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The
Occasional
July 29, 2002
Stories
from Italy
Competition
Living in Italy is just plain different from
life in the United States. Even though I live in a small town in
Vermont and civility hasn’t completely disappeared there, an
Italian town makes Main Street, USA seem like a cold place indeed.
People shout greetings to each other out of windows and cars, rushing
into the middle of the street to say hello to someone driving by.
Old women greet young children fondly and the kids are not too cool
to absolutely revel in the attention. There’s a lot of smiling
and waving going on. A trip to town is an occasion, not simply a
chore. I travel a lot and know the pitfalls of romanticizing or
over-simplifying what we observe as visitors, but even with that
caveat, there is still a huge qualitative difference between life
here in Italy and at home.
Today, as I wandered down the steep streets
of Positano and rounded the corner toward the old church in the
apex of movement in Positano I heard loud male voices above all
the other clamor. I knew these voices by their character. Young,
testosterone-steeped men, full of bravado (braggio) and ego. In
America, they’d be on a street corner or leaning against walls,
generally menacing the population with their determined air of sulking
hostility. I was, frankly, surprised, to hear them here in Italy.
My heart sank as I got closer. Their voices were louder than everything
else in town; they were clearly the young Alpha males, inconsiderate
and indifferent to others around them. It sounded to me as if there
was a contest of some sort taking place. It’s hard to explain
why, but something in the timing of the shouts and the laughter
seemed competitive. I came to the corner of the church and turned
toward the parking garage. There they were just as I expected; young
men all about six feet tall, powerful and loud. It was, in fact
a competition. The competition was not what I’d expected though.
There was a fluffy little puppy being passed from young man to young
man. The game was to see who could endure having his ears licked
the longest. A man named Stefano won, surviving probably 17 seconds.
The town also won, judging from the smiles of everyone who watched.
The day won. Italy won.
Positano
The
Steps to Nocelle
Today
I walked down to breakfast in the courtyard of Hotel Palazzo Murat
where Stefano knew to bring me tea and two four minute eggs. I also
consumed at least three of their croissants. I’m convinced
the baker at Palazzo Murat puts heroin in the things. I can generally
take or leave a croissant with relative indifference, but I am a
raving junkie for these. I returned to my flat afterwards, changing
out of my sandals into proper walking shoes and headed out on the
main road from Positano to Amalfi, looking for the steps to the
village of Nocelle. A leisurely half and hour later, I came upon
what I feared might be the way. The steps were so steep as to more
approximate a ladder than anything else and I could see them disappear
in the distance like an Escher perspective, climbing at a rate that
would give cloven-hoved animals serious pause. A young girl, just
back from school, confirmed my worst fears. This was indeed the
path to Nocelle. She did go on to say that there is a perfectly
good road to Nocelle and plenty of taxis just waiting for a fare;
the obvious implication being that no sane person would consider
this method of visiting the place.
There
are 2238 stairs to Nocelle. No one else in the world seems to know
this but me. If you make it to Nocelle without succumbing to a heart
attack the locals will tell you that there are 2000 stairs. This
is not meant to be an exact figure, but an approximation. Approximations
won’t do for some of us. I find myself in the position (with
considerably less accomplishment or fanefare) of being like Sir
Edmond Hillary. The people of the Himalaya certainly didn’t
need the name the British gave to their Chomolungma in 1865 nor
were they waiting with bated breath as the first estimates of the
elevation of this highest peak on earth were revealed. The mountain
had been there as long as anyone could remember and no one had even
considered climbing it. It was the aquisative and conquring Westerners
who felt the need to go to the top "because it is there.”
Likewise, no one in Italy has deemed it necessary, instructive or
even worthwhile to count each and every step from the Positano/Amalfi
road to Nocelle. But then I am also the guy who piled a cairn of
stones on the top of Leavitt Peak in the Sierra Nevada when I was
17 so I alone would know that the topographical maps which show
the peak‚s elevation as 11, 571 feet are, in fact, two feet
shy of the truth. Take it from me, there are 2238 stairs. Exactly
two steps descend in the entire ordeal, but I counted them part
of the climb as I don’t remember even the slightest ease or
rest which they afforded. Already I see a debate on the horizon.
Some might say that the climb is actually 2236 stairs and accountants
might propose that there is a gross vs. net issue at stake, so that
“after tax” there are a net of 2234 stairs. I actually
hope my involvement at this point will result in the definition
necessary to teach the local heathens about proper statistical reporting.
I
brought with me a towel because I was planning to go swimming at
the beach in Positano after the hike. I also brought another T-shirt
just because I am like that. I’m sometimes surprised when abandoned
spontaneity overcomes me on these walks and I fail to bring survival
necessities: flashlight, matches, walkie talkie, GPS, four liters
of water, a down parka, tent, life preserver and sufficient rations
for two weeks. I also had a pen and paper at the ready to scratch
hash marks denoting stairs in increments of 100. T-shirt # 1 and
then the towel soaked up some part of the roughly four gallons of
last night’s Greco di Tufo and sweat which poured out of my
52 year old body. T-shirt # 1 is now hanging on a plastic chair
overlooking the church dome of Positano and I calculate that the
hot wind which is blowing over it will dry it in roughly three weeks.
At my most fountainous I reached Nocelle, changed T-shirts and staggered
into a small Trattoria. I was exhausted and shuffling my feet by
this time and audibly mumbling numbers in the thousands. The locals
and a group of Japanese tourists regarded me as if reminded of Charles
Manson emerging from the Spahn Ranch in Death Valley. All faces
turned and the place went utterly still until I realized I was still
counting out loud, my feet still marching beneath my chair not unlike
a chicken recently relieved of its’ head. Even after my eventual
silence quieted the fears of the patrons and they returned to their
meals, I did not win the trust of the waitress who elected to roll
the first of three bottles of Pelligrino to me across the table.
I paid the bill and headed out onto the road to Positano.
The
hikers who were climbing the road to Nocella planned to descend
via the steps of my anguish. They were less impressed than alarmed
that someone would attempt the reverse. My proud recitation of the
exact number of steps involved in the trek clearly seemed to them
a symptom of a troubled person. I was decidedly walking against
traffic, with only one other intrepid mountaineer having braved
the Nocelle steps. She was a most attractive 19 year old girl named
Sadie who had apparently walked from England to Greece via France
and was homeward bound for London via a few more nations and the
ease of many months. Briefly we shared the road. I pulled in my
belly and heaved out my chest and began recounting the agony of
my triumph. “A brilliant little workout if you RUN up it”
she proclaimed as she jogged off ahead of me. I lost her at a bend
in the road, a youthful speck in the distance.
When
I finally made it back to Positano, the beach looked far too distant,
the swim much less seductive and I took a nap. I imagined Sadie
must be in Napoli by now, jogging toward Rome.
The
View from Nocelle
Photos
by Will Ackerman
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