Reggie Thomson’s Diary

I got up at half-past eight. My computer gave a message that I needed to check something - the clock was out by one hour. I changed it, and did some typing. At breakfast time, I realised what had happened - the clocks had changed overnight. It seems my computer has been programmed to recognise this, and I had change the time back. So I wasn’t late. There was some delicious raspberry muesli for breakfast, made by Mr. Schmutz.

We set off by nine and drove through some delightful countryside. There were several places where I thought I would like to stop and take a photo - a lonely seat by a lake, or a leaf-carpeted road leading into the forest.

When we arrived at the church, we were five minutes late. Rosmarie disappeared inside in a hurry, and sat right at the front, where there were no other seats. Sabine explained that she was annoyed because we were late. It amused me that by her actions she chose to make a statement about our lateness, not worrying about the statement she was making about her character. It reminded me of Japanese characters. We sat upstairs in the gallery, though it was almost full, too.

I didn’t understand anything of what was said. I think it was all in Swiss-German, though even in German I would probably not have picked up much. Bruno’s slides were interesting, and judging by the laughs and questions, the talk must have been interesting, too. I gathered, from an example, that Vietnamese is a tonal language, which makes it very difficult for our ears to hear the difference between vowels.

After the service, one or two people chatted. We went to the back hall for some coffee and cakes. There was some pink grapefruit Fanta, which I tasted for the first time, and some freshly crushed apple juice. I thought this might be lunch, but in fact, we drove home for a full meal!

A farmer had opened his farm to the public in the village of Seegraeben am Pfaeffikersee. We drove over there and parked near the lake. As usual, I took lots of photos. The weather was perfect. I decided that my theme for Switzerland should be the ordinary scenes, not the tourist areas. I was always last, and had to run to catch up with the family.

There were lots of pumpkins on the steps leading to the village church. Sometimes people would watch what I was doing from behind, not realising that their shadows were in the photo. I took some photos of the leaves and bicycles opposite the church. I even took some of a couple on their bikes, but it was more of a snap. I showed them the results, and they asked what I was going to do with the photos. “I put some on the internet to show my friends,” but actually, I only put a few of my photos on the internet. The rest become idea generators - why didn’t this photo work?

In the farm, the pumpkins were piled everywhere. There was even the world’s largest pumpkin, at 444kg, shipped in specially from America. After taking lots of snaps, and getting down to my last battery (the power in Italian toilets doesn’t seem to have done the job properly), I joined the family again. First, I went in search of some pumpkin soup, but I could only find a small free sample. I would have loved to have bought a slice of pumpkin pie - American style. The Schmutz’s were eating sausages, and very nice sausages, too.

Some children were throwing grass to the chickens, and I was just lucky in managing to catch what I wanted - the one that stands out in a sea of sameness. There were also a variety of methods for towing children on the backs of bikes - a two-seater cab or a tandem. We left just as the sun was beginning to glow in the west. I had taken about 65 photos, which amused everyone.

There was another delicious meal back at home.

I resumed my hitching around eight. One lady said that they were full, but wished that I got to Zurich. It was kind of her. Three gentlemen took me to the services just before Bellinzona. They were going to climb up to a mountain hut and do some repairs on it. They invited me to join them, which would have been wonderful, but I have now made an appointment to stay with Rosmarie. It is a pity. They were very pleasant.

From Bellinzona, a group of people going on a weekend climb said they could take me as far as Airola, just before the tunnel. The road over the mountain was closed, according to the Teletext in the services, but I assumed the tunnel was still open. The group were going to buy some cheese in Airola first, since that is where it is made. The mountains they were about to climb looked very beautiful, and the weather was good. I gave them each a namecard, which cleaned me out of about eight! I only have two left. I will have to give out the postcards to the next people.

The service area before the tunnel isn’t marked on my map. Maybe it is recent. While standing by the restaurant and shop entrance, one lady came up and said she could take me to Luzern. I had just begun to eat my cheese sandwich, so finished it off, and packed my bag. Then another lady asked where I was going. I showed her my sign, and she said she could take me all the way to Zurich. So, I had to find the first lady and apologise that I couldn’t go with her. I gave her one of my postcards to say thanks for the invitation.

The second lady bought me a cup of cappuccino, so while we drank our coffees, I showed her some of the pictures, including the calendar. Driving through the tunnel, she told me that there had been a terrible accident in another tunnel last summer, and many people had died. Only two people escaped the inferno, and the firemen couldn’t get in. She also thought it was silly that there isn’t a separate charge for everyone using the tunnel - it goes on the Swiss taxpayers’ bills.

Her husband is from Bangladesh, and she told me a little about a charity that she has set up with a few friends. They have bought someone a rickshaw, and asked him to repay the money slowly. When it is all repaid, without interest, it will be his own, and they can buy a new one. They are also contributing to the education of his son, and some others. “It’s hard to know where to begin,” she said. It is good to know that individuals can take simple initiatives to help others.

