Henri started waving his hands towards the French officials. We had surrendered our passports, but our taxi driver could not produce his. Henri, the Italian driver from Milan with the French sounding name – the “H” is silent by the way – was going to be the reason we didn’t get into France. Italy was a hotbed of Coronavirus outbreaks, it had been a long 24 hours and the only questions we could voice in our tired heads where:- How did we get ourselves into this position? Why were we running from Coronavirus in Italy?
Four weeks ago I was sat on a plane to Venice. Life was good, or as the Italians would say, la vita e stata buona. I had taken my first job as a Ski Guide, a role I never thought my bad skiing pose and love of snowploughing over the years would ever be considered for. Within hours, I’d met a team of lovely and different individuals at Heathrow Airport and the 10 of us were now sat comfortably on a plane heading out for a short season in the Dolomites.
For two weeks we stayed in the lovely village of San Cassiano, catering to the needs of upmarket clients and ski guiding them across the mountains. Each day was full of ease, except for rescuing clients from falls and keeping an eye that they didn’t go up the wrong chairlifts. Mornings filled with hot chocolate and coffee stops, and early afternoons with long lunches before heading back to grudgingly re-unite everyone with their kids.
On 12th February when we flew out, the only sign that Coronavirus in Italy was “alive and well” was temperature scans at Venice airport. By this point, Italy had confirmed only 3 cases of the disease that will forever be named after a beer, and yet all incoming travellers were scanned for elevated temperatures. Take note Britain – you were far too trusting.
Two weeks later, a flight out of Venice to Gatwick gave me a few days away from the pasta, coffee, wine and pizza of Italy. It was a rest for a bloated stomach. By now, Venice airport was a hive of mask wearers and concerned faces. Doubt was starting to creep in, and people were starting to distrust those around them. My friend Adam had been ill for the past two weeks. I don’t think Adam got Coronirus in Italy, just flu beforehand, but you can never tell. We had shared an Austrian twin bed. That’s one bed frame with two mattresses, so suffice to say we were close. Mine and Adam’s incessant, colossal snores could have been married by that point.
The Zona Rossa (Red Zone)
The ski guiding team on our last day, bliss and ignorant in the Dolomites before the fear set in
At the time, it was 24th February and Italy had announced the closure of 11 villages in the North due to coronavirus in Italy. Most were in Lombardy, centred around Codogno which now have over 400 police guarding 35 checkpoints in and out of the village. Yet there was one town, Vo, in the region of Veneto closed as well – the closest to Venice.
Adam had spent those last two weeks insisting on hot toddies every night. I’m ashamed to same I’ve never heard of them and that’s probably an ignorant thing to say. I watched him bring out the hot water, lemon and whisky each night, protesting that this definitely was a cure for the sniffles he had. In the queue for security control every thirty seconds or so, he would erupt in an impressive display of coughing. Each time everyone would death stare him, some through masks, and take a solid step in any direction that wasn’t towards him. Of course, I did the same, but made it even more pronounced with a horrified look on my face.
I’m a true believer in laughter in the face of disaster. It’s what makes us human, able to weather the storm, and live the life of comedy in a world that ultimately is all about tragedy. None of us get out of here alive. Maybe this was a step too far, as was watching people’s reactions around the airport as I deliberately sidled up to them in the next few hours with a cough or two at my beckoning call.
I heard Adam had to be isolated soon after, but as he gave up all his social media accounts and I don’t have his phone number, I haven’t been able to validate that.
The Cancellations Begin
The Dolomites called again and this time I made my way to Verona for a week’s holiday with my Scottish friend Debbie. I highlight that she’s Scottish, because if you call her English, she will kill you. She doesn’t enjoy it when I tell her they’re the same country anyway. This is strictly speaking true if you were wondering otherwise, as England, Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland are classed as territories by the United Nations.
