Day 54 - July 2nd: Sun & Flowers

Cicognolo to Mantua: 31.2 miles / 1,476 total

Yesterday nearly broke me. The heat, the traffic, the unrelenting road—all of it culminated in a slow walk through the doors of The Pilgrim Hotel at 4:30 p.m., where I sat on the marble staircase just trying to regroup. Christina patiently waited for me to lift my head before delivering the news: no functioning air conditioning in the room, and she’d already spent the afternoon trying to sort it out.

I took a deep breath. We checked the room, and yep—it was just as hot inside as outside, minus the sun. The hotel handed us a fan as a consolation prize. I was too wiped to care. We were in a remote area, and the idea of hunting down another option seemed more exhausting than just enduring it. I took a cold shower and collapsed into bed, still sweating.

While I was horizontal and semi-melting, Christina was out on a mission—laundry. She found an old-school laundromat nearby that only took coins. Every other place we’ve been had taken cards or Apple Pay. She scraped together what she could and got the wash started, but didn’t have enough coins for drying. A local man—about 30 years old—offered to cover the cost and invited her to have a coffee while they waited. She tried to pay, but he insisted. She came back to the hotel smiling, clean clothes in hand. I’m definitely traveling with the right partner!

While she was out, I restructured our route plan. The new target: four days, 200 km to Treviso, where the Via della Costa intersects again. From there, another four-day, 200 km push gets us to Rakitovec, Slovenia. It buys us a few days of buffer and flexibility if we need rest as we would be ahead of the plan.

We had our hearts set on Trattoria Resca, a well-rated local spot just five minutes away that opened at 7:30 p.m. We arrived at 7:29. A handwritten sign on the door read “Closed for mourning.” I didn’t even have the energy to be upset—just muttered “great” and climbed back in the car. Plan B was Milini Cucina Bottega Enoteca in Milzano, about 15 minutes away.

The restaurant was tucked into the corner of a village square, under a church bell tower, marked by a deep blue awning. Inside, it looked like a fine food deli—meats, cheeses, oils—opening up into a stunning dining space. Luca, a charismatic young Italian, greeted us in English and walked us through the menu. Christina and I started with a tuna and anchovy salad, then both ordered burgers at Luca’s suggestion, passing over more refined dishes. A side of fries sealed it.

Everything was exceptional. The salad was bright, fresh, and served with homemade olive oil and vinegar. The burger buns were freshly baked, and the beef came from a local farm. I congratulated Luca and asked about the owner—he told me it was a family operation, with his brother Marco running the kitchen. Marco came out and I told him how phenomenal everything was. So good, in fact, that I found room for another dish—the linguine with garlic, olive oil, and chili flakes. Marco brought it out himself 30 minutes later. He had boiled the water fresh and made the sauce from scratch. You forget, in America especially, how rushed food service becomes. This is how it should be.

To top it off, Luca served us 36-month aged Parmigiano as dessert. My supposedly shrinking stomach didn’t stand a chance. We left feeling lucky that Trattoria Resca had been closed.

We didn’t get to bed until 10:30 p.m., but I couldn’t wait to sleep and get out of The Pilgrim. After a near-sleepless night, I was up at 5:30 a.m., cold shower, tending to the growing blister colony on my feet. After a 7 a.m. breakfast, I was on the road by 7:25.

The route east to Mantua started on quiet country lanes and farm tracks, and I spent the morning thinking about The Omnivore’s Dilemma I mentioned I am listening. Cornfields surrounded me for miles, and I couldn’t help but reflect on Pollan’s point: corn is everywhere—physically, economically, and in our diets. Fast food chains are appearing here too, and I wonder if Europe’s heading down the same path. But restaurants like Milini give me hope. Farm-to-table is alive in these small communities.

It was brutally hot again. My blisters stole the show—each step a reminder—but oddly, nothing else hurt. The road narrowed near a bridge crossing a canal, which was under construction. Google Maps showed a long detour, but there was no way I was adding distance. I squeezed past the barricade and tiptoed across.

That freedom ended after a glorious 35 kilometers when I was back on my nemesis, SS10. This section was the worst yet: no shoulder, a guardrail blocking any escape. When trucks approached from both directions, I had to hop onto the rail to avoid being crushed. Slow, stressful, and dangerous.

By 1:30 p.m., after passing through villages with no food or water, I was desperate. Then Christina pulled up in the car—sports drinks, water, nuts, fresh watermelon. She is a hero!

The final stretch through Ospitaletto and Castellucchio was a grind, dodging traffic and baking in the heat. But once I hit Mantua’s pedestrian and bike path, things finally eased. I met Christina at the 50 km mark at 4:30 p.m., right on time. No reason to push further—feet hurting, heat still oppressive.

We’re now in Mantua, or Mantova, one of northern Italy’s great Renaissance cities. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, it was once ruled by the powerful Gonzaga family, who transformed it into a center of art and architecture. Andrea Mantegna, court painter to the Gonzagas, left his mark here in the stunning frescoes of the Palazzo Ducale. Mantua is also surrounded by three artificial lakes, originally created for defense in the Middle Ages.

No exploring yet. First, I need to work on my feet, refuel, and get some rest before we do it all again tomorrow.

Thanks for following along and the support.

Cheers,

David.