from Italy, then France: accidental tourists

We leave Levanto and the Cinque Terre in clouds.




As usual, we are lucky and the rain holds off for our hike to the station. Or maybe it is the tail end of a rainy period? Even as in Nice, where we are heading, they are predicting more rain? (You remember Nice – the place with 300 days of sunshine per year?)

The train ride is uneventful. I watch the coastal scenery, Ed reads. The compartment is full (yes, the regional trains still have compartments) and there is a pleasant silence as each of us does mental calculations about where and for what purpose the others are traveling.

A little girl leaves her compartment and sits next to the window. We pass the building where her father works. The mother calls him on the cell phone and they wave as we go by.





In Genoa, we have a half hour layover. And from there, we have a direct three hour trip to Nice.

Or so I thought.

At the Italian border there is commotion. What are they saying? Ed asks. I don’t know, I wasn’t listening. I should have been listening. Because now it’s clear we have to get off. There is a strike. The train will go no further.

And so here we are again, in Ventimiglia. There will be a Pullman! - someone shouts. I never heard that term used for a bus. But it seems that everyone expects a bus. Or, because of the great number of us, perhaps many buses. But as I get my turn at the ticket counter, the agent says no, no bus. In several hours we should get on a local to France.

Maybe you would have used the opportunity to walk around Ventimiglia once again. Me, I worried that someone would change his or her mind, or the departure time would change and we would have missed the one and only transport to Nice. So we sit and wait. Ed reads, I people watch. Fellow travelers, counting off the minutes until we can move again.

And a train does appear, a nice commuter train, and we pile on. Ten stops later we are in Nice.





The walk to the hotel is not too long. Fifteen minutes maybe. And we are almost there, just at the corner now. I’m about to say to Ed this is it! – when before us, a car turns into our street and there must have been a blind spot, because the driver doesn’t see that he is right in the path of a motorcycle. They crash.

The two riders are wearing helmets, which is a good thing because they fly off the crushed bike and in my memory of this, they both land on their heads, with a bounce. His leg is injured, she cries out and then grows quiet. A fantastically beautiful woman (yes, really) stops, sits down on the pavement and starts tending to the woman on the ground who appears to be in shock. She covers her, feels her pulse, takes her hand, calms her.

Being nearest to the accident, my first reaction was to shout out are you all right? In English no less.

We stay for a while, in part to see if all goes well, or well enough, and in part because I think like an American: there will be a law suit, I am a witness. But, Ed tells me that it’s pretty obvious what happened. And now, the ambulance comes, the beautiful woman talks to the paramedics (she must be a doctor herself). The accident victims seem lucid and not incapable of moving and so we leave.





So how many more accidents will we witness on this trip?

At the hotel, as a returning guest, I am treated to a splendid room. But truthfully, all rooms here, at the Grimaldi are lovely, especially if you ask for the top floor, with views over the city. In this season, the hotel offers a “come to Nice and shop for the holidays” special. For 270 Euros, we get three nights, breakfast daily, a bottle of champagne on arrival, and one three course dinner at an excellent restaurant.



fish cake, egg, toast, greens



seafood in broth




mandarine soufflé with chocolate Madeline



Have I made my case for traveling in early December? What, you think the weather isn’t perfect then? Okay, maybe where you live it is more perfect than what we have had on this trip. For me, so long as it stays above 50, I am happy.

We are in France. And for at least one reason, Ed’s face lights up. It is, for him, the country with the best bread in the world.

from Italy: waiting for rain, waiting for trains

Overnight, the skies have changed.

It is supposed to rain, starting this Tuesday evening. Not small rain. Heavy rain. The kind that makes trails impassable. The kind that chills you even before your clothes are soaked.

So I said—let’s hike until we can’t anymore, and then let’s go to Florence.

In another life, at another time, Florence used to be my most favorite city. In my eyes, it had everything: history, art, food, style and you could cross it, back and forth and still have time for an aperitif at the Boboli Gardens. There, you could write your crappy scribbles and take surreptitious glances at the best view in the world. Bliss.

Now, I know cities aren’t Ed’s thing, but I thought that maybe Florence could at least fall into the category of "okay." I can manipulate our path a little: stick to the pedestrian stuff. Avoid stores. Avoid crowds. Avoid shopping for anything. I had reason to hope: Ed did like Venice some years back and one could easily label Venice as one big, crowded shopping mall.

But Venice had boats and quiet alleys. Florence? Let me not begin at the end. Let me go back to the morning.


