Right Minded Online

“AFOOT and light-hearted I take to the open road, Healthy, free, the world before me, The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.” -Walt Whitman, “Song of the Open Road”

A young man alone finds himself several thousand miles from home. Wanting for sleep, yet excited by the promise of this adventure, whatever it may be, he looks out the side window of the aircraft as it descends. He will shortly walk on the soil and breathe the air of his first foreign land.

It is still dark, yet the first light of day awaits just beyond the horizon. The lights of the city are bright and stretch far into the distance, rising up the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. He is amazed that the passengers in the tiny automobiles and the residents of those innumerable apartments speak a tongue foreign to his.

The feelings he would experience, the novelty of this new country, the vivid memories he would forge here, especially during those first few hours and days, would be recalled affectionately forevermore. He would never be able to express them adequately in words. He would simply hold fast to those memories as stingily as he would hold fast to his hopes.

It was December 3, 1988, the day I arrived in Naples, Italy (Napoli, Italia) for a thirty-month stint as a Navy weather observer. The job was easy. The pay was adequate. It was an worthwhile medium, a duty assignment that brought me to Italy, the birthplace of my great-great-grandparents. I had come to explore. The results of that great exploration have led, after years of recollection, thought, and much futile endeavor, to the writing of this account.

The road was indeed open. Sadly, most American military personnel living in Naples were either repulsed by the city and the culture or allowed the barriers of language to close their roads. Their time in Italy was spent in misery and boredom. Toward persons like them, I have always had feelings of contempt.

Nearly four-and-one-half years after I left Italy, I returned with my wife for a twelve day, eleven night whirl through three of Italy’s great cities — Rome, Florence, and Venice — and at great cost. Years before, the military had put me there for free. My sole requirement was to step onto the open road and choose the destination.

I have always wanted to write a book about Italy. I started many times prior to this endeavor, but could never get far. In the beginning, I had the idea of tracing a fictitious family through the generations of some of Italy’s most significant times — ancient Rome, the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD, the establishment of the Church, the foundation of Venice, the remarkable life of St. Francis of Assisi, the writings of Dante and Petrarch, the Renaissance in Florence, the music of Vivaldi, the discoveries of Galileo, the opera, the Risorgimento, the world wars, the disastrous 1966 flood of Florence, and the crippling earthquake of 1980 near Naples. But the complexity of Italian history, I soon discovered, would render this project far too difficult and time-consuming for me to accomplish.

I did complete one story, however, a novella, really, dealing with Roman Jews during the Holocaust. This would have represented one chapter of my monolithic historical fiction. But, alas, it was never to be. The story is entitled “This Was Not My Home.”

Now, finally, nearly sixteen years after that December day, I have at last concluded the endeavor of capturing my experience in words as best I can. Words often cannot express adequately one’s thoughts and emotions. That is true for me. In places, this account will fall woefully short of surmising those thirty months. In some places, words will indeed be able to express what that young man felt.

This account was written as much for myself as for the reader. Since I failed to maintain a journal, the years since I departed Naples on May 27, 1991 have been filled with tedious recollection of incidents. Many notebooks were filled with stories, both factual and fictitious, fragments from letters, and scrapbook items, some rather menial, some quite significant.

I have included as much detail as possible, including a list of every restaurant and hotel in Europe I remember patronizing. Sometimes this endeavor was reduced to including the prices of meals and the distance of train trips in lieu of observations which would have more meaningful. But, not having kept a journal, many of those observations were lost. Nevertheless, I was starved for detail, and was willing to include whatever I could find.

In no way have I discussed everything. However, I do feel I have adequately reconstructed the journal I should have kept during those thirty months. It was my endeavor to produce this work before lingering memories became too dull. Indeed, every worthwhile event I have been able to recall has been included here.

The fire lit during that time I hope shall never die, for every young man should endeavor to explore a different part of the world before he settles. Though I have never enjoyed life as much as now, I pray the great journey I forged then shall never fade from memory. It is a journey I wish to pass to whomever wishes to read of it.

December 3, 1988

I arrived in Naples, Italy around 6:30 this morning. There is a long waiting list for rooms in the barracks, so I’ll be in the Hotel Hideaway across the street from the naval base at Agnano (a suburb west of Naples located in a nearly symmetrical, three-kilometer-wide crater) for a little while. I have a private room. The Hideaway (a peculiar name for an Italian hotel) is not as nice as its next-door neighbor, the American Hotel, but the latter, alas, is without vacancy.

Someone was waiting for me at the air terminal. I was taken to Agnano, checked into the hotel, shown around the base, then driven to the ancient town of Pompeii. The site, a huge tourist attraction, is now in ruins.

The weather here is warm. It was raining at first, but has since cleared somewhat, although the sky remains gray.

Now on to Pompeii.

I recall sitting in my sixth grade class one afternoon. We watched a film, about a half-hour. The topic was Pompeii. Before this moment, I had never heard of Pompeii. After the film, I would never forget it.

The narrator presented an awesome story. It was the story of a thriving community of perhaps twenty thousand situated near the west coast of southern Italy. This town was destroyed one August day in 79 AD by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius. The town lay buried under a thick blanket of hardened ash for some seventeen centuries before being discovered.

At first, I thought the story to be a fraud, some fairy tale simply meant to capture my fancy, like Cinderella or Snow White. But the pictures of those hollow remains were real. This was no fake. How could something so old still exist? And what about all those people buried under the molten ash? How did they die?

Of course, I never imagined I would see Pompeii other than in film or photograph. It was so foreign. How could any sixth-grader living in rural Tennessee ever imagine he will see something like that? But less than seven years later, I would do just that.

Pompeii represents my first adventure in Italy. I was overwhelmed by simply being in my first foreign country, and this little visit only compounded my amazement. It was my welcome.

The modern town, Pompei, is built up to the very doorstep of the ancient city. (Interestingly, the modern town is spelled “Pompei.” The ancient is “Pompeii.”) One can walk out of a bar, café or restaurant, cross a street with moving automobiles, then walk through the iron gate to view the ancient wonder.

The train will also deposit one near another gate as the remaining passengers gaze at a fragment of the ruins through the windows.

Entering the ancient town, I did not know where to begin, simply following the couple, Arthur and Susan, who had brought me. The exploration was haphazard and aimless. However, we, not being archaeologists, felt little obligation to organize the exploration. I, like the others, merely wanted to search.

The amphitheater, largely intact, was perhaps most amazing. The ovular structure seated twelve thousand. Grass now grows between the infinite cracks in the bleachers. The floor of the amphitheater is largely dirt, a few grass patches here and there. A walk up the seats to the rim gave an unhindered view of that omnipotent creature, Mount Vesuvius, several kilometers distant. It seemed so far away. I could not fathom such a large volume of ash being hurled that distance. The power of nature, when its fury is fully unleashed, is truly awesome.

Back on the ground, we walked into homes whose interiors were dark and cool. I could not imagine living here (when Pompeii was still inhabited), although I tried. In one home stood jars of clay. In another home, I stood transfixed at a color mural depicting a young man and woman. Its color was still vivid. Having been buried under ash for some seventeen centuries, then exposed to the harsh weather the long years since, how could its color still be so vivid?

In several of the residences, there are color murals, many in rather good shape. I was amazed that anything other than the hard, colorless stones survived. Indeed, these ancient Pompeiians (or the slaves they ruled) were excellent builders. The remains are still quite sturdy, some almost habitable.

In a large piazza stand the pillars of the old forum. And there was Mount Vesuvius standing in the distance at one end. I imagined it smoldering, shooting fire into the sky. I imagined ash falling like hot raindrops, accumulating like snowflakes.

A theater is built into the ground and forms a half-circle. We walked to the top and sat, looking down at the stage. Behind lurked Mount Vesuvius.

Across the way from the great amphitheater is a large field surrounded by a low stone fence and bordered in some places by what appeared to be stables. Trees grow about the perimeter, although sunlight strikes the field in abundance. This was where the gladiators trained. I imagined them, decked in armor, riding horses at breakneck speed, and feigning to thrust their spears at oncoming opponents, then riding away unharmed.

A wooden shed stands near the edge of the site, largely ignored. In it are stored several marble statues, parts of dismembered marble statues, and other apparently worthless goodies collected during the years as they were unearthed. I do not understand how anything so old and created by ancient man could not be regarded a treasure.

In another building, enclosed in glass, are plaster casts of some who perished. During the excavation, hollow areas in the hardened ash formed by corpses, long ago disintegrated, were filled with plaster, in order that the likeness of the corpse be created. When dried, the casts were lifted out and some placed here. There is a man writhing in pain, his forearm shielding his eyes. There is a dog, twisting its limbs in futile self-defense. The casts are haunting. Indeed, the pain of this death became real. To say that thousands perished in a volcano almost two thousand years ago seems ananymous and remote. But to see the death is to make the torment fresh, and one is impressed by the suffering and destruction.

We visited the House of the Faun, one of the more famous residences in Pompeii. All that remains are the floor, a few pillars, and a statue of the dancing faun. Judging simply by the appearance of the marble floor, the House of the Faun must have been a ritzy place. Most of the houses we saw were ordinary, containing no marble floors and certainly no columns. Most curious (and humorous) was the statue of the dancing Faun in the middle of the floor, set down a few inches from the main floor level. It was real, a two-thousand-year-old, one-half-meter-tall statue, surrounded by a rope barrier, standing in the center of a shell of what once must have been a grand residence in the midst of perhaps the most famous ruins in the world. (And in the background stood Mount Vesuvius.)

We wandered a little longer, visiting more homes. Some we had visited earlier. Should I have charted our course, it would have made a completely unorganized track. But what a day I had enjoyed. It was getting late and a little cool. We walked in the general direction of the gate through which we had entered.

Before leaving the site, we visited the souvenir shop, then got drinks in a nearby bar before leaving for Naples.

December 5, 1988

Today was my area orientation, an all-day seminar held in the base theater. We heard from several people about this and that, and I also received a driver’s license.

December 10, 1988

Everybody in Naples drives terribly. Actually, I am quite enjoying myself. I just returned from dinner at Gigetta in Pozzuoli where I enjoyed insalata caprese, linguini with shrimp (linguini allo scampi) and a couple of glasses of white wine (vino bianco). I have stayed inside only one day since I’ve been here, and that was to sleep.

Agnano is a curious place. Sulfur fumes penetrate the air quite heavily here. A pungent smell awaits me most mornings as I leave my hotel room.

Meanwhile, outside the naval base are several Carabinieri, an elite police force. They man an armored truck. One man sits with his head protruding through a hole in the roof, like an army tank, manning an uzi. At least two normally patrol the sidewalk immediately outside the gated base, also bearing such weapons. We are told strictly never to photograph them, or they will shoot first, then ask questions later. This I question, although I have not been tempted to try.

December 13, 1988

Last night I ventured out into the wilds of Naples alone for the first time. Of course, I went for dinner to Il Fantino, which is about a mile from the Hideaway. I had a folded pizza (ripieno) stuffed with cheese (formaggio), mushrooms (funghi), ham (prosciutto), and many other things.

Il Fantino is an eloquent, albeit tiny, traditional Italian restaurant. Because of its proximity to the naval base, it is frequented by many Americans. The pizza oven is located next to the dining area, and provides much warmth. The place is not very well lit, and is decorated by soccer paraphernalia celebrating Italy’s World Cup victory in 1982. On one wall hangs a picture of a magician. The proprietor is a middle-aged, heavily mustachioed man.

As an appetizer (antipasto), the guest is brought a plate of olives (ulivi), bruscetta, and other items.

I have also discovered caprese, a dish typically served as an antipasto. It consists of slices of fresh mozzarella made from buffalo milk (mozzarella di bufalo) and tomato (pomodoro) garnished with olive oil (olio di ulivo) and basil (basilico). Caprese is a true gastronomic treat.

December 16, 1988

I went to Il Fantino again. I had, for the first time since I’ve been here, ravioli. They were about half the size of grandmother’s. Although they were good, they were a little salty and not as good as hers.

December 17, 1988

I went out to eat last night by myself at Il Fantino. I enjoyed spaghetti with boiled clams (soute di vongole) and ravioli.

December 20, 1988

I went into the city this morning to a shopping area. It is indeed very different here.

December 22, 1988

I went out to eat last night. After the meal, I enjoyed my first taste of amoretto.

December 28, 1988

I moved out of the Hideaway and into the barracks at the Capodichino airport today. Capodichino is a suburb northeast of Naples. The weather office is located at the small detachment base there, along with the barracks.

January 1, 1989

My first New Year’s Eve in Naples was a memorable one. I spent the evening out, having taken the bus from Capodichino to Agnano. Unbeknownst to me, however, the buses were operating on a special schedule, so my return trip to Capodichino was delayed several hours.

I whittled away the time slowly, greeting the new year while sitting in the vestibule of the American Hotel. It was a very cool evening, and I desperately wanted to return to my room in the barracks. Both the Hideaway and American Hotels were without vacancy, so my only option was to wait for the bus.

We finally left Agnano around two o’clock this morning. What awaited us on the bypass (tangenziale) was mayhem. Because of the unrestricted fireworks during the evening across the city, the combination of smoke and fog had reduced the visibility to near zero. There were several multiple-vehicle pile-ups along the tangenziale. The bus was forced to creep along slowly. What should have required perhaps fifteen minutes took around forty-five. Fortunately, though, we arrived at Capodichino safely. I was very relieved.

January 4, 1989

It was a mild morning today as I walked uphill along Via Scarfoglio, the road leading to the naval base at Agnano. It was a steep climb. Soon I passed from civilization and stood upon the rim of the crater, enjoying a panorama of the neighborhood. The odor of sulfur fumes was quite pungent.

Soon the rocky path I followed became nearly impassable, but I stumbled my way to a grassy foot trail where the sun was warm and the wind was restrained by thickets of brush. Filled with uncertainty, for I knew not where I was, nor where I was going, I hoped my destination would be worthwhile.

I soon encountered, quite accidentally, a small shack where an old man was working his garden. I did not know whether he saw me or not. Being curious, I continued along the trail.

I reached civilization not long afterward. I approached a ravaged structure set apart from the road ahead. It was a deserted, two-story building. Perhaps it had once been a public building. I was too apprehensive to enter, and only from a distance did I peer through the broken window panes. I was in Pozzuoli.

Meanwhile, I began my lengthy descent to the sea front, stopping briefly at a clearing to admire the Bay of Pozzuoli. The streets were narrow, rough, and typically busy. I was unsure of my location, but following the streets continually downward, I would soon arrive there.

Near the waterfront is a small ruins site, perhaps once a marketplace. After exploring this section of town at some length, I took the train to Bagnoli. I must have walked fifteen kilometers.

January 5, 1989

I went last night with my friend Ron and three others to O’Calamaro. It is in the neighborhood of Bagnoli, a suburb west of Naples, about three kilometers from Agnano, and is the best restaurant I have been to thus far.

January 12, 1989

The one night I didn’t go out to eat, I was in Pompeii almost all day. This time, I enjoyed lunch at the small restaurant located on the grounds, a tavola calda (literally “hot table,” or a cafeteria-style eatery), the Ristorante Internazionale. The dining room was filled with Japanese tourists. I sat at a table by myself. The chairs were all orange plastic. I enjoyed caprese, a pasta dish, bread, and a coke, which came to around Lit. 15,000 ($12). It was not a five-star delicacy, but it served its purpose.

I recently managed two solo dining experiences in Pozzuoli. First, I dined at Il Capitale, a large place located on the waterfront. I was not very impressed. The restaurant was too airy, and the caprese was unremarkable. I did enjoy the fish tanks, though.

Next, a few nights ago, I enjoyed dinner at Don Antonio, a tiny restaurant set a few streets off the waterfront. My friend, Ron, had mentioned wanting to dine there. I guess my greatest thrill was simply eating in a place he hadn’t.

A large, extremely courteous man was sitting at one of the few tables. I didn’t ask whether he was Don Antonio. He greeted me profusely and brought me a menu. He and I were the only ones in the dining room. I ordered spaghetti alle vongole (spaghetti with sautéed clams, plus a lot of olive oil), white house wine, and, of course, a basket of bread. It was a good meal. While there, a couple entered and went upstairs to dine. I remained essentially alone. The bill totaled only Lit. 7,000 ($6), which surprised me. I had expected a bill much larger. I paid, then walked around town some before returning to the train station.

Meanwhile, last Saturday, January 7, I went with a friend, Charlie, to the small town of Sorrento, some fifty-five kilometers south of Naples. We enjoyed excellent pizza and crocche (a fried treat consisting of potato and cheese) at a tavola calda, Angelina Lauro, which is on a piazza bearing the same name, a one-minute walk from the train station. We then visited the English Pub for cappuccino. Afterward, we stopped by a pastry bar near the train station for pastries resembling waffles, and, of course, more cappuccino. We returned on the last train to Naples, arriving early Sunday morning. We sat next in a car with a group of teenaged boys who sang much of the journey.

I left again at eleven o’clock Sunday, January 8, for Pompeii, where I spent much of the day.

January 13, 1989

Today, I completed the four-day seminar “Intercultural Relations.” It was taught by two Italian ladies. The first two days we spent in a classroom in the basement of the barracks at the Agnano base. We learned a little about the Italian culture. The final two days we spent in the city.

Yesterday, our trip was very organized. We began by taking the city bus from the busy corner of Via Scarfoglio and Via Agnano agli Astroni, near the Agnano base, to just outside the NATO base. We then walked the short distance to the subway station at Bagnoli, and took the subway to Campi Flegrei, where we took breakfast in a corner bar located near the train station. Afterward, we took a streetcar to Mergellina (where we saw a Communist Party headquarters). We ate together in a nearby restaurant, and took ice cream in a neighborhood gelateria (ice cream shop) during the afternoon. At the end of the day, we took the bus back to our starting point in Agnano.

Today, we went to the market at Piazza Garibaldi and visited the train station. We then took the bus to Piazza Plebiscito. After visiting the Gran Caffé, across the street from Teatro San Carlo (San Carlo Theater, the opera house), we took tours of the theater and the adjacent Palazzo Reale (Royal Palace). Afterward, we took the funicolare (cable car) across the street from Galleria Umberto (Umberto Gallery) to Vomero.

There, the group split up for a while. I ate lunch with a few others in a pizzeria, where I enjoyed a calzone (folded pizza). Outside an Alfa Romeo showroom, I negotiated with a street vendor over a red plaid scarf. I purchased it for Lit. 10,000 ($8). We shook hands after the routine.

January 15, 1989

I have been in Italy six weeks. Before yesterday, ignoring a couple of trips to Pompeii, a trip to Sorrento, and a few explorations of Naples and Pozzuoli, I had been nowhere. I had grown restless.

Although not a master of the Italian language, I set out yesterday to prove to myself that, yes, I am a traveler, a seeker of great adventure. Fields of wild oats yet to be sown, curious eyes longing for sights of that great adventure I had imagined, I decided to test the waters and see what I could find.

I began my adventure by taking the bus from Capodichino to Agnano. A second bus then carried me from Agnano to the NATO base. I then made the short walk to the Bagnoli station and rode the subway to Napoli Centrale (Naples Central) at Piazza Garibaldi, the main train station in this city.

I purchased a ticket, then sought the train that would carry me to Rome (Roma). As I walked along the platform adjacent to the train I would board, a man I assumed worked for the train company, Ferrovie dello Stato, or F.S., took my bag and ticket and graciously offered to show me aboard. I was amused by his willingness to take time from his duties to do me this courtesy.

After he had shown me aboard an empty second class car, he pulled out a billfold showing a twenty dollar bill. It took me only a few seconds to realize he was demanding I tip him twenty American dollars for his menial endeavor, which took perhaps a minute. I balked at such an exorbitant demand. I offered five thousand lire (Lit. 5,000, or $4), to get him off my back. He was visibly upset, but waved me off and left the train. I had learned my first lesson of traveling in Italy. I will forevermore refuse all such acts of “gratuity,” and carry my own bags and find my own seat.

The train departed for Rome shortly after noon.

The Apennines lie from north to south along Italy’s interior. From the main rail line between Naples and Rome on a clear day, they can be viewed to the east.

It was during this trip I experienced my first “travel compulsion,” the nearly overwhelming desire to explore every town lying along the rail line. Towns nestled within the crook of each hill, great cliffs overhanging, were provoking, and should a more compelling destination not have lain ahead, I would have been tempted to stagger my journey between train stops.

The three-hour journey between the two cities passed quite pleasantly, despite my anxiety. Numerous stops added perhaps an hour to the journey. (Taking the espresso or rapido would have reduced the stops to a select few, or even none.) I had taken the diretto, sometimes preferred to the faster modes. Why hurry? Rome has existed more than twenty-seven hundred years.

Soon after we left the industrial suburb of Campoleone, the outskirts of Rome became visible. The remains of ancient walls alluded to the proximity of the Eternal City. These were not the ancient walls which once surrounded the city, as I had initially assumed. (I would see their remains later.) The moment the train entered Rome was thrilling.

After entering Rome, the train crept along the tracks toward the station, Roma Termini. Soon the single rail became two, then four, then ten, then twenty. They zigzag across each other in strange patterns. Finally, I saw blue signs reading “Roma Termini,” that monolithic train station, surely one of the largest in all of Europe, and the lifeblood of downtown Rome.

The train at last stopped, the doors opened, and I walked into the massive station. I had arrived. I could not believe I was here.

Hotel Palladium stands about three blocks southwest of Roma Termini, at the intersection of Via Gioberti and Via Napoleone III. Fortunately, the proprietor spoke English, for my Italian is essentially nonexistent, less a few key words and phrases. The rooms are nice, many facing Via Gioberti, a major thoroughfare in this neighborhood, carrying sojourners from the train station toward the ancient quarters.

In my room, I opened the window and pushed apart the green shutters. The street was one floor below. I looked right and saw Roma Termini three blocks distant. I watched the traffic and pedestrians. Men were standing in a bar across the street. The letters above the doorway of the bar were orange. (I took my breakfast there this morning.)

Back in the hotel lobby, I was presented with a very nice map of Rome. I asked for directions to the Vatican City. Simply take Line A to the end. I determined it would be too much to tackle so late in the afternoon. (I would go there this morning.) I presently sought that famous structure which had fascinated me for so long, the Flavian Amphitheater, better known as “The Coliseum.”

Walking along the streets of Rome’s ancient neighborhoods was unforgettable. I walked past a rosticceria where whole chickens were roasting. They were tantalizing. I was hungry, although at five o’clock dinner was still some two hours away. (Even then I would be one of the first to dine.)

I passed the huge Santa Maria Maggiore (St. Mary Major). I did not enter. It faces a busy intersection, and I felt lucky to cross the street without incident.

I knew the direction of the Coliseum, and tried to direct my walk accordingly. I knew I was headed toward the general vicinity. “Just follow the setting sun,” I told myself. My path became a crooked one. I drifted too far to the right, I thought, then compensated by turning left when perhaps I should have maintained my course. I was worried I would not find the Coliseum, but assured myself that one doesn’t come this far only to meet failure. I was destined to find my way.

My roundabout walk carried me into the Laterano neighborhood, and, quite by accident, to San Giovanni in Laterano (St. John’s in Lateran), Rome’s greatest church outside the Vatican. In fact, San Giovanni in Laterano was the seat of the papacy for many centuries, and is still the cathedral of Rome, with the pope as its bishop. Here I asked directions from an American just outside the church.

I first saw the ancient structure while walking along Via San Giovanni in Laterano. With the sun setting on the opposite side of that monstrosity, I found myself facing a dilapidated yet amazingly intact ancient Roman amphitheater. How queer, I thought, to be staring at that landmark juxtaposed against its modern backdrop, new roadways encroaching upon its doorstep.

The gates allowing passage into the Coliseum were locked. I managed to catch glimpses of its eerie interior through stingy openings. A few careless photographs failed to capture its majesty. But that first photograph, that first impression, taken from the lee side of a hill across the street, the sun just above the horizon on the opposite side of the Coliseum, represents the glory I felt that afternoon.

Edgar Allan Poe’s great poem, “The Coliseum,” particularly the fourth verse, the observer’s despondent soliloquy, I have always found tantalizing. How adequately Poe captured his emotions that day. Should I ever choose my words so properly, both I and my subject would be truly lucky.

“But stay! these walls- these ivy-clad arcades-
These moldering plinths- these sad and blackened shafts-
These vague entablatures- this crumbling frieze-
These shattered cornices- this wreck- this ruin-
These stones- alas! these gray stones- are they all-
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?”

In what splendor did it stand, despite its pallor, its detail having been worn away by two thousand years, much as that of a river changing the landscape as it carves its channel deeper into the earth, or as a sculptor sets his chisel to marble, scraping away the matter, transforming its shape. Yet the river may dig a deep, wondrous canyon. The sculptor may carve a fine statue. What has been left here is vague and unadorned. (Poe writes of the inevitable decay not as it affects the entire structure, but as that decay seeps into the walls and arcades, the plinths and shafts, the entablatures and friezes, the cornices as though the decay were a cancer. Yet the echoes, those redeeming, resilient echoes that answer the lamenting observer in “The Coliseum” offer a voice invigorated by optimism. I, too, was optimistic.)

“Not all”- the Echoes answer me- “not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men- we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent- we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone- not all our fame-
Not all the magic of our high renown-
Not all the wonder that encircles us-
Not all the mysteries that in us lie-
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”

Shortly after sunset, around six o’clock, I took a snack in a café a block or so northeast of Roma Termini. I could not wait for dinner. However, since I had not paid the surcharge for seating, the proprietor would not allow me to sit, although there was no one else present. (Italians seem very concerned about this.)

Later, to a restaurant two or three blocks northeast of Roma Termini, I went for dinner. I do not recall why I chose this restaurant over any other.

I took five courses, an antipasto, pasta, steak, salad, and dessert, as well as white house wine (vino bianco di casa).

The bill totaled Lit. 37,000 ($30). I was shocked and ashamed of my own gluttony, to have gorged myself. But why? The food was splendid, the service good, the clientele sparse. I paid the bill after much embarrassment and walked back to the hotel for sleep. What a momentous day it had been. Had I not deserved such a treat?

I awoke around five o’clock this morning. It was still dark. I wondered for a moment where I was. Ah, yes, Roma, the Eternal. I had been awakened by an electric spark below my window. An trolley car had passed and obviously crossed a portion of its overhead wire which caused it to spark. I fell asleep, but awoke a half-hour later to the same noise. There were also a few cars roaming about the darkened city. It was peaceful to me.

The shower was odd. There was simply a drain in the floor, little slope, no curtain, and a nozzle protruding from the wall. It seemed to take several minutes to adjust the water to its correct temperature. I was careful not to run the water too fast or too long for fear I might flood the rest of the room.

After taking breakfast in the bar across the street on this bright and cool Sunday morning, I took subway Line A from Roma Termini to Ottaviano. There are shops along both sides of the street leading south. Ahead I saw large stone columns and wondered if they marked the entrance to the Vatican City.

The walk was several blocks. I passed a street market along the way. There were several Hard Rock Café shirts for sale. Some shirts depicted the Pope. One vendor had a load of shoes. They were not in pairs. Should one find a particular shoe he liked, he would have to dig for the matching shoe to make a pair. Alongside the wall dividing the Vatican Museum from the street sat a man roasting chestnuts.

Finally, I came upon St. Peter’s Square. Its massivity is indescribable. It was virtually empty. There are fountains and several wandering pigeons. The piazza floor is made of brick. There must be millions of bricks. How many persons can fit into the piazza? A quarter of a million? Standing at one end of the piazza, the cathedral seemed far away. Yet it was so large I could almost touch it. The piazza is encircled by those large columns. One must walk through them to enter, but at the south end of the piazza, opposite the cathedral, they open to a wide thoroughfare.

I was surrounded by the neighborhood called Trastevere, the traditional Jewish working quarters. Trastevere takes part of its name from that historical river it straddles, the Tevere (Tiber). Most of the neighborhood lies south of the Vatican. It is noted, like all of Rome, for its antiquity. Its streets are quite narrow, even by Italian standards.

Although it is middle January, a life-sized nativity scene still adorns the piazza. It faces south, away from the cathedral. I had never before seen a nativity so large. Everything about the Vatican is oversized. I felt like Jack after climbing the beanstalk and entering the land of the giants.

Nothing could prepare me for my first peek into St. Peter’s Cathedral. There are no adjectives in the English language that justify. The interior can seat upwards of twenty thousand. There is a large central nave with several smaller chapels leading off the nave. It is dark and cool. The interior is filled with innumerable statues and paintings. One of Michelangelo’s Pietas is here. It is white and encased in glass. (Several years earlier, some lunatic attacked the five-hundred-year-old sculpture with a hammer.) How a sad, I thought, a mother holding the corpse of her son. Even in marble, Mary is alive. Jesus appears lifeless. He is limp in her arms. He could collapse onto the ground any moment. Such is the magic of Michelangelo.

Beneath the floor is the crypt of St. Peter, the first Pope, the founder of the Catholic Church. This is the same Peter who denied Jesus three times the night before he died. He was martyred on the slopes of the Vatican Hill. How intriguing, I thought, to view the crypt of a biblical character. To say something is two thousand years old is impressive, but hardly personal. It is a number, like two or two hundred. But to personalize something that old, to say there is the crypt of one who is mentioned in the Bible, is indeed remarkable.

One could literally break his neck looking upward into the dome. Its pinnacle reaches more than 120 meters above the ground. At its very top and around its interior are paintings and other designs. Also, surrounding the tops of the walls are Latin engravings. The letters themselves are nearly two meters tall, yet from the floor they appear tiny, easily legible, but one could never imagine they are almost as tall as a person. (I am always amused that the Latin “u” resembles our “v.” The name “Paulus,” therefore, reads “Pavlvs.”)

I admittedly did not see much of Rome this first trip. Of course, I was in Rome less than twenty-four hours, but what a memorable journey. I saw places and things I never imagined I would see. I ate in an authentic Italian restaurant, took cappuccino and pastry in an Italian bar for breakfast, slept in an Italian hotel room. I am encouraged, even obsessed, to see and do more, travel to more distant cities. This trip was more than success or achievement. It was one little victory.

January 24, 1989

I went to Ercolano today. It is six kilometers south of Naples. It is here lies the ancient town of Herculaneum. It was destroyed in the same eruption as Pompeii, although it is better preserved. Herculaneum, named after its patron deity, Hercules, is much smaller (perhaps one-fourth the size) than Pompeii.

Interestingly, there were at least three stettlements destroyed by the eruption of 79 AD (Stabiae, for which the present Castellammare di Stabia is named, being the third).

Like the modern town of Pompei, the fringes of Ercolano reach the doorstep of Herculaneum. There are ruins that have yet to be unearthed. The modern town, like so many other towns in the region surrounding the ancient volcano, was built on the hardened mud that so altered the landscape.

So deep was the deposit that one stands at the entrance to Herculaneum and has an unparalleled panoramic view of the excavations several meters below him. The visitor must then follow a descending ramp to enter the ruins. Once there, he can look up to see the modern town, and farther up, the great, omnipresent Mount Vesuvius.

Guides are prevalent, and they don’t bother asking if you wish to employ them. They simply start talking. Only when one claims he has no money to pay them do they retreat. I prefer to be my own guide, to walk at my own pace.

Herculaneum is a much lovelier site than Pompeii. Here there is more grass, more trees. The structures are closer together, whereas Pompeii affords more space. The murals are more colorful, the streets narrower, the buildings better preserved. True, there are no grand structures like the amphitheater, the gladiators’ training grounds, or the forum. But the site here is quaint, the homes more habitable. A sundial gives the hour, and one wonders just how many hours it has seen.

My tour of Herculaneum was very well organized. The town is much more compact and logical, not spread out unevenly. One can walk up and down the streets like the aisles of a supermarket and observe everything. One has a better sense of accomplishment, a better sense of the place. It is understandable.

I was impressed by the number of baths, and appreciate the Herculanians understanding of plumbing. Their engineering was anything but primitive. Perhaps when the baths were filled with steaming water, those stone structures were transformed into saunas.

I love courtyards, and found one in the House of the Deer. The courtyard is small, surrounded on three sides by the low, colorful building. In the middle, surrounded by rope, is a table with feline busts carved into the legs. It is a peaceful place, with a commanding view, and I imagined some rich paterfamilias resting here comfortably, his servants bringing him spirits and sweets. A small statue of a drunken Hercules sitting on a podium in one of the darkened rooms of this building suggests the eccentricity of the residents. (It is not exactly fine art.) Maybe they were all simply a product of this age.

After finishing my rather thorough tour of Herculaneum, which lasted perhaps an hour, maybe a little more, I began my walk back up the steep path leading to the front gate and the modern town. I wondered what might still be buried under those streets and apartment buildings, what treasures might still remain. Then I wondered, will we ever know? And does it really matter? Perhaps this mystery, the possibilities of this great unknown, perhaps this is the greatest treasure.

