One of my friends always used to say, "Life is made up of peaks and valleys. And you never know when either one is going to hit." If Sunday was a peak, then Monday was a valley.
I don't know if it was talking to people back home or my body recovering from Sundays festivities, but Monday comes with a black cloud and a really crappy feeling. Maria notices something is wrong and we talk about this and that while prepping house for the 13 guests we'll be having tonight for a dinner party. She puts on music she thinks will get me in a better mood and I set off to clean up parts of the house inside and out. It's a nice day out, so Maria is hoping the sunshine will perk me up - "You look very pale this morning," and sends me outside.
By the afternoon things aren't improving and I decide I need to get out of the house and walk around. I've been here a week and haven't left the house more than twice, and both times with Maria and Keith. In Italy, cars have to be insured, not the driver, and since I can drive manual, Keith lets me know that I can take the car at anytime.
After I've put in my hours for the day, I take the little Panda (think oversized SmartCar)into town and park in the main square. Driving around is so narrow, but so fun, I start to lighten up a bit. Unlike the last time I drove in this country over a year ago, there are no time trials of how fast I can get somewhere. This time I'm just aiming for safety and no scratches on their car.
Everyone that has met me here so far says I don't look American and that I must have some Italian in my heritage. You wouldn't know it by the looks I get walking around town. With a small population, everyone knows everyone and whoever this girl is walking around is not someone they know. I take a few pictures, realize I'm in freaking Italy and perk myself up. After successfully navigating my way back to the house, being careful to honk when going around any blind hair pin turns (these are one lane roads and two cars don't exactly fit so you need to make your upcoming presence known), I feel a bit more like myself. Which is needed, because guests will be arriving in less than two hours.
The theme for the night is Mexican. Maria likes to change it up every so often and do something different. Tonight will be totally different from last night, with mostly friends, no family. To go along with the Mexican theme, they have asked me to make margaritas. Being from Texas and so close to Mexico, I should be an expert. Well, it just so happens I do know quite a good recipe from a friend and I commence making Phrogaritas (a name my friends back in Texas know well). Made only with tequila, Cointreau, lime juice and orange juice, it's a rather strong drink. Salting the rims of glasses in these parts isn't exactly the norm, but I do a few anyway, hoping people will be somewhat adventurous. Not quite.
Several things go wrong with the night. As Italians sometimes do, the guests invited have brought along extra people without letting Keith or Maria know, so we are now up to 15 people at a table that barely seats 13. And they are one and a half hours late. With a fairly complex menu, ribs, chicken wings, quesadillas and fritters for starters (yes, those are just starters), fried rice and chili con carne for the second course, sea bass with prawns in a white wine sauce for the third course, bean salad for the fourth course and then meringue with homemade whip cream and berries and chocolate mousse for dessert, Maria needs people to be slightly on time - or at least call to say they'll be late. But they don't. And when they do arrive, they aren't exactly the most adventurous of eaters. For appetizers (starters that I mentioned earlier are actually part of the meal), Maria makes a cream sauce and shrimp on toast points as well as avocado dip and veggies and crostinis with cream cheese, salmon and fennel. Yeah. Did I mention the woman can cook?!? While every one seems comfortable mostly with the food, there isn't the outpouring of amazement you would find back in the States if someone served up a meal of this size and complexity for FIFTEEN people. They aren't big drinkers either so while they margaritas do get consumed, they aren't with the gusto you would have seen in Texas.
And then there's the fact that I don't speak Italian. While Sunday people figured out a way to communicate with me, these people aren't having much of it. One of them jokes with me in some of the only Italian I understood all night about how it makes sense that I only know one language, I'm American, after all. For some reason this sticks me in the side (and the ego) more than any other time before, even though it's just a joke. In that moment I decide I'm not going to be a stupid American anymore and vow to get down to studying from tonight on.
On the bright side, I've met a Canadian. She's Julie - 22, fluent in Italian, English and Russian (her family is from there) and working on a farm nearby that are friends with Maria and Keith. She also stayed with Keith and Maria before I arrived, so she has come tonight for dinner. She'll be around for another two weeks like me and we decide to get together again before we go our separate ways; her to Russia to visit her grandparents and me to Bologna for my next host.
Finally at 11:30, everyone is tired enough to depart. The house looks like a food bomb has gone off and we clean only a small part of the mess before leaving it to head to bed ourselves. Keith remarks to me as we shut the house, "I know we have these parties and usually they're pretty good fun, but I really rather prefer it when it's just the three of us." Me too.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Dominica Spassogiorno (Sunday Funday)
Wow, am I drunk. Not fall down drunk or anything, but definitely tipsy.
It's Sunday and Maria's sister invited us over for lunch at 1pm at her house with other members of the family. Nine of us in all. We've been there for over seven hours and the family has made sure to fill my wine glass every chance they can. A bit of an initiation, in some ways.
This was not like any lunch I had ever had before, although I hope we get to go back sometime before I leave. In a modest room with a table that seats eight comfortably, we start lunch right as the three of us, myself, Keith and Maria, arrive. We sit down to a plate waiting full of honeydew, salami, cheese, olives and my growing favorite, fritters. This plate alone would have served as my lunch, but in this case, it's just the first course.
And then there's the wine. Made by the family with no additives, it is the most amazing wine. Poured from huge reused jugs, throughout the night we would go through three of them, plus some bottles. Everyone cheerses to the meal and we embark on what would be a seven hour lunch, not uncommon for Italians but certainly not the norm for this American.
I chat with the members of the family if I can - only one speaks english, so I'm just trying to pick up words and phrases of what they are saying to have some idea of the convsation topic. The second course is served, which is the pasta course, in this case, home made lasagna. The most lovely lasagna - you would never find this at any Olive Garden. And while we are eating, the brother in law, Chicho, or Keith are refilling my wine glass as soon as it gets low. And, soon after I put the glass down, Chicho cheerses me again. I would get toasted (no pun intended) at least twenty times through out the night. (I found out late that they cheers glasses with you to keep you drinking.) I'm also hearing words associated with me that I haven't really heard - lightweight. The men at the table are egging me on, my rate of drinking being too slow. And when I say men, I mean at least 60 years old, I am by far the youngest one there. One of the quieter men, Michael, notices that I am staring at my wine glass with a slightly frightened, bug-eyed look. He sums everything up nicely with the only English I heard him speak all night, "Everyone comes here must drink," he says with a big smile. Oh boy. I'm in trouble.
