It's All Greek to Me

We're in Greece now which means I'm back to smiling and nodding and making balloon animals to communicate. This isn't so bad, because my tongue and ears need a break after Italy. People were so friendly I'm surprised we made it out of the country without getting married or adopted at least five times. It all began with a big 190 kilometer day into Trento. There was no pressing reason to go that far, but there's something about the promise of an all-you-can-eat restaurant that gives your legs a mind of their own. We were on a bike path almost the whole way, cruising down the Adige valley through about 100 miles of apple orchards. The path was packed with riders and there was a brutal headwind, so every time we passed someone they would slip into the vortex created by the tanks we are riding and draft us for miles. At one point we were the engine driving a huge train of bikers zipping dangerously around blind turns as we approached Merano. Later in the day some old guy on a mountain bike drafted us without any shame for at least 40k. You're welcome wherever you are...

Our string of friendly encounters started the next night when a group of young Italians in the campsite next to ours on Lago di Garda invited us over for drinks. They were from Verona, and in typical Italian fashion they spent a long time telling me how horrible Trento was. "people are snobby. it's dirty. the olive oil, pasta, architecture etc. is all bad" But hey, I'm not complaining. I'm willing to talk to anyone about anything at this point just for a change of pace and the free sangria didn't hurt things. It poured on us the next day as we headed towards Mantova. We ducked into a bike shop and the owner greeted us with stony silence and a few puffs from his cigarette. So much for Italian hospitality, I thought, but once he set his crew to working on our bikes and we got talking, everyone warmed up a little bit. This one old mechanic got so worked up telling us about all the wonders of the bike path to Mantova that I worried about his health. As it turns out, I had nothing to fear, but that comes later. Mantova is right in the middle of the Po River Valley, which is really a very wide swamp, so it is not exactly a tourist destination and there is no camping anywhere. My map showed camping in this one town 30k away, so we set off with me standing up the whole way to avoid certain aforementioned disagreements I'd been having with my seat. In town, this guy took us to the only place he could think of that might have camping. As if we needed any further evidence that Germans are weird, this place was a private German campground set in a scenic location that was half industrial wasteland and half swamp. It was surrounded by the kind of fence you usually see at junkyards and the few visible people inside were shuffling slowly between some smoke source and their Hooverville-style huts. Needless to say, we didn't bother getting anyone's attention to ask about rates for the night. I have no idea what was going on and I think it's better that way. We decided not to camp in the industrial wasteland either and rode away into the last rays of sunlight without hope or plans. Mats said, "You know, we haven't tried asking someone if we could camp on their property..."
Just at that moment, an angelic voice called to me in Italian: "Do you boys want to put your tents here?" it said. So we spent the night witnessing an awesome display of Italian hospitality and what started as an offer of a place to put our tents soon became a warm room with a fire to dry our clothes, dinner, showers, our own bathroom and enough alcohol to keep me talking late into the night. It was a stereotypical Italian evening with a lot of extended family all sharing the table. We talked about all the important subjects: soccer, food ("Louis Armstrong ate parmesan cheese every day to ride fast") and politics ("See that sickle on the wall? We are Communists. Prodi and Berlusconi are the same pig in a different coat") "Long live the Revolution" I said, and was treated to another shot of limoncello. The next morning they loaded us down with fresh fruit and homemade tomato sauce. It took all our willpower to get going and turn down their offer to stay for lunch. Now we know what Odysseus must have felt like with all the temptations he faced on his way home. Later that day we stopped in Bologna to try some of the city's best gelato. Before we knew it, the owner was talking my ear off asking where we were going and talking about a famous American chef who had come to his shop to do a TV special on gelato. He gave us both free t-shirts and sent us on our way.
That night I had my first realization about old people in Italy. We were once again out late trying to find an elusive campground when we finally reached the main square of a little hill town in the mountains between Florence and Bologna. To my astonishment, the whole place looked like a retirement home. Hundreds of old men were sitting around the piazza with no one under 60 in sight. Suddenly it clicked. I had always been vaguely aware that Italy's citzenry was heavily weighted towards the senior category, but this elderly village was just too much. Old Italians don't die I realized, they just slowly shrink away into nothingness. As they age they get a slight stoop and then start to lose centimeters. You can see them in the early stages in Italy's more touristed cities. They are old men and women about the size of children still going about their daily routine, shopping, sitting in cafes etc. However, when they reach a certain size, they are packed away to these hill villages to live out the last of their visible years away from the eyes of tourists. Eventually they will shrink to such an extent that they are practically invisible and their voices are mistaken for tricks of the wind. In fact, one night in my tent I think I mistakenly swatted Perugino as he tried to paint a miniature Annunciation on my shin. I don't feel that bad because I never liked his work anyways and his talent was already fading at the end of his visible career. In the campground outside of Rome I could have sworn I heard Augustus still crying out to Varus to give him back his legions, but he must be so small by now that it could have just been my imagination. Of course the Italians vehemently deny this shrinking phenomenon and I can't blame them. It obviously poses huge spiritual problems for a Catholic country when the promise of heaven is shortcircuited like this. And the already bloated government here would surely implode if the country's generous pension administration was forced to acknowledge the benefits owed to this unseen population.