The Terrace of Infinity

Atop a rocky bluff 1000 feet above the Amalfi Coast sits the Villa Cimbrone, and at the far south end of “The Avenue of Immensity,” the path that runs from the cloister through the gardens and to the bluff’s edge, perches “The Terrace of Infinity.” The hyperbolic labels – “immensity,” “infinity” – turn out not to be hyperbolic after all as you walk through the gardens of century-old oak, alder, chestnut, and cypress trees; rhododendron and spiraea bushes; cacti, wild orchids, roses, peonies, oleanders, and other exotic plants; statues, pavilions, a well, a sun dial, and temples. And finally to “The Terrace of Infinity,” which Gore Vidal has described as “the most beautiful view in the world.”

He might have said “views,” as the terrace has a 240° span from the Cilento Mountains and the town of Minori to the west, the Gulf of Salerno out the south and the Mediterranean beyond, and Atrani and the mountains to the east. And all around the small white-washed houses clinging to the hills, the terraced gardens, lemon groves, grape vines, olive trees. There might be a more impressive place to gaze out over the Earth, but I’ve yet to see it.

Il Ventilator

I’ve always been a light sleeper. For years I’ve had to sleep with the ambient noise of a fan when I could. (I keep a small fan in my car for when I’m on the road.) If I don’t have a fan, I have earplugs to help keep the noise out. When I went to Italy several years ago, I stayed in three different hotels that had air conditioning, it was in June, and the fans from the air conditioners worked fine as ambient noise. But one hotel, on the island of Procida, didn’t have air conditioning. When I checked in, I asked the receptionist if they had a fan I could use, but she didn’t speak any English, and I had to go through various linguistic gyrations, followed by a crude drawing of a fan on a bar napkin, to get her to understand what I was trying to ask for, but she didn’t seem to think they had whatever it was I was wanting. But when I returned from my walk around the island that afternoon, she flagged me down as I was going to my room and presented me with a black metal fan from what must have been from the Mussolini days. But it worked fine, and I considered the whole interaction a success in multicultural understanding. And I slept quite well for the three nights I was there.

On our most recent trip to Italy, on our first evening in Amalfi, I asked the manager of the hotel (Lidomare) if they had a fan – I’d learned that the Italian was il ventilator, but I still had to draw a picture on a scrap of paper. He told me – this was not in any coherent conversation but rather a staccato of Italian/English from him and English/Italian from me – that they didn’t have one but there was a heater in the room that they could turn on. I didn’t want a heater (it only was in the 50s overnight) and told him that all was fine. I slept well that night with my earplugs. As we were leaving the next morning, he stopped me to say that he was having the house keeper try to find a fan he thought they might have, but it had been stashed away somewhere where no one could remember. But when we returned that afternoon, there in our room was a floor fan. And it was not from the Mussolini days. In fact, it had not a scratch or speck of dust on it. It had not been stuffed in the back of some closet. I have no doubt that he had had someone go out (or did so himself) and buy a new fan. Not necessarily just for me. Perhaps he had thought, Maybe we should have a fan for such a situation. But this was clearly a brand new fan.

You hear about indifference, if not surliness, between Italians and tourists, particularly American tourists. That’s certainly not been my experience. If it exists, perhaps it’s because of the tourists and not the Italians. My experience has been of cheerful accommodation over and beyond what I might have expected. And I would like to think that part of that is because I don’t present myself as the demanding, entitled American (which I have seen too often), but rather as a pitiful lost soul, stranded on a lonely shore, in need only of il ventilator.

