Random and Redux

Not a great sense of English language syntax, but nice pathos.  Graffito on an U-4 platform.

Poor Stormy, uncertain as to what love is.  And what of our red-pen writer, who is obviously distraught over Stormy's lack of certainty?  Having returned home to Wien, I find myself riding the U-Bahn again, that most marvelous of conveyances.   When I am alone on the U-Bahn, I begin to feel that I am one of Wim Wender's angels in "Wings of Desire."  I do not believe I would be surprised if the world suddenly shifted to black-and-white.  Snippets of conversation float through my brain, Deutsche, Turkish, Russian, even English.  I focus on one thread of human sound and then let go that tendril and focus on the next.  I am a ghost, an aural voyeur.  

Of course, when "Wings of Desire" was made, people were not sitting around on the U-6 while their souls were sucked from their bodies by small hand-held devices.  The great evolution of "Yell" phones does mean that there are the occasional very high volume one-way conversations that crash over everything and everyone else.  I enjoy trying to recreate the unheard portion of the conversation:  "Yes, Stormy, I am leaving you.  You do not know what love it."

I love the U-6.  It is even more fun to say so because the U-6 is not every Wiener's favorite line.  It runs from Siebenhirten in the south of Wien all the way to Floridsdorf on the far side of the Donau.  Some people disparage the U-6 because it connects two far-flung and not so well off districts with the center of the city.  The U-4 is sometimes painted with the same brush.  Alas for these poor detractors, for the U-6 and U-4 are my favorite U-Bahn lines.  I never ride the U-1 or the U-2 as they wander off into the hinterlands of the east and north.  The U-3 is the line that gives me the chappy-ass with it's always packed trains full of snooty shoppers, tourists and tired working musicians on their way to yet another Mozart gig for said tourists.  Bah!  A pox on the U-3.  I would rather walk.  As for the U-5, well, it is imaginary.  Somehow in the One-to-Six numbering system, the poor #5 got skipped.  It does not exist.

And wait, what is this.......?  (Cue time travel music)  Suddenly we aren't in Wien anymore, Toto.

As I was sorting through the photos from Napoli, I came across two that had been misplaced amongst the pizza crusts and gelatti drippings.  So please allow me this small redux.

This is the Napoli Math Guy.  He sits in the sun on via Benedetto Croce, waiting to solve the most insoluble mathematical conundrums.  Without any device.  For a small fee.  The cruise ship tours mostly walk by without much of a glance, since the Math Guy is not an old church.

I'll close with this one, a photo from a bookstall in the Storico.  If the pairing was meant to catch one's attention, it certainly worked in my case.  I glanced over as I walked past, did a double take, and was sucked back to the stall like a magnetic tractor beam had a lock on my ass.  Having read both books, the pairing was even more resonant.  I will leave any conclusions to the reader's imagination.

Next up in The Rev's Blogland:  A Guide to the Pissoirs of Wien!  Until then, Ciao for Now.

Where They Know Your Name

 Cigarstore Hazar, 42 Margarettenstrasse 42, Wien

The long-running sitcom "Cheers" was loosely based on the premise that human beings want and need a gathering place, somewhere other than our own home, a place to go "where everyone knows your name."  It can be a cafe', a barbershop, a beauty parlor or a bench on the town square.  Take, for example, any early morning establishment that serves breakfast.   For a few mornings, find yourself a spot at the counter.  I would lay good money that you will very quickly be able to spot the regulars, the table that hosts the same group of folks every morning.  Keep coming too many mornings and you will probably find yourself invited to that table.  It could become "your place."

I'm a cigar smoker.  I know that may come as a shock to some of you, but the truth will out.  Now that I'm officially out of the closet, I can tell you another small truth:  cigars are better when shared with other cigar smokers.  Sort of how I remember that drinking with friends was a lot better than drinking alone.   Another small truth:  I never cared that much if I had to drink alone, as long as I could drink.  But that's yet another story.

And yet one more small truth:  as much as I love to travel, as much as I love my life in Wien, the one thing I miss the most is the camaraderie of my very special circle of Brothers in Seattle.   At least two nights per week, and often more, some part of the Brotherhood would gather for conversation and cigars.  I have very much felt the lack of their company as I putter away at the laptop, solo smoking a fine cigar in my little Garten (yes, Garten). 

