 miles

After a delicious, thoughtfully prepared breakfast at the family table, I was out the door, and was instantly hit with the Scirocco, that famous North African wind that blows the Sahara heat over Southern Italy.

If only it had lasted. A cold wind from Northern Europe soon prevailed, and brought with it sheets of rain. My leather shoes, barely dry from the first round, were soon put to the test, and held up quite nicely. However, when I saw the Decathlon, a major sports outlet in Italy, I decided to try my luck with one more store. After an initial failure, the manager of the shore department handed me a pair of Merrells, and said that they were the most waterproof I would find in the "low ankle line" style. They were not Goretex, but this was the same brand as my last two pairs, and they fit well enough, so I bit the bullet, vowing to return with receipt in hand if they should fail me.

Right as I signed the receipt, the rain began to fall like rocks hitting the metal roof of the store, daring me to try out my new shoes. There was no sense in staying, however, and now was as good a time as any to try out new shoes, so I left the store, and after eighty yards in a deluge, I found myself under a wooden structure, where I ate my lunch in the hopes that the rain would cease, or at least weaken.

It only grew more ferocious, and as I walked out of the shipping center parking lot, I saw rivulets forming all around. Before five minutes had passed, a semi truck crossed a giant puddle, and my right foot was completely soaked in water. New shoe or old shoe, it would have taken a rubber boot to keep the water out. But that was just the beginning.

I have never, ever, ever seen a worse rainstorm, or witnessed this much flooding in my entire life. The road I walked on, literally the main artery linking Messina with Palermo, was absolutely underwater, with fast moving streams making any form of avoidance futile. For at least two miles I skipped from side walk to side walk, hugging railings, taking large leaps, tip-toeing through three-inch deep puddles. The sky was falling, a cold, steely, gray, with claps of thunder to make your skin crawl. My brand new shoes were 100% soaked, weighing me down as I trudged on, head bowed and resolve firm. I was going to get through this day, I thought, and there's a hot shower waiting at the other end of it.

But then the unimaginable happened: this main highway, a normally busy road, had reached a depth of six inches. Both sidewalks were partially submerged, but anyways were impeded by parked cars, and there was no turning back. So, stubborn sonofabitch that I am, I took off my shoes and socks, rolled up my pant legs, and waded into the brown, gelid water, which reached my shins. And I started to walk.

After walking through this river for twenty yards or so, I saw that I was a town spectacle, as everyone peeked out from doorways and window sills to watch the crazy person walk down the middle of the submerged street. I stopped to ask where we were, what it was like ahead, and whether the rain was ever supposed to stop. When I heard that it was worse ahead, and that the road I planned to take was completely closed because of the flash flood, I felt the will to continue drain out of my body. I was cold.

The guy who I had asked invited me in out of the rain, I meekly assented, and removing all my wet outer layers in the hallway, shuffled into the kitchen, feeling very sheepish and very cold. The whole Sicilian family was assembled: Dad and Grandpa on the couch, Mom at the stove, Grandma in the corner by the heater, covered in a quilt, and the two boys at the table.

I politely refused and then gratefully accepted the sandwich, wine, fruit, and chocolate that they laid out before me, and told my story to the family, who grew warmer and warmer toward this crazy stranger in their midst. A few hours went by, it grew dark out, my story had been told and rehashed, life stories were recounted, I received a history lesson as Grandpa told us how it used to be, and still the rain continued to pour outside. By 7:00, when it was at last okay to drive outside, the elder son Salvatore offered to drive me to a B&B two miles or so back, and I gratefully accepted once more. At the end of the evening, when all was said and done, I had walked nearly ten miles through the worst rainstorm in 50 years, and had ended my walk in the hardest hit town of the entire island of Sicily.

I Finished!*

2009-01-12T18:35:00.003+01:00

Friends,

I didn't want to say it, as I am so far behind on the blog, but I finished on January 8th, six months to the day after leaving San Diego, and 180 days after starting the walk in Switzerland.

The reason I didn't want to say anything is that I was afraid you would stop reading once you knew that I reached the end. After all, it's a bit anticlimactic to be reading about my arrival on the island of Sicily after I've actually crossed the whole thing.

However, it is unfair to all of Sicily and to all the people I met if you stop reading now. Just because I am a procrastinator does not mean you should punish the entire island.

So, I'm going to keep on posting as I can, adding photos and throwing in some more abstract posts here and there. I have a million things I still want to say, so I decided that I will just keep on saying them. I hope you'll keep going with me, and pretend that I haven't actually finished until I officially say so.

And in fact, there's a different reason why the title of this post bears an asterisk, and as I have yet to accomplish the asterisk-removing deed, there's still a little bit of suspense left, after all. So, for those of you action film wacthers who can't maintain interest in anything unless there's a cliffhanger and suspenseful music involved, this is my gift to you.

Finally, since I imagine many of you will be curious about what I'm currently doing, I will say that I am taking a victory lap, taking short train rides back along my path to visit the friends I have made. When I'm done ignoring the call back to real life, I plan to settle in Rome, and there start looking for work.

Best Wishes from an ex-walker,
Pat

The Day trip to Taormina

2009-01-12T18:31:00.000+01:00

12/9 - Taormina Day Trip

I had to make a decision on this second day, of whether to walk down to Taormina and back up, or to take a day trip by train and keep moving. I chose the latter, as it is one thing to take a one-day detour, and entirely another to take a four-day one. So, leaving my backpack at the hotel, I boarded a train to Taormina, and reached the city in no time, or at least a lot quicker than walking.

Even the train station was absolutely beautiful, charming and well-appointed with carefully preserved period furniture. There was even a 1st class waiting room, though of course it was closed, no longer in use. Finding an open (!!!) tourist information office, I received a wealth of information from the representative, who had traveled extensively throughout Sicily and was eager to help. He even gave me a map and a book of all the accommodations in Sicily, which though five years old was still the best I had seen since Liguria. He even helped me locate a number of shoe stores in town, as I was not ready to brave one more hour of rain with my current shoes.

Taormina has a fabulous ancient theatre, built on high and overlooking the sea, so that the audience could enjoy nature's spectacle while they viewed the man-made one. I had heard a great deal about this landmark, and planned to give it its due share of my attention, but the practical consideration of footwear took priority, and I spent half of my time in Taormina visiting every shoe store. I went 0 for 7, and was greatly disturbed, but I had also come for some sightseeing, and so put the shoe problem temporarily out of mind.

The town itself was a sparkling little jewel, completely out of place with what I imagined Sicily to be, as flashy as luxurious as it was. Another victim of tourism, I thought, and wondered if it had always been wealthy: not every Greek colony could afford a hilltop theatre with a view. The threatre itsdelf was what I had hoped it would be, though I must admit I was bound to be disappointed after hearing about my Dad's visit in the 1960s, when it was deserted, unkempt and absolutely free. Even at the end of my journey, I am still unable to reconcile the fact that tourism and fences spoil the magic of ancient ruins with the fact that the same diffusion of information and modern technology that brings tourism and fences also allows me to travel. There is no solution except a form of time travel, available only to me and those I select. I am hard at work on the invention of it, one beer at a time.

I sat at length in the audience section, picturing past performances, recalling my own days on the stage, and realizing with satisfaction that I was one of the few people here. At least it wasn't like the Coliseum.

Somewhere between a video speaker phone conversation between a 40-something man and his mother (can you see the stage, mom? No, it's all fuzzy. Tilt the phone! OOOOOOHHH, there it is! Pretty!) and the appearance of the landscaper with weed whacker a whackin' full blast, I decided that the magic was over, and it was time to move on.

As I walked down to the bus, I stopped in one last shoe store, and after some fast sales-talking, a good fit, and an uncharacteristically snap decision on my part, I found myself in a pair of snazzy leather shoes, which though not in Goretex had been personally guaranteed by the salesman. Desperation trounced discrimination, and with a ride to the train station as part of the sales pitch, I made it just on time tocatch the train to Messina, and back to my cozy little hotel room.

Messina Arrival

2009-01-12T18:30:00.002+01:00

12/8 - Punta Faro to Messina - 13.88 miles

It was time for me to move on to the next chapter, the last region to explore, Sicily. By this point, I had heard a great deal about Sicily, had had many assumptions clarified, but it is one thing to hear about a place, and entirely different to walk across it. So, taking leave of Reggio with the hope to return soon to the wonderful friends I had made, I waved goodbye to Enzo, possibly the world's best host, and boarded the boat to Messina.

The thirty minute ride was spent looking back to what I was leaving, and looking forward to a new adventure, all the while savoring the thought that I had come so far, had waited for this moment for son long, and had finally reached it. The boat was bigger than I imagined it, due to the fact that it transported two decks worth of cars back and forth. Other than that, however, it was just a boat ride, and I wished that I could have found a way to swim across. Still, there's always next August, on the one Sunday when it's legal to cross.

My first moments in Sicily felt foreign in some way. As we all elbowed and shoved our way to the turnstiles (no patience, these Italians), a group of young wannabe rebels jumped over, and turned around to dare someone to protest. Nobody cared. I walked to a newspaper stand, bought a bus ticket, and waited at the stop for the bus to Punta Faro, the northeast tip of the island. The bus came, and when I entered, I sat with a half-retarded half-Arabian Sicilian, a toothless, haggard washer-woman type, and a Romanian evangelical bullshit artist. I watched them engage in a compelling and sickening debate over the Romanian lady's faith, and witnessed the other two blaspheme and place themselves above God as a way of provoking and at once testing the Romanian lady's faith. She was well-dressed, and when they asked her how she got the clothes, she said it was a gift, because she was blessed by God. I think she was a prostitute. Anyways, as the semi-retarded man (who took a shining to me, asked me to sit down, and was after all very nice) called God a "cornuto" (cuckold), I descended, and found myself a mile from the trip. Interesting start.

I reached the tip, took the requisite pictures and movie, digested my surroundings, smelled the sea to remember, and started walking. My walk took me along the coast, covering the same route I had seen by bus, and soon turned into a nighttime search for lodging. A few questions revealed that Messina was particularly ill-served for visitors, but there was a place by the train station, and soon I was settled, happy to find such a great deal. True, there was no heating and the bathroom was both disgusting and shared by all the other guests, but that's part of the adventure, and I was not phased in the least. Actually, funny enough, I opened the nightstand drawer out of boredom, and saw various messages written in pencil or pen on the wood, all of them lamenting cruel fate for allowing them to hit rock bottom in this hell hole of a room. I had seen much worse, and actually thought it was quite quaint, and it then hit me that I would be able to find something positive about any sleeping accommodation. What a bunch of whiners, I thought, and wrote the only uplifting message on the drawer.

I had a sandwich for dinner, and had the unusual and satisfying opportunity to receive the bullying "stink-eye" from a trio of adolescents, including the accompanying provocations and cat-calling. I say satisfying because I soon had them positively gaping, struggling to comprehend the fact that I had walked from Switzerland. They invited me to the table, admitted that they thought I was Moroccan (as if that's a suitable reason to bully someone), and had a million questions about America. I patiently answered all, smiled to myself as they put their badass faces back on before leaving the sandwich shop, and retired to my suite, complete with a musty quilt from the closet.

Smells

2009-01-12T18:02:00.002+01:00

The act of walking rewards the walker with a complete sensory experience, a feast for all six senses. Never have I been so aware of my surroundings as I have during these past few months. While I realize and appreciate the fact that walking alone has removed the distraction of communication with another human being, allowing me to silently observe and marvel at the richness of my surroundings, it has also left me bereft of the ability to share in the moment with a friend or loved one.