Positano Mistake

Sometimes making a mistake can be a good thing. On our first afternoon in Positano, we walked from our hotel, in the west part of the town, down the stair/street to Fornillo Beach, across a path over the bend in the coast, past a 13^th century lookout fort, and into the main part of Positano. We walked through the narrow streets, the piazzas, shops, restaurants. In the late afternoon, we decided to catch the little red bus that winds through the only street in the town that allows traffic back to the hotel. The main stop is at the Piazza dei Mulini (the closest motor vehicles can get to the lower town and beach), and we bought our tickets at a tobacco shop across from the stop and only had a short wait for the next bus. What we didn’t know is that there are two red bus lines. One, the Interno Positano route, stays in the town, looping through both the east and west parts. The other route, Termini, goes along the main Amalfi Coast road for a short way, and then turns up and climbs up and up and up to the small town of Nocelle, 400 feet above Positano. Our mistake was getting on the latter bus. The road is one-lane, two-directions, winding up the mountain. But while it’s even narrower in most places than the main Amalfi Coast road (hard as that is to believe), there isn’t much traffic, so the anxiety is replaced by the awe of the ever-new vistas that open up around each turn, high above Positano and looking out across the sea. This was the good fortune of our mistake – the reward of a dizzying scenic ride, one of the highlights of our trip. If only more mistakes could be so rewarding.

The Surprise of Travel

One of pleasures of travel is surprise, particularly the surprise that rewards a seeming setback or hitch in plans. Our plan (recommended to us by guidebooks and the Tourist Information office) was to take the bus from Positano to Sorrento, take a short bus ride up from the dock to the train station, catch the Circumvisuviana local train to Naples, and from there transfer to a national train from Naples to Rome. But the morning of our trip, the receptionist at the hotel told us that there had been a rock slide and the road between Positano and Sorrento was closed. But she recommended we take a ferry (leaving Positano in an hour) to Salerno (stopping briefly in Amalfi), and then walk the short distance to the train station in Salerno and catch a direct train from there to Rome. And that turned out to be the way we should have gone from the outset. Of course, up until the day before, the ferries hadn’t been running along the Amalfi Coast because of rain, wind, and waves, though none of which had affected us much on shore. But this morning the weather was perfect: calm sea, blue sky, 70°. We pulled away from Positano to a marvelous view of the town, and the hour-plus ride was a constant trail of one sight after another along the rock-ribbed cliffs of the coast. I can’t imagine – no, I’m sure – that the bus ride, train ride from Positano to Naples couldn’t have touched the ferry to Salerno. The pleasure of surprise in travel.

The Amalfi Coast Road

The adjectives pour out riding along the Amalfi Coast road. First, spectacular, amazing, thrilling (scenic is too tame). Second, treacherous, dangerous, life-threatening, maddening. From Salerno west to Positano, it winds up and down, around hundreds of bends and turns, hugging the rock-cliff shore above the turquoise Mediterranean. It’s mostly little more than one-lane. Buses (and there are many) have difficulty getting around most of the turns without any on-coming traffic. With on-coming traffic, there’s a humorous (if you’re watching from a safe distance) and frightening (if you’re a bozo on the bus) dance of position and squeezing through the thin ribbon between rock and sea. Cars take chances passing blindly on the few brief straights, motorcycles just weave their way insanely through. But the view – the views – are well worth the fear. Spectacular, amazing, thrilling . . .

Idiot In A Strange Land

I was the witless victim of a scam in the Rome train station. Having nothing else to do, we had sat in our seats 45 minutes before our train to Salerno was to leave, and as soon as my wife had gone to the restroom, the guy came out of nowhere (as is their wont), looking like a homeless man with a faux badge – dirty jeans, T-shirt, oily disheveled hair . . . and a laminated badge with picture of someone on it pinned to his chest. He sat down opposite me, the only other person in the car, and asked for my ticket, which I gave to him. He had a laminated badge. In Italian (which I neither speak nor understand) he says that I need to pay an additional €20 as a fee for going from Naples (one stop for the train) to Salerno (the next). I point out that I’ve already paid for the tickets to go to Salerno, but he has a ragged book with figures he’s written in, and asks me to write my name and destination and €20 to his list in his book. I protest slightly, but finally just give him his (formerly my) €20. He leaves, and I already know I’ve been had.

