Friday, July 18... On The Road to Briancon

We leave Barolo by noon, beating thereby the onslaught of the music festival that is taking over the town... preparations of which had been ongoing since we arrived.  We don't want to leave, not yet. This is a place where we have truly relaxed. Rome and Florence were hectic, and the time to come in Briancon and the trip home promise to be hectic as well. So these (less than) two days in Barolo were the calm between the two storms. The eye of the hurricane. And now we must pass through the other side of our best laid plans... though we'd rather not. We caught our breath here, but now we need to rest. We'd rather stay here and do nothing for a week. But that is not to be.

We set sail for Turin, or as the Italians say... Torino. There we will return the rental car and catch a train to the city of Oulx (pronounced oolze) in the foothills of the Italian Alps. We will be picked up by Georges, the owner of the bed-and-breakfast that we are staying in in Briancon (in France). It is an enormously helpful favor on his part, and makes this last leg of the trip even possible. Without transport through the Alps, we would be sunk.

The road from Turin to Briancon

The GPS charts our course through the wide, flat valleys that emerge as we leave the hills of Barolo behind and head to Turin. The city feels immediately grim. Of course it is unfair to compare every city in Italy to Rome or Florence. Perhaps the only fault of such cities is simply that they are not built on a tourist economy, which produces not so much grimness (for the inhabitants at least)... but an unfamiliarity for us. We roll through the streets and all we see are anonymous Italians coming and going, against an undistinguished backdrop of urban buildings of no historic charm. I suppose this is what everyday life looks like around the world... which is why we don't just visit any old place, but select those places guaranteed to delight some expectations we have.

We arrive at the Hertz rental office to drop the car off. It sits on a long boulevard that is too far from the train station to walk. In addition to this, the station has just closed for lunch, so we go into a cafe immediately next door to grab a drink and wait. The waiter's face subtly registers his distaste at either (a) our being non Italian speakers, or (b) that we don't order food.  Time slides by. I finish my drink as Margaret leaves to take care of the Hertz paperwork. When I step outside the luggage is removed from the car and we are hailing a taxi, which drops us off unceremoniously in the middle of the broad boulevard. We drag our luggage inside, and while Margaret goes to figure out how to get the train to Oulx, I plop down on my butt and guard the luggage... and busy myself taking pictures of people.

Our train tickets are really cheap, considering how far we ultimately go. We take our seats 10 minutes before the train rolls away.. and spend the entire time wondering if we're on the right train. As the scenery rolls by at high speed... we still wonder if we're on the right train. Somehow we figure out we are. Maybe we decipher the garbled message that crackles through the trains PA system... I don't recall. The Italian Alps start to loom up on either side of the train, and it's clear that we are moving into a narrow valley that is flanked by them.

In Oulx, we stop off the train and are met by Georges, whom Margaret had alerted earlier in the day... having texted a message to his wife Maria, who passed it on to Georges. All this whisper down the lane could have fallen flat on our face... but somehow it all worked out. Georges throws our luggage into his big 4x4 and rolls away. Georges is a big guy... as in fat. He's tall, but he's fat. His fatness isn't in his head, shoulders, arms, or legs... but simply in his big fat stomach... which isn't even round, so much as it looks like a big donut stuck under the huge tshirt that tries to hide it. He's a good natured guy... for a Frenchman. He tells us that he's from Briancon, but lived in Paris for years... but has now returned.

The route to Briancon takes longer than I expected, due to the difficult terrain that the roads must follow to go up and down switchbacks as they traverse mountain passes. I am amazed at the terrain. I have never been in such big mountains. I have never been on roads so high up. It strikes me as rare and dangerous and exceptional... but I soon realize that these roads and these views are an everyday reality for the people here. As we descend down to Briancon through the last set of dizzying switchbacks, I become excited that we have finally arrived at a place much anticipated, but which I could never have understood as I do now.

This area is known as the Department of the Hautes-Alps (High Alps). Brinancon doesn't so much sit in a valley, as it has been built on the nooks and crannies where the bases of huge mountains have crushed together to form an area somewhat amenable to human settlement. But how any humans ever managed to build homes and cities and walls and churches and roadways on this impossibly rocky and jagged stuff is beyond me.

Briancon area

The old walled fortress of Briancon

Georges descends down into the city... then through it's streets pointing things out in a patois of French and English mixed together into something he thinks is perfect English. I can understand every 5th world, which is just enough to allow me to nod my head convincingly, or laugh as if I understood. We roll through the narrow center of town, over a bridge, and then into a tight cluster of streets a mile further on where his bed-and-breakfast is located. It is known as Baccu-ber... which seems to be named after the street it is on (Baccu Ber). I have no idea what it means, or if it means anything.

As we unpack our luggage, we are introduced to a young woman who is an American from Seattle, who came to Briancon to teach English, then met a man and got married... and has been there now for three years. Or was it seven years? We are immediately happy to be talking English to someone, but she quickly dismisses herself from our presence. Obviously she doesn't feel the same way. Perhaps we remind her of the home she'll never see again, trapped as she is in the icy citadel of Briancon.

Our room is a cave. It is literally shaped like a cave, with a tiny window in the back wall. But it's a nice cave, complete with a shower and bathroom. We lie on the bed and exhale, and let the muscles relax. We have finally made it to Briancon... the last stop on our journey. Tomorrow is the Tour de France, and we will be there. But for now... we are hungry.

We walk a mile into the center of town, and eat at this place that serves Tartiflette, a variation of potato au gratin. It is made of potatos, cheese, cream, and ham. It is served in a small, oval casserole dish. The secret ingredient (as it turns out) is Reblochon cheese. It is so delicious that we vow to make it when we return home, if only we can find Reblochon cheese back in the states. Later, we learn that the cheeses of France are not pasturized... or maybe Margaret already knew this... so our chances of replicating this particular flavor just went down. But we shall see. The places also serves a dish called Salmon Tandor, which is what it sounds like... chunks of salmon on a skewer, cooked (I think) in the Tandor style, and infused (thereby) with the flavors characteristic of Indian food. It is freakin' awesome. We are in love with this food and this place... and will eat here each of our three nights in Briancon. In fact, we order the same exact food each time, until the owner remembers Margaret from the night before.

After dinner we walk down to the Carrefour supermarket and buy some groceries... most particularly coca-cola, beer, and Madeleines, those delicious french cooks that are soft with buttery flavor.  We get back and lie on the bed and eat Madeleines and watch the Tour de France on TV. A long days journey into this moment... and we are tired soon enough.