the cinque terre

Saturday morning Joey and I woke up early.  We'd planned to hike the Cinque Terre; therefore, the broken strap on my walking shoes could be ignored no more.  Good thing Santa Margherita has such cheap shopping!  For yacht owners...

Luckily we managed to find a cute pair of flat sandals with black and brown straps that seemed comfortable enough and didn't break the bank.  Unluckily, I chose not to follow my sisters', parents', or best friend's advice to skip the fashion for the Cinque Terre and just wear tennies.  Even more unfortunate for Joey was my decision not to share this piece of advice with him.  So a flip-flop clad Joey and I, in my cute new shoes, boarded the hour-long train to Vernazza.  Good thing I always carry band-aids in my purse.

Despite the bazillion other tourists who descended upon those same five remote towns that day (seriously, Europe in the fall), the bright colors and stunning views of each tiny village and its surroundings seemed to become more vibrant and more incredible as the day progressed.  I could not believe how blue the water was. 

Halfway between Vernazza and Corniglia.  That's Corniglia in the distance.

The first hour of the steep climb up the mountain between Vernazza and Corniglia was the easy part.  Try going down the other side of that mountain in inappropriate footwear when you are already spatially challenged and uncoordinated.  Even Joey, who is pretty hard to fluster, was mortified at my method of balance as I spread out my arms and hands and plopped one entire leg at a time down each step of the mountain.  I really tried to go down the steps like a normal person, but grace isn't one of my strong suits.

Although we'd scaled a small mountain in flip flops and 90 degree heat while dodging other sweaty people on narrow stairs that should not be shared, the scenery was well worth the effort.  We ambled through the second (technically third, but we skipped Monterosso) town, Corniglia, before we faced "more stairs than line the side of a Mayan pyramid," according to my guidebook, down which I would have to "flop," according to my husband, to reach the next town.  Off I flopped, and we were on our way to Manarola.

The trail to Manarola from Corniglia continues behind the Cornigilia train station, where we found several signs that the trail was closed.  Of course this all didn't register until after we watched the only train for the next half an hour leave, so faced with climbing back up the Mayan pyramid or a bench at the train station, we sat.  I'm not going to lie: I was considerably, disgustingly, sweaty; probably just as smelly (I wasn't about to put my nose in my armpit to find out); my feet were blistered; my shoulders sunburned and my stomach growling (I'd read in my guidebook to find a cafe in the next town so we'd only grazed through the morning - ha, oops).  So as much as I'd originally wanted to hike all the way from Vernazza to Riomaggiore, I wasn't devastated that we had to cheat a little. 

While we sat and waited for our train, the number of would-be hikers increased, and another girl, maybe about 14 years-old, sat next to me on the bench.  Joey and I continued our conversation, and as it reached a lull, the girl looked over at me and said, "I'm from Norway." 

That's all.  Completely matter-of-fact and even more out of the blue. 

Not much for small talk with people I do know, I replied with the nicest thing I could think of: "Okay?" 

And that was the extent of our conversation. 

Joey gave me the "Do you know her" look, to which I replied with the "WTF" look, after which we stifled our snickering until the train came.

Outside Manarola

In Manarola we stopped for gelato.  I ordered a large cone of my favorite: Amarena.  The gorgeous Italian woman behind the counter blessed with long legs and the ability to eat pasta all day every day in her Gucci size 2 pants replied, "you know that's three scoops, right?"

Are you saying something?  Because I just hiked a mountain and I live in Africa.

We drifted from Manarola along the "Via dell'Amore" to the last town, Riomaggiore, where we saw a bride posing for pictures with a huge bouquet of lavender.  Then we took the last train back to Santa Margherita, for naps, showers, and another romantic evening along the Ligurian Sea.

santa margherita ligure

I'd been nervous to return to Santa Margherita Ligure.  I worried that somehow the anticipation and exhilaration that only a bride can feel had softened the edges of my already wonderful memories of the town where Joey and I were married.  My fears that I'd remembered Santa Margherita as fondly and without fault as a mother sees her child, however, were allayed the moment we exited the train station.  Santa Margherita Ligure, with its bright blue skies and puffy white clouds, pastel-colored houses nestled in the rolling green hills, and tall palm trees lined against the azure Ligurian Sea, remained just as breathtaking as it had been on our wedding day.

