2/17 - From Frera Inferiore to Frazione di Fey - 1KM, 300 meters, or .81 miles
On July 22, 2008, I walked* from Ceresole Reale to a plot of land next to a river near the tiny cluster of houses collectively called Frazione di Fey. Here is the blog post, in case you are interested.
What I did not write about in that blog post was that I accepted a ride from the lady who worked in the tourist office. I remember it vividly: I was kneeling next to a fountain, filling up my 1.5 liter water sack, when a minivan pulled to a stop 15 feet in front of me. The lady got out, said hello, and offered me a ride to Fey, the town she had instructed me to reach only 45 minutes before, saying that I could camp nearby and eat at the Trattoria there. I of course said no thank you, I had better walk, but she beckoned me over, saying "c'mon, it's close by!" I resisted, weary from a tiresome hike in the hot sun but determined to stay true to my objective, but she insisted, and I gave in. I blame my overwhelming desire to please others more than my fatigue, and certainly more than the lady, who after all was only trying to help, but whatever the case, I turned off my GPS, threw the bag in the backseat, and hopped in.
The ride was extremely short, and when we arrived, I remember her saying "see, you barely skipped anything. You were practically there!" before she drove away.
That evening, I walked from the Trattoria, where lovely Antonella made me a wonderful dinner even though the Trattoria was closed, to my tent, at least as long if not longer as that bit I had skipped. The next morning, I returned to Fey for breakfast, and then repeated that tract a third time as I headed to my next stop, Pont Canavese. I reasoned away the bit I had skipped, thinking that I did the next bit three times as a way of making up for it.
I am not certain when that little stretch of road started to weigh on my soul, but it took a few weeks, long enough for me to realize that I would not ever skip another centimeter of my walk. Nor am I certain when I decided that I would have to go back at all costs to walk that road, but my first utterance of it was in Rome, to my good friend Gregorio.
As is always the case, the act of saying something out loud makes it impossible for me not to do the thing that I said out loud, so it was just a matter of time, and I aimed for late January, when I would be in the North once more, visiting my host family in Padova. Deciding to forgo a lovely surprise, I called Antonella, and after updating her on my journey and present whereabouts, asked her whether she was open for me to come pay her a visit. Bad news, she said, they were under 6 feet of snow and there were no buses running to the nearest train station. I would have to try again in the Spring.
Crushed, I nonetheless kept my resolve, and waited a few weeks. As luck would have it, my friend Ronny came to Venice a few weeks later, and we attended Carnevale together. As I was once again in the North, I called Antonella once more, and learned that the situation had stabilized, and that I could come that following Tuesday.
So I took a train from Venice to Milano (3 hours), then from Milano to Torino (2 hours), then from Torino to Rivarolo (1 hour), then from Rivarolo to Pont Canavese (20 minutes), and then a bus to Frera Inferiore (20 minutes).
The bus dumped me right in front of the fountain, and I took a look around. The setting sun blazed weakly over a winter wonderland, a blanket of snow covering the valley, with mountains all around me.
I took a freezing cold sip from that same fateful fountain where I had left off 7 months before, clapped my hands together for warmth, and started walking, taking a copious amount of photos as I grasped the surreal quality of this self-created deja vu.
It took me 12 minutes to walk from Frera Inferiore to Frazione di Fey, to get the closure I so desperately craved. To say I was satisfied does not begin to describe it.
Antonella was waiting for me, having prepared a special mountain winter meal for just the two of us: three kinds of local cured meats, polenta with seasoned cheese, home-raised, organically nourished rabbit from her in-law's farm, and for dessert, a thick piece of slightly sweet, semi-soft cheese.
Around 9PM, she drove me to nearby Noasca, where she insisted on taking care of the hotel, saying I was her guest. So it was that the next morning, I did in 32 degree February just what I would have done in 75 degree July: I walked to Fey, one hour exactly, and best of all, I repeated that 1 kilometer 300 meter tract, ending up once more in front of Antonella's trattoria.
We exchanged blessings, shared a few big hugs, and I caught the noon bus, which got me back to Rome at 10:30 PM. It took over 17 hours of travel and two days, but I had earned the ability to tell my grandchildren, many many years from now, that I once walked from Switzerland to the far west tip of Sicily without skipping one inch of the trail. Asterisk removed.
