Chapter 27, in which Anna starts to sing.

Hi Everyone,

I'm sorry it has taken so long for me to post again - the pictures still await in my iphoto file, I've saved the drafts of new posts, but mostly my life has been so good that I haven't stopped to think about it.  For some reason, these days I am better, but it is also a little scary to feel good again.  It's almost like I can't give myself permission to enjoy the fact of my freedom.  On the other hand, for the first time in many years, I feel so bathed in love it's hard to understand why I shouldn't be happy.  Here's a story to illustrate:

Last Saturday I went with a friend to Volterra (yes, Twilight fans who know how much I hate the books, THAT Volterra, even though they filmed the movie in Montepulciano).  The plan was to have coffee, but we decided to go see the city because the day was free and I'd never been there before.  When I left home, Pino was working in the bathroom, Veronica - who comes in every Saturday to clean - was cleaning the kitchen, my wonderful roommate Tabata was listening to music in her room, and my friend Benedicte was on her way to visit from Paris.  For the sake of background and a further illustration of how loved I am here,  I'll admit I was a little frantic when I left because my friend is a sweet and interesting Italian man who has taken me to dinner a few times (in fact, we had dinner plans that night, which is important to the story) and I was my normal Saturday morning self:  sleepy-eyed with lines on my face, unbrushed hair, 20-year-old Appalachian State sweatshirt, sweatpants, and socks of questionable origin.  When he called, I had less than an hour to get ready and the whole house jumped in with suggestions.  Veronica approved my shirt and scarf, Pino approved the shoes, and Tabata made sure nothing was on inside out.  Yes friends, I know I am a professor of women's studies who specializes in body image issues, but let's just chalk this new dating thing up to "lived experience."

In any case, you have to imagine this determinedly "casual" me arriving for coffee, calmly conversing (while wishing I had a digital translator in my ear), and deciding to head out to Volterra.  Off we went, stopping here and there at a church for a history or architecture lesson.  As we drove, the weather started getting cloudier and by the time we arrived, it had started to rain.  No worries, though, there's plenty to do in Volterra:  this cheery day we visited a prison and then the Museum of Torture (a bad idea just before lunch).  I reached for my phone to call Tabata and let her know I was out, but it wasn't in my pocket, so I didn't worry about it.  After lunch we walked back to the car...and there was my phone.  Next to the car.  Dead.  With rain falling on it.  I didn't want to mess up a day of prison and torture with a broken phone, so  I stuck it in my pocket and went on.

Driving back to Siena and singing along to whatever music I could - and receiving translations when I couldn't - I was perfectly content.  Our sojourn in Volterra took longer than we had planned, so we decided to run by my friend's apartment then go to dinner (thank goodness I had on pre-approved jeans and shirt).  We were sitting in the kitchen talking at the table when my phone came back to life. It rang.  And rang.  And rang.  Then messages started coming in; even with the sound off I could hear the vibrations.  I excused myself and checked messages:  eight.  All of my house, tutto la mia famiglia d'Italia, had been talking all afternoon.  They were worried, and boy was I in trouble.  I had texts and phone messages and texts saying the others had sent texts and texts saying that they were together at home worrying, and a call saying that they thought I had been murdered...um, yeah, a little bit over the top.  Hopping in the car to go to dinner, I started typing my responses.

And that's when it hit me:  for the first time in as long as I can remember, I have people in my life who care about me enough to chase me down if they need to.  Sure, sometimes it feels like too much for me as an adult, but it also shows me something really important, something I may have forgotten:  there are people who care enough to put up with my obsessiveness, my overwhelming insecurity, my clumsiness, my forgetfulness, my kookiness,  my incessant questioning, and my need to shut the door and be alone for hours at a time.  In fact, for the most part they find my faults endearing, not intolerable.  And when things are going well, they are all there to cheer.   In other words, I am, for the first time in at least ten years, in the midst of a community who accepts me completely, warts and all.  What a revelation.  I am acceptable.  I am lovable.  I am loved.  And not just by my family.

Speeding through the dark Tuscan fields on the way to the dinner with a family of wine makers, I looked up from my phone, got a smile from my friend, and started to cry.  Not heaving sobs, not tears anyone would notice, but happy tears streaming from a part of me I thought was empty forever.  These bones I've been cradling are growing some flesh, flesh that is made of every kind of love.  As the vineyards flashed by in the headlights and the moon rose over the fields, my friend turned up the radio.  Cradling these sighing bones,  I started to sing again.

