Almost Provence
There is a stretch of Italian coastline where France exhales and Italy begins to breathe—a liminal zone of gardens, train whistles, and restlessness.
A Loud Train
I boarded the regional train from Toulon to Nice. This train I was used used to—old with cushioned seats and bad AC. But still we are in France. People are polite and minding their business. In Nice, already on platform waiting for our train to Ventimiglia, everything got louder and more ‘in your face’. The passengers less patient and well—loud. The loaded train arrived and we just barely got some seats between vocal Italian girls and some beefy sleepy men. As we slipped past the invisible border, the signs changed language without ceremony, as if history were just another station nobody bothered to disembark at. Ventimiglia arrived suddenly, almost by surprise.
A Faded Postcard
Ventimiglia, to me, is a faded postcard from a future that never quite arrived. The sea is always close here—sometimes too close—its breath mingling with the scent of old stone and wild fennel. The cliffs press in, as if the town is being shaped by a slow, ancient hand. On our way down from the train station we entered the covered market, wandering among the covered stalls, brushing shoulders with strangers armed with groceries or a bouquet of flowers. Counterfeit perfume mingled with Tuscan salami, leather bags that would not last, and the thrum of a dozen dialects, none of them truly local. I heard the hesitation in the voices of Italians from Torino, Algerians from Marseille, Parisians who came here to buy cigarettes at half price.
The Cliche is true
Strolling down toward the river, I was inserted into a cliche of all cliches. In coffee shops Italian men sat smoking and boasting loudly. Sometimes the cliche is true.
Yet there is something holy in Ventimiglia’s disrepair. The old town climbs a crumbling hill. Cats drift between shadows, Roman walls grin through plaster, and a ruined theatre dreams of applause it will never hear again. The river Roja spills into the sea in a slow-motion confession, as if even the water holds secrets it cannot bear to keep—so it purges them to the sea.
We hiked up the serpentine alleyways and uneven broken steps in the old village. The aging population was plastered on the walls in the form of obituary notices. Every home a jigsaw puzzle that doesn’t quite fit with its neighbours—but still squeezed its way to claim its rightful place. Paint in an array of colours chipped and peeling. The old old empty library welcomed us with a librarian who clung to his desk and old job. Clearly he could be doing other things, more suitable for young persons. But no, he liked his old books from the 15th century.
Hanging laundry. Dozing dogs. Old Italian mamas shouting from balconies. I died and gone to an old film from the Italian neo-realism era.
This place was authentic, not touristy, as Ventimiglia is a place to stop by on the way to someplace else. Or someplace better. Not a destination.Ventimiglia does not expect you to stay. So it doesn’t make an effort. But that is precisely why you should.
San Remo: Theatre and Thorns
San Remo, by contrast, still believes in theatre. It dresses up for you, whether you deserve it or not. Bougainvillea spills down the terraces in magenta cascades, the palms stand at attention, too symmetrical. The hotels have the weary grandeur of old diplomats and faded duchesses. The casino glitters like a fading starlet…
A Cheap Bus to a Cheap Hotel
Following our descent from the village in Ventimiglia we waited on the bridge over the Roja river for the local bus to San Remo. Did I tell you I made it my mission to use public transportation whenever possible? Really, not sure if it’s the age—actually I’m sure it is—but after 30 years of driving, I’m bored and had enough. Luckily in France the trains are great. But the local buses in Italy—less. Dirty, loud, and late. Still it’s the authentic experience. And that’s what we’re here for. And after a slow roll around the coast, an hour later we are dropped off at a plaza in San Remo next to our 2 star hotel.
