Six days in the Five Lands: Eating my way through the Cinque Terre
There is a cappuccino sitting on the table in front of me. I make no move to pick it up and taste it at first, choosing instead to gaze at the dense, perfectly even white foam covering the top of the small cup while listening to the rain pound down outside. In a way, this moment is symbolic. I am an espresso addict; this country is the birthplace of all things espresso-related.
From across the room, the barista – if that’s actually what they’re called in Italy – raises his eyebrows at me. I pick up the cup, take a long, slow sip, then set the cup back down. I don’t know how to say “it’s perfect” in Italian, or even just “good”, but I don’t have to. I think my smile says it all, and more.
I spend my first day feeling slightly disoriented and very, very wet. The previous night’s storm still hasn’t shown any sign of letting up, and after wandering down Riomaggiore’s main street, I’m completely soaked. The massive purple and white umbrella I’ve borrowed is completely powerless against the downpour, and the wind turns it inside-out in a matter of minutes. I make my way down to the ocean, which I can hear pounding against the rocks long before I can actually see it. And then, there it is: the Mediterranean, churning angrily in milky green whirlpools and smashing up against the rows of tiny, brightly coloured fishing boats lining the harbour – and it’s one of the most beautiful sights I’ve ever laid my eyes on.
That night, I have dinner in a small, impossibly cozy restaurant. The other diners are a mix of locals and tourists, and everyone is lingering over their meals for as long as possible to avoid facing the rain again. Within minutes of sitting down, a bowl full of fresh pasta smothered in pesto sauce is whisked onto the table in front of me. After one bite, I’m smitten. After five bites, I’m thinking long-term; I want to keep eating this forever. All too soon, I’m scraping my fork against an empty bowl, envisioning the reaction of everyone else in the restaurant if I were to pick up the bowl and lick it clean. Showing some restraint, I set the bowl down and opt to order dessert instead – a sizeable, utterly delectable wedge of torta di noci – to distract me from the remains of the pesto pasta.
By the morning of my second day, the rain has stopped and the clouds have mercifully evaporated. I set out to explore the other four towns in the region, hopping from one to another by train (and maybe, possibly, hopping onto the wrong train once or twice) and falling completely in love with each. There are several things that every town has in common: Colourful buildings climbing up impossibly steep hillsides with vineyards lining the higher slopes; breathtaking views of a now perfectly azure Mediterranean; tiny, winding alleys full of mysterious, brightly coloured doors. But there are also differences. One town feels sleepy and tranquil, one is full of fishermen hauling in the day’s catch, and in another, the locals are gathered around the harbour, drinking wine and laughing boisterously.
I buy something to eat in each town, savouring everything from freshly baked foccacia bread to octopus salad that I’ve watched a fisherman haul in from the ocean to gelato so sublime that I give in and order a second decadent scoop. Surprisingly, I don’t feel guilty about this indulgence. The Cinque Terre towns, as it turns out, are packed full of the longest, steepest staircases known to mankind (one step off the main street and I instantly find myself confronted with several hundred stone stairs), which means that the simple act of walking from one end of a town to another is equivalent to at least half an hour spent slaving away on the Stairmaster at a gym somewhere.
The Cinque Terre is turning me into an avid, obsessive hiker. Maybe it’s because there is nothing more beautiful than climbing the steep hills through olive groves and vineyards turning bright shades of yellow and rust red, or maybe it’s because I view each hike as a new opportunity to reward myself with gelato after reaching my destination, but in any case, I’ve never been quite so eager to lace up my runners and tackle the hilly terrain.
Along with my newfound enjoyment of hiking comes a strange penchant for grabbing things off of trees and attempting to eat them. First there is a black olive, then a very large lemon, which is followed by a lime and an orange. The orange is ripe and delicious. The lemon and lime are unripe but impressive nonetheless. The olive, however, while ripe, feels as though I am chewing on a wad of cotton and makes the inside of my mouth feel strange for almost an hour. It’s the experience that counts though, or so I tell myself as I hike on upwards while trying to forget the olive’s less than impressive flavour.
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