Venice – Brussa – Trieste: 174km

The stuff, or ‘gear’ as it’s called in the bike-packing community, that makes up my life at the moment is neatly packed onto my bike. I say my goodbyes to Gea, who’s been my neighbour at this camping near Venice. She’s about the same age as my mom, has a son about the same age as me. She sold her house a while back and has been travelling by bike ever since, returning home every so many months so see child. Pretty cool lady. I say my goodbyes and express my gratitude to the man a couple of rows down from my tent, who’s been playing acoustic versions of Johnny Cash classics late at night while the rest of the campsite was getting ready for bed. With my dues paid, I push my wheels eastward. God knows where.

I haven’t made a plan today. I’d like to be in the middle of nowhere. For all its beauty, Venice’s hysteric tourism has got me longing for quiet and nature. On the map I see a collection of bodies of water just inland from the sea, about 50 kilometres from here. I pass Lido di Jesolo, a town recommended to me by a man on one of the ferries. I’m grateful to myself not to have stayed there. The never-ending boulevard is made up of endless rows of vendors all selling the same plastic sunglasses and souvenirs, alternated by steakhouses and clubs with names like Gasoline, Vanilla and Fantasy. After that the villages turn sleepy again. Italian fly-over-country, just big enough to live, just small enough not to visit. Fishermen in rags are waiting patiently for a sign of underwater life.

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I arrive at the lakes but can’t find a suitable place to set up my tent, I spot a long stroke of beach just about 20 kilometres from where I am. Beach camp it is! About an hour later I arrive at serene, almost sterile beach. Sand, instead of the rocks I got used to in Italy these last two weeks. The last families are just heading home as I push my bike along the waterfront. Not before heading into a local bar and getting one of my water bottles filled with Aperol Spritz.

I set up my camp where the coastland turns into a pine forest, make dinner and nearly fall asleep, just to be nearly woken up by a couple of voices, clearly close to my tent. I wait them out to see if they leave. They don’t. I decide it’s better to face your fears, than to wait in agony not knowingly. It’s about midnight now, I unzip my tent with all the confidence I can gather. My headlamp illuminates the faces of three kids, about 18 years old, smoking weed. They hadn’t realised I was there. I sit by them and tell them about my travels. They respond by telling me they’re lost in the world, how they don’t’ have the faintest idea what to do or what to care for now they’re finished with school. They’re just driving around for a bit. I find it inspiring. It’s like their response to uncertainty is embracing it. Then they declare in all seriousness how bright the stars are, after they hysterically laugh the seriousness of their previous statement away. We’re friends now.

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The next day I substitute the sand for the city; Trieste. Right on the border with Slovenia, this will be my last stop in Italy. The ride is pleasant but uneventful, flat, and almost 100 kilometres long. Until the end. The campsite I’m sleeping at is just above the city, and although just three kilometres long, the climb is horrific, horrendously painful and completely appalling. After every bend, the narrow road opens up to reveal the next section, that by the looks of it seems impossible to cycle up. The pictures don’t do it justice. The data on my cycling app later analyses sections of 26 and 34 percent gradient. It takes me the better part of an hour, stopping every 150 meters just to catch my breath. I repeatedly try if pushing the whole bike situation forward by foot feels better, but even then my calves turn to hot mess of lactose filled fire. I arrive shakingly, nauseous and completely soaked in sweat. I fall to the chalk ground beneath me and the reception-man wait patiently for me to recover before he checks me in.

Trieste seems different from the other Italian towns. Build by the Anglo-Hungarian Empire, the buildings have more in common with those in Vianna, than those in Rome or Milan. No wonder it’s also called Vienna by the Sea (it’s also called city of coffee by the way, but I have yet to find proof of that. The mere founding place of Illy is not enough!). I enjoy the atmosphere a lot, finally a city where people live because they want to, not because tourism keeps them afloat. More nationalities from far and wide roam the streets here. I watch the sunset at the low harbour and have a Bosnian meal in preparation of Eastern Europe. The bus back to the tent (yes I’m never taking that climb anymore) lets in lights that shatter through the windows as we drive up the steep hills. The harbour from up here is a galaxy in its own right. Back in my tent I realise my sleeping mat deflated and must have a whole. I don’t care, tomorrow I’ll be Easter Europe.