An Italian Voyeur



The plaza in front of the church



I have become a voyeur. My position is such that I live at about mid level in this town, with about two thirds of the town below me and about one third above me. I look down upon many homes and life here is very much centered in the kitchen or the terraces and gardens. Therefore I get to watch other people. I am the old woman who used to sit on her porch and constantly watch what was going on in the neighborhood. Most of my adult life my homes have been very secluded and I couldn’t see any or very few of my neighbors. So watching the lives of the people around, especially in a different culture, is fascinating. My street is Via F. Russa, the 127 steps that go past my balcony and garden and another 200 steps to the top of town. If I’m outside I can hear people coming down because they usually do so at a rapid pace. I’m always amazed that a body can race down those stairs so I have to control myself and not hang over the balcony to watch them fly down. Once they are past I will sneak a peek though. I love looking down and up and checking who is doing the wash and hanging out laundry each day. I can figure out who lives in each house by their laundry – men, women, children, manual laborers, old people, and teenagers. Quite revealing. I have slowly watched the roof terraces and balconies become cleaned up and furnished as the weather has improved. The gardens are constantly being tended to and I never know who will be outside my kitchen windows when I open them in the morning, but someone is always digging, pulling, and cutting. This morning I thought the man was digging a grave it was such a big hole. I can’t wait to see what goes in it. And the sounds of the children playing and laughing bounce off the walls of the houses and the terrace stones and rise up the cliffs.

Growing up here on the cliffs above the sea is totally different from in a city or the country. These people don’t have yards, they don’t have sidewalks, fields or parks for children to play. No garages or sheds are attached to the houses. Instead they have their balconies and terraces. Each of these is enclosed and is the equivalent of the yard for the family dog and the playground for the children. They may be very tiny or quite large. The local elementary school is below me to the right and their playground is a terrace about the size of mine. If a family is also fortunate enough to own gardens they have that available also, but it is strictly for growing produce and is a dangerous place for young children as each terrace level is about 15 feet high held in place by rocks, but not usually fenced on the edge. Older children may be allowed to play in the gardens, but a fall from one level to the next is extremely dangerous.

Adraina’s family lives below me and below her are two more levels. Four levels of homes are built on this site though each home looks different from the others. Each home has different balconies, terraces, and entrances and is on the level of one of the ancient garden terrace levels. Adrianas has a large terrace area that serves as a yard for her daughter where she can ride her bike, pull her Little Tyke playground toys out and have fun. But if she was a climber, she could climb right over the rails and fall to the balconies below or the garden on the sides. And if the garden gate gets left open, she would have access to all the garden terraces and all the dangers in the gardens. My terrace is quite large and also has a gate so in theory I could lock a child inside also, but if the child is a climber they could fall to the stone steps below on one side or the tiled balconies on the other sides. My garden opens onto the terraced gardens on one side so would not be safe for children either.

The town offers no sidewalks or parks, as space on the side of a cliff is at a premium and must be put to best use. So a spot where two park benches fit and six people can stand becomes a piazzetta instead of the large piazzas we are accustomed to seeing in Italian cities. But long ago when these towns were small and young, the main churches put large plazas at their entrances. These have been kept and cherished and are the principal gathering place for families with children. Each night and on the weekends children can kick a soccer ball, and run far and fast with a bit of abandon on these plazas. The parents sit or stand along the edges and gossip about the day. The older people gather in one of the small piazzettas, at the bar or one of the markets and do their own gossiping. The days move more slowly, people take the time to talk to each other and consequently, everyone knows everyone else.

As the weather warms people move out of their houses to balconies, terraces, gardens and public spaces. Privacy is hard to come by when your laundry is hanging for everyone to see, your doors and windows are all open, you live on your balcony, you walk to several stores in one day, your children need to be walked everywhere because the streets are deadly with no sidewalks, and you’re Italian so you talk loud. I see people on their balconies, I hear their phone conversations, their arguments, their children laughing and crying, and I watch them make their way up and down these crazy step streets. Sometimes, after dark, I steal out to my terrace first to watch the twinkle of lights across the water in Positano and along the cliff road as cars wind along, then to stand and listen to the sounds of my town and watch for the night time movements. A door slams and feet go slapping down a long flight of stairs, families murmuring while they eat, someone animatedly talking on a cell phone, smoking and running down the stairs, the put-put of a motor bike trying to get up one of the big hills, a small pack of teenagers walking aimlessly down the main street, the night time constellations slightly out of order, but still up in the sky.



The terrace, or 'yard' below me.



The views from my house are never tiring. Each day, each part of each day brings new sky, new water, new mountains. Rain or shine. The people are a source of constant entertainment. I am  completely contented to stay and watch from my perch or take my forays into town and watch and interact with Praiano-ites. After traveling the world I have found peace and joy just being here. Everyone asks if I’ve been here of there or some other famous place on the Amalfi coast and I start to panic because I haven’t and time is running out. So I check bus schedules and then I look out my window and see a fisherman out on the water and I want to wait and see if he catches anything because then he may come up and sell it fresh at this little market down the street. I won’t buy any, but I will look. And I could just sit here and watch that boat or I could go running after a bus, try to figure out what’s great about the next town in four hours, then catch another bus back here. I guess I’d rather eavesdrop on my neighbors while I watch the boats. Call me Mrs. Cravitz.



People and Names

Mama and daughter make homemade pasta at an agritourismo

People. As Americans we naturally talk to people and want to find out all about them, even strangers on a street. A uniquely American trait, shared a bit by the Irish, Australians and New Zealanders, but definitely not the Europeans. Americans don’t understand this and are often hurt and offended by Europeans. Europeans, especially in the big cities, wrap themselves in a bubble of isolation unless you know them personally. On a street, in a store, on a bus, in a hallway or waiting room, they ignore you. Completely. You have to fall on top of them or spill coffee in their laps to get a reaction. You can brush shoulders with them and they ignore you. The first time it happened to me I was in Rome in a really small café with my son. I sat down at a tiny table while he ordered the coffee and pastry. Next to my table was another table with a man sitting about three feet away facing me. I naturally smiled at him – can’t help it, I’m Amercian. I wish I had a camera to have captured the look on his face. His lips didn’t move, but his eyes were panic stricken. He looked like a cornered animal and clearly had no idea what to do. If he could have jumped up and run away he would have, but I had him boxed in and he was still drinking coffee. I finally turned away to give him a break. Another time I was on a cruise in the Mediterranean with mainly Europeans. If you have ever been on a cruise you know the hallways are quite narrow. Every other cruise I have been on people smile and make comments to each other as you are passing in the hall. Someone usually has to move aside and the silence is just silly as you are almost walking right into the other person. Not on this cruise. Nobody even acknowledged one another or made eye contact in passing – sort of like on the New York subways. The only exception was if a baby or small child was present, then barriers were down and contact was allowed.

So coming to stay in a small European town was going to be interesting from the people perspective. Would I get to know anyone? Would they be nice to me? Would they at least smile? One day in Rome on this trip I had been walking on the Borgo Pio, a popular street that runs near the Vatican. It has lots of restaurants, tourist shops, and religious goods stores. I had been in the city for a while so I was used to the aloof and condescending big city attitude of shopkeepers. I entered a tiny convenience store I hadn’t been in before and the husband and wife owners were all smiles and welcoming and trying to help me. I was shocked. I had forgotten what good customer service and plain old kindness was like. I felt terrible I couldn’t find anything to buy.

