Reverse culture shock’s a funny thing. Being taken aback by the sudden change when reaching a far-off, unknown country for the first time comes almost as an expected ‘shock’ . But when it’s the other way around – when you’re arriving home or in any other place you know (or rather had known) well, and suddenly find yourself not-so-much at home after all, it hits totally out of the blue. That’s exactly what crossing over into Italy was like.
Nowhere is probably closer to Malta culture-wise, and I’d already travelled throughout much of Italy before. Yet after a few months in Northern Europe (Switzerland, I’m lumping you under that heading too), the change was sudden. I’ve written over and over again about the lack of evident borders on this trip so far, and how each time one country slowly faded into the next as I went from The Netherlands to Belgium to Luxembourg to France, and finally to Switzerland. In the case of Switzerland-Italy, there was a marked border this time, even up at 2469m. Yet there didn’t need to be. With or without it, I’d have known I was in a different country. Right away.
Take, for example, the previous day’s quick trip across the border to grab some lunch. As I entered the first café over in Italy, everything suddenly got more chaotic. For the better or worse, I’d gone from the silence of the Swiss side to loud voices all around, with people having heated conversations about the day’s most pressing issues such as which hiking paths provided the shortest route to Aosta and why the Swiss across the lake had no power. Everyone, of course, had their own opinion to add. I eventually sat down by the bar and ordered two panini. They only arrived fifteen minutes later and half-burnt, after the waiter had gotten carried away chatting to a friend and forgotten them in the toaster. Welcome to Italy.
It wasn’t just that, though. I’d imagined Valle d’Aosta, or at the very least the small village up here on the St.Bernard Pass, to be some kind-of mid-road melting pot between France, Switzerland and Italy, where things weren’t quite Italian yet, but not really Swiss or French either. Not the case. Other than the mountain scenery outside, I could have easily been in a cafe down in Rome. Suddenly, everyone looked Italian. Everyone spoke Italian. Everyone behaved Italian. I didn’t hear any French at all until some tourists walked in, and even then, the waiter could only speak to them in something half-broken and very-Italianish sounding.
Things had changed on the road too. After a few minutes of cycling down to Aosta I stopped to pull out the hi-vis vest from the bottom of my panniers, and haven’t taken it off since. Truth be told, drivers weren’t all that bad, and after a few more days in Italy I no longer saw my life flashing past me with every bend in the road. It was just a bit of a change after having cycled in Switzerland to say the least, and I had to get used to no longer having any special privileges on the road as a cyclist. From here south, I was just another regular vehicle. Once I accepted that and got used to it, I was totally fine.
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There were, of course, the instant perks of being in Italy too. Everything was priced in Euro, and life was affordable again. My first stop in Aosta was at Billa to get some groceries, and I may have gone a bit overboard. Two days later, I was still eating out of that same shopping spree.
I meanwhile received a call from Freddy, my Couchsurfing host for the night. He explained that he lived a few kilometres out of Aosta, and since I was down to the last of the day’s sunlight I headed off right away. Continuing the trend started previously, he again lived halfway up a hill. After the rest of the day’s route, though, this time I really couldn’t complain.
Later that evening, we headed back to Aosta by car for some drinks with friends of his. I’d forgotten that going out for drinks in Italy wasn’t just going out for drinks – the aperitivo came complete with a buffet-style selection of pasta and rice salads.
Of course, I’d digested most of my late lunch by now, so rice salad it was. The night led us round the city centre for some sightseeing, a few more drinks, and eventually ice cream. Delicious, of course. I got to know that any Italian gelateria worth its salt doesn’t use any milk in its fruit flavours, so lactose-intolerant me had an endless supply of ice cream to sample over the next few weeks. Yup, you can call me a pig if you like. I like to think it’s all fuel for the road.
The next morning I was walking round Aosta and taking in the sights (beautiful city!), when I suddenly heard some shouts of ‘Chris’ in the distance. I thought it had to be meant for someone else (who knows me in Aosta, anyway?), but when I finally turned round to have a look I saw Ria and Elena from up at the St. Bernard Hospice walking my way. Barely twenty-four hours, and we’d run into each other already! It was great to see them again, and we had a mini family reunion over lunch to catch up on our respective adventures. A lot happens in a day.
After again parting ways with my newfound Flemish family, the late afternoon’s bike ride took me right along the Aosta Valley and down towards Ivrea. I didn’t really have too much time to stop along the way, but I saw enough to know that I have to return at some point. The scenery was beyond great.
