Italia 1999
Saturday, October 9 — Sunday, October 10
What I like best about flying is all the luxury of all that solitary reading time. I settled into my seat and glanced at my seatmate, a cherubic old lady with eyes glittering with anticipation of her vacation. Bad news. I thought, shrinking into my seat; this type can easily talk all the way to Europe. But she quickly became engrossed in her own book. When we finally talked, over the toy food posing as dinner, she was knowledgable about art, architecture and European culture in general. Her preferred playground was the south of France — but not this time. She was touring Tuscany in a party of fifteen older women.
The flight was uneventful, but my old trouble came roaring back as we descended: sinuses agonizingly blocked by decompression, ears tightened like thumbscrews. By the time we’d bumped down in Amsterdam, I couldn’t have heard a brass band playing across the aisle. In the pearly morning light of 6:00 a.m. the airport was just coming to life. Signs in Dutch might as well be in Swahili, but I finally managed to find my gate for processing. Just before me in the customs line, two hysterical Indonesian boys were having no end of trouble with their papers. The time for my flight into Rome was fast approaching. I fretted until the customs official shooed them through the turnstile. Finally processed, I barrelled down a corridor as long as Broadway to my gate. While I waited to board, I amused myself by trying to open up my sinuses — to no avail. They tightened up even more on the flight into Rome.
ROME
The airport here is even more labyrinthine than Amsterdam’s. Having already been through customs on my first stop, I proceeded to the railway station. I was to meet Marie and Kathy there; our planes were scheduled to land only twenty minutes apart. I waited for close to two hours but they never appeared. Suppressing a vision of my friends wandering through the Rome Airport — mewing with helplessness, unable to communicate — I reluctantly bought my ticket into the city. There were no trains into Stazione Termini, so I was forced to take a bus. (Later I found out that the trains into and out of Rome were all cancelled: a new computer system had been installed and had failed to work. Hundreds of thousands of passengers were unable to travel for days.)
On the bus I sat next to a fresh-faced young man from Montreal. He had come to Italy to be best man at a wedding in Venice and thought he might give Rome a look first. With the confidence or fecklessness of youth he hadn’t engaged a hotel; at Stazione Termini he stood bereft, wondering what to do next, but I couldn’t stay to help.
From Stazione Termini I schlepped my bags down Via Nazionale, puffing all the way; these bags were heavier than I remembered. I finally found Pensione Erdarelli, tucked between a gelateria and a lingerie shop. Kathy and Marie had arrived already, having blithely taken a cab from the airport. I was shown to my room on the third floor, a tiny, stale broom closet redolent of a monkey-house, with a thrilling view of an air shaft. My first thought was: Marie is going to want to move to another hotel, and fast, which indeed proved to be the case. Kathy was taking a nap (she was dogged for days by jet lag) so Marie and I set out to scout the neighborhood for another. We finally decided on the Hotel Traiano, less than a block from Trajan’s magnificent column. It seemed like a safe bet, so we returned for Kathy.
But the first item on the agenda was lunch. We scouted the area around the Via del Corso for a decent cafe, settling on Cafe Lucida in Piazza San Lorenzo. The personnel didn’t seem to have a very firm grip on the gentle art of seating the public, but a table was found for us and we settled down to look over the menu. First item: vino. My companions, bless them, were as fond of Italy’s liquid sunshine as I am; all through our vacation we enthusiastically sopped up Italian wines.
The waiter officiously sidled up to our table and we opened our mouths to order. Suddenly an angry rattle of incomprehensible Italian burst out of two well-dressed ragazze at the next table. Apparently they had been there first, but surely there was no reason for such an eruption of pique. After our sandwiches arrived, a small flock of pigeons settled down around us. Kathy and Marie recoiled in horror. I shooed one away from the base of my chair and took a grim satisfaction in seeing one of our unfriendly neighbors squawk in alarm, leaping out of her chair as if under attack by a battalion of rats.
Over lunch Kathy said she would be perfectly delighted to move to another hotel so we walked back toward the Hotel Traiano. Suddenly here was a gelateria I remembered fondly from my last visit. Gelato number one: moro (blackberry). We pressed on; the hotel was happy to accommodate us, effective the following day.
Stopping briefly at the Forum of Trajan, we moved on to Piazza Navona, my favorite square in Rome. It’s a grand and open space still holding the shape of the racetrack it was in the days of Rome’s grandeur. It was disfigured by a skeleton of scaffolding, like much of Rome, in preparation for the upcoming year 2000 jubilee. Bernini’s Fountain of the Four Rivers could barely be seen behind its high hedge of orange plastic webbing.
At one of the outdoor cafés , Kathy and I ordered beer, Marie a glass of wine; we sat observing the Roman life moving slowly around us. The hot Roman sun beat down on the square, but we were under an umbrella and perfectly comfortable. At a nearby table, raptly gazing at her boyfriend, sat the loveliest girl I may ever have seen. She was dressed in jeans and a simple black top, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She appeared completely unaware of her beauty and grace.
Our eyes were drawn to a street performer. His particular shtik was to pick out unsuspecting persons from the crowd and involve them in some elaborate prank — whether they wanted to or not. Among his most inspired jeux d’esprits was grabbing a man from one side, a woman from another, a child here, a child there, then pose them together as a family group. Then he took a picture — from a camera commandeered from someone in the crowd. It doesn’t sound funny, or even mildly entertaining, but it was. The charm was in the smoothness of the execution. At one point he managed to cajole an older man and older woman, perfect strangers, into outrageous flirting, then kissing. I was relieved we were sitting so far from the arena.
On our way to find the Pantheon we spotted a baroque church, Santa Maria Maddalena. We passed into the interior, perfumed by melting tallow. Italian churches are a great enthusiasm of mine. I hoped that Marie and Kathy would find them as fascinating as I do.
They did. Santa Maria Maddalena was an ideal first exposure. Great art can frequently be found in Italian churches; this one was a treasure trove. Fine canvases by minor masters, faintly lit to guard against fading, hung all around the sanctuary. Dim, amber-tinted light filtered in from the great dome above. We explored the sanctuary quietly, reluctant to disturb the handful of worshippers, then walked back out into the sunshine. The Pantheon was closed for some reason so we kept on wandering.
I was determined to find a restaurant, Il Buco. I’d fallen in love with it on my first visit to Rome and searched fruitlessly for it on my second. It was said to be on a Calle San Ignazio. My memory had placed it near Campo dei Fiori. Had it moved? We found the church of that name, and a friendly friar located the restaurant down a narrow dark street. It was too early to eat, so we went back to the church of San Ignazio. Flyers were being handed out for a free concert that very night at 9:00, just the thing to end our first evening here.
We returned to the Erdarelli to freshen up and informed the desk clerk we would be checking out the next morning. He took the news with indifference, as if this happened all the time. My shower was fine, but Kathy said later that hers was so tiny that she’d been unable to retrieve the soap when she dropped it. Clean, dry and happy, I burrowed into my bag for shorts. None. In panic I searched both bags, unzipping every compartment. T-shirts I had in plenty but Rome was so warm I didn’t require them. Not having the talent or inclination to transform these now-useless items into some sort of primitive didie, I realized I had shopping to do.
Il Buco wasn’t quite the same experience as before. The concert was fast approaching and we felt compelled to hurry — but the food was exceptional anyway. I started with a salad of field greens, porcini mushrooms, shaved parmesan, pepper and oil. Our wine was a bottle of chianti, deep and complex. My main course was a tender partridge in casserole. The only shortcoming was the size of the bird. Perhaps they had prepared me a wren by mistake. We ended with tiramisu and coffee.
The concert was church music performed by a German choir, led by a tall, exophthalmic man with a shaved head, a nose like an adjutant stork’s, and not an eyebrow to call his own. The fine performance was much enhanced by the surroundings. It had been a long day and I had only slept an hour or so on the plane, as is my usual custom. Still, I stayed awake for every note but my fuzzy hearing kept the music at a distance.
I love cities at night, and Rome is unique. Exhilarated by the music, we returned to the Erdarelli slowly, window-shopping our way along the elegant boutiques of the Via Condotti. I undressed and sank into bed, prepared for a satisfying sleep. I immediately sat bolt upright in a totally unexpected panic: the congestion in my head and the stygian darkness of the room were working together to produce something very much like claustrophobia. I turned on a small lamp, placed it under the bed, and put my bags in front to keep the light to a minimum. Then I turned on the air conditioning to keep the air moving. It worked, for I finally tumbled headlong into a deep and dreamless sleep.
Monday, October 11
We met for breakfast in the hotel dining room, a sunny, cheerful space very much at odds with the primitive accomodations. The hotel called us a taxi and we met in front to wait. Kathy brought her bag down: no problem. Marie brought hers: very much a problem. I had cautioned her against packing too much — repeatedly. So had Murray Hamlet. And so had her friend Ralph. But the bag that bumped off the elevator with Marie was like the cornerstone of the Chrysler building. Muttering curses into his mustache, the taxi man heaved it into the trunk and we sped off to the Traiano.
After we checked in, a bawdy suicide blonde named Lidia shepherded us to our rooms. (She was shortly calling me Mr. Michael.) After dropping our stuff we trouped off to tour the shops of Via del Corso. After all, I had underwear to buy.
Halfway up the Corso, we made a detour to the Mausoleum of Augustus, near the banks of the Tiber. It’s a large, mostly intact building from Rome’s golden age, with saplings and weeds sprouting from its crevices. We walked the promenade along the river. The Tiber was a much healthier color than the last time I saw it. The leaves on the great plane trees along its banks were turning a pale green, just before blossoming into autumn gold. The traffic, naturally, was fast and unheeding of pedestrians. I walked them along the river for several blocks, to surprise them with the wonderful view of St. Peter’s from Ponte Umberto I.
Dodging cars, we darted across the Lungotevere and wandered back toward Piazza Borghese. I’d read that its outdoor market sold old prints. Marie was an enthusiastic art lover and had expressed a great desire to buy one: her ideal souvenir. As it turned out we were a bit off course, and discovered the great, plain church of San Agostino in Campo Marzio. It looked too good to resist. Inside the door the first sight we saw was its great treasure, a huge painting by Caravaggio, the “Madonna dei Pellegrini,” draped in plastic sheeting and illuminated by clip-on work lamps. It was in the process of being restored. The rest of the church was impressively decorated with almost-great paintings.
Outside I consulted the map and found that we could get back on course by way of Via della Scrofa, lined with dozens of little antique shops. Eventually we found the Piazza Borghese. A great variety of prints was available, old and reproduction. Marie bought a delicate little lithograph of the goddess Flora. She also found, and felt she couldn’t quite afford, a whimsical French print, early nineteenth century, of two housemaids mischievously dressing up a seamstress’s dummy as their mistress. It was in an old frame which sent the price spiraling upward, a frame from which the dealer was unwilling to liberate it.
Making for the Corso, our attention was drawn by a gallery showing paintings and drawings of a recently deceased artist whose name, maddeningly, I can’t remember. The paintings, mostly landscapes, were quirkily beautiful and avoided the cliché of most such work. They were all about the same size, and around $2000 apiece. I fell in love with two of his drawings, one of haystacks and chopped-down trees in Tuscany, the other a line of Roman buildings along the Tiber in the artist’s own neighborhood. These were $400 each. I was tremendously tempted.
At lunchtime we discovered a narrow little cafe On Via della Croce, Fiaschetteria Beltramme, abuzz with chattering, happy people. The walls were lined with original work, drawings, paintings, caricatures. The friendly waiter (probably the owner) took a personal interest in us. We all got the same thing, Tonnarelli Cacio e Pepe, a thick golden yellow pasta (containing saffron?) eggy and gooey with melted cheese. A liberal grinding of fresh pepper, coarse and fragrant, was the crowning touch. The pasta was fresh, and (no surprise) sublime. We washed it down with chianti and mineral water. Finishing our meal, we settled back to digest it and observe the people around us. — What was this? Everyone in the cafe was stunningly beautiful, men and women. One imposing brunette looked like an earthier, more lavishly beautiful Isabella Rossellini (how can one improve on perfection?). Another, a blonde with generous breasts that appeared to float in front of her, we immediately dubbed ‘the porn star.’ And the male contingent were just as heart-stopping, maybe more so, pantie-melters to a man.
Afterward I repaired to the gabinetto; the women waited outside. When I rejoined them they beckoned me frantically. “We’re stalking someone!” they hissed, eyes aglow. I could only follow. Just ahead was a well-dressed man with a girl on one arm. I strode on ahead of them and stopped at a shop window to look back discreetly. He was indeed an Adonis, dark and film-star handsome. From then on, almost as a game, we tried to see if we could find his equal. I found four within the next half hour.
We pressed on, to the Piazza del Popolo, the largest of Rome’s squares except for St. Peter’s. We stopped at another cafe, where I ordered my second gelato, bacio, a dark chocolate made even richer by ground hazelnut. As we left the cafe, another Greek God strutted in, the equal — or superior — to the first.
To cool off, physically and psychologically, we trotted up a long set of steps to the Villa Borghese. Imagine Central Park with hills and towering palms. We looked over the city below from a high promontory, lazily floating in the haze. After walking around the park for an hour or so, we approached the exit at the head of Via Veneto. Kathy flattered two old ladies sitting on a bench by asking if she could photograph them.
On our promenade down Via Veneto, we were drawn to the little sidewalk cafés enclosed in glass, but it was too early to eat. I stopped at the Hard Rock Cafe to get Sarah a pin as she requested. On the way back to the hotel I bought a bottle of the cologne I’ve worn on and off since 1963, Acqua di Selva. My friends returned to the hotel but I walked on to the Piazza della Repubblica to photograph the fountain and browse the bookstalls. Suddenly half-crazed with thirst, I bought a bitter orange drink. It went down like cream. On the way back down Via Nazionale, I bought more undershorts and a shirt.