A Rainy Remo
A short-long siesta later and we are ready to hit the town, the lower town that is. But wouldn’t you know it—20 minutes out the door and it’s raining, like a lot. We duck into a Gelateria and taste our first ice cream in Italy. Decent, the next one would be better. Not all Gelaterias are made alike! Ice cream done, we continue to stroll along the port in the rain, until the sun resurfaces and now it is already apero time. We duck into one cafe that seems to be quite popular, where we order some super duper expensive drinks. But with the price tag come all you can eat snacks—in the form of chips and little baked salty goods such as mini pizzas. So I’d say it was not a bad deal after all, except we really wanted to save our appetite for our first pizzeria experience in Italy.
The Shitty Pizza
So I desperately craved the touristy experience of having a pizza in Italy. I found on google the one pizzeria that was highly rated and most popular: Spaccanapoli
As a tour guide, I should have known better as it was a total tourist trap. They charged us for table water, for ‘place setting’. As for the pizzas? I’ve had much better in France. Very thick dough, with mountains of cheap cheese. The jambon (prosciutto) was of very low quality. When I dared to complain, the waiter was rude, and the restaurant full of tourists—so what does he care? If not me, there are an influx of others. I don’t know when or how this place got so popular, the reviews were definitely misleading. So I seek to correct this and give a ‘bad review’ on google. I don’t like doing this, but in this case I felt an obligation in order to warn future visitors.
I am sure amazing pizza exists in Italy. This was not the place unfortunately and it was really annoying to me that 1000 good reviews misled me. Or this place used to be good and got too complacent…
The Upper City
The following morning we set off to explore the old city and the upper village. It reminded us of the village in Ventimiglia, but this felt larger, like the streets were not as narrow. We meandered up until we reached the gates of the old city and what used to be the citadel, then slowly made our way back down through charming crumbling alleyways and tiny plazas. We bumped into the most wonderful ice cream parlour with two prices tiers: to go or to stay. In Italy I learned, anything requiring sitting, you get charged even if the entire terrace is unoccupied. Very very strange to me.
Again that bus…
It is already mid day and we need to make our way back to France. We stood at a bus stop and waited for the local bus back to Ventimiglia and our train. It was supposed to arrive in 15 minutes but took twice as long to arrive. It was derelict with broken seat cushions, graffiti and filthy, and reminded me of buses I took in Central America some 30 years ago. I didn’t think such rundown buses still operated in the Western world or the Italian Riviera for that matter!
San Remo remembers a time before airplanes, when Russians came by train to recover from heartbreak or tuberculosis. Sometimes, if the wind is right, the villas still whisper in Russian. I walked past the old railway line—now a cycling path lined with oleanders—and imagined I could hear the wheels of time grinding steel into petals. Here, even the decay is ornate. Music festivals are national rituals, and every balcony suspects it was once serenaded.
But San Remo is also a city that knows too much. The markets are more expensive, the espresso is colder, and there are too many sunglasses and not enough eyes. Comfort here is a velvet trap; you can lose yourself in it, and many do. I watched many tourists emerge out of their holes as soon as the sun came out. In Ventimigilia, the aging population was dying as evidenced by the obituaries. In San Remo, no one dies. They become legends in wide-brimmed hats, haunting the promenade at sunset.
Good shopping
Back in Ventimiglia and hungry we crash a supermarket and buy Italian sweets and cakes to take back home. Also, long train ahead we decide to picnic and get some local ham, cheese, and bread. A smoker myself, could not resist cigarettes for 5.50 euros instead of 12.50 in France (they cost 20 pounds in the UK! Yep NOBODY smokes there anymore).
Ventimiglia and San Remo. One town authentic, the other play-pretend glitz. But if you get on the local bus you are transported to reality, to the true face of both places.
Yes, one town shrugs, the other grins. Both know your name, and neither will ask you to stay. Which is precisely why you might. I did, for a weekend. And sometimes, when the light is right and the wind is from the west, I wonder if I ever really left at all. They both grow on you, for different reasons.
This isn’t Provence anymore, but not far either. Strange things happen when you just hop across the border.
France might be the proper lady, but Italy might just be tramp you actually want to take home. Because what you see is what you get.