I appreciate what has been unearthed already. I appreciate the quaint modern town. Perhaps in two more millennia, in, say, 3989 AD, I, too, will be unearthed. I am sure Mount Vesuvius will still be there, surveying the great land she has subdued. Any day it could rain ash again. And then this world we take for granted will become someone else’s treasure.

January 24, 1989

After returning to Napoli Centrale from Ercolano this afternoon, I took the subway to Bagnoli instead of taking the bus to Capodichino.

January 28, 1989

After I got off work Thursday night, January 26, Charlie and I walked to the civilian airport and caught a taxi to Napoli Centrale. At 8:45, we were on our way to Pisa.

The train was rather full early, although the crowd waned gradually with each stop. I sat across from a fellow about my age. He spoke to me in English, and asked my age. “Nineteen,” I replied. He thought I was crazy. “No,” he said with a wry smile. He asked again. “Nineteen,” I repeated a little more clearly. Again he gave the same reaction. Finally, somewhat exasperated, I replied, “Nineteen. Diciannove.” Then he understood. He thought I had been saying “ninety” instead of “nineteen.”

The diretto made many stops along the way. Charlie and I eventually had the compartment to ourselves. After departing Rome, I stretched out across one row of seats, covering myself with my jacket. But we could not keep one of the windows closed, so the compartment kept getting cold, making sleep difficult.

I got up and roamed around the train car as we wound northward along the coast of Tuscany. Finding a map of Italy on the wall of the passageway, almost directly across from our compartment, I checked our location. At Grosseto, I knew we had a good way to go. By Livorno, I started getting excited.

We arrived at Pisa Centrale at 2:50 in the morning. Considering it is 550 kilometers north of Naples, the train made good time. We found a vacancy at Hotel la Pace, a three-star hotel very close to the train station. (It was the first hotel we found.) Upon checking in, the clerk requested our identification, so we handed over our military identification cards, which made me apprehensive. Charlie assured me it would be okay.

We slept until 9:00, then went to see the tower, recovering our identification cards on the way out.

The Leaning Tower of Pisa is about 900 years old. It was not as tall as I thought it would be (55 meters). I made several photographs from the ground, then walked up the winding steps to the top. Walking to the top of the tower is like getting up in the morning. One moment I found myself leaning forward, then to the right, backward, left, etc. (Charlie kept muttering “tilt, tilt, does not compute.”) Once atop the tower, I, invariably, was afforded a splendid view of the town.

For lunch, I had mediocre cheese-filled ravioli in a restaurant on Piazza della Repubblica, not far from the hotel. But for dinner I discovered an excellent dish of lasagna at a nearby restaurant located on the same piazza at the junction of Via M. d’Azeglio and Via R. Zandonai. (I envision myself someday boarding a train to Pisa, ordering that lasagna, then immediately returning to Naples.)

At night we went window shopping along Corso Italia between Piazza della Repubblica and the Arno River, taking interest in one of the novelty shops there. I tried on numerous occasions to telephone home during the evening, but could never seem to get a line out of Italy. I was extremely frustrated.

We walked around a little this morning, taking breakfast (pastries and cappuccino) in a bar near the hotel. We then went to view the leaning tower again, taking cappuccino while sitting at an outside table at a corner bar located close to the tower. Walking back toward the train station, we took a third cappuccino while sitting in a bar near the station. By now it was 9:30.

We departed Pisa around 10:50 for the six-hour journey to Naples. The day was sunny and the trip enjoyable.

January 29, 1989

I made a recent trip to Herculaneum.

February 12, 1989

I made my second trip to Rome yesterday. A friend, Rick, and I arrived at Napoli Centrale, following a hair-raising mid-morning taxi ride from the other side of town. The driver charged us Lit. 20,000 ($16), a reasonable fare. Of course, we were a few minutes late for the 9:15 departure, and had to wait for the next train, which left shortly after noon. Normally, trains depart at least once per hour for Rome, although this late morning gap spans some three hours.

We therefore roamed about Piazza Garibaldi for a time. We entered a music store where I purchased a compact disc, and had an early lunch in the nearby restuarant of Hotel Cavour, which opens onto the piazza. I did not realize it at first, but I had eaten here one evening a few weeks ago with Charlie in an adjacent dining room.

Rick and I finally departed, and enjoyed the ride to Rome, although it turned cloudy along the way. Once there, we checked into Hotel Palladium, then set out for the Coliseum.

Exploring the interior of the Coliseum was a novel experience. An incoherent arrangement of stone and marble ignites one’s imagination of how all must have been when the ancients gathered here.

(Is it not intriguing that Rome during the reign of the Caesars was a pagan society, one that prayed to pagan gods, believed their fates determined by Fortune, and persecuted Christians, while the present Rome is recognized as the seat of Christianity?)

For one knowledgeable in the history of ancient Rome, the initial impression of this most historic quarter both inspires and deludes, the former because of the simple, yet awesome realization of what he is viewing, the latter because the space is so unthinkably small. It is ironic that an empire which once encompassed most of the Mediterranean lands was governed from a seat that required so little of the earth.

In the Roman Forum, buildings which history holds in such grandeur appear now as skeletons, overgrown by moss and tangled weeds and vines. The names they still possess, to their places on the earth they still attach themselves, but the splendor and glory which has enshrined them seems absent. The statues of the Romans who witnessed their city rise to greatness are victims of time. Some stand beheaded, some with arms dismembered, some with irreparable scars, all with hollow stares.

And yet these fragments stand as the greatest of monuments, lending testament to the strength of this previous civilization. That, after more than two millennia, there are still remains, still proof of the existence of the Rome of the Caesars demands glory from these ruins. To walk where the Caesars once walked, to touch the walls and stones which comprised the buildings inhabited by those now glorified by history is indeed remarkable.

After touring the Coliseum and walking past the Roman Forum on this cool, cloudy afternoon, we made the short walk to the Victor Emmanuel II Monument. We walked around to the rear of the structure, to the entrance to the tomb of the unknown soldier, although we did not enter (because of the high entrance fee). Along the way, we met some folks from Georgia.

Last night we ate in a trattoria near the hotel. We each enjoyed an entire rotisserie chicken (pollo) and house wine. Once in our room, I, not having slept since working the previous night, had some trouble getting to sleep.

This morning we took the subway to Ottaviano. From there, we made the walk to the Vatican City. Afterward, we began our return to Naples.

February 19, 1989

I went to Pompeii on Thursday, February 16, for the third time. I wonder how many times one could visit Pompeii before he could actually conclude the day by claiming, “I saw nothing new today.” The site is large and requires much walking to traverse. The amount of work required to completely unearth the remains must have been staggering. Tons, thousands of tons of hardened ash had to be removed, the streets swept clean, the walls scraped and dusted. It is surely one of the greatest archaeological finds man has ever known. On the way back, I met some college students from New York who were staying in Rome.

February 23, 1989

I awoke at three o’clock this morning and could not go back to sleep. I therefore rose and took the 5:50 bus to Agnano, then wandered into town for a little exploration.

February 28, 1989

I made two visits to Sorrento this month. On the first of these Charlie and I went for dinner in the restaurant of the grand Hotel Excelsior Vittoria. We were virtually alone in the dining room. The food was good, but expensive. My bill was approximately Lit. 30,000 ($24) for two courses. I would have enjoyed a third, but did not have enough money. Outside, I tried to make a few photographs, but it was night, and even photographs taken in well-lit piazzas developed poorly.

Meanwhile, I also made my third visit to Herculaneum earlier this month.

March 9, 1989

I made a journey to Rome yesterday (Wednesday). After completing a night shift, I changed clothes and left the base for Stazione Centrale. I had intended to reach the station by nine o’clock in order to catch an early train, but, alas, took the wrong bus and found myself trying to navigate the suburbs north of Naples, around Secondigliano and Mugnano. At last, finding my way, I made it to Stazione Centrale, but had to settle for a departure shortly after noon.

Following my afternoon arrival in Rome, I checked into Hotel Palladium, then visited the Coliseum and Roman Forum.

Inside the Roman Forum, somber underneath the dreary gray sky and light drizzle, I explored the ruins at length. Climbing atop the Palatine Hill, I noticed a curious maze, around a meter-and-a-half tall, constructed of well-sculpted shrubbery. In the middle, a couple was kissing. I peered at the expansive Circus Maximus through a row of dense trees and shrubs before leaving. The rain had become a little heavier.

Outside the Roman Forum, I encountered two young Dutch women. I mistook them for British, even asking them if they were British. “No. Are you?” one of them asked. They had been speaking English with what resembled a British accent. During a short discussion, I asked them why they chose to speak English. “It is easier than speaking Dutch,” one of them replied. How remarkable, I thought, to simply choose which language to speak on any particular day.

The rain fell continuously the remainder of the afternoon and into the evening. I walked much longer than necessary, for I, not using a map, managed to get lost when returning from the Roman Forum. A kind lady offered her umbrella, but I, slightly embarrassed, politely refused. Near the train station, I encountered a public demonstration of some sort.

After finally returning to my second floor hotel room late in the afternoon, I opened the shutters and enjoyed the scene — one I had witnessed before, having become quite sentimental. The light, steady rain made dusk cold, dull, and gray. The whistle of a departing train sounded in the distance. Pedestrians scurried hastily along narrow sidewalks. The canopy of a pizzeria down and across the street rustled in the cool breeze. A mass of cars and trolleys clogged the thoroughfare.

From a café on the corner across the street emanated the aroma of espresso. A group of men stood at the bar talking, avoiding the rain. (I normally take my breakfast in that café when in Rome, and did so again this morning.) Standing in the doorway of an empty shoe store was a young woman, her arms folded, wearing a complacent gaze. Her patrons had deserted her. Another train whistle sounded from afar, the distant rumble of tracks announcing its departure. At last a cool breeze caused me to close my shutters.

Last night I walked a couple of kilometers or so northwest from my hotel to Piazza di Spagna (Spain Square), home of the famous Spanish Steps, a very popular neighborhood. There were many young people there. McDonald’s is also nearby. I photographed the outside of McDonald’s. Inside was rather large. I enjoyed a big mac (big mac), large french fries (patatine fritte grande), and a large coca-cola (coca-cola grande). It cost Lit. 7,700 ($6).

I returned to my room around eight o’clock. It was still raining. (I was also coming off a twelve-hour night shift that morning without sleep.) I was ready for bed. I rose at 6:25 this morning.

The Sistine Chapel was truly something to see. Climbing to the top of St. Peter’s was also a gratifying experience. I stopped midway to go inside the dome, then resumed my climb to the top. I was sweating by the time I reached the end. A cool breeze outside was refreshing. It was good exercise. I took several excellent photographs of the neighborhood around Vatican City, although it was a little hazy.

I returned from Rome this afternoon around three o’clock.

Tonight I went to Il Fantino for dinner. There is a young man, eighteen, named Pietro (Peter), who waits tables. He speaks limited English, but he, I, and a friend of his plan to meet in Bagnoli Monday (in four days) at one o’clock in the afternoon to take the train to Pozzuoli so we can eat at Gigetta. It is my favorite restaurant in Pozzuoli, and he eats there quite often. We communicate surprisingly well.

March 20, 1989

Following work on March 17, I took the bus from Capodichino to Napoli Centrale. A train bound for Florence departed the station around ten o’clock that evening, with me on it. The ride was leisurely, as I had boarded a diretto, which made many stops. The compartment I inhabited was filled with six passengers. I sat next to an older lady who had once taught English. We conversed a little, but I mostly kept to myself. Before long, the lights were turned off.

We entered Rome around 12:30, staying for a few minutes before heading north again. Soon, everyone except me was asleep.

There is something to be said for a train ride through the countryside of central Italy on a cool night such as this. It was tiring, of course, but also held something else, more than just getting from one place to another. We stopped in several towns between Rome and Florence (Roma Tiburtina, Orte, Attigliano-Bomarzo, Alviano, Orvieto, Fabro-Ficulle, Chiusi-Chianciano Terme, Castiglion Del Lago, Terontola-Cortona, Camucia-Cortona, Castiglion Fiorentino, Arezzo, Montevarchi-Terranuova, S. Giovanni Valdarno, Figline Valdarno, and Firenze Campo di Marte). An occasional “albergo” sign showed from the distance as we passed through these sleepy little villages.

Each stop brought the slim hope that we had arrived in Florence early, but each time that hope was nullified by the sight of a sign bearing a different name. Finally, we arrived at Florence’s Stazione Santa Maria Novella, marked by blue signs reading “Firenze S.M.N.,” at four o’clock following the six-hour journey. I was exhausted.

I stepped into the cool morning air at the train station. Several persons sitting inside a waiting area were asleep. The station is modern, and, although not as large as Roma Termini, has more than twenty tracks and acts as the hub for train travel through north-central Italy, the link between Rome and such cities as Milan, Bologna, and Venice.

I walked into Piazza dello Stazione and began to wander. This first impression of Florence was indescribable. It was one of the greatest moments this traveler has ever known. I first headed south from the train station, encountering, quite accidentally, the grand facade of Santa Maria Novella. Even in the dim light provided by street lamps, this church proved quite intriguing. I thought I might visit it later.

I continued walking along the darkened streets looking for a hotel. It would have made a great experience to have simply stayed awake a few more hours, to watch the sunrise above the Arno River. However, it was also important I sleep a few hours before the approaching day.

Florence is an enchanting city, especially at night. The great city of the Renaissance, devoid of cars and almost everything that is modern, took this visitor to 1450, the height of that tremendous era, as I continued walking along the cobblestone streets.

After perhaps one-half hour of walking, I turned into a narrow side street not far from Santa Maria Novella and found Hotel San Giorgio. There I found a room for about Lit. 75,000 ($60), although it was more than I had wanted to spend. A group of what I assumed to be college students were enjoying a toga party in a lounge next to the hotel lobby. In my room, there were three half beds. I immediately settled into one for a few fitful hours of sleep.

I awoke at nine o’clock, somewhat rested, eager to discover Florence. It was a bright, warm morning. I found myself simply walking the streets, enjoying the out-of-doors. These streets which had been deserted just a few hours earlier were now thriving. The museums could wait another day.

I walked the short distance to the local street market, a landmark of the local culture. Here one can find anything. Central was the two story food market, located in an unassuming stone building. Outside were stands along both sides of streets in all directions. To list every item available would be exhausting, but there were many bargains. Most of the goods were legitimate, but many were not. I saw some nice leather jackets for a hundred dollars, and was tempted to purchase one, but resisted.

Near Hotel Delle Nazioni, an adequate hotel near Santa Maria Novella to which I had transferred my occupancy (the rates being far more reasonable — about Lit. 45,000, or $36), I found a quaint restaurant where I enjoyed caprese, ravioli, green salad (insalata verde), and red house wine (vino rosso di casa). The interior was a little dark, but very Florentine. My first Florentine experience quickly became a cherished one. I did not wish to leave.

Santa Maria del Fiore, commonly called the Duomo, is tremendous, a testament to Gothic architecture. It was begun in 1296. The sanctuary is not as ornate, nor as large, as that of St. Peter’s in Rome, but is dark and very somber. I spent some time walking the circumference of this monolith before wandering inside.

Meanwhile, back at the food market I bought a half-kilo of fragole (strawberries), then took them back to the hotel to enjoy before taking siesta.

At first I felt a tinge of guilt for not wandering inside any of Florence’s cherished museums. After all, inside are stored her greatest treasures. Or so I thought. On a sunny day in Florence, why pass the time inside? My Florentine experience still in its infancy, I realized perhaps Florence’s greatest treasures do not necessarily lie inside her many museums. Often they are the vibrant landmarks, the brilliant architecture conceived during the greatest of artistic periods, the Renaissance. Indeed, he who claims that architecture is not a vital art is shamefully mistaken. The proof I have seen.

These historic quarters, several square kilometers, constitute what I regard as the “Florentine Museum.” Those vaguely orange tinted stone buildings have preserved the age of their creation for many lifetimes. They seem so appropriate here. The sea of orange rooftops visible from any vantage point simply delights the viewer. The cobblestone streets, the winding river, the churches, the narrow, curved alleys are all branches of this great museum. Indeed, the treasures stored so carefully inside her many museums are unforgettable, but to suggest that one must visit her museums in order to truly experience Florence is mistaken. The Florentine experience begins the moment one steps from the train station and into the center of her historic quarters.

Pastry shops are a sensation, even if one chooses not to partake of those divine creations. Even from the outside, looking at collections of pastries through windows, dressed up like fancy porcelain dolls, can be a delight. Creating these edibles is another form of art entertained by this society. It is another part of this great outdoor museum.

Following my much-needed siesta, I set out for a late afternoon stroll. Following a stop at a gelateria, I got lost, then found my way again in the vicinity of my hotel. By now it was dusk. I visited a bookstore where I purchased a calendar with large, colorful pictures of Florence, then walked a little more. I passed a Ferrari showroom, a bright red Ferrari displayed behind large glass windows.

Dinner was pizza and red house wine at the same restaurant where I had enjoyed lunch. I was seated at the end of a long table where several other patrons were seated, probably a hodge-podge of cultures. The service was slow, but the pizza was excellent, although a little puny compared to the larger ones I have been enjoying in Neapolitan pizzerias.

After retiring somewhat early, I was awakened around midnight by male voices. They were either coming from the hallway, or inside another room on my floor. The language was actually a bit soothing, although I understood nothing. After several minutes, though, I put on some music to drown the noise. A little later, the voices ceased, and I went back to sleep.

My second full day in Florence passed much as the first. I spent most of my time outside, strolling through the vast marketplace and exploring the narrow streets and alleys of central Florence.

I chose a different restaurant to take dinner. I ordered a dish of cheese-filled ravioli covered with cheese sauce, but they were not as good as the ones I had enjoyed the previous day at lunch.

Again, the day was leisurely and quite enjoyable.

The third day, yesterday, was my last. After breakfast, I checked out of Hotel Delle Nazioni, then went to the train station to purchase my return ticket. I would take the rapido to Naples. It cost the usual Lit. 28,000 ($22) plus a supplemental fare of Lit. 7,000 ($6). The train departed shortly after ten o’clock.

There were many American and British tourists in Florence, and I even met an Australian couple at the train station before leaving. I also shared a train compartment with other Americans.

The rapido traversed the 530 kilometers between Florence and Naples in four hours, even after stopping in Rome for twenty minutes.

March 31, 1989

Earlier this month, I ventured with two friends to Herculaneum and Mount Vesuvius. Vesuvius, one of the most famous volcanoes on Earth, dominates the Bay of Naples with its famous inverted double cones. Its history is characterized by long periods of inactivity interposed with sudden periods of eruption. The most serious eruptions include 79 AD, which buried the towns of Herculaneum, Pompeii, and Stabiae. If one ascends to the summit, he can look into the impressive, steep-sided crater. Vesuvius dominates a remarkable panorama of the coast and sea.

May 7, 1989

I will fly to West Germany on the fifteenth, then to Naples on the nineteenth. Although I am very anxious to get back to Naples, I think I can enjoy Wiesbaden for a few days in the meantime.

May 23, 1989

I am in Italy. I returned last Wednesday, May 17. I didn’t spend as much time in West Germany as originally thought, only one night, but I am not disappointed. I roomed at the Amelia Earhart Hotel, where I had stayed on my way out a month before. This time I roomed with a gentleman perhaps in his 40’s who is stationed in Turkey. The cost each time was $20 per night.

The lire rate is as high as I have ever seen it, more than 1,400 to the dollar.

I went to Rome Friday, May 19, taking the rapido. The train departed Napoli Centrale around five o’clock, arriving at Roma Termini around seven-thirty. I stayed until Sunday, spending two nights at Hotel Palladium. I had a wonderful time, and spent around Lit. 250,000 ($200).

Saturday morning I went to the Vatican Museum and perused the manuscripts in the Vatican Library. I met friends at one o’clock in the afternoon and led them to McDonald’s near Piazza di Spagna. Saturday night I walked around the neighborhood for a while, then enjoyed dinner at Ristorante Monte Caruso, about a block-and-a-half from the hotel. I enjoyed prosciutto e mozzarella for antipasto. The red house wine was good.

On Sunday, I enjoyed a glass of steamed milk and an ice cream cone for breakfast before departing Rome. Toward noon, I went to the train station. I decided to board an ETR, one of the rare, red-and-white super-express trains. The nose of the engine is shaped like a bullet. Of course, I had only a second-class train ticket, and ETR’s are first-class only. I knew I would have to pay the difference once on board. Well, this difference, plus the ETR supplement, plus a fine for not having purchased the correct ticket prior to boarding amounted to more than Lit. 40,000 ($32). However, there were no stops between Rome and Naples, and the train traversed the 214 kilometers (via Pozzuoli, versus the usual route) in eighty-nine minutes. I enjoyed this change-of-pace, but I think I’ll stick to second-class travel for future excursions.

May 27, 1989

This evening, I went to O’Calamaro, but, alas, it is closed Sundays. So I decided to take the subway three stops to Mergellina. Near the train station there (itself a remarkable structure) is Piazza Sannazzaro. Facing the piazza is Ristorante Sannazzaro. This is a restaurant I had longed to try for some months.

I sat at a table underneath the canopy in front of the restaurant. (I enjoy eating outside, whenever possible.) The evening was pleasurable, and I even enjoyed a glimpse of the port of Mergellina only a couple of blocks away. The meal was fantastic, a worthy diversion from my favorite restaurant. I stayed until dark.

June 17, 1989

A friend of mine and I went to Pisa yesterday. I left my midnight shift an hour early in order to catch the train.

We arrived in Pisa during the afternoon (following a long layover in Rome, where we had walked around for an hour or so, not straying far from Roma Termini). We first walked to Hotel Bologna, an inexpensive hotel recommended by International Travel and Tours (ITT), the travel office located on the naval base at Agnano. The hotel is located near the Arno River, and a good walk from the train station. It was a nice hotel for the price, about Lit. 36,000 ($29) per night for a single room with bath. There was even a small courtyard for parking. Of course, we hadn’t driven.

While in Pisa, we visited the leaning tower, cathedral, and baptistery. There is a weather vane located atop the tower. That night, we went to dinner at my favorite restaurant in town, located on Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II, where excellent lasagna is served. Afterward, we walked to the river to enjoy the Lights Festival, a tremendous fireworks show. There were thousands of people there. The bridges were jammed with people. It was an exciting time.

We returned today.

June 24, 1989

I am enjoying Capri this weekend. It is about thirty kilometers from Naples. I will be here today and tomorrow.

The island’s many natural wonders, its pleasant climate, and landscape make this one of the most popular centers of international tourism.

The town Capri is the center of tourism and society on the island, a characteristic little village full of small white houses and winding narrow streets lined with luxury shops and elegant venues.

There is an enchanting walk down the narrow Via Krupp, near Marina Piccola (Small Port), a path winding down the cliffs toward the sea marked by many hairpin turns with awesome views.

Although there are some interesting monuments on Capri, the island has many remarkable natural features. The Blue Grotto is a cave where the reflection of light gives the water an iridescent blue color. The Faraglioni are three enormous three-sided limestone pinnacles towering upward from the sea. The natural arch is a hole eroded in the thin rock in wilderness landscape.

I am presently on my hotel room balcony. Unfortunately, it faces away from the sea, but I do have a view of the hotel entrance, replete with colorful gardens. My room also has a bathtub.

It is six o’clock in the evening.

Upon arrival this morning at Marina Grande (Large Port), the main port, I encountered the members of the American musical group “New Bohemians.” They were very nice, and we talked for a few minutes before I left.

I went to the beach this afternoon and spent three hours in the sun. I even swam in the Mediterranean Sea.

My hotel, Caesar Augustus, is at a high elevation. It is located in Anacapri, and stands some three hundred meters (and almost directly above) the sea. It is very secluded and quiet. Getting here required a rather treacherous bus ride.

The most popular tourist center, Capri, lies between Anacapri and the port. To traverse between Capri and the port, one can take the bus or the funicolare. The port is next to the beach I visited. There are a few shops and restaurants there.

Meanwhile, my Italian is coming along slowly, although I am now able to speak complete sentences.

June 25, 1989

Last night I ate at Moscardino in Capri. This morning, low, gray clouds completely covered Anacapri. The sight from Capri was impressive. I did make several photographs.

July 3, 1989

A group of friends and I went to a little restaurant in Mugnano, a suburb north of Naples. There we enjoyed an outdoor dinner. We were almost involved in an automobile accident with an Italian. As we were making a left turn, he tried to pass us on the left side.

July 15, 1989

I made another journey to Rome a few days ago, rising early and taking advantage of the long summer day.

I walked several kilometers and was utterly exhausted when I arrived home before dusk. While there, I walked along Via Veneto and visited the USO near the Vatican. For lunch, I had pizza and a soda in a little café near the Vatican.

I encountered several gypsy’s while there, although I had seen them during previous trips to Rome. They seem to thrive during summer. Many of them are women who roam about the train station, holding small children and carrying little boxes they hold out in order to exact pocket change from those they approach. They usually pout or try to look distressed in order to earn a little sympathy from solicitees. These gypsies “prey” on those standing in lines for tickets. Many will give, but many will also refuse. I usually try to drop in a small coin.

Some of these women also wait below in the approaches to and from the subway. They place their boxes on the floor and often carry signs asking for money or bread. One gypsy women I found sitting in the shade of a walkway in front of a building near the Vatican. She, too, had a sign, and a dog. I did not drop any money in her box, though. They are prevalent, and appear darker than the average Italian. They look and dress more like Muslems from the Middle East, or perhaps northern Africa. I do not know which language they speak, although the signs are in Italian.

July 25, 1989

I went into town today, visiting Castel Nuovo and Galleria Umberto, taking a cappuccino in one of the bars there. It was a warm, sunny day.

August 1, 1989

I came to Capri the day before yesterday following a midnight shift. The first day I went to bed at noon and slept until eight. I then went for dinner at a little restaurant near the main square in Anacapri. It was still daylight. The second night I ate in an open-air restaurant just off the main square. Although the place is considered a pizzeria, I enjoyed the roast chicken. I stayed at Hotel Caesar Augustus both nights. While there I met a family of four from North Carolina who were on vacation. I left today for Rome.

August 3, 1989

I arrived in Rome two days ago via rapido from Naples, and stayed two nights at Hotel Canada, enjoying a spacious and well-furnished room.

Yesterday I did much walking and sightseeing, most of it before lunch. It was a warm sunny day. During the morning, I walked along Via Veneto, a lavish district with famous cafés and hotels, entering Villa Borghese through the Porta Pinciana at the north end of the street. The villa is a large shaded park north of the historical center of Rome. There I walked endlessly, making photographs of the small lake and the temple dedicated to Aesculapius built atop a small island.

Afterward, I stepped inside the Pantheon, a landmark built by Agrippa in 27. It is a curious structure of architectural genius, measuring 44 meters in circumference, a dimension matched by the height between the floor and top of the dome which covers it. It was indeed worthy of a short detour. I also visited the nearby Trevi Fountain, a lovely fountain unfortunately concealed by scaffolding as its restoration continues very slowly.

I visited the Castle of St. Angelo, walking along the east bank of the Tiber River before turning west and crossing the river via Ponte Sant’Angelo, a remarkable bridge constructed in 134 by the great architect Hadrian.

The castle is a curious structure, dark and spooky inside. It surely made an enviable fort in its day, the purpose for which it was built. An underground tunnel connects it with the nearby Vatican City, providing an escape route for popes past. This feature, however, I did not get to see.

Crossing the river again, I passed the Victor Emmanuel II Monument as I walked toward those greatest of Rome’s landmarks. I could not resist the urge to visit again the Roman Forum and Coliseum, making several photographs while touring the inside of the latter, photographs which I had surely made before.

As usual, I walked myself to exhaustion, enjoying lunch at McDonald’s near Piazza di Spagna and penne all’arrabiata for dinner at The Top, a restaurant somewhere near Piazza Barberini and the Trevi Fountain. My waiter was a classic Italian, heavyset and sporting a handlebar moustache.

August 24, 1989

I made it back to Italy and spent Monday night, August 22, in Rome at Hotel Palladium. I ate at The Top, which I discovered last time I was in Rome. I returned to Naples yesterday. O’Calamaro is closed during August, so I ate at Ristorante Sannazzaro. I enjoyed dining outdoors again at dusk under the canopy. The caprese here is among the best I’ve ever enjoyed. The scallopine al’limone (veal scallops in lemon sauce) is also very good.

September 7, 1989

O’Calamaro is open again. I ate there three times in six days.

September 9, 1989

A friend of mine and I drove to Formia today, a town on the west coast about an hour north of Naples. We had lunch in a small restaurant just south of there. It was an open-air restaurant. We sat under a tin roof. It rained very hard while we were there. As we were eating, a waiter paraded among the tables offering a plate of frutta di mare (seafood, literally “fruit of the sea”) served over pasta. Apparently, someone had ordered it, then left. We saw the U.S.S. Iowa in port in Gaeta Bay.

September 30, 1989

I made it to Florence yesterday afternoon around 12:30. It is late afternoon now as I sit at the desk in my hotel room. I have made many photographs the last two days. It has been cloudy, providing a memorable panorama.

After lunch at Ristorante Bibó, near Ponte Vecchio, I entered a wine shop, stacks of Chianti and other sorts adorning the crowded space. I read several different labels. (The better labels are marked with the letters “D.O.C.” The elite are adorned by the acronym “D.O.C.G.” The latter are few.)

(I adore these little wine shops, even purchasing two bottles of Santa Christina at a store closer to my hotel today. It was dark inside. Some of the older bottles were even covered by dust and cobwebs. How enchanting, I thought.

Wine and olive oil are two vintage products of this country. Here, the produce of the land is savored. The olive is not wasted. Nor is the grape. The grower of the vineyard, the cultivator of the olive is a prized individual. His products are sought across the world.)

I subsequently visited the Uffizi Gallery, perhaps the greatest art museum, less the Vatican Museum, in all of Italy. I took a roundabout way of getting there, having asked for directions at least once. It is a massive, medieval structure located beside the Arno River. Its two floors contain mostly paintings and statues dating to the Renaissance.

Late in the afternoon I ventured to Piazzale Michelangelo, a promontory in southeast Florence, some 104 meters above the city. I took bus thirteen from near the Duomo. From the piazzale one can see the entire city. In the center stands a bronze replica of Michelangelo’s David.

I dined at Angiolino, a place recommended by the innkeeper’s wife. There I enjoyed penne all’arrabiata, traditionally a southern dish, although the version I enjoyed here would rival any of that served in Naples.

Meanwhile, following a breakfast of pastries (paste) and caffe latte (coffee and milk) in the hotel kitchen this morning, I ventured to the Academy of Fine Arts. It is home to Michelangelo’s David. I arrived a few minutes before opening. There were several tourists already waiting outside. Fortunately, we did not wait long.

Most of the tourists were with groups, and they stopped in the first room. I passed them and walked briskly along the wide corridor leading to that great statue. For a few moments, I was alone with David. He is more than four meters tall. His head and hands are disproportionately large. The detail is profound, and I stood amazed at this large figure. The pictures I had seen proved inadequate.

Soon hoards of tourists crowded around David. I left for the rooms they had just vacated.

The Academy of Fine Arts is not a large museum like the Uffizi or Vatican Museums. Aside from David, there are few famous works, but there are indeed several good ones. The Rape of the Sabinas is a compelling sculpture, emotional, intriguing. Perhaps it is the second best known piece in this museum.

The tour of the Academy of Fine Arts was quick. It is not a large museum.

Almost across the street is an underrated treasure of Florence. It is St. Mark’s Museum, formerly a monastery. The history of this building is surely as great as that of any in Florence.

It was here the renowned painter Fra Angelico made his home. He was a friar, and left his own indelible mark on the world. The second floor is filled with cells which once housed the monks. Upon the wall of each cell is a colorful, though simple mural, all painted by Fra Angelico. The murals have endured more than five centuries. Several other works by Fra Angelico have been scattered, some of which found their way to the Uffizi.

Each of the cells contains one large window with a view of the interior courtyard. Indeed, this must have been a frugal existence for the monks, for this is, admittedly, a gloomy place. It is dark and forbidding. Today there are electric lights, unlike then. But it is still cold. The cold seems to cling to the floors and walls, never letting go. St. Mark’s seems a haven for ghosts.

Another famous monk to have lived here, although under different circumstances, was Girolamo Savonarola. He was a fiery preacher. In 1498, after having gained dubious notoriety, he was hanged and burned in Piazza della Signoria. The charge, primarily, was heresy.

Meanwhile, on the first floor are several rooms. There is one room, a musty storage room, of sorts, where a mix of old sculptures, some complete, some fragments, are housed. Many of them would make worthwhile treasures in a number of museums in America. Here, they merely consume space.

There are several openings onto the courtyard. There is a well in the center. Around the perimeter are several Latin inscriptions in the walls. Although awning provides protection, the chill was penetrating. I could not imagine having to live here during winter.

