The last leg of fall break was Cinqe Terre, the Italian Riveiera. This series of 5 picturesque villages, Riomaggiore, Manarola, Vernazza, Monterosso, and... (the fifth one that starts with a C?) cling on the edges of cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean. The narrow, many-storied houses, in pastel rainbow colors, huddle next to each other like childhood friends peeking into a Christmas gift box while mom isn't looking. The Via dell'Amore, a rocky footpath spanning roughly 5 miles of rugged hillside, connects tvillages-- it's a tough hike, but well worth the effort for the amazing views and the pesto and gelato breaks along the way. The story goes that the "Path of Love" gained its name from the many courtships that arose when the trail connected the nearby but isolated villages in the years before WWII. Now, couples write their initials on locks and attach them in a chain along the railing overlooking the sea, creating an image of inter-connected love that makes the romantic swoon and the cynic gag. PErsonally, I thought it was a little overdone, but very sweet. And you can't beat the views when the early afternoon sun beats down on the rainbow houses, illuminates the azure sea, traces the orderly vineyard rows on the hillside, and embraces your bare arms, making you happy to be alive.
But wait... there's more! Despite my idyllic descriptions, Italy is not a place limited to love, beauty and ice cream. There's a dark side... [cue the dramatic music]. Remember that Venice-infused dae on the train to Cinqe Terre? Well, I was jolted out of it by an innocent-looking 12 year old girl, who distracted me with a strange language while her friend reached behind my seat and plucked my wallet from my purse. I realized what had happened as they bolted off the train and thought about pursuing them, but it was dark out, I didn't know where I was, and they disappeared into the night. Cash, credit cards, library card, family photo, all gone. Luckily, my passport was in another part of my bag, so it wasn't a compelte disaster. It was an unfortunate incident, to be sure, especially as my parents were going to meet me in London in a few days, and as their credit card was connected to mine, they had to cancel their cards as well. Not the best way to greet the people who gave you... life. Hmmm. Oh dear.
I maintain that I was being very careful and that this could have happened to anyone. I understand my mother's conern that I ws on the train alone, which I concede was stupid. But I've made my ammends, I've learned my lesson, and all I can do is hope that moeny went to people who truly needed it. Needless to say, perspective only comes with time. Upon arriving in Cinqe Terre and walking up a dark hill to met my friends, I was beyond distraught. So they did what any good friends would do... lended me their international phone to call USAA and administered appropriate amounts of wine. OVer the next few days, I felt a slight cloud hanging over me. Luckily, I had put down the payment for a hostel and the cash with which my friends paid me back as enough to et through the week. I should put in a candid observation about the state of law enforcement in Italy as well. Useless. There are about 2.5 police forces in the country: the polizia (civil police), the carabinieri (military police), and the guys who work at the train station and claim to be police as well. There are no clear distinctions between the three forces, because none of them are ever open when yu need them to be. At 11 am on a Thursday morning, the Riomaggiore polizia station was ominously dark and empty. The impresive, intimidating, and gated carabinieri headquarters at the top of the hill was open, but the friendly officers didn't really speak English and told me to go to the train police. Why I had to physically go there instead of having them make a telephone call is still beyond me, as it is a known fact that carabinieri do nothing but stand on corners smoking cigarettes and lookig good in their uniforms. Fact.
So I went to the train station in the next town (the one in Riomaggiore was so small and understaffed that even the ticket machine stopped working after dinner. I found the police in their unglamorous office next to the tracks. The middle aged officer looked at me suspiciously, decided my wallet really had been stolen, and handed me the English-language version of a lost or stolen object report with a fill-in-the-blank date of "19__." Clearly this thing was never to see the light of day again after being put into the computer by a supposedly English-speaking deputy. But closure i everything, and at least it made me feel like I was able to do something about the situation.
The journey ended with a trip to Porto Venere, a rustic, gorgeous, slightly desolate port town just north of Riomaggiore, where we saw Byron's favorite writing haunt and were serenaded by a red-faced trio of Italian singers. A fond farewell to Bella Italia. Then, it was on to the Milan airport, where we slept fitfully overnight on airport seats and caught the first plane to London, bleary-eyed and happy to be home. "Home." No, just home. Or that's what it felt like.
In its entirety, fall break was an adventure that I greatly enjoyed despite a few notable moments of hysteria. I learned to navigate cities even when I can't speak the language, I learned how to bear impossibly early trains and pack efficiently and go with the strange, surprising direction of the wind. I hope that doesn't sound too painfully hippy-ish, but I guess what I'm trying to say is the whole experience made me accept the way things are and make the best of a situation. And while it was a valuable lesson to learn, it was indescribably lovely to return to London, safe and sound, and hug my parents for the first time in several months. Some things beat even Venice.
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