We wanted to go someplace extraordinary for dinner for our last evening in Italy. The concierge at Motel Corsi, in Torrimpietra just west of Rome near da Vinci Airport, recommended the pleasant-looking family restaurant across the street. But we wanted something near the ocean.
He suggested we take a drive out to Fregene, but he warned that not many places are open because they're still waking from their winter slumber. After searching for a place that was open, we found Sogno del Mare, a restaurant that's part of a seaside resort. We were told we'd have to wait about 45 minutes while the staff ate dinner, so we took a walk along the beach as the sun began to slip into the Mediterranean, imagining the battles that took place here as long 2,000 years ago, when Rome ruled the seas, and as recently as 60 years ago, when the Allies landed nearby.
The Sogno del Mare staff spoke no English, and the only other people in the place, which looked like it seated 100 or more, were two couples. Our wait was rewarded with such specialties as gnochetti (little gnocchi) with clams and shrimp. Paul had a cheese pizza designed for four people, which he nearly consumed himself but shared with his sister Emma, whose onion pizza strangely arrived with no cheese. So much for my ordering skills. For dessert we had fresh strawberries with vanilla gelato, tiramisu, and tortino di cioccolata, a dense chocolate torte artfully presented on a large plate drizzled with hot fudge and dusted with sugar. What a perfect way to end our trip, with a show from the magnificent sunset and edible art from the kitchen Sogno del Mare. Like the name, it was a "Dream by the Sea."
On the 20-minute drive back to the hotel, we talked about what a great time we've had and what the kids liked best (Venice and Rome), interspersed with practical talk about what and how we were going to pack for the journey tomorrow, especially all those souvenirs.
Diane joked about kidnapping all of us, chucking everything and buying a house in Tuscany. The kids for a moment weren't sure if she was serious. Maybe she was half serious.
"I'm ready to stay forever if that were possible," I said, ready to embrace a culture that seems to make "doing nothing" an art form, a culture that loves good food, good company and seems to make the time for it. "But I'm ready to go home if not."
Alas, staying forever is not possible, at least not now.
"You know, Dad," said Sarah, "I feel exactly the same way."
Monday, May 14, 2007
April 27 - City of the dead
We arrived at the Catacombs of St. Domitilla in Rome after an unintended but pleasant detour on the Appian Way, the oldest of the old Roman roads with its apparently original paving stones that have the same effect on modern automobiles as speed bumps.
The tour of the Catacombs was brief, about 25 minutes, but comprehensive in the guide's description of the 17 miles of tunnels and 180,000 tombs, of which only about 2,000 are allowed to be open to the public. The tombs, cut out of volcanic ash, are nevertheless strong enough to support the tunnels. They were dug as temporary resting places, since the early Christians believed that Jesus would be returning very shortly.
One thing the guide wanted to make clear: The tombs were NOT used as hiding places, despite what is depicted in "Quo Vadis?", because they would have been way too rank from the decomposition of bodies and the lack of ventilation.
The tour of the Catacombs was brief, about 25 minutes, but comprehensive in the guide's description of the 17 miles of tunnels and 180,000 tombs, of which only about 2,000 are allowed to be open to the public. The tombs, cut out of volcanic ash, are nevertheless strong enough to support the tunnels. They were dug as temporary resting places, since the early Christians believed that Jesus would be returning very shortly.
One thing the guide wanted to make clear: The tombs were NOT used as hiding places, despite what is depicted in "Quo Vadis?", because they would have been way too rank from the decomposition of bodies and the lack of ventilation.
Friday, May 11, 2007
April 27 - Siena, we really want to like you, Part II
We toured the Duomo Friday morning and meandered among its distinctive zebra-marble columns. The alleged arm of St. John the Baptist was nowhere to be found, but we did find some amazement in the beautifully carved pulpit intricately depicting various Bible stories.
One disturbing aspect of visiting churches in Italy is that most of them charge admission, but they must due to declining attendance. One of our guidebooks said admission to the Duomo is free; we found that's the case no longer. And once you're inside, you can get nickled and dimed for audio explanations of every significant piece of artwork. While the ticket booth clearly stated that the admission fees were to go to the church restoration, which was obviously under way as evidenced by the crane and scaffolding outside, it still didn't feel quite right that you were being shaken down to enter a house of worship. The story of Jesus and the moneychangers immediately comes to mind.
After a struggle to get out of Siena due to confusing street signs, we finally made it out and onto the Autostrada for the last leg of our Italian journey.
One disturbing aspect of visiting churches in Italy is that most of them charge admission, but they must due to declining attendance. One of our guidebooks said admission to the Duomo is free; we found that's the case no longer. And once you're inside, you can get nickled and dimed for audio explanations of every significant piece of artwork. While the ticket booth clearly stated that the admission fees were to go to the church restoration, which was obviously under way as evidenced by the crane and scaffolding outside, it still didn't feel quite right that you were being shaken down to enter a house of worship. The story of Jesus and the moneychangers immediately comes to mind.
After a struggle to get out of Siena due to confusing street signs, we finally made it out and onto the Autostrada for the last leg of our Italian journey.
April 26 - Siena, we really want to like you
"Everybody" supposedly loves this medieval city, and certainly there's a lot to enjoy, but finding our hotel was way more of a chore than it had to be. Serves us right, I suppose, for trusting venere.com, which was great for reservations but awful for directions. "Just off the highway." Hah! If you're a pedestrian trying to find landmarks, Siena is the best of the Italian cities we visited. But if you're a motorist trying to find your hotel or even your way out of town, you'll be befuddled by the confusing and contradictory signs. Although cars have supposedly been banned from the center of the city since the mid 1960s, you still had to be on the lookout for commercial vehicles that part the seas of people wandering the streets. And motorists like us trying to find our hotel!
