Let me tell you, it's hard falling in love when you're trying to cope with a 20 degree difference in temperature. When we left Naples it was about 27 degrees, and when we arrived in Brussels it was 7 degrees. Nina, having no idea it could be this cold in September, just kept looking around and exclaiming, "7 degrees! I just can't believe it!" Through chattering teeth I reminded her that it was fall, and it is never very warm at 1:30 am even in the summer. Truth be told, I had never dreamed it would be this cold. At least, I have socks though, poor Nina didn't think to pack any.
As I lay with my head resting against my backpack, my body stretched out across a hard wooden bench in a coffee shop (closed) in the Brussels airport, I thought: 12 hours ago I was in Capri. I touched my earlobes feeling for the red coral earrings I had luxuriously allowed myself to buy just to make sure that I hadn't made it up.
Capri was as beautiful as everyone had promised it would be. It has been blessed with an unusual combination of natural splendour, and the best of artificial materialism. It is like Disneyland for couture junkies.
Let me paint a picture of a day in Capri as it is meant to be experienced:
You are awakened by the sound of tinkling crystal as the handsomely tanned Italian waiter places your breakfast tray on the bedside table. You sip your Mimosa, and gingerly eat a bite of delicately sugared Cornetto before you glide from your silk sheets, and slip into a bikini and modestly transparent beach cover. Sunning yourself at the the hotel pool, your eyes wander over the panoramic view of lushly flowering trees, some bearing plumply dimpled lemons whose fragrance gives the air a spicy flavour. The ocean, perfectly turquoise, sits far below, twinkling in the glow of the unfiltered sunlight. As you sip Veuve Cliquot, and think about turning over, a small bird lands on your finger and sings a sweet song, a dolphin swims by in the distance, and you spy the handsome waiter out of the corner of your eye. Refreshing yourself in the pool you head back to your room to get dressed and begin the serious business of the day. Prada, Salvatore Ferragamo, Bottega Veneta, Louis Vuiton - they all must be visited! At the end of the day you are exhausted, the little piece of plastic hot between your finger as you charge a restorative cocktail at the hotel bar. As your handsomely tanned waiter puts your drink in front of you with a wink, you smile to yourself and think - tomorrow will be exactly the same.
Back to Reality:
Nina and I returned from our trip to Capri (I bearing a sunburn whose severity would be discovered much later), and sadly said goodbye to the Bella Capri. Our favourite guy was at the desk. We had both taken to him immeasurably after we became aware of his extreme softheartedness. Just the night before we had asked if we could print something and he told us he wasn't really supposed to let us. Then he said, "but if it is 1...2 pages, then no problem." We told him we didn't know how long the document would be, but we hoped not long. Then he said, "well...if it is 3-4...5-6...not 100 then it's ok." This was all said with a lot of shoulder shrugging and an eager to please look, which softened his otherwise Mafioso looking face. He seemed truly sad to see us go. We both hope that he is a father with teenage daughters who take advantage of him shamelessly, but love him wholeheartedly none the less.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Amalfi: or Why I Hate the Beach
Of course it couldn't be simple getting from Naples to the Amalfi coast. Our first mistake was asking a train official which platform our train was arriving on. We should have known to ask an untitled stranger. Luckily once we realised that we were on the wrong train, we had several helpful people give us directions on how to correct our mistake. This ended in two gents almost duking it out to win the prize of being able to lead us to the right platform at a transfer station.
Finally arriving in Sorrento, we switched to a bus that was terribly overcrowded (my lot in life it appears), which meant that we had to stand for almost two hours. The bus took us up one side of the Bay of Naples, and down the Amalfi side. It was one of those thrillingly pleasurable routes that winds around twisty, narrow roads offering up spectacular views of green topped mountains, and jagged rocks that lead the eye down to the turquoise ocean below. As we sped around hairpin curves jutting out over the ocean, all the tourists would snap pictures like mad and "ohh," and "ahhh." Occasionally, someone would comment that they hoped we weren't the bus that looses it and plunges over the side. Aside from some thigh bruising I received from bracing myself as the bus swung itself cheerily along the road, I was having a great time. Little did I know that Nina (behind me) was well on her way to loosing her lunch. Thankfully a kind man gave her a sip of his water, although I imagine his reasons were somewhat selfish, since I'm sure he didn't want Nina to vomit anywhere near him.
She made it, and after a petit snack in Amalfi proper, we walked the 10 minutes of road over to the one piazza town of Atrani. There we met Francesco the helpful owner of A Scalinatella where we had booked (in extreme luxury) our own room. Nina wasted no time in stripping down to her bikini and making a bee-line for the beach. I settled myself into our room for a nap and delightfully long shower. Feeling contented at this small moment of alone time, my good spirits were somewhat marred by the fact that I properly took into account that I was now in a beach town. I really hate beaches - maybe almost as much as backpacks. My paleness prevents me from getting any satisfaction from baking in the sun for hours on end, but more than that I have an unnatural aversion to sand. Who can really blame me though? All those granules sneak their way into all the crevices on your body itching you for hours and hours, only relieved by taking a dip, which, in the end, simply makes your body a walking sand collector. Sitting on a beach I am often overcome by chills that leave my body clammy and cold, as I shudder at the thought of all that sand. After that comes my hatred of "beach people" who are there purely to make you feel bad about your pale self. Somehow a sun concealing mu mu takes second place to a barely there bikini in the attractiveness department. Go figure! Anyway, I was getting a little carried away when Nina came back and got me out of my funk by taking me exploring in Amalfi followed by drinks during Happy Hour and some delicious dinner.
At this juncture I would like to say that like all Jekyll and Hyde towns in this world (as indeed this was) we were never happier on our trip as we were in the hours of daylight in Atrani. In the evening we took ourselves to bed early, and a little tipsy. I believe I fell asleep sometime around 11 pm. At around 2 am Nina and I were both rudely awakened by very loud music, and (we think) lively conversation in Swiss German. We were puzzled, where was this coming from? Who could have thought it was appropriate to be this loud that late? After debating the issue for some time, we got partially dressed and went downstairs. After a bit of poking around we realised that the noise was coming from the room directly below us. We knocked and a very surprised looking girl answered. We explained the situation and she promised to quiet down. The music was indeed turned down but this barely produced an effect since even a low whisper could be heard with perfect clarity from where we lay in bed. Nina posited that our room might have at one point been a loft, and then hastily turned into a room proper without a great deal of concern for soundproofing. Without going into details, this couple kept us awake from that point on until around 5:30 am. It was rough. Added to the noise below were a cacophony of other sounds provided by the town of Atrani. The worst of these were the bells that sounded off the quarterly hour and a lone rooster that started crowing every half hour or so from 3 am onwards.
We awoke the next day at 8 in order to eat our free breakfast and then went back to bed before giving up on hopes of sleep and taking ourselves to the beach (yes friends even I went to the beach). We rented some chairs with an umbrella attached for maximum shade exposure for myself. I wrapped a variety of scarves around my bits exposed to any direct sunlight and read/listened to music/dozed/dipped in the ocean (don't get me started on my strong feelings about ocean swimming versus gloriously unsalty lake swimming) for the better part of five hours. I was so well protected from the sun that for a short while I was actually cold. Nina said I looked like a diva.
That night we repeated our walk to Amalfi, Happy Hour pre-dinner drinks, and delicious dinner combo. Luckily the new occupants under us were respectful people who went to bed at a decent hour. Our new enemy was a cat who from about 3am forward mewed piteously, scratched at his litter box, knocked over potted plants and generally re-affirmed my negative feelings towards the feline species.
We arrived back in Naples to find out that our fav hostel was all booked up. The owners being some of the kindest people I have ever met did their best for us: finding us another hostel, telling us that we could hang out there as long as we wanted, and letting us leave our bags in luggage storage so that we wouldn't have to trek across town with them.
