Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Pisa on a Whim
Yesterday, Saturday, I went to Pisa, a decision I made late Friday night. I am becoming brave!
I woke early, at 5:10, in spite of a night of restless sleep…first a dog barking incessantly and then a rain storm with terrible winds. I walked through the darkened streets, and watched the town just beginning to wake. My favorite bar was brightly lit and I saw someone inside huddled up in the kitchen, probably warming their hands in the oven. The 6:20 bus to Terontola arrived first which took me right to the station where I caught the 6:45 train to Firenze, and, after a quick change, the train to Pisa Centrale.
After a bathroom stop at the station, I walked across the street and partook in an Italian tradition, a coffee drunk standing at the counter of a bar. I had a small map of Pisa, but stopped for a larger one at the tourist office, around the corner from the bar. My Lonely Planet guidebook suggested it would take about twenty-five minutes to walk to the duomo and I suppose it did, but now that I have achieved a higher level of fitness, I just don’t notice those walks much anymore. Hurray! I crossed the wide Arno River near a tiny, but ornate church called Santa Maria della Spina, so called as it was built to hold a single thorn reputedly from Christ’s crown of thorns. This beautiful little church huddles curiously on the sidewalk right at the edge of the river.
After another 10 minute walk, I crossed a wide pedestrian mall containing the Piazza dei Miracoli, to behold a breathtaking sight, the duomo and its world-famous bell tower, Il Torre Pendente, the leaning tower of Pisa. I approached the tower from the side beneath its precarious tilt, feeling curiously uneasy as though the brilliantly white structure might actually topple over on me in spite of the team of engineers who strive to keep it leaning, but upright. It was a gorgeous day and the sparkling, crystal structure stood out magnificently against the cerulean sky. I took a multitude of pictures, and then purchased a ticket to visit the baptistry and the cemetery (said to contain soil shipped from Calvary during the crusades) contained within the piazza, neither of which, in hindsight, were really worth the money.
I enjoyed the duomo, which had an immense, flat ceiling decorated with carved wooden rosettes painted with gold leaf similar to the ceiling of Santa Maria Maggiore which I visited in Rome. I wandered around, slowly, admiring the frescoes and the brightly-colored stained glass windows through which the sun shone sending a series of miniature rainbows bouncing around the interior of the cathedral. Fortunately no one seemed to mind picture taking so I snapped away happily.
After visiting the cemetery and the little domed baptistry, both more impressive from the outside than from within, I walked back toward town to explore the medieval alleyways. I popped into a couple of shops but didn’t find anything other than some 3-D Christmas labels to purchase. I turned left upon reaching the flat, wide Arno River and walked a couple of blocks before returning to the piazza to locate a likely place for lunch. Many of the cafés and restaurants in the area feature annoying employees who stand prominently near the entrance and attempt, rather obnoxiously, to lure you in for a drink or lunch. I avoided these places and selected one where a waiter stood ready to answer questions or provide a seat, but did not actively pursue my business.
I was seated outside at my request and when I heard a couple speaking English behind me, I inquired if the young woman was enjoying her pizza. She said it was very good so I ordered a mozzarella, speck (rather like prosciutto), and gorgonzola pizza, which was tasty although I would have preferred a bit more gorgonzola. The couple, he was 58 and she 22, continued to chat with me and the conversations took an oddly circular yet strangely unrelated path; she talking of their travels together and where she’d like to visit next, and he of his life as a butcher and of the importance of a quality cut of meat. I could never ascertain their relationship…they’d obviously traveled together before and yet there were no obvious endearments nor did she call him “dad” or “grandpa”. The man was annoyingly persistent in his notion that Americans are wealthy and money is no object when it comes to our spending habits. He also wanted to know if Texas has many buffalo and inquired if the “Indians” still want some of their land back. All in all a rather unusual lunch conversation, but they were friendly and lunch passed quickly in their company.
After lunch I felt as though I had seen what I wanted to see in Pisa, so I walked back to the station and caught a train for home. All was well until I tried to open the door to exit the train at Camucia and the door wouldn’t budge. I was forced to travel on to the next stop in Terontola, where a young woman and I had the same problem until it occurred to her (but not to me) that the train had pulled up to a platform on the opposite side of where it normally arrives, and sure enough, the door on that side opened! I guess I will need to learn to check BOTH sides before trying to get off the train. I was left to purchase a bus ticket from Terontola to Cortona, a distance of about 10-15 kilometers, and then wandered the tiny village for an hour trying to keep warm until the bus arrived. When I entered Cortona it was to find workers hanging Christmas lights down via Nazionale and across Piazza della Repubblica. I wonder when they will turn them on!
As of Tuesday, the holiday lights are still dark, but we had snow yesterday morning! Enormous, wet flakes which hit the ground with a juicy splat, and made carrying an open umbrella a necessity. I also received a heartfelt and loving email from my friend, Perry. Its contents are private, but suffice it to say, his friendship is a joy to me. How lucky I am!
I woke early, at 5:10, in spite of a night of restless sleep…first a dog barking incessantly and then a rain storm with terrible winds. I walked through the darkened streets, and watched the town just beginning to wake. My favorite bar was brightly lit and I saw someone inside huddled up in the kitchen, probably warming their hands in the oven. The 6:20 bus to Terontola arrived first which took me right to the station where I caught the 6:45 train to Firenze, and, after a quick change, the train to Pisa Centrale.
After a bathroom stop at the station, I walked across the street and partook in an Italian tradition, a coffee drunk standing at the counter of a bar. I had a small map of Pisa, but stopped for a larger one at the tourist office, around the corner from the bar. My Lonely Planet guidebook suggested it would take about twenty-five minutes to walk to the duomo and I suppose it did, but now that I have achieved a higher level of fitness, I just don’t notice those walks much anymore. Hurray! I crossed the wide Arno River near a tiny, but ornate church called Santa Maria della Spina, so called as it was built to hold a single thorn reputedly from Christ’s crown of thorns. This beautiful little church huddles curiously on the sidewalk right at the edge of the river.
After another 10 minute walk, I crossed a wide pedestrian mall containing the Piazza dei Miracoli, to behold a breathtaking sight, the duomo and its world-famous bell tower, Il Torre Pendente, the leaning tower of Pisa. I approached the tower from the side beneath its precarious tilt, feeling curiously uneasy as though the brilliantly white structure might actually topple over on me in spite of the team of engineers who strive to keep it leaning, but upright. It was a gorgeous day and the sparkling, crystal structure stood out magnificently against the cerulean sky. I took a multitude of pictures, and then purchased a ticket to visit the baptistry and the cemetery (said to contain soil shipped from Calvary during the crusades) contained within the piazza, neither of which, in hindsight, were really worth the money.
I enjoyed the duomo, which had an immense, flat ceiling decorated with carved wooden rosettes painted with gold leaf similar to the ceiling of Santa Maria Maggiore which I visited in Rome. I wandered around, slowly, admiring the frescoes and the brightly-colored stained glass windows through which the sun shone sending a series of miniature rainbows bouncing around the interior of the cathedral. Fortunately no one seemed to mind picture taking so I snapped away happily.
After visiting the cemetery and the little domed baptistry, both more impressive from the outside than from within, I walked back toward town to explore the medieval alleyways. I popped into a couple of shops but didn’t find anything other than some 3-D Christmas labels to purchase. I turned left upon reaching the flat, wide Arno River and walked a couple of blocks before returning to the piazza to locate a likely place for lunch. Many of the cafés and restaurants in the area feature annoying employees who stand prominently near the entrance and attempt, rather obnoxiously, to lure you in for a drink or lunch. I avoided these places and selected one where a waiter stood ready to answer questions or provide a seat, but did not actively pursue my business.
I was seated outside at my request and when I heard a couple speaking English behind me, I inquired if the young woman was enjoying her pizza. She said it was very good so I ordered a mozzarella, speck (rather like prosciutto), and gorgonzola pizza, which was tasty although I would have preferred a bit more gorgonzola. The couple, he was 58 and she 22, continued to chat with me and the conversations took an oddly circular yet strangely unrelated path; she talking of their travels together and where she’d like to visit next, and he of his life as a butcher and of the importance of a quality cut of meat. I could never ascertain their relationship…they’d obviously traveled together before and yet there were no obvious endearments nor did she call him “dad” or “grandpa”. The man was annoyingly persistent in his notion that Americans are wealthy and money is no object when it comes to our spending habits. He also wanted to know if Texas has many buffalo and inquired if the “Indians” still want some of their land back. All in all a rather unusual lunch conversation, but they were friendly and lunch passed quickly in their company.
After lunch I felt as though I had seen what I wanted to see in Pisa, so I walked back to the station and caught a train for home. All was well until I tried to open the door to exit the train at Camucia and the door wouldn’t budge. I was forced to travel on to the next stop in Terontola, where a young woman and I had the same problem until it occurred to her (but not to me) that the train had pulled up to a platform on the opposite side of where it normally arrives, and sure enough, the door on that side opened! I guess I will need to learn to check BOTH sides before trying to get off the train. I was left to purchase a bus ticket from Terontola to Cortona, a distance of about 10-15 kilometers, and then wandered the tiny village for an hour trying to keep warm until the bus arrived. When I entered Cortona it was to find workers hanging Christmas lights down via Nazionale and across Piazza della Repubblica. I wonder when they will turn them on!
As of Tuesday, the holiday lights are still dark, but we had snow yesterday morning! Enormous, wet flakes which hit the ground with a juicy splat, and made carrying an open umbrella a necessity. I also received a heartfelt and loving email from my friend, Perry. Its contents are private, but suffice it to say, his friendship is a joy to me. How lucky I am!
Friday, November 21, 2008
A Six Minute Romance
Like Tuesday, Wednesday was a clear and refreshingly brisk, no, downright cold, day so I decided to board the train to Orvieto. Orvieto is about 1 hour away on the Firenze-Roma train line, meaning I would have to make no transfer. I caught the 10:31 train in Camucia which actually pulled into the station ten minutes late putting me just slightly behind schedule. Because shops and attractions close from 1:00 until 4:00, particularly in the off season, sightseeing trips require careful planning.
