A national park day

10/24 - Sabaudia to San Felice Circeo - 11.31 miles

I awoke to a warm, sunny beach day, perfect for the five miles that hugged the coast all the way to the foot of Monte Circeo, which thrust out abruptly from the water. I entered the shaded path, turned onto the mountain trail, and began the steepest uphill climb that I have so far encountered, beating even those I found in the Alps. Within a few minutes I was completely winded and dripping with sweat, having been rudely reminded that mountain conditioning is very different from walking conditioning. This was no joke; at one point, I even abandoned the use of my trekking poles, having to revert to the use of both hands to pull myself up. Finally, after reaching several false peaks, I found myself 1750 feet above sea level, staring almost straight down at the waves, and at the nearly infinite stretch of beach I had just traversed. This was the highest up I had been for some time, and I lingered at the top for nearly an hour, surveying the surrounding countryside in detail. The only spoiler for me was that after being completely alone for the whole climb, I found two hikers occupying the best viewpoint on the peak. How dare they set foot on my mountain!? We barely greeted each other, indeed we gave each other the absolute minimum regard that the norms of civilized society will allow, and I reflected that they must be feeling the same exact way about me that I was about them, and even worse still, since they were there first. Grumbling to myself, I nonetheless sat off a bit hidden, letting them feel alone until they were ready to leave. After all, there was enough peak for everyone.

Once they left, I stayed quite a bit longer, explored the pagan ruins of the temple dedicated to Circe, a minor goddess in the Odyssey (which, by coincidence, I was currently reading), and started the descent. It was pretty cool to have seen in advance the series of ridges that would form my descent path, not to mention that it was also great to walk up one side and down another. Still cannot get enough of that feeling, much akin to the one I described in the first day or two of my travels.

San Felice Circeo was a sleepy little town - actually, one that had died in its sleep, so empty were its streets and piazzas. I found a hotel, was again the only guest, and wandered almost two miles to find a suitable place to eat.

The Pontine Marshes and Parco Nazionale Circeo

10/23 - Borgo Sabotino to Sabaudia - 19.90

Taking my leave of Mo and her menagerie, I started off for Sabaudia at the head of the Circeo National Park. Before reaching the coast, I got to see more of the Pontine Plains, one of the more interesting places in the region of Lazio. For centuries, this large tract was totally unusable, a vast stretch of marshland infested with mosquitoes. For all their engineering genius, the Romans had been unable to successfully drain this swamp, and so it sat, waiting for the 20th Century, when Mussolini finally did what nobody before could do. He brought in the best Venetian canal architects, introduced Eucalyptus trees in abundance (they absorb moisture like a sponge), and when it had finally been drained, he split up the land into parcels and gave it to the peasants, along with animals and the tools to farm it. In doing so, he won the eternal adulation of this area's residents, who quietly but fiercely defend Il Duce. History is never fully black and white, my friends.

So, walking through this area, which circumstances caused to be composed nearly entirely of fascist-era architecture (yuck!), I finally reached the coast, stretching infinitely in either direction. As I walked along, civilization slowly gave way to the National Park of Circeo, and the landscape began to look exactly like San Diego, California. The low brush, punctuated by eucalyptus and various species of palms, gave way to ample distances of empty, sandy beaches. I walked a while along the sand, much more fun in theory than in practice, as my clunky shoes sank right through the soft sand, making me expend twice the energy to keep my pace. Even when I gave up and went back up on the road above, it was still great to smell that salt breeze, and feel like I was home. The icing on the cake came at sunset, when I saw a group of surfers catching some (small) waves, taking advantage of a somewhat stormy sea. I chatted it up with a few surfers, was delighted to see that Italian surfers are exactly as you would picture them, both in speech and in comportment, and having quenched my nostalgia for home, took the final steps to Sabaudia.

After finding a hotel, I took the owner's suggestion for a dinner spot, making sure to ask for Arturo at the "Happy Days Pizzeria" (they seem to be obsessed with that show here, by the way). The service was terrible. The man at the register grunted me toward a terrible table by the threshold, then promptly ignored me for a full ten minutes. I grew steadily angrier, but desiring to practice my new found and hard earned depths of patience, I waited, contenting myself with picturing different scenarios of my abrupt departure ("Hey, where are you going?" "Somewhere where they actually want my business!" "No, please, we're sorry, we'll serve you now!"). I pushed the chair out a bit, steeled myself for an unpleasant encounter, tensed the leg muscles, and, of course, sensing through that magical sixth sense that only restaurant people have, they came at that exact moment with the menu. I exhaled the adrenaline and stress, took a moment, and soon service began as could be expected; that is, not stellar, but befitting a pizzeria in this part of Italy. At one point I even calmed enough to mention to Arturo that I had been sent by the hotel owner, and he seemed to take that well, even stepping up my service a smidge.

