Monday, July 21, 2008

Wales, Italy 2006

Christmas Day, 2006
I arrived in Manchester as planned, no hitches, on Christmas morning and was greeted by Peter and Joe. It was a perfect flight -- no upper respiratory problems, a terrific book in hand, no nasty terrorists putting a damper on things.
The first day several old friends came by the house, and by eleven, I was ready for bed. On Monday, Boxing Day, Peter, Joe, Lee, and Peter's sister Maureen and I drove to Llandudno, on Colwyn Bay, for a Christmas pantomime. [For the uninitiated, this is a show with songs and horridly corny jokes, and based on a children's story or tale from English history. No miming is involved.] This one was "Aladdin." It was spectacularly produced, filled with spectacle, lighting effects and glorious costumes. I enjoyed it, but Peter pronounced it, with a sniff, as having no soul. Still, it was a great day trip and I loved it.
On Thursday, Peter's own panto opened. This was "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs." Four of the boys from "Oliver" were in it, as were four other actors I have performed with. And I knew several of the backstage and box office crew from previous visits. Liz Watkins, one of the ushers, asked me to come the next day and sell programs, which I did. [One has to pay for programs in Britain, whereas they're free in the USA.] My old friend Ruth, also working in programs, has invited me out for some as-yet-unspecified day to go to a museum and have lunch. The British hospitality has already begun in earnest...
"Snow White..." was lots of fun, and my friend Steve Davies, who played the Dame, was hilarious perfection. The Dame, I should explain, is a drag role, each appearance onstage in a more and more outlandish costume. Steve was gloriously over-the-top, and wowed the crowd. (The remainder of this journal comes from my emails home.)

Dear Friends and Family,
Sorry I haven't been reporting in with any regularity, but most of my time has been spent either reading or writing or illustrating. Last week I finished all the finished rough drawings for "My Dad Did Something Bad" and began the first draft of the new picture book, "Calvin and the Girls." Now that I'm back from LONDON, I can take it back up again.
On Saturday morning Peter and I were given a ride to Chester and let off at the train station. Peter's nephew had found (online, naturally) excellent, cheap seats, and the train ride went smoothly.
On arrival, Peter and I walked a few blocks to the Euston Square Hotel, a sparkling new hotel near Bloomsbury. After check-in we walked down into the West End. Peter wanted to see shows; I wanted merely to let London seep into my spirit. We parted at the theatre ticket booth in Leicester Square, where he had gotten tickets to a matinee and an evening show, and I struck off on my own.
Peter is a picky eater, so I took the chance to have a Chinese meal while on my own. Mr. Wu's, however, was not a particularly felicitous choice, but it was cheap and plentiful. The General Gao's chicken was more evocative of the good general's saddle, but no matter: I was pleased to get any Chinese food at all. Afterward, I sniffed around the Chinese markets to find a tin of lichee tea for Peter's partner David (currently on a world cruise), and after about a dozen tries, was finally successful.
From there I made a beeline to the National Gallery and spent a few delightful hours there, longer than I usually do. Then I hit the many secondhand bookstores on Charing Cross Road, buying nothing, but enjoying the process of rooting around. I also found a delectable little cul-de-sac, a court lined with many antiquarian bookshops, a new discovery.
I met Peter at 7:30 in front of the Apollo Theatre, to find out when his show (Jessica Lange in "The Glass Menagerie") let out, then began scouting the restaurants of Soho for my evening meal. After discarding an inordinate amount of prospects, I hit pay dirt.
Melati is a restaurant on Great Windmill Street, specializing in Indonesian, Malaysian, and Singapore cuisine. I had no reservation, so was sent up several flights of stairs to an attic dining area, filled with dining parties, and settled down with a novel. The waiter brought me a dish of mahoy goreng, a glorious feast comprised of rice noodles, sliced fish cake, chicken, egg, and shrimp. It was quite spicy (which Peter would have hated!) but deliciously enjoyable. I washed it down with a Tiger beer, lingered as long as I could, and eventually left to meet Peter. We walked back to the hotel, both convinced that we'd had the better time.
Sunday morning we walked half a mile or so to the British Museum, which, astonishingly, Peter had never visited. We stayed for a couple of hours, marvelling (mostly) at the Greek and Assyrian ancient art. Peter was duly impressed and I was glad to return to this treasure house. Just before leaving, we spent a bit of time in the fabulous Reading Room, where Karl Marx spent so much time writing his (unworkable) social theories. It is massive, a huge cavern of a place, and oddly, completely open to any visitors.
We had arranged to meet Tony Younger for lunch, meeting under the great porch of Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. Tony is an old friend of Peter and David's, and has hosted Peter and me twice on visits to London. He is a handsome ex-military man of 77, an American's perfect paradigm of the pukka Englishman. On the way to the restaurant, Tony accidently jostled a crazy old lady who was trying to pass. He apologized, but she sailed into a symphony of invective, and he was unable to palliate her. For a full three minutes she railed at us, telling Tony (a native Londoner, incidentally) "We don't want your kind here!" We had apparently run into one of these pathetic street crazies. After a while we were able to scrape her off and toddled off down the Strand.
The restaurant, Salieri, was one I'd been to before with my cousin Dana, her daughter and son-in-law. Over-the-wall decor, perfect service, and impeccable food. I had a grilled tuna steak with steamed vegetables in lemon butter -- wonderful. Tony, despite our protestations, treated us.
Afterward, Peter and I walked to the Thames and crossed Waterloo Bridge. We strolled along the south bank toward the Globe Theatre, stopping at the Tate museum for another exposure to art, more adventurious, edgier than the previous day's. On exiting, we walked across the beautiful Hunderford footbridge and ended up in front of St. Paul's cathedral, whose size and magnificence I always find newly impressive. We walked back up Fleet Street, and as the evening darkened, toward the theatre district. I was to have my Christmas present from Peter this evening. First we refreshed ourselves with tea and scones at a delightful patisserie in Soho, Valerie's.
My gift was Sondheim's "Follies" in concert, an all-star extravaganza at the London Palladium (Judy Garland's last venue). I'd never been in this theatre before, the grandest and most voluptuously outfitted theatre in London. The show was, without going into too much detail, magnificent, one of the most thrilling evenings I've spent in a theatre in years. The highlight was an American performer, Kim Criswell, singing "I'm Still Here," which was also the first act curtain. I never expect to hear a better rendition; this song I know so well might have been freshly minted this very evening, a one-time-only occasion.
Walking back to the hotel, my euphoria kept my mind off my physical weariness. Peter estimated that we had walked over seven miles that day.
We took the train back home this morning. It had been a virtually perfect visit, with London under blue cloudless skies the entire time, mildly cool rather than cold -- perfection.
It is Monday night. Next Sunday I fly to Venice for a week, and after that, a visit with my nephew Toby in Lecce, a baroque jewel of a town in the heel of Italy's boot. I think I'd better begin resting for the revels...

