We don't call him piano man. He's piano dude. Probably because we don't really like him.
Our hotel is right next to a tunnel that runs between the train station/beach area and the main town. There is a nice downward slope towards the main town, so piano dude sets up his keyboard at the top of the tunnel and his music just filters down, all the way through my window.
My only problem with this setup is that piano dude is really terrible. He has a very limited repertoire and he adds so many frills and runs and extras that it just... Well, it just ruins everything. One of the songs he chooses to butcher was written by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Were he dead, this rendition would make Sir Webber roll in his grave.
Fortunately, piano dude has a counterpart. Guitar man. Much more pleasant to listen to. Also less memorable, but oh well. In this case I think that's a good thing.
My window opens up all the way - there's a glass layer and a shutter layer and no screen in between, so you get directly at that ocean air. I love this window. I was so sad to leave it today. Because even though it has the perfect acoustic qualities to bring Memories directly to my ears when I'm trying to take a nap, it also brings in all sorts o other, more pleasant noises. Like the sound of waves, when the sea isn't so still that it looks like a lake. Or the sound of Italian men gossiping in the square below. Construction, replacing broken bricks with fresh ones, slapping down wet cement. Tour groups being led by tall, flag-wielding guides. Loud tourists. Ambulances. Rain. Roaring thunder. Trains and their whistles. All of these things can be heard through the open window, as clear as day. It's my favorite thing about our room, and something I will rather miss.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
A story about a duck
Tonight was my last night with my family - early in the morning they return to the US and I go to Vienna. So, of course, we had a delightful, multi-course meal. My sister insisted ahead of time that she wasn't hungry but ordered 3 courses with the best of them.
During dinner, the conversation turned to her upcoming year in Australia, working on a ranch. She expressed a wish to participate in the hunting and subsequent eating of a kangaroo, which I can absolutely relate to. When I was in Argentina I decided if I was going to eat living things, I should be ok with killing them too. I never actually learned to butcher something humanely, but I avidly watched the expert slaughter of several rabbits.
But I digress.
My grandma interjects at this point, telling us "Oh babies, I have a story for you. About a duck"
A little background is needed here. My grandma was born in Chile, moved at some point to Argentina where she met my grandpa, who was an OB/GYN, and they later moved to Paraguay where my dad spent most of his childhood. So, in Paraguay, they had a milkman. And it just so happens that one day my grandpa delivered this man's child. One day, the milk man showed up at the door bearing not only dairy but also a live duck, to say thank you. "It was horrible!" says my grandma. It's feet were bound, and as she took the duck, she dropped the poor thing. Then, not knowing what to do with it, she took it to the utility room in the back (where the washing machine was) and just left it there. When my grandpa got home she asked him to please kill it for her because she didn't know how, but he protested that he was a healer! He couldn't be killing things! So three or four weeks went by.
At this point in the story, I interject. "So, you just left the duck in that room for a month? With it's feet still tied up?" Yes. "Did you feed it, or did it just die of starvation?" She fed it.
At this point, we are cracking up, unable to contain our laughter. My grandma is laughing so hard she can barely continue the story. But somehow, she does.
After a month passed, she decided she just had to do something about this duck. Clearly. So she put the duck in a shopping back and schlepped all the way across town to her mother's house, where she showed my grandma how to butcher a duck. "It was so horrible!" she said again. And after that she doesn't remember what happened - presumably they cooked the duck and ate it.
During dinner, the conversation turned to her upcoming year in Australia, working on a ranch. She expressed a wish to participate in the hunting and subsequent eating of a kangaroo, which I can absolutely relate to. When I was in Argentina I decided if I was going to eat living things, I should be ok with killing them too. I never actually learned to butcher something humanely, but I avidly watched the expert slaughter of several rabbits.
But I digress.
My grandma interjects at this point, telling us "Oh babies, I have a story for you. About a duck"
A little background is needed here. My grandma was born in Chile, moved at some point to Argentina where she met my grandpa, who was an OB/GYN, and they later moved to Paraguay where my dad spent most of his childhood. So, in Paraguay, they had a milkman. And it just so happens that one day my grandpa delivered this man's child. One day, the milk man showed up at the door bearing not only dairy but also a live duck, to say thank you. "It was horrible!" says my grandma. It's feet were bound, and as she took the duck, she dropped the poor thing. Then, not knowing what to do with it, she took it to the utility room in the back (where the washing machine was) and just left it there. When my grandpa got home she asked him to please kill it for her because she didn't know how, but he protested that he was a healer! He couldn't be killing things! So three or four weeks went by.
