Exhausted as we were this morning, we felt a slight tug at our heartstrings as the taxi driver took us to the airport. Before that though, I tried in vain to get my mom one last cannolli, but it was too early for any of the bakeries to have them yet. I did, however, stop into the corner supermarket and pick up travel packages of Kleenex. Kleenex you may ask? Well, yes - the brand that we've come to know and love here is just a tad different in Europe. Thicker and with a little embroidered edge, they won Rosemarie's heart and she fell in love with them. (They came in handy all week as we had to constantly wipe the sweat from some orifice on our bodies.) When she runs out of them, I guess I'll have to go back there and pick some up.
Despite being told to not tip the cab driver, I was about to unload the remaining Euros to the cute little chauffeur, but he took off as soon as I gave him the required fare. Early, as usual, we got to the counter and discovered that Lufthansa wanted to book us on a new flight out of Munich that would get us into Boston two hours earlier.
As if an omen of the events to come, the ticket agent had computer problems printing our boarding passes and we passed the time marveling at the thinness of the girl next to her who seemed to almost get swallowed up by the amount of hair on her head. Finally getting her computer to work, our agent printed our passes and checked in all our bags. I was tired and sweaty and had little patience to deal with any of our luggage, so I checked every piece.
Waiting for our flight to Munich, there was an adorable fat faced German baby in the crowd. Babies love me and it smiled, but it was an evil creature waiting to erupt the second it got on the regional jet. Sitting on the plane, I noticed all the luggage being removed and as the time ticked away, we discovered that there was one suitcase without a passenger, so the ground crew removed everything to look for and eject the rogue valise. Our connection was getting tighter and tighter and as the plane finally took off, the fat faced baby unleashed his rage. For one solid hour, his lungs expelled enough air to power us all the way to the United States.
With my mother getting more anxious about our flight, we finally landed at 3:15, the boarding time of our Boston flight. We boarded the shuttle bus to the main terminal and walking the endless connection hallways came upon the roadblock that is passport control. Avoiding what looked like a tour group that we've seen throughout Italy, we switched lines and made it through, only to see that we needed Gate H43 and we were in G, with H ahead and up the staircase.
I looked back at my mother and thanked God there were moving sidewalks to help us get through the terminals. As beautiful as the Munich airport is, there was no time to enjoy it and we moved as quickly as we could to our plane. Rosemarie was slowing down, the over 100 miles we had walked in Italy making their presence felt.
"Pretend, Phil is at the pit stop and we're in first place," I said trying to keep her mind off the tight connection and on one of our favorite reality shows. She waved me forward so I could at least stop the plane from leaving. One more passport control later and a computer glitch at the gate we were there - or so we thought.
"More stairs?" my mother's tired voice echoed behind me.
Indeed, once through the gate, the plane waited below us and through the long jet way. But we were indeed there, the doors of flight 424 were still open and we walked onto the air conditioned jet. The back of the plane was empty enough that we moved our seats to an entire row. My mom fell asleep almost instantly - and from that, I knew she was tired. She never sleeps on planes. Hours later, we touched down in Boston. We were home. My father greeted us at the door to their house and I think I saw a hint of happiness on his face.
Tomorrow, we will sleep and I'll transfer all the pictures to my mom's digital photo album. Knowing my mom, she'll sit in front of the changing pictures and keep herself entertained for hours. For everyone who came along on this summer vacation, thanks for joining us. I wish you all could have perspired and ate as much as we did for ten days. And I wish you all a trip like this to remember for the rest of your life.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Finito
I suppose we should not have eaten so much, but we have been unable to do that since we first touched down in this country. The bruschetta and olive miste soaked in oil, the tortellini smothered in Bolognese and the crepes stuffed with ricotta and spinach, should have been enough for us. Instead we had, as everyone else does here, the second course. (Yes, I had veal).
My mom and I were quiet at dinner. We’ve run out of things to say, I joked and looking across the table, I wondered if I looked as tired as well. I asked her to name her top five moments from the trip.
“It’s not a test, there’s no wrong answer,” I laughed as she looked as if I were going to grade her.
The David, The Duomo, Crossing the street in Rome, looking at the leaning tower and the Eurostar train rides were all her favorites, though she felt as if she were betraying all the other adventures.
“It’s been so wonderful,” she said to me, and I had us raise our glasses for a toast.
And it wouldn’t have been a dinner without something to look at. The three American families who came in shortly after us were typical ugly Americans. We determined that the trophy wives were here because their husbands cheat regularly on them. Between them, their children ranging from about 15 to 18, took up two tables with the children at one and the adults at the other. We imagined they were from Iowa, but trying to pass as Californians.
The mother of one of the kids continually kept coming over and seeing what they ordered as the kids drank two bottles of wine. Do what the Europeans do, despite the age, we thought.
“He thinks he’s hot shit,” my mom said about the man dressed in white pants and too much hair that you could tell he spent too much time on. His wife had to be the over 40 one stuffed into her white dress.
The group made for an entertaining diversion before we took another late night stroll to try and ease our full stomachs. The streets were packed with vendors selling their counterfeit merchandise, lovers, families, babies - it’s as if more people arrived tonight to bid us good-bye.
We walked as slowly as we had all day. It truly is time to leave, but not before I reflect on what a special opportunity it has been to show Rosemarie all of this. When we return to the states, we have one more memory to make. Eleven years ago, we saw the first Harry Potter together and we will watch the last installment at the very same theater. It will be a full circle moment, one of those silly things I like to mention.
Now, achy, tired and full, with the not quite full moon in the Italian sky, we’re headed back to the bed and breakfast. It’s going to a long walk up those 47 steps to the front door.. I can feel every bone in my body aching and whatever number the scale reflects, I’ll have to work hard to bring back down, knowing that every bite, every conversation, every bottled water, every laugh and every experience in this wonderful country - was worth every bite.
