La Spezia & Co. Friday, Arrival

La Spezia & C. Saturday, Riomaggiore and the city.

After a morning spent lazing between the bed and the shower (a hard blow to Casté's water reserves), we have a pasta with the farmer's ragù and manage to leave the nest in the direction of the easternmost of the Cinque Terre.

The overcast sky, the wind and the stormy sea, the descent among the colors of the houses pressed one against the other — Riomaggiore is picturesque enough to be loved by Japanese and Americans even in the lowest of seasons. We arrive facing the shore, watching the foam of the waves breaking on the rocks, we buy trofie and pesto from an expert Ligurian vendor who advises us against the cheaper pesto in favor of the finer one (original, huh) and we climb back up, breathless, toward the car far away, very far away, at the top of an endless uphill slope. I stroll through La Spezia. A port city, not beautiful at first sight, but with a wide and very crowded pedestrian center on Saturday afternoon.

Tacky youth in my eyes and women with exaggerated makeup and aggressive boots, a surreal square with a large fountain in the pedestrianized center and a gallery with a highway-like appearance in the background, like a reckless juxtaposition of strolling and speed. A bookshop, an Einaudi point, and then another, a bigger one, music and books. We go in to camp out among the shelves. There's music, a bit loud, some Chopin played at an excessive volume for a bookshop. Classical music, I tell myself, is conducive to reading. We grab a few books here and there, we read here and there.

I read and I lose myself, I find a book by Böll I didn't know, the last before his death in '85, but I lose myself, the meaning of the words is confused, the succession of sentences crumbles, there's noise, NOISE in the bookshop, the booksellers shout punchlines back and forth to each other, they talk loudly to hear each other over the music, they all yell together, it's a market, not even at the Turin book fair — at least there the confusion disperses in the vast area of the Lingotto, but here the voices invade me and annoy me. I find a book by Vitaliano Trevisan, just published, he's good, from an introverted and cerebral northeast, after those surprising I quincimila passi. But I'm shaken by the racket and I head toward the Frenchwoman in the travel guides section. She's looking for information on the city and the area.

"Let's go, I can't stand this market-like bedlam," "How snobbish you are," she says, amused, continuing to leaf through the Touring guide. I try to calm myself by leafing through some literary magazines, "if they don't stop I'll go tell them that this din in a bookshop is inconceivable, that not even in franchised megastores.... "What did you find?" the Frenchwoman asks me, imperturbable. "A book by Böll I didn't know and the new one by Trevisan," "and you're not taking them?", "I won't leave a single lira to these yokels. Listen, let's get out of here." "Come on," she says, taking me by the hand, aware of the peak of my malaise. Dinner, it's dinner time now. We retrace the way we came toward a trattoria specializing in good-value dishes, the Grattafin. A cozy place, quick service and dishes with names I've never heard that only the Frenchwoman, I'm certain, can remember.

And a dialogue that takes root, an argument, a monologue, an opening up under her questions that reveals glimpses of me, of who I was before her, of the interface of my past days, of who I am and who we are, of where we're going, and where we want to go, now and soon, Nathan and the Frenchwoman.

A cigarette, a walk, no cinema. We return to the car, to the Blair Witch woods, to the stone house of Casté, to the two-room flat with the beamed ceiling, to the bed.

"Nathan," the Frenchwoman wakes me, with a breath of a voice, "I can't fall asleep," she tells me softly, "I tried reading, I tried yoga, I have a pain in my forehead and around my eyes." It's the middle of the night, I couldn't say how late, as I resurface from a deep sleep. I search for her eyes in the darkness of the room, I gauge the request for me in the modulation of her voice. "My love, come here, what's wrong?" "I don't know. I have a whirlwind of thoughts in my head and this circle tormenting me." "Lie on your stomach, my love, focus on my hands, everything's fine, relax the muscles of your neck, let your arms go loose, love, it's you and me, and we're here."