There comes a time where one can sit on one's dead ass and moan about the state of affairs or one can seize the goddamn day and strike a blow.  I prefer to reserve my moaning for other activities, so it was with a spring in my step that I set out for Cigarstore Hazar near the Alte Stadt of Wien.  I had been to this fine establishment prior and noticed the small smoking area out front.  As a worst case, I would be smoking alone but with a change of scenery. 

So it was that I found myself whisked along on the U-6 to Langenfeldgasse and thence to the U-4 and Kettenbruckegasse.  After a brief walk I was once more in the thick moist air of the humidor at the back of Hazar's.  With me in the humidor was Herr Ercan Hazar himself, a true cigar aficionado and gentleman.  With a handful of Cubanos and time on my hands, I took a seat at the small table in front of the store.  Alone again, but at least the street was lively and the sun was shining.  

A Partagas 898 and Margarettengasse

My solitude was short-lived.  Very soon the other chairs began to fill and then there were six of us enjoying the afternoon.  Now the solitary herf had turning into a language session as I struggled to keep up with even the context of the conversation.  For the most part, everyone took mercy on me and slowed their Deutsche Sprache down enough to at least give me a fighting chance.  What a glorious afternoon!  Not only could I while away a perfectly good afternoon doing absolutely nothing, I could claim that I was practicing my German as well.  

Yours Truly looking back at himself.

I was back to Hazar's today and enjoyed myself very much.  I am not a stranger there now, nor am I one of the regulars.  But I know a few people by name and I do my best to be a decent addition to the table.  The summer is just beginning here in Wien, so there are many more days where smoking away a warm afternoon will be a sensible pursuit.  Hell, I'm a writer, this is what I'm supposed to be doing anyway.  It's not like I sit in an office all day and work on spreadsheets.  Here is where the author breaks the wall and looks into the reader's eyes... Oh damn, double-damn, I wish my ex-bosses were reading this.  Live well and live large.  It is the best and sweetest revenge!!

If I am trying to find a place where a few people know my name, a place where I am welcome, a place that basic human instinct dictates I find, can you blame me?  It is good to walk up to the table, smile, shake hands, and then settle in for a spell.  It is good to know and be known.  And besides that Brothers and Sisters, it beats smoking alone.

Finis Italia

My finest photo from Napoli and my last for now.

We journeyed back to Napoli on a Sunday.  A word to the wise, mind your buses once you get south of Salerno.  Transport tends to slow down and bus schedules become nebulous.   Our friend at the tourist kiosk in San Marco, a remarkably tiny and lonely office, actually phoned another friend who was a bus driver.  She said it was the only way to find out the real bus departure times.  It was a good thing we asked as there were only three north-bound buses the entire day.

Past the scenic countryside, past the less than scenic light industrial and farming area south of Salerno, our empty bus wound its way into the sprawl of the port city.  Along the way we had a nice view of the ancient Greek ruins at Paestum.  If you wanted to get your ancient ruins fix and did not want to fight the crowds at Pompeii, this might be your spot.

De-bussing in now-familiar Salerno, we strolled to the station, bought our tickets to Napoli and grabbed a bite of street food.  Napoli cried for us on our arrival as we splashed our way home to our favorite B&B in the Centro Storico.  I derive a great joy from retreading my steps through some labyrinthine city and knowing where I'm going.  The Alfama in Lisboa, Chinatown in Bangkok, these are places that defy even the best sense of direction.  Being able to walk a maze of tiny lanes, stairs and alleys, and the still arrive at some known destination, is one of my secret pleasures.  Now I can add Napoli to that list.  I will still get lost in these places, sure, but that's one of the other joys, yes?

Dinner was a wandering multi-course affair, up and down the wet passageways, picking out street food that called to us.  The last course was lightly fried whole anchovies in a paper cone.  Unbelievable salty fried fishy goodness.  I may live a day less because of them, but they were worth it.

This last night in Napoli I watched the street scene from our balcony, listening to the babble echo off the stone walls.  And so another journey draws to a close.  

On reflection, here is what I took away from this trip to Southern Italy.

First, we really didn't travel to Southern Italy.  To say that would be hubris.  We wandered between Napoli and San Marco on the Mediterranean coast of Southern Italy.  Napoli is an amazing and wonderful city.  I have to give a tip o' the lid to my pal Brenton at Broadway Cigar for waxing eloquent on the city's virtues.  Barcelona or Napoli?  An even tougher choice now, my friend.  We can debate it when next we meet.

