Trieste to Aosta, Italy /
Thun, Switzerland
On a trip of this length, energy and enthusiasm are bound to dip. It’s been great to have a few chances to recharge, but at times in the moment, this final stage felt like killing time between seeing more friends. Haphazardly chosen on the fly as convenient places to break long journeys, some of these last few stops were not places I had any familiarity, and as I realised towards the end, it was a unique opportunity not just to see more sides of Italy than the ones I know, but to see and experience places special to people I care about.
Drained from yet another heat wave and being the only remaining stop without personal ties, I unfortunately gave Trieste the shortest shrift. Its giant Piazza Unità is the only such that faces the Mediterranean, and architecturally the city looks far more like Austria than it does anywhere else I’ve been in Italy. That’s something I realise more in hindsight, from the pictures.
The piazza lights up beautifully at night, when it was moderately less uncomfortable to walk around, and looks majestic when viewed from the pier across the street. In the day, the lack of tree cover along with semi-reflective stones made it difficult to appreciate, as I was more focused on seeking shade, and left the grand public space empty of people. It’s something I’ve unfortunately noticed in much of Italy, and likely more of a problem now with the increasingly hot summers. On the other hand, Trieste has a lovely canal in its center with lots of al fresco dining, and hinting to its different demographic mix and history, it’s even home to a Serbian Orthodox church. (The city and region is also bilingual in Slovene: Trieste is Trst, while Slovenia’s Piran is Pirano, and Koper in between is… Capodistria. Sure.)
A cursory walk around the small old town, checking out the Roman ruins from the 1st century, and climbing uphill to the requisite castle admittedly felt more like ticking the routine boxes even if also impressive in hindsight. Wanting a change, I sought out the Risiera di San Sabba: a disused rice mill in a residential district turned clandestinely into Italy’s only Nazi extermination camp, housing Jews and political prisoners. Having never visited any other Holocaust-era historic sites, walking into a room of cramped cells or a courtyard that used to be the killing room and the oven gives me this eerie feeling I’ve never experienced before. That this site is so far from the geographic epicenter only speaks to how much more far-reaching the Holocaust was than I could have ever imagined.
The reason why I came to Italy, and at this time of year? A wedding!
While it’s been fun visiting friends living in Europe, it’s pretty trippy to have a bunch of your friends from back home with you instead. Daniele and Elena wanted a vineyard/lakeside wedding and they got both up in the hills above Lake Iseo — the one that’s neither Garda nor Como, and an hour and a half drive from Milan. I can’t express how cool it is to see a different side of your friends — especially when they’re surrounded by loved ones from another era or another language. You think you know their personality, then you see so much more nuance when it’s in their mother tongue.
Our Vancouver contingent had a grand time wandering Milan together the night before, and a few of us got some extra time hanging out lakeside before the ceremony. The skies poured all their water just in time before the big hour, cooling down the temperature for the first time in weeks, and what a magical time we all had.
Then just as suddenly as we came together, we all went our separate ways, and I had a morning to myself speedwalking through Milan. Can’t leave without seeing the Duomo… from the outside, at least!
The last stop of my trip was the first one three years ago, my previous time in Europe. It’s a long way from Milan though, and upon suggestion from Bernhard, checking in… Why not cool off in the Alps and break up the journey in Aosta?
Aosta, of course! A place I know little about, but yet I’ve heard the name so much: it’s the hometown of my friend Louise. She isn’t here — she’s in Canada, and moving away from Vancouver on this very weekend — but she was more than happy to set me up with a place to stay downtown, and provide both tips and a trip down memory lane from halfway across the globe. It’s kinda funny, though oddly sentimental, to visit someone’s old high school hangouts or workplace without them… though I suppose she was with me via text!
Two things hit me immediately on arrival. The first sensation: sweater weather! After weeks of suffering, even in Slovenia’s slightly “lower” temperatures, it was a joy to simply exist outside without sweating, let alone feel completely comfortable, or even chilly at night. And the first sight: tall mountains in every direction, so close that between streets, it looks as if there’s a massive green wall ahead. Walking around the lovely town centre, it seems like people clearly take advantage of that and more: nearly every other visitor I saw was clad in hiking gear, mostly speaking French — which happens to be the co-official language of the province, the smallest in Italy, and bordering both France and Switzerland. There’s also the local Valdôtain dialect, which I heard precisely two people speak in the course of several days.