Buona seratta, my friends, here's a toast to community.

A few more entries

Ciao y’all,

NOTE:  I came to upload this using the internet at the school and just realized that my computer battery is almost dead...so, I'm uploading the text, but come back to read a second time - MORE PICS SOON TO FOLLOW!

Today I’m writing from the heated bar where I spend every Saturday afternoon.  I mention the heat because there’s a law in Italy that private homes can’t turn on the heat before November 1 and Fall weather has finally arrived.  Last night no matter what I did I couldn’t get the window in my bedroom to close – and my room is still FREEZING.  But here in the coffee-scented bar, all is well, toasty and warm. 

As promised, here are a couple of the entries I wrote earlier.  Some of them are edited for brevity, others have been pretty much left alone ‘cause I like them the way I wrote them in the first place.  Enjoy the photos, some of them are pretty silly.  And write sometime, I’d love to hear from you.

Sick

I’m sick.  I’ve been getting sick for two weeks and this week, my body finally gave in:  bronchitis with a solid case of chills and fever.  My little bed is comfortable but kind of boring, so I’m trying to write to keep myself occupied.  The doctor says I shouldn’t leave the apartment for a few days.  So what is there to write about?  Why, cultural differences in how one treats bronchitis, of course!

So, first of all, there was the trip to the doctor.  I have insurance but not a private doctor, so I went to the Misericordia.  And what is the Misericordia, you might ask?  There are records of St. Catherine performing miracles at the Misericordia building during the plague.  Today, the Misericordia provides ambulances, training for volunteer medics, transportation for the poor and disabled, and  - most importantly – public assistance doctors for the poor and i stranieri (foreigners).   The school gave me the address and hours of the doctor and I was set to go, coughing my way through the streets of Siena.

With just a little hesitation and the help of a kind ambulance driver who was on his way to work, I found the building.  Stepping in the door, I saw two things that immediately caught my attention:  a display of antique “ambulances” (if I passed out in the street is this what they would use to come get me?) and a statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by electric candles: a euro per prayer, either for healing or expressing gratitude.  I remembered the thousands who had died in this very building – 2/3 of the population of Siena was killed in the plague – and feared I’d need the miracles St. Catherine provided.

It's feeling a little medieval in here...

Office hours started at nine and I waited outside the doctor’s double doors under the arches that support the seven hundred year old building, staring at the speckled 70’s style tiles on the floor and trying not to think about the potential of some latent virus lurking in the crumbling ceiling frescoes.  Admittedly, I was getting a little paranoid.  How would I explain my symptoms if the doctor had questions?  Would I be able to tell him I have an allergy to penicillin and sulfa drugs?  Would he listen?  At the appointed hour, the doors swung open and out stepped the doctor – and he was as unintimidating as he could possibly have been:  in his sixties, my height (5’2”), and nearly completely round with warm brown eyes and a polite smile.  My fears evaporated as I realized he speaks English – and that my coughing had already told him why I was here. 

He was as professional and as Italian as anyone I’ve ever met.  By that I mean he gave me a thorough exam with a clear diagnosis (bronchitis, possibly fluid starting pneumonia in one lung, fever, blood pressure normal, etc) and talked to me about everything and nothing.  He even read my palm as well as writing me a prescription.  He’s a retired gynecologist, so I guess I shouldn’t blame him for his obsessive warnings that the antibiotics would interfere with my birth control despite my telling him repeatedly that a) I’m not using birth control because b) I’m single.  Aside from that, it was one of the most pleasant and entertaining doctor visits I’ve ever had. 

I walked home after my visit, stopping at the Farmacia along the way.  I’m happy to report that I am now more than capable of communicating with the pharmacist, which is a nice change of pace.  I got home, took my medicine, and climbed into bed.  Oh, the peace and quiet.  A few hours later, there was a knock on my door.  Pino, my landlord, of course.  During his daily visit, my roommates told him I was sick, and boy was he mad:  I hadn’t called him, I went to the doctor by myself – walked with bronchitis no less – and was wrapped up in bed with my winter coat instead of more blankets.  Pino is a father to everyone he meets, I think, because within minutes, I had a down comforter, he’d taken my temperature and he’d insisted that I wear two pairs of socks and my slippers.  Then he went on his way.  How strange, I thought, I haven’t been checked on like that since I lived with my mom.  But it was only the beginning.

