From the age of six or seven, when you begin to run around looking for a bucket of electricity or a mould for martondelle*, this is the story: you would like to get up to something, maybe with your friends, but at least one of them is stuck being a little helper at home or in the fields.
That is when you see what your friends are truly made of: there are those who turn their backs straight away, and there are those who spontaneously offer to help, that way everybody finishes early and then there is time left to get up to something.
There is a lot to do in Merano during Autumn. It is because of the apples: this is the moment in which they mature, in which they are picked from the trees and turned into juice, cider, strudel, apple tarts or even eaten just the way they are, something which should not be underestimated: these apples are delicious.
The apples are a problem: not the apples themselves, but for the work they entail. It means spending an hour and a half row after row, checking one tree after another, and it is a matter of doing it during the last days before winter, before the snow changes things completely. It is not easy to give up those last days frolicking along the paths, along the meadows which even if they are yellow, are still meadows and not expanses of ice, of running along the paths around home.
Aaron thinks, and realizes that you have to pick them anyway. For two reasons. One of these reasons is clear from an early age, these are the apples of Daniel, who is a friend, and you always have to help friends. The second reason is a thought which has matured with age and has been refined throughout the years: “this is also who we are” Aaron tells himself. “Even this, this humble work which is done with your hands, it is part of our culture, of what makes us who we are”. One apple after another the basket fills up, and when it fills up Aaron empties it into a large container, crossing paths with other people who are busy with the same task. Maybe someone wishes he/she were somewhere else, but nobody is sad. Picking apples, in the open air, on the slopes of your local mountains: not bad, as a job.
When the day is over, Aaron jumps up like a loaded spring, dipping into well kept energy. There is still a bit of light available, and a “bit” is definitely not enough, but always better than nothing, better than ending up shut up in a bar, or on the sofa watching a tv series. You only need two things: will power and planning. The will to make that step to the left instead of the right, towards the mountains instead of towards laziness; and planning, to have everything you need already ready, without wasting time.
Aaron pulls out a small back pack from his van, carefully prepared the previous evening. He puts it on his back, and the time has come to set off. The first steps are slow, spread out, to warn your muscles that the tune has changed. The rhythm increases gradually, together with the rhythm of his breathing and his heart beat. The paths which run up high, behind Lagundo, are in the shade, but the sky has not yet been tainted by the dark purple colours of dusk: the light is still amber, there is still time. Aaron increases his rhythm: the meadows of Muta are now behind him. There is enough light, if you’re quick enough. You can go to the top, to the take offs up high, on top of Mutspitze.
When Aaron lays out his sail forming a large horse shoe, carefully checking the risers, the last rays have yet to disappear. Just enough to get down and land safely, but it is enough, and that is all that counts. A light breeze climbs up the slope, peaceful and constant. It’s as if it carries with it the intense perfume of the apples, but maybe that is just one’s imagination. The sail inflates, climbing above his head. Two steps, and his feet are in the air.
Down, at the bottom of the valley, the fruit trees unwind into neat lines. “No, I would not want to belong anywhere else”, Aaron murmurs to himself, while he flies towards home.
*Spoiler alert: there is nothing like a bucket of electricity or a mould for martondelle: these are quests for fictional objects with which often adults tease children (often without knowing how much fun the kids have in the meanwhile).
MERANO: from tradition to real passion
AARON DUROGATI
If you live in a rural area, there is always something to do. If you’ve grown up in an area which does not only consist of cement and glass you know this very well.
There are no two ways about it, you can’t escape: hay making or the pruning of vines, clearing out the forest or chopping wood, whatever your healthy grandfather and zealous uncle can think of.
From the age of six or seven, when you begin to run around looking for a bucket of electricity or a mould for martondelle*, this is the story: you would like to get up to something, maybe with your friends, but at least one of them is stuck being a little helper at home or in the fields.
That is when you see what your friends are truly made of: there are those who turn their backs straight away, and there are those who spontaneously offer to help, that way everybody finishes early and then there is time left to get up to something.
There is a lot to do in Merano during Autumn. It is because of the apples: this is the moment in which they mature, in which they are picked from the trees and turned into juice, cider, strudel, apple tarts or even eaten just the way they are, something which should not be underestimated: these apples are delicious.
The apples are a problem: not the apples themselves, but for the work they entail. It means spending an hour and a half row after row, checking one tree after another, and it is a matter of doing it during the last days before winter, before the snow changes things completely. It is not easy to give up those last days frolicking along the paths, along the meadows which even if they are yellow, are still meadows and not expanses of ice, of running along the paths around home.
Aaron thinks, and realizes that you have to pick them anyway. For two reasons. One of these reasons is clear from an early age, these are the apples of Daniel, who is a friend, and you always have to help friends. The second reason is a thought which has matured with age and has been refined throughout the years: “this is also who we are” Aaron tells himself. “Even this, this humble work which is done with your hands, it is part of our culture, of what makes us who we are”. One apple after another the basket fills up, and when it fills up Aaron empties it into a large container, crossing paths with other people who are busy with the same task. Maybe someone wishes he/she were somewhere else, but nobody is sad. Picking apples, in the open air, on the slopes of your local mountains: not bad, as a job.
When the day is over, Aaron jumps up like a loaded spring, dipping into well kept energy. There is still a bit of light available, and a “bit” is definitely not enough, but always better than nothing, better than ending up shut up in a bar, or on the sofa watching a tv series. You only need two things: will power and planning. The will to make that step to the left instead of the right, towards the mountains instead of towards laziness; and planning, to have everything you need already ready, without wasting time.
Aaron pulls out a small back pack from his van, carefully prepared the previous evening. He puts it on his back, and the time has come to set off. The first steps are slow, spread out, to warn your muscles that the tune has changed. The rhythm increases gradually, together with the rhythm of his breathing and his heart beat. The paths which run up high, behind Lagundo, are in the shade, but the sky has not yet been tainted by the dark purple colours of dusk: the light is still amber, there is still time. Aaron increases his rhythm: the meadows of Muta are now behind him. There is enough light, if you’re quick enough. You can go to the top, to the take offs up high, on top of Mutspitze.
When Aaron lays out his sail forming a large horse shoe, carefully checking the risers, the last rays have yet to disappear. Just enough to get down and land safely, but it is enough, and that is all that counts. A light breeze climbs up the slope, peaceful and constant. It’s as if it carries with it the intense perfume of the apples, but maybe that is just one’s imagination. The sail inflates, climbing above his head. Two steps, and his feet are in the air.
Down, at the bottom of the valley, the fruit trees unwind into neat lines. “No, I would not want to belong anywhere else”, Aaron murmurs to himself, while he flies towards home.
*Spoiler alert: there is nothing like a bucket of electricity or a mould for martondelle: these are quests for fictional objects with which often adults tease children (often without knowing how much fun the kids have in the meanwhile).
