The first time I saw the snow I was in Madrid and I cried. I was moved to tears because living in Mérida I hadn’t seen the snow unless it was snowing in the films. So feeling that frozen, skinny, white thing falling from the sky, touching my skin and melting after a few seconds, was an incredible experience that I doubt I will ever forget.
And yet, the Alps weren’t snow-capped when we reach them. Like little ants, we had started, two days ago, down the Italian Maritime Alps. With our bikes we had done great efforts in order to get to the Colle della Maddalena from Cuneo without thinking so much the consequences of such expense of energy, and as a result I was so exhausted that I got ill at the same time we reach the summit.
The second day resting at Barcelonette, when I woke up, I felt strong enough to propose renting a car to my cousin so as to explore the nearby mountain passes. That was the day I felt in love with the Alps.
The alpine mountains, who snow-covered in winter, are like a bride in her wedding dress, blinding and immaculate in her whiteness, are still more beautiful in summer, because now, stripped and shorn of all their white trappings, they show us like a woman in her honeymoon, covered with only the immensity of colours of their naked body.
And we, going up and down, following the winding roads of those rocky ladies like two height virgin husbands, we were astonished by every turn of the road, stopping at any fold of her body, making love with our eyes to such amazing explosion of colours which were metamorphosing with each cloud-shadow. At that moment, dazed as we were, our only desire was just to engrave in our mind that glimpse of beauty gifted by something higher than us.
Lying down near some lakes that freeze and defrost, disappearing between seasons, like beads of sweat filling the navel of two lovers making love, we were understanding little by little that being there was the reason of our voyage, that is, to know the overwhelming immensity of the world.
Later on we crossed from Col de la Cayolle to Col d’Allos, which like two immobile nipples were the summits of that feminine figure, finally we went down following the snaky road until the forest of Lac Castillon, the pubis of our alpine bride that I named Maddalena because she was the first great mountain of our trip.
Memories of Summer 2014, The Alps