Next day, Pino called on the phone, checked in on my temperature, then showed up with honey and milk.  He brought Theraflu and said I had to take it every six hours, especially before bed.  The milk and honey were really good, I have to admit, but the Theraflu…ugh.  I feel about eight years old and I should probably resent the constant checking in, but you know what?  It’s really nice to feel like someone cares, even if it’s because he doesn’t want me to die on him in his apartment – what an insurance and logistical nightmare that would be!  No, Pino is like a brother to me and to everyone he knows – he’s been known to loan money to his tenants, drive them to the cell phone store, translate at the bank, dispense good advice, and pick up stranded tenants at the airport.  He’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met. 

So, here I am, sick in a foreign country, getting the best care I’ve had in years.  For all my determination and sometimes pessimistic reciting of the mantra that I don’t need anything or anyone (hey, it got me through a long and difficult time), more than anything I value the connections we humans have to each other.  Maybe asking for help or accepting a little nurturing outside of my family is a good thing.  It’s strange to be on the receiving end of this kind of care; it’s certainly something I’m not in the habit of doing.  But I don’t want to be too introspective right now – I’m just happy that I don’t have the plague and that I do have this beautiful jar of honey…and kindhearted people that seem to be more kindhearted as I get to know them.  What a gift.  This warm milk thing makes me kind of sleepy.  But before I go to sleep, I do want to tell you that I paid my Euro and turned on one of Mary’s candles in gratitude.  Nighty night.

Cleaning House (An Important Lesson)

They’re staying.  In a recent conversation I mentioned that the house will close for Christmas and the husband said, “I guess we’ll have to be gone by then.”  S#*t.  I thought they were leaving at the end of October.  The kitchen continued to stay covered in crumbs, the stove covered in coffee and food stains, the sink full of bits of wet food, the table in abandoned dishes and school books, the cabinets in empty water bottles, their bag of sugar, their bottle of olive oil, their dirty cutting board, a butter wrapper, dirty pots and pans on the draining board beside the sink, clean pots on every eye of the stove.  You get the picture:  a kitchen not fit to cook or eat in.  The strategy of eating in my room on my own dishes was fine while I thought the couple were temporary house mates.  I haven’t cooked in a month:  salads, yogurt and take-out are my staples.  Okay, so the take-out’s no hardship: grilled veggies, roast chicken and/or handmade pasta for 4 or 5 euros?  I might have done this anyway.  But if they’re staying, it’s no way to live.  No more Ms. Nice Gal.  It’s time to clean house. 

But here’s the problem:  For lots of good reasons and in lots of places in my life, I’ve spent the last eight years or so gradually learning not to make waves anywhere, to the point where I’m almost afraid to speak my mind about anything.  Or if I do, I end up crying because I’m scared and angry, apologizing later, and basically letting my fear undermine any real contribution I could have made.  I’ve lived with and created so much fear for myself that being even reasonably assertive feels like a tremendous risk with unforeseeable and often disproportionate consequences. But you know what?  I don’t like being a doormat.  It’s not my natural disposition.  But how do you engage in an uncomfortable conversation when you know you’ll be living with someone for at least two more months and don’t want tension in the house?

A door opened when Joe, a two-week roommate from the school’s Dolce Vita program, walked into the kitchen after Veronica finished cleaning, looked at the husband, then down at the stove: 

“It’s really clean, isn’t it?”  he said. 

The husband nodded. 

“I guess that will change now that you’re in here.” 

I like Joe.

The next day, I walked in to heat water for tea (Did I mention that I’m sick?  Could there be a connection to the state of the kitchen?  You be the judge.) and couldn’t find a space to A) put my cup down on the cabinet, and B) put a pot on the stove.  I couldn’t even move their pots off of the stove because the cabinets and table were covered with their mess, too.  The husband walked in to find me with one of their pots in my hand, looking for a place to put it down.  I put it away.  He started to apologize, “The kitchen isn’t clean?  Um…” then screamed for his wife.  I looked at him and said quietly, “Don’t blame her.  I haven’t cooked in a month.  It’s been like this since you moved in.”  Then I lost my nerve and walked out of the kitchen.  

