Barcelona

Barcelona, the second largest city of Spain with its approximately 1.6 million inhabitants is also the capital of Catalonians. In 2 hrs. we flew from Munich in the city where traditions and modern trends complement one another. Barcelona is a great culture destination and therefore there were many tourists here. There were long queues at the entrances of the most well-known objects of interest. It seems that the city is an absolute must for sightseeing.

One of the best views of the city you can get it from the platform of the Columbus- statue and during a short trip with the cable-car from the port up to the Montjuic Hill. Both are very nice but you have mostly long waiting periods. The view over the port, to the sea and the Ramblas is really more than great.

Starting point for all Sightseeing-tours, whether by foot or with one of the many sightseeing-busses is the Placa Catalunya with the popular Cafe Zürich and this place is also the beginning of the legendary Ramblas. This long boulevard extends several boroughs down to the port.

It is the most popular boulevard of Barcelona. There are many different stands, flower shops, cafes, restaurants and the best street artists we have ever seen.

In the lower part of the Ramblas is the central market of Barcelona the “Mercat de la Boqueria”. Here you can find all goods from fresh fish to vegetable, fruits or meat and in addition to this all it is situated in very beautiful glass and iron hall.

Also the side lanes of the Ramblas are more than worth seeing. The surrounding of the cathedral with the small lanes and places are very nice and we stroll around for some hours. Again and again we find historical buildings, places, small shops and Tapas bars.

But what is Barcelona without Gaudi, the most famous architect of the city! But we had not so much luck with our Gaudi-Sightseeing-Tour. In front of every Building that we wanted to visit, there queue up many many tourists, coming by many many organized busses. There was no chance for us to go inside, except we would queue up for one or two hours, too.

So we had only a view at the front of the buildings, but these were already more than fascinating and unique. Perhaps we have more luck another time, if we visit Barcelona again in another season.

Also in the famous park Güell there were hundreds of tourists, too and it was very busy and noisy.

Barcelona is at all architecturally very interesting, on the one hand the many beautiful art nouveau fronts, on the other hand the ultramodern buildings from the 20th Century. It is a very good contrast between old and new, tradition and modern trend

Everywhere in the city, from the centre, to the beach or the port, in front of museums and parks, you can see most different sculptures. Here is the unusual really not unusual!

We enjoyed this style-mix and the way of life here in Barcelona, but always the time was too short. We think, we will come again.

Not least also because of Uli, we knew her from our website and we had time by time contact over many years. Now we met her and we spent a beautiful, interesting evening together.

A review of Malaga

The city of Malaga in southern Spain, attracts every year many tourists looking for beach and sun on one of the best coats of Spain. For many years, climate and tourist facilities have made Malaga an ideal destination for combining holidays, relax and culture.
Maybe you wonder why Malaga has become a popular destination in recent years? The reasons are many. Art lovers can visit the Picasso museum while those who prefer history can walk in the Roman temple in the heart of the city or in the gardens of the Alcazaba and the most courageous can climb up to assess Gibralfaro and the panoramic view from the high walls that dominate the city. Malaga is of a modern city too, with the creation of the subway (not finished yet) and airport expansion through the creation of a new terminal and the new marina and leisure resort at Malaga harbour. In addition, Malaga is an official candidate in the election for the European Capital of Culture 2016.

The location of Malaga city is such strategic situated in the map, connecting Africa, Gibraltar, or the snowed mountains of Sierra Nevada ski resort in a bit more than one short hour driving. And finally people realize that they have it all from Malaga city! Foreign pensioners, families, groups of friends or young students of Spanish as a foreign language, they all consider this corner of the world as a charming spot to get explored and to have fun. Malaga visitors love to sit down in a sunny terrace during a winter day, where the 18º C degrees incite you to get a cold drink and eat some delicious “Spanish tapas” made of the healthy Mediterranean ingredients.

To the south, the beaches overlooking Africa and Gibraltar and the northern Sierra Nevada where you will find an hour’s drive tracks of the winter sports resort and other hiking trails. We must not forget that there are many golf courses around the city and all villages around Andalusia. Malaga has it all! For all these reasons, many foreign pensioners, families, groups of friends or students in Spanish as a foreign language Málaga who choose to come have fun and spend unforgettable moments. The best way to enjoy your holiday and feeling like at home in Malaga is by renting your accommodation in Spain in a charming apartment in Malaga center or a villa on the beach in Spain. Living in a holiday rental apartment in Malaga town during a holiday stay is an intelligent choice to stay a few steps from the charming of a town as from the lovely beaches.

