Will Dangle for Food

One night while in Italy, I stayed overnight in the town of Lamezia Terme, which is a mid-size town with no special features except that it is the home to some ancient Roman hot springs, which are no longer there from what I gather.

After I got off the train and checked into the hotel for the night, I decided to go find (what else?) a restaurant. I asked the hotel reception desk for a map of the city. They looked rather lost and said that they did not have one but that there was a large one on a sign outside the train station. So I found the sign and tried to figure out where my best luck would lay.

There were no restaurants directly around the train station so I found a likable spot on the map. It showed a promising area located on the other side of the tracks.
I set off in search of a way to get over the tracks. Eventually, I found a crossing about half a mile down the road. (Keep in mind that you are talking about a limping, quickly-aging 54-year-old man undertaking all this.) I crossed the tracks and turned right, anticipating a section of town full of shops and restaurants.

But there was nothing. By nothing, I mean there were no houses, no shops, no restaurants, and not even a fully paved road. There was a dirt-lane road to the right.

At a loss for any better alternative, I decided to follow the road, hoping that the pot of gold would soon lay at my feet.

However, after walking about another half a mile, all that lay at my feet was another set of tracks. They came into town at about a 90-degree angle to the tracks I had just crossed under.

Yet, not all seemed lost. I saw some lit neon lights somewhere on the other side of the tracks. All I had to do was get there. So I decided to persevere. After all, my only other choice was to turn back and go home hungry.

So I set off across the tracks, being careful not to step on the rails, only on the wooden planks. (Somebody, somewhere had warned me that some train tracks are electrified. I saw no reason to test my luck.)

After I made it across the tracks successfully, I found myself facing a metal rail that had a 10-foot drop on the other side. One end of the metal rail headed up a hill that left an even steeper drop on the other side, so I knew I would no luck there. In the other direction, I ran into a locked metal gate with a 12-foot fence. So there was no way down to but to try my luck at jumping from the lowest point of the rail.

But once I began to attempt a jump, I decided the best thing was to do was to dangle myself down the drop from the rail so that my fall would actually only be four or so feet rather than 10 feet. So, despite little voices in my head telling me that people who had just had operations should not try dangling on rails to attempt a 10-foot drop, I proceeded.

As soon as I started, there proved to be no way to rescind my decision. I found myself dangling with my hands around a rusty rail and my feet a few feet above a mud puddle. But I had no choice at that point.

I released my hands from around the rail, praying that no recent incisions popped open.

My feet hit the ground and I almost fell backward, but I caught my balance just in time, like an over-fat cat. I was ready to catch myself with my hands, but even that proved unnecessary. Also, I did not seem to have ripped open any of my new incisions.

It was then that I also realized that my back was not hurting for the first time in years. I twisted my shoulders and felt a natural looseness and flexibility that had long seemed gone. Apparently, dangling from a fence rail at seven o’clock in the dark in an unknown town in Southern Italy does wonders for a hurting back.

So, I set out to find the neon signs I had seen. I quickly discovered that they were for a business selling (you guessed it) metal rails!

I continued. By now, it occurred to me that the map outside the train station was completely misleading. There were no city streets whatsoever on this side of the tracks, just deserted railway grounds and a large circular drive that teen-age kids were racing their cars around and around.

With my luck now running low, I decided the best thing was to head back to my hotel. After three or four failed attempts at finding the way back to the hotel, I stopped various joggers along the way to ask them for directions. Surprisingly, they were all extremely helpful and polite, which is something I discovered throughout Italy.
Anyway, at nine at night, I finally made it back to the hotel, with an empty stomach but with a pleasantly non-hurting back. I slept like a king.