Later I collected Kathy and Marie and we took a cab to Piazza Pasquino. Our goal was the restaurant Terra di Siena. I’d had a memorable meal there the last time I was in Rome. This time it was even better. Marie ordered the perfect appetizer, which she very generously shared with us. This was a sformata di spinaci e formaggio, a cone-shaped fantasia in pureed spinach, given firmness by the addition of cheese and egg. It was a culinary experience almost without equal on the trip, something between a mousse and a soufflé. It had all of us moaning with pleasure. My following courses were almost anticlimactic, but hell, I choked them down anyway. Primo, gnocchi with tomato and basil; secondo, breast of chicken with olive and basil, both celestial. I need hardly mention that this rich meal was accompanied by wine, a robust chianti classico.
Slowly, we walked back to the Traiano, drunk on the romance of Rome at night. We aimed for the Trevi fountain, and on the way met a friendly couple from Albany. As we made for the fountain, we were joined by a loquacious old man determined to show us the way. He was somewhat the worse for drink, but more glowing than stinking. At the fountain we were joined by a vaguely sleazy middle-aged man. Years ago he might have been charming — but he wasn’t now. I didn’t mind him much, but he made Kathy and Marie uneasy, so we gently rebuffed him.
Tuesday, October 12
After breakfast in the Traiano dining room, a fine high room in the rococo style, we walked to the Barberini subway stop. They were going to the Vatican museums; I had shopping in mind. We parted at the Ottaviano stop, and I walked down Via Cola di Rienzo, a broad, magnificent street of shops. I was looking for a leather bag but didn’t find it. Toward the river was Castel Sant’Angelo, originally Hadrian’s mausoleum. It too was swathed in plastic orange webbing. Seen from the back, it was much bigger than I’d thought. Walking across the Tiber via Rome’s most spectacularly beautiful bridge, I took photographs of Bernini’s ten angels. On the other side was the old print shop I’d visited six years before, and a gelateria. My gelato del giorno was zuppa inglese, juicy with rum and raspberry jam, a wonderful guilty pleasure.
I crossed the Tiber to Vatican City, over Ponte Vittorio Emmanuele. Saint Peter’s square was full of people, but not uncomfortably so; they seemed to be pilgrims rather than tourists. There were people milling all around the Basilica, but it wasn’t crowded. This impressive space, the center of world Christianity, has everything — except human warmth. Michelangelo’s Pieta is behind glass because of the attack by the madman with the hammer. But the crowds are kept so far away from it that the delicacy of the work is not really observable. This most sensitive picture of grief, this brilliant work of art, is now made too inaccessible to give anyone pleasure or spiritual sustenance. So the madman won.
Leaving the church, I found a small, friendly shop and bought a little model of the Colosseum for Kathy Velis and a rosary for Tootie, then went back across the river again. My purpose: serious antiquing on Via Giulia. It had been cited in a guidebook as one of the great hunting grounds, dozens upon dozens of little antique shops. I found very few, and most of those were closed. My reward was Hostaria Giulia.
It was on a steepish narrow street but nonetheless offered alfresco dining. The weather was perfect. I sat down for lunch on a rickety cafe table draped immaculately in snowy linen. Aside from the esthetic pleasure of the café, the food was everything one could hope for in a serendipitous dining discovery. I had spaghetti alla carbonara, so rich with egg and crumbled bacon that I could almost feel my arteries snapping shut. The bubbles in the accompanying glass of prosecco must have opened them back up, because after dining I charged up Via Giulia again with renewed energy. I found no antique shops worthy of the name but there was a fine old fountain in a crumbling wall at the far end of the street, a frog-mouthed old satyr’s head pouring out sweet drinkable water for anybody who wanted it. The water in all Roman fountains is potable.
My next move was to cross Ponte Sisto to Trastevere, the oldest, most atmospheric part of the city. If I lived in Rome, this is the neighborhood I would choose. I don’t know what charms me most, the narrow twisting streets, the small specialty shops, the little English bookstore? Maybe it’s simply the lack of tourists. This is the real Rome.
As I knew I would, I ended up at the church of Santa Maria in Trastevere, where I ogled the thrilling mosaics that are the great draw to those in the know. These are in the Byzantine style, and cover the nave and front chapels with elongated saints and saviors worked in colored bits of tile and gold, gold, gold. There were only one or two people at prayer in the back of the church, so I felt free to take photographs — discreetly. (None of these came out.)
Outside, I threw myself into the maze of Trastevere’s little streets — alleys, really — that give one the feeling that here one might discover anything. Footsore but happy, I wandered and wondered for a couple of hours. Eventually I discovered part of the vast parkland on the Janiculum hill, an arboretum stocked with an abundancy of palms, palmettos and gigantic philodendrons. It was like exploring Rome and accidently finding Key West.
Although I hadn’t exhausted Trastevere’s quirky charms, I stopped briefly at the English bookstore, bought some postcards and stamps in a bar/tabacchi, and started the long trek back to the Traiano. I crossed at the Isola Tiberina, a compact little medieval city plunked down on an island in the Tiber, then the Ponte Fabricio, and found a little farmacia where I bought some film. The woman in charge looked like a smaller, more ladylike version of Saraghina, the massive whore in my favorite movie, Fellini’s Eight and a Half. Her English was practically non-existent, and my Italian was barely adequate to specify what kind of film I needed, so I ventured sign language. It worked. On the way back I came upon the back of the Teatro di Marcello, a blackened and crumbling Roman ruin, then stumbled across an old favorite, the Tortoise fountain in its friendly little square.
When I picked up Kathy and Marie, they said they had found the Vatican Museum lines too daunting. What’s more, they didn’t even go into St. Peter’s! Instead, they returned to the hotel. Kathy was feeling down and had slept most of the day so they were more than ready for a night on the town. The night before, we had passed a restaurant with rosy pink lighting and artwork covering the walls, Ristorante L’Arcaro. It had looked promising, so we’d marked its location. The motto over the door, Mangiare e Sognare (to eat and to dream) seemed a trifle inflated, but it almost lived up to this claim.
The atmosphere was hospitable, the waiter was pleasant, the meal was masterful. We honored the food by accompanying it with a bottle of prosecco. First we had bufala cheese, a light, almost frothy mozzarella served on a bed of field greens. My primo piatto was steamed mussels in garlic and oil, tiny and jewel-like in their shells. Secondo was a risotto agli scampi, creamy and rosy pink from the chopped prawns, with a profound, deep flavor. We ended with liqueurs, Amaretto for my friends and Cynar for me. They sampled mine but were horrified by its bitter, almost acrid flavor, and wondered why anyone would make a liqueur from artichokes. We ambled back to the hotel, window-shopping all the way.
Wednesday, October 13
In the morning, to avoid waiting lines, Marie and Kathy arranged for a tour of the Vatican museums. That meant leaving at an early hour, and on arrival, dashing madly through the goodies. We agreed to meet at the hotel at three. I traveled north to Villa Borghese by way of Via Veneto — with a side trip up Via Sardegna and Via Giacomo Puccini. (How gracious of the Romans to name a street for one of their greatest opera composers.) On the way there, I met an older woman with a grim set to her face. She reminded me vaguely of Newty Barnett, my much-loved old teacher, so I smiled almost automatically. Her features lit up like a Broadway marquee, suddenly the prettiest face in Rome.
The Villa Borghese Galleries were so popular that morning that only tickets for a one o’clock admission were being sold. The National Museum of Modern Art was my consolation prize. Modern in this case meant from the early nineteenth century on. My favorite was a towering Canova Hercules, with Antaeus lifted above him in a most undignified position. The poor giant’s genitalia looked especially naked and vulnerable pointed heavenward — and more than slightly erotic. (One wonders what could have been on Hercules’s mind.) Next best was a Cleopatra giving suck to her asp, meticulous in detail and so sensitively modeled that the marble cushions she lay upon actually looked soft.
I emerged from the great park by Viale Giorgio Washington, northward up Via Flaminio in search of lunch. Not finding anyplace tempting I crossed Ponte Matteotti and walked back toward Via Cola di Rienzo. A turkey and cheese panino from a bar was fine; even better was the pistacchio gelato that followed. Meandering through the city, I searched -- fruitlessly -- for the gallery showing the artist’s work that had so impressed me.
Back at the hotel at three, Kathy and Marie were mad keen to go to an outdoor café they’d spotted on their tour, not far from the hotel. It strained for a picturesque look, with grapevines growing overhead, but was clearly geared to the tourist trade. The food was merely serviceable. The service was lousy, but for an obvious reason: this vast place was tended by only one waiter, a young man barely into his twenties. He darted about cheerfully trying to serve everyone well, but we were indignant that the proprietors would saddle one scrawny waiter with all those tables. Afterward Marie wanted a rich, gooey dessert, with an emphasis on gooey. Up Via Cavour we found a bar with outdoor tables. The women practically purred with pleasure over their tiramisu, but it couldn’t have been better than my lemon tart.
I wanted to show them the parts of the old imperial Rome they had missed, all a short walk from the hotel. We passed the Vittorio Emmanuele monument, that colossal white typewriter, dodging cars all across the wide traffic plaza. On the other side of the monument were the steps to the Campidoglio, the capital flanked by those gargantuan studs Castor and Pollux. Michelangelo’s elegant pavement is the reward at the top of the steps. Along Viale Teatro di Marcello were sights every few steps: the Temple to Manly Fortune, the Temple of the Vestals, and the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin. This I thought would be interesting chiefly for its great tourist sight, the Bocca della Verita (Mouth of Truth). I was wrong.
Santa Maria in Cosmedin is possibly the oldest Christian church I’ve ever entered. Plain, dark and chill, it was built in the 6th century — and looks it. Mounted into the floor somewhere inside is a fragment of mosaic from the first, original St. Peter’s Basilica; on its porch there are a few fragments of classical statuary, and the Bocca della Verita. It has now lost the protective plexiglas panel in front, the bane of photographers, which had a neat slot cut in it so people could still stick their hands into the mouth. It depicts the god Oceanus, and was probably a humble sewer cover originally.
Around the corner was the great Circus Maximus. The ruined palaces on the Palatine Hill looked ghostly in the blue twilight. The towering umbrella pines on the hill over the Circus were magnificent against the sky. As the light faded it slightly spooked Kathy and Marie. They felt it was somehow unsafe to walk there (knocked down by Ben Hur’s chariot?), so we headed back.
I wasn’t ready to go back to the hotel, so I asked my friends to join me for a bottle of wine in some café in the Centro Storico. But a half hour later, tuckered out completely, they went back to the Traiano. I stayed out, determined to find the perfect meal for the evening. All during the trip, I’d been casually looking for a restaurant serving my favorite pasta dish, paglia e fieno. So far I’d come up dry. Now’s the time, I thought, to search in earnest for this most desirable of dishes. I wandered about, consulting menus, among the hundreds of little cafés and restaurants in the narrow streets between the Piazza di Spagna and the Via del Corso. And then --
The Ristorante Giggi was a small, well-lit place. The tables were squeezed together, every table crowded with patrons. A good sign? A waiter shoehorned me into a seat and I struck up a conversation with an Australian couple at the next table, so close that we could almost have made love while remaining in our chairs. I pored over the menu but could not find the paglia e fieno advertised on the bill outside! I had truly landed in Hell; around me, the patrons were all smoking. I thought I could endure it, but before the waiter returned I decided to continue the search. The place was so choked with smoke that I wouldn’t have stayed if they’d offered me a free feast of pheasant, tournedos Rossini and champagne. Bidding adieu to my Aussie friends, I beat a fast retreat. The air outside was sweet and fresh and clean and I gratefully filled my lungs with it.
Ristorante “34”, Mario’s, Trattoria Romano — they all looked good, but none were quite the thing. And paglia e fieno was not to be found in any of them. Then I saw the perfect place, Trattoria Sant’Andrea. The cheery interior promised good things from the kitchen but there were tables outside and the weather was balmy. No paglia e fieno was offered but by now I had to sit or die.
It was a lucky choice. The first course was farfalle in black olive sauce, spicier than it looked, perfection itself. This was followed by a grilled chicken breast with rosemary potatoes. The breast was tender almost to the point of melting, and actually better than the pasta. Tying everything up into a neat, perfect package was a small bottle of Castelli Romani, a young red wine, but wise beyond its years. I could have danced back to the hotel, but not even Nijinsky could have tripped across those cobblestones without fracturing a couple of ankles.
Thursday, October 14
I’d promised Marie and Kathy a personal tour through the Capitoline Museum, repository of some of the most impressive relics of imperial Rome. But it was closed till January, another victim of the renovation craze sweeping Rome in anticipation of the Jubilee 2000. Rather pissed, we walked to the parapet overlooking the Forum, warm and almost pretty in the morning haze. I wanted to go back to the Villa Borghese Gallery; it seemed like a good idea to them, too. We caught a taxi in the mad whirl of traffic surrounding the Vittorio Emmanuele monument and were whooshed away to the park.
Arriving discreetly early, we got into the museum without a hitch. The rooms were great works of art in themselves and overflowed with the glories of Italian art. Most impressive was Bernini’s “Daphne and Apollo.” To me, Bernini is the most underrated of the great artists, a man who set his ineradicable mark on the face of Rome. “Daphne and Apollo,” a delicate and dramatic set piece, could be his greatest triumph -- if there weren’t so many competitors for the title. Several of these were right here in this museum.
