The Good People of Umbria and a Travel Miracle

November 9, 2012 - The Good People of Umbria and a Travel Miracle

I dreamed of Italy and the place I dreamed of was Umbria. I loved it (from pictures) for the sunlit balconies, the cities built up mountains, the vineyards and olive trees, the greenery, and the sunshine. All that sunshine. I could see myself there. So I decide I’m going to live in Umbria. In a villa up on a mountainside. For five nights anyway.

To this end, I’ve booked a stay in an upstairs apartment, complete with balcony, at an Agriturismo Farm in a place called Todi. I’m not sure this is the highlight of my trip, but it’s something I’ve been looking forward to. The time to sit still. To be alone. To be away from city bustle and chaos. To slow down. To read. To write. To do nothing. To drink local wine. To eat fresh produce. To sleep in. To see what a dream looks like in real time, firsthand. It’s going to be my get-away in the middle of my grand get-away.

I pack my bag, wave goodbye to Florence, and catch the train to Perugia. I stick my earpieces in and listen to the songs shuffling through my playlist. I smile when Pavarotti comes on. It seems fitting. While the music plays, I flip through my notebook to see what my next step will be. I’ve got to take a bus from Perugia to Todi and then get the two kilometers from the bus station to La Torriola. How hard can that be?

Well.

There’s a kiosk right outside the Perugia train station. I get in line and when it’s my turn I say, “Un biglietto per Todi, per favore (one ticket to Todi, please).” The lady behind the glass pulls out a batch of tickets, tears one off, and slides it through the half circle opening at me in exchange for the money I hand over. She’s looking past me now, already waiting for the next in line. But I’m not quite done. “Where do I wait?” I ask her in my broken Italian. She gives me an irritated glance and gestures in a direction generally behind me. 

“Grazie,” I say, and step away.

This little area of Perugia is shaped like a tetradecagon; there are corners everywhere. But following the lady’s gesture, I go to the nearest one and look at the faded bus sign. It lists a multitude of stops, but none of them are Todi. I ask one of the people waiting and they gesture across the street to another bus stop where there are even more people waiting. I cross the street. The sign there seems to indicate that the buses go to every place in Italy except Todi. I just need to go 46 kilometers. It might as well be 46 million kilometers if I don’t know the right direction. But seriously, someone has to know how to get there. Three teenage girls are loitering by the sign and I ask them if they know where the bus to Todi leaves from. They consult the sign, agree it’s not the right way, chatter to each other and then apologize to me that they don’t know. I try two more corners. No success. So, deflated, and irritated that I don’t know more Italian, I head back towards to Kiosk willing to stir up the attendant’s wrath by asking for specifics.

I approach tentatively. The problem is I can ask how to get somewhere, that’s easy, but it’s understanding the response that can be tricky. Just as I near, a uniformed male attendant comes out of the kiosk. He looks somewhat friendly so I dish out my question.

“Todi?” he asks.

I nod. He rattles off a long stream of instructions and points to the original bus stop. “You have to take the bus from there to the main bus station of Perugia. It’s about a ten minute trip and you get off at Plaza Partigiani.” At least this is what I think he says. I point at the bus stop and repeat the get off plaza. He nods and leaves me to wander the world alone.

The bus arrives shortly after and I get on. I ask the driver if he goes to the Plaza Partigiani and if it’s near the bus station to Todi. He says it is, so I sit down. I haven’t purchased a ticket for this bus, and since I haven’t purchased it I can’t validate it. Which means if a ticket checker gets on and I get caught I would have to pay all kinds of fines. But that seems to be the least of my worries.

Perugia is pretty. The trees are turning from green to colors of fall splendor. The road we take winds alluringly uphill, passing us by quaint buildings. It feels ancient and inviting. I’m too distracted to really take notice and appreciate it. Or to feel at home here. I’ve got my eyes peeled for any indication that we’re nearing the Plaza Partigiani. I could end up anywhere. Normally this would be okay only today I have somewhere specific I want to be.

The time goes by and, a little anxious, I stand up near the front of the bus and ask the driver if the next plaza is mine. He tells me no, it’ll be up the road a ways farther. Then he keeps on talking. Fortunately for me, there are enough similarities between Italian and Spanish that I can mangle my way through conversations. I smile and nod. When we get to the plaza he tells me that I’ll have to cross the street and walk around the corner in order to find the bus stop.

“Mille grazie,” I say and get off.

Per his instructions I cross the street and make it around the corner to the bus stop. Not ready to congratulate myself too prematurely on a job well done I go in search of someone who can tell me where to wait and what time I’ll leave. Inside the station I find a list of times and towns. Todi is on there. Bus 2 or 4 will take me on. Score! I get the attention of an attendant. He walks over and I ask him where I wait for the bus while pointing out the ones I want on the sheet.

“You don’t want those,” he tells me in Italian (these are not exact quotes. They are my translation based on my understanding which is pretty darn slim). “You want to take the one that leaves at 14:15.” He checks his watch. I check my time piece. I have just around half an hour before 2:15. “You have to go to the Santa Ana station,” he says.

Something shrivels up and wants to die inside me. What? This isn’t where I wait? A despairing wail starts to build in my gut and I tell it to shut up. “How do I get there?” I ask.

“You go across the street just there,” he points. “And then go up the hill, around the corner to the left and then you’re there.”

“The first street or the second street?” I ask.

“That one,” he says. Okay. I thank him, adjust my bag on my shoulders and follow directions. Vague as they are.

There are two streets that run parallel. They both go up. I’m pretty sure he meant the second street, but I see a bus stop with a lady waiting on the first one. I climb the hill. “Excuse me,” I say. “Is this the bus stop for Todi? The Santa Ana Station?”

“No,” she says. “You go down the hill, around the corner, back around and then you’ll see it on your left.”

I thank her and go down the hill, around the corner, and back around. I see nothing on my left except a little café and a train stop. I ask the bartender where the bus stop to Todi is. He speaks English and says to go back out and across the street and then I’ll see it on my left. Or maybe it was to my right.

I’m beginning to think it’s all one big joke. There is no bus to Todi. Despite the research I’d done that said Todi could be reached by bus from Perugia via the APM bus system I just don’t believe it. I wish I’d been smart (like I have up to this point) in sketching out walking directions for myself from station to station. Like they say, “Hind sight is twenty twenty.” I ask a couple more people about the Santa Ana Station. Somewhere in all this, as the seconds and minutes click closer to 2:15, it dawns on me. Santa Ana Station is the train station. The bus guy sent me to the train station. Thanks a lot. And that’s where I am. Screw the buses.

I go inside the depot. The guy in line before me is speaking to the attendant in English. So I approach the counter with my native tongue on my lips. “Is this train,” I point out the window, “the one going to Todi?”

“Yes,” he says.

I hold up the bus ticket I’d purchased years ago from the kiosk. “I bought this bus ticket. Will it by chance work on the train?”

“How much did you pay?” he asks.

“Five fifty euros,” I say.

“That’s more than you would have paid for a train ticket,” he tells me. “It’s three twenty. So it should be fine.”

“Thanks,” I say. I head across the platform to the train, step up and try to validate my ticket. The machine denies it. Already having tested the gods by taking a free bus ride, I’m suddenly worried. I speed walk back to the depot. “Can I buy a train ticket?”

“Why?” he asks.

“I can’t validate this,” I tell him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Just tell the conductor before the train leaves.”

The conductor is standing on the platform as I come out of the depot. I don’t know what language I’m speaking but I somehow tell him that I’ve bought this ticket, but I can’t validate it and I’m going to Todi. He takes the ticket, looks at it, tells me not to worry and to go ahead and get on the train.

So I do.

Although I’ve made it by some weird luck I still feel antsy and more than a little—not exactly lost—but lost.

I get a window seat and try to relax. A guy takes the seat next to me and his father, uncle, someone older, takes the seat across from us. We nod at each other and I try to look local. The all aboard is called and then the train gets underway. With a kind of incredulity I remind myself that I made the train, without even having to run for it, and I’m heading in the right direction. Through no merit of my own. As blindly as possible. It’s a miracle for me the blunderer.