I have tried, to the best of my ability, to plug this hole in my experience by sharing every sense of the trip with all of you in great detail. We have covered sight thoroughly, as it is the most readily reproduced of the senses, thanks to great advances in photography and data storage. I have described, in certain instances, memorable sounds, and have also recorded a good number of them, though I have not shared any of those recordings with you digitally. By photographing fruit, pastries, and more elaborate dishes, and accompanying those photos with descriptions, I have only conveyed a fragment of the earth-rattling taste explosion here, but short of mailing the food to each of you, that's as close as we can get. I will have certainly tired each of you out at one point or another with tales of hill climbing, marathon walks, and a heavy pack. You also suffered with me in extreme heat, unprotected for hours under a baking sun, and slogging with wet feet in the rain for hours on end. You have even felt the tickle of grass as I napped under trees, so touch is effectively covered. The sixth sense is, by definition, impossible to convey effectively, but your own experiences with it are roughly communicable, and therefore must suffice. Anyways, my sixth sense has mostly come into use as a way of avoiding death by car, and that, I think, is a subject we can avoid discussing.

The one sense that has received little if any mention during my travels is smell. In general, smell tends to be overlooked, taking a back seat to nearly every other sense. However, since I happen to have a particularly keen sense of smell, as well as a sharpened scent-memory capability, I would like to share, at the tail end of my journey, some of the smells that have caught my, er, nose. Let's begin, with no photos to distract us:

1. Newly Washed Clothes - Italy is a land with very few dryers, and so the standard procedure is to wash linens and clothes either by hand or machine, and then hang them outside to dry. The damp, freshly cleaned clothes waft a smell of Marseilles soap, and it is this moist and vaguely floral scent that reminds me most of Italy.

2. Garlic - Walking around towns between noon and three almost always guarantees a heavy, inviting smell of roasted or fried garlic, as the most important meal, lunch, is prepared. It always reminds me of little grandmothers in uniform flower print dresses, and it always succeeds in making me hungry. Just writing about it gets the saliva flowing.

3. Trash - Probably the most common daily smell, it always involves rotting organic matter, and carries for surprisingly long distances. No matter how long you hold your breath, that first intake always involves a little of that sharp, raspy, trashy goodness. Putrid and lingering, pervasive and unsettling, this is unfortunately one of those smells that will also remind me of my walk.

4. Sheep Poop - It smells exactly the way lamb tastes. And I hope I never think of it vice versa.

5. Salt Water - It is no surprise that salt water makes the list, as I have hugged the Mediterranean almost the whole way down. The smell is cool, breezy, and just a bit stale, but at the same time refreshing. It reminds me of algae and sardines, and I miss it when I am away from it for long.

6. My Sweaty Backpack - In six months, I have oozed a lot of stink into my backpack, and have only washed it once. The straps, the hip belt, the interior compartments, and especially the surface that touches my back all reek of acidic body odor, like a basketball jersey crammed into a gym bag in the bottom locker of a men's locker room. You get used to it, I guess, but every time I reenter a room where it has been sitting, I remember it's there, and pity my host.

7. Morning Bakery - There is no smell more mouth-watering to me than the hot, grainy smell of baked bread. Many times my walk has been interrupted at a moment's notice as my nose led me, reeling, into a bakery or pastry shop. It reminds me of floury, aproned women, beaming from ear to ear and offering free samples. The shops are nearly always painted in shades of orange and brown, at least in my memory, and my tummy rumbles just thinking about it.

8. Human Feces - We all know the spectrum of smells accompanying human poop. I have walked by my fair share of it, hanging out in the open sewage pits. This reminds me, oddly enough, of rural Tuscany, and it is always hot outside in my memory. Gross. Why would you share this with us, you ask?

9. Olives - Olive trees, burning olive branches, olives on the ground, olive oil, seasoned olives, and olive oil manufacturing plants. The smell of olives is richly woven into my memory of Italy, especially Liguria, Tuscany, and the Southern regions. It is always heavy, slilghtly acidic, and absolutely enchanting.

10. Cheese - I cannot sum up the smell of cheese, as every cheese is different, and smells vary with the animal that produced it, and also with the temperature of the cheese. Still, it is always around me, and always delicious.

11. Hotel Rooms - On arrival, most rooms smell like surface cleanliness masking years of use and a decaying infrastructure. Sometimes they come with a trace of smoke (bringing up images of a sickly, unkempt skinny man in his late 30s, silently contemplating his own failure as the TV drones in the smoky background), sometimes with a hint of mold, sometimes with the ungodly reek of backed up plumbing. Then again, when the room and the fixtures are new, they smell modern, fresh, and inviting. On departure, they uniformly smell like dirty socks and my sweaty backpack (see No. 6), and with a tinge of shame and guilt, I open the window before leaving.

12 - Greenery Newly Enlivened by Recently Fallen Rain - Humid, slightly cool, relaxing, and delicate, the smell of plants and trees still damp from the rain helps me lose all feelings of discomfort that naturally accompany hours of walking under rain clouds. It reminds me of vigor, health, and brilliant shades of green. I love this smell.

13. Coffee - Pungent, forceful, bitter, and ever alert, to me coffee smells like information, old men, and a moment's rest. I always learn something new, meet someone new, or see something new over shots of espresso in pristine, porcelain cups on little porcelain platters.

14. Cigarettes - Acrid, hot, decrepit, sickening tobacco smoke. Nothing except trash and human poop succeed in making me so sick to my stomach. The smell reminds me of kids with motorcycles pretending to be grown ups, and of hacking, balding old men wearing threadbare sweaters. It should not be hard for you to understand why I consider cigarettes the representation of the antithesis of walking. However, since nothing is cut and dry, it also reminds me of dear friends, of new experiences, and of brisk lamplit nights strolling along cobbled streets.

15. Citrus - *cough* *cough* - Time to clear the air, and nothing succeeds like the spray of citrus emitted by an orange slowly and deliberately peeled. This smell reminds me of wintertime, but also of sunshine, health, and post-prandial satisfaction. To get to the smell of citrus trees, add a layer of sticky dirt which is in its own way pleasant, and picture a vast expanse of land, with mountains in the background. Nothing makes a blue sky smell more blue than a grove of orange trees.

16. Wine - Dizzying, swirling, but never unpleasant, I will always remember that first sniff of a freshly poured glass of wine. It brings to mind the satisfaction of a hard day's walk, of paper tablecloths, sparkling water, and fresh bread. Whether it's fruity, earthy, bitter, chalky, smooth, or just plain smells like a fat bunch of grapes, it is always a delicious companion. When I think back on all the carafes I have finished over a big meal, a meal spent observing the world around me, concentrating on tastes old and new, and meeting new friends, I can't help but smile, a bit lazily, and sit back in my chair. Sleep will fall on me soon, a right earned by miles of walking, the most natural and fulfilling of activities.

Photos of the rest of Campania, and all of Calabria

2009-01-12T17:52:00.002+01:00

It is that time again, the time I take to catch up on weeks of neglected duties. Here, for your perusal, are the photos of the last stretch of Campania, and all of Calabria.

This leaves Sicilia, and I will get to those as soon as I can. Which probably means a few more weeks of neglected duties.

Finishing up Campania:
Paestum to S. Maria di Castellabate
Acciaroli
Vallo Della Lucania
Novi Velia, San Biase, and Marina di Ascea
Velia and the walk to Palinuro
San Giovanni a Piro and the walk there
The Church at S. Giovanni a Piro and the walk to Sapri

Campania Food and Flora

Calabria (and one photo of Basilicata, as it was raining that whole day):
Basilicata, Tortora, Diamante, Cetraro, and Paola
Paola to Amantea to Mortilla Gizzeria to Pizzo
Pizzo to Tropea
Tropea to Nicotera to Palmi
Palmi to Scilla, via Monte S. Elia
Reggio Calabria and the walk there
Reggio Calabria through the lens of Enzo's Camera

Calabria Food and Flora

And just for a taste, the first album of Sicilia:
The boat ride to Messina, and the first day's walk

And that, my friends, is the fruit of 5 hours of internet time. I hope you enjoy them (slowly)

A Day of Rest in Reggio - Pentidattilo

2009-01-01T18:32:00.000+01:00

12/7 - Or, to you WW2 buffs, A Day that Shall Live in Infamy

As I had decided to stay one more day before the Sicily landing, I was able to sleep until late, eat a leisurely breakfast (at an actual table!), and enjoy my minor victory with my new friends. This happened to be a Sunday, so as there was a group who was free, it meant we could take a little excursion outside of Reggio. So, piling into Enzo's car, Pasquale, Sandro, and I headed toward the Ionian sea, on the opposite coast to that which I had just walked.

We turned inland, and driving into the hills, landed at a rustic Agriturismo, which was serving a delicious family-style luncheon to a packed local crowd. We sat down at the bulky, dark wood table, with an old iron stove for heating and various farm implements decorating the walls, and proceeded to feast. There was no picking from a menu, no separate plates: we shared from gigantic platters of appetizers, 3 different types of pasta, 3 different meat dishes, 3 different vegetable dishes, and big bottles of locally produced wines. While I can never fully adjust to the custom of lunch being the most important meal, I throughouly enjoyed this expansive two hour feast in the middle of the afternoon.

We toasted to our health with a digestivo, in this case grappa, distilled from grapes, grape stems, leaves, etc., and let it settle a bit before thanking the owners and heading out.

With a fully belly and a nice sipper of midday liquor sloshing around, we surveyed our surroundings, and found ourselves in the midst of a glorious landscape, with a dried river bed, orange groves, and jagged rock formations backlit by a sun just an hour away from setting. This, I realized, was what I had missed by having hugged the coast all the way down Calabria. I, who had covered more than 200 miles in eleven days of walking, who had spent hours looking in every direction as I walked in an effort to absorb my surroundings, had only seen a fraction of what Calabria had to offer. The areas of Sila and Aspromonte, both apparently mountain wonderlands, the entire Ionian coastline, the medieval and ancient foothill strongholds, all of these were left undiscovered. There is nothing to do but be thankful for what you have succeeded in seeing, so I did just that, thanking the guys for taking a day to show me a new side of Calabria. They said you're welcome, and proceeded to pay for my lunch, insisting and pushing away my money. It's not fair, I said, but there's no arguing against ancient rules of hospitality. We Americans have a lot to learn in this arena, and I intend to start practicing just as soon as I have a place to live. Come visit and see.

The next stop was Enzo's campground, where he had spent most of his summers since he was a baby. Now deserted, the massive plot of land echoed the sounds of the car engine as we drove around, checked out Enzo's RV, and listened to stories of birthday parties and girl-chasing antics. As the sun was setting, we made a final stop at Pentidattilo, a rock formation resembling five fingers, the picturesque setting of an abandoned town, and explored the silent, winding paths alongside shuttered houses.

2008-12-31T20:40:00.002+01:00

How could I forget to shout, from thousands of miles away, GO CHARGERS!!!

I haven't watched a single game, and I may not have been the best fan this year, but I have never forgotten you entirely, and will have you in my thoughts this coming Saturday.

Wrapping up 2008

2008-12-31T20:06:00.003+01:00

To the haggard, worn-down, catatonic remnants of a group that, much like all the European Superpowers on the brink of World War I, set out jubilantly and confidently on a journey without ever imagining the consequences of their fateful decision,

Thank You.

Thank you for following me down the boot, all the way to the tip. Thank you for patiently recognizing the fact that I have already made it past Palermo and am only just now wrapping up Calabria. Thank you for believing in me. For the doubters, thank you for secretly rooting for a volcanic explosion that so far has not arrived. Thank you Cheryl (and pretty much only Cheryl, excepting a brief stint by my sister) for all the comments, which have shown me that you care. Seriously though, thank you for reading.