Caravaggio, the great master of chiarascuro -- and most sensual of painters -- was represented by several fine canvases. We took in the Canova portrait of the topless Pauline Borghese last. Earlier it had been surrounded by a large tour group of children, sniggering as children will. It’s a great study, Napoleon’s sister serenely topless but somehow chaste in her perfection. But the Berninis were my favorites, ever and always.
Afterwards we walked some more in the park, and then made for the nearby church of Santa Maria della Vittoria. Within this modest church, almost ignored by the guidebooks, is the great sculpture of St. Teresa of Avila, generally judged to be Bernini’s masterpiece. As with my first sight of Michelangelo’s Pieta, I found it smaller, more delicate than expected. The saint sprawls weightlessly amid her floating draperies, head thrown back, a look of sublime ecstasy on her face; the angel above her smiles down with a kind of ‘this won’t hurt a bit’ look on his face as he plunges God’s arrow into her grateful heart. Each of us responded to this great sculpture in our own way, and with the reverence due a great expression of artistic genius inspired by faith.
In the same neighborhood is the large church of Santa Susanna. It was locked up tight. Across the street was San Bernardo alla Terme, so we went in there instead. This was a vast space, light and airy but rather dry and plain, like the inside of a drum. Outside, we parted again, they in a taxi to see the Forum, which I told them they must not miss, I simply to walk the streets. I had no goal but to walk about aimlessly and let the feel of the city seep into me.
Another feeling was seeping into me: hunger. I found Pub All’Artu, a modest tavola calda. This is a self-serve cafeteria -- but with Italian food. I had a pickled seafood salad followed by breast of chicken, pounded to tenderness. It lay in savory sauce which I think was composed largely of pureed artichoke hearts. For once I didn’t feel like wine, but had mineral water instead. Afterward, further down the street in the neighborhood of the church of Santa Maria Maggiore, I had my gelato del giorno, tiramisu. I’d been inside this fine church on my first trip, so continued on to Via Cavour.
Several people were blithely trotting up a steep flight of steps, so I followed them — and found myself gulping for air by the time I’d reached the top. The area was thick with students, all lounging about or skylarking. Eventually I found myself in Trajan’s Park, more ruins, in that muddy brick of ancient Rome that one might have expected to crumble eons ago. The ruins were all but deserted, except for an occasional student with his girl. As I turned a corner I came to a venerable old fountain, hideously disfigured by graffiti. Turning away I saw the Colosseum nearby, much larger than I’d remembered. The approach to it was from on high. I walked toward it.
My attention was diverted by something off among some trees. A museum? Checking it out, I discovered it was Domus Aurea, an archeological dig open to the public. I’d never gone into an adventure into underground Rome before, so I bought a ticket and joined the other people, mostly students, waiting in a leafy glade. In a few minutes the tour started.
Our guide was a pretty young girl with uncertain English, Simona Magnini. Blonde, with a high forehead and green-gold eyes glowing out of her tanned face, she seemed an agreeable companion to go back a couple of millenia with. The Domus Aurea is a collection of old Roman homes long buried by the gradual accretion of the city overhead. It is still being excavated. Our small group began the descent into darkness, down a cool damp tunnel. I felt like old Rome itself, buried and long forgotten, was rising to greet me. We were allowed to take pictures, but strictly without flash. The remarkable decorative painting, faded in color yet still vibrant in its variety, revealed itself in patches over the walls and ceilings. We proceeded slowly, going deeper into the bowels of the city. The lighting was expertly planned, just bright enough to see adequately, but not enough to damage such delicate art. We proceeded from room to cavernous room with little comment, as Simona let us discover it for ourselves.
It was clear to her that I had gotten a good deal of pleasure out of the experience, so when we came back into daylight, she suggested I check out the displays where she was previously employed, the National Museum of Archeology. Still under the spell of Domus Aurea, I walked there directly, stopping only to pop into an ancient church of no particular distinction, Santa Pudenziana. I must confess that I also stopped for another gelato (spagnola, a luscious cherries and cream concoction) in a gelateria in the shadow of the museum.
The National Museum was different from Domus Aurea, a visit to a well-run laboratory as opposed to an exciting field trip. Everything was beautifully presented, restored and annotated (in English, too) and artistically lit, but it was the experience of ancient Rome at a slight remove. Quite a few pieces had been temporarily lent to other museums. In addition, my ticket allowed me free passage to all the rooms except the top floor — until 6:15, which meant idling about for over an hour. The mysteries of the museum’s top floor remained a secret, for we’d arranged to meet for dinner at seven. I took a circuitous route back to the Traiano by way of the little shops and side streets. Modern Rome has its charms, too.
Marie was waiting for me in the lobby, alone. Kathy wanted an evening to herself, so we were to have dinner a deux. Cinzia, the sweet blonde receptionist at the hotel, had recommended the nearby Ristorante Papok, which I’d seen on my way back. We walked there slowly, the low sun casting a rosy glow over the sky. A wedding party was tumbling out of the church around the corner from Papok, all merriment and flowers.
The restaurant was pleasing to look at. Glass cases filled with delicately artistic liqueur bottles and vases of flowers were set about. But the food, while agreeable, was nothing special. We shared a bottle of Traminer Aromatica, an unfamiliar fruity white, not too sweet. I started with cicoli (a bullet-case shaped pasta) with spinach and shrimp, then moved on to a delightful serving of turbot with thin-sliced potatoes cooked with porcini mushrooms. As much as we enjoyed the meal, it took a small slice of eternity to get the bill. We stopped for a gelato, the perfect cap to any meal, or anything else. This was my third of the day. I had lemon, sweet and tart and feather light, which in no way justifies my wickedness.
But the mills of the gods grind slowly, and they grind exceeding small. My night was a bad one, sinuses so tight, so unyielding to the drops I was using that I spent the first two hours before sleep fighting off panic.
Friday, October 15
After breakfast and check-out, we set out to grab a few last moments of Rome. Kathy and Marie went shopping; I was curious to see the Spanish Steps from the top, so I skittered up an even steeper flight of stone steps off to the side. It was beautiful, of course, this vista of the city below, with St. Peter’s dome rising in the distance like a vanilla ice cream cone. But I was breathless from my climb and rather knocked out by my ordeal of the night before. It was high time to seek help for my poor head.
I found a farmacia and went in, hoping I could adequately communicate with the druggist. I needed specific help — and soon. Then a heavenly vision materialized — an angelic English girl. With the briskness of a lovelier Florence Nightingale she quizzed me briefly about my blood pressure, etc., then prescribed two medicines to take in tandem. Resisting the impulse to cover her hands with kisses, I waltzed out of the shop and back to the Traiano. It would take five days for the medicine to work, but work it did.
We didn’t want to stray far from the hotel since we were set to leave soon. Down Via di Serpenti we found a small restaurant specializing in native dishes from Sardegna. As usual, we ordered a bottle of wine, a pleasant if undistinguished white. Kathy and I shared a salad caprese, mozzarella with tomato slices, then I had a fisherman’s risotto, studded liberally with bits of exotic seafood. It was a beautiful presentation, but more beautiful still was our waiter. He was lean and dark, vaguely lupine, a volcanic sexiness in his languid eyes. I’m sure he was fully aware of his effect not only on my friends, but me as well. He had greeted us in street clothes, but during our meal he changed into a waiter’s whites, setting off his dusky eroticism even more dramatically.
We took a quick cab to Stazione Termini. It was humming along, thank heaven, after a week of paralysis. We only heard the correct track information as the train was about to depart. Having no forklift, getting Marie’s bag up the narrow steps was an ordeal, but my own bags were almost as unwieldy. After dealing with pushing crowds, off the train and on, we fell into our seats exhausted. Our seats were reserved, and in first class, but not even this distinction could cool off our car. Hoping to defeat the heat by ignoring it, I settled into my book, Travelers’ Tales - Italy. The ride through the Lazio and Tuscany took about an hour and a half.
FLORENCE
We breezed through the station at Florence, which was much smaller and better organized than Rome’s, and immediately got a cab. The fine weather of Rome had finally broken; a light rain fell. In five minutes flat we arrived at our hotel, the Pendini.
The Pendini is the perfect paradigm of the little European hotel, modest, slightly worn, thoroughly comfortable. A tiny elevator takes one to the fourth floor, a little lobby leading to a wide, light-filled sala with tables, comfortable sofas, and a tiny bar tucked into a corner. Old prints line the walls. And on a desk between the lobby and the sala was a computer offering free e-mail, a nice touch.
Marie and Kathy had been assigned to the floor below. My room was on this level, spacious, neat, with a nice wide bed. On my previous visit to Florence, I’d vowed never to stay anywhere else but the Quisisana e Ponte Vecchio. But the Mafia bombing of the Uffizi had damaged my lovely hotel beyond repair. The Pendini turned out to be a most agreeable substitute.
After the grueling train ride, I figured their best first exposure to Florence was a leisurely stroll around the Centro Storico. I remembered the route well. It was still raining gently so I bought a flimsy folding umbrella, absurdly cheap. (Miraculously, it held together for the rest of the trip.) The closest sight was the Duomo, my favorite building anywhere. It was the same vision I remembered, though with an ugly diaper of scaffolding attached to its rear end. Nearby was Il Sasso di Dante, a restaurant I had loved before. We kept ducking into little shops (Florence is a shopper’s paradise), ending up walking into the Palazzo Vecchio. We emerged into the Piazza della Signoria, one of Italy’s greatest open spaces. Around the corner was the great treasure house, the Uffizi, its businesslike exterior a clever disguise. Then we came to the Arno. The Ponte Vecchio, ablaze with light, hung suspended in the purple dusk; we headed for it. Over the bridge into Oltrarno, we checked out every shop still open. The best was a fine leather shop, Umberto, where I almost bought a shoulder bag. Back across into Florence proper, we went by the Porcellino, its snout rubbed to a golden gloss by hundreds of thousands of visitors. The market under the columns, bedraggled in the rain, was folding up to go home.
After our hike, we were ready for a good meal. Il Sasso di Dante was almost as I remembered, but smaller. We were squeezed into a cozy nook and ordered a half liter of red. My first course was gnocchi with bleu cheese and pistachios. A young woman at the next table heard me order it; she craned her neck around the corner and affirmed that I’d love it — it was the best thing on the menu. I think she was right. The soft gnocchi in its thick cheese sauce would have been orgiastic in itself; the addition of chopped pistachios sent it into an even higher realm of gustatory pleasure. My second course, eggplant alla Parmigiana, was almost anticlimactic.
Back at the hotel, we settled into the sala and ordered tea. It was served by the desk clerk, a beautiful, dark-eyed young man. My companions were as taken by him as I was, but they thought he might be a little young for any of us. I didn’t think so. After tea, Kathy and Marie went on down to bed. I remained in the sala to read. A plumpish man sat down in the adjourning chair. He was an Australian, touring around the world with his wife and son, and he agreed with me that Italy was the flower of vacation spots.
Saturday, October 16
Over breakfast, I confessed to Marie and Kathy with a leer that I’d gotten the desk clerk into my room last night. Their eyes widened and I finished the story: he had only brought me a TV remote, for mine was missing.
After doing some laundry, I set out alone to shop and reacquaint myself with Florence. The sun had come shyly out of the clouds, so I stopped to take pictures of the Duomo. I found a gelateria with its products piled up in their glass cases like pastel icebergs of flavor: irresistible. My choice was arancia e pesce. Who would ever have thought that orange and peach were such natural partners?
The San Lorenzo market is open every day, and it had enough merchants selling leather bags to satisfy anyone. I bought a terrific bag, plain but hardy, then bought some calendars for friends in the office.
I met Kathy and Marie at Gilli’s for lunch. I’d loved it on my previous visit, especially for a late-night snack. The loveliness of the day dictated that we sit on the terrace. Feeling it was time to at least make the gesture of eating light, I ordered the salmon salad, very good. When Kathy and I went up to look at the dessert cart the manager slithered up to us, smiling and rubbing his hands. We were innocently pleased by his eagerness to introduce us to some of Gilli’s pastries. (I ordered the diplomatico, a light cake with cream filling, rum and chocolate chips.) As soon as the last forkful was off the last plate, the waiter came up and presented us with a small collection of slips. It was slightly confusing, and we dithered a minute. The waiter hovered, his heavy, swinish face a reproach. Ah, here came the smiling manager — but apparently even a shark can smile. He was there only to give his waiter moral support. It was truly il grande rip-off, an experience thankfully never repeated on the trip. The expense wasn’t that bad, but how I hated that hovering waiter!
I led my friends back to the San Lorenzo market, but they weren’t really charmed by its raffish, oriental souk-like atmosphere and left without making any purchases. Afterward I took them into the church of San Lorenzo. They liked this more, with its great hollow nave and the painting of St. Lawrence on his griddle.
Marie had heard that the lines at the Uffizi were shorter in the evenings, so off we went. There were no more than fifteen or twenty in line, so we were able to coax Marie into going in. Such heady pleasures as the Uffizi are worth any amount of waiting, but she was decidedly peculiar about this.
We got separated fairly early, but by now we were used to going at different paces. I could no more do a once-over-lightly tour of a great art museum than I can leap over the Duomo in a single bound. The collection — on only one floor — kept me enthralled for over three hours. I knew the name of Filippo Lippi, of course, but hadn’t really formed an opinion of his work. There was plenty of it here, and I liked it every bit as much as everyone’s favorite, Botticelli. Mind you, I didn’t exactly race through his works, either. As before, I was beguiled by the ancient portrait heads in the central hallway. Reaching the river side of the building, I noticed the sky had turned a ravishing royal blue. I took pictures of the Palazzo della Signoria and the Ponte Vecchio in the dusk. The galleries on the other side were better lit, and therefore more enjoyable.
