The Adventure Ends

My Italian adventure draws to a close today. Aware that the airport shuttle would pick me up before breakfast, the hotel delivered one to my room the night before—without a word from me. Croissants, bread, jam, cheese, butter, juice, tea, and a small electric kettle.

The first part of the trip included a ride downhill, then snaked along the shoreline through small towns. With the road barely one lane wide in many places, hugging the contours of the cliffs around blind corners, it was quite the ride. In the early morning shade of the valley, the driver would flick his headlights on to illuminate the arrow signs on the outside edge of the curve—thus alerting oncoming traffic to our approach. Where that was not feasible, he would sound the horn. Driving those roads takes nerves of steel. We didn't share a common language, but facial expressions were enough to convey a mutual opinion of a few incautious drivers.

He transported me safely to a rendezvous with a full-sized bus, which would carry me the rest of the way to the airport. Again, I was the solo passenger—but this driver spoke some English. He was impressed to hear that I had bicycled up Stelvio, Mortirolo, and Gavia all in one week; he and his wife ride motorcycles, so he knows those roads. At the airport, he sent me off with a traditional European kiss (both cheeks).

I managed not to doze off until I saw the icebergs and glaciers at the edge of Greenland. It would be several more days before my body would find the right time zone.