Amalfi, my love

I arrived in the Rome airport to a bit of culture shock. I stopped to buy a snack and asked the girl at the cash register if she spoke English to which she unapologetically and incredulously replied, “No, no! No English.” as if I should be embarrassed for asking. Not that I think she should be apologetic or should speak English but whereas in Finland people are embarrassed when they are unable to speak with me in English, Italians don’t seem to understand any reasons why on earth they would when, after all, Italy is the (their) center of the universe. I have to say that I already loved Italy from my first visit many years ago and after just having spent another few short days there I might actually vote for it to become the official center of the universe.

The Italians have a lot to be proud of….there’s the sheer beauty of the country from the mountain towns in the north to the coastal gems of Cinque Terre and the Amalfi shoreline in the west to the unparalleled cities of Venice, Florence, and Rome (not to mention the islands). There’s the amazing food be it delectable handmade al dente pasta with fresh eggplant and tomato sauce to stracciatella gelato (my favorite) to exquisite magherita pizzas, perfection in their simplicity (who knew that pizza could be exquisite?), The people are friendly, and generous. The landscape is breathtaking. The history is captivating. The art and architecture is overwhelming. The culture is, all in all, just enchanting. You might say that I am a fan of Italy. Thursday, May 13th, was a national holiday in Finland (Ascension Day) and I decided to take Friday off as well to maximize the travel opportunities. Where better to spend it than in Italy?

I flew into Rome (because I was too cheap to fly to Naples) and caught the train to Rome termini (central station), then another to Napoli (Naples), and then was planning on taking a bus to Pompei. I arrived at 10:30pm to find that the last bus ran at 9:50pm. I had been accosted by an enterprising taxi driver on my way to the ticket machine and had blown him off and now he was here again as I looked at the bus schedules, unbeknownst to me having had been looking over my shoulder. “You go to Pompei tonight? No more bus today. That tomorrow. No more bus to Pompei. I make you good deal for taxi, ok?” I ignored him for a couple more minutes until I resigned myself to the fact that he was right. I asked him how much and he said, “I will give you special price. No meter.” He sliced his hand through the air horizontally and gave me a very stern, sincere look. “No meter price. I give you price of 70 Euro.” UGH. I said, “That is too much money. The hotel says that they can find a taxi for 55 Euro from the airport.” “55 Euro?! Airport much easier just out and on highway. Easier than from train station.” I said, “70 Euro is too much money. 55 Euro.” He hardly let me get it out of my mouth before saying, “Ok, ok, ok, ok. 55 Euro.” Guess I should have started lower! I started walking with him to his car and he stopped to talk to another man in the terminal. He came back, “My colleague and that woman come with us. I stop you first in Pompei, then they go to Sorrento. I stop you first.” I got in the car which was probably 25 years old and in disrepair, let alone being filthy, and his “colleague” got in the passenger seat, first showing me his official taxi driver ID over the seat. My driver said, “No need. No need. It’s ok. I tell her you come.” The colleague gave me a toothless grin and jumped in. The young woman going to Sorrento got in back with me.

I was pretty tired having already been in a taxi, a plane, and two trains over the previous nine hours and just wanted to get to my hotel and get to sleep. I had plans to see Mt. Vesuvius and Pompei the next day so it was going to be long one and I had slept very little over the past three days. The driver’s buddy had to go talk to someone in the parking lot, then the driver had to buy cigarettes, then the lady saw a friend and started chatting. Good grief! Let’s get this show on the road, Luigi! If I have to pay 55 Euro for this then I want to go now! (Don’t worry – no, I didn’t say that out loud. I’ve also been in Finland long enough to lose some of the US politically correct sensibilities…it’s perfectly find to call Italian men “Luigi” just because that is the first male Italian name that immediately comes to mind!)

We took off and, in classic Italian taxi driver form, the driver was driving like a bat out of hell and weaving in and out of other vehicles on a small, narrow, two-lane highway. I frantically searched and grasped for my seatbelt only to find that while there had once been a seatbelt in this car someone had literally cut off the buckle attachment on the seat so I couldn’t use it. Figures. Then the driver cracked out his pack of cigarettes and low and behold the buddy wants one too so here I am with three Italians in a beater car going 140 km/hr with no seat belt and two smokers – this is my nightmare! Thankfully, the trip was relatively short (about 20 km) and I paid the driver 60 Euro and asked if he had change. He smiled and said, “Maybe you want to leave tip for me?” Yeah, maybe not. I said, “No, no tip. Too much money!” He laughed and gave me my change and asked, “Do you need driver tomorrow? I give you my number?” It was unlikely but who knew? Never hurts to have a local number in your pocket in case you get lost (which, unfortunately, seems to happen to me a lot!). He wrote down his name and number and handed me the piece of paper. “I Franco. Nice to meet you.” Nice to meet you too, Luigi. “Grazie! Ciao!” I love Italians.

