ISO... best Napoli pizza, and our long lost luggage

Given how challenging life is as a pack mule just getting down the hill one last time, we've opted to forgo Herculoneum, but that gives me one more reason to add to a growing list of why I would come back here. 

While waiting at the Schiatzanno bus stop (pronounced ski-aht-sahn-no, which takes me a week to learn), there are some locals waiting in the shade across the street. At one point, I see what looks like the bus and begin gathering my things. The folks across the way come over and are not impressed to see a tiny tourist "train" ferrying passengers around the area for sightseeing pulls past. Scusi!

We stop at a store in Sorrento selling bags and I negotiate a deal on one with wheels and another more trendy shoulder bag. The strap ripped off my bag before we even got off the plane. The guy at the store is watching my flurry of packing activity with amazement. We are condensed and much more mobile in minutes. I think he may have applauded before he handed me a scarf for free, indicating I could use it to wipe my brow. 

Yes, Grandma -- I'm doing the heavy lifting. So I wonder why I'm so bent on working out given how much lifting and walking I'm doing. If my kilogram to pound conversion and Lucia's scale are correct, I've actually lost weight in Italy. Today, I carry four bottles of wine, all of the clothes I bought over the last few days, a bunch of toiletries, our travel materials, reading, my iPad and iPod, camera equipment, about six various chargers, a few gifts... and a partridge in a freaking pear tree. 

Now, let's go pick up our bags, shall we?

There are more musicians on the train, playing a song The Gypsy Kings does that I love. I'm mouthing the words with my head buried in my arms so as not to make eye contact. Eye contact costs money, proving we've learned a lot in a week. I wonder if when we "land" in Rome, if the learning process will start all over again. Maybe we'll get graded on a curve. 

Getting to the Naples airport isn't too difficult. We are offered a cab ride for 55 euro, but the bus costs 12 for both of us round trip. Don't you think that's a crazy difference? We just can't figure it out. 

Getting the bags takes a while, and when I'm ushered into the room where all the luggage is kept, I'm disheartened not to see it right away. They don't actually seem convinced they even HAVE mine. I find mom's tucked behind a luggage cart, and finally spot mine on the bottom shelf in another area. I can't wait to use MY shampoo, MY makeup and perfume. To wear a dress. To slip on my Vibrams and run through Rome. To fall asleep in my tank and the blue boxers with lemons on them instead of an airline-issued white t-shirt. I lean down and give my luggage a hug. Ti amo, bag.

We head back to the train station and check our bags to free ourselves to walk out for a bit. I'm adamant the day will not be a total loss, and ten minutes walk from the station is a pizza place touted to be the best in Naples, maybe the world -- Da Michele. The Condurros family has been making pizza since 1870. On my birthday last year, Julia Roberts ate here while filming Eat, Pray, Love. The place is pretty Spartan and the menu simple. They are famous for using only sweet San Marzano tomatoes and fiordilatte cow's milk. They have two kinds of pizza, pizza margherita and pizza marinara. We place an order for one of each and watch them making it in the brick oven. In just minutes, the pizza is on the table. A few more... in our bellies. 

I'm not big on pizza, but I must say -- the place doesn't disappoint. Mom says thanks, Dr. Selva, for the great tip! 

On the way back to the station. I attract a little fanfare of my own. A few Italian men call out "bellisima" while whistling. This is the first time anyone has been so aggressive, despite many queries from the home front on whether I've had my bottom pinched yet. The answer is no. Noticed, maybe. No touching, thankfully, but I hate to think what will happen when I don't look like a fashion fugitive anymore. 

In the meantime, we are watching the countryside pass on the train and listening to an operatic piece from Rigoletto. It will be dark when we arrive in Rome. That should make things fun.

I think we'll need gelato, STAT...

Paestum, and an Ailitalia infiltration...

Paestum. I should include some history here, but must start by saying that when I was looking at Pompeii artifacts the other day and was floored by 15 A.D. -- ha ha ha. I just saw a building constructed around 500 B.C. That's Before Christ.

You probably knew that, but it needed saying anyway.

