Its an early morning as we have to catch the bus to go to S. Moritz. Its like two and a half hours and theres this song and dance with the train and oh, I'm Paolo but my friends call me Pavolo but I'm certain you foolish Americans will call me Pablo for most of the trip.

And he doesn't say that but maybe he kind of does.

He lays out a plan that will be soon contradicted once we get on another bus since the whole two-bus thing was only to get us to Tirano and wait, does that mean that I will never see my stuff again and no, your stuff will be waiting for you there...

Maybe this has to do with max roadspeed unladen or something. Its all very cryptic.

We spend twenty minutes at the border, between the borders, actually.

We have no passports and are stuck between the two nations and I wonder if I die here who gets authority over my corpse?

They show a video on the drive but the more fascinating world is still going by outside.

We are clearly in Switzerland now but the people here are all Italian. Even the post office sign is in Italian.

Strange mountain art, ski windmills and picturesque villages by gurgling streams -- looks like they'd make great cheese here.

Beyond the wilderness. Small squat summer villages exist here as they have for generations, closed against the winter, surviving for the summer when they will again be open.

My brother was convinced they did the Italian Job near here somewhere and this here bit of the pass looks like it would do the trick. I'm sure in a few more weeks its the most beautiful thing you've ever seen with tiny flowers and green valleys.

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