dalla montagna alla città

// from mountain to city

The Hutte was designed by two famous mountaineers, Arturro and Oreste Squinobal: brothers who had travelled the world together climbing mountains. Before Oreste died, he and Arturro drew up plans for a mountain refuge in Monte Rosa, high in the Valley of Aosta. Arturro and his family finished Oreste's dream, and today Arturro's children, Marta and Emil, live the long‑held dream in honour of their uncle. Their refuge is a luxury escape nestled against the mountainside, catering for climbers, hikers and skiiers.

The Squinobals are desecnded from the Germans who migrated across the mountains thousands of years ago. They speak a dialect that is a mixture of German and Italian and it's quite beautiful. Their German ancestry is evident in the efficiency and design of the Hutte; from the solar panels that heat both the water and the floors, to the perfect carpentry that is seen throughout their home.

Built over several years, the Hutte is made of wood that was flown in by helicopter. When asked by tourists if the wood is local, Phill has been known to say "yes, there used to be a forest here!". In truth, the tallest tree that can grow in the area is only about 2 metres tall and is situated half an hour's walk below the Hutte. Photos of the Hutte's construction show people sitting on top of loads of wood, which dangle from the chopper. Mountain people, not surprisingly, have a head for heights.

I spent my time at the Hutte recovering from the week of partying in Lndon, eating the wonderful meals cooked by the talented chef Giovanni, chatting to Linea, Giovanni, Emil, Marta and Ladzo who all work at the Hutte, and hiking.

Marta suggested I visit the "Lago Blu" which Linea ‑ a danish girl ‑ swims in occasionally. It's freezing cold as Phill once discovered when, not to be outdone by a girl, he jumped in. The Lago Blue is about a half hour hike from the Hutte, along a path that is clearly marked by the "sentieri", stones showing the path's number and arrows in bright yellow pointing the way. I passed two smaller lakes and stepping‑stoned my way to a rock in the middle of one of them. On the rock, I found a tiny puddle housing tadpoles so I rescued them before the sun turned them into something the French would eat. Finally, I arrived at Lago Blu and I sat, admiring the view and eating some fruit.

The day was sunny and there wasn't much wind, so I decided to keep wandering. Looking up, I noticed two silhouettes hiking along a ridge with the snowy peak of Mantoba behind them. I glanced at the peak they had come from and thought "I can do that", so I picked out a path and started my ascent. The path I chose looked like the aftermath of a small avalanche, with green grass giving way to grey stones. Wedging my toes against the rocks, I used them as though they were steps up the mountainside. The breath runs out quickly at that altitude (2700 metres) so the going was slow, but steady.

At the top was a small cairn with a stick wedged into it ‑ the designated marker for a peak of some sort ‑ really just something to aim for. When I reached it I took out my camera to immortalise my achievement, and then nearly dropped it as I looked down and saw a near vertical cliff face right in front of me! What had been a relatively easy climb on one side was a sheer drop on the other. The photo I took shows me giggling with delight at how impossibly high I was. Like a stambecco (mountain goat) I then picked out a new path and bounded down... ok. more like a grandma because it really was bloody high, so I took it easy. But in whatever manner, I did finally arrive back at the Hutte where I was treated to a beautiful lunch. Marta, Phill and I then went down the mountain to Gressoney St Jean, where Marta's parents live, and we spent the night there.

On my last day in the mountains, Phill and I drank beer, chatted to the locals, ate and wandered around the tiny town. These days, most of the local villages are ghost towns, with the locals having departed for France and Germany and holidaymakers buying their vacated homes.

AFter lunch, Marta returned to the Hutte and Phill and I spent the afternoon swapping stories, suggesting new music to each other, then rounded off the evening with episodes of Salad Fingers. (It's creepy but funny ‑ google it.)

Today I rose early and bid farewell to Phill, leaving him in his new home where he seems happy and settled. I took the bus (the bus driver filled me in on the area's history) and train to Turin and wandered the streets for a while.