The best revenge for arduous driving is good food. We had a great dinner tonight (We deserved it!) at Ristorante Guidoriccio, just off Il Campo, the shell-shaped main square lined with cafes. (I've never read that Boston's brutalist City Hall Plaza was supposed to evoke Il Campo, but to us it does. Maybe the Hub's plaza just needs some nice cafes to humanize it.) Anyway, the family-run Guidoriccio had some of the most artfully-presented food we've had, including a crostini appetizer with unusual toppings including fresh tomato, ground sausage and a ground vegetable spread --- so beautiful that I had to get a picture of it. The only disappointment was the house red wine, but admittedly our palates had been spoiled by the visit to Poggio-Torselli earlier in the day.
The best revenge for arduous driving is good food. We had a great dinner tonight (We deserved it!) at Ristorante Guidoriccio, just off Il Campo, the shell-shaped main square lined with cafes. (I've never read that Boston's brutalist City Hall Plaza was supposed to evoke Il Campo, but to us it does. Maybe the Hub's plaza just needs some nice cafes to humanize it.) Anyway, the family-run Guidoriccio had some of the most artfully-presented food we've had, including a crostini appetizer with unusual toppings including fresh tomato, ground sausage and a ground vegetable spread --- so beautiful that I had to get a picture of it. The only disappointment was the house red wine, but admittedly our palates had been spoiled by the visit to Poggio-Torselli earlier in the day.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
April 26 - We'll take "Manhattan"
When I first visited San Gimignano with my dad in 1981, the town was just beginning to become a tourist attraction, with its towers that make it resemble a sort of medieval Manhattan jutting from the Tuscan countryside about 35 miles south of Florence.
Today you can barely move here, with loads of tour buses parked outside, loads of shops inside the main gate and even a shuttle bus that takes less mobile (or lazier) tourists through the tiny town. It's somewhat of a disappointment to see all these people here, although the charm remains undeniable as you gaze up at the "skyscrapers" a couple of hundred feet tall from which warring families and groups did their battles, and found protection, centuries ago.
Thanks to Rick Steves' Italy, we were able to escape the crowds to Locanda San Agostino at Piazza San Agostino and a fine lunch of pizzas, sausage and cheese and tagliatelle. It's amazing how even in the most crowded of Italian tourists sites you can still find some peace --- if you allow yourself to get lost a bit.
Today you can barely move here, with loads of tour buses parked outside, loads of shops inside the main gate and even a shuttle bus that takes less mobile (or lazier) tourists through the tiny town. It's somewhat of a disappointment to see all these people here, although the charm remains undeniable as you gaze up at the "skyscrapers" a couple of hundred feet tall from which warring families and groups did their battles, and found protection, centuries ago.
Thanks to Rick Steves' Italy, we were able to escape the crowds to Locanda San Agostino at Piazza San Agostino and a fine lunch of pizzas, sausage and cheese and tagliatelle. It's amazing how even in the most crowded of Italian tourists sites you can still find some peace --- if you allow yourself to get lost a bit.
April 26 - Like taking Chianti from a baby
We checked out of Hotel Enza and took a somewhat unplanned scenic route around the eastern side of Florence, past the Piazzale Michelangelo park with its panoramic views of the city from on high.
Heading south on country roads about 15 miles south of Florence, we found Poggio-Torselli winery in San Casciano val di Pesa and arrived on time for our appointment for a tour and tasting with Maurizio Santone, the director, who led us around the new winery (first vintage 2002) that has as its centerpiece a 700-year-old villa that Maurizio told us was once home to Machiavelli and his family.
The investors in Poggio-Torselli appear to have spared no expense, either in restoring what was a ruin of a villa or investing in modern equipment, from the stainless steel tanks for the initial fermentation, to the hand-made oak barrels, where the wine is further aged from 18 months to two years before it is ready for bottling.
Our tasting consisted of Chianti Classico '03, Classico Riserva '04 and a Cabernet that proved the most complex (and green) of the three. He explained, with helpfulness and without pretension, the importance of appreciating the color (by tipping the glass away from you), the fragrance (one nostril is best), and why professional wine tasters spit: getting drunk doesn't help your ability to critically evaluate a wine, and as your digestive system processes the non-alcoholic components of the wine, it also alters your objective sense of taste. After a mini-feast of bread, cheese and prosciutto, we decided on six bottles of wine plus a bottle of grappa, an Italian brandy; olive oil and honey, all produced at the winery. The kids got to try the wine, too, although all except Paul admitted they had yet to acquire a taste for the stuff.
As Maurizio prepared the wine-tasting, we were able to wander the formal gardens outside the the villa overlooking the 30-hectare property, a piece of classic Tuscan heaven both God- and man-made, with rows of just-developing grapevines interspersed with rows of olive trees. Maurizio marveled at how fortunate he was to be able to work in the countryside during the day and return to the bustle of his native Florence each evening. And he was humble enough to admit that even though he directs the nurture and harvest of all these magnificent plants, he can't grow anything in his garden at home.
Heading south on country roads about 15 miles south of Florence, we found Poggio-Torselli winery in San Casciano val di Pesa and arrived on time for our appointment for a tour and tasting with Maurizio Santone, the director, who led us around the new winery (first vintage 2002) that has as its centerpiece a 700-year-old villa that Maurizio told us was once home to Machiavelli and his family.
