(4 Novembre 2001) Sunday in Palermo. I woke up this morning in my hotel room feeling like it was moving just a little bit. Standing up, I was able to brush off these vestiges of my boat trip. Taking an 18-hour ferry sometimes seems like a better idea than it probably is. I decided to remain here, in Palermo, another night for several reasons. Sundays in Italy are notoriously hard days to actually travel anywhere efficiently. Second, I had barely seen any of the town, and I feel like a town of 750,000 people ought to be given at least a little bit of a chance. Third, I had just traveled several hundred kilometers on the ferry, and staying in the same place for a bit was an attractive idea. I read up a little bit on Palermo and the surrounding area, and set off. My first destination was the Duomo, I have found that you can drop in at around 10 just about any church on Sunday and find a mass. Today was no exception. Walking to the church the streets were quiet, little traffic around. I passed an intersection with four baroque buildings, described in the Lonely Planet as magnificent 17th century Spanish facades, bursting with marble. I found a dark intersection filled with litter, and four buildings surrounded by a high wall and forgotten scaffolding. This, the ancient Quatro Canti (Four Corners), the heart of Palermo's old town are a good example of what the rest of the town is like. Everything is kind of grimy. At the duomo, I found a high steel fence guarding a courtyard with gardens. The building is amazing, different than anything I've seen. Built during the Norman reign here, it is light brown, with all kinds of Arab influences. Mass inside was relatively crowded, although I am still a bit unnerved by the Italian habit of just wandering in and out whenever you feel like it. On Sunday, masses are almost continuous, so I think people just show up, join in, and leave when the next mass comes around to where they started.

Afterward, I walked up the hill toward Piazza dell'Indipendenza to catch a bus. Near the bus stop several small crowds of old men were watching two of their number play some sort of game. Tightly surrounded by observers, I didn't get to see what. I think it may have been dominoes. It made me think of the domino games on 165th in New York. My bus eventually arrived. My destination was a small village not far outside of Palermo proper, called Monreale. The bus I was taking was a middle distance type, not exactly a city bus, but certainly not outfitted for long distance travel. We wound slowly uphill and out of town for nearly 45 minutes. Abruptly, the driver stopped, and shut off the engine. Everyone got up and left, so I did too. Apparently some kind of festival was going on on the village street, and this was as far as the bus was running today. I hiked up the hill a bit further, into the center of the village, all the while admiring the view of Palermo stretching out to the sea in the distance. It really is a surprisingly large city. The center of the small village was certainly in some kind of festival mood. Well dressed people of all sorts milled about; a small craft fair was taking place on the piazza. The cathedral up here was much like the one down in Palermo, surprisingly large and grand for such a small town as this. I ducked inside, joining the mass in progress. I looked up, and was simply blown away. Never have I seen such amazing mosaics. Ravenna and Venezia were blown away in comparison to this. An enormous room filled with light, the beautiful canvases in tile covered the entire interior surface. Probably 70 feet high to the ceiling. Above the high altar, a beautiful image of Jesus, with his arms spread in a greeting of peace. I stayed for the rest of the mass, then wandered outside. I bought some postcards of the place, and walked around town a little bit. 10 minutes of walking put me at the other end of town, not really that interesting, most of the stores were closed. I wandered back to the cathedral, no mass was going on, and I was able to wander the aisles, still transfixed by the images. Beautiful depictions of saints and bible stories, created in tiles about a half-inch square. I paid 2000 lire and walked up a narrow flight of stairs, across a promenade looking into the cloister next to the cathedral, and onto the roof behind the altar.

From there, the panorama of countryside was incredible. Just a few tourists were around, mostly German. I walked back down the hill to where the bus had stopped, returning back to town. Palermo just doesn't possess a lot in the way of beautiful sights to see, or museums to browse. I ventured into a seaside park, hoping for a bit of greenery and grass. Unfortunately, it was one of the most vile places I've ever been. The ground was covered with trash, stray cats and dogs eyed me with suspicion, the sea heaved garbage onto stained rocks, smelling like raw sewage. In the distance, a dumpster full of trash burned out of control. I didn't stay to observe more. It would make a brilliant postmodern setting for some particularly depressing movie. I set off back through town, towards the botanic gardens, hoping for better. Better they were, but consisted entirely of stone paths, and wood chips. Not a blade of grass anywhere. The benches were the kind carefully designed to prevent sleeping, and were extremely uncomfortable to boot. I eventually settled down near a large boulder, and read the Lonely Planet. I was determined to leave tomorrow morning. Night began to fall, and I decided a relatively deserted park wasn't a good place to be sitting in a town like this. I walked back to the main street, where I was able to find some crowds and some open stores. I visited a big music store, and bought a copy of "Rent," sung in Italian. Things like that are always fun. I settled down on the steps in front of the incredible Teatro Massimo, updating my notes. I watched the skateboarders on Piazza Castelnuovo, found a slice of Sicilian pizza for dinner, and returned to my room relatively early.

