twists and turns: all roads lead to somewhere

Morning. A gentle good morning to you!






I knock on the door of my landlord, Eduardo. His dog, Ulise (as in Ulysses) is a barker until he gets used to you.


 


He hasn't yet gotten used to me.

I have a list of questions for my host before he takes off for Milan today. I think this may be my last chance to do this, but I learn that the woman sitting at the kitchen table (she is a Milanese gelato distributor and she spoke knowingly and favorably about Wisconsin's small batch production of ice cream!) will be here until tomorrow and the farm's caretakers live a few paces down the road, so I can't say that I'm going to be truly alone here.

I take out my notebook. He laughs.
A lawyer, of course! Well he might tease me: by training, he is one as well.

What I cannot readily figure out is how to pull all the pieces together for a sensible day. Walk along the road to the right, up and down hills, to the train station? (One hour.) To the store/cafe in the opposite direction? (40 minutes.) Go to Florence? Elsewhere? Where can I get to without a car? And if I stay put, what's open? Where?

Eduardo has this way about him that (yes, I swear!) reminds me a little of my own Ed. The do not fret, it will all come together attitude of someone reconciled to the fact that at worst, you'll die and that's sort of the fate of everyone so why worry. Surely the details are not important.

We switch into talk of what it's like here, on the farm. I'm curious about the electric fences around portions of the yard.
Oh, that's to keep the wild boar away from the garden. They are everywhere and they dig dig dig, so just here, by the houses, we try to keep them away. It works, more or less.
I ask, too, if he ever lets his cheepers out.
No, I cannot. Too many foxes. But the chickens have a good life behind their fence.
I think about that: our cheepers have American luxury alright! Three acres to roam and scratch! I want to suggest more space for his hens, but I catch myself in time. We're all so hell bent on giving advice! I think about my pregnant daughter and how much advice she is getting on everything from childbirth to childrearing! Surely everyone ought to raise his or her chickens as they see fit. It's enough that he cares. And he does care. It's obvious that animal issues concern him. When I inquire about the factory just down the road from his olive farm, he tells me -- it used to be a prosciutto place: you know, pig slaying, terrible pollution, all of it. But it went bankrupt. Now they make interiors for railway cars. Much gentler,  cleaner, quieter!
I point out that if we eat prosciutto, it has to be made somewhere. He smiles -- I don't eat much prosciutto anymore.

Twenty minutes into the conversation I find out a game changer -- Italian Rail is on strike today. It's as if the country is taunting me for not succumbing to the car rental game! So buses? Maybe I should look into those? What are the schedules like? Eduardo doesn't know. Maybe he'll check later, at the cafe/store. Maybe.

Meanwhile, it's getting warm. A partly (mostly?) cloudy day, but one that portends storms later on. You can feel it in the air.

In the end, I decide I'll go to the right. Up and down, follow the road, all the way to Rignano sull'Arno -- the place of the nearest train station. At least I'll learn the walk. Maybe pick up some more food. Find a restaurant for lunch...  
Are there any good restaurants you could recommend there?
Eduardo shakes his head. They're okay. Maybe getting better. Try the one on the square.
Oh, there's a nice square?
It's actually quite ugly. 
Do you find any of the river towns (along the rail line here) to be worth a visit?
Well, depends what you are looking for. None of them are especially beautiful. You know, they were all destroyed during the war. The Germans spared Florence, that was the deal, but they completely wiped out the rest here, in the valley.

How well I know this! To any student of World War II, Tuscany makes your hair stand on end for the horror of it all.

I eat a make shift breakfast -- just fruits and yogurt and a strip of blueberry cake. I'll save the coffee for some cafe moment later on.







I'm off.






The gravel road eventually hits the paved road. I know it isn't going to be an ideal hiking venue, but it's as good as it's going to get. I'd say the traffic is about as light (or heavy, depending on your perspective) as it is on the rural road where I live, so I'm used to it.

(I'm used to weekend motorcycle group rides at home too, though never quite so gendered as here!)












And I know, too, that I could still rent a car. I checked the availability in Florence -- plenty and at good prices. But I'm really resisting.

Why? Am I just incredibly stubborn on this point? No, honestly not stubborn. I've rented when I had to. In Islay. In Ireland, England. Plenty of times in Italy and far too many times in France. But I always think I miss so much driving from one place to the next! Oh, I get to all the lovely places, I check them off the list, I see the sights I'm meant to see, but I miss stopping to contemplate this:






And this:






I miss pausing for two minutes just to watch the man who is hand harvesting the grapes (it's so difficult to pull over in a car on a narrow road -- usually you just let it go).






I would miss, too, the gritty entrance into town -- the real feel for living there.



(Sunday is...laundry day!)


You can't pause in a car to watch the Italian men, deep in their conversational bubble on the city benches.












...or catch the wife looking on:






You miss the sounds. The dogs, the tractor, all of it. For me, it's too big a price to pay for the sheer convenience of getting from one place to the next.


I walk into town, the ugly square, I ask for directions to the station. Five men jump in to tell me, as if it were the most complicated walk on earth (it's just around the corner). I smile and walk on.

True enough, there is a rail strike. Until 9 p.m. An easy answer to my dilemmas. No bus service today either -- those run on weekdays only. But I am surprised to see that restaurants in this town, too, appear to be closed. I ask about that.
There's a take out pizzeria... someone tells me. I think about carrying an Italian pizza in my backpack for an hour. No. Not a great plan.