It was a cold night and our eco friendly Cinque Terre b&b economized on heat. By shutting it off during most hours of the day and night. I was up at 4, working on Ocean matters and answering emails and I felt the chill.

The shower across the hall was also eco friendly in that it produced only warm-ish water. That’s when I decided when the rains came, we would leave.

But the rains weren’t due until late that day and so we packed our packs and headed for the trails.

The first one, from Manarola to Riomaggiore was everything I feared yesterday’s would be. Paved, railed, short. A wimpy walk. The kind of place where people go to do this:





There were some very nice, even dramatic at times, water and cliff views, sure…





… but basically – yawn. We wanted challenge and so at Riomaggiore, we decided to head up the mountains.

The Italians do mountain trails straight up. None of this easy on the legs switchback stuff. You go up until you cannot go anymore. You pause, get psyched, and force yourself to continue.





My pack -- toting clothes, a winter coat, camera stuff and the computer is, as usual, too full. Meanwhile, I’m watching the sky. It doesn’t look good. Then it doesn’t look bad.





Then it looks really awful. Still, we push ourselves. There’s something about getting almost to the top that’s very unsatisfying. It’s like saving for dessert and then finding out that the cook has gone for the day and you have to make do with the meat course as your final plate. So I try to ignore the possibility of a very wet ending and we keep going.

Finally we are at a point where I can make a case that it is indeed a summit. There can be many summits! This is one of them. There is an old monastery, there are views to the north, to the west and to the south. Summit! Now let’s please turn back. But Ed wants to sit down and munch on stale bread from yesterday’s breakfast. Ed likes the contemplative moment on a hike. I give him six minutes to look out at the coast line and chomp on bread. I feel you can accomplish a lot of contemplation in six minutes.





We head back down. Forest turns into terraced vineyards, then olive groves and finally gardens with oranges and lemons.





The rain holds off, but it’s plenty slippery and so we descend slowly. Coats off because of the climb. Coats on because of the cool air and slow pace. Off. On. And then they stay on.

I’m feeling cold by the time we are back at Riomaggiore. We pick a café/cioccolatteria and settle in to wait for the late afternoon train (to Florence, via Pisa).






We’re getting ready to stand on the platform when Ed tells me he’s hungry. Can you wait until Florence (three hours away)? Yes. But couldn’t we stop at a store for bread and cheese for the train ride? Maybe with a tomato? And some brined artichokes and olives? And a small bottle of wine? (Ed is very good at saying the coaxing words.)










Train rides increase the appetite. Besides, food warms you and I need that internal fire. The cioccolateria had kept the door open and so I never really heated up. It’s the way Italians deal with the café smoking ban. The men keep their drink inside and they move back and forth between their smoke and their beverage, keeping the conversation going on both ends. It’s quite an accomplishment.

We wait for the train.

You have to come to love waiting at the binario (train track) in Italy. Of the half dozen trains we’ve taken on this trip not one arrived at the time it was supposed to. Just don’t set your watch by their coming and going and you’ll be fine. And if the sign outside says Pisa, get off, even if the arrival time is fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. Signs matter. And even more -- the kind words of strangers matter. They say Pisa – believe it. And, they say this is the binario for Firenze, even though the sign says it’s for Napoli – believe it.

The last stretch from Pisa to Florence is crowded. We have seats because I am Polish enough to figure out how to find seats, but it really is packed. And here’s this small exchange that to me, is so revealing about how Europeans approach Americans. For we clearly are American, what with our English books and American shoes. A little into the ride Ed whispers to me – I think I should let that woman sit. He nods toward a woman who is maybe a notch older than I am. He taps her, offers his seat. She looks surprised, then grateful. The two women in seats across from us engage her in conversation. They nod at Ed, smile at me, ask me where we’re traveling from. Cinque Terre. Really? We are from there!

Oh, you’ll say there’s nothing to this little scene. You’ll say I’m putting too much emphasis on one small exchange. Maybe. But here’s the thing: sometimes I listen to our leaders (on all sides of the political spectrum) proclaim that we are the greatest nation in the world and I think how this must sound to all who are not American. Because when you travel, and you are American and you show even the teensiest bit of humility – people are surprised. And relieved.