I always find it a strange sort of homecoming when I return to a foreign city that I know well. It's a little like encountering one's own ghost ‑ you pass the fountain that was your landmark, sit on the seat where you once spent an afternoon reading the whole of Harry Potter in Italian, glance towards the bridge that took you to your hostel. Only three years, during which so much and so little has changed. Licking a lemon gelato, I retraced old steps through the pretty streets and made my way back to the train; it was a sweet little farewell to a country that has found its way into my heart.

sopra tutto il mondo

//on top of the world

It was Sunday, the holy day; I ascended to the heavens.

From London, a flight to Turin. A bus to the train. A train to Ivrea. Another train to Pont Saint Martin. A bus to Gressoney la Trinite. Each town a little smaller and a little higher until finally a ten minute ride up a ski lift to a small mountainside bar called Punta Jolanda. Phill met me there and we embarked on the one hour hike up the mountain to Orestes Hutte. So here I am.

The Hutte is a ski retreat in the Italian Alps. The ski‑lift ride, an hour's walk below us, took me through the treetops and through the clouds. Now, as I glance up through the wide window I can look beyond the balcony to a small road, meandering as only mountain roads do down through the peaks. I can see snow adorning the mountainside, interrupting the grass that dances in the wind like ocean waves. A small blue lake twinkles in the triangle of the valley; beside it is a shed that houses the hydro electrics. The clouds are scarpering eastwards, the chill wind chasing them away to leave behind a vacant blue sky. The sun throws shadows through the rocks and there is barely a sound.

The Hutte is owned by my friend Phill's girlfriend and her family. Marta and her brother Emil run the place, with the help of various travellers, a cook, and Phill. In winter they cater to tourists and local skiers but in summer tourists are few, so I have my own room downstairs. The main room upstairs houses a small library and bar, with an outlook across the mountains.

As much as possible, they arekind to the environment here. In winter the food is stored in a concrete space that surrounds the house like a verandah: in summer the same space provides insulation. This summer has been the coldest and wettest that Marta can remember, but to a girl from Australia it is nevertheless beautiful.

After I arrived yesterday we sat around and chatted in various languages. Marta showed me a tea that changes colour as you brew it. First the water turns blue, then violet, then orange, yellow and finally settles on a muddy transparency. She said that while pretty, it doesn't taste like anything much at all.

Not to be outdone, the sun also put on a display, casting pink light across the sky as it went to bed at 9pm. In keeping with the colourful evening, the chef made an orange risotto (amazing) and we shared a local wine, swappped stories and laughed. Finally I went to bed around 11 and arose this morning to the bella vista I've described.

For the next few days I will meditate, do some yoga, increase the number of red blood cells in my body (thin air up here) and rest. Already life feels slow and the world is quiet.

Bolzano/Bozen

After fleeing the farmer, I went on to Bolzano to hook up with a guy I know: Ötzi (more on him later) Bolzano is in the far far north of Italy and German is the first language, followed by Italian and a fairly good knowledge of English. With my three languages around me I thought I'd be in my element but I actually had a lot of problems deciding which language to use! People would speak to me in German, I'd respond in Italian and they'd notice my accent and swap to English while I realised my mistake and switched to German. Ordering a meal was a big adventure.

German and Austrian tourists zip around on bikes and their language grates in contrast to the lyrical Italian words. A portico lined street is flanked on one side by German shops and on the other by Italian shops. Pizzerias sell pizza topped with würst while birrerias (breweries) sell pasta cooked in beer. Every street has two names and the buildings are a strange mixture of German facades decorated with brightly coloured Italian frescoes. It's a very pretty town and very rich. Fortunately the shops were all closed for Ferragosto which probably saved me a lot of money. Window shopping sufficed as I made my way past stunning window displays toward the Museum of Archaeology where Ötzi was awaiting me.

I first encountered Ötzi while reading my guidebook in a cafe. Ötzi is no looker. He's past the prime of his life, only 5 feet tall, has leathery wrinkly skin, sunken eyes and a large gap between his front teeth. Still, you have to forgive him these shortcomings when you consider that he has been dead for three and a half thousand years.