I woke up the next morning, had a lovely Italian breakfast, and headed off for the bus to Mt. Vesuvius. I had gotten directions and information from the hotel the night before and everything was pretty straightforward. I was to go to the church and turn left, buy the bus ticket from the tobacco shop, walk 500 meters to the bus stop and catch the bus to Vesuvio which came every 30 minutes (I had planned on catching the 9:30am bus). So, I left the hotel and walked to the church, turned left and…didn’t see a tobacco shop. I kept walking for another few blocks until I decided that I must have turned too soon. I turned right and walked up a block and then right again and backtracked the way I should have come. I found the tobacco shop and asked the man at the counter if he sold bus tickets. “No, no, no. You must buy tickets on bus. Not here.” Ok then. He pointed me down the street to the bus stop and I went along my merry, if a bit confused, way. I got to the “bus stop” which was really a plaza with many parked buses. I asked one of the bus drivers which bus went to Vesuvio. He pointed me across the street to a regular bus stop and told me to wait there. Ok then. It was 9:25am and I waited expectantly. Public transportation nearly almost runs like clockwork in Europe. 9:30am came, 9:35am came, 9:40am came and I started to get a little nervous. A bus pulled in to the large parking lot and the driver I had just spoken too waved me over. I ran across the street and he pointed to the newly arrived bus, “This one to Vesuvio.” Great! I got on the bus and there was a man selling tickets in addition to the bus driver. The man with the tickets told me how much it was for the return trip plus entrance to Mt. Vesuvius and that I could save 50 cents on the Mt. Vesuvius fee by buying from him. Perfect, done. The bus driver looked at me and said, “Caffe?” and pointed to the restaurant across the way. “Grazie, but no thanks.” I smiled. The ticket seller introduced himself as Fabricio and asked, “Where you from?” “California.” “California!! Beautiful, beautiful!” “You come here all the way from California?” He spoke very good English so I told him that I am American but that I currently live in Finland. “You live in Finland? FINLANDIA! Oh, oh! So cold! Too cold!” Ha, tell me about it! He said, “Are you married?” I laughed and said, “No.” “Do you have a boyfriend?” I laughed and said, “No.” “If you are looking for a boyfriend in Pompei, I can help you.” I laughed harder and said, “No, thanks. I have to go back to Finland.” “OOOHHH. You have someone waiting for you there. A cold man.” He laughed and then said excitedly, “An ICE man!” We both laughed. He was very proud of his joke.

After an hour bus ride up the side of Vesuvius on switchbacks, I finally arrived at the entrance. The bus can’t take you all the way to the top but it gets you within about a kilometer so it’s a short, if a bit steep, climb up. The morning was humid and it was really foggy at the top of the volcano. It was so foggy, in fact, that I couldn’t see anything but the path up which was a shame as half of the thrill of Vesuvius is the views it gives you of the entire Bay of Naples. It was a little bit eerie climbing up the side of an active volcano in what looked like smoke coming from it, even if I knew better that it was just fog. When I reached the top of the crater and fought my way through the hoards of school kids to be able to look in over the edge I saw…an amazingly huge hole. Don’t get me wrong, it is an extraordinarily impressive hole but it is still just a huge hole nonetheless. What is crazier than the sheer size of the crater is to think about all that dirt and rock being enough to completely entomb Pompei after being propelled from the volcano. That’s when you know it’s a really big hole. The eruption in AD 79 that tragically killed 2,000 residents of Pompei and encased the city in a layer of pumice stone was only the first time that Vesuvius erupted. It has erupted 30 times since then and most recently in 1944. It is estimated that the volcano was once 3,000 meters high but, after so many eruptions distributing the volcano top over the rest of the region (it apparently pushed back the coastline several meters after one of the larger eruptions), it is now officially 1,281 meters high at its highest point. This is by no means a dormant volcano and, a bit scary, are the few points in the crater which are literally still steaming and reminding all the visitors that this volcano is still a deceptively peaceful force to be reckoned with…I heard it called a “sleeping monster” by a few people while there. Despite the risks, the locals don’t seem too concerned and are happy for tourists to ogle and scale their natural wonder.

After about an hour at the top taking pictures and walking the rim, I started the short trek back down. There were many tour groups there and almost all were senior tours or school field trips. I was navigating through a group of 9 year old field trippers when one of them asked me in Italian, “Do you speak French?” I said, “No.” He then said in English, “You speak English?” I said, “Yes.” He threw me two thumbs up as we passed one another and smiled. I laughed – don’t really get it but right on, buddy!

I caught the bus back to Pompei, grabbed some lunch (pizza, of course), and headed to see the scavi (ruins) of Pompei. On the way, I ran into my buddy Fabricio from the morning’s ticket purchase (the bus stop is across from one of the entrances to Pompei) and he asked, “How did you like the crater?” I told him I liked it and was now excited to visit Pompei. His response to that was, “Did you change your mind about the boyfriend?” I said, “No, I didn’t, but thanks!” and walked away laughing. Italian men are a trip!

I stopped at a street vendor selling freshly squeezed orange juice on my way into Pompei and had the best juice of my life. It was like having dessert! I also noticed that the lemons they had on hand were nearly as big as my head and were gorgeous. I, unfortunately, didn’t think to get a picture but lemons would follow me for the next four days as they quite literally grow all over this region (and are painted on every horrible tourist trinket as a result!). I walked by the other street vendors and the last one was a teenage boy, maybe 18 or so, selling postcards. “Postcards, one Euro!” he yelled to me as I passed and ignored him. “Boyfriend for free!” Now that got my attention and I looked back at him and smiled. He smiled too, very proud of himself and his favorite line. These Italians just don’t quit! (I ended up walking by him again later on my way out and he yelled, “Aaaaahhhh, Americana. Boyfriend for free! Boyfriend for free!!!” It wasn’t as cute the second time.)

Pompei, in brief, was absolutely incredible if a bit overwhelming. Whereas relics are usually found individually or in small numbers and excavation sites are often quite limited with respect to what remains, Pompei is large, complete, and extensive because of the way that it met its demise. The city did not slowly die out with the irrelevance of a local industry; the people did not slowly migrate somewhere else with more opportunity; life as Pompei knew it was almost instantly halted and buried by the surprise volcanic eruption. (Luckily, most of the 20,000 people who lived in Pompei were evacuated after an earthquake about 20 years before the Vesuvio erupted so it actually could have been much worse.) An entire city’s worth of homes, tools, pottery, and people were subsequently encased and preserved in time. It is a horribly tragic story but an archaeological jewel. Only about two-thirds of the site has been properly excavated so there is still much more to unearth and discover. I could have easily spent two full days exploring the site but did the best I could in half a day (exhausting!).

