Portovenere

Affittacamere La Darsena

Standing in the narrow street of Portovenere — the city gates behind us — we ring the bell. No one answers. We ring the bell again. On the third ring — after five minutes — I become concerned.

“Maybe we should call,” I say. The phone number is in big letters just beneath the name of the small hotel. Affittacamere La Darsena.

“Why don’t you call,” says Michael.

The voice on the other end of the line seems to be expecting us.

Within minutes Geovanni arrives with a personality as big as his frame. Unlocking the door to the simply furnished room, he shows us around. Giving recommendations of where to eat and what to do, he says, “Tell them Geovanni sent you. Eve-ry-one- knows- Ge-o-van-ni.”

We have hit the Italian jackpot for location. Situated in an ancient tower house facing the bay, our room is fresh and clean and bright. A palm tree sways outside our window. Wide views of the Gulf of Poets are beyond — the waterfront is below us. The TV speaks English — the first time since we stepped foot off the plane two weeks ago. Michael catches up on the news through BBC World and Al Jazeera.

Lunch at Tre Torri

Starvation sends us to the nearest restaurant. Tre Torri. It is full of people and I think we may not find a table. Someone from the wait staff holds out his arm and waves it, back and forth, indicating to sit where it pleases you. We sit, tucked in a corner, where one free table exists.

Ordering without forehand knowledge, for starters Michael requests a Fantasia fritto misto. I order mussels, and like the Québécois, point to fried potatoes to go with them. The fried potatoes are a contorno — side dish— for the main course. Our waiter is horrified. “With your appetizer?” He walks off shaking his head but he serves them both at the same time.

Michael’s fantasy fry — is a fantasy — but not fried. Five plates are set before him, each one a delicate work of art. Each one from the sea, and only one of them fried. He orders a Tre Torri seafood platter for his entrée, while I settle for Pasta Arrabiata. We drink vino rosso from the Cinque Terre. Cheers. Again.

Exploring

Portovenere’s waterfront is a colorful hodgepodge of narrow tower houses. Its builder—like a child stacking blocks one upon another—seeing how high the torri could rise before it came crashing down. Seemingly, they lean against each other for support. Trattorias, enotecas and just plain bars, edge the foot of each building. Once a port for fishermen, this has become a sailor’s haven.

Walking off our lunch, we climb. Out of the rock hard ground, the church of Peter the Apostle looms above us. A gray world of stone and tortured earth — impossible to determine where one ends and the other begins. We clamber up and down and over steps polished smooth from a million feet. Michael finds a rougher path. Giant boulders torn from the mountain circle Byron’s Grotto.

We continue our climb, stopping at the statue of Mother Earth as she looks toward the ever changing sea. Finding a park above the church, at the base of castle walls, we sit, letting the magic of the moment flow over and through us, marking this time. This place. The air is soft and cool. The water, rippled satin. Church bells peal. They do not stop when they have tolled the hour, but continue on. It is a concert.

Climbing to the Top

Our assault on the Andrea Doria Castle—built by the Genoese between the 12th and 17th centuries— takes us further above the village. Climbing. Twisting. Peering in windows. Peering out small square openings — meurtriere — toward the sea. We do not realize how high we have climbed until we begin our descent. It is more than fifteen stories from the top of the castle to the waterfront below. Stairs lead downward through small openings, beside door fronts, down narrow passages, till finally we arrive at Via Cappellini.