No, I'm not done, haha. There will be a similar email when I do finish, or more accurately, a few weeks after I finish, since I will finish this trip like I started: a few weeks behind on the blog.

Oh, and for those of you who thought that my bus trips back and forth in Campania meant that I was taking the bus instead of walking, please let me clarify: I have walked every step of this trail from start to finish, even so far as to return to the exact place where I was standing when I finished the day before. Well, not quite. There is one small exception of about .75 miles back in Piedmont, and I will take care of that later. Stay tuned.

I am in Reggio Calabria, where I have passed the last eight days along with my good friends, whose mugs you will see in my next posts. For those of you who know me well, you will enjoy the fact that I managed to lose my voice two days before New Years, and am just getting it back, only to surely lose it again tonight. Let's just hope I don't have to operate once again on my worn out vocal chords.

Okay, Pat, stop talking so much.

Happy New Years, please know that I miss you all, but am also doing just fine here at tip of the boot, getting to relive with each day the excitement of having reached the tip of the boot.

I depart back to the Western front on January 2. I will let the map at top left do the talking for how much distance remains between me and the fulfillment of the greatest challenge I have ever undertaken.

Love,
Pat

A Minor Victory

2008-12-30T22:00:00.003+01:00

12/6 – Scilla to Reggio, the tip of the boot – 16 miles

It was rough waking up at 8:30 for the train to Scilla, but this was my last walk on the Italian mainland, and the natural excitement made it easier for me to find the energy to get out of bed. After a change in Villa S. Giovanni, I hopped a train for Scilla, struck up a conversation with the woman across from me (I’m not sure if I have changed, or if it’s just easier to talk to people, especially women, here), and in a few short minutes, found myself where I had left off yesterday evening.

With a few parting glances at the town built on the protruding rock, I began this important stretch, only to run into Alessandro, one of Enzo’s friends, as he rode to Scilla on his bicycle. We both stopped to greet one another, and when he rode off, he promised to stop on his way back. So, thirty minutes later, Sandro dismounted, and walking in single file, we chatted for an hour or so.

Whether he wanted to or not, he had encountered me on a particularly contemplative day, which meant dispensing with the small talk and really getting down to the nitty-gritty. Sandro, a web designer / graphics artist, shared with me his dreams and aspirations, his thoughts on Reggio Calabria, and his desire to learn English and travel a few years. I shared with him many of my unfulfilled dreams, described the fulfilment process of this current dream (for how often are our dreams fulfilled?), and before I knew it, an hour had passed and it was time for him to bike home for lunch. Feeling as though we had covered a lot of friendship ground in just a bit more than three miles, I let him go, and continued on my own.

It had been a novel and delightful experience to be able to bounce ideas back and forth with such a gentle, intelligent, and sensitive person, but this next stretch was better undertaken alone, as it covered the last steps to the corner of the toe of the boot. Deciding that a protruding jetty was the furthest point I could reach, I stepped onto the pebbles and shells of the beach, climbed onto the huge cubical blocks of stone that formed the jetty, and walked out toward the looming form of Sicily, just a stone’s throw away. I could have swam this, I thought with a tinge of regret, but this moment was about victory and closure, not disappointment and emptiness, so I surveyed instead the long coastline of Calabria, and imagined the looming forms of mountains, the splendid beachs, and bustling hilltop towns of the past 1400+ miles. That was a lot of land to cover.

Still, this was not the end, not even of the day’s walk, so I did not find myself stripping naked, shrieking, and driving into the frigid waters of the strait of Messina. Maybe when I reach Trapani… Instead, I burned all of it into my memory: the wind, the fine mist heavy with salt, the color of my shoes against the rough stones, the colors of the many pebbles, the fisherman who kindly obliged my request for a few photographs , the fact that nature called forcefully at such an inopportune moment, Sicily and the water and the clouds, seagull screams and the bustle of maritime commerce, the sound of waves hitting the cavities between stones, and the faint smell of fish and algae.

What a satisfying feeling, and at the same time, how human it all was; here I was, having torn my way down the peninsula, only to find that the rest of the world was business as usual. In the distance, someone cleared his throat, another shouted an obscenity at his buddy, and I smiled with the realization that I could wait all my life for the fireworks celebration, reporters squabbling for the privilege of asking me the first question, a key to the city, and a four-day seafood banquet, and even if those things never came, still be perfectly content. This was between me and the land, and I had received all the fanfare I wanted.

So, sniffling a bit as I thought of all my friends, old and new, and my family, who had constantly supported me, I walked the rest of the way to Reggio Calabria.

What else can I say? I saw the Riace Bronze warriors, a pair of well-preserved statues I had previously regarded as unreachable (why would I ever go down to Reggio Calabria, I thought, in my naïveté), caught up with Enzo, went for a stroll down the Corso, and partied with him and the boys until 4:30, an hour later than the night before

A beautiful day to (almost) wrap up my walk along the boot

2008-12-30T21:54:00.002+01:00

12/5 – Palmi to Scilla – 19.67 miles

As if he had not done enough already, Paolo picked me up at the hotel the next morning and drove me to the bar where I had left off the evening before. In the car, I thanked him for giving me so much fruit, bread, and salami, and he responded “it doesn’t matter how much I gave. I gave what I could.” His response immediately reminded me of one of my very favorite Marcus Aurelius quotations:

“one man, when he has done a service to another, is ready to set it down to his account as a favour conferred. Another is not ready to do this, but still in his own mind he thinks of the man as his debtor, and he knows what he has done. A third in a manner does not even know what he has done, but he is like a vine which has produced grapes, and seeks for nothing more after it has once produced its proper fruit. As a horse when he has run, a dog when he has tracked the game, a bee when it has made the honey, so a man when he has done a good act, does not call out for others to come and see, but he goes on to another act, as a vine goes on to produce again the grapes in season.”

There is a difference between goodness given for hope of a reward or recognition, and goodness given without a second thought. My last eight years have been spent trying to live the latter and landing somewhere in the middle, but this response struck me as firmly in the “unconscious giving” category, and I will never forget it.

My first part of the trail was all uphill, all the way to Monte S. Elia, where I added two miles to my walk to follow Paolo’s advice and check out the amazing view from up top. From here, it was possible to see from Capo Vaticano all the way to Messina, in Sicily (see the photo below of me posing with my first confirmed sighting of the island). I have said this before in one from or another, but there is nothing more satisfying than looking at a 180 degree view and knowing that you crossed EVERY INCH of it, as far as the eye can see in either direction, on foot. Satisfying, and at the same time, humbling. How small and insignificant we are.

After meeting a Swiss couple and sharing some of the fruit I had been given (firmly in the selfish camp, if we are to use Marcus Aurelius’ standards, as I was straining under the weight of all that produce, and needed to unload), I left the mountain, and back on the road to Scilla, passed a few ancient-looking stalls selling their wares in the middle of nowhere. I yearned to take a picture, because this was truly a unique thing I was seeing, but I refused to demean these people by playing tourist where tourists were not supposed to wander.

Descending toward Bagnara Calabra, I saw I had two missed calls, and when I called back, I spoke with Enzo, from Reggio Calabria. He had heard about me from his sister, and was wondering where I was, and whether I wanted to spend the night at his house. I said of course, thank you, we agreed to talk later, and I let my only care of the day blow away in the breeze. There is nothing like knowing where you’re going to sleep that night. But you might ask: who is Enzo and why did I agree so readily to sleep in a stranger’s home?

I think you’ll like the answer. Enzo is the brother of Rita, who is the friend of Iris, who is the girlfriend of Jonathan, who is the eldest son of Nancy, who is the family friend of Gaia, who is the friend I met four years ago at Penn. Six degrees separated us, and here he was offering me to stay with him and his mother. Of course, I said.

Reaching Bagnara Calabra was a lot of steps down, a pretty boardwalk, and a wind strong enough to blow the constantly streaming water fountain in a fine mist over me as I ate my lunch of apples, oranges, bread, and salami (sound familiar?) under the oh-so-welcome sun of this Calabrese afternoon. Life is good.

Next stop was Scilla, where legend had it that Odysseus had some trouble, having to pass by the dreaded sailor-gobbling monster Scylla and the typhoon Carybdis (which is the modern-day Strait of Messina, which has a strong current). Of course, I knew all about that, and gave some thought to starting an Odyssey Cruise, which would follow all the mythical wanderings of the hero, with the epic poem recited at night during banquets. Good idea, right? You can definitely sign me up. Anyhow, I was only in Scilla a few moments, long enough to appreciate its beauty, and then I hopped at train for Reggio Calabria, to meet Enzo and his friends and family.

Enzo picked me up at the train station on his friend’s moto, and soon I was riding, backpack strapped tight, my first moto of the trip. We sped along Reggio’s boardwalk to meet up with Antonio, his good friend, and after a quick coffee, took a short whirl around the city. I could tell I was going to be friends with these guys from the beginning: they were Italian versions of my friends back home, and I immediately felt like one of the gang, thanks to their warmth. Enzo and I had a lot in common: he too was a world-traveller, having left everything for London only a few years ago in order to find a job and learn the language. Furthermore, he was always laughing, full of energy, and stubbornly possessed of certain principles which I could tell had been developed, tested, and put into practice many times before. Of course, I didn’t learn all of this right then and there, but over a few days. Just the fact that he was so open to hosting a complete stranger based only on the fact that I was a fellow traveller, however, spoke volumes for his character, and our eventual friendship.

The next stop was to his mother’s house, where she had prepared a delicious meal for us, and encouraged me to eat, eat, eat. And so I did, always thankful for a home-cooked meal, and eager to show by gorging myself just how delicious it was. We put my rags in the wash, I took a shower, and after laying down for ten minutes, Enzo gave me a choice, either to take a nap for a few hours while he went to visit his Dad and some friends, or to come with him. I was tired, but there would always be time to sleep later.

So it went, visiting friends, checking out bars, and milling around near the castle, until 3:30 in the morning. I met the other members of the crowd: Pasquale, Alessandro, another Antonio, and a third Antonio, and had a blast.

The day my mind took a self-protective journey away from my body

2008-12-30T21:46:00.002+01:00

12/4 – Nicotera to Palmi – 19.16

Each of my shoes had holes in the heel as well as the toe. The holes had slowly been growing over time, causing discomfort on rainy days. I didn’t complain from Mortilla to Pizzo, the day after Thanksgiving, because I was thankful to have shoes at all, and anyways the rain did not last all day, but only toward the end. On this day, however, the rain was heavy from the time I emerged, and worse still, it had rained heavily all night, causing major puddles and rivulets along my path.

Within 150 feet of this 19-mile day, my socks were soaked all the way through, and there was no letting up of the rain until the last three miles. At some point around mile 4, all the way until around mile 14, my mind left my body, and though my feet were immersed in cold, muddy water for around three and half hours, I remember very little of it. What I do remember very vividly was a large portion of my train of thought that day, and the awareness that I would have to record that process, or as much as is appropriate (three and a half hours of thinking would take a long, long time to read).

That, however, will feed a different blog post. Instead, we will skip to the end of my mind journey, where after a triumphant listen to Beethoven’s Eroica Symphony (my first full listen since my “Alpine Force” walk in July), I landed from my mind flight with a shattering thud. I look around: I had just passed the gigantic industrial port complex of Gioia Tauro, one of my ugliest walks to be certain, and was about to enter Gioia Tauro proper. This town, anything but a jewel (Gioia), stuck out in my mind as the place a painter near Marina di Ascea had told me to skip, as it was overrun by the local mafia.

