Italia '93

ITALIA ’93

March 8
Well, I’m off.
The months of waiting, planning and keen anticipation have come to an end and I’m on my grateful way to Italy. We are about 2 hours and 20 minutes into the flight, high over the Atlantic, southeast of Canada’s Maritime Provinces. I know this because Alitalia has provided full visual record of our progress over the blue. The screen in the forward part of the cabin shows the location of our plane, the altitude, temperature, Boston and Roman times, etc.
This flight is unlike others I’ve made. The wine (a crisp, light Valpolicella) is free, the airline food is a few degrees better than the general fare. It consisted of bread, bel paese cheese, spinach lasagna and a kind of Italian version of chicken cordon bleu, finishing off with a cherry mousse and the kind of coffee I think I may expect in Italy, rich, strong, bitter and flower-fragrant. Our steward is a drop-dead handsome young man with olive skin and a generosity toward my halting, tentative attempts at Italian. He has not yet laughed at my endeavors. Long may my luck hold.
This wonderful trip comes at the end of a disastrous weekend. Friday began with a bad car accident requiring my missing my final day at work, with its attendant goodbye hugs. Saturday was fine, except I forgot I had a ticket to the ballet, my first production of my subscription. The day ended, blessedly, by Tom and Holly and Toby taking me out to dinner at a WONDERFUL new Italian restaurant in Cambridge, Marino’s. On Sunday, while finishing up my packing for the trip, I discovered that the effing burglars last December made off with more than I had noticed at the time: my camera, bag, and telephoto lens. ...Which entailed a mad dash to Lechmere to buy a lower-priced (though automatic) replacement.
I see by our screen that there are 5 more hours to Rome. We should arrive around 10:00 a.m.

Nine o’clock, March 9, Roman time
Rosy-fingered dawn pulled up the shade precipitevollissimevolmente (quickly!) and the clouds which covered the ocean have disappeared. In their place are the Alps, off immediately to the left, larger, whiter, more spectacular than I would ever have expected. We must be over northern Italy by now, and are due in Rome within the hour. Evviva! And soon below appears the Mediterranean, bluer than even I had hoped, my first-ever glimpse of this all-nurturing sea, this liquid heart of the world.
(Later) At 10:00 sharp we arrived. 2 minutes before landing I turned to my seatmate and said that it looked remarkably like America from the air, with its farms, warehouses and parking lots. One minute later, I was prepared to eat my words: an ancient amphitheatre passed below. None of those in Oklahoma... I decided later that the amphitheatre must have been in Ostia Antica, which lies between Rome and the sea.
In the airport were monks with long black robes and sandals. Yes, this was definitely Rome.
Our driver got us (me and an older couple from Charlestown) to the hotel at 11:30 a.m. sharp. My room was not ready, so for 15 minutes I wandered the neighborhood. There’s plenty to see. Not 100 feet from the hotel is the city’s wall in which is set the Porta Maggiore, built by the emperor Claudius in A.D. 52. It’s considered by many the city’s finest gate. I liked it, if only because it’s so ancient, so magnificent. The Hotel Porta Maggiore is a dusty apricot color, faintly reminiscent of Palladio. My room was quite modest. Modest, some might say, to a fault. But I won’t be spending much time there. I got my camera, map, etc., and headed out, first to the enormous church in the neighborhood, San Giovanni in Laterano. Next I wanted to find the Coliseum, but got badly turned around and had to ask directions from a kindly old gentleman passing by. On the way up the (finally) right street, I got my first gelato of the trip —moro (blackberry). So delectable, so right that I might very well have one every day of the trip...
Finally I reached the Coliseum. It was in no way a letdown —much bigger than I’d anticipated. I walked in, around and through, then to the nearby Arch of Constantine, wrapped in a half-slip of wire fence: it’s being excavated. Leaving the area I was accosted by two of the fabled tribe of young gypsies (these were girls, and I felt a bit guilty for reacting so vehemently, until I saw them latch onto someone else. That failing, they headed in my direction again so I crossed the street. I walked down the grandiose Via dei Fori Imperiale. Ahead was the Vittorio Emmanuele Monument with its perhaps too-florid winged figures driving chariots. Across the street the Forum rose in ghostly fragments, so I crossed. Unfortunately, it’s closed until tomorrow, so I’ll return then. Leaving it, two more gypsy kids came at me. My vehemence was savage but they still would not let me pass, so I turned around and took another route. The funny thing is that they’re oddly appealing, and pretty in a wild kind of way. Luckily they look exactly like what they are, so they can be guarded against. But woe betide the tourist NOT prepared for them, or worse, accosted by a band of them of some size. Went around to the Vittorio Emmanuele Memorial’s front. God! what an overblown chunk of malarky it is! And how endearing. From there I headed up the Via del Corso, lined with dozens of banks, none of them open. Then over a couple of streets to the Fontana di Trevi. This was smaller than I expected, and markedly more accessible and friendly. It fills a fresh-air, workaday little piazza, clotted with stores and people. I loved it for its beauty (the fountain, that is) and for its failure to meet my overblown expectation. No wonder it’s the hands-down favorite of visitors. On the way to the Spanish Steps I got turned around and ended up beginning at the top, at the church of Trinita dei Monti. The steps were steeper than I expected, trimmed like a Christmas tree with (bad) artists and their wares. The Piazza di Spagna was properly impressive. At its edge began the Via dei Condotti with its expensive shops and one lone (and very good) saxophone player — playing jazz to the accompaniment of a tape. Haunting and beautiful. I took a roundabout way to the Piazza Navona. It was alive with people, its three fountains (including the Quattro Fiumi (four rivers)) bubbling merrily away in the late afternoon sun. It’s a beautiful, big open space and I look forward to seeing it again, but it wasn’t the great favorite I thought it would be. I got a panina with prosciutto and cheese to take the edge off my hunger. Then to Campo dei Fiori. Its flower stalls had dwindled to one and it DID have a valedictory air (it was pretty late), so I meandered down Via Giubbonari to Piazza Benedetto Cairoli, a total surprise —unknown to me. Plain, mostly loose gravel, but people-oriented, spotted with green trees of all types (Rome is —oh, joy!— very green and springlike). The Tiber was only 2 blocks away so I walked there, to stroll along it. It’s strong, wide, green and rushing, and set into it was the Isola Tiberina with the Fatebene-fratelli Hospital and a medieval castle sharing its substantial area. I walked across it by its bridge, then passed the Ponte Rotto (broken bridge) on the way back over to the other side. There it sits, of no use to anyone, crawling with ruined detail, weeds whose seeds have caught in its cracks, a beautiful, broken object. THANK GOD the Romans know to let well enough alone. What gives the city its unique character is these manifold jewels set in unexpected places. Across the bridge lay two beautiful, thoroughly surprising gems, two ancient temples, one a Tiempo di Vesta, but I saw no vestal virgins in sight.
Also in the immediate area was the Bocca della Verita, in the porch of a church, Santa Maria in Cosmedin. The famous mouth was, of course, surrounded by other people with cameras, snapping their loved ones being eaten. When they cleared for a moment, I took a shot of the face alone. What a bizarrely beautiful thing it is, apart from its supposed truth-telling capabilities.
From there I headed up the Via de Grecia, with the enormous expanse of the Circo Massimo stretching out like heaven itself. I tried to imagine it 2000 years ago, echoing with the thunder of hoofbeats, the whirr of chariot wheels, the roar of the frenzied crowd. But no. No, wait...there was a single horse-drawn cart thundering up the way, a 20th century chariot carrying two men, one old, one young. As I walked the length of the field, it passed me again and again. Ben-Hur in miniature. Rising in sand-colored spendor (ruined splendor, but all the more impressive) of the Palatine Hill, sat the Paedagogium, the Domus Augustana, and the Palazzo Settimio Severo. At the end of the Circo was a long green, splendidly-kept Park, at the end of which stood the Terme de Caracalla. which the Romans have the exquisite taste to fill with productions of opera in summer. I could almost imagine the strains of Verdi or Puccini drifting across the city in the thick still summer air.
Then across the Via Druso, back toward the hotel. High above the street stood an elegant villa surrounded by palms and other green trees, among them an orange, loaded with fruit. This, on the same latitude as Boston, now kiester-deep in snow. The slow route back on foot (stanco ma lieto—tired but happy) was part of the route I’d taken in from the airport. After the briefest of sojourns in my room, I headed out to find a restaurant. More easily said than done! There are few in this part of the city. Many pizzerias, to my surprise. And bar upon bar, but no place to sit down. A bar in Italy is so different from one in America. In Rome you can drink, yes, but here they offer pastries, pizza, coffee and gelato. One stands, not sits.
Finally I decided to try outside the city wall. I found an expansive boulevard, the Via Appia Nuova, mostly smart shops and bars. I finally found La Scuderia, off a side street. Empty but for me, I was later joined by a lovely old lady and her slightly younger companion. It was a nice place, with bright green damask tablecloths and napkins. I had an enormous calzone, with cheese, salmon and shrimp. And a large and MOST refreshing beer. I limped home to the hotel, worked on this diary until I could hardly form sentences, then slept the sleep of the blessed for 10 hours. I could conquer the world this morning. Maybe there is something in this golden Roman air after all. God, but I love this city! Florence and Venice have their work cut out for them.

Weds, March 10
Well, it just gets better and better. After breakfast I walked up the Via di Porta Maggiore to Piazza Vittorio Emmanuele. There was a great open-air market ringed around it —fresh fruit, meat, cheese, clothing— the works. I almost bought a lizard belt, but each one the man showed me could wrap around Trajan’s column, so ultimately I declined.
I continued up Via Carlo Alberto to the magnificent Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore, a vast, cool place with several popes buried within, a spectacular altar with a gargantuan painting of the holy family set high behind it. There was a sort of basement affair in front of the altar, with an enormous praying pope in marble gazing raptly ahead at a baroque urn (or glorified tureen) worked in silver and gold—behind glass. I never did determine what he was praying in front of.
I needed to find a bank, so I headed down Via Cavour, a grand, plain, sour but impressive street. But for its being lined with cars, and an occasional electric sign, it looks much as it must have in the 18th century. I reached the end, near the Vittorio Emmanuele memorial, and noticed (as I walked toward where I thought the bank might be) the Forum of Hadrian. Stones ajumble, naturally, but one could fairly easily visualize what it must have looked like when it —and the world— was new.
I found a bank and changed my cash. The exchange rate has improved: 1585 lire to the dollar.
I bought a ticket into the Forum of the Caesars, then a guidebook which greatly enriched my appreciation. None of the glories I saw yesterday compare to the Forum. I could almost feel the history around me, even if 2000 years have intervened. What with all the points of interest, and the attractions of the Palatine Hill as well, I wandered for over 3 hours. The one location I wanted to find was the (at least approximate) place where Julius Caesar was assassinated. But the guidebook was silent; I doubt that anyone knows for sure.
Bedazzled by what I’d seen, I left the Forum and walked in the general direction of the Pantheon. A few steps from it I stopped for lunch at a little bar which could guarantee me a seat. The young lady who served me was so charming that I let loose with all the Italian I could muster, while apologizing for my primitive grammar. The older woman (my age or thereabouts) joined in. I almost felt I’d made a couple of friends by the time I sailed out, borne aloft by high spirits, an exquisitely cold tall beer and a sandwich made from a soft cheese and artichoke hearts on foccaccia.
The Pantheon is the best preserved structure from ancient Rome. But it contains the remains of two kings and a queen and Raphael. It’s not quite as vast as some of the paintings of it I’ve seen would lead one to believe, but it is most impressive anyway, grand and imposing, filled with a dim (but natural) light from the round eye in its ceiling.
After that, I comforted myself with another of the (minor) glories of Rome —a gelato. The flavor was tiramisu.
Next I took the Via del Tritone to Piazza Barberini, and its simple impressive Triton fountain. Took the famous Via Veneto very quickly: it’s short, albeit grand, and lined with thick beautiful magnolias. It lead me to another wall of the city, the Porta Pinciana. I strolled into the Villa Borghese, Rome’s version of Central Park. It was sparsely populated, beautifully peaceful (and free from the omnipresent sound of traffic). The Piazza di Siena was classically cool and gorgeous, with giant umbrella pines rising around it like green clouds. From there I walked to the Giardino del Lago, the lake which featured a temple with a Greek inscription on the pediment. My route out of the park was by Viale Giorgio Washington. It emptied out into the Piazzale Fiammino, where all the traffic in Rome must generate. Through the Porta di Popolo, thronged with people, heedless trams and vespas, is the Piazza di Popolo, near where Nero is buried. It is certainly one of the largest piazzas in the city. Less filled with people than the Piazzale Fiammino, it was even more impressive because of its vastness.
Needing to slow myself down, even artificially, I went down the Via del Corso, looking in all the shops. One, featuring antique prints was especially attractive, and set back into a picturesque courtyard circled with plain-faced apartments (though no doubt beautiful inside, if the neighborhood is any indication). Further on, I got off the Corso, for variety’s sake. I went into a bar for an espresso (most welcome). My attention was drawn to the floor by yet another of the omnipresent gypsy children who are the curse of the city. This one, a baby girl of surely no more than five, was gently begging, not thrusting herself on us as the others do. She was adorable, a little heartbreak child, but I steeled myself and sent her along. No doubt in time she’ll become yet another of the avaricious vermin that swarm through the city. Pity. Along this street, the Via Frattina, were dozens of wonderful shops, so I slowed to a crawl. Eventually I ended up at Ricordi, where I bought two 2-CD sets, one an Italian operetta, Il Paese dei Campanelli, the other a collection of hits from the ’50s. The prices were roughly that of CDs in the USA.
I knew where I wanted to eat, but not how to get there. It was Il Buco, specializing in Tuscan cooking, and I got to it easily —and by sheerest accident. It was here that my Italian failed me utterly but I didn’t much mind. I ordered the anantra al’aranciata and a salad. They plunked a full bottle of simple Tuscan red wine in front of me —to my perturbation —I only wanted a glass or two. They indicated that I should drink what I wanted (half the bottle, as it turned out). The main dish turned out to be a forcemeat of duck, artichoke hearts and mushrooms, wrapped in skin, baked, then served in thick slices. It was, no surprise, sublime. I augmented this light but satisfying fare with a large espresso and a mimosa, a light frothy pudding served atop ladyfingers.
For a long time I was the only one in the restaurant (it’s very small). I was joined presently by two young German men whom I could have sworn were gay. (They engaged me in conversation.) In short order we were joined by an older NOT attractive man with a young black one —obviously not bridge partners. Could it be a coincidence —or a restaurant with a somewhat specialized clientele...?
On the way back to the hotel I bought a thick handful of postcards from a tiny shop. The lady in charge was so friendly that I just poured my heart out to her in pretty primitive Italian, about how much I love her city. She was immensely pleased. My tortuous tour back to the hotel was by narrow, twisting, dimly-lit streets. I never felt a sense of danger, as there were occasional people around at most times. The city seems benign at night in a way that American cities don’t. London has this admirable quality, too.

