(20 Ottobre 2001) Milano. This morning, I ditched the shitty hostel very early. I took the subway to the train station, and got a train going north, getting off in Como. There are dozens of trains going North from Milano every day, most headed to Zurich or Munchen. In leaving Milano in such a perfunctory way, I felt like I was giving up on the town. Perhaps I need to return when I'm on another trip, and traveling in a different financial league. It was grey and foggy when I got off the train in Como. Apparently this is a beautiful town, surrounded by mountains and edging on the spectacular Lago di Como (Lake Como). I wasn't able to see much of that this morning. I made my way through the quiet streets to the harbor. It was relatively full, with average sorts of sailboats and motor yachts. There were a few large passenger ferries moored together, and a slate grey one appeared out of the mist as I got to the end of the breakwater. A solo fisherman failed to notice me as a passed by. It was so foggy all the streetlights were still on, although it was nearly 11:00. I wandered back to town, stepped into the Cathedral, peering at some nice sculpture around a crowd of German tourists. I decided that I should keep moving, since Como just didn't feel right this morning. I located the bus station, and bought a ticket, and waited a while in that impatient smelling air that pervades parking lots around the world. The bus arrived soon enough, and I boarded with just a few other passengers. My destination was Menaggio, a small town midway up the Western shore of Lake Como. The lake is shaped like an inverted "Y", with Como at the bottom of the western arm, and Lecco at the bottom of the Eastern arm. Lago di Como is 45 km long, but narrow, only a few kilometers across. Menaggio sits midway up the lake, where the two arms join. The bus ride took about an hour, out of reading material; I perused some tourist office maps, and looked out the window. If the day were a little bit brighter, I know this would be a magical place. In a lot of ways, I was reminded of home, of Torch Lake. Both lakes are beautifully blue, long and narrow. Torch is less developed, and isn't surrounded by the southern foothills of the Alps. Exiting the bus I found the weather hadn't improved, in fact it looked like rain might begin at any time.

Menaggio is a small town, and the bus dropped me off right along the main square, on a lakeside promenade. I located the Hostel with little difficulty; there aren't many places it could be. A stout yellowish building set into the hillside, "La Primula" has a beautiful covered porch, set with chairs and tables. When I arrived, I was a bit annoyed to find that they didn't open again until 5:30 PM. Lacking much to do, and reveling in the peace of this quiet place, I settled down on the porch and wrote a bit. The rain began to fall, as if the sky was simply tired of holding up all that water. Moments after the rain began; a very friendly slightly damp kitty came up and sat on my lap. There are worse ways to spend a rainy afternoon, watching clouds move across an alpine lake while sitting dry on a porch accompanied by a purring cat. Eventually, the hostel reopened and I obtained a bed, in a cozy room on the third floor. Because the town is so small, there is little to do in the evenings. Most of the hostel guests eat dinner there, and while away the evening playing cards or sharing travel adventures. The crowd was varied, although almost universally English speaking. I met a chef from New Orleans (Hi Jay!) and ate dinner with a trio from outside Paris. The food was excellent and cheap, the wine likewise. Everyone helped dry the dishes after dinner. I began to see why the slogan is "not just a place, an idea."

(21 Ottobre 2001) This morning, the weather looked like it just might break. After a hostel breakfast exceeding all others so far, I walked down to the village for Mass. The service today was some sort of youth Mass, and all kinds of families were there with their kids. Italian Masses feel a lot like big family gatherings. When I stepped out into the square, I was determined to go for a bit of a hike, even though the weather was still indecisive. The hostel had provided me with several mimeographed hiking itineraries, and I selected a relatively short one, an uphill hike to a chapel named San Martino. Walking along the main road for a bit, I passed a large Mercedes truck loaded with a backhoe. The whole rig had broken through the guardrail and was sitting on its side, about 10 feet below the road. The hike up to the chapel was good, beginning on the main road, and then branching off to smaller and smaller streets, then to a dirt path, and then to a narrow path switchbacking up the hill. Midway up, I encountered an old lady trying in vain to get a stray goat to join her and its brothers further along the path. The path up the hill was lined with small shrines, depicting the 14 Stations of the Cross. The Chapel was a small whitewashed building, more of an alcove really. From there, the view of the lake was good, the town of Bellagio clearly visible at the tip of the peninsula dividing the two arms of the lake. After pausing a while, I returned back down the hill.

