No way! I’m not walking 18 miles. I don’t care if it is perfect walking weather, sunny and low 60’s. I googled RometoRio, one of my go-to sites for alternative traveling. No buses, but hourly trains from Santhià to Vercelli. I got to walk though. The weather is perfect. “Can I train partway and walk the rest?” As it turns out, a train stops ever other hour five miles down the track. San Germano. I have a plan.

Throwing my 20+ pound pack over my shoulder, I walk to the train station. I wave at the painted Jesus as he looks at me. I even stop to photograph a Red Dragon or Ever Red Japanese maple. The Italians have a sense of beauty! Upon reaching the station, I confidently insert my coins into the automated ticket machine and purchase a ticket. I even remember to find the machine which authenticates my ticket for this day. A breeze!

Since the next correct train isn’t until 10:16, I wander around outside the Santhia station. Similar to other small towns, the station is on the outskirts of town. Not much to see. Toward town, some run-down two story brick buildings; toward the countryside, acre after acre of plowed ground with a tractor in the distance moving along a country road.

At 10:10, people begin to arrive. A lone African male. Four young African families with several children each are traveling somewhere. The husbands wear the boring universal blue jeans and sweatshirt; the wives wear bright, multicolored dresses. Beautiful. Talking loudly, making sure the 2-year olds don’t get to close to the tracks, they are excited. I smile and wonder “where are they going?”

True to the schedule, I board the train at 10:16. True to the schedule, I exit the train at 10:21. While I don’t mean to patronize the Italian train service, I am not expecting Italian trains to be efficient like the Swiss trains. Another pleasant surprise.

I walk through San Germano. Of course, when I hear beautiful organ music, I stop at the church. I read that the organ is a 1775 Serassi pipe organ. I’m not sure what that means; I am sure the organist is a master musician.

Off, I go. My 13-miles aren’t disappearing unless I move my feet. I follow the signs. No need to check the app. It should be an easy day for navigation. I follow country roads and wide grassy paths following edges of fields. State Route 11 is always in view, maybe 1/3- 1/2 mile north of me. I pass some of the fields already flooded by irrigation water.

Okay, you know what happens. Three or four miles into the walk I realize that I haven’t seen a sign for awhile. I pull out my phone. Yup, the trail zigged when I zagged. Rather than being south of SR11, the app says that I should be north of the road. I begin to correct myself by taking the nearest country lane. I stop. I see a VF marker. “Why is a Via Francigena sign pointing that way?” With the signs and app disagreeing, I make a decision to follow my own sense of direction. While such a move can be disastrous in rugged terrain, I figure that here, in terrain that the Flat Earth Society would be proud to use as proof of their assertions, I can’t get too lost. And, I was right! Yeah me!

After stopping at a wonderful rest area with a comfortable bench for a water and snack break, I eventually enter Vercelli. A nice town. Bustling downtown area. Since I can tell that I don’t want to go back out for food after I find my BnB, I begin looking for a place to eat. I watch two uniformed Carabinieris walk into a pizzeria. As tempting as this pizzeria is, I’m not stopping yet. Still over a mile to go. Closer to my BnB, I stop at another restaurant. The waitress shakes her head. Since the tables had white starched tablecloths, I’m not sure if she is telling me that they are closing, or if they don’t want my backpack and me.

Eventually, four minutes from the BnB, I walk by another pizzeria. And, this one has outside tables with a couple eating. As I figure out what to do, a nice 30ish smiling waiter asks “Pizza? Sit here?” He hands me a menu with 38 types of pizza.

When he returns, I ask for a standard ham and mushrooms. I also ask “cipollo, onions , please.” He pauses, he smiles. “This is my first day. I’ll try to get your order right.” “Anything will be fine.”

While I wait for my order, I notice that people on the street shout at him; I notice that he spends minutes at the other tables talking with customers. As he brings my pizza, he says “Remember, my first day. I just arrived from Milan. I hope the pizza is right.” Since it is my first ordered pizza in Italy, I dig in. Of course, after walking 13 miles it is wonderful.

I motion for the waiter. When he comes to my table, I say “you seem to know and enjoy talking to everybody who walks by or who sits at your table, I don’t think this is your first day!” He smiles more broadly. Pauses. “Where you staying?” “A BnB four minutes from here.” “Oh, La Terraza, okay. Next time, stay at The Gariboldi. It is our best 5-stat hotel.” He pauses, “My family owns it.” Smiling, he hands me my bill.

I break out laughing. A long day of walking. Nothing stupendous during the day. Nothing disastrous during the day. The waiter helped me simply enjoy. The Garibaldi? I’m pretty sure his family doesn’t own The Garibaldi, “our best 5-star hotel.” But, who cares! He made my day.