Venice, Sunday, Feb 11
Peter and Joe got me up at 3 a.m. (groan!) and I was at the airport in plenty of time. The connection from Treviso airport to Venice, which I’d been sweating, was a breeze. But at my arrival at Piazzale Roma, I hit a majnor snag. I’d spent my last pounds on the bus ticket to Venice and naturally hoped that I would be able to get cash from an ATM. No Such luck. Every ATM I tried failed to recognize my password, a first for me as getting money from them on past trips had been child’s play. Alas, not this time. For a full hour, panic growing, I scampered about trying various banks. (Try scampering with a heavy bag in tow!) Finally, near despair, I found a money exchange at the train station, and was able to get an advance on my credit card -- actually relieved to pay an exorbitant 19% interest rate.
I made the wizest investment possible in having reserved a blue Venice card. This enabled me to ride public transportation and use the public WCs free for the entire week. The Vaporetto, the gloriously reliable conveyance plying the Venetian waters 24 hours a day, runs on average every ten minutes, both ways. After midnight it’s every 25 minutes. I made up for my investment by the second day. And only twice was I asked to show it.
I’d had no luck finding a hotel in Venice proper, but had to make do with the Hotel Buon Pesce on the Lido. It turned out to be perfect, on the north side of the island, and a very short bus ride to the Vaporetto stop. As it turned out, I loved the Lido. It’s a resort in summer and not at all lively in winter, but it suited me perfectly. I’ll stay there on any future visits to the city. The desk clerk was Annamaria, a plump, affable and helpful girl with thick glasses. She was a joy to see every day.
My room was fine, clean, and decorated with a nod to the 18th century. It was also quiet, looking out over parkland.
After dropping everything off, I was eager to get back to the city. The Vaporetto deposited me at the San Zaccaria stop just as the fog was rolling back out to sea. Another sea confronted me in Piazza S. Marco: a torrent of people, in town for Carnivale. Many were in masks, others in full fig, every kind of costume you could imagine. Some were homemade, but others were clearly the products of fine shops, or rentals. I snapped many pictures.
The reason I was in Venice in the first place was to shoot material for my project of painting Venice at night. Some of the day shots were adaptable, but mainly I had to wait till dusk to hunt up my subjects. My hours were spent hunting up picturesque squares, campielli, and richly bedizened celebrants, but as this was my third trip to Venice, I didn’t mind.

Monday, Feb. 12
Breakfast at the Buon Pesce was lush outlay, but during the week’s stay I stuck mostly to granola and hardboiled eggs. The servers, young firls with very good English, were quite generous with the coffee when they realized my capacity for the stuff. I ate well and thus had little need for large lunches.
In my perambulations around San Marco and beyond I found a shop featuring something completely new and surprising. One candymaker, displayed marzipan in the window unlike any other I’d ever seen. Instead of the typical fruit shapes, there were all sorts of raw and cooked seafood, hors d’oevres, devilled eggs, olives and very realistic lemons. I knew that this trip might pack on the pounds, so I resisted with the greatest difficulty.
Crossing the bridge at the church of San Moise, I saw a gondolier setting out with another boatload of passengers, and I was all but certain that he was Lino, who had given me my first gondola ride fourteen years ago. He looked just like the man I remembered, but with the addition of that many years. He was already to far away before I could call out to him and find out.
I ended the day in the northern sestiere of Cannareggio, ravenous for seafood and eager for anything. I found a lovely little place, Ristorante al Gazebo. The gnocchi in salmon cream nearly lifted me into a whole new level of consciousness; the mixed fried seafood just about finished off the job. A half-liter of white wine coddled me into bliss and I lingered over the meal as long as I could It was the best seafood I was to have on the whole trip, though I sought constantly to find its equal.
When I finally, and reluctantly, emerged into the night, the gentle rain which had started earlier had by now developed into a steady flood. The nearest Vaporetto stop was about a quarter of a mile away, so I was forced to dash madly from one awning to another -- though I got soaked anyway. But it had all been worth it.

Tuesday, Feb. 13
Having explored Venice on previous visits, I determined this time to scout out some of the outlying islands. I’d visited Murano on my last trip, but I now had a quest to complete. Murano produces art glass in prodigious quantities: every creature you can find on the earth is reproduced in glass, along with all kinds of stemware, art glass, et cetera. I wanted to find a hummingbird for my sister Brenda, who collects them. Surely on Murano I would find what I was looking for.
No such luck.
In the first shop I spoke with the owners, who luckily gave me the right word to work with: I sketched a hummingbird in my notebook. “Ah, colibri!” they said. So I proceeded to look EVERYWHERE, in virtually every shop I could find. There were Disney characters, vehicles, animals and birds of every type – but no hummingbirds. Rhinos, elephants, clowns, Popeye and Olive Oyl, crocodiles, cuttlefish, sharks and rays, beetles and dragonflies, owls and penguins, snails and dinosaurs, 18th century dandies in full feather – everything but the Budapest String Quartet – and hummingbirds. Finally I settled on a fine little singing bird, very delicately wrought with exquisite detail.
Some of the work done on Murano is gorgeous, and yes, some of it is the worst kind of junk. In one shop, which seemed to specialize in the very best work, I was surprised to find the vilest piece of all: a clown sitting on a toilet. Loathing clowns even in full dress, I fled in horror.
On Murano I found one of the loveliest churches in the whole lagoon, the church of San Donato, and nearby was a restaurant that lured me in, Busa alla Torre. The owner and headwaiter, a mountainous redhead turning rapidly grey, with a formidable beard, took me in hand and provided a feast.
Back in the city, I wandered about shooting various subjects, and found a perfect city square, the Campo SS Apostoli. Everything is here, not just for the tourists: newstands, a pet shop, a gloveseller at a stand, gondoliers lounging about waiting for fares, trees, a venerable old cobbled-together church, a handful of small restaurants. Old facades both stately and squalid – or both -- look down on the bustling life. A real people’s square.
I did a bit more shooting and shopping, and set out for dinner, at the one place it was necessary to stop. On my first trip to Venice I’d discovered a small family run restaurant, Trattoria Ai Cugnai. It was run by two middle-aged ladies, and on my first visit the place had won my heart. I returned three days later in company with two Englishwomen I’d met and we were treated as royalty. On my last trip to Venice, in 1999, I was remembered, and warmly embraced. Incredibly, now eight years later, I was instantly recognized and received kisses Italian style (once on each cheek) by the ladies. They had aged, of course, and one seemed quite frail, but I was in heaven at being remembered with evident fondness.
As I was dining fairly early, the only other patrons in the room were a gay male couple several tables away who smiled at me and seemed curious as to whether I was also a member of the tribe.

