------------------------------------------------------------------------------
June 18-22, 1999
Salerno, Italy
After leaving Barcelona, Spain, we were at sea nearly two whole days before pulling onto port again. One of those days was spent completely out of sight of land and we got really scared. Thankfully, we didn't get eaten by sea monsters or fall off the edge of the earth.
Two days at sea is not enough time between liberty ports. That doesn't give you nearly enough time to entirely sober up before being forced to go out and drink again. Yes, forced is the correct word. We are the flagship for Standing Naval Forces Mediterranean, a NATO command. In our little flotilla, we have a Dutch ship, as well as a Spanish, German, Greek, Turkish, British, and Italian ship with us. The United States Navy is one of the few in the world that does not serve some type of alcohol onboard. All these other ships feel sorry for us because of that fact. We have been encouraged to spend as much time with our NATO counterparts as possible and to get to know one another. Our NATO allies interpret this to mean, "Get the Americans hammered". Visiting one of the other NATO ships, or hanging out with our NATO allies can be very hazardous to ones health, especially the next morning.
Two days after leaving Barcelona, we were ordered to pull into port again. This time our destination was Salerno, Italy. Salerno is a small city about 45 minutes south of Napoli (Naples, to you ex-sailors who have been here before). The main industry here seems to be fishing. It sits right on the coast (which is always an added benefit if your main industry happens to be fishing) and is surrounded by mountains on all sides. Being in Italy it has the mandatory old castles, Catholic Cathedrals, and cool ancient architecture that each town is issued as soon as it incorporates. The people were friendly, the place was gorgeous, and nobody got killed (especially me) so overall, I enjoyed the place.
The first night in port I had duty. I was assigned to the Beach Guard watch. From 2100 (that's 9pm for you lubbers) until the last liberty boat returned to the ship at 0430 (that's dark-thirty for you old salts) I was required to stand on the pier and ensure good order and discipline. Like I have any good order or discipline my ownself. All of our NATO friends were able to tie up pierside while our big ass ship had to anchor outside the harbor. This really sucks because most of our NATO allies are driving our old ships. The place looked like Honest Uncle Sam's Used Boat Works.
I am proud to say that no one stole any beach while I was standing Beach Guard.
Beach Guard didn't suck as bad as I thought it was going to. I got to hear all about Salerno from the people who were returning from liberty. The large majority didn't really care for the place. There were no Tattoo parlors, no hookers, and no discos. When you are 20 years old, a town without hookers, disco's, and tattoo parlors really sucks I guess.
The worst thing about standing the Beach Guard watch were the drunks. I have a low tolerance for obnoxious drunks. In fact, I have a low tolerance for drunks period. I couldn't wait for the Liberty Boat to get back and pick these people up. A few of them, I was tempted to point the ship out to, then heave them off the end of the pier and tell them to start swimming. Don't take this to mean that I am anti-drinking. I'm not. I don't have a problem with those people who are able to drink responsibly. I don't mind people going out and getting a buzz on. I don't even care if you want to sit in your hotel room, living room, or house trailer with a fifth of George Dickel and Reverend Ernest on the television and get right with Jesus. I've been there and done that myself. But overseas, we might be the only exposure a lot of these people ever get of America, besides the Jerry Springer show that is, and I would like for them to think well of us. That way when we bomb the shit out of them, they will at least think that the Yankee Imperialist Aggressors are polite folks.
The cool thing about standing the Beach Guard was getting to meet a bunch of Italian fishermen. It was really fun trying to talk to each other when neither one of us had a clue as to what the other one was saying. Billy, the kid I was standing watch with has an Italian grandmother. That made him my unofficial interpreter. Of course having eaten at Olive Garden several times, my Italian is about equivalent with his. Basically, what I understood was this: The fishing sucked because all the big fish had gone to France for the Cannes Film Festival to check out the movie stars and the women with big breasts. And that one guy's uncle lived in Boston and was getting rich making Formica tops for tables. Actually he could have been telling me that I have a small pecker and that I sleep with goats for all I know. Our communication consisted mostly of a lot of smiles and hand gestures anyway. We both seemed to enjoy talking to each other a lot and that's all that matters.
The second day we were inport, My first day of liberty, a few of us decided to go to Napoli to the Navy Base there. I was able to call my wife. She said she missed me and wanted to know if I was behaving. How could I not behave? She has all my money and my pecker is in a pickle jar on top of the refrigerator. (It's a really big pickle jar.)