He obviously had me tagged as an easy mark as we were getting on the train, and waited on my wife to leave to get one-on-one with me, the only one in the car. If there would have been anyone else around, they would have no doubt spoken up against the scam. If the transaction would have been in English (or if I were fluent in Italian), it would have been very different:  “You need to pay me an additional €20 fee to go to Salerno.” “Who are you? And no I don’t.” “Yes, you do, look at my laminated badge and ragged book.” “Why don’t we find the conductor, who, if there were such a fee, would be the one to collect it?” But I don’t speak Italian, and so was intimidated, an idiot confronted by an ill-dressed con artist. As I handed over the €20 bill, I was telling myself, “You deserve to lose this, you dumb asshole.” There is, at least, some comfort in being a knowing fool.

Slashes and Dashes

SPOILER ALERT: Following is a rant that is of no use or interest to anyone whatsoever. Consider yourself forewarned.

Regularly, I hear people on the radio or TV who provide inaccurate URL addresses, typically involving two misunderstandings of Internet language:

(1) Backslash. You hear this error frequently (much too often) in giving URLs orally, usually something like “http, colon, backslash, backslash, idiotsonparade [one word], dot  com, backslash, call” for http://idiotsonparade.com/call. Those slashes are not backslashes (\) but rather just slashes (/), an error that goes back to the old days of DOS language, which really did use backslashes. But URLs these days don’t.

(2) Dash. “idiots-on-parade” is not “idiots, dash, on, dash, parade,” but rather “idiots, hyphen, on, hyphen, parade.” A hyphen is a short line (-), the one used in URL addresses. A dash is a longer line, formed either by two hyphens (--) or by a word processing program symbol (—), neither of which is recognized in URL language.

It’s not that difficult, people. Just learn the language — slash and hyphen, not backslash and dash.

Parla inglese?

In preparation for a trip to Italy’s Amalfi coast, I’ve been spending some time trying to learn the basics of the language, as least to be able to say “I don’t speak Italian” (Non parlo italiano) and “Do you speak English?” (Parla inglese?). On previous trips to Italy, these are the two phrases that have been the most useful, and I’ve picked them up again fairly quickly, though I wouldn’t say fluently. I’m sure whatever utterance I spit out attempting those two phrases will convey the idea that I don’t speak Italian and I hope the listener speaks at least a rudimentary English. And the fact that I make the effort to say I don’t speak Italian in Italian (however ironic) at least shows a sense of respect to those I’m imposing on.

But I’ve also been trying to go beyond expressing my obvious inability to speak or understand Italian. I’m sure it would be magnanimous of me to ask for directions in the language of the natives (Dov’e la stazione? or Come ci si arriva?), or order at a restaurant (Sono pronto perordinare or Vorrei una bottiglia di vino rosso), or navigate public transportation (Quest autobus va a Ravello? or Penso di essermi perso). But what if such conversation starters result in conversations? I’d be lost after my initial query or request, not understanding directions or costs or follow-up questions and immediately have to retreat to my stand-by, Non parlo italiano, no doubt to be met with the disconcerted Allora perche diavolo l’hai detto in italiano? No, it’s probably best to just begin with Parla inglese? And if the answer is Non, there’s always mumbling and pointing. That works surprisingly often.

AARP Wants Me To Die

AARP wants me to die. First, they want me to renew my membership with a “special offer” of five years for only $49 – “Less than 82 cents each month!” Then they want me to die. Or to be more charitable, they’re betting that I’m going to die before the five years are up. At least that’s the way I read the offer: If I buy in for five years, it’s only a deal if I live for the full five years. If I die after, say, three years (and certainly if I die after one or two years), they get an extra two (or three or four) years of membership dues (yes, discounted, but still) that I wouldn’t have otherwise bought. I don’t know if it’s sucker bet or not. I’m not expecting to die in the next five years. But who is?

I joined AARP when I turned 50, 13 years ago, only for the discounts on hotels, museums, restaurants, and so forth. I didn’t particularly like the idea of joining a club for codgers. But I did like the discounts. And I suppose that’s the reason I’ll probably take this new bet and double-down on the next five years.