Thursday, March 11
Nature does take a toll. I was so weary last night, and was bedevilled by a stomach-ache that I thought might turn into something nasty, that it was a nice surprise that I felt so well in the morning. It did take me till 10:00 to leave the hotel, though. I finally had the sense (and sense of adventure) to try the subway. The hotel clerk showed me where the stop was on a map, so I walked to the stop “Manzoni.” The train was crowded, but not oppressively so, filled with everyday Romans on the way to work. I got off at the “Lepanto” stop and walked south to the Piazza Cavour and the Palace of Justice, big as God and as elaborately decorated as a wedding cake. The air was still crisp, cool and winey. I wanted to take a leisurely approach to Castel Sant’Angelo, still looking refreshingly untarnished by the passage of time, even though it was built by the Emperor Hadrian. I walked across to the other side, in order to approach it head-on from what turned out to be a footbridge, lined with statues of angels more sensuous than ethereal, in the time-honored Italian style. Before going over, I stopped for a spell in a shop selling old prints. Saw a lot I wanted to take back with me.
Before the footbridge I had to move through a field of the bloody diavoletti, the omnipresent Gypsy brats. I seem somehow to have mastered the right mixture of attitudes to keep them at bay, a kind of world-weary dismissive snarl. Still, my hand rises to cover my vest pocket when someone under four feet in height comes into view. On the bridge I passed a dozen or so black men of gentle demeanor, wares spread out for sale —each display identical to the others flanking it. Along the Via della Conciliazione to San Pietro, I stopped in a shop to look for a bronze she-wolf with Romulus and Remus for Jeff. The classic, generic little old lady —a physical and probably spiritual twin to Grandmother Banks— was very appealing, but I didn’t fancy carrying a marble-mounted statuette around all day. Just at the entrance of Piazza San Pietro I stopped for a slice of pizza rustica con funghi, thick, doughy and virtually tasteless; I polished off every bite. I meandered the Piazza before going in, drinking in the magnificence of the glorious building. The interior was more than I’d expected, far more vast, clean, peaceful, profound. It IS truly holy, a living, breathing, wonderfully renewing place. The first stop was the Pieta, smaller than I’d thought it would be. It’s probably about life-size. It was also more moving, though whether from the subject matter or the genius of its modelling, I couldn’t tell. As pure sculpture, as art, it probably has no peers. How, I thought, could an object so familiar be so fresh, so very powerful. I guess this is the secret of GREAT art, this quality of surprise, of—what?—perfection. I feel so fortunate, to be able to see a piece of art like this with such a concentration of feeling, such a renewal of the power of wonder.
I spent a good deal of time wandering through this glorious basilica, then took the stairs down to where the bodies of the popes were buried. I wouldn’t have missed it, but it caused me to miss something infinitely better. The Sistine Chapel closed at one. I had 10 minutes to get in, but could not find it —so the experience would have to wait for the next trip to Rome. I tried to console myself by saying that it was so familiar that the sight of the art itself could add little to my appreciation, but I was bitterly disappointed.
Back on down the Via della Conciliazione, another gelato (frutta di Busca, a kind of wildberry) helped put a smile back on my face. Then on to the Capitoline Museum —which had also closed. Wow! I thought, my luck really has run out. Quite dispirited, I walked down the Via del Teatro Marcello toward the river, then on impulse into a warren of side streets. It was a very fortuitous turn, because I found, in a tiny workaday square, the delightful tortoise fountain, four naked youths sprawled carelessly around the ring of water, with four attendant turtles straining toward the top. In America, outraged committees would probably endlessly debate the wisdom of covering their proud little penises with bathing trunks, but in Rome no such questions arise. Some workmen were cleaning out the fountain, and aside from another photographer, I was alone. I still felt as if my enthusiasm for Rome —indeed, for vacation— was winding down. So, with a sense of some resignation, I traipsed listlessly across the bridge to Trastevere.
Smart move, Willhoite.
Trastevere is different: in just what way is a little hard to decide upon. Viale de Trastevere is a typical wide busy city street, with a flood of traffic in each direction, flanked by a variety of tiny streets and squares. First I stopped at a McDonald’s for a coffee and a bathroom. (Playing at the cinema next door was Pomodori Verdi Fritti, with Jessica Tandy and Kathy Bates.) From there I went off on a tear down the side streets, found a spacious square, Piazza Santa Maria in Trastevere. Nice, but nothing spectacular. Then down a small curved street, Via Paglia and —wait! This was familiar. In the picture book A Day in the Life of Italy there’s a wonderful photo of a restaurant-lined tiny street in Rome which had an enormous appeal to me when I saw the book. I’d thought how nice it would be to find it, but I never thought I would. But here it was. I went down a street, Vicolo Cinque (Alley Five) to a gallery, Laura Ricci, featuring art glass and silk items. A lady let me in, a plain and rather horse-faced woman, yet radiant and oddly beautiful. Something in her released a flood of (for me) courageous Italian, and I let fly with more of my pent-up enthusiasms for Rome. Though neither of us fully understood the other, we were chattering with ease and a true connectedness. We were soon joined by a man, her brother-in-law, who had created many of the pieces. His English was better, and he has a relative in Boston. As fellow-artists we connected as well. Soon his wife (Laura Ricci herself) and son joined us. The son, in his twenties, had spent some time in Massachusetts, and spoke English quite well. He advised me to go back to the large piazza to the Chiesa di Santa Maria in Trastevere, home of some marvelous mosaics. I left that gallery fairly bursting with happiness; I’ll never see them again in all likelihood, but I felt almost as if I’d made friends with the whole family. The son was right about the mosaics, too. That church, plain and almost beneath notice from the outside, was a gorgeous space. The mosaics were ancient, masterful. The ceiling was the most ornate I’ve seen to date; the church was one of those lovely experiences that pass by us usually unnoticed, and these lovely people had handed it to me as a gift. But they were the real gift.
I stopped at another shop, featuring handmade ironwork, like candlesticks. These people, a couple, were warm and friendly, too. Cold strangers, unfriendly foreigners, I haven’t seen any of those yet.
Trastevere really came alive as darkness fell. I found this out because the restaurants don’t open until at least seven. So I walked, walked, walked, till my feet all but squeaked from pain. I stopped at a bar for a Cynar (artichoke-based liqueur —delightful), got a TIME Magazine and an International Herald Tribune. Then finally sat down at a restaurant, La Torre di Ficini. I had pasta all’arabiata (al dente almost to a fault) for a primo piatto, a half-liter of red wine and finally, that fabled Roman dish saltimbocca, veal wrapped with prosciutto, then sauteed —an incredible burst of flavor.
Then I walked back across the river to the Metro stop “La Pyramide” —difficult to find in spite of the map, then back to the hotel.

Friday, March 12
Well, never say die. I woke up at the stroke of six with the realization that it was not vital to leave for Florence immediately, and that it would be crazy to leave Rome without seeing the Sistine Chapel. After all, I’ll have five more full days in Florence. So I checked out of the hotel after having the clerk phone to Quisisana e Ponte Vecchio, advising them that I would be a little late. I hopped on the Metropolitana, deposited my bag with the baggage clerk, and went to the Ottaviana stop on the Metro. After searching fruitlessly for a bank to exchange my first travellers’ check, I made my way to the entrance of the Vatican Museum. Inside, up a curling staircase faced with elaborate ironwork, then to the ticket booth, then through turnstiles, up more steps, along three city blocks of gallery filled with antique sculpture, then another gallery faced with enormous antique fresco maps of various parts of Italy, a dogleg through another little loggia, down a flight of steps, into a series of small chapels with frescoes on every surface but the floor, down a little stairway, up a little stairway, through more galleries featuring 20th century artwork, up steps, around a corner, through a door —and there it was.
The chapel itself is beautiful, dimly lit and filled with people. It was familiar of course —who doesn’t know of it?— but still almost surprising. Its fresh cleaning, which some deplore, make it beautifully new again. The figures actually seem 3-dimensional, to my astonishment. One naked man, above the left of the Cumaean sibyl, seemed almost to be clinging to the ceiling with heart-stopping tenuousness. He was the first I noticed. Then the other figures seemed to lift from their places —beautiful. The reason, of course, is the genius of Michelangelo’s shading.
I left exhausted. I stopped for a slice of pizza topped with —I thought— onions. No, shredded potato...and delicious, with little threads of rosemary in it, which sent the potato flavor to a new level. Then a couple of blocks later, the by now obligatory gelato, cioccolata (some obligation!). Then the subway to the Stazione Termini. And here I sit on the train, only lightly scarred by the experience of going to the bathroom in the station, on the way to Florence.

(Later) The trip to Florence was uneventful. My seatmates, a sour professorial type who nonetheless smiled with great warmth when he left the train at Orte, and an older man who engaged me in conversation, at least kept me from falling asleep. (The regular rhythm of the train and my near-exhaustion relaxed me amazingly.) The older man got very voluble toward Florence and I had the utmost difficulty understanding him. He did ask if I had a wife, but I was reluctant to say “sono omosessuale,” so I fudged it by moving the conversation to the subject of the landscape (which was spectacular).
We arrived in Florence. It is even better than Rome, more compact, more damn’ picturesque, bursting with students and more English-speaking people than I found in Rome. The first sight I saw was a house sporting a plaque stating that Shelley had stayed there for a spell. I made my way to my hotel with, I’m sure, my mouth open. Florence is champagne, with more style, more finish than Rome. In a way it compares with Rome the way San Francisco, say, compares with New York. Both dazzle in wildly differing ways.
The Quisisana e Ponte Vecchio is small, plain and homelike, but with little touches uniquely its own. It looks exactly like what it is: the kind of little, very European hotel that draws English-speaking visitors to it by its very manageable, very lovable qualities. Little baroque touches, even if only potted plants, to relieve its mushroom and ebony sobriety. The sitting room where I am at this writing, contains simple furniture, with Italianate grace notes, from the 19th and early 20th century. A geometric tile floor; 6 potted plants; soft light; simple ecru lace curtains hanging irregularly from plain windows; an undistinguished but charming painting on an easel; a bell-pull of sober Italianate design —it’s as far as it can possibly be from the Hilton-style palaces so many Americans favor. If I come to Florence a hundred times, I’ll always stay here.
In Rome, I occupied a space; here, I have a real Room With a View.
I checked in, meandered around for 4 hours (falling in love with every street corner) and ended up at a small restaurant a few blocks away. I had Lasagna al Forno as a first course, fried mixed fish (with almost no breading, fresh and faultless), a half-liter of local white wine. (My waiter was a dish, too.) From there, I walked to a pasticceria of some note (founded in 1733): Gilli, in Piazza della Repubblica, and had a tartuffo —a very dry chocolate cake affair stuffed with several kinds of nuts, and a chocolate icing on top. It was small but took forever to finish. Gilli itself is ornate as a bordello, gleaming with soft light relfecting in a million faceted surfaces, a jewel with walls. Now I’m back. Tired. And very, very happy. But oh! how I long to return again, with someone. I just have to share this beloved country with as many people as I can!