Wednesday, Feb. 14
I hadn’t really explored the Lido properly, so I set out on foot. First stop: the island’s cemetery, including one of the oldest Jewish cemeteries in Europe. Then the beach on the south side of the island, home to the great resort hotels. The grandest and most venerable, the Grand Hotel Des Bains, was shuttered for the season, but the beach in front of it was open. I strolled about for half an hour, finding a few delicate shells, then strolled through the back streets to the S. Elisabetta vaporetto stop. There I caught a bus that took me almost to the other end of the island, from where I walked back to the center. I sighted not one but two old ladies in mink coats, riding bicycles. Women here would be the despair of PETA, and a bicycle seems not the slightest bit out of character, no, not even while wrapped in fur.
On the vaporetto, I got out at the S. Elena stop, to explore part of Venice that tourists never see (like most of the Lido). I wandered north through the Public Gardens, uncharacteristically green and spacious for Venice. The rest of the day I shot possible future paintings, and stumbled on the small Fundamenta Cavagnis, which I’d shot in fog at dusk on my last visit, and subsequently painted.
For dinner that night I’d intended to dine at Ristorante Al Zucco (the pumpkin), a highly recommended boite in S. Polo. Getting there from the S. Stae vaporetto stop, I discovered the Campo S. Giacomo da L’Orio, which had been deep in water when I’d seen it in company with Kathy and Marie. It reminded me to be grateful that on this trip there was no acqua alta (the high waters that routinely plague the city) to trouble me.
Al Zucco’s recommendation must have been well-deserved; it was booked up. Nearby was the Trattoria al Ponte, so I sat down for what turned out to be a true feast. Visually, too: the waiter was a deeply attractive, pony-tailed blond who seemed determined to make my experience a memorable one. For appetizer I ordered a Venetian specialty, sarde in saor. Sardines, vinegar-marinated in fried onions and served cold sounds off-putting, but it was delectable. My main course was cuttlefish (in its own ink) served with two bolsters of polenta, another Venetian specialty. It’s an entirely black and white dish, and surprisingly tasty. All this was washed down with a carafe of the local white wine.
I walked slowly back to S. Stae through the deserted alleyways, impressed as always by the safety of Venice even at night. The mysterious, winding streets, the ancient wellheads illuminated by moonlight, the utter silence of the city under the stars, are like a drug.
I sat outside on my vaporetto ride back to the Lido, feasting on the beauty of the illuminated palazzi on the Grand Canal and trying with little success to get useable shots. At the hotel, footsore and weary from my long day, I sank into the hottest tub I could draw, poured a glass of prosecco, and read. Bliss.

Thursday, Feb. 15
I set out with little purpose other than to shoot Venice and see some art. Venice is unique, a living work of art in itself. An artist or sensualist (and I am both) with an eye for detail is the ideal visitor to the city. I let my sight bathe in the welter of carved detail, discolored walls, oddments of ornament, and unexpected architectural whimsies. Lunch was at Rosa Rossa (Red Rose), a pizzeria I’d liked on my first visit 14 years ago.
The first of only two museums that I visited on this trip was the Peggy Guggenheim collection, where I’d been before. This was the third time but my pleasure in it was undiminished. In fact, while here I began reading a fascinating biography of the lady, doubly enhancing my appreciation of the collection.
I returned to the Lido a bit early and decided, as a change of pace, to have Chinese food. The fractured English translations on the menu were highly amusing (like wanton soup; does it splash into your lap and have sex with you?) but the food was plentiful and quite surprisingly good. I began with excellent steamed dumplings. The cashew chicken and fried rice were utterly unlike their American counterparts, but fragrant, light, and flavorful.
I was back at the hotel by ten and finished my book (Best American Essays 2006).

