Dramma Naturale

After the week of movie-still scenery, magazine photo meals and paperback interaction with locals while my mother was here visiting, we decided to drive ourselves outside of the Italian tourist comfort zone. As soon as we made that decision, heading over toward the regions of Abruzzo, Molise and Puglia, Mother Nature - and Italia itself - decided to kick things up a notch.
In Vasto, we took a walk down to get our first views of the Adriatic Sea, passing this ridiculously tall grass the entire way. It added to the eeriness created by the fact that the town was almost completely shuttered up. Our lunch was a bizarre four hour affair at a mostly empty restaurant. It was one of the best meals we've had on the entire trip, cooked by an Australian-born Italian man named Michael who schmoozed as much as he cooked, and we could do nothing but laugh when our sixth or seventh little course came and there was no end in sight. We were joined by a table of four construction workers who sipped sparkling rose as they gnawed on slabs of beef and a couple who fought and made up and fought and made up for around three of the four hours. Mamma Natura isn't the only dramatic Italian.
As we reached the Promontorio del Gargano - the little bump above Italy's heel on a map or, as we lovingly call it, the callus- a storm began to blow in. Perched up in the hilltop town of Vieste, it was particularly dramatic. The cobblestones became slick and the already bundled up residents, pulled their coats in tighter.
The waves could be heard crashing all around us, literally, and the cobalt blue sky was crisscrossed by slivers of blue clouds. Vieste was fairly empty, in its typical seaside off-season slumber, so there wasn't much din or tires on cobblestones to content with the natural soundtrack. It's quite a way down to the water, but it sounded much much closer.
We scaled the steep steps, which our elderly B&B hostess had done earlier in the day with astonishing ease, to get a view from the roof. The inn used to be a convent and standing up there, looking both up and down, it was easy to see why they chose the location. If you're going to give your worldly pleasures up to a 'higher power,' you might as well get a front row seat to some otherworldly views.
The next morning, the storm had passed, leaving our car covered in a salty film. We drove her down into the Foresta Umbra and then out and up onto one of the steepest, windiest, craziest roads either of us have ever experienced. It was hard to tell exactly where it was leading us, as every thirty feet or so there would be a complete switchback. The sights out, or more accurately down, were mind-boggling. At the very top, about 2500 feet above sea level, we drove through the town of Monte Sant'Angelo, which is apparently one of Europe's most important pilgrimage sites. This view is far from the most dramatic, but pulling off the road wasn't really an option.

Adriatic Trabocchi

Our first week in Italy seemed more whirlwind-vacation than we are used to - stops at guidebook highlights, major cities and well-known sights. Yesterday, we crossed the country and arrived in Abruzzo, which felt like decelerating. The Adriatic hasn't warmed up yet and the temperature topped out in the low fifties, so we found ourselves on an empty coastline.

One thing we noticed as we drove through this less-developed landscape: these fishing platforms - called "trabocchi" - jutting out over the water.
They are designed to lower nets into the rich currents that stream by the rocky shore. Because there were few native trees for the poles, they were built with old railway ties and bits of scrounged wood. They remind me of treehouses, built out over nothing.
Once, there were hundreds of trabocchi all along this coast. Commercial boats and industrialized fishing took their toll, though, and now there are only fifteen. Because it is prohibited to construct anything off shore, they will be the last. The owners, apparently, are only allowed to make repairs.

That Audrey Hepburn Movie

This was the view out of our apartment window on our Roman Holiday. There seem to be hundreds of this shot on our camera cards; dawn, dusk, morning, afternoon, night. If you stuck your head out from the balcony and looked to the right, you could see the Coliseum at the end of a long narrow street.

For about a week now, ever since my mother arrived in Venice and spotted her first Italian fountain, she's broken into the chorus of "Three Coins in the Fountain" every now and then. I felt bad about not getting the 1954 film reference, until I looked it up and found that it was about "three American girls looking for love in Rome" and starred nobody special. Being as we weren't going to scoot around on a Vespa, get our haircut or try our first cigarette like Ms. Hepburn in that far superior movie, we figured we might as well go down to Trevi Fountain and each throw a coin in. It was fairly mobbed with tourists, but still really beautiful. Barely anyone was talking in a collective attempt to listen to the water rush.

