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 | PAGE 1, 2 - - - - - - - - - - My husband volunteers to stay with the bags while I head back up the Via Visconti to reconnoiter. I approach a man standing in the doorway of a small shop, looking very much the proprietor, and ask him in English about places to stay. He looks past me across the street to where a small woman dressed in black is standing on a stoop holding a bunch of keys. "Ask Rosa," he says. In 15 minutes I have climbed three flights of stairs to Rosa Vitali's immaculate one-bedroom apartment four doors up from the shop, given her my passport and 60,000 lira ($42 U.S.) for the first night and am on my way back down to the port with the keys and Rosa's recommendation for the best restaurant on the square: Gianni's, where we soon discover the delights of steamed octopus salad and gnocchi with Ligurian pesto sauce. The pesto is a gastronomic idiom of Cinque Terre, an amalgam of the voluptuously pungent basil grown on the region's terraced gardens and local olive oils and garlic. The events of the ensuing days can be best described as a lazy man's triathlon. Setting out in the early morning of our first day, while it's still moist and cool on the shaded side of the mountain, we climb a narrow stone staircase that leads out of town. Passing women carrying bundles on their heads and others visiting in doorways, we eventually reach the last house and a crudely hewn sign that indicates the trail to Monterosso al Mare, the next village to the north, and the biggest of the five. The stone turns to dirt, and the street becomes a path flanked by waist-high grass and wild fennel. The path arcs around the hill 500 feet above the port, past the ramparts of the ancient citadel. It climbs precipitously to crest the mountain separating the two towns and then begins its slow meander through olive and lemon groves, cherry and apple orchards, past farmers tending small patches of vegetables, and vines bordered by informal stone fences. The Mediterranean, a clear deep turquoise, forms the horizon on the left. Perhaps the most challenging of all the direct routes between the villages, it tempts even the most ardent trekker to shorten stride, smell the blossoms and take in the stunning views. To underscore the mood, at a big bend in the trail, a smiling old farmer sits on a hillside outcropping offering encouragement and refreshment, the tart-tasting, russet-colored local liqueur made from white grapes called sciacchetra (shock-ay-TRAH). And a shock it is -- definitely an acquired taste. We hear an array of languages as couples and small groups pass us from time to time heading the other way toward Vernazza, now well behind us and shimmering in the sun. With a nod and a "buon giorno," one party steps aside to allow the other to pass. On the trail ahead we hear the singsong voices of schoolchildren calling to each other and can see their heads bobbing above the high grass as the trail slopes downward and turns toward the next village, our destination. In no time, it seems, we are stepping down into the cool shade of flanking stone walls festooned with wisteria, and onto a stone path, through a gateway with a small wooden sign that tells us we are entering Monterosso al Mare. The Mediterranean, clean and clear, is now nearly at our feet and a long stretch of pebbly beach beckons. We kick off our shoes and wade into the cool water before turning to survey the town that arcs around us. The boardwalk is lined with small pastel hotels and restaurants with outdoor tables. White paper placemats flutter in the breeze, signaling the noon meal. There are no more that 20 other people on the beach on this ideal May day, a far cry from the critical mass that will vie for space during the hot summer months of July and August, we are told. We retreat from the water, carrying our shoes, and head for the promenade, choosing one table from dozens set along the walkway. A woman appears, assuring us we have made an informed choice, and then brings antipasti and chilled local white wine to confirm our arrival. Several courses, including pansotti (pasta pillows stuffed with herbs and cheese with a walnut sauce) and steamed mussels in garlic, follow. We take our time, growing lazier by the plate, and debate taking the boat or train to the next town. This will be our routine for the next four days: leisurely one- to three-hour hikes from one town to the next; cooling dips in the sparkling Mediterranean; a breezy boat ride to another town, lunch al fresco at a little beachside restaurant followed by a languid stroll through town, another dip and a boat ride back to Vernazza and Rosa's apartment for a nap. We begin to anticipate the opening of the morning market, the hollering fishmonger beneath our window, the neighbors loading their laundry onto the lines to fly like pennants above our streets. All of these become habitual as we start to get in sync with the rhythms of the village. Where to stay in Vernazza: Finding a room in Vernazza is difficult only in the month of August, other summer weekends and during Easter break. It's best to arrive in town before midday and ask around. Check first at Trattoria Gianni, Piazza Marconi 5, the main square on the harbor. The restaurant has 20 or more small rooms in various houses centrally located just beneath the castle (you can find out there how to get in touch with Rosa Vitali, too). TEL: 0187-821-003, FAX: 0187-812-228. Also on Piazza Marconi is Albergo Barbara. It has only a few rooms but all with grand views of the harbor. They are also a good source on other affitte camere, pleasant, private rooms and apartments for rent around town. TEL: 0187-812-201. Get the addresses of two or three, check them out and take the best. Some are quiet and charming with wonderful views, while others (at the same price) might be on a blocked-in back lane over the train tunnel. Avoid staying too close to the station or the belltower, which chimes every hour. SALON | March 28, 1999 Anne Dowie is a writer and photographer who lives in San Francisco.