We’ve begun a tradition of sharing our day’s ‘high/lows’ each night at dinner.  The only rule is that we must narrow it down to one ‘high’ and one ‘low,’ though there is no penalty for stating multiples of either.  I usually can’t help myself.

Yesterday, my high was the train ride from Paris to Genoa, Italy.  Which is lucky for me, because it took most of the day.

As we rolled out of Gare de Lyon station in Paris, I’ll admit to feeling a slight pang of sadness.  I was excited for the next destination, yes, but our tiny apartment in Paris had begun to feel quite comfortable.  I could make my way to and from the train station without hesitation.  I’d run to the local park enough times that I had established a ‘turnaround spot’ (conveniently located near a water faucet).  And I was on my way to becoming a regular at the corner cafe.

But it was only the first of many, many moves.  I may as well get used to it.

When we decided to take the train, we acknowledged that a flight most certainly would have delivered us in a fraction of the time.  But, I reasoned, where’s the fun in that?  Via train I was able to sample areas of the region I’d formerly seen only in televised coverage of the Tour de France.  Rolling hills and crops of sunflowers…Chateaues and charming little towns…And finally, the French and Italian Alps, where what the towns lacked in architectural beauty they made up for in the sheer majesty of the surrounding mountains.  I spotted several chairlifts located so close to a train station that one could feasibly pull on his ski boots before the train had come to a stop and be clipped into skis and on the descent within a matter of minutes.

Genius.

At the border of French and Italy, a trio of police officers made their way through the train, asking for passports.  We presented ours to the female officer who took barely a look at them, seeming far more interested in the Chinese man who sat to my left and was, ultimately, motioned into the walkway so that they could look through his bags.  David later suggested it was ‘random search,’ but it didn’t seem so random to me.

This morning we found our way to another station in Genoa and purchased tickets to Riomaggiore – the farthest south of five towns that hug the coast of the Ligurian Sea, making up Cinque Terre.

We semi-hastily downed two tiny shots of espresso then boarded a quiet train car, claiming seats by the window.  I asked David for the third time if he had the ticket.  So much of our conversation has become one of us confirming with the other that we ‘have’ (tickets, money, passports), ‘are watching,’ (bags, camera, that odd-looking couple across the street) or ‘know’ (what this says, is, means).

Soon we were gliding smoothly along tracks that passed through ancient stone tunnels and by villages and harbors.  Stucco houses in shades of terra cotta pink, celery green and mustard yellow stuck out of steep green hillsides like crooked teeth.  My nose pressed firmly into the glass, taking all of it in.  I was giddy over the experience but also torn between wanting the train ride to never end and also to stroll each and every town we passed.

It was a drizzly day, the tips of distant mountains hidden in clouds, but in the way that is reminiscent of Kauai – where a sudden rain shower was not only expected, but also a welcomed respite from the day’s heat.

We paused briefly at several stations – towns with names like ‘Sestri’ and ‘Moneglia’ and ‘Monterosso,’ where suntanned passengers settled into seats and chatted enthusiastically with one another in various languages and accents.  At one point a man came around to clip our ticket.  He scrutinized ours and then told us we were supposed to have scanned it back in Genoa before boarding the train. The penalty for not doing so was apparently fifty Euros, but he ‘generously’ lowered it to five.  Though even five we did not have.  We were foolish, we knew, to be anywhere without enough cash – but the train station hadn’t had an ATM and and and…I could sing you four more excuses but won’t.

We pieced together four Euros and ninety cents – the last ten of which I found in the very bottom of my backpack.  The man accepted that as ‘close enough,’ and walked away.  I wondered what would have become of us had I not found that last coin.

Riomaggiore, where we’ll stay for the next two nights, would be the very definition of ‘quaint’ if not for the number of tourists who stroll the narrow main street (though I do suspect that a great many of them are day-trippers, staying in one of the larger towns north or south).  It is; however, nothing short of  in the way that means ‘picturesque,’ or ‘fairy tale.’  Much like the train routes that brought us here.

I’ve ended the day at a corner table on a patio on a cliff overlooking the sea.  Every once in awhile a train soundlessly emerges from the tunnel several hundred yards to my left.  Below, waves crash against the rocks and, in the distance, an occasional dinghy motors by, checking traps for crustaceans.  I am miles from the sophisticated city streets of Paris, but no longer miss them.  It is luxurious to see the horizon.

I feel closer here to San Francisco than I have in days.