My friends, Perry and Michael, told me to be sure to see the duomo and to get a tour of the caves of Orvieto, if possible. Pulling into Orvieto I was amazed by the fortress-like appearance of the town perched high atop a rock of volcanic origins like an eagle resting majestically on its nest. To access the steep rock, one purchases a ticket then walks across the street to the funicular (funicolare in Italian), where the ticket is inserted in a machine which validates it, then allows one person at a time to move through the turnstile. I was lucky enough to walk in and find the cable car waiting for me. In due time the car began the steep ascent and, near the middle, I noticed that the track branched before coming back together. I was curious about this branch, but quickly learned that there is a second cable car at the top of the hill and the two are carefully orchestrated to meet, and pass, each other at this branching of the track.
I gained access to the hill at one end and promptly began walking up a slight grade into the town proper. It is an attractive town of stone streets and narrow medieval alleyways, like most of the Tuscan hill towns. I knew the duomo was scheduled to close at 12:45 so I took my time looking in shops as I walked up, thinking that I would eat lunch while the duomo and shops were closed and tour the church interior when it reopened at 2:30.
As I walked into the Piazza del Duomo, I was amazed by the sheer size of this monstrous church and the bright colors of both the frescoes and the marble decorating the exterior. In addition to the shimmering paintings, the facade was covered with extravagantly carved figures and laced with windows, each as intricate and delicate as snowflakes. I snapped away, taking picture after picture of the magnificent structure, although I was disappointed to be unable to get a photo of the entire front of the church. The piazza was too small for me to get the entire structure in my viewfinder. I noticed groups of people being shepherded out so assumed, correctly, that the church was closing, so I turned and walked up a narrow street to explore the town.
Eventually I found myself at a small trattoria called La Grotta, where I stopped for my new favorite lunch; tagliatelle al ragu’, followed by tiramisu and a caffe latte’. This time the tagliatelle was made and sliced by hand, each lovingly prepared strand taking on a ruffled appearance as though cut by the shaking hand of an ancient nonna (grandma) clad in ubiquitous black. The tiramisu was heavenly and the coffee favored by this restaurant was particularly good.
I enjoyed a leisurely lunch and a friendly conversation with an American couple sitting next to me under a fresco which looked to be a woman whose head was being trampled by a bunch of human feet, a curiously unpleasant image which the restaurant chose to decorate its business cards. A most peculiar choice, I thought. I rounded the corner and walked back to the duomo and killed a bit of time shopping in a shop specializing in regional products and art featuring the town Orvieto. I saw some spectacular postcards showing an aerial view of Orvieto, its rooftops dominated by the monstrously huge and brilliantly colored cathedral. I would love to fly over Orvieto in a helicopter to get that incredible view.
I trailed into the cathedral upon its reopening and walked slowly around the interior, admiring the stained glass, frescoes, and unusual windows made of individual panes of translucent alabaster, unlike anything I have ever seen. As in most churches, a sign was posted prohibiting photography. I usually ignore this directive; however the guards must have seen intent in my eyes because they were all over me like a bad polyester leisure suit. Eventually I saw several other people pull out their cameras and begin unconcernedly snapping away, so I did likewise, discreetly, and the guards said nary a word. Of course, the church interior was dark and the pictures did not turn out as well as I had hoped. That’s what I get for ignoring the rules! As I eased my way toward the door I was struck by an overwhelming urge to sneeze which I tried to stifle by closing my mouth. This unfortunate move simply caused me to emit a tremendous quacking sound which bounced and echoed embarrassingly around the spartanly furnished interior like a fart let loose in a library. Boy, were the acoustics ever good.
I caught the 4:31 train home, having missed the cave tour due to the late arrival in the morning. As the train pulled into the Terontola station, the one prior to Camucia, I was leaning on a small counter looking out the window and thinking about what I was going to make for dinner, when I made eye contact with a dark-haired man on the platform. I was surprised to see that man pop into my car and ask if he could sit across from me in a nearly empty train car. I said, “Prego”, whereupon he sat and asked me where I was from. He asked my name and then introduced himself as Giuseppe. I took his outstretched hand and was surprised when he leaned over, kissed my right cheek, then tried to kiss me on the lips! I turned my head and he got my left cheek instead. He looked puzzled and inquired, “You are married?” to which I replied, “No, non sono sposata.” He asked me what my plans were for the next day and then asked me to his house for coffee. I sensed it wasn’t coffee he was interested in so I declined and he offered to come to my house, again “for coffee”. As I declined I explained that I didn’t know him. Had he invited me to a bar for coffee I just might have accepted. He continued to ask me questions about myself for the remainder of the trip, gazing at me intently as he did so.
I know you are dying to know what he looked like. Surprisingly he was young, maybe 35, and nice looking, with a young, boyish face. He looked like a nice guy, the kind I would normally be attracted to, but I was a bit alarmed by his forwardness.
He went on to tell me about groups of people who meet at his house to discuss Mormon religious beliefs and theology and, suddenly, a light bulb blinked on in my brain. I think this man wanted to slip me one of two things:
1. The proverbial "sausage"; or perhaps,
2. The Book of Mormon
Perhaps here in Italy, the land of love, they practice religious conversion by way of seduction. Or maybe he was actually interested in me. I will never know as the train pulled into my station after a mere six minutes and my last view was of him, turned sideways and leaning forward intently, as though he were about to leap out of his seat and across the aisle.
So, why didn’t I just go with it and let him kiss me? I think mainly because I was caught completely off guard by his move and was a bit nervous as we were nearly alone in a darkened train car. I still don’t know what his actual intention was. So, folks, I missed my opportunity and will just have to settle for a six minute romance. Six minutes is better than nothing, isn’t it?
My friends, Perry and Michael, told me to be sure to see the duomo and to get a tour of the caves of Orvieto, if possible. Pulling into Orvieto I was amazed by the fortress-like appearance of the town perched high atop a rock of volcanic origins like an eagle resting majestically on its nest. To access the steep rock, one purchases a ticket then walks across the street to the funicular (funicolare in Italian), where the ticket is inserted in a machine which validates it, then allows one person at a time to move through the turnstile. I was lucky enough to walk in and find the cable car waiting for me. In due time the car began the steep ascent and, near the middle, I noticed that the track branched before coming back together. I was curious about this branch, but quickly learned that there is a second cable car at the top of the hill and the two are carefully orchestrated to meet, and pass, each other at this branching of the track.
I gained access to the hill at one end and promptly began walking up a slight grade into the town proper. It is an attractive town of stone streets and narrow medieval alleyways, like most of the Tuscan hill towns. I knew the duomo was scheduled to close at 12:45 so I took my time looking in shops as I walked up, thinking that I would eat lunch while the duomo and shops were closed and tour the church interior when it reopened at 2:30.
As I walked into the Piazza del Duomo, I was amazed by the sheer size of this monstrous church and the bright colors of both the frescoes and the marble decorating the exterior. In addition to the shimmering paintings, the facade was covered with extravagantly carved figures and laced with windows, each as intricate and delicate as snowflakes. I snapped away, taking picture after picture of the magnificent structure, although I was disappointed to be unable to get a photo of the entire front of the church. The piazza was too small for me to get the entire structure in my viewfinder. I noticed groups of people being shepherded out so assumed, correctly, that the church was closing, so I turned and walked up a narrow street to explore the town.
Eventually I found myself at a small trattoria called La Grotta, where I stopped for my new favorite lunch; tagliatelle al ragu’, followed by tiramisu and a caffe latte’. This time the tagliatelle was made and sliced by hand, each lovingly prepared strand taking on a ruffled appearance as though cut by the shaking hand of an ancient nonna (grandma) clad in ubiquitous black. The tiramisu was heavenly and the coffee favored by this restaurant was particularly good.
I enjoyed a leisurely lunch and a friendly conversation with an American couple sitting next to me under a fresco which looked to be a woman whose head was being trampled by a bunch of human feet, a curiously unpleasant image which the restaurant chose to decorate its business cards. A most peculiar choice, I thought. I rounded the corner and walked back to the duomo and killed a bit of time shopping in a shop specializing in regional products and art featuring the town Orvieto. I saw some spectacular postcards showing an aerial view of Orvieto, its rooftops dominated by the monstrously huge and brilliantly colored cathedral. I would love to fly over Orvieto in a helicopter to get that incredible view.
I trailed into the cathedral upon its reopening and walked slowly around the interior, admiring the stained glass, frescoes, and unusual windows made of individual panes of translucent alabaster, unlike anything I have ever seen. As in most churches, a sign was posted prohibiting photography. I usually ignore this directive; however the guards must have seen intent in my eyes because they were all over me like a bad polyester leisure suit. Eventually I saw several other people pull out their cameras and begin unconcernedly snapping away, so I did likewise, discreetly, and the guards said nary a word. Of course, the church interior was dark and the pictures did not turn out as well as I had hoped. That’s what I get for ignoring the rules! As I eased my way toward the door I was struck by an overwhelming urge to sneeze which I tried to stifle by closing my mouth. This unfortunate move simply caused me to emit a tremendous quacking sound which bounced and echoed embarrassingly around the spartanly furnished interior like a fart let loose in a library. Boy, were the acoustics ever good.
I caught the 4:31 train home, having missed the cave tour due to the late arrival in the morning. As the train pulled into the Terontola station, the one prior to Camucia, I was leaning on a small counter looking out the window and thinking about what I was going to make for dinner, when I made eye contact with a dark-haired man on the platform. I was surprised to see that man pop into my car and ask if he could sit across from me in a nearly empty train car. I said, “Prego”, whereupon he sat and asked me where I was from. He asked my name and then introduced himself as Giuseppe. I took his outstretched hand and was surprised when he leaned over, kissed my right cheek, then tried to kiss me on the lips! I turned my head and he got my left cheek instead. He looked puzzled and inquired, “You are married?” to which I replied, “No, non sono sposata.” He asked me what my plans were for the next day and then asked me to his house for coffee. I sensed it wasn’t coffee he was interested in so I declined and he offered to come to my house, again “for coffee”. As I declined I explained that I didn’t know him. Had he invited me to a bar for coffee I just might have accepted. He continued to ask me questions about myself for the remainder of the trip, gazing at me intently as he did so.
I know you are dying to know what he looked like. Surprisingly he was young, maybe 35, and nice looking, with a young, boyish face. He looked like a nice guy, the kind I would normally be attracted to, but I was a bit alarmed by his forwardness.