The conductor comes by to punch our tickets.

“Terni?” he asks the men. They nod.

“Todi,” I say, when I hand him mine. He nods and punches my ticket. Now I breathe easier. No fines this trip.

The train chugs on and we make a few stops. Train stops for the little towns usually hit the minute mark and then they’re off again. Most people gather their things the stop before and go to stand by the doors. It’s been my modus operandi up to this point to know how many stops there are before mine. That way I can mark my progress and get up in time to get off the train at the appropriate stop just like everyone else. This time I have no clue. 

What happened? I ask myself.  How did you manage to be so unprepared for this?

I have no idea, I respond.

I’ll say, I say.

But there are ways of finding things out. I turn to my seat mate and in the best Italian I can manage ask, “Is Terni before or after Todi?”

“After,” he says.

“Thanks,” I say.

“There are two stops for Todi,” he continues. “Which one do you want?”

“I don’t know,” I say.

The conductor shuffles through and the older man taps his elbow. “She doesn’t know when to get off. Can you tell her when we get to Todi?”

“Don’t worry,” the conductor tells him, tells me, “I’ll tell you. I have to get off in Todi myself.”

I say thanks to everyone and take the time to enjoy the passing scenery. It’s just like I had imagined it would be. Amazing. The miles run out. The distance vanishes. Soon enough, I see the Todi Ponte Rio sign as we approach the station. I begin to stand up and the older man says, “This might not be the stop.” I hesitate. Just then the conductor sticks his head around the corner. “This is it,” he says.

“Grazie. Ciao,” I tell the men. “Grazie,” I tell the conductor.

I step off the train.

It’s a miracle. I’ve arrived!   

I’ve arrived!

To the middle of nowhere.

The few people who’d gotten off with me have disappeared. The conductor is also gone. I have no ride to pick me up. No car waiting for me. And it’s siesta time. The little station is empty. There are a few cars parked out front but no one to go along with them. It’s as if all the people have been raptured and I got left behind. It’s like I’ve stepped out into a ghost town.

At least I’m in the right place. Ghosts or not. And only 1.86 miles from my destination. Shoot, 1.86 miles? Please, I could walk that in my sleep. I set my bag on the bench outside the station and rest my shoulders. I had thought there would be a bus, but I’m not seeing any signs that validate this assumption. However, there is a sign with a taxi service number with the declaration “We Speak English.” I go inside to look for a payphone. I might be willing to pay for a ride. It’s been a long walking day already. As luck would have it, there is a payphone. But as fate sometimes thwarts things, it doesn’t take coins. It only takes a phone card which I don’t have and my cell phone doesn’t work in Europe. Too bad. Walking it is. I have driving directions listed on my confirmation email printout and I figure I can follow those for walking.

I’m not making any progress by standing still so I shoulder my pack and head out toward the road. At the main road there’s a sign pointing up the hill to Todi. It looks like a long way up to any kind of civilization, but 

I take it.

Half way up the hill I spot a shop off to my left and see two ladies inside. I make my way over, tap the glass and try to look trustworthy, friendly, and lost. One of the ladies opens the door.

“Excuse me,” I say. I’m getting good at this. “How do I get to La Torriola?”

They don’t recognize the name. I try again after consulting my paper. “Pian di san Martino?”

“Oh! Pian di san Martino,” they say. “It’s down the hill and around the corner. You’re walking?”

“Yes.”

They rattle on for a bit and then I thank them and head down the hill I’ve just walked up.

It’s a two way highway with only a small shoulder. A semi passes me and I move over into the grass. It’s not an ideal walking route, but what choice do I have? Not really any other that I know of. It’s a warm day. I’m glad I’m wearing short sleeves and thinking I should have slapped on some sunscreen. I put on my sunglasses, wipe the sweat from my brow, shrug the weight of my bag into better position and walk on.

I’ve gone ten minutes. Fifteen. Three? When I come upon a little house. There’s a car in the driveway with two people inside. An older woman leans in talking to them. I figure I’ll make sure I’m still going the right way. So I come up and stop at a respectful distance.

“Excuse me,” they all look at me. “Is this the way to Pian di san Martino?”

“Yes,” the old woman says.

“You’re walking? It’s a long way,” the man says from the driver’s seat. “It’s three kilometers.”

I could walk that in my sleep too, but I’m beginning to wish I didn’t have to. Since they don’t offer to drive me, I thank them and move my feet. A few meters later, I’m singing, “It’s a long and winding road,” and hoping that it leads me to the door I’m shooting for.

I’m taking it slow. Skipping off the shoulder into the tall grass when big vehicles zoom by. Wondering if I should be walking on the opposite side. Cutting the distance, slowly but surely, with each step. I hope.

Eventually I come to a little village. There’s no sign telling me the name or the population so I trudge on through. It’s still siesta time and the place is quiet. Asleep. Except for one man who is sitting in a chair outside a shop smoking a cigar. In my usual manner, I cross over and go to ask him if I’m on the right path.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Is this the way to Pian di san Martino?”

“You’re walking?” he asks.

I nod.

“It’s not a great road for walking,” he tells me.

Yes, this I know. I don’t have the words to tell him that my options were pretty limited. So I just nod. He takes that and runs with it. We have a long and involved conversation. I don’t understand much of it. Then he stands up and gets his helmet and goes to his scooter. I wonder if he’s going to take me. I can’t wait to tell my mom about this. Helmet in hand, he turns and asks, “Where are you going after that?” or perhaps, 

“Where is your final destination?”  

“La Torriola,” I say.

“La Torriola!” he exclaims. “I have a friend in La Torriola. I’ll call him and tell him to come pick you up.”

What a small world. What a random and happy happenstance for me.  

He pulls out his phone, dials a number, asks to speak with his friend and then we wait. I’m beginning to think his friend is unavailable. But no. My new friend tells his friend who is calling and then says, “Listen. There’s this girl who is trying to walk to La Torriola. She’s on her way to La Torriola. Walking. Bring your car and come pick her up.” There’s a little bit more exchanged and then my friend hangs up. “Okay,” he says. “Here, have a seat.” I take the chair next to his. He gets back to his cigar and begins talking a mile a minute. Faster than I could walk.

He’s asking questions and I’m doing my best to answer. I preface it all with, “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian very well.” But he doesn’t seem to care.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

I tell him. He tells me his and it’s something long and with lots of gs and vowels and I ashamedly and promptly forget.

“How old are you?” he asks. And I think, It’s the same everywhere. We all want to know those basic facts. Just watch, he’ll ask me if I’m single next.

I tell him my age. He tells me he’s 47. Or 48. “Are you traveling alone?” he asks.

It seems kind of obvious to me that I am, but I tell him yes. He keeps the conversation going until a car rumbles up to a stop in front of us. We both stand. My new friend goes to speak at his friend through the open window. His friend is a man old enough to be my grandfather. He looks out at me as my friend explains that I was walking and I just need to get to La Torriola. I’m beginning to realize he doesn’t work where I’m going. But that doesn’t seem to matter.

My friend opens the door, shakes my hand, kisses my cheeks, and wishes me luck. I thank him effusively and wish him all the best.

Then I get into the car with a complete stranger. Just wait until I tell this to my mom. I explain to him I’m trying to get to the Agriturismo farm in La Torriola, that I’m staying there on holiday. He nods his head, turns the car and we drive off. I wave goodbye through the window to my friend. My newest friend tries to get me talking. I tell him I don’t speak Italian very well. This doesn’t seem to bother him either. He talks and I smile and nod. We drive through the little town of Pian di san Martino. We drive around corners. Down roads. Up hills. Past signs that point us toward La Torriola. We drive on and on and on.

My pack is on the floorboard at my feet and I’m grateful for the chance to be sitting down. As the wheels turn and we continue, I become more and more grateful. It’s a long way. Maybe it really was only 1.86 miles, but the last bit is all uphill and twisty and turny. I’m thinking I’m the luckiest person in the whole entire world. Being helped by kind people. This is how the world could be. This is how the world sometimes is. This is the world I’m in right now.

