Roots of a life's journey - Part 3

While telling people my "adventures" in the Great Plains and in the first few national parks I did feel a bit of an explorer, but the eagerness to do something more, to see something more grew up pretty quickly. It was late 2010, I had been working for the bank for about a year, and I had already gotten into a routine: work for a year to live fully for about 17 days. Those craved days in the United States.
I have to say, the kind of job I was doing didn't really help veer things in a different direction. To work in a bank nowadays means to be under high, constant stress and pressure, from either your bosses or your customers. It's a job where very seldomly you have tangible satisfaction from your efforts. It's also a job that involves lots of routinely tasks, especially at entry-level positions (but management has its own too). Last but not least, what you're talking about is... money. It's not chocolate, it's not a wedding package, it's not a car, it's not a pair of jeans. It's just money. Being money something people really care about, it's a sensitive topic. Therefore, customers would generally stress a cashier far more for unexpected charges on their accounts rather than a bartender for a bad drink. That's how the story goes.
It didn't take me long to understand all that. I understood the basics of the job, learnt what I think I needed to learn - as a professional and as a person - and recognized things.
One thing that really impressed me, apart from the aforementioned ones, was the general unhappiness of the employees. I am very confident saying that I've never seen an employee, no matter the role, starting the day with a bright smile and constructive interest in the tasks ahead. The common approach was rather "7.5 hours to go. Well, at least I've got soccer tonight". A mere wait for time to skim through in the quickest way possible.
That wasn't for me. At 23, I wasn't ready yet to start a career in a sector that bored me and everyone around me. I wanted to work in a positive environment, possibly with smiling people involved in their duties.

The bank didn't match this description, and deep inside in my heart I was already taking steps towards freedom. I just wasn't ready yet.

When 2011 came, a couple more trips followed. I first visited Ireland for a week, driving all around the country following the coastal route. Europe is an unrivaled place as far as history goes, and especially castles in that land were fabulous. But my heart was already beating fast for the day I'd have landed in American soil again.
That time came in late September, after yet another summer spent home watching people leaving Padova with a milk-colored skin and coming back looking like charbroiled steaks. The focus of my trip this time - a lonely one - was on the South-West. I was possibly even more excited than any previous trip, since this was effectively my first solo expedition wandering around the U.S.. I still go reach back in time and see myself astonished by the creations at Arches, or by the immense landscape at Canyonlands, by the unique formations at Bryce and Zion. I "discovered" Utah, a state some people (even some Americans, as I later found) regard as a boring stretch of land but is actually some sort of a red-rock paradise. I experienced Arizona and its jewel, the Grand Canyon. Eventually, I made it to the Sierras and besides a few peaceful walks among sequoia groves, I saw with my own eyes the truth lying behind John Muir's words about Yosemite. Walking those woods was invigorating. To put it with his own words, "One day's exposure to mountains is better than cartloads of books". Good man.

Upon return, people back home swarmed me with questions: what was my favourite place, where would I go back, what was the best thing I did. One day though, somebody asked me "Which moment would you pick from the whole trip?". My answer puzzled him a tiny bit. I can now identify that very moment as an important step on the ladder towards my departure.
It came when I was shooting sunset at Horseshoe Bend, AZ, probably the most impressive single-shot spot I can think about in the United States. There I met a German guy, now-good friend Andreas (Andy), with whom I started a conversation revolving around photography at first. I eventually came to know a bit more about his story. He left home a year before to travel. He visited a few countries around the world, worked in Canada and was on his way to explore a bit of the U.S.A.. To me, it was rad. I've never heard first-hand anything like that before. I bombarded him with questions.
The whole thing ended up with me paying him a Texan BBQ dinner in a local restaurant, and him - a backpacker - buying me ice-cream at McDonald's.
Thinking back at that episode, I can see why it became important to me.
Never before I had encountered a person like Andy, let alone have a chance to ask him questions ranging from economic feasibility to organizational issues. I started to have an idea of what it meant "to leave". You know, how leaving your family could affect you, how difficult it could be to stay away from your friends for so long, how much money you'd need, where and how you could earn some more...
Andy was officially the first, serious backpacker I've ever met. He was not the bravest or the one that has done the most, but the first. The one that gave me a start through his own experience. For sure I'd have had many more chances to meet people like him on my way, but still, to him I owe a lot. It was the right person at the right time!