My liberty buddy and I decided to go check out the downtown area so we could do some shopping and maybe get mugged. We grabbed a cab that Mario Andretti just happened to be driving now that he's retired from Formula One racing and made it to the train station. Having barely cheated death yet again, I bought a train ticket and headed up to the platform. While waiting for the train, just like Jimmy Rodgers but without the annoying cough, I pulled out my mandolin and started to pick some before the train. A gentleman came up to us and nodded hello and watched me. At first I thought he was a music critic who had planned to throw me under the wheels of the train as it came by, but instead I found out that he was more interested in my mandolin. He asked me about it and he then told us that the worlds first mandolin had been made in Napoli by a guy named Lloyd Loaretti. He also told us that Leonardo Fendori made the world's first guitar in Napoli as well. At least that's what I think he was saying. He spoke absolutely no English and all I can say in Italian is "Thank You", "Excuse me", and "Lets Get Drunk and Party with the Goats." That's all you really need anyway. We all got on the train together and I started playing some fiddle tunes rather badly. Actually, I was just chopping out rhythm because I can't really play mandolin. As I stumbled through Lonesome Fiddle Blues, Blackberry Blossom, Wheel Hoss, and With Care from Someone. I noticed the fellow's was tapping his foot keeping time. At least one of was able to keep time. He had a big smile on his face so I guess he dug it. Score one for the home team.
After we got off of the Metro train in Downtown Napoli, we wandered around the main square. I observed a game of "Guess Which Shell the Pea Is Hidden Under, You Big, Dumb, Goofy Looking, American Tourist" going on and stopped to watch. I guess they saw that big SUCKER sign that was tattooed on my forehead at birth. One of the players, a guy I'll call Junior, who seemed to be winning big, tried to get me to play along. He stuck a hundred thousand Lire note in my hand (about $50 US) but when I tried to walk away with the cash, I found that Junior had a pretty good grip on it. "No, No, you play, Joe. You play." I may look like I just rode in on a Turnip truck, but that SUCKER sign on my forehead is an old one and is slowly fading away. I told Junior that I was broke, that I had no money whatsoever and they suddenly lost interest in me. One thing I learned early on, Never try to beat a man at his own game.
The different regions of Italy are as different as the different regions of the United States. Mt Vesuvius sits right outside of Napoli. In fact Pompeii is a suburb of Napoli, much like the town of Madison, Tennessee is a suburb of Nashville. Back in 0000 or so, Caesar popped a cap in Mr. Jesus's ass. Seventy-nine years later, the mountain blew up and buried most of the area in Lava and mud. Coincidence? I don't know. Jerry Falwell says not. Of course he thinks one of the Tele-Tubbies is gay too. In 1944, the mountain gave a pretty good hiccup and there was a whole lot of shaking going on. Since then it's just been sitting there waiting...and watching. All it needs is an excuse.
As a result of living a lifetime underneath a Volcano that might at any moment make your 401K plan null and void, Napoli is a city unlike any other in Italy. The preferred method of driving here is to point the vehicle in the direction in which you wish to travel, close your eyes, and stomp on the gas. Seeing as how this is the Plastic Jesus capitol of the world, all automobiles are protected. If you are unlucky enough not to have a glow in the dark plastic statue of Mr. Jesus or a picture of the Blessed Virgin in your automobile, then your ass is grass. Napolutians (I made that name up, but it sounds cool), also don't wait in lines and never get in a hurry about anything. It's a lot like Alabama but with more teeth and without that sorry ass Crimson Tide football team.
There are two methods of shopping in Italy. There are the stores that are much like stores anywhere, with the hottest looking mannequins you've ever seen, they all have nice chests with erect nipples, then there are the "Hey Joe's". The "Hey Joe's" get their name from their constant salutations of "Hey Joe" to any American they see. Americans are known world wide as being rich, stupid, and an easy touch. The "Hey Joe's" here have been known to sell you a VCR on the street and when you get home and take it out of the package, you find that you have just bought a beautiful hand carved wood VCR. Too bad beautiful hand carved wood VCR's don't play tapes very well. You can also get just about anything you desire from the street-side vendors as well. Purses, ball-caps, switchblades, Rolex's, wood carvings, cigarettes, puppies, fruit, lighters, artwork, etc, etc, etc.
After spending a little money on my wife and kids, and avoiding being robbed, We took the big train back to Salerno. It was cool. I felt just like I was in a James Bond movie. I kept waiting for Scatman Caruthers to come take my ticket. The train had all those little six man compartments just like you see in the movies. I wasn't able to sip a martini and say "The names Bond, James Bond" and there was no conductor to come take our ticket, but we did see some of the Carabinari.
The Carabinari are the badasses of Italian law enforcement. They make the Tennessee Highway Patrol look like pussies. These guys always carry submachine guns and wear body armor. They also don't play. The Carabinari aren't subject to any of the oversight committees that are used to monitor our police force's actions. If you piss these guys off, they will either beat your skull in or just shoot you. If anyone asks them why, all they have to say is that you are a terrorist. If you smile at them and wave though, they will usually smile and wave back. In fact, a smile and a wave will get you further in Europe than just about any Berlitz language guide.
The guys I was with had this weird penchant for hanging their heads out the window of the train to see where we were going. When your train is speeding along at better than 100 kilometers an hour, this is not necessarily a good idea. When there are other trains heading toward you on the adjacent track at 100 kilometers an hour, this becomes even less of a wise idea. I was going to say something, but then realized that none of these people ever used their heads anyway so they probably wouldn't miss them.