In the end, I was glad I stayed, eating well enough: pizza, salad, wine, and water. But the best part came when it was time to pay the bill. It was a 20€ meal, but when Arturo shoved the bill/receipt toward me, it read €8.50. I wondered if I got the insider discount, or if he simply cared so little that he didn't bother to do the math of what I had eaten. It certainly was not because I had charmed anyone, but anyways I was not going to say anything. This wasn't a case of forgetting something, as he had even itemized the things I had consumed. It just came out at half the price of what I had seen on the menu. Stepping out, I smiled as I compared this action to my experiences in the North of Italy, where they would never have taken such little time to examine what I had eaten. Whatever the case, it was a good thing for me, and in my opinion, I deserved it after the crappy service I had received in the beginning. So, rewarding myself with a gelato, I took one last walk around, and returned to my hotel.

Anzio, the sea, the War Cemetary, and a trip to the zoo (sort of)

10/22 - Anzio to Borgo Sabotino - 15.58 miles

Ann has to go to Anzio to catch the train, which works out perfectly, as it allows me to see this town without having to backtrack. We drive to the station, and as we're waiting for the train Ann runs into a friend of hers, another British lady named Mo. Within seconds, she finds out that I am walking toward her town, and invites me to stay. Three nights in the homes of three different people in three different cities, and all stemming from a chance roadside encounter. Not bad.

The train comes, taking Mo, Ann, and Carlo with it, leaving me alone to enjoy Anzio. The first thing I do is head to the sea, seating myself on ruins from Nero's villa that extend all the way to the waterfront. Not having been near the sea since Carrara in the North of Tuscany back in early September, I have a feeling of peace and homecoming from the lapping waves. Alone on the large expanse of beach except for two old men playing cards on top of an upturned boat, I sit a long while, letting the memory etch itself into my brain. There's something to this whole waking up early thing...

The next thing I do with my luxury of time is seek the American Military Cemetary, which houses around 7,500 troops from the campaigns in Sicily all the way up to the invasion of Anzio. As it turns out, Anzio was the site of a very pivotal landing which outflanked the Germans and caused them to lose their defensive positions at the highly fortified Gustav line to the South.
My Dad had told me to look out for the pillboxes, which were in large supply when he worked at Anzio in the early 1960s. By now, they had all been removed, from what I could tell, but the cemetery was obviously still there, so the historian in me compelled me to go.

Like entering a small piece of the US, the cemetery bore the unmistakable mark of being American. Bold and on a magnificent scale, with American flags flying, it instills an immediate feeling of patriotism for those who, like me, are so disposed. I went to the welcome center, read every word that was available as information about the campaign as well as the site, looked for any Hooks in the war Registers of the dead and missing, and feeling emotionally primed, began to explore the cemetery itself.

In the center, a pool with four large water spouts contains an island dedicated to the unknown soldier. Behind that a large mall (not the shopping kind) leads up to a neoclassical building much like a temple, which houses a chapel, a state of two servicemen, a lone pine tree, and a room containing an illustrated history of the Italy campaign. I lingered here for a while, overwhelmed by all the names etched into the wall of the chapel, and eager to contrast the American and British (as I had seen at Lago di Bolsena) accounts of the campaign.

On either side of the temple there are beautifully manicured gardens, and leading all the way back to the entrance, row upon row of graves. Playing Aaron Copland's Lincoln Portrait, I sat upon the steps in front of the temple, and wandered down the many rows of men who died for a cherished and honorable idea. There is no more excellent reminder about why we should avoid war at all costs than a war cemetery.

When I had seen everything I needed to see there, I paid my respects, and continued on my way. Before leaving, I took a short stroll through the medieval town of Nettuno, chatted a while with two Calabresi who pretended to be Bolognesi but couldn't fool me for a minute, and said my goodbye to the beach once more.

Once on the road to Mo's house, I gave four or five prostituts something to talk about at dinner that evening (did you see that guy? What the hell was he doing?), and by pure coincidence, happened to notice a large client... er, military base right behind them.

