The quarter life crisis that is the mid-twenties European vacation is always presented in the movies and indeed in most of this journal as beers, clubs, wine, bars, women, crazy stories and last but not least the standard tours and sights that comprise the history of these many countries. I suppose that is why I was struck with a very different feeling when standing on top of a mountain looking out over the Mediterrean without a drop of alcohol or historic landmark to be seen I finally felt like we were on vacation and doing something notable, rather than taking photos of statues and jumping on the next train only to repeat in the next big city.

First, back to the beginning, we arrived in Cinque Terre without lodging. In a normal sized city this wouldnt be that much of an issue but Riomaggiore, the town we would be staying in for the night, has few hotels and no hostels to speak of, therefore rooms are simply that, bedrooms in peoples homes that they are currently not using. We tried to get into one reputable establishment but were told simply to follow this lady, she has a room. We followed this 90+ year old woman to an apartment underneath her own, when we realized she didn’t speak a word of English she went to get her son who was about 70 himself and had the look of Donald Sutherland in Animal House but with rotten teeth and a close talking personality to boot. Anyways he was gross but we told her we wouldnt have any parties in her house, gave her 70 euros for the night (not horrible) and headed for the trail.

Cinque Terre Hike Break

Cinque Terre consists primarily of a path that once allowed citizens from five closely spaced towns to trade and communicate. The area has been converted to an Italian National Park and as it wraps around these towns, over mountains and along the coast it provides some of the most impressive and untouched views either Ben or I had expereinced on this trip. The hike is definitely challenging, and although most of you know I am very much a stranger to the gym, even Ben’s legs were giving out on this hike and he loves working out so much I’ve found him doing silent push-ups on hung over mornings. Starting from Monterosso on the northern end the hike climbed over several mountain peaks on a trail that could never exist in the U.S. due to a combination of one foot wide stone paths over rocky gorges and the American propensity to tort law.

The terrain changed quickly from Amazon jungle-like climbs through the forest, to wide paths of jagged rocks reminscient only of Mordor but lacking the companionship of Sam-wise, no offense Ben but that guy risked his life for Frodo. Since arriving in Cinque Terre so late in the day we had to keep up a brisk pace to get it all in by sundown and the lack of water didn’t help our bodies make up for the gallons we sweated out on the trail. We ended up finishing in under four hours, the lady said it would take five but there were a couple of older people we passed who didn’t look so hot, I’m pretty sure this “beautiful, flower laden wilderness trail” has claimed more than just the five euro entry fee from some of its guests, but what a way to go if that was it.

The next morning would we find out that while we slept a strike had paralyzed all but the major rail lines of the Italian train system, not a good morning to wake up in the smallest town of our trip…

Switch to Ben for a rant against TrenItalia:

Having enjoyed the strenuous exercise and one of our few sober nights on this trip, I think we both felt quite invigorated the next morning to start our journey toward Barcelona and finally, Spanish-speaking countries. Then we studied the train schedules. Barcelona was a long haul away and was probably not doable in one day. Therefore we committed a fatal sin and decided to stay in a French city for the night. Nice is located right on the coast line and seemed like a decent halfway point. We booked a hostel and went to catch the 11am train to Nice.

Ben on his Jump Seat

Then we get to the train station at Riomaggiore. “When is the next train to La Spezie (the big local train depot)?” To the reply of “I don’t know. There is a train strike. Whenever it comes.” Shit.

We have commented in this journal about the perfect efficiency of the European train system. All of those lauds and praises were suddenly kicking me in my own ass. Our friend Leah from Florence once told us of the Italian people, “they are never on time. When they say two o’clock, that is when they might think about leaving their house.” I had found this to be mostly untrue until now.

A train comes 15 minutes late. This isn’t so bad. We get to la Spezie to board our 11 oclock train. “Ritardo Indefinitivo” read the board. Balls. We go to the ticket counter where the robot hag of a woman simply shrugged her shoulders at us. Scenes from Connors’s rants of “socialist bastards” played in my head. My mood worsened.

Ryan and I ate lunch in the station that consisted of a soggy poptart covered in cheese termed a “pizza” and what may or may not have been chicken nuggets and discussed our options. We found a train that left at 4pm that went to Nice. We went back to the lady who clearly hasn’t been laid in 32 years and has grown sterile to make reservations. “Full.” Followed by shoulder shrug. Fury welling up inside of me. It finally occurs to me why the put that shatterproof glass between her and me.

Then Ryan tells me the details of the train strike. Only Saturday and Sunday from 9 am to 9 pm.

What?

They have organized times and days for their strike? Only in a country where they hail Mussolini and parade through the streets and then hang him publicly some years later. Flip Floppers.

So we wait at the train station. Only to realize later, Ryan and I were both scanning the train station secretly planning where the best place to sleep would be. I decided that the potting soil from a large plant would probably make a soft bed but I would wrap myself in a trash bag prior so that I wouldn’t be TOO dirty.

4 pm rolls around. We, along with about 400 other individuals cram each other into the cars. I couldn’t help but think back to Dauchau. No seats. Only the ones in the aisle that fold down consisting of about 4 square inches for butt space and a handrail jamming into your back assuring you the most uncomfortable ride of your life. But somehow I go to sleep. Trenitalia can’t stop me completely.

Anyway to make it to Nice and our hostel. Nothing mentionable happens. I would not wish this journey on my dearest enemy.

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