We pass an old building and my newest friend, taps a finger against my knee then points at the building and tells me he lives there or it’s the tower that the town is named for or something like that.

“Oh,” I say. “Wow.”

Eventually, past farmhouses and vineyards, we pull in front of an open wrought iron gate. Torriola is on a sign on the stone wall. My newest friend drives us inside, honking as he goes. After a moment a man comes up from where the pool is and approaches the car.

“La Torriola,” my newest friend says.

“Thank you so much, mille mille grazie,” I tell him. I open the door and step out.

“Amanda?” the man asks.

“Maurizio?” I query.

“How did you get a ride with him?” he asks. “Why didn’t you call me when you arrived?”

“I didn’t have a phone,” I explain.

Maurizio leans in to talk with my newest friend. Gets the gist of the story from him, thanks him, and then with waves on all our sides my newest friend puts the car into gear and drives off.

“How do you expect to be here and get around without a car?” Maurizio asks me.

“I don’t really plan to leave,” I say.

He thinks I’m a little crazy. He doesn’t realize that I’ve wanted to be in a place like this for years. That I would live here forever if I could. He gets me checked in and shows me to my apartment. The view from the balcony takes my breath away. It’s so amazing I begin to think immediately in clichés.

“This place is like heaven,” I tell him.

“I don’t know about heaven,” Maurizio says. “I only know about hell.”

“Well,” I say. “I think this is heaven.”

I’m glowing from my travel success. I’m astounded and exhilarated that I made it. I’m heart warmed by the kindness I’ve received from strangers. I’ve made it 112 miles by the skin of my teeth. Florence seems a lifetime ago. I’m a nomad. A transient. 

An unprepared traveler.

“Did you not get my email?” Maurizio asks still trying to puzzle out how I made it by car with the older man (who he knows because it’s a small town).

I’d emailed him before I left Florence to see what the best way to get to La Torriola would be. I hadn’t gotten a response. “You must have sent it after I left,” I say. “I didn’t get it.”

Buzzed as I am with excitement, I give Maurizio the whole story of my day’s adventure. I know I’m blabbing, I know I’m talking too much, but I can’t help it. I’ve arrived in paradise.

“When you give your review,” Maurizio tells me, after I’ve shut up a bit. “You’ll have to make it about the kindness of the local people and not about this place.”

“I know,” I say. “I know!”

“If you want, I can run you down to the store in my car so you can get some food to last you a day or so,” he tells me.

“That would be great!” I plan to get enough so I don’t have to leave for the entire five days.

After he completes a few tasks, Maurizio takes me to the grocery store. I get what I need and then he drives me back.

I take my groceries up the steps and settle in to my new home. I put my food in the fridge. I put my clothes in the small shelf closet. I leave my toiletries in the bathroom. I set up my life outside on the balcony. I’m living a fictional life. Larger than life. Too good to be true. Picture perfect. Dreams really do come true.

When I run out of clichés I go to sleep.

The sunrise wakes me.

I take my notebook and the cappuccino that I’ve made the Italian way outside. With this view it’s like watching a living painting. I don’t need anything else. I’ve got my words and they ink down on to the page as I write:

The balcony faces east

and I sit looking into the rising sun

watch the mist and haze decide how it’ll spend the day

while drinking coffee

and thinking of Heidenstam sitting on his terrace in Sweden

Why can’t it be June evening – September morning – every day

and why do we have to die?

  

Florence the City of While You Were Sleeping

November 4, 2012 – Florence the City of While You Were Sleeping


I don’t know much about Florence except that Lucy in While You Were Sleeping wanted to go there. She never says specifically why so I don’t have a clear sense of what she wanted to see. Later in the movie, when Jack gives Lucy a snow globe as a wedding present and she overturns it to start the snow flurries and says with a depressed heartbrokenness, “Florence” the camera doesn’t zoom in enough to highlight the city’s wonders. I have no idea what to expect. I’m going because Michelangelo’s The David stands in bodily marble perfection (according to my art history classes) inside the Accademia. It’s another of the things I don’t want to leave Italy without seeing.

Because the guide books had warned me that not planning ahead could lead to severe disappointment (my own paraphrasing), I’ve purchased my tickets to both the Uffizi Gallery and the Accademia in advance in an attempt to avoid long lines (which I despise) and/or the chance that I’d not get in at all (which would be severely disappointing).

The David is one of those trendy popular things to see. A notch on the culture belt. A counting of coup for the worldly-wise, the well-travelled. The kind of place tourists love to throw into conversation, “And then we stopped by Florence and saw The David, as you do.” It lends a certain air of artistic connoisseurship to even the most unartistic. After all, it’s easy to identify The David.

As I make my way to the Uffizi Gallery, I’m afraid I’m notching my own belt. I’m finding myself too often removing myself from the distinctive and derogatory label of tourist and claiming that what I’m doing is somehow better, more noble, less snobby. “Before you try to remove the splinter from someone else’s eye you should be aware of the beam in your own,” I chastise myself.

My words don’t help; I’m not feeling the hordes today. The rampant tourists. I want everything to myself.

I’ve got a 10:00 AM appointment at the Uffizi Gallery and a 1:45 entry time for the Accademia. I’m short on sleep, already having lunch thoughts, and probably a bit dehydrated. I can sense a growing irritableness towards crowds boiling just under my skin. When I get to the Uffizi and see the lines to purchase tickets that stretch across the plaza I mouth a silent prayer of thanks to the guidebook gods for their aide.

Even with my pre-purchased ticket I still have to wait about half an hour to get inside the museum.

Then finally, I’m in.

There might be a million rooms inside. There might also be a million people. I tuck my elbows in and squeeze around the other humans in order to catch a glimpse of the paintings I’ve read about or been taught about. Somewhere in the midst of the color and paint and statuary I lose my need for a giant personal bubble. I’m pulled into the art, into the divine. Taken from the temporal for a brief moment. Here there is Bellini, Albrecht Dürer, Fra’ Bartolomeo, Michelangelo, Joos Van Cleve, Tintoretto, Parmigianino, Tiepolo, El Greco, Ligozzi, Boscoli, Pittore Fiammingo Del Primo Seicento.

“I didn’t expect to see you here!” I tell a couple of the paintings. It’s exciting. It’s thrilling. It’s overwhelming.

The hours go by. I push myself on step by step. There’s just too much art. There are so many paintings and statues to see I almost can’t “waste” the time to appreciate any one more than another. I move at a frantic pace, I don’t want to miss out on something.

Every room is jam packed with framed picture after framed picture. So much of the subject matter is the same. Adam and Eve in the garden. Adam and Eve before God. Adam and Eve being expulsed from the garden. The agony and glory of St. Sebastian shot full of arrows (this didn’t kill him, however. Irene of Rome came along just in the nick of time and rescued him and healed him up.  (Avoiding death is one of the keys to being a saint.) But Sebastian didn’t avoid it forever. He got clubbed to death later on and this time Irene was nowhere to be found). St. Gerome being visited by angels. St. Gerome looking contemplative. St. Gerome reading in the countryside. Salome with the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter. The sacrifice of Isaac. Portraits of apostles. Portraits of popes. Portraits of men. Portraits of women. Portraits of Martin Luther. And always, everywhere, in every style, renditions of the holy family. The adoration of the Magi, the annunciation, the Madonna and Christ child with relatives, with saints, with adorers, with angels.

Room after room after room. At some point, the walls close in on me and it starts to feel crowded again. I don’t have space to move around. My anxiety returns and I tense.

Calm down, I think.

If I see another Madonna and Child I’m going to scream, I reply.

Okay, I see your point, I say as the colors begin to blur, the figures fade, and it becomes just a rush – me with the clustered people – to see a name on a plaque. 



I’m ODing on art.

I’ve got to get out of here or my eyes might burst out.