When I got to Mo's house, a large farm on the outskirts of Latina, I found her waiting for me, along with her seven dogs, six birds, three horses, a pony, and a partridge in a pear tree. I settled down for a nice warm shower, and when I was finished, heard some wonderful stories of Mo's youth, of a six-month stay in Philadelphia, and of her various trials and tribulations with the Italian bureaucracy. She was, to me, quitessentially British. We ate British food, had tea for breakfast (a welcome change, honestly), she told me about her polo playing and fox hunting days, I found out she had run the pony club at Sandhurst Military Acadaemy, and so on. In fact, she reminded me of how very little I had traveled in Great Britain, and how much I had yet to see... but it's better not to get started on that road.

Carlo and Patrick walk to the coast

10/21 Aprilia to Nettuno - 13.74 miles

After a nice breakfast, Carlo drove to my last stopping point a little ways outside Aprilia, and we arranged to meet once I reached the town. I put the music on, started walking, and soon enough met up with Carlo in Aprilia. For the whole walk, I had Carlo go in front so as to set the pace, but as it turned out, he actually walked a faster pace than my average, making me the one who had to work to keep up!

Soon, I began to feel quite guilty, however, as I had unwittingly asked Carlo to join me on what surely was among the bottom three worst walks so far. Heavy traffic, a narrow shoulder, industrial parks along the whole walk, constant trains, a large stretch of newly paved asphalt with smog-belching industrial paving machines, and all of this on a muggy day - certainly not the best motivation for taking a long walk.

Still, he said that he knew what he was getting into, having driven this road many times in the past, and he seemed thrilled with the fact that he was actually walking a long distance to a destination, a totally different feeling from walking a trail, or in a circle. I had somewhat forgotten how great a feeling this truly is, and enjoyed having it refreshed in my mind by a different pair of eyes. Carlo even taught me some excellent Tai Chi stretches as a way of relaxing my mind and body, and so I floated the last stretch of the walk to Nettuno.

Our destination in Nettuno was to the house of Carlo's friend Ann, who had kindly agreed to house both of us for the night. A British expat and talented sculptress, her house was full of beautiful works of art. Once we were settled and had rested a bit, she told some stories of her own travels, including six trips to India, and a long voyage on the Mediterranean as a stowaway on a cargo ship.

The three of us went out for dinner, which for Carlo was a celebration of a great first urban long-distance walk, and then headed back for an early night. Ann had to catch an early train, so I pulled out the sleeping bag once more for a second lucky night.

The First Day Outside of Rome, and the lucky encounter

10/20 - Albano Laziale to Aprilia - 8 miles

After a day of rest, it was time for me to escape the magnet that Rome had become for me, and continue on my walk. Rather than return to Genzano di Roma, I chose to start from Albano Laziale, which was a bit closer than what I had reached, but easier to reach from Rome.

After all my Rome excitement, the walk was uneventful, and dare I say it, boring. Nothing really to see, just more suburbs. Then, out of nowhere, a man flagged me down from the other side of the road. I figured his car was broken down, and immediately crossed to see if I could help. Of course, the caution lights also turned on in my mind, but this man did not fit the profile of those I should avoid.

He asked what I was doing, I explained, and he expressed a huge passion for walking and a desire to do the Santiago di Compostela pilgrimage. Sensing an accent, he asked where I was from, and when he heard, he responded in perfect English, saying that his father had been an American soldier in WWII. He offered me a coffee, I agreed, and soon we had become friends.

Since I had expressed my desire to reach Aprilia that evening, he made a few calls to see if he could find affordable hotels there. When he came up short, I asked if he knew of any places to sleep in Albano Laziale, where he lived. After a moment of weighing it out in his mind, he offered me the floor of his apartment, and soon we were on our way back along the same road I had just walked. We made a quick stop to see Lago di Albano, which I had missed, as well as the Papal apartments. It's always better to see a place with someone who lives there!

From the time we met on the road it was non-stop talking. Besides walking, we shared many common interests, and even had a common friendship connection, as he was a frequent visitor to Abbazia Sant'Antimo. He showed me his newly-purchased hiking gear, revealed his dreams about taking the famous pilgrimage in Spain, and we talked a lot about his experiences seeking to learn Mandarin Chinese (a future goal of mine).