(5 Novembre 2001) I woke up this morning, determined to leave town. I showered, dressed, shouldered my pack and walked to the train station. The statzione was full of people, mostly milling about in coffee bars. No trains seemed to be going anywhere. A crowd of people pressed by, waving red flags and blowing whistles. I looked at the departures board, it was last updated around 4:30 in the morning. The TV monitors showed all kinds of trains, all listed as "sopresso." Apparently leaving town wasn't going to be as easy as I had thought. Stepping outside the station, slightly dazed, starting to rethink my plans, I could see the group of people with flags and whistles had grown to several hundred. Police with face shields and full riot gear were shoulder to shoulder across the beginning of Via Roma, the city's main street. Not eager to be involved in anything approaching a riot, I moved quickly away. Originally I had been planning on heading further West, to Erice and Trapani. Given the uncertainty of the train service, and my schedule, I decided to go east by bus. The city blocks south of the train station act as the Intercity bus station. Not surprisingly, since no trains were running, the place was mobbed. I was able to secure a ticket on the next bus headed to Siracusa; unfortunately, it didn't depart until 2:30 in the afternoon. I was frustrated at having to spend almost another full day in Palermo, but I realize this sort of thing happens when travelling. I walked with my pack all the way to Piazza Castelnuovo, found a comfortable bench in the shade of a palm tree, and read my book. I was trying to savor the pages, knowing how ridiculously hard it would be to find good reading material in English here. I whiled away the morning, eventually wandering the town some more. I found the very active street market, observed fast moving butchers, and all manner of goods changing hands. It was interesting, but I was ready to leave. I found a bit of lunch, grabbed a gelato (excellent), and made my way back to the bus. There are lots of busses from several different competing lines covering several blocks of the city. I eventually located my bus and took a seat. About half full, we drove down an impossibly narrow street before turning onto the Autostrada (Expressway) going east along the coast. It was a very interesting ride. Amazingly the ride from Palermo, nearly on the Northwest corner of the island, all the way to Siracusa on the Southeast end, took only about four hours. The ride was very interesting, with fascinating countryside. Very different from anything I'd ever seen everything seemed to be very dry. The highway followed the coast part of the way, and turned inland. Orchards of almonds and oranges gave way to dry hills. Midway along the trip, Mt. Etna suddenly appeared. An enormous mountain, alone, without foothills and not part of a range, Etna sat in the distance smoking away. I think it is the first time I've ever really seen an active volcano. Eventually we approached Siracusa, as the sun was setting. It seemed like we drove through miles of outskirts and suburbs before stopping on the far side of the small bridge linking downtown with the mainland. Trains spoil you, going directly to the city center, skipping suburbia entirely. I found the hostel in Siracusa closed for renovations. Rolling my eyes, and resigned to staying at another hotel, I located the dumpy Hotel Milano. Fortunately the room cost only 35000, the same price as the hostel rooms in Firenze. The hostel in Firenze was certainly nicer; the bathrooms in this place were decidedly scary. I resolved to simply not stay long enough to need a shower. A little leery of leaving my bag, something I've been doing in hostels for weeks, I locked the door and headed out to wander around town. I liked Siracusa almost instantly. A small island called Ortigia houses the old part of town, with an interesting cathedral. In the hills of the mainland lie the ruins of the ancient Greek city we call Syracuse. The island had lots of small artisanal shops, and a nice promenade along the water. I had dinner at an interesting restaurant. After my meal, I finished my glass of wine with the only other English speakers in the place, three Americans working with a power plant North of town.