Let There Be Shade?
It is hot. The sun seeks you out here and is relentless in giving you shelter. No wonder everyone gathers to watch it set as it recharges for another day of assault. Anyone who knows me knows that I love the heat. I escape to Palm Springs in the middle of the summer, yet the heat here feels more intense and there is no pool for me to jump in while being served a cocktail. The second you finish a bottle of water, you desperately need another and we have dropped countless euros on aqua minerale today. We've decided the 'con gas' is the way to go today. A little burp action is good for the soul.
After our morning rest, we wanted to celebrate our last full day in this city by enjoying the best pizza we have had here. Located at the exit of the Uffizi, Osteria De' Peccatori is by far, the oiliest and most delicious pie we have eaten. And today, its doors welcomed us with air conditioning. We took a table towards the back, far from the windows where the sun made one more attempt to follow us.
With an insalata mista and a sausage pizza, our last lunch in this city was complete. I pressed down my fork in the pie just so I could see the river of EVOO that rose up to cover the tongs. We are going to miss this, no doubt about it.
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We took our time, savoring every bite and then, immediately buying a water, we headed towards the bus stop so we could revisit Piazzle Michangelo. At the top is a gelato shop with a view of the entire city and we wanted to take one final look at this gorgeous city from the heights.
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This day, however, we took the bus. I was certain we were at the right stop, but as time went on and the heat got more intense, I asked the next bus driver if this went up the mountain. English be damned, it was hot and I spoke what little Italian I could muster to get my question across. An old Italian man at the door told us to get on and take it two more stops to transfer to line 13. Once inside, a small elderly woman spoke to us in broken English and directed us to the correct location. As we exited, she moved her arm in front of her as if she were shooing a fly, pointing in the direction of the stop. Ahead, I saw the bus shelter, turned back and shouted, "grazie," as the little lady disappeared with a smile behind a gated doorway.
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The air conditioned bus arrived and it was a quick ride to the top of the hill. There was just no way we could have survived the walk up this mountain as we did last Tuesday. Our legs are like pasta noodles left too long in the water. At the top, the view was still as breathtaking and after a quick look at The fake David's green ass, we went for the covered area of the gelato shop. At the edge of the cliff, the gelataria has an unobstructed view, but the sun is not to be outsmarted here and it finds you in between the umbrellas that attempt to keep it out of your way. My mom and I moved across the patio and enjoyed a strawberry granite, an espresso frappe and of course, aqua minearle con gas.
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The heat has worn us down and despite thinking we should take the bus, we had no idea of its schedule, so we walked down the steps in the mountain. Along the way, as I saw the hordes of people sweating and stopping on the way up the stairs, I said, out loud, "There is a bus, there is a bus." I have no idea if they understood English, but it kept us entertained.
At the bottom, my mother was still intimated by the traffic, which is nothing like that of Rome. I kept directing her to the sidewalk, as if she were a puppy running off its leash. "Get up there," I said so she would not have to worry about being this close to the passing traffic.
As we neared the bridge that took us over the river, a huge fat and rather stupid tourist was taking a picture of his family on the bridge while he stood in the middle of the road. Sure enough, the little fiat coming right at him screeched to a halt.
My mother called him an idiot, I called him something else.
As we walked, we tried in vain to find the shade, but the sun has deemed that there is none and taunts you to find your way home. We're moving more slowly than ever and the tour groups are back in the piazza. Today, we pushed right through them, there is no time to wait for their endless numbers to pass us by.
I opened the door to our bed and breakfast and shut out the sun. The stone hallway is cooling, but, today, its stairs are just as vicious in its taunting of the salvation that waits for us at the top.
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After our morning rest, we wanted to celebrate our last full day in this city by enjoying the best pizza we have had here. Located at the exit of the Uffizi, Osteria De' Peccatori is by far, the oiliest and most delicious pie we have eaten. And today, its doors welcomed us with air conditioning. We took a table towards the back, far from the windows where the sun made one more attempt to follow us.
With an insalata mista and a sausage pizza, our last lunch in this city was complete. I pressed down my fork in the pie just so I could see the river of EVOO that rose up to cover the tongs. We are going to miss this, no doubt about it.
We took our time, savoring every bite and then, immediately buying a water, we headed towards the bus stop so we could revisit Piazzle Michangelo. At the top is a gelato shop with a view of the entire city and we wanted to take one final look at this gorgeous city from the heights.
This day, however, we took the bus. I was certain we were at the right stop, but as time went on and the heat got more intense, I asked the next bus driver if this went up the mountain. English be damned, it was hot and I spoke what little Italian I could muster to get my question across. An old Italian man at the door told us to get on and take it two more stops to transfer to line 13. Once inside, a small elderly woman spoke to us in broken English and directed us to the correct location. As we exited, she moved her arm in front of her as if she were shooing a fly, pointing in the direction of the stop. Ahead, I saw the bus shelter, turned back and shouted, "grazie," as the little lady disappeared with a smile behind a gated doorway.
The air conditioned bus arrived and it was a quick ride to the top of the hill. There was just no way we could have survived the walk up this mountain as we did last Tuesday. Our legs are like pasta noodles left too long in the water. At the top, the view was still as breathtaking and after a quick look at The fake David's green ass, we went for the covered area of the gelato shop. At the edge of the cliff, the gelataria has an unobstructed view, but the sun is not to be outsmarted here and it finds you in between the umbrellas that attempt to keep it out of your way. My mom and I moved across the patio and enjoyed a strawberry granite, an espresso frappe and of course, aqua minearle con gas.
The heat has worn us down and despite thinking we should take the bus, we had no idea of its schedule, so we walked down the steps in the mountain. Along the way, as I saw the hordes of people sweating and stopping on the way up the stairs, I said, out loud, "There is a bus, there is a bus." I have no idea if they understood English, but it kept us entertained.
