Terra cotta shingles cover every building and most have wrought iron balconies with rope clotheslines attached via rusty pulleys. My specialized cycling clothes are drying on the clothes line adding a touch of high tech to otherwise countless flapping pillow cases, trousers and underwear of every size. Riomaggiore was alive on this day with children running in the streets and shopkeepers putting their produce out for purchase under striped awnings.

I was high above all of this at 42 Dolce Posta which is about 30 feet straight up from 1 Dolce Posta. There are no level streets in Riomaggiore and Dolce Posta like many streets here is nothing more than a twisty staircase winding it's way skyward between buildings. 42 Dolce Posta is the very top and the upside, if you don't me saying so, is that I can look out of the green shutters at the beautiful Ligurian Sea which seemed like it had a great big burr on it's bottom.

The coastline here is smooth polished rock both behemoth and miniscule in scale. Standing on the big rocks the waves didn't seem very big, but it was not the wave size I should have been concerned about: it was the current.

I decided to go for a swim behind the break at Spaggia Beach and no sooner had I gotten wet that I realized my mistake. Gasping for breath and sucking in copious amount of remarkably salty water, it was all I could do to stand up. The tide would come in and I would go with the flow only to have the tide to knock my legs right out from under me. It was more annoying than life threatening.

Faced with trying again or just merely relaxing, I decided to just take it easy. Carefully traversing the rocks, I sat down and ate some olives wrapped with sardines and then I dived into some lobster meat Still squinting from the tartness I cracked open a Peroni beer and fired up a Cuban Cohiba.

It all sounds remarkably relaxing and it was. It may comes as shock to many of you that I actually am working while I am traveling.

Typically I have to figure out what I am going to do with my day and then, obviously, I have to do it. Between the mission statement and the accomplishment there lie many steps.

First I have to figure out where I am staying once I get to where I am headed. Next comes the train ride and making my way from the train station or ferry port to the hotel or hostel where I have to check in using a language that I don't even speak.

Then there are the details of actually doing what it is that you, dear reader, expect me to do to hopefully keep you coming back for more.

As of this writing I am in Palermo, Sicily and I am wearing blisters given to me by Paris, France. My hiking boots fell apart in Nice and the shoes I bought there bit the dust one week later in Naples. Shoes and boots die fast when you are packing an extra 60 pounds on your back.

Mundane things like laundry, allocating money and trying to figure out where to buy anti-perspirant become major ordeals on a journey like this.

Then there are hazards to watch out for.

You know about Snowden and the Belfast rioting, but there have been other problems. Securing valuable gear every night is a major chore and just being plain vigilant takes effort.

Italy is a good example. Nobody and I mean NOBODY can run a scam like the Italians. Pompei has free bathroooms, yet there are men who are discreetly taking money from tourists who don't know better. One lady asked "Can I have change" and the guy said "We don't give change". You have to pay to pee everywhere in this country so I can see how you get taken and obviously these guys do too.

It's the beginning of the train ride where you really have to be careful. I have a Eurail pass and I don't usually make reservations. On Eurail trains you can take seats 71 through 83 without having to make reservations and in first class these seats are divided between two glass enclosed compartments.

In Naples I boarded the train and sat down when two men told me I needed to move to the compartment behind me. They looked official enough so I did. One of the men then lifted my backpack and brought it back to the compartment. I said thanks and they demanded a tip so I gave one of men three Euros. He then said "No, five euros!" and then I realized it was a scam. I took out a five euro note and motioned for them to give me back the three euros. Once I had the money safely back in hand I started ranting and raving random Italian words and phrases at them with flailing hand gestures.
"Otsamata for me?!!! Otsamata for you!!!!!"
"Marcello Mastriani! Fettucini Alfredo!!!!" and so on.....

Sensing a psycho in their midst they shuffled off to the car behind me.

Frankly my time in Naples, which is one of the dirtiest cities on the planet, and the attempted scams on my person, conspired to drive Italy to the bottom of the pile of places I enjoyed being.

This is yet another job: keeping proper perspective when you really just want to dislike everything and everybody. It's easier to dismiss an entire country, it's people and thousands of years of rich heritage instead of taking responsibility for your own happiness.

I realized how much of a big deal I was making out of pondering someone's else actions and karma. There are few things more pointless.

So there you are! Ironically, I realize finishing this dispatch up that I have taken a vacation of sorts myself from my usual flowery prose but it was bound to happen.

The tide of being entertaining and thoughtful are sometimes hard to swim in and I reckon I have sat on the beach for this dispatch.

Now if you'l excuse me there is a Peroni and a Cohiba waiting for me.

Why you'll have to buy the book
-The game of Buckeye is insane and addictive. Two Aussies taught the game to me and I taught them them the joy of Bushmills Black Bush.
-All night bonfire parties at Spiagga
-The brutal footpaths of Cinque Terre
-I promise I won't be grumpy