Computer crash

 As if my posts on this blog haven’t been infrequent enough over the past few months already, my computer has now crashed.  Apparently permanently.

I will need to order and install a new computer, and ascertain how much of a decade’s worth of data has been saved “in the cloud,” and how much has been lost irretrievably. 

Until that’s been completed, my readers will have to be even more patient than in past months.  The only way for me to post at present — as I’m doing now — is on my phone, which is unsatisfactory in many ways.  Especially for those of us addicted to touch typing.

Thanks for your continued patience and interest.  I love having readers.  Maybe, during the upcoming hiatus, you can peruse my past essays, posted over the past 15 years.

Two weeks at Lake Como

We now pass swiftly from my arrival in Milan on September 8 to my arrival at our rental property on Lake Como on September 10.  Eliding, thereby, the dispiriting events of September 9 -- already described two posts ago -- which resulted in my spending my remaining 16 days in Italy with only one usable arm.

Dispiriting, I say, but I was not dispirited.  I saw myself -- I see myself, now -- as leading my legions from the Lombardy plains to the Como lakeshore, much as one-armed Lord Nelson himself lead his ships into battle.  An heroic figure, one might conclude. Even though my arm had been lost not in battle in the Canary Islands, as had Nelson's, but in a bathtub in a Milan hotel.

Week One

Because of changed logistics, we abandoned our original plan, described in earlier posts, of taking the train to Como, a ferry from Como to Menaggio, and a bus thence to our rental.  Instead, we hired a taxi to take us directly from our Milan hotel to the lakeshore rental.  Less picturesque, but simpler.  Or it would have been simpler if the driver had not heard "Menaggio" as "Bellagio."  His mistake wasn't appreciated until I noticed that, once past Como city, the lake appeared to be on the left side of the road, rather than the right.  Words were exchanged, tempers flared, some euros changed hands, and all ended well.

Our taxi delivered us to the parking area above the winding, pedestrian-only streets of Rezzonico right on time, and we were greeted by the same friendly and helpful manager who had met my sister, my cousin and me one year earlier.  Her young helper Michael carried our bags down the multiple flights of steps to our rental house at lake level.  The manager, remembering me well from the year before, gave us this time only a quick tour of the house, and -- at our request -- made our Saturday reservations for dinner at the local pizzeria.  She left, the members of Week One looked around, making small exclamations of pleasure at what they saw, and we settled in.  

The villa became our villa for the following seven days.

The six members of Week One, aside from myself, were all members of the family of the same Jim with whom I'd been hiking in Scotland.  Jim, his brother, and his sister are children of a former Dean of the Forestry School at the University of Washington; they seem a close-knit family, with similar instincts and with interests that -- as you might suspect -- center around outdoor activities.  Finding things to do at Lake Como that everyone enjoyed was easy.

Some activities are almost obligatory for almost all first time visitors, of course.  We took the ferry to the picturesque cross-lake towns of Bellagio (of George Clooney fame) and Varenna, and a long distance ferry ride to Colico, at the far northern end of the lake.  We hung out in Menaggio, drinking coffee and eating gelati.  Menaggio was also where we did our grocery shopping and found access to local ATM machines.

And we walked.  On Tuesday, we did a long walk up into the hills behind Rezzonico, ultimately reaching the tiny village of San Martino -- a tiny village we later found quite noticeable from below, marked by the tall steeple of its church.  We met two New Zealand women, former teachers, who were renting a house in San Martino, who entertained us with much needed flasks of cold water, and, learning that one of our group was an educator, discussions of educational philosophy.  Later that week, we walked from Rezzonico along the lake shore south to Acquaseria, and then returned home by a high route, passing through agricultural fields and through the streets of small towns.  And on Wednesday, three of us walked northward, to the next village of Cremia.  None of these walks was overly strenuous; they were all scenic, and they all offered us a good picture of ordinary people, both tourists and local residents, going about their lives.

The gustatory climax of the week was our Thursday dinner at Lauro, an excellent but tiny, informal, and family-owned-and-run restaurant located in Rezzonico itself, a two or three minute walk from our rental home.