I put away the headphones, scowled at the uneven, broken down sidewalk leading to town, and headed straight for the piazza, where I sat alone in the middle, daring anyone to hassle me. I was not in a mood for mafia tales, fear, or caution. I took my rest as needles of rain constantly pelted my face and hands, swam in my shoes for ten minutes, and continued.

My flight of momentary insanity, coupled with the ecstasy of the 3rd Symphony, had totally sapped my energy, but somehow I found it in my reserves to walk the last two hours uphill, pushing myself along with pats on the back, and with a firm conviction that I was stronger than anyone else on the planet, at least at that moment.

So, as the rain finally let up but the unavoidable rivulets constantly circulated cold water into my shoes, I pulled into Palmi, and made straight for a shoe store. I did not want to repeat this day, as interesting as it had been, and as much as it had challenged me. At 3:58 I found it closed, set to open at 4:00 (or, in Calabrese, 4:20). I needed to find lodging first, so I went around town asking for places to sleep. Reaching the end of town, I found a group of guys, who after a lighthearted chat sent me into a bar, where, brown water literally streaming from my shoes, I gave my spiel.

A girl and two guys, standing nearby, heard me ask, and soon I was telling the full story. The only hotel in my range, they said, was two miles back where I had comefrom, but Paolo, an angel in accoutant’s clothes, offered to drive me back. Not only that, but he first took me to the shoe store (where they had nothing for me), and accompanied me into the hotel to help me bargain. I think he saw me wince at the price, because he told me not to buy the dinner, as he would come pick me up later.

I really needed a friend at that point, and he came at just the right moment. When I reached the room, I immediately removed my shoes and socks, and sat on the step to the bathroom for a full fifteen minutes in swollen bare feet, collecting myself. It had been a hard day.

When I came to, I turned the heater on full blast, took a long, hot shower, napped a half hour, and when Paolo came back to pick me up, I was a new man. Amazing man’s ability to bounce back…

Paolo took me to another shoe store (they had a good pair, but I didn’t pull the trigger), then to his house, where he had invited three other buddies, Frankie, Antonio, and Antonio, to hang out. We ate pasta fasool and sausages, drank wine, told stories, and hung out till 12:30, and I can’t tell you how grateful I was for the hospitality. At the end of the night, Paolo drove me back to the hotel, and just before speeding off, handed me a heavy sack, with a dozen mandarin oranges, a dozen baby apples, bread, and a huge Calabrese salami. I’ll never forget how happy he looked when I registered what he just given me; it was the look of a child giving his mother a Christmas gift that he has created himself. Good man, that Paolo.

Onions and a Mirage-like vision of Sicily

2008-12-30T13:00:00.001+01:00

12/3 – Tropea to Nicotera – 18.83 miles

Before heading out, I wished to give Tropea a better look, as I had not even climbed the stairs to the historic center before. I did a lightning tour, decided it would be a much nicer palce in summer, and took my leave of it.

As I passed the farms surrounding the city, I was soon immersd in the sights and smells of Tropea’s famous onions. After bathing in that sharp but slightly sweet smell for a few miles, I finally gave in to temptation and ripped of a small piece of onion leaf, and enjoyed munching on it. Even now, that smell remains imprinted in my memory.

And that’s about all I have to recount from this day. I think I caught my first view of Sicily, and was duly excited, but the day was cloudy and hazy, so it could have just been a part of Calabria.

Reaching Nicotera, I shuffled around for a good hour asking around about lodging, and finally found a B&B that fit my budget. After standing around awkwardly in the owner’s eyeglass shop for ten minutes, watching Italians stare at me with the latest models of designer eyeware at unbeatable prices, his buddy finally drove me to the B&B. Even though it was a short walk away, I appreciated the gesture, as well as his friendliness. For example, when I asked about a good, affordable family-run place, he drove me there, accompanied me to the owner, introduced us so as to show the owner that I was okay, and dropped me off again at the B&B. I mention this because it is a unique and beautiful aspect of the culture in Southern Italy, especially in Calabria and Sicily. “Bearing someone’s name” (Portare il nome) or being recommended (raccommandazione) are important traditions that secure you friendly and sometimes generous service, but also require you to be on your best behavior.

So, thanking him for the introduction, I went for my room, ate well that night at the Trattoria where I had been sent, and that wraps up the day.

Pizzo to Tropea, Back on the Road

2008-12-29T13:33:00.000+01:00

12/2 – Pizzo to Tropea, the long way – 22.81 miles
The predawn cold eliminated any possibility of napping at the station. There was only thing for me to do, and by now I was quite good at it. After a trip to the pastry shop for a sweet breakfast and one last look around the slowly awakening and briskly silent town of Pizzo, I started to walk.

Not since the summer have I had such a luxury of time to reach my destination. As I was on track to arrive by 1 PM, I took full advantage of the sparkling Calabrese morning to nap in front of a stunning view, lounging on a comfy boulder for a good hour.

When I awoke, I decided I wanted to see the interior of the region a little, as I had hugged the coast for a lot of Calabria up till this point (as you can see from my fancy map, recently updated). I did just that: I climbed the hill, silenced the wildly beeping GPS, and took the long way.

I saw onion fields, vast olive groves, sleepy farm towns, and fully enjoyed being back in rural Italy. From this day forth, I began to look at Calabria, and indeed my whole walk, with fresh eyes. It took a three day trip to Rome, twelve hours by train, and one sunny morning to remind me that I was living my dream. And I was grateful. Of course.

Managing to fill my day enough to arrive at Tropea at dusk, I found a bungalow in an empty campground, smiled at the lack of heating (no wonder it was so cheap in an otherwise touristy town), ate two pizzas to celebrate my longest walk of the trip (still unbeaten as of 12/31), almost vomited from overeating, and entered a self-protective food coma.

My Brief Stint as a University Lecturer

2008-12-29T13:15:00.001+01:00

12/1 – The Speech / Seminar

I prepared for about twenty-five minutes on the day I was to speak, scrawling notes on a loose sheet of printer paper as I waited for the metro. It’s not that I was brashly over-confident; in fact, I was a bit nervous, and at the same time revelling in that giddiness of pre-performance anxiety, a feeling I haven’t felt since my last piano concert. No, the reason I prepared so little was that I had given this talk many a time before to passing cars, olive trees, and street signs. Pause with me a moment and envision that: I’m giggling as I write it, because it’s not literally true, but I bet you understand what I mean.

I had it all set out straight, a logical argument that bulldozed its way with inexorable clarity toward a dazzling horizon, a brand new way to approach tourism in Italy. It was sleek, modern, and unique, easy to apply and eco-friendly, honest and culturally sensitive. And when the time came for me to speak, not a single tourism student showed up. Lots of reasons surfaced later: transit strike, rainstorm, last day of class was the day before, they had just finished exams and were anxious to get home, etc.

And you know what? I was totally 100% fine with it, even when I still hadn’t heard all the excuses. Sitting alongside Nancy, we held an academic conversation with five of her literature students and my faithful friend Carlo, who had come to support me. As these things always go, I touched on some of my points but not all of them, and not in any logical order. The Minister of Tourism did not sneak in with a recording implement, sitting in the back row to catch my pearls without being noticed. Nancy and I chatted, I watched with extreme satisfaction as the students opened up, grew more engaged, laughed at my stupid jokes, and even ventured questions. And the best part, I think, is that I got it all recorded, over 80 minutes of 25-year-old Pat speaking in Italian, nearly choking with passion as I urged these students to look around, go hiking, catch a train to a new place, and be proud of where I live. I’m just barely past wetting the bed; let’s leave speeches with large audiences for when I grow up, and actually know something.

By miracle, Carlo still wanted to be my friend after hearing me rant, and even braved three hours of disgusting transportation strike traffic to help me find new shoes. We went 0 for 2, and I still had holes in my shoes as I walked through puddles to the Metro back to Nancy’s place. But that’s fodder for a different story.

While I was out shoe shopping, Nancy had whipped up a delicious Chinese food meal using leftover turkey (oh, the ingenuity), and I savored my last family meal of the trip. Then, as I packed for my train, David, Matt, and Nancy found lightweight calorie-heavy snacks to give me. I can’t tell you how moved I was when Matt, beaming like a child, presented me with a family-sized glass Jar (with a capital J) of Nutella. Of course, it weighed more than I did, so I had to turn it down, but I was moved by his spontaneous act of generosity all the same. Good man, that Matt. We dumped the Nutella into a Tupperware container, I said my goodbyes, and Matt drove me to the station. From there, I walked, then ran, to my 11:10 train, arriving breathless and fortunate at 11:09. Did I ever mention that I love walking because the only thing you have to catch is the sunset?

I laid out across three seats, called Nancy to say I had made it (surrogate mothers worry, you know), and slept five and a half hours before pulling into Lamezia, and by regional train, to Pizzo. And that’s the whirlwind Thankgiving-blog update-University talk Rome trip, in a Nutella shell.

The Rome excursion

2008-12-27T18:37:00.003+01:00

11/29 – Pizzo to Rome

Nancy, the University professor / American / key holder to Gaia’s apartment, had alluded to the possibility of an encounter between me and the tourism graduate program back in October at one of Rome’s public Universities. I told her at the time that I would love to participate in such an encounter, and would return to Rome for it if it worked out. A month later, I got the call from Nancy, and it turned out that the University had approved, and that I was to speak on December 1st.

After walking for nearly five months, there was a lot I wanted to say about tourism in Italy, as you faithful readers well know. With my hours and hours of good ol’ fashioned thinking time, I set it all out in order, thought it all through, and was more than prepared to speak about my ideas.

I have never been invited to speak at a University before, and even though I pictured a small audience, the very fact of a public University paying my train ticket for me to speak my mind was an exhilarating honor. Just as important to me was the fact that I got to go back to Rome, see old friends, and eat a home-cooked, authentic Thanksgiving dinner, prepared by Nancy and her friends. So, as the Calabrese sun broke through the clouds after a string of bad-weather days, I boarded a six-hour train to Rome, and after getting a meaningful and perspective-altering look at much of the land I had covered, I got off at Roma Termini, the main train station, and slowly adjusted to being back in the eternal city.

What a mess! I was country mouse visiting city mouse, staring wide-eyed at the rushing masses, flashing ads, and gigantic proportions of my surroundings. Culture shock, like I had experienced upon entering Campania about a month earlier, flooded over me as I followed the mass of bodies onto a speeding underground tube.

It only took a few stops on the metro for me to regain my bearings, and emerging in front of the Circus Maximus felt just about right. Only now, in fact, do I realize just how ridiculous that is, that a metro sped me to an Ancient Roman race track. I hope I never grow so accustomed to Rome that I forget to stand in awe of the precious art-historical footprint all around me.

I arrived at Nancy’s house soon after, and found them in the final stages of Thanksgiving preparation. After a quick change and shower, I helped in what small ways I could, but mostly snacked, sampled, and caught up with the family. Oh, family time, how I missed thee, especially when family time means watching Family Guy, as well as the Simpsons, with Matt, Nancy’s younger son. The best part? Both were in English, no dubbing. Family time also means responsibility, however, and soon it was time for the Movable Feast to travel (carefully) down the stairs (whatever you do, don’t spill the gravy) and by car to Cinzia’s house.

Cinzia hosted around 12 or 13 of us, including my friend Carlo, the half-American walker from Albano Laziale, who I had invited in order to share with him this most American of holidays. Everyone ate, I gorged, and when my second helping was larger than everyone else’s entire meal, it hit me that I was the only one in the room who had eaten more Thanksgivings in the US than abroad. They looked at me with courteously concealed awe and disgust as I did y’all proud, but luckily for me I had the whole “walking” excuse. Little did they know!

