Torino Revisited

7/28 - Back to Torino

The train from Saluzzo had only two cars, so small was this little outpost. It was drizzling a little as we arrived in Torino, and after purchasing a bus ticket, I hopped on the No. 52, which was headed for the hostel.

When I asked the bus driver about the stop I was looking for, he didn't quite understand me, but my question was answered by a kid sitting at the front of the bus. Thanking him, I took my seat, and thought again about Claudio's joke. Did this kid fit the "sex, cars, and motorcycles" sterotype? Dressed with the tight black jeans and sneakers with fluorescent green laces of a punk, he was also heavily absorbed by a book, and had the face and energy of a good person. No, I thought, this kid does not fit the stereotype. I bet he's a really good kid, and very studious.

I switched my attention to my journal, but when the stop came, he helped me again by letting me know that it was coming up. I lugged my backpack off the bus, and I saw that he was waiting for me to get off. He pointed me in the direction of the hostel, explained how to get there, and, as an aside, asked my nationality.

When I told him I was American, his face lit up, and he responded in nearly flawless English that his mother was an American from Chicago. He and I got to talking, a little in Italian and a little in English, and after 5 minutes of conversation, he pointed across the street and said, "hey, there's my mom!" The 18-year-old boy, whose name was Gianluca, introduced me to his mother Diana and her boyfriend Marco, and had me recount the purpose of my trip to them as well.

They liked the idea of the trip, we got to talking, and before I knew it, I was headed up the stairs to their home for dinner and to spend the night!

After a low key but delicious meal of prosciutto and melon and pasta on their balcony, which had lovely views of the city, we talked until sunset. We then went into the kitchen for the obligatory after-dinner coffee, and I managed to convince the then-tired Gianluca to go on a small evening walk with me.

From then on, Gianluca would speak primarily in English, and I would speak primarily in Italian, and we would interrupt our conversation frequently with discussions about various fine grammatical points. I, for example, explained to him the difference between good and well, as well as the use of I instead of me in "you are better at this than I." He explained that in order to say "I believe them" you should say credo loro instead of gli credo.

He showed me various parts of the city, talked about the history of Torino, and we went for a beer at an Irish pub. Finally, at 2 in the morning, in the midst of a full-blown discussion about whether or not it is acceptable for a nation to invade another nation when that nation is habitually slaughtering its own people, I told him that it was time for me to go to bed, and I hit the sack hard.

The next day, Gianluca graciously spent the entire day showing me around Torino. We saw the famous Cinema museum at the Molo (which is more or less the symbol of Torino), had lunch with his girlfriend, went back to Grom (the Gelateria), went to the Egyptian museum (the second biggest after Cairo), and then he walked me back to his house.

Since his girlfriend was going on vacation in a few days, I said goodbye to him then. I stayed a bit longer in the house speaking with Diana and Marco. Marco painstakingly went over the map of Piedmont with me, and we traced out the path that I should take to Genova. He then graciously offered me the map, and we went to the computer to check out the selection of accommodations at the towns I had selected along my path.

Once he had given me a couple minutes to check my email, I said goodbye, posed for a few pictures, thanked both Diana and Marco, and made my way to the hostel, but not before they had loaded me up with tuna, fruit, and crackers.

I simply cannot believe my good fortune in meeting such wonderful people. In fact, Diana, Marco and I had spoken about it at length during the previous evening's dinner. Diana and Marco both agreed that my "journey" was more characteristic of their generation (that of the 1960s) than my own. The fact that I have found so many good people, they said, was because I was looking for them, something that is not done very often in our day and age. The hypothesis that "if you look for the good in people, you are bound to find it" is indeed a relic from a different time, and I must admit that in my case it has been borne out by experience (so far, at least). The only thing that I could think of to connect this anachronism to my generation is that this trip does not have the loftier goal of world peace so much as it is my own (selfish) desire for the accumulation of individual experiences.

That said, I will now cut this post short. Today is the 30th of July, and while I was supposed to head out toward Alba this morning, I needed to make sure that I got everything squared away in the blog and photo world. Since it will be late afternoon by the time I figure everything out, I will stay one more night in Torino, and try to leave very early tomorrow morning. One more gelato from Grom wouldn't kill me, either.

Fossano and Saluzzo - The Excursion

7/26-28
Fossano and Saluzzo
0 trail miles walked

My timing could not have been better for the trip to visit Anna. Just as I got on the train, the rain started to pour down, and would follow me all the way to Fossano. In addition, I had managed to barge my way into a dinner that was being planned for that evening with Anna, her boyfriend, and two of his friends.

I was particularly excited about this, as it meant that I would get to eat home-cooked Italian food, and most importantly, spend some time with Italians who were around my age. Now don't get me wrong, I really love speaking with older people: they are wise, knowledgeable about their area, generous, and more overtly friendly than people of my generation. However, I had been lacking the experience of hearing about living in Italy from people my age, so I was excited.

Anna and Claudio picked me up from the Fossano train station and we immediately hit it off. I think they were pretty relieved that I could hold a conversation in Italian, since the other two guests at dinner were not big English speakers and a meal where two different languages are spoken can be sometimes strained and awkward.

We made our way immediately to Alice's (pronounced AH-lee-chay) house, where after a much needed shower I joined everyone in preparing for dinner. We had a couple beers, some Martinis (not the cocktail, but the vermouth, prepared neat, since ice is absent from this continent), and even a small jam session on the bongos. Later on, Claudio's good friend Roby joined us, bearing gifts of all sorts of fruits, vegetables, and herbs, since he works on a farm. We incorporated these into the meal, and after everything was prepared, took our seats.

The meal, which was in three courses and consisted of some delicious seafood dishes, lasted a few hours, and was accompanied by bottles of white wine and lots of laughter.

The company was excellent: Alice was playful, Claudio hilarious, Anna full of keen insights, and Roby knowledgeable about a wide range of subjects. After a couple more drinks, we headed out to the streets for a gelato, some face-time at the local bar, and then made our way back home.

After sleeping and relaxing away the morning, an activity that has recently become a foreign but welcome luxury to me, we made our way back to Alice's house for lunch, and to play with her 4-year-old son Pietro, who was a real firecracker. After that, Anna, Claudio, and I drove to Saluzzo, where Anna lives in a cute and thoroughly Italian one-bedroom apartment in the middle of town.

This sleepy little town was absolutely magnificent. An important administrative outpost on the road to France, Saluzzo boasts many beautiful mansions and civic buildings. One prominent feature was the grisailles fresco work, which is often made to look like stonework, as in this particularly well-preserved piece.

We received an insider's tour from Roby, sweating under his heavy motorcylce gear but clearly proud of his town. It was quite clear that he had studied the history of his town extensively, and his stories brought the town to life for me. For example, it is one thing to see a pretty cool-looking building, and another to know that it is owned by the descendants of a count, has been on the market for 60 years, and that everyone who thinks about buying it ends up being scared away, convinced that it is haunted.

