LUCCA, ROME AND THE AMALFI COAST

LEAVING LUCCA, THE HARD WAY

Ready to leave Lucca, we arose early so we could clean, pack and be at our Internet store to use up the remaining hour we had purchased as a package for 18 Euros for five hours, or $4.60 per hour.

We were to meet Debra at Duccio’s medieval garage to collect my father’s passport from 1928, which I had inadvertently left in the trunk of our car in Washington but which was mailed to us by Kathy’s cousin who lives there and was kind enough to arrange long term parking for us. This kind gesture alone, we figured, saved us more than $300.

After the morning activities, we headed to the Autostrada, which we thought would present no problems – but we were wrong. After filling up the tank of our Fiat Panda – which came to 33 Euros – we squeezed into the pile of cars that were going nowhere. No sooner did I ask Kathy if I should be the first to start honking my horn in protest that others beat me to the punch.
With only enough room to squeeze by a big truck that had not moved in quite a while, cars, including ours, drove to daylight to escape the unanticipated gridlock that might have added another hour to our trip. Trying to find where we were so we could have a fighting chance of escaping to the Autostrada and to Rome, we nearly found ourselves back in the mess but Lucca luck helped us achieve our goal of escaping the small town we had become so fond of over the last week.

At the Internet shop, I had downloaded and printed [for another 0.45 Euros] Michelin driving directions. Carrying the false sense of knowing where we were going, we left Lucca and merely went our way to Florence, where we curved to the south and Rome, the destination for today.

ROME, THE INFERNAL CITY

All roads lead to Rome it is said, but once in Rome, those roads turn into a jumbled bowl of asphalt spaghetti. You would think that the world’s largest church, Saint Peter’s Basilica, and the Vatican, a sovereign entity unto itself, would have signs leading Christian pilgrims, worshippers and tourists like us to it.

You would be wrong. In Italy as it in the states, crucial road signs are located at the very point of route bifurcation, forcing you to make a driving decision that, for better or worse, you have to live with.

Once in Rome itself, we saw only two tiny signs that read “S. Pietro” [and one of them was so dirty as to be virtually unreadable]. Nearing the end of a three and one-half hour quick and smooth ride through the south of Tuscany and through Umbria, the Italian state north of Lazio, home to Rome, that reminded me of parts of Pennsylvania with its rolling hills, our odyssey to find Domus Anna, our lodging for the next two days, started.

The pagan gods of confusion may have had their way with us at first, but surely Athena, the goddess of wisdom and the hunt, came to our rescue in late afternoon. Catching a fleeting glimpse of the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica, we tried to head for it, letting the flow of traffic take us to it. Not only did our driving directions fail us, but our map of Rome was of little help as well because the back streets were not listed, turning our late afternoon into a treasure hunt for lost gold.

Having come this far, we were determined to find our room, and that we did. Giordano, our host, was waiting for us. After introductions and a tour of which key unlocked which doors, the inevitable question of where to park the car arose. As I noted in earlier posts, parking a car in Italy can be a real headache and paying to eliminate that headache can be costly.

Giordano said he could help. As Kathy settled into our street front room and rested, Giordano and me took off to find a parking spot. Spots along the street within blue-lined squares can cost as much as 24 Euros a day [one Euro per hour]. Giordano had two other options. The first one was to park it in the nearby bus terminal, which only costs three Euros per day. Cost is offset by having to purchase a new ticket each morning between 6-7 am, which I was prepared to but didn’t want to if I didn’t have to.

The second option was to cruise another park of a nearby boulevard where blue lines were not painted and cars could park free. Like two teenage boys cruising the miracle mile for girls, me and Giordano, a young man in his 20s whose English was much better than my Italian, cruised the congested roadway for a sliver of a space the Fiat would fit into. Headed toward the bus station as my consolation prize, I spotted the only space and immediately darted into it.
If the car is still there tomorrow, finding the space will have saved us upwards of 60 Euros, a sign the parking gods are smiling on us.

SAINT PETER’S BASILICA (GOD’S CITY HALL)

With the car parked and our luggage stowed in our two room digs [our double bed, satellite TV, in-room frig and en-suite bathroom with shower, toilet and vanity], we headed off to see the Cathedral, as the sun was low in the west.

