How to Spend a Day in Paradise

I’d been gazing at the beautiful vineyards across from my hotel balcony all week, so when I woke up this morning to a wonderfully wide open blank on the schedule, I took my opportunity to go for a hike. After climbing the countless, jagged stone steps up and down several times and the day grew hotter, there seemed to be only one obvious choice for how to spend my next free hour: a swim in the Mediterranean Ocean. Though I’d seen it every day for a week and even skidded across it on small boats, I hadn’t had the chance to go for a dip.

With my swimsuit on, I walked down past the gathering of tourists at the water’s edge by the picturesque center of town and turned around the corner to a more secluded location I’d found earlier. From there, I dove straight into the water, which was so cold it stole my breath for a few moments. I swam until I warmed up and then floated on my back for a while, trying to believe this is my life.

In the afternoon, I headed to a local cafe, Aristide, to prepare a traditional Cinque Terre meal with three generations of female cooks: Grazia, the grandmother who had been at the restaurant from the start, her daughter Monica, and the youngest, Elena. When we realized we shared a name, we got to talking and I asked if she’d always known she wanted to work at her family’s restaurant. Yes, she responded, laughing. Her mother had tried to get her interested in other careers and sent her away for college to make sure she knew her options, but Elena had realized at a young age that she always wanted to be in the kitchen with her family. I can understand the feeling.

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.