The tour ended with an evening Aperitivo, or pre-dinner drink. This is a common activity throughout Italy, and everyone, from pre-teens to grandparents, makes an appearance in their Sunday finest.

For dinner we each picked a personal pizza and brought it home to eat on Anna's balcony. There we all waxed philosphical about Italy, with subjects ranging from the subpar health care system (sound familiar?) to the 20-something social scene. This was exactly what I had hoped to find: the state of Italy from a young person's point of view.

We turned in early for the night, and I said goodbye to Roby and Claudio before going to bed, since I would only see Anna on the following day.

My last few hours in Saluzzo were spent doing various errands with Anna, all the meanwhile comparing notes about our experiences as Americans in Italy. With four years under her belt, Anna has accumulated some wonderful experiences, and it was great to hear her talk about Italy, and share some of her plans with me.

These 48 hours were an excellent break from my trip, and provided some much-needed perspective. Claudio had joked that Italian guys my age only liked to talk sex, cars, and motorcycles, and yet he was both sensitive and possessed a strong connection with the traditional Italian values of honor and mutual respect. Roby, who worked on a farm and appeared at the market stall once or twice a week to sell his produce, was extremely well read, and had the tranquility of someone who had thought many important questions through. Alice, who at 25 already possessed the ability to cook a large dinner for 5 almost effortlessly, pursue a career as a massage therapist, and take care of a 4-year old child, could be as bubbly and playful as a child herself. And Anna, the girl who came to a city of less than 20,000 people with no friends and almost no knowledge of Italian, had managed to find a job, an apartment, and a multitude of friends, all on her own. Now that takes courage.

Torino and Chocolate

7/26 - Leinì to Torino, then by train to Saluzzo
13.25 miles walked

I had said somewhere previously that I wanted to see how a big city developed from a farm. Torino, the fourth biggest city in Italy, gave me the opportunity to do so.

The walk from Leini to Torino was the closest I have come to a landscape I would find in the United States. The two-lane highway, flanked on either side by apartment buildings, department stores, and commercial buildings, reminded me of the kinds of "one street towns" one would find in driving between Missouri and Ohio.

I was excited to make it all the way to Torino, so the time passed rather quickly, and it was not long before I crossed the bridge that led me into the outskirts of the city. Success! I raised my trekking poles up in the air in triumph at having reached this first major outpost, and walked with energy and purpose toward the train station.

Why the train station? Well, as soon as I arrived in Torino proper, I planned to head by train to Saluzzo, a smaller town to the South about which I knew next to nothing. The reason for this excursion was that I had been placed in contact with Anna, who happened to be living there.

As it turns out, my mass email arrived in the inbox of my old friend Susie, who I had met on a three-week-long high school trip to Greece 8 years ago. She and I had kept in very loose contact over the years, but it is a sign of my good fortune and her kindness that she put me in contact with her sorority sister from college, Anna. Naturally, I was very excited for the opportunity to spend a few days with an American who had made her way to Italy and managed to make a home for herself there.

I only had an hour and a half to kill before boarding the train to Saluzzo, so the first thing I did was to make my way to Grom. Anna had told me a few days prior that I absolutely had to try it while in Torino, and when I passed by and saw a line out the door for it on my way into town, I knew that this was no ordinary Gelateria.

Anyone who's been to Italy knows that there is a Gelateria on every corner, and that most of them are delicious. So what was it that made this particular Gelateria stand head and shoulders above all the others? This was not some tourist trap; in fact, most of the people in line were actually Italians, and I even heard the following exchange in Italian of a couple in front of me: "Jesus! are you sure this is worth it?" "Absolutely."

I had chocolate, flor di latte with cherries, and strawberry on a cone. And I make this statement unequivocally: it was the best damn gelato I have ever had in my life.

Apparently, the ingredients are what separate this Gelateria (which has now opened two shops in New York, for those of you in "the City") from all the rest. That, of course, and the buzz of excitement, which tends to make anything taste better.

Since Anna had suggested this place to me, and had specifically expressed her passion for the pistacchio gelato, I tried to secure a half-kilo of it to take on the train with me. Alas, they didn't have a way to keep it cool, and it would have melted, so I had to think of another gift.

By this time it was between noon and 3 PM, which is the time when nearly every store in an Italian city is closed. My options were limited, but lucky enough for me, there was a chocolate store a few doors down from Grom, and proceeding with the timidity and veneration that one must always have when confronted with the mystery and majesty of a high end Chocolatier, I opened the door and let my senses take it all in.

The people that work in a high end chocolate store, aside from showing nearly supernatural enlightenment in their career choice, are also possessed with the uncanny ability to sniff out whether or not you plan to make a purchase, or just plan to B.S. your way into some free samples. For once in my life, I belonged to the former category, and so was treated to various samples as some options were explained to me.

Having made my choices (an assorted bag of chocolates containing the local Gianduia, a mixture of chocolate and hazelnut, as well as various dark chocolates with different percentages of cacao, topped off with two blocks of milk chocolate, my personal favorite), they wrapped it up for me in a bag with some pieces of dry ice (told you it was fancy!). In the meantime, we started talking about what I was doing in Italy.

If you have read the previous posts, I am sure you will have been able to deduce that Italians love to hear when a foreigner shows a genuine and passionate interest in their country. The ladies at the chocolate store proved to be no exception, and I was therefore treated to a magical concoction of dark chocolate and a mountain herb said to have curative effects in small doses. Washing it down with a glass of sparkling mineral water, I chatted with the wonderful Thea (sp?) and her assistent for a few minutes longer, posed for a quick photo behind the counter, and ran to the station just in time for my train.

And that, my friends, is what I had for lunch.

Pont Canavese to Busano to Leinì

7/24 - Pont Canavese to Busano via Cuorgne - 9.33 miles walked
7/25 - Busano to Leinì - forgot to record, around 10 miles

Another 6 days have gone by in a flash, and here I am once more trying to share everything that has happened to me. It is a bit overwhelming, and I find that there is always more that I would like to say, and not enough time to say it.

The last time I dumped all my blog posts onto everyone's collective lap, I was in Cuorgnè, heading South toward Torino. The directions I received pointed me in the direction of Salassa, which was East and a bit South. I was told there was a new "residence-hotel" there that was economical and a good staging point for my walk to Torino.

Still, I had been thinking about heading due South, since it would get me to Torino a bit quicker. However, the next town was Busano, and according to all reports, it was a tiny town without a hotel. When I came to the end of Cuorgnè, there appeared the classic crossroads. I stood for half a minute, simultaneously weighing my options and enjoying the thought that either path had the potential to profoundly change my life.