Our lodging is five minutes walk from the Vatican Museums, which lead through a cornucopia of histories halls and loges that eventually disgorge visitors into the Sistine Chapel, made famous for its ceiling and wall paintings by Michelangelo.

When I visited St. Peters in 1999, the front façade was covered with scaffolding as workers performed a facial facelift of sorts in preparation for the year 2000, a Jubilee year that reportedly attracted 60 million visitors. The façade today was unobstructed. Proceeding through a small security check, and wearing proper attire [no shorts or sleeve-less shirts], we walked into the unrivaled magnificence of the structure.

To the right, as one enters the gates and giant doors, sits Michelangelo’s “Pieta,” one of the most important sculptures in history. It sits in an alcove and is distant from onlookers but even from a distance, it demands awe and reverence for the skill of the artist to take marble and shape it so delicately that it looks as though real people had suddenly been converted to stone.
At the far end of the nave, past the four famous Columns of Bernini, high above it all, sits the Pope’s chair, a wonder of creation and artistry. Kathy observed that for devout Roman Catholics, the basilica is tantamount to God’s City Hall and the Pope, his vicar on earth, reigns supreme.

At seven o’clock, a bell rang signaling the closing of the cathedral. We exited through the front where we had entered and not having had much to eat that day, we walked until we found a lovely corner eatery. For 12 Euros, I had a three-course meal of cannelloni, salad, fried potatoes and roasted chicken. Kathy ordered pasts and seafood, which she chased with a tasty swirl of chocolate desert. With one-half litre of wine, the tab came to 32.5 Euros. On our way home, I indulged in more gelato, noce and tiramisu this time.

FINDING FAITI AT THE VATICAN MUSEUMS

We were on the road early to beat the long lines that always lead to the Vatican Museums, where history is on display from ancient times to the present. The line was only a quarter mile long, not bad considering the time of the morning. Notwithstanding being at the end, it took us only 20 minutes until we reached the entrance. God does not accept credit cards, choosing to deal in cash. We were smart to have made a cash-machine pitstop before entering the line.

Once inside, we followed the hordes of others who followed signs through the hallways and apartments to the Sistine Chapel, the real destination for tourists. The absolute sheer quantity of art objects, from sculptures to paintings to tapestry to unique items of either religious or historic iconography are on display as rivers of people passed before them.

In the Maps Gallery, in what seemed like a football-length corridor that had hand-painted giant frescoes of incredible accuracy of maps of Italy's east coast on one side and its west coast on the other [the center of the floor represented the mountains that run from the country's north to south], I gazed at the map of Puglia, the state where my parent's hometowns are located.

The map of Puglia, according to a guard on duty who checked with a fellow worker, was painted in the middle 15th century, decades before Columbus discovered the new world. While I have had a devil of a time finding my mother's hometown of Faeto on any map, except for the very detailed driving map we recently purchased, there it was on the Vatican map -- Faiti! It was pictured with its hometown structures as well. What a find for me; one that brought great happiness to me as I realized its age and obvious significance sufficient to be included in work done for a Pope.

HISTORIC SITES ABOUND, AS DO PEOPLE AND EATERIES

The Sistine Chapel, darkened to protect the restored ceiling by Michaelangelo, was built to the same dimensions as Solomon's Temple to show the relationship between the old Jewish religion and the new religion of Christianity. Several thousand people, like tourists packed in cans, stood as silent as possible, gazing upwards at the magnificent 33 paintings that told stories of Jesus and Moses. The guards kept yelling "no foto" and emplored the stuffy masses to "be quiet." Most pilgrims complied, but there are always a few in the crowd -- like me -- that push the envelope. I went to furthest corner of the Chapel and aimed my flashless camera skyward and snapped two shots. Forgive me Lord, but I'm just a humble tourist who paid 12 Euros to see for myself what earthy artists have done in your name.

Out on the streets of Rome again, we took the metro [4 Euros each for an all day pass] to the Trevi Fountain. Even though it was only Wednesday, the watery site was packed with throngs of tourists like us. Plus being midday, Italians dressed in suits and high heels were our for lunch. Every street in Rome is an adventure, it seems, and the way from Trevi to Plaza Novanna past the Pantheon was brimming with scores of fabulous eateries, each with its own special style and offerings.

