Travelling slowly

Not trying to see everything, or as many things as you can, but to see a few things, very deliberately.

Corniglia- smallest, most out-of the way of the 5 Cinque Terra Villages in Italy. The one that most tourists walk through at lunchtime, stroll the streets with guidebooks in hand, have a lovely lunch and then trundle on, having “seen” Corniglia. Tick. 

Many years ago (over a decade now) we arrived to stay in Corniglia after a long day of travel: first by plane from London to Pisa, then on various increasingly smaller train lines, and finally on the slow train that goes along the coast route through each of the five villages that make up Cinque Terra. From there it is a steep walk Up, Up, Up a long winding staircase to the village that is perched high on the steep slopes.

We had arranged to phone the woman who would show us our apartment, and meet her in the village square. I had been trying to phone for a couple of hours, with no luck getting through the Italian phone system from my UK phone. We found a payphone in the village square, but still no luck. As it was now after 7 pm, most of the stores around the square were shut. We were exhausted and slightly panicked. I felt the weight of our trip on my shoulders as I had arranged this part of the trip and our accommodation. 

We wandered down the main side street: ok ‘street’ is generous, the main double-wide cobbled path, until we found a store that was open. We shyly entered and asked if the man behind the counter spoke English as I was not sure how to explain our predicament in Italian. He nodded, a little, so we explained. He offered to call the number for us, and ended up having a lively discussion with whoever answered. Apparently the woman was waiting for us in the square, and we would find her there. We gratefully thanked him and off we went. 

We eventually found the woman who would deliver us to our apartment. She was holding court with all the older men in the centre square, and we observed straight away this was not a woman who should be crossed, and we had already kept her waiting for awhile. She was somewhere in age between maybe 50 and 150 – hard to tell exactly – and she spoke not a word of English. She walked along slowly towards our apartment, telling us important information that thankfully we managed to survive without knowing.

Once we got to the apartment, there was something important we needed to know about the various keys and when to lock it, and goodness knows what else. Inside, she explained all the features of the apartment in great detail, about half of which I vaguely understood, and the rest I just nodded to show I was very impressed. (To be fair it was lovely and clean and we were ACHING to relax and enjoy it).

We had to sit down and pay the balance of the bill in cash, and she proceeded to write out a receipt in slow, beautiful cursive. At one point I signed the wrong place and she threw up her hands in exasperation, and started telling me off at volume and I thought we might be done for. I apologised profusely, and went on to tell her as best I could in my faux Italian how kind she was and how patient and how I was sorry to be such a pathetic non-Italian speaking tourist who can’t operate the phones, and on and on.

Honestly I meant every word of what I hoped I was saying, but I was also so tired and just wanted her to finish and let us collapse in peace, and maybe get a bottle of wine or two to end the day properly. I don’t really remember how it all ended but eventually she did leave, we got showers, and went out and ate a most exquisite meal. It is Italy after all.  

Our balcony

The next morning we went back to the store/cafe where we had gotten such kind help the night before. I had noticed there were a few tables and chairs and that they were open for breakfast, so I thought the least we could do was pay him back by buying some coffee and tea in the morning. So we did, and it was amazing coffee, and they had breakfast pastries that we felt obliged to try as well.

The owner was there, as was his wife and a couple of their kids, and as we sipped our coffee, other extended family members and friends stopped in, some suppliers delivered charcuterie, and we watched as the village came to life through the lens of this little café.  

Even though we had an apartment and had bought ourselves food for breakfast, we still came back every day for morning coffee and a pastry because we enjoyed becoming part of the village rhythm for a few days. We were able to smile and say bon giorno to the people we recognised from the café when we saw them in their shops or on the street as we nosed around the village a little deeper and longer over the next few days.

I think this was the first time travelling I understood you could create a small sense of ‘home place’ in a very short time, just by returning to the same place each day. Finding that one cafe to begin with was serendipity, and returning each day became our key to unlocking a small sense of life in this village.

Most wonderfully, when it was time for us to continue on our travels, we got big good-bye hugs from the café owner and a promise to visit again. A feeling a bit like home, where you know someone will be happy to see you when you return.