Day Seven

“Dove…fermata…Dolcheaqua…autobus?”

 I am convinced Kat is a superhero. Our train has just arrived in Ventimiglia, and we are already lost. We spot a group of literal soldiers standing outside the station, and Kat struts right up to them.

 “Dove…fermata…Dolcheaqua…autobus?”

 I stand a bit behind her, pretending to read something in my English-Italian language book. The book is small, and I carry it with me everywhere, even though I think it was written in the 1950’s (or 1890’s. I don’t know. It’s old.) It has expressions like “Please give me a blank for a foreign telegram.” and “Will you call a porter please?” I carry it for mostly sentimental reasons. 

The soldiers stifle laughs before answering back in English, which we take as a bit of an insult.

 “Walk down this street and take the second left. The bus stop should be right around the corner.”

After following the soldiers’ instructions, we become lost again. Not because we can’t find a bus stop, but because we find three. All on the same street.

Little did we know that a few hours later, things would only get worse.

 .           .           .           .           .           .           

It’s 3:30 PM, and Kat and I are desperately sticking our thumbs out to passing cars on the main street in Dolcheaqua. A group of four men – all probably eighty years old – are laughing at us from behind. 

“Ventimiglia? Ventimiglia anyone?”

 We just had the most amazing day, and now we are stranded in Dolcheaqua. A village boasting a population of 2,078 and no taxi services.

 Earlier in the morning, we had accidentally wound up in Bordighera after intending to get on a bus to Dolcheaqua. A kind old Italian man had led us to a bus stop that he believed would take us where we needed to go. Ten minutes later, we realized we were travelling in the wrong direction. (An endearing motif of this blog! Stay tuned for more!)

When we arrived in Bordighera, we figured we’d walk around and explore. Then, we stumbled upon the Monet exhibit just as it was opening. 

At the height of his career, Monet travelled to Bordighera to see the olive groves and palm trees. He described Bordighera as a place “delicious to see.” I don’t know much about art, but my favorite part of Monet’s paintings is his attempt at capturing light. How does he do it so accurately? I also love how intensely blue he paints the Ligurian Sea – it really is that blue! And the twisting branches of the olive trees! And how he weaves the colors of the sea into the vegetation! 

The exhibit did a wonderful job of explaining the impact Monet had on Bordighera. His paintings inspired tourists from all over the world to visit because of how he portrayed the scenery. And to this day, people travel here for this reason.

This morning, however, there was almost no one around, which meant that Kat and I were in a room alonewith one of Monet’s paintings. We both got up close enough to see Claude’s (lol Claude) hundred-year-old brush strokes painting the fine details of this city.

SIDE NOTE: I’m still trying to determine whether or not Claude is a hot name. Claude Monetis a very hot name. Possibly the hottest. (Mom, Dad – I Think I Have A Crush On Claude Monet.) But just Claude? I don’t know. I’m skeptical. I guess it’s all about how you wear it.

We walked around some more and stopped for cappuccino. I ordered a gigantic pastry stuffed with creme and Nutella. It dripped onto my new, white pants and definitely made me gain at least three pounds – Worth it!

We took a bus back to Ventimiglia, exploring the huge market there. It was full of cheeses and meats and strange fruits and vegetables – Italian farmers everywhere silently eyeing you, making sure no one plucked a strawberry here or a grape there. (I found it especially difficult to refrain from doing this.) We were both overwhelmed and vowed to return another day to have a picnic. (Kat, I will hold you to this.)

Then, another nice Italian man escorted us to another bus stop. We looped our arms through his and literally skipped down the street. He dropped us off – “Ciao! Grazie!”– and we were finally on our way to Dolcheaqua. 

We were speechless upon arrival. 

The village was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. There was a medieval bridge that Monet captured in one of his better-known pieces. It jutted up high over the river and led to a cobbled-stone street of ancient apartments with shops and art studios at the bottom. It looked like something out of The Hobbit because all the doors were tiny and different colors. 

Overlooking the whole scene, I kid you not, was a castle. 

We spent the entire afternoon exploring everything, winding between the streets and walking up to the castle at the top of the hill. This all took a few hours. Between all the walking and excitement, we became very hungry. (Something about Italy makes me hungry all the time. Like, I think about my next meal while I’m eating my current meal. And it usually involves bread or pasta or both. Help!)

We decided to walk back down to the town center and get something to eat. I sighed, satisfied, as we crossed back over the bridge. I looked around and declared the following:

“You know, I don’t want to jinx anything. But today’s been such a perfect day. Watch something bad happen, like I leave my phone at the restaurant or something. Watch it happen.”

