I'm not exactly sure what I was doing in the mountains. I'd like to say I was climbing, but some would say I wasn't. I've never really understood the difference between trekking and hiking, so I tend not to use those words as freely as my friends who use them for their afternoon outings in Michigan. But I'm sure it was more than just walking or I wouldn't have been wearing a helmet and harness.
I was apprehensive to accept the invitation for a night in a mountain refuge from a couple and their two girls, but decided if an 8-year old could do it, the family English teacher could do it, too. I warned them of my fears and made no promises to reach the top, but was assured I'd be just fine.
The first afternoon was a 90-minute uphill walk to reach the warm welcome of the refuge. "Are we there yet?" has a different ring to it in the mountains than in the backseat of an air-conditioned car with internet and video games.
Upon arrival we stripped our sweaty clothes and hung them on the fence with those of our new roommates. Dinner was served early, followed by a few rounds of hide'n'seek. Little by little 25 people stresslessly shared one tiny bathroom leaving it as clean for the last person who brushed their teeth as it had been for the first.
When we entered the bunk-bedded dorm my friend whispered the sleeping instructions. My favorite part was his headlamp shining on the folded blanket at the foot of the bed. Two bright red feet had been unevenly embroidered on the heavy wool to indicate the bottom. Sleep came slowly; not from the fear of the following day, but from the realization of the finale of the first.
The next morning I refolded the red feet, reused the clean bathroom and refueled on bread and Nutella. Day two had begun. The groups dispersed in different directions and ours went up.
Five hours into the adventure, instead of continuing up I tried giving up. It was a perfect place to rest and wait for the family to finish the climb without me. I stole their words and assured them I'd be just fine and I wouldn't (because I couldn't) move a muscle. That's when I learned that a mountain guide leaves no man behind, and certainly not his favorite English teacher. So, I continued.
Ten minutes later I tried giving up again and this time I cried. The rocks ahead looked higher and steeper and the hole behind looked bigger and deeper. They told me that after that 'one little hard part' (where I was crying and stuck to the wall like the Halloween decoration of the half-smashed witch) we'd be to the clearing and could stop for lunch.
At that point I lost my memory. Somehow between my tears of terror and the comfort of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I had managed to unstick myself and reached the clearing. In addition to the perfect place for lunch, it was also the perfect place to put bandaids on the scraped shins I'd crawled on when I could and should have been on my feet.
That's when 12-year old Giulia came bawling out from behind a boulder. She was completely distraught that their invitation for a fun day in the mountains had left me bloody (an overdramatization) and crying. I tried to console her, admitting that the first tears had come from sheer panic. But the second were tears of triumph. And those of the hour, the result of her unbridled sensitivity.
Just as I was calming down and proudly looking back at how far I'd come, the 8-year old innocently broke the silence with, "Ten, you know it's a lot harder going down, right?" As the family simultaneously shrieked "Chiara!", I smiled and said, "Grazie, lo so." (I know.)
If only the whole world had a little more of Giulia's compassion and Chiara's sincerity; we could surely climb a lot more mountains. Then maybe one day we could proudly say, "Look how far we've come."