At this point in the story, I interject. "So, you just left the duck in that room for a month? With it's feet still tied up?" Yes. "Did you feed it, or did it just die of starvation?" She fed it.
At this point, we are cracking up, unable to contain our laughter. My grandma is laughing so hard she can barely continue the story. But somehow, she does.
After a month passed, she decided she just had to do something about this duck. Clearly. So she put the duck in a shopping back and schlepped all the way across town to her mother's house, where she showed my grandma how to butcher a duck. "It was so horrible!" she said again. And after that she doesn't remember what happened - presumably they cooked the duck and ate it.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
oddsbobs
Here are a few little things I've encountered here that I've enjoyed or made me smile:
paddle boats with slides
Old Italian men carrying packages and walking their dogs
liters of house wine
raindrops on a still ocean
signs that warn you not to play trumpets in the streets?
the tiny train-like things that run through the vineyards
delicious yet cheap local beer
the most beautiful legumes I've ever seen, accompanied by gorgeous apricots
paddle boats with slides
Old Italian men carrying packages and walking their dogs
liters of house wine
raindrops on a still ocean
signs that warn you not to play trumpets in the streets?
the tiny train-like things that run through the vineyards
delicious yet cheap local beer
the most beautiful legumes I've ever seen, accompanied by gorgeous apricots
Via dell'Amore
Most of the time, when there hasn't been a recent flood, you can hike from the first 5terre town to the last, on trail #2. This year only the portion from Monterosso to Vernazza is open, and, of course, the Via dell'Amore, from Manarola to Riomaggiore.
This is really more of a stroll than a hike, but what a lovely stroll it is. Crowded? Yes. Cheesy? Absolutely. But lovely nonetheless.
The walkway is covered with graffiti espousing eternal love in dozens of languages. Any available fence, wire or handrail is bristling with locks placed there by lovers who believe (I guess) that their love will last as long as the lock does. This makes me wonder about the other things I saw put up along the way - luggage tags, silly bands, even paper towels. What were those, one night stands?
But there's something comforting about the sheer number of locks on this path. Every single one was put up by some lovestruck couple - maybe teenagers, maybe 75 year olds celebrating their 50th anniversary. It doesn't really matter. The point is that all of those locks represent people who believe in love. Not just any love, but their love. This may be cheesy, but so what? And maybe I'm not one of those people (but maybe I am, who knows?), but it's nice to know that so many individuals have that kind of faith in good things like true love. You know what I mean?
This is really more of a stroll than a hike, but what a lovely stroll it is. Crowded? Yes. Cheesy? Absolutely. But lovely nonetheless.
The walkway is covered with graffiti espousing eternal love in dozens of languages. Any available fence, wire or handrail is bristling with locks placed there by lovers who believe (I guess) that their love will last as long as the lock does. This makes me wonder about the other things I saw put up along the way - luggage tags, silly bands, even paper towels. What were those, one night stands?
But there's something comforting about the sheer number of locks on this path. Every single one was put up by some lovestruck couple - maybe teenagers, maybe 75 year olds celebrating their 50th anniversary. It doesn't really matter. The point is that all of those locks represent people who believe in love. Not just any love, but their love. This may be cheesy, but so what? And maybe I'm not one of those people (but maybe I am, who knows?), but it's nice to know that so many individuals have that kind of faith in good things like true love. You know what I mean?
Ristorante Ciak la Lampara
When I went to Seattle, Blythe joked that our tour of the city was really just a food tour. Let's just say that's how I like to travel. Food is, in my opinion, one of the greatest pleasures of life, and one that I am quick to enjoy. My food preferences have broadened steadily as the years have passed, and now I can safely say that there are few things I dislike and almost nothing I won't try.
