Some Don't Like it Hot

There is was again. 

The loud, intrusive buzzer that made us jump each time it echoed through our concrete Italian villa. Someone was at our security gate, buzzing to come in.

An unfamiliar part of our new life in Naples included a security fence around our home. A button next to the pedestrian gate in the fence, allowed visitors to buzz the occupants, us, asking to be let in. 

Looking out the window I saw our Italian neighbor, Rita, smiling up at me with a plate in her hand. It was her sixth visit in the three days since we’d moved into this small Italian neighborhood, and I knew what the buzzer meant every time I heard it. 

Rita was delivering another plate of “welcome to our neighborhood.”

The first time Rita showed up the Italian movers were unloading our furniture. Delighted when she walked into the yard carrying a small metal pot of Italian coffee and several tiny plastic cups, the men eagerly swigged the potent little shots of coffee.

I politely sipped mine. The strong acid flavor of the thick, dark brew was a far cry from the milky lattes I was used to drinking at home in California, but I didn’t want to be rude, and that quickly became a pattern.

 I felt a twinge of guilt every time Rita appeared at our gate.  The Italian fare she made was pasta or starchy Gnocchi which I politely sampled in small bites.

My husband on the other hand, was thrilled when Rita appeared.

“We are lucky!” he exclaimed each time I passed him one of her culinary gifts, which he devoured with relish. Yes, we were lucky to have a beautiful villa next to a friendly Italian neighbor.

“What did she bring today?”

 He was already sniffing the plate I’d carried inside. “It’s all yours,” I said, feeling relieved that he was so delighted with Rita’s cooking.

I had caught a whiff of the strong seafood aroma coming from the plate, and it was too pungent for my taste on a lazy Sunday morning when all I could think about was pancakes and eggs.

“OK, well, I’m eating it.”

 We sat on the back veranda gazing out at our view of the Mediterranean.

“Honey, this is wonderful, are you sure you don’t want some?”

 I was sure. Watching him pick up the tiny shells scattered atop the pasta to suck out the meat inside wasn’t stirring my appetite in the least.

“I wonder what kind of seafood this is?” he said, studying the shells on his plate. That’s when it occurred to me my husband did not know he was eating snails for breakfast.

“That is not seafood, those are baby snails.”

 I felt a little wicked. Despite being self-described “foodies” who often experimented with different cuisines, I knew my husband was no more a fan of Escargot than myself.

“Ack! Why would you ruin it for me?!” he exclaimed, setting the plate down and swigging his mimosa. “I don’t like snails! Why didn't you tell me?!” 

Chuckling at the reaction, I knew that despite my reluctance to partake of the pasta and snails, Rita had made something very special for us. Her consistent giving from her kitchen was a gracious Italian welcome, and it was time for us to reciprocate.  

But what does an American cook for an Italian?  

My specialties were international dishes – Thai and Mexican. They wouldn’t adequately represent traditional American cuisine at all.  

 “Why don’t we make something special for Rita?”

He must have been reading my mind. Scott was back to eating the plate of pasta, but I could see the snails had been carefully set to one side. “I’m thinking maybe I’ll deep fry a turkey for her” he said. A deepfried turkey? For an Italian?

Leave it to a boy from North Carolina to come up with fried poultry. Next he’d be suggesting corn fritters and collard greens. But who was I to judge? At least it was traditional food from our country. 

  

Two weeks later in our back yard at dusk, Scott looked like the culinary equivalent of a coal miner’s daughter.

Decked out with a head lamp against the dimming light and clad in denim coveralls, he brandished a cigar in one hand and Kentucky bourbon in the other. My husband was boldly displaying his southern roots, gesturing proudly at the turkey fryer and 14-pound bird, waiting to be dipped.

 "Why don’t you go get Rita so she can watch?” He asked.  

