“As my father has said, ‘Always watch out for the other signore.’”
Leaving the city, the road narrowed and zigzagged up the mountain. The car wobbled as the wheels passed over cracks and potholes. Sabrina gripped the edges of her seat tightly. It was as if they were riding a roller coaster with a track that ran right along the edge of a cliff.
If I were in the driver’s seat, it might not be so bad. Even with Lorenzo’s experience driving these roads, I’m nervous at not being in control. While it’s breathtaking up here, it’s also terrifying.
“The road will be smoother when we reach the highway. All the back roads that connect the villages to the highway are in rough shape. They’re old, and fixing them isn’t a high priority for the local governments. If it is any consolation, both my sisters are like you, terrified of the roads. They refuse to drive and take the train wherever possible,” Lorenzo said.
“I think I’d try to find an alternate form of transportation, like a bicycle or a horse.”
Lorenzo let out a throaty laugh. “A horse? Hmm, they might do well in the flatter parts of Italy, but in the Cinque Terre, the landscape is unforgiving. You would require an animal that’s more surefooted, like a mule or a mountain goat.”
Sabrina turned her head, trying to distract herself. “Would goats be able to be attached to a wagon?”
She pictured herself atop one of the Alps, surrounded by a flock of goats grazing in a vast, empty green field around her.
“They can be trained to pull carts. My parents have photos of my great-grandfather doing so.”
“Go figure.” Sabrina studied the olive groves, cactuses, and terraced wineries that blanketed the hillside as the car moved down the roadway. Woody grapevines were dotted with hints of newly emerging green leaves. It was still too early in the spring for them to produce any grapes.
“Is there a reason all the wineries in this area are on such steep, rocky hillsides?” Sabrina asked.
“Believe it or not, that is one of the few places in the Cinque Terre where the ground is fertile.” Lorenzo pointed out his window. “The landscape doesn’t allow for the same type of cultivation you might find in another region of Italy, like Tuscany. Grapes have been farmed this way dating back to Roman times. As long as the villages have been here, there have been terraced vineyards.”
Sabrina let out a long whistle. “I didn’t know the wine-making tradition here dated back that far.”
“While it’s a proud part of this area’s history, unfortunately, winemaking in this region is also fast becoming a dying art. Running a vineyard is incredibly labor intensive and insanely expensive. Due to the growing conditions, most grapes we grow have to be manually harvested. Even the unique stone walls that separate the rows of vines are built and maintained by our teams of local stonemasons. They don’t use any mortar to bind the walls together.”
“No mortar? Wow.”
“Another piece of Roman engineering that has proven itself time and time again.” They reached the top of the mountain, and Lorenzo waited for the oncoming highway traffic to pass. “Think of it as a dry cement. The stonemasons layer the rocks atop one another. Without mortar, rainwater is able to flow through the cracks between the rocks. It’s supposedly better for the land and, as an added benefit, the walls can move with the mountain.”
The car turned right. “A moving mountain?”
“Yes. Italy is prone to earthquakes. Another fun fact is there are supposedly more stones here than in the Great Wall of China.”
She looked out at the thick walls with new respect.
Without the walls, I bet the vineyards could tumble right down the mountain and into the sea. The Romans knew exactly what they were doing. To think so many of the methods they created are still in use today.
Sabrina moved a lock of her shoulder length brown hair behind her ear. “What type of grapes does your family grow?”
“Our specialty are the three grapes native to this area: Bosco, Albarola, and Vermentino.”
Could I ask him to pronounce them again? That rolling R is so sexy.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any of those varieties.”
Lorenzo’s lips twisted upward. “It’s not surprising. Only a small number of regional wines are exported. Many wine-drinking aficionados find the Sciacchetrà wine produced here to be an acquired taste. It’s a very sweet dessert wine. For my family, we’ve found it is more cost effective if we sell locally at the farmer’s markets and to restaurants.”
“I might not know much about wine other than I like whites over reds, but when we reach Riomaggiore, I’d like to try Sciacchetrà wine. I have a big sweet tooth.” Sabrina smacked her lips together.
“I’ll make the arrangements.” Lorenzo winked. “We can pair it with a panettone or some goat cheese. You need something sweet to balance out the savory.”
Sabrina shook her head. “Cheese as its own meal course is still a strange concept to me. Back home, we throw cheese on top of a burger or toss it into a salad, a camouflage ingredient.”
“And where is home for you?”
Sabrina loosened her death grip on the seat now that they were on a wider, smoother road. “Home is Texas, USA.”