The investors in Poggio-Torselli appear to have spared no expense, either in restoring what was a ruin of a villa or investing in modern equipment, from the stainless steel tanks for the initial fermentation, to the hand-made oak barrels, where the wine is further aged from 18 months to two years before it is ready for bottling.
Our tasting consisted of Chianti Classico '03, Classico Riserva '04 and a Cabernet that proved the most complex (and green) of the three. He explained, with helpfulness and without pretension, the importance of appreciating the color (by tipping the glass away from you), the fragrance (one nostril is best), and why professional wine tasters spit: getting drunk doesn't help your ability to critically evaluate a wine, and as your digestive system processes the non-alcoholic components of the wine, it also alters your objective sense of taste. After a mini-feast of bread, cheese and prosciutto, we decided on six bottles of wine plus a bottle of grappa, an Italian brandy; olive oil and honey, all produced at the winery. The kids got to try the wine, too, although all except Paul admitted they had yet to acquire a taste for the stuff.
As Maurizio prepared the wine-tasting, we were able to wander the formal gardens outside the the villa overlooking the 30-hectare property, a piece of classic Tuscan heaven both God- and man-made, with rows of just-developing grapevines interspersed with rows of olive trees. Maurizio marveled at how fortunate he was to be able to work in the countryside during the day and return to the bustle of his native Florence each evening. And he was humble enough to admit that even though he directs the nurture and harvest of all these magnificent plants, he can't grow anything in his garden at home.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
April 25 - A reunion with old friends
Prato is to Florence what Cambridge is to Boston --- a bustling city in its own right of about 180,000 people just northwest of its better known neighbor. It was there during World War II that my father, a U.S. Army counterintelligence officer, set up local headquarters in the home of the Giuseppe Rosati family. He became friendly with Mr. and Mrs. Rosati and continued that friendship with the Rosatis' daughters, Rosalba, Giuseppina and Margherita, and their grandson, Federico Cianchi. I had last seen Federico in 1981, when he was 10. He is now a lawyer and starting a real estate agency with a business partner, planning to marry next year and maybe even honeymoon in the US.
We had arranged to have dinner this evening with Margherita, her husband, Marcello, and Federico and met them at their home in Prato, where we renewed our Christmas-correspondence friendship in person and reminisced. Federico even produced postcards that my dad had sent him in the late 1980s of scullers on the Charles River in Boston and from a ski area in Vermont.
Interestingly, they took us to a restaurant in the mountains about 25 minutes north of Prato in an area that Sarah said reminded her of New Hampshire or Vermont. There were no tourists here, though; only locals enjoying the remains of a day off in the middle of the week with barbecues by the stream that flowed past the restaurant.
Our dinner conversation was an amusing and joyous linguistic stew of broken English, broken Italian, fluent English and fluent Italian as we compared mundane things like work and school schedules and daily routines, bemoaned the price of real estate, which is about the same in urban Italy as it is in Boston, and discussed global warming and its effect on Italy. It was an evening that was over all too soon, and Federico offered the most profound observation of the night:
"The time spent with good friends is never enough."
We had arranged to have dinner this evening with Margherita, her husband, Marcello, and Federico and met them at their home in Prato, where we renewed our Christmas-correspondence friendship in person and reminisced. Federico even produced postcards that my dad had sent him in the late 1980s of scullers on the Charles River in Boston and from a ski area in Vermont.
Interestingly, they took us to a restaurant in the mountains about 25 minutes north of Prato in an area that Sarah said reminded her of New Hampshire or Vermont. There were no tourists here, though; only locals enjoying the remains of a day off in the middle of the week with barbecues by the stream that flowed past the restaurant.
Our dinner conversation was an amusing and joyous linguistic stew of broken English, broken Italian, fluent English and fluent Italian as we compared mundane things like work and school schedules and daily routines, bemoaned the price of real estate, which is about the same in urban Italy as it is in Boston, and discussed global warming and its effect on Italy. It was an evening that was over all too soon, and Federico offered the most profound observation of the night:
"The time spent with good friends is never enough."
April 25 - A break from museums
We decided that we'd had our fill of museums and took a side trip to two cities that once struggled with Florence for dominance of Tuscany: Pisa and Lucca. Smaller and more manageable, they kind of made you glad that Florence won.
Since today was a national holiday celebrating the liberation of Italy by the Allies in 1945, Pisa was probably even more packed than usual, with plenty of Italian families mixing it up with American, European and Asian tourists.
The iconic Leaning Tower is more impressive than expected (certainly it's much larger than the one at Prince Restaurant on Route 1 in Saugus, Mass.), but the hordes lining up to take pictures of co-travelers "holding up the tower" and vendors hawking all manner of Leaning Tower tchotchkes are just as tacky as one might imagine. We were more than willing participants in the photo-snapping frenzy but let the Lucite Leaning Towers be.
Even if it weren't leaning, the tower's graceful arches and nearly ignored Duomo and Baptistery next door form a nice architectural trio, especially since they're fronted by a manicured lawn of a couple of acres that has signs clearly warning people to stay off the grass. Of course, people wilfully ignore the signs (their being exclusively in Italian doesn't help), and the police come by periodically to shoo the photographers and their subjects away. I wonder how many times this little ritual is played out in a day!
