Dena Taylor’s Musings

We barely caught the afternoon ferry from Amalfi Town to Salerno. It was a great alternative to the bus, allowing us to see the homes and ruins dotting the coastline. As we approached Salerno we watched a plane fly back and forth from the mountains to the Med, collecting water to put out fires. By the time we got off the ferry we were spent and that dangerous afternoon fatigue took hold. We were making our way toward the main street to catch a bus to our hotel, not paying attention, when one of those parking lot gate arms came down on my face. I hadn’t noticed we were walking where cars exit. I was dully stunned. Heather asked if I was okay. I wasn’t sure. There was no blood or broken skin, so I just kept walking.  I was wearing sunglasses, which I think spared me from a broken nose. I’d feel a bruise the next day but it was minor and nothing some wine with lunch couldn’t help.

The part of Salerno that Hotel K is located in explains the low rate. The room was nice as was the complementary morning breakfast, it was just situated in a far-less than charming part of town. It was easy enough to catch a bus toward the old town and waterfront where all the action is. On the way we stopped at the train station to get our tickets for the next day’s departure. Neither ticket machine was working. You wouldn’t know this except by watching others or yourself go through a minimum of six screens before realizing the transaction can’t be completed. We joined the line at the ticket window and watched the older, heavy set clerk with glasses resting half way down his nose, engage in a slow and lengthy and gesticulated conversation with an older gentleman in which no tickets were purchased; they simply appeared to be chatting. The man in front of us was second in line and openly anxious–swapping weight from one foot to the other, shaking his head, sighing. Another man walked to the front of the line and leaned on the counter. After some time, Anxious stepped forward, interrupting the conversation and making a circular “hurry the fuck up” motion with his right hand. The clerk looked back dramatically with a, “Whaaa? Can’t you see we’re talking here?” Anxious didn’t care. He had a train to catch. When he finally got his ticket, he and Leaning Man bolted for the tracks.

We approached the counter. As always and for which we were grateful, Carol inquired about tickets back to Rome, in Italian. Upon hearing her American accent, he asked us about Obama. Carol smiled, following up her reply with another question about departure times in an effort to keep him on track. He was looking up various times on the computer when he suddenly stood up and without a word, disappeared behind the counter walls.

“Um, where’s he going?” asked Heather.

“I don’t know,” said Carol. “Maybe the bathroom…”

The line behind us was growing but all we could do was wait. A couple of long minutes later, the clerk returned, presenting us with his “Presidential Dollars Collector’s Folder” to show us how his Presidential coin collection was coming along. Two more people joined the line, neither of which shared his enthusiasm for coin let alone U.S. presidents. We uttered a few courteous “ooohs and ahhhs,” before Carol managed to steer him to actually taking our money and printing our tickets. We almost had them in hand when he paused to tell us about the map of the United States he had at home. More people joined the line, which appeared to be held up by Americans, which couldn’t possibly be helping U.S.—Italian relations.

After finally getting our tickets, we roamed old Salerno’s narrow streets, walked past weathered wooden doors and under arches, shuttered windows and laundry hung out to dry before making our way to the waterfront where we were approached by a young Italian man with a big smile. He appeared to be flirting with us but we weren’t interested in stallion; we were interested in food. We smiled and continued walking until we found a pizzeria with room for three and a bottle of house red.

dePositano’d and other tragedies. Woke up in Sorrento and had a banner breakfast of yogurt, cappuccino, cheese and fruit. I rarely eat brioche or croissants let alone those injected with chocolate but it has easily become the daily routine, and with the amount of walking we do, practically guilt free.

In Italy 2006, Rick Steves warns about crowded buses along the Amalfi Coast with the hours between 9 and 11am being the worst. Throw in the fact that it is the last bit of summer and you have the perfect storm. Or, at the very least, the makings for a hot, sweaty, multi-cultural mob. After arriving at the bus station and getting our tickets for Positano, we stepped outside to get in the queue, which turned out not to be a queue at all but sort of a pulsating amoeba, half backed up against the stone wall ducking the sun while the other half perched on the spot of front curb they thought guaranteed them entry to the next bus. There were three bus-y type officials within a few feet, not at all managing the queue. There were no ropes to help form a line. We were left to our own etiquette philosophies as to whether we hitched ourselves to the end of the line, the side or the front. For me, it was a no-brainer, go to the back. Yet, we watched person after person, group after group, park their touristy toukases right  in front of those that had been sweating it out before them. It was an amazing study in human behavior. What compels someone to make such a choice and when does the person taking the hit reach their limit? The newly stepped-in-front-of finally did start to complain to the officials who did nothing. The seemingly meek became practially riotous in proclaiming the injustice of it all. A veritable mob was forming, its nucleus three people to my right in oversized sunglasses, shorts and flip flops. Then the bus came and when the driver opened the door people literally threw themselves toward the opening with a woman and her child getting pushed, causing the child to fall and cry. Shockingly, this did not stop people from the back from yelling and pushing themselves forward. No one was hurt but I believe the potential was there and it was frightning. What difference would another hour of waiting make? The sun would still be shining. The Mediterranean would still be full of water. The gelato would still be plentiful. To give in to such madness in the midst of such incredible beauty was crazy. I was dumbfounded.