Somehow (with no help from the exit sign arrows and through the labyrinth of never ending rooms) I find the exit.

Outside, the fresh air helps to clear my paint clotted head. Some.

I’ve got a little time before I have to be at the Accademia. I wander around until I find a place with outdoor seating and reasonably priced food. I get a glass of wine with my lunch. It’s gotta be five o’clock somewhere and maybe it’ll give me the chill out enough to handle another museum, another round of crowds, another whole new set of Madonnas and Children.

God help me.

Fortified with food, drink and some sit down rest, I pay my tab and head back the way I came.

At the museum, I maneuver the lines (this is more complicated than it should be) and somehow get inside. In the first room I stumble upon, Picasso’s Harlequin with Mirror hangs alongside Alberto Savinio’s Nettuno Pescatore – a delightful painting of a strange man-figure with a fish face who stands like a Godzilla image in an old street with the tops of the buildings at his elbows – and Alberto Burri’s Rosso, a sticky, paint- thick blotch of tactile red. Three paintings per room is much more manageable. I step in close, peer at the paint lines, keep my hands behind my back to avoid feeling the textures, and then step back to see the full scene. This is viewing art.

But I know that somewhere in this building is the statue I came to see.

I leave the modern behind and go in search of it. Through rooms, around people, past busts, past other paintings, around a corner.

I make the turn and look.

“Wow!” I say out loud, stopped dead in my tracks. There it is!


There are some works of art that are incredible
hyped up
oversold
and yet, despite it all
they live up to the
glory


Michelangelo’s The Davis is one such piece of art. It’s glorious. Colossal. Seventeen feet high, set into his own alcove, The David commands all attention. How could he not? He’s the ideal man. Flawless and beautiful.

(Did Michelangelo fall in love with this man he’d made?)

Maybe it’s the stance. Maybe it’s the self-possessed expression. Maybe it’s the careless holding of the sling he’s used to down Goliath. Maybe it’s the muscles of his calves, the toenails on his feet, the veins (the veins!) in his hand that make him seem that he could step off his pedestal at any moment.

Step down into this crowd that’s ogling him, and be a living, godlike thing.

He’s better as a statue. He wouldn’t have any use for any of us.

I sit down in one of the benches facing him. The David is as great as I’d been told.

I’m in awe.

In awe of the marble made man. In awe of an artist who did everything. Michelangelo was truly a master. He painted, he sculpted, he constructed buildings, he engineered things. He even wrote poetry!

Would it be enough if I could make one thing in my life that was as perfect as this?

Would I be content?

Probably not. Would I ever be able to see a book, a short story, a poem of mine as perfect?

Or would I only see the flaws?

Did Michelangelo see any flaws in The David? 

I get up and go stand where I can see the side view. I don’t see any. Then I go sit on the bench that’s around the back of the statue.

Maybe perfection is the wrong thing to go for. Maybe excellence is a better and less agonizing virtue.

I sit for a long time, viewing this David from every angle, feeling lucky to be here, inspired by immensity.


Afterwards, after I get up, I can’t take in anything else.

So I leave and walk back through the streets of Florence. Pausing to say, “Wow” every so often at the beauty of a city I’d known nothing about.

Love in Milan

October 23, 2012 – Love in Milan

I don’t know where to start with Milan except perhaps to say that I fall in love immediately. I still can’t put my finger on why. It’s not the Italy I’d always imagined in my head. It’s a city, and I’m not a city girl. Maybe that’s what love is. Something unexpected and startling. Often irrational. Beautiful. The pull of opposites attracting.

It might just be that for some odd reason I’ve given myself more time in Milan than any other place I’ve been in Italy so far. I can relax a bit. Settle in. Take my time.


It might be that the transit system is accessible and easy; making me feel like I know my way around, like I’ve always known.

It might be for the museums decorated with paintings by Tintoretto, Picasso, Giovanni Battista Piazzetta, Bramante, Rubens, El Greco, Licini, Cavallino, Carloni or Vecellio.

It might be the perfect coffee that my hostel has as part of its free breakfast.

It might be for the fact that I’m sharing my room with a girl from Turkey who’s been living in a small town near Rimini learning shoe making, and that seems like something out of a fairytale.

It might be for the gorgeous people. The insane fashion. The treacherous high heels. The boys--the pretty boys--who walk with their arms straight, unmoving by their sides as if they’re on a continuous runway. The women who are more beautiful than I can imagine being, who invest time in that beauty where I never would. For all the tall, skinny people.

It might be for the view I get when I climb the steps up to the roof of Milan’s Duomo. For the intricate and elaborate detail on every centimeter of the cathedral. For the gargoyles and the strange faun creatures with their hoofed feet. The spires and staircases. The statues and reliefs.

It might be for the sunshine and warmth despite the forecast’s prediction of all day rain.

It might be for the Vittorio Emanuele II Shopping Gallery where I follow tradition and spin on the bull’s balls for good luck. For the girl who agrees to take my photograph as I spin, and her mother who instructs me in Italian to “Later think about good fortune.” And, for later, whether or not because of that (who can say?), when I get in free to the Pinacoteca di Brera Museum.


It might be for the walking tour I take called In the Steps of Leonardo. For our guide, Lorella, who is a da Vinci enthusiast and history loving storyteller. It might be for the opportunity to see Leonardo’s actual journal pages with my own eyes. For the melding of history with the present through Lorella’s words and the art she shows us as we walk through Milan. For what she quotes from Leonardo when she tells us that photographs are not allowed while viewing The Last Supper. “Leonardo said we have all we need,” she says, “’The eyes to see. The mind to understand. The heart to remind.’”

It might be for the fifteen minutes I get to look at da Vinci’s The Last Supper (“Don’t take your eyes from it,” Lorella tells us). For the feminine beauty of John the Beloved, the surprise of Bartholomew, the questioning expression on Peter’s face and the knife in his hand, the foreshadowing betrayal of Judas Iscariot, the disbelief of all the other disciples. For the great obsession art historians have taken to restore this painting that Leonardo did with an improvised and quicker to deteriorate technique. For my own amazement at being here and seeing this. For having a kind of life luck that came way before I put my heel to the bull mosaic in Vittorio Emanuele II.

It might be for the Castle and the Ambrosian museum where I see Bramantino’s strange painting Madonna delle Torri with the devil as a dead frog and a heretic in human form lying at the Madonna’s feet.

It might be for the statues or the Museo Astronomico. For the Biblioteca Nazionale with its honey-dark shelves lined with books. For the flowers. For the fountains. For the street performers. For church tower clocks.


It might be for all these reasons combined.

Lost in Padua the city of Frescoes and Roundabouts

October 21, 2012 – Lost in Padua the city of Frescoes and Roundabouts

After I graduated from college I thought, “I should have minored in Art History.” After all, I took plenty of art history, painting, and drawing classes. But by then it was too late and who knows what good having a minor would have done me. Probably none. All too soon, with the passing of years, the images, the artists, and the historical importance of the works I’d studied faded to a sun-lightened pallor in my memory.

Despite time, some names and some objects managed to imprint themselves on me like tattoos. Leonardo da Vinci. Michelangelo. The David. The Pantheon. The Parthenon. The Last Supper. Giotto. The Doge’s Palace. St. Peter’s Basilica. The Pieta. The Elgin Marbles. I might have forgotten why these artists or works of art were important but I did remember that they were. Which is why I chose to visit Padua. It’s the home of Scrovegni’s Chapel (which my mother said sounded like a bad word) which is the home to the frescoes painted by Giotto.

Who is Giotto? Turns out (as I go back now to review) Giotto was one of the first artists to break from the flat two-dimensional Byzantine style into a more natural three dimensional style, and is considered by many to be the father of the Renaissance. He’s also considered to be the Father of Western Pictorial Art (I hope he had that printed out in diploma format, framed and hung up on his office wall).

Western art, as it is today, has Giotto to thank for things such as tears painted on people’s faces to indicate sadness (he was the first one to do that, the experts say), a more realistic sense of pictorial space, and better proportioned and emotionally expressive figures.

