I was planning on sticking around Torino for a few days before starting the AV, but the itch was too much to ignore. Torino, with its posh yet relaxed vibe, its piazzas and palazzos, its people sipping Aperol spritz and licking ice-cream, was charming, but not for now. The trails are calling and I must go. Torino will still be there afterwards.
Diving into the maps, the options are endless. I want something easy, something light to ease me into the hike. So I travel to Ivrea, the last town in Piemonte, where the valley meets the mountains, and walk north along the Via Francigena, the ancient pilgrim route connecting Canterbury to Rome.
The trail takes me out of Ivrea, a largish town with a large looking castle, and into villages and farms. It's not yet alpine in nature, and feels very prosperous: low stone walls hiding large houses with big lawns and orchards. There's olives and figs and vines, but also apples and cherries. The trail is mostly on paved roads, winding up and down on the gentle slopes. It's too narrow for two cars, but that doesn't deter the locals, driving fast in the narrow lane. It's shaded and lovely and peaceful and the few people I walk past are clearly local, clearly curious.
My chubby little guide for the day
The trail blaze is a stocky, short pilgrim, sporadically stencilled on walls, on houses, on sign posts. It's small and un-intrusive and I name him John. I spend the day inventing stories about him, about what made him leave him home and embark on this journey, about the dangers he experienced and the joy I hope he found on the way to his destination. I am not a religious person. I don't believe in the existence of a god. And I don't particularly like humanity. But I do understand the journey. And I find solace and joy in imagining the people that came before me, what made them leave, what helped them persevere. And I'm at awe at how much easier things are now, how difficult and impossible this journey would have been 200 years ago, 500 years ago, a 1000 years ago, and how bloody lucky I am. A Women. A Jew. On my own on the trail. Occupying spaces I wouldn't have been allowed into just a few generations ago.
As the day progresses I'm out of the woody area and into the open valley, and all philosophical thoughts are out of my head, taken over by the scorching heat. I walk from one village to another, all with a little square with an old chestnut tree, a bar serving as a general store and a church. I stop for an ice cold drink in every single one of them, the locals look at me, smile, and continue their conversation. The farmers are out working the fields, tractors sounding across the valley and the smell of freshly cut grass is heavy in the air. I share the trail with just a few thru-hikers, all heading south towards Roma.
By noon it's too dam hot. As I reach yet another small village, I find the bus stop - a simple bench at the side of the road - and settle down for a long wait. In these places buses are a rarity, and I have 45 minutes to wait. I try to focus on my book, but I have a nagging feeling that someone is looking at me. Scanning the deserted road, I spot the source: a couple, not old but not young, sitting on their porch just a few feet a way from me.
Not even a minute passes and I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's the women from the porch. She fires questions at me in rapid Italian. I think she is asking me if I'm ok, if I have water and food. I point at the bus stop, and tell her I'm waiting for the bus. In reality what I say is "Autobus" several times. Strangely, it's exactly the same word as in Hebrew. I show her my water balder and my nut stash and hope I'm answering her questions. She smiles and walks away, seemingly happy with my answers.
But I guess not, because 5 minutes later she is back. No need for words, because I understand exactly what she wants - she is inviting, no, ordering me, to follow her. No "thank yous" or "no need" will help here. Gesturing towards her house a few meters away, she takes me inside, fills my water bottle, pushes a large, juicy apple into my hands, and questions me about where i'm going. Her husband joins, and I try to explain that i'm ok, it's just that the bus, there's still time, and I don't mind waiting. The bench is in the shade, and I have my book. She hears none of it. They start arguing in Italian over who will take me to my destination. She doesn't speak a word of English, and I don't speak Italian, but there is nothing foreign about her: she sees a young women (i'm not, but people think I'm 10 years younger than I really am), it's hot, and she wants to help. There is nothing left but to surrender to her kindness, and let myself be helped.
And so I find myself in their car, the husband chatting to me in a mix of Italian and English, me answering in a mix of whatever words I dig out of long-forgotten corners of my brain in every language I barely know.
As he parks his car just across the street from my hotel, he asks for nothing and refuses payment or an offer of coffee or drink at the hotel. No thanks is needed, he says. But I still thank him profusely, and he just smiles and says in broken English bon voyage and happy camino and good luck. As I cross the street and enter the hotel, I think of how humanity keeps surprising me, and how small acts of kindness force me to deal with people, to accept help, to accept that sometimes people are just really nice.
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