The company was as delicious as the food, a mixture of interesting intellectuals with various interests. We talked literature and travel, pored through a book of Orazio and Artemisia Gentileschi, and stuck around till midnight, when the tryptophan kicked in and everyone scattered. I went back with Carlo to Albano, and after chatting a while, we both went to bed.

11/30 – In Rome, but wouldn’t have known it

Carlo dropped me off at Nancy’s, and I sat at the computer all day working on this blog. I apologize an awful lot for not writing often enough, but if you look at my November output, you will see one post for each day of the month, with two leftover for all that apologizing. Well, on this last day of the month, I spent hours uploading photos and transcribing chicken scratch, and when I looked up, haggard and bleary-eyed, it was dark outside, and the family had gathered to watch Everything is Illuminated (in English! Huzzah!)

When the movie was over, it was time for dinner, but not for me, Matt, and his girlfriend Julia. Instead, Matt invited me to join them at a hip Rome lounge/club for an aperitivo, roughly translated as an appetizer cocktail, which in many cases turns into an all-you-can-eat frenzy. For the first time in months, I donned some fashionable going out threads: jeans, a collared shirt, and a blue sweater. Matt, who is around my size, offered me his clothes, and in doing so made me feel like a million bucks. No, clothes don’t make the man, but wear the same two pants and four shirts for five months and then come talk to me.

The crowd at the lounge was a little too hip and a little too young, so we escaped after a big meal, and made way to a chill little bar in my old ‘hood, Trastevere, which Julia had picked out. We hung out, did what young adults do, played some over-sized Connect Four and pick up stix, and after a trip to the trippy psychedelic bathroom, it was back to the house.

Part 4 - Comparative Analysis, and the whys

2008-12-27T15:06:00.004+01:00

Why these three choices?
I picked out an obscure, average Beethoven piece that I only really heard for the first time a few weeks ago, to show that everything he wrote contains the element of his genius. You don't need to pick the 9th Symphony to make this comparison: even the piece I chose was overkill, and any bagatelle or lieder would have served the same purpose.

I picked All of Me because it's catchy, accessible, typical of the period, and I've always loved that particular version.

I picked an early Beatles song because it serves to demonstrate the relative simplicity and infantile "music by numbers" formula that characterizes the music of the last 50 years. I could also have picked For No One, one of my favorite Beatles songs, and had a lot more to say. So yes, I picked a simple piece on purpose, but I want to make it clear that I love Twist and Shout, turn up the radio when it comes on, sign along with those boys from Liverpool at the climax, and fondly remember Ferris Bueller's antics. I will even go so far as to say that the last two songs are more dear to me than the String Quartet.

It would be far too simple to point out the complexity, ingenuity, subtlety, creativity, and inspiration that decreases with each example. In the end, doing so would be counter-productive. Feeling assailed, many of you pop listeners will grow even more firmly entrenched, and begin to resent and despise the music that you now simply scorn and ignore. So...

Why this exercise?
My hope is that one of you (besides my Dad, who is already on board) will actually play these pieces, follow along with the second-by-second analysis I have so painstakingly recorded, and really listen to this music. After the Beatles, a light bulb may go off, at which point you'll play a few more songs, start to hear the pattern, and understand better why you like certain pop songs more than others. Don't worry: it won't ruin pop music for you when you see how simple it is, because it is simple on purpose, so that it's accessible to everyone, down to the lowest common denominator. You gotta reach the largest customer base possible in order to make the most money, right? Like it or not, we all find ourselves humming the crap that they force into every second of our summer vacation.

If you listen to the Jazz piece, that idiom will grow more familiar to you; this is a good thing, since it is the Daddy of Rock n' Roll, and therefore very similar to you, once you give it a chance. Since you'll quickly learn the structure, as it is intuitive, you can then focus on the artistic creativity and talent of the musicians, and realize it's not just for beatniks and old farts. Jazz is so wonderful exactly because it is simple, because it takes that simple something and decorates it so much that you barely recognize it (kind of like a Sicilian Caretto, which after all is just a horse cart)

If you listen to the classical piece, or even just the first movement, my ardent hope is that by understanding the basics, you can start to enjoy Classical music on more than just a superficial aesthetic or stylistic level. You'll see that pauses, delayed gratification, and unfulfilled expectations can be thrilling and deeply satisfying. I am heartsick at the common assumption that Classical music is elitist, too complicated for leisurely listening, archaic, or impossible to understand. It is none of those things. All it takes is a little discipline (run for the hills!) and some time. And don't tell me you don't have time: most of you spend hours each week watching commercials, checking out fantasy football stats, not to mention working like plough oxen, head bowed and shoulders straining. And whatever you do, don't tell me that after work all you want to do is chillax, drink a beer, and zone out with your most important signifcant other, TV. This means that work has stolen the only active moments of thinking in your entire day, leaving you a zombie when the time comes to think for yourself! No! Take back your thoughts, make the effort, please!

Why this large 4-blog-post tangent, this waste of your precious personal internet time?
I have noticed that many people ask what I think about when I walk. Well, that's a difficult question to answer, and I've given it some thought (haha), and have even prepared a response in the form of a future blog post, still to be written. However, I spend about three hours a day listening to music, and my mind is often (though not always) focused on the music during that time. Therefore, a large chunk of my thinking time while I walk is devoted to music, and it seems right that I should share that element of my voyage with you. It is not hard to see that music is my true life's passion, so I wanted to share my thoughts about it while I have this convenient (though shaky) soapbox at my disposition. Very few of you, even among my closest friends, have ever asked me to go into detail in this way.

On one particular day, I thought of all the musicians that my friends have introduced to me, and whose music I now love and listen to frequently: Bob Dylan, G. Love and Special Sauce, Jimi Hendrix, and so on. But then I started to grow just a little resentful. Knowing how much music means to me, very few of those same friends have ever asked me to play music that I loved, and if they impatiently sat through it, they never made one fifth of the effort I did to get to know it, to really appreciate it. You might respond, well pop is more accessible, but I would disagree with that; just because it's modern doesn't make it any more accessible or pleasant to listen to. You might then respond that while they made an effort to point out the music to me, I never made the same effort to point it out to them. I could've pushed harder. Maybe so: but I can't tell you how many times I've been asked to change the music at my house or in my car, "here let me plug in my ipod, nobody wants to listen to that, we need some music to pump us up," etc. After a while, it's easier to give up than to keep pushing. Now, don't think that this is a jab at my friends, who after all are very supportive. However, realize that this is my one chance to present music in the way I've wanted to present it to all of you for so long. That, in a long answer, is the "why" for taking your precious time.

At the same time, who am I kidding. You skimmed this, saw that the blog post was really really long and that the pictures were "just" detail photos and not of a storytelling nature, closed the window, and spent more time checking out that joke email you just received. In one eye and out the other. Even if that is the case, as I fear it is, I do not feel that this was a fruitless enterprise. Simply putting these thoughts on paper has caused me to listen with more attention to detail than I have done since college, when my coursework forced me to do so. At some point, I forgot to listen in this way, and it is only in the last month or so that it has come back to me. It took one day of rough walking and deep thinking, but that one day stirred this urgent desire to approach music once more in a fresh way. Music becomes more and more moving and satisfying the more you know about it, and the closer you examine its intricacies.

I just want to enjoy classical music in the background. There's nothing wrong with enjoying music on a superficial level. It is pleasant to the ear, creates mood, fills the silence, is good for working and/or studying, etc. Why are you so insistent that we get into the details, learn to hear structure, actively listen multiple times to the same piece? Why are you so pushy?

Because enjoying music on a superficial level is like eating a delicious meal without bothering to think about the ingredients, or reading an amazing novel without bothering to think about the author's message, or the tools he employs to convey it, or glancing at a painting as you shuffle by, eyes bleary and mind floating elsewhere.

You're at the Louvre on a sweaty, crowded Paris afternoon. You've allotted all of 28 minutes for the entire collection, sure that there's no way you could see a 10th of it anyways even if you spent all day, and after all the sun is shining and there's so much to see in your 3 and a half days in Paris. What do you do with your time, then?

Following the crowds and the signs (turn left, 50 m to the right) that cater to you and the others of your ilk, you wend your way past priceless masterworks, glancing at a painting or two as you shuffle through the enormous hallways. Your feet already hurt and you kinda need to pee as you walk down one last long corridor, and you finally take a right into a densely packed gallery. Cameras are clicking, guides speaking in many different languages create a tower of Babel effect as people jostle, more like stadium fans than museum patrons, for the perfect position, so they can take that perfect shot to show to their bored dinner guests upon their return.

Standing on your tiptoes, you see her, smiling for the camera as she has for oh so long, and you think: smaller than I thought it would be. You take your picture, look at her face, and swallow your hushed satisfaction as you cross one more cultural bullet point off your list. Did you look at the landscape in the background? What kind of clothes was she wearing? Was she pretty? Was she wearing rings? Oh well, you can look at the picture in more detail later, while your friend/spouse/significant other/television/parent is in the bistro bathroom, because you can't sit still looking like an idiot while you're alone for those 90 seconds. Heaven forbid.

28 minutes have passed, time to go get a crepe and wander around Saint Michel, so you turn around and make for the exit. As you leave, you look at the wall opposite the milling crowds. It's a huge work, a gigantic painting. It looks like a feast, a table is set, and they're obviously having fun. You stop for a second, attracted by the brilliant colors, the excitement of the figures, the dynamic action of the piece. It's pretty, you think, and start to turn away.

And then you see him. He's in the center of the canvas, yet you were distracted, and you had missed it before. You look at his face, his eyes speak volumes to you, they burn right to the core of your soul, and you stop dead in your tracks, transfixed. Slowly, the other characters blur and then disappear, it's just you and him, but only for one sweet moment, and then the whole canvas fades back into your vision. This time, however, you see the whole piece in a new light. You see the classical architecture of the background and smile when you realize that this is the artist showing off his skill. You study the perspective lines and realize that the principal ones all lead to that central figure's eyes. You see the dogs in the foreground, notice how each hair is painstakingly drawn out, and remember hearing that dogs usually stand for loyalty, a delightful detail in the midst of the greater work. You see the figures fooling around, oblivious to the gravity of the momentous occasion that forms the painting's setting, and realize that the artist is sending you a life message here. You get the point, a bit guilty that you too had missed it at first, but oh so happy you caught it before missing it forever. Approaching closer, you see the name of the artist (don't bother trying to read the description, it's only in French, and it's that way on purpose), and it burns its way into your mind: Paolo Veronese, The Marriage at Cana

You turn around, shake your head mournfully at all the people who will look at this painting but never see it, and walk out of the room, maybe for the last time. You pause: you didn't take a photo! It's because you didn't need to. Now, you either see the other works, postponing that crepe for later, or you walk out of the museum, squinting at the brilliant sun and fanning yourself with the museum map, which you'll throw away soon after. Whatever you do, however, you will always have that moment, and will get butterflies in your stomach when you remember those eyes and the way they looked at you, even 500 years after they were first painted. And that one painting, that one work of art, that one moment of realization, will change the way you look at life, if only you let it.

It takes that one moment to change the lens of your vision, to open your eyes to all the details that become each of them more delightful and meaningful as they grow familiar over time. The next time you see that painting, those eyes will still transfix you, you will still appreciate all those elements you first noticed, but you will also see new ones, or understand more deeply the ones you thought you knew. Over the years, those eyes might send you a different message, the face might go from pitiful to melancholy to deadpan to all-knowing, but there is one thing that is certain: time, repeated viewing, and deeper understanding of the various details will only make those eyes more moving, never less.

And that's why I want you not just to hear, but to listen.