At the bottom, my mother was still intimated by the traffic, which is nothing like that of Rome. I kept directing her to the sidewalk, as if she were a puppy running off its leash. "Get up there," I said so she would not have to worry about being this close to the passing traffic.
As we neared the bridge that took us over the river, a huge fat and rather stupid tourist was taking a picture of his family on the bridge while he stood in the middle of the road. Sure enough, the little fiat coming right at him screeched to a halt.
My mother called him an idiot, I called him something else.
As we walked, we tried in vain to find the shade, but the sun has deemed that there is none and taunts you to find your way home. We're moving more slowly than ever and the tour groups are back in the piazza. Today, we pushed right through them, there is no time to wait for their endless numbers to pass us by.
I opened the door to our bed and breakfast and shut out the sun. The stone hallway is cooling, but, today, its stairs are just as vicious in its taunting of the salvation that waits for us at the top.
We Are Officially Spent
It is our last full day in Italy and it's pretty obvious by the speed we are moving that we are officially spent. I swear, it is getting hotter by the day and I can see why no one wants to come here in August and the locals leave the city. When I return, for sure, I will come in the fall.
Right now, we are in our bed and breakfast resting and it's only 11:30 in the morning. This is a first, for we've never been back to the room until at least five o'clock. With the sun beating down, the tour groups clogging the streets and our sheer exhaustion, we need an hour or two rest before heading out again.
We started our day with, of course, some cannolli, an espresso fredo and freshly squeezed orange juice, which, believe it or not, in the restaurants in Los Angeles is hard to find. (Get an orange, people and squeeze it.) Sitting down on the patio, I didn't even care about the cover charge, we just needed to sit. And, of course, we could not resist the bambolino - a sugar coated donut topped and stuffed with lemon meringue.
Slowly, we got up and walked close to the buildings for the small piece of shade they provided. We wandered through another open air market and into, what could be described as a farmer's market. Here, rows and rows of fresh meat and poultry stands, along with pasta, oils and vegetables were for sale and on display. Butchers were slicing tripe, something it seems my mother's father loved to put in his sauce. It looked like a shag carpet, but it seems it's the inside of the cow's stomach.
"My father had strong teeth," Rosemarie said. "He could eat anything."
Outside the vendors were bartering, calling us to their stands. If it were the fall, perhaps the leather goods would be harder to resist. Right now, the air conditioning in our room is all we care about. Maybe a quick 30 minute nap and we'll have the energy for lunch.
Right now, we are in our bed and breakfast resting and it's only 11:30 in the morning. This is a first, for we've never been back to the room until at least five o'clock. With the sun beating down, the tour groups clogging the streets and our sheer exhaustion, we need an hour or two rest before heading out again.
We started our day with, of course, some cannolli, an espresso fredo and freshly squeezed orange juice, which, believe it or not, in the restaurants in Los Angeles is hard to find. (Get an orange, people and squeeze it.) Sitting down on the patio, I didn't even care about the cover charge, we just needed to sit. And, of course, we could not resist the bambolino - a sugar coated donut topped and stuffed with lemon meringue.
Slowly, we got up and walked close to the buildings for the small piece of shade they provided. We wandered through another open air market and into, what could be described as a farmer's market. Here, rows and rows of fresh meat and poultry stands, along with pasta, oils and vegetables were for sale and on display. Butchers were slicing tripe, something it seems my mother's father loved to put in his sauce. It looked like a shag carpet, but it seems it's the inside of the cow's stomach.
"My father had strong teeth," Rosemarie said. "He could eat anything."
Outside the vendors were bartering, calling us to their stands. If it were the fall, perhaps the leather goods would be harder to resist. Right now, the air conditioning in our room is all we care about. Maybe a quick 30 minute nap and we'll have the energy for lunch.
Monday, July 11, 2011
The Sun Sets Just Look More Beautiful Here
If the scale tells me I've gained ten pounds I will not be surprised. I feel as if I have not stopped eating since we stepped off the plane one week ago. But before the last caloric intake of the evening, my mother and I went for a stroll along the Ponte Vecchio at sunset. I didn't plan on it being that time, but I'll take credit for it just the same. The bridge across the River Arno was crowded with people jockeying for a postion to watch as the sun dipped below the horizon and sprayed its golden rays across the scenery. With the river glowing in the foreground, we watched the sun make its final appearance of the day. Except for the sun setting on the island of Santorini, I can't remember a more stunning view.
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Walking to the other side of the river, I nixed a few of the restuarants as either too expensive or too touristy. On the way back, we found a perfect little place down a quiet side street. I've found the best one are off the main streets and areas. Trust me on that. We were enticed in, not only by the menu, but also because it was air conditioned. You know we have been here a long time when the thrill of eating outside holds no appeal and the thought of a cool and crisp dining room outweighs all other decisions.
The place was perfect - uncrowded, great lighting and cool air the second we walked in the door. Our waitress was the ultimate Italian girl and the complete opposite of our quiet and reserved hostess from last night. This one would fit right in at any Tella gathering.
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Since we've been here, neither one of us has had lasagna, so tonight, we ordered it as one of the first courses. It did not disappoint. What surprised me most was that there was no sauce - only mounds of melted cheese among the pasta. We should have stopped with the first course tonight, but we went on to order - you guessed it - a veal steak for me and chicken with peppers (pepperoni) for my mother.
In the midst of our queit dinner, a truckload of Turkish tourists descended upon the restaurant. There was activity everywhere, from people moving chairs, our perfect Italian hostess directing traffic to the upstairs dining room while trying to arrange tables on the main floor, to loud parents trying to control their unruly children. I made a joke about how quiet it once was and our server said something in Italian that I could tell meant she was not in the mood for any of them.
