I have placed links for all the albums from Torino to Paris, and will follow shortly (today, tomorrow, or Friday) with the posts themselves.
Here goes:
Please let me know if any of this doesn't work!
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Photo Albums - Torino to Genova, plus the Paris excursion
Oh how wonderfully pleasant it is to work from someone's home computer, rather than at an internet cafe. Since I am staying with a wonderful family here in Genova Nervi for a few days, they graciously allowed me to invade their computer in order to upload all my hundreds of photos. More about the stay later..
Thursday, August 14, 2008
My disappearance and a promise to return soon
Friends,
The entire country shuts down completely for the month of August, as everyone migrates en masse to the sea, or other cooler places.
In my quest to be a true Italian, I have also taken my own vacation, heading to Paris to visit my sister and her fiance. As soon as I have a spare moment, I promise to communicate all my stories, upload pictures, etc.
In the meantime, please imagine this blog having one of those metal doors closed over the entrance, with a small piece of paper saying "dear friends, we will be closed from August 13 to August 19. Thank you for your patience!
Best Wishes from Paris!
The entire country shuts down completely for the month of August, as everyone migrates en masse to the sea, or other cooler places.
In my quest to be a true Italian, I have also taken my own vacation, heading to Paris to visit my sister and her fiance. As soon as I have a spare moment, I promise to communicate all my stories, upload pictures, etc.
In the meantime, please imagine this blog having one of those metal doors closed over the entrance, with a small piece of paper saying "dear friends, we will be closed from August 13 to August 19. Thank you for your patience!
Best Wishes from Paris!
Saturday, August 9, 2008
The Mediterranean and Savona
8/7-8/8 - San Giuseppe del Cairo to Savona - 18.53 miles walked, followed by a well-deserved day of rest
I am a creature of the water. Having been raised all my life near the Pacific Ocean, I continue to prefer the coast to any other landscape. Hell, I'm even an Aquarius. Now, finally, after four weeks of crossing the entire northern chunk of the country, I was going to reach the sea.
I had just a bit more of a hill to climb before I could start the descent toward the water, and it passed quickly. When I reached Altare, I was told to cross through a tunnel, where I would find the road that would lead me down to the water.
The way they made it sound, I had expected to find vast panoramas of water the entire way down. Finding only the barest suggestion of water at the other side of the tunnel, I still prepared myself at every turn to be confronted by the Mediterranean in all its majesty.
Instead, each turn down the mountain seemed to be obscured by a hill or by dense forests. By 2 PM, I couldn't handle the suspense any longer, and stopped in the middle of nowhere for a quick nap and some lunch.
Off came the shoes, open flew the shirt, and I was soon walking along the edge of the water, cutting a very strange figure with my trekking poles and backpack.
Of course, the soft sand and the extra weight of my backpack made it very difficult to walk, so I was soon back up on the boardwalk, but just those few minutes along the water had made a huge difference for my mental and spiritual health.
I swam out to a giant floating intertube, climbed the ladder, and lay out there for over half an hour, bobbing peacefully on that mythical "wine dark" sea.
The walk of over 18 miles, by far the longest of my trip, had not been in vain. I had finally arrived at Savona, and had commenced the "sea" chapter of my journey.
I would stay an extra day at this pleasant little campground, with its shack bungalows and soccer-volleyball court. My neighbors, Salvatore and Adriana, were long-time vacationers at this spot from Torino, and they took good care of me. They fed me water, beer, chips, coffee, and even gave me a beer for the road, after we posed for this picture.
I am a creature of the water. Having been raised all my life near the Pacific Ocean, I continue to prefer the coast to any other landscape. Hell, I'm even an Aquarius. Now, finally, after four weeks of crossing the entire northern chunk of the country, I was going to reach the sea.
I had just a bit more of a hill to climb before I could start the descent toward the water, and it passed quickly. When I reached Altare, I was told to cross through a tunnel, where I would find the road that would lead me down to the water.The way they made it sound, I had expected to find vast panoramas of water the entire way down. Finding only the barest suggestion of water at the other side of the tunnel, I still prepared myself at every turn to be confronted by the Mediterranean in all its majesty.
Instead, each turn down the mountain seemed to be obscured by a hill or by dense forests. By 2 PM, I couldn't handle the suspense any longer, and stopped in the middle of nowhere for a quick nap and some lunch.Even after lunch, when I restarted my walk, I had only 4 kilometers to Savona, where I knew I would see the water. So, I must say that I was disappointed as I hit downtown Savona without seeing so much as a drop of water. I even started to doubt the existence of water in this city at all, and it was at this low point that I finally hit the port. Like all ports, this was a dirty and ugly affair, but I knew that just a few more steps would finally land me on a beach, and sure enough, a half mile of walking finally yielded my first views of the Mediterranean in all its blue glory.
Off came the shoes, open flew the shirt, and I was soon walking along the edge of the water, cutting a very strange figure with my trekking poles and backpack.
Of course, the soft sand and the extra weight of my backpack made it very difficult to walk, so I was soon back up on the boardwalk, but just those few minutes along the water had made a huge difference for my mental and spiritual health.
When I finally made it to my campsite, a simple little set of shacks, I pitched my tent 50 feet from the water and changed into my bathing suit immediately.
I swam out to a giant floating intertube, climbed the ladder, and lay out there for over half an hour, bobbing peacefully on that mythical "wine dark" sea.The walk of over 18 miles, by far the longest of my trip, had not been in vain. I had finally arrived at Savona, and had commenced the "sea" chapter of my journey.
I would stay an extra day at this pleasant little campground, with its shack bungalows and soccer-volleyball court. My neighbors, Salvatore and Adriana, were long-time vacationers at this spot from Torino, and they took good care of me. They fed me water, beer, chips, coffee, and even gave me a beer for the road, after we posed for this picture.Amazing what a day or two at the beach will do for you. My blisters are almost healed (or at least have turned into gnarly-looking calluses), my skin feels healthier, I don't smell bad anymore, and I have a permanent smile tattooed to my face. Next stop? I have no idea. After I publish this post, I guess I'll do some internet research and figure it out. Life is good.
My favorite Italian sign so far
This sign is usually found on the gate outside construction projects. It says "vehicles a step away from man," and, as such, I feel that it sums up my long walks along the side of the road.
Some of these Italian signs are wonderfully descriptive with their pictures: can't you just imagine the poor stick figure cursing in Italian as he scampers away from the oncoming truck?
Camerana to San Giuseppe del Cairo - Goodbye Piedmont, Hello Liguria
8/6 - Camerana to San Giuseppe del Cairo (next to Carcare) - 15.32 miles
The morning after my free campout on the piece of public land, I gratefully paid for the use of the public pool's showers and bathroom. Not much good that it would do me in the body odor department: after a week of hiking in humid +90 weather, my clothes were standing up on their own, and pulsating with a smell that could no longer be classified as human.
I made good time from Camerana to Cengio, the next "big" city on the trail. On the way, I got to say farewell to Piedmont, and triumphantly entered Liguria, smacking the road sign as I passed.