The pictures really speak for themselves but what was so unbelievable to me was how advanced and artistic these people were 2,000 years ago. I saw something similar at Ephesus in Turkey but it never ceases to amaze me that a working aqueduct and drainage system was in use at this time. Some of the houses in Pompei are truly works of art, both from an architectural and a cultural perspective. I toured homes which had previously been two stories high with an open atrium with a series of decorative pools, gardens, and frescos painted on the walls. The floors in some of the homes were made of marble tile with beautiful inlaid designs. The walls were painted in shades of yellow, orange, and red and had decorative scenes painted directly on them, almost imitating a hanging painting. Some of the frescos are not only gorgeous but are also enormous. One of the most memorable ones depicts a scene of a buffalo hunting expedition (apparently it was in style at the time to paint scenes of far away lands – no buffalo in Italy to my knowledge) which is two stories high and the main focal point in a private home.

There was a café / pub which had holes built into the marble counter top to hold the kegs of wine and beer. There were also holes carved to hold the different sized coins used for payment, a sort of primitive cash register. The main streets had shop fronts on the street and homes in the back, many decorated and painted beautifully. The upscale homes had extensive gardens, fountains, and open air atriums in the middle with more gardens, vines, and flowers. With a little imagination and updated plumbing, these could be homes in Napa Valley (and surely inspired many of those already there). The main plaza, many temples, and theaters were also breathtaking both for their ability to take you back in time as well as for their striking beauty made even more fantastic through the mix of Greek mythology and Catholic influence. You look one way to see a Temple of Apollo and a statue of Achilles and you look the other to find Mary Magdalene and baby Jesus painted on the wall with a crucifix over the entrance of the next house. It was truly an amazing and haunting site to behold. (Make sure you check out the album on the blog website – the pictures are incredible!)


After several hours touring I had to make my way from Pompei to Positano, a village on the Amalfi Coast which I had picked as my home base for the next three days. I was pretty exhausted after an already very full day so took a taxi to the train station across town. This was to be my last taxi ride in Italy – those things are disgustingly overpriced! (I think it cost me 15 Euro for a 1.5km ride. Ugh!) I then took a train to Sorrento and a bus to Positano. The distance from Pompei to Positano is maybe 40km or so but took a good three hours with waiting and transfers and actual travel time. I had forgotten how slow travel could be in Italy! Efficiency is not the name of the game in this country and that has both good and bad implications. It is a good place to learn both patience and appreciation (there is a lot to wait on but a lot to be thankful for!).

Positano is the “gem of the Amalfi” so I had heard largely because of its absolutely picturesque setting. It is a city of pretty homes and hotels of different colors clumped together and built on top of one another on the rocky cliffs overlooking a gorgeous bright blue-green sea. (My description is not at all doing the place justice so please check out the pictures!) Positano’s claim to fame is that because of its unlikely and illogical location on the steep, rocky cliffs, travel in the city by car is very limited and extensive stone staircases are used instead to traverse the many levels. When I say extensive stone staircases are used, I mean that the staircases have street names and addresses are on these “streets.” Most hotels and homes do not reside on an actual street so even if you pay the exorbitant taxi fair to get as close as possible, you’re still going to end up dragging your luggage up or down many steps at some point. I left a piece of my heart at the Lyon street steps in San Francisco so while I was already excited to be in such a striking and unique place I felt that the stairs were a bonus! I can say though that after 3 days of doing hundreds of stairs to get anywhere or do anything, I will be happy to have a few days back in the flats of coastal Finland! (I had started weighing the number of steps required to obtain a Coke Zero with my “need” for having one and found that, surprisingly, the Coke Zero did not always win out!)

I arrived around 10pm on Thursday night and was pretty tired from the full day and hungry as I hadn’t eaten since lunch time. I made my way down a bit on the road from the bus stop before I decided that dragging my bags down narrow switchbacks with cars and scooters buzzing by too close for comfort in the dark was for the dogs and I found a staircase. I didn’t really know where I was going yet but I knew I had gotten off at the right stop and that I needed to get down, down, down several levels. I took off down the staircase and after a few hundred steps saw a sign painted on the wall telling me to turn left for my very hotel. What luck! I had totally stumbled my way into that one and thank goodness because I was tired! I made it down another hundred steps or so and was at the doorstep of my hotel. I threw my bags in the room and headed out in search of dinner. I asked the man at the desk if there were any good restaurants he would recommend and he said, “Aaaahhhhh, just go to the street. Go left…” he motioned left, “Go right…” he motioned right. “You will find.” Well, no kidding. Thanks for the help.

I headed down the “street” of steps and came to a fork, I could continue going down or turn and go back up another “street.” I paused for a moment and a man behind me said, “Are you looking for the beach?” I said, “No, I’m looking for food.” He said, “I am walking to dinner myself. You want I should show you some good restaurants?” I said, “Yes, that would be great! Grazie!” The man turned out to be an Italian tour guide, maybe 55 years old or so, and had a group of five middle-aged American couples with whom he’d been touring the Bay of Naples for the past week. He introduced himself as Sergio and was very friendly and helpful, and spoke good English. He told me to wait as his colleague was joining him for dinner and a little man named Salvador walked up and joined us on our walk. “Salvador don’t speak English.” No problem. I shook his hand and smiled and said my name.

We walked for a few blocks until Sergio said, “This is it! This is owned by the cousin of the hotel owner. Did you know?” Um, nope. I basically don’t know anything about this town! Sergio’s tour group had also gone there for dinner on his recommendation and he stopped to say hello. I went to read the specials board thinking Sergio, Salvador and I were now parting ways. I heard Sergio tell the group that he had run into me on the steps going up instead of down - they all laughed on the preposterousness of this - so he had offered to help me find a good restaurant. One of the men said something like, “Oh, you Italians! We leave you for an hour and you come back with a new girl!!” I went to see the host about a table but before I could get a word out Sergio had told him to set up a table for three outside. I wasn’t expecting that one but might be nice to have a bit of conversation after a day of touring in solitude! They both seemed nice enough and Sergio had told me he could give me all the best tips of Amalfi. It would be a bit awkward with Salvador though. We didn’t have a common language between the three of us.