Since the Italian leg of my journey is really a family vacation, and we are in a rather sleepy spot, we have fallen into a nice routine of meeting for breakfast, venturing out to the beach, for a hike, or to visit another town before lunch, then relaxing on our own until dinner. Our days are really structured around meals, and these meals have been pretty spectacular so far. The seafood here is so fresh, and when you order grilled or baked fish it comes to the table "still looking at you" as my grandma said.
I have concluded that I like my food to still be looking at me. At least when it's fish.
We have been making our way around the different restaurants surrounding our hotel, as well as in some of the other towns. Every meal has been delicious - we have had mussels, prawns, clams, stuffed anchovies, grilled fish, baked fish, gnocchi, every shape of pasta you've ever heard of, pesto sauce, pomodoro sauce, insalata caprese, pizza, bruschetta, risotto, melon e prosciutto, focaccia, gelato, tiramisu, lemon tart, walnut tart... and wine. Many bottles of wine.
I could literally drown in the mere memory of all this delicious food, but one particular experience stands out from the crowd. The restaurant is called Ciak la Lampara, and the first night we went there they had newly opened doors after the flooding. The walls were barely painted, the chalkboards hanging everywhere were bare except for one huge message: "Yes, we're back!"
First of all, the way this had been working in Switzerland was the waiter would very formally add glasses, remove silverware etc. and bring the wine list, then take the order. Here, although he brought the wine list, our waiter insisted that we order one particular wine. It's very good, he said, very good. No need for you to even consider anything else. When he brought it he sloshed it into the glasses, not caring at all if he dripped a little on the tablecloth. I loved it, because that's exactly the way I pour wine - it seemed very homey. Then the food was served family style, and our lovely waiter served us from the larger plates. And promptly dropped half a dozen gnocchi all over the table, chair and floor. I was really starting to like this guy. I, myself, am one of the clumsiest people I know.
All this sets the scene. Very relaxed, informal despite the white table cloths, all quite friendly.
Then, we taste the gnocchi. It was covered in pesto sauce, a particular specialty of the region. It was meant to be a first course, but I was convinced I wouldn't even be able to finish my helping much less the food that was meant to come afterward. But that was before I tasted it.
Oh my.
The dumplings were perfect, the pesto the most flavorful and delightful I could ever have imagined, directly from the mortar and pestle to my plate. We not only polished off the enormous platter, I refused to let the waiter remove said platter until I had used bread to sop up every last drop of that delicious sauce. He was cool with it.
Next, the main courses. They brought my fish to the table all alone on it's white plate, looking quite glumly at me with it's little fishy eyeball. My mind immediately flashed to my last attempt to eat an entire fish in Ecuador, which ended badly both for me and the fish. But I needn't have worried. Our super skilled waiter, using only a large fork and spoon, proceeded to behead, skin, and de-bone my fish for me, leaving only the tender white meat behind. What I have described so far would have made this one of the more memorable dining experiences of my life (I cannot overstate the quality of that pesto) but the meal was far from done. The fish was unequivocally the most delicious I have ever tasted. The flavor was so clean, so fresh, and so unmarred by unnecessary condiment that I refused to put lemon on it lest I ruin that perfection. I wax poetic, but goodness me, that fish... I recently watched a TED talk about a chef and his love affair with a fish. He should try this fish.
But wait, there's more! My dad is quite fond of mussels, so of course they come out next. A huge, steaming tureen of mussels, enough to feed all three of us. It was my first time trying mussels, and I haven't been able to stop eating them since. Not that I would want to. Tiny little morsels of delicate flesh, sometimes with the odd grain of sand that just serves to remind you how little distance these creatures had to travel to arrive at your table. And the broth, so salty and rich, couldn't be discarded - my dad literally slurped it from his bowl. In the middle of the restaurant. If you know my dad, you know that is the highest recommendation he could give.
Another note about the restaurants here: I had a notion that if a restaurant was near a main drag and had its menu in multiple languages, it probably wasn't a good bet. I think Cinque Terre is an exception to this rule. It doesn't matter how many languages they write the menu in. Or how bad the translations are (angry pasta, anyone?). All these restaurants are great.