There were not many persons walking through the museum. I did pass a small German tour group on the second floor. Their leader spoke softly to them as they gathered closely around her. Otherwise, I encountered a straggler or two in random places. Mostly, though, the museum was empty.

Following St. Mark’s, I walked to the Duomo. There I accomplished the exhausting climb along the inside of the dome for an unparalleled view of Florence. The walk along the narrow, dim, cold, stone stairwell is formidable, but after I arrived at the top, having escalated some 463 steps, and emerged on the outside of the dome, more than 120 meters above the city streets, I felt an exhilaration I had not expected. The cool wind in my face was a welcome reprieve.

The compact city, lying as it does along a valley floor, fortified by the Apennines along either side, is a sea of orange rooftops. I made photographs carelessly. Not even they will fully capture this panorama, though. It is simply for the eye and the mind to consume and preserve.

Back on the ground, I walked the perimeter of the cathedral, and only now realized the massivity of this great landmark. I make several additional photographs. Lunch was again at Angiolino. It had proved worthwhile last night. Afterward, it was back to the streets.

I then stopped by Ognissanti (All Saints) to admire Ghirlandaio’s Last Supper. The church is located across the street from the Arno River, next to the posh Hotel Excelsior.

I entered the darkened sanctuary, searching the walls for this great painting, then moved toward the front, hoping to find the work tucked away in one of the smaller rooms adjacent to the sanctuary.

I finally discovered the impressive mural in a bright room near the back. The room, indeed the entire church, was deserted, less myself and a janitor. He was mopping the floor. I waited for some time for him to leave so I could make a flash photograph. He continued mopping, so I decided to make a flash photograph despite him. He did not fuss, so I quickly made another, then left hurriedly, feeling a twinge of guilt, as though I had just stolen something.

I then walked along the Arno, admiring the many bridges which span the breadth of the waters. In 1944, while the Allies were pushing the Germans northward, the latter destroyed all of Florence’s precious Renaissance bridges, save one, the lucky Ponte Vecchio.

Twenty-two years later, in November, 1966, perhaps the worst flood in the city’s history occurred as the Arno swelled dramatically during a few fateful hours, spilling water far into the city. Many of Florence’s great treasures were lost, many more were saved only after diligent effort. Still Ponte Vecchio stands.

I ventured across Ponte Vecchio to the Boboli Gardens, a vast expanse of land behind Pitti Palace, home of the de’ Medici family for many generations. An uphill climb along this marvelous landscape provided a good view of the city. The gardens, filled with fountains and statues, were generally devoid of tourists.

By now, I was weary. I had trudged through my morning endeavors very quickly. I almost regretted, even felt guilty, having seen so many treasures so hastily. I should have taken the entire day to view these landmarks. Now I was tired and did not feel the sense of appreciation I should have felt.

I walked back to the pensione. It was time for siesta. On the way back, I passed Santa Croce (Holy Cross). It possesses an unusual facade and a huge piazza spreads before it.

Shortly thereafter, I watched as two teen-aged boys riding a moped snatched the purse of an older lady as they rode closely past her. They disappeared around a corner in seconds. The lady screamed what must have been an endless stream of obscenities for several minutes as she walked along this otherwise quiet street. I continued to hear her even after I had turned the same corner. Although I felt sorry for her, I could not help but be amused, in a sardonic sort of way, for the scene had been classically Italian.

Once I arrived at Soggiorno Adua, I felt as though I could not possibly have walked another step. I slept two hours and felt better when I awoke.

Again I felt guilty for having taken a nap, for I was in Florence, surrounded by treasures abound. I should have been walking through the Uffizi again, or exploring the churches, or anything besides sleeping.

I decided to check out a few shops before dinner. It was a worthwhile excursion. I felt better being on the streets again.

As mentioned, I decided to stay at Pensione Soggiorno Adua this trip. It was recommended by ITT. The pensione is actually housed on the second and third floors of a building with several other pensioni. It is run by a couple who looked to be in their middle forties. They were very kind and helpful. The room cost Lit. 37,000 ($30), per night. I stayed in room one. It had no bathroom, just a sink. I had to use the communal bathroom.

Outside was a courtyard, several trees, the background a sea of those captivating orange rooftops. The sky during late afternoon was gray, the air cool, a light mist falling. This was classic Florence.

The hotel is a couple of blocks east of the train station, on the opposite side of Hotel Delle Nazioni, where I stayed during my March visit.

The hosts are almost like a mother and father. Their care is genuine. They are impressed with my Italian, knowing that I am American. (This morning, I enjoyed seconds at breakfast.)

Dinner, meanwhile, was taken at Acqua al Due, near Santa Croce. Acqua al Due is a lively place, its interior filled with unusual decorations, its tables jammed with young, multi-cultural visitors. The restaurant is open only for dinner during weekdays, and is popular with theatergoers. One has to make reservations. Last night I came here, only to discover this, so I made reservations for 7:30 for tonight, arriving punctually. By eight, the restaurant was filled.

The food was excellent, and I tried several courses. The menu was filled with unusual dishes. I was surrounded by many people, most around my age. It was very difficult to get out of my seat, for we were seated along a bench. The clientele were friendly, and largely international, if a little noisy. This was one of the most unique restaurants I have visited.

I enjoyed pasta, cous-cous di agnello (lamb cous-cous), and insalata verde along with the house wine.

The walk back to the pensione was a long one. I stopped at a café for ice cream (gelato). It, too, was quite busy. I walked back into the streets with my dessert. A fancy outdoor restaurant was busy. The lights of the shops and cafés along this main thoroughfare made the night seem bright. I, however, was tired and longed for the simple comforts of my room at the pensione.

“Ho sonno,” I told the innkeeper as I unlocked my door, “I am tired.” He laughed at me and repeated my phrase. (The Florentines, indeed all Italians, appreciate the visitor who can speak their language, who even tries to speak their language. I am always quite willing, and grateful to them, to oblige, despite my many mistakes, some of which are quite embarrassing.)

October 1, 1989

I left Florence this morning shortly after ten o’clock. I presented the kind couple at Soggiorno Adua with a bottle of Santa Christina. I also brought a bottle home for myself. While in Florence I saw quite a few Germans. I was also tempted by trains with destinations such as Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Stuttgart, and Munich. I would have loved to have climbed into one of those.

October 5, 1989

My friend Ron, who showed me around during my first days here (and introduced me to O’Calamaro), has returned for four months. I saw him yesterday, and we plan to go to O’Calamaro tomorrow night. I haven’t eaten there since Monday night, three days ago.

October 20, 1989

I had octopus at O’Calamaro last night. It was good.

November 13, 1989

I plan to make a one-day trip to Sorrento. The train, the Circumvesuviana, takes some seventy-five minutes in getting there and makes stops at such places as Herculaneum and Pompeii as it winds around Mount Vesuvius.

December 20, 1989

I arrived yesterday afternoon in Rome. It is now late afternoon, and I sit inside my tiny fourth floor room at Hotel Canada. My window overlooks the street.

A light, yet omnipresent drizzle falls from a dull, gray, formless sky.

I endeared myself to exploration earlier today, including a busy Piazza Navona, and, following a delightful lunch at the nearby Hosteria Farnese this afternoon, I returned to my room for rest.

I am staying in the unfamiliar neighborhood east of Roma Termini. It is different from the area I have known around Hotel Palladium, although only a kilometer or so separates them. There are no streetcars here, and there is less traffic.

My room is so small as to be restricting, yet I do not feel restricted. I have a small, half bed, a table, a chair, and a television. My bathroom is adequate, the ceiling low, and my walking space limited. I should feel enclosed, but do not.

I stared out my window for a while. Automobiles passed. I noticed a bar across the street. I had seen it when walking outside, but not from my window. The aroma it emanated hinted strongly of coffee and pastries, although the scent of rain was heavy. I did not open my window. The air was much too cool and damp.

Despite my physical restrictions, I felt my mind had been opened, liberated by this quaint and humble room. I roamed the fringes of imagination. I soared through words as a bird soars through empty air unimpeded. I felt free, knew no boundaries.

I watched television and was intrigued. Why, when Italy in centuries past has produced such composers as Vivaldi and Verde, do Italians broadcast American popular music?

I spent Lit. 46,000 ($37) at Gioia Mia. It was a busy, boisterous restaurant. I had arrived around 7:30. When I left after enjoying five courses (including penne boscaiola), a line of people were waiting outside.

December 22, 1989

I departed Rome at 7:10 on the morning of December 20, and enjoyed the ride with four British travelers who boarded in Florence. They were TWA employees. The train stopped again in Bologna, and by late morning we were traveling through the foggy countryside of Veneto.

I passed most of the morning hoping the fog would dissipate before we reached Venice. I did not want my initial view of this great city to be hindered. Fortunately, the fog did dissipate late in the morning as we approached the city.

I switched trains in Mestre, a town located on the mainland directly across the lagoon from Venice, and arrived at Venice’s Stazione Santa Lucia at 12:15.

After stumbling around the maze of streets and narrow alleys for half an hour, crossing the Rialto Bridge, and driving myself to frustration, I finally found my hotel. (I had actually passed it three times already without knowing.) My map had proved somewhat useless.

I checked into Hotel Alla Fava, a small hotel across a narrow alley from a church and just a few meters from one of Venice’s lesser canals. I had made my reservation through ITT, who had recommended the hotel. The rate was Lit. 60,000 ($48), a rather inexpensive hotel room in Venice. When I entered, the room was stuffy.

I walked to St. Mark’s Square, a rather vast landmark, taking an elevator to the top of the Campanile (belltower). There I made some wonderful photographs of the islands and the lagoon.

My next stop was Palazzo Ducale (Doges’ Palace). The Sala del Maggior Consiglio (a hall used as a meeting place for Venice’s Great Council) was expansive, and was covered from ceiling to floor with various paintings, including Tintoretto’s huge “Paradise,” which fills an entire end wall. The painting dates to 1590. St. Mark’s Cathedral also proved a treat.

Afterward, I walked around much of Venice, making photographs of bridges, gondolas, canals, etc., stopping at a café along the Grand Canal near the Rialto Bridge for a slice of pizza to quench my appetite until dinner. The fog had begun to reappear.

I returned to my stuffy hotel room at dusk for a short nap. After resting more than an hour, I felt refreshed and ready to venture into the night.

I spent Lit. 33,000 ($26) on dinner at Antica Adelaide. The friendly, informal trattoria is located on Calle Priuli in Cannaregio, the traditional Jewish quarters. I enjoyed a curious dish of blackened pasta and white house wine.

The walk back to the hotel, after a detour to a deserted St. Mark’s Square and a local gelateria, was mesmerizing in the cool foggy air. The city was dark, and walking through the narrow alleys was admittedly a little spooky, although the experience was unforgettable.

My room was so stuffy that I opened the window before going to bed, despite the temperature being around forty degrees outside. During the night, I awoke to much cooler, more comfortable air, so I arose and closed the window.

Yesterday morning I did a little more exploring. I visited a leather goods shop and purchased a wallet as a Christmas gift. After more walking, I visited a neighborhood wine shop were I purchased two bottles of wine. I also passed through a fish market near Ponte Rialto and enjoyed the damp, cool, foggy weather.

Although I did not experience a gondola ride, I did take the vaporetto (water bus) from Ponte Rialto (near my hotel) to near Stazione Santa Lucia.

I left Venice yesterday morning at 11:50, and Mestre at 12:38. The train for Rome consisted of only two cars. I did not know beforehand that one had to had reservations. The conductor allowed me on the train, explaining that I would have to sit on one of the small fold-out seats in the entryway unless someone did not show. Fortunately, someone did miss the train, and I got a window seat. The train arrived in Rome at 5:45. I then left Rome at 6:20, arrived in Naples at 9:15, and at Capodichino several minutes later.

December 31, 1989

I made another trip to Sorrento earlier this month. Amazingly, even during December, tourists can still be found. Sorrento is a good, cheap trip. Round trip train tickets cost about nine dollars. The view from the train as it winds around the Bay of Naples is incredible. Food there is cheap, and the views provided by the rugged landscape are often stunning.

January 2, 1990

A couple of friends of mine who were recently married are going to West Germany for nearly three weeks. They will leave Friday, January 5. I will be staying in their home during their absence.

January 25, 1990

My roommate and I just returned from dinner at O’Calamaro.

February 14, 1990

I went to Rome last Saturday, February 10, for the sole purpose of purchasing compact discs.

Meanwhile, today I bought a car, a 1983 Honda Civic. It is maroon hatchback. I paid $2,300.

I purchased insurance from Societa Italiana di Assicurazioni (S.I.D.A.) for Lit. 458,000 ($366) per six months. It is not a bad premium for a city which is renowned for traffic mishaps.

The insurance company mans an office across the street from the naval base at Agnano. The gentleman there is very kind and speaks English.

There are many places off the beaten path I wish to travel now, places which are, if not inaccessible, at least difficult to reach by train. I am sure these new adventures will compensate for the added responsibility.

February 25, 1990

Andrew and I went to Genoa February 21 and stayed one night. The visit was good.

The drive there took a little over eight hours, but we took Highway (Strada) 1 (S 1) between Civitavecchia and Pisa, otherwise enjoying the fast pace of Autostrada 2 (A 2) between Naples and Civitavecchia and A 12 between Pisa and Genoa.

Once we entered town, we had a little trouble locating Hotel Sauli, located, strangely enough, on Viale Sauli, a tiny, easily overlooked alley located in a crowded, busy neighborhood.

We ate lunch at Il Cucciolo, the hotel restaurant, shortly after checking in.

In Genoa, we did a little sightseeing, shopped for compact discs, and had an overall good time. We saw the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, the Church of San Lorenzo, and enjoyed an incredible view of the port from a nearby promontory.

That evening we dined at Da Genio, a trattoria located on Salita San Leonardo, a street which turned out to be nothing more than a very hilly sidewalk. Food at the trattoria was very good, if a little expensive.

During our return trip, we made some excellent photographs of the stunning Ligurian Coast from A 12.

We drove A 12 from Genoa to Pisa, A 11 to Florence, A 1 to Rome, and A 2 to Naples. The return drive took only seven hours (close to eight hundred kilometers). We got into Naples around five o’clock.

That night I dined at O’Calamaro with a friend.

March 10, 1990

My working companion, Mick, and I went to Rome today. We took the train, vice driving, since this was merely a day trip. We left Capodichino at 5:45 this morning, took the bus to Napoli Centrale, had some breakfast, and caught the 7:20 train. We arrived in Rome at 9:45.

Upon arrival, we took the subway to Vatican City, where we remained until around 12:30. We visited the Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Cathedral. By then, we were hungry, so we took the subway to the Spanish Steps and ate at McDonald’s.

After lunch, we ventured over to the Coliseum, making intermediate stops at the Trevi Fountain, a gelateria, Victor Emmanuel II Monument, and the Roman Forum. We went inside the Coliseum before walking back to the train station. We departed on the 3:20 train, arrived in Naples at 5:50, and at Capodichino around 6:30.

While in Rome, I managed to traverse the city without using a map. We spent less than forty dollars each.

March 14, 1990

Mick and I went to Herculaneum today. Mick had never been there, although this was my fourth visit.

March 21, 1990

Last Sunday, March 18, Mick and I went for a drive around the Amalfi Coast, then south to Paestum.

We left around ten o’clock in the morning and took A 3 to Castellammare. From there, we took the coastal road to Sorrento. We drove around for a few minutes, got lost, then crossed the peninsula at the west end and took S 163 along the Amalfi Coast, driving eastward toward the mainland.

The Amalfi Coast is truly one of the loveliest places on earth. I cannot fathom a locale any finer. Some will argue that it is at its best at Positano, or Amalfi, or perhaps Vietri sul Mare. I have visited all of these, and they are delightful, picturesque towns.

The two-lane road following the Amalfi Coast affords constant amazement to the traveler. It is winding and treacherous, but the drop from the jagged mountaintops to the sea provides a unique view.

Most of the towns, and there are several of them, are built into the hillsides. The streets that lead through them are stair-stepped. The towns are characteristically small, picturesque, indeed, any one of them could adorn postcards, and, with few exceptions, they could often be mistaken for each other by the casual observer.

The drive is a long one, for one must maintain a low speed. The turns are sudden and often tricky. But, for the view, the drive is worthwhile. It would be a memorable stretch of road to traverse by bicycle. The towns seem to bump into each other, and there are several places along the narrow highway to pull over and enjoy the view. Indeed, Mick and I stopped often to make photographs.

Many of these towns are resorts, and can become quite crowded during summer. They are also quite expensive, as resorts tend to be. But a quiet lunch in the cool breeze of an outdoor restaurant, under a canopy, an unobstructed view of the sea, is always worth a little extra money.

We stopped for lunch in Positano, a maritime town of ancient origins, its white painted houses arranged along terraces sloping toward the sea. The architecture is typically Mediterranean, with many domed houses and the occasional portico.

The restaurant we enjoyed was rather elegant, and, like the rest of the town, is situated along a mountain slope. We were at least 150 meters above the sea at a table on the covered balcony. We enjoyed a couple of seafood dishes and the bill was a little over Lit. 50,000 ($40), somewhat reasonable.

Soon thereafter, we encountered Amalfi, a picturesque town resembling Positano. We also passed through Ravello, another charming, quiet little town with splendid views. We then continued along the coast until arriving in Salerno. (The drive had taken much longer than expected.)

Upon entering A 3 near Vietri sul Mare, north of Salerno, I took a wrong turn and found myself driving toward Naples. I managed to turn around, then drove south toward Paestum, some forty kilometers south of Salerno, and very near the coast.

Paestum is one of the most important archaeological sites in Italy. We arrived at four o’clock in the afternoon, but only required an hour to thoroughly explore the ruins since the site is rather compact.

Only a few buildings now stand, their stone columns rising from solid foundations. These buildings, resembling in appearance the great Parthenon in Athens, Greece, are the epitome of ancient Greek architecture, grand, solid, built to endure. They are made more majestic by the empty space which surrounds them, not encroached upon by taller, modern buildings. They stand alone, their shadows allowed to fall unimpeded on the grassy field which surrounds them. They can also be viewed a good distance away from S 18. One does not simply stumble onto the site. He is afforded an advanced panorama so he can revere the ruins as he approaches anxiously. He is already familiar with them when he enters the gate.

Other than these few great buildings, though, not much remains but an intricate maze of stone foundations. The visitor is therefore simply left to guess. One can traverse the site using the old stone paths left by the ancient Greeks, one of two pre-Roman civilizations to flourish on the Italian peninsula (Etruscans being the other). What must have once been here is unimaginable. The collection of foundations gives little clue.

We departed just before dusk. The air was still warm. The temples were casting long shadows. It was an artist’s scene. The tourists were piling into their cars to make the trek to surrounding cities. As usual when departing such a place, I was thinking of ancient civilizations. Are there traces of the Etruscans or Greeks in the genes of these modern Italians? Were they assimilated? The treasures they left behind are ample proof of their greatness. Such is the ebb and tide of history, I suppose.

We drove back taking A 3 from just south of Salerno to Naples. One can always tell when he is nearing Naples because the traffic deteriorates. Today was no exception. It took half an hour to drive the last five kilometers. We arrived home just before eight.

March 25, 1990

Mick and I crossed the peninsula to the east coast on Thursday, March 22.

We departed at seven in the morning, and attempted to access A 16, which would take us east, but I took a wrong turn. I missed the proper exit, an error that was easily corrected. We drove across to Bari, exited onto S 377, and drove to a small town a few kilometers inland named “Castellana.”

Just outside the town are an intricate system of caves. It was rather cool inside the caves, and I wished I had brought a sweater. Nonetheless, this exploration was unique, like nothing I had ever experienced.

Unfortunately, flash photographs were prohibited, although the kind gentleman who led us through the caves did allow a few, but only where he specified. We spent only half an hour inside, but the experience well justified the effort of getting there.

Afterward, we drove south to Alborabello. In this area of Puglia stand round stone houses, often whitewashed, with conical roofs. (The trulli remind the visitor of the type of dwelling Bilbo Baggins might have inhabited.)

Trulli are built with local limestone stacked without mortar. The roofs often have religious or folk symbols painted on them. This particular area is known as Murge dei Trulli. It is an arid region containing olive groves, orchards, and vineyards.

The town of Alborabello, the trulli capital, is located here. It is, invariably, popular among tourists. Here, trulli crowd the narrow streets. There are trulli restaurants, hotels, shops, even a trulli cathedral. We ate lunch in Alborabello, then began our journey back, taking A 14, then A 16 to Caserta (around twenty kilometers north of Naples) to see the Royal Palace (Palazzo Reale). It was closed.

We then left for home, arriving around 5:30 in the afternoon.

March 26, 1990

Today Mick and I went to Tivoli, a town some 35 kilometers east of Rome. Located near the modern town is a tantalizing ancient villa. Built during the early second century AD by Roman emperor Hadrian (76-138), a very able man, the villa is a source of much wonder.

Villa Adriana (Hadrian’s Villa) is large. It is dotted with marble pools, baths, and other such devices that would seem too advanced for the ancient mind to devise.

True, there are few colorful murals left, no elaborate floor tiles, but the ingenuity here is evident, the quality of the architecture undeniable, even if erected by slaves, which I am sure was the case.

There was no blanket of volcanic ash to protect this site. What is left has weathered many storms, earthquakes, baking heat, and aching cold. Yet these old stones still stand, largely intact, only modestly dilapidated, ready to weather the next two millennia. Indeed, Hadrian’s legacy certainly thrives here.

Afterward, we drove the short distance to Villa d’Este, an impressive garden filled with ornate water works, including the amazing hundred fountains. The plush vegetation, well tended, resembled a small rainforest.

Last, we explored Villa Gregoriana, a deep gorge, covered with trees and overgrown with vines and brush. There are trails which lead throughout the site, and waterfalls appear quite frequently.

We then ate lunch at Le Cinque Statue, located just outside the entrance to Villa Gregoriana, before driving back to Naples.

March 30, 1990

Today Mick and I enjoyed a visit to Sorrento. I could honestly go there every day for the remainder of may stay here.

April 2, 1990

Today Mick and I enjoyed a climb to the summit of Mt. Vesuvius. Although the view of the surrounding countryside and the Mediterranean was awesome, the stench of sulfur was almost sickening. Afterward, on the way down, we stopped at a roadside restaurant for lasagna.

April 8, 1990

Mick, I, and a newcomer to our group, Eric, drove through the regions of Abruzzo and Molise this weekend. We got off work Friday morning, went to our rooms, and slept for a couple of hours before commencing the journey. We drove to Eric’s hotel before leaving town.

We drove northward, taking A 2 for a short distance, then exited onto S 82 near Ceprano. We passed through Arce, Isola di Liri, and Sora (in Campania), then Balsorano, Civitella Roveto, Capistrello, and Avezzano (in Abruzzo).

Shortly thereafter, we entered A 25, heading west, then north on A 24 past the city of L’Aquila to Gran Sasso, which, at 2,942 meters, is the highest peak in the Apennines. Unfortunately, Gran Sasso was masked by clouds and the chair lift wasn’t operating, so we didn’t do much there.

We then drove southward along A 24, then eastward along A 25 to the town of Sulmona. Upon arrival, we checked into Europa Park, a large hotel located on S 17 north of town. A nice room for three cost us Lit. 100,000 ($80).

Afterward, we drove into town and walked around for a good while, enjoying the market environment and busy streets before entering Ristorante Italia near the town center. There we enjoyed the restaurant’s renowned homemade pasta, alla chitarra, a regional specialty. (Chitarra is a pasta much like spaghetti that is made using a devise resembling a guitar, hence the name.)

We rose Saturday morning and walked around town for awhile, strolling through a large outdoor food market, then drove still further south along S 17, turning west onto S 83.

We ate lunch at Ristorante Pulcinella in Civitella Alfedena. We were the only guests, and were served by a very kind lady. I enjoyed a bowl of stew and a steak.

The only time we spent in Civitella Alfedena was to eat lunch, although it was a curious place, spread along a mountain slope just outside the entrance to the Forca d’Acero Nazionale d’Abruzzo (National Park of Abruzzo).

We soon thereafter entered the National Park of Abruzzo (established 1923). It was a remarkable drive. A lot of the higher peaks (generally above 1,500 meters) were covered with snow. The road itself stands around 1,000 meters above sea level.

The National Park of Abruzzo encompasses one of the most fascinating regions of inland Italy, a vast mountainous area of solemn beauty, sixty percent of which is covered with woodland. The wildlife here is particularly interesting, and includes twelve species peculiar to Abruzzo. Among this wildlife is a subspecies of the brown bear inhabiting only this part of Italy, the Apennine wolf, which is rarely found in the wild, and the Abruzzo chamois, which lives on high mountain pastures. There are also deer, otters, roebuck, and wildcats, all of which are rigorously protected.

One particularly unique experience, meanwhile, occurred somewhat later in the picturesque hill town of Opi.

Opi is a village seemingly lost in the vast park. It does not even occupy a point on most maps. Its population is around five hundred. In areal extent, the size is likely a square kilometer or two.

Opi itself stands some 1,250 meters above sea level. And it is secluded. The nearest train station, even in this country where reliance on trains is great, is nearly thirty kilometers away in Civitella Alfedena. The nearest town is Pescasseroli, six kilometers distant.

What was so alluring about Opi? Some distance previous, as we had entered the park, we noticed a directory advertising the existence of caves near Opi, and had gone to explore.

From a distance, sitting amidst a flattened valley, stood Opi. A hill town, its cobblestone streets steep sharply. A restaurant emanated a most inviting aroma. We had come simply for directions to the caves.

Outside a building we met a clergyman and asked him the way. As he explained, a most curious event occurred. A hailstorm began. And rather than seek immediate shelter, as most would surely have done, the clergyman continued his detailed explanation as though oblivious to the storm. He continued at length. I felt sorry, for we sat safe inside my automobile as this most hospitable man stood outside with only a newspaper to cover his head. At last he finished, I thanked him, he hesitated, then retreated indoors. We never found the caves.

We drove as far as Pescasseroli, then turned around to retrace our path, driving past Opi once again, threading along the twisting park road, then passed through Civitella Alfedena as we headed south for the region of Molise.

We finished the day in Isernia, checking into Hotel La Tequila, situated in a quiet location outside the center of town. A room for three once again cost us Lit. 100,000.

That night, we drove into town, dining at Taverna Maresca, an informal place downtown with an abbreviated menu and very good cheese-filled ravioli. The only employee we saw there was an older woman who served as our waiter.

After dinner, we went back to the room to watch some television. Eric and I each called home.

Sunday morning we rose and drove to Pietrabbondante, a small collection of ruins. The site is located in a most unlikely place, the rural region of Molise, along the eastern slopes of the Apennines. The search for Pietrabbondante led us scouring the back roads of wilderness. Signs were scant, directions vague. This was indeed the road less traveled.

We were the only visitors, less the overseer, and were asked to sign a visitors’ log. The ancient town sits in a hillside with a panoramic view of the valley to the east. It was still morning, the sky a perfect blue.

Not much is left here, but what is left is fascinating. The small amphitheater is largely intact. It was constructed with backrests. Human images carved into the ends of each semi-circular row give the stones life. The grass behind the gray stones appeared dark green. The contrast, gray, green, blue sky, was stunning. The size of the amphitheater suggests the population of this town was several hundred, maybe a thousand or two.

Steps lead to an elevated foundation, once supporting a temple, the largest structure here. I climbed the steps and studied the remains. Stone paths mark the old streets. Foundations placed solidly in the ground mark the old homes. Only a portion of the lower walls still stand, but not much else. Still, this is an interesting place.

This is the only known ancient site around. And, as usual, I departed with many questions. How did the Samnites get here? Were there any neighboring towns? If so, where are their remains? Or has every hint of their existence been obliterated, less this settlement? What was their trade? Commerce? Who knows? But what a unique place to find an ancient, deserted town.

We arrived in Naples late this afternoon (Sunday), just in time to work this evening.

April 11, 1990

Today Mick and I visited Cumae, an important archaeological site tucked away in an unpopulated region northwest of Naples. Getting there required a pass under the ancient Arco Felice (Happy Arch), the supporting arch of a Roman viaduct built of brick which still retains a large amount of its original floor.

Cumae (Cuma) was founded by Greeks around the eighth century BC. I have never visited ruins so dilapidated. Only a few foundations, some fragments of walls, and the outlines of streets remain. Most of the site is covered by tall grass and trees, yet it is spacious.

I am fascinated by Cuma, as it is presently known. What a view the ancients enjoyed here. Indeed, to the north is the Cuma coast, south is the Cape of Miseno (Capo Miseno), and southeast is the Gulf of Pozzuoli.

I wondered, as we departed, what made the Greeks choose this inland site versus some location more advantageous to commerce, perhaps along the sea where they could have erected a port. Perhaps everything they needed was here.

April 15, 1990

Mick, Eric, and I returned from Florence earlier this afternoon. It was a good trip. The drive lasted around four-and-a-half hours.

We arrived there around 11:30 yesterday morning, managed to get the car parked (following a half-hour ordeal), and checked into Pensione Soggiorno Adua. (Parking in downtown Florence is very difficult.) It was then time for sightseeing.

We first visited the Archaeological Museum. It was a good place to see, but much of it was closed. The Archaeological Museum is not as much a treasure to the artist as to the historian, or, well, the archaeologist.

There are some worthwhile artifacts, many Etruscan treasures, and even Egyptian tombs dating to 1800 BC Several items date to the period of the ancient Roman Empire, jewelry, coins, sculptures, and domestic products such as pottery.

There are few famous works, for this is not an art museum. Anyone appreciating ancient Rome, however, must come here. The museum is a lesser known Florentine landmark. (From the second floor, however, is an impressive view of the Duomo rising above the trees.)

Afterward, we enjoyed lunch at Angiolino, a restaurant near the hotel. I had eaten there twice during my previous visit. Mick is amazed that I know so many restaurants in so many towns. (One simply finds a good place, and he goes back to it.) There was a little garden in back where we ate. I enjoyed grilled steak.

We were served by a black waitress, an oddity, for one does not usually find Africans working in public places here, not that Italians are racist, but the African population here is infinitesimal, and Africans tend not to assimilate into the Italian culture. I spoke Italian to her, even though she informed me kindly that “she spoke my language.”

After lunch, we walked to the Duomo. (This was my third trip to Florence, so I was just along for the ride.) Along the way, we made several stops in unique stores and shops. One cannot walk through Florence without doing this.

At five in the afternoon, we returned to the hotel to rest for an hour or so. Meanwhile, I made dinner reservations at Acqua al Due, a popular place where reservations are a necessity. (I had eaten there during my previous visit as well.)

We toured Ponte Vecchio and the nearby street market for around an hour-and-a-half before going to dinner, passing Santa Croce, which is near the restaurant, along the way.

The specialty at Acqua al Due is quite memorable. It consists of five different types of pasta, and is served as successive courses. We also enjoyed a bottle of sweet white wine (Chardonay Santa Margherita). One can’t dine in Florence without having wine. We finished, stopped for gelato, and walked back to the hotel.

We rose at 7:30 this morning, Easter Sunday. The Academy of Fine Arts, which houses the David, opens at nine, and we wanted to have breakfast and be in line by 8:30. Mick and I arrived there as planned, only to find the museum opening a half hour early.

We walked in, purchased tickets, and, while bypassing everything else, walked straight to the David. There were perhaps three people there, so we began taking photographs, uninhibited by tourists. Only as we were finishing did the hoard arrive. And as they crowded around the David, we viewed everything we had bypassed earlier (and which they had now vacated). Now the remainder of the museum was deserted.

Afterward, Mick and I went sightseeing for an hour or so, taking in Piazza della Signoria and Ponte Vecchio. We checked out of our hotel around ten o’clock, picked up the car, and drove to Piazzale Michelangelo so we could enjoy the unparalleled, sunlit view of Florence offered there.

We finally departed around eleven and arrived in Naples around 3:30. We only spent about a hundred dollars apiece the entire trip.

April 21, 1990

My roommate, Andrew, and I went to Rome Thursday, April 19, to shop for compact discs.

April 22, 1990

Mick and I made a return trip to Puglia today for the specific purpose of visiting the enchanting town Alborabello again.

We enjoyed the drive through the Murge dei Trulli, arriving in Alborabello around lunchtime. I parked the car on a street, and we began walking through town, making photographs, and soon finding a good restaurant. As we were paying the check, I purchased a bottle of sweet white wine which was made in Abruzzo.

We returned to Naples via S 377 and S 100, bypassing Taranto, then taking S 106 along the Ionian Coast (the “instep”), driving through the desolate region of Basilicata.

We made a quick stop at the site of the ancient Greek town Metapontum, known in Italian as Metaponto. We were disappointed by the few relics we saw. We then turned west on S 7, which became A 3 near Potenza, and returned home via Salerno.