I determined then I would smile and say hello to everyone in Praiano. After all, seven weeks is a long time to be aloof and if nothing else I would wear them down. I needn’t have worried. Praiano is three and a half hours drive and another world from Rome. If I said hi, they said hi. Most of the time if I smiled they smiled too. At first some were not into the smile, but eventually they have all started smiling. Some of the old men would really look hard at me when I first said hi, as if wondering who I was and did they know me, but they would always reply back. Most of the people in my immediate area are used to me now and  they just think I’m the crazy American who came before tourist season started.

The first person I met by name besides Adraina, was Magdalena from church. As I mentioned in other postings, Don Pio had announced who I was when my son was saying mass with him, and on another day when I came to daily mass. One night as we were leaving mass this little lady started talking to me. I said my standard “non parlo Italaino” but it didn’t really matter to her. I think we were talking about my son and the rain and whatever!?! I then told her my name so she would tell me hers. That is when I first started to find out about Italians and non-Italian names. I said  “Mi chiamo Peggy” She babbled away with more unintelligible Italian. I said it again. No reaction. Then I asked her her name. I think I said it wrong, but she got the idea and gave me her name and asked me mine. I thought, I gave you my name  three times. So finally I said “Mi chiamo Margherita” And she was all happy now to know my name. So then I had one friend.

Several more times I said the “mi chiamo Peggy” to people and they just looked at me like I said “green is actually pink”. Absolutely no comprehension of the word Peggy. So I changed my name back to my birth name and they are all happy. Adriana calls me Peggy, but with the emphasis on the y so it sounds like pegYEE. Even if they can get the name right they don’t pronounce like we do. My sons’ friend’s name is Craig and he said he should have just changed it to Greg five years ago when he started studying in Italy because they cannot put the K sound in front of Greg. They also want to call him Gregario the Italian name. But they try Craig by going K-K-K-K-K-Greg, or K—K-K-K-K-GregKKK, or Gregkkk or, ”I cannot say your name”.

 I should have known to use Margherita. When I first came over to Rome my daughter’s residence had arranged to have a driver pick me up from the airport. I was just supposed to look for a man, the driver, with my name on a sign when I cleared customs. When I told my son this, he said okay, but if he looks sketchy then just keep walking and grab a cab. I’m like, what? Sketchy, define sketchy.  My daughter wasn’t sure either so I thought, I guess I’ll go with my gut. As I cleared customs I’m hauling all my luggage and reading the signs ready to keep walking  if I see my name in a ‘sketchy’ guys' hands. What I do see is Margherita Burns in a man’s hands and my first thought is, ‘I’m named after a pizza!’ I mean, there my name is in Italian and I’m a pizza! I forgot the whole sketchy thing and walked up to him and almost said “I’m your pizza”, instead of “I’m Margherita.” But I managed to blurt the right words and he wasn’t sketchy and I’m over being named after a pizza.

I am also named after a flower though, as one of my next new friends told me. My little market is run by a family as I mentioned earlier. An older man, a middle aged woman and her two sons. After the funeral in the family they finally opened their market again. I was very unclear on who had died but I looked up the word for condolences in cases I needed it. The little old man seemed to be in charge of the produce – isn’t that Italian? Every day they haul all the produce outside, as there isn’t room inside the tiny market and set up the produce display. Then they haul it back in from 1:00 to 4:00 for siesta or riposo as they call it here, and then haul it back out for the evening. It’s pretty much self serve as they weight it when you check out. But the little man, Giovanni, walks back and forth and hands you a bag if you need and gossips with any other old men hanging around. I think it was his wife who died. As I was leaving that day I saw a man stop to talk to him so I went back and gave my standard ‘non parlo itliano’ line and then said the words I looked up for condolences. They seemed to be right, he seemed to be the right person to say them to, and he of course started telling me how miserable he was and all sorts of stuff in Italian. I felt just awful for him. He was so cute and sweet and I just did not have the words for him, but I think I made all the right hand gestures and he was grateful. The next day I said it to the woman who runs the store and a young female customer was there who helped translate, I found out she was the sister-in-law of the deceased woman, and her name was Rosetta. And it was Rosetta, who runs the store, who told me we are both named after flowers. Rosetta’s sons are Silvio and Jeanlucca who always have several days worth of beards on their faces and didn’t let on to me that they knew any English for at least three weeks. I was mad at them for that. Now they help me with my Italian, but mostly they use English with me. I always hand over all my change and let them pluck what is appropriate out of my hand because Italians have this weird thing about change.

Italians don’t like making change. The way into an Italians heart is not through their stomachs, it is through correct change. They hate it, hate it if you only have a 20 Euro bill for a 2.50 Euro transaction. They’ll partly forgive you if you have 50 cents and 2 Euro so they only have to give you 15Euro back. They will actually charge you what they want so the change comes out even. Really. And they will make change for the person in front of you and then look at you and refuse to give you change. And there is nothing you can do about. They will also round up or down so they don’t have to hand out more change. Say the price is 3.62 and you hand over 3.70. They will just keep the whole 3.70. But if you only have 3.60 they will just take the 3.60 rather than breaking a larger bill or having to give change for 3.70. Is your head spinning? It must all even out at some point I guess. So, I just hold my hand out to Silvio and Jeanlucca – I can’t figure out the system and I trust them.

 I  made the most horrible of horrible mistakes though. I went to the Post Office with a letter destined for Rome and I only had a 20Euro bill. The office itself is about the size of a postage stamp and had two people working there. The first employee couldn’t figure out how to stamp it!?! Rome! So I was sent to the other employee and in the meantime another woman came in behind me. I told the postal lady I didn’t speak Italian, but she insisted on asking me questions. I showed her the envelope and the 20Euro bill. She kept talking to me and the other employee and customer. Suddenly the customer was shouting in furious Italian and I think it had something to do with my money. She kept shouting and throwing her hands around, the postal women kept talking angrily to me and I just keep shoving the 20Euro bill at her. This continued until the employee yanked open a drawer filled with gobs of bills and coins, took my money and grudgingly gave me change. I put the change away and left as quickly as possible with the shouting still in my ears. I’m sure the employee took my letter, spit on it, ground it into dirt, and sent it via Libya as it hasn’t arrived in Rome almost four weeks later. Postal workers the world over must have an underground tutorial on how to torture customers. When I learn nasty Italian I will so be in her face!!! Okay, not true. But if I ever meet her bosses, and I ever learn any Italian, I will tell them all about the attitude adjustment that needs to occur in the Praiano Ufficio Postale. In the meantime, no one is getting any mail from me!

The Amalfi coast road

A Trip to the Salon



A cafe latte at the Cafe Sole in Praiano



Well the day finally came where I couldn’t stand looking at the gray roots in my hair any longer and I would have to visit the local salon. Adriana had told me where it was and to just walk in and talk to one of the ladies who spoke some English. This took a lot of courage for me because a women’s hair salon is a very touchy place. In a woman’s life it ranks right up there with favorite babysitters, manicurists, dog groomers, and cleaning ladies. These are people you need, want, and fear. So entering this domain in a strange country without much of the language and no knowledge of Italian salon etiquette was a big step. I also knew everyone in town would know what I said and did.