The next year came with a little revolution. On New Year's Eve I had met with a Serbian girl while celebrating in Venice with a few friends of mine, and for this girl I travelled a couple times to Belgrade. It wasn't love - but at that time I couldn't really tell you, of course! - but it was strong enough to have me flying out of Venice to Rome and eventually Belgrade during one of Europe's most snowy winters ever. I remember landing in Belgrade, Serbia being officially my first eastern-European country, and feeling like Rocky Balboa in Rocky IV when getting out of the plane in the U.R.S.S.. Oh man. I was even listening to the soundtrack, to make things worse!
As you might guess though the story didn't last long, and didn't bring me much more than the knowledge of Belgrade, of the highway from Padova to those "exotic" lands and of some new friends.
May came and it was time for me to turn page. I had been able - at the new branch I had been meanwhile assigned - to negotiate that my annual U.S. trip would have taken place before the summer. On May 21, I left for Seattle. After the Great Plains and the South West, it was the North West's turn.
Once again the "home of the brave" didn't disappoint. From the rainforest in Olympic national park to the Columbia river gorge in Oregon, from the gorgeous Cascade range in Washington to the absolutely stunning park of Glacier, Montana. I have just discovered another incredible corner of the country. Where I also had my first close-up with a grizzly bear. Ok, technically I was in Canadian soil (I was driving back on road 3 West, not too far from the town of Grand Forks), but didn't really matter at the time. When I summited a tiny hill and the view opened up enough for me to spot a big creature browsing on the roadside, I screamed something I am too polite to report here, and I hit the break. Slowing down and seeing that creature - a light-colored grizzly bear - darting into the woods was disheartening, but I stopped my car and waited for a couple minutes, and my patience got rewarded. The beast came back out of the woods and remained peacefully along the road feeding on fresh grass, about 15 to 20 yards from my vehicle. I remember my arm trembling so hard it made it difficult to take decent pictures with my 120-400 zoom lens. Nonetheless, I ended up with some really good shots and an amazing experience I'd have told everyone.

The curious - and objectively most important - event of the trip was to be found again in a person. Actually, a couple.
Coming back from a hike under the rain in the La Push area of Olympic, I noticed in the parking lot a guy holding up what appeared to be his girlfriend. It looked like she had just passed out, or was very close to. I ran there and asked if they needed any help. They said they were going to be fine, that it was probably just a lack of sugar, but I offered them anyway a ride to town and to a motel - since they were backpacking and relying on public transport.
I loaded their heavy backpacks in the trunk and the two wet people as well. Turned out they were from Belgium and they were simply backpacking around the country. At the time it wasn't any new thing for me, but I still had great interest in knowing more, especially about organizational issues. We talked a lot and we ended up at the dinner table togheter, this time just for a cheap Mexican eat. And this time, they wanted to buy me dinner - which I had to accept gladly.
What I learnt from that couple was that willingness can do a whole lot. They were very much my same age, and from no rich family. They had just worked at home, saved enough to afford some basic needs in additionn to airfare, and left. Easy peasy. I still couldn't believe these people. I mean, my mind wasn't ready yet to understand how money, time, feelings and needs could cooperate that smoothly togheter to make something like that possible.
But I wasn't that far away to understand either. Every person was precious, every talk was yelding important clues to solve the problem. Every time I spoke to people like Andy, like the Belgian couple, I was more and more tempted by at least thinking about leaving. Everything.

Before even thinking about it though, I had my own questions to answer. A bunch of them.