Friday, Feb. 16
Today was my chance to explore the outer islands. The boat took me from Murano to Burano first, a voyage of some twenty minutes. Burano is a quaint fishing village specializing in lace-making, though I understand today a good bit of its product for sale originates in Hong Kong. The artists themselves are dying out and the tradition itself is therefore endangered. However, I did see several ancient crones bent over their work. Unlike Venice, the natives paint their houses bright colors, some quite garish; the effect is charming. The Buranese are friendlier, perhaps, than the Venetians. I spent a couple of hours there and then took the vaporetto to Torcello, remote from Venice and close to the mainland.
There is very little to see here, but what there is is choice. Torcello seems ideal farmland, though not much seems to be under active cultivation. Some pugnacious geese and a couple of tethered goats were the only livestock I saw on the long walk from the vaporetto stop. There is a hotel, a museum, a couple of restaurants, and a shop or two. In the main square however are two of the crown jewels of Italian architecture. The church of S. Fosca is small but lovely, set among cedars. The interior is all circular spaces, simple and profoundly lovely. The only other visitor was a middle-aged, mustachioed Greek woman who kept surreptitiously snapping pictures, officially verboten. I forbore to do so myself.
This was a harder resolution to maintain in the main cathedral, Basilica di Santa Maria Assunta de Torcello. Here too, a couple of camera buffs kept shooting the artwork, glancing furtively around to avoid detection.
At the far end of the basilica is a vast mosaic of various saints, Jesus and Mary.Typically, the anonymous 13th century artists lavished their most inspired work on the sinners undergoing the fires of damnation. It’s ironic how the art of Christianity, supposedly a religion of love, adores dwelling on pain and punishment.
The masterpiece of the church, among so many, is a chapel at the right, decorated by an 11th century mosaic of Jesus, the apostles, and a couple of archangels. Some have called this the greatest treasure in all Venice and they may be right. The work is exquisite and somehow preserved in all its original glory, a brilliant and elaborate expression of faith in the Byzantine style.
On the way back to the vaporetto -- slowly, slowly -- I conversed with a shopkeeper, who was as enchanted by the glorious day as I was, a sapphire, unclouded sky overhead, warm and lazy. Tranquillo e bello.
Dinner that night was at Al Vecio Portal, which I settled on out of sheer weariness. It was simply there. I ordered a simple menu turistico from the dark sexy brute of a waiter, a plate of spaghetti bolognese, a roast breast of chicken and a salad peppery with arugula. In mid-dinner, a couple came in in 18th century dress. The lady in green had the utmost trouble getting her panniered skirt through the tables, but sat down opposite me, where I admired her beauty and her rich costume. The plumes of her hat bobbed merrily as she and her companion laughed through the meal. Versailles vacationing in Venice.

Saturday, Feb. 17
My last full day in Venice I spent most of my time at Ca’ Pesaro, a grand palazzo converted in 1897 into a wonderful modern art museum. I hadn’t seen it before. Most of the collection is academic work drawn from past Venice Biennales, lushly over-the-top, but a good deal of it is quite forward looking. I specially liked a lovely Bonnard nude, and some Matisse prints. There were some oddities. I’d never seen a Carl Larsson painting in a museum. But here was an apple-cheeked serving girl, a merry misfit among all these lush Mediterranean beauties.
There was an oriental collection on the top floor but it wasn’t open until two, so I settled down in the café with my Guggenheim book. The collection turned out to be hardly worthy of the wait, but it was nice to sit, anyway. The rest of the afternoon I shot as much of paintable Venice as I could, then wandered in the direction of Piazza San Marco.
I rather like crowds, but this was ridiculous. During the week the carnival celebrants had been plentiful, but this evening one could hardly move among the cheek-by-jowl crowd. I stood it for twenty minutes or so and then squeezed my way out of the throng to find a restaurant. I found another with a tourist menu but lightning did not strike twice: this was the only truly indifferent meal of the entire trip. I returned to the Lido for packing and an early night.

Sunday morning I was not awakened in time by the front desk, so had to forego a shower and rushed to meet the cab which had been called for me. He got me to the vaporetto stop in hardly more than a minute, and the boat arrived shortly. I was sad to leave the place, yet eager to get back to begin the next adventure. The bus to Treviso was on time and everything went smoothly all the way back to Liverpool. Peter greeted me.
That night we were joined by Peter’s sister Maureen, Steve and Andrew, Lee Hassett and a young man named Matthew, Ruth and her husband and daughter. Dinner was at the carvery in Lavister, a delightful end to a long, long day.

I returned from Venice on Sunday afternoon, only to get up at four the next morning for another trip to Italy. Peter should be canonized for his willingness to be rousted out of bed in the middle of the night. This time I was going to visit my nephew Toby and Francesca, the Italian girl he has fallen in love with. I adore Italy, and yet I’d never been south of Rome before. I looked forward to a grand adventure.