Napoli is loud and dirty and crazy and wonderful.  It is a walking city, a place to immerse oneself.  It is a city of tastes and smells, not all of them good, but intense and fascinating.  The food and coffee and gelato are something that simply has to be experienced by any foodie oriented traveler.  To eat badly in Napoli is a a sign of derangement.  If you prefer clean, neat and orderly, Napoli may not be your cup of tea.  Perhaps Sorrento, on down the coast, would be more to your liking.  I say "Napoli!" and I am learning to wave my hands when I do so.  Go.

The Amalfi Coast is a jewel, a walkers paradise, a place where it truly is possible to disappear from the maddening crowds as long as one doesn't actually stay in Amalfi Town.  The hospitality that we experienced along the coast was warm and genuine.  The scenery and vistas will stop the progress of the most determined trekker.  Go, take your walking shoes and go.

South of Salerno the stream of tourists becomes a trickle.  In the shoulder season of May you will have much of the accommodations and trattorias to yourself.  In fact, during the midweek days you may have to do some exploring to find a place to eat or drink that is open for business.  When you do find your spot, odds are that your fellow diners or coffee habitues will be local folks.  Enjoy.  You may have to work a little harder at reservations, transport and the like.  This is the entry price for venturing out.  There are great rewards.  

In addition to the magic of discovering a new region, I return to Vienna with a special gift from a rainy rooftop in the tiny village of San Marco.  My Heart, the finest traveling companion any man could ask for, has agreed to embark on an even greater journey.  The world is truly our oyster and our playground.  And I, I am the luckiest man in it.

From Wien, Ciao for now.

Rains and Rest

The special Madonna would arrive on this rainy Saturday, to be ensconced in the Neo-Romanesque churh off of the lovely piazza.  The rains also gave us a fine excuse for a lazy day, which we took full advantage of.

I lounged around on the rooftop terrace, watching the rain squalls fall over the harbor while reading my book and smoking the occasional cigar. 

My Heart joined me on the rooftop and we sheltered together.  Without an appropriately sized alternative, I had to use my Grandfather's gold ring to ask her the question.  She accepted the overlarge gold ring as a token until I could do the proper ring shopping back home in Wien.  And so life changes for the better.

The first evening of our engagement was spent on the balcony of a trattoria overlooking the piazza.  During a slow and leisurely dinner, what seemed like the entire town turning out for the church event.  San Marco was a new place, transformed with activity.  The celebratory mass was played over loudspeakers for those folks still in the piazza.  Finally, the Madonna was carried into the little church and all was well. 

We finished our evening hanging out with the local pizze crowd and retired.  On the morrow we would journey back to Napoli.  Some days are like this one:  nothing really happens, and then everything does.

Cilento Walkabout

It was a warm and cloudy morning as we set off for walkabout on the Cilento coast.  Here one abandons all hope of signs, tourist routes or seeing many other people.  Any people for that matter.  We climbed the hill out of San Marco, looking down on the lovely little harbor and its fishing boats bobbing at anchor.  A narrow gravel road led south down the coast.  The road wound beneath the hamlets of Licosa Terzza, Licosa Prima and Licosa Seconda.  Believe me, to rate a name like Licosa Seconda a town has to be tiny.  Three houses and goat, more or less.  Along the way we found our perfect stone house, the ideal hideaway on this very hidden section of the Italian coast.  If I ever need a retreat to write a gargantuan novel, this would be it.  During the whole of the morning we met not a soul.

The way ran down to Ponte Licosa with its seemingly abandoned marina and a tiny lighthouse.  The day was warming, the sea was gentle, and I munched wild nasturtiums that tumbled en masse across the stone walls along the lane.  Yummy peppery goodness.  We could have harvested a salad as we walked.  Olive groves reached up the hill and fig trees overhung the path from behind crumbling stone walls.   To call this a peaceful walk would be the wildest of understatements.

Of course there are ruins.  The countryside is covered with them, ancient and not so.

We veered off the roadway to a proper path running along the sea.  Strolling on the dense carpet of pine trees along the rocky coast was a delight.  After a long walk south, we emerged from the woods to find the empty seaside resort of Ogliastro Marina.  Perhaps there are visitors here later in the season, but we were the only diners at a seaside trattoria.  The owner seemed very surprised to see us.  It was decided that the lunch possibilities included salad and calamari or salad and calamari.   We opted for his recommendation.

We circled inland, intent on finding a route over the steep hills of the Cilento coast that might lead back to San Marco.  The wildflowers were riot on the open slopes.  The sun appeared and the day grew warm.  There were twists and turns, backtracking and dead ends.  Finally we decided on a gravel road that led steeply up through the olive groves.  It proved to be a good choice.

