Trials

One of the chief tourist attractions in Cinque Terre is the hiking trails in the national park that encompasses the five villages. This is relevant to my interests, but I had somehow absorbed the ‘trail’ part more than the ‘hiking’ part, and was not really prepared for what was to come.

I took the train up to Monterosso, at the northern end of the five villages, then walked to Vernazza, then on to Corniglia. By Corniglia, I was sore, I was dehydrated, and my legs were actually shaking.

I had pictured a pleasant walk in the countryside, through dappled woods and maybe a bluebell glen or two, rather than a gruelling death march across a bucking and rearing landscape, and had dressed accordingly. In an uncharacteristic moment of foresight, I’d purchased a pair of Adidas crosstrainers in Amsterdam, to wear when walking or gymming. They proved to be the absolute bare minimum I needed for the terrain. I was wearing a moderately heavy jumper, and I wasn’t carrying a water bottle. When I was leaning against a wall halfway up a particularly precipitous section, my heart hammering, sweat trickling down my arms and soaking my jumper, head spinning from dehydration, I reflected that I could have prepared better.

Fortunately this is Italy, so at both of my destination villages, I was able to buy restorative gelato. I had refreshing scoops of mango and passionfruit at Vernazza, and in Corniglia, a scoop of lemon & basil that was sensational, both flavours perfectly balanced; just what I expect from Italian cuisine.

In the unpleasant bit between gelati, I started to identify the various other hikers by their most salient (to me) features. French couple with sulking tween daughter. American woman who never shuts up. British man eagerly explaining League Soccer to his amazingly patient American brother-in-law. Japanese couple immaculately dressed for the Corso yet inexplicably hiking. Old people taking up twice the normal space on the narrow path because they’re hiking with ski poles, presumably just in case there’s a deep snow drift here on the Italian riviera. And of course, Australian woman swigging a beer while hiking. She must have been a Queenslander.

I got back to La Spezia just after 4pm, and after changing into comfier shoes, I decided to walk to the nearest supermarket to pick up some coathangers (there aren’t enough in my room), some fruit (man cannot live by booze and bar snacks alone) and other odds and ends. However, it turns out that the La Spezia old town is a lot like other tourist-oriented Italian cities, in that it’s all fine if you want bread or Prosecco or $300 shoes, but if you want coathangers, or a screwdriver, or even a fork, there are none of those for sale nearby. I had to walk out of the old town about fifteen minutes, straight up the colonnaded arcade that stretches for a kilometre or so along one of the main thoroughfares, to reach a Conad… which didn’t have any coathangers.

Fortunately while walking up I’d made note of one of those cluttered little variety shops that sells a seemingly random range of cheap Chinese-made crap – plastic buckets, shoe storage, ugly vases, baby gates, electronics cables, off-brand cosmetics that will burn your skin off, brooms, socket sets and, yes, several varieties of coathangers. I picked out the cheapest set I could find, discovered that they were vaguely sticky and smelt strongly of vinegar, then put them back and picked out a more expensive set that seemed more inert.

On my walk back I found another supermarket, a brand I hadn’t heard of before, and popped in for a bottle of wine, some apples, and some chocolate. Later on that evening I went to open the wine and discovered that, because I am a dumbass, I’d bought one with a cork. Fortunately one of the few useful things you can buy in the old town is a corkscrew, which I picked up in a tiny Asian convenience store. The owner didn’t speak English at all, but luckily the motions for using a corkscrew are fairly clear, especially when I helpfully added the ‘pop’ of the cork coming out.

For aperitivo I tried another small bar, Eclettica, just a block away from me. The waiter greeted me warmly and asked if I wanted the same as last time. I looked at him in confusion. He looked at me with a confident smile. I broke it to him that I’d never been in this bar before, and he looked so crestfallen that I envy the charisma of my apparent doppelganger.

All was forgiven when I got what was, basically, a pickletini: Patron tequila, an aged vermouth, and a pickle. It wasn’t as dry as I normally like my martinis, but I do not question the wisdom of any bartender confident enough to create a pickletini.

Sure enough, when I went in the pay, the bartender eagerly asked me if I enjoyed the pickletini – I’m assuming it’s a rare customer who buys one – and we geeked out over the kind of vermouth he used and the fact that his secret ingredient was a dash of pickle juice, making it a dirty pickletini. No free mezcal shots this time, presumably because my novelty has already worn off, thanks to my doppelganger.

I didn’t overdo it with the bar snacks, because I’d decided to follow Marco’s advice and try a local institution, Osteria Inferno, for a proper dinner. It turns out that Osteria Inferno is very popular, and since I didn’t have a reservation, they couldn’t seat me until 10pm. But I’m on holiday, and I don’t mind waiting for a good Italian meal.

And I’m still waiting for a good Italian meal, because dinner at Osteria Inferno ranged from mediocre to bad. I started with a primi of tagliatelli with pesto, which came out in far too large a portion for an entree, and lacked any sort of zing or nuance to separate it from something you’d buy in the supermarket. My secondi was stewed tripe, which I ordered after I’d tasted a wonderful tripe in Florence four years earlier, with a side of mixed grilled vegetables. The tripe stew was just icky, both in flavour and in texture. The tripe was a little fibrous, and they’d used capers generously in the sauce, and that slightly sour earthiness did not work at all with the tripe. Meanwhile the mixed grilled vegetables were… eggplant. I’m guessing the kitchen had run out of the other veggies.

At least the ¼ litre of house white was very nice, and the bill was only 33 euros, so I had not wasted a large amount of money. But I may have to return to my normal holiday diet of booze and bar snacks. And an apple.