In Florence, I am keenly aware of my shoes. Hiking shoes. Not beautiful, sophisticated, stylish Florentine leather shoes. I tell Ed the story of when I first took my very young daughters to Florence and how, at the end of the trip, during dinner (at the very place where Ed and I eat dinner) they gave me a pen from Florence – as a thank you for a trip well planned. I suggest how boots make a perfect gift, if you’re in that mode. We both know that buying Italian leather boots, even fairly inexpensive leather boots (95 Euros! I know where to find them!), is not really an Ed thing, but there is amusement value in pushing my case for this nonetheless.

We walk through areas normally so congested, that you can’t frame a photo without including half the world from all sides of the ocean in it. Not so in early December. And the lights! This is Florence now:





Along the river, the street lamps seem especially luminescent. Though maybe this is what I want to see -- a city that doesn't give in to the darkness of the season.





At the best gelateria in the world (I mean it: Gelateria Neri, on the street by that name), we buy predinner ice-cream – fruits of the forest and pistachio. Christmas colors.





We eat dinner at the Cinghiale Bianco, on the "wrong" side of the Arno.

On a typical evening, the place is so crowded that people sit outside on the steps waiting for a table. Empty tonight. The waitress tells us it’s the slowest day they’ve had since she started working there. The economy? – I ask. Oh no. People eat out in Italy especially when times are tough. It’s the time of year, the weather, the day after a holiday. (Yesterday was a holiday? Yes… Which one? I don’t really know the name – some religious day).





Hearty winter vegetable soup, dumplings, and wonderful fried artichokes. With a local Chianti. We stroll back to a café bakery we had admired earlier. Still open. Good. We buy four little pastries and head back.










There is something extremely beautiful about visiting a city when it’s napping, buried somewhere, hiding from the cold. When you have kids, vacations are necessarily pushed to the summer. Is it really that different? I think the price of our hotel room says it all. We’re staying now in a lovely little place (the Albergotto). It’s central, it’s old but fresh. The room (the cheapest one) has a maximum allowable charge of 335 Euros. We are paying 100 per night, which includes a copious breakfast buffet and taxes. We run into other Italians. They can do this, they can be here when the rates are low. In the summer, they’re in the country or by the sea. But now, they stroll the empty streets of Florence. Friends and lovers. It’s their place really. To enjoy without the madness of a summer crowd.

from Italy: a matter of luck

I cannot think of a day in my life that illustrated so in-you-face boldly how, in the end, your lot is often made great or not so great because of dumb luck.

It had it all, this day, really, it had it all – frustration, beauty, brilliance, kindness, adventure, local food, color, camaraderie, huge drama and – a sun that set perfectly over the Ligurian Sea. [Reader beware: long post ahead!] Not much of it was of my doing. The best of plans could not have anticipated many of its components. Really, it was a day when luck took the ball and ran wildly ahead. We just tried to keep up.


It is an early morning for us. Our b&b, the Villa Margherita, is charming (I care about that) and quiet (Ed cares about that) and full of Italians enjoying a holiday – all wonderful…





…but we could not connect to the Internet. And it’s important that I log in – there’s Ocean, sure, but there are also work projects that need my attention and, I like to keep an eye out for daughter news.

And so even though I have known for a while that weather-wise, this will be far and away the very best of all days this week – not one to be wasted, still, I needed to find a place to log on. I groaned to signora at the b&b that it is the only beautiful day for us and she shook her head. Do not complain. The weather last month? It made your hair stand on end. Two days decent, twenty eight crazy. (At least this is what I think she said; my Italian is 64% accurate.)

Levanto, it turns out, is a pretty little town. Here, just to give you a feel for it:










And it’s big enough so that I do find an Internet café and Ed finds a place to buy a cell phone card. A lucky break. Frustration overcome. By ten, we leave my small suitcase at the b&b, hoist our backpacks and set out.





















The trail is easy to find. And it is a brilliant morning! Someone wrote that a hike along the Cinque Terre should start from the north and continue along the coast south. Great advice. The light and views are perfect this way. Particularly if you got yourself a day where the sky is so piercing and blue that you can see all the way to the Alps up North.















It’s a tough walk to Monterossa. The climb is hard and the descent is slippery. I trip once and almost bang my camera (yes, the new one!) on a rock. I`am reminded to take care. It's hard to keep your eyes on the path when the views are stunning, enhanced by the traveling sun.















Three hours of strenuous climbing and we are in the next village – Monterosso. We are ready for a break, for food, for an undisturbed few minutes in the warm air. Salads, anchoives swimming in lemon juice and olive oil, followed by a macchiato and a Ligurian lemon cake.