In the end, it was not too difficult for me to choose the riskier but more direct route: after all, this trip has been about everything but the sure thing, and I prepared myself for the possibility of having to retrace my steps, in the event that Busano proved to be completely devoid of accommodations.

Incidentally, my couple seconds of indecision allowed me to witness an oddity, at least for Italy: a jogger. It is very rare indeed to see someone running around outside here, and to make it even more unique, this was a male, and he was jogging by a cornfield from one small town to another. Like one of Homer's eagles dropping a faun from the sky as a sign of Zeus' approval, I took this as a mystical, though admittedly random, confirmation of my choice, and continued with a chuckle. I even managed to sneak a picture.

Two kilometers down the road, I asked the locals at a gas station, and found out that there was indeed a 2 star hotel on the outskirts of Busano. Vindication! Though this turned out to be my most expensive night of lodging yet, and was overall a pretty unpleasant stay, I had probably saved 2 hours of walking.

After hanging my key on the wall and "letting myself out," per the previous night's instructions, I made my way further South.

This portion of the walk, from Busano to Leinì, took me past miles of miles of flat ground and cornfields. In fact, this whole day was only notable for 3 reasons. First, I found and ate wild blackberries and strawberries. Second, I must have found the only hill in the whole surrounding area, and it happened to be freshly repaved, meaning that the smell of asphalt was overwhelming, and my shoes had to be unstuck from the road with each step. Finally, the whole day's walk was characterized by intolerable pain in both of my pinky toes.

Though I have often promised myself not to complain too much about my minor aches and pains, I must say that both of my pinky toes felt like they were going to come off. At first, I couldn't understand why; in my attempt to treat the blisters that had formed while descending from the Alps, I had done what seemed like an admirable job applying neosporin, and wrapping both toes with medical tape folled by duct tape.

When I finally arrived at Leinì, I was at the point of swooning from the pain, so I decided to cut the tape off and see if my toes had turned into bloody, nail-less pulps. What followed was immediate relief, as I could feel and even see the life pulsing slowly back into my toes.

In my infinite brilliance and worldly wisdom, I had applied the tape (two layers!!) so tightly that I had all but cut off circulation to my toes for nearly two days! Needless to say, I walked the final couple miles to my hotel in sandals, feeling very foolish for having suffered so unnecessarily. Oh well; this lesson, like many that I have learned both on this trip and in my life, came relatively cheaply, all things considered.

For the second night in a row, I slept in a place that was primarily a restaurant and bar; the hotel was clearly an afterthought, and I was the only guest foolish enough to stay at either place.

I can say in all honesty that, these days, the presence of toilet paper in the bathroom elicits in me an audible grunt of approval and satisfaction, so when I turned on the shower and realized that it wasn't going to get anything but cold, I didn't think twice. Shower as quickly possible, and be thankful that you don't have to insert a coin in order for it to come out.

Generosity - Frazione di Fey to Cuorgne

7/22-7/24
Ceresole to Frazione di Fey - 10.87
Frazione di Fey to Pont Canavese - 13.64
Pont Canavese to Cuorgne (so far)

I am overwhelmed by the generosity that I have received as of late. Ever since my fateful Beethoven realization, I have been extended the following kindnesses:
Pont - Sandwich and a beer from the Padovani
Citta di Chivasso - See separate post below
Ceresole - a car ride by the hotel owner, an after dinner liqeur brewed with thyme, beer, coffee
Noasca - Intricate directions for how to arrive at the free campsite, plus various offers to drive me there
Frazione di Fey - See post below
Pont Canavese - See this same post, below
Cuorgne the 1st - "Hey, kid with the weird poles, where do you come from?" "You're doing what? Here, come have some coffee, my treat."
Cuorgne the 2nd - At the market, I ask, "How much for 3 apricots?" "Take them," the stall owner says.


I'm starting to feel guilty. I will have a lot of generous hosting to do once I have my own place again!

So, I spent my first night so far in a hotel at Pont Canavese. At this point, I'm starting to see a bit of the industrial stuff that one would expect from a town so close to Torino. I mention this specifically since so many people imagined me walking next to nuclear power plants, oil refineries, and the like. I am especially proud of the photo of the crane, with the sign for Pont Canavese on the left edge of the photo. The reason I am proud is that I timed it just right for a passing semi truck to just barely appear on the left edge of the photo. While the blog is a bit thrown around, and the placement of the photos are somewhat random (because of time constraints, not because I don't care, I assure you), the photos are carefully considered. I hope you enjoy them.

I was especially tired and the road was especially unforgiving, so this little luxury was actually welcome for me. I made my way up the hill, a bit outside of town, and the young hotel owner showed me to my room. My own room! I immediately let my backpack explode all over the room, grateful for the privacy and the space.

Dinner was prepared in-house for a few extra euros, and was, as all my meals have been, delicious. There is nothing like receiving two choices for each course, picking blindly or based on suggestion (my new favorite way to fly), and having it work out perfectly. The part that sticks out in my mind about this pleasant meal was the choice of music: 80s hits like Video Killed the Radio Star, Walk Like an Egyptian, and so on. Why, I asked? Because I like 80s music. Of course.

After dinner, I walked in my sandals to get some gelato (for you foodies, I will say that it was Chocolate and Frutti di bosco, a fresh mixture of berries). I specifically mention that I was wearing sandals, which have become a veritable oasis from the desert of pain that is wearing shoes.

This morning, I spoke further with the proprietor of the hotel over a cappucino and a chocolate croissant. A very mature and attractive 22-year old with a lot of responsibilities on her shoulders, it was great to hear her describe her various duties, and at the same time talk about partying, going to discoteche, and so on. She and I became friends, and after I told her my story and talked to her about my travels, I got ready to go. In what, I hesitate to say for fear of jinxing it, has started to become a common occurrence, my bill was suddenly cut in half. Grateful for her generosity and the wonderful conversation, we exchanged information, and I set off on the ol' dusty trail, this time making my way toward Torino.

Which brings me up to the present moment, where I sit in an internet cafe in Cuorgne.
Phew! Hopefully you've read from the bottom up, so that this makes a bit more sense. Regardless, please let me apologize for the lack of pictures. I promise that I have 200 new ones and am absolutely peeing myself with the desire to share them, but I have already been here 3 hours and I have to walk a bit closer to Torino, and find a place to sleep!
Hopefully some of my gigantic smile has found its way onto your faces. I feel as though I were a 5-year-old wrapped in the comfort of a Christmas morning and a gigantic quilt, fresh from the dryer. And yes, I realize that's about the lamest thing you've ever heard, and I still feel the same way!

