Cinque Terre

Humble (peach) pie and a few new expressions…

Bonjourno lovely readers! It’s been an interesting week! Signed the SIM contract while smugly congratulating myself on my technical savvy under confirmation from the cute guy with a welcoming command on English in the Firenzian Telecom Italia Mobile (TIM) store ‘Yes madam! You can make cheap calls home and hotspot all devices from your iPhone with this 1G SIM’.

No Signora!’ Said the non-English-speaking cute guy in the TIM store in La Spezia following a desperate train journey from the Cinque Terre to find a solution to my 20130629-093930.jpglife-threatening failure to connect. Si! ‘Sufficiente per il vostro bisogno!’* Type this into trusty Google Translate and one MiFi purchase, SIM transfer, new 10G iPhone SIM for critical ‘Where the fuck am I?’ Google Maps and ‘No I didn’t ask for a washing machine!’ Google Translate later, problem sorted. Happy days. Then my mouse died.

Gesturing with a click, click motion, asked for two A size batteries for the mouse, feeling immensely proud of my clever use of sign language in lieu of the Google Translate app. ‘Si!’ Said the insouciant woman behind the counter in the small Tobacco shop lined with curling postcards and old chaps fingering betting sheets and cigarette papers. ‘Vibratore bisogno di quattro!‘** Hastily type this into trusty Translate and giggle – the bitch has a sense of humour! Five pairs of rheumy old eyes now fixed firmly on my face, smirks from weathered lips clutching smouldering roll your owns, seems laughter works in all languages. Haul myself back up the steep drive to my home clutching a fist full of batteries, pour a well-deserved wine and settle in on my little terrace to admire my clever command on Google Translate. Then the peaches beckoned.

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The blossoms have finally morphed into lush golden globes ripe for the plucking but there’s a slight inconvenience – the branch protrudes over the terrace below mine. Not to be thwarted, I carefully prize the bough to within plucking reach using a pole with a hook designed to open the cupboards way above reach in my apartment, then hear an almighty commotion. Seems I’ve dislodged a whole cluster over the unsuspecting elderly chappie sitting quietly in his usual spot below. Didn’t know he was there. Heard him though as the peaches slopped his coffee, smacked his noggin and trashed his paper ‘Che Cazzo!* Madre di Dio!’** Type the words he’d bellowed into trusty Translate and realise that although my neighbour and I haven’t yet met I may need to turn up the charm should our paths cross on steps leading down to the village. Oh! and speaking of steps!

20130629-094215.jpgAfter huffing up and down all 179 steps from the back door to the village below and back for 10 days straight, I stumble across a crooked little street that leads to a steep but short walk straight up to my front door. Che cazzo? Seems I have a Stair Master’ to the back door, ‘Treadmill’ on incline 30 to the front, peach stealing for stretches, backpacked groceries and wine bottle per hand for weights. Madri di Dio I smile – sufficient per il vostro bisogno**** for negating calories from a diet consisting almost entirely of pasta and Caprese salad (and peaches).

*Madri di Dio (Mother of God) I’m enjoying my newly learnt expressions! Suspect I’ll have quite a number of opportunities to perfect the enunciation as the months unfold too though *che cazzo (what the fuck) is that about **vibratore bisogno di quattro (vibrator need four)? Suspect I now have ***sufficiente per il vostro bisogno (sufficient for your need) to last a lifetime!

Stay tuned for a few of those Ligurian recipes from the recent cooking class!

 

Seven days – Postcards from Cinque Terre

In just 7 days I’ve….

Indulged in a five-course Ligurian feast followed by warm, freshly plucked cherries reverently proffered by Chef and complemented with a robust Limoncello. Luxuriated over while unravelling rapid-fire Italian between my hosts Umberta and Mary and their restaurant owner friends Rosaria and Giovanni. Io amo (I love) Google Translate!

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Descended the winding 179 step pathway to the village and wandered through the tunnel connecting old town with new, yet to truly distinguish the differences for both display softly decaying peaches and cream-toned villas, bars and tiny shops tucked into cave-like spaces, all a hodgepodge tangle alongside narrow, winding cobbled alleyways.