Last night, we had a lovely dinner. Delicious fish, pasta - the usual homemade Italian delight. Then, the waitress comes out, and in her very pleasant accented English recites the dessert menu. She says that the tiramisu is the best - the best in the square. In the whole town. No - in the world. And she says this with such feeling, such genuine pleasure in the memory of this dessert, that I am almost forced to order it.
Let me tell you.
This tiramisu may, in fact, be the best in the world. I have obviously not tasted every tiramisu in the world, but my experience has led me to believe that this would be a reasonable conclusion.
So, if you want the best food EVER, go to Italy. That's my advice to you.
Since the Italian leg of my journey is really a family vacation, and we are in a rather sleepy spot, we have fallen into a nice routine of meeting for breakfast, venturing out to the beach, for a hike, or to visit another town before lunch, then relaxing on our own until dinner. Our days are really structured around meals, and these meals have been pretty spectacular so far. The seafood here is so fresh, and when you order grilled or baked fish it comes to the table "still looking at you" as my grandma said.
I have concluded that I like my food to still be looking at me. At least when it's fish.
We have been making our way around the different restaurants surrounding our hotel, as well as in some of the other towns. Every meal has been delicious - we have had mussels, prawns, clams, stuffed anchovies, grilled fish, baked fish, gnocchi, every shape of pasta you've ever heard of, pesto sauce, pomodoro sauce, insalata caprese, pizza, bruschetta, risotto, melon e prosciutto, focaccia, gelato, tiramisu, lemon tart, walnut tart... and wine. Many bottles of wine.
I could literally drown in the mere memory of all this delicious food, but one particular experience stands out from the crowd. The restaurant is called Ciak la Lampara, and the first night we went there they had newly opened doors after the flooding. The walls were barely painted, the chalkboards hanging everywhere were bare except for one huge message: "Yes, we're back!"
First of all, the way this had been working in Switzerland was the waiter would very formally add glasses, remove silverware etc. and bring the wine list, then take the order. Here, although he brought the wine list, our waiter insisted that we order one particular wine. It's very good, he said, very good. No need for you to even consider anything else. When he brought it he sloshed it into the glasses, not caring at all if he dripped a little on the tablecloth. I loved it, because that's exactly the way I pour wine - it seemed very homey. Then the food was served family style, and our lovely waiter served us from the larger plates. And promptly dropped half a dozen gnocchi all over the table, chair and floor. I was really starting to like this guy. I, myself, am one of the clumsiest people I know.
All this sets the scene. Very relaxed, informal despite the white table cloths, all quite friendly.
Then, we taste the gnocchi. It was covered in pesto sauce, a particular specialty of the region. It was meant to be a first course, but I was convinced I wouldn't even be able to finish my helping much less the food that was meant to come afterward. But that was before I tasted it.
Oh my.
The dumplings were perfect, the pesto the most flavorful and delightful I could ever have imagined, directly from the mortar and pestle to my plate. We not only polished off the enormous platter, I refused to let the waiter remove said platter until I had used bread to sop up every last drop of that delicious sauce. He was cool with it.
Next, the main courses. They brought my fish to the table all alone on it's white plate, looking quite glumly at me with it's little fishy eyeball. My mind immediately flashed to my last attempt to eat an entire fish in Ecuador, which ended badly both for me and the fish. But I needn't have worried. Our super skilled waiter, using only a large fork and spoon, proceeded to behead, skin, and de-bone my fish for me, leaving only the tender white meat behind. What I have described so far would have made this one of the more memorable dining experiences of my life (I cannot overstate the quality of that pesto) but the meal was far from done. The fish was unequivocally the most delicious I have ever tasted. The flavor was so clean, so fresh, and so unmarred by unnecessary condiment that I refused to put lemon on it lest I ruin that perfection. I wax poetic, but goodness me, that fish... I recently watched a TED talk about a chef and his love affair with a fish. He should try this fish.
But wait, there's more! My dad is quite fond of mussels, so of course they come out next. A huge, steaming tureen of mussels, enough to feed all three of us. It was my first time trying mussels, and I haven't been able to stop eating them since. Not that I would want to. Tiny little morsels of delicate flesh, sometimes with the odd grain of sand that just serves to remind you how little distance these creatures had to travel to arrive at your table. And the broth, so salty and rich, couldn't be discarded - my dad literally slurped it from his bowl. In the middle of the restaurant. If you know my dad, you know that is the highest recommendation he could give.
Another note about the restaurants here: I had a notion that if a restaurant was near a main drag and had its menu in multiple languages, it probably wasn't a good bet. I think Cinque Terre is an exception to this rule. It doesn't matter how many languages they write the menu in. Or how bad the translations are (angry pasta, anyone?). All these restaurants are great.
Last night, we had a lovely dinner. Delicious fish, pasta - the usual homemade Italian delight. Then, the waitress comes out, and in her very pleasant accented English recites the dessert menu. She says that the tiramisu is the best - the best in the square. In the whole town. No - in the world. And she says this with such feeling, such genuine pleasure in the memory of this dessert, that I am almost forced to order it.
Let me tell you.
This tiramisu may, in fact, be the best in the world. I have obviously not tasted every tiramisu in the world, but my experience has led me to believe that this would be a reasonable conclusion.
So, if you want the best food EVER, go to Italy. That's my advice to you.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
These lizards are leapin'... or falling...
One of the great appeals of 5terre is the hiking. It is a national park right on the sea, so the trails are pretty awesome. There are all sorts, from a 20 minute stroll down a flat, flagstone pathway between Manarola and Riomaggiore called la Via dell'Amore, to a 12 hour trek on craggy, wooded hilltops from Monterosso to Porto Venere.
One of the first things I noticed while hiking was an abundance of lizards. Seriously, these things were everywhere - little brown ones and very brightly colored green ones. When the sun is out, the paths are littered with them, and if you come suddenly around a bend you might catch a glimpse of one as it runs away - otherwise, you're constantly surrounded with the sound of them rustling through the leaves.
These lizards do this funny thing. When I first saw it, I thought it was just that one silly lizard. It was resting on a wooden handrail as we came down the path, and started running away down the rail. We kept walking, it kept running. This continued until, quite suddenly, the little guy just fell right down to the ground. It was very clumsy and very noisy, not graceful at all. But I kept seeing it happen, again and again. One was sitting at the end of a tree branch as we approached, and after fumbling around in the leaves for a moment, crashed to the underbrush. I would have sworn these were, in fact, leapin' lizards, if they had but a bit more finesse... but no. They're just falling lizards.
This morning, while hiking from Monterosso to Levanto, something happened about an hour in. We hadn't seen anyone, then all of a sudden there was a convergence of at least 4 different groups of people. We all greeted each other - hello, good morning, bonjour, buon giorno, whathaveyou. And one man laughed, waved his hands in the air, and said all of the above in English, Italian, French, and German. Clearly not an American (he hem), he made a good point - when you encounter someone on one of these trails, who knows what language they speak? This is such a popular tourist destination, people come from all over. Not to mention the fact that this is becoming more and more of a global world, where you can live anywhere if you have the means and the will to do so. Who knows any more? I know some guys who are Russian, live in Colorado, and may be working in Ghana someday. Really, who knows? But my point is this: I had been greeting people with a smile and a cheery buon giorno, because we are in Italy after all. But I didn't stop to think whether they would understand me or not - it doesn't really matter. The intent behind a friendly greeting is clear, regardless of whether you understand the language being spoken. A smile goes a long way.
Something else I noticed was an abundance of small children on the trails. And I'm talking really small. From infants strapped on backs to toddlers being helped over rocks, these parents are not afraid to tackle a 3 hour climb with a kid in tow. I applaud them and their well-behaved, enthusiastic children!
Insects also abound, and have the courtesy of perching on flowers purely for my benefit, I'm convinced. I stopped to take a close-up photo of a bug so many times, I talked myself into the need for a macro lens for my camera in one short afternoon.
It's the season for flowers here as well. Summer is coming later than usual, the water is still a bit chilly, but the flowers are still in full bloom. Jasmine seems to be particularly popular around here, and it's just amazing - you're walking along, and suddenly this heady smell just surrounds you, almost overpowering but perfectly balanced by the fresh smell of sea air.
The views from the cliffs, the bugs and flowers and cute children and, best of all, the cold birra Moretti on tap waiting for you at the bottom of the trail, all come together to make 5terre one of my very favorite hiking spots.