He offered to take me out for dinner, and after hearing that I loved porchetta, we went to a place that served various meats and cheeses (among them a particularly delicious specimen of porchetta), as well as pasta all'amatriciana. At dinner we talked about his knowledge of English, and how he had a difficult time understanding slang and translating idiomatic expressions. It was so interesting to me to hear a person speak without an accent, but revealing his foreign status through strange turns of phrases and a misplaced word here and there. It reminded me a lot of the exquisite espionage practiced during WWII, when spies were required to learn everything, down to the tiny cultural details of sports trivia and regional dining, in order to pass as Germans or British, etc. He also asked me some questions about fraternities, as this whole idea was alien to him, and so I finally got to explain it (and defend it) to someone who held few negative prejudices. I think I even did a pretty good job, framing it in the classic Italian "in theory vs. in practice" discourse.

Since I saw that he was so eager to walk, I offered for him to try out his gear and walk with me to Nettuno, the next stop, and though he was uncertain about his ability to make it the whole way, he agreed to give it a shot. So, after a full night of chatting, I blew up my air mattress, set out my sleeping bag, and smiled at my continued fortune as I read a copy of Time Magazine Carlo had given me (in English!) before going to sleep.

ROME Part 3

Gaia's Visit

The following weekend, Gaia made the trip all the way down from Milano to visit me as well as her friends and family, so we passed a great night catching up, sharing news, and wandering around Rome together. Gaia took me out to a cool nightspot with her friends, and after a drink or two we headed back to the apartment and stayed up talking until six in the morning. The next day was spent lazing around, meeting up with another of Gaia's friends, and doing some more walking. Since her father was coming to town, it was time for me to say goodbye to the little Trastevere apartment, but not yet to Rome. I gave Gaia a hug, waved goodbye to the apartment, then caught the bus to Greg's place.

The Last Hurrah(s)
Greg spared no time when I reached his apartment - within fifteen minutes we were off to a party at Sabrina's friend's house. The birthday party involved lots of food and chatting, and even some singing and dancing. Greg and I stayed until three, then heard the next day that the party went until nine. The next day, Saturday, it was our turn: Greg threw a rager in his small one bedroom pad. We planned all day, did the big food run at the Italian version of Costco (think much, much smaller), cut up various hors d'oeuvres, and soon the party goers started to show up.

I met dozens of people, saw some familiar faces, made lots of friendships and future connections, and as we danced until six AM while Greg spun records on his full DJ kit, I thanked my lucky stars for having this great scene fall into my lap. The best part? Nobody was drunk. We formed a train, that went into the hallways of the apartment, danced disco and soul and techno, partied all night, and all anyone had to drink was a few glasses of wine, tempered by lots and lots of food.

ROME Part 2

Day trip to Montepulciano

Around a week into my stay in Rome, Greg invited me to join him, Rita, and his friend Maurizio (the host of the dinner party my first night) on a day trip to Montepulciano. This area, a bit to the East of Montalcino, was one I reluctantly skipped on my way down, and I had been very sad about it. Here, then, was my chance to experience it in good company, with the luxury of the automobile. We headed onto the freeway, flying about twenty times faster than I walked, and passed some similar landmarks. I smiled to myself as we whizzed by Castiglione in Teverina, location of the vineyard where I had worked, and Orvieto, looking menacing atop its plateau; sure, this was one way to tour Italy, pressing the glass with your index finger as you identify dots on the horizon. Still, I will take my way any day, one twentieth of the speed but 100 times the detail and pleasure.
Of course, we stopped when we reached our destination, walking around and taking long looks at the sights. One could even argue that this "middle road" was the best way, though of course I would take exception. Let us just say that I have invested a bit of time in the "slow approach," and therefore feel bound to defend it (to the death). Whatever the method of travel, one thing was certain: we had reached a truly magnificent slice of Italy. We saw the famous zig-zagging cypress driveway on the La Foce estate, various towns in the Val d'Orcia, Pienza with its famous sheep's cheese, and settled in Montepulciano for dinner. We even got to go downtown to an ancient cellar, which was still producing wine in large barrels.

Having performed a lightning tour of Montepulciano and the Val d'Orcia, we turned home, blasting Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon and contributing with extravagant drum solos on laps and dashboards. Good times...

10/12 - 13.74 The Walk to Ciampino

One thing was certain, that prudence dictated a necessary day of travel while I had the luxury of leaving my backpack at home. I finally got around to it after a week of procrastination, walking from my doorstep to the entrance of the Appia Antica, the most famous of Rome's Ancient Consular roads.
The road itself was loaded on both sides with various ruins, and I noticed with satisfaction the aqueduct that ran parallel to the road. Little did I know that three weeks and 150 miles down that same road, I would see once again the Appia Antica and the same aqueduct. Humbling...