After miraculously making it on the bus, we settled in for the harrowing ride to Positano, riding along the edge of cliffs. How the bus made the switchback turns is beyond me but they appeared to do it with such ease that we stopped paying attention to the road and completely missed the stop in Positano. The driver made no announcement, there was no reader-board indicating arrival, and strangely, given its reputation, only one person got off the bus. It wasn’t until we were ten minutes out of town that several of us realized we had missed our stop.

We couldn’t help but laugh and wait out the 50 min until we arrived in Amalfi Town where everyone got off the bus. From there we walked to a cafe where we dined on caprese, prosciutto and melon, mussels and beer. After that we paid 3.50 for access to a little strip of beach and the chance to swim in the Mediterranean. It was delightful. It was refreshing. The icky memory of the morning’s chaos washed away as I floated on my back and gazed up at the towering cliffs, wondering what it would be like to wake up here every day.

Pompeii and circumstance. Up at 6:30 am to catch a train that would take us to Naples, then Pompeii.  Switching trains is a challenge and the rumors of Naples hung heavy though I would like to believe it can also  be wonderful. What city doesn’t have its good and bad? The trains are fabulous and I have dreams of a train system in the U.S. that would cross states in all directions. Building new tracks would create jobs, wouldn’t it? More direct tracks would promote tourism and help the economy, no? I would love to hop a fast train to the North Carolina coast or Denver or Chicago.

We arrived in Pompeii and were overwhelmed by the vastness of this once thriving city as well as the heat. We took a self-guided tour, which took us about 3 hours. You could easily spend half a day if you see everything. For some, just being in this place is enough; others want to see every house, bakery and gathering place; others only the frescoes; and of course everyone wants to see the human forms–curled and frozen in time.

I came to Italy in August as Carol would only be here through the end of the month and I couldn’t come earlier. While it is doable, I can’t say I’d recommend it. The heat and number of tourists is overwhelming. Thankfully, the fountains are everywhere–including Pompeii–and you can stay hydrated.

I could say that my feet were dusted in Pompeii red but really, they were just dirty. After wiping them off, sucking down a granita limon, we caught the train to Sorrento. The conductor was rushing us on and we forgot to validate in the machine in the station. This can result in a fine but we were lucky–he wrote the time and date on our tickets instead of fining us. These moments of anxiety occur when traveling but they are fleeting. The worst case is we get fined, which does suck, but it doesn’t hold us back; we are still in Italy; we still get to go to the Amalfi Coast.

We arrived in Sorrento in the late afternoon and fatigue, a miniscule breakfast, no lunch and probably not enough water began to take its toll. Throbbing feet compelled us to take a taxi-van, which HK bonked her head on rather heartily as she entered, causing her glasses to dig into her nose and later a choice headache. Our hotel, Camilla, was cute. We shared a single room with one single and one double bed. We showered, grabbed a map and began the walk toward the Piazza Tasso. Along the way we stopped in a park and gasped at the beauty of the sea.  It was after stopping at another viewpoint that it hit me–light headed, parched and the most intense hot flash I had had in months (med I have to take). My walk slowed, I turned red, and perspiration gathered on my forearms, hands, chest and streamed down the crevices of my nose and down my lower back. HK kept an eye on me. I just wanted to sit and have some food and water. It was a painful 10 minutes and almost worrisome if I hadn’t been able to attribute it to the heat and lack of food. Finally, in the crazy, traffic and people packed piazza, we sat, ate pizza and had some aqua minerale. Within 20 minutes I was back, sleepy but back and able to walk the shop-filled promenade and enjoy an amazing risotto-asparagus dinner. I really loved this town and the view but it was jarringly busy. I think I could live on the Amalfi Coast but it would have to be on a cliff you could only get to by helicopter or mountain goat–somewhere where my head wouldn’t spin.

