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Click here for the Introduction.Itri with castle, part of Appian Way. Photo credit: African Institute Information |
80 miles – Wednesday, October 19
We set off inland, pedaling long hills
with buffeting winds to the coastal mountains. Hillsides are rocky
and dry. I'm glad I recently gave up wearing contact lenses in favor
of prescription sunglasses. I observe the locals tending olive
orchards. And, once we gain altitude, sea views are spectacular. We
ride an undulating narrow road, arriving in Itri. It's an
agricultural hub for local olive oil production. As we cruise through
town, the smell of fragrant olives, wine, and fresh-baked bread
emanate from doorways. For ambiance, a Roman fortress hangs above
Itri, serving as a reminder of it's importance on an ancient road,
the Appian Way. Again, we are back on its path.
Tower of Castellon, Formia. Photo credit: Wikipedia |
From Itri, Andy and I roll next to the
south bound trains, passing through a long tunnel. Then it's a
downhill struggle, pedaling into headwinds to coastal Formia. We
take out more Lira at Banca di Roma and buy groceries. From Formia
it's a cruise within a few kilometers from the Mediterranean south
towards Naples (Napoli).
Early afternoon, an English speaking
man cycles next to us, introducing himself as Annibale. He is
Sicilian and raised in London. He is with a NSA service contingent in
Naples. His role is a military policemen. We ride together for an
hour. Annibale is a wealth of information. We were unaware that NATO
and it's Mediterranean fleet are based in Naples. Therefore a large
American presence of 10,000 or more service personnel reside in the
region.
As we near Naples, trash litters
roadsides. We constantly swerve around piles of glass, wandering
mongrels, or frost heave-type blisters in the asphalt. The
concentration is taxing.
Castel Volturno central square. Photo credit: Wikipedia |
Much like outside Rome's walls,
prostitutes linger. All are mostly wearing short red skirts and black
fishnet stockings. They are often too young – possibly teenagers –
and mainly young women of color. They posture, standing, picking
their nails. Each woman is alone, sometimes miles from a town. Andy
and I maneuver around vehicles, their drivers examining the
merchandise, asking questions. A hooker may open the door and get in.
We pass 10, 20, 30 prostitutes. I've been told it's the oldest
profession in the world, yet it's difficult to digest, especially the
young ladies who may not have known another life.
A prostitute walks a road. Photo credit: Doxy Spotting |
By 4:30 p.m. we roll into Pozzuoli,
just shy of Naples, exhausted. The campground is along a busy street.
Unfortunately, the 30,000 Lira (20.00 USD) fee is more than we want
to pay, however, we're in no position to argue. A hostel in Naples is
the only other option. We adapt quite comfortably, though, soaking
tired muscles in a warm outdoor mineral pool, bake in a sauna, and
relax at a picnic table overlooking lighted clay tennis courts. It's
actually a relief to enjoy a well-lit campground after dark, for once
not hunched in the tent, reading and writing by flashlight.
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