Some Wine, Not Much Italy, But Lots of Trail

This past week has taken me on another trail, lots of trail. For a week we have been out in West Texas to do some hiking in the Big Bend National Park and surrounding areas. This is Texas as the Italians love to romanticize Texas and The West, with huge vistas, wide rivers, lots of wild animals and plenty of big blue sky during the day and starry, starry skies at night. It was also very therapeutic this week, because out there the cell phones do not work. So lots of rest and respite from the civilized world. During the last five or so years September has taken me to the wine trail in France, Portugal, Sicily, and Italy. But for some reason this year, I needed a break from Italy and wine. For one glorious week I didn’t think about whether a wine was natural enough or not (btw, the more natural the wine is the happier my headache prone skull is). I didn’t drive very much and when I did it was never over 45 mph and usually to a placer to hike for the day. I got sunburned and star burned even more, because out in the Big Bend the sky viewing is amazing. Oops, looks like I am full speed ahead into a mommy blog post. E' la nave va. Dallas to Midland is a short one hour flight. In a car the drive to Big Bend is a lot like flying to Europe. Long. So the program was Midland via SW Air and then a rental car for the 3 hour trip to our first destination-Marfa. Marfa is that little town in West Texas where a person like me can feel like this was a town made for people like me. Good food and wine abounds, interesting and friendly people, lots of art and the wide open sky of the romantic Texas Italians love to fantasize about. In a little café in Marfa, Maiya’s we set about our first night to nosh. Maiya’s is Italian-centric so there are some nice food and wines to choose from. We settled on a Pio Cesare Gavi, a 2004, that was nutty and in perfect ready-to-drink shape. I did say 2004; there must be something about the dry West Texas conditions that keep a 5 year old Italian white in shape. But anyone who has ever had an older Gavi knows that a good one can take some age. Marfa is an artistic community centered around, but not exclusive to, the efforts of Donald Judd and his Chinati Foundation. I will be heading back to Marfa soon to do a series of wine and food dinners, hopefully with some artistic element added to it. My university background was in art and architecture with photography, film and cultural forms studies making up the curricula that I focused on. Marfa is really a place out of my American West soul. And you can find a pretty good pizza there too, in this dog loving town. I grew up in California in the western part of the Sonora Desert (sometimes called the "Colorado Desert"). Marfa and Big Bend are part of the Chihuahua desert. So not exactly the same, but enough similarities for me to be very happy. On long walks in the Chihuahua desert this past week, I could have sworn some of the trees were brujos and of course I thought I could smell the snakes (another post, but yes, snakes do emit a unique odor). At night looking out the window I felt the pull of the billions of the galaxies and stars. One night I even think there were things other than stars that were reaching out to me. Yeah, yeah, I know, active imagination. But the world we think we see isn’t “all there is”. What something like Big Bend and other National Parks can do for the common man like myself is to find me a place and a time where I can go to restore my equilibrium from the pressures of civilization. It’s in the wilderness that I can find my lost self. Monday morning I head back to work, but not before having had a glorious week like I haven’t had for years. I think it was probably back in 2005 in Portugal where I was able to re-up my energy. Not saying that the work or even the urban scene of Texas is all that stressful. It isn’t like living in NY or even LA. Because Texas, for me as well, is a romantic notion or freedom and unlimited horizons, as much as it might be for the Italians I often come into contact with in the wine biz. These next few weeks Ken Burns is screening his National Park opus on PBS. Thankfully, I have had a week to immerse into one of my favorite National Parks in America. And while it might not be as obviously beautiful as my California love, Yosemite, Big Bend is a wonderful, peaceful, dangerous, beautiful, mystical place that for a desert dweller I have managed to save a large part of my heart for.

All through the day in the saddle I sway Visions glow as I go trail dreamin' I see a home on a blue mountain dome Lovingly that I made, trail dreamin' There's a rainbow trail that's lined with stars That leads to a gate with moonbeam bars And it's welcome, I feel, till my visions so real Turn to dust 'cause I'm just trail dreamin'

-Sung by Marty Robbins, lyrics by Bob Nolan

Great guide to Big Bend HERE by Richard Campbell

 

written and photographed by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Marfa ~ We Say Chianti & They Say Chinati

My faith has been restored. In Texas. In Italian Wine. In Italian wine in Texas. In Restaurants in Texas. And in the whole chasing after windmill exercise that we do when we attempt to bring the Word of Wine to the outer edges of civilization. I finally got my groove on, and in Marfa, Texas, no less. Word to Sancho: Flyover country has been secured and made safe.

