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.
Monday, April 30, 2007
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