During the late afternoon, I felt a change in the weather. It's amazing how walking allows you to notice such things as dropping atmospheric pressure, and rain before it even appears on the horizon. When I was a few miles away from Carcare, my destination for the evening, I sensed what was coming, and incredibly thankful for the respite from the blistering heat, I sat down to my lunch in the pouring rain. The rain lasted just a few minutes longer than my lunch did, and the earth had greedily sucked up most of the water by the time I arrived at Carcare.
Carcare, a fairly large city, turned out to be completely devoid of any accommodations. Hmmm, who to ask for alternatives? There is nothing more helpful, and at the same time, entertaining, than a big group of old
Italian men sitting around a town square. After availing myself of Italy's greatest source of information, I found out that the only hotel nearby was 2 miles back from where I had come. Realizing that this sounded very familiar (see Poirino post below), I was nevertheless assured that this hotel was both open and had vacancies. Apparently, I was heading for an industrial worker's hotel, a 3-star joint directly across the street from the train station at San Giuseppe del Cairo. I could even eat there pretty well, they said, and so off I went, topping off another +15-mile day in the process.
This hotel, a tiny affair in an out of the way village next to an ugly industrial park, turned out to cost more than any other hotel so far. Funny how that works out. I was left with no other choices, so I settled in, took a shower, and headed down to dinner.
The scene in the restaurant could have come from a sociology experiment. I was the first person to come down, but was soon after followed by about 20 other people, all men. Just as the old man had said, these were industrial workers, come straight from what, judging by their demeanor, must have been a hard day at the factory.
As I ate my dinner, I silently observed these men, and could not have found a more depressing scene in a Dickens novel. No laughter, and indeed, very little conversation pierced the oppressive silence that hung over these broken men. It was as if the grey, smoggy surroundings and intermittent rain had drained any color out of their souls, and I felt stifled by my joyless surroundings, relieved to finish dinner and head back to my room.
Still, nothing can pop this balloon (which, I'll allow, is full of hot air), and I awoke eager and ready for the walk. The reason? Well, keep scrolling up.
The morning after my free campout on the piece of public land, I gratefully paid for the use of the public pool's showers and bathroom. Not much good that it would do me in the body odor department: after a week of hiking in humid +90 weather, my clothes were standing up on their own, and pulsating with a smell that could no longer be classified as human.
I made good time from Camerana to Cengio, the next "big" city on the trail. On the way, I got to say farewell to Piedmont, and triumphantly entered Liguria, smacking the road sign as I passed.
During the late afternoon, I felt a change in the weather. It's amazing how walking allows you to notice such things as dropping atmospheric pressure, and rain before it even appears on the horizon. When I was a few miles away from Carcare, my destination for the evening, I sensed what was coming, and incredibly thankful for the respite from the blistering heat, I sat down to my lunch in the pouring rain. The rain lasted just a few minutes longer than my lunch did, and the earth had greedily sucked up most of the water by the time I arrived at Carcare.Carcare, a fairly large city, turned out to be completely devoid of any accommodations. Hmmm, who to ask for alternatives? There is nothing more helpful, and at the same time, entertaining, than a big group of old
Italian men sitting around a town square. After availing myself of Italy's greatest source of information, I found out that the only hotel nearby was 2 miles back from where I had come. Realizing that this sounded very familiar (see Poirino post below), I was nevertheless assured that this hotel was both open and had vacancies. Apparently, I was heading for an industrial worker's hotel, a 3-star joint directly across the street from the train station at San Giuseppe del Cairo. I could even eat there pretty well, they said, and so off I went, topping off another +15-mile day in the process.This hotel, a tiny affair in an out of the way village next to an ugly industrial park, turned out to cost more than any other hotel so far. Funny how that works out. I was left with no other choices, so I settled in, took a shower, and headed down to dinner.
The scene in the restaurant could have come from a sociology experiment. I was the first person to come down, but was soon after followed by about 20 other people, all men. Just as the old man had said, these were industrial workers, come straight from what, judging by their demeanor, must have been a hard day at the factory.
As I ate my dinner, I silently observed these men, and could not have found a more depressing scene in a Dickens novel. No laughter, and indeed, very little conversation pierced the oppressive silence that hung over these broken men. It was as if the grey, smoggy surroundings and intermittent rain had drained any color out of their souls, and I felt stifled by my joyless surroundings, relieved to finish dinner and head back to my room.Still, nothing can pop this balloon (which, I'll allow, is full of hot air), and I awoke eager and ready for the walk. The reason? Well, keep scrolling up.
Torre Bormida to Camerana - The Church and the Castle
8/5 - Torre Bormida to Camerana - 15.21 miles
As opposed to the GTL, Levice had a well marked trail system, and after more agonizing uphill walking in the merciless sunshine, I made it to a shady forest trail that would lead me all the way to Prunetto, the next town on my itinerary.
Walking toward the center of town, I noticed a sign for an 11th century church and a 12th century castle, located right next to each other. Planning to check them out first and then eat my lunch, I tried to gain entry into both, and found that they were locked. What a pity, I thought, but at least I got to see them from the outside, and take some pictures.
Having walked the perimeter of the monuments, I came upon a family who seemed to be chatting about them as well. I soon realized that this was a private organized tour, and it was then that one of the tourists recognized me from Alba. His recognition was the only excuse I needed to attach myself to this tour, and soon it was me, the couple and their grandchildren, and the knowledgeable guide making their way to the
Romanesque church.
Out of respect for the church, and feeling slightly precarious in my position on this private tour, I did not take any pictures of the church, which was full of works of art ranging from proto-Roman to Byzantine to early Renaissance. Every corner of the church was illuminated with stories and explanations by the guide. One example: the four evangelists are depicted, three of them writing furiously on their parchment. Only one doesn't write, and is looking rather confusedly at his pen. This is Luke, the evangelist said to have come later, who copied much from the others. There are dozens of other little details that he showed us, but since this is not an Art History blog, I will restrain myself.
Next we made it to the castle, and this was where my camera came out. I saw the most amazing artifacts, including the following:
17th century book making equipment
barrel for pressing grapes
16th century frescoes
19th century high chair that easily turned into a baby carriage
After exchanging information with the family who had so kindly included me on their private tour, and after listening to the man recount some of the stories from his walk/hitchike from Italy to Nepal and back (need I even mention that they made me feel like I was walking across a neighborhood in comparison?), I continued my journey, having exchanged my lunch for some filling brain food.
By the time I got to Gottaseca a few hours later, I finally ate my lunch, and realizing that the last leg of the GTL would have been a day's walk on its own, I started to inquire about lodging.
Gottaseca, like so many of the towns I visit, was very small, and did not seem to have any lodging for me. Speaking with some of the elders sitting outside their houses, I managed to discover that down the hill there was a piece of land behind a public pool where people could pitch their tents for the night.
An hour of walking downhill finally landed me in Camerana, where I indeed found the piece of land, and making sure to ask for permission at the bar next door, pitched my tent.
As if to give closure to my last day up in the forests of the Langhe, I managed to catch two deer heading down for a quick sip of water about 100 yards from where I had pitched my tent.
I had a simple dinner of sandwiches and a couple beers at the bar, and after chatting it up with the baristas, I also got to head into the back of the kitchen to learn how to make gelato. This was a very illuminating process, and made the gelato taste that much better once I knew it had just been made that very evening. As if I needed something to make me further appreciate gelato.