There’s something about the simplicity of the desert that cuts right to the essential. Maybe it’s the access to ingredients. Or perhaps it is just that once you strip it down to what you really need, you really don’t need all that much. When you’re staring at yourself in the mirage and you are forced to look at whatever you can manage to make from your memory and your imagination, then one is compelled to stare down the demons and make sense of it. Here in Marfa, they call it A.R.T.

My background in the arts didn’t have me getting all wiggly and wobbly as we spent some free time strolling among the buildings at the Chinati Foundation. There is something about the way an artist can challenge you to look at your own doodlings in life and ask you if what you have been doing these past 20 years has any more relevance than what he has put up on these walls.

In that sense, the art on those walls forced me to think about these things. And with the unsolicited quiet of the desert, the lack of distraction, this created an unavoidable encounter with my “inner” Marfa Lights.

Cochineal (no web site, don’t Google it, you wont find one) was a perfect launching into the future of food in Texas. Not cutting edge, no not-that-in-your-face. More like simple ingredients without towers, truffle oil or turpitude. Take it or leave it.

We met Chef Paul Peterson, of the Gage Hotel in Marathon, at Cochineal. He and his wife had managed to get a night off and left offspring with family in Alpine, half way between Marfa and Marathon. Paul is one of those chefs that, if you dropped him in Austin or Park Slope, would easily transition toward the top of the scene. Easy going and mellow, with an edge. Kind of like a Chianti from Querciabella. In fact, we opened a few bottles that night, thanks to Cochineal owners Tom Rapp and Toshi Sakihara. Eventually they sat down with us as we worked late into the night. Among other things, we had a Carbonara that anyone, anywhere, would be proud of.

Walking out into an early autumn night in the desert, stars are jamming the skies; rush hour in Rome is light by comparison.

Maybe we should start a Chianti Foundation. Because of the interest in Italian wine in this little west Texas town. It would fit right-tight into the matrix of Marfa.

A new day, and we find ourselves in front of Chef Maiya Keck of Maiya’s. While we were talking about wine, I was thinking, “She really likes Italians.” The restaurant is Italian inspired and along with a perfectly delicious looking high ceiling dining room straight out of the WPA, I couldn’t wait to come back in the evening.

In the meantime she sent us across the street to the Food Shark, a mobile food stand at the farmers market. It seemed everyone in town was heading for the Food Shark, as scads of young people were working their way through the interesting menu.

As I was cogitating what I would order, a woman stepped up to get her to go order. When I heard her voice I said to myself, “That is the voice of Isabella Rossellini.” I then looked to her and made eye contact. Were those the eyes of Isabella Rossellini? It wouldn’t be out of the question that someone like her would be here, seeing as this was the week for the Marfa annual Open House. I looked her over and she seemed to resemble Isabella from one of the scenes of Blue Velvet. I would encounter her later in the day, when perhaps that little mystery would be solved.

The falafel at the Food Shark was one hellatiously good lunch choice, though the Falafel Forage might be a little more difficult in these parts.

A block away was the Pizza Foundation, Maiya’s sister, Saarin, runs it. Thin pizza, not over worked. I asked Ronnie the pizzaiolo how it was to make pizza at this elevation (appx 4800) and he explained that he had gotten the recipe down to deal with the elevation, the heat and the dry conditions. He did.

That evening we had a wine tasting/ reception at the old bus station , home of Shelly and Harry Hudson. Shelly’s son, Jules, runs a neat little place in Dallas, Nonna. The family has the good taste gene in spades.

We set up the wines, Italian and otherwise. As the folks rambled into the tasting we were able to talk to folks a little more in depth. Isabella came up to me and we had a little talk about opera. She was from Germany: not Isabella. Or was she in some kind of character for the evening. I‘ve seen too many David Lynch films.