My mother's coin-wish must have come true, because the next day she fell in love. With this sandwich. Two hours after enjoying one at lunch, she already wished she had bought another for dinner. The selection at this cafe was pretty impressive, squash blossoms, sauteed spinach, shrimp, really colorful, inventive combinations filled the premade selections, piled up behind the counter. Mom's was eggplant, some breaded, some not, with mozzerella and prosciutto on olive bread. She asked them only to 'panini' it halfway, so that the eggplant would retain some of that refreshing, cold gushiness.

It's definitely not peak tourist season here right now and the vendors and photo-opp guys around the Coliseum mostly sat around reading the newspaper, looking up to shout out things like "You can pay with a kiss!" every now and then. I'm not sure if that's the most savvy business proposition, but most of the poor guys are dressed up like Ben Hur outfitted by Ricky's, so they've gotta brighten their day somehow. Snacks available for sale included roasted chestnuts and fresh coconut water. Next to the Berlusconi and Pope Benedict bobbleheads were lions and Santa Claus.

In an effort to see something by Michaelangelo before mom left Italy, we headed over to the Cordonata, a staircase he designed leading up to 'capital hill.' We walked up and down the empty staircase looking for the staircase. It couldn't possibly be it, we figured, because there weren't any tourists. On our way back home, a hoard of school children filled the stairs and we realized our mistake. We tried to get a picture with as few people in it as possible.

We decided to walk along and across the Tiber River to find the Porta Portese flea market. We figured, if we were going to contend with a crowd, it may as well be haggling old ladies instead of international undergrads. The walk was beautiful, but the market didn't appear to be running on the other side. Nonetheless, it was nice to see a more local side of things and a different sort of ruin before turning back to cross Monti toward home.

Another type of crowd altogether met us in the streets, the very beginning of a nationwide labor union strike. Apparently, it went on to cripple cities all through the country for at least twenty-four hours. Subway operators, government workers, airline attendants, basically everyone except for school employees took part in it. Luckily, it all appeared to settle before we delivered my sun-kissed and sandwich-full mother to the airport back home.

For the record, our Roman Holiday did include a photo shoot at the Bocca dela Verita. Something we only remembered after seeing a calendar featuring a movie still of Gregory Peck with his hand "bit off." We waltzed right in, waited for two people in front of us, then nerded it up like true tourists. As we walked out, a tour bus unloaded and a line formed around the block. Perfect timing.

Lago Trasimeno

If you've noticed something different about the blog, it's not a formatting or font change - it's that we've been taking pictures under a clear, blue, Mediterranean sky for the past few days. We are about to leave the shores of Lago Trasimeno, where we've stayed for two nights.

The lake is in Umbria, not far from the Tuscan border, and the food is influenced by both regions. There is more fish available here than we found in the hills of Tuscany, and a real emphasis on beans and legumes.
The waters of the lake are a deep green - warm, fertile runoff collects here, washed down from the mountains surrounding it. Surprisingly, it isn't very crowded and has escaped over-development. We walked by the water almost completely alone, and took a ferry with only one other person on it.
The town we are staying in, Castiglione Del Lago, has a magnificent, 12th century castle, a pretty view out over the lake and a bustling Wednesday market.
A picnic Rebecca and Maggi put together: greens, squares of tomato and onion bread and a thick slice of Porchetta that we agreed was among the best pork dishes we'd ever tasted. The skin was crisp and golden and the meat beneath was beautifully moist and herbaceous. We ate hastily, putting meat on top of bread with not much else. Our fingers got very greasy, but that wasn't too much of a problem.
There are a few islands in the lake; we visited the largest of them, Isola Magiore. A crew of people were slowly going about replacing the pilings at the dock, working with two cranes and a chainsaw.
Being the offseason, the island was mostly deserted, though a few people were still around. A small street runs down one side of the coast, and the houses crowd together in the lee of the wind. On top of the small hill, an 11th century church stood, closed up and silent. We saw dozens of rabbits in the underbrush and a few pheasant-like birds which I couldn't identify. This was a favorite haunt of Saint Francis of Assisi, according to legend, and it feels very much the same as it must have when he was alive.

We're setting off for Rome this morning, and are having a tough time leaving behind the quiet and relative solitude that we've found here. On the ferry back to shore yesterday, we sat without talking for most of the ride, enjoying the sun and the still waters.