I found the salon with no problem. I just could not get the door open. In Italy they don’t care if you die in a fire – all the outer exit doors open inward so in an emergency you are all packed against the door frantically trying to get it open and you die. They have emergency lights in all the rooms if the electricity goes out, but you can’t get the door open if you all race out in a fire. Consequently, I have spent the last 10 weeks banging into doors that won’t budge as I go in and out of buildings. It makes for a really smooth entrance. So I rattled away on the salon door until someone nicely opened it for me. I stumbled in red-faced and looked at an old lady sitting in a white salon coat and said my standard “Non parlo italiano” and she glumly pointed at a young women with long hair. She came over, I told her what I needed, and she spoke relatively decent English. I was expecting to make an appointment and come back some other time and she asks, “Now is ok?” My first reaction was to grab my calendar and check what I had the rest of the day. Then I had about a two second out of body experience where I looked down on myself and realized for the first time in my life since probably kindergarten, this stranger, me,  had absolutely no schedule. I had no reason to say “Well I need to be out of here in an hour, but I can come back in two if you can finish my hair in 45 minutes.” I mean, there was NOTHING I had to do. NOTHING that was required of me that day except food and water. I stood looking at this young woman for a moment completely stunned because I had never had this experience in my recollection. Who was I and what had I become? And for one more split second I saw myself screaming wildly, jumping up and down, ripping my coat off and throwing it the air and laughing hysterically. Instead I simply said “Ok” and entered fully into life without a calendar.

The salon experience alone was probably worth the trip to Praiano. The old lady I first mentioned was the grandmother to the young lady and the mother of the young lady was also working there, so the three generations ran the place. It was very small and not the least slick or spiffed up. This was one of only two places in town to get your hair done, so they have a built in customer base as the other salon is in the other part of town. They don’t take appointments, you just come in and wait and it’s first come, first served. No one reads while they wait, they talk or listen to whoever is talking. You leave your purse wherever and never worry someone would take it. They only have three styling chairs and one hair washing station and very little hygiene. The combs, scissors and brushes are never cleaned between customers and some of the towels are even re-used. When it got really busy, they set up a folding chair in the middle of this small room and put a lady’s hair color on her head right in the middle of everything. The old lady worked on me first, very slowly and with grunts and head pushes as she didn’t know any English. She put the color on my head. As I waited for it to work I watched as mothers, daughters and grandchildren came in together sometimes just to watch Nana get her hair done. I guess it was together time. Other young women came in just to get their hair washed, dried, and finished. As I watched the completion of each hairstyle, the customer would lift her head and close her eyes and the young salon owner would start plucking chin and facial hair, then pull over a messy looking pot of wax, and start waxing their eyebrows and faces. I was starting to worry that might be part of the deal. A darling little two-year-old boy was with his mother and grandmother and was playing with the curlers they use to set the older women’s hair. The curlers were next to me so I would smile and play with him and also got a close look at how all the curlers were filled with hair of many colors and never cleaned between clients. Lovely. The mother, about my age, came and washed my hair and cut it and then her daughter asked if I wanted it blown dry or in curlers. I definitely did not want the curlers so I opted for the blow dry. As I watched the young girl talking away as she was blow drying someone’s hair, it was quite funny watching an Italian trying to talk while working with both hands. She had a dryer in one hand and a brush in the other and was talking rapidly and loudly to be heard over the motor sounds. Every 10-20 seconds she had to stop drying the hair because whatever she was saying just could not be said without raising both the dryer and brush arm up in the air and waving them dramatically around for emphasis. I could not help thinking how much faster things would go if they didn’t talk. Luckily, the mother did not take tweezers to me and I got out with my hair looking quite nice. Phew!

As I left the salon I saw a small convenience store I hadn’t been in across the street with a car parked in front of it. A Large man was standing out in front leaning on the door and I figured that was the proprietor so I thought I would go over and check it out. As I got around the car I saw the man was wearing a skirt. Oops. She was very manly looking and sounding, and one of those really intimidating types of women that every grade school has as a teacher and you pray you never would get. She turned out to be very nice and patient with my bad Italian and helped me with what kind of water wouldn’t be too heavy to carry. It is absolutely amazing what sort of communication you can have with people if you are willing to make a fool of yourself. When I got to the foot of my stairs I was in a quandary. I needed food from my little market that the convenience store didn’t have, but I didn’t want them to know I bought food somewhere else. I decided to trust the people of Praiano and leave my bag on the stairs where the market people would not be able to see it, and hope for the best. My faith was rewarded and there on the stairs sat my other bag just waiting for me when I finished my other shopping. All I had to do was lug it up my cursed staircase!

I hate those stairs. Hate, hate, hate. They kill my back, lungs, knees and thighs. You know what the stairs represent? Life. Not that I hate my life, but there are times in life I hate it, or things in life I hate. (Like diets) I would not climb those stairs if they did not take me to such a great place with such fantastic views. It wouldn’t be worth the pain. However, the stairs are making my heart and lungs stronger, my thighs steadier to help stabilize my knees, and they bring me to a wonderful place. So the stairs are a metaphor for my life. My body, heart and soul, are perfected by  physical, mental and spiritual work and trials  - the stairs. The garden, the balcony, the unspeakably beautiful views are the heaven that God’s love beckons me toward. Praiano – God’s workshop!

The 3 Most Useless Italian Words

The rain finally stopped that weekend and a ferocious wind brought the sun. I decided to go to a morning mass they were having for their special 40 Hours observances and as I was getting ready, besides the howling wind, I kept hearing weird scraping noises. When I left the house I noticed all the chair on the terrace had been blown into the far corner. That’s when I remembered Adriana saying once the table actually flew off the terrace and down the mountain. I went out to retrieve the chairs, but the wind was so strong I could barely walk back carrying each one and I had to push into the wind and drag each chair. I was terrified we would take off like the old women on her bike in the Wizard of Oz. Once they were all secured I headed down to church and on my way down the church steps an older women was grabbing the rail for dear life and yelling to me “Molto vento”. And I kept saying “Non parlo itlaliano”. And she keeps repeating it like I’m a dummy. And then I realized, I am a dummy, she’s trying to teach me the words “very windy”. So I finally smiled and repeated with big arm gestures “molto vento”. And we both felt proud of ourselves.

Let me digress for a moment and mention the three most worthless words in the Italian language: ‘Non parlo italiano’,or “I don’t speak Italian”. Every store I enter or every person I encounter who I have to say more than “Buon giorno” to, I then immediately say “Non parlo italiano”. They then smile, nod their heads and promptly ramble away in rapid and violent Italian and look at me like I understand and then pause for me to reply. I then say “Non capisco”, ‘I don’t understand’, and they are off and running again. This is why God gave them flailing arms and hands. I at least know, occasionally, where or who they might be talking about. And sometimes the particularly aggressive ones will actually grab my hands as If I’m Helen Keller and try to shake the information into me. It works. And luckily I have always used my hands when I talk so I have been able to get my needs across that way as this is a culture which understands the visual medium. The first time I went to the butcher I hadn’t known it would be open so I hadn’t looked up any words for what I wanted. It was easy to point at the chicken and wonderful to see him actually cut it up and skin it for me. None of that packaged crap we get at home. But then I wanted some ground meat for putting in pasta. The only word I knew was carne and he pointed at the steak. I said no and started miming making meatballs and stupidly repeating the word over and over. Then I started turning my hand in circles and going “rhrhrhrhrh” like a grinder and he suddenly understood. I watched him attach a part to this big machine, go in his cooler and take out some beef and whack off a few pieces and then put them in the grinder. He then asked me if that is enough and I said “si”. Talk about fresh and clean ground beef! The next time I went in there they were actually making these ground up things shaped like patties. I said “comme say dice?” meaning what do you call that. The young man said ”amahbogah”. I looked at him quizzically and repeated, “amahbogah”? And he nodded and I thought what the heck is that? He repeated it again, and so did I. By the 3^rd or 4^th time I laughed and said “Oh, hamburger” and he laughed and nodded. I bought four.

