“What is this place?” I ask, and she answers in perfect, accented English. “We make local food for tourists in the summer, but now it’s off-season so we have other visitors.”
I’m walking in September; an odd time. My days had been generally quiet, and most campsites and hostels and cafés were closed. The rhythm of life along the trail rose and fell with the heat of summer, it seemed. How much different would it have been if I’d come in July? But also, how different if I’d arrived even just a day earlier, or later. The beauty in any part of these journeys is that it’s unique and unrepeatable.
RELATED: What can a really long walk in the Alps teach you about life?
“This is a group of women from a local village,” the waitress tells me. “Each week, they visit a different region and go to a café for lunch.”
“Have I interrupted?” I ask.
“No.” She laughs quietly. “They just don’t smile much. Except when I drop a plate. That’s hilarious apparently.”
I smile back at her, and we share a moment as two outsiders to the group around us. I order soup, and it’s perhaps the best I’ve ever had. Then I remember that lunch is always the best ever when I’m walking, until the next day.
As I leave, the waitress tells me that summer tourism here was the highest in a decade. “Germans and Austrians and French used to go to Turkey for holidays, but now they’re nervous because of the news of terrorism and so on, so they come here instead.” I think about this for the next two hours.
