Day 10—Dove fuggi? In Italia.

Mônetier-les-Bains to Pinerolo
107 kms

Knowing that yet another summit awaited me before the border, I got off to an early yet pleasant start, pushing off from Mônetier-les-Bains and rolling on down the last part of the Lautâret towards Briançon, hair a-floating in the morning breeze. I met a kindred spirit, Jannot, who was setting off on a tour of Switzerland. He and Abz got on like wildfire.

Jannot.

After passing through Briançon, I started my climb up the Col de Montgenèvre. Although it stretches over a lesser distance, it is much steeper than the Lautaret. Most of the way there was no point even trying to ride. I just trudged upwards, pushing the Git alongside me. And the higher I got, the less I could see through the soupy layer of fog that had engulfed the entire valley. The terrible weather conditions put a damper my photographic impulses, so you can thank mother nature for sparing you many a gooey-eyed landscape stupid.

OK, grant me one!

The one thing I CAN say about the mountain top ski station of Montgenèvre is that it would be far prettier had it been obscured by snow. As it was in mid-september, the architecture of the hotels reminded me a lot of some of the most misguided attempts at housing the poor in the Northwestern suburbs of Paris in the 1960s. It's just not designed for half-seasons.

Montgenèvre: two down, one to go!

I thus waved goodbye to Douce France and sailed down into Italy, with nary a border official in sight. Take note, drug/arm smugglers: bicycle saddle-bags are the new double-lined truck floor.

As happy as I was to have passed the symbolic milestone of the border, however, I was decidedly displeased when at the bottom of the hill, the road started climbing yet again. Having thought that Montgenèvre would be my last serious climb, the summit of Sestriere was an unwelcome surprise—by now, I had fully had enough of the grind. But there was little choice, so I gritted my teeth, pushed on, and ended up being fully rewarded by the postcard prettiness of the mountain villages perched along the ascent.

At the summit, I stopped to warm my bones with a cappuccino and test-drive my Italian by asking for some directions. I had never before spoken Italian to anyone but myself, so I was eager to find out whether it was as comprehensible to real people as it seemed during my long chats with my imaginary Italian friends Nicola, Pier Paolo and Dario. The barista didn’t burst out laughing and finger pointing or blank out with a “say wha?” look on his face, so I took it as a good sign.

From the summit at Sestriere, I had a grand old day. I could literally feel my bones thawing with every passing kilometre despite the gale force wind from the high speed. The sun was shining, the houses were colourful, and despite being confined to a fairly anonymous and trucky road I got my first glimpse of some pretty sweet-looking Italian olive groves.

I arrived in the charming town of Pinerolo in the early evening, and decided to stop for the night. Feeling confident in my rolling Rs and budding hand gestures, I stopped at a fruit shop in the centre of the old town to inquire as to the whereabouts of the nearest youth hostel, “ostello della giuventu”. Perhaps I can put it down to the fact that hostelling is far less developed in Southern Europe than in the anglo-saxon world, or perhaps my Italian wasn’t actually as good as I had been telling myself. In any case, the shop owner sent me to the nuns who ran the “casa delle giovane” on the other side of the piazza. I reiterated my original inquiry to the lovely old nun at the reception. She told me to wait in the courtyard whilst she made some calls, then sent me without explanation up a couple of hilly streets to the Casa Betania.

Via Principe d'Acaia, my home for the night...

Waiting there on one of those granite doorsteps eroded by centuries of ins and outs was another no-nonsense lady who told me that they had been waiting for me. A few ladies came outside to help me carry the Git into the foyer and two little kids came running to see what all the commotion was about. I was given a grand tour of the rambling ancient house and the indoor chapel, shown where the shower was and told that dinner would be at seven. It was only when I asked where I could pay that I found out that I was actually in a shelter for women in difficulty that was attached to the town’s convent, and that I was welcome to stay for nothing and for as long as I wished, as long as I helped with the dishes from time to time.

And so I stayed.

Day 11--First Italian friends, first Italian pizza...

Pinerolo to Turin

50 kms

Having decided that I should sing for the lovely supper I had enjoyed the night before, I offered to look after two-year-old bambina Sarah, one of the children living at the Casa, whilst her Mum went out for the morning. Apart from the obvious, we turned out to have loads in common and had a grand old time chasing each other around the convent’s stony courtyard overlooking a lovingly-tended kitchen garden with rows of tomatoes running in between the apple and fig trees. I even tried out my none-too extensive Italian song repertoire to comfort Sarah when she fell off her tricycle. She preferred Fabri Fibra to Bella Ciao, but still I could tell she wasn’t impressed.

Sarah with Abz. Besties!

I was happy to have made my first Italian friend. However, the reason Sarah was left at home with me was that she had some sort of throat-ailment which everyone was calling “plache” whilst pointing to their tonsils. I still have no idea what exactly it was but I sure got a walloping of it myself, with runny nose and sore throat following me all the way to Rome.

I left Pinerolo after lunch and set off towards Torino, where I was to meet up with Cristina, one of the girls from the Casa Betania. She had offered to give me a little tour of the city before having my first true Italian pizza at her parents’ house in the suburb of Nicolino.

As I arrived in the outskirts of Torino, I met an old Sicilian cyclist who had caught me poring over my map with an air of bemusement. He proclaimed himself my guide and took me all the way to my youth hostel along the banks of the Po river, a lovely detour which I surely would never have found on my own.

Piazza Castello.

Cristina showed me around the fanfare-some Piazza CAstello and the very imposing Palazzi Madame and Reale which seemed a tad too Germanic in the I-smell-the-Mediterranean balmy atmosphere. We were then joined by her lovely older brother who gave me a tour of the Cathedral and ended up in a café to indulge in the most excellent Northern Italian tradition of aperitivo: if you order a glass of wine in the early evening, it comes to you with an amazing selection of Parma ham, mozzarella and tomato sandwiches. Oh yeah.

Aperitivo, baby!

We caught the bus out to Nicolino and I was welcomed like a princess by Cristina’s wonderful parents, who kindly ignored the fact that I was trying to pass a nightgown off as a casual dress, given that it was the closest thing to street clothes I had brought along. Cristina’s dad served us a succession of delicious homemade pizzas. Then Cristina gave me a skirt to wear so that we could go out for drinks on the town without having stuff thrown at us. Torino has a very pretty, glittery riverfront nightlife, though the cleanliness and the enthusiastic use of recess lighting made the whole place feel very prosperous Mitteleuropa-esque, all the more so when you discover that the flipside of the immaculate pavements of the city centre are some pretty grungy northern neighbourhoods populated by Northern African immigrants, broke students and nasty looking dealers.

After a great evening Cristina and her brother drove me back to my hostel (in the aforementioned grunge-hood). I could not have been more grateful to them and their wonderful parents for this warmest of welcomes.

Cristina and her wonderful Mum, who called me 'bambola' despite the truly offensive state of my hair. I wanted to hug her.