The Road to Aosta

I'm on a bus to Italy; a day trip to the medieval mountain town of Aosta. I'm with a group of ex-pat companions. The town of Aosta is nestled in a valley of the same name, between the slopes of Mont Blanc, Monte Rosa and the Matterhorn, and is home to the Fiera di Sant'Orso: a two-day annual festival displaying the local craftsmanship that this valley is known for: objects carved in wood.

Our diesel bus climbs, switchback after endless switchback. The flatroofed houses of the Rhone valley floor give way to clusters of dark timber chalets, every room with a view. We pass tiny churches inexplicably built in isolation at the roadside, their roofs holding up impossible stacks of snow while icicles that are taller then me hang from their eaves. Houses of worship, literally frozen in time.

In the summer months, the road from Switzerland to Aosta leads over the great St. Bernard pass, the most ancient Alpine pass and the route used by Napoleon and his army of 40,000 to advance into Italy in 1800. Between September and June, when snows block the pass, the route diverts through a 5.6 kilometer ear-popping tunnel below it; a thoroughfare through the heart of the mountain that spits vehicles out into Italy on the other side. The need for the tunnel decreases with every passing year: snow depth in the Alps is expected to decrease by 20-30% by 2020. Climate specialists at nearby University of Fribourg estimate that the Alps have lost half their glacier ice in the past century. Glaciers in Switzerland have lost a fifth of their surface area in the past 15 years. When my children drive this route on an overcast Sunday in February, they might turn to their children in the back seat and tell them how, not so long ago, snow covered these mountains, making passage on the high road impossible in the winter months. The children will try to imagine.

We emerge on the other side of the tunnel, and are suddenly and unmistakably in Italy. The neat rows of Swiss chalets are replaced by clutches of disorderly houses, seemingly built without plan into the mountainside, their stone walls and shingled roofs sitting at angles that have surely shifted over time. The road feels a little bumpier and the faces of the people seem a little more expressive from the bus window. They use their hands more when they talk. They smile more, I think, as we sit in a minor traffic jam that we have created by trying to squeeze our fat bus through a village's narrow streets.

Today is a day off from training for me, but not a day off from being vegan. I'm armed with sandwiches: one roasted vegetable with pesto spread, the other my faithful standby of peanut butter with apple slices. I'm thinking about something I fretted over for months when I began to realize that I wanted to stop eating animal products. My concern was this: that if I denied myself the opportunity to eat bree in Lyon and salami in Milan, I would be missing out; missing out on that complete, all-senses-engaged submersion into the rich tapestry of cultures and cuisines that patterns continental Europe. One voice argued that the upcoming year was not the right time to do this, and the other argued that for some decisions in life, there is never a right time.

I'm staring out the bus window, wondering if I am going to miss out on fully experiencing Aosta today.

When we arrive in the town, it's clear that we are not the only ones who decided to come. The narrow streets act as funnels for thousands of people - mostly Italians - who are here to shop and talk loudly to one another. I don't know how the town is coping; it's in an otherwise sparsely populated area of the Alps; the weather here is too severe and the mountain slopes too steep for ski resorts. The streets are so packed that we are all shoulder-to-shoulder, but still everybody is using their hands. The whole town is a marketplace; there are literally thousands of wood carvings on display, stall after stall of the Virgin Mary standing next to mountain gnomes or pepper grinders. The men and women who carved them stand next to their work, their own faces etched with the deep lines of time and mountain air. Everybody has eyes that are dark and bright at the same time.

We find somewhere to have lunch, and it turns out that I didn't need my sandwiches. I have a hearty salad with tomatoes, zucchini, olives and polenta. We drink a bottle of local red between three, and finish with black coffee. Everybody is drinking black coffee; and I realize that I acquired the taste when I wasn't looking.

Other than a sunflower-yellow jug that made me smile when I saw it in a window, I somehow manage to buy nothing but food items. I'm bringing back a large pouch of dried mushrooms that I'm not sure how to cook and strips of pasta that are all the colours of the rainbow (the red comes from wine pigment, the green from asparagus, the yellow from saffron, and the blue has no simple English translation, the girl tells me). I buy my first bottle of unfiltered olive oil: the top is a clear and brilliant green, like stained glass, the bottom is so cloudy it looks like a clotted cream suspension. On the way back to the bus, I make one last stop at an artisan chocolatier. I find a medley of different dark chocolates to choose from, and the woman who serves me confirms there is no milk in it. She should know, she made it.

It's twilight when the diesel bus heads out of town, and I feel a touch of nausea as we begin to climb back up the switchbacks. I either ate too much chocolate or sampled too much grappa. Either way, I feel like I missed out on nothing today.