He went on to tell me about groups of people who meet at his house to discuss Mormon religious beliefs and theology and, suddenly, a light bulb blinked on in my brain. I think this man wanted to slip me one of two things:
1. The proverbial "sausage"; or perhaps,
2. The Book of Mormon
Perhaps here in Italy, the land of love, they practice religious conversion by way of seduction. Or maybe he was actually interested in me. I will never know as the train pulled into my station after a mere six minutes and my last view was of him, turned sideways and leaning forward intently, as though he were about to leap out of his seat and across the aisle.
So, why didn’t I just go with it and let him kiss me? I think mainly because I was caught completely off guard by his move and was a bit nervous as we were nearly alone in a darkened train car. I still don’t know what his actual intention was. So, folks, I missed my opportunity and will just have to settle for a six minute romance. Six minutes is better than nothing, isn’t it?
Thursday, November 20, 2008
Un Viaggio a Firenze
Tuesday morning dawned sunny, if not warm, so I got up and caught the 11:31 train to Firenze. I still had a bit of shopping to do, including the replacement of the gift for my son which I had left in the train station bathroom by accident.
The trip was uneventful, until a lady boarded the train in Arezzo with a large and unwieldy suitcase and, of all things, a metal garden trellis. It took her quite some time to arrange the suitcase in the aisle so that it would both hold up the trellis and impede traffic from other passengers, but finally she had the obstruction arranged to her liking. At the train station in Florence, she exited the train with a large, pink tote bag and the iron trellis, leaving the traffic-blocking suitcase for a subsequent trip. I thought I’d help her by toting her suitcase to the door only to discover it weighed at least 90 hemorrhoid-popping, bladder-leaking pounds. Had I looked at the suitcase label, I would have found that it was the Bulging Hernia model from the infamous Slip-O-Disk line of premium luggage. I rather wished la signora had left the trellis for me.
I decided to eat lunch at the same restaurant I had eaten last Tuesday, so began walking toward the Ponte Vecchio, window shopping as I went. Along the way I found a gift for my father for Christmas, and found and rejected several potential gifts for my elder son. The little restaurant was open and my little table under the heater was just waiting for me. I ordered the same meal, tagliatelle al ragu’, I had last week. I was about halfway finished with my rich and hearty meal, when 2 English ladies were seated across from me. We began to talk and I learned that they were there to celebrate their freedom, one having just obtained a divorce. We had a nice 30 minute conversation about freedom, and looking for what it is you want out of life, while I finished my meal and partook of some luscious, sweet tiramisu. I hugged them as I paid my bill and thanked them for sharing such a wonderful conversation with me. These are the experiences I came here for and which I savor.
After lunch, I trotted up the street about four doors to the shop those nasty little marionettes had locked me out of in the rain last week. I was happy to find it open as it has some lovely things. This is the same place where I bought the gold and pearl earrings which dangle from fleur-de-lis posts several weeks ago. This visit I found a lovely coordinating bracelet, which I could not resist. It is not the same design as my earrings, but is a similar style and they look very nice worn together. The bracelet contains three large pearls interspersed with two gold links of a leaf design on which is set a small, round garnet. This bracelet will always remind me of this wonderful visit to Firenze.
The trip was uneventful, until a lady boarded the train in Arezzo with a large and unwieldy suitcase and, of all things, a metal garden trellis. It took her quite some time to arrange the suitcase in the aisle so that it would both hold up the trellis and impede traffic from other passengers, but finally she had the obstruction arranged to her liking. At the train station in Florence, she exited the train with a large, pink tote bag and the iron trellis, leaving the traffic-blocking suitcase for a subsequent trip. I thought I’d help her by toting her suitcase to the door only to discover it weighed at least 90 hemorrhoid-popping, bladder-leaking pounds. Had I looked at the suitcase label, I would have found that it was the Bulging Hernia model from the infamous Slip-O-Disk line of premium luggage. I rather wished la signora had left the trellis for me.
I decided to eat lunch at the same restaurant I had eaten last Tuesday, so began walking toward the Ponte Vecchio, window shopping as I went. Along the way I found a gift for my father for Christmas, and found and rejected several potential gifts for my elder son. The little restaurant was open and my little table under the heater was just waiting for me. I ordered the same meal, tagliatelle al ragu’, I had last week. I was about halfway finished with my rich and hearty meal, when 2 English ladies were seated across from me. We began to talk and I learned that they were there to celebrate their freedom, one having just obtained a divorce. We had a nice 30 minute conversation about freedom, and looking for what it is you want out of life, while I finished my meal and partook of some luscious, sweet tiramisu. I hugged them as I paid my bill and thanked them for sharing such a wonderful conversation with me. These are the experiences I came here for and which I savor.
After lunch, I trotted up the street about four doors to the shop those nasty little marionettes had locked me out of in the rain last week. I was happy to find it open as it has some lovely things. This is the same place where I bought the gold and pearl earrings which dangle from fleur-de-lis posts several weeks ago. This visit I found a lovely coordinating bracelet, which I could not resist. It is not the same design as my earrings, but is a similar style and they look very nice worn together. The bracelet contains three large pearls interspersed with two gold links of a leaf design on which is set a small, round garnet. This bracelet will always remind me of this wonderful visit to Firenze.
Judgment Day
Well, at last a day of reckoning has come to me. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant experience, but it did help me clarify my priorities, and I have learned a big lesson. I am not going to share what happened as it might reflect on someone else, something I don’t wish to do, but suffice it to say I was not the friend I should have been and I shall be making an apology the first chance I get. In relaying my experience to a friend, she reminded me that situations that happen mirror my own life and are opportunities for growth and change. If I am judged by others, it is likely because I am sitting in judgment myself. Point well taken. Now, to make the necessary changes…
My friend, Perry, and I took his young sons to nearby Castelion Fiorentino on Sunday. Our original plans had been to visit Orvieto with Michael, sans bambini, however something came up for Michael and Perry had his boys unexpectedly, so plans changed. We bumped along in Perry’s little car, which is surprisingly roomy inside, and climbed the hill to the old part of Castelion Fiorentino, and parked the car near the fortress. A WWII German tank is on display which was a great attraction for two young boys and they enjoyed climbing on it. After pictures, we walked to a small park overlooking the Val di Chiana to soak in the breathtaking view, then walked through a stone gate with enormous wooden doors at least 20 feet tall and meandered to the top of the hill where there was an archeological museum. A sky-scraping stone tower, normally open, stood near the museum, but was closed for the winter. The boys were quite disappointed, but Perry promised them a return trip in warmer weather.
We continued to wander through the town until we found a loggia with a view of the church and it’s slim, elegant steeple reaching skyward. It was a photo opportunity I couldn’t pass up. The boys jumped around, climbed on things, and displayed the large amounts of energy that small boys have. It took me back to the time when mine were small and I wished I had stressed less, and enjoyed more them doing the things that little boys do. We stopped for lunch at a small pizzeria and they enjoyed pizza, which Perry said was outstanding, while I had some salmon pasta in a cream sauce as I have been craving salmon lately. After lunch we found a playground and I played with the boys, going down a slide for the first time in about 25 years, after which I joined Perry on a park bench to discuss parenting and relationships, while the boys played soccer with some local children.
On the way home, I pointed out a castle high on a hill between Castelion Fiorentino and Cortona. We took a vote and since none of us had investigated it, we decided to make a detour. It was a lovely day and we witnessed many people of all ages harvesting the olives which have now ripened into a dark, round richness dangling invitingly from branches burdened with slim, silvery leaves, and one elderly couple allowed me to photograph them. I snuck an olive off a nearby tree as we parked the car and set about to walk the circumference of the nearly restored castle. I have been told olives are bitter, and this was no exception, but it was much less bitter than I had anticipated perhaps because of its ripeness. It was very juicy and the liquid stained my fingers a purple color making me wonder if olives were ever used as a fabric dye.
The castle appears to be a residence with a set of doorbells set into the wall near the entrance, so we weren’t able to look inside, but as we drove back down the hill, I was able to take some lovely pictures as a memory of a wonderful day. I shall miss experiences like this when I return home.
My friend, Perry, and I took his young sons to nearby Castelion Fiorentino on Sunday. Our original plans had been to visit Orvieto with Michael, sans bambini, however something came up for Michael and Perry had his boys unexpectedly, so plans changed. We bumped along in Perry’s little car, which is surprisingly roomy inside, and climbed the hill to the old part of Castelion Fiorentino, and parked the car near the fortress. A WWII German tank is on display which was a great attraction for two young boys and they enjoyed climbing on it. After pictures, we walked to a small park overlooking the Val di Chiana to soak in the breathtaking view, then walked through a stone gate with enormous wooden doors at least 20 feet tall and meandered to the top of the hill where there was an archeological museum. A sky-scraping stone tower, normally open, stood near the museum, but was closed for the winter. The boys were quite disappointed, but Perry promised them a return trip in warmer weather.
We continued to wander through the town until we found a loggia with a view of the church and it’s slim, elegant steeple reaching skyward. It was a photo opportunity I couldn’t pass up. The boys jumped around, climbed on things, and displayed the large amounts of energy that small boys have. It took me back to the time when mine were small and I wished I had stressed less, and enjoyed more them doing the things that little boys do. We stopped for lunch at a small pizzeria and they enjoyed pizza, which Perry said was outstanding, while I had some salmon pasta in a cream sauce as I have been craving salmon lately. After lunch we found a playground and I played with the boys, going down a slide for the first time in about 25 years, after which I joined Perry on a park bench to discuss parenting and relationships, while the boys played soccer with some local children.
On the way home, I pointed out a castle high on a hill between Castelion Fiorentino and Cortona. We took a vote and since none of us had investigated it, we decided to make a detour. It was a lovely day and we witnessed many people of all ages harvesting the olives which have now ripened into a dark, round richness dangling invitingly from branches burdened with slim, silvery leaves, and one elderly couple allowed me to photograph them. I snuck an olive off a nearby tree as we parked the car and set about to walk the circumference of the nearly restored castle. I have been told olives are bitter, and this was no exception, but it was much less bitter than I had anticipated perhaps because of its ripeness. It was very juicy and the liquid stained my fingers a purple color making me wonder if olives were ever used as a fabric dye.