During the course of the day, we had seen the earth uprooted around the base of some of the olive trees.  I guessed that it must be the work of wild pigs.  As we climbed up the sun-baked trail, my suspicions were confirmed.  There was a crashing in the brush and a family of wild porkers burst across the grove, dashing away from us while grunting their displeasure at being disturbed.  It was glorious.

Sweaty and happy, we gained the summit of the hill.  Walking the ridge afforded wide views of the countryside, a landscape of storybooks.  Here is a video from the top:

Cilento Summit Walkabout

The views were stunning, we had the world to ourselves, and I could not imagine anywhere else in the world I would want to be.

 

At the very summit, before the path plunged back down the hill, we found an abandoned overlook complete with picnic tables and shade trees.  It was the ideal lunch spot to while away the afternoon with a meal of local fruit, baked snacks and a good cigar.  What a day!  Tuscany?  I don't think so.  Give me the sleepy south of Italy.  

Santa Maria, San Marco and Castelabate were all in view form our lunchtime haven.  When we finally decided to move on, the rough road dropped precipitously down the ridge to San Marco.  Tired and happy, we made our way to our lovely room with a view overlooking the sea.  

Nothing much happens here.  There is nothing much to do.  People are warm and friendly.  The countryside is sublime and the resorts, such as they are, are empty.  This is the Cilento coast in May.  I am sure it is a different place in the high season, but during these days it is a retreat from the world.

Amazing.

San Marco

Head south out of Salerno and things start slowing down.  Scattered across the fertile coastal plain you will see signs for shops selling mozzarella di bufala, the mozzarella of the water buffalo.  The flat land continues as the train rolls across the fields to Paestum, with its Greek ruins dating back to 650 BC.  Beyond Paestum is the sleepy little beach town of Agropoli, the last train stop along the coast before the tracks veer inland to the next group of mountains that rear up along the coast of the Mediterranean.  This is the Cilento Coast, an even sleepier section of southern Italy that may become the next big tourist area.  Our destination was San Marco, a small village with no beach to speak of, only a small fishing harbor where the catch of the day is available off the back of a boat.

The harbor of San Marco, complete with the harbor-side Spa resort which contained the handful of tourists in the town, all of whom seemed to be Deutsch.

From Minori, our Amalfi coast hideout, it was a local public bus (3.60 Euro for two) into the Salerno center and a short walk to the now familiar train station.  The train tickets from Salerno to Agropoli, about an hour south, were spit out of the automated billette for less than 4 Euro each.   Reinforced with and espresso and cappuccino, we found ourselves rolling across the aforementioned fields.

We alit from our train in very, very sleepy Agropoli and tried for the bus stop.  We had a few conversations with local folks, all in Italian, which meant that they were a bit one-sided.  With help from our friends, we found the bus stop.  Several bus drivers confirmed that this was the correct stop and also that they were not driving the correct bus.   Total wait time was about an hour.  We were finally rolling up and over the twisty coastal road, past Santa Maria, Castelabatta perched on its hilltop, and finally the little crossroads above San Marco.  The only possible street into San Marco proper led directly to the front door of our hotel, situated on the tiny piazza.

Hotel Antoinetta, our new digs.

A room with a view, in this case of the quiet courtyards and the sea.  Quiet does not even begin to describe San Marco, a town where almost everything closes between 1:30 in the afternoon until about 4:30 or 5 in the evening.  Here, one has to hunt for espresso or a place to eat.  During the week the town slumbers and tourists are a true rarity.  On the weekends, things liven up a bit, but it's mostly locals.  Our hosts told us that the Italians tourists don't arrive until early June.  Arriving in Cilento feels like the stepping through the doorway to the real south of Italy.  

We settled into our new digs, wandered the town, and discovered the kiosk bar tucked down by the harbor.  This is the owner's beautiful little Fiat, the cutest car imaginable.  

There is nothing to do in San Marco, nothing to see, and not much to hear.  It is quiet, sleepy and wonderful.  Tomorrow we hike the Cilento coast south from San Marco.

Pompeii -- A lesson in "To Tour or Not to Tour"

 Into every journey the inevitable quandary will arise:  To tour or not to tour?  In this case, the destination was Pompeii, the ancient city that was buried under the wrath and ash of the volcano Vesuvius.  Pompeii is world famous.  Forget solitude, forget trodding the ancient paths in silent wonder of the ages gone by.  Think cruise ships disgorging thousands of camera clutching couples bent on a day of culture, bused in by the hordes.  But we too wanted to see our slice of history.  What to do?