The next day, I got up early with the intention of taking my guitar to the beach. I promised my wife, that I would try and get her some sand from every port we visited. It's not my fault that the beaches are topless. I also have to make sure I get just the right kind of sand. That usually takes a lot of searching to find just the perfect sand to send home to her. I can't just send her any old ordinary plain sand, it has to be special. That alone can take most of the day. It's this kind of dedication, concern and attention to detail that makes marriages last. Too bad it was raining, so instead, we headed off to explore downtown Salerno.
Have you ever visited a small Italian town on a Sunday when it's raining? The experience will make you think that they evacuated the city and someone forgot to tell you. In Italy, Sunday is a time for going to church with your family, then eating together and spending the rest of the day enjoying each other's company. I can only guess that Italian families are nothing like my family. I love them all passionately, but if I were forced to spend every Sunday with everyone in my family, I would truly have some good stuff for confession.
On Sunday in Salerno, nothing is open, and no one is out. The good part about all of this is that it allowed us to walk the streets without the fear of becoming an armadillo pizza. The architecture here is wonderful, as it is in all Italy. Everywhere you go in this country, there are Castles. Around here, the Bourbon Kings built most of them. That was before they all packed up their stills and immigrated to Kentucky. After they left, their Castles were turned into Apartment Houses, Museums, and Barns. Lots of the older buildings have been put to modern use. One of the people on my ship was commenting on how this was a Third World nation and that all of these people lived in squalor. Not true. You can't judge the insides of these buildings by what the outsides look like. Italy is a curious mix of the ancient with the modern. There are ancient Roman aqueducts running through Salerno. A house or apartment building here is likely to have been built in 0099, 1178, 1330, 1510, 1776, 1944, and 1996. Title searches must take decades. While exploring the streets, I happened to be able to see inside a few of the open windows well below street level. Every room I saw was furnished with modern appointments and was just as nice as a similar residence would be back in the States. Why is it that if a culture is somehow different than your own, then it must suck? What a moronic point of view (except when applied to Yankees).
Words of advice, when walking around Italy wear good stout shoes. More than half the roads are still cobblestone and are hell on your ankles. It's easy to imagine that the roads have been here since Caesar. There is not a lot of concrete. What concrete there is, is used more for plaster on the sides of buildings than as the main structure or foundation. The majority of buildings, at least the older ones, seem to be made with stone or marble.
It rained off and on throughout the day. At one time I found myself standing in an ancient partially covered alleyway/staircase picking my guitar waiting for the rain to stop. The acoustics in ancient partially covered alleyway/staircases during a rainstorm in Italy are phenomenal by the way. After the rain let up, we went and found the local McDonalds and had us a McRoyal. The McDonalds here is housed inside of what used to be an old Monastery. It's the oldest McDonald's building in the world. The food still sucks but the shakes weren't bad. The Italians now build their Monasteries on the sides of rugged mountains. Once you decide to check in, you can never leave, unless you sprout wings or something. I love Jesus just as much as anybody else does, but having to go without cable or internet access is just a little to much to ask in order to prove my faith. Can't I try that walking on fire stuff instead?
Afterward we choked down a McCrapwich, while my partners were on the telephone lying to their wives about how good they're being. As they were telling their wives that the only thing they have had to drink the entire trip is communion wine blessed by the Pope himself, and so forth, I sat down on the sidewalk and began to play my guitar. An Italian gentleman walked up to me and started a conversation. He had a Robert Johnson book in his hand and asked me if I was familiar with him. Sure I was, The writer of Crossroads, Traveling Riverside Blues, Love in Vain, etc. Originally from Mississippi, he supposedly sold his soul to the devil, recorded a handful of tunes that are now rock classics, then a woman poisoned him to death. We talked about Johnson and his songs for a bit. I found out that this guy was very much into Country Blues. We talked about an Italian flat-picker named Beppe Gambeto, as well as Ry Cooder, James Burton, and other great pickers. Turned out that he was a local Blues picker. He complimented me on my picking and then had to run off to meet the train.
The fourth day we were in port, I wanted to go to Pompeii. I had arranged with some people to go back to Napoli to the Navy Base so that they could buy socks and underwear and we would then take the train from there to Pompeii and see where Mt Vesuvius made popcorn of the ancient Romans. A problem arose when it was discovered that six packs of Icehouse beer in longneck bottles sold for $3 at the base Mini-Mart. I suddenly couldn't find anyone that was interested in seeing a bunch of crispy crittered Romans. So while everyone else was sucking down longnecks, I was started listening to some Hank Sr. and started working on this travelogue.
There you have it. That's my visit to Salerno. I would have liked to have been able to get inside of some of the castles, but it was a relaxing visit none the less. Right now, we are at sea again. We don't know where we're going, but we're not lost. Our Captain wants to continue our wine and cheese tour of Europe, especially the places with topless beaches and cheap beer. The Grand Poobah in charge of our flotilla of debauchery isn't sure yet if we are going to pull in somewhere I can't name tomorrow morning, or if we are just going to head back to where we were sailing around in circles for thirty-eight straight days off the coast of the country we can't mention.
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment