The following morning, we awoke early and in good spirits, ready to conquer the primary reason for our trip to Italy- Cinque Terre. Cinque Terre, or “the five lands” is a series of seaside villages along the Mediterranean coast of Italy, known for their outstanding beauty and old-world charm. Most of these quaint villages lay at the base of the Sentiero Azzurro mountains, some of the trails connecting the tiny towns passing through or up and over them. Zach and I had little concern regarding the difficulty of the Cinque Terre hike. Most reviews online explained that the entire hike through all five towns could be done in a day, but would take about five hours. Many people said that the part of the hike from Monterosso to Vernazza was the most difficult, but it was a piece of cake after that. No problem, we thought, and so we eagerly headed towards the beginning of the trail with nothing but a banana and a croissant in each of our stomachs. We started at Monterosso, the most northern village, and the most touristy/resort oriented. Still beautiful, nonetheless. I was amazed by all the beautiful flora that peaked out of the sidewalks, through the cracks in buildings, essentially everywhere I looked. I had never seen such beautiful, unusual flowers before. Zach and I headed towards the trail, feeling energized and ready for action. A line of people formed quickly ahead of us, creating traffic jams every few steps or so. It was breaking our flow and focus, especially since the ascent was developing rather quickly, and the steps becoming more narrow. I watched confusedly, as people ahead of us struggled to conquer the terrain in loafers, boat shoes, there was even a man wearing an outfit so formal that it was almost a suit. There were women in fancy white blouses and jewelry falling by the wayside, their sweat already making an unwanted appearance upon their backs. A group of Asians bumped around awkwardly with open umbrellas in attempt to protect themselves from the sun. Zach and I looked at each other with furrowed brows and eye rolls, frustrated by the unprepared hiking brigade. Finally, the novices started to take seats on tree stumps and rocks, some even turning around. Zach and I started moving past people, the path becoming sparse of tourists. It felt a little bit like survival of the fittest, scary thing is, I was already having trouble breathing and sweating profusely, only twenty minutes into the hike. Perhaps those people were physically unprepared- we were mentally unprepared.
Underestimation got the best of us, and it was only going to get worse. Despite some difficulty, the peaks of the trail were breathtaking. We stood on the edge of a cliff against two skinny rails, overlooking cerulean blue water with tiny white sailboats upon it in the distance. Shades of bright, vivacious greens with highlights of yellow flowers covered the entire side of the mountains down to the ocean. Beautiful, would be an understatement. Within about two hours, we reached our first destination, the little village of Vernazza. When it first appeared through the leaves of the trees hovering over the path, my eyes widened in disbelief at the beauty. Each building was a bright, lively color, centuries old in structure; untainted by corporate greed and the over stimulation of advertisements. We were welcomed with the echoes of church bells drifting out into the open sea, the beautiful blue water I admired from above now becoming a reality when I ran up to its edge. We set out on a wide rock and I watched as Zach eagerly headed in. I was right behind him, but a little hesitant of the bright green marine life that grew under the surface. The mossy seaweed felt funny, tickling the sole of my foot as it swayed with the gentle current. Encouraging me to jump in, Zach floated happily a few feet off the rock, almost looking like he was floating on air because of the clarity. I jumped off the rock towards him, and was overwhelmed with a feeling of bliss. I observed colorful little fish, white, pure sand straight below, and a beautiful village surrounding me above the surface. Ever since I thumbed through the photos of mom’s “Mediterranean cooking” book when I was a child, it became a dream of mine to swim in the teal, crystal clear paradise that was the Mediterranean ocean. About fifteen years later, my dream had finally come to life.
We continued onward toward the next destination, Corniglia. The powerful Italian sun began to demonstrate its strength and I felt my skin baking like a crispy cookie. I felt my energy beginning to dwindle, so I was happy when we arrived about two hours later. We didn’t spend long in Corniglia, it was beautiful beyond words but being so tiny, the streets were crowded with tourists. It was similar to Vernazza, but it was out on a plateau above the sea, it’s colorful buildings overlooking the water by a few hundred feet above. We had a quick bite to eat and psyched ourselves up for the next part of the hike. As we observed the trail map, we noticed signs that the lower part of the trail that we expected to take had been closed due to a landslide. The detour didn’t seem too much more strenuous, according to the map. However, Zach and I would eventually learn during our stay in Italy that the Italians aren’t very good with their signage. We shrugged and felt minimal concern for the detour, also ignoring the fact that at this point it was midday- the time when locals partake in Siesta, a smart way to stay out of the sun during the hottest part of the day.
AN ASCENT WORTH THE VIEW
It’s important to recognize your own ignorance. I realized my stupidity only about fifteen minutes into the already brutal climb. I’m sure the sun was laughing at my SPF 4 sunscreen, to start, and my disregard of the fact that the detour went UP the mountain earned me the leg pain and extreme struggle I endured less than half an hour in. Zach impressed me unintentionally, as he always does, digging his feet into the dusty edges of the mountain and pushing onward at a steady pace. For someone who quit smoking only about a month before, he could have been competing in a triathlon. I wheezed and internally laughed at my self pity for feeling like it was the end, also finding it comical that Zach never exercised, but I spent hours doing yoga, squats and jogging whenever I had free time back at home. This my friends, is a fine example, that it is all mental.In this case, I felt like Sam, and I knew he was Frodo.
