Elena Hiatt Houlihan
Written high on the hill in Eze Bord du Mer, France
January 14, 2006
TO TRIORA AND BACK
The plan we had hatched in Paris seemed to be actually working! I had just gotten a call from Karen confirming that we would meet at 9:30 at the Gare Routière in Nice, and that she was already on the bus from the airport. So I ran down the 99 steps to the road…(A euphemism: one does not run down these steps. There are several flights of 20 steps each, followed by long bumpy steps of 6-7 feet which slant downward before ending in a few normal flights of 15 or so steps. The long angling steps are frequently adorned with a layer of pine needles which makes a potentially treacherous passage. Originally I clutched the iron railing during descent, but on arriving at the bottom, discovered that my palm was covered with a sticky substance I realized was pine sap. Pine sap remover is not in my traveler’s backpack, so my hand was sticky for hours.)
OK, I hurried down the 99 steps to the winding road below, made it to the 8:45 bus and savored the view of yachts in the Beaulieu harbor en route to Nice.
This alone was a feat: Karen and I, both night people, were awake and headed for our rendezvous before 9 AM.
Karen Henrich, a Canadian living in Paris, is the founder of NuitBlanche Tours. Described as Tours For Girls Who Want to Have Fun, her customized escapades include bargain-hunting in Parisian byways, sight-seeing sans those big red tourist buses, lessons in the art of café sitting, and nightlife for those who want to kick up their heels. We had met at Domingo Barbiery’s famous Thanksgiving soiree in Paris, and when I heard her say that she had thrown away her alarm clock, that her business was based on refusing to rush in the morning, I knew we would hit it off.
She agreed to be interviewed for my book; and we began in Paris, first over a quiet lunch of sushi and sashimi, in the shadow of the grand department store, Galeries Lafayette. (Karen is never far from a shopping experience.) When the restaurant became noisy, we abandoned it, rushing into the Paris streets because we both had later appointments. Rejecting small hotels and cafés, we finally landed in the Hotel Opéra, where we smoothed our hair, a bit wild from the wind, adjusted our scarves, and sauntered in as if we lived there. Once in, we peered around on several levels before discovering a small anteroom where we proceeded with the interview. Later I snapped a photo of Karen descending the Baroque staircase, and we even coaxed a Japanese businessman into photographing us together in front of the lobby’s opulent bouquet.
Then we hustled, laughing, through the streets once again toward our separate subways. We rose in each other’s esteem as we noted our crowd-dodging abilities in the pre-Christmas rush over sidewalks packed with shoppers and narrowed by stalls overflowing with pashmina scarves, perfumes, purses large and small, candy and roast chestnuts.
We re-met in the somewhat dingy bus station in Nice, and departed quickly for the market in Vieux Nice, wandering among red peppers and candied fruits, flowers, and African immigrants selling designer handbags. Then through the archway to the sea: the long curve of coast, where in the summer the rich and famous, strip and broil themselves on the rocks. Both sea and sky were blue, but the January air was cool, and now the beach was bare, though joggers hustled by in the sunshine, and rollerbladers twirled on the sidewalk, just like in Santa Monica.
Though I had become used to taking the bus which runs every 15 minutes from Nice east to Menton, Karen and I had decided to indulge in renting a car. Karen had been practically salivating since she’d heard me describe the famed clothing market in Ventimiglia across the border in Italy, and we both wanted to see the Italian and French hill towns breathlessly described by my absent host, Robin Van Der Molen. If he is not here to guide his guests, he leaves his own ten page set of tips, and THE ITALIAN HILLTOWNS are NUMBER ONE in his TOP TEN. The most fascinating is Triora, ominously linked to Salem, Massachusetts, because women were persecuted as witches there.
Near the casino, we picked up our car, and I began the somewhat hair-raising experience of driving on the Côte d’Azur. The car, unexpectedly, was a stick-shift Pugeot. Fortunately my days of driving a Saturn sports coupe prepared me, but power steering must have been an option left at the factory. Swerving around these seaside curves, while dodging oncoming cars which burst around the cliffs into my lane, required the biceps of a Schwarzenegger.
Agreeing that we would cook dinner instead of searching for a café that would appeal to both our tastes and pocketbooks, we stocked up at Champion, the French supermarché. Karen had in mind a vegetable chowder which had converted a non-vegetable eating 10 year old into an enthusiast. After a walk by the ocean in Cap d’Ail, I set about chopping, while Karen sautéed onions, garlic, and celery, then tossed chunks of cabbage, carrots, and courgettes (French for zucchini), into the pot with abandon. Frankly I hadn’t expected this tiny fashionista to be a cook. She struck me as the type who might have only a bit of cheese or caviar in her fridge, but it turned out that she had dated a chef and knew lots of tricks. Like, smashing garlic cloves with a heavy glass, eliminating that tedious peeling and chopping, or halving an avocado, thwacking the knife into the seed and pulling it out neatly. So much for snap judgments. (Take that, Malcolm Gladwell!)