Roots of a life's journey - Part 2

Fighting blizzards, eating poor-quality food and dealing with my horrible English - you know, Italian accent isn't THAT good - I was slowly getting used to live alone in an unfamiliar environment. By the time I had to leave South Dakota and the rez, I was happy to go home to meet my people again, sure, but I was also sad deep in my heart, for I knew I would have missed the place. I'd have missed the spaces, first of all. That unbeatable sense of freedom given by the endless plains. I'd have missed the people I met there and their behaviour, their culture. I was getting used to people waving hello when driving across you on the roads, or to people asking you "How are ya?" first thing in any conversation. I was getting used to wearing "common" clothes without feeling bad about it rather than feeling compelled to wear fancy clothes just for the sake of being judged positively - because that's one of the first ways we judge people where I'm from.

I was already a different person when I landed in Venice, 2 months later. It was April, just after Easter time. I was scheduled to degree on June 25th, and I did - the same day that Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull (among other brave Lakota warriors) defeated arrogant general Custer at the famous battle of Little Bighorn, 1876. I didn't see it as just a coincidence. There had to be a meaning.

During the weeks that followed, my mind was busy trying to organize the rest of the summer. I wasn't already going crazy with job hunting. The main goal I had in my mind was to enjoy my last summer of freedom at best. The chance came when I counted the money my family, relatives and friends gave me as graduation present (one thing that is pretty common in Italy, at least where I'm from). I stacked up a decent amount of money, and even though it wasn't enough to cover every expense of a 2 weeks trip, I decided my present would have been a nice trip. I called a friend of mine on the phone - one of those fellas always ready to say yes when it comes to travelling, especially at that easy time of no familiar ties whatsoever - and he agreed to at least discuss a few options.
After some days of emailing the coolest pictures we could find on the internet, and reasoning on the money we would have needed to make it happen, we came up with the destination: West Coast Canada.
I was crazy excited. The challenger had been Norway, with a focus on fjords. We ruled it out for its expensiveness and lack of world-famous sightseeings, while we couldn't pass on places like Lake Louise or Moraine Lake, in Banff National Park. Of particular appeal to me was the presence in the region of big game, like elk, moose and the mighty grizzly bear. Sometimes it felt like getting ready for a long safari! (I'd have found out that seeing grizzly bears or moose or other big but shy wildlife is not that easy or common at all).

By the time I came back from Canada, I had:
- Seen my first black bear (the closest I got to a grizzly was a note left at the Edith Cavell glacier trailhead saying "Grizzly on the move, 10.30 AM". I hiked the whole trail asking every hiker on the way back "Have you seen a beer?", mistaking the pronunciation of "bear" for "beer")
- Hiked in the first National Park in North America
- Driven for more than a few dozen miles in unknown territory, having a chance to admire crystalline lakes, lush forests, jagged mountains
- Started to develop a passion for photography, not as an interest in the technical side of it in itself, instead as a willing to show people how amazing those places were.
The thing that penetrated deeper into myself though was another one. A subtle one, but as important in the whole process as none of the others.
I started to perceive what I deem as "the call of the wild". Wild as not cemented, as not jammed with traffic, as not polluted by urban noise, as not crammed with human beings. I started to perceive the healing power of Nature, that acts through its endless beauty. I started to feel a need to explore, to see the marvels of the Creation - forests, lakes, canyons, mountains, rivers, valleys, plains, deserts. I started to wonder when looking at the animal kingdom, especially those elusive creatures like the bear, the moose, the mountain lion. I felt like I just had an appetizer - no, actually an amuse bouche. One little bite of an incredibly tasty food. I had just discovered this world, that was once just on TV or on photography books, and I felt right in love with it.

By the time I came back home, I knew I was going to return. I wanted to have more.