The castle appears to be a residence with a set of doorbells set into the wall near the entrance, so we weren’t able to look inside, but as we drove back down the hill, I was able to take some lovely pictures as a memory of a wonderful day. I shall miss experiences like this when I return home.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Hair We Go Again
On my way home from my trip to Florence, hair dried to my scalp unbecomingly, I stopped by the salon of David and Francesco to make an appointment for a cut. The sweet young woman who usually washes my hair and gives me the world’s best scalp massage, gaped at me in horror as she quickly scheduled an appointment for “Emy” for the following morning. It’s not that my hair was particularly long, mind you, but it had lost any semblance of shape and was becoming unruly around the face. Besides, after the seduction fiasco in Firenze, when else will I get a gorgeous Italian man to run his fingers through my hair?
I arrived at the salon at the appointed hour, having made four stress-related trips to the bathroom before hand, and was pointed to a chair by David’s father, Francesco. Francesco, carrying his sheaf of official looking papers, walked the salon like a maestro leading a symphony, directing both staff and clients with an inclined head here or a pointed finger there. This salon is customer service oriented, as demonstrated by the deferent staff removing and hanging your jacket and helping you back into it at the conclusion of your visit. I was directed to a chair and told David would be with me shortly; he was applying highlights to a client’s hair in the team approach used at this salon. I sat down and noticed the man who has done my color and cut before and he greeted me with a smile and, “Ciao”, obviously recognizing me from past visits. I was sorry to not have been scheduled with him because I now trust him, but it makes sense for me to see David as he is the only who speaks English. In due time, I was summoned to the sink where a handsome young man washed my hair and gave me the world’s second best head massage before leading me to a station to await David.
At David’s approach I confessed, “Ho paura”, I’m scared. He explained he didn’t want to take too much hair off the back and sides because it was still quite short from the Scalping in Strasbourg, but a bit more off the top to give it volume and lift. I agreed to the plan and he whisked around me, snipping in such a subtle way that I was amazed to look down and see just how much hair he’d removed. I also failed to notice him cutting the hair out around my ears until it was a done deal. Perhaps I was lulled by his fingers playing gently with my hair or maybe I was distracted by how handsome he is…I just don’t know. At any rate, when he began to cut the top I told him it was too short, and he took a deep, patient breath, and began to explain, yet again, how he was going to cut a little more hair on the top to encourage lift.
A young woman with colorful hair, who is apparently in training, set herself up at the station to the right of me and began to roll curlers into the long hair of a mannequin. All was well until she inadvertently knocked the roller-encrusted head off its stand and it bounced once and rolled under the station next to me. I nearly cackled, but upon seeing her horrified expression and hearing her make an excuse to David, who didn’t even acknowledge the incident, I decided not to call attention to it.
In due time my haircut was finished and David fussed endlessly over it, twirling and curling it with a tiny, round brush until he’d beat it into submission. Upon finishing, he told me that it would be the right length the next cut, but was still a bit short in some places and needed time to grow. As I eased up from the chair I noticed how sore my leg muscles were. Apparently I had kept them tensed in the “fight or flight” defensive pose assumed by animals drinking at the crocodile infested waters of the Nile, and woman who’ve had bad haircuts in France. If called upon, those legs could have lifted me out of that chair and into a martial arts split kick move which could knock the shears out of David’s hand to the left and Roller Head off its stand to the right, in a single fluid motion. Haaaiyahhh!
I arrived at the salon at the appointed hour, having made four stress-related trips to the bathroom before hand, and was pointed to a chair by David’s father, Francesco. Francesco, carrying his sheaf of official looking papers, walked the salon like a maestro leading a symphony, directing both staff and clients with an inclined head here or a pointed finger there. This salon is customer service oriented, as demonstrated by the deferent staff removing and hanging your jacket and helping you back into it at the conclusion of your visit. I was directed to a chair and told David would be with me shortly; he was applying highlights to a client’s hair in the team approach used at this salon. I sat down and noticed the man who has done my color and cut before and he greeted me with a smile and, “Ciao”, obviously recognizing me from past visits. I was sorry to not have been scheduled with him because I now trust him, but it makes sense for me to see David as he is the only who speaks English. In due time, I was summoned to the sink where a handsome young man washed my hair and gave me the world’s second best head massage before leading me to a station to await David.
At David’s approach I confessed, “Ho paura”, I’m scared. He explained he didn’t want to take too much hair off the back and sides because it was still quite short from the Scalping in Strasbourg, but a bit more off the top to give it volume and lift. I agreed to the plan and he whisked around me, snipping in such a subtle way that I was amazed to look down and see just how much hair he’d removed. I also failed to notice him cutting the hair out around my ears until it was a done deal. Perhaps I was lulled by his fingers playing gently with my hair or maybe I was distracted by how handsome he is…I just don’t know. At any rate, when he began to cut the top I told him it was too short, and he took a deep, patient breath, and began to explain, yet again, how he was going to cut a little more hair on the top to encourage lift.
A young woman with colorful hair, who is apparently in training, set herself up at the station to the right of me and began to roll curlers into the long hair of a mannequin. All was well until she inadvertently knocked the roller-encrusted head off its stand and it bounced once and rolled under the station next to me. I nearly cackled, but upon seeing her horrified expression and hearing her make an excuse to David, who didn’t even acknowledge the incident, I decided not to call attention to it.
In due time my haircut was finished and David fussed endlessly over it, twirling and curling it with a tiny, round brush until he’d beat it into submission. Upon finishing, he told me that it would be the right length the next cut, but was still a bit short in some places and needed time to grow. As I eased up from the chair I noticed how sore my leg muscles were. Apparently I had kept them tensed in the “fight or flight” defensive pose assumed by animals drinking at the crocodile infested waters of the Nile, and woman who’ve had bad haircuts in France. If called upon, those legs could have lifted me out of that chair and into a martial arts split kick move which could knock the shears out of David’s hand to the left and Roller Head off its stand to the right, in a single fluid motion. Haaaiyahhh!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Involuntary Abstinence
Involuntary abstinence isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Voluntary abstinence, in the case of my teenage sons, is. This was brought home to be when I traveled to Florence yesterday for a day of shopping, sightseeing, and general merriment.
My initial plan was to go on a shopping spree to Florence on a Friday or Saturday, weather permitting, visit Santa Croce Basilica, and eat at Mamma Gina’s restaurant where I would put the moves on Flirty, the waiter. I wasn’t exactly clear on how I was going to accomplish the Grand Seduction, but folks; I knew it was going to happen. I was going to do what every woman dreams of…I was going to have an Italian lover, at least for an afternoon. In short, I was going to GET ME SOME! That was the plan anyway.
Here’s the reality…the fog was so heavy on the weekend that I scrapped plans to go to Florence, thinking I would not really see much in the fog, and might even get lost. I wanted some nice, sunny, picture-taking weather. Monday is not a good day to visit Firenze as many of the shops are closed, so I carefully checked the weather forecast for Tuesday (Mother, you would have been proud!), and when the forecast was for partly sunny with a high of 66 degrees, and no rain, I decided to go for it. One hitch was that the restaurant was not open for lunch on Tuesday, so I decided to scrap the seduction plans, figuring the Universe was in charge and whatever was meant to happen, would happen.
After my delicious lunch and a quick map consultation, I walked out of the café and then it happened. As I was crossing the street, who should be coming toward me but the WAITER, and did he ever look good in jeans and a denim jacket with a green, hooded sweatshirt underneath. Tall, maybe 6’2”, and very distinguished. I couldn’t believe it! Although the restaurant was closed, fate had intervened bringing this vision of manhood into my path! I’d love to tell you that he took one look at me, was overcome by lust, and had his way with me standing against the side of the nearest building, protected from the elements by an awning, but what actually happened was that he took one look at that hairy squid perched on my head, politely looked the other way, and continued up the street. Foiled again! Those darned marionettes must have gotten to him first!
My initial plan was to go on a shopping spree to Florence on a Friday or Saturday, weather permitting, visit Santa Croce Basilica, and eat at Mamma Gina’s restaurant where I would put the moves on Flirty, the waiter. I wasn’t exactly clear on how I was going to accomplish the Grand Seduction, but folks; I knew it was going to happen. I was going to do what every woman dreams of…I was going to have an Italian lover, at least for an afternoon. In short, I was going to GET ME SOME! That was the plan anyway.
Here’s the reality…the fog was so heavy on the weekend that I scrapped plans to go to Florence, thinking I would not really see much in the fog, and might even get lost. I wanted some nice, sunny, picture-taking weather. Monday is not a good day to visit Firenze as many of the shops are closed, so I carefully checked the weather forecast for Tuesday (Mother, you would have been proud!), and when the forecast was for partly sunny with a high of 66 degrees, and no rain, I decided to go for it. One hitch was that the restaurant was not open for lunch on Tuesday, so I decided to scrap the seduction plans, figuring the Universe was in charge and whatever was meant to happen, would happen.
I set my alarm and arose “early”, walked through the fog to the bus stop and then caught the 9:31 train to Firenze. There was quite a crowd on platform three where the train north always stops, but strangely, after an announcement in Italian, the entire Italian crowd moved across to track one. A minute later the announcement was repeated in English, informing us that the train would be arriving and departing from track one, rather than three, whereby the few remaining passengers trotted down the stairs, through the tunnel, and back up the stairs to join our comrades at track one. That was my first hint that the marionettes had made a sinister reappearance.
Upon arrival at the main station in Florence, I walked around the corner to the Sita bus station and purchased a ticket for the shuttle bus to the airport for my departure November 30th, then continued over the visit the nearby church after which the train station was named, Santa Maria Nouvella. It was a lovely, large church and I wanted to take some pictures, but was shocked to see that everyone visiting was following the “no picture” rule. This is unheard of in Italy, where no one follows the rules. I had to settle for a few illicit, no flash, photos as a keepsake of this lovely church.
