On the train to Monterosso Al Mare, we sit in a train car with a group of older Italians. One asks us where we are going. When she hears Monterosso, her nose crinkles in slight disgust and says "that's where all the Americans go." I took it as an insult to us - oh she thinks we're Americans does she - but what she actually means I won't truly understand until we arrive later that night.
In Monterosso, the ratio of Italians to foriengers is 1 to one million. Of course an exageration but not by much. And most of them are American and most of these Americans are those you might see on the Jersey Shore. Big muscled, overly tanned, tribal tattooed, greasy haired, gold chained, beer-pong playing loudmouths with (but not always) backwards facing baseball caps. All in the middle of a preserved Italian paradise - the Riviera Ligure.
This is the view from our window.
But it is countered by this view.
And this view.
At least we get to relax and Ligure pasta is very tasty. It looks something like this.
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