From Pisa it was a half-hour drive to Lucca, which has its share of tourists, too, though in far fewer numbers than in Pisa or Florence. The home of "Madama Butterfly" composer Giacomo Puccini, it's unlike any of the other cities we have visited: Its wall continues to have a practical use as a walking and bicycle trail. At about 30 feet high, it's the perfect vantage to take a stroll (you can perambulate the 2.5-miles around the whole city) and admire the architecture of Lucca on one side and the pristine Tuscan countryside on the other.
After our 40-minute walk, we found a fine gelateria run by Brits, the better to refuel ourselves for our trip back to Prato and Florence.
Since today was a national holiday celebrating the liberation of Italy by the Allies in 1945, Pisa was probably even more packed than usual, with plenty of Italian families mixing it up with American, European and Asian tourists.
The iconic Leaning Tower is more impressive than expected (certainly it's much larger than the one at Prince Restaurant on Route 1 in Saugus, Mass.), but the hordes lining up to take pictures of co-travelers "holding up the tower" and vendors hawking all manner of Leaning Tower tchotchkes are just as tacky as one might imagine. We were more than willing participants in the photo-snapping frenzy but let the Lucite Leaning Towers be.
Even if it weren't leaning, the tower's graceful arches and nearly ignored Duomo and Baptistery next door form a nice architectural trio, especially since they're fronted by a manicured lawn of a couple of acres that has signs clearly warning people to stay off the grass. Of course, people wilfully ignore the signs (their being exclusively in Italian doesn't help), and the police come by periodically to shoo the photographers and their subjects away. I wonder how many times this little ritual is played out in a day!
From Pisa it was a half-hour drive to Lucca, which has its share of tourists, too, though in far fewer numbers than in Pisa or Florence. The home of "Madama Butterfly" composer Giacomo Puccini, it's unlike any of the other cities we have visited: Its wall continues to have a practical use as a walking and bicycle trail. At about 30 feet high, it's the perfect vantage to take a stroll (you can perambulate the 2.5-miles around the whole city) and admire the architecture of Lucca on one side and the pristine Tuscan countryside on the other.
After our 40-minute walk, we found a fine gelateria run by Brits, the better to refuel ourselves for our trip back to Prato and Florence.
Monday, April 30, 2007
April 24 - Dinner at Tuscany's ground zero
After several frustrating attempts to find our hotel, we finally settled in at Hotel Enza in Florence last night, a couple of blocks away from the Accademia museum, home of Michelangelo's "David".
We strolled into I Toscano at about 8:30 p.m. for a typical Tuscan meal: chicken fried in rice flour, beans and sausage, gnocchi with meat sauce, spinach gnocchi and a fine bottle of Chianti.
Today we went to the Uffizzi gallery after we got lucky and were able to use a reservation that other hotel guests decided to forfeit. Because Florence is so crowded with tourists nowadays, you have to make a reservation to stand in line. It's not as bad as it sounds, though. We got to the ticket booth at 8:45 a.m. and were in the museum by 9:10. Our two-hour whirlwind audio tour took us from the beginnings of the Renaissance of Giotto through the high Renaissance of Michelangelo, Pollaiuolo and Parmigianino to the later, darker Baroque stuff of Caravaggio and chiaroscuro fame.
After Paul and I visited the Leonardo museum, with its interactive constructions of da Vinci's creations, and after Diane and the girls went shopping on the Ponte Vecchio, we reunited for some time in the Baptistery and a climb (Emma, Sarah and I) to the top of Brunelleschi's great dome in the S. Maria del Fiore duomo and its commanding views of the Tuscan hills that surround Florence, Fiesole to the north and the Piazzale Michelangelo to the south. Though more squat than the dome of St. Peter's, the duomo observation point is a bit more vertigo-inducing.
We also made an obligatory stop at the De Rubeis inscription at the base of Giotto's Campanile. One of only six at the base of the bell tower, it reads (in Latin): John and Matthew De Rubeis, Florentine citizens and their descendants. I don't know who they are or whether they are related, but one day I hope to find out.
Before we returned to the hotel for a rest, we were able to get in line and only wait about a half hour for entrance to the Accademia and a visit to "David." He got a bath for his 500th birthday in 2004 and seems more imposing than ever --- certainly more so than Mark Wahlberg looming over Times Square in his underwear a few years ago.
The day ended with another fine, rustic Tuscan meal, this time at a place called La Burrasca: steak Florentine, tortellini ragu, and maccheroni del chef, which was seasonal vegetables (chicory, mostly) in a tomatoey base. Chicory can be bitter, but sauteeing in fine olive oil and garlic cut the bite. We finished with the finest tiramisu we have had anywhere at any time.
We strolled into I Toscano at about 8:30 p.m. for a typical Tuscan meal: chicken fried in rice flour, beans and sausage, gnocchi with meat sauce, spinach gnocchi and a fine bottle of Chianti.
Today we went to the Uffizzi gallery after we got lucky and were able to use a reservation that other hotel guests decided to forfeit. Because Florence is so crowded with tourists nowadays, you have to make a reservation to stand in line. It's not as bad as it sounds, though. We got to the ticket booth at 8:45 a.m. and were in the museum by 9:10. Our two-hour whirlwind audio tour took us from the beginnings of the Renaissance of Giotto through the high Renaissance of Michelangelo, Pollaiuolo and Parmigianino to the later, darker Baroque stuff of Caravaggio and chiaroscuro fame.
After Paul and I visited the Leonardo museum, with its interactive constructions of da Vinci's creations, and after Diane and the girls went shopping on the Ponte Vecchio, we reunited for some time in the Baptistery and a climb (Emma, Sarah and I) to the top of Brunelleschi's great dome in the S. Maria del Fiore duomo and its commanding views of the Tuscan hills that surround Florence, Fiesole to the north and the Piazzale Michelangelo to the south. Though more squat than the dome of St. Peter's, the duomo observation point is a bit more vertigo-inducing.