It makes me think that I should offer my internet and homepage experience to a charity, instead of seeking a full-time position. Then, I would be able to work for a low salary, and gain the necessary internet programming experience by myself.

The lady took me all the way to the station. First, I needed some money. I changed my Lira, Philippine Pesos, and some dollars, giving me around sixty Swiss Franks. Looking at my address book, I realised I still have Rosmarie’s old telephone number in Meilen. I used the electronic telephone directory. At first, I typed in Guntz, and the machine told me there was no such place. Then I remembered Gusch. I wrote down the address and number, but there was no reply.

Also in the station, I looked at some maps of France, but decided not to buy one yet. I looked at a detailed map of Zurich, and wrote down the places on the road towards Oetwil am See. It was a pleasant afternoon, so I sat by the river and finished off my bread and Russian salad. By the time I set off, it was just clouding over. I walked only short distance before a couple stopped for me. They could take me toward Esslingen. When I gave them each a postcard, they said they could take me all the way to Oetwil am See, and indeed dropped me just outside Rosmarie’s house in Gusch. By my calculations, hitching in Switzerland (to my final destination) is about 45kph compared to the miserable 10kph in Italy.

I thought I saw someone leaving the house in a car and started wav ing, but it wasn’t them. As I approached the front do or, Mr. Schmutz was there, and welcomed me in. Rosmarie was also there, and they were just wondering if I would come or not.

It was great to have a hot drink and a hot shower. I changed into my tracksuit, and put all my clothes in the wash. We chatted for a while, and in the evening, Mrs. Schmutz made a delicious meal. Bruno is giving a slide show in a church tomorrow, so we all have to leave by nine o’clock.

Fortunately, no one “possessed” the piece of road I had selected, so I slept until seven, disturbed only be the rubbish collectors. When I packed everything, I noticed that my rucksack cover is missing. I think I must have forgotten it when I was in Venice, leaving it on a bench. What a pity! I took a wash in the toilets, and then started asking drivers again, without getting permission from the attendants. One gentleman suggested I stood on the sliproad, where most hitchers stood. It would be against the “law,” but since most people seemed to be going into Mestre or even towards Trieste, I thought I might have more luck there.

A short wait later, and I had a lift into Padova. With the worry about getting past cities, I chose to go into town. I was dropped at the east entrance to the motorway, and told that there were plenty of cars going from there towards Vicenza. It was, though, a difficult place to hitch from, and so, after waiting a short while, I chose to walk into town.

A motorcyclist made the journey much shorter. I told him I had was taking photos, and he wanted me to take a photo of him, but I made the excuse that the camera was in my bag. I was dropped at the station. There I went under the railtracks and asked someone on the other side how to get to the motorway. He had a detailed map of Padova, including the service area. I tried to remember it as best I could, and set off.

Only a minute or two later, I was given a lift by someone going all the way to Vicenza. He works for a “syndicate” of computer programmers, and took me into the town centre, past the headquarters of the American Forces in Italy. He pointed out the way to the Teatro Olympico (I think that’s what it is called).

I wandered round town, eating my sandwiches in the centre. Then I headed out for the west entrance to the motorway, which has a small service area near it. A gentleman gave me a lift, but I noticed he was going to the east entrance. He said it was larger and easier to hitch from there. He had hitched himself all the way to Sweden. He took me past another building that I had seen on postcards.

The east entrance was indeed wide, but that made it difficult to hitch from - with people driving to the ticket machines on the other side of the road unable to cut across and pick me up. Aside from that, the sign was off-putting - again “No Autostop.” Drivers would pull over, but to pick up people from the car park. After two hours of fruitless waiting, I decided to walk back into town. This time, no one stopped. I had to walk a long way, ask directions, and then another long way out of town again. There was another cheap supermarket on the way, where I stocked up on food and drink. I got some Russian salad, some apples (though one was bad), some bread (reduced from 1200 to 1000 Lira because the lady hadn’t any small change) and some cake. Yes, the cake was as cheap as the bread, at 4,000 Lira per kilogram. It was well worth it.

The western motorway entrance looked impossible to hitch from. I decided to look for the service area. After walking about half-an-hour (or 3 km) through an industrial estate, I turned towards the highway. The first gentleman I asked, wasn’t local. The next pointed me back the way I had come, saying I could walk there. I wasn’t quite sure where it was, so asked two other gentlemen. They seemed a little confused - after all, who wants to go to a petrol station on a motorway when one doesn’t have a car. They gave me directions, but again I wasn’t sure. They seemed to suggest that the service area was the other side of the river, but I think they were directing me to the entrance to the motorway instead.

I tried looking for the service area down a railway that lead towards the motorway, but it didn’t go far enough, and I didn’t wish to walk through a factory - who knows what trouble that might cause. I returned, and went into a local snack bar to ask the ladies how to get to th e service area. They drew a map for me - I had to go the other direc tion. I went on, and confirmed the direction with yet another man. By now, it was after six and getting dark.

