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Italy is old.  It has an ancient feel about it.  Yes, I know everywhere is old.  I know there were native peoples in the US thousands of years ago.  But, somehow, Italy feels different.  Like the land has been dealing with foolish people for a very long time.  You know, like the Roman Empire, and whatnot.  People determined to bring about their own destruction through over-estimation of their own powers.

Now, I’m not saying that’s what happened at Pompeii.  It’s not like the people there angered Mt. Vesuvius with their self-absorption.  By all accounts, it was an average place, with its bakeries and villas and brothels.   Humblingly so.

The day we visited Pompei, the Ant and I got up early and caught a bus into town.  Unfortunately, we missed our train by about 2 minutes.  The guy at the ticket counter sold us something that looked different than the usual tickets.

“Are you sure we didn’t buy bus tickets?”  The Ant wasn’t at all sure about these new passes.  “I think you should ask.”

A quick question confirmed that the passes could be used for both buses and trains in the region.  That was great, but the next train wasn’t for several hours.  We walked across the street to our favorite tourist information office to see what our favorite tourist information officer could tell us.

“Alora, you can take the bus at 11:05.”  Crap.  That was still 2 hours away.  “Aspetta.  Wait.  There is one at 10:05, right out front.”

We grinned, thanked her, and left.  We had just enough time for breakfast at our favorite gelateria/coffee bar.

With pastry in our stomachs and caffeine in our veins, we ventured into a tabacchi to buy stamps.  We were really feeling good about our ability to get around and get things done.

At 10:00, we boarded the correct bus, picked out the best seats (we’d ridden enough busses to know what the best seats were) and settled in.  When we pulled out at 10:05 there were only about 5 of us on the bus.

Along we drove, through the countryside, and through cities.  Young boys got on and off, eying our bags hungrily.  The cities got grittier and grittier, with unsurprising names like “Angri.”  The ride went on for what seemed like an eternity.  I got up to check with the driver.

“Andiamo a Pompei, si?”  Nothing.  “A Pompei?”  He nodded and grumbled a bit.  I returned to my seat to scour my Rick Steves section for clues.

There are times when my trusty guidebook is super-helpful, and times when I could throw it in the fire.  For the most part, our trip to the south wasn’t greatly aided by the guidebook.  Our day in Pompei was no exception.  Rick had some decent information on how to get to Pompei from the north, but the approach form the south had nothing.  His description told me that if we got off at the train station, we’d be super-close to the entrance to the ruins.  I checked the name of the station, and figured that if we could get off somewhere close, we’d be good.  I mean, how big could Pompei be?

So the answer to that question is that Pompei is a kind of suburb of Naples.  It’s big.  When the bus driver stopped and announced “Pompei,” looking back at us, I got up and took the Ant with me.

I could have asked if this was the “stazione” stop, but I didn’t.  Frankly, I was tired.  I was tired of thinking in a foreign language.  I was tired of formulating questions, practicing them and then bungling them with less-than-helpful bus drivers.  I was tired of the shrugs and the grunts and the anxiety that comes with rejection from strangers.  Not that it was always like that.  Just that it was always a possibility.  And I was tired.

So, we got off and started walking.  There were signs for the station – in the direction that the bus had driven.  We followed them for maybe 5 minutes until we came to the “Centrale” station.  This wasn’t the “Scavi” station that Rick had mentioned in the guidebook.  I confirmed with a cabbie who wanted to give us a ride.  We were 3 Kilometers away from “Scavi” and he’d gladly take us there for 10 Euro.

Forget it.  I looked at his map, and thanked him.  Then we took off, walking through the streets of modern Pompei.  It was still morning, and fairly cool.  Even so, I think I mentioned to the Ant how much I’d always liked the phrase, “sweating freely.”  I’d grown accustomed to having my jeans soaked through with sweat, and my wool t-shirt damp at all times.  It reminded me of Aragorn running through the hills on a great quest in the Lord of the Rings.  Yeah, I’m that kind of crazy.

We walked for about 30 minutes, following signs for “Scavi” and trusting that we’d know the ruins when we saw them.  According to Rick, we’d hit the ruins before the scavi station.  We walked past huge churches and interesting apartment complexes.

We greeted young men (I swear we saw 3 times as many men as women in Italy.  I don’t know if the women are all working, or just at home with the kids, but the guys were out wandering, and drinking coffee), who all smiled at us kindly.

Lemons were everywhere.  I knew lemons were an important product in the south, but in Pompei, the were seriously everywhere.   Rotting bags of them littered the street and huge, obscene fruit hung from carts.

We stopped periodically for water, and I commented on how the heat really doesn’t bother me, and how important it was to make sure we stayed hydrated.  “Six ounces every 15 minutes,” I sang.  A familiar refrain to my softball friends.

By the time we reached what looked like a tourist area, we were both a little tired, and more than a little ready to be there.  “Scavi,” read a sign, pointing up a driveway that led up a hill, and out of sight.  We’d seen several of these signs along the way, often pointing in different directions.  We looked at each other and sighed.  It seemed like were almost there.  In the back of my head I wondered what had gone wrong, and how we’d be getting home.  Oh well, it always worked itself out.