Back to church and our windy day. I sat in mass that day and listened more to the wind than the priest. As the church has this glorious position right above the sea and facing both water and cliffs it is also broadly exposed to the elements. The wind raged against those walls. The present church was built in 1572 on an existing structure from 1200. The majolica tile bell tower and cupola are famous sites on this coast. Inside various areas have undergone restoration, with a beautiful and colorful painted tile floor with the motif of the fruits of the area- oranges, lemons, etc  included in the design along with traditional religious decoration. The side altars are all in a bit of disrepair, but the center nave is splendid with bursts of Cherubs everywhere and Italianate taste gone wild, but beautifully so. Square pillars six by six feet wide hold up these ancient walls that are thicker even than the pillars. As I sat listening to the wind I actually felt fearful it was so loud, so deep and unrelenting. Moto vento did not seem to cover what I was hearing and feeling. I worried the church would start to crumble and pieces fall down upon us. Then I laughed at myself as I thought of all the years this structure had stood up to this sort of punishment. Besides the long unneeded and crumbling guard towers on certain points on this coast, the churches are the only surviving ancient structures here. They were built to last. For centuries people have climbed up or down these cliffs to pay homage to God here, to ask His blessings on their families, their fishing, their planting, their building. This small town of 2,000 people has eight churches or chapels. They BELIEVE He will keep them safe through it all, so they have built Him homes beside their own. I decided that day, that to worry about the church collapsing in the wind was both ridiculous and a sign of a lack of faith in God, myself and all the people who had sat in these pews before me. Moreover, I realized why the walls of my home here were two feet thick and why these wise people followed the bible by building homes on rock instead of sand. Moto vento cannot touch these sturdy peoples who have conquered the ability to live and thrive on the cliffs above this sea.

Italian Chaos, Italian Peace

That week it rained every day. I have satellite TV with over 360 channels, many, many from Arab countries. It took me over an hour to go through them and find 3 full time English speaking channels (news), 2 occasional English channels (news), 1 non-English, but full-time tennis channel, and one full-time movie channel that is in English 80% of the time. And I couldn’t even count how many were selling phone sex and ‘whatever’ with very naughty pictures, much of it to Arabs. So please do not let the Muslims tell you all that immoral sex stuff is coming from the West, as I saw it on their TV stations. Well, I didn’t see it; (I promise) I saw it advertised.

One night I was watching a movie during a particularly wild thunderstorm and the lights kept going out. Very spooky. I’m all alone up on a cliff above the ocean and I peek out my window and see all the other lights of the village are also out. It was only about 7:30, I didn’t have any candles and I’m trying to figure out what to do for the rest of the evening. A little glow was coming from my bedroom so I stumbled in there to see what it was and I found an emergency light glowing on the wall. I had noticed those in all the rooms, but didn’t know how they worked. Bright enough to find your way about the room, but still not bright enough to read by, and the one in my living room didn’t seem to be working. Finally the lights came back on, and then, after about 4 more outages, stayed on. A few days later I asked Adriana, and she showed me a switch in each room to turn on the emergency lights in case of an outage. Isn’t that brilliant?  Every house has that – no candles needed.

Even in the rain the views are wonderful and ever-changing. I never felt the least bit stir crazy with the storms as the mountains, cliffs, clouds and water were constantly providing shifting and entrancing entertainment. I went down the stairs each night for mass as daily mass is in the evening, and huffed and puffed my way back up in the dark. Thankfully, the stairs are lit, but I could still hide in the shadows every 20 steps or so while the burn receded and my breath calmed a bit. I’ve learned to check behind me and see if anyone is following and if so, I suddenly need to fix my shoe, or check in my purse for keys, or look at my phone which I don’t know how to use anyway. This way I can stop for a break and I don’t look like a total wuss. And if I’m carrying shopping bags I just have to set them down and slowly change them from one hand to the other. Very valid for us European shoppers. And there is one spot on the stairs where the wall comes down far enough for me to look over the ledge, into the garden and beyond to the sea. So of course I have to stop there – it’s my favorite spot, like a peek at heaven.

I went to my market on Thursday. It was closed. Fine, that must be a Praiano thing. Went again on Friday. Closed. Went again on Saturday. Closed! And of course closed on Sunday. I was out of milk for my coffee and cereal. I saw signs on some of the doors and tried to read them but I just couldn’t make out what they said. I thought maybe it had something to do with the start of Lent and the 40 Hours Vigil the church was doing. Finally I ran into Adriana and she said the woman relative of the market owner had died, the sister of the man I had met, and all the stores around that store closed as a show of respect. Monday everything would be opened. The words on the sign I was trying to translate turned out to be the woman’s name. Oops.

The first night I went to mass alone, the priest was saying the rosary with the little old women. He saw me and told me where to sit, gave me a sheet to follow along and then interrupted the rosary to tell everyone who I was. At least I think that’s what he said, he doesn’t speak English. He kept walking back and forth, in and out of the front of the church and booming a prayer and then fading away. Suddenly he would jump in behind me in a loud voice and then he would trail away again. It’s a real experience to go to church here. Don Pio is directing everything while he is also trying to get everything prepped and ready for mass. So he is all around, in and out and always wearing a little grey beanie. I think his head is cold as no church in all of Italy is heated and I am always freezing at mass. Nothing starts on time, which is obvious as the church bells ring every quarter hour. If you are a server or reader for mass that means you get there at the time mass is supposed to start and then begin preparing. On Sundays a crowd of chidren does the serving with absolutely no practice or thought given to order or tasks. Occasionally Don Pio moves the antiquated microphone away from his mouth and scolds one or more of the servers, or pushes their leaning arm off the altar. The choir consists of a couple women and sometimes a man who do all the singing in a loud, Italian sort of nasal twang. On weekdays we have to fend for ourselves and absolutely no one is on the same word at the same time. It doesn’t seem to bother anyone. Everyone also seems to sit, kneel and stand whenever they want and again, never all at the same time. When children are present on weekends, insanity reigns in the pews. Luckily there are side aisles as parents and children use this area like a playground, and no one thinks twice about getting up and walking right in front of the altar in the middle of mass. I have moved beyond distraction and judgment to pure astonishment. This bears no resemblances to the masses I am accustomed to at home. Not only is it in Italian, it’s pure Italian chaos.

But to look at the people in church, especially the old people, is to look at history. Here are the faces of ancient Rome, Greece and all her conquerors. These people are not the chic and spiffed up Romans, Venetians or Milanese. These are ITALIANS: short, dark haired, olive and wrinkled skin that has seen years of sea-bright sun as they worked the terraced farms and hills and fished these waters; sturdy, hardy and stockily built to climb the steps and face the brutal sea winds. They wear mostly drab and dull clothes, nothing flashy, just practical. The women’s hair is gray or badly dyed a flat black or brown. The men’s hair, if any, is gray. Many are hunched over with age and infirmities and I can’t believe they can make their way to mass with all the stairs and cobblestones. They bear the noses of Italy in all its’ shapes, and their brown eyes move almost as quickly as their tongues. Age has no affect on an Italians ability to speak with alarming speed and intensity. And they can shrug like no other people on earth. A shrug is worth a thousand words in Italy.