Ötzi was murdered after a fight with a mysterious stranger and his corpse was left to rot, however nature took over and in 1991 his body was found frozen in a block of ice by two hikers. He is now resting in a giant temperature controlled room in the Archaeology Museum of Bolzano, with a window through which tourists come to stare at him. His body provides many clues about how people lived in his time. His skin bears strange marks that the scientists suspect are the earliest known form of acupuncture. His last meal, recent ailments, clothing and tools have been studied and are now on display in an entire floor of the museum, it's a very interesting exhibit and I spent a lot of time there.

Ötzi's settlement is long gone, but there is a castle that may be the last remaining ruins of the very same settlement that he belonged to years before the castle was even built. It's one of many such castles nestled in the hills surrounding Bolzano. Snaking around the ruins are endless rows of vines, climbing in ever‑diminishing circles. The effect is dramatic in the evening when the sunset adorns the vines with golden light, but in the daytime the effect is somewhat marred by the many power lines that bring electricity to the ancient town.

I wandered along the river to a castle with two names; Runkelstein in German and Runcalo in Italian. Its walls bear mediaeval frescoes which depict the tales of King Arthur, Tristan and Isolde and various other tales. They are the oldest surviving mediaeval frescoes in the world.
Back in town, I noted the presence of much anti‑Nazi graffiti scrawled in Italian, German and English. I passed through the main square to the Duomo, which is a mixture of various architectural styles that surprisingly complement each other quite well. I'm more than a little jaded now when it comes to churches, but this one had a pretty spire.

Bolzano was an interesting little town and would have also been very expensive if the shops were open. I wandered, window shopped and then left after a couple of days, headed for Milano.

Future updates will probably have to wait until Spain, as it's August and everything in Italy is closed, including internet places. I found one today by luck but don't expect to find another.

I'm making my way through the northern part of Italy, visiting Milan and then heading for Pisa where I catch my flight to Spain. No, it's not with Spainair so it won't crash!

Til next time!

la fattoria

// the farm

Well, the farm thing turned out to be a complete disaster. The usual deal with WWOOF is that you work a maximum of 6 hours in exchange for a bed and food. Some places are different but those places make it clear prior to arrival. I'd actually originally been destined for one such farm but they wrote to tell me that they had changed their methods and I chose not to go there, instead opting for another farm in the Dolomites.

The place I chose was beautiful, nestled in the mountains, surrounded by pine forests and green hills, pretty church spires and little villages lining the nearby hillside with lights twinkling prettily; all of which I glimpsed from the windows of the kitchen and laundry while I worked 10‑14 hour days without a break except to eat the food cooked by another overworked "wwoofer".

It was interesting at least to see the workings (ahem, "workings") of an Italian farm. There were 40 goats which were milked for cheese, 13 puppies which were for sale and three dogs which were for the cats to chase. Each morning a temporary electric fence was set up on a grassy area to form a yard for the goats, which were herded in an unusual way: you run away from them and they chase you into the enclosure. Think they could teach our sheep a thing or two! The dogs didn't seem to do much (like their master) the farm actually ran out of food for the dogs while I was there, something that has never happened on our farm in 30 years but was apparently normal there because they were so isolated (nearest town: 15 minutes drive).

While the goats were feeding, their stalls were cleaned out each day and some were selected to be milked. To make cheese, the milk is heated to 60 degrees, then allowed to cool, then rennet is put into it to curdle it before it's heated again to about 90 degrees. Then the top of it is scraped off and the rest is moulded into cheese. The cheese is left in the cellar where it shrinks as the liquid drains from it and it develops a crust that smells like very old toenail clippings.

That was the extent of the farm life experience. The rest of the time was spent cleaning plates, cleaning rooms and cooking for the guests. The place was organised so badly that even with 2 owners and 5 helpers, the dishes, cheese, goats and cooking took 10‑14 hours each day. Ridiculous. The food was all cooked by another wwoofer (when she arrived there hadn't been anything for her to eat!) and we weren't allowed to drink, rest or have anything resembling fun. We did organise a secret party in the teepee they had out the back which was fun until the owner turned up and had the gall to ask for a glass of our wine! I pretended to be asleep until he finally left and everyone laughed when I suddenly sprang into life the minute he disappeared through the doorway.