Up the hill and around a corner, we found the gates to the ruins.  As we approached, beautiful displays of even more lemons invited us in.

As did a “local tour guide” in his over-sized, crumpled ballcap and aviator glasses.  “English?  Wait 10 minutes I will organize an English tour.  It will be much more affordable,” he barked at us.

“No, grazie.”  I wielded my familiar vendor response to little effect.

“English?!”  He was demanding.  “Please, go this way and purchase your ticket.  I will arrange a tour.”  The local tour guides, and even  random people looking for a handout will masquerade as helpful staff members.  This guy was pointing us to the ticket office.  Fortunately, Rick had warned us about this, so we were prepared.  Others seemed baffled.

Once we had our tickets and free map (thanks to Rick’s excellent information about where to get one), we hit the WC.  The entire time, we listened to the barker trying to organize the tour.  “Next tour English with local guide.  Next tour in English!  Please, purchase your tickets!  This way…”

Feeling just a little superior in our knowledge, we emerged, skirted the guide and headed to an overlook area.

The last time I was in Italy, it was the off season.  O-F-F.  There aren’t a lot of tourists visiting Rome and Venice in November and December.  I’d like to keep it that way.  Standing at the Pompei overlook, I flashed back to a CS Lewis novel I’d read as a kid.  “The Silver Planet” was this great sci-fi story about, as I remember it, a man who goes into space for an extended period of time, living on another planet.  The part that came back to me now was a scene when, after a long time away from home, he watched unfamiliar creatures come over the horizon, hairy and gruff in their manner, speaking a harsh, unbeautiful language.  It took him a moment to realize they were humans speaking English.

All around me, the beautiful melody of the Italian language disappeared into a sea of shouted names, pushing, scrambling as though the ruins would somehow be used up, fear and scarcity the dominant energy.

“Let’s get inside, shall we?”  I could hardly bring myself to look at the Ant.  I just wanted to disappear.

Once out of the crowd, I took a moment to look around.  Pompei is amazing.  It really is “You’re going to be amazed, girl.”  I’d been told by my buddies that this would be an amazing experience.  But it’s hard to prepare for something like Pompei.  In fact, I’m not sure there’s a lot I can say about it.

We walked through the forum, along the streets.  We noted the stepping stones that allowed chariots through and provided a path for pedestrians when the streets were flooded for cleaning every night.

We looked into the distance at the crater of Vesuvius, and imagined the plume of ash that had risen from it.  And fallen where we were standing, killing and preserving everything.  Leaving the record we were now snapping pictures of.

We saw bold-colored frescoes and strong mosaics.

Shrines and fast-food joints.

Huge pots, half-buried, and intact dotted the rooms.

And tourists crowded along the fence that protected the remaining artifacts.  The tools, and art left behind.  And the people.  The plaster casts made from the spaces left when the bodies of Pompeians had decomposed.

I took a picture of one of the most famous and left the rest to be mobbed.

My favorite part of the site was the public baths.  From the beautiful outdoor gymnasium,

To the immense steam fountain inlaid with the names of the politicians who paid for it.

The baths provided an intimate look into the life I would have been most drawn to in Pompei.  At once physical, artistic, and engineered, they intrigued me with their temperature-controlled double walls and bronze heater.  They were so well preserved that they reminded me of images of the gym on the Titanic.

This place really was amazing.  We wandered around, taking in the 2,000 year old lead pipes, and the water-towers.  The double-boilers that kept food warm.  Then we took in the snack shop.  And the Powerade.  Pompei was cool, but it was also hot.  Really, really hot.

And I swear it had ears.  Just like Venice it heard me bragging.  And it landed me on my ass.  Even after drinking several bottles of water and a Poweraid, the ground was shifting under me.  My statement about not being affected by the heat caught in my throat.

“So, what do you think about heading back?”  I wasn’t usually one for leaving anything unseen, but I wasn’t used to having my body betray me, either.

The Ant looked at me.  “I wouldn’t be upset if we headed back.”

“Okay, then I think it’s time.  My body is rebelling.”  Along with the baths, I’d really wanted to see the brothel, and its frescoes that served as a kind of menu of services.  But at that point, even the dirty frescoes were forgotten.  All I was thinking about was finding the “Scavi” train station that Rick Steves had promised was so very close to the ruins.

I consulted the Pompei section of Rick’s book that I’d torn out and put in my pocket.  I reversed the directions from the station to the ruins, and determined that we needed to go right.  After walking for about 10 minutes, it was clear that something was wrong.

“Maybe we should go in and ask,” suggested the Ant, pointing to a tobacco shop.

“Maybe.”  I was still having an attitude crisis about having to ask directions in Italian.  Still, I walked in to the tiny shop and waited behind a couple of local guys to talk with the shopkeep, who was sitting on a stool behind what looked like bullet-proof glass.

“Prego.  Dove il stazione?”

All three guys answered.  Waving their arms, they pointed us back out and to the right.  On the way we’d been heading.