When I arrived back at the hotel, Marie and Kathy were sitting in the sala, enjoying a bottle of wine, crackers and honey from the breakfast room. As this wasn’t a terribly substantial meal, we asked the sexy desk clerk for recommendations. He directed us to a snack bar about three blocks from the hotel. Kathy had vegetable soup, Marie a napoleon, and I ate a tuna and tomato panino with a pleasant glass of chianti. Our late hour conviviality evolved into a spirited discussion of movies. Marie is as movie-mad as I am and like me, her favorites are from Hollywood’s Golden Age. Kathy hadn’t seen nearly as many, so we enthusiastically put together a list of recommendations for her.
Sunday, October 17
On this crisp morning, we returned to Oltrarno, our ultimate goal the Piazza San Spirito marketplace. On my previous visit to Florence, this market was wonderland, the domain of small farmers and craftsmen, and with tables groaning with antiques. Now it was mostly foodstuffs, meats and produce and homemade cheeses fresh off Tuscan farms. Having no access to a kitchen at the moment, my only purchase was a huge brick of citrus soap.
Suddenly feeling chilled, Marie went back to the hotel for a wrap. Kathy and I wandered through Oltrarno to the Pitti Palace. Installed in front of the palace now were sculptures of huge broken faces in blackened bronze, mysterious and beautiful. On the sidewalks along the piazza artists showed their work. I liked the drawings of one in particular, architectural fantasias on Florentine landmarks, bristling with detail.
Back toward Ponte Vecchio on way to Piazzale Michelangelo, we stopped briefly at the ancient church of Santa Felicitá, then walked along the Via Lungarno to approximately where I thought we should begin the climb. We zigzagged up narrow streets and were suddenly confronted by a long, long stairway. We were winded by the time we had climbed its jillion steps, but it was worth any amount of effort.
The air up here was clear and cool. The city of red tile roofs and warm golden stone lay far below in a light haze. This is the classic view of Florence. Brunelleschi’s glorious dome is the centerpiece, dominating even the Palazzo Vecchio. Experiencing the city from this angle is to fall in love all over again, to feel at one with the centuries of art in the museums, galleries, and churches below.
We met Marie as arranged at the base of the Ponte Vecchio, then walked south along the river and turned up Via Tornabuoni to window shop. The women’s fashions here run the gamut from the classic look to wild extravaganzas, pure Star Wars. Paris and New York could easily give way to Florence or Milan as the center of world fashion. In a tiny print shop, Marie seriously considered buying a Matisse drawing of a girl’s head, but she resisted the temptation.
The church of Santa Maria Novella was under extensive renovation. Nobody was being admitted so we moved on. Buca Nicorelli is a nice neighborhood restaurant, more comfortable than great. First I raised a glass to my sister on this, her 52nd birthday. My farfalle alla boccaiola (hunter-style) was filling and good, but the tonno e fagioli was pedestrian, canned tuna plunked down among white beans. Kathy had spinach and a four-cheese risotto; the aroma whetted my own appetite. Marie tucked into her veal with lemon, rolling her eyes heavenward and pronouncing it excellent.
I was breezily commenting on the good looks of the men around us when I suddenly became aware that I had listeners at the next table, a young couple from Chicago. I needn’t have worried about shocking them: sex was very much on their minds anyway. They were on their honeymoon, driving (bravely) the roads of Italy. Both were maldly in love with the countryside, completely undaunted by the wild drivers.
Afterward we walked north to the Accademia museum. The big attraction, of course, is Michelangelo’s David. Not even the figure’s imperfections, enormous hands and too-wide shoulders, can detract from its Olympian beauty. Finished, they returned to the hotel, and I arranged to meet them at 6:30. I again wanted to wander and absorb the city’s rhythm, to breathe its allure.
First stop was the church of Santissima Annunziata with its frescoes by Andrea del Sarto in the front cloister. A service was about to begin so I didn’t stay long. The church’s wide square is dominated by a large equestrian statue of some thumpingly martial Medici, but I was attracted instead to a small fountain. The figure was of some fantasmagorical creature, part fish, part imp, part bird. Mostly it suggested the winged monkeys of Oz. An identical demon faced it across the square.
Back to Centro Storico, I happened onto Dante’s house. Around the corner was the church where he worshipped, and where his wife is buried. Some steps away from her is the grave of Beatrice, inspiration for The Divine Comedy. A concert was announced for that evening. Because we’d enjoyed the one in Rome, we often spoke of going to another musical event, so I filed this away as a possibility.
Every time I return to a favorite city, I’m torn between the natural desire to revisit old restaurants and the quest for new ones. In the Piazza before Santa Croce, I remembered Leo’s of fond memory. Ah, yes, I knew exactly where it was. Teatro Verdi was just around the corner, a handy point of reference. I approached the corner, but to my disappointment Leo’s had been replaced by a farmacia! (Later I found out that I was wrong; the restaurant was a block away.) Teatro Verdi was presenting Shakespeare’s Amleto that evening. This was a real temptation, for I knew the play well — and the display photos showed a heart-catchingly handsome Dane. Two years previously I’d seen Noel Coward’s Spirito Allegro (Blithe Spirit) in Rome and loved it. Surely I could follow Hamlet in Italian. But the real Shakespeare lies in the poetry, and poetry, as T. S. Eliot states, is what’s lost in translation. I regretfully passed.
Back at the hotel my merry pals were ready to split another bottle of red wine, served by the the yummy night clerk. He was friendly enough, so I asked him his name. It was Eric -- a disappointment; he really should have been a Marcello or a Lorenzo or a Filippo.
The girls weren’t hungry but I wanted a snack before bedtime. I trotted around for a while and finally found a snack bar in Piazza della Signoria. The pickled seafood salad looked good and I was ravenous. One of the last bites tasted unmistakeably rotten. I swallowed it anyway, to my instant regret. Would I get suddenly, vilely sick? How could I summon a doctor in a foreign country? I gobbled down the slice of apple tart I’d also ordered and walked out into the cool night air. Perhaps a little hike would help. Back in Piazza della Repubblica, Gilli caught my eye. Still smarting from the experience at lunch there, I confess I lingered briefly at the ornamental hedge surrounding the outdoor cafe, just in case something happened. What exquisite revenge that would have been! But somewhat to my disappointment, it didn’t. Nor did I get sick.
Monday, October 18
After an early breakfast, we walked to Piazza Santa Maria Novella. A tour bus to San Gimignano and Siena was to leave from there. We hadn’t made reservations, but the morning clerk at the Pendini assured us that we might find spare spaces. The bus was crammed to bursting, but at the last minute we were allowed on — and even got seats together.
The first sight we came upon was the monastery of Abazzia de Sant’Animo, perched high on a hill. Riding through the countryside, our young tour guide’s narration went smoothly from English to Italian to French. (She had decided at the age of six (!) to be a linguist.) As we approached our first stop, she suggested that anyone who wanted to eat with the group should make reservations. We did so.
As we approached San Gimignano, the roads became more twisted, affording us occasional, tantalizing views of the famous towers. (Marie was in ecstasy.) We pulled into a parking area below the town. The rough stone towers soared above the farms and valleys and vineyards of Tuscany, medieval Italy’s skyscrapers. I parted from Marie and Kathy almost at once and set out to photograph the town. At the town wall, I scrambled up a rough and crumbling set of steps to shoot the town and the countryside, stretching into misty infinity.
I discovered the little church of Sant’Agostino, with its fine frescoes by Gozzoli, then went outside the city walls. There was a dizzying drop to the silver-leafed olive groves below, but a path outside the walls allowed me to circle around again to the town center. I stopped to cash a traveler’s check and got back to the bus just as we were preparing to leave.
The route to Siena led us through the towns of Castignano, Agrestone, Colli, and Monteriggione (a tiny walled city, now with only 60 inhabitants), Badesse, and Chiantigiana. Siena was a bustling modern city, much to my surprise, but the historical center is the most carefully preserved example of a medieval town in Italy. As the bus pulled in, the rain began in earnest.
The Ristorante Il Tre Campane (the Three Bells) had arranged several long tables for our arrival. I sat at the end, with my friends on my left. First we were served thick rounds of toasted bread: one with butter, another with mushroom spread, another with an eggplant spread of no particular distinction, then best of all, an anchovy spread. It was a surprise to discover that not all anchovies are mouthpuckeringly salty. Thick spaghetti in light tomato sauce followed, then a fresh green salad with pecorino cheese in wedges. This was washed down with all the red table wine we cared to drink.
Sheer luck had landed us across from the most delightful people on the bus, an older Argentinian couple. Eduardo Garcia del Rio is a retired lawyer who once served on the Buenos Aires supreme court. His blonde wife is a retired teacher. He spoke Spanish and a quite limited English; she spoke Spanish and a smattering of Italian. Kathy and Marie were still reluctant to use Italian, and my Spanish is sparse. Still, the linguistic salad at our end of the table was no liability; we had a spirited conversation anyway. Mostly we laughed and chattered about travel. They extolled the beauties of Prague, their favorite city, with New York a close second. Mostly what fueled our conversation was sheer joy of living. I don’t quite recall the context, but I remember at one point doing a creditable version of the Tarzan yodel. Afterwards, several people remarked on the good time we seemed to be having. A couple from Hartford said enviously, “I wish we’d been at your end of the table!”
Outside, the heavy rain was developing into a monsoon. We proceeded to the wide, shallow brick bowl of Siena’s Piazza del Campo. I remember it only as a terra-cotta blur. The rain, and the mushroom patch of umbrellas, made it difficult to appreciate. We were presently joined by another tour guide, whose English was incomprehensible, pronounced as it was through mouthfuls of food. She had the energy of five, however, and gave us whirlwind tour through rain to the Siena Duomo.
The great medieval cathedral, with its broad lateral black and white stripes and dome studded with stars, is a crown jewel of Italy’s medieval architecture. Marie and I, separated from the group, searched frantically within the church for our party. She was convinced they had moved on, so I took some photos while she went into the museum shop in the sacristy. I hadn’t given up hope yet, so I renewed the search. Sure enough, there they were, seated in pews and calmly listening to our garbled guide. They hadn’t even missed us. To the side of the sanctuary is the Libreria Piccolomini, lined wall to wall, floor to ceiling with Pinturicchio frescoes relating the life of Pope Pius II. Never restored, their colors are still fresh and lively as a garden in springtime. Hardly a square inch is undecorated; even the ceiling is swarming with detail.
Across the churchyard is the Museum of Works from the Duomo, where we sat for a passionately enthusiastic lecture on Duccio di Buoninsegna’s Madonna and Child with Saints and Angels. Our guide’s sentences, almost completely unintelligible, tumbled out of her mouth like whitewater rapids. Danny Kaye explaining the theory of relativity in double-talk — with his mouth full — would have been a model of clarity by comparison.
The tour finished, we ended up at Basilica of San Dominico, as we were instructed. This church is the repository of the head of St. Catherine of Siena, but thankfully, nobody offered to show us the relic. It had possibly been washed away by the heavy rain which was still pelting down. The bus ride back was unaccompanied by narration. I was satisfied to look out on rainwashed Tuscany, knowing that much of the rain would find its way — in much improved form — into the wines of the region. Back in Florence, riding through Oltrarno, we found a street ripe for future antiquing.
We attempted to return the the Pendini by setting out for it aimlessly and were soon lost — though not for long. I had to change into dry clothes for I was wet clear through and shivering with cold. Dinner was modest, pizza for me, chocolate cake, coffee and tea for le donne.
Afterward I stopped for a gelato (Nutella, unbelievable) while Marie and Kathy window-shopped. As I was leaving, so did three Swedes. Just then, Kathy and Marie came up. One of the men was instantly smitten with Kathy. She responded agreeably enough, I guess, for he was soon convoying her down the street. I didn’t quite know what to do — but I guessed that Kathy could take care of herself. Going back to the hotel, I said I hoped we wouldn’t discover our friend face-down in the Arno. My lame joke gave Marie such a start I felt immediately guilty. There was nothing to do but go back to the hotel to share our bottle of chianti and a bag of chips we bought at a Bar/Tobacconist. As we settled down in our chairs, Kathy and her Swede came in and I let an inward sigh of relief.
She introduced him as Leif. The scene that followed was an odd one. Kathy and I were convivial and relaxed. Leif was guarded — at first — but his hormones quickly kicking in, he became boorish. Marie sat with arms folded, a hard little knot of disapproval. Soon even I was a bit uneasy; it seemed best to leave the couple alone. After all, Kathy was a big girl.
Tuesday, October 19
Well, Kathy was indeed able to handle Leif. She told me at breakfast that she’d sent him away five minutes after we’d gone. Her very good reasons: he was the worse for drink, courted with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer, and most damning of all, wasn’t terribly bright.
I went to the train station to check on the timetable to Santa Margherita, as we were due to leave in two days. I collected my friends and we crossed Ponte Santa Trinita into Oltrarno to antique. The first stop was a dusty indorador’s shop, a fantastic jumble of ornamental mirrors, torchieres, chandeliers. (An indorador is a gilder and frame-maker) Other shops were just as friendly as this one, some were not. Our last shop before turning back was the Laura Mussi boutique, specializing in cashmere.
On the way out, we’d seen a shop selling icons, a great enthusiasm of Marie’s. Kathy got one. Farther up the street, she bought a print. This page of butterflies was printed from original antique plates, then handcolored by the young printer in charge of the shop. On our return by Borgo San Jacopo, the print shops got better. And more expensive.
While they stopped by COI for coral jewelry, I enjoyed my gelato of the day: creme caramel. It was so creamy and rich I began to think it might be a good idea to cut back on this particular experiment...