I was fortunate in that there were three other Italians wwoofing at the farm along with a French girl fluent in Italian and we all got along well. The Italian couple had their own car and on Friday we all decided we'd had enough so we told them we were leaving, had a big argument (try arguing in a foreign language, very frustrating) and took off first thing the next morning. It's a shame because the place was really lovely, but in my opinion 10 hours of work in exchange for 2 plates of pasta and a bed is not an 'exchange' at all. The "farmer" (who got up at 9am every day) was a very unreasonable and disorganised man incapable of understanding why we weren't happy, even though we had explained to him twice during the week that the deal was not what we'd agreed to, nor what anyone in their right mind would agree to. He said that he always has problems with Australians and I said that's because we aren't easily intimidated and we aren't used to being ripped off. Ha.

This is nothing against wwoof of course, most of the experiences I've heard of have been good, in this case it was just bad communication and bad organisation (I say this with a wry smile ‑ bad organisation in Italy? What a shock!)

Anyway, enough of that. It was an interesting experience, I learnt to make cheese (I prefer cheddar though) and once I'd decided to do the Italian thing and go on strike I spent a nice afternoon in a beautiful room watching the rain and being comfortable. I didn't get to see anything of the mountains but I have seen a lot of mountains now anyway. I spoke only Italian the entire week and learnt a lot of new words and phrases. The other wwoofers were very good to me and took me all the way to Venice on Saturday, from where I caught my train to Bolzano. The trip must go on!

conservazione not conversazione

//conservation, not conversation

My two week CVA working holiday comprised seven Aussies, two Italians (plus 20 or so drop‑ins), several rude stereotype‑enforcing French people, three languages, lots of pasta, innumberable weeds, some very blunt tools and a fair amount of questionable concrete mix.

Our tour took us from Carignano, near Torino, to the Mercantour Mountains in France before ending in Monte Carlo, where we enjoyed our last two days together eatng, drinking, and avoiding the casino.

We were assigned a search and destroy mission for week one in Carignano; search for the three or four actual plants in two parks and destroy everything else. We pulled, hacked, snapped and swore at weeds, unearthing a beautiful little castle in one park and a whole lot of white moths in the other. We met a lot of locals and while we had the impression that they thought we were completely barmy travelling all the way from Australia to do their weeding, they were kind to us. We were treated to a tour through Carignano (which has a spectacular fan‑shaped church), as well as various other towns, along with home‑cooked pasta, bocce games and mint tastings (nearby Pancalieri produces world famous mint). In Carignano we were shown a big, heavy stone and our tour guide told us with great relish that people who hadn't paid their debts were once dropped onto this stone, bottom first, from a height of about 5 metres. These days, locals who are deeply in debt tell their friends that they have "andato a culo" ‑ literally "gone on my ass".

Speaking of the locals, there were some truly unforgettable figures in Carignano and one of them was Gino, a tiny old man with a very cheeky smile and a taste for vino. He is a member of an RSL‑type club across the street from our accommodation, which is in fact more to do with wearing funny hats and playing Bocce than it is to do with anything else. Another notable was Loris, who materiaised every now and then to make mountains of pasta for us or to leave a container of hand‑picked wild blackberries on our kitchen table. He spoke to us only in Italian and laughed at everything. His pasta was the saviour of our BBQ to which half the town was invited while we were naively cooking for 20. I caught a few of the Italians conversing about the incredibly odd watermelon salad (watermelon with ONION!?!?) and noted that Loris' pasta was a very popular dish with the Italians, who are loathe to try anything that seems even slightly unusual. (Explains a lot about the country.) All in all, the Italians took good care of the weird Aussies who wandered the streets in work clothes and floppy green hats.