And as quick as they ate, the bank of travelers left. All at once they released their hold on us as though they were the Israelites being liberated from Egypt on the promise of the land of milk and honey. The restaurant became, once again - peaceful and quiet. Our waitress could not have been happier - and neither could we.
Now we had time to relish dessert: panna cotta - Italy's version of flan drizzled with carmael sauce. Sweet and similar to a pudding, only thicker, the dessert was the latest in our culinary conquests.
The meal had ended and we were disappointed that we could not tip. We loved how pleasant and accomodating the staff was and I somehow wanted to reward our waitress. I resisted, but mainly because I did not want to get an email from my friend Cinzia who would surely chastise me for leaving money behind. I would have taken our waitress home to meet my mother, but she had already done that.
We went out in the still busy streets, took a stroll around The Duomo and headed to bed.
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My mother, for some unknown reason, will now not stop talking. It's as if she thinks someone is actually going to answer her.
"I'm hot," she said doing God knows what in our tiny room.
"That's because you are expelling hot air - be quiet and go to bed."
"If I don't talk, you'll tell people I never say anything."
"Oh, trust me," I said. "They know all about you, now go to sleep so I can concentrate."
Of course, she is up and doing her word search puzzles, which means any minute now, the book will fall to the side of the bed and she'll be asleep at last.
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Walking to the other side of the river, I nixed a few of the restuarants as either too expensive or too touristy. On the way back, we found a perfect little place down a quiet side street. I've found the best one are off the main streets and areas. Trust me on that. We were enticed in, not only by the menu, but also because it was air conditioned. You know we have been here a long time when the thrill of eating outside holds no appeal and the thought of a cool and crisp dining room outweighs all other decisions.
The place was perfect - uncrowded, great lighting and cool air the second we walked in the door. Our waitress was the ultimate Italian girl and the complete opposite of our quiet and reserved hostess from last night. This one would fit right in at any Tella gathering.
Since we've been here, neither one of us has had lasagna, so tonight, we ordered it as one of the first courses. It did not disappoint. What surprised me most was that there was no sauce - only mounds of melted cheese among the pasta. We should have stopped with the first course tonight, but we went on to order - you guessed it - a veal steak for me and chicken with peppers (pepperoni) for my mother.
In the midst of our queit dinner, a truckload of Turkish tourists descended upon the restaurant. There was activity everywhere, from people moving chairs, our perfect Italian hostess directing traffic to the upstairs dining room while trying to arrange tables on the main floor, to loud parents trying to control their unruly children. I made a joke about how quiet it once was and our server said something in Italian that I could tell meant she was not in the mood for any of them.
And as quick as they ate, the bank of travelers left. All at once they released their hold on us as though they were the Israelites being liberated from Egypt on the promise of the land of milk and honey. The restaurant became, once again - peaceful and quiet. Our waitress could not have been happier - and neither could we.
Now we had time to relish dessert: panna cotta - Italy's version of flan drizzled with carmael sauce. Sweet and similar to a pudding, only thicker, the dessert was the latest in our culinary conquests.
The meal had ended and we were disappointed that we could not tip. We loved how pleasant and accomodating the staff was and I somehow wanted to reward our waitress. I resisted, but mainly because I did not want to get an email from my friend Cinzia who would surely chastise me for leaving money behind. I would have taken our waitress home to meet my mother, but she had already done that.
We went out in the still busy streets, took a stroll around The Duomo and headed to bed.
My mother, for some unknown reason, will now not stop talking. It's as if she thinks someone is actually going to answer her.
"I'm hot," she said doing God knows what in our tiny room.
"That's because you are expelling hot air - be quiet and go to bed."
"If I don't talk, you'll tell people I never say anything."
"Oh, trust me," I said. "They know all about you, now go to sleep so I can concentrate."
Of course, she is up and doing her word search puzzles, which means any minute now, the book will fall to the side of the bed and she'll be asleep at last.
Firenze, How We've Missed You
The Eurostar was, as usual, right on schedule. I love this country, tardiness is not tolerated and because of that, I think I am eternally in love with it. It wasn't much cooler in Florence when we arrived and I had to buy some water as soon as we hit the pavement. It's Monday afternoon and the city is alive with activity. It's been a week since we've arrived in Italy and I can honestly say that the trip has not flown by quickly. We've savored every hour and every minute and still have one more day left.
Even my mother knows her way to Dei Mori now, which has me a little worried. She is always geographically challenged, but, I think, in reality she just knows the way to the cannolli shop.
Arriving back at Dei Mori, the large family we encountered the other day seem to have checked out and a different set have taken their place. I didn't stop to exchange pleasantries, since all I could think of was a refreshing shower that would not cause bodily harm. Then, first thing first - we needed some nourishment.
Right on the corner is Pizzeria Toto. We've passed it several times over the course of the week and I wish we had gone inside sooner. The slices are affordable - 3.50e compared to over 5e in Venice. I could not resist the spicy salami (never order pepperoni here, for that means actual peppers) while my mom had just cheese. It was almost a slap in the Venetian face as we savored the oily goodness.
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With something to tide us over until dinner, we decided to wander around the shopping areas that we've missed so far. As luck would have it, we wandered past a huge line on the street that wound its way to a doorway with the name Grom over the top. It seems we have stumbed into the best gelato in all of the city and who knew that it would be so close to The Duomo. Now, this, my dear Venetians, (okay, I will stop now), is how gelato should taste. Soft, creamy and melting almost instantly the second we got outside - the pistachio was rich with nuts and the stratciatello full of thick chocolate chunks. Before there was even a hint of a gelato puddle in my cup, it was devoured.
Tonight, we'll wander yet again to find dinner, but I'm thinking we may go back to La Posta, which remains our favorite restaurant.