Thanks, Giotto!

I’d made my reservation for a tour of the chapel a month ago, while still in Sweden, to ensure that I’d be able to see it. True frescoes are wall paintings painted on wet plaster and don’t always withstand the heavy hand of time. Because of that, Scrovegni’s Chapel is climate and humidity controlled in order to preserve the art. No more than twenty-five people are allowed inside at one time. Visitors, such as me, must arrive early, check in, sit in an air-locked room for fifteen minutes to allow the temperatures to adjust between the outside air and the entry into the chapel and then be escorted inside. After all these measures have been taken the 707 year old frescoes can be viewed for a very precisely timed fifteen minutes.

That in mind, I leave the house I’m staying in (and have only just arrived to) around 11:00 am. I’m going to walk the 1.24 miles to the Chapel and I want enough freedom to see the sites, to get lost, to get unlost, and to arrive a bit early for my 3:00 appointment. It might seem like a bit of time overkill, yet with so many things to see in Padua, I’m glad I do. I’ve written out directions, but the street names I come to don’t seem to match what I’ve written. And Padua has more roundabouts than any other city I’ve visited to date. Or so it seems. At each roundabout I count the “exits” to see what corresponds to my directions and then go that way. Every time I’m wrong. I’m not sure I know how to follow directions.

Just after my first adventure with a roundabout, and being a bit turned around, I stop at a café to ask where Brecci a San Prosdocimo is. It’s only the fourth instruction out of seventeen on my notebook page and already here I am, wandering along and navigating myself more or less by feeling (which is usually, and in this case, not accurate). Two of the café’s men customers tell me in a flurry of Italian to go back the way I’ve come. Damn. I repeat what they’ve said with hand motions just to be clear. One of the men steps outside with me and begins to give the details again. Then he says, “I have to go that way anyway so I’ll just walk with you.”

He doesn’t tell anyone goodbye; we just start off. As we go, he begins to talk, to ask questions. Where are you from? Are you a student? Are you here alone? I tell him regretfully that I only speak a little bit of Italian.

“Do you speak French?” he asks.

“No,” I tell him. “Spanish.”

With three Romance languages and one Germanic one between us, he escorts me to Via San Prosdocimo talking the whole time. I smile and nod. Agree to a few things that aren’t true because it’s easier than trying to explain my current life to him. We just don’t have the time. Eventually, his path goes to the right and mine straight ahead. We move to part ways and I thank him. “Mille grazie!” and he shakes my hand, kisses me cheek to cheek and wishes me good luck.

I only get turned around a million more times, see Padua’s 800 year old University where Galileo Galilei taught at one time, walk past statues and down narrow cozy streets, regret only having one day to explore this place, visit the Cathedral of Padua’s Baptistery with the impressive frescoes of Giusto de’ Menabuoi (which, by the way, are amazing), pass by the Palazzo della Ragione, buy some peaches from the open market in the Piazza delle Erbe, and after two or so hours of historical, architectural and artistic distraction find myself at the Eremitani Museum.

I’m supposed to be there an hour before my appointed tour time to pick up my ticket and, being even earlier than that, I approach the ticket counter wondering how strict they are about the scheduling.

Apparently not very. Also it must be the low season because the ticket man asks me if I want to go in right now.

“Now? Sure,” I say. This will be great. Then the rest of my day will be freed up to wander and be lost if I so desire.

He prints out my ticket and changes the time on it in pen. I don’t have a watch, but I assume that right now means right now and I need to be at the temperature stabilization room soon.

Photography of any kind is strictly forbidden and I have to check my bag before I leave the museum. The Chapel staff does not mess around with the chance that anyone will take pictures inside. “Is it okay if I take my notebook?” I ask the bag handler. I wonder if pens are forbidden too. Forbidden is such a strong word.

“That’s fine,” she tells me.

Once my bag is claimed and shelved, I realize I don’t know where I’m supposed to be. “Where do I go to wait?” I ask a uniformed museum attendant in English, showing him my ticket and feeling like the whole day is a maze of lostness.

“Let me show you,” he says. He leads the way outside of the museum and turns down the cemented path. “This is my fucking home,” he says vehemently, making me, suddenly and unexpectedly, a confidante. He seems a little angry, very emphatic. I take a half step away from him (as surreptitiously as possible). “My fucking job. Fucking home.” I’m not sure how to respond. I open my mouth to say something to fill the space, but he beats me to the words. “That’s an American phrase,” he concludes in explanation. The power he’d thrown into the cursing is deflated from his voice and he’s amiable now, friendly. Ah. Well, there you go. He points me down the path and goes away.


I’m pondering the word “fucking” as a phrase, the advantages and disadvantages of having Hollywood and American Television as my calling card, and the strange ways people try to connect with others as I take a seat on a park bench outside of the automatic (and currently locked) doors. I can see a group of people sitting inside, watching a video as they wait for their chance to go in to the art world’s holy of holies. I hope they’re not the group I’m supposed to be with. I’m worried about this because the instructions on the ticket were very strict. They warned me that if I missed my time then there was no rescheduling. Although I have the feeling that today is not a sold out day and doubt that I’d be out of luck if that happened, I don’t want to chance it.

I’m fretting alone on my bench. I’ve lost my sense of time. I don’t know if I should just sit and wait or if I should find someone who has a watch or find some official who does or doesn’t use American phrases and will tell me exactly what I’m supposed to do, where I’m supposed to be. Before I’ve decided how I’ll act, a man takes a seat next to me. Like any good spy, I steal a glance at his watch. I still have five minutes before my new appointment time. I breathe. I can relax now. So I do.

A couple of other people arrive and--all of us anxious to be on the other side of the doors--we stand waiting until two staff members shuffle the inside group deeper inside, close off all the doors, and then open the outer door to let us in.

I don’t enjoy feeling like a herded sheep. I’m unused to being locked down to a specific time. I’m not a fan of lines or waiting. But that’s the price I’ve got to pay (along with the ticket price) to see this. I tell myself to chill out and remind myself that I’ve made it into the climate stabilizing room! You’re almost there. There’s a TV monitor at the front of the room and rows of seats facing it. I take a chair and settle back to watch the fifteen minute video that tells of the Chapel’s, Scrovegni’s, and Giotto’s history. I feel a bit naked without my bag, without my camera. I clutch my notebook and pen and dare the lady to take from me (in my thoughts).
Then. Then. It’s my turn to go in. This is my first I’d Be Sad to Have Been in Italy and Not Seen This place. I’d made a short list of things I had to schedule in advance and planned my itinerary around it. This one does not disappoint.

The strongest feeling I have in entering Giotto’s fresco lair, the biggest impression is, how rich in blue the room is. Overhead, the ceiling (officially called a barrel vault roof) arches majestically in dark night blue and is decorated with golden stars and saintly figures. Rectangular scenes, with backgrounds of a lighter blue, start on the top of one wall and round the entire room until coming around again to tier down to a second set of scenes and then around again to a third. The scenes, circulating the room in order of occurrence, cover the life of the Virgin Mary, the Nativity, the Passion of Jesus, the Resurrection, and the Pentecost. On the wall at the front of the chapel is a scene of God sending an angel to earth. And on the back wall is Giotto’s famous Last Judgment scene.

http://www.google.com/search?q=giotto's+scrovegni+chapel+images&hl=en&client=safari&rls=en&prmd=imvns&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=4L-FUOajAYXSiAL2xICgCA&ved=0CAoQ_AUoAQ&biw=1366&bih=625&sei=4b-FUPP7O6PgiALywIHYBA

I know I only have a limited amount of time. Our guide, who reminds me of my Hungarian and wild haired college professor Dr. O (she was intimidating, had a terrific accent, and was completely wonderful), stands just off to the side of our group keeping a strict eye on us, making sure we don’t cross the rails, commit any infraction, or attempt to damage the frescoes with our thoughts. I hold my thoughts in check as I walk the room trying to appreciate each scene, but there isn’t enough time. I jot a few notes of some of the objects that stand out to me so that I’ll be able to remember better later; Jesus carrying a flag as he’s about to ascend to heaven, a dragon on a pedestal, Jonah being swallowed by a fish, a boar (why is there a boar?!), the seven deadly sins on one side of the room with the virtues on the other, Elijah in his chariot of fire. When I reach the back wall’s Judgment Scene I’ve only just glanced at a few figures (which are creepy and wonderful) when our guide calls Time Up and begins to usher us out. I linger, wanting to see more, to be here longer, to stay forever. For that, I get the evil eye and an impatient frown from the guide (she’s intimidating too). I give her a half-sorry grin. She doesn’t respond in kind. Chancing her wrath, I get one last look at it--as she all but pushes me out--and then the door shuts behind me.