Part 3 - Pop Analysis

2008-12-27T14:26:00.004+01:00

Popular Music Analysis - Twist and Shout by the Beatles (1964)
Play it here

Period - Rock and Roll, which is essentially an offshoot of Jazz. The language is similar: the rhythm is still in groups of 4, the harmony follows a similar pattern (Tonic - Subdominant - Dominant, the famous I-IV-V sequence, but I'll spare you the full explanation of that, as I am merciful), the mixture of European musical style and African trbial style is omnipresent, and so on. The difference is that there is less focus on instrumental and technical prowess, much less frequent or non-existent improvisation, and a larger focus on charisma, style, and the cult of personality. Now, I imagine you rock n' rollers are starting to bristle, fingers itching for a pithy response with dozens of examples that defy this description (Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, etc.), but you will hopefully understand that I am speaking in generalities, just as I did in my Classical and Jazz analyses. So, you will, I hope, also permit me to say that rock n' roll is a simpler, watered-down version of Jazz (grumble grumble).

This particular song (can we call it a piece?) comes from the "Early Period" of Beatles music, while they were more boy-band and less groovy trendsetters. Songs from this period are catchy, mostly very simple, and short, usually between two and three minutes. The instruments of the band consist of drums, an electric bass guitar, two electric guitars (lead and rhythm), and of course vocals.

The Lyrics are as follows:

Chorus:
Well Shake it Up Baby Now / Shake it up Baby
Twist and Shout / Twist and Shout
C'mon C'mon C'mon C’mon Baby Now / Come on Baby
Come on and work it all out / Work it all out

Well, work it on out, honey / Work it on out
You know you look so good / Look so good
You know you got me going now / Got me going
Just like I knew you would / Like I knew you would

Chorus

You know you twist your little girl / twist, little girl

You know you twist so fine / twist so fine

Come on and twist a little closer, now / twist a little closer

And let me know that youre mine / let me know that you’re mine

Chorus

You know you twist your little girl / twist, little girl

You know you twist so fine / twist so fine

Come on and twist a little closer, now / twist a little closer

And let me know that youre mine / let me know that you’re mine

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now / shake it up baby

Well, shake it, shake it, shake it, baby, now / shake it up baby

PUSH PLAY!

Here it is

0:01-:07 - The drums and the bass give us the tempo in the form of an introduction, and we hear immediately the familiar four-square rhythm:
1-2-3-4, (2)-2-3-4, (3)-2-3-4, (4)-2-3-4. The vocals lead in with "Well shake it up" on the third beat of the fourth measure, just as in All of Me, where the piano started the melody on the last beat of the fourth measure.

:08-:38 - This is the first statement of the chorus and the first verse, and it breaks up into 16 measures, with 4 separate phrases of 4 measures each. The soloist calls on the 3rd and 4th beats, and the ensemble (in this case, 2 voices), responds on the 3rd and 4th beats of the following measure. So, it's something like this, where the call is in Italics, and the response is Italics in parentheses:

[Phrase 1, Measure 1] 1 - 2 - Well 3 - Shake it 4 Up
[2] 1 - Baby 2 - Now 3 - (Shake it) 4 (Up)
[3] 1 - (Baby) 2 - PAUSE 3 - Twist 4 - And
[4] 1 - Shout 2 - PAUSE 3 - (Twist) 4 - (And)
[Phrase 2, Measure 1] 1 - (Shout)

This is classic call and response, straight from the tribal fires in Africa. The bass makes us feel the first beat of each measure to keep us on rhythm, the drum divides the phrases with a short rhythmic flourish at the end of every phrase, or in other words, at the end of every fourth measure, and the vocalists make us rock and roll on the 2nd and 4th beat. This focus on the 2nd and 4th beat, as I said in the jazz analysis, is what differentiates the rhythm from classical music, which tends to focus on the 1st and 3rd beat. 2nd and 4th = groovy, 1st and 3rd = square.

:38-1:08 – The chorus repeated, with the second verse - the only thing new here is the change in lyrics of the second verse

1:09 -1:24 - The guitars unleash an imaginative, heart-stopping cadenza that is at once lyrical and jarring, a moving tribute to humanity and the never-ending struggle with the Creator. Gotta hear it to believe it... Changed my life.

1:25-1:35 - The voices sound out the notes of the dominant seventh chord, and here we have the climax of the song. The girls pee themselves in ecstasy, everyone chants along, we all jump up and down spasmodically, and then all is released, and the piece returns to the original verse. It is noteworthy that this section is in 6 measures, not 4 or 8, and it is those 5th and 6th measures that provide that climactic moment, the excitement you feel. It is no coincidence that we feel the release: this two measure extension creates a prolonged (if only for 2 seconds) sense of tension, and since we don't expect it (the soul has heard all 4s up till now, and has come to predict them), it gives us something extra, so we jump up and down. So beautifully simple, this fact; in music, we delight in expecting something and then getting something else. It is how Wagner is able to write eternally long operas, why Mozart is a heaven-sent prodigy, and a major reason why I love Hendrix's Bold as Love, which has a false ending before rocking everyone's world. And the Beatles, in their own youthful way, catch a part of that magic here, with 2 little measures. God I love music...

1:35-2:05 – Chorus and second verse repeated

2:05 - 2:18 - Instead of 4s, we hear 2s, the drums are more active, and so we prepare for the end. Simple as that.

2:18-2:25 - They repeat that magical arpeggiated dominant chord, but without the seventh, and instead of reaching ecstasy, we find ourselves at the end.

2:25-2:32 - Drum flourish, guitar finale, and for that little gem that makes the Beatles so human and loveable, you hear one of them shout "Yeah!" at 2:28, in the distant background. They're happy with what they've done.

So, the structure is Intro-A-A-B-A-A-Finale. Pretty cookie cutter, but nobody was looking for anything different.

Part 2 - Jazz Analysis

2008-12-26T17:36:00.005+01:00

All Of Me - Lester Young and Teddy Wilson (1956)
Listen to All of Me

The Period? Swing, though we're starting to feel the push toward a new, different sound, known as bebop

Who wrote it? I don't know, and quite frankly, it's not as important in Jazz to know who wrote the piece, but rather who is performing it. [nb: internet search later tells me the authors are Gerald Marks and Seymour Simons. Credit where credit is due.]

Who's performing it? I have seven different renditions of All of Me: Frank Sinatra, Count Basie, Billie Holiday, Charlie Parker, Charlie Parker with Lennie Tristano, Oscar Peterson and his Trio, and the one I'll be using, featuring Lester young on Tenor Saxophone and Teddy Wilson on piano. Something else about jazz that bears mentioning: there is also a drummer as well as a bassist, but as I don't have the CD with me, they remain anonymous, destined for the back seat. [nb: found out later they're named Jo Jones and Gene Ramey].

Seven different recordings? Aren't they all the same? Absolutely not. 3 feature a vocalist, 4 are purely instrumental. Two of the vocalists are female, one male, one of the instrumental versions features the piano, two the saxophone, and one an equal mixture.

The song itself is simple enough. The lyrics, for those arrangements that have lyrics, are as follows (with minor variations by verse and by performer):

All of Me / Why not take all of me
Can't you see / I'm no good without you
Take my lips / I wanna lose them
Take my arms / I'll never use them

Your goodbye/ Left me with eyes that cried
How can I / Get along without you
You took the part / That once was my heart
So why not / Take all of me

The general form of a Swing instrumental piece is a fairly straightforward statement of the verse, or in other words, the main theme. Then a solo instrument plays, with minimal accompaniment, a variation of that theme. Next comes another variation, either by the same instrument or a different one. More variations follow, until the piece reaches a climax, sometimes pushed along by the drummer, who gets a solo of his own. Then the whole ensemble repeats the theme, and the piece ends.

For the most part, and unlike classical theme & variations pieces, the harmonic structure of the theme stays the same, or in other words, does not modulate, or in still other words, does not change keys.

Boring, right? No! The reason seven different recordings can all play the same harmonic structure and yet be completely different is that the set of instruments is variable, and most importantly to understanding jazz, the melody, rhythm, and to some extent, the harmony are all improvised. How is it possible for everyone to make something up at the same time and not create pure chaos? Because the rhythm of that theme forms the backbone of the piece (and soloists stretch this rhythm, but never break out of it), and as I mentioned before, the harmonic structure remains intact. Thus, soloists can make up their own melody, and are indeed encouraged to do so, but the skeleton is always the same. The key, then, to enjoying jazz music is understanding the skeleton in order to appreciate the individual and ensemble talent of the musicians. So,

Push Play! Here it is

0:01-:08 - The drummer is giving us the tempo (or speed) of the piece, and at the same time telling us that it should be counted in 4s. So -
1-2-3-4, (2)-2-3-4, (3)-2-3-4, (4)-2-3-4 / (5)-2-3-4, (6)-2-3-4, (7)-2-3-4, (8)-2-3-4

Each group of 1-2-3-4s is called a measure, and we see that the music splits into groups of 4 measures. So, the drummer beats out two groups of these 4 measures, and on the last measure of the second group, or phrase, the piano leads us into the piece.

From now on, listen for the fact that the emphasis of the beats come on the 2nd and 4th count. This is the rhythmic basis for all jazz and popular music, as opposed to classical, which does not follow a strict rule, but usually emphasizes the 1st and 3rd count.

:08-:23 - The saxophone plays the first half of the verse in 16 measures, or 4 phrases of 4 measures. If you listen for it, each phrase is clearly separate, with a statement by the saxophone, and then a sort of answer by the piano. Think call and response, like you find in gospel music or kids' songs (who wears short shorts. WE WEAR SHORT SHORTS!!!)

:24-:39- The saxophone plays the second half of the verse, in another set of 16 measures, always in 4 groups. We see here, in this first minute, a full statement of the verse. It takes 32 measures and 8 phrases. Now, look back up at the lyrics. How many lines are there? 8, one line for each phrase.

So, now that we know that we're always working in 4s - 4 counts to a measure, 4 x 2 phrases to a verse - we have the rhythmic skeleton mapped out. It becomes easier to listen to what the soloist is cooking.

:40-1:12 - Another verse by the saxophone, this time with less intervention from the piano. The bass and drums continue to propel the rhythm, making sure we don't get lost when the saxophone stretches it a little.

1:12-1:44 - Another verse. Notice how each verse takes 32 seconds? You can literally set your watch to the rhythm, with one measure per second.

1:45 - 2:17 - The piano gets a verse, and the structure remains the same
2:18 - 2:50 - Another piano verse, different from the last
2:51-3:21 - A 3rd piano verse, still 32 seconds long

3:22-3:25 - The saxophone begins to play the verse
3:26-3:29 - But the drums break in and interrupt
3:29-3:33 - The sax persists in trying to play that theme
3:34-3:37 - And the drummer won't let him
3:37-3:41 - Another shot
3:42-3:45 - Drummer says no
3:45-3:48 - One last go
3:49-3:52 - Drummer insists

This device is called trading fours, where the main soloist plays four measures, the drummer responds in 4 measures, and back and forth. Guess how many times they trade 4s? 4.

3:53-4:25 - Saxophone gets a verse
4:26-4:54 - The saxophone plays it one last time, but instead of finishing normally, the last 16 seconds are a kind of finale.

And that's it, in a nutshell. So what is it that makes Jazz so special? The same verse is repeated over and over again, everything about the rhythm is plain jane, with 4-square phrases and no variation in the count (no 3s, no 5s). Many of you have heard (or heard of) the piece Take 5. What's so alluring about this piece? The fact that it counts 5 to a measure instead of 4. Big whoop. So why do we listen?

The reason lies in individual performance, and within the performance, the soloist's ability to improvise. The soloist must think, on the spot, of multiple different and unique ways to express the theme, and each repetition has to build off of the others, but never break out of the rhythmic and harmonic skeleton.