When Rita arrived, we stood together on the terrace above the yard and watched Scott dip her turkey into the pot on stilts. Amazed at the bubbling oil and mouth-watering aroma emitting from the smoke, Rita was fascinated.

We watched for several minutes, sipping the homemade wine she had brought and letting the moment bridge the language barrier.

An hour later, the crispy bird arranged on a platter, Scott offered to carry it across the street. The look on Rita’s face spoke volumes, and strangely, I recognized her expression. 

It mirrored mine the morning the snail dish had arrived. Oblivious to the nuance and reading it as reluctance to accept his grand gift, Scott carved off a piece of breast meat and held out to Rita on a fork. The steaming bite had an unmistakably spicy Cajun aroma to it.

  He had injected it. I should have known.

Reluctantly, Rita took the large bite in her mouth then frantically began waving her hands in front of her face. Gulping her wine, her eyes were wide and watering.

“Troppo caldo! Troppo caldo! Molto Spezia!” She exclaimed. I rushed to get her water as my mortified husband stood by, unsure what to do.

 

Snails came to mind.

Consistent in her graciousness, Rita took the offending Cajun turkey home. We later learned the bird had been passed to the homes of three of Rita’s relatives – none of whom could eat the spicy fowl.

Two weeks went by with no more gifts from Rita, and we started to wonder if we had seriously offended our Italian neighbors and broken the chain of food gifts with our Cajun turkey.

One day two bottles of homemade champagne showed up outside the gate and I knew that the mistake was forgiven. Maybe my list of things to do while I live in Italy should include learning to cook snails. 

The End

Mine is Bigger Than Yours

Rita started it.

The day we moved into our villa in Naples she was at our front gate. A small dark Italian woman with laughing brown eyes, she came to our house the first time with Italian coffee. 

The following week, the button on our security gate was pushed a dozen times by Rita. Buzz, Italian coffee. Buzz, pasta. Buzz, homemade wine. Buzz, Limoncello. Rita was a machine of giving.

After two weeks, I started to dread the sound. Not used to such an enthusiasm, I was anxious to reciprocate but not sure how. It was clear my spicy cooking wasn't going to be appealing to Rita. My specialties were Thai and Mexican. In fact giving her food at all didn't seem right. She was welcoming us to Italy with authentic Italian fare. I didn't want to take away from that. 

So what would be right?  

Maybe flowers would be a simple and adequate gesture. 

"Who are these for? The British woman working behind the counter at the flower shop was skeptical. Startled, I paused. "My very kind Italian neighbor who keeps bringing me food, why?" 

"I was afraid you'd say that," said the woman who later introduced herself as Maggie. "I've been married to an Italian for 15 years. Don't give her those," she warned, pointing at the bouquet of roses in my hand. "Roses signify secrecy to Italians and don't give her Chrysanthemums or carnations - they are only used at funerals. Don't use gold or black ribbon - or anything purple!" 

A sinking feeling ensued. Guided in the right direction I left the flower shop with a medium size bouquet of Lilies and Gerber Daisies. That night, buzzing Rita's gate for the first time, it surprised me to see embarrassment on her face when I handed the blooms to her. 

Rita wasn't used to receiving. 

The next day the annoying buzz I was finally becoming accustomed to echoed through the house again, and there was Rita. Opening the front door, I watched her walk toward me carrying an bouquet of yellow flowers so enormous I couldn't see her head. Shoving them into my arms, she smiled gleefully and with a "Ciao!" skipped back across the street.

Putting the huge stems into my largest vase, I wondered if my bouquet had seemed small.  

The following day Rita's husband, Franco, was out working in their yard. Like most Italian men, Franco made his own wine at home, and I'd been thinking of asking him about the large glass "demijohns" in his driveway. I knew Italians used for wine making. The giant light bulb shaped vessels of thick green glass were like the art pieces - but Italians view as them as strictly functional. I thought Franco might have some good intelligence for me on where to find them.

Translating the question from English to Italian on my iPad, I walked across the street and noticed an unfamiliar face peeking out of their garage interior.