A trip in Italy

So you say you want to go to Italy, well if you do you must ask yourself what you want. Do you want to see what everyone else does or do you want to be immersed in the culture, the drama, and the scenes of Italy? Do you want to taste it and smell it as if you were born there? Do you want to dream you were the emperor Tiberius on the Isle of Capri or do you want to live in a dream world of Umbrella Cypress Trees so comfortable you can pretend you were in your Mothers arms?

Do you want to believe that you can see Rome in 3 days or do you want to be immersed in an Italy you have never known before? A trip full of fun, experience, and life you have never seen. I am not talking about the typical tourista experience. If you are interested in that you don’t want what I am describing.

Do you want to unwind better than a clock or relax so much that you may never want to return to the life you know? Do you want to experience the smells, the tastes, the sights and sounds of a country so full of life that you can’t remember what your nationality is? Well I am going to describe Italy in 3 days. Three days of life and fun with family and friends you can’t describe. Fish and antipasto so fresh you would want to think you caught it yourself. And maybe you did if you want. Opera Italino or maybe a Cappuccino for two in the square if you choose. If that kind of experience does not work for you then you can sit on the front row to watch Napoli play Milano in the futbol match of your dreams. Duke vs. Carolina does not match sixty thousand plus fans screaming Goal, Goal, Goal.

Can you say pizza? Well this is where it began with the Empress Margarita in 1780. It is a Rosa, a Verde and a Blanco you can’t describe because you are so lost in Papa John’s take out that it doesn’t count. So we talked of food, song and sport of sort. Can you say history Italino? Yes you saw it in a book but it cannot be described in real life. Michelangelo, Bocelli, and da Vinci you learned in a book comes to life here. The colors cannot be described with words. You can pretend you understood the eruption of Vesuvius but until you stand on the streets of Herculaneum or Pompeii you will never know if you were reincarnated from the Roman spirit.

Well I am but a man but one who has traveled the globe. I would say Carmine and the Amalfi coast can’t be beat. Whether it is with your family or the love of your life to experience it does not matter. Italy Carmine’s way is the only way.

Rome & Roma extra muros

Pine trees and cypresses are a gorgeous backdrop

Rome is an interesting city with many sights, but it is also worthwhile to explore the city outside its walls: you'll find interesting archeological sites there too, often in arcadic landscapes. In the Tivoli Hills and in Ostia Antica the Roman era comes alive, just like on the Via Appia. In Cerveteri, with its Etruscan tombs, you go even farther back in time.

Travelogue & photos: Luk Carion

On our last visit to Rome the Vatican Museum was on our list of highlights, but when we arrived there, in the afternoon, there was a line outside of almost a kilometer. I didn't feel like waiting for hours to see the Sixtine Chapel (which was our main objective).

So today we get up extra early and at 8 AM we are outside the museum; there still is a line of around 200 meters. The doors open at 8:45 AM and the line begins to move surprisingly fast, so we enter the museum at 9 AM already.

The pomp and circumstance that can be seen here, borders on the unbelievable. The highlight is, of course, the Sixtine Chapel. In this space, cardinals have gathered in conclave for centuries to elect new popes.

We think that the display of these riches by the Catholic hierarchy, is somewhat contradictory, especially when we hear the pope a few days later, on Eastern, make an appeal for an effort to stop poverty in the world. It seems to be "Listen to my words, but don't look at my deeds." The beggars in Rome (and there are many) will also have their thoughts on this subject, I assume.

Tivoli

For centuries, it was a famous summer resort

A bus takes us quickly outside the city walls, to Tivoli, 30 km northeast of Rome. Tivoli is a beautiful old town on the top of a hill, from where you have a great view of the surroundings.

Tivoli was a famous summer resort for centuries: rich Romans were attracted to the cooler climate of the Sabine Hills and built their villas here.

Around 1550, Cardinal Ippolito II did what the wealthy in ancient Rome did: this descendant of the rich d'Este family commissioned a new mansion in Tivoli. Money was no problem and he hired one of the best architects to convert a former monastery into a sumptuous palace.

After buying out lots of small landowners, he had vast gardens layed out with terraces, caves, classic sculptures, ponds and hundreds of fountains.

From the palace's terrace we enjoy a great view of the gardens. During our walk we pass the Diana fountain. Diana, who is usually represented as the goddess of hunting, is revered here obviously as a fertility symbol. The Unesco has placed Villa d'Este on the World Heritage List.

We take the bus and drive back, downhill, to the valley. We get off the bus in the first village: here we should find Emperor Hadrianus' Villa Adriana.

The word "villa" is misleading: it is a complex with thermal baths, theatres, libraries, vast accomodations for guests and staff, geometric gardens with fountains and ponds.

A scale model at the entrance gives a clear impression of what the place looked like centuries ago. The main buildings are indicated with signs.