But back to the food because we're only on course two and there are four more to go. Next up is the meat dish, which consists of veal, stuffed peppers and peas. I didn't even finish all of my lasagna, it was a piece as large as possible, about 6"x6". I pass on the veal, it's one food I just refuse to eat, which promotes Maria's sister to ask if I'm a vegetarian. Apparently, no one ever turns down the meat. But I do have some peas and help myself to a pepper. Then she comes out with a tray of massive tomatoes freshly picked from her garden. Everyone takes one and it is added to my already full plate. With an overstuffed stomach, I ask Maria if this is the end, if this is the last course. It is, she says, and I feel somewhat relieved. But, of course, this isn't the end. Because next is the cleansing course, the salad. And then we have cheese, two types and grapes for dessert. And then there's the espresso. Wow, it's lucky I don't live here or else I would have a serious addiction. Nothing like what you would find at Starbucks, it comes in a small espresso cup with a smidgen of sugar added. And you can't have espresso without cakes. So, out come the homemade doughnuts. At this point, I have to laugh. I bury my head in my hands and shake my head, groaning jokingly as the bowl comes out. Everyone sees my reaction and bursts out laughing and smiling as well. Look at that skinny American, can't eat hardly anything! As well as the doughnuts, there also fresh peaches. I watch as the men take a peach, cut them into small pieces and add them to their wine glass. Apparently, the fruit brings out the flavor, so I help myself to one as well. Of course you have to have wine to go in the glass, so we add a bit more for each of us and then finally the brother in law seems to have reached his limit. We toast one last time. I later found out that in the four years of living back in Italy, neither Keith nor Maria has seen Chicho, recently dogged by health problems, as happy or as drunk as he was that night. I have made quite the impression, apparently.
So, we are getting towards the end of the night and what does that mean? Limencello, of course! I can't turn that down, so I have a small glass and I think I'm finally winding down, albeit drunk, but winding down. Then someone says the G word. Any idea what the G word could be at this stage of the night? Grappa, the kiss of death, in my world, the stuff tastes like what I imagine moonshine would and the alcohol content is about 30%. Making grappa is a very slow and painful process. It uses the remaining skins of the grapes after they have been used for wine and repress them to ferment the last remaining ounce of the fruit.
I refuse to partake and hang onto to my little limcello glass. But this is special grappa! Infused with blueberries! Well crap, you can't refuse blueberry infused grappa, so I have a very small tasting and knock that back knowing these Italians have bested me in food and drink. It was by far, one of the coolest experiences of my life, despite my foggy memory towards the end. And all I can ask myself is, "Why didn't I take this trip sooner?"
It's Sunday and Maria's sister invited us over for lunch at 1pm at her house with other members of the family. Nine of us in all. We've been there for over seven hours and the family has made sure to fill my wine glass every chance they can. A bit of an initiation, in some ways.
This was not like any lunch I had ever had before, although I hope we get to go back sometime before I leave. In a modest room with a table that seats eight comfortably, we start lunch right as the three of us, myself, Keith and Maria, arrive. We sit down to a plate waiting full of honeydew, salami, cheese, olives and my growing favorite, fritters. This plate alone would have served as my lunch, but in this case, it's just the first course.
And then there's the wine. Made by the family with no additives, it is the most amazing wine. Poured from huge reused jugs, throughout the night we would go through three of them, plus some bottles. Everyone cheerses to the meal and we embark on what would be a seven hour lunch, not uncommon for Italians but certainly not the norm for this American.
I chat with the members of the family if I can - only one speaks english, so I'm just trying to pick up words and phrases of what they are saying to have some idea of the convsation topic. The second course is served, which is the pasta course, in this case, home made lasagna. The most lovely lasagna - you would never find this at any Olive Garden. And while we are eating, the brother in law, Chicho, or Keith are refilling my wine glass as soon as it gets low. And, soon after I put the glass down, Chicho cheerses me again. I would get toasted (no pun intended) at least twenty times through out the night. (I found out late that they cheers glasses with you to keep you drinking.) I'm also hearing words associated with me that I haven't really heard - lightweight. The men at the table are egging me on, my rate of drinking being too slow. And when I say men, I mean at least 60 years old, I am by far the youngest one there. One of the quieter men, Michael, notices that I am staring at my wine glass with a slightly frightened, bug-eyed look. He sums everything up nicely with the only English I heard him speak all night, "Everyone comes here must drink," he says with a big smile. Oh boy. I'm in trouble.
But back to the food because we're only on course two and there are four more to go. Next up is the meat dish, which consists of veal, stuffed peppers and peas. I didn't even finish all of my lasagna, it was a piece as large as possible, about 6"x6". I pass on the veal, it's one food I just refuse to eat, which promotes Maria's sister to ask if I'm a vegetarian. Apparently, no one ever turns down the meat. But I do have some peas and help myself to a pepper. Then she comes out with a tray of massive tomatoes freshly picked from her garden. Everyone takes one and it is added to my already full plate. With an overstuffed stomach, I ask Maria if this is the end, if this is the last course. It is, she says, and I feel somewhat relieved. But, of course, this isn't the end. Because next is the cleansing course, the salad. And then we have cheese, two types and grapes for dessert. And then there's the espresso. Wow, it's lucky I don't live here or else I would have a serious addiction. Nothing like what you would find at Starbucks, it comes in a small espresso cup with a smidgen of sugar added. And you can't have espresso without cakes. So, out come the homemade doughnuts. At this point, I have to laugh. I bury my head in my hands and shake my head, groaning jokingly as the bowl comes out. Everyone sees my reaction and bursts out laughing and smiling as well. Look at that skinny American, can't eat hardly anything! As well as the doughnuts, there also fresh peaches. I watch as the men take a peach, cut them into small pieces and add them to their wine glass. Apparently, the fruit brings out the flavor, so I help myself to one as well. Of course you have to have wine to go in the glass, so we add a bit more for each of us and then finally the brother in law seems to have reached his limit. We toast one last time. I later found out that in the four years of living back in Italy, neither Keith nor Maria has seen Chicho, recently dogged by health problems, as happy or as drunk as he was that night. I have made quite the impression, apparently.
So, we are getting towards the end of the night and what does that mean? Limencello, of course! I can't turn that down, so I have a small glass and I think I'm finally winding down, albeit drunk, but winding down. Then someone says the G word. Any idea what the G word could be at this stage of the night? Grappa, the kiss of death, in my world, the stuff tastes like what I imagine moonshine would and the alcohol content is about 30%. Making grappa is a very slow and painful process. It uses the remaining skins of the grapes after they have been used for wine and repress them to ferment the last remaining ounce of the fruit.
