Восход на вершину и завтрак в Байте. План-де-Коронес. Южный Тироль
Наслаждиться тишиной восхода солнца в прекрасном месте, наблюдая как Доломиты - природное наследие ЮНЕСКО - оденуться в ясный свет раннего солнца.
Alba sulla cima & colazione in baita (восход на вершину и завтрак в Байте) - очень необычная прогулка с завершением на рассвете. Программа: встреча в 2.20 на спортивной площадке в Антерсельва-ди-Меццо в гору на собственной машине, экскурсия на перевал Шталле (2,052 м) к Хинтербергкофелю (подъем пешком ок 2 часов), чтобы полюбоваться захватывающим зрелищем восходящего рассвета в Малга Сталлер (1,956 метра над уровнем моря), Где вас ждет обильный завтрак в хижине.
Стоимость: 35,00 евро на человека (гид, прокат лампочек и завтрак)
Участники: минимум 5 человек
Регистрация: до 17:00 накануне в
Туристическом информационном офисе Антерсельва
тел. +39 0474 496269
Место: Монте Хинтербергкофель (Monte Hinterbergkofel)
Sunrise to the top and breakfast at Byte. Plan de Corones. South Tyrol
Enjoy the silence of the sunrise in a beautiful place, watching how the Dolomites - the natural heritage of UNESCO - get dressed in the clear light of the early sun.
Alba sulla cima & colazione in baita (sunrise to the top and breakfast at Byte) is a very unusual walk with completion at dawn. Program: meeting at 2.20 on the sports ground in Anterselva di Mezzo uphill in your own car, excursion to the Stall pass (2.052 m) to Hinterbergkofel (rise on foot approx 2 hours), to admire the spectacular sight of the rising dawn in Malga Staller (1.956 meters above sea level).
Location: Monte Hinterbergkofel (Monte Hinterbergkofel)
Мне кажется, что всех людей условно можно поделить на два типа) Первый - это такой активист 🏃♀️ главное для него все время что-то делать, куда-то ехать, эмоционально подпитываться от мелькающих событий 💫 Второй тип - это я 🙈 если себя не заставлять, то утону в приятной мне тёплой привычной трясине 🐸 Лучше бы, конечно, найти какой-то личный баланс) Активистам полезно иногда замедляться, иначе они не успевают разглядеть свой внутренний мир, ну а таким как я - планировать заранее «вылазки» в свет, поездки и смену привычной картинки 🤪 А вот и пример) я запрещаю себе брать в поездки книги 📚 по психологии ⛔️ потому что они никогда не кончатся и время на другое чтиво никогда не появится!!!🤷♀️ А кто вы? Активист или 🐸? Или прям балансный баланс? ❤️
(4/4) “I may not, either, for that matter. But important thing is to leave the positive truth that we’ve done what we could do, for ourselves, for others, and for our world.”
“Yes.” He said. “Now let’s do something fun. Do you play an instrument? Do you like music? Do you want to hear some piano?” “Sure. Yes. Not anymore. I used to play, but—“ before I could finish, he invited me to a small musical interlude the the hotel sitting room.
“This is what I do every day.” He sat down at the piano. From the fragile keys came notes from various composers that spoke to the wonderfully timeless experience: of individuals who chose to climb a thorny bush just to smell its roses and, after being pricked, even bleeding some, still capture only the essence of the flower.
🌹 🎹 🎼
It is easy to travel from place to place and escape before the parts of a foreign land and its culture get under your skin. It is even easier to focus on the worst parts of other places and call our homeland’s the greatest place on Earth. But if you travel far enough and stay long enough, you will find people everywhere have the same issues. You will see that people here and there want and need the same things you do.
Since meeting Ruben, I’ve kept my eyes peeled for female drivers, just to prove Ruben wrong. Not to my surprise, I’ve spotted quite a few. I discussed the topic of driving to my female friend, an English teacher at the Sisian Base School No. 1, where I’ll teach. She holds a license and sometimes drives to work and other places. According to her, many women want to drive here and their husbands support them. As opposed to the men, though, few women work far away from home enough to need to use a car. Most women, however, love driving and are safer drivers than men. While some people of older men think women can’t drive properly (a statement I and many American women have also heard in the US more than once in their lives), Sisian women who do drive just ignore it and do their thing anyway. Kudos.
As for gender equality, well, that is another sensitive topic that requires some careful wording and deserves its own post.
As Armenians say, Thanks for your attention. This much for now.
Ruben told some of his own favorite anecdotes and the mood became light again. I asked him where else in Armenia he had traveled. His answer was, “many places,” but mostly he comes to Sisian because it’s his favorite place. He veered back into the unsettling issues about this place. He was bothered about the unkempt roads. He explained the problem by demonstrating the crippled infrastructure as the result of decades of corrupt leadership. He took money from an imaginary wallet and stuffed it into his pocket.