“Grazie, ciao!”

I walked back out to the Ant.  “Yeah, they said to go up here.”   Neither of us was too excited to keep on, in the opposite direction from the “Centrale” station we’d been at earlier in the day.  But, on we walked, wondering when we’d see the station.

There were scarce few people on the sidewalk, giving us little opportunity to confirm that we were, indeed, headed in the right direction.  So when we saw a man getting into a car just ahead of us, the Ant lunged forward, suddenly inspired.

“Staztione?”  she ventured.

He responded in rapid Italian.

“No parlo bene.  Mi dispiace,”  I interjected.  We weren’t in any space to work this out in Italian.

“English?”

“Yes.  Where is the train station?”

He pointed back the way we’d come.  “Three kilometers.”  Damn.

“Stazione Scavi?”  Rick said there was a Scavi station close to the ruins.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Salerno.”

“No, Stazione Centrale.  There is a Circumvesuvia station here, but it does not go to Salerno.”

Shit.  That’s the line Rick had talked about.  I hadn’t considered that it wouldn’t go to Salerno.

“Okay.  We know Centrale.  Grazie.  Ciao.”  Well, at least we knew where we were going.  It was just another 20 minutes we’d added by walking this way in search the Scavi station.  We pulled out our water bottles to hydrate. Our guide got in his car and began to drive off.  I was a little disappointed.  After our excellent experiences in Potenza I’d really rather expected that he’d offer us a ride.

Then he pulled up to us and got out of the car.

“There is another station closer.  Torre Annunziata Centrale.”

“Come?”  I caught a couple of the words, but this was a crazy name.

“Torre Annunziata Centrale.”  He pointed back the way we’d been heading.

“Okay, how far?”  The idea of another wild goose chase wasn’t interesting to me.

“Maybe 15 minutes if you walk.  But 2 minutes if I drive you.”  He opened the back door.

“Grazie.”

We climbed hungrily into the air conditioned interior of his black sedan.  I nearly told him he was an angel, but thought I’d hold back to see if he slaughtered us, first.

“Is this your first time to Pompei?”

“Yes.  Are you from here?”

“Yes.  Well, from Naples.  It’s all the same.”  Oh really.  That explains how we could be walking for an hour in one direction and not reach the end of the town.

“Thank you for the ride.  Molto gentile.  What is your name?”

“My name?”  He seemed amused.  “Angelo.”  Of course it was.  Of frickin course.

“Grazie mille Angelo.”

“Niente.”  How could he say it was nothing.  It meant so very much to us, strangers who were so very tired.

He dropped us at a little train station and we headed inside, waving goodbye.  I looked up and noticed a street sign.  A brown one that had a picture of ruins on it.  And said “Scavi.”  No way.  And it dawned on me.  Scavi meant ruins.  Yes, there might be a “Scavi” station, but all the signs we’d been seeing pointing in different directions weren’t signs to the station.  They were signs to the ruins.  Cazzo. I almost laughed at myself.  Almost.  But I was too tired.

We checked the departure board.  The next train was leaving in 20 minutes.  Just enough time to pee and find the right platform.  And to learn the name of the station.

No way.  I didn’t need to know the name of the train station.

After a couple of days in Salerno, it was time to spread our wings and venture out.  Our new maps and bus schedules in hand, we considered our options.

“There’s Paestum,” suggested the Ant.

Now, I’m basically tagging along on this portion of the trip, so I’ve done embarrassingly little research into the area.  I’d never even heard of Paestum.  So I picked up my handy-dandy tourist guide and learned a couple of fun facts about Paestum.  First, Paestum has the largest collection of Greek temples outside of Greece.  Coolness.  My family is Greek and Italian.  We’re other things, too, but we mostly claim the Greek and Italian.  This sounded like our kind of place.

Second, I learned that Paestum was deserted when most of the population was wiped out by mosquitoes carrying malaria.  That’s much of the reason the temples remain intact.  Not good.  But not surprising.

The Ant and I had spent the first two nights battling insane mosquito-like beasts.  These things were big.  I could hear them winging their way toward my headlamp each night while I was reading Pema Chodron and trying to find a little peace.  An interesting challenge.

And they did something funny to our skin.

This is two days after the Ant was bitten about 6 times on the side of her face.  I was bitten, I believe, 3 times on the ear, (it was hard to tell how many times, due to the intense swelling and redness) and it’s still itching, 2 weeks later.  At least the open wound has healed up.  The 20 or so other bites on my face and legs never really took hold.  I’ve just been considering this training for Survivor. Regardless, these things are bad news.

Brimming with understanding of our Greek/Roman mosquito-bate ancestors, we hopped a bus to Paestum.  That’s Pa-ace-toom.  Get it right.  Or the bus driver will act like he doesn’t understand where you’re trying to go.  Then he’ll correct your pronunciation.  Or maybe that was just my experience.

I sat in my seat, going over it in my head:  “pa-ace-toom, pa-ace-toom, pa-ace-toom.”  I’d have to ask him later if we were getting close.