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Even my mother knows her way to Dei Mori now, which has me a little worried. She is always geographically challenged, but, I think, in reality she just knows the way to the cannolli shop.
Arriving back at Dei Mori, the large family we encountered the other day seem to have checked out and a different set have taken their place. I didn't stop to exchange pleasantries, since all I could think of was a refreshing shower that would not cause bodily harm. Then, first thing first - we needed some nourishment.
Right on the corner is Pizzeria Toto. We've passed it several times over the course of the week and I wish we had gone inside sooner. The slices are affordable - 3.50e compared to over 5e in Venice. I could not resist the spicy salami (never order pepperoni here, for that means actual peppers) while my mom had just cheese. It was almost a slap in the Venetian face as we savored the oily goodness.
"Now, that's a piece of pizza," my mother said wiping the oil from her face and walking to our favorite pastry shop. She was in luck as there was one cannolli left in the case. In addition to that, I ordered an iced espresso
With something to tide us over until dinner, we decided to wander around the shopping areas that we've missed so far. As luck would have it, we wandered past a huge line on the street that wound its way to a doorway with the name Grom over the top. It seems we have stumbed into the best gelato in all of the city and who knew that it would be so close to The Duomo. Now, this, my dear Venetians, (okay, I will stop now), is how gelato should taste. Soft, creamy and melting almost instantly the second we got outside - the pistachio was rich with nuts and the stratciatello full of thick chocolate chunks. Before there was even a hint of a gelato puddle in my cup, it was devoured.
Tonight, we'll wander yet again to find dinner, but I'm thinking we may go back to La Posta, which remains our favorite restaurant.
The Mayor of S. Stefano
It’s Monday morning and we are headed back to Florence. One look at the bathroom today and I forbade Rosemarie to even attempt to take a shower. The tub is so high that even I have trouble getting in and out of it. With no shower curtain and nothing to hold on to for support, it’s a slippery trap for anyone at any age. I insisted that she sit on the edge of the ceramic death trap and clean up as best she could before we make our way to the train station.
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Packing up, we headed out - but not before I mentioned how wonderful it is to have everything paid for on this trip. I’d booked and paid for this hotel as well as all our train travel months ago and the only reason euros leave our wallet is to buy food and trinkets. This is the only way to vacation.
Venice during the early morning is not Florence. If the street cleaners came out over night, there’s no evidence of it and we walked through the quiet alleys to take a tour of some areas that I was too tired to show her yesterday. We wound up in S. Stefano, a square I had stayed at in 1999 on my very first trip to Italy.
Every morning, my mom has had a cannolli and what the hell, I thought, let’s give it a try here. Alas, Venice, you cut me to the quick and disappoint me once again with your gastronomic attempts. More like a pastry shell stuffed with wedding cake frosting, we took one bite and deposited it into the nearest bin.
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It was already hot and we were quickly getting dehydrated so we sat at a small café, places that I will miss terribly when I am back in America. Overlooking S. Stefano, we sat next to an old Italian woman, who no doubt, could be the mayor of this piazza. Bent over scratching her lottery tickets, something that immediately reminded us of our Aunt Lil, the woman’s unkempt white hair and flowered dress completed the picture.
All around us, the square was becoming alive with activity and nothing escaped the mayor’s gaze. Although I don’t speak Italian, it was clear the woman was complaining about the unruly children milling about in the square.
“They don’t listen to their mother,” she said to us, putting her thumb against her index finger and moving her hand back and forth. “Parle Italiano?”
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I answered her that we did not, but I understood when she asked if Rosemarie was my mother.
“Si,si,” I said as she gave us a big smile and pointed to the similarities in our faces. I look exactly like my father, so it was nice to know that the mayor of S Stefano saw a resemblance.
We finished our beverages and then set off for the Rialto to catch our water bus to the train station. Now, on the Eurostar back to Firenze, I am already dreaming of the pizza that we are going to have for lunch. Arriverderci Venezia. Il dio lo benedice.
Packing up, we headed out - but not before I mentioned how wonderful it is to have everything paid for on this trip. I’d booked and paid for this hotel as well as all our train travel months ago and the only reason euros leave our wallet is to buy food and trinkets. This is the only way to vacation.
Venice during the early morning is not Florence. If the street cleaners came out over night, there’s no evidence of it and we walked through the quiet alleys to take a tour of some areas that I was too tired to show her yesterday. We wound up in S. Stefano, a square I had stayed at in 1999 on my very first trip to Italy.
Every morning, my mom has had a cannolli and what the hell, I thought, let’s give it a try here. Alas, Venice, you cut me to the quick and disappoint me once again with your gastronomic attempts. More like a pastry shell stuffed with wedding cake frosting, we took one bite and deposited it into the nearest bin.
It was already hot and we were quickly getting dehydrated so we sat at a small café, places that I will miss terribly when I am back in America. Overlooking S. Stefano, we sat next to an old Italian woman, who no doubt, could be the mayor of this piazza. Bent over scratching her lottery tickets, something that immediately reminded us of our Aunt Lil, the woman’s unkempt white hair and flowered dress completed the picture.
All around us, the square was becoming alive with activity and nothing escaped the mayor’s gaze. Although I don’t speak Italian, it was clear the woman was complaining about the unruly children milling about in the square.
“They don’t listen to their mother,” she said to us, putting her thumb against her index finger and moving her hand back and forth. “Parle Italiano?”
I answered her that we did not, but I understood when she asked if Rosemarie was my mother.
“Si,si,” I said as she gave us a big smile and pointed to the similarities in our faces. I look exactly like my father, so it was nice to know that the mayor of S Stefano saw a resemblance.
We finished our beverages and then set off for the Rialto to catch our water bus to the train station. Now, on the Eurostar back to Firenze, I am already dreaming of the pizza that we are going to have for lunch. Arriverderci Venezia. Il dio lo benedice.