I’m exhilarated with art. I’m feeling entirely blue, dark blue, light blue, painted blue. I want to beg to be let back in. Just five more minutes. Ten more minutes. Half an hour. Giotto painted too much and it was amazing to see. I hadn’t really known what to expect. I hadn’t known it would be that great in person. I want to go right back in and start from the end and work forward. There were just too many figures, too many stories, too much for only a fifteen minute glance. I’m gushing and frantic, punch drunk with images.

Pull yourself together! I think.

I go to collect my bag and toy with the idea of buying another ticket and taking that ride again. I want more time to stare at the demons, to lament with the tortured humans. I talk myself out of it by buying a small notebook with the Last Judgment scene on one side and a more angelic scene on the other. I’m going to need another notebook soon anyway.

With my appointment fulfilled, I meander back through Padua, retracing my steps, stopping to admire things more fully now that I have the rest of the day to spend however I’d like. Hours later, maybe, I make it to one of the roundabouts and (surprisingly enough) I’m not sure what exit to take. I put my hands on my hips and say aloud, “Where do I go from here?” Which starts off the Karen Carpenter song of the same title in my head. So I sit on the small ledge wall behind me and pull out my music to listen to it, singing along with Karen there on a street in Italy.

The words play out in my head, pass my lips, and I linger there contentedly thinking, Maybe now I can divine the way. 

Six Flags Over Venice

October 19, 2012 – Six Flags over Venice

Deaths from second story windows horrify me. I found this out when I read Colm Tóibín’s The Master, a novel about Henry James. In 1893, in real life and in the story, James’s friend Constance Fenimore Woolson, also a writer, moved to Venice where she rented an apartment that overlooked the Grand Canal. In January of 1894 due to a case of influenza or depression (or both) she fell or jumped from her bedroom window and several hours (or was it days?) later died.


Of all the things I read in The Master that was the bit that stuck most strongly with me. Perhaps because I read it while sitting on the fourth story balcony of my apartment in Lima, Peru. I stood, leaning over the railing, looking down, wondering what it would be like to fall. Even that height didn’t seem high enough for a well thought out suicide. And yet, it’s so easy to die. The story left me with a sense of darkness, wonderment, and sadness. I walked around for days reflecting on how fragile and delicate our human frames are. How dark and forlorn our thoughts. How isolated we can become. How desperate, resolved, or resigned a person must be to take their own life. Why would someone jump from such a small height? Is it better to die like that by accident or on purpose?

Since good books should stay in motion (this one was given to me by my writer friend Tim), I passed the book on to another writer friend, Rodney, to read. When he’d finished it we discussed, among other things, Constance’s death. A few weeks later when I told him I was going to Italy he sent me a list of the places mentioned in the book for me to consider visiting.

Casa Semitecolo, Constance’s home, was on that list.

Most people, I imagine, go to Venice because it’s the City of Love. It’s romantic. It’s beautiful. It’s watery. I go to check out the Doge’s Palace which I’d learned about in Art History and to evaluate a 118 year old death site.

I’m not normal.

I know this.

I’m okay with it.

However, I am a little ashamed that most of my knowledge of Venice comes from Woody Allen’s Everyone Says I Love You and not more from history or books. This is probably why I often expect impromptu singing and dancing to occur in high profile movie places (like New York, Venice, or Stockholm’s Sergels Torg). It’s always a little disappointing when they don’t.
Life isn’t a musical. Not even in Italy. At least not yet.

I catch my first glimpse of Venice as I elbow my way out of the train station and into the open air. Of course it’s a church that domes its way into visual prominence right off the bat. That and the crowds. It’s early, but already the streets are packed with tourists. Throughout the day I have to keep reminding myself that I am one of them.

Off to my left is the Ponte Scalzi which I’ll take to cross over the canal on my way to St. Mark’s Square where the Doge’s Palace is. I go up the steps of the bridge and squeeze between people to take my own photos. I’ve purchased a city map but quickly find that it’s easier to follow the signs that point me street by street towards San Marco than it is to keep my nose plastered to the laminated page.

I’m grateful for the signs because asking for directions is out of the question. Venetian venders are not friendly. I can understand why. If they let down their guard for even a millisecond they’d never get the chance to get it back up again. They’d be stuck answering questions for every single one of the 20 million people who visit Venice over the course of the year. It feels like there are that many people here this day.

Venice is a maze. A labyrinth of streets and canals. I’m shuffled through the narrow roads by the stream of people before and behind me in such a way I begin to feel I’m in a never ending amusement park line. I find myself getting antsy, feeling closed in, and touching my fingertips against the edge of agoraphobia.

Despite myself, despite the touristy nature of the surroundings, despite the amusement park feel, Venice has a distinct beauty. I find it over the heads of my fellow viewers. I find it down lonely streets. I see it in the old stone buildings, the soft lapping of the water, in the intricate detail of statues, in the architecture. But I never lose the sense that I’ve come to a place like in Disney’s Pinocchio. It’s Pleasure Island and I’m afraid at some point I’ll be turned into a jackass.

I want to escape.

Eventually, I wend my way to St. Mark’s Square and admire the crowds, er, the buildings. I didn’t purchase entry tickets to any of the Venetian sites beforehand, and seeing the queues standing hundreds of people long, I decide I don’t need to see the inside of anything here.

I work my way to the far side of the Square and look for open space. I need some breathing room. A little bit later, I find the only friendly Venetian and ask him how to get to the Santa Maria Del Giglio vaporetto stop from where I’ll be able to see the Palazzo Semitecolo where Constance died.
“It’s only one stop away,” he tells me. “You just cross this bridge, go around the street and you’ll find it.”

I thank him, “Mille grazie!” and follow his directions.

At the vaporetto stop there are two gondoliers sitting off to the side. They don’t acknowledge me lest they have to answer a question, and I keep my distance. Other than them I’m the only one here. For the moment. I step up to the edge, as close as I can get, and gaze across the Canal at Constance’s once upon a time home. I stare at the building. Hers is easy to spot being just to the left of a building with a gold mosaic.

What’s drawn me here? A morbid connection to another female writer? A desire to understand death by falling from not great heights? I don’t know. I don’t feel anything especially. Where are my emotions when I need them? All I feel is that the second story window seems awfully low. It’s not that high even if she jumped from the other side of the building onto the waiting stone street as I believe she did.

Ah death. So quick to grab us.

I want to sit down and scrutinize the building. To get a sense of the place. To grasp a sense of the past. But there’s no place to sit. The water comes right up to the edge of the buildings without even a ledge to stand on and the place where I am is not great for viewing. While I’m considering my next move, an English speaking couple come stand on the dock just to my left. I curse them inwardly for blocking my view that direction and for being in my space. Then I realize they’re waiting for the vaporetto, the taxi-gondolas that cart people from one side of the Grand Canal to the other. So I quit cursing and go stand behind them as the gondola arrives.

 

Crossing the Grand Canal is on my list of things to do. It’s perfect timing. Since I can’t admire the Palazzo Semitecolo very well from here, I can maybe see it from the approach and then check out the other side.

We, the couple and I, pay our Euros and climb in. A small group, also ready to take the short trip across, has formed almost numinously. They pay and find places to sit. An American couple argues with the gondolier about the price. It’s higher than the internet had said, but I’m not surprised. Everything is expensive here. Just pay it and get on, I think rudely. You’ve come to Venice and you’re going to quibble over a few euros? Soon enough they decide to pay, and when we’re all on, the gondoliers push us away from the dock and pole across.