Though we booked flights and accommodation independently, we took transfers from Verona airport and our lift passes with Crystal Ski. When we arrived and waited in the coach park for guests to arrive, it looked like around a third had not turned up. Ireland had enforced stricter restrictions on their country – one Dublin bus had just 4 out of 24 people onboard. People were starting to be concerned about coronavirus in Italy.
Later on, we collected our lift passes from one of the staff. They were holding a stack of unclaimed lift passes from customers that had refused or failed to come out on holiday, thinking coronavirus in Italy to be rife.
Despite all of this, we had an amazing week’s holiday in Italy, skiing on quiet pistes. My friend Debbie was on Coronavirus watch multiple times of the day, and even my “what will be will be” nature was taking a hit. For the first time in my life, I was using antibacterial gel. We were aware of the situation, both because of the news and because the pistes were all but empty for the time of year. It was a bad time for hoteliers and restauranteurs, but to be selfish, for us travellers we had free reign of over 500km of fresh piste.
The weather was changeable, flat light days, snow, grey skies and one great bluebird day, but even the bad lighting couldn’t detract from the joy of skiing in nature’s playground.
Arrivals as Usual at Venice Airport - 22nd February 2020
As we watched the statistics growing around Milan, Lombardy and Emilio-Romagna, the region of Trentino Alto-Adige were we were based was silent. Only 1 case was recorded. Benjamin Disraeli said that the world was full of “lies, damned lies, and statistics”. We started to realise that there was a difference between having confirmed cases and Coronavirus. By the end of that week, I would estimate that for every 1 confirmed case, there were around 500 unconfirmed cases of coronavirus in Italy.
Trouble almost burst our mountain bubble when we heard mid-week that one of the chalet hotels had guests that were being detained. Maybe it was a norovirus, we reasoned. It definitely shouldn’t be coronavirus in a small town, in a region that only had 1 confirmed case. Yet the worst case scenario that played on our mind turned out to be true.
All the chalet hotel guests were flown home, and the hotel staff put on two week isolation. All bookings for the rest of the season had also been cancelled. Apparently, we were informed there were 5 potential cases of Coronavirus, but we found out weeks later that the number of positives were 21, of the 25 guests. Moreover, this was for the guests that had left the week before. They were now back in England, and like most statistics, they were then added to the UK cases.
Trentino’s confirmed cases were still at 1, but of course we knew otherwise. Statistics lie in this way, contact tracing is difficult for agencies, and finding the site of incubation almost impossible. Did they pick up the virus in England, in our little Trentino town, or flying through the airports of Innsbruck or Verona?
People We Know Test Positive
We wouldn’t have been that bothered had the staff of the hotel not been friends and acquaintances of ours. The previous night we had visited the chalet to pick up a friend who had spent the evening with us – wine tasting, dinner and a ski show. Another friend who worked there and we had met, hugged and spent time at the ski show turned out the week after to be tested positive.
What’s more, them and their friend who had visited the previous week were both positive – with no symptoms whatsoever. To this day, weeks later, they both have no discernible symptoms. It started to seem to us that many people could carry the disease with no knowledge whatsoever.
These “fears” were more or less confirmed when most of the Princess Diamond were confirmed positive. Of the 621 cases, 291 had mild or no symptoms. In other words 50% of the population (at least those in a fit state) were asymptomatic. The disease would be carried by the young, and potentially lethal to the old and those with a risk characteristic like cardiovascular disease or asthma.
The rest of the chalet hotel staff were quarantined, and not tested by the Italian government, although I’d be surprised if any of them were negative.
Business As Usual?
Fully Wrapped up and Antibacterial Ready
We continued the week as normal, and left on the Saturday 7th March. Despite this, life in North Italy still seemed joyful. The Italians were moaning they were being painted in a bad light and pointing fingers at the Germans for being patient zero and for coronavirus in Italy, and at the French for sweeping their cases under the carpet, but for most people, albeit not hoteliers, it was business as usual.