Two Days in Tuscany

After a day and a half in whirlwind Venice, we picked up our car from the roof of the parking garage and headed down to Tuscany. My mother arrived just twenty-four hours earlier, so it seemed like a perfect day to get as much boring autostrada driving done as possible. She napped and we promised to wake her if things got more interesting.
We made it right about to the border of the Toscano region when we were ready to retire and spent the night in Pistoia, a not-oft visited city with some really striking striped architecture within their walled Medieval center. Surrounding the city were tree nursery after tree nursery after tree nursery. We must have approached from the correct angle, because I had read that Pistoia gets less attention because of its 'industrial surroundings." Maybe some people really hate the fog of oxygen a skyline of baby trees give off. Who knows.
The main square was filled with 20somethings having drinks and aperitivos (the free snacks that come with drinks). We mulled over doing the same and maybe ordering an antipasti platter or something, but the loud music and lack of chairs turned us down a quieter street, to an outdoor table where a man named Luigi served us pistachio lasagna, tagliatelle with trout sauce, local white wine and other goodies. It was nice to find out that 'crostini toscana' on New York menus is exactly the same thing as in Tuscany: an inch-thick layer of liver pate on a giant piece of toast.
The next morning, we began a drive I've been looking forward to since I started researching some sights for my mom's visit. The SS222 stretches from Florence to Siena, winding mostly through the Chianti region. There was breathtaking scenery in every direction and our weather couldn't have been better. Rolling hills were topped with terra cotta roofed estates and cypress trees stood guard over olive groves and vineyards. The best part was that it went through towns like Greve in Chianti (above), where we stopped to stretch our legs in the best way possible; a casual stroll around gathering picnic goods.
Like most of our meals in Italy so far, our picnic lunch was a stand up affair. We used a big flat rock as our table and stood around in a triangle, happily picking away at our feast. Marinated artichokes were compared with 'tuscan-style' artichokes - the latter were just the hearts, soaked in extra virgin olive oil and had the consistency of grape leaves - a ball of steamed turnip greens, eggplant in tomato sauce, olives, prosciutto, hard wild boar sausage, mustard and a crusty loaf of bread completed the meal. The spot was right between a woodsy nature trail and a vineyard, directly in the sun. We decided to save two pears and hard cheese for breakfast. After more driving and pull-off photo sessions for my mom - who, needless to say, refrained from napping - we parked the car and ourselves in Radda in Chianti for the night. The sun was still blazing and made my mom's Campari Orange and Merlin's Aperol Spritz look prettier. (They've become their signature drinks, while I stick with white wine). Radda in Chianti is perched up on a hill and consists of narrow little streets, some of which are covered stone walkways from the 1300s. As we waited for 'la pausa' to end and the reception at our inn to open, we explored nearby Volpaia, an 11th century fortified village. It was one of the most tastefully restored places I have ever been. With no one around except a few construction workers and the wine tasting room, two restaurants and gift shop all closed, it felt like this surreal little ghost town. Walking back to our car, a group of five Americans showed up, presumably for the 2pm tour.
It being the off-season, our innkeeper, Leonardo, upgraded us to our own cottage overlooking some of the most famous Chianti vineyards. He explained all the work we'd seen being done in the fields. Every twenty-five years, the vines are completely switched out - something, he explained, which was very very important. The rotund overseer gave us a big Buon Giorno when we drove in and out, as ten or twelve fitter men toiled away.
That night, we gave into a pizza craving all three of us have been feeling for days. It was a much easier decision when we noticed that the only place open in town was Pizza Pie. A supremely friendly man made me my very own "small" pizza to go alongside mom and Merlin's prosciutto e fungi pie. It was thin and fresh and accompanied by another local bottle of white wine and some nice, big salads. In other words, we made the right decision.
As we drove back to our cottage, we learned that the Tuscan moon is just as pretty and almost as bright as the sun.