I stocked up on some pasta and tomato sauce for dinner, and settled on the spot below to put up my tent for the night.
And so began the succession of what continue to be great camping spots in Italy. Almost none of them technically legal, but no one’s told me a thing.
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I’d fallen behind on my cycling schedule with my unplanned stop up at the hospice and the morning spent in Aosta with Ria and Elena. This time, I couldn’t just afford to push things back by a few days and camp out some more. I had to reach Alessandria the following day, because I’d made plans to leave my bike behind at a Couchsurfer’s place for a while and head to the Ligurian coast for a hiking side-trip.
That gave me a day to cover the remaining 140km. Nothing I hadn’t done before, and with an early start it was more than manageable. I didn’t get to take too many photos because my camera battery was dead by lunchtime, but the photos I do have give the general idea.
Alessandria itself was a bit of a disappointment once I arrived – nothing much worth seeing or doing, at least as far as I could tell. My host Silvia, meanwhile, had apparently gotten lost in the mountains while hiking and had no idea at what time she’d be arriving back home. So I planned to hang out in the centre till she got back, and grabbed some dinner while I waited it out. By 2100 she still wasn’t sure when she’d be back yet and it was getting dark, so I decided it’d be better to cycle to her place. Getting in wouldn’t be a problem – her dad and grandma were home, so I was told. I was warned, though, that neither spoke a word of English.
Indeed they didn’t and communicating was initially interesting. I eventually realised, though, that if I really had to I could string together more Italian than I expected, and we could at least understand each other (I think).
I eventually fell asleep before Silvia got home, and the next morning she’d headed out to work while I was still sleeping. It was just me and grandma when I came down for breakfast, so Italian again it was.
I had some things I needed to sort out before swapping the bike for hiking shoes for a few days. Step one was the hiking shoes themselves – all I had were my cleated cycling shoes and flip-flops, neither of which would do. I also needed a backpack, some gas for my stove, and a few other small bits and pieces, so I tracked down the nearest Decathlon and decided to head there for the morning.
I also urgently needed to do some laundry and wash some dishes, and wanted to use my leftover groceries to prepare a packed lunch. That’s where my Italian reaches its limits. I probably could’ve gotten the message across eventually, but luckily didn’t need to find out. It turned out Silvia had a sister, Carolina, who’d just woken up and come downstairs. She spoke more English than she was ready to admit, and within a few minutes my clothes were in the washing machine, dishes washed, and pot of water bubbling away on the hob. I’d also managed to find myself a lift to the train station to head out towards Decathlon. Never underestimate the power of a common language.
I eventually met Silvia at Decathlon once she was done from work. It turned out she had the perfect backpack to lend me and I’d meanwhile figured out that my cycling shoes doubled as hiking shoes quite well with the cleats unscrewed. All that really left, then, was stocking up on gas.
Still, the trip to Serravalle had been worth it. If nothing else, I’d come across my new favourite thing about Italy. Eurospin.
What Decathlon is to sport and camping gear, Eurospin is to groceries. It’s a sort-of homegrown version of LIDL, with even lower prices and a larger range of products to choose from. And they’ve got stores all over the country and a mobile app to direct you to the nearest one! Yup, it’s about as good as it gets.
With groceries done and two canisters of gas in hand, I headed back home with Silvia to a dinner of pizzas and farinatas (Ligurian pancake-like specialties made with chickpea flour – delicious!) and got down to packing.
The next morning was an early start. Silvia worked as a hotel receptionist and needed to leave home at 0500, and I woke up at the same time to get a lift to the city centre with her and catch my train. I was in no hurry really, but an early start meant having some time to look around Genova on the way…and stopping by the hotel for some breakfast with Silvia before that, of course.
Still, it wasn’t long before I’d made it to Genova, and then onwards to La Spezia and Pisa. That was a week and a half’s worth of cycling right there, and I’d just covered the distance by train in a matter of hours. Ah well. It was only later that I’d find out just how much I’d missed by train too – the entire Ligurian coast made for some great cycling and camping, so it’s a good thing that I’d decided to go ahead with the original plan and return to Alessandria to cover the entire distance by bike again.
For now, though, I’d be slowing the pace down even more and exploring some of the coast’s harder-to-reach sections on foot. Let the hiking begin.
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