Took the ferry from under the clock tower at Camogli to San Fruttuoso, an eleventh century monastery built into a little cove. Because of the cloud cover only a handful of other people decided to make the trip so we had the place pretty much to ourselves. Ricardo had called ahead and special ordered lunch at La Marina, one of two tiny restaurants at the base of the abbey. The food was prepared in the kitchen on the second floor and then lowered by rope out the window. Ricardo is a nut for seafood and claims to be able to taste how many hours it has been since something was caught. Once, he bit a shrimp and it bit him back. "This is fresh!"
Two sips of wine and Lu’s ability to switch between languages goes out the window. She turns to me and speaks in Italian. I listen politely and then remind her that I don’t speak that language. She laughs and then repeats herself in Portuguese.
Wednesday July 8, 2009
Thankfully we drove to Cinque Terre instead of taking the boat. Both Lu and I went to bed last night with a touch of motion sickness and didn’t think we’d be able to take another boat trip. We did the trip backwards, starting in Riomaggiora and then working our way back towards home. On the walk between Riomaggiora and Manorola the stairs were so ridiculously steep that Ricardo, who prides himself on doing things himself, had no choice but to let me carry Bianca’s stroller while he carried her. I was grateful for the exercise but by the time we reached Manorola I had serious misgivings about walking all five towns and then back again. Ricardo was ahead of me. After lunch in Manorola we grabbed the truck and drove the rest of the way.
The little towns were awash with tourists but looked beautiful and pristine from the remove of the neighboring mountains. Ricardo said that most of the locals leave for the summer and so that picture I took of a woman leaning out her window probably wasn't Gabriella from Manorola but was rather Helga from Helsinki.
The little towns were awash with tourists but looked beautiful and pristine from the remove of the neighboring mountains. Ricardo said that most of the locals leave for the summer and so that picture I took of a woman leaning out her window probably wasn't Gabriella from Manorola but was rather Helga from Helsinki.
At the end of the day, Ricardo took the freeway the rest of the way home. I have never been in a faster moving car. Ricardo was fearless. He would cross lanes of traffic while taking corners so hard we all had to hold on to keep from piling up on one side or the other. I said to Lu that, by comparison, my driving must not seem so bad now. She sniffed and said that driving in a Fiat that you could fit in your pocket was one thing and that driving in a Range Rover surrounded by Fiats was another. “If something happens,” she said, “it’s not going to be us who will suffer.”
Our last two nights in Italy Lu and I ate dinner by ourselves at the little bistro next to our BnB. The power went out again. Last night it didn’t come back on. With no electricity the menu was limited but it couldn’t have been more romantic, fun, or more Italian.
Back at the room I realized that I had left our maps in Ricardo’s truck. We were leaving the next morning and though Ricardo had explained the way back to the airport in Milan I would have felt more comfortable having the maps. It was late and there was no way we were going to ask Ricardo to drive all the way back. We decided we would chance it and went to bed. The next morning the maps were under the wiper blade of the car. Whether late last night or early this morning, Ricardo had dropped them off. Grazie, Ricardo! 