After much-needed naps and showers, Joey and I strolled hand-in-hand along the shops and cafes lining the waterfront.  We watched the sun set as we dined on Ligurian pesto and gnocchi and carbonara and fresh fish.  Then we climbed the thousand stairs back up to our church.  I can't explain the calm that I felt as Joey held me on the stoop of the church; we sat together in silence for a long time and just watched the moon. 

This posting has been very, very trying for me.  Living in Abuja, compounded by all of the stress from three moves in 6 months, leaving my entire family and everything I had ever known, and moving to Africa, challenged me more than I ever expected.  And when your one constant, the only person with you through it all, also happens to be the only person with you through it all, that person gets to see the good, the bad, and the ugly.  And I can get really.  Really.  Ugly.  So I'm not the only one who suffered during the first six months of our tour.  Joey suffered too.  And so did our marriage. 

I suppose I wasn't afraid as much that Santa Margherita had lost her charm;  I suspect, deep down, I worried that Santa Margherita wouldn't heal the wounds inflicted from this posting, and that we'd leave as bitter as we'd arrived.  I knew that it wasn't Joey's fault that we got posted where we did; I'd had an equal say in his bid list.  But just because your mind knows something doesn't mean your heart will believe it.

But I do believe in true love, and I believe even more that I married my soul-mate.  And maybe it was Santa Margherita or maybe it was our church.  Maybe it was the sea or maybe it was the full moon.  Maybe it was our lovely, old memories or maybe it was the new ones we created this time around.  Nevertheless, three days later when we boarded our train to Rome, Joey and I knew we were going to be okay.

I think it was love.

lessons learned

Travel lessons I should have learned the first time we schlepped around Italy:

1. Train rides suck.  They make me feel like I drank all the vodka in Russia the night before, whether or not I consumed a drop of alcohol.  They are crowded, generally stinky (although after 6 months here, my tolerance for BO is now as high as a Russian's tolerance for vodka), and just altogether unpleasant.  Whose brilliant idea was it to plan a 9-hour train ride from Provence to Santa Margherita? 

2. Europe is not handicap-friendly.  And big, heavy suitcases are big-ass handicaps.  The same brilliant person who planned the 9-hour train ride thought it would be much easier to just lug one bigger suitcase (each) instead of having to juggle two smaller suitcases (each).  Maybe, until the 9-hour train ride included 4 stops, which meant five separate times Joey had to heave my 60-lb suitcase and his 60-lb suitcase down the staircase to the train platform, up into the train, down out of the train and back down one staircase and up another staircase to the next platform.  In 90-degree heat.  Oops.

Yeah, just because Aix-en-Provence is close to the French Riviera, and Santa Margherita is on the Italian Riviera does not mean you should take a train between them.  Maybe if you take a day in Nice.  Or maybe if a direct train overnight existed (it doesn't), it might be a tolerable trip.  But definitely don't do it the way we did.  By the time we left Aix-en-Provence and stopped in Nice, Ventimiglia and Genoa before arriving in Santa Margherita, we were completely and utterly exhausted.  And I didn't even carry the suitcases.  Which brings me to #3:

Pick one destination and stay there.  Going from A to B to C to D to E is expensive, it's exhausting, and by the end of the trip, it's just plain annoying.  Packing and unpacking and repacking your suitcase gets progressively harder, especially if you buy any sort of souvenir.  Particularly if you've been in Nigeria for six months and are struck, first numbly, and then overwhelmingly, by your innate, American consumerism that sat dormant during the last several months.  Trust me.  Go somewhere you can explore for a few days and from where you can easily explore a few other destinations for a few days.   A to B to A to C is infinitely easier.

Oh, and wearing high heels because your travel shoes are broken and you'll have slightly more room in your suitcase is beyond inane.  Who would be dumb enough to do that? 

provence day 5: avignon

Papal Palace in the background

Thursday was our last day with Sujata, and we spent it in Avignon.  Every year, thousands of thespians descend on Avignon for its annual theater festival, with which our visit just happened to coincide.  Oh. Yay.  It was packed and the street performers weren't shy.  But I'd still return to Avignon, with its thick medieval ramparts, imposing papal palace, and shady plane trees, just not in the middle of July.