I refuse to partake and hang onto to my little limcello glass. But this is special grappa! Infused with blueberries! Well crap, you can't refuse blueberry infused grappa, so I have a very small tasting and knock that back knowing these Italians have bested me in food and drink. It was by far, one of the coolest experiences of my life, despite my foggy memory towards the end. And all I can ask myself is, "Why didn't I take this trip sooner?"
Friday, September 24, 2010
Cosenza: An Uptick
Keith is a Brit with a pot belly and a great laugh and has an uncanny resemblance to my uncle. Maria is exactly what you would expect to be the antithesis, an Italian woman, short and soft spoken (at least that's what you think at first). Their home is about 30 minutes from the Cosenza train station, situated on a hill a ways up into the higher altitude. It is a beautifully renovated home that they ripped the guts out of and replaced with fairly state of the art furnishings. Multiple TVs, satellite TV, wireless Internet, two computers, a kitchen with three ovens, a pool, a small gym. The list goes on. Needless to say, I am not impoverished here.
My bedroom is one of four on the second story with a full size bed, armoire, chair and bed tables. Perfectly clean and perfectly simple, it will do, well, perfectly. It's almost 6pm on Monday by the time I have settled in and after a long day of traveling for me and a long day of entertaining guests for them, we sit down to a simple meal of home made carrot soup, made totally from Maria's garden, some bread and of course wine.
Over the course of dinner I find out that Keith worked for a confectionary, Ma's, I believe, and Maria used to run her own catering business. They have two daughters and three grandchildren. Everyone is exhausted, so we head to bed early - work will start tomorrow for me around 9am.
Breakfast I make on my own, two eggs picked yesterday from the chickens they have, some tomatoes and basil, also from their garden, and figs, which grow in the trees along the driveway down to their house. After eating, Keith introduces me to the rest of the herd. Billy and Rocky, the two dogs, two cats, Luke and another one who's name I still haven't caught, but they both look like Simi, my cat, multiple chickens, four sheep and two rabbits. Today's job will end up consisting of clearing an area of their land and helping Maria in the garden. We end up picking tomatoes, eggplant, carrots, spinach, beets, peppers and basil. I couldn't believe how much we were pulling and picking in just one day.
Maria is amazing in the kitchen. She started off as a waitress in a high end restaurant in London run by an American, Robert Carrier. At the time, he was very well known, and after watching all the amazing dishes go by night after night, she decided she wanted to learn how to make this delicious food. She would take bits of it home and deconstruct it, figuring out the ingredients and how to make each dish. Once she had a grasp on the trade, she went to Robert and asked to move to the kitchen. Everything went from there. A retired caterer who once employed up to 20 people at a time, she glides around the kitchen making four or five dishes at once. More parsley here, olive oil over there, salt in another pot on the other stove (they have two). I've been here for three nights and Maria makes something different every day for lunch and dinner from scratch. Cauliflower fritters one day with marinated beets, mini bruschetta, proscutto on cantaloupe, some bread and wine. And that's Lunch. Dinner is whipped together with such ease, but the flavors are amazing. Homemade soup she's made that day with vegetables from the garden plus pork shank followed by a type of bleu cheese and grapes.
All the while we are eating, there is all sorts of conversation going on while Keith pours the wine, beer, or gin and tonic - whatever we may be drinking that night. We talk about the difference between the UK and the States - What about health care? Retirement plans? How's Obama doing these days? To the more personal, how they met, how they came about moving from England to Italy and renovating this big house, and what a girl like me is doing coming over from the States to work on farms when I had a perfectly good day job.
The routine here is a welcome change from the moving around all the time of the past week or so. Having people to talk to in English (rather than sorta English plus exaggerated hand and arm movements) is helping my morale immensely and I find I'm actually having dreams at night for the first time since I came to Italy. I'm still not sleeping through the night, but things are improving.
The next job is staining a small shed that houses the chickens and sometimes the goats. They patter about me wondering what I'm doing and why I'm getting in their way of pecking at some perfectly good hay and soil mix. It takes me two days to complete the whole thing, trying to avoid splattering my clothes with bright blue stain and not aggravating the ram too much as to entice a charge. And when I'm done, Keith says the same thing he's said after each job. Something to the effect of "Not just an office dweller are you?" or "You really are wasted on the office life." If he keeps telling me that, I may just start to believe him. And who knows what comes after that.
My bedroom is one of four on the second story with a full size bed, armoire, chair and bed tables. Perfectly clean and perfectly simple, it will do, well, perfectly. It's almost 6pm on Monday by the time I have settled in and after a long day of traveling for me and a long day of entertaining guests for them, we sit down to a simple meal of home made carrot soup, made totally from Maria's garden, some bread and of course wine.
Over the course of dinner I find out that Keith worked for a confectionary, Ma's, I believe, and Maria used to run her own catering business. They have two daughters and three grandchildren. Everyone is exhausted, so we head to bed early - work will start tomorrow for me around 9am.
Breakfast I make on my own, two eggs picked yesterday from the chickens they have, some tomatoes and basil, also from their garden, and figs, which grow in the trees along the driveway down to their house. After eating, Keith introduces me to the rest of the herd. Billy and Rocky, the two dogs, two cats, Luke and another one who's name I still haven't caught, but they both look like Simi, my cat, multiple chickens, four sheep and two rabbits. Today's job will end up consisting of clearing an area of their land and helping Maria in the garden. We end up picking tomatoes, eggplant, carrots, spinach, beets, peppers and basil. I couldn't believe how much we were pulling and picking in just one day.
Maria is amazing in the kitchen. She started off as a waitress in a high end restaurant in London run by an American, Robert Carrier. At the time, he was very well known, and after watching all the amazing dishes go by night after night, she decided she wanted to learn how to make this delicious food. She would take bits of it home and deconstruct it, figuring out the ingredients and how to make each dish. Once she had a grasp on the trade, she went to Robert and asked to move to the kitchen. Everything went from there. A retired caterer who once employed up to 20 people at a time, she glides around the kitchen making four or five dishes at once. More parsley here, olive oil over there, salt in another pot on the other stove (they have two). I've been here for three nights and Maria makes something different every day for lunch and dinner from scratch. Cauliflower fritters one day with marinated beets, mini bruschetta, proscutto on cantaloupe, some bread and wine. And that's Lunch. Dinner is whipped together with such ease, but the flavors are amazing. Homemade soup she's made that day with vegetables from the garden plus pork shank followed by a type of bleu cheese and grapes.