Monday, Feb. 19
This seemed truly to be one of the longest days in memory. I could only get to the Bari airport via Paris and Milan, so I was prepared for long waits in airports. Peter got me to the Manchester airport easily and I checked my bag long before the crowd arrived. This time I was wise enough to arm myself with plenty of euros before leaving Britain. The flight to Paris was on time and gave me over an hour to make my connection. Yes, everything was moving along splendidly.
Paris lay under a blanket of fog, however, and my flight to Milan was delayed a bit. Then delayed a bit more. Then cancelled altogether. I realized that I would miss my connection to Bari, so I frenetically sought help from a lovely gamine at the help desk. She efficiently routed me through Rome, but I was to arrive two hours later than expected. It remained only to contact Toby so he wouldn’t give up on me and return to Lecce, an hour and a half drive from Bari.
I was unable to get through, but I hoped I could phone him in Rome; Alitalia had other plans. The plane was late and I had to sprint through the airport like a fox with hounds in pursuit, all the way into another terminal. It was nip and tuck and I sank into my seat only moments before the plane doors were slammed shut. No time for a phone call.
At Bari I discovered that Alitalia had misplaced my bag. I finally managed to contact Toby and it was a joy to see him striding into the airport to greet me. He was willing to wait for a second flight from Rome to arrive. Still no bag, but we were assured that it would come eventually and I would be contacted. We began the drive home.
Southern Italy at night is magical. A purple sky, palm trees, soft lights, a new experience ahead, and one of my dearest friends with me: nirvana. We drove home and arrived quite late; luckily Francesca was still up.
Francesca is a petite girl with short black curly hair and a smile that could melt ice. I warmed to her immediately and the next few days only confirmed my first impression. I was to meet her family and friends, and of the entire group, she was the only one of us to speak fluently both in Italian and English. Toby is still learning Italian and my own is woefully limited. Yet any difficulties we had in communicating were unimportant and merely added to the merriment. I marvel at the patience of Italians.

Tuesday, Feb. 20.
I woke from my 9-hour sleep to be find that Toby had already been out to buy me a toothbrush and razor. Francesca, a student at the Universita di Lecce, had already gone. Toby took me to a charming café nearby and we had coffee and dangerously delicious pastries, served by a handsome young barman with lushly black eyes. Add ears and a tail and you would have had a perfect satyr.
Afterward we walked through the Centro Storico, I snapping pictures one after another. Lecce is a national treasure, called the Florence of the South because of its rich heritage of baroque architecture. Buildings swarm with detail, putti and angels and demons and miraculous beasts in the easily workable local calcareous stone. The origins of the barocco leccese are obscure, but they differ from the creamy, flowing Roman style. It was originally thought to be Spanish in influence, but is apparently not. In the center of the city is a semi-exposed Roman amphitheatre, and a column with the city’s patron saint, S. Oronzo, perched so high even the pigeons left him alone.
Near the central piazza is the antiquarian bookshop of Niceta (Nico) Maggi and Mario Cazzato. These neighbors of Francesca’s parents are the gay couple Toby was eager to introduce me to. Only Mario was in the shop today. He is a handsome man of 52, with the confident Italian facial features of an opera singer; he shares some of the facial characteristics of both Placido Domingo and the late Richard Tucker. He greeted me warmly in the Italian style, kisses on both cheeks. I observed throughout the visit that even if one is parted from a friend or family for a couple of hours, this greeting is repeated. Is this a southern Italian custom, or have I noticed it only because this was my first experience of Italian family life? No matter; I fell easily into the custom.
Soon after, Francesca picked us up at the Public Garden and we had lunch at Trattoria Nonna Tetti, a charming hole in the wall near one of the city’s five remaining gates. The menu was extensive and even included horse (I respectfully declined). Instead I had the fantasia di Nonna, quill pasta with tomatoes, mushrooms, cheeses and some sort of ground meat. In addition, Toby ordered a vast selection of vegetables and antipasti – too much food, really, but all delightful. The best was braised chicory (which I’ve only had raw, in salads), mildly bitter and drenched in olive oil.