Even though guidebooks tell you that the eateries at the sites themselves are priced for tourists, we had been on our feet all day and plopped down in the center of Plaza Novanna, where we had one-half litre of wine and an order of spaghetti con pomadore and basil and great crusty bread -- the bill was 15 Euros and allowed us to watch the Africans who were selling lady's hand bags, artists painting pictures and arits either singing for their supper or mimicking famous statutes and celebrities like Charlie Chaplin [what American kid knows who he is?].

The Pantheon, built by Romans before there was an Anno Domani, is cool and quiet and is lit only by the sunlight that shines through the Ocular, the hole at its top. Buried here are Popes and the body of Raphael, one artist who like Michaelangelo spent a lot of time painting the walls and ceilings in the Vatican.

The day was crystal clear and felt like we were in San Diego. The Coliseum stood magnificently at the entrance to the Palantine, the Roman Forum, where we walked along the broad stones laid centures before and looked through the brick building that was home to the Roman Senate.

The fountains of Rome, like Trevi and others, are renowned for their sculpture and mythological themes. But the real fountains of Rome are the public water spiguets that are scattered across it and from which flow cool refreshing water that has likely saved many a thirty travel like us.

THE AMALFI COAST, WHEN TOUR BUSES ATTACK

Exiting Rome on June 2, a national holiday to honor Italians lost in World War II, we hoped traffic would be lighter and our trip to our next stop along the Amalfi Coast would be speedy and spectacular.

The night before leaving Domas Anna, the surprisingly pleasant, comfortable and conveniently located bed and breakfast I found through chance on Romeby.com, Kathy and I had a wonderful free-ranging conversation about philosophy, world and American politics, religion and the sites of Rome with a California couple who occupied one of the establishment’s modest rooms. Conversations like this one, which we find increasingly difficult to have these days in America because of the pitiful polemics of partisan politics that are conducted through talking points that allow no room for accommodation of different viewpoints, brought back fond memories of our college days, when the goal was to become enlightened of other’s opinions.

Because of the Italian national holiday, most stores closed. As a result, traffic was less hectic than normal, which allowed to easily find our way to the Autostrada and head south to Naples, where we would take local routes to the underbelly of the Sorrento peninsula, home to the spectacularly beautiful hillsides along the Amalfi Coast, home to the Hotel Margherita.

We stopped at an Autogrill along the way where we had a muffin and two cappuccinos [3.70 Euros]. Procedure: find the inside cashier, pay for what you want, take your ticket to the proper station, give it to the county worker and wait for you order to be given to you. Italians tend to bunch up, despoiling American’s notion of “a line.” You may think you are next, but whomever wedges into the cashier first will be next, much like how cars move from place to place in Italy. Cutting someone off in Italy is not a rude affront as it would be in America but merely a tactical maneuver to be proud of.

With the seaport of Naples to our right as we drove diagonally south from Rome, we saw the now still but once devastating mountain that made the Roman city of Pompeii famous. For volcano virgins, Mt Vesusius, located only about 12 miles from downtown Naples, sits quietly today. Volcanologists are watching for signs of activity and know one day another eruption, like the one that devastated Pompeii and froze the Roman residents in their positions for time immemorial, will again belch out a spew of devastating killer gases and lava flows that will sweep Naples into the nearby sea.

Trying to follow the route numbers listed on our Michelin driving directions, we saw a sign with the right name on it but no corresponding route number. Driving on to Salerno, an eastern point of the dramatic seascape highway that winds westward around the tip of the peninsula to Sorrento on the north coast, we had no clue what missing that route number would mean to us in time.

We were excited to finally turn onto the two lane road of the Amalfi Coast and with Praiano only about 18 miles away, we were already thinking about dinner and strolling through town to find gelato.

As we came to our first town, it reminded us of the seascape along Cinque Terra. Looking up at the sprinkling of small homes on the vertical terraces of the hill side full of lemon tree arbors, olive trees and vineyards, we anticipated two days of relaxation and reconnoitering and hoped the dark skies and rain blowing over us would make way for sunshine again tomorrow.

When we encountered the first tour bus laden with passengers on the narrow two-lane road, we thought it amusing that such a motorized behemoth could make it around the turns. When the second one followed close behind, we surmised there might be more. When we came upon a line of stopped traffic and saw ahead of us that another bus was trying to negotiate a tight turn, our thoughts of dinner turned t sour as we wondered what lay ahead for us.