One of the nicest buildings is the maritime theatre, a round basin with an island in it, accessible via a turnbridge. This was Hadrianus' favorite spot, to where he would retreat to paint and read. The grounds of the villa, with here and there remains of columns between olive trees and cypresses, are a great backdrop for a picnic.

Ostia Antica

At its pinnacle, this city had 100,000 inhabitants

A visit to ancient Ostia (Ostia Antica) gives a good picture of what life must have been like in an average Roman city. People of all classes and walks of life lived here.

At its pinnacle, the population of this city was 100,000, but the silting up of the Tiber (Ostia is from the Latin word "Ostium", which means estuary), spelled the end of the city, because it changed the course of the river.

Because Ostia was buried in sand for centuries, the city was preserved very well. It's easy to imagine slaves hurrying on the main street Decumanus Maximus and citizens evading swaying carts and carriages. Merchants had their businesses in the arcades on the sides of the street.

We also see several public bathhouses, a gorgeous theatre and behind it the square of the guilds, which had their offices here.

Mosaics floors tell stories about the harbor (a picture of an elephant indicates that wild animals were shipped from Africa to Ostia for the gladiator games in the Colosseum in Rome). Ships, wheat (from Sicily and Africa)and fish are often returning motives.

Behind the main street are the houses of the inhabitants: free- standing houses (domi) for the rich, apartment buildings (insulae) for the rest. These last ones have been preserved very well. They had up to 5 floors. On the first floor there usually was commercial space.

A good example is Casa di Diana. This large insula had shops on the first floor, apartments on the second and on the third floor luxury apartments with balconies.

Opposite the insula is Thermopolium, which used to be a bar. A faded fresco shows the prices for eggs, fruit and vegetables. There is a marble counter where customers bought wine.

During our two-hour walk we see a laundry, a bakery, the fire station and warehouses for grain. With a little imagination it's possible to form a complete image of this city as it must have looked like almost 2,000 years ago. And there is no distracting mass tourism here.

The pine trees, the spring green and the first flowers are a wonderful backdrop for this "forgotten" city. So far, less than half of Ostia has been excavated, so we'll have to come back for another visit.

Palatine Hill

Romulus and Remus supposedly founded Rome in this spot

We take the train back to the heart of ancient Rome: the Forum Romanum. In contrast to Ostia this is rather a puzzle of (overturned) columns and other remains. You almost have to be an archeologist to be able to imagine what it was like in antiquity. The remains of the Forum date from different centuries.

The Palatine Hill, one of the seven hills on which Rome is built, offers a great view of the Forum. Romulus and Remus, nursed by a wolf, supposedly founded Rome on this hill. Recent excavations proved that there was a settlement here around 600 BC, which gives the legend a semblance of truth.

Palatine Hill was a favorite of famous Romans, who owned villas here: the orators Cicero and Hortensius, the later emperor Augustus and the politicians Crassus and Catullus.

It is a lovely place, shady and green, and there are many benches to rest on and enjoy the surroundings.

A large part of Palatine still has to be excavated. But some villas are already accessible now.

Interesting and very romantic is the Orti Farnesiani, a Renaissance garden, layed out in the sixteenth century. Its two pavilions offer a good view of the Forum Romanum. The area is lined with orange and pine trees.

After a rest on this beautiful hill we descend to the Colosseum, a highlight that fires the imagination. Not only gladiators battled to the death here, but also many wild animals from Africa (the elephant from Ostia comes to mind) died in the sand-covered arena.

It's good to know that these "games" lasted a lot longer than a soccer match; they could take up to three months...

Like Japanese tourists we continue on to the Trevi fountain, Pantheon, Piazzia Venezia - where we visit Aracoeli Church - and we climb the V. Emmanuel memorial (the unknown soldier).

Our feet hurt, so we find a café with outdoor seating in quieter surroundings near the Tiber. It's very crowded in Rome, maybe it always is, but especially during the week of Eastern.

Cerveteri

An Etruscan necropolis in green surroundings

Ladispoli, a nice beach resort, is hardly an hour by train from Rome. There we take the bus to Cerveteri to walk in the tracks of the Etruscans. At the bus station begins a trail of signs that lead us to a slope at the highest point of the village.

In quiet, green surroundings, with a panoramic view of the hills on one side, the sea in the distance on the other, we enter the almost three thousend years old necropolis. The silence here is only broken by bird songs. This spot hasn't been discovered by mass tourism yet, which is a pity, in a way: there is so much to see and experience here.

There are few traces of "living" Etruscans: their homes and temples were wooden constructions. Fortunately the Etruscans were strongly focussed on the hereafter, so many objects were found dat shed light on the way of life of the people who lived here between the seventh and eighth centuries BC.