(6 Novembre 2001) Siracusa, Sicilia. This morning I got up early and left the uninspiring Albergo Milano. Even though the hotel was pretty dingy, I did have an excellent view out the window, of the little harbor between Ortigia and the mainland. In fact it ranked right down there with the dirtiest places I've stayed, and I wasn't about to hang about and find out if the shower matched up to the rest of the place. I was resigned to spending the day carrying my backpack, which not desirable, but sometimes necessary. I stopped at one of Corso Umberto's many corner caffe bars, for an excellent Italian cornetto and a cappuccino. I continued my passage away from the quaint old city, up the hill to the Parco Archeologico, the site of an ancient Greek settlement. The landmark is the fantastic Teatro Greco; it is an amazing expanse of white seating, forming perfect arcs carved out of the hillside. It faces east, so in the evening the sun is providing frontlight for the performances. Today it is very clear, and quite warm. I put my bag down and wander around. The park is quiet, there are just a few people around. The white stone shimmers blindingly in the Sicilian sun.

The rest of the park was interesting, a very tall (23m) cave called Orecchio di Dionisio (Ear of Dionysius) spirals around inside a hillside. A beautiful garden full of lemon and lime trees lies among the ruins. This part of the world suffers from a lot of earthquakes, and most of the ruins are pretty, well, ruined. I walked out of the park, across a busy intersection and found my way to another claim to fame for Siracusa, the Shrine of Mary Lachrimosa. Apparently in 1953, this statue of Mary in some impoverished workman's house began to cry real tears. It did so for 13 days. Today, there is a huge church, a shrine. It is interesting regardless the cultural or religious implications of such a place. The building is an enormous light filled reinforced concrete pyramid with wings. I think Alden B. Dow would have liked it.

I walked around and inside, but didn't pay the money to see the treasury where the reliquary storing the tears is. I kind of wish I had, I'd like to know what 1950s reliquary design was like... From the shrine, I walked over to the Museo Archeologico. It is the best collection of artifacts in Sicilia, from excavations all over the island. Some stunning water jugs and vases, fragments of every kind. The building they are housed in is absolutely amazing, I may have liked it better than the bits of pottery. The design was composed of a series of hexagons made out of triangles, the entire thing composed out of hexagonal units about 8' across. It was reinforced concrete and glass, had beautiful lighting- natural light on pieces that could handle it, and good artificial sources for more delicate works. The exhibit design and display cases carried the triangle-hexagon motif throughout the building. I imagine it was built in the very late 1970s, probably amid some controversy. It is the kind of thing that has fallen out of fashion in the last 15 years, and I think I like it because of that. Extremely overstaffed, as many Italian museums are. After marveling at the building a while, I made my way down the hill, to a grocery store and to the marvelous waterside promenade. I sat in the warm sun, the Ionian Sea flashing in front of me. While I was lounging, reading my book, the sun disappeared behind a cloud and stayed there. The day's heat and beauty dissolved into grayness. I shrugged, packed up my book and the remains of my lunch, shouldered my pack and made my way to the bus stop. I purchased my ticket and used a convenient internet cafe while waiting. I boarded and headed to Noto, a little town Southwest of Siracusa. After about an hour's bus ride on a deserted bus, I climbed off in the main square. The town was larger than I expected, and a bit of lucky wandering the town led me to the Ostello with surprising ease. The hostel was almost empty, and the desk clerk spoke very little English. I stowed my bag, and walked out for a bit of a look around town. The main street was about 200 feet below the door to the hostel, and about 200 feet South. A circuitous route of stairs and alleys had to be followed. How I located the hostel so easily I don't know. A few people were milling around the small piazzas, and at 8:00, it was still very early for dinner. Noto was almost entirely destroyed by an earthquake in the 16th century, and the town took the opportunity to apply strict urban planning. The streets follow a grid pattern, and fantastically detailed facades edge the small streets. Everything is made of the local sandstone a pale rosy-tan, and carved with baroque detail. The stone is weak, however, and earthquakes have been hard on the architecture over the years. In fact, the cathedral dome collapsed with out warning about 5 years ago. Only now, with EU money, is it being reconstructed. I think those posters attached to scaffolding showing what the finished project will look like, life size, are silly.

