Jérome helps me past a hurdle on the track that leads to Alto Adige's most remote castle, which at last we catch a glimpse of through the foliage. I wish there had been an easier access to the site, for a pregnant woman, than a muddy trail flooded with large puddles and quagmires. How many times did I surrender a shoe to the foul morass already? Fortunately my husband could recover it every time, but I'm afraid I can never restore their former sheen after this. As for the socks and skirt, they are ruined.
A middle-aged, nondescript woman, whose conveniently rustic clothes I envy, awaits us at the gate, before the moat of the towering but gloomy castle. She addresses us in German, calling herself Bianca, and bids us welcome with a perfunctory smile before leading the way inside the murky, decrepit fortress, likely a mere shadow of its erstwhile glory. Despite my lack of proficiency in her language, I impetuously press her to show me a room where I can change; then, realizing my egregious wording, apologize for my rudeness. Dismissive of my qualms, she shows me through a maze of sinister stone corridors to a windowless, cramped room, then draws back out of sight.
Jérome, tagging along, hands over the backpack with my change of clothes. I sit on the bench, then take off my disgusting shoes and shed my slimy socks and skirt. How foolish of me to have picked up expensive loafers and an ankle-length, light-colored skirt, knowing I would have to walk in the woods after a rainstorm! Though I suppose I can salvage the latter garment by curtailing it further to a knee-length skirt... My husband snickers helplessly at my disarray, bent until leaning against the wall. I roll my eyes and smirk, helping myself with my spare skirt, an equally long black one embroidered with red roses at the bottom. While I unfurl and fasten it around my waist, he regains his composure and scrubs the drying dirt off my feet with a hand towel, then gallantly togs them in my slippers. We both chuckle at the sight of my eclectic dress but that will have to do for today.
We meet Bianca again, whom we follow up staircases, beyond which the decor regains its anticipated nobility. She brings up that this floor has recently been restored, or so I surmise given my sketchy grasp of German. But she disappointingly denies us a tour by instead leading us further up without relenting, clearly weary of frequent, tedious visits. We reach a corridor off-limits to the general public and beyond the reach of sunlight, at the end of which lies a wooden door. Our guide knocks, then allows us in without waiting for a reply, and leaves, courteously shutting the door back behind us.
A man with long, silvery hair shows his large back to us, sitting on a swivel chair contrasting with the antique furniture, which consists of tables littered with crumbling piles of sere, dusty parchment sheets, and deep shelves crowded with stacks of scrolls. An antique smell lingers across the windowless room that even the multiple censers and oil lamps fail to dispel. We tread the room's creaky floor, through the narrow passage across the clutter, to the man's desk, beside his alcove pallet bed. I tap his shoulder; he startles, then spins around to face us. We simultaneously apologize to each other for the incident, then exchange names, his being Rahul Desai, spoken with a hoarse voice. He has small eyes, broad ears, dark complexion, pronounced features, and a long white beard that makes him look centennial. He springs on his feet, revealing his imposing stature, and extends his hand to shake ours, which I sample during the split second that I hold it; his skin is lined yet surprisingly smooth, and his handshake betrays shocking vigor for such an elder. Even my husband appears intimidated by his physique and strength!
Jérome helps me past a hurdle on the track that leads to Alto Adige's most remote castle, which at last we catch a glimpse of through the foliage. I wish there had been an easier access to the site, for a pregnant woman, than a muddy trail flooded with large puddles and quagmires. How many times did I surrender a shoe to the foul morass already? Fortunately my husband could recover it every time, but I'm afraid I can never restore their former sheen after this. As for the socks and skirt, they are ruined.
A middle-aged, nondescript woman, whose conveniently rustic clothes I envy, awaits us at the gate, before the moat of the towering but gloomy castle. She addresses us in German, calling herself Bianca, and bids us welcome with a perfunctory smile before leading the way inside the murky, decrepit fortress, likely a mere shadow of its erstwhile glory. Despite my lack of proficiency in her language, I impetuously press her to show me a room where I can change; then, realizing my egregious wording, apologize for my rudeness. Dismissive of my qualms, she shows me through a maze of sinister stone corridors to a windowless, cramped room, then draws back out of sight.
Jérome, tagging along, hands over the backpack with my change of clothes. I sit on the bench, then take off my disgusting shoes and shed my slimy socks and skirt. How foolish of me to have picked up expensive loafers and an ankle-length, light-colored skirt, knowing I would have to walk in the woods after a rainstorm! Though I suppose I can salvage the latter garment by curtailing it further to a knee-length skirt... My husband snickers helplessly at my disarray, bent until leaning against the wall. I roll my eyes and smirk, helping myself with my spare skirt, an equally long black one embroidered with red roses at the bottom. While I unfurl and fasten it around my waist, he regains his composure and scrubs the drying dirt off my feet with a hand towel, then gallantly togs them in my slippers. We both chuckle at the sight of my eclectic dress but that will have to do for today.
We meet Bianca again, whom we follow up staircases, beyond which the decor regains its anticipated nobility. She brings up that this floor has recently been restored, or so I surmise given my sketchy grasp of German. But she disappointingly denies us a tour by instead leading us further up without relenting, clearly weary of frequent, tedious visits. We reach a corridor off-limits to the general public and beyond the reach of sunlight, at the end of which lies a wooden door. Our guide knocks, then allows us in without waiting for a reply, and leaves, courteously shutting the door back behind us.
A man with long, silvery hair shows his large back to us, sitting on a swivel chair contrasting with the antique furniture, which consists of tables littered with crumbling piles of sere, dusty parchment sheets, and deep shelves crowded with stacks of scrolls. An antique smell lingers across the windowless room that even the multiple censers and oil lamps fail to dispel. We tread the room's creaky floor, through the narrow passage across the clutter, to the man's desk, beside his alcove pallet bed. I tap his shoulder; he startles, then spins around to face us. We simultaneously apologize to each other for the incident, then exchange names, his being Rahul Desai, spoken with a hoarse voice. He has small eyes, broad ears, dark complexion, pronounced features, and a long white beard that makes him look centennial. He springs on his feet, revealing his imposing stature, and extends his hand to shake ours, which I sample during the split second that I hold it; his skin is lined yet surprisingly smooth, and his handshake betrays shocking vigor for such an elder. Even my husband appears intimidated by his physique and strength!