I reclined to watch the travelogue out the window. Mostly tracks and industrial area from the Santa Maria Novella station through the outskirts of the city and then the secondary Firenze station.
Just before we hit the countryside the Conductor came in to punch our tickets. Seems my two compartment companions were interloping from second class. He shooed them away, as well as a gaggle of American tourists also in first class Carrozza 02. They all pled ignorance. No one believed them. I now had the compartment to myself. And after the Conductor and I fixed the sliding glass door to the compartment, I was quietly removed from any distraction that might interfear with my window-perch sightseeing tour.
Even before we left the jumble of station rail-lines, I noticed patches of red poppies growing all along the outside edges of the tracks. And soon after leaving the city the clouds drifted away and the sun intensified their color. They were an ever-present companion on the trip, as were the lines of laundry hanging out both city and country homes. As we left the city center, the buildings were less historic. Yes, I know that the 1960’s are now taught as “history.” These newer 60’s through 80’s buildings began to predominate and sometimes it was difficult to imagine I was still in Italy and not some non-descript city anywhere. There was the occasional stone folly, periodic church and cathedral that gave the location away. As we pulled farther away from the city the houses were newer. Many resembling those of Southern California with their tile roofs and colors of ochre and washed out terracotta. Although here there is a much narrower range of colors than in Southern California. However, the one unmistakable giveaway to location was the consistency of vegetable gardens. Every patch of arable land had something growing to eat. Each home-farmer had their own preference but all seemed to have pole beans. Some poles were cris-crossed like a teepee and some were stuck into the ground then woven with other thinner more pliable poles. The season had just begun. The greenery was only half way up most of the poles. The way Italians love their beans (especially cannellini) it is no wonder they are called “the bean eaters.”
The hills are still somewhat cloud covered but later I could see the scarred mountains of Carrara in the distance. The scars are surrounded by greenery. A bit lower, the many plantings of grapes are plumping up. (Even in the courtyard of my gym I was amazed how, over the course of just a week, the little gnat-sized grapes swelled to more than a quarter of an inch.)
There were lots of fruit trees. I noticed apricots starting to take shape. At one point we were stopped just outside a local station and there was a fig tree directly in front of my window. It was starting to put out just a few figs (as in California during June) but not the major crop that comes during August to October.
As we were pulling out of this rural station I noticed that many houses have picket fences made out of cast cement. Four-inch posts every five feet supported a span of about a dozen pickets all molded, with their cross-pieces, as one unit. Some were very old by the way they had worn. They seem a very durable and a maintenance friendly alternative to wood.
We passed Pisa Centrale, then on toward Spezia where I started to notice marble processing areas next to the tracks. The Cararra quarries loomed in the background. Stacks of pristine white glistening blocks of future art. Large uniform blocks that were being wet-sawed. Stacks of sliced pieces. Piles of white chunks and white marble sand. There were also large areas of gravel-sized pieces probably used for terrazzo. As this faded we came closer to Spezia. We stopped just outside of the city in front of a large cemetery. I felt this was an omen that I would love this trip.
When we pulled into Spezia I only had a few minutes to find my “binario” (track) to catch the Cinque Terre train to Vernazza.
The Cinque Terre train backtracked a mile or so then turned right and almost immediately entered a tunnel. It was then that I took time to notice the inside of the train. The lights were fluorescent behind old oxidized plastic covers. Over time, tubes had been replaced but with no consistency. Some were replaced with bright-white, some cool greenish-white and some with a cold blue tonetube. Some weren’t replaced. As a result, behind the yellow weathered plastic covers there was a visual Morse code of colored dashes. Yellow, yellow, cool blue-white, gray, yellow, white, gray, greenish-white, etc. The seats were very old and positioned back to back, so you faced fellow travelers. The floor was brown linoleum. This combination of brown and blue predated the acceptable pairing of the colors. The windows of this observation car train were dirty from sea spray.
Occasionally there was a glimpse of light from barred windows in the tunnel but then almost immediately we were again in fluorescent-lit darkness. Finally we reached an open stretch of track and looking out to my left I could see ocean and a city perched on the cliffs ahead. Tunnel again. I seriously wondered why the cars were set-up for observation.
When we finally emerged we slowed down and stopped at the first of the Five Lands. We had reached Riomaggiore. The weather was gloomy and overcast. The stop was short and all I noticed was a huge mural depicting the agriculture and fishing industry of the town. The shore to the left was rocky. The rocks looked like petrified wood with long striations interspersed with clusters of blooming prickly pear cactus.
We were off again. We went through the same tunnel situation on our way to Manarola and Corniglia. It was now raining. The ocean was steel blue until the horizon line that shown lighter as the clouds were pushed to the shore. The stations were colorless but you could now look ahead and behind to see colorful stucco homes and plantings running from the crest of the cliffs to the shore where they met colorful boats in the harbor. Another tunnel.