On July 22, 2008, I walked* from Ceresole Reale to a plot of land next to a river near the tiny cluster of houses collectively called Frazione di Fey. Here is the blog post, in case you are interested.
What I did not write about in that blog post was that I accepted a ride from the lady who worked in the tourist office. I remember it vividly: I was kneeling next to a fountain, filling up my 1.5 liter water sack, when a minivan pulled to a stop 15 feet in front of me. The lady got out, said hello, and offered me a ride to Fey, the town she had instructed me to reach only 45 minutes before, saying that I could camp nearby and eat at the Trattoria there. I of course said no thank you, I had better walk, but she beckoned me over, saying "c'mon, it's close by!" I resisted, weary from a tiresome hike in the hot sun but determined to stay true to my objective, but she insisted, and I gave in. I blame my overwhelming desire to please others more than my fatigue, and certainly more than the lady, who after all was only trying to help, but whatever the case, I turned off my GPS, threw the bag in the backseat, and hopped in.
The ride was extremely short, and when we arrived, I remember her saying "see, you barely skipped anything. You were practically there!" before she drove away.
That evening, I walked from the Trattoria, where lovely Antonella made me a wonderful dinner even though the Trattoria was closed, to my tent, at least as long if not longer as that bit I had skipped. The next morning, I returned to Fey for breakfast, and then repeated that tract a third time as I headed to my next stop, Pont Canavese. I reasoned away the bit I had skipped, thinking that I did the next bit three times as a way of making up for it.
I am not certain when that little stretch of road started to weigh on my soul, but it took a few weeks, long enough for me to realize that I would not ever skip another centimeter of my walk. Nor am I certain when I decided that I would have to go back at all costs to walk that road, but my first utterance of it was in Rome, to my good friend Gregorio.
As is always the case, the act of saying something out loud makes it impossible for me not to do the thing that I said out loud, so it was just a matter of time, and I aimed for late January, when I would be in the North once more, visiting my host family in Padova. Deciding to forgo a lovely surprise, I called Antonella, and after updating her on my journey and present whereabouts, asked her whether she was open for me to come pay her a visit. Bad news, she said, they were under 6 feet of snow and there were no buses running to the nearest train station. I would have to try again in the Spring.
Crushed, I nonetheless kept my resolve, and waited a few weeks. As luck would have it, my friend Ronny came to Venice a few weeks later, and we attended Carnevale together. As I was once again in the North, I called Antonella once more, and learned that the situation had stabilized, and that I could come that following Tuesday.
So I took a train from Venice to Milano (3 hours), then from Milano to Torino (2 hours), then from Torino to Rivarolo (1 hour), then from Rivarolo to Pont Canavese (20 minutes), and then a bus to Frera Inferiore (20 minutes).
The bus dumped me right in front of the fountain, and I took a look around. The setting sun blazed weakly over a winter wonderland, a blanket of snow covering the valley, with mountains all around me.I took a freezing cold sip from that same fateful fountain where I had left off 7 months before, clapped my hands together for warmth, and started walking, taking a copious amount of photos as I grasped the surreal quality of this self-created deja vu.
It took me 12 minutes to walk from Frera Inferiore to Frazione di Fey, to get the closure I so desperately craved. To say I was satisfied does not begin to describe it.Antonella was waiting for me, having prepared a special mountain winter meal for just the two of us: three kinds of local cured meats, polenta with seasoned cheese, home-raised, organically nourished rabbit from her in-law's farm, and for dessert, a thick piece of slightly sweet, semi-soft cheese.
Around 9PM, she drove me to nearby Noasca, where she insisted on taking care of the hotel, saying I was her guest. So it was that the next morning, I did in 32 degree February just what I would have done in 75 degree July: I walked to Fey, one hour exactly, and best of all, I repeated that 1 kilometer 300 meter tract, ending up once more in front of Antonella's trattoria.
We exchanged blessings, shared a few big hugs, and I caught the noon bus, which got me back to Rome at 10:30 PM. It took over 17 hours of travel and two days, but I had earned the ability to tell my grandchildren, many many years from now, that I once walked from Switzerland to the far west tip of Sicily without skipping one inch of the trail. Asterisk removed.
Posts
2 comments:
That's awesome.
Let no one deny the power of art: all that sweet fanaticism in order to be able to SAY you did it. It should beget a new respect in your readers for the power of the spoken and written word.
Post a Comment