My Sarcastic Gay Camera Takes You On A Tour of Italy's Cinque Terre
His name is "El Divo." You'll soon see why.
Note: This article originally ran in my Michael Takes Too Many Pictures newsletter.
Buongiorno! And please note that this greeting is pronounced differently than it’s spelled. For you plebians, it sounds like “Bonjourno.”
Regular readers know that Michael often shares pictures he’s taken accompanied by his written narration.
Today, it’s a bit different. Today, I am your narrator — Michael’s Pixel 9 XL Pro.
Yes, Michael’s camera.
After all, I’m the one who actually does all the work taking these photos he’s so proud of. Naturally, I get none of the praise.
Whatever. I don’t really care. I am about the work.
My name? You may call me “El Divo.”
Today, you shall accompany me as we visit the jewel of Italy’s Ligurian coast, the Cinque Terre.
Ah, Cinque Terre! You are bellissimo! Magnifico! Beyond compare, even when overrun by the sweaty hordes Rick Steves unleashed upon your pastel-painted villas.
Five breathtakingly picturesque villages clinging to the rugged Italian coastline, dripping with charm and history — and also gelato dropped by screaming brats with no business being here.
It's a paradise for any serious photographer with a good eye and a modicum of talent.
Sadly, I find myself in the hands of Michael Jensen.
But it seems I have no choice in the matters, so let us begin!
Vernazza: Sunrise, Umbrellas, and an Overcaffeinated Photographer
Did you know Michael is an early bird? Well, he is. And he dragged my ass out of bed before the crack of dawn to take pictures.
He’s also dressed like a tourist dad on laundry day. I doubt this guy knows his f-stop from a bus stop.
We begin in Vernazza, which — fun fact! — dates back to at least 1080 AD and was once a key naval base for the Republic of Genoa.
Okay, the view here is pretty cool, even if the only sunrise I wanted to see at this moment involves tequila.
Together, we walk back down to where colorful umbrellas dot the harbor square — a picturesque scene that even I, Michael’s long-suffering camera, admit is lovely.
But Michael? He’s in a frenzy.
“Golden hour, golden hour!” he chants, leaping about, snapping shots of every fishing boat, every seagull, every glistening wave.
Seriously, it gets old.
Michael is finally ready to move on, and it’s a good thing because my shutter button is about spent — and I don’t mean that in a fun way.
Monterosso al Mare: The Ed Sheeran of the Cinque Terre
Next, we traipse to Monterosso, the largest of the five towns and the only one with a proper beach.
It's also home to Il Gigante, a crumbling 14-meter statue of Neptune attached to Villa Pastine. Il Gigante looks like he’s suffering a horrible existential crisis, no?
Honestly, same.
Is this all life has for me? Being lugged around the world by, well, this big lug?
Michael, amped up on three espressos and two chocolate croissants, doesn’t care what I feel as he races around, trying to find the perfect picture that “captures” Monterosso.
Yes, there are some plazas with those pastel-colored buildings.
But, uh, Monterosso is the least interesting village of the five.
It’s the Ed Sheeran of the Cinque Terre. Sure, Ed is a decent singer/songwriter, but he’s got none of the color or panache of someone like David Bowie or Adam Lambert.
Or, say, me.
Really, the best thing about Monterosso is a halfway decent beach — something none of the other villages have.
Farewell, Monterosso. We’re off to Corniglia.
Corniglia: Up, up, up!
We hop on the train and arrive at Corniglia, the only Cinque Terre town not located right on the sea.
Instead, it sits 100 meters above the water.
So while there is a train stop for Corniglia, there are only two ways to reach the town itself: take a shuttle.
Or climb 382 steps.
Michael, of course, insists on the steps.
Even so, he’s still in a frenzy. He’s stressed because it looks like some bad weather is headed our way.
Michael can be very neurotic about the weather. Heaven forbid if our little Prince of Pictures doesn’t have perfect lighting all day.
The name Corniglia likely comes from a Roman family that once owned vineyards here.
Alas, the rain does roll in, and thankfully, Michael decides to seek shelter. I am water resistant, but I appreciate that he doesn’t push it.
Of course, it’s less out of concern for my feelings than his worrying about squeezing every precious photo out of me possible.
Michael glumly sips his sixth espresso, waiting for the rain to let up, when a man walks by with a colorful umbrella.
My erstwhile owner squeals like a Swiftie at last summer’s Eras Tour and leaps to his feet, snapping away like a madman. “It’s like something from a classic Italian film!”
To be fair, the picture isn’t half bad.
Then we’re off again. As if apologizing for not giving us more to work with, the skies clear as we leave, and Corniglia sends off with a gorgeous final photo.
