Not So Keen on the House Wine

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Yesterday was a bit tiring, so we decide to spend most of today relaxing. We do however feel the urge to at least do some gentle exploring, so we set off down the hill into Monterosso. The key to the hotel room weighs about five kilograms so when I put it in my pocket I walk on a lean. It seems that Monterosso is in two parts, Old and New, connected by a short single lane road tunnel through the cliff, and a walking path around it.

Old Monterosso is very cute, with a square near the waterfront and narrow windy streets leading further back up into the valley. We go into the St John the Baptist Church, which we read was built in the late 1200s. It has a separate baptistery across the street which is bigger than the church. I'd never heard of baptisteries until we went to Florence. The baptistery there was huge, as was the one in Pisa. Apparently people have to be baptised before they're allowed to participate in ceremonies in the main church. Baptisteries came into vogue in times when the bishops did all the baptisms, so they were held only a few times every year. Large facilities were required to allow the baptismal candidates to be fully immersed, and there wasn't usually enough room in churches or even cathedrals to allow all this to happen. Some of the baptisteries included fires so that the candidates could warm up afterwards. If our experience is anything to go by, they could have avoided the need for this by baptising everyone in summer.

We see a young policewoman in deep conversation with four Americans around a car. She's writing them a ticket. There are apparently strict regulations on bringing cars into Monterosso because there are virtually no roads or places to park, and we suspect the ticket has something to do with this. One of the Americans is clearly trying to find out what he has to do to get out of paying the fine. The policewoman is holding her ground. She tells him that he'll need to talk to the judge. I feel like applauding. You go girl!

We take the steep path up the hill to the Capuchin Monastery on top of the cliff between the old and new parts of the town. It has a large cemetery attached to it. Most of the graves are above ground and are stacked on top of each other in walls either in rooms or outside. Some of the rooms have been set aside for generations of entire families. There are also a few traditional underground graves right on the hilltop. One gravestone has a picture on it of a man in his early twenties in his bathers, who looks like he could have had a go at being Mr Universe. We both comment on how sad it is that he died so young, or so we thought. When we look a bit more closely we see that he was actually 80 when he passed away. If that's what he looked like at that age I'm now very keen to get hold of some of whatever he was on.

We walk back down to the old town to get some lunch. As we start eating we hear a loud noise start to build up, and the ground start to shake. Issy suggests that now might be a good time to get outside before the earthquake collapses the building with us inside it. No one else seems too worried. A brief investigation reveals that our restaurant is right under the train line.

There seem to be lots of private beach areas here that you need to pay to get into. You also need to pay to rent sun lounges, beach umbrellas and changing rooms. The beaches are patrolled by men in red uniforms carrying loud whistles. We assume they're lifeguards, but when we look more closely it seems that they're there to make sure that non-paying swimmers don't stray into the private areas. Every time someone does, one of the men blows his whistle and waves his arms wildly at the offending individual. The whistles blow more or less continuously. If I'd paid to go to a beach I'm not sure I'd be too impressed if I then had to spend the afternoon listening to this constant screeching. I wonder if you can rent earplugs. I also wonder how far out into the sea you need to go before they don't bother blowing their whistles at you any more. I think I must be too Australian; I just can't get used to the concept of having to pay to go to the beach. I also can't get used to the concept of having to pay to go to the toilet, and we've both had to do this quite a few times since we arrived in Italy. At the toilet I paid to go to in Siena, there was a menu on the wall in Italian. I just gave the attendant some money and he gave me some change. He didn't ask me any questions, and I really didn't want to know what the items on the menu were.

We setup camp at the hotel's infinity pool, which is on top of the cliff and has a stunning view out over the sea. We have a dip and then fall asleep on sun lounges under an umbrella. The setting is about as idyllic as it's possible to get, but it seems that not everyone agrees. I'm awoken by the not so dulcet tones of a middle aged lady on the sun lounge next to us complaining loudly to the pool attendant about her umbrella. She's complaining in English, which is her mother tongue, but I can't quite pick the accent. She wants to know why hers is the only umbrella with a problem. I can't see anything wrong with it. It looks exactly the same as ours, and ours is fine. She says that if he can't fix it she'll have to move, and makes this sound like a prospect worse than death. If she did decide to move she'd need to walk all of about five steps to get to the next spare umbrella. The pool attendant is very calm and apologetic. He says there's nothing he can do, and he tries to placate her by getting her a bottle of water. She says she doesn't want the bottle of water, she just wants her umbrella fixed. I think she should just move, preferably back to her home country. I wish her luck trying to find anywhere as good as this back there, wherever it might be.

We have dinner in a cafe in the main town square. Our young waitress has attitude. Issy: "Could I please have a scotch and coke". Waitress: "No. We don't have any scotch". Issy: "OK, then I'll have this cocktail (pointing to the menu)". Waitress: "No. We don't have any strawberries". Issy: "OK, I'll have a coke zero instead". Waitress: "No. We don't have any". Issy's not normally prone to violence, but I'm sensing it might be a good time to hide any sharp or heavy objects within reach. She reluctantly orders a sprite. Thankfully they seem to have this. A few minutes later we hear the same waitress getting an earful from a group of elderly Indians at the next table. It seems that they've been served house wine, and they're not happy. One of them tells her that they didn't come here to drink house wine, so she should take it away, pour it down the sink, and come back with the best vino on their list. He says he doesn't care how much it costs. I'm again sensing imminent violence. Thankfully the restaurant owner intervenes and calm is restored. I think our girl's career as a waitress may be short lived. Either that or she's the owner's daughter.

We finish dinner without further incident, other than the ground shaking occasionally as a train passes through. The entire town is within about 100 metres of the line, so I think this might just be considered part of the entertainment.

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