Vernazza reexamined

Vernazza - Too many days ago
No miles walked

There has been a terrible struggle on the road from Switzerland to Vernazza. The battle has raged in my mind for quite some time now, and is yet still unresolved to this very moment. Here goes: on the one side I have the impulse to hide these little gems I have found, keeping them safe for future travelers to enjoy without the hubbub, gouging, and trampling that all tourist destinations must face. The other side, which I like to call the "Rick Steves" side, fights to share everything with everyone, and thus allow all a convenient way to access and enjoy these beautiful gems. My impulse is to stand firmly behind the traveler's banner, letting anyone who dares stray from the Florence-Rome-Venice circuit forge their own satisfying path. On the other hand, this blog by definition is a weapon for the Rick Steves side: after all, wider circulation of the information contained herein would achieve the same effect (albeit in a much more subtle and cultured way, thank you very much) that Rick Steves' guidebook had on the Cinqueterre, and specifically Vernazza.

To stay true to the traveler's creed, or to open the door to more people? That has been a crucial question for me, and I hoped to receive some clarification here in Vernazza.

The town, despite the millions of birkenstock-laden feet that have trudged up and down its precious little streets, had not changed a bit in these last five ears. In fact, the only remarkable change was in the disappearance of the three musicians who used to come every day at the same exact time and play the same exact songs at the same exact spot. They, as I found out with a twinge of pity and nostalgia, had been booted out of town, barred by ordinance from playing anymore (and meno male, everyone said, with genuine feeling). Besides them, the same cast and crew remained: the long row of gossiping elders, seated in chairs along the walk to the water, commenting on everyone and everything. the idiot savant, wearing the same outfit, wandering day and night, and still chain smoking constantly. The kids, five years older but still squirming and giggling as they chase each other around, by now desensitized to boat-load after boat-load of strangers. And of course, my "host family," topped by surrogate Grandma Teresa.

Ruben, who was not quite three the last time I saw him, had now become a little firecracker, running full-speed all over the place and experimenting with new bad words he had learned, but very friendly and eager for me to stay ("we have a pull-out couch, ya know!"). Marzia was in her early teenage years, singing songs with the other girls, pushing friends into the sea when they least expected it, but overall very well-behaved, having entered into the tranquil cellphone addiction stage. Yann, the eldest, was now a grown-up twenty, and was working shifts at the pizza joint in town, making some summer spending money before heading back to school, where he was studying photography. I could not get over the fact that I had been his age the last time I visited Vernazza. I had certainly seen and experienced a lot from twenty to now, and I was reminded about how young, and in many ways childish, I still am. Who knows where the hell I would be, what I would be writing about, and how I would perceive Vernazza in another five years?

Guiseppe and Patrizia seemed closer to my age, even though their eldest son was only five years younger, and I was not sure whether this was because they were hip or I was already turning into a bit of an old man. Regardless, I really enjoyed hearing their take on the political situation here, as well as on Vernazza, especially as regards the Rick Steves debate. As I said before, they were hotel owners, so accordingly they were staunch in their support of Rick Steves, willing to give up the private enjoyment of their hometown in exchange for the town's economic security, and dare I say, prosperity. Everyone prospered in some way, and they even posited that the town was saved from eventual collapse by American dollars. Anyhow, they were both well-spoken on a number of other subjects (which I will not go into here, for I am merciful and appreciative of your precious time, o reader), and were quite funny and pleasant to be around.

Teresa's other child, her daughter Franca, shared many of the same qualities as Giuseppe, and she and I shared a lot in common as well, especially as regards work; her position as a sort of Database Administrator for the province of La Spezia (of which Vernazza was a part, and which could be compared to an American county) shared many of the same attributes of the work I had previously performed. Besides being intelligent and very committed to her career, she was also an avid salsa dancer, and a lovely person in general, as was demonstrated in her treatment of her mother.

Teresa is one of the more engaging, lovable ladies I have met here in Italy, or for that matter, anywhere. With a clever proverb for everything, she is full of energy, always moving about her house, either tidying up or preparing something for me to eat. She is quite particular about her daily schedule, which for discretion's sake I will not elaborate upon further, as well as the placement of items, especially in the kitchen and at meals. I love a good commander in the kitchen (wives-to-be take note), as I am one myself when in my own kitchen, so I was quick to fall in with the various tasks that needed to be performed before and after meals. Of course, she would have done it all herself, abut I loved every minute of it, so I asked constantly to be included, and she graciously obliged.

Wise on many of life's bigger issues, she was extremely curious where she was not already knowledgeable, so I filled her in on the way things are in the US. We never ran out of subjects to talk about, and I even managed to squeeze out some stories on her experiences during the second World War. While she was a small child, and only remembered hiding in a nearby cave from the bombings, she did have a jewel of a story about her brother and father. Captured by the Germans and charged as a partisan, her father was condemned to death on the spot. As his son watched, the German soldier raised the rifle at point blank range, aimed, and was stopped at the last second by another German soldier. "This guy brought me some bread the other day, don't kill him." And so his life was spared by his having performed a random act of kindness for a homesick kid in the German army.

It is safe to say that Teresa and I are two very different people, coming from different backgrounds, generations, and life philosophies. Even with so many differences, I have always felt a close connection to her, and feel it even more so after this latest encounter. But as much as I would like to explain the connection, say something wise and put an end parentheses to this little section, I find that I cannot. I do not know why we get along so well: we just do. And that's enough for me, for once. Sometimes I should just shut my big mouth, lean back in my chair, and smile with all my heart at all the things I cannot understand, and maybe never will.

So, enough about characters, you say. What did you do, who did you meet, and were there any explosions or car crashes? Well, it was really simple: wake up, breakfast, chat with Teresa, read a bit from the Brothers Karamazov, lay in the sun near the local zone, swim, lunch at 1:00, chat with Teresa, relax on the balcony, play piano and clean up Rachmaninoff's Moment Musical No. 1, help prepare for dinner while learning a bit about the local cuisine a la Teresa, feast, drink wine, eat gelato, relax some more on the balcony, wander around town, read a bit more, and sleep. Somewhere in between I heard some jazz and a monologue, explored Manarola (another of the five little towns) and walked where no tourists had gone before, spent €7.50 on one hour of internet, and talked a lot with the characters previously described. Actually, these few days fit right in with my last stay in Vernazza, much more than with my current trip. I hope it's the same way the next time I visit!

When it was time to go, I said a quick but meaningful goodbye, purposefully rushed since I remembered that Teresa doesn't like to make an emotional mess. I paid another 5€ for another one-day (one day!!!) ticket for the Cinqueterre path, still incredulous and combative about the extortion that they so easily get away with (thanks a lot Rick Steves), and headed off into the wild blue etc. etc. By the time I looked back, Vernazza had already disappeared.

What about the Rick Steves debate, you ask? Well, what can I say? Vernazza's citizens, despite the occasional grumble, are happier and more prosperous as a result. The tourists who got to experience the beautiful and fragile preserve feel spiritually enriched (despite being materially impoverished) for having seen it. Rick Steves is swimming in a large pool of money and eating the livers of baby pandas (he only picks the best spots) and other endangered animals on some soon-to-be exploited island. And what about me? Well, don't think I have forgotten or pursposefully omitted the fact that I most likely would never have even heard of Vernazza had it not been for that 20th Century Magellan. So where does that leave me? *Deep Breath* - - - I don't know.