Moments later, I had arrived. The station of Vernazza sits just a few feet above the town (unlike some of the other towns). Within 25 yards I was in a beautiful and picturesque, albeit it wet, postcard setting. Even while holding my umbrella I started taking pictures and wandering around the town. It was a good call only taking a backpack. The air was crisp and sparkling clean.
I still had time before, I assumed, I could check-in to my apartment but I went to the Gianni Franzi restaurant (as instructed) to pick-up my key. I had wanted to get a place at the Albergo Barbara but it was all booked. Even the Gianni Franzi was booked during the period I initially requested. Out of desperation I e-mailed the Franzi and asked for any time they had a room for four days. They wrote back and said they were fully booked but had one available property for the four days. I immediately took it. Later I read that they like longer visitors and just bump the people with reservations for fewer nights. I began to worry and checked out some “Comment” sites. The Franzi got bad reviews.
I figured what was done was done. So what if they say the staff is surly. The places are dirty. There isn’t enough linen. They take your passport and won’t return it. They insist on cash and don’t give a receipt. And when they give you your key they just point up the stairs and you have to find it yourself.
I was somewhat concerned.
Well, the woman at the desk couldn’t have been sweeter if she had been Marie Osmond. She gave my passport back and didn’t even ask for money up front. When she gave Giovanni my key and asked him to show me to my place I was dumfounded with delight.
However, they didn’t lie about the stairs. There are 120. You have pictures of 107 of them.
By the time we finally got to the door marked “54” I was so-o-o happy I only packed a backpack. We entered and climbed a few more steps then the hall opened to a garden path between two apartments (one was Giovanni’s and “his woman” as he put it in English).
As you see the path and garden are beautiful. Lemons, hydrangea and basil.
Giovanni was ahead of me and went in the direction of what looked like a storage-shed…then used my key. Truly, you tell me. Doesn’t it look like a tornado shelter in the mid-west? Like something you would look for just as the wind picks up and you see an old woman riding a bicycle through the air! Giovanni is short and he still was taller than the shed. I was speechless. They had given me the Hobbit Garden Shed.
I walked over as he opened the door. Honestly, all I saw was the eight-foot drop down and the large knotted rope to the right. I thought to myself that it was extremely fortunate that I brought only a backpack if I was going to repel down into a root cellar.
Giovanni said, “Is like ship” as he pointed down the shed opening. I got closer and indeed there were ship’s stairs. “Well”, I thought to myself, I’ll just pretend I’m Gregory Peck in Captain Horatio Hornblower.
Giovanni then proceeded to show me the correct way to enter the Hobbit House. One must back in, bent over, butt first...while hanging on to the rope. And at that point I thought “Sure, and pull the door shut with my teeth, while still bending.” No exaggeration, the top of the door is below my chin.
I couldn’t bolt and run. My contract said I was responsible for the first night even if I didn’t show up. Besides, there probably wouldn’t be a vacant room in town and it was raining. I just resigned myself and I bent over....and backed into my new home. The stairs creaked like the HMS Ancient Wreck.
But, as you can see I was amazingly lucky.
The place was large with almost eight-foot ceilings. Spotless airy and light. Brand new glaringly white waffle towels and killer views in two directions, to the harbor and out to the ocean. One wall is still raw rock. There are even two ship’s brass portholes. And on top of all that, the balcony (which I was promised on-line) was nothing like the pitiful ones pictured by former guests. This balcony is the only one in the village this far out and the only one over the water. And it was large enough for two to stretch out on.
My balcony in the upper left corner.
A view of the town during my boat trip (a later blog).
This and the rest of the pictures are views from my balcony.
When I arrived at 10:30 am it was raining and did so until 12:30. By 1:00 pm it was still sprinkling but clearing up. I propped up my umbrella on a lounge chair and napped (wearing my hoodie) on my balcony to the sounds of the sea and the gulls. By 4:00 pm it was very nice and by 6:30 pm it was hot and I changed to shorts and went exploring. The early evening was beautiful. I had gelato and shopped for supplies.
I brought dinner home to enjoy on my balcony as the sun set. I was at eye-level with the gulls and the swallows fly so close they could pick mosquitoes out of your ears. I never noticed that swallows don’t fly in large uniformly moving groups like other birds.
The place that I wanted, so much, was over the square with all the people and the noise. This spot was grand. The only sounds were the water and the birds. There was hardly a trace of scent to the mist from the crashing waves. Just freshness. And a gentle breeze. I was hypnotized by the view. Monterosso al Mare in the distance. The terraced hills to the right spotted with flowers. The rocks on both sides with their twisted ribbon-like patterns and the colorful boats below. It is amazing how one’s self-absorbed and self-important feelings are put in their place before the power of the sea. How humbling it is to feel its unchanging steady rhythm. To know that, with little change, it will be crashing with the same sounds long after everything we know is gone.