Next, I visited the San Lorenzo market looking for some gifts and, as it began to rain, set off in search of Santa Croce. Of course, I failed to bring my umbrella as the weather forecast did not call for rain, and my thin cotton jacket failed to provide much protection. I had consulted my map before leaving home and it appeared that by staying on the Duomo side of the Arno River and turning left at the Ponte Vecchio, I would run smack dab into the basilica. I set off in this direction as the rain changed from a sprinkling of cold drops to a steady shower, bracing in its coolness, which quickly drenched my light jacket leaving me sodden and dripping. I walked on and on, block after block, and could not understand why I failed to see something as large as a basilica. The roads signs to Santa Croce ceased as suddenly as they began leaving me unsure of where to go. I ultimately circled the carabinieri headquarters, a fortress like building taking up an entire city block, whose gutters poured a Niagara-like torrent of water over the sidewalks I was forced to traverse. I could almost see those ghastly marionettes on the roof, cackling as they poured bottomless tubs of water on me like castle defenders attempting to turn back a tide of marauders with cauldrons of molten tar. My poor hands were so cold and wet they took on a pink and white mottling much like marble and I had to keep wiping my dripping nose on a square of damp and tattered toilet paper I’d stuck in my pocket for just such emergencies.
I finally turned around, returned to the Ponte Vecchio, and then continued up the street to a jewelry store where looking at the window display is like opening a chest of buried treasure and discovering a trove of glittering surprises. Unfortunately, the marionettes arrived before me, turned off the lights, and locked the door barring my entry. Hideous creatures!
Wandering back down the street I came upon a small café called Pino’s and, after a moment’s debate, I walked into the covered courtyard and asked for a table. I needed a warm coffee, if nothing else. They kindly seated me next to a large heating lamp and I spread my saturated jacket over the chair next to me to dry. I order my standard tagliatelle al ragu’, then finished with tiramisu and a large caffe latte. The tiramisu was huge, centered on a square china plate, surrounded by mounds of homemade whipped cream and sprinkled with cocoa. To die for! I popped into the bathroom and tried to make something of my hair which had shaped itself to my skull in dark, wet tendrils. I plucked and poked at the mass, sticky from hairspray, and when I was finished it appeared as though a tarantula has taken up residence atop my head, fuzzy legs sticking up here and there.
After my delicious lunch and a quick map consultation, I walked out of the café and then it happened. As I was crossing the street, who should be coming toward me but the WAITER, and did he ever look good in jeans and a denim jacket with a green, hooded sweatshirt underneath. Tall, maybe 6’2”, and very distinguished. I couldn’t believe it! Although the restaurant was closed, fate had intervened bringing this vision of manhood into my path! I’d love to tell you that he took one look at me, was overcome by lust, and had his way with me standing against the side of the nearest building, protected from the elements by an awning, but what actually happened was that he took one look at that hairy squid perched on my head, politely looked the other way, and continued up the street. Foiled again! Those darned marionettes must have gotten to him first!
After that disappointment, I was even more determined to find Santa Croce, which I finally did. It is a magnificent church, but I was disappointed to discover that the frescoes behind the altar were being restored and thus were hidden behind layers of scaffolding. This church contains the remains of Galileo Galilei, Machiavelli, Dante Alighieri, and Michelangelo (Buonarotti) among others. Although posted signs prohibited us from taking photographs, most people were doing so anyway, and so too did I. Two of my pictures of frescoes turned out very well and I will post them for all to enjoy.
As the sun set, I trudged back to the train station where I left a bag containing a gift for my son in the bathroom. Words cannot describe how quickly that bag disappeared. I just hope the person who found it needed it more than I did!
Monday, November 10, 2008
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Lost in a Fog
Fog blankets my world in a coat of silence and has done so for the past four days. It’s cold, damp tendrils curl around one’s body insidiously waiting to wring out every last ounce of warmth. Needless to say I am back to wearing my scarf, with which I am sorely tempted to wipe my ever-running nose. The fog has allowed me to take some interesting pictures though and every now and again the sun creeps through to light the world in dazzling whiteness.
When I informed Maria that I had disclosed in my blog that I wanted to marry her brother because he makes EVERYTHING, her response was, “Ahhhh, and he’s handsome, too….Vittorio.”
Last weekend was a holiday and on Sunday, there was some sort of event involving the giostra del’archidado, the joust, from back in June. A number of long tables were set up in Piazza della Repubblica, covered with cloths, and mounded with bread, huge garlic cloves, bottles of wine and olive oil, and decorated with olive branches. The wedding party and members of the five quintieri were present, resplendent in their medieval finery, as were town dignitaries in their requisite dark suits. I saw the 5 neighborhood standards (flags) leaning against the wall. A large man in stained white trousers, which he had earlier been trying in vain to clean at Bar Signorelli, was waving his hands extravagantly and talking into a large camera held by a film crew as he enjoyed his moment in the spotlight. And, boy, did he want the spotlight on him. He was peering so deeply into the camera, as he would a lover’s eyes, that I am pretty sure he left a greasy nose print on the lens.
What most interested me was that a pair of Chianina cattle with inward curving horns, that were hitched to a colorfully painted wagon full of straw and led right onto the piazza. These cows were enormous, each standing as high at the shoulder as its human handler if not a bit higher. They were a good 6 feet tall at the shoulder, if I had to guess, and were gleaming white with large, soft, long-lashed brown eyes. It is rare to see Chianine (plural) because they are raised indoors. I understand they are easily stressed and to produce the magnificent beef they are world-renowned for, they must be kept in a tranquil, controlled environment. I was impressed by how calm they were in spite of the small crowd, the running children, and the wild gesticulations of the Man of the Hour making love to his camera. I will post some pictures that I took of the occasion.
News on The Waiter front, since I am sure you are all dying to know…..the woman I saw his son with is his sister, however I have been assured that he is “practically married” to the mother of his little boy. From the other things I have been told about him, he sounds like a good man. He is still friendly to me, generally acknowledging my presence in some small way; a nod, a chin tilt, a small, quick smile. Sometimes I go in the afternoon for coffee and he usually serves me. He’ll nod at the coffee machine and I’ll nod at him, and Voila!, a steaming caffe latte appears in front of me with the proper combination of sugar and diet sweeteners I prefer. He is a master of nonverbal communication. I am, of course, sorry that he is involved with someone, but glad that he is a nice guy. As long as he is happy in his life, that is all I could wish for him.
Speaking of being acknowledged, I was surprised to be standing at the bus stop in Camucia several weeks ago and having two men I recognize from Cortona, one in a tiny Ape, honk and wave at me. These gentlemen do not so much as look at me when I encounter them on the hill, so to say I was shocked would be an understatement. When I mentioned it to Terri, she responded, “They can’t talk to you here or it will generate a slew of conjecture and never-ending gossip. This is a very small town where everyone knows everything about everyone, even stuff that isn’t true.” While I love Cortona and will always treasure my time here, it is too small a world for me to be happy in for the long run. There are people here who have never been as far as Rome, 2 ¼ hours away, while I have experienced a bigger world.
With just three weeks to go in my journey, my thoughts turn toward home more and more often. I called the boys yesterday, before school their time, and had a really nice conversation with them, especially the elder one whom I often have difficulty communicating with. It is my goal, when I return home, to try to forge a more open relationship with both boys, one which encourages communication. I must make time to listen, something I have sadly failed to do in the past. It is time for new beginnings.
When I informed Maria that I had disclosed in my blog that I wanted to marry her brother because he makes EVERYTHING, her response was, “Ahhhh, and he’s handsome, too….Vittorio.”
Last weekend was a holiday and on Sunday, there was some sort of event involving the giostra del’archidado, the joust, from back in June. A number of long tables were set up in Piazza della Repubblica, covered with cloths, and mounded with bread, huge garlic cloves, bottles of wine and olive oil, and decorated with olive branches. The wedding party and members of the five quintieri were present, resplendent in their medieval finery, as were town dignitaries in their requisite dark suits. I saw the 5 neighborhood standards (flags) leaning against the wall. A large man in stained white trousers, which he had earlier been trying in vain to clean at Bar Signorelli, was waving his hands extravagantly and talking into a large camera held by a film crew as he enjoyed his moment in the spotlight. And, boy, did he want the spotlight on him. He was peering so deeply into the camera, as he would a lover’s eyes, that I am pretty sure he left a greasy nose print on the lens.
What most interested me was that a pair of Chianina cattle with inward curving horns, that were hitched to a colorfully painted wagon full of straw and led right onto the piazza. These cows were enormous, each standing as high at the shoulder as its human handler if not a bit higher. They were a good 6 feet tall at the shoulder, if I had to guess, and were gleaming white with large, soft, long-lashed brown eyes. It is rare to see Chianine (plural) because they are raised indoors. I understand they are easily stressed and to produce the magnificent beef they are world-renowned for, they must be kept in a tranquil, controlled environment. I was impressed by how calm they were in spite of the small crowd, the running children, and the wild gesticulations of the Man of the Hour making love to his camera. I will post some pictures that I took of the occasion.
News on The Waiter front, since I am sure you are all dying to know…..the woman I saw his son with is his sister, however I have been assured that he is “practically married” to the mother of his little boy. From the other things I have been told about him, he sounds like a good man. He is still friendly to me, generally acknowledging my presence in some small way; a nod, a chin tilt, a small, quick smile. Sometimes I go in the afternoon for coffee and he usually serves me. He’ll nod at the coffee machine and I’ll nod at him, and Voila!, a steaming caffe latte appears in front of me with the proper combination of sugar and diet sweeteners I prefer. He is a master of nonverbal communication. I am, of course, sorry that he is involved with someone, but glad that he is a nice guy. As long as he is happy in his life, that is all I could wish for him.
Speaking of being acknowledged, I was surprised to be standing at the bus stop in Camucia several weeks ago and having two men I recognize from Cortona, one in a tiny Ape, honk and wave at me. These gentlemen do not so much as look at me when I encounter them on the hill, so to say I was shocked would be an understatement. When I mentioned it to Terri, she responded, “They can’t talk to you here or it will generate a slew of conjecture and never-ending gossip. This is a very small town where everyone knows everything about everyone, even stuff that isn’t true.” While I love Cortona and will always treasure my time here, it is too small a world for me to be happy in for the long run. There are people here who have never been as far as Rome, 2 ¼ hours away, while I have experienced a bigger world.
