The locals write “Sanremo”, a conjunction of the saint’s name. The rest of the world splits it into two words: San Remo. It’s a beautiful and small little town that has palm trees befitting any seaside resort, as well as the narrow, pedestrian-only, rabbit-warren paths that are so characteristic of towns around Italy. Just a breath away from France, if I threw a rock into the air it would land on the other side of the border. (It’s actually about 15 miles away). I’m glad I visited in February; I can only imagine this place having standing-room-only in the summer!
From my journal. Sunday, 7 February 2010
“Saturday morning woke us to blue skies and warming temperatures that spoke of Spring. We had a breakfast of prosciutto, fresh mozzarella and toast before heading into the town of Sanremo. We inched through the very crowded market which sprawled over many blocks. Hawkers sold housewares, handbags and cashmere, most at dirt cheap prices and most at acceptable quality. I bought nothing.
A lovely day, with my light jacket unzipped and open under the sky, fresh air in off the water, and the clarity that follows a hard rain. the sun was brilliant in my eyes and the mimosa was just beginning to bloom.”
As is common in other big cities around Italy (the rest of Europe, too?), there are “human statues” that pose for money, either with a tourist or without. I’ve seen them in Rome, usually dressed head-to-toe in all white or gold, mimicking the old statuary. This man, however, was clad in silver painted junk, tied and heaped onto his body. He stood stock-still, shimmering. I enjoyed his fresh take on the well-worn statuary vision.
