Martin and I stayed in an apartment above a canal; the little courtyard even had its own portal to the canal. At night, we could hear gondoliers singing, lovers laughing and Italian families having dramatic conversations.
We were determined to live like a Venetian, despite all the tourists. We quickly managed to make Venice our home when we found the little neighborhood grocery store, the fruit and vegetable stand and the bakery. Three flights up the stairs to the loft apartment didn’t phase us, since we have grown used to arriving at our abode breathless; many flights of stairs per day is a way of life.
Venice was quite cold and alternated between a few sunny days and days of rain. Regardless of the weather, we gleefully immersed ourselves in the art, history and beauty of the city. Venice in autumn had a special kind of light.
Everyone in Europe wears scarves; it is quite the fashion item. So I, too, wrapped my neck fashionably and stayed warm. The incredibly good food in Venice kept us going. One of our favorite restaurants was right in our little courtyard.
On our last night, we went to a performance of selections from operas by Venetian composers, in a small theater with singers and musicians in 17th century costume. We loved it. In the morning, we had the unusual experience of taking the boat to the airport.
Martin and I did the two-hour hike from Monterosso al Mare to Vernazza, and as we approached the village, we were greeted by a pleasant surprise: there on our path was our favorite restaurant from two days ago. We practically fell into the arms of the waiter as we gratefully entered the terrace. A fresh breeze greeted us. The sea was glistening hundreds of feet below the bluff, absolutely jaw-dropping. When we recovered control of our jaw muscles, we dove into the best bruschetta in Italy.
The path to Manerola began in the village, and then went up, up, up . . . up. We had spotted the 45-minute trail sign when entering the village. We ambled through the village to see its sights, fortified ourselves with a healthy dose of caffeine, and were up and raring to go on our first hike in Cinque Terre. We spotted a sign for our destination, Manerola, and blithely started bounding up the steps.
The terrain was fascinating. Ancient vineyards and olive groves clung to the steep hillsides, held by stone terraces, called schiattiati. These were built by hand by farmers centuries ago, and to this day are maintained by them. No machinery here. Transportation to market is by foot. The path was a series of narrow, rough stone steps and pathways formed by stones of every shape sunk partway into the dirt on the edge of narrow bands of cultivation. We were literally walking on the terrace walls alternating with narrow stone steps from one terrace to another.
Forty minutes into the hike we were getting higher and higher, with no village in sight. We encountered returning hikers and they without mercy informed us that we had two more hours to go! Mistakenly, we had taken the mountain route! My soul was singing, so filled I was with the magnificent views. My thighs, calves, knees and feet were screaming for leniency. There was only one thing to do, and that was for M and P to keep on Treking.
At long last, we spotted our destination, Manerola, sprawled languidly on a bluff above the ocean. Below us was the clear azure sea. Hope restored! Soon, we were sitting on a beachfront deck with our shoes off and our feet up, sipping chilled Cinque Terre wine.
The tremendous storm of the day before was clearing. Martin and I ventured out to explore our village, all drenched and drippy, but shaking itself off and coming to life. The water seeped into the cracks in the stone walls of our seventeenth-century house, feeding ferns and moss. Sun peeked through patches of blue overhead.
We discovered that the street was indeed a river of water. We could hear it all around us. However, we could not see it. It flowed beneath the main street of the village. Ancient drains from all sides, supported by stone-built arches, fed the contained rage of the water under our feet. We could hear it roar from beneath the grates placed at intervals all the way down the steep street.