Visitors were still able to go through Santa Croce, even though their great project of restoration was going on too. Kathy and Marie were impressed by the graves of the great within church — Dante, Michelangelo, Rossini, Cherubini, Machiavelli, Marconi, Enrico Fermi — and by the Giotto frescoes in the nave. On the way back to Centro Storico we came upon Michelangelo’s house, but by now we were all arted out. So we split up and agreed to meet at 7:30 under the penis. That’s the statue in Piazza della Signoria where Geryon is staring up at Hercules with rapturous servility.
I couldn’t go back to the hotel yet — not when there were bookstores to prowl. I came upon one with a huge English language section, and got Marguerite Yourcenar’s Memoirs of Hadrian.
On our first walking tour, we had walked by Ristorante Beatrice. Marie peered in and was enraptured by the interior — a decorated ceiling, corinthian columns, diners enjoying themselves in comfortable elegance. “Oh, we have to go there sometime!” she exclaimed. So now we did.
Experiences like this are the cream floating on the top of a vacation. We didn’t have a reservation, so there was a discreet flurry preparing a table. Our waiter was Lorenzo, a handsome young man in his early twenties. Lorenzo’s English was good enough to be easily understood, erratic enough to be charming. His greatest desire in life, it seemed, was to ensure our happiness. Kathy and I shared a bottle of rosé and Marie had mineral water. I ordered the Spaghetti Fiaschetteraia and swordfish Siciliana. There was a slight mixup in entrees; Kathy got the wrong fish and Marie’s sauce clearly featured tomatoes, an allergic no-no. These mistakes were instantly rectified, and we were given a bottle of wine on the house. Lorenzo was friendly and attentive; the owner came over to make sure that we were having a good time (we certainly were); even his wife, who was bussing tables, checked up on us. We were all so pleased, so rosy with wine, that we decided on the spot to repeat the performance the following evening. This time we made reservations. Merry as minstrels, we strolled back to the hotel arm-in-arm.
Wednesday, October 20
At breakfast Kathy said she wanted to laze about the hotel today — dolce far niente. (The rain might have had something to do with her reluctance to go out.) I accompanied Marie on an errand. Hauling the monstrous suitcase on and off trains on the way to Florence had been a chastening experience. So she had stuffed some clothing into a bundle the size of a ten-year-old child and sent it home -- to the tune of $133.
While Marie went to the Boboli Gardens (almost a mystical experience, as she described it later), I went back to the Bargello. This was a museum I’d enjoyed tremendously on my last trip; I had returned with no pictures of it. I’d lost that roll of film in a fumblefingered accident with my camera in Fiesole. Except for a room of ceramics by the della Robbia boys (whose work arouses in me an indifference verging on outright dislike) I enjoyed it all again. One thing struck me especially: a series of bronze medallions in profile of the twelve Caesars. One can see their faces degenerate, as if in time-lapse photography. Noble Julius’s face morphs into the sagging decadence of Domitian, a fascinating progression in corruption.
Restless as ever, I explored the eastern part of the city, with no aim in mind but to soak it up. I happened upon a wine bar, Coquinarius, and suddenly realized I hadn’t eaten. It was mid-afternoon, but the place was filled with people enjoying themselves hugely. A pretty blonde came over and took my order: a plate of smoked turkey accompanied by a sort of confit of sun-dried tomatoes, walnuts and balsamic vinegar. This called for a nice chianti classico; it was very tasty but without much body. I ate my delicious food slowly, so I could order another wine. This was a Monica de Sardegna; I didn’t know there was a wine industry on Sardegna, but in this sun-washed corner of the world it would be astonishing if there weren’t. This wine put my chianti quite in the shade.
Afterward, I stopped at a small bakery and got a pan di Dante, a cookie thick as a paving stone, full of raisins, whole almonds, and (I think) a healthy squirt of Amaretto. Feeling a bit disconnected from America, I bought a Time magazine. Back at the hotel I settled down, listened to the gentle rain, and read. I’d never had a Fernet-Branca before, so I ordered one from the desk clerk who also doubled in duty as bartender in the sala. It was an explosion in the mouth, a combination of peppermint, gall and wormwood, and potent enough to last me for the better part of an hour.
I even had some time to send a couple of e-mails; I would have hated not to avail myself of this service. Earlier I had discovered Catherine Perry’s e-mail address in my wallet, so I wrote to her, and to Laura and the office gang. There was no chance of getting a reply since we were checking out the following day, but it felt good to try to make contact.
When Marie and Kathy joined me, we made the short trek to the station to buy our tickets for the following day. We chatted with a couple from Cape Cod (Brewster) for fifteen minutes, then discovered we were in the wrong line. Tickets finally in hand, we got a bag of popcorn and walked toward the Arno, into an area full of antique and small specialty shops.
The most promising was a courtyard of shops we’d stumbled onto earlier. The first establishment had nothing I wanted to take away -- except the man in charge. This dark and dreamy-eyed young Adonis caught my eye at once -- and Kathy’s too -- and Marie’s. The most attractive shop specialized in Murano glassware, but all the “non toccare” signs set about made me edgy so we left quickly. After a quick stop at a shop specializing in art and English language books, we returned to Ristorante Beatrice.
This, by unanimous agreement, was the best meal, the best social experience of the trip. Everyone on the staff seemed gratified — joyous — that we had returned. We were given the same table, and thank heaven, the same waiter. Kathy and Marie loved their food, but it couldn’t have been better than mine. The cream of asparagus soup with croutons and Italian parsley had just the right amount of cream and pure fresh asparagus flavor, truly a soup for the gods. The macheroncetti con verdure was rigatoni with summer squash, tomatoes, a complicated palette of spices, all wrapped in foil and baked. We shared two bottles of the vino della casa, a young fruity red.
When Lorenzo opened the wine, he started to take the cork and foil back to the kitchen. But Kathy said “No, please, I’m collecting corks from our wine on this trip.” Lorenzo silently withdrew, and returned moments later with a small string bag — filled with corks!
In such a place how could we pass up dessert? Marie and Kathy had torta di nonna (grandmother’s cake), with pignoli, a feather-light crust and a creme filling. My torte was chocolate: the same divine crust filled with chocolate mousse.
And this wasn’t all. As we were settling back, close to passing out from pleasure, Lorenzo reappeared with a tall blue bottle. “Would you like to try this? Please, it’s on the house... my brother made it.” This concoction was called limoncello, a lemon liqueur pungent with lemon oil, the quintessence of lemoninity, sweet but not cloying. It was an unforgettable gesture, a compliment to three grateful American visitors.
Kathy noticed that the owner was putting on his coat to leave, so I flew to catch him, to thank him for an indelible, perfect experience. Then I said the same to his wife and finally, to Lorenzo. We left Ristorante Beatrice floating on air, filled with a drunkenness of the spirit rather than that of the body. (Though that, too.)
But fate decrees that nobody should be happy for too long. Because of my repiratory problems I had a bad spate of coughing when I went to bed. That combined with two much rich food — especially chocolate — took its toll. At precisely three o’clock I woke with a tongue of flame licking up from my stomach into my hiatal hernia. Dracula must have felt something similar as the stake went in. I pulled on some trousers and trudged out to the night clerk in hopes of relief. A can of Sprite was all she could come up with. However, there was a 24-hour farmacia three blocks away — not a place one could breeze into, however. A call was required, which she made. I put on more clothes and headed out into the early morning.
In the middle of the night Florence is a toy city with all its dolls put away. Nobody was about, except for a lady peddling her more personal talents. All the rest was a silver-blue silence. The farmacia was locked up tight, but there was a bell; I rang it and a tiny window slid open. A slim brown hand appeared, took my lire (hardly anything at all) and presented me with a small orange box of sodium bicarbonate. The window snapped shut and I went back. It worked.
Thursday, October 21
After a light breakfast I took a quick tour of the streets of Florence, ending up in Piazza della Signoria, and finally found the spot where Savonarola was burnt at the stake. After my three o’clock wake-up call, I could sympathize with the poor man.
The train went to Pisa, where we had a wait of fifteen minutes — not long enough to see the cathedral and leaning tower. I’m told they’re wrapped in scaffolding and plastic wrap anyway. I was constitutionally unable not to make a tiny stab at exploring, so I zipped down through the underground passage to see the main station. Outside a green park beckoned, but I only had time to buy a bar of chocolate from a girl at a counter. She had the face, surrounded by golden ringlets, of a Renaissance angel, and a smile of pure sunshine.
Racing back to Marie and Kathy, I told them we had to change tracks, so they had to trundle their bags one set of stairs and up another. The train to Santa Margherita was all second class, a bit primitive, but hardly daunting to a veteran traveler. We passed through Carrara (still a limitless source of marble), La Spezia, Chiavari. As we approached Rapallo, the train raced along the edge of the sea, gray and turgid, but exhilarating to see nonetheless.
SANTA MARGHERITA LIGURE
Santa Margherita was more like Florida than Italy, jungle green and rife with flowers. We fell in love with it at once. The taxi took us quickly to Hotel Fasce, a pink stucco affair halfway up a hill, wreathed in vines and shaded by palms. All of our rooms had great views and were immaculately clean. The only drawback was the proprietress, a brisk blonde Briton with a sharp tongue and a tendency to lay down the law. (Perhaps to counteract the sourness, she kept a bowl of torrone on the front desk.)
Marie wanted a shower, so Kathy and I set out to explore the town. This was like no place I’d ever been before — the Riviera is a different world. Santa Margherita’s buildings are all painted with fantastic decorative curlicues and arabesques. The church was tall, narrow and baroque, and like so many buildings now, disfigured by scaffolding. Down by the waterfront, our eyes popped with astonishment. It was fronted by a crescent of parkland, tall palms rising around a Columbus fountain. But the surf was rolling in as if it were Judgement Day, huge gray waves crashing over the seawall. Rapallo lay sprinkled over the cliffs far across the bay and thunderheads rose darkly in the sky. The rain wasn’t a bit daunting — it was part of the show. We hurried back to pick Marie up, to show her what we’d found.
Every Eden has its serpent; Santa Margherita’s is unfriendliness. When I’m pleased (luxuriant greenery makes me giddy with delight) I tend to grin like a Barbary ape. But here — in paradise yet — hardly a smile was returned. We ducked into several shops, none of which gave us exactly a hero’s welcome. Whenever I’m in Europe, I seek out black currant candies, difficult to find in America. One shop had bins of them, but the shopkeeper was sour as a quince. Eventually we came to a shop specializing in fine lace. Here at last were two warm, friendly women. And in the southern end of town, we found another little shop presided over by a bubbly plump blonde woman. In gratitude perhaps, I bought a handful of postcards.
By now the afternoon was gone, and it was time for dinner. La Pedrazza looks good from the outside. In front is a little wooded piazzetta, a lime tree heavy with fruit — and a parrot. This was Giorgio. We went in and didn’t quite pick up the first hint: no other customers. They had just opened for dinner so we didn’t see this as a bad sign. The owner was very friendly and accommodating. I discovered early on that when someone puts me at ease, my Italian comes forth with an easy fluency, as it did here. First came wine, a pinot bianco, crisp but not too dry. And the spaghetti alla pesto (pesto originated here in Liguria) was heavenly, and a generous serving, too. But then things began to slide downhill. We all ordered the same dish, swordfish alla Greca (with potatoes, olives, pignoli, garlic and sultanas). It was pretty awful, we all agreed, with a whisper of diesel or something equally repellent pervading the fish. This dish unfortunately undid all the good will that the spaghetti and wine had established. Luckily we had picked up some pastries earlier, and we devoured them greedily on the way back to the hotel.
Friday, October 22
Yes, there were definitely patches of blue in the sky; maybe the constant rain would clear up. At breakfast, I was pleased to discover London papers were provided. The meal was briskly served by the hotel manager, and for once I forsook my croissants and jam and had something healthy, a bowl of muesli. The lady was peach pie to me, but not at all to my companions. During our two days here, I got smiles and my friends got snarls. For some reason I couldn’t fathom, sweet Kathy m ade this woman’s hackles rise.
Since we walk at different paces, I trotted off without Kathy and Marie. We agreed to meet later. First, I hit a huge outdoor market strung along the leafy street in front of the hotel, but it was mostly cheap clothes and housewares and beautiful fresh food. In the southern part of town is a crescent of small shops, so I headed there. The clouds were opening up to reveal a stunning blue sky. Meeting my friends walking along the promenade,I asked them if they wanted to join me on the bus to Portofino, just down the coast. Sure, they said, we’ll meet you at the Columbus fountain. But when we met again they declined, thereby missing the most enchanting scenery I’ve seen on any of my travels.
The bus ride there was breathtaking — literally. A winding road slithers around the mountain, so narrow at some points that only one vehicle can pass. Our bus would stop, give a loud quank! and then advance slowly. On our left was a sheer drop to the sea, which at this point still looked a wee bit threatening.
Arriving in the small town, I walked down to the harbor. A wide piazza slopes down to the water, around which cafés and restaurants are ringed. Further up to the left of the harbor are stylish little shops. They’re not especially geared to the rich, as one might assume, Portofino being a popular port for the wealthy. It boasts a deep and gorgeous harbor where they can anchor their yachts. I explored the shops on the left, then on the right. What shops the town possesses can be gone through in a couple of hours, so I decided to go up.