A van drew up. The two gentlemen had overheard my conversation in the snack bar, and thought that the ladies had given me directions to the next service area - about 30km away. However, they asked where I was going, and when I said, “Switzerland, via Milan,” offered to take me to Milan, if I didn’t mind waiting for a hour. It was a spot of good luck, or is it all intended to happen?

The two gentlemen worked for TNT and needed to load up their vans before departing. I sat in the front waiting, and drinking a cup of coffee that they brought me. On the way, we chatted a lot, all in Italian. The packages were unloaded at Bergamo, and then I was taken to the larger service area nearby - Brembo. It seemed better to wait there, by the restaurant area. Many people were going in. Inside, I wrote my sign for Milano (N) and Legnano, but someone told me Como would be better - nobody knows where Legnano is.

A taxi driver suggested he could take me to the turn off for Switzerland - for 100,000 Lira. I laughed, and told him that I had spent about 160,000 Lira in two weeks travelling round Italy and only had about 40,000 left. When he came back out of the restaurant, he said he would take me there for free! Not only that, but he treated me to a meal at the next snack bar - an Italian sandwich (panini). I gave him a postcard, as a way of saying thanks. He wanted to know how much it cost. It is only about 25 US cents - but that may not be its value. Since they are somewhat unique, and I may not produce any more of them, who knows what their value might become.

I had just arrived at the next service area, and was trying to work out where I was on the map, when I heard someone shouting at me. A car drew up, and two guys wanted to know if I was going to Como. They could give me a lift as far a Cantu, if I didn’t mind joining them for a drink at a pub nearby. That was fine, though the pub turned out to be closed. They drove on the local roads up the mountain, and in fact went all the way to Como, some fifteen kilometres beyond their home, to put me on the road to Switzerland. There were some attractive buildings in the town, though I decided it would be better not to jump out and photograph them.

So, at 1 a.m. I was walking up the road towards Switzerland. I still had some Italian money, so I thought I should sleep one night here, and then buy some more provisions before going on. I found a car park, but some people were sitting on a wall. So, I went to the doorway at the back and started to unpack. Unfortunately, a small car drove right into the area and parked. The gentleman came straight over. “What do you think you are doing?” “I would like to sleep here,” I responded. “I will call the police,” he threatened. I asked him why, to which he only said, “It’s not possible,” and rushed off. I had only begun to unpack, so put my belongings back in my back and set off again.

It made me think of the words in the bible: “I was a stranger, and you did not invite me in.” If hell is the punishment for those who merely ignore the plight of others, what awaits those who shoe strangers away? No, it was time to leave Italy. I resolved I would not stay in Italy that night, and would walk the ten kilometers or so to the Swiss border.

I didn’t have to walk. A gentleman gave me a lift. He lived in Lugano. Before we went through the customs, he asked if I was carrying drugs. “I don’t take drugs,” I replied. He seemed to suggest that it was only a problem at the customs. He said he was “young at heart,” and would take drugs only three or four times a year. The customs officer looked at me, but didn’t even ask to see my passport. The driver took me to the service area just inside Switzerland.

It was very late, but I decided it was best to wash there and then sleep out. I went round to the back of the area to lie down.

So, I only got three hours asleep before I was packing again and heading across the four kilometres of bridge and viaduct to Venice. It was a foggy morning, though, and through the day, the fog barely lifted. My town map on the roadmap, was sufficiently detailed for me to find my way to the Rialto bridge, peering into the odd church here and there. Since the weather was poor, I was in no rush to get to St. Mark’s Square.

I could just see the Island of San Giorgio through the fog. I looked around for some interesting angles, and maybe found one or two. However, I am mostly a fair-weather photographer. So, I sat down on some of the walkways that had been brought out because of the flooding a few days ago. I put the rucksack cover under me to keep me dry, and ate my bread and cheese from the supermarket. With the poor weather, I had time to just sit and enjoy the atmosphere. The Japanese groups had arrived very early to miss the crowds and to make sure they saw everything on their rush round the city. Other tourists arrived at more reasonable hours, and soon it was quite full. There was a spot of sun around ten, and I had to ask someone to move from the spot on the bridge where I wanted to take my photo from.

I found a small supermarket near the Church of San Maria Formosa, not far from the Rialto Bridge. There, I had lunch, though the pigeons crowded round to pick up the crumbs. Some nearly pecked from my feet. Since I was wearing my sandals, it could have hurt!

I hung around the Ponte Rialto, hoping for a bit more sun. It didn’t come, so I just wandered round some of the shops. I found a scarf made in Italy but with a “Scottish design.” Before I bought it, I checked some other shops. At 15,000 Lira, it would be a day’s budget, but I was already under budget for Italy. I could even afford a wonderful ice cream for 5,000 Lira. The lady put four helpings of ice cream in the cone, but one was not what I had wanted. I had started to say so, but she didn’t notice, and just went ahead with what she thought I wanted. Then, when I sat down, I noticed she had given me 1,000 Lira in change, not 5,000. I went back immediately and she apologised. However, she seemed to accept the error too quickly - as though she had tried to cheat me. It would be my assumption that someone who makes an unintentional error would at first be a little confused.