Really?

We spent the day the same as we'd spent the others.  Eating.  Drinking.  Shopping.  Wandering.  Joey and Sujata bemoaning my excessive photography habit.  By the end of the day when we deposited Sujata at the train station, we were sad to see her go, but I'm pretty sure she'd had enough of Joey's driving and my camera.  She'd made a great traveling companion over the last ten days, and hopefully she'll be willing to brave us again for another fun vacation.

Although it was Bastille Day, Joey and I were both tired and crabby, so we crashed back at the cottage.  The next morning we were up early to check-out; a simple process made infinitely more difficult by the language barrier and Vauvenargues' lack of ATM.  But everything worked itself out, we dropped off the rental car and boarded the first of many trains for the long trip to Santa Margherita Ligure. 
 

For all of my pictures from Provence, click here: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Provence?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCOODs5Kqwdzb6AE&feat=directlink

(Don't worry, I narrowed them down after we returned to Abuja).  

Here's the link for my Paris pictures too: https://picasaweb.google.com/100586084762366858227/Paris?authuser=0&authkey=Gv1sRgCKC0h_HKh6CLFg&feat=directlink

provence day 4: the luberon and the lavender

Wednesday was lavender day.  Or it was supposed to be.  I assumed that all of Provence would just be full of lavender.  That the train would suddenly round a corner and you'd see nothing but fields of purple.  This is not the case.  Aix-en-Provence is actually too far south for lavender, so we really had to search for it.

We began our hunt in a darling little village called Lourmarin.  As we parked the car it began to rain,

so we ducked into a dark and cozy cafe to wait it out.  In between down- pours we found the Chateau de Lourmarin, a huge old castle with a wine cave underneath.  After sampling every wine in the cave, we wove our way through the Luberon all day, stopping for "degustation" (wine tasting) and trying to find one field of purple.  I could have explored every town where we stopped to ask for directions to the lavender.  Each one was more picturesque than the next; they say some see Paris through rose-colored glasses, but I saw the Luberon through rose (and Cotes du Rhone and Burgundy) filled glasses for sure.  Several hours later, after many miles of forests, vineyards, sunflowers, wine, laughs (especially after one of the cellar masters asked Sujata if she worked for us), and even more complaints about Joey's driving, we finally found the lavender.  I couldn't believe how good it smelled when I rolled down my window.

Our light heads soon turned into heavy stomachs, and after an entire day in the car, with shaky knees and sighs of relief, we returned to the cottage and piled out of the car.  While Sujata napped, Joey wished for his pillow but accompanied me to finally explore the tiny town where we'd been staying all week.  It didn't take long to walk through Vauvenargues (pronounced Voo-ven-ahg) and find the 17th-century Chateau of Vauvenargues, burial site of Pablo Picasso.

Chateau of Vauvenargues

We employed our cottage kitchen one more time that night, cooking chicken and pasta in a delicious pancetta, arrabiatta sauce.  Exhausted and thorougly defeated, Joey passed out early at the cottage while Sujata and I wandered back down to Vauvenargues to investigate the sounds of the pre-Bastille Day celebration heard from our patio.  Upon realizing we would have stood out like sore thumbs at the celebration, we wandered back to Picasso's chateau under the moonlight.  It was so. creepy.  We both swore we heard a ghost's cackle, and ran full-speed back to our cottage.  We woke poor Joey up to calm us down, then Sujata and I talked long after he fell back asleep, until we were too tired to let any ghosts keep us awake either.

provence day 3: cassis and arles

Early Tuesday morning we drove to Cassis.  And I thought Marseille was breathtaking.  Maybe I'm partial to quaint little towns, especially after brushing shoulders with all the tourists in France's second-largest city the entire day before, but even though it's only a few kilometers away from Marseille, the tiny village of Cassis with its brightly colored buildings and pretty little fishing boats was now my new favorite place. 

After devouring an assortment of fresh pastries from the bakery (seriously, can someone tell me how the French stay so skinny?), we took a boat tour of the Calanques.  We were the first people on the boat and so excited to grab a seat right up front.  Then the captain came out and said "Le Douche."  This apparently means, "You will take a shower if you sit there."  We all figured a little seaspray never hurt anybody and sat tight.

