When we left you last time (which was a while ago – but I am determined to finish these stories eventually) we had moved on from some entertaining (and topless) singing performances in Capri, and after some interesting meals in Positano (most of which revolved around wine and cocktails) it was time to make our way towards Nice with some pit stops in Pienza and Cinque Terre along the way.
In starting the next leg of the journey, first we needed to escape Positano. And escaping from these small, cliff top towns is an epic in itself. The extraction process involves lugging all of the suitcases, prams, bags and humans up the steep, winding, narrow steps and dumping them at a point that you think is the closest location to where you may be able to pull over a car and endure the close shaves and honks of locals as you hurl your belongings and children into the car within 30 seconds. The moving of the luggage requires planning in itself – with winding steps and unusual characters occasionally coming and going do you take a child or suitcase all the way to the end point where you lose sight of it, or nudge the traveling circus forward piece by painful piece while keeping it all in view? We varied the approach based on the value of the item. While the prams and Olivia could be taken to the end location and out of sight, the bottles of lemoncello and chianti would have to always remain close at all times.
After about 20 tortuous trips with various bits of luggage, I had generated enough sweat to replenish the Murray Darling Basin (not sure if fish could survive a high concentration of espresso martini and chianti? Could be looking at another fish kill), Krys was left to guard the valuables (and Olivia) as I trudged off down the hill to the unexplained vortex that was the Positano carpark. When we arrived here a week before we gave up our car to a bearded man with a cigarette hanging from the side of his mouth for a scribbled yellow ticket and some Italian mumblings that I assumed was a promise to return it in a few days. For all I know I could have been agreeing to give him the car, my wife, the children or all three. I’m not sure Krys would be upset with that outcome – we’ve been away for a while so an Italian carpark attendant looks considerably more presentable that the hairy, unwashed “man” that currently passes for her husband. But thankfully the car was returned (in return for what could be described as an Italian ransom – I offered the kids instead but he politely declined) and it was time to make my way to the rendezvous point.
After doing a full lap of the town (all roads are one way) I spied an exasperated Krys’ face peeking above some narrow steps on the side of the narrow road and pulled over. And then it was on. Like an F1 pit crew bags, prams and children were flung inside as cars, motorbikes and buses alternated between beeping and squeezing past us while almost taking doors with them. I was regretting the habitual tiramisu with dinner as a little Fiat almost took my backside down the Positano roadway with him. Finally we were all in and on our way – well kind of. A street parade had decided to kick off in the meantime so our people mover crawled its way for another hour before we could hit the highway and escape. If either of the kids needed to go to the bathroom during this time they would have been held out the window to do some external spraying.
But finally we were on our way to Pienza. Pienza was the site of our earlier Tuscan adventure that revolved around me getting a vigorous male massage while wearing a backwards paper g-string. So while a return there was a convenient pit stop on our way to Nice, it did induce a mix of confusion, fear and suppressed arousal for me as we pulled into town. Deryn and Jurgy had also decided to continue their Tuscan adventure in Pienza with us – I’m not sure if my description of the male massage had piqued Deryn’s interest or they loved spending time with the children? Either way it seemed an unusual choice to me. But again we had two extra brains when considering the intoxication vs child minding boundary. So for something different in Tuscany most activities revolved around eating and drinking. It was sad when we did finally bid them goodbye as we were back to playing man on man with the children. And poor Krys was back to having to endure my endlessly repetitive stories alone. Her eyes seemed to glaze over the moment Deryn and Jurgy’s little hire car drove out of view.
Then for us it was onto Cinque Terre, with a base in the town of Monterosso. The town had everything we could possibly need – a slide on the beach for the kids, and a bar to order drinks from for the parents. If I thought my pasta enhanced hips would have fit down that kid slide I would have given it a go. Although Krys expressed some concern that my splash down may generate a wave that might have the Italians looking up the word tsunami.
On one day that we managed to drag ourselves away from the beach, we decided to take on some of the Cinque Terre trail, with a walk from Vernazza back to Monterosso. It was meant to be a manageable 2.5hr walk on a reasonable part of the trail. Although I should have known what we were in for when I asked a tourist guide whether it was suitable for a pram – they laughed and walked off while mumbling what sounded like “deficiente” in Italian. Google translate let me know that this meant “moron”. I imagine “deficiente” will now be the go to phrase for Krys whenever I fall short of expectations (I’m aiming to keep this under 4 times a day). Once we got the walk underway it seemed that the 2.5hr estimate was either based on Italian time, or the estimate didn’t properly account for children falling asleep, getting splinters, stopping to wee, falling over rocks, or getting carried most of the way. If only mumbled “for f#ck sakes” were steps we would have knocked the whole thing over in under an hour. But instead 4.5hrs later we fell out of the end of the trial – I haven’t seen that intensity of adult puffing since watching Meatloaf try and add a dance move to his lamentable singing performance in the infamous Hunter Valley concert of 2011.
And after squeezing in one more lovely Italian dinner at our favourite place (normally judged by spare room to park sleeping children in prams), our time had come to an end. It was so sad to finally leave what had been an amazing part of our trip. While it always felt like Italy was barely contained chaos, the people and experiences had made it such a special place for us. Even our exploration of the Italian health system (thanks Olivia) was a relatively enjoyable one. Although one thing I won’t miss is the complexity of Italian recycling. Having different bins for paper, plastic, food scraps, glass & cans and non-recyclables, coupled with different days for collection for all of these seems like a bit of overkill? The amount of times I’d walk into the kitchen with rubbish then freeze with fear in front of an endless array of options and not wanting to make the wrong decision – took me back to that paralysing fear I felt the first time my wife took her clothes off in front of me. Although I’m sure I took the right option that time (not sure if starting with the back of a knee is the right call) and she did hang around after that?….
We then made our way into France, where the welcome of the children was somewhat less enthusiastic. But more on that later.
Ciao.
Trent, Krystal, Emelia, Olivia and a weirdly licked knee
smallthoughts 