Two Fishermen Named Beppe and a Ride on the Monorail

I think that the only way to truly understand Cinque Terre is to spend a day out on a boat with a local fisherman. Luckily, I had the chance to do this. Unluckily, I tend to get seasick just looking at a boat. Nevertheless, I left Monterosso this morning on a fishing boat with two men named Beppe. They each looked the part of fishermen with their sea-worn, kind faces and soon I was dressed up in their waterproof fishing attire, wearing neon orange pants three times my size.

As we drove out into the ocean, the leading Beppe (the one who spoke a good amount of English) explained his history to me briefly and expressed his fears for the future. The government divides the sea around Cinque Terre and competition is fierce in certain areas. Beppe and his fellow fishermen struggle against the crews of larger fishing boats that are capable of catching more fish and selling them cheaply to the nearby restaurants.

Beppe’s major concern is not for his livelihood, but for the increasing unsustainability of the fishing industry. It is negatively impacting the marine life and ecosystem along the Cinque Terre coast and, furthermore, it’s destroying the local way of life. Beppe lamented that the younger generation of men would not pursue careers as fishermen, but he also expressed his understanding that these men would not want to be “losers”; they could not provide for themselves and their families in the way that their forefathers had and it was unfair to expect them to choose a doomed profession.

From only an hour of speaking with Beppe, I could see that he is a wise and tenacious man; it saddens me to think that he has resigned himself to the idea that a Cinque Terre tradition will die with him.

Photo courtesy of Seth Coleman (who told me it 'd make for a good shot if I threw up)

Nonetheless, he showed me the ropes (literally) about how to fish. I’d naively imagined sitting with a fishing rod for several hours, but instead it was our job today to pull up huge nets that had hopefully collected sea creatures. It would be a good day, Beppe told me, if we could find some lobsters. We pulled up the net for a long time and several fish flopped out onto deck, but before long my seasickness overcame me and I passed the remainder of the excursion lying flat in the center of the boat.

In the afternoon, we headed to Vernazza to tour the Cheo vineyards with winemaker Bartolomeo Lercari. Like oversized baskets of grapes, Seth and I piled onto the back of the monorail, a small train-like vehicle that runs along a skinny rail up the hills of Cinque Terre’s larger vineyards to accelerate the harvesting process. Over the roar of the motor, Bartolomeo explained how technological advancements such as the monorail have aided wine production in the region, which has particularly difficult topographical features to overcome.

Bartolomeo looked straight forward as he operated the monorail, but I gazed in awe at the breathtaking view of Vernazza below us. The monorail climbed ever upwards, at sometimes nearly vertically so that I had to hang on tightly or else fall out. When the ride came to a halt, we hopped out and ventured deeper into the vineyards, where we met up with his wife and his small, scruffy black dog.

The Lercaris spoke about their vineyards as if they were unpredictable, but loveable children – they explained that the vineyards require constant attention, but there were high hopes for the future. After suffering a terrible flood in Vernazza in 2011 that damage their wine production facilities and several storms that had ruined their grapevines, it was easy to understand Bartolomeo’s anxiety about the current crop.

After speaking with the two producers at Cheo, I began to see a thread run through the stories I’d heard in Cinque Terre – a sense of passion, even without profit and persistence, even without reward. I have so much admiration for the people I’ve met so far.

Lemons & Anchovies

I’m starting to feel like a regular at the Aristide café in Manarola and, in fact, breakfast is something I look forward to every night as much for the food as for the experience. Sitting at my little table out front, I watch the people pass by and listen to the rolling r’s and long l’s of Italian floating along musically around me, punctuated softly by the clinks of spoons in espresso cups.

Unfortunately I revealed myself as American the first day by ordering an omelet and though I like to blend and adopt the local customs, old habits die hard. Coffee and a pastry might be how the Italians start the day, but I need a bit more substance.

After breakfast, we (me, Seth and Marzia) traveled to Monterosso by boat, which seemed the most appropriate way to get there considering its reputation as a fisherman’s village – not to mention it was a the perfect opportunity to get a seaside view of several other Cinque Terre towns along the way.