With just three weeks to go in my journey, my thoughts turn toward home more and more often. I called the boys yesterday, before school their time, and had a really nice conversation with them, especially the elder one whom I often have difficulty communicating with. It is my goal, when I return home, to try to forge a more open relationship with both boys, one which encourages communication. I must make time to listen, something I have sadly failed to do in the past. It is time for new beginnings.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Thursday, November 6, 2008
A Bountiful Harvest
I want to marry Maria’s brother. Never mind the fact that he’s at least my father’s age, if not older. Age is a trifling matter in this case.
Maria was visiting her family in the region of Campania, near Naples, this past weekend, and while there she visits her brother. Maria’s brother makes or grows EVERYTHING! His workers make both red and white wine from his grapes, olive oil from his olive trees, and sometimes she brings me tomatoes and lettuce grown in his gardens. One time her daughter, Laura, made a Moroccan dish with a rather leggy chicken raised by GUESS WHO? If Maria told me her brother was knitting yak’s wool sweaters for the family for Christmas this year from his resident herd of Tibetan yaks, I’d believe it!
Yesterday it rained nearly all day, quite heavily at times. About 5:00 PM, my lights flickered and died, so I jumped into bed praying the power would return before my frozen foods thawed. I hopped into bed as it was so dark there was naught else I could do. Two hours later I was relieved to hear the familiar grating and clunking of the rain-swollen wooden front door and the tinkle of the overhead bell which heralded Maria’s arrival home from Campania. I leapt out of bed and dressed by feel in the dark, hoping I hadn’t selected a black bra to wear under a white, sheer top, and peeked out my front door. I was amazed to see that Maria had turned on lights in the hall….and they worked!! I whined at her about my powerless predicament and she came upstairs and led me to the fuse box, by candlelight, and showed me where the circuit breaker had flipped. Problem solved!
After unloading all her goodies from the car, she trudged upstairs and gifted me with not one, but two 8 ounce balls of mozzarella di bufala, which is made from the rich, white milk of African water buffalo. I was inordinately relieved to see that the bag containing my milky treasure had the name of a shop on it. I had just begun to envision her brother, The Great Giaquinto, slipping into his dark basement and hunkering down to milk a water buffalo before returning above stairs to whip up some world famous homemade mozzarella in his Tuscan kitchen. Maybe, like a alchemist who turns base metal into gold, The Great Giaquinto tosses various and sundry ingredients into a caldron, waves a wand, and POOF!, out pop edible treats.
Maria invited me to go shopping at Coop with her this afternoon, but first, we waited for her friend who needed a ride to the hospital. We effectively bottled-necked traffic on via Roma as her friend reached the car, opened the door, and fixed me suspiciously with her gimlet eye as I beamed at her, angelically, from the backseat. We drove 10 minutes cross-country to the hospital and on the way I noticed a good number of farmers harvesting olives. After making the hospital drop it was off to Coop for the necessities of life like sanitary supplies, chocolate, and hair color.
When we returned to our house on the hill, I was in for another treat. Maria asked me to bring a small glass bottle down to her…the only bottle I had was a large olive oil bottle so I trotted it downstairs and she obligingly returned it full of……newly pressed olive oil! From The Great Giaquinto’s olive trees! She warned me that because it was new harvest oil, it was very thick with olive solids and I would only need to use a small amount. I promptly toasted some ciabatta bread and drizzled it with liberal lashings of the peppery, opaque, greenish-gold oil. Heavenly! It’s a good thing I dragged my waffly thighs up to Bramasole on a walk today.
I have so much slippery olive oil I might just break out the rubber sheets and invite some friends over for a Mazola party!
Maria was visiting her family in the region of Campania, near Naples, this past weekend, and while there she visits her brother. Maria’s brother makes or grows EVERYTHING! His workers make both red and white wine from his grapes, olive oil from his olive trees, and sometimes she brings me tomatoes and lettuce grown in his gardens. One time her daughter, Laura, made a Moroccan dish with a rather leggy chicken raised by GUESS WHO? If Maria told me her brother was knitting yak’s wool sweaters for the family for Christmas this year from his resident herd of Tibetan yaks, I’d believe it!
Yesterday it rained nearly all day, quite heavily at times. About 5:00 PM, my lights flickered and died, so I jumped into bed praying the power would return before my frozen foods thawed. I hopped into bed as it was so dark there was naught else I could do. Two hours later I was relieved to hear the familiar grating and clunking of the rain-swollen wooden front door and the tinkle of the overhead bell which heralded Maria’s arrival home from Campania. I leapt out of bed and dressed by feel in the dark, hoping I hadn’t selected a black bra to wear under a white, sheer top, and peeked out my front door. I was amazed to see that Maria had turned on lights in the hall….and they worked!! I whined at her about my powerless predicament and she came upstairs and led me to the fuse box, by candlelight, and showed me where the circuit breaker had flipped. Problem solved!
After unloading all her goodies from the car, she trudged upstairs and gifted me with not one, but two 8 ounce balls of mozzarella di bufala, which is made from the rich, white milk of African water buffalo. I was inordinately relieved to see that the bag containing my milky treasure had the name of a shop on it. I had just begun to envision her brother, The Great Giaquinto, slipping into his dark basement and hunkering down to milk a water buffalo before returning above stairs to whip up some world famous homemade mozzarella in his Tuscan kitchen. Maybe, like a alchemist who turns base metal into gold, The Great Giaquinto tosses various and sundry ingredients into a caldron, waves a wand, and POOF!, out pop edible treats.
Maria invited me to go shopping at Coop with her this afternoon, but first, we waited for her friend who needed a ride to the hospital. We effectively bottled-necked traffic on via Roma as her friend reached the car, opened the door, and fixed me suspiciously with her gimlet eye as I beamed at her, angelically, from the backseat. We drove 10 minutes cross-country to the hospital and on the way I noticed a good number of farmers harvesting olives. After making the hospital drop it was off to Coop for the necessities of life like sanitary supplies, chocolate, and hair color.
When we returned to our house on the hill, I was in for another treat. Maria asked me to bring a small glass bottle down to her…the only bottle I had was a large olive oil bottle so I trotted it downstairs and she obligingly returned it full of……newly pressed olive oil! From The Great Giaquinto’s olive trees! She warned me that because it was new harvest oil, it was very thick with olive solids and I would only need to use a small amount. I promptly toasted some ciabatta bread and drizzled it with liberal lashings of the peppery, opaque, greenish-gold oil. Heavenly! It’s a good thing I dragged my waffly thighs up to Bramasole on a walk today.
I have so much slippery olive oil I might just break out the rubber sheets and invite some friends over for a Mazola party!
The Sistine Chapel
After the tour of St. Peter’s, Barbara, Carol, and I had about two hours before our tour of the Vatican Museum and the Sistine Chapel would begin. My companions both needed to conduct a bit of personal business, so we walked around outside the walls of the Vatican until we located an internet site and, around the corner, an ATM machine. After completing business we stumbled upon a small pizzeria where we stopped for lunch, choosing a small table near the window. The gorgonzola and sausage pizza appealed to all of us so we each ordered one…and it was heavenly; rich, pungent, gooey. Judging by the many moans emitted from our table, we were either enjoying the pizza or having a religious experience, or perhaps a bit of both.
After finishing the pizza and a bit of red wine, none of us really felt like going on a museum tour. A nap would have been much more my speed, but we had already paid for the tour and, besides, when would I ever get to visit the Sistine Chapel again? We dragged ourselves up the street next to the Vatican wall, over to a café’ across from the museum entrance, and down a flight of stairs to await the rest of our twenty member tour group. Our two guides arrived and we twenty were split into two more manageable groups and led into the Vatican Museums by way of a modern entrance.
The Vatican Museums are HUGE, room after room after room of Greek and Roman statuary, paintings, tapestries, frescos, and mosaics. The Sistine chapel is not reached until two hours into a three hour tour. I loved the gorgeous ceilings, which are all extravagantly decorated and painted. My favorite room was the Hall of Maps, an enormous, long room with an illuminated, arched ceiling divided into small sections, each one a different painting. Large, painted maps of the regions of Italy decorated the walls, including the painstakingly reproduced maze of canals that make up Venice. The maps are surprisingly accurate considering they were painted hundreds of years ago!
Finally, we reached the Sistine Chapel where the crowds of visitors were shushed into reverent silence. Pictures are not allowed in the chapel as part of an agreement with an Asian company who financed the 13 year cleaning of the chapel in return for a copy write on all images. We walked to the far end, where we had a magnificent view of the vast space. The entrance wall of the chapel featured a huge fresco done in shades of blue. If you look closely you can see that the painted figures are arranged in the shape of a human skull. We were told that Michelangelo was not happy about having to paint the chapel and was very upset when he climbed off his scaffolding to discover he’d made the figures too small. He was even less happy to have to repaint. We’re so thankful he did, though, as the chapel is an absolute masterpiece. The tour group was to have visited St. Peter’s at the end of the tour, but found it still closed after the special ceremony earlier in the day. Barbara, Carol, and I were so thankful to have taken the separate tour in the morning or we would have missed the basilica altogether.
We had debated walking back to the apartment on Piazza Rondanini by way of the Trevi Fountain after the tour, however dark had settled while we were inside and after 6 plus hours on our feet we were tired and voted to catch a taxi. Upon arriving home we walked around the corner, past the Pantheon glowing in the dark, to a small grocery store where we bought inexpensive wine, salami, proscuitto, fresh pecorino cheese, bread, and chocolate for dinner from a young, male cashier who was flirting with me. Cheap wine in Italy is exceptionally good and it is no hard task to drink quite a lot in a short amount of time, so after we three had finished two bottles, Carol and I volunteered to make a second run to the store for more while Barbara cleaned up after our feast. My cashier was still on duty and looked rather happy to see me, greeting me in English as I passed. As we wandered back past the Pantheon and turned the corner, we heard singing. Not knowing exactly what was going on, we debated for a moment, and then turned around to walk back to Piazza Rotunda. Lo and behold, a young man had set up a chair and a portable stereo and was singing Italian opera songs in a beautiful tenor voice. His white poet’s shirt billowed in the gentle breeze as he belted out lovely songs, including the famous Nessun Dorma. Carol quickly turned on her camera and made some short movies of his impromptu concert. Where else but in Italy?? It was a perfect ending to an incredible adventure!
