La Vita al Sole: Living the coastal life of Riomaggiore & Manarola

Riomaggiore is the first point of contact with Cinque Terre when arriving through La Spezia, full of authentic local life experiences.

Approaching the picturesque harbor, traces of Riomaggiore’s fishing heritage are visible in through the scattered boats both on land and in the water.

Brush shoulders with residents who come to sunbathe, read and relax on the rocky outcroppings around the harbor. This family sat and read together for hours.

After taking a swim, I followed this local boy’s lead and rinsed the salt water off before heading to a local focacceria to grab some lunch.

Listening to and watching the children of the town fish, swim, and run amok in the summer sun was one of the greatest pleasures of the afternoon.

I adored this little girl’s attitude. She looked right at me and stuck her tongue out as her dad reprimanded her for pushing her brother.

After an afternoon in Riomaggiore, head over to Manarola for some incredible outdoor activities that happen to be free of charge.

A walk across the top of the hill let me get up-close and personal with local vineyards.

Walking down to Manarola’s water access, I came across these girls who were enamored with this street artist’s paintings.

Manarola’s “beach” is cliff diving heaven, with a 6 meter high rock in the center of a lagoon perfect for jumping off of into the crystal clear water.

At sunset, residents emerged from their homes, ready to socialize and enjoy some time out of doors without tourists underfoot.

Staying in Manarola, the Cantina dello Zio offers excellent antipasti paired with spontaneous jam sessions that have a tendency to move to the cliffs after the bar closes. 

No matter what towns you visit, the locals are willing to take tourists under their wing, giving them a taste of what it is like to live a life in the sun.

Espresso the Way Italians Do It (Blog 3)

Sitting in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, I wait for Danny to show up. I met Danny (legal name Giovanni Salti) last Wednesday at the Red Garter, both of us enjoying the spectacle of Americans singing karaoke. After rescuing me from a potential stalker, I asked if he’d like to meet after I returned from Cinque Terre. I watch him walk into the piazza, wearing a blue button down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, aviator sunglasses, and carrying an ever-so-Italian leather messenger bag.

“Danny! Ciao!” I call.

Smiling, he walks toward me and we do the typical two-kiss European greeting.

“How was Cinque Terre?” he asks.

“Gorgeous. I absolutely loved it,” I said. “Have you ever been?”

He says he hasn’t, then proceeds to question me about the activities there and why I liked it so much. He nods and smiles as I talk, understanding every word. Danny is a 26-year-old economics Master’s student at the Universitá degli Studi di Firenze, and spent his first year of college in London, which helped perfect his English (and provided him with his nickname).

Other than his year abroad, Danny has lived in or near Florence his entire life, though he is currently living an hour outside the city.

“The rent here is very expensive, so I moved home for the summer,” he says.

As we walk toward the Piazza della Repubblica for an espresso, we hit the area around the Duomo. He rubs his hand over his dark buzz-cut hair, then across his groomed “five o’clock shadow” styled stubble. The place is swarming with tourists of all nationalities. I ask him if the constant flow of outsiders bothers him.

“Only when I have somewhere to be,” he says, smiling. “Then I have to weave around them and their cameras.”

Arriving at the café, he orders two espressos (receiving the reduced rate of the local residents).

“I have coffee everyday, sometimes even three or four,” he says.

Standing at the counter, the barista places two tiny cups in front of us. Danny grabs the sugar bowl, puts a hefty spoonful in his cup, then passes the container to me.

“You will probably want this,” he says, after I confess to never having an espresso.

He watches me carefully as I take my first sip of such a classic Italian ritual.

“It is really good,” I say truthfully. “And so much cheaper than Starbucks.”

“I do not understand why anyone would pay six Euro or more for a coffee,” he says.

After finishing (which doesn’t take long) we walk into the piazza, and I mention my art midterm and the different churches and sculptures I have to know. When he tells me he doesn’t know what the Orsanmichele church is, I am surprised.

“I am an economics major, not an art major,” he says. “When you are in Kentucky, you don’t visit all the museums of your city or state. It is the same here.”

Passing a storefront filled with fruit, I ask him about the food culture. When he was in England, he tried ice cream, Papa John’s pizza, and “Italian” food.

“It wasn’t bad, just different,” he says. “I prefer the food here though. I know how to cook, but as a student, when it is late I will make those Chinese noodles—what are they called?”

“Ramen?” I offer.

His face lights up. “Yes! Ramen.”