Apparently the goat had eventually capitulated, because there was no sign of the old woman. Returning to Menaggio, I was ravenously hungry, and ducked into a Creperie overlooking the lake. Moments later, the sky erupted in a surprise torrent. I lingered over my meal, conversing with an American couple from Indiana at the next table. I had an extra cup of café, and steeled my nerves to go out into the rain. I wandered around town a bit, ducking from awning to awning. I passed by the local supermarket, closed on Sunday, like most things. In a bin outside the door were several abandoned umbrellas. Making sure no one was in the store, and no one around was paying attention, I availed myself of one. Eventually, I would return it. Once equipped, wandering around town was more interesting, and soon the rain stopped. I found myself walking on the lakeside promenade, in awe of a wonderful rainbow.

Checking the time, and realizing I had few hours of daylight left, I boarded a ferry for Bellagio. The weather began to really clear up, and some sun shone while we were collecting passengers at Varenna. Bellagio was interesting, far more of a tourist town than Menaggio. Chic stores and boutiques lined picturesque streets. More than a few foreign tourists were whiling away their Sunday afternoon by spending money on tchotchkes. One of the stores had beautiful wood, turned bowls and cutting boards. After an hour or two, I climbed back on the ferry, returned to Menaggio, and walked up the hill for dinner. Dinner tonight was also good, and I was sitting with an entirely different crowd. While eating, a stunning coincidence arose. I was eating with a girl who had spent the summer staying in a friend's apartment in Manhattan. On the Upper West Side. On 69th Street. At 69th and Broadway. 140 W. 69th. Exactly the same building where I spent my summer, living in a friend's apartment. Erin's friend owns an apartment 3 floors below Johanna, facing Broadway. The world is very small indeed.

(22 Ottobre 2001) Last night, I was very indecisive about my travel plans. I resolved to make the decision later. This morning when I got up, the sun was streaming in the window and Lake Como was sparkling blue below. Leaving today wasn't an option.

After another excellent breakfast, I visited the local supermarcato, arming myself with a portable lunch. Then I boarded a bus, uphill, to a very small town called Breglia. There, I began hiking. My goal was the summit of Mt. Grona, at 1726m (about 5600 ft.) Lake Como is only about 200 m above sea level, and I exited the bus about 500 m above that. The hike was wonderful, difficult and beautiful. It began on paved road, and slowly wound uphill, leaving houses and farms behind.

The trail passed through quiet forest, the ground covered with chestnut husks. It reminded me of "The Trouble with Tribbles." The forest faded away to scrubby trees, then field. Near the midway point, I stopped and rested at Rifugio Menaggio, a mountain refuge not unlike a halfway house. On an out of season Monday such as this, the place was closed; although an artesian well provided a refill for my water bottle. Above the rifugio, the hardy grass quickly faded away, leaving nothing but a challenging scramble up bare rock. This really did feel like climbing a mountain. Only 20 minutes above the rifugio, I reached the edge of a ride, and a panorama to the west unfolded. Nestled in a mountain valley was Lac Lugano, and the eponymous small Swiss town. I was actually looking downhill into another country. Cool.

I continued my upward climb. Eventually, I reached the top. I knew I was at the top because there was simply no place higher to go. The air was marvelously clear, with excellent visibility all around. I sat on a rock and ate lunch, marveling in the silent serenity of these massive mountains. A short while later, a German guy that I had met a the hostel also reached the summit. He was equipped with a GPS device, and was able to tell me that I was looking at Mont Blanc and the Matterhorn, both more than 150 km away. Amazing. I wandered a bit more around the top of the mountain, taking photographs and loving the view.

I found a small grass hummock, and dozed off briefly. I was awakened by a bit of a cold front passing through. Although I had prepared for colder weather up here, I was still wearing only a t-shirt. I put on my other shirt, and began the descent. It is amazing how quickly one can move downhill, what had been nearly a 4-hour hike up was under an hour going down. I reached the bus stop in Breglia, and waited for one of the infrequent buses. Returning to Menaggio, I went back to the hostel for dinner, and stayed up late hearing the tales of a pair of crazy Canadians.