Luckily, since after all there's no travelling without money, I got a job in a bank very soon, and I started to save money. I went to London in March (it was 2010), then to Scotland for a week in May, and spent the summer at home, working. In the meantime I upgraded my camera gear - from one of those handy but basic "pocket cameras" to a more respectable Nikon D90.
The cool thing of working in a bank (at least back then!) was the generous amount of vacations. In fact, I still had some 20 days of paid vacations at my disposal, and I was busy thinking at the best way to use them. Money was an issue, since renting a car at the age of 23 would still have you paying underage charge, and I was looking for a travel buddy. At the same time I was in a tight "fight" with my boss to try to get a suitable time of the year to travel. In case I'd have decided to go to Greenland, for example, November wouldn't have been a great pick.
What I came up with was a decently ambitious effort for a 23-years old with almost NO travelling organization on his shoulders. I set my destination as North-Central U.S.A., aiming at visiting 6 states and a similar number on national parks. Yellowstone was among others, being THE national park of excellence: the one you see clips on TV about, from erupting geysers to wolves preying on elk calves. I was indescribably excited. It didn't take me too long to find a travel bud either - it eventually being a female friend of mine, Raffaella, that agreed to share emotions, experiences and costs with me for a couple of extraordinary weeks.

Looking at the pictures I took back in those days, well, I see I was a "first timer". Too often now I criticize people taking pictures of a buffalo standing alongside the road, or even worse, of some squirrels begging for food. I am repeting myself constantly "That ain't a grizzly sow with cubs, c'mon now!". I should really stop and remember those pictures. It makes me smile but that's what it is!
However, it introduced me to the immense, uncomparable beauty of the United States. A country where - I just saw it with my own eyes - places like Yellowstone and Arches coexist. A place where you can roam the prairie with some big buffalo fellows or hike the mountain trail with the mountain lion, or stumble in the coyote while coming out of a sandy slot canyon bottom.
Flying back home I felt like an explorer waiting to tell the world the splendors of the New Continent.

Roots of a life's journey - Part 1

I still remember when I first boarded a plane, alone, bound for the United States. It was an early morning flight to Rapid City, SD, with 2 layovers in Frankfurt and Denver, CO. My first trip alone, my first intercontinental flight, and also my first experience away from home, my family, my friends. Useless to say, it felt like a huge emotional moment for me.
Sunrise was turning out delightful in Venice, where my Lufthansa flight was about to take off, but wasn't warming me up from the chilly air all around. It was February.
A quick prayer Upstairs for a smooth, safe flight and fr the people I was leaving home, and the plane takes off. I knew it was over - at least for a couple of months. No more afternoon soccer, no more Saturday nights, no more food ready on the table, no more easy life. I knew I'd have had to live in a much tougher style than I've ever done previously. I wasn't in a celebrating mood, for sure.

Once landed in Denver, CO, I felt like having landed on Mars. The sun was slowly setting on the Mile High city, and the sky was turning from deep blue to the usual symphony of yellows, oranges, reds, until a thick layer of faded purple put officially an end to the show. I was sitting outside with my heavy jacket on, eating some Burger King andenjoying it all. The highways, the lights, the stark contrast with the prairie grass, still a dull brown. I actually loved it, to the point I took several pictures of it. You know, the kind of pictures you look at years later thinking "Really?! C'mon man!". It was my first american sunset. I was thrilled. Never been there before but felt from the beginning a strong tie to the place. Even though the state of my body was run-down - I was already feeling pretty tired - I felt like the whole thing started with the right foot. I think I even smiled when I got up from the bench and tossed trash in the bin, going slowly back inside the terminal.