May 13, 1990

Capri last weekend, May 4-6, was memorable.

I arrived by hydrofoil late Friday afternoon, meeting a little man on the pier wearing a hat bearing the name “Hotel Caesar Augustus.” He packed a few of us, and our luggage, into his tiny van and began the treacherous climb up the narrow, crooked streets to Anacapri, where the hotel is located. One can see it sitting atop a cliff, some three hundred meters above the water. It is barely visible from sea level.

We first arrived in the town of Capri, then quickly began our ascent. The road leading to Anacapri took us through several hairpin turns. One side of this narrow road is bound by a steep rock wall, the other only by a nominal guardrail dividing the edge of the road and a shattering drop.

We met a bus along the way. Both vehicles nearly stopped, then inched past each other. The drivers looked unconcerned. The passengers held their breath. We were so close to the bus we could have easily shaken hands with the passengers through open windows.

At the hotel, the driver took the van through a narrow gate and along the short, brown stone driveway to the entrance. A palm tree and several plants and flowers adorn the front lawn. It is a quaint place.

I walked inside the three-story building to check in. I was given a nice room with a view. It was a smallish room with a set of double doors that opened onto a small private balcony. The Bay of Naples and the Amalfi Coast stretched before me.

Upon the spacious hotel balcony, standing in the farthest corner, facing the town of Capri, is a statue of Caesar Augustus. There were several tables and lawn chairs sitting about the balcony. Breakfast is served here every morning. Above I could see a centuries-old castle standing atop a cliff, overlooking the town of Capri.

I then took the short walk into Anacapri. The walk carried me past a few residences. They were fenced, but I could still see a swimming pool in someone’s backyard. Anyone should long to retire here.

Once in the piazza, I purchased a half-kilogram of cherries from a vendor. I ate them while walking along Via Boffe, more commonly known as Viale Axel Munthe, which is nothing more than a narrow shaded concrete path leading from the piazza in front of the posh Hotel Europa.

The little shaded pathway is lined with shops. An artist sat in his shop painting, his several works hanging on thin walls. The paintings were moderately expensive, but lovely. Most paintings used some landmark of the island as a backdrop. He ignored me.

I walked past a few more shops, then a restaurant, then Villa Axel Munthe, the residence of a Swedish physician who retired here a century ago. His residence is now a museum.

Finally, I came to a promontory marking the end of the pathway. The castle I had seen from the hotel patio stood directly above me. The view of Capri spread below the promontory. (This must be a haven for couples at night.) I then started back to the piazza. I had finished my cherries.

Friday night, I spend Lit. 37,000 ($30), on dinner, in a little restaurant just off the main piazza in Anacapri. In my hotel room, I opened the curtained double doors leading to the balcony. I sat there for some time, sipping some wine from Abruzzo I had bought, of all places, in a restaurant in Alborabello. A kind bartender here had allowed me to use the restaurant’s refrigerator to chill the wine for several hours.

The lights of the Amalfi Coast and the rim surrounding the Bay of Naples outlined those landmarks. The lights of Naples were quite dim. A few boats in the water were visible. The breeze was cool. I slept blissfully that night, despite the chilly air.

The beach next morning was crowded. I spent some five hours there, and sported an impressive sunburn by the end of the day. That night (Saturday), I discovered a great restaurant in Anacapri, La Rondinella. It was a good walk from the hotel and carried me through much of the town. I enjoyed the cannelloni.

May 27, 1990

I visited Sorrento today. I didn’t do anything I hadn’t done before, simply enjoyed the trip and the relaxation of this small town versus the utter chaos that is Naples.

June 8, 1990

Capri last weekend, June 1-3, was terrific. It was one of my best trips ever. I left work Friday afternoon at two, took the subway to Mergellina, and made it to the island before four.

I met my traveling partner, Mick, at Hotel Caesar Augustus, and we left immediately to take a chair lift to the island’s highest peak, Monte Solaro, which is nearly 600 meters above sea level. From there is a straight drop to the ocean. I made some wonderful photographs.

The only building present there is deserted, a restaurant which had long since closed. It has apparently been several years. I followed a crude pathway to a vast field filled with daisies. I could see the other side of the island where Villa Jovis rests. It is but a couple of kilometers, but seems a world away. I walked around for a few minutes, then we took the chair lift back to the main piazza.

After walking around for a while longer, Mick and I went to dinner. We ate at La Rondinella. They served excellent house wine. I had eaten there before. I enjoyed a beef steak that was so large it hung over the edges of my plate. We dined outside on the covered front porch. By dark, the place was nearly filled. There are several restaurants in Anacapri. I have enjoyed a handful of them, but none as delightful as La Rondinella.

After dinner, we walked back through Anacapri, passing several other restaurants and cafés, finally stopping at a gelateria for dessert. There were several young people milling about. There is a small movie theater in back.

Next morning we met a tour group at Marina Grande. We took a two-hour motorboat tour around the island. There was a mix of Italians and Americans. The tour cost us each Lit. 16,000 ($13). I saw things I will never forget.

From the boat we looked up to see Hotel Caesar Augustus. The statue of Caesar Augustus seemed minuscule from three hundred meters. I recalled the morning view from the balcony across so much of the region. The clear morning air had permitted an even greater panorama than the previous afternoon.

Traveling counter-clockwise around the island, a little farther west was the famous Blue Grotto, a cave in which the waters are an iridescent blue. A second boat greeted us to take any willing passengers into the cave, for a modest fee, of course. Mick and I declined.

At the southwest corner of the island is Faro. There is a beach there. Standing at the extremity of the rocky land is a lighthouse, now disabled. It is like the Queen, merely a figurehead.

We passed Marina Piccola, a popular beach, on the south side of the island, then approached the three rocks, I Faraglioli, another landmark, at the southeast corner of the island. They are actually huge stones jutting out of the water, almost forming tiny islets themselves. Through one is a small passageway. The motorboat passed through, even though it would have been just as easy to circumvent.

The east side of the island is decidedly greener than any other. There is no civilization here, just this little paradise in its natural wonderment. Above is a natural arch. It was difficult to see from the motorboat. Below, another grotto makes the water appear light blue.

At the northeast tip we rounded the corner and headed for Marina Grande. Above stood Villa Jovis, although not easily seen from the water.

The port was busy. There was much traffic of hydrofoils and ferries. The pier was crowded with tourists. We pulled into dock and disembarked. Indeed, the more familiar I become with this island, the more amazed I am.

Following the boat ride, we went to lunch, then spent around three hours at the beach during the afternoon. I did not get sunburned.

Following the beach, we went back to the hotel to change, then went to dinner. We found a place slightly off the beaten path and ate in a little garden in the back of the restaurant. I enjoyed the cannelloni and another excellent bottle of house wine.

We returned to Naples Sunday morning.

June 23, 1990

I have come to the island of Ischia. It is located in the Bay Of Naples and stands some twenty-five kilometers or so northwest of Capri. I had never been here and had been wanting to visit.

The hydrofoil from Mergellina brought me to Ischia, pulling into port on the north side of the island. The island is roughly rectangular, rising to a two thousand foot peak in the center. It is the largest of the three isles in the Bay of Naples, and proved a nice place to visit. There were far fewer tourists than at Capri. The beaches here are sand rather than rock.

Even before Greeks had founded Cumae, they inhabited Ischia, their initial settlement in this region. Obviously, not much is left of their occupancy. Yet how grand that they should have lived here.

Ischia is of volcanic origin. (The steam and mineral water springs are proof.) The landscape is mainly mountainous, with a jagged coastline harboring a few small inlets. The mild climate, beautiful landscape, hot springs, and beaches make Ischia one of the most popular places for holidays and health cures.

The main town on the island is Ischia, divided into Ischia Ponte, a picturesque little fishing town dominated by a castle, and Ischia Porto, an elegant seaside resort and spa near the harbor, the internal basin of which is actually the crater of an ancient volcano.

The main port is hidden inside the nearly enclosed harbor. There were several boats docked there, and several restaurants. It is a good place for tourists, a good place to spend a few nights.

Ischia is more of a resort than Procida, but not as popular as Capri. Nevertheless, tourists do come here during summer. I took a bus to its southern point, Sant’Angelo. The bus ride proved just how large Ischia is. The trip along only half the circumference took one half hour. Of course, there was much traffic, but we passed through many small towns and along numerous beaches. The peak in the center of the island was always visible. I would like to climb to the top on a clear day. Today was quite hazy.

Sant’Angelo is a quiet beach with a couple of small restaurants and cafés. The water was warm this June day. The beach was relatively clean. There were mostly Italians. I spent around three hours in the sun, getting sunburned again. I would have loved to have stayed the weekend.

I dreamed of spending a night out by the rocks at Sant’Angelo. They stand above the water and make excellent diving platforms. They would feel cool on warm summer nights. I am sure the view at dusk is grand, and the nights are vibrant. (I am sure of this although I did not stay to learn.)

I opted to return to Naples for the night, a little bored perhaps. I should have taken along a book to read to pass the time a little more easily.

Meanwhile, Mick and I went to O’Calamaro tonight, after driving through Saturday night World Cup soccer (calcio) traffic. But it was a good day.

Now here is an interesting anecdote. Until a few weeks ago, Americans exiting the tangenziale at the Agnano exit were often forced through “the squeeze” in order to reach the base. This infuriating thing was often the cause of extreme aggravation and delays, mainly for the Americans, who regularly railed at the absurdity, rather than Italians, who never seemed to care.

The squeeze was actually a situation caused by funneling some several lanes of traffic (cars exiting the tangenziale from both directions) into one. On occasion, the traffic jam would be so extreme that cars would be stopped along the exit ramps and even the tangenziale itself. This would, in turn, slow the remaining drivers on the tangenziale, since it was now reduced to two lanes of moving traffic from three.

I am sure this is a problem that existed for years, but miraculously, during May, in four short weeks, the squeeze was remedied. Road construction and landscape greatly improved both the width and the appearance of this once-dreadful stretch of road. The reason for such a frenzied burst of this long overdue work? Calcio. The World Cup. You see, San Paolo Stadio, the soccer stadium, is accessible from the Agnano exit, and with Naples hosting some of the games, it was deemed prudent to widen the squeeze.

July 1, 1990

On Italy’s west coast, along the mouth of the Tiber River to the west of Rome, and just south of Fiumicino, is the modern town of Ostia. Like many towns, it lies adjacent to its ancient predecessor, Ostia Antica, once an important port city.

Yesterday, Mick and I visited Ostia Antica. Here is the largest site of ancient Roman ruins excluding Rome itself. It dates to the first century BC. Now largely dilapidated, the ruins are still a wonder. The spaciousness of the present site suggests this was no small village. Being the port city used by ancient Rome, commerce must have been busy and ample.

There is an amphitheater still intact, but most of the buildings are in ruin, their foundations and floors remaining, many still bearing intricate tile designs, mostly animals, but occasionally one finds a warrior or gladiator. Such works appear frequently. Just as one thinks he has seen the last design, he finds another a short distance away. These designs appear to have been popular.

Standing in the open sun is the stone foundation of what once must have been a temple. Several steps lead to the floor. It looks like a pyramid with the top half removed. It reminds one of Aztec ruins in Mexico.

In another open field are a group of statues, tired and dirty. None are complete. Some are decapitated. A few are missing an arm or a hand. The characters they represent are anonymous. Their eyes are hollow. Their stares are blank.

We walked around for about two hours.

The drive there took two-and-a-half hours. The trip back lasted more than four, although we took the coastal S 213 instead of A 2. The drive was leisurely, the beaches crowded. The sights were much more rewarding than from the autostrada.

We stopped for lunch in Nettuno, about one-third the distance from Rome to Naples. The restaurant was in an antique quarter of town. It was a little expensive, but, of course, we ordered steak and seafood. Dining outside, underneath a canopy, with a view of the quaint piazza before us made for a very relaxing lunch.

This morning, meanwhile, I went to the beach at Sorrento. For once, I avoided getting sunburned. Of course, I only stayed in the sun an hour and forty-five minutes.

The water felt comfortable. The beach was quite pleasurable. The day was hot. Once again, I managed to escape the primary tourist sites and found a beach frequented mostly by Italians.

Unfortunately, there was a massive arrival of Neapolitans at the train station while I was having a telephone conversation, so I could hear nothing. Neapolitans are notoriously loud.

July 4, 1990

Today being a holiday, I was off work, so I decided to drive to Posillipo. There I stopped at a shaded roadside park to do some reading. It was a nice summer day.

July 9, 1990

I returned yesterday from Siena. My traveling companion, Mick, and I drove there Saturday, July 7. Siena is approximately 400 kilometers north of Naples, and lies between Rome and Florence (although much closer to Florence). We left Naples around eight o’clock Saturday morning, and arrived shortly after noon.

While heading toward Siena along the autostrade, north of Rome, Mick was driving close to 100 mph, when out of nowhere came a Ferrari from behind, streaking past us. We estimate he was clipping along at perhaps 150 mph. (Late that afternoon, we saw the same Ferrari circling the Piazza del Campo in a parade, of sorts, where we also watched people in costumes riding horses. We never did ascertain the occasion of the parade.)

The famous Palio delle Contrade is held annually on July 2 and August 16. (We missed it by five days.)

Siena is arguably the best preserved medieval city in Italy, resembling a miniature Florence.

Meanwhile, Mick and I took lunch at Spadaforte, a nice restaurant in Piazza del Campo. We had wanted to eat at one of the tables outdoors, but since we wouldn’t be ordering full course meals, we were asked to dine indoors, where we were given a nice window table. We were virtually the only guests there, the lunch crowd having departed already. Mick and I enjoyed the local pasta.

We then explored the medieval quarters, perhaps a square kilometer or two, in three-and-a-half hours.

In the center of town is Piazza del Campo. It is quite picturesque. There is a bell tower (Mangia Tower), which we climbed for an unparalleled view of the city and surrounding countryside. The visibility was very clear. We then visited the Duomo Cathedral and Basilica of San Lorenzo.

Dinner that evening was supreme. We dined outdoors at a table directly on the street at Nello-La Taverna, around the corner from Piazza del Campo. The bill exceeded Lit. 80,000 ($64). By comparison, our hotel room cost approximately Lit. 60,000 ($48).

We departed yesterday morning and drove southward along S 2 to Lago Bolsena, in north Lazio, then along S 74 into Umbria, finally turning onto S 71 to the hill town Orvieto, which lies about halfway between Siena and Rome. We passed through several small towns and many fields of sunflowers along the countryside.

Mick and I parked the car in a shaded parking area near one of the city walls and enjoyed a quick walk about the town, photographing the cathedral, a replica of the Duomo in Siena.

We had some pizza and sodas from a nearby café, then entered several wine shops, perusing through stacks of Orvieto Classico, and considering invitations to the town’s numerous wine tasting houses.

Mick and I left shortly, accessed A 1 nearby, leading us to Rome, then took A 2 To Naples, finally arriving around four o’clock yesterday afternoon.

July 14, 1990

I am spending another weekend at Capri. I departed this morning with George on the 7:10 hydrofoil from Naples. We arrived by eight, and have done much walking.

High atop a promontory on the northeast tip of the island stand the remains of the ancient Villa Giove (Villa Jovis). It stands in a most unlikely place.

Simply getting there is the adventure, a grueling, forty-five minute walk directly uphill starting from the main piazza in the town of Capri. One walks the narrow streets (not streets, really, for no vehicles can pass, but wide sidewalks) upward, past small houses with magnificent views, hotels, restaurants, a few shops. Then the traveler passes from civilization.

At a fork, right to see the natural arch, left to continue the climb to Villa Jovis, we realized the adventure of this endeavor (and the endeavor of this adventure). Even the topographic map did not allude to the work required. (Of course, the map itself is flat.)

Soon, even the sidewalk turned to mush, a moist, grassy path leading past fields, trees that could be centuries old, and a few stray houses.

This was not the resort that swells during summer when international tourists invade its shores. This is wilderness, almost, with a shattering view of the sea far, far below our vantage point. Even in the shade, the heat and humidity were oppressive, and sweat soaked my clothes.

Finally, a mile and a half later, we reached the promontory. There is one building there, outside the gate to the villa. It is an earthen building, protected by more of those enormous shade trees. A kind woman opened the rickety metal gate leading to the villa and did not charge admission. It was around ten o’clock, the time posted on the worn sign by the gate. We had arrived at opening time.

The remains were incomprehensible. It was difficult to tell what was what, but they are ruins, and somebody, someone, long ago, without even the benefit of those paved sidewalks and the worn tracks of thousands of previous visitors, put these stones here. The site is small and covered by tangled brush and vines. It is not shaded.

The view of the sea from more than 400 meters is stunning. Across a small channel is the western tip of the Amalfi Coast. For the haze, we could not see Naples, and the outline of Vesuvius was vague. But below, directly below, so directly below that a stone dropped from my outstretched arm would seemingly, even in the absence of a kind breeze, plunge into the placid water, is the sea.

The ruins are brown and gray. The only recognizable feature is a dark statue, life-size, standing atop the highest point, facing toward the remainder of the island. Its figure was outlined by the bright sun to its back. I made a photograph here. We were very thirsty.

The building inhabited by the woman is a bar. We sat at a wooden table under a shade tree, just a few meters from the edge of the cliff, and ordered a liter bottle of water, then another. The lady was very kind. What a place to run a business, tending to thirsty adventurers.

We departed and commenced the blessed downhill walk, now taking time to enjoy the quaint surroundings. We were still the lone visitors this morning. We met no one, less the lady at the bar who gave us water, well, sold it to us. The shade trees covered our heads. We retraced our steps back to the town.

After returning, we went to the beach, but only for an hour.

We then went to Anacapri so I could check into Hotel Caesar Augustus. I was placed in a room in a small building off the primary structure. My room opens to a concrete terrace.

We then had lunch.

George left afterward, since he has to work tomorrow. So I returned to the hotel to lie on the terrace.

Later that afternoon, I walked back to the piazza, map in hand. After a bus ride to the blue grotto yielded little, less an interesting little ride down the slopes to the beach, I took a walk to Faro, where the lighthouse stands.

The road is lined with houses, and only as I neared the lighthouse did I seem to depart from civilization. The beach there was filled with sunbathers.

The walk was longer than I had anticipated, so rather than join the sunbathers and pass more time, I decided to take the walk back, studying the little houses and wondering who should be so lucky as to actually live here.

The road was now uphill. I wound my way back to Anacapri and enjoyed walking through the streets there once more.

Anacapri is a memorable place. The streets are narrow, the architecture distinct. There is a little church I long to visit, a little museum filled with ancient Roman artifacts. Of course, most of the commerce here is geared toward tourism, but even if the tourists weren’t here, I am sure this little island would flourish, perhaps a little less populous, but the paradise, I am confident, would remain.

I am now getting ready to go to dinner at La Rondinella.

July 17, 1990

Sunday morning, June 15, while at Capri I walked to the eastern edge of the island in order to view the natural arch. I made some photographs of it.

After visiting the picturesque flower garden, Villa San Michele, on the southern edge of the island, I went to the beach, to a new location, somewhat close to where I usually go. Here it is more secluded and not as crowded. I was perhaps the only non-Italian there. By afternoon, though, it was time to go home.

July 28, 1990

I went to Capri today, although only for the day. I left this morning on the 7:10 hydrofoil.

Upon arrival, I walked to the eastern edge of the island in order to view the natural arch.

I then walked a short distance toward the direction from which I came, then trudged down a narrow, earthen set of steps. I emerged in a deep valley, almost at sea level. There is a large cave there. It appeared man made, although I could not be sure. I followed the path back to the edge of the sea, then around the edge of the island, enjoying the natural beauty. Here there were no tourists, less myself. Indeed, nature, not man, has made this island a paradise.

I walked around to the south side of the island and gradually re-emerged into civilization. The path became wider, and I passed a few artisans’ shops and cafés. There were tourists again. I felt I had passed through two greatly different worlds in only a short time. Indeed, Capri often seems much larger than it is.

I stumbled upon a flower garden, Villa San Michele, nestled on the edge of a cliff. It was well shaded. The flowers were multi-colored. The view of the south side of the island was splendid.

I found my way back to the path and continued my journey. Although my legs had grown weary, I forged ahead. The tourist traffic was heavy.

Back in familiar territory, I passed two beaches, one a secluded one reachable only by a series of treacherous, rocky steps, the second, the more friendly beach at Marina Piccola. Here were hoards of sunbathers enjoying the warm sun and cool waters. I joined them for around two hours, and enjoyed the relaxation.

I departed Capri at 3:10 for Naples.

I had made excellent photographs.

August 5, 1990

Today I visited the third island in the Bay of Naples, Procida.

Procida was formed by the unique geology of the area. It is the least known, smallest, and flattest of the islands, its highest point reaching only a few meters above sea level. Its beaches are sandy and surprisingly quiet. Indeed, Procida has not been overrun by tourists. It is fitted mainly to the locals.

After arriving by ferry from the Naples Mergellina port, I walked the short distance to the nearest bus stop. It was in a residential section. (The island has a thorough public transportation system.) I took this bus to the beach. Nothing seemed crowded, even though it is summer.

At the beach I was surprised by the sparse distribution of sunbathers. Everyone had room to move about. Even during the heat of the high noon sun, I felt somewhat alone. Most of the island seekers have flocked to Capri and Ischia. This is such a simple place, almost unknown.

I took the bus to one end of the island, where a bridge connects to another, smaller island. It is, oddly, shaped like a crescent. I walked a wooded path uphill. From a vantage point I could see, through the haze, the island of Ischia. It was becoming warm, even in shade. And I was becoming hungry.

I rode back through town. It is a town like any other Italian town. I hardly felt the maritime influence. I found a decent restaurant on the waterfront and sat at a small table outside. I ate alone. From here, I could watch for the ferry that would take me home. I had an hour.

I took a rear seat on the ferry. Sitting outside, I watched the island grow farther distant. We sailed past the Bay of Baia, Pozzuoli, Bagnoli, Posillipo, then toward the familiar sight of Mergellina.

Afterward, I went to Pozzuoli. While there I visited the ancient Roman amphitheater, at one time the third largest in Italy (the amphitheaters of Rome and Verona being larger). It was built around 70 AD, during Vespasian’s reign. The amphitheater had seating for forty thousand, complex underground passages, trapdoors, animal cages, and, like the Coliseum in Rome, could be flooded for mock naval battles.

August 23, 1990

On Saturday, August 18, a friend of mine and I explored Naples.

We visited the Capodimonte Museum, the finest art museum in Naples. I am amazed that such fine works as contained here actually exist in Naples. The museum itself is a huge red brick building in a nice area (with trees) situated on a hill with a good view of the city and the bay.

The visibility was good. Naples does look clean and peaceful from such a promontory.

Afterward, we went to Vomero, the highest elevation in Naples. We visited the Museum of San Martino. It was nice, but not as captivating as Capodimonte. The most significant feature here is actually the view of Naples and Mount Vesuvius.

We also ventured into the nearby cameo factory where many cameos were displayed, and for decent prices.

I took my car back into town and drove to Vomero to a park (with trees and grass), Villa Floridiana. It was a nice diversion. Later, I went to the port, then drove to Pozzuoli for dinner at a little restaurant by the sea, Gigetta, where I had not eaten in a year-and-a-half. I parked in a nearby parking lot, taking the last space. I paid the attendant Lit. 2,000 to watch my car.

On Sunday, August 19, I went to Caserta. There I visited the Royal Palace and its magnificent park, for which Caserta is famous. It is impressive, on the scale of the Palace at Versailles. I did not go inside, but did take a walk across the gargantuan expanse of land behind it.

Sometimes called the Versailles of the Bourbons, the Royal Palace is one of the most enormous and imposing buildings in Italy. This building has 1,200 rooms, 1,790 windows, and 34 flights of stairs connecting the various floors. The royal apartments are richly decorated with stuccoes, marble, and neoclassical painting, and is furnished with pieces of the same period.

The park behind the palace, also designed by Vanvitelli, is perhaps its most outstanding feature, extending across three hundred acres. The scenic views created by its fountains and waterfalls are quite spectacular. At the end of the walk is a waterfall which I climbed. The view was indeed marvelous.

August 25, 1990

Occasionally, one finds treasures possessing no fame, little glory, and no recognition beyond that given by locals. These treasures are numerous, but not, alas, anonymous. This quiet paradise is such a place.

To the west of Naples, perhaps twenty kilometers, extends a small peninsula. It is even west of Pozzuoli and its majestic amphitheater and crumbling tenements, farther west than even Lago di Averno (Lake Avernus). (Along the lake’s edge, itself resting inside a round crater, stand the remains of the Temple of Apollo.)

Skirting southward of the nearby two-thousand-year-old Arco Felice, constructed after Romans had cut the Monte Grillo in order to clear a way for the Via Domiziana, one travels along a narrow two-lane road until he descends into a clearing allowing a magnificent view of the Bay of Baia on the eastern edge of the peninsula. The peninsula bears no official name, and will be referred to hereafter simply as “La Penisola.”

Today I visited the ruins of an ancient palace constructed by the Emporer Hadrian in the second century AD. I was the only visitor and perused the compact site at will. I had passed these ruins before, seeing them from the road, terraces built so cunningly into the hillside. The ruins were overgrown in places by tall grass, and shade trees appeared randomly throughout the area. The Temple of Mercury, a large circular bathing hall, with its open domed roof, appeared too modern to be so old, but inside it reeked of mildew. (During the medieval period, it was called the Temple of the Echo, a reference to the extraordinary acoustics inside.)

Modern residents have built to the doorstep of this ancient palace, and the ruins therefore seem to lose their ancient feel. Indeed, the site would be much more impressive if isolated. It is admittedly unkept, but how can one improve the appearance of something so old, something in such a state of disrepair?

Upon a cliff high and directly above the waters of the Bay of Baia stands the picturesque Castle of Baia. It is viewed best as one descends from the north along the steep road leading southward into Baia. The castle presides, facing east, always appearing as a dull gray silhouette perched above the sea.

La Penisola is isolated, both culturally and economically. True, it is considered a suburb of Naples, that great, sprawling metropolis, but she is some distance from that city. In fact, only two major roads connect it with the mainland. The areal extent of La Penisola is very small. From north to south, it covers no more than five kilometers. The east-west breadth is, at its widest, near the southern end, about four kilometers, at its narrowest, between the middle and northern end, about two kilometers. Thus, the total area of La Penisola is somewhere around fifteen square kilometers. Its population is around fifty thousand. Bacoli is the largest town.

Two factors suggest a maritime culture. La Penisola, obviously, is surrounded by water, but is also dotted with Lakes Fusaro and Miseno. Also, fishing is vitally important here. The Bay of Baia is always filled with fishing vessels.

But the culture isn’t necessarily maritime. It is mainland. Olive groves cover much of the countryside, and grape vineyards near the village of Aquamorta, near the southwest edge, allow the town to produce a wine that bears its own name.

La Penisola is further linked to the mainland by the Cumana rail line, which passes westward from its origins deep inside Naples, through Pozzuoli, with stops in Baia (near the ruins of the imperial palace), and Torregaveta (on the west coast), before turning northward toward Cuma.

The streets are agonizingly narrow, the landscape steeped with hills that rise sharply as one travels inland. There, upon the promontory, stands the castle, a mystical silhouette. One always drives past its entrance on the way to Bacoli.

There are two fine restaurants atop a hill near the Bay of Baia, Il Gabbiano and Sirene Due, the former I have frequented more than once. The food is delectable. The cuisine is structured around seafood, of course.

A couple I have befriended, the Pattersons, rent a modest second-floor apartment in Baia. From their balcony, one can see across the olive groves to the west and the shimmering Mediterranean in the distance. Theirs is a home I envy. I long for a home in Baia. Nowhere in Italy do I want to live more than here.

It is a short drive from the apartment to a popular pizzeria near the west coast. One has to navigate the winding downhill streets, of course, past the turn to Bacoli and back to sea level. I am always awed at the peacefulness here.

After leaving Baia along the main road to Bacoli, driving past the ruins of Baia, one passes a few restaurants, bars, and homes. He arrives at a lakeside park. There is an excellent geleteria on a street corner nearby. A favorite restaurant across from the park serves excellent seafood. At night the little town glows. There are young people in the streets and the shops are open. Parked along the side of a major thoroughfare I once saw a fancy horse-drawn buggy. It looked as though it belonged in a circus.

After dinner one night, I returned to Baia and drove along the waterfront. A string of lights illuminated the shoreline of the Bay of Baia. There was not much traffic. There were more boats in the water than cars on the street.

It is a quiet place, picturesque. Indeed, I thought as I departed La Penisola for the mainland, this is a quiet little paradise, an entire culture hidden away on a secluded peninsula, itself a local treasure, carefully protected by its people. I am always drawn here, even more so than the big cities with the glorious treasures. I always think of that second-floor apartment, simple and serene, the smell of olive groves, the distant sea.

Quiet paradise.

August 25, 1990

Today, after visiting the ruins of Baia, I drove to Caserta to explore the Royal Palace.

August 30, 1990

On Sunday, August 26, I visited the Royal Palace in downtown Naples, then ventured to Vomero. Naples isn’t such a bad place to sightsee if one knows where to go.

I received my Eurail pass in the mail yesterday. The hotel reservations have also been made. The prices were decent. The most expensive room is in Vienna at ninety dollars per night. Everything has been prepared.

September 1, 1990

After a day spent roaming about Naples in which I visited the National Museum, a gallery across the street from the National Museum, Museum of San Martino, and the Castle of St. Elmo, I was compelled to pen the following essay about this intoxicating (and infuriating) city.

Campagna. The region of Italy which lies along the Tyrrhenian Sea, bordering Lazio to the south and Calabria to the north. Naples is the capital of Campagna, a region possessing far more treasures than imaginable. There is, of course, Pompeii, home of those famed ancient ruins, and Paestum, the ancient Greek community. There is Caserta, a twenty-minute drive along A 2 north of Naples, home of the extravagant Royal Palace which became an allied headquarters during World War II. There is the tourist-frenzied, albeit picturesque, Amalfi Coast, speckled with a myriad of towns possessing such romanticized names as Sorrento, Positano, Ravello, Vietri Sul Mare. There are the islands, Procida, Ischia, and the famous Capri all within sight of each other, all nestled safely within the Bay Of Naples. In Pozzuoli, a crumbling suburb (heavily damaged in the 1980 earthquake) bordering Naples to the west, stands what was once the third largest ancient Roman amphitheater in all of Italy. And there is Mt. Vesuvius, perhaps the world’s most celebrated volcano, rising upward from gentle, green and gray slopes that stretch outward to the sea’s edge. The mount looms peacefully, ominously, over an imaginary kingdom, deceptively serene while the earth bubbles restlessly underneath.

Naples wraps around the Bay of Naples. Mount Vesuvius hovers dangerously about six kilometers distant. The city is one of contradictions. It is crowded, more than one million inhabitants stuffed into an excruciatingly small space. (Its metropolitan population numbers more than five million.) It is alternately called “Bella Napoli” (beautiful Naples), and, by Americans (and probably a healthy percentage of Italians, too), the “armpit of Italy.” It is noisy and dirty. There is too much traffic, too much pollution. It is lovely, vibrant, electrifying. The food is famous, the people are friendly, humorous. There is too much crime, too many pickpockets. The city is rat-infested, diseased, unsanitary. It is romantic, historic, mesmerizing.

At every street corner, upon every piazza, there lives some fragment, some hint of the fame of a past age. Every era since the Middle Ages is represented. Not a single year since seems to have passed without having left some impression.

It is because of Naples I began to classify Italy’s cities as either masculine or feminine. Naples, because of its weird, unpredictable temperament is feminine. Rome, because of its stability, its sheer massivity, its evenness, is masculine. Florence, because of its romanticism and beauty, is feminine, whereas Venice, because of its physical fortitude, is decidedly masculine.

The center of Naples is Piazza Garibaldi. Every Italian city has a Piazza Garibaldi, named after that great patriot, Giuseppe Garibaldi, who, along with his band of red-shirts, was instrumental during the Risorgimento, a wave of nationalism which resulted in the unification of Italy in 1870. Napoli Centrale (the train station) is here, at the east end of the piazza. At the west end is a statue of Garibaldi, covered with graffiti. A street market is nearby. The piazza also acts as a hub for several bus lines. There are several parking lots and a twisting, almost indecipherable maze of narrow streets.

I have passed through the piazza many times. It is a hazard to the pedestrian. Buses, automobiles, and mopeds scream past. I recall once watching a bus ease to a stop. The doors opened and a flood of passengers spilled forth. The bus may as well have been filled with water. I walked a little further and stood in the piazza to make a photograph. A young man on a moped noticed me and halted. He kindly offered to take my picture. I knew better. Although my camera was not worth much, it was the only camera I owned. It had followed me everywhere. I did not want it stolen.