Apparently they made a nominal effort to clean up, because when I walked back into the kitchen there was at least an available eye to heat my water and the dirty pots on the stove were now clean pots on the stove.  I feel a little crazy when my living space is cluttered, so I started to clean.  Again, the husband walked in to find me picking up their glasses and plates from the table to the sink, taking out paper towels and cleaner, and starting to scrub.  Keep in mind this is the day after the house was cleaned.  He watched me scrubbing the stove and didn’t say anything for a minute.  He saw that their pots were put away, he watched me move their empty bottles and start scrubbing the cabinet.  He started talking to me, picked up a sponge and gave a swipe to the edge of the sink.  The swipe moved coffee grounds from one end of the cabinet to the other.  I looked at him, down at the coffee grounds, and wiped them away.  He kept talking but started cleaning, too, doing the dishes.  Then he helped me put the covers back on the eyes of the stove.  Two days later and yes, there’s still spilled coffee on the stove, but no more crumbs and so far, no more dishes, pots and pans.  A quiet victory. 

At the same time I was celebrating the literal cleansing, there was one more cleansing that needed to happen:  the husband’s blatant and unapologetic sexism which, along with his self-confessed elitism, make him nearly impossible to like even when he’s being friendly. I try to address the elitism in teacher mode, i.e., asking questions for clarity or sharing statistics from reliable research.  It’s hard, though, when he walks into the kitchen and says things like, “You know I’m an elitist, so I want to ask you something so I can get the point of view of the masses.”  The masses.  And no, I’m not exaggerating.  That’s a direct quote.  I do entertain myself by making up answers like, “I can’t speak for any group of people, but I can say that from my point of view, you are a complete – censoring myself here– jerk.”  But I don’t say them.

So anyway, the sexism:  his wife’s choice to put up with it is hers, but I don’t want to hear it.  One day he walked into my room to share some psychological research that posits that women who are battered and stay with their husbands are a result of so many women being kidnapped for marriage in the past.  As this logic goes, there’s some genetic reason that women get stuck in dangerous situations.  “I’m concerned that this is the genetic pattern of who reproduces,” said the husband.  “It’s dangerous.” 

I answered, “What’s dangerous to me is that if this kind of research is true, then we’ve selected for the most aggressive men.  That seems like more of a risk to humanity to me.”

He rolled his eyes.  “I’m more concerned about the women.  The men are fine.”

Okey dokey.  He can believe what he wants about what is, I’m guessing, research that won’t be particularly important in the long run.  But then came the conversation in the kitchen during which he was complaining that the Italians complain too much without doing anything about it.  “It’s like when housewives complain verses when men complain.” 

Um.  All housewives, all men.  I said, “I can’t let you make a blanket statement like that.”

His charming answer was, “You know what I mean, when housewives…”

I interrupted, “Blanket statements like that still aren’t acceptable.”

Again, the eye rolling.  He started to laugh, put his hands up and said, “Okay, okay, so I’m a sexist pig.”  In that moment, I realized that if the intellectual elitist wanted to play intellectual elite games, I had to respond in a way that both engaged his intellect and took him out of perceived superiority. These moments are why I’m so grateful for my training in critical race, feminist and other social liberation theory – I forgot to be afraid he wouldn’t like me or would hurt me I and knew I had the intellectual guns to back myself up.  A long lost feeling of confidence welled up as I said the first words that came to mind:

 “According to critical race and other social liberation theory, deflection is one of the first and most predictable responses of someone who doesn’t want to take responsibility for his words.  In this case you’ve belittled the concerns of the other by making a joke out of them and claiming the accusations as truth even as you deny their impact.  It’s normally an effective but not particularly original way to deflect the attention from your beliefs to the ‘humorless’ response of the other.  But I won’t fall for it.”

Thus spoke the humorless feminist bitch.   Damn, I’ve missed her.  I knew she was still in there somewhere.

And you know what?  Ever since, the house has been a tranquil place.  He looked surprised in the immediate moment and started to walk out of the room (the wife fled), but I pulled out a chair and we talked for an hour or so.  He’s treated me with respect in every way since then.  He’s asked my opinion about lots of interesting questions, come by my room to talk about trips they’ve taken, and stopped burping in my face (again, no exaggeration.  He asked me something about a month ago and when I didn’t know, he belched and said, “wrong answer.”).  The wife has been friendly and even chatty sometimes, we’ve talked about Italian class and plans for the future.  We watched and translated the Amanda Knox verdict on Italian TV.  It’s a really nice change.  The kitchen remains clean two weeks later, our relationship is based on respect and even real humor.  In all honesty, I might be a little sad when they leave. 