La Spezia & C. Sunday. Sun in Manarola.

Light filtering through the shutters, Sunday morning, and my hand sliding onto her thigh. The Frenchwoman slept after my massage last night, and now it's my turn to wake her, with caresses and lips lingering around her breasts and in the hollow of her neck. She stretches her arms and I let myself be welcomed into the warmth of her awakening, into the heat of her sleep. My hand on her forehead, in the tangle of her hair, my mouth moving in a spiral over her face, in search of the first kiss. Her hands pressing on my back, my belly on hers, our legs intertwining, my pelvis wedging into hers...

It's a late breakfast, ours, as every time, hot chocolate and coffee, bread, jam and honey. And the shower, again, the desire of our bodies that doesn't fade. And then outside, finally, in the sun of this Casté, which we still haven't had a chance to savor. And then in the car, toward Manarola. Again the long descent toward the sea among the colors of the houses stacked on top of each other. Tondelli's voice along the blue path. The wind whipping us on the cliff. The farinata from the slow, very slow lady with the black nails. The ice-cold beer and the classic-garlic-anchovy bruschettona in the dehors colonized by French people. The slow climb back up, hands intertwined, toward the car. Just one hour, my love, just one little hour until your train. La Spezia again, the station again. You stamping your ticket.

That long, interminable kiss that accompanies you onto the step of the carriage. Your smile beyond the glass. The conductor's whistle.

And then just a long tailback on the motorway that drags me to Genoa at a snail's pace, and the turn toward the night of my north.

"All the good, All the bad of the World"

(THE FRENCHWOMAN) I look out this window at the lights of the world rushing by and the moon, which in the black of night is the greatest glow. Its halo is enormous, and rarefied, it multiplies my sense of distance.

A finished weekend is the announcement of a week without you. Far from the eyes, but not far from my heart. You are in my depths, in my feeling, in my flesh.

It was an interminable goodbye. I still have in my mouth the sweet taste, the damp and soft consistency of your lips. In the light of this city hidden in the Italian provinces, I perceived your lips as something new, the pain of leaving them stronger than ever. La Spezia is the city of goodbyes. Momentary goodbyes, of weeks of absence, months perhaps. On the steps of every carriage, couples of teenagers and adults still such, kiss and look into each other's eyes. Your hazel eyes are pearls of chocolate that I desire like the sweetest of vices. Words aren't needed, between us, nor between them, the lovers of La Spezia's central station. Getting on I pull the door against myself and stumble into two young lovers. They don't even notice. I, on the other hand, perceive my own inconsistency, now, without you. The carriage is silent.

Gestures and glances fly out the window, none of us notices the presence of the others, we are elsewhere, not on this track heading south. The girl in front of me is headed to Pisa, her husband to Genoa. Healthy young students get on at the following stations and lift our spirits, with music coming from their earphones and small gossip. The light falls, the sun reaches the other hemisphere, night rises and so does the absence.

It was a splendid weekend, like all the ones we spend together, my Love. The decision on the destination was troublesome, but in the end we were lucky. A small village perched romantically on a first ridge of the Ligurian Apennines, still with a scent of Tuscany. Two small rooms all to ourselves with tender and cozy colors. Our budget is starting to feel the strain of these trips and this solution fell at just the right moment. It was so sweet to find the shopping bag on the table while in your role as man you parked and retrieved the suitcases. It was wonderful to rummage inside and find the ingredients you had bought for dinner. It was amazing to find your arms and your kisses again, to be able to give voice to those words I needed to tell you, to those opinions that needed discussion and advice. Dinner, the television, the festival, all in that little house ready to welcome us.