Up in Portofino is really up. Steep, verdant hills rise above the town. Brightly colored villas glimmer like jewels among the trees. It’s from here that one can see the town at its best advantage. Halfway up is the chapel of San Giorgio, a bright marigold-yellow church right out of a children’s book. From a little piazza at one side, one can look down to what is almost land’s end, a thrilling drop, with the bright Mediterranean crashing onto the rocks far below. By now the water was an exhilarating turquoise and the sun was breaking through -- again. I went up, up, up to the Castello, with its lordly view of the sea and town below. I had no particular wish to tour the castle, but I enjoyed talking to the ticket-taker, a caramel-tan young demigod sitting at a card table. In the gardens around the castle, now in full sun, I experimented with my new camera, taking close-ups of flowers: a rose in all shades between gold and pale pink, and red-and-orange verbena blossoms.
On the way down, I stopped at another shop, this one dripping with yards and yards of lace. By the time I’d returned to the harbor, I was quite hungry. I had a wide choice of places to eat, all with terrific views. I chose the Taverna del Marinaio, taking a table at the very lip of the sea. The waiter was nice looking, but I couldn’t have pulled a smile from him with a team of horses. Heaven knows I tried. The surf rolled lazily in just beside me, and the sun came out now with a vengeance. This was a taste of what summer must be like here. It gave an added piquancy to food that was already superb: a half liter of white wine, gnocchi with pesto, mixed fried seafood in an air-light batter. Was this really the best gnocchi I’ve ever had? The best pesto? It surely seemed to be. And my exertions of my hike were a nice even trade for the fried food, so light, so fresh, that I can taste it now.
Continuing my walk I found a pasticceria and bought a small strawberry jam tart from the sullen girl at the counter, then walked up yet another of the steep hills rising dramatically from the harbor. It came to a dull, workaday dead end, just a garage and a few rickety sheds. But at least the climb had burnt up some more energy. By this time my calorie account was surely overdrawn.
Having more or less extracted the sweetest juices from Portofino, I returned to the bus stop — but the impulse to walk back to Santa Margherita was irresistible. Three friendly seniors were tottering along, clearly natives. If they routinely walked this mountain goat’s trail, surely I could. And the view from the narrow ribbon of road was too thrilling to miss. I concentrated on suppressing my acrophobia — successfully — but my skin tingled all the way back.
The water was always changing character, from turquoise to jade to purple to sage gray. At many points I could lean out over the low wall and look straight down into the sea churning around the rocks. All along the coast were jagged, rounded, and fantastically shaped rocks. On one jagged pylon of rock, a lone pine struggled to survive in a narrow crevice, surrounded by crashing waves. At one point I stopped to watch a couple below, just emerging from the sea. She was still in a wet-suit, he in a tiny red slash of bikini. So even in late October, the water was warm enough to swim in! Between Portofino and the small town of Paraggi I met a few other brave souls. A plump and pleasant couple from Nashville were going to Florence next. I warmly recommended Ristorante Beatrice. In Paraggi two women coming out of a stunning villa waved brightly to me. And of course I encountered the usual sourpusses.
Back in Santa Margherita I could have collapsed from exhaustion, but I wasn’t yet ready to deprive my sight of marvels. Walking into the upper reaches of the town I found a small sylvan park decorated in an imaginative theme, Mozart’s The Magic Flute. Lovely as the park was, I could not get Portofino out of my mind. Damn! My friends had to see this miraculous harbor, a precious gem set into the side of the Mediterranean! When I finally met Marie and Kathy to go out for dinner, I proposed that we get up early, do a whirlwind tour of Portofino, and come back for our departure for Venice. Marie refused; Kathy said she would love to — providing there was no rain.
At twilight, the lights came on all over the hills, one by one. I changed for dinner. For some perverse reason I suddenly wanted more than anything to hear Fred Astaire singing “Night and Day.” At no time was I homesick on this trip, but I did miss my quotidian pleasures, the little treats that one takes for granted. I hadn’t heard a sustained piece of music since the first night in Rome.
Dinner at Ristorante da Giovanni was modest: a pizza siciliana and beer. And I got my wish for music. An old street singer came into the cafe, moving from table to table. At first one could perceive in his singing the glimmer of a once fine voice, but it rapidly deteriorated into quavery caterwauling. His first attempt at song was new to me, an upbeat folk tune. But as he moved into the more familiar repertoire, he declined rapidly, butchering “O Sole Mio” in particular. One would have thought this a fairly indestructible tune, but he slaughtered it.
We slowly walked back to the hotel, the long way around, unwilling to come back and go to bed. I read for a while. Santa Margherita closes up about the same time as Hobart, Oklahoma.
Saturday, October 23
Kathy never got to see Portofino; the rain quashed that trip. We phoned to the station to get an earlier train to Venice; there was one at 10:45. Right up to the last minute, the hotel proprietress was downright hostile to my friends and butter-and-honey to me.
The rain had resumed with redoubled fury. A mashed-looking but friendly driver whisked us off to the station 45 minutes early. It was just as well; it was tricky getting out tickets exchanged. My Italian broke down completely — perhaps it was rain-damaged. Finally the train arrived, and we were off.
The first city we reached was Genoa, a uniform beige in the drizzle. The train was a good fifteen minutes late getting into Milan, and we had only a five-minute layover. In panic, we pushed through the throng at the station like salmon beating against the current. We arrived at our train with time to spare, for it too was behind schedule. An hour out of Milan, the scenery improved and the weather cleared. We passed a lake wide as a small sea, mountains floating in mist, and always, vineyards. Brescia — Desenzano — Peschiaria del Garda — Verona — Vicenza — Padua — then Mestre. I assumed we had to get off at Mestre to take the train across to the Venetian lagoon, as I’d had to do on my previous trip, but it turned out to be unnecessary. However, ten minutes later another train came along.
The girls fell into their seats exhausted. I stood between the cars with our luggage and got into a conversation with a pleasant businessman until we pulled into the Santa Lucia Station.
VENICE
I liked the Hotel Agli Alboretti immediately. It’s intimate, with lots of unpainted stained wood, like a Tyrolean hunting lodge. My room was a small one on the third floor, a remarkably steep climb. But I loved it.
Marie, as usual, wanted to take a shower but Kathy and I flung ourselves upon the city. On our fifteen minute walk we headed for Campo San Vidal, then I found Tommy Cioffi’s apartment in its narrow alley, where I’d stayed before. Just off Campo San Stefano was the promised land, my reward, my Mecca: Marchini’s! At this unforgettable pasticceria I wanted my old favorite, a buccellata, the sort-of-bagel with the surprise. It was the same treat I remembered, though with the addition of minced orange peel - an improvement.
We returned to pick Marie up and walked through the hallucinatory city. Still, I hadn’t worn a jacket and it was growing damper and damper. Marie and Kathy rushed into the first art gallery we saw, where I got my first intimation of Marie’s great love of modern art. Closer to Piazza San Marco were shops featuring Venice’s trademark Fortuny velvets in rich, complicated colors. Then we were in the grand piazza. Along the arcade across from the Doges’ Palace was Café Chioggia. Even on this damp and drizzly evening a tenor sax player stood moaning away at “Isn’t it Romantic?” Yes, it certainly was.
Along the Riva degli Schiavoni we came to the Bridge of Sighs, lit very dimly against the gun-metal blue-gray sky. A street filled with lights and people beckoned. We turned off, passing restaurant after restaurant, and were finally cajoled into La Nuova Grotta, with sumptuous decor and rosy lighting. Our waiter was Marco, smooth almost to slickness, and almost ridiculously attentive. The menu turistica was the typical rubber-stamp Italian menu, but perfectly fine. We returned through the ghostly night (is there any other kind in Venice?) to early TV, book and bed.
Sunday, October 24
I arose cheerful as a sparrow, refreshed and renewed and ready to hurl myself into the life of Venice. At the breakfast table however were two very unhappy faces. They hadn’t slept at all. Kathy had been distressed by loud music from a party somewhere; Marie’s complaint was street noises (!?), and smoke from passersby. They were grimly determined to move. My room was quite agreeable, and besides, I liked the hotel, so I stayed. I didn’t want to spend the morning fussing around with them looking for a hotel, so I agreed to meet them at noon and set out to explore Dorsoduro.
After the concert in Rome we wanted to repeat the experience. All through San Polo, I kept an eye peeled for concerts. Posters were slapped up everywhere; Venice is the most musical of cities. Walking north toward Piazzale Roma, I stopped on a bridge to admire the view and get my bearings. Two young Italian men came up and asked me for directions. Luckily I was able to direct them where they wanted to go. I felt flattered, but this was to happen to me several more times in Venice.
Close to Piazzale Roma I found, happily, a small green park, the Papadopoli Gardens. There are so few large spaces of green in Venice that the casual visitor might assume the city to be only water and stone. But beautiful gardens and parks are tucked away, hidden from the public, behind many a palazzo or block of houses.
Near the church of Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari I found a gelateria and stopped (can anyone be surprised at this?). The flavor del giorno was wild strawberries and cream. It was the cheapest gelato of the entire trip, and the best, extravagantly creamy and filled with tiny strawberries bursting with flavor. Unbelievable. Posted on the wall of the church was a concert that night featuring a wild smorgasabord of music, from Pergolesi to Ennio Morricone.
By now I was ready for some fiction. At a little bookstore near the Rialto Bridge I got Patricia Highsmith’s Strangers on a Train, a book I’d been wanting to read. Heading back toward the hotel, I noticed the acqua alta had arrived. It was a bit unseasonable, but northern Italy had gotten a lot of rain that week. Some streets were already flooded. So was Piazza San Marco. One brave soul sloshed gamely across, pant legs hiked up over his calves.
My friends had checked into Hotel La Fenice, so I accompanied them (and their luggage) to the Vaporetto. I said I’d meet them at their hotel, and set out to walk it. The hotel is around the corner from the Opera House, now shuttered and hidden by scaffolding and plastic wrap. It’s still being extensively renovated after the gutting by fire soon after my first visit. While they checked in, I volunteered to look around for a nice place to eat.
Here around the corner was Ristorante al Teatro, the first place I ate on my first trip to Venice. Yes, definitely in the running. And here was another pleasant little place, Anonimo Veneziano. I glanced down the menu and saw — paglia e fieno! And — could my eyes be deceiving me — with crab meat instead of the customary ham! Oh, joy! Suddenly I heard a rustling sound down the alleyway and turned to look. Coursing down the narrow street was a tidal wave of Japanese visitors, smiling and chattering and clearly having an exciting time in Venice — and this human tsunami was headed directly for Anonimo Veneziano. One after another, in twos and threes, they poured into the restaurant, filling up every table. I dejectedly turned and went back to the Hotel La Fenice.
So it was Ristorante al Teatro after all: not a bad consolation prize. We ordered a bottle of white, pinot bianco, then I had grilled sole, spaghetti with cuttlefish in salsa nero (the creature’s ink -- delicious). Kathy ventured a nibble; Marie absolutely refused to try it. The waiter was a bit high-hatted but he served our food with flair, boning the sole in a couple of graceful moves -- a pas de deux with fish and fish knife. Best of all was dessert. The pear pie had pride of place in the pastry case; it was even tastier than it looked. An almost cake-like crust held the cooked pears in a suspension of slightly crystallized crunch. It took all the self-control I possessed to restrain myself from ordering several more slices.
We spent the better part of an hour in Basilica San Marco. Marie was enthralled by everything she cast her eye on, and explored the sanctuary alone. Kathy and I went into the treasury, which I hadn’t even noticed the last time, an experience akin to wandering into Tutankhamen’s tomb. The mass of the display was ingeniously wrought works in silver and gold and precious stone. Many of these were relics containing bits of saints — the shinbone of Saint This, the forefinger of Saint That, the foreskin of Saint Somebody Else. Ugh. This particularly Catholic custom isn’t much to my taste, but the workmanship at least was exquisite. The floor mosaic was still the most thrilling thing to be seen in the entire basilica.
The rest of the afternoon was taken up with shopping, mostly looking through mask shops. We ended up in Dorsoduro, and came upon Campo San Barnaba which I recognized at once. On this trip I was continually surprised at how the city’s little byways and odd turnings had burned themselves into my memory after a lapse of six and a half years.
We agreed to meet at the base of the Accademia Bridge at nine in the morning. I settled down to read for an hour, then set forth again to savor my city. First item: the wilds of Dorsoduro, my favorite sestiere. Past the cinema where I’d gone to see a movie last time, I rediscovered a favorite bookstore. The only thing I bought was a fine, easily folded map of Venice, but my chief pleasure was visual rather than literary. Italian paperback design is light years ahead of ours, vital, adventurous, and imaginative. English and American classics in translation were best; I knew the contents and could therefore better appreciate the designers’ interpretations.
Heading back to the neighborhood of my hotel, I went by my favorite restaurant in Italy, Trattoria Ai Cugnai, but I didn’t go in. Not yet; tonight I wanted a light meal, not an orgy of seafood. Through the windows I saw my old friends, the proprietresses. They had aged, of course, but even if I’d encountered them walking along the seaside promenade in Shanghai, I would have recognized them immediately.
The Guggenheim was nearby so I went by to check the hours, for Marie had expressed a wish to see some more modern art. I got all the way to Santa Maria della Salute, but the damp of the city at night was creeping into my bones. I turned back. Crossing Campo San Vio, two young German girls stopped me to ask directions to San Marco (so far away from their goal!). I complied expertly, like a native of Venice. A few steps later, I heard an American say, “As long as you’re giving directions, do you know the way to the Hotel American?” Having just seen it moments before, I breezily pointed the way. It was gratifying to be of use; after all, this is my city.
Then I recalled the Anonimo Veneziano — and the paglia e fieno! It was easy to find and I was seated immediately — next to a Japanese couple. It’s obvious that somebody has informed that entire nation of Japan that Anonimo Veneziano is a wonderful spot to eat. They are right. I ordered my long-deferred paglia e fieno (with crabmeat!), along with a half bottle of Rosabello (a tart and fruity Rosé, a bright spot of pink floating above the white linen tablecloth). The great surprise was the second course, simple grilled mixed vegetables: yellow pepper, zucchini and eggplant, transformed by some wizard into a masterpiece of subtle flavors quietly competing for dominance.
