More than an interesting day in search of the ever-important bike box.

First, the box is a necessity to get the bike home. Research confirmed the airline would be of little help. Most stores in Italy are closed Monday, or they open after 2:30 p.m. Claudia said the store operators need a rest day. I decide to ask how they make money to stay in business. “This is why Americans are crazy,” she said, “You work yourself to death.”

Managed to find an auto repair shop that also said “bicycle” on the sign. I located a door ajar in back and went in.

I found a man at a desk, and he wasn’t grouchy at all. I showed him my note written in Italian that said I was looking for a bike box.  He shrugged, said “no bikes,” and then snapped his fingers, leading me to a corner collection of large cardboard. He found two large weighty pieces.

I cheered. It was my best option so far. The man came running out with a fresh roll of tape and I managed to get across that I’d be back on Tuesday.

‘Plan B’ on the bike is coming together with a bit of MacGyver ingenuity.

If I have to, I can make this work. “Build-A-Box 101” could be around the corner.

Lorenzo, with flowers

It’s been an interesting 48 hours as I work my way through my final days in Italy.  Most challenging was Saturday evening when I spent four hours trying to find a place to stay for the evening.

I thought as I pedaled closer to Milan the traffic was just getting busier because it was a big city. Little did I know I was pedaling right into an outdoor concert similar to the size and scope of Woodstock.

The campground gate closed in front of me and thousands of others wearing dreadlocks as the site was full. There was zero hotel space and even the sanctuaries and monasteries were full.

I backtracked and could not get out of town fast enough.

Finally, with darkness closing in, I found the small, two-star San Carlo Hotel. A friend asked me if it was everything I had imagined…..

Well, it was a clean room with a bathroom and only one bullet hole in the wall; it was perfect.

Thankfully, the clerk at the desk provided me with an electric fan. It helped circulate the stagnant air and it drowned out the tense shouting (I’m assuming, and hoping, that’s just an Italian thing) going on in the next room.

At this point, I was too tired to care.

On Sunday morning I hit the road early and was headed to Malpensa to see if I could arrange a box to fly my bike home.

Took a break about 35 miles down the road in Saranno and toured a flea market. By the third vendor table, all the “fleas” were buzzing about the solo American with the bike.

I was given a chair in the shade. Some woman pushed a big dish of pistachio and chocolate gelato into my hands, then I was bombarded with questions about the tour, all in Italian, of course.

There was a moderate translator, i.e., “How old are you?” and “How does a husband let you go on these trips?” One man, Antonio, managed to get across, “Are you married? Would you like to be?”

That’s when Claudia came to my rescue; she was a small woman with fiery red hair and perfect English.

Claudia phoned her husband, Mario, to bring him into the plan. Laughingly, she told me he said, “I leave you along for 10 minutes and you find a stray to bring home.” Claudio furthers, “He always told me I could talk to a crack in the sidewalk.”

Claudia lived in Varese, a mere 40 kilometers away. “I give you direction and, if you get lost, you ask. We’ll see you for dinner.” With that, I was off to find my accommodations for the night.

It took me three hours to get there. I had little doubt along the way, but I was biking in Italy…..how bad could this turn out?

I tell ya, not bad at all! Claudia and her husband live in a brick home previously owned by his grandfather. I had the loft to myself with my own bathroom until Wednesday when I leave.

Claudia is a wonderful hostess. We toured the city center at night with excellent food and music. She made me try things. 🙂

Today we hunt for a bike box.

Filled risotto croquettes PHOTO GALLERY (Night Life)

Coasted in to Milan around 7 a.m.  Stopped outside Santuario del Carmelo.

Luciano and Massimo were setting up their flower display just to the left of the church steps. Brilliant flowers. The aroma put a pleasant bow on the morning.

It took four hours to find a place to stay tonight. Imagine Woodstock being in town. How was I to know?

Hotel San Carlo is my landing point. I walked down the street for my first food since the croissant this morning.

 
A total of 65 miles on the day and I’m so tired I don’t care any more.

Magazine cover: Michelle Obama “Back to Cook at Home”

These fellas made my day today.

Antonio (L) and Constantine

I was getting close to Milan, but it was late. It’s easier to stay in the small towns with welcoming churches and more affordable room rates. I took a random turn and ran into this fruit stand with a ridiculous pile of fresh cherries.

Antonio welcomed me into the shade. He grabbed a handful of cherries and shoved them into my hands. I had to pull them up to my chest just to hold them all.

It was “charade conversation” at its best. I got the message across about bicycling Milan to Genova to Rome to Pisa, up to Parma. Antonio held his head and made the finger-circle gesture for crazy. “Mama Mia,” he said, then invited me to a fruit snack.

Constantine was his wing man. The pair offered me shade, a place to sit, and using a pocket knife, he sliced open a ripe melon. Constantine handed over a full liter bottle of drinking water. Antonio was bold and old. He asked my age, if I was married, and whether or not I had children.

He had seven children and was 71 years old. Constantine straightened signs that had fallen down in the wind. He acted as a translator and, when he stretched, a big hair watermelon belly fell out from under his shirt.

What’s been amazing on this trip is the people that have the least seem to give the most.

Leaving my new favorite community of Caravaggio.

After 7 a.m. mass (I wore my scarf as my favorite watchdog priest was on the altar), I stopped at the neighboring cafe for breakfast; an espresso and a croissant.

“You have to visit Bermago before you go.” It was Marisa at the neighboring table. “Make the time; it’s only 20 kilometers.”

With that, she starts drafting a map, writing down directions city by city, guiding me to my destination.

Marisa

The tree-lined streets are cobblestone, so I shimmy, shake and rattle my way out of town.

Bermago is on my “to do” list today, and then on to Milan.

On all the tours there is one experience and story that really has an impact — this night at Santuario S. Maria del fonte is it. 

Lights out at 10 p.m. sharp.  It was a peaceful sleep.  Per my direction I said I would arise at 6 a.m.  

I was quiet even with all the wood doors; they must close every hallway door at night.  I could hear my cleats on the marble stairs echo though the halls. 

I gently sealed one more door before scooting to my bike, held safely overnight in the yard, and then a nun in full white habit steps out. 

She was a larger nun and amazingly stealth for her size. Her hands were folded under her robe and she looked stern. It was a little Steven Spielberg but in a Sound of Music sort of way. 

Sister Armanda

“Bonjourno,” she said in full voice, like it was time for everyone else to get up anyway. 

It was Sister Armanda.  All the nuns must have been put on notice about the house guest. 

She rattles off some cheerful Italian and then mimes sleep putting her hands together and resting them under a head tilt. “Si, si buono, ” I reply. Then she points to the door and says “bicicletto, ” then shoes me away. 

I reorganize and am soon rolling out the rig. Sister Armanda is at the door. I take a moment to pass her a note and a donation for the night. She takes the note. “Italiano!” she said with enthusiasm. I had Googled English-to-Italian translation the night before and wrote a thank you note they would understand. Then I forced the money and said, “donation.” 

“Coraggioso” (courageous), she said, holding her arms up for effect.  

Sister shuffled to the double wood doors .  I noticed she wore support stockings and her swollen feet tested the seams of her slippers. 

“Ciao,” she said with a hearty so-long waive. I walked my bike to the gated entrance. 

Early morning street sweeper

The street sweeper was already noisily on duty and the church bells were ringing out a crisp hymn. The sun cast a bright yellow brush across the trees and the gold cross atop the sanctuary stood watch on another new day. 

I love Italy. That is all.