After finishing the pizza and a bit of red wine, none of us really felt like going on a museum tour. A nap would have been much more my speed, but we had already paid for the tour and, besides, when would I ever get to visit the Sistine Chapel again? We dragged ourselves up the street next to the Vatican wall, over to a café’ across from the museum entrance, and down a flight of stairs to await the rest of our twenty member tour group. Our two guides arrived and we twenty were split into two more manageable groups and led into the Vatican Museums by way of a modern entrance.
The Vatican Museums are HUGE, room after room after room of Greek and Roman statuary, paintings, tapestries, frescos, and mosaics. The Sistine chapel is not reached until two hours into a three hour tour. I loved the gorgeous ceilings, which are all extravagantly decorated and painted. My favorite room was the Hall of Maps, an enormous, long room with an illuminated, arched ceiling divided into small sections, each one a different painting. Large, painted maps of the regions of Italy decorated the walls, including the painstakingly reproduced maze of canals that make up Venice. The maps are surprisingly accurate considering they were painted hundreds of years ago!
Finally, we reached the Sistine Chapel where the crowds of visitors were shushed into reverent silence. Pictures are not allowed in the chapel as part of an agreement with an Asian company who financed the 13 year cleaning of the chapel in return for a copy write on all images. We walked to the far end, where we had a magnificent view of the vast space. The entrance wall of the chapel featured a huge fresco done in shades of blue. If you look closely you can see that the painted figures are arranged in the shape of a human skull. We were told that Michelangelo was not happy about having to paint the chapel and was very upset when he climbed off his scaffolding to discover he’d made the figures too small. He was even less happy to have to repaint. We’re so thankful he did, though, as the chapel is an absolute masterpiece. The tour group was to have visited St. Peter’s at the end of the tour, but found it still closed after the special ceremony earlier in the day. Barbara, Carol, and I were so thankful to have taken the separate tour in the morning or we would have missed the basilica altogether.
We had debated walking back to the apartment on Piazza Rondanini by way of the Trevi Fountain after the tour, however dark had settled while we were inside and after 6 plus hours on our feet we were tired and voted to catch a taxi. Upon arriving home we walked around the corner, past the Pantheon glowing in the dark, to a small grocery store where we bought inexpensive wine, salami, proscuitto, fresh pecorino cheese, bread, and chocolate for dinner from a young, male cashier who was flirting with me. Cheap wine in Italy is exceptionally good and it is no hard task to drink quite a lot in a short amount of time, so after we three had finished two bottles, Carol and I volunteered to make a second run to the store for more while Barbara cleaned up after our feast. My cashier was still on duty and looked rather happy to see me, greeting me in English as I passed. As we wandered back past the Pantheon and turned the corner, we heard singing. Not knowing exactly what was going on, we debated for a moment, and then turned around to walk back to Piazza Rotunda. Lo and behold, a young man had set up a chair and a portable stereo and was singing Italian opera songs in a beautiful tenor voice. His white poet’s shirt billowed in the gentle breeze as he belted out lovely songs, including the famous Nessun Dorma. Carol quickly turned on her camera and made some short movies of his impromptu concert. Where else but in Italy?? It was a perfect ending to an incredible adventure!
Monday, November 3, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Touching the Divine
We three had signed up for a “skip the line” tour of St. Peter’s Wednesday morning, and our scheduled meeting point was at the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore (Saint Mary Major, so named as it is the largest church devoted to the Blessed Virgin in Rome), which seemed odd as it is so far from St. Peter’s. I walked about 15 minutes from the hotel and Carol and Barbara arrived by taxi. Our tour guide, Catherine, a lovely young American, was late to arrive due to the school strike demonstrations which had relocated to Piazza della Repubblica, around the corner from my hotel. Catherine explained our meeting point by saying we were to tour 4 basilicas that day, the first being Santa Maria Maggiore. We were all surprised as the website where we booked the tour had not provided that information. In fact, the website provided very little information of any kind, and we were disappointed to learn that the Sistine Chapel was not a part of our tour, but rather is a part of the Vatican Museum for which we had not purchased tickets. Barbara, Carol, and I were the only guests on this tour so we had Catherine as our own private tour guide.
Catherine began our tour with the history of Santa Maria Maggiore, telling us that the Virgin Mary appeared to two men in a dream on the night of August 16 informing them that she would leave a sign where she wanted a church to be built in her honor. The next morning, August 17th, the two emerged to find that snow had fallen on one of the hills in Rome, and it was there the church was built. The basilica was once known as Saint Mary of the Snows or Our Lady of the Snows (I have heard two different versions so will provide both). Each year the event is celebrated by a special mass during which a ceiling panel is removed and white rose petals are released to float down gently upon the altar. A thought so moving it brings tears to my eyes even though I have not witnessed it. The basilica contained an enormous canopied altar the likes of which I have never seen before. After taking lots of illicit photos, we caught our private car for the trip to St. Peter’s, across the river.
Because St. Peter’s was scheduled to close at noon for a special service, we arranged to visit it second rather than last to ensure we didn’t miss it. We had to wait for a special guide to approve our entrance to the basilica so we did have to wait in a short line, which gave us ample photo opportunities. On either side of the magnificent basilica are two arching wings of columns encompassing an enormous piazza like a hug. The piazza can accommodate 150,000 people! As we approached the entrance to St. Peter’s we could see that it was guarded by young men in brightly striped costumes with ballooned, knee-length pants. We were told that these are the Swiss guards and each serves at least three years at the Vatican. They are all young men of Swiss nationality from good families and cannot have so much as a parking ticket on their record. They also speak 5 languages and are very friendly, answering questions and posing for photographs with visitors. Catherine told us that Vatican City is a separate country with its own postal system and any postcards mailed from within its boundaries will have a special postmark. Unfortunately, none of the three of us had brought addresses with us so that we could mail postcards!
Entering St. Peter’s was like walking into a huge treasure chest filled to the brim with jewels, carvings, and all things gold, and size became relative. Catherine provided us some reference points so we could better judge the scale of the structure. The gold writing partway up the walls was twelve feet tall and an alabaster dove in the wall behind the altar had a wing span of 6 feet. To us it was a tiny little shape almost unrecognizable as a bird. In a chapel to the right was Michelangelo’s statue of the Pieta”, which is Italian for pity. He completed the statue when he was only twenty-four years of age. The Pieta’ was the most beautiful statue, and one of the most beautiful things, I have ever seen. The Blessed Virgin is serene and breathtakingly beautiful as she gently cradles her dead child. We were not able to approach the canopied altar, much like the one at Santa Maria Maggiore, due to a huge bank of chairs set up for the special service in the afternoon, so we contented ourselves with viewing the bodies of three canonized popes, the resting places of various dignitaries, and the gilt opulence that surrounded us. We peeked into the wedding chapel, which Catherine told us has a 7 year waiting list! My head was spinning as I snapped photo after photo of at least 5 painted domes. I have an obsession with domes it seems.
Upon leaving the grandeur of St. Peter’s we found that we were way over schedule. It was already twelve o’clock, the scheduled end of our tour and we had only seen two of the four churches. Our Roman driver was very put out and complained non-stop until we finally proposed a compromise. We agreed to forgo the last two churches if we were given a discount for the Vatican Museum tour which would afford us the chance to see the Sistine Chapel, something that was very important to me. The tour company agreed to this plan offering us a 20% discount which we all accepted. We were dropped off near the Vatican Museum for our afternoon tour which would begin at 2:00 giving us a couple of hours to eat and rest our weary feet.
Catherine began our tour with the history of Santa Maria Maggiore, telling us that the Virgin Mary appeared to two men in a dream on the night of August 16 informing them that she would leave a sign where she wanted a church to be built in her honor. The next morning, August 17th, the two emerged to find that snow had fallen on one of the hills in Rome, and it was there the church was built. The basilica was once known as Saint Mary of the Snows or Our Lady of the Snows (I have heard two different versions so will provide both). Each year the event is celebrated by a special mass during which a ceiling panel is removed and white rose petals are released to float down gently upon the altar. A thought so moving it brings tears to my eyes even though I have not witnessed it. The basilica contained an enormous canopied altar the likes of which I have never seen before. After taking lots of illicit photos, we caught our private car for the trip to St. Peter’s, across the river.
Because St. Peter’s was scheduled to close at noon for a special service, we arranged to visit it second rather than last to ensure we didn’t miss it. We had to wait for a special guide to approve our entrance to the basilica so we did have to wait in a short line, which gave us ample photo opportunities. On either side of the magnificent basilica are two arching wings of columns encompassing an enormous piazza like a hug. The piazza can accommodate 150,000 people! As we approached the entrance to St. Peter’s we could see that it was guarded by young men in brightly striped costumes with ballooned, knee-length pants. We were told that these are the Swiss guards and each serves at least three years at the Vatican. They are all young men of Swiss nationality from good families and cannot have so much as a parking ticket on their record. They also speak 5 languages and are very friendly, answering questions and posing for photographs with visitors. Catherine told us that Vatican City is a separate country with its own postal system and any postcards mailed from within its boundaries will have a special postmark. Unfortunately, none of the three of us had brought addresses with us so that we could mail postcards!
Entering St. Peter’s was like walking into a huge treasure chest filled to the brim with jewels, carvings, and all things gold, and size became relative. Catherine provided us some reference points so we could better judge the scale of the structure. The gold writing partway up the walls was twelve feet tall and an alabaster dove in the wall behind the altar had a wing span of 6 feet. To us it was a tiny little shape almost unrecognizable as a bird. In a chapel to the right was Michelangelo’s statue of the Pieta”, which is Italian for pity. He completed the statue when he was only twenty-four years of age. The Pieta’ was the most beautiful statue, and one of the most beautiful things, I have ever seen. The Blessed Virgin is serene and breathtakingly beautiful as she gently cradles her dead child. We were not able to approach the canopied altar, much like the one at Santa Maria Maggiore, due to a huge bank of chairs set up for the special service in the afternoon, so we contented ourselves with viewing the bodies of three canonized popes, the resting places of various dignitaries, and the gilt opulence that surrounded us. We peeked into the wedding chapel, which Catherine told us has a 7 year waiting list! My head was spinning as I snapped photo after photo of at least 5 painted domes. I have an obsession with domes it seems.
