Le Cinque Terre, il pesto e la luce

Not to sound redundant, but it was yet another blisteringly muggy day at my job when I received a shout from my boy.





Stepping out of The Hut, the nickname we call our teaching facitily in Parma, I drank yet another shot of machine-produced espresso-sludge and gladly answered the incoming whilst waiting for my 20-minute tardy student (tsk.tsk.tsk).





Guess what? B. sounded teasingly excited. Before uttering my mono-syllabic retort (which I will not bother writing the italic code for since it is, well, a bit banal), he continued.

How would you like to go to Cinque Terre this weekend?



My first thought was that of excitement. Going to the sea, visiting yet another locality that I had not been able to take in yet. I hesitated with this initial response. You see, as of late, we have been doing a lot of travelling back and forth to Florence, etc. Not that any of it is bad. I can think of a few many things that could be worse than skipping about the Italian countryside on a minute's notice. But then the overly reasonable daddy instinct clouded the acqua blue sky as I knew that in less than a month we will be heading to yet another undiscovered (at least to us) land for vacation. Ventotene.

I would love to. But we need to be saving for our August holiday. I heard the rather boring words spill forth from my mouth and wondered what happened to the idyllic jet setting image I always have had about myself. About us and this whole idea of living abroad. Don't you think we should chill until then? Similar to vomiting, once the nonsense began, it automatically issued forth beyond control. Alas, the eternal question: Why does everything have to center around money? Because, sadly, it does to some degree.





Federica is going with her job and she has an extra hotel room that is already paid for. We'll drive there and essentially only have to pay for food. Suddenly, the sun began to shine again and I had to put on my newly acquired Ray Bans. (I can't help it, they're all the Italian rage now!)



The news undoubtedly made the day seem to go by faster. And I tended to speak about the shiny new plans to my students, who all suggested different things to see and, more importantly, taste. The general consensus was to go for the pesto. Not knowing the Liguria region, where Cinque Terre is located, is the home to that savory sauce, I knew that this was going to be even more heavenly than initially imagined.





We rose on Saturday to a cloudless day simply becokning us to excitedly move about in order to leave Bologna as soon as possible. Bologna definately has some wonderful attributes. However, being amongst the streets in the dead of heat with no water to retreat to is not one of them. Therefore, like so many other Italians, we followed the autostrada to the coast. Thankfully we seemed to avoid the notion of traffic jamming that I hear about so often from others that tend to take the same trusted highway jaunts.





Before heading to our newly acquired scott free room, we were meeting Federica and Moyra (as well as Tomaso, Fede's son) in Lerici, a small port town not too far from the famous 5 terraces. We decided to focus on the water and some much needed beach time before the sun indeed went away. As it was, we did not make it to the area until after 1 p.m. There was talk of doing Cinque Terre on Saturday, but the time to start such a venture should be done in the morning, as it typically is an all day excursion.



In lieu of this unknown information, we decided to stay in the Lerici area, more specifically to visit Palmaria, a small island in the Bay of the Poets , where Lord Byron, amongst others, were said to have hung out. Not the most condusive beach to lazily meander about, being mostly large rocks and choked full of people, we did manage to find a spot so that everyone could take a dip. At that point in the day, having sacrificed any semblance of a breakfast, I was more interested in finding food and a beer. Though small, the island was able to satisfy my needs.




We left the main coast of Lerici by a very small, yet sturdy, fishing boat that Fede managed to locate, though the exact details are still a bit hazy. A nice but quiet man agreed to take us not only to Palmaria but also to Portovenere , a small port town that opened up to the sea and that is the main connection point to the Cinque Terre. After the visit, Portovenere was undoubtedly my favorite place that we saw during the brief two day tour.



Nestled on a large rock with a church (naturally) being the main point of reference facing the sea, the narrow and steep streets of the village were, admittedly toursity, yet had a charm that was pleasant. And did I mention the pesto? First experience was one of the best! This time it was on yet another Ligurian speciality: foccaccia. I was beginning to really like Liguria. How could it know to put two of my favorite things together. Did I mention this was heaven?



Upon our return to Lerici, we made reservations for dinner at a nearby eatery, per the recommendation of our boat driver's wife/girlfriend. Now I am thinking that the boatman and her were some sort of advertisement for this soon-to-be-realized disappointment of an experience.

First of all, there were six of us, including Tomaso. Off the bat, I think that the waiters did not like the large group scenario. Though that probably was not true as we stepped from the lazy darkened streets of the Lerici coastline and into a dining impression that resembled something more like the MCL cafeteria that I would accompany my grandmother to in Muncie rather than a costly dinner by the bay. Okay, we were suckered into the tourist trap. The dinner tables were indeed narrowly situated beside one another. A relatively small outdoor terrace seemed to be able to accomodate at least 200 eager guidebook-reading afficianados. Apart from the "intimate" seating arrangements, though it being 9:30 in the evening, all of us regretted that we hadn't brought our sunglasses to this event. Above (almost) every table, shimmered a light fixture that must have seconded for a heat lamp but did nothing for the already lacking ambience.



The next day, after surviving temporary paralysis due to over exposure to the sun was beautiful...Enjoy the pictures.

Distractions.

He was firmly caressing the plastic gadget for some time now since he had entered the long bus from the wrong entrance in the centre of town. Fortunately, he thought, at least he was able to find a seat though it inevitably had to be facing in the opposite direction. Still, it was a seat. No semi-soft ones today though. That was a shame.

