To Find a Bed in Vernazza

by Catherine Gigante-Brown (United States of America)

Making a local connection Italy

My husband Peter and I had been traveling through Italy for two weeks. On the last leg of our journey, we found ourselves on a slow train from Genoa, inching toward the Cinque Terre, the Italian Riviera. Destination: Vernazza, a village in a row of five towns strung loosely together like pearls. In addition to the minuscule beach, there was a ruined castle and a crumbling church. A molo (breakwater) belted snugly around Vernazza’s base. Only one true pension in town, beds were hard to find. Our guidebook suggested securing an affita camera (a room in a private home) by asking at establishments along Via Roma, Vernazza’s main strada. The town was tiny, tidy, and everyone knew everyone else’s business, especially who had a room to rent. The woman in the gelato shop pointed toward a bar down the hill. The pub owner directed us to the fish store who sent us to salumeria. No luck. I set up camp at a pay phone. My first call was to Mike but his place was unavailable. Mike suggested his cousin Franco but his room was occupied. The next call struck pay dirt. Although Antonia had no free rooms, her friend Giuseppina did. We agreed to meet by la farmacia, near the molo. As Peter and I approached the pharmacy, a plump, middle-aged woman in mismatched clothes greeted us. After awkward hellos, Giuseppina insisted on carrying our groceries and led us through an intricate series of carugi. We turned up Via Della Santo and stopped at a narrow, old house with a pot of brilliant blue hydrangeas out front. The affita camera was newly renovated. A jar of three red roses sat upon the tablecloth that draped the kitchen table. Across from it was a miniscule gas stove and a refrigerator. Up a winding staircase was a bed, a bathroom, a closet, rocking chair and night stand. Home. For fifty dollars a day, we could have this little gem. We agreed immediately. Giuseppina took our passports, then bowed out the door. The towns of the Cinque Terre are linked by a rustic path, which traipses through the hills. Along the route, the land drops dramatically into the Mediterranean then climbs into craggy mountains. On the trail, we passed vineyards, tumbled stone houses and fragrant stands of basil mixed with lush pines, evergreens, bamboo and cactus. After lunch in Riomaggiore, we managed to find the train back to Vernazza. The town seemed strangely silent, as if holding its breath. A small girl spoke excitedly to her grandmother about “la sposa”—the bride. After a quick stop at our apartment, Peter went down to the molo. I would meet him there after a shower. As I wove down the cobblestone streets, church bells pealed. People cheered. Racing down the carugi’s steps to Via Roma, a thick crowd had gathered on the street beneath a balcony. I tried to push my way through but it was impossible. Looking up, I saw a largely-pregnant bride and her groom perched on the verandah, tossing handfuls of sweets below. Every time candy fell, people stepped on each other to get a piece. I didn’t see Peter in the press of bodies. Again, I tried to wrestle through the sea of flesh but it was difficult to move. After I was cracked on the head by a hunk of nougat, I surrendered to the lunacy. Younger, taller, and more agile than the townspeople, I reached easily above their heads and filled my pockets with wedding treasures. I scrambled across the cobblestones with the best of them. By the time the happy couple emptied ten wicker baskets of candy, my fists were overflowing. I finally found Peter at an outdoor café beside the molo. He’d heard the commotion but couldn’t get through the throng. I popped a sugar-coated almond into his mouth and tried to explain. After dinner, we blended into the Vernazza’s nightly passeggiata. Arm in arm, Peter and I walked with the others, treading over crushed candies. We passed Giuseppina, strolling with two female friends. She nodded in recognition. We did the same and continued on our way, drawn to the blackness of the sea.