Fourty minutes later and Zach and I collapse at what finally seems to be a flat part of the trail. I had never sweat so much in my life, the SPF 4 sunscreen became completely pointless as it dripped down my legs and met my socks, falling off the tips of my fingers in steady drips. Zach’s face was bright pink, not sure if it was from the sun or the strain on his body. When we finally caught our breath, we admired how far we had come as we observed Corniglia in the hazy distance. The fauna was different with the elevation, the trees were more scraggly and dry, any forested areas were more silent aside from the occasional screech of a hawk or a much appreciated breeze brushing some dry leaves aside. A thought entered my head that I wanted to ignore- what happens if we need help? At this point, the train of tourist hikers had given up and we were some of the only people on the trail. I don’t even know how to say “help!” in Italian, I thought to myself. The trail was quite narrow in most parts at this point, a dusty line with protruding rocks, spiney plants, and a steep slope of rocky cliffs on the right side of us. Despite this area being a national park and a UNESCO world heritage site, it lacked preventative measures such as fences and warning signs. I think the motto here was “Don’t be stupid.” Whenever the rare occasion of other hikers occurred in this desolate area of the trail, one party had to cling to either a tree branch, an opportune rock, etc. in order to pass safely. Most often, nothing was said between us and the other poor souls, it was just a mutual understanding that the situation was pretty rough. It was only later that evening that I curiously researched how many people have died hiking the Cinque Terre trails, and it’s disturbingly quite a few. In this case, be prepared. Ignorance does not often end in bliss.
Once we reached the top of the mountain, my breath was finally taken away by the beauty and not the difficulty of the terrain. Suddenly, the hours worth of struggle that had just occurred was overcome by relief as Zach and I stood in awe of the views. How was it possible that they were getting better? The trail cut directly through hundreds of rows of vineyards, scattered along the entire side of the mountain. Everything was so green that it almost seemed to radiate a golden glow of vitality, contrasting against the cloudless blue sky. The ocean was further below us now, any boats looking like tiny white specs with little arrow head trails following behind them as they cut through the glassy water. Despite its exhaustion, my heart was so full of happiness and love for this excursion. The views were well worth the climb, and how rewarding it felt to know how difficult it was. Little did we know, the challenge wasn’t over yet…
It was not long after the heavenly paradise of vineyards that we found ourselves trying to figure out minimal signs while stumbling (legs like jello) through a quiet, tiny village with stone streets and almost no one around. We went back up and down the alley ways, searching for the tiny red and white trail markers that were supposed to put us back on track. We finally found an old italian man who Zach tried to communicate with and ask where Manarola was, the stout fellow using grand hand gestures and full on italian once again pointing in a chaotic scheme of directions. We tried yet another route, finally finding a tiny, grassy path with a hidden red and white marker on the base of a rock. We descended for a while into a lush valley, large vegetable gardens and rose bushes scattered along the slopes on either side. We passed random shrines of Mother Mary, aged looking statues peaking out of the growth, and little rivers and trickling waterfalls running alongside the trail.
After another hour, we started to feel disoriented, figuring we should have been to Manarola by now, and having lost sight of the ocean. We knew we must have taken some really wrong turn at some point when we wound up walking through the backyards of some tiny italian homes with clothing lines above our heads and people peering over their terraces at us below. Again, Zach changed his tone of voice to try to communicate with an older woman who was in the midst of sweeping. “Manarola...where..is it?” He squinted a bit in trying to understand her explanation. I found it funny how the Italians don’t even bother saying they don’t speak english, they just respond as if you fully understand Italian. She pointed us in the direction of a nearby road, and from there we walked along side the curving pavement through more valleys as cars whizzed past us. It felt strange to see elements of civilization again, but it was relieving to be off the top of the desolate mountain. As my backpack shifted over my shoulder I winced at the stinging sensation of a developing sunburn. It had to be about 5 or 6 by this point, yet the sun still hovered high in the sky. Zach turned to me and smiled with exhaustion, pointing to a sign that said “Manarola” and had an arrow pointing down a tiny footpath. It was about another 30 minutes before we finally reached the 4 out of 5 villages, it was unfortunate for us that Manarola was situated at the base of the mountains so we had to head downhill but knew that we would have to go back up yet again even more so when heading to Riomaggiore. When we finally reached the main corridor of the village, our energy felt almost non-existent. I tried to take in the beauty of my surroundings, this town was a little different from the rest, it wrapped around two edges of the mountain, creating a diverse geographical scene. Restaurants on the edges of cliffs overlooking the sea, people sunbathing at the base of the cliffs on large rocks, layers of colorful homes above and a lively energy provided by people who had most likely not just hiked an excruciating five hour journey. We treated ourselves to gelato because we knew we deserved it. The next part of the trail seemed more promising, as it was called “Lover’s Lane.” It didn’t sound too intimidating. Dozens of reviews referred to it as “leisurely” and “romantic, absolutely stunning.” So we mustered up the last of our energy and set out to try to find this relaxing walk.