The stark contrast of the white limestone cliffs and deep blue water was overshadowed by the hilarity of our predicament.  I really can't think of the last time I even came close to laughing so hard.  Our boat tour was straight out of an amusement park water ride, or maybe in Sujata's case, a wet t-shirt contest.  I almost peed my pants when, after half an hour of just getting soaked, the boat hit a huge wake and sent Sujata flying out of her seat.  It still makes me laugh out loud to think about it.  We returned to shore, soaking wet, salty, and more than a little seasick in my case.  While we dried off under the sun, we ate our slightly salty and soggy lunch (we had optimistically brought a picnic on the boat) and Sujata and I entertained ourselves with inappropriate remarks about the inappropriate fat ladies baring it all on the topless beach.

Joey drove the hilly and winding rode back to our cottage.  I suppose he should have known better than to rent a stick shift with two outspoken women in the car, and maybe Sujata and I could have complained less considering the driving conditions.  But with our stomachs already on strike after the bumpy boat ride, Sujata and I kept Joey informed of this fact at every hairpin turn.  It was a fun ride for all and definitely time for a nap.

Look familiar?

A few hours later, refreshed after naps and showers, we headed to Arles for the evening.  Arles was remarkably more muted than Cassis but still full of history and beauty.  We saw the spot where Van Gogh painted his famous Cafe Terrace at Night and some wonderfully old Roman ruins, including baths from the era of Constantine and an even older arena that is still in use today.

I could have spent days more exploring all the nooks and crannies of Arles.  I became terribly disconcerted when my camera battery flashed red, though much to the delight of my traveling companions.  Joey exclaimed, "I get my wife back!" Sujata concurred.  Given I took over 2,000 pictures on our vacation, I think they may have had a point.  Plus the slight sprinkle had turned into more of a steady rain, so we decided to head back to Aix-en-Provence for sushi.  After Sujata and I enjoyed a few too many lychee kir royales, Joey patiently drove us home to sleep it off for our next excursion.  Tomorrow was lavender day!

provence: marseille

The next morning we rode the bus back to the train station to pick up our rental car.  This occasion marked just one of the many times we were so thankful to have Sujata along for more than just entertainment value when her fluent French saved us from getting screwed on the car rental.  We piled into our little car, cranked up the tunes - I'm not going to lie that I was beyond excited to hear Britney Spears on the radio for the first time in months - and drove to Marseille.

After about half an hour of winding down through the imposing limestone walls of Provence, we caught our first view of the Mediterranean.  I know I've said it before, but there is something so thrilling to me about the water.  The sun shined hot and shimmered over the pure blue water and I declared I wasn't leaving.  Marseille reminded me very much of the town where Joey and I got married, with its rows of sailboats and terra cotta roofs.  It felt amazing to be back on the scenic riviera, even if it was the French side.  So we walked, I took too many pictures, and we walked some more.

Notre-Dame de la Garde on the horizon

After an already long day of trudging through the crowded seaside town in the thick July heat (and trying, unsuccessfully, to find a new pair of shoes), we climbed up what Joey will swear is the steepest hill in the world, only to be met with many stairs and another hill on top of that.  Finally, we reached the beautiful Notre-Dame de la Garde, which, in all fairness to my husband, sits at the highest natural point in Marseille at 532 feet above sea level.  When Sujata remarked that the view was worth the climb, an exhausted, sweating Joey remarked, "Whose side are you on, anyway?!"

With a sweaty, crabby Joey overlooking Marseille.  I climbed the hill with one shoe hanging off my foot so I don't know what his problem is.

Gradually we made our way back down to the sea, where we found a cafe in the shade.  I decided to try the kelly-green drink I'd seen all over Paris, "Get 27."  I quickly discovered the reason Sujata had warned me not to bother.  I might as well have been drinking Scope on the rocks.  My throat still seizes up when I think about it.  Ew.

We found a darling little cafe overlooking the boardwalk for dinner.  I feasted on mussels and french fries, while Joey stuffed himself with bouilabaisse.  Then, completely stuffed and worn out, we walked back to the car and returned to our little cottage to pass out.