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.

from Italy: fickle

If you’ve been an Ocean reader for a while, you probably think that I’ve been a nut about France forever.

Not so. France is a fairly recent love (at my age, “recent” has generous proportions). In my other years, I was smitten with Italy. And, like the young love that it was, I overdid it. And then I moved on. Fickle me.

But, occasionally, and now with Ed, I have gone back. I sometimes think Ed likes Italy best. Italy is forgiving. Not fussy. Not demanding. When you’re hungry, you can always get a fantastic pizza.

We flew to Nice, but we didn’t linger there. The city bus, taking us from the airport to the train station offered a quick glance, but that was it. Oh, but I remember the blues of Nice! They don’t disappear in December.










The important point to make here is that I am, at least for this day, in the warm embrace of the sun. And in Nice, as we waited for our train, I felt warm enough to get rid of the winter coat.






Off one train, waiting for another. An hour to kill at the border Italian city of Ventimiglia. We are, for the first time, traveling with a cell phone, but it hasn’t a card in it. We thought we’d buy one locally. So much cheaper! – those are Ed’s words. He says now – you didn’t tell me we’d be traveling into Italy on Sunday! We have grown comfortable with this: it is the way we travel. With amusement at how different the other is.

We walk through Ventimiglia looking for a place to purchase the card, but everything that isn’t in some way holiday-ish is closed. No matter. It’s a lovely walk. We watch children enjoying the presence of a bizarrely inflated Santa Claus…










…and we pick up the Sunday stroll along the water’s edge.





And a few hours later, we are in Genoa. It’s late and we have only a half hour between trains. We make a hopeful detour to a bar in search of food. It’ll have to be a mozzarella tomato sandwich. Chased by a miniscule tumbler of red wine. The bar owner tells us we have to hurry. In a few minutes the game begins and he is expecting a huge crowd. It’s a funny way to eat a first meal in Italy, but I’m supremely happy we’re pushing ourselves to move on all the way to Levanto. Fifteen minutes in Genoa seems plenty.

The last train ride. As we move from one place to the next, from afternoon to evening to night, I start worrying that we’ll sleep through our stop. I’m in that drifting in and out mode where I can’t tell if the train is moving. Lights outside, Christmas lights, one colorful string, another and another.

Late, very late, we reach Levanto.

Our b&b presents insurmountable (even for Ed) problems with the Internet and it takes a while to get the heater to wake up, but we are pleased. The innkeeper urges us toward a pizzeria in the village (town? who can tell… it’s dark outside) and there really isn’t a person in the world, I don’t think, who can’t be lulled into happiness with a perfect Italian pizza. So what that they forgot the salads, so what that it took so long to get here, so what that it’s just pizza, it is a great pizza, a fantastically splendid pizza, a great ending to a very very long two days.





An old man engages the waitress, a group of young adults (or old kids, depending on your perspective) talks one over the other, the zebra striped chairs clash with the leopard dotted chairs, the air outside is cold and every one of the patrons wraps miles of scarf around themselves to brace for the near freezing temps. Winter in Levanto.

in transit

Two buses down, one flight down and, well, lots ahead.

I just want to note that there are only two states in traveling from one point to the next: waiting and rushing. We have had our share of both.

It's rush time now. Even as I sip an espresso at the Paris airport and pretend that it's otherwise.

Flight is being called. Off to Nice.

en route

You do not need another photo of Bascom Hill (UW campus, Madison, Wisconsin), do you?

But it was part of my day! And, I must say, with great pleasure I waved it a fond good bye.





It has not been a straight shot so far. On the way to bus no. 1, scheduled to pass by my condo in minutes (and, as it is the week-end, the buses that pass by my condo are few and far between), I remembered that I forgot crucial work papers (it is mostly down time for me in the next week, but not entirely).

And so I ran.

Which guaranteed a hacking cough for the next several hours (I am recovering from a cold). But I made it.

I stopped by my office, made sure everything would continue properly without me (we are so (in)dispensible!) and Ed and I boarded the Van Galder to OHare.

Just miles from the Chicago airport, we came to a full stop. Crawling now, with only one lane open. One hour to traverse 5 miles.