Fortuitously we also befriended a Londoner called Paddy who joined us for drinks and dinner back at our delicious pizza place. He also escorted us back to our hostel so that we wouldn't be overtaken by the Neapolitan criminal underworld. All in all a very good evening. Now we are back at the Bella Capri after a disturbing shower (mildew ew!) and subsequent quick exit from the other hostel. We met up with Paddy again for brunch, after which he left for Rome, Nina retired to bed, and I set up camp at a computer.
Tomorrow we fly to Brussels and leave Italy behind us. We are feeling a bit low about going, but happily anticipating the joys and woes of tackling a brand new country.
Arrivederci Italy - until the next time our paths cross. Stay beautiful!
Finally arriving in Sorrento, we switched to a bus that was terribly overcrowded (my lot in life it appears), which meant that we had to stand for almost two hours. The bus took us up one side of the Bay of Naples, and down the Amalfi side. It was one of those thrillingly pleasurable routes that winds around twisty, narrow roads offering up spectacular views of green topped mountains, and jagged rocks that lead the eye down to the turquoise ocean below. As we sped around hairpin curves jutting out over the ocean, all the tourists would snap pictures like mad and "ohh," and "ahhh." Occasionally, someone would comment that they hoped we weren't the bus that looses it and plunges over the side. Aside from some thigh bruising I received from bracing myself as the bus swung itself cheerily along the road, I was having a great time. Little did I know that Nina (behind me) was well on her way to loosing her lunch. Thankfully a kind man gave her a sip of his water, although I imagine his reasons were somewhat selfish, since I'm sure he didn't want Nina to vomit anywhere near him.
She made it, and after a petit snack in Amalfi proper, we walked the 10 minutes of road over to the one piazza town of Atrani. There we met Francesco the helpful owner of A Scalinatella where we had booked (in extreme luxury) our own room. Nina wasted no time in stripping down to her bikini and making a bee-line for the beach. I settled myself into our room for a nap and delightfully long shower. Feeling contented at this small moment of alone time, my good spirits were somewhat marred by the fact that I properly took into account that I was now in a beach town. I really hate beaches - maybe almost as much as backpacks. My paleness prevents me from getting any satisfaction from baking in the sun for hours on end, but more than that I have an unnatural aversion to sand. Who can really blame me though? All those granules sneak their way into all the crevices on your body itching you for hours and hours, only relieved by taking a dip, which, in the end, simply makes your body a walking sand collector. Sitting on a beach I am often overcome by chills that leave my body clammy and cold, as I shudder at the thought of all that sand. After that comes my hatred of "beach people" who are there purely to make you feel bad about your pale self. Somehow a sun concealing mu mu takes second place to a barely there bikini in the attractiveness department. Go figure! Anyway, I was getting a little carried away when Nina came back and got me out of my funk by taking me exploring in Amalfi followed by drinks during Happy Hour and some delicious dinner.
At this juncture I would like to say that like all Jekyll and Hyde towns in this world (as indeed this was) we were never happier on our trip as we were in the hours of daylight in Atrani. In the evening we took ourselves to bed early, and a little tipsy. I believe I fell asleep sometime around 11 pm. At around 2 am Nina and I were both rudely awakened by very loud music, and (we think) lively conversation in Swiss German. We were puzzled, where was this coming from? Who could have thought it was appropriate to be this loud that late? After debating the issue for some time, we got partially dressed and went downstairs. After a bit of poking around we realised that the noise was coming from the room directly below us. We knocked and a very surprised looking girl answered. We explained the situation and she promised to quiet down. The music was indeed turned down but this barely produced an effect since even a low whisper could be heard with perfect clarity from where we lay in bed. Nina posited that our room might have at one point been a loft, and then hastily turned into a room proper without a great deal of concern for soundproofing. Without going into details, this couple kept us awake from that point on until around 5:30 am. It was rough. Added to the noise below were a cacophony of other sounds provided by the town of Atrani. The worst of these were the bells that sounded off the quarterly hour and a lone rooster that started crowing every half hour or so from 3 am onwards.
We awoke the next day at 8 in order to eat our free breakfast and then went back to bed before giving up on hopes of sleep and taking ourselves to the beach (yes friends even I went to the beach). We rented some chairs with an umbrella attached for maximum shade exposure for myself. I wrapped a variety of scarves around my bits exposed to any direct sunlight and read/listened to music/dozed/dipped in the ocean (don't get me started on my strong feelings about ocean swimming versus gloriously unsalty lake swimming) for the better part of five hours. I was so well protected from the sun that for a short while I was actually cold. Nina said I looked like a diva.
That night we repeated our walk to Amalfi, Happy Hour pre-dinner drinks, and delicious dinner combo. Luckily the new occupants under us were respectful people who went to bed at a decent hour. Our new enemy was a cat who from about 3am forward mewed piteously, scratched at his litter box, knocked over potted plants and generally re-affirmed my negative feelings towards the feline species.
We arrived back in Naples to find out that our fav hostel was all booked up. The owners being some of the kindest people I have ever met did their best for us: finding us another hostel, telling us that we could hang out there as long as we wanted, and letting us leave our bags in luggage storage so that we wouldn't have to trek across town with them.
Fortuitously we also befriended a Londoner called Paddy who joined us for drinks and dinner back at our delicious pizza place. He also escorted us back to our hostel so that we wouldn't be overtaken by the Neapolitan criminal underworld. All in all a very good evening. Now we are back at the Bella Capri after a disturbing shower (mildew ew!) and subsequent quick exit from the other hostel. We met up with Paddy again for brunch, after which he left for Rome, Nina retired to bed, and I set up camp at a computer.
Tomorrow we fly to Brussels and leave Italy behind us. We are feeling a bit low about going, but happily anticipating the joys and woes of tackling a brand new country.
Arrivederci Italy - until the next time our paths cross. Stay beautiful!
NAPOLI: SMACK!
Our second day in Naples we took a side trip to Pompeii for a totally different experience from the calm of Hadrian's Villa. In Pompeii we had to contend with endless tour groups for peeks at the most famous parts of the city. I had to marvel at all of the different nationalities represented, each with their very own expert guide. We would wander through small clusters of people excitedly speaking in their own language, pointing out areas of interest, and think how much cultural capital a place like Pompeii has.
Despite its business, we were dutifully impressed with the experience of walking through a city so well preserved. I was especially impressed with how well one can appreciate the grid of the city, wandering from a main thoroughfare onto a quieter more residential street, past a temple, or into one of the many necropoli or amphitheaters. Even without any re-enactment gimmicks in place it was quite easy to imagine life as it was lived.
We left Pompeii just as the sun had reached its zenith thus avoiding any issues of sunburn/stroke for me. Trying to find our bus stop we were "helped out" by a passionate Italian grandmother type. We explained that we were heading to Napoli and she nodded and pointed around the corner from where we were. As we walked I actually spotted our bus stop and halted. We pointed at the stop, but she shook her head no and yelled, "NAPOLI, NAPOLI!" gesturing around the corner again. We turned the corner and were confronted with a highway tollbooth and not a bus stop to be seen. By now we were very confused, and more than that, concerned about crossing this Nona. We peeked back around the corner to where she had been standing and found the sidewalk empty. We heaved sighs of relief, walked back to the bus stop, and sat down on some steps just to the left. Not a minute had gone by before the Nona reappeared! She seemed very put out that we were back and again took up the cry of "NAPOLI NAPOLI!" and gestured frantically at a large sign reading Napoli with an arrow in the direction of the highway. She actually started to herd us, and I'm sure sensing the Italian in Nina, gave her a little smack in the right direction. Thankfully at that moment our bus appeared. The Nona flagged it down for us and asked the driver to make sure we got to Napoli. We thanked her and quickly hopped on before she could forcefully straighten our clothes, or clean our faces with a dab of spit, as that was the direction our relationship with her seemed headed.
