Leaving my soul city of Florence was hard, but a childhood dream lay only an hour train ride away.
 |
So, with sadness and joy, I boarded the train to La Spezia, a small city near the Western coast of Italy.
Despite its size, few of the people of La Spezia spoke any English.
Having not written down the directions to my new hostel which lay outside the city, I spent nearly an hour searching for a wifi connection and asking for “Bus 19” which was supposed to take me nearly to the hostel’s doorstep. Because of the language barrier, and finding it hard to relay what I was looking for through hand gestures, I reverted to the written word by approaching locals with the words “Bus 19” scribbled upon the back of a receipt I had not yet thrown away.
Despite these complications, the locals were excited to help.
I first asked a young woman who was waiting for a different bus for help. Neither of us understood a word the other said but when her bus arrived, she spoke to the driver who beckoned me onto his bus and, without asking for payment, drove me several blocks to the stop for my “Bus 19.”
There, with many a hand gestures, he showed me what time the next bus would be and left me with a smile.
As the bus drove away, the young woman gave me a hopeful look and waved goodbye.
By now it was beginning to get dark and had started to rain and I still did not have the address to my hostel.
So, with nearly an hour to spare before my bus, I backtracked several blocks until I found a small shop boasting an “Internet Spot”.
At such shops throughout Europe, travelers may pay a few Euros or less to enter a cubbyhole and use a rather ancient desktop for as long as needed. This took longer than it should have because the site I had saved the hostel’s address on did not recognize the computer I was using and wanted me to verify my identity. Via my cell phone, which does not work in Europe. Finally I was able to find and write down the name and address of the place I was to stay that night and left.
Having had very little to eat all day, I ventured into a small store front resembling a bakery where I met the next local more than willing to help me. Discovering that I did not have enough Euros for even the cheapest item, I gestured to my credit card only to receive a polite but negative nod. The owner must have recognized the smile I gave him as being one of those desperate smiles you give people when you’ve had a tiring day and it is not about to end anytime soon for he gestured, said something in Italian, and handed me the bit of food anyway, waving me out the door without even a penny of payment.
I spent the next half hour sitting in the rain waiting for Bus 19 with my bakery treat, clutching the hostel’s address to my chest.
The stereotype that Italians are always late is a true one as I discovered when my bus arrived 30 minutes late, an action I had not anticipated and therefore had me extremely worried. However, the bus driver understood my gestures at the address I clutched quite well and yet again asked for no payment as I boarded and collapsed upon a seat, my heavy backpack resting on more of the seat than my wet body.
After a half hour ride up into the curving Italian hills, during which I found a remarkable respect for the bus driver’s ability to handle the long bus, the bus pulled to a halt, opened its doors, and the driver beckoned me forward pointing to a big yellow building barely 12 feet from me. That nights hostel, located in adorable and yet unimaginably small Biassa.
 |
| Map of Biassa |
I had chosen this hostel in the middle of the remote Italian countryside for one very specific reason.
As I child I had wandered into a local thrift store and had found a framed photograph of the most lovely village. It’s buildings clung to a rocky cliff side, the brightly painted walls balancing precariously 100 ft or more above the water of a rough ocean. The photograph gave no indication as to where the village stood and no one in my small city recognized it but I had already made up my stubborn child’s mind to someday visit the brightly colored homes. The photograph still sits upon my dresser-reminding me of dreams yet to be fulfilled.
Several years later I stumbled upon a similar photograph online and discovered that my initial guess of the village existing somewhere in Italy had been correct.
And then, as I was thumbing through the pages of a rather large book preparing for this trip I suddenly saw it; a tiny photograph in the corner of a rather nondescript page, my dreamed-of Italian fishing village. Now, I finally had a name: Manarola, one of five similar fishing villages known as Cinque Terre which hugged the western coast of Italy.
And that night’s hostel had a 2 Euro shuttle to and from the villages every day.
The next morning I awoke early, shivering with excitement, and boarded the tiny shuttle.
 |
The first of the Cinque Terre villages is Riomaggiore, boasting small and hidden shops, twisting roads and the oddest train station I had ever seen.
 |
| Train Station At Riomaggiore |
Here I spent the better part of two hours, wandering the streets above the town and people watching at a local cafe. At the cafe I encountered a nice Italian man who understood a limited amount of English since Cinque Terre has a small, but still present, tourist scene. During a small conversation I found myself trying to explain to him the term “bless you” after he involuntarily sneezed, a task I quickly gave up on simply saying “it’s an American thing” which is not at all true but was the only way to stop him from looking at me like I had sprouted horns and a tail.
 |
| Riomaggiore |
I then boarded a small train at the foot of the village which meandered along the cliffs between the five villages.
Although my dreamy little Manarola was only one stop away, I decided to take the train to the last of the five villages first. Monterosso overlooks a lovely beach and houses a monastery atop a hill overlooking the green ocean.
 |
| Monterosso |
After another two hours of lounging in the sun, climbing rocks in the ocean, eating Gelato, and climbing to the monastery and taking in her views, I returned to the train and was whisked past a green ocean and through dark tunnels toward my childhood dream.
Manarola.
 |
 |
The town was as beautiful and dreamy as I had always imagined.
I emerged from the train station to cheery accordion music, beckoning travelers into the little village.
Everything about this village was different-different from anywhere I’d ever been.
 |
| Fountain At The Edge Of Manarola |
I drifted to the shoreline, walked the streets needing to get lost in the feeling of my tiny dream and climbed above the houses to gardens and orchards and a view of the village and the sea.
 |
I walked, dipping down to where the waves pooled against rocks that jutted skyward.
There I sat staring up at my tiny Italian village, filling my eyes with her colors and my heart with the knowledge that I had made it here-despite it all, I had made it here.
 |
I walked out along the cliffs on a trail that connects all the Cinque Terre and sat among the rocks of the cliff side.
 |
And there I sat for nearly an hour, fulfilling my dream.
 |
The next morning I returned to La Spezia preparing to move on to one of Italy’s most sought after cities, Rome, but first I had a stop to make.
I returned to the bakery from two evenings before and experienced yet again Italian kindness and their eagerness to help.
There I spent nearly twenty minutes trying to explain to the shop owner and his worker that I wished to repay the bakery for the previous free treat.
Since neither of them could understand English, a policeman who happened to stop by for a snack tried to help. When he could not help either he brought in his partner who knew more English but still was of no help.
Finally yet another shop owner from a few doors down was brought in to translate my wish to give back what I owed. Only to be dismissed yet again.
“I don’t want her money,” the shopkeeper informed his friend and waved me away again.
As I left the store feeling stunned by the owner’s kindness the other shopkeeper followed me out.
“You are traveling alone,” he asked. “And you speak no Italian?”
When I answered both questions with a nod, he pointed down the road. “Go to the end of the road and knock on the last door, the people there will help you.”
Smiling, knowing I would never forget the kindness of small town Italy, I boarded my train.
I left feeling confident that dreams, no matter how desperate, can always be accomplished.
 |
“Come along Life, take my hand, let’s have an adventure together.”
~KrystleLyric
No comments:
Post a Comment