Monterosso is larger than Manarola, with a livelier atmosphere and evidence of Genovese influence in the way that some buildings, including the church, have black and white marble stripes. The warm weather called for a gelato, which we enjoyed as we wandered the streets on the way to our next outing. 

Could there be a better way to spend the day than in a lemon grove with one of the locals? He led me around his land, between the trees spotted with bright yellow citrus fruits, past his chicken coop and basil garden. Along our walk he explained his passion for his work, both in a restaurant in town and in the lemon grove. His jobs were inextricably tied, in a traditional Italian manner; he tended to the lemons and brought them into town where he used them to produce limoncino or to garnish a plate of fresh fish.

Lemon is a key ingredient in many Cinque Terre dishes, from the antipasti to the dolce. Citrus trees flourish in the Mediterranean climate and the flavors pair well with seafood. I have a particular fondness for lemons, (they are, in fact, part of the reason I got to come on this trip) and because they thrive in California, too, I cook with them often. The scent always manages to bring me briefly home to my parent’s backyard where we dine on summer nights beneath our lemon tree.

After wandering through the lemon grove, it was time for a much less pleasant task – preparing anchovies to be salted and stored. A crate of dark, shimmering anchovies was set in front of me, their wide eyes staring blankly at me. I was instructed to push my thumb into their gill and, with a quick jerk, rip the head off, pulling the spine and organs out with it. I’ve never done anything like this before and, though slightly horrified, I was determined to give it my best.

I pretty much destroyed the first fish. The splinter-like bones stabbed into my thumb and blood dripped all over the table (most likely the fish’s, maybe mine too), but I had to get the first step right before I could move on, so I tried again. Once I did this, I had to use my thumbnail to slit the anchovy in half down its belly and then pick any bones out of the flayed body. Not quite like baking cupcakes, but I managed to prepare about 3, by which point my agile instructor had perfectly set out a dozen. Needless to say, I way relieved when he told me it was time for dinner.

Lessons on Dry-Stone Walls, Ravioli and Wine

First, a bit of background…

All across Cinque Terre, the hills are lined with rows of short stonewalls – some are neat and orderly, others are overgrown with plants; in many places, the walls have crumbled into mere piles of rocks. Were I traveling here on my own, I might not have taken much note of the walls. They certainly make for an interesting landscape and some pretty pictures, but these structures (called dry-stone walls because they are built without cement) are integral to Cinque Terre’s heritage.

When the first people settled in Cinque Terre, they had to build these walls in order to cultivate the land because the hills are so steep. Long days were spent carrying heavy rocks up the hills and chipping away at the hard dirt to make terraces. The efforts of their labors – the kilometers of walls that wind along all of Cinque Terre’s landscape and rival the length of the Great Wall of China cumulatively – have withstood centuries, but they are more fragile than they seem. Without constant maintenance, plants begin to grow in the crevices and water can no longer stream between the rocks. The inventive design of the dry-stone walls is thus corrupted and when it rains, water floods behind the walls and the pressure causes them to collapse.

The art of building these walls – it truly is an art – rests on finding the right size stones to fit together, like a puzzle. Today, Cinque Terre’s youth isn’t very interested in learning how to build these walls and the older generation is concerned about who will continue to fortify the walls and create new ones after they’re gone.

To an outsider, the history of these walls and the current issues that revolve around them may not be apparent or important, but today I met with with Giampietro Ferri, a man who helped me not only to build a wall, but also to understand the significance of continuing the tradition.

We met up in the mountains where he keeps olive trees and honeycombs for the Busanco brand olive oil and honey that he produces. When I asked how he’d gotten to work in such a beautiful place, Giampietro explained that he had begun his career as a banker, but found that the work wasn’t meaningful enough to devote his life to it. His true passion was for the hard, rewarding labor of working the land.

