tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-53392699244503905282024-03-19T14:03:27.184-07:00the puffy jacket tourWe bought the tickets and then the jackets. We are spending three months together as a family in winter-bound Europe. Hence the jackets ...Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-13493403501036162462012-02-01T02:29:00.000-08:002012-02-01T02:29:45.643-08:00Rome, day seven: last day in Europe<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We began with the Queen, or a phantom queen. We never did quite know whether it was the Queen we saw on our first day in Europe, though the newspaper later confirmed four royal women wandering around in black on Rememberance Sunday: Kate, Sophie, Camilla and Elizabeth. Well, there might have been pretenders for the first day, but on our last day in Europe we ended with the Pope. And you can’t really mistake him, if only because he has a window, and there are thousands in St Peter’s Square calling for him, like a rock star. But why were we here? And how did we get here?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles was calling for it since we had missed the Pope’s mass on Wednesday. And because he had been so sad about it, we indulged him. We decided to walk to the Vatican through Trastevere; it apparently has the biggest flea market in Rome on a Sunday. Perhaps. But we didn’t come across it. All we saw were some pretty sad little stalls selling pieces from the $2 shop. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Trastevere, according to guide books, is a gentrified former working class suburb. This was interesting because it looks nothing like a former working class suburb. It is all hills and parks and large buildings. It looks, as Myles said, just like South Yarra. It was quite peaceful walking though the suburb on a Sunday; though there were too many hills for most of us. We ended up in a large park on the top of the hill, with people selling balloons and some very excited children having a party, and old men sitting on benches reading the newspaper. It was also quite close to a series of hospitals, so harried people going for visiting. There were lots of busts of people here too, at least three busts of various Garibaldis, who knew there were so many? And a few busts of people (and by people, I mean men) who sported quite spectacular mutton chops. Perhaps they were famous for their beards.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Time was marching on and Myles didn’t want to miss the big moment when the Pope appeared at his window and blessed the crowd. So we stumbled down the steep roads and into Vatican city. This time (unlike the disappointing Wednesday) the place was full to bursting with people, so carrying placards with Mary and Jesus featured (for what? Protest? Support? Is wasn’t clear). There were groups marching around with banners. There was a group who had control of a microphone and an inexhaustible supply of rollicking religious tunes in Italian. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Zelda spotted the carpet laid out from the window of his palace (it was a bit, blink and you miss). The musicians kept playing and we waited. And then, with no fanfare really, the Pope appeared at his window. The group with the microphone happened to be in the middle of a song, and had to kind of fade it quickly as he began to speak. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was mostly in Italian, all about words and actions and helping the sick and being a good Christian (at least they were the bits I could understand). And then he began to go through a couple of different language. He began with French, then English, then German, then Spanish, then another language we didn’t recognise but thought it was some kind of Eastern European tongue. The kids were quite excited by how many language he could speak. The message in English at least, but possibly replicated across all the language, was that Christ was the way and the light, and that we had to be good. Being good was the big thing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then he introduced a young girl and she gave a speech about being good and climbing the mountain to overcome evil and badness and listening to your teachers and parents. It was all a bit depressing really. We left before it all ended.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles liked the bit when an American couple walked passed it and suddenly realised that it was the Pope at the window. ‘Shit!’ said one to the other. ‘I think that might be him!’ Ah the yanks. Always good for a laugh. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As it was our last day in Europe on this tour and we were feeling very sentimental (at least I was) we thought we needed to have a last hot chocolate and possibly cake. So we ended up in a little café and ordered hot chocolate and lots of cake. Myles is off all this so he just watched, but we ate and drank and felt good about the world. And then it was time to go home and good all the fabulous vegetables that we had bought at the market the day before. It was close to one when we got home and we had to get cracking. But things felt apart as you might imagine. We didn’t have eggs so we couldn’t make the fried eggplant. Then I had already made chicken with passata, so going for a ratatouille was looking shaky. So we had to do some improvisation quick smart. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We ended up not quite pulling off a delicious lunch. Sad really, because we had very much improved our cooking skills and we had diversified our ingredients. It just wasn’t to be. We were too addled; our heads were too much in the sky rather than on the ground.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After lunch we all lay down; some of us in the bath. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then a final goodbye to Rome. Myles skilfully turned us to Via del Corso for more shopping; god I hate shopping, so the kids and I left him to it, and we walked to the Trevi fountain for a final farewell. We had no money throw over our shoulders but we watched others do it, and some kids apparently getting into trouble for littering. It must be odd to be cop here. And they have a million different kinds; this was the municipal police, but there are the state police, and the national police and traffic police and so on. So the municipal police apparently go after the hard core litterers. And you can’t blame them really.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the way back to the shops, the kids discovered a Lindt shop and as you may or may not know, this is their very favourite thing in the world. So we ate Lindt balls. More walking. Great buskers; a woman danced in the most wonderful black suit with an umbrella, some break dancers (how??), an old couple with a microphone and a portable karaoke machine. Whooo hoo!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The right way to say goodbye to Rome, and to our trip.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">God we have love it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Thanks to everyone and anyone who had joined us on this tour. I have adored all your comments and emails and encouragement. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
</div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-2562415520259769732012-01-29T00:32:00.000-08:002012-01-29T00:32:29.296-08:00Rome, day sixThere was no mucking around. We were going to the Forum and Palatine Hill come hell or high water. Surely strikes and chaffed thighs were things of the past, we could go forward and see some sights. <br />
But it was also Saturday and the market in Campo dei Fiori does not run on Sunday. Paris, being particularly visionary, decided that we had to visit the market early so we could buy a whole lot of interesting vegetables for a Sunday feast. Who can disagree with that? Now that he has read a series of Bronte novels without being promoted and has argued to buy vegetables for fun, I feel that my work here is done .. <br />
So we did. Artichokes, eggplants, mushrooms, capiscums, potatoes, and then some fruit. We carted it home. <br />
And then we set off for the Forum for the third time. This time we went behind the great monument to Vittorio Emmanuel and the unification of Italy and then we got lost and had to back track. But we could see people wandering around the forum, so that boded well. And the faux gladiators were out in force as were the scarf sellers and the sellers of mini Colosseums and so on. Things were looking good.<br />
The line for the Colosseum was huge; this looked bad. Perhaps everyone caught in the general strike yesterday were going for broke today. I wasn't keen on a long wait in line, but we had to do this thing.<br />
As it happened, our luck held. There was hardly anyone in line for the Forum. And we already had our tickets so we didn't have to wait to buy. At least we had tickets. Whether they would still be valid was a whole other ball game. I went straight up to the bloke who was guarding the door and in my best Italian, explained the situation - we had bought the tickets but were caught in the general strike of yesterday. He looked at my tickets and my winning smile. The doors opened for us. We were finally in. <br />
It wasn't quite the sunny days were have become used to, but it was warm and humid and Niccolo was soon down to a tee shirt. Not me, so much. But the warm blood of youth ...<br />
So there we were, picking over the carcass of that beast that was the Roman Empire. This has a very different feel to Pompeii, which was a city cut down in its prime, and was like a perfect body resting on its side. The forum and Palatine Hill were pockets of decay and ruin (in its true sense). As I had been bold about approaching the door guard, we didn't get a audioguide or a map so we had to rely on what was written on boards around the place. Lots was about Nero - his megolomania, and how much of what he built was later torn down in a rage by the people. The kids, funnily enough, knew quite a lot about Emperor Nero from Horrible Histories (God love that show) and could tell us what he had done and how bad he really was. They were actually more a fan of some other emperor whose name I can neither remember (or, indeed, spell) who was seriously deranged. Rome; the playground for madness. No wonder Hilter was so attracted to the symbols and architecture. Must had felt right up his alley. <br />
Palatine Hill was the place where the wealthy citizens of Rome built their houses and surveyed the plebians. There were the remains of quite a few mansions, including the house of Augustus which is remarkably intact, and you can visit, as though you have been asked for tea. It is reassuringly similar to the houses we build and live in today (I'm not sure why that this reassuring ...); quite small rooms (perhaps so you could heat them), beautifully painted with frescos (now that is something we should bring back to our housing), window seats, doors. <br />
I had a good look at the children. Zelda was a pale as death. Had she had breakfast? No, she had not. Her mood was dropping like a stone. We had to find an early lunch. Myles took me aside to discuss possibilities. He doesn't like to discuss in front of the kids in case it accidently locks him into something he was not prepared to entertain. As we walked away from them, I told them, in mock tones, that we were abandoning them. Paris said: 'Cool'. Niccolo said: 'Leave us some money'. Zelda said nothing. <br />
We decided on a place to eat; somewhere we had passed in our trips around the city; and then we took the kids around the rest of the site. Up to the gardens that hung above the city (very nice, but NOT, I feel, 2000 years old), and then into the commercial quarter and the forum itself. It was all very like a village - cobbled streets with shops on either side, temples and churches, housing. Lots of marble fragments lying about. I wish we had an audioguide or something. The kids were full of history, they couldn't take in another thing so perhaps I was the only one yearning for more information. <br />
The place was the pulse of one of the biggest empires our world has ever seen. It was fitting that there were still mighty structures that spoke a testimony to that, but they were also dwarfed by what had arisen since. And was the ground lower 2000 years ago? Everything seems to sit lower on the earth than where we currently live. <br />
There is a haunting here too; your feet hit the ground in the places where thousands of others had hit the ground; same needs and desires (though we are not here to live, but to be voyeurs so that is a bit different). Same stumbling on steep steps, same rolling of ankles on uneven stones. We are a part of something just by being human; it is a haunted site, but not lonely.<br />
So to feed the kids. Once Zelda was eating lasagne, the colour came back into her face and she could smile and speak again. Paris had pork and vegetables. Niccolo, a hamburger. Myles and I went for the melazane alla parmigana. It was ace. This is going to become a dish for my kitchen too.<br />
The sun had come out. We went to Piazza Navona for more ice cream and to look again at the Bernini fountain of the four rivers. We tried to guess what they were - turns out we couldn't have been more wrong in our judgement. We liked the lion at the bottom of the fountain very much. Then Niccolo chased gigantic bubbles that were being produced by a woman at the other end of the piazza. I had a run in with her 'minder' who told me I had to give her money before I could take photos. I hotly pointed out that the child I was taking photos of had just put a hunk of change in her hat and perhaps he should back off. Grrrrr.<br />
Campo dei Fiori was practically pulsating with life when we returned. It was middle afternoon; around four, and people were already getting on their dancing shoes. Myles and I bought English magazines (and tickets for the bus so we could get the airport early on Monday morning) and we returned to our apartment. I got in the bath with my magazine. The kids watched Total Drama on the computer. Myles watched The Karate Kid (not making that bit up). <br />
We had discovered that there was a concert on at the Church of St Ignatius that night. It was a choir from Tampa Florida (conducted by an Irishman named Donal Noonan) singing sacred music. Well, it was free and we though, why not? The kids were not enthusiastic. Niccolo discovered a film called Sky High on the TV in English and he wasn't going anywhere. So Myles and I put on respectable clothes and went off to church. We had not yet gone into the Church of Saint Ignatius, but had walked through the piazza several times; it has become one of my favourites. The church is amazing, incredibly painting on the ceilings with that remarkable feeling you get in the Sistine Chapel too, that the painting are somehow three dimensional. The usual saints in the wall thing. There were quite a few of us there to see the singing. Interesting.<br />
It was a mix between the sublime (some Mozart which was beautiful) and the nuts (some more charismatic, hand clapping, 'let Jesus come' stuff). And directing the whole thing was perhaps one of the more eccentric conductors the world has ever seen. He was a huge bald Irishman (who was quite clearly loved by his singers) who conducted as if the music was coming from his body - up on his toes, shoulders rippling, hands everywhere, knees flexing. It was entertaining. He also had a set of 'Danny Boy' pipes and, on occasion, handed his stick to another to have a sing (a kind of Captain/Coach). The woman who he gave his stick to conducted as if she were kneading bread or sewing a large garment; the bloke held the stick delicately and pointed. <br />
The choir itself was made up of older people and very young people. There was a girl who sang up the back (though she did a solo too at one point) who couldn't have been much out of her teens, who was having the best time, but couldn't get in time for the more charismatic stuff - swaying the wrong way, hand clapping at the wrong time. I couldn't keep my eyes off her.<br />
All in all, the American singers, the Irish conductor, the Italian aesthetic, and the rather rag tag crowd; this was perfect. <br />
After it was over, we walked the streets of Rome (hark! are those bells? look! is that the Pantheon? and so on) and went into a bar for drink (with the youngest crowd I have ever seen). We had a long chat about religion. <br />
Campo dei Fiori was fierce in its crowds of people looking to party. It was going to be a long, noisy night for us in our tower. Turned out it was. Men yelling and singing, fights, and the mysterious new born cry which I now think might be a cat. The poultry was silent (or drowned out). They prefer the morning anyway.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw64cZF57mQ3pGOUjChv6uoDSxSKMzsu_0JE0PYCDRSNatg4_oM9uKm5z3drQDuIkRQyDWxYNjNPAH6lCJ05w2NZ32_LXR3sPVfa7xFAy5fB8wPye3fAtYfUPZy_m0O1QlDS2FFtBJ8wc/s1600/IMG_3467.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw64cZF57mQ3pGOUjChv6uoDSxSKMzsu_0JE0PYCDRSNatg4_oM9uKm5z3drQDuIkRQyDWxYNjNPAH6lCJ05w2NZ32_LXR3sPVfa7xFAy5fB8wPye3fAtYfUPZy_m0O1QlDS2FFtBJ8wc/s320/IMG_3467.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-30530309313740140562012-01-28T00:17:00.000-08:002012-01-28T00:17:13.699-08:00Rome, day fiveThe thighs had healed and we were on the road again. The day was blue like blue, and it was our last Friday in Europe so we were up for a big one. We went to the local bakery where French like pastries beckoned. But they were not anything like we might have expected. The Italians can't do the French style pastries in our limited experience. Oh well, when in Rome ...<br />
We made our way back to the Forum. Our host had organised for the apartment to be cleaned and the young woman arrived just before we left. I had a little chat with her and she warned me that there were strikes on (the buses, she said). Oh, well, we wouldn't need the buses; we were close to everything. So we set off with high expectation. The streets did seem rather thin in terms of people and there was certainly less traffic on the road (including buses). But nothing was really triggering alarms. And then, weirdly, hardly any people trying to sell us scarves or mini Colosseums or bubble headed gladiators. Hmmm.<br />
The gate to the Forum and Palatine Hill was shut and it was odd because it was about ten in the morning. I went up to the gate to see what was happening and there was the sign. Closed for General Strike. Damnation.<br />
We walked back to the Colosseum to find out what was happening and if we could use our tickets tomorrow. The Colosseum was opened (though it was going to close at 1pm) and we were told that out tickets would be fine tomorrow. OK. Now what. Well, Rome is a big interesting place. That was good news. We wandered up to the Trevi fountain. I like this fountain very much if only for the fact that while there are beautifully carved figures, they lie on rough ledges that look very much like 'the real world'. It wasn't too busy here; there were a few Japanese tourists throwing coins over their shoulders. Niccolo thought throwing coins might be fun, but wanted to do it from the upper level but we had to convince him that throwing onto a series of tourists might not end well. So he tramped down to the lower level and threw it with the others. So did Paris. So they are certainly going to return to Rome. We had been walking for some time now, and Niccolo was white faced with hunger. So we fed him and the rest of us (very nice artichokes, just for the record) and headed off to the Spanish Steps. <br />
I love the idea that an architecture is commissioned to design, and then builders are paid to build steps for the common good. And these are not any old steps; these are monumental and glamorous and fabulous. They reach up high and offer the average punter the joy of sitting in the sun on a beautiful piece of architeture that belongs to the world. Very democratic. Right beside the Spanish Steps is the Shelley/Keats museum. The door was being very firmly shut when we arrived (it was 1pm) so there was not prospect of doing some kind of sentimental tour of Keat's death bed. Oh well.<br />
We walked up the steps to the Villa Borghese and messed around the the gardens for a while We liked very much that there were lots of busts of men around the gardens in various flattering and not so flattering poses. There had been many casualties with noses. It is a vulnerable part of the body; even in marble. <br />
We were aimless in this too beautiful city, and that was kind of good. We then just set off to walk around; down cobbled lanes and up busy streets and into piazzas and largos. We looked in shop windows and admired dogs and stylishly dressed men having tiny coffees or tiny alcoholic drinks in little bars. We liked very much the colours of Rome; apricots (but un-bridesmaidlike), and light reds and pinks, and all rosy in the afternoon sun. We had ice cream at Piazza Navona and admired the fountains again. <br />
And then we were back in Campo dei Fiori with the statue of the monk who had been burned here for hereasy in the 1600s. This was the favourite place in Rome for executions. Everything goes on here.<br />
This is a very lively place; here were we live and is not more lively than a Friday night. On past nights, I have been woken by drunken youth wandering from Campo dei Fiori home; with their voices echoing up and down the walls and arriving all blurry up in our bedroom. I also woke to the cries of a newborn baby (could I be making that up?) and smashing of bottles, and the driving of vespas. But on Friday night, way after the night had fallen and we had been asleep for some hours, there was yelling and screaming, and some young man in deep distress being assisted by his friends who appeared to be laughing. I think his vespa had been stolen (or perhaps not). And all of this is the ghostly, echoy referred sounds created by the cavern like walls of the street. It spooked me a bit. <br />
And we were woken again by geese. Really. Geese.Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-78169267803075518482012-01-27T23:53:00.000-08:002012-01-27T23:53:11.182-08:00Rome, day fourThe ancient ruins beckoned. Why are we so entralled by the ancient? Is it to prove our longevity? Is it to see what we might have been if we had been ancient? Something else? Well, we were caught in the same net, and we were going to see the Colosseum and the Forum and Paletine Hill. Happily, you can bundle the whole thing up in one ticket that lasts two days and you can be ancient to your heart's content.<br />
It is not busy here this time of the year, though not busy still means you queue for a bit (summer must be deadly). We walked from our place to the Colosseum; it is not far, we apparently are not far from anywhere. A lovely bright blue day, but cold. Cold. Cold.<br />
In we went, and bought our tickets and then a couple of hours around the Colosseum. It is surprisingly (or perhaps not so) like what you would see currently in a sporting stadium. Long tiers of seating, good views from everywhere, a large arena (this one is oval), gates leading in and out. The arena itself is only partially covered with wood (this is part of the restoration); the other side exposes the network of tunnels and rooms that lay underneath the arena where animals and slaves were stored ready for the ring. <br />
We got one audio guide and decided that each of us would have a listen and then explain the information to the others. Ah, the joy of an educational exercise this late in the piece ...<br />
There was a whole lot of information about the myths that have arisen around and about the Colosseum - the gladiators died in great numbers (untrue according to the guide; it was way to expensive for the organisers of the games, they had to pay for each gladiator who died and the payment was one hundred times their worth. The people who died in numbers were slaves and prisoners condemned to death. They were just slaughtered for fun either by gladiators or by exotic beasts. As for Christians, there is apparently no evidence that Christians did die at the Colosseum - the narrator did assure us that Christians certainly died at the hands of Roman, but not necessarily here.) Some fun facts about the Colosseum: the exotic beasts suffered most at the Colosseum. As Rome conquered more and more of the known world, they brough back more and more of the spoils and animals were a prized spoil. Apparently, the Romans loved a hunt and they loved to watch a re-enacted hunt in the Colosseum (in the morning; who knew?). During one series of games, 10,000 gladiators killed 11,000 animals including panthers, lions, hippos and so on. There was much cheering. The games were put on by private (and very wealthy) citizens during the Republic and then by the Emperor during the Empire. Romans had something like 170 holidays for games per year. And you wouldn't have to go to the games if you didn't fancy all that blood letting. You could go and cool your face in a fountain. Or lie abed. The things about the Christians sprung up a couple of centuries after the Colosseum closed. It was not used as a fighting arena after the 5th century AD after which is fell apart and was looted for marble and building supplies. But the stories of Christian suffering in the Colosseum (true or false) was the central reason why the Colosseum stands today. In 1750, the then Pope declared the Colosseum a sacred site where maytrs had died and must therefore be preserved. Then the Colosseum was used for passion plays and other Christain rituals until the end of the 19th century when everyone got quite scientific about the site and decided to make it an archeological dig. Hence the tourists in 2012. <br />
There was a lovely black cat enjoying the sunshine in the Colosseum much more than many of the tourists. <br />