On a clear day, one can see Mount Vesuvius hovering in the east, behind Napoli Centrale. It is omnipresent. No matter where one visits, whether it is here, or Pompeii, or Sorrento, across the Bay of Naples, Vesuvius always follows. One can never simply leave it behind like an unwanted visitor. It stalks. One literally has to leave Campagna to rid himself of Vesuvius. But then it is likely to form in his dreams. It is respected, often feared. But the Neapolitans live with it. They have to. It is their city.

Vesuvius becomes a casual sight, like the café across the street, or a church, something one sees every day, but doesn’t really see. It is just there. Naples could become the next Pompeii. Two thousand years from now tourists could come to visit the hollow remains.

Usually, a venture into Piazza Garibaldi means a visit to Napoli Centrale. And that usually means a journey to another city. It is always exciting to come here, to purchase a biglietto (ticket) to another city, just to name a destination. Ah, where will it be this week, Venice, or Milan, or perhaps Florence or Pisa? Perhaps I should just pull a name from a hat.

Almost as vital to Neapolitan living is the area surrounding Piazza Plebiscito. Within a tiny area, almost a stone’s throw from the waterfront, stand Palazzo Reale, Biblioteca Nazionale (National Library), Teatro San Carlo, the posh Galleria Umberto.

Via Toledo, marking Naples’ most vital shopping district, originates here. Here one can find almost anything. Shops and street markets line Via Toledo for the better part of a mile. The shops even spill over into side streets, some so narrow that two cars cannot pass.

North of Via Toledo is the Spanish Quarter, sloping up to San Martino and Vomero. It is one of the city’s most densely populated areas. It takes its name from the Spanish troops who laid its grid pattern during the seventeenth century. It represents the classic Neapolitan scene, where laundry hanging above the streets covers the sun. It is a very lively neighborhood by day, a little shady by night.

Via Toledo, meanwhile, is nearly always crowded. There are more shops than one can ever visit. The shoe stores alone could fill half a city. Walking north along this street, away from the waterfront, one stumbles upon Piazza Dante, named for that famed poet of the Middle Ages. Here one can find an excellent restaurant, Al 53. Next door is the restaurant Dante e Beatrice. Standing in the center of the busy piazza is a palm tree. It is completely out of place. It is like the contemporary art display in the Vatican Museum. Nice, but shouldn’t it be somewhere else?

A short walk from here one finds the red brick Museo Nazionale (National Museum), a large building housing a collection of artifacts from Pompeii. The bottom floor is cold and dreary. It is filled with ornate marble sarcophagi (hopefully empty). I have never found them interesting. The large room where they sit is dim and rather forbidding.

The Egyptian collection is strangely at home. There is a mummy under glass. Odd, I have never found its presence morbid. It is like looking at an object, like a statue or carving. It is centuries old and blackened. How did an Egyptian art collection find its way to Naples, Italy, anyway? Perhaps, like the Etruscans before the founding of Rome, and the Greeks after them, it all just sort of finds its way here.

The Pompeii collection isn’t particularly large. In fact, I have always been a little disappointed. A large painting of a battle scene taken from one of those burned-out dwellings is in remarkable condition. How did such a large, fragile work survive? Other memorabilia from that distant era are on display, many too insignificant to remember. I had always thought I would find the remnants of riches and glory here, and have since wondered how much of the gold buried there was pirated. A turn eastward by the museum leads one directly to Piazza Cavour, one of the stops along the metropolitana, the subway. Nearby is the archaic Church of San Gennaro, named for the patron saint of Naples. A small vial supposedly containing the saint’s blood is kept here. Crowds gather biannually (during May and September) at the church to pray for the miracle, the liquidation of the dried blood. Should it liquefy, legend decrees the following twelve months will be prosperous. If the blood does not liquefy, then, well, you know. It is best not to openly question. I would never dare. It might just be true.

The church is a monstrosity, one of the largest in the city, if not the largest. Its lovely facade has been concealed by scaffolding. Restoration seems permanent. Inside, the sanctuary always reminds me of St. Peter’s, on a miniature scale. It is cold and dreary, much like the sarcophagi. Even on cloudless summer days, the ambience never changes. I think marble is one of those substances that conducts no heat. It is always cold.

Nothing prepared me for the little chapel underneath the “modern” church. It is dank and even colder. I should not wish to visit here at night, especially alone. It is spooky (probably haunted). Only in certain places do I believe in the supernatural. This is one. The chapel is lit only by candlelight.

Meanwhile, near Piazza Plebiscito stands the great Castel Nuovo (New Castle), a name given to this structure despite its thirteenth century origins. It truly looks the part, with towers at every corner, a drawbridge, and even a moat. The moat has been cemented. Flower vendors now meet in the moat every morning to make their sales. How quaint, this makeshift marketplace in a moat. At one edge of the grounds is the “living calendar,” an arrangement of colorful flowers designed so they spell the day’s date, literally, the day, followed by the month, then the year. Some dedicated soul walks to this little patch of earth at dawn each morning to re-arrange the flowers.

The castle sits with its back to the sea, only a road and a little shoreline separating it from the water. Now the building is filled with administrative offices, but one always wonders about the early inhabitants, the look of the land. (It is difficult to imagine the surrounding landscape devoid of buildings, less, of course, the castle.)

Back at Galleria Umberto, one can cross the street to take a funicolare up a sharp incline to the posh shopping district of Vomero. The funicolare is rickety, an old wooden structure. Several minutes later, though, one emerges to a fresh, new locale, a world away from the dusty city. It always seems bright and sunny here.

I do not feel the true Naples exists here. Nearby sits a large park, Villa Floridiana, flush with deep green grass, trees, a porcelain museum, and a stunning view of the Bay of Naples. It is very un-Neapolitan. It is lovely here, but I prefer the more earthly feel of the city. I feel the people are more genuine down there. I feel one of them. I, myself, am not impoverished, but I appreciate their poverty. Poverty is the mother of invention, as the cuisine suggests. You have what you have, and you have no more. Who would want a new Alfa Romeo, anyway, especially in this city where driving is a game and most don’t care about a few dings and scrapes? I prefer the trains and buses, far less handy than one’s own means, but so much more practical.

The cameo factory is located nearby. The works are extraordinary. Cameos have always fascinated me. I learned here that cameos are carved very diligently from seashells. I once saw a couple of works in progress. It is an art rivaling sculpture and painting.

(The word cameo, by the way, tends to be mispronounced by foreigners. English-speaking people pronounce the word “KAM-ee-oh.” The correct pronunciation, however, places stress on the second syllable vice the first, “kam-AY-oh.” Another mispronunciation is the word gondola. We say “GON-doh-lah.” Once again, stress actually falls on the second syllable. Still another mispronunciation is the name of that famed isle Capri. We say “kah-PREE.” It should be “KAH-pree.”)

Back on Via Toledo, I often walk the short distance to Montesanto to take the subway. Boys in a nearby dirt patch are usually playing soccer. Although they laugh frequently, their play is usually vigorous. They represent the picture of youthful innocence. (But they each intend to win.)

The subway tracks are buried and one must follow an endless series of escalators to get there. Along the way, one passes a poster depicting the blindfolded American hostages taken in Iran in 1979. I always get an eerie feeling.

The platforms are well lit, but the smell of soot and burned carbon are overwhelming. I always feel like Santa Claus stuffing himself down a well-used chimney, and expect to come up grimy.

Riding the train westward takes one to Mergellina and a lovely, quintessential train station. It is usually less crowded here. This is a residential area. Toward the port is Ristorante Sannazzaro, sitting in a corner of a piazza bearing the same name. It is oft-frequented by me, serving some of the finest caprese I have been privileged to taste. Outside, a man often “guards” the automobiles of those who choose to park here. For a fee of Lit. 2,000 ($1.60), he will “guard” your car. Of course, he has no official capacity. He is self-appointed. This is probably his sole means for survival, although he does not appear destitute. Everyone is friendly toward him, and likewise. I do not resent him. He, and folks like him, are a fixture in this city where unemployment runs at a feverish percentage.

One frequently passes nuns and/or a priest on his way to the port. There is a church nearby. One can see the clear water between the buildings. It is like a scene from a play. To get to the port, of course, one must cross a treacherous gauntlet of streets. A brick wall, about one meter high, separates a sidewalk from the rocky shoreline.

There are many boats tied to the pier. Their bare masts form silhouettes against the sky. It is here one can take the hydrofoil to Capri, Ischia, Procida, and Sorrento. Here, the mass, the rush, the crowds of the city often seem nonexistent. I enjoy walking this path.

In the distance, and overlooking the bay, is the famed Castel dell’Uovo (Egg Castle). According to legend, a single egg resting at the bottom of the bay supports this castle’s mammoth foundation. Such is Neapolitan folklore. (Like the miracle of San Gennaro, this is a myth I dare not question.)

A city park, only a few meters wide, but almost a mile long, stretches along and across the street from the waterfront. There are many trees and benches. A few fountains appear here and there. Couples stroll and enjoy the solitude of this quiet neighborhood. On the other side of the park runs a trolley. I recall riding that trolley one cool, rainy, April morning. I caught it just outside a café in the neighborhood of Cavaleggeri Aosta and rode it past Piazza Garibaldi. The trolley was full. I stood near the back looking out a window. It was like watching a movie.

Back in Cavaleggeri Aosta, a modern neighborhood well outside the older, central quarters, one finds a large residential district, as well as that great cultural landmark, San Paolo Stadio (St. Paul Stadium). The apartment buildings are relatively new and, admittedly, rather unattractive. They appear sturdy, and the residents adorn their balconies with plants and flowers. Unlike downtown, where strings of clean laundry clutter the sky directly above the streets, the Neapolitans here prefer to dry their clothes inside (probably using dryers). Here the streets are wider, the traffic less congested, the pollution less evident. Yet it is not a place for the tourist. There are no landmarks, other than the stadium (where, beginning several months before the World Cup soccer tournament in 1990, which Italy hosted, a digital sign counted down the seconds to the start of the event).

The subway station here, named Campi Flegrei (the station named “Cavaleggeri Aosta” being nearby) acts as a hub for other cities (as does Stazione Mergellina). From here one can catch several trains leaving for Rome each day, surely a convenience for local residents. The trip downtown is often grueling and time consuming. There are few local hotels and restaurants here. Indeed, this is a nice place to visit for the passerby, but for the tourist, he would be best advised to go elsewhere.

From Mergellina, one can catch a bus for the short ride up the hill to Posillipo, the residential counterpart to Vomero. Located directly above the bay, Posillipo is a rather nice living district. It is relatively quiet. A small park located in a shaded area makes a nice place to sit and read. There are several nice restaurants here. I have frequented four of them. One overlooks a shattering drop to the suburb of Bagnoli and its steel mills. A wonderful little gelateria located beside the park is a favorite of mine. (It was here one July night in 1990 that I sat with several other Italians and watched Italy lose a bitterly fought semifinal World Cup game against West Germany on penalty kicks. It was played in San Paolo Stadio.)

Il traffico. This is a major problem. Often comical, more often frustrating, the presence of so many cars in such a small place in such a disorganized society can lead only to difficulties. The tangenziale, the bypass around Naples, is often backed up for several kilometers behind toll booths. Four and sometimes five lanes of traffic pile onto the stressed roadway marked only for three. (Italian cars are small.) Compounding the crowding are emergency vehicles which must somehow plow through the mayhem. Of course, these vehicles are often followed by a trail of drivers taking advantage of the newly-cleared path. And the mopeds. There are seemingly more mopeds than automobiles. They become annoying as they weave between cars, often escaping by inches.

Speed limits are ignored, naturally. Therefore, the three lanes commonly found on expressways can be subdivided as follows: normal drivers traveling at reasonable speeds stick to the right, daredevils stay to the middle, all those attempting to break existing land speed records go left. It is not uncommon to be traveling at 130 kilometers per hour in the middle lane, only to be passed on the left by a Mercedes-Benz or BMW, a shiny blip traveling at what seems to be somewhere near mach one.

Driving along the outskirts of the city at such speeds is a rush. It is dangerous, but the emotion and exhilaration are unmistakably Italian. One finds he does not wish to arrive at his destination. He wants to keep going, to push a little further.

I recall driving the tangenziale out of Naples toward the north. A motorcycle behind me was impatiently trying to pass. I attempted to oblige by shifting to the center lane. Veering slightly to the right, my right wheels never crossing the white line separating the two lanes, I saw a car in the center lane would prevent me from continuing, so I began to veer to the left again to re-claim my own place. Doing so, I happened to look to my left to find that the motorcycle was now wedged between me and the guardrail. He had assumed I would complete the lane shift. “You idiot,” I thought. He saw I had not changed lanes and quickly dropped behind me.

Driving in the city is much worse. Here the roads are narrower. Cars are often parallel parked three rows deep, not only narrowing the path of travel for those still wanting to go somewhere, but creating a very frustrating situation for the guy parked on the inside. (It was in Naples where I perfected the parallel parking technique. It is a talent, a requisite for survival, something the phobic of parallel parking must quickly overcome.) However, there is one person, tested and proven, who is the true warrior. This person must navigate his beast through this puzzle several times daily. He must have ice in his veins, be oblivious to all peril. He is the bus driver. I have seen buses with two wheels on a sidewalk maneuvering through the traffic of Naples. I have witnessed escapes Houdini would have admired, feats of navigation that defy laws of physics. The bus driver is the unsung hero, taken for granted. I have always honored him in my mind. He is the greatest of magicians.

There is a large section of the city, north of downtown, which is forbidden to American servicemen. It is referred to simply as “the gut.” It is too seedy, to dangerous for us to tread our curious steps there. Perhaps I have wandered unknowingly into its streets, never harmed, though. This is silly, for so much of Naples is seedy. On the bus ride to Piazza Garibaldi one passes an adult theater, its advertisements displayed unashamedly outside.

Prostitution is rampant. On street corners throughout the city, even in suburbs, stand groups of four or five male transvestites around fires aflame in metal barrels. The “campfire girls” they are nicknamed by Americans. One such group regularly congregates about one-quarter mile from the naval base at Agnano.

The Domiziana, a busy two-lane highway leading northwest out of the city, is lined with prostitutes for several kilometers. Most of them are black. Along the sidewalk leading to the naval base is a prostitute dressed in red. She is a permanent fixture. She must be at least fifty years old, maybe sixty. Her appearance is grotesque. Along the same sidewalk are numerous discarded condoms. What goes on at night here, where there are no streetlights and the world is black, I cannot imagine.

Why the gut is restricted I do not understand. What is there is probably tame when compared to what goes on elsewhere. There is probably drug traffic there, but what is the difference? What is the difference between this place and Detroit or Moscow or Seoul? This is a large city, and there is crime. But in Naples, the danger is surely not as great as in, say, Philadelphia or New Orleans, unless one is an enemy of the mafia. I, for one, am not.

(One recent evening I found myself standing in Piazza Garibaldi. A pizzeria located off the piazza was doing a brisk business, even at eleven. Several gentlemen sitting around a table were playing poker. And they were not playing for matches.)

Here are two very typical events I have experienced in Napoli Centrale.

One morning, preceding my first trip to Rome, I was walking toward my train. A cab driver wanted to know where I was headed.

“Rome,” I replied.

“I’ll take you there,” he urged. I laughed inwardly.

“No thanks. I’ll take the train.”

“Why wait?” he asked with a sarcastic shrug.

“Why pay you two or three hundred dollars when a train ticket costs me ten?” I thought, but said nothing.

Another event, as I was about to enter the station, I approached a man singing a happy song. He was probably an average singer, but because I sing poorly, he seemed comparable to Pavarotti. I passed him. He appeared destitute, perhaps homeless. But the cantata he sang was, well, it must have been a Neapolitan song. No other song could possibly have sounded as sweet.

September 2, 1990

Today I ventured to Solfatara di Pozzuoli.

Solfatara, in the heart of Campi Flegrei, is well hidden by surrounding vegetation, although the odorous steam jets (fumaroles) rise from a bizarre, rocky landscape. The ancient Forum Vulcani, a large crater where one can witness the phenomena typical of a collapsed volcano, springs of carbon dioxide and mineral water, bubbling jets of hot mud, and steam fill the air with the unmistakable stench of sulfur. The steam, which reaches temperatures of 160 degrees Celsius, rise from bubbling mud. Indeed, if one can tolerate the sulfurous stench, Solfatara di Pozzuoli is a truly fascinating venture.

September 11, 1990

On Saturday, September 8, I journeyed to Rome with a friend who had never been. It was a routine trip. We covered the Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel, St. Peter’s Cathedral, Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, a terrific little gelateria beside the Trevi Fountain, the Coliseum, and sat for a few minutes in Piazza Venezia in front of the Victor Emmanuel II Monument. We left at 7:30 in the morning and did not return to Naples until after nine in the evening.

September 15, 1990

Today I ventured to Caserta in order to explore again the magnificent Royal Palace.

September 22, 1990

Today I journeyed to Sorrento. The restaurant Zi’Ntonio always provides an excellent meal. They have a wide variety of antipasti, and the spaghetti alla bolognese is always an enjoyment.

September 29, 1990

There is yet a third location that has been unearthed from the 79 AD eruption of Mount Vesuvius. It is Oplonti, used alternately with its old Latin name, Oplontis. It is located in the modern town of Torre Annunziata (Annunciation Tower).

Torre Annunziata is the only town of the three that did not derive its name from its ancient neighbor (Pompei from Pompeii, Ercolano from Herculaneum). I went there today.

Torre Annunziata is old. It appears impoverished, but is a typical southern Italian town, nevertheless. Unfortunately, I did not explore it entirely, but, other than the modern train station, the town is timeless. I came at siesta, when all but a few bars were closed. I made the quick walk from the train station to the ruins.

The site is not very large. It contains two patrician villas, and could have been part of a residential suburb of Pompeii. The second villa, discovered in 1974, is still being excavated.

The area that has been excavated is much lower than the surrounding town. It looks as though someone is about to put in a large swimming pool. There is a small building erected on the site where a few officials in uniforms watch over the site. One of them approached me as I entered and offered a tour.

The scant remains appear very well preserved. Even the roofs appear intact, although many of the outer walls have disappeared. The murals have maintained their color, like those at Herculaneum, and, to a lesser extent, Pompeii.

The edge of the villa marks the limit of the excavation. Just a few meters away stands a wall of hardened ash. Above, the town rests close to the excavation. The official brought me close to the wall of ash. It is several meters thick. One can easily see the many layers. What still lies under the ash? Nobody knows. Perhaps we never will.

After perhaps thirty minutes, the official began to lead me to the entrance. I offered him a small tip of Lit. 5,000 ($4), but he jovially refused. I shook hands and departed, walking back into town. I turned to look once more at the town as it hovered above the edge of the ruins and wondered again what is still hiding.

I cannot imagine living in a building which stands atop such a buried treasure. I would be filled with wonder. I would want to grab a shovel and start digging. How can those who live here not be curious of what lies beneath their homes?

I found one of the bars which had remained open and purchased an ice cream cone, then walked back to the train station. There was a group of teenagers waiting for the train to Naples. I wondered if they lived here. If so, did they wonder, too? Or are these young Italians simply nonchalant. After all, they are surrounded by ruins. What’s another hollow building? They, and I, too, are living today. The treasures will always be here, whether uncovered or not.

October 2, 1990

We left Naples this afternoon at 1:50 on the express train to Paris (Parigi) to arrive tomorrow morning at 8:52. It is now past 9:00 in the evening, and we are riding along the Ligurian Coast between La Spezia and Genoa. We should arrive in Genoa soon. We have already made stops in Rome, Livorno (of which “Leghorn” is the ludicrous Anglicization), Pisa, Viareggio, and La Spezia. This is already the longest train ride I have ever endured (more than seven hours), and we aren’t even halfway to Paris.

(Later)

I have long held a peculiar fascination with borders, be they natural or political. The fascination lies in the concept of being so near the fringe of a land possessive of a different name, an alien culture, a foreign language, another people. That a definitive line can actually be the threshold between two distinctly unique and opposing geographic variables is mystifying. Whereas in America, where one may journey by automobile or train for days without encountering an international border, it is possible here to venture from country to country within hours.

This journey from Naples to Paris is one such adventure. From Genoa, in Liguria, our train carried us northward to Torino, in Piedmont, where we arrived near midnight. A British lady, who was traveling to her native England, entered my compartment. Then westward we rode, toward the French border, that invisible threshold.

October 3, 1990

We got into Paris around 9:00 this morning and stood in a line outside the train station to await a taxi. It was very orderly. The taxi carried us to Hotel Troyon, another hotel recommended by ITT. We couldn’t check in until noon, so we dropped our baggage in the lobby and went to get francs. I exchanged $100 for around 460 francs.

We then went to the Eiffel Tower. We walked since it was less than a mile away. We stood in line for around 30 minutes. It cost 47 francs ($9) to take the elevator to the top. The visibility was perfect, and I made many pictures.

There is a McDonald’s on Rue Troyon, and we had taken breakfast there earlier, then ordered lunch at a nearby sandwich shop and ate in a park across the street from the Arch of Triumph. We then came back to the room and slept from 3:00 until around 6:00, got up, bathed, and went for dinner. We found a neat little place a short distance from the hotel. I had what I believe was baked rabbit, sauerkraut, potatoes, and a half carafe of “rose de province.” Afterward, we went for a walk along the nearby Champs-Elysses, then back to the hotel.

French is difficult to pronounce, especially the letter “r.”

October 4, 1990

We rose around 7:30 this morning and ate breakfast in the hotel. Afterward, we went to the nearest subway station and took the subway to the Louvre.

The Louvre is a vast museum. We first saw the large Egyptian collection, then wandered around, viewed statues, including Venus de Milo, then some paintings. Mona Lisa was invariably surrounded by a mob of tourists. It is smaller than one imagines. We were in the Louvre for a couple of hours. (Part of it was closed.)

We then went to Ile de la Cite and Notre Dame. The cathedral was indeed impressive. We climbed to the top of one of its two towers and made several photographs.

Afterward, we took a cruise along the Seine. After leaving from Ile de la Cite, we rode as far as the Eiffel Tower, then back around Ile de la Cite to Ile St.-Louis. The cruise lasted an hour. There were some worthwhile sights to be seen from the river.

For a late lunch we went to McDonald’s and called it a day around 3:15. Tonight we walked along Champs-Elysses and picked up sandwiches for dinner.

October 5, 1990

We went to Versailles today. We took the metro to near the Eiffel Tower, then made the connection to Versailles. The palace there is massive and the gardens behind the palace are equally impressive. We first took a tour of the palace, including the royal living quarters. The artwork is truly amazing.

The gardens were the highlight, however. The landscape is neat and colorful. There are several statues and fountains. I took much time to peruse the gardens, more time, surely, than I spent inside the palace, and made a few worthwhile photographs. We took a quick lunch there, then returned to Paris, arriving around 1:30.

Afterward, we went to the top of the Arch of Triumph to make more photographs, including the Eiffel Tower and Champs-Elysses.

For dinner, we ate at a pizzeria near the hotel. The pizza was good, although I did discover that I do not like anchovies.

The weather has been good to us thus far.

October 8, 1990

I have some catching up to do. October 6 was our last day in Paris. Since our train didn’t leave until 11:15 at night, we had some time to kill. We checked out of our hotel in the morning, then went to the train station to leave our bags for the day.

The money order we had sent to the hotel as a deposit for some reason could not be cashed, so we went to the local U.S.O. to retrieve it before checking out. We will cash it upon our return to Naples.

We ate lunch, then took the subway to Sacre-Coeur. It was an odd-looking structure. The church sits on a hill, and I made some excellent photographs of the city. We sat on the steps afterward and watched a mime show for several minutes.

Afterward, we went to the Palace and Gardens of Luxembourg. It was a very attractive place, and there were quite a few people there. I made more excellent photographs. We then got something to eat in a café near Notre Dame, and went for a walk.

While sitting on a bench near Notre Dame, I watched a band of oddly-dressed folks of some fringe religion march toward the cathedral. They were dancing and waving tambourines. It was indeed a strange sight. Some young Frenchman mocked the members of the group, which I thought tasteless.

Shortly thereafter, we headed for the train station, Gare de l’Est. We arrived two-and-a-half hours before our train was scheduled to leave. We took seats at a café table and drank hot chocolate. I listened to music.

Meanwhile, we made it to Munich at 9:30 yesterday morning and checked into Hotel Jedermann, just down the street from the train station. We did some sightseeing, including the Glockenspiel. For lunch, I enjoyed wieswurst, sauerkraut, and a beer. I expected a glass and received something resembling a small pitcher. Afterward, we did some more sightseeing. I made photographs of Peterskirche, Frauenkirche, Michaelskirche, Justizpalast, and enjoyed a great view of the city from St. Paul’s Platz, which is near the hotel. For dinner last night I enjoyed sausage and sauerkraut and another beer.

Today I did much sightseeing, including places with such bawdy names as Altes, Rathaus, Theatinerkirche, Feldhernhalle, Hofgarten, Englischer Garten, Ludwigskirche, Siegestor, crossed the Isar to Maximilianeum, crossed back to Mariannen-Lukaskirche, then went to the top of Peterskirche to make photographs of the city. The sky was very clear. I also managed to do some shopping. I bought a beer stein to send home.

For dinner, we ate at Pizza Hut. I did not order anchovies.

October 10, 1990

We left Munich yesterday morning at 8:00 and arrived in Garmisch a little before 9:30. We caught a taxi to the General Patton Hotel, then signed up for a tour of King Ludwig’s castle, Linderhof.

We departed for that tour at 12:30 and enjoyed exploring the castle and gardens during the afternoon. I made some amazing photographs, including a scene of the castle taken from a hill with the Alps rising into the background.

On return, we stopped in the town of Oberammergau where I made more photographs. Oberammergau is the site of the famous passion play given every decade.

We also stopped at a church outside town near dusk, then arrived at the hotel around 6:00. We ate dinner in the hotel restaurant.

Today we took another tour, this one to Innsbruck, Austria, a few kilometers south of the German border, and some forty kilometers north of the Italian border. The tour departed around 9:00 this morning. It took an hour to get there. This time, we were pretty well left to our own devices. There was no guided tour, per se, of Innsbruck. I much prefer it this way.

Innsbruck is a unique, picturesque town set inside the Alps. Its historic quarter was quite compact, and was very easy to navigate. The weather was clear and crisp, but one could not expect conditions to be any more advantageous for sightseeing in these parts during October.

I first climbed one of the towers in the center of town for a panoramic view of the city and mountains. I did some walking, then spent an hour-and-a-half eating lunch in the center square. I enjoyed an apple strudel for dessert. After more sightseeing, around 1:15, we left town. The tour bus then took us into the mountains to the sight of the 1976 Winter Olympics.

We returned to the hotel at 4:00 this afternoon.

Of some interest, today I used, within about a five hour span, three different currencies: dollars, marks, and schillings. It was a little odd carrying those currencies simultaneously.

October 13, 1990

On October 11, we went to see another of King Ludwig’s castles, Neuschwanstein. It was unbelievable. It is a real castle. We took a tour of the inside, but outside it is even more majestic.

The castle is set in an elevated spot over the surrounding towns, but also below the nearby hills. I did some hiking and made photographs of the castle from a distance.

That was our last full day in Garmisch. We left for Berchtesgaden yesterday morning.

Unfortunately, there are no trains running directly between the two towns, so we had to take a train back to Munich, then to Berchtesgaden from there. We made it by noon, just in time to take an afternoon excursion to The Eagles’ Nest, which Hitler built during the late 1930’s.

The Eagles’ Nest sits at the pinnacle of Germany’s highest mountain road at approximately 2,400 meters elevation. The view was spectacular, and the sky was clear.

For dinner, we enjoyed Chinese.

October 17, 1990

On October 14, we took an afternoon trip to Lake Koenigsee, which is just outside town. It is set in a valley and is very pretty, especially near sunset. A boat took us from one end of the lake to the other and let us off so we could do some sightseeing.

After a time, we caught another boat back to the dock. It was a very nice afternoon trip.

For dinner, I ate at a rather quaint local restaurant.

On October 15, Sunday morning, I had planned to go to Salzburg, Austria, and had even taken a bus from the hotel to the train station when I realized I had left my passport at the hotel. I figured by the time I got to the hotel and back again, it would be too late to go.

We switched hotels around noon into one nearer town, then I started getting bored during the early afternoon. So I walked down to the train station, caught the two-forty bus to Salzburg, and got there at three-thirty. By sunset, around five o’clock, I had done everything I wanted to do. I went to see four different churches and took a cable car to the top of one of the hills in town to enjoy the panoramic view.

In one of the squares is a life-size chessboard. It was rather interesting to see.

I returned to Berchtesgaden at seven o’clock, ate, then met a couple of folks from Naples who work for the American television station. They were doing some filming. We all went out so they could eat.

Yesterday afternoon around one o’clock we arrived in Vienna. I did some sightseeing that afternoon and ate at McDonald’s for dinner. (I have now eaten at McDonald’s in three countries.)

Today I did a tremendous amount of sightseeing, which I will describe briefly.

I went to the top of a nearby church for a view of the city. I visited a small park, passing busts of such great composers as Brahms and Strauss. I visited a church, and went to McDonald’s (a different one) for lunch.

After a rest in our hotel room, I went to dinner at a nearby restaurant where I enjoyed homemade beef stew.

I think Vienna is the best city we have visited. I wish we had made more time to spend here, although I am in no way regretful.

October 18, 1990

During our two evenings in Vienna, I enjoyed walking around the neighborhood surrounding our hotel on Grabenstrasse. These evening were enchanting, for the streets were filled with sightseers enjoying the myriad of musicians and puppeteers.

One particular couple, rather young, sat on benches near the hotel each evening, although occupying a different bench each night. The both played cello, and played very well. A small purse sitting on the ground caught coins dropped by members of their audience.

The couple’s young daughter sat between them each night, patient and good-natured. A good crowd had gathered both times I stopped to listen. Last night, I added a few coins to their collection just before they departed.

I wondered about this young family and why they came to this particular neighborhood to play for money. I wondered if they had jobs, or simply needed a little extra cash. They were clean and rather nice looking. The husband appeared a few years older than his wife. Their daughter couldn’t have been older than four or five.

This morning, meanwhile, we departed Vienna at 8:20. After crossing the Italian border, we stopped at Tarvisio, a small town where customs officials boarded and stamped our passports.

This afternoon we traveled southward through the Friuli-Venezia Giulia region on the return journey to Naples. The sky was overcast. This leg of the journey far exceeded my expectations. It is remarkably often in Italy that train rides afford such wonder.

On this gray afternoon, as the train wound slowly along the twisting tracks, we journeyed through the land known as the Dolomites. For perhaps an hour, maybe two, the sights of the bare, jagged massifs, and the trickling, crystalline waters on the narrow valley floors were mesmerizing. There were no man-made treasures here, no testaments to the greatness of past civilizations, no forbidding statues, but merely the majesty, the supreme grace, of what God and nature had left for us to enjoy.

As the afternoon progressed, we made further stops at Udine (3:00), Pordenone (3:30), Mestre (4:36), Padova (4:56), Bologna (6:06), and Florence (7:23) before arriving in Rome (9:25). The train ride lasted thirteen hours and five minutes.

I ate dinner on the train, enjoying the quiet dining car as we passed through Bologna at dusk.

We then faced a three-hour red-eye journey to Naples, taking a slightly longer course (unbeknown to us at first) which carried us inland through Cassino versus the usual coastal route which takes one through Formia.

We returned home very early this Thursday morning, and were exhausted. I must say there are few experiences that equate to riding through Naples, Italy in a taxi at two o’clock in the morning.

The taxi driver intended to impress us Americans by blaring Elvis though his stereo. Neither of us had the heart to inform him that we did not like Elvis.

October 24, 1990

An interesting note, I returned from my Eurail trip with, literally, pocket change, although in five different currencies.

October 28, 1990

The Eurail trip was the most awesome thing I have ever done. It cost me somewhere around $1,500. It was well worth the cost. We didn’t get to do much shopping, didn’t dine in elaborate restaurants, or stay in five star hotels, but we did enjoy ourselves immensely. It seems amazing, in retrospect, that we went to all those places.

My favorite city was Vienna. It is a first class city. I would love to go back. The best food was in Germany, although it was not as good as Italian. Even though I had such an incredible experience, I was still glad, in the end, to return to Naples. Sixteen days on the road is a long time. It did seem to last forever. The second of October, when we left, seems like three months ago. Even though we did so much, I did still enjoy it all, and that was very important, obviously. Vienna was a bit rushed, but I still had a wonderful time there, too.

I thought much of Paris. I had heard many negative things about Paris (particularly the French), but, after visiting there four days, I hesitate to believe it all. There was much to see there. It was a busy four days.

Meanwhile, last Sunday, October 21, three friends and I went to Capri and Sorrento. We took the ferry Sunday morning to Capri, and stayed there a couple of hours. We then took the hydrofoil to Sorrento for lunch, then returned to Naples.