Saturday, March 13
I woke up with no plans laid at all. But the Uffizi Galleria is next door, so after a quick breakfast at the hotel, I scampered over to the museum, a matter of something less than a minute. It was easy to get in— hardly a line at all. Getting to the gallery was different: there were about three good lengthy flights of stairs to negotiate. After my morning coffee, I required a couple of rests. Luckily there were galleries featuring the prints of Albrecht Durer. Finally I reached the top, a long gallery featuring ancient sculptures, many of the best of them Roman portraits. These are so very refreshing; they must be quite accurate. They look like real people, not prettified. Flaws stand out as markedly as their physical felicities. The acid test of their reliability as true reflections of life was simple: younger and older versions of the same people were clearly —the same people. So if anyone REALLY wants to know what the emperor Trajan looked like, he can consult a bust. Really, their contemporaneity is breath-taking. The full figures, whether allegorical or not, were just as powerful. One might wonder: why are all the male figures proudly and purely naked, while the female ones are clothed? Perhaps there is something in the roundness of women on which drapery is more provocative; more a challenge to the artist.
After the sculpture galleries I doubled back and went through the galleries of painting. The first salon of note was that featuring the work of Botticelli. His work is so relentlessly pretty, so idealized, that it’s almost tempting to dismiss him. But there’s something in his formality and ultra-professional finish that transcends his surface. Pure gorgeousness is impossible to resist.
The rest of the galleries were enjoyable —a couple of Holbein portraits (one superb —of Sir Richard Southwell), a number of Titians, Leonardos and Bronzinos. At the long end of the gallery (in a U-shape) there was a little café. I ordered a panino with bel paese and tomatoes and sat out in the mild sunlight to rest and enjoy it. Then I rose to do the rest of the museum —down to the next floor, only to realize that that one (glorious) floor was all that was proferred to the public. So from the Uffizi I stopped at the hotel, then went over the Ponte Vecchio to Oltrarno. At the Trattoria Cammillo I was advised to have the gnocchi with gorgonzola. That and a birra were all required for a feast. Then I took a long walk to the Teatro Communale to reserve a ticket for the opera (Rossini’s La Cenerentola) only to find the box office closed. I’ll return later. Walked to the church of Santa Maria Novella, a stunning structure cold as ice within.
The church is spectacular and inspiring, but I didn’t have time to drink in much of it: an officious young pup shooed us all out.
The next couple of hours were filled with bookstores, the San Lorenzo market, new shopping areas in the district of San Lorenzo and the eventual return to the hotel. I picked up my volume of Mencken, my book from Bob and Lisa on Italian cooking and eating, and set out to find a restaurant. I finally lit on Ristorante Leo.
The first course was tagliatelle alla boscaiola, with mushrooms, tomatoes and ham. the mushrooms, sampled one at a time, had a rich, sharp buttery flavor. Following that was a specialty of the house, a roasted chop of veal. I followed this with tiramisu and coffee (which never came: a large party piled in and the waiter got siphoned off. It didn’t matter.) The restaurant owner (it had to be Leo; a half dozen portraits of him dotted the walls) came around. I was so very satisfied with my meal that I introduced myself and told him how much I liked his place. (He immediately instructed my waiter to bring me a drink, which did not appear on the bill —so I ordered a Cynar.) In gratitude, I also drew his portrait.
Afterward, I strolled (limped) a bit —to Grilli for a slice of panforte and an espresso —then home.

Sunday, March 14
Che una mattina bella! I awoke a bit on the tired side, as I could barely bring myself to go to bed —and yet I woke up at my customary seven-something.
In the hotel restaurant I had crepes with cheese (actually an omelette rather than crepes). Afterward I headed across the Ponte Vecchio to Oltrarno. As it was Sunday things were fairly sedate, but the city doesn’t stop stock-still altogether. Still, most of the stores, at least at that hour, are closed. My ultimate destination was the Teatro Communale, to try once again for a ticket to La Cenerentola. I just wished to approach it from another direction. Serendipity led me to Piazza di Santo Spirito, so far the most appealing piazza I’ve found in Italy. It’s really quite simple, with, typically, a large plain church at one end —not markedly different from thousands of squares throughout Italy. This piazza did have some nice tall trees, and there was a market in progress. No souvenirs, tchatchkes, no artists, but some antiques, foods, soaps, spices, some prints. I wanted to buy a long cake of tobacco soap, meant to be cut up and sold in pieces. However, I couldn’t get the seller to sell it to me whole. On another table I found a splendid lion-head door knocker for L120,000 (about $80) but passed it up. I walked on, to the riverbank, walking west to a bridge past the Ponte Amerigo Vespucci. On the Lungarno Soderini, I encountered a lovely round old woman leaning out a window to take in the glorious sunshine. She was such a picture, I shouted out “Buon giorno, signora!” and she responded in kind. I made my way across the bridge, found the biglietteria of the theatre closed —and also tomorrow! So I walked on, and found a restaurant recommended by the guidebook, Otello. It wasn’t open till noon, so I stopped at a nearby newsstand for a Herald Tribune. They had none left, so I bought The European, an excellent paper. I sat in the waiting area of the restaurant, and at 12 went in. The restaurant is large and spacious. In the section in which I sat, the room is panelled to a certain point, then there’s a ledge around, and above it rises a basket-woven ceiling! It had great style, with Venetian glass vases, each sporting a barely pink closed tulip. Beautiful.
The food was even better. And even more colorful. First course was pasta e fagioli, which turned out to be a soup, very basic country style —a Tuscan classic, as a matter of fact. That was followed by baccala alla Livornese, salt cod covered with a thick, bright vermilion tomato sauce of an almost startling vividness, like poppies in the sun. Also delectable. This was accompanied by a sparkling mineral water.
I had ended up very near the train station and Santa Maria Novella, so I wandered in the general direction of the San Lorenzo market, stopping (naturally) for my gelato del giorno, this time pistachio, sinfully creamy and pale green, not like the Exorcist-vomit green of so many I’ve seen in Italy and America.
At the market I found a sweat-shirt for Jeff, and liked it so much I got a larger version for myself. Then an aimless meander back to the hotel, where I settled in the sala and finished up the newspaper. I wanted to visit Santa Croce, so I headed east along the river. I encountered an American couple from Columbus, Ohio who had driven down from Venice. They hadn’t a hotel, and didn’t speak any Italian (My God! —you don’t go to a foreign country without at least trying...!) so I recommended —warmly— my own. Poor old folks —I hope they get home all right...
Santa Croce was very impressive by day. I stopped before going in at a stand selling (among other things) plates, and talked with the proprietor — rhapsodizing over Florence, of course. I enjoyed talking with an Italian who knew enough English to make conversing easier. Very nice.
The church is impressive. The first thing on the right as you enter is the tomb of Michelangelo. Dead he may be, but it’s still awe-inspiring to get that close to one of the supreme geniuses of Western art. Also in the church were the tombs of Rossini, (topped by a bust of him looking characteristically amused) and of Galileo and Machiavelli (who also, come to think of it, sports a tight, tart smile in every picture I’ve seen of him). Some frescoes by Giotto and his students (badly disintegrated but still powerful) line some of the walls.
Outside again, I went over to the Duomo. In the late afternoon sun it struck me as probably the most impressive church (yes, including St. Peter’s) that I’ve ever seen.
I had a small slice of pizza and went on into the northern reaches of the San Lorenzo district. Piazza San Marco is a small charmer. There I saw a crone with a face like Lotte Lenya with the pip, with long luxuriant hair like a twenty-year-old, and tricked out in a purple outfit straight from ’60s Carnaby Street, miniskirt and all. She was as startling in her way as the lady I’d seen earlier, a stylish dowager in a full-length mink coat sailing through Piazza Santa Croce — on a bicycle. From Piazza San Marco I doglegged east into a warren of streets near Universita degli Studi — which seemed to be populated exclusively by American students. I ended up at the Church of San Ambrogio, at the meeting of five or six streets. I found a perfect Piazza, P. Santissima Annunziata, surrounded by loggias on three sides. The sun had sunk low, church bells pealed, and all was wonderful. After that, I wandered back to Piazza Santa Croce, and found an art gallery. I met an exquisite little 81-year-old lady who was very enthusiastic about the paintings exhibited, and a young male artist who looked like a Renaissance angel, dark hair hung in curls around his face. Then back to the hotel. I picked up my book and returned to the south side of the spacious Piazza del Duomo, to a restaurant, Il Sasso di Dante. The waiter, brawny and dark, with sleepy hot black eyes, took good care of me, attentive and courteous. I started off with a Bellini (spumante and peach juice), then spaghetti alla Vongole (clam sauce with tomatoes) and ossobucco alla Toscana (smothered in a heavenly country sauce made with peas, tomatoes and garlic). I ended up with an enormous pear, poached in red wine and sugar (thrillingly good) and coffee, bitter as gall and wonderful. I left the restaurant and came back to the hotel (thinking wistfully of that waiter). Stopped at Piazza della Signoria and found the disk marking the spot where Savonarola was burned at the stake. The city had worn down to a serene quiet, and even the fountains had been turned off.
Home to write the above. Then back to Piazza della Signoria. In a little cul-de-sac off the Piazza is a stair leading down to Tabasco, the chief gay bar of Florence. It’s small, a maze of rooms, hidden passageways and odd spaces. In the back I found the bar, tended by an engaging man in his 20’s, very trendily dressed, tattoos, the works. He introduced me to Luciano, the DJ, who was sort of hanging around to neaten and take care of various little jobs before he went to work at the turntable. His English was very good. He gave me a tour of the place, a space at least 700 years old, originally St. Cecilia’s chapel! Rough stone arches, some original columns, leading to the dance floor. He in turn (it was time for him to work) introduced me to Keito, a Japanese-American. We talked for a long time, comparing our experiences in Italy. .... Home by 1:10. I think I’ll probably miss breakfast.