Ceresole Reale to Frazione di Fey

7/22 - Ceresole to Frazione di Fey, between Noasca and Locana
Permanent Population of the Area between Noasca and Locana, not just Fey but all the surrounding villages included? - 40
10.87 trail miles


My heart is filled with such joy as I write this. When I woke up this morning in my empty bunk room, I was so thrilled to have a hot shower, not to mention free, unlimited (well, mostly) warm water. After a quick shave, which was also much more pleasant with hot water, I had a wonderful breakfast which had been thoughtfully laid out for me a few hours before.
Since I had spent most of my cash by this point, I had to reach an ATM, and since I did not know where I would end up next, and whether they would have an ATM, I decided to walk back into town. Simple errands such as going to the ATM can turn into events when you're on foot, and so it was a pleasant 90 minute jaunt that started my Tuesday.

By now it was already 12:30, so I headed out, but not before filling up my water bag. Little did I know, but I had slept at a locally famous site, where healthy mineral water springs naturally from the earth. Bubbly (like San Pelligrino), rich in calcium, iron, and a host of other minerals, this water is said to have curative effects, and here I was getting two liters of it for free from a constantly running spigot. Italy is truly the land of plenty...

The walk lasted about 6 and a half hours, and included another mountain climb, this time up to about 6,500 feet. I've noticed a change in the vegetation since I have arrived in Piedmont: there are more deciduous trees, and the undergrowth is lush and overgrown to the point of obscuring the walking path (can you find the path in the picture?). Still, I made my way up and down the mountain, stopping at various abandoned mountain villages to wander and take pictures. I pictured another human or other being happening upon these villages, which were already eerily empty, and tried to imagine what they would think of the houses deep in the mountains, with their randomly placed shrines to the Virgin Mary. For four hours, I did not see a single soul on the trail, so this imagined scene was not too much of a stretch even for me.

After descending at Noasca, I made a quick stop at the tourist information center, where I received detailed instructions about how to reach a picnic spot that offered free camping and facilities. I was told that there was also a trattoria in a nearby village half a mile away, so I set off in that direction.

When I made it to the village of Fey, I turned off the main road and headed for the trattoria. Outside were an older man, and a woman about my mom's age. I asked if the trattoria was open, and the lady replied that they were not, but that there was a restaurant about two kilometers back in the direction from which I came.

She must have seen the weariness in my face after my long hike, because she said that all she could offer me was a sandwich. I eagerly accepted, thanked her profusely, and she made a seat for me on the outside patio, which was bathed in late evening sunlight.

One sandwich of ham (Speck, wonderfully similar to prosciutto yet a little more seasoned) and cheese (need I say that it was local?) turned into another, this one of mozzarella, tomato, and basil. Then came the quarter liter of red wine (Barbera, a local wine), and, as I wolfed down the two huge sandwiches, out came the bowl of spaghetti with fresh tomatoes, garlic, and basil. By this point I was beaming like a little child, hardly able to contain my joy, and four or five elders from the village had stopped by to hear my story, each one giving the newcomer an ever grander introduction (this guy, an American, has walked all the way from Switzerland, and loves Italy so much that he's walking all the way to Sicily with just a tent!, etc.) Lots of jokes, laughter, village-specific dialect, and story-telling ensued, and so I passed a wonderful dinner.



Meanwhile, the mother-figure and owner of the restaurant was so excited to have fed me, and was so happy to see me obliterate the food she cooked, that we soon became close. As I sipped an espresso that she insisted I have, she absolutely glistened with pride as she told me about her 3 children (a beautiful 26-year-old world-traveling pro snowboarder - pity for me she's not here, I said, to her delight - another snowboard instructor, and an air quality plant specialist, who was also present and an expert soccer player). We talked for another half hour or so, and as I got ready to leave, I asked for the bill, whereupon I was told that there was no bill. I went through the back-and-forth of insisting, but when I saw she was serious, I could have cried at her sincere generosity and purity of spirit. Exchanging information and a mother's hug and kiss, I set off for my campsite, promising to come back for breakfast.


This day, which turned out to be completely free, was one of the best so far, and I will always remember it fondly.


Can you find this in small town America? Almost certainly; it could be found in small-town anywhere, for that matter. But there is something about Italy that makes it all the more meaningful to me, and I will be truly fortunate to experience it again.
Something tells me I will.

Rifugio Città di Chivasso

7/20-7/21 - Città di Chivasso to Ceresole, 2500 to 2900 to 1000 meters
13.85 miles walked



Upon first appearances, Rifugio Città di Chivasso was a bit less spectacular than my first mountain refuge. The last bit to reach it was on a road, and I walked up the mountain to reach it drenched in a cold rain.



Before heading up, I ducked into a bar for a quick snack, where I found a huge group of mountain climbers from my "hometown" of Padova. After chatting with them a while, I received the first in a string of generosities: Sandro and Elena, who had no other choice but to sit with the awkward looking kid at the corner table, soon became engaged in conversation about their home, and ended up feeling it was only right to buy me my sandwich and beer. I insisted, but it was no use.



The walk was correspondingly more pleasant, now that I had had a good snack and a coincidentally exciting encounter. It was, in fact, just enough to keep my spirits high until I reached the refuge.





I could tell I was in a spirited place as soon as I saw the tattered "pace" (peace) flag flying in front, and then spied various solar panels all along the perimeter and roof of the refuge. Various signs reminding me of the importance of water, including one that said in various languages "water is life" were further clues.

Having figure out my sleeping situation, I soon became friends with 3 Finns, yka with the umlau over the a (this keyboard doesn't have it), Jussi, and Paola, as well as two Germans, Marco and Stefanie (the spelling of whose names I believe I have slaughtered, so sorry!). We chatted about a million things, and when dinner came, the 3 Finns and I ate together at a table.



The manager of the refuge, whose name is Alessandro, came to the table to tell us that, luckily, the weather would be beautiful tomorrow. Within minutes, he came back to welcome us each individually, and to tell us that our food was home-cooked, locally grown, and organic. It was clearly extremely important to him that we knew that, and it soon became apparent that he was telling the truth. The meal, which consisted of a wonderful vegetable soup, meat and polenta, and a delicious dessert of cooked fruit, was really spectacular, and we all agreed that it seemed as if it had been cooked by our mothers. We told this to Alessandro, who was visibly moved, and urged us out of our seats. He took us to the kitchen, made us knock on the kitchen door, brought out the 2 cooks (both rosy-cheeked, matronly ladies just about my mom's age), and had me repeat what I said to them. I figured this would be a bit awkward, since I was now speaking in front of about 20 people, both employees and guests, but it was actually pleasant, and I don't remember there being anything forced about it at all. One of the cooks was also visibly moved, while the other joked "see, boss, we're not so bad after all!"