"Ciao! I am Franco's daughter - my name is Simona. I'm visiting from Rome. You must be Laura? I'm down here sorting things in the basement to take home." Her English was perfect and after our introduction Rita and Franco joined us in the dark basement which clearly served more as a wine cellar.

I explained to Simone that I wanted to ask Franco where to buy demijohns - that I had been unable to find them. Franco responded by immediately pointing at one empty, medium sized demijohn sitting among many others full of wine. Then he pointed at me.

"Oh no, I didn't come to ask for one of yours!" Horrified that Rita and Franco might think I was there to request one of their beautiful glass globes for free, I turned to Franco's daughter. "Please explain to them that I cannot take this unless they allow me to pay for it."

"They will not take money from you," Simona explained, and they want to know which size you like. Maybe next time my father goes to buy some, he will get you another one."

Embarrassed but thrilled by the offer, I pointed to one of the largest demijohns in the garage, corked with Franco's latest wine harvest.

"Those, the 54 liter bottles are the most beautiful," I said. "I will give him the money in advance to buy one of those for me, but he must also let me pay him for this one he is giving me now."

The largest demijohns would cost 24 euros each and Rita agreed she would let me know when Franco was on a buying trip. But both refused to take cash for the demijohn gifted out of Franco's collection.

Walking across the street with my green globe, accompanied by Simona, she said in a conspiratorial tone, "you know, if you would like to do something nice for them, they like that fruity body cleaner sold in the American stores. If you could just buy a bottle, they would love that."

Fruity body wash?  Now I knew how to adequately thank my new neighbors. Not knowing which fruit was the best, I'd have to wing that part. So it was off to the American military base to find the sweet smelling bath products that would adequately express gratitude to our Italian friends.

Later that night, I proudly showed my husband the four bottles of strawberry and kiwi liquid neatly packed in a wine sack. A thank you card was tucked inside with them - written from an ipad translation like all of my communications with Rita. Walking across the street feeling triumphant, I hoped I was about to hit a home run with the neighbors.

Rita answered the door and gushed over the first bottle. "Grazia! grazia!"

I felt myself glowing with her appreciation and watched as she read the card giggling at my attempt to translate a simple thank you. Back at home, I was relieved. Finally, we were on an even playing field with our new neighbors. Now hopefully they were aware of how much we appreciated their largess. Maybe now we were all evenly settled with gifts.

I wasn't prepared when the security buzzer blared loudly the next morning. It must be a solicitor. They were frequent here, and the last one, selling seafood from his truck, had waved a fish at me over the fence. I ignored the buzz and continued with my work.

Buzz, buuuzzz, buuuuuzzzz. Whoever this was, ignoring them wasn't working. I looked out the window and there stood Rita. But instead of standing at the pedestrian gate where visitors on foot entered, she was peering through the bars of our large driveway gate.

Baffled, I scrambled for the remote that would open the big iron gate. As it rolled away,  I could see tiny Rita clutching two enormous demijohns. Bolting up the driveway and up onto my porch, barely able to hold the heavy globes by the neck, she carefully set them down at my feet then ran back to Franco who was waiting with two more. I could feel my jaw drop.

Depositing the next pair on my front step, Rita said something in Italian, gave me a hug and a kiss on both cheeks, then darted home. Overwhelmed by the display of green glass on my front porch, I pondered the math. If Franco had purchased these four demijohns, that was almost 100 euro. My fruity gift to them had cost less than five dollars. This wasn't even close to equitable.

I couldn't accept this. It was too much.

That's when it hit me. Italians are passionate about many things. They love big, fight big, yell big, laugh big and eat big. Birthday parties are celebrated with fireworks. Trying to live like an Italian means doing everything with great appassionato! I was probably no match for that. My Italian neighbors have their own personal passion and there was nothing we could do but accept that they give Big and Rita's gifts would always be bigger than mine.

