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Published: July 11th 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
Via dell’Amore This morning I was determined to walk some of the trails in Cinque Terre. I decided to start with the easy paved path from Riomaggiore to Manarola, so I took the train down to Riomaggiore. I walked into the town first, in search of snack, but also not realizing the trail head was in the other direction. I overheard a conversation between two young American men and asked one of them if I was going anywhere in the right direction. He was very gracious and told me to turn around and follow the signs.
The map says the walk takes 20 minutes, which it probably would have if I didn’t stop so often for pictures. The path is called Via dell’Amore, the walkway of love. Along the path there was all kinds of lovers’ graffiti, “Jack+Jill=Love,” and other simple messages. Last night at dinner, Anniken and Ella told me they drew a cartoon of themselves on the path. I found it and added my name to the drawing.
The trail ended at Manarola, and I stepped on the overpass to view the town. They all look about the same; multi-story buildings painted
in bright colors, following a ravine to the ocean. I think Vernazza is the prettiest of the four I saw. But it was time for lunch, so I caught the train back to my town for a meal of leftover pasta and wine.
Local Events When a crew set up a small platform stage in the piazza last night, I asked a server at one of the piazza restaurants what events were to take place. I was informed that a swimming competition would take place Saturday afternoon and the evening would feature local bands. Upon returning to town from my walk, I found the town bustling with activity. Not just for the day tide of tourists, but all the local folk were out to watch or participate in the swim competition. Men in speedos and women in sporty bikinis were walking around the piazza, numbers marked on their upper arms. I made a reservation with the man I spoke with last night, who instantly recognized me. I guess it is easy to do in a small town where “everyone knows your name.”
Americans Everywhere More and more I’ve been bumping into Americans and a handful of Canadians. A
Cliff hanging path
but still stroller friendlylot of people seem to originate from the northwest, either from the Seattle, Portland or Vancouver areas. It’s interesting to find the varying degrees of travel sense among the collective, too. Some people get around much better than I do, while others make me look like an expert. It is actually more enjoyable to talk to Seattle people than Americans from other parts of the country, because there is a better mutual understanding of how Italy compares with home. Seattleites also have their own style of personality which I find pleasing because I am also of that type.
A Random Note About Shopping Buying cheap clothes at tourist stores is a great idea. The fabrics and cuts are different here and really do help combat the heat and humidity more than the clothes I brought with me. But on that note – my boobs, and most of the rest of me, are too big. This is a definite advantage in romantic situations, but when trying to find clothing in Italy it is not so helpful. This is the time where the itty-bitty-titty-committee has its perks. Pun intended.
When I do go into a shop, I browse first, and
Tunnel
the lower windows are for the train tunnel if I like the selection I ask the ladies working there for assistance. Usually they speak enough English to know that I need something more substantial than the triangle top sun dress. I point to the top or dress, “piccilo,” and point to my bust, “grande.” Occasionally something in the shop works. For me, it’s worth soliciting help from the staff there, and mutually beneficial. I get a piece of clothing, and they get a sale.
A Walk to My Grave After my lunch of leftover cold pasta and a nap, I headed back into town. At 4pm the beach was more crowded than I had seen it for my whole stay. My destination was the cemetery, somewhere above town. I didn’t equate that “above” meant
up and that flip flops would be a poor choice of footwear. I found the path, a winding steep driveway leading to more wining and steep rock stairs. The Sun was out in force and I immediately turned into a walking puddle. A portion of the path had fewer steps, but each tread was longer and inclined. This would not have been a problem except my feet began to slide in my flip
flops. I feared that I was going to fall backwards and become the joke of the town. My tombstone would read, “Here lies the girl who was dying to get into the cemetery.” A cat passed me going the opposite direction. In both feline and Italian mannerisms, it ignored me and kept walking. Cats here do not respond to “kitty, kitty.” I really have no idea what else to say to stranger cats. I am sure they are mumbling to themselves, “Fucking tourists,” whenever they hear the American kitty calls.
Finally, I made it to the top. It wasn’t the cemetery, because there were no graves, just a lookout. It was good enough for me. I sought some shade to cool off. The vista was beautiful, though my overheated core would tell you it wasn’t worth it. I could see the entire east side of the town, cut into the hills and jutting out into the Mediterranean. After snapping a couple photos, I faced the treacherous conditions back down. I moved aside to let a local woman pass, gesturing to my feet and that my footwear was not working. She said in English, “I understand. Just take them off.”
Take off my shoes? Was it really that simple? Indeed it was. The trek down was actually enjoyable. On my way down I passed a family from Vancouver (go figure).
Dinner and Music My dinner reservations were for 8pm, and I showed up just a few minutes early. The tables were not full yet, but I knew they would be. One thing about small towns, familiarity will get you better service. The guy I spoke with was still at the restaurant in the evening, and he gave me one of the good tables with a view of the stage. A group of happy and loud Americans occupied a table nearby, and I heard one of the women quoting her Rick Steves book about the local specialties.
I milked my time at the table because the crowd was getting pretty thick waiting for the band to start, and I wanted a place to sit. Dinner was swordfish in lemon and parsley sauce and a side salad. It was the first time I’d ever eaten this variety of fish, and it was surprisingly good. The swordfish was served as a thin steak and wasn’t flakey, like salmon or trout. It
dominated the plate.
The band started half hour late, which is on time by small town Italian standards. Neither the musicians nor the singer were exceptionally talented, but the music was lively and a crowd gathered near the stage to dance. I mostly watched the little girls, who kicked off their shoes and danced in circles holding hands and then weaving in and out of the crowd in a conga line.
I retired to my room after only an hour of watching the band. I would have like to have stayed longer, but I really needed to use the toilet. After three hours at my table, a full half liter of wine and equal parts water, I needed to go. Back in my room I opened all my windows so I could still hear the band playing.
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