The next day I had a pleasant breakfast 30 minutes after everyone else (just can't manage to wake up in time!), and was the last to leave the refuge. I saw Alessandro as I was about to go to the upper floor to pay, and here we had a 30 minute conversation about the importance of preserving the environment, about the establishment and its use of television as a way of trapping us into submission, about the Roman concept of bread and circuses and its modern manifestation, and so on. He and I saw eye to eye on a lot of issues, it was quite clear. We then talked a bit about my trip, and what I intended to do. As I went inside to pay, he asked me to wait 10 minutes for him, and in the meantime offered me a coffee on the house.



I waited outside, stretching a bit, and then he came out, and imparted a great deal of wisdom to me. This type of conversation is not meant to be recounted, and I do not intend to cheapen it by doing so here. Let it simply be said that he wanted me to make sure I remembered to notice details as well as the big picture, and to be wise enough to recognize when it was time to stop.
With that, he overflowed with generosity. He went into the kitchen and brought out 3 ripe plums for me, then after 2 more minutes, came out with a pear, an apple, and two chocolate bars. When I told him that I would walk in a certain direction to get water from a man-made fountain, he made me go in another "secret" direction, which was much more beautiful, and contained a natural water source where I could get water directly from the flowing stream.



What a generous individual. I don't think I have ever met an innkeeper (hostel, hotel, campground, inn, restaurant, etc.) who cared more for his guests. So, I take this opportunity to put on the internet the following: Rifugio Città di Chivasso is a place that traditionally and truly takes care of its guests. I could not recommend it more highly.

Here are some photos of the walk toward Ceresole, the lake in the latter 2 shots. Those shoes are dangling 2,900 meters in the air, and if this was a movie instead of a photo, you would see them quake in terror.

Rifugio Sella to 10,800 feet to Bien, to Rifugio Città di Chivasso

7/19 - Rifugio Sella to Bien, from 2600 to 3300 to 1500 meters
11.49 miles walked (as measured by my GPS, ha)
7/20 - Bien to Rifugio Città di Chivasso, 1500 meters to 2500 meters
10.17 miles walked



7/19 was a hard, hard day. Without any music, I climbed higher than I had ever climbed before. Col di Loson, at 10,800 feet, is almost assuredly the highest I have ever climbed, and it certainly felt like it. Still, the views from up there were unreal, and I took it in with all the thankfulness of someone who has had to work hard to get there. If the climb up was difficult, the more than a mile of descent (measured in altitude, not distance) that I walked down was just as difficult, if not more so. Still, this giant undertaking was filled with the most pleasant views, along with the sense of accomplishment that only climbing a mountain can provide. I kept turning around to look at the peak I had just overcome, and mentally patting myself on the back.

































































I won't belabor this blog with the tiresome, windy walk down. I will just say that I passed my night in my tent, and was very thankful for the sleep.

The next day, my Zune having been charged with my solar powered charger, which was proving useful, I started my walk where I had left off, with Beethoven's 3rd Symphony. This wonderful piece of music was originally written as an homage to Napoleon, but later turned into to a more esoteric homage - "Heroic" - after Sig. Bonaparte had invaded Vienna (Beethoven's home) and set himself up as Emperor. It also happens to be one of my favorite pieces, and it felt particularly fitting for me at this time. As I walked in this valley between huge mountain ranges, I indeed felt mythically heroic. Maybe it started when, after my precious precious hot shower that morning, I noticed for the first time that the deodorant "flavor" I had thoughtlessly purchased in the US was called "Alpine Force." Alpine force, indeed.

Either way, as the playful third movement ended and the fourth movement started, my heart immediately began to beat with a faster tempo. The fourth movement, for those of you who are unfamiliar with it, is a theme and variations movement. So, a theme is stated, and what follows is Beethoven's ingenious reconfiguration of this theme in a variety of ways. This can be the most banal of musical structures, but never when handled by the Master. He builds the theme slowly, adding an instrument family with each variation. The theme soon becomes more of a melody, then gradually grows in stature until the whole orchestra blasts it in unison. At its greatest heights, just when you think the whole symphony is going to come crashing to end, Beethoven brings everything instead to a crawl, and it is here, at this moment, that I finally came to terms with what I was doing here. I finally realized that I had arrived. Just as Beethoven's hero contemplates his existence and surroundings in a moment of noble nostalgia, and sees that everything around him is pure and good, I cried tears of joy, indeed sobbed aloud, at my extreme fortune.

I guess you could say that I kind of set myself up for that moment, since I chose that particularly meaningful Symphony, on that particularly meaningful day. However, this moment transcended any forced artificiality for me, and as the piece ended and I let the wind dry my eyes, I had now come to fully embrace my unique situation.

And, with the hindsight that these few days without internet have afforded me, I can say that the stretch of days since then has been particularly propitious for me. Allow me to expand on this statement with some examples. I know it's getting a bit long, and you have work to do, so feel free to pause here. This blog isn't going anywhere, and who knows when I'll be able to reach another internet cafe.

Cogne to Rifugio Sella, of ibexes and pedometers

7/18 - Cogne to Rifugio Sella, 2600 m altitude
Approximate Coordinates for Rifugio Sella for those of you who are curious -N 45°34.611', E007°16.144' (actually, the nearby mountain top)


5.79 trail miles

I saw my favorite panorama of the trip today. As I climbed straight up from the mountain town of Cogne into the wild mountains of Gran Paradiso, I heaved and ho'd my way until I was literally brought to a screeching halt by this view of pure beauty. The landscape I have yearned for, complete with pasture, river, waterfall, mountaintops, and old stone house, finally exploded onto the scene. I stopped, recorded the sound of the waterfall, marked the location as a waypoint on my GPS, took several pictures, and basked in the glory of what would turn out to be a mere taste of what I would soon experience.
What followed was a test of my mettle; a few thousand feet that felt like the rock climbing I did at those middle-school birthday parties. I panted and complained under my breath, but finally made it up to Rifugio Vittorio Sella, which sat on a mountain meadow 2600 meters above sea level.



The mountain hut was more of a big deal than I would have imagined. I pictured 3 walls, cobwebs, and an old iron stove with some people huddled around eating berries. Instead, this was a full-scale operation, complete with bunkrooms, dinner and breakfast, a fully stocked bar, and bathrooms. Of course, it was still in the middle of nowhere; what was once brought by mule is now brought by helicopter, at great expense. In fact, I would choose to forego a shower, as smelling bad costs much, much less than 4 euros, the cost of 20 liters (roughly 5 gallons) of warm water.



Soon after arriving, I heard that there were ibexes to be seen during the late afternoon. Thinking, great tourist pitch, guys, I nonetheless walked the two miles to the place where they were supposed to come down. After the Italian family that had joined me decided to turn back (we had to be back at 7:30 for dinner), I pushed on, thinking that I might as well as try for the experience.