One of the first things I noticed while hiking was an abundance of lizards. Seriously, these things were everywhere - little brown ones and very brightly colored green ones. When the sun is out, the paths are littered with them, and if you come suddenly around a bend you might catch a glimpse of one as it runs away - otherwise, you're constantly surrounded with the sound of them rustling through the leaves.
These lizards do this funny thing. When I first saw it, I thought it was just that one silly lizard. It was resting on a wooden handrail as we came down the path, and started running away down the rail. We kept walking, it kept running. This continued until, quite suddenly, the little guy just fell right down to the ground. It was very clumsy and very noisy, not graceful at all. But I kept seeing it happen, again and again. One was sitting at the end of a tree branch as we approached, and after fumbling around in the leaves for a moment, crashed to the underbrush. I would have sworn these were, in fact, leapin' lizards, if they had but a bit more finesse... but no. They're just falling lizards.
This morning, while hiking from Monterosso to Levanto, something happened about an hour in. We hadn't seen anyone, then all of a sudden there was a convergence of at least 4 different groups of people. We all greeted each other - hello, good morning, bonjour, buon giorno, whathaveyou. And one man laughed, waved his hands in the air, and said all of the above in English, Italian, French, and German. Clearly not an American (he hem), he made a good point - when you encounter someone on one of these trails, who knows what language they speak? This is such a popular tourist destination, people come from all over. Not to mention the fact that this is becoming more and more of a global world, where you can live anywhere if you have the means and the will to do so. Who knows any more? I know some guys who are Russian, live in Colorado, and may be working in Ghana someday. Really, who knows? But my point is this: I had been greeting people with a smile and a cheery buon giorno, because we are in Italy after all. But I didn't stop to think whether they would understand me or not - it doesn't really matter. The intent behind a friendly greeting is clear, regardless of whether you understand the language being spoken. A smile goes a long way.
Something else I noticed was an abundance of small children on the trails. And I'm talking really small. From infants strapped on backs to toddlers being helped over rocks, these parents are not afraid to tackle a 3 hour climb with a kid in tow. I applaud them and their well-behaved, enthusiastic children!
Insects also abound, and have the courtesy of perching on flowers purely for my benefit, I'm convinced. I stopped to take a close-up photo of a bug so many times, I talked myself into the need for a macro lens for my camera in one short afternoon.
It's the season for flowers here as well. Summer is coming later than usual, the water is still a bit chilly, but the flowers are still in full bloom. Jasmine seems to be particularly popular around here, and it's just amazing - you're walking along, and suddenly this heady smell just surrounds you, almost overpowering but perfectly balanced by the fresh smell of sea air.
The views from the cliffs, the bugs and flowers and cute children and, best of all, the cold birra Moretti on tap waiting for you at the bottom of the trail, all come together to make 5terre one of my very favorite hiking spots.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Mama Mia! Allora, va bene
For the second time in my life, I find myself in the lovely little string of coastal towns 5 Terre. Last time I was here was my first trip in Europe, my first extended time away from home AND from family, and I was 10 years old. Needless to say it was a completely different experience. We went hiking on beautiful paths among the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean and all I could do was complain about the heat and the carbonated water. I had the chance to try mussels literally plucked from the ocean at my feet, but refused. Well, we live and learn.
This time around, I can't get enough of any of it - the ocean, the hiking, the sea food.
We're staying in Monterosso al Mare, the northernmost of the 5 and I think the "last". It's the only town with a beach, and it's relatively flat compared with the other towns. Monterosso and Vernazza, the next town over, were both hit very hard by terrible floods and mudslides on October 25th last year. While there are certainly tourists aplenty, it's clear that the town is much less crowded than it should be this time of year. There is construction going on everywhere, still repairing odds and ends from the damage that was done. The date 25.10.11 is spray-painted on the sides of buildings, and on every street there are pictures posted showing what that spot looked like covered in water and mud, and sporting cars that were picked up by the water and crashed into doors and stairwells.
I'm glad that by coming here we're supporting the rebuilding of the town. It's really amazing how much they have repaired in such a short time - despite the ubiquitous construction, things mostly look back to normal.