You’re on a gondola crossing the Grand Canal, my inside voice says.

I know! I reply.

I get a brief close up of the Semitecolo and then we’re docked and shooed out. There’s not much else to see so I take the streets toward the Punta della Dogana. I’ve been told there’s a great view of Venice from the point and also a new, strange eight foot tall statue of a boy with a frog.

It is a strange statue and marvelous in its oddity.

“Why is he holding a frog?” I ask the security guard watching the statue, but he doesn’t understand my question and turns from me immediately to tell someone not to touch the frog.

I’ll find out later, I tell myself. That’s what God made the internet for.

I turn from my questions to the panorama. The view from the point is worth the crowds. St. Mark’s Square is amazing from this vantage spot. It’s just like I remember from my Art History books. Only I’m seeing it in real time, with my own eyes, and it’s way better than a photograph.

In the opposite direction are the churches Santa Maria di Presentazione and Chiesa di Redentore which seem to float up solidly and majestically from out of the water of the Grand Canal. Boats, gondolas, and water-taxis pass by. This is Venice. This is the magic of a city built on the water. This is what the guidebooks rave about, the movies proclaim as romantic, the books painted out as amazing.

Now I can see what was being talked about.

I walk to the less trafficked side of the Dogana and sit on the convenient ledge with my back to the wall and my face to the sun. I pull out my ipod and scan to the song that fits this moment. That’s been fitting multiple moments on this trip.

It’s Coldplay’s Paradise. I turn it up and play it on repeat. “This could be para- para- paradise Para- para- paradise Could be para- para- paradise,” the song says. And I feel like I’m there. In paradise.

An older lady decked out in a sweater and with a newspaper in hand takes the seat beside me. Of all the places to sit. She talks to me and I tell her in Italian, after pulling out my earpieces, that I’m sorry I don’t understand Italian very well. This doesn’t seem to bother her. She goes on for a bit (even after I turn my attention away) and then settles back with her reading.

I adjust my earpieces, turn the music up a little louder, stare through the shading lenses of my sunglasses and write in my book:

I sit looking out across the Grand Canal
with an Italian lady so close
our elbows touch when she moves
I have Paradise on high volume
and when they sing
Paradise
I’m so full of the sun
that I almost cry.
This is me
 In Italy.
 In the last days of an unimaginable
 summer
                                          On a perfect day. 

I don’t want to ever forget this. I don’t want to lose the threads of this moment when music, emotion, art history, the story of a long ago death, sun, and beauty collided and overwhelmed me. The best I can do is scratch a few words in a notebook and hope I can carry this memory with me forever like a rounded stone in a coat pocket.

Trieste Mean Wind Part II

October 17, 2012 – Trieste Means Wind Part II

“The toilet paper is out,” I tell the guesthouse clerk, holding out the empty cardboard roll. I’d planned to leave it on the front desk since he hadn’t been there when I’d gone in to the restroom, but this is even better (toilet paper shortage is one of my few slightly irrational fears). With my good deed done for the morning I head back to my room.  

A second later, my camera in my bag, my hair tied back in a braid and my jacket on, I start for the front door. There’s a sound behind me and I turn. The clerk has a wide grin lighting up his face. “For your pleasure,” he says, holding up a new roll of toilet paper. “Something new!”

“Perfect!” I say. What else is there to say? Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue, chants its way through my mind. I’m laughing as I leave.

It’s another blustery day. The sun is out, the wind is strong. A chill dances in the air. There are a few wispy clouds drifting busily across the sky. I stand for a moment on the sidewalk, zip my jacket up to my chin, and take stock of it all. I’ve made a list of things I’d like to see in Trieste. I’m intrigued by the Grotta Gigante and interested in San Giusto’s Castle. I plan to head in their general directions and see what I can. If I get distracted along the way it’ll be all well and good. Today I have no specific expectations, just a tentative game plan. First though, I need some fruit, maybe a piece of bread or two and, most of all, a cappuccino to get me going.

I wander around until I find a coffee shop. I pay the extra couple of cents to get mine in a To Go cup and then go sit outside so my hair can get blown out of its braid instead of drinking my cappuccino at the café counter. After I’m moderately caffeinated I roam the streets until I stumble across a corner shop with fruit. I get a few bananas and some peaches. At another store I buy a loaf of bread. Down the street, at an outside market, I buy some cheese. Thus armed with breakfast I can take on the world. Or, at the least, the wind. More or less.

I’d seen a sign yesterday for the Grotta Gigante so I start that way. As I go, I look down each street. Every one has a distraction. There are enticing stairways leading me up, taking me down. There are spires that draw me to the churches they top me like a moth to a candle flame. There are arched tunnels and stone walls. There are skinny bell towers and fat bell towers. There are breathtaking (or is that my out of shape gasping from climbing the stairs?) views of the sea. There are cozy, secret balconies that I want to sneak on to and observe the world from.

I lose myself in the streets.

I mean, I really have no clue where I am. All I know is that my hostel is generally downhill. Back that way. Somewhere. I feel like I’ve walked miles, days.

I decide to find out where I am. So I duck into a little shop. I’d been warned (from a book? from my imagination? from another traveler?) that Italians don’t much like Americans, and that they aren’t as accommodating to English speakers as some of the other European countries are. That in mind, it’s with a pocketful of wistful embarrassment that I wasn’t able to learn more Italian than I did that I put my best foot forward and go for it. A friendly looking older woman is standing behind the counter. A younger man is across the counter from her talking. Gathering myself together and sorry to interrupt, I pull up my few Italian words. “Excuse me,” I say, politely when they’ve turned my way. “Where is San Giusto’s Castle?”

They know right away that I’m not a native speaker. “San Giusto?” They look at each other and consult in Italian. I follow along the best I can. Apparently it’s far far away.

“There’s a bus,” the lady says to me in English. She’s friendly and accommodating. She opens a drawer, pulls out a transit guide and flips through it trying to find the bus number for that route. “I can’t find it,” she says. She flips through it again. The guy comes around the counter and logs online to the bus system’s website. They talk to each other in Italian and occasionally turn around to tell me something in English. Minutes tick by, five, ten, fifteen, and I’m thinking I should just head back to the center of town and go from there, but they’re going way out of their way to be helpful and I do appreciate it. A customer comes in and the lady pulls herself away from helping me to finally serve him his coffee and give him a sandwich. He puts in his two cents about how to get to San Giusto’s and then leaves. The lady and guy go back to studying the computer screen and finally she says, “Okay, you take the bus from here to the main city stop and then you transfer to the One and it’ll take you under a bridge. Go under the bridge, and then the next stop after the bridge you get off then walk up the hill and you’ll be there.”

I repeat it all, thank them profusely and walk out. Doing something new and unplanned can sometimes be scary. Taking the public transit with transfers feels out of my day’s adventurous limits. Why is this more daunting than anything else? I ask myself.

I don’t know, I reply. It just is. I’m just going to walk.

They really went to a lot of trouble to help you.

I know.

Ignoring my other, more thoughtful self, I decide I’ll go back to where I started from. I’d written down directions from there with the help of the internet the night before. It can’t be farther than a handful of miles. I’d just been hoping that my wanderings had brought me close to the castle instead of to the other side of town from it. Even while I’m planning to disregard all the help they’d so time consumedly and kindly given me, the guy, who is leaving the shop at the same time as me, says, “You can buy your bus ticket across the street there.” He indicates the tobacco shop across the road. “It’ll cost you 1.50. The bus leaves from right in front there. It should be along in a few minutes.” He points out the bus stop.

“Thanks a lot,” I say. I can’t very well walk away now, it would be rude, so I go across the street and, in opposition to my own silly hesitance, buy a bus ticket. After about five minutes of waiting, the bus slows to a stop at the curb and I get on. I remember to validate my ticket (all the travel guides had warned me about being sure to validate my train and bus tickets or risk being fined a horribly high fine), and take a seat. I’m suddenly very grateful for both the information and the ride. My muscles sigh in relief and I settle back. I hope it’s a long trip. I also hope I arrive there soon.