We spent the rest of day lounging in our fabulous hostel in Naples (I could not give enough praise to this place - Bella Capri) and generally being lazy. That night we ventured out to find some authentic Neapolitan pizza at 6 pm (a very gauche time to eat here). We were both starving and not eager to find ourselves far from home once it got too dark. We wandered through some medieval looking narrow alleyways colourfully decorated with hanging laundry, and eccentric looking shops. We found the majority of them to be a kind of artist's studio specialising in the production of miniatures. This extended to small village scenes, dolls, figurines, and a variety of other objects re-affirming my earlier claim that Italians have a strange fascination with miniature-based home decor.
At the end of this surreal little section of streets we came upon a veritable hole in the wall pizza joint where we had some of the best pizza I have ever tasted, and a bottle of wine for under 10 euros each. The combination of this great "deal" (a oft used word in Nina's vocabulary), and the wine made Nina gleefully happy. She smiled on Naples and ventured to say that maybe her first impression (that Naples was a blight on Italy's otherwise lovely face) had been wrong.
Despite its business, we were dutifully impressed with the experience of walking through a city so well preserved. I was especially impressed with how well one can appreciate the grid of the city, wandering from a main thoroughfare onto a quieter more residential street, past a temple, or into one of the many necropoli or amphitheaters. Even without any re-enactment gimmicks in place it was quite easy to imagine life as it was lived.
We left Pompeii just as the sun had reached its zenith thus avoiding any issues of sunburn/stroke for me. Trying to find our bus stop we were "helped out" by a passionate Italian grandmother type. We explained that we were heading to Napoli and she nodded and pointed around the corner from where we were. As we walked I actually spotted our bus stop and halted. We pointed at the stop, but she shook her head no and yelled, "NAPOLI, NAPOLI!" gesturing around the corner again. We turned the corner and were confronted with a highway tollbooth and not a bus stop to be seen. By now we were very confused, and more than that, concerned about crossing this Nona. We peeked back around the corner to where she had been standing and found the sidewalk empty. We heaved sighs of relief, walked back to the bus stop, and sat down on some steps just to the left. Not a minute had gone by before the Nona reappeared! She seemed very put out that we were back and again took up the cry of "NAPOLI NAPOLI!" and gestured frantically at a large sign reading Napoli with an arrow in the direction of the highway. She actually started to herd us, and I'm sure sensing the Italian in Nina, gave her a little smack in the right direction. Thankfully at that moment our bus appeared. The Nona flagged it down for us and asked the driver to make sure we got to Napoli. We thanked her and quickly hopped on before she could forcefully straighten our clothes, or clean our faces with a dab of spit, as that was the direction our relationship with her seemed headed.
We spent the rest of day lounging in our fabulous hostel in Naples (I could not give enough praise to this place - Bella Capri) and generally being lazy. That night we ventured out to find some authentic Neapolitan pizza at 6 pm (a very gauche time to eat here). We were both starving and not eager to find ourselves far from home once it got too dark. We wandered through some medieval looking narrow alleyways colourfully decorated with hanging laundry, and eccentric looking shops. We found the majority of them to be a kind of artist's studio specialising in the production of miniatures. This extended to small village scenes, dolls, figurines, and a variety of other objects re-affirming my earlier claim that Italians have a strange fascination with miniature-based home decor.
At the end of this surreal little section of streets we came upon a veritable hole in the wall pizza joint where we had some of the best pizza I have ever tasted, and a bottle of wine for under 10 euros each. The combination of this great "deal" (a oft used word in Nina's vocabulary), and the wine made Nina gleefully happy. She smiled on Naples and ventured to say that maybe her first impression (that Naples was a blight on Italy's otherwise lovely face) had been wrong.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Admiring Hadrian
Hi Everyone, I'm really trying to get down all my Rome notes, but it has been made much more difficult since I arrived in Amalfi. I am now typing on a laptop awkwardly set up in a bar where I have been participating in Happy Hour (this entitles me to 15 minutes of free internet). Let's see how far I get.
Our second day in Rome I will not comment on too much. Nina and I went for a long walk that started with us at S. Agostino to check out Caravaggio's Madonna with the dirty feet. Appropriately we had very dirty feet, as we arrived dripping wet in the church after being caught in a torrential downpour. After that, we went on a very long walk that ended in our visit to the Borghese Museum where I got to admire for 10 blissful minutes Correggio's Danae. After that we had another delicious dinner at Frank and Silvia's and went to bed early (comme toujours!).
Hmmm, I have left Nina alone for too long with our drinks I think. I will edit this post soon and finish up our adventures in Rome before I begin to describe how crazy Naples was.
Ciao!
Continued the next day (September 23rd)
Tivoli is always a place I had fancied visiting. This is mostly due to the fact that professors told me I should go, and partly due to my own warm feelings for the Emperor Hadrian. If you aren't familiar with Hadrian give his name a google. Besides being a fairly decent Emperor he was also a visionary architect. While the Pantheon is his best known project, his Villa at Tivoli is also a marvel to behold. (In addition to this he also had very good taste in young men - please google "bust of Antinous" also. Delicious!)
Nina having never heard of Tivoli was eager enough to see what I had built up as a spectacular day trip. I must admit that the day started on less than a promising note when we found ourselves in the unkempt looking modern Tivoli. With confusing signage as our only guide (the tourist office kept being promised by the aforementioned signage but was never located) we decided to hoof it to the Villa d'Este (a renaissance period villa known for its beautiful gardens). We did, in fact, find it after a somewhat worrisome walk where signs were few and far between, such that you would just get to the "I've given up all hope" stage and were prepared to call a cab when at that moment another one would cheerily appear.
The gardens of the Villa are really quite extraordinary. There are a great number of fountains made remarkable by the fact that each of them is so unique from one another. Some send huge firework-like jets of water up in the sky, framing immodest statues of goddesses, and laughing children who turn their spray nozzles towards the viewers. Some others run down long staircases, which are pitted by a series of basins each passing their overflow on to the next. My personal favourite was a long line of waterspouts all fashioned as different animal faces.
Impressed though we were by the Villa d'Este, Hadrian's Villa put it to shame. Firstly it is huge, and while it is mostly a ruin there are small tastes of its former luxuriousness preserved. Wandering around, Nina and I agreed that the best part of the experience was that we were mostly alone. We could wander for long stretches without meting a single soul. As silly and romantic as it might sound I feel that this wonderful stillness allowed the buildings to really speak to us, and impress us with their simple grandeur. We were left alone to admire, puzzle over, praise, condemn, even touch as we saw fit.
I couldn't have wished for more.
Our second day in Rome I will not comment on too much. Nina and I went for a long walk that started with us at S. Agostino to check out Caravaggio's Madonna with the dirty feet. Appropriately we had very dirty feet, as we arrived dripping wet in the church after being caught in a torrential downpour. After that, we went on a very long walk that ended in our visit to the Borghese Museum where I got to admire for 10 blissful minutes Correggio's Danae. After that we had another delicious dinner at Frank and Silvia's and went to bed early (comme toujours!).
Hmmm, I have left Nina alone for too long with our drinks I think. I will edit this post soon and finish up our adventures in Rome before I begin to describe how crazy Naples was.
Ciao!
Continued the next day (September 23rd)
Tivoli is always a place I had fancied visiting. This is mostly due to the fact that professors told me I should go, and partly due to my own warm feelings for the Emperor Hadrian. If you aren't familiar with Hadrian give his name a google. Besides being a fairly decent Emperor he was also a visionary architect. While the Pantheon is his best known project, his Villa at Tivoli is also a marvel to behold. (In addition to this he also had very good taste in young men - please google "bust of Antinous" also. Delicious!)