All the while we are eating, there is all sorts of conversation going on while Keith pours the wine, beer, or gin and tonic - whatever we may be drinking that night. We talk about the difference between the UK and the States - What about health care? Retirement plans? How's Obama doing these days? To the more personal, how they met, how they came about moving from England to Italy and renovating this big house, and what a girl like me is doing coming over from the States to work on farms when I had a perfectly good day job.
The routine here is a welcome change from the moving around all the time of the past week or so. Having people to talk to in English (rather than sorta English plus exaggerated hand and arm movements) is helping my morale immensely and I find I'm actually having dreams at night for the first time since I came to Italy. I'm still not sleeping through the night, but things are improving.
The next job is staining a small shed that houses the chickens and sometimes the goats. They patter about me wondering what I'm doing and why I'm getting in their way of pecking at some perfectly good hay and soil mix. It takes me two days to complete the whole thing, trying to avoid splattering my clothes with bright blue stain and not aggravating the ram too much as to entice a charge. And when I'm done, Keith says the same thing he's said after each job. Something to the effect of "Not just an office dweller are you?" or "You really are wasted on the office life." If he keeps telling me that, I may just start to believe him. And who knows what comes after that.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Ravello. And a Case of the Mondays
For my last day in Amalfi, I have a choice. I can either go to the island of Capri or I can take a bus to a near by town, either Sorrento, Salerno or Ravello. The ferry ride to Capri is 30 Euro roundtrip, expensive in my mind, and the only ferry leaves early in the morning and returns fairly late in the evening. Bus tour it is then. I had heard about Ravello and how it was another maze of hairpin turns, supposedly an amazing bus ride. Uncharacteristically, I have no tour or guide books on Italy with me, no print outs of good restaurants or what to see in a given area. No maps, nothing. So, I grab the touristy bus - I hadn't heard anything factual about the area and this seemed like a good avenue to get some knowledge on the landscape. Then the bus filed up and a man, with his wife a few rows back, sat next to me. An older Aussie with seven kids, we talked the whole way to Ravello and I didn't learn one thing about the area. But I did have good conversation - and just like every single conversation in Italy has gone, the subject of why I'm traveling alone came up. There is no reason you can give a person to explain why you are really traveling on your own; the honest truth is too personal. I skirt around the question and of course he follows up with why I'm not married, another question I've encountered before, and that's not just while traveling. Yet another question with too personal an answer - "Just hasn't happened" and he nods seeming to understand. "Not a thing to take lightly, the last thing you want to do is get divorced, I know," he says. "My wife," gesturing a few rows back, "this is my second marriage, and I go out to eat sometimes and we see couples eating but not saying a word. When she and I go out, we enjoy each other's company and enjoy being together. I see those couples not talking and I want to walk up to them and say, 'What are you waiting for, just get divorced and move onto a better part of your life.'" While I don't think that not talking during a meal signals the end of your marriage, his enthusiasm about this wife and their relationship was refreshing. It reminded me of many of my friends' marriages who did it right, picked right, and are happier for it. While I have heard of many people being envious of my trip, I don't think they realize how much I envy them. In a happy marriage, maybe with kids, maybe not, but they found someone they know they can share their life with, and that is so much more than a trip to Europe (even though it's a pretty kick ass trip to Europe). Guess the grass is always greener on the other side.
Ravello is very similar to the other towns on the Amalfi coast and I only stay two hours there before returning home. I take the bus to the hotel because there's no freaking way I'm walking up those stairs again - plus, in the morning I have to walk up the 300 stairs with my pack and messenger bag.
On Monday, tomorrow, I'm heading to my first host house in Cosenza. Cosenza is south and east of Amalfi but according to the travel agent, the only way is to go through Naples. Naples is the one place everyone has told me to stay away from as much as possible. The crime is fairly high, there are gypsies who will steal from you by spitting in your face so you instinctively release your grasp on your bag; generally not a great city to pass through. I'm taking a ferry from Amalfi to Naples, a two hour trip, and then have to wait for my train from Naples to Paola for almost two hours in the train station. This not something I'm looking forward to at all, although I was already in the Naples train station once and it didn't seem That bad. From Paola I switch to a regional train and head south to Cosenza. All in all, I'm going north to head south, but that's just the way the trains run. The totally trip is calculated to take me almost nine hours.
The morning of, I watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean, grab a few bites of breakfast and head up the stairs with my pack to wait for the bus to take me down to Amalfi (there's no way I'm going down those 700 stairs with my pack). I'm a few minutes early and notice there are two kids, about 7th grade, waiting in the same area with backpacks (for the girl, it's pink with High School Musical prints all over). It is Monday and it is that time of year. Interesting, I thought, wondering if they are waiting for a car pool or if they are taking the bus to another stop. I couldn't figure it out... Until the SITA bus pulled up FULL of children. Apparently in Italy, the kids use the city buses as their school buses. There is no sitting room and old Italian women seated are gesturing to get my pack and other bag off of me and onto the ground at their feet at the seats. I thought they were just being nice when I realize we have many more stops before we get to Amalfi. And everyone single one of them has kids waiting to be picked up.
The bus is getting more and more jammed, we pick up five, then four, then two, then six. There is no room to move anywhere and the hair pin turns are forcing everyone to lean into each other which ever way the bus is lurching. The bus driver eventually says no more and we drive by stop upon stop of kids waiting to get down to Amalfi. Next bus for them, I guess - which, by the schedule, isn't for another hour. I hope that isn't true for their sakes.
Down in the city center, I go to buy my ferry pass only to be told its been cancelled and the bus is the only way to get to Naples today. I'm really getting sick of buses. I've already purchased my ticket from Naples to Cosenza so I need to be on time and get to the station before 12:42. It's now 8:00am. The ferry representative gestures to the store over "there" and I go in search of a bus ticket. I buy one speaking Italian (go me) and ask what time it leaves in Italian (go me, again). "Un minute," he says. One minute, he repeats in English and gestures out the door. I scurry out and find the correct bus with about thirty seconds to spare.
According to everyone I talked to, the bus ride to Naples should take 2 hours. I know that's not true because they say two hours like my grandmother used to say two hours. "Gram, how far are we from the beach?" "Two hours," she would reply. 30 minutes later, "How far are we now?" "Two hours". Same basic concept in Italy.