I walked a little more, back to Piazza San Marco, but took no more photos. I enjoyed the live music from the restaurants, then went to the supermarket to stock up for the evening. I got a little lost on my way back to the Piazzale Roma, and eventually had to ask directions.

At first, I tried hitching. There were lots of cars leaving the island. However, within a minute, a policeman appeared - I was standing outside a traffic police station. He was pleasant, though he asked me to move on. I figured I would have to walk most of the way back to the motorway - some two hours or so. In the event, I only had to go halfway. A gentleman pulled over and took me to the service area at the roundabout.

As is my custom, I started asking people in the service area if they were going towards Padova. Most were heading to Mestre or Venice. I also asked the attendant if it was OK to talk to the drivers. His answer was curt: “No. No autostop here.” When I pressed him for a reason, he could only say that his boss didn’t permit it.

I continued to ask, though, without going onto the forecourt. Then one man started talking. He asked where I was from, and when I replied, “Scotland,” he said, “Excellent. Can I buy you a coffee?” He was going the other direction, sadly, but treated me to a glass of wine in the snack bar area. The lady was a bit gruff, since she was in a hurry to get away and close the shop - the cappuccino machine had already been switched off. The gentleman explained that, about 25 years ago, he had gone to London, and was desperately looking for a place to stay, when he we nt into a pub. A group of Scotsmen noticed him, and i nvited him for a beer. It seems that they must have helped him a lot, for he even said it was a pity he had to work in the Palazzo Ducale tomorrow, or he would take me part way on my route. It is amazing that kindness can be passed on so many years after it is received.

When he left, I continued hitching for a while. However, it was getting late, and with only three hours of sleep the previous night, I decided to find a secluded spot to lie down. Surprisingly, I could get out of the service area without clambering over barbed wire. I chose a block of flats with some garages, and went to the furthermost garage, where I spread out my bed and lay down.

About midnight, I was awoken by four people. I think they were expecting trouble. They told me I couldn’t sleep here. When I asked what the problem was, one explained that his was his garage. That, to my thinking, wasn’t a statement of a problem. Getting a car into a garage would be a problem, but he didn’t say that. Figuring that was probably what he meant, I picked up my stuff and went to another place on the side of the road near the service area.

It was a pleasant morning, so I got up in plenty of time to walk back to the centre of town. However, while I enjoyed looking for the evening photos, there seemed to be less opportunities for the early morning shots - I prefer to have an east-facing image with a strong outline. I took some more snaps from the puddle. This time it was easier, since there were fewer people milling around. I walked down to the tower of the Basilica di San Bartolomeo, and then all the way to the Basilica di San Francesco, on the west side of town. I was still on my guard against pickpockets, and reckoned a suitable defense might be to keep my whistle in one pocket - though it is now at the bottom of my rucksack.

It was pleasant visiting some of the churches on the way back to the centre. There was a small fountain in Piazza Cavour, with a number of elderly people sitting on the benches around it. I think elderly people would make interesting photos - they are not usually in a hurry, and their faces are interesting. Maybe I could make that a theme for my calendar photos one year.

By eleven, it was time to head on. I followed the road signs to the motorway. A gentleman gave me a lift part way to Altedo. He was going to Cento, and would have taken me there, but it seemed better to stay on the main road, near the motorway. He wanted to give me one of his CDs of guitar music, but I declined - I don’t wish to break it, nor to carry any extra unnecessary weight.

I thought I might be near another entrance to the expressway, but when I walked that direction, it was just a flyover. I walked for some time in the direction of Ferrara. It was a beautiful day. It’s a pity I wasn’t in Venice. Eventually, I got a lift to the village before Altedo. The gentleman was going to work in a restaurant.

From there, I walked a further hour or so to Altedo. By this stage, I was getting hungry, so I was relieved to find a supermarket in town. However, when I went up to it, it was closed. It closes from 12.30 to 3.30. Hmm. Italians enjoy their lunch breaks! A little further on, I went into a bar for some food - a cheese panini, and an ice cream. I washed my feet in the bathroom, since even though I wear my sandals, my feet tend to get smelly.

There was a further long walk towards Ferrara before a van gave me a lift into town centre. They tried to convince me to go to Porto Garibaldi, and up the coast road. However, I was beginning to feel that the difficulty of hitching in Italy is partly due to the difficulties in getting round towns, and partly standing in front of a sign that says “No Autostop!”

I asked directions to the entrance to the motorway, and came across a supermarket that was open. That gave me some nourishment for the journey. I think I had taken a wrong turning to the intersection, but fortunately, someone stopped. He offered to take me to the service area. By now, it was dark. We crossed over the road, and he dropped me at what seemed to be a path leading up to it.