(23 Ottobre 2001) I was still feeling a little bit of that "mountain high" when I woke up this morning, but I was determined to get an early start, and make my way to Genova this afternoon. I took an alscafi (hydrofoil) down the lake to Como. I hiked through town to the train station, seeing a bit more of the surrounding mountains than I did on my grey arrival day. I caught the next train to Milano, a fancy Swiss express originating in Zurich. In Milano I made a quick transition to an Intercity train to Genova. Not a particularly long train ride, I arrived in Genova around 1:00 PM. Genova is overwhelming upon first arrival. There are 15 train stations and it is a sprawling city, although a vertical one. Streets have frequent switchbacks as they climb steep hills, frequently changing names with every turn. In order to locate the hostel, I had to take a bus from one train station to another, and then locate a different bus to go uphill a long way. I'm not a huge fan of taking buses within cities, but this was a necessary case. I eventually arrived at the hostel, with nearly 45 minutes before the midafternoon curfew ended. I settled down on a large patio, the city was spread out in a panorama below. In the distance, I could see the port busy with freighters; this was my first view of the Mediterranean Sea. Immersed in my book, a terrible romance novel (beggars can't be choosers), I didn't really notice the girl who came and sat on the next bench. She got my attention, very quietly, and one of the more odd events of my trip ensued. The girl didn't speak any English, but apparently she was being followed. There was this huge man, looking like he was asleep, at another cluster of benches. I didn't have a cell phone, and this guy made me nervous too. Eventually, I picked up my bag, and walked with this girl back out into the (deserted) street. Sure enough, the big guy followed us, not at a particularly discrete distance. We wandered down hill, and paused near a newsstand and bodega. Eventually, it was time for the hostel to reopen, and we walked back up the hill, with the scary guy across the street and 50 feet behind us. Once inside the hostel, the girl thanked me, and I never saw her again. End of story. Strange. After I was checked in to the place, I walked down the hill to town, and found Via San Vicenzio, a street full of people, stores and restaurants. I ate at a pizza place that specialized in pesto pizza. Apparently pesto is a classic element in Ligurian cuisine, and I would be eating a lot of it for the next few days. I had an excellent gelato, failed to find an internet cafe, and took the bus back uphill to the hostel. It is really disappointing when I have to take a bus, especially back somewhere I've been, but Genova is an extremely difficult town to find your way around in, and also it is a bit of a rough town too.

(24 Ottobre 2001) This morning I decided to stay in Genova another day, feeling like I had barely seen the town. I found my way down to the harbor, recently renovated. It felt surprisingly like almost every other harbor redevelopment project I've ever seen. A large aquarium like Baltimore, a building called the Porto Antica that is a cousin to Chicago's Navy Pier, and a huge Renzo Piano sculpture/tent support thing on a big piazza bordering the sea. The most extraordinary array of private yachts I've ever seen was moored along one side. Huge, 100 feet would be on the small side; these white ships made me feel a little bit ill. The disgusting display of money and wealth, the daily existence of one of them would be enough to pay my bills for months. With ports as diverse as Cannes and Capetown South Africa they were almost all being refitted or cleaned. Crowds of sailors and tradesmen moved over the boats like ants. One of the mid-sized motor yachts had a garage-door like affair in the transom; inside was a 24' Sea Ray powerboat. Shameless.

After finishing the terrible novel and throwing it away (I didn't want to carry it, pages falling out, and after all it was terrible), I soaked up some sun from a bench on the redeveloped piazza. In the afternoon, I wandered through the narrow streets of the old town, admiring the sharp striped cathedral, and buying a small blue daypack. My climb up Mt. Grona had taught me that I wanted one. I succeeded in locating an internet cafe, and spent an hour emailing and getting updated at newyorktimes.com. I got my hair cut while I was wandering around. The results were surprising, and were derived from a bit of language difficulty. The barber asked me if I wanted my hair as long as his, I told him I want it a little bit longer than yours, and he misunderstood me to be saying "Yours is a little bit longer than I want it." At this point, my hair was relatively long, and after he began cutting, I realized what had happened. However, when a mistake like that is made, there just isn't any going back. My hair is far shorter than I've ever had it. I have to realize though, that no one here will think it looks odd, since they certainly don't know the way it was. It should make showering go faster; bar soap ought to do. I found a little restaurant near the duomo, and had an excellent dinner of pesto lasagna. It was at this point I began walking uphill toward the hostel. Unfortunately I got seriously turned around, apparently heading up the wrong valley entirely. I had a terrible map, night was falling, and I had no patience to be wandering around. It was a very frustrating evening. I eventually did telephone the hostel, and ask them to direct me, they weren't much help, but I did get pointed the right way. After a very frustrating two and a half-hours, I made it back, and went to bed.