On a Monday morning we departed Italy for France. Our first day was free so we wandered through a nearby valley, where I developed a strange obsession with taking close up photos of flowers and insects. From Tuesday to Friday we worked very hard, some of us building an entrance to an old mine which will be opened to tourists while others jigsaw‑puzzled their way through creating a stone path masterpiece. We were ensconced in dorms on top of the world, at the bottom of a valley (up and down works differently in the mountains). We carted wooden planks, shook our heads in confusion at the French leader's idea of a concrete mix, stole a few moments to look for silver near the mine and collected a lot of rocks, putting them into the wall from where they were promptly pulled by our merciless Italian leader Stefano because they didn't fit properly. I will never again take for granted the beauty of a rock wall; it's harder work than you can possibly guess. We had a couple of interesting altercations with the French leader who seemed not to understand the difference between volunteers and slaves (I marched to his house one evening and lectured him while he sat on the stairs in his underpants, pretty funny really.) In the end though they came through for us and we were given excellent hiking advice, some very good picnics and even a few polite words. The French are perhaps more ignorant than rude... perhaps.

I enjoyed myself in both places far more than I expected to. I have learned to wield a whetstone, mix concrete, build rock walls (and learned that they invented bricks for a reason); I can now expertly hack at weeds with a scythe, paint the Italian way (add some paint to your water) and best of all, I have discovered a real love of hiking and, apparently, photographing flowers and insects. Two new hobbies!

However, the aspect of the trip that I enjoyed the most was meeting the inspiring, interesting people I worked with. Every one of them taught me something about how to make a success of life, the men were refreshing evidence that men with grace, tact and intelligence do in fact exist while the women were blueprints for the sort of person I hope to become. I definitely recommend a trip with CVA, whether in Australia or overseas. It was interesting, fulfilling and enjoyable.

ho fatto rafting

// I went rafting

It just occurred to me that when you read this, you will read "hoe fatto" when it's actually "o fut‑to". Italian sounds better than it looks.

Anyway, Aosta was my adventure sport week. I crammed a balloon ride, a hike and a white water rafting adventure into just under a week, and boy are my muscles stiff and sore now!

The rafting adventure was a lot of fun, not least because I was the only girl, surrounded by a group of 12 Italian men in body clinging wetsuits, plus two muscle‑bound rafting guides and a very cute Albanian driver. A feast for the eyes indeed.

The afternoon started off with a half hour explanation of the various commands. I understood most of it, certainly enough that when one of the guys said "o paura, era troppo serioso" which means "I'm scared, it's all too serious" I laughed and agreed with him.

The boys argued in Italian about who got to ride in the raft with the "ragazza" ‑ the girl ‑ until one of the guides sorted it out by choosing people based on relative weights. The winning team taunted the all boy group. Incidentally, the other group fell out of the raft three times while we didn't lose a single person!

Apparently women are better at rafting because what we lack in strength we make up for in willingness to obey commands (important in the rapids) and a better sense of rhythm and ability at teamwork.

Having mastered the commands of "Avanti! Indietro! Tenersi! and SUL FONDO!" (respectively "forwards", "backwards", "hold on" and "GET DOWN") we spent about 2 hours in the water. It was SO much fun! My arms and sides and legs are still aching 2 days later but it was worth it. We zipped along in the rapids and raced the other boat, laughing at them every time they fell out. We passed a bunch of kids on hydrospeeds (little boogie board things) and the guide remarked that they must be French, because Italian parents would sooner die than send their kids into the rapids on little boards.

After two hours, drifting down the river through mountains, past castles, farmland and stunning scenery, we finally landed and limped our way back to the car.

The rafting lasted longer than it was supposed to, so I ended up missing the last bus home. Luckily the driver (who's name was Spartak) lived in the town I was staying in so he offered to take me home. He dropped me at my hotel and invited me to join him, his brother and the brother's girlfriend for dinner, so I met them later on and I had a really yummy spaghetti and a few drinks before being dropped back to my hotel. I'd also made friends with the girl on the balloon ride, so I congratulated myself at making four friends in four days, and all Italian speakers! Spartak spoke some English but not a great deal, and his brother and the girlfriend spoke no English at all, which forced me to practise my Italian. It was quite fun to hold a conversation in Italian after so many weeks of only talking to waiters and shop assistants.

