On the Cinque Terre path

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Cinque Terre has been hyped to me more than once, each time by trustworthy friends, so I had high expectations when I arrived. I wasn’t disappointed.

I got my first glimpse of the place from the train. I had been seat-bound in a regional train for about six hours, and it was 5 p.m. when I finally boarded the train from nearby La Spezia to Riomaggiore, the first of Cinque Terre’s five coastal villages. During the short trip to Riomaggiore, the train emerged from a long tunnel briefly — for probably a full second at most before entering another tunnel — long enough for me to see that the train had, in its transit, gone from nondescript train station to hillside track perched above the exhilarating waters of the Mediterranean. The view, brief as it was, knocked the breath out of me. The sky was a shocking pink, and the water below, a rippling white and blue. So this was Cinque Terre.

~

The last time I was in a place that similarly bowled me over was Venice (just days ago), and it was there that I had a conversation with two fellow travelers that went something like this. Traveler 1 was glad he didn’t live in a place like Venice because if he had, he would never be able to appreciate its beauty. Traveler 2 disagreed; in his view, not only did Venetians see the beauty of Venice, but the city’s beauty was part and parcel of every Venetian’s being. In that sense, every Venetian is in some way more beautiful, or special, than people of other cities, even if they are entirely ordinary in every other way.

I can see truth in both viewpoints, but I have to admit an affinity for the latter. I like the idea that a people can be marked as extraordinary for the places in which they live. After all, a person’s home is an inextricable part of his identity.Let me describe Cinque Terre as I saw it in my first evening. The streets of Riomaggiore were bare and quiet, almost to the point of abandonment. Nevertheless there were people about breathing the cool evening air. In the town bar, where I had my dinner, scruffy old men congregated and talked jovially about what I assumed to be unimportant but pleasant matters. Outside on the steep pavement, elderly women climbed the hillside, arms linked, chatting quietly about what I also assumed to be matters unimportant and pleasant. From the inside of houses perched on hills came the echoes of voices, all with that slow, content cadence you only hear in small towns.

Above, in the deep purple sky, the stars were brighter and fuller than usual. Orion’s Belt shivered in the night.

~

The next morning, I set out on the the Cinque Terre path. The path is 9 kilometers and connects the five villages, Riomaggiore, Manarola, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso, each perched on cliffs above the sea (except maybe Monterosso).

At times the path was paved smooth and guarded by handrails. At others, and this was more often the case, it was a naked, rocky path that ranged from a little over a foot wide to a couple feet wide, with some sort of sheer drop to unhappy oblivion on one side and an unforgiving wall on the other.

And then there was the view — of the sky, the sea, and the horizon. It was a sort of ecstasy to behold it all, and on top of it all, I was virtually alone on the path the entire way, and the sun was so warm I had to take off my hoodie — something I hadn’t done outside at any point since coming to Europe.

I let my mind wander to all its nowhere places, pausing frequently to take in the view and to take pictures. Alone on the path, I even sang to myself, like some sort of wandering idiot.

Halfway through the trail, somewhere between Corniglia and Vernazza, I sat down on a bench in a clearing to eat an apple. A couple cats meowed and nuzzled my ankle. I could hear in the distance the sound of a flock of approaching schoolchildren. I finished my apple in time to watch them arrive and descend eagerly upon the cats. I quickly moved on.

It was some time after this that I lost my way. The Cinque Terre path is marked by a series of red and white stripes on rocky walls. Any time there is any ambiguity about which way to go, the red and white equal sign points the way, and also frequently assures you you’re going the right way.

The path grew more mountainous and bushy, and less rocky. At some point, maybe an ambiguous fork in the path, with no equal sign around, I must have taken the wrong, wilder fork. The path grew gradually, imperceptibly wilder, to the point where whether I was actually even on a path was probably debatable — the “path” I was on was barely wide enough for two feet planted side by side. At times, the soil or rocks beneath me gave way when I stepped down on them. I was clutching tree branches and the sandy hillside to keep upright. Below me was a sudden descent into shrubbery, and below that — at least from my viewpoint — the sea. At one point the path was so narrow and overtaken by thorny bushes I had to cling to the thorned branches to avoid falling over the precipice. This, in itself, as you might imagine, had negative consequences.

Furthermore, I was afraid that if I freed myself from the thorns too eagerly or violently (my clothes were caught on them), I would lose my balance and fall over the edge. So, precariously standing on the edge, I carefully extracted the thorns where necessary. For good measure, I also yelled at the thorns to let go.

On I charged, all the while the path getting steeper, narrower, more hostile, sometimes threatening to disappear entirely (assuming it hadn’t done so already). Yet in the distance, I could see the next village, so I didn’t give up. Anyway, retreating would have meant reliving that thorny precipice.

I wondered if I might fall from the path. Or, if I gave up, what options for rescue I had. I was alone on the “path” and there was no way upward. On top of the hill I saw a singular house. Maybe if I yelled loud enough someone might hear. Surely those schoolchildren I saw earlier didn’t take this path, did they? Then I realized that not only had I not seen the equal sign for probably half an hour (my despair made it seem much longer), but with only trees and shrubs around, the sign couldn’t have been painted anywhere on this godforsaken path. I turned around; clung to the thorns again. And then, rather quickly, stumbled upon the equal sign and a wide, shaded, stone path.

I laughed out loud. This was right. It was practically a paved promenade to Vernazza. I paused, exhaled, and walked on.

A few minutes later I looked up to see the house I saw before. This was the point where I had turned around, only now I was a few meters below. Realizing the right path was right there below the hellish route I was taking all along, I laughed again. I really was a wandering idiot.

The rest of the way, through Vernazza to the last village, Monterosso, was smooth sailing. At one point a black cat appeared out of nowhere and, rather than following me, insisted on leading the way on the narrow path to Monterosso. Every time I thought he might lose interest in leading me and I tried to step past him, he redoubled his efforts and jumped ahead of me, taking the leading position again. This continued for about five minutes, until he got distracted by a tree and stayed behind.

Nearer Monterosso, the landscape turned from wild shrubbery to terraced vineyards. Walking by one of them, a man greeted me: “Buongiorno! Would you like an organic wine or olive oil from my vineyard?” Buongiorno, I responded, and no thanks.

Shortly after that, I was in Monterosso for the sunset, a Snickers bar, and the train ride back to Riomaggiore.