Upon leaving the grandeur of St. Peter’s we found that we were way over schedule. It was already twelve o’clock, the scheduled end of our tour and we had only seen two of the four churches. Our Roman driver was very put out and complained non-stop until we finally proposed a compromise. We agreed to forgo the last two churches if we were given a discount for the Vatican Museum tour which would afford us the chance to see the Sistine Chapel, something that was very important to me. The tour company agreed to this plan offering us a 20% discount which we all accepted. We were dropped off near the Vatican Museum for our afternoon tour which would begin at 2:00 giving us a couple of hours to eat and rest our weary feet.
A Roman Holiday
The day I traveled to Rome dawned overcast, but cleared slightly as I awaited the train in Camucia. I met a couple from England who were just completing a two week visit and I shared a small cabin in the 2nd class train car with them to Rome, a 2 ¼ hour trip past green hills, sheep-filled pastures, stunning hill towns, and through a series of ear-popping tunnels. The trip passed quickly, engaged as I was in conversation with the friendly couple, and before I knew it we were at the Rome Tiburtina stop, which was the English couple’s transfer point for the train to the airport. An Italian man quickly took one of their vacated seats and chatted with me in basic Italian until we arrived at the main train terminal in Rome, Termini.
Termini is an enormous station with several levels and more than 40 platforms and I had arranged to meet Barbara and Carol’s train about an hour after my arrival. In the event we missed each other at the platform, our alternate plan of action was to meet at the café’ across from the bookstore at the exit to the terminal. I headed off to explore the station and found it took me 10 minutes to locate the bathrooms! I then located the café’, browsed the bookstore, and went to check the arrivals board for my friends’ train where I encountered a problem. The arrivals board clearly lists incoming trains, time due, and actual arrival time; however the section which identifies the arriving track was blank. I checked the printed schedule which suggested that the train from Perugia was due at track 2, however I know the Italian way of doing things, so walked ½ mile down to track 2 to find an outgoing train to Ancona already occupying the track and not due to depart for quite some time. I trudged back to the café’ and saw another arrivals schedule which stated the Perugia train would arrive on track 1, so I dragged my carryon 8 minutes back to track 1, but when I didn’t see my friends, I fell back on Plan B, and crawled back to the café’ where I found them about 10 minutes later.
We headed out of the main exit on Piazza Cinquecento and began the walk to my hotel located about 600 meters from the station. The going was difficult considering the weight and inmaneuverability of Carol and Barbara’s luggage and the fact that we had to traverse up and down curbs, in and out of seemingly illegally parked cars, and around pedestrians who were determined not to give way. Also, the frequent consultations of the map served to slow us down. Eventually we found my hotel, Hotel Patria, whose lobby was lit with alien green florescent lighting which gave our complexions a sickly cast as though we’d just emerged, eyes blinking, from 10 years spent in a cave. I checked in and we encountered problem number two when we boarded a taxi for Piazza Rondanini where my friends were staying in a small apartment. Apparently a school strike and demonstration was in progress, so the taxi could only get us to within about a half mile of the apartment. We unloaded the “body bag” and I took some of the load including a heavy backpack whose straps were adjusted to fit Barbara’s narrow frame. I could get it on, but it kept my shoulders at such an extreme outward angle that I couldn’t get my hands within 6 inches of meeting. Our taxi driver gave us directions and we headed off, loaded down like camels in the Serengeti, toward banks of police vehicles and nattily dressed carabinieri (police) with their knife-pleated trousers and jaunty berets. We quickly became distracted, gaping as we were at the gorgeous hunks of manhood strutting and preening in front of us, which necessitated stops every 10 seconds to consult the map, a laminated number which Barbara whirled around with increasing fervor like a ninja in a poorly dubbed martial arts film. Some news cameras scanned us as we stood, vulnerably exposed, in the no man’s land between hordes of brick-wielding throngs of demonstrators and the tear gas carrying carabinieri, safely enscounced behind their Plexiglas shields. Okay, it wasn’t really that dramatic, but we definitely felt that we were where we shouldn’t be and that all eyes were upon us. Eventually we did locate the apartment and a suspicious character named Marco, who gave us all the heebie-jeebies, let us in and turned over the key.
The setting sun found us drinking wine and cappuccino at a small bar in the piazza, after which we walked to Piazza Rotunda, site of the Pantheon, a 2000 year old structure looming menacingly from behind a large fountain. The piazza was ringed with ristoranti, all of whom had sharply dressed receptionists trying to lure us with promises of a fantastic dining experience. It was early and we weren’t yet hungry so we walked past enormous columns into the Pantheon itself, which has been converted into a Catholic church. We wandered around the interior of the structure amazed by the gigantic dome and the engineering brilliance of the ancient Romans.
After taking pictures it was off to view Piazza Navona and its magnificent fountains and then an aborted attempt to find Campo de Fiori. Somehow we got off track and found ourselves in uncharted territory. After getting directions from some other tourists, we stopped for dinner at a pizzeria. I ordered pizza and consumed every last morsel, while my companions tried two different pasta dishes. As we sat at our outside table, listening to heavy traffic and whiffing the scent of eau de benzina (gasoline), there was an ominous rumbling from overhead. “Pioggia”, declared the waiter, and sure enough, we just had time to pay for our meal and jump into a taxi when the skies opened and rain poured down. The taxi stopped near Piazza Rondanini, where Barbara and Carol jumped out and ran for their apartment, before continuing on to my hotel. There was a curious churning and gurgling in my now full stomach as the taxi bounced frenetically over cobbles and rough pavement and whirled around traffic circles at breakneck speed, with quick stops and head snapping accelerations. “She’s gonna blow”, I kept thinking to myself as I prayed we’d reach my hotel in time to avoid certain embarrassment, which we did. I crawled in bed, exhausted from all the walking, but excited about the adventure sure to follow the next day.
Termini is an enormous station with several levels and more than 40 platforms and I had arranged to meet Barbara and Carol’s train about an hour after my arrival. In the event we missed each other at the platform, our alternate plan of action was to meet at the café’ across from the bookstore at the exit to the terminal. I headed off to explore the station and found it took me 10 minutes to locate the bathrooms! I then located the café’, browsed the bookstore, and went to check the arrivals board for my friends’ train where I encountered a problem. The arrivals board clearly lists incoming trains, time due, and actual arrival time; however the section which identifies the arriving track was blank. I checked the printed schedule which suggested that the train from Perugia was due at track 2, however I know the Italian way of doing things, so walked ½ mile down to track 2 to find an outgoing train to Ancona already occupying the track and not due to depart for quite some time. I trudged back to the café’ and saw another arrivals schedule which stated the Perugia train would arrive on track 1, so I dragged my carryon 8 minutes back to track 1, but when I didn’t see my friends, I fell back on Plan B, and crawled back to the café’ where I found them about 10 minutes later.
We headed out of the main exit on Piazza Cinquecento and began the walk to my hotel located about 600 meters from the station. The going was difficult considering the weight and inmaneuverability of Carol and Barbara’s luggage and the fact that we had to traverse up and down curbs, in and out of seemingly illegally parked cars, and around pedestrians who were determined not to give way. Also, the frequent consultations of the map served to slow us down. Eventually we found my hotel, Hotel Patria, whose lobby was lit with alien green florescent lighting which gave our complexions a sickly cast as though we’d just emerged, eyes blinking, from 10 years spent in a cave. I checked in and we encountered problem number two when we boarded a taxi for Piazza Rondanini where my friends were staying in a small apartment. Apparently a school strike and demonstration was in progress, so the taxi could only get us to within about a half mile of the apartment. We unloaded the “body bag” and I took some of the load including a heavy backpack whose straps were adjusted to fit Barbara’s narrow frame. I could get it on, but it kept my shoulders at such an extreme outward angle that I couldn’t get my hands within 6 inches of meeting. Our taxi driver gave us directions and we headed off, loaded down like camels in the Serengeti, toward banks of police vehicles and nattily dressed carabinieri (police) with their knife-pleated trousers and jaunty berets. We quickly became distracted, gaping as we were at the gorgeous hunks of manhood strutting and preening in front of us, which necessitated stops every 10 seconds to consult the map, a laminated number which Barbara whirled around with increasing fervor like a ninja in a poorly dubbed martial arts film. Some news cameras scanned us as we stood, vulnerably exposed, in the no man’s land between hordes of brick-wielding throngs of demonstrators and the tear gas carrying carabinieri, safely enscounced behind their Plexiglas shields. Okay, it wasn’t really that dramatic, but we definitely felt that we were where we shouldn’t be and that all eyes were upon us. Eventually we did locate the apartment and a suspicious character named Marco, who gave us all the heebie-jeebies, let us in and turned over the key.
The setting sun found us drinking wine and cappuccino at a small bar in the piazza, after which we walked to Piazza Rotunda, site of the Pantheon, a 2000 year old structure looming menacingly from behind a large fountain. The piazza was ringed with ristoranti, all of whom had sharply dressed receptionists trying to lure us with promises of a fantastic dining experience. It was early and we weren’t yet hungry so we walked past enormous columns into the Pantheon itself, which has been converted into a Catholic church. We wandered around the interior of the structure amazed by the gigantic dome and the engineering brilliance of the ancient Romans.
After taking pictures it was off to view Piazza Navona and its magnificent fountains and then an aborted attempt to find Campo de Fiori. Somehow we got off track and found ourselves in uncharted territory. After getting directions from some other tourists, we stopped for dinner at a pizzeria. I ordered pizza and consumed every last morsel, while my companions tried two different pasta dishes. As we sat at our outside table, listening to heavy traffic and whiffing the scent of eau de benzina (gasoline), there was an ominous rumbling from overhead. “Pioggia”, declared the waiter, and sure enough, we just had time to pay for our meal and jump into a taxi when the skies opened and rain poured down. The taxi stopped near Piazza Rondanini, where Barbara and Carol jumped out and ran for their apartment, before continuing on to my hotel. There was a curious churning and gurgling in my now full stomach as the taxi bounced frenetically over cobbles and rough pavement and whirled around traffic circles at breakneck speed, with quick stops and head snapping accelerations. “She’s gonna blow”, I kept thinking to myself as I prayed we’d reach my hotel in time to avoid certain embarrassment, which we did. I crawled in bed, exhausted from all the walking, but excited about the adventure sure to follow the next day.
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