One lady, Virginia Lebermann, who has all kinds of things going on in Marfa, was in the process of building a new venue for art and music with a lounge attached. “How would you like to curate the wine selection?” she asked. We set a time to visit the next day. Curate a wine list, they never asked me to do that in Dallas or Houston.

That evening, after the reception, we headed over to Maiya’s to meet a client for dinner. We walked into a warm room with enormous ceilings; the place was inviting and hopping. Plenty of the young folks from the arts foundations were settling in at the bar, just like NY, LA or Firenze. In this little old west Texas desert town. All very Rod Serling-like.

Maiya sent out plates of food; grilled radicchio, tartlettes, frisée, plates of pasta, profiteroles, and dense chocolate tortes. And we brought out wine after wine to taste with the client and Maiya. They liked us, they really liked us. I wasn’t in New Orleans or Napa, where I do get treated like I actually know something about Italian wine. I wasn’t in Dallas or Houston, where I have to often deal with a lowest common denominator routine. We were in Marfa, Texas, and they got it, from Kerner to Taurasi to Brachetto.

Next morning we met up with Virginia Lebermann to look over the new Thunderbird Lounge. Fire pits and adobe, tongue-and-groove and sharp, clean lines. They want me to curate the wine selection here? Let’s give it to them, see just how far we can push the envelope with Vermentino.

After all, we don’t come here looking for some worn out windmills. We came out to see what was in store for us in the future, here in flyover country. In a bright, stark, clear-cut way, we were shown what might be in store for us. If we keep our eyes, and our minds, open.


In the words of Bobby Z, "You don't need a weatherman to know which way the wine blows."

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Marfa on the Fly

I’ll keep this one short, the sun is rising, and we have many miles to cover in these next few days.

Flyover country is a big swath of land and today’s episode of On the Wine Trail in Italy takes us to Marfa, Texas. From Dallas, St. Louis is closer. But Marfa is a piece of Texas that is part Old West, a dash of Soho and a suggestion of The Twilight Zone. Arriving just in time for the Chinati Foundation’s annual celebration, this week artists and intellectuals from all over the world have descended upon sleepy little Marfa to inspire and be inspired, from art, earth and conviviality.

The terroir of Marfa.
It attracts people from New York, London, Paris and it’s kind of like the dishwasher; everything fits in the racks together. Local folks, hippies who hit the edge of town a generation ago and stopped to rest, you never know who you’ll be talking to. The land does influence, as does the light, which is crisp and bright and razor-edge.

There is an oasis of chefs and food lovers, from Marathon to Terlingua to Marfa, and this is my annual check-up to make sure they get all the Italian wine they will need for the winter months.

Because of the high altitude (4800 ft appx) this is a great place for a garden in Texas. Warm days, cool nights, and lots of rays. And critters. My uncle the geologist from Midland told me about the way this region was formed millions of years ago, and there is some serious ‘minerality’ working in the soil. Over by Ft. Davis there are a few vineyards, Cabernet and such.

As with many places in Texas there is a recognizable effect of the terroir on the people who live and come to live in these places. There is a concentration of energy that is brought to the surface slowly, like the thousands of oil wells that populate the territory. Pumping slowly, constantly, until every last drop is captured.

Last night we opened up bottles at a local place, Cochineal, and sat with owners Tom and Toshi to taste through a few things from Italy. Chef Paul and his wife from The Gage Hotel in Marathon joined us. Tom, seeing we had just opened a 2004 Radici from Mastroberardino, went to his wine cellar and brought back a 1995 Taurasi from Salvatore Molettieri. It drank quite well through the night.

I like the mixing of terroir, from a bottle of wine, to a bowl of garden fresh vegetables, to a table of folks from all over the world, sharing wine and food and ideas. Terroir as a global force, uniting. Ok, so I’m getting pensive.

Looking forward to visiting many of our accounts today, especially El Cheapo.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Who Are You Doing This For?

After a few days in the rarified air of Marfa, Texas, I have had a few moments to do a little navel gazing. Take this one or leave it, as it applies to you. Or doesn’t. That being said, don’t we all have, at one time or another, moments where we look around our environment and notice the world that we have landed in and ask ourselves if this is what we intended to do?

Mind you, this isn’t a crisis post. I’m not telegraphing back to home base that I won’t be returning. Well, maybe a part of me won’t ever be back. But every time I get on the wine trail a part of me is left behind and a newer segment grows in its place.