And here’s the thing: there was an accident. So that someone, probably more than one person suffered terribly. At the same time that a busload of people just wanted to move on and get to their flight. It struck me that this is the way we deal with the awfulness out there. We just want to hurry up and get to our flight. [True, were I in an accident that stopped the I-90 traffic cold,, I think I would feel bad that it may lead people to miss their flights, so there’s that…] Me, I'm deeply hoping that someday, someday soon there will be a fast train from Madison to Chicago.


At the airport ticket counter, my favorite clerk was there to greet me. [When you fly an esoteric airline always, the staffing remains the same – she has been there, at the counter, since 1997, when I remember having my flight to Paris (and therefore to Poland) cancelled. She was so calm and so helpful to all of us (it was a nightmare travel situation) that I have, since then, loved her tremendously. And most often, she is there. It’s amazing how one person can instill a sense of calm for others. She did that. Thank you favorite agent, whose name I do not know.]

I am calm.

I am not really worried that a dozen b&bs responded to my inquiries telling me that they decided to close for the season.

For God’s sake, I am on my way to Italy, let me unwind already!

Maybe we should have packed sleeping bags…

on the eve of

I never made it out of the pajama state today. And if you think this deserves a photo, I’ll respond – no, it does not.

Work dominated all my waking minutes and so I’ll pass on commenting more on this day.

Instead, let me tell you what’s ahead: tomorrow, I begin the usual convoluted travel package of connections that I can only hope will get me where I want to go. The goal? Ed and I are anxious to release our inner hiking demons somewhere in Europe where chances of sleet and snow are small.

So, we have before us this: one short bus ride, one long bus ride, one long flight, one short flight, one medium train ride, another medium train ride and finally, a short train ride. At that point (late Sunday evening), we should be in Levanto, Italy.

Where is that? It’s at the edge of a place that is so popular that I have never wanted to go there. The idea of hiking along with many others seems so antithetical to the entire enterprise that I shrugged and feigned disinterest for years.

But in December, nobody hikes the Cinque Terre – the northern coast of Italy. At least that is what I told Ed.

So, I’ll be back here, on Ocean, as soon as I am able. You see, the problem with Cinque Terre in December is that pretty much no one who runs a b&b sticks around to watch their rooms stay empty. Ed thinks we should consider packing sleeping bags just in case. I tell him Florence is just three hours by train. In case life gets tough and the skies deliver rain.

Now back to filling the backpack.

why write?

I have been writing on the side (letters, journals, stories, essays, stuff), in great quantity, since I was about ten. I know you link my writing to Ocean, but there is, unfortunately, so much more of it. When I eat alone (while traveling), I am always scribbling in a notebook. Most often, I tear these pages out and toss them out when I return. Every once in a while, I’ll preserve a copy of an essay. But the rest? Nah. Sure, my kid writing is fun to keep in a trunk and occasionally revisit. It’s so…youthful. But once I am at an age where quality begins to matter, I’d rather not leave behind pages of junk.

I write, of course, because the translation of thought to words on paper feels good. But, like most conversations, these monologues are best left behind as slight memories. There is no reason to preserve them.


This morning I once again visited my dentist. I was going to call it quits for the year, but yesterday’s dentist said that if I weren’t thorough, I may find myself chasing dentists in the small towns of Europe next week. He gave me a list of possibilities there, but he frowned as he did so. Don’t know many of them, he muttered. And so today I did one more visit, just to put closure on this particular set of dental issues.

And lo, it appears that this particular dentist is also a writer on the side. He favors writing letters. Because he isn’t sure that the recipients are so eager to read them now, he stores the letters on the computer until a time when he’s too old too care or no longer around to monitor the reactions.

I told him that I thought this to be a terrible idea. I already worry that we all leave too many papers behind for those who will have to sort through our stuff once we kick the bucket. Do you really want to leave your computer files for your loved ones too? What a burden! Forget it! If I think it’s memorable, I’ll pass it on now, or leave it in a special box with a red ribbon and a note on it: read it if and when you feel like it.

True, here, on Ocean, I write for a reader. And my Great Writing Project has an intended audience which now includes my dentist, as he promised to read every word (he’s one of those that dutifully finishes everything; in this, as in so many ways, we are different). But mostly, I just write.