The Etruscan believed, like the Egyptians, in a continued existence after death. The deceased continues living his former life in his tomb. Because of this, the tomb should be furnished as an eternal place of residence. This is done with burial gifts: memories and utensils from the person's former life.

The Etruscans put their dead in sarcophaguses, which basically are stone coffins, often with a cover which depicts the deceased or the deceased couple. The sarcophaguses are placed in a burial chamber, usually hewn from the rock bottom and covered with a mound of soil. These tombs and burial mounds are built in an organised pattern, there are streets between them, which creates real "cities of the dead", which is what necropolis means.

We wander through the necropolis, descend into crypts, sit on stone seats... The stones of the roads we walk on are worn by all the walking and transportation through the cemetary. It all feels unreal.

After our visit we have a drink in a simple, local outdoor café and enjoy the view of the green hills, our drinks, the sun. And we daydream about what it was like, here, three thousand years ago.

We walk back downhill, to the town center and visit the Etruscan Museum: lots of vases, but very little information about this ancient civilization. The best pieces are kept in Rome, in the Vatican Museum and in Villa Giulia.

There are also wineries here in Cerveteri. In a kind of garage we find our host Bruno who lets us taste local (white) wine. We order a small caraffe: the taste of this wine reminds us of cider.

Some villagers join us and offer us some home-made bread. We enjoy everything and take a picture of them, and then they offer us another caraffe of white wine. This company of natives makes us happy: Rome's commercialism is far away.

We take the bus back to Ladispoli, a nice beach resort. Contrary to Ostia Lida (not far from Ostia Antica), where we were last time, the whole beach is public: no zones where you have to pay to go to the beach (at least at this time: spring).

We enjoy the surf, the scent of the sea and the glow of the spring sun.

Afterwards we have tasty ice cream and take the train back to Roma Termini. We will have dinner Trastevere, the other side of the Tiber river, where you still can find real Italian restaurants and get a great meal for a democratic price.

Via Appia

The legions left Rome over these rough stones

A long, narrow road from Rome to Brindisi, lined with cypresses and pine trees: that is what it looked like two thousand years ago and that's how it still looks. Large, rough stones that show traces of the wagons that rattled over them centuries ago and that were cut out of the basalt-like layers of lava in the nearby Alban Hills.

Not much has changed over the last 2,000 years. This makes Via Appia a memorial as well as an archeological site of the first order. Because the law didn't allow burials inside the walls, many tombs where built along the roads that led out of the city. The closer the tomb to the city walls, the richer the deceased.

We walk on this piece of history and see many tombs and memorials, often still in good condition. It's like a catharsis to walk in this centuries-old street between the fields: this is where the slaves in the Spartacus movie were crucified. This is where Rome's legions left for new conquests. This is where the wagons with stones and other building materials entered Rome.

The catacombs (Christian) are nearby, but we don't feel like waiting for a guide (only guided tours are available) and we take the bus back to Roma Intra Muros to another, maybe just as macabre and sinister: Sancta Maria della Concezione.

In this austere church the horror of death is expressed in the crypt: under the slogans "Here lies dust, ashes, nothing" and "We once were like you and you will once be like us" the bones of over four thousands skeletons of Capucine monks lie here to create this macabre Memento Mori, which started at the end of the seventeenth century.

We take the subway and decide to visit the basilica San Paolo fuori le Mura (literally: "outside the walls"). This church was built in the spot where Paul was decapitated. Until the construction of the Saint Peter it was the largest church in Rome and without a doubt the most beautiful. It is an immense building.

The gorgeous columns of the small cloister are among the most beautiful in Europe. The large nave of the basilica is separated from the aisles by eighty heavy columns.

We continue on to the Aventine Hill, one of the seven hills of Rome. It is one of the most quiet districts of Rome. At the foot of the hill, two small temples on the Forum Boarium and the Circus Maximus are reminders of ancient Rome.

We approach the Janus Arch near the Forum Boarium: it stands near the former docks. Its shade was an ideal spot for merchants and customers to do business. We first visit the Sancta Maria church in Cosmedin; it is a nice, austere church (Byzantine) which unfortunately is scaffolded.

There is a long line for the "Mouth of Truth": according to medieval legend the mighty jaws of this statue snap shut around the hand of every lyer about marital unfaithfulness.

We by-pass the line of Japanese visitors who want to test their hands and enter the church. Unfortunately it is being restored, so we have to confine ourselves to taking one picture of an aisle with an upper level, a kind of gallery where women are seated.

We continue on our way up, to the Aventine Hill with the magnificent Sancta Sabina basilica. Next to this church we find a statue like the one at the Cosmedin church: we stick our hands in and...

Next to the Sancta Sabina basilica is Parco Savello, beautifully layed out with orange and pine trees. It is an oasis of peace and quiet and also offers a great view of the city.

