Bad Travellin', Part I

In a lot of ways, I'm a really terrible traveller. I never plan ahead: my packing is generally done frantically the night before, I never research the town or area I'm heading to beforehand - in short, I just figure out where and when I'm going and then get on the plane and go. This leads to what a lot of people would see as wasted time. Days I could have spent sight-seeing or puddle-jumping to other places are spent instead getting my bearings and becoming familiar with my surroundings. I wish I could say this is indicative of the way I live the rest of my life, but travelling is really the only occaision in which I dive head first and then once I'm chest deep figure out the consequences. Going in blind no doubt causes pain along the way, but it also helps me avoid preconceieved notions. It's all about being flexible and I've always found stretching much easier when I start from an open position than when my body is already set.

So, when my first day off was coming up and I asked my hosts what I should do, it was my surprise and pleasure to find out Sestri Levante is about an hour north of the Cinque Terre and just under an hour south og Porto Fino, both by boat. After look at a couple of maps, I see I could have easily figured this out on my own, but in the end it didn't matter on who's suggestion I went. I headed out early last Sunday morning for the Cinque Terre. My boat trip was only to take me to two of the five - Vernazza for one hour and Portovenere for three.

I was in for an awesome surprise; my time on the boat alone was worth everything I paid. We travelled southy from Sestri with the coast in view the entire time. Most of this part of Italy, I found, does not end in beaches (and thus, of course, no beach towns), but in sheer mountain cliffs. They were largely uninhabited, but here and there I could see a house in a position so precarious I wondered how it got built and its inhabitants travelled to and from. These places looked as if they had been stuck on the sides of the mountains by Godhimself. The mountains themselves were breathtaking, but I find I have a difficult time putting to words how these are different than any others I've encountered in the past. The only thing I noticed was that while not being rounded off like the Appalachains I know from home, they are just as green. Sort of like a mix of the former-named and the Swiss Alps.

Vernazza is a tiny town with what seemed to me, a lot of life. Its harbor, if one can call it that, consists of a big jetti which blocks the full focese of the sea from the small patch of sand behind it. The "beach" is essentially a wading pool, but I don't think one goes to Vernazza to hang out on the beach. The town is built into the sides of the mountains that surround it and as soon as I got off the boat I started searching for the road that would lerad me as high as I could go. There's something alluring about altitude.

The houses I found were small, but every bit of available land was filled with olive trees and grape vones. And almost every single house had its own wine vat in the backyard (sidenote: it is now one of my lifegoals to have the same thing in backyard, along side of the chicken coup I wish for). There was a house stuck to the side of the mountain that seemed to defy the laws of physics that I was trying to get to, but I stopped searching for a path when I found a small track with a two motorized seats and a couple of baskets attached that I could see ran straight to the house. The whole town was very quiet, especially the further up I went, but I almost died when, while negotiating some particularly steep and narrow steps, the church bells, which happened to be exactly next to me, rang loud and proud to mark noon. The bells, in a way, accomplished their purpose by bringing the name of that man for whom all church bells toll to my lips.

Portovenere was in most ways opposite Vernazza. A sprawling city, busy and noisy with a lot to see -- there's a reason we were given three times the time to explore. The first thought to strike me as we approached the bay was "this must have been a favorite naval spot for the Romans". A small island protects the coast from the sea, but the space between the island and the mainland is big enough for two rather large ships to pass each other. Sure enough, one of the first structures we passed was the remains of what must have been a very large lighthouse, which, if I interpreted what our guide said correctly, was built early during the Roman Empire's life.

Military stronghold it may have been, Portovenere now seems to be a vacation spot for all stripes. Its port is littered with tourist souveneir shops--a sign that says "Produtto Tipici" is almost guaranteed to give you bad food and cheap product, something I learned in Rome. Per usual, though, I looked for the highest point and started walking.

The highest spot, as so often happens, was a church, named for St. Peter. The edifice is situated on a cliff overlooking both the open sea and the city's port, is was extremely old and very small, and if I was reading and translating correctly, has a very rich history. It was built in 1125, partially destroyed by the barbarians during the 11th century, rebuilt in the 12th, stoof for a long time untouched, and then taken over by Napolean and used as a sort of headquarters until his defeat (the first time). Partially destroyed again by fire in the 19th century, I was now standing in the latest rebuilding, which was finished in the 1920s. A crucifix hung above the altar and one statue of St. Peter is its only adornment. It doesn't need much besides its view.

As I was exploring the area around it, I found an inscription on a rock face telling me that lord Byron was inspired to write his poetry because of Portovenere. So obviously Italy is responsible for all the good he produced in the world.*

The rest of the city was lively and fun - I saw many little children running around yelling in the back streets I was exploring. I got lost in a labyrinth of alleys and was very close to missing my boat because of it. Luckily, I made it in time and boarded to the captin yelling at me for making him late. He then proceeded to have a 10 minute long conversation with another ship's captain.

The ride back was just as beautiful, but I was exhausted and layed down in the ship's bow. As we pulled into Sestri, the sun was setting. Not a bad day for the bad traveler.

Next up, Porto Fino.

*On a tour of Pompeii in my previous foray into Italy, the tour guide said while pointing at some painting, quite spitefully, I might add, "See, look at this. This is the first demonstration of perspective in painting. The French claim they invented it, but it was really the Italians."

I always found this funny, and make a joke of how Italians claim all that is good in this world was made by them.