The gardens outside my window



The young Italians here are more like those in the big cities. They dress a bit more fashionably and their hair is a little nicer. But, and this is a big difference, everyone here smiles and says hello. Everyone tries to be nice. Families stay together. Everyone is related to half their neighbors and the gardens are the prized possessions of each family. As you grow older you may have to move lower in town and away from your garden, but you never, ever give up your garden. When the weather warms and the arthritic joints limber up, the old ones climb back up to the sunny gardens and bend and toil in the terraces hewn into the cliffs of these family gardens. One day I glanced out my kitchen window because I heard voices, and there in the garden beside my house was an old man, a younger man, and a little boy, all setting about the business of early spring gardening. Aren’t you jealous? Isn’t this the way life was really meant to be?

More Invaders

Walking down my stairs can be pleasant on a sunny day:)

The next morning we had a private mass, my last mass in English, as the kids would be leaving today. On the way home we stopped to buy water at my little market at the foot of the stairs. The owner didn’t have as much water as I needed and she started talking to me in Italian and my son explained I don’t speak Italian, so she told him I could just get a bottle each day and take it up that way. I was less than thrilled by this idea. As we came out an older man asked the boys in English if they were the priests from America. They said yes and he replied he was from New York and had returned because his sister, some relation to the owner of the market, was dying. His name was Angelo and used to live in the house I’m staying in. Small world. And now everyone in town would know who I was as it seems the old men all stand in bunches and talk most of the days.

When we returned to the house I glanced into my bedroom and saw a long, black, shiny thing on the floor, and it moved. I went in and peered more closely at it and shouted for my son. He came running and I pointed and screamed at this creepy, undulating something in my bedroom. My kids told me it’s just a millipede. A millipede! In my bedroom! Yuuuuk! They are gross and have zillions of legs, and crunchy shells, and I do not want to find one in my bed. He threw that one down the toilet and I got busy with the bug spray again. It slipped in under my French doors during the rains.

Italians have a funny way of building homes. My house is built like a tank – two foot walls. Great for keeping out the heat in summer and I think it also helps keep it from sliding into the ocean in torrential rains. But then they go to put in doors and windows and it’s like insulation, weather stripping and caulk have never been invented. Under my front door is a quarter inch gap and no weather stripping. So when it rains I get a big puddle I have to step over to enter the house. Then I have to either mop it up or sweep it away. The wind of course comes blowing through there and contributes to the general refrigeration affect in the hallway. In the front rooms with ocean views and French doors, the doors themselves seal together, but when I lie in bed in the morning with the shutters on the doors closed, I can see right through to the outside in several places all around the edges of the doors. It usually tells me what time it is and how sunny the day may be. And also contributes to the fact that the electric heaters tend to run constantly in those rooms, to say nothing of letting in the creepy crawlies in rain storms. Two more disgusting millipedes made it in the next morning. I used up a can of bug spray.

My son and daughter and friend were now ready to leave. One of their final suggestions was that if I tried running down the stairs as they had it might feel better on my legs. Funny. They said it was much easier for them and didn’t burn in their thighs as much. Even funnier. I have an erosive, inflammatory type of arthritis which should have precluded me ever coming to this part of Italy and staying anywhere near a place with steps, much less 127 steps. The arthritis has been particularly bothersome in my back and knees. So I did think long and hard about coming here and worst case scenarios and ‘what ifs’. As a matter of fact, Adriana has offered to buy me any groceries if I can’t negotiate the steps, which is very kind. So running down the stairs is akin to winning an Olympic medal in the high jump. Ain’t gonna happen.

Actually, running in any way doesn’t happen with this body. When I was in Rome with my college daughter we had been to dinner with some of her friends and then to get gelato and we were slowly making our way back to her dorm house where she lives and where I was meeting my ride. Because of my arthritis and slow walking, we decided that to make it back in time we would need to grab a bus along the way, and as we rounded a corner the bus we needed passed us. My daughter and her friends naturally yelled “Run” and took off. I looked up and thought, run? Wow, I don’t really do that. But my daughter was yelling “Run, Mom”. And so I sort of leaned forward in my nice coat and scarf and new black boots and started shuffling. In my mind I was thinking: to run means both feet need to be off the ground at the same point at some point in time, and I’m just sort of leaning forward and sliding my feet along the cobblestones, for crying out loud who made these streets, and I can’t breathe, and that bus can just leave me here Rome is safe city at night, I’m going to die, I look like an idiot, cabs are really nice, I am dying. And in front of me the girls were hanging onto the bus and yelling and waving encouragement and trying to get the bus driver to wait. Finally I reached the bus steps and the bus took off just like in a movie only it wasn’t some happy reunion. I was wondering if I’d ever walk or breathe normally again. I actually did end up at an orthopedic doctor a week or so later, but that’s another story.

For now, suffice it to say, this women will never be running down those stairs. I watch people run down those stairs and I marvel at a body that can take that sort of punishment. And I wonder if that person is thanking God for the ability to do that, because someday they may not have that ability anymore. As the song says: “Don’t it always seem to go, you don’t know what you got till it’s gone?”



I got the 'hang' of Italian laundering!



So my kids left and I was alone on the Amalfi coast. What should I do? I did the laundry. I hung it outside on the terrace to dry because no one has dryers. I knew this was the case before I arrived and I was in a bit of a quandary. What do I do about underwear? That whole quote about ‘airing your dirty laundry‘ went through my mind, but I was concerned about airing my clean underwear. Everywhere I looked I saw laundry on lines, but no underwear. And then in the little room beside the bathroom I found a folding contraption that must be called a drying rack. It opens up and you can hang and place laundry on it in the house. So all the ‘unmentionables’ can be dried in privacy. Amazingly enough, things dry pretty rapidly. I just have to plan a little bit ahead and forget about sheets, towels and blue jeans on the rainy days. I also have to forget about the effects of shrinking things in the dryer. I have a cotton turtle neck I brought and when I wash it I can’t hang it on the line or the wind would drag it to the ground. As it is, each time I wash it, it keeps getting a little longer and a little baggier. I think I’m losing weight when my clothes are actually getting bigger. Dangerous.

Home Invasion

The next day we awoke to rain. And ants. I saw one small ant on the table and remembered seeing one in my suitcase. I looked at the floor. Brown speckled stone tile. Hard to see, but I spotted movement. I jumped up and peered closely with my glasses. More ants. I followed a trail of them into my bedroom. I started moaning out loud to my kids. They were getting denser around my suitcase sitting on a trunk, crawling out of a crack in the tile, and all around my bedside table. I opened a drawer next to my bed. Now I was yelling. They were in my Vera Bradley make up cases and my special stash of candy! I was shaking them off of everything and stomping all around. I was devastated and terrified. Was my Shangri-La going to be ant heaven? I envisioned weeks of torment ahead. I was really upset. My son said I just had to go downstairs and talk to Adriana. He even looked up the word for ant. I didn’t want to. I wanted him to go for me. It was raining and I was chicken and I wanted to stay and kill ants. I get a little off kilter when bugs get near my clothes, my bed and my food. He made me go see Adraina. Talk about role reversal!

She was very nice and gave me spray. I’m okay when I get bug spray. My kids know I have a thing about killing unwanted weeds and bugs. When it’s me against Mother Nature I take no prisoners. I use poison. I don’t go green. I admit it. I use whatever gets those things out of my way. If I get cancer it will be because of my fight against weeds and bugs. But, I will have lived a little more peacefully because of it.

