Found a Farm!

It's much too early to be heartbroken, but it is true--leaving Menaggio, which I do this afternoon, is harder than I thought it could be. Every day has been better than the last, filled with hikes into quiet forests and along rushing streams, walks up cobblestone steps to castle ruins, and ferry rides down the lakefront.

The people, too, have been wonderful. Another German named Enis showed up one night at the hostel, followed by Christina, who had an amazing tale to tell of working as a deckhand on a private yacht off the Turkish Coast all summer. Joey, a photographer from Seattle, accompanied me for an afternoon of hopping the ferry around the lake. Tony, a Brit, offered me my first-ever motorcycle ride on his rented red Italian motorbike (alas, I could not take him up on it...no helmet). Something about being out of your element and on the road makes hoooking up with strangers quite easy. What's your name? Oh, you've been to Prague? Me too...let's go hike up that mountain.

a big fat hand was worth it

I can't pick a favorite person or day. Impossible to choose, say, my solo 46 kilometer bike ride through the mountains--past cataracts spurting out of solid rock, down a series of switchbacks fronting the lake and a formidable granite peak, and next to a field where a dozen or so base-jumpers just happened to be landing--over my afternoon following a path through a chestnut wood, leaving trail markers of rocks and sticks so that we could find our way back from the peak that, once we reached it, offered an exhilarating view of the entire northern end of the narrow lake. Even the day walking around Lago di Piano, mucking through muddy sections of the path, bushwacking through reeds, and getting stung by a wasp on the finger, resulting in fat, swollen, and (now) itchy left hand, was great. Yes, my friends, a big fat hand was worth it.

Yesterday, though, was too good to neglect mentioning. I trekked to Sass Corbe, a waterfall, with William, the Aussie barkeep who's staying here through early November before moving on in his half-year trip. (The Aussies really seem to embrace their travel urges.) The footpath followed an icy stream, crossed a stone bridge, and led us past a trout farm and a couple of pastures tucked into the valley. There were burros and ponies. And baby burros. We fed them grass and patted their foreheads. Farther on, gigantic boulders the size of houses had broken off the massive cliff over our heads and rolled into the valley, creating a series of pools and waterfalls. The water was cold enough to numb your feet (or your big fat hand, as it were), but William charged right in for a full immersion. I, being less inclined to tempt the hypothermia gods, stuck to ankle-deep waters. The sounds of the gushing stream accompanied us as we continued up the path, which ended at a glorious meadow. Really, it was too perfect. Silent, with tiny insects floating above the grasses, highlighted by a warm sun. A nap was the only proper way to enjoy it. I watched a tiny bug hover, land on, and taste my finger as I dozed off, thinking how happy I was to fall asleep in a quiet green place.

There are endless paths to investigate here, and though I've explored plenty so far, I can't roam them all. You never can, I suppose. Thus, I'm off. I go today to Como, then Bologna for a couple of days before headed to my first farm, where I will help with the chestnut harvest, fencing, and caring for the animals. I have to go buy some wellingtons. The church bells are ringing.