She drizzled crème fraiche artistically over the soup just before serving, and we accompanied it with seven grain bread and d’Affinois cheese. Superb!!
Friday morning we drove over the freeway to Ventimiglia, to the clothing market. Our plan was to peruse it for an hour, then head for Triora and the medieval villages.
Two women in a clothing market that stretched for nearly a mile along the sea? Staying only an hour? From the minute she got out of the car, Karen was on it like a bloodhound. After fondling sweaters of every color and style to guess their fiber content, sniffing purses to see if they were leather, trying on short puffy jackets, slipping on pointed toe shoes, noticing, but disdaining, paisley scarves, and falling for a Gucci knock-off belt, she looked up when I pointed out that we were only in the first block. What about Triora? Ok, we’d hurry. We hurried, lingeringly, speeding up between several booths, then stopping as if magnetized by a colorful display of cashmere sweaters. Suddenly we were starving and bought slices of quiche. By mutual agreement, Triora was postponed until Saturday, and Karen continued the hunt for the ideal jacket, which she actually found: a black felted wool with an Elizabethan air, a ruff-like collar, and flounce over the hips. Her eyes gleamed. This much style and reasonable for 42 Euros!
KAREN CHECKING OUT THE MERCHANDISE!
On the way home at dusk, we stopped in Monaco, amazed that the Christmas market was still on, though it was January 5th. There were ethnic food booths, crystal ornaments in a tree village, and fake snow for the kiddies. We had warm glühwein in the nippy air. (Where was I?? Glühwein was the hot spiced wine we had in Munich, standing in the snow, amidst Christmas revelers. Glühwein with palm trees and yachts in the background? Surrealistic. Is this what globalization has come to?)
Saturday morning we were on a mission. Triora continued to lure me. In 1588, according to The Rough Guide to Italy, over 200 women were denounced as witches with 14 of them burned at the stake. Recently a movement has developed to sanitize this stain on their history, with witches depicted humorously or as jolly characters on brooms, a la Disney. The medieval architecture remains. I wanted to see it. So, over the highway once again to Ventimiglia with Karen reading Robin’s directions:
“Two hundred yards after McDonalds on eastern edge of Ventimiglia, watch for sign to DOLCEACQUA, ISOLOBONA and PIGNA on passenger side of car. A hundred yards farther around a slight bend is the exit to these towns.---TURN LEFT. Follow this road up into the Italian Alps past quaint and picturesque hill towns following the signs to TRIORA MOLINI.”
We did that, pausing to take photos at the first town with its ancient stone bridge arching over the river. Then through a few more storybook towns, still following the signs to Pigna, we were suddenly going upward. We joked about the tiny stone houses dotting the countryside, each smaller than a hotel room.
“You could buy one of these and tell your friends that you had a villa in Italy!”
The road meandered, curved, narrowed, doubled back on itself, and became steeper with every switchback. There were no lines and the surface frayed a bit at the edges. I was fighting to get the car around the hairpin curves. No signs indicated where we were, but going up was the only option. First Karen clutched the dashboard.
“This reminds me of a horrible road I was on in Maui,” she said.
“Hey look how they terrace these hills,” I pointed out, trying to distract her.
“I can’t look…..I might get sick. I’ll be OK if I just don’t look down.”
“OK, we can’t be far. Read the directions again.”
Obediently, she read,
“There is one patch of dirt road about two hundred yards, don’t be deterred. MANY blind corners on narrow winding road. HONK at each blind curve. FINALLY TRIORA IS WORTH IT—a lovely hill town with astonishing views—medieval, frozen in time, and with ambiance—it was a WITCH town (like Salem, Mass). Take the path to CASTELLO (old ruined castle) and enjoy the lovely labyrinth of alleyways.”
“Start honking,” she commanded, as we approached another blind curve.
I tried. The horn panel was stiff, and worked only with a real punch. How could I hammer the horn? I was already shifting with my right hand while swerving around the bends with my left.
“Honk!” she said, “We can’t see what’s coming!”
I couldn’t see anything except the road, the steering wheel, and the next curve. There must have been trees, since it seemed dim, and it wasn’t even lunchtime.
Snowy-peaked, the Italian alps rose up around us. Out the corner of my eye, I could glimpse the valley far below. I was reminded of the terrain in New Zealand, in Lord of the Rings, but it was less rugged here. How long had we been doing upward? It seemed like hours!
I concentrated on honking with my thumb, continually shifting and turning.
By now Karen was looking a bit pale.
“Breathe,” I said, trying to sound sympathetic. “Breathe, into your abdomen, like you’re meditating.”
