Cinque Terre

Peach and yellow and green squares against a hazy pale blue and pink sunset sky.  A calmness INTERRUPTED by monstrous powerful waves.

Hearing more English than Italian, and off-put and unsettled by that.

Greeted at the train station of Riomaggiore by a large jovial boisterous Italian man exclaiming “Mamma Rosa!”---which is also the name of the hostel we booked. We were told to follow Papa Rosa, a short, tough, weathered, old man who only walked as fast as he could breathe in a drag from his cigarette.

A room like a glass box that seemed to be more fit for an airport than a hostel. 

Salmon penne pasta brought to me by the nice waiter in the red pants.

Night swimming and exploring in the rain and feeling like young pirates in the cove. Thunderous smooth rocks being sucked down into the ocean with the pulling tide. Eyes straining to find our footing. Feeling like famous people in a stadium as fireflies flickered on an off in the rocks above us.

The mysterious glowing Duomo-shape at the top of the cliff as tantalizing as Gatsby’s green light across the water.

Forced to sleep in because of rain, but leading to a beautifully clear yet cloudy day.

A morning in the marina and seeing our pirate cove in the light of day.

Conducting the crashing waves in Vernazza, and being the comedic entertainment of several tourists when one giant wave swallowed Tyler.

Picnic by the sea of pesto and tomato pizza and eating an entire apple (Sara Stolarksi style) for lunch.

A gorgeous hike to Monterosso with beyond-the-edges-of-the-postcard views, squishy little plants the color of mentos, archways of trees with yellow flowers, Deep blue sea. Greetings and smiles in every language—Cinque Terre may be a tourist site, but it’s where the happy tourists go. Creeks to put my feet in and make them delightfully numb. Thankful to have gone the way we did so that we would be going down the endless set of slippery stairs instead of up.

Celebrating our arrival to Monterosso with rose and fior di latte gelato. Being reminded that there are always the gutters of beautiful places when we had to change into our swimsuits at the less than sanitary squatty potty bathrooms at the train station.

Laying on the beach and doing a polar plunge into the water once the sun got the courage to burst through the clouds. Skeet-shooting by throwing stones into the air and playing bocce ball with rocks on the beach.

The weight of cool stones on a warm belly. Sea mist on my face and a salty taste that lingers.

A man made out of rock.

Sweet-smelling flowers almost like honeysuckle.

Gnocci pasta like fluffy temper-pedic pillows in four cheeses with red wine. A long walk at night down the twisty stairs from the peak of Corniglia to the train station.

A couple: “That’s lame. Just a bunch of rocks.” Their eyes tuned only to see a blurry mass of stones and won’t see the delicately balanced peace piles. Life is here, but I suppose life is there also.

A different kind of adventure on the way home:

A literal 1-minute stop at the famous leaning tower only to power-walk back to the train station through the dreds and sagging pants and piercings and smells and beers of the weed-fest going on in Pisa that day.

People-watching on the streets of Florence, and feeling just as watched and judged for wearing sandals and beach-wear in Ferragamo fashion town.

Dragging our tired bodies to the door of our monastery. Home.