Arriving in Bolzano on a Sunday proved less than ideal - I had a long wait for a bus up to Castelrotto. I used the time to buy my onward train ticket, and for a good cup of cappuccino, but given the heat and humidity I couldn't face exploring the town, especially with my pack.
The scenery on the bus trip up into the Dolomite Mountains lifted my spirits. The road curved steeply up the mountainside above a narrow river valley, the air becoming a little cooler and less humid as we gained altitude.
The Cavallino d'Oro assigned me a room right under the roof, but the windows and skylight kept the temperature bearable, and both the bedroom and bathroom were big and attractive. Better still, my very reasonable room rate included a four course evening meal. Each morning, as I worked my way through the breakfast buffet I would make my choice from the dinner menu - with the help of the waitress, since it was printed in Italian. While the Latin I hated learning in school makes translating Italian newspapers somewhat feasible, it doesn't help much with menus.
Castelrotto clearly expects lots of tourists - skiers in winter, hikers in summer - and provides ample public transport to get them up to car-free Alpe di Suisi. A bus delivered me to St. Valentin, where I transferred to a very long and very slow cable car up to Compatsch. The alp stretched off into the distance, ringed by powerful mountains. A cool wind ruffled the grasses, but did little to mitigate the bright sunshine. I had forgotten that an alp is an open, grassy area, with no trees for shade. Impressive mountain peaks and abundant wildflowers aside, my clearest memory of the alp is of the remorseless sun.
I'm having a little trouble writing about my time in the Dolomites, because all the towns and villages, and the alp itself, have two names. Castelrotto, for instance, is also known as Kastelruth, the alp as Seiser Alm. This area, the Alto Adige, only became part of Italy at the end of World War I - victor's spoils from the Austro-Hungarian Empire. The Italian government still treats it with special care, including recognition of the German language. Still, unlike the Crimea, where the menus were in Russian, not Ukrainian, here they were in Italian.
I took a break from hiking my second day, and rode the bus back down to Bolzano. Normally the town would have enchanted me - all narrow streets and interesting old buildings - but again, even though June still had a few days to run, the heat and humidity were fierce. I was relieved to find that my main destination, the South Tyrol Museum of Archaeology housing the "Iceman", had air-conditioning. Somewhat to my surprise, the museum rose rapidly to a position near the top of my "best museum" list. Although the five thousand year-old mummified corpse was clearly the star exhibit, the curators had assembled an impressive array of related exhibits. And loaded the audio guide with plenty of good information.
Walking back outside, the heat, trapped between tall buildings, hit me full force, but I did manage to enjoy lunch in a small cafe on a side street - mixed salad and risotto. Talking of food, the meals at the Cavallino d'Oro also warranted praise The soups were particularly good, and the choice between cheese or gelato for dessert a tough one.
My last full day in the mountains I woke to rain, but I had stocked up on novels at a big bookstore in Bolzano and spent a peaceful morning reading, fueled by plenty of cappuccino. After lunch I took a shorter cable car up to the Marinzen plateau, and hiked down - this time through trees. Having spent much of June among mountains - the Tatras, the Alps and now the Dolomites - I was reluctant to leave for the lowlands. But I had planes to catch - Milan to London, and then back to the U.S.
Next morning I woke to more rain. While I managed to catch the bus to Bolzano's train station without getting particularly wet, rain elsewhere impacted the train schedule, and I arrived in Milan somewhat later than I had hoped. I had made a reservation (via venere.com) at the Mini Hotel Aosta, almost literally next door the Central Station, which was fortunate - as I checked in, a young couple was turned away.
I had low expectations for Milan, which I thought of as a center for industry, fashion, and high-end shops, but it surprised me. I started at the Duomo, plenty impressive, enjoyed an excellent cappuccino and equally good people watching in the lovely Galleria Vittorio Emanuele, ate a reasonable dinner and finished with a stroll around Sforzesco Castle. Oh, and I indulged in a final gelato. Of course.
The bus to Milan's Malpensa airport left from just outside the station, and thus just outside my hotel. Plenty early for my Easyjet flight, I boarded in the first group and snagged a window seat. Easyjet managed to get both me and my checked bag to Gatwick on time, and I arrived at London's Victoria station in good order, only to find that London was "enjoying" a heat wave. Back in the day - the 50s and 60s - temperatures above 75F meant newspaper headlines trumpeting a heat wave. With temps now reaching 90F plus, the "Evening Standard" threatened "Tube a Death Trap" (although in the event of a breakdown, apparently).
On the shady side of the street, I found the heat bearable, but between the tune, the buses and my non-AC room I was mostly miserable. My first room, at the James and Cartref House came with a fan, but then I moved to Grosvenor House, LSE's latest student residence, with a narrow window and no fan. I should have gone ut and bought one, I guess. With more normal British weather, the room, en suite and with a kitchenette, would have been a great deal.
The heat never let up. The day I visited my younger sister's family in Reading, we spent the afternoon limply in the garden (yard), in the shade. One day I took a boat ride down the Thames to Kew, just to cool off. Even museums weren't always comfortable - the top floor of the V&A being particularly hot.
Indeed, much as I love London, easily my favorite big city, I headed for Heathrow and my flight home with relief. London was, at least temporarily, hotter than North Carolina, and at home I had air-conditioning. First, though, a final night in Washington, since my flight arrived too late for me to catch the Amtrak train. I stayed at the Kalorama B&B at Woodley Park, one of the best deals in town, and ate one of the worst meals ever at the Indian restaurant down the road. I should have found the energy to take the metro over to Dupont Circle for some more of the excellent Indian food I had enjoyed back in March!
Talking about the metro - if you plan to use the airport bus and the metro to get downtown from Dulles airport, make sure you have some small dollar bills, or a credit card, handy. Neither the ticket machines or the attendants will make change. Since ATM machines only seem to give out $20s, this looks like a nice money-raising deal on the part of the Washington Transit Authority.
Then, one last train ride. Having little faith in Amtrak, I stocked up on food and books beforehand, but I had no idea how bad Amtrak really could be. The journey was scheduled to take six hours. Two hours late heading north? OK, I could handle that. But going south? Nearly FOUR hours late! And we spent getting on for 30 minutes of that just a couple of minutes short of Cary station, waiting for the northbound Amtrak train to arrive. According to my fellow passengers this was not unusual. It may not be unusual but it is surely ridiculous. It doesn't take 30 minutes for Cary passengers to get on and off a train. I'm all in favor of train travel, I've ridden enough of them over the last four years, but not on this route. Trains are a lot more comfortable than planes, and, I believe, less polluting, but I won't be riding Amtrak to Washington again any time soon.
Site design and content Copyright 2001 - 2010, Wilhelm's Words
Contact: wilhelmswords.com
Home