Nina having never heard of Tivoli was eager enough to see what I had built up as a spectacular day trip. I must admit that the day started on less than a promising note when we found ourselves in the unkempt looking modern Tivoli. With confusing signage as our only guide (the tourist office kept being promised by the aforementioned signage but was never located) we decided to hoof it to the Villa d'Este (a renaissance period villa known for its beautiful gardens). We did, in fact, find it after a somewhat worrisome walk where signs were few and far between, such that you would just get to the "I've given up all hope" stage and were prepared to call a cab when at that moment another one would cheerily appear.
The gardens of the Villa are really quite extraordinary. There are a great number of fountains made remarkable by the fact that each of them is so unique from one another. Some send huge firework-like jets of water up in the sky, framing immodest statues of goddesses, and laughing children who turn their spray nozzles towards the viewers. Some others run down long staircases, which are pitted by a series of basins each passing their overflow on to the next. My personal favourite was a long line of waterspouts all fashioned as different animal faces.
Impressed though we were by the Villa d'Este, Hadrian's Villa put it to shame. Firstly it is huge, and while it is mostly a ruin there are small tastes of its former luxuriousness preserved. Wandering around, Nina and I agreed that the best part of the experience was that we were mostly alone. We could wander for long stretches without meting a single soul. As silly and romantic as it might sound I feel that this wonderful stillness allowed the buildings to really speak to us, and impress us with their simple grandeur. We were left alone to admire, puzzle over, praise, condemn, even touch as we saw fit.
I couldn't have wished for more.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Life in the Ghetto
So, as I said, we left camping Roma the morning of the 17th for Frank and Silvia's place in the old Jewish Ghetto. Walking into the Piazza Della Cinque Scuole I could not have been happier to see their huge green medieval-looking front door. Passing through the portal into the cool inner stairway Nina and I both let out sighs of appreciation. Frank and Silvia live in the most beautiful apartment imaginable on the top floor, which is accessed by climbing up three floors of wide winding marble stairs.
After Frank let us in, we put our stuff down in our room, grabbed a key and headed out to explore the Rome we know and love. I suppose for some Rome is an abrasive city; it is loud, fast moving, and expensive. It is also a literal palimpsest of history - a city that manages to live in both the past and the present in one breath. Depending on what you have come to find, Rome is a very different city for different people. Our first day Nina and I got a taste of Baroque Rome more than anything else.
I admit it is easy to find Rome too much if you get bogged down in the Baroque. Baroque art and architecture can quite literally take your breath away, often accompanied with a wince. It has the grace of large elephant navigating a gondola through the canals of Venice. We are talking about bigger is better taken to the enth degree. GOLD, COLOURED MARBLE, CHERUBS, CHAOTIC SCENES OF THE HEAVENS PAINTED ON THE CEILINGS ALL TOPPED OFF BY SEVERAL DOMES. At its best it is very impressive, or taken too far, totally ridiculous (see St. Peter's).
Nina indulged me in about four, or five churches so that I could see some Caravaggios, and then we traipsed off to a part of town known for vintage shopping and I bought an overpriced, but beautiful bag. It is a dark red, purply snake skin bag with a gold chain strap, and gold handles so that I can wear it either over the shoulder or carry it. Silvia was very impressed by it, and she has great taste, so I felt I had made a good purchase.
we fell asleep that night in our own bed, wine soaked and overfed. It was simply wonderful.
After Frank let us in, we put our stuff down in our room, grabbed a key and headed out to explore the Rome we know and love. I suppose for some Rome is an abrasive city; it is loud, fast moving, and expensive. It is also a literal palimpsest of history - a city that manages to live in both the past and the present in one breath. Depending on what you have come to find, Rome is a very different city for different people. Our first day Nina and I got a taste of Baroque Rome more than anything else.
I admit it is easy to find Rome too much if you get bogged down in the Baroque. Baroque art and architecture can quite literally take your breath away, often accompanied with a wince. It has the grace of large elephant navigating a gondola through the canals of Venice. We are talking about bigger is better taken to the enth degree. GOLD, COLOURED MARBLE, CHERUBS, CHAOTIC SCENES OF THE HEAVENS PAINTED ON THE CEILINGS ALL TOPPED OFF BY SEVERAL DOMES. At its best it is very impressive, or taken too far, totally ridiculous (see St. Peter's).
Nina indulged me in about four, or five churches so that I could see some Caravaggios, and then we traipsed off to a part of town known for vintage shopping and I bought an overpriced, but beautiful bag. It is a dark red, purply snake skin bag with a gold chain strap, and gold handles so that I can wear it either over the shoulder or carry it. Silvia was very impressed by it, and she has great taste, so I felt I had made a good purchase.
we fell asleep that night in our own bed, wine soaked and overfed. It was simply wonderful.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Sept 16th Part Two: The Keyword is Rough
As much as it seemed like nothing could go wrong this morning, the catch phrase of the afternoon became "that was a little rough!"
The trouble began when we didn't take into consideration that it was a festivo day. That meant our perfectly timed train from Assisi to Rome didn't run that day, and we had to wait an additional hour and a half at the station. It was also at that point that I started to suffer horribly from sunstroke, and faded into a shell of my normally sunny self. Then our train, when it finally arrived, ran to the next station and then stopped with an an announcement that it was finished for the day. We had to wait an additional hour and a half before the next train to Rome arrived. I attempted to call TD Canada collect to sort out some minor internet banking interruptions. Utterly failing I sank into a despair fueled greatly by the aforementioned sunstroke. It was at that point that Nina was forced to revive me with lemon Fanta and a purloined (left behind at a cafe table...we think) copy of British Cosmo.
Due to the interruption of our first train, the second train became increasingly crowded. While this wasn't so bad for us, since we already had seats, we watched, with great sympathy, a parade of people pass through our car trying to find a place to sit.
Finally we arrived in Rome. We made haste for the metro to find our campground: Camping Roma, described as being located beside the Vatican. Three metro stops past the Vatican, and half an hour on the most crowded bus I have ever experienced later we arrived at the campground located conveniently in a patch of nature next to the freeway. I had sunk into such a low mood at this point that my conversation skills became a series of glares and low mutterings. This was mostly due to the guy who tried to wedge himself onto the bus, and held the doors open for five minutes until he was threatened by the driver and gave up. I was glaring distance from him giving him my meanest look while I was trying to ignore the sweat dripping down my legs, itching me fantastically, that I could not reach to brush away.
Last but not least, after finding our tent Nina and I made a bee-line for the bathroom to refresh ourselves in a number of ways. We were confronted with a cheerily decorated room done up in primary colours with small animal motifs painted on the walls. Nice, we thought, country charm chic...that is until we saw the toilets. Accessible through swinging saloon styled doors were the smallest toilets I had ever seen. They presented a number of logistical issues, but Nina and I being troupers, went ahead and used them anyway. It was only after exiting our mini stalls and noticing that the bank of sinks was about knee height, did we realize that we were in the children's bathroom.
That night as we fell asleep to the sounds of drunken Australians peeing behind our tent, we thought - this was a little rough. We left Camping Roma the next day without any sadness and made our way back to civilization in Rome proper.
The trouble began when we didn't take into consideration that it was a festivo day. That meant our perfectly timed train from Assisi to Rome didn't run that day, and we had to wait an additional hour and a half at the station. It was also at that point that I started to suffer horribly from sunstroke, and faded into a shell of my normally sunny self. Then our train, when it finally arrived, ran to the next station and then stopped with an an announcement that it was finished for the day. We had to wait an additional hour and a half before the next train to Rome arrived. I attempted to call TD Canada collect to sort out some minor internet banking interruptions. Utterly failing I sank into a despair fueled greatly by the aforementioned sunstroke. It was at that point that Nina was forced to revive me with lemon Fanta and a purloined (left behind at a cafe table...we think) copy of British Cosmo.
