Something that has absolutely caught me off-guard on my walk is the abundance of corn to be seen in every direction. Kansas could hardly have more corn than Piedmont, judging from the vast fields in every direction.
After so many days of patiently regarding these thousands of stalks, my curiosity got the best of me: looking up and down the road and waiting for those few seconds of solitude, I yanked an ear from the stalk. With a satisfying twist and a tug, off came the ear, and I quickly peeled away the protective layers to reveal the bright yellow joy beneath.That would turn out to be the only ear of corn I would eat, since, after all, raw corn isn't exactly something you yearn for on that long and winding road. Still, for the sake of the experience, I would say it was worth it.
After a pleasant lunch and rest at the top of a lonely hill town called Pralormo, I continued on, intending to walk as close as possible to Alba, the next big stop.
Planning to make it to Canale, I found myself nearly paralyzed at Montà d' Alba with nature's call. Out in the cornfields, a quick rest stop is no problem, provided you stay away from the houses and their barking dogs, and a respectable distance away from the roads. However, in the cities, everything becomes a bit more complicated.Public restrooms didn't seem to make it across the Atlantic with the rest of the Marshall Plan, so there is only one realistic alternative, especially during the afternoon.
Italy's bars deserve a blog post of their own, so fundamental are they to understanding the country's culture. For now, we will stick to describing the important role they play as the nation's public restrooms.
Of course, you can't just waltz into a bar and beeline it for the head, like you do in Italy's McDonalds: there's a much more delicate dance involved in greeting everyone, winning over the barista with your charm, convincing him or her that you desire to purchase something, and only then asking, with head slightly bowed, for the restroom.
Business completed, it would be dishonorable to simply leave, so you end up buying a coffee, beer, etc., and sitting a while. This is exactly what I did, and within minutes I was everyone's best friend at the bar.
After asking me about my backpack, and what the hell those sticks are (I swear, my trekking poles have paid for themselves ten times over, if only just as conversation starters), they paid for my beer, told me that Canale was full of a bunch of arrogant snobs, and suggested an Agriturismo where the food was delicious, the wine free-flowing, and the people honest.
I have seen many a sign for Agriturismi, but since I avoid the word "tourism" like the plague, I have always steered clear. To me, Agriturismi have always evoked an image of an early 40s German yuppie couple enjoying their kashi with sliced banana and skim milk.Still, I had just experienced a very close call with regards to my lodging, and hearing that this was a respectably priced establishment with good food, I decided to go for it.
On the edge of town, Agrihotel Sulpiano advertised peace and tranquility, and it certainly delivered. I was given a clean, well-appionted room, and was soon out on the top patio, enjoying the refreshing rain and looking out over what would turn out to be the beginning of Piedmont's wine country.The owner, Carlo, was not much older than I am, so we soon became friends. As it turns out, his grandfather was a soldier in the Alpini regiment, and was one of few that survived the Russia campaign, making his way back to Italy on foot. Carlo and his father, also a member of the Alpini, recounted some of the stories, and talked about some of the Alpini traditions.
The story of the Alpini, originally related to me in the wonderful book "100,000 mess tins of ice," has provided me with some perspective since I first conceived of this walking trip: if these soldiers could walk from the heart of Russia in -40 degree weather with only summer gear and hobnail boots, could survive with little to no food, bombs going off all around them and the enemy pressing constantly behind them, and could make it all the way home to Italy, then I could certainly walk a couple miles with a backpack during the summer.
I passed a pleasant evening with Carlo and two Dutch engineers who had traveled all over the world installing monorails. With a mixture of Italian, English, Dutch, and Spanish, we sat around chewing the fat for a few hours, drinking a delicious Grappa di Moscato.
In the morning, a generous and healthy breakfast awaited me, incluidng a piece of butter that I truly mistook for cheese, with what would surely have been disastrous consequences. My first experience at an Agriturismo was a very positive one, and I have since looked at them in a different light.
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment