postcard 31: how 'bout them lemons?

pesto, parm and lots and lots of stairs in Cinque Terre

Dear Reader—this postcard got lost in the mail, but it’s finally made it’s way to your inbox. We have lots of stories to tell this week, so expect a double feature in a few days. -MR

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The rain starts halfway across Italy and by the time we enter the mountains, the temperature has plummeted into the single celcius digits. We’re on what I’m sure to Topher feels like the 500th Taylor Swift album, trying to make it through her discography like I do before every new release. I can’t help laughing as we round a corner and see snow dusting the highest hills, goosebumps cropping up on my shorts-clad legs.

We run through the rain to the train station and buy two multi-day passes and a half-fare for Hazelnut. She cocks her head at every announcement and watches with maximum suspicion as a train pulls in. We coax her onto it and the town of La Spezia dissapears through a tunnel. On the other side, we’re transported into another world.

The rain has stopped here and colorful houses cling to the verdant green hill sides on our right in each village we pass through in the Cinque Terre. On the left, a cerulean sea smashes against the cliffs. We depart in Corniglia, the middle of the five towns. Or, at least, the Corniglia station. The town is high above us on the hill and the path to the main staircase is closed. This is honestly probably a good thing, we think, as we start up the road with the dog and two 45L backpacks. The air is perfumed with lemon and orange blossoms, the trees already heavy with the biggest citrus we’ve ever seen. Flowers pop up from every available patch of soil and vineyards cling to the hills in the distance. One house we pass has fishing nets hung out to dry, another has a coffin lid propped up against the shed. They all have tiny, ancient staircases leading up to their homes.

When we arrive in town, we duck into an impossibly narrow street, our backpacks brushing the walls when we turn. There’s a handful of restaurants and a few shops. We stop and gawk at a bar with a case full of beautiful foccacia, topped with every imaginable Italian ingredient. Tomato, pesto, salami, mozzarella, green olives, onions. Our stomachs grumble and we realize we haven't eaten since breakfast. As soon as we find our Airbnb (right on the main street, up a ridiculously steep flight of stairs) we drop our bags and return to buy a slice from a bored looking man on his phone. The rain has chased all the tourists away.

The Genovese pesto is bright and salty and swoon worthy and the foccacia is crisp on the outside and chewy on the inside. We melt a bit as we wander, stumbling upon magnificent view after magnificent view. I’m tempted by a second slice but we decide not to spoil our appetites and duck into a covered patio to have a pre-dinner glass of wine instead. I’ve forgotten the best part of Italy, of course, and we’re delighted when our drinks come out next to a plate of foccacia, giardiniera and crackers. There are exactly 20 seats at the restaurant we’ve reserved for dinner and we squeeze into the corner and try to decide if the chaotic Italian chalkboard writing is offering the same things as the laminated English menu. There is a series of black and white photos on the wall, one featuring a quartet of naked men pressing grapes into wine with their feet. We try to guess how old the photo is by their lack of mustaches until one of the men from the photo next to it comes out of the kitchen for a glass of water and we can't stop laughing into our probably feet-pressed glasses of wine. The waitress gives us a postcard with the photo on it with our receipt.

Our Airbnb host owns the cafe bar in town and tells us to come for breakfast. We perch on the tiny table attached to the wall outside and eat croissants filled with pistachio cream alongside cappuccinos and fresh pressed blood orange juice. The spigot coming out of the wall is shaped like a duck and the sign says the water is potable. I insist we fill out Camelbaks here and it's the coldest, freshest water I’ve tasted since the last time I filtered Rocky Mountain alpine lake. Today we’re hiking the Blue Trail, the route that connected the five villages before the train. In the early morning, it's empty and freezing and we hike quietly through thick vegetation giving way to sweeping views of the sea. We quickly climb above Corniglia and I say “wow” so many times I think I break the word.

Finally we crest the ridge and can see our next destination, Vernazza, in the distance. We stop to take in the view and even Hazelnut gazes out in awe. The sun has warmed the trail and we’re gratefully drinking our cold water. Lizards pop out everywhere, Hazelnut’s favorite game of whack-a-mole. The closer we get, the busier the trail becomes and as we descend the polished steps into town, we finally understand the crowds we’ve been warned against. We wind our way through tour groups carrying little flags and I zero in on another foccacia shop. I duck in to order a couple of slices and stick my head back out a few minutes later. I’m halfway through asking Topher for his credit card before I take in the scene in front of me. A delivery truck has somehow made it this far up the narrow street and is powering through, pedestrians be damned. Topher is pressed up against the building and Hazelnut is sitting in the narrow windowsill, having been lifted up above the street, her eyes the size of saucers. I watch as the truck’s sideview mirror drags across Topher’s backpack and pay with cash instead.

The silly dog didn’t eat breakfast before we left the Airbnb so she gets more than enough pieces of calamari and fried anchovies from our cone of fritto misto we’ve added to our picnic. People smile in delight as we feed her fried fish in one of the most beautiful places of the world and I remind her how lucky she is. She seems unmoved. We’re sitting on a bench overlooking the little harbor and watch as wooden boats get pushed from the plaza into the sea. It’s straight out of Pixar’s Luca and it’s thoroughly charming, even with the crowds.

After a rest, we find the signs for the trail that continues to the farthest north village, Monterosso. We could have also just followed the throng of people, though. A family dressed entirely in white, already carrying both kids struggles up the path. A woman carries a stroller and I wonder if she knows the trail ahead of us is mostly stairs. Finally we get to the checkpoint and make our way past dozens, if not hundreds, of people to start the single file shuffle up the hill. We stop for a sanity check-in but my FOMO is too strong. I surmise that maybe the crowds will be thinner the farther from town we get and my little family aquiesces.

