to Tuscany

After my third attempt, Eduardo picks up his cell phone. He is my next inn keeper on this trip, though to call il Casselino an inn is not quite right: it's an agri-turismo type place. Meaning the owners convert some rooms and secondary buildings on their working farm to bring in guests (and presumably to up the income a bit). Il Casselino has three such units.
Did you get my email?
Yes, sure, I'll be at the train station to pick you up. Where are you now anyway?
Near Bolzano. (I assume that like Wisconsin, Kurtatsch is not on the radar screen for most people.)
Oh! Lucky you! I wish I were in that region! Anyway, I'll see you later this afternoon. I'll be the old and balding guy in the silver car.

Well, apparently he shares more than a name with Ed.

I'm in an especially chipper mood. It had rained last night and it's as if that rain cleared the remains of my sleeping issues, because for once I cannot complain about being up too late or waking up too early. The world seems in focus again.



(the world outside my window)


And I'm happy to have spent these four nights in the Alto Adige. It was a last add-on for me. I had originally planned on a week in Italy and a week in France and then, in the end, I added days in Italy, took away days from France and threw in Poland for good measure. But these will have been probably my best hiking days and I'm always glad to hand over a good part of a day to exploring by foot interesting villages and natural landscapes.

I'm tempted to eat breakfast outside again. It's still warm! I surely was lucky with the weather. But, it would require a bit of a wait for a table. No, that's okay. I'll sit by the big windows and pretend I'm on a porch.






After, I have time for a short walk. To the vineyards! So you'll have to indulge me -- the last glance at the grapes of the Alto Adige. And a few vignettes from my walk through the village.



(Kurtatsch youngsters)






( a nod to the geranium)






(one more time!)






(a one farmer Saturday market)






(the vines)






(the grapes)






(the glorious vines)


In the course of my stroll, I run into Margaret. Remember her? My gracious vineyard hiking guide? She asks me where I'm going now, after Kurtatsch.
Tuscany, I tell her, feeling a tad like I'm abandoning the 0.8% vineyards in favor of Italy's most famous wine producing region. But she is enthusiastic. Take me with you! -- she says with longing in her voice.

Are Italians in the north dreaming of the south, even as Italians of the south (or at least south of where I am now) are dreaming of the mountains and geraniums and apple orchards in the north?


I had recently reworked my connections to give myself plenty of time. To catch the bus to Ora. There, to wait for the train to Verona. And plenty of time to catch the high speed to Florence. And finally not so much time for the short ride to Pontassieve, but so it goes - it's the last connection and at the end, there'll be a balding, older Eduardo. In his silver car.

As I wait at the Kurtatsch bus stop, one of the typical tractor-trucks comes down the mountain, loaded with apples from the trees I passed on my hike yesterday. There must be some sense of pride to have completed a successful harvest. I have one of those moments of deep satisfaction -- on the farmer's behalf. Whatever happens elsewhere, there will always be the apples. And someone will harvest them and someone else will pack one into a school lunch or bake it into an apple cake and so it will continue. And that's such a good thing.






Alright. Next,  the trains.



(Ora station: different styles of waiting for the train)



On the train ride from Ora to Verona, I watch a guy maybe just a tad younger than me across the aisle, working hard at a scruffy workbook. He looks like he has worked hard all his life. Really hard. And not necessarily on paper work. He catches my eye.
I have to learn this stupid language, he speaks to me in Italian.
Ah, German, I comment, looking down at the title of the workbook. I don't know German.
Neither do I. Twenty years of living in Italy and I was fine with Italian. Now, because I'm in Bolzano, suddenly I need to know German. 
You're not from Italy?
No, South America. 
Really? Where?
Argentina. But now I live here. I like it here much better. 
He launches into complicated rapidly told stories. I have to interrupt him.
Hold on there, I don't speak Italian that well. Slow down!
What's your language?
Well, English to start with.
Nope. Don't know it. Never wanted to go to America or England. I really like it here. It's the culture. It fits with my idea of a good life.

Finally, someone who doesn't want to be elsewhere. I wish him luck as he disembarks to rejoin his family.

Somewhere between Verona and Bologna, the skies mist over with what surely must be drizzle. Weather is less important to me now.  In Tuscany, I can always grab a train into one of the many tempting cities around me. And these are places, for me at least, that will never disappoint. I watch the scenery somewhat dreamy eyed, though not for want of sleep.

And suddenly the terrain is hilly and a little forbidding and the sun is out and I know that I am in Tuscany.