We scuttered along through town after town, noting the differences in the styles of apartment buildings, or the way people hung their laundry.

The country got wilder, and more open and we wondered how much further.  Passengers ebbed and flowed along the winding track we took to the ruins.  Tourists, workers, grandmothers, coming and going between the villages.

We saw a municipal sign of some sort.  “Welcome to Paestum” or something similar.  When we’re traveling by bus, there’s often not much to tell us where we are, other than signs on buildings.  If we miss the sign at the beginning of a town, we could go the entire length of the town without having a clue where we are.  This big sign for Paestum was more than we usually get.  We grabbed our bags and jumped up, moving forward several rows to make sure the bus driver could see us.  When the bus stopped, he signaled to us.  “No.”  We weren’t there yet?  Wow.  Our fool-proof method had failed us.  How many stops could there be in Paestum?

20 minutes later, we were still driving.  Whoops!  I was starting to like our bus driver more and more.

I consulted the pages I’d torn from my trusty Rick Steves book; we tried to find our location on the Ant’s smart phone.  No use.  Rick said the bus would let us off outside the old city walls.  I peeled my eyes and kept them on the horizon for city walls of some kind.

When we finally rumbled up to a lonely gelato shop at the intersection of two country roads, I was a little surprised to hear the driver bellow, “Pa-ace-toom!” and wave us forward.

“Qua?”  I wanted to make sure.  “Pa-ace-toom.”  He just nodded again, but this time smiled.

“Ciao, grazie!”  we smiled as we climbed off alone.

The city walls were there, low, thick, and old.  We smiled at the folks under big umbrellas outside the gelato shop,  and walked inside the ancient city walls.

“That’s a good sign,” I said, jerking my head in the direction of the trees and columns.

We located the ticket office, purchased our combo ticket for the temples and the museum, and headed out into the fenced field bordered by vendors selling trinkets.

We spent the next two hours walking through the tall, flowing grasses, looking up at the temples.

It’s amazing how much I find myself affected by places like this.  I find I could sit on a hunk of rock and contemplate my ancestors for hours, days, ever maybe.

The Ant read a sign about the destructive lichen eating away the ruins, and decided she’d come back with a toothbrush to volunteer her time and rid the temples of the beast.  I thought it was pretty.

As we walked, we talked absentmindedly about the Greeks and their superiority, and I thought about the first time I’d seen Greek ruins up close.  It was on a trip to Greece with my family when I was a teenager.  We were looking for family, but taking in some sights along the way.  I spent the day at Olympus with my dad, Greek grandfather, and uncle.  I remember clearly the feeling of disgust I had for the people of Greece.  How could they let their precious temples be ruined like this?  Why didn’t they stand the columns back up?

Hilarious.

In Paestum, I was amazed at how intact the temples were.  So much so that we could do side-by-side comparisons of architectural changes over 500 years.  Brilliant.

At the end of two hours of strolling and thinking in the sun, we were starving.  It was most assuredly time for pizza.  After a ridiculous episode whereby we unknowingly tried to enter a restaurant from the back side, left in a bit of a huff, walked 4 blocks and unwittingly ended up entering the same restaurant from the correct direction, we were seated with 2, count them 2, huge bottles of water in front of us.

Note:  the Ant and I carry our own water bottles with us wherever we go.  By this time we had consumed every drop.  The only way to really get water in a restaurant in Italy is to buy it.  From a bottle.  Or to fill in the restroom, which we do regularly.  Today, we bought water.

On our first attempt to enter the restaurant, we’d spotted a menu and scoped out the pizzas.  We already had our favorites picked out:  cherry tomatoes and rocket for the Ant, squash blossom for me.

One bottle of water already in our stomachs, we scarfed these heavenly pizzas down.  Most pizzas come served whole in Italy, with a knife and fork.  You get to cut to size and eat however you see fit.  Some people cut pieces and eat with their hands.  Some cut slices and then cut them into smaller pieces to eat with a fork.  Others eat the center, and leave the crust (I consider this a great crime).  On days like today, we start with big pieces folded and stuffed in our faces, then cut smaller and smaller pieces, packing the dough and cheese in.

Whatever water was left, we poured into our empty bottles and prepared for the second half of the day:  the museum.

The second great historical site at Paestum is the tomb of the diver.  Dating back to the Greeks, this sarcophagus is rare, maybe unique in its preservation (thanks, mosquitos).  The insides of the box were painted with scenes to entertain the dead.  The lid of this one was painted with an image of a diver, gracefully leaping from a great height into the unknown, a peaceful look and feel about him.

The walls of the box were painted with scenes from a party.  A very festive party.  Perhaps even a very gay party…

As we stood and looked at the panels, a tour group of British school-kids came through with a tour guide.  I stood nearby to catch a free lesson.

“The panels depict a typical party.  The first man sits on a sofa, beckoning for more wine, waiting in anticipation.  The second grouping shows two men playing a game in which a plate is balanced on a stick, and the last drop of wine is flicked from the glass in an attempt to hit the plate, knocking it to the floor.”

He paused.