I'll make a very long story short and cut out the transferring of buses in the middle of no where and skip over the part where we run into something I hadn't seen yet in Italy - traffic, and lots of it - and just say it took us three and a half hours to get to Naples. Thankfully, with my long layover, I didn't have to wait long in the train station before boarding. In my spare time, I peruse a book store and purchase three children's books to try to read in Italian - a general workbook for grade schoolers, Hansel and Gretal and Green Eggs and Ham. If I get bored in Cosenza, at least I'll have something to "read".
Upon boarding the train in Naples, which is now six hours later since I woke up and five hours since I began traveling, the operator comes over the PA in Italian and then English going over where the cafe car is and where the train will be stopping, in order. First Scala, then Salerno, then Paola.... But I barely hear Paola, which is my stop, because I could have sworn they just said Salerno. They repeat it again and there it is, second stop, Salerno. SON OF A ...
Let me interrupt here to remind you of something mentioned earlier in this post. Nearby towns to Amalfi were Sorrento, Ravello and SALERNO. And at this point, I've been traveling on three different buses, hoofed about a mile through downtown Naples (I skipped over that part), still have a two hour train ride ahead of me until I switch trains again and then travel another hour to Cosenza.... And you're telling me I could have taken a FIFTEEN minute bus ride south to Salerno and picked up this exact same train? After of course, sleeping in, eating a full breakfast, maybe even a nice cappuccino?!? I'm not actually hearing that right now, am I?!?!!
.. %#?!#^%^#!!!!!!
I'm off to the cafe car to get an overpriced beer.
Ravello is very similar to the other towns on the Amalfi coast and I only stay two hours there before returning home. I take the bus to the hotel because there's no freaking way I'm walking up those stairs again - plus, in the morning I have to walk up the 300 stairs with my pack and messenger bag.
On Monday, tomorrow, I'm heading to my first host house in Cosenza. Cosenza is south and east of Amalfi but according to the travel agent, the only way is to go through Naples. Naples is the one place everyone has told me to stay away from as much as possible. The crime is fairly high, there are gypsies who will steal from you by spitting in your face so you instinctively release your grasp on your bag; generally not a great city to pass through. I'm taking a ferry from Amalfi to Naples, a two hour trip, and then have to wait for my train from Naples to Paola for almost two hours in the train station. This not something I'm looking forward to at all, although I was already in the Naples train station once and it didn't seem That bad. From Paola I switch to a regional train and head south to Cosenza. All in all, I'm going north to head south, but that's just the way the trains run. The totally trip is calculated to take me almost nine hours.
The morning of, I watch the sunrise over the Mediterranean, grab a few bites of breakfast and head up the stairs with my pack to wait for the bus to take me down to Amalfi (there's no way I'm going down those 700 stairs with my pack). I'm a few minutes early and notice there are two kids, about 7th grade, waiting in the same area with backpacks (for the girl, it's pink with High School Musical prints all over). It is Monday and it is that time of year. Interesting, I thought, wondering if they are waiting for a car pool or if they are taking the bus to another stop. I couldn't figure it out... Until the SITA bus pulled up FULL of children. Apparently in Italy, the kids use the city buses as their school buses. There is no sitting room and old Italian women seated are gesturing to get my pack and other bag off of me and onto the ground at their feet at the seats. I thought they were just being nice when I realize we have many more stops before we get to Amalfi. And everyone single one of them has kids waiting to be picked up.
The bus is getting more and more jammed, we pick up five, then four, then two, then six. There is no room to move anywhere and the hair pin turns are forcing everyone to lean into each other which ever way the bus is lurching. The bus driver eventually says no more and we drive by stop upon stop of kids waiting to get down to Amalfi. Next bus for them, I guess - which, by the schedule, isn't for another hour. I hope that isn't true for their sakes.
Down in the city center, I go to buy my ferry pass only to be told its been cancelled and the bus is the only way to get to Naples today. I'm really getting sick of buses. I've already purchased my ticket from Naples to Cosenza so I need to be on time and get to the station before 12:42. It's now 8:00am. The ferry representative gestures to the store over "there" and I go in search of a bus ticket. I buy one speaking Italian (go me) and ask what time it leaves in Italian (go me, again). "Un minute," he says. One minute, he repeats in English and gestures out the door. I scurry out and find the correct bus with about thirty seconds to spare.
According to everyone I talked to, the bus ride to Naples should take 2 hours. I know that's not true because they say two hours like my grandmother used to say two hours. "Gram, how far are we from the beach?" "Two hours," she would reply. 30 minutes later, "How far are we now?" "Two hours". Same basic concept in Italy.
I'll make a very long story short and cut out the transferring of buses in the middle of no where and skip over the part where we run into something I hadn't seen yet in Italy - traffic, and lots of it - and just say it took us three and a half hours to get to Naples. Thankfully, with my long layover, I didn't have to wait long in the train station before boarding. In my spare time, I peruse a book store and purchase three children's books to try to read in Italian - a general workbook for grade schoolers, Hansel and Gretal and Green Eggs and Ham. If I get bored in Cosenza, at least I'll have something to "read".
Upon boarding the train in Naples, which is now six hours later since I woke up and five hours since I began traveling, the operator comes over the PA in Italian and then English going over where the cafe car is and where the train will be stopping, in order. First Scala, then Salerno, then Paola.... But I barely hear Paola, which is my stop, because I could have sworn they just said Salerno. They repeat it again and there it is, second stop, Salerno. SON OF A ...
Let me interrupt here to remind you of something mentioned earlier in this post. Nearby towns to Amalfi were Sorrento, Ravello and SALERNO. And at this point, I've been traveling on three different buses, hoofed about a mile through downtown Naples (I skipped over that part), still have a two hour train ride ahead of me until I switch trains again and then travel another hour to Cosenza.... And you're telling me I could have taken a FIFTEEN minute bus ride south to Salerno and picked up this exact same train? After of course, sleeping in, eating a full breakfast, maybe even a nice cappuccino?!? I'm not actually hearing that right now, am I?!?!!
.. %#?!#^%^#!!!!!!
I'm off to the cafe car to get an overpriced beer.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Step Ups
The town of Amalfi itself is, as I mentioned, very touristy. There is a beautiful duomo and lots of shops selling everything you can think of, especially limencello. I'm not there but a few hours when I decide to head back to the hotel. I had about 5 hours of sleep last night so a nice nap sounds in order. I find the correct bus, get off at my stop and walk the 300 stairs down to my hotel and crash out until dinner.