The universe undoubtedly took my proclamation as a challenge, because ten minutes later, there we are – sticking our thumbs up at cars on the side of the road while getting heckled by the elderly.

All the restaurants – every last one – are closed. (Afternoon siesta is taken very seriously in Italy.) And, we missed the only bus going out of Dolcheaqua for over three hours.

SIDE NOTE: Usually, waiting three hours would be no problem. There was still plenty to see in Dolcheaqua, and we could’ve gotten something to eat at a corner store. However, waiting three hours meant that we would have missed our train back to Imperia. Which meant I would miss the only bus back to my village (which I eventually didmiss. HA. I’ll get to that.) Staying overnight would’ve come with additional fees and research and decisions that we weren’t prepared for. Thus, hitchhiking. (Sorry Mom/Dad/grandparents.)

Not five minutes later, a black car pulls up, and a young guy gets out. He runs into a restaurant nearby to drop something off and then quickly returns. 

The old men sitting on the bench begin speaking in rapid Italian and pointing to me and Kat. They all know each other. I think maybe he’s the grandson (or great-grandson) of one of them. Although I can’t make out what they’re saying, I catch the words “Ventimiglia” and “bus.” The guy looks over to us and motions for us to get in his car.

Kat and I look at each other as if to say are we actually doing this? before shrugging and opening the door.

The guy barely speaks English but manages to tell us that he’s a tattoo artist. He seems very kind. (But also, he charges 60 euros for a small tattoo, which is kind of a lot?) We arrive in Ventimiglia a few minutes later, and he drops us off on the main street – “Ciao! Grazie!”

We can hardly believe our luck. Not only did we get back to Ventimiglia with time to spare, but we didn’t get murdered! (Again, sorry Mom/Dad/grandparents.)

After roaming* around the city a bit more, we board our train back home. It had been a long day. (“Aren’t they all?” Said the old, Parisian woman, knocking the ash off her unlit cigarette.) I passed out on the ride – something about these trains makes me fall asleep instantly. I think it might have something to do with the position of the neck cushion. And also walking 12 miles.

I was so content and ready to drink some tea, prop my feet up, and get to bed. Little did we know that we would – you guessed it! – miss the bus from the station to the city center. Which meant that I would – right again! – miss my bus back up the mountain. 

“Oh no!” You say. “What on earth did you do?” You ask. Great question.

Let me first say that I did NOT choose the right shoes for this journey. Like I always say: Cuteness over comfort. So, although my shoes brought my whole Under-the-Tuscan-Sun-meets-Meg-Ryan look together (thank you Target, thank you Macy’s), my feet were now fully bleeding.

After standing at the bus stop for an hour, we accept our fate. Kat and I were able to find a ride from an acquaintance to Caramagna. But this, you must understand, is only the base of the mountain I live on. My village is another three miles away – all uphill. As its getting dark. Carrying my belongings. With bleeding feet.

So, before we begin the trek, we walk into the nearest bar and buy the cheapest bottle of white wine they have. We decide to reward ourselves once we get to the top.

And let me tell you, it was a journey. 

In high school, I went on two hikes through the Rocky Mountains. Whenever I felt like I couldn’t go on, I repeated “mental toughness, mental toughness” to myself in my head. It kept me going. 

This night, walking up this mountain, I have the realization that that mantra from high school that was supposed to get me through a brutal day of hiking is the psychological equivalent of someone reciting “cheeseburger, cheeseburger, cheeseburger” every time they feel a pang of starvation.

At one point, probably halfway through the walk, I see a faraway village. I really have to squint to get a good look at it.

 “Look, Kat! That’s the village I was telling you about earlier! It’s kind of far, but maybe we could take a bus one day and explore it.”

As we get closer, I realize that it’s my village. 

Little by little, we get closer and closer. I become more optimistic while simultaneously worrying that my foot blood will stain my shoes. As we get to the top, I take in all of Imperia. 

The road to my village really is the most beautiful place to take in the city. The mountains meet in the center, perfectly framing the orange and yellow hues of the buildings a few miles down. Behind them is the world itself. The same blue Monet suggests in his work encapsulates the background where the sea and sky expand into a grey haze. It is hard to tell where the sea tapers off and the sky begins. 

We stop to take it all in.

The sky above us is quickly turning navy. Beside us are beautiful shades of green, simultaneously swallowing and springing forth new life at every turn. And below us is the sturdy road. I wonder how many others made this same journey under similar circumstances – a missed bus, a flat tire. Whatever the circumstance, no matter how dire, I know that at one point along this road, their feet also came to a gentle halt – acknowledging the ever-present beauty of this land and their blind luck at getting to stand witness to it.

*Read: Eating