I am not the kind of person whose memories are easily tarnished by negative events. Even as recently as last month's premature John Muir Trail exit, I recall one of the most emotionally burdened weeks of my life with a certain fondness and almost nostalgia. The pain persists--boy does it persist--but those treasured moments of topping a pass and enjoying a sunset are the substrate that form the general tone of the memory in my consciousness. I would not assert that I am unique or special in this sense, but I do feel like a happier person because of this glass-half-full mode of recall. It is for this reason that I am not worried about today's events marring my memory of the Cinque Terre. Even as I write this some 6 hours after the fact, the circumstances seem so trivial, almost whiny, that I laugh about it. But we all have those days waking up on the wrong side of the bed. And among those days, we all have experienced the added misfortune of things not going your way. For a brief period this afternoon, sandwiched before and after by some incredibly fun times, we had one of those types of days.
Last night's buggy dinner left me, well, for whatever reason, a bit nauseous. Our original plan to use the night to make the next day's plans became us curled up in bed with me trying to forget the word "caprese" (sadly I'm afraid I will not be enjoying this hallmark Italian appetizer for a while). We fell asleep with our room in shambles and no concrete idea of what the morning would bring. For two compulsive planners, I should have known this would not bode particularly well. Maddie tried waking me in the morning, but my Benadryl-induced sedation made rousing me an uphill, very much losing battle.
Eventually, when it hit crunch time o'clock to get checked out, I bolted into action, and our lack of planning made for a decidedly stressful morning. We were checking out at 10am but couldn't check in to our new BnB until 1pm one town over in Manarola. Though slightly nervous about leaving our bags unattended in the original place, we decided to hike our way to Manarola along the scenic route Maddie read about, take the 3 minute train ride back to Corniglia to collect our bags, and take them to our new place via train to check in. The hike seemed like a very fun way to kill a couple of hours, and the short train rides seemed reasonable.
The hike was incredible. Fueled by a light breakfast of muesli, fruit and hot chocolate, we began with a long climb toward Volastra. It took almost an hour uphill to reach the little hilltop town, and we were rewarded with sweeping views of the Ligurian coast in both directions. We passed several tours and hiking groups along the way, outfitted as if they were embarking on the JMT themselves, with hiking poles, wide brimmed hats, and attires that made me feel entirely stylish. It was another 45 minutes at least down switchbacks along uniquely carved trail to Manarola. We located our new BnB, thinking it would be easier to do now than with our luggage, and ambled down to the train station.
Hungry and with legs still quivering a bit from what turned out to be a more strenuous hike than we anticipated, we waited in the hot sun for over half an hour while our train was delayed 20 minutes. This is where I think our patience was beginning to wear a little thin with the trains. There was a fermenting level of anxiety about leaving our stuff unattended at our old place as well as getting back to Manarola to check in at a reasonable time. Added to this festering worry was the fact that this was the most crowded place we have been. Worse than Venice or Florence, packing into a standing room only train with all the other sweaty passengers made the experience all the more uncomfortable. All for a 4 minute train ride!
Once in Corniglia, we hustled up the 300 something steps and into the main corridor, stopping to get sandwiches because we were ravenous at this point. We were relieved to find our stuff still there and untouched, and we sat down prepared to devour our food when we realized the last train for an hour and a half would be leaving soon. We had 13 minutes to get through the town, down the steps, and to the train station with our luggage in tow. We were up for the challenge, but just barely. We weaved through the crowds, sweating and panting, and began the laborious descent to the walkway leading to the station. Going against the current of tourists flooding out of the train station steps, we missed our train by no more than one minute. Shoulders and arms burning, starving, utterly defeated, and faced with waiting in the sun for another hour and a half, we sat dejectedly and nibbled on our consolation sandwiches. Adding insult to injury, while the train we missed left perfectly on time, the one that eventually took us back to Manarola was another 30 minutes late and forced us to jostle with other tourists just to make it onto the train with our luggage. It's hard to convey here, but it was just a rotten afternoon of train madness, poor timing, and borderline heat exhaustion.
Once in Manarola, we mustered what energy we could, and climbed the hill to our BnB, huffing and puffing all the way to the front door. Once inside, we collapsed on the bed, almost unable to process the blissful comfort of being able to recline in a shady cool room. This marked the end of our toil and the beginning of an extremely pleasant evening of strolling around our new town.
Our spirits recovering, we set out almost immediately for the marina to cool off. On our way down, stopped by a small, trendy-looking focaccia store, the type of establishment I'm realizing is most common among the five towns, characterized by a variety of baked focaccia ready to be reheated behind the display case. Instead of going with my gut and getting the pesto one, I asked for what the server described as rice, farro, and vegetables, something that sounds entirely up my alley. Once in my hand, however, I realized it was anything but what she described. In the small take-away dish, I held an abomination, an insult to sustenance around the globe. For every morsel of sumptuous Italian goodness I'd consumed thus far, this one vessel of garbage made me almost convulse with disgust. In the most unappetizing 5 euros of food on the entire continent, I held a mixture of gummy rice, lukewarm chunks of hard boiled egg, grey-green mushy vegetables, some sort of mystery fishy ingredient I'm guessing was anchovy, and...wait for it...cut up hotdog. She handed me a packet of olive oil, as if smothering the slimy mess in oil would somehow make it less inedible. Ever the optimist, I took one bite, reluctantly swallowed, and in hopes of that bite somehow being a fluke, took a second bite. But I was much too generous in awarding that monstrosity a second go-around. I pitched it moments later, praying that those two attempts wouldn't leave me bound to the toilet hours later. Maddie was nice enough to give me half of her tomato focaccia. Much better call. She's an angel.
Guarded from the turbulent surf by a jetty, the marina offered a neat little network of swimming holes that blended with the cliffs and ledges on all sides. It looked like a very organically designed wave pool, and it wasn't long before Maddie and I staked out a little spot on a rocky ledge and leapt into the very blue water. We stayed in for a little bit, just floating in the surf until we decided to climbed back to our perch and read our respective books. When we couldn't ignore our hunger any longer, we packed up and headed back up the hill to change for dinner.
We landed on a place Maddie saw on TripAdvisor, I'm forgetting the name already. We ordered some wine, some trofie pesto pasta for Maddie, the lobster fettuccine for me, and a neatly presented sampling of mini tiramisus. It was a really nice, budget-friendly meal, and afterward we strolled down to the waterfront to walk around. The town lights emanating from rooms along the water give the town the quintessential postcard look you might find by Google imaging the Cinque Terre. The weather was perfect, the light soft and romantic, and the sound of the waves soothing, as we walked along the sparsely traveled path around the cliff north of the main square. Hand in hand, we just ambled for a while, taking it all in, before finally turning back, grabbing a smoothie from one of the few open shops, and returning to our cozy flat. I say "flat," mainly because that's what all the AirBnB reviewers call it...is that a European word for apartment? It doesn't have a kitchen so does that qualify it as an apartment? I am admittedly and obviously clueless here.
I think being able to call this afternoon the "lowpoint" of the trip is a testament to the level of success and good fortune we've enjoyed abroad. Even at our most irritable, we turned around a sour note and made an unforgettable day out of it. Tomorrow we'll treat ourselves to some more well-deserved swimming time, taking special precaution to minimize the amount of train travel!
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