We continue meandering through Florence, and I take him past the Orsanmichele church, to further his art education, as he directs conversation from movies to music, post-graduate plans to family, using hand gestures as only Italians can. Unlike American men, it isn’t hard to get him to talk, and I tell him so.

“Kaitlin, I am an Italian,” he says with grave finality. 

Over the border

At 7 p.m. on July 8^th, I found myself in the Gould’s courtyard, Vera Bradley duffel in tow. Forty or so Miami students had signed up to go to Munich, Germany for the weekend, led by our trusted friend/guide André. As our first group journey without true “guardian” supervision, we were all excited to enjoy time getting to know each other without the judgmental eyes and ears of adults. Earlier in the day, my favorite professor (and also a friend) Annie had mentioned that Italy’s train workers were going on strike at 9 p.m. Of course, our Munich train was scheduled to leave at 9:49 p.m. All of us were nervous during the ten-minute walk to the station—we had no idea if all trains or only local trains would be affected. We walk in to the biglietteria to validate our tickets sweating bullets (a mix of nerves and the hellish heat found in this no A/C nation). Of 20 or so trains departing that evening, ours was one of two that was still scheduled to leave. Breathing a sigh of relief, I walked to the platform with the group and sat on the tiled floor with my friends.

 

I had no idea how hectic boarding a train would be. When Train # 234 pulled into the station, it was utter chaos. Thankfully, André had asked us to split up into groups of six—there would be three people per room reservation, and each group was given two rooms. Karen, Lauren, Megan, Jen, Ben and I jostled our way to our train car dragging luggage, snack bags, backpacks and purses (for the girls, at least) with us. Finding our rooms, we were pleasantly surprised to find ourselves in second class: the rooms had sinks, towels, water bottles, and fluffy bed linens. Jen, Ben and I ended up in one room, and as we got organized, the train attendant—in her little navy uniform—stopped by to collect our passes.

“Passports, reservations and passes, please,” she asked in a faintly German accent. Looking up from her clipboard, she sees Ben and asks, “Is there a teacher here?”

At this point I should have said no, since Ben isn’t exactly a teacher, but since his back was turned (and the opportunity was too good to pass up), I said, “Yes! He is our teacher.”

She was positively delighted, and told Ben to meet her at the end of the hall in a few minutes. After a playful berating from Ben for sacrificing him to the attendant, Jen decided to go ahead and climb into her bunk. All was going well with that venture until the ladder came loose. Jen—who was about six feet off the floor at this point—came crashing down. Thankfully, Ben (who had given me some items to hold for a second) had his hands free, and managed to catch her with two parts hand and one part face; yep, Jen’s derriere landed smack dab on Ben’s face. After triple checking she was all right, the group of us started laughing hysterically. Katie, Amy, and some others were drawn to our cabin from the noise, and we ended up hanging out eating mixed nuts that Ben supplied (that created quite a few inappropriate jokes) until way later than we should have.

An unceremonious wake-up buzzer at 5 a.m. had me groping for the ‘Off’ switch. Rolling over, I looked out of the crack in the blackout shade. My eyes found grey-blue mountains backlit by early morning sunshine, and fields sparkling with dew through a thin veil of fog. Wanting to share the view, I opened the shade finally waking Ben thoroughly (apparently the buzzer hadn't done the job). Thankfully, the view was impressive enough to cause instant forgiveness.

“Can’t beat that, can you?” he said.

“No, you really can’t,” I replied, eyes glued to the scenery. 

To Be Continued.... (too much homework to do!)

Frei Sport, Frei Memories (Assignment 2)

3:30 p.m. Sunday, July 11^th

Munich has been blessed with mild, sunny weather for the weekend, drawing the local Bavarians and Germans outdoors. There is a faint scent of beer and hot stone in the air, carried by a decent breeze to my corner of the Marienplatz. Ahead of me is the Glockenspiel and “new” city hall, constructed in the 17^th century. A floral partition filled with imported sago palms creates a partition from a trickling fountain. I sit in a 21^st century aluminum chair the shade of the trees, drawn by a curly-haired blonde German in his twenties. A little girl in hot pink is gleeful as he teaches her to make a hula-hoop roll back to her. Other twenty year olds man stations next to jump ropes, balance balls, and unicycles. They all wear a garish orange t-shirt bearing the words “Munich Frei Sport”, a local organization in charge of this outdoor playground. A mix of locals and tourists walk past and smile, some stopping to participate, depending on the time of a train departure or meeting with a friend. As the sun begins to bake my shoulders, the mother of the pink clad girl calls to her daughter in German. The volunteer smiles and walks her over to the mother, then kneels to say goodbye to his newly made friend. She gives him a hug—he looks surprised at first, then allows himself to enjoy it—and then skips off to her mother’s side. I make eye contact with him briefly, both of us grinning, aware of the unique moment that had passed. I gather my belongings, straighten my dress, and walk away from the place, but take the memory with me.