Every hotel offers a tour to the ruins.  For a mere 35 Euro each, we could have transport, a guide, and no worries.  The total for the trip would be 70 Euro for the tour and 26 Euro for the entrance fees.  Simple, no?  Did we choose to to do that?  No, we did not.  And in a Mea Cupla, I must admit that this was not my best day as a traveler.  So it goes.

For a mere 1.80 Euro each, we caught the local bus to Salerno, a busy port city to the south of the Amafli coast.  A muni train to Pompeii was another whopping 2 Euro each.  So far so good.  Who needs tours anyway.  Pesky things.  The muni train was a delight, skirting the mountains that block the Amalfi coast from everything else.  We arrived in the little town and, after a few twists and turns, found ourselves on a street awash in souvenir stands.  This must be the place.  Next, we were waylaid by a perky "guide" offering us free directions, a free map, and a not so free audio guide.  I was now experiencing the first of my grumpy attacks.  Too many people, the usual tourist site scams.  Meh!  I have met the enemy and he is me. 

After grumbling that the audio guides would surely be available cheaper at the main gate (they weren't) and that we had been scammed (we hadn't) we made our way to the far entrance and began our explorations of the famous ancient city.

Pompeii had been a thriving city centuries before the Roman empire claimed it as a province.  Greeks were here, then the Osci, then the Etruscans who were overcome by the nasty Samnites.  All of these folks lived and traded and built here before the Romans.  As Rome transformed from the Republic to the Empire, she extended her territory, finally subduing the warlike Samnites who controlled Pompeii.  Thereafter, until the fatal day, Pompeii was a Roman town.  Set on a navigable river that linked it to the Golfo di Napoli, this was a thriving trading hub.  Then it wasn't anything.

In 79 AD Vesuvius exploded, burying the lowlands around it in a cloud of ash, mud and poisonous gases.  Almost everyone died.  Ten years prior to the deadly event, there had been a massive earthquake that destroyed much of Pompeii.  The citizens ignored this warning and rebuilt the town on a lavish scale.  Many sites were still being rebuilt when the fateful eruption fell upon them.  I bet that made them grumpy.  I was grumpy too.

Yes, it happens.  The narrow cobbled streets of the ruins were dotted with tour groups desperately trying to follow the little flags that their guides were waving.  Worse, there was construction fencing everywhere as the good curators used millions of Euros to make Pompeii wheelchair accessible, this thanks to a giant donation form the European Union.  Grumble, grumble grumble.

Despite my inane desires to have the place to myself (what impudence!) Pompeii is indeed a wonder.  Look beyond the crowds and the construction and there are marvels at every turn.  Taverns, temples, granaries and mosaic-adorned villas all crammed along the tiny streets laid out in a perfect grid.  My Heart laughed at my grumpiness and enjoyed the sites.  I did my best, alternating between the astonishment of walking those ancient stones and carping about dodging the camera wielding throngs.  Truly, it wsn't that bad.  I can only imagine what a hell this could be on a high-season weekend.

Then there were the bodies.  At the end of the walk we came to the areas where the ash-encrusted bodies are stored, frozen in various postures of death and disbelief.  Most of the inhabitants died from breathing the poison gases that belched from Vesuvius that day.  Some died in what looks like an attempt to seek shelter, others clutching jars of coins, still others in what looks like repose.  But they all died.  The city was never rebuilt.  There were a few attempts to salvage the marble and statues, then the remains of the city were left to memory.  Even that faded over time.  The city was rediscovered by the Spanish around 1738.  Excavations have continued since that time.  The ruins have been a tourist attraction since the 1700's and have remained a key stop on the Grand Tour of Italy.

 We exited the Necropolis, the city of the dead, and found ourselves back amongst the souvenir stands of the living.  Free of our audio guides and rejuvenated with pastry and espressi, we walked back to our little muni train and began the journey home to Minori.

To tour or not to tour?  I will leave that to you.  For me, well, not my finest day as I said.  I doubt it would have been better with a group.  I admit to becoming jaded with ruins, temples and old churches.  After a week of wandering the wonders of Angkor Way on a crappy bicycle, I tend to use that as a measuring stick for other experiences.  It is a dangerous practice at best.  By all means, go to Pompeii.  It is not to be missed.  And do try to leave my grumpiness behind when you go.  I feel a need for an obligatory shout out to my Beloved Heart, who put up with me throughout the day.  Thanks Baby!  I will try to do better the next time.