Monday, March 15
I didn’t. True to form, I woke before nine.
I’m sitting, at this moment, in Caffé Caruso, a beautiful place a couple of blocks from the hotel. There’s a table of seven students sitting a few paces away, having a good (and loud) time. Only one, an adolescent boy, is startling, with a braying laugh which must be the despair of his loved ones, like a donkey being garrotted. It’s charming here and I’m eating a slice of tart made chiefly of marzipan, and having a capuccino. It’s been a fairly uneventful day, one in which I mostly wandered —again. One reason is that it’s Monday, when Italy more or less shuts down. But wandering is its own reward in Italy.
The day began when I emerged from my hotel and was rushed by an elf trying to sell me a paper —a gypsy, I think, and most difficult to extricate myself from. Largely though, the gypsies of Florence are better-behaved than their Roman counterparts. I walked to the Duomo, intending to go in, but it didn’t open for another 20 minutes so I went on over to the Basilica of San Lorenzo. It’s a church I’m glad I didn’t miss. It’s being renovated, like so many of Italy’s treasures. There’s a space set off at the front of the church where the massive wooden doors are being worked on. The church has a wonderful scent, like a cross between incense and a cedar closet. Massive tall loggias in gray stone lie along the sides. The cupola is lit with natural light, and is decorated with a magnficent fresco, Bronzino’s Martyrdom of St. Laurence, the oddly-calm saint being barbecued down in front. The picture is filled to bursting with other figures, several of them nude and obviously showpieces to display the artist’s skill at anatomy.
Outside the church on this side was a beautiful cloister, with a full-of-fruit orange tree in the middle, a wonderful island of calm.
From there I moseyed over to the Duomo. It’s plain, grand and austere on the inside, in contrast to its gorgeous tricolor exterior. My real aim was to go to the top of Brunelleschi’s glorious cupola, the crown jewel in the architecture of the Renaissance. There’s no elevator, so I climbed all 463 steps. It was tiring but not impossible, and the only REALLY bad moment was halfway up, when one flight ended, and we were required to go halfway around the inside of the dome, by way of a narrow catwalk. The thick stone rail did not feel like much protection, and my very real acrophobia, usually held in easy check, came bursting back. Finally on the other side I took the rest of the steps to the top. Emerging into the bright light, seemingly miles above the red tile roofed city, I felt quite light-headed. I never could quite bring myself to get to the edge, but I took some pictures and went all around it, recognizing favorite sights below. Unfortunately, in spite of the still-wonderful weather, there was a haze hanging over the city, and Fiesole could only be seen dimly. I descended in around 10 to 15 minutes, relieved to be on terra firma, yet exhilarated by the experience.
I stopped by the hotel briefly, then crossed the Ponte Vecchio to Oltrarno. Had a panina, on schiacciata. It’s salty, with a faint note of arrowroot. Then on to some shops (the Boboli Gardens were —damn!— closed) and Piazza Santo Spirito again. The market had folded, but I stopped for my gelato del giorno. The flavor was zuppa inglese, my first disappointment, as highly colored as a side of beef, and the liquor taste too dominant. It was troublesome to get, too. The bar was bursting with activity, pullulating with customers, and the handsome barman was incredibly harried.
Back into Centro Storico, I looked for open shops and found a marvelous piazza, P. San Pier Maggiore, where, I’m informed, the drug dealers hang out. What, I wonder, do the Italians need with drugs, with their food, climate and the wilderness of visual wonders to turn them on.
I decided to buy a pitcher I saw in Oltrarno, so I returned there, bought it (and some postcards), then went to the hotel to write them up, then came out for my late afternoon stroll.
Later.
Walked out along the Arno on this side, taking in some of the rather expensive shops, or as they would probably have it, ateliers. Bronzes, mosaics, expensive leather goods... Further away from the river I discovered many little antique shops, with some truly tempting goodies.
I soon found myself in front of the church of Santa Maria Novella, ethereal and lacy against the violet night sky, stars winking behind it. There were a lot of modest restaurants in the neighborhood. I chose Ristorante Baldini. It was a small and modest establishment, with bad pictures hung high on the wall. The face of that joyful firebrand V. Lenin stared directly at me. I couldn’t discern a leftist bias in the rest of the pictures, but they were, as I stated, not terribly good. It might have been my imagination working overtime, but I thought that the older man and woman at the next table might well have been an older party hack and his wife out on the town. I know one thing for certain: they’d been married for a long time. That was obvious from the taciturnity of the two, interrupted perhaps twice by completely cordial, if brief, conversation.
I had Tagliatelle Baldini, in a sauce of tomatoes, peas, cheese and mushrooms. (Incidentally, why are Italian mushrooms so bursting with flavor?) Then came a porkchop smothered in a sauce of tomatoes and garlic. This last was unfortunately as tough as a cedar root, but tasty enough. The meal was accompanied by a thrillingly good basic red Tuscan wine, every mouthful a poem.
Afterwards, I toured the neighborhood slowly as a prelude to walking home. One restaurant looked interesting and slightly elegant: the Ristorante Baldini! Apparently, two sides to one restaurant, separated by one kitchen, occupy two sides of a city block. I’d apparently eaten in the proletarian side.
I reluctantly walked home. Not that I wasn’t tired and ready to relax: I just like looking over the streets of a city, never so beautiful, so lost in the stream of time, than at night. I found, a few blocks from the hotel, a new little square, one with a men’s shop featuring a nice heather/bottle-green sweater in the window that I’d like to look into buying. Back to the hotel.

Tuesday, March 16, 4:00 p.m.
I am sitting out in the loggia of the Quisisana e Ponte Vecchio, which I’ve just discovered today. It’s been a nice day in every way, though it actually started out cloudy. I started early —across the Ponte Vecchio into Oltrarno. I wanted to see if the market at Piazza de Santo Spirito still had the stand selling the old and reproduction iron. They were not there, only stands with produce, flowers and clothes. From there I walked across the bridge toward the Teatro Communale. The bigleteria was finally open, but there was a very slow-moving line. I managed to get a ticket for tonight, the Rossini La Cenerentola! My first opera in Italy. I could have gone to Die Fledermaus while in Rome, but it seemed somehow wrong to come all the way to the country of Verdi, Puccini and yes, Rossini, to hear a Viennese operetta. With a light heart and my ticket in my wallet I set out for Il Bargello.
A miraculous museum. It’s a square palazzo more evocative of a prison, but oh, what glories within. Its true genius is sculpture. The first floor has an immense collection of Cellinis, Michelangelos and Donatellos. One of the Michelangelos, Bacchus, was disfigured. Some fiend had whacked off his pecker, and what’s more, the wrong testicle hung lower, which seemed an odd lapse in one so intimately familiar with male genitalia as Michelangelo.
The courtyard in the middle also contained unbelievable work, ringed all around it. I took the stone staircase to the second story and was charmed all over again. My favorite part of the museum was on the third floor, a long room featuring numberless small bronzes. Something about the small form must spur creativity. Most were notable, several were obscene, and quite a few had the various labors of Hercules as their theme. This museum, by the way, had more Americans in it than I’ve hitherto come across in Italy. A lot of the older ones seemed perplexed by and unappreciative of the marvels surrounding them. The groups of younger students, however, seemed to be having a wonderful time.
I went next to the shop with the sweater. It was gone, and no others like it were in stock.
Across the river again, I bought a ticket to the Boboli Gardens, behind the Palazzo Pitti. A glorious space, though hilly and dusty, wonderful long panoramas, statues widely spaced, letting nature hold sway as it ought. In the center of the gardens directly behind the palazzo is an amphitheatre, then a pond with a fountain in the middle, then a long rising hill surmounted by a terrazzo, with a voluptuous statue representing “Plenty.” I thought she was Ceres —oh, well, perhaps essentially the same thing.
Near this spot I struck up a conversation with a young man. His name is Gabriele Rivera, and he’s from Palermo. Handsome in a soft way, with pale skin, light brown hair, a short curly beard and hazel eyes: not at all like one’s idea of a Sicilian. He had a very warm and friendly manner, and spoke English very well. He complimented me on my Italian, though I know it sounds better than it really is. He’s a computer programmer. We talked for about twenty minutes and exchanged addresses. He’s hoping to come to America for a visit, so I of course I invited him to Boston. These things don’t work out generally, but it would be nice to see him again.
I bought a Herald Tribune and TIME on my way back to the hotel, then settled here in the loggia. The traffic grinds along in a tearing roar below, the golden sun beats down, an opera will fill my grateful ears and eyes in a few hours, and the eastern part of the U.S.A., I’m told, is buried in a freakish snowstorm. I’m glad, all in all, that I’m here in Italy.
Later.
The opera was a terrific experience, before, during, and after. I walked a few blocks from the hotel to the Queen Victoria, a self-serve restaurant. It was notable on this trip because the food was so very, so exquisitely —indifferent. A breaded veal cutlet with not-bad potatoes with rosemary, tortellini in a milky white sauce with enough nutmeg in it to remove paint. Then the walk through the neighborhoods filled with antique shops to the Teatro Communale. For a good half-hour I conversed with utmost ease with two older Italian men, perhaps in their sixties (we were joined and deserted periodically by another, a dead ringer for Billy Wilder). They knew no English, and I’m hardly a free-flowing fountain of Italian, but the conversation was almost all about music —favorite operas, composers, conductors, etc., so we could make ourselves understood. It was all most enjoyable.
Better was yet to come. I’d settled into my seat —high in the uppermost gallery, when a most agreeable-looking young man tapped me on the shoulder and asked me if I spoke English. His name is Philip Anderson, he’s a singer who lives in New York, and he’s travelling with his parents, John and Christina. They’d recognized me from Il Sasso di Dante two nights ago, and from the ticket office this morning. I’d noticed them too (especially him), and even exchanged a shy smile and “buona sera” with Christina in the restaurant. I asked him if he’d like to get together after the opera (with or without his parents was implied) and he said he’d ask, and we’d meet at the intermission.
The opera started and was wonderful, even if the tempo of the orchestra during the overture was a bit rushed. The set was in black and cream, like an elaborate, cross-hatched drawing, say, Piranesi in a lighthearted mood. The basso buffo was a special delight, but the cast were all good. As with most Rossini, it was effervescent but with some longeurs.
At intermission I met his father (Christina was still seated) and we talked; they agreed it would be fun to get together. Philip also told me in the course of the conversation that he sang on the glorious recording of Show Boat I have and love. I’m definitely impressed; it’s the greatest show recording ever made.
The final act was livelier, the basso buffo (Claudio Desderi) was even more unbuttoned. The audience was appreciative at the end, if not terribly demonstrative during the opera. I, on the other hand, laughed, giggled, crooned with delight. They really loved the female lead, Jennifer Larmore, an American.
We met as planned and finally found their Alfa Romeo which they’re renting. We decided the bars and caffes in the neighborhood were too crowded and too hard to hunt down, so John drove us back to the center of town. After a couple of false starts we got back on track, and were on the Via San Lavagnini. Strolling or lolling alongside were several women in long fur coats who revealed by their basilisk gazes that they were in all likelihood donne della notte. All doubt was removed when the one by our stopped car opened her coat like a flower to expose two terra cotta-colored nipples the size of stopwatches and a bright fan of black pubic hair. We were all —even Christina— highly amused and hooted with laughter.
We found a small coffee-bar near Piazza San Marco. They had pizza while I only wanted mineral water. It was delicious. When I planned the trip I intended NOT to pal around with any Americans, but I was glad I relented this time. All three were very enjoyable people, especially Philip. It was also nice to speak English for a while and I was as voluble as a magpie. And tonight marks the halfway point in this perfect vacation. A high point, too.

Wednesday, March 17
My last day in Florence, so maybe that’s why I’m a bit depressed. It was cloudy when I woke, but not surprisingly, the clouds were soon dissipated. I walked to the Galleria dell’Accademia, and was captivated throughout. There was a lot of good painting, though the high point, the reason for everyone’s visit, was Michelangelo’s David. It was as spectacular as I expected, but in a way nothing new, for who isn’t familiar with it? Neck and neck with the statue of Liberty and the great Sphinx at Ghiza, it’s certainly the most famous statue in human history. Of all the versions of David which abound in this city, it’s the best and most clearly captures the boy from the Bible. And yet it’s still the world’s most powerful homosexual icon.
It was by no means the only attraction of the museum. The early Renaissance alterpieces are glorious in their spiky simplicity and primitive splendor. And the statue of the Rape of the Sabines is a powerful rival to David for a recognizable monument. Directly across the Via Ricasoli is a wonderful bookstore —heavy on art books, and I spent a bit of time there.
Then on to Piazza San Marco to catch the bus to Fiesole. I got my change from a pasticeria (along with a creamy cannoli) and bought a ticket, with help from a friendly old gentleman who even held the bus up by rapping on the window. I was very grateful to him, and thanked him demonstratively through the glass —which he loved.
The ride up the hills to Fiesole —more uphill than I ever expected— was a feast for my voracious eyes. I devoured every block, different, more spacious than the center of the city. Beautiful old villas and palazzettos sailed past (one had decorative geometric work in fresco all over it). Palms, pines and those wonderful spires of cedar lined the way. It was breathtaking, and the people on the bus must have been amused by the pazzo Americano gasping with pleasure at every city block.
We finally arrived in the square. An ancient 10th-century church, though simple and small, dominated one end of the piazza. I strolled up one long street and back down again when it seemed to lead nowhere in particular. I returned to a restaurant, the Terrazza di Fiesole. They had a good tourist menu offer, though I was a bit disappointed in the place: it smelled strongly of dry-cleaning fluid. I’d gotten a newspaper, La Repubblica, even though my grasp of Italian is still tentative enough to make the paper largely incomprehensible. My meal was like the beginning of The Tale of Two Cities: the best of times (the primo piatto, Penne alla Fiesolana, with tomatoes, ham and cream), the worst of times (coniglio fritto —fried rabbit, which was tough and fairly scanty of meat —mi dispiace, Bugs...). The drink was a nice sparkling mineral water.
Afterwards I tromped to the top of the hill overlooking Florence, glimmering through the haze in the valley below. Coming to the end of a roll of film, it failed to rewind, and by mistake the effing thing came open and I lost a roll of film. Nuts! I guess I’ll have to come back again to recover the lost pictures...
That put me off so I didn’t really enjoy the rest of Fiesole. I went to the local cemetery —picturesque, yes, but not a great upper. I quickly took the bus back to the city.
I wandered. It was my last chance to really get the feel, the flavor of Florence. I went to the train station and after great difficulties, found out when my train leaves in the morning. More walking. One of the shops I stopped at was Alice/Atelier, a shop dealing in carnival masks —a dark and thrilling place, with glorious products, made by the resident artist, Professor Agostino Dessi. The shop was awash with masks, hung from every wall, piled in stacks. A real treasure trove, endless bounty, but the only masks I wanted were, I felt, too expensive. Besides, a mask is a purchase I would prefer to make in Venice, with its ineradicable carnival associations.
I got back to the hotel, dropped off the camera and picked up my book, then toured the city on foot again, discovering dozens of new (to me) antique shops in the area of Via Tornabuoni. The prices were stratospheric, needless to say. I ended up at Monkey Business, a high style restaurant (with vast jungle murals) in the Chiasso dei Baroncelli, near the hotel. Attentive, pleasant service, though I was absolutely alone (and therefore a bit uncomfortable) until a gaggle of ancient priests (cardinals?) were shown in with great pomp and show. I had a half-bottle of splendid chianti, a sort of mini-soufflé (in seven elegant little piles) made with ricotta and asparagus, and veal served under a bed of shredded lime peel, surrounded by terrific vegetables: sliced carrots, brussels sprouts, sliced potatoes and little tender artichokes. (Imagine California cooking in Florence!) The bill was my largest yet, though only 50,000 lire, about $32.00. From there I walked to Gilli’s for a final treat —a caffé doppio and a slice of chocolate nougat. I limped back to the hotel. And now for the excitement of packing!!!
Just eleven and a half more hours in Florence. Tomorrow I’m going to the city I’ve looked forward to seeing above all others on earth, Venice, and yet all I feel at the moment, besides a chocolate/caffé doppio high, is a depthless depression at having to leave this glorious, enchanting city on the Arno.