I’m not “there” yet, but I’m finding the Anna who doesn’t have to cry to make here opinion known, who believes she has just as much right to take up emotional and physical space as the others do, who has the confidence to use what she knows to make positive changes.  No, I wouldn’t talk to most people in the tone and with the language I used with the husband.  I hate sounding like that, even in an intellectual setting.  But I am learning to use my voice again, to be okay with not pleasing other people when there’s a clear problem or I have a clear opinion (and honestly, why I would want to please someone who has belched in my face is a mystery; if I couldn’t stand up to that, then I’ve got more issues than I thought).  I’m remembering the important skills of staying calm and present in tense situations. Most importantly I’m remembering to keep my integrity while, as always, I stay open to reconciliation or change – but I’m putting my integrity before someone else’s comfort.

Not half bad for one day’s cleaning.

Gone Ridin’ – or Tryin’ To Be:

So ever since the departure of the horse trainer, I’ve needed a place to be with horses here in Siena.  When my roommate David arrived, he was determined to find a place we could ride together.  He’s an avid rider in Australia, so he wanted to ride here.  The only problem is that the only place that will pick you up is the place where the horse trainer works:  and that is a problem, just because it is.  I mean, you know, after you get stood up, you don’t exactly want to show up unannounced at the place you were trying to go when you were stood up.  Especially when the person who stood you up is the only guide.   Especially when that’s where you met him and spent your vacation galloping through the Chianti vineyards as his guest – which I’m sure will someday be a sickeningly romantic memory but currently is tinged with a distinct flavor of bitterness.   Capische? 

Anyway, after calling around to farm after farm after farm, we were getting a little desperate – a cab would cost as much as or more than the riding itself.  But, as often happens, at the last minute (the Friday before David left on Monday), the fantastic scuola posted an advertisement for a farm just outside Siena.  No, they don’t provide transportation, but they are really close to Buonconvento, which is easily reachable by train.  We decided to take the train and then catch a cab for the last four kilometers to the farm.  A perfect plan.  We thought.

We set off optimistically, and the train ride went exactly as planned – we were a little giddy, as you can see:

When we got to Buonconvento, we didn’t see any cabs, but we were happily surprised to see a beautiful little town.  David looks pretty happy, doesn’t he? 

We took some time touring around, had lunch, played around with the camera a bit, then decided to go on to the farm so we’d have some extra time to look around.  It’s a good thing we did because there’s only one taxi in Buonconvento.  And its one driver, Malcolm (a very Italian name, don’t you think?) was busy.  Did you get that?  Malcolm was busy.

As always, the people at the information office were very helpful and drew us a map to the farm – hey, four kilometers, each kilometer is 2/3 or a mile, just a couple mile walk.  And away we go…We got lost for a few minutes in the Saturday market, came around the corner, and finally saw the sign for the farm – and, um, the road that apparently went straight up the side of a mountain to get there. 

Dammit, we are determined people, so off we went – thank goodness David is the type of person who rolls with whatever comes along.   As we walked, I realized my perception was correct – uphill all the way.  I have to say it’s a little unfair to be assaulted by continual traffic of Vespas heading down hill.  In my opinion, they should either have to give me the Vespa or let me walk downhill. 

As we walked, I started to realize this walk could have been the highlight of the trip.  I’m not kidding, we were in the Crete Senese, the clay hills of Siena, with the countryside opening up beside us.  As I sweated my way up the hill, I started thinking that I’m one of the luckiest people in the world. 

We crested the hill, stopped for pictures, came around a curve…and there was another hill.  Yep, another one.  I decided to go back down.  Just kidding.

We kept going, up and up and up, until we got to the farm/resort.  So beautiful!  Pool with a view anyone?

When we sweated our way into the reception area, chatting about how the walk wasn’t all that bad, me still in my skirt and sandles (I planned to change for riding), I joked that the barn was probably another kilometer away, straight uphill. 

Never make a joke like that, okay?  ‘Nuff said.

Still, the extra walk was worth it, if not just because this sign is so great:  Beauty Farm:  what do they grow there? 

David thought maybe he could use a visit...what do you think?

When we finally got to the farm, a perfect day.  I've been back now and bought a block of ten hours just so I could play some more - what a beautiful relief.