Food here is predictably alpine, and while I was expecting things to be heavy, I didn’t expect this much cheese: fontina is the local specialty, and both the polenta and the cotolleta alla valdostana use copious amounts. (The latter is basically a milanesa larger than the size of a pizza plate — enough for more than two dinners!) Delicious, and yet somehow, fine despite my lactose intolerance. There’s some interesting local liquors too, from tobacco to génépy — intensely herby and perhaps a bit too much of an acquired taste for me.
The surrounding hills and towns are lush and mountainous, usually bisected by a river, lined with hillside vineyards, and marked with castles on top. On Louise’s recommendation, despite being sick of castles (and museums and cathedrals) at this point, I visited the 12th-century Fénis Castle in the nearby eponymous town: okay, it was genuinely impressive and worth the detour, I’ll concede that! Built for a family in the House of Savoy (which ruled Italy of various states of unification up till 1946), the frescoed walls and the towers were pretty cool to see.
Maybe more than anywhere else I’ve been in Italy on this trip, the weight of history permeates Aosta. There are Roman ruins all over the city, though unfortunately for me, many are closed off for restoration in time for the city’s 2050th anniversity celebration — and that absolutely isn’t a typo, as it was founded in 25 BC in honour of Augustus, the first Roman emperor. Much of the city is built over existing ruins, including a large cryptoporticus that is semi-buried, semi-excavated, and a 4th century church with additions in the 11th, 12th, and 18th centuries. But things go even further back than that: the Saint-Martin-de-Corléans Megalithic Area, discovered in 1969 just outside of the city center, houses an entire neolithic/Bronze Age (somewhere around 2000 BC) archaeological site of tombs and stele, intentions and meanings largely unsolved.
To cap off my time in Italy, it felt appropriate to visit the highest point of the country — Monte Bianco (Mont Blanc), right on the border with France and 4800m above sea level. The air feels thin, and even then you can see the crazy mountaineers scaling the Devil’s Tooth in the distance. From weeks of 40°C weather to -1°C at the peak… what a journey, and what a view.
It feels a little fitting to end this trip where my last one started. While I would have liked more time, at least three days are better than the 20 hour layover I had three years ago. It’s always nice to catch up with Marlies and Flo again and to see their how much their kids have grown up, but it’s funnier still that Thun is now my most re-visited place outside of Hong Kong. I’m likely to keep returning if that’s where they stay.
The journey to get there from Aosta may have been the most expensive four hours of land transport (bus + train + bus) I’ve ever paid for, but it was great to see more of Swiss scenery just from a window. After a month of mostly hearing Italian everywhere, it seems odd that taking a train from Martigny, all announcements and signage are only in French, then things change without warning to only German after just two stops. (Not to mention that Italian is also an official language of Switzerland, and since I didn’t pass through any Italian-speaking region, that language wasn’t represented at all.)
Over a late night chat, that brought to mind a question of national identity: something I asked basically everyone in Papua New Guinea about. It’s something I didn’t have to ask in Italy at all — everyone seems to bond over food and regional specialties, and even the shared weight of history. Flo and Marlies posit that the Swiss national identity is of simply neither being German nor French. There may be truth in jest — English, with no official status, seems to be the actual lingua franca between communities. Even adaptation is looked at with befuddlement: neither think that Flo, as a German, ought to even try speaking Swiss German despite years living in Switzerland, but the same standard isn’t applied to other immigrants. Huh.
This visit was spent largely at pools and playgrounds around the area: all set in ridiculously scenic locations. It’s all the more hilarious that we’d sit largely with our backs turned to the view, chatting nonstop with eyes focused on the kids and joining them. As for getting there, it’s the same: the view from the bus/train station in Spiez? Jaw-dropping, and one that could easily make me miss a bus. The ferry back to Thun? Full of shutter-happy tourists, but the kids are immediately lulled to sleep. Maybe that’s the true Swiss way: take the incredible nature for granted. Sounds almost like Vancouver.
With two other friends of theirs visiting from Germany along with their kids, we had a lovely final day picnicking and swimming at the lake, playing with the kids, and cooking up a backyard dinner together: one of those days you’d wish would never end, but essentially the summer life I’ve missed from back home. Goodbyes are so bittersweet in a trip full of them, but there’s nothing like returning back to a Vancouver summer after such a fulfilling time. I’ve spent this final stretch — and I’m spent myself — chasing my friends across the region in pursuit of connection, and I can’t wait for more of that back home, all in one place.