I Like To Poo Outside

It's true. It' s my "dirty" little secret. Just dig a little hole, drop my drawers and let it go just like a blissful cow, pure and simple, the way nature intended. Public toilets are nasty. But I'm afraid I will soon need to resort to a real commode soon once I hit the flatlands of eastern Italy. It is more crowded and built up there and more open. Not like the mountains with trees and twists and turns and many a hiding place. And so, a new challenge shall await me. I've had a little taste of what's to come (sorry, maybe not the best phrase to use) once I hit the base of the Alps. There was one longish stretch of flat and it threw me off. It was like hitting Nebraska coming out of the Rockies. A great expanse of flat earth is not something I have encountered yet. Behind me the mountains stretched into a jagged, panoramic spine of white pinnacles as far as the eye could see. I'd walk for miles and turn around and those mountains did not seem to recede. Sometimes they seemed to be getting closer and then I figured it out: they were following me! They wanted to go to Istanbul too, been sitting in one place too long.

Which reminds me, when I stop walking and sit to do anything, like write a blog, I get all stopped up and find it hard to think straight. Confusion sets in. When I'm walking I write these beautiful blogpost paragraphs in my head and then forget them when I sit down. I'm surprised I make any sense at all. It reminds me of the writer, Bruce Chatwin, who, during the time of his untimely death, was working on a book about nomadism and how genetically we still have ties locked in our cells to the days before we were sedentary and agrarian, when we were still hunters and gatherers and followed the seasons and the animals by foot. How we are carried in motion inside our mothers moving around for 9 months before we are born. Sure, I love my nest. My tent is my nest and I know where everything goes at night inside it. But I think I am clearer when I am motion. So if my blog ever sounds weird you will know why.

Since I know a number of folks are mapping out my trajectory I'm gonna go way back to a time back in France which seems like very old news to me now. My last quaint, white roads in France went through the adorable villages of Villedieu and Mirabel before I got on primarily red roads to the border. I was bracing for a lot more traffic but it turned out not to be the case. Near Nyons, a very charming place,  was some traffic but that was because that Monday was a holiday in France ( I was in France for less than 3 weeks and they had three holidays and no one knew what they were for. I think if I lived in Europe I could actually get a 9 to 5 job because you never work it!) But all the way to Gap the road was fairly peaceful. There was a bit more vehicular movement around Gap but things really simmered after Barcennolette. In fact, it got so quiet on my last day up into the Alps and over the pass that I questioned the road I was on and wondered if anyone was coming or going through Italy. Believe me, I loved it.

A French national was returning from an extended bike trip and had 200 km left to get home. He stopped and asked me questions about my trip. He asked where I slept at night and I said most nights my tent. He thought it was a shame because I missed out on getting to know the locals more. He apparently asks to sleep in their fields or yards when he bicycles. But ya know, it's not my thing. My favorite book is WANDERING by Herman Hesse, and it's like one long extended poem. The original version has simple watercolors that Hesse painted himself. But like the main character, I am content to peer into the lives of strangers for brief moments, see them at their place of work, see them in their yards or the window of their homes. Snippets of their cozy, secure, lives and then go on my way. I really get a lot out of these shorter slices.

There were a few small and simple last day impressions in France aside from the grandeur of the mountains. I found another 50 cent piece and then used it towards a glass of fresh oj that a woman made for me in a tiny cafe that was open in Larch, way up in the Alps. The other was of a couple that stopped their car to ask me what I was doing. The woman was animated, but could only speak french so her husband translated for her. She was very excited about my journey & it brought back for her memories of walking that famous trail in Spain, the El Camino Santiago (I swear, LOTS of people have done that walk, a lot of women, and all with very fond memories).