Thursday, March 18
This morning I had breakfast and said goodbye to the marvelous blonde woman whose salty effervescence has started each of my days in Florence with such good feeling. I gave her a big hug and a kiss on each cheek, which did not surprise her at all. I miss her already. The older gentleman at the desk, when I checked out, rose for an embrace as well, which is only proper. He, more than anyone, has been the presiding angel over the Florence leg of the trip. It was he who set the tone the first day at the hotel, he who told me about the production of Rossini at Teatro Communale. And I had another good reason to be grateful: I had expected my hotel bill to be around $500 for the stay; it was $350.
Of course I’m looking forward to Venice, but I had tears in my eyes when I got on that lovely, rickety wire cage of an elevator for the last time. What a magnificent hotel! And what a delectable city!
I strolled slowly (can one be said truly to ‘stroll’ with two unwieldy valises and a shoulder bag in tow?) to the station, arriving twenty-five minutes before my train was due to leave. On the platform I met an English couple from Bournemouth, very pleasant, about my age. She reminds me of Maureen Butler. We decided to sit together, and managed to find three seats in a first-class compartment. When the conductor came, however, my ticket was fine, but theirs was inadequate. The extra fare was almost double what they’d originally paid, so they moved to another car. We have to change trains in Mestre, as this train continues on to Vienna, so we’ve agreed to meet in Mestre.
So I’ve been talking with a friendly man across from me, a computer expert from Pisa. He looks like Irving Wallace, the novelist, and speaks English with a good deal of flexibility and grace. He is a learned and deeply cultivated man, with a good deal to say about language, Italian culture, and especially about Dante. He is familiar with the verse of T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound —who was also a student of Dante’s poetry.
We have just left Padova. The Italian scholar left too, but there are two very pretty young women still left in the compartment, from Russia. The one with whom I’ve spoken speaks English, German and Italian besides her native tongue. With my (admittedly well-deployed) English and a mere smattering of Italian, I feel vaguely like my education is not quite complete.
The clouds which hung over Florence have now completely disappeared.
The train arrived in Mestre so we had to change trains to get to Stazione Santa Lucia. I met my English friends on the platform and we changed immediately and were at Santa Lucia within seven minutes. We finally got around to introducing ourselves: they are David and Elizabeth Anderson (Yes— more Andersons).
We immediately got seats on the vaporetto (in front, no less!) and took our breathtaking progress down the marvelous Grand Canal. It was gorgeous, sunny with a haze, different from what I expected, and quite, quite delightful. I left them when I got off at the Accademia Bridge stop, crossed the bridge and found, very nearby, Tom Cioffi’s place. I got in with no difficulty.
It is an almost disconcertingly plain place, with a large white living room with stark black furniture, a bedroom with two beds and an armoire and not much else, a small white kitchen and bath. There are flagstone floors throughout, a pervasive dampness, and walls that are crumbling. I can’t say it has a lot of charm, but it is central and very quiet.
I didn’t stay long, but set out to see the city. My first stop was a little frame-and-furniture gilding shop which also features masks, at the southern end of Campo San Stefano. Then I went through a labyrinth of calles, vias, and minor campi and ran up against Teatro La Fenice. A restaurant sharing the same quiet square, Ristorante al Teatro, looked promising, so I stopped in. A lucky choice.
I had a large bottle of San Pellegrino, the antipasti di pesce and fegato alla Veneziana. The antipasto was a catalog of delights, even if half the people I know would have gone pale at the sight of much of what was on the platter. It consisted of squid, octopus, crab leg slices, a kind of pickled alewife, lots of watercress and something which looked like a tapeworm with aspirations to become the next star of an Alien sequel. I was told it was a “sea grasshopper,” which doesn’t sound very reassuring. Nonetheless it was delightful, delicate and flavorful. The fegato was simple liver and onions with fried polenta, which I’ve read is a Venetian classic. Not bad at all. The service was friendly and helpful, and the restaurant walls were lined with photos of opera singers who have appeared at La Fenice.
I arrived at Piazza San Marco —huge, pigeon-ridden to the point of alarm, and like no other place on the green earth. The basilica itself was deeply disappointing at first glimpse, because of the structures temporarily attached to it —it also is being renovated. This unearthly Byzantine extravagance has growing out of it a structure which gives the church an uneasy resemblance to a Swiss chalet.
The Doges’ palace was lacy and romantic and the Riva degli Schiavoni most charming in the late afternoon light. I walked far down it to the Via Garibaldi, then turned around and walked up a deserted Fondamente (a canal with walkway alongside) next to the Arsenale. I reached a large campo with the carved gate to the Arsenale, and then wandered through another maze of tiny streets. I stopped at a potter’s, where a small, handsome version of Jean Genet was working. The general direction of the artwork was homophilic, and very good.
I zigzagged on through the maze and soon found myself near San Marco again, then the Rialto Bridge loomed up ahead. The were jillions of little shops in the area, all selling touristy, gaudy, NASTY merchandise, and the babble of voices was notably more American in sound. There is clearly much more English than Italian spoken in San Marco and environs!
The Rialto bridge was gorgeous at dusk, a ghostly wedding cake floating in the dim light. So was the view from it. Venice, which had been frankly a little disappointing when the sun was high, was quickly becoming magical! In the half-light the old town glowed. The lights twinkled against the increasing purple sky and suddenly, from the canal came the voice of a tenor gondolier singing a Neapolitan song. The fact that he was more enthusiastic than skillful had very little to do with my high degree of enjoyment.
At the base of a bridge at Campo Manin I stopped in at a little shop where windows were filled with a welter of picture frames, rococo and plain, gilded and merely decorated, a wonderful variety. I went in. The old proprietor, Alfredo Barutti, was gracious and friendly and we talked for about twenty minutes, all in Italian. He is a lacador, a worker in lacquer, wood gilding, frame-making and the application of decorative gold-leaf. His enthusiasm was communicable, my Italian burst out in a torrent (friendly people do loosen me up), and we covered a number of topics: the problem of dampness in town and the unlikelihood, in his opinion, of Venice collapsing into the sea; the Venetian dialect as opposed to standard Italian; his five children, who are ALL musicians; his technique of gilding and decoration; and my growing skill in Italian, which he helped along. Signor Barutti was utterly charming in spite of a case of cigarette breath that almost turned me green from time to time.
After a few false turns, I got back to the apartment. I picked up my book, two maps of Venice, both shamefully inadequate, and went across the Accademia bridge to Dorsoduro, where lay —somewhere — Montin’s, the restaurant Tom Cioffi and Peg have both recommended. Miraculously, I found it.
Venice at night is mysterious, enchantingly quiet, all but deserted in Dorsoduro, and even slightly sinister. The modern age slips away and one would not be surprised to see step out of the shadows a black-shrouded figure in a tricorn hat, wearing a bauta, like an apparition stepped out of a painting by Longhi. I vowed to spend more time —much more time— away from the flocks of human geese which crowd San Marco.
Montin’s is a superb restaurant, with wonderful warm lighting, walls covered with framed artwork, and it specializes in seafood. I had spaghetti alla carbonara, a mezzo-litro of vino bianco, a small mineral water, and for my main dish, grilled coda di rospo ai ferri. It means, literally, tail of the toad. There is a creature called the toadfish, and this must have been it, more or less the texture of monkfish tail. Not awful, but a trace off-putting. I couldn’t resist dessert, tiramisu with espresso. I left quite satisfied. Tiramisu will do that.
Going back home I got lost without hope. Neither map was any help at all. I discovered a terrific little campo, a shop specializing in decorative woodwork and antique furnishings, another mysterious shop featuring shadowy figures in robes and turbans standing guard.
I also found, standing on a wide, ivory colored bridge, an American couple from Philadelphia, also touring Italy. We all three rhapsodized about it for fifteen minutes or so, then I charged off to where I thought the Accademia bridge was. It wasn’t. I soon found another couple, Italian this time, who were also lost. We got out my big map and found I’d worked my way north, almost to San Polo, scandalously out of the way. We turned back and found the bridge. This is going to be a very easy city in which to get lost. Somehow I don’t think I’ll mind much.

Friday, March 19
Today did nothing in particular, just got more of the flavor of the city by wandering and watching, letting my senses run barefoot through the marvels. I woke around eight, washed out a couple of things in the bathroom sink, then walked over the Accademia bridge to the vaporetto —with the laundry from the previous occupant. Got out at Santa Lucia station and walked through Cannareggio along the Lista di Spagna, and across the Ponte Guglia. Along the Fondamente Pescaria were outdoor vegetable and seafood markets, a mad jumble, but I found the laundry. To my surprise she agreed to have it ready today so I promised to return at 4:00. I then prowled the byways of Cannareggio slowly and with great appreciation for its quiet homey qualities. I ended up on the Fondamente Nuova, on the north side of the upper island, looking out on the Isola di San Michele, the cemetery island of Venice. It hung in the haze like a vision, and the salty air was like a tonic. Naturally many of the shops in this area dealt with funerary items, brass saints, urns, headstones. In the window of an iron-worker’s shop I found what I’ve been looking for: a graceful old lion of San Marco, mounted on a pedestal of wood. The shop was locked, but looked open. A woman in a nearby memorials shop took me to the foundry, where the ironworker was plying his trade. He opened up the shop. It’s a beautiful beast, proud and fierce as La Serenissima herself in the great golden days of sea power. I bought it.
On the way to visit Santa Maria Formosa I stopped to visit the tiny, jewel-like Chiesa de Santa Maria dei Miracoli, on the advice of a sweet, frail old gentleman I’d asked for directions. It was worth a stop, in fact it was twinkling with more rich detail than many a larger church. Workmen were restoring it, so I gave an offering. The ceiling was a honeycomb of gilt and Byzantine detail —glorious. The one wall still exposed and not covered with scaffolding and workmen’s plastic was made up of large panels of different colored marble from various regions of Italy.
I soon arrived at the Santa Maria Formosa. The inside is plain and free from much detail, but it is nonetheless quite impressive. Arches, vaulting, loggias— all are composed of a thematic scheme of interlocking circular forms. Everything gives an impression of space, strength, grace and roundness. What was essentially a fairly plain church is a visual delight because of this wonderful sphericality. It is the discovery of little epiphanies like these, so prevalent in Venice, that have stirred my interest in architecture. Maybe that’s why Tom Cioffi loves Venice so.
I wandered willy-nilly back to the apartment, deposited my purchase and picked up a book.
Over in Dorsoduro I found a delightful trattoria, Trattoria ai Cugnai. Friendly and popular and run by three sisters and their husbands, I was made to feel at home. I started off with a seafood antipasto —thousands of tiny, tiny shrimp tossed with a little chopped parsley, olive oil and a touch of coarse salt to give it an appealing crunch. This was accompanied by a pitcher of white prosecco (actually a rich gold). I discovered a beastie in the booze —a mosquito— so they brought me another.
Following was my first risotto in Italy, risotto nero, black with cuttlefish ink, bejewelled with chunks of cuttlefish, rich, yummy, and not in the least off-putting. While in Dorsoduro I stopped at arguably the best mask shop in Venice, Mondonovo. I filed away mentally a mask or two, but really fell in love with a statuette made by Giorgio Spiller, who was in the shop, of a carnival figure dressed up like an enormous penis, a surprisingly graceful —and funny!— piece. But I felt I couldn’t afford it. Especially on the day of buying my lion.
I wandered until it seemed about time to pick up my laundry. I got it, paid for it and turned back toward Dorsoduro. I wanted to find the Campiello Squellini from last night. It had every bit of the flavor it had in the night, and nearby were also a couple of shops I wanted to see. One, an ironmonger, had great ironwork, but more expensive than the humble exterior of the shop indicates.
I dropped off the finished laundry and went to San Marco to watch dusk fall on the city. It was splendid, Venice seeming even more to float above the water at that time of day. As the dark crept in and more little lights twinkled through the city, the magic deepened.
Soon I got a newspaper, a London Times, and looked around for a little caffé or something. Instead I found Trattoria alla Madonna, recommended by Tom.
It’s huge, bustling, and specializes in seafood (as do most of the eating establishments of Venice —bless ‘em). Because of the place’s popularity, I was seated with another solitary diner, a young Japanese of great charm. After a tentative shy smile exchanged, we talked for the length of the meal. I wasn’t terribly hungry, so only had a carafe of soave and the mixed fried fish of the Adriatic.
On the way home I stopped at another restaurant off Campo San Stefano to read the paper, eat some tiramisu and have a double caffé hag.
Then an hour’s stroll through Piazza San Marco and home.