Instead of heading up to Bergolo, Susanne had shown me an alternate route that would lead me to the same place, all without having to skip any part of the trail. I set my sights for Levice, a small village of 246 people (no more, no less) set atop a nearby hill, and was soon at the top. Having purchased my day's lunch, I was reapplying some bandages on my feet, when I had the honor of meeting fair Levice's mayor, a man named Ernesto. He was eager to help, and gave me some more maps, so I was ready to once again face the mercurial GTL.
As opposed to the GTL, Levice had a well marked trail system, and after more agonizing uphill walking in the merciless sunshine, I made it to a shady forest trail that would lead me all the way to Prunetto, the next town on my itinerary.
Walking toward the center of town, I noticed a sign for an 11th century church and a 12th century castle, located right next to each other. Planning to check them out first and then eat my lunch, I tried to gain entry into both, and found that they were locked. What a pity, I thought, but at least I got to see them from the outside, and take some pictures.Having walked the perimeter of the monuments, I came upon a family who seemed to be chatting about them as well. I soon realized that this was a private organized tour, and it was then that one of the tourists recognized me from Alba. His recognition was the only excuse I needed to attach myself to this tour, and soon it was me, the couple and their grandchildren, and the knowledgeable guide making their way to the
Romanesque church.Out of respect for the church, and feeling slightly precarious in my position on this private tour, I did not take any pictures of the church, which was full of works of art ranging from proto-Roman to Byzantine to early Renaissance. Every corner of the church was illuminated with stories and explanations by the guide. One example: the four evangelists are depicted, three of them writing furiously on their parchment. Only one doesn't write, and is looking rather confusedly at his pen. This is Luke, the evangelist said to have come later, who copied much from the others. There are dozens of other little details that he showed us, but since this is not an Art History blog, I will restrain myself.
Next we made it to the castle, and this was where my camera came out. I saw the most amazing artifacts, including the following:17th century book making equipment
barrel for pressing grapes
16th century frescoes
19th century high chair that easily turned into a baby carriage
1940s newspaper with a lie about Italy's "success" in the Greek campaign
Again, I could go on, but will spare those of you who are not as obssessed with history as I am. By a stroke of luck and some excellent timing, two mildly interesting buildings had come to life, and had carried me back throughout 1000 years of Italian history.
Again, I could go on, but will spare those of you who are not as obssessed with history as I am. By a stroke of luck and some excellent timing, two mildly interesting buildings had come to life, and had carried me back throughout 1000 years of Italian history.
After exchanging information with the family who had so kindly included me on their private tour, and after listening to the man recount some of the stories from his walk/hitchike from Italy to Nepal and back (need I even mention that they made me feel like I was walking across a neighborhood in comparison?), I continued my journey, having exchanged my lunch for some filling brain food.By the time I got to Gottaseca a few hours later, I finally ate my lunch, and realizing that the last leg of the GTL would have been a day's walk on its own, I started to inquire about lodging.
Gottaseca, like so many of the towns I visit, was very small, and did not seem to have any lodging for me. Speaking with some of the elders sitting outside their houses, I managed to discover that down the hill there was a piece of land behind a public pool where people could pitch their tents for the night.
An hour of walking downhill finally landed me in Camerana, where I indeed found the piece of land, and making sure to ask for permission at the bar next door, pitched my tent.
As if to give closure to my last day up in the forests of the Langhe, I managed to catch two deer heading down for a quick sip of water about 100 yards from where I had pitched my tent.I had a simple dinner of sandwiches and a couple beers at the bar, and after chatting it up with the baristas, I also got to head into the back of the kitchen to learn how to make gelato. This was a very illuminating process, and made the gelato taste that much better once I knew it had just been made that very evening. As if I needed something to make me further appreciate gelato.
My romp through the Langhe completed, I slept pretty well, aside from being awakened a few times by the wanderings of wild boars... but you know how that goes.
San Bovo to Torre Bormida, and the GTL
8/4 - San Bovo to Torre Bormida - 15.06 miles
The thing that separates these two paths in quality is the ease of following the signposts, and their strategic placement before and after forks in the road. Sitting now in the shade, with a full belly and a slight breeze tickling my arms, it is very hard for me to conjure once more the extreme frustration and venemous bile that this path brewed deep in my soul. More than once I found myself screaming out loud to my imaginary companion (don't leave home without one) about the awful and irrational placement of these stupid signs.
I'll give you an example, in the form of a game, kind of like Where's Waldo. Try looking for the flag in this picture..... Give up? I'll help you: it's on the far right side, hidden by the shade. Now, tell me which way this flag tells you to go: left, straight, or right. Well, logic says that since the sign is on the right, and since there are no confirming flags visible IMMEDIATELY AFTER the fork on the road, my guess is to go right. Wrong! Ten minutes of walking a steep downhill later, there is no confirming signpost. Still, even this isn't completely out of character, but the cardinal direction seems off, so I better head back the ten minutes of steep uphill, and try a different way. 
The right answer, friends, is the middle path. How do I know? Because 50 yards in, you can clearly see this signpost, expertly placed in the shade four feet from the path, under the trees. I put it in the middle of the photo, just to make it easy for you.
In fact, I even blamed myself for this one, realizing that I could have walked 100 yards in the other direction and seen the confirming red and white flag. But why, may I ask, would they place the flag 100 yards down the path? Why not place it AT THE FORK IN THE ROAD?
Then things went pretty well for a while. Large groves of hazelnut trees gave way to beautifully manicured vineyards, which in turn gave way to fragrant and shady forests. Also, I should add that I did not see a single soul on these trails, but had them all to myself. Sure, I was getting lost all the time, but at least it was in the midst of a beautiful landscape!
Toward late afternoon, I found myself lost again, despite having followed the red and white flags.
As it turns out, the path split, both paths containing red and white flags, and the GTL was now about 3 or 4 miles away from where I had left it. Having heard of a campground in Bergolo (along the GTL, now out of the way), I decided to get there as quickly as possible, since there was a good distance still left for me to travel. So, I abandoned the forest paths, exchanging them for the trusty roads, and made my way toward Bergolo.
By 6 PM, I was tired from all the mishaps that I had endured that day, and so I started to take shortcuts whenever I found them. At one point, I even skipped about half a mile by cutting right through a vineyard, climbing down terrace after terrace until I had made my way back to the road. Imagine me in the middle of a huge vineyard, much like the ones you see in these pictures, picking my way down three or four hundred feet through vines and brambles all the way to the bottom.
Fortunately for me, I found a lady walking her dog at the bottom of the hill, and asked her if she knew anything about the campground. She told me in a foreign accent (which would turn out to be Swiss) that she was pretty sure that the campground was closed, since the owner had been trying to sell it for some time. I was ready to abandon all hope, and camp on the vacant land if necessary, when she offered to drive me up the hill to see.
I have been very faithful to my path, and have skipped nothing for an entire month. If anything, I have even done more, walking parts of the trail more than once. At 6:30 in the evening, 15 miles into a day that had been up and down hills for hours, with a 3 mile uphill hike left to go, I must say that I finally gave in. "I would love a ride," I said, defeated.
