What do you call four girls and an old guy...

We were understandably nervous about canyoning through Lake Garda's fast waterfalls and rocky streams. All I'd heard about the sport is that it's illegal in the United States, and that it involves rapelling down waterfalls and jumping off cliffs.

But after I suited up in a thermal wetsuit, a belay harness, a lifevest and a helmet, I figured even nature couldn't touch me. We started at the top of a breathtaking sheer rock face. Our guide hooked the belay rope to my waist, told me to lean back and straighten my legs, and pushed me over the cliff. When I reached the bottom, he dropped me into the cold pool. I swam out, loose helmet in hand. We tramped through flat streambeds until we hit a tall cliff. Again, I was first in line. The guide put his hand on my shoulder. "Go there," he said, pointing to the right side of what looked like a long hole in the rocks. "There" he pointed left "rocks." Then he pushed me off the cliff again. I careened through the air and landed with a splash (thankfully my aim was good and I didn't hit any rocks) in a waterfall pool. For three hours we descended the moutain like this, jumping, absailing and sliding our way over the slick rocks. I swam through cold blue-green streams, shivering. Sometimes the guide had to push me over an edge, or I wouldn't have gone. There were moments when my heart actually froze up at the sight of the cliff we had to descend. But here's the thing about canyoning: there's no way out. It's either down or take up residence permanently in the mountains. And there weren't that many injuries. A few tailbone bruises, torn nails and strained arm muscles, but no one split their skull on the rock (although I did go down one slide headfirst and nearly drowned myself.)

Our guide realized how nervous we were, so he shouted questions down after us as we went down the mountains. For example, "How do you feel about the sex?" he asked me after tossing me over the side of one particularly sheer drop. I nearly fell. Later on, "I will let you down slowly. Like when making the sex. Slow is good, yes? I am not an American boy." He was around 50 years old and apparently most of his English consisted of conversation-starters like these. On the trip back he told us he had four girlfriends, and when someone accused him of hosting orgies he replied, "No, it's love."

So it was another awkward adventure. The rest of the day I tanned myself nearly black and read John Irving on the beach. We rented a paddleboat and went out on the lake, colliding with windsurfers and savoring the breeze off the mountains. (Lake Garda is in the mountains.)

At night, we sat around a large table at our homey little Bed and Breakfast. We talked with the owners, who spoke only Italian and served us glasses of the wine they bottle themselves. They took a few of us down to a festival celebrating Peter and Paul, their patron saints. Couples old enough to be my grandparents got up and waltzed, tango-ed, foxtrotted and polka-ed across the dance floor. Some of them were good! We drank watered wine and got up the courage to join a line dance. Afterwards, one of the ancient men asked me to dance! He was a great lead, and I was glad for the salsa lessons I'd taken at Northwestern. At the end, when he dropped me back at my table and told me I was pretty good (for a tourist) I felt like the belle of the ball.