As you can imagine, I’m not feeling so good at this point. I’m nursing roughly 179 mosquito bites, a swollen eye, a bunch of gaping cuts on my legs, back, and feet, and now, a wasp sting on my bloody left foot. Oh, and did I mention that I’m allergic to bees and wasps? My foot was on its way to becoming the size of a basketball.
I tried not to let my enthusiasm dampen. But for the love of pain meds, how much could one woman take? I tried to adjust my cranky attitude. After all, I wasn’t sure when I’d make it back to Cinque Terre and I wanted to soak up every single second of its Italian dreaminess.
The next day, Emily and I (wisely) decided to stick close to Vernazza and sun ourselves on the beach in front of our pensione. At some point, I applied suntan lotion and shortly after that, I moved my towel so that I could be in more direct sunlight.
Ten hours later, as we were about to head out for another Italian feast, I found myself engaging in an absent-minded habit I had of adjusting the ring on my right-hand ring finger with my thumb. But my ring wasn’t there. And this wasn’t just any ring; it was my grandmother’s estate diamond and platinum ring, my grandmother who had died seventeen years before. It was my most cherished possession and I never took it off, except apparently, to apply some overpriced Italian sunblock. As soon as I noticed the ring was gone, I started crying because I knew where it was—or probably wasn’t—by now.
Even so, I limped down to the beach with Emily in tow. It was pitch black except for a gorgeous Italian moon which I had no time to appreciate. We got down on our knees and began sifting through the sand, me sobbing hysterically the whole time. After an hour or so, we gave up. My grandmother’s ring was lost forever, washed out to sea. I imagined her beautiful ring sitting on the bottom of the Mediterranean, never to be worn again, by me or any daughters or granddaughters I might have. I felt sick to my stomach. Not even Chianti would ease this pain.