The End

Shrimp on the Boot

The man in front of me is smiling broadly and I can't help but think how many of my female friends would enjoy this moment, walking past a handsome young Italian man so anxious to get my attention.

"Ciao signora giovane! Vi piacerebbe alcuni gamberetti oggi? O forse qualche formaggio?"

Unfortunately it's not because he is at all impressed by the American woman strolling along with a huge camera. He is asking me if I'd like to purchase some shrimp, or would I like some cheese?

A strikingly different experience than shopping at my neighborhood Costco in the United States, perusing the stalls at the Monteruscello street market is like walking onto a movie set, full of enthusiastic actors.

Some expats living in Italy call what I'm doing today "shopping on the boot" due to the country's boot shape. A 30-minute drive outside central Naples, Monteruscello is one of many small communities with a popular outdoor market. This one is very close to my home in Italy, and it is my first visit.

An Italian man is proudly gesturing at a plastic tub full of shrimp energetically swimming in circles, their transparent bodies busy with moving parts. It's a far cry from someone offering up a cooked sample on a toothpick in America.

Next to the tub of shrimp, giant wheels of hard cheese are split open and stacked on crates filled with more enormous wheels. This is cheese the deli of a supermarket in the United States would have to charge many more dollars a pound for, if they carried it at all. Here, it is not only better quality but far less expensive. Like everything at the market, items are either hours old or painstakingly aged for months and years.

"Grazie!" I thank him in my best, albeit very bad, Italian.

"May I please just photograph the shrimp?

Amused, the man steps aside and watches me point my camera at the bucket of busy crustaceans. Most people would scoop up the fresh fare before other shoppers could, but I'm too distracted by their aliveness. Somehow the idea of carrying a plastic bag home with my dinner still swimming in it is too much for this squeamish American. Mentally I chastise myself. I love shrimp and they would probably be the best I have ever eaten. With time I promise myself, I'll loosen up.

The cheese, however, is a must have. Along with orchard fresh apples; tomatoes and lettuce culled from a local garden just this morning. The prices are so low I have to stifle a giggle when a dapper looking farmer dressed in a sweater hands me a head of Butter Lettuce the size of a basketball for one Euro.

The market is magical in a theatrical way. Unlike farmer's markets I've visited in France and other parts of Europe, the Italian markets are startling with their amplified volume and colorful characters.

Italians shout when they are happy, bellow when they are joyful, gesture wildly when trying to make a point, and get more indignant then angry. The market sounds are as much a part of the experience as the sights and smells.

"Benventuto! Buoni prezzi oggi! Grandi offerte! Come stai!"

Whirling around to the shout of someone just behind me, I'm greeted by another smiling face, inviting me to photograph him. The enthusiasm the vendors have for being photographed is surprising. It's as though I'm making each one of them a celebrity by snapping their images. Afterward they laugh and high five each other like I've handed them a winning lottery ticket.

The one exception is a tall, quiet man standing over a table of Mozzarella. He smiles shyly and turns away when I ask to photograph him, but quickly points to a round of soft cheese packaged in a plastic bag full of liquid to preserve it. Clearly he's been watching me navigate the market for pictures.

I accept his invitation and photograph the unremarkable package, then notice his table holds a variety of soft cheeses including the coveted Buffalo Mozzarella. A culinary staple of Naples, this particular cheese is moving the needle forward on my scale at a pound a month. Some people crave pizza, some pasta. For me, it's this particular cheese.

Unlike Mozzarella made from cow milk, "Mozzarella di Bufala" is somewhere between cheese and butter. Thickly sliced atop a vine-ripe tomato, crowned with fresh basil and parked on top of freshly baked olive bread, the Italian delicacy packs the calories of avocado without the benefit of healthy oils.

Regardless, it is winning a battle for priority in my kitchen. Every time I buy it I swear it's the last time for a while, but who can resist such a great deal? Resigned, I had him two euros and add the liquid-filled package to my booty.