Dinner was at a restaurant somewhat off the beaten path. I made the rookie tourist mistake at lunch and stopped by one of the first places I saw for a slice of pizza and a Peroni. Not that it was bad, but it was overpriced and fairly rushed. For dinner, I decide to walk a bit further and settle into a restaurant with a good looking menu and lots of people sitting outside. There are several open tables around everyone else, so I gesture to one of the waiters about sitting down. "Just one?" he asks (how many times do we have to go through this, people?!?) and upon learning this, seats me at a table away from the other patrons and close to the entrance where all of the kitchen traffic is whirling by. The table isn't even set yet and I can tell this wasn't exactly a table used often. I didn't even have a candle thingy like everyone else and if there's one thing I always want on my table (if available) it's a lit candle - what can I say, I like my ambiance. So after giving them about three minutes to a) ask for my order or b) pay attention to me in any way, I get up and leave knowing there are other fish in the sea. Up the hill a bit more, there is exactly that. A completely open patio with not a soul there (it was fairly early for dinner in Italian time - 7:30), I can sit anywhere I like and a tall portly man greats me warmly and takes my order. My first bruschetta since arriving in Italy. I don't know what took me so long, but it was worth the wait. I've tried to replicate bruschetta back in the States using good, organic tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic and good olive oil. It just doesn't taste the same - maybe its mental, I don't know, but if it is, my brain is one happy camper.
Some pomodoro, wine and limencello later, I walk around a bit more and then head back to my hotel, but this time, I'm conquering the stairs. With the first step, "1", then "2", counting to myself in my head. I get to 75 and have to take a break. This isn't good, I haven't gotten even part of the way up. I think about all the "step ups" I've done at the gym with the trainer. All of the back squats, front squats, dead lifts and cleans I've done to get some pretty strong legs. Apparently, that wasn't enough. Lamenting about workouts past isn't going to help my current situation, so best to just push ahead, not think about it and get it over with. No problem.
At step 299 I have just gotten up out of Amalfi to the lower street level. Again, this isn't good. I start the next section of the climb which goes past several small apartments set into the cliff. A women about the age of 70 is meandering her way up the slope and I can't imagine how she's managing that climb day after day, year after year. They say that the actual residents of Amalfi are in amazing shape and I now see why.
I pass her and continue my counting. "478, 479..." Now I'm just laughing in between breaths, this has got to be some sort of sick joke. But pausing to look around, to look out over the Mediterranean, the price is getting to be worth it. There are a few lights illuminating the path, but other than those, all there are are the city lights and the sea surface echoing them back.
"645, 646..." Finally, the last twenty or so stairs. 400 to be exact for this portion. 299 for the first leg. 699. Add that to the 300 stairs up the road and you've got yourself a solid 1,000 steps. Before the three days are over, I will have climbed or descended 4,600 stairs.
Bread? More wine? Dessert? Limencello? Anything at all of a high calorie count that I really couldn't care less about given that number? Why yes, yes I think I will, thank you very much.
Dinner was at a restaurant somewhat off the beaten path. I made the rookie tourist mistake at lunch and stopped by one of the first places I saw for a slice of pizza and a Peroni. Not that it was bad, but it was overpriced and fairly rushed. For dinner, I decide to walk a bit further and settle into a restaurant with a good looking menu and lots of people sitting outside. There are several open tables around everyone else, so I gesture to one of the waiters about sitting down. "Just one?" he asks (how many times do we have to go through this, people?!?) and upon learning this, seats me at a table away from the other patrons and close to the entrance where all of the kitchen traffic is whirling by. The table isn't even set yet and I can tell this wasn't exactly a table used often. I didn't even have a candle thingy like everyone else and if there's one thing I always want on my table (if available) it's a lit candle - what can I say, I like my ambiance. So after giving them about three minutes to a) ask for my order or b) pay attention to me in any way, I get up and leave knowing there are other fish in the sea. Up the hill a bit more, there is exactly that. A completely open patio with not a soul there (it was fairly early for dinner in Italian time - 7:30), I can sit anywhere I like and a tall portly man greats me warmly and takes my order. My first bruschetta since arriving in Italy. I don't know what took me so long, but it was worth the wait. I've tried to replicate bruschetta back in the States using good, organic tomatoes, fresh basil, garlic and good olive oil. It just doesn't taste the same - maybe its mental, I don't know, but if it is, my brain is one happy camper.
Some pomodoro, wine and limencello later, I walk around a bit more and then head back to my hotel, but this time, I'm conquering the stairs. With the first step, "1", then "2", counting to myself in my head. I get to 75 and have to take a break. This isn't good, I haven't gotten even part of the way up. I think about all the "step ups" I've done at the gym with the trainer. All of the back squats, front squats, dead lifts and cleans I've done to get some pretty strong legs. Apparently, that wasn't enough. Lamenting about workouts past isn't going to help my current situation, so best to just push ahead, not think about it and get it over with. No problem.
At step 299 I have just gotten up out of Amalfi to the lower street level. Again, this isn't good. I start the next section of the climb which goes past several small apartments set into the cliff. A women about the age of 70 is meandering her way up the slope and I can't imagine how she's managing that climb day after day, year after year. They say that the actual residents of Amalfi are in amazing shape and I now see why.
I pass her and continue my counting. "478, 479..." Now I'm just laughing in between breaths, this has got to be some sort of sick joke. But pausing to look around, to look out over the Mediterranean, the price is getting to be worth it. There are a few lights illuminating the path, but other than those, all there are are the city lights and the sea surface echoing them back.
"645, 646..." Finally, the last twenty or so stairs. 400 to be exact for this portion. 299 for the first leg. 699. Add that to the 300 stairs up the road and you've got yourself a solid 1,000 steps. Before the three days are over, I will have climbed or descended 4,600 stairs.
Bread? More wine? Dessert? Limencello? Anything at all of a high calorie count that I really couldn't care less about given that number? Why yes, yes I think I will, thank you very much.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Bzzz
Pogerola is like the red headed step child to Amalfi - it's there, but very few pay attention to it. Gerry's Pub happens to be one of four restaurants in this little town. I arrive just as Gerry is opening the doors and he welcomes me in. An incredibly nice man, he and I talk in English but whenever I can, I talk in Italian. He corrects me or gives me pointers when approriate. He, just like everyone I meet, speaks multiple languages, although he thinks learning English was far easier to learn than Italian. His language, he concedes, is very difficult gramtically - no one speaks proper Italian in Italy. I concede, no one speaks proper English in America either. Three hours, a plate of salmon ravioli and a half caraf of wine later (oh, and some limecello), it's back down the hill and the 300 stairs to my hotel.
