Vespas

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I awoke to the high pitched hum of Vespas buzzing under our hotel window. Africa had the hippo honk as its lullaby, Italy, the Vespa. Frankie and I slept in, both of us exhausted from the travel of the previous days. We were greeted by an overcast day.

After a continental breakfast in our hotel morning room overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, we drove up the coast towards France, then inland, to a small hillside village Frankie’s friend had recommended.

The drive to Apricale was nice. It followed the left bank of a river through a gorge. On the right bank of the river I could see the ruins of what looked to be a wall. Were they the ruins of some Roman aqueducts or just some old bridge circa 1958? I decided they looked like ruins, more romantic. Driving up the gorge we listened to Italian radio, neither of us had thought to bring music. The radio faded in and out as reception was not good. Franchesca swore under her breath as Vespas and trucks veered around us from all directions. As we wound our way up the narrow road, we passed through a few picturesque towns before Apricalie came into view.

Apricalie, a perfectly preserved medieval village, nestled on the top of the Ligurian foothills of the Meritime Alps. Upon seeing it I was surprised by how small the hillside town appeared, almost doll like.

We drove a little further and parked the car at the base of the town, on a little strip of road set on the edge of the steep hill. As Frankie parked the car and I looked out across the gorge, through the front windshield, I felt a slight sense of vertigo. I am so not learning how to drive a standard stick on this trip, I thought to myself as I got out of the car.

Upon exiting the car there was a small hand painted wooden sign “centro” with an arrow and a crosswalk painted in yellow. I had to laugh at the crosswalk. It was painted across a road barely wide enough to fit one car, on the side of a cliff and located on a blind corner, the effort at safety thou noble seemed futile. As we headed toward the narrow set of stairs there was some confusion, it looked like we were walking up to someone’s front door. After a few minutes it became clear that we indeed were on the right path. Neither one of us spoke but in whispers as you felt like you were intruding or trespassing. The only sound was our panting and the occasional sound of a television as we passed by a window. The streets wound their way around until we at last happened upon the “centro”.

It was a typical medieval Italian town square with a couple of churches and a post office. The square was being repaired and everything was being ripped up. The stone layers were on a break, drinking espresso in the sun that was finally starting to through the morning clouds. A golden retriever was watching all the action from a second story window overlook the square.

We took a few photos and as the church bell ran, headed back down the gorge to Dolceaqua for lunch.

After lunch under the market square umbrellas we headed back to the hotel. This time we didn’t take the autostrada but wandered our way back on a small road between the mountains and sea. We were rewarded with a beautiful drive line by magnificent estates of the wealthy, bougainvillea, palms and roses.

Back at the hotel I got word that the unspeakable had occurred, Qatar Airlines had found my luggage and that I should have it by Tuesday!

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