Juggling multiple bags of market treasures, I readjust my camera case and begin the trek back to my car, reflecting on my expenditures. I've spent seven euros and enjoyed the lively scene for two hours.

Larger than many street markets in Italy, the Monteruscello market only happens on Wednesdays and there is much more to see than I've seen today. Next week I'll be back. Waving to the vendors with weighted down arms, I pass the shrimp swimming in the plastic bin and tell myself, next time, they come home too.

Next time, I'm buying shrimp on the boot.

Add caption

The End

The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly.

Sitting here in my home office in Italy, I'm looking out at the Good.

The Good is the expanse of aqua blue Mediterranean stretched out in the distance. I can see miles of it from my desk. This is why we chose this villa.

It was selfish on my part - one look at the upstairs rooms facing the sun setting on an expanse of ocean and I knew this would be the perfect place to write.
Water has a way of inspiring most people.

Living on the West Coast in the United States, quality of  life was always about the water. Seeing it was a bonus if you could afford a view. Fortunately, here in Italy, the amazing view is not expensive. 

Which is Good.

But like with most things, there are trade-offs.

The Bad is the driving.

Italians are friendly, warm, engaging people who embrace you immediately. They ply you with homemade wine, shove dishes of pasta at you and kiss you on both cheeks. They are an enthusiastic and instant family.

Until they drive. Then they become evil. If you ask them, they'll gleefully admit it. It's almost a point of pride that driving is a game of survival.

The kind old man who offers you an extra handful of olives for free at the market will scare the hell out of you in his Fiat Punta. Your helpful neighbor who offers you bottles of his homemade wine will try to squeeze in-between you and the car in the next lane. Motorcycle riders call it splitting lanes. Italians call it "expressing themselves." 

Italian drivers don't drive. They go to war.

The way I will keep my weight in check eating all the bread and pasta we ingest in Italy is from the cardio exercise on the Autostrade. My heart never stops pumping double time as I watch the mirror - and I stay as far away from trouble as possible.

One day, headed for Rome and cruising calmly in the far right lane, my heart started pounding wildly when distinctive Audi LED lights behind me grew brighter by the second.

Unwilling to wait for the fast moving traffic in the left lane to pass traffic on the right, the Audi was coming right up between both lanes at high speed, pushing cars to the side like parting of the Red Sea.

My heart was beating double time as he swerved back and forth on my left bumper looking for an opening in-between my car and the left lanes.

He couldn't have been more than 10 inches off my bumper, so close I was frozen with indecision. Not easily rattled on any road in any country - I've test driven vehicles all over the world - I was scared.

Unless someone was bleeding to death in his car, this just made no sense. I moved over onto the shoulder and let him fly by me. Other drivers were also swerving aside ahead of me, cursing and making Italian hand gestures.

I was just glad to have survived the pass. It was Bad. 

But the most baffling, here in Naples, is the Ugly.

Native Italians who live here in Napoli don't talk about it, but many of the Americans who live here do. It bothers some of us more than others.

It bothers me so much, I'm going to break all the rules of expats and write about it. Much of what should be only a beautiful Naples is filthy. I would be remiss if I wasn't honest in saying not every single square foot of Italy is stunning.

Parts of Naples are dirty in a way that makes you wonder what the hell is wrong here. And it's not all of Naples, a lot of it is just the highways and back roads that connect communities. That, and parts of downtown.

There are piles of garbage that decorate the turnouts of major roads and shoulders of streets in and about Naples. It's frustrating to see, and the explanation - which is complicated, I won't offer here, but there are plenty of stories that explain how the garbage started.

It started with the Mafia. And yes, there has been a documentary. 

Between my desk and the beautiful ocean view in the distance is a road you can't see from our house, lined with piles of garbage as high as six feet. On that same road are two luxury hotels. Further down that road are oceanfront resorts.