The train changes are all amazingly smooth and punctually at 5, I am in Pontassieve -- a small river town maybe 20 miles east of Florence.

I look for Eduardo in the parking lot. Nothing. I pear into cars trying to discern the level of hair left on any man's head. Nothing.

Just as I'm thinking that this has the potential of quickly unraveling, Eduardo steps out of his big, somewhat banged up silver car.

The unshaven face -- like Ed's. And there the visual similarity ends. To my knowledge, Ed has never worn yellow pants with a loose and airy linen shirt on top.

We drive into the countryside, stopping along the way at the cafe/food store that's closest to Eduardo's property. I knew it was a gamble taking on a country rental without a car, but I hadn't quite figured it was this much of a gamble. Apart from the cafe store, which is 3 km off and in the opposite direction to anything else, the nearest commerce is 4 kilometers away. Eduardo's work (in addition to producing the most aromatic, heavenly olive oil, he is an executive business consultant in Milan -- hence the linen shirt) requires him to be away for most of the week days. Meaning I'll be alone for much of the time on his farm.
Don't worry, just call me in Milan if you have any problems!
I suppose this is the closest I'll ever get to being in charge of an olive farm in Tuscany.

Even so, I refuse to rent a car. Storms coming this week? So what! I can stay indoors. Or go to Florence. Well, after that four kilometer hilly walk to the station.

At the cafe/food store, Eduardo suggests I stock up on foods in case I don't want to go out tonight or any other night. It's tough to stock up not knowing what's at the house, but still, I go for the stalwarts -- Pecorino cheese (so Tuscan!), thinly sliced sausage (so Tuscan!), red wine (so Tuscan!), fruits, bread, a blueberry cake.






I'll give you some eggs from the farm and of course, some of our olive oil, Eduardo tells me as he watches me make my selections.






What else, what else -- better get it now while I am with someone who will drive me, what else, what else do I need at the store -- can't decide. Soda water. Alright, done.

About my home for the next six nights -- it's gorgeous!



(the studio house)


But the rental operation seems to me to be a half hearted game for him. No one else is staying there right now and as I said, no one I know would put up with his confirmation requirements. And I can see that no one has passed through my little kitchen lately. There aren't the telltale signs of humanity. No salt in the cupboard, no dish washing liquid under the sink.

But no matter! The little house is stunning in its simplicity and old Tuscan country vibe. Here, take a look at the entire farmstead:






Too, there is a pool. I tell him I'm ill equipped for that, but he reminds me that after tomorrow, there will be no one around. Ah.

I walk his land, find his cheepers and say hello. The sun has set behind the hills where his cluster of buildings hides behind the Tuscan cypress and a multitude of mature olive trees.

It's a jarring change from the very communal life at the inn in Kurtascth. But, the internet is working (it was spotty in Alto Adige) and the rosemary is abuzz with honey bees. And I'm really not alone. Someone comes in daily to check on things. And, too, if I'm up early, Eduardo tells me I'm likely to encounter a wild boar.
Just don't step between the mama and her babies! -- he warns me.


For supper, I take out the packages from the cafe/grocery store, fry up some eggs and dig in.







Outside, the hill lights twinkle as if in a conspiracy to put on Tuscany's best face toward the world.

in parts

A day of many interesting parts.

The first surely has to be the night itself, where I flipped my wakefulness, finding myself out of the sleep world and with eyes wide open at the indecent hour of 4 a.m.

I blame Scotland. The referendum vote was about to be posted and I had to know if Scotland would go at it alone, or remain linked with Britain. I have no Scottish blood, but as many of you know, I had rekindled my love for that country this summer and having listened to the debates for months on end, I was deeply curious as to the final outcome.

It got pretty tense at 5 a.m., when the yes vote was leading by 100 counted ballots.

Myself, I have no burning desire for one outcome over the other (though as a global citizen, self interest would lead me to think that perhaps unity is a good thing), but I understand the debate at another level: excitement versus prudence. I lived a life that leaned more toward the first, so I understand the temptations. And the pitfalls.

Back in June, I wrote that a wise Scot told me that in the end, the national character (which leans toward the tried and true rather than the risky and new) would prevail, no matter what the polls would show in advance of the referendum and that's exactly what happened. But I didn't find that out until about 6 a.m. and by then, there was only time for a quick catnap.

At dawn (sunrise here is at approximately 7) a light fog had settled into the valley. It feels just a wee bit closer to fall.


 



Still, I can't resist a breakfast outside. It may very well be my last one this year. Put on a sweater and carry out the plates and sit for a very long while.