I get off at the city center, cross the street (after asking a few people to make sure I take the bus in the right direction) and wait for the 1.

Eventually it comes along and I climb on. I follow the lady’s instructions and get off after we go under the bridge. Just ahead there’s a sign pointing me up the hill towards San Giusto’s castle and church. I follow the arrow. Several curves, hills, and a few other churches later, I come to an obelisk and fountain. I find a spot out of the brunt of the wind and eat some fruit, bread and cheese. It’s way past breakfast time.

I look out over Trieste from my place in the heights. You’re in Italy! I remind myself.

I know! I respond. I hadn’t forgotten. It’s amazing.

It’s amazing. I gather my things and with a fuller belly make the final ascent, pushing hard against the wind, up another hill, up more steps, around another curve and finally come to San Giusto’s Castle.

I pay for a ticket to tour it and get an audio guide. I’m almost too enthralled by the views to pay attention to the recorded voice as it tells me the history and uses of the place. I do listen well enough to learn that I’m standing on stones that were built anywhere from the 11^th to the 14^th century.

I spend hours there, walking turrets, ascending staircases, ducking in dark rooms lined with cannons and giant round stones bigger than my head, descending stairs and exploring the statue filled museum down in what feels like the old dungeon. At some point, with the desire to be out of the wind—which is strong enough to make me take two balance catching steps every now and again--I go into the café just off the Captain’s House Tower and order a cappuccino. While I wait for it to cool enough to drink I redo my braid. I’m wind worn and probably sunburned. I sigh with contentment.

I’m in Italy

drinking a cappuccino at a castle

I write in my notebook. This level of happiness is becoming a habit I hope I never quit.

After I leave the castle I head over to the cathedral. When I’m done admiring the rose window of the cathedral I go inside the little gift shop underneath the bell tower.

“Buongiorno,” the shop tender greets me.

“Buongiorno,” I reply.

We get into a multi-lingual conversation and somehow between the Italian, English and French I find out that I can buy a ticket for only one euro to go up into the bell tower. While taking my money and giving me my ticket, the shop tender tells me all about the bells (in French because when he asked I told him I spoke French “un peu” with a smile that was meant to indicate that was pretty much all the French I knew). But I understand enough. I understand exactly when he tells me (still in French), “Don’t touch the bells.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you.” And then I walk up the four billion flights of stairs to the tower.

The bells are huge. Wonderful. Etched over with intricate reliefs. I want to touch them. But I don’t. Instead I think of the Dorothy Sayers Lord Peter Wimsey book called The Nine Tailors; a mystery in which the poor murdered soul (spoiler alert) was killed by the ominous and overwhelming sound, vibration, and power of the nine bells.

I’d rather not die that way, so I don’t touch.  

Eventually I climb down all those stairs, bid the shop tender another thank you and goodbye and walk the (thankfully downhill) way back to my hostel, getting dinner and more sightseeing in before I finally close the door to my room and call it a day.

The next morning, the guesthouse clerk is coming in as I’m heading out.

“You’re checking out?” he asks.

“Yes, thanks for having me,” I say.

“I’m Vladamir,” he says.

“Amanda,” I respond.

He sticks out his hand to shake mine. I oblige.

“You’re American?” he asks me. I nod. “I love Obama!” he exclaims. He’s still got my hand in his handshake. I don’t know how long is too long to hold on, but we’ve passed my personal preference point. I take a step back and gently reclaim my hand as we talk politics. We talk politics until I manage to squeeze out the door and get away.

“I love your language!” he calls out as a parting shot. “Safe travels.”

“Thank you,” I say.

I’m hoping for safe travels too. It’s Saturday morning and I’ve got a ticket to ride.

I’m on my way to Venice.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trieste Means Wind

October 17, 2012 – Trieste Means Wind


It’s the wind that greets me as I come into Italy. Strong, wild, and exuberant. I bow my head and push against it as I make my way to the hostel. I feel like I should have more emotion; tears, laughter, butterflies, excitement, fireworks. There should be music. Maybe an impromptu musical with dancing and four part harmony, or a flash mob. At least an outburst of Pavarotti. I’m in Italy. After years of dreaming of this moment, I’m really here. There should be some deep stirring in my soul that twines itself into a circle of completion. But I just feel like me. Content, lucky, happy and amazed with my own life.

You’re anticlimactic, I tell myself in a tone of voice that implies I should be ashamed of myself. I’m resorting to talking to myself (more than usual) because for the first time in eighty-one days I’m truly alone. It’s a little disconcerting. It’s also freeing. It’s also lonely. It’s also exhilarating. 

I follow the instructions listed on the hostel confirmation email and only have to stop and ask for directions once. Fortunately, the Italian I’ve managed to learn includes “Where is…?” That question coupled with hand motions and an address are sufficient for now. The lady I ask rattles off in Italian that I’m only a block away and points me back in the right direction.

Stuck in the middle of the street between an unbroken stretch of dark-stoned buildings I find the Alla Stazione Guesthouse. I get buzzed in and walk up the four flights of stairs, past the rickety, ancient elevator and am greeted at the hostel entry by the management. With my meager Italian and the lady clerk’s better English, I get checked in to my private room and shown where the bathrooms and common areas are. Thus settled in, I leave my heavy bag and go out to explore. I have a day and half here and too much to see. Although I’d never heard of Trieste before I found out it was a great crossover from Croatia to Italy, I’ve researched enough to know there are churches out the ear, nearby Roman baths and ruins, the Grotta Gigante, San Giusto’s Castle and Duomo which claims (according to some person’s blog or the internet’s wide storehouse of knowledge, I can’t remember which) the widest campanile, and--as the advertisements always say--much much more.

I need a lifetime for this.

After climbing down the four flights of stairs and letting myself out the street door, I head left. I only have the hostel’s little handout flier map, so I make sure to look behind me as I go so as to be able to find my way back again. I’m going out with the intention to orient myself a little and to find something for dinner. I’m a bit travel weary, quite a bit hungry, but not willing to lose out on daylight.

A block down, in the Piazza Vittorio Veneto, there’s a fountain with three figures holding up a gigantic, neck-bowing shell. They’ve got webbed feet or mermaid tails, expressions of accepting despondence, and perfectly proportioned figures. The water spills out over the shell lip and the wind blows it into my face, over my camera lens. I rub the drops off and take a step back.  It may not be a Bellini, Michelangelo, or Donatello (or it might be) but it’s impressive. Sheesh, I haven’t even gone 300 meters and I’ve already found something worth stopping to admire. I realize I’m going to have to learn to close my eyes as I walk or I’ll never make it anywhere due to being distracted by fantastic structures. 

Such as the blue dome I can just make out over the rooftops. I tell the sculpture goodbye and head blueward. Down the street, around a corner and there it is.

The Serbian Orthodox Church of St. Spyridon has five, not just one, blue domes with complementary gold-yellow paintings decorating the front façade and the building’s sides. I know nothing of this saint except that I think his name is funny. He’d probably think the same of mine. Inside, I stand for a moment under the cupola where a gold-glittery Jesus looks down on me with an expression I can’t quite read.

I stare back at him with an equally unreadable expression. Then I glance around. Peter would not have been able to say (as a Sunday school song sings), “Silver and gold have I none,” if he’d been head of this church. It’s gaudy, intricate, and extravagant. I’m not inspired into worshipfulness so I head back out into the blustery arms of the great outside.

I’m eyeing the Divo Antonio Thaumaturgo (whatever that is) when I feel a soft squish underfoot and a following splash against my shin. Red splatter stains my skin, and my first thought is blood. Blood but no pain. That’s strange. Then I see the poor stepped on tomato carcass just by my shoe and I laugh aloud.

“Welcome to Italy,” I say.

It seems a very fitting welcome.