She panted, gently. She could have been in childbirth, using the LaMaze method.
Finally we came around the curve and the terrain was lighter, treeless, with windswept hay. Perched on the edge, between road and valley was a farm, with a handwritten sign.
“Hey, they sell cheese!,” I yelled delightedly. “Let’s get some!”
We parked and headed over the grass to the farmhouse. Barred by the gate, we leaned over and called. Finally the fermière shuffled out, red wool sweater over a loose skirt over rubber boots. I asked in French about the cheese and she took us into a white room on the left, where ricotta was draining in the sink.
“No ricotta,” Karen said, “what else do they have?”
From behind a table the cheese lady brought out a huge round about 10” across and 4” high, 5-6 lbs at least. We looked at each other. What would we do with that much cheese? Could she cut it in half? Reluctantly she did, and we asked for a taste. We chewed silently, avoiding each other’s eyes: rubbery and almost tasteless. We were buying rubbery cheese.
“How much?”
“Ten Euros.”
Karen paid. We had to take it now; she had cut it.
It was then that I asked about Triora. We were near the crest of the mountain, but there was no sign of another house, let alone a village.
“Ah, Triora,” she gestured, “first you have to go up more, then you go down again, then you go back up!”
“What?!” I said, “Where is Dolceaqua?” Were we on the wrong road? How could we have missed Dolceaqua?”
“Oh it’s down below, on the other side of Isolabona.”
“but Triora is up ahead?”
“Oui.”
“How long will it take to get there?” All this time, I thought that once you found Dolceaqua, Triora was about 10 minutes beyond. Now Dolceaqua was behind us somewhere, and Triora was nowhere in sight.
“it takes about 40 minutes.”
“Quarante minutes?” I repeated.
Behind the fermière’s back, Karen clutched the sink where the ricotta lay draining.
There are songs and legends about distant places:
“It’s a long way to Tipperary” for example, or “As far as Timbuktu”, or “In the wilds of Borneo,” all of which seemed minor in Karen’s eyes, compared to the distance to Triora.
“NO,” she said flatly, still in the corner of the cheese room.
“Is there somewhere I can stay here?”
I thought, “What does she expect, a coffee shop here in the hinterlands?”
“OK, let’s just go back. We’ve seen enough of these mountains.”
“Go back?” I was incredulous. “We’ve come this far; we can’t go back without seeing Triora.”
“You go ahead. You can pick me up on the way back.”
“Well, what’re you gonna do here in the midst of nowhere?” I noticed the fermière was not offering us tea and cookies.
“Ask her if she’ll let me clean the stables. Or sweep the farmhouse. Or milk the cows.”
Now picture Karen in her pointed toe boots, her nipped-in-the-waist felt jacket, and her upswept hair, standing in this barren cheese room, volunteering to clean up cow dung, if necessary, in the manger next door. I explained to the cheese lady that Karen seemed to have a fear of heights and that she had gotten nervous on the way up.
The cheese lady nodded. “Ah, vertigo.”
“Well, not quite, but she wants to know if she can stay here and milk the cows.” Not knowing how to say this in French, I made milking gestures in the air, trying to stifle my laughter.
Karen was about ready to grovel at the cheese lady’s feet, but I shifted into Explorer Mode. You’d have thought I was one of those big-boned camp counselors urging timid girls to climb a cliff.
“Come on, Karen! You can do it! We’ve come this far. We can’t go back now!” She came slowly, dragging her feet, but she came.
In the car she gave me a chunk of cheese. I was starving. It was still tasteless. More importantly, I also had to go to the bathroom. “Look, at the first sign of vegetation that’s big enough to hide behind, I’m going au naturel,” I swore. Unfortunately we were above the tree line, so there was nothing, not even a bush.
“We could always go back to the farmhouse,” Karen said.
“We are not going back to the farmhouse!”
Up the hill and around the bend, screech! Stop! There at eye level was the rear end of a cow, tail twitching just ahead of the windshield. Three more ambled to the water trough at the side of the road. Heaven forbid, we would hit a cow and dry up the region’s cheese supply.
Then up to the peak and down again. On this side of the mountain, we had snow. Real snow. Mostly on the edges of the road, but it was enough to panic Karen. Several times I braked rapidly to prove that it wasn’t slippery. More blind curves, and hairpin turns, more honking, and finally down to the bottom of the valley, where as we started upward, the road curved between terraced gardens and pastel houses. Was this Triora? No it was Molini de Triora. Triora was still ahead, up the side of another mountain.
We stopped. Always trying the capture the textures, the subtle colors of these ancient surfaces, I took a few photographs. By then I was nearly desperate.
