The Long and Winding Roads

For a place defined by its startlingly blue green water, it sure has been hard to get wet.

This s morning I set out for Marina Vico Equense, the shangra la at the end of the winding road I can see from our hotel window.

It is an old stone road that winds back and forth as it makes its way down the cliffside to the bay and the cluster of boats bobbing in it.

As I walk, I see teenagers making out, guys on mopeds zipping by at breakneck speeds and even an assignation.

At least I assume that is what it is since he arrived first in his car (nearly mowing me down in his race to get there) and she arrived a minute later, jumping out of her car and into his.

After some passionate hello kisses, they sped off, leaving her car parked safely out of view of the main drag above.

The winding walk is very scenic with aqueducts, villas, cliff side terraces and always that alluring sea at the bottom.

But when I finally get there, I find the marina is blocked off with no way for me to make it the last 20 feet to the water.

Drat.

The walk back up the steep hill is far less satisfying since I have failed.

I console myself at a pasticceria with four kinds of cookies, but I have still yet to put my feet in the sea,

By afternoon, I set out again, this time in my bathing costume (as Gabriella calls it) for the Hotel Sporting, which I have been told has a lift down to the beach.

The road there is in a different direction, so I at least have new sights along the way, including several scenic overlooks to keep me motivated.

The charming Richmond like hipster kid at the front desk of the Hotel Sporting looks dismayed to break some bad news to me.

"The beach is closed for the season," he says grimacing as if he feels my pain.

Outside, it is almost 80 degrees, so I am unsure what season he is referring to.

Undaunted and desperate, I leave there and start walking on the road to the next town, Equa, where they also have a marina.

After a winding walk that seems to be heading up into the hills and not down toward the bay, I admit defeat.

Apparently I will never touch water in Italy.

I console myself with a strachiatella gelato, not even caring when it drips on my bathing costume.

Tomorrow is another day and I can only hope it will not be as unsuccessfully dry as today.

Must. Find. Sea.