I reached the airport at Ciampino, and as it was a good stopping point, took the train back to Rome, and the bus back to Trastevere. Not quite convenient, but nothing could beat leaving that pack at home.

10/15 - Walk to Genzano di Roma - 14.84 miles

It took me three days to negotiate the next portion of my journey, but I was determined to squeeze one more day out of my fortunate (read: sans backpack) situation. Hopping on the bus and then the train, I rode back to Ciampino, and started where I had left off. The portion of Rome's suburbs I saw was the Castelli Romani, a historically wealthy area, home to the Pope's summer residence. My destination was the Museum of the Two Ships, a fascist-era structure housing reconstructions of two large pleasure craft built by Caligula and pulled from the lake through great effort in the 1930s. Destroyed either by retreating Germans or by bombing Americans, the museum now held little bits and pieces of the original ships, and 1:5 reconstructions of both. While theoretically really interesting, the museum was no must-see, especially since all the signs were in Italian, and featured nautical language that would have been equally unintelligible to me in English. A slavish devotion to hearing out every museum kept me there as long as humanly possible, but after chatting with the curator, I found out about an ancient temple a kilometer away.
With twenty minutes until the sun set, I hurried to the temple, but found it closed off by two imposing aluminum gates. Slightly to the left, however, was a beaten grass path around the gates, gaining me unobstructed access to the temple remains. So much for security measures... Feeling like Indiana Jones, I looked both ways for huge boulders and other intricate booby traps, and descended into the archaeological site.

Funny how if I had paid to see this, I would have been sorely disappointed, but finding it alone just before dusk was nothing short of a religious experience. Indeed, a sort of guest book nearby contained various prayers to Diana in this "time of great need," as one entry put it. Excited to once again have the opportunity to wander through ancient ruins alone (I swear, it will never grow stale), I walked out and hurried back to modern civilization.

After walking the entire circumference of the lake, I finally made it back to Genzano di Roma, where I found one of many places selling porchetta sandwiches, the local specialty, as it turned out. I made one disappear (some of Diana's magic must have worn off on me after all), caught the bus (or, to be exact, the Pullman), got to the metro station, then another bus, and another day's walk was successfully concluded.

I've a feeling we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto

Okay, all, just a quick note before they boot me out of the closing internet cafe.

Without having left the country, simply in stepping over an imaginary line, I have suddenly experienced a pretty intense culture shock.

I have spent time in Southern Italy before, have traveled to a few cities here and there, but walking through has proved far different from anything I could have imagined. I do not wish to generalize for an entire half of the country after only a few days, so I will not go any further on my observations, or attempt to characterize them as universally representative. However, let's just say that we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

So, internet cafes do not exist in even the moderately sized cities, and most of them feature computers that don't even have USB ports. Wow, reading that over makes me feel like a gigantic computer snob, but I guess that's what I am.

Anyways, I finally found one open internet cafe, and spent the little time I had posting the blog posts you see below. I will arrive tomorrow in Napoli, which should have many internet cafes, and will continue to post. I have made a vow to myself to get this thing current before I leave Napoli, so please continue to have patience!

Looking forward to sharing this new world with you, and with great stories ahead,
Pat

ROME Part 1

10/5 and beyond - Rome

Now, I'm not sure if you knew this about me, but I happen to be a man with connections. Big connections (I kid, I kid). So, it should come as no surprise that I had the ideal setup for me two week sojourn in the Eternal City. Back in 2004, while a senior at UPenn, I found a lovely Italian exchange student named Gaia, who gave me a sorely needed lifeline back to Italy, which I had just left one year prior. When she left at the end of the fall semester, I promised to look her up the next time I went to Italy, and so I did, sending her an email before starting this walk.

As it turns out, she was out of the country when I emailed, so I only heard from her after I was out of range of Milano, where she lived and worked. Still, in her extreme generosity, she offered me her family's flat when I arrived in Rome. I gratefully took her upon this magnificent offer, and she thus arranged for me to pick up the keys from her good family friend, Nancy.

So, the morning after my arrival, I contacted Nancy, and receiving the directions to her house, made my way there. Nancy, an American expat who has lived 40 years in Rome, is a University Professor at one of Rome's many universities, and as it turned out, so was her husband David, himself a British expat. There's nothing I love more than an intellectual household, so I immediately felt at home with these lovely people. Since I had invaded precisely at lunch time, I was graciously invited to join, and I never turn down a home-cooked meal. I found out a bit about their background and their impressions of Rome, and answered some unique and thought-provoking questions about my trip. After lunch, I left them in peace, but not before thanking them for their hospitality, and for holding onto the keys for me.

