My cousin noticed the trend first: if he hiked in front, the other hikers in the Dolomites greeted us with “Ciao” or a hearty “Buongiorno!” When I walked in front with my Stetson fedora, we always received an English “hello” — albeit, with various levels of enthusiasm. Maybe my hat gave me away as an American since nobody else wore anything similar on the trail.
Nonetheless, the week I spent hiking the Dolomites proved to be one of the most challenging, adventurous, and reflective journeys I have undertaken in a long time—perhaps since climbing Mt. Whitney or traveling to Japan. I really needed this trip to have a bit of adventure with my family and relearn to trust myself being spontaneous with a little bit of solo travel after my cousin returned to the USA.
The Climb
My cousin and I spent several days hiking hut to hut through the Dolomites in the Italian Alps where beautiful mountain views and the steep, technical trails took my breath away. The hardest day of our journey was the day we summited Piz Boe. A lightening storm swept through the night before we were supposed to summit and rattled the shutters on the Refugio Franz Kostner. We awoke to find a brief break in the storm and began the hike towards the mountain with the goal to ascend a sketchy switchback before the storm worsened.
The rain returned as I stood on a 5 inch rock ledge holding onto a steel cable with about 20 vertical feet remaining to scramble to safety. A British climbing duo beneath me decided to rush ahead and dislodged some rocks, sending a series of baseball sized chucks of limestone tumbling down towards us. My adrenaline spiked and my cousin led the way up to the saddle where we could follow the ridge trail up the remaining elevation to the summit. We assessed the situation and I trusted my cousin’s recommendation to proceed so we continued the next several miles up in the wind and the rain.
The rain turned to snow as we reached the summit of Piz Boe at 10,341 feet (shorter than Mt. Whitney, but still a very technical climb). We quickly entered the Refugio at the summit to warm by the fire and enjoy some pasta. After an hour or so, the storm cleared again and we began the descent to that night’s Refugio. We had dinner, showered, and quickly passed out in our room.
Chatter, Murmurs, & Ghosts
Throughout the trip, we had several dinners with strangers (one of my favorite pastimes). We chatted with multiple Danes about South Park and American Culture (“Ah, Los Angeles—It is a walkable city, yes? Oh, by the look on your face, perhaps not…”). We swapped college experience stories with a new Polish friend and discussed what it was like growing up under Communism and experience Pizza Hut for the first time. A German woman shared how one of her sons moved to California and “returned with a good wife, Ja!”
Yet as much as we tried to keep the conversations upbeat, it was hard not to escape current events. There were whispers of the “Hormuz Situation” and “Special Military Operations” in Eastern Europe. Several people expressed consternation that “nobody can be trusted anymore!” Others were alarmed that “this time the Germans are our allies?!”
When these topics bubbled to the surface, I thought back to the German War Memorial in Passo Pordoi we hiked past in the early days of the trek. During World War I, somewhere between 150,000 to 180,000 soldiers died in the valley we hiked through—now covered with ski lifts and hiking trails. The trails we hiked were improved and formalized into a system during the war to efficiently move equipment to expedite the slaughter. Rusted barbed wire still littered the trail at altitude, a gnarled reminder of futures past. The memorial’s construction was halted with the onset of World War II, but was ultimately completed to entomb over 8,500 German soldiers from both wars in Tyrol soil. As we continued the hike into the mountains I quoted Wilfred Owen’s WWI poem to my cousin.
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
Wilford Owen
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
The Lonely Market
My spirits dropped and I felt a little sad as I wandered the streets of Bolzano after the hike. With the most physically demanding portion of the trek over, my mind was free to wander. The previous evening, I spent the night after the hike enjoying dinner with our new Polish friend. We chatted about history, our cultures, and philosophy. I expressed with typical American bravado that I am not a pessimist, but a (cautious) optimist!
