Heaven and Earth rise to meet one another in brilliant shades of cerulean, dancing inside the crescent of salt-weathered stone and occasionally masking their marriage with periwinkle veils of clouds. Color is saturated here, unbelievably so, but the intensity is softened by the rolling breezes wafting in off the Mediterranean sea. At your back is the lurching, dilapidated villa that seems to topple over itself to raise its arms in wild prayer to the ocean before it. The little houses chipped and painted out of the cliffside, cradled in vines, contain within them switchback pathways trailing up the terraces with reckless abandon. Oh, these wine-soaked steps . . . The stairs are unending, constantly ascending and descending through plains of experience, traversing multiple levels at a whim should you choose to face the physical challenge that greets you from the bowl of the port. But you know the strain is so worth it when finally, sweating, drunk, you emerge at the very top, balancing on the precipice that sweeps towards the lip of the cove, the setting sun stinging your cheeks and the dusky stars emerging at the top of the dome, and you can feel that there is only love among the fish and the gardens and the rocks and the boats.
This is Manarola.
This is Manarola.
My mother and I are sitting on our balcony on the fifth terrace overlooking the lumbering town with glasses of champagne and sunlight to celebrate our arrival. The drive has been long, but after a series of challenges we seemed to manage our way around the maze to collapse in our new home away from home. The day is beginning to set like a souffle, introducing the feather-tips of twilight.
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Mom has always wanted to come here. She feels a deep, intrinsic connection to Italy and while sitting beside me to witness the collapse of day upon her country, she exudes an air of euphoria. The delight is contagious; my childhood was a young single mom insistent on bringing her daughters back to Italy to share the magic with them. This villa has transformed into a playground. Together we chose to escape into the recesses of Italy, away from the rest of the family and those respective commitments. Shedding responsibility, we stumbled into Manarola with faces turned towards the skies and hands opened outwards to the stars to savor the few days we could spare. Mother and daughter to brace the world. |
And what's a villa without its inhabitants? The people here make it sacred. At all hours the residents of Manarola mill about with the pace of a cat, weathered faces held relaxed and open, full of the Mediterranean sunshine. Their stories are written into their skin. Observing the routines set in this countryside presented a complete antithesis to my day-to-day life back home — where I’m pushed to rise, produce, rush, present individuality, here there is an emphasis on preservation, relaxation, productivity for the community.
At the strike of the hour the entire town floods down to the cove to dive into the sea, touch the fish, and talk to the boatmen. Salt soaks into the edges of eccentricities. Shops are opened, food is prepared, and the evening summons couples down to watch the moon over wine. The streets are lit up at night with late dinners, lanterns, shaded bulbs in the kitchen windows spilling yellow lights into the alleyways between terraces. Not a single threat can be detected from the gardens or the brickwork: Manarola is molded in peace.
At the strike of the hour the entire town floods down to the cove to dive into the sea, touch the fish, and talk to the boatmen. Salt soaks into the edges of eccentricities. Shops are opened, food is prepared, and the evening summons couples down to watch the moon over wine. The streets are lit up at night with late dinners, lanterns, shaded bulbs in the kitchen windows spilling yellow lights into the alleyways between terraces. Not a single threat can be detected from the gardens or the brickwork: Manarola is molded in peace.
In this cobbled villa where the ground props up the community and the gardens twist tightly down the scaffolding, the sense of history steeped in the mortar makes Manarola sacred. Its connection to the Earth makes it sacred. The sense of mystery around the corner, the wisdom of the stairs, the youth of the sea makes it sacred.
I saw how life could sit gently against a background where man carved a home into the edge of the planet that engages with its environment in perfect harmony. This sacred place and those ridges of experience created a lasting shift in my personal philosophy that extends to present day. Manarola’s inhabitants taught me to take the world with ease, to linger in the pleasures of each moment, to make the conscious effort to stay present with others — for what are we without each other? My mom must have been right to spend all those years manifesting this trip: Oh, this colorful city and its darling marriage of heaven and earth deciphered my identity. |