(25 Ottobre 2001) I arose early, packed up my bag, and headed off down the hill, sure of my path now, to the train station. I got a Regional train from Statzione Brignole, moving East along the coast. My destination this morning was Manarola, the fourth of the five towns making up the Cinque Terre. This series of villages is famous with backpackers and hikers all over Europe. The five villages are Monterosso, Vernazza, Corniglia, Manarola, and Riomaggiore. They are connected by a hiking trail and trains, through some absolutely amazing coastline, beautiful cliffs and beaches on the blue Mediterranean. The area is very agricultural, most of the hillsides delicately terraced with vineyards and olive orchards. From the beginning of the Cinque Terre, the train is almost entirely in tunnels. The station at Manarola has some open air, but less than half the train fits in the space between the tunnels. Once you get off, you have to walk through a long tunnel to get to the village proper. Up the hill, and across from the church is the Ostello 5 Terre. I was arriving before they had closed for the day, so I was able to check in, and leave my bag. I made my way back through the village, toward the hiking trail. The stretch between Manarola and Riomaggiore is called "Via dell' Amore", translating as "Lover's Lane." The two towns are very near each other, only 20 minutes of walking separates the two of them. The path, while beautiful, is quite boring, almost Barrier Free. There were too many tourists for my taste too, taking lots of pictures.

When I reached Riomaggiore, I was relatively unimpressed with the whole place; it certainly wasn't living up to the hiker's paradise that I'd heard about. It wasn't really a hike at all, more like a stroll. Nevertheless, I took the train from Riomaggiore all the way to the first town, Monterosso. There, I found a lovely stretch of beach. I took the opportunity to eat the lunch I'd packed, read my book, and walk with my feet in the Mediterranean. I eventually got up, and began to follow the signs for Vernazza "a pedi" (by foot). Rather quickly, my previous impression of the Cinque Terre was washed away. This was indeed an excellent hiking trail, a deserted path up a steep hill, winding through vineyards, with a stunning view of the cliffs and coastline. Amongst the vineyards were these odd raised metal rails, not unlike a toothed train track, apparently the farmers have little motorized monorails that ferry grapes down the hillsides.

It took nearly two hours to reach Vernazza, a stunning little fishing village situated on a cove. The trail's final descent into town passed by farmhouses; outside one was one of the cars for the little monorail systems. I think it had a gasoline engine in the front, and a toothed drive wheel to pull it up the tracks. In Vernazza I poked around a bit, and obtained an excellent gelato. Italians have their priorities in such good order. There were more tourists here, and I was eager to get back onto the trail. Down in the village, there was a sign warning that the trail to Corniglia was closed, but I found the trailhead, and nothing of the sort was indicated. I set out again, on another beautiful 2-hour hike.

Somehow, I missed seeing this town altogether. I was following signs for it, then the signs changed to Manarola, apparently it is balanced upon a ridge, and not directly along the trail. It wasn't until I'd descended about 10 flights of stairs that I realized I had missed the town. Not eager to turn back, I pressed on, passing the Corniglia train station, and a little resort of bungalows. The trail to Manarola was less picturesque, but the sun was setting over the sea in a beautiful orange ball. I reached Manarola after sunset, and was quite tired. I hiked uphill to the hostel, checked in, and was glad to take the elevator up to my room. I had dinner at the hostel, with an entirely new group of people, including a law student, on vacation until he found out if he passed the California bar exam, a poet from Seattle, and a painter from Scotland. I impressed an American-bashing girl from Winnipeg when I was able to name all of the Canadian provinces and territories and their capitals. Sometimes I feel like I'm on a one-man crusade to prove that not ALL Americans are ignorant and stupid. Dinner was excellent, more pesto. Excellent local wine.

