9th Installment: Road Trip! I Call Shotgun!

In search of new frien… er, looking for history and culture we will be taking the bus to Lerici (le-reach-ee) on Sunday and Porto Venere (porto-ven-err-eh) on Monday. By choosing 5 days in La Spezia it was always the plan to do short day trips by bus or train. La Spezia is the gateway to the Cinque Terre and connected to all 5 hill towns by rail. We had been there previously and it was sensational, but already in shoulder season we heard that the crowds were a nuisance so we will pass on them this time around. If you haven’t been there it is a must-see and can be managed with careful planning.

Both Lerici and Porto Venere are on the Ligurian Sea, an arm of the Mediterranean. Lerici offered important naval protection for the entrance to La Spezia and is located in what locally is called the Gulf of Poets because of the group of famous poets and authors who lived nearby (Shelley, Byron, D.H. Lawrence, Virginia Woolf, and others). It is dominated by Lerici castle which was founded in 1152 and a good portion of it still stands. It boasts 10,000 residents and is a popular tourist destination at the height of summer. In May the hordes are busy tramping the Cinque Terre and we were treated to just the right amount of company where restaurant waits were short and people watching could still be discreetly done.

Access by bus and car is possible but the roads are winding and narrow and our local bus would honk at the many switchbacks and tight turns because the lane would have to be shared with both directions. It is not the place to bring a rental car as parking is in very short supply, and there is no need because the local walkways are almost vertical with many stone staircases the only option for getting around.

Eating options with sea views were abundant and featured Italian staples and plenty of seafood options. One funny scene we faced when dismounting from the bus was of one of the lamest artisanal markets that you’re likely to come across. It was comical what was being offered to passersby including crocheted hats and caps that you would expect to see at a hospital auxiliary fund raiser or simple wooden ‘artworks’ that could be spawned from junior high school wood shops. Still it was fun and the backdrop was the real star of the show.

No sign of our new friends from the previous day but lots of possible targets. Carol wanted me to herself today, so I tried to rein in my enthusiasm and we walked hand in hand when the sidewalks would allow. This also kept the women at bay as it showed that I was spoken for. Not a single widow or divorcée approached me for my opinion. Carol was pleased.

We did manage to stop for some el fresco eats at a seaside cafe, Caffé dei Poeti. I was quite peckish and ordered the stuffed anchovies with an aperol spritz, while Carol was dry-throated and went for vino rosso and offered to nibble on my choice. While billed as an antipasti, the fish arrived as 6 separate portions (surprising at the modest cost). Carol found it too dry and I was forced to stuff (pun intended) my pie-hole (mouth) all the while relaxing in front of the water view.

After what I thought was another winning stop, Carol told me that she found it deficient and was relinquishing me of the sole right to choose a stoppage for the rest of the day. Stung, but obedient, I acquiesced, because Carol had led us to so many restaurants that met all of our criteria; comfortable seating, music, great vibe, and no seafood. Because she grew up with butter, and peanut butter and bacon fat sandwiches on white bread, there had been precious little budget left for oceanic creatures as a meal choice. Over the years I had managed to sneak in the odd can of sardines and would peck at a shrimp ring if one was available at an event that we were attending. So with a bruised ego and no friend requests, we moseyed around the promenade and eventually made our way back to the bus stop and headed home. To prolong our budget we have been making at least one meal per day at home and it was my choice today. Let’s see… octopus or shark fin soup… hmm.

The following day found us careening around turns on a different bus heading for Porto Venere approximately the same distance from La Spezia but at the end of a small peninsula. Same honking, same sharing of lanes, except the bus was packed and we were left standing, gripping the stability bars to keep upright. After 15 minutes, Carol was able to snag a seat but I was left leaning and swaying (keep your core tight was her advice) and reliving every bite of breakfast that we had a mere hour before. Two minutes before we landed I was sitting and flushed in the face. I had considered passing on the seat just so I could claim martyr points (I am a man after all), but my stomach told me to sit.

Note to self: Avoid open-toed shoes when scrabbling over rocks. After an hour my picture finger was going numb so I let Carol take the lead on our quest for the perfect eating spot on one of the higher plateaus. After two failed attempts where we sat down, got comfortable, and then opened the menus to check out the pricing, we ghosted the server and hightailed it out. Nope, nope. Down the stairs to the water we went. It seemed like the lower we went the more reasonable the cost; too bad there was no seating in the submarine.