All during this trip I sampled Pugliese regional cooking. Without really getting much of a handle on it I can report that the main characteristics are a certain spiciness, an emphasis on local produce, and a full, rich intensity of flavor. We had water with this meal, but later I had some of the local red wine. It is distributed in jugs, then transferred to carafes at home. I am convinced now that the Italians export lesser wines and keep the best for themselves – perfectly understandable. The guidebooks say that Puglia is known for the high quality of its wines and olive oil. I believe it.
After lunch, we dropped Francesca off at the university, on the outskirts of town, and went back to the house. I read and rested while Toby ran off to his Italian lesson. He returned quickly: the class was cancelled because of some holiday. He took me out of the historical center into the commercial district to buy a shirt. I was astonished to see Lecce unfold before me: a prosperous modern city with beautifully appointed shops. We stopped first at a pasticceria. Toby conversed voluably with the owner, and it was a joy to see my nephew using his Italian completely without self-consciousness. To his disappointment, they were out of their specialty. This, Toby tells me, is a fig with an almond inserted into the center, then dipped in chocolate. At the COIN department store, I bought a perfect shirt, dark purplish blue with sunflowers lightly embroidered in the same color. A good dressy shirt.
Francesca fixed dinner that night, a blissful concoction of quill pasta and orrechieri, meatballs, green and black olives – terrifico. I was stuffed, but she then produced an additional dish, a meatloaf cooked in a skillet, stuffed with cheeses and olives.

Wednesday, Feb. 21
Che un giorno gioioso! We awoke to a clear blue sky and a temperature of about 65. To my relief, my bag had arrived. Toby drove me down the coast to see Otranto. We took the shore route, and the Adriatic was bluer than I could ever have imagined, clean and clear. I was able to see a good bit of the southern Italian countryside, endless olive orchards studded with trulli, a local hut made of stones piled together. In the vineyards and orchards they are used for storage, but may also be gathered together to serve as homes, each hut given the functions of a separate room.
The land is sere yet fertile, similar to southern California, and probably of like climate. Huge prickly pear colonies abound, the cacti as high as an elephant’s eye.
This was an inlet where one could see little grottos carved into the seaside cliffs, some created by humans, others by the actions of the rough waves. Toby led me to a hidden grotto, the water below a dazzling limpid turquoise, accessible by steps carved into the rock. It must be, when not visited by tourists, an ideal swimming hole. I have seldom seen such impressive natural beauty.
We drove further south through forests of eucalyptus, umbrella pine and palm. Otranto, halfway down the coast to the end of the heel of Italy’s boot, was somnolent in the warm midday sun. Almost everything was closed for siesta, but we found the Trattoria Glen Rose open. Again we ordered extravagantly: grilled vegetables, then fried appetizers that turned out to be stuffed green olives, covered with a batter and deep-fried. The main course was pasta studded with clams and mussels. We washed down this glorious repast with acqua frizzante.
Toby went back to the car to nap while I explored and photographed. Otranto is home to an ancient castle immortalized in a gothic novel by Horace Walpole. It must have been created early in the middle ages and is a most impressive pile sitting in full sunlight, small shrubs peeking out of the chinks in its walls. The deep moat is lined with grass, since very few conquering armies assault the town now. It was not always so, as I learned later. I strolled down to the marina and into the southern part of the town; the only living soul I saw was a goat who seemed quite curious to see this Yankee clicking a small magic box.
Eventually I returned to the car as arranged, and Toby took me to the cathedral. It is a magnificent church, plain inside, with a ceiling decorated in a gilded grid with elaborate carvings within. But the floor is the highlight. This 14th century mosaic, primitive in style, depicts a mad jumble of animals and people. The people were generally biblical characters, like Adam and Eve, Cain and Abel. The animals run the gamut from elephants and camels to chimeras, gryphons, and other mythological beasts, roaming about the floor or enthusiastically attacking one another. In a shop off to the side, Toby bought both of us posters of this floor. Along the sides of the cathedral are fragments of ancient frescoes, some indistinct, others blazing with color. In a cloister toward the back is a grisly memorial of an attack by Turks sometime in the middle ages. The marauding army entertained themselves by lopping off the heads of the citizenry in an orgy of blood lust. Displayed were at least two paintings of the event, and what I can only describe as an ossocollage. Behind three glass panels are arrangements of the bones of the departed, skulls grinning, the other bones framing them in fanciful patterns. Beneath an altar in the middle is a huge misshapen stone, but I never was able to determine its significance.
Just before we left a coffin was wheeled in and the church began to fill up with people. The departed must have been very popular, for there were many mourners, most of them under 30. When they had all filed in, Toby and I quietly slipped out. On the way back, Toby called Nico, Mario’s partner. We were to meet at Angela’s later.