Week Two

But Saturday finally arrived, the people of Week One sadly left by bus to the railway station at Como city, and -- while the owner's staff prepared the house for the next group -- I hung around Menaggio waiting for their ferry to arrive.  It did, and the people of Week Two emerged, led by my grinning sister.  Also disembarking were my eldest nephew and his wife, one of my sister's oldest friends and her wife, and the friend's daughter, and the daughter's husband, and their son (age 4) and daughter (age 1).  Overall, a younger group, and somewhat different -- but not completely different  -- in interests and attitudes.  Actually, I was happy and a bit surprised to find that the entire group loved hiking as much as the Week One group had.  And while two pre-school kids, precocious as they seemed, definitely changed the atmosphere at times, their presence didn't curtail their parents' hiking -- the four-year-old was a bundle of non-flagging energy, and his young sister alternated between trying to keep up with him and riding in a carrier on the back of one parent or the other.

We did some of the same things as did the first week's group.  The mandatory ferry ride to Bellagio and to Varenna.  The long ferry ride northward, although we decided to go only as far as Dongo -- where Mussolini was nabbed, trying to escape to Switzerland -- rather than all the way to Colico.  We drank cappuccinos and ate gelati at small lakeside cafés.  More so than with the first week's group, much shopping was done and euros changed hands -- definitely not my activity, and all I can tell you is two words -- "silk scarves."

Our hiking was perhaps more ambitious than that of Week One, in distance if not in altitude.  We took the bus to Colonno, south of Menaggio, and hiked back northward eight miles along the lake shore to Griante, stopping for a very satisfying lunch in the beautiful town of Lenno.  We hiked the five miles from Rezzonico to Menaggio, Menaggio being our "big city" where, usually arriving by bus, we did our grocery shopping and hopped the ferries.  And one day, while others were plotting shopping expeditions, I walked northward once more to Cremia, and then onward to Pianello, an exhilarating hike reminding me why I sometimes enjoy walking alone.  

Week Two neared the end of their stay on Thursday with the same highly enjoyable group dinner at Lauro as had Week One, and then on Friday with a home-cooked birthday dinner for our one-year-old -- no longer one, but now two.  (Did I mention that both she and her four-year-old brother seemed older and more sophisticated than I recall kids at that age being when I was young?)  

And so on Saturday morning, after checking out and watching Michael once more haul our bags, this time up the endless steps, we found our selves waiting at the bus stop for the bus to Menaggio, connecting to the ferry to Como, connecting to the train to Milan.  An unforgettable two weeks for me, and I suspect for everyone.  

But I'm confident it will not be the last time I ever see Lake Como.

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This post may seem excessively detailed as a vacation summary.  Please be indulgent.  I write it to remind myself of various sequences of events, so that in future years as my memory fades, my endless stacks of photos will make some chronological sense!

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Photo:  Isola Comacina, the only island in Lake Como.  Week Two walked past this island while we walked the lakeshore from Colonno to Griante.

West Highland Way -- 2022 version

On Sunday, August 28, in late afternoon, I dragged my weary body from a downtown Glasgow airport bus stop several blocks to my booked hotel and collapsed.  It had been a long day and night of flight and six hours sitting in Heathrow, with little or no sleep.  Soon after arrival, Jim and Dorothy came by the hotel, and we all went out to dinner at the "Missoula Montana Bar & Grill."  No, it really happened, surreal as it seemed then, and as it seems now in recollection.

Four weeks later, I returned to Seattle from Milan.  That was almost two weeks ago, and some explanation for my delay in summarizing my trip may be called for.  First, jet lag.  Second, a bad cold that began the night before my flight home and that is still running its course today.  And, most dramatically, a dislocated shoulder (see last post) from which I'm still recovering, together with the dramatic warning from my orthopedist that I almost certainly had sustained a partial or even full tear of my rotator cuff, requiring surgery.  An MRI was scheduled.

Not all news is bad news.  The MRI apparently revealed that yes, I had a partial tear to my rotator cuff, but it had occurred long ago and my body had fully compensated for the damage by making substitute use of other muscles and ligaments.  No new tearing had occurred in Italy.  No surgery would be required.  He recommended physical therapy, to strengthen muscles and increase range of motion.

I know now how a condemned prisoner feels when he receives a pardon from the governor.

So after an all-too-un-Montanan dinner in Glasgow, we proceeded to Milngavie on Monday, as planned, loafed around the pleasant small town, and prepared to begin hiking on Tuesday, August 30.