(7 Novembre 2001) I think there were only about 5 people at the hostel last night, I had met two last night, and met a pair of French girls this morning, while eating a fabulous cornetto. Noto famous for its pastries, and I began to see why. I spent a few hours this morning poking around town. I ducked into some heavily decorated Baroque churches, and poked my head in to the Duomo's renovation. It looks like a major reconstruction. Apparently the climate here is such that you can grow papyrus, and little notecards printed on local papyrus are a popular tourist item. I sent one I liked off in a letter, after the usual rigmarole at an Italian post office. On my way to catch the bus North, I stopped at one of the bakeries and spent 12000 lira on pastries. I had a wonderful time choosing, there were dozens of interesting things. I climbed on board the bus, and settled down, biting into an earthshatteringly good cannoli. The bus rolled North, first to Siracusa, then on to Catania, the highway following the sea. Unfortunately, between the road and the water, the entire way, lay a terrible scar of industry and pollution. There were a half dozen power plants, and all kind of other heavy industries. The land had severe urban pollution, and probably environmental problems as well. I had been warned about Catania, hearing that it was highly industrial, very dirty, dangerous, ugly, and on and on. Therefore, when I arrived at the bus terminal, I wasn't too surprised. It did seem busy and dirty, but not particularly bad. I made my way through town, across the Duomo square. There was a lava statue of an elephant carrying an obelisk in the center of town. On my way to the hostel, I passed through an amazing meat market. Very crowded with shoppers and butchers covered in blood. I located the hostel without much trouble, although I was a bit off-put by the overflowing dumpster of offal, blood and bones outside the door. Inside, the proprietors were very friendly, and I was shown to a room with a view into the dumpster. I wasn't too enthused, but I was determined to give it a go. Called Agorą, it was a private (non-HI) place, which simply means that it isn't a member of Hostelling International. In reality, non-HI places tend to be more relaxed, have more open curfews, and slightly more party oriented. This place didn't seem to be an exception. After locking up my bag, I set off toward the beach, an advertised feature. I reached the seashore only after a difficult slog across wide roads of fast traffic, and passing by a smelly factory. I walked toward a pier on the edge of the harbor, where a few dozen people were fishing, some having driven their cars out onto the pier. The path to the pier was so covered with trash, I was blown away. I've never seen more stuff on the ground. Period. It was disgusting, and smelled like sewage beside.

I checked out the pier, hopped off, and walked down the beach. Like the area by the pier, the beach was very trashed as well. Lining the sea were perhaps 100 private "beaches," places to park, change your clothes, sunbathe, drink, etc etc. All of them were closed tightly, this being November. I bet few people actually swim in the sea here, I know I wouldn't be excited about getting that water near me. It kind of makes the East River in Manhattan look good. The architecture of the various beaches was terrible as well. A large place would have a cement block building, unpainted, smaller places just had shacks that listed to the side.

Plastic and glass trash covered the sand. The weather was relatively warm, I was walking in a t-shirt, but I saw no one else out. I walked a long way, perhaps 4 kilometers down the beach. Toward the end, the beach seemed to get better, but perhaps it was me getting used to the filth. Away from town, you can get a clear view of Mt. Etna towering above the city. It rises suddenly out of the sea, and looks like a painted backdrop, except the puffs of smoke out the top. It is hard to describe.

Side note: in Italiano, "lido" means beach. Therefore, Sarasota Florida's "Lido Key", with its "Lido Beach", simply means "beach beach." I walked back to the hostel as darkness approached. I wasn't eager to be caught on unfamiliar streets in a town known for being tough. Returning to my room, I met two of my roommates. Damian was British, from Bristol, my age, with an enchanting smile and dimples. He had a wry sense of humor, and seemed happy to meet me. Perhaps he was glad to have someone to talk to other than Ken. Ken was older, perhaps 40. He has been to 156 countries, and carries around a plush rabbit. He takes pictures of the rabbit wherever he goes. He holds an Irish passport, was born in America, and has been travelling for the last 5 years. All of this you learn within 2 minutes of meeting him. As the conversation flowed along, it became his place to correct everything you said. Both were planning on hiking Etna tomorrow, and I planned on joining them. Damian and I were able to slip off for dinner without Ken's company. We had a wonderful meal, I had a pasta with amazing cream sauce. We split a litre of vino rosso, and talked and laughed a lot. After dinner, we returned to the hostel, and the three of us walked to a supermarcato to stock up on supplies for the hike tomorrow. Knowing we were getting up early, we sacked in early.