In the evening we descend to the Tiber river and Tiber Island. It's wonderful to sit in the sun next to the rapids and eat ice cream. Later in the evening we will have dinner in Trastevere, on the other side of the Tiber: a delicious meal, many memories... Tomorrow we're headed back to Brussels.

Positano by John Steinbeck

I first heard of Positano from Alberto Moravia. It was very hot in Rome. He said, "Why don’t you go down to Positano on the Amalfi coast? It is one of the fine places of Italy." Later John McKnight of the United States Information Service told me the same thing. He had spent a year there working on a book. Half a dozen people echoed this. Positano kind of moved in on us and we found ourselves driving down to Naples on our way.

To an American, Italian traffic is at first just down-right nonsense. It seems hysterical, it follows no rule. You cannot figure what the driver ahead or behind or beside you is going to do next and he usually does it. But there are other hazards besides the driving technique. There are the motor scooters, thousands of them, which buzz at you like mosquitoes. There is a tiny little automobile called "topolino" or "mouse" which hides in front of larger cars; there are gigantic trucks and tanks in which most of Italy's goods are moved; and finally there are assorted livestock, hay wagons, bicycles, lone horses and mules out for a stroll, and to top it all there are the pedestrians who walk blissfully on the highways never looking about. To give this madness more color, everyone blows the horn all the time. This deafening, screaming, milling, tire-screeching mess is ordinary Italian highway traffic. My drive from Venice to Rome had given me a horror of it amounting to cowardice.

I hired a driver to take me to Positano. He was a registered driver in good standing. His card reads: Signor Bassani Bassano, Experienced Guide-all Italy-and Throt Europe." It was the "Throt Europe" that won me.

Well, we had accomplished one thing. We had imported a little piece of Italian traffic right into our own front seat. Signor Bassano was a remarkable man. he was capable of driving at a hundred kilometers an hour, blowing the horn, screeching the brakes, driving mules up trees, and at the same time turning around in the seat and using both hands to gesture, describing in loud tones the beauties and antiquities of Italy and Trhrot Europe. It was amazing. It damn near killed us. And in spite of that he never hit anybody or anything. The only casualties were our quivering, bleeding nerves. I want to recommend Signor Bassano to travelers. You may not hear much of what he tells you but you will not be bored.

We squirmed and twisted through Naples, past Pompeii, whirled and flashed into the mountains behind Sorrento. We hummed "Come back to Sorrento" dismally. We did not believe we could get back to Sorrento. Flaming like a meteor we hit the coast, a road, high, high above the blue sea, that hooked and corkscrewed on the edge of nothing, a road carefully designed to be a little narrower than two cars side by side. And on this road, the buses, the trucks, the motor scooters and the assorted livestock. We didn’t see much of the road. In the back seat my wife and I lay clutched in each other’s arms, weeping hysterically, while in the front seat Signor Bassano gestured with both hands and happilly instructed us: " Ina da terd sieglo da Hamperor Hamgousternos coming tru wit Leeegeceons." (Our car hit and killed a chicken.) " Izz molto lot old heestory here. I know. I tall." Thus he whirled us " Throt Italy. " And below us, and it seemed sometimes under us, a thousand feet below lay the blue Tyrrhenian licking its lips for us.

Once during the war I came up this same lovely coast in the American destroyer Knight. We came fast. Germans threw shells at us from the hills and aircraft splashed bombs at us and submarines unknown tried to lay torpedoes on us. I swear I think it was much safer than that drive with Signor Bassano. And yet he brought us at last, safe but limp, to Positano.

Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone. Its houses climb a hill so steep it would be a cliff except that stairs are cut in it. I believe that whereas most house foundations are vertical, in Positano they are horizontal. The small curving bay of unbelievably blue and green water lips gently on a beach of small pebbles. There is only one narrow street and it does not come down to the water. Everything else is stairs, some of them as steep as ladders. You do not walk to visit a friend, you either climb or slide.

Nearly always when you find a place as beautiful as Positano, your impulse is to conceal it. You think, " If I tell, it will be crowded with tourists and they will ruin it, turn it into a honky-tonk and then the local people will get touristy and there’s your lovely place gone to hell. " There isn’t the slightest chance of this in Positano. In the first place there is no room. There are about two thousand inhabitants in Positano and there is room for about five hundred visitors, no more. The cliffs are all taken. Except for the half ruinous houses very high up, all space is utilized. And the Positanese invariably refuse to sell. They are curious people. I will go into that later.

