Vasto Marina



Vasto Marina, Italy
12 November 96

Watercolor on cold press Lana paper

So, there I was in Pesina, with a few days before my next gig, drinking too much Italian table wine. The TV was always on in the kitchen. As the ancient neighbor made the morning Polenta, fetching newscasters interrupted Sissy Spacek and Whoppi Goldberg spouting fluent Italian in The Long Walk Home to advise of a pending rail strike. My host and Italian agent insisted that I immediately board the next train to my next gig.

Before I knew it, I was jostling along on the Italian rail system. After lots of personal space in the 1st class compartments on the orderly German trains, I was now shoulder to shoulder with chatty, freely gesturing compartment-mates. Not that I had any idea what they were chatting and gesturing about. The corridors were packed. We were rattling south along the Adriatic Coast but night had fallen and I had no idea what scenes were flashing past the window. It was a long ride with a lot of Italian coming at me and I accompanied myself with two glasses of wine. By the time I arrived in Vasto, it was very late and I was very weary. I had no idea who was supposed to meet me or where I was supposed to stay.

A very kind man found me at the station and while I couldn't understand a word of what he said, I went along with him. He took me to a bar with loud music, which did not help me understand the situation any better, and there we met some people who apparently discussed and decided what to do with me. I was driven to an apartment complex, let into an apartment and told something... I had no idea what.

Early the next morning, I woke up slightly hung over, wondering just what in the hell I thought I was doing. In the throes of despondent emotional thrashing about exacerbated by allergic reaction to histamine and alcohol, I happened to look out the window. Wait a minute! What's that? It's the beach and the ocean! I was out the door in seconds flat, not even checking for a landmark to find my way back. I was on the beach. My feet were in the sea. That was all that mattered.

Also seeVasto and Amico in Vasto.

Every Sunday I post a new painting and story behind the watercolors I made while touring as a singer songwriter. Follow the stories behind the paintings of these serialized posts by working your way up from the bottom.