The only real sign of coronavirus in Italy was from the hotel’s change in attitude. Hoteliers had seen a good season, but some were closing down now. After we left resort, we heard of a few hotels closing abruptly and chucking out English guests, literally onto the street. The apartments were we stayed had 50% cancellation the week we were there – for the next week, all but two parties had cancelled. The owners had decided to source them accommodation with other hoteliers for the week, and were also shutting up shop.
The afternoon I arrived back into England, I also found out that one of the nicest hoteliers in town had confirmed cases of Coronavirus. The hotel had been shut, guests sent home, and deep cleaning was in progress.
Selfishly, I was thinking about my next (and last) ski holiday of the season. It was due to start the very next day. Instead of travelling from the North East of Italy to the North West, I had decided to fly home to Gatwick, get an airport hotel stay for the night, and fly back out. Surprisingly, this was both easier and cheaper.
Quarantine on the Plane
Last Day skiing in the Dolomites on 6th March 2020. The world is still peaceful.
The flight in was less than perfect. A woman two rows in front of me became ill. I remember hearing that you were more likely to catch Coronavirus if you were within 2 metres of a confirmed case for more than 15 minutes. I had already hugged and been in contact with confirmed cases but there were friends. Somehow, when a stranger was ill two rows in front of you, it seemed worse.
When they contact trace for cases of airlines, they always look for passengers up to two rows and back and forward to test. I was definitely in the “firing line”.
The lady in question had problems with planes, and she often felt faint on them. Maybe it was a nervous reaction, maybe a change in cabin pressure, or maybe something entirely differently. But of course, her husband had to make a big deal, bringing over most of the cabin crew to help. They offered her water and supplemental oxygen, and suddenly all eyes on the plane were on her.
When we landed in Gatwick, the doors did not open. Cabin crew informed us we were waiting for ground staff. Moments later, the captain told us the real reason. He wasn’t allow to open the doors, for security reasons on account of our sick passenger.
We waited. We waited more. Medics were due to arrive and assess the situation, but the airport didn’t want to put the medics in a position to catch the disease. Symptoms and details were relayed digitally. I thought if we got sent back to Verona, I would just have to make my way overland. No big deal, but definitely a considerable frustration nonetheless.
Eventually, we were allowed in to Gatwick airport.
Seemingly No Precautions Needed
The security around our sick passenger was high, but there was a general lax approach to anyone entering the UK. This was the second time I had come into the UK in two weeks – the first from Venice and the second from Verona, both airports in susceptible areas of North Italy. You just walk off the plane and get our bags. No screening for people coming from North Italy, no temperature checks.
You think that the 21 of 25 positive cases from Trentino the week before may have helped stir a little bit of anxiety regarding people entering the country. Clearly, it did not. It’s anyone’s guess how many more cases like this had slipped back onto English soil. And as time went on, we would see that our UK Government haven’t got a clue what to do. In fact, they couldn’t even organise a piss-up in a brewery even though they’ve decided to tell us not to go to the pubs but kept them open nevertheless.
Selfishly though, I was thinking ahead to my holiday in Aosta Valley. I had been looking at the figures while skiing in Trentino. The valley had 0 cases, and one of the few regions in Italy still left to get any. By Thursday they had 2 cases, on Friday 7 cases. I was flying out on Sunday 8th March, and the risk still looked small.
Unbeknownst to me, when I fly out Sunday, Guiseppe Conte – the Italian leader – put all of Lombardy in the red zone and 14 other regions. It did not, however, include the Aosta Valley perched next to France in Italy’s top left corner. The message was clear. Coronavirus in Italy was spreading.
While my holiday the week before had been about clocking up the miles, great food and civilised company with Debbie, this was a typical lad’s holiday. It was to be a return to the first ski resort I ever lived in. Though I’m not a massive drinker, or lad’s lad, it was to be a fun holiday with a few mates, some crazy skiing, and plenty of stops for a beer.