Due to the interruption of our first train, the second train became increasingly crowded. While this wasn't so bad for us, since we already had seats, we watched, with great sympathy, a parade of people pass through our car trying to find a place to sit.
Finally we arrived in Rome. We made haste for the metro to find our campground: Camping Roma, described as being located beside the Vatican. Three metro stops past the Vatican, and half an hour on the most crowded bus I have ever experienced later we arrived at the campground located conveniently in a patch of nature next to the freeway. I had sunk into such a low mood at this point that my conversation skills became a series of glares and low mutterings. This was mostly due to the guy who tried to wedge himself onto the bus, and held the doors open for five minutes until he was threatened by the driver and gave up. I was glaring distance from him giving him my meanest look while I was trying to ignore the sweat dripping down my legs, itching me fantastically, that I could not reach to brush away.
Last but not least, after finding our tent Nina and I made a bee-line for the bathroom to refresh ourselves in a number of ways. We were confronted with a cheerily decorated room done up in primary colours with small animal motifs painted on the walls. Nice, we thought, country charm chic...that is until we saw the toilets. Accessible through swinging saloon styled doors were the smallest toilets I had ever seen. They presented a number of logistical issues, but Nina and I being troupers, went ahead and used them anyway. It was only after exiting our mini stalls and noticing that the bank of sinks was about knee height, did we realize that we were in the children's bathroom.
That night as we fell asleep to the sounds of drunken Australians peeing behind our tent, we thought - this was a little rough. We left Camping Roma the next day without any sadness and made our way back to civilization in Rome proper.
September 16th: At one with the Backpack
And I am officially sunburned!
The pinkish glow that has blushed my cheeks is well worth it; earned, as it was, by lying contemplatively with my head against the walls of San Francesco after a rapturous tour of Giotto's frescoes. Lying on the hot stones that pave the courtyard in front of the church, I was aware of how idyllic it was for once to have a backpack - I really looked the part of a pilgrim (albeit with Geox driving mocks instead of the traditional thong sandals).
From the train station in Assisi we found a bus that would take us up to San Francesco. We ended up riding for free since the driver took pity on us, sad as we looked with our cumbersome loads (I feel St. Francis would approve). The bus dropped us off at the foot of a steeply inclined road up to the church. Feeling the full weight of my pack, my shoes slipping on the stones paving the road polished by millions of feet making the same trek, I thought, I am really toiling for this. A monk smiled at me. This is great, I thought! Apparently, as long as I look like I have a religious purpose, my gauche appearance is totally justified.
At the summit we threw off our bags and simply stared in unadulterated appreciation. San Francesco is an appropriate tribute to St. Francis' greatness. Wonderfully, it manages to be both majestic and humble at the same time. Standing in front of its facade, the church is unassumingly simple looking: a flat, white wall punctuated by a simple rose window. However, from the side, one can appreciate its sheer size, with a long line of arcaded wall stretching into the distance.
At the doors of the church we inspected the signage indicating what was prohibited inside. There was the usual: no flash photography, pets, food, drinks etc. All of this was perfectly understandable in international sign language...all except one sign. I can't draw it for you here, but to my eyes it looked like two figures of unknowable sex wearing sleeveless and almost bottomless ensembles. Our possible interpretations were: no leiderhosen, or no effeminately gay swiss men, or (and least likely) no Village People groupies. Either way it didn't help us understand if we could take our backpacks into the church. We couldn', and took turns waiting for one another outside, resulting in my sunburn/sunstroke.
Though both the upper and lower chapels were stunning, I did ponder the lower space for quite some time afterwards. There is almost no free wall space. Every square inch (the ceiling included) has been decorated. As much as I enjoyed the individual scenes, I walked away from the experience feeling like it was a little busy. The effect, I must admit, is awesome (I use the word in the biblical sense); the walls actually seem to melt away, time collapses and you are left feeling like the heavens are pressing in on you.
Nina and I debated the issue for some time until she said, "Italy is so beautiful naturally that one must have to make an even greater effort to create truly impressive art." That struck a chord with me. Italians are a razzle-dazzle kind of people; they are lovers of sparkles, bold colours, figurine based decoration, and even more melodramatic soap operas. Why would you wear plain, unadorned jeans when you could add a rhinestone decal on the back pocket? Why wear flats when you could wear stiletto heels? And, why expose chest hair plainly when you could drag unwilling eyes towards it with a flashy gold chain?
So why not get a little carried away with frescoes. Go big or go home.
The pinkish glow that has blushed my cheeks is well worth it; earned, as it was, by lying contemplatively with my head against the walls of San Francesco after a rapturous tour of Giotto's frescoes. Lying on the hot stones that pave the courtyard in front of the church, I was aware of how idyllic it was for once to have a backpack - I really looked the part of a pilgrim (albeit with Geox driving mocks instead of the traditional thong sandals).
From the train station in Assisi we found a bus that would take us up to San Francesco. We ended up riding for free since the driver took pity on us, sad as we looked with our cumbersome loads (I feel St. Francis would approve). The bus dropped us off at the foot of a steeply inclined road up to the church. Feeling the full weight of my pack, my shoes slipping on the stones paving the road polished by millions of feet making the same trek, I thought, I am really toiling for this. A monk smiled at me. This is great, I thought! Apparently, as long as I look like I have a religious purpose, my gauche appearance is totally justified.
At the summit we threw off our bags and simply stared in unadulterated appreciation. San Francesco is an appropriate tribute to St. Francis' greatness. Wonderfully, it manages to be both majestic and humble at the same time. Standing in front of its facade, the church is unassumingly simple looking: a flat, white wall punctuated by a simple rose window. However, from the side, one can appreciate its sheer size, with a long line of arcaded wall stretching into the distance.
At the doors of the church we inspected the signage indicating what was prohibited inside. There was the usual: no flash photography, pets, food, drinks etc. All of this was perfectly understandable in international sign language...all except one sign. I can't draw it for you here, but to my eyes it looked like two figures of unknowable sex wearing sleeveless and almost bottomless ensembles. Our possible interpretations were: no leiderhosen, or no effeminately gay swiss men, or (and least likely) no Village People groupies. Either way it didn't help us understand if we could take our backpacks into the church. We couldn', and took turns waiting for one another outside, resulting in my sunburn/sunstroke.
Though both the upper and lower chapels were stunning, I did ponder the lower space for quite some time afterwards. There is almost no free wall space. Every square inch (the ceiling included) has been decorated. As much as I enjoyed the individual scenes, I walked away from the experience feeling like it was a little busy. The effect, I must admit, is awesome (I use the word in the biblical sense); the walls actually seem to melt away, time collapses and you are left feeling like the heavens are pressing in on you.
Nina and I debated the issue for some time until she said, "Italy is so beautiful naturally that one must have to make an even greater effort to create truly impressive art." That struck a chord with me. Italians are a razzle-dazzle kind of people; they are lovers of sparkles, bold colours, figurine based decoration, and even more melodramatic soap operas. Why would you wear plain, unadorned jeans when you could add a rhinestone decal on the back pocket? Why wear flats when you could wear stiletto heels? And, why expose chest hair plainly when you could drag unwilling eyes towards it with a flashy gold chain?
So why not get a little carried away with frescoes. Go big or go home.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Firenze recap
While our time in Florence passed amazingly quickly, it was our longest travel pause yet. We spent three nights there and filled every single minute of our waking days with solid sightseeing.