Soon after moving here we rode our motorcycle to the beach, and experienced that road for the first time. The smell was nauseating. Passing the gated property of a high end hotel, we wondered how guests from outside Italy felt when their taxicabs from the airport drove past this enormous display of trash. It would have to be shocking.

It's the kind of waste you expect to see in a third world country. Rusty appliances, dirty mattresses, tires, rotting clothing and mounds of old food.
It's all piled in stinky heaps alongside a road to paradise.

It's too much to comprehend sometimes, and it's Ugly.

But other parts of Naples peg the meter for beautiful, charming and historical.

The neighborhoods of Vomero and Santa Lucia, the Lungomare and Castel Ovo, the Palazzo Reale, the Monastery of Santa Chiara, the National Archeological Museum and Capodimonte Royal Palace and Museum are some of many places in Naples well worth seeing, because there are endless places in Naples that represent the best of Italy.

And that is Good.

The End

Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves

Flying down the toll road in my rented Fiat 500, I saw the woman from a distance.

The Telepass lanes came up fast and choosing the right lane in Italy is always critical. I had euros - cash - and quickly looked for a green light indicating an open, cash lane. There were none.

No booth, no electric arm across any of the lanes, nothing. Three lanes were marked with a red X except one, where the young woman was standing.

She was bundled up in a thick wool coat with a knit scarf wrapped around her head. Confused, I stopped next to her and noticed she held a plastic cup filled with euros. This wasn't right. Toll collectors didn't look like this.

As I stared at the cup and back at her eyes, she smacked a large red button on the wall next to her and glared at me. Registering both the hostility in her eyes, and the lack of any gate in front of my car, I flatly stated "there is no gate!" and accelerated through; the woman screaming Italian obscenities as I drove away. 

Despite an instinct that I'd done the right thing, visions of the Carabinieri - the Italian State Police - chasing me down for cheating Sicily of a $4 toll danced in the back of my mind.

I didn't have my passport with me. My Italian driver's license was in my purse, but if given a ticket in Italian, I'd have to translate it on the spot and figure out what to do with it.

There were rumors all tickets had to be paid immediately in cash. Did I have enough euro? Good grief. Thinking, thinking. Why worry? How in the world was a woman holding a plastic cup going to get me in trouble? Not possible.  

I felt sure she was a gypsy, a thief - the type of thief we'd been warned are plentiful in Naples where we lived. But I was in Sicily now on a road trip. Was all of Southern Italy a haven for this type of panhandling? And how could she possibly think I would be foolish enough to give her money at a Telepass stop with no booth and no electric arm? 

I turned up the music and diverted my thoughts to the windy and beautiful ferry ride I'd just taken from Villa San Giovanni in Reggio Calabria to Messina, on the island of Sicily. It was one of the many water routes necessary to reach Sicily from Naples, and the views had been stunning.

Unlike ferries in my home of Seattle, Washington, passengers had access to most parts of the boat. The captain had even allowed me to photograph our destination through the glass of his wheelhouse.

I relaxed into remembering the views and looked forward to the return trip. 

Suddenly, another Telepass, much larger than the previous station, loomed ahead. Brightly illuminated with multiple lanes flashing green and red lights, multiple toll booths and electric arms guarding each lane. I drove toward a cash lane and pulled up to a woman behind glass, neatly dressed in official looking clothing.

She smiled and politely said "Boleto por favor?" 

"I'm sorry," I replied, "No Italiano. Only Ingles." 

"OK," she said. "Ticket?" 

I had no ticket. Where would I have gotten a ticket? That's when it hit me. The gypsy at the last Telepass was pushing the big red button to obtain the tickets people passing through were supposed to hand over here.

She was holding the tickets hostage and making them pay her for them.

What I had missed was the ticket that was supposed to be mine, had been in her hand. Clever gypsy was that girl. But I couldn't have been the first person to drive past the woman with the plastic cup, could I? 

