I Finished!*

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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.