“The third group shows one man playing an instrument, and engaged in a show of affection,” another pause, “more than just enjoying each other’s company.”  The kids looked closer.  The guide continued:

“Now I’m not one to say whether this is a scene of homo-eroticism, but that is the prevailing view of the experts.”  I chuckled a little.  The musician was all but pinching the other guy’s nipple.  Maybe I should consider a career in ancient Greek art.

Feeling like we should make use of our museum tickets, we cruised through, checked out the super-old bronze vases, and penis-shaped pots.  Gay.

Leaving the museum, we praised the gods and goddesses for the lack of present-day mosquitoes in Paestum.  We’d commune with our ancestors later.  For me, I’d found other connections with my ancient brothers and sisters.  Any people who celebrated ceramic sexuality, squash-blossoms, and leaps into the unknown were my people.

We’ve spent the last few days in the coastal city of Salerno.  Never heard of Salerno?  Not surprising.  Even frequent visitors to Italy are unlikely to have spent much time here, unless they were touring the popular Amalfi coast.  Then they might have stopped here when their bus turned around to head back north.

Salerno is at once beautiful and depressing.  The city has seen a lot.  Allied forces landed near here during WWII.  The part of the city before that time is beautiful.  A medieval city that reminds me of many in Tuscany. But the part where we are staying, the newer post-WWII part comes in the form of high-rise apartment complexes.  Lots of them.  There is a feel of quiet desperation about the place.  I don’t know what the industry is here.  I need to do some research.  There has to be something going on locally, as the city is home to 150,000 people.  Funny, that’s the same size as Salem…

We arrived Wednesday, after an eventful night in Rome.  We’d taken the train through Naples, where we stopped for just enough time to grab a cappuccino outside the station.  It became clear, quickly, that our language skills would be tested more now than ever.  After trying to order coffee, we thought we were being dismissed.  With a wave and something that sounded like “go,” we gathered our bags and prepared to head back to the station, stunned.  Having seen us looking quizzically at each other, one of the baristas came out to tell us to sit and to confirm that we wanted the cappuccino.  She cleared out a couple of local guys who were camping at one of the sidewalk tables, smoking and talking.  They scattered like birds.

We sat down, our big bags giving us away as tourists as clearly as anything could.  The locals quickly returned to chat with us, telling us repeatedly how nice people in Naples are.  We assured them that we were enjoying our time, and eagerly slurped down our excellent cappuccino.  We bid arrivaderci to our new pals and headed back into the station to catch our train.  We were rusty.  We’d been able to buy the high-speed tickets from the machines in Rome, but forgot to validate on the platform.  Cazzo. I realized this as we stepped on the train, and ran back to find a little, yellow machine while the Ant staked out our seats.

We’d made the mistake of not insisting on sitting in our seats on the trip to Naples.  We had assigned seat numbers, but there were people sitting in them, so we found an empty compartment and sat, hefting our huge bags into the overhead compartments.  This worked just fine for the first half of the trip, when a group of well-dressed older Italians bustled in to claim their seats.  We pulled the bags down, trying not to bludgeon anyone, and moved one compartment over.  Where the scene was repeated about 20 minutes later, this time with a confused younger couple.  “I don’t understand,” he told us in his decent English.  “Why did you let them take your seats?”  He’d taken our tickets to look at them and help us to our seats.  We knew where our seats were, we just didn’t want to go through the hassle of trying to remove guys from our seats in our super-poor Italian.

“No, no, va bene,” I insisted as, once again I dead lifted my backpack.  He was preparing to take us to our seats and kick some serious ass.  “It’s not right,” he insisted.  “I know, I know.  I’ll do it.”  Now an older gentleman in a sportcoat was getting up and pushing past me into the corridor.  A minute before he’d been feigning sleep.  Now he looked like he was about to toss someone out of the train by his lapels.  I stepped in front of him and assured him that it was alright.  I don’t have any problem asking for or accepting help, when I need it, but I hadn’t even tried to get the guys in our seats to move, and I thought it a little unfair to send these two gentlemen after them at this point.

So, I steeled myself, took a deep breath and walked into the third compartment.  I pointed to the seats, pointed to the tickets and said something like “quelli sono nostro.”  I have no real idea if that’s correct, but it worked enough for us to grab a couple of the seats.  After a final placement of bags, this time one precariously balanced in the overhead rack and one sitting in the corridor, we sat down.  The young gentleman who seemed to be serving as the informal “train police” walked by a couple of times to make sure we had recovered our seats.  We waved and smiled, and he seemed mildly placated.

Then we settled in for the rest of the train ride, which was rapidly becoming interesting.  The city had given way to green, and, as we rounded a bend in the tracks, a strangely familiar site came into view.

Being from the northwest, I know a volcano when I see one.  Still, this one was startling.  Vesuvius. Destroyer of Pompei.  I jumped into the corridor and pulled down a fold-up seat from the wall so that I could snap a few pictures through the dirty train window.

I guess after a millennia or so, it shouldn’t be son intimidating, but this mountain intimidates me.

