When the even the cobblestones seem to melt under the miasma of oppressive city heat do you (a) knuckle down and boost productivity in the hopes of a grudging pat on the back from Grandma Merkel or (b) bugger off to the seaside for the next three months?
Don't worry, when you default on your fast trains your benevolent northern Grandma will be there to slap you on the palm... with a stack of freshly printed Euros.
The five fishing villages of Cinque Terra are made-for-Instagram hashtag magnets, each a kaleidoscope of jauntily-painted houses clinging to the cliffs overlooking the azure Mediterranean. Photoshop in a menacing refugee boat and you've got yourself a Five Star Movement ad.
Just the kind of riff-raff the gate is supposed to keep out. Until you see their daily gelato budget, then you'll welcome them like long lost Papa Giuseppe.
Some pasty flotsam seems have drifted into our waters. Perhaps they've mistaken our bay for the faux-Trevi Fountain in front of their local Olive Garden?
You may want to choose a different swim coach. Just sayin'.
Wait, take that back, there's something about these waters that gives landlubbers fins.
Daddy, the Italian kids have a bottle of watered-down rosé and all I have is this lame bottle of sunscreen?
Beachside pizza delivery! When they ask for your address just tell them you're the fifth chair on the right, second row.
Gelato stop numero uno in village numero uno, Monterosso. Don't worry kid, cinque means five, there's plenty more where that came from.
Can someone point this dude to the unlimited breadsticks so he can head back to the cruise ship from whence he came.
No need for Yelp in these parts, a glance in the window should tell you everything you need to know.
When in Italy a tableside riposo is perfectly acceptable form.
We'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that's not all linguini in there.
One down, four to go, let's get this village hopping back on track.
Daddy, where's the ferry? It runs on Italian time son, it will get here when it gets here. Oh, you mean like the MTA Daddy?
First one to get seasick cleans out the bilge.
Village numero due, Riomaggiore, is still a working fishing village, assuming they can get the boats out past the hordes of tourists looking for Instagrams.
So kiddo, shall we hit the gelateria now or after looking around? Yeah, that's what we call a rhetorical question.
Is it just me or are these villages already starting to blur together?
Around here cafes are quite content to wait 50 years until their exposed bulbs become hip again.
Village numero tre, Manarola. Let's see, this one has a green house, that's a new one.
In the high stakes game of differentiating your fishing village in the Instagram age Manarola ups the ante with water access. #winning!
How often do you get to play on a Unesco World Heritage playground?
Village numero quattro, Corniglia. Its claim to fame is requiring tourists to slog up 382 steps to reach its spectacular vantage point, perched on a rocky outcrop high above the Mediterranean.
I didn't cart you up 382 steps so you could whine all day about gelato, zip it.
Looks like a long hike to the next village, on second thought might be time to fortify with a gelato.
Luckily every village in Italy, no matter how small, has a train station and a train to somewhere every five minutes.
Daddy, why are there shells in my pasta?
No comments:
Post a Comment