My Sarcastic Gay Camera Takes You On A Tour of Italy's Cinque Terre

His name is "El Divo." You'll soon see why.

Buongiorno! And please note that this greeting is pronounced differently than it’s spelled. For you plebians, it sounds like “Bonjourno.”

Yes, you’re coming along on another one of Michael’s photographic journeys, but no, Michael will not be your guide. I shall be! And I’m much more entertaining than the silly dragon who dragged you around Bangkok.

Who am I, exactly? I am Michael’s Pixel 9 XL Pro — the Dom Pérignon of cameras, the Meryl Streep of megapixels.

I’m also 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? I have many. You, however, 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 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 this hack named Michael Jensen, a guy dressed like a tourist dad on laundry day. A guy who wouldn’t know an f-stop from a bus stop.

Never mind — 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.

Sigh.

Look at him with that striped shirt and baseball cap. He’s where fashion and style go to die.

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 want to see involves tequila.

Together, we walk back down to where the colorful umbrellas dotting the harbor create 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 as old as all the Superman reboots.

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, has no idea 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.

Honestly, though, Monterosso is the least interesting village of the five.

It’s the Ed Sheeran of the Cinque Terre — sure, he’s a great singer/songwriter, but he’s got none of the panache of Elton John, Freddie Mercury, David Bowie, or Boy George. Where are the bright colors? The dramatic vistas? Unforgettable seascapes?

Really, the best thing about Monterosso is the lovely 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 without direct sea access.

The smallest of the Cinque Terre villages sits 100 meters above the water, and there are only two ways to reach it — a shuttle with a long line of people.

Or 382 steps.

Michael insists on climbing them because: “We don’t have a minute to waste!”

He’s rather stressed because it looks like some 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.

On the other hand, 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 attending her first concert and leaps to his feet, snapping away like a madman. “It’s like something from a classic Italian film!”

To be fair, the picture he gets isn’t half bad.

Then we are 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 musically-themed soundtrack and starts singing the most 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 thousands of you subscribe to a newsletter written by this ham.

Anyway, Riogmaggiore is the steepest of the five villages, with vineyards clinging to the sides like mountain goats to Italian Alps.

The view as we hike is spectacular, but does Michael take a moment to soak it in? Of course not. He’s too busy photographing every grape leaf, every trellis, and every damn rock that catches his eye.

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 to oblivion.

Michael hurries down the steps, terrified we won’t return to Manarola before sunset. Well, we definitely won’t make it back in time if the fool breaks his neck.

Soon we enter Riomaggiore and it’s lovely.

The pastel buildings tumble to the sea like a box of overturned macaroons. 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.

“Am I a gay camera?” you ask. Are you 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.

I’m not just a gay camera — I am a gay camera.

Anyway, Michael? He’s too busy documenting the fiftieth laundry line of the day to pay more attention to the hotties right in front of him.

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

Frantic, 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, possibly the oldest of the five villages.

“This is it,” Michael whispers, awed. “The perfect shot.” As if we haven’t taken four hundred already.

Manarola was founded in the 12th century, and its name may have been derived from Manium Arula, which means “small temple of the dead.” Either that or “big wheel,” which seems pretty confusing

You’d think linguists would’ve figured that out by now, but Italy has a lot of history to sort out.

Regardless of the name, this place is a riot of color, all pastel buildings stacked precariously on cliffs.

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 captures magic through me — even if he really does take too many pictures.

Night falls swiftly as the moon climbs over the horizon, and 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 badly dressed dork, but he’s my badly dressed dork.

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Michael Jensen is a travel writer, amateur photographer, and novelist. Check out his other newsletter about his travels at BrentAndMichaelAreGoingPlaces.com.