I’m a week and a half into this and a funny thing has happened:
I’m beginning to feel invisible.

It occurred someplace between Paris and Florence – most likely during our two days in Cinque Terre, where the streets and restaurants were clogged with tourists – all speaking different languages, all entirely oblivious to anything aside from the jaw dropping views before them.

But the feeling has persisted even as I walk the cobbled stone streets of Florence, which again are littered with tourists caught somewhere between admiring ancient architecture and referencing the map in their hands.

I feel so unseen that it actually comes as a surprise when a car slows to let me cross the street.  I now understand how silly it was to have given a moment of thought to missing my stick of eyeliner (as I discuss HERE).  Nobody is the wiser. In fact, the only times in which I’ve felt at all conspicuous is when seated beside another english-speaking couple (which has happened quite often).  Speaking the same language suggests that they could very well be eavesdropping on me in the same way that I am on them.  My suspicions have frequently been proven correct when I soon find myself drawn into a conversation about where they’re from, where I am from, where they are going and where we have been.

I’ve come to much prefer my state of invisibility.

I arrived in Florence yesterday, feeling slightly offended by the sudden onslaught of loud scooters and cars – a harsh juxtaposition to the quiet, gorgeous respite that was Riomaggario.

The highlight of our time there was also the reason we’d gone there in the first place: the coastal hike.  We set out with full water bottles, a loaf of ciabatta and some slices of sheep’s milk cheese – sold to us by a very kind man who eagerly pointed out the best trails to take.  “Very nice” he said again and again as he traced the squiggly lines of the map with his finger.

Our end destination, Porto Venere was a place I’d first read about in Jess Walter’s “Beautiful Ruins,” still a mainstay on the “New and Noteworthy” table at some bookstores.  When I’d read it I assumed that Porto Venere, like the characters in the novel, was largely fictional.

So you can imagine my glee when I saw it on the map.

We opted for the trail that the cheese monger recommended with the highest level of bravado.  Immediately upon exiting town, we climbed a stone trail that made quick work of delivering us to a hilltop 350 meters above Riomaggario where an abandoned church held down the million dollar view.  It was like nothing I’d ever seen before and I literally jumped up and down with the kind of energetic enthusiasm one can feel only at the beginning of a five-hour hike.

From there, the trail followed the ridge, sometimes dipping down and then back up as it weaved past terraced vineyards no less than a few hundred years old.  Dozens of cicadas tsk-tsked us as we walked.  After an hour or so, small signs pointing to Porto Venere started to appear at trail junctures or anywhere else that might present a moment of hesitation.  David and I took turns reading the signs to one another in exaggerated italian accents: “Poo-oorTO VeneeeerAY.”

After stopping for a helping of cheese and bread, we began what I’d easily call the low-point of the hike – a portion of the trail that exposed us to the hot midday sun, made more stressful by the sheer cliff edge we hiked dangerously close to.  That this is where the butterflies began dive bombing me in an attempt to eat my face (I claimed) only made matters worse.  After wildly flinching for the third time in about 45 seconds, David scolded me in that tone of voice parents use when their toddlers run into the street.

“I’m just scared to death you’re going to do something stupid like jump off of the cliff,” he said to me.  “And all for a butterfly.  You know that they die if their wings touch you?  They don’t want to touch you.”  As is so often the case, he had a point.

After passing through a few more clusters of stone cottages and another tiny village, we began a long (mercifully shaded) descent, eventually seeing Porto Venere in the distance – a site made more exciting by the simple fact that, in addition to the promise of bathrooms and gelato, it also had a castle.

A castle.

During our time in Riomaggario, two things became abundantly clear to me:

1. I apparently have a thing for doors.  Like these:

Door #1

Door #2

Door #3

2. I suffer a separation anxiety from my camera.

The later became clear when, following our hike, David and I hustled down to the beach for a swim.  As we rounded a corner, I spotted a man standing out on a rock casting a fishing line into the sea, the surface of which sparkled like a million diamonds.  It had become that ‘special light’ time of day.  I groaned aloud my regret for not having my camera, verbally kicking myself as I followed David along the path.

When we saw that the waves were far too rough to get into the water – not anybody else was braving a swim – I practically sprinted back to the apartment for my camera.  Fortunately, when I returned to the marina, my fisherman was still there (and the light had only gotten better):

I watched him for several minutes, admiring his practiced casts and the way – every few minutes – he pulled in his line at the very last moment before a series of huge waves crashed against the rocks at his feet.  I suspect he’s been fishing from that rock for many years.

And so, perhaps that’s another benefit to feeling invisible: I am free to shamelessly watch others.

(To see what else has resulted from my obsessive relationship with my camera, click HERE)