Unlike Japan, where all the service areas have access roads, and usually a bridge or tunnel connecting them, in Italy the only way to get to a service area is by the highway. I walked down the path by the side of one field. Then I had to walk over the next field to the fence. It was a barbed wire fence with netting below, and not very stable to stand on. I put my bag and sign over, and contemplated how to get in. Then I realised that I couldn’t see if there was a crossing over the motorway. There often is, with the restaurant in the middle. However, I wasn’t willing to risk jumping in without knowing. It would be better to go back to the other side.

Retrieving the bag was no problem, but I had put the sign just out of reach. I had to hold the barbed wire up and stretch under it to get it back. I didn’t want to go all the way back to the road, but there was a small ditch to jump. Although I positioned myself well, when I made the jump, my rear foot went into the water. Just acros s the bridge, where the barbed wire met t he bridge, I could jump inside easily. I then made my way along the verge on the side of the motorway, and into the service area.

Of course, I had to wait some time before someone offered me a lift to Padova. Better still, he was going all the way to Venice, and let me out on the motorway just after a toll point. I was surprised to see someone else walking past - he was also hitching, going towards Croatia.

In a service area by the roundabout, I decided to take a full wash. There were few people coming, and it was already past ten. The toilets were disgustingly dirty. I washed my hair, and used my small towel to wipe myself. As I did so, I recharged the batteries that I had used up in Bologna, and put my photos onto the computer. There is definitely some problem with the computer. Its battery has gone flat even though I haven’t used it, and the screen seems to flicker a lot.

I started walking again around midnight, checking that it was possible to go by the ordinary road and not the highway. I had gone some way down a dual carriageway before I cut across, thinking that maybe I was going the wrong way. I came across another main road. There were hundreds of prostitutes along it - on every corner. I had no option to ask some how to get to Venice.

I walked back towards the expressway, so I thought. Then I found the main road to the island. A car stopped to ask me something, but seeing that I wasn’t a local, sped off again. By three, I had followed the road until the car parks. I presumed I would have another hour to walk into Venice, and so decided to take some sleep (well, just three hours) by a hotel information office. I lay down at the back, so as not to be disturbed by the traffic.

I woke up at 4.30, so decided to finish off the homepage update then. It was better, but there was a problem with receiving my email from AT&T. I could see one large file of 200k bytes, and thought that Eugenio had sent a photo back, but when I checked using the internet mail option, it was from someone I had never heard off. (It turned out to be a misdirected mail).

I went back to sleep, and got up at seven. However, it was then a rush to be ready to leave with Riccardo and Piera at 7.35. I took a quick shower, and stuffed everything into my rucksack. Even so, I wasn’t ready until nearer quarter to. I’ve left behind some things that I no longer need - some mosquito spray, the silk sheet from Bali, and the rehydration salts that someone gave me in Calcutta! If the cooking really is as bad as Riccardo says, maybe they will need it.

We drove down the mountain, and stopped at Piera’s parent’s house. Her father came out to shake hands. Then in town, Piera bought me some panini and Coca-Cola. I suddenly remembered that I would need a new marker pen, so after Piera had been dropped at her school, Riccardo took me to his house, where he had a spare one. Then he drove me to the service area on the motorway.

I wasn’t long there, when a lady offered to take me towards Florence. She was a clothes designer, and was going to visit India to find some materials. Maybe someday one won’t have to visit a country to find what one is looking for - only a homepage! Of course, that would mean being sure of the quality and service (delivery). It will be difficult for some countries to improve their quality when there is no local pressure to do so.

The lady also recommended that I visit some small villages near La Spezia, where she lives. They are very picturesque. Maybe I will have to return to Italy some day, and travel by bicycle to all the places I want to go.

I was dropped at Serravalle, outside Pistoia. Again, I didn’t wait long for the next lift. Maybe I am wrong about hitching in Italy. This gentleman took me all the way to Bologna, to the Cantagallo services just before the city. It was fine weather most of the way, and we chatted in Italian until I was too tired.

At the services, I couldn’t find anyone going towards Ferrara or Padova. Almost everyone was going to Modena or Milano. I ate my delicious prosciutto sandwiches, and drank one of the cans of Coke. There were a number of people hanging round the entrance to the restaurant, trying to sell cellular phones. Some offered advice to me - to stand by the petrol pumps. They disappeared shortly, presumably to eat their lunch, since they all reappeared at two o’clock.

Suddenly there was a shout. About five police vans drove up. There was nowhere for them to run. I’m not sure the police were after them, but one van remained behind to check all their belongings. I didn’t quite figure what was happening, but I guess the police might have suspected they were selling stolen goods, or maybe it was just an excuse to harass. At any rate, no arrests were made, and the sellers continued after the last busload of police had gone. The police didn’t trouble me.