The ferry ride to Capri was so rough that several passengers, including my three friends, got sick. Miraculously, I was spared.

Sorrento is so nice this time of year I went back today.

November 3, 1990

Today I made yet another venture to Sorrento. It is always a pleasure to visit this time of year, not too crowded, a little cool, but not cold. The little resort town seems to flourish, even during off-season.

November 24, 1990

I had a pretty good birthday a week ago today. I went to Sorrento during the morning, arriving at 10:45.

I went specifically to purchase a Christmas gift for my parents. I bought an inlaid wood plaque of The Last Supper. I had discovered it months earlier, and finally purchased it. It coast Lit. 320,000 ($256). It would probably have cost three times as much back home. (I mailed it two days later, so they should get it relatively soon.)

I then had lunch at my favorite restaurant in Sorrento, Zi’Ntonio. It was a good lunch. I enjoyed four courses with wine, and the bill amounted to around Lit. 37,000 ($30). I returned to Naples that afternoon.

December 5, 1990

Today I went to Sorrento.

December 17, 1990

I journeyed to Rome today for a little diversion. I will be going there again in a few days for Christmas Eve mass at the Vatican.

December 25, 1990

George and I attended Christmas Eve mass last night at the Vatican. Since my work schedule had prevented my attending the ceremony the previous two years, I seized the opportunity this time. The weather was perfect for a trip to Rome: raining, chilly, and quite dreary.

During the morning, George’s roommate offered to drive us to Stazione Centrale. We left more than an hour before our 12:10 train was scheduled to depart. Traffic was worse than I had ever seen it. By the time we entered downtown, still several blocks from the train station, we stopped, and waited. George and I became increasingly uneasy. By 11:45, not having moved in some twenty minutes, and still with a few blocks to go, George and I got out and walked the remaining half-mile (in the rain, of course).

We made our way briskly through the usual maze of pedestrians, sidewalk vendors, and mopeds. Along the way, we discovered the problem. At an intersection, three lanes of traffic, each heading its own direction, had converged. It appeared deadlock would prevail for some time. Of course, there were no traffic policemen present.

George and I arrived at the station a minute or two after noon, and had to stand in line for a couple of minutes to get tickets. After purchasing “due biglietti per Roma e ritorno” (two round-trip tickets to Rome) at Lit. 23,600 ($19) apiece, we ran downstairs and made it to binario (track) three just before the espresso from Salerno arrived as scheduled.

We scrambled to find a partially vacant compartment, then seated ourselves. The train followed the subway line through Naples and into Pozzuoli before turning north toward Rome. I had brought my camera and an excess of film along with my usual cache of paraphernalia: umbrella, walkman, tapes. I put on headphones and dozed for a good portion of the journey.

The ride through the mountainous Italian countryside was serene, as usual, the dark clouds adding a touch of mystique. The rain was light but steady. We were taking an espresso, and there were no stops between Naples and Rome. The ride was enjoyable. During our journey, I visited the dining car, three cars from ours, for snacks, returning with cookies and drinks.

The ancient walls just outside the city gave the first indication of our imminent arrival. We rolled through the maze of tracks and pulled into the far left track, number twenty-six, at Roma Termini. It was a little after 2:00. We had arrived a couple of minutes early. The ride had taken two hours. We were in Rome. The weather had not changed. I was wearing my overcoat and a sweater, so the cool dampness did not affect me much.

Our initial endeavor was to visit a music store, one of several shops in the train station. We found nothing of interest, so we moved along.

We then decided to visit the USO, down the street from St. Peter’s Square, to get our tickets for mass. I had reserved them earlier in the week via telephone from Naples. They were free, but we had to get them by closing time, five o’clock.

George and I went down to the subway and purchased tickets (Lit. 700, or $0.60, apiece). We then headed for Line A (the other subway line in Rome being, of course, Line B), and awaited the next train. It soon arrived. Surprisingly, it wasn’t very crowded.

We traveled six stops westward to the end of the line. Boarding at Termini, we passed Repubblica, Barberini, Spagna, Flaminio, and Lepanto. We arrived at Ottaviano shortly, and made the half-mile walk south to St. Peter’s Square, then east to the USO. After obtaining the tickets, George attempted to telephone home, but the phone at the USO was out of order.

By now, we were thinking about food. We walked back to St. Peter’s Square, stopping briefly to admire the nativity scene and take pictures of each other with the cathedral as a backdrop, then walked back to the subway station.

We traveled two stops east to Flaminio. Walking through the underground tunnel, the street vendors and musicians had gathered en masse, open guitar cases catching a few coins. We ascended to the street near Piazza del Popolo. It was my idea to stop here for food. We walked around for perhaps fifteen minutes in search of a café where we could get a snack. By now it was four o’clock.

George and I found a nice, albeit small café in an underpass connecting Piazza del Popolo and a street leading to Villa Borghese. The neighborhood seemed familiar. I realized I had been here the year before, on August 2, when I had visited Villa Borghese.

Meanwhile, we sat down and enjoyed two small calzoni (folded pizzas) apiece and a coke. It was just something to hold us until dinner. We hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

Most restaurants in Italy don’t open until seven or seven-thirty in the evening, so we had to eat something. After we finished, we walked into Piazza del Popolo, one of the most beautiful piazzas in all of Rome, with its Egyptian obelisk standing in the center. By now it was almost dark. A handful of people standing atop the Pincine Hill, accessible from the piazza, were looking across the piazza and the nightlit city. It must have been an awesome view with dusk now settling over Rome.

George suggested we return to the Vatican. We rode the subway, then began the casual walk toward St. Peter’s Square. In the meantime, we decided to stop in a bar for cappuccino and relax for a few minutes. We drank our cappuccino and even enjoyed gelato to go. We departed abruptly after the bartender wouldn’t allow us to sit. (Italians are very peculiar about this.)

We made our way back to St. Peter’s Square to once again admire the nativity scene, now lit, and the huge Christmas tree beside it. It was adorned with hundreds of lights. We both made a couple of photographs and departed.

As the time approached six o’clock, I made a stop at a pay telephone as George waited nearby. He had made a brief call earlier while in the Flaminio subway station just after we had eaten and were returning to the Vatican.

By now the rain had become intermittent. We craved a meal soon. George suggested L’Etrusco, an osteria near St. Peter’s, which he had frequented before. I had no reason to object. We walked around the neighborhood talking, window shopping, and trying to whittle away the time until seven. We circumnavigated the same city block several times, passing L’Etrusco, hungrily, each trip.

Thinking ahead, we were also trying to determine which buses, if any, would be able to take us to either Stazione Ostiense or Stazione Tiburtina, where trains would be leaving during the early morning for Naples. Stazione Termini would close at midnight. We had gotten some information at the USO, but an inquiry posed at a nearby information booth proved this invalid. We decided we would be forced to take a taxi to one of the stations. There would be no buses in the area after midnight.

Around a quarter before seven George and I decided to enter L’Etrusco to see if it was open. To our amazement, it was. It had opened early because of the midnight mass. We sat at a table near the door.

The dining area was characteristically small, perhaps a dozen or so tables. We were given menus, and soon ordered caprese for antipasto. For a first course, I enjoyed fettucini. We both ordered the white house wine.

As our food was being prepared, the restaurant began to fill. A half-hour after our arrival as the first guests, the dining room was full. We were joined by a mixture of Germans, Italians, Brits, and Americans.

George and I enjoyed a slow meal, even ordering a second liter of wine to help us pass the time. We also ordered third courses, then desserts. As the evening progressed, the osteria grew increasingly boisterous. Finally, a young man carrying a guitar entered from the street to exchange entertainment for coins. He must have played some popular Italian songs, for around half the patrons began singing along. We shook our heads in disbelief.

Shortly after nine o’clock, George and I decided to leave. We asked for the bill. It was surprisingly small, Lit. 43,500 ($35). We then made the short walk to St. Peter’s Square. There we waited in a long line to enter the cathedral. We met some Canadians who stood in front of us.

Following an hour wait, the line began to move. We walked up the steps of the cathedral where a group of Carabinieri were directing guests to the proper entrance. The tickets were color-coded as per language. George and I were directed to the north side of the cathedral where we entered through Porta Rezzonico. We were seated with other English-speaking folks.

Having entered the cathedral at ten-thirty, we had some ninety minutes before the commencement of the mass. An organist played one of the pipe organs. The sound was phenomenal. We passed a little time by taking a few photographs and skimming the programs given us as we had entered. Only a small portion was inscribed in English.

As midnight approached, the cathedral filled to capacity, some twenty thousand. The suspense was agonizing. A choir began singing a few minutes before midnight, and finally, at twelve, the lights brightened and the crowd stood as the papal court entered the enormous sanctuary. In fact, the court walked down the aisle to my immediate left. The ceremony had begun.

The mass was conducted in a multitude of languages, George and I understanding only a fraction. Unfortunately, we were not afforded the best of seats. In fact, we were several rows from the pope, some twenty-five meters away. Invariably, each time the pontiff turned toward our side, several people in front of us stood with their cameras.

The ceremony was scheduled to end at two o’clock. George and I grew increasingly tired and oblivious to the mass. We decided to leave a little early, walking out at a quarter past one.

Our first endeavor was to find a taxi. We walked out of St. Peter’s Square, turning north. With a mighty stroke of luck, a vacant white taxi turned south onto the street facing us. We stopped him and asked how much he would charge to take us to Ostiense. “Trenta mila,” he replied after conferring with the gentleman sitting beside him. That was reasonable. I then asked his price for driving us to Tiburtina. “Quaranta mila,” he replied. We therefore opted for the ride to Tiburtina. It was a little farther, and would therefore cost a little more, but the next train for Naples would depart there at two-thirty, vice three-thirty from Ostiense. We did not wish to wait in the cold an additional hour to save Lit. 10,000 ($8).

The taxi cruised the empty streets of Rome for the twenty-minute ride to Tiburtina. We arrived at two o’clock, paid the Lit. 40,000 ($32), and entered the station. It was deserted, less a handful of homeless. We checked the schedule for the track our train would use, then sauntered over to track two to await our train.

The train we would board had left from Milan earlier in the evening. It was headed for Palermo in Sicily. George and I reasoned it would be rather full. When it arrived, just after two-thirty, we were proven correct. We searched most of the train, composed mostly of sleeper cars, until finally discovering a compartment near the front with two empty seats.

This train was also an espresso, and it, too, made no stops between Rome and Naples. I listened to my walkman for most of the journey, nodding off occasionally. George slept most of the way. The train ride passed rather quickly as we pulled into Napoli Centrale at five o’clock Christmas morning. A short taxi ride back to Capodichino marked the end of our trip.

I rose at ten o’clock that morning so George and I could go to some friends’ home for the afternoon. We took the bus from Capodichino to Agnano, and were driven from there by car.

December 30, 1990

I rose at three o’clock yesterday morning in order to catch a four-thirty train to Rome. It wasn’t until around four o’clock that I found a bus in operation, and at a bus stop a good walk from Capodichino.

After taking a roundabout tour of Naples, the bus arrived at Piazza Garibaldi about two minutes prior to four-thirty. I hurried into the train station and boarded the train to Rome. Fortunately, I had purchased my train ticket for Lit. 24,300 ($19) the previous evening, having made a special trip to Stazione Centrale. The train was full, so I sat on a retractable seat in the passageway of one of the cars.

I arrived in Rome shortly after 6:30, at dawn, then boarded a train bound for Ancona, located on Italy’s east coast in the region of Le Marche. The train departed shortly before 7:00. I departed at Orte, in northern Lazio, then boarded a locale to Foligno, in Umbria, where I subsequently boarded a second locale for the short ride to Assisi.

On the way to Assisi, riding through the region of Umbria during the morning, I encountered the hill town of Trevi. My impression was nothing more than a view through a train window during a brief stop. The hill stood away from the station so the entire town, compact and sprawling down the slopes of the hill, could be seen from the station. I was tempted to explore Trevi. But my yearning to visit Assisi was so great I remained seated. The train soon departed, and I promised myself I would one day return.

I arrived at the train station in Santa Maria degli Angeli 396 kilometers later, then took the bus to Assisi, only a couple of kilometers away. The train station is more conveniently located in Santa Maria degli Angeli since Assisi is built into a hillside. I checked into Hotel Giotto, acquiring a second floor room (number fourteen), with a sizeable balcony. The room cost Lit. 75,000 ($60). Unfortunately, it was much too cool to enjoy the balcony.

It was time for sightseeing. I first visited the Basilica of San Francesco. It is a lovely structure, both inside and out. Nuns standing outside the church were soliciting money for hungry children. Most noteworthy was the series of frescoes in the sanctuary depicting the life of St. Francis.

Afterward, I enjoyed lunch in a bar near Piazza del Comune that served hot pizza, then it was off for more sightseeing and photographs. I walked many kilometers, returning via bus to Santa Maria degli Angeli during the afternoon for some sightseeing. At the Portiuncola, I peered through a glass window at the rose garden St. Francis had supposedly rolled through as his penance, intending to pierce himself with the thorns. He had come away unharmed. And it was just outside the chapel here that Francis died in 1226. I visited many other churches in Assisi, including Santa Chiara and San Rufino.

The streets of Assisi are often steep, and walking proved a chore at times. Many of the streets aren’t really streets at all, but narrow flights of steps leading from one level to another. By evening, I was exhausted, wishing I had scheduled more time here as to spread my sightseeing over a longer period.

After sunset and a little relaxing in my hotel room, I walked back outside with my walkman, enjoying some music as I walked the streets around Piazza del Comune, window shopping and watching the mass of people gathered there. I scouted several restaurants, selectively choosing one near Piazza del Comune, Trattoria Pallotta, where I enjoyed four courses. The bill was Lit. 27,100 ($22). Afterward, I retired for the evening. I was indeed tired.

This morning I picked up breakfast in a pastry shop for about Lit. 7,000 ($6), then checked out of my hotel and took a bus back to the train station, repeating the path I had taken the previous morning. I arrived in Naples late this afternoon.

January 14, 1991

On Friday evening, January 11, my roommate, Eric, and I left Capodichino for Stazione Centrale. Following many days of anticipation, we were prepared for the mother of all whirlwind journeys. At eight o’clock, a shuttle bus carried us from the barracks to a bus stop just outside the gate. There we awaited bus fourteen which would take us to the train station.

After arriving at Piazza Garibaldi, we walked immediately into the train station to purchase tickets for Florence, the first stop of our “Tour d’Italia.” The tickets cost Lit. 33,300 ($27) apiece. The train, which would continue to Milan, was scheduled for a ten o’clock departure. We therefore roamed Piazza Garibaldi for an hour. It was typically exciting and crowded with traffic, sidewalk vendors, people, and buses. As the occasional train whistle sounded in the distance, we stopped at a bar to purchase food and drinks for the journey. We then walked the darkened streets around the piazza, sharing stories and experiences.

Eric and I soon made our way again to the station to find our train. It must have been a quarter-mile long. We endeavored to find the second class car closest to the front, eventually seating ourselves in an empty compartment. I searched through my blue satchel containing the usual: food, passport, itinerary, music, toothbrush, etc. It was time to put on headphones and relax. The ride to Florence would last close to six hours.

We began the northward journey, stopping at only a handful of stations (including Aversa and Formia) before arriving at Roma Tiburtina just after midnight. We were there only a few minutes before continuing northward. During the early morning, Eric slept. Typically, I did not, only nodding off occasionally. I simply enjoyed this peaceful overnight trip through central Italy, admiring the sleepy towns of Tuscany as we passed.

Eric woke just as we pulled into Stazione Campo Marte more than half-an-hour ahead of schedule. It was three-fifteen. The train schedule had shown a three-fifty arrival. This was quite unexpected. After poring over my map, we began the mile-long walk toward Stazione Santa Maria Novella, where our next train would leave at 5:35. Walking through the empty streets of Florence that morning, we enjoyed breakfast “on the run.”

We enjoyed the cool morning air as we passed easily through the streets, stopping briefly for me to make a photograph of Eric standing beside a red communist party symbol painted onto a yellow wall. We then stopped briefly in a piazza for Eric to make a few flash photographs of statues, and soon arrived at the beautifully lit Santa Maria del Fiore and its orange dome. I had never seen it at this hour of day.

From there, it was on to the train station as we wandered through a maze of construction, and, oddly, an automobile accident scene. We finally entered the desolate station from Piazza della Stazione. Inside we found one open ticket window and purchased two tickets for San Gimignano at Lit. 5,100 ($4) apiece. We located our train to the side of the main area of tracks, a small area reserved for local trains, at track number three. There we forced open a door, then seated ourselves for the wait. I had never entered a train in such a way, and had certainly never enjoyed an empty one. It was now four-fifteen. We had more than an hour to pass before the train was scheduled for departure. We attempted sleep, but could not. Finally, we pulled out our walkmen and listened to a local Armed Forces Radio station.

The time passed. We talked. The lights were turned on. The train, a “locale,” slowly began to fill. We finally began to creep away from Florence and into the darkness of the Tuscan countryside. Although our destination lay only seventy-two kilometers ahead, the journey lasted over an hour, making stops at several towns and villages, including Empoli. At dawn we arrived at Stazione Poggiobonsi-San Gimignano. Unbeknown to us at first, we had actually arrived at the town of Poggiobonsi. I had thought it odd that a newspaper stand didn’t have a map of San Gimignano. We wandered uphill to a bar where Eric treated us to pastries and cappuccino.

Afterward, we walked around a bit, then noticed a huge display of a map of Poggiobonsi. We now realized that we were not in San Gimignano. We trudged back to the train station and noticed several blue buses parked in front. We entered a bus bearing a “San Gimignano” sign, and asked the driver the departure time. “Otto meno quindici,” he replied. We would depart at 7:45, and had another half-hour to pass. Eric and I went back to the newsstand inside the train station (as directed by the driver) and purchased two bus tickets at Lit. 1,500 ($1.20) apiece. We then went in search of food and soon found a supermarket. It was closed.

Back on the bus, we validated our tickets and sat in front. We soon departed, making several stops between towns. Shortly after commencing the slow, uphill climb toward San Gimignano, we stopped to let off schoolchildren. Finally, Eric and I departed the bus just outside the medieval town walls. It was eight-fifteen. By now, the day was bright, and we began making photographs. We entered the town and began walking uphill toward the center. After several unsuccessful attempts at locating a map of the town, we finally found one in a small shop near the Duomo. Even then, I was forced to purchase a small book with a folded map in back.

San Gimignano is a small town, perhaps a square mile or two. It is famous for the thirteen medieval towers still standing (of the original seventy). We were able to see each of the thirteen. Eric and I decided to allow ourselves two hours to see the town. We did much sightseeing during this time. We indeed made the most of two hours.

The town was thrilling, like so many other Tuscan towns. We spent much of our time milling about the center, exploring the porticos and courtyards which were accessible only through narrow alleys. We visited the Duomo and the Palazzo Comunale, which is connected to La Torre Grossa (or La Torre del Podesta), referred to simply as the Civic Tower.

After walking from one end of town to the other, we started back. For our final endeavor, we climbed to the top of the Civic Tower, the only tower still open to the public, near Piazza Comunale and adjacent to a small courtyard. Although a sign posted on the door listed the opening time as nine-thirty, nobody began stirring inside the ticket booth until a quarter of ten. We each paid the Lit. 7,000 ($6) entrance fee, then ran to the top of the tower.

From 54 meters, Eric and I had an excellent view of the town, the hills, and the Val d’Elsa. We made several photographs of this memorable scene. After taking a few minutes to enjoy the Civic Museum, inside the base of the tower, admiring the few paintings in the Sacred Art Museum, the artifacts in the Etruscan Museum, and the Santa Fina Chapel, we left for the bus stop.

We wished we could have stayed longer, but time was short. For some reason, though, I had thought the next bus was to depart at ten-twenty, but upon arriving at the bus stop, we realized departure time was actually ten-fifty. Thus presented with a new dilemma, for our train to Pisa would leave Poggiobonsi at eleven-fifteen, we would be pressed for time once the bus arrived. Should we miss that train, our precariously planned schedule would have to be reconsidered. We had bought our bus tickets in a nearby bar. Now we had time to go back for a drink of something and a last bit of sightseeing. The bus arrived a couple of minutes late. Fortunately, the ride downhill was much quicker.

The bus made it to Poggiobonsi, and we held our breath as we wound slowly through the traffic to the train station. Eric and I were in front, and we jumped off the bus as the doors opened, then ran inside the train station. Fortunately, there was no one in line, so we quickly purchased two tickets for Pisa at Lit. 5,700 ($5) per ticket. The train would depart from track two. We ran outside to find it waiting. Eric and I ran across the tracks and jumped through the open doors. The train departed less than a minute later. We soon found seats and were finally able to sit and relax for the one hour, eighty-five kilometer ride to Pisa Centrale.

The next leg of our journey had begun. We were thinking about lunch, and I knew the perfect place. Once we arrived in Pisa, I would take us there. The restaurant I knew was reasonably close to the train station. This ride was similar to the journey from Florence to Poggiobonsi, both in distance and time. We passed through several small towns, including Empoli again, as the train pushed slowly onward. Shortly after noon, we arrived at Pisa Centrale. I had originally not favored going to Pisa, but Eric had never been. We had therefore made a deal before the trip. Eric agreed to go to San Gimignano. I agreed to go to Pisa.

Our first order of business was to purchase train tickets to Naples. We planned to take the four-fifty rapido, so we paid the normal fee of Lit. 33,300 ($27) for each ticket, plus the rapido supplement of Lit. 11,700 ($9). It was now time for lunch. I did not recall the name of the restaurant, but I did remember the place. It was located on Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II. And, of course, I remembered the food. (I had eaten there twice before.)

I had talked at length about the lasagna served there. We entered, slightly underdressed, and soon discovered there was no lasagna. We thus ordered spaghetti with marinara sauce, a second course, and red house wine. The bill came to about Lit. 40,000 ($32). We took a few minutes to relax, then went out for sightseeing. More than a year-and-a-half had passed since my last trip to Pisa, so my bearings were a little rusty.

We crossed the Arno River and easily found the leaning tower (torre pendente). Naturally, Eric was in awe, and I, admittedly, shared his amazement. I was now grateful we had come. We made many photographs while circling the tower. Unfortunately, this was my first trip to Pisa since public access to the tower had been terminated. We could therefore not climb to the top. So Eric and I simply roamed the area, studying the vendors’ many souvenirs, and enjoying the sunny, pleasant afternoon. The leaning tower is the primary landmark in Pisa, although there are a few other worthwhile monuments.

We wished to do a little shopping, and crossed the Arno River again. All shops were closed. It was siesta. We were getting a little tired, so we decided to walk onward to the train station. Eric and I waited there for around an hour. Eric scrutinized the souvenirs of the leaning tower he had purchased. We were starting to feel the exhaustion of this busy day as dusk began fall.

As four-fifty approached, we made our way to a passage which led to track two, the track from which our train would depart. The train arrived from Genoa, somewhat full. There were many persons waiting to board. Fortunately, we had little difficulty in finding a compartment with two empty seats. We were soon on our way to Rome. The sky was nearly dark. I put on headphones and dozed for much of the quick two hours and fifty minutes to Rome.

For most of the ride, Eric literally begged me to go with him to McDonald’s once we arrived in Rome. I argued we would have only a twenty-minute layover. Eric argued that we would have enough time. I did not agree. But amazingly, we arrived at Roma Termini ten minutes ahead of schedule, at seven-forty. I agreed to go to McDonald’s. We had thirty minutes. Eric and I soon found ourselves sprinting through the mass of people in the train station, then into the streets we continued before arriving at Piazza Repubblica. McDonald’s faces the piazza. We rushed in and fortunately had to wait only a short time before ordering.

After acquiring a large amount of food, we sprinted back to the train station, pausing long enough for Eric to purchase a few souvenirs of Rome (including the Coliseum) in a tiny shop near the front of the station. We sprinted back to our train and an empty compartment which we would inhabit the duration of the journey. We had arrived at our train with more than ten minutes to spare. Twenty minutes would have sufficed, Eric reminded me.

Eric and I enjoyed our dinner, which was welcome, for we were hungry. The train soon departed Roma Termini, and thus the two-hour ride to Naples, the final leg of our journey, had commenced. We transformed our seats into beds, turned off the lights, and enjoyed the peaceful evening ride as we recalled the incredible events of this long day. We had amazed ourselves.

Eric and I both nodded off, awakening as the train wound through Pozzuoli and into Napoli Campi Flegrei at precisely ten o’clock, exactly twenty-four hours after we had departed Napoli Centrale. We had traveled 1,237 kilometers by train, eaten breakfast in Florence, again in Poggiobonsi, taken lunch in Pisa, dinner in Rome, and had enjoyed the sights of San Gimignano and Pisa. We had accomplished this in twenty-four hours, and had spent approximately Lit. 150,000 ($120) apiece. We had conquered much, and both felt the better for it.

February 23, 1991

Today, a warm, sunny day, I took a trip to Rome, perhaps covering more of that great city than during any previous day.

By now the names of the train stations on this familiar route have been engraved in my mind: Napoli Centrale, Aversa, Villa Literno, Falciano, Sessa Aurunca, Minturno, Formia, Fondi, Monte S. Biagio, Fossanova, Sezze Romano, Latina, Cisterna di Latina, Campoleone, and Roma Termini.

Arriving at Roma Termini by mid-morning, I began my exploration by taking subway Line A to Flaminio, near the Pincine Hill, an area I had first discovered a year-and-a-half ago, and explored more fully last Christmas Eve.

I climbed the steps leading from Piazza del Popolo to the top of the hill for a glorious view of the city, making a photograph of the water clock there before walking down again and to my next destination.

I then began walking, slowly making my way southward to the Quirinale Hill, home of the presidential palace. There I made a few photographs, looking across this great city once again, and even photographed two Carabinieri, an elite police force, from a distance, an act which is illegal. Their backs were turned.

After attempting to assist two young Spanish women with directions, I continued my walk, eventually ascended the Capitoline Hill, adjacent to the Roman Forum, enjoying another excellent view of Rome from Piazza del Campidoglio. Facing this square is Palazzo Sentatorio, the seat of the city government. Nearby, I climbed the Aracoeli Staircase, which leads to a unique church, Santa Maria in Aracoeli.

I then crossed to the Roman Forum, paid Lit. 10,000 ($8) to enter, then took time to explore every crevice in that dilapidated, yet glorious center of ancient Rome.

Perhaps the most storied of all ruins is this seat of the ancient Roman Empire. It encompasses those few acres of land which once held the primary government offices, markets, temples, even living quarters of the city during its most famous era. Today, it is nothing more than a collapsed heap of stones and anonymous foundations. But the history and mystique are as thick today as its greatness was then.

In the center of this great city, surrounded by more modern structures and wide thoroughfares, stand these remarkable remains. Nearby stand the Coliseum and its neighbor, the surprisingly intact Arch of Constantine. On the other side of the Roman Forum, and visible from the Palatine Hill, is Circus Maximus, and beyond, the Baths of Caracalla.

The Palatine Hill is recognized as the founding place of Rome. Today it is the site of a plethora of stone foundations connected by ancient pathways. On a sunny day, it is a glorious place to walk. On rainy days, it is somber, reflective, sometimes haunting.

The nearby Capitoline Hill is another feature. Here ancient marble columns stand almost against modern government buildings. The grassy floor beneath the hill is covered intermittently with remains of buildings and statues. A thorough, educated reconstruction proves largely imaginative. It is difficult to picture these ruins, even when provided with such aids, as they once were.

It is nevertheless enthralling to stand in the midst of what was once the seat of the ancient Roman Empire. It is a civilization that is both remote, because of its age, and familiar, because of excessive historical documentation.

Where is the spot where Julius Caesar fell? Where Lucius Cornelius Sulla proposed his dictatorship to the Senate? Where Gaius Marius paraded as consul for the unprecedented seventh time? Such names and glory. Did it really all occur here?

Walking to the edge of the hill one can view the large grassy field where once Circus Maximus thrived. Some quarter of a million people would gather here for a variety of events. There is no suggestion of past greatness, other than the words of history.

I walked slowly toward the exit, past a row of dismembered statues, some sporting growths of moss and mildew, past the Arch of Titus, built for Emperor Titus and his triumph celebrating the destruction of Jerusalem in 70 AD, still in fair condition, past all of this history and grandeur. I tried to vision the thriving, ancient society, but, alas, could not.

I then ventured to Piazza Navona, that colorful piazza located in a busy neighborhood, central to historical Rome. There I found a man selling paintings. There were several being displayed. He was reading a newspaper. I decided to take a break and sit on a bench for a time.

For lunch I visited the nearby Hosteria Farnese, located near the ancient Jewish ghetto, Trastevere. There I enjoyed a bowl of minestrone and the daily special, gnocchi.

Although the dining area was hardly occupied, a large middle-aged gentleman sat near me. He enjoyed a hearty meal of appetizer, pasta, baked fish, then a sampling of cheeses. He must have been more than an acquaintance of the proprietors (a husband and wife), for the husband, who also acted as waiter, would not let him pay. The gentleman boisterously insisted otherwise, but the offer stood.

After lunch, I ventured through an open market in nearby Campo de’ Fiori, then continued through the Jewish ghetto, walking down Via del Portico d’Ottavia, where, at five-thirty on the dreary morning of October 16, 1943, German SS rounded up more than twelve hundred Jews. Most of them were sent to Auschwitz. Very few returned.

(The Jews have been in Rome since 70 AD, when Emperor Titus brought them from Jerusalem as slaves. They were forced to march behind him in his triumph through Rome.)

After crossing the Tiber River via Ponte Fabricio (Fabricius Bridge), Rome’s oldest bridge, constructed in 62 BC, linking the Tiberina Island with the mainland, I turned to photograph the synagogue and its unique roof.

From there, I walked toward the Janiculine Hill, a tremendous promontory located in southwest Rome. From there I gained an unparalleled view of this vast city.

Not far from the Roman Forum and the Coliseum stand another ancient site. The Baths of Caracalla date to approximately the age of their more famous neighbors. Literally across the street from Circus Maximum, now a vast, grassy field resembling nothing of its former glory, the baths are remarkably intact, although it is difficult to interpret, merely from observation, how they operated.

The walls are jagged. It is obvious the baths were composed of several rooms. The floors, reminiscent of those of Ostia Antica, are composed of intricate tile designs. He who has seen both sites quickly wonders whether the same architect or artisan helped design both places, or, more likely, that was simply the style then. Regardless, the floors are largely intact and pleasing to observe.

It was now late afternoon, and the shadows cast by the sun peering across the jagged edges of the walls created elongated shapes on the ground. As usual, I departed bearing more questions than when I came.

I made my way wearily toward the Circus Maximus subway station, passing Circus Maximus, seen only through a chain-link fence. I took Line B back to Termini. From there, I walked the short distance to McDonald’s at Piazza Repubblica, enjoying a slow dinner in the basement. It was dusk, the end of a tiring, albeit enjoyable day.

In a food store across the street from Stazione Termini, I purchased a bottle of cheap red wine, then boarded the train bound for Naples.

March 14, 1991

Last night, Wednesday, I enjoyed dinner at Ristorante Da Gennarino on Piazza Garibaldi. I had pollo cacciatora (chicken cacciatora). Following dinner, I left Stazione Centrale on a ten o’clock train bound for Milan (Milano). My ticket had cost Lit. 47,000 ($38). The journey would last some ten-and-a-half hours and 846 kilometers.

Before dinner, I had purchased a round-trip ticket for three to Paola, where Michael, George, and I plan to travel in two days. The ticket was quite cheap, Lit. 46,200 ($37), although the cashier misunderstood my initial request for a three-person ticket. He had given me a ticket for six persons, having understood “tre” as “sei.” After a short haggle, I came away with the proper ticket.

Meanwhile, I arrived in the large, industrialized city of Milan at eight-thirty this morning. Before leaving the train station, I noticed a train leaving for Geneva, Switzerland at nine-thirty. The temptation was undeniable. I possessed, after all, my passport, plenty of lire, and, most important, time. But I had come to see Milan.

My first experience there was the subway system, modern, complex, swift, and punctual. Within a few minutes, I found myself facing the Duomo, a magnificent and agonizingly elaborate cathedral. The huge Piazza Duomo spread before me. I enjoyed a pastry in a bar adjacent to the piazza, then decided to explore the Duomo.

I entered the cathedral, one of the largest Gothic cathedrals in the world. It is indeed massive, dark, and quiet. Every step I took along the marble floor echoed. An elevator ride to the roof allowed a close look at its intricate design, adorned with more than six thousand statues. The city, unfortunately, was largely obscured by fog.

Afterward, I enjoyed a stroll through the famous Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, named for Italy’s first king, across the street. The galleria, I noted quickly, resembles closely the Galleria Umberto in Naples. A few people sat enjoying caffe. I perused a nearby record store, finding nothing of interest.

The convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, home of Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper, was my next stop. I paid Lit. 10,000 ($8) to enter. The gallery was not very crowded. The famed Renaissance painting proved worthwhile, although worn by time. Its detail and color were vague, partially due to age, partially because Da Vinci had experimented with substances that proved more susceptible to wear.

I stepped back into the late morning sun and the traffic, making the relatively short walk to the curious Castello Sforzesco, a spectacular fortified palace built by the Visconti and Sforza families, signori (rulers) of Milan, who ruled over northern Italy between the late Middle Ages and Renaissance.

The medieval castle is one of the oldest structures in Milan. Its large courtyard is open to the public and there were several persons strolling or sitting in the sunlight. Here was a typically contradictory sight, a medieval castle standing amidst the traffic and modern buildings which surround it.

I walked through Parco Sempione, Milan’s largest park. In the park stands the Arco della Pace, the Arch of Peace. The arch is quite similar to the Arc du Triompe in Paris.

I continued walking through downtown Milan as morning became afternoon. I was now very hungry.

The tiny Ristorante Naturista, more a cafeteria than a restaurant, proved handy. For Lit. 19,000 ($15) I enjoyed a three-course lunch.

After purchasing pastries in the nearby Pasticceria Sara for Lit. 7,800 ($6), I made my way toward Milano Centrale. It was two o’clock. I had decided to leave. I was exhausted, having walked several kilometers. I had even been walking in circles during my exploration of downtown Milan following lunch.

I purchased my train ticket to Naples, paying the rapido supplement as far as Rome for Lit. 12,600 ($10), and made my way to the nearly empty train one-half hour before the scheduled two-fifty departure.

Milan is a very large city. Despite the excellent subway system, I chose to walk much of the day. I did not see as much as I had expected, although I enjoyed the amazing Duomo and Leonardo da Vinci’s Last Supper.

Meanwhile, in Rome I had a thirty-five minute layover. I left the train station, walked the two blocks to McDonald’s, ordered, sat, ate, and walked back to my train with some ten minutes to spare.

I ended up on a rapido for Naples as well, as it was the first available train. I had to pay the supplement of Lit. 10,500 ($8) on the train, which was a little more than what I would have paid in the station.

I arrived in Naples just after ten o’clock in the evening. I had traveled 1,692 kilometers in twenty-four hours.

March 16, 1991

Today, I made my southernmost trip in Italy. A couple of friends, George and Michael, and I went to Paola, a small town in northern Calabria, 275 kilometers south of Naples on the west coast.

We left Napoli Centrale this morning in cool, damp weather. The trip lasted about three hours and followed the coastline much of the way. I visited the dining car during the trip for a bottle of water and three sodas for the inflated price of Lit. 9,200 ($7).

We passed through Torre Annunziata, Salerno, Battapaglia, Paestum, and other coastal resort towns, arriving in Paola around eleven o’clock. The weather had not changed. The town was quiet. We followed a walkway uphill from the train station to the town.

At the top of the hill, we walked through an old brick arch. Turning around, it seemed to frame the seaside neighborhood from which we had just climbed. We enjoyed some sightseeing, the Church of St. Francis (of Paola), a fountain which stands in the tiny piazza there, a fruit market, and panoramic scenes of the town. We also encountered a mass of schoolchildren on their way home for lunch. It was a blustery day. Although it rained little, the sky remained cloudy.

We found a good local restaurant, Le Arcate, having only a couple of restaurants from which to choose, and ordered from their menu of the day. A soccer game was on television. Some of the locals sat and watched. Two of us enjoyed three courses. One took a fourth. The bill totaled Lit. 64,500 ($52).

Afterward, we stopped by a market to pick up some snacks for the journey home. We departed around four o’clock, arriving in Naples around seven after scouting several promising beaches along the way.

Although almost entirely devoid of landmarks or fame, Paola nevertheless proved a picturesque seaside town. Although there wasn’t much sightseeing to be done, it was a worthwhile endeavor, a different sort of experience.

March 24, 1991

From Ercolano is a road that leads up the slopes of Mount Vesuvius. Three-fourths up the slope, one must park and, after paying an entrance fee of Lit. 4,000 ($3), walk the remaining incline to the summit. The road seems endless as it twists back and forth. Today a couple of acquaintances and I took that road in order to see the countryside from atop.

From the summit, 1,215 meters above sea level, one can look over a guard rail into one of the sulfuric craters. It is a deep drop. This is not the place to be should she explode. However, on a clear day, one is afforded an expansive view of Naples and its environs, the Bay of Naples and the three islands, the Amalfi Coast, the ruins almost directly below the volcano, and the vast countryside. It is a vantage point unparalleled in this region. At the top is a small bar. There are several souvenir shops throughout the tourist area.

Following the highway downhill, one can easily determine the dried rivers of lava. How peaceful the place seems now, even with the steaming, odorous sulfur reminding us that pending doom bubbles just underneath the surface.

March 30, 1991

I enjoyed another excursion to Sorrento today. Since I visit this enchanting town so often, I have decided to compose a short summary of my impressions.

Traveling to Sorrento from Naples via train (the Circumvesuviana) takes one along the circumference of the Bay of Naples. A one-way ticket costs Lit. 5,400 ($4). It is a memorable seventy-five minute ride, taking one past Pompeii, Herculaneum, Torre Annunziata, and towns bearing such poetic names as Castellamare di Stabia, Vico Equense, and Torre del Greco. The journey ends, more than thirty stops later, in the resort town of Sorrento.

The train takes one past Mount Vesuvius, along its gentle green slopes which extend to the coast. One is afforded a constantly changing view of the volcano. The tracks wrap around the bay so that one makes a half circle during the journey. It is perhaps the most impressionable train ride one could enjoy.

The peninsula which extends eastward from the mainland and helps separate the Bay of Naples from the Tyrrhenian Sea is rocky and is covered by sharp peaks and steep slopes leading upward from the sea. The train, as it leaves the mainland for this haven, passes through several tunnels, often entering a tunnel from an ordinary town, only to emerge into a completely different scene, the type that is shown on postcards. One is afforded a spectacular view for a few seconds before submerging into the next tunnel, only to re-emerge into the next town and an ordinary train station.

At the town of Meta, on the outskirts of Sorrento, the space on either side of the single track narrows as one passes through groves of orange trees, contained from overgrowth by nets. The train then emerges into the bright sunlight. It slows. Blue rectangular signs read “Sorrento.”

One steps into an ordinary train station, and from there, into an ordinary piazza. There are a few taxis, a bus or two. A walk from there leads to the central piazza. It is a quiet town. There are several places to sit and enjoy cappuccino. This is definitely a resort town, although it does not seem so immediately.

Other than its role as a tourist center, Sorrento is known throughout the world because of its production of inlaid wood. Such products are everywhere, from the simple to the exorbitant. I recall walking into one such shop, adjacent to a factory. The sales lady was kind. She spoke eloquent English, and my desire to speak Italian was suppressed. She showed me a plethora of products produced by the factory, although she was not pushy. Some of the more elaborate jewelry boxes contained music boxes that played “Torna a Surriento” (”Come Back to Sorrento”). This she pointed out proudly.

Posh hotels line the waterfront, suspended several meters above the sea by shattering cliffs. There is one hotel named “Excelsior.” A walk from the busy sidewalk in front and through a heavy iron gate leads one along a pathway lined by shade trees to its entrance. The interior is ornate and expensive. The restaurant is good but pricey. It is obvious the well-to-do come to places such as this. I have never wanted to know the room rates. The figures must be in the hundreds of dollars per night. I have always found it nice just to peruse the grounds outside and enjoy the view of the Bay of Naples.

There are several places to have lunch. One is Ristorante Zi’Ntonio. Here one can enjoy an excellent ragu sauce. There is a tavola calda, Angelina Lauro, a sort of cafeteria-style restaurant, where one can enjoy excellent pizza and crocche. It is a good, cheap place to eat. There is the English Pub, which, according to Mick, serves excellent caprese. But the British gather there, and I am usually in no mood for that.

Other places lurk within the side streets, but my appetite today demanded a full meal at Ristorante Zi’Ntonio. It was somewhat dark inside. Tables lined with antipasto welcomed me. A kind gentleman directed me to a corner table. An unlit candle sat in the center. The dining room was nearly empty.

I ordered my usual and waited patiently. Dried and cured legs of lamb hung from wooden posts supporting a second floor. I would be content with focaccio as an appetizer, caprese as a second appetizer, spaghetti alla bolognese, as well as a fourth course. The house wine was typically good, and my head was spinning before the focaccio arrived. The bill was a whopping Lit. 40,000 ($32).

After lunch I walked down the street to the Cloister of St. Francis. The cloister, formerly a monastery, was built during the second half of the eight century, reflects the influence of Arabian architecture, and surrounds a picturesque courtyard. It was devoid of visitors today. Vines growing up the walls add color to the place. The cloister sits atop one of the greatest vantage points in the city.

Beside the cloister is the Communal Park, a small, shaded park with a bench and a long iron rail. Below is a shattering drop to the beach. I must have stood thirty meters or more above the deserted beach. Across the horizon spread the Bay of Naples, to the right, the coastline navigated so brilliantly by the Circumvesuviana. Ahead hovered Mount Vesuvius, and to the left, the city of Naples. This is one of the greatest views of one of the loveliest places, surely, in the world.

Following a quiet walk back to the center of town, it was time for siesta. Most shops were closed. I found an open bookstore near the train station and decided to enter. I perused for a few minutes, but found nothing. Back outside, with little to occupy me, I decided to window shop. Every shop, it seemed, had some inlaid wood for sale, all of it, of course, made locally.

These artisans have made imaginative work of this trade. There are gambling tables, roulette wheels, chess boards, bars, tables, plaques, etc. Nothing, it seems, has gone uninvented. Inlaid wood work has long been established, perfected, and tailored. Indeed, it is sold throughout the world, though rarely cheaper than in Sorrento. Every salesman, though, will show the visitor something in their collection which contains the music box. “Torna a Surriento,” they say, then open the lid to a jewelry box or small table so the visitor can hear. “Come Back to Sorrento,” they always say. G.B. De Curtis and E. De Curtis wrote the song in 1904. They must have been as mesmerized as I.

Vide ‘o mare quant’è bello!
Spira tantu sentimento.
Comme tu a chi tiene mente
Ca scetato ‘o faie sunnà.
Guarda, guà chistu ciardino;
Siente, siè sti sciure arance.
Nu prufumo accussì fino
Dinto ‘o core se ne va,
E tu dice “I’parto, addio!”
T’alluntane da stu core,
Da la terra da l’ammore,
Tiene ‘o core ‘e nun turnà.
Ma nun me lassà
Nun darme stu turmiento!
Torna a Surriento,
Famme campà!
Vide ‘o mare de Surriento,
Che tesoro tene ‘nfunno:
Chi ha girato tutto ‘o munno
Nun l’ha visto comm’a ccà.
Guarda attuorno sti sserene,
Ca te guardano ‘ncantate
E te vonno tantu bene,
Te vulessero vasà.
E tu dice “I’parto, addio!”
T’alluntane da stu core,
Da la terra da l’ammore,
Tiene ‘o core ‘e nun turnà.
Ma nun me lassà
Nun darme stu turmiento!
Torna a Surriento,
Famme campà!

Look at the sea, it’s so beatiful!
It inspires such a strong feeling.
Just like you do to him who thinks of you
You make him dream even awake.
Look, look at these gardens;
smell these orange blossoms.
A scent so fine
It goes straight to your heart,
And you say “I’m leaving, goodbye!”
You get far from this heart,
From the land of love,
Do you really not feel like coming back?
But don’t leave me
Don’t give me such a pain!
Come back to Sorrento,
Let me live!
Look at the sea of Sorrento,
Such treasures in its depths:
Even who traveled the whole world
Never saw the like of this.
Look around, these mermaids,
Look at you as if spellbound
They love you so much,
They would like to kiss you.
And you say “I’m leaving, goodbye!”
You run away,
From the land of love,
Never to return.
But don’t leave me
Don’t torment me so!
Come back to Sorrento,
Let me live!

April 13, 1991

Today, I visited Capri with the Pattersons. I didn’t feel well, although I did enjoy myself. At Mergellina, we purchased tickets for the hydrofoil at Lit. 12,800 ($10) apiece. The hydrofoils are run by Aliscafi Snav. We were scheduled to depart on the 9:10 hydrofoil. From the port, I took a memorable photograph of the Bay of Naples and Mount Vesuvius with streaks of early morning sunlight penetrating the clouds. The weather was perfect.

After arriving at the island, we took the funicolare to Capri. Tickets cost Lit. 1,500 ($1.20) each way for the short ride. From Capri, we took the bus to Anacapri. Round-trip tickets cost another Lit. 3,000 ($2.40). The temperature in Anacapri was a little cool, although it was sunny. We ate lunch in a favorite pizzeria in Anacapri, and each enjoyed an appetizer and a pizza. The bill was Lit. 67,200 ($54). Following lunch, we walked around town for some time. The Pattersons purchased a small painting at Galleria Peronale, located at 57 Via Boffe. The artist’s name was Antonio Palomba. We took the 4:10 hydrofoil back to Naples.

April 27, 1991

Today I went with the Pattersons to Vietri sul Mare, a picturesque town located at the joint where the Amalfi Coast meets the mainland. It is just west of Salerno, and is renowned for ceramics. At our favorite shop, Ceramica Giovanni at 5 Via XXV Luglio, I purchased a pitcher and four glasses. They were cheap. The craftsmanship was very good. The cost was Lit. 37,000 ($30). I paid by credit card, Visa, the first time I had ever done so in a foreign currency. Eventually, the kind lady attending the shop led us upstairs, where more goods were for sale. The first floor was too cluttered for everything to be displayed.

May 5, 1991

I had always wanted to go to Switzerland, but never seemed to have the opportunity. Finally, this tour of Italy nearing its end, I seized the chance. What I anticipated as my last free weekend became that opportunity. I left work at four-thirty Friday afternoon, May 3, and went to my room in the barracks. Already packed for the journey, I quickly prepared for what promised to be an adventurous weekend. Following several days of careful planning and consideration, I was indeed prepared.

Because my leaving the country without leave was, if not prohibited, then at least discouraged, I informed those who asked that I would be in Florence for the weekend. Because I have been to Florence three times, I could have answered anything about my “weekend” there.

I made the five-minute walk to the bus stop at Capodichino. Shortly thereafter, bus fourteen arrived to take me to Stazione Centrale at Piazza Garibaldi. I validated my bus ticket and took a seat. We arrived at the piazza after winding through the usual maze of Neapolitan traffic. I stepped off and walked to the train station.

I had never bought an international train ticket and did not know exactly what to do. I stood in the line marked “biglietti per oggi.” I had always stood in this line when purchasing tickets for travel within Italy. However, when my turn came, I asked for a ticket to Zurich. “Zurigo?” the vendor asked. “Si, Zurigo,” I answered. He pointed to his left. “Numero seidici,” he told me. I moved down to window sixteen. The sign read “biglietti internazionali.” Of course. I awaited service, and soon a man appeared. “Uno biglietto per Zurigo,” I said. “Quanti anni hai?” he asked. “Vent’uno,” I replied. He pointed to another window where I could get an under twenty-six discount. “Io non ho una carta,” I said, thinking I had to possess a special identification card for that. He looked at me perplexed and issued a second class ticket to Zurich for which I paid Lit. 110,800 ($89).

Following this small ordeal, I entered the bar located at the other side of the station and purchased a coke and a few pastries to eat along the way. I put them into my travel bag and sought my train. There it was, express train to Zurich, Switzerland departing at seven o’clock.

I found an empty compartment near the middle of the train, itself nearly a quarter-mile long, and awaited departure. I opened my bag and rummaged through my travel book, train schedules, reading material, notebook, camera, film, sweater, snacks, dictionary, and toothbrush to find my tape player and headphones. After fumbling with the small tape collection I had included, I chose something I hoped would eventually lull me to sleep.

Suddenly, I felt a jerk. It was the train. We were in motion. I had begun what I hoped would be an unforgettable journey. We soon arrived at our first stop, Aversa, a suburb just north of Naples. I was soon joined by a middle-aged woman and her daughter. They had family in Zurich and would accompany me the remainder of the journey. We left the station amidst a rabble of goodbye waves and cheers. We were soon afforded a splendid view of rural Campagna as the sun set upon the countryside.

By nightfall, we had arrived in Rome. As we departed Roma Termini, we turned our seats into beds. I soon nodded off, my headphones still attached. (I actually enjoyed about six hours of sleep, an unusual amount for me on a train ride.) I awoke only during stops at Florence and Bologna, awakening for the day as we arrived at Milan’s Stazione Lambrante just before six o’clock Saturday morning. It was dawn.

Now perhaps an hour south of the Swiss border, I sat up as we pulled away. I wished to enjoy the view as we approached the Italian-Swiss Alps. It was indeed a magnificent view. We passed the resort Lake Como as the train wound around its circumference for some time. It was a stunning sight. We eventually stopped at the train station at Como. A man outside was selling caffe.

Swiss customs officials boarded and moved quickly throughout the train checking for liquor importations. There were no passport checks. Ten minutes later, we were again in motion. We soon crossed the border, but I noticed little distinction. All signs, even the names of towns, were still Italian. I was perplexed.

We entered a tunnel that must have run at least fifteen kilometers. I also assume our elevation consistently increased, for as we exited the tunnel, all was covered in snow. It was still falling steadily. I quickly noticed all signs were now in German. Even the architecture had suddenly taken on a Gothic appearance. We were without doubt in Switzerland, and now only a couple of hours from Zurich.

The train, now following a crooked mountain path, moved slowly. As we approached Lake Zurich, the snow stopped, but the view was handsome. Finally, we pulled into the Zurich “bahnhof.” I assisted my two companions with their luggage, then went my way.

I first needed to exchange some dollars for francs. An exchange was located in the station, so I traded one hundred dollars for about one hundred and fifty francs. I had brought two hundred dollars, around Lit. 130,000 ($104), Visa card, military identification, and passport. They were in a money pouch around my neck and under my clothes.

My next endeavor was to organize the return trip to Naples. I went first to the information counter to verify the ten-thirty evening train to Naples. The lady with whom I spoke knew English and was very helpful. Next, I stepped into a line where I could use my credit card. (The kind lady at the information counter had informed me I could do so.) I flipped through my German dictionary and quickly assembled the phrase I would use to complete the transaction. “Ein karta nach Neapel Italien. Unter zwanzig sechs,” I uttered flawlessly, requesting the under twenty-six discount. (The kind lady at the information counter had also informed me I could get the discount by presenting my passport.) I handed the gentleman at the ticket window my Visa card and received the ticket to Naples for about three-fourths the price I had paid in Naples, or one hundred francs ($67).

I then entered a bookstore, also inside the train station, and purchased a good map of Zurich. I had now conducted all of my business, and was ready to explore. I left the station, wielding my camera.

Historical Zurich is rather small, only a square mile or two. I knew its exploration would be nominal. I essentially followed the map, which had the landmarks numbered. I made many wonderful photographs, not knowing what many of the landmarks represented. I knew I would figure that out later. I walked onto a pier at Lake Zurich and contemplated taking a cruise, but quickly realized I didn’t have time.

My walk through Zurich carried me past street markets, shops, and stores. My favorite locale was the old town, a quaint, unique quarter away from the main thoroughfares.

I completed my sightseeing in about two hours, returning to the train station to commence my second mission of the day. I would take a train to Sargans, near the eastern tip of Switzerland. I had verified the departure time, one-thirty, on the schedule posted in the station. Knowing the train was equipped with a dining car, I planned to save time by eating lunch on the train.

I returned to the information desk to check the arrival time in Sargans. The ride would last almost an hour, allowing me plenty of time to eat. I purchased my ticket and awaited the train. It soon arrived from Geneva. I boarded the dining car. I was given a menu by the waiter as the train departed. After looking at the menu, I hoped the waiter spoke English. He did. I ordered weinerschnitzel and beer. I was at a table by myself. Only a handful of people were in the car.

The train paralleled Lake Zurich for at least half-an-hour. The view from the train was marvelous. After finishing my meal, a young red-haired German lady of twenty-four tried speaking with me. She didn’t speak English. Realizing our only other option, I asked, “Parla italiano?” She answered, “Si, io parlo italiano.” My Italian wasn’t great, but I spoke it much better than German. She didn’t know where she was going. She was just along for the ride and enjoying the scenery. It seemed a wonderful way to pass a Saturday afternoon. I ended our conversation upon my arrival at Sargans.

I walked into the train station to check the local bus schedule, then purchased a ticket to Vaduz, Lichtenstein. We were to depart in twenty minutes. The wait presented an opportunity to call home. The conversation was ended abruptly as my bus started to leave. I had to run to catch it.

A few minutes later, I found myself in Vaduz. I had established a personal best by visiting three countries in one day. I went immediately to the tourist office, one block from the bus stop, to have my passport stamped. I paid a kind lady one franc ($0.65) for proof of my achievement. I attempted to resume my phone call, but had no luck with the only public telephone I could locate. My visit to Vaduz was short, perhaps an hour-and-a-half.

As we approached late afternoon, meanwhile, the weather became colder, and the sheltered bus taking me back to Sargans was welcome.

I made the short ride to Sargans. The train to Zurich would arrive shortly, and I made my way to the waiting area. Fortunately, I had purchased a round trip ticket at Zurich. (”Zurich nach Sargans und Sargans nach Zurich” had been my phraseology at the ticket counter.)

The train soon arrived, and I found a nearly empty compartment. I spent most of the hour-long ride sleeping, but awoke to falling snow as we approached Zurich. Once again, the snow subsided as we entered the city, but the weather was still cold. Leaving the train, I went to find a pay phone. I then set out for another walk around Zurich.

By now it was nearly six o’clock, the sky was overcast, and the air was growing progressively colder. As I walked, I realized everything, less the restaurants and bars, was closed. After window shopping for clocks and watches for a few minutes, I discovered I would be lucky to find a Swiss clock or watch for under one hundred francs ($67), which was disappointing.

As hunger set in, my endeavor turned to locating a good restaurant. I had about forty francs ($27) left from my morning transaction and didn’t want to use the extra one hundred dollars I had brought. I assumed I could eat well in Zurich for forty francs. I was wrong.

In Europe, standard practice in restaurants is to post a menu outside. After poring over a few of these, I concluded I would not be eating dinner for forty francs in Zurich, the most expensive European city I have visited. In some cases, single courses cost forty francs.

I walked back to the train station, knowing there was a cafeteria inside. I made one last stop at a pay phone, then ventured into the cafeteria where I enjoyed bratwurst, french fries, dessert, and a beer for around twenty francs ($13). An Italian couple sat across from me enjoying caffe. (They were reading an Italian newspaper.)

I finished eating, then entered the international bookstore next door where I wandered for some time. I wished to purchase something to keep me entertained for the journey back to Naples. I purchased a newspaper and two magazines. After making a quick stop at a refreshment stand for drinks, I ventured toward the waiting area for my train. It would be arriving from Stuttgart, Germany.

I had more than an hour to pass. I read the newspaper, then discarded it. I then began to skim through the magazines. The cold was penetrating. The sweater I had brought helped little.

Finally, the train arrived. We departed at ten-thirty, as scheduled. There were a couple of people in the compartment with me. One departed at the first stop. I turned the light off and fell asleep. We did not get our passports checked at the Italian border, for I did not wake again until Milan. I was joined by two Italians as I fell asleep again. One was a vagabond who was removed from the train by the conductor. He and a kind, older fellow departed at Reggio Emilia, north of Bologna.

I, meanwhile, slipped into the empty compartment next door and transformed my seat into a bed. Falling asleep once again, I awoke only during stops at Bologna and Florence. I dozed again, waking for good to a bright, sunny day at Arezzo. I had slept some eight hours.

I was joined by a lady and her three daughters. They would accompany me for the remainder of the journey to Naples. We made a brief stop at Rome, then commenced the final leg of this long journey. It appeared we would arrive in Naples at noon, as scheduled.

Familiar sights welcomed me home. There stood Mount Vesuvius. As we pulled into Napoli Centrale, I was overcome with a sense of accomplishment. The train halted, the doors opened, and I stepped out. This unforgettable journey had ended.

May 5, 1991

I made another trip today with the Pattersons to Vietri sul Mare. It is here the Amalfi Coast rejoins the mainland. This last town is arguably the most memorable of all the towns along the Amalfi Coast. In addition to the characteristic view of mountain and sea are the town’s plethora of ceramics shops. Most shops display their unique creations outside, and many even cover their facade with ceramic tiles.

May 11, 1991

I enjoyed a fine dinner at O’Calamaro tonight with a friend. We each enjoyed two courses. The bill totaled Lit. 38,000 ($30).

May 12, 1991

On the way back to Naples following a quick stop in Sorrento, I decided to visit Meta, a little town just east of Sorrento. It is Sunday. The place was deserted. I walked the empty streets to the beach, normally thriving in summer. There was one other person on the beach, a lady who had brought her dog. As I waded through the water, someone standing on the pier inquired, “Com’e l’acqua?” “Freddo,” I replied. “Molto freddo.” I felt alone, but enjoyed the sunlight and the cool water of the Bay of Naples for perhaps an hour. Then I departed.

May 24, 1991

This evening I enjoyed dinner with friends at an informal trattoria near Lago Patria, northwest of Naples. The four of us indulged on an exorbitant meal. Even so, we were only charged Lit. 69,800 ($56).

May 25, 1991

Tonight I enjoyed my last supper at O’Calamaro. George and Michael paid for my meal. The bill was a mere Lit. 49,500 ($40). We were served by Franco. Although I mention eating at O’Calamaro only twelve times in this thorough account, I estimate having dined there on around fifty occasions during my thirty months here. Indeed, there is something very special about this restaurant located on an unassuming street in an unassuming suburb (Bagnoli) of Naples.

I made several friends here, Franco (the head waiter), Giuseppe (Pepe), Ugo, Mario (three different ones), Niccolo, and the others whose names I either did not learn or forgot. I learned from my friend Ron to bring them gifts, such as cigarettes. They always treated me well. I always received a certain gratification from entering this restaurant and being immediately recognized by name.

The food at O’Calamaro I will always remember as being the best in all of Italy. I can count more than a hundred different restaurants throughout the country I have frequented, many more than once. While they were almost all excellent, O’Calamaro has no equal. I introduced many friends to this restaurant. Most returned.

When one enters the restaurant, the first feature he notices is the pizza oven, separate from the kitchen. Here labors an artist. The pizza conchiglia (shell pizza) is made with a cover shaped like a clam shell made from the same dough as pizza crust. It is propped with toothpicks. The pizza oca (goose pizza) resembles just that. The antipasto bar was perhaps the most elaborate I have ever seen, with such a variety of appetizers that sampling them all would prove impossible. Ordering the antipasto misto (mixed appetizers) could often make a meal in itself.

The best dishes? They are too numerous to mention here, but I must include penne all’arriabiata (a spicy tomato sauce served over penne pasta), penne boscaiola (a cheesy sauce with peas and ham served over penne pasta), scallopini al’limone (veal scallops served with lemon sauce), calamari (fried or grilled squid), insalata polipo (octopus salad), and, of course, caprese. Even the white house wine bears a label with the name “O’Calamaro.” Not bad for a neighborhood trattoria.

The waiters were dismayed when I told them tonight would mark my last supper here. O’Calamaro, I will surely miss you.

May 26, 1991

I went to Vietri sul Mare with the Pattersons today. We took our lunch in a second floor restaurant. Since I had extra lire, I decided to pay for their meals. I enjoyed pasta with lobster. The bill was Lit. 62,000 ($50). Afterward, we enjoyed gelato at Gelateria Topazio at 112 Corso Umberto. I had a large cone for Lit. 6,000 ($5).

At Ceramica Giovanni, I purchased a large plate bearing a picturesque design for Lit. 40,000 ($32). The kind lady attending the shop talked to me as I perused. “Solo 40,000 lire,” I uttered after the lady had quoted the price of the plate, surprised it had not been much more. “No, 60,000 lire,” she amended humorously. “No, 40,000 lire,” I played along. The Pattersons drove me back home. I left my friends and walked to my room.

I will be leaving Italy tomorrow. I am both excited and a little sad. Vietri sul Mare was an adequate place, I suppose, to end my journey. I could have been sentimental and visited Pompeii, the site of my very first trip, or perhaps to Rome, where I made my first overnight journey. Or I could have stayed in Naples and visited those places which had become so familiar. But Vietri sul Mare was an adequate finale, as I have now made my last journey. It was good to be with people today. I was still learning about Italy, forging ahead, and enjoying one last experience. Tomorrow I will be in the United States.

This great journey, so I call it, has ended.

The Restaurants

Acqua Al 2 – Florence
Al 53 – Naples
Al Poeta – Naples
Angelina Lauro, 39/40 Piazza Angelina Lauro, Sorrento
Angiolino – Florence
Antica Adelaide, 3728 Calle Priuli, Venezia
Bibó – Florence
Cavour – Naples
Da Genio – Genoa
Da Gennarino, 126 Piazza Garibaldi Giuseppe, Napoli
Da Gigetta, 4 Via A. Colombo, Pozzuoli
Da Luigi, 4 Via Marino Boffa, Pozzuoli
Da Zi’ Giorgio?, 71 Via Scarfoglio, Agnano
Don Antonio, 20 Via Magazzini, Pozzuoli
Excelsior Vittoria – Sorrento
Gioia Mia – Rome
Hostaria Farnese, 109 Via Baullari, Roma
Hotel Emelia – Lago Patria
I Quattro Fratelli, Via Domitiana, Castelvolturno
Il Capitano, 10 Lungomare C. Colombo, Pozzuoli
Il Cucciolo, Viale Sauli, Genoa
Il Fantino, 228 Via Agnano agli Astroni, Agnano
Il Fienile, Via Agnano agli Astroni, Agnano
Il Gabbiano – Bacoli
Il Pulcinella?, 48 Via Scarfoglio, Agnano
Italia – Sulmona
La Giara?, 67 Via G. Orlandi, Anacapri
La Lanterna – Sorrento
La Rondinella – Anacapri
Le Arcate, Via Valitutti, Paola
Le Cinque Statue – Tivoli
Le Due Palme – Agnano
Le Sciantose, 55/57 Via Napoli, Pozzuoli
L’Etrusco, 12 Via dei Gracchi, Roma
Monte Caruso – Rome
Moscardino, 28 Via Roma, Capri
Naturista, 32 Via Vincenzo Monti, Milano
Nello-La Taverna – Siena
O’Calamaro – Naples
Pulcinella, 6 Str. Stat. 83, Alfedena
Ristorante Internazionale, Pompeii Scavi
Sannazzaro, Piazza Sannazzaro, Napoli
Spadaforte – Siena
Taverna Maresca – Isernia
Tennis Hotel – Agnano
The Top, Via del Tritone, Roma
Trattoria Pallotta – Assisi
Zi’Ntonio – Sorrento

The Hotels

Alla Fava – Venice
Amelia Earhart – Wiesbaden
Berchtesgadener Hof – Berchtesgaden
Bologna – Pisa
Canada – Rome
Caesar Augustus – Anacapri
Delle Nazioni – Florence
Europa Park – Sulmona
General Patton – Garmisch
General Walker – Berchtesgaden (demolished 1999)
Giotto – Assisi
Hideaway – Agnano
Jedermann – Munich
La Pace – Pisa
La Tequila – Isernia
Palladium – Rome
San Giorgio – Florence
Sauli – Genoa
Soggiorno Adua – Florence
Troyon – Paris

Saturday, November 4, 1995, On the airplane to Rome

Jennifer and I are at last on our way to Rome. Our trip shall last many more hours. Fortunately, I managed to exchange three hundred dollars for lire before we left New York City. That’s one less thing I’ll have to do when we get to Rome.

I have thought much during past days about what I want to see during our stay in Italy. I am sure I am wishing for too much, but it would be a blessing if we could see a good amount without exhausting ourselves. When one becomes tired of museums, they all become boring, and then he defeats his own purpose. This I know from experience.

So what is it I wish to see? It is important here to separate must from want, and this is often a most difficult endeavor.

In Rome, if nothing else, we must visit and explore the Vatican City. Although we shall attend a papal audience on Wednesday the fifteenth, we must still allow for St. Peter’s Cathedral and the Vatican Museum, two most daunting tasks.

If we have ample time, as I trust we shall, we will visit the seat of ancient Rome, the Coliseum (opened in 80 AD), the Roman Forum (the center of ancient Roman society and government), walked upon by many emperors, including Julius Caesar, and the Palatine Hill, the site marking the founding of Rome by brothers Romulus and Remus in 753 BC.

It would be nice to visit Piazza Navona to see the street vendors, the fountains, and the lights at night. I hope to eat at Hosteria Farnese nearby as well.

In Florence, the choices become all the more enticing. Although Rome, the Eternal, is so much larger, I have always found so much more to see in Florence, where there is seemingly a Renaissance museum or Baroque church at every street corner.