My innkeeper's wife has plans for my day again. Since she knows I struggled with yesterday's morning connections (and it was partly her fault, as she inadvertently gave me the wrong station for the first bus, which is why I waited in vain for something that would take me to Ora), today she starts with a bright smile and a firm reassurance -- you will need no connections this morning!

She suggests I take the 10 a.m. tour at the local museum. Kurtatsch has what is awkwardly called "the Museum of People Through Time" and from all I'd heard, it's quite good: it has a rather large display of tools and implements used over the ages in furthering a more comfortable existence. Again Frau Pomella tells me the tour is in German, but she think I may benefit from it anyway. Now, I surely would have said no, had she not immediately offered a Part B to the day. I mean, I almost never take museum tours. I dislike moving at someone else's pace. Standing around beyond the span of my interest level makes me fidget. But still, I thought respects should be paid to historic times and besides, the plan she had for my afternoon was pretty active and so a leisurely listening session in the morning would not be a bad call.

Now, I know what you're thinking: why is Frau Pomella so taking over your schedule? Here's my thought process on this: when you have a local, small inn keeper who is willing to learn what your interests are (I had told her walking, vineyards, and photography) and then willing to share her knowledge of the area, I'll take her over tourist office people anytime. I find the tourist office staff in nearly every place to be full of good, basic info. What's the best walk through town? How do I take a bus from here to there? What shouldn't I miss while I'm here? Sterile stuff. The innkeeper -- she gets feedback: the walk you proposed was too arduous. Or in my case - the connections to Merano took me three hours. Years of these conversations have made her excellent at guiding you to the right stuff. The qualification here is -- it'll be right, if she is willing to listen carefully to what tickles your funny bone. (Ed and I once stayed at a Bed and Breakfast at the Canal du Midi, where the proprietor loved to listen to herself talk: a one hour recitation of her favorites in the area, for each guest, every day. Ed tuned out, I had to play the good guest and sit through it.) Frau Pomella is a good listener. And she's anxious to please.

[A digression on how hard this couple works to please: each evening, I find at my table a printed menu of the dinner selections. Five courses and always I have to make a choice for two of them. I notice at breakfast that Frau Pomella goes to each guest, asks her or him something in German and then takes notes on their response. Today I ask her -- do people pick their course preferences at breakfast? Because you never asked me to do that. Not until dinnertime. I swear she's blushing. It's because it takes us the whole day to translate the menu for you into English, so we can't give you the choices at breakfast. But it's fine, for one person, we can wait until evening.]


I go to the Museum promptly at 10. The person who works there is a little put out by the fact that I don't speak German. I can see why. First, his English is just okay (for instance, it took me a while to understand what he meant when he referred to the "plaff". He actually meant plow, spelt plough by the Brits, leading him to read it as plaff). Then, too, he spoke nonstop during the 90+ minute tour. There was no time for him to translate. Except for the basics and after a while, he just gave up.






But the implements and tools were, in fact, interesting to see. I would have productively spent some ten, fifteen minutes studying some of them and that would have been just perfect.


 



Instead, I felt like I did when I was in second grade: having just arrived in the States, not speaking the language, listening to the teacher say things to kids that made them laugh, and me, not getting any of it. I suppose I could have walked out, but again the miss manners within me said no. Besides, I felt kind of sorry for him: he did the entire show with his fly completely down. The six Germans in the group were so engrossed in his story telling that they did not notice. Or, their politeness quotient was very high.

I have much to say about the very amusing attempt at high tech special effects in the museum, but perhaps that's for another time. You don't really need to hear about what happened when he moved from prehistoric to modern man (he pressed a remote and there were sound and light affects to indicate, he told me, the passage of time; weird).

I  did have one question for our guide -- all these tools (from the earliest plow to the spinning Jenny) -- are they all from this region of Alto Adige?
He says -- From this region of the South Tyrol.

I think that if there had been a referendum on South Tyrolean independence yesterday, he would have voted yes.

Tour over, I excuse myself from the post tour chit chat (that would be geplauder in German). In a few minutes, I have a bus to catch for the next part of this informative day.


A word about the bus: it's actually a little van -- seats maybe twelve -- that they use for local transport in low density areas. Every time I grumble about public transportation back home, I get the retort - nothing can be done because there just aren't enough users to fill a bus all day long. Well now Fitchburg (my home town), how about a small van that goes back and forth, back and forth, until you teach people that it's quite nice not to have to think about parking, traffic and all the other irritants appended to driving into town?