Valley of the Lemons

Walk away from the beach through the small village of Minori and one will quickly find out what else drives the economy besides tourism.  Lemons are the main crop here, as they have been for centuries.  Tucked up at the top of the town away from the beaches and Trattoria we found this lemon packing plant.  Here is where the little Tonka Toy trucks arrive bearing crates of loose lemons.  The fat yellow fruit are packed, boxed and palletized, ready for shipment to the cities.

There would be no beach walks today, no crowds of ogling tourists.  We were heading out on a long walk up the valley behind Minori, following a little river high up to its source in the mountains behind this seacoast town.  We climbed up the tiny main road out of town to where it began to to turn back on itself and die out.  Very suddenly I felt myself as if on the set of an old Wim Wenders movie.  The hulk of some decrepit old mill blocked our way.  The building was at least two hundred years old, long since abandoned for its original purpose.  Now it seemed to be a squatters camp, complete with chicken coops, goats, and horses stabled against tumbling stone walls.  A young Italian guy slipped out from behind a wall, leading an unsaddled horse.  Without a word, he vaulted onto the horse and rode past us.  Unhindered and unaided, we found the trail hidden behind the old mill building.  We threaded our way through the camp and began to climb along the creek, quickly disappearing into groves of lemons on a hot spring morning awash in the heavy scent of wildflowers.  

The trail wound ever up the valley, past more lemon groves and the remnants of villas long abandoned.  The way alternated between stairs, long sections of gravel and dirt paths, and flagstoned walkways.  Our route was lined with star jasmine, wild orchids, and many wildflowers we could not identify.  It was a riot of color and aroma.  And not a soul on the trail.  We met one Italian woman on the way up the valley, exchanged greetings and avoided her three annoying little dogs.

The trail doubled back on itself at a tiny hamlet nestled into the upper folds of the valley.  We refilled our water bottles at one of the public spigots set into a stone wall, a lovely convenience.  From this small collection of houses hung from the hillside, we crossed the creek and thence a saddle at the top of the climb.  From here the walk led over the next ridge, climbing to a Convent on a rock outcropping overlooking the sea.  But we had kilometers to go and things to discover.

  There seem to be two lizards for every stone step.  They skitter everywhere, including over your feet and hands as they try to dash away.  Not the brightest of creatures, but very fun to watch.

Along the trail to the Convent, we began to see tiny ruins scattered on the hillside above us.  I investigated and discovered what appeared to be monastic cells, single room dwellings for monks or nuns.  As we continued, we found the ruins of a monastery or convent at the intersection of two trails.  It was a wonderful spot for a break, so we wandered about, exploring the ruins.

Yours Truly lounging about on the ancient walls.

Here is a link to a video I shot while goofing off:

Amalfi Ruins

The trail wandered along the ridge and climbed to the promised Convent.  There we found a small group of very sweaty Brits, hiding from the sun.  The Convent was less interesting than the ruins, so we left it to the Brits and continued on our way.  The trail wound down the ridge and broke into the open, gifting us views of the coast.  Below us was Maiori, the next village down from ours.  Larger and busier than Minori, it is still a charming place.

From here the trail became steep steps, descending with a vengeance.  We dropped through tiny hamlets hung over the sea, independent villages that date back to the 11th century and are still accessible only by stone stairs.  The old folks here must have the constitution of mountain goats.   We plunged our way back down to Minori, thighs and calves burning from applying the brakes.  

Hiking the Amalfi coast is hungry work.  We finished off the afternoon with a late lunch of salad and Saltimbocca, a pizze folded in half and cut like a quesadilla.  Just the thing for replenishing those lost calories.  Then it was off to the balcony to enjoy a good cigar and watch the crazy motocilisti race up the coast road.

Another magical day on the Amafli Coast of Southern Italy.  Today was a fine reminder that if a traveler is willing to make use of his legs and expend some effort, solitude and wonder can be found, even amidst this busy tourist destination. 