So there I sat with my two dinner dates, Sergio the tour guide and Salvador the associated bus driver. I actually had an excellent dinner starting with champagne on the house (it’s good to be friends of the owners, or at least an adopted friend of a friend of the owners), then bruschetta, then pasta with fresh eggplant and tomato with parmigiana cheese, wine (of course), marinated anchovies over grilled zucchini (sounded terrible but Sergio insisted I try some and it was fantastic), and capped off with limoncello and fresh strawberries with lemon and sugar. I could eat like that every day of my life. (Might be a good thing that I don’t eat like that every day but I’m quite sure that I could.) Sergio did a good job balancing between English and Italian and, after Salvador got his french fries (yes, and after his pasta meal) which made him noticeably happier, even he opened up and tried to talk to me through Sergio. Sergio told me, “Salvador says you look like his second daughter, the black one.” Wait a minute…say what?! Salvador has a black daughter and I look like her?! I was a bit confused and then Salvador handed me his cell phone with a picture of two girls, one blonde and one brunette. Sergio pointed to the brunette, “Yes, he says you look like the black one.” Aaaaahhhhh, some things get lost in very funny translation. I smiled.

In typical Italian fashion, the dinner lasted a good three hours or so and I was ready to pay and get back to my bed at the hotel. Sergio left to say goodnight to his tour group and came back and said everything was taken care of, we could now leave. I was totally shocked and told him that he didn’t need to pay for me, I was the tag along! He said, no, no, he insisted. It was his pleasure to treat me as his guest in Positano. Wow. Talk about Italian hospitality!

We headed back down the road and when it came to the turn off to the hotel’s street of steps, Sergio said, “Salvador stays down the road a few blocks. Let’s walk and digest.” I felt a little bad about taking off after dinner so agreed and we walked down to Salvador’s hotel and dropped him off. Then Sergio said, “Are you tired or can you walk at the beach?” I was extremely tired and I am all for long walks on the beach but just maybe not with a strange, if very nice, Italian man. I said, “No, I better go back. I am very tired. We walked back to the hotel and I thanked him for dinner. He said, “I will give you my email address. I will be very happy if you will write me. No one writes me.” He gave me his email address and we said goodnight.

I got up the next morning with the plan of doing the Sentiero degli Dei, translated as Walk of the Gods, a long hike along the coast with jaw-dropping views. Sergio had offered to take me with his tour to the small village of Nocelle in the morning so I could start my hike there but I actually didn’t want to shorten the hike and I also thought it best to avoid him that morning. He was very, very nice but I didn’t want to give him the wrong idea. I intentionally went to breakfast after I knew that he and his tour group had already left, got my things together for the day (the hike was around 10 miles with a lot of steep terrain and steps so would take several hours), and dropped my key off at the desk. I was surprised when the man at reception handed me a letter which had been left for me. It read,

Andrea,

The very personal shape of your hands and the way you move your fingers are external signs of a proud soul that you carry around with a natural elegance.

Sergio

Enjoy the gods!

First, I thought, WOW. Then, I thought, YIKES! How did this guy get so enchanted? I am not interested in him per se but I would be interested in him giving some writing lessons to American men! Where do these Italians get this stuff?! Anyway, there was lots of hiking to be done so I stuffed the envelope in my bag and hurried off to start the day.

The hike can be done many different ways and at various lengths. The hotel recommended that I take a bus to the end point in Bomerano and hike down to Nocelle and then take a bus from Nocelle to Positano so that I could still get the views but I could maximize coming down instead of climbing up. I told the man that I wanted to climb and he looked at me like I was a loopy American. Who in their right mind would hike up when there is a perfectly good option to hike down? He then told me how to get a bus to Nocelle so I could cut out the first, very strenuous part of the hike. I told him again that I wanted to climb so I was fine starting from here. He looked at me quizzically again and then told me fine, but take the path to Praiano and not to Bomerano when you get there because it is very hard to get a bus back from Bomerano. I nodded and smiled and was thinking…I’m going to Bomerano AND Praiano but you’re obviously not going to be a supporter of that plan. Ciao, buddy.

The hike not only surpassed my expectations, it completely blew me away. I had been to Cinque Terre in northern Italy years ago and thought nothing could surpass the beauty there. I think the Amalfi Coast actually succeeded in doing just that. I hiked up to the top of the forested cliffs and then walked along them for hours, looking down at Positano and the few other villages like it along the way. Again, I can’t do the place justice here so please check out the picture album! I hiked from Positano to Praiano through the village of Nocelle and then took the path to Bomerano. The Bomerano leg was the more strenuous of the two options at that point and it was totally worth it. After walking along the coast for about 8km, I turned “inland” at this point and crossed over one of the mountains to look down at another, more protected and quaint portion of the coast. Old, abandoned stone homes were sprinkled along the cliffs, some were actually built in the cliffs themselves, and I was surrounded by grape orchards and lemon groves. The path dipped and turned and climbed and just when I thought I had gotten the best view and picture of all, I turned the corner and got a better one. It was delighted shock and awe for a good five hours.

Once I got to the end of Sentiero degli Dei, I turned around to backtrack and head back. I didn’t intend to go all the way back to Positano (which was 12.5km away, supposedly), but was going to take the other route on the hike down to another coastal town called Praiano from which I would then catch the bus back to Positano. I started on my way back down and felt much more sure of myself this time as I had seen the path before and knew where I was (the path up was a bit more suspect and I’d had to backtrack a couple times when I took the wrong path at an unmarked fork). I thought I remembered the sign clearly pointing toward Bomerano vs. Praiano so headed back to it, passing a couple old Italian men on the way. (I wish I had gotten a picture of them in their suspenders and proper hats, walking with canes and toothless smiles, but I was afraid it would be a bit rude to act like I was at the zoo. They were just so cute!) They clearly didn’t speak English but one of them asked me if I was going to Positano and I said, “No, to Praiano.” They said, “Praiano?!” followed by a lot of fast Italian and pointed behind me in the other direction. I pointed the way I was going and said, “Praiano?” and they again pointed the opposite direction. They tried to say something else but I shrugged and said, “Sorry, no understand.” They smiled. I smiled. And I kept on my merry way thinking I knew what the sign said. I got to the sign about 15 minutes later and had remembered wrong; it offered Positano, Bomerano, and an intermediate village between Positano and Praiano, not Praiano itself. Ugh. I should know better than to second guess the locals! I turned around, backtracked again, and took the path they had directed me to (which I had gone down for a while earlier that day in another bout of confusion and decided it didn’t go anywhere and I should have taken a different fork…which turned out to be correct in that case).