Champagne at the Executive Lounge
I met Ben, my friend of 16 less years, at the BA lounge in Gatwick. We had worked a ski season together, and it felt like the years had coalesced and never happened. It was going to be a great week. We pounded the free champagne, took the equally free beers and snacks for the plane, and made a beeline for Turin. Everything went smoothly. Coronavirus in Italy was the last thing on our mind’s again.
I had deliberately picked seat 30A , the back row of the plane, and had nobody within six rows of me. On the Easyjet flight the week previously to Verona, there had been 79 passengers out of 150 – 50% had not made it. Today, there were barely 50 people onboard out of a possible 180. Ben had booked Premium, so he was up front somewhere.
Turin airport was a far cry from Verona and Venice. The whole arrivals floor had been redone in a futuristic, white glean from the previous year. There were no masks and no concerns – life was continuing as normal.
I felt instantly re-assured. Aosta had a handful of cases and while there was coronavirus in Italy, it felt like Turin hadn’t heard of it!
I’m not sure how these events turned so quickly. Arriving in resort, we had to forge a new path through the freshly fallen snow to our AirBnB, and we settled down in our “local” for pizza and beer. It felt like being home, as it always does. Our resort was a small place in the mountains, 900 locals, great food and good skiing. You could not get further away from the dreaded Corona, or SARS-COV-2 to give its official name, if you tried.
Then, as my friend Matt would say, it all went wrong. Literally, all of it. The hoteliers and ski rental shops were told at 2pm on Sunday 8th March that there would be closing the resort. The rental shops would not give out skis. The lift pass office would not sell new lift passes. There was even a queue of people come late afternoon asking for refunds back on unused days.
"It All Went Wrong"
Mask wearers in Public Places becomes the new normal.
Again, we had travelled independently, and had been joined by our other friends Joe and Jason. But we also had friends travelling with tour operators. The tour operators themselves were hours behind the locals with their information, but it was understandable. I felt for their staff – customers queuing up demanding to know why they had been brought to Italy, accusing the companies of bringing them when they knew, and demanding what was going to happen in terms of getting back to England and/or changing or refunding their holiday.
Friends from other resorts texted us. They were having the same problem with coronavirus in Italy, but on the other side of the region. Aosta valley, in one fell swoop, had decided to shut down their entire system of ski resorts. The announcement was made even more official at 5pm.
Like all travellers coming back to a place they love, to ski a great week with friends, we took the most sensible approach. We got drunk, and made the most of each minute. We drank for 11 hours solid, and it would later be known in the “halls” of our idiotic manliness as the night of 13 beers.
But, at the same time, we tried to formulate a plan. I say try, because as time went on and the beers became more frequent, this surprisingly got harder to do.
Again, we had come out independently, spending just £100 on accommodation for the week and £100-200 on flights. It was a fraction of the price of what tour operators can offer. But at times like these, it offered no protection.
Salvaging our Ski Holiday
The Dolomites was an option, and the system there was open. But the cases in the previous week made me feel like if Aosta was on lockdown, only time was stopping the Dolomites from following suit. Susa valley, with its resorts of Sauze D’oux, Sestriere, Claviere and Bardonecchia was another. I couldn’t imagine that Susa would hold out more than a few days, although positive cases had been minimal there.
Either option would rely on getting a coach transfer with a tour operator back to Turin and picking up car hire. We could potentially make out the week skiing in ignorance, but it wasn’t a sure bet. In the end we decided, we would make a break for the French border.
Chamonix would be the easiest option, but we preferred the look of Tignes. Drunkenly, we put a request in for the only cheapish apartment we could see that was left for the week ahead in Tignes, and booked an extortionate taxi. There was much to-and-fro over taxi costs, but private transfers are expensive in North Italy. In the end, we decided to deal with the cost later.