That was my last day in Aosta, so the next morning it was a painful walk to the train station and a ride back to Torino. I slept on the train (with my handbag tied to me) and dreamt about sailing along white rapids.

sto camminando oggi

// today I'm wandering

Aosta is so far north that there are streets called "rue via" ‑ 'street' in French and 'street' in Italian. The people here are fluent in both but Italian is still the official language. I'm very close to St Bernard's Pass and Monte Bianco, (or Mont Blanc); from my hotel room I can see the glaciers of the Gran Paradiso National Park.

Aosta was once the favoured departure point for Roman expeditions (pillages) to the north, and the town has an excellently preserved Roman wall running an almost complete circumference of the 'centro storico' ‑ historical centre. There are little shops and plenty of 'prodotti tipici' ‑ local products ‑ lots of gelaterias and pizzerias and a beautiful big square in the centre of town. The mountains are visible from almost every street corner and the vibe is a relaxed holiday mood, with hikers and backpackers everywhere. Very few English‑speaking tourists however, most are French.

This morning I jumped on a bus to Cogne and was reminded of Slovenia as I experienced once again the spine chilling fear of trusting one's life to a stranger who drives buses around cliffs like he's the main star of Speed. It's a long way down...

Famous for winter skiing and summer hiking, Cogne is a town balancing between many cultures. Those buildings that are not decidedly German in appearance sport French facades while the streets all have Italian names. A tiny town, there are almost as many hotels as houses and the Valletta, Cissettaz and Patri glaciers dominate the landscape.

I took the funivia/funicular/cabinovia/chairlift thingy (pick a language) up to the start of trail 17, which my Let's Go guide (highly recommended by the way) told me was a good trail for views of the aforementioned Gran Paradiso National Park and her glaciers. I nearly died in the first five minutes but there were two fat Germans on my tail and I couldn't let Australia down, so I struggled onward. I never knew I liked hiking but aparently I do. I found myself grinning as I checked out the grand views and the tiny flowers along the way, spent ages deciphering the Italian signs to learn about some bird/tree/whatever, pushed myself to get up the next hill without pausing. The view became more spectacular with every (exhaustingly steep) twenty metre climb.

Finally, I reached the peak of the trail where I took about a thousand photos of my chin and the top of my head before finally getting my whole face in the frame, and then I headed downhill. A large hare cut across my path, would have made a good meal but unfortunately there is no kitchen in my hotel, pity. I also saw some deer come bounding up the hill ‑ they took one look at me and then turned tail and fled. I wished I were so light-footed.

Meandering down a path that is a skiing trail in winter, I smugly passed puffing tourists toting walking sticks. Back onto the funicular, down to the town where I got lost trying to find the main street (plenty of signs saying "private property" but none saying "the town is this way") and I found my way to the river where I had a picnic lunch.

Now I am sitting in a little bar back in Aosta, fighting a giant wasp for the right to drink my beer and trying to ignore a very loud yappy dog and the very loud smooches of its owner who seems to think that rewarding the dog with kisses will make it shut up... hmm. If my grandmother was here she'd sort it out.

la pietra di Lecce

// The stone of Lecce
Near Lecce, there are quarries for stone that has the curious quality of being soft when taken from the ground, before gradually hardening in the heat. This made it perfect for carving the town's many facades and, combined with its location near the coast, this has secured Lecce's popularity with Italian tourists. Foreigners are rare here, even in July.

In this city of pale stone, the heat waves settle into the ground by day and wend their way over your feet, around your calves, seducitvely warming you well into the night. When the sun shines, a cool breeze chases the heat through the many piazzas and along the blazing white streets. The sun strives to burn you even in the shade, bouncing off the facades of the buildings that line every piazza.

Leccese architecture is frothy, overstated glory in the name of decadent decoration. One architect in particular is responsible for most of the exaggerated 'flair', his name was Zingalo but they called him 'Lo Zingarello' ‑ the gypsy ‑ for he tended to wander between various projects. Zingarello's facades and interiors are a lesson in exuberance. Showing a clear disdain for moderation, he sculpted the faces of cherubs spouting from the petals of flowers that adorn the forehead of other cherubs. Horses, foxes, men twist and twirl around each other with such hedonistic abandon that one wonders whether this church was built to house the cult of Bacchus, not Jesus. It's so overdone it's almost sinful.

