Off Track

Off Track

It always begins with the unmistakable burning, the hot tingling of skin progressing into an insatiable itch. Was it that last seedy hotel? Or sitting in the catacomb-like cat sanctuary with 250 felines while interviewing the director? Maybe it was the towel the young, handsome Italian handed to me, retrieved from the basement when the maid forgot to leave toiletries in my room? There's no telling – but now, somehow before getting on the train for family in Naples, before checking out of my hotel room in the morning, I was going to have find head lice shampoo and quickly rid myself of the desire to scratch my burning scalp. I certainly couldn't risk the shame of spreading the little chiggers in the ancestral home. However, I have to leave tomorrow or risk uncertainty of traveling at all since another transportation strike had been announced for Friday.

This is a common occurrence in Italy. There's a strike and a protest almost every day. This one I'm told is huge and people are traveling from all over the country to arrive in Rome to participate. I have no idea what the strike is about only that busses, trains and planes will not be operating. Which also means I could get stuck in Baiano although typically the strikes don't last long. I expected to encounter Italy on strike at some point in my travels but never considered needing an insecticide. The last time I had to kill colonies of parasites that set up house on my head was in Laos, phonetically ironical, where hordes of Euro-trustafarian kids with long dreads frequently infected the cheap hotels.

But it was more than just my scalp itching. After leaving the cat shelter, and later that night in bed, I noticed a creeping crawling sensation on my skin and horrid itchiness. I Google scabies and freak out. Sleep tight and don't let the bedbugs bite was suddenly becoming a credo and I had not planned on researching my stories on that level of involvement. I look up bedbugs and think I have all three types of bloodsuckers colonizing my body and wonder if I should just buy a can of Raid.

I rise early to quest for the holy grail of riddance, waiting for the Farmacia to open at 8:30 a.m. Rushing back to the hotel I pour 4 of the anise-smelling vials on my head, massaging for 20 minutes while trying to remember the instructions the woman gave me in Italian sign language. The oil runs everywhere – the cold clench of the fingers of death for the newly flourishing microscopic communes. My southern Italian vendetta persona emerges and is joyous. I have squelched my enemy and I can now return home victorious. On the way to the train station, I buy the insecticide shampoo as an insurance policy for the future.

When packing a bag for travel to Naples, especially through train or bus stations, you must carefully consider the position of your valuables. The important items must be packed between other things to make it more difficult for the thieves to get to when they slice your bag open. You won't feel a thing. The first time the robbery will be noticeable is when you see light coming through the side panel of your bag when trying to retrieve your wallet. There is a Napolitani saying that the thieves in Naples are particularly so adept at their profession they can steal the socks from your feet and leave your shoes. Having lived in NYC, I knew how to put on the tough face, “Don't mess with me, mister, I'm crazy and a bitch.” Sometimes it worked. The live white rat (little “Roo-rat”), who hung menacingly out of my front waist-pack, was more of a statement and deterrent. Nobody messes with you if you carry a live pet rat. Since I didn't have access to or space for a rat, I scurried through the Naples station looking as though I knew where I was going... which I did. I knew how to get to the Circumvesuviano train line that would take me up to my family's mountain town of Baiano.

The Ferrari of tin cans rattles and tosses around Vesuvius, through industrial areas and finally into the mountains and small towns. No one seems to take notice that they live under a volcano that is overdue for an apocalyptic pyroclastic show. The ride only takes about 40 minutes and I have time to think about the antiquity of my family in this town and what they will think about the cultural differences of my lifestyle and appearance. I'm not the norm for my age even in America – I don't think I ever was at any age.

But as I look around at the scenery, realizing that this area actually has it all – mountains, sea, moderate winter climate, history, and only a short ride by public transportation to Naples – a major city and airport – I begin to get excited. It is truly beautiful here and I understand why the people in this explosive region don't think about the impending volcanic doom or the earthquakes that rock the region from time to time. I get so excited that even though I've been counting the train stops I mistakenly get off at the wrong one and by the time I've realized it the doors have shut and the tin cans clank down the track to the next and last stop only 3 minutes away in Baiano. Fortunately another train shows up in 15 minutes to rescue and carry me to the ancestral home where my cousins, Luisa and Stefania, have made a meal fit for a queen instead of a second cousin. Tonight, I sleep with the spirits of my ancestors.