So, armed with the keys, I walked to Trastevere, where I soon found the apartment, located in an excellent part of town, and full of books and beautiful pieces of antique furniture. It is hard for me to express the feelings of comfort and relaxation upon reaching a stable place of lodging, even if just for two weeks. After nearly three months of changing towns every day, I was in sore need of some stability. HOwever, on this first day, I had no time to linger, so I let the backpack explode, put the beyond-stinky clothes in teh wash, and took a quick shower. I had dinner plans...

Greg

Gregorio met my mother while on a business trip to San Diego. A friend of his works with her, and she immediately introduced them, as my mom spoke Italian. In a 20 minute conversation, she managed to obtain his commitment to take care of her son (as only she can), and he exchanged contact info with her. Next he went to New York on business, and met my sister for coffee, receiving from her some suggestions on what to do and see while in the Big Apple - the end result of these encounters was that I had made a friend through no individual effort, and I was once again grateful for my good fortune.

As soon as I informed Greg of my arrival in Rome, he invited me to join him at a friend's house for dinner. I, of course, eagerly accepted, and so I met him for the first him right by St. Peter's. Together with his friend Rita, a French lady with Italian ancestry, and Sabrina, an Art History Professor, we sped off to Le Rughe, a suburb north of Rome. There I found myself in the company of two doctors (one of which was Greg), a lawyer, a University Administrator, a Real Estate Broker, and an Art History Professor (Sabrina). More importantly, they were all engaging and warmly accepting, boisterous and full of fun. We had a delicious dinner, sang some classic Roman songs accompanied by guitar, told jokes, and fooled around drinking Limoncello until 3:30 in the morning. Not too bad for my first evening as a Roman, right?

Touring Rome

Though I must admit that I spent a large amount of time indoors, enjoying the idea of being stationary, and lingering over meals I prepared for myself, I also spent a great deal of tim walking around my favorite city in the world. Most of my time was spent doing my kind of tourism, namely wandering and walking long distances in every direction, pushing the boundaries of the Rome I had seen before. Gaia had also bubbled over with enthusiastic and specific suggestions (smell the Tiber from the island, visit the Campo in the morning, etc.), showing her love for Rome with a long to-do list. Then there were the obvious sites to revisit and appreciate with a fresh eye, such as the Colliseum, Forum, Pantheon, Spanish Steps, and so on. Finally, one of the many tasty fruits of my friendship with Greg was the introdcuction to Sabrina (pictured, in the middle, with Rita on the right), the encyclopedic explosion of energy and fun and... a passion for art history. Professor of multiple simultaneous Art History courses for the Adult University of Rome (Bernini and the Baroque, Michelangelo, Ancient Rome, etc.), she encouraged me to tag along, and so I did, getting an intimate and detailed view of 2 Baroque churches, the frescoes and mosaics at the Museo Nazionale Romana, St. Peter's Basilica, and Palazzo Spada, a Mannerist architectural jewel housing a delightful collection of works ranging from 15th to 18th century.

Then there was the fulfilling process of learning my way around my neighborhood. Around day five, it all started to click for me: affordably priced fresh fruit and vegetables, an Internet Cafe, the supermarket, fresh egg-based pasta, a classic cheese and sausage shop, porchetta, a cheap 66cl Peroni, water fountains, cool shortcuts, and picturesque side streets. I could get used to this, I thought; there is nothing better than a rich and varied neighborhood fabric to make life interesting. This, I believe, is something most American neighborhoods lack. In the quest to simply, render more efficient, and focus on value instead of quality, the little shops gave way to Walgreens and Walmarts, gas station convenience stores, and one-stop supermarkets. Sure, you save time stopping once instead of seven times, but what's the trade off?

The trimuphant arrival in Rome

10/3 - Campagnano di Roma to La Storta - 17.46
10/4 - La Storta to Rome - 16.67

Since Ester was planning on walking around thirty miles that day, and thus finish her trek before her tendinitis (!!!) got any worse, I was more than willing to let her go, and moreover, she was probably content not to have to hold up for the dead weight with his American-sized backpack. So, waking up a full three hours after she did, I moseyed my way to the next stop.

The walk was pleasant, through a regional park with lots of trees and a few meadows. I realized that I was in the nicer suburbs North of Rome, as many of the houses had great views of the park, and were quite large by Italian standards. I even managed to run into a golf course, which is certainly not something one sees every day in Italy. Getting back on track, I followed the Via Francigena through various twists and turns, eventually crossing a stream completely soaking one shoe in the process (I found out later that Ester, no novice, had had the foresight to remove her shoes before crossing).

