Italy--Day Four. Sunday August 29

We stayed at this hotel in Paestum. I really came to appreciate the place, especially after walking up and down the beach one day and comparing what was going on there to what wasn't going on at our beach.

The view to the north from our balcony. Barely visible in the haze: the famed Amalfi Coast.

Balcony view to the east.

Balcony view approximately south, toward Agropoli.

The surf, while not really heavy, was heavier than B remembered it last year. It made a great sound but because there were no rocks to crash against, the water instead made a kind of whooshing sound, like a constant wind blowing through a grove of trees. We left the balcony door open and fell asleep to the sound of the waves, which were only about 150 meters away.

Sunday, we went out to the beach to enjoy the water. Each room has a table assigned to it. There are a couple of lounge chairs there, and an umbrella for shade. The beach is reserved for guests of the hotel but there's no fence separating it from the beach to either side, so vendors walked through on their way to wherever they were going, and back again in the evening.

These vendors were African or Indian / Pakistani, and they carried their wares with them...trinkets of various kinds, sunglasses, stuff like that. They didn't stop on our beach or try to make sales as they passed through. They seemed to understand it would lead to trouble. This region is controlled by the Camorra and I often wondered if the hotel is at least partially Camorra-owned. Also, after reading about the Camorra's dumping and burning of toxic waste, I wonder about the damned water we were swimming in...but it seemed fine, and felt fine.

I like the water, and I enjoy a dip in a lake or pond or ocean once in a while, but for whatever reason I never really saw "the beach" as some kind of paradise I absolutely had to experience. Unlike B, who ought to have been born in Hawaii or some other place where people spend as much time in the water as they do on land. Still, I went in the water four times Sunday, enjoying the feeling of the (not big) waves as they pushed me around, and getting a feel for the currents.

I noticed that if I stood south of a certain spot, each incoming wave gently pushed me slowly south. But if I stood north of that spot, I could stand there all day long without difficulty.

This really wasn't a young person's beach. The guests were at least 40, with most older than that. There were a few people in their 30s with young children. B told me beaches differ---for instance, if our hotel was catering to young people, they'd have some kind of club and there'd be music blaring all the time, and it'd be noisy as hell at night (and the rest of the time.) The quiet was fine with me.

About 1 PM I went for a walk. The hotel is not really near the town proper; you're in a kind of rural area. Walking along, I was sad to see all the litter on the side of the road. It reminded me of America in the 60s before the highway "beautification" programs started. Italy is a beautiful place and the Italians I met were very nice, but there seems to be a kind of Jethro-like disregard for tossing trash. I never actually saw anyone do this, but somebody must have been, judging from the sheer amount of it.

The area reminded me of Southern Arizona...small mountains in the distance, a dry climate, and a bit dusty---though certainly not as hot as Arizona. I'd say it was probably in the high 80s, low 90s. Most of the houses were modest and not really kept in pristine condition. There were a few exceptions, but for the most part the real estate was nothing remarkable.

Walking back along the same road where the Ferrari had passed us the day before, another Ferrari convertible came roaring up behind me. It turned and blasted off down the side road. About ten seconds later, here came another exoticar--I didn't catch the make, but it also turned down that road and screamed off. Days later I walked down that road and didn't find it suitable for extended high speed driving...after a couple of miles, it got rough. But for some reason these guys liked to drive their Ferraris there.

Came back and took a nap to the sound of the whooshing surf. About 3:30, B's parents and sister arrived---they'd flown into Rome and rented a car. They told tales of madness at the Rome airport----they also waited for an hour for their luggage, had trouble at the car rental desk, and had to cope with broken elevators while schlepping their luggage up and down stairs in that giant airport. Not easy for two people in their 80s, who are also watching out for their sight-impaired daughter.

But they made it, and that began a week together. I really like B's family---they've always been very nice to me, and it was good to have a chance to be together with them every day, sharing meals and talking and visiting different places along the coast. 

More on that in the next post.

 Sun, sky, sea.

Italy--Day Three. Saturday August 28

Saturday morning we had a few more hours in Rome before our train to Paestum, so we did a little walkabout.

 One of the courtyards of Via Margutta, the quiet street where we stayed in Rome.

One of the friendly cats I met in Italy.

Not far from our hotel was the Villa Borghese gardens, one of several large parks for which Rome is known. Green space like this is really nice in hot countries, and there were a lot of people enjoying the shade, the view overlooking the city, cycling, etc.

 A view of Piazza del Popolo from a staircase to the Villa Borghese.

Stylin' Italian cops in the park.

Yes, Mod, there is a Hertz. Even in the home country.

Nice little lake in the Villa Borghese.

As long as you don't lean back, this is a nice setting.

The National Gallery of Modern Art.

After a couple of hours, we walked back to the hotel, grabbed our bags, and caught a cab to the big train station. There we caught our train to Agropoli, and our adventures with southern Italian train travel began in earnest.

------

Italy has only been a country for about 150 years. Prior to that, what we think of as "Italy" consisted of a bunch of city-states. According to Italian colleagues of B's (and B herself, who's visited often), there's a big difference between northern Italy (essentially, Rome and points north) and southern Italy (everything south of Rome.) The north had a bunch of these powerful and influential city-states, whereas the south was largely rural.

