"Damanhur is a way of living and thinking based upon experimentation, play and transformation, which overcomes limiting habits and opens up new empowering visions of reality. Research in all fields is very important - from social models to alternative energies, from the arts to physics." -- from the Damanhur News I unpack the motorcycle and go into Damanhur's welcome center to be greeted by a man named Platypus. A woman name Gru shows me to my room, a comfortable women's dorm above the Welcome Center with three single beds, none so far occupied. I have arrived at 1pm, in the middle of Italy's 12:00 to 3:00 lunch break, so Platypus points me in the direction of the organic store and cantena 50 meters down the road, and I walk, happy to stretch my legs after my first day of touring -- only three hours. I'd forgotten how close everything is in Europe. It's been a lovely day. The autostrada is paved and clean, and traffic flows at a pace faster but more predictable than American highways. Stay in the right lane until you want to pass, then carefully check your mirrors for a Fiat approaching a rocket speed. If you don't see one (careful of that tiny red dot in the distance behind you!) overtake and move over again, quickly. Driving is serious business in Italy. Inattention is greeted with flashing lights and blasting horns. The Guzzi purrs along most comfortably at about 140 kilometers per hour. It handles better than any touring bike I've ever ridden, even fully loaded as it is with an obscene amount of heavy electronic equipment, clothing and camping gear. When I exit the autostrada I test its handling ability on the narrow, country roads to Damanhur, winding up toward snow-capped Alps that rise so high into the sky I had at first mistaken them for clouds. It passes with flying colors. The EV is has apparently been designed to handle its own weight and whatever load you care to burden it with. These country roads are a sharp contrast to the modernity of the autostrada with its fancy cars and high-tech rest stops. I breath in the mountain air and meander through villages built centuries ago, cluster after cluster of red tile dwellings huddled around a high, spindly clock tower. I become lost for a while, and try my Italian on unsuspecting strangers. All take my accent in stride, smile, and point me in the right direction. One man speaks to me in French, and I gratefully revert to it. I find that it's a joy being lost in Italy, which is lucky because I am lost most of the time when I'm traveling, and it is almost with regret that I spot the sign to Damanhur. A few minutes later I turn off into the parking lot of the Federation. There is no mistaking it. It is marked with a bright yellow sign that is shocking after the muted colors of the countryside. It is almost psychedelic. The parking lot is full of cars. The long, main building stretches along the road, separated by a high hedge of lush greenery. The walk to lunch is short, and I enjoy looking around at an organic food and natural products store that would be at home in Marin, California. The room is shared with a tiny buffet counter behind glass where an attendant serves up a choice of a few dishes. I choose a simple meal of polenta, zuchinni and roasted bell peppers slathered in olive oil, and sit aside from the half-dozen Damanhurians who are chatting in a mixture of Italian, French and English with an American man on his last day at the community. After lunch I slide some lira into a machine by the cash register and get a handful of Damanhurian coins in return, beautifully minted on the premises and about equal in value to to American dollars. I'll need to pay for everything I buy here in Damanhurian currency. It is nearly a country of its own, somthing like Monaco in France, I suppose. I settle in my room and take a look around. Here are some photos, some on the left are linked to larger photos. < previous | next >

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