As mentioned in an earlier post, I hiked the West Highland Way back in 2011.  I remembered parts of it well.  Some parts I didn't recall at all.  Other parts were different from how I remembered them.  Above all, hiking with two friends changed the experience -- from a solitary adventure into the unknown to a more social experience -- fewer thoughts of encountering ghosts of Highland rebels, smugglers, and drovers on the high moors, and more joking, more discussions of the pleasures and miseries we encountered on the trail and in each night's B&B or small hotel. 

The trail is considered moderately easy as British trails go, but it had its challenges.  The second day, as part of a 13 mile hike, we climbed  up and over "The Conic," a high peak with a gradual ascent but a precipitous decent into the village of Balmaha, a pleasant, well-touristed town on the south shore of Loch Lomond.  (An alternate route by-passes The Conic, for those wishing to avoid the climb.)   

The following night was spent at the stately Rowardennan Hotel, midway up the east side of Loch Lomond.  Our relaxed evening at the Rowardennan didn't prepare us mentally for the following day's formidable hike to Drover's Inn at the northern tip of the Loch -- formidable not so much for the 13 mile length of the hike, but for the very rough trail, composed mostly of rocks and tree roots.

Once past Drover's Inn, the hiking was relatively easy, even when the days were long.  My friends kidded me for being overly concerned about our meals -- both quality and quantity -- but I have to admit that the freshly-caught local trout served for breakfast, along with our eggs, at Tiigh Na Fraoch inn in Tyndrum, and the elegant Avocado Eggs Benedict served at the Inveroran Hotel in Inveroran were surprises, and a nice break from the usual "Traditional Scottish Breakfast." 

After Inveroran, we found ourselves crossing the vast expanse of Rannoch Moor.  My memory of the moor from 2011 was one of a mysterious realm -- a dry path leading through grassy marshes, surrounded by crags with threatening-sounding Gaelic names.  I walked alone, and encountered very few other hikers.  I wouldn't say the experience was at all scary, but it had the potential for being scary if I'd twisted an ankle, or had found myself walking alone after dark.  But this time, the sun was brightly shining, I had friends to talk with, and the trail was crowded with fellow hikers.  

The changes in experience were both gains and losses.  For me, perhaps, with my sense of imagination and love of telling stories to myself, more losses than gains.

This was especially true at the end of that day, when we came down off the moor to Kingshouse.  Kingshouse is very old, and was famous in the 18th century as a meeting place for smugglers.  It was a cozy place to stay overnight, at the head of Glen Coe, despite its obvious age.  But in the past eleven years, Kingshouse has changed radically.  No longer an isolated white building looming ahead on the trail, it is now surrounded by ancillary buildings.  The main building itself has been largely renovated and enlarged with modern additions.  No apparent attempt has been made to preserve the atmosphere of the old building, except in the bar.  

We did not stay in Kingshouse this time.  Because of demand, and probably price, the company that arranged our accommodations provided a cab ride from Kingshouse, down Glen Coe to the coast, and back up the next valley north to the old aluminum producing town of Kinlochleven.  The following morning, a cab returned us to Kingshouse, where we hiked back to Kinlochleven.  The trail out of Kingshouse leads you up the "Devil's Staircase," so named by British soldiers required to carry supplies on their backs up the switchbacks.  Although I was eleven years older, the hike seemed easier this time than last.  However, a photo taken of me at the top, attempting to pose in the same manner as I had in 2011, dispelled any illusion that I hadn't aged!

My second night at Kinlochleven was the end of the trail for me.  My companions hiked the final fifteen miles to Fort William the following day.  I beat them there by taxi, where I caught a train back to Glasgow.  A flight cancellation by British Air had forced me to fly from Glasgow to Milan a day earlier than planned.  Jim and Dorothy had excellent weather for that last day of the hike.  In 2011, it had poured during the entire day's hike -- a hike through what is described as the most scenic leg of the West Highland Way.  I saw nothing but the puddles in the trail beneath my feet.

I may have to return to Scotland some day just to hike that final fifteen miles!

Once I'd left Glasgow and arrived in Milan, the second half of my thirty day European vacation began.  But that's a story for a later post.

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Photo:  Bridge of Orchy, built by the English military in the mid-18th century to assist moving soldiers to the Highlands to put down rebellions.

Dislocation

"But no matter how much planning you do, one tiny miscalculation, one moment of distraction, can end it all in an instant."

--Jeannette Walls, Half Broke Horses

It had been an amazing two weeks, hiking the West Highlands Way in Scotland with my friends Jim and Dorothy.  But wait!  There was more to come.  On Thursday, September 8, I flew from Glasgow to Milan, where I was to meet up with a group of Jim's relatives, and proceed to a house we'd rented on Lake Como.

