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.