Saturday, March 20
I had breakfast at a little bar in Campo San Stefano, than lovely, largely empty space so near the apartment, then made my way toward Piazza San Marco to ascend the Campanile. On the twisted way there my attention was drawn to the wares in a window of what must be the most elegant pasticeria in all Venice, Marchini’s. I settled on a bucatello, which looked like a bagel, but which was stuffed with fig filling and nuts —divine!
The line for the elevator at the Campanile was short for that time of day, the ride fast, the ticket cheap and the view several times better than glorious. It was a blissfully clear day, and Venice below looked like heaven with tiled roofs. Enchanting all around, and I took quite a few pictures. This, with a gondola ride, is an experience no visitor to Venice must miss.
Below was the Doges’ Palace, open and ready for me. I bought a ticket and went in. It was stunning, of course, glorious room opening out into glorious room, each grander than the last. Giant paintings, many by Veronese, covered the walls and ceiling. The ceilings, naturally, were aswarm with gilt scrolls, shields, putti, banners, etc., separated by enormous paintings extolling the glories of Venice and, by extension, of the Doges. When this was exhausted, we were led over the Bridge of Sighs into the prison. The rooms here, needless to say, were somewhat less than palatial, no decoration, cold, damp, evocative of nothing but despair. A guide with a large group nearby informed us that prisoners slept on the floor. Jacques Casanova was one of the famous inmates of this frigid hell. It struck me that even a short sojourn in this prison would almost certainly damage one’s health permanently. Going back over the bridge, I didn’t feel any too chipper myself.
Across the bridge, down the stairs, into the courtyard and out. By the time I emerged into the light, it was time for lunch. The previous night I’d discovered a very inviting little pizzeria, Rosa Rossa, so I went there. Time, I guess for an American meal, right? Pizza and beer. Well, maybe not so domestic as all that. The beer was better than most (or did I just need it?). And the pizza was enormous, thin not doughy, and coated with olives, capers, artichokes, sausage and cheese. And a bargain at L8000 ($5.08).
I took the vaporetto to Cannareggio, to wander the tourist-UNhaunted stretches in the north of the island. It was simple and homelike, generally free of shops and, as it was time for siesta, pretty well deserted. It was here, in the original ghetto, that the Jews of Venice were quartered. The long straight fondamenti are perfect for an afternoon stroll. But the canals were somewhat more fetid, I thought; perhaps that can be ascribed to the approach of warm weather. These, I’m told, are the first warm and toasty days of the year for Venice. Hard to believe, as this is my thirteenth day in Italy, every single one of which has had delectably equable weather.
My gelato del giorno this afternoon was un doppio-dip, macedonia e arancio.
My tour of Cannareggio took me southeast to the church of San Giovanni Crisostemo, another church by Mauro Codussi, whose circular themes in his church of Santa Maria Formosa were echoed here —almost like a signature. The church had the rich and fragrant scent of, not incense, but melting candle wax, comforting and pleasant. Sitting right in this everyday church —not a museum— is a large painting by Bellini of three saints, one of his last works. This ready accessibility to masterful art is to me the greatest glory of Italy. Across the nave from this lovely painting is a painting of a monk, or a priest, from a much earlier period than the Bellini. It’s a simple robed figure, with a small light illuminating his face. A plaque in this church was commemorated by Pope John Paul I, one of his few papal acts before his untimely death.
Around the corner from this church, barely ten steps away, is the house generally thought to be the one in which Marco Polo was born. Another of Venice’s great gifts to the world.
On the way back to the apartment I stopped and bought a simple mask, of Pantalon, at Laboratorio di Indorador, Sr. Cavalieri, the first shop I stopped at when I reached Venice. The little lady in charge of the shop at the moment was lovely, and the wife of the owner, who proudly showed me a photo of her husband, standing next to —the archbitch!— La Reaganessa. Unholy Nancy herself.
I crossed the bridge to Dorsoduro, fast becoming my favorite sestiere of Venice. I found a terrific little shop in the Campiello Barbaro, which had several beautiful iron door knockers, one of which I may still buy.
The Guggenheim Collection, off this charming campiello, is no longer open free on Saturday evenings. So I shall return Sunday.
From there I walked up to the Salute, that huge baroque church which is, so far, a hundred times more impressive than San Marco —neither of which I’ve yet been inside. Nearby is the tip end of Dorsoduro, and from that point I continued my walk around the Fondamente Zattere ai Saloni. Lovely —and lovelier still as dusk gathered around the city.
On the way back to the restaurant, I found a cinema, and decided to return for the 9:15 showing. It’s Caccia alle Farfalle.
The evening meal, at Trattoria da Fiori, was all seafood. Primo piato was spaghetti alla vongole, swimming in delectable olive oil. Secondo piato was seppie (cuttlefish) in a sauce of its own ink, pitch-black and complemented by the inevitable fried polenta. It was unforgettable, like no other dish on earth, tender, more so than the calamari I’ve generally had.
At the next table over was a couple from Tulsa —a Dr. Solo, dentist, who looked like a slim and younger Harold Head, and his attractive blonde wife. They are taking the typical American whirlwind tour of Europe, with cities ticked off rapidly, and precious whole days lost in the confusion of travelling and the search for hotels. They alight next in Florence, so naturally I recommended my own darling hotel. I’m not sure whether they deserve it, but what the hell, it might encourage them to slow down and enjoy travel properly. I stoutly maintain that each city you see should be savored for several days in order to slowly extract its essence, not skimmed over like an article in a news magazine.
The movie, Caccia alle Farfalle, which translates roughly as “Bagging the Butterflies,” was not the best experience so far. To begin with, I was too tired to enjoy it; secondly, if I’d had a better grasp of Italian I might have gotten more out of it. Another good reason: there was no central character with whom to identify. Very little dialogue, a panorama of scenes leading from a chateau in France to Paris, to Russia and back. It seemed to follow the fortunes of the scraps of a noble family from Russia, part of which still resided in squalor in Moscow, with a lucky remnant living —though much reduced— in the chateau. Toward the end, the train in which several of the characters travelled was bombed, killing them all. It was difficult to care... In the end the upshot seemed to be that the Japanese were buying Europe wholesale. Well, they’re welcome to this movie.
When I emerged from the cinema, a dew had fallen and the stones of the Campi were slick, but not too bad —I escaped tumbling, a la Katharine Hepburn, into a canal.
In spite of the mildly soporific effect of the movie, I was not ready to go to bed. Besides, I was parched with thirst, and desperately needed a San Pellegrino or some other water. That in the apartment was not potable. The first bar I found open was attached to my first restaurant in Venice, Ristorante al Teatro, so I stopped there. It was full of post-theatre celebrants. I found an interesting character to talk with, a native Venetian with a dark, handsome punchinello face. He himself made fun of his long curved nose. His features were mildly evocative of Robin Williams, but darker, sexier. I finished my water, left him cordially, and continued on to Piazzo San Marco. I sat down on a chair in front of a closed caffé, to watch what remained of the passing show. One couple, middle-aged, probably long-married, stopped. In thrall to the romantic spirit of Venice at night, they kissed and kissed. It was beautiful to see, and I was far enough away not to feel like a voyeur.

Sunday, March 21
I’m sitting again in Rosa Rossa, midway through another pizza, the “rosa rossa,” with smoked salmon, cheese, tomato, and in the middle, a sunny eye of egg, bright gold.
The previous entry was written, almost entirely, this morning in another caffé in Campo San Stefano. At the next table over were three old ladies, evidently long friends, sunning themselves over their coffee, probably a ritual of long standing. I hope so. They were all perfectly friendly to me, though with no English at all, and we did converse after a fashion for a while. My Italian is not as bad as it might be, though I wish I’d studied a bit harder before the trip.
So on to this pizzeria. A band composed of a recorder, bagpipe and drum has just droned past, to add a merry medieval note, and now they’re gone.

Later, Sunday night
This has been one of the best days of the entire vacation. From lunch I came back to the apartment to drop off the diary. Across the bridge to Dorsoduro and to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection. In the courtyard are quite a number of terrific sculptures, and in one quiet corner rest the earthly remains of Peggy herself, with a memorial stone reading: “to my beloved babies.” My! I thought, this woman must have miscarried with an alarming regularity. Then I got closer and realized that the babies had names like Sable, Pegeen, Lady This and Lord That: obviously the “babies” were her Lhasa terriers, fourteen in all.
From first to last it was a stunning collection. One room specialized in that minor but influential group, the surrealists. Two of my favorite Max Ernst canvases, The Antipope and The Dressing of the Bride were hanging there —and two Magrittes. The staff there, composed seemingly of young English-speaking girls, seemed more than ready to speak to me in English, but I prefer, when possible on this trip, to speak Italian as much as I can.
It was close on to three, so I headed toward the Salute, roughly one American block. It was impressive in the bold sunlight. It was also closed —till 3:00, so I strolled the Campo del Salute for a bit.
Boing! There by the water was a familiar face. No, someone like him. No, wait, there he was. They were twins. The second man I recognized from the bar at Ristorante al Teatro the night before. And yes, as I’d thought or at least hoped, he was a gondolier. He introduced himself as Lino and asked if I’d like to take a ride. I said yes, after I’d done the Salute. He said fine.
The Santa Maria della Salute was built in gratitude by the citizens of Venice to commemorate the end of one of the plagues that swept through Europe (hitting sea-girt Venice with its rats and disease with particular vehemence). It is a vast round place with a masterful, high dome, from the middle of which is suspended a gigantic brass chandelier, more censer than light fixture. In the Sacristy are numerous works by Titian and a huge Tintoretto, The Marriage at Cana. A magnificent experience.
Better was to come. When I emerged from the steps of the church, I saw Lino, who was messing about with ropes. I waved, he beckoned me to his gondola, and we did the tour. He was a great guide, sure and knowledgeable. He pointed out to me the house where Mozart stayed in Venice for a long spell (there was a plaque but I probably would not have seen it walking along the canalside). A plaque also commemorated where Goethe stayed —for only a month, but enough to warrant recognition. Going around corners, Lino would give out with a long cry to warn oncoming vehicles. We kept up a conversation, but I was never distracted from the sights. Venice is different from the water, and much more different in a gondola than from the vaporetto. He went around corners, around pilings, on which I would have run aground (no, I would have sunk us), with no problems, a mere whisper from the averted object. There are degrees, or levels of gondoliers, it seems, and Lino is a captain. He’s also a fifth generation gondolier. He was a delight, visual, aural, great company. At one point I mentioned the smell of the canals and asked if it ever bothered him. He allowed that they did become pungent from time to time, but his secret was (he rummaged in a little bag) a squirt of cologne, at which point he gave me one. When he put me ashore at the Salute, he said that he was a regular at the bar at Ristorante al Teatro, and if I was ever around there again, to stop by and have a drink with him.
Dry firm land seemed alien for a few moments. After my payment for the ride I realized I didn’t have a lot of cash, and all the exchanges were closed. I wanted to buy a glass pen for Peg, so repaired to San Marco and its myriad shops. A nice one had them, and though he was reluctant to cash such a large travellers’ check, I took so long in deciding on the proper one that the clerk gritted his teeth and agreed.
I went to the box office at Teatro La Fenice to get a ticket to Idomeneo, but the only tickets remaining started at 130,000 lire ($84.00). I reluctantly decided against it. Two beautiful women next to me in line (are they lesbians?) also declined, so when I saw them in the campo in front of the opera house I struck up a conversation with them. We compared our impressions of Venice. They had also been to Trattoria alla Madonna and loved it. I highly recommended Montin’s and directed them there.
Then I took to the labyrinth of streets around Piazza San Marco to find a restaurant myself. I ended up reading the menu in front of one, the name of which I don’t remember. Two Englishwomen in their fifties, perhaps, came up behind me and (having no Italian) tried to make sense of the menu. So I gave them the short course, and translated the various items they couldn’t figure out. I ended up telling them about this terrific place in Dorsoduro, Trattoria ai Cugnai, and they were convinced. I gave them approximate directions, and they seemed a trifle unsure. I had moments before decided that might suit me too —again— so I offered to take them there. So we set out, Diane Leeson, Faith Seymour and me, and were there in fifteen minutes. Outside the restaurant I said, in effect, well, here it is. I would love for you to join me, but I’ll certainly understand if you don’t want to have dinner with a perfect stranger. They were game for the experience however.
All the women working the trattoria recognized me from two days before, and were warm and welcoming. Coming here had been a wise move, and it just got better and better.
We immediately ordered wine and proceeded to get to know each other better. They are neighbors and friends whose husbands had NO interest in visiting Italy (imagine!) and so they came over together. Faith was born in Cleveland, Ohio and has long resided in England. But Di is the more likely to travel in America. Both are enchanting and fun and this experience was a hundred times better than dining alone, delightful though even that has proven to be here. We laughed the whole time. I was a guide through the thicket of our Italian menu and they marvelled at my “excellent” use of my Italian. Our waitress was the small, somewhat scrawny one, and she treated us like visiting royalty, solicitous, friendly, intimately concerned with our every happiness. It was just like being at home. This is my favorite eating spot on the whole trip.
I had gnocchi con gorgonzola —perfect. Neither Faith nor Di had experienced it before, so they took my advice, though both had it alla Bolognese, with meat. They were immensely pleased. Faith had grilled sole with spinach for her second course; Di and I both had the fritto misto (seafood). We had dessert, too. I had the same cassata siciliana I had before. Faith and Di had tiramisu. Faith and I, being American, tasted one another’s desserts. Her tiramisu was the best I’ve tasted on this trip. No wonder they both looked near orgasm. Between us we had two bottles of mineral water, another pitcher of prosecco (the first bottle was a pinot grigio), coffee all around, and —on the house— a liqueur apiece. Di and I had grappa, Faith had amaretto. The whole bill with tip and cover, which we split, was about $100. Not bad for such an elegant feed.
At the end we met a British couple at the next table, a retired artist and his wife who come over to Venice to paint a couple of times a year, then go back to Merrie E., have shows and sell the lot. Not a bad way of living out one’s twilight years.
When I parted from Faith and Di we exchanged addresses. On leaving the restaurant, I was kissed on both cheeks by the sisters who run it. Faith and Di got a peck too. I walked them to the Accademia bridge where they were to get the vaporetto back to their hotel, and I headed over the bridge home, waving to them from its crest.
God, what a terrific day!