A group of ladies arrived. They were just asking for money, and offering small gifts. They didn’t look poor, and I wondered if they were prostitutes. I couldn’t tell. In most countries, the prostitutes only come out at night, but you can see well-dressed women by the sides of the roads everywhere in Italy - in the middle of the day. Once or twice, as I asked people for a lift to Ferrara, they offered me money. I declined, saying that I was only hitching, and had plenty of money.

Although I had arrived at midday, by five, I still didn’t have a lift going north. I decided that maybe I should visit Bologna for the night, and go onto Venice next day. The next problem, was getting out of the service area. It had a high wire fence round it. I started climbing near a gate, but nearly punctured my hand on the top spikes. Doubtless such protectio n is as much to prevent touts o r troublesome people from running away as it is to deter people from climbing in.

I walked to the main road into town, and within a few minutes, a lady offered to take me. She was a French teacher and so was very easy to understand. I only have a small map of the centre of town on my map of Italy, so she told me some of the places to visit.

I walked into town, stopping at a shop that seemed to advertise a huge piece of pizza for only 3,500 Lira. When I asked, I was told the price was for half a piece. I ate it, all the same, though it didn’t fill me up. Later on, I discovered a small market, and bought some bananas to fill the rest of the stomach.

In town, I started taking some photos around the Piazza Maggiore. There was a puddle in front of the Nettuna statue (if I have recalled the name correctly from seeing the postcards). I stooped low to take some photos. It was difficult, since many people walked by. There were lots of people chatting on the steps up to the Basilica di San Petronio. It looked as though the builders had run out of money halfway through - since there was only marble on the bottom half of the cathedral.

I walked through the small streets, to the huge tower by the Basilica di San Bartolomeo. As in Rome, many buildings are covered and under repairs in preparation for the millennium. I went into a nearby MacDonald’s, since I couldn’t find a toilet anywhere. Across the road, was a small, covered alleyway with beautiful paintings on the ceiling.

I wandered through the small streets back to the central Piazza. In one back road, a group of men were chatting loudly. One approached me, and asked how much my camera cost. I instinctively put both hands onto it. He laughed to his friends: “He thinks I’m going to steal it!” I walked on, but he grabbed the strap. “Che cosa fa?” I demanded, and fortunately, he backed off. I put my camera into its bag, but from then on, was much more careful about who I walked near. I do not know if they were Italians or foreigners, but I could begin to see why people have fear. I’m not certain, though, that the fear should be directed only to foreigners. Perhaps I should welcome the police checks.

There was a park in the north of the city, so I made my way towards it. I wanted to find a place away from people, where I could lie down without troubling anyone. When I change into all my warm clothes, I pull everything out of my bag, and thus am quite vulnerable. It is better not to be seen. I found a small path down an embankment, and lay down on some leaves on the top of a wall. If necessary, I could move to an archway below if it rained. The extra layer of clothing from Pisa was most welcome, and though I didn’t find any cardboard, the leaf mould made my bed quite comfortable.

It was another wet day, which suited me well. After coffee and bread with jam, I continued with the typing, catching up on most of the Italian stories. I did some more washing mid-morning. Piera’s father came to deliver some bread. For lunch, I ate bread and water! I put on the TV to give me some Italian input, but the reception isn’t very good, so it was difficult to listen to.

Piera’s father came again in the afternoon, to light the fire in the kitchen. When Riccardo and Piera returned, they said the fog was really thick. We ate a paella, and chatted a little. Again in the evening, I found it difficult to get onto the Internet.

It was great to lie in today, and I slept very well. Breakfast was a bowl of coffee, into which I dipped some bread with jam on it. I spent most of the day on the computer, sorting out the photos of Rome and Florence. Riccardo helped me identify some of the places. He also has a computer, though as yet no modem for it. After all, the phone was only installed a week ago. I looked at some of the programs that he uses to search for information about authors and painters in Italy (I think).

I washed my clothes - in a bucket, in the usual manner. The water pressure is very low, and so they don’t use the washing machine.

It rained all day. We wanted to go out to collect chestnuts in the afternoon, but didn’t. Evening meal was some pasta followed by sausages.

I managed to update my homepage eventually, but couldn’t use the local Massa number. Instead, I had to phone Pisa. Even then, it was a struggle. I didn’t manage to put all my photos on the internet, as it was quite slow. Riccardo wanted to phone Eugenio, but there was no response.

It was a dark morning, but I walked to the famous tower all the same. There was no sunrise, so I just looked around and took a few snaps, though I couldn’t find any particularly interesting angles. It’s hard to show something that leans, when the effect of the lens is to make buildings lean, or, in this case, correct it. I hung around waiting for the sun. It never came. I only had one place I wanted a photo from, and even that wouldn’t have been very good.

Crowds came and went. Probably I was causing them trouble by being in the way of their photos, though there were many other spots nearby. Some were more adventurous, putting their hands up as though to hold up the tower. I must start my series on “Photographers.” They do make some comical faces. Still, it would be better to have a telephoto lens for that.

