If I ran the board of tourism, better believe I'd hang a sign outside the train station...just before the cavernous tunnel leading into Riomaggiore's one and only main hill of a road...
"Riomaggiore - if our town bled charm, cut its collective throat over the Mediterranean, induce the tide roll high right before your eyes."
I wouldn't make a second term due to infrequent and blindsiding creative marketing choices...choices too graphic for the general public, but I assure my words would reign respected, not soon forgettable...
And for what more could I desire, in this life or the next?
...
Yesterday, I walked the stretches of Cinque Terre on the coast of the Italian Mediterranean. The guide books said it would take in the upwards of 5 hours to complete. Naturally, my plans were to endure serious bouts of self inflicted harm if the ribbon broke anywhere over 2:20. And the beauty...up until the point I wandered path and was chased off by a pack of ravenous, crazed little dogs...goodness. These stretches of land...of hanging olives and grapes, steep seasides and mighty, tumbling hills surrounding these 5 tiny, seemingly forgotten towns...as if this place had the power to make life so forgettable, its visitors regret coming...like a sweet song that can only be endured for a short while without suffering numbness of the ears, before the body succumbs.
I clocked in just over 3 hours after getting lost, braving a steep thousand step climb to the top peak of trail 7...I believe. After all, If I paid any mind in the first place, appropriate paths, I would have never found myself lost. Upon completion, a self-accord was cut...accept your time, move on. It was still swift. See, I have trouble breathing...at least stopping to breathe from time to time. And it builds a sad pride, see, to run circles around leisurely hikers looking to enjoy a leisurely stroll across the Italian countryside coast. I can silently feel them wish ill will through my blaring I-Pod...
"May you fall, hard on your face, require thousands of stitches. No pain pills, medicine, sympathy." That or likely, "Fucking American."
I enjoy both.
...
I made it home to the apartment last night around 6. The house was full: 2 Scotts, 1 New Zealander, 1 Canadian, 1 Aussie and a Newenglandeer. We cooked fresh pasta, drank 1.80 bottles of Italian wine and talked of living like Kings and Queens in Laos and of a world yet discovered...forgetting already as nearly all of us are moving on, this world, like so many before it, that will be etched into the arms under our sleeves...into the life pump shielded by our royal guards called ribs.
