Tue 10 April 2001 (S. Terenzio), Paestum Tuesday

CONSPIRACIES AND THE PARANORMAL:   Hunter Thompson wrote that in Las Vegas, psychedelics are redundant. Similarly here in Neapolitan Campagnia, surrounded by images of priests with stigmata and haloes, of saints with burning eyes and hearts, of squirty-titted (sorry, I like that phrase) nymphs and madonnas, of sea-gods and tree-gods, and volcanic deities and fiery demons, and queens of corn and light, HERE are UFOs and ETs superfluous.

Conspiracy is another matter. Conspiracy abounds. Political groups, church factions, commercial cliques, outlaw bands, farm alliances, all conspire against each other and everyone else. The success of any such conspiracy is of course problematic. But the Church always wins, eventually. Or so it seems.

Ha, but spirits, spirits are everywhere. Some folks hereabouts leave water bottles on their front steps in order to frighten off evil spirits. Herbs and flowers and times and drawings are arranged to attract good spirits, repel the bad guys. Some fields and houses are haunted by unquiet ghosts. Witches work their will and sometimes make a liqueur, sold all over the country. Old magic soaks into every wall and walkway.

TOURING:   Today we toured Salerno and Paestum via the SAGA bus. Salerno — nothing to write home about, especially not for the modern sectors, although its Duomo is most impressive and its old shopping street (Via Merchanta) is quaint, with a couple nice points. But at the site of the 1943 Allied troop landing is now a large concrete dome, the UFO BAR!! First the Anglo-Americans land, then the ETs land — what IS it about this place?!?!? And just east of there was a Christian Carnival — numerous carny rides next to numerous JESUS IS THE ANSWER caravans & trailers. Strange spirits indeed abound here...

Paestum — the ancient Graeco-Roman city was devastated not by volcanic ash nor earthquakes nor storms, nor by conspiracies by humans nor by gods, but by malaria and a road bypass (the Appian Way went elsewhere). Fine site, huge temples, superb art, prodigious souvenirs. Paestum, the area around the Cilento peninsula beyond the mountains opposite, all call for further exploration. Hell, EVERYTHING here does.

(See my notes on Pompeii And Other Destroyed Cities)

THE TRUTH ABOUT LEMONS:   A question arose about the dangers of harvesting lemons from the groves perched on the near-vertical cliff faces of the Amalfi coast. Wouldn't a human lemon-plucker fall to certain death? The answer of course is that special small dogs are used, toothless old 'leapers' who are tossed into the trees with a rope tied to a hind leg, there to snatch the fruit in their sturdy gums and be hauled back in before they can plummet to destruction. The fruit is undamaged by such treatment; and the oral enzymes help soften the skin, which is used only to produce the renowned local LIMONCELLO liqueur. Many small gimpy toothless dogs may be seen stumbling around these coastal villages.

CLARIFICATION: Please note that in an earlier entry where I referred to (Italian) smokers as "atmospheric pigs", I didn't intend to malign Italians, merely to denigrate any culture that encourages fuming tobacco addiction. It ain't just Italians, it's ANY social structure that allows itself to be permeated with such stenches, such casual indifference to the effects upon the self and others, such... sleaziness. "Do you mind if I smoke?" "No, do you mind if I fart?"

Wed 11 April 2001 (S. Stanisloo), Ash Wednesday.

Yesterday was sunny. Today it rains. What'll we do now? We learn something of the logistics of boats to Capri, of fast buses to Naples, but nothing yet about car/moped rentals (except to try Avis in Salerno). We learn that the best local event today is the street market in Amalfi, so we're off.

AMALFI:   Inadequate socks and superb limoncello are purchased. Upper Amalfi is explored very slightly — much more to see here, stuff that isn't apparent from the tourist routes. Now the rain has slacked off. We venture into a highly recommended pizzeria for lunch — and are once again overcharged for food in Amalfi. That's two for three. We'll try once more, but if we again feel ripped-off here, we'll patronize nothing more complicated than PIZZA EXPRESS or similar takeout joints.

After the too-expensive lunch with wine and odd liqueurs (why make a sweet bay laurel infusion?) and as the sky seems drier, we head up the usual type of pathways to Pogérola, a hamlet high above here. The trek isn't past the usual lemon groves, but along steep hillsides bordering wild country. Green brush, colorful wildflowers, Amalfi slowly sinking below us, and the clouds gradually thickening again.

