Sestriere is all about the Olympics now. The downhill skiing events were held here in the Torino 2006 Winter Olympics and since then Sestriere is Olympic everything.
To me though, it's where we used to ski and where we played cards in the evening. I want George to be part of that.
It used to be an uncommonly unattractive ski resort, no quaint little alpine buildings but many large apartment buildings with tiny apartments. Sestriere was built in the 1930s. Whereas most ski resorts started out as the original alpine village nested in the valley, Sestriere was built from scratch at the top of the world, with two distinctive round towers as its anchors. It’s on a 2,000 meter pass, 6,000 feet up.
Sestriere may have been the site of Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps with his elephants in Roman times. Even then there was evidently too much traffic on the Aurelia, he preferred this alpine pass to the road along the shore. Or, more likely, Hannibal was a brilliant tactician, and the Romans did NOT expect this!
Like every place else in Italy, Sestriere has not changed. At least not very much. There is the new Olympic statue in the middle of the road that you have to drive around. There is the Olympic village they’re trying to sell as condos. But there is still also the little gray church where we used to go to mass, standing room only during ski season. There’s the movie theater next to the Galup bar/pastry shop. And there are still the mountains. Looking down towards France the view is long and spectacular. Looking up, there are the Banchetta, the Motta, the Rognosa, the Sises. They rise up high above the town. It’s summer so we’re not here to ski but to hike. And we do.
You can’t hike through the middle because there’s a golf course on the lower ski slopes, the highest golf course in Europe, but it’s easy enough to hike around it. Around it and up. There are well kept trails, and even off the trails, the alpine vegetation is very controlled. There are pine trees and grass and little flowers. We're right at the tree line. It’s not overwhelming deep woods that swallow you up, it’s trees and grass and little flowers, and little streams. George loves the streams, and we stop at each one. The water is cold and clear and it makes a pleasant sound in the otherwise silent air.
I’ve skied here and I’ve hiked here. I know my way around these mountains. Because the woods are not deep, the town stays in view, it’s easy to stay oriented. The lodges that cater to the skiers in winter are open for hikers in the summer. They have broad terraces in the sun that skiers sun themselves on, and they are wonderful in the cool summer air.
We hike up to the Chisonetto, an all-wood alpine lodge where I have a cappuccino and George has a hot chocolate. On the mountain across the way we see little gray specks that look like rocks but are in fact sheep. Someone is grazing his sheep, lots of them, on the summer ski slopes. George can’t make them out, they’re too small and they look too much like rocks from here, he can't visualize them as sheep. We will get confirmation tomorrow that these are not inert minerals but live creatures with active digestive systems—massive poopers!
We keep going. I remember that there’s a dam up higher, with a lake. You can’t see the lake from the ski slopes—at least not from the groomed trails—but I’ve hiked up to it a long time ago in the summer.
We meet a couple coming downhill and I ask them if there’s a lake up ahead. One of them says yes, and the other says no. Huh? They tell me I’ll see what they mean.
And I do when we get there. This is late summer and the lake is dry. George doesn’t get why we came all the way up here. I try to explain to him, but all he sees is a dusty pit. A bit of a bummer. On the plus side, the rest of the way is downhill.
After the nature hike we go into town. The shops are divided between those selling fine sportswear and accessories, and those selling toys and alpine souvenirs. George and I are both partial to the latter. There is no alpine souvenir I don’t like, and George loves toys. He wants me to buy him a big Lego set. The perfect traveling toy, one with 400 little pieces. Sorry but no.
There’s a festival in the center of town. There are booths selling handicrafts, honey, and salame. Always have to have salame.
We had pizza for dinner at a restaurant. A couple from England was sitting at the next table. I wonder if they would have thought of coming here before the Olympic notoriety. Other than this time, most of our meals are at the Galup bar/pastry shop. They sell little rectangular pizzette.
We also go into the grocery store. This store was there way back when, same owners. The father is behind the deli counter, the son, who is now middle aged, is at the register. They did move across the street. Like many Italian grocery stores, this store is relatively small but it sells everything, with one or two of each thing on display. These stores are a marvel to me, they’re so neat and the food looks … pretty. I get a cut of the local cheese, toma, and the father asks me if I want it fresca or stagionata—fresh or aged. I also buy honey for my aunt, who had asked me specifically for it.
The next morning we are up very early. We go to the Galup for breakfast and then head to a hike. Today we’re going around the other side of the golf course. It’s a beautiful sunny day, though a little cool. I only brought one sweater for each of us that we are wearing all the time. In all the pictures George is wearing the same thing.
We go by the Olympic village. It’s a bit below the town, where the mountain starts to drop off towards France, so it’s unobtrusive even though it’s quite large. They’re trying to sell it as condos. “Signora, would you like to come in and look at a condo?”
We keep walking with a view of the mountains towards France, the big open view. Some of the mountains have glaciers on them, I point them out to George. He’s not terribly excited about this walk, and I’m not all that excited about it either. We’re on a small road along the side of the mountain, we’re not really hiking. So I decide to get off the road and go uphill, up the mountain, straight up. It’s doable but it is pretty tough. George gets on one of his unstoppable tirades of complaint. He can’t believe I’m making him do this, where are we going, why are we doing this, he wants to go back. Pretty soon, as he sees that his speech is not working, he resorts to tears. He doesn’t think I know where I’m going, but I do. We’re going to lunch.
This lodge is on the Alpette, a shorter mountain right in front of the town. So we walked and walked and didn’t really get very far. It’s decorated with traditional alpine décor, plus now Olympic memorabilia. The summer Olympics are on TV. I had never actually been to this lodge, it’s large and very nice. As we wait for our lunch, sitting in the sun on the outdoor terrace, the owner brings me a slice of cured meat served on a piece of fried polenta as a complimentary appetizer. Lovely. This is followed by my lunch of polenta. Wonderful.
There are a few other diners, very few, relaxed, with children and dogs. In America, we would enter in conversation in this situation, but here we do not.
After our meal, we leave in the opposite direction from which we came, and this takes us to where we saw the sheep yesterday. Underfoot we have confirmation that they were sheep—droppings everywhere.
Suddenly George announces, “Cacca!” It might be the big lunch, it might be the exercise, it might be the poopy everywhere, it might be all of the above, but George has to go.
I tell him, “We’ll get back soon. Can you hold it until then?”
“No, I have to go now.”
“Well, we can go back to the restaurant.”
“No, I have to go now.”
“Okay then, go here.” I figure there is so much poop up here already that his will not really make a difference.
He drops his shorts right there, squats, and makes a really big one, and then we wipe using leaves. Thankfully the leaves do not turn out to be poisonous.
“Feel better?”
“Yup.”
And we walked on, stepping carefully.
