Seven Million Stairs -- Piano delle Creste, Switzerland

Massi knows I love to hike (it's not really hard to deduce. Alps make me freaking ecstatic). So for one of my final summer experiences in Switzerland (this summer, at least), Massi, Timo, and I went on a hike. 

I don't think any of us realized that the hike would include approximately seven million stairs. Had we known, we might have approached the formidable mountain with appropriate trepidation. 

But as we were blissfully ignorant, we practically sauntered up the beast before us. 

"About seven hours until Piano delle Creste," Massi read the sign. "That's written for the slowest. We can probably do it in seven hours, with lots of breaks." 

Such was our hubris. 

The first part of the hike was steep up, but it was followed by a leisurely walk along a river and lovely strolls beside idyllic little mountain villages.

But then the "UP" really started.

And the "UP" just kept going.

ALL THINGS MUST END, BOURGET, I yelled at myself consolingly.

THERE WILL BE AN END TO THESE STUPID, INCORRIGIBLE, GINORMOUS STAIRS, I shouted soothingly to my dying knees.

The scenery (and the stairs) took my breath away. The weather was perfect, and Timo and Massi made the best hiking buddies. They patiently waited for me as I trudged up the stairs behind them, because even giardia induced sprints up a hundred stairs to the nearest composting toilet couldn't have properly prepared me for this beautiful, beastly Alp.

It's a good thing I love nature so much. Otherwise I would be wondering why the hell I'm torturing myself on purpose. 

But in the end... I'd walk up those stairs any day (not every day), to see views like this. 

To smell air so clean. 

To really feel the quiet. 

We reached the lakes, which meant we only had four hundred meters of elevation to climb and another two hours to hike.

Unfortunately, we didn't quite realize that 400 meters of elevation left to climb didn't really include the fact that we had to descend. And then climb. And then descend again. And then climb again.

"I think it was a drunk mountain goat who made this trail," Timo complained as he looked at the absurd amount of scree we had in front of us.

I almost wept by the time we made it to the one hour sign.

OH THANK GOD. THIS REALLY WILL END. 

(my knees didn't believe me this time. Not that I blame them. I'd been leading them on shamelessly for hours)

The final climb.

Our final descent was steep and sketchy. It included a chain hooked onto the side of the mountain, with several links missing.

ADVENTURE. 

Tired, but jubilant, we reached a lake just outside of our refuge for the night.

And we plunged in.

(plunge might be a strong word. Terrified tip-toeing, in the way the keeps your nethers as dry as possible for as long as possible would be more accurate. But less dramatic)

It was not, er, warm. But it was deliciously refreshing, after what ended up being 8+ hours of hiking.

Stupid seven million stairs. 

It was my first experience staying in an Alpine hut, and it was definitely a warm and cozy one. We all dished out an extra five francs for a steaming hot shower, then met in the restaurant area for dinner. A dinner everyone staying in the refuge were served at the same time, family style.

Pasta has never tasted so good.

The bedding situation was also a bit novel for this refuge newbie. It was as if one giant bunkbed had been stretched to accommodate thirty people, with fifteen small mattresses on top and fifteen small mattresses on the bottom. You were literally sleeping shoulder to shoulder with your fellow hiker.

In our case, fellow hikers happened to be Swiss people in what looked to be their sixties.

HOW DID THEY GET UP HERE? 

Was what crossed my mind on first sight. And then I realized that Swiss old people are probably much more active and in shape than American young people.

Respect. Boundless respect. 

The walk down the mountain the next day was three hours of cold, wet, steep trekking. And since downhill always suits me better than uphill (my knees were in shock by then, so they didn't notice anything), I flew down the mountain.

Pausing my flight to take the occasional picture, of course.

We were on our last cookies and granola bars by the time we finally reached the trail head (it was becoming desperate, really). And as we were looking forward to neither a) waiting for the bus, nor b) walking the couple of kilometers back to the car, we decided to hitchhike back to where Timo's car was waiting for us.

What. An experience. I want to get in a hot bath right now. With bubbles. And to get out probably never.

I Spend More Time -- Lugano, Switzerland

It's hard for me to write when I'm feeling at home. Even if I'm going on adventures, engaging in all manner of interesting shenanigans, and still adjusting to living in a new country with social norms particularly challenging for hobos like me (like keeping my feet off the dashboard of a car... I was under the impression that "footrest" was the primary purpose for dashboards).

I write because I need continuity. I need something in my life that stays the same amidst the whirlwind of chaos that is my drifting existence. This blog gives this disjointed vagabond a much needed through-line. A through line that keeps me in touch with where I've been, where I'm going, who I was, who I am.

Who I'd like to be. Who I'd rather not be again. You know, the things our close friends and family usually do for us.

But when I live in a place and it feels like home, I don't have the same need for an online through-line. I'm home. Cadempino is my stability. Massi is my through-line. I don't feel the same pressing urge to express myself through writing, because I can take that need to Massi. To his sister. To his friends.

But I feel guilty for not writing. I feel like a part of me that I love dearly is slowly atrophying in the dusty cupboards of my mind. But I'm also not in the habit of forcing myself to do things I don't need to do. I'm in the habit of recognizing seasons of life, and trying to live with the seasons, without resisting.

Now is a season of settling in. Of resting my vagabond boots, and hopefully putting them away for a good long while. Now is a season of home. It isn't a season wherein I walk around thinking, I wonder how I will describe this in my blog later... I wonder if she'd be annoyed if I shared this bit of dialogue... how am I going to turn these moments of speechless wonder, these snippets of indescribable happiness, into a blog post? 

Now is a season of just living the wonder. 

I spend more time learning Italian (badly and slowly) than writing.

I spend more time strolling through gorgeous Italian villages than writing.

I spend more time photographing lakes and flowers (I mean, it's Lake Como. You can't not spend oodles of time photographing lakes and flowers) than writing. 

I spend more time getting to know Elli than I spend writing. Time during which Elli makes me feel so welcomed. So totally at home that writing doesn't even cross my mind.

Feeling totally, unequivocally accepted by Massi's family has given me such comfort. Such hope for us and our future. Such a solid feeling of support and security.

I spend more time sinking into the realization of how ridiculously lucky I am than writing.

Massi and I continue our weekend adventures. He whisked me away to Bern and Freiburg (in a car, not on a motorcycle. For which my aching low back, sore ass and knees were very grateful), to explore the cities and to visit friends/family.

One of the nice things about spending eight long months in Guatemala, is that I have a thoroughly refreshed appreciation for European cities. 

Traveling from Cadempino to Freiburg and Bern was fun for this perpetual (it seems) monolingual.

And by fun, I mean horribly embarrassing and confusing. Just in case the sarcasm dripping from my fingers wasn't conveyed properly.

Going from Italian, to French, to German was not at all pleasant for my brain. My sad, English, sort of Spanish, brain. Even though I was literally only switching around a few words. Remembering to say "salut" instead of "ciao", or "danke", instead of "merci".

I can't imagine what it would be like for these things to be natural. To just automatically switch without needing to agonize over it a few seconds before every sentence. Or, in my case, word.

This is when I wish Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy wasn't just a fantasy and that there was such a thing as a Babel fish. 

My life would be unimaginably better. 

Which is saying something, 'cos it's pretty good right now. 

I struggle to speak Italian. For several reasons, I think. Because I'm self-conscious to speak around Massi (who speaks a stupid amount of languages), and because I'm just sad that I have to start over again. In Guatemala, I had achieved a level of Spanish that allowed me to communicate my needs, no problem. A level of Spanish that even allowed me to have fun conversations with people (mostly with Silvia. Who had infinite patience and could understand my bad pronunciation and what I meant when I said things like "dientes muy inteligentes").

Just focus on learning Italian. And don't think you should be anywhere you aren't. It's okay to start over. Again. It's okay that you forget when to say "Ciao!" and when it's more polite to say "Buongiorno." 

It's okay that you're a beginner again.  That you sometimes (oftentimes) still accidentally offend people. That you don't know how to express yourself in this new language. 

You're allowed to think it's hard. To think it's frustrating and embarrassing. You're even allowed to be angry at yourself when it takes you seventeen times to remember how to say "how are you?"  

Just don't get discouraged by thinking you're somehow behind. That you have all this catching up to do. Don't invalidate the experiences that got you where you are today by telling yourself, "I'm behind." 

Because you're not behind. You're exactly where you need to be and you shouldn't be anywhere else.