I reminded him that many Americans (and French) complain about the same issue: misappropriation of hard-earned taxpayer dollars while their local businesses and communities suffer.
“That doesn’t mean we should ignore it,” Ruben repeated.
I reminded him that I chose to come to Armenia in order to do SOMETHING. “The important thing to remember is to do what we can, to keep faith and good spirits. To trust that the situation will improve with time.”
“It’s been a very long time,” Ruben muttered.
“Armenia is still losing their young men in Nagorno-Karabakh.”
I could see the visual image of war overcome Ruben’s face. There was no place for joy, only some kind of bitterness and remorse for the Armenian reality. “Help must come in the form of sustainability. People here welcome innovation, new ideas, and they want their country to be better.” I asked him if he was so unhappy about conditions in Armenia, why did he come here?
“You know… I care here to calm my nerves.” His mother had recently passed away. I thought of the irony: he was not the first person who I met, who traveled to escape some sadness, only to be engulfed in some other source of disappointment or anxiety.
“What is the meaning of happiness for you?” He asked me.
“To reach a sense of fulfillment.” The word “fulfillment” did not translate well, but I did my best to explain that when I do what my heart tells me is true, as a navigator says of “true North” then I feel happy, despite any source of ongoing source of melancholy.
“I also want to see change in my lifetime, but it’s more realistic for a post-conflict country to need about 50 years to come around,” I said.
“I won’t be here...” he began.
“The problem is complex.”
“Don’t tell me about complex. Europe went through the same war and look where they are now.”
“But when a country loses almost half its men to a genocide, and then half of the ones who survived get killed in war, and another several million leave to spare their lives, a country becomes destitute and people live for a long time in a state of melancholy, with only the thought of their own survival, which isn’t enough to restore a post-conflict country.” “I try to help,” he cried. “I went to the music conservatory and tuned all their pianos. You give them a hand and they want take your whole arm. I said no. No more.”
I knew exactly what he was saying. I restrained myself from personalizing the conversation to help him appreciate my point of view. I didn’t want him to think that I was ambivalent nor turning a blind eye. Then I explained that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer English Teacher on a 2-year appointment in Sisian.
“Well, I hope you manage.” he said with some appreciation. “You know, I don’t filter myself when I talk about what I don’t like to the locals. I tell them they ought to be ashamed of themselves. And they tell me I’m right.”
“Do you speak Armenian?” I asked.
“Of course!” he said.
“You can criticize them freely because you’re Armenian,” I laughed. “Also, you’re not working for anyone, and you’re respected because of your family.”
Ruben knocked his knuckles on the table and lit another cigarette.
“We complain about the injustices of our world, but we willfully do harm to our own bodies…” I said contemplatively.
“What do you mean?”
“If your lunges had a voice, they’d protest against you for killing them with cigarettes,” I said in French carefully. He laughed.
“That’s a good anecdote,” Ruben said.
(1/4) “This is Ruben,” Karineh said. She left me at a handshake to take care of domestic affairs after a long day of work at her NGO’s primary site, the Sisian Tourism Center.
Ruben rose from his chair, “Ararat” cigarette in one hand. “Bonjour!”
“Ah! Bonjour!” I replied.
We each surprised ourselves with discovering a fellow French speaker in the heart of Sisian, several hundred kilometers away from Yerevan, where most tourists seek distance from their homelands while still surrounded by the comforts and conveniences of modernity.
“Do you like Armenia?” he asked me with a blank face.
“Yes, very much. It’s a beautiful country with so much potential,” I said. He nodded, closing his eyes and shaking his head as though he was recalling some breathtaking sight he’d seen somewhere. “The people are lovely, too,” I added.
“Aw, yeah, yes, they are.” He agreed with some reservation.
“And you?” I asked. “Are you enjoying your stay?” I hadn’t quite introduced myself nor my occupation. I hadn’t even mentioned that I was a Peace Corps Volunteer.
“They don’t take care of their women.
Not a single woman driver here. Gender equality is awful.”
I tried to divert the conversation towards something positive. “What do you like about Armenia?”
“I like to wander in the woods and the mountains,” he said. “It’s so peaceful.”
“Do you have friends here?” I asked.
“Of course!” I’ve been visiting Armenia for many years. My whole family’s Armenian. My grandfather was the first commander of…” I lost his attention for a moment as I realized I wasn’t speaking to a “real” foreigner. I was speaking to the grandson of a renowned WWI military official who immigrated to France at the start of WWI. Many of his grandparents’ relatives and friends died during the massacre by the Ottoman Empire in 1914-15. He was part of the generation of the beloved Charles Aznavour. Ruben was a retired mathematics professor from Paris and virtuoso pianist.
My attention resurfaced. Ruben was talking about how much his family, for generations, has done for their homeland, to no avail.
I interrupted him: “We can’t blame the poor!”
“That doesn’t mean it’s OK, that we should let it be. It’s wrong! It’s a shame!"