MONSOON:   The rains come. And lightning and thunder. And winds and torrential onslaughts. Two ascending English girls in shorts and raincoats have been adopted by a bright energetic local dog, sort of a bushy mini-Alsatian, who gleefully shakes his small but thick hairload of water against their bare legs repeatedly. Somewhere below the top of the climb they surrender and return below ("We don't want to get any wetter!" "Too late!"), accompanied by the same pooch (who thus turns out NOT to be a shill for a bar in the next village).

The climb isn't painful, but the windy wetness becomes bothersome. Zillions of stone steps, bearing us some 300+ metres skyward, with no cover but laurel and olive trees. Yow. But somehow we gain Pogérola.

POGÉROLA:   Our guidebook sez the COCKTAIL BAR on the main square serves excellent cappuccino and extra-bitter chocolate. And it probably does when there's power for the espresso machine. But during our ascent, the lights went out here, and down in Amalfi, and Minori, and elsewhere on the coast as we later learn. But nothing hot is available now.

Natále the proprietor hung up our coats, showed us the loo, brought us cognacs and barnuts, and told us why he's a nonbelieving Catholic. He was mostly translated by Helen (and a bit by Trön), Norwegian academics on sabbatical in Ferrara who're slumming on this coast for a few days, before spring break brings swarms of Italian schoolkids hither. Another Norwegian there said she's renting a house in Pogérola for L400k (US$200) per month. Wow. Some fine chatting, some more cognacs, some fine views from the belvedere, a gaggle of Dutch walkers invading the bar, and we chicken out and grab the next bus down the mountain. Yes, we'll be back, but on a sunnier day, and hopefully we won't have to go all the way back to Minori for hot coffee then, as we must today.

PADRE PIO:   I haven't much mentioned Padre Pio yet. Padre Pio is everywhere here, on posters, tiles, statuary, bronze plates, stencils, windows, walls, vehicles. The balding bearded mystic stares at you from every corner. The image count pecking-order around here is:

1. Virgin Mary, or Madonna and Child; but typically just Mary herself without the kid
2. Padre Pio, often just a head shot (sometimes with burning eyes), sometimes a full-body image (often with a burning heart)
3. coastal pictures
4. Jesus, most often either crucified or as an infant; sometimes kneeling and praying; least often just a head shot (usually haloed)
5. squirty-titted ("world-nourishing") or bread-with-eyeball-holding Madonna   (Woops, my mistake — that's Santa Lucia with eyeballs on a plate, not Santa Maria)
6. Michael Jackson
7. erotic antiquities

Padre Pio had stigmata, did distant manifestations and some miracles I don't know about, and otherwise... ??? I need to research his miracles and sanctification a bit. Or whatever. I know that he's widely regarded as a saint, a wonder-worker, a regular holy moly.

The sky clears, calms, quiets. The sky fills again. Thunder resumes. Goodnight.

Thur 12 April 2001 (Giovedi Santa), Maundy Thursday.

MUCKY THURSDAY:   Another semi-threatening day, weatherwise — the local / national TV forecast shows rain over much of Italy, thunderstorm's (like last night's boomers and hailers) over the south and Sicily. What to do? Grab raincoats, walk to Maiori to buy more shoes, then bus to Vietri sul Mare for more browsing, strolling, snapshooting, another good cheap lunch at LA LOCANDA, then bus back to Minori whilst the sky drips and drools. And what to do tomorrow if it's the same? Time here is running out, less than a week left, and so much more yet to see and do. We hope.

After dinner tonight, a surprise: a lay holy society, the Brotherhood of something-or-other (of whom our hotelier / "managing director" is a grand poobah or something) stops in front of the hotel to sing Gregorian chants, as these men and boys in white robes and hoods (ala KKK but preceding the Klan by some centuries) make their way in a procession amongst all the many churches in town. Then Sna. Sandra gives an animated and informative talk on the strange and wondrous history of Minor, once nearly the "Silicon Valley" of the Renaissance (an incredibly rich high-tech sector of the Amalfi Republic: paper-making and carpets and lemons reached Europe through Minori, and pasta was invented here) and how a later economic crash led to the development of this Brotherhood and its rituals.

MAUNDY THURSDAY:   Then Sandra hikes us down to the Basilica so we can see the fabulous layout inside (that's a huge COLORED SAWDUST crucifixion painting on the floor there, surrounded by growing greens and corn/floral displays provided by the same families generation after generation) and to see and hear the Brotherhood finishing tonight's musical cross-bearing march here.