Shall I Do The Cooking, Instead?
I think the length of the trip is catching up to us, or at least the amount of traveling we are doing is taking its toll on our bones. The weather here is the hottest we’ve experienced and the surrounding canals makes it extremely humid. We both feel asleep for a few hours, leaving the pigeons to the hot sun and tourists.
For anyone who has not asked my opinion of Italy, I never mince words about the food in Venice. Yes, it’s Italian, but if you have traveled to anywhere else in this country, you‘ll see how low on the scale everything in this city compares to it. Not only are the prices almost double of what we‘ve encountered, their gelato should be called ice cream - but I‘ll get to that later.
Since I didn’t know where to go for dinner and wandering the alleys was daunting to me - given the time difference between here and San Francisco, I sent a text message to my friend Wayne to see if he had any suggestions. He and his amore, Michael came here in April and I know them well enough to know what to expect in their choice of dinner establishments. They both enjoyed Il Ridotto, located behind Piazza San Marco and tucked away in a corner of a small piazza. I opted to give it a try.
We found the restaurant without a problem, which is amazing since it’s almost impossible to follow a map in this gorgeous city. (See, there, I gave Venice a compliment.) We looked at the menu and I immediately was worried about what my mother would eat. Here, fish is the name of the game. Sure, there are the normal pastas and other delicacies that you expect, but if you aren’t into seafood, you’ll have a hard time finding something to eat for dinner.
With less then ten tables, the restaurant is quiet, quaint and has the most soft spoken hostess we have encountered yet. Any questions on the menu are directed to the chef who personally comes out of the kitchen to take your order.
As most of you who followed our trip to Paris know, whenever I’m in a different country, I like to try at least one new menu item and since I’ve been on a veal kick, I thought, let’s try something called Nerve of Veal. (It sounded much more appetizing in Italian.)
We started with an amuse bouche - ground up bread, tomatoes and basil all topped with anchovies that were soaked in lemon juice. The expression on my mom’s face was not only hilarious, it was frightening. The fish, surprisingly, was quite tasty and I ate the two that topped her antipasto. And then the veal arrived and I instantly worried about what else lied ahead.
My mom had joked that the veal would probably be long and stringy and she had one part correct. They were round, almost scallop looking and when it was placed on the table between us, we stared it for a full five minutes.
“There is no way Bobby would eat this,” I said referring to my brother. In fact, there was nothing on the menu that would entice his taste buds at all.
One bite into the dish and it was, without a doubt, a nerve. The small fava beans mixed in with the lettuce, however, were quite delicious. It took some time to cut through the nerve and I had to give up as I started to worry about what was ahead for us, since my mom is not a fan of fish and she ordered the only meat on the menu: beef cheeks. Yes, you read that correctly. Beef Cheeks.
As I moved the nerves of the veal around to make it look as if I’d devoured most of the dish, I took another swig of my Chianti and got another bottle of water for my mom. Something told me she may need it. But really, the next course was pasta, how could it go wrong? Well, remember, this is Venice, not Rome and certainly not Florence or Milan. I believe I have become quite the Italian elitist.
Next up, our first course - risotta in a pesto sauce for Rosemarie and ravoli stuffed with ricotta and spinach for me. Simple, yes? Ah, Venice, you beautiful food fool. The dish arrived and there they were mixed into the dish like the little fungi that they are - the mushrooms. Pushing them aside, the first course was, in fact, delicious. The rice was cooked perfectly and the pesto had a tangy, yet salty taste to it. However, it was impossible to avoid the black slimy spots that were everywhere.
“You can have some of my ravioli,” I said, confident that although my first course had not arrived at the same time, it would be delicious. On the edge of my plate sat what I think were clams surrounding the three large macaroni pillows.
“If we fry these, aren’t these what we used to eat with the bellies?” I asked as I put my fork into the pasta, which unlike its Tuscan relations was not al dente. It seemed the master chef had forgotten to take them out of the water. The filling, however, was scrumptious, lightly salted and creamy. I left the clams alone as alas, they were a bit too…ripe for my taste and lacking tartar sauce or bellies, I feared they would not agree with me.
I took another sip of wine, my stomach churning as the anticipation of the next course took hold. Now, my mother would never say she didn’t like something, I can tell exactly what she is thinking by her body language and the way she moves her fork around her plate. Remember, this is the woman who has gobbled up everything on her plate since we arrived.
What gave dinner extra bonus points was Rosemarie’s fascination with the Italian couple in front of her.
“Just listen at how he’s chewing his food,” she said as the sound of the man’s chomping was indeed coming through loud and clear. “She’s gobbling up everything on the plate. Why does he have to eat like that?”
Good, I thought. This will keep her entertained and I decided to make a guessing game of what the next course would look like. Would the beef cheeks be round and placed side by side on the plate? I had ordered the sea bass - would it come with the head still attached and dead eyes staring up at me? The attentive wait staff cleared our plates, brought us new silverware and then, the shy hostess rounded the corner with two large plates and placed them before us.
“This looks like brigole that Grandma used to make for me,” my mother said, making me instantly happy that what was on her plate brought back such a wonderful memory. My father’s mother was my world and her cooking was just one of the many things that still resonate with me today. Tender and juicy, the shredded beef melted in her mouth and I breathed a sigh of relief, although the gelatinous side dish left me pause and she left it untouched.
My sea bass was perfection. Flaky and fork tender, it fell apart at the touch of the utensil and was accompanied by some serious Dijon mustard. Either because of my earlier worry or the fact that I am fighting a small head cold, I was feeling extremely warm and we opted to skip dessert and sit in the square with some gelato. Before I left, I used the WC and thought how a restaurant bathroom could not be more perfect. It was very “M” indeed. (For the uninitiated, anything that is to the liking or surpasses the expectations of Wayne’s other half, Michael is described as “Very M.”
