Reflections a year later

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

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

	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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1/7 - Custonaci to Erice - 13.91

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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