We mean to stop for only twenty minutes, but you know how it is – the lunch, on the terrace of a seaside enoteca, is so dazzling and leisurely and so full of people watching that we hardly notice the time. It’s two in the afternoon before we’re stretching for the next haul.

And now we have to make choices. There are only three hours left of walking light. The plan is to reach a village way too many kilometers away. And we hear that at least part of the trail is washed out, requiring a detour.

This is what I love about hiking the Cinque Terre. It doesn’t matter! You can’t get to your destination? Hop on the local train and make up the distance! We decide to make it to Vernazza before sunset and from there, we’ll catch the 5:30 to Manarolo (where I found a tiny, two room b&b, with WiFi!).

We set out. I’d been poo-pooing this part of the trail as “touristy,” less remote. It is, indeed, the preferred hike – right along the coast (initially I had wanted to stay on the higher, less traveled path, the one we had picked up in Levanto).

I ate my hat on this day. For one thing, the scenery is absolutely mind numbingly beautiful.





The sun keeps us company, moving now, unfortunately, rather swiftly to the west, but offering colors to compensate for its fleetingness.





The climb is huge and I quickly take back all that I said about it being baby stuff. And the path is disconcertingly narrow. I would have had great trouble with it (I have vertigo issues), but the drop is not severe – there are many olive trees and pines and vines and Ligurian bushes of beautiful fragrance to catch you before you crashed to the sea below.


We are sweating one hour into the hike. The temps are in the fifties, but the sun is warm. I’m loving the fact that a sweater is almost too much and that my winter jacket is buried in my backpack.

But we are bothered by the constant buzz of a helicopter. I’m thinking it’s a private one. No, it’s going back and forth. It’s a patrol. Truly, my thoughts run to terrorism, that’s how sensitive we are on this issue. Or is it a fire? But it’s so damp from last month’s rains! On the last stretch we were crawling down wet rocks, concerned that we weren’t gripping the surface.

And suddenly we know. There has been an accident on the trail. A woman slipped off into the ravine. Caught by the bushes, she has now been hauled back up to the narrow path, crying in pain. (I’m thinking – crying is good; at least one leg looks broken, but a broken leg is not a heart attack or a cracked skull.) A half a dozen rescue workers are all around her. We are on a path that is impossibly difficult to navigate (and we are upwards of an hour away from either end) and yet, they rush from both sides, and from above. But they cannot carry her back. They tell us to wait. The helicopter is going to attempt to pick her up.










It is an amazing feat. I am shaking, terrified for her, for them. But they know their stuff. She is packed, IV and all, into a bag and a rescue worker, literally strapped to her, or the bag that is her, is pulled by a rope dangled from the helicopter. The brush is in a torrent of wind from the spinning blade. The rescue team is focused on one thing – getting her up and out of there.










And they succeed.

I’m crying for her, for their courage, for the care they took, for the care she didn’t take. But they are tears of relief.

We hike on, exchanging greetings of amazement with others who were stalled because of the accident.

And eventually, we Vernazza. One more cliff to circumnavigate and we'll be there,





… just as the sun sets over the sea.











We have a few minutes before our train. We stroll to the harbor, where fishermen are casting around, waiting for luck to kick in.










It is dark now. We ride for ten minutes and we are there, in Manarola, where the cliff is littered with holiday lights, and the high school band is playing a festival of songs.



And dinner? Where can we eat well? Go to Da Billy, our super nice hosts at the eco friendly, tiny Da Paulin b&b tell us.


We’re in a small dining room, with three other tables occupied. We’re at a loss as to what’s good and so we point to what everyone else seems to be ordering – today’s special. Inky pasta with seafood. We throw in grilled vegetables. And a bottle of local white. Like the Veneto wines, these Ligurian wines are pale and light and 100% enjoyable.














The food comes, and slowly the conversation in the room grows larger, so that first one, then two, then all tables are engaged. The father and son (owners) join in and the place is now exploding with laughter. I can only catch strands of it, and sometimes I ask for a translation, and they are happy to try, but really, it is inconsequential: it is about the owl outside, the Sicilian wife, the weather in November (all rain), and so on.










We’ve long finished. The husband of one nudges his wife to get going. They have a train to catch back to Lake Cuomo. The others are all local. They are in no hurry. The owners pour us grappa and then limoncello, on the house, because, well, because you like it when people in your place are having such a good time.

We leave late. The air is cold, so cold. I have my winter coat and still I am in a hurry to get to our b&b.


I’m ready for the rains to begin. I feel I've taken up my share of the beautiful and sublime. I’m okay with a turn at the wet skies.