…and the floods came up. Wind slammed shutters, water poured from an angry sky, and streets flowed like rivers just as the forecast predicted. The six travelers rendezvoused for breakfast at the front door, clad in rain gear, fleeces, umbrellas, and hoods.
After they had consumed their Italian breakfasts, they mused in silence, their swimming plans melting away with each splat of rain. Shopkeepers of Vernazza began to slowly open their doors, so la donne wandered the wet streets as the three uomini followed.
Soaked to the skin and done dodging drops between shops, the travelers decided to head for home and hope that the 100% rain would indeed dwindle to 40% by 2 pm. They spent the next two hours, each couple in their own room, until deciding that it had become just a teeny-weeny bit less wet and they were going bonkers anyway so why not take a “Juliet” picture and head for Monterosso al mare?
Woo hoo! Ecstatic to be finally visiting the fifth of five coastal towns, they paid 4 Euros each and hopped the train for Monterosso.
Monterosso was — shockingly — just as wet as Vernazza. It took the travelers a considerable amount of time to traipse back and forth along Monterosso’s stormy streets, but they did eventually find gelato AND lattes.
And here, dear readers, is where our story takes the inevitable turn, the plot twist expected of a really good story: the storm had damaged the tracks AND ALL TRAINS WERE DELAYED. Oh, the angst! Would the tracks be cleared tonight? Were the travelers stuck in Monterosso with no where to sleep, with all of their stuff back in Vernazza, with a trip to Tuscany planned for the morrow?
Well, no. But, they did spend 90 minutes sitting on the train as it sat on the tracks, watching HUNDREDS of tourists run hither and yon, and not understanding a word of the Italian announcements or the English ones neither.
Happy ending coming: the train did indeed travel to Vernazza, the travelers paid nice Gemmy for their quirky rooms, had a fishy dinner and are now packing to leave very early in the morning.
The skies are clear. The tickets to Pisa are purchased. The floods no longer rush through the streets, down the stairs, and out the sides of the mountains.
Tuscany, here they come.
Ah prose, thine shade – whilst not quite purple – doth glow with a lovely muted hue that, when read aloud to ones sister with false accent and hearty gusto, shineth pure!
Hahahahahahaha. Jim and I laughed and laughed at this purty poem.