I’d brought along my Travelers’ Tales - Italy, hoping to finish it up that night. I nodded to the couple at the next table and we exchanged pleasantries. He was a handsome, scholarly type, his wife a twittery canary. When I mentioned where I was from, she let out a squeal of delight. “Aiii! We lived in Boston fourteen years ago!” He had worked at M.I.T.; they’d lived in Arlington, and wanted to hear how Boston had changed. (Inevitably) I mentioned the Big Dig. As I was leaving, a table of four Americans told me that it was still going on (what a surprise!) — they’d left Boston four days ago.
Snuggling down as best I could into my light jacket, I said goodbye and disappeared into the night. My last official act of the day was to stop at Marchini’s — for another buccelata.
Monday, October 25
We met at the bridge for only a moment. Nobody can summon quite the energy I can, and they wanted to spend the day relaxing. I agreed to meet them at their hotel at seven. So I had another day to myself. I lazily set out for the Rialto Bridge. As I was crossing it, the sun burst through the clouds, warming the air. At the vegetable market on the other side, a friendly dealer gave me a plastic bag for my umbrella, which I stowed in my shoulder bag. I wandered idly through San Polo, Santa Croce, and stumbled onto a new attraction: the Campiello San Giacomo del’Orio. It’s a long, crescent-shaped square, in the center of which sits the 10th century church of the same name. I crossed the Santa Lucia bridge into Cannaregio, and stopped for a cestoro dei mandorle, an almond tart, whole nuts and marzipan in an indescribably tasty combination. Glassware shops, one right after another, offered the same items I’d seen in expensive San Marco, here at even higher prices!
Crossing the San Geremia bridge, I saw that the acqua alta was rising again — and fast. I headed north and east. Two older German men asked for directions and for once I came up dry. Even my map let me down. I finally asked a shopkeeper where the Vaporetto stop of St. Marcuola was. We’d passed it. The next was Ca’ d’Oro so I walked them there — they were very grateful — and moved on.
Reaching Campiello Santa Apostoli I thought — for the thirtieth time — that I could gladly live here, right here in this square! I didn’t linger for long, having decided to find the church of Santa Maria Formosa. I crossed a small hump-backed bridge to a columned gallery — but it was already being explored by the intrusive ocean. I consulted the map. I could go... no, maybe this way would... aha! here we have... At last I found a passage to the Santa Maria Formosa, by way of Santa Maria dei Miracoli. This is considered one of the prettiest churches in Venice and is popular with young Venetians for weddings. The interior is a long rounded vault, crowned by a gold ceiling.
The Calle d’Erbe was impassable. Somehow I got to the Basilica of SS. Giovanni e Paolo (San Zanipolo), next to the Civil Hospital. It’s a beautiful, cavernous church smelling vaguely of talc. Outside, I found the rising waters would allow me to go no further without hipboots, not even north toward Isola di San Michele. I retraced my steps to the Ca’ d’Oro Vaporetto, and returned by water taxi to the Accademia stop.
Now it was time for lunch -- Ai Cugnai. But the high water had made even this inaccessible. So I stopped at the little shop at the corner. Looking at the lampshades in millefiori I thought of getting a pair for my library. The shopkeeper said the water would be going down in the next fifteen minutes. And so it did, but Ai Cugnai was closed: the Monday curse.
I walked toward the Giudecca Canal, thinking there might be something along the shore. Sure enough, Ristorante Alle Zattere was open for business. The tables outside were filled to capacity but a cool breeze had sprung up so I went inside. I was seated by a fantastically ugly waiter, and ordered the Menu Veneziano. First came herring, partly pickled, partly in a cover of half-cooked onions. Both were superb and gained by the contrast. For the next course, I again ventured spaghetti al nero. It wasn’t a bit like the same dish I’d had the day before, but still wonderful. The main course was mixed seafood, served both cool and warm: crab legs, octopus, cuttlefish, tiny shrimp, and an unidentified fish in a creamy sauce. I didn’t need to know what it was to appreciate the delicate flavor. A half bottle of pinot bianco was the perfect accompaniment. Afterward the sun made another of its intermittent appearances, so I sat in a nearby campiello and watched the passing parade.
Dinner that evening was at the Hotel Principessa. We had stumbled upon this bright spot on the Riva degli Schiavoni, attracted by the lights and the location. No table was immediately available so we waited in the lobby till we were called. Our waiter, poor man, had a face like an aggrieved blowfish, pop eyes, thick lips, a chin more in retreat than receding. Worse, he had the personality of cold mutton. Every remark, other than our orders, was received in stony, stiff, unfriendly silence. But nothing could diminish the pleasure I took in my spaghetti alla carbonara and our bottle of prosecco.
Our route back was north of Piazza San Marco, window-shoping for clothes. Women’s fashions, as in Florence, varied from the elegant to the truly outlandish. Kathy and Marie wanted dessert; for once I didn’t so we parted, they for the Ristorante al Teatro for another onslaught on the pear pie.
Before bed, I did a bit of channel surfing and saw something unbelievable. In a commercial for a mint gum two men — in what turned out to be a gay bar — actually connected. No cheap laughs, no moralizing — and a happy ending. It would never have been aired in a certain country that prides itself on being progressive. Jesse Helms wouldn’t allow it.
Tuesday, October 26
When we arrived at the Guggenheim at ten, wriggling with pleasurable anticipation, it was closed. So the trip to the tip of Dorsoduro wouldn’t be a total loss for the women, I took them into the church of Santa Maria della Salute. The interior of the great church was cold and monochromatic on this gray day. Not even the Titians and Tintorettos and Carpaccios in the sacristy could warm us. We quickly moved on.
Back they went to their hotel for galoshes, for the acqua alta was sure to rise today. The lines for the Accademia were daunting, but the sun was coming out. This proved only a tease. So we decided to tour the island of Murano, home of the great glass-blowing factories.
The guidebook distinctly said to take the Vaporetto from Santa Lucia station, so we walked it. I wanted to show them what I’d seen the day before, the church of San Giacomo del’Orio. We stopped briefly at a tile shop run by a potter, a middle-aged sprite (she sold me a kitchen tile), then headed up Calle dei Tintor toward the Campiello. Here it was, the rapidly rising water. I looked down helplessly at my shoes, stout but stylish and made for walking — but totally unsuited for wading. An old man, his dalmatian at his side, popped his head out of an upper window and asked what was the matter. I pointed to my shoes. “Un momento, signore,” he said, disappearing. He quickly reappeared with a couple of plastic bags, indicating that I should pull them over my feet.
They got me across that stretch of water, but more was to come. We crossed the bridge across the Rio del Megio, made the turn for the Campiello — and were greeted by an expanse of water wide as the Suez Canal. I put my bags back over my shoes. Best to get it over quickly, I thought, wading in while holding on to the tops of the bags, in full realization of how ridiculous I looked. I felt the moisture just as I looked down to see the water seeping in. Turning, I scampered back to dry land. Then the girls had a brainstorm. They walked across together. Then Marie relayed Kathy’s galoshes back for me to squeeze into. It worked. In fact, it worked again when we tried to get to the Santa Lucia bridge. At the station Vaporetto stop we found that we had to return to San Marco to get to Murano, so all that resourceful puddle-hopping was for nothing.
At the Riva degli Schiavoni stop we could see the restaurant of the night before, now moved outdoors. Yep, there was our cuddlesome friend The Blowfish, undoubtedly giving another table of people a taste of his surly hauteur. The trip to Murano was a perfect little sea voyage, giving us a good all-around feel for the Venetian lagoon. We saw Castello and its parks, stopped briefly at Isola San Michele, final resting place of Stravinsky and other, more temporary residents, then came at last to Murano.
A ten minute walk into the center brought us across the main canal to a restaurant spilling out onto a broad terrace. This was the Buca alla Torre. I had gnocchietti con salmone and grilled salmon, both exceptional. We shared a bottle of less-than-spectacular pinot grigio. But it was good enough for us to order another.
We weren’t really shopping, but wanted to see the source of so much of the world’s glassware. The first place was more gallery than shop, with beautiful utilitarian, museum quality pieces on display. If the first place we hit had such attractive work, we thought, the next shop might be even better! We eagerly found another.
Marie stayed downstairs. Kathy and I were admiring one piece when the clerk beckoned to us. “If you like this,” he purred, “you must come see our upper gallery.” He swelled with pride as he led us upstairs. Kathy and I looked at each other in excited wonderment. What treasures were we being allowed to see?
We reached the upper floor — and boggled in disbelief. This stuff was ghastly: overblown and pretentious pieces, experimental “art” in carnival candy colors. The monumental, disembodied horse’s head in clear glass was hideous enough, but the piece that really took the prize was a large, amorphous gob of glass with something indistinct suspended in its center. We moved in for a closer look. It was a glass fetus. This was truly in the ‘what on earth were they thinking?’ category. If the clerk hadn’t been watching us carefully, anticipating our smiles of admiration, we would have dissolved in helpless laughter. Luckily, we managed to keep straight faces until we got outside.
It was getting late. We set off in the direction of our Vaporetto stop, making little detours out of curiosity, but mostly in search of a gabinetto: all that wine was making itself felt. Suddenly the town seemed deserted. Even the restaurant we’d gone to was closed. I was walking funny by the time we finally found a little pee-zzeria. It was run by two young people who could have been young marrieds or perhaps brother and sister. In gratitude, we sat for a moment and ate slices of fresh lemon torte. The shops still open were collections of fifth-rate stuff, nothing that couldn’t have been found within shouting distance of Piazza San Marco. The one glass-blowing place we found was in the process of shutting down for the day. Murano had been rather a bust. We almost rushed onto the Vaporetto when it arrived.
Back in Venice proper, we got off on the north side of Cannaregio. Our eyes were drawn to a narrow, well-lit shop. Its windows were filled, incredibly, with tiny insects, all made of glass. We went in. Every figure in the shop was small: bugs, snails, butterflies, delicate little fish. “My son made these,” the owner said sadly. “He is so talented. But he doesn’t like the glass business,” she concluded. Much of his work was on loving display in glass cases, and not for sale.
On the way back was the lovely little church of San Giovanni Cristostoma. I wanted to show them a painting I remembered from my last visit. A service was in progress. The church was even more inviting than I’d remembered. Without really knowing why, we sat down. We were the youngest people in the church, though people came in and drifted out all through the service. The smell of melting tallow and the peaceful drone of the call and response were quite moving. Perhaps this was something we were ready for, for we stayed for almost an hour.
I walked back to my hotel. Going through Campo Manin, I had the impulse to stop in and visit Signor Barutti, the little indorador whose shop I’d liked so much the first time. On my first visit, his children, all musicians, were studying in New York. They’re now all back in Venice. His great pride in them was touching.
After dropping Marie and Kathy off for the night, I experimented with my new camera, trying some night shots from the Accademia bridge, the famous view of the Salute, aglow in the night . Afterward, at a little bar I’d noticed in Dorsoduro, I had a tuna and hard boiled egg panino (simple but just right) and a tall, cold beer. The few people there were young, probably students, except for a tall, gaunt African who brought in his wares to sell to the patrons. He was gently but firmly shown out by the bartender.
At the next table was a slightly scruffy but handsome young man, nursing his own beer for as long as he could. Whenever I glanced at him and smiled, he was already looking at me, yes, and smiling back. It didn’t seem a come-on at all, just a momentary intimacy. Nothing happened, of course, but I enjoyed fantasizing about what could have...
For the next hour or so, I wandered the dark, twisting byways of Dorsoduro. I didn’t care if I got lost, but I never really did. This sestiere is now a place where I feel at home, where some part of me has already settled. Venice is the city of beneficent night. There’s a happy tension between two feelings: real danger versus theatrical danger. The sea feels very near, even when one is walking a narrow dark passage. That sea, you feel, might almost steal up to you, to pull you into itself. The damp air on your skin is the sea’s flirtation with you.
I emerged from one of those unnamed streets onto the Zattere. This long promenade along the south shore of Dorsoduro is palely illuminated by street lamps, muffled by the fog moving in from the Giudecca Canal. The lights of Giudecca itself glowed in the distance, mere flickers of light in the soupy air. The lonely clanging of a buoy in the distance evoked Yeats’s ‘gong-tormented sea.’ Not really wanting to retire yet, I reluctantly walked back to my hotel.
Wednesday, October 27
Mondonovo, where I bought my Carnevale figure from Giorgio Spiller, is probably the most atmospheric of the mask shops and ateliers sprinkled with such prodigality throughout Venice. Giorgio was no longer there, I was informed. This news was imparted to me by sexy, hot-eyed Guerrino, whom I remembered from the last trip. I looked around the shop. Venice’s most wonderfully imaginative masks hung everywhere, suspended even from the ceiling. I knew I had to have one, but couldn’t decide yet so I let my eye wander. Here on a post was a red-faced demon, of a type never seen in other mask shops. On a counter rested a pierrot, his sadly smiling face the same powder white as his stiff wide collar. Yes, a possibility. There were posters of Mondonovo, too, and a newspaper photo tacked to a cabinet: Guerrino wearing only a pair of shorts, working on a huge carnival float figure, his chest and belly a snuggly fur rug.
But I was due to meet my friends shortly to visit the Guggenheim. I could make my purchase later. Before I left, Guerrino gave me Giorgio’s phone number, saying he’d be pleased to hear from me. (I made a couple of tries later, but only reached his answering machine.)