We must visit the Uffizi Gallery, perhaps Italy’s greatest museum behind the Vatican, and Florence’s greatest treasure. (I must mention here that we have allowed ourselves five days in Florence, compared to only three for Rome.)

We must also visit the Academy of Fine Arts (home to Michelangelo’s David).

We will likely visit Santa Maria del Fiore (Duomo), in the center of Florence. It is very close to our Hotel Bellettini.

We should also visit the street market, eat at Acqua al Due, and visit the promontory, Piazzale Michelangelo, from where one can positively view all of Florence. In the center of the piazza stands a bronze replica of the artist’s statue of David.

What else might we decide to do? I would hope to visit the Pitti Palace, home of Florence’s greatest of all families, the de Medici. The de Medici were bankers, and accumulated great wealth and stature which propelled them through Florentine governorship for some three centuries, rising to fame during the fifteenth century, during the throes of the Renaissance. Although I have never visited the Pitti Palace, I know it is majestic.

Behind the Pitti Palace lay the Boboli Gardens (which I have visited), which, full of statues, fountains, and brilliant landscape, sprawls for several acres. I mentioned to Jennifer what a wonderful place for an afternoon picnic this would be. I think she will agree.

I also plan to visit Ognissanti, a church which stands near the Arno River along its north bank. The church is not a large one, and would not necessarily attract much attention except for Ghirlandaio’s stunning mural depicting The Last Supper. It is not a particularly large painting, but it is definitely worth a little side trip to see.

St. Mark’s would be another interesting visit. Once a monastery, it is now a museum, made popular by the murals adorning the walls of the monks’ cells (painted by Fra Angelico). St. Mark’s was once the home of the infamous monk Savonarola, who was executed (hung, then burned at the stake) in Piazza della Signoria in 1498. The crime, primarily, was heresy.

During our stay in Florence, a couple of out of town trips seem most appealing. One, a train trip to Assisi and Perugia. This is almost unavoidable, for Assisi is home of perhaps the greatest of all Catholics, St. Francis.

A trip to Pisa would be a pleasure, but seems unlikely.

Last, we arrive in Venice, a city in which I spent one of the most memorable afternoons (in December, 1989) of my lifetime. We are allotting three days for this venture, and could have allotted a hundred.

We must visit St. Mark’s Square (which embraces St. Mark’s Cathedral, Doges’ Palace, the campanile, or bell tower, and, of course, the pigeons).

To visit the Accademia, Venice’s most prestigious museum, is something we must do.

To take a gondola ride and a vaporetto ride down the Grand Canal we must do as well.

I wish to visit the other famous islands in the Venetian lagoon, as well, namely Murano, Burano, and Torcello.

I wish we would have time to reserve an afternoon for a train ride to nearby Verona, but this is most unlikely.

Arrivaderci for now. I’ll see you in Rome domani (tomorrow).

Sunday, November 5, 1995, Hotel Romae, Rome

So much has happened today I do not know where to begin.

So many of the little things I used to rely on have changed. There were no longer buses to take us from the airport to Roma Termini. We had to take the train to get to the train station. (Go figure.) This nearly caused delay, but we made it to the train five minutes before departure.

There are now automated ticket vendors for the subway which only take Lit. 1,000 and Lit. 10,000 bills. But I adapted. Train tickets have increased in price by around fifty percent during the last four or five years, but food prices have changed only slightly.

I took Jennifer, via the subway, to the Vatican City and St. Peter’s Cathedral (by surprise) early this afternoon. It was a wonderful way to begin this trip, I thought.

We found several gift shops which sell souvenirs, but not the normal goods which persons associate with such shops. Jennifer purchased a scarf and a fan, and we plan to go back there when we return to Rome next week.

As we were walking from St. Peter’s, we found a bar which had wonderful cream-filled pastries. We each had one, I took a latte caldo (steamed milk), and Jennifer, a caffe latte (coffee and milk).

Everyone we have encountered has been very polite to us today. The older lady who runs the hotel is feisty and reminds me of my grandmother, but she has taken very good care of us.

We had dinner tonight in a restaurant across the street, Taverna Pretoriana. (I rarely used to remember the names of places I dined, so I must make a greater effort this time to do so.) Jennifer had lasagna al forno, which was delicious, and I had tortellini alla bolognese, which was among the best I ever had. We lingered until after I had eaten an insalata mista, and Jennifer creme caramel and caffe latte.

A note about the Vatican. There is so much I could write but to do so would be degrading, since some things simply cannot be described in words. We rubbed St. Peter’s feet, and went about our way. It was sort of a good luck charm.

Although I remember the language, the currency, and my directions, this will definitely be a new experience for me, I think, for I see things from such a different perspective. I feel as though I am seeing things for the first time again. I cannot readily explain why this is so.

Monday, November 6, 1995, Hotel Romae, Rome

After a solid night’s sleep, I feel more complacent and ready to explore. Jennifer and I shall very soon be on our way to Florence, and then the real trip will begin. Rome is a wonderful city, but it is just too large. Florence is much more accessible. Finally, a place we can settle in for a few days.

Our train, an “interregionale” (formerly “diretto”), departs Roma Termini at ten-thirty this morning and will get us to Florence at 1:35 in the afternoon.

Again, I cannot explain why I seem to perceive everything so differently this time. I am sure Florence will be different, too. But I am not in the least disappointed. This is simply a new experience for me, in a sense, and I shall have to treat it as such.

I suppose I shall write again from the train to Florence. C’e vediamo.

Monday, November 6, 1995, On the train to Florence

Our train departed Rome for Florence one-half hour ago. We made a single stop at Rome’s Stazione Tiburtina, then left Rome for the countryside.

We are presently traveling through northern Lazio, with the Apennine Mountains to our right. It is an impressively clear day with virtually no haze to hinder our view, and the mountains appear quite clear. Some of the taller ones are even snow-capped.

Jennifer and I enjoyed breakfast in the hotel dining room this morning. The feisty elderly lady who gave us such a rambunctious welcome yesterday served us. Jennifer has nicknamed her “Mamma Mia,” and wants to have her picture made with her when we return to Rome. Jennifer had hot chocolate and I had another latte caldo. We had bread and croissants with butter and jelly.

We have stopped in the town of Orte, forty-five minutes north of Rome. It is a small town, and only a few persons boarded, but the train is soon to be filled. The conductor is coming through our car checking tickets, meanwhile, and we are moving north again.

The actual town of Orte was just on our right, built upon a hill. It was very picturesque. And very old. (I have been in the Orte train station. It was late December, 1990 while traveling between Rome and Assisi.)

We will soon pass into Tuscany, although exactly where and when I do not know. The scenery, though, which is already very worthwhile, will become extraordinary. We are now stopping again, in Attigliano, and only a couple of people are getting on. And we are leaving again. The conductor is arguing with someone over tickets. I am trying to understand, but cannot.

(Later)

We are now stopped at Chiusi-Chianciano Terme, which means we have arrived in Toscana (Tuscany). We did pass through a corner of Umbria between Lazio and Tuscany, for we made a stop at Orvieto, a popular Umbrian town known best for its wine, Orvieto Classico, which is made there.

We are now more than halfway to Florence, and the ride has been most casual. The Apennines are still visible to our east, and everywhere are houses and villas, although there doesn’t appear to be any actual village nearby. It seems most of the inhabitants here are farmers, since there are so many tilled fields adjacent to each other. We even passed what appeared to be a lemon orchard several kilometers back.

There is a massive lake to our east. It is one which I do not recall. It was near a town named something like “Castiglione del Lago,” although we passed by the town so quickly I cannot be confident I read the signs properly. We have now stopped at the nearby town of Terontola, and are soon to be off again.

The hills are lovely and covered with shrubs and tan buildings that look like castles. A few villages appear here and there atop the hills, with bell towers marking the churches. To visit each village is a temptation, and to do so would require more than one mortal lifetime. The treasures of Italy become so remarkably apparent if one only opens his eyes.

We are now stopping in “Castiglion F.no,” although I do not know what the abbreviation “F.no” represents. I shall have to consult my map. It is interesting we have passed two towns named “Castiglion” in so close proximity to each other. This I find most curious.

We are now less than one hour from Florence, and I grow excited. We shall soon arrive at Arezzo, a classic medieval town, although I have never visited. We have passed Olmo, and are continuing toward Arezzo. It is such a pretty autumn day for Florence, which is seen best in autumn, anyway. We are now in Arezzo, and I am closing this until Florence. C’e vediamo.

Monday, November 6, 1995, Hotel Bellettini, Florence

There is so much to write of Florence I may never finish.

We arrived at one-thirty this afternoon and took a taxi to our hotel on Via dei Conti, 7.

I wish we would never leave. It is like living as royalty. And to think, tomorrow we shall have an even better view! Our room, by Italian standards, is huge. It has a high ceiling, a large bed (and another small one), and even a partial view of the dome of Santa Maria del Fiore. And heat!

But enough of the hotel, because there is so much more to write, and still so much to do! For lunch, I introduced Jennifer to Italian pizza, and it was stupendous! The pizzeria recommended by the hotel clerk, Pizzeria Nuti was closed, and we stumbled upon a tavola calda across the street from the Cathedral of San Lorenzo.

I must admit, though, that if our first day in Rome was somewhat a disappointment to me, Florence, already my favorite of all Italian cities, was not. It is even better than my best recollection.

Anyway, we visited Santa Maria del Fiore after lunch, first observing Bernini’s bronze baptistery doors, then worked our way through the pigeons to enter the cathedral, a most grandiloquent structure on the outside, massive, dark, and tranquil on the inside.

(A personal opinion: Inside, a Gregorian chant played, not sung or rehearsed, but played via recording through speakers. Had the effect been live, it would have been masterful, but there is a time for such modernities, and a time to avoid them. But I was not in the least dismayed.)

For dinner at Pizzeria il David, Jennifer enjoyed penne al’ragu, and I, spaghetti alla pescatora, and both of us were impressed. Our waiter seemed a bit harsh with the English-speaking clientele, which seemed to comprise most of the evening crowd. I can understand why, for it is rude of a person to come here and not at least attempt to speak Italian. This has always perturbed me, and tonight was no different. I would have been a little harsh, too.

We enjoyed shopping this evening, more wonderful pastries, and a very tempestuous hint of what the following four days might bring. And tomorrow we shall change rooms (for the one with the view). Buona notte.

Tuesday, November 7, 1995, Hotel Bellettini, Florence

I have awakened to the bells of Donatello’s tower this morning. Between this and Bernini’s bronze doors, one realizes the ultimate massivity and complexity of Santa Maria del Fiore. Unfortunately, no amount of words can adequately describe this structure.

Florence seems a world apart from Rome, although they are separated by little more than three hundred kilometers. Rome, whether the Romans care to realize, is more southern than northern. It is less civilized, less cultivated than Florence. I don’t care if it is the Eternal City. Florence is truly Italian. Despite the tourists, Florence has not lost what makes her unique. Her essence is intact. Nothing could take it from her. It is as permanent as the sun and moon.

(Later)

I have always wanted to ask a Florentine about the flood of 1966, just to witness the reaction. To understand the destruction of the event is most definitely impossible for one who did not live in Florence then, which is why I wanted to witness the reaction of one who had.

During the early afternoon, following lunch at Pizzeria Il David (where we both enjoyed pizza margherita), Jennifer and I took a carriage ride through the historical center of Florence, lasting for about twenty minutes. We started in Piazza della Signoria, and rode, using both main and side streets, to the Duomo and back to the piazza. What is interesting is that the gentleman (whom I guessed to have been around fifty) wanted Lit. 50,000 ($33) to take us. I had only Lit. 45,000 ($30). He said he would take dollars, and I explained I didn’t have any. He then shrugged, asked jovially (in English), “What is it they say? Better a hen today than an egg tomorrow?” then took us anyway.

During the ride, he explained the sights to us (in Italian), mostly in a voice so low we could not hear. I did understand his explanation of Michelangelo’s Pieta in the Duomo Museum. (There are two more pietas, one in Milan, the other in St. Peter’s Cathedral in the Vatican.) I also saw the street where stands the house of Dante Alighieri, who lived here during the 1200’s. (I had not known he had lived in Florence.)

After the ride, we stepped off the carriage and thanked each other, and then I decided to ask him about the flood. The conversation, translated into English, went something like this:

“How long have you lived in Florence?”

“Always.”

“Do you remember the flood of ‘66?”

“Yes. It was 4 November. Terrible. I will never forget.”

The second event occurred during the evening. Jennifer and I had visited the jewelry shops on Ponte Vecchio that afternoon, and found one we really liked, but was closed for siesta. We decided to come back.

Around six, after we had visited Piazzale Michelangelo, we did return, and the shop was open. After deciding what to purchase, I asked the sales clerk regarding the flood. (She was, I presumed, in her sixties.)

“Have you lived in Florence all your life.”

“Yes. Always. I was born here.”

“Do you remember the flood of ‘66?”

“Yes. It was 4 November. I will never forget.”

She then proceeded to indicate by placing here fore and middle fingers against a corner of the wall behind her to indicate water levels in various places.

“All of Florence was under water.”

“How long did it last?”

“Just one day, from four in the morning.”

She then said she had pictures, and went in the back to bring us a book published a year or so following the flood. It was filled with black-and-white pictures of the flood-stricken city. She was careful to point to all the landmarks, the piazzas disguised under tons of mud, entire trees that had been washed ashore. Even Ponte Vecchio, which had been washed over by the violent waters.

“Ponte Vecchio was strong, wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It was strong.”

Wednesday, November 8, 1995, Hotel Bellettini, Florence

Yesterday, Jennifer and I went to Pisa. The train ride each way lasted a little over an hour, and took us through much of rural Tuscany. We left a little before noon and returned after nightfall.

Pisa is a typical Tuscan town. It is not as picturesque as Florence, but it possesses its own unique qualities. Most of its streets are narrow and shaded, its patrons are friendly, and, like Florence, the Arno River divides the town into northern and southern halves.

The train station, Pisa Centrale, is south of the historic river, as are most of the important buildings. The first hotel I ever frequented in Pisa, Hotel la Pace, is near the train station. We passed it during our walk.

I will concentrate, however, on Pisa north of the river, for it is here her greatest treasures stand.

Upon Piazza del Duomo, bordered by the medieval walls which mark the old town’s limits, sit a baptistry, the town’s largest cathedral, and the eight-hundred-year-old leaning tower. Its tilt is not slight. In fact, it appears it could topple any moment. But still it stands, famous not for itself or its design, but for its crooked stance.

Almost as noteworthy as the tower are the numerous vendors who line the street along Piazza del Duomo, selling every souvenir imaginable. Here one can purchase miniature leaning towers, some made as lamps, inlaid wood works from Sorrento, postcards, shirts, ceramics, leather purses, jewelry, glass plates depicting the pope, lipstick holders, jewelry boxes, scarves, knives, books, and this is only a portion. In fact, the vendors attract as much (or more) attention as the monuments standing in the piazza. Such is the way of things, I suppose.

We purchased many goods here, including a leather purse for Jennifer, and an inlaid wood table from Sorrento. When the lid is opened, a music box inside plays “Torna a Surriento” (”Come Back to Sorrento”).

(Later)

Today we visited the Pitti Palace, the home of Florence’s greatest family, the de Medici, who rose to prominence during the 1400’s, just as the Renaissance was escalating. There are many adjectives one could use to describe the interior of this palace, extraordinary, ornate, bejeweled, pretentious, preposterous, gaudy.

One cannot imagine such a collection of so much fine art in so little space. For seemingly dozens of rooms this endless flood of works reaches. Not a square inch of wall or ceiling space seems to have been spared. Statues on marble tables, tapestries, paintings, murals, and gold ceiling designs. That a single family afforded themselves such luxury is unthinkable.

Friday, November 10, 1995, Hotel Bellettini, Florence

The Accademia di Belle Arte (Academy of Fine Arts) is just that. Of course, it houses one of the world’s greatest statues, Michelangelo’s David, but few realize what else is there.

Of the dozens of paintings, there is one most haunting image. The scene is Christ being taken from the cross, his ashen-faced mother present, her complexion decidedly more stricken than the others. The intent of the work is obvious, but compelling and dramatic nevertheless.

Aside from the wealth of Renaissance works done by such artists as Ghirlandaio and Boccaccio, there are a number of works dating to the thirteenth century. Indeed, some of the most underrated treasures here are these primitive paintings dating to the Middle Ages, some almost to the time of St. Francis of Assisi (the earliest dating to the mid-1200’s). The artwork is obviously inferior to paintings of the later Renaissance period, but their age, despite the simplicity, is worthy enough. Almost all works dating to this age are crucifixes. The colors are dark, the figures simple, though haunting. Many of these were donated by convents and monasteries.

It is interesting that of all the paintings exhibited, and there are more than one would think, more than ninety percent are religious, and I estimate at least one-third and possibly one-half of those deal in some way with the crucifixion. Although the museum is small (requiring less than an hour to tour), its contents represent a most staggering collection of works.

Also noteworthy, but largely unrecognized, are the six “unfinished” statues by Michelangelo which line the corridor leading to David. They appear at first as distractions and contradictions, for appearing before David, the embodiment of perfection, they are so utterly imperfect. And yet, after a second glance, they appear different. They are human forms permanently frozen in an apparent rise from their premature burials, casting away the earth in order to see again. They are marvelous stone monsters endeavoring to be free again, their partial outlines a mere hint of what their perfect forms might have been. Here they guard David. It is as if it were their duty.

Saturday, November 11, 1995, On the train to Venice

I must continue here with yesterday’s activities. Immediately after leaving the Academy of Fine Arts, Jennifer and I walked the short distance to Museo San Marco (St. Mark’s Museum). There we found many interesting things.

St. Mark’s is a truly underrated museum. It was not crowded in the least. Aside from the second floor monks’ cells, the large mural of The Last Supper on the lowest floor, and the interior courtyard, the museum contained two items I had not previously inspected.

The first was a library as large as that displayed in the Vatican Museum. Encased in glass were hymnals (for chants) which had obviously been copied by the careful hands of the very monks who lived here. I did not count the books, but I guess them to have numbered three or four dozen.

The second exhibit which confounded me was the crypt of Savonarola, the Dominican friar who lived here and was executed in 1498 in Piazza della Signoria for heresy. Here he is buried. Along either side of his tomb hang paintings depicting the execution, both of which I had seen in different books. They had both haunted me since. And here they hung before me.

St. Mark’s is indeed a haunting place. It’s upper floor is poorly lit, its cells so pious as to be intimidating. (The friar/artist Fra Angelico himself painted the murals, most of which depict some symbol of the crucifixion, which adorn the walls of each of the cells.) I crazily wondered if there are ghosts who roam those corridors.

(Later)

We passed out of Tuscany long ago and into Emilia-Romagna. We left the train station at Bologna several minutes ago, and are now some ninety minutes from Venice. Perhaps we will pass through the Marches before arriving in Veneto, but I am not sure.

I must recount an incident which occurred shortly after our arrival in Florence. One must realize that driving in Florence is a most difficult endeavor, for most of the side streets are narrow and allow only one-way traffic.

Our taxi driver, in driving us to our hotel, endured an exhausting and perplexing maze of one way avenues in order to access our street, and when arriving, he noticed the street where our hotel was located allowed only one-way traffic. It was the wrong way for him. To exhibit his frustration, he muttered a short phrase I did not understand, then proceeded to drive the short distance to our hotel in reverse.

Meanwhile, Jennifer and I discovered a restaurant I have not yet mentioned. It is Trattoria Palle d’Oro, and offer maccheroni al ragu, a dish of macaroni pasta and meat sauce that could be the best I’ve ever had. We enjoyed the dish for three consecutive days, twice for dinner and once for lunch. (They also serve very good caprese.)

Room forty-five at Hotel Bellettini is the only one on the top floor there. We spent our last four nights in Florence there after spending the first in room forty-one. From room forty-five we were offered an unhindered view of the domes of Santa Maria del Fiore and San Lorenzo. It was indeed majestic.

Sunday, November 12, 1995, Pensione Bucintoro, Venice

It is evening, and we have been in Venice two days now. The weather, especially today, has been overcast and foggy, but it seems perfect for Venice.

Time has flown by, and we have just one full day left here before we depart. It has been an eventful two days, and I have much to report.

Our first night, Jennifer and I enjoyed a vaporetto ride through the Venetian lagoon and along the Grand Canal. Upon our arrival in Venice, we had purchased three-day passes, allowing unlimited vaporetto usage. Tonight we took advantage.

We sat outside, near the bough of the vaporetto, facing starboard. We were barely under the protective roof, although this did little to help. It was indeed cold, although the experience was quite pleasurable.

Along the Grand Canal, we looked into any open windows we saw, amazed at the rich decor of some of these homes. In one home there seemed to be a fancy party.

We returned to the hotel shortly before bedtime, having been on the vaporetto the better part of an hour.

Meanwhile, yesterday, toward dusk, Jennifer and I took a gondola ride. It was an amusing adventure. I first approached a gondolier near Piazzetta San Marco (where they congregate) regarding the price of a ride. He informed me a ride would cost, depending on the itinerary, between Lit. 150,000 ($100) and Lit. 200,000 ($133). I knew one could get a ride for as little as Lit. 70,000 ($47), so I balked. As we departed, a second gondolier approached and offered his services for Lit. 120,000 ($80). It was still a bit much, and I told him so. The conversation transpired as follows.

“One hundred twenty thousand lire.”

“I don’t want to pay more than a hundred thousand.”

“This is a once in a lifetime experience. Why not pay the extra twenty thousand lire?”

“Because I don’t want to pay more than a hundred thousand lire.”

“But you don’t get to see anything for a hundred thousand. Why not pay the extra twenty thousand?”

“Because-”

“You are broke?”

“No, but-”

“You are on a budget?”

“Yes, we are on a budget, and don’t want to pay more than one hundred thousand.”

“I see.”

“Thanks anyway. Have a good evening.”

Immediately following our departure, he called us back and said he would take us for one hundred thousand. He didn’t act as though he would suffer. I’m sure he was glad to get the money.

The ride itself lasted forty-five or fifty minutes, and was a most pleasurable experience. We passed along a series of smaller canals, and were shown several important sights, including the home of Marco Polo, which dates to at least the thirteenth century.

One of those sites was somewhat sentimental to me, for we passed Hotel Alla Fava, where I had stayed during my previous trip to Venice, nearly six years ago.

Monday, November 13, 1995, Pensione Bucintoro, Venice

I wonder what it would be to live and work in Venice. For one who has lived here his entire life, I suppose everything would seem ordinary, but for a foreigner, the adjustments would be extraordinary.

Take, for instance, a shopkeeper. He lives along one of the lesser canals, perhaps five meters across. He lives in the lowest floor of a two or three-story building. Whenever he opens his front door, there is water flowing perhaps a foot below his doorstep (during normal tide). During high tide he could get his feet wet while standing in his vestibule. The front of his home, between his doorstep and the waterline during normal tide is stained green with algae, as is the bottom of his boat.

What happens when he needs to go to the market? He jumps in his boat and rides the canals to the nearest market, where he ties his boat, disembarks, buys whatever he needs, and drives his boat home.

What about going to work? Hopefully, he has a side door which leads to a “calle,” or street, some of which are so narrow that two persons cannot easily pass. From there he may walk to the nearest bus stop, from which he can take a bus to his shop. Only the buses aren’t really buses. The public transportation system in Venice consists of a somewhat complicated system of boats called “vaporetti” which carry passengers from point-to-point along the Grand Canal and major islands in the Venetian lagoon. What if he is carrying baggage? He must pay extra. In Venice, space is as precious as gold.

And how does this shopkeeper import goods into his store? By boat, of course. You see, there are no cars in Venice. No cars, trucks, mopeds, or motorcycles. Those vehicles one finds so common on the mainland are absent here. Only boats. Venice is more reliant on the sea than one might think. Sure, one can take the train from Venice, and one may actually drive here, too. But he must park his car at the outskirts and negotiate the canals as all Venetians do.

Indeed, I do wonder what it would be to live and work in Venice.

Tuesday, November 14, 1995, On the train to Rome

We will depart for Rome in an hour. It is a sad day, for our journey toward home has begun. We have eight full bags and no room to store anything else. At least we have several mementos and souvenirs to remind us of this trip.

I write as if we were about to leave for home. We still have two evenings and one full day (including an audience with the Pope) ahead of us in Rome. Jennifer is already craving McDonald’s, and I suppose I am, too. It has been a long, albeit eventful journey.

Jennifer and I explored a little of Venice the last two days. On Sunday, we were going to take a tour of the islands Murano, Burano, and Torcello, but it was an interminably foggy day. We instead stopped at Punta Sabbione, on the lido (beach) for pizza before returning to Venice.

We then took a short vaporetto ride to the island of San Giorgio (which was visible from our hotel window in room five). There we visited the cathedral, where, in a little side chapel, we viewed an awesome painting by Tintoretto of Christ being taken down from the Cross. Unfortunately, it was rather dark, the only light source being a coin-operated machine. A monk was sitting just outside the chapel selling a few items.

We also took an elevator ride to the top of the adjacent bell tower, Campanile di San Giorgio, from which, despite the fog, we had a splendid view of the Venetian lagoon. While there, someone tolled one of the bells and startled us all!

Yesterday, we went shopping and bought several souvenirs and other items to take home with us. We will probably never forget this trip, for there will be far too many reminders lying around our home. We will have many souvenirs, videotapes, pictures, and scrapbook items as well as these very words.

Well, this is our last train trip in Italy, less the abbreviated ride to the airport Thursday, and this is fortunate, for our baggage has become most burdensome. I will be relieved when the bulk of them are checked onto our plane!

We can’t wait to see Mamma Mia in Rome. I hope it is warmer there than when we arrived last Sunday. Otherwise, we shall have to ask for a blanket (coperto) again. C’e vediamo.

(Later)

We are traveling among the gentle hills of what is probably either The Marches or Emilia-Romagna, but I am unsure. We stopped in Mestre just after leaving Venice, and left Padova (Padua) a short while ago, taking on a number of passengers at each station (but more, I am sure, at Padova), although the train still seems a bit empty. We are now passing through the picturesque town of Monselice, but not stopping.

It is a mostly clear and lovely day, the best we have seen since our third day in Florence. The Apennines to the west are inviting, and the valley along which we now pass is flat and covered with houses that seem minuscule in comparison to the vast mountains behind them.

I had an interesting discussion with a sales lady in a shop near our hotel Sunday night. We purchased several items in her store, and we had a simple discussion regarding the brutal weather in Venice, hot and muggy during summer, cold and damp during winter. It is a pleasure to make conversation with Italians now that I can better manage the language, although my discussions thus far have been relatively short and simple in subject content.

We are now stopping in Rovigo, a town which does not seem as picturesque as the last, although I am confident there is a worthwhile history here as with most places. The small towns do interest me. Regardless of how small or seemingly unimportant, I am sure there is always something significant to learn from such places.

We shall be stopping in Bologna soon, probably within the half-hour, which means we must be in Emilia-Romagna by now. Bologna, the supposed gastronomic center of Italy, I have never visited, but have always wanted to. I have passed through it many times, although never actually disembarking. I have seen it only through train windows.

It is interesting how every small town has its own train station, whereas some of the largest cities in America do not support one. It makes one realize how completely reliant are the Italians on train travel.

We have just passed through Canaro as we head toward Bologna. It has turned out to be a lovely day indeed.

(Later)

The weather has changed dramatically, and seemingly within the span of a few minutes. The sky is now obscured by low, gray clouds, and a light rain has fallen. The train is now crawling along the track, and I wonder if we are now approaching Bologna.

I have been thinking much about St. Mark’s in Florence, for it is a museum which has haunted me since my first visit there more than six years ago. Now that I have seen it again, and in much greater detail, I am more intrigued.

Perhaps its greatest assets are not its enormous mural depicting The Last Supper, nor its numerous mosaics painted by Fra Angelico, nor even the two haunting paintings of Girolamo Savonarola being executed as a heretic in Piazza della Signoria.

No, its greatest assets must be the books preserved in its great library. One must only look at one page to realize what an enormous task was required to copy each book, for the manuscript is of such artistic quality that each page must have taken a day or more to engrave.

I envision a monk sitting in his dim, cold, damp cell with his pen and ink, copying (often by candlelight) the pages which today seem as bright in color as they must have then. Thus, with such slow, determined progress, it could have taken an individual a year or more to complete one volume of a few hundred pages, spending several hours a day, every day of the year performing this tedious task. How many such manuscripts still exist in Italy I have not even a general estimate, but each one represents a treasure comprising both historic content and human toil.

(Later)

We are nearly an hour south of Bologna, and have reached northern Tuscany, for the views are picturesque, the buildings a sea of orange. We are soon to be in Florence. The Apennines are no longer to our west, for we are now passing through them via a series of seemingly endless tunnels.

The sky is still gray, although the rain has at least temporarily ceased. Such is the weather during autumn here.

We are presently passing through the town of Vaiano, a town set in a narrow valley that is as Tuscan as the other villages through which we have passed.

Tuscany, I have always held, is best viewed under a gray sky, for the darkness seems to enhance the color of the landscape and architecture. Venice, meanwhile, is its most mysterious when buried under a blanket of fog, and Rome is seen best under bright sunshine.

It was interesting in crossing the Po River before reaching Bologna. It was wider than the Arno. Its waters were smooth and placid, more like a lake than a major river.

Meanwhile, we have just passed through Prato and are now definitely approaching Florence. The name of the town through which we just passed is something close to “Pratiglione,” and now we are in Il Neto. The suburbs are passing by in rapid succession and the scenery outside my window can only be that of Florence.

Wednesday, November 15, 1995, Hotel Romae, Rome

Well, Jennifer and I were blessed today (not actually). We attended a papal audience at Aula Paolo IV (Paul IV Auditorium), located beside St. Peter’s Cathedral. It was a moving sight, seeing the pontiff walk onto the stage adorned in his white robes. Although we were perhaps fifty meters away, it was an unmistakable and unforgettable sight.

The pope conducted an hour-long ceremony before, I estimated, some four thousand persons, and in five different languages (Italian, French, English, German, and Spanish).

We spent the day at the Vatican. Before attending the papal mass at eleven o’clock this morning, we spent some time in the Vatican Museum, where we viewed the Sistine Chapel. Of course, one must realize the enormity of the Vatican Museum, for if one were to view it with the time and diligence it commands and deserves, he would require most of a day. In the hour we spent at the museum, we weren’t able to view much more than the Sistine Chapel, but this highlight is always worth the ordeal of actually getting there.

And, of course, no tour of the Vatican would be final without a tour of St. Peter’s Cathedral, which we did last, walking through both the sanctuary and crypts of the popes beneath the sanctuary before departing our last sightseeing mission in Italy.

Well, Mamma Mia is not here, and we are lost without her. But we did enjoy our finest meal of all tonight at I Leoni d’Abruzzo just around the corner from the hotel.

Thursday, November 16, 1995, Stazione Termini, Rome

We are awaiting our train which will depart for the airport in about an hour.

Mamma Mia was at the hotel this morning, and as temperamental as we had remembered her.

We shall soon be on our way home. It seems we have been in Italy much longer than eleven days. It seems as though a month has passed, two weeks since we left Florence, yet it was only five days ago. I am sad to be leaving, yet excited in returning home. Perhaps the worst part of this journey is the massive luggage we must carry, but I suppose it has all been worth the effort.

I shall write more from the plane.

Arrivaderci Italia!

Thursday, November 16, 1995, On the airplane from Rome

Well, the long planned, greatly anticipated, short lived vacation in Italy is over, and what a journey it truly was. I must at last comment on the best of what we did.

The best city? Easy choice here, Florence.

The best restaurant? I Leoni d’Abruzzo, Rome.

The most memorable moment? Watching Pope John Paul II walk onto the stage at Aula Paolo IV in his flowing white robes amid the thunderous applause of some four thousand admirers.

The best museum? St. Mark’s, Florence.

The best church? As always, St. Peter’s Cathedral, Vatican City. St. Mark’s in Venice, which we viewed Monday, was more ornate, but because of its enormity, St. Peter’s cannot be matched.

The best countryside? Tuscany. If there is a lovelier place in this world, I would love to see it.

Other items of note. The gondola ride in Venice was most cherished. The carriage ride through central Florence was also a memorable experience. Walking through the Academy of Fine Arts in Florence was impressionable, as was our evening vaporetto ride through the Venetian lagoon and along the Grand Canal. The view from the Campanile di San Giorgio was unforgettable, as well as shopping along Ponte Vecchio in Florence.

The best hotel? Hotel Bellettini, Florence.

The best hotel room? Of course, room forty-five, the room with the view, Hotel Bellettini. I’d go back there again.

Restaurants & Hotels

Trattoria Palle D’Oro – Florence

Bellettini – Florence
Bucintoro – Venice
Romae – Rome