We also made an obligatory stop at the De Rubeis inscription at the base of Giotto's Campanile. One of only six at the base of the bell tower, it reads (in Latin): John and Matthew De Rubeis, Florentine citizens and their descendants. I don't know who they are or whether they are related, but one day I hope to find out.
Before we returned to the hotel for a rest, we were able to get in line and only wait about a half hour for entrance to the Accademia and a visit to "David." He got a bath for his 500th birthday in 2004 and seems more imposing than ever --- certainly more so than Mark Wahlberg looming over Times Square in his underwear a few years ago.
The day ended with another fine, rustic Tuscan meal, this time at a place called La Burrasca: steak Florentine, tortellini ragu, and maccheroni del chef, which was seasonal vegetables (chicory, mostly) in a tomatoey base. Chicory can be bitter, but sauteeing in fine olive oil and garlic cut the bite. We finished with the finest tiramisu we have had anywhere at any time.
The Crazy Italian Driver myth
Here are some thoughts while tooling south through Tuscany on the A1 Autostrada at 80 mph, listening to Vivaldi and Corelli on the final leg of nearly two weeks of driving in Italy's cities and countryside.
* Italian drivers are aggressive, but they're not crazy. They let you know exactly what they want and when they want it. The guy (or gal) behind you in the passing lane flashes his lights; you get out of the way. Simple as that.
* Italian drivers are aggressive, but they're competent. They respect the lanes and other drivers, even if they're passing you at 120 mph.
* Italian drivers are aggressive, but they're polite. Not once have I been flipped the bird or some other obscene gesture. Nor have I been subjected to a shaking fist. And I've made plenty of mistakes.
* Italian drivers respect pedestrians. In the cities, we were able to cross the streets without fear for our lives. By and large, patience prevails.
* Massachusetts drivers in general, and Boston drivers in particular, are still the most aggressively rude and aggressively incompetent I've encountered anywhere. And I've lived there all my life.
* Italian drivers are aggressive, but they're not crazy. They let you know exactly what they want and when they want it. The guy (or gal) behind you in the passing lane flashes his lights; you get out of the way. Simple as that.
* Italian drivers are aggressive, but they're competent. They respect the lanes and other drivers, even if they're passing you at 120 mph.
* Italian drivers are aggressive, but they're polite. Not once have I been flipped the bird or some other obscene gesture. Nor have I been subjected to a shaking fist. And I've made plenty of mistakes.
* Italian drivers respect pedestrians. In the cities, we were able to cross the streets without fear for our lives. By and large, patience prevails.
* Massachusetts drivers in general, and Boston drivers in particular, are still the most aggressively rude and aggressively incompetent I've encountered anywhere. And I've lived there all my life.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
A condensed version of our travels
Just in case I don't get to write over the next couple of days, here are some random observations from our travels over the past few:
Monday, April 16
St. Peter's is just as intimidating, overwhelming and obscene as I remembered it from 1965. The view from the dome is well worth climbing 550 steps, though, especially in late afternoon with a gathering storm and the occasional bolt of lightning in the distance. A comment from on high, perhaps, on the embarrassment of riches here?
Tuesday, April 17
American Cemetery at Nettuno/Anzio is just as impressive and moving as St. Peter's is intimidating and obscene. Unfortunately it doesn't get nearly the ink as the American cemetery at Normandy, so it's nearly deserted.
Nettuno is a charming town, and we found some great fish-stuffed ravioli at a restaurant inside the walls of the citadel.
Wednesday, April 18
Speaking of deserted, my father's 1,000-year-old hometown of Tussio, for which this blog is named, is nearly so --- at least on a Wednesday morning in the middle of the week.
We encountered a woman named Pietrangeli, who was waiting with her elderly mother to visit the local doctor. The mother had vague recollections of my father and his sister, my aunt, but I could sense not much connection. She did mention Angelo Giordani, a nephew of my aunt. We tried visiting him, but he wasn't home.
Our last stop before we left was the local cemetery, a remarkably elaborate necropolis of mausoleums, especially for such a small and ostensibly poor town. On the graves I found the names of people I had visited as a boy in 1965 but, alas, I haven't kept touch with their descendants. I also found among the dead more De Rubeises than I could count. A major genealogical research project awaits.
Thursday, April 19
Today was spent in the laundry and auto repair. Dirty clothes and a damaged tire prompted a trip to the lavanderia and Europcar. Clean clothes and a different car later, we were on our way to Bologna.
Friday, April 20
Our initial encounter with Bologna wasn't favorable. Between the graffiti and trash near our otherwise clean and comfortable hotel, I felt we were staying on the set of "Escape from New York." Thank God first impressions can be misleading. Once we found our way downtown, we discovered amazing medieval and Renaissance architecture, as well as food befitting what many consider the gastronomic capital of Italy.
Saturday, April 21 and Sunday, April 22
Venice is described as preposterous, and it's just as preposterous to describe. We stayed in a restored 19th century palazzo, toured the usual suspects (St. Mark's and the Doges' Palace), dropped a lot of money on glassware in Murano and sprang for the obligatory gondola ride from a fifth-generation gondolier.
An unexpected pleasure: Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" in Vivaldi's hometown by Interpreti Veneziani, who approach the master the way the best blues and rock artists do: with unbridled passion. They're so good they sound like they're improvising, yet they stick to the written music. Check them out at http://www.interpreti.veneziani.com/.