This is a creepy place, anywhere where many sentient beings have died for pleasure must be. And it reminded me all too vividly of the MCG where we all like to roar and watch the bloodshed. No one dies (well, almost no one), but how much do we like a thump to the head and so on. It is more the seating and organisation. The tribal yelling from the grandstands while the players sweat bullets. Oh well. That's what the ancient experience will teach you.<br />
And now a true and modern story and perhaps a cautionary tale. Towards the end of this walk around the Colosseum, both Niccolo and I began to feel burning in our thighs. Nothing, clearly, to the suffereing of others in the arena, but rather unpleasant for us. We decided that our new pants (that we had not washed before wearing) were somehow bothering us. Both of us. At the same time. We weren't sure that continuing to walk with this burning was a terrific idea. And because our tickets lasted for two days, we could blow the rest of the walk off. <br />
Niccolo and I hobbled after the rest of the team while they walked to a place for lunch. It was a mock American bar that served burgers and fries to the MTV beat. I had roasted chicken. We watched MTV as if someone was holding a gun to our collective heads. Not sure what is wrong with us. We are giddy with exhaustion and desperate for some control over our environment. But TV is a decent substitute.<br />
Back at home, Niccolo and I took our pants off and our legs were on fire. Neither of us could put new pants on, our legs were so sore. I had a bath (OWWWWW) but afterwards, the inflammation came down a little. We decided we couldn't go out again with no pants so we played cards and bummed around at home. At some point, Paris and Myles went out for dinner. <br />
So the cautionary tale, my friends, is always wash your new pants. It took me 44 years to come up with that one.Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-6879151988723111712012-01-25T23:31:00.000-08:002012-01-25T23:31:55.592-08:00Rome, day three<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was, indeed, the day to see the Pope’s mass. Myles had heard about this from two people on the train from Milan to Venice; and had read about it in the Lonely Planet guide. On the basis of such deep, rich, structured information, we set off. But first, a quick lap around the market in Campo dei Fiori for dinner. (Something I have failed to mention of yesterday was that we went clothes shopping after dinner and bought some clothes for most of us. We were all wearing our new clothes. For some of us, they were the only clean clothes left.) Paris has fallen in love with eggplant and artichokes. So we stocked up on both, plus some zucchinis and capsicums and good ham from the deli, bread and so on. He was already planning the meal. We dropped our supplies off, and set off again for the Vatican.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Yes, things went wrong. Myles had assumed that the Pope gave the mass in St Peter’s Square and none of the rest of us was interested enough in researching further. It turned out that we needed to acquire tickets to this said mass, and then go through a mystical bronze door (this was all learned later) to attend. As it was, we hung around the square for half an hour, with Myles saying; ‘Gee, it’s pretty empty; do you think he will bother?’, and the only real highlight was, as the bells struck eleven, the police in a golf cart did a lap of the square. ‘How do you get THAT job?’ Paris asked (but not of them …). We finally gave up. Myles was really disappointed. The rest of us were secretly pleased. None of us really wanted to sit through a mass. Zelda and Niccolo didn’t even know what a mass was. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We returned to the apartment to regroup. Then we set out for a few sights and some more shopping. We went first down the Via Governo Vecchio which is supposed to be a kind of cool place to walk (which it was) and then to Piazza Navona. Great sunny skies met us here, and we enjoyed walking around. The people running the local restaurants were charming and there was a performance artist pretending to be the invisible man (Niccolo liked this very much, but told me later he could see the strings …). We went from there to the Pantheon. This is two thousand years old and stands as tall and straight as any building anywhere. There is a huge hole in the room for light (and signs around the building with headings in Italian: ‘But what happens when it rains …’). Here, Raphael is buried. According to the signs, he was bought to the Pantheon as soon as he died, but was exhumed later to verify he was really there, and then reburied. It seemed a sort of overkill (perhaps literally) to me. Umberto and Victorio Emmanuel are also buried here. It is a strange place, now a church, but never built for that; indeed built before Christianity had any kind of hold on Rome. It is split space with a split history; and has an odd energy for that reason. That, and the fact that it is circular. A circular church … I’m sure that is a metaphor worth playing with at some point.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then we were off to Via del Corso. From spirituality to commerce in a few short steps. But Zelda needed pants badly, and she had not fared well in the shopping trip of the night before. So we found ourselves buying black trousers, and then a series of jumpers and pants for Myles, some tee shirts and cardigans for me, tops for Niccolo and a belt for Paris. And hour or so later and we couldn’t find our way home fast enough. Shopping is very, very bad for the soul. We went via the Piazza Venezia and the huge white palazzo that dominate the place, then back down to Largo Argentina and the sacred remains that casually inhabit this huge space, and back up to Largo dei Librari which is what we call home. We had a date to meet our host at five; she was coming in to help us with some problems; and Paris was keen to get cooking. Our host turned out to be charming and we had tea with her while Paris and Zelda began cooking; he peeled and prepared the artichoke (full marks) and the mushrooms, she cut the eggplant and the capsicums and began cooking them. After the host left (the owner turned up too at some point), it was all stations go. Paris decided to wing the artichokes and cooked them in oil with garlic, thyme and salt (and good they were too), we breadcrumbed the eggplant and fried them, mushrooms in oil, butter and garlic, capsicums slow cooked in oil, tuna from a can, some slices of chicken also bread crumbed and fried, bread from the morning market. Niccolo is toying with vegetarianism, so he was forced to try all these dishes and quite liked them. Zelda was a big fan of the eggplant (my work here is done), and the rest of the dishes we were fighting over for the last bits. Good food: is there nothing it can’t do?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cards, ‘A Night at the Museum’ on the TV in Italian. Falling asleep with the kids all in bed with me. Happy days.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><br />
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</div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-25346208338323993802012-01-25T23:28:00.000-08:002012-01-25T23:28:37.694-08:00Rome, day two<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were woken by what sounded like chickens or geese chuckling or clucking what felt like right outside our window. It was very ‘ancient’. Where would you keep chickens in Rome?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Here we are in the Eternal City. It is eternal, I guess, as far as western history goes. It is the longest running city in our sense of history. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had plans to go to the market in the Campo dei Fiori, but somehow forgot that we were going to do that. When we left the apartment, it was after ten, and then we walked through the Campo, looking admiringly at the market – a good one. It runs every day but Sunday so that’s a lucky thing. Such good vegetables and fruit. We promised that we would remember to do something about this on the morrow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were off to the Vatican museum and St Peter’s Square and Basilica. The reason we were doing Rome from the Vatican down (rather than, say, the Colosseum up) had to do with something called the ‘Rome’ pass which Myles has read about. As soon as you activate the ‘Rome’ pass, you had three days to use it. And the Vatican wasn’t included. Well, it wouldn’t be, I guess. It is, strictly speaking, Rome. From our place, the Vatican is just up the river, across, and down one street. We really are madly central here. It was not a sunny day, but quite mild. Zelda and I didn’t even bother with the puffys and didn’t suffer at all. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Tevere (what we call the Tiber) reminded me a little of the Yarra. It doesn’t appear here as the huge and mighty force that the other major cities have in their rivers – the Seine in Paris or the Thames in London. This is not wide and not fast flowing. And it seems a little neglected. No traffic on it, it sits at a decent depth below the city it serves, and is overgrown with weeds. An unused river is a sad thing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We crossed over the Tevere at the Bridge of Victor Emmanuel. When I was here twenty years ago, I seem to remember the building here as some kind of asylum, with a huge man, behind bars, looking patiently at the traffic while he smoked cigarettes. It was a hot summer when I was last here. There was no sign of the asylum, perhaps I dreamed it. It is, however, an extremely strong memory. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then we were in the Vatican. There is no designated border that tells you you are in a new place or state, but the ratio of lay people to priests or nuns suddenly increases ten fold. And not just priests in discreet dog collars and nothing else distinguishing, but priests in full robes, in monks habits, and nuns in full regalia. And all the shops on the side of the road are dedicated to the religious life, including lots of postcards of the likely of the currently and the recently(ish) deceased pope. We were in the right place.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I didn’t remember this from last time we were here, but as soon as we were in reasonable sight of St Peter’s Square, we began to be accosted by people who told us a whole lot of stuff about how we really needed to join a tour to see the Vatican, how it would take us up to an hour and a half (or more, one man warned) to even buy tickets and then how confusing it would be for us to get around and how a guide was so very important. Yeah. OK. But the prices were insane and we thought we would give it at whirl ourselves. We are not illiterate or anything, and can read the occasional map. One bloke was really appalled at our decision, threw up his hands in horror. It looks like we had condemned ourselves to queues and ignorance. Paris was looking distinctly uncomfortable. But we stuck to our guns and followed the signs to the Vatican museum. We saw no one lining up anywhere. ‘Perhaps we are going the wrong way,’ someone intoned (it might have been me). But no, the signs were insistent. And so were the men who were handing out flyers for local restaurants. We found the door of the museum. Still no line, still almost no one. Perhaps you needed to have booked online (this, I think, was me again). But there was the ticket office. We bought tickets. No waiting. I asked about maps and was told we could get them upstairs. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then I got angry. What a joke. Damn it, I hate spruikers at the best of time, but outright lying was a whole other thing. But Paris, Mister Voice of Reason, did point out that they were just doing a job. Hmmm. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We decided to get the kids’ audio tours (Zelda and Niccolo) and one adult one between me and Paris and Myles for additional information. Then we went to the gallery for religious art. I got all excited because there was a sign in German that looked like it was advertising Raphael’s Sistine Madonna (which is usually, I think, in Dresden). I asked at the bookshop before we went in, but the woman there had no idea what I was referring to. I never did find it. There was another Raphael there, but not that one. Sad because I happen to like it a lot. This gallery was amazing – there were some frescos that had been rescued from a church that had been destroyed at some point which were so light, and full of bright blues and golds that it made you kind of glad. Much religious art, for me, is gloomy and depressing; dark colours and terrible subject matter (martyrdom in particular, depresses me). This was quite different though. We all liked them. And, strangely perhaps, right in the middle of all this was a portrait of George the Fourth of England (in, as Paris said, a particularly flattering representation. The kids like to sing a song about the four Georges as ‘the sad one, the bad one, the mad one and the fat one’). Then it was to the other side of the museum, and the long tour through the huge building on our way to the Sistine Chapel. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is a huge Egyptian collection in the Vatican (surprising? Just about conquest?). Zelda had studied ancient Egypt during the year and knew all about it, so she could fill us in. There were statues and mummy cases and coffins and shabtis and scrolls. All incredible and much more full on than the Tutankhamen exhibition that had come to Melbourne last year. And then, a mummy itself, all dark and wizened and wound mostly in cloth, with one eye out where they had removed the brain. A human three thousand years old and very much before us. Niccolo could hardly look at it; I found it very confronting. Myles couldn’t take enough photos of it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent a lot of time in this section of the museum because the kids’ audio tour was extensive at this point and Niccolo needed to find every exhibit that had a corresponding explanation. So I saw a lot of the bits and pieces very close up. After the Egyptian part, we went into Roman statues – very impressive, marble and bronze to feed an army. And then we went through the map room. I don’t remember this bit from twenty years ago, but this is a long room with huge maps painted on the wall of all the important parts of Italy and surrounds. It was incredible. The world (known at that time) all lit up. It would make a super place for planning holidays. I’m not sure that the popes used it for that purpose, but they were missing something if they didn’t. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The kids’ tour ended here, but promised them that the next thing they would have narrated was the most famous ceiling in the world. So for the rest of the tour, Zelda or Niccolo asked (in every room): ‘Is this the most famous ceiling?’ You can imagine how popular they were with me. Through the Raphael rooms; so beautiful but so much violence and hatred in them too. Through the Borgia apartments (nice; how do I get me some rooms like that?) and then, rather shockingly, through room after room of rather more contemporary art – Matisse, Chagall, Dali and so on. By this time, the kids were intent on the most famous ceiling in the world and wouldn’t wait. I got snagged on the Chagall room, and made them wait for that, but then I was dragged by an invisible string through a series of rooms and then some corridors and steps that wound around until we were at the door of the Sistine Chapel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">‘This,’ I said, ‘is the most famous ceiling in the world.’ Necessarily, for Niccolo and Zelda, it was an anti climax. What did they have to compare it with anyway? But for Myles and I (I’m not sure about Paris), this was a revelation. I think it had been cleaned since last I was here, but it really looks almost three dimensional. The saints particularly, who are painted onto the sides of the ceiling (if you see what I mean) almost leapt out at you, with a kind of boldness. The story of creation across the ceiling was also amazing. And the last judgement would<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>have given anyone pause for thought. Fear and respect, as they say. There were a lot of people in the chapel, but nothing crazy, so we stayed for some time and drank in the roof. It is somehow a tiny bit weird walking around looking up. Perhaps that changed perspective was partly was Michelangelo was all about. You think differently with your head in the air. You feel more vulnerable. You feel a little remote from the images, but also somehow smaller, more insignificant than what is above. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was time to feed and water the troops. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Vatican has places to eat. We indulged. We ate pizza (quite good and all). Then we bought cards of the art we had liked (mostly the frescos). All in all, this was a museum we had all really, really liked. Myles wanted to go around again (which technically you could do). But it had been four hours already and we were a bit tired. We were also a bit pleased with ourselves that we had managed to get around the Vatican without exploding or getting lost as had been the worse predictions of the tour organisers outside. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the way out, there is a fantastic staircase that winds down to the street level like the back of a snail. It was ruined for me a little by the flashing lights everywhere that warned: ‘BEWARE: STEPS!’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Outside, we couldn’t help but inform the spruikers, who were still keen to sell us tours, that there were no queues. One was shame faced, but replied in a very pronounced English accent; ‘No, but usually there are.’ Great.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we went to see the Basilica. This in fact did involve a queue to get through the security. I failed the security many times; the challenge was to pass through the metal detector (with metal in my case, because I have bracelets I can’t remove) and not set it off. The guards have been to some particular school where they learn the expression: ‘not my problem, you are wasting my time’ as I went backwards and forwards and annoyed the heck out of a Japanese tour group behind me. I finally made the miracle happen and we were off. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sheer size of St Peter’s impressed the kids (not ‘just another church’; this one). We went first to the Pieta. I love this work; the kids were ‘eeah’. Myles liked it. So we went looking for the remains of saints in the walls: Jerome and Innocenti. They were both in slippers. We looked at the marble representation of saints (I like saint Veronica in particular). We marvelled at the dome. We read all the bits of information. We looked at the mosaics and the paintings. We were tired.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We made our way out of the church and home. Paris was told off for sitting down (which he did in exhaustion while Myles and I were occupied taking pictures of the Swiss Guard – the pope’s private army that consists of young German men who were very silly stripped costumes and all wear Harry Potter glasses.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We made pasta for dinner. We played cards. There was complicated toing and froing about baths and showers. Niccolo, in a moment of pure exhaustion and confusion, locked himself accidently in the bathroom. It was more than time to go to bed.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioC-rIngfPkp-fynNd431lo3D5QrnON4MudsPLvkTd3lsTRaCss3X6qrayf8rwW7fd_9kSDWQFymiEg-9sn3ZMPF9xigbsGuiLxlm2iIZhAKhCYv5DeZVb7AyVBtTNZCrsHkBqGBh-vGE/s1600/IMG_3387.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioC-rIngfPkp-fynNd431lo3D5QrnON4MudsPLvkTd3lsTRaCss3X6qrayf8rwW7fd_9kSDWQFymiEg-9sn3ZMPF9xigbsGuiLxlm2iIZhAKhCYv5DeZVb7AyVBtTNZCrsHkBqGBh-vGE/s320/IMG_3387.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDbpNpMYyNBpSjAUc2MTH_RuGWcOrKJcKYaTpNsuvW6U1JLw7M6LOWxQoNKGQneofHCYa9xt9gpPD_VMuvzDs8qF8bXUZYcBX6mzcnIj7JDFgnrEGCCnhvEQSMLtS6GPYg_F2C8s_vi4/s1600/IMG_3340.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" gda="true" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPDbpNpMYyNBpSjAUc2MTH_RuGWcOrKJcKYaTpNsuvW6U1JLw7M6LOWxQoNKGQneofHCYa9xt9gpPD_VMuvzDs8qF8bXUZYcBX6mzcnIj7JDFgnrEGCCnhvEQSMLtS6GPYg_F2C8s_vi4/s320/IMG_3340.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-49063651794637911082012-01-23T23:36:00.000-08:002012-01-23T23:36:23.536-08:00Amalfi, day eight; Rome, day one<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">[Sorry for the flurry of posts, and the lack of photos. We have had little or no internet access, and now in Rome, it is limited. Loading up photos is tough. I'll try again tonight.]</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our last day of changover and our last destination. We were off to Rome. Despite everything, and the loss of what we felt was perhaps curiosity, we had liked Amalfi. But we felt the deprivation of no internet and no washing machine. It is the simple things.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We packed and left the villa by 9.30am. A quick stop in Agerola to say goodbye to our hosts and to check our email for our next destination and we were on our way. From Amalfi to Rome, it is about three and a half hours. We weren’t to be met by our host until three so we felt like we had time. We figured that, including a stop for lunch, we should be in Rome by about quarter past two. Heaps of time to get organised and get ourselves to the apartment. Best laid plans and all that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were no longer compelled to gaze out of the window constantly. This countryside is pretty but nothing that was going to get our juices going at this time of the trip. As we left Naples and headed out to the motorway, we were suddenly held up by what looked like a traffic jam. But we also noticed that the lane on the far left seemed to be moving a bit, so we moved across and realised that what we had come face to face with was industrial action by truck drivers. We weren’t sure what the action was about, but it was a fair guess that it had to do with the austerity measures, and the hike in taxes. There were hundreds of trucks on both sides of the motorway – right at the pay station – halting those who were trying to transport goods, and waving through cars like us. It was pretty intense, with about thirty or forty men standing blockade and waving you through, or stopping you for a check. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles, Paris and I then had a fight about it. Myles said that they were breaking the law and they should make changes within what was possible. Paris and I argued that changed often happens when people work outside the law, challenge the status quo. Paris and I were feeling very righteous. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Lunch was nothing much – roadside nonsense. The best bit was we ate with Franciscan monks. Fat ones. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And here was something else interesting, something that I had noticed before, but was particularly apparent at this roadside stop. Even when I speak Italian to shop keepers and so on, they will often answer me in English (my accent must be that bad; sometimes they speak to us in English even before we have spoken – always a little creepy). And I will continue to speak in Italian, and they will continue to speak in English. And the joke of it is really that my Italian is bad and, for the most part, their English is equally bad. We would be far better off speaking our own language to one another. But we are locked in this polite dynamic. I think it is polite to try my best in the local language and they think it is polite to try their best in the language of their guest. It can get a bit messy.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were all sweating when we came into Rome. Partly because it was humid and party because driving through a big city is not any of our favourite experiences. Samantha got us through sort of (she is a little flaky these days), and we found that we were at the station. Myles, with his incredible vision, found the tiny sign that said Hertz, and we drove up and up and up through a car park. At the top, we found Hertz. Abandoned. The men who were operating the car hire place next door told us that they had gone for coffee and would be back in five minutes. And so they were. Everything went like clockwork and we were out and in the street with time to spare. Now, to find a taxi …</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I asked a man on the side of the road where we might find the taxi rank. He told me that there was a taxi strike and there were no taxis to get. Sigh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I rang the host to warn her that we would be late, and to ask which bus we needed to take. She told us; and then we went to the bus stop and got more information – tickets and so on. It was strangely smooth (though exhausting). The bus was there. We got on with our crazy heavy bags. I asked a woman beside me where I needed to get off. She told me she would help me. She did. Off we got. Then to the newsagent to buy a map, to ask for directions. And after several stops and more advice, we arrived at Largo dei Librari. And there was our host. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But I do have to confess that this all took about an hour and there is something stressful that is beyond straight logistics about getting around a huge city with enormous lumps of luggage and kids. You wonder if you are going to lose a kid somewhere. And part of my confession here is this: all my liberal ideas of the individual having the right to strike when there are decisions taken that are not in their best interests went straight out the window. I cursed the taxi drivers and their industrial action. I wanted a big stationwagon to pick us up and deliver us to our destination. So much for self righteousness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Up we went to the apartment. This was one of our early bookings, and Niccolo had been most excited about it because it looked like the kitchen ceiling was so low, you would have to cook on your knees. It turned out to be not that dramatic; though you do have to duck pretty low to get to the fridge. Their room however, was that low. It is a kind of attic thing (which they love, love, love – Paris even tried to bribe them so he could get it, but they were having none of it) where you cannot stand up straight unless you are eight (so Niccolo is fine) and everything is tiny and somehow secret. I had to put their clothes away while sitting on my backside. They disappeared into this slice of Enid Blyton Italian style and drew their curtains immediately. We got set up. Internet. Hooray. Washing machine. Hooray. Some semblance of TV that works (though no BBC). Hooray. Good heating. Hooray. Long walks that beckoned just outside our door. Hooray. And an elevator. Double hooray. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went out for supplies and dinner. We are a few steps from Campo dei Fiori so it was here that we headed. We chose a strange place, a mozzarella bar (who knew?). It was great. Everything came with the mozzarella that is like rope; great long ropey lengths of delicious cheese. Those of you who know Myles would know that his horrified him (he ordered the tomato soup), but Paris and I had the melanzane with lashing of mozzarella and couldn’t have been happier. I’m for this concept. I think we need one at home. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After supermarket shopping, we all had a bath, one after the other. It was a joy to be properly clean and, as the bath has jets, nice to have a back massage into the bargain. We think we will like Rome. We really do.</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-48574041928716589192012-01-23T23:29:00.001-08:002012-01-23T23:29:38.349-08:00Amalfi, day seven<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This morning we decided to go to the Grotto dello Smerelda, the Emerald Grotto that wasn’t far from our house. The day was quasi fine – not bright sun like yesterday but no rain either. The sea was amazing; it was grey but look like it had been petrified in some places – still and solid – where it ran liquid in other places. Like it was both land and sea. So endlessly interesting as a place.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We drove down to the Grotto. On our way, there were a couple of police men on the side of the road. Myles hesitated in the car; the police looked at us with some amusement and then, Myles wavered, inviting the one of the cops, the more handsome one, put up his tiny stop sign. We were caught! Who knew?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles wound down the window and then handed it over to me. I played dumb; no point in putting ourselves in a position of even less power with me stumbling over my terrible Italian. ‘Buon giorno,’ I beamed. ‘We don’t speak very much Italian. We are tourists.’ ‘Ah,’ said the handsome policeman. ‘Where are you from?’ ‘Australia.’ ‘Hmmm.’ He then looked in the back seat and admired the children. ‘Where are you going?’ ‘Amalfi.’ ‘Ah, that is four kilometres down the road.’ ‘Thank you.’</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All very pleasant. He withdrew his tiny stop sign and on we went. What were we being stopped for? Social interaction?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But we didn’t go to Amalfi – yes, we had lied to the police about our intentions. Instead, we turned the other way and headed for the Grotto. There is a little carpark and it had a few cars there which looked promising. But the locked gates did not. So we went into a bar come ceramic workshop to see what they could tell us. The oldest woman in the world greeted us. I asked her about the Grotto. She shook her head sadly. And told us why. And we much have looked bewildered because then she rocked her hand to and fro. ‘Ah,’ I said.’ La barca.’ It turned out that it was too rough for the boat to go out on this day. We thanked her and then looked out over the side of the cliff to see these rough waves. Not so much for us. But what did we know about taking a boat out into a cave. Perhaps you need the water to be like a millpond before anything like that could happen. Oh well. It was our last day. There was no other day we could see the grotto. Next time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps the force of the police was greater than we could have known because the next thing we did was go to Amalfi. Suddenly, the weather was high summer (who could say if this would affect the waves). It was hot. We shed clothes quickly. The kids were down to tee shirts and we weren’t far behind. In the little harbour in Amalfi, constructed from stones, there were six men playing the strangest game we have seen. They were in kayaks and had a soccer ball. The object of the game appeared to be to get the ball into a net, but the teams were not clear and they seemed to have much more fun belting one another’s boats with their oars and capsizing each other. Paris and I were laughing our heads off. I suggested that he introduce this sport to Fitzroy. He was doubtful. ‘No water.’ </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Amalfi was hot with sun; we sat on the waterfront and ordered lunch. And all around us, the well-dressed Sunday families having their pre-lunch drinks. It was so hot, we got sunburned sitting there. I could only imagine what summer must be like here. We were the only ones eating. Everyone else was having brightly coloured drinks with slices of oranges jammed in them. We are entirely unfashionable or unknowing about how and where you eat. Who cares? The pizza was good. The sun was shining. There are few greater joys.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left the waterfront and walked into the town proper. There is a church here; it has the hallmarks of the striped marble we saw in Tuscany and the golden mosaics of Venice. Large steps invite us up and in. But we don’t go. It is strange. What we suddenly found was that we no longer had much curiosity. There we were, sitting on the steps below this beautiful church and none of us were in the least compelled to go inside. The kids; this was understandable. But Myles and I? Can you be cured of curiosity? Can you be so sated that you can’t find any else to see? Perhaps. Well, here, at this point, anyway. It is a very odd experience though. At the beginning, we went in everywhere. But now … shrug. It is rather wrong I feel, but you can’t chase emotions too far. They are stronger than duty or will.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We dallied around Amalfi for a bit, ate ice cream, walked the pier, saw a Japanese tourist slip over (we tried to help, she was not having any of it), watched other tourists gaze at the SITA buses parked waiting for some sign of direction or intention. And then we left to go back to our villa. It was time to settle down, so some packing, finish our reading. And there were cards to play too.</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-75176959467251528602012-01-23T23:28:00.000-08:002012-01-23T23:28:48.373-08:00Amalfi, day six<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As if to make up for the terrible day, the day dawn as cloudless, and the sun repaired our hearts and souls. We couldn’t get out of the house soon enough – with the kids complaining that their room was haunted, and there were bugs everywhere. I promised that we would throw the whole house open when we returned from the trip – harness the antiseptic joy of the sun – shake and sun dry all the sheets and sweep and clean everything. They settled in the back of the car, occasionally mumbling, like the slightly deranged. Getting out would make everything better. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We headed for Ravello. This is a high hill town; not at all a sea side resort; more, I think, a retreat from the heat of the summer. According to Myles’ sources, this was a town where Lawrence and Woolf spent time (though, not together, you might imagine). I can’t verify this, I have no internet … Up the winding roads and through some very narrow passes. We did come into contact (not literally) with the SITA bus – we all held our breath until we got passed. I think I have written about the SITA bus before in terms of catching it, but not as the terror it presents on the road for car drivers. This is a full sized bus (built for full sized roads) that travels at speed along roads that are built for slender donkeys, goats and the new smart cars. To see this monster swing around the corner meaningfully and then toot you is not something you want to court too often.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We arrived in Ravello in full sun at about 10.30am. Myles was charmed by the fact that the town was well organised, a good sized carpark just below the main piazza. ‘Now that is how a town should be organised.’ At the top of the stairs, there is a large historical marker telling you the movie that have been filmed here. We saw this at the fjord too. So, ‘Beat the Devil’ was filmed here (with Humphrey Bogart, and written by Truman Capote – I might have to get it out and watch it when I get home). The markers tells you the plot, someone comes into Ravello on a donkey (see, it is correct about the roads) and then, presumably, changes the lives of those already there. Shane Maloney once said in a lecture I saw that there are only three kinds of narratives: an individual begins a long journey, a stranger enters a village and a horse walks into a bar. You can see the point – this was clearly the second kind of narrative. Capote didn’t mind a bit of ‘stranger entering a village’ work. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went off to visit the Villa Rufolo just off the Piazza Duomo. It was built in the 13<sup>th</sup> century and then restored by some Scottish industrialist in the early 20<sup>th</sup>. What does an industrialist do? We couldn’t get into the villa itself, it appeared to be used as offices or something, but you could roam around the villa and into the courtyards and across the gardens. The gardens were really something – or rather the view was really something. We all became very drowsy with the sun and the view and ended up sitting on a stone bench, falling into light dozes. Myles woke us all up by saying: ‘we are really bored now, aren’t we?’ The kids didn’t contradict him. Everything it still the same, wonderful views and incredibly sights, but it is like a car trip. It is always about half an hour too long regardless of views, supplies and comfort of said car. The truth is, we are tired of one another’s company. We are all desperate for a chat with someone other than each other, and a chat that is more than organised logistics. Oh well; in Rome, we will have the internet. Paris can Skype for one, and this will relieve some of the tension. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left the villa and walked the town. Winding cobbled tracks that no car can use up through the high part of the town and between hotels and villas (‘available for weddings and private parties with Liberty style gardens’). And then we came upon a truly pastoral scene; a vegetable garden in the middle of the hotels with a small vineyard and a young man pruning it; well organised and beautifully laid out beds with lettuces and broccoli and strawberries. With the hills rising behind it, and the sun shining, it could have been the 19<sup>th</sup> centuries and us intrepid English travellers looking for a quiet place to finish our novels and raise our children. And then the bloke’s phone rang, and it all went to hell. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We walked back down the cobbled streets stopping only to buy some limoncello from a man who apparently makes it in vats out the back. We had many bottles to choose from; shaped like guitars, or violins, or smiling crescent moons. But I went for a very sober three sided bottle. Zelda, by this stage, had fallen deep into one of her food depressions (perhaps hyperglycaemia?), so we had to source lunch immediately. In the piazza, there were dozens of tables in full sun waiting for us. We ordered and soaked up the rays. We were down to tee shirts (even Myles) while the locals were in their versions of puffy jackets. If you are local, anything below 30 degrees must be considered fresh. It felt like 25 degrees or even hotter. There is something healing about the sun or your face and hands. We all felt much better for it. Above us was the church. It was almost entirely unadorned; a wooden roof not painted and dome above the altar was pink. It also sloped towards the front doors so you could slide out if things didn’t work out for you. On the way in was a book opened to a page of the ‘saint of the day’. Today it was San Sebastian. Uncle Matthew in ‘The Pursuit of Love’ was scathing about San Sebastian and said something like: ‘What’s that fellow standing there smiling for? If he was full of arrows like that, he’d be dead.’ It is a very gruesome martyrdom. But what isn’t? Actually, as plain at this church was, there were a lot of representations of martyrdom on the walls. Perhaps the good people of Ravello have to be kept in check. There is much sin lurking?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After admiring the local dogs and cats and children, we left for the car and decided to drive down to Minori – just to the left of Ravello but by the water. Now this was our town we decided. Big enough for things to be happening and shops open and a lovely little beach, but not crazy big like Sorrento and not tourist mania like Positano. This is where we could have laid our bones happily for these seven days. Ho hum. It was ice cream and a race with the waves for hours. The beach is everyone’s playground. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We returned back to our little villa on the hill of isolation and, as promised, clean swept the house and hung all the linen over the balcony to feel some of the power of the sun. It made everyone feel better about being here for another two nights. I even got excited and did some handwashing. ‘Yay,’ said Zelda from the sidelines. ‘Clean undies and socks!’ It is becoming a little desperate.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles and I went up to Furore Alto for a walk and to get some milk. It is a serious climb (for me, anyway), but you are rewarded with views that are to die for. We arrived at the top just as the sun was going down – a sunset like I have not ever seen. And why? Because it was confined to just the line of sky immediately above the water. This was no big show of orange clouds and pink stripes across the sky. This was the merest thread of intense orange and red at sea height as if the sky and the sea had an understanding that sunsets were not to be about the sky at all, but were to be shared with the water too. It was like the sky and the sea were one. You could see how it was easy to believe in the earth being flat and the sea just being stopped by the sky; as if the whole thing were just a dome.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There are small fires burning all along this coast. I think it is perhaps pruning time for olives and lemons, and the limbs that have been removed are burned. But along with this amazing sense that the sky and the sea are somehow linked, the fires that send up smoke give the whole area a feel of mythical times or ancient times. Without the SITA bus, and the mobiles phones, this is a place lost in time (and even somehow between reality and myth). Anyway, it is working its magic on us, slowly. Perhaps we have not really been in the right place to receive it. Perhaps another time.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back down to the house we cooked a light dinner and then played more cards. Myles is a brute in card games. We are all against him because of his mock meanness. Regardless, and perhaps not surprisingly, he won the round of games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-40905315344418560042012-01-23T23:27:00.000-08:002012-01-23T23:27:13.791-08:00Amalfi, day five<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was all grey skies this morning, and the rain came down. We, as you know, have been almost strangely blessed with good weather and this is the first day we have really seen proper rain. We have struck rain at other points – our last day in Paris, our first in Carcassonne – but nothing that had really prevented us from doing things, and no rain that had really kept us indoors. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This rain did. It was belting down, really pouring from the skies. At points, we couldn’t even see the sea from our windows. The sky was determinedly grey around us; deep grey with black patches, but further out to sea, it was a lighter grey. It sort of looked like a theatre curtain, the way it reached down to the ground just around us. We thought we should try to get out (but as you know, the fatal flaw of the non-waterproof puffy jacket was a problem) so we made it down to the car in the vain hope that we might try for Ravello. But it was truly raining and it became less the problem of waterproofing and more the problem of driving on roads that are barely useable in bright sunlight. I kind of thought it was a death wish. Paris was worried about us meeting the SITA bus on a wet road. Everyone else was silent. We sat in the car as the engine idled. Then Myles turned it off. The day trip was over.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But we did consider that being house bound here for twenty-four hours might need provisions. So he turned the car back on and we gingerly drove up to Furore Alto for supplies. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was treat Friday too, so we had to consider the treat factor. Paris opted for a stew (weird, no?) so we found some beef and vegetables and whatnot, and then cakes and chocolates, and wine and song. We left with our parcels and settled in at our house.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then proceeded to get cabin fever in no small way. Just a reminder. There is no internet access here in the house or anywhere around us. The TV only works sporadically (and, apparently, when it rains, not at all, so we couldn’t even watch the BBC World News channel), the heater is a blow heater so while it has warmed the house, it is also slowing drying us all out to a quasi mummified state, we have limited books (just what we have bought with us – and I have read them all – and the pot boilers on the shelves). Niccolo can’t read independently. And the house is very small. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we cooked lunch together. Paris and I did the lion share, Zelda and Niccolo organised the chocolates and the treats. We managed to make a half way decent stew with our limited resources. Myles cooked rice for the mop up (though most of us chose to use bread). And the cake and chocolates were fine. We cleaned up and then looked at the rain with some hope. It was belting down. Myles retired to his book (he is deep in the Millennium series), Niccolo found some games on my computer and got down to business, Zelda, Paris and I had a round of gin rummy. Now, when we play a ten card hand, for some reason, I can win quite easily, but the seven card hand defeats me every time. This time, we were playing ten card hands, so I was winning like mad. But before long – about seven hands – we were losing momentum. The rain had eased a little, though not enough for driving; you could at least see the sea. Myles proposed a stairs walk. We all said no. So he walked the stairs up to the road that takes you to Furore three times. This is quite something. I can make it once, but it is a serious haul.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So it was to reading. The shelves contain – in English – only really murder mysteries set in England. They are full of gruesome details and lots of plot twists (very clever too), but also full of details that just makes me think if Enid Blyton which seems to take away the tension somewhat. Cups of tea and cake for instance. It just the way the English express it that makes me think Blyton. It is wrong I know, but I can’t help it. And it was across all kinds of murder mysteries – one called ‘The House at Midnight’ a kind of English version of ‘The Secret History’; one called ‘Trick of the Dark’ which made Oxford look like a hotbed of pyschos (perhaps it is …); one called ‘The Reckoning’ which was all gender problems in the police force and the issue of ‘innocent’ or ‘guilty’ victims. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I began to wonder if England couldn’t do worse than name a town Blyton and we could all go there and have our very English experience of ginger beer and tea, and cakes and softly boiled eggs. I guess there would need to be some kind of magical element too, where chairs fly unexpectedly and trees have lands at the top and there are individuals with weird heads. Hmmm. The cabin fever was bad. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We began to wander the house and get in each other’s way. Things were not going well. Then Paris opened the fridge and smashed a bottle accidently. After cleaning that up, we all went to bed. Seriously. There was not much to do.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no doubt the weather has been kind. If it had been any other way, the trip might have been a series of days in which we plotted the demise of those around us. </span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-86698070426054654772012-01-23T23:26:00.000-08:002012-01-23T23:26:30.304-08:00Amalfi, day four<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles had found his feet where driving was concerned and was therefore quite happy to organise us for a day trip through Positano and Sorrento. OK. The day began misty and the sea is quite different in this light; not the milky mystery of the afternoon, but a soft, delicate blue with tiny, dancing specks of light balanced in the water. You could watch the sea all day and its changing character. But we were for the coastal towns. Before that, it was time to get connected and find an internet point. We had been deprived since Monday morning and it wasn’t going well. Our dependence on connectivity has been something of a revelation on this trip. We miss it. Desperately. Our hosts have a kind of gaming and internet shop in Agerola so we headed there. We had been told that there was a point in Furore but much questioning of shopkeepers and barmen revealed nothing of the sort. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once in Agerola, we were hooked up immediately. The relief of checking and sending email, of uploading onto the blog, and of looking at the news of the world. We are so cut off here – no TV, no anything. It is great on one level, but I guess we must be information junkies. Sad for us. Then suddenly, my sister came on line and we got to chat on Skype (another modern miracle). Paris got to connect on Facebook, and Myles did he usual trolling around. The other two didn’t do anything online. Their online vice is to what the new episodes of Total Drama and Horrible Histories and it wasn’t possible in this shop. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left the shop considerable lighter in our minds and having made the connections that needed to be made. Myles had done some shopping while I was Skyping, so he made sandwiches for the road and we set out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The mist was lifting and the whole coast was awash in bright blue light. It is truly astonishingly beautiful here, if you can lift your eyes from the horror that is the roads. As it happened, I was sitting in the back seat, and so wasn’t at the cold face of buses bearing down, so I could look about. All this life embedded in an unlikely hillside, desperate to be a part of this landscape – to have the sea within reach of their toes (very long toes in our case, but certainly, metaphorically our toes are close to the water). And all long the cliffs, terraces growing the important things in life – grapes, lemons, oranges. There are probably tomato plants up there somewhere too. Garlic perhaps. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In about an hour, we were driving into Positano. We could see what we should have done when booking for the Amalfi coast. We should have booked in a town. I can’t remember our reasoning now, but we had thought, I guess, that being outside a town would be fun. Well, when you don’t know the geography … we found a carpark and left the car to walk down to the beach. It was a decent walk, about a kilometre on these same hairy roads, though this one was one way which made it at least a little predictable. There are bogonvillias everywhere, threaded through trellis work; purples and oranges and some whites. It wasn’t the best season for them, but they were their never the less. There were also lemon trees crucified on trellis work for shade and beauty. The building are sprinkled across the landscape like colourful, determined blocks – and just to underline this, there are mini Positanos (and other towns) replicated in miniature along the road at strategic points – little cliffs with block house jammed into the sides. There is always a nativity scene to be found in these mini towns. Not in the real thing though. At least, not that we saw.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">January is the quietest time of the year here. Nothing was open but a few shops selling bathers in an optimistic manner, some men with their shops open but repairing and painting rather than selling, and one restaurant right on the beach that was doing a roaring trade for those tourists and locals left stranded by the shut down. It was, not unexpectedly, expensive but they had a takeaway section that was OK. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The kids played on the beach. It is possible that playing on the beach should be a mandated activity for kids of all ages in a regular way. They were battling the waves (Zelda had seen some history thing where a Roman emperor had employed his army (or navy?) to quell the waves. He thought he had succeeded when the waves had retreated at low tide. So Paris, Zelda and Niccolo decided to re-enact this rather quaint act. Hours and hours of fun because the sea never gets tired. Myles and I wandered up and down the beach (admiring the local beach dogs, one of which was clearly a corgi and looked like a mini version of Shimmy), and looking again at the water now that the sun had burned away the mist. The sea is now a deep green and like the colour of old coke bottles (how interesting that I should come to coke for a simile). It is clear and looks cold, but we were longing to jump in. If only the wind wasn’t quite so cold and it wasn’t quite so January. Still – no tourists (other than ourselves of course). It must be intense in the hot months. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We could see that if we had booked a house in a town like this one, we wouldn’t be so stranded or isolated. There are places to walk and an accessible beach where the kids could attack the waves for hours, not to mention making friends with the local dogs. No language barrier there. Next time … we will know. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After some hours and pizza, we walked back to the car. We took a chance on the alleyways this time, rather than the road at it was very pleasant in a rabbit warren kind of way. More steps (my thighs are only just speaking to me again), but the sun was at our back and it was very beautiful. At least, we made roadfall, and we were at the car. The bloke who ran the car place waved us out and we were off to Sorrento. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This confused Niccolo. He knows Sorrento as the place on the Victorian coast where we go in summer. He decided that there was therefore a Sorrento A and a Sorrento B. We were now travelling to Sorrento B. Myles could not convince him that this Sorrento had existed first. You could see the kid’s point. More incredible cliffs and countryside with terraced lemon groves and vineyards.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then we realised, as we pulled into Sorrento (B), that we were completely with Niccolo. We has also constructed this Sorrento from the Sorrento we knew from home (smallish, a bit sleepy, one major road, dead as a door nail in winter). But no! This Sorrento is a huge place, busy as a bee hive with frantic traffic and people walking and shopping. And tourists shops open everywhere selling various versions of lemons (lemons, ceramic lemons, aprons with lemons on them, limoncello – which I want to try – wall plaques with lemons). We were a bit overwhelmed so we headed for the water. Where we were (or perhaps everywhere, we weren’t sure), the coast was a port and industrial. There was one small section that had a forlorn sign saying ‘Spiagga: Free Beach’ but it was little more than some rough sand and a bit where you could launch boats. The kids couldn’t quite capture the enterprise of the beach at Positano and it was getting dark by this time anyway. It was time for ice cream – which we found on the main road and a slow walk in the twilight. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sorrento, if anyone is interested, has orange trees as street trees. You can literally reach up, in Sorrento, and pick an orange. I didn’t try it. I wasn’t sure if the oranges were somehow municipal property. I didn’t want to test it. The police directing traffic looked a little fierce. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was time to go home for pasta. The trip was about an hour and a half on dark roads choked with hazards and beauty in equal measure. By the time we made it home, it was seven and we all could have used a lie down. I cooked tuna pasta (Zelda’s favourite) and some other bits and pieces. We ate like fevered souls. And then it was<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>time for the gin rummy tournament. Niccolo retired hurt early, but the rest of us pushed on, with me triumphant. It is good to know that you are quite sporadically good at one thing. The wine we had bought for dinner turned out to be fizzy (NOTHING on the label). But it was quite drinkable. </span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-75768227331578316702012-01-19T01:48:00.000-08:002012-01-19T01:48:10.504-08:00Amalfi, day three<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today we were going to Pompeii. The guide book warned us that we were best to travel there by train to avoid the parking and whatnot. But our experience in Amalfi to this point – that the coast is deserted in January – had us thinking that we should risk the drive. The drive itself again would involve us going around the hairy roads, but it was daylight and glorious sunshine and we thought that there would be no better time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The morning dawned gloriously again; the sun shone through our window and burned the world to day. We all rose and were going before ten, an absolute record for us. It was to be about an hour in the car, but not too far. The time was really that the roads were so torturous rather than great distances that needed to be travelled. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We glided over the mountain and through the tunnel that transforms the world from the third world horror of Naples to the remote wonderland of Amalfi. And there we were again, battling the traffic and the rubbish and the horrible conditions that are apparently Naples. What ever happened to the romance that had been associated with Naples? Even Scott Fitzgerald (who was no great fan of Italy generally) wrote a romantic story set in Naples and Capri. No where we could see it. But what we could see, what followed us to Pompeii, was the hulking darkness of Vesuvius; a big bite taken out of the right side (from where we were looking, which was coming into Naples from Amalfi) where the eruption of 79AD had blown half the mountain away and covered several cities in the process. We were going to see one, but Herculean was also buried and other towns suffered too. Pompeii is the big one though.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were right about no one being in Pompeii. The large carpark was ours and ours alone. The attendant was keen for our business and offered us lunch afterwards. We said we’d consider it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">January is really dead here; the piazza through which you walk to get to the ruins had only one souvenir shop running and all the eateries were closed. We wandered up to the ticket window with a few Japanese tourists. They didn’t take card. Myles went to get some money. Some French tourists came to the window. They didn’t take cards. There was a drama. All up, it took us (what with waiting for the French tourists to finish their histrionics and collect their money and so on) about twenty minutes to buy tickets in a queue that really only had us in it. If this is the level of organisation here, I’d hate to by here in high season. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went off to the tourist point and asked for a map in English. Even this was a joke, with the woman in the shop front choosing to have a fight with one of the guides rather than listen to my question. I swear, it didn’t begin well. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But finally we had tickets and maps and we went through the turnstiles to the ruins. The word ‘ruins’ is a particular one; there is a finality to it. This is the last phase of these buildings. We can only see them as dead and silent. And Pompeii is creepy. We were there relatively early and were some of the few tourists tramping about (later it got a bit busy, but there was this sense for most of it that we were more among ghosts than people). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is remarkable about Pompeii is how similar it is to any city we might have today. There was clear organisation (down to traffic organisation; no chariots were allowed in the forum – there were stones blocking their paths; and at cross roads, there were great stones that required any chariot or wheeled cart to slow down). Large administrative buildings were around; there was the ‘good’ side of town with large houses beside one another. There was the theatre district with two theatres (a big one and a small one) and a place for the theatre goers to walk about during interval, perhaps have some refreshments. There were factories (a wool one in particular) and gardens and vineyards. And there were sporting arenas, a large amphitheatre that was surprisingly like our modern sporting grounds. Except sport then was a bit different. There were bars where the city dwellers ate lunch – long counters with holes in them where the lunch was kept. Recognisable. Ordinary. We almost knew these people. Myles liked the public baths (there were at least three that we saw). He thinks that bathing is the mark of civilisation. The kids were disappointed that there were no plaster casts of the dead. There were being repaired or something. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pompeii is drenched in rosemary bushes. This is almost beyond a cliche, but there it is. Fingers of the dead; forget me not.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What we all liked were the dogs. There were signs saying that you were not to approach the stray dogs in the ruins. And there were a lot, basking in the sun, and trotting about. Most had collars (red ones) and we speculated that they were the official stray dogs of Pompeii. Paris liked that they didn’t drive the dogs out (which, presumably, they could have) but rather erected signs for them. One of them took a fancy to Niccolo and made him a friend. Many of them were sitting in the big theatre awaiting the show to begin. Zelda thought they might be disappointed by the shows. Great hordes of tourists coming in, listening either to a live guide or their audio tours, taking photos and leaving again. Not much of a plot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pompeii was a creepy but memorable experience, a kind of sobering one where you could see that not much had changed in terms of human organisation in 2000 years. Our cities are bigger. But that’s about it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was taken by the silencing of an entire city pretty much overnight. It wasn’t like the dinosaurs or anything – this wasn’t extinction. It was one city that had been covered and destroyed over four days about 2000 years ago, which allows us, today, to see how people lived. And we only come to wonder and hypnotise. Not to live (despite that optimistic signs ‘Pompeii viva’ everywhere), but to consider and then to leave for the living towns. Ruins indeed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And at our shoulders, Vesuvius waits and watches. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After three hours, we went back to the car. None of us were in the mood to eat out, we all wanted to get home to eat home cooked stuff. In addition, four of us were suffering from the steps of yesterday, and were in physical pain. My thighs hurt, Zelda had painful calves, Paris had sore legs generally and Niccolo complained that his buttocks (his word) hurt. Only Myles appear unscathed by the experience. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left Naples with no pangs. What a horrible place it is. Everything falling down or being torn down, rubbish in every corner, the most impatient drivers in the world. We sighed happily when we went through the tunnel and came out in Agerola at the other end. Even through the crazy roads awaited us. With the largest buses in the world taking corners at serious pace. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back at our place, I cooked for a while and we ate lunch. And then, when I looked out of the window after lunch, mists had fallen all across the sea somehow giving it a new image. No longer bright and sassy, it was now cloaked and mysterious. You could not see the mountains across the sea. The sea itself was no longer blue, but now white and milky. And there were only a few black spots dotted across it to tell us that there were still boats about. So many different sides to the sea here. Another ancient site. Men would have rowed across here, or sailed across here, for centuries. And in all the moods of the sky and sea. We haven’t yet seen bad moods. Perhaps before we leave.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a late afternoon of rest. Most of us read, and then the kids got involved in some computer game they had downloaded earlier to my computer. Myles decided to walk the stairs for exercise; even Paris refused to go. He was in too much pain, as was I. My legs appeared to have seized up completely. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It gets dark here quickly and quite early. But five thirty it is dark and cold. We didn’t eat dinner, lunch had been late and huge. But later, Myles and I braved the streets again for some wine for late night chats. But as it happened, I was involved in a book and had to finish it. So we drank a glass of wine each in separate rooms. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is a weird place, but probably a good one for our second last week. There is not much we can do if we don’t really want to brave the roads. And you can’t really walk for miles either in the hills or along the beach. The hills are death traps with cars, and the beaches don’t appear to exist. I like it, but it is like the Great Ocean Road, amazing to look at, but you can only access a few bits. 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</div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-80994004427010507932012-01-19T01:40:00.000-08:002012-01-19T01:40:57.091-08:00Amalfi, day two<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The heaters had done their work in the night and we woke to a little mellow heat. But what we really woke to was steel sunlight coming through the window. The sun rises behind some mountains that lie across the water from us (Sicily?); a peeping gold to begin with and then a razor sharp blade of brightness powers down. The sky is the bluest of blues; this must be burning hot in summer. As it is, in midwinter, the sun is most welcome in our windows. There is no sleeping past 7.30am here. The sun is a taskmaster. And the curtains are no match.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We all got up and organised not only for the new day, but the new week. Living week to week, quite literally, is an interesting phenomena; very short term but quite detailed in the planning. And you don’t plan beyond the immediate week because you don’t know what kind of place you are going to for the next week. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because the sun was so strong, we decided to see if the air outside was as warm as it looked. It wasn’t, but it also wasn’t cold. Paris decided that it might even be tee shirt weather. Not me. But neither was it for a puffy jacket. Have we seen the last of them for this trip? From our terrace, the sea ripples out for miles, torn in two by the bleached white path of the sun. We are rammed into the side of a hill, all windows one side (the side of the sea) and none the other side because it is pretty much underground. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is a pretty but tough kind of place. No real resort-y places to stay. You are in a house (some are lavish of course) or a little hotel. But nothing of the scale we saw in places like Monaco. Well, there seemed to be more flat surfaces in Monaco than here. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We discovered the garden and found space in the banana lounges there. We all got books (except for Niccolo who was intrigued by the way that the banana lounges could be modified and made to lie completely flat) and sat in the early sun and read. You could imagine spending hours here, doing just this and then wandering, a little dazed, back into the kitchen to make something for lunch. Perhaps a sleep after lunch. And, if the weather was hot, a little swim (somehow, but how to get to the water? It feels like it just there, but is probably miles away). We admired the clean sharp yellows and oranges of the fruits on the trees (the most vibrant yellow of a lemon I have ever seen, but is it just a trick of the light?). We planned to go up to the town via some steps to see what we could see. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is an ancient place (but what place isn’t?). And by ancient, I think I might mean that it has had its civilisation recorded in quite specific ways for centuries, and ways in which we might currently identify. Living in cities, drinking wine, organising elections, writing plays and poetry, trying to understand the world through both religion and science. It all feels strangely ‘modern’ in the sense that these civilizations were peopled apparently but individuals ‘just like us’. The people of Pompeii are not ‘other’ but just us in togas. And you can see why a toga might have been the right thing to wear here. You’d need some breeze here in high summer I’d think. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As noted last night, the roads are really just some kind of terrible roller coaster, so we thought we’d walk up to our little township. ‘Just up the stairs’ our host had said last night. ‘There are shops and an internet point … everything you might need’. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With the laptops, we set off. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Steps, hmmm. Well, there were hundreds of them cut into the side of the mountain. I pity the person who had to do this because it must have been done by hand; no possible way a machine could have worked on this cliff. And the steps are uneven, hacked at will; some with very high riders (how many times will I trip?), some long and low and flat. We climbed steadily; up past houses (that must be fun when you do the shopping) and the long narrow terraces with grape vines or lemon trees. And still we climbed. Sometimes we were climbing on winding paths, but most often it was the brutal stairs. At last, there was a road. There were also more stairs going up but I was for trying my luck on the road. Surely, where there is a road, there is a shop. This is our version of civilisation. The road. In Roman times, it was probably the Senate, or the baths. So we stumbled along the road for a while, came across a man fixing his truck and asked if he knew where Furore was. He indicated that we keep going up the road. Really?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then around a corner, and there was a tiny township perched on the side of the hill. The little bed and breakfasts on the sea side, somehow built mostly on the air, and the shops of the other side. There was no internet connection anywhere in the town (I’m writing this in Word, and will load this up with lots of others when we get connected again). There was, however, a café and Paris was happy to drink good coffee in the strong sun. Apparently, in Furore, what you do for fun is wait outside the post office for it to open. Strange, because by this time it was half past ten or so. And yet, there they waited. There seemed to be a lot of waiting here, but no one minds. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We turned around and headed back to the house. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Down the stairs, that is, beyond our place, you get to the only fjord in Italy. So we thought that might be fun. We had been warned that there were a thousand steps (or more?) but it was sunny. Forty minutes said the sign ominously. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Is this something about my age? The kids leapt from step to step and had races and were laughing all the way down. I was shaking and sweating very early on. Is walking down steps suddenly as hard as walking up them? It appeared that way to me, and I would breath much relief when there was a flat bit along which I could walk at a steady pace. The descent was unforgiving; straight down. We met some goats. They thought we were most amusing. And after forty, thigh burning, knee cracking, back jarring minutes, we were at the fjord. What is a fjord? I’m not sure; but this was a tiny beach that lay in the gap between what appeared a crack in the cliff. No sunlight here; some boats pulled up onto the stony shore. A bridge crossed the crack high up above the beach (the road, the road!) and this dripped water. The view from the bridge was dazzling. But Myles was sweating with vertigo. We had to move on. None of us fancied going back up the steps but we had heard that you could catch a bus to Amalfi from hereabouts. But where? A bloke pulled his car up to the steps at the crucial moment and we asked him where the bus would go from. Just up the road, he said. One minute. Well, it was something like one minute if you have nowhere to be at a certain time, and you were not walking along a road that had no footpaths as was only one car wide with cars driving like maniacs along it. It was a rather long one minute. But finally, there was a bus stop. Myles remembered reading somewhere that you couldn’t buy tickets on the bus, so we went to the tiny petrol station that sat next to the bus stop and asked them. And it turned out they sold tickets to the bus; and told us that the bus was coming: now. Well, now is a relative term. And while the men who worked the petrol station had coffee with their friends and finally locked the door to go to where? The local bar?, we waited in the sun. Oh my god; the sun is glorious, it gold plates your back and makes you feel like the richest person in the world. So we were not concerned. And of course, at last, the bus did come. We got on. I went to ask the driver about what we did with the tickets but (terrifyingly) he was on his mobile phone. We lurched off, him chatting to someone and driving around corners that felt like they might crumble beneath the wheels with one hand. The smattering of Japanese tourists that were already passengers smiled politely at us. We grabbed seats. Myles sat on the sea side of the bus. I wanted to hug the cliff. We all felt dizzy when we pulled into Amalfi. It is the most surreal bus drive. At no point do you<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>really believe you are on a road at all. It feels like you are driving somehow parallel to the cliff, but not really on it. And beneath you are hundreds of metres of air and finally, the sea. I don’t suffer vertigo, but this gave me something akin to an uncomfortable thrill.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Amalfi is shut down for winter; the town had its eyes closed and was sleeping in the sun. We did manage to find a small bar with food open for lunch. The bloke who ran it had the most remarkable way of managing orders. He did each plate one at a time. For example, I ordered soup. And so did the woman at the next table. But he didn’t make them together. He made hers. And then, some time later, he made mine. He cooked Niccolo’s hamburger. Then he cooked Myles’ pasta. Then he made Zelda lasagne. Then my soup. And then he came out to tell us that Paris’ melanzane was no possible. He had run out (this was forty minutes later). OK. He’d have pizza. And then, he cooked that. It was kind of mesmeric. As we sat there, locals came in to have a tiny coffee, or tiny liqueurs (that they would throw back and then leave). We watched music videos. Then the bloke turned the channel to sport. He was trying to find the tennis (after we had a discussion about where we were from). We ended up watching American football. Close enough. After this, we meandered down by the water. You can see why Amalfi is one of the larger towns here; it is one of the few with flat land. There is an impressive church (the kids refused to have anything to do with it), and a few piazzas with some shops languidly open (but not with any real conviction). There were a few tourist dotted about the place. We thought we should shop for provisions. I went into a bar to ask if there were any supermarkets around. I was told by the barman that there was but it was closed. When would it open? He shrugged. Perhaps four thirty. Perhaps later. As it was only three, we decided not to wait around. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We returned to the bus stop. And then, the greatest comedy on wheels. Amalfi is the terminus for the bus. And so what happen is this: buses roll in from the top of the cliff. People get off. The driver gets off. He turns off the sign that tells where is might be going (or where he has come from), he puts on his jacket. He gets his bag. He disappears into the local bar. About seven buses came this way. The place was clogged with buses. We waited with locals who patiently watched this charade. Finally, one bus turned on a sign – Agerola. We all ran like crazy for the bus. The driver looked at us with some contempt and then put on his jacket and disappeared. But amazingly, within ten minutes he was back (he couldn’t have drunk that much in ten minutes, could he?). I asked about getting off at Furore. He assured me it was possible. Away we went. If anything, this was a worse drive than the first one. For one thing, we were much higher this time, and the roads were much more busy. But no one appeared concerned except us. Swinging around corners, passing cars with about a hair width of room, driving over passes that, when looked back at, apparently existed without support. Furore couldn’t come fast enough. True to his word, the driver got us off at Furore. We waved the bus off with some relief. Nothing was open in the town (too early?) and we walked back down the stairs on shaky legs to our house. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But not for long. We had to get food. So Myles and I braved the roads and drove into Agorola. The people we came across were amazingly friendly, helped us find a supermarket and a butcher. The shop keepers were lovely and helpful. Here is an interesting discovery. Chicken breasts here are sold with the bone in. I had ordered the chicken breast from the butcher through some rather humiliating pantomime. The butcher had asked if I wanted it cut up (I think, but now I realise that she was asking if I wanted the bone removed). I had said no. And then I had to bone it myself (badly) when we got home. So shopping was all good. Myles and I did have a bad moment when we realised that we were driving along some very dangerous roads and what would the kids do if we failed to return? But best not to dwell on that one.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We returned safely. We ate dinner. We had a gin rummy tournament (Myles won, the evil sod). We fell into bed with very sore thigh. Well, mine were sore.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbCgkYrkMQhiMfERb7a-95HaFSD_u5v6rm_s_CB_eAw2OVnaFEypcLJ7bC8F5JQoN6OmwM3EHVX-8HxEtGbslnOLtiirRs36__a8Y7yNTchnssEjNlCV1kUM7R9i_ASyhVLFpWN0SOKJQ/s1600/IMG_3141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbCgkYrkMQhiMfERb7a-95HaFSD_u5v6rm_s_CB_eAw2OVnaFEypcLJ7bC8F5JQoN6OmwM3EHVX-8HxEtGbslnOLtiirRs36__a8Y7yNTchnssEjNlCV1kUM7R9i_ASyhVLFpWN0SOKJQ/s320/IMG_3141.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUxaGSksMeQ87S6u-34lOG2wNFmLjsdsQ1YZlWiE2FF87Etqz-XE5f30HluXUXiNwAn2oo3XH-Kv9sULiFwrJsPgqJwwXQ9LwQM63VD5z-r_ZPei3oFcR64BtfTmzVi0z3vWybNfsDUo/s1600/IMG_3157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVUxaGSksMeQ87S6u-34lOG2wNFmLjsdsQ1YZlWiE2FF87Etqz-XE5f30HluXUXiNwAn2oo3XH-Kv9sULiFwrJsPgqJwwXQ9LwQM63VD5z-r_ZPei3oFcR64BtfTmzVi0z3vWybNfsDUo/s320/IMG_3157.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjr_wwYY62c5h1l6LuQqFobJitfa4QGZgrP-60n0VnIDeOkiCEDoFlCbl4jUAtrQDD7WnXxzegapvquWqmcWqxUbHw867BA-ZtD0lk7wZVvM5WiwBemcciQAG24Swbp5NIqsVh3B-MKg/s1600/IMG_3154.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMjr_wwYY62c5h1l6LuQqFobJitfa4QGZgrP-60n0VnIDeOkiCEDoFlCbl4jUAtrQDD7WnXxzegapvquWqmcWqxUbHw867BA-ZtD0lk7wZVvM5WiwBemcciQAG24Swbp5NIqsVh3B-MKg/s320/IMG_3154.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-48797360279277140402012-01-19T01:35:00.001-08:002012-01-19T01:35:50.497-08:00Vicopisano, day seven; Amalfi, day one<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Moving day. There is no need to recount how this goes. We have done this many times and it is never good. But we are better at it now than we were. And a car always helps.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went down to our host’s shop earlier – did our usual internet thing – and I bought one of his plates. Beautiful thing it is too.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We headed out. The sky was closing in for rain as we left; we are beginning to think that for this trip we are some kind of weather gods. But was we drove south, the weather opened into sun and bright skies. We pretty much drove non stop to Amalfi; only having lunch at a chain restaurant on the motorway called Autogrill. This is Italy’s answer to the roadside café that were attached to petrol station when we were kids. Sometimes we would stop there (they were called The Golden Fleece from memory). Now they are all fast food. In Italy, service stations have preserved the good old road side café. Here, there are stations and there are dishes of the day. The boys had hamburgers from the grill station, and we had pasta and rice from the pasta and rice station. It wasn’t disgraceful by any measure. And the people at the next table were wearing elaborate fur coats, so perhaps this is where the jet set eat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We sailed through Naples in the late afternoon and felt no pangs that we were not spending any time there. Big and sprawling and utterly filthy with rubbish absolutely everywhere. We were driving up into the hills and through some tunnels into the other world of the Amalfi coast. We were meeting our hosts in Agerola, just at the beginning of the Amalfi coast and they were going to escort us to our house. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If we had thought that the Cinque Terre was hair-raising in the car driving stakes, we were utterly speechless at the roads that now confronted us; this was roller coaster stuff. And meeting a bus coming the other way made it an extreme sport. It wasn’t too far to our place, however, just through the tiny town of Furore (which was to be our local spot), and then down some more narrow and precipitous roads and finally to our little house at the end of this most narrow street. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our host showed us some things – the thousand steps we could take down to the only fjord in Italy – the Fjord of Furore – where many films had been filmed (as she said). And the steps up would take us to the village of Furore and sustenance. We have had a talent for finding places with savage stairs. Perhaps we are always looking for a view. Perhaps. Now we are wiser – and will know what to look for, and what to ask for (few stairs, wifi, a washing machine, good heating). Up the stairs (Paris again looked grim at the prospect of carrying up suitcases), and into the house. The view from the terraces (yes, we have two, and a garden with banana lounges, and lemon and orange trees all around that are somehow grown across and over frames that you could happily sit under; like the most romantic pergola (but there are hundreds across the face of these hills).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Inside, the house was COLD. We have had long discussions about the coldest place we have experienced. Myles is adamant it is Yorkshire (the house was cold, but not freezing), but then Tuscany was cold to, until we managed to heat the house up. But this was so incredibly cold that I seriously wondered how we might survive it. We cranked up the heaters (not the wonderfully efficient wall heaters that we have become attached to, but those blow heaters that are mounted high in the wall) but we were still in our puffy jackets when we were preparing to go to bed. I raided every cupboard I could find for extra blankets and ended up piling tablecloths on each bed for warmth. I was in bed in my hoodie (with the hood up) and desperately trying to get my feet warm. It was looking grim. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles seriously considered sleeping in his puffy. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, huddled in bed, we put the puffy jackets over us like blankets. I found a book on Pompeii (a fictional account by Robert Harris) and read it longingly. Not because I’m desperate to experience a terrible volcano eruption, but because the eruption happened during a long hot summer and description of the heat was making me quite faint. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At length, we warmed up and fell into a sleep. What would the morning bring?</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-37525420267830307792012-01-19T01:34:00.000-08:002012-01-19T01:34:24.143-08:00Vicopisano, day six<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sunday and – could it be possible? – another glorious day. Myles had decided that we must go to the Cinque Terre – five small towns that hug the coast north of us. You can walk between them and sit in the sun when you are tired. We had been warned that, because of floods earlier in the year, some of the tracks between the towns might be closed but we were prepared to give it a crack. The problem with not having the internet is that you can’t check on these things – I can’t remember how I used to research anything – or indeed find things out at all. Perhaps I used to take chances and find out when I got there. Great moments or disappointment. Perhaps that is the way to live anyway.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Cinque Terre, according to Samantha, was an hour and half away. A decent drive. But it was OK. The landscape is beautiful and we had finally found a radio station that we could all listen to without losing our minds. Sam managed to take us on every road but a motorway so we didn’t make particularly good time, but we were there by about 11.30am. The first town (or land) on this side is Riomaggiore. We dove (I mean this literally, you drive sort of straight down a hill and into a town head first) into the town and found a carpark. The bloke who gave us our ticket was very helpful and headed us in the right direction. It was a bright sunny and clear day, but (as every day is here) cold. We wandered down through the town. It sort of folds into a long footpath (no cars after a certain point) with houses and buildings leaning down into this footpath. The kids had to eat (holy hell; I’m so over this) so we bought them slices of pizza and made our way through the pedestrian tunnel and through to the train station, the ticket office and the beginning of the walk (called, at this point, the Via dell’Amore – the Road of Love). At the tourist/ticket office, we discovered that we could walk to the second town (Manarola) but the paths to the other towns were closed. Oh well. One town sounded fine. And the kids were thrilled because the first town was pretty close, and the others were a long way away, and they are never really happy about long, long walks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We bought our tickets (these are for the national park, but they check them on your way through to the first part of the walk). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then we were walking along a path that spread the Ligurian Sea at our feet. It was overwhelmingly blue; the kind of blue that makes you want to dive head first into it; the kind of blue that make you think that the world will go forever; the kind of blue that gives you a thirst. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles had been saying that he thought he was becoming immune to new sights of beauty; that he had seen too much. But this was something new, something that he felt he could respond to. The path was even, paved neatly with white stones and as we walked along it, we agreed again at how blessed we have been. The most sublime weather with sun gazing with love upon us, this incredibly landscape and no tourists. We were literally the only people on the path with the exception of some people sitting in the sun reading books or soaking up a tan. It was our solitude to devour and savour and we loved every minute. At every hundred metres or so there was a marble plaque celebrating some great lover, or icon of love – Eros, Paris (I took a photo – it didn’t say Paris actually, but Paride). And on every fence or gate or even wire, there were dozens – hundreds – of locks with the names of lovers. Just like in Paris. I like this idea very much. Zelda is slightly disturbed by it. She worries that if you fall out of love or you are betrayed, that you have to come all the way back to unlock the lock. I can see what she means, but anticipating the end at a beginning is a bit sad. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In about half an hour, we found ourselves in Manarola. It is another little town clinging to the side of a cliff, determined not to slide into the sea. All around the town are terraces growing mostly vines (though I’m sure there are other crops too) and photos of the people who work these fields. It must be back breaking, climbing what looks to be hundreds of metres to cut, by hand, grapes. And the sun must be fierce in summer and autumn. It was strong for us; and this was mid winter. We walked on passed Manarola. We knew that the path was closed but we wanted to see how far we could go. It turned out to be not too far, but we did see more of the sea, the clear water that you can look right down into and see the bottom. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were forced to turn back and go into Manarola. Not that this was any hardship. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">These towns are closed during this time. I can see (and we were told by some of the local people we spoke with when we had lunch) that it would be wall to wall people in summer. Every building it seemed was advertising rooms for rent, and every other building was some kind of restaurant or shop. Most were closed at this time of the year; in Manarola, there was only one place open. So in we went and sat with some local men who were eating and watching the news on the TV. The woman at the counter spoke exceptional English and we ordered lots of food. On the TV, the cruise ship that had run aground because the captain was a first class idiot was all over the news. We couldn’t take our eyes of it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back on our walk through the towns, we were charmed beyond belief to see a nativity scene on the hill side that involved not only the holy family and the wise men, but also dolphins and sea horses. There were more boats than cars or indeed people on the streets. The buildings are all painted a variety of colours – yellows and pinks and reds. And the hills all rose before us, with neat stripes organising the farming. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Myles decided that he could live here; all that water and sun, and no cars and the amazing quiet (though probably only at this time of the year). We liked the dogs we saw too; a fantastic sausage dog with a very cute jacket on. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With some regret, we walked back along the Via dell’ Amore and into Riomaggiore. Back at the car we decided to drive to some of the other towns. While they were not accessible by foot, you could drive to them. So we began to do so, along roads that were cut in impossible ways into the side of the hills. It was both breathtaking and nerve racking and after about half an hour, we decided to turn back home. It was a place to explore on foot, we decided. And we would return to do the whole thing at some point. Perhaps when it was hot (with thousands of others) so we could go to the beach in the fourth town (I think) and lie languid in the water after our long walk. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was getting dark as we drove home. Zelda thought that it took much longer this way around. Perhaps she was right.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was our last night in Vicopisano. We cooked everything in the cupboards. Inspired by the food in Siena the day before, I did potatoes sliced, boiled and then baked with very juicy cherry tomatoes and onions and garlic, in olive oil. There was fried fennel and an already cooked chicken, and the left overs of salad and beans and a dozen other things. It was great eating; potatoes are such a frontier in cooking. There is never a dull moment.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We watched some courtroom drama about a young woman who had been horribly threated in an asylum in the 1940s in Baltimore. Unlikely, I know, but somehow quite gripping. And then, parking and organising and thinking about showering the whole family, and failing too. And then going to bed; but everyone was wired and Niccolo wandering about for much of the early part of the night, and me and Myles reading until our bells (we have come to think of them as our bells) chimed in their precise and somehow dour way, 12 midnight. It was to be a long drive tomorrow – all the way from Tuscany to the Amalfi coast.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbM2IsApSWNcBuVfwWtwhQSqc7o5A_tdgZSUrX5k5KEAB-gwH2Vud8CRbvIF2GM7Wnpo_a1sBAneedN9Peb4F89nYJC8knhzh4-tGcJP-xV5U2hrjKS1CJQvgO2W7ipcXVM_9vP75RZgY/s1600/IMG_3123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbM2IsApSWNcBuVfwWtwhQSqc7o5A_tdgZSUrX5k5KEAB-gwH2Vud8CRbvIF2GM7Wnpo_a1sBAneedN9Peb4F89nYJC8knhzh4-tGcJP-xV5U2hrjKS1CJQvgO2W7ipcXVM_9vP75RZgY/s320/IMG_3123.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59YL2IACluaHiBQU5QFb7Y1EFmKLlcpcRPdVFL6x81COEU5xI0tecQGwnEeHZVlFWNPpAjMzA1owQGd0kL_5QfcAjaBPhw0DNv4t-BOZMJHay7rSjCtYuUilc-dA5mZBB5q9-tJ8AI4c/s1600/IMG_3107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" nfa="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi59YL2IACluaHiBQU5QFb7Y1EFmKLlcpcRPdVFL6x81COEU5xI0tecQGwnEeHZVlFWNPpAjMzA1owQGd0kL_5QfcAjaBPhw0DNv4t-BOZMJHay7rSjCtYuUilc-dA5mZBB5q9-tJ8AI4c/s320/IMG_3107.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-15255373828619645152012-01-16T00:29:00.000-08:002012-01-16T00:29:45.391-08:00Vicopisano, day five<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sun was strong as we work to the rather stark bells of our town. No melody here; straight bells that tell the time, and then the half hour. We were determined to see more hilltop towns. The children were roused and made to dress (imagine their delight). We were going to see Siena and San Gimignarno. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was still ten o’clock before we were in the car. Samantha told us that it was an hour and a half to Siena. Really? Oh well. If that was the case, then we must just settle into it. The car is an interesting phenomenon with the kids. We have these long silences. I’m not sure what they are doing in the back; Paris has lost his ipod so they are not listening to music (though I’m usually frantically scrolling through the stations on the car radio looking for something to listen to – I hadn’t realised how dependent I was on the talking bit of radio). But they are quiet, often for full hours at a time. And then suddenly, one of them will say something (this is not always the same person) and they will burst into conversation about something, usually about a film or a TV show or about the kings and queens of England (about which, they are obsessed). Sometimes they will sing (currently, they are singing songs from Horrible Histories, Total Drama and – bizarrely – ‘Total Eclipse of the Heart’). And then, silence again. It is very weird. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then we were climbing into the sky again, and another town before us – this one was Siena. Sam told us to go right to the top of the hill, but – our experience at Volterra – we decided it was better not to drive right into the old town, but to park on the outskirts. There was a park too, on the side of the road, so it was to be. We walked up a steep road and then, again (like a kind of waking dream) we were in another town sprung from some other time. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I know we have seen a lot of churches and I have written about them. But, with the exception of the Sagrada Familia (which is special in a way that no other building – church or otherwise – is), the cathedral of Siena is the most amazing. The floors are incredible, with images inlaid but not as mosaics, as kind of whole pieces of marble or some kind of stone. All the walls are painted, the ceiling is the night sky, and there are busts of every pope around the church. The same striped marble effect in Florence and Pisa is here too, and more beautiful. But then you can go underneath to the church that was built before this one (and on which this one is built) with its colourful frescos of Christian suffering and multiple archways. The city has restored much of this, and have built windows in the ceiling of the old church so you can see up into the new one (‘old’ and ‘new’ being relative terms). So you can stand in the old church and gaze up into the cathedral and at its night sky. As if you are somehow imagining this new church from the stones of the old one. You not only look up, but forward.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Underneath this crypt is another smaller church of the same vintage as the cathedral that sits above all of them called the Battista. We didn’t quite work out the function of this (Myles proffered the idea that it was the ‘extension’), it is a smaller space anyway, with a wonderfully painted ceiling – not the night sky, stories. In this church, there are mirrors on some of the pew so you can see the ceiling without have to crane your neck. I don’t mind the craning, but perhaps the elderly appreciate having a mirror. I gazed into the mirror for ages (not looking at myself, you understand, but at the ceiling) and it was a strange feeling, seeing the roof at your knees. Sort of like chewing gum with your feet.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is also a museum of some of the sacred art (the children were most gratified to see that these statues wore pants), and a view of the whole of Siena from the top. Out there, in the air, with the most glorious sun pouring down, it was all a bit special (if only half the family didn’t suffer vertigo). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Saint Catherine of Siena is an important figure around hereabouts. I did some work on her when I was doing some post graduate stuff; she was one of the most amazing anorectics of the Catholic Church and I think, if I remember this rightly, would drink pus to mortify her flesh and desires. And, I think, she is also the saint who has a vision in which she is married to Christ and he gives her his foreskin as a ring. Now I can’t be making that up, can I? I must look it up again when I get home (or if we ever get internet connection again beyond several minutes in a shop). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Siena is also famous for a horse race and as a Melbournian, I feel much affinity with this. This race is called the Palio and it is run around the large Piazza del Campo in the town. Ten horses and riders take part (there are in fact fourteen districts these can be drawn from; they all have their own flags) and they run three times around the piazza. I hope they put down sand or something. Those cobblestones are slippery and the corners are a doozy. We did something far less athletic in Piazza del Campo. We had lunch. The table was in the sun and we ordered soups and melanzane, and wine, and vegetables and bread. There was olive oil. There were no complaints. I was ready to have a little sleep in the sun. But we are tourists. We must away to another point of interest.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And it was here that we found Niccolo’s new bag. He saw it and immediately had to have it. That kid knows his mind. And as it was 12 euros, Myles was happy to buy it for him. Job done.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We loved Siena very much. But before the sun left us, we wanted to see San Gimignano. It was three as we left and we pulled into San Gimignano at about 4pm. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Another gorgeous medieval town high in the Tuscan hillside. This one is ringed by towers – there are now fourteen left but apparently there had been up to seventy at one stage. It is dramatic, and must have impressed not only the peasants in the surrounding fields but visitors to the city. The streets are steep (few cars, if any, come in which is a blessing). We walked to the top and a walled garden where you could see the whole of Tuscany spread out like a picnic through a door in the wall. Very like a painting. And a woman was playing a harp and singing sad, Medieval sounding songs. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I sat in the sun with some older, Italian couples. They were liking the sun too, but one of the men couldn’t sit still. As we sucked in the sun, he waddled about checking whether the tap worked in the fountain, pushing branches aside in the bushes to see what was in the middle, checking that the screws were tight on the statue. It was restful knowing that I had no need to do any of those things. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So we saw another knockout town.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">What is it about seeing? (Ah seeing. We are so dependent upon it. What about the other senses? I took a photo of a lovely valley, and as I did so, a cock crowed. This is for me alone, the crowing of the cock. I can replicate it for anyone. Though it did worry me that the cock crowed at sunset; is that right? Does this particular cock have issues?) This problem of seeing occurred to me at Volterra too, but was very apparent today. We go and we see. And then we leave, as if that is the point. I’m not sure that it is the point, but it does explain the concept of tourism, and the mania for arriving, walking and eating, and then leaving. In most towns, I ask Myles: would you live here? And he always answers (well, not always, but mostly): no. My question is clearly not serious, but I think it might be asked because the seeing a town seems somehow … well … slightly silly. And the seeing is accompanied by photographs (the proof of the seeing, the offering of the seeing to others). I think that there must be an impulse to live (‘could you live here?’) that moves beyond looking and into contributing. The looking and the seeing seems to be an act of taking. I’d like to come to a town and be more than just that (the vampire stuff that is now associated with Volterra is perhaps closer to the mark than Hollywood really meant). You know, get to know the people, tell a joke or two, meet in the local place for drink o’clock. Plant a tree. Cook some melanzane. For others. This trip is great and we have loved it, but there is something at this end of it that does feel slightly empty. Actually, if it were not for sharing the experience and being able to take about it with Myles and the kids, I think it might feel more than a touch empty.