Riomaggiore: Rhymes with Chicken Cacciatore
Geographically, Manarola is the next village, but we skip it for now. Michael has already scouted the villages and decided Manarola will have the best sunset.
Instead, we head for Riomaggiore, whose name comes from Rivus Maior — the river that once ran through it.
Michael decides our journey needs a musical soundtrack and starts singing the only Italian thing he can think of — “That’s Amore” — belting out the line “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore!” over and over again.
I seriously cannot believe anyone subscribes to a newsletter written by this ham.
Anyway, Riogmaggiore is considered the “steepest” of the five villages. In practical terms, that means it’s in a deep valley surrounded by ridiculously steep terraced vineyards.
We hike the vineyards, and the view is spectacular, but does Michael take a moment to soak it in? No, he’s too busy photographing every damn grape leaf and trellis.
Riomaggiore comes into view — and it’s a long way down. If Michael drops me trying to get this shot, I swear I will return from the Great Recycling Bin and haunt him for the rest of his days.
Michael hurries down the steps, terrified we won’t make it back to Manarola before sunset.
Well, we definitely won’t make it if this fool falls and breaks his neck.
Ten seconds later, when we arrive, Riomaggiore is certainly lovely. The pastel buildings seem to tumble down to the sea like macaroons tumbling from an overturned box.
Michael gasps, “The colors!” like a toddler seeing fireworks for the first time.
Meanwhile, a group of attractive Italian men dive into the water, their sun-kissed bodies glistening. I take them in, gauging the composition, the lighting, the abs.
Is this a gay camera? you may be thinking.
You’re only figuring that out now?
Speaking of which, I Am a Camera is the Broadway play adapted from Christopher Isherwood’s 1939 novel Goodbye to Berlin, which was also later turned into a musical, the Broadway hit Cabaret, which was adapted again into the 1972 film starring Liza Minelli in her Oscar-winning role as Sally Bowles.
In short, I’m not just a gay camera — I am a gay camera.
As for Michael, he’s too busy documenting the fiftieth laundry line of the day to pay more attention to the nearby hotties.
What is it with Americans and taking pictures of drying laundry anyway? If I didn’t know better, I’d assume Americans think Italy’s main attraction is being the world’s largest outdoor laundromat.
Manarola: The Perfect Shot
More frantic than ever, Michael hurries on, terrified we’ll miss the sunset in Manarola.
We race up the steep stairs, then down again, until we catch our first glimpse of Manarola, probably the oldest of the five villages.
“This is it,” Michael whispers, awed. “The perfect shot.”
As if we haven’t taken four hundred “perfect shots” already.
Manarola was founded in the twelfth century, and its name may have been derived from Manium Arula, which means “small temple of the dead.” Either that or “big wheel,” which, uh, seems fairly confusing.
Get it straight, historians. Though, in fairness, Italy does have a lot of history to sort out.
Regardless, this place really is beautiful.
I want to linger on the image, imagining myself with, oh, Zendaya maybe, doing the American-romantic-comedy-set-in-Italy thing. Not Lost in Tuscany but…Confused in the Cinque Terre?
Okay, the name needs work.
Anyway, she’s an accident-prone expat who buys a crumbling hotel here and welcomes a curmudgeonly American tourist played by one of the hotties from Challengers — and promptly proceeds to melt his heart.
Okay, the plot needs work too.
Meanwhile, Michael is scurrying around like a demented crab, taking close-ups of — what? A boat that was probably literally put there for people to photograph!
The golden hour is approaching, and Michael is apoplectic, trying to get every shot. To be fair, the golden hour glow really does work its magic.
I’ll allow it.
As the sun disappears behind the cliffs, I begrudgingly admit that Michael does sometimes use me to capture magic — even if he also takes way too many pictures.
Night falls swiftly, and the moon rises. The lights of Manarola flicker to life, making everything more magical.
Once again, Michael starts singing, “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore,” but softly this time. Instead of being corny, it’s actually lovely.
He might be a dork — and badly dressed one at that — but he’s my badly dressed dork.
I don’t even mind sometimes sharing him with Brent.
For more of my pictures — and more El Divo! — subscribe to my other newsletter, Michael Takes Too Many Pictures.
Absolutely brilliant. That gay camera really knows how to shoot and the travelogue was outstanding. The magic hour really is magic. Bellisimo.
I really enjoyed getting to know El Divo. I hope we hear more from him. A question if I may: are they worth seeing IN SPITE of the Rick Steves sweaty hoards? I swear by Rick's books but he's managed to, ahem, single handedly ruin some places.