So I sprayed those buggers. And anywhere they may have trod. I took my suitcase down from the trunk and took everything out of it and shook it and made it ant free. Until I accidentally dropped one end of it and ants poured out of the wheels, really poured out. (I just got up and sprayed the wheels again!). I screamed again. I’m sure my kids were wondering how I was going to get along for the next seven weeks. I started picking up and dropping the suitcase and each time more dropped out. I had a whole colony in there! My daughter said I was making too much noise. Well, that made me want to put the ants in her backpack. But I dropped and sprayed until no more came out. What a fun rainy day sport!

At this point the kids decided they were hungry and wanted to go to the other restaurant in town. The tourist season hadn’t started, so most hotels and restaurants aren’t open yet so we only have two choices at the moment. I had lost my appetite so they went without me and I stayed back to shore up my ant fortifications. At 5:00 we had arranged to do an English mass in the Church. Their daily mass is at 6:00 and the rosary started at 5:30 so I hoped the boys would be watching their time. We used a side chapel as they were fixing the main altar for the upcoming 40 Hours celebrations they were having. The mass went well and Don Pio sat in for most of it and a few of the local ladies showed up at the end. The minute the boys gave the final blessing I heard a voice ring out in Italian with the start of the rosary. There would be no delays here!

We then drove to what we were told was a larger grocery store in the upper town. I have a market right at the foot of my stairs which is the size of the average family room in America. Crammed with just about everything I could want, it just doesn’t have the variety a bigger store offers. So we found the Tutto Tutti, Everything for Everyone. Here was the same size store, but on two floors, and it was next to the other Catholic church in town. I could see right down to the church entrance from the entrance of the store. We then proceeded to shock the Italians. They have little baskets you carry and fill with what you need. My kid’s idea was to buy as much of the heavy and bulky items as we could now so I wouldn’t have to lug that stuff up my stairs. So bottled water, toilet paper, paper towels, soda, beer, cereal, yogurt, BUG SPRAY, etc was loaded into basket after basket. I think we filled 5 or 6 baskets. I spent $138 and they rarely see that. My kids and friend loaded it in the car and lugged it up the stairs. I am very blessed.

I never could figure out why Europeans shop every day. I thought it was because they like fresh ingredients, fresh produce and bakery. And that may be part it, but actually it is much simpler. We, I’m a European now, are walking. Yes, I have to walk back to my house, and in Praiano, I have to climb 127 really uneven tough steps while carrying my groceries.  Two bags is the limit and they can’t be too heavy, or I have to make another trip to the store.  Consequently, I fret. Is the milk getting low, how much cereal is left, should I buy meat and freeze it, which store should I go to now, can I buy milk after mass or should I do it in the morning? What stores are open today? How long are they closed for siesta? Grocery shopping in America is once a week for the main stuff, once every few weeks for the paper products and drinks, and then when necessary. The stores are open all the time and I can buy as much as I want and throw it in the car, park in the garage and unload in leisure! Thank your lucky stars Americans!!!

After shopping we decided to take my daughter to the restaurant with the lemon shrimp pasta. We ordered the pasta for everyone, a large pizza and two orders of French fries. My son also ordered Spumante to celebrate the kicking off of my time in Praiano. The Spumante here is not the horrid sweet junk we usually get at home. Here you can order one that is very nice and much like a champagne. We had had fries with our fish as the other night they were outstanding. We couldn’t figure out what was so good about them so we asked the owner what he used and how he fried them. He said he just used fresh local potatoes. They were again excellent this night as was the rest of the highly nutritious and balanced meal we had ordered.

Mama Mia They Can Cook!

"I'm only 10 minutes old!"

The next day was my first full day in Praiano, and we were meeting up with my son’s friend’s friend from Naples. His parents had flown in the night before and we were all to meet up for lunch. At this point in time I was quickly learning nothing happens as planned or on time in Italy. The boys had made plans the day before for their own English mass at 3:30 in the church as it was Sunday. Then my daughter decided to take the bus down from Rome to be with us and the boys decided we had to go to this Agritourismo nearby. I was also to learn ‘nearby’ on the coast can be really close as the crow flies, but incredibly far by car.

An Agritourismo is most often a farm which has rooms to rent and serves meals. Usually a certain percentage of the food served must be raised and produced on that farm. Much of it is organic and all natural. My son had talked about taking me to one for a long time so I was really looking forward to finally experiencing this slice of Italy. We met his friends at the bottom of my stairs later than originally planned and they followed us in their car. We took another breathtaking drive along a new part of the coast that first wound around the point I live on and I then realized there was a whole other half of Praiano on the other side of that point. We continued to wind higher and higher and through tunnels and always with the sea straight below us. Finally we started going inland only to realize we were following the sea into a deep gorge and up to where our Agritourismo was located. Thank God for the GPS or we never would have known what little tiny roads to turn onto.

We arrived around 1:30 and climbed down about 25 steps to get to the entrance of the farmhouse. We were met by Domenico, the owner, wearing a jaunty little cap, a cheerful and quick smile and lots of enthusiastic Italian, and shown in and given a little tour. Since he spoke only Italian my son and his friend did a lot of translating. It was a beautiful home and very well tended, not at all the old dirty farmhouse I thought it might be. One room contained long bunches of the native cherry tomatoes hanging from the ceiling drying, another was filled with hanging sausages and hams and other meats cured by Domenica, another was filled with large stainless steel wine vats where he had us draw our own wine, both red and white. Then he took us to the spotless and beautifully tiled kitchen where his wife was stirring a tomato sauce with their own olive oil, garlic and tomatoes, while his daughter was making a type of pasta which is a local specialty. Then we were ushered into the dining room which overlooks the valley. Here was an open fire in a brick oven and a large table set with all types of antipasto. Marinated squash which looked like red peppers, but wasn’t, olives, bread made in the brick oven, buffalo mozzarella, sausage, bruschetta, and more. We were next served the pasta we had seen them making in the kitchen – simple but delicious. Then they brought in meat and grilled it in front of us in the brick oven, first a type of pork loin, then a heavenly sausage and last, mozzarella stuffed with olive and prosciutto, sliced and grilled on a lemon leaf. Oh my! Through all this my daughter was attempting to take one bus, a train and another bus to reach us from Rome. She had also run out of minutes on her cell phone so the only way to reach her was for us to call her European cell phone. I was a wreck worrying she wouldn’t be able to find a connection and have to sit somewhere for hours so I kept making my son get up and call her. We also were rapidly passing the 3:30 mark for mass. It was turning into a very Italian day. As we were enjoying cookies and liqueurs also made on the farm, Domenico came in and announced something very special had just happened – a baby goat had been born in the yard and would we like to see it. We all jumped up at this chance and grabbed our cameras. Out in the barnyard (right next to the dining room – it is a farm) was the mother goat licking away at the newborn kid who was weakly bleating and trying to stand. I found it absolutely fascinating, but most of the others were pretty disgusted because the baby was covered in birthing fluids and the mother was, as they all said “oozing” placenta down her backside. Talk about a real farm experience. I took pictures and it was so cute to see the baby try to stand and the mother keep baa—ing when it bleeted, although, I couldn’t help but wonder if this was going to be on some future menu. Right beside the mother goat was the door to the goat yard and I looked in and the ram was extremely agitated to be excluded from the birth. He was huge and angry and kept ramming his impressive horns into the stone foundation of the barn to let everyone know that was his baby. Finally, Domenico showed me the trail that led through the mountains back to Praiano and said it was only a 20 minute walk. I was shocked as it had taken us longer than that to drive here. But the road was twisted and slow and the mountain trail went directly to the far side of Praino, not where I live.  And if he knew how I walked he probably would have said 3 hours.