Earlier in the day when we were testing our fitness on a couple of 50-stair stretches we ran into a Dutch travel guide who was in charge of about 60 folks on a 12 day bus tour. She had released them to their own recognizance and then they would meet at a designated spot in 2 hours. She was very interesting (7 languages?) and chill, considering the responsibility of managing what constituted to an old folks home on wheels. She did say that even 80 year old Dutch could handle the stairs and were very lively (lively with a glint in her eye, I think she meant randy). Anyways, we  were soon to meet a pair of her charges at a restaurant.

We secured our seat at a lovely waterside eatery and perused the menu. The tables being closer together than you would find in North America, we were able to catch partial conversations on each side of us. To my right were a couple of elderly (Carol’s age) female French women. Looking like chardonnay and chenin blanc enthusiasts, they were animated, and laughed unabashedly. They were French, they were fun.

To my left were two aged (my age) Dutch bus people. Facing Carol, Emma was wearing glasses, with a large pearl necklace, rather un-stylish blouse and skirt, and looked like she would own a crocheted hat. Her stern looking husband, Willem, who was in my sightline, was wearing luftwaffe-style sunglasses, severe casual dress shirt, with loose-fitting khakis, and had polished jowls; obviously shaving with a straight razor. He sat ramrod straight and out-heighted me by 25cm. He was double my girth and had beads of sweat ringing his collar. They were Dutch.

I find when I’m in a country where I don’t speak the language (everywhere), that if you’re there long enough you learn a few useful words that you can pick out when a waiter, shop keeper, or random stranger is speaking at you.

In French I’m probably a 1 out of 8 (1/8), in Spanish 1 out of 7 (1/7) and Italian I’m 0 out of infinity (0/*?). Emma’s English was 1/9; Willem was a 3/5. We won’t mention Dutch because their rule of 4 vowels per consonant (4/1?) doesn’t really count as language. So our conversation with them would be in speckled English.

They had been ordering their food in English which the talented waitress was able to translate into real English. She probably knew 7 languages also. Being the professional I wasn’t able to read Willem’s demeanor yet and hung back from an opening salvo. Was he a very private person, where his children would have to ask permission to speak? Or did he just have a stick up his butt and wanted everyone to share his pain?

Carol, being my protège and still taking the New Friend training course, was wanting to earn her chops and leaned over across to Emma. ‘So, are you new around here?’ I was aghast at her impulsiveness, but she, finding her feet, added ‘Do your children wear shoes?’ Okay, those wouldn’t be my opening lines, but damn, Carol has gotten so spunky on this trip, and I felt proud.

Willem didn’t flinch, but Emma was gleeful after deciphering the word ‘children’ and leaned toward Carol with a small piece of tuna stuck to her chin, and we were off. They had been enjoying their bus trip, and were past the midpoint, and had two successful children, and had we ever been to Dutchland? Well, as a matter of fact we did spend a few days in Amsterdam where the weather was the same temperment as it’s citizens; not particularly warm.

Willem had only offered a few notes to Emma’s  dissertation but mentioned that he had been retired for 10 years. I was assuming camp commandant, but it turns out he had been a dentist all of his life. I found that odd because once when he had opened his mouth to bite the head off an eel, I had noticed that he had an excess amount of teeth causing them to overlap to a large degree. There were so many volunteers that they were beginning to form a figure eight around his tongue.

Emma was getting loose and when I showed her a filtered picture of our backyard on the puny screen on my phone, she moved in close and mistakenly assumed our yard was the entire photograph, showing the far riverbank, Kootenay river valley, all the way back to the Selkirk mountains about 5 miles further. She knew Canada was big, but this was Jeff Bezos big. Suddenly, doe-eyed, she took a closer look at my face and didn’t notice the bristles dangling past my nostrils, which Carol repeatedly told me to deal with, and could see only the color of wealth. Also now, Willem’s double smile was now a disadvantage, and he might not be a candidate for ’till death do us part’ as he had been previously. But Willem broke the spell and ordered coffee and dessert for them both and Emma was brought back earthward at the mention of treats.

Our food had arrived and I glowing looked at Carol across the table and thought ’till death do us part’, she has real potential. One last memory of our meal was the always present need to use the facilities. Tight as these tables and chairs were to each other meant that in order to squirm around and not send someone’s shrimp cocktail back into the sea you would in essence have to do the macarena with your arms above your head and hips zigzagging to and fro. Oo, now who’s randy?