Getting lost here is an honored local pastime, which we indulged on several occasions, knowing that you can't get too lost. And after the din of Rome, car-less Venice is serene.
Monday, April 23
We headed for Florence via Verona, which has one of the most contrived tourist attractions anywhere this side of the Salem, Massachusetts' witch nonsense. Yes, we had to at least stop by Juliet's house and fight our way through the crowds. Paul just finished the Shakespeare play in his English class, so failure to stop here would have been unthinkable. Now that we've been there, a visit to Juliet's house is unthinkable. And on Shakespeare's 443rd birthday, no less. If it weren't such a cliche, he would be rolling in his grave.
Monday, April 16
St. Peter's is just as intimidating, overwhelming and obscene as I remembered it from 1965. The view from the dome is well worth climbing 550 steps, though, especially in late afternoon with a gathering storm and the occasional bolt of lightning in the distance. A comment from on high, perhaps, on the embarrassment of riches here?
Tuesday, April 17
American Cemetery at Nettuno/Anzio is just as impressive and moving as St. Peter's is intimidating and obscene. Unfortunately it doesn't get nearly the ink as the American cemetery at Normandy, so it's nearly deserted.
Nettuno is a charming town, and we found some great fish-stuffed ravioli at a restaurant inside the walls of the citadel.
Wednesday, April 18
Speaking of deserted, my father's 1,000-year-old hometown of Tussio, for which this blog is named, is nearly so --- at least on a Wednesday morning in the middle of the week.
We encountered a woman named Pietrangeli, who was waiting with her elderly mother to visit the local doctor. The mother had vague recollections of my father and his sister, my aunt, but I could sense not much connection. She did mention Angelo Giordani, a nephew of my aunt. We tried visiting him, but he wasn't home.
Our last stop before we left was the local cemetery, a remarkably elaborate necropolis of mausoleums, especially for such a small and ostensibly poor town. On the graves I found the names of people I had visited as a boy in 1965 but, alas, I haven't kept touch with their descendants. I also found among the dead more De Rubeises than I could count. A major genealogical research project awaits.
Thursday, April 19
Today was spent in the laundry and auto repair. Dirty clothes and a damaged tire prompted a trip to the lavanderia and Europcar. Clean clothes and a different car later, we were on our way to Bologna.
Friday, April 20
Our initial encounter with Bologna wasn't favorable. Between the graffiti and trash near our otherwise clean and comfortable hotel, I felt we were staying on the set of "Escape from New York." Thank God first impressions can be misleading. Once we found our way downtown, we discovered amazing medieval and Renaissance architecture, as well as food befitting what many consider the gastronomic capital of Italy.
Saturday, April 21 and Sunday, April 22
Venice is described as preposterous, and it's just as preposterous to describe. We stayed in a restored 19th century palazzo, toured the usual suspects (St. Mark's and the Doges' Palace), dropped a lot of money on glassware in Murano and sprang for the obligatory gondola ride from a fifth-generation gondolier.
An unexpected pleasure: Vivaldi's "Four Seasons" in Vivaldi's hometown by Interpreti Veneziani, who approach the master the way the best blues and rock artists do: with unbridled passion. They're so good they sound like they're improvising, yet they stick to the written music. Check them out at http://www.interpreti.veneziani.com/.
Getting lost here is an honored local pastime, which we indulged on several occasions, knowing that you can't get too lost. And after the din of Rome, car-less Venice is serene.
Monday, April 23
We headed for Florence via Verona, which has one of the most contrived tourist attractions anywhere this side of the Salem, Massachusetts' witch nonsense. Yes, we had to at least stop by Juliet's house and fight our way through the crowds. Paul just finished the Shakespeare play in his English class, so failure to stop here would have been unthinkable. Now that we've been there, a visit to Juliet's house is unthinkable. And on Shakespeare's 443rd birthday, no less. If it weren't such a cliche, he would be rolling in his grave.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
April 16 - Pompeii heaven, Trentialia hell
Yesterday was as glorious and maddening and intense as one could imagine.
It rained Saturday night, as it tends to do every night in Rome this time of year, and we awoke to freshly washed air and a cool spring day amid the bells of Sunday morning. After breakfast we set out for Termini, just a quarter mile or so from the hotel, and boarded the train for Naples. The ride was of visual splendor after visual splendor, as the hills south of Rome seem to sprout from the flat, fertile landscape.
By the time we reached Pompeii (a separate, 45-minute train ride from Naples), we were hungry and decided to have lunch at Ristorante Carlo Alberto, just of the main piazza of modern Pompeii. The highlight was an antipasto of cold cooked fish, salmon and anchovies, pickled eggplant, roasted eggplant and prosciutto.
We wandered over to I Scavi di Pompeii (the ruins) after lunch. Exploring the ruins, especially in 80-degree weather following a harsh New England winter, was exhausting and exhilarating. The absolute highlight, though, was a private tour by security guard of the House of Menander, probably a poet, who lived there at the time of the eruption of Vesuvius in A.D. 79 that destroyed the town and buried it under lava and volcanic ash. The guard showed us a reconstructed wooden carriage made with bronze hardware found among the ruins, a dining room with remarkably well preserved paintings; and a mosaic, composed of pieces barely 1/16 of an inch square, depicting a wedding scene in which the groom was depicted as small in every way but one.
