[Yes, there’s that other thing that happened. I’m not going to write about it here because at the moment I’m still trying to get my mind around the implications for our civil society and the future of the world at large. And even if I had clear thoughts and opinions on What Now, I don’t think now’s the time for me to add fuel to the wildly swinging emotions my friends, family and I are all feeling. So I’m gonna show you pretty pictures and tell you about my last couple of days.]

Wait, you’re saying (quite reasonably, I might add) – didn’t you already do the Cinque Terre thing? It was, like, just one blog post ago, right?

First – (here, picture me adopting my best Charles Emerson Winchester III accent, as he retorts to Hawkeye Pierce, “First, I do not sweat; I perspire. Second, I do not perspire.”). Where was I? Oh right about having “done Cinque Terre.” So, call me uppity, but I try never to think of my travels as “doing” a place. I really dislike the verb “to do” unless it is followed by “okay”/”well”/”poorly” or the name of one of those step dances that were so popular when I was young. In which case the name of the dance would be invariably followed by the last of those three aforementioned adverbs.

Damn it, I’ve lost my train of thought again. I seem to…uh…(damn it)…do that frequently, don’t I?

Anyhow, Cinque Terre.

I’d had a sip, and I wanted more, so went back for seconds and thirds. Something about Vernazza, the fourth of the five Cinque Terre villages, tugged at my heart a little, fluttered its eyes or something. So I Googled around for a room for a couple of nights, hopped on the train and came back for another look.

So glad I did. The time I spent puttering around down by the harbor and exploring its vertiginous back alleys, sipping cappuccino on the plaza, chatting with strangers of all nationalities, and losing myself in seafood that hadn’t traveled more than 500′, or been more than three hours off the boat was delightful. As were the absolute Stairmaster hikes between towns.

Let’s talk about those hikes first: the villages are set in narrow little niches of mountainsides that drop precipitously. To get from one to the other, you hike up that mountainside. Then up a little more, then along the face, then steeply down as far as you’d just hiked up. Sometimes there’s a bit of up and down in between, too. And then you pop out in another magical little village.

I’d made the trek from Corniglia to Vernazza on the day trip last week, so I set out my first morning to complete the northern half of the walk, from Vernazza to Monterosso. As I said, up. First up through the town’s side streets, then up through terraced farms. The cost of maintaining the trails is covered at least in part by a hiking pass that is obligatory during summer months, but given the extent (and precariousness) of the trails and their import in the local economy, I expect the government chips in a bit as well.

So, I’m not going to write about the hike except that it was exhausting and fabulous, and to note that I arrived in Monterosso just as the farmers market there was getting underway. Plenty of things I recognized, plenty of things I didn’t. I remembered, from the last visit, that unlike the other villages, Monterosso had a long beach of rough sand and somewhat of a promenade built along it for the summer tourist crush. Yes, it was November, but it was also about 70F out, and I’d brought my swimsuit. Changed into it and tiptoed into the brisk, but not cold Ligurian Sea for a few minutes’ swim.

Then back to the station, and back to hopping the other three towns on the line. The zigzag hike up to Corniglia (the only one of the towns without a harbor) for lunch, back to Riomaggiore for coffee, and finally Manarola because I had no recollection of it from the first time through. The normal walking paths between Riomaggiore, Manarola and Corniglia were closed for maintenance, but I was assured multiple times that the longer, “steep” path that went further up the mountain was open if I wanted. I could ignore the whining of my thighs, still stinging from the Monterosso jaunt, but my knees had veto power. I decided I’d take the train.

Okay, back to my room in Vernazza for a shower and nap, and then one of the great delights of any day here: dinner.

Oh wait – but first the “back to my room” part: even in the villages, if you’re not staying right on the town’s single sloped main street, pouring down from the mountain to the harbor, then you’re on one of the side streets/paths that angle sharply up the hills on either side. The room I rented from Federico was only one block from the plaza, but required 90 stairsteps up to reach. Yes, I counted.

Forgot my water bottle? Up and down. Need a bathroom? Up and down. Need another layer? Uuuuuh, I’ll be fine with what I’m wearing.

Now back to dinner. During the day, and in summer, I expect main street is almost impassable. Evening, in November? The “big” places seemed to be mostly shuttered and the streets deserted. But there was light and life coming from a little nine-seat bistro with a chalk menu. “Nine seat” might even be overstating it, as I think there were only two small actual tables inside, with four and a half seats crammed into a couple of 18″ wide counters where you’d normally hang coats. The young man who welcomed me indicated the half-seat questioningly – it was clear I’d have to scoot a little to the side whenever he needed to get out from behind the counter. Sure, why not.

Shortening things up, it was spectacular. For my order, I put myself at his mercy: what was his personal favorite thing on the menu? What did he think a visitor to Vernazza should try? Tuna tartar for starters, then fresh squid ink spaghetti with scallops and a glass of the local red. Spectacular. And scootching over into Chris and Cheryl’s (and later Liana and Rachel’s) space every time the young man needed to get out helped me make some new friends.

The older man running the back of the shop, looked to be straight out of central casting for a Navy cook. He came out a few times during the evening, seeming to check on how his creations were being taken, and registered a gratifying smile at my pantomimed appreciation of his craft. I tried to assemble what little Italian I’d mastered to tell him “I’ll be back again tomorrow,” but it probably came across as something like “Correct horse battery staple.”

Our eyes met when I passed him on the street early evening the next day, and he gave me that smile again. I managed “Questa sera?” (This evening?) and he nodded. Of course I was going back.

This time it was a young woman running the counter. The old chef poked his head out at the sight of me, gave her some sort of directions and pointed at the “good” part of the counter, where she seated me with the endearing smile of an honored guest. Apparently my appreciation the night before had been…appreciated.

More great food, more interesting countermates. I’m sold. I’m sure it won’t be the same if I come back – it almost never is – but Vernazza will always hold a little piece of my heart. And a little larger piece of my stomach.