Again, Positano is never likely to attract the organdie-and-white linen tourist. It would be impossible to dress as a languid tourist-lady-crisp, cool white dress, sandals as white and light as little clouds, picture hat of arrogant nonsense, and one red rose held in a listless whitegloved pinky. I dare any dame to dress like this and climb the Positano stairs for a cocktail. She will arrive looking like a washcloth at a boys’ camp. There no way for her to get anywhere except by climbing. This alone eliminates one kind of tourist, the show tourist. The third deterrent to a great influx of tourists lies in the nature of the Posianese themselves. They just don’t give a damn. They have been living here since before recorded history and they don’t intend to change now. They don’t have much but they like what they have and will not move over for a buck.

We went to the Sirenuse, an old family house converted into a first class hotel, spotless and cool, with grape arbors over its outside dining rooms. Every room has its little balcony and looks t over the blue sea to the islands of the sirens from which those ladies sang so sweetly. The owner of the Hotel Sirenuse is an Italian nobleman, Marquis Paolo Sersale. He is also the mayor of Positano, a strong handsome man of about fifty who dresses mostly like beachcomber and works very hard at his job as mayor. How he got the job is an amusing story.

Positano elects a town council of fifteen members. The council then elects one of its members mayor. The people of Positano are almost to a man royalist in their politics. This is largely true of much of the south of Italy but it is vastly true of Positano. The fishermen and shoemakers, the carpenters and truck drivers favor a king and particularly a king from the House of Savoy. This was true when the present mayor was elected. The Marquis Paolo Sersale was elected because he was a Communist, the only one in town. It was his distinction in a whole electorate of royalists. One of Sersale’s ancestors commanded a galley of war at the Battle of Lepanto in 1571 when the power of the Moslem was finally broken and Christian control of Europe assured. He does not say why became a Communist. But he does say that he left the party in 1947 not in anger but in a kind of disgust. The township was a little sad about his losing his distinction, but they have elected him ever since, in spite of that.

The mayor of Positano is an archaeologist, a philosopher and an administrator. He has one policeman to keep order and there isn’t much for his force to do. He says, " Nearly all Positanese are related. If there is any trouble it is like a family fight and I never knew any good to come of interfering in a family quarrel. " The mayor wanders about e town upstair and downstairs. He dresses in tired slacks, a sweat shirt and sandals. He holds court anywhere he is, sitting on a stonewall overlooking the sea, leaning against the edge of a bar, swimming in the sea or curled up on the beach. Very little business gets done in the City Hall. The police force has so much time free that he takes odd jobs to make a little extra money.

The history of Positano is rich, long and a little crazy. But one thing is certain: It has been around a long time. When the Emperor Tiberius moved to Capri because he was detested in Rome, he didn’t trust anyone. He thought people were trying to poison him, and he was probably right. He would not eat bread made with the flour of his part of the country. His galley instead crept down the coast to Positano and got the flour from a mill which still stands against the mountain side. This mill has been improved and kept up, of course, but it still grinds flour for the Positanese.

This little town of Positano has had a remarkable past. As part of the Republic of Amalfi in the ninth, tenth and eleventh centuries, it helped to write the first maritime laws we know in which the rights of sailors were set down. In the tenth century it was one of the most important mercantile cities of the world, rivaling Venice. Having no harbor, its great galleys were pulled bodily up on the beach by the townspeople. There a story that on one Holy Saturday when no church bell was allowed to ring in all Christendom, a Positano ship was trouble from a great storm. The bishop who was officiating at the altar declared the rule off, rang the bell himself and then joined the population on the beach and in his vestments helped to pull the crippled ship ashore.

Like most Italian towns Positano has its miraculous picture. It is a Byzantine representation of the Virgin Mary. Once long ago, the story goes, the Saracenic pirates raided the town and among other things carried away this picture. But thhey had no sooner put to sea when a vision came to them which so stunned them that they returned the picture. Every year on August 15, this incident is reenacted with great fury and some bloodshed. In the night the half-naked pirates attack the town which is defended by Positanese men-at-arms dresseed in armor. Some of this fighting gets pretty serious. The pirates then go to the church and carry the holy picture off into the night. Now comes the big moment. As soon as they have disappeared into the darkness, a bright and flaming image of an angel appears in the sky. At present General Mark Clark is the sponsor of this miracle. He gave the town a surplus Air Force barrage balloon. Then very soon the pirates return their boats and restore the picture to the church and everybody marches and sings and has a good time.

In the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Positano became very rich. Its ships went everywhere, trading in the Near and Middle East, carrying the spices and silks and precious woods the Western world craved. Then the large and beautiful baroque houses that stand against the mountain were built and decorated with the loot of the world.
About a hundred years ago a tragedy came to the town. Steamships began to ply the ocean. Positano could not compete; year by year it grew poorer and more desperate. At that time there were about eight thousand citizens. Between 1860 and 1870 about six thousand of the townsmen emigrated to America and the great houses stood vacant and their walls crumbled and the painted designs paled out and the roofs fell in. The population has never got much above two thousand since.
If Positano bites deeply into a stranger, it is branded on the Positanese. The bulk of the émigrés went to New York and most of them settled on Columbus Avenue. They made a little Positano of it, they celebrate the same festivals as the mother town, they talk Positano and live Positano. In New York there are over five thousand people who where born in Positano - twice as many as live in the mother city. Besides these there are many thousands of descendants and all of them are tied very closely to the Italian city.

