Napoli. I devoted an insufficient amount of time than required to appreciate the misunderstood city of trash. After 2 hours roaming the clay figurine cluttered alleyways and the African street vendor cluttered streets, I was happy to board a sardine packed train of pick pockets bound for the ancient city of Pompeii. Standing amongst the mob of passengers with my back pack protruding obscenely out behind me, I could only imagine the many fingers having a field day within its pockets and submit to feeling as vulnerable as a man with a willy on his face. Never the less I was able to enjoy an enriching afternoon walking through the preserved streets of of Pompeii, dug out from its protective capsule of ash to reveal itself in a state minimally unaltered to that of 2000 years ago when the nearby volcano erupted and buried the living city. Many of the roofs collapsed under the ash but walls, courtyards, frescoes and mosaics can still be seen and a feeling of the city imagined. There is also a family of ancient inhabitants on display as plaster casts taken from cavities left by the ash buried victims in excruciating poses as they tried to shield themselves from death.
I was very happy to receive a last minute couch surfing acceptance from Paolo, a professional photographer in the nearby seaside town of Sorrento. This turned out to be by far my favourite couch surfing experience yet. Paolo had to work this night at a private dinner party function, but decided he could take me with him posing as his photography assistant. So cleverly disguised in his much too large spare formal shirt and pants with a camera over my shoulder, I mounted his motor cycle an headed off into the starry Amalfi sky to the fancy hilltop party venue. I spent the first hour awkwardly wielding my camera lens at the mingling party goers, taking terrible under exposed, headless snapshots while trying to look invisible as to avoid anybody asking to preview their precious memory. After this delightful trauma I was free to enjoy the 5 course meal of top Italian cuisine, watch the traditional performance of guitar, mandolin playing and dancing, and experiment with my alternative cocktail recipes at the open bar. I was then asked to assist with the fireworks display which involved placing 5 suitcase sized bricks of explosives at the edge of the roadside while hoping they would be avoided by passing traffic. The next morning Paolo gave me directions to a very special swimming spot. It was a large hole in the ground , where I was able to climb 8 meters down to have a secluded skinny dip in the christal aqua water then swim through a tunnel in the rock out into the open Mediterranean sea. Which found me floating in a soup of rubbish so I quicky retreated to my hole of purity.
I was Paolo's first couch surfer so perhaps a novelty, but he was incredibly generous and put lots of effort into giving me a great Sorrento experience. He took me out to a restaurant specialising in Buffalo milk mozzarella for lunch, then cooked me a delicious meal which consisted of my life times cheese consumption all squeezed into one bowl. The following day we cruised around the coast on his motor bike to the postcard town of Positano and home to the worlds most visually grotesque lemon, then in the afternoon I was granted free entry into an extensive luxurious underground thermal spa where a friend of his worked.
I was completely alone and free to douse my body in a smorgasbord of hot water, ice and steam while sipping on mint tea and listening to ethereal music until I too became a floppy piece of mozzarella's. I told Paolo I would cook him a tarjine one night for dinner. He then invited ten of his friends, so I had to take out his biggest cooking pot. Although Italians seem to believe they have ascended their cooking skills close to that of culinary heaven, I was relieved to find my meal was accepted and consumed passionately. We spent the evening drinking wine, talking and playing music with me on guitar and Paolo on his box drum. It was sad to leave Paolo with his gentile, genuine personality and loving friends, but the Italian Mamas of south Italy were calling me soflty like a moaning wale in search of her calf.
I was very happy to receive a last minute couch surfing acceptance from Paolo, a professional photographer in the nearby seaside town of Sorrento. This turned out to be by far my favourite couch surfing experience yet. Paolo had to work this night at a private dinner party function, but decided he could take me with him posing as his photography assistant. So cleverly disguised in his much too large spare formal shirt and pants with a camera over my shoulder, I mounted his motor cycle an headed off into the starry Amalfi sky to the fancy hilltop party venue. I spent the first hour awkwardly wielding my camera lens at the mingling party goers, taking terrible under exposed, headless snapshots while trying to look invisible as to avoid anybody asking to preview their precious memory. After this delightful trauma I was free to enjoy the 5 course meal of top Italian cuisine, watch the traditional performance of guitar, mandolin playing and dancing, and experiment with my alternative cocktail recipes at the open bar. I was then asked to assist with the fireworks display which involved placing 5 suitcase sized bricks of explosives at the edge of the roadside while hoping they would be avoided by passing traffic. The next morning Paolo gave me directions to a very special swimming spot. It was a large hole in the ground , where I was able to climb 8 meters down to have a secluded skinny dip in the christal aqua water then swim through a tunnel in the rock out into the open Mediterranean sea. Which found me floating in a soup of rubbish so I quicky retreated to my hole of purity.
I was Paolo's first couch surfer so perhaps a novelty, but he was incredibly generous and put lots of effort into giving me a great Sorrento experience. He took me out to a restaurant specialising in Buffalo milk mozzarella for lunch, then cooked me a delicious meal which consisted of my life times cheese consumption all squeezed into one bowl. The following day we cruised around the coast on his motor bike to the postcard town of Positano and home to the worlds most visually grotesque lemon, then in the afternoon I was granted free entry into an extensive luxurious underground thermal spa where a friend of his worked.
I was completely alone and free to douse my body in a smorgasbord of hot water, ice and steam while sipping on mint tea and listening to ethereal music until I too became a floppy piece of mozzarella's. I told Paolo I would cook him a tarjine one night for dinner. He then invited ten of his friends, so I had to take out his biggest cooking pot. Although Italians seem to believe they have ascended their cooking skills close to that of culinary heaven, I was relieved to find my meal was accepted and consumed passionately. We spent the evening drinking wine, talking and playing music with me on guitar and Paolo on his box drum. It was sad to leave Paolo with his gentile, genuine personality and loving friends, but the Italian Mamas of south Italy were calling me soflty like a moaning wale in search of her calf.
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