I could see Praiano probably a thousand meters below me so now I just need to figure out how to get down. While most of the rest of the hike was very well marked, this part was not marked at all, good or bad. Worse yet, the path kept diverging into multiple forks which would sometimes run back together and sometimes not. Some ended up being paths to individual properties with locked gates. It was impossible to figure out what was what and which was the right path. All I knew was that I needed to get down so I just kept on going. Sometimes the path would be better and include stone steps (I use the word “steps” loosely here – they were pretty rough!) while other times it was almost indistinguishable from the lush forest around me. I took a few wrong paths and had to backtrack back up when one of the forks turned into a dead end at rusted-over locked gate but I kept at it.

I was expecting this part of the hike to be the easy part, the downhill slide at the end of a great day of hiking. It turned out to be the scariest and most demanding…the steps were uneven, high, and steep. The thought of me chipping my teeth out after a misplaced foot on a slippery stone step definitely crossed my mind more than once. I kept going and going, weaving through dirt paths in the forest, then climbing down hundreds of stone steps. More than once I thought about turning back and figuring out another option, especially after I’d been walking for quite a while and lost sight of the city. I randomly ran into a commune built into the rock along the way, with no sign of humanity in any direction. I kept on going thinking that at least I was slowly getting down the mountain and could figure out something once I made it back down to the coast.

I kept walking and walking until I found another set of stone steps and headed down those (I took every “down” option I could). They started out as rough as the others and then changed into a bit better, newer steps, and then I rounded a corner and could see that I was directly above part of Praiano which had been hidden before as I was on a bit of a ledge. The stairs kept on going and so did I. Soon I was on another “street” passing by doors and addresses. I was so relieved! Civilization! I kept climbing down and down and all of a sudden I was on a real street with vehicles. I saw another set of steps and took those down and popped out in a square surrounding a church with kids riding their bikes and playing basketball with the most gorgeous sea view you can imagine. Amazing. I had gone from very lost and lonely to being smack dab in the middle of things in a matter of 20 minutes. I wandered the street looking for a shop where I could ask about bus tickets. I ducked into a little grocery / convenience store and tried to buy a diet Coke (unsuccessful – it seems that diet Coke is only available where tourists are likely to be as it doesn’t really make sense to most Italians) and a bus ticket (successful, but only after getting yelled at in Italian by the old woman who owned the shop…she didn’t really yell at me but the Italians are so loud and fast with their speech that it feels like you’re getting yelled at!). I managed to understand that the bus stop was down the block so I took my ticket and headed off.

The bus stop was just where they had said it would be and I checked the bus schedule which said I had literally just missed one but that another was coming in 30 minutes. No problem. Just then a scooter pulled up and the young man from the convenience store hopped off and handed me my camera. Yikes! What a dummy! I had put my camera down when I tried to fish out the money for the bus ticket and had gotten so flustered with all the yelling that I had forgotten it there! Thank goodness for good people! “Grazie! Grazie! Grazie!” I said. The man smiled, pointed to the bench I was sitting on and said, “Sit. Here. Stay.” Got it. Grazie! Grazie!

I waited for 45 minutes and not only was my bus a no-show but the other buses which were on the schedule were also no-shows. I decided this bus stop wasn’t going to work out for me and pulled out my blackberry and Google Maps (see – I’ve gotten smarter since the cross-country skiing / hitchhiking incident!). I saw that I was fairly close to the main highway, the one I knew the buses ran on, so decided to get to the highway and then walk along it until I found a bus stop. I got down to the road and within five minutes found a bus stop. I was very relieved to be back in civilization and with a line of sight to getting back “home.” I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast and it was now about 7pm. I got back to my hotel around 8pm and melted into the shower.

I hopped out of the shower and my in-room phone ringing. That struck me as a bit odd but I had some music playing so figured that maybe my neighbors in the next room didn’t appreciate a Tim McGraw soundtrack to their Amalfi coast adventure. I answered the phone and it was Sergio….”Andrea! Did you do Sentiero degli Dei? Yes? Brava! Brava! I have some gifts for you. Can I give them to you now?” What do you say to that? I told him that I needed 20 minutes and he said, “It must be 10 minutes. I must meet my tour group in 15 minutes.” I said I’d hurry down and hung up the phone. UGH. This was getting out of hand.

Before I could make it downstairs there was a knock on my door. I ignored it. That can’t be my door. There was a knock again, and then immediately another more urgent knock. It was my door. For Pete’s sake! I opened the door and there was Sergio with a bag of wrapped gifts. Does this guy know no limits?! I tried to block the door to at least keep him in the hallway and he walked right by me saying, “I did not think you would have time to shop for yourself so I spent the afternoon buying you some things to remember.” Here we go…

I unwrapped the gifts one by one…first some homemade pasta from Positano in the same shape as what I had eaten the night before and loved, and Sergio knew that I loved to cook. (When he had asked me if I cooked over dinner the night before and I had said that I loved to he said, “I knew it! I think there are not many Americans who cook anymore but I knew you would be one who did.”) Then came the dark chocolate with lemon essence and walnuts. After that was the wine bottle cork which had a ceramic top with a tiny painting of Positano. Finally, the last gift was “something beautiful in case you did not have time to find your own” – a lovely, perfect, spiral-shaped sea shell. I thanked him gratuitously and told him it was truly (REALLY) too much. He asked if I had gotten his letter and said, “I hope it did not make you uncomfortable but it came straight from my dream! I woke up and the words just flowed from my dreams and I had to write them down to you.” Again, what do you say to that?! “It was lovely!” ? “Thank you.” ? “You’re freaking me out a little bit!” ?! I was saved by the tour group as he had to meet them to take them to the airport. He told me again how much he would like it if I would write him, kissed me on the cheek, and left. I closed the door and leaned back against it. (I might have hit my head back against the door a few times too at this point…seemed appropriate.) Then I flipped the deadbolt.