But of course, there is an open pastry store. Two in fact. I go to the one with a coffee machine and order a stand up cappuccino. I see that they have one of those bready pizza slices for sale -- last one! I take that to go. And a bag of cookies. Oh, and they squeeze orange juice here? Fine! My day is looking good!

As I sip my juice and cappuccino, I watch the woman work behind the counter. She looks stern at first, but when she catches my eye, she asks anxiously -- Lei piace? (Do you like it?)

I'm eating one of the almond-paste cookies and I realize that it isn't the best cookie on the planet, but I do like it. Quite a lot. For its simple goodness. For how well it fits into my cappuccino moment.






And when a young mother comes in with her toddler, the woman behind the counter gives the widest of smiles!






Her delight at seeing this little child bursts out in a strung of words -- almost like bubbles out of a Prosecco bottle!

And I think this is the pleasure of visiting a town that has nothing to show tourists. No one comes here. There's nothing to see. Except this authenticity of human life. It's harder to find it in beautiful Sienna, or Greve in Chianti. But it's easy to catch it here, in this stark town of Rignano sull'Arno, where people commute by train to the city, or work in the olive/wine/other industries that support this region and hang their laundry out to dry on a Sunday morning.

The walk back is unfortunately more uphill than downhill, but I know now what's what and so I don't mind it at all.





So much so, that one hour later, as I approach the turn off for my olive farm, I decide to continue and time the walk to the store/cafe on the other side. Maybe, if they're still open (I'm fuzzy about their hours), I can get some more greens or fruits to take home.

What I have been calling the store/cafe, turns out to be a store/restaurant! Sure, you can get a coffee at the store counter, at any time of their opening, but between the hours of noon and 2, you can also get lunch in the back room -- a dining room just for those two hours of the day.

And the place is alive with locals! There is one couple -- a younger one, but that's not the primary demographic.






It's Sunday. There are friends (for example, these four men, in their hunting clothes)...






...and there are families. And they eat a lot of food! Bruschettas and prosciutto and salamis for starters.






Followed by pasta, meats, desserts. I'm just swimming in admiration as to how much they can put away. Of course, these are all people who live here, they all know the owner and they know the type of food served here. Italians don't do breakfast and probably today, they don't do much of a dinner either. They do this meal and they do it well.

For me, there is so much to take in! My own simple meal is far too short: a salad and balsamico chicken, followed by an exquisite, home made apple cake (I begged for a thin slice - he obliged and charged me 1.5 Euro for it... sublime stuff! I ask: did you make this here?! Of course!).





I try to prolong the lunch with my glass of Chianti (I am in the Chianti Colli Fiorentini wine producing region) and then a cup of macchiato. I am the only solo diner in the room until a man sits down next to me and orders three courses of so much food that I think he surely must be one of those guys I've seen in the fields working even on Sunday to complete the grape harvest before the good weather gives.

In the course of my own lunch,  I can't help but watch a family meal to the side of the room, with two couples maybe in their fifties, a young man -- clearly a son -- and a grandpa. Toward the end of the meal, the young man wants to go out for a while. I'm guessing he's anxious to use his smart phone. Call a girl. Maybe have a cigarette. His mom, across the table, gives the most subtle shake of her head. He mouths a question to her, she again shakes her head. He sits back down. Not angry, not put out. Indeed, he falls into an animated conversation with his grandpa. Make of that scene what you want.






At the end of the meal, as the table empties out, the grandpa pauses and goes up to the counter where the liquor bottles are stored. The proprietor pours him a glass of grappa. The other men come back and they, too, have shots of grappa. Hands are shaken, the Sunday lunch ends.






I was reminded of an article from today's paper: how you get to be a certain age and you keep thinking about all the things you should do, the medicines you should take to stay healthy and you do this 'til the day you die. Somewhere in there, the author points out, you forget to enjoy the life that's given to you. I don't think this family and perhaps not anyone else in the room forgot to enjoy the life that was given to them.


I pause at the little store that's at the front of the dining room...






....pick up a couple of inconsequential items and begin the walk home. To *my* olive farm.






I am good and warm and all walked out by the time I get back to Il Casellino (the olive farm). There's just one thing to do: hit the pool. And no, everyone hasn't departed from the estate, but for those of you who stay in places that are not of the Ritz Carleton variety, remember the virtues of polka dot undergarments. You never have to pack a swim suit.

But in the end, none of the Eduardo people are anywhere near the pool. I have it to myself, as I will for the rest of the week. It is unquestionably the best lap swim I've had in many, many years.






Supper is easy. Before taking off for Milan, Eduardo brings me some fresh figs and I add that to my collection of walnuts from his walnut trees, tomatoes from his garden, bread, cheese, cookies.


It's quiet again in the evening. I walk up the hill to see the colors of a darkening sky...






... and to say goodnight to the cheepers...






Earlier, I heard the shot of someone hunting wild boar. But now, the sound of tractors is gone and the road traffic, too, has lessened. I'm left with birds, a cicada in the distance and the barking dogs from a farm up another hill. Rural sounds. Soothing noises of the evening, reminding me of days at my grandparents' village home in Poland, when everything at the dusk hour became muted, letting you know that now is the time to slow down, settle in, exhale.

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.