It had taken us three and one-half hours with two stops along the way to drive from Rome to Salerno. After starting and stopping, which included long bouts of turning off the car to conserve our petrol so we wouldn’t add to the gridlock by running out of gas, it took us nearly as much time to drive the short distance to Praiano. Even scooters and motorcyclists were forced to wait because there wasn’t even space for them to zip between the cars and tour buses that were deadlocked along the way.

At one point while sitting motionless in one of the larger towns, Amalfi, Kathy spotted an ATM, got out of the car and returned minutes later with 150 Euros without fear being left behind because no one was going any where. With our gas gauge now hovering at the quarter tank level, we stopped at what must surely be the only petrol station along the coast. No quibbling with the litre price of 1.40 Euros, we invested 20 of our new Euros and bought gas. If we didn’t make it to the Hotel Margarita, at least we could buy a loaf of bread and sleep in the car knowing we had enough “benzine” to make it out again.

The vehicle voodoo was finally broken after the driver of one SITA bus [Italian intercity transportation] was on the road in the rain asking a dozen or more cars to back up enough so he could make the turn around of him. Seizing the moment, I followed a string of cars that broke through to open road on the other side of the traffic jam. If this was an example of normal traffic on the road, our excitement of taking a day trip out of the area tomorrow took a nosedive.

With no available road options to extricate us from the three-hour penalty for missing a critical turn earlier, we persevered, eventually finding our lodging.

DOWN TO THE SEA BY STEPS

The sunny day that greeted us in Praiano was very welcomed, considering how rainy it was yesterday. Walking onto our patio, shaded by a pergola of lemon trees, I could see clearly the mountain range across the bay from Praiano and the locus of stucco white structures that are nestled up and down the vertical hillsides along the Amalfi Coast.

The breakfast spread at Hotel Margherita is quite good. It consists of two kinds of cereal, coffee with hot and cold milk, croissants, slices of brioche, mini rolls, an assortment of tiny packaged marmalades and jams, including a chocolate spread that I used on bread and in my coffee; yogurt, WASA crackers and mini brownies, sliced fresh fruit and a cheese log guests can cut their own slices from.

Not wanting to gamble on reentering the traffic conditions that delayed us yesterday, we opted instead to keep the car parked in space provided by the hotel and explore the town on foot. Kathy wanted to walk to the top of it while I wanted to head down to the sea.

I last saw her going up narrow vertical steps. I proceeded down the one-way paved road that leads past our hotel until I came to the main road through town. From there, I found my first set of stone steps downward. On several occasions I ventured down narrow stairwells only to find that they were actually private steps leading either to a residence.

I asked one woman climbing up the direction to the beach, or strand as it is called here, and after pointing in the direction to take, she made it clear that there were “molto gradi” in case I was in doubt as to its difficulty.

She was right. There were many steps that lead past little Gardens of Eden full of tomato plants, flowering zucchini, orange, lemon and fig trees protected by metal fencing and old wooden gates, some of which were made of nothing more than small tree branches tied together.

The sea was not angry today. The deep blue of the water, colored coordinated perfectly with the blue of the sky, made the white stucco structures with their terra cotta tiled roofs of Positano, the next beautiful city down the road about three miles, sparkle with a romantic allure.

My plantar fasciitus, a pain of my heel I inflicted on myself six months ago when I stepped in a divot running sprints up and down a local football field, is nearly back to normal. This is good because each day we are walking for many hours. This was a consideration as we planned for the trip but doing my exercises rehabilitated it and my wheels are rolling normally again.

Returning to our room hot and sweaty from the climb down and the climb back up again, I decided to do a batch of laundry. Travler tip: the bidet, which is present in nearly every bathroom I have seen so far, makes a perfect laundry bowl as it holds more water than the sink and allows you to hand-wash your clothes with vigor.

The good news about not having an ocean view at the hotel is that our patio affords us privacy and gives me more trees and structures to which I can attach a bungee clothes line I discovered by chance in the patio. Scouting around the new HVAC equipment close to us, I also found a length of wire seemingly left by workers and used it as my second line. I had my mini laundry operation figured out and with a shinning sun available to me, I wasted no time in washing, wringing dry and hanging out to dry shirts, pants, socks and under garments that I positioned on my lines in sunny, breezy places [for a chuckle on this topic, read HUNG OUT TO DRY IN LUCCA].