Bologna > Crespino (85 km)

August 12, 2014

Bologna > Crespino (85 km)

[Originally posted Aug 12, 2014]

7:00 am, sitting on a dock on the north bank of the Po River, just outside the small town of Crespino. Last night was another attempt at Wild Camping. From the start, everything seemed to be in good order. We found a nice place to shower (a hand water pump that pumped water into our empty water bottles so we could then pour the water over us, soap up, and then rinse off - no need to get into the Po River - which reminds me quite a bit of the Mighty Mississippi) and a nice place to camp (we figured we’d sleep on a boat dock, it was flat, about 10 feet by 30 feet, and had no wet grass or mud to deal with and a nice breeze to keep us cool - the previous night was rather hot in our cement hostel and a breeze seemed necessary). But that was all last night at 9:30pm before we crossed the levee to visit the town’s “dancing stars” competition that seemed to be carried out in a carnival style celebration.

Our beloved bath on the Po River.

Dancing Stars Carnival. Probably the only non-Italian speakers there. Quite the carnival food: clam spaghetti, butternut squash ravioli. Topped off with individually wrapped Balsamic Vinegars. Italians know whats up.

Now it is this morning—things didn’t exactly go as planned.

Problem number one - visitors. Katy and I laid down to sleep at about 11:40 and were instantly asleep - this is the new norm. But then at midnight I heard the clanking of foot steps coming down the long walkway from land to dock. I quickly woke up, although my body didn’t move, when I’m out camping in other countries it seems as though my body rests but my somewhere in my mind I am still on a mild level of watch surveying the surroundings for visitors. And so as the footsteps came closer I whispered to Katy that I would talk to them. From the “full moon in my eyes” it was apparent that the visitors were kids, four of them, and as they carefully passed us to the other side of the dock we said “Ciao”, and then I felt that all was well. They would notice we had already “claimed” the dock and they would have to push on to another spot to smoke their marijuana cigarettes. But as luck would have it, not so. They plopped down about 12 feet away from Katy, turned on their music and started snapping those lighters. Hmm, how long will this last. At 1am they were still there, listening to either some form of Reggae or the worst electronic something-or-other I have ever heard. Finally at 1:30am, realizing that any sort of social norms of “don’t listen to music and talk loudly while others are trying to sleep” were unlikely to kick in, I sat up and said in perfect English: we are sleeping here, when are you going to be quiet. A jumbled translation attempt occurred until “dormir” and “no music” got the point across. From my corner, they only had one move, pack up and leave. But no, they did not. They just decided to lay down and fall asleep. Rather strange, until at 3:45am I am again awoken to their foot steps as the scramble back towards the land.

Finally asleep without my mind in “watch mode” I slept for a solid 2 hours until the sounds of boat engines. The morning fisherman was out and we were on his dock. Again, “Ciao” was offered and by 6am I was wide awake.

Problem number two - humidity. Growing up in the deserts of Utah, camping is always pretty straight forward, the mountains of northern Utah and the deserts in the south lack humidity, that intolerable weather condition that makes you sweat unnecessarily and leads to “morning dew”. Back home when you camp you never wake up wetter than the night before unless it rains. I guess humidity changes all that. At 6am when I clambered up off the wooden dock it was apparent that all our stuff was soaked. Sleeping bags, clothes, food, shoes, bike seats, helmets and etc. Sopping. Katy was almost able to wring her sleeping bag out. This doesn’t happen back home, maybe my days living in southeast Arkansas should have taught me this lesson, but I guess I never really did sleep outside in Arkansas - unless I was further north.

While Katy and I were cleaning up this mess I said, when I write about this our parents are going to say: duh, of course your stuff is wet. You camped next to a giant river. And then it dawned on me, the reason our parents are so wise is just because they’ve been around longer and have already made all the mistakes that we can still look forward to.

Oh don't be fooled by its beauty.

Wild Camping on the Po River

The Po River by the full moon light.

Our ride yesterday was hot. After leaving church at noon, we headed north towards Venice. An hour into our ride I couldn’t take it much longer. The marquee on a pharmacy we passed said it was 37C, which according to conversions just happens to be 98.6F, the temperature inside your body - or so they say. With no shade to stop in and no reason to stop another than heat we forged ahead. We decided to stop in Ferrara and watched as the kilometer marking signs slowly dropped, 17km, 15km, 11km and then we would ride a bit further and it would still say 11km - this was also pretty tough on the mental battle of dealing with the heat and every time we would pass a mileage sign that was the same as the last the feeling of defeat that came over the two of us was palpable.

Parking at church

Church in Bologna

As we finally approached Ferrara, we passed a guy on the side of the road selling watermelon. A quick U-turn and we pulled out all the Euros we had left (we forgot to stop at the ATM before leaving Bologna) - which amounted to just coins - a €1 Euro coin along with a bunch of €0.20 and €0.10 pieces. I picked up the melon I wanted and gave the man all my change. I shrugged my shoulders and said “c’est tout” - French for this is all. The man responded in more words than mine, but the general feeling was - yeah dude, it’s super hot out here and if all you have is a euro or two then you need this watermelon more than I do. And then Katy and I proceeded to eat the entire thing. As he cut slice after slice for us we devoured that heavenly fruit. The only words that interrupted our slurping, munching noises was the man saying bravo, bravo and other Italian that could only be translated to “yes, this is the best watermelon” as we quickly finished our pre-meal snack.

On to Venice we go…