USA--The land of McDonald's

USA-The Land of McDonald’s

The magic of travelling and being abroad touched me today. I went to the train station to book my passage to Munich, Germany for the weekend. After watching an Italian verbal altercation between a passenger and ticket booker (so entertaining), I left with 168 Euro in tickets. Ouch. But, I was proud as punch that I had navigated the complications of train bookings speaking Italian I’d written out ahead of time. As I basked in the glow of my success, I heard a commotion ahead of me. Two guys, one blond and one brunette, were barreling toward me, both gripping an empty luggage trolley.

“I have to catch my train—,” the blonde said.

“I need a ticket first, mate,” the brunette replied.

All of this was said as the Aussies—I deduced this from the “mate”—headed straight for me. I stopped two feet away, the trolley being jerked back and forth as the playful exchange continued (clearly for my benefit at this point, as the were looking to me between parting shots). 

Smiling, I said, “The ticket line is really long, if that helps your decision.”

The both look at me and Blondie says, “Oh, so where are you from, eh?”

“United States.”

“Land of McDonald’s!” the brunette supplied.

I laughed. “Among other things. Where are you headed?”

“Rome, at least if he can get it together,” Blondie says, gesturing toward his friend.

I wished him good luck with that chore (which had them both chuckling) and continued on my way, with a warm happy feeling carrying me home. Though I don’t know their names, or where exactly they were from, these guys helped open my eyes to that compelling human element of travel that becomes addicting.  

Like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go (Assignment 1)

It is hard to imagine a city that has no vehicles, relies on boats for transportation, was practically built on water in the center of a lagoon, is visited by millions of tourists each year, and yet still manages to be as enchanting as cities without such obstacles. Describing Venice with words is difficult. Charming, historical, bewitching, frustrating—no word is fully able to encompass the complexity that is Venice.  To quote an expert wordsmith, Truman Capote once said, “Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.” And that is really the heart of it. Venice is a city of indulgences, from the exorbitant price of an espresso and croissant at Caffé Florian in Piazza San Marco, to the visual feast of intricate ironwork and masonry seen around every corner. The people are beautiful and precisely dressed, the building swathed in rainbow colors accented with flower boxes.

In the midst of all this richness, it would be easy to assume the people would be huffy, rude and unhelpful. Instead, I found Venetians to be kind, going above and beyond the call of duty to help me. I have to say, their compassion for a road weary and nonnative tourist was astounding. I arrived to Venice with severe blisters, and after having a house visit from a local doctor, I was ready to go the farmacia to purchase my prescriptions. Note to the uninformed: stuff closes in Italy on the weekends. After walking around Venice for 30 minutes and failing to find an open pharmacy, I resorted to asking a local store clerk. Apparently every pharmacy lists the open ones on a sheet in the window in Italian, the clerk said. When I told her I couldn’t read it, she swiftly rose from her seat, turned off the lights, locked the door, and proceeded to the pharmacy where she read the sign for us. She had no obligation to do this. There was no guarantee I’d buy anything, and yet she helped me. When I asked her why, she said, “Because if I were visiting your home, I hope someone would help me, should I need it.”

Venice can easily seem like an amusement park, with locals merely acting as employees that help tourists “enjoy the ride”. The Venetian people don’t live to serve tourists, and if you want to observe the locals in their natural habitat and enjoy a feast for the senses, Piazza San Marco is the place to go. In the evenings, the Piazza provides a glimpse of the Venetian lifestyle. The lights reflect on the well-worn pavers. The outdoor quartet of Caffé Florian is on the right, the water of the lagoon on the left. Air smelling faintly of salt mingles with the scents of red wine, coffee and an old man’s pipe smoke.  Acoustics carry the sound of music across the piazza. The tourists are few and the locals are many. The square is full of men in slacks and white pressed shirts, and ladies in high stiletto heels (fashion statements that prove the people’s native roots). Couples stroll near the café and stop to listen, clapping politely at the end of the piece. It’s a perfect end to a day in this complicated, beautiful city.