The sun is hot and the climb is steep and not only are there crowds climbing up the hill, but there are also people trying to descend the narrow path. We try waiting on a particularly narrow section of trail for the opposite direction of travel to get through, but the stream is constant. We finally give up and balance precariously as we pass them. Hazelnut gives up any semblance of politeness and plows through the crowds, refusing to stick to one side of the trail. It’s chaos and I regret my decision less than a quarter mile in. We quickly bail and press through a group of two dozen elementary schoolers on a field trip to get back to town and onto the train instead.

It’s just as packed and the air isn't on. Squeezed onto the bicycle platform, we do our best not to pass out as we make the quick journey to Monterosso. We beeline for the beach and collapse at a table shaded by and orange and green striped umbrella in the sand. The waiter delivers spritzes in sweating glasses and Hazelnut digs herself a nest in the cool, damp sand. We all take a collective breath. I’m aware of how absolutely ridiculous we look in our hiking boots and ballcaps on the beach populated by people in their fashionable best, but we ignore that fact and relax in the shade.

Corniglia is the only one of the five villages perched high above the sea. There is, however, a sign that points to a set of stairs and simply reads “A la mare”. We get a couple slices of foccacia after resting in the room for a few hours and descend down, down, down. We stop and eat halfway, the golden sun soaking everything in a honey glow. The steps here are irregular, some are broken, some are wide, some narrow. At the bottom of the hill, there is the sea, breaking violently against black rocks that sparkle like gold in the sun. A few people are sunbathing, but it’s blissfully quiet. Hazelnut splashes in the shallows of a boat ramp and Topher takes photos. All of a sudden we hear a SMACK and he's on his back, his feet having shot straight out from under him thanks to the slippery algae. His shirt is soaked and we decide to stop at the bar we saw on the way down, clinging to the cliffs, for more spritzes to soothe his spirits.

By the time we venture out of our Airbnb later that evening, the streets are again quiet. We watch the moon dance on the water and make friends with one of the street cats on the way back from dinner. It reminds me the value of getting to know a place over time. At 3pm, the streets were clogged with selfie sticks and shopping bags and dripping gelato but now there are a couple of local kids playing hide and seek, their shrieks echoing off the empty passageways. I would have written this place off as too touristy had we just visited for a day, but in the early morning light and late evening lull, the sound of wine bottles being emptied into the recycling at the end of the night, its soul starts to take shape and I’m in love.

Our second morning starts much the same as our first, but this time we head south, on a different trail up the mountain. The Blue Trail washed away in a landslide between Corniglia and Manarola in 2012, but there’s a roundabout route to get there. We just have to climb to the top of the mountain first. It’s steep and I’m exhausted from all the steps yesterday. Hazelnut drags Topher up the hill and they stop and wait for me repeatedly as we get passed by fit French hikers, not a hair of their ponytails out of place. The views are dizzying this high up. Finally, the path levels out and we follow it along the terraces where grapes wind along the folds of the mountains. A vineyard has set up a wine bar right on the trail and we stop to drink a glass of the 5 Terre DOP, the white the region is known for, and eat bruschetta slathered with fresh tomatoes and vibrant green pesto. Our friends honeymooned here and sent us on a mission to taste this particular wine. It’s perfect, especially in the sun overlooking the vines, the tiny colorful villages below and the sea in the distance. We tuck a bottle in our backpack to send back to the States.

The path between the mountaintop hamlet of Volastra and Manarola, the next town down the coast, is less of a path and more of a mile-long staircase. Our legs turn into Jell-O halfway down and even Hazelnut is looking at us like, “are we there yet?” The microclimates are intense here and as we crest another ridge we leave behind the cool, moist forest and start down a hot, dry ridge. Wildflowers burst from every corner of my vision and the perfect rows of grapes feel like an optical illusion if I stare at them too long. Finally, finally we hit the streets of Manarola and wordlessly beeline it to the first gelato stand. We each eat our own cone and Hazelnut’s panting slowly calms as she devours her vanilla to the delight of the old women we’re sharing a bench with.

It’s Saturday and the villages, the trains, the trails, everything is somehow even more crowded than the day before. I can’t imagine this place in the summer and as the announcement in Italian tells us for the third time that our train is delayed, Hazelnut lays down on the platform and falls asleep. I think about overtourism, as I have constantly since we’ve been here, and wonder what the solution is. We hide in our room for the afternoon and drink wine and read books. Our dinner reservation is one town over, but we can’t face climbing up and down the hill again today, so we bail and instead sit down at the restaurant three steps from our Airbnb door. We order prosciutto wrapped melon and pesto lasagna made of dozens and dozens of sheets of pasta. It’s perfect.

On our way back home we descend the hill slowly. I’m not ready to leave this magical little slice of the world, but we board the train and start the long drive back. On a whim, we stop in Parma, because when you’re on a road trip and are driving through your favorite cheese’s namesake town, you can’t not stop. We wait in line at a local producer and buy a kilogram (2.2 lbs) of beautiful, 30 month aged parmesan, straight from a wheel, for $22. It blows my mind.

I feel like such country bumpkins everytime we go to a big city but in the hour we’re there, we find mediocre Chinese food and go shopping at a hip, gender neutral store with bandanas in the window and grab boba iced coffees for the road. We promise ourselves we’ll be back to learn about balsamic vinegar soon.

Ciao for now,

Mikaela