This particular van/bus travels up a very steep incline with a lot of switchbacks -- all the way to the hamlet of Graun (five kilometers up the mountain from Kurtatsch). My inn keeper suggested a trail from there, down to Tramin. The trail meanders along the crest, then slumps down through the upper vineyards and orchards, right into dense forests, emerging again in vineyards and then, eventually in Tramin itself. From there I can finish with a pretty easy another hour's walk back to Kurtatsch.

All downhill. A breeze, no?

Well, the top part is a breeze. And a beautiful one at that. Despite the mists that refuse to let go of the mountains (or perhaps because of it?), it is a gorgeous hike!









(the skinny apple trees)






(they do also grow plums here)






(but significantly more apples)






(autumn is in the air)





(cheepers! Italian style...)






(and always the grape vines. and the mountains)





(misty skies)


But the midsection of the trail is steep and a challenge. I did not take my best hiking boots, since this is probably the only day where they would have helped greatly. Too, jumping down rocky ledges onto loose stones worked much better when I was 20. I have promised a daughter or two that if I continue to go on solo hikes, I will take extra care. Busted bones would be tough to manage if something trips me up near the top.

I do get down. Slowly. With just a few twists and stumbles.



 
(finally, Tramin)





(...and the familiar vineyards)






(...the pergola again)






(a quick selfie, to convince you I was really here)



And I end the hike with a grand finale  -- past the vineyards of course. And harvests. And rows and rows of beautifully undulating vines.
































 I come home to an Aperol Spritz on the terrace.







Tomorrow, I leave the Alto Adige. A bus and then three trains to catch, all heading south. It's my most questionable portion of the trip, in that the owner of this next, very rural place is hard to track down and it is clear that they never have overseas guests (no American would put up with the terms of their confirmation requirement). Moreover, though I really pushed hard to get an answer on the state of the WiFi, all I heard back was that it is installed and so far, cross fingers, it's been working.

I'll end this day not with the usual notes on a wonderful meal (even though I had just that), but with this: the most perfect bunch of grapes.

day tripping

Why don't you go to Merano -- Frau Pomella tells me. There's a bus from Kurtatsch to the Ora station, leaving here in 15 minutes. You'll get the train to Bolzano, then change trains for Merano.

I must admit that I wasn't processing things at full speed. In an unusual for me display of jet lag insomnia, fueled I'm sure by the spotty Internet that crashed nearly all evening long, every time I tried to load a photo (and there were a lot of photos yesterday!), I didn't drift off to sleep until sometime after 3:30 and now here I am at breakfast, setting into a delightfully slow, sunny and warm outdoor meal. I can hardly comprehend a sentence that has so many different parts to it and I surely am not looking for any suggestions that implicitly have the idea that I must rush somewhere. I give the gentlest shake of the head.

But Frau Pomella is excited by her plan for me and even when I plead for a later set of connections, she urges me to follow her suggested schedule, explaining that this really is the best way to get to Merano. Even so, according to her, I will have to invest some 90 minutes into the effort. Each way.

Well fine. Good-bye leisurely breakfast. Hello rush. I know what you're thinking -- just say no! But that slogan never really works for me. My sense of what's polite and acceptable as I navigate life, drives Ed nuts, but it is the way it is: I can't turn my back on good intentions. There's just one question that I have for Frau Pomella: what's Merano? In my groggy morning state, it all swimmingly sounds like the islands across the Venetian lagoon: Murano, Burano, Merano, Bolzano -- uff!

She tells me -- Merano is a very nice town up north, with a very nice Passeggiata (promenade) above it.

So I rush this lovely breakfast...





And I'm at the bus stop with a few minutes to spare. And I see that everyone around me has a sweater draped over a shoulder or an arm. True, we're in Italy, where everyone is always cold, but still, perhaps I missed the weather report today. Yes, I know I missed it. Do I have time to go back for a sweater? I do. I have three minutes. Let me dash.

I'm back at the bus stop in two minutes. Or maybe it wasn't two minutes, because had it been that, then the bus would surely be there and now, time passes, three, eight, ten minutes -- and no bus is in sight. It is now impossible for me to catch the train to Bolzano. Connecting to Murano. Sorry, Merano.

And now for sure I should have said to Frau Pomella -- that's okay, I'll just take my cappuccino and sit on the terrace by my room for about six hours and maybe load the two photos that I have taken today so far. To get a head start on the blogging enterprise.

But again I didn't say that. Frau Pomella is now poring over her computer timetables and she prints out a new set of connections: take the bus in five minutes to Ora, but not to the train station. The Ora central bus stop. From there, take the bus to Bolzano, then walk over to the train station and catch a train to Merano.

