ItalyPage14

June 10, 2001 Sunday

After a good night’s rest we both felt much better.

Our apartment is pretty comfortable. We have two rooms and a bathroom. We look out at a scenic view up the one street of Riomaggiore. Multistoried buildings of rose, taupe, the pale yellow of rich cream, terra cotta, suede, saffron, peach, ecru and ochre line the tight, curving lane. Their green shutters are opened or closed as the weather changes, and every morning the housewives hang out their wash on little clotheslines strung under their windows. In the background are high terraced cliffs, green with grape vines, and topped in mist.

Cinque Terre, literal translation “five lands”, is actually a very mountainous coastal area. The five refers to the five remote little towns along this stretch of the Liguran Sea. These towns are so remote, and difficult to get to, they used to be quiet and quaint places to get away from it all. The 5 towns are connected by a railway, which goes through the mountainous land by way of tunnels. Although there are roads going down to each town, the main road connecting them is circuitous, time-consuming and not easy traveling. The train is swift, 15 minutes from the southernmost village to the northernmost village. The roadway takes 3 hours.

We ate breakfast and headed out to catch the train to Vernazza, the place Rick Steves stays. We caught the next train, which turned out to be an express, and only stopped at Monterossa, the northernmost village of the 5. Most of the rest of the passengers were in our same boat—they wanted to get off at one of the intermediate towns, and when the train didn’t stop at their town, they all went into a panic. The conductor had to go up and down the aisles placating hundreds of panicky Americans. It was actually a short trip, 15 minutes at most, so it is a quick trip to take a train back to the desired town, and soothed, we all got off at Monterossa and went our separate ways.

Don and I decided to do the hike from Monterossa to Vernazza. We started up the path, which quickly turned into granite steps up, and up and up the cliffside. We climbed to the top of a bluff, through terraces of grape vines, and then along a ridge, around three or four mountains, and finally, after about 1 ½ hours we spotted the picturesque town of Vernazza, way down the hill. We could see the blue water of the bay, jaunty skiffs moored at the jetty, and colorful umbrellas ballooning out over cafes to offer shade to weary, thirsty tourists. We could see hundreds of tourists. Pretty soon we were going down, meeting people who gasped, as we came upon them, “Is it much farther?” Who would be mean enough to tell them the hike was very long, they had achieved only a tenth of the distance and the hard part was yet to come?

In Vernazza we had lunch at one of the many outdoor cafes. Rick Steves had recommended this area as an “off-the-beaten-path Riviera”. Rick, I have to tell you. It may be hard to get here, but thousands of tourists have managed. Cinque Terre is no secret any more. And, most of the people here, Americans, of course, were clutching a Rick Steves book, Europe Through the Back Door, or Italy Through the Back Door. The ones who weren’t holding the book were either discussing Rick Steves and his recommendations, or cursing Rick Steves and his recommendations. There are more tourists in these 5 small towns than in all of Florence. The five towns of Cinque Terra must just love ole Rick. Don posits that the town leaders will get together soon and rename their main street “Strada Signore Steves” or “Via Rick”.

After lunch we strolled around a bit, taking pictures and people watching. Then we caught the train back to Riomaggiore.

I cooked dinner tonight and as I cooked I occasionally glanced out the window. Across the breezeway there is a large cement square and I realized that this was the school playground. Every evening, after the tourists are safely tucked into their bars and restaurants, the children come out to play. Toddlers chase bubbles as their mothers swap the gossip of the day. Eight year olds race their bicycles across the square, sprinting like Marco Ciopolini or Ghilberti Simone, winning the Giro d’Italia race. Teenage girls huddle, giggling together as they share their young dreams.

A rumble of thunder sounds across the town. Maybe it will rain. Oh! Wait. That can’t be thunder!? It is the local train. The playground is build right on top of the train tunnel and we can hear the reverberation whenever a train goes through. We must have been so exhausted last night we didn’t hear it as our heads hit the pillow.

After dinner we stroll out on the square and see a plaque. The plaque tells the story of a boy who was killed by the train, while he was playing on the uncovered track. Now the play area is dedicated, in his name, to the children of Riomaggiore so that they may play safely in the future.

After our walk we go back to our window on the world of Riomaggiore. Don works at his pictures and I watch the playground. At 8 o’clock the kids all go in for dinner, but now, at 9 a little girl, about 11, comes out and sits, waiting, on a bench. She is patient and sits quietly, thinking her thoughts. After about 15 minutes, here comes a red-shirted boy who sits on the bench with her. No words are exchanged at first. They just sit there. He is getting bored, and gets up from the bench. She looks up sweetly and says something, and they begin to chat. After a few minutes they are quite engrossed and seem to be enjoying each others’ company. Now another boy calls down from a balcony. Oh,oh! Red shirt can’t be caught talking to a girl! Up he jumps, like there were hot coals on the bench. She sees that she is losing him and tries some diversionary tactics. After a few minutes more boys come down and the courtship is at a halt until another time.

Soon the playground is teeming with life again. Scooters, bikes, balls, groups of kids all running and shouting and playing together. The teenaged girls gather in a corner and chat in mature, ladylike chats. The teenaged boys sit in another corner, talking skateboards and soccer matches, and yelling out to one girl or another in an occasional spurt of bravado.

The children play late here on a warm summer evening, and the last kids don’t go in until the church bell tolls midnight. The last train rumbles through the tunnel and Riomaggiore is tucked in for another night.

JUNE 11, 2001 MONDAY

I am still fascinated by the doings outside my kitchen window. In the morning I watch the town come to life. At 7am the day-glo suited public workers come out and clean the streets, picking up trash from the bins and sweeping litter discarded by yesterday’s tourists. Soon the housewives can be seen opening their shutters and hanging out the day’s laundry to dry in the sun. Shops start to open up and the clerks set up their outdoor displays, arranging their tourist trinkets as enticingly as possible.

The alimentare (grocery) has a beautiful display of fruit, so tempting that even I succumbed and bought some overpriced cherries yesterday. At 8 am the women of the town come down their steep staircases and out their front doors with their market bags, and smile and greet one another as they make their way up the hill to the Coop. At 9am the kids from the backpacker’s dorms are out on the street, stopping at cafes for coffee and brioche, or coke and pizza. At 10am, here comes the first group of tourists, baggy bermuda shorts, t-shirts with school logos or dumb sayings or pictures, velcroed sandals slapping on the cobbles, cameras in hand and their fanny packs strapped on with the pouch in front for security. The new day has started in Riomaggiore.