We strolled through the Piazza San Marco, now thankfully devoid of its flying rats but now over run with vendors selling twirly florescent toys that would better serve circuit boys on the dance floor. We continually put our hands up to shoo them away as we took a stroll along the bank of the canal.
The gondoliers were still out in front of their boats, trying to drum up late night business and I was surprised there were not more people in them as without the afternoon sun, a trip along the grand canal would be so much more pleasant. The rides are frightfully expensive and I recommend them only if it’s something that you feel that you simply cannot leave Venice without doing.
Stopping into a gelato shop, we got two scoops and sat on a bench overlooking the water. Alas, as I remembered, the Venetians can’t make gelato that comes close in any class to their Florence rivals. More like ice cream, the treat did, however, soothe our pallets for something cold.
Despite all my reservations about this city, there is no mistaking it’s beauty and majesty. As you look at the boats, the bridges and the gorgeous moon over Piazza San Marco, the sights of the city take your breath away. This is the Italy of the storybooks and sharing it with someone special is very special indeed. I looked up at the moon and mentioned how funny it was that what we were looking at was the same sight seen back home. It’s silly, really, but it makes you realize how small the world really is.
Simply exhausted and hardly able to pick ourselves up from the bench we were on, my mom and I decided to call it a night. That is, if we could not only walk to our hotel, but also make it over the bridges and up the winding staircase to our room.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
A Venice Morning
Since I did not go out last night, I had a pretty restful sleep and we were out of Dei Mori in plenty of time to catch our train to Venice. (Did you think we would not be given our history of early arrivals?). There is a large - very large family of four staying at the bed and breakfast now. We have gone through several guests and feel like the old residents. We bid them adieu and walked out into the quiet and empty streets of the city. It is Sunday and everything is closed. If you come to Italy, the holy day is a good one to arrive as you can get your bearings and settle in before the tours continue their endless assualt in your path.
We did find one place open so I could get a morning cappucino and then headed to the train station, which, unlike the rest of the city, was bustling with activity. My mother stood watching the crowd and looking at the changing arrival board until I told her she needed to look at the departure board. Our coach arrived from Rome and we boarded our first class seats. The internet was not working, so it was quite annoying, but I spent the two hours downloading and resizing the Pisa pictures. The Russian woman next to me was not pleased her husband was not able to sit with her, but that's what you get for not getting your ticket ahead of time. She spent some time complaining in Russian before she mercifully fell asleep.
In exactly two hours, the train pulled into Venice. When you exit the station, the view that greets you is something out of a fairy tale. Boats zipping by on the canal, water taxis and vaporetti lines bustling with tourists and locals alike all add to your initial reacion. My mom uttered that she could not believe she was looking at the city as I bought our tickets for the #1 water bus.
Years ago, in 2004, my friend David and I stayed at this hotel and I could swear I am in the same room. The last time, I got hopelessly lost trying to find it as the tiny and I mean tiny alley that you need to walk down is hardly visible. But this time, I found it without a problem and it led us directly to where we needed to go. The sun is stronger here and it is relentless in its heat.
"Everything is up so many stairs," my mother said as we climbed up to the lobby. "What is up with that?"
Our room is wonderful, though, and three times the size of the one we have in Florence. The bathroom is spacious, although with no shower curtain, it's going to get pretty wet. I've already warned Rosemarie about the tub and to get in carefully as it is quite high. The bidet look fun, maybe I'll go for a thrill ride before the day is done.
Skipping breakfast was not a good idea and I was so famished that I was ready to collaspe so we went directly outside and got some pizza. Did I mention that I am no fan of the food in Venice? Although the city is gorgeous, the food pales in comparison to the rest of Italy. Lacking oil or a crispy crust, the pizza slice we took away merely served to quiet my stomach pains and I even gave another shop down the path a try to see if it was any better. Alas, I am already missing the Florence menu.
It was an easy walk to Piazza San Marco and watching my mom's reaction to it was priceless. The pigeons are out en masse and I'm sure they're going to shit on my head. Good thing I brought my baseball cap. There's no escaping the sun's rays so we walked through the mass of flying rats to the edge of the water and marveled at the sheer beauty of this city.
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There's not much time for museums or even the patience to wait in line for the church, but I did take her up the bell tower.
"I hate to ask," said the audio guide woman, "but your mother is older than 65?"
"Oh, God, yes," I said instantly, "I love that question, does she get in free?"
Alas, the lift to the top was not complimentary, but the audio tour was a few euros cheaper.
At the top, the pealing sound of the bell greeted us and nearly knocked out our hearing for the afternoon. We spent an hour looking at the layout of the city and listening to the tour before we rode back down to the piazza.
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Along the way, we saw a bride and groom, of which the former was in need of some spanx. Her dress was by far, not smooth enough, not to mention she must have been dying of heat exhaustion. Sipping an iced cappucino in the shadow of the Rialto Bridge, I took some stealth photos of good looking tourists, made a few calls back home and have decided to relax in the hotel for awhile. We have already walked 8 miles since we got here and my tired old feet need to rest.
We did find one place open so I could get a morning cappucino and then headed to the train station, which, unlike the rest of the city, was bustling with activity. My mother stood watching the crowd and looking at the changing arrival board until I told her she needed to look at the departure board. Our coach arrived from Rome and we boarded our first class seats. The internet was not working, so it was quite annoying, but I spent the two hours downloading and resizing the Pisa pictures. The Russian woman next to me was not pleased her husband was not able to sit with her, but that's what you get for not getting your ticket ahead of time. She spent some time complaining in Russian before she mercifully fell asleep.