The next day was another adventure of buses on the scary switchbacks along the coastal cliffs (the bus ride on the 40km scenic stretch is really an experience in itself even without the views…these bus drivers are amazing and navigate the tiny hairpin turns like masters coming within centimeters, no exaggeration, of the oncoming and parked cars) to get to the beach village of Amalfi and then on to the tiny towns of Ravello and Scala up on the cliffs themselves. The unbelievable weather the previous day had deteriorated into fairly heavy if intermittent rain and I tried to optimize the sunshine periods outside with indoor touring during the showers. Amalfi, as are all the villages, is beautiful and peaceful yet vibrant. The locals and tourists were out in the main square enjoying cappuccinos and pastries or carrying baskets of huge lemons back to their shops. There is a beautiful cathedral and basilica there called St. Andreas (for St. Andrew but I am happy to add an apostrophe and claim it as my own!) which has a gorgeous long set of steps up to the entrance from the main square. The cathedral is really striking and frames the main square beautifully.

I spent midday avoiding rain in the cathedral and walking along the little cobblestone streets which reach out to the real town from the touristy main square. It was here that I finally got a little gelato (stracciatella, of course!) and as it began to rain again headed back to the bus area to catch a ride to Ravello. Thankfully, the bus stop was covered and I was huddled under the roof along with another 20-30 people who were as cold as I was and trying to make the next bus. A bus finally pulled up which I thought had the emblem from my ticket and I tried to crowd on with the rest of the people waiting. An Italian man looked at me strangely as I lined up to get on and said something to me, which of course I didn’t understand, and then to his friends next to him. I ignored him and kept pushing on. When I got to the door there was another man there who said “pree-vaut-boos.” I looked at him confused and then my eyes widened, “OH. Private bus. Sorry!” He smiled and I jumped back out of line and back to the bus stop. No wonder those Italian men were confused and very focused on me…I was trying to board their private tour bus! (Would help a bit if they would put a sign up or pick-up somewhere other than the public bus stop!) Oh well, hope they got a laugh out of it!

I went back to eating my gelato at the bus stop when the tour bus pulled up about 10 yards, the door opened, and the man who had told me it was a private bus stuck his head out, “You go to Ravello?” he asked. I nodded, “Yes, Ravello!” He smiled and waived me over, “Come on, come on.” Perfect! No more waiting in the cold! I ran out to the bus (still raining) and jumped on. It was a tour bus of retired Italians from Florence, all who were now staring at me and commenting in Italian on this silly girl on whom they had decided to take pity. I tried to get out of the way and sit in a couple seats but got immediately chastised and kicked-out by an old man first and then in the seat behind him by an old woman. Oops. I guess there are assigned seats. They waived me down the aisle to the very back where there were five seats across. The two couples sitting there moved to the sides and I wedged myself in the middle. The bus driver hit the gas and off we went.

It was only about 7km up to Ravello but given the tight turns and small roads took 30 minutes. One of the women sitting back with me spoke a bit of English so she asked me where I was from and I told her California. She told her husband and the other couple with us in the back, “Americana!” and the word bounced its way from row to row up to the front of the bus. She told me that they were from Florence on a week tour of Naples and the Amalfi Coast. She asked how long I was in Italy and I told her only four days this time, unfortunately, but that I was living in Helsinki this year so was able to do many short trips around Europe. “Finlandia?!” Oh! Finlandia!” She told her husband and then leaned over me to tell the other couple. This fact also got passed on row by row and her husband said something about Finlandia being “frio.” I nodded at him and he pretended to shiver. Then he jumped in with broken English and told me he loved the United States. He had been to Las Vegas and Nashville. Nashville?! I laughed and he started strumming an air guitar and said, “I like the country music.” He waved his hand at me and said, “But I know the young don’t like. Don’t like the country.” I laughed harder and I said, “I LOVE country music! Most young don’t like. But I like.” I pointed back to myself. He looked pleased and smiled and we each threw out a few names. He liked Buck Owens, Hank Williams, and nodded when I said Johnny Cash. Hilarious! How did I find a country-loving Italian? It was meant to be!

The man on my other side leaned over me and asked the English-speaking woman to ask me a few questions. Was I married? Was I engaged? (I was thinking, yep, here we go again!) Did I have a boyfriend? No, no, no. With each “no” the man became increasingly shocked and then yelled up to some friends a couple rows up the very interesting things he’d just learned. Again, new talk about the single Americana bounced up the rows until it hit the front windshield. The same man then started babbling and pointing, hands-waving and talking loudly. The woman roughly translated this to, “Now you have four boyfriends…him,” she pointed, “and him,” another man waved, “and him and him!” I just smiled and they smiled back at me.

I arrived in Ravello and bid farewell to my new friends and boyfriends and headed in to the village. Ravello is a tiny village on the top of one of the cliffs overlooking the sea. It is quiet and sleepy but also less touristed so was a nice break from the madness of the crowded and confused bus stops in Amalfi. There are some absolutely stunning gardens there which I spent some time in, hiding in the stone buildings and overhangs each time the rain began again. The rain was still intermittent but was coming now more often and much more heavily. The bus only stops in Ravello every hour or so (this is very rough and there is no official schedule, at least not one that I found – this is Italy, after all!) and I headed back to try to make my way back down to Amalfi after spending about 90 minutes checking out the gardens and the views. Of course, just as I got to the bus stop (which was not covered and with no other protected space in sight) the rain started coming down and I decided to run to a tunnel up the road on the way to another village called Scala. Nothing’s worse than sitting still and getting soaked and I figured I could wait out this shower in the tunnel and then catch the bus back in Scala.

The rain started to let up and I started on my way to Scala which was only a couple kilometers away. Of course, again, just when I got away from all possible shelter the rain really started coming down and I got completely drenched. I started running up the road thinking that I was going to get soaked anyway so I may as well move faster and, hopefully, find some shelter. I found a doorway to stand in for about 10 minutes and then the rain stopped again. I looked up the hill and saw some public buses. Perfect! A bus stop! I ran up the hill to the “bus stop” and found that it was actually a “bus parking lot.” Nobody was in the buses and there was no indication that there would be anytime soon. Ugh. I kept on climbing the hill to Scala. I knew there was a bus stop there and at least if I was in the “city” I might be able to find some indoor space to wait out the next storm. At this point it was clear that there would be many “next” storms over the rest of the afternoon. I walked up the hill in my now soaked sneakers which were squishing and squirting water with every step. Nice. My mom would have said I looked like a drowned rat at this point - a drowned, single, Americana rat, to be more specific and appropriate in Italy!

I finally found a bus stop and, for once, decided to wait instead of to keep moving as is typically my default decision in situations like these. I was rewarded by the rain holding out and a bus showing up in only 20 minutes. I was ecstatic to get to a safe and dry place for at least the next 30 minutes. We arrived in Amalfi and I took my spot back under the bus stop cover and waited for the next bus back to Positano. All of the tourists (there weren’t many of us left in this weather) were ready to get back under cover at our respective home bases. Our bus arrived and we all scurried out to board it quickly because, of course, it started raining again just as we had to move from the bus stop to the bus. I was getting rained on again when a woman next to me kindly put her umbrella over the two of us. She was on vacation from southern California and was happy to run into another American. I thanked her, stepped on the bus, looked up and a young man already sitting and watching everyone board the bus saw me and said, “Yes, please!” He patted the seat next to him. “Yes, please!” I hesitated for a millisecond and then thought, “Why not?!” and sat down next to him.

This guy was probably around 25 years old and was from Kiev, Ukraine but was now living in northern Denmark training to be a dairy farmer. He was visiting a friend in Naples and had just made a day trip to Amalfi, unfortunately on the one very rainy day that week. He asked me about my trip, where I was from, where I was living, and despite the fact that he had never studied English, we were able to have a pretty good conversation for the 30 minutes back to Positano. He asked me how I liked the area and I told him I loved it. He asked me if I liked limoncello (very prevalent in this region given all the lemons) and I said, “Of course!” He reached down to his bag on the floor and pulled out a new bottle of limoncello. “We must have a drink!” I laughed and said, “No thanks. I had a lot of wine last night so I think I’ll take a break today.” (I had met an Italian – Canadian pub manager named Marco at dinner the night before so we’d also shared wine and limoncello for a couple hours.) He looked at me with disappointment and said, “No, no, you must!” I hesitated and he shook his head. I caved and said, “Ok, ok. Just a little.” He smiled as he reached down and pulled out two tiny plastic cups (about the size of shot glasses), cracked open the limoncello, and poured our drinks. I have to give it to this guy – he was prepared! (He had a long few hours of bus and train trips that night to get back to Naples so had come armed with limoncello and a friendly smile to make friends along the way.) We toasted, drank our limoncello, and, besides the water coming in through the roof of the bus, had a nice conversation for the rainy ride back to Positano. I jumped up when we reached my stop, said goodbye to my new buddy Ale and thanked him for the conversation and limoncello, and then proceeded to run back down the hill and stairs to my hotel (again, raining).

My last day arrived with a bit of fog but without the rain and was mostly consumed by travel…hauling my bag up a few hundred steps before taking a bus and three trains just to get to the Rome airport for my flight. I was able to spend some time exploring the beaches and stores in Positano before I left, however. (Shopping there requires both stamina and purchase prioritization as the staircases and steps never stop – you want to make sure you make the right buy / don’t buy decision the first time you’re in the store!) I was sad to leave the place so soon but hope to be back again sometime in this life so said, “Arrivederci!” to Amalfi…”Until we meet again!”

Swedish envy

I have received all sorts of advice since moving to Finland. Usually, it comes from strange places and at random times. I was in a taxi a couple weeks ago (which I ordered the Finnish way – by text message) and the taxi driver called me exactly 2 minutes after receiving my text wondering where I was (the Finns REALLY value promptness – I’ve been reprimanded for showing up to a meeting only on time and not early). When I got out of my building he started babbling and I gave him my standard line, “I’m sorry. I only speak English.” Then he said, “Ok, ok, ok. If you have call on your phone. It me. I just call you.” Ok, fine. No problem. I got into the car and was ready to close my eyes for the 30 minute ride to the airport (you have to take it when you can get it!) when this guy jumped right into English conversation, “You work for a business?” “Yes.” “Big business?” “Yes.” “I give you name of Estonian lawyer. You move business to Estonia. No pay Finnish taxes. Too high.” He shook his finger at me in the rearview mirror. I didn’t say anything so he said, “Ok? I give you number.” I said, “That’s ok. It’s not my company. I just work there so I can’t move it.” Tough to explain too much to a basic English speaker. He looked annoyed and disgusted - clearly I didn’t understand. He tried again, “Estonian tax low. Finnish tax too high. No pay Finnish tax! I give you number. You have your company in Estonia. Ok? I give you number. Good Estonian lawyer!”

We went through a couple more rounds of this but were just getting increasingly annoyed at one another for not understanding. I finally gave up on taking my nap and asked him if he was Estonian in an effort to change the subject. This question launched him into an abridged version of his life story which began in Estonia and included enlisting for the Russian army, working as a bus driver and then a ferry captain, and finally moving to Finland to become a taxi driver. (I didn’t bring up the Finnish tax issue here with respect to his career move.) I said something like, “Wow. You were in the Russian army? How did you decide to do that? I thought Estonians didn’t like Russians.” He said, “Yes, Estonians don’t like Russians because of the history. But, I want to be friends with the Russians so I signed up for Russian army. I meet good friends there. Russian people are good. But politics…they crazy!!!” He wagged his finger at me again in the mirror, “Never trust!” Got it.