This is a little tidbit from Wikipedia, as the iPad is very no frills when it comes to the bells and whistles I usually put in my blog... links and pics and such. "Paestum is the classical Roman name of a major Graeco-Roman city in the Campania region of Italy... located near the coast about 85 km SE of Naples in the province of Salerno, and belongs to the commune of Capaccio, officially also named Capaccio-Paestum. The main features of the site today are the standing remains of three major temples in Doric style, dating from the first half of the 6th century BC. These were dedicated to Hera and Athena, although they have traditionally been identified as a basilica and temples of Neptune and Ceres, owing to 18th-century mis-attribution."

I wish we had more time, but we still plan to head to Capri this afternoon. Mom is also hot, and there are a lot of bugs. Despite, I want to walk around this huge complex and and touch things, imagining the people who lived here more than two thousand years ago. 

Afterwards, Angello -- the driver -- took us to a mozzarella factory where we taste some of the most amazing cheese I've ever put in my mouth. If I could get this home, I would in a minute. I just don't think mozzarella would last in my luggage.

Oh... if I HAD luggage. Interested in an update on that? While in Naples onThursday, I finally catch Alitalia with their co liters up and running. They have found mom's bag, which is in Rome. Mine, they aren't sure yet. They say hers will be delivered in two days. That's today. Lucia calls this morning to tell us that our luggage is in Naples and we can pick it up there. 

I'm visualizing my happy place, which at present, is floating down a river in West Virginia.

I thank her and say we will call Alitalia. When I get them on the phone, I explain to the woman I am speaking with that while I understand that this is not her fault. I explain that we have spent four days without our things. I explain that we are not near Naples, that it would take us four hours to get there to pick up our luggage. Losing MORE time from our vacation over this luggage crap is not on the itinerary. I tell her, very clearly, that THEY lost our luggage and that I expect that THEY will deliver it to us directly. I then ask when it will arrive. She says tomorrow.

I won't hold my breath.

Houston, We Have A Problem...

The only thing that hasn't been lost in the last 24 hours is my mind, but I have to say -- we're a hop, skip and a jump away from sheer lunacy.

The airline lost our bags. Not just one... BOTH of them. 

After deplaning, changing our US cash into significantly less euros (a process I am not learning to love, and doubt I ever will), we waited at the specified baggage carousel for about a half hour. Long enough for almost everyone else to leave. When we went to ask, the nonchalant response was, " just give it ten more minutes." after 15 and still nothing, we spent an hour filing a lost luggage claim over a language barrier that would have the Dalai Lama ready to scream.

It gets better. I know that seems impossible to believe, but it does.

The train employees are striking. I buy tickets at the self-serve kiosk, which in itself is an Oscar-worthy feat (I'd like to thank the Internet, my family...) I digress. Some trains appear to be running, but others are making passengers get off and shutting down. We end up having to pay double to take the high speed train, after I get a lecture from the agent who wants to know why I didn't come right to the window. If you want me to use the window, why are there all these convenient ticketing machines? I'm not a conspiracy theorist, but this whole thing is a bit suspicious.

We get to Rome's Termini Station late to hear an announcement that our train is departing. Track 10. We are on track 25. We are running, and poor mom -- I know she can breathe. Her asthma has been bothering her, and she's trying to keep up with me. I ask if she just wants to scrap it and try and change the ticket, but she just asks if it's much further. I feel so bad, trying to encourage her that we are almost there, then sprinting to the train just as the conductor is getting on. I beg him to wait, trying to explain by pointing to my chest that she's coming, though is having a hard time. She rounds the corner and he shoos us unto the train, directing us to compartment nine. 

We are in compartment one. 

It's a long walk back on a moving train. Mom is tired. My feet are blistered. We are both utterly exhausted. I am sitting here, looking out the window at the Roman countryside, trying to make lemons out of lemonade. Here's what I've got: we didn't have to carry our luggage through the train station. If we'd had it, we never would have made the connection to Naples. With any luck, we'll get our bags in a day or two, and I thought to ask for toiletry kits at the airport that included clean t-shirts. Having to shop for a few things in Italy doesn't suck, either. 

The point is, yes -- it's been a rough day. But when it boils right down to it... we are here and we are safe. And HERE just happens to be Italy. I'm looking at Mount Vesuvius and watching my beautiful mother sleep. I have a month off to spend exploring this country, and a few credit cards at my disposal if the bags DON'T come.

What else do I  really need?