We drove back to Praiano and as we parked our car the local bus drove up and dropped off my daughter. Perfect! It was way past 3:30. I was becoming a real Italian. We then went to the 6:00 mass where the boys con-celebrated with the local priest, Don Pio, who I guess introduced them and us to the congregation. I didn’t understand a word. The mass was mainly women. Where were all the men? After mass we went to the bar across the street, the famous bar, to buy some bottled water, and we found the men. Interesting, women pray, men talk and drink coffee. Some of the women then came from mass and met the men.  This was going to be interesting to watch the next few weeks.

We then had great take-out pizza from the restaurant we ate at the night before. God bless the Italians and their pizza.

Eating and Drinking Italian Style

When life hands you lemons...

We walked about two blocks up the street to La Brace restaurant and pizzeria. The boys – ok, they are men, priests even, but I can’t help calling them boys –it’s what a mother does. The boys had no trouble discussing the menu with the owner who kept hovering as there was only one other table filled at that time. I was excited to try food in this region because they are famous for their lemon dishes which I love. Here they offered a lemon and shrimp pasta that neither my son nor I could pass up. They also had the fried fish plate which the boys had to have as an appetizer. At this point in my travels I am sort of sea-fooded out, not being a huge seafood lover anyway. And a fried fish plate here is all sea food, usually shrimp in the shell with the head staring at you, calamari, calamari rings, sardines and whatever else they may have. The batter is always great, but one calamari is about right for me now. The pasta was fantastic! The shrimp was shelled, no heads in sight, in a lovely lemon cream sauce tossed in homemade short noodle pasta that was heavenly. My  son introduced all of us to the owner as we were leaving and explained I would be around for 7 weeks and alone most of the time. So Giovanni, as that is his name, grabs his card, shrugs with outstretched arms and gives it to my son and says I should have his number as “You never know what can happen.” I smiled and thanked him with one of my five Italian words. I have found the Italians have a way of summing up situations in sort of vague, but concise ways. I knew what he meant and my son certainly did after living here 5 years. And I have his card now, on my living room shelf, in case something happens. But he doesn’t deliver pizza – we asked.

When we were in a restaurant in Rome, I asked, or my son asked for me, if I could have certain pasta with a different sauce than it was listed with on the menu. The waiter thought about it for a minute and then said “No, too much flavor.” We really laughed at that because first of all we come from a society where the customer is always right. Second of all, the family business was restaurants and we always made substitutions if a customer requested it. But lastly, it’s so ITALAIN.  He was telling me for my own good and the good of my taste buds that that combination would be too much. And they couldn’t possibly serve it that way. It just wouldn’t be right. It wouldn’t be ITALIAN.

Then a few nights later in Venice we were looking at a pizza menu. They list each pizza, its’ name and then the ingredients. I really wanted a certain pizza with some artichokes added to it and no anchovies. So when the waitress came to take our order my son asks about the substitution, and she raises her shoulders, holds up her open hands, nods her head and says “It’s pizza”.  So I got my pizza my way. I’m learning. Being in Italy is just like life, sometimes you get things the way you want and sometimes you don’t.

That’s why my perfect view is 127 steps above the street. So we climbed back up that night and I crawled into bed for my first night sleep above Praiano. It felt good to not be alone that night. Thank God for my kids! I slept beautifully and the boys made breakfast the next morning too. And coffee, they had to figure out the coffee. There was a tiny, little American coffee brewer that made about 8 ounces and only had 4 filters, an Italian contraption that makes espresso (I don’t like espresso) and a small old fashioned percolator. Their task was to figure out what I could actually use in the weeks ahead. They made all three. The percolator won unless Adriana finds me more filters for the American coffee maker. The percolator though, is not like our old coffee pots. Of course not, this is an Italian version of an American concept. It’s a nice, heavy duty metal, (that’s an improvement) with a small angled hourglass shape.  The basket part that holds the grounds is also nice and sturdy (another improvement) unlike the ones I grew up with which were always wobbling and falling apart and spilling grounds. Those old ones were a mess of light aluminum parts that never stayed together and I was terrified when my mom wanted help making the coffee. And she would always ask me to time the percolating which also scared me because what if I got it wrong? What if I didn’t see exactly when it started? How could I know if I timed it right? And cleaning that basket was messy! Coffee making was a traumatic part of my childhood.  Anyway, the problem here was with the hollow plastic handle. It’s hollow right down into the pot so when it perks it drips coffee out of the handle and onto the stove. Whose idea was that? So the boys devised a method whereby the espresso cups I will never use are placed under the dripping handle to catch the coffee. Now I had drip coffee, perked coffee and an espresso all in one!  I couldn’t tell them how long to perk it, though 7 minutes seemed to hang in my memory but that’s also my favorite number so?!? Now when I’m alone I put the pot on and then return to my heated living room and obsess about when it starts to perk. I’m not going to sit in a cold kitchen and literally wait for the pot to boil, so I’m back to my childhood trauma of trying to catch the first perk by running in and out of the heated room to the frigid kitchen. When I do catch the perk, then I use the seven minute rule. What the heck, it’s my coffee and it's okay. I have to use espresso grind because it’s all they sell here, so I don’t know what I’m doing anyway. Hey, it’s Italy!

Inside Casa Faraglioni

 





Kithchen looking out to terraced gardens and sea



Now the house. As I said, I had studied the internet photos so I knew the furnishings were Italian sparse and kitschy. I just wanted clean, some heat in the rooms I would live in, a comfy chair or two, internet and a place to write with a view. Supposedly this was all here. As Adriana led us in the house we entered a long, blue tiled and pretty hall with several doors. She opened a door into the living room and there was the table and chairs and couch I had seen in the photos, but best of all it was heated. Well, second best, as the room also had French doors opening onto a small balcony overlooking the ocean. Adriana’s family also had a terrace below that balcony. But from the table, where I sit now, all I can see is ocean, almost like I am still on a cruise ship. From that room were two bedrooms, each sleeping 2 people. All those rooms had tall domed ceilings that, if you are in the right spot, you actually get an echo from somewhere else in the room. If you look at buildings in this region you often see the domed houses and this house happens to have three domes, one in each of the three front rooms and the ceilings go right to the top of the domes. As to why they build the domes, that is another thing I have been trying to research with no luck. And I have yet to find someone fluent enough in English to explain it to me. The master bedroom is quite large and has an attached bathroom and another small balcony that looks over the ocean and my terrace. I can change clothes and you would have to be on a boat on the sea with binoculars to see me. Wonderful. These three rooms have heat. Then Adriana showed us the bathroom in the hall, another typical tiled Italian room with NO heat, but fine with me as that was for guests. And lastly, she showed us the kitchen. Absolutely no heat, as my son showed me the next day, two vents which simply are screens straight to the outside. I suppose a good Italian Mama is cooking up such a storm all day she would keep the place heated. Not so me. It was a nice enough kitchen, long and large with a window to the terraced gardens along the house and out to the sea. And a big basket of fresh fruit compliments of Adriana: lemons and oranges from the groves all around and lovely apples. All the rooms have furniture in a wood laminate with a pale mint color on the front. So you can guess which color I will never want to see again –sort of reminds me of a hospital color.