The first ibex I saw was about 500 yards away, eating grass from the side of the mountain. I almost choked on my delight, and crawled on all fours to a hilltop so I could take a close picture. After getting some blurry pictures, I was super satisfied and ready to turn back, when my peripheral vision sensed some movement to the right. Here was a family of ibexes 150 yards away, drinking from the waterfall! Stooped so as to stay low, I bounded over giant rocks to get closer, and there took some great pictures. But wait, here was another family, this time a family of five, about 30 yards away on my right! Now, literally surrounded by 12 ibexes and the only human being for miles, I crept closer and closer till I was about 7 or 8 yards from them. They didn't seem to be afraid, and even now I think I could have come closer, but I remembered the golden rule of being respectful to animals in the wild, and I relented, only after shooting dozens of photos (most of them redundant, and by now deleted).

Since it was by now 7:00, I reluctantly turned away to head back in time for dinner. Half a mile away, I finally remembered to do my "Pat pat-down:" passport, GPS, camera, wallet, chapstick, mp3 player, pedome... Oh no! In my spasmodic attempt to photograph the ibexes, I managed to lose my pedometer, and even then I remembered the click click sound of something plasticfalling. Too distracted at the time to give it more than a fleeting thought, I now panicked, and sprinted back to the scene, in an attempt to find my pedometer amongst the rocks. I covered the entire area, which by now the ibexes had vacated, but at 7:20 decided that there was no way I would miss dinner.

I covered 2 miles of hills and a mountain trail strewn with rocks in 18 minutes, running the entire way. How the hell did I do it, when I have a half-dozen blisters and had just covered 8 miles, all of them uphill? All I have to say is: food.

As if to make my run worthwhile, the dinner was excellent, and I passed it in the company of a friendly German couple and a Dutch family. We spoke in English about a variety of things, mostly the fate of the European Union (3 generations more and it will be great, they said). I went to bed that night, vowing to myself to arise at 6:30 in order to resume my search for the pedometer, which after all was very important to my trip.

Somehow I woke up at 6:30 without an alarm, had breakfast, didn't shower (would you?), and headed back to the scene of the crime, hoping at least to see some more ibexes in the morning. In order to lend my search some greater meaning, I put on some triumphant Copland (Grand Canyon Sunrise and John Henry), and made my way there. I searched every inch of land, looking under rocks big and small, for 2 hours. No pedometer. At this point, rather than lament my cruel, cruel fate, I had the following thoughts. First, ibexes are sacred animals to Zeus, god of the thunderbolt and heavens, and it was only fair that I make a sacrifice in exchange for the privilege of gallivanting with them. Second, I had made a gift to one very lucky marmot, who could now count the steps of his forage with accuracy, and even keep track of calories burned so as to adequately prepare for the coming winter. Third, I had my GPS, which also had an odometer, and since the thing is as big as a brick in my pocket (and just as heavy), it would be a lot harder to lose. I would just have to keep it on the whole time.

So, after gathering my things and leaving the refuge, I had to bear the ignominy of passing the scene once more on my way out. This time I put on Beethoven's Eroica (Heroic) Symphony, No. 3, so I could prove that I was bigger than this small setback. The second movement, a famous funeral march, bore me past those ill-fated hills, and just when things started to get heroic, in my (favorite) 4th movement, the battery died. Cruel, cruel irony.

Ruminations after 1 week

One week has passed since I first arrived in Italy, and so it is time for me to step out of my daily travel log and ruminate a bit on what I have found, and what I realize now that I had missed the most.

The Italy of 2008 is very similar to the Italy I fell in love with back in 2003. If anything, it is a bit more organized, without however having lost its charm. The internet is faster, some of the trains and buses are a bit more modern, and the newest American technology and entertainment has already made its way here, albeit at a 50% markup. Next door to the old style bread shop selling pieces of foccaccia with olive oil and rosemary is the store selling games for Nintendo Wii. How did this happen? My best guess is that the internet (newly improved) brought the knowledge of the new technology to the Italians a lot faster, so that the new high demand increased the speed of the supply correspondingly.

Besides this, not too much else has changed, at least as far as I can tell in one week.
Of course, this particular region (Valle D'Aosta) is a bit extraordinary; I would like to say that I'm seeing more Audis and Aston Martins than I used to, which would signify an improved Italian economy. I would also like to say that since I have not seen or heard of an American since leaving Milano, this is a clear indication of the faltering American economy and its impact on European tourism.

However, I would be mostly wrong on both counts. First, the Italian economy is in the gutter, or so says everyone here, and I am inclined to believe them. This means that the fancy cars are probably owned by tourists from France, Germany, and Switzerland, who frequent this part of the country.

On the second count, that of the curious absence of everyone's favorite fanny-pack-clad tourist, I can say with confidence that I would not be able to walk 6 feet without running into an American in the traditional outposts: Florence, Venice, Rome, etc. Regardless of the state of our economy, perceived or real, there will always be a sea of Americans gawking at David or the Colliseum.

Which has got me to thinking... why aren't Americans coming up to Val D'Aosta for vacation? It's full of ski resorts, wooden handmade chotchkes, gelato, and more Alpine charm than you could shake a stick at. I guess it's because everyone allocates 2 or 3 weeks to Italy if time allows, and there are always the other alluring places to occupy the time. Still, for those of you who think you have seen and done everything in Italy, please let me suggest Valle D'Aosta. If you like a trip to Mammoth or Sun Valley or Vail, either in summer or in winter, then you'll fall head over heels.

From the locally grown everything to the extraordinary sense of organization to the charming pronunciation of certain r's (the r in sentiero, or path, is prounounced with a subtle exhalation of an h, for example) to the millions of flowers of every variety to the stunning beauty of Alpine peaks, Valle d'Aosta is a truly magnificent jewel in Italy's crown.

Anyway, I think I've said enough to receive my weekly allowance from the Valle D'Aostan board of tourism, so I'll stop here. (did I mention that they are an autonomous region that teaches English, French, and Italian in the schools with equal emphasis?)

So, region-specific thoughts aside, what was it that I missed the most about this country, that made me desire so strongly to return? Well, at the risk of a writing a book instead of a blog post, I'll name those that jump out of my mind right now.

The biggest thing is the warmth and generosity of the people. Asking about the location of a place will not just elicit a "keep going on this road and you'll see it" type of response, but rather a 4 minute step-by-step explanation, complete with landmarks, warnings (if you see the bush with the red flowers, then you've gone too far), and often even an accompaniment for all or part of the way.

How about the well-crafted, aesthetically pleasing structures? We have our strip malls, while the Italians have doorways that lead to little open squares with various small shops. This, actually, is one of the things I missed the most. Walking down a street, you see a bunch of plain-looking doors. Open one of these, and all of a sudden you see a beautiful garden courtyard with the flower-bedecked window sills of various apartments, complete with a running fountain in the middle. It is this element of mystery, a "what's behind door number 3?" feeling that holds such excitement and nostalgia for me.

