14. Rome to Brindisi 1970

The next morning I got an early start after a breakfast of fresh fruit and bread.  I headed east figuring it would be better going directly over the mountains and then south down the coast instead of going down to Naples and skirt the mountains over to Brindisi.  As far as saving time, this route was a washout, for scenery it was fantastic!  The drive from Rome to the east coast on Italy's super highways in 2013 can be driven in about two and a half hours.  1n 1970 it was probably a six or seven hour drive depending on which roads you took.  It took me two days to hitchhike it.  I must have walked half of it.  I rode on a horse drawn cart, in the bed of a truck with about a dozen other people going home from market, and in a hay wagon being pulled by a tractor.  I walked for hours.  The roads were hot and even though they were paved, they seemed dusty.  What was nice though was walking down the mountainside highway, looking over the side through miles of grape vineyards and fruit orchards.  Watching the farmers and workers tending to the plants on such a steep grade was thrilling, one misstep or overbalance would create a calamity.

After the mountains, hitchhiking through the plains to the coast did not get much better.  When I was within about ten kilometers of Mancini, I had enough was tired and settled in for the night under a tree in the corner of a field.

The next day was not any better.  The coast did not have all the coastal resorts and rich properties then and the rides were few but I still made It to Termoli, a coastal town with a railroad.  That was about 120 kilometers that day, not very good.  I still had about 325 more kilometers to go to Brindisi.  I broke down and decided to take a train.  The price of a ticket would leave me with enough money for a couple of nights at the youth hostel.  I would borrow some money from my friends that were stationed at San Vito Air Force Base, an Intel gathering site near Brindisi.

Brindisi, Then & Now

I bought my ticket and was sitting down in front of the station when this old man walks up to me.  He is wearing glasses that have lens as thick as the glass on the bottoms of the old glass coke bottles.  He says something to me and I say "No Cabeesh Italiano,  please I speak English."
He says in English, "I can't read the schedule here on the post.  Will you read it to me so I will know what time my train leaves?"
I oblige him and  read about three quarters of it until we finally discover we are on the same train and have about forty five minutes until the train arrives.  To pass the time he asks me. "Where are you from, in America?"
If you are from New York State you hate this question because, invariably, when you say New York State they came back and ask you if you know their friend Joe that lives in Brooklyn.  So to deflect this I say "I am from a small village in New York State north of Albany NY."
He comes back with "I know Albany.  Where you from?"
"I live in a small  village north of Schenactady NY."
"I know Schenectady.  Where you from?"
"I live north of Troy and Cohoes NY."
Now he is really excited. "I know Troy.  Where you live?  Where you live?"
"I live in a town between Waterford, NY and Saratoga, NY."
"Do you mean Mechanicville? He says. "I live there fifty years!"

It turned out that he lived near Albert's tavern in Mechanicville when I was living on Sheehan street.  He was uncle or great uncle to Connie Zeppieri, an old classmate of mine.  He told me he came from Italy and worked on the railroad in Mechanicville for fifty years and had gone back to Italy and worked as an interpreter for the government.  The train we were on was a local, stopping at every little hamlet, and he soon got off.  It is strange, going halfway around the world seeking new experiences and cultures, and the person I met that day was from my own back yard and lived less than a block from my family!