And a final thought:


So, my roommate, the husband, stopped me in the street yesterday and gave me something in the vicinity of a compliment:  he said I looked as close to a real Italian as an American woman could.  He said I just didn't have the sexy part down.  No way to really respond to that, but...
I have to say, I've lost some weight here, I'm in much better shape, and I feel pretty good.  I realized that last year I actually dressed to punish myself as if I couldn't wear what I wanted because I'd made to many mistakes in my life. So strange but I remember the feeling really well.  It's progress to say that I actually like getting dressed in the morning because I have more energy...and in my opinion, nothing is sexier than good health and a smile on your face that comes from your heart.  Ciao, ya'll.  More soon.

I'm Back!

Good morning from Siena! 

Have I said lately how much I love Siena?  I love Siena.

I’m sitting at my regular Sunday morning table at Il Masgalano. This place serves the best coffee in town, has the kindest family of owners, and provides a view that allows me to spy on the Dominican church and the drop-off for hundreds of tourists. 

This morning, the sunlight is reflecting off of the terracotta roofs, wispy clouds hover over the hill above the Duomo, small groups of American tourists with their ubiquitous Rick Steeves guidebooks are busily reading while missing the sights, Italian tourists are following well-dressed tour guides with microphones and booming speakers, a Dominican priest in his white habit is talking to a nun in her black one, and I keep pausing to admire my own rockin’ Italian boots under the table.

There’s a warm current of air seasoned by the dark smell of espresso, the sweetness of roses, and the faint citrus of Italian mens’ cologne.  I’m in heaven.

And hey, speaking of Italian mens’ cologne, I’ll buy someone a really good bottle if you’ll let me nuzzle my nose into your neck and sniff occasionally after I get home. NOTE:  I have to approve before we make a deal. 

The weather is busy changing to Fall, with lots of variation all day every day:  chilly, cloudy, windy, sunny, hot, rainy, sunny, etc., etc., etc.  One of the reasons I wanted to spend the year here was to know this city in all of its seasons; I had no idea that I would experience them all in a single day! Tell you what, the least I can do, when I get done writing and drinking coffee, is run get my camera so I can share the view and provide some good illustrations.  If it doesn’t get cloudier, it will be worth it.

Nota bene: Thanks for the inspiration: All pictures in this entry except those from the horseback riding excursion are from the great Sunday afternoon I just had wandering around the city taking pictures, stalking peoples’ boots, and buying a cool new hat. Hat is featured here.  Have I mentioned that the combination of self-portraits and new hats makes me really silly?

I’m totally blowing the odds of anyone taking me up on that nose nuzzle, aren’t I?

I want to apologize for neglecting you all; it has been a hectic three weeks with not much time for getting back to the school in the afternoons to access the internet.  I was sick for two weeks, too – bronchitis.  My Achilles heel is my lungs, or something like that.  Typical.  Everyone else gets a cold and either I don’t get sick at all or I end up with pneumonia.  Anyway, since it’s been a while and I have lots of entries stocked up in my computer, I’m going to edit them a little and, later this week, I’ll give you one long one, divided into five parts not necessarily in chronological order.  The first describes my visit to the public assistance doctor at the hospital where St. Catherine worked miracles during the plague.  The second involves an adventure in horseback riding. Anzi, (change that), it was actually an adventure in getting to the farm; the riding itself was fairly predictable.  The third is the story of an important realization.  The fourth is a tour of my FAVORITE fountain in Siena. And, for the finale, a story of Italian shopping, specifically, my love affair with Italian boots.  A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

Transhumance

Okay, here's a little preview of Sept 23-25th...

I can't believe I'll be there!

http://www.butteri-altamaremma.com/english/transum.htm

I'm sure there will be lots of stories to tell and pictures to share...what an opportunity!

A Saturday Adventure in the Cinqueterre

When David arrived in San Francesco #4, everything got better.  David is Australian, a teacher seeking certification in Italian, and a lover of life’s simple pleasures.  I always know where David is by listening:  his passion for classical music leaves an easy trail to follow.   He’s usually planning something fun to do whether it be biking, hiking,

horseback riding or going to a concert.  He always invites everyone but is just as happy doing his thing alone.  David is the type of person who can spend half an hour savoring a really good sandwich.  There’s nothing like knowing someone who is completely satisfied with life to lift your spirits.