What followed in the next 2 months was a life elevated to a whole new level. I was conversating in English with people - which is some kind of an achievement for an Italian - living in my own place at the young age of 21 (another achievement for the average Italian), cooking my own food, driving my car to work, enduring blizzards, dealing with stray dogs when going out for a run, taking care of my laundry and grocery shopping. The thing one has to bear in mind is culture. Italians are well-known to be house dogs, if you allow me to put it this way. We are fond of our mothers, and they are a thousand times more fond of us. Our families are wonderful, and since they are, they try to provide us with everything. Most of us still grow up with the comfort of having a mom getting your meals ready for you, cleaning home for you, doing laundry and ironing for you. Probably until you're 30. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration, but I do indeed know such persons. I'm not making it up!
Growing up with such families, for how good might be, presents you with some challenges once you leave the home turf. Unfamiliar grounds, culture, faces, duties, can seriously scare people. They might trigger them to not leave home turf at all. If they do, they'd have to deal daily with things they're not used to: eating non-Italian food (a curse!), doing laundry, cleaning, paying for rent, getting a real job (there's people at home that haven't stacked up 1 working hour until 26), missing mom, friends and such. As far as I'm concerned, that explains why you don't really meet a lot of Italian backpackers. You meet travellers from France, from the Netherlands, from Canada, the U.S.A., loads from Germany (probably close to 95% of the backpacking population), from Sweden or Australia.. but it's pretty darn rare to meet an Italian. You'll meet them on short trips to European capital - EVERY Italian has been to London I'd dare say - or at Grand Canyon, or just working in Melbourne (you know, Australians pay well, so why not?!), but not really backpacking. There's no such culture, period.
I felt all of these cultural schemes during the first few days. On top of that, I was living in Pine Ridge indian reservation. Shannon County, where Pine Ridge lies, ranks as the second poorest county in the whole country. I knew where I was going, my interest in studying Native American's culture and economy was strong, but the reality check I received had a certain impact on me anyway.
After I moved to "the rez", I had to live in a trailer house at the end of a 2-mile dirt road that spurred from the main highway (BIA 2). That was 15 minutes from Kyle, SD. Living in Pine Ridge is no easy thing for locals. Poverty is real and affects almost everyone, with a per-capita annual income of just more than 6000$, children to feed are numerous and on top of that, winters are deadly. Blizzards can bury houses in snow overnight and windchill might reach the abominable level of 70 degrees below zero. It's no joke. I had to deal with it a few times, for example when one morning I woke up and the entrance door wouldn't open because of some 2 feet of snow that accumulated against it. When I made my way out I jumped in the car just to realize it wouldn't move because snow and ice blocked the front wheels. I had to carry buckets of hot water from the house on some 10 trips to melt the hardest part and I also broke a broom to try to fight the rest. Eventually I found an iron part behind the house and broke through the rest of it. I made it to work 30 minutes late. (The good thing is that at least people there are used to this, so I didn't get scolded by anyone)

Living in Pine Ridge meant that "boring" would be the adjective people would use to describe the place you were living in. Also appliable were "flat" or "godforsaken".
I found it awesome. There were no traffic jams, my neighbor was 100 yards away and living in another trailer home, and except for him, I had nobody else for 2 or 3 miles. There were no skyscrapers or city noises. Nobody honking or shouting. The only thing I could hear outside at night was a whole lot of birds chirping. I could even walk under moonlight. Sometimes a coyote would offer a nice long howl. There was no asphalt besides the main highway, it was just rolling hills and a few, sparse pine trees. It was a delight to my eyes and senses. I remember coming home from Mass on Sundays, having a quick sandwich and setting out for a hike with no destination. I'd just pick a general direction, or a hilltop far to the West, and go there - getting my shoes deep into muck or having to sneak underneath livestock fences. I was entranced either wandering aimless along almost-dry creekbeds or standing eventually on a hilltop, gazing to the rolling hills where Crazy Horse stood brave and undefeated. It was my kind of place.

Food was also a big part of this first adventure of mine. Coming from Italy, you know..
We do have some very particular kind of taste for food. I now call it "having one's nose in the air". We take pride in our cookery, but we disdain other's too often. Sometimes even without trying.
I arrived feeling I was doomed to die of starvation. The thing of being some kind vegetables-hostile person wasn't going to help either.
Surprisingly though, after the first visit to a supermarket in Rapid City, I changed my mind. I came out with a big smile and the awareness that I wouldn't have died.
Food was extremely appealing. Lots of meat, frozen food, appetizers, fried food, mexican food... wow. I think my first meal was a BBQ beef HotPockets with a side of baby peeled carrots. I could have gone on with HotPockets for 2 months if I wanted to, but I opted for a more varied diet (that included an army supply of Doritos, frozen burritos, frozen pizza & fries, and a different kind of cheese every week, with my favourite being mild cheddar). I lost my Italian habits in a fingersnap. From eating pasta or rice 4-5 times a week I went to probably 3, and burgers, sandwiches and mexican food became a substantial part of my diet. Still, the world of fast-food chains or fine restaurants was still unknown to me - for the welfare of my wallet.

