Rain

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I have been thinking about the weather we´ve experienced on this trip. The first actual rain we got caught in was in Rome at the Trevi fountain, and it was gloriously cultural, suddenly empty cobblestone streets lined with shivering Italians and postcard stands pulled out of the walkways, everything topped with dozens of freshly purchased, multi-colored umbrellas bobbing up against each other as if to comment on their inaugural usage with a series of celebratory ciao´s.

After that we began to get wet a little bit more. On our second day in Cinque Terre, Pat, Jesse and I went on a hike from Riomaggiore to the third of the five towns, Corniglia. The Australians staying in the room below us woke up early and beat "the hoards" to Via Dell´Amore, where they walked along the coastal promenade (about twenty feet above the sea) from Riomaggiore to the fifth town, Monterosso. By the time the three of us got out the door it was well past noon, and everyone was swarming through "Lover´s Lane" in spite of the clouds...but we weren´t interested in any kind of "promenade" anyway. After purchasing our trail tickets and consulting the map we decided to start out on Via Dell´Amore and then cut into one of the actual mountain hiking trails along the way. It look clearly marked on the map, and even I thought I would be able to navigate this one. Via Dell´Amore was packed, and unpleasant, just as Patrizia had warned the day before. I took to zigzagging my way through the Molasses Meanderers, as I have christened them because they amble along so excruciatingly slowly, the way that I used to as a teenager at the mall when my girlfriends and I would become too impatient with other people. When Pat, Jesse and I finally made it through that bottleneck of a tourist´s paradise (really, no disrespect- quite pretty, just not a hiker´s cup of tea) to the second town, Manarola, there was no other trail apparent except the continuation of the promenade. This was where the trails on the map ceased to be helpful and I ceased to be able to navigate. While I couldn´t imagine why the trailhead information would be incorrect or anything but simply marked in real life as well, Pat decided to take directional matters into his own hands and consulted the actual layout of the town in correspondence to the streets on the map. He led us further into town, my trepidations increasing. Were these hikes fabled? Would we be forced to wander actual streets instead of dirt paths? Horror of horrors! It is hard to explain the allure of a narrow, unpaved trail in the middle of the wilderness. I wanted it so badly, however, that I gave up on my own skills (okay, it´s cool, we all know I never had any when it comes to navigation) and followed Pat...somewhere? Where the heck were we going? He had some kind of a plan that involved cutting into the trail via the road landmarked by an old church that happened to be on the map. I expressed my frustration by pointing out that we seemed to be following signs that said "Uffizia" which I guessed meant office. Turns out that I was right, but Pat´s little detour was in the right direction all along as the man in the uffizia (I still don´t know what this random place was the office of) pointed us past the church, up the hill and to the trail entrance. Go figure.

The hiking trail from Manarola to Corniglia is actually three different trails that correspond to each other, something like 6, 6a, and 6b. They are mostly unmarked save widely interspersed white arrows painted on the ground and faded horizontal red and white stripes, the European symbol for trail, also spraypainted in various places such as bricks, stair railings and alley walls. While hiking in Switzerland I figured out that when there are no actual signs, look for the red and white stripes to know that you are still on the trail. In Italy, there are no signs marking any of the hiking trails. As Pat, Jesse and I pored over our sweaty map, I decided that there are such clear directions to the coastal promenade because it is the territory definitively designated for tourists. The hiking trails are a liminal space for tourists: while the locals can frequent these naturally (let me disclaim my entire entry at this point with an IN MY EXPERIENCE), you have to be pretty hardcore to find your way to them and along them as an out-of-towner. Most of the time all one has to follow are faded red and white stripes that your eyes soon learn to train in on, jumping out at the last second when you thought you were in some long-forgotten dead end - sometimes with a number that may or may not make sense in terms of your map. These flags are mysteriously unexplained and unuttered even when directions are freely and volubly given, a silent hiker´s companion without a name.