My moment of weakness would not, however, create a blank spot of shame on the trail. As it turns out, the campground was indeed open, but there were no restaurants in the town except one that required reservations. Meanwhile, the Swiss lady, whose name I found out was Susanne, mentioned casually that she rented a room. Since the food situation was sketchy, and I felt no small gratitude to Susanne for sparing me these last three miles, I decided to go to her house instead, where at least there was a pizzeria nearby. Best of all, it was along the part of the trail I had already traveled, so I would not be skipping anything.
It was fated to be this way. Susanne and I quickly became friends, and shortly after getting to her house, I was with her in the garden picking fruits and vegetables for the evening's dinner. I had mentioned to her that I missed cooking, and would love to help, and she took me up on my offer. Soon I was cutting up tomatoes, cucumber, zucchini, basil, and other wonderful home-grown produce, and together we cooked a delicious pasta, together with a salad. This dinner, which was almost entirely from the garden, was just what the doctor ordered, and we ate it outside with some delicious wine and a spectacular view of the surrounding hillside. Susanne and I then spoke until the late hours of the evening, sharing travel stories and life philosophies over some heavenly Grappa.
The Grande Traversate delle Langhe, or GTL, is the sniggering, roguish younger brother to the Grande Traversate delle Alpi, or GTA. The idea is similar, and the signposts even sport the same red and white flag, though the scope is much smaller.
The thing that separates these two paths in quality is the ease of following the signposts, and their strategic placement before and after forks in the road. Sitting now in the shade, with a full belly and a slight breeze tickling my arms, it is very hard for me to conjure once more the extreme frustration and venemous bile that this path brewed deep in my soul. More than once I found myself screaming out loud to my imaginary companion (don't leave home without one) about the awful and irrational placement of these stupid signs.
I'll give you an example, in the form of a game, kind of like Where's Waldo. Try looking for the flag in this picture..... Give up? I'll help you: it's on the far right side, hidden by the shade. Now, tell me which way this flag tells you to go: left, straight, or right. Well, logic says that since the sign is on the right, and since there are no confirming flags visible IMMEDIATELY AFTER the fork on the road, my guess is to go right. Wrong! Ten minutes of walking a steep downhill later, there is no confirming signpost. Still, even this isn't completely out of character, but the cardinal direction seems off, so I better head back the ten minutes of steep uphill, and try a different way. 
The right answer, friends, is the middle path. How do I know? Because 50 yards in, you can clearly see this signpost, expertly placed in the shade four feet from the path, under the trees. I put it in the middle of the photo, just to make it easy for you.In the beginning I had been full of hope, and embarked on the trail at San Bovo. Within fifteen minutes I had lost the trail. Going straight instead of turning left, I had walked more than a half mile uphill on someone's land. No matter, I figured: I would just turn left now and cross onto the next hill. This was impossible; a deep valley of forest separated the two hills. Still, I walked amidst the hazelnut trees, trying to find a path across, and even succeeding at laughing this first one off, as I walked all the way back to where I had started in order to make the correct turn.
In fact, I even blamed myself for this one, realizing that I could have walked 100 yards in the other direction and seen the confirming red and white flag. But why, may I ask, would they place the flag 100 yards down the path? Why not place it AT THE FORK IN THE ROAD?
Then things went pretty well for a while. Large groves of hazelnut trees gave way to beautifully manicured vineyards, which in turn gave way to fragrant and shady forests. Also, I should add that I did not see a single soul on these trails, but had them all to myself. Sure, I was getting lost all the time, but at least it was in the midst of a beautiful landscape!Toward late afternoon, I found myself lost again, despite having followed the red and white flags.
As it turns out, the path split, both paths containing red and white flags, and the GTL was now about 3 or 4 miles away from where I had left it. Having heard of a campground in Bergolo (along the GTL, now out of the way), I decided to get there as quickly as possible, since there was a good distance still left for me to travel. So, I abandoned the forest paths, exchanging them for the trusty roads, and made my way toward Bergolo.By 6 PM, I was tired from all the mishaps that I had endured that day, and so I started to take shortcuts whenever I found them. At one point, I even skipped about half a mile by cutting right through a vineyard, climbing down terrace after terrace until I had made my way back to the road. Imagine me in the middle of a huge vineyard, much like the ones you see in these pictures, picking my way down three or four hundred feet through vines and brambles all the way to the bottom.
By the time I finally reached the road to Bergolo, I saw that I had 3 miles of uphill walking left before I would get there, and there was no guarantee that I would even find the campground, or that it would be open.
Fortunately for me, I found a lady walking her dog at the bottom of the hill, and asked her if she knew anything about the campground. She told me in a foreign accent (which would turn out to be Swiss) that she was pretty sure that the campground was closed, since the owner had been trying to sell it for some time. I was ready to abandon all hope, and camp on the vacant land if necessary, when she offered to drive me up the hill to see.
I have been very faithful to my path, and have skipped nothing for an entire month. If anything, I have even done more, walking parts of the trail more than once. At 6:30 in the evening, 15 miles into a day that had been up and down hills for hours, with a 3 mile uphill hike left to go, I must say that I finally gave in. "I would love a ride," I said, defeated.
My moment of weakness would not, however, create a blank spot of shame on the trail. As it turns out, the campground was indeed open, but there were no restaurants in the town except one that required reservations. Meanwhile, the Swiss lady, whose name I found out was Susanne, mentioned casually that she rented a room. Since the food situation was sketchy, and I felt no small gratitude to Susanne for sparing me these last three miles, I decided to go to her house instead, where at least there was a pizzeria nearby. Best of all, it was along the part of the trail I had already traveled, so I would not be skipping anything.
It was fated to be this way. Susanne and I quickly became friends, and shortly after getting to her house, I was with her in the garden picking fruits and vegetables for the evening's dinner. I had mentioned to her that I missed cooking, and would love to help, and she took me up on my offer. Soon I was cutting up tomatoes, cucumber, zucchini, basil, and other wonderful home-grown produce, and together we cooked a delicious pasta, together with a salad. This dinner, which was almost entirely from the garden, was just what the doctor ordered, and we ate it outside with some delicious wine and a spectacular view of the surrounding hillside. Susanne and I then spoke until the late hours of the evening, sharing travel stories and life philosophies over some heavenly Grappa.In the morning, I was sad to leave her and her beautiful dog Carino ("cute" in Italian), but was thankful for the good night's sleep in a comfortable bed.
Alba to San Bovo
8/2-8/3 Alba to San Bovo (a village of Benevello, for those of you tracking) - 14.22 miles
Alba is the cultural capital of the Langhe, and is centrally located in the heart of the region. Besides being well known for its wine, Alba is also apparently famous for its selection of truffles, particularly those of the white and black varieties, as well as chocolate. It is also close to Bra, capital of the slow food movement.
I had heard of a campsite about a mile and a half out of town, and after dropping the backpack, setting up camp, and taking a quick shower, I made my way back to town for a delicious dinner of pasta with baby shrimp and zucchini flowers, as well as an abundant mixed salad. After wandering around town for a bit, it was getting late and I had a long walk ahead of me, so I fueled up on a gelato, and once I had finished it, on another. So much for starving to death and wasting away from all that walking...
