We tromp through the tea fields, terraced rows of bushes on the sides of cleared hills. I can’t imagine the tea farmers are too happy about this. We descend through a gap in the rows down toward a stream, stepping on rocks held into the crumbly ground with metal stakes, or sliding down sideways like skiers.
I skip past the first Italian person I have met here, a Milanese, and then just before the stream I fall on the slippery ground into a tree. It must look disastrous from above, but I’m fine. I wonder how do others do these things with so much grace, how they finish not covered with mud.
Were you able to use your Italian language skills?
Perhaps while you were yelling for help when you fell in the tree?