(26 Ottobre 2001) Manarola. Eager to see more of this fascinating region, and to do some more hiking, I had done advance research on today's adventure. I hopped a Westbound local train to S. Margherita. This is a little bit more of a city, about an hour by train from the Cinque Terre. I located the tourist office, equipped myself with a map, and headed off. My first destination was Portofino. The Portofino Promontory is almost rectangular, with the town of Portofino on the Southeast corner. My hike today would take me around the three seaside edges of the peninsula. Finding the correct path out of S. Margherita was a bit of a challenge, but I eventually located it. I was following a trail that began on a regular street, but slowly headed out of town, passing deserted summer cottages and the odd vineyard. Uphill for quite a while, my legs were telling me that I'd done quite a bit of hiking in the last few days. Eventually I reached the crest of the hill, and began a promenade-like descent to the posh port of Portofino. Lying on a protected natural harbor, the little village was relatively crowded with tourists, and a few yachts bobbed at anchor. I think this place could become ridiculously crowded during the season. A small village, just a few rows of shops, some hotels, and several mansions perched on the surrounding cliffs. It is, I imagine, the smallest town with its own Cartier store. Even the postcards were expensive. I wandered along the harborside streets, and, in an effort to maintain my hiking momentum, I headed out of town moving across the flat Southern face of the peninsula. The trail became very rough here, a cliffside scramble along a rocky and muddy path. The trail was basically deserted, a welcome relief from the scattered hikers yesterday. Stunning views of the water crashing on the bottom of the cliffs. The rock here is sandstone, it reminds me vaguely of Lake Superior's Pictured Rocks, although not nearly as red. The forest is different too, much more subtropical. Few people grow olives on Lake Superior. After a significant hike, I began to descend downhill, to the sea, to San Frutuosso. The trail was very steep, with frequent switchbacks; I sighed at the steep downhill. I knew very well I would have to climb back up the other side of the valley. I was very hungry as I reached the town, which was far smaller than I anticipated. Dominated by a monastery and a church, only one of about three restaurants was open, and a few very sad kiosks selling trinkets. All the kiosks were run by the same lady. I refilled my water bottle, and caught my breath sitting on a small beach. There is no road or train serving the town, ferries come from Camogli and Genova; with infrequent service out of season. The restaurant was really overpriced, and I wasn't in any mood to sit down for a meal. Nearly 3:30, daylight would be failing in an hour and a half, and I had a relatively long hike ahead of me. Resigned to not eating much here, I set off again. My initial plan was thwarted by a trail closure, I could not continue the seaside journey toward Camogli, a landslide of some sort had apparently destroyed some trail. I was nearly ready to attempt it anyway, but I did further reading, and found that the trail was designated extremely difficult, and would, in theory, take four hours to complete. I located an alternate route, following a streambed up the valley behind the town. I set off this direction. Midway up the hill, hunger got the best of me. Rooting around in my bag, I located a package of cookie-crackers of the kind that I've become partial to, they're small but not unlike graham crackers. I also found the small package of Nutella that I'd saved from breakfast. With some water, this constituted my lunch. Somewhat satiated, I had enough energy to continue my climb. When I reached the top, I determined that I would be moving downhill for the rest of the hike. While less interesting than following the sea, my trip toward Camogli was surely more direct. As I descended into town, I began to pass farms, and boarded up summer cottages, eventually reaching an unpaved road by a small church called San Rocco. Passing garden walls and small houses, there were cats everywhere. All relatively peaceful, they regarded me with suspicion. I counted 12 in a hundred yards or so. The two-track gave way to tar, and I reached Camogli, still very hungry. I was planning on eating and then getting a train, but I stopped by the station to buy the ticket and check the schedule; I found that a train headed my direction was due momentarily, with the next one nearly two hours later. I swallowed my hunger again, and climbed on the train. An hour and a half later, I hiked up to the hostel, and went straight to dinner. I had pasta with walnut sauce, and an excellent eggplant parmesan. While I was in my second course, I was joined by Pete and Malcolm, the poet and the painter. We related our day's adventures, and talked about our next travel plans. The three of us decided to travel together to Lucca, in Tuscany, with a stop to see the Torre Pendente of Pisa along the way. Exhausted, I slept very well. I have always been very grateful that I sleep heavily, especially in hostels. Many people here are kept awake by the very loud quarter-hour chimes of the church across the street. Not me.