I arrived late in Milan, checking into my hotel near the Milan Central Station at about 9:30 p.m.  I'd been warned that my friends had already gone to bed; we were to meet over breakfast in the morning.

I bounced out of bed, full of excitement, the next morning.  I took a shower in the room's deep tub, thinking about the day to come.  I had to make sure everyone was gathered together -- Jim was flying in that evening, and Jim and Dorothy's son arriving early on Saturday, the tenth.  We had to be at the station reasonably early on Saturday to catch a train to Como, connect with a ferry to Menaggio, and arrive at our rental house some five miles north of Menaggio by the 4 p.m. check-in time.

My hair washed and my body scrubbed, I turned off the water and stepped out of the tub.  But I never quite made it.  My foot slipped on the soapy bottom of the tub, my head hit the wall, I tried to catch myself on the floor outside the tub with my right arm.  After that?  My only memory after that was of excruciating pain.  

Not just excruciating pain, as when you hit your finger with a hammer.  Excruciating pain that remained excruciating at the same level as the minutes went by.  It dawned on me, through my mental haze, that something had gone very wrong, something beyond twisting my wrist or shoulder.  Finally, I contacted Anne, one of the friends with whom I had planned breakfast.  She was alarmed by the sound of my voice, and sent John, her brother, to see what was wrong.  I somehow had managed to pull on some boxers before he arrived.

I suppose that, even when dying, I'll want to comb my hair before the undertaker arrives.

John and Anne and their spouses leaped wonderfully into the breach.  Somehow, an ambulance was summoned, my bags were packed while I squeaked out instructions, and we dashed to an orthopedic hospital, sirens wailing.

It's a cliché, but Italians do have a flair for the dramatic.

By now, I was well aware that I'd dislocated my shoulder.  Full props to the ambulance personnel for treating me gently and with compassion -- although our speed  on a rough road made an extremely uncomfortable ambulance ride.  But, to be honest, I was beyond being able to distinguish between degrees of "excruciating."

I was admitted immediately at the hospital ER, and -- after a frustrating conversation about my travel insurance -- was subjected to numerous x-rays.  I was then seen by an orthopedist who spoke quietly to me, held my hand, pulled my hand gently -- it felt good, the first improvement in my level of pain that morning.  She gradually pulled more strongly until -- wow! -- I felt great.  The pain almost totally vanished in an instant.  I was given post-reduction x-rays, and my right arm was wrapped up in a sling.

Great moments in medicine, as MAD Magazine once declared it -- the presentation of the bill.  I was expecting something in the order of several thousand dollars.  But it was 340 euros -- at a time when the euro was worth almost exactly the same as the dollar.  They didn't have enough information to bill my insurance company, and they couldn't take my credit card, so they handed me the bill.  Have your bank wire us the money, they requested, trustingly.

Was my stay at Lake Como ruined?  Hardly!  But it was changed.  My friends abandoned our plans for a train-ferry trip to the rental house, and hired a taxi.  Less problem with moving me and my baggage about, although by the time I returned to the hotel, aside from having one arm hors de  combat, I was back to being my usual excited, witty self.

I hiked (well, walked) long distances almost daily for the next two weeks, and did everything everyone else did, everything I'd planned on doing.  I just did it all one-armed, with my crippled arm tucked under my t-shirt.  

But I wasn't unaffected by my injury, even when the pain was minimal or non-existent.  Before, I had been, mentally if not physically, a young guy up for any adventure.  Afterward, I found myself considering each day's activities, asking myself if I could handle the challenge, and if I could do it safely.  Thoughts that rarely crossed my mind before the Great Shower/Tub Incident.

Returning home, I learn that I may have torn my rotator cuff, which might well require surgery with a long period of recovery.  I am scheduled for a shoulder MRI this evening.

Looking back, I keep pondering how my cheerful plans while showering, feeling excited about the day and capable of anything, were changed in an instant into extreme pain, and, worse, into a prolonged period of partial disability -- a period that continues today, and the full extent of which may not be known for months.

"One tiny miscalculation, one moment of distraction."  A lesson many learn to their sorrow at a much younger age than I have.  But a lesson that, whenever learned, changes one's sense of reality, of the continuity of life from one day to the next, from one moment to the next.