There was something very pleasant for both of us about returning to a city with a high level of familiarity. I had a lay of the land, and clear views of what I wanted to re-visit (the Uffizi) and what I could skip (The Accademia - seeing David is really a one off - he looses his shock value after that first realisation of how big he really is). I really only regret not seeing two things. One was the Laurentian Library in San Lorenzo (designed brilliantly by Michelangelo) the other, a water rat in the Arno.
It has always been my great wish to see a Florentine water rat. Like all things hideous and grotesque you both want to see it, and hope that you won't in equal measures. The Florentine water rat could be described as: a rat grown to be about the size of a large muskrat, which patrols the banks of the Arno terrifying and delighting tourists whenever it chooses to pop its head out of the water. Nina, with her keen animal spotting eyes, did actually see one. All I saw was the pool of ripples it left behind. I still haven't forgiven her.
The first day we trekked from the Piazza Michelangelo to the city center, and spent the whole day in the heart of the city managing to tour the Duomo, the Baptistry, Or San Michele, Santa Croce, Santa Maria Novella, San Lorenzo and its surrounding market, as well as the Piazza della Signoria. In the most latter we were actually filmed as part of a pilot for a new American travel show hosted by a very charming, if not quirky, woman named (get ready for it Leia) Barbarella. We'll let you know if we make the cut for the final airing.
Our second full day we arose at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am in order to line up for the Uffizi at 7:30 am. We had a fantastic time there, me in particular, as I lovingly admired one of my favourite Caravaggio paintings of a young Bacchus. From there we hightailed it to the train station to meet up with Charles I (my friend from McGill) and his girlfriend Doris. They have both just completed Masters programs in food sciences (Charles correct me with the more accurate title!), and, as such, are experts in Italian food. Nina and I were led to an authentic Tuscan restaurant behind the market, and later an above average gelatteria.
Totally filled with some of Florence's best eats we then headed off to a very famous perfumerie/herbalist. It was established in the 17th century and has amazingly ornate wall and ceiling decorations. Its elegant beauty was, however, marred for me by an outrageously bad art show that was being exhibited throughout the store. It was entitled "Light - Paper - Imagination" so already I was prepared for it to be a winner. Basically I was looking at large sheaths of watercolour paper decorated with pictures of inoffensively nude women serenely minding their own business with a distinct air of self-importance. What made this different from any other amateur work one might see in a high school sketchbook was the addition of a light positioned behind the canvas, whose changing colours would illuminate hitherto unseen images on the canvas hidden to the naked eye. The artist's statement was as follows: "The paintings present two images contemporarilly: the visible image and the invisible image." Please search through the depths of that statement to find some semblance of artistic integrity.
To top off the day we ended our travels at my favourite church in the city: San Miniato al Monte, which, miraculously, was still open. The inside of the church is decorated with beautiful frescos, coloured marbles, and beautifully vibrant wooden beaming across the ceiling. However, the best decorative feature is its 13th century apse mosaic depicting (no shocker here) a large image of Christ offering his blessing. From its front doors, San Miniato offers the best view of Florence (known to me). High up above the busy bankers, and click clack of stiletto heeled power shoppers, Florence is still a medieval city, an artistic stronghold, and a marvel to be seen.
There was something very pleasant for both of us about returning to a city with a high level of familiarity. I had a lay of the land, and clear views of what I wanted to re-visit (the Uffizi) and what I could skip (The Accademia - seeing David is really a one off - he looses his shock value after that first realisation of how big he really is). I really only regret not seeing two things. One was the Laurentian Library in San Lorenzo (designed brilliantly by Michelangelo) the other, a water rat in the Arno.
It has always been my great wish to see a Florentine water rat. Like all things hideous and grotesque you both want to see it, and hope that you won't in equal measures. The Florentine water rat could be described as: a rat grown to be about the size of a large muskrat, which patrols the banks of the Arno terrifying and delighting tourists whenever it chooses to pop its head out of the water. Nina, with her keen animal spotting eyes, did actually see one. All I saw was the pool of ripples it left behind. I still haven't forgiven her.
The first day we trekked from the Piazza Michelangelo to the city center, and spent the whole day in the heart of the city managing to tour the Duomo, the Baptistry, Or San Michele, Santa Croce, Santa Maria Novella, San Lorenzo and its surrounding market, as well as the Piazza della Signoria. In the most latter we were actually filmed as part of a pilot for a new American travel show hosted by a very charming, if not quirky, woman named (get ready for it Leia) Barbarella. We'll let you know if we make the cut for the final airing.
Our second full day we arose at the ungodly hour of 6:30 am in order to line up for the Uffizi at 7:30 am. We had a fantastic time there, me in particular, as I lovingly admired one of my favourite Caravaggio paintings of a young Bacchus. From there we hightailed it to the train station to meet up with Charles I (my friend from McGill) and his girlfriend Doris. They have both just completed Masters programs in food sciences (Charles correct me with the more accurate title!), and, as such, are experts in Italian food. Nina and I were led to an authentic Tuscan restaurant behind the market, and later an above average gelatteria.
Totally filled with some of Florence's best eats we then headed off to a very famous perfumerie/herbalist. It was established in the 17th century and has amazingly ornate wall and ceiling decorations. Its elegant beauty was, however, marred for me by an outrageously bad art show that was being exhibited throughout the store. It was entitled "Light - Paper - Imagination" so already I was prepared for it to be a winner. Basically I was looking at large sheaths of watercolour paper decorated with pictures of inoffensively nude women serenely minding their own business with a distinct air of self-importance. What made this different from any other amateur work one might see in a high school sketchbook was the addition of a light positioned behind the canvas, whose changing colours would illuminate hitherto unseen images on the canvas hidden to the naked eye. The artist's statement was as follows: "The paintings present two images contemporarilly: the visible image and the invisible image." Please search through the depths of that statement to find some semblance of artistic integrity.
To top off the day we ended our travels at my favourite church in the city: San Miniato al Monte, which, miraculously, was still open. The inside of the church is decorated with beautiful frescos, coloured marbles, and beautifully vibrant wooden beaming across the ceiling. However, the best decorative feature is its 13th century apse mosaic depicting (no shocker here) a large image of Christ offering his blessing. From its front doors, San Miniato offers the best view of Florence (known to me). High up above the busy bankers, and click clack of stiletto heeled power shoppers, Florence is still a medieval city, an artistic stronghold, and a marvel to be seen.
A Tent with a View
(Written on September 16th)
It is early. For the second day in a row Nina and I have arisen around 6:30 am in order to accomplish our goals set for the day. Today we are leaving Florence for Rome with a short stop- over in Assisi where I can make a pilgrimage to San Francesco. Nina has managed to fall back asleep but I, after a short doze, am left to stare out the window. The sun hasn't fully risen yet, a fact confirmed when we pass by a sleepy looking field of sunflowers, their heads all bowed.
We had two very busy days in Florence, where I happily retraced my steps from two summers ago - even passing by my old apartment.
Upon arriving in Florence Nina and I crammed ourselves into the jam packed no.13 bus (whose driver highly resembled Lorenzo de Medici - of course it was fabulously appropriate), which dropped us off just outside the Campeggio Michelangelo. We had secured a reservation there (with a bit of help) after leaving several slightly hysterical messages with friends and family members post consumption of a large carafe of wine. We have sworn to be more organised in the future.
We found ourselves in surprisingly luxurious accommodations considering we were staying in a camp ground. Our tent was a permanent canvas structure, with an elevated wooden floor, and three beds (one for Nina, one for me, and one for all of our stuff). It was glorious to have a "room" all to ourselves. Topping all of this off, when you looked out the window, filtered through the grove of olive trees our campground was nestled in, was an unparalleled view of the city. I feel even E.M. Forster would have felt inspired by our romantically rustic sleeping quarters.