On the way back, I found a little indorador’s shop a few steps from Campo San Barnaba. The indorador was Manuela Canestrelli. (Are all these craftsmen warm and cherubic?) I bought a gilt frame for Tom and Holly and a putto carved in ashwood, playing a viol. When I told him I was an artist, he pulled out a handmade book filled with drawings and messages from former customers. I dashed off a mildly salacious drawing of Cupid drawing a bead on a couple jigging away in the back seat of a car.
At the Accademia bridge I met Kathy and Marie and we sashayed off to the Guggenheim Collection. It was surely one of Marie’s highlights of the trip, but Kathy and I loved it too. The sun had come out, flattering this already light-filled museum. There was a superb show of drawings, but my favorite, as before, was Max Ernst’s fantastic, melancholic “The Attirement of the Bride.”
Lunch was at Ai Cugnai. And my old waitress — a bony little bundle of energy and motherly warmth — remembered me. After a lapse of six years! Seafood is Ai Cugnai’s crowning glory. I had a mixed cold seafood plate; the girls shared a serving of cold crabmeat. Next was a dish of tortellini in a light meat sauce, and liver and onions with polenta, a Venetian classic. As we left, I impulsively kissed her hand; she hugged me and planted kisses on both cheeks. Can anyone wonder why I love theplace?
The sun was still out, the sky a dazzling blue. We went to Mondonovo now, but Guerrino wasn’t there. A pudgy female shop assistant with almost no English sold me my eventual choice, a saucy, vaguely French brigand, with pink cheeks, black nose and forehead, and a fantastic filigree of mustache.
Marie had been looking forward to tea at Florian’s, but it was closed. We continued walking under the loggias and stopped at Chioggia’s, where we had outrageously expensive Bellinis (peach juice and champagne). Nobody liked them but me. Continuing along Riva degli Schiavoni to Castello, we explored those northern and eastern reaches of the city, where tourists seldom go. Even here were more tiny shops. And a bakery where we each tried something different. Me: a coconut tartlet; Marie: a chocolate rum torte; Kathy: apple strudel. All were wonderful, and cheap as dirt.
We picked up chianti, a block of pecorino and panetti (crackers with rosemary) to have at their hotel in lieu of dinner. On the way back we passed through Campo Manin, so I took them in to meet Signor Barutti, who charmed them as much as he had me. Warming to his visitors, he pulled out a dusty portrait to show us: his father (whom he had followed into the family business), in a frame the father himself had made.
In company with these two friends, the wine and cheese and panetti were as good as anything I had the whole trip. Kathy didn’t want dessert but Marie did, so we went around the corner to Bar al Teatro. I got another slice of that sublime pear pie. I took it back to the hotel with me and ate it sitting in my window and looking out over the lights of the city, the picture of contentment.
Thursday, October 28
After breakfast I took my poster of the Basilica floor plan to the post office on the Zattere. The tariff was twice the price of the poster, but it was worth it.
This was our last full day in Venice, and I needed to see some more art. The Gallerie Accademia is probably the greatest collection of art in town, with the possible exception of the Doges’ Palace. It wasn’t crowded at all. In the gallery of medieval art, I saw a man I was dead certain was the painter David Hockney (wouldn’t a painter visit the Accademia?). Finally I couldn’t stand it: I asked him. He stammered out a denial, but I’m still not quite convinced.
We’d arranged to meet at the base of the Accademia bridge for lunch. I took the San Samuele traghetto across to Campo San Barnaba, a short walk to the bridge.
I suggested a place I’d stumbled across the night before, a restaurant with lines waiting outside the door. The Taverna San Trovaso has an arched brick ceiling, suggesting a wine cellar. It was already doing a land-office business, but we got in quickly. We shared a pitcher of prosecco. I had a huge portion of tagliatelle al salmone, then a portion of murdered baby calf escalloped in a fragrant lemon sauce.
Marie was feeling a bit under the weather so she returned to her hotel. I had wanted to explore Giudecca and Kathy very generously agreed to join me. It’s said to be merely a bedroom community, so I didn’t expect much (a realistic expectation, as it turned out). But it’s the only sestiere of Venice I hadn’t visited. The Vaporetto from the Zattere took us there in under three minutes. A thick fog was beginning to settle down upon the city. On landing, we had a gelato. The lady at the counter seemed taken aback when I asked for a piccolo Bacio (which also means little kiss). I’d had it before, rich chocolate with hazelnut. This, I’m sorry to say, was the absolute highlight of our trip across the Giudecca Canal; the rest of the island was dull as ditchwater. So why did I enjoy it?
Gratefully back in the city proper, we headed for Campo San Barnaba, where I had a caffe doppio and Kathy, niente. Manuela Canestrelli’s shop was nearby, so I took her to meet him. On the way she asked me to take her picture standing between two grinning, absurdly young German sailors.
Kathy having returned to her hotel, I set out for a final long trek through my favorite city. That’s always the best way to savor it. Venice most willingly reveals her mysteries to those who make love to her slowly. The city was still shrouded in fog, rubbing the rough edges off everything.
I hadn’t seen the church of Santa Maria Formosa yet, Mario Codussi’s exercise in circular forms that I’d enjoyed so much on my last trip. The way there looked unfamiliar. The fog magically transmuted it into a path through a forest, a forest of stone and masonry. The church in its wide campo was somehow different than I remembered. I suppose the fog had done that, too. Once inside, I tried to be inconspicuous, for in one corner of the sanctuary a small family service was in progress. By its happy nature, I took it for a christening. Back in the campo I took pictures of the fruit stands in the twilight, then moved into unexplored territory.
Fog and the approach of nightfall lent an eldritch air to the city. I tried some experiments in night shooting. One, a generic Venice shot of a bridge over a narrow canal, was lit only by two street lamps and what little light remained in the sky. But I managed to keep the camera steady and the half-light infused the shot with mystery. It was my best photograph of the trip, maybe my best ever.
Returning in a roundabout way to the neighborhood behind the Basilica of San Marco, I found a small friendly bookstore that carried a book of short pieces by Dirk Bogarde that I was looking for. Going around to the front of the church, I was astonished. The great piazza was a bowl of fog. Standing in the center, I looked up to see the enormous, other-worldly figure of the basilica; it was completely obscured. But around the piazza, the evenly-spaced lights glowed softly in the fog, like pearls. Two of the cafés were playing live music. My last impression of Piazza San Marco was of a little sad/merry combo at Florian’s, sawing away at “La donna è mobile.”
Stopping at the hotel to call Kathy about meeting at the Santa Lucia station in the morning, I implored her to collect Marie and go see the unearthly beauty of the piazza. (They didn’t go, however, and missed something both exquisite and unforgettable.)
My ultimate goal was Montin’s, Peg Brier’s favorite seafood restaurant in Venice, which I had loved, too. I wanted to go the long way around so I walked to the Zattere, to approach it from Calle Trevisana. Unsure, even with my trusty map, I stopped by a bar for help. I was given directions by a very friendly and attractive man, my age or maybe a tad older, with a short gray beard and curly silver hair tumbling out of his collar. I was tempted to ask him along, for dinner and perhaps more.
Some memories are best left alone, to glow warmly in the mind. Montin’s is attractive, I’ll give it that. Its lantern sign was a pale live coal in the dark. I was again impressed by the artwork crowding the walls. But...
Hobbes’s description of man’s life as ‘poor, nasty, brutish and short’ described perfectly the dinner I was served. It was a gastronomic disaster, a whole season’s repertoire of tragedies. The first bad sign was the waiter. In human warmth he was a step up from The Blowfish of recent memory. I ordered some mineral water and a glass of prosecco. It came in a small flute filled slightly over the halfway mark. Nonetheless, I silently toasted Peg with it. The mixed Brazilian salad sounded intriguing but it was nothing more than a bowl of chopped lettuce, iceberg lettuce yet, with oil and vinegar. The extra-virgin olive oil was no virgin, but the oldest whore on the block. The balsamic vinegar might have tamed it, but it made for an unholy combination, bitter and foul. Witch vomit. I wondered briefly if I’d been vengefully served castor oil. No, that was impossible — I’d been the spirit of affability when I came in; they had no reason to hate me.
Then came the main dish: mixed grilled fish Montin. The three or four tablespoons of salmon were good, but the rest...! There was a piece of monkfish, which tasted like a bitter slab of fatty rubber; a mystery fish comprised of roughly 75% bones, more like a sautéed pincushion; a prawn whose tail provided a tasty mouthful of meat — one mouthful, to be precise; and a whole sole. This fish was paper-thin, with an immense xylophone of bone and an ashy, overdone taste. Altogether, mixed grilled fish Montin was about as palatable as grilled flophouse mattress. It was a filthy meal, though in fairness I should mention that the bottled mineral water was first-rate.
Scraping that nasty experience off my shoe, I made a beeline for the bar of two nights before, where I had a wonderful panino of prosciutto and artichoke hearts, washed down with a cold and most welcome beer.
Friday, October 29
Black Friday — black because we had to leave. I saw Venice off in the only way possible, with a quick walk to Marchini’s for a goodbye buccellata, then a leisurely walk around the western end of sestiere San Marco. I returned to pack, read until checkout, then walked to the bridge to catch the Vaporetto. The canal was glutted with traffic, so our progress up the Grand Canal was slow and stately, just as I’d hoped. Carnevale was months away, but I sighted one gondola carrying three shrouded figures in masks.
Kathy and Marie were there already. They had bought food for the train ride, so I got a vegetarian panino and a beer. We boarded with no hassle or hustle, and I spent the four and a half ride to Rome quietly reading my Bogarde.
At Stazione Termini, Marie didn’t want to walk the thirty feet required to find an honest cabbie, but willingly put herself in the hands of a con man. He charged 50,000 lire ($27!) for a drive of seven blocks to the hotel. (The twenty-five mile taxi ride to the airport next day cost less.)
We were met at the Traiano by Lidia, quite a nice face to be greeted by. She had now changed her hair to a flaming red. Earlier in Rome, I’d seen a flyer advertising a performance (that night only) of Cavalleria Rusticana. It’s a harmonically opulent opera I’ve never seen, only heard. I longed to go, but I decided to spend my last night in Rome with my friends, a very happy choice. We window-shopped for an hour, then returned to our old haunt, Fiaschetteria Beltramme. We were early, and the first ones there. Our waiter greeted us like old friends.
I ordered spaghetti with clams and mussels, then a baked fish: wonderful. Kathy, in a most gracious gesture, offered the waiter a glass of our wine, a flask of the house white. He told us his story: he was born in Calabria, spent some years in Canada, then came to Rome. He said that several interesting people (e.g., Madonna) had come into his taverna over the years. He pointed out a caricature on the wall. This man, he explained, was the screenwriter for La Dolce Vita. He and Federico Fellini (!!!) had threshed out the basic idea for the movie while sitting at the large table in back. I saw no reason he shouldn’t be telling us the truth; how could he have known that Fellini is one of the higher gods in my pantheon?
Hating to go back to the hotel and leave this city behind, we meandered back slowly. A gelateria hove into view: aha! my last chance. I ordered strawberry. It was fine enough, but nothing special. So like the true sensualist I am, I stopped and had another, frutta di bosca. O, pray for me now, and at the hour of my death.
Saturday, October 30
In the breakfast room Marie and Kathy greeted me grimly, claiming that the traffic had kept them up all night. I, of course, heard nothing. We checked out, got a taxi to the airport and parted in the terminal. Their flight was two hours earlier than mine. I checked my bags, idled around the airport until my flight, and began to read Memoirs of Hadrian.
The first leg of my flight was pleasant, with no nasty decompression problems this time. I was quickly processed through the Amsterdam airport. Just before getting on the plane for Detroit, I was grilled by a burly female guard. She was smiling, but I got the distinct impression she could, if necessary, have wrestled me to the ground and taken a grim pleasure in doing so.
On the plane, I found my transAtlantic companions were a matron from Milwaulkee and a jolly Norwegian lady who forever shattered the impression of Scandinavians as dour. She also gave off a slight yeasty odor, rather like baking sourdough bread. This eventually evolved into something more like vinegar, but by then gin and tonic and absorption in my novel had insulated me. I finished the book just as we hit the tarmac in Detroit.
Again I was quickly processed, so I sat in a bar and had a hotdog with a tall beer. I noticed the mild cold that had hung around me for the duration of the trip was conspiring with the flight’s decompression to turn my sinuses into a nasal Niagara. At the gate I sat between a saffron-robed Buddhist monk and a large family of seven children. The father had a serene, distant air, while his mate looked frazzled to the last shred of patience. And no wonder. The children were all well-behaved except for one boy, about five, one of the most terrifying tots I’ve ever encountered. He stormed and screamed and whined at the top of his tiny Wagnerian lungs. Every now and then he would abruptly stop screaming. Onto his ugly little face — yes, he was villainously ugly besides — would creep a look of sheer, joyous malevolence. Without a shred of provocation he would race across and attack a sibling — any one of them would do. Some children are naturally difficult, but some surely must be evil; this boy was one of them. Given a choice between Ritalin and arsenic I would have chosen the latter — or perhaps a cocktail of the two, just to be safe. I prayed that this family would be seated far, far away from me on the plane. And was it my imagination, or were the monk’s lips moving in silent supplication, too? But another flight was announced at a nearby gate and they trouped over together, the pocket Satan still roaring and foaming like Drano.
The flight to Boston was short and I was glad, after all the fun of travel, to be home. Late as it was, I decided to go ahead and unpack. Opening the first zipper, I found a compartment I’d overlooked — filled with my Fruit-of-the-Looms. I’d packed them after all.
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