(27 Ottobre 2001) Manarola. This morning I woke up, well rested after my strenuous hike yesterday. I met my traveling companions downstairs. The breakfast here at Ostello 5 Terre is excellent, almost up to the standards of La Primula. With little delay, Malcolm, Pete and I made our way down to the train. Shortly thereafter, we were ducking through tunnels and catching mere glimpses of the sea on our way to Pisa. Malcolm and Pete are an interesting pair. Malcolm is from Scotland, an artist with one of the world's driest senses of humor. Pete is from Seattle, in the middle of a world tour covering four continents and lasting more than a year. He has an MFA in poetry, is very well read, environmental, and anti-globalization. (Hi Pete!) Both of them were glad to get out of the hostel, the noise of the CNN forcing too much cultural imperialism on the quiet village. Just before Pisa, both of them got off the train, heading directly to Lucca. I continued on to Pisa. Not a particularly fetching town, Pisa is famous for only one thing, the Torre Pendente. Walking toward the tower, I passed over the Arno river. I don't know that I've ever seen a less appealing sight; opaque, yellowish brown, almost stationary, the river looked as thick as a milkshake. The tower is surrounded by a predictable array of souvenir stands, and a surprisingly beautiful lawn. A stunning octagonal baptistery is across from the brilliantly restored facade of the cathedral. The cockup-campanille is behind the cathedral, to the right. Tourists milled around in the late-morning sunlight. A crowd of Asian tourists posed in front of the tower, pretending to be holding it up. I was prepared to be disappointed by the tower, but the sight of that brilliantly white, elegant architecture sitting crooked on a green lawn is really unusual.

The sight is quite transfixing. When you glimpse it out of the corner of your eye, you expect to see it crashing to the ground. Of course the tower isn't open to the public anymore, but the Cathedral and Baptistery are, and are really amazing. There is a particular style of Italian Renaissance church architecture and design, and this is a beautiful example. While wandering around the other buildings, you realize the floors aren't exactly level there either. It seems the shifting soil isn't limited to just under the tower. I wrote a postcard to my friend Brenda, who has always loved the Leaning Tower; and lounged on the beautiful grass, a rare treat in Italy. Eventually I roused myself, walking back to the train station on a different route. Pisa seems boring, although I did see crowds of young people around the University. The train ride from Pisa to Lucca was quite short, even when riding a slow Regional train. Lucca is a walled city, but different than the places I visited in Umbria. It sits on a relatively flat plain, and is surrounded by a tall wall, perfectly geometric in shape. These days the wall forms an enchanting linear park. Inside the wall, the city is exquisitely planned and preserved, few cars are allowed inside. The train station is outside the wall, inside, the streets are narrow and picturesque. The hostel was easy to locate. It is enormous, a recently renovated ancient monastery. My room on the third floor was at least 400 yards of hallway from the front door, twisting passages and surprising staircases. There were enormous living rooms scattered around the building, and a big dining hall. Pete and Malcolm were not around when I checked in, and I headed off to wander around the town. It was early evening, and the streets teemed with people, stores were packed with interesting things, and the atmosphere was excellent. I found this store called SASCH, a trendy clothing store, with reasonable prices, and merchandise that I kept falling in love with. I ended up spending a fair amount of money there, but it wasn't really an unplanned expense. I was a little surprised that the shopping seemed to be better in a small town like this, but I think the geography of larger cities just doesn't put the stores all together. Lucca's downtown shopping district is relatively large, several times larger than an American mall, and infinitely more interesting. Someone could make millions in the States if the atmosphere of that town could be transported to a shopping center. Laden with my purchases, I returned to the hostel, met Pete and Malcolm, and with an Australian, we found a ristorante for dinner. Crowded with all kinds of people, families, young people, the place was a friendly and fun. Neither Pete nor Malcolm drink, so when I'm out with them, I don't either. This is odd in Italy. After a successful gelato-finding adventure, we sat on a piazza and people watched on the crowded street. This is a very entertaining proposition in Italy. Italian women have perfected the art of wearing boots, who knew leather could fit so tightly? All Italians have perfected the art of wearing Jeans. Tight. Denim is a very popular fashion choice, with a denim jacket and a pair of jeans in the same shade of dark blue not viewed as a faux pas. On boys, turtlenecks, thick collars and turned-up button down shirts are all popular. Girls are very likely to have a bit of fauxfur around the collar, and to be carrying a miniscule handbag. Everyone has tiny cell phones, and the most popular brands are Lonsdale London, Levi, and Benneton.