Predicting the Future Through "Spidey-Sense"
As I had booked the holiday, and brought the “team” onboard, I felt bad. I also felt like I was responsible for rectifying the situation. I’m a gung-ho traveller. I believe in just getting out there. The media has a habit of blowing all things out of proportion, and my nature to go regardless has always put me in good stead.
However, my spidey sense was tingling on this occasion. The mood in Italy had changed in hours. Despite four weeks of skiing and visiting and working there with Corona cases around, something that Sunday had changed. The whole mood of the country was shifting.
It was plausible that flights were going to be stopped in and out of Italy, and that land borders would be closed. I couldn’t imagine it would be long before the whole of Italy was on lockdown, and British travellers would either be trapped or expunged from the country. It didn’t feel the right time to be here, with massive cases of coronavirus in Italy. The country had become a truly foreign place and France beckoned.
I put all of this to the back of my mind for one great evening. We drank some more, and then went for a superb dinner of local hams and cheeses, beef steaks, and Italian red wine. Then, half way through, Joe told us he wasn’t going to go to Tignes.
After all the decision making, Joe did a U-turn on a ten lane motorway in rush hour traffic, and could not be stopped. I’ve seen Joe get like this a few times. Sometimes he manages to get past tipsiness and crazy drunk to a melancholy, tired state. He wouldn’t remember anything in the morning.
Moreover, he was adamant that he was going to stay in resort and just see what happens. We almost bullied him to stick with us – god knows where he would have ended up otherwise.
Sore Heads and Travel Sickness
The night of 13 Beers: Friends and Locals in the Aosta Valley
The following morning we woke with sore heads, myself and Jason between the hours of 6:30am and 8am. We both had showers and packed up. Ben moved a little later, and then getting Joe up was – as usual – more of a nightmare. With minutes to go, we got out, leaving the apartment in the state we had found it minus used towels and sheets, and made it to the taxi we had booked for 9am.
We had a new plan, formulated half the night before and half that morning. Tignes was off. We weren’t going to try and save the holiday. Covid had stabbed us repeatedly to the ground. Instead, we were making a straight line for Geneva, and finding flights home.
We had initially booked a transfer for hundreds of Euros more to Tignes, and now we had to struggle to get the price down for Geneva. The former was a 6 hour return journey for the driver, the latter only 4. Eventually, midway through the journey chatting and laughing away, I think he relaxed and gave in.
Getting out of resort, however, was a mine field. I had to get money out from the ATM, and the guys wanted to get snacks and drinks. We eventually made it out and headed for the Mont Blanc tunnel. The tunnel connects Courmayeur on the Italian side and Chamonix on the French. It’s a painful tunnel at the best of times, costing around €50 one way and €55 return, but only if you come back within the week.
The previous evening we had heard the tunnel had closed, though the official website showed it was all clear. Yet, for all that reassurance, there was a slight worry. It seemed like Italy was closing down and we didn’t know what could happen. The French had far few cases of Corona, even though it looked like their government weren’t being as transparent as others.
All it would take were the French border control to decide they didn’t want the risk of bringing Italians into the country, and the tunnel would close. Normally, all of European borders are open – at least those countries in the Schengen agreement. I have made multiple road trips across Europe and never been asked for my passport, except for the border between Britain and France. Britain is not in the Schengen agreement, and has always been seen as wanting more protection over its borders. Until of course, Corona came along, and then we seem to take a more relaxed view than the rest of Europe!
The Mont Blanc Tunnel
We reached the Mont Blanc tunnel, and it was open.
Our elation soon changed, when we noticed contrary to normal procedures, the French authorities were checking passports. We gave yours over, but our driver Henri had none. They asked him for his national identity card. Italians are allowed to travel without a passport, but with a countrywide I.D. Card. He didn’t have this either.
Henri was going to scupper our plans to get out of Italy. We would be isolated, with no place to live, and no ski resorts to ski on either. Life looked bleak. We could kick Henri out and steal his van to get across the border, but that didn’t seem like a great ideal with all the police around.