A few differences: things kind of function better in the north---uh, like the trains. To compensate for this, however, the people of the south are quite friendly and flexible---Oklahoma-courteous when driving and helping strangers, etc. More relaxed.

We sat in a compartment. Six seats, three on a side, facing each other. A big window and a glass door, so you could look through the door to the window on the other side if you wanted. Along with B and I, there was a rather chunky and saucy Italian woman, her bespectacled Italian male friend, and a quiet French couple in their very early 20s. A fun group, as it later turned out.

As we rolled along, eventually the ice was broken and conversation began. People offered to share their snacks. The Italian woman continually fanned herself with a pamphlet, even though the compartment was air-conditioned. (Note about European AC---it is never ice cold like in the States. Thankfully.) She rolled her eyes and gave the universal "WTF?" gesture and smiled a lot, and laughed when I got startled when another train going the other direction suddenly roared past, just a few feet outside my window seat.

B speaks passable Italian and good French and perfect English, so she sometimes served as interpreter for me and the French couple when the friendly Italian woman made some spirited comment. The Italian guy spoke a little English so we talked about different things, like what kind of cheese we ought to buy when we got to Paestum, etc.

After a while, the train slowed down and stopped at Monte San Biagio. A normal stop---we thought. But a guy came on the intercom and announced a delay---there was a stalled train on the track ahead and we had to wait until it was cleared. Everyone muttered their version of "WTF?" and the Italian woman rolled her eyes and shrugged.

The delay ended up being 90 minutes (!). People got out and stood on the platform smoking and jabbering among themselves. Some people used their cell phones, holding the phone with one hand while gesturing in the Italian way with the other hand. (I pity any Italian with only one arm, unless they can figure a way to wedge their phone between their ear and shoulder. Or maybe they compensate by waving one of their feet for emphasis.) 

Oddly, with all this gesturing, I never saw an Italian accidentally whack another person with his "gesture-hand," even in a crowd. They are true experts. I'd love to see the Italian version of sign language for the deaf----I bet their hands move like a coked-up epileptic octopus.

They announced the train was ready to roll. There was much sing-songing Italian expressions of "Finally!" Everyone scrambled back onto the train.

The Italian woman thought the situation was crazy, so she taught me the Italian word for it--pazzo. I in turn pulled out my Italian-English dictionary, which actually has the word "bullshit" in it, and showed her the word. "This is an important English word to know," I said. Her companion already knew it. "Yes, a-BULL shit!" he said.

The woman tried it: "BOOL-a sheet!"

"No, BULL shit," I said.

"Theeese is a-BOOOOOOOOOL shit!" she said.

"Close enough."

She also told us something interesting: we were entitled to a 25% refund on our ticket because of the delay. B asked her what to say to the ticket agent, so the lady wrote it down for us on one of the 3 X 5 cards I carry.

The train stopped in Naples and the French kids got off. In their place, another couple: an American guy attending the London School of Economics to be an investment banker (gulp!) and his Russian girlfriend, who spoke very good English. She was an architect and came from an area near Chechnya, a very dangerous area, she said. She didn't visit there because of danger of kidnapping and suggested we not do so, either. OK, I won't.

The American guy was very friendly and enthusiastic. Ready to light the world on fire. His mother was Italian and he'd visited many times before but this time he was bringing his girlfriend. The grandparents still live in Italy so there was a big family gathering. Mick Jagger briefly attended the London School of Economics before dropping out to start a band whose name I forget, and this American guy was personable, so I didn't try to launch into anything hateful about his profession. But we did talk about big money people a bit. 

I said: "I don't understand billionaires. If I had a billion dollars, I wouldn't give a shit if they taxed me 50% on it immediately and took $20 million more a year for the rest of my life. I'd never run out of money. Instead, these guys, if they have a billion, the next goal is to get two billion. WTF?"

"Ah, for these guys it's just a game. If you really love what you do, it's just kind of fun. But I see what you're saying. Me, I think I'll stay in long enough to pile up $3 million or so, then get out and enjoy life."

"I hope they let you," I said. "Watch out for the 80 hour weeks and the expectations of social conformity. You might end up blowing all your salary just trying to keep up with the Joneses. Vicious cycle."

He said: "C'mon, wouldn't you like to have a million dollars?"

"Depends on what I have to do to get it. A million minutes is about 694 days, give or take. How do I know I've got that much time left? But if I knew I had that much time left, would it be worth earning a dollar a minute, every waking minute, 24-7-365? Trading the time for the money? I can always get more money, but nobody gets more time."

I don't think he was convinced, but I'm about 25 years closer to the grave than he is. Different strokes.

We got to Agropoli. Our stop. Everyone wished everyone else a pleasant voyage.

There was a guy waiting there for us, arranged by our hotel, to drive us the 7 kilometers to Paestum, where our hotel was. Nice guy. Nice drive. On the way, we were passed by a Ferrari convertible. Those cars make a nice growl.

I wonder if the young American investment banker-to-be will buy himself a fleet of them someday.