It is early. For the second day in a row Nina and I have arisen around 6:30 am in order to accomplish our goals set for the day. Today we are leaving Florence for Rome with a short stop- over in Assisi where I can make a pilgrimage to San Francesco. Nina has managed to fall back asleep but I, after a short doze, am left to stare out the window. The sun hasn't fully risen yet, a fact confirmed when we pass by a sleepy looking field of sunflowers, their heads all bowed.
We had two very busy days in Florence, where I happily retraced my steps from two summers ago - even passing by my old apartment.
Upon arriving in Florence Nina and I crammed ourselves into the jam packed no.13 bus (whose driver highly resembled Lorenzo de Medici - of course it was fabulously appropriate), which dropped us off just outside the Campeggio Michelangelo. We had secured a reservation there (with a bit of help) after leaving several slightly hysterical messages with friends and family members post consumption of a large carafe of wine. We have sworn to be more organised in the future.
We found ourselves in surprisingly luxurious accommodations considering we were staying in a camp ground. Our tent was a permanent canvas structure, with an elevated wooden floor, and three beds (one for Nina, one for me, and one for all of our stuff). It was glorious to have a "room" all to ourselves. Topping all of this off, when you looked out the window, filtered through the grove of olive trees our campground was nestled in, was an unparalleled view of the city. I feel even E.M. Forster would have felt inspired by our romantically rustic sleeping quarters.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Leaving Lake Como
Being from Toronto, a very flat place, I am always excited by the sight of mountains. For whatever reason they cast the same spell over me every time, and I am rendered quite speechless before them.
Here on Lake Como, the mountain view changes from moment to moment, delighting me afresh every time I turn around. In Menaggio, where we have been staying, if you stand in one spot and look out to left you would see the craggy rock face of a mountain sternly looking out over the lake like an ancient, though slightly grumpy, guardian. Turn 180 degrees and you are gazing down a long channel of water bordered by two long chains of moss green mountains gently folding into one another.
There is a fluidity to the rolling trees and grasses, almost as if it were batter poured on top of a hard rock foundation that hasn't quite set yet. Indeed, there is a part of me that wants to take a bite out of it, or, at least, run my tongue across the soft moss-like surface. It reminds me vaguely of a story I had to read many times this summer to young Daniel Barr about a sheep who wishes to grow bigger, and ends up eating the whole world. There are pictures of him taking huge bites out of trees and hilltops.
I envy him.
Here on Lake Como, the mountain view changes from moment to moment, delighting me afresh every time I turn around. In Menaggio, where we have been staying, if you stand in one spot and look out to left you would see the craggy rock face of a mountain sternly looking out over the lake like an ancient, though slightly grumpy, guardian. Turn 180 degrees and you are gazing down a long channel of water bordered by two long chains of moss green mountains gently folding into one another.
There is a fluidity to the rolling trees and grasses, almost as if it were batter poured on top of a hard rock foundation that hasn't quite set yet. Indeed, there is a part of me that wants to take a bite out of it, or, at least, run my tongue across the soft moss-like surface. It reminds me vaguely of a story I had to read many times this summer to young Daniel Barr about a sheep who wishes to grow bigger, and ends up eating the whole world. There are pictures of him taking huge bites out of trees and hilltops.
I envy him.
RUSH at the Library
Feeling out of touch with our loved ones, Nina and I decided to inspect the internet resources at the local public library. The head librarian, a cheerful looking man dressed in a royal purple shirt, informed us, much to our delight, that internet was a mere 3 Euros an hour. As we sat down he politely asked us where we were from and we replied Toronto. His face instantly lit up. "Toronto! Do you know Rush?" Nina looked confused, but I having just seen my desktop screen saver (a small tribute picture to the infamous band) replied that I did. "Rush is my favourite band," he told us. "Have you seen them live?" I replied yes again and though I hadn't though it possible his face grew even brighter. "Wow! Amazing!" "Have you?" I asked. "No," and his face took on the expression of someone who has perhaps ordered a mail order bride, had seen pictures of her, spoke to her on the phone, even watched a video of her whilst curled up in bed at night tenderly stroking the empty space beside him that held the promise of fulfilling love to come, but she had never arrived. Yet, the love had lived on, and as he got older actually increased instead of dying away like less passionately blind love might do.
"Rush never comes to Italy," he tells me. "But," and his expression lit up again, adding another 100 watts to his previously overjoyed face, "they come the 27th of September (or a date close to that) in Milan!" I was about to say, "wow you should definitely go, " but he cut me off pointing to the wall beside me. "There is my ticket! I count down the days on my calendar." He gave a nervous laugh. Then, serious again for a moment, "I listen to Rush everyday for 20 years. They are in my heart, you know?" Then he looked at us both and said, "From Toronto to Menaggio...incredible." I took this to mean that for him, he had moved a little closer to Rush just through meeting us.
Though I won't get to see it, I am fairly certain that when this man sees his beloved band he will have reached that state of Nivanna we all search for. Good for him.
"Rush never comes to Italy," he tells me. "But," and his expression lit up again, adding another 100 watts to his previously overjoyed face, "they come the 27th of September (or a date close to that) in Milan!" I was about to say, "wow you should definitely go, " but he cut me off pointing to the wall beside me. "There is my ticket! I count down the days on my calendar." He gave a nervous laugh. Then, serious again for a moment, "I listen to Rush everyday for 20 years. They are in my heart, you know?" Then he looked at us both and said, "From Toronto to Menaggio...incredible." I took this to mean that for him, he had moved a little closer to Rush just through meeting us.
Though I won't get to see it, I am fairly certain that when this man sees his beloved band he will have reached that state of Nivanna we all search for. Good for him.
Como: the one the only
Having successfully made it from Geneva to Milan, and then to the city of Como, Nina and I caught the C10 bus and sat back to enjoy the long ride around the lake to Menaggio.
Passing through the streets of Como I smiled to myself, silently appreciating the vibrancy of Italy. This is a culture that celebrates the sun. The porous stone walls of the buildings that surrounded me are saturated in burnt oranges, lemon yellows, rosy pinks, and my personal favourite: several shades of peach. This might all be too much, a sensory overload, if not for the deeper, cooler colours painted onto the window shutters and frames that punctuate each wall. Sage green, taupes and silvers, or mahogany browns, these are the colours of shade and sleep. Already I feel so much more relaxed.
Passing through the streets of Como I smiled to myself, silently appreciating the vibrancy of Italy. This is a culture that celebrates the sun. The porous stone walls of the buildings that surrounded me are saturated in burnt oranges, lemon yellows, rosy pinks, and my personal favourite: several shades of peach. This might all be too much, a sensory overload, if not for the deeper, cooler colours painted onto the window shutters and frames that punctuate each wall. Sage green, taupes and silvers, or mahogany browns, these are the colours of shade and sleep. Already I feel so much more relaxed.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
September 11 - Before the Hour of Nine: Donald
Just as we found our platform in the Geneva train station, and sat down to rest our weary backs finally freed from the heavy burden of our backpacks, we were set upon by Donald.
Obviously hearing our English, Donald, a short, goateed Scotsman sidled over and asked us where we were headed. We told him, and in response he not only told us where he was going, but also his PhD thesis, his opinions on Swiss philosophers, and what he thought of our North American mannerisms.
It is impossible to say if we could have met a more ideal stereotype of the pretentious backpacker. He threw out names like Camus and Rousseau with a calculated air of non-chalence, either with the intent to intimidate us, or better still, with the assumption that all people are familiar with eminent Swiss philosophers. I rule out the option that this was a screening device to let him know if we were interesting enough to talk to, because I truly believe he would have chatted AT us no matter what.
At the point where he began to pronounce place names in their langue maternelle - so Roma for Rome, and Geneve for Geneva - I tuned out. I re-inserted myself in the conversation only after he had the gall to ask Nina if she spoke Italian in Italian. She misunderstood the question and I answered for her.
