Somewhere.........before that age when a boy becomes a man.: 2019

The train ride from Vernazza on the Cinque Terra to Varenna on Lake Como took longer than expected. One delayed train and the dominos start falling. Nonetheless, perseverance eventually won the day and as dusk settled in we boarded the small ferry to Bellagio. And Bellagio is simply stunning.....and a stark contrast to the humble villages of the Cinque Terra. Everything proclaims a sense of money, aristocracy, and a past, if not present, dominated by noblemen. The local chamber of commerce was probably a little dismayed when Jamie and I disembarked the ferry. Just kidding.......as with all our travels, we found the locals to be extremely helpful, accommodating , and good natured.

Anyway, we got checked-in to our hotel and then found a little restaurant that appeared to be filled with locals tucked into a vaulted brick cellar of an old building just a couple of blocks distant. The food tasted great after a long day traveling and then it was off to bed. Lake Como is dead quiet after dark and a bit of a shock to the system after the sound of Vernazza.

The Sound of Vernazza (Kid Stuff)

Day one: And we woke the next morning ready to poke around the tiny byways of the upscale town before hiking over the hill to the adjoining village of Pescallo which resides on the other side of the "peninsula". And then back over the "hogsback" to stroll and view the gardens of Villa Melzi.

Day two: Another ferry boat ride, 15 minutes tops, and we found ourselves in another tiny village on the opposite shore - Menaggio. And I'm sure you know our modus operandi by now. Yes, more exploring on foot.

The area had seen fighting in WWII as Mussolini attempted to flee north to Switzerland in the face of the advancing Allies. Small, non-descript reader boards honored the fallen at various locations throughout the town. It was hard to imagine that such an idyllic area of beauty and serenity could serve as the stage to some of man's worst impulses. And I had to wonder about the young GI, just a mere boy, who had dutifully reconnoitered the same narrow lanes that I now casually explored. His reality and mine.......

Day 3: We awoke to a good solid rain. The first and only day of rain on the trip. But as we've learned in the Pacific Northwest - wait for perfect weather and you never go.

So another hop on the ferry. This day to meander Varenna where we had entered this tranquil valley and a walk along the promenade at the Villa Monastero.

Day 4: Another travel day. We took the "fast" boat to the town of Como at the head of the lake. "Fast" because we opted for the speedier catamaran with fewer stops rather than the slower and more frequent stops of the passenger's only boat. The previous day's rains had turned into quite a thunder storm overnight and the first snow of the season dusted the higher elevations.

Lunch across the street from the Cattedrale di Como and then on to Milan by train.

Day 5: Milan - so much to see, so little time. We settled upon the rooftop of the Duomo di Milano as our "must do". The cathedral is massive, gothic, and truly majestic - inside and out.

But first the adventure of getting there from our hotel. And for that we chose the subway system. A bit intimidating at first but Jamie soon figures out that we need to get to the Duomo station - well duh, Doug - and with a swipe of the credit card at one of many ticket kiosks, a look at the map, and a quick search for the color coded route, we're off. Well almost. As the masses surged towards the train, Yours truly was a twinkling slow of foot and managed to get his left appendage stuck in the automatic train door as it closed. And let me bear witness, unlike our elevators here in the states, the Italian train doors don't pop right back open. Indeed, upon first contact there is a second and then a third and fourth surge. Those additional gnaws on the ankle bone could only be interpreted as warning shots - "Hey! Knucklehead!! Don't do that again!" For a couple of seconds I had visions of leaving Milan with a prosthetic foot as a souvenir. But no worries, the bear trap eventually let go the death grip and I'm happy to report that this old, goofy American was responsible for giving a number of local commuters a chuckle as they started their workday. International relations in practice.

No sooner had we ascended the stairs out of the subway into the Duomo's plaza than a "street vendor" approached. And he put a handful of corn kernels into mine. What??? But in a second, we realized we were expected to feed the pigeons, which surely outnumbered even the tourists. And that's saying something. So, I handed the kernels to Jamie and she proceeded with characteristic enthusiasm and wonder......for a time.

Well, on to the cathedral and adjacent museum. Pictures don't do it justice. But a picture is worth a thousand words.

Then the subway home and a last night Italian dinner at Osteria Mamma Rosa. Truly unforgettable.

Day 6: Headed home. We strode out the entrance of our hotel at 7:00 AM and took the 45 minute train ride to the Milan Malpensa Airport. Some 30+ hours later we staggered through the front door of our Anacortes home - 2:30 AM.

We are so grateful for the the sights, sounds, tastes, smells, and feels that God has allowed us to experience these past two weeks. But family and home would be at the top of that list. I read of a study recently that found that morning coffee tastes best when drank from one's favorite cup. How true.