While you can’t bare your shoulders in St. Peter’s Basilica it’s perfectly fine to bare your underwear lines. After sleeping in until 11:17am (thanks to the night before), HK and I limped alongside the Tiber on our way to the Vatican. I wore a sleeveless, chocolate brown dress with white polka dots. It comes just below my knee. I thought it was a tasteful churchy-type dress but after waiting in the security line for what seemed like the length of The Davinci Code, I ended up being turned away by the Modesty Police for baring my shoulders. Yes, there were signs outlining inappropriate outfits—short shorts, tight tanks, teddies—but I had heard if you looked appropriate they would probably let you in. After a quick excursion to a sidewalk vendor, we were back in the security line, my shoulders wrapped in a thin black and white Vatican patterned scarf (5 euros) and HK hiding under a pink Chinese-inspired umbrella complete with chunky images of the holy monuments (5 euros more). This time we passed through, bought an audioguide and took in St. P’s Baroque grandeur. But throughout my visit, taking in the statue of St. Peter, gazing at the glowy dove and trying to digest the weight of all the marble and gold and unconfessed sins, I couldn’t help but notice an overwhelming amount of panty and thong lines. See-through white skirts and dresses revealed an array of t-backs and hip huggers in a variety of colors and sizes. A selection of circulation-cutting capris and bermuda shorts revealed a curious amount of bunched up, minimal coverage, and sometimes off center underwear. In fact, there were underwear lines at every turn. It didn’t just seem inappropriate; it seemed unholy.

Having lost half a day we missed the cupola, museum and Sistine Chapel, vowing to return next week. That night we had pasta at a pizzeria up the street before coming home and planning the next day’s trip to Pompeii and the Amalfi Coast.

There may be nothing finer than a pair of well-made Italian shoes. Classic lines, impeccable detail, rich leather. So WTF with all the Crocs?  I never thought I’d see Crocs on cobblestone but they are here and they are bright. At first I thought only the tourists had succumbed to the power of the plastic but it seems to have infected Italians, too. Neon green, bright white and bold orange boats-con-holes are slapping their way through the Vatican, resting against the archways of the Colosseum and squeaking up the Spanish Steps on a daily basis. I realize they are comfortable but they don’t breathe. I wouldn’t want to be around a pair discarded after five hours of sightseeing ruins in 92 degree temperatures. But that’s just me.

The gals and I went to the Pantheon. We ate at a cafe in the piazza before roaming around inside. It is old and it is beautiful and there is nothing more comfortable than sitting on the base of a 6o ton Egyptian column. From there we wandered to shops and I may have purchased a two-toned red Italian leather bag that was 35% off.  We ended our shopping excursion with a beer at a local bar. The bartender—an Ed Nortonesque guy–asked us where we were from and upon hearing the States he inquired, “McCain or Obama?” and offered that he was “for Woman.” But not just one woman; he was “for all Woman.” We thanked him for his vote before catching the next bus home.

Later that night we headed toward to the Piazza Navona where we met my friend Bonnie and her boyfriend for drinks.  I haven’t seen her in almost 10 years. We squeezed ourselves into a four top. Most cafes we’ve been to—sidewalk cafes on winding, cobblestone streets, under the shutters of apartments, drying laundry and old world lanterns–have been close quarters. But it works.

The five of us shared some antipasti and a bottle of vino bianchi and were apparently the subject of some smirks among neighboring patrons and our waiter. We weren’t being loud or demanding we were just there and this can happen anywhere to anyone. The complementary limoncello and the fact that the waiter forgot to charge us for our second bottle of wine more than made up for it. We wended our way over to the Cul de Sac restaurant, apparently a Willem Dafoe favorite, and proceeded to have another bottle of wine and amazing food. Mine was “salmon in paper” and it was delicious. Bonnie’s boyfriend tried to give me some names for similar delicious wine, one by the name of Greco di Tufa. “What’s a tufa?” I asked. He attempted to explain that it was a type of stone but I interrupted him with, “Like, the Rolling Tufas? Or the Tufa Temple Pilots?  Like I always say, let no tufa go unturned…’” The gems kept coming, an obvious side effect of three glasses of wine, limoncello and after dinner Sambuca. We ended up in Campo de’ Fiori next to Bruno the heretic, where, for reasons unknown, one last drink in the form of Peroni seemed like a good idea.