One of the hardest duties of the mayor is trying to find graveyard space for the New York Positanese who want their bodies returned to their native town. The graveyard is as big as it can be. There is no room to extend it without blasting away the mountain. Just about every available inch is taken, but the mayor must edge the old-timers in some way.
About ten years ago a Moslem came to Positano, liked it and settled. For a time he was self-supporting but gradually he ran out of assets and still he stayed. The town supported him and took care of him. Just as the mayor was their only Communist, this was their only Moslem. They felt that he belonged to them. Finally he died and his only request was that he might be buried with his feet toward Mecca. And this, so Positano thought, was done. Four years later some curious meddler made a discovery. The Moslem had been buried by dead reckoning and either the compass was off or the map was faulty. He had been buried 28 degrees off course. This was outrageous to a seafaring town. The whole population gathered, dug the Moslem up, put him on course and covered him up again.

Positano does not have much of any industry. At night the fishing boats put out with powerful lights on their bows. They fish all night for anchovies and squids, and the bow lights of the boats litter the sea to sight's edge. But in fishing, Positano has a rival - the little town of Praiano, a few miles down the coast. The rivalry has been so great that a fishing code has been long established. When a school of fish is sighted the lampara boats run for it. The first boat to reach it puts out its net and makes its circling run. Meanwhile other boats from the other town have raced for the school. If the first boat completes its circle before the others arrive, the school belongs to it. If not, both the towns share in the catch. This is important in light of a story that comes later.
On shore there is a little shoemaking, some carpentry and a few arts and crafts. It would be difficult to consider tourists an industry because there are not enough of them. They do, however, provide a bit of luxury for the villagers.

Far up the mountain a convent looks down on the sea and here little girls are taught the delicate and dying art of lacemaking by the sisters. The girls are paid and the lace sold to support the school and incidentally the children. The flying fingers of the little girls working with the hundreds of bobbins make the eye dizzy, and the children look up and laugh and talk as though they were not even aware of the magic of their flashing fingers. Some of the work is unbelievable. We saw a great tablecloth, a spider web intricate as a thought. It was the work of fifty for one year.

In a few days we became aware of Positano's greatest commodity - characters. Maybe they aren't marketable, but Positano has them above every community I have ever seen. There are the men who have lived in America and have come home again to bask in the moral, physical, political and sartorial freedoms which flourish in their birth town. Clothing is as harum-scarum as a man's mind can wish, but it must be comfortable. The postman who climbs all stairs every day wears his official postman's cap, and corduroy trousers with braces but has left off a shirt if the day is warm. Another man finds pajama pants, a loose vest and a flat straw hat the perfect costume. He carries sandals but in the same way a well - dressed man who hates gloves carries gloves. Even the lightest open sandal is a stricture on his happy feet.

In a bar or on the beach you may see an incredibly old man with the bright eyes of a wise bird or an innocent snake. He is a witch. He learned his craft from a witch. He treats the ills of the whole town. His method lies in his hands, small, white, weak-looking hands. When a patient has pain, these hands slowly creep over the area while the eyes of the wizard look off into space and he seems to be listening. The hands seem to be separate from him. The fingers find the area of pain and then gently walk about it, feeling and listening and soothing and massaging but very gently. And his patients say that the pains go away. I don't know. I didn't have any pain.

Yes, Positano flourishes with characters. On the beach there is a famous shoemaker. He builds sandals and shoes for the whole town, but this is only his part-time job. He believes that Ferragamo, the great Italian shoe designer, steals his ideas and he is a little angry about it, but then he realizes his true role. He is the friend and confidant of great men. Once a number of years ago, he was the eyes and ears and, some say, the conscience of Dino Grandi, the Italian general. When Grandi came to Positano to rest he sometimes sat and talked with the shoemaker. And after the general had left, the shoemaker would not talk to common mortals for several days. He tapped and thought and sewed and thought and he remarked once: " I do not feel it fitting that I should discuss anything with outsiders after I have been admitted to the secrets of government and diplomacy". He got to talking like Grandi and standing with his head back and his chin out the way Grandi did.

After the war, General Mark Clark came to Positano and he too talked with the shoemaker. And again the shoemaker would not speak for several days, but it was noticed that he stood with his shoulders forward and his head bent studying the ground-the normal posture of General Clark. The shoemaker told me in some confidence:

" He put his hand right here, right here, the General did," and he pointed to a place on his shoulder, and his eyes looked off into grandeur.