The only certainty was that my first stop would be in a village called San Bovo, and it appeared to be a short walk from Alba. This suited me fine, since the breakfast, long walk to the center, and time spent at the tourist information center had caused a late start.
After making my way out of an eerily silent Alba (it was Sunday, so everything was closed and deserted) The first hour and a half of the walk was easy, a slight decline but mostly flat, with town giving way to farmland. Then the hills hit me, and didn't stop hitting me for the next three days.
The payoff was that I had the whole hostel to myself, and had earned my dinner (including 4 delicious homemade cheeses) with over 14 miles of walking. A "short walk," as I had projected, had turned into one of the longer walks of the trip. 
Alba is the cultural capital of the Langhe, and is centrally located in the heart of the region. Besides being well known for its wine, Alba is also apparently famous for its selection of truffles, particularly those of the white and black varieties, as well as chocolate. It is also close to Bra, capital of the slow food movement.I had heard of a campsite about a mile and a half out of town, and after dropping the backpack, setting up camp, and taking a quick shower, I made my way back to town for a delicious dinner of pasta with baby shrimp and zucchini flowers, as well as an abundant mixed salad. After wandering around town for a bit, it was getting late and I had a long walk ahead of me, so I fueled up on a gelato, and once I had finished it, on another. So much for starving to death and wasting away from all that walking...
Exhausted, I collapsed onto my mattress pad, but a peaceful slumber was to escape me; the campsite was located next to a discoteca, and as it was Saturday night, the music blasted until 3:30 in the morning. I might as well have been camped out inside the discoteca for how clearly the bass pounded in my tent.
The next morning, I was invited to breakfast by my campground neighbors, a Dutch couple named Gerd and Sabrina. They were generous and pleasant, and it soon came out that they had taken a six month trip to China and Russia back in 2000, living in the moment and seeing both countries from the insider's perspective. I was absolutely amazed at the stories they had of their travels, of the various mishaps and adventures, and part of me quietly started thinking about my own trip to those countries. However, I must not get ahead of myself. I believe I have some walking to do first, and with that in mind, I prepared myself to head toward Cortemilia.
Someone had recently requested that I write my proposed path in the blog, so that people have an idea of my itinerary throughout the course of the week. The events that followed my night in Alba form a perfect illustration for why this is not feasible.
I headed into the middle of town in order to get some maps at the tourist information center. My plan was to take the following path: Cortemilia-Bubbio-Acqui Terme-Ovada-Parco Naturale Capanne di Marcarolo-Genova. After describing this itinerary to the representative, he told me that this was a great path... if I liked smog and industrial plants. Since I'm not crazy about either, I asked if he could suggest an alternative route, and was told to walk due South. The path as he described it cut right through the Langhe, and even included walking paths much like the ones I had taken up in Valle d'Aosta. His promises of vast vineyards, hazelnut groves, and virgin forests quickly won me over, and I resolved to figure out where I would stay once I got there. This freedom to choose my own path, and the ability to drop a week's careful planning at the drop of a hat in exchange for uncertainty, is something that I find very satisfying, so I took a few painfully inadequate maps and headed off into the unknown.
The only certainty was that my first stop would be in a village called San Bovo, and it appeared to be a short walk from Alba. This suited me fine, since the breakfast, long walk to the center, and time spent at the tourist information center had caused a late start.
After making my way out of an eerily silent Alba (it was Sunday, so everything was closed and deserted) The first hour and a half of the walk was easy, a slight decline but mostly flat, with town giving way to farmland. Then the hills hit me, and didn't stop hitting me for the next three days.After 3 hours of uphill walking in 95 degree weather and +98% humidity, I finally made it to the point that my GPS knew to be San Bovo. And then, a funny thing happened: the road kept going, but the GPS didn't acknowledge the existence of a road. The signs kept pointing to a hostel, so I had to trust these over my GPS, and it was only 3 miles later that I finally made it to the village of San Bovo, a teeny tiny dot amidst vast expanses of vineyards.
The payoff was that I had the whole hostel to myself, and had earned my dinner (including 4 delicious homemade cheeses) with over 14 miles of walking. A "short walk," as I had projected, had turned into one of the longer walks of the trip.Here are some of the pictures from the walk, including the beautiful church at San Bovo. I can only imagine how must work it must have been to carry all those stones by mule up that hill from Alba.
Friday, August 8, 2008
All the Gossip has to Stop!
8/2 - Montà d'Alba to Alba - 13.22
It's time we set the record straight. I have heard whispers, the chatter of gossip, and stifled giggles amongst you. Many of you have even started to lay down bets, openly doubting my sanity, or at the very least, my good judgment. Yes, I know it's true; there's no sense in denying it now. I have been quite offended by all of these machinations and vain falsehoods. How could you possibly doubt me? What I have done to merit such little faith? You, my family and friends, talking about me behind my back. Absolutely shameful.
To clear up any misconceptions, and to dispel all uncertainty, it is high time that I make myself abundantly clear. From this point on, I want all this nonsense to stop, and it is for this reason that I lay it all out on the table.
Yes, I have been drinking wine. And lots of it.
There, I've said it. While those of you who have remained faithful collect on your wagers, please allow me to elaborate.
Wine is an essential part of the Italian experience, like bread, soccer, and coffee. When marking down my expenses at the end of each day, I have long since left off putting wine in the "liquor" column (yeah, it has its own column: whatcha gonna do 'bout it?). No, wine has firmly lodged itself where it rightly belongs, in the food column.
Indeed, there are few dinners that are not accompanied by the trusty carafe of rosso. There are two paths one can take here in Italy. The first is the hoity-toity 4-star approach, which involves ordering actual bottles of wine at a restaurant. Besides marking you for a tourist from the get-go, you have by no means guaranteed a better drinking experience. The second, and quite clearly my chosen path, is the "house wine" (or, in Italian, vino sfuso) approach. Depending on the region and the size of the town, you are almost sure to receive local wine, 
grown in the backyards of friends of the restauranteur (or, in the more felicitous cases, by the restauranteur him/herself).
Aosta had various varieties of grapes, and produced a few wines inspired by the strong French influence in the region. More modest places would sometimes offer sparkling reds, usually lighter, a bit sweeter in flavor, and not very complex.
Piedmont, on the other hand, boasts some of the best wines in the world. Here, the vastly predominant grape is Nebbiolo, which makes Barolo, Barbera, Barabaresco, and Nebbiolo. With my limited knowledge and no time to research more thoroughly, I am sure that I have missed some, but this will have to do for now. The region also produces Dolcetto, which I believe is a different grape, and Arneis, which produces white wines.
There are three size choices when it comes to ordering the house wine: 250 ml (a quarto, or quartino), 500 ml (mezzo), or 1 Liter (don't know what they'd call this, and I would reveal myself as a drunkard if I did). 250 ml, or one third of a traditional wine bottle, is good for a lighter meal, and is the more affordable option, often costing less than a pint a beer. Me, I'm a bit like Goldilocks: the one in the middle is Just Right. 500 ml, or two thirds of a bottle, lasts you throughout the long Italian meal, and even allows for a small glass at the end to wash it all down.