The house that Francesca’s parents share with Mario and Nico is on Piazzetta Tancredi, opposite (what else?) an exuberantly ornate church. One enters a small green door into a courtyard with a flight of stairs. Angela was waiting for us at the top. She is an effusive, compact woman who apparently lives to make others feel welcome. She greeted us Italian style and we came into the house. It is a comfortable jumble, with many books and personal mementos very much in evidence, a home of thinking, reading people. From the dining room, we scaled a ladder onto the roof garden to see the views of the city. The garden is on several levels and it’s shared with Nico and Mario.
Back downstairs, we sat in the living room, snacking on guacamole that Toby and Francesca had made. Presently Nico came in. Nico is one of the most gloriously over-the-top personalities one could ever hope to meet. Some might consider him a bit too much; I did not. A quiff of dark hair, bright black eyes and a baroque way of expressing himself – I adored him from the first moment. Toby teased me into doing a caricature of him, and from then on, my pen was seldom in my pocket.
We went in to dinner and soon Mario joined us. Angela had prepared a magnificent explosion of pasta and love, and the wine flowed freely. Dinner lasted over two hours, one of the best evenings I have ever spent in Italy. It was like visiting the country for the first time. Una sera giocosa!
The tone of this evening was to be repeated over and over, to my absolute delight. Only Francesca was easily bilingual. Nico has a little English, Mario less. Toby was speaking quite voluably and my reticence disappeared to the point where my Italian was coming back. But the secret to the evening’s success was this: the lack of complete comprehension was of no importance. All of the meals we had together were a wild melange of food, wine, and Italian culture; sex was discussed as frankly as the weather – and at every meal! Not a party for the faint-hearted or timid. My straitlaced younger self would have cringed, but the older, Dionysian Michael adored it all.
When Toby and his brothers were children I used to entertain them by drawing. One game was for them to draw a squiggle, a random line or series of them, which I would transform into a cartoon. Toby very quickly re-introduced this and I drew, by my estimation, and over the next days, at least two hours. All were submitting squiggles, and I was even transforming their names. By the end of every meal I felt more Italian than Federico Fellini.

Thursday and Friday, Feb. 22-23
In the morning Toby and I went back to Nico and Mario’s Libreria del Sole, the antiquarian bookshop. At noon Toby, Nico and I walked through the city back to N&M’s house, closing up the shop – Italian style – for a three-hour siesta (or in our case, lunch). Nico and I chattered mostly about movies; he’s a huge film buff, as I am. Lunch included the local red wine, which I had to force myself NOT to overindulge in. Angela once again cooked, along with some dishes by Nico.
After lunch I walked a few blocks to the Archeological Museum. It is a national treasure, of course, and had more Greek pottery than I’ve seen in any other museum. The building is old, but the new interior is a masterpiece of design, leading the visitor easily through the collection. In addition to the Greek and Roman artifacts, there was a display of work from an Italian illustrator of children’s books, and a gallery featuring art “From di Chirico to Warhol.” Several Marilyn Monroes by Warhol were featured, and the star was also the subject of two huge, horrible adulatory paintings. The poor woman would be 81 today. Isn’t it time to let her quietly moulder away?
Just before dinner at Nico and Mario’s, Angelo, a childhood friend of Nico’s, joined us. He is currently staying with them while a student. Angelo is markedly shy, handsome with a boyish smile, and with a five-day stubble. The evening was again very much like the previous one, with Angelo now requesting drawings of angels. He too got a caricature, as N and M had earlier.
That night, Angela asked me to do a drawing of Darwin for a national journal of Rationalist thought, L’Ateo. Her husband Giacomo is the regional editor. In addition I did a caricature of Pope Benedict and a cartoon critical of the Church’s failure to address the subject of pedophile priests. These will go into future journals.
On the last night I brought my camera to commemorate this visit but the results are fuzzy and often out of focus. My grateful heart will remember the visit more accurately. I sadly said goodbye to my new friends and the delightful Angela, and we made an early night of it.

Saturday, Feb. 24
Toby got me up at four to drive me to the airport in Bari. I hated to leave him, but knew that I’d be back. This marvelous circle of friends and family have extracted a promise from me to stay longer next time. The plan is to return this summer for two or three weeks. I’ll be hosted by both houses. I can hardly wait.
Peter and Joe picked me up at the airport and that night I had another social engagement. Chris Dukes picked me up and we met Eric and Keith at a country inn, Pant yr Ochain, for a robust dinner. Unwilling to wean myself from Italy too quickly, I ordered pasta. The knee-bucklingly tasty treacle tart at the end brought me gently back to Britain.
The last week was pleasant, although by now I was ready to get back. On the last weekend, Peter and Joe and I drove to the Welsh coast, and on the way back, stopped at a Catholic shrine that you would have loved, St. Winefried’s Well. The saint allegedly had her head lopped off, but it was reattached, and the well was dedicated in her name. It was a lovely medieval structure, with the well and bathing pools inside.

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