He glanced around. Well, more like peered behind his covered appendage snugly wrapped around his upper face and slightly pinching his earlobes. It is okay though. Staring with anonymity. That is what everyone else is doing too. Or so he guessed. All the times people are staring at you while taking public transport, facing you in the opposite seat. Again with the opposite seat inclusion. What were the transport architects thinking? Is it an accepted belief that by placing half of the passengers in a backwards moving velocity that it ensures larger capacity seating? Or are these so-called experts more advised in the ways of Sade?

Everyone else acts like they are sleeping. But he knew the truth. The truth in his mind. That of the voyeurism that is such a heavily guarded gem of self-indulgence. Isn't it? Even the non-shade wearers attempt to do it from time-to-time. Don't they? The slightly-crisp lady with her shopping bags. Too many for her to handle and will no doubt oblige some youngin' to fetch what she cannot manage to whisk away on her own. With her gold and silver chains wrapped around her neck. Some have miniscule dying jesus' on them. He supposed that was for a self-reminder of her belief in the myth. Or maybe just to convince and warn others of her relatively new-founded faith. Strewn lazily around her protrusion of skin like gaudy jewelry or more appropriately like amulets. The hypocritical worship monger, too, casts an eye in the direction of someone else. The stare, if felt from the corner of the eye, initially has the sense of paranoia. No, one thinks, that person is not staring. More like goggling, at me? Then the quick twitch of the head in the direction of the laser beam from the two orbs of the christ freak. And then, the retraction. Immediate like when the doctor taps your knee with that device that looks too similar to a vestige from an Indian reservation, uncontrollable. Almost like she is embarrassed or penitent for the intrusion. Guilt is a wonderful thing when it has control of others. It means that the creators just scored another point.

The honest-to-god reason for the looking about is not to see someone's tits on display, which does not take much effort to find. Or some ancient crotch spread eagle in tight red paints directly opposite that takes no effort to figure out where the years of pleasure have derived from. He wonders if the pleasure is still there or if it is forgotten about.

He wants to see how many other people are fondling their cell phones like he is. Square in shape, slick to the touch, he nervously rubs his grimy thumb in a circular motion over the face of the necessary burden. He is wishing that it would turn round. He often has these distractions. To want to be able to forcibly control and alter the nature. In this case, a plastic phone. It is probably just a nervous tick. Like the movement of the hands over the top of the ear as though pushing hair back behind it. Then realizing that there is not hair to push back. There never has been. He looks about and tries to breathe and continue the movement of the hand, now made conspicuous to himself. Like all distractions, this one is merely an attempt to avoid what is really eating at him. What is eating at him, he cannot pinpoint exactly.

Is it the weather? Or the combination of the tepid air with intervals of construction worker body odor and large breasted russians with their eccentric redolence of something that may have smelt decent at the crack of dawn but now has transcended to achieve a higher calling. And like most higher callings involves a lot of shit wading initially. Then again he asks himself why he looks at people with such derision. Like the geriatric engulfing an ice cream cone at the approaching bus stop who already has a snow tire around him. But when you are at that age, it appears like everything just goes. Is it mental, physical, both? Have they attained to some inner-peace which allows for the release of anything attractive on the outside? Is beauty emitted from the interior a trade-off for physical elephantitis? He is being vain, he knows. And he wants to stab himself for the thoughts. But again, he seems to get dissuaded from anything real to think about.

JUST SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. FREAK. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. shut up.

he misses the psych days when he actually had a pillow that he was supposed to yell into. it felt okay to do. and it released something. an inner rage that seems to control and manipulate. why he cannot do it now, he is uncertain. but he is not able to do so. instead, he looks at fat people. old people. foreigners. normal people. a guy walking outside with larger tits than most women. the three of the opposite sex that had to sit in his car on the train and speak at the top of their voices to the point where he either has to excuse himself or continue to scowl at them behind his glasses and imagine stepping on their unprotected and perfectly manicured toes.

he could bang on walls. he supposed. his brother did that. but it did not seem to accomplish anything. poor guy. he was always pitied when they were kids. he still is, he thinks. as fucked up as he was. and then he begins to think about those horrific creators. generators selfishly doing what they think should be done. but then, like most, cannot possibly know what they have done and tend to wipe their hands of the outcome. especially when that result tends to not be as expected. endgames with unplanned events always make it harder, right?

he then truly does close his eyes, taking away the power of the glasses. he rubs the the newly formed oval and imagines what it would be like to be invisible. to have any power, to be there without being seen is the ultimate upper hand, he concludes. the events you could see. the conversations one could hear. the unknowing victims. it would be delicious. he comes back. the jesus lady is gone. the fumes have disappeared. no migrants seem to be in view of him any longer. he is the only one on the bus. the back of the head facing forward and nothing to see outside, for the view is white, almost misty. he looks down at his phone and he sees no signal, no indication that it is working any longer. he moves closer to the hand printed unbreakable glass of a window to try to look out from the moving vehicle, passing everything and nothing. he removes the sunglasses and squints into the haze. an object can barely be seen in the distance. it is rectangular and dark. the more he squeezes his eyes together, the clearer the image. the pushing of his sight begins to control every nerve in his body until he is completely locked, tensed into seeing this mirage. be it is not a mirage. he hears his mother's voice. a bolt of despair evaporates the tension for the moment and before him is the picture of the kissing couple, holding on to one another and to nothing at the same time.