TIME TO SAY ARRIVERDERCI
The best part of traveling is sharing it with the ones who matter to you. Sitting at dinner tonight we quizzed each other on things like what was the name of the winery where we did the wine tasting, who was the first to go in the pool or what was your best meal, We had answers for some but not all. That's why I do these blogs. They press the details of our travels into words that we can use to recount exactly where we first had pici al cacio e pepe, or the name of the store that still holds the painting I'd like to come back for. It takes the burden off of an aging memory and lets me relive the "what, where's and yes that really did happen's" of our trips.
My family appreciates the scrapbooks I assemble using the bits of ephemera we've collected along the way, some sketches of places we've been and prints from all the pictures I've taken but it's the words that define the final story.
Today is our last full day in Maiori. The day started out overcast and cool. Emmy and I continued our ritual of breakfast on the roof. I chose the pancakes and Emmy chose the scrambled eggs and a platter of cold meats that were part of the included breakfast that in our reservation we chose to ignore. My pancakes lived up or down to my expectations of high design with little substance. Emmy's breakfast fared about the same. But my macchiato served in an tall glass would be what would keep me going for the day.
Emmy and Rick decided to wait out the haze enveloping the beach by staying in the room reading or listening to podcasts while I went exploring.
I hadn't fallen in love with the seaside towns of the Amalfi Coast. Popularity has hidden much of its old world charm with a midcentury building boom of nondescript apartment buildings and hotels that now look dingy and depressing.
What I discovered in my walk was if you walk deep enough into the area beyond the beaches and up into the cliffs there's a lot of soul still there.
There's a church that dominates the night lit up giving a dot on the landscape to anchor yourself as to where you are. My goal was to see if I could find it.
Once you're into the streets and alleys that spider web out from the beach the height of those worn buildings obscures the churches dome making it hard to find.
It turned out getting lost in the web was an ecclesiastical blessing since my initial wandering took me to a less famous church but one with artifacts the superstitious or irreverent would appreciate. I include myself on the later.
The mutilated Jesus resting under a shroud
in front of an illustrated marble stone imbedded in the floor showing a group of hooded men was a real dichotomy of the ultra religious and the scarily racist.
The fortuneteller with her mini-me on the other side of the alter added another supernatural aura to this temple of god.
And to top it off there was a diorama of the birth of Christ canopied with a blue plastic tarp to protect it from a leak in the roof. But by far the scariest scenario in the diorama was the woman in the foreground being taken down by the priest in his vestments. I didn't run out of here but I certainly watched my back as I left.
I followed my nose from the haunting church of the shrouded Christ toward where I believed I'd run into the Duomo I'd been looking for.
What I discovered was an amazing ancient architecture covered in a patina of decay washed in weathered pastels and rust.
Alley ways no wider than a donkey's ass inter-connected the broader streets. These were the paths I followed until I finally found my way to the Duomo I had originally set out to find.
Inside was another glorious dome and oculus emanating from the intersection of four arched naves. There seemed to be no security at all in either one of these churches.
You could walk through each one and peek into their private offices even opening closets filled with the priest's vestments. I thought of trying one on but then I demurred.
It turned out the way to the church had been right where I started. I had gone around in a complete circle but if I hadn't I wouldn't have discovered the aged architecture of the original agricultural core of Miaori.
That night we were looking to close out our trip with one final meal of distinction. We chose a restaurant with high online praise only to find out it must have been written by the owner. You never want to end a vacation on a bad meal but when the frutta da mare arrived looking as if it came from a defrosted frozen meal packet we had to admit defeat.
Here's hoping we can find something near the airport in Rome to fly away on a better note.
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