Yet, I must confess my optimism has been tested lately through personal professional challenges and the global geopolitical horrors of modern wars, anti-immigration rhetoric, and the rise of authoritarians. I had built this trip up in my head as the turning point where I could unplug and chart a new course for whatever is next in my professional life.
I can no longer deny that my current arrangement of working part time and chasing a startup side project no longer works for me. My startup partner quit a few weeks before the trip and progress has been slower than I would like. While my other work pays my bills, I am no longer learning and growing. Some change is needed.
Though I am tremendously privileged and grateful I can ponder these questions while on a vacation in another Europe, no immediate answers arrived as I meandered down alleyways and browsed the stalls in the outdoor markets lost in my own thoughts. When I passed the colorful floral arrangements in the market stalls, I wished I had someone to buy flowers for and I stopped thinking about professional woes momentarily.
I continued to wander the streets alone and crossed the river to find the Bolzano Victory Monument. I entered the museum at the base of the monument which contextualizes its controversial and Fascist history. The displays told the story of how the monument was originally conceived to honor the Italians who died in WWI, but then became a symbol of Fascism as the Italian Fascist party tried to suppress the Germanic culture in the recently annexed South Tyrol. I read the exhibits and pondered whether humanity has actually learned anything from the last century. In the last room, chills ran down my spine and I froze as I read the text carved into the walls of the empty crypt: DULCE ET DECORUM EST PRO PATRIA MORI.
When I eventually unfroze, I quickly left. As I crossed the river back towards the center of the old German town, I took one last look back at the monument and my problems really seemed small.
Venetian Glass and Trust
I visited Venice as the last city on my itinerary before returning home. I rode a gondola, ate delicious food, and sat by the canal. I searched for souvenirs to bring home and gifts for friends and family. As I looked at the various shops, I found it hard to buy Christmas gifts when the family might not actually be together to celebrate this year. I hope the two people who are not speaking anymore work it out, but this is one thing I am not optimistic about.
Inside the glass factories of Murano, I witnessed the over 1,000 year old tradition of glass blowing and manufacturing. I loved watching the masters at work, crafting intricate sculptures in a few deft, quick gestures. Yet, when I left the foundry and went to the stores across the street, I could not tell which stores sold authentic Murano glass vs. imported Chinese trinkets for the tourists. Some stores claimed to have authentic glass, but not all had the “official” Murano glass guild seal. Some artists in the store claimed it was too expensive to pay the guild fee, but did not sell fakes. Ultimately, I just had to trust the gentleman in the store and purchase the beautiful glass.
The Flight Back
The journey back home was the most stressful flight connection I have ever undertaken. First, weather delayed my departure from Venice. Then, the pilots performed a go-around maneuver when landing in Zurich. By the time I deplaned, I had 15 minutes to make my way through the airport, clear the EU exit customs, and make it to my flight. I ran through the airpot and finally reached the customs checkpoint. My panic grew as the customs officer slowly drank his water, turned to me, and asked, “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
“California, if I can make my flight!”
The officer methodically, deliberately, and slowly looked at my passport before waving me through. I ran the rest of the way to my flight and thankfully they held the plane. As I settled into my seat on the Boeing 777, a lady from the same delayed connecting flight approached me and said, “No need to give yourself a heart attack running for that. We wait for people here and help each other.”
Once again, my actions easily identified me as an American: rushing everywhere in a self-interested dash for self-preservation. Yes, everything is slower in Europe—but there is also a collective sense of community and care (even if the fault lines may exist between different ones). I loved spending time in the ancient cities and exploring the foreign mountains. However, I missed home and my friends and I knew it was time to head back to move my “real” life forward.
As the plane taxied down the runway and soared into the sky away from Zurich, I thought about the emails I read in the Venice Marco Polo airport. After unplugging for two weeks (and finding no answers to my questions), I read them to find that I had 2 recruiters reach out about new job opportunities. I also had an investor reach out to talk about my startup project and I learned about a grant that would be a perfect fit. So, I turned up my music and did what Americans do best: dream.