I'm not sure if it was the wine or the feeling of sheer inaccessability, but tonight is the hardest I've had in Italy. My sleep is fairly broken up in general, but tonight, it's worse. In bed and asleep at 10pm, I wake up at 1:15 and don't get back to bed until 4:45. My brain just keeps on spinning on all sorts of things. Being away from home, from friends, from loved ones - being away for two more months. What was I thinking when I decided to do this?!?!? I feel like a stupid school girl who's parents sent her away to summer camp. Except this isn't camp and I wasn't forced to do anything. Eventually I put myself back together and sleep until I almost miss the window for breakfast.
The next day I decided to head down to Disney World, aka Amalfi, and check out a few sights. As I mentioned before, there are quite a few stairs down to the city center -700 (699 exactly) which I now need to take unless I want to grab the bus. After my previous experience (did I mention how my pack was as wide the door and I had to basically throw myself out in order to deboard? Yeah, that was classy. And not at all touristy. Nope, not me. No tourist here.) I was open to anything not involving a bus. Even if it was 700 stairs winding down.
As I mentioned, there are various trellises of fruit trees on the cliffs and the walk down was no exception. Some of the trees hung over the walls of the property and onto the path, leaving some of the over ripened fruit on the ground. Lemons, pomegranetes, apples. So pretty. Do you know what else thinks fruit is pretty? Bees. They were not on my mind in the slightest until I felt something attach itself to my hand and despite flicking it off, attached itself again. And then I heard the buzzing in my hair. Oh well crap, this isn't good. I shake the insect out and assess the damage of the stings. Three in all, all on the right hand and forearm. I haven't been stung by a bee in years, let alone multiple times. Well, I'm half way down a cliff and first aid isn't exactly avaiable. While my hand is swelling up and the tingling stinging feeling is going through my forearm I'm actually not the concerned. I'm not allergic and I'm sure it'll just be a minor irritation. I know baking soda and water helps the stinging but can't think of anything else. So I do a quick google on my phone and all searches keep coming back with "death from multiple bee stings!", "beware of anaphalactic shock!", and "how to deal with severe reactions to stings, they are no laughing matter!" Then finally a much calmer article that basically says, wash the area. Good to know, thanks. Better than anaphalactic shock.
By the time I reach the city, the swelling has reduced and the pain is gone. What a wussy bee.
I'm not sure if it was the wine or the feeling of sheer inaccessability, but tonight is the hardest I've had in Italy. My sleep is fairly broken up in general, but tonight, it's worse. In bed and asleep at 10pm, I wake up at 1:15 and don't get back to bed until 4:45. My brain just keeps on spinning on all sorts of things. Being away from home, from friends, from loved ones - being away for two more months. What was I thinking when I decided to do this?!?!? I feel like a stupid school girl who's parents sent her away to summer camp. Except this isn't camp and I wasn't forced to do anything. Eventually I put myself back together and sleep until I almost miss the window for breakfast.
The next day I decided to head down to Disney World, aka Amalfi, and check out a few sights. As I mentioned before, there are quite a few stairs down to the city center -700 (699 exactly) which I now need to take unless I want to grab the bus. After my previous experience (did I mention how my pack was as wide the door and I had to basically throw myself out in order to deboard? Yeah, that was classy. And not at all touristy. Nope, not me. No tourist here.) I was open to anything not involving a bus. Even if it was 700 stairs winding down.
As I mentioned, there are various trellises of fruit trees on the cliffs and the walk down was no exception. Some of the trees hung over the walls of the property and onto the path, leaving some of the over ripened fruit on the ground. Lemons, pomegranetes, apples. So pretty. Do you know what else thinks fruit is pretty? Bees. They were not on my mind in the slightest until I felt something attach itself to my hand and despite flicking it off, attached itself again. And then I heard the buzzing in my hair. Oh well crap, this isn't good. I shake the insect out and assess the damage of the stings. Three in all, all on the right hand and forearm. I haven't been stung by a bee in years, let alone multiple times. Well, I'm half way down a cliff and first aid isn't exactly avaiable. While my hand is swelling up and the tingling stinging feeling is going through my forearm I'm actually not the concerned. I'm not allergic and I'm sure it'll just be a minor irritation. I know baking soda and water helps the stinging but can't think of anything else. So I do a quick google on my phone and all searches keep coming back with "death from multiple bee stings!", "beware of anaphalactic shock!", and "how to deal with severe reactions to stings, they are no laughing matter!" Then finally a much calmer article that basically says, wash the area. Good to know, thanks. Better than anaphalactic shock.
By the time I reach the city, the swelling has reduced and the pain is gone. What a wussy bee.
Sunday, September 19, 2010
The Logistical Nightmare - Better Known as the Amalfi Coast
Leaving Pompeii, it turns out, is much easier than getting there. This is mainly because this time, I am using the closer station rather than the farthest. When I came into Pompeii, I came into a station about 2km away from my hotel. Since I wasn't going to walk with my pack that far, I took a taxi. How much did that 2km cost me? 15 euro. That's the most expensive cab ride I've ever had. Nonetheless, this time the station is closer than the ruins, so no problems with walking there.
From Pompeii, I need to go to Sorrento and then take the bus to Amalfi. I also have the option of a ferry, but that port isn't close to the train station, so I'm stuck with the bus.
The only thing to note about the train ride was that much of the route south is a single track. Meaning, if there's another train coming against traffic from you, you'd better yield. This led my train to stop for 10 minutes, with no air conditining, and apparently, in some cases, no deodorant, in a station waiting for a train to get through a long, one lane track tunnel. From there, it was easy sailing Sorrento.
Now, the bus ride from Sorrento, yet another tourist hub, to Amalfi is known to be a frightening one because of the sheer heights and drop offs. Add that to general Italian driving, the narrow roads and complete lack of stop or yield signs, and you've got yourself a party.
The first bus to Amalfi is already full so there is along line of tourists with lots of luggage waiting on the curb for the next one. I meet a retired Australian couple who have been traveling since June and they still have two more months to go. The husband remarks in general about their trip, "too short" . I also meet a lovely British girl who is on holiday from her job, seeing Sorrento and the coast, and treating herself on her last day before heading home - a lovely pair of italian leather boots. She's a sucker for Italian leather, she says. After about 20 minutes of idling with lovely fumes spewing out of it, the first bus leaves and ours pulls up. Your basic tour bus, we grab seats and wait to depart.