Riomaggiore, Manarola and the Cinque Terre. This heritage of humanity that I hadn't seen didn't seem to me anything but little maritime nativity scenes, excessively emphasized to make a living out of them. The melancholic flavor of the winter sea, of the dark waves breaking on the rocks, that I liked, in empathy with my emotional state. Announced by narrow hairpin bends, Riomaggiore welcomed us into its central street after a maze of stepped alleys and citrus trees laden with fruit. What a marvel! Entire trees of lemons, not garden shrubs, mandarins as big as oranges. The climate is mild on this rocky tongue of land. A hidden and evident truth, like the direct and reserved character of those who live there. How many words, my Love, how much need to get in touch with everything that is ours, what has been, what you desire and what will be.

I hope I've spurred you on to the right degree to achieve what you desire without being either excessive or heavy. How I wish I could always say or always do the right thing, the best for us. A coffee, a cigarette, a little shopping trip for those staying home. Something's missing, for two weekends we've skipped the bookshop pledge, partly because of the crisis, partly because there hasn't been an opportunity... we point the bow toward La Spezia and try to make up for it.

What a strange city La Spezia is, having disembarked at the station, I had the impression of having landed in a fetid place from the early '80s. A port. Now, descending from above, I perceive its layout in plan, the curve of the shipyards on the gulf, the checkerboard subdivision with stereometric buildings immediately adjoining the port, a denser fabric of houses under the hills. Looking for its center, passing beyond the stadium, the port shipyards, we drown in Saturday afternoon traffic. Provincial town strolling. Black buildings, stop-and-go traffic. I was afraid Nath would lose his patience and back out. I tried to calm him, but is there anything to say in that situation? Calmly we headed away from the center and managed to leave the flagship of our fleet, The Persevering Clio.

We follow the crowd, retracing on foot the streets driven several times by car, we reach the center and are amazed. In a few steps the native fauna changes, from immigrants of all colors, we pass to young women dressed as TV showgirls, so dolled up they seem older, young guys with sagging trousers, and tanned men, hair in the wind and striped scarf. Italian provincial life at its utmost, but in a healthy, mild and relaxed exception. The center is beautiful, pleasant, full of shops and trattorias. Even though we've already spotted one, Ristorante Gattafil, with prices suited to our dwindling pockets. We also found a bookshop, a unique rare example where we bought nothing! Really nothing! Eheheh Nath, even though with his calm tones, gets seriously pissed... they were making a racket... in there... he couldn't read the blurbs of the books.

I, on the other hand, would have wanted to buy a couple of little things, but he just wouldn't let me. We were the first to sit down at the trattoria we'd spotted, a spot in the mild air and finally nice people, a happy medium, the kind of people who feel like greeting you. Gluttonous as never before, we ate everything! Appetizer of fried ravioli, trenette alla Gattafin and a trio of testaroli (round pasta cooked in a terracotta testo and served open on the plate), eggplant alla Gattafin and salt cod fritters, tasting from each other's plates, passing over with plates and forks to the half-liter of decanted wine and the wood-fired bread. The good food helped us continue that river of words that sometimes breaks off, words silenced by the Ligurian tavern music, played by the regular customer next to us.

We go out and take a couple of steps, just two because my black hole presents its bill and demands attention. A moment of absence and presence, a moment in which all the emotions of this falling in love overwhelm me and leave me no room for anything else. You lift me up, my Love, in the dead of night, with your calm words and sleepy care. The morning sun slowly dissipates this fog and a beautiful rumba begins, made of breakfast, love and caresses, shower and a couple of walks around Castè. Then the departure, but without haste. "Shall we go to Manarola?" "Come on, let's get a piece of farinata!" More bedecked than the previous one, Manarola has more charm than Riomaggiore, more characteristic, but perhaps less genuine. Those colorful little houses leaning against the cliff, the little restaurants and the smell of frying, French tourists strolling and nonconformist.

The warm sun warmed us from the gusts of spring wind, the bruschetta, the farinata nourished us like the words of a Tondelli. A Tondelli exhausted, perhaps, by the temporal leaps of your words that read it for the pleasure of my ears. A Tondelli that accompanies me in this new week that separates us.

I get off the train and look at the moon, the usual one