Bracco to Levanto

8/26 - Bracco to Levanto
18.65 miles walked

The walk down from Bracco

Grabbing a quick and tasty breakfast at the hotel, it was now time to head back down the hill to the beach. Franco, the 5th generation owner (gotta love the history of it all), suggested I take the less traveled, slightly longer, and more beautiful route. I did as he suggested, and had a somewhat odd time of it. The first town I entered was called Piazza, a town which ironically did not have a piazza (or at least I couldn't find it). I must have been in a pretty foolish mood, for I also found many street signs that would have been normal on any other day, but were particularly humorous to me today (see the photo album for some examples of the signs and the titles I created for them, and if the mood strikes you, I welcome you to leave a comment with some suggestions of your own). To top it all off, I encountered a barefooted teenager a couple miles from any town, and he was very nervous, as he had hopped off his buddy's bike after seeing the cops. For a short 30 seconds, I was his "cover" (and what a silly looking pair we must have made, me all decked out in my gear, and him in boardshorts and t-shirt, with the sand still on his feet), until his friends came back, and announcing that the coast was clear, picked him up. Actually, one of them got it into his head that I was a cop (a couple cards short of a full deck, maybe?), and was very rude to me until his friend explained that I was just some dude walking down the hill.

Arriving at Levanto

When I was very close to arriving at Levanto, my GPS had a little treat in store for my final approach: an unpaved road that was completely separate and hidden from the main road. I have no idea how this path made it into the digital database, but enjoyed a seaside walking path after 15+ miles of asphalt. This little road took me down to the beach, and it was only then that I started thinking about where I would sleep. A couple phone calls later, I found that my primary choice, a campground, was full (how is this even possible?), as well as the only two affordable agriturismi that were in my guidebook. Actually, one of them did not answer, and since it was only a bit more expensive than the other campgrounds in town, I resolved to make my way over there, since at any rate it was in the same area as the other campgrounds.

The Woman in the Flower Print Dress

This last piece of the walk took me a mile away from the beach, and since I was now on mile no. 18, and without water, I collapsed at a piazza for a good half hour, only a half mile away from my destination. It had been a long, hard day.

Even this little respite was interesting in its own right, if only from a sociological standpoint. As I sat in a heap at one corner of the piazza, a lady in her 80s approached, sporting the obligatory flower print dress (I could swear they hand them out like party favors at 75th birthday parties here). I politely wished her a good evening, and immediately saw her tighten her chin, screw her face up, and purposefully look away. I was taken aback by this, and I remember distinctly my first thought being that she might be angry that I wished her good evening instead of good afternoon. After trying to recall the hour in which good afternoon becomes good evening for a good ten seconds, I ruled that out as a possibility for her apparent abrasive response to my well-wishing. Still, rather than dwell on it, I let the woman go with my blessing, and lost myself in my fatigued thought once again.

A few minutes later, a young couple came to the piazza with their son, who was about five years old and just learning how to ride a bike. As they ushered him carefully around the piazza, I looked on smiling, when my eye suddenly caught the old lady. She too was watching, sitting at the exact opposite corner of the piazza (couldn't get far enough from me, apparently), and was evidently enraptured by this young family.

As the little tike passed her bench, she seemed to make some positive comment to the parents, or at least I thought so judging from the look on her face (it was too far away to hear). I awaited their response, and was surprised to see that they did not acknowledge her at all. Again the child passed, again the old lady tried to initiate conversation with the parents, and again she received zero acknowledgement. It was then that I was struck by a deep and heartfelt pity for this lady in her shuffling sandals and flower print dress. What infinite loneliness she must have felt at that moment, not rudely shunned and purposefully ignored, but simply invisible! I wanted to run over (well, not run, but make my way over painfully and slowly: running was out of the question) and talk to this lady, engage her in some hearty storytelling, hell, even exchange recipe ideas, if only to make her feel loved. Then I remembered her square chin taut with tendons of disapproval and disdain, and I desisted. So sad, I thought to myself, with a genuine sigh of regret.

Agriturismo L'Erba Persa

This little scene was just the impetus I needed to get back on track (get the hell out of that negative piazza, Pat), and after some wandering, I reached the Agriturismo L'Erba Persa, which was indeed a farm with lodging, the real thing. I asked the man, who was chatting with a friend over the fence, if there were any rooms. I would love to see how far my face fell when he told me that they were completely full. Now, I don't pull this card out often, I really truly do not, but this time I did not have the energy to keep looking. "*sigh*, I just walked all the way from Bracco hoping to stay here." "From Bracco? I did that once, to escape a bad boyscout experience..." The gate opened. Still no rooms, but an offer to help, and a friendly face, which was all I needed. I mentioned the tent, he offered me a piece of land, asking only 5€ for breakfast. Victory!
Claudio was super friendly, a true farmer of the soil, producing a bit of everything: basil, tomatoes, peppers, eggplant, marjoram, rosemary, olives, lettuce, peaches, oranges, plums, etc. He gave me the full tour of the grounds, we lamented the disappearance of bees and the change of the weather, talked about chemical treatments and grafting of eggplant onto pepper plants (sturdier and less prone to disease), and soon enough I had a warm shower, fresh towels, and a beautiful plot of land to lay my head. The night, my first without the rainfly over the tent (zero privacy, but a full view of the stars), passed quickly, and the breakfast was absolutely splendid. Orange, peach, strawberry, and blackberry jams (all home grown and packaged), a peach, some local honey, and soon I was ready to face what would be a precious return to some of my best Italian memories: the Cinqueterre.