By ten, I was tired of waiting. The gaps in the cloud didn’t come my way. Worse, darker clouds appeared on the horizon. As I followed the road signs for Viareggio, I saw a large clothes shop and went in. They didn’t have thermal underwear, but there were some tracksuits for just over 11 US$. At the time, I didn’t purchase them, but first went next door to the supermarket. Lunch was again bread and cheese. This time I stocked up on water - at 850 Lira for a bottle, it would be much cheaper than the 2,500 that I might have to pay for drinks on the road.

When I came out, it was bucketing. I ate my sandwiches and waited. When the rain abated a little, I went back to the clothes shop to purchase the tracksuit. I paid a little more for one with a hood - that way I get some more warmth for my head. Now I have an extra kilo of weight to carry.

There was a toilet by the bus stop. I was required to pay a donation into the bowl before I could use it. I figured 200 Lira would be about right. A group of kids were arguing with the attendant when I came out. I felt like suggesting that they could get a reduced rate by going into the cubical together, and doing it at the same time!

I didn’t have far to walk before a gentleman gave me a lift to Torre del Lago Puccini. There, I first thought I might be able to go directly on the dual carriageway to Pietrasanta, but after waiting half an hour, I gave up. Cars come too fast, and I doubt if people would put themselves out for a “beggar.”

So, it was back to the walking - all the way to Viareggio. It threatened to rain once or twice, but didn’t. My map isn’t detailed enough to show me how to get from there to Pietrasanta. I had to ask, and the man I chose, spoke very fast and didn’t quite seem with it. I went the way he pointed, though, looking for a sign to confirm it. As I looked behind, I suddenly noticed a black thundercloud rushing up upon me. I raced over to a nearby block of flats and just got inside when the heavy rain started lashing down. I waited until it seemed to be over. It brought some cold wind with it, so I put on my jumper.

I hadn’t gone far, when another cloud shed its load. This time I was caught. I ran to the side of a shop selling army goods. It was near the dual carriageway, and a sign said “Pietrasanta.” I held out my sign, just in case someone had pity on me. There wasn’t a good place to stop. The rain continued for some time. Finally, a Moroccan guy and his Italian girlfriend stopped, and said they could take me to Pietrasanta. We chatted in English.

So, I telephoned Riccardo from the station. He came ten minutes later to pick me up. We went to pick up his wife, but he was worried that I would be eaten by the dogs. Two puppies were harassing their mother. We swapped cars, and then headed up the mountain. The sunset was wonderful, but soon we were in the clouds.

I asked if it was OK to wear my shoes into the house. Of course it was. The floors are marble, as is the table and the sink. They lit the fire, and warmed up the water for me to take a shower. It was most welcome. I presented them with one of the calen dars. We ate some nice pasta with mushrooms, but Riccardo kept saying that th eir cooking was very poor, and told me stories about how even Eugenio had been ill once when here.

I suggested we should send an email message to Eugenio, and include a photo. I spent some time removing the stain of a squashed scorpion from the wall, and tried to put some messages on the picture. In the end, I didn’t send it. I logged onto the Internet to read my messages.

I got a great sleep from eleven until three, when sudden rain woke me up. At first, I thought I would just sit it out, putting my feet into one black rubbish bag, and covering my head and body with the other. This didn’t work well. I went over to the rubbish bin, but could only find one piece of cardboard. I got a little wet, and the water soaked into the bed. Still I didn’t get up until 6.30.

I first went to the bridge. The skies were a touch cloudy, but the sun came up just where I expected it. The photo wasn’t so good, though. I went round to the hotel with a view over the bridge. Even then, it was still a little early for the photo. It would be better with the sun on the flowers. I went up to the Duomo, and then came back to the river a second time. On the way, I saw a clock which was one hour before my watch. Maybe I have the time set incorrectly.

This time the sun rose over the clouds. I took some snaps, but the lights on the road and illuminating the Ponte Vecchio were now out. What a pity! I drank some water from a tap on the bridge. Then, I decided to go up to a higher vantagepoint, and made my way to Piazzale Michelangelo. A small cloud or some fog, was lingering around the Duomo (the Santa Maria del Fiore) and up the hill by the Forte di Belvedere. It was magical. The mist just rose, though not quite enough to make a perfect shot. (Either that, or I didn’t wait long enough - maybe the latter.) The statue looked good with the sun behind it. According to Riccardo, this place was built when Florence was the capital of Italy, a hundred and fifty years ago.

I rushed down the hill to find a river scene, and another of the bridge. Then I walked to the Duomo again for some more close-in shots. It’s hard to catch the whole from nearby, unless I could get into some of the buildings opposite.

I started along the road for Pisa at around ten, following the roadsigns. By 11.30, on a larger road, I spotted a cafe the other side. I wasn’t sure if I needed to order and pay first, or just sit down. The waiters told me to wait. Even when there was a table clear, I was told to wait - it had two seats, and I would just have to wait until a single seat table was free. I walked out of the restaurant. Lunch will just have to wait.

