I should really know better.
When I slipped out of the monastery this morning, I had a little extra spring in my step. It wasn’t the opening walk to Fondi, though it’s always nice to know you’ll have a (second) coffee waiting just an hour down the road. It didn’t involve my return to the Via Appia Antica, on a lovely stretch of original road sloping gently into the hills. Amazingly, it was completely disconnected from my visit to Itri, a town with a stunningly imposing castle, visible from quite a distance.
No, it involved my return to the Mediterranean. While I had brushed briefly against the coast in Terracina, I never actually made contact, always remaining a kilometer or so away from those blue waters. Today, though, I would splash down for the first time since Liguria, and that enthusiasm carried me ever higher into the hills, following a curving, paved road through endless olive trees. When the ascent finally crested, and the sparkling sapphire sea broke through across the horizon, I still had plenty of work left to do, but nothing was going to hold me back.
And then I finally reached the splendid beaches of Gaeta. At least, I know they were there, because of the signs, and the occasional glimpses I could steal through the barriers along the sidewalk. I couldn’t get any closer, though, because each and every grain of sand had been privatized. It’s the same phenomenon that pushed me back to the higher-level branch of the Via Francigena between Sarzana and Pietrasanta. Why follow the coast if you never actually get to touch or see it?
It turns out, though, that I’m not the only one bothered by this. Italians are livid. What has been a long-standing annoyance has grown in recent years into an offensive boondoggle–two beach loungers and an umbrella average around €20-30 these days–and the past few years have seen percolating protest movements up and down the peninsula. A study conducted by Mare Libero, the group leading the charge for free public beaches, found that only five percent of Italy’s beaches remain free from private ownership, pollution, or concessions. And it’s the last of those three factors–concessions–that turns out to be the major issue in Italy.
Because here’s the thing: by the letter of the law, the shoreline in Italy is public property, and everyone has a right to dip their toes in the water for free. Resorts are actually required by law to post signage indicating that all are welcome to pass through to the shore and whatever open beach exists. Those resorts, it has to be stressed, in most cases don’t own anything. They have been granted concessions by the government to operate on public ground. In some places, like Liguria, these encompass 70% or more of the coastline. Interestingly, many of these have become dynastic, with the concession being passed down from generation to generation. The EU has actually worked to reform this kind of system across Europe. Italy isn’t alone in facing these challenges, though most agree it’s the worst in this regard in Europe. For more than a decade, Italy has failed to conform to the laws established in the Bolkestein directive, which among other things calls for concessions to be put out in an open bidding process. Meloni has said this will happen; critics aren’t holding their breath.
I left the beaches behind, having no idea that I could have brazenly pushed through the supervised entrance and proceeded directly to the shore, and powered across the peninsula. If modern Gaeta let me down, I figured, I’d turn to the medieval version. On the far end of the peninsula, a little off route, is the original town, with a fortress sitting high on the hill, the original duomo down below, and plenty of charm in between. Fortified, I returned to the Via Francigena, which followed the coast for most of the remaining ten kilometers to Formia. As there were no beaches in this section, there were also no resorts.
The following morning brought me through another extended series of privatized coastline. Well, I thought, at least the state must be generating some significant revenue through these extensive operations.
About that… most beach clubs, or “stabilimenti” are paying around €3225, per year. That’s it. There’s a fixed price per square meter for public property that dictates these fees. To see the actual value, consider that a beach club’s sale price might be as high as €1-1.5 million, including that precious concession. Mare Libero claims there is a beach concession mafia, and the mayor of Bacoli, Josi Della Ragione, would be hard-pressed to disagree. Now in his third term, he has campaigned relentlessly against greedy stabilimenti owners, and in the process he has returned 10,000 square meters of sandy paradise to the public. Along with that, though, have come two letters in the mail, each containing a bullet.
I turned inland from the coast. It’s not my last time on the Mediterranean; I’ll return soon to an even more exclusive spot. But when I do, I’ll be better equipped, with knowledge of the actual law, operating hand-in-hand with my indignation.
Visions of soft, lapping waves and a cool breeze stuck with me as I pushed deep into the afternoon, through the furnace-like heat. Whatever exhaustion or frustration I might have felt, though, was quickly banished upon my arrival in Corbara, a small village just past Sessa Aurunca. I had been scheduled to stay in the latter, but something went wrong with their facility, so they had to cancel on me a few days ago. Everything works out.
“Oh my god!”, a man shouted from deep in the shade, as I trudged into the small village. What he said next, I believe, translates into, “what are you doing, walking through that heat, you mad man?” It didn’t take long, though, for him to switch from disturbed to impressed, and before long he swept me up into a formal introduction to the village, first leading me to a fountain for acqua fresca, and then proudly walking me through the many frescoes lining the walls–paintings added by the villagers in recent years to beautify their town. When we finished our loop, my host Angelo was waiting outside his house. This is another pilgrim-hosting-pilgrims situation, so he is putting me up in a room, tucked deep within a small courtyard.
I’m trying to learn what it’s like to live in a country with widespread, endemic corruption. Might have some lasting relevance. From the outside, it’s hard to understand how the whole thing holds together, how it remains functional enough, year after year, as Italy has. But the key to it, I think, is hardly a secret. Behind every rapacious, self-serving goon, there exist a handful of good-tempered, well-intentioned people who simply want to do right by others. They grit their teeth, shell out twenty euros for a well-earned beach day, and then go right back to following their compass wherever it leads.