I have also been told that it is a good thing that I can explain my last name with Norwegian, instead of Swedish, roots. The Finland – Sweden relationship has been described to me by some Finns as a “relationship of brothers” meaning you spend most of your time beating each other up but really love one another deep down. (I heard from one Finn in particular that the relationship was more like a little brother being jealous of his big brother who is bigger, stronger, and better looking…that big brother being Sweden here, of course.) What this means in practice is that there are a lot of jokes at the expense of Swedes here, and I expect the converse is true in Sweden.

Finland also has two official national languages, Finnish and Swedish, and there is quite a distinction between the “Swedish-speaking Finns” as they are called and your more common non-Swedish speaking Finns (just called “Finns”). A friend told me that historically, the Swedes made up the upper class “aristocracy” of Finland while the Finns were the “not as smart” (her words, not mine) working people. Things are of course very different now but this history has translated into a bit of a modern day language-based segregation between the Swedish-speaking Finns and the rest of the Finns. As the Swedish-speaking Finns comprise only roughly 5% of the population they are a bit of an exclusive club in the country, and can (and sometimes do) exclude others by speaking Swedish. This, of course, puts the rest of the Finns a bit on the defensive and so there are two slightly different camps of people in the country. The implications are subtle but they are there.

Swedish-speaking Finns are extremely likely to also be fluent in Finnish since they often speak Swedish at home and Finnish most everywhere else so are less likely to be excluded by language. They are apparently a very tight, exclusive group due to their small numbers and are well connected to one another so can be very difficult group to break into unless you are born a part of it, whether that be for friendship or for business. (I heard a story about a Finnish girl dating Swedish-speaking Finn who, when she would attend social events with his friends, would be completely excluded to the point of them changing their conversational language to Swedish even if they had been speaking Finnish just so that she wouldn’t be able to join in.) Swedish-speaking Finns may have a different style as well. I’ve heard that the women in this group are much more “feminine” in the way they interact and work, described as being less direct, more smiley, and less structured, whereas Finnish women are more “masculine” in that they are more direct, firm, and logical in their style (let’s not get into the descriptions of “feminine” vs. “masculine” here – yikes!). The interesting thing about this is that while it’s a very minor distinction, it’s a distinction that all Finns notice immediately and on which they invariably will comment. You’ll hear things like, “Lara doesn’t like working with Sanna but Sanna is a Swedish-speaking Finn and I don’t think Lara likes her Swedish working style.” It isn’t a huge issue, and the groups are clearly much more alike than they are different, but it is interesting to see that even in a place where the population would be considered extremely homogenous by any outside perspective, people still find a way to pair off and create cliques. Here the implications are largely insignificant whereas other examples have huge or horrible implications but be it race, religion, or language, people seem to love to find a group to which they belong…and then forevermore point out who else does or does not!

What this means is that everyone in Finland belongs to one of two groups, Swedish-speaking or non-Swedish speaking, that the outcome of the Finland – Sweden hockey game in each winter Olympics can make or break the next four years for a Finn (Sweden won this year but was then knocked out of the tournament while Finland went on to win the bronze – the Finns are subsequently prioritizing the medal win over the actual game against Sweden), and that there is always a little bit of Sweden-envy (and teasing torment!) going on. After all, Stockholm is known as one of the most beautiful and cultured cities in the world (how can you dispute the birthplace of the Nobel Prize?), Sweden is known for having one of the most beautiful populations in the world and, on top of that, they still have a royal family (of course made up of quite beautiful people) to follow, all the more to be jealous of in a neighboring country where you just have a regular old president. (The Europeans love their royal families!) I visited Stockholm a couple weeks ago and upon hearing about my upcoming trip, a Finn said to me, in a somewhat accusatory fashion, “The younger princess’ fiancé just cheated on her with a dirty Norwegian so they had to call off the engagement.” Hey, hey now, don’t look at me! I was born in Idaho. I just have the last name.

So, I headed to Stockholm for a couple days to explore the city and see what the “big brother” was all about. Although the weather was terrible, cold rain and wind all weekend, the city was still gorgeous (as were many of the people – don’t go here if you’re feeling insecure!). I had to navigate the city between bouts of heavy rain but saw the changing of the guard at the old palace (the royal family no longer lives in the original palace but still holds official events, ceremonies, and negotiations there), got to explore the palace itself (impressive and stunning), and took a ferry ride around the city (complete with a view of the apartment of one of the members of Roxette, as well as the home of one of the singers in ABBA – the Swedes are very proud of their international pop stars!). As any good girl would do, I also maximized my rain-induced touring down time by taking advantage of the Stockholm shopping. It is amazing how excited you can get about Swedish prices when you live in Finland – both are extremely high but I felt like I was getting a deal in Stockholm compared to Helsinki. (To give you a flavor of the price differential here compared to the States, a certain type of lip gloss I like is $18 in the US and I can get it in Helsinki, literally right across the street from my apartment, for the bargain price of 47 Euro, or about $58. No, not kidding. I will never again take for granted the cheap cost of goods in the US!) And Finland is not even the worst…Norway prices are supposed to be even higher! Crazy!

Stockholm was beautiful even in bad weather – I can only imagine how pretty it is when everything is green and the sun is shining. The fact that it is built on an archipelago and is spread over a series of little islands, bays, and inlets makes it really a picture perfect setting. The architecture is quite stunning and much more western European looking than is Helsinki (which obviously had more Russian influence) and the city has invested a lot in protecting the ample green space which has only added to the overall beauty of the place. I won’t make any comparisons of the big to little brother but there may actually be something to that whole Swedish envy thing.