The Stairs to Ravello

Travelers and writers have been gushing over the Amalfi coast for more than a century.  I don't flatter myself that I will add any new insights to their torrent, but perhaps, perhaps.   Tourists have frequented the Amafli coast since the mule and cart road was built circa 1865.  My first bit of important information is that the road has not improved much since then.  Traffic, however, has increased dramatically, including the addition of lots of buses.  I am sure the road was a pleasant albeit dusty trip in the 1800's.  It is still a very scenic route, one of the most spectacular coasts roads in the world in fact.  So, here is the first of our helpful hints:  Do not drive the Amalfi Coast Road.   You may ask: Why Not?  And I would answer thusly:

May is still the off-season in this part of Italy.  Regardless, the normal load of traffic on the coast road is far more than it can bear, what with buses, rental cars, locals, motociclisti and scooter maniacs all vying for space at the next hairpin turn.  And there are many, many hairpin turns.  Below the hairpin turns are sheer 500 foot drops to a pristine azure sea and very pointy rocks.  I cannot imagine what it is like in the high season.

Point One:  Leave the driving to someone else.  The bus ride will be more than exciting enough.  Really.  The public bus from Salerno is a mere 2.20 Euro.  Nothing in Disneyland comes close.

Before the cart track was built, folks could only get here via boat.  They still come by boat, thousands of them at a time, disembarking from the cruise ships for a few hours.  That brings us to...

Point Two:  The Cruise ships only dock in the port of Amalfi.  That is, in the actual town named Amalfi.  Cruise ships with lots, and lots of tourists.  There are a lovely string of very cool and charming villages scattered along the coast, all of them linked by cheap public buses and free but strenuous trails (more on that in a bit).  So, given the above, choose your accommodations with care.  Oh, the town of Amalfi and its posh uphill cousin, Ravello, are the most expensive on the coast. 

Point three should seem obvious:  Don't travel here in the high season.  It gets very, very hot.  It gets very, very expensive.  It gets very, very crowded.

But today, it is not the high season.  Today, we are walking up, up, up, out of the amazing village of Minori, climbing the thousands of stairs that go up (and down!) to Ravello.  To enjoy hiking here is to embrace the climbing of ancient stairs.  I can tell you, without exaggeration or hyperbole, that you will be trodding flagstones laid down many generations before you were born.  Many of the paths are centuries old.  Hiking the Amalfi coast is a magical experience of threading the labyrinth of history, charm and incredible scenic beauty.  And you are going to have to work for it.

Ravello is up there.  Minori is down here.  Terraced into the hillsides are the lemon groves which yield the most important crop on the coast.  During parts of their growing cycle, the lemon trees are covered with the green fabric that you see draped across the terraces.

It is a very steep landscape, all mountains, valleys and seacoast.  The Amafli is cut off from the north by mountains that block access to the Gulfo di Napoli.  To the south is the Gulfo di Salerno.  Everywhere else there are very steep hills, rocks and stairs.  And vistas, amazing vistas, the kind of views that incite dreams of selling everything to raise money to buy a tiny stone hut on a terraced lemon grove.  Get a grip Byron, the madness will pass.  Keep walking.  

Culture shock.  What else does one need after a hard stair climb?

Thousands of stairs later, high above the jeweled sea, lies the cultural and pretentious little village of Ravello.  Very expensive shops and restaurants, tourists who arrived here via taxi or bus, and a very, very impressive concert season with venues scattered amongst the to-die-for villas make up the offerings for the tourists.  This is the spot for the well-heeled traveler, the posh, the folks who flock to Chang Mai in northern Thailand.  From spa to yoga retreat to classical music, it's all here.  And, in fairness, it is very, very beautiful.  

One of the many vistas from the village of Ravello

Let us suppose that you have tired of the shopping scene of Ravello and wish to journey on.  Back onto the trail of stairs and, I assure you, the tourists disappear.  An even steeper section of stairs, rough and broken in places, drops down to the town of Amalfi.  We trod the flagstones, knowing that we would be climbing part of this on the way back to Minori.  Ah well, in for a cent, in for a Euro.

The drop to Amalfi and the craziness of the coast road.

The villages of the Amalfi coast are quiet during the off-season, slow and sedate.  Amalfi itself is much busier.  We spent an hour or two watching the people and restoring ourselves with a strict regimen of gelati consumption.  When we had had enough (the town is splendid, not to be missed, and very popular) we began pioneering our own route back to Minori, ignoring the tourist map that suggested we climb back to Ravello.

The quiet rewards of the simple paths will be evident as one walks by.

The further village of Maiori lies below us, while Minori is hidden beneath the dropoff.  Vistas open and close without warning, taking ones breath away.

A typical walk approaching one of the hillside hamlets.  Besides the runing of electricity, nothing much has changed here.  

