"The Hills Are Alive..."

When I was staying with my grandmother in Abruzzo, I used to go for walks outside the village.

One of the many reasons why Nietzsche loved the mountains.

One of my favorite routes was along the main road that passes through town.  This road terraces its way up the mountain through a series of curves and straightaways.  For most of the way above town, the side of the road is dotted with trees and brush, small slopes, hermit-like shrines, farmhouses, and even parks.  The air is crisp and clean, there are beautiful flowers, and in the distance, you can see the snow-capped peaks of La Maiella, where countless hermits retreated during the Middle Ages to commune with God.  The whole scenery is reminiscent of The Sound of Music or of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony.  

Whenever I saw this flower, I found myself humming "Edelweiss."

I often met another passionate walker on these afternoons.  She was a native of Pittsburgh who married an Italian and has been living in Italy for thirty years.  It was from her that I learned a few pieces of local lore, such as which snakes to particularly avoid—the little green ones.  She showed me where to find delicious drinking water from a fast-running, icy stream.  She also told me a tragic story that happened to a young couple in these mountains some decades ago. 

High up, there is a certain point where the face of the mountain has a cleft.  The road hugs the mountain all the way around this cleft, so that there is a sharp turn in and a sharp turn out.  The road has two lanes, no shoulder, and an almost vertical drop on one side—with no trees close enough for cover or shelter.  It was an intimidating location.  As a native of New Jersey and one not very widely traveled, I have never been afraid of terrain while driving.  However, when I approached this place, I was afraid to even do so on foot—not least because you cannot see around the bend until you get there, which cuts reaction times dangerously short if another car happens to be approaching from the opposite direction.

You can sort of see it in the middle of this picture.  The cleft in the road is the curve.

It was here that the young couple met their sad fate.  One night, they were returning from their engagement party to our town, where the girl lived.  Her fiancé, however, was not from the area and was unfamiliar with this difficult curve in the road.  In the darkness, he missed the turn, and since there was no guardrail, the car plummeted down onto the mountain.  The young man was able to free himself and get help.  Sadly, however, the young woman died.  Immediately after that was when the guardrail was built.  But ever since, this part of the road has been called la curva della morte:  "the curve of the death." 

It was a sad story, but I am grateful to my friend for telling it to me.  In doing so, she shared with me a little piece of my own heritage.  

Looking back on this reminds me of Book VIII of The Aeneid.  This is the chapter where the old king Evander introduces Aeneas to the local groves and rock formations of his Tiber community and steeps Aeneas in the numinous history behind his new and ancestral country—Italy.  My own journey in Italy was such a personal quest, and I learned much about my grandparents, my heritage, and myself along the way.  I am grateful to everyone I met—even to the ones I didn't see eye to eye with.  This journey has truly changed my life, and if I could live it all over again, I would not change a single thing.