Photo taken by my lovely Cinque Terre guide, Marzia Vivaldi

Together, we reconstructed a section of one of the walls on his property. He was eager to teach me how to choose the correct stone to fit along the wall so that it would create an even line along the perimeter and a flat surface on top. When I got the hang out it, he would praise me with a hearty “brava!” His enthusiasm was contagious.

Building the wall was hard work, but seeing Giampietro out in the sunshine amongst his olive trees, surrounded by his sons (whom he proudly referred to as “the future,” stressing the importance of their role in the olive groves), I could see how worthwhile his life’s work was and I am proud to have played a part in it. I may be one American tourist in Cinque Terre, but I lent a hand in the reconstruction of a medieval wall that may remain for centuries.

After working outside all day, it was time to get my hands dirty in the kitchen. As an avid cook, I was delighted by the news that I was going to prepare dinner, but I was even happier to find out I’d be making ravioli with a true Italian women, Franca.

I grew up hearing stories from both my parents about how their mothers and grandmothers had spent Sundays in the kitchen preparing pastas for dinner. For years, I’d been meaning to try my hand at making pasta (particularly my favorite type, ravioli). It seemed to me incredibly important in accessing some lost part of my heritage and perhaps it was for this reason that making pasta seemed a little daunting and I’d never tried. Then, all of a sudden, I found myself in Italy having an apron put on me by a cheerful, sweet woman who spoke hardly any English but was set on teaching me her family recipe.

Though my Italian vocabulary for baking is fairly basic, cooking is universal and I immediately felt comfortable, as I always do in the kitchen. Franca poured a small mountain of flour onto the table and demonstrated how to crack an egg into the center of it. We took turns with the dough, kneading it until it was the perfect texture and ready to be fed through the pasta machine. I cranked the pieces through several times each until they were soft, thin ribbons a few inches thick. We laid them out and put dollops of filling (hers featured mortadella, parmesan and spinach) across. We tucked over the sides and pressed them into individual pockets with our fingers, then used the scalloped tool to cut the edges for the signature ravioli shape. By the time they were ready to plop into boiling water, I had fallen in love with the pasta-making process… and the fresh lemon marmalade that Franca let me taste as they cooked.

In the meantime, I had the pleasure of sharing my first batch of ravioli with about a half dozen of my new Italian friends. We carried the bowls of pasta downstairs to a nearby neighbor’s cantina. What could be more Italian than eating ravioli in a wine cellar?

Franca and her husband, Gianni, introduced me to Luccio, their neighbor, who just so happened to be a local wine connoisseur. When I expressed my admiration of his wine collection in the cellar and his impressive display of different-sized wine glasses, Luccio’s eyes lit up. It was all I needed to say for a spur-of-the-moment, private lesson on wine.

It was a perfect night of drinking wine, eating ravioli, and afterward, listening to one of the guests play guitar.

My First 24 Hours in Manarola

My life whole I have wanted to come down the stairs of an airport escalator and be greeted by someone holding a paper with my name printed on it. It seemed to me that this was the epitome of glamour, the indication of an exciting adventure. Yesterday, I found this out to be true. I met my Cinque Terre guide Marzia and her colleague Silvia at the airport in Genoa. I couldn't imagine a better set of people than Marzia, Silvia and the other Cinque Terre National Park representatives to introduce me to Cinque Terre. Their love for the region is not only obvious, but also contagious.

My story begins in earnest in Manarola, which is to be my home for the next ten days. The town seems to consist of one main street with the typical rectangular houses bunched together and painted in various shades of pink and orange that I’ve seen on so many “Bucket List” Pinterest boards and tourism photography books.

Marzia knows everyone here and we are warmly welcomed wherever we go. Last night a large group of us dined at da Aristide, a small restaurant near the sea, which offers many Cinque Terre specialties. Our meal tasted of the ocean in the best possible way. Everything was fresh and prepared with a few, simple ingredients. Marzia told us that this is the food of the poor (called so because of its simplicity) but it seemed like a dinner for kings. 