At the same time, the accompanying instruments (in this piece drums, bass, and piano) must all support the soloist, anticipate his creative impulse to pause, play loudly, explode, and so on, and at the same time provide an interesting layer of their own. This is why I love listening through all that jazz (if you'll excuse the expression) to that bassist, plucking his dear heart out but always reaching for interesting notes that dovetail with the harmonic skeleton but don't beat it into our heads too predictably. Only the drums have a somewhat limited creative scope, as they must keep everyone in line, and this is why we start to hear a much more active drum kit in bebop and later jazz: besides filling the necessity of keeping that skeleton in our minds amidst all that beeping and bopping by playing in a more pronounced fashion, they also fulfill their own desire to get in on that sweet improvisational action.

We have similar performance considerations in jazz ensemble music to those we find in classical. How's the drummer at keeping rhythm? Was the bassist too soft? How's Teddy Wilson at piano (answer: awesome)? Do they play well together? Are they better at certain parts of the verse? How do these selected instruments go together? What kinds of colors do they achieve? And so on.

Next we could get into the actual solos, see how the improvisational mind works, analyze the notes played to see where they fit in with the harmonic structure, on what beats the key harmonic notes fall, why this is so, etc., but doing so would be outside the scope of this exercise, and outside the realm of what is possible for me, as I don't know what notes are being played, and would need them on paper in order to analyze them.

Part 1 - Classical Music Analysis

2008-12-26T16:21:00.003+01:00

String Quartet No. 5, Op. 18 in A Major, performed by the Amadeus Quartet

Who wrote it? Beethoven

What period? Early period

What does that mean? More "classical" sound, younger and less mature, eager to show ff. Also, little tibits of revolutionary genius to distinguish himself from classical period composers (like Mozart and Haydn)

What is the form? String Quartet - 4 movements, usually sonata form - slow ABA - menuet and trio - rondo

Anything else? Beethoven wrote 17 string quartets, this is the fifth one, and he was truly proud of them. I once heard that true Beethoven lovers will ultimately arrive at Quartets after listening to and enjoying Symphonies, Concerti, and Sonatas.

To make things easier, I have tried to locate the string quartet for free online. Here is what I could find. The timing is not exact, as each performance tends to be slightly different, but it is still close enough to follow along.

All movements
First Movement
Second Movement
Third Movement
Fourth Movement

Push Play!

First Movement - First Movement

Is it Major or Minor? Happy or Sad sounding? Happy, so Major
Is the rhythm in 2s or 3s? - 3s. When you beat the rhythm, you count 1-2-3, not 1-2-3-4 or 1-2. Hmm, this is strange for a first movement piece, especially in a sonata form movement
Is it in Sonata form? A Classical Sonata usually has an exposition, development, and recapitulation.

Exposition
1) Primary theme - the first main melody of the piece
2) a transition passage - music that takes us from the primary theme to the secondary theme
3) a secondary theme - Usually different in character from the primary theme, serves to give the composer a richer vocabulary and make things more interesting for the listener
4) a bridge passage which leads to a
5) closing theme - Can be very small or extensive, serves to give still further melodic character to a piece
People call this group PtSbk, where the k stands for closing.

So, does this movement fit?

P - 0:01-:14
t - :14-:30
S - :30-:55
b - :55-1:15
k - 1:15-1:40

Yes, this movement fits.

Think of a church. If you know the shape of a church (usually the Christian cross), know the names of its parts (nave, aisles, chapels, altar, etc.), then you can focus on the details that make it unique, splendid, mundane, and so on. What do the columns look like? Is the ceiling made of stone or wood? Are there windows? Is the altar very decorated or plain? Did the artist intend it that way for a reason? So it is with music: if we learn the shape of the movement (Sonata form) and the name of its parts (PtSbk), then we can focus on the details.

So, now that we know it's in Sonata form, what do we listen for?

0:01 - Bam! Starts with an !, which catches us by surprise
P - 0:01-:14 - Primary Theme is short, easy enough to remember - Which instrument plays the primary theme? 1st violin, with 2nd violin and viola giving harmonic colors, and the cello moving the rhythm along.
t - :14-:30
S - :30-:55 - The secondary theme is mostly different from the primary in that it is in the minor (sad) key, but resolves to major (happy) before the Bridge. This piece will be lighthearted. The Cello and viola carry this theme. Okay, he uses lower notes for minor, and upper notes for major. Got it.
b - :55-1:15
k - 1:15-1:40

How do the other instruments accompany the theme, and/or the primary instrument? Simple harmonic accompaniment? Different Rhythms? Counterpoint? Imitation?

Development - This is where composers show off their skills. Beethoven enters the development abruptly. Usually, Sonata form expositions have a repeat, but not this one? Is this Beethoven's choice or the performer's choice? I don't know, as I only have this recording, and no access to sheet music.

Assuming no repeat:
2:15 - We start to travel to a different key, and so lose our sense of home base
2:30 - Hmm, I like those colors he makes with all four instruments together
2:42 - He's bringing us back to home base now
2:52 - Ah, a satisfying homecoming, we've been here before
3:12 - Uh-Oh, this is new and scary
3:23 - Back on track, phew

Recapitulation - The composer repeats the exposition, but instead of modulating in the secondary theme, he stays in the primary theme's tonality, giving us that sense of homecoming all the way through to the end of the piece. The structure of the recapitulation, therefore, is nearly always the same as the exposition, so think PtSbk.

Okay, this is a fairly typical movement, except for the fact that it's in triple rhythm (1-2-3, 1-2-3), that there is no repeated exposition (at least in this performance), and that there is an explosive start to get the blood pumping. On repeated listenings, I also notice an awkwardly long pause around :50 that throws us into confusion. He did that on purpose, the devil.

2nd Movement - Second Movement - We're still in the major key, still in triple rhythm
We think this movement will be in ABA form, namely a melody to start, a counter melody in the middle, and a repeat or similar statement of the original melody to end. What do we get?

0:01-:15 - a - A theme is announced, simple and graceful
:15-:27 - a' - The theme is embellished slightly with the viola, but still very graceful
:27-:41 - b - We're going somewhere, especially starting around :37, and it sounds stormy
:42-:49 - c - Sounds rough, but only a false alarm. Oddly ends with a pause that does not inspire confidence
:49-1:02 - a - A repeat of a, but I think I hear a couple harmonic tones that suggest all is not okay

1:03-1:18 - a and a' varied - A canon-like passage (think a group of kids singing row row row your boat in waves) tells me we're getting some variation in the a theme
1:18-1:42 - b - Same as the b from before
1:42-1:49 - c - Same as the c from before, just as creepy
1:49-2:02 - a - Same

2:02-2:18 - a and a'
2:18-2:29 - b
2:29 - A new variation! Are we in variation form? I love variation form
2:29-3:23 - Sounds like a tango with its accents and harmonies. Less graceful, more peasant dance-ish

3:23-3:38 - a
3:38-3:51 - a'
3:51-4:04 - b
4:04-4:11 - c
4:11-4:26 - a
4:26-4:41 - a

Ok, this is not a variation movement... Since it returns to the first theme at the end, it seems we can group a-a'-b-c into one big A, and that tango sounding variation is the B in that it's different. So the movement is A, a slightly varied A (A'), a B section, and a return to the varied A' at the end. A-A'-B-A'

3rd Movement - Third Movement

Slow, singing, with a rhythm in 2s, not 3s. We count 1-2-3-4, but we start the movement on the 4th beat, so it's 4 1-2-3-4, 1-2-3-4, etc.

0:01-:22 - A - 8 measures
:22-:44 - A - 8 measures
:44-:54 - B - 4 measures
:54-1:06 - A' - 4 measures
1:06-1:16 - B - A repeat of the previous B
1:16-1:28 - A' - A repeat of the previous A'

This is simple enough to follow, as it's kind of slow and repeats often, so I can even think about the phrase sizes. Beethoven groups each section into a number of measures, with each measure consisting of 4 beats. So, counting 32 beats (8 measures of 4 beats), plus that first beat which starts on a 4, we can count out the first A.

What's next? This second section sounds a lot like the first one, but seems to be a variation. Yeah! So we have:
1:28-1:48 - A - 8 measures
1:48-2:08 - A repeated - 8 measures
2:08-2:18 - B - 4 measures
2:18-2:26 - A' - 4 measures
2:26-2:36 - B - A repeat of the previous B
2:36-2:44 - A' - A repeat of the previous A'

We have the same form, the same harmonic and rhythmic structure, the theme still starts on the 4th beat, but we're moving at a different clip now.

Variation 1 is finished and we know to listen for an [A] [BA':] structure, where the [BA'] is repeated.

Variation 2 - 2:44-3:52 - Now that we know the form, we can sit back, relax, and let Beethoven show off for us. Variation 2 has a solo violin playing lots of repeated notes with a very sparse accompaniment by the rest of the ensemble.

Variation 3 - 3:52-5:10 - The violin plays a continual slow trill, while the other guys trade off playing a truncated version of the theme

Variation 4 - 5:10-6:50 - We get a tinge of trouble melancholy at 5:35, at the end of the A section. Everyone is singing, with notes being held longer than we've heard in this movement so far.

Variation 5 - 6:50-8:10 - Unbridled joy, triumphant and glorious. Listen to the cello marching this variation along, with long, virtuosic trills by the violin

Variation 6 - 8:10-9:34 - At 8:31, the cello holds the melody, then the violin suggests a counter-melody. At 8:41 they switch off, at 8:55 the viola gets a shot at the counterpoint, etc.

9:20 - A big crescendo signals the climax of the movement

9:35 - Just the violin to start, then the others join in for a modified variation, and a peaceful ending.

4th Movement - Fourth Movement - We're faster now, counting 1-2-3-4 a bit quicker this time around. Experience says this is a rondo, which means a repetition of a theme, called A, with various different episodes, called B, C, D, which are interspersed throughout the piece. Am I right? Sort of. Multiple listens tell me that this rondo is also a sonata, in that it has a PtSbk exposition, a development, a recapitulation, and even a coda. Beethoven has thrown us a curveball, with two sonata form movements in one quartet. Unusual! Let's see what it looks like:

Exposition
0:01-:22 - P
:22-:34 - t
:34-:50 - S
:50-1:05 - b
1:05-1:32 - k

Development
1:32-2:40

Recapitulation
2:40-2:55 - Introduction to the recap
2:55-3:19 - P
3:19-3:34 - S
3:34-3:40 - b
3:40-4:12 - k

Coda
4:12-4:26
4:26-4:54

How is this a rondo? The primary theme keeps popping up throughout the movement, in the development, coda, etc., and not only in the statements at the beginning of the exposition and recapitulation.

So, I thought this classical period string quartet would contain: Sonata form, ABA slow, Menuet-Trio, and Rondo. It turned out to be Sonata form, ABA fast, Theme & Variations, and Rondo-Sonata.

Analysis

And that, my friends, is just the tip of the iceberg. Once I know it, am familiar with the characters (themes), plot line (forms), setting (overall structure), and so on, I can start enjoying the nitty-gritty details. Why does he have them play loudly here? Why does the violin hold the theme there? All 4 instruments play here, but not there. Why are they missing? What rhythms are present throughout the whole sonata? Does he keep starting the theme on the 4th beat throughout the whole 3rd movement? If so, to what end? What about the harmonies he uses? Any weird or revolutionary tonal relationships that foretell later musical development?

What about the performance? How's the cellist? Is the violin player on rhythm? How good is the violinist at trills? Do they play well together? Are they better at slow or fast passages? How's the sound quality of the recording? How are my speakers?

