7th Post: I'm Hooked. (Cinque Terre, Part 1)

The New Section of Monterosso New Monterosso Getting further and further away from Monterosso

(Try to imagine the trail. Just try.) Home of the Singing Wine-Maker Me. Vernazza. One Goal.

The important thing for you to know is that I swam in the Mediterranean. But more about that later...we'll begin at what is not exactly the beginning.

If you recall my last post, you remember my saying that I am not the spontaneous type, but trying to be. Great strides are being made indeed. It began with "Let's go to Cinque Terre" and eight "Okay"s, and it ended with a whole lot of happy college students. We know two things: we have a place to sleep tonight and its somewhere NEAR La Spezia.

We all meet up at the train station and buy tickets for the 7:50 AM train to La Spezia, a town a little bit south of the southernmost "terre" (Cinque Terre means Five Lands), where we plan to catch a train to Monterosso, the northernmost "terre." A couple hours later, we are in Monterrosso...and so is the rain. Lets just say I was not prepared.

Because I have heard that pesto and foccaccia are specialties of the Cinque Terre region (the birthplace of pesto) and because I am HUNGRY I immediately seek out both: pesto on foccacia. It would be too painful for you if I were to describe how delicious it was, so I won't. 

The new section of Monterosso is the most "touristy" of the five towns. It's cove has sandy beaches lined with umbrellas and every wall is freshly painted (not usually the case). We forge on and try to ignore the squishing sounds coming from everyone's shoes. We reach the old section of Monterosso and find the trail head. We have heard that each town is connected by a path that is hikable in one day, so our plan is to do just this. We find the trail head just as the rain begins to lighten up.

"We could die at any minute! This would not exist in the US!" Matt, who also came on the Villa Demidoff trip, is not happy with the "path," which is actually a two-foot-wide trail of mud and slippery, dilapidated stone steps going up and down through vineyards perched dangerously on steep cliffs. I chime in: "Yeah, because stupid Americans like us would fall off of it." I don't really mean it, only a little bit. He continues, "Falling off of this would not be good." Billie, another Villa Demidoff-er, trips on a rock (he thought leather flip flops would be a good idea) and we all let out loud guttural sounds of pure terror--"OHGGG!". This group has amazing comedic timing.

One hour later we start wondering a) where we are, b) where we are going, c) who decided this trail was a good idea, and d) when we are going to GET THERE. We make a stop and strip layers--the rain has stopped and everyone's sweating profusely. The trip officially reaches the status of "backpacking." We finally run into some other American hikers, who tell us we have an hour and 15 minutes to go. More guttural sounds.

We all finally reach a point where we can't feel our bodies anymore, and we can't think about anything else other than how lucky we are to have literally stumbled into yet another amazing adventure. We hear singing as we round a bend, and we see an old man with white hair and a full beard working in his yard in the distance. The house is perched on the hillside. He is a wine-maker, and he is obviously very happy about it. His vineyard stretches below his house into a steep ravine. He sees us and keeps singing...loudly. THIS is Italy.

We run into some more hikers, who tell us that we are almost there. Just after that we stumble upon a campsite for cats. Two hobo cats emerge from tiny tents and meow loudly at us. They mill around empty bowls and a bucket with a note on it telling us to feed the cats with the food in the buckets. The bucket is empty. My roommate Kim finds some granola in her pack but the beggars decide to be choosers. We hang out and rest and the braver ones in the group give them good, loving rub-downs. I pass on disease. No rabies for me. 

We round a bend and the town of Vernazza comes into view below. The postcards are not photoshopped. We are all restraining ourselves from running down the trail, particularly Billie and I, who are dying to swim in the Mediterranean. We see kids jumping off of a pier. Billie passionately states, "I'M DOING THAT." I add, "It's happening. It's definitely happening." 

We find our way to the water and Billie, European-style, strips down to his skivvies and cannon balls into the water. So does Alex, the other Villa Demidoff-er, and Ana too--a new and welcome addition to the group. It's the most beautiful water I have ever seen. Crystal clear and a rich blue. Heaven exists on Earth...believe me: I swam in it. I try to keep it rated PG because there are lots of tourists and locals around the pier, some of them small children. I didn't bring a bathing suit with me to Italy and did not foresee this opportunity, so I anxiously dig through my backpack and find boxers (my pajamas) and wear one of my two shirts that I have for the 2-day trip. Oh well. Backpackers are supposed to smell bad--if they don't, something's not right.

I am pretty sure the sound I made as I ran off the pier sounded a bit like a rebel yell. I hear my roommates laughing as I plummet. It was definitely good entertainment for the non-swimmers. This marks my baptism as one of those "crazy American kids." This is spontaneous. Good work, Chelsea. Keep it up. ---  Thank you, I will.

We dry off, find the train station, and make our way towards La Spezia to check in at Ostello Tramonti. Billie, Alex, Ana and I are salty and loving it. I  can't believe it: "We just swam in the  f#*@!)n Mediterannean" (swearing has its place). I am HOOKED on travel, hooked on jumping into the metaphorical Mediterranean and hooked on jumping into the real Mediterranean.

Oh there's more...you just have to wait.