29-Sept

Meet Arne. I almost didn't. He lives in Ameglia, Italy, but has lived in almost every country in Europe. I found Arne through couchsurfing because his daughter had been hosting, went off to college last month, and left her dad in charge of keeping the room available. After a day of some heavy thinking (see previous post) and an aching body which left me a bit tardy on the day's 22 mile trek, I arrived at the train station that would carry me to his neighborhood a bit faster. To be a proper guest with my tardiness, I called Arne from the train station to give him an estimated arrival time.

The response on the phone came in a thick German accent: "I told you to arrive before 7:00. There are no more buses to my town. Why didn't you listen when I told you to arrive before 7:00?" I apologized and tried to explain that I had forgotten his warnings because I hadn't planned on taking trains or buses. I offered the option that I find somewhere else to spend the night, which in my head was going to be the Florence train station, as I'd already decided that this would be my westernmost point. He told me to come anyway and see if there was possibly one last bus (which he knew there wasn't). We hung up and I seriously considered getting on the train east instead of west. However, that action in itself would've been ruder than being late so I headed his way.

I ended up buying him a little food and drink in exchange for him picking me up on his motorbike. My first motorcycle ride was on an old dirtbike, my feet occasionally touching the ground, watching him lean over the handlebars to pound his fist on the headlamp every time it went dark, as we wound through twisting streets up the hill. About two thirds of the way up, the engine puttered out and Arne proposed a "It may be that we are out of benzina gas." Fortunately, a simple restart got us the rest of the way up the hill.

I'm glad to have met him. Scary start aside, he was a great one to hang out with and, though I took in more secondhand smoke in 12 hours with him than with a year and a half of traveling with Cirque, he was full of stories. At 18, he visited the United States with his brother, hitchhiking and eventually buying a truck from a man who said he was selling everything to move to Alaska. Arne thought this was just something Americans did, so they bought the truck, got pulled over in San Francisco, and spent three days in jail for possessing a stolen vehicle before the embassy got them out. For eight years in the 1980s, Arne traveled as a circus performer. He and a friend juggled and played the organ, living in a camper wagon which was pulled by a tractor. Yes, a farm tractor. They would sometimes meet other performers on the road and organize small fairs until the funds dried up or public officials gave them the boot. He took me on a tour of his life as he thumbed through a small box of old photos: Friends and coworkers, Arne with mime makeup and his organ standing outside a cinema, the different vehicles they all traveled in. He still has the organ, though he hasn't tried it in many years.

He also understood somewhat what I was looking for on my Italian walk and he directed me to a nearby footpath that would take me through hills, forests, and cliff edges as I made my way around his peninsula, access to quiet beaches that basically gave me the Cinqueterre experience without paying tolls and dealing with tourists. So my turnaround point concluded with
1) A former wanderer and circus worker
2) A proper hike through nature
3) The opportunity to swim in the Mediterranean, which I was determined to do at least once on my trip, but knew that this would be my last day near the coast
4) The chance to watch German late night talk shows

Number four wasn't really an objective, but you never know what will happen on these trips. Bottom line, I faced the fear and had a good experience: One that sends me back towards the circus.