Monday, March 22
I got up latish (for Italy) —and my first stop was the exchange in Campo Sant’Angelo, where I bought my train ticket back to Rome on Wednesday. From there I proceeded to Calle 22 Marzo, and found another exchange with a terrific exchange rate and cashed four checks.
I knew that if I wanted to buy the sculpture I’d seen at Mondonovo, in Dorsoduro, I’d better do it now while I had a manageable supply of money left. I found the shop. It’s by Giorgio Spiller, a carnevale figure, rowdy and delicate at once, made of bronze and brass. He is dressed as a huge penis. There’s a companion piece as well, dressed as a wide-open vagina. The artist was there, a tall bearded figure, handsome and ironic, with a face (and body) like an ancient river god. He would be at home in virtually any fountain in Rome. His partner, Guerino (no other name offered) was there, too. No river god, just beautiful. They gave me a short course on how the sculpture was made, flirted, and noted that the following Lenten period, Boston would celebrate carnevale too.
Giorgio wrapped the sculpture up carefully for mailing, and gave me one of Mondonovo’s posters —United States of Giorgio Spiller, featuring five of the erotic carnevale costumes.
From Mondonovo I traced my steps back toward the tip of Dorsoduro to the little shop on Campiello Barbaro, and bought the lionhead door knocker for Tom and Holly.
On the Dorsoduro side of the Accademia bridge I found by accident the Galleria dell’Accademia. It’s NOT in the Access Guidebook which I consider a major failing. The Galleria is the second best museum I’ve seen in Italy, surpassed only by the Uffizi in Florence. The Uffizi also includes some of the greatest sculpture on display anywhere, whereas the Galleria dell’Accademia is mostly painting. Much of it is very large scale, and the best part of the collection is the flower of the Renaissance. My mouth kept flying open from astonishment. I next went to the Osteria al Bacareto, where I’d stopped for dessert on Friday night. First course was a seafood risotto, second was baccala alla Veneziana, salt cod cooked down with onions, capers and anchovies, and served with a generous slab of polenta. This was accompanied by a gargantuan bottle of mineral water.
Returning to Campo Santa Margherita, a long eliptical space, I found a gelateria (apricot: wonderful). It was time to make a tour of San Polo and Santa Croce, two underexplored sestieri, by tramping along calles and squares in a general northward direction. I explored with wide-eyed wonder a number of noteworthy churches: San Pantalon —plain as a warehouse on the outside, presided over by a sour priest who rudely shushed a visiting group of schoolchildren; San Polo, a spacious low church filled with a cool, comforting light, the chapel of which was decorated by a procession of scenes from the crucifixion by Giambattista Tiepolo (very Spanish in feeling, I thought), with a sweet little old lady guide; San Giacomo dell’Orio, plain but gorgeous, all cool gray and all-but-black brown.
I was sagging by this time, so got to Santa Lucia and took the vaporetto back to Accademia. The Grand Canal at night (from the middle of the canal) is unearthly. The twentieth century melts away.
Looking through the guidebook I decided on Ristorante al Covo, run by Diane (from Lubbock, Texas!) and Cesare Benelli. It was the most expensive meal yet —and still wonderfully affordable. My meal was artfully composed of seafood antipasto (a stuffed mussel in two kinds of sauce; an octopus salad with radicchio; two sautéed sea grasshoppers), a main course mixture of grilled sole, prawns, calamari en brochette and vegetable garnish; and three-quarters of a bottle of Valpolicella which Diane assured me would go well with the fish.
I saw Diane (who’d served me) afterwards, with her husband and an American male friend, and told them how I’d liked their restaurant (in business since 1986).
Then the twisted route back home by way of the bar of the Ristorante al Teatro — which is apparently closed on Mondays. Italy — what strange customs.

Tuesday, March 23
Yesterday was the first day of this long trip in which the sun never came out. Oh, it could be glimpsed through the haze from time to time, but... Today it’s a bit sunnier but not much. It started out by going for a capuccino in Campo San Stefano and finally —first time in Venice— buying a Herald-Tribune. After the coffee I strode confidently down a series of small calli to Pasticeria Marchini, to whose pastries I’ve rapidly become addicted —only to find it closed. Oh well, then my last meal in Venice will not be seafood tonight, but an orgasmic confection from Marchini’s tomorrow morning.
From there I made my way to the bank I went to the previous morning, and cashed a travellers’ check. I also lost my map overing it was missing, and after a mad flight back to the Campo where I’d had coffee earlier.
I moved on to San Marco, the basilica itself. I’d been there briefly the evening before, but a prayer service was in progress and I couldn’t wander about in the stupified wonderment that was my lot this morning. San Marco is the most maddeningly decorated church in all Christendom, I’d bet, a pulsating swarm of detail. The glorious gold-shot mosaics which decorate every ceiling, every upper wall are nothing compared to the floors. Well, to this pattern-haunted pagan, at least. The pavamenti are nothing less than miraculous, made up of every kind of stone to be found in Italy (perhaps the earth!). If the floor had been paved with precious jewels it could hardly have been more dazzling than it is already. San Marco is, of course, an expression of man’s love of God, but it is no less a tribute to the wonders of geology. Geometrical fantasias are broken up by depictions of fabulous beasts (gryphons, peacocks, basilisks, even a lone rhinoceros!), then broken again by fresh explosions of decoration from several centuries of artistic and religious expression. The floor itself evokes the hills of Maryland; the few areas of plain stone are as wavy as the signatures of the wind on the sands of the Sahara, worn into waves by the feet of the faithful. It was dazzling —and by far the most impressive of the Italian churches I’ve seen. In the gallery in the front of the church I bought a poster of San Marco’s floor plan, a wonderfully detailed drawing of the mosaics. It came (mercifully) with a mailing tube, in which I also mailed the poster from Mondonovo, Giorgio Spiller’s scandalous costumes for carnevale, the excessively profane lying in intimacy with the expression of great faith, a perfect metaphor for this lovely country, this whole Mediterranean culture.
Returning to the apartment, I stopped off, on impulse, at a tiny campiello off San Stefano, in front of Venice’s Ministry of Culture. The distant sound of a piano from within (Chopin —a mazurka, I think) was so haunting I put down what I was carrying and just listened to the music. The player was enthusiastic at least, and played with much fire and quite a few wrong notes. It was nonetheless magical (the distance of the music combined with the echo of the campiello) and I left only because of the pressures of nature and the proximity of Tom’s apartment.
On the way to lunch I toured the byways north (?) of the apartment and found the studio of Gigi Bon (tired surrealism, but a nice sculptor, a pleasant young woman with a surfeit of Italian charm) and the studio of Lucio de Marchi, who sculpts in simple pine, items of everyday life. Quite pleasing and very humorous.
Then across the Accademia bridge to Trattoria ai Cugnai where they know me and I know them. Lunch started out with a crabshell filled with its meat, sprinkled with olive oil and coarse salt. In short, the best crab I’ve ever had, and the most in one dish, in twenty years of crab-mania. The main meal was grilled tuna (tonno ai ferri): magnificent. I consumed (to my shame) an entire bottle of prosecco (Italian champagne without the cloying sweetness of Asti Spumante) and ended with the heavenly tiramisu I’d sampled from Faith’s plate two nights before. Again, the best I’ve ever had.
The meal ended, drinks finished, kisses all around, I took the picture of two of the sisters (and a handsome young nephew) in front of the restaurant, then I was taken in turn with the two ladies. They probably think I’m an over-romantic crazy American, and they’re right. What a restaurant!
The rest of the afternoon I walked off the effects of the prosecco, staying mostly around San Marco. A brief detour into San Polo put me into the smelly center of the fish market. Unfortunately, all the market had been carted away, leaving only the smell. A man was hosing the remains back into the canal. This city keeps offering up surprises.
Back into the Piazza —scores of people, thousands of pigeons. I also found the man I’d spoken with in Al Covo last night. He’d spent most of the day with Marciella Hazan —the reason he’s over here is to go to cooking school. Retired but still questing! (He looks like a brother or cousin to Mario Cuomo.)
I had tea at Florian’s, the ancient café on the south side of Piazza San Marco —a full English tea with finger sandwiches, scones, strawberry jam and panna. The café has been in business for 222 years and, it’s said, is in danger of closing. Too bad —and I can’t imagine why: the prices are comfortably high but affordable, the clientele pour through all day long. Its interior is richly rococo, panelled, with gilt decorations high and low. The spirits of Dickens, Byron, Proust, D’Annunzio and a host of other famous patrons seem to hover near. I left quite happy and full.
On the way back to the apartment I stopped at what must certainly be my last Venetian church, Santo Stefano, on the square I’ve passed through dozens of times. After San Marco it is simplicity itself —almost plain. A closer look: this church would be the glory of just about any city of some size. It’s spacious, with a high vaulted ceiling, beautiful loggias along the side made airy by high gothic arches. The smell of this church was of stone —with a pale underpinning of talcum powder.
Gelato del giorno: peach.
Later it was time to say goodbye to Dorsoduro, the mysterious and beautiful, ever-surprising, tranquil sestiere that is far and away my favorite. It’s at its best at night, though I would never again attempt it without a map. First stop was a gallery of African art, which I’d passed a dozen times. This time I went in. The shop opened out into a covered courtyard, with a large gallery showing a splendid collection of African art.
I decided that my last night in Venice would be taken up with seeing as much of this particular sestiere as possible, going to its limits, feasting on its great nocturnal beauty. Off Campo San Barnaba I took a new route, a narrow calle lined with a few shops, trattorie, greengrocers, etc., finally arriving at a wide Fondamente with a long wooden bridge going over to terra incognita. At this point in Dorsoduro the canals and calles and campielli seem wider. Witchy naked trees crawled across the sky which, with Piazzale Roma (Venice’s great carpark near the mainland-to-lagoon causeway) nearby, glowed a lurid purple-red. In this new and remote part of Dorsoduro, the houses became larger, plainer, and more widely separated; ultimately, I found a district made up of what seemed to be large council flats. Between them were something new to me in Venice, wide, bright green lawns! And the closer to the southwest corner I came, a bigger surprise loomed —cars. Workers who live in this workaday corner of Venice must drive across to Mestre. As I turned around to go back, the plainness of the neighborhood and the perfect wilderness of domestic cats wandering the wide deserted campi got to me, and I was glad to have turned back. Outside a little neighborhood bar I stopped to talk with an older couple (she a dead ringer for Kaye Ballard!) bemused at a tourist so obviously far off the beaten path. I explained that my fondness for Dorsoduro made me want to get to know all of its spaces and moods. I think they even understood and appreciated. I was clearly in territory where tourists never go. Across the long wooden bridge I took a left down one of (I’m certain) several Calle de Madonnas, to the long, wide, deserted Rio di Santa Maria Maggiore. As I turned the corner I spotted the impossible —a beautiful little caffé on the canal with tables outside, their lights bright spots of color against the increasing darkness of the sky. It was the Enoteca de Ivano. The host beckoned me inside. This then, was to be my final eatery in Venice. Perfect. I ordered a large beer. An apparent gallon of the stuff came. I ordered the pizza diavolo, with tomato, cheese, black olives and spicy sausage. Also perfect. The enoteca is lined (appropriately) with wine bottles all the way to the ceiling. The parts of the wall not covered with bottles feature large charts of the various food fishes of the lagoon, the Adriatic, etc. They were very friendly and sympathetic when I told them this was to be my last full meal in Venice. In fact, at the end they poured me a complimentary Mandorla, an almond liqueur similar to Amaretto. They let me sit and read my book and I submit that if I hadn’t asked for my conto, I’d be sitting there still.
On the way back I cut through what looked on the map to be pretty easy going. It seemed to be a university, with new buildings and white barred fences which channelled one where they intended you should go. It led me into Campo Santa Margherita, that friendly long square I discovered yesterday, then into Campo San Barnaba. I noticed the church there for the first time, swathed from dome to the edge of the canal in plastic drapery and graffiti-spattered corrugated iron. What a restoration project that must be.
Well, it seems that Venice is not without its perils at night. For almost a week I’ve stalked the calles and alleys and byways without a scintilla of fear, and it seems like women can travel unmolested as well. But while taking a little calle I hadn’t done before, I stopped to look in a new shop window. Around the corner I heard what seemed to be a scuffle, then a young woman’s cries floated out onto the night, something between a moan of ecstasy and a whimper. I went around the corner to see if I could help, and saw that she’d fallen to the ground. The young man standing over her was familiar to her —perhaps a boyfriend. She didn’t seem to be in any danger, just hysterical, and I couldn’t tell whether this had been going on for some time, or what. From around the corner a young carabiniere materialized, and asked if he could help her. The limits of my Italian and a certain reticence kept me out of it, but I certainly felt the wish to comfort her. She kept up a whimper, a hysterical sobbing, all the way to the Accademia bridge, and alas, most of the way there we took the same path. She’d gotten terribly spooked I suppose, but seemed to be unhurt. All the people in the vicinity seemed to take it in stride, and since they could probably understand her Italian sobs, perhaps she was all right. I hope so —a woman’s cries are very hard for me to take.