After the day ended, we had to keep reminding ourselves of the wonders of Pompeii, especially since we were forced to stand for the two-hour trip back from Naples to Rome. Unknown to us, Sunday night is a most popular time for vacationers and workaday types alike to return to the capital city, and the aisles and foyers were full. I ended up standing in a gangway between two cars for the entire trip. Why Trenitalia doesn't add extra cars in such a situation, I don't know. But if Trenitalia is run anything like Poste Italiana, the postal service, I think I can imagine the answer.
Of course, an experience like this can be made less so by a stop at Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore and a gelateria, which we did before we returned to the hotel.
It rained Saturday night, as it tends to do every night in Rome this time of year, and we awoke to freshly washed air and a cool spring day amid the bells of Sunday morning. After breakfast we set out for Termini, just a quarter mile or so from the hotel, and boarded the train for Naples. The ride was of visual splendor after visual splendor, as the hills south of Rome seem to sprout from the flat, fertile landscape.
By the time we reached Pompeii (a separate, 45-minute train ride from Naples), we were hungry and decided to have lunch at Ristorante Carlo Alberto, just of the main piazza of modern Pompeii. The highlight was an antipasto of cold cooked fish, salmon and anchovies, pickled eggplant, roasted eggplant and prosciutto.
We wandered over to I Scavi di Pompeii (the ruins) after lunch. Exploring the ruins, especially in 80-degree weather following a harsh New England winter, was exhausting and exhilarating. The absolute highlight, though, was a private tour by security guard of the House of Menander, probably a poet, who lived there at the time of the eruption of Vesuvius in A.D. 79 that destroyed the town and buried it under lava and volcanic ash. The guard showed us a reconstructed wooden carriage made with bronze hardware found among the ruins, a dining room with remarkably well preserved paintings; and a mosaic, composed of pieces barely 1/16 of an inch square, depicting a wedding scene in which the groom was depicted as small in every way but one.
After the day ended, we had to keep reminding ourselves of the wonders of Pompeii, especially since we were forced to stand for the two-hour trip back from Naples to Rome. Unknown to us, Sunday night is a most popular time for vacationers and workaday types alike to return to the capital city, and the aisles and foyers were full. I ended up standing in a gangway between two cars for the entire trip. Why Trenitalia doesn't add extra cars in such a situation, I don't know. But if Trenitalia is run anything like Poste Italiana, the postal service, I think I can imagine the answer.
Of course, an experience like this can be made less so by a stop at Piazza Santa Maria Maggiore and a gelateria, which we did before we returned to the hotel.
April 14, 2007 - Back to the tourists
Against my best instincts, we had to return to the Piazza DiSpagna to deal with the crush of people who make this a must-see. Yes, the azaleas that seem to pour from the Spanish Steps are spectacular, though no less so than other similar gardens. Nevertheless, we "had" to go here, as well as return to the Trevi fountain to toss in the coins. Frankly, I don't know what all the fuss is about. Both these places seem to be the Paris Hiltons of Rome sightseeing: famous for being famous.
From there we headed to the Pantheon, which was more sumptuous, in a comparatively undertstated way, than I had remembered from my visit in 1965. The exterior is so stark and dull that it makes the multihued marble interior seem that much more ornate, though less so than St. Peter's. Again the crush of tourists was overwhelming, but at least in this case you could see why.
Following an encounter with the best ice cream on the planet (Italy's gelato) at the Gelateria della Palma at 20 via Maddalena, we continued over to Piazza Navona and its multi-textured street life: mimes (actually, they were pretty good, as mimes go), folk singers (think "Wild World" by Cat Stevens and cringe), and a jazz combo consisting of an accordion (!), bass and saxophonist playing an almost unrecognizable "Autumn Leaves." I mean this as a good thing.
Paul found an ornamental sword he just had to have at a toy store on the piazza, and instead of walking back to the Hotel Tirreno we grabbed the subway just before it closed. Pizza at a small snack bar, run by an Asian woman, ended the day. We crashed upon our arrival at the hotel to sleep on a day full of great history and great food.
From there we headed to the Pantheon, which was more sumptuous, in a comparatively undertstated way, than I had remembered from my visit in 1965. The exterior is so stark and dull that it makes the multihued marble interior seem that much more ornate, though less so than St. Peter's. Again the crush of tourists was overwhelming, but at least in this case you could see why.
Following an encounter with the best ice cream on the planet (Italy's gelato) at the Gelateria della Palma at 20 via Maddalena, we continued over to Piazza Navona and its multi-textured street life: mimes (actually, they were pretty good, as mimes go), folk singers (think "Wild World" by Cat Stevens and cringe), and a jazz combo consisting of an accordion (!), bass and saxophonist playing an almost unrecognizable "Autumn Leaves." I mean this as a good thing.
Paul found an ornamental sword he just had to have at a toy store on the piazza, and instead of walking back to the Hotel Tirreno we grabbed the subway just before it closed. Pizza at a small snack bar, run by an Asian woman, ended the day. We crashed upon our arrival at the hotel to sleep on a day full of great history and great food.
April 14, 2007 - Back to the future
We spent the day in antiquity, retracing our steps of last night, by returning to the Forum and Colosseum. The Forum audio tour is a thorough description of the major temples and the Senate building (Curia) , a good way to begin a discussion of the parallels of ancient Rome to Washington, D.C. The Curia, of course, is the most obvious. But Palatine Hill, next to the forum, invites its own comparisons to the White House and Embassy Row, and the Temple of Saturn, built for worship of the God of Prosperity, could be any number of buildings in official Washington, with the Treasury most immediately coming to mind.