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Admired pots of vivid red geraniums, purple and white petunias, nasturtiums and wild roses, hot pink bougainvillea and lush ivy meandering over window sills, archways and the rough drystone walls. Bicycles, the odd languid cat and elderly folk with well-thumbed newspapers under arm chattering on steps under eaves; vying for path space with the more adventurous tourists, most of which are prostrate on the pebbled beaches or frequenting the waterfront restaurants and gelateria.

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Taken a seat in the back pew of  St Johns the Baptist parish church (1282-1307), its green and white striped painted facade simulating that of the Duomo in Florence. The church, one of three, is filled with cA small wooden boat ool, musty air and eclectic homages including a wooden model of a ship suspended between two of the six sets of chandelier candelabra. A nice respite from the heat outside. I’ve put a euro in the box and lit a candle for Kent, a ritual that follows me everywhere and contributes to the maintenance of buildings such as these.

Noticed the cool updraft of the rushing waters beneath the grills across the major thoroughfare. The same that delivered the devastating mudslide that all but destroyed the village in 2011. Experienced an emotional jolt while viewing the chaos the mud landslide caused in the church alone. Photos depicting pews thrust against the alter, supplicant against the relentlessness of the torrent. A car on its side partway in the door. Statues tumbled from their plinths. With thoughts cast back to our Brisbane floods of 2011, I admire the stoic attitudes of both the Italian and fellow Queenslanders as we joined forces to restore our respective villages/city to former glory.

20130623-110635.jpgFelt a 7.1 earthquake, one of three that day, apparently, a ho-hum occurrence in these parts but enough to now have emergency items – iPad, iPhone, Kindle and Camera (sad!) a small glass angel a dear friend gifted to watch over me, a water bottle (for wine natch!) and lipstick (vanity will always prevail) – permanently at the ready by the door.

Stuffed my backpack w20130623-111216.jpgith fleshy red truss tomatoes, fresh Mozzarella cheese, bunches of basil, olive oil, rock salt and juicy nectarines at the market while basking in the robust fragrance of the cured meats and huge wheels of cheese vying for attention alongside wooden utensils and kitchenware. Pronunciation gleaned from absorbing the clatter of Italian bartering and greetings. Buongiorno! No! Meno! Prego! Si! Si! Grazie! Ciao! Arriverderci! Softer, less speed and blended enunciation than that of my recent sojourn in Florence.

Sipped wine at a bar in the square in order to steal an hour of WiFi. Wandered up the ocean, cliffside to better view the harbour, the water clear and still, a deep aquamarine and dotted with Ferries travelling between Portofino and the Cinque Terres, the five cliffside dwelling towns, once only accessed by mule trails or by boat.

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20130623-111702.jpgCreated and savoured fresh Pomodoro pasta and Caprese salad, complemented with a chilled Rose, from my little terrace, looking down on the village, my soundtrack the harmony of children singing, laughing and chanting in the school below, their joy for life calling forth nostalgia for home. Or maybe that’s the wine.

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20130623-111345.jpg20130623-111331.jpgIdentified that if I sit in a particular spot, the lemon tree shading me won’t drop its burgeoning fruit on my head. Grapevines intermingle with the tree, its tiny buds due to produce around September. Almost within reach just below spreads an apricot tree, just one bough heavy with fruit barely noticeable to begin with, now blushing pink and ripe for the plucking. I’ll find a way!

Marvelled at how the rich green foliage of the seemingly random fruit trees scattered across the slope between my villa and the village provides a sharp and colourful contrast to the soft silver of the olive trees tenuously grasping the slopes leading down to the translucent waters of the Tyrrhenian sea below. Postcard scenes that result in goldfish moments spent snapping the nuanced colours of a sky and terrain that displays four seasons in a day; from the crispness of dawn to the subtlety of twilight.  Then that magnificent, glittery moon spreading her light in an arc across the blackened water.