At the top of the Alps, ahhhh--- those glorious mountains. What a sight. What an incredibly beautiful sight. Sublime. When I reached the pass I twirled around and did my Julie Andrews impersonation and then went for the border. But there was nothing there! A welcome sign but not much more. No fanfare. No passport control, no shop, nothing. Only some marmots and the snow. So I took in the moment and then dropped into Italy. It was strange how eerily quiet everything was. Very mellow, very still. The drop on the Italy side was much steeper than my climb up. I watched spring in many stages as I decended from no buds on the trees to just little buds, etc etc. It was like walking a time lapse camera through spring over the course of two days.

My first night was spent in a ghost resort village. The place appeared to be in stages of being built, and not even on my map. And deserted. I knew it was gonna be a cold night because the winds had picked up and there was still snow on the ground so I ducked inside an unfinished resort and slept in a room that will be charming when completed but was very cold and hard while I was there.

The next morning I awoke to a few fluttering flakes in the air and could see that the peaks I had crossed were getting a bit of snow. I had had terrific weather for all my days leading up and over the Alps. But my time ran out. It snowed harder as I continued down, then turned to slush stuff and then cold rain. I went into my first Italian restaurant, a very cute little place in La Planche, and had my first in-country meal. The only non meat item on the menu was a ravioli so I ordered it to warm me up and then a hot chocolate too. The food came out great but my drink was a mug of thick goo requiring the spoon it came with to eat\drink it. I sat by the fireplace and escaped the rain for an hour until it stopped. Locals have told me it's been the coldest, rainiest spring in more than 30 years. I haven't minded the cold temps  so much because they are easier to walk in. But the rain just sucks and I hope those days are gone soon.

Italy is different. Immediately. The foods, the towns, the customs. So far I have not been impressed with the towns, they are more spread out and not as compact and historic as in Spain and France. But I really love two things so far. The people. So much more gregarious, inquisitive, friendly, and apologetic for their "poor" English which I personally think is quite fine. I'm grateful that so many CAN speak english. I find myself speaking four languages in one sentence these days: english, spanish, french and now italian (thank you Bob for your help with some of the words). It's a wonder anyone understands me but they seem to. Either that or they PRETEND to understand cause when they talk back I pretend to understand them. I have been offered many rides already (one by a little, old, white- haired lady in the mountains), have had people stop to shake my hand after asking me what I am doing, have heard "bravo" and "complimento" much (and my first "you are crazy" from a woman in a grocery store). One lady in Borgo San  Dalmazzo who I asked directions for insisted on giving me a ride to my exchange and when I said no she opened up the trunk of her car refusing to take NO (to place my backpack). But I firmly reiterated 'no' so she took it upon herself to drive a mile to the roundabout I needed to reach and waited for me to make sure I found it. When I finally arrived she yelled out from her window, "bravo!" and then drove off with a huge smile. So much kindness here.

The other thing I love in Italy so far, is YOMO yogurt. It's local and incredibly delicious. Just three ingrediants. I have to have my YOMO fix everyday now.

A month ago I bought my first pair of shoes on the road in Tereul, Spain. I was to ease in the new pair and "use up" the rest of the original pair. Well, a month later and I have just thrown out that original pair a couple days ago. It seems that by alternating it's use, I got more mileage out of it because it had a chance to relax a little. That means I carried THREE pairs of shoes for a month with me. My original pair, the other pair I carry for days of rain (or snow) and then the new pair. Now I'm back down to two.

I skipped going to Cuneo ( I wanted something less busy) and headed towards Boves cause I heard it was cute. Somehow I walked right through Boves and missed the quaint part. At least the roads were quieter . (And sorry Diego I missed you in Torino....next time). Then I went for some white roads through Santa Margheria and San Biagio, Carleverri and then to Carru. From Dogliani I was in the Langa which are hills and low mountains, partly wooded, partly cultivated with smatterings of nice homes and some cute little villages with castle ruins or lovely churches. It's a bit more subtle than some things I've seen but still quite nice, softer, like a visual lullaby. I went to Cissone and Cerretto Langhe, Cravanzana and Cortemilia where I briefly blogged yesterday. And now I am in Acqui Terme and heading towards Ovada, Castagnola and on and on. Still not flat. Still good poo places. But I know those days are numbered.