This hour spent at the laundromat is a good thing, though, despite the cost. I learn that Italian men don’t use the Laundromat (the women in their lives do it for them, I can only guess), I find out that Italians also have trash talk TV (they put it on the big screen and you can't change the channel), and most importantly, I get to write this post without having to sit in an internet cafe.
So where can I start describing the last few days? I guess I should start in the Milano’s St. Ambrogio subway station, where I used the pay phone to call hostels in Aosta. The second one I call has space, but since it is not located in Aosta proper, I will have to take a regional bus from the Aosta train station to Echevennoz. I had no idea what I was getting into, but the price was right, and this trip is all about going for it, not sitting too long to think about things.
The Aosta train, which I characteristically catch 5 minutes before it departs (glad I didn’t sit thinking about things), takes me on an amazingly beautiful ride. I get a taste of the feast that awaits as I pass quaint little villages, corn fields, forests so beautiful that they look manicured (my good friend Kaufman could probably confirm that they are, indeed, well-kept), and numerous fields with the haystacks straight out of a Monet painting.
Aosta looks quaint, and since I only have 20 minutes or so to walk around, I stroll a bit, snap a few photos, and catch the regional bus.
Here, my friends, is where it starts to get interesting. As we wind through mountain passes, little villages, and absolutely beautiful peaks, we finally arrive at Echevennoz.
Echevennoz, as I would find out later, is a proud little village of 15-20 families, and turns out to be pretty much halfway between the Swiss border and Aosta.
It is drizzling slightly as I arrive at this little blip on the Italian map. Looking around, I have absolutely no idea where the hostel is. I walk up and down the main road, and finally a lady in her 80s comes out of her house. Right as I ask her about the hostel, she points behind me, where a car has pulled up, containing the self-titled "Signora dell'Ostello" (Lady of the Hostel).
As it turns out, I am the only person staying in the hostel that night, so the Lady, Sylvana, gives me the antique key, and I take the opportunity to ask a few key questions. "Is there any food nearby?" "No, but we also operate the bed & breakfast, and will make dinner for you at 8." "Do you accept credit cards?" "What? No." "Do you have internet?" *Laughing* "No, sorry." "Is there anywhere I can take a short walk?" "Yep, go that way up the hill, and keep going until you stuff yourself with the walk."
She shows me into my own room and bathroom (nothing more precious than that combo), I put my bag down, change into my rain clothes, and head off on a pleasant 2 hour walk.
After I return, shower, and take a quick nap, I walk back to the little house where the Grandma came from, and she greets me again, asking this time if I want pasta or soup (minestra). I tell her that I want whatever is more typical to the region, and after thinking a minute, she decides on the pasta.
As I enter the alpine dining room, I am offered a half-liter of red wine, and having forgotten how to say no to red wine long, long ago, I am soon presented with a carafe of ruby-colored red wine that I saw come out of a huge, unmarked bottle. That only means one thing, and I soon confirm my suspicion that the wine is homemade from grapes produced in the garden.
What follows is a slow foodie's dream: sausage from the pig out back, bread from the baker down the road, salad with tomatoes from the garden, pasta with a meat sauce from the cows that graze on the family pasture, pork chops from the pig and french fries from the local potatoes, and finally, fontina cheese from "my brother-in-law's cave." I wanted typical food, and I got it in 5 courses, for only 13€, a miracle in any currency.
Having eaten like a king, I turn in for the evening, and prepare for my first day walking.
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