Here is a little video of one of the small hamlet along the way:

Amalfi Coast Hamlet 

One day of climbing the Amalfi coast and I was hooked.  A hiker can pop into a bustling town, enjoy or not, and disappear with a few steps.  I can assure you that the off-season will yield solitude should you seek it.  The climbs are strenous and well worth it.  One day of walking will convince you that there is a lot here to gush about.

Ciao for now!

Time Vortex

San Marco, southern Italy

Like everything else here, the wifi is very slow, so slow I am unable to post any photos. Life here revolves around breakfasts of pastry and Espressi, long walks, and evening cigars down at the little harbor.

I will catch the blog up when I can.

Ciao for now!
Marco

Amalfi Images II

The two most important industries on the Amalfi coast are tourism and lemons.  We were doing our part with the first and the locals have been busy for a millennium with the second.  Every possible square meter of the steep hillsides are terraced for lemon trees.  The heavy yellow fruit hands gleaming under the bright sun.  Whole orchards are netted with black fabric to protect the fruit.  This is big business.  Besides the huge amount of export, the lemons make a big contribution to the local cuisine, which sports lemon sauced fish, lemon chocolate, lemon you name it.  The majority of these lemon orchards are accessible only by means of ancient stairways that are steep enough to induce nosebleeds.  I know whereof I speak because we have spent the last two days tramping over literally thousands and thousands of stairs as we hiked the paradise of the hills above the coast.  More on that in a detailed future entry.

Looking south down the coast one can see the town of Salerno in the distance.  Below is on of the first villages along the coast.  

Whew!  Finally, I have been able to at least get the blog moved along to the location that we are currently in.  More about hiking the coast when the blood returns to my fingers.  Now I need to relax on the balcony and watch the motto parade.  Well fed and relaxed after a long steep day of hiking, I have to rest up a bit for our excursion to Pompeii on the morrow.  Ciao for Now!

Amalfi Coast Bus Ride

The Amalfi coast is an amazingly rugged place where the mountains drop into an azure sea.  Even more amazing is the insanity of driving up the road that hugs the cliffs and rocks.  Before the road was built in the 1860's, the small towns of the coast were only accessible via boat or the trails consisting of thousands of stairs carved out of rock or laid with ancient volcanic flagstones.  The trails are still very much a part of life here, but more of those later.

Our bus careened around the many, many hairpin turns, rolling the passengers from side to side.  Many of the turns are so narrow that cars are forced to back up to allow the bus to clear the turn.  Mix this logistical challenge with Saturday traffic, day trippers, buses, delivery trucks, and a horde of motociclisti weaving through the heavy traffic and you get an idea of the chaos amidst the beauty.  And all of this for 2.20 Euro per person. 

One of the tiny villages hugging the coast while the mountains rise out of the sea.

Onwards to the Amalfi Coast

It was backpacks on and a warm walk through the teeming streets of Napoli.  We navigated without fail to the Central Station, the modern train hub of Napoli.  From here, the fast trains head north to Rome and onwards, carrying tourists to the Big Three, Roma, Venice and Florence.  Not nearly as many folks make it to southern Italy and those that do often make it no further than Naples, Sorrento or the island of Capri.  Today we were heading further south, first via train to Salerno and then, via public bus, back north along the Amalfi coast to the little town of Minori.

We drew the fancy train, air-conditioned, fold down trays, the works.  It was a thirty minute ride to Salerno, heading just north of Vesuvius, the volcano that made Pottery Barn figurines out of the Roman inhabitants of Pompeii.  The ride was super plush and comfortable, the train was on time, and the toll was 14 Euro each one way.  

Salerno is a laid back town on the south side of the mountainous peninsula that makes up the southern sweep of  the Neapolitan bay.  We had some quality cafe' time while waiting for our local bus.  Adding to the spice of people watching was a large wedding party complete with wonderfully ornate costumes.  It was a sort of Victorian Goth meets steam-affair, with top hats, cutaway coats and antique railroading goggles.  Quite a treat to watch while sipping an espresso at the comfortable street side tables.  Then it was time to board our local for the jaunt up the Amalfi coast.

The view from the inside of the bus.  I will post images of the coast in the next entry.  The only casualty of the ride was the guy sitting behind us.  The poor tourist got slammed in the head when someone else's bag fell from the overhead rack.  I think it really rang his bell.  

An hour of hair-pin turns negotiated by a full size bus and we were deposited in the tiny town of Minori on the rocky shores of the Mediterranean.  All travel days should be this easy.