Finally, how can I neglect the food? It's not just the dishes themselves that are attractive, which after all have become familiar to us. It is the wholesome goodness of the food that I missed, the down home taste that exudes health and thoughts of friends and family. And I don't just mean a bowl of spaghetti with red sauce or a pizza margherita, either. I was so focused on eating other types of cuisine before I left, quietly lamenting the fact that this is my last good sushi or thai food. Now I realize that, like the Italians, I could eat this cuisine for the rest of my life. Not that I don't really enjoy food from other countries; it is simply that the ingredients here are so fresh and close to their origin, and the food so infused into the culture, that it is impossible to grow tired of it. There is nothing I know of that beats a fresh ciabatta piping hot from the oven with a piece of cheese (any type, you pick it and I'll eat it) and a sausage (like the one I bought today, infused with Barolo).

Well, this is not the last time I will depart from the strict travelogue. I am walking 4, 5, sometimes 6 hours per day by myself; that's a lot of thinking time, and I've got to share it with someone, right?

From Aosta to Aymavilles to Cogne

7/16-7/17 - Aosta - Aymavilles - Cogne
7-16 - 11.41 trail miles, 13.14 total
7/17 - 9.77 trail miles, 10.77 total (so far)
From 1,700 feet to 4,500 feet in altitude over 2 days.

All,

I am in the thick of it now, sitting around 4500 up in the air in a valley of the Parco Nazionale Gran Paradiso. A great paradise indeed, and I have only just begun to explore my surroundings!

Since I only have 15 minutes left at the cafe, I will make this one short, but promise to fill in all the info when I reach a bigger city.

The walk from Aosta to Aymavilles was my first taste of walking along a thoroughfare, and it wasn't too bad, since it was only a two lane road. I picked some fruit (an apricot and another apple, this time), and got to do what I had always envisioned doing, namely lying (thank you G Rapp!) under the shade of a large tree on someone's farmland, stretching and taking a cat nap.

This nap and the bit of time spent in the shade proved to save me, since I was pretty worn out by the end. Even up here, this far north, it was a blistering 85 degrees.

I made it all the way to Villeneuve, which had a tourist information location. There I met a charming and beautiful lady named Marzia, who was kind and helpful in helping me plan my trip. After spending 45 air-conditioned minutes planning my route into the park, she even drove me back to Aymavilles, thus saving me 30-40 minutes.

She was a true mountain woman, fit and full of life, and with the most expressive eyes. After I explained my trip to her, she lit up and expressed regret that she could not do the same. I tried to get her to abandon everything and join me... and failed. Still it was a valiant effort, and exciting to have even the prospect of romance. Now I am realizing that I gave her the blog address, so if you're reading this, Marzia, the invitation is still open!

Anyhow, after a pleasant evening spent at a campground 3 miles up the hill from Aymavilles, in a village called Champlan, I set out this morning for Cogne, which is the main town in this valley on the east side of the park. From here, I set out for various refuges (will explain more later), none of which will have internet. So, this is the last you'll hear of me for the next few days. Just know that I am frolicking with Ibexes and marmots in Italy's oldest national park, climbing mountaintops and admiring lakes. Don't worry, the pictures will come.

Also, for you foodies, I plan to make a special post soon, and am even braving certain embarassment and emasculation by taking surreptitious photos of my dishes as they are brought to me. As an Italian would say, ''you see what I do for you?''

Photo Album links

So, I'm having a really hard time getting these photos the way I want them to appear. I've been taking really large photos, since I want to catch all the details, but it makes it hard and time-consuming to upload.

Anyways, I've used Photobucket, but the photos were coming out crooked. I think I fixed it by rotating the pictures before uploading but will check again next time.

Also, I had the albums coming out as big pictures, but have since changed it to links. I think this should be more manageable.

Any feedback on this process, including advice, would be greatly appreciated.

Milano

Aosta to Echevennoz by bus

Grand-Saint-Bernard to Echevennoz - Day 1 of walk

Echevennoz to Aosta - Day 2 of walk

From Echevennoz to Aosta

7/14/2008 - Echevennoz-Gignod-Aosta - 11.5 miles trail, 17.21 total

Before I talk about the second day's walk, I would like to relate some of my conversation with Elena, the "grandma" from the previous post. At 84, she represented the 3rd generation of the owners of this charming bed & breakfast/hostel/restaurant/meeting hall/chapel. With such an important role in the village, I secretly pictured them as the big shots, but they certainly didn't act that way, nor were their toilets of the gilt marble variety, either.

Anyhow, I should preface this preface by saying that when I was a diplomatic history major at Penn, I wanted to write an honor's thesis about how strange it must have been for Italy to have swapped sides so sloppily during the second World War. For those of you that don’t know, the Allied invasion of Sicily and Southern Italy caused the Italians to be stuck between two forces. History tells us that they had secret negotiations with Eisenhower, but when the main negotiating party on the Italian side didn’t appear by the appointed time, Eisenhower leaked the story and the Germans turned their artillery around, this time facing the Italians. The Italian army didn’t know who to fight anymore, and many soldiers simply ran off or joined the partisans. Unfortunately, I was not accepted into the honors program, so I never performed all the interviews I planned of the various elderly people I had met while abroad in 2003.

Still, I have a lot of curiosity about this subject, so as Grandma Elena fed me a breakfast of hot milk, bread, butter, and raspberry jam (don't even bother to ask: it was homemade), I asked her whether she remembered anything about the war. This little old lady suddenly grew very fiery and emotional, and said that she was 13 when the war ended, and that "the fascists" burned down her house as they were pulling out. What's more, they pulled all the crops out of the ground and destroyed the storehouse with all the potatoes. After recounting this she paused, and with difficulty related the following: " the fascists killed my 17-year-old cousin, a mere farmboy, and his father, my uncle, as he was returning home with a sack of potatoes." "It was September 3rd," she said, "and I remember being up in the pasture tending to the cows, when I heard the shots as they killed my uncle and came whizzing by my head, sounding like high-pitched whistles. I don't know how I managed to escape, but I tumbled down the pasture, and ran straight to the [church of the] Madonna, where I thanked her repeatedly for saving me." "It was the partisans that finally came to free us, followed by the British. We were extremely grateful."

Having finished this short but poignant story, she immediately returned to herself, and started preparing for lunch.

Armed with a good story and nearly a pint of warm milk (not really my thing, but would you have turned her down?), I set out into the misty morning.

The second day's walk was different from the first, though no less beautiful. Instead of walking along the side of a mountain in the open, I was beneath a canopy of pines, with a stream running alongside for much of the way.