I dutifully try again. I'm regaining my focus. The quick sip of caffeine must have done the trick. I get on the bus and in my best Italian ask the driver to let me out at Ora, close to the bus stop where I can catch the bus to Bolzano.

Ha! You know how you sometimes take extra precautions and it's those precautions that ultimately do you in? All my careful explanation as to where I'm going and what I'm doing invited participation. And indeed, when we pull into Tramin (before Ora), my helpful driver points to a waiting bus. That one, he says. Take that one. It leaves for Bolzano in 20 minutes.

Just say no! Just say no! I have a schedule. I know what I'm doing!
Okay -- I tell him as I get off to wait the twenty minutes.




(in Tramin: the question isn't if there will be geraniums, but what colors will be included in the window box)


For a fleeting second I wonder why Frau Promella didn't direct me to this very easy transfer.

I didn't have to wonder for long. It is the sl--o--we--st bus ever. Stopping, going, working its way through the apple orchards. And speaking of apple production, did you know that the trees here are all upright twigs, planted just a couple of feet apart? They have an abundance of apples and it's all clearly intentional, but they are skinny! One main stem, that's all!



(taken from a slow moving bus, or train, or something!)


Once in Bolzano, I fare no better. I've been through this town before. Too many times, in my young adult years. I never stopped for long, with good reason. And here I am again, missing the next train just by seconds, thinking I really should practice just saying no in the future. Not this time. No thank you. Another time. No, can't possibly. Thank you for your suggestion, I deeply appreciate it, but ...no.



(Bolzano train station: school kids, enjoying an excursion; the girls)





Bolzano train station: ...the boys)



Okay, a terribly long winded story just to say that from the time of bus departure from Kurtatsch  (10:11), until the time I disembarked in Merano (1:00), much time elapsed. Do the math.

If Kurtatsch was partly sunny, here, in Merano, no part is sunny. Without the clouds, I would be gazing at towering Alpine peaks. Not today though. Not today.

And, too, as I disembark at the train station, I can't help but think -- why is this place so well regarded?

This is what happens when you haven't any idea why you're there, and the station is to the side, and the tourist office is nowhere to be seen. [Never ask locals where the Tourist Office is. I mean, do you know where your local tourist office is?]

I follow the general traffic pattern and work on readjusting my level of enthusiasm for this whole project. And I do begin to wonder why it is that I don't listen to my own inner-Nina. I have had a whole string of day trips to neighboring cities this year and I hadn't loved any of them. Maybe I should just take my country walks which I do love and ignore the rest of the world out there?

Still, Merano turns out to be, in fact, a pretty little place, in an Italy meets and greets the Germans sort of way.











But it is crowded. As if Germany had packed all her over-sixty population and asked them to go elsewhere for several weeks. Italy, for starters. How about to Merano?

[The downside of traveling in September is strongly obvious to me: you never see any young people or young families vacationing with children. Ever.]

 So what to do in Merano? After all those rides, I wasn't quite ready for German tourist people watching at one of the many cafes here, so I set out for a walk/hike along the Passegiatta.

It is, in fact, quite lovely up there, with views that would have been extraordinary without a cloud cover, but which were already great, even with the pouting skies.



















A grand set of hours!

(And it's not as if I left the grape vines for the day. They're here, along with the hand pickers. From Poland maybe.)








( selling grapes: vintner grandpa teaches reluctant grandson entrepreneurial skills)





(how's it going, kiddo?)


It's getting to be late afternoon now. Should I now sit down and finally indulge in a beloved Apperol Spritz? No. For once, to no one in particular, I say no. I catch my trains to Bolzano, then to Ora and the vineyards and apple orchards of the Alto Adige...


 
(out the train window)


...(with high school kids returning to the villages, smart phones and loud banter, just like back home)...


 



...then finally, pack into the mini bus to my home in Kurtatsch, where I promptly request an Aperol Sprtiz -- heaven on earth, out on my own, quiet balcony.






Dinner: I need to say a word about meals here. It's grand not to have to think about where to eat and what to eat. We all eat at (more or less) the same time and we have few choices. Oh, you need to pick between soup or pasta and between meat A or B, but these are not big decisions. The food is fresh and honest for sure and it has a twist of innovation. Braised endive. A mushroom dumpling.  A zucchini custard. Venison with red wine. Delicious, and, of course, all of it -- five courses every night -- included in the price of the room.

I'll end the day with dessert: a pannecotta with forest fruit sauce. To a fitful sleep for all of us!