“Karen, I really have to go to the bathroom. Let’s check out this hotel. We’ll tell them we’re gonna write it about it…”
Opening the door of the Albergo, we stepped into the quintessential Italian restaurant. Italians were eating there, not just tourists. Copper pots hung on the paneled walls, over antique radios. Sepia family photos and framed testimonials to wartime heroism verified generations of history. Witches peered from the corners. If I hadn’t been near a witch town, I’d have thought it was decorated for Halloween.
We stopped for coffee, an excuse to use the bathroom, but the prix fixe lunch was so reasonable that we ordered. Karen had thinly sliced rare roast beef, and I had rabbit. Rabbit with truffles and olives, succulent in a sauce to die for, accompanied by a heaping bowl of buttery polenta. For 10 Euros. Amazing! Flavorful and authentic, this food made the entire drive worthwhile.
Fortified, I revved up the car. On to Triora. Snaking up the next mountain, we finally saw it. Ahhh, Triora!
ANCIENT HOUSE IN TRIORA
The walkways were rough stones. Not cobblestone or chiseled stone, field stone, painstakingly dragged from somewhere down below and reassembled here. The entire village was stone, of many shapes and sizes, with no visible mortar. Four thousand feet above sea level, the town once had 5 towers, and still has the remnants of a castle built in the 12th and 13th centuries. Arches and narrow alleyways connected the buildings. How did even a cart or a horse traverse these passages? Hidden below the central square is a cistern large enough to hold water for several months during a long siege. (unlike Eze, a cliff village across the border in France, whose water had to be carried up the mountain in buckets until about a hundred years ago.)
KAREN IN THE ARCHWAY IN TRIORA
The tiny shops with quaint witch dolls held no lure for us, as we explored the alleyways, stepping silently into the ancient church. What was the population of Triora in 1588, I wonder? If 200 women were accused as witches, how many remained to take care of the children? Later, examining my photo of the town sculpture, a witch frozen in bronze, stirring a pot, I thought “It’s just a woman cooking dinner over the fire, her broom close by to sweep up the ashes.” Of small things are great horrors made, and tiny whispers into grave suspicions.
WITCH STATUE IN TRIORA
Some say that certain houses still have odd moans, whispers or shrieks of agony. Could be. Could also be a myth to lure tourists. A confident entrepreneur has created a cozy bed and breakfast down one of the alleyways. No word on how well the guests sleep.
We leave silently. The light was dimming.
On the way back, I had more confidence. My shifting, turning, and honking developed a rhythm. I went faster. I swooped around the curves. This was beginning to be fun! Now I know why drivers get high on the Grand Prix.
“Elena! Slow down!” Karen cried. “You’re turning into Maria Andretti! Maybe I should just get in the back seat and put my coat over my head!”
“OK, OK, I’ll behave, but I’m just getting the hang of this!”
“It’s not that I don’t trust your driving,” she said clutching at the dashboard. “It’s that somebody might come around the corner.”
Suddenly an audacious American van careened into view, hogging the road and not even pausing. Fortunately I had hit the brake, so we were safely to one side: the cliff side. Thank God it was still light! Only a foot separated us from the precipice. Well, I think it was a precipice, because whenever I tried to glance around to get a sense of where we were, to see the terraced mountain across the valley, or note the stone dwellings perched on the hillside, Karen gestured wildly and told me to keep my eyes on the road.
“And honk, keep honking!”
We hustled back through the dusk, timing our journey from Triora back to the lone farm with the cheese sign. The drive took about 35 minutes, and I had stopped twice to take pictures.
But we were still near the top of the mountain, and the most treacherous road lay ahead. This was the part that had almost turned Karen into a voluntary cowherd. Once past the farm below the summit, the road narrowed and the turns were sharper, the light dimmer; but at least it was slightly familiar, and perhaps Karen was benumbed. Our descent to the valley was calm.
Back through Isolabona, and nearing Ventimiglia, we entered the town with the arched stone bridge: Dolceaqua! We hadn’t realized the name when we passed through in the morning. Nor did we realize that it was famous for its red wine, Rossese di Dolceaqua, a favorite of Napoleon. We’ll just have to go back.
At least it’s on level ground.
Before crossing the border back to France, we searched the shops in Ventimiglia for fresh ravioli. Though dark, it was just after six. We left Triora about 4:10. But not only had we gone down and up and over the mountains, we had passed through centuries. I had the somewhat foggy feeling that Rip Van Winkle must have felt, waking up. One hour I’m in a village made of stones, with houses connected by narrow alleys, where women were burned as witches, and people now live benignly, laundry flapping in the wind, and the next, I’m in the bustling town of Ventimiglia looking for homemade pasta.
This is how travel changes people. You go out with a mindset and an itinerary, and you come back with a new mind.
DETAILS
NuitBlanche Tours: Tours for Girls who Want to Have Fun
www.NuitBlancheTours.com
For more information on Triora:
http://www.bussana.com/surf.to/triora/