Upon first being seated, the conversation turned to the most serious matter at hand – which wine should we begin with? No menu was consulted, but opinions were given, suggestions made and eventually the waiter hurried off to bring us a bottle of a local white wine, Costa da Posa.

The meal began with several types of mussels - one bathed in flavorful tomato sauce; another was elegantly undressed, accompanied by only lemon slices. Anchovies followed, also prepared in many different ways. A plate of lavender-colored squid and a seafood salad came next; then the pastas: spaghetti with pesto, tagliatelle with seafood and spinach ravioli.

The waiter came out and presented us with a plate of raw, pink fish. Everyone nodded their heads and he left. I had not seen this customary exchange before, but Marzia claims it is common for diners to approve their fish before it is cooked. The fish reappeared at our table shortly after, now white and buttery.

Throughout the meal, the wine bottles were constantly replaced, always with a Ligurian wine. Each was crisp and white, but made distinctly different by floral notes, a citrus scent or some flavor redolent of the sea. After many courses and much indulgence, the waiter brought limoncino and espresso. Close to midnight, we were the last people to leave the restaurant.

Almost everyone imagines that the Italians are marathon eaters. In my college textbooks for my Italian courses there are charts for explaining the proper order: Apertivo (light drinks such as a Spritz or Proseco), Antipasti (starter plates with small servings), Primi (usually pasta, maybe risotto or soup), Secondi (meats and fish), Contorni (sides, salads and vegetables), Formaggi e Frutta (cheeses and fruit), Dolce (something sweet, a typical dessert), Caffè (an espresso) and a Digestivo (liquor). From my first true Italian dining experience, it seems I didn’t learn all these terms in vain… Yet, the books (and the stereotypes) never explained the difference between the way Italians and Americans eat. The portions of food are smaller, the time of consumption prolonged, the ideology based on sharing.

I could get used to this.

Today everyone from dinner last night rejoined to hike up the hills around Manarola, making our way to the house of Marzia’s friend GiGi, who, like several of Marzia’s other acquaintances, owns a small vineyard and presses his own wine. The steps to his house formed steep, narrow trails of winding flat rocks, but the view from his porch was well worth the climb. 

We sat down to lunch at a table on his patio with a wide expanse of the Mediterranean ocean and the other hillside homes in sight. Our meal consisted of sopressa, prosciutto, peppercini, focaccia, eggplant, cherries and red wine. At the end, we were given a very special treat – the opportunity to try a few bottles of homemade sciacettra, a dessert white wine that is unique to the region. It was sweet, but not overwhelmingly so. Above all, I enjoyed hearing them proudly explain their wine production process and later show me their cellars. Unfortunately Gigi’s cantina (the Italian name for wine cellar) was filled with only wooden barrels and glass jugs. The season for the vendemmia (the grape harvest) isn’t until autumn.

In the evening Seth Coleman, the filmmaker for the project (seen above with his camera glued to his hand, as always), and I dined at the Trattoria da Billy. It was nearly 9:00, a time when the average Italian dinner is in full swing, so we had to wait several minutes for a table to open up, but we were amicably handed a glass of prosecco upon walking in and the time passed easily. Before I knew it, the antipasti was being set before us – in order to accommodate the impressive twelve plate seafood starter, a second small table had to be set up next to ours. Pink tuna tartar, anchovies in oil, croquettes in orange sauce, fried squid… a beautiful array of colors, textures and flavors. I wouldn’t have imagined I could still have room for my main dish afterward, but when Billy himself presented me with a magnificent, silver fish surrounded by roasted tomatoes and potatoes, I decided to channel my the American and eat it all.

Billy set the plate down and expertly deboned the fish for me. With just a few swift movements, the fish veritably melted into a puddle of soft white flesh. The waiters, always perfectly able to move a dinner along by a change of drinks, removed our empty wine glasses and replaced them with smaller ones of Grappa.

Be it the food or the jet lag but my mind and body were in two different places. I had the urge to wander the streets of Manarola in the dark, not wanting to waste a second of my time here, but ultimately my exhausted limbs made the decision to head towards home.