Lunch was actually a sumptuous dinner at Osteria Nerone, a restaurant built atop the ruins of Nero's mansion. Our meal included antipasto misto, fried artichokes, canelloni al forno, spaghetti Bolognese, osso buco, and, of course, a bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, which ought to be the official wine of Paesani Tussiani.
The post-lunch tour of the Colosseum had more than its share of irony: an elevator ride to the spot where we began another audio tour complete with descriptions of battles, gladiators and the social stratification of the seating. (Gee, sounds like American football to me.) Of course, we have a visual record of it all on our digital camera.
Lunch was actually a sumptuous dinner at Osteria Nerone, a restaurant built atop the ruins of Nero's mansion. Our meal included antipasto misto, fried artichokes, canelloni al forno, spaghetti Bolognese, osso buco, and, of course, a bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo, which ought to be the official wine of Paesani Tussiani.
The post-lunch tour of the Colosseum had more than its share of irony: an elevator ride to the spot where we began another audio tour complete with descriptions of battles, gladiators and the social stratification of the seating. (Gee, sounds like American football to me.) Of course, we have a visual record of it all on our digital camera.
April 13, 2007 - Cheez-Its and peanut butter
After a three-hour nap, which followed flights from Boston to Toronto and Toronto to Rome, we grabbed some pizza and set off to begin our exploration of the Eternal City at dusk. The kids (and their parents) were in awe of the ruins we saw along the way.
Just after dusk, when the lights came on, we could see why Sarah used the materials she did for her fourth-grade Colosseum project: Cheez-Its crackers and peanut butter. The Colosseum is bathed in yellow-orange light, and the darker, time-worn spots really do look like peanut butter.
From there we wandered over to the Victor Emmanuel monument/monstrosity, which was clothed in scaffolding for a restoration project. It seems that some monument or other is at least partially covered in scaffolding, but such is the state of a modern city in constant battle with the antiquity on which it depends for survival.
Our next stop was the Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps, but we decided we were still too tired to tackle them, so we headed to the Trevi Fountain, which was even more garishly touristy than we could imagine: hawkers with tacky trinkets and crowds climbing over one another (politely, though) to do the coin-in-the-fountain thing. It was awful.
As with anyplace, you find the best experiences in the unexpected. Since we had to walk back to our hotel because Rome's Metro line A closes at 9, we took a stroll down the still elegant, if not particularly hip, Via Veneto, past the poshest hotels to have a chance meeting with a guitar player in a doorway, accompanied only by his music, a couple of dogs and a few rabbits.
Our walk continued up the Via Veneto, past the Hotel Anglo-Americano, where I had stayed with my parents when I visited Rome with them 42 years ago.
Just after dusk, when the lights came on, we could see why Sarah used the materials she did for her fourth-grade Colosseum project: Cheez-Its crackers and peanut butter. The Colosseum is bathed in yellow-orange light, and the darker, time-worn spots really do look like peanut butter.
From there we wandered over to the Victor Emmanuel monument/monstrosity, which was clothed in scaffolding for a restoration project. It seems that some monument or other is at least partially covered in scaffolding, but such is the state of a modern city in constant battle with the antiquity on which it depends for survival.
Our next stop was the Piazza di Spagna and the Spanish Steps, but we decided we were still too tired to tackle them, so we headed to the Trevi Fountain, which was even more garishly touristy than we could imagine: hawkers with tacky trinkets and crowds climbing over one another (politely, though) to do the coin-in-the-fountain thing. It was awful.
As with anyplace, you find the best experiences in the unexpected. Since we had to walk back to our hotel because Rome's Metro line A closes at 9, we took a stroll down the still elegant, if not particularly hip, Via Veneto, past the poshest hotels to have a chance meeting with a guitar player in a doorway, accompanied only by his music, a couple of dogs and a few rabbits.
Our walk continued up the Via Veneto, past the Hotel Anglo-Americano, where I had stayed with my parents when I visited Rome with them 42 years ago.
Friday, March 30, 2007
The DeRubeis family - an Italian journal
"Paesani Tussiani" means countrymen (and women) of Tussio, a medieval town about 75 miles east of Rome in the heart of the Abruzzo region at the foot of Gran Sasso D'Italia, the highest mountain in the Apennines at nearly 10,000 feet. It was in Tussio that Victor's father, Victor Emmanuel DeRubeis, was born on Feb. 7, 1914.
Travel with the DeRubeis family as we visit the "old country" from April 13 to 28, 2007.
In addition to the "must see" sites of Rome, Pompeii, Florence and Venice, we'll also take side trips to Anzio, where Victor's father served the with U.S. Army during World War II, and skirt Naples, where Achille, Alba, Pasqua and Vittorio DeRubeis boarded the Conte Verde in April 1924 bound for Ellis Island, New York City, Boston and, finally, Malden.
We'll also be making stops at Tussio and the largest nearby city, L'Aquila.
And provided we can find convenient internet cafes, we'll update this blog as much as we can during our travels.
Travel with the DeRubeis family as we visit the "old country" from April 13 to 28, 2007.
In addition to the "must see" sites of Rome, Pompeii, Florence and Venice, we'll also take side trips to Anzio, where Victor's father served the with U.S. Army during World War II, and skirt Naples, where Achille, Alba, Pasqua and Vittorio DeRubeis boarded the Conte Verde in April 1924 bound for Ellis Island, New York City, Boston and, finally, Malden.
We'll also be making stops at Tussio and the largest nearby city, L'Aquila.
And provided we can find convenient internet cafes, we'll update this blog as much as we can during our travels.
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