One of the fascinating aspects of being in Marfa during the run up to the Chinati Foundation annual hoe-down, is this congregating of intellectual and artistic energy that appears to have broken away from the bubble of the everyday reality we all seem to get trapped in. The Dow drops to 8500? Where is the wine for the governor’s dinner? 159,000 jobs lost? An installation for an artist is previewing in the desert today. The G7 is meeting in emergency session with the IMF? Artist Eugene Binder on the main street is moving his three vintage Porsche Speedsters out of his gallery so he can make room for the folks coming to town.

After a visit to a handful of accounts ( El Cheapo, Pizza Foundation and the Thunderbird Lounge) we headed out to Alpine, Marathon and Midland. In Marfa I had been invited to “curate” a wine list for one of the local patrons, who also are big wine fans. They are also looking at a property in Montalcino to invest in, land and a winery. The wine trail winds and turns and points towards many destinations.

This week I had a Carbonara that folks anywhere would be proud of. Pizza that merited a second piece. Restaurants like Cochineal and Maiya's, with a passion for food and wine. And saw a love for Italian wine from the artists and intellectuals of a small west Texas town that I could only wish larger urban areas would aspire to. Go figure.

Maybe it is something about the confluence of a zone that attracts art and intellect that also is amenable to things Italian? I know this to be the case all over Italy, maybe Marfa is a vortex that squeezes a drop of Italy onto the canvas and exposes the native energy to the ancient? Or maybe I am just a kook?

Lesson learned this week: Do what you love, even if you don’t sometimes know why you do it or even what it is.


Repeat as needed.
Repeat as needed.
Repeat as needed.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Longing, Returning, Leaving

A few days ago while I was foraging for lettuces and herbs in my back yard, I heard a familiar cry. At the top of a tall power line the sparrow hawk was hailing me. He was back to raise another brood, teach them to fly and then head back to wherever they go when winter returns. For me it was a hopeful sign that this very long winter might be coming to a close.

The next day I got on a plane and headed to far West Texas. An hour flight and a three hour drive led me back to Marfa for a wine dinner. The journey in is always a mind cleanse for me. From home base, the hard core urban setting, to the airport, where all of our fears are laid bare as we walk shoeless though filters poised to reveal anomalies in hope of finding evil, so that it might be rooted out. Then to a dusty, rural airport, Midland, home to my dear Uncle Lou and his family, amidst oil wells and childhood homes of world deciders. But the real purge comes in the drive from Midland to Marfa, when the landscape that is revealed sews itself in ones pocket so deeply so as not to ever be lost. There are many people at my final destination that night who are longing- longing for art, longing for love, longing for simple. One night under a universe of lights wont abate that longing, more to serve as a reminder to the city dweller that a larger universe of ideas, of Everything, is still there in spite of our tendency to narrow it down to an explanation that puts each and everyone of us in the middle of a micro-oxygenated universe of our own making.

Nothing you can know that isn’t known.
Nothing you can see that isn’t shown.
Nowhere you can be that isn’t where you’re meant to be.
It’s easy.

I have done my 200th wine dinner, again. They are like kites- trying to keep them in the air, making sure the tail doesn’t tangle, hoping the kite doesn’t tear away, and when the kite finally flies and one runs out of string and the kite sails for 30 minutes or so, to reel it in? Or let it go? This night I got the kite up in the air pretty quick, got the room where I thought I wanted to go, like some West Texas preacher testifying about the Revelations of Gaglioppo and Inzolia. The dining room, high ceilinged, like a cathedral, held the dry air. I didn’t need to shout. I started channeling the poets, Lennon, Neruda, Whitman. I had them, the tail was untangled, the wind was blowing steady, calm. And then, just like that, I let all the string out and freed the kite. To the West Texas heavens under a full moon, the last vestiges of winter under those sent whirling back to their private universes.

So we sailed up to the sun
Till we found the sea of green
And we lived beneath the waves
In our yellow submarine

Afterwards, some of the group wanted to pilgrimage out to see the Marfa lights. Having been indoctrinated in those mysteries long ago, but only recently having become a Believer, I was up for it. I have a fantasy of someone putting a bar out there, like those blue bars we used to go to in Italy in the 1990’s. A piano, dark blue lighting, a great selection of single malts and grappas. Then a window to the vast unknown in search of those famous lights. But we stood out there in the high desert, shivering, our lone companion a traffic cone that had been placed over the telescope that is used in warmer nights to seek out the origin of those mysterious lights.

