At Home In Italy

France was the first major European economy to come out of recession last year, and last week I figured out why. The toll to use the Mont Blanc Tunnel, a mere 11 kilometers long, is 35.10 euros. It would have been marginally cheaper to abandon the car and hire a sherpa to cross the Alps.

But boy, what a difference 11 kilometers can make. We came blazing out of the tunnel into Italy, and all of the sudden the sun was shining, it was 20 degrees warmer, and everyone was wearing cool sunglasses. I might be exaggerating a bit, but you get the idea.

Our first stop was the Cinque Terre. We pulled into Manarola a bit after dark, and I stayed with our illegally parked car on the edge of the village (vehicles aren't allowed in any of the Cinque Terre villages, which is completely charming and also massively inconvenient) while Andrea went in search of our B&B. As she is walking along in the dark, looking for a place that has no address, a grandmotherly woman starts screaming out the window, “Aria de Mare! Aria de Mare!”, which is the name of our B&B. By dinnertime we are in the family's restaurant, enjoying fresh anchovies in lemon and olive oil, and drinking good cheap Italian table wine.

We spent the next 3 days wandering between the five villages. It is just a stunning part of the world. All of the hills around the towns are big terraced affairs with grapes and herbs growing everywhere. The towns themselves are ancient, with fishing boats pulled up onto the streets along the water, and the lack of cars makes the place magic. We had a big balcony off our room that overlooked the sea, and I think we both could have sat there for weeks. What I love the most is that you often find the locals in Italy enjoying the view too, a sure sign they know they have it good.

On the last morning, we had a nice chat with the grandmother. She literally didn't know a word of English, but we cobbled together a few words in Italian, and did some miming too. She told us about the speed camera in the first tunnel out of town, but that after that we could drive as fast as we like. She wanted to know how old my parents were, and where in Italy the LoBalbos had come from. She put her hand on Andrea when they were talking, and Andrea (who does not ever like contact with strangers) put her hand on the grandmother. And finally, she gave us a carbon copy receipt for our stay, which was for the cost of 1 night instead of the 3 we stayed. When Andrea gave her a puzzled look, the grandmother said “dei carabineiri” -- or for the tax man.

It's tough to think of too many other countries where an interaction like this happens. We've both said to each other how comfortable Italy can make you feel. Plus they all know how to pronouce LoBalbo. I might just stay.