The first time we went
to Courmayeur ended, to be honest, in a
number of disappointments.
The little village
near the base of Mont Blanc was, at least on the Italian side of the mountain,
the point from which you could ascend the famous mountain—at least high up its
slope—by funicular. It was a promising
prospect, but the first time we went there, back in May 2014, we were waylaid
by the ATM machine.
Italy is a country
where the commerce of shops and restaurants is less…credit-intensive than at
home. And though, as we were to discover
later, the people who ran the funicular up the side of the mountain were more
than willing to accept VISA, our way from Courmayeur to La Palud where the lift
began was a good 4 km away by a bus that was cash only. So we had reached the end of our road for the
day, quite literally.
Let down but not all
that distressed, we spent some time wandering through the pedestrian areas of
the town, its streets picturesque almost (but not quite) to the point of being dull. It struck me as a kind of “movie Switzerland,”
a little more tidied and boutiqued than I was inclined to enjoy, but not a bad
place
for a few hours’ lingering. Since this was a Sunday, and since it was the
middle of May, two weeks or so past the
end to Courmayeur’s principal
tourist season, we were a little out of luck even in falling back on
traditional touristry: half of the shops were closed, and a number of the more
interesting regional restaurants didn’t keep Sunday hours.
Lunch ended up as pizza,
which I seldom mind, especially in Italy, but the one I order included a raw egg as one of the
toppings—something more interesting to see than to think about or eat, and a
reminder to me that a very rudimentary grasp of the language is occasionally
not enough when you’re trying to negotiate a menu.
But it was right
before we went home that our financial inconvenience became a little more than
just inconvenient. Became, in fact, embarrassing.
Rhonda wasn’t feeling
that good, so we stopped in a little café for some pastry and coffee. The snack served and finished, I discovered
to my dismay that the place didn’t accept credit cards, either. A stumbling explanation in bad Italian brought
out a manager—a young man name Luca—whose English and generosity were more than
my ignorance deserved that afternoon. In
short, we had the coffee and pastry gratis, and I would remember his kindness
in the coming year, starting from the moment our bus headed back to Aosta, on board
two passengers defeated at the low levels of global finance by inexperience and
bad luck.
Needless to say, we
set upon ourselves to right some wrongs when it came to Courmayeur. A return trip, we decided, to ascend the
mountain. I announced as much in my
Facebook status:
Headed to Courmayeur this
morning, then an ascent of Mont Blanc. No, not with piton and rope, but in safe
vehicles in which you can stop for coffee at dizzying heights. My kind of
adventure these days.
So much of my
prediction was (once again) wrong. Which calls for a little commentary, beyond
simply advising other travelers never to predict how the day will go.
“Safe vehicles” was, I
believe, more or less accurate. The
funicular turned out to be less like the stately one we had ridden in Ljubljana
roughly a year before: shaky with bumps and scrapes, crowded with German skiers
(and their skis), but all in all not death-defying, so yes, that would pass for
“safe”. And “stopping for coffee at
dizzying heights” was true as well—perhaps even better, in that we had lunch
with a view at a place called Summit 3842, where excellent polenta made amends
for sausage that was so-so, and the view, though intermittent because of cloud
and mist, ended up trumping it all.
It was what lay in
between that I hadn’t bargained on. 228
stairs, straight up and steep, no landings on which to lean or even
collapse. Even the skiers around us were
panting. It was my daily workout—perhaps
my weekly one—and reaching the top, winded and sweaty, I had to allow that the
food up there tasted better for the exertion, the view more beautiful because
it was earned. It was a couch-potato
version of my own Mont Blanc climb, and laugh at me if you will, I was still
able to make my climb without aid of piton or Sherpa.
And the view. You understand Shelley:
Far, far above, piercing the infinite sky,
Mont Blanc appears—still, snowy, and serene;
Its subject mountains their unearthly forms
Pile around it, ice and rock; broad vales
between
Of frozen floods, unfathomable deeps,
Blue as the overhanging heaven, that spread
And wind among the accumulated steeps
All natural drama and
cataract and grandeur. Extraordinary
beauty made even more beautiful because it’s on a scale where we don’t figure
in. Indifferent Nature , the world
before us and after us. A kind of
curious face to face with the Romantic Sublime—Edmund Burke and all that bunch,
and knowing that our footprint is so light upon the mountains that they would
be indifferent to our feelings of smallness and of insignificance.
It’s hard to come down
from those heights without a little humility.
Another form of which was on my mind as we parted. I returned to the little café, 10 euros in
hand, intending a year-late payment of my debt.
The place was more bustling this time, having set up a gelato bar. An amiable, tall Frenchman who managed the
place let me know that Luca was gone now.
Time had passed, it seemed, regardless of the places in which my memory
had stopped. The new manager graciously
declined my repayment, thanking me for remembering and considering, and
returning with the intent to make old debts good. It’s something you can never quite do, at
least not in the way you intended: but the sublime is better, more humanized,
when it contains good will.
Wow -- so thought provoking. Lovely prose!
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