The best part about ordering the house wine is that it always is a sort of crap shoot. Sometimes you get gut rot, something that tastes like acidic grape juice, and smells more like rubbing alcohol than wine. But then other times you get a magical potion, complex, perfectly fitted for the local cuisine, and with just the right amount of tannins. Most of the time, the wine is pleasant, not too fancy but very complementary with the surroundings and the locale. All in all, it's a risk worth taking, in my humble opinion.
Why bring wine up at this point in your travels, might you ask? After all, you have not even reached Tuscany. The reason, dear friends, is that I had the privelege of walking through much of Piedmont's wine country, starting shortly after Montà.
As I walked away from the Agriturismo, my host Carlo had shown me the scenic route around the city, and it was there that I saw my first vines of the region. Though the grapes were still green, a bit over a month away from the harvest, they were full and thick on the vines, lustily drinking in the previous evening's rain.
These vineyards grew larger and larger, and came to dominate the landscape. At around 1:30, just about lunchtime, I came across a cantina, or winery. I eagerly made my way to the entrance, where I found that the cantina was closed for another half hour. Undaunted, I made my way inside the walls, chatted a bit with one of the employees, who was washing his car, and ate my lunch. By the time I was done, the winery had reopened, and it was time to taste some wine.
This particular cantina is located in Roero, which is the Sonoma to the Langhe's Napa. Thus, while the soil composition, altitude, and temperature were a bit different, we were quite close to one of the most famous wine making regions, and the wines were still absolutely delicious, without all the hype and snobbery.
After asking lots of questions about the wines, the production process, and so on, I got down to some serious tasting. I got to try a Nebbiolo, a Dolcetto, an Arneis, and a Barbera.
Here are my (admittedly simple) tasting notes, taken at the time:
Nebbiolo - 2005 - Sharp on the nose, slightly brown in color, chocolate and earth flavors, slightly tannic
Dolcetto - Very tannic, lighter in texture, not sweet as the name would suggest
Arneis - white - Full-bodied, very slightly sweet, better to drink young
Barbera - Not too heavy, ruby red in color. Classic table wine
By the time I got out of there, my legs had grown a bit flimsy, and what would normally have been a standard piece of the walk grew quite long and difficult as a result. I had learned the lesson many days ago that one should not drink in the afternoon and then try to follow it with a long walk in the hot sun. However, if there was a time to make exceptions, this was surely it, and I did not begrudge myself the hour spent in Epicurian pursuits.
It's time we set the record straight. I have heard whispers, the chatter of gossip, and stifled giggles amongst you. Many of you have even started to lay down bets, openly doubting my sanity, or at the very least, my good judgment. Yes, I know it's true; there's no sense in denying it now. I have been quite offended by all of these machinations and vain falsehoods. How could you possibly doubt me? What I have done to merit such little faith? You, my family and friends, talking about me behind my back. Absolutely shameful.
To clear up any misconceptions, and to dispel all uncertainty, it is high time that I make myself abundantly clear. From this point on, I want all this nonsense to stop, and it is for this reason that I lay it all out on the table.
Yes, I have been drinking wine. And lots of it.
There, I've said it. While those of you who have remained faithful collect on your wagers, please allow me to elaborate.
Wine is an essential part of the Italian experience, like bread, soccer, and coffee. When marking down my expenses at the end of each day, I have long since left off putting wine in the "liquor" column (yeah, it has its own column: whatcha gonna do 'bout it?). No, wine has firmly lodged itself where it rightly belongs, in the food column.
Indeed, there are few dinners that are not accompanied by the trusty carafe of rosso. There are two paths one can take here in Italy. The first is the hoity-toity 4-star approach, which involves ordering actual bottles of wine at a restaurant. Besides marking you for a tourist from the get-go, you have by no means guaranteed a better drinking experience. The second, and quite clearly my chosen path, is the "house wine" (or, in Italian, vino sfuso) approach. Depending on the region and the size of the town, you are almost sure to receive local wine, 
grown in the backyards of friends of the restauranteur (or, in the more felicitous cases, by the restauranteur him/herself).Aosta had various varieties of grapes, and produced a few wines inspired by the strong French influence in the region. More modest places would sometimes offer sparkling reds, usually lighter, a bit sweeter in flavor, and not very complex.
Piedmont, on the other hand, boasts some of the best wines in the world. Here, the vastly predominant grape is Nebbiolo, which makes Barolo, Barbera, Barabaresco, and Nebbiolo. With my limited knowledge and no time to research more thoroughly, I am sure that I have missed some, but this will have to do for now. The region also produces Dolcetto, which I believe is a different grape, and Arneis, which produces white wines.
There are three size choices when it comes to ordering the house wine: 250 ml (a quarto, or quartino), 500 ml (mezzo), or 1 Liter (don't know what they'd call this, and I would reveal myself as a drunkard if I did). 250 ml, or one third of a traditional wine bottle, is good for a lighter meal, and is the more affordable option, often costing less than a pint a beer. Me, I'm a bit like Goldilocks: the one in the middle is Just Right. 500 ml, or two thirds of a bottle, lasts you throughout the long Italian meal, and even allows for a small glass at the end to wash it all down.
The best part about ordering the house wine is that it always is a sort of crap shoot. Sometimes you get gut rot, something that tastes like acidic grape juice, and smells more like rubbing alcohol than wine. But then other times you get a magical potion, complex, perfectly fitted for the local cuisine, and with just the right amount of tannins. Most of the time, the wine is pleasant, not too fancy but very complementary with the surroundings and the locale. All in all, it's a risk worth taking, in my humble opinion.
Why bring wine up at this point in your travels, might you ask? After all, you have not even reached Tuscany. The reason, dear friends, is that I had the privelege of walking through much of Piedmont's wine country, starting shortly after Montà.
As I walked away from the Agriturismo, my host Carlo had shown me the scenic route around the city, and it was there that I saw my first vines of the region. Though the grapes were still green, a bit over a month away from the harvest, they were full and thick on the vines, lustily drinking in the previous evening's rain.
These vineyards grew larger and larger, and came to dominate the landscape. At around 1:30, just about lunchtime, I came across a cantina, or winery. I eagerly made my way to the entrance, where I found that the cantina was closed for another half hour. Undaunted, I made my way inside the walls, chatted a bit with one of the employees, who was washing his car, and ate my lunch. By the time I was done, the winery had reopened, and it was time to taste some wine.
This particular cantina is located in Roero, which is the Sonoma to the Langhe's Napa. Thus, while the soil composition, altitude, and temperature were a bit different, we were quite close to one of the most famous wine making regions, and the wines were still absolutely delicious, without all the hype and snobbery.After asking lots of questions about the wines, the production process, and so on, I got down to some serious tasting. I got to try a Nebbiolo, a Dolcetto, an Arneis, and a Barbera.
Here are my (admittedly simple) tasting notes, taken at the time:
Nebbiolo - 2005 - Sharp on the nose, slightly brown in color, chocolate and earth flavors, slightly tannic
Dolcetto - Very tannic, lighter in texture, not sweet as the name would suggest
Arneis - white - Full-bodied, very slightly sweet, better to drink young
Barbera - Not too heavy, ruby red in color. Classic table wine
By the time I got out of there, my legs had grown a bit flimsy, and what would normally have been a standard piece of the walk grew quite long and difficult as a result. I had learned the lesson many days ago that one should not drink in the afternoon and then try to follow it with a long walk in the hot sun. However, if there was a time to make exceptions, this was surely it, and I did not begrudge myself the hour spent in Epicurian pursuits.
