Heading For The Hills
This morning we were up with the birds. We had to catch a plane at 10:30am and the airport in Brindisi was an hour away from Polignano A Mare. We had farewelled Antonio the previous night and he was kind enough to print our boarding passes for us. We were feeling so happy with ourselves - loving ourselves sick as they say - because not only were we leaving ourselves a big time buffer for this flight, we’d come up with an ingenious plan for avoiding extra baggage fees. We would purchase one more 20kg bag for the flight online and then have 60kg to play with. It was significantly cheaper than rocking up to the airport and having to be stung by excess baggage fees.
The plan went smoothly and thankfully we both got to the airport in one piece. The car hire people were a lot more casual on returning the car. Molly popped back to the airport to get us a bag trolley but alas, Brindisi Airport had none, perhaps too tiny for trolleys? So, it was a do-it-yourself luggage haul back to the terminal. We’d clothed ourselves in a few extra layers to reduce the weight in our bags and also prepare for where we were going, but lugging our bags in the sun now, we had slight pangs of regret.
A general “queue” formed at our gate. I put that in inverted commas because the concept of an actual, first-in-best-dressed queue, where people stand in a line behind those who got there before them, is not, as far as we’ve observed, something Italians are familiar with. We watched a masterclass in how to push-in, where the art of cruising in from the side, disregarding all those who have waited longer, and inserting yourself at the front of the pack, was practised with aplomb. Never lacking self-confidence, these sneaky snakers show unwavering poise and not a touch of remorse as they stroll to poll position, never once glancing back. It took me back to the pusher-in-er-ers in school canteen lines. The interesting thing is, though indignation bubbles to the surface in those who are used to fair queuing, no one here seems to care. It’s a free for all and no-one seems to mind.
The Ryan Air flight was just over an hour and because there were no food or drinks served, the main duty for the flight attendants it seemed, was to sell us duty free merchandise. As the cart full of French perfumes glided up and down the aisle, testers were being liberally applied and before long, the plane smelled a lot like the ground floor in David Jones. Much better than av gas I guess. I think it’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone buy duty free on a plane but cards were swiping left, right and centre. There was also an extremely long commentary over the PA in Italian and we had no idea what they were saying. My guess is, they were reciting the entire duty free catalogue aloud.
We landed in Treviso, about an hour out of Venice and met our new hire car, Jimmy the Jeep (no international driver’s permit required, thank goodness!) We set off on our two hour drive towards the picturesque Dolomite mountain range in the north of Italy, bordering Austria, not really knowing what to expect. A map of the road looked like a bowl of spaghetti and there were hairpin turns to make your eyes water, the width of the road scarcely sufficient for two cars to pass. I kept asking my chief navigator if she was sure this was still 2-way. Praying we didn’t meet anyone coming the other way, we forged on, through twists and turns, tunnels blasted through mountains and people overtaking at ridiculous speeds on blind corners (scary stuff - do Italian cars even come with blinkers?) until we could see the incredibly beautiful mountains before us. Overcome by the beauty we could see, we pulled in to a little roadside diner and took it all in. Everyone in Australia would’ve been snoozing soundly so Molly FaceTimed Tobes who was the only one awake (and was on a train from Italy to France) just so he could share the moment with us. Julie Andrews was singing in our heads as we twirled and marvelled that the hills were indeed alive. The cute wooden chalets with their timber window boxes brimming with vivid geraniums looked more Austrian than Italian so I thought it appropriate to bust out some yodelling on Spotify; a soundtrack to remember.
Little towns nestling at the foot of the mountains were the stuff of fairytales, surrounded by lush green meadows and circling birds. The tips of the lofty peaks were shrouded in cloud and Molly pointed out one mountain that looked like it had a river of cloud flowing down its side. As the road hugs the mountain, it goes perilously close to houses built right on the road. You wouldn’t want to sleep walk if you lived there!
Arriving in the cosy town of Cortina d’Ampezzo, home of the 1956 Winter Olympics and set to host again in 2026, we found our hotel and as we unloaded the car we noticed the town was buzzing with lycra-clad cyclists, just everywhere. I was the only person in the hotel lobby not wearing bike pants. There’s a big group of Aussie MAMILs staying here too. I met a couple of them in the lift who looked like they’d had a hard day in the saddle. They said they had ridden a casual 120kms today. Is that all?
We are looking forward to some more exploring tomorrow.