What a beautiful noise
Comin' up from the street
Got a beautiful sound
It's got a beautiful beat

Neil Diamond, Beautiful Noise, refrain 1

Travel truly is one of my passions. It has to be. As I write this, Jamie and I are just a few short days removed from a 30+ hour journey that whisked us from Milan, Italy to our home in Anacortes, Washington. And believe me, as one's joints grow tighter and tighter with age, trying to sleep in the back of a cramped plane while in an upright sitting position is the exact definition of torture. Nonetheless, my mind is already debating the pros and cons of our next adventure.

But this blog entry isn't concerned with the future - it's about the recent past. Specifically, the few, too-short days we spent on the Cinque Terra in the small and humble fishing village of Vernazza.

Just about a year ago, Jamie and I began planning our trip. We were looking forward to hiking some of the trails linking the five wee villages that overlooked the Mediterranean and sampling some of tastes provided in the area. But even at that early date, most of the accommodations on the Cinque Terra had been booked. So, we settled upon a small "B&B" in the middle of Vernazza. "B&B" in quotes because there was a bed but no breakfast. Save that one misnomer, it checked all the other boxes - a shower, clean sheets, central to the other four villages, and a short walk to and fro the train station. Come to think of it, everything in Vernazza is a short walk to and fro the train station.

Arriving in Milan, I had envisioned previewing some of those Mediterranean vistas from the comfort of the train as we boarded from bin (platform) 20 at the Milano Centrale Railway Stazione.

Unfortunately, my research into our travels had lacked depth. As expected, the last leg of our journey snaked along the coast of the Italian Riviera. But the steepness of the land as it plunged into the sea demanded that the majority of the tracks burrow through solid rock. Most of the home stretch was spent in total darkness only to be interrupted by brief explosions of light - lightning like - as the train raced across narrow ravines before entering the next tunnel. Vistas were few and far between.

And then suddenly, the not-so organized chaos to disembark. There were as many passengers trying to get off the train as there were travelers attempting to board. All creating a chokepoint at a much too narrow door that kept trying to automatically close. Plus, a platform designed to accommodate maybe a third as many people.

But arrive we did. And Vernazza did not disappoint. Teaming with tourists, one narrow artery, void of motorized vehicles, descended through the bottom of one of those small ravines and multi-floored, multi-hued buildings stood shoulder-to-shoulder on either flank until the cobblestone gave way to the ancient and picturesque harbor at water's edge.

Walking down the short distance to our "B&B", we passed between a number of sidewalk cafés on either side of the street. And with the buildings rising vertically just behind the tables and storefronts, the sense was more canyon than ravine. The sound was of rushing water where no water flowed.

The energy of the surroundings was somewhat confusing and we had a couple false starts in finding the building that housed our room. But soon we found ourselves climbing a near vertical flight of stairs to what would be our home for six nights. Yes - that "vertical" description is somewhat of an exaggeration but the last step did in fact have an 16 inch rise and the previous 15 stairs weren't much shallower. Understandable when considering that the premises had been constructed long before the invention of building codes. Regardless, with one final surge we entered our room and surveying the street below from our small open-shuttered window, I realized that I was just about eyeball to eyeball with the train station.

Now, please humor me a moment, and allow a slight digression. Eyesight is an incredible gift. I've been blessed. But in my case, it tends to dominate the other four senses. In writing this, I find it most easy to describe the sights of our adventure. And when words fail (all too often say you?), a picture can easily be inserted into the blog. Less so, the taste of lamb with carbonara. Fresh sea bass baked in olive oil with spices. And gelato - mercy! Right next door to tastes are smells. The sea air. The scent of the rose along the trail. The "nose" (whatever that means) of a freshly swirled Barbera. Or how about the sense of touch? In this very moment the feel of rounded cobblestones (think billiard balls) pressing through the soles of my walking shoes into the balls and heels of my feet is as real as it was two weeks ago. Some might describe the sensation as painful. I would disagree because the discomfort triggered a sense of great joy. But I have no better description.

All incredible blessings. All impossible to replicate in words.

And then there are sounds. Oh, I know. There are recording devices for those. But I am neither quick enough nor is my technical savvy with my I-phone adequate to capture those fleeting bursts. Regardless, while I may not be able to really express the sounds of Vernazza in words, I want to try and convey at least some sense of the area. End digression.

During our 5 day stay in that little room, I looked out over the street below from that open-shuttered window many a time. The sights were always interesting but it is the sounds that will stick. Perhaps that is so because the sounds were amplified as they bounced back and forth off the opposite walls.