We finished out the ride and managed to get off at the right stop and find a taxi to take us to the other side of town where we would meet the owner of the apartment we would be renting for the next 3 weeks.  The cab ride was quiet.  The Ant phoned ahead to Carmine, and I mumbled to the driver that I was sorry that I didn’t speak Italian well.  Then I thought about whether it would be insulting to try to ask him where he was from.  I thought I could get the question right, but would he consider it a waste if I couldn’t understand the response?  So I sat, thinking about the Italian classes I’d promised myself I would take before returning.

And then we were there, Café Verdi, a super-cute, upscale café in the middle of blank-looking apartment complexes.  We sat and thought about what we would drink in the 80 degree weather.  We were sweating, and it was too late for cappuccino.  “Something cold and wet” said the Ant.  I thought I could manage that.  By the looks of things, the locals were ordering fancy cocktails.  Not so much what we were looking for.

Even with our huge bags, it didn’t seem that we’d been noticed by the wait staff.  I walked in and ordered at the bar.  A sweet young guy helped me through the process.  “Qualcosa freddo, senza alcool?”  He was game, but the waitress had now noticed me, and commanded me back to the table.  So I smiled feebly and went back to wait for her.  “I guess we order at the table,” I told the Ant.

Carmine had told us he’d meet us in 30 minutes, and we were getting close to the time limit.  Eventually, though, the waitress came over to us.  We went through the same song and dance, and she came up with a good solution for us.  Orange juice.  Fantastic.  10 minutes later, we had fancy glasses of orange juice in front of us, and a plate of savory snacks.  We watched the locals scurrying across the busy street, wondering which one was Carmine.  Surely he would be able to find us by our big luggage.  When the phone rang, the Ant answered it, and I looked up to see if I could find someone on a phone.  There he was.  A stringy, well-dressed man who had walked by us a few minutes early.  We waved frantically to get his attention, and he jogged over, a big smile on his face, and a dictionary under his arm.

Over the next hour, Carmine showed his to his rental apartment, which resembled a beach house, with its adequate kitchen and sparsely decorated walls.  He also took us past the supermarket, the beaches, the public park and the pizza place across the street from Café Verdi.  We learned that he is a professor of Italian in the neighboring town of Eboli.  He inquired as to whether we ride bikes, and when I responded enthusiastically and lamented that I didn’t have one here, he showed us where his were locked up and promised to drop the key the next day so that we could ride in town.  Fabulous.

He bid us good bye and we bid him ciao, both trying our best.  Then it was time for food.  We put off grocery shopping in favor of pizza and headed down to Pizza Vesuvio.  15 minutes later we were eating pizzas, one with eggplant and one with bufala mozzarella.

We were happy.

Next, we located the Sisa grocery store, a major victory, as the walking paths and streets are vastly different in this part of town.   Past the cement church, and across the busy street we walked, pausing to smell the jasmine blossoms on the air.

I’ve always gotten a thrill out of shopping in Italy.  It’s a relatively safe environment in which to test my language skills.  I fell back into the routine I’d developed during my last trip to Italy.  We looked for the cornettta I was used to eating at the house in Fornacci, the yogurt, pomodoro sauce, pasta, and cheese.  We even picked out some local cookies.  The only thing I couldn’t get my hands on was pane coto nel forno a legna, though when I asked the deli clerk, she gave me a knowing look.  She told me they’d had it earlier, but they were all out.  Oh well.  We grabbed another loaf and headed out.  We’d make do for tonight.

Through the checkout stand, the greeting, total due, bagging and salutation.  We made it.  We even found our way back home, where, exhausted but  exhilarated, we prepared a humble dinner of pasta marinara, which we enjoyed on one of our excellent patios.

We even made some tea and ate our entire selection of sandwich cookies, comparing our favorites and trying to guess what the marmellata filling was.  I think we settled on peach.  Then we settled into our beds, doors and windows flung wide to take in the Salerno night.  For the next three weeks, we were home.

We woke early in Rome.  We’d slept with the shutters open, for air in the hot roman night, and for light.  The window was the only real source of either.  The hotel was on a busy street, Via Nazionale, and located near the Victor Emanuel monument and the Coliseum.  Good for sightseeing.  Not so good for sleeping.   It was also on some kind of route for emergency vehicles.  We went to sleep to the sound of sirens, and both woke about 5:30 to the sound of air brakes.  I rolled out of the canopy bed and walked to the window, the wood floors creaking under me.

No fewer than 6 fire engines were parked across the street.  I watched for a bit, giving the play-by-play to my aunt.  “Now they’re milling about.  Now I think they’re going to get cappuccino.  Now they’re walking back to the trucks.”

“Should we be worried?”

“No, let’s go back to sleep.  It’s a couple of hours until breakfast.”

Of course.  Food is the number one concern with my family.  So we put our heads back on the pillow, to dream of cappu and cornetta.  A couple of hours later, we’d packed up and were ready for breakfast.  “Colazione,” we practiced together.  Every meal is a vocab lesson for me, and so it is becoming for the Ant.  (An aside:  My aunt’s name is Leslie.  But we call her “the Ant.”  It’s kind of like her superhero name.)

