A week of sore calf muscles

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my husband and I jetted to Italy to spend a few days at the coast and a few days in Rome eating lots of awesome food and drinking good wine with my cousin and her husband.

It was the first time in a long while that I had done so much walking. I presently live in the sandflat of rural Eastern North Carolina that has few sidewalks and parks, let alone seaside paths with breathtaking views. 
Arriving in Cinque Terre - rain and all - to walk the towns treated us to sights such as this. 

(No rain, no rainbows.)

The Cinque Terre towns are historical and quaint and appear to be built for mountain goats - not people. The industrious residents have terraced every scrap of arable land for limes, lemons, grapes, olive, clementines, rosemary, tomatoes - you name it, they grow it - resulting in a tightly-quilted town of homes, businesses, churches, and gardens.

So, so many stairs. Each time I contemplated the work (by hand!) that went into creating the roads and paths of the town, my brain wanted to short-circuit. I counted one step - at least 45 hand-chipped stones.

***

 
Back in Rome, we roamed the twisting streets and random piazzas (stopping frequently for espresso or tea), with my cousin Kaetlyn  pointing out various historical and archaeological sites.  We hit up the Forum, the Pantheon, the Colosseum, but I found myself equally drawn to the random beauty of this vibrant city. I felt incredibly nostalgic for my college days in Chicago at DePaul, where my car-less self would wander the streets. (Three miles home from school on a summer night? Yeah, why not?)

Chicago is the city of Big Shoulders; it is almost palpably male. Despite it's patriarchy-steeped history, Rome feels decidedly female to me. Maybe it's because I find myself noticing the older women here; my husband even commented, "The women age beautifully here." They dress beautifully, they wear make-up and perfume, but unlike American women, they aren't trying to pretend they're not 50 years old. 

We even walked up into the dome of St. Peter's Basilica. Not one to normally get claustrophobic, I was surprised at the pounding in my ears as the walls tightened and curved around us. Over 500 steps later, we arrived at the jam-packed top; the views were certainly worth it. 

Walking in Italy? Worth the sore calves.