Laughter is the same world-wide. And while individual conversations are lost in the din, a hearty laugh stands out. The same can be said of a crying infant. Silverware clinking on a plate could be discerned consistently through the cacophony of it all. And every hour, on the hour, the church bells would toll - clear and loud. There were two churches in town, and one set of chimes would be followed a minute later by the second set. I assume that the order was determined by a dice game centuries past. Just kidding - I have no idea. Not only would chimes resonate at the top of the hour - Dong, Dong Dong (3 o'clock) but at the half hour as well - Dong, Dong, Dong, clank (3:30). That always made me laugh.

Well, Vernazza is certainly more tourist attraction than fishing village in present-day. But most of the tourists stay in the other villages or further out, so the street begins thinning out at 8:00 PM and by 11:00 PM all is quiet save for the occasional dog barking in the distance. Or the one night when in the wee hours, three revelers wobbled towards home, crooning a chant that just had to be the mantra of their favorite soccer team. As for music, we came across three street musicians - one accordionist, one saxophonist, one guitarist. Beyond those three fellas, we never found any "live" music at any restaurant. Perhaps a greater variety could be found during the summer months. But when seated inside, if there was music being piped in, it was American from the 60's, 70's, and 80's.

About 5:00 AM, and for next two hours, the street came alive again. In preparation for another round of tourists, the tiny road was opened up to delivery vans and garbage trucks. Those two items can be found pretty much world-wide as well. And I strongly suspicion that there is some sort of international competition to see who can make the noisiest garbage dumpster. The competition is no-doubt sponsored by a demented ear plug manufacturer. So far, my vote goes to Dublin, Ireland. I think the Irish have perfected the double heavy-metal lid that sounds like two bombs being detonated in rapid succession rather than just one. But Vernazza runs a close second.

And then, about 7:00 AM, Jamie and I are just starting to stir. And almost like clockwork, every morning, up rose the clackity-clackity-clackity-clack of a fellow traveler dragging his roller-suitcase up the cobblestone road to the train station. Headed home. We witnessed one weary soul actually dragging his suitcase case down over the rocks, wheels up.

And that brings us trains. The sound of trains. The sound of Vernazza. Unforgettable. Unfathomable. Indescribable.

Three types of trains pass through Vernazza - local passenger trains, freight trains, and express passenger trains. Now the local trains stop in Vernazza and run from about 7:00 AM till midnight. Every 15-20 minutes. The other two types of trains run much less frequently but 24 hours a day. And let me say this - they are called express trains for a reason. They move very fast. Pedal to metal fast and braking seems to be verboten. Oh, oh. Got my German and Italian crossed up there. Anyway, you get the idea.

Now, when standing on the platform, it was always evident when a train was coming. The first tell was a slight breeze being exhaled from the tunnel exit from which the train would eventually appear. The breeze grew into quite a blow after a number of seconds, especially when the express trains were coming. Then, out of the darkness, came the whistle and a second later.....another explosion. This time a clap of thunderous noise instead of lightning. And the noise persisted and then penetrated one's very being.

WHOOOOSH, CLACK, WHOOOOOOSH, CLACK, CLANK, CLACK, WHOOOOSH...............

How's that for descriptive? I think I nailed it. 😂😂😂😟

Then, just about the time you were sure that the world was coming to an end, the last car in the train would disappear at break-neck speed into the tunnel entrance on the opposite side of the ravine, leaving only a slight, diminishing suction sound behind. And then silence. The local trains sounded much the same except add a few SCREECHES in among the whooshes, clanks and clacks to account for the brakes being applied and the meeting of metal on metal.

It was ironic that pre-recorded messages were periodically piped over the intercom, warning passengers to stay behind a six inch yellow line, painted on the platform about two feet from the edge. No warning message needed here. After the first encounter, Yours Truly could be found cowering on the far side of platform.

Well, as I said earlier, our room was just about eyeball to eyeball with the train station. Usually, we slept through the trains - exhausted from the previous days adventures and the hiking - not to mention that staircase to our room. But a few times during our stay, the dead still would be pierced by an accelerating rush of wind.....then the whistle.....then the chaos. And I was reminded of an old "I Love Lucy" episode that was one of my Mom's favorites. Lucy and Ricky are traveling cross country from New York to Hollywood by car and they stop for the night at a well-used motel down by the train tracks. All is well as the two climb into bed but soon a train rumbles by. The action is slow at first and comedic. But with each passing train, the effect becomes more intense. Lucy's eyes turning to saucers and Ricky reverting to his native tongue as he begins babbling incoherently in Cuban. Finally, the bed is literally vibrated across the room as lights dim, dishes drop from shelves, and ceiling tiles begin to fall. Terrified, the couple clings to the only thing they could - each other.

Jamie was asleep, but I reached over and held her hand. The sound of Vernazza. What a beautiful noise. And the joy forced a smile to my face in the dark.