Despite all the seats being taken, people are still boarding. They intend to stand the whole way. Knowing what I know of the ride, I can't imagine this being a good idea, but maybe they are more ok with flopping about than I. The other snippets about the commute to amalfi is that the traffic is horrendous. In high tourist season, only even numbered ending license plates can go on certain days, the odd numbered on other days. Kinda like the gas shortage in the 80s except with asphalt being the hot commodity. And they aren't kidding. The traffic is bad. No regard for yields, traffic laws or speed limits, the guy driving is like a majestro of the road, manuevering this bohemeth of a vehicle around hairpin turns while a scooter or a car is doing the same thing except from the opposite direction. The only caution you have about on coming danger is honking. At every turn, te driver honks two or three times. And I would like to report it was some sort of macho, Italian honking sound, but honestly it sounds more like a clown car. Nonetheless, it does it's job and we are clear to kepp going. Once past all of the traffic, the scenary is beautiful. A pair of British women tipped me off as to which side was the best to sit on for the view, so I've found myself looking down a 20, 40 or 60 story drop off, depending on where you are in the turns, with nothing but a wall that doesn't even come up to your waist seperating the bus -and you - from air. But like I said, the majestro is driving, so there is no fear.
Finally in Amalfi, getting off the bus feels somewhat like stepping into an adult Disney World. Everything is in English and everything seems to be cheesey and touristy. To get to my hotel though, I have one more bus to take. I find the appropriate one and up the cliffs we go. And I do mean cliffs. When I get off at my stop (after an additonal seven hairpin turns winding us up) which is not labeled in a any way, shape or form, you just have to 'know' when to tell the driver this is your stop, I have to go down 300 steps to the hotel entrance. I would later learn that it is another 700 from the hotel down to the city center. With my pack and that many steps, my calves feel like they may melt off the bone and form a puddle. And while by no means am I a rock star athlete, I like to think of myself as somewhat in shape. This hike down would have put most onto oxygen; I know I was breathing hard.
But the view. What a view. And the terraces. In genius European form, they have taken the cliffs and cultivated them. They basically cut into the cliff to form a level ledge, then added a significant amount of fertile soil and planted all sorts of things. Apples, pomegranetes, but most if all, lemons. This is why at every corner of every street on the Amalfi coast you will find limencello. By the liter. I walked through three groves on the plataeus down to my hotel. Lemons the size of mangos (yes Emily, mangos). But back to the view.
Amalfi is gorgeous by day and absolutely sparkling at night. I settle into my room for the next three nights and find out the best place to eat. Gerrys Pub, the hotel owner tells me. Pub? Yes, pub. Alrighty then. It's off to Pogerno. Back up the 300 stairs and up the hill to a town perched even higher on the cliffs.
From Pompeii, I need to go to Sorrento and then take the bus to Amalfi. I also have the option of a ferry, but that port isn't close to the train station, so I'm stuck with the bus.
The only thing to note about the train ride was that much of the route south is a single track. Meaning, if there's another train coming against traffic from you, you'd better yield. This led my train to stop for 10 minutes, with no air conditining, and apparently, in some cases, no deodorant, in a station waiting for a train to get through a long, one lane track tunnel. From there, it was easy sailing Sorrento.
Now, the bus ride from Sorrento, yet another tourist hub, to Amalfi is known to be a frightening one because of the sheer heights and drop offs. Add that to general Italian driving, the narrow roads and complete lack of stop or yield signs, and you've got yourself a party.
The first bus to Amalfi is already full so there is along line of tourists with lots of luggage waiting on the curb for the next one. I meet a retired Australian couple who have been traveling since June and they still have two more months to go. The husband remarks in general about their trip, "too short" . I also meet a lovely British girl who is on holiday from her job, seeing Sorrento and the coast, and treating herself on her last day before heading home - a lovely pair of italian leather boots. She's a sucker for Italian leather, she says. After about 20 minutes of idling with lovely fumes spewing out of it, the first bus leaves and ours pulls up. Your basic tour bus, we grab seats and wait to depart.
Despite all the seats being taken, people are still boarding. They intend to stand the whole way. Knowing what I know of the ride, I can't imagine this being a good idea, but maybe they are more ok with flopping about than I. The other snippets about the commute to amalfi is that the traffic is horrendous. In high tourist season, only even numbered ending license plates can go on certain days, the odd numbered on other days. Kinda like the gas shortage in the 80s except with asphalt being the hot commodity. And they aren't kidding. The traffic is bad. No regard for yields, traffic laws or speed limits, the guy driving is like a majestro of the road, manuevering this bohemeth of a vehicle around hairpin turns while a scooter or a car is doing the same thing except from the opposite direction. The only caution you have about on coming danger is honking. At every turn, te driver honks two or three times. And I would like to report it was some sort of macho, Italian honking sound, but honestly it sounds more like a clown car. Nonetheless, it does it's job and we are clear to kepp going. Once past all of the traffic, the scenary is beautiful. A pair of British women tipped me off as to which side was the best to sit on for the view, so I've found myself looking down a 20, 40 or 60 story drop off, depending on where you are in the turns, with nothing but a wall that doesn't even come up to your waist seperating the bus -and you - from air. But like I said, the majestro is driving, so there is no fear.
Finally in Amalfi, getting off the bus feels somewhat like stepping into an adult Disney World. Everything is in English and everything seems to be cheesey and touristy. To get to my hotel though, I have one more bus to take. I find the appropriate one and up the cliffs we go. And I do mean cliffs. When I get off at my stop (after an additonal seven hairpin turns winding us up) which is not labeled in a any way, shape or form, you just have to 'know' when to tell the driver this is your stop, I have to go down 300 steps to the hotel entrance. I would later learn that it is another 700 from the hotel down to the city center. With my pack and that many steps, my calves feel like they may melt off the bone and form a puddle. And while by no means am I a rock star athlete, I like to think of myself as somewhat in shape. This hike down would have put most onto oxygen; I know I was breathing hard.
But the view. What a view. And the terraces. In genius European form, they have taken the cliffs and cultivated them. They basically cut into the cliff to form a level ledge, then added a significant amount of fertile soil and planted all sorts of things. Apples, pomegranetes, but most if all, lemons. This is why at every corner of every street on the Amalfi coast you will find limencello. By the liter. I walked through three groves on the plataeus down to my hotel. Lemons the size of mangos (yes Emily, mangos). But back to the view.
Amalfi is gorgeous by day and absolutely sparkling at night. I settle into my room for the next three nights and find out the best place to eat. Gerrys Pub, the hotel owner tells me. Pub? Yes, pub. Alrighty then. It's off to Pogerno. Back up the 300 stairs and up the hill to a town perched even higher on the cliffs.
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