As I reached La Storta, I caught up with a group of pilgrims, all Italians from Brescia, with a great walking spirit and lots of historical knowledge about the walk. Giulio, Franco, and Franco's son Emmanuele had walked from Lucca, though being older and retired they had opted for a less demanding journey. So, with their wives accompanying the journey by car, these pilgrims stayed in hotels, leaving the churches to those of us who needed them more. It was quite fun walking with them, as well as with Giulio's three Italian Greyhounds, who of course turned lots of heads.

Having reached La Storta, we parted ways, but agreed to meet the following day, so we could enter Rome together. Having slept at the convent of Santa Brigida, I soon caught up with my fellow pilgrims, and we started off for Rome. I was glad for their company, not least because Emmanuele had downloaded an alternative route that avoided some of the busier roads. In addition, Franco, a former Mayor and eyeglass salesman, was a choir director, and so led us in cheerful song. Giulio, a very spirited character and retired owner of a cleaning supply company, had lots of jokes and color commentary throughout the day.

By and by, we got deeper into the city, and before I knew it, we were upon a mountain overlooking the historic center, as well as the massive dome of St. Peter's. We took a few celebratory shots, savored the exhilaration and feeling of accomplishment, and scampered downward toward the finish line, stopping only for a quick lunch and coffee. Of course, this is not the end for me as it was for them, but still I considered it the half way point, and obviously a very important landmark.

What a strange and gratifying feeling to walk into the square at St. Peters! As I looked at all those tourists with dull eyes, taking in yet another sight on a long list, I felt so fortunate to have this monument mean so much to me. Together with my fellow pilgrims, we waited in line to enter the Basilica, wandered in awe as Franco filled us in on many of the details, and made way to the Sacristy.

I had mentioned in a previous post that pilgrims carried a stamp booklet or "credential" of their trip. The final stamp, of course, would come from St. Peters, so I joined the three of them to have their credentials stamped, and in the process, had them stamp a postcard I had been given that very morning by the nun at Santa Brigida. So, glad to have received this most precious of keepsakes, I left the church, said my goodbyes to the group, and started the next chapter of my journey.

The place where it all started for me on my first trip to Rome six years ago was Piazza Navona, and it was here I headed first, almost on autopilot. I sat for a good while, incredulous at finally having made it there, drinking in the familiar sights and sounds. Soon after, while still sitting on a bench in the Piazza, I heard from Ester, who came to meet me, and we walked around a bit together. She, through Providence, had found a free place to stay, but they would not answer my calls, so instead we parted, and I found myself at the fascist-era hostel, tired from an exciting and emotionally draining day.

Winemaking, then Sutri to Campagnano

10/2 - Sutri to Campagnano di Roma, 14.24 miles

Okay, I know it has been a while, and I apologize for the delay. More on the reasons for it later. The last time I left off, I had finished working on the farm for 5 days, and had decided to walk for 2 days before coming back for the actual harvest.

Having come back after my two day stint, it was time to complete the harvest. We woke up at 6, and by 7 a group of University students had assembled in the brisk morning to carpool to the vineyard. A sleepy half hour later, we got out of the car, just as the fog was lifting from the vines. And so, without ceremony, we started to snip the grapes into crates, in groups of two.

I said all I wanted to say about this process before, so I will skip ahead here, only recounting our lunch, when we all sat around on crates and passed around a bottle of wine. This ritual, which surely has been closely followed for thousands of years, made me feel very alive, though afterward a little groggy, and certainly lazier.

At the end of the second day, after working 24 hours in two days, I rode back to Viterbo with Giovanni, where we said our goodbyes and I thanked him for having housed and fed me these two days. Since he was from Salerno, further South on my route, I asked him to give me some tips, and went to get my notebook out of my backpack. It wasn't there. Swallowing hard, trying my best to avoid panic, I quickly raced through the events of the past few days, trying to picture the last time I saw it. I realized then that I had left it at the internet cafe 2 nights before, and immediately gave it up for lost. Three months of notes, contacts, stories, thoughts, everything had disappeared in one instant of foolish neglect.