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps I’m seeing something in those ‘A Year in Provence’ narratives after all. You can’t always just come and see. Sometimes you have to stay. But perhaps you don’t always have to have a romance with the local dark eyed minstrel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We are not going to stay here. Not this time. </span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-12115822581919056772012-01-16T00:25:00.000-08:002012-01-16T00:25:04.598-08:00Vicopisano, day four<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rain was predicted, and rain it did. We can’t go around complaining about the weather considering we have seen very little rain and a great deal of sunshine. It is, we believe, one of the warmest (if not the warmest) winter Western Europe has ever seen. So with rain, we decided to do other things. It was treat Friday, and so it was time to cook our treat Friday. Mostly we buy treat Friday, but today we were going to cook it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Niccolo had decided long ago, as far back as Christmas, that he wanted to cook doughnuts with custard cream for the centre. We didn’t get around to it in Carcassonne; I can’t now recall why; possibly a surfeit of food already. However, this time, there was not a surfeit; it was treat Friday and we had the time as the rain tumbled. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">OK, fine. We went to our host’s shop to get on the internet (email and whatnot) and to research recipes for doughnuts and custard cream. Anything that involves eggs and heat that is not fried eggs makes me nervous; so I was already feeling a little panic. And then there is the problem of buying ingredients in a country in which you only just speak the language and anything technical is a long way out of your range. Onward and upward though.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We returned to PAM (the great shopping centre in the skyish) and took our list. There were of course detours from the list (chocolate, for example, to melt for the doughnuts, glamorous breakfast cereal – that’s a mystery – pretty little bottle of Campari and soda and so on) but in general we were on a mission. The thing was, I couldn’t find anything that looked like cornflour. I knew that cornflour would be important for thickening, and I couldn’t come up with an alternative. Suddenly, Niccolo found a packet of doughnuts called (perhaps appropriately) Krapfen. He agreed to make the doughnuts from this prefab box, plus the custard cream from another prefab box. We guessed at the additional ingredients needs and were proved right when we found them in the supermarket (yeast in Italian … anyone?). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Outside of PAM, we discovered that the weather was lifting. There was the stirring of possible plans. Back at home, we cooked lunch and prepared the doughnuts (which required long resting and rising times). As we did this, Paris and I conducted a game of Gin Rummy in which I comprehensively beat him. We did not score (which probably accounts for my run of very good luck). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sun began to shine through the windows of the kitchen. There were adventures to be had outside. So we left the doughnuts to rise beside the heater and headed out.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We decided to head for Volterra. Our host introduced this town to us as the place where some instalment of Twilight was filmed. Myles and I shrugged (knowing nothing about the films or the books; somehow this one has passed me by), and Paris actively shuddered. But it was getting late in the afternoon and it was relatively close, so we figured; why not? Vampires can be fun.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Perhaps I have lived a sheltered life. You’d think I’d have some knowledge of geography and towns beyond either straight ignorance or Hollywood. But in this case; no. But here is the other thing about this sheltered life. No expectations. I drove happily to Volterra with the family thinking and expecting nothing of this town. It was really only something to do on an afternoon in which the sun began to punctuate the clouds. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We drove through very pretty countryside, and then, after a time, we began to climb. Suddenly, we were high in the sky; looking down on a very organised landscape; vines and recently plough fields, and nicely managed forests. And above us, loomed a town. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We parked. And into the old town we walked. It is steep and completely self contained, with all the houses and buildings huddled together and tall. There are little alleyways under arched gates, and everything paved in stone. As the sun declined, and the town got dark, it was all a bit magical. At the top of the town is a very large piazza with a palazzo on one side, and a church on the other. All the colours were dark variations on the colours in Tuscany; orange, green, purple, brown (and black and white). Here is was a gloomy version, but not depressing or ugly, just stern. Funnily enough, this is a town known for alabaster – luminous whiteness among the dark. There were Twilight posters everywhere (so that was true) but who cared? Some kind of Hollywood version of this quite real Medieval darkness couldn’t be as interesting as the ‘real’ thing. I say ‘real’ here because it is now a tourist town. People live here (there is a very busy car repair shop just to the left of the piazza and there were folks walking their dogs), but it is so geared to tourists like us – food and ice cream and shops with souvenirs and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>books that tell you the history of the town. It now lies somewhere between Hollywood and daily reality. But we really liked it. We did none of the things were have been programed to this point to do – the church, the museum, historical sites and so on. We just walked around and looked in windows and admired the darkness. We also discovered a new flavour of ice cream that might be specific to this town called ‘Chic and Shock’. Paris ordered it. It was a little like coffee and biscuits. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We spent the minutes of sunset with our legs hanging over a wall and looking out onto the Tuscan countryside that ripples away from this hilltop town. Well, me and the kids did. Myles can’t quite cope with heights on any level. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It must be amazing to live in a town like this one; to have such a presence in the countryside – to prevail over the fields and yards below you. And to have a history that extends over the shoulders of generation after generation. I think I would like that sensation. But perhaps you wouldn’t be aware of it. Perhaps it is something that would be invisible to you (or transparent) and just a part of how you see the world on any given day. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We journeyed back to our tall house in Vicopisano, sleepy and thoughtful. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The doughnuts awaited us when we opened the door. We had forgotten them.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I heated the oil and dropped them in. Clearly, deep frying is an art and I have no knowledge of it. I managed to cook them brown (not an appetising colour for doughnuts) but have them raw in the middle. So it just required that I break each doughnut apart and cook them again. Paris quite like them, said they tasted like churros. We dipped them in the fake custard cream, and in chocolate Niccolo melted by placing it in a bowl on the heater (alongside the clothes I was baking dry). As we stuffed doughnuts into our mouths, we watched a film on poverty in America on True Movies (our one English channel on the TV). We were in danger of being Marie Antoinette. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We retired to bed relatively early (though I discovered the children watching something on Paris’s computer at midnight later on, and got very angry with them) to read. I’m reading Jane Austen but it is not melding with my mood. I’m starved for something to read. I hadn’t realised how much I rely on my library. Myles is getting through ‘The Girl Who Played with Fire’. Paris is reading ‘Atonement’. Zelda reads ‘Dracula’, but only in the morning. It creeps her out at night. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We are inspired to go and see hilltop towns in Tuscany. That is our plan for tomorrow.</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-62808873460341057052012-01-16T00:23:00.001-08:002012-01-16T00:23:36.795-08:00Vicopisano, day three<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We decided to go to Pisa today but because it is just up the road, we thought we might take it easy and have a late morning. We stumbled around for a while, some of us writing, some reading. Making breakfast and doing the washing. Looking out the window at the bright air and sun, and the glorious landscape that runs straight from our front door to as far as the eye can see. We have a washing machine here, but no dryer. Technically, because it is sunny, I could hang the clothes in the garden, but there is no line and the garden is in shade and it would take a miracle for anything to dry in this cold. So I bake the clothes on the heaters that ring the walls. This means that the kids have to go from room to room to find clean clothes, mostly draped across chairs or directly on heaters. Getting dressed can be something of a trial for this reason.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were desperate for some external connection and we have no wifi here. We have to go down to the shop of our host (he not only owns this place and a Bed and Breakfast, but runs a ceramics shop in the town) to connect to his wifi. So we sat in his shop for a while and did email and blogging and, for Paris, skyping. And we went in search of ingredients for lunch too, and a little walk around the town. It is really sweet, one square, but booming with people. And not only the elderly. There is a sense, a real one, that these towns are populated only by the superannuated. But while they are a big presence, there is much youth too. The square was teeming with young families have a bit of a run in the sun, and the shops are run by young women. This is a town not too far from major towns so perhaps there are people who live here but commute. It would make a tonne of sense. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After lunch, there was a pretty competitive game of chess between Paris and Niccolo (which Niccolo won – but, as he said, ‘Paris helped me’). I found a map of Pisa in our house and decided to program an actual street into Samantha, instead of our usual ‘Centre’ vagueness. It wasn’t far to Pisa, about half an hour and, like so many of these towns, you are suddenly there, without much fanfare or warning. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Pisa is a sleepy town (at least at this time of the year) and I’m a fan of sleepy towns. We parked in the carpark closest to the leaning tower and we were the only car there, along with some weeds and a few old bins filled with water. Pisa is, on this side at least, a walled town. We parked outside the wall and then walled through one of the gateways and into the town. And you are there, right in front of the leaning tower. I wonder if it is a phenomenon of being Australian (or generally from the ‘new world’) that historical objects or places are expected to be hidden away – to be driven too, to be heralded by signs and symbols and much bated breath. But here, all these places of interest are right in the towns, next to shops and road and people’s homes. It is less of a big deal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The tower itself is all white marble and has been recently restored. They did a big forensic thing on it and worked out how to get rid of the black mould and where all the cracks were appearing and what to fill. As such, it is shining white and looks like new. The marble comes from Carrara. Apparently, it didn’t initially; it was from a more local town, but the replacement marble is Carrara. And it leans like the clappers. We were all vaguely keen to go to the top; even the more anxious about heights among us. I think it was something to do with the kookiness of the tower itself and the idea of going up a tower that was not quite right. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the ticket office gave us a fright. For one person, and this for all people regardless of age or income, it would be 15 euro to go to the top. Niccolo was no allowed to go at all (there were tears) as he was too young. And I was cross about the price. So no one went. We did lie down on the ground underneath the tower to get the full effect and the movement of the clouds did make it feel like the whole tower was coming down on us. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It wasn’t busy. There were a few tourists taking photos of one another pretending to hold the tower up (or push it over, depending on your preference.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The tower is a belfry for the church beside which it stands. Now a church standing there, wide open? We had to go in. This one, like the Duomo in Florence, has this distinctive geometrical design. Here, instead of green and white, it is black and white stripes right through the whole place. Amazing paintings inside too, and the ceiling is covered with metals casts of different flowers. The altar is a golden mosaic of Christ (very like San Marco, actually) and there was a terrific nativity scene with – yes! – a donkey. Niccolo was still upset and sulking because of the tower fiasco, but Zelda and I discovered a relic of the local saint – San Guido. It was his skull. She thought Niccolo might like this, and indeed it was this that finally coaxed him into the church. They stood in front the skull for ages.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relics are something.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I wanted to look at the town so we went walking towards the Piazza del Cavelleri. This is certainly a sleepy town, with very little car traffic and a lot of people of bicycles, including elegant, older ladies. This is a very pretty place, with great colours on the buildings, made all the more dramatic by the dark shadows of neighbouring buildings providing contrast. Lots of churches that sit flush with buildings and a long street that contains interesting shops and cafes and, notably, a chocolate shop that made things like horse shoes, and nuts and bolts out of chocolate that made it all look very real and rusted. Zelda was all for going in and buying the lot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Niccolo began to complain that I had not yet bought him a bag (a new school bag). So we went in and out of shops looking for the perfect bag. It must be a certain colour and shape and size with a long strap for over the shoulder rather than a back pack. The bag didn’t exist in Pisa. Perhaps it doesn’t exist at all.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Why is shopping an acceptable activity anyway regardless of the time or place? Here we were, a million miles from home in a completely new place and we were shopping. Hmmm. Not good. I looked at a few bags with him, and then we walked back to the car. It was getting dark, glorious pinks across the sky. We walked back passed the leaning tower and farewelled it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a short day. We didn’t get excited about anything else on the way home. We came back and shared some bread, and played some cards and chess. The house is now warm, we have managed to get the heating right so we can curl up on our return from adventures and feel cosy.</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-16960517118777550022012-01-13T02:35:00.000-08:002012-01-13T02:35:53.004-08:00Vicopisano, day two<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Cold house, blue skies. It is hard to be cross here even if you must wear full body armour once you get out of bed. We wanted to see Florence today (is it ‘See Florence and die’ or is that Rome?). It is not too far from us, about an hour. We tossed up between car and train. We could catch a train from a larger town than Vicopisano called Pontedera just down the road, or we could drive and park the car in Florence. We drove to Pontedera to check out the train. All things begin equal, parking in Florence would be cheaper than the train fare, but the thing that really had us deciding to drive was that all the parking in Pontedera was meter and we didn’t have anything like the right change for an eight hour wait. So we decided to take our chances. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Samantha, as noted in a previous post, is close to nervous breakdown and cannot really be relied on to get us anywhere near where we want to go. But she is our only resource; we could buy a map, but I figure that Samantha is not only a guide but a relationship saver. After all, we can all be cross at her, but if one of us navigates, it could all be over; yelling matches and ripped maps, and people getting out of the car at inopportune moments. You can see my point.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Holding our breath a little, we programed her for Florence and set off. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Tuscan countryside is amazingly picturesque, just like a Leonardo background, hills and trees and, in this case, little houses all dotted across the landscape. There is, of course, deep ugliness – industrial sites and suburbia and, indeed, the road down which we drove. But it seemed softened by the indecent beauty of the alternative. It is cold here, so there is frost and ice, but it is also sunny, so this ice and frost glitters in the sun and gives everything a kind of surreal shimmer. And the sun and sky here are real blue and real sun. Unlike the veiled sun of Venice, here is pours out like – how does that go? – a mighty pulse?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Like Paris, there was no heralding of the city, you are just suddenly and very much IN Florence. We were suddenly driving beside the Arno, with the Ponte Vecchio in the foreground and the streets narrowing to a trickle. Sam was doing her usual nonsense; insisting we drive down one way streets (the wrong way, as it happened), and refusing to find us another way. So we turned her off and took a chance on some road signs. Apparently, the carpark at Parterre had spots. And there were enough signs to get us there. (In our limited experience, the sign thing can go very wrong. You get a sign that lists the exact place you wish to go. There is an arrow directing you. You turn your car with hope in your heart. And then there are no more signs – though you might see one twenty minutes later on the other side of the street going in the other direction – and you drive with increasing sadness through streets that only ever seem to take you to the autostrada. Or a deadend.) It was two euro an hour. We were content.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Once we emerged, there was a tiny problem. We didn’t know where we were in relation to the rest of the city. We did have a kind of map (from the Lonely Planet guide), but it wasn’t great and it didn’t have a ‘you are here’ dot to orient us. We were by a small canal though and we figured that we should follow the run of the water because it was probably going into the Arno. The street was called Via Giovanni Milton which I thought was kinda funny. And I wasn’t going to forget it which was good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a decent distance, we came to Viale Filippi Strozzi, and suddenly, we were on the map. In seconds, we had worked out exactly where we were and wandered off to the old city with little hesitation. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Florence is so beautiful (there is, it is told, a condition you can get when in Florence – the name of which escapes me – that renders you prostrate from the beauty. I think we were told this about Paris too …), and the old city is very free of cars which makes it a joy to walk around. All cities should do this. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Duomo is unlike any other we have seen to this point. It is not muted colours for a start, but bold green on white and large geometrical shapes across the entire building. It is sparse, no intricate filigree across everything; just chest out and audacious in the centre of the piazza. We went inside; it is empty. This was quite shocking; are there no services held here (and if so, does everyone stand?). The roof of the dome is completely painted and is exquisite, and there are some wonderful paintings on the wall. But all in all, not the hushed, fearsome place most other churches are. There were even some male tourists wearing hats, so the church police aren’t so visible here. You can go down a series of steps and into what I first though was a crypt, but turns out to be a museum of the excavation done under the Duomo, and the artefacts that have been discovered. We didn’t go in. It cost money … But we did go into the historical gift shop and I bought a proper map of Florence so we at least knew where we were. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Having said that, now we just started to wander. The weather was glorious, perfect to walk in, and it was a real pleasure to be guided by what you see down a side street (oh my lord, what is that?), to find a series of marble statues standing around awaiting you, to be overcome by a huge palace. We stumbled on the Uffizi by chance, but because the weather was so good, we decided to come back later on in the afternoon and wander so more. Along the Arno, over the Ponte Vecchio. More gold than in all the bank vaults in the world and then some. The place was blinding with gold. And some of the most glamourous police officers seen anywhere in the world. Myles wondered if this was specific to the Ponte Vecchio and generally the more beautiful places in Florence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who cares? The police are half the fun. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We did one of those aimless wander up and down a street that alerts me to the fact that at least one member of the party is looking for food. So we went in to the first place we found and had some things to eat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This kind of offered some time to organise the next place to go; and I decided (through some advice from others and guidebooks) that we would walk up to Piazzale Michelangelo to see the view. We crashed into an ice cream place first (it looked so good that I had some too; tirami su – happy days). Along the River Arno with its lonely rowers going up and down (prevented from full stretch by the little spill ways that scatter the river). In that open sun, there must have been worse things to do than row along the river in long ovals. Piazzale Michelangelo requires a walk up some steep steps. And a walk through Via San Niccolo (who was excited to see his name written somewhere other than the top of his work page at school). And then up the steps to the top of the Florentine world. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was a spectacular view. The blue of the sky and the bright sun lit up the city, and warmed us. The view was all the more interesting because the city, at least on this side, stops abruptly at the old walls. On one side; a city cheek to cheek, with little space for light or movement, and on the other, a scene of pastoral serenity. You could herd your sheep right up to the walls, and duck in for a good coffee in a humming piazza and then return to the sheep without even breaking a sweat. Perhaps all cities should be thus – very much a city, and then not. Down with suburbia I say. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Piazzale Michelangelo is a carpark, by the way, with a replica of the statue of David. I’m not sure Michelangelo would be hugely impressed by this homage to him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were all lulled and cradled by the sun and then the three o’clock bells rang and we remembered we had a date with the Renaissance at the Uffizi Gallery. Paris queried the distance and, from our vantage point, I could show him in some detail. He agreed. And once he agrees, the others are a shoo in. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back down the steps; Niccolo at a brisk gallop. When we got to the Uffizi, it was cheaper than when we had been there earlier, must have been the afternoon rate. We paid our money and went straight to the second floor. Not point in dallying in other places. And here, like the countryside, we struggled with what was real and what wasn’t. When I stood in front of the ‘Birth of Venus’, it was like standing in front of a replica, except I KNEW it wasn’t. I went up close, as close as the thick glass and the prohibitive rope will allow, to see the brush strokes. Where did he touch the canvass? It wasn’t easy to see. But I had to go with the idea it was real. The same with ‘Spring’. In the Leonardo room, there was a painting that I didn’t know of his, and this (why?) gave me a thrill. This, because I had not seen it reproduced a million times, felt real, felt authentic (authentic is a terrible word, isn’t it?). I looked at it for ages. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The kids were unmoved; they need a story, a narrative, to really engage. They liked the ancient statues (‘but why no pants?’ they kept asking, ‘why?’). And they look for dogs in all paintings; it is their favourite part. ‘Le chien,’ they call to one another, ‘le chien’. Luckily, chiens were well loved in the Renaissance and they litter the paintings. We liked the one and only Michelangelo painting (but it was very full of very pink people; I guess anyone who paints like this now would be considered mawkish. But not here). The Rubens and Rembrandt rooms were shut off for renovations. But there is a whole section dedicated to foreign painters that was great and a series of still life paintings that Paris and I loved by a female painter (perhaps one of the few here) called Rachel ... Something. At this point, I'm hamstrung because of limited internet access and Google not working. I'll try and find it out at a later date. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Uffizi building itself is so lovely, every panel on the ceiling in the long hallways is painted; all the windows accept and welcome the light. It must have been lovely living here. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the historical gift shop we found a stand with really cheap penguin books in English. We were drawn like moths. And I went in search of the loo. I have to say, the loo on this level of the Uffizi is worth a visit. You have to walk for ages, down a series of corridors, and you suddenly feel like you are in a kind of archaeological dig. And then the toilets are suddenly before you and all modern. It is very surreal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We wandered back to the car. It took some time, but Florence is incredible. I almost wish we were staying there, but the country is really amazing and I’m a little over cities. We will be in Rome soon enough; a huge city. We probably don’t need another city. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Getting out of Florence was interesting, not really because of the traffic but because of Samantha who has really lost it (Zelda, in the back seat, intoned: ‘Now downloading a mid-life crisis – please wait’). She was all about: ‘bear left, and turn right’ and so on. Myles was close to killing her and crashing the car. I think I’m right about needing the GPS to save the marriage.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At home we ate and watched more middayesque movies on True Movies – our new favourite addiction. The kids are learning about all kinds of social issues. They are now terribly modern.</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-54312973883529414102012-01-12T02:04:00.000-08:002012-01-12T02:04:03.458-08:00Vicopisano, day one<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had arrived in this tiny Tuscan town the night before; quite late. Samantha had one of her more spectacular nervous breakdowns and had taken us to a strange little estate instead of the centre of town, so we had to follow signs to our meeting place. The meeting arrangements with our host had been particularly ‘Get Smart’; we were to meet in front of the Bar Italia, beside the red phone box, he would be in a blue car with an Australian sticker on it. I was a little sad that he wouldn’t be in a cigarette vending machine, and that there was no password. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We pulled up twenty minutes late and there he was; beside the phone booth, with the car. He guided us to our home for the next seven day: casa al castello. This is a tall house – three storeys – in the middle of the oldest part of town. You go up one flight of stairs (I could see Paris’ eyes rolling; he knew more than anyone how heavy our idiot suitcases are) and on this first floor there is a living room and a kitchen. Then another flight of stairs (steep and long) to the two bedrooms and a tiny bathroom. The rooms are big, high ceilings and cut across with ancient beams. In our bedroom the beams are truly tree trunks; not even cut into nice square shapes, but great lumps of wood. And it is cold. We cranked the heater up but (unlike most European houses with the notable exception of York) it did little good. Puffy jackets at ten paces.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We woke in the morning with sun flowing through our windows. I guess this is the important difference between here and York; in York the house was cold and the landscape was misty and freezing, here the house is freezing but there is sun and blue skies outside. So we found little slivers of sun and sat in them or basked against the heater. This was to be both a rest day and a day of organisation. Not very interesting, it must be said, but absolutely necessary. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We began the day by leaving the children in bed and going to the local supermarket. This town is very out of the way (according to our host) so the local residents aren’t used to tourists and none of them speak any English. We found that this was true, but everyone gave us a chance to speak and to be understood, which made it all easier. We must stick out like sore (very sore) thumbs here. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our house is at the top of the old town and you have to walk down the old streets into the ‘new’ square (which is new only in a relative sense). It made me think about Frances Mayes and ‘Under the Tuscan Sun’. I’m not a fan of these kinds of books (but somehow end up reading them; hmmm), the whole ‘A Year in Provence’, ‘Almost French’ genre. The ‘me’ but exotic me! Even Isabel Fonseca did one about a year in Uruguay and she seemed very sane (with the notable exception of marrying Martin Amies). But back to Frances Mayes. There is apparently little reason to read a book about someone who has lived in a tiny Tuscan town all their life, but a book about a San Franciscan academic who comes to Tuscany and renovates an old house – watch it fly off the shelves. Frances Mayes does a good line in being a poor academic who has a dream and goes to the wall to fulfil it (though I have it on good authority that Frances Mayes has never wanted for money and that bit was just a narrative device). Hers is not a return narrative, but a renew one – and a change one – where we go from discontent and malaise to contentment and self-fulfilment. But why in Tuscany? Why not, say, Blackburn? Or Melton? Or, considering she is a Californian, Salinas? Why? We probably all know the answer to that one. Romance. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But why am I being so smug about this. I’m doing something almost identical with this blog. It is partly a diary but a lot of this is an exploration of self: what am I like in another place, how might I change, what might I learn? And why Europe and not, say, Blackburn? Romance, history, space. I guess such a journey does provide space from the everyday and opens up channels that are not visible when you grind away in a known place (including job and whatnot). But still, I have little time for the whole book about the exotic self (masked as the ‘natural’ or the ‘real’ self). I think that these texts are often linked with love and it might be that I object to that. A bit like a diet manual – I lost weight and found love. In the travel genre, it is: I went to the most romantic place in the world and found love. No kidding. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Although this writing, for me, does work if it is funny.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We fed the children and then got organised to see our host, get internet access (which we don’t have here – and it is making some of us very cross indeed), shop properly for food and orient ourselves. Which we did. I can’t be bothered going through this, very boring. Except the supermarket was called PAM. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paris cooked a big lunch for us and we enjoyed the food, wine and the sun on our back in our little kitchen. There was some discussion that we should perhaps have a nap after lunch, but a walk won the day. But first to ice cream. Then we wandered the tiny town with its little canal along which is a kind of obstacle course (of the type I described in Verneil sur Avre). The kids loved it – sit ups, chin ups, hurdles and whatnot. Too much lunch in my belly for all that. Then we walked to the castle at the top of the hill, behind our place. It is only open on the weekend, but the views are wonderful. And all along the hillside, people were working their small plots of land; one man was pruning the merry hell out of his olive trees, another was mowing, another was weeding and preparing land. It was all busy, busy, busy. And along all the walls, cats watched wearily. As we arrived at the bottom of the hill, a man walked down the street with his horse. It was all very pastoral. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The sky was falling black when we got back to our front door; it was time to go in for the night. There was chess and cards and something called Ultimate Chess/Checkers (which didn’t involve bloodshed for which I was most grateful). Zelda and I found a channel called Horse TV on the telly (no kidding) which was just wall to wall show jumping. None of us could take our eyes off it. And then I found an English movie channel called ‘True Stories’ which was really just back to back midday movies about social issues (wrongful imprisonment, babies switched at birth, adolescent depression, euthanasia and so on. Like a series of train wrecks.) We must have been tired because, again, we couldn’t take our eyes of it. But eventually, we dragged ourselves away and up to our cold rooms. Luckily the sheets are pure cotton and the blankets are warm. As we settled in, the local bells rang out eleven. They ring the hour, and then one on the half hour. Most useful for those of us without watches (that’s us) and for insomniacs. Ah, that’s me too.</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-1521618568157211452012-01-12T02:02:00.000-08:002012-01-12T02:02:39.151-08:00Venice, day four<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The weather continued blue and sunny. We woke to a thin blue sky and a white sun, as if behind a veil. But it was bright light and, in the sun, a warm day. But it must have been cold during the night because there was ice in the Campo, and we slipped a few times. Myles and I went out to the supermarket to buy breakfast and managed to make an enemy of the cashier who told us that we had to weight the pre packed bananas, and when we intimated that we wouldn’t take them, she lost her temper and went and weighed them herself. Oh, well. It was our last day. Perhaps we would never see her again. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were booked to pick up a car at Piazzale Roma at 3.30pm so we had most of the day to wander about and enjoy the loveliness that is Venice. I had also arranged to see Marco; the cousin in Venice I had not yet caught up with. We had agreed to meet at San Giovanni e Paolo at about 10.30am but, as ever, we were running late. I think there might be a phenomenon of Venice time which we were not yet hooked into. It takes time to walk the calle, and even though this is a small place, it is also a deceptive place where time is swallowed up into the stones and water. We thought we left enough time but as we passed the small clock that heralds your arrival at Rialto bridge, it was already 10.30 and we had some way to go yet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Up and over the bridge, no time to linger and admire the rippling waters of the Grand Canal, down the stairs, past Goldoni and deep into the other side of Venice. I don’t know this part of Venice very well, but there are signs (I must say, the signs are quite well hidden and are often not where you expect them to be, but it you hunt around, you can find them) and we managed to be at San Giovanni e Paolo about ten minutes late. There was no Marco; had he left in disgust? I found a phone and rang him. Ma no! He was also running late. So we found a place in the sun and waited. We actually went to go into La Chiesa di San Giovanni e Paolo but it was not one of our churches on the Chorus card. The children were so pleased; it was as if they had arranged it themselves. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Marco arrived and we went for coffee and hot chocolate and caught up. It was lovely. Then he showed us a hotel for sale on Bacino San Marco – Hotel Gabrielli (I think) – run down but amazing. A steal at 50 million. Sadly, we don’t have that kind of money. He took us to another little place for lunch where the waiter more or less took one look at us, and did the ordering. I actually insisted on tasting the lamb sauce that was on the menu (he was not pleased with me) but he did bring a plate of sweet and sour sardines (a Venetian specialty) with white polenta and tiny, tiny shrimp. It was amazing. We drank prosecco happily, and then tucked into pasta. I could live like this – bearing in mind that for Marco, this was a work day. Happy, happy, happy. He had to leave after lunch; we wished him well, and set off for our final tour, and goodbye to Venice. Myles, in particular, was feeling sad about this, he had really fallen in love this time. We had been here together in 1999 but he said that it hadn’t had this effect on him then. This time, the magic had crept into his bones. I felt sad too – this for me is a melancholy city anyway – but I also figure I’ll be back. Goodbye to San Marco; I had a final look from the church down the piazza. This would have been the view my parents would have had as they exited the church after getting married. They must have felt so special; as if they were part of some timeless masterpiece. Through the calle we plunged; time (despite the whole timeless thing) was against us – this phenomenon of the time in Venice and we had to be gone from our apartment by three. We had not packed even a singlet yet. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Goodbye to the stone under your heels, goodbye to the colours of the buildings and the Turkish style windows, goodbye to the low doorways, and the city upside down wonky in the waters. Goodbye to the particular smell of Venice; I haven’t found words for it yet. Perhaps never. Goodbye to the little bars that suddenly invite you as you turn a corner, and the dogs that wander the calle with their owners. Goodbye lovely Venice for now. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We packed by flinging all our stuff into three bags. We are down to three bags; I’m not sure how (we began with seven, and we have bought more stuff along the way. Physically, it makes no sense). We belted over to Piazzale Roma and made it there bang on 3.30. The bloke at the car hire counter awaited us patiently as we crabbed walked our way into his shop front, dropping our bags and shutting the door on our hands and toes. Myles and I huffed up to the counter. I asked him, in Italian, if he spoke any English. He shook his head. So I proceeded to explain our booking in Italian. He let me go on for some time; and then began speaking English. His English was perfect. A little joke (possibly at my expense). But he was charming and very helpful and told me that my Italian wasn’t half bad; or my accent was quite good. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were in the car and away before we knew it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Our last sight of Venice was gliding over the road that joins Venice with the mainland and looking at the light blue waters that guard her. Sigh.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were headed for a week in Tuscany, but before turning there, we were going back to Padova. Why, you must ask. Well. Niccolo had studied the saints at school this year and one of the saints that had stood out to him was Saint Antony. Saint Antony had a voice so beautiful and uncorrupted that it was a gift from God. When he had told me this, I had told him that in his church in Padova, you can see his tongue and teeth. Niccolo was in a fever to see this. So we indulged him. I thought perhaps something would jog my memory this time about Padova as we drove in, but again, a big blank. But I have to say that I like the look of Padova very much; it is beautiful. We found a park right by the church and hustled in. Passed the tomb of San Antoni, and into the chapel of the relics. And there, in what looks like priceless jewelled display cases, were the tongue of Saint Antony, the jaw of Saint Antony and the vocal cords of Saint Antony. Even Paris was gripped. Zelda was a little disappointed that the tongue was no longer pink – it was a kind of mottled black – but there it was none the less. Myles wondered about removing bits of a body for display. Yes, well.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It was time to leave. We programmed Samantha for the tiny Tuscan town of Vicopiano and set off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were guided by a spectacular sunset. And behind us the moon rose full. The moon was low and yellow and looked like you could lean out and smell it. What might the moon smell like? Not sure; a candle perhaps. Wax, and smoke, and heat. It would have hung beautifully over Venice. But we were not to see it. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A bitter sweet farewell.</span></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-8829977827936361892012-01-10T02:48:00.000-08:002012-01-10T02:48:35.706-08:00Venice, day three<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Today, we visit Padova. Padova is a town about 50 kilometres from Venice and it is where my uncle and aunt live, as well as my two cousins and their families. This has been an adventure in the making for some weeks. I lived with my uncle and aunt when I was fourteen (I turned fifteen when I was there), but I haven’t seen them for thirty years, so this was some kind of big deal. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We had had dinner with Paolo the night before and had agreed to meet at that station at around 10am to 10.10am. The morning was full of me getting aggressive with the kids (and Myles; let’s face it) about what they were going to wear. I had been out in the Campo earlier in the morning to ring Paolo and to make sure that all was well, and then, blind panic set in. What to wear? This eclipsed Jane Austen by a factor of 12 (at least), and it wasn’t just me either. There was Paris to convince to wear his hair in a hair tie (and to wear a conservative jumper; imagine his delight), there was Zelda to get into a skirt (which she did; a black one that she wore with leggings and long, black boots), there was Myles who had to be told that he couldn’t wear a purple tee shirt under a khaki shirt, there was Niccolo who couldn’t understand why he had to wear a clean shirt. And there was me. What the hell was I going to wear? I had about six outfits that I swapped between and ended up in the skirt I bought in Barcelona, a simple black top and my new shoes from Paris. The fact that I can recount this in detail might give you some idea how anxious I was.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was still sick from Milan, so I opted not to eat breakfast in case the whole tummy thing flared. We marched to the station in double quick time, me doing the whip, whip, whip thing with the kids (‘no; you can’t stop, what are you doing? Why can’t you go faster?’). And there was Paolo waiting on the steps of the station. We bought the tickets (or rather, he did; the system was down but the train was local so all was well). And then we were on board and the whistle blew. Toot, toot. We were off to Padova.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">After forty minutes, we were in Padova. We waited for a bus and then away we went. Baring in mind that I lived here for four months when I was fourteen, I was expecting that it would all feel familiar. I was shocked when nothing (NOTHING) looked familiar. It was a town I had never seen before. How could this be? How could I remember nothing??? Even was we passed through the centre of town, and the [Prato de Valle]; nothing. Perhaps I wandered underneath that portico over there? Perhaps. But it was like it had happened to another person. I must explain that I, in fact, spent most of the four months in Padova walking around. I was a walking fanatic – I walked from their apartment to Padova pretty much daily. I knew my way around. And now, I knew nothing. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There was a flicker of grief for this. Where did that girl go? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then we got off the bus. And there was my uncle, Enio. He was looking worried; we were a bit late. And when he saw me, he told me that I hadn’t changed at all. How nice is that! Thirty years, and no change. Well, perhaps not. And thirty years had managed to erase any knowledge I had of this town, so something had changed. We walked down streets I should know (damn it!) and it was not until we arrived at their apartment block that there was a tremor of a memory. I knew this place. And there, across the road was the canal I walked up and down thirty years ago and thought up plots for novels, and imagined what my adult life would be like (for those who are curious; it currently bears no resemblance. It is a blessing. Living the life imagined must be a trial. You would learn nothing; you would have no humility or empathy). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went upstairs to the apartment and there was my aunt, greeting me like it was yesterday. She asked me about any changes, and took me around the apartment; things had changed – the kitchen had been moved and all the rooms redecorated except the one in which I had slept all that time ago and this was a gift. I could see myself there. We had champagne (or prosecco) and awaited Raffaele and his family. And then in he swept. He looked just like he did when I last saw him (so I did recognise something, and not everything had changed). His wife was charming and warm, and his kids were great. Niccolo and his son Matteo were sudden best friends. I love kids. How do they do that?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We left for a restaurant around the corner. There, we met Riccardo, my other cousin, and his wife Valentina. So we were all together. And it was time to eat. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I can’t be effluvious enough about my family now. They rose to the occasion, Myles chatting to people with whom he shared no language, Paris holding court with Riccardo who does speak English, Niccolo playing word search games with Matteo in Italian and Zelda smiling and doing her best. God they are great, my family. Things were good, everyone seemed to enjoy themselves and Enio and Angioletta were charming hosts.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the end of lunch, Raffaele offered to drive us back to Venice. It was kind, and we accepted. On the way, we did some reminiscing, which was kind of good for me. We talked about how he would take me around on his vespa, and going to the mountains to ski, and his friend from Nigeria who had two wives (about which he then told me a story; when they were sitting their final exams, this friend received a telegram telling him that one of his wives had just had a baby. In the middle of the celebrations, Raffaele made the observation that he had not been back to Nigeria in the last ten months. The celebrations ended). </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back in Venice, Paolo walked us to our apartment and we said goodbye. We went upstairs to rest. It had been a huge day. After a lie down and some chores, we went out again and looked at the city at night; the canals, the calle, the shops, the people, and we bought ice cream. It is the only way to get the kids interested in anything. We speculated that we might come back in the day to buy some things; bags, stockings, a mask for carnivale. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At home, we all got into bed. It was the best sleep I had had in weeks.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBg2ISn_lO1KCopTISbI7lNGHClSA4tRYtAlvCv69Qcq3yDvHA7YcQ0KPcBazWealct8anxTLBWBukvelIATuIM11-eU9_L3FRzUy0H3ah0IiAwt2-vbikZIhu0L-5QsJKNQwVNNEgJ94/s1600/IMG_2719.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" kba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBg2ISn_lO1KCopTISbI7lNGHClSA4tRYtAlvCv69Qcq3yDvHA7YcQ0KPcBazWealct8anxTLBWBukvelIATuIM11-eU9_L3FRzUy0H3ah0IiAwt2-vbikZIhu0L-5QsJKNQwVNNEgJ94/s320/IMG_2719.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-17444461287363990212012-01-08T00:32:00.000-08:002012-01-08T00:32:27.993-08:00Venice, day twoWe woke to the sounds of boats going past our apartment, men shouting at one another and moving boxes around the decks (do you use words like 'deck' to describe these boats? They are not gondolas or anything, but they don't feel like ordinary boats either). The sky beckoned blue, a light, light blue that looked cold, but clear. We roused the troops and fed them, and then awaited another apartment host who was to come here and fix some things and so on. He came bang on time, the internet sprang to life and all was well with the world. <br />
I found the phone number I was looking for, and rang Paolo. He wasn't at home, so I found his address on my map and decided to pay him a call later. We were at last organised, and we took to the alleys of Venice. I thought we should walk back to the station and catch a vaporetto down the Grand Canal to San Marco and show the kids the most beautful waterway in the world (actually probably the most beautiful 'road' in the world). But in my haste and ignorance, we caught the vaporetto the wrong way, and ended up going around the outside of Venice, and across to Guidecca and San Giorgio. Damn. So we got off at San Marco and caught the Line 1 up the Grand Canal. Bliss. The air was cold - we were standing outside for a better view - but our eyes were all warm. People taking coffee on the terraces of posh hotels, boats drawn up at the foot of the grand palazzi of the Grand Canal, people going out their business in the morning and catching the traghetto across the Grand Canal, light playing catch with the water and laughing.<br />
We got off at Rialto to walked back to San Marco. I love the way you enter San Marco from a tiny alleyway and the whole space opens like a deep breath. It was busy this morning; all stuff full with tourists and vendors of souvenirs. With all that light (last night it has been dark), San Marco shone all gold and proud. I wanted to take the kids in; this was the church my parents (and their grandparents) had been married in. Niccolo, for some reason, was very cross about this - he had decided, without fanfare, that we would eat. Nothing doing. I dragged him all but by his ear into the line that was forming for the church. <br />
