During our trip to the French Riviera, we knew that we were very close to northern Italy. On arrival, however, we were very surprised to discover just how close.
Over the course of the trip, we had our share of beach days, day trips to charming French villages and lots of long afternoons sipping wine at one bistro or another. But, after a few strolls around the harbor, seeing the “ITALIA” signs in the near distance, we decided it would be wild not to drive over for the day.
So, one morning we hopped into the electric car and less than ten minutes later, we were transported from France to Italy. We had originally planned to drive down to San Remo, a beautiful, little, touristy coastal town. But, the winding roads and looping terraced Mediterranean hills of southern France that we had been driving for the previous few days had the habit of turning a seven-mile trip into a 45-minute drive, and my husband was not keen on making the 90-minute journey all the way down to San Remo. So, we compromised. Tracing our finger down the map from Menton, we searched for another destination, a village closer to our home base.
Ventimiglia.
It certainly sounded Italian enough. And since it was only a 20-minute-ish drive from Menton, it fit the bill for a trek into Italy that didn’t take too much time. So, without any real expectation or foreknowledge, we went.
The Italian coast was different from France – more wild, more flowers and trees and less manicured towns and frankly, less people. We drove right into town and sailed into a parking spot in what we judged to be the center of it all.
Not all of Italy can be a glittering, magazine-style jewel. Not every city can be a visitor’s paradise.
But, there wasn’t much there. At all. I’m used to Milan, Lake Como, Rome, Naples and the Amalfi Coast. People and shops and restaurants and bars, cafés and gelaterias and art galleries. This was … a town. Just a very decent farmer’s market, banks, office buildings, a few random clothing stores that seemed to be mostly closed for the majority of the day. A few restaurants, a wine shop, some dubious stores that we couldn’t figure out what they sold. But, oddly, the most off-putting part was the most typical. Almost everything was closed at noon or so. Which one can reasonably expect in most Italian villages, but the lack of tourists and even of shops that one would want to go into if they did happen to be open was … odd.
The town was essentially empty – of visitors, certainly, but almost completely of inhabitants, as well. We had a quick, very delicious lunch, (one expects nothing less in Italy) and then thought of exploring outside the streets of the deserted downtown area. We wandered over to a park that at one time must have looked like something, but now had the appearance of disuse sliding into ruin. It also was empty, unsurprisingly. My son then led us closer to the water, the same Mediterranean Sea we had been swimming and sunning in for days, but here the water was murky, littered, fetid and in places seemingly stagnant.
Not all of Italy can be a glittering, magazine-style jewel. Not every city can be a visitor’s paradise. Some villages are simply places where people eat, work and live their daily lives. As underwhelming as Ventimiglia was, the pizza was still outstanding, the pasta handmade and wonderful.
Best of all? The drive back was a breeze and we were back on the beach of our beautiful Menton with hours of sunshine and sandcastle building left in the day. We were close enough to Northern Italy for a quick escape, and close enough to Southern France to escape right back.