(8 Novembre 2001) Catania. We woke up at ten minutes to seven this morning, and made our way to the bus depot in order to catch the 8:15 up to Etna. At this point in the year, there is only one bus going up, and only one coming back down. Ken had insisted we wake up far earlier than needed, but we certainly did make the bus. We sat perhaps for half an hour waiting to depart. Damian and I rolled our eyes at Ken. I don't think either of us could put up with him on our own. It is a good thing we're together. The bus ride was longer than I had anticipated. We took a 10-minute intermission in a little village called Nicolosi, partway up the hill. The intermission was to allow the bus driver and the conductor to have a caffe and smoke a cigarette. Damian and I split my last Noto cannoli (cioccolate). Above Nicolosi, the landscape got more and more bizarre. It was very much how I imagine the moon. At one point, the bus slowed, and the conductor pointed out a house, nearly covered by lava. Rivers of the rock, in different colors, mostly depending on how old they are, flow down the face. The road is fresh tar, and takes long switchbacks across the barren landscape. At 10:20, we stepped off the bus, at the highest point of the paved road. A few buildings and shops were clustered around a building that used to be the bottom end of a cable car or chair lift. That was until the eruption this past summer. In July, this entire area was threatened by a river of molten rock. Rifugio Sapienza and the few buildings were spared, but the cable car was destroyed. Instead of the cable car, tourists paid too much money to ride in a large range-rover like vehicle, up the dusty dirt path. Backpackers with more time than money and looking for exercise, like ourselves, simply hiked up the dirt path. A fairly easy climb, the hike was difficult because the wind was strong, and the air dusty. The landscape was lunar, like I said, with ash and rock as far as the eye could see. Far in the distance, you could see Catania and the sea beyond. We passed a buried ski warming hut. Apparently this is a popular ski area during the appropriate season, and when the ground is cool enough for snow. No one is going anywhere on the chair lift soon though; we passed the top of the recently destroyed lift, now a burned out shell. The mountain here is littered with destroyed ski lifts and cockeyed power poles. In the shelter of another destroyed lift, we paused to eat our lunch. We determined we were at an altitude of 2700m (8858 feet), pretty impressive considering that our hostel was probably at about 10m.

From our lunch site, we had a clear view of the steam and smoke pouring out the top of the mountain. The peak is 3300m (10826 ft), and we were probably 10 miles from it laterally. Since we had to retrace our steps to catch the only bus back to Catania, we began our descent. Actually, Damian and I knew very well we could have hiked another hour up, and returned in plenty of time for the bus. Ken insisted we turn around. The descent went quickly, and when we got back to the Rifugio we wandered around another crater, some kind of vent. Not that interesting. It was cold and windy while waiting for the bus. We discovered an amazing thing while finding shelter. The road between the Rifugio and a small hotel a few hundred yards away was destroyed by the eruption this summer. Now construction crews were rebuilding. Recently they had demolished a piece of the fresh lava, leaving an exposed face about 12 feet high, at the side of the road. This rock face, which had been underground until a few days ago, was still very hot. Very Hot. A bottle of water poured onto the surface boiled off in a cloud of steam instantly. Paper didn't burn, but it did get brown around the edges. It was one of the most fascinating things I've ever seen. It was also very welcome, considering that we had been standing around in the cold wind. This rock, which had been liquid just months ago, was right in front of us. I picked up small stones, and kept them in my pockets as handwarmers. Huddled around this bizarre, rare and supercool find, Damian and I were full of wonder and glee. Ken wandered off to wait in the cold wind. We weren't going anywhere until the bus actually showed up. It did eventually, and we climbed aboard with everyone else. There were probably 14 people, mostly foreign tourists. We began the slow descent to Nicolosi, then Catania, I dozed off quite quickly. Returning to our hostel, we found it a good deal more crowded than last night. Ken was relatively stupid about the shower, and made Damian mad. Eventually, the three of us went to a local pizza place that Damian and I had spotted the day before. I used the internet for a while, and when I returned upstairs Ken was showing his photo album to our new roommates. They were bored. Damian and I took the opportunity to leave, and put back a few pints at a genuine Italian Irish Pub. These bars look just like British bars, or at least how British bars look in America, except they have loud Italian music, and are filled with loud Italians. We had a good night out, Damian is a really friendly person, and an excellent drinking companion. We were urged to try Glen Grant by an inviting factory representative, but she could only give away tacky lanyards, not the Scotch itself. Disappointed, we stuck to the beer. Did I mention the dimples?