On the way home I passed Owen Woods. I used to write here some years back. In a different season, of course. But it’s nice to go back to places where you once wrote even if those notes are long trashed.

winter spirit

I borrowed Ed’s little Geo to run a few errands. That is one light little car! And I never even worried about it, that’s how much I take for granted winter driving. And it was snowing. Significantly.





If I had problems on the road, they paled compared to problems that motorcyclists faced. I asked Ed if it was typical to ride in snow with your feet down. Yes, he tells me, if you’re the cautious type. [Is there an implication here that real men do not fret the cautious stuff?]





Ah, winter.

If you're into the mood of it, this surely was the day to buy a Christmas tree.





I’ve never favored big cars. I think big houses are unnecessary. Big TVs are, in my eyes, unattractive. But big trees? That’s not a preference, that’s a need. Wide and to the ceiling. I’m not sure why I imagine this kind of a tree. It’s the one place where I abandon minimalism and favor going all out. The tree, the magnificent, irrepressible, towering, exploding tree.

Ed’s along for the Geo ride now, keeping me company. Big Ed, little Geo, big tree. How does it all fit together?

At the nursery, the men are heaving a tree, attempting to control it and, more importantly, keep it in an upright position. This one, take this one, they prod me. We can’t figure out how to stand it up here. Take this one.





I look at the tree. It looks twice their size. I’m not sure it will fit… It’ll fit – they tell me. Because they know the dimensions of my living room? No, because they want to get rid of it. Okay. You’ll fit it into the Geo? They laugh. Geo? It’ll crush it. Tomorrow then, we’ll pick it up tomorrow. With a Ford pick up.



Across the street, at Classen’s German bakery, I stock up for the holidays. Some people bake a lot of cookies. That’s what you do around the holidays, right? Angels, Santas, reindeer. I read the recipes and I always think – that’s a lot of trouble for a cookie. And so I go to Classen’s and I buy their seasonal stars and moons and boys with m&m buttons running up their fronts (chocolate covered gingerbread) and over the years, I have convinced my daughters that this is the very best anyone could put forth on a Christmas plate at tree trimming time.





And if this day wasn’t wintry enough, what with the Geo in the snow and the tree left alone, in the nursery, waiting for a ride home, I had two more holiday-ish moments: first, watching, on the ride home, that splendid winter sunset that makes a bleak landscape look like a thing of great beauty…





…and secondly, a young Polish couple, interested in a condo here, in my building, came over to chat about it. [They found me through Ocean.] Being as Polish as apple pie, or, in the alternative, extremely kind and generous, they brought with them a Polish apple cake and a Hungarian Tokaji. And a winter bouquet.






We spoke Polish into the evening and I felt good about this, especially since this year, I am not going to Poland in the winter. I am done with bleak short days in sleety cold Warsaw. Poland should be a spring fling. If I go anywhere at all in December or January, it will be to a place with a kinder, gentler climate.

Oh, but that’s a story for Saturday. I’m not leaving until then.

my day, my day…

I was up early. Two classes today and meetings before and between. And you know, I still have this cold.

Typically I give myself an espresso break between classes and it is then that I worry about a photo for the day. But it was so cold! Still, I found one that for me, was evocative and meaningful.





And then I thought about a comment I received on Ocean a few days ago, where the reader accused Ocean of becoming too political because I occasionally mentioned things having to do with the past presidential election (see comments on November 26). And then I thought about how I never write about my work, because, well, I shouldn’t. And how I do not write about my family because it is of utmost importance that I respect their privacy. And how I don’t write about health issues that occasionally plague me because I never want to acknowledge that health issues occasionally plague me (colds do not count – they’re fair game!). And how I may reduce my writing about travel because it bothers some people that I travel and between the two – not traveling and writing less about travel, I prefer the latter. Just to let you know, daily blogging in the way that I do is a tough, tough enterprise.

And so, I thought, gratefully, that there is still this hill outside my office that permits me to take photos that have meaning for me without disturbing anyone.


I’ll say this about today: I finished the semester and as usual, I felt this tug at the throat for all that we had been through, my students and I (in both my classes). If ever I have to stop teaching, I will miss it with a huge part of my heart.


On my way home, I got off the bus too early. I was in a stupor – I was relieved that I did not get a cough attack during classes, the day was done, the semester was done – here I was, riding that warm crowded bus. And so I exited early. But it was worth it. For this lovely (to me) sight: