rain

You can anticipate it, welcome it, you can accept or even embrace it. But at some point you'll have had enough. You'll not want a single minute more of the cold and wet weather. (Thank goodness for rooms with warm radiators!)

The forecast again was spot on. Rain. I looked out of my window just before dawn:





Yes, the clouds are taking control. The day belongs to them.

There's no point in ferrying over to the northern tip of the lake. No point in picking a longer hike. Must stay flexible. Do small things.

How about taking the bus to Limone? I checked on the Internet -- two buses appear to make the run on Sundays.

After breakfast...





(and after watching the odd lake ducks flirt...)






... I step outside to check on the day's conditions. It's wet. Pretty, yes, that too: rain adds depth to colors. But it is wet.








(the Hotel du Lac is the thin, taller, ruby orange building in the middle)




keeping an eye on the weather systems


We layer on the clothing and splash our way to the bus stop. We're five minutes early. We wait. And we wait. Rain beats against my mostly impermeable jacket. And we wait.

Half an hour later I comment ever so meekly -- I must have gotten something wrong.

Back at the hotel I ask the ever genial Valerio (owner/proprietor) to interpret the timetable for me. It says Sundays and holidays. It's says 10:45. What did I miss??
See the little circle next to this word? That means it's a seasonal schedule. It starts next week.
Who knew.

There is the afternoon bus: that one has no small circles in its column. It's nice to be given a second chance.

We dry off and set out for a little walk around the perimeters of Gragnano. No use staying indoors: the world beckons.









The rain keeps falling. Sliding down cobbled walkways, dripping down my once (way back when) impermeable jacket.

Diane pauses for a coffee at a lakefront cafe, but I cannot sit with her. I must keep going,  climbing, scaling -- it is the way I am programmed to be.






Okay. No more climbing. Back to the hotel again. I am so wet that a drying session is essential. I position socks, jacket, shoes -- all around the radiator.


But shortly after two we are out again: heading for the second, but really first, because the other first was no first after all --  bus from Gargnano to Limone. As we approach the stop, I plunge my foot into a puddle that surely is ankle deep. Socks, shoe, foot -- drenched. Jeeze Louise!

The bus comes -- empty, warm.
I reach for my purse.
I don't have a ticket for you. I sold out of them yesterday.
Oh, are you throwing us off??  You can ride for free.
Bliss.


Finally - Limone.  I don't take out the camera much -- it is a town of tourist shops. Enjoyable, though not necessarily from behind a camera lens. Besides, did I mention that it is raining?














My wet shoe/sock/foot is feeling squishy. My jacket is still trying to repel moisture, though it's, at this point, a losing battle.

We buy cookies for home and we admire how one small town  can get so much bang for the lemon buck. (This region once supplied a hefty portion of lemons to the rest of northern Italy.) You have never seen so many items for sale with lemons emblazoned in some fashion on them! 

To warm up, we pick a place that we think may be toasty and cozy. And it is modestly that. We drink espressos  and eat apple cake against a backdrop of very animated discussions.










And now it's back to the bus stop. And at 6 p.m. we pull up in Gargnano again. The village bells  are ringing as we get off the bus. If I turn right, I'll eventually get to our hotel. To the left, down the hill and around the corner, there is the Olimpia Cafe.

I turn left. I want to demonstrate my loyalties to the couple who run the cafe. And, too, I want to sit back and enjoy the Aperol spritz. I can buy Aperol back home, but it's an empty ingredient: you cannot enjoy this refreshing drink unless you are with people who love this ritual too, who open themselves up to its possibilities.


''
(to the right - a German couple, with beer; to the left - Italians with Aperol spritz)


It is still raining when I finally make my way back to dinner at the hotel.















But I see that the clouds hovering around my mountain are receding again. Light at the end of a tunnel you might say.









At the hotel, Valerio's family is there -- brother, nieces, nephews, other unidentifiable children and adults. I think about their gathering and about the business of running a hotel in your home town. Do you apologize for the weather when it rains? Do you smile and convey the feeling of acceptance, even of such basics as the weather?

Rice with bits of seafood, lake trout, lemon cake. I'll miss these simple and quite wonderful meals.





I think back to the return bus ride to Gargnano from Limone. Diane and I both felt tired and chilled. And of course, I'd pulled Diane out of her winter home in Florida for this. On the bus ride, she tells me -- this was such a perfect day! I can tell that this is not just her being nice. She really means it.

And of course, I agree with her completely.

story

Every day has a story to it -- with a beginning, a development, an ending. You may not always want to recognize it, but it's there.

I know the stories here, on Ocean, have endings that are, well, predictable: "I was so lucky," or "...and that's a good thing," or "and that makes me very happy." In fact, I can't build drama in a blog post because you know the punch line before I get to it.

Of course, luck or happiness -- they're curious things, aren't they? Sometimes they just saunter out and you're left stranded.

So what was this day like?

Well, despite the weather, it's off to a good start. I am in Gargnano -- one of my most favorite places on earth (it just grabbed my heart last year and it refuses to let go). I wake up, look out the balcony window and exhale. Though there are clouds, it doesn't matter -- it's always beautiful here on the shores of Lake Garda. I listen to the rhythmic slap of waves against the dock and it is a wonderful little noise -- the kind that makes you think that nature is gentle and forgiving (even though you know it's not that way at all).

Breakfast. Lovely stuff. Diane and I fill our plates and look out over the waters.






But here's the reality -- the forecast for the days she and I are here is dismal: cold and wet. And so we discuss the possibilities. I note that today is predicted to be free of precipitation until 6 pm -- take that as you will. But maybe I should take it? Because it's so much better than everything else? And what I want to do this year is to again test myself against the mountain that dominates this landscape: Mount Comer. I know it wont cause the real mountain folk to shudder. It's a mere 1279 meters -- just about 5000 feet. But to me, it is the ultimate challenge.

I barely made it to the summit last year. Something about it made it especially tough going: few switchbacks, many boulders to crawl over, significant drops -- it surprised me how hard it was then. Now I am one year older and I'm thinking -- should I do this? Why am I doing this? For the blog? (No.) To prove something? (Maybe, but what?) Or how about this -- is there possibly joy in trying something difficult?

I feel not quite ready for it. Surely I should do the gentler hikes first. You don't plunge into the Tour de France after  a year of peddling around your block at home. And let's face it -- I'm no spring chicken. Maybe I should act my age.

Still, I so desperately want to try.

Diane and I set out at 10:30.


 
(just outside our hotel)


We'll walk to town together and then she will go her way and I will do the climb. Maybe. (Here, take a look again at Comer: it stands tall above Gargnano.)





Our walk to the heart of Gargnano is lovely. Let me remind you -- this small town is like no other. Don't you dare send your friends over! It's quiet and peaceful and it must never change! Okay -- that's selfish. Send them over.

The skies are gray, but every once in a while we spot a patch of blue. That's a good sign.



(Comer, towering over all of us)







Time to head up. I tell Diane that if I'm not back in time for dinner she should send out a search party.

Up I go. Up, past the olive groves and the old stone walls.





Up, up and then I come to a dead end. I have to turn around and start again. And so I follow another trail. Up, up.... dead end again! What the hell is going on here? Let me try another path.

Up I climb -- no good. Did I think Mount Comer would be a challenge? I can't even find the damn trail leading to it!

Take a breath. Keep trying. I singsong all sorts of cliches in my head: it doesn't matter, no one will care, it's the journey not the destination... But the fact is, I care! I care!

Alright, on the fourth try I finally reach the midpoint -- the village of Sasso. Here's where I bought water to save my soul last year. And I do it again. Because I have not yet learned that even though it's cold (in the forties), I am sweating like a hyena and so I need water.

From Sasso, it's a two hour climb, straight up. I mean, there's no monkeying around anymore: I go for it or I retreat.

I go for it. Not because I am particularly clever or bold, but because I know that this is my test: I don't have to reach the summit, but if I wont even try, then I may as well order the coffin and find a spot to dump it in.

Okay: highlights. The flowers that grow in these Alpinettes (these mountains are to the neighboring Alps like the farmette is to real farms around us back home):









And now I come to the part that I hate: too close to the edge, too far down to make it feel safe.

And here's a new challenge this year: snow! Well now. Add a layer of slippery stuff, why don't you!



 

But truthfully, by the time I reach the snow, I know I have made it. I am 59 and I am not fading yet. I can face the stress of work back home, I can do that, because I am not fading!

So here I am ever so close to the summit (Two crosses?  Will the real Mount Comer please stand up?)...





...and here I am, at the summit (camera precariously positioned on a rock, with timer on).





Oh, but it feels exhilarating to be able to do this still!

Okay, enough feeling good about being old. It took me four hours to climb up here. Time to go down.  It takes almost as long to do the retreat -- it's that rocky and slick.


 



The village of Sasso is more or less the half way mark. And the descent after it is easy by comparison. So you can't help but feel jubilant when you finally see the houses of this little hamlet before you.





From here, nearly all paths will lead me down now to Gargnano. All I have to do is beat the rains that are hovering now behind me, over the mountains.

And here's the eerie thing: the first drop of rain comes down just as I reach Gargnano. It's surely meaningful, though I can't really say in what way.

I head toward the water's edge -- to Cafe Olimpia -- the cafe where I had the vast majority of my Aperol Spritz aperitifs last year. Nothing's changed. The same old men discuss the same old whatever. The same owners are as gentle and kind as can be. Same old, same old, old, same -- hey, I'm thinking "same" and  "old" are a good thing. I have been lucky in that way.





An hour after my return, Diane and I are having dinner at the Three Geese (Tre Occhi). It's a wonderful meal of pasta, of the lake fish (coregone lavarello), of tiramisu and cake.







...with lake sardines



coregone



tiramisu


So is there a story here? Does it have an ending? Yes, of course it does. I'm so lucky, that's a good thing and it makes me very happy. What can I say -- ultimately all roads do lead to... wherever you want them to lead to.




(Comer, in the clouds now)

to Gargnano

Mere hiccups, that's what the day offered. No drama, no great dilemmas, no confrontations.

Of course, much of the time was spent still in getting places.

(Excuse me as my eyes overflow with emotion as we approach Lago di Garda. I am on the bus, the very final leg of the journey. It's evening and the lights are starting to come on. My friend is in the seat in front of me -- here, you can just catch the back of her head.)





Getting places -- this is the grandest part: when you're rounding the last corners knowing that with each new familiar turn, you're coming closer to the spot that gives you such good images for months on end.

But the earlier parts of "getting there" were good too. This morning, for instance, I was up at six and walking up to the RER station and I couldn't help thinking how beautiful spring is in any and every place and how splendid it is to momentarily see it in Paris. The sun is not yet up, but the sky is a glowing pink at the edges, and the crocuses and plum trees (that's a guess) are starting their bloom in the Jardin Luxembourg.















I'll be seeing the gardens again, on my way back (unless my brief stop then again turns out to be too brief). For now, I'll make do with these glimpses from behind the iron bars of the closed for the night gardens.

My flight to Milan is easy and uneventful and of course, there is that wonderful moment when we cross the Alps and they and therefore life both seem magnificent.





[Getting off the plane in Milan I was struck how addicted we all are the world over to keeping our Internet flowing. Upon landing (it was such a long flight -- all of 1 hour and 10 minutes) everyone except me reaches for their smartphone. And I would have been in on it too were it not for the astronomical prices charged to Americans when they dare power on outside the borders of their country.]





In Milan I have a two and a half hour wait for Diane. No, I can't sit still. I catch the city bus to town, thinking that the day is beautiful and that it should not be allowed to just merely float by without my attention to it.

But in Milan, I don't really go anywhere. That's my problem with Milan -- it never motivates me to explore, randomly, letting the place be its own guide.

So I do some light shopping (not for me). Very very light. Because I'm on a crusade to keep the suitcase feather light, even if it kills me. Here, I'm watching someone else buy the place out: items for her husband. Maybe.





And then it's time to greet Diane and here's another hiccup for you: Linate airport, the place where she is to land, closes. Something about a runway being blocked by a plane. Strike related? Maybe. After all, there is, today, a strike in Milan. the metro, for example, is shut down.

Other flights are diverted or cancelled, but her's lands!  Albeit with a slight delay.

And before we know it we are on the train...


 


.... and then we are on the bus whose final stop is Gargnano.





Happily, oh so happily I am back, we are here, opening the season at the Albergo du Lac. (But wait, is there really snow on the other side's mountain crest? Is there? (Ans.: yes there is. And the forecast for all summits above 1000 meters? More snow next week! Honestly, has the world gone mad?)


Dinner tonight is at the Albergo du Lac (the hotel where we are staying). We eat salads and spaghetti and fish and lemon cake and I cannot have my fill of this place ever. It is a bubble of magic. Worth every irksome tiresome moment of the trip here.