After walking some more, a motorcyclist offered to take me to Lastra. I had to put my bag on a box on the back and hold onto it, though I also strapped it in so that it wouldn’t fall off. I think we spoke English mostly, and I told him about my trip.

It wasn’t possible to stop on the dual carriageway, so I went to the entrance. There was a big sign saying: “No Autostop.” I took it to mean that it is forbidden on dual carriageways in Italy, as well as on the motorways. Still, it was a little off-putting having it staring at me all the time. Another lift took me just up the road to Empoli. I then waited for a while beside the entrance to the dual carriageway, but it was a bit awkward for cars to stop there, and they only had a second or two to see me and make up their minds. I started using my hands to point to the sign, and most folks responded with shake of the head, or waving the finger. I took the latter to mean “No,” rather than “disapproval,” as it is in English. There was a sign saying “No Autostop” again, right behind me. Maybe my interpretation of body language is wrong.

I set myself a limit of four o’clock, and when that was reached, started walking. At least I was heading the right direction. I stopped at a van in a car park which was selling some food, and bought a “panini” (sandwich in a large bap), and some fizzy mineral water. It was a little expensive, but when I hitch, I often don’t go past the supermarkets. In town, they were closed, anyway. I found a telephone, and got in touch with Riccardo. He is now living in a different house and is MARRIED! I arranged to visit tomorrow afternoon or evening, and will telephone again from Pietrasanta (if I get there.)

The map is a little bit difficult to read, since the na mes don’t always seem to tie in with a single dot. I think I walked round Empoli, and initially wanted to go via Fucecchio and Santa Croce. However, I think I missed the correct turning. Anyhow, I thought I might catch more traffic coming from the Siena road, and so went for San Miniato. A gentleman eventually gave me a lift to San Miniato, saying that there was quite a lot of traffic going on Pontedera from there.

I was near the dual carriageway again. “One last try,” I thought. I went past a supermarket, and gave myself one hour at the most by the sliproad. There was another big sign behind me. I take it to mean “No hitching on the dual-carriageway,” but of course, the drivers might think it meant from that point. Maybe it does! No one stopped.

Before it became dark, I picked up the bag, and went shopping. I also wanted to find out the normal prices of some items in a larger superstore. I couldn’t buy water in a single bottle - only six at a time. Being very thirsty, I bought a large orange drink, and for spares, in case I had to walk overnight to Pisa (about 50 km away), I got a vitamin and energy fruit drink. To eat, there was a loaf of bread with some sliced cheese. I sat outside to eat it.

It was dark as I set off again. I was determined to get to Pisa, even if no Italian helped me. I would walk all the way. As I turned the corner onto the normal road, a police car pulled up. The driver instantly demanded to see my passport. I took off my bag and began to retrieve it as he stepped out of the car. Before I did so, I asked him “Why do you want to see it?” “I am a policeman!” He seemed to think this was sufficient reason. I handed it over to him. Cars passed slowly by, though I couldn’t hitch.

The driver handed the passport to his assistant to give back to me. Again, I asked why he had wanted to see it. The other policeman just shrugged his shoulders. I told him that I have hitched in many other countries, and the police don’t ask to see my passport - except in Myanmar, where it is a police state. “Maybe Italians aren’t kind (simpatico) to hitchhikers,” I suggested. I didn’t want to create a fuss - just to understand what kind of psychology requires them to check up on me. He looked a little guilty and just shrugged. Then they sped off.

Libel is making a false statement about someone, to their detriment, or potential detriment. Stopping to check up on someone without reason is making a similar statement, though it’s detrimental effect may only be limited to the few cars who saw and probably wouldn’t have stopped anyway.

It was a long walk in the dark. I think I was near the flyover for the dual carriageway when I got a lift into Pontedara. There was another long walk before a gentleman gave me a lift to Cascina. He suggested I slept in the railway station, somewhere behind the toilets, and told me about a cheap place to get a decent meal, on Via Garibaldi, if I remember correctly. When I was about to get out, he apologised that he had no money to give me. Woops! Maybe I gave the wrong impression - I have plenty of money for food, but wish to keep to my 10 US$ per day limit (though to be exact, my empty house in Cambridge is swallowing up a further 19 US$ per day). It all adds to the challenge, risking a lot for the sake of the “Search for Beauty.” I’m only hitching - not begging.

Again, I was back to walking. I figured that I could get to Pisa by 2 a.m. or so on foot. I was in luck. A car full of guys stopped. They were going to a bar in Pisa, having just attended a concert. They dropped me at the station.

Several people were sleeping on the floor, but looking at the timetable, I reckoned I wouldn’t be able to sleep there. In the toilet, I washed my feet and changed my socks, but couldn’t find the place I’d been recommended. It would have been noisy, too. I looked at a map of the town outside the station, and then headed south. I found a gateway that was covered, and settled down to sleep. I was worried my rustling would disturb someone in the flat above, but no one came to trouble me (or feel troubled by my presence.)