Many townsfolk are gathered here, talking and laughing or just moving silently; many others are pointedly absent, attending to other matters elsewhere. The Brotherhood will stage two more processions tomorrow (Good Friday), one early, one late, with different chants, different vocal ranges for each. All the streetlights will be turned off tomorrow night, replaced by red candles. Will we have to walk down from Ravello in the dark?

Technology intrudes: locals videotape the proceedings, one robed and hooded member holds a cassette recorder over the singers, another keeps a cellphone under his hoot. Official priests supposedly don't direct the happenings in these lay activities. Orders are just cellphoned amongst the elders as needed. Ancient modernism.

More random observations:
• In the US, the honking of auto horns is usually an expletive: "Get out of my way, fockhead!"; here in Italy it's much more complex, a discourse: a two-tone warning from buses, blips from smaller vehicles saying "here I am" or "I will pass" or "I have passed", and only the occasional cursing blare at an inept clueless s
• The ancient coastal warning towers serve quite well as waypoints marking regular distances.
• The coast abounds with local packaged goods that are only available where they're produced.
• There are now fruit vendors at every widening of the corniche.
• A wide range of Pasqua (Easter) candies and breads and floral decorations are being sold and carried about, and their composition and complexion changes daily.
• One early-morning TV station features an infomercial of naked women with a phone number and web address.
• Minori's town chorus of cats in heat this Holy Week is deafening.

TIPS FOR TRAVELERS:   Pollen and dust and tobacco smoke abound here, and ephedrine / sudafed requires a prescription, so bring plenty of decongestants. Avoid smelly cheese and other foods than can cause drizzlyshits. Cobblestone walkways require spring-soled footwear. Carefully note and track the prices of foods you've ordered in eateries. You can never have enough maps or underwear. If you do laundry nightly in a sink, you'll find that shampoo and handsoap will NOT adequately clean your travel clothes — buy some Woolite or other soap for 'delicate' fabrics. And see my TIPS ON TRAVEL CLOTHES. Or else.

Fri 13 April 2001 (Venerdi Santo), Good Friday (so-called).

Sna. Sandra assured us last night that the choruses of horny cats here relate to springtime, not to Easter per se. But tonight I hear more of them.

SCALA-RAVELLO:   Anyway, we bussed up to Scala today for our Ravello stroll, weather be damned. Icy winds whipped through Scala (yet we missed the large bouncing hail that beset Capri yesterday) and I tore a hole in my nice GoreTex coat on a nail in a detour tunnel — crews in Scala are rebuilding the place. A fascinating ancient crypt in the massive Scala Duomo, too much of the town too uphill to explore in this sub-Arctic gale, so we tramped over to Ravello.

Doing Ravello crypts: The first church crypt (S. Maria a Gradillo) houses an antique sale (nice stuff); its small nave upstairs is being redone, now mostly whitewashed but with clear flooring to display the ancient rock paving. We walk over to Duomo Plaza, buy needed maps, then revisit the exquisite cathedral without being beset by crowds and tour guides, and descend into its austere crypt to see the fine museum of Ravello's religious architectural / decorative artifacts. We trek to a few belvederes on weary feet, then return to the plaza for pizza and calzone and beer and sweets and cappuccino (in that order).

The English girls I documented on an earlier page came by whilst we finished our caffeine, told us how they remanded that enthusiastic dog to police custody to save it from traffic. We wave goodbye and head out for Villa Cimbrone, the Disneyland of the Amalfi Coast (actually more like Golden Gate Park with gothic towers and fewer people) that at least has a splendid view from its bust-beset belvedere. Pictures are snapped.

TORELLO-MINORI:   We then stroll on painful feet down magickal walkways from Cimbrone, below Villa Rufolo and Ravello, through Torello to Minori. Cats are everywhere; a Husky dog peers down from an overhead aperture in a building our pathway tunnels through, barks once, then his mistresses' face appears and laughs loudly, calling down to us; yippers and nippers bark from rooftops and behind fences; various folks met on the trail return our BONA SERAs and some inquire about out route. We peer into old churches traversed by our track, lay back to stretch our legs and relieve our feet in at least one church plaza, take suckle from several pathside water taps, pass under numerous lemon and olive orchards, and at last arrive at the Minori cemetery. Now-familiar names are there, and grieving faces. We finally return to our hotel for painkillers. We heard the singing processional pass by this morning, and another is scheduled for later tonight — will we have the strength to witness it?