Window Wednesday - Apartment, Riomaggiore, Italy

Ai Pesci. Riomaggiore, Italy, 2019.

Early morning is my favourite time. Before the Italian fishing village wakes. The air is still and the sea calm, and everything is muted — the colours and the sounds.

The windowsill of my apartment, smooth marble, mottled grey, is wide enough for me to sit on lengthways and long enough for my legs to fit, if I draw my knees a little to my chest. I feel the cool of the marble sill beneath my bare feet and press my head gently to the inner wall, breathing in and slowly out, becoming part of its frame.

Before long the boat operators below are sorting ropes and wiping hulls, the dive instructors are laying out scuba gear, and the restaurants and bars are emptying glass bottles into bins and hosing away the sins of last night. Men, tanned and lithe, lug crates of bottled water over their shoulders and wheel trolleys down the stone steps with a thump thump. A suitcase trundles over the pavement, then another, as holiday makers head to the train station to continue on their journey. The aroma of freshly baked pastries and coffee wafts up, along with a faint whiff of stagnant sea water and fish — less delicious smells not yet evaporated in the sun.

The tourists will arrive by train soon, just as the sun appears over the mountain. The sound of the carriages slowing through the tunnel and screeching to a halt at the far end of the village become constant throughout the day. More tourists arrive at the marina by ferry, the boat’s engine chugging as it moves in and out. The motor boats slowly make their way out, carrying groups of three and four. Families and lovers and groups take selfies by the stone wall overlooking the red and blue boats and the coloured apartments crammed side by side. Then they continue on their journey to the other villages by train or high up the mountainside on foot.

As the sun gets higher the ocean’s metallic blue turns a glassy turquoise green. Teens hurl themselves off rocks into the water. Yelling, cheering each other on, ending with a splash. Others look on and sun themselves on coloured towels laid precariously over uneven rocks.

I reluctantly leave the sanctuary of my apartment and take the train to the last of the five fishing villages along the coast. I stroll the maze of winding, hilly streets and pause under the shade of blue and white shop awnings to catch the dripping gelato from my waffle cone. Then I navigate the beach of pale grey pebbles and wade into the water, walking further and further out to sea.

Late afternoon I board the train full of sandy sunburnt travellers and gladly return to my sill. It’s Aperitivo time. Pre-dinner drinks. The dance beats and cocktails begin. Tourists descend at the marina, watching the setting sun turn the sea to liquid gold. Couples with wet hair and bathers perch anywhere they can, drinking wine from plastic cups and eating pizzas out of cardboard boxes, and the music goes on as the boats come in, one by one. A child speaks excitedly in Italian, his voice carried on the breeze, and slowly, the sky turns musk and the water a gunmetal grey.

It’s late now. Night blends the sea and the sky, and boats glow and bob. The only sound is the water gently lapping against the rocks. Apartment window lights go out, one here, one there, until only a few remain. Down at the marina, two lovers zigzag, fumble and laugh as they make their way to the water’s edge.

In evenings past I have been down there, where the water meets the rocks, sharing wine and secrets and wondering what’s next. I have also been the tourist arriving by train for the day. I’ve hiked the high path between this village and the next, and continued on, finally peeling off sweaty clothes to then float in the salty sea. I have sunbathed on balconies and pebbled beaches and ended the day watching the sun bleed into the horizon, an Aperol Spritz in my hand. Each time is different and now, from high on this sill, I am watching it all. Listening. Breathing it in. 

In the ether of my memories, I am still sitting there, years later. My idea of heaven, and there’s nowhere I’d rather be.