Wednesday, March 24
It is 12:20 in the afternoon. I’m in the train for Rome, still sitting in the station at Mestre. The car is warm (or is it just me after my struggles with this heavy baggage?). I’m sitting across from a (so far, grazie Dio) taciturn granny whom I believe speaks English. I was not so lucky on the train to Mestre —collared by a tiny wisp of an American bore who nattered on without cease about the prevalence of crime (especially on trains) in Italy. —Just what I needed to set my mind at ease with two bags stuffed with goodies, a shoulder bag and camera in tow. Granny number one is gone, and granny number two is thus far engrossed in Il Gazzettino.
It was raining when I left Venice — the first day in the whole trip that the weather’s been less than celestial. I stopped for a cappuccino at a snack bar in Campo San Stefano, then around to Marchini’s for a fresh goodie, this time an enormous flaky strudel, bursting with butter and thick, creamy apples. The best pastry so far? Tough call. I also bought a packet of torrone. Then back to pack my bags (to overflowing; I decided not to mail any of my purchases) and clean up the apartment. I left, crossed the Accademia bridge, which looked oddly Japanese in the rain, and got the first vaporetto to Santa Lucia. After an eternity it arrived at the station. The trip had been terribly overcrowded and I was never near enough to the edge of the boat to view at length the palazzi lining the canal. How wasted they are: crumbling, patched, eaten away by water and barnacles and waste; but how grand, how very glorious. Like proud and still-beautiful dowagers with obscenely dirty skirts sweeping the lagoon. My first time along the Grand Canal they seemed seedy and not distinguishable one from another. But four (?) trips down the length of the canal, I can now perceive a thousand differences.
I hate to leave Venice but another day might have been boring if rainy, and I guess I’m ready to go back to Boston. I do miss my friends. Funny, though —I feel that if I came to live in Italy, it wouldn’t take me long to acquire a raft of them. I used to think the best thing about Italy was that it was stuffed with great art, glorious and gloriously accessible. I now feel that the really terrific thing about Italy is that it’s filled with Italians. How warm and friendly they’ve been, even in tourist-ridden Venice. Of course it doesn’t exactly hurt that I’ve been pretty eager and willing to try to communicate in Italian.
Henry James once wrote that nobody can ever say anything new about Venice. (Though someone had probably said even that before.) So I won’t try. I can only say that it never exhausted me with its trillion visual delights. I didn’t even mind the smell of the canals, which from time to time can be daunting. But anyone who dismisses Venice on that account is failing to deal with reality. Of course it smells; it has to, being built over a vast sewer. But it’s the miracle of the thing, that city set on pilings 2000 years old that rises above such mundane matters. Such smells and inconveniences are a small price to pay for its lovely floating quality, its utter uniqueness. And no automobiles, to boot.
The only thing I’ve grown to almost despise about Venice is the proliferation of cheap trinkets; perhaps the reason I was so attracted to Dorsoduro is its relative lack of the shops that spew such matter. I do believe that if they melted down all the little glass animals, gaudy goblets, millefiori knickknacks, and then chopped to gravel all the nasty overblown ceramic carnival masks (who on earth could WEAR such a thing without suffocating in ten minutes?) then mixed the two together and poured them into the foundations of the city, they could shore up the base so the city wouldn’t sink for five thousand years.
But here was a town I could relax in, even if I walked to exhaustion more than once. The heart of the city will always remain to me Lino, the sisters at Ai Cugnai, and the restless plethora of architectural detail. These can never sink.
And, OH! those pastries at Marchini’s!

Later.
Our train arrived in Florence and a well of emotion bubbled up. Leaving the station was almost physically painful —again. Of all the Italy I’ve seen, Florence is the flower, the best of it.
But now that I’ve returned to Rome, I wonder. Each city is the best in its way.
I wanted to have a nice memorable meal, finish out the last roll on my camera and see as much of Rome as I could fit in on the last night. I’m too weary after my jaunt to compose elegant prose (a fault of much of this diary) so I’ll just give it the once-over: a walk to a new sight, the Temple of Minerva near the hotel; a walk to Piazza della Repubblica, and its dozens of little second-hand book sellers, still humming at night; the walk down the Via Nazionale and up to the Trevi fountain, where I threw in my obligatory coin to ensure a return (please!); dinner at La Tavernetta, my last meal in Rome —in Italy (marinated seafood salad, paglia e fieno (!), and a wonderful scallopine alla Funghi); the hunt for a gelateria (melone, which was enough of a disappointment for me to seek out a final gelato. This was to be moro —blackberry— the first flavor I’d had over here, and bought mere steps from the first gelateria I’d gone to on arriving.)
A bevy of young and bumptious teenagers is quartered on this floor, loud, rowdy and running in the hall. I shall nonetheless probably sleep like a baby.

Thursday, March 25
We’re boarding the plane now, a tumult of the faithful returning via Rome from the Holy Land, a handful of tourists from other places, and one tired but happy artist.
I slept pretty fitfully, for one so bloody blown-out from my hike from the night before, vaguely worried about the hotel forgetting my wake-up call. The thundering adolescents abruptly stopped as soon as I turned out the light, anyway. There was no hot water in the morning, so I regretfully forwent a shower. The limousine arrived on time, the driver an intense young man, handsome in a dish-faced way. And a demon on the road. We missed by inches oncoming cars, trams, a truck, and numberless pedestrians. We made one other stop, at a hotel where the passengers failed to materialize; this at least meant another tortuous turn throughout that beautiful, tawdry, monumental city, a “greatest hits” replay of some —many— of my favorite landmarks. When I arrived, the city was already green; spring seemed already to have arrived ahead of me, but the real thing is now shyly creeping through Rome, in the form of thousands of trees coming into pink and white flower. Makes it harder to leave —but no, I’m eager to get back to my wonderful friends.
The checking-in process was smooth, though there was a slight hitch when I put my big bag through the scanner. The young man saw a cluster of metal in the middle of the bag. Could I please open it? Yes —here’s the lion-head door knocker for Tom and Holly. Oh, and this? Oh, do we have to unwrap it? No, just put it on the belt to be rescanned. OK. Everything’s fine. Still, that attendant did have a faint smile on his face as the outline of an enormous erect phallus with tiny legs passed through his screen. I imagine they’ll be even more thorough in puritan Boston. I’ll probably have to unwrap the rascal.
I exchanged my remaining lire into dollars (oh, sweet uncomplicated American bills!) and found a coffee bar where I had an automatically dispensed (freshly made while you wait) caffé doppio and a package of 12 little chocolate goodies. There: my last meal in Italy —not bad.
We’re due to arrive at 12:30. I’m glad it’s going to be so early in the day.

So, people will ask, which city was your favorite? So, I’ll tell them, I couldn’t tell you if you put a gun to my head. Well, if really pressed I’d have to say Florence. It seems the most liveable city, after my dear Boston, that I’ve seen. Of course I could also live in Rome —gladly. But Venice? Who could live in a fairy tale? (OK, maybe me.) Venice is not of this earth; like wedding cake, it’s not to eat but to dream upon. Venice was an unending delight to the eye, and fed my visual side more than any other city I’ve seen. After I’d seen the great sights to satiety, I could settle down to seeing the wealth of detail: the architectural grace notes, the crumbles, patches, the palimpsest of era upon era, the variety of boats, the intimate way the sea and canals mingle with the lacy glories that rise out of them.
Rome fed my historical sense, my imagination, and my hunger for experience. I love its big-city feel, those glorious umbrella pines and twisting-skyward cedars, and most of all, the wonderful and always unexpected way the ancient city, the state of the Caesars, was always breaking through into the modern city. Erupting onto the surface and even becoming part of later buildings. On my walk back to the hotel last night I saw part of the back of Trajan’s forum insinuating its way into the very foundation and growing up the sides of a later building.
But Florence. Yes, I guess Florence has my heart. The people are friendlier there, I’m convinced. It’s beautiful in a very down-to-earth way, the crown jewel of all Tuscany. And speaking as an artist, it IS the Holy Land. The greatest concentration of art on earth, one is tempted to blithely generalize. I barely scratched the surface. Which means that I HAVE to go back. This is the city I’ll always want to return to. If the Renaissance is the most significant flowering of art of all time, Florence is truly its cradle.

Herewith a listing of a few of my highlights: the Forum of the Caesars, still and heavy with the intimate presence of the past • Heavenly Italian coffee, always fresh, always potent • The older gentleman at the desk at Quisisana e Ponte Vecchio, and his salty, brisk blonde friend in charge of the kitchen and dining room, who was a shot of adrenalin each morning • The Quisisana e Ponte Vecchio itself, homelike, comfortable, and on the whole my favorite hotel of all, anywhere • The tiny gas-stations on the streetsides of Rome, hardly more than two pumps and a kiosk (an idea America could profitably import) • The glittering shops of Florence • The small bars —coffee, hard liquor, sweets, gelato, company— all in one lovely, welcoming space • That delectable basso buffo in La Cenerentola • The beautiful fountains in every city, especially the baroque bursts of Bernini in Rome • That pretty young student on the train back to Rome, who reminded my so much of Jean (Williams) Grant • Giorgio Spiller and Guerino, of Mondonovo, ancient gods come back to modern Venice to serve as her mask-makers • Gnocchi alla gorgonzola • The treasury of seafood I plowed through in Venice, eating in one go more octopus, squid and cuttlefish than probably all my friends and family ever have • Gelato —in a burst of self-indulgence I’ll probably end up paying for in some horrible way; American ice cream should hang its head in shame • Philip Anderson and his parents • And what the hell, even that laconic, flashing whore on the Via San Lavagnini • The church bells, irritating to me previously, but in Italy a music thoroughly appropriate and enjoyable • The Sistine Chapel ceiling • The friendly conversation with Gabriele in the peaceful Giardino di Boboli • The outdoor market in Oltrarno, in Piazza San Spirito • Getting hopelessly, happily lost in the mysterious, romantic night of Dorsoduro • That first exotic antipasto di pesci at Ristorante al Teatro • The adorable, epic vulgarity of the Vittorio Emmanuele monument • Lino, everyone’s perfect idea of a gondolier, knowledgable, entertaining, good company on water or land • Trattoria ai Cugnai • Trastevere!
The trip was virtually perfect. No truly bad experiences, very few disappointments. For everything I missed, I was awarded something equally valuable; if I had known in time of that production in Italian of Taming of the Shrew at the Teatro Eliseo in Rome, I might have gone, but I would have missed that last tour through the streets and gotten even less sleep last night than I did.
In short, it was an ideal vacation. Any return to Italy will have to be with friends or family —I want to spread the good word. But this first one, alone but constantly meeting wonderful people, was in a class by itself.

Viva Italia!