cliff jumps, romance, and pesto

Cinque Terre: Italy's coastal paradise. Frequented by pirates in feudal times, today the five tiny, pastel towns are an oasis for weary travelers seeking to abandon schedules and soak in the sun. I've spent about three weeks in Italy and this has been, hands down, the best leg of my holiday.

Naturally, I took the Cinque Terre walk, a several hour hike connecting the five cities. Starting at the fifth town, I conquered the most treacherous strech first. The narrow, up and down trail clung to the cliffs like the steep, terraced vineyards but afforded the best views of the day. Stopping in each city to explore, eat gelato and pesto focaccia, and play with my new tourist priced mask and snorkle set, I took a total of about nine hours to reach city number one. Completely knackered, I sat down at a bar perched upon a cliff to enjoy a chilled glass of Cinque Terre's famous D.O.C. vino bianco as the sun set over an azul Ligurian Sea. I slept well that night.

The next day I followed the advice given to me by a few past hostelmates. "go to Riomaggiore and ask any local, 'where is mamma rosa?'" Sure enough, I found the white haired old woman by the train station, watching the day pass by. Speaking only the necessary english for providing accomodation, mixed with the constant chatter of friendly Italian, Mamma Rosa showed me to a perfectly sufficient place to sleep with a sign reading 15 euro. "You look. you like, 15 euro. no like, you go. pay 25 euro in city." You had me at fifteen euro, Mamma Rosa... this was certainly better than the playground equipment I'd slept on a few nights earlier, and here I wouldn't be jolted awake by the 3am automatic sprinklers.

Accomodation accounted for, I took to the water and to the 35 foot jumping rock for a day of sunbathing and entertaining passing tourists. I truly don't understand how these large guided groups can come to Cinque Terre for a few hours and leave thinking they've experienced the place...tourists...

Day three made this the best experience of my trip. Two weeks ago, in a remote, hilltop town in Chianti, I'd eaten a lovely picnic lunch in the company of a stray cat. Then two Brasilian sisters and their Italian host sat down on a nearby bench to do the same (although the cat kept my company). After a while they invited me over and shared a few grapes. We chatted, ate grapes, and sat in awe of the powerful thunderstorm rolling through the hills of Chianti. Then parted ways wishing all happy travels.

Fast forward to Cinque Terre. I'd just bought my favorite lunch of meat, cheese, and fresh bread with fruit from the local shop when a familiar face caught my eye. It was (the cuter and older) Brasilian woman from Chianti! She had just arrived and was planning on leaving for Switzerland early the next day. I told her that was silly and that she should stay here at least two days. "Think about it and meet me in the piazza at nine," I said, thinking I had to keep her from missing the Cinque Terre experience.

While I've rarely been truly lonely, Ive often thought about (and discussed with other solo travelers) the tragic irony of trekking alone through some of Europe's most romantic places. Sometimes this presents fruitful opportunity for a shared experience, sometimes it doesn't...more often the latter. Meeting Carolina (the Brasilian elementary school teacher) in Cinque Terre was perfect. My holiday could have ended there and I would have been happy.

In other news, I am an Italian chef! I cooked my first real Italian meal for Carolina, made with fresh ingredients purchased at the grocer down the street. Penne with tomato, basil, and tuna. It was topped only by the five star meal we ordered the next night in Vernazza, the fourth town and also the one known for its cuisine.

Quite happy with her decision to prolong the Cinque Terre experience, Carolina hopped her train to Sardinia (Italy grew on her and Switzerland could wait), an hour before I boarded my France bound rail.

As I write this, I am in Nice, a city where too many people have too much money. This city may be bicultural in its heritage, but it is strikingly French compared to my last three weeks. (It voted to severe its Italian ties and join Napoleon III's France in the late 19th century...thank you, Rick Steves...). Stepping out of the train station, the first real French I hear is a taxi driver cursing his passenger in French-soaked English: "YEW AHRE TAKING MY TIME, YOU FAWKING ASSHOLE!!"...okay...duely noted, must not anger a Frenchman.

It got better from there. The woman behind the pastery shop counter was very kind in helping me pick the best croissant, and the servers who satisfied my craving for Thai food gave me heaping portions. Yes, I satisfied a Thai food craving in France. I'll save the French food for Paris.

Today I wait for my overnight train to Barcelona...which cost only two Euro to reserve...perhaps I am sleeping in a fuel tanker?

Now, to the beach!