(9 Novembre 2001) This morning, everybody else in the room, probably 7 other people, got up early to catch the bus up Etna. I was awakened by the noise. Finding that I couldn't fall back to sleep, I wrote in my journal. Damian woke up, and seeing that Ken was out of the room, told me that he planned to sleep in, so that Ken would leave without him. They were both headed south, to Siracusa, and Damian wasn't really keen on keeping Ken as a travelling companion. Eventually, I got up, changed and packed. I said goodbye to Damian, and headed to the bus station. I caught the bus to Taromina, a small town along the coast, Northeast of Catania. The ride was interesting, through small seaside villages, including Giardini-Naxos, an ancient Greek site. The bus then followed the road up the side of a cliff, arriving in Taromina. A fetching, touristy town, Taromina sits high on a cliff overlooking the sea. Soon after I stepped off the bus, it began to sprinkle. I ducked under an awning, and watched the rain fall. The sea was quite churned up, with splotches of sun and angry patches of rain. I wondered how the people from the hostel last night were doing on Etna today. It stopped raining shortly, and I located the hostel. It was closed for the afternoon. I met an Australian girl at the door, she was very friendly, and we talked for a while. Eventually, I walked back to Piazza 9 Aprille, ate some lunch, and watched storm clouds play with each other out at sea. The view is simply stunning from just about anywhere you stand in Taromina. I stopped by an internet cafe, and began the first round of my great Sabena war. [My airline went out of business, and getting a return ticket to America wasn't easy.] Around three, I walked back to the hostel, and met up with the Australian girl. Eventually the guy working there showed up, he gave us keys to the garden gate, and showed us to our rooms. There was a kitchen in a glass room off the garden; the prospect of cooking a real meal for myself was thrilling. The Australian girl and I went for a bit of a hike, up to a castle towering over the town. Stunning views of Etna, wreathed in clouds. She had been to Stromboli, which sounds wonderful. I shared with her my Etna experience. She teaches geography to elementary school kids, and she was eager to share real-life volcano stories with her students. By the time we descended, the lights of Giardini-Naxos and the valley below were an amazing starfield. We stopped at a supermarcato, collecting fixings for pasta and salad. We made an excellent dinner, and ate in the evening air at a table in the garden, with lemon and lime trees over our heads. The hostel cat stopped by for some scraps, and a very quiet night settled on Taromina. There were only three guests. Beside us, there was a Japanese guy. He was a cook at an Italian restaurant outside Tokyo, here to improve his culinary sense and cooking. Unfortunately, he didn't join us in our meal tonight. Still, it was wonderful to use a stove again, and to eat a large quantity of pasta. Since it is a first course here, the portions simply aren't as large as I'm used to.

(10 Novembre 2001) Taromina. Unbelievable that I have only a week left. Time seems to be flying by. I woke up early, not waiting for breakfast at the hostel. It was cloudy and threatening rain, but I wandered around town, having a cornetto and caffe while waiting for 9:00 to roll around. At 9, I visited the Teatro Greco, another ancient Greek theatre. This one was near the center of town, and was renovated by the Romans, and modified frequently. It is an amazing space though, inspiring me to do sketches for an amphitheater building that I'd like to design someday. Mostly brick, the upstage wall is gone, giving an amazing view of Etna and the sea, a view which would have been better, I'm sure, on a less cloudy day. I was the only one around, soaking up the atmosphere, until a group of German tourists showed up and started doing Shakespeare soliloquies. Oy. I did a bit of shopping, some gifts to take back home. I ran into my Australian friend, and joined her for gelato. Perhaps the best I've ever had. Right now Padova and Taromina are tied. The Taromina train station is at the bottom of the cliff, and I decided to walk down. I followed a small path, between a few perched hotels, winding down the cliff to the station. I was in a bit of a hurry, I wasn't eager to miss this train. I had a 7-hour ride ahead of me, and these express trains weren't too frequent. I should have consulted Italian Transportation Rule #1, however. [If you are early for the train, it will be late. If you are counting on the train being on time in order to make a connection, it will be late. If you arrive on time for the train, it will be late. If you are running late to catch the train, it will have left on time.] I had a nice wait, and boarded the train, finding a seat with two Italian gentlemen. They were friendly enough, and the journey was interesting. The train made frequent stops at seaside towns. At Messina, we waited for a long time, going forward and backward as the entire train was placed onto a ferry to cross back to the Italian mainland. At Villa S. Giovanni, on the other side, we were exactly 2 hours late. Shortly thereafter, a particular boy from Bristol stopped outside my compartment. I quickly moved my bags to where he was sitting, and Damian and I passed the rest of the journey in intense conversation. The 3 hours to Salerno pass quickly indeed, and we parted for the second time. I got off the train- he's continuing on to Roma. The Lonely Planet drew another terrible map, and I located the hostel with great difficulty. Fortunately I had reserved my bed, and my place was reserved. The place is a dump, but one with computers. I use the internet and phone "like a weapon" to continue the Sabena battle. I spoke to my parents too, updating them on the plans. It looks like I will be flying home on Swissair, but that it will cost me some sort of money. I go back to my room, realize what a dump this hostel is, including a total lack of hot water in the sinks. I'm over it.