Small blessing: we had to part ways, he to Lugano, us to Milan. He left us with a handshake, three kisses (as they do in Geneve, of course), and the pungent aftertaste of his cologne in our mouths.
Good Luck Donald wherever you are, may our paths never cross again.
Obviously hearing our English, Donald, a short, goateed Scotsman sidled over and asked us where we were headed. We told him, and in response he not only told us where he was going, but also his PhD thesis, his opinions on Swiss philosophers, and what he thought of our North American mannerisms.
It is impossible to say if we could have met a more ideal stereotype of the pretentious backpacker. He threw out names like Camus and Rousseau with a calculated air of non-chalence, either with the intent to intimidate us, or better still, with the assumption that all people are familiar with eminent Swiss philosophers. I rule out the option that this was a screening device to let him know if we were interesting enough to talk to, because I truly believe he would have chatted AT us no matter what.
At the point where he began to pronounce place names in their langue maternelle - so Roma for Rome, and Geneve for Geneva - I tuned out. I re-inserted myself in the conversation only after he had the gall to ask Nina if she spoke Italian in Italian. She misunderstood the question and I answered for her.
Small blessing: we had to part ways, he to Lugano, us to Milan. He left us with a handshake, three kisses (as they do in Geneve, of course), and the pungent aftertaste of his cologne in our mouths.
Good Luck Donald wherever you are, may our paths never cross again.
Geneva; 10:37 - The Hotel Drake a.k.a. 100 Swiss Francs Later
William: "You dont have a place booked in Geneva...the most expensive city in the world?"
- chortle, chortle
Me: "ummm...."
William: "Jessica, this is going to be one of those life lessons you may have heard about."
Today began the adventures of Nina and Jess, two North America babes (in the woods) out to conquer Switzerland. Nina and I successfully met up at Gatwick airport, and refreshed ourselves with some much needed espresso and diet coke. Our Jetsgo flight was mostly uneventful, if a little bumpy. Nina succumbed to a few moments of motion sickness (without ruining any upholstery thank you very much) and missed the picture perfect view of rolling green mountains, sparkling waters dotted with sailboats, and lush farmlands out the window as we landed. I assured her that it was beautiful and she took my word for it. This was truly a shame as by the time we found accommodations it was dark and all we could see was a promising dark outline of mountains, boats, and farmland.
After finding all the hostels booked (info I had already ascertained from William) we were directed to the Drake: home of the English business man. Every other guest I saw there was a Michael Caine look-a-like, puffing furiously on cigarette after cigarette, talking about "the convention". Our room was basic hotel fare with one addition: a couch-day bed? whose frame ends abruptly before its stuffing, eagerly throwing all edge straddlers onto the floor.
Our plan is to get up early (this actually didn't happen) and see some of the city before our train. Though Geneva has shown us some tough love, we cannot complain about its residents all of whom have been nothing but helpful and pleasant. Merci Beaucoup!
- chortle, chortle
Me: "ummm...."
William: "Jessica, this is going to be one of those life lessons you may have heard about."
Today began the adventures of Nina and Jess, two North America babes (in the woods) out to conquer Switzerland. Nina and I successfully met up at Gatwick airport, and refreshed ourselves with some much needed espresso and diet coke. Our Jetsgo flight was mostly uneventful, if a little bumpy. Nina succumbed to a few moments of motion sickness (without ruining any upholstery thank you very much) and missed the picture perfect view of rolling green mountains, sparkling waters dotted with sailboats, and lush farmlands out the window as we landed. I assured her that it was beautiful and she took my word for it. This was truly a shame as by the time we found accommodations it was dark and all we could see was a promising dark outline of mountains, boats, and farmland.
After finding all the hostels booked (info I had already ascertained from William) we were directed to the Drake: home of the English business man. Every other guest I saw there was a Michael Caine look-a-like, puffing furiously on cigarette after cigarette, talking about "the convention". Our room was basic hotel fare with one addition: a couch-day bed? whose frame ends abruptly before its stuffing, eagerly throwing all edge straddlers onto the floor.
Our plan is to get up early (this actually didn't happen) and see some of the city before our train. Though Geneva has shown us some tough love, we cannot complain about its residents all of whom have been nothing but helpful and pleasant. Merci Beaucoup!
Sunday September 9th: London
Let it be known that William Barrie is a fantastic host! Due to the fact that I arrived on Sunday, there wasn't much open. Really the only thing we could do is go out pubbing, which is exactly what we did. A miniature pub crawl through Islington (the name of which my customs official gave an approving nod to when I told him that was where I was staying) ended in dinner back at William's with more wine and spicy pasta. Late in the evening it was clear that we needed dessert to cut some of the alcohol, and I was sent out to the shops. We then discovered the very delicious combination of Scottish oat cakes, Ben and Jerry's Vanilla ice cream, and organic butterscotch toffee infused chocolate. This was enjoyed while watching a reality television show about power hungry women in the Yarmouth WI. Who knew so much tension could be created out of organising flower shows, jam sales, and wearing pearls.
Now, as I am lying in my luxurious double bed, I cast my mind forward to when I get to come back here at the end of my trip. All the shops in the area are heartbreakingly beautiful, and the company couldn't be better.
Oh, before I forget...the plane incident I made mention of. There was an elderly man on my flight who collapsed after he ingested too many sedatives. So, of course, he was fine. This info came to the rest of plane after quite a lag however, after we had all been awakened by a piercing scream, and saw paddles being taken out of a first aid kit.
It was more than the usual my plane food is inedible excitement.
Now, as I am lying in my luxurious double bed, I cast my mind forward to when I get to come back here at the end of my trip. All the shops in the area are heartbreakingly beautiful, and the company couldn't be better.
Oh, before I forget...the plane incident I made mention of. There was an elderly man on my flight who collapsed after he ingested too many sedatives. So, of course, he was fine. This info came to the rest of plane after quite a lag however, after we had all been awakened by a piercing scream, and saw paddles being taken out of a first aid kit.
It was more than the usual my plane food is inedible excitement.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Running late in London!
Ok, so I am supposed to be running out the door at this very moment, but I felt the need to stop f and say, "Hello!" I made it, and despite the man who almost died on my flight over (more details later), I am happy to report that my first brush with Britain has been a success.
William was a fantastic host. He took me on a miniature pub crawl as he showed me the sights of Islington and fed me wonderful food. (He also has remarkably fluffy towels...mmm). Anyway, now I really must fly to meet Nina at Gatwick airport.
Details are coming!
Love,
Jess
William was a fantastic host. He took me on a miniature pub crawl as he showed me the sights of Islington and fed me wonderful food. (He also has remarkably fluffy towels...mmm). Anyway, now I really must fly to meet Nina at Gatwick airport.
Details are coming!
Love,
Jess
Friday, September 7, 2007
pre-flight jitters
Much as I like to travel, I always fall victim to a few cobwebs of doubt. They're easy enough to push though, but unpleasant feeling none the less. What have I to feel so nervous about? Not the anticipation of an Italian sunburn, a close encounter with the Neapolitan mafia, or having every Caravaggio in Italy being sent to Russia on loan. I feel quite certain I can overcome these small obstacles (other countries may present me with petit challenges as well, but I am confident my immense charm will see me through safely). I think what worries me most of all is being out of contact with all of you. Of course, even as we speak, I am trying to do my part of keeping in touch. I hope most of you will drop me a line every so often while I am away. However, we all know there is no substitute for live conversation. There is no way around it, I shall miss you TERRIBLY!
Thanks for encouraging me to hoist up my heavy pack and treat myself to a little self-indulgent wandering.
Arrivederci dahlings!
Thanks for encouraging me to hoist up my heavy pack and treat myself to a little self-indulgent wandering.
Arrivederci dahlings!
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