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So, what's a girl to do in Italy when she has a day to herself?

I decided I would embark on my own adventure. So, I bid arrivederci to the troops and signed up for a snowshoeing adventure with Giuseppe (and I'm not making that up, this story is 100 percent true). How hard could it be? I've snowshoed....it would be invigorating...fresh air, blue skies...the Alps as my backdrop!

I headed over to the reception area at 9 a.m., espresso in hand, ready to meet my fellow "trekkers," at least that's what I thought they were called. Standing at the desk were some lovely ladies, not English speakers, but they looked about my age. From what I learned after the ski race adventure that my husband had earlier in the week, I took time to assess (not judge), and they looked about my fitness level. At that point, all was well with my soul.

In fact, I convinced myself that they were the type of women who would want to stop along the trek for a glass of Italian red. I couldn't make out much of what they were conversing about in the lobby, but there were a lot of hand gestures, kisses on the cheeks, grazie, prego, and then I heard something vaguely familiar, ciao.

And just like that, I was the last one standing. Maybe I intimidated them with my matchy-matchy look. I contemplated not wearing the matching snow pants, and then I had to kick myself already because I was doing the judging thing myself, sizing up my competition. So at this point I had two choices. I could grab a biscotti from the gorgeous hand-painted Italian bowl that was on the desk, and discreetly cross my name off the list, none the wiser, right? Or take the risk. Jump in with both feet, or in this case, snowshoes, and not worry about anything or anyone else. I chose the latter and off I went with Giuseppe.

Before you read any further, paint a mental picture of Giuseppe in your mind. Okay, okay, snap out of it. Exactly what you imagined was indeed the case.

Giuseppe was a gorgeous, fit, Italian man who spoke a "wee" bit of English, as he so eloquently explained, and weighed less than me. I honestly felt like an Amazon next to him, but I kept reminding myself of all of the possibilities of this day. I was in Italy for a once-in-a-lifetime trip.

Amy, get ahold of yourself.

Giuseppe informed me that the other ladies were a bit tired from yesterday's adventure and weren't up for today's trek. So, off we went. I truly felt like a giant, and that's strange given I tip the charts at five foot four. You know, that armpit in a crowd, dog-crotch-sniffing height. I figured I had this snowshoe thing in the bag. He was the size of a pocket pal, and I knew I could take him if I had to. Just kidding, that never entered my mind. I was seriously taken aback by his thick layers of brown hair that peeked out from under his hat. Okay, bring her back, Amy, there's a story to tell.

We started our 100-meter walk into town to strap on the snowshoes. Giuseppe took a swig of something from his backpack, pulled his hat down a bit farther over his ears, and away we went. It was beautiful and sunny with no wind. Just perfect, with one exception: the pace. Usually I can yell up to my six-foot-three husband and tell him to slow down, given I'm only five foot four, but Giuseppe wasn't much over five foot eight, so my short, sturdy legs were not going to be a good enough excuse this time around.

This was well before the age of Apple watches and Fitbits, but my heart rate and step count were already off the charts. We were at higher altitude, and my nose was stuffed up. Maybe I should have taken one for the team and stayed back with the ciao ladies. I keep asking myself why I didn't pack some tissues along like my mom always used to put in my coat pocket! You know those times when you really need to wipe the drippy snot from your nose and all you have is your ski jacket. But a girl has to do what a girl has to do.

Giuseppe was a pro, and about two hours into the excursion through snow that was waist-deep at some points, I was really hoping for a swig of whatever he had earlier, because obviously I was in need of something, and by the way, I was profusely sweating. I was probably dehydrated and in need of an IV drip!

"How are you doing, beautiful, sweet Amy?" he asked.

I'm not exaggerating, he did use those words of endearment. And in his Italian flare, it all sounded just completely romantic, or maybe I was hallucinating. I couldn't muster up the courage to tell him I couldn't take another step, so I simply mumbled, "Great. Any chance we're stopping for water anytime soon?" He answered, "Oh, you so fun, too, prego, prego." (Or something like that.) I have to admit I was swearing under my breath at this point, but I enjoyed every minute of our seven-kilometer trek uphill to a gorgeous vista, and someday I'll share my pictures because it was incredible.

There was a lovely waterfall that looked inviting, and in the moment, I contemplated tearing off all my clothes and showering in it. I learned on this little expedition that less is more, and my attire was a bit too warm for snowshoeing. With the pace we were keeping, it was tough to shed layers because that would have required me to keep my balance. It wasn't happening. I didn't even have time to take off my hat. At this point it was stuck to my head from all of the sweat.

I will admit, it was quite empowering. As I looked down, we had climbed up about 1,600 meters. My heart was pounding. It was a good thing I wasn't wearing a heart monitor. It would have been beeping continually and would have been a bit of a buzzkill to the silence of the Alps. We had to trek back down (seven more kilometers), although I was hoping I'd hear one of those helicopters overhead because surely they had been tracking me with all the beads of sweat I had dropped along the path, not to mention my snowshoe tracks would not have passed a DUI walk-a-straight-line test. I was sure someone was watching me.

No such luck, but Giuseppe did offer me a bit of gold! He said I looked like I could use a little chocolate. Yes!!! It was as though he read my mind. Give me a big old Snickers, or some of that great Swiss chocolate, even though we were in Italy. But what to my wondering eyes did appear? He had a piece of chocolate left over from his espresso that morning. For those of you who have traveled to Italy, or have a favorite Italian restaurant you frequent, it was a one-centimeter-by-one-centimeter square. Okay, maybe one inch by one inch. I kid you not. It was the size of my pinky fingernail and was bitter chocolate! I felt as though I was taking communion with a little sip of something from his flask. And if you know me, I'm a bit of a germaphobe, but at this point, germs swerms, and I tried my very hardest to savor the piece of chocolate. But hey, now I know why the Italians fit in the clothes they do. There ain't no Hershey king-size bars available!

Enough of that. My snowshoe adventure was great! I got to the point where I actually trusted that the spikes in my snowshoes would not slip as I traversed downhill on a path no wider than a balance beam (okay maybe a little wider than that.) Giuseppe took the hotel camera with him so he could take pictures along the way, but he took pictures as we were moving most of the time, and I absolutely lived for the times he stopped for photos, I could actually catch my breath.

When we were having a glass of wine that evening in the bar with my family and friends, my ten thousand pictures flashed across the screen, along with all the other adventures of the day that people participated in. I had proof for my husband and the kids that I actually did something that scared me and went way out of my comfort zone. I have to grant full disclosure, though, the last 500 meters of the trek, I could barely pick my feet up. My hat was off, and it was clenched in my teeth. My jacket was unzipped, and my neck warmer, which also served as my snot rag, was hanging out of my coat pocket. My gloves were off. Basically, everything was off, so my body could actually breathe.

The judges were everywhere. But no regrets. I honored myself and just kept trekking. Falling in the snow at the end was my favorite part.

- Amy Schmidt

Amy Schmidt is a podcaster, author, public speaker, blogger and founder of Fearlessly Facing Fifty.Her work has been published inGrown and Flown,Scary Mommy,Today Parentsand other outlets. Sheis married to her college sweetheart and has three children.