Carnival

We arrived in Venice with little advance warning that we'd be there during carnival. It was fun, crowded and crazy. I'm not someone who likes to wear a costume, but I don't mind when other people do.
It was great, though there are too many people. Venice isn't a big place, but sixty-five thousand people come in on every weekend day during the festivities. It made it difficult to move around, even, in the crowded little streets. Also, there were a lot of drunk American and German kids there for a more New Orleans, Mardi-Gras type experience, which was offputting.
It was still a wonderful time, and it was easy to get excited about the things being worn. The getups ranged from the simple to the extravagant. Some people rent costumes (or just buy a mask) and others arrive in the city with multiple garment bags and a year's worth of planning.
There is some kind of official judging ceremony and a number of balls, but the main point is to walk around and have your picture taken. The costumed people stopped and posed whenever they saw a camera, and there were almost as many photographers in the streets as revelers (though there were way, way more regular tourists than either).
Often, there were whole groups of coordinated outfits, worn by groups of friends or a whole family.
These two little ones were being initiated early.
One interesting thing about the experience: usually, the people in costume don't speak when they are walking around - so it's impossible to know if they are Venetian, Italian, American or something else.
Two gentlemen who were very enthusiastic about having their picture taken.
There's a lamp at the top of the Rialto that was a popular hangout spot after dark. The light was soft and bright enough that flash wasn't necessary and everything was very dramatic. Also, the view helped. I'm not sure if these two were friends or not.
Children also dress up, though they usually are off the streets before dark. It's a similar thing to Halloween, it seems, minus the candy. This little girl was chasing bubbles around in a princess outfit, which was cute.
As the night went on, the costumes and partying got wilder and stranger.

The Floating City

No matter how many paintings, photos or movie scenes you've seen that feature Venice in all its canal-ed glory, nothing really prepared me for how gobsmacking it is. How stupidly beautiful the whole thing seems when you think about the fact that people went, "yeah, let's build that!" And/or how much water there actually is.
I expected canals and bridges and gondolas. An email from Merlin when he was in Venice four years ago, told me about construction boats outfitted with cranes, garbage boats, boat taxis, delivery boats. I expected these things - but not the streets that would abruptly drop off into water or the smell of sea wafting through the air. I wasn't expecting the seagulls that fly and squawk overhead and swooped down to pick at raw fish scraps left on the ground as the six hundred year old Venetian Fish Market closed for the day.
Oh, the fish market and the restaurants around it. Last night, we made a meal of hopping from place to place and standing at the bar for a glass of wine and cicchetti (Venetian tapas). From Poland until Moldova, we pointed at prepared food and ate it plopped simply onto a plate a billion times - but in those four months, we never wound up with grilled eggplants stuffed with fresh baby octopus, shrimp with pumpkin and poppy seeds or smoked salmon wrapped around tabasco sauced ricotta.
I wasn't expecting the magnificence of the light at night, bouncing off of ripples in the water - how it all really makes you feel like you're floating.
In the first week of March, I also wasn't expecting the crowds. But we didn't know it would be carnivale. There is panic-attack inducing congestion right now and it's easy to feel like the whole city is sinking fast below the weight. The labyrinthine streets feel claustrophobic and the fear of papercutting my eyeball on someone's open map sends shivers down my spine.
But then, you notice how happy everyone seems to be there - and you realize that you are, too.
Because it really is that beautiful.

The End Of A Drive: Tarvisio

After nearly one thousand miles of driving across Romania, Hungary and Slovenia, we found ourselves in the Giulie alps, up in the north-easternmost corner of Italy. The little town of Tarvisio was the place we ended up in - it's about four miles from Slovenia and six from Austria. The region is a real mix of different cultures, with almost as much German spoken as Italian and a lot of Slovenian influence as well. It's a skiing village, really, and we arrived just as its pulse was beginning to quicken. There is a women's world cup event this weekend, and skiers from all over Europe and the world were streaming into the (usually) quiet streets and packing the bars and hotels.
Despite the crowds, the main ski area, which rises right up from the village, remained fairly calm. We rented equipment and spent a few pleasant hours on the slopes - the snow was firm but had been groomed up nicely. This old Italian jet sat on a stand between two chairlifts.
There were a good number of places to eat and drink in town - the food was particularly exciting for us because we have eaten primarily cabbage for months. This bar had some good beers and a selection of wines on tap. The tap-wine thing was strange at first, but we found that it was pretty common around town. Also, it's not as bad as it sounds.
The longest and broadest trail was closed in advance of the races. There were a few skiers on it when we drove by, and we speculated about whether or not they were racers. I don't follow ski racing, so I wasn't able to identify anyone that we saw around town or in our hotel. The receptionist proudly told us that both the Italian and Canadian teams were staying on the premises, but I have no idea if any of them were famous or even any good.
We stayed for two nights, having made our long traverse in better time than we expected. We ate mostly standing up, sampling a few little things between drinks. These things were swirls of crustless, white bread stuffed with meat and vegetable paste. Despite a definite mushiness, they were tasty. The one in front is bressaiola and spinach.