Fried baloney

The photographers had packed up and gone away. It was no longer a Chamber of Commerce weather. High clouds had moved in. It was still a glorious day for riding. I was excited as the route was taking us within detour range of a restaurant I went to 10 years ago and have had fond memories of ever since. To get to the restaurant we had to cross Passo Manghan.

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Road to Passo Manghan

The high clouds from the valley were ground level at the pass summit. The roads over the pass were a bit more challenging than the passes of yesterday. The roadway is a lane and a half wide with two-way traffic. A couple of the hairpin turns were a bit sphincter puckering but we made it to the top without incident or the need for clean underwear.

 

At the bottom of the other side of the pass, we turned off onto a gravel road to head for the restaurant. Every bump and jolt of the motorbike’s suspension heightened my anticipation for an amazing lunch. The restaurant makes their own salumi and cheese and their fried baloney is worth the trip no matter the road you have to take to get there. It’s not the fried baloney of your youth. It’s homemade, not Oscar Meyer. I began drooling just thinking about it. After 6 kilometers of gravel road and forging a creek we were back on tarmac. A quick check of directions and we were off. Lunch was in sight. Alas, it was not to be. The restaurant was closed. My heart and stomach sank; no fried baloney for me. Disheartened, we had no choice but to travel on. The road down the hillside did, however, somewhat make up for my disappointment.

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The road through town

Two more passes and we arrived in Trento, Italy, out stay for the night. The hotel is actually 7K outside of town located on a lovely lake. At this morning’s briefing we had been told that if time permitted, a visit to old town Trento was a must. It is a picturesque historic part of town and, as all good historic parts of towns today, filled with shopping opportunities. I opted for a cappuccino and a slice of apple strudel. We’re in Italy; they don’t carry my size of clothing anyway, especially if I keep eating strudel.

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Center square
Trento, Italy

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Trento, Italy

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