Still, I'm an optimist, so I woke up early the next morning and briskly walked to the place I had left it, as if hurrying that morning would somehow save it. I arrived at 9:15, saw that the place opened at 0:30, and paced around the town of Viterbo for half an hour, all the while trying to exercise a stoic acceptance of the loss. The cafe was still closed at 9:45, so I went back to the apartment, packed up, ate breakfast, said my goodbyes, and resolved to go back once more before moving on with my life. This time it was open, and so I crept in, afraid to ask but determined to know, and before I could finish the question, the lady handed me my precious red journal, unmolested and glorious in its simplicity. I greedily thumbed through the pages, checking here and there for various little inserts, such as the four leaf clover I had received from Diana in Torino, and saw with great satisfaction that nothing was missing. So, showing profound and wide-eyed gratitude to the lady, I triumphantly marched to the bus stop, ready for the next chapter.

The bus took me back to Sutri, my last stopping point, and I was immediately greeted with a nice surprise: a very well-maintained amphitheater dating back to Rome. And the best part? I was the only one in it. For 15 minutes I wandered around this ancient ruin all by myself, hearing in the silence the chants of Roman spectators. There is little I find more thrilling than having a piece of ancient history to myself. I took a number of pictures, then headed back to the road, passing various Etruscan necropoli on my way. Great start to the walk, I thought.

The rest of the walk was dreary in comparison, a particularly ugly stretch of the Via Francigena. I even found myself walking on the shoulder facing two lanes of traffic, and realized that the Via Francigena still has a long way to go. At the same time, I savored the fact that I was catching this trail before it became too commercialized. Always the trade off: do I want the authentic but sometimes disappointing current configuration, or the manicured and well-situated but lacking in soul configuration?

Well, this time I had no choice, so I proceeded down the Cassia to Campagnano di Roma, and directly to the Parochial Church. There I met Ester, a Spanish pilgrim and veteran of the long distance walk. Switching gears back to my now rusty Spanish, I was soon feeling very amateurish once I heard her recount some stories. She had covered the walk from Torino in less than half the time I did, with 12 pounds compared to my 40, walking 20-25 miles a day compared to my 12-17. She had also done the entire walk from Santiago di Compostela in the Northwest of Spain across the country, then across France to Torino, and was now finishing the trail on her third outing. She told me various stories and we compared experiences. I was sad to hear that she had not enjoyed her walk in Italy very much, saying that nobody really went out of their way to help her like they did in France or Spain. I was surprised at this, and wondered how it was possible that two people doing such a similar type of trip could have such different experiences.

Almost as if to contradict her bold statement, a member of the church soon appeared with her dinner, piping hot and complete with fruit for dessert. Since he had not known of my arrival and had therefore not brought any for me, Ester graciously offered to share, adding food from her pack to make a full dinner. While we ate, she discussed her encounter with a term that has been lingering behind most of my stories, but which I had not yet fully grasped. This was the timely and consistent appearance of Providence for us walkers. How true her words, I thought. Every time I have needed shelter, food, a kind word, inspiration, and the safekeeping of my journal at a sketchy call center for three days, Providence has quietly taken care of everything for me. It seems that Ester was a bit more comfortable than I am to lean on it, but that did not detract from the profundity of her observation.

PHOTOS!!

OK, with 12 posts in 9 days, I think everyone will agree that I delivered on the "flurry of posts," as I had promised in my 9/22 blog post.

Though I am not quite caught up to my current position, I have taken some big strides, and hope to be current within the next week or two.

In the meantime, here are all the photos from Siena to Sutri, a total of eleven albums. It is a shame that I took so long to put all of these on the web, as each album deserves a good look. Tuscany was absolutely beautiful, and the North of Lazio was no slouch either. Anyways, there is enough reading material newly posted to last everyone a while, and while you're reading, I urge you to open up these albums (for the posts uploaded today, the link is conveniently placed at the top of the post), so you can see more than the four or five teaser shots I usually attach to each post.

All is well here with me, as I wrap up 2 wonderful weeks in Rome. While many of the little stories and discoveries of this period will go untold, you may rest assured that I have made the most of my time here, and hope to return in the very near future.

So, without further ado, here are the albums.

Love,
Pat

Tuscany
Siena
The Sienese Hills
Montalcino and Abbadia Sant'Antimo
Walk to Abbadia San Salvatore

Lazio
Abbadia San Salvatore to Acquapendente
Acquapendente to Orvieto to Bolsena
Bolsena to Montefiascone
Viterbo
Castiglione in Teverina, Civita di Bagnoregio, Tuscania, and the pizza party
Vetralla and Sutri -
Back to Castiglione in Teverina for the Wine Harvest