Sweet Swine, Internet, and Politics

Politics in the age of the Internet is becoming much more fun. Case in point: A couple of days ago, a woman in Maryland, Mirlande Wilson, came forward to say that she had won part of the $656 million Mega Millions jackpot from last weekend. But she had lost the ticket. At a McDonald’s where she worked. At the press conference – where she didn’t say anything except that she’d lost the ticket – she wore a cap (a not very sartorially appropriate accessory when claiming several hundred million dollars in prize money) that bore the strange “Sweet Swine Pork Rinds.”

How is this political or involve the Internet? Soon after the woman’s story was published, someone noticed that when you Google “Sweet Swine Pork Rinds” (I won’t venture into why you Google that in the first place) the top link is to an anti-Romney website. The suspicion was that the whole lost ticket claim was a ruse to lure unsuspecting citizens who would see the cap and innocently Google “Sweet Swine Pork Rinds” and be taken to the anti-Romney site (where, I suppose, they would be indoctrinated against the former Governor).

But Scott Crider, the owner of the anti-Romney site, “Dogs Against Romney,” claims he just grabbed the SweetSwinePorkRinds.com domain name (for $9.99) when he saw the compelling cap in order to draw more viewers to his blog. “Dogs Against Romney” is narrated by Rusty the dog, and in the past day Crider has created another anti-Romney website, “Hogs Against Romney,” narrated by Wilbur the pig. Rusty and Wilbur are both concerned about Romney’s lack of compassion for animals, as demonstrated by his driving from Massachusetts to Toronto with his dog Seamus strapped to the top of his car. Crider, I suspect, has more political motives. Or at least more entrepreneurial: Both sites are selling an array of t-shirts and caps and bumper stickers.

There’s an interesting convergence here of media and internet and politics that’s odd but promising. I doubt that Crider (who lives in Alabama) is complicit with any conspiracy with Wilson (who lives in Maryland) to hype his anti-Romney websites. But he did use her odd cap, prominent in the photos of her, to draw people interested (for whatever possible reason) in finding out what “Sweet Swine Pork Rinds” are to his websites. Why do I feel this could just be the beginning of a very interesting future in the web of the web?

Strip Search

The Fourth Amendment to the Constitution reads: “The right of the people to be secure in their persons . . . against unreasonable searches . . . shall not be violated.” Until now. Today the Supreme Court, in a 5-4 decision, ruled that prison officers can strip-search anyone arrested for any offense – parking ticket, violating a leash law, jaywalking, whatever – without any reasonable suspicion of contraband. The decision involved a BMW dealer whose wife was pulled over for speeding and he, in the passenger seat, was tagged for having an unpaid fine (which had in fact been paid several years earlier). When he entered the jail he was forced to strip, display his genitals, squat, and spread his butt-cheeks. Because of an (already paid) unpaid fine. (By the way, the man also happened to be black. But I’m sure that didn’t factor into any of this.) To say this was demeaning is an understatement. In the swing vote, Justice Anthony Kennedy wrote that “people detained for minor offenses can turn out to be the most devious and dangerous criminals.” He cited Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh as an example, arrested initially for driving without a license plate. He added, “One of the terrorists involved in the Sept. 11 attacks was stopped and ticketed for speeding just two days before” the attack. What he doesn’t say is that Timothy McVeigh, if he was strip-searched at all after his original arrest, wasn’t carrying any contraband, and the “one of the terrorists” wasn’t put in jail or strip-searched and probably didn’t have any contraband on his body; he was just issued a ticket; under Kennedy’s reasoning, perhaps we should strip-search everyone who’s issued a traffic ticket. Truth is “the right of the people to be secure in their persons” is a right to privacy, if not dignity. And strip-searching anyone and everyone who is incarcerated for whatever reason in whatever penal facility is a violation of that right and an unreasonable search. As the non-non-fine-paying suspect in the court case said, “It was humiliating. It made me feel less than a man.” And indeed this decision should make us all feel less than free.