I have written about the darkness of most of the churches we have visited so far (with the noted exception of the Sagrada Familia), but San Marco is something else again. While it is not exactly light, it is paved and tiled in gold so it shines and makes you feel that you are in a jeweled box (and presumably, you are a jewel within that box). It does make you feel special, and that the God that inspired this is special too. I suspect that churches must struggle with this; how do you inspire awe, fear and the chosen status of the worshippers without tipping the balance too much. I like San Marco very much (and I'm sure that you are all very glad to hear this ... ). Regardless of its current status as a tourist trap, there were a number of people in there praying; and a roped off section for this purpose. If it was your local church, I suspect popping in for a moment of meditation might be a nice thing. <br />
Out we came. It was twelve o'clock. I pulled out the map and traced a path to Paolo's apartment. Off we set.<br />
Guides like Lonely Planet tell you that the address system in Venice is something no one understands. I'm not sure about this. I think it makes plenty of sense; there is a alley named, a number and the section of Venice it is in. So finding Paolo's place was not too hard. After some twists and turns and bridges and arched entries to alley ways, we were standing outside his door. I pushed the bell. There was no 'chi e?', the door was buzzed open and in we went. This is always a weird moment, wandering in someone's apartment building, and hoping to strike the right door. We went to the top, and there was the right door, slightly ajar. I knocked. 'Sono io' I called and went it. There was Paolo, sitting in the kitchen eating. He looked up and it was a little emotional. We had a long hug. It was great to see him. We made arrangements. I'm not sure if this is an Italian thing, but it always seems to be a pleasure to make arrangements. Firstly, he called Enio to confirm the lunch for Sunday. Then we made arrangements to meet to dinner that night. There were arrangements about the train to Padova in the morning. And then we said goodbye until that night, and we left in search of more beauty, and food.<br />
We bought takeaway food for the hordes and then walked slowly around; looking at everything. We found our way back to the apartment; and regrouped. Some members of the party were too cold and needed more clothes; there was clothes washing to consider - Paris needed good pants for the Sunday lunch plus drying time.<br />
When we left again, we were ready to tackle anything.<br />
Myles decided that he wanted to see more churches (you can imagine how much fun the kids thought this plan). We began with San Polo. I've never been in this church. We discovered you could buy a 'church' pass (called a Chorus pass) with which you can visit a tonne of churches for 20 euro for the family. This seemed like a good idea. San Polo has many Tintoretto paintings and a pretty confronting series of paintings for the Stations of the Cross. The kids were a bit interested in this ('why is he being whipped there?', 'who is helping him there?' 'what is with that kid's pants?', 'how do you die if you are crucified?'). There was a Nativity scene (again, no donkey, but lots of sheep). We thanked the woman who was manning the booth and left. Back over Rialto and down to San Marco, but this time we turned right and walked towards Accademia rather than the other way. This is the posh part of Venice, designer shops everywhere and well heeled shoppers spending small fortunes on small outfits. There were a lot more posh dogs here too, turned out in lovely little coats. We almost kidnapped on because it was wearing a puffy jacket and looked like it might belong to us. But we also considered that the person who was holding the leash might not appreciate our enthusiasim. We avoided the shopping palaces and opted for a church instead; San Moise. It has the sort of facade that makes you want to walk in. This was not one of our Chorus churches but it was free. This church has a very strange altar, it has God handing Moses the ten commandments. We liked this very much.<br />
Then we went into another church with a similar facade; Santa Maria del Giglio. Clearly we have a preference for the Baroque. I was reading a bit about this and the facades; apparently Ruskin - that stern type - hated these facades, thought they were a '<span style="font-family: Georgia;">manifestation of insolent atheism'. </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">Oh, whatever. I happend to enjoy the over-the-top elements of Catholiticism and quite like it when there is a direct clash between the tenents of the church and the demands of the human condition. Ruskin and I can agree to disagree (if we so choose). This church has the only Rubens in Venice, and you can see why it might be kept in a baroque church - it is the Virgin and Child and they are both very well fed and rather juicy. And this was one of our Chorus churches so we have made good use of the card already.</span><br />
Our last chuch was San Maurizio - this one was a free entry too and it had an exhibition in it - Vivaldi and his Times - with a display of instruments from various periods. This the kids loved and had their photos taken with their favourite instrument - Paris; an ancient double bass, Zelda; a lute, and Niccolo; a viola. <br />
It was getting dark and we had a dinner date. We walked over the Accademia bridge (the only wooden one in Venice) and scurried through the darkening alleys. Through Campo Santa Margharita where we had stayed with Paris was little and we took a photo of him on the bridge he had claimed for himself when he was three. <br />
Now it was really dark. A quick trip to the supermarket for necessities, and then home to change. You think it won't take too long to get around, and it takes forever. But did we heed this when we left for dinner? No. And we were due at Paolo's at 6.30pm. The bells were ringing this time as we walked over Rialto. Which wasn't terrible; it was about ten minutes from there. But Myles wanted shoes; so I left him alone with Paris and continued on to Paolo. We were late and then had to retrace our steps to find Myles. Paolo was understanding. I explained that he needed new shoes for the lunch on Sunday. He thought that was very funny.<br />
We went and had a wonderful dinner at a place on Bacino San Marco, and the food was great; three courses - we were groaning by the end. The kids ate what was put before them, so proud. Niccolo even ploughed through a whole piece of veal. Kudos to him.<br />
We talked about food and politics and food some more. And Australia and Venice and shoes. My very bad Italian, a dictionary and Paolo's patience won the day. It was a lovely night.<br />
And then through the streets of Venice again to go home. This is the most amazing place. You couldn't want for anything more. Surely.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKa1wOBsA0lYbbVdPnMi3ATeVA8Ki2rGNWfaifOtYxMs915-ILg0AmkNPHneZBNl3eOPZRrKEEUzZ53JAd7GHkaaSIT8VSeFpGOGhoLZB1o2LXE70iWH87KCBeoMc2yEWhvxJ90KAB3sk/s1600/IMG_2699.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKa1wOBsA0lYbbVdPnMi3ATeVA8Ki2rGNWfaifOtYxMs915-ILg0AmkNPHneZBNl3eOPZRrKEEUzZ53JAd7GHkaaSIT8VSeFpGOGhoLZB1o2LXE70iWH87KCBeoMc2yEWhvxJ90KAB3sk/s320/IMG_2699.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-57015990125326479742012-01-07T14:07:00.000-08:002012-01-07T14:07:01.466-08:00Milan, day two, Venice, day oneAt three in the morning, the internet suddenly worked. How did I know this? Because I was awake and anxious about the fact that I couldn't contact the numerous people I had to before I got to Venice. For some reason, I thought I'd check the internet and there it was; working. Oh well. I wasn't going to second guess my luck, and so I emailed who I needed to - and checked any messages. I also watched Sachin Tendukar go out. Yes, my life - at three in the morning - is very, very small.<br />
At eight, Myles and I were up - packing, organising and getting our kids ready. They were up and going because I said they could spend all our credits in the vending machine. For some reason, this was a big draw card and Niccolo got dressed as fast as anyone I have ever seen. Poor Paris was barely up for the challenge of being vertical. It's hard being a teenager (as he reminds me). <br />
We left with almost no hitches (except Paris left his toy red panda and we had to go back for that; and Niccolo - once we had arrived in Venice - realised that he had left not only his miraculous stick in Milan, but also the new one he had picked up in Antibes. He was almost inconsolable). It was January 6; and everything was closed. Is this the festival of La Befanna? I'm not sure, but it was a public holiday which meant that the trains ran infrequently. We had left with plenty of time though, most of us having very bad plane/train fever. So we were at our economically train to Venice in good time. These trains are a bit of a mystery. You book five seats but can take them on any scheduled 'economic' train between two set dates. I guess this means that the train can be well and truly overbooked. We were early, and we were also getting on at the very beginning of the trip so we not only got seats, but enough space for our luggage. As the hour rolled on, and the train stopped at various stations along the way, other budget travellers were less fortunate. Me and the kids sat in a seating of four and Myles sat across the aisle with some Canadian travellers. Me and the kids played cards games from a book called 'Parlour Games for Modern Familes'. It's a winner. After a while, we decided to read - Zelda (Dracula), Paris (Wuthering Heights) and me (Moral Disorder) while Niccolo drew in his journal. Myles, in the meantime, was chatting to the Canadians. They were appalled that his first stop in Italy was Milan. They thought it was the worst town they had come across. So we were not the only ones. Not that you always need confirmation of these things, but it is nice to get it.<br />
The landscape was flat and mostly agricultural. At points, we got to see the Swiss lakes (for a moment or two), but all up, the landscape didn't grab the imagination. After three and a half hours (and very flat bottoms), we clattered over the spit of land that connects the mainland with Venice, and there we were.<br />
The sun was out again, and out we walked from the train station and into a wilderness of beauty. I've been to Venice a few times, but it always hits me hard when I see it again - the light and the colours, you can hardly believe it. And things sound different in Venice, softer somehow - muffled by the stones and the water. <br />
We had arranged to meet the manager of the apartment just in front of the station, and there she was. I wasn't thinking that I wouldn't like Venice - I had after all loved it before - but I'm convinced now that the first couple of hours in a new place are critical. And having the person who is to meet you actually be there and walk you to your apartment is a good beginning. <br />
We are staying in Santa Croce, and not too far from the station, which is good because our luggage is appalling. We are staying in a nineteenth century palazzo called Casa dei Pittori that has been converted to apartments. The entry is a grand, tiled hallway and a courtyard, with gates to the two canals the palazzo sits on. Then we went up marble stairs to the first floor and our apartment. It is lovely, with terrazzo floors and a terrace overlooking a canal. Our bedroom overlooks two canals and the light is so amazing. <br />
It was about four by the time we had put everything away. We hadn't eaten since breakfast. I wanted to email my family in Venice about where I was but ... look! ... no internet here either. What was going on?<br />
We had to feed people so we went around the corner from our place to Campo San Giacomo dell'Orio, and a little cafe on the corner that was still serving food. We ate a tonne, and ordered verdure which came with eggplant and artichoke (ah, the artichokes in Venice, how I have missed you). With half a litre of red wine, we were feeling fine. It was time to go for a long walk. This is a very groovy part of Venice - the cafes were particularly cool and we liked that it was drink o'clock and people brought their dogs with them. Outside there was a little stall set up for kids to do some painting, but it was, I think, quite political. It was something about saving the city - though from what, we couldn't be sure.<br />
I know Venice a little, but I didn't know this part very well. But once we looked at a map, and I could get us to Campo dei Frari, I was good to go. From here, we walked to Campo San Polo (where there was ice skating and a Christmas market), and then onto the Rialto. The sun was just setting when we arrived and, along with other tourists, we all posed at the top of the bridge. God, Venice is incredible. It is difficult to both describe or properly remember when you are not there. But the way in which there is always movement because of the water, and the way that movement works against the sit-up-straight buildings that line it; all shoulder to shoulder with their mellow colours is something to behold. You can gaze forever.<br />
We walked the kids to Piazza San Marco and showed them the Basilica San Marco, Cafe Florian, and the Bridge of Sighs. We weren't getting much traction from them; they were tired and grumpy. Niccolo needed to go to the loo; Venice is a notoriously difficult place for toilets. I asked a waiter at a cafe in Piazza San Marco where the nearest public toilets were and he kindly let Niccolo use the toilets in his restaurant. Ah, kindness. It makes your day.<br />
We tapped our way back to the apartment; hard heels on hard stones and listened for the new sounds of a city without traffic; or road traffic anyway. After we dropped the kids at home, Myles and I went shopping for food and water (literally). On the way back, he decided he wanted to have a crack at getting us home without my help. He was close too; but for a wrong turn at the last moment. But the crazy sense of the structure of Venice was making some inroads on him.<br />
Still no internet when we got home. I was really fretting because I had promised family I would call and I couldn't because the phone numbers were on emails that I couldn't access. Myles and I went out again looking for an internet cafe or free wifi and had no luck there either. There is something called Access Venice (or something) which is free wifi in the city of Venice. But in that perculiarly Italian way of bureaucatic nonsense, you required an Italian phone number to access it, plus some other identification number I didn't have. Grinding my teeth; I left the whole thing alone after about an hour. This dependency will have to be killed off.<br />
The day ended with Myles finding some terrible eighties video marathon on the telly and the kids watching some idiotic show that Paris had downloaded at some earlier point. I went to read.<br />
The quiet in which you go to sleep in Venice is something apart. The only things we heard were bells.Annelise Balsamohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08751009521513215683noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5339269924450390528.post-1971172992993024582012-01-07T04:42:00.000-08:002012-01-07T05:25:27.777-08:00Milan, day two<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We were to begin with fresh hearts and a new attitude. Things in this city couldn’t the THAT bad, could they? We woke early and went to the local supermarket to buy not only breakfast but lunch and dinner too. We were not going to be caught out again. We also went around to the local café to ask if they had wifi. The response was initially ‘non ho capito’, and then, after some persistence from us, ‘no’. Hmmm. With food, and the provisions from the vending machine (I’m not sure if this is specific to this very strange Bed and Breakfast, or if this is true of Italian Bed and Breakfasts, but here, the breakfast part of the Bed and Breakfast is a vending machine with packaged croissants – yum … - and vending coffee. And a curt note in English on the machine saying that the laws in Italy prevent the owners from serving proper breakfast and may we remind you that if you had rented an apartment, you would have received nothing. Well, some might prefer nothing to paying more for a B and B with a vending machine. But I digress.), we were ready for the day. But we still really, really needed wifi access. Why? Because we have no phone and it is our only way of connecting with the world. Most of my information is stored in my email, and I not only needed to confirm the booking with the people in Venice via email, I needed to email my cousins in Venice to tell them when I was arriving. It was all getting messy. Paris also had a friend in Milan on exchange and he wanted to meet with her; again organisation that had to occur over the internet. We are so hostage now to this device.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the end, we decided to take a laptop with us and hope for a wifi connection somewhere in the city. We caught the train into Cardorna, and then the Metro to Centrale. Here we wanted to get information from a tourist office about a few things including The Last Supper (‘impossible’ I was told), find wifi and buy train tickets to Venice. Trains stations; is there nothing they can’t do? Turns out, yes. The wifi was out across the whole station. The Last Supper was booked out weeks in advance (and I thought that there were only twelve invited anyway), and the line to buy the cheapest tickets possible to Venice was five deep and a mile long. Perhaps everyone was desperate to leave Milan.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We waited. When we got to the window, I was pleasantly surprised that I could actually buy tickets to Venice in Italian. Perhaps things were looking up. So we had tickets. Now we needed internet and someone to cancel their booking to see The Last Supper. Too much to hope for?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In the end, we found an internet café and tried our best to make the connections we needed to. Of course, we couldn’t then check …</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paris was the most affected and the crossest. He was very much looking forward to seeing and talking to someone other than his family. And it looked like this might not happen.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Off we went to Cenacola Vinciano with pinkies crossed to see if we could get a last minute invite to the Last Supper. But there was a big sign, in black letters, saying ‘NO CANCELLATIONS’. The Gods were not with us. The weather Gods were still smiling though, so through the streets we went, with some sun slanting in to us. Not much though. The streets here don’t welcome the light too much. We went back to the Duomo to see inside. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It is a majestic place, all tall and gothic, with stain glass and statues and dead saints in glass coffins around the walls. Most pleasant. But I couldn’t help but compare to the Sagrada Familia. Now perhaps I’m going overboard here, but the light and the optimism that the Gaudi cathedral has, is missing here. This is all dark and gloomy, and while there is a soaring ceiling, it feels forbidding. The Sagrada Familia, with its kooky plant and fruits and animals, and a feeling that all things are blessed, is a place where I could almost be convinced of God. Here, I couldn’t. I loved the building, but the sentiments within was not something I could really embrace. Myles, on the other hand, rather likes the prohibition of the gothic giants. The kids were a bit yawn about the whole thing and were really disappointed that there was no donkey in the Nativity scene. We watched the confession line for a while. Paris liked the idea that you could do active evil and be absolved. He also liked the idea you could be a recidivist and be absolved. Perhaps, he said, this religion thing had something to it.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Zelda and I decided we would like to go to the roof. The boys, in highly predictable ways, all opted out. And Myles convinced Zelda that she should walk to the roof because it was cheaper. You can catch an elevator too if you choose. The man in front of us did just that at the ticket booth – ordered a ticket to the roof via the elevator. He did this in Italian so I can’t imagine that he had a problem understanding, but perhaps he was just inattentive. But he was told by the tickets seller that to take the elevator, he had to go out the door and around the building. The man just ignored this piece of information and began to walk up the stairs. You would have thought that he had urinated on a sacred object the way in which the ticket seller dealt with this. It took him quite a while to come down from his rage against the inattentive man to sell Zelda and me our tickets. We were careful to follow all instructions. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is, apparently, ticket control and we had to hold onto our tickets. But the men in the booths that were scattered about in various locations on and about the roof were mostly asleep so the tickets got nothing like a work out. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But the roof is wonderful and the sun shone on us, and we hung high in the sky; the cold marble against our backsides, and the colours of the Duomo moving as the sun did. We studied as many statues as possible, and decided on mood and behaviour for each. Some were a little sacrilegious. But we were careful to speak in lowered voices. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Then we descended through the dark tract of the Duomo staircase. I clutched the tickets in case we met with the original ticket seller. But when we finally emerged from the darkness, he was gone. Lunch break? Anger management course? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Zelda and I loitered, waiting for Myles, Paris and Niccolo to arrive. Which they did. And then, the miracle. Paris’ friend, on exchange to Milan, also suddenly appeared. What were the chances that in the city of 1.3 million, we would see her? But there she was, in real life. Paris couldn’t have been happier. He plucked a fifty euro note from Myles’ wallet, agreed to meet us in a couple of hours and disappeared. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We went shopping. How this makes sense, I’m not sure. But Zelda needed a skirt to wear to a family lunch on Sunday and this might be our one opportunity. It was hell, at least as bad as our shopping experience in Paris, but this time I was a little more bolshie and I had a bit more language to use. We were successful, which was a relief, and then walked through the city, looking about. Now, I might be surly and have seen too many beautiful things in two months, but Milan is singularly unlovely. And (and I believe that I’m not alone in this belief) home to the rudest people in the world. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ice cream was the one thing that made the kids happy and as they ate, we watched dogs and people. Another surprise for me. Milan is, is it not, the fashion capital of Italy. But after the studied formalism of Parisians and the casual cool of the Barcelona residents, this was serious boganville. Never have I seen so little taste crammed into one space. And if not terrible bogan clothing, then the most extravagant fur coats ever seen. The ghosts of a thousand bludgeoned furry animals must haunt this city. On one woman alone I saw a coat that might have represented one hundred poor little creatures. I had a bad taste in my mouth.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The light on the Duomo calmed me. There are a thousand shades of pinks and yellow and greys to stare at, and they change second by second. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Paris was late. The Metro was crowded. We fell into our weird B and B, and Myles cooked up a storm. I was feeling incredibly sick – not sure why – and ended up being sick later on. Must have a bug.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Should we resent this bad experience? We have had very few, it must be said, but Milan has been a real low light, and we are wishing we had just bypassed it, and gone straight to the incontestable beauty of Venice. But the bad experience can be kind of good in a way; an important contrast for one thing, but also a valid experience in and of itself. Ruth Reichl, a food writer who wrote a great memoir called 'Tender at the Bone', wrote about her mother’s cooking and how she was the ‘worst’ cook in the world. Actively – a poisoner. But then she provides recipes to some of her mother’s dishes. What are we supposed to make of this? We wouldn’t cook them (of course, I want to add here), but there is validity in ‘badness’, in eye rolling disappointment. And this is Milan – well, for Myles and I. And it might have been bad planning too. We hadn’t had a great experience in the place we had booked to stay in, and we had done little or no research about the city. Having said, that, we knew nothing about Antibes either, and had loved that. I don’t really know that answer. I’m aggrieved by the experience, but, as I have written about it, sort of think that it is all part of the tour. And, as I say, it is really only Myles and I who have hated it here. Paris liked it because he got to hang out with a friend for a whole afternoon, and Niccolo liked it because he thought the vending machine was a tip top idea (oh, to be eight). Zelda was unmoved on all accounts. But she liked the walk up the Duomo.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Oh, and the camera died too. So only a couple of photos of our first night of this most horrible time in this most horrible city.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">We packed early, and were planning our escape for early the next day.</span><br />
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