Dear Editors,
How are you? I'm fine, thanks. I'm sitting outside a busy little gelato shop a couple hundred paces from the hilly shores of Lake Como trying to, well, piece together a sort of journalistic accident report of the past ten days. Trying to understand exactly how I overspent the budget by about a grand but still somehow managed to bungle the assignment.

I know what you're thinking: "We sent you to Cinque Terre. What the hell are you doing near the Alps?"

I can explain.

As you no doubt remember, my seductively simple plan began with Jock, the surprisingly eloquent male model. I met him three years ago in Levanto, at the edge of Cinque Terre, the string of five seaside hamlets west of Florence: Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. While Jock's girlfriend revarnished the gunwales of their dinghy, the lanky dude waxed rhapsodic about the joys of visiting those incredibly quaint fishing villages draped over the cliffs, saying that though you could reach them by train, ferry, taxi, or ancient walking paths, the only way to really appreciate them was from a traditional skiff. Whammo! A mission born of passion and romance (and maybe a twinge of jealousy).

Of course, between then and now, I didn't really do a ton of research.

I did study some maps online, but how was I to know Cinque Terre was just six miles long, rowable in an afternoon? The thumbnails had no distance scales! Who knew Google Maps covered other countries?

As for getting the boat—OK, I'm not sure I checked to see if anyone rented rowboats. (They don't.) But even if I didn't, c'mon, the towns are lousy with 'em. (See photo, page 53.) Besides, planning is not my strong suit. You know that. "Wing it" is more my méthode de guerre, whether paddling an inflatable pool toy across Walden Pond or ripping down Kilimanjaro on mini-skis.

This was no different. The fundamentals were solid. The Chianti was cheap!