The highlight of the day’s hike was Gignod, which was one of the strangest towns I have ever visited. I saw two people in over an hour there, and the whole town had an odd electric charge to it. The closest thing I could compare it to would be a Giorgio di Chirico painting, not because of the architecture, per se, but because of the solitude, and the quality of being suspended in air.

Having stretched there for some time, I walked around for a bit, then headed off toward Aosta.

I started to get tired right as I was about an hour's walk from Aosta, but I occupied myself enjoying the progress from farm, to village, to Aosta.

On the way, I picked a slightly unripe green apple, my first petty theft of the trip. It tasted delicious, in the way that only produce stolen from the garden can.

When I finally came to the top of a large hill, at a small suburb called Signayes, I was very happy to see Aosta, but not so happy to see that the last stretch consisted of a decline of something like 15-20%. After descending so much in 2 days, I was pretty upset about having to walk backwards all the way, but it was worth it.

Funny how Aosta seems like a metropolis after only a few days in villages. I can’t wrap my head around how big this city is, and looking at Wikipedia, I see that it has about 125,000 inhabitants. Still, going from 15 families to 125,000 people in 5 hours is a big change. I can see why small town people are in such awe of the big city.

After laying in the main square a while with my shoes off, and doing the whole stretch program, I finally heaved the backpack on once more and made my way to the tourist information office, which supplied me with maps, hotel lists, and even some information about the Parco Nazionale Gran Paradiso, which will be my next trip.

I finally made my way to the campsite, which was about a kilometer out of town. I will save that experience for a separate blog all its own. Suffice it to say that I slept in my tent on a plot of ground that smelled like cow, and probably is used as a stable during the off-season. It was an awesome feeling, despite the smell.

This morning (Tuesday) was spent doing laundry (as you will see from a previous post), walking around Aosta, and writing all these posts. I will sleep at a different campsite tonight, maybe stop by the ‘’café’’ for one last internet hurrah, and then I’m off. So, the reason for all these posts at once is because I guess that I will not have too much access to the internet over the next few days, and I wanted to get all this out before I forgot about it.

From Grand-Saint-Bernard to Echevennoz

7/13/2008 - Grand-Saint-Bernard - Saint Rheims - Saint Oyen - Etroubles - Echevennoz
12.04 miles on trail, 14.90 total

No matter how hard I try, I just can't manage to wake up when I should. It has been a problem ever since my mom stopped forcing me awake prematurely (yes, I still lament all those lost Saturday hours of sleep). On the all-important first day of the walk, nothing changed. Two alarms at 6:30 and 6:45 meant a wake-up at 7:15, whereupon I showered, packed up, had another homemade meal, this time of bread, butter, strawberry jam, milk (all homemade), and coffee, and started on a pre-walk to the "big town" up the road, Etroubles.

Etroubles cannot have more than 750-1000 inhabitants, and has all the charm one might expect of a small Alpine town. It was there that I caught that fateful 10:21 bus to Grand-Saint-Bernard, where it was in the low 50s and raining.

Reluctant to turn around and walk away when such a beautiful Swiss border town beckoned, I crossed the border into Switzerland and had a cup of hot chocolate, which was perfect considering the weather outside. In the café I met a nice couple from Geneva at the next table. The wife was half-American half-German, and the husband, originally from Pakistan, had come down for the month to see if he could get a "vacation-job" picking apricots, which apparently grow bigger than peaches in August. I really enjoyed the idea of what he was planning to do: take a break from the office to be outside, breathing fresh air with the farmers and sampling the local produce. Anyways, we exchanged information, they graciously offered their home to me should I decide to travel to Geneva, and I left the cafe, but not before buying two Lindt chocolate bars.

Grand-Saint-Bernard, as it turns out, is where Saint Bernards come from (obvious to you, maybe, but it had gone right over my head). I found out that they are no longer used for rescue, since today's rescues are performed with helicopters sending German Shepherds down on a line to the victim. The Saint Bernards were simply too big.

I wanted to see some, and found out that they had puppies on display, but after excitedly scampering up the hill, I found out that entry was 5€, and the puppies were only at the end of a larger museum. Envying my time and money, I elected not to go, and don't regret it. I love dogs, but not enough to pay to see them.

Having explored the little border town, there was now nothing left to do but take that fateful step.

I was on my way!

The first 30 minutes were what one might expect. I didn't walk far enough to find the sign, and took a wrong turn up the side of a mountain, through some ice patches and very difficult terrain. I finally realized when the trail stopped that I had started on the wrong path, and I had a good laugh to myself. Not wanting to waste the opportunity, I took a beautiful panorama shot, and returned the way I had come.

Once I was on the right path, it proved pretty easy to follow. There is a walking path called the TAM that goes from Aosta to Rome. Since it curves too far inland, I will not take it the whole way, but it proved very walker-friendly all the way to Aosta, where it and I would finally part ways.

In order to describe the path in detail, I need only refer to that time honored cliché: a picture is worth a thousand words. Since I have more than a hundred photos in two days, that would be a hundred thousand words, more than anyone would be willing to read for only two days of travel.

In general, I will say that the path from Grand-Saint-Bernard to Echevennoz contained the elements of everything that I was seeking in the first place: pastoral landscapes, the outdoors, exercise, fresh air, waterfalls, various types of interesting plants and flowers, and most importantly, the feeling of ecstatic accomplishment that comes from seeing a mountain in the distance, walking past it, and looking at it again from the other side. Neither words nor pictures could express this feeling properly, but only one word I can think of comes close: sublime.

I was definitely weary after the long day's walk, so when I got back to Echevennoz around 6PM, I was somewhat perturbed to find that nobody was to be found in or near the hostel. I knocked on about 5 or 6 doors, and after receiving no response, I did what any other tired walker would do on a Sunday afternoon: laid down on a large piece of wood and fell asleep.

When I woke up an hour later and there was still nobody there, I resolved to sit under an overhang and wait. There was no way I was going to walk the 30 minutes back to Etroubles to find a hotel. So I waited.

Around 7:30, Sylvana, the hostel owner, pulled up in her car, and was very surprised to see me again. She asked that I give her until 8:30 for dinner, and I was so thankful that she came back, that I would have waited far longer.

Thankful to be back in the same room, alone again in this hostel, I dozed for awhile, only to repeat the same wonderful feasting experience, this time with prosciutto and melon, minestra, and some fresh cheese, all of it (sounding like a broken record now) homegrown and homemade.

I must say that I was a bit sad as I left dinner that evening, thinking that this would be the last time on this trip that I would dine at Echevennoz. The entire family, husband, wife, grandmother, and son, had been extremely friendly and generous in my two evenings there. However, the road lay ahead, and it was probably better to leave why the gettin' was good rather than to stay and have the experience grow stale. *sigh*