We opted to walk down the flight of stairs to the lobby, rather than take the tiny elevator.  The hotel seemed pretty small the night before, but as we walked past the front desk, turning right, and then right again, it became clear that the three floors were jam packed with rooms.  Nearing the breakfast area, we passed a floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on a little courtyard.

One of the great things about a city like Rome, is that it’s been built up over the years.  Buildings are built around and on top of old buildings, with courtyards enclosed by bridges and all manner of maze-like scenes materializing.

Once in the breakfast area, we rushed the cereal table, making ourselves bowls of cornflakes and yogurt.  It seemed so very exotic in Rome.  The girl in charge of the room motioned to a little table, and we sat while she brought us plates of splendor.

Bread, and croissants, and pate, and cheese.  Along with the cereal and yogurt, and the cappuccini she was now making for us, this would be a great breakfast.  But, in addition, each table was equipped with what I consider the snack bin.  Most bed and breakfasts I’ve stayed in in Italy have something similar to this.  These are filled with nice, packaged items that can be tossed in a purse and pulled out later, like on a train, or in the Coliseum for a mid-day snack.

Ours had dry bread wafers, cookies, and nutella and jam packages.  We packed half of the bin into the Ant’s purse while we waited for our coffee.

Coffee.  We’d arrived late enough the day before that it was unseemly to have cappuccino.  So, this was our first.  It was lovely.  I could have had 3 more.  I didn’t.  But, in an indulgent act, I did spread the cheese and peach jam all over my bread.  Together.

Super yum.

When we were done, it was only 8:30.  We were packed up and ready to go with two hours on our hands.  We consulted the map and decided we could make a run to the Coliseum and still have time to catch the 10:40 train to Salerno.  We left our bags at the front desk and ventured out.

And we found a crowd.  I’d noticed signs the night before announcing that June 2 was Armed Forces Day (or something similar).  Evidently, this was a big deal.  The streets were closed off with barriers, and military personnel was everywhere.

We followed hordes of people down the streets toward the Coliseum, wondering what we would find.

Along with a stunning sky, we found the Coliseum closed off, and firemen standing on the outside of the structure.

Yeah, that was strange.  We looked over the ledge at the street below and saw what was clearly a parade route.  After standing for about 30 seconds, a cute-as-a-button motorcycle cop told us it wasn’t possible for us to stand where we were.  We refrained from pinching him and moved along, deciding that we’d better head back quickly if we wanted to get out of the city before the excitement began.

As much fun as it would have been to take in the parade with the locals, we really had no idea what we would be getting ourselves into, and we needed to be in Salerno.  So, we high-tailed it back up the street, around the barriers, and through the hordes of military, police, and spectators.

Once out of the area, we found the streets relatively calm, taking time to appreciate the beauty of Rome’s alleyways and grand piazzas.

We hiked back up to the lobby to retrieve our bags, and made one last trip in the little elevator.

Then we struck out on our own adventure, my giant drab backpack strapped to me, and the Ant’s purse stocked with rations for the day.

My first night back in Italy was spent in Rome.  Rome.  The eternal city.  I like to call it Romissimo, because it strikes me as the Texas of Italy:  everything is the biggest and best here.

Last time I was here, in December, it was my first time in the city.  I had spent 6 weeks hiking around the Tuscan country side, and a week in Venice, acclimating to the bustling and winding streets.  That is to say, I was a little prepared for Rome.  I only spent two nights that time, so I made sure to pack in as much as I could.  I spent 5 or 6 hours the first night walking through the city.  I was exhausted at the end, but I had been prepared.

But on this trip, my aunt and I decided to stop-over in Rome on our way south.  We had just one night.  So, starting at 6, we walked to our hotel, housed in an old pallazo.  We were greeted by an empty entry and a set of steep, marble stairs.

We looked around the tiny space and noticed an elevator.  At least, we noticed a tiny wood and glass door and a brass-plated call button.  We pushed the button, and the lights flickered on inside the little elevator car just behind the glass.  I froze.  I have recurring dreams.  This is one of them.  It’s not a nightmare, necessarily, but the riding up and down in little, teeny, wood and glass elevators that don’t completely work, is something that I do in my sleep.  It’s not something I really enjoy in my sleep.  I wasn’t sure how I’d handle it in my wake.

But this seemed to be working alright, so I looked at my aunt, took a deep breath and stepped inside.

It took some maneuvering to get us both in there with our luggage.  Like a sliding puzzle, there was one way for us to fit, and one way for us to get out.  I went in with my pack, and she followed, pushing her rolling suitcase in front of her so that she could reach out and pull the door shut.

Then we pushed the button and the little car lurched to life, coming to an abrupt stop at the second floor.  Given our large bags, we used the lift rather more than usual, and we became pretty good at the routine.  Though I never really got good at being completely comfortable in it.

Still, we were now at the hotel, and after check-in and a quick orientation, we headed to the room, a great, high-walled square with parquet floors and a painted, beamed ceiling , reminiscent of the palazzo it once was.