Mark Clark has left his mark on the town. In an older time he would wear the halo of a saint instead of the stars of a general. He is the town's patron and he rose to this position rather simply. Positano has always had a temperamental and highly undependable water system. There is plenty of water in the mountain but the means to get it to the gardens and the kitchens of the town were primitive or nonexistent. Mark Clark gave the town a few thousand meters of scrap water pipe, left over from the Italian campaign. The townsmen installed it themselves. Now the water goes inevitably to the gardens and the kitchens and the public fountains of Positano, so that many times a day every Positanese thinks of the General Mark Clark, pronounced Clock.
A number of writers have gone to Positano to do their work. Some of these are Americans and some are British. Nothing in the little town is designed to disturb your thoughts provided you have a thought. Such a recluse was John McKnight, now of the United States Foreign Service, but then in process of writing the Papacy, a long and careful study of the history of the Vatican and its position in the present - day world.

He and his wife lived for a year in a little house with a garden right over the water in the southern part of the town.
The McKnights came from North Carolina and they settled into the life of Positano as naturally as they had settled into Chapel Hill. Then the year turned and Thanksgiving began looming.

Now an American living long abroad may become completely expatriate. He may speak foreign, think foreign, eat foreign, but let Christmas or Fourth of July or Thanksgiving come around and something begins to squirm inside him and he finds he has to do something about it.

Johnny and Liz McKnight speak Italian fluently, read, eat and live Italian. But when Thanksgiving came near in Positano, the McKnights found themselves dreaming of roast turkey and dressing of cranberry sauce and plum pudding, of mint juleps. They got to waking up in the night and thinking about it.

The turkey arrived in a crate tied to the top of a bus. It was a fine, vigorous but slightly hysterical bird and for a week it gobbled and strutted in the one bird turkey yard built for it in the garden until gradually its nerves got back to normal. It didn't know that the looks of its new friends were not friendly.

Johnny remembered a bit of wisdom imparted to him by his grand-father, in North Carolina. Violent death, his grandfather said, be it to man or to turkey, is a nervous and discouraging experience. The muscles are likely to go hard and certain unhappy juices are released into the system. His grandfather did not know how that affected the flavor of man but in a turkey it had a tendency to make the meat tough and a little bitter. But there was a way to avoid that. If about two hours before the execution, the turkey is given a couple of slugs of good brandy, the nervous tension relaxes, the turkey's state of mind is clear and healthy and he goes to the block happy and even grateful. Then when he is served, instead of bitter juices of fear and shock, there is likely to be a delicious hint of cognac in the meat, Johnny decided to follow the custom of North Carolina. Then he found that he did not have brandy. The bourbon he had provided for juleps did not seem right and the only other thing he had was a bottle of Grand Marnier. It was better than brandy. It would give not only solace to the turkey but an orangey flavor to the meat.

The turkey fought the idea at first. But finally Johnny got him held firmly under his arm and held the beak open while Liz put four or five eyedroppers of Grand Marnier down the bird's throat. At first the turkey gagged a little but in a moment or two its head dropped, a sweet but wild look came in its eyes and it waved its head in rhythm with some gentle but not quite sober thought that went through its head, Johnny carried it gently to the pen. It wobbled a bit and then settled down comfortably and went to sleep.
"I'll do for it in its sleep", Johnny thought. "That turkey will never know what happened". And he went to the refrigerator to see how the mint juleps were doing.

They were doing fine. He brought two of them back to the garden, and he and Liz sat down to begin the Thanksgiving.

The McKnights do not know what happened. Johnny thinks the turkey may have had a bad dream. They heard a hiccuping gobble. The turkey rose straight up in the air, and screaming triumphantly flew out to sea.
Now we must go back to the sea laws of the Amalfi Coast. In the hills above the towns of Positano and its rival Praiano, watchers are usually posted. They not only keep watch for schools of fish but for anything which may be considered flotsam, jetsam or salvage. These watchers saw the McKnights' seagoing turkey fly to sea and they also saw it crash into the water a couple of miles off shore.

Immediately boats put off from both Positano and Praiano. The race was on and they arrived at about the same time. But the turkey, alas, had drowned. The fishermen brought it tenderly back, arguing softly about whether it was a matter for salvage court. The turkey was obviously out of command. Johnny McKnight easily settled the problem with the rest of the bottle of Grand Marnier.

They cooked the turkey that afternoon and sat down to dinner about eight in the evening. And they say that not even an extra dose of sage in the dressing completely removed the taste of sea water from the white meat.

- John Steinbeck, Harper's Bazaar, May 1953