Meanwhile the two boys were in ecstasy over how cool the place was and the fantastic views and layout of the exterior. They were blown away. Pulling out the cigars and getting ready for sunset on the terrace, I was being a bit more practical and unpacking and worrying about trying to get food, and turning up the heat, checking for toilet paper, and finding bottled water because I didn’t want to die of water poisoning. I cannot relax until I am unpacked, the cupboards are filled and everything is in its place. My son realized that, so the boys ran down the stairs (I was jealous) to check out the stores down below and to talk to the priest in my very nearby church. They came back up all excited. Everything I needed was at that foot of the stairs. Yep.  127 plus 8 uneven stairs down and UP. No problem, I had just pulled myself up by the railing earlier so I pictured myself slinging the groceries over my shoulder and dragging them up as I did hand over hand on the railing. Or, I thought, maybe a pack mule. But I figured as long as I didn’t buy too much or anything heavy and no one was watching me climb back up and stop every 20 steps, I would be fine. So the plan was, all heavy food and water would be bought while the boys were there to do the toting. My daughter was coming in a few weeks and she could replenish then. This was why I was not in South America – children can be useful when they outgrow adolescence.

The boys had also met the parish priest, Padre Pio, (no relation to the saint, but there is a big picture of the saint in the church) and had gotten permission to say an English mass the next day, Sunday. Adriana had told us what restaurants were open, as this is low season and most hotels and restaurants are closed, and we made plans for going to dinner as we were putting  the food away for the next day. Then the three of us walked down the stairs, me like a little kid, hands on the railing, one foot down on a step then the other foot on the same step, until the railing switched to other side of the stairs, then I started with the other foot. Praiano here I come!

My dining table and work space -- full view of the ocean and Capri

View from my kitchen window



Praiano (sing to the tune of 'Volare')

View from garden to sea and portion of terrace

Well, we were finally on our way to Praiano. The last leg of the drive was past Vesuvius and Pompei and around the Sorrento peninsula and along the Amalfi coast, one of the most famous drives in the world. It did not disappoint us, but did cause some trials for my son. Our car was a small van and may as well have been a transport truck on those tight coastal roads. I kept oohing and ahhing and saying “Look at that!” and then immediately saying to him “Don’t look, I’ll tell you about it.” This was not for the faint of heart or timid. More than once we had to pull in the side mirrors to pass other cars, or pull over to let them pass. The roads, both in the towns and out of the towns are barely two lanes – sometimes. Other times they are one and a half lanes, and in the towns the buildings are smack against the edge of the road. Which means when you step out of a store you step directly into traffic. And, you have to walk in the street to get anywhere. So your life is in peril whether you are in a car, on a bike or on foot. No one told me to take out extra Amalfi Coast life insurance!!!The only good thing I can say is at least they have guard rails or little rock walls along the hundred-plus meter plunges into the rocky sea. And the views are stupendous. Words can never do them justice. Look up photos, see some movies; mountains spilling into the sea with small towns growing in white patches and pockets. Why? Why did anyone think this was a good idea to perch on rocks, buffeted by wind above an unforgiving sea and try to eke out a living without falling off? More research…..

As we passed through famous Positano I called Roberta, the rental agent, and she told me to meet her (I thought) at a ‘very famous’ bar in the middle of Praiano where 50 meters beyond we will park the car. Not to worry, she said, bar’ is very famous’ and I would not miss it. Now a bar in Italy is not a place for alcoholic drinks. Far from it. A bar in Italy is where you go for coffee. And they don’t sit for an hour over a cup of coffee either. If it’s morning they stand at the counter and grab a tiny espresso, dump at least 2 packets of sugar in it, stir, throw it back and say a few quick words to the bar owner and move on. They may also eat a cornetto, Italy’s version of a croissant. Later in the day they may linger a bit longer over cappuccino, but in many bars if you want to sit down you have to pay extra. I was interested to see this ‘very famous’ bar in the town I would soon call home.

She was right, we could not miss it. People were spilling out onto the terrace facing the sea in the late afternoon sun. We parked down the street and I walked back to find her. As I walked I realized I had no idea what she looked like: old, young, short tall, red, black hair? How would I know her? I walked up to the steps to the bar and everyone was with someone and no one hailed me. I was feeling a little self conscious and very aware that I couldn’t speak the language. I walked into the bar and same thing. I noticed lots of males and many young ones. Actually, I think it was about 95% males. Hmmmm. Was this the local guy hangout? I also noticed all dark hair and brown eyes. Welcome to southern Italy.  I couldn’t ask for Roberta, I didn’t know Italian. I started to question this whole proposition as I headed back to the car. My son’s friend was in the road and waved to me and said she was up ahead. Whew! We met at the little round fountain, and I do mean little, as it creates a spurt of water much the same as if you turned straight up a weak water fountain, which is at the base of the stairs going up to my house. This tiny area is actually called Piazzetta Gagliano (small piazza) because there is a place to sit and the aforementioned fountain and because the road does not run right up to the buildings on this side of the street. Now my 127 stairs are actually a pedestrian street called Via Francesca Russo.  Many people live there behind the old 6-8 foot stone walls on both sides of the steps. I pass their individual doors as I make my first climb. I only had to stop 5 times to catch my breath on the way up that first time. I felt like I was back in China climbing the Great Wall, only this was embarrassing. Who builds these old stone steps? Are they hugely tall people or really lazy? I imagine some stonecutter figuring if he makes each stone deep and high he won’t have to cut as many and lay down as many. And why couldn’t they make any two stones the same size? They didn’t have measuring sticks back then? My legs can tell you stories about every step on those stairs!

Anyway, that first tortuous walk up was accompanied by the trepidation of coming face to face with the reality of what I rented. Would it be anything like the photos or would it be seven weeks of horror? Was this just one of the levels of Hell I was climbing to? The one consolation I had was Roberta was young and seemed nice and kept automatically stopping for me – the wrinkles and way overdue gray roots showing must have given me away. Or perhaps the wheezing.  I also met Adriana the landlady on the way up. She lives next door, or rather, right below me, and is a friendly young mother with a three year old and is six months pregnant. More importantly, she speaks passable English. Yes, I will not be left mute in the upper wilderness of Praiano!

We finally reached my gate. The moment of truth. I looked through a locked wrought iron garden gate and up eight steps – yes, more steps- to the door of my house. Adriana unlocked the gate and we all trooped up the steps. On my left up another 5 steps was a tiled garden with a tall wall along the pedestrian steps, a round table and chairs, pots of bushes and small trees, and a low wall above which grew my very own lemon grove! I mean, lots of tress groaning with fresh lemons just begging to be picked. I love lemons!!! And there was a lovely view through leafy foliage to the sea. This garden provided views, seclusion, and sun. Perfect! I walked down those steps stopped in front of my door and looked the other way and up one step was my terrace – 700 square feet of tiled ocean view! It was a huge rectangular terrace positioned over the house below that literally had the feel of soaring out over the sea if not for the fantastic, but slight, interruption on the lower right of the mosaic blue and gold dome of the Catholic church in the lower town. This was the view I had hunted for on the internet; sea to the front and left, mountains, Positano and more sea to the right. Tables and chairs and loungers were here for me too. Oh my, this was good!