When I was just outside of Italy in Arnoldstein, Austria, I spotted another cyclist loaded down and stopped him on the road. For whatever reason, I feel instant kinship with anyone carrying stuff on their bike, and I almost attack them with enthusiasm. This guy looked a little beat down and was dressed in all brown with floppy hair. He was from Slovenia. I asked him in German where he was going, and he responded back to me in English spotting my accent. He told me that it would take me 3 or 4 days to reach the Adriatic Coast. I didn't say anything, but it seemed a little ludicrous that a downhill path to the sea of maybe 180 or 200 kilometers would take 3 days to do. It was set in my mind as a challenge from the point I started pedaling in the direction of Italy where he pointed as he was talking to me.
From Tarvisio, I knew the little over half-way point to the coast was Udine, Italy. If I reached Udine, it would be easy to get to Grado.
At the beginning of my ride, there was this doorway that I rode through. Was I in Copenhagen again? What was this? Was this a gateway to another dimension?
I had already seen so much beauty this whole ride from Salzburg, but this place was more primal. It felt as though this was the oldest part of the earth. There were river beds that were bereft of water except for aqua green rivulets of water. Was this the prime ingredient of primoidal ooze? Was this the birth place of all the rivers of the world? Did the fetal rivers crawl away like snakes to all the continents of the world to become the Amazon, Mississippi, Huang He, Nile, and Ganges?
To make it feel even more mysterious, fog and clouds hung overhead during this stretch, grazing upon this rough landscape. What was happening underneath this natural smoke? Hidden under the smoke, the earth perhaps was privately remaking itself.
It was a lonely path through mountain tunnels past old ghastly railroad depots. Some tunnels on the Ciclovia Alpe-Adria were closed, but there were ways around. It felt strange that not a soul was out there with me. The fog maybe birthed these little salamanders who were traversing and lounging on the bicycle path in Halloween colors. I counted 40 of them along the way. I swerved around them as they were in the upward dog position as I was singing "Fly Like an Eagle" as I steered my bicycle through tunnels.
This was mostly a downhill path from just shortly after Tarvisio to Udine, and most of it was a separate path. The views were incredible, and there was nothing to worry about out here.
I stopped in Pontebba to get water and food at a local market. I was reminded that I still didn't know any Italian at all. The line was long and moved slowly. Old ladies cut in front of me. The cashier was more patient with me here than anywhere else I had been when I did not know many words. The store was appropriately named Amico or friend in Italian. I only now understand what the sign meant. Men in the square sat at tables watching me pour water into bottles and eat bueno bars.
I kept going and eventually was on this path that was a little rocky and rough, but it was away from the main road. Somehow, I got a little lost and missed my turn. I ended up in Amaro, and it took me a while to figure out that I needed to turn around and head south through Venzone. I found a sign later, but it wasn't very clear. I had biked all the way to the industrial zone west of Amaro.
It seemed like I was always making mistakes like this. Whenever I see my distance traveled for the day, it's very possible that I can add an additional 10 kilometers to it for mistakes, turnarounds, and extra trips at the end of the day. My bike was my taxi.
Anyways, once I started going the right way toward Venzone, everything flowed easily. Venzone looked positively ancient.
This was the site of an earthquake back in 1976. It was put back together after the destruction. My instinct about this place being the mouth of creation was remotely right, or maybe I could sense the seismic rumblings in my bones. I could sense the marrow of earth moving. As I moved south of here, everything flattened out. I was in disbelief and was a little sad that I was actually done with the Alps that I had first starting traversing five days ago in Salzburg. I was feeling very comfortable riding in the streets on the way to Udine. I reached Udine before sunset and was able to find a cafe where I used wifi to book a hotel. I felt like I was getting looser about having a plan each day. It wasn't as cold here as it was in Tarvisio too, which I didn't know. Bicycles were popular here in Udine, and Italy had this carefree style to it like it wasn't trying to hard. The buildings had faded paint, and cyclists rode in the middle of the street while smoking or talking on their phones. It had shades of Cleveland here.
After posting some pictures to Facebook to signal to my mother that I was alive and well, I made my way to the hotel. I still did not even know the exact words for "do you speak English?" or "I have a reservation." My head was processing exactly what I had seen from this day still, in a day that I had no need for language but was a little animal traversing the valleys between mountains. Even though, I felt a little bad. I arrived in my disheveled and language-ashame state and the clerk immediately started trying to make me laugh. He teased me for booking the reservation before arriving 5 minutes later. In my fatigue, I left my passport at the desk and didn't notice. I cleaned up and went to find food somewhere and passed by the desk again. He gave me back my passport. I told him about my trip from Tarvisio to Udine that day. "You are a strong girl. Strong girls are the best." I walked outside, but I didn't see anywhere that made sense for me to stop, so I went back to the hotel and ordered a cappuccino there. Ordering cappuccinos in Italy at night are frowned upon because it's a breakfast drink I found out later. The cappuccino offered some easy calories and caffeine while I wrote out some postcards that I had picked up in Tarvisio.
After I finished writing, I talked to the clerk again. He teased me a little bit about being the first one to write postcards in the whole year that he'd worked there and asked me if I was writing my boyfriend. Is this how Italy was going to be? Was my Mexican friend at home right about Italian men being similar to Spanish men? He told me that maybe I could reach Trieste in a day, and that I would get to see the mountains again if I headed west along the coast. He was a cyclist himself, and he helped me bring my bicycle into the gate inside the hotel. One more day in the mountains would extend my day in the Alps that I was already missing. I had had Trieste in mind this whole trip all along, though it seemed so far away from Copenhagen, I couldn't say that I would reach it aloud to myself or others. I was one day away.
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