At this point we were caught between a trail end and a road, with no other trailhead in sight. I decided to trust Pat´s sweet Napoleon Dynamite-like map skills (I told him this) as he led us up some random road and to a place he explained would landmark the next trailhead as long as we saw such and such church...okay, I officially would never have been able to find the trail if it weren´t for Pat. Jesse and I would have ended up somewhere in southern France, only aware of our missteps when the language started to change. Sure enough, we came to the next trail which we followed to a little restaurant where the people sitting at the outdoor terrace pointed us up a narrow set of steps as soon as they saw our hiking shoes and glistening brows (alright, my completely sweat-soaked self). No words needed except "Ciao grazie". Note: faded red and white stripes at the top of the staircase. Soon, we were travelling single file along a true mountain trail as the clouds rolled back in, high above the ocean with tiny Manarola below us and distant Corniglia before us. The views & the isolation were stunning and heartsinging, and soon it dawned on me that we were making our way through the middle of a mountain vineyard stretched between the towns and across the slopes we could see to distant points on either side of our little trio. The grapes were just tiny clusters of gravelly green beads, exactly the same color as the vines. They were trained with wire and the three of us began to discuss how long it must have taken to cultivate and what everything would look like, how things would work at harvest time. Raindrops began speckling our noses and the cool grey air surrounded the heat produced by our pace and the long uphill trail that had just levelled somewhat. Still the red and white stripes guided us intermittently through the vineyard and into the woods, the promenade that had never even pretended to hold our interest out of sight and the unknown alluring trail at our sneaker-tips. As the woodsy trail wound through green smells that weren´t unfamiliar, Jesse and I each realized that this place reminded us of home. There was something so Northwesty about it, so full of memory and old trees and ceiling leaves and good bouncy dirt (it and we were rained on the perfect amount) that I said this outloud, and Jesse said "Oh yeah. Of course it does. It´s totally like walking in the woods at home- I was thinking that earlier." We started trying to explain Washington to Pat. We decided that we were glad not as many people knew about the beautiful secrets of our home as those that know about Cinque Terre. Maybe if they did we would start marking our trails with mysterious red and white flags instead of signs as well.

Just before the trail started heading downhill for Corniglia, Pat and Jesse discovered what they fondly refer to as "hammocks". Pat darted off the trail toward a cluster of trees between which were strung various hammock-shaped orange colored nets. He deftly maneuvered into one and swung slightly, looking out to the sea. Jesse followed him without question and jumped into one, agreeing wholeheartedly these were the best hammocks one could hope for near the end of a strenous hike. I waited off to the side, laughing a bit and waiting for "boys to be boys"...but what the heck does that mean? After a bit of cajoling they got me into one, which promptly sank to the ground. I found this hilarious since the boys had easily been held above the dirt. I got out but they got me back into one, insisting that I wouldn´t truly understand until I could swing in one. They were right. Whatever these nets were actually for, they became hammocks with unbeatable views and relatively hard to beat comfort (remember, train seats and thirty-two bed hostel rooms) for three American hikers that day. And I felt exactly unlike a grown-up, which is one of my shamelessly favorite things.

After that we made our way downhill to Corniglia, where I followed the trail of gelato-carriers until I found a shop of it while the boys got pizza. We were going to take the train back to Riomaggiore, but it wasn´t coming for at least twenty minutes so we decided to walk back on the promenade instead. Indeed, we beat the train and all of the estimated times set by the numerous and eloquently direct signs. Once back at our hostel room, which quickly and naturally became homebase, we waited for Kinsey and Becky to come back from the grocery store in La Spezia so we could have a picnic dinner on the double bed Kinsey and I shared. We made salads and sandwiches with scrounged-up silverware and had lively discussion comparing our days and our contemplations, as the sun set behind the clouds and the mountain over the sea visible through our balcony doors.

I realize that I am far behind in blogging, since that was at least a week ago and I have still to blog about our last day there, Venice, Nice, Amsterdam, and here (Berlin). But a week behind is better than skipping something, as I have learned from Jesse who writes in his journal faithfully about each day no matter how far behind he gets.

Danke &...Guten nacht? Dad, Addie, a little help?

coco and people

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Comments

[Elaine]

Like being there !!
I found myself enjoying the sights and smells, as I read. Thanks for recapping.....not skipping this part.

[aunt lora]

props
coco--you write beautifully. BEAUTIFULLY.