The Cinque Terre

It was our longest train ride to date. Over 12 hours from Fussen, Germany to Vernazza, Italy. To put it mildly, the views were nice.

The last train was empty, mostly, but we still got to ride first class. A twenty-minute ride from La Spezia. It was dark, not that it mattered, since most of the ride is through dark tunnels in sea-side mountains. We had our faces pressed to the glass, hands over our eyes so we could deal with the contrast between the bright interior of the train and the dimly lit stations.

We were able to make out "Vernazza," white letters on royal blue, and quickly exited the desolate train onto the deserted platform. It was a little after eight, but since it was November, it looked and felt like after midnight. I had a Google Map of the area saved on my iPod - nice try, buddy.

We waddled down the station stairs onto street level, our bags feeling extra-heavy after 12-plus hours of sitting on trains. I figured out, despite my sorry Apple/Google-powered map, which had maybe three streets on it, we were on Via Roma. Okay. That's good, right?

We walked maybe five minutes, and then we were at the edge of the sea. The Mediterranean Sea, we correctly assumed. There was a huge bonfire on the beach, and a few elderly Italians enjoying the evening. Since we had reached the sea, I had concluded that perhaps we had gone too far and missed our turn.

I don't know what it was. As I've alluded to, travel has a way of throwing not just one wrench into the works, but several, along with screwdrivers, hammers, old rusty nails, toasters. Why we chose to turn off of Via Roma, the main street of this small fishing village, cobblestoned and uneven, into a staircased alley, I can't tell you for sure at all. We were grasping at straws, which should, and usually does, lead to disaster. There was a sign that said "Corniglia" with an arrow pointing in the direction we were heading. Oh, okay, thanks. Let's hope our place is on the way to Corniglia then.

A set of stairs, then a narrow alleyway, then another set of stairs, all surrounded by three and four-story buildings, an archway here and there. We got to the top of the third or fourth staircase when I then doubted, almost completely, that we would ever find our room for the next four nights. This worried me, because I was tired. I stared down at my useless Google map, the two bags on my front and back competing for how I would fall over. (The one on my frontside vied for a fall that would unite my face with the stoney ground, a decidedly more graphic victory than the upside-down-turtle maneuver of its counterpart, but arguably not as funny.)

Then we saw a sign directly in front of where we stood that boldly stated, "Elizabetta." This is significant, because that's who owns the rooms we were staying at. Somehow we avoided the travel gods' wrenches. No taxi drivers taking us across town to charge us double what it might originally cost. No shut-down U-Bahn tracks. No gnome with multi-colored hair with a riddle to answer. It was right there. We found it. Coincidence, you sick freak, I could kiss you.

More staircases, these ones attached to an actual building, until we found a post-it note that said "ROOM FOR KARINA." Spelled her name correctly, even. In the lock, a key, dangling like a glittery earring.

We got settled in our room, checked out the sea view right above our headboard, and then went out and headed up yet another staircase - this one of the spiral variety - to the rooftop terrace. From here, even through the dark, we could tell it was one of the higher points in the town. The Mediteranean waves, maybe fifty feet below us, crashed on the Mediterranean rocks; the half moon shone through the partly cloudy sky; the Italian wind was balmy, a welcome change to the cold, German air we had grown accustomed to. We sat on the terrace in long-sleeved tees, planning our next few days on the coast, excited to check out this Cinque Terre National Park and its extensive trails, many miles in total length.

The trails are closed. All of them. The whole thing. We went into the office, where they supposedly sell tickets, supposedly. "Trails are closed." All the trails? "Yes."

Back to that soon.

DAY ONE

Our first day we awoke to a threat of rain. Then the dark-grey clouds, the bullies, said, "Not a threat. A promise."

We walked through the town of Vernazza, which took all of fifteen minutes. It's not tourist season, which means, I guess, that most things are closed. There are permanent residents, it would seem, as when we walked down Via Roma there were neighbors greeting each other, sometimes from windows above the street. "Ciao! Ciao!" I got the sense that we looked like outsiders, not just because we dress like Americans - and no, we don't have fanny-packs - but also because everyone in this small town seems to know each other. They hang out in front of pizzeries and grocery stores - the ones that are open, that is - and just chat, like neighbors.

DAY TWO

It rained all day long. That balmy sea air we had experienced our first night was gone, replaced by cold November rain. Karina and I agreed, give me snow instead. The rain poured, streamed, all but gushed down the aforementioned alleyway staircases and into the street. We finally unpacked those ponchos that Karina bought a week before the trip as we visited Monterosso, another one of the five villages that make up The Cinque Terre. Monterosso looked a lot like Vernazza - pastel structures stacked on top of one another, rocky bluffs above crashing waves, narrow streets, and most things closed. This is when we developed the concept that the Cinque Terre, while beautiful probably year-round, may not be worth four nights outside of the summer months. Monterroso has something that Vernazza doesn't - a large public beach, which one could imagine many, many people enjoying in the warm months of the year, the sun sharing custody of tourists with the inviting blue water. A far cry from the day we visited.

Karina walked to the edge of the sea and put her hand in.

Drenched from shin to foot, and our forearms, too, we decided to call it a day for Monterosso. We passed a souvenir shop with beach-themed goods on our way back to the station. Its door was shut and the lights were off.

DAY THREE

Sun! Where have you been, old buddy? How's things?

It sunned all day long, with only the faintest trace of clouds on the horizon. A perfect day for hiking the extensive trail network at Cinque Terre National Park, arguably the primary reason we were there. We strolled up to the ticket station - here, in Cinque Terre, you need a ticket to hike the trails. "Two tickets for the trails, please!" We beamed, pluckily, our hiking packs packed.

"Trails are closed," dead-faced the woman at the counter.

Since I don't like to look fazed, I said, "Oh! Okay then!" with a stupid smile on my face, probably dumb ol' American boogers hanging from my nose.

We exited the ticket office, trying to plan our next move. Karina, with kung-fu grip, went back in.

"All the walking paths are closed?"

"Si, si," Deadface replied.

"How about the National Park area trails, are they closed too then?"

"Si, si."

Well.

DAY THREE, EVENING

We spent the day on the terrace in the sun. Not an unhappy way to spend a sunny day by any means, but fell short of our Schilthornesque expectations. We played cribbage, drank wine, and watched a fisherman on the rocky coast cast and reel from the morning until sunset.

It wasn't what we planned, but it was far from unpleasant. Another travel lesson: Things don't always have to go your way for you to have a good time. The trails may be closed, but the sun still shines, the waves continue to crash, and wood-burning pizza ovens are still in good, working order. It's up to you what you choose to dwell on. That day, we chose the terrace.

More of our pictures from The Cinque Terre can be found on our Flickr photo set here.