I'm forsaking France for Italy, #Sanremo is the next stop. On the way the train is stopped as a windsurfer has been blown onto the tracks by the Mistral. There are sirens and a restless carriage full of people. A Hungarian/Colombian from America and his friend are my companions. He's been working here in the building industry and he said he'd never return to America where he grew up, Italians are the best, he says. I agree. The ticket collector comes and he's fined. He said he's been travelling this route for years without a ticket so he says the 100 euro fine is nothing. A couple of hours later, we are on our way again.
My hotel is in the old part of town, it's a hotel without staff so they meet, greet and hand you the key. There are three separate keys to get in and the locks are tricky as Italian locks are often found to be. Four turns and a special tweak, my anxiety nudges me; what will happen if I can't manage it? But I do. I head out into the bright afternoon light and the town opens up to me, full of tiny streets climbing up little hills, brightly coloured houses. I buy a couple of dresses that are totally Italian, knowing I won't have the courage to wear them in Australia but determined to fit in here; they're seascape themed with brocade and beading, bejewelled and glamorous. I hope to pull it off with a tan in the summer. I find a small market with white baskets of long tapered curved zucchinis with blossom attached; another basket of variegated pale violet twisted eggplant, plump corrugated tomatoes.
I go for a drink and order a Spritz which I couldn't afford in France but here it arrives with a plate of various breads, some indented with plump green olives, another stuffed with ham and cheese, one twisted with spiced tomato and mozzarella. Then I wander and find a restaurant that I share with one old man, probably a widower who possibly eats here most nights and likes to get home early as I do. I have the best fried seafood - tiny baby coral coloured fish, squid and baby octopus, pale shell pink prawns served with a plate of buttery spinach and a large glass of house wine.
The next day I wander down to the harbour, through the tiny alleyways, up and down the steep streets and lunch on a fragrant stew of baby calamari, octopus, tiny peas, tomatoes and sweet yellow potatoes. The owner has shoulder length hair, an aristocratic bearing as he reads his newspaper, his Scottish terrier asleep at his feet. When I go to pay, he pours me a large Limoncello that he tells me his wife makes from the lemons he grows. I compliment him and he pours me another and doesn't charge me. It's good to be back in Italy.
Next day I take the train to see the daughter. On the way, the train stops and the African boy opposite me gets off and I notice he's left his bag. I rush over and yell out to him and throw it out of the window. An American lady near me says: Weren't you worried that could have been a bomb? I never even considered it, being an Australian, I guess we don't have that mentality. Next time, I'll think twice.
#Modena is embracing spring. The sunshine bleaches the cathedral, pearlising the dusty pinks of the marble. I stay at an Air bnb with so many rules and regulations, my anxiety taps me on the shoulder. I'm careful to remember everything. Plumbing, gas, water in Italy are all fragile systems in these old medieval apartment blocks.
The next day is Sunday, the antique markets are on, everyone is out, the square crowded, street musicians on every corner. No cars in the centre but I have to remember to be careful of the bike riding grannies and grandpas, often with their dogs in the front baskets. The peach, yellow, plum and apricot buildings glow in the sunshine, so bright that my photos look like I've edited them.
That night we eat a simple dish of ingredients from the market. I fry pale green zucchinis, saute them with stock and wine and at the end, I add their flowers and stir through the creamy ricotta that comes in little tubs with holes to drain the whey. It's delicious.
Tomorrow Ravenna.
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