David met Emre, a classmate of mine from Turkey who has been wanting to go to the cinqueterre, and a travel plot was born.  The three of us decided to brave the trains and spend a day hiking and swimming by the cliffs.  Emre took the lead and researched the railways:  ugh, three changes and a lot more time than we had anticipated.  We were a bit discouraged, but then Thiere arrived here in San Francesco #4 from Belgium. A man who researches language software and speaks English, French, German and Spanish, Thiere marches to the beat of his own drummer (punctuated with lots of delicious smelling sausages and good wine).  Thiere jumped in on the plot and volunteered to drive if we wanted to rent a car. Perfetto.

Emre

Three nights before the fateful trip, Emre (above) came over for drinks and planning our day.  Two nights before, Thiere and David sat up late planning our route.  Thiere had reserved us a five-seater Fiat, big enough to be comfortable, for less money than our combined train fares.

Please note the serious planning happening here – and the watermelon that seems to follow Thiere wherever he goes.

When Saturday arrived, we got up early, caught a cab to the car rental, and waited.  And waited.  And waited.  Apparently our car wasn’t quite ready.  In fact, there had been some mix-up with the reservation…but never fear!  A mighty Fiat 500 – brand new – was ours for the day.  A perfect fit for three grown men and me:

The boys decided to take the scenic route. Why?  In my opinion, the highways in Italy are as scenic as anyplace on earth…but I was merely the passenger, having successfully negotiated for the front seat due to my constant motion sickness.  Who was I to say what was the best route?

Five hours later (it’s a 2 ½ hour drive on the highway), we finally arrived. Despite the time it took, I have to report that Thiere should have a second job as a rally driver:  piloting the mighty 500 up hills with unimaginable curves takes both nerve and determination.  His calm on the highway instantly transformed into something resembling insanity when we hit the mountains.  Thank God the 500 isn’t as mighty as I make it out to be, that’s all I’m gonna say. 

Anyway, back to the cinqueterre, land of my dreams.  First stop:  Corniglia with its incredible view of the water:

And, after our drive, time for lunch.  Thiere and David exchanged numbers for safety, a continuation of their planning…

…but Emre and I found the sugar packets really entertaining for some reason.

Do you see what I see?

I had a beautiful Caprese salad (fresh mozzerella and organic tomatoes, this time with an olive or two).  I couldn’t quite finish the cheese, but that last olive is in danger:

Ummmmm, Italian bread.

After the drive, we were a bit short on time and everyone had something they just HAD to do:  Thiere wanted to see all five towns, Emre wanted to swim, I wanted to hike, and David was up for anything.  We decided to split up and David and Thiere coordinated a plan:  Thiere would take Emre to Vernazza while David and I hiked there behind them.  Thiere would travel, Emre would swim and we’d all meet up at 5:00 in Vernazza.  Assured that the walk was steep at first and “mostly downhill from there,” we set off enthusiastically.  I couldn’t wait to feel trail under my feet, to be out of a city for a day.  I wasn’t disappointed.  However, it’s quite possible that my translation of “mostly downhill” was not exactly accurate. 

Looks alright from here, though, eh?

After breezing down path, David and I began the incline we’d been warned about…a “short” climb away from the city.  When we got to the top, I snapped a celebratory photo.  Wow!  Look how far we went!  And now the climb was over!

Not really.  I took another shot a mile or two on (note that "photo ops" make for a great opportunity to catch your breath)…but oh!  It was SOOOOO worth it!  See Corniglia back there on the cliff?  And the trail just under the road?  What a great walk!

On to Vernazza!

But first, tiny Prevo:

Then we were there!  Our meeting place in Vernazza is just by that tower.

Down the last set of stairs to the swimming area...

…where, as planned, we found Emre!

He was pretty happy with his day.

I look like I’m posing, but I’m really trying not to fall over.  I wish we’d had time to take the ferry to the next town…and that I’d gone ahead and taken a swim – what was I thinking?

We took a little walk around while we waited for Thiere to return.  This picture gives a whole new meaning to the phrase “dinner cruise:”

Unbelievably, right on time, Thiere showed up to take us home.  Hooray for planning!  He and David look proud of themselves, don’t they?  And rightly so!

I snapped a few photos on my way out of town…oh Italy, I love you so.

Think the adventure just might be over?  No way!!  Thiere had been busy too…He had just one more view he wanted to show us before we left…

Goodnight cinqueterre!  Until next time!

Nota bene:  the highway home had us back to Siena in no time.  I mean, aside from being lost in Poggibonsi for an hour. 

But that's a story for another day.