Day 3: The Long Haul, Borgo Valsugana to Padova

The morning found me up early, waiting for my sorry hostel breakfast and then in the train. Getting out in Borgo, I see it is a small village, not too impressive from the train station. But then, cities usually have their backs to the tracks. Wandering down into town, I bumbled into yet another market day. On a Thursday in April, the whole town was outside buying everything imaginable, basking in the life that glowed all around. I wandered happily, came to the river, cross the cobbled bridge, crossed back further down stream. I was reminded of Freiburg in Germany, which also has water gushing along the streets; which I have also only seen in the youthful glow of April. The pastels of the worn buildings threw the bright merchandise into the foreground. Ruby red strawberries, gleaming white sneakers, glistening black belts as wide as a fist.
In a fruit cellar just of the crowded river, a woman let me go ahead in line, and chirped something in Italian. I looked apologetically at her, shrugged my shoulders. She tried English, “So many people here,” she said, smiling and motioning me forward. Her stooped figure only came up to my chest. We chatted, and lke so many she was impressed by my trip. She asked me what I thought of Italy. I told her it was beautiful. “Yes,” she replied, “Nothing like it in America.” As my fruit was carefully wrapped in white paper, she told the woman working, “Today we are internationalé,” and got a genuine laugh.
I bought pears, rolls, strawberries and a slice of cheese as big as my whole hand for less than five euro. Road food in Italy was improving as the towns where I bought it shrunk. On the way out of town, I pointed down river and asked a man in a suit, “Padova?” Stunned for a moment, he laughed and nodded, “Si, si, Padova!”
In moments, I was out of town, following cliffs to my right and the river to my left. Climbing up and cruising down on hips and fans and swales. Water falls tumbled from the highs every few thundered yards. It was the Columbia Gorge made out of marble and limestone, with Italian farms as staffage figures. More and more, as I encountered gardens I slipped past blooming fringes. At eleven, my Peugeot was still fully functional, and I pass from the state of Trento into the state of Veneto. Other cyclists begin to appear again, often giving me a amicable nod and a “Ciao”. My hopes are soaring, and I think I will probably be able to make it to Padua. The towns seem to be hurrying to greet me. I see a sign to Asiago, but I can’t make the detour. No time to be climbing mountain switchbacks just for some cheese. I stopped for lunch in the shade of a bridge, where sings pointed to a Elefante Bianco Cave. Divers were to wear three headlamps, and dive alone. The water was cool, and I relaxed for forty minutes, enjoying my strawberries and amazing cheese sandwiches.
Back on the road, the sun ahead and on my right a reassurance of direction, I noticed the first olive trees of my trip. I rode past all sorts of terraces, all sorts of fruit trees in bloom. Vines creep up the crumbling plaster of the facades. Each town is full of apartment-sized buildings, clustered around a church. The gardens and fields and wild margins fill up the rest of the trip. I made a last curve, and the Alps ended. Just like that. One last steep ridge fell into the valley floor, and then no more valley. In the hazy sea heavy distance baroque and measured towers lifted themselves above a city.
In Bressano, I tracked down the internet. The only place I could use it was the local library, tucked away behind a monastery. The foyer was an arcaded courtyard with students and a roman chariot lounging side by side. Busts and roman inscriptions filled the walls. I learned I had at least 40 km to go, and headed off across the flats.
In the mountains, on the bike path, wayfinding was simple. In the flats, I had to make choices. I learned to grab my map without taking off my pack, and stopped at every crossroad. People I asked for directions were confused and spoke only Italian. One man I met under a bridge shook his hand as if burned when I said the word “Brennero.” His motions helped, and I gathered I had to make two rights, a left, and straight ahead. He happily sent me on my way, and after two rights I was on a dirt path. The next man told me 2k, a left, 2k, a right, 25 k to Padova. I followed signs, and avoided roads with trucks. I was always ending up on roads with trucks again.
After far too much pedaling, I saw signs to Padova on one long straight busy road. 20k. I was exhausted. 15k, not so far, I tried a burst of speed. 12k. I was fading fast. I stopped to lay down, drink some water in a park. The fountain was broken. My shoulders were killing me, and my neck was joining the plot. My energy was at the breaking point. Finally, I saw a sign announcing my arrival in Padova. But this looked quite different from a city where Galileo once taught. A man on a bicycle came by. Outfitted in overalls and a broad black moustache, I had to think of Mario. I asked him how to get to the center. He motioned me to follow along. “Hwhere you afrom,” he half sang at me, then “hwhata a state?” when I told him the USA. “Idaho” he mumbled, visibly hearing the word for the first time. “Good times in Padova, you go left now,” and with a wave and “Arrevedercci” he pedaled off slowly straight ahead, knees working out from the bicycle like a crab.
When I reached the center of town, I realized I had not yet contacted Betsy, the Innsbruckerin in Padova. I had met her my very first day in Innsbruck, at her going away party. Now she was studying here The information desk was closed, so she was my only real hope. It was pushing 7 o’clock. I decided to call Claudia, her friend whose Austrian number I had. No answer. Now what.
Leaning on my bike, looking at the ancient towers, I wished for a sleeping bag. Then my phone rang. “Hello?” “Ja Hallo! Dan, how are you, I am in Padova!” Stunned, laughing, too blow away to really process this I replied, “So am I! Where can we meet?” In fifteen minutes, I was in Betsy’s apartment chatting away in German.
After a drip fed shower and some gnocchi, I was feeling better. We headed down town to the weekly Wednesday night student swarming of the town square. Everywhere were happy crazy Italians. Some girls Betsy had met once before took a bite of my pizza, a swig of my beer, and gave me 3-year-friend hugs and cheek kisses when we wandered off. Ten minutes later they walked past and didn’t say a word. Maybe they didn’t recognize us. Maybe that is Italy.
When we once again bicycled to the apartment, out of the old town, it was about 2 in the morning. I was supposed to be in Venice the next day at noon. I wasn’t so sure that was going to happen, as I awaited sleep, dead tired on Betsy’s floor.