Would you believe in a love at first sight
Yes, I'm certain that it happens all the time
What do you see when you turn out the light
I can't tell you but I know it's mine,

When I was putting the wines together on a sheet for the dinner I was searching for a way to start a conversation with the people coming to it. One of my dinner companions remarked that he recently had a dinner for 12 people and they discussed the food and the wines. A salon. Yes, of course, I would love to come back and do something like that. But this night I was imagining these five wines as lines from a Beatles Album, the Yellow Submarine, in an effort to strike a match against the imagination and start a little fire of non linear conversation. Alas, it was probably something that was meant for My Universe, perhaps too much of a stretch. Too non linear. How did one of my teachers tell me, “Al, save the imagination for the drawing tablets.”

Follow her down to a bridge by a fountain
Where rocking horse people eat marshmallow pies
Everyone smiles as you drift past the flowers
That grow so incredibly high

My experiment with wine and song having wilted, I consoled myself under that cold and deep desert night with the happiness that other teachers had cultivated a biodynamic rebellion against those who would have me be a square peg in a square hole in a cubicle somewhere in a square building. Of course, we must report back, head up the elevator and slip into the meeting, hoping that someone in that meeting will be receptive to the accounts from the front lines. As long as I don’t make them too poetic. Or out there.

Out there. Out there. As I was driving back the next day to get back to the city and a tasting of Super Tuscans and Brunello (acclimate, acclimate) I found myself wasting time, putting it off. And as I drove, the radio playing Holst’s “The Planets” made it even more difficult to leave, to return. I stopped one more time at the base, this time the traffic cone had a retiree in a Winnebago for company.

Pulling away from the highway out of Alpine, the junction, one to the Big Bend and the other back to the Big City, I had a visceral reaction. I felt sick to my stomach, maybe it was the huevos rancheros?

As I left the wilderness, returning to the power line that I always came back to, I promised myself to come back here again, for a week or more, to camp, to hike, to clear out the Big City. I really, really love the desert, it is my Tuscany.

One, two, three, four
Can I have a little more?
five, six, seven eight nine ten I love you.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Lyrics by The Beatles

Blitzing with Barbaresco

What goes with BBQ besides Babaresco? How about a little 1990 Ridge Montebello for starters?

You’ve gotta love a guy like Aldo Vacca, who gets off a plane straight from Italy, and heads right into a situation that requires him to be “on”. Not that being at my home on a Sunday is exactly something you have to shine your wing tips for, but nonetheless, there he was, at the front door with bottles of his 2005 single vineyard Barbarescos, ready to get after some Texas BBQ, classic Caesar salad and King Ranch chicken casserole.

The idea for the week was for Aldo to come into Texas and swing his way from Dallas through Austin (right smack dab in the middle of SXSW) and ending up in Houston. By now he is readying to go to Colorado, but an intense few days it has been for one of the hardiest working men in the wine business.

Selling Brunello when Mercury is in Retrograde

All week the wine has been dogging me. There it is, like the omnipresent character in a Twilight Zone episode. Every corner you turn, he is waiting with that silly little smirk on his face. Taunting, laughing, obstructing.

“You need to sell my 2003 Brunello so I can send you then 2004. I would hate for you to miss out and go from the 2003 to the 2005.”

I took a look at the Brunellos we have in the market. In one store yesterday they had on the shelf 1999, 2000 and 2001. All considered good to great vintages. Sitting on the shelves from $50-75. Good producers, no flies. Not like some end of the world rations that sat in the bomb shelters waiting for someone to climb on down and wait it out, while the rest of humanity sweated it out on the beach.

Waiting. Waiting.

What to do? I need an idea that works. I really need to come up with something, pull something out of my repertoire. Show the rookies this is just a cycle. Make it to the 26th mile. Again.