Smiled out loud when the church bell that chimes on the half-hour, actually played a tune at 5.30 on Saturday eve and again this morning.

Welcomed my firefly companion who moved in on my second day, intriguing with his incessant night time exploration of my little studio, his light so bright it’s hard to sleep, so I don’t. Instead, immersing myself in my beloved authors as the cadence of the restaurants below spill sated, laughing patrons into the steadily emptying laneways in search of their lodgings or the last ferry to La Spezia. The night is long.

Next week the monuments, the other villages, a Ligurian cooking class and…stay tuned!

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Benvenuto a Monterosso!

Benvenuto a Monterosso! Oh, lovely readers, I’m hearing bird song, a single church bell and the distant crooning voice of a busker on the waterfront echo across the valley leading down to sea level. The terra-cotta toned houses look like they’ve been thrown against the valley walls in the hope they’ll stick and it seems most have despite the recent flooding, repair work evidenced by just a couple of cranes.

The beach is pebbly, dear friend, it looks a tad uncomfortable though some tourists don’t seem to mind for they are languidly draped as if on our soft sands, while the more savvy sprawl on blue and white striped deck chairs under matching beach umbrellas. The umbrella hues mirror the upturned fishing boats languishing near the rocky outcrops, some of them aged and peeling, just like a few of those tourists. Clear sky and a soft hazy ocean, hard to differentiate where one begins and the other ends.

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20130618-181835.jpgPinching myself. Monterosso is definitely a worthy choice for my little sojourn, a relief because it’s not the easiest train journey if you, like me, will never be that enviable person who travels with nothing more than a backpack, velcro sandals and a vintage SLR camera slung around a neck adorned with a cheeky red scarf.

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Jostling my luggage through the La Spezia train station subway to the Cinque Terre line within just 6.75 of the 7 transfer minutes, then squeezing in with the hop on-hop off tourists doing the five towns the easy way. is not for the faint of heart. The joy of arriving on time palpable. And sweaty. And rewarded with Umberto’s huge grin. My host’s smile quickly turns to a grimace when he hoists my bag to his shoulder and proceeds to lead me to the car.

Umberto speaks not a word of English, but that doesn’t deter him from describing scenic highlights as we drive at breakneck speed around the precarious cliff-side road to my new home. A treacherous goat track winds back down to the village below, handy, though my laziness says otherwise, thighs already anticipating testosterone-fueled weight lifter outcomes.

No sooner examine my new home and contemplate the mundanity of dealing with an overdue pile of washing when Umberto’s wife Anna, who speaks three other languages but not a word of English, invites me to lunch at Il Ciliegio, their friend’s nearby restaurant. Washing will wait!

20130618-181412.jpgClassic Ligurian dishes including Antipasti Mista – assorted seafood marinated in olive oil; Pansotti del noce – tiny fish every way; mussel laden spaghetti shared from a huge cast iron pot; a swordfish steak and a fresh gelato to finish, all washed down with homemade wine. Delicious. Bellisimo!

The meal savoured under a shady Chestnut tree on a terrace backdropped with the most breathtaking ocean view, complemented with laughter at my clumsy attempts to converse, tempered by the speed with which I’m able to type into my trusty iPhone translation app.

The restaurant owners, who also speak not a word of English, later join us and, iPhone now drained, I’m content to just listen and smile right back. When Chef learns of my love for fresh cherries or ‘Ciliegio’ (the restaurant’s namesake), he plucks a bowl full of the sweet gems which we all share with a nice little sauterne and a piquant Limoncello, as the skyline faded to pink, the rest bagged for me to bring home.

Gracious, curious, warm and so very welcoming. Monterosso, the furthermost of the five Cinque Terre villages may be known more for it’s tourism and beaches than the others however it’s hospitality such as this that makes Monterosso such a worthy spot. Along with that stunning vista.

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PS: Thought my Italian was improving…until I asked for Acqua Minerale (mineral water) and was told the washing machine will be delivered on Monday…oh sweet lord…

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