Cornfields, a hill town, and an Agritourismo
8/1 - Poirino to Montà d'Alba - 11.63
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.
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.
Feast or Famine
7/31 - Torino to Poirino (hey, that rhymes!) - 15.00 miles
Before I start recounting the last eight days of my travels, I feel the need to excuse my silence over the last few days. It would give me great pleasure to be able to wander in and out of internet cafes, spending a half hour here and there updating the blog, and thereby keeping everyone current.
What drives a merchant to open an "internet point," as they are called in Italy? Obvious as it may sound to you now, I have slowly learned that the primary reason one opens an Internet Cafe in Italy is for tourists. The secondary reason, and also a valid one, is for immigrants who do not have enough money to subscribe to an internet service where they live.
Anyhow, I have traveled from Torino to Savona over the past eight days, and the towns that I have passed have been small and off the beaten path. As such, there have been few tourists, and fewer immigrants; therefore, there has also been no internet access. However, having arrived at the large(ish) port town of Savona, I am now surrounded by both tourists and immigrants, and as a result, internet points!
Those of you who have been following this blog on a regular basis will have seen that, as the title of this post suggests, it is either feast or famine. One day there are so many photos to see, and pages and pages of descriptions, and one simply cannot get through them in those 15 minutes (or, for some of you, oh so much more) of work time that we devote to leisure (Gasp! We have been discovered! Alt-tab to that email you were sort of writing before the boss sees you!). Then, for days and days, the blog falls silent, and not even a comment (hint, hint) causes a ripple. In order to avoid these oh-so-agonizing periods, I would gently suggest that you read only a bit at a time. This way, the feast won't cause you indigestion, and the famine won't cause you to starve.
Okay, now that I have wasted everyone's precious time, I can finally arrive at the topic at hand, namely, a log of my travels.
We left off in Torino, which was commonly known as a "liveable city." Pleasant, industrious, newly revitalized (thanks to the 2006 Winter Olympics), and centrally located in the Northern part of Italy, I am inclined to agree.
The morning after the storm (which made me question, if for only a few hours, the livability of said city), I arose early and eagerly resumed my journey. After all, I had been stationary for 4 days, and was itching to get on the road. Though it was very hot, and humid as a result of the recently fallen rain, I made very good time, and was outside the city limits before my first stop.
In fact, the day passed extremely quickly, and by the end of it I had reached my destination, Poirino.
It was in Poirino, that fateful city, where I first experienced the dreaded "sorry, we're full" phenomenon. The one hotel in town was full, there was no internet point that would allow me to research other possibilities, and the next town on my itinerary was at least 3 miles away, with no guarantee of having hotels. After asking around the town, my only choice seemed to be a return of 2 miles to Marocchi, which I had already passed.
Still, I bit my tongue and, smiling rather ironically the whole way, I finally made it to the hotel in Marocchi... and found that it was closed.
I would have collapsed on the spot, or at the very least illegally camped in a cornfield, were it not for a very helpful person who came to my rescue just in time. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to give details, but suffice it to say that I was fed dinner, driven to a 3-star hotel another three miles back from where I had already come, and given a special deal on the room.
Now, the next morning found me five miles back from the point I had already reached, so it was necessary for me to take a bus back to Poirino, so that I could resume my walk without having to waste precious energy walking the same road.
By now, it was August 1st, when the entire country slows to a crawl: necessary government services disappear entirely, hotels close down for the month, and, most significantly for my current predicament, bus schedules are either slashed to the bare minimum or completely halted.
Of course, nobody knew exactly how the schedule had changed for the bus I needed to catch. I figured it couldn't be more than 15 minutes, so I waited, reading my book, and sure enough, here came an orange bus.
45 seconds and one brief conversation later, I was dropped off at the next stop: apparently, I had boarded the wrong bus. Since the driver could not provide any detailed information about the bus I needed to catch, I started stopping every orange bus, only to learn after the 4th attempt that the "orange" bus drivers didn't know anything about the "blue" buses. "That's a different company," they'd say. Nevermind that they have been driving the same damned route for years, seeing those same damned blue buses every day, multiple times a day. Nobody knew anything.
Now, I gather that a few questions pop up. First, some of you may ask "Why didn't you just read the timetable, Pat?" to which I would respond "because there wasn't one!" Another question might be "why didn't you just walk a few blocks away to see if other stops had the timetable?" to which I would (as patiently as possible) respond that there was one road, farmland in every direction, and only one way to get where I needed to go. My last pathetic attempt was to call the 800 number provided at the stop, more to pass the time than because I actually thought it would be helpful. After waiting 5 minutes with disturbing silence, it became abundantly clear that the operators had also taken the month off, and had not bothered to change the welcome message.
So, with 90 minutes of my life wasted, I began the slow five mile trek to my starting point.
Less than ten minutes after I had started, what should pass but a blue bus? I ran like a madman, forty pounds bouncing hard on my shoulders, trying to get to the stop in time. Part of me fancies that I would have made it, too, had my GPS not flown out of my pocket. As I have said before, this thing is a brick, so I immediately felt it pop out, and instintinctively stopped to return for it. No bus is so important that I could leave my GPS, after all. I looked up just in time to see it speed off, leaving me heaving for air in the 90 degree morning.
An older lady had just gotten off the bus, so after catching my breath for a minute, I approached her and asked if that was the bus to Poirino. So satisfying was the answer "no" that I began to laugh, and seeing that I had frightened her a bit with my laughter, I explained my situation.
Mariella, two weeks a widow, recalled with a far-off look of nostalgia the days when she and her husband would wander around the region, catching rides with the farmers and raising hell in wine country. As we walked toward her car, she said with a resolute nod of her head that her husband would have wanted it that way.
A 90 minute walk was therefore transformed into a 10 minute drive, and before I knew it, Mariella had dropped me off right in front of the hotel at Poirino. This story, undoubtedly lovely on its own, comes with a twist, a little "screw you" for the road: as we drove to Poirino, what should we see but that cursed blue bus, smug and sanctimonious in its air-conditioned glory. Mariella must have sensed the resentment I felt toward that blue bus, because she passed it (on the one-lane road) and cut it off just as we approached a roundabout.
Moral victory complete, and right on time, I posed for a quick shot with Mariella, and was on my way.
For the next five hours that comprised my walk, that same bus would pass me at least once every 10 minutes. I can only surmise that service was cut off before noon, but resumed again between noon and five. Of course!
Before I start recounting the last eight days of my travels, I feel the need to excuse my silence over the last few days. It would give me great pleasure to be able to wander in and out of internet cafes, spending a half hour here and there updating the blog, and thereby keeping everyone current.
What drives a merchant to open an "internet point," as they are called in Italy? Obvious as it may sound to you now, I have slowly learned that the primary reason one opens an Internet Cafe in Italy is for tourists. The secondary reason, and also a valid one, is for immigrants who do not have enough money to subscribe to an internet service where they live.
Anyhow, I have traveled from Torino to Savona over the past eight days, and the towns that I have passed have been small and off the beaten path. As such, there have been few tourists, and fewer immigrants; therefore, there has also been no internet access. However, having arrived at the large(ish) port town of Savona, I am now surrounded by both tourists and immigrants, and as a result, internet points!
Those of you who have been following this blog on a regular basis will have seen that, as the title of this post suggests, it is either feast or famine. One day there are so many photos to see, and pages and pages of descriptions, and one simply cannot get through them in those 15 minutes (or, for some of you, oh so much more) of work time that we devote to leisure (Gasp! We have been discovered! Alt-tab to that email you were sort of writing before the boss sees you!). Then, for days and days, the blog falls silent, and not even a comment (hint, hint) causes a ripple. In order to avoid these oh-so-agonizing periods, I would gently suggest that you read only a bit at a time. This way, the feast won't cause you indigestion, and the famine won't cause you to starve.
Okay, now that I have wasted everyone's precious time, I can finally arrive at the topic at hand, namely, a log of my travels.
We left off in Torino, which was commonly known as a "liveable city." Pleasant, industrious, newly revitalized (thanks to the 2006 Winter Olympics), and centrally located in the Northern part of Italy, I am inclined to agree.
The morning after the storm (which made me question, if for only a few hours, the livability of said city), I arose early and eagerly resumed my journey. After all, I had been stationary for 4 days, and was itching to get on the road. Though it was very hot, and humid as a result of the recently fallen rain, I made very good time, and was outside the city limits before my first stop.
In fact, the day passed extremely quickly, and by the end of it I had reached my destination, Poirino.It was in Poirino, that fateful city, where I first experienced the dreaded "sorry, we're full" phenomenon. The one hotel in town was full, there was no internet point that would allow me to research other possibilities, and the next town on my itinerary was at least 3 miles away, with no guarantee of having hotels. After asking around the town, my only choice seemed to be a return of 2 miles to Marocchi, which I had already passed.
Still, I bit my tongue and, smiling rather ironically the whole way, I finally made it to the hotel in Marocchi... and found that it was closed.
I would have collapsed on the spot, or at the very least illegally camped in a cornfield, were it not for a very helpful person who came to my rescue just in time. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to give details, but suffice it to say that I was fed dinner, driven to a 3-star hotel another three miles back from where I had already come, and given a special deal on the room.
Now, the next morning found me five miles back from the point I had already reached, so it was necessary for me to take a bus back to Poirino, so that I could resume my walk without having to waste precious energy walking the same road.
By now, it was August 1st, when the entire country slows to a crawl: necessary government services disappear entirely, hotels close down for the month, and, most significantly for my current predicament, bus schedules are either slashed to the bare minimum or completely halted.
Of course, nobody knew exactly how the schedule had changed for the bus I needed to catch. I figured it couldn't be more than 15 minutes, so I waited, reading my book, and sure enough, here came an orange bus.
45 seconds and one brief conversation later, I was dropped off at the next stop: apparently, I had boarded the wrong bus. Since the driver could not provide any detailed information about the bus I needed to catch, I started stopping every orange bus, only to learn after the 4th attempt that the "orange" bus drivers didn't know anything about the "blue" buses. "That's a different company," they'd say. Nevermind that they have been driving the same damned route for years, seeing those same damned blue buses every day, multiple times a day. Nobody knew anything.
Now, I gather that a few questions pop up. First, some of you may ask "Why didn't you just read the timetable, Pat?" to which I would respond "because there wasn't one!" Another question might be "why didn't you just walk a few blocks away to see if other stops had the timetable?" to which I would (as patiently as possible) respond that there was one road, farmland in every direction, and only one way to get where I needed to go. My last pathetic attempt was to call the 800 number provided at the stop, more to pass the time than because I actually thought it would be helpful. After waiting 5 minutes with disturbing silence, it became abundantly clear that the operators had also taken the month off, and had not bothered to change the welcome message.
So, with 90 minutes of my life wasted, I began the slow five mile trek to my starting point.
Less than ten minutes after I had started, what should pass but a blue bus? I ran like a madman, forty pounds bouncing hard on my shoulders, trying to get to the stop in time. Part of me fancies that I would have made it, too, had my GPS not flown out of my pocket. As I have said before, this thing is a brick, so I immediately felt it pop out, and instintinctively stopped to return for it. No bus is so important that I could leave my GPS, after all. I looked up just in time to see it speed off, leaving me heaving for air in the 90 degree morning.
An older lady had just gotten off the bus, so after catching my breath for a minute, I approached her and asked if that was the bus to Poirino. So satisfying was the answer "no" that I began to laugh, and seeing that I had frightened her a bit with my laughter, I explained my situation.
Mariella, two weeks a widow, recalled with a far-off look of nostalgia the days when she and her husband would wander around the region, catching rides with the farmers and raising hell in wine country. As we walked toward her car, she said with a resolute nod of her head that her husband would have wanted it that way.
A 90 minute walk was therefore transformed into a 10 minute drive, and before I knew it, Mariella had dropped me off right in front of the hotel at Poirino. This story, undoubtedly lovely on its own, comes with a twist, a little "screw you" for the road: as we drove to Poirino, what should we see but that cursed blue bus, smug and sanctimonious in its air-conditioned glory. Mariella must have sensed the resentment I felt toward that blue bus, because she passed it (on the one-lane road) and cut it off just as we approached a roundabout.
Moral victory complete, and right on time, I posed for a quick shot with Mariella, and was on my way.For the next five hours that comprised my walk, that same bus would pass me at least once every 10 minutes. I can only surmise that service was cut off before noon, but resumed again between noon and five. Of course!
Saturday, August 2, 2008
New Photo Albums (well, not new, but newly uploaded)
Okay, I put these up a few days ago, but after 5 hours of the slowest internet connection ever created (remember the 14.4 days? Something like that), I couldn't take it any more. I walked out resolutely (actually, was kicked out, since it was 10 and the place was closing), and found myself 90 minutes walking away from my hostel, in the "bad" part of town, in the midst of a gigantic thunderstorm. I ran through the hail (yes, hail!) to a restaurant, where I had a brief respite before emerging again, waiting in the rain 10 minutes for a bus that wouldn't come, stubbornly deciding to walk the whole distance while talking aloud to myself, having the bus I needed to catch originally almost run me over, run to catch it, knock on the door and gain admittance, change buses at the train station, and land 100 yards from my hostel. But that story is for a different post...
Hopefully these albums work for you guys. If you've been following the blogs, they may seem old hat, but some of them are really absolutely breathtaking, and so are worth a peek. I think there's a slideshow option in the top right corner, if memory serves, which will allow you to look at all of them full size, instead of as thumbnails. Anyway, I hope you enjoy looking at the photos as much as I enjoyed drinking in the scenes and people!
Okay, sorry for the unpolished blog, complete with runon sentence (or two).
Sella to Bien Bien to Rifugio Citta di Chivasso
Rifugio Città di Chivasso to Torino
If any of you are interested, I think this link will allow you to subscribe to my albums, so you don't have to wait for me to put them here on the blog. Don't know exactly how this works, but if it doesn't, you can always go to the bottom of the page of one of my albums, and try from there.
http://feed337.photobucket.com/albums/n399/pathook/account.rss
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