T A B L E_T A L K Why can't Africa get its act together? A discussion of this and of the meddling of non-African nations can be found here in Table Talk   How-to, why-not and what-for -- find it all at barnesandnoble.com Search by:  Keyword Title Author     R E C E N T L Y Ring in the loser By Mark Schatzker What you do on New Year's Eve 1999 says more about your economic -- and social -- status than anything else (03/26/99) Night of the living kava By Eric Hansen A traveler trips out on a magical root in the South Pacific (03/25/99) May I help you? By Jack Goldfarb From saffron to leather to edible silver paper, Johnny the market boy knew where to find it in the teeming Calcutta marketplace (03/24/99) Transylvanian nightmare By Jeffrey Tayler A young man bears the lasting burden of Romania's depraved dictator with a dignity that transcends his grim surroundings (03/23/99) The camel market of Daraw By Kristan Schiller In Egypt, a centuries-old business thrives at the end of the 40 Days Road (03/21/99) Browse the Wanderlust Feature archives Wanderlust's Official Travel Book Partner		-------------Mediterranean reverie ----------Nestled in the rugged mountains overlooking ----------the Ligurian Sea, Cinque Terre is the ----------source of endless scenic and culinary delights. BY ANNE DOWIE | The train slows for the little Mediterranean port town 100 miles south of Genoa. We stand, bags in hand, ready to get off, when suddenly the brakes screech and the train stops in a dark tunnel. "There must be a problem," I say to my husband. "No," shouts a young woman pushing past us and jumping off the train in a flash of blond ponytail and blue backpack, "This is it! This is Vernazza!" Her cry is unequivocal, and, watching her run alongside the train toward the light, we are persuaded to follow and take the plunge to the platform just as the train begins moving again. With only a map of Italy and a dogeared copy of a dated travel article as our guides, we have decided on Vernazza simply because it appears to be the most central of the five coastal villages (Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola and Riomaggiore) nestled in the folds and coves of the rugged mountainous region known as Cinque Terre. For the most part inaccessible by car, this necklace of small medieval fishing ports and hill towns overlooking the Ligurian Sea is linked instead by a network of narrow footpaths that served as routes of commerce in centuries past and now offer spectacular scenic hikes through vineyards and olive groves from one town to the next. Each town has its own distinct characteristics. Monterosso, the most commercial and resortlike, also has an enchanting old town with a l7th century monastery containing some rare works of art. Manarola, founded in the 12th century, has a little harbor that is beautifully lit up at night. Corniglia, perched on top of a 2000-foot cliff, has no port but is accessible by train. (The best way to get to Corniglia is to hike from Vernazza or Manarola, visit the town and then descend the 365 stone steps to the train station, rather than arrive by train and have to climb the long staircase.) Blinking in the late afternoon light as we emerge from the dank tunnel, we can see that the station is situated between mountains with an opening only long enough to accommodate the train's engine and perhaps one car before the tracks disappear again into the next tunnel. Taking the stairs to the street below, we begin to follow the flow of foot traffic as it leads, we hope, to the center of town and a cool breeze off the water. The Via Visconti is a chute of faded hues of terra cotta with brilliant slashes of crisp primary trim. Though it's bustling with shoppers and strollers, there's an eeriness in the way the sounds of footsteps and banter of passersby echo off the high walls. Then it dawns on us: There are no cars. No horns. No noxious fumes. No revving engines. Not even the squawking of scooters, so ubiquitous in most of Italy. Instead there is the hum of village life as it must have sounded l00 years ago. The street eventually empties into the main square, the Piazza Marconi, and then down to the well-protected harbor; the natural curves and high hillsides surrounding it form a kind of amphitheater for the rollicksome scene unfolding below: families greeting fishermen as they bring in the day's catch of anchovies, mussels, eel and octopus; children clambering onto the decks of old boats; babies being held aloft for beaming adults to regard; older men helping to haul the varnished wooden rowboats onto the square's smooth surface of worn gray paving stones. Along the periphery of the square, tanned waiters in stark white shirts begin to set the bright umbrella tables for the evening meal. The light softens and warms to an amber glow. Church bells peal while squadrons of swallows screech and dive. It's as though we have just walked through the black-tiered wings of backstage onto the set of a full-dress theatrical production. This is it! This is "Italy: The Opera." We sit at a table outside a small bar at the water's edge and order glasses of white wine. We ask the waiter in our limited Italian about places to stay. He answers in basic English: "No hotel here. Just bar and restaurant." We look around the square. No hotel signs; in fact, very few signs of any sort. A sinking sensation sets in. Traveling without an itinerary has its moments. N E X T+P A G E | The delights of steamed octopus salad and gnocchi with Ligurian pesto sauce   PHOTOGRAPH: ANNE DOWIE