"I'm sorry," I repeated. "I have no ticket." 

"OK," said the woman in the booth with a knowing nod. "No problem, $3.90 please." 

I wondered how much money the gypsy woman made that day.

Where she lived, how far she had walked to that remote location - and was she actually prosperous? Did she own a car? Live in a home? Dress differently when she wasn't tricking drivers?

I vowed to practice my Italian, so the next time I drive through, I can stop, hand her a euro and ask a few questions.

The End

The First Big Adventure

The road was getting narrow. It was quickly becoming a walkway.

Reaching out from the back seat of our motorcycle, I could almost touch the tall, rough walls on either side of our bike.

Up ahead, our new friend Joe was leading us on his bike, to the annual Apple Festival in the small Italian town of Benevento. A longtime expat in Italy, Joe and his wife Nicky had been living in Italy for years, and were graciously showing us some some of the most charming destinations near Naples, where we all resided.

But a wrong turn had us weaving through the labyrinth of a tiny village with streets no wider than a Smart Car. Nicky was riding ahead of us, her taillight bouncing as the bike negotiated a bumpy relationship with each cobblestone.

Despite the unknown of hairpin turns in close confines, I was laughing out loud. This was why we moved to Italy. This was the adventure we craved.

Marveling at each old passageway, my only concern was the thumping exhaust of the bikes reverberating off the stone walls. In such an old and serene place, it seemed irreverent to be so loud. I hoped we weren't offending the people who lived here - hanging their laundry from the tiny windows high above us.

A few more hair-raising narrow turns and Joe stopped to ask for directions. An Italian woman standing on her doorstop in an apron, seemed curious and friendly. Joe and Nicky approached her with big smiles and bad Italian to ask directions to the Apple Festival.

With exaggerated gestures, the woman attempted to direct us and waved with enthusiasm as we slowly thundered off again, trying our best not to rumble.

Ten minutes and three U-turns later, we finally found Benevento.

It was a colorful, intimate town with a main street lined with booths selling apples, jams, pastries and cheese. Everything you think of when you think of Italy was here. The food, the charm, the smiling faces.

We are greeted warmly by the local Italians who pose next to our bikes for pictures and ply us with apple wine. Peeking from windows above the retail shops, and shyly pointing at our bikes, it's clear they are as fascinated by us as we are by them. I'm relieved our loud entrance into their village wasn't offensive.

Leaving an hour after loading up the bikes with apples and cheese, we were headed back to Naples near dusk. The sun was getting low and I'm a little concerned when Joe points up at the tall aqueduct we rode under earlier, and diverts off the motorway and up onto a side road for a better look at it.

Riding after dark is something we haven't done yet in Italy, and lost after dark on narrow roads like we had just navigated, didn't sound very appealing. But this was just another adventure, and we surrendered to it.

Up above the motorway alongside the arched Roman aqueduct, we could see for the first time the deep trench running down the center of the aqueduct. Gated at both ends of its eight-foot wide expanse, and we were surprised to see a man standing near the gate rolling up an Italian flag that had been hanging above the motorway.

Parking his bike, and walking down to get a closer look, Joe attempted to communicate in Italian, and was surprised when the gate keeper unlocked the gate and invited us with hand gestures, to walk across the monolithic structure.

Ready to take advantage of an opportunity that we knew would never again, the four of us surprised the gate keeper by riding, rather than walking, through the opened gate before he could change his mind about letting us through.

Long-time expats in Italy, our new friends were shocked and delighted at our luck.

"This NEVER happens!" exclaimed Joe as we parked the bikes high above the motorway at the center of the walled arches framing the aqueduct.

"We are so, so, lucky we found him here at the gate and he allowed us to do this!"

Feeling the magic of the discovery, we all agreed this was an experience where getting lost was a thrill, and finding a place atop an ancient Roman aqueduct was a pinnacle day on the streets of Italy.

The End