An "outsider" view of Italy

Just a few days ago I finally made it back home after 2 years spent in 12 countries and 4 continents.
After having wandered in New Zealand's Alps, Nepal's Lang Tang valley, Thailand's Similan Islands, and all throughout North America, I am back to my homeplace, a small town in the industrial, with still a country touch North-East. This town is named Cadoneghe (incorporated in the city of Padova)

Now, what's the point today you might wonder?
The point is that I'm already disgusted by my country, and my fellow citizens.

You don't have to go mad to search for signs. They're everywhere: on TV, on the roads, in every store. You might even just need to talk to an Italian.
I hope to not fall into too much generalization, but the message I'm trying to convey with this write is easy: I know why Italy is in such poor conditions.

Talking to some friends for example, I got to know how some decently big businesses nearby still operate like people used to some 50 years ago. Somewhere out there, it still works like "we're all friends, and if you help me, I'll help you". The unfortunate thing is that this help means to work under the table, so you help your employer by avoiding him some taxes, and he'll help you by putting some extra dough in your pockets. How cool. There's no track of any kind of contract, at least for "a while", they tell me. You don't end a positive job interview with a signature on a binding piece of paper. Instead, you end up with the word of an uncertain powerful employee that tells you when to start to work. No mention of workplace accidents, for instance. If that should happen.. well, I have no clue who you are buddy.

Let's pretend I've never heard that, me citizen of the world used to sign contracts and pay taxes wherever I go. I keep going about my business, which happen to bring me in a restaurant. I won't describe everything, you just need to know that me ad my buddies ordered a selection of 3 fried items, which the waitresses of course mistook as one portion with a bit of everything. We wanted to feast on a bunch of fried food and when a plate with 3 items (I mean, 3 damned little piece of fried crap!) each appeared, I just wondered how much they would have charged us. Turned out it was 9 euro, or 1 euro apiece. I was just mad. I do understand that taxes, food costs and workforce wages do vary in each country, but.. fried food is fried fod everywhere, and coming from a country - my beloved U.S.A. - where you can buy a gigantic meal with that amount of money, I just couldn't let ig go easily! Like when I had to ask to a small b&b in the neighborhood the rate for one night in a double room. The answer? 70 euro. Yes, and we are not in Rome nor in Milan. We're in Cadoneghe, with ugly-looking corporations all around and some fields to top it up. In low season. And remember, it's no Hilton either. I was stunned. Give me back my Motel 6 please, I don't care if that's a chain. I always find a warm, tidy room and plenty of towels!

But hey.. we're in the nicest country of the world, com'on now! There has to be a reason fr this, right? Let's have a drive.

I got frustrated too quick. It seems like they places speed cameras everywhere. I can see the reason though: just so many Italians don't like to stick to the limit. After months and months of covering ground in so many places, I think I'm more sensible to this issue. I drove for an hour without breaking any speed limit - for the first time in my life in this country, I reckon. And peace too those road-raged souls that would angrily speed past me or flash their lights. Hope one of those camers will get you a nice Christmas present bro.

I finally enter a shop, since I need a SIM card now. It's the end of my journey today, but provides me with the best outcome ever. It shows altogheter the backward mentality of the average Italian (not all of us, but most), that tells you to get a job as soon as possible, keep til you die since it's impossible to get a better job and you need money to start a family, and live around here. Pretty much.
So I tell this middle-aged woman that I've been away travelling and working for a couple years, and during the talk, she asks me what I was doing here before I left. I told her I was working for a bank, before I quit that job and left home with no job ad no guarantees. From her position with her back towards me, she turns, her eyes widening greatly as for astonishment mixed with shock, and says "You're CRAZY!".

I put up my best smile, and calmly reply: "It's the best decision I've ever made!"