We were there just long enough to drop our stuff, lock our valuables in the makeshift safe/minibar, and head back out.  The breakfast from the plane was a distant memory, and my favorite pizza shop was waiting.

The night was hot and humid, so we didn’t even take jackets.  I only had 2 layers on, which is near crazy-talk for me.  Still, it felt like a night to live on the edge.  We walked briskly through the city, making a b-line for Piazza San Eustachio and it’s twirly spire overlooking Pizza Zaza and it’s little outdoor seating area.  Well, it was kind of a b-line.  We swung past the Trevi Fountain to toss our coins for a promised return, and the Pantheon to see its enormous columns at dusk.  And then we went around the corner to Zaza.

I could nearly hear a choir of angels singing when we walked into the piazza.  There it was.  Pizza.  We walked up to the little counter, and stood next to a police officer as he ordered.  The two of us sidled up and gawked at the great rectangles of cheese and bread.  I recognized the girl behind the counter, her sweet hardness comforting to me at the end of a long trip.  We ordered enough for three people and wondered aloud if it would be enough.  Then we filed past the state security agents that had arrived, their dark suits, sunglasses and earpieces standing out in the bright, little shop.

I’ve often thought back to the last time I was in Rome.  It feels like a dream, even now.  But one taste of the pizza told me it had been real.  I was back.  We were in Rome, eating pizza with church bells ringing in the background.

While we ate, I’m not sure how much we actually spoke.  We gestured and grunted, and the older Italian ladies with their perfect coifs and designer sunglasses chattered about us in low voices.  We didn’t stop until every morsel was consumed.

Zucchini, caprese, patata.  Each was as good as the last.  I licked the mozarella juice off of my fingers, not wanting to waste a drop.

Next, we decided to patronize Giolitti, the gelato shop I’d discovered last time around.  The huge shop wasn’t hard to find, just around the corner, with its enormous lighted sign, and groups of people milling about outside.

This time, there was no line.  There were no children to step in front of us.  Just an open case of beautiful gelato, and a bemused clerk.  The Ant picked out niocciolo (hazelnut) and marone glace.  I opted for the marone glace (something I’d had recommended to me in Venice, and has become one of my favorite gelato flavors), and then asked the gelato slinger what he thought would go well.  “You like cinnamon?”  Damn.  He was on to me.  I thought I had that phrase down pat.  I guess I’ll just have to eat more gelato to practice my phrase-work.  I told him that was good, and he went off to get my chocolate-dipped cone.  Mid-way to the cinnamon, he stopped, put his hand up and said, “No.  Fondante.  You like chocolate?”  He was sincere and absolute.  This was the better choice.  Well, of course I like chocolate.

I really enjoy asking for the food advice of people who work with the menu on a daily basis.  They have a much better sense of what will go well together.  This guy was no exception.

He handed over the beautiful cone and we walked out of the store, grinning at the clerk behind the register.  She returned a knowing smile, watching us licking at the supremely good gelato.  Taking a quick break, we stood outside the store in the growing dusk.  We decided we had enough energy to walk up the Corso to Piazza Del Popolo (perhaps you know this location from Angels and Demons) to see the twin churches.

They were as beautiful and haunting as I remembered.  We sat on the steps of the piazza’s central fountain and gazed up at the obelisk, one of 8 gazillion brought back from Egypt.

Choosing a side street, we made our way past the vendors selling lighted helicopter-like toys, spinning them high into the air and catching them again.  We found the crowds over to the Spanish Steps, named for the Spanish Embassy at the top.

The steps are beautiful, and the view from the top is pretty magnificent, but we had been traveling for about 30 hours and still had a lot to see.  So we skipped the climb and mad our way back across town to the carnival-like atmosphere of Piazza Navona and Campo di Fiori.

Piazza Navona is home to the Four Rivers Fountain (also of Angels and Demons fame), as well as two other, less famous fountains.  Tonight, it also played host to legions of artists showing their wares.  and a street performer who had gathered maybe 50 people to him as he rode a super-tall unicycle and juggled flaming swords.

Campo di Fiori houses a monument to Bruno, who was burned at the stake and canonized as a “saint” by the people for speaking his truth.  It also houses vendors of various types.  Tonight, it was inhabited by more vendors with the lighted toys. We sat for a moment and considered our escape route back to the hotel.  We weren’t far, but our feet were beginning to rebel.  After all, we’d been walking for about 5 hours in Rome alone, and hadn’t even had a cappuccino to keep us awake.

We followed a crowd of people out of the piazza and ended up walking past the Victor Emanuel monument – always impressive, and especially at night.

And then it was back up one of the hills and on to the hotel.  All in all, we only made one unintended circle, and had to ask for directions once.  Even then, we were on the right track.

As we climbed into the elevator one more time, we were relieved.  We had seen Rome.  A lot of it.  We’d tasted it, and heard it and touched it.  But we weren’t done with it.  We climbed into the big bed, under the high-painted ceiling, listening to the city continue on through the night, our window flung wide in the humid Roman night.  Romissimo indeed.