Not to be confused with Lucca in the north, Lecce is in Puglia in Italy's south. Her inhabitants are friendly, her tourists are mostly Italian, her food is cheap and her beauty is like an aged Italian woman who wears too much lipstick.

And now that it's 6pm, my siesta is over and it's time to venture back out into the gentle caress of Lecce's lurking heat waves.

lockdown!

My last night in Bologna, I was a little sad to be leaving the city and my friends there. After spending the day showing mum the sights of "my" city, I was in the hotel room throwing on the least stinky clothes I could find, ready to have dinner with Zoe before we headed out for drinks.

A few hours later, we left the cool (cheap) little place on a cool (slightly dodgy) little street and made the trek across the city, past the works of our favourite local graf artist, past the admiring glances of Italian men, around the dog turds and towards the bar that we both pretended we were 'so over', but had to admit we'd had some fun in. We were met on the street by a girl handing out 'two for one' drink cards which we happily pocketed before we headed inside. A smiling bundle of joy, our friend Ari (who featured in the drunken Friday adventures of week two) found us and brought us to the table where other friends awaited.

The night was a mixture of Italian and English, with some French and German on the side. We drank, we talked, we laughed at our (er..my) Italian mistakes, we drank some more. The drinks were cheap, the bartender friendly, and the company interesting. I got into some sort of debate with an American guy, which ended when we realised we both agreed, at which point we went on to the far more important topic of whether we should drink a spritz or a beer next. Finally, 2am and it was time for the bar to shut down.

Not quite tearful goodbyes, but sad nonetheless. Hugs and best wishes, write to me and all the rest, suddenly I realised Ari was still in the bar and it was about to close. I dashed inside to grab her for a hug, and suddenly the garage style doors slammed down. "Looks like you're staying a little longer" someone murmered, "have a beer, on the house". Friendly barman turned kidnapper, but when he's footing the bill who's complaining! I turned to check that Zoe was still there and we settled in for the night, beers in hand, our own private party of twelve.

4am and I was worried that mum would be worried (she was) so I announced that I was leaving. End of party, everyone suddenly realised it was late and they had school the next day, or they were tired, or maybe the owner had run out of beer. More goodbyes in hushed 'don't wake the neighbours' tones, a few last minute snaps, and a walk along memory lane to the tailor's street, a grumpy doorman and a relieved mother. 2 hours of sleep, packing in a hurry, onto the train to Venice.

If you're ever in Bologna, hit up the Lime Bar on Via Zamboni, you might just be in for one of the cooler nights of your life.

living free

Morcheeba sings about 'living free' and the words waft through the trees from the dj booth on the shore. White pebbles glint in the sun and little kids squeal as they paddle in the water, it's 'freddissima'; very very cold. Mountains loom across the lake in different shades of blue, rolling clouds obscuring their peaks. Listening to the many Italian voices undulating around me, I realise that for the first time, I'm the only foreigner in a group of Italians. (I'm picking up a lot of useful slang.)

I'm lying on the grass at Lago del Borgo. Germans and Dutch holiday here a lot, as well as Italians of course. There's a good wind here for 5 months of the year so it's packed with windsurfers. Today there's a competition so plenty of guys are walking around looking like they think they're hot (admittedly, a lot of them are). There's a notable absence of alcohol here, as always in Italy there are just a few beers here and there, for an Aussie it's pretty weird.

Gio and his friends are great, always friendly, often stopping to check that I understand at least a bit of what's being said and often assuring me that I am 'bravissima' - very clever. Yesterday we ate dinner at the top of a hill, overlooking the lake and the mountains with the lights of the town glittering below us. The drive back was a gentle spiral around the water, down the hills into the town with the oncoming headlights of maniac Italians dodging around us. Today has been a day of relaxing, listening to surprisingly good music, watching my friends struggle to control their sails in the wind, talking bits of Italian and teaching a few English words on request, lying under a sun that is pleasantly warm, opening my eyes every now and then to take in the bella vista.

Not a bad way to spend a weekend.