Finally a clear Sunday was announced. I brushed up the text message that Danilo had sent me during the week to propose a hike in the mountains. It read: "Climb to Mount Barbarossa starting from the hamlet of Teveno, the peak is at 2,148 m with an ascent of over 1,000 m." I looked it up on the internet and realised it was an alpine skiing route. It was described as medium difficulty. Although my friends were going hiking and not skiing, surely there would still be a lot of snow. I would need snowshoes and crampons, neither of which I had. I replied to my friend that I was forced to give up.
When I outlined the itinerary for this Morocco trip, as it was going to be my fourth to the country, I knew I’d be seeing places again, but I didn’t mind.
After all, part my first trip had been marred by flu that kept me bedridden for several days just when I was crossing the places deemed to be the most stunning. On that occasion my friend and I hired a car, but I was forced to let him drive around while I convalesced in a hotel room, and even after I felt good enough to get up I still hadn’t recovered enough strength to enjoy myself to the full.
Then I took another trip to the Atlas mountains on public transport with a lot of walking thrown in, but didn’t make it down to the desert or back to Fes via Midelt, so I still harboured the ambition to cover the route I had once plied. Time had dimmed the memory of that hurried passage across the mountains and the only thing I had retained was the disarmingly bleak picture of a snow-sprinkled highland under a gloomy sky.
The world’s biggest natural stone exhibition held yearly in Verona took me to Veneto again, and gave me an excuse to stay over the weekend to explore new places. I feared I may have run out of ideas, given the restriction that my destination should be reachable by public transport and be within a couple of hours’ journey from Verona. I could have headed north into Trentino, but finally my choice fell on Treviso and two little towns that seemed interesting.
Once more I got confirmation of a lesson I had learned before, that you ought never to rely on other people’s advice for places to see. Everyone has their personal taste and more importantly has lived a travel experience influenced by the circumstances of their particular visit. The reason I mention this is that of the two towns I had picked, a friend dismissively described Cittadella as having only a circle of ancient city walls, whereas in her view Castelfranco Veneto was by far the better. But after visiting the two, I concluded that my opinion was diametrically opposed to hers.
The plan for my weekend in Vienna was not to engage in tiring, albeit rewarding, visits to museums and mad walks across the centre, but to tell the truth, I nearly gave in to temptation since my coming coincided with the Long Night of the Museums. On this occasion a combined ticket allows visitors to enter a large number of museums until 1 am and a good deal of people take this once-in-a-year chance to visit cheaply. There was a drag effect on me, but in the end reason prevailed and I stuck to my original intention. After all, to convince myself it was sufficient to conjure up historical memory: last year I was up until the small hours, legs sore with an excess of standing and walking.
So this time I would shun culture and head for the Prater. The bike-sharing facilities remembered my registration of a year ago and I was enabled to move freely across town riding convenient public bikes. Defying the gusts of wind that swept the sky clean, I arrived at the railway station, crossed an avenue and approached the big wheel that loomed large over the horse-chestnut trees. Walking around the attractions I admitted I had never been a fan of the fair. As I child I was hardly ever taken to these places, so that a friend once saved me from gross ignorance by explaining I’d win a free ride if I caught the brass ring dangling over the spinning seats of the merry-go-round.
Last Saturday I went to Turin with two friends. They wanted to visit a photography exhibition, but I was more interested in discovering a city that I’d only perfunctorily seen years back. Back then I’d come with the specific purpose of visiting the Egyptian Museum after my return from that country and I practically neglected the rest of the town. But this time I was curious to know more and find out about its history and modern life, for what it is possible to do in the limited space of one day.
A quick visit doesn’t allow understanding many things, but is enough for inquisitive eyes to get the hang of a place. And so, starting from the avenue through which we penetrated into the city, I received an impression of multiculturalism from the numerous shop signs with Arabic and Chinese script that advertised foodstuffs, halal meat or hairdressing services. By the time we’d got to the market I remembered that the situation was the same on my first visit. On that very central square I had seen sellers offer bunches of fresh mint to brew Moroccan tea, not to mention the various types of Arab bread or other items. It was a clear sign that Italy was already well advanced into an epochal change, and I had felt intrigued as though I was prying around the stalls of an exotic market.
Finally a clear Sunday was announced. I brushed up the text message that Danilo had sent me during the week to propose a hike in the mountains. It read: "Climb to Mount Barbarossa starting from the hamlet of Teveno, the peak is at 2,148 m with an ascent of over 1,000 m." I looked it up on the internet and realised it was an alpine skiing route. It was described as medium difficulty. Although my friends were going hiking and not skiing, surely there would still be a lot of snow. I would need snowshoes and crampons, neither of which I had. I replied to my friend that I was forced to give up.
When I outlined the itinerary for this Morocco trip, as it was going to be my fourth to the country, I knew I’d be seeing places again, but I didn’t mind.
The world’s biggest natural stone exhibition held yearly in 
The plan for my weekend in 