HIKE FROM HELL
We walked up and down the cobble stoned streets, searching down tiny alleyways, but no luck. A British family of 8, all generations, latched on to our search when I warned them “don’t go that way if you’re looking for the trail to Riomaggiore, we just came from there.” The grandmother, peppy with energy, led her family alongside Zach, who was becoming a little frustrated at the lack of signage. Yet again, he asked directions, this time from a young waiter. The young man, speaking in Italian (of course), sent us back in the direction we came from and signaled a left. This time, we noticed a small sign pointing up some stone steps saying “Riomaggiore” with an arrow pointing upwards. Upwards? Oh no, I thought. I already decided I wasn’t keen.
The Brits blasted past us, even the grandmother and the grandfather, who led their pack of overachieving kin. I was impressed but annoyed all the same, wishing I had that enthusiasm to continue the climb up what turned out not to be “Lover’s Lane” but more so “Satan’s sidewalk” or maybe, “Hike of Hatred.” This trail was in fact THE most difficult, as it was an immediate ascent upward that was so steep it was almost completely vertical. I gasped for air, wheezing again, my sweat dripping off me like a faucet and stinging my eyes. I tried to follow Zach’s footing, placing my toes in a crevice on one side of a rock and grabbing a prickly branch overhead to try and hoist myself up the ledge, Zach pulled my arm but didn’t have much luck with the perspiration covering it. I slid down against a rock, careless about the dirt I was covered in. My entire body ached, I was developing lightheadedness, and I actually felt frightened due to the fact that this was very close to actual rock climbing except with no gear. “I’m over this, I’m so over this” Zach exhaled with frustration. He had a splitting headache and bad knees that caused him a fiery pain on any consistent incline. After sitting for a few minutes, he hopped back up and gave me a pep talk, saying we could do this together. I picked myself up out of the dirt, briefly admiring the astounding view of Manarola below, with the glistening ocean in the background. I continued upward and felt a surge of adrenaline kick in, pushing me past my limit. I developed a rhythm, step, step, grab rock, hoist, breathing slowly in through my nose and out through my mouth. I had done one of the most difficult hikes in the United States back in New York, known as “Breakneck Ridge.” That hike paled in comparison to this path of insanity. There are few words that can describe the feeling of relief I had when we finally reached the top of the mountain. Cursing under our gasps of breath, we high fived each other and started attempting to laugh at the ridiculousness of what we just experienced. “Lover’s Lane?” Zach shook his head and laughed in disbelief. We looked up at a sign that pointed towards Manarola (for people traveling in the opposite direction), on the base of it someone wrote “this hike sucked” another person scribbled in capital letters “HIKE OF DEATH.” We snapped a picture with our most honest expressions of how we felt about that last hike.
Despite the insane challenge it offered, Zach and I felt like Spartan warriors as we overlooked the now tiny village below us. We knew that it had to be all downhill from here, so we began the steady voyage downward. Not much easier, considering the steep slant of the mountain paired with my burning quads and kneecaps that felt like they were going to implode. On the way down, we passed a couple who were just approaching the top of the mountain- both in flip flops. Zach and I raised our brows, but not much could phase us at this point.
I was overwhelmed with bliss and relief when we reached the last stop, village 5 out of 5- Riomaggiore. It was lovely, just as the other villages were, but this one had many colorful fishing boats lining the tiny slanted streets. It was quieter, more relaxed. It was now almost 9pm, Zach and I had hiked about 12 hours, and estimated about 15 miles considering the length of the NORMAL trail was 11 miles. Our little adventure through the valleys and backyards of farmers had certainly earned us a few more miles. As we sat on the rocks with our Birra Moretti's watching the golden sun finally dip below the horizon, I pointed to a boardwalk that I spotted two people walking hand in hand around the bottom edge of the mountain we had just climbed over. I looked at Zach and started laughing, realizing that this must have been the wonderful “Lover’s Lane.” We aren’t sure how it happened, but we definitely took a wrong turn somewhere.
I like to think that we took the more realistic Lover’s Lane, the one that represents challenges, determination, and effort, but endless worthwhile views. Zach took my hand and we smiled goofy, exhausted smiles at each other. We conquered mountains together, the start of many adventures for us. I looked around at the astounding atmosphere- a canary yellow building emphasized by the golden evening light, a man playing an acoustic guitar, dozens of people speckled along the coastline above and below us, all admiring the beauty of nature as it put on its final show for the evening. In this moment, I was in love with many things. My boyfriend, my surroundings, my life. I slipped into a daze, promising myself that this dream, would be the first of many realities.