And let me tell you how enjoyable that normalcy is.
First of all, we are in Italy. I don't speak Italian. I speak decent Spanish, and Italian is kind of like Spanish - except when it's not. So I've been learning a few things. I was delighted to discover that the locals frequently (and vehemently) use the phrase "mama mia!" Another word I hear often is "allora", which is used at the beginning of sentences, sort of like saying "so, ..." Va bene is a useful term, roughly meaning "it's all good", to be used in any and all situations. Do you need more wine? Va bene. Is the food good? Va bene. I'll be out in a minute. Va bene. I also learned the correct way to pronounce grazie - the e is absolutely not silent. In fact, I don't think any vowels in Italian are ever silent. They are all cheerful, mellow, musical. This is how I view the language as a whole - happy and musical. I find myself walking along and randomly spouting out Italian words - ciao bella! allora! bellissimo! buon giornio! arrivederci! It's marvelous fun.
The people in Italy are wonderful as well. I am a big people watcher, and luckily my window looks right over a main square in town where old Italian men congregate to chat, yell to passersby, and gesticulate wildly when the occasion calls for it. The atmosphere here is very laid back, very chill. I rather like it, I think this would be a wonderful place to retire. I could spend my golden years in a little garden overlooking the ocean in Corneglia, hanging over my garden fence and yelling to my neighbors in Italian about the weather. Yes, I think that would be quite perfect.
I have been trying to take photos of locals on the sly - which is tricky, because I have a rather large camera. This guy made it pretty easy though. I have no idea if he's Italian (snoring sounds the same in every language), but he seems to perfectly embody the Italian attitude I appreciate so much.
This time around, I can't get enough of any of it - the ocean, the hiking, the sea food.
We're staying in Monterosso al Mare, the northernmost of the 5 and I think the "last". It's the only town with a beach, and it's relatively flat compared with the other towns. Monterosso and Vernazza, the next town over, were both hit very hard by terrible floods and mudslides on October 25th last year. While there are certainly tourists aplenty, it's clear that the town is much less crowded than it should be this time of year. There is construction going on everywhere, still repairing odds and ends from the damage that was done. The date 25.10.11 is spray-painted on the sides of buildings, and on every street there are pictures posted showing what that spot looked like covered in water and mud, and sporting cars that were picked up by the water and crashed into doors and stairwells.
I'm glad that by coming here we're supporting the rebuilding of the town. It's really amazing how much they have repaired in such a short time - despite the ubiquitous construction, things mostly look back to normal.
And let me tell you how enjoyable that normalcy is.
First of all, we are in Italy. I don't speak Italian. I speak decent Spanish, and Italian is kind of like Spanish - except when it's not. So I've been learning a few things. I was delighted to discover that the locals frequently (and vehemently) use the phrase "mama mia!" Another word I hear often is "allora", which is used at the beginning of sentences, sort of like saying "so, ..." Va bene is a useful term, roughly meaning "it's all good", to be used in any and all situations. Do you need more wine? Va bene. Is the food good? Va bene. I'll be out in a minute. Va bene. I also learned the correct way to pronounce grazie - the e is absolutely not silent. In fact, I don't think any vowels in Italian are ever silent. They are all cheerful, mellow, musical. This is how I view the language as a whole - happy and musical. I find myself walking along and randomly spouting out Italian words - ciao bella! allora! bellissimo! buon giornio! arrivederci! It's marvelous fun.
The people in Italy are wonderful as well. I am a big people watcher, and luckily my window looks right over a main square in town where old Italian men congregate to chat, yell to passersby, and gesticulate wildly when the occasion calls for it. The atmosphere here is very laid back, very chill. I rather like it, I think this would be a wonderful place to retire. I could spend my golden years in a little garden overlooking the ocean in Corneglia, hanging over my garden fence and yelling to my neighbors in Italian about the weather. Yes, I think that would be quite perfect.
I have been trying to take photos of locals on the sly - which is tricky, because I have a rather large camera. This guy made it pretty easy though. I have no idea if he's Italian (snoring sounds the same in every language), but he seems to perfectly embody the Italian attitude I appreciate so much.
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