Nonetheless, after a fortifying and delicious dinner of fish (fish that is both fresh and well prepared: so. good.), veggies, foccacia, and farinata, we cross over to the island on a ferry and commence climbing.
I am still busy admiring the view when I practically bump into a thigh-high rock. I look at the rock. I locate the sounds of the voices of the people in front of me. They are on top of the rock, and climbing still more rocks. In fact, there appears to be a series of such rocks. I can't even see where it ends. Right, then.
I climb the rocks too. And you know what? I almost don't dare say it, but... it's not actually so exceedingly hard. It's just hard enough that it's a nice challenge and the muscles in your thighs sometimes go "hey, we're climbing rocks!" and you definitely have to pay attention to where you're putting your feet (in the interest of not falling off the rocks in question) but it's not impossible. Win.
Also, this is the view from atop the rocks. Win and win, no?
Also, wearing a lamp on your head is like being a little car with headlights. Or having a glow-in-the-dark forehead. Or being Rudolph. Or something. It's pretty spiffy. At one point, we all sit down and turn the lights off and listen to the waves crashing on the rocks below and the seagulls calling to one another. Some of the Italians call wisecracks back to the seagulls, in that way that only Italians can. (Not that I've surveyed the whole world, but so far, no one does it quite like Italians. Or maybe it's the language that works really well for it...) Anyway, it's near-on blissful.
Back on the mainland, after descending from the island and the ferry ride home, I plop myself down on a low wall around the mini-piazza in front of the hostel where we are staying, suddenly feeling all of that scaling-of-rocks in my legs. Someone hands me a glass of prosecco and a piece of focaccia and the group leader whips out a guitar. First they sing a toast. (No, really. It was brilliant. Like in a cheesy movie about happy mandolin-wielding Italians.) Then they sing a song in Bolognese dialect. Then in Genovese (in honor of us being in Liguria, see). Then a whole slew of them in Reggiano. Apparently they are songs of the slightly-less-than-tasteful variety, because everyone is in stitches. I can't understand more than half of it, but I'm more than happy just to hang out in a rock-scaling-and-prosecco-induced haze and lesson to the tune of it.
After some time, one of the other group leaders sits down next to me.
"So, did you like it?"
Me (enthusiastically): "Yeah, definitely! That was great! And the view was so beautiful!"
Him: "Yeah, that was a pretty good climb. Definitely a good view, but I guess it usually is, if you go 180 meters off the ground, right?"
Me (having no concept of how tall 180 meters is): "Yeah, definitely." (I have a quick glance back over at the island - specifically, at the top of it. Guess that's 180 meters.)
Him: "Well, tomorrow will be even better!"
Me (casually, to belie the thought that's just occurred to me): "Yeah? So how high up will it be tomorrow?"
Him: "Oh, about 600 meters. You did great today for your first climb, by the way!"
"Mm-hm," I murmur vaguely.
I have another glance at that island, and picture those "not so hard" rocks we just climbed. Then I attempt to conceive of how high 600 meters might be, and fail.
"It'll be awesome!" he adds, slipping off the wall and bidding me good night.
I'm sure it will.
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