What about the abstract? What's Beethoven trying to say here? Is there a universal message, or is he just trying to show off? Is this just a shallow period piece for rich people to eat dinner over or college kids to study to, or is there humor, pathos, jubilation, anxiety, and contentment? What's the historical context of the piece? How old was Beethoven when he wrote this? What world events could have influenced his writing? Any love interests? Was he already deaf when he wrote it?

The Northern Half of Calabria in one post

2008-12-26T15:09:00.005+01:00

All,

I'm behind. I've been behind for a long time. I'm going to try to catch up as much as I can. I know, you've heard it all before.

I had a few days that, when compared to others on my trip, could be called fairly unremarkable. When I wrote about these days in early December, I decided that you were sick of reading accounts describing similar events, so I have done you the favor of condensing these days to their bare minimum. So, for six days, here is my version of minimalist writing, with a creeping tendency toward verbosity toward the last two days. I just can't keep my mouth shut.

11/22 - Sapri to Tortora - 21.91
Leave early with the rain. Only one picture all day because I fear destroying another camera. Stop in Maratea, Basilicata, climb up the big hill intending to stay, but find it's too expensive. There's a huge Christ the Redeemer statue like in Rio de Janeiro, but again, no pictures. Time happens to be on my side, so I walk to Calabria. Before I know it, I have crossed Basilicata in one day. Sweet.

11/23 - Tortora to Diamante - 20.50
No rain, but heavy winds. Calabria is all one big road bordering the sea for me, as I can't explore the mountains because of the cold. I eat a snack in the ghost town of a summer tourist community, walk through more ghost towns as the wind howls down the long highway, and reach Diamante. The one hotel in town is too expensive, they're unwilling to negotiate, so I backtrack two miles for a nice but inexpensive hotel in hibernation. Dinner is a pizza, a sandwich, two beers, and a shot of homemade limoncello on the house. I curl up with Columbo dubbed in Italian (my first viewing of Columbo, seems like a good show), and go to sleep.

11/24 - Diamante to Cetraro - 18.31
I jaywalk across Calabria's main highway to reach a bar so I can ask for directions, the cops stop at the bar, my stomach turns. They just wanted a coffee, and after asking me who the hell I am, they buy me a coffee, as they like my story. I admit that I was scared they were going to arrest me for jaywalking, and they laugh heartily. More life along the boardwalk, lots of side streets through sleepy beach towns. Cetraro is alive, but no lodging in town, so back to the entrance of town for a small hotel with a crappy, worn out piano.

11/25 - Cetraro to Paola - 13.28
Shorter walk today, a Santiago di Compostela pilgrim stops me for a chat on the highway, he's from Cosenza, he offers hospitality if I head his way, but Cosenza's in the mountains and out of the way. Oh well. Lunch on the boardwalk at Paola. Watch a soccer match at dinner.

11/26 - Paola to Amantea - 17.48
Really bored with walking in Calabria. No variation, bad weather, little to no life in many towns. People distrustful of me, feel uncomfortable sometimes, so I want to keep moving. Find a friendly hotel, a walk in the town yields a music store with a new piano and twenty minutes of playing, and an hour of internet before dinner. Better than nothing! Watch soccer with the friends of the hotel owner, all had bet on a variety of results, so impassioned shouts burst forth as one by one they tear up their tickets and send the shreds flying. Lottery and sports betting bleed this part of the country dry, I decide.

11/27 - Amantea to Mortilla di Gizzeria - Thanksgiving Day - 19.14
Sunny but shockingly windy day. Walk a long stretch on huge boulders with sea on one side and railroad on the other. Really exhilarating, exotic trail makes me realize just how little I need in order to be totally reinvigorated. Get to Gizzeria Lido, ask at a gas station about lodging. Antonio helps out a lot, we finally find a hotel out of the way and a bit far, but I make it by nightfall. No heater working so I steal a space heater and a thick quilt from the common area. Evening shower ruined by no hot water. Thanksgiving dinner in the only pizzeria, a place primarily serving to go customers. Limited selections so I get an eggplant pizza, two arancini (fried baseball sized balls of rice), and a 24 oz. Peroni. Enjoy the irony of my horrible Thanksgiving dinner, plans for real Thanksgiving on coming Saturday make it okay, and it's time for bed after checking in with Mom and Dad.

12/28 - Mortilla to Pizzo - 19.77
Another windy day, meet middle-aged German couple walking in opposite direction, they had done Santiago di Compostela and are thrilled to see another walker. We exchange info. Weather turns, a quick trip to buy oranges at a citrus tree nursery turns into a full blown lunch invitation and I am happy to get out of the rain for a bit. Long lunch break means no more breaks until Pizzo, and the weather becomes truly wretched. I smile when I see the sign for Pizzo with the O as a big sun, and the slogan "2 steps in a dream." More like a nightmare.
My feet are soaking wet as I take my last steps to town. I hear of a hostel, turns out it's been sold, owned by 3 Brits and a Pole as a property management company. We talk Calabria for a while, they're in love with the area and see big opportunities, I'm skeptical but haven't seen the South of Calabria yet (and later am convinced). They find me a clean, cheap B&B with electric A/C, suggest a pizza place which turns out to be great. I talk the whole dinner with a Coast Guard candidate from near Trapani, learn about the process, then receive a discount from the pizzeria owner whose dream is to walk the whole coast of Calabria, including the Ionian side. Pizzo is famous for its dessert, the tartufo nero, and I ascend to heaven when I see it's chocolate ice cream in a big ball with a dark chocolate liquid filling, and the whole thing dusted with chocolate powder. Even though it pours as I return to the B&B, I realize that things are getting better and better here in Calabria.

My last day in Campania

2008-12-18T20:18:00.001+01:00

11/21 - S. Giovanni a Piro to Sapri - 14.21 miles

The church, one of seven in this tiny town of 2,000, had been completely altered over the centuries, and the restorers were digging away, frequently unearthing new important finds. After excavating over fifteen feet, they had found a second door under the modern one, various old crypts (all Italians, I learned, were buried at the church until the time of Napoleon, when graveyards were created), some 14th and 15th century frescoes, and various other treasures. The restorers showed me around, happy to meet someone that cared, and I learned a lot about the process, most importantly the fact that it is rarely a precise science. Sometimes that hidden fresco tears off the wall, as you dig away the covering dirt. I also learned that they could dig for years more and find perhaps a whole medieval town, but that lack of funds kept the findings modest in comparison. Italy is so fully saturated with cultural and artistic treasures that history moves faster than the country's ability to unearth, study, and appreciate them. An enviable predicament, if you ask me.

After my church tour, I went and thanked Giuseppe the grocer for helping me find lodging, received a couple postcards in return, and was soon off down the mountain once more to Sapri.

This was my last stop in Campania, and it was a charming little town, an oasis before the rocky terrain of Basilicata. Still, not too much to recount here: find a hotel, chat with the local soccer squad (Serie E, probably at a College Division III level), dessert on them, pizza and a beer for dinner, 0 for 3 on open internet cafes, and so on. And I'm stupefied at the fact that this day, remarkable as it would have been on its own, becomes run-of-the-mill in the context of this trip. If only every day of my life could carry this level of interest.

Back up into the mountains above Palinuro

2008-12-18T18:19:00.001+01:00

11/20 - Palinuro to San Giovanni a Piro - 18.21 miles

To reach the Southern tip of Campania, I had one last stop, and had first to climb some hills. Leaving Palinuro, I resisted the urge to take an inviting trail, as it seemed to lead to a dead end up top. With a rainy forecast and mud already dominating most trails, I think I made the right choice. Soon I was in Marina di Camerota, and after taking a deliberately long swing through the town to see what all the hubbub was about, I kept going.

After a long series of switchbacks and increasingly panoramic views of the coast, I reached a high road lined with vast olive groves, all of them with nets laid down for the olive harvest. Some farmers had not yet been by to collect the fallen olives, and I took a few moments here and there to appreciate the different shapes, colors, and sizes of the olives. I had learned long before on this trip, up in Liguria, that olives do not taste good from the tree, having to be immersed in water in order to lose that sharp, bitter taste. Still, I could not resist the thought of eating ripe olives from the tree, and grew to like that mouth-coating sensation. So, grabbing an olive here and there, and taking a few photographs, I kept moving to a little mountain town called Lentiscosa, where I had my lunch on the piazza, with expansive views of Marina di Camerota and the surrounding mountains. From then on, it was more ascent, a heavy, misty rain, and some breathtaking pastoral stretches that reminded me of Autumn. I saw vast groves of chestnut and oaks, with various shades of turning leaves. A farmer was burning a pile of chopped olive branches, giving off a fragrant smoke that mingled with the heavy, though not unpleasant, haze that settled lightly on the hills. As I saw these quaint rural scenes, I listened for the first time (on this trip) to Beethoven's 27th Sonata, Op. 90, and am thrilled that this sonata will henceforward be connected to this late-afternoon imagery, to grazing flocks of sheep and stone huts amid glistening forests. And all of it a short jaunt from the sea.

Arriving at S. Giovanni a Piro, I stopped in the first bar I came across, happy to be out of the rain, which grew ever colder with the sunset. Seven or eight men stopped their card game to give me "the eye," and I respectfully and resolutely stepped toward the bar for an espresso, the asking price for all good information. Before I could ask, however, the barista asked what my story was, and I recounted my story in the short version, which was enough to have the coffee offered by a portly middle-aged local. Slowly the curiosity surrounding the dripping stranger died down, the men went back to playing cards, and I asked about local lodging. Between the barista and the man who had bought me the coffee, they decided on a hotel, and as the man knew the owners, offered to take me there, and even called in advance to secure me the "local's" price. As I had found my resting spot for the evening, I was no longer in a hurry to face the cold, sticky rainfall. Instead, I sat and watched a few rounds of scopa, chewed the fat with the old men, and digested my coffee.

When I was ready to go, I let Giuseppe, my guide, know that I was starting to walk, and he followed a few minutes after by car, so that we arrived simultaneously at the hotel.

Before settling too much, I took a quick trip to the barber across the street, and received my second Italian haircut, with another offered coffee to go with it. I have not mentioned it before, but I have noticed a marked increase in barbers, stylists, beauticians, and groomers in general since crossing the imaginary N-S line, and as a result I profited from the fierce competition in the industry, paying less than half what I had paid in Massa-Carrara, Toscana. Pity I shaved that morning too, because otherwise I could have purchased a shave with a straight razor for 2€. Shave and a haircut, two bits!

Dinner, included in the hotel price, was delicious, and I spent the meal in conversation with a Neapolitan restoration contractor, who was in town working on an 800-year old parochial church. Seeing that I was interested, he talked at length about the process, and in the end, invited me to come check out the church the following morning. Then, to finish off the meal, he bought me a grappa, my third offered drink in as many hours, and it was off to bed.

Velia and Palinuro

2008-12-18T18:19:00.000+01:00

Okay, before I get too philosophical, I want to record a few days, and at least finish Campania, so the next time I reach a computer I can get into Calabria. So, we left off after a day of overwhelming generosity, and a short trip into and out of the mountains of this national park.

11/19 - Marina di Ascea to Palinuro - 15.95 miles

My first stop this morning was to the Archaeological dig of Velia, a large city complex dating back as far as the 6th Century BC. Since I had a long walk ahead, I could not linger long, but I spent a good hour wandering around this site, which once held a powerful colony of Greek sailors.

From there, it was a long walk to Palinuro, a picturesque point toward the bottom of the Cilento. The walk was uneventful, and my early evening arrival in the town consisted of finding a hotel, washing some clothes, eating pasta e fagioli (pasta and beans, from which derives "Pasta Fasule")