Or we could just accept our fate. We put our faith in St Bernard, patron saint of skiers and snowboarders.
Henri started gesticulating that his Driver’s Licence should be enough. We were English passengers flying back from Geneva to England. He was a simple Italian driver on a return trip to France and Switzerland. It was the rant of an Italian man that I knew would fall on deaf ears.
Somehow, it worked. They handed back the four passports and the driver’s, and waved us through. The tunnel loomed and we were soon engulfed.
We had made it to France.
Testing Positive
By the time we had arrived in Geneva, I felt like an escaped convict. On the run and guilty, but of what I do not know.
We picked up flights easy enough from Geneva. Jason managed to get the last seat on a 2pm Manchester flight, thereby leaving Joe to wander Geneva until the next flight 8 hours later. Ben and I got seats on a London Gatwick flight leaving soon after Jason’s.
Ben, Joe and I sat in the food court thinking about the amount of coronavirus in Italy. I drank the most expensive Starbuck’s coffee of my life and wondered how it all went wrong.
I never normally flee from situations. Most people are pretty decent, most situations can be made the best out of all. Don’t believe the media hype and don’t stop yourself from your dreams. However, this time was different. You can’t see a virus. The unknown causes us to panic. Italy and the world had become susceptible to that.
When we returned to England, all four of us were told we needed to be tested and we should self isolate. One of us tested positive for the virus, and the other three most likely have it. We spent hours drinking, and chatting and hugging and having our night of 13 beers. We spent hundreds and hundreds of pounds to go to a ski resort for one night, and not even ski.
Strangely, as time goes on, I wouldn’t change it for the world – though I think my insurance company wish I could. Unfortunately, even with mild symptoms, the other three of us will never know if we picked the virus up. England stopped testing except in acute cases, and though we have still been told we are waiting for tests, we know it won’t happen.
The Aftermath
The whole of Aosta valley closed that 8th March. We arrived home on the evening of 9th March. A day later the whole of Italy, including Aosta was red zoned. Countless Brits were struggling to get back to the UK. Tour operators did their best and got many people home, but the independent travellers had a harder job.
The day we flew back was also the last day of the Dolomites season. Again, that was a quick decision and didn’t seem to be “on the cards” a day earlier. The Italian government decreed all ski resorts to close and Susa valley went a day later. I had thought it would last out the week, which it did not.
The domino effect continued – Ischgl, then Tirol resorts in Austria, Andorra, France and Bulgaria. Many ski operators suspended their whole operations for the rest of the season. Coronavirus in Italy became coronavirus in Europe.
Meanwhile, in the broader travel industry, Ryanair, BA, Easyjet and TUI decided to axe routes and flights, amongst other airlines. G Adventures and Intrepid stopped all small group tours worldwide for the next month. The US restricted all travel from the EU, except the UK and Ireland, only to then reverse this decision and cut off the whole of Europe twenty four hours later.
Reminiscing
I believe we made the best decision. Maybe it would have been better not going at all, but I will always remember the day we spent in Italy. Friends, food, and beers. I will always remember our panicked chase for the French border as if our lives depended on it. I will always remember rating our holiday as the worst ever, as I sipped the most expensive coffee in the world. I will always remember how the gung-ho traveller who always says yes to going, became the one that ran away from Coronavirus in Italy.
Always, I will know it was an experience worth having.
Even if it we came home with Coronavirus and our tails between our legs.
Further Resources
Click on each tab below for resources to plan your trip
- See NHS Advice about Coronavirus here.
- Check Gov.uk for the Government's Response to Coronavirus.
- Isolating at home? Check all Stay at Home Advice here.
- Note that as the situation progresses each day, information rapidly changes.
- Why should you ski? Find out here.
- Find out about 8 Reasons to Ski in Italy here.
- Check out a mostly objective guide to the best ski resorts in Italy.
2 comments
Great writing Dave
Thanks Gill 🙂