This is a singular moment for me. In thirty plus years I cannot remember this pattern happening quite like this. Down economy, trying to recover. Wine, tainted by a hot vintage and a scandal. Lousy exchange rate caused by a government trying to discourage foreign trade by weakening the dollar. And a stellar vintage, waiting in the wings for a window of opportunity that isn’t quite now.


The 2004 Brunello is Cinderella. But while the planets move backwards what can one person do?

This is like having to eat tainted meat while the perfect pie is cooling on the window sill. This is torture. Not like Abu or Gitmo, but for slaves to the wine god, this is a perfect storm debacle for the ’04 Brunello. More like Mars in retrograde than Mercury.


Two visitors, like passing planets across the skies, light up the screen with their brief candles. Let’s hear what they have to say about the bright light in the Montalcino skies, the 2004 vintage.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy

Artwork from The Chinati Foundation in Marfa, Texas

Premature Jubilation

When I left my home Monday morning it was dark and foggy. I decided to head to the airport a little earlier in case the flights were being juggled around. When I got to the airport the fog had lifted and the sun was rising in the east. Another week on the road, one of many in the life of an O-N-D warrior. Last week it was Austin and Marfa, Texas. This week it is New Orleans. Tuesday there would be a national election. I had scheduled a full week’s worth of work before heading back to Italy this weekend. My bag is staying packed until Thanksgiving.

My Favorite Island

One might think from reading these posts that it might be Pantelleria or Salina, Elba or Ischia, but in my heart, my favorite island is landlocked. It’s a large and varied island on the border of Mexico. It is in the state of Texas, and while it is Texas to the core, it shares none of the mean spirit that one can find in cities. It is wild and it can be life-threatening, but it is never cruel. It is the Big Bend, and I love it as much as any place on earth.

I go to Italy for business, and often when I am there I have a moment or two to relax. But when I want to go where the cells phones don’t roam and I cannot be found, that place is the National Park of Big Bend, where I can hike and wander to my heart’s content. The wine and food scene isn’t so great, unless one goes to Marfa, where I had one of the best meals I have had this year. But that isn’t the reason why I go to my favorite island. I go there to get away and to go somewhere where away isn’t away. It is in smack-dab in the middle of a world that heals me. It’s real and it’s in my face and I love it.

The weather was perfect. The hiking was strenuous at times, like the day we hiked to Emory Peak. The first time I went to the summit in 1990 I was 20 years younger. This time I was in better shape. This time we saw less than a dozen people on the trail, all day. And that was the most people we saw on any day on any trail. So the traffic jams of Yosemite and Yellowstone, well, they just don’t make it down to the Big Bend.

The light, oh the light. Daylight, twilight, midnight light, oh so very wonderful. I was testing a new camera, one that shoots in a square format. Yes, a digital camera that sells for under $500 and crops the image in a square. I have my Rolleiflex groove on again! But this isn’t the post to talk about that subject; it’s in the works. No, this post is how the desert helps and heals.

When I left the city, my nose was bleeding daily, sometimes for as long as 90 minutes. Blood pressure? My doc prescribed a blood pressure medicine and my already normal blood pressure lowered so much I almost passed out. How about the stress of city living? Texas, the country, is rough and harsh, but not mean. The cities, however are filled with people who I don’t know where they came from, there is so much mean-spiritedness, so much vitriol, so very toxic. I don’t know how they live with themselves. I know I cannot live with them, and even though I live in the city I cannot let them poison me any more. I will not bleed out from living amidst the hate vampires in the city.

My favorite island, then, doesn’t rely on great food or wine, but on a land, that while it can be harsh and unforgiving is never unfair or mean. It draws on the light of the heavens and all the planets and suns that spit their light on this darkened landscape at night. So bright it woke me up one night coming through the window. It is nowhere near water or my beloved Pacific or Adriatic, but there is water enough to survive. And air, what beautiful, dry, clean air, which heals with every breath.

Does it sound like I had a great week off? Well, I did. And tomorrow I jump back onto the metropolitan carousel and take a spin for another week. And I am thinking where it will spin me will be someplace I have never been to yet. But I am hopeful, I have the mountain lion roaring in the night to guide me through the brush.

And I will always have my favorite island, deep in the heart of the real Texas, waiting, anytime I, or anyone of us, need to be shown the way back home.

written by Alfonso Cevola limited rights reserved On the Wine Trail in Italy