This is the third part in an ongoing semi-fictional series inspired by the French Riviera.
Read Part 1 Here
Read Part 2 Here
One morning I woke up and went for a particularly long run into Menton and back.
From our flat, I took a swirling road downhill and kept along the train tracks until the Palais de Carnolès. From there I would turn to the coast and continue all the way down past the flea market and Vieux Menton.
Beyond the old city was the port harboring half a thousand sailboats on any given day. As I ran past I pulled my headphones out to listen to the noise of the masts rocking in the harbor until I reached the Italian border.
I took the same route back.
After the just under 8 mile trek, I did some exercising on the beach and went for a swim to cool down and stretch out.
The water was cold but refreshing and I knew it would be good for my knees, both of which were feeling tired these days.
After swimming, I opened up Hemingway’s Green Hills of Africa and dug into a few chapters.
As I was drying off, a friend asked me to join on their trip into Italy.
I quickly went home, showered the morning exercise off my body and got dressed. I was packed into a typical European clown car shortly after.
Today, we drove past Ventimiglia and stopped in Bordighera for breakfast. We ate on a small pedestrian street dotted with cafes and boutique clothing shops.
I quite liked where we ended up. The last cafe on the left provided a quick and lovely meal of small pastries and sandwiches washed downed with a delicious cappuccino. After paying the bill, we left and walked down the main boulevard.
I opened my eyes to the town.
As I marveled at how no building was taller than about 5 stories and each one had it’s own unique charm, a woman rode by on her bicycle.
Beautiful leaves of rainbow chard and stalks of green onions bursting out of her saddle bags after a grocery trip. Couples sat with their cafes and enjoyed their first cigarettes with a crescent or ham sandwich. Scooters puttered about the alleyways to the left and right. Sunbathers casually meandered to the shore while restaurant owners swept and hosed their storefronts.
Casual, jovial and tranquil.
It was the essence of an Italian coast town.
After taking it all in, we walked back to the car and were off to Ventimiglia for the farmers market and Luca, our butcher.
Normally, when we went to the farmers market we would stop by the small cafe next door but today Bordighera took care of our morning delights.
It was surreal being in the hustle-bustle of a small foreign town and listening to the clink-clank of coffee mugs over the sound of passing motorbikes and the musical language.
I would dream about dropping everything to become a small time Italian retail worker… living in a nowhere town on a nowhere coast, happy to just exist. I could live in San Remo and make an honest living. Maybe work the register at a local bookshop or art studio.
Then I could write everyday and forget about the stresses of a high paying job.
Maybe someday… but not today.
Maybe I’ll be able to later. I can do nearly everything later.
Ernest Hemingway, green Hills of Africa
We turned into the farmers market and I grabbed some long hot peppers, six ripe cachi (persimmons), a handful of chanterelles, a bushel of mixed greens and two heads of cauliflower.
There was a great variety of vendors at the market today but I was too poor to be exploratory so I stuck to the basics.
Then we were off to see Luca.
He was an incredibly amicable, over six foot tall and broad chested Italian man who knew everything there was to know about meat. When you walked in through the chain link door, you could expect a warm welcome from his booming voice.
To the left of the entrance was the cheese counter where Luca’s father, also named Luca, served samples and mongered cheese.
It was a remarkable establishment and a testament to family owned businesses worldwide.
I bought some pecorino romano, brie, prosciutto, mortadella and a few fresh pastas. While we waited for everything, we sampled a few different cheeses and meats while talking politics and football. Luca loved to talk American politics with us.
After Luca’s, we walked over to the Panificio Mondino bakery. We always stopped here on the way out of Ventimiglia for the focaccia pizza.
I always treated myself to a tomato and gorgonzola slice. It was a reward for having made the trip to Italy at all, even though it was a pretty quick and easy drive.
After we finished up in Ventimiglia, it was time to head home and the afternoon was turning towards evening.
Where a man feels at home, outside of where he’s born, is where he’s meant to go.
Ernest Hemingway, Green Hills of africa
The drive was always beautiful along the coastline and sometimes we would take the mountain road just for the views.
It took us about 30 minutes to get home and when we arrived, we had a well deserved cigarette on our balcony.
Our kitchen was essentially part of the living room and there were two large glass doors which opened up to our separate two balconies. One facing the sunrise and coast, one the sunset and mountains.
While finishing our cigarettes, I opened a full-bodied bottle of red and started preparing our dinner. I was going to roast the long hots and cauliflower then throw the steak my friend bought on the barbecue.
We drank and talked football for a while. The French national squad had been flourishing lately and had many up and coming stars. It would be interesting to see how far les bleus progress in the next World Cup.
Once everything was ready, we uncorked a second bottle of the same wine and sat on the balcony in the crisp Autumn air for a few hours eating and shooting the shit.
Once everyone had left, I cleaned the kitchen and poured myself a small nightcap on the balcony. The quick nip of whiskey put my mind in a temporary fog and before I knew it I was brushing my teeth.
Eventually, my mind started drifting as I laid in bed thinking…
If only I could drop it all.
I’d like to try to write something about the country and the animals and what it’s like to some one who knows nothing about it.
Ernest Hemingway, Green Hills of Africa