In exactly two hours, the train pulled into Venice. When you exit the station, the view that greets you is something out of a fairy tale. Boats zipping by on the canal, water taxis and vaporetti lines bustling with tourists and locals alike all add to your initial reacion. My mom uttered that she could not believe she was looking at the city as I bought our tickets for the #1 water bus.
Years ago, in 2004, my friend David and I stayed at this hotel and I could swear I am in the same room. The last time, I got hopelessly lost trying to find it as the tiny and I mean tiny alley that you need to walk down is hardly visible. But this time, I found it without a problem and it led us directly to where we needed to go. The sun is stronger here and it is relentless in its heat.
"Everything is up so many stairs," my mother said as we climbed up to the lobby. "What is up with that?"
Our room is wonderful, though, and three times the size of the one we have in Florence. The bathroom is spacious, although with no shower curtain, it's going to get pretty wet. I've already warned Rosemarie about the tub and to get in carefully as it is quite high. The bidet look fun, maybe I'll go for a thrill ride before the day is done.
Skipping breakfast was not a good idea and I was so famished that I was ready to collaspe so we went directly outside and got some pizza. Did I mention that I am no fan of the food in Venice? Although the city is gorgeous, the food pales in comparison to the rest of Italy. Lacking oil or a crispy crust, the pizza slice we took away merely served to quiet my stomach pains and I even gave another shop down the path a try to see if it was any better. Alas, I am already missing the Florence menu.
It was an easy walk to Piazza San Marco and watching my mom's reaction to it was priceless. The pigeons are out en masse and I'm sure they're going to shit on my head. Good thing I brought my baseball cap. There's no escaping the sun's rays so we walked through the mass of flying rats to the edge of the water and marveled at the sheer beauty of this city.
"I hate to ask," said the audio guide woman, "but your mother is older than 65?"
"Oh, God, yes," I said instantly, "I love that question, does she get in free?"
Alas, the lift to the top was not complimentary, but the audio tour was a few euros cheaper.
At the top, the pealing sound of the bell greeted us and nearly knocked out our hearing for the afternoon. We spent an hour looking at the layout of the city and listening to the tour before we rode back down to the piazza.
Along the way, we saw a bride and groom, of which the former was in need of some spanx. Her dress was by far, not smooth enough, not to mention she must have been dying of heat exhaustion. Sipping an iced cappucino in the shadow of the Rialto Bridge, I took some stealth photos of good looking tourists, made a few calls back home and have decided to relax in the hotel for awhile. We have already walked 8 miles since we got here and my tired old feet need to rest.
Yes, It Really Does Lean
If you've been lucky -or unlucky - enough to experience me in the mornings, you know that I am grumpier than Snow White's hard to win over dwarf. My mother, on the other hand, won't be quiet and continues to try and engage me long before I've wiped the sleep from my eyes and brushed my teeth. I'm not sure if she's talking to herself or if she's hoping someone will answer. In any event, I can't understand a word of what she mumbles, so perhaps I should ask my father what the hell is going on in the early morning hours. I sent her out to the living room of the bed and breakfast to get some American coffee, assuring her that she would be fine and I would not lock her out of the room. She still cannot handle any of the fabulous Italian breakfast beverages. I, on the other hand relish that I can enjoy the nectar of the Roman Gods. My craving and taste for coffee disappeared when I had my tonsils removed, and I never drink it anymore. (Note: Parents, please have your children undergo that surgery before they turn 40.)
There's something about standing at the cafe bars here. There's a pang of excitement as I eat an Italian pastry while being served by a real Italian baristo and not a West Hollywood queen with an attitude who does not seem to grasp the fact, that yes, he is a Starbucks "baristo" who did not get that call back.
The local trains to Pisa run every half hour and they are a far cry from their lush Eurostar counterparts. With few air conditioned compartments, the trains have average seats that are a bit hard on your behind. Since the locomotives are the main connector to Pisa’s airport, a large amount of people hauling their oversized luggage into the space above your head can be annoying. The heat was oppressive, but as soon as the train began to move, the open windows allowed some form of air circulation.
Sitting across from us was the most beautiful Italian girl I’ve seen on the trip. Chocolate brown hair flowing past her shoulders, flawless tan skin and dressed, not like a putana, but classy with just a hint of Mediterranean sexuality, she wore the most fabulous sandals with Roman gladiator straps that went up her calves. I smiled and she said in a rich Italian accent, ”You like?”
“Si, si, molto bene,” I laughed. With a big white grin, she drew down her oversized pink sunglasses from the top of her head and went to sleep.
In all, the trip to Pisa was less than 50 minutes (it clocked in at 49) and, armed with Rick Steve’s Italy and his self guided walking tour to the tower, we began our trek to see one of the sights I’ve always wanted to experience. How wonderful that I could see it for the first time with my mom.
Grabbing some aqua minerale to stay hydrated, it was an easy route to follow. I highly recommend Steves’ book for anyone planning a European tour. Stopping in the middle of Ponte di Mezzo over the Arno River bridge, I read the facts of the site to my mother. After the somewhat cooling breeze, we continued on, crossing the street at a crosswalk where the cars stopped at a light. Even if it was not there, this is no Rome and we could have walked without mortal injury to the other side.
Hunger was back like it had been gone for years, and taking Rick’s advice in the book, stopped into Panetteria Antiche Tradizioni for lunch. Rosemarie has decided that she is no fan of prosciuto, so I took most of her sandwich and gave her a large portion of my salami pizza. Though lacking in the overflowing oil from the pizzeria on Wednesday, the pie still had a nice amount of olive oil to satisfy me.
Lunch was a welcome break from the heat. We paid (without a tip) and not more than ten seconds later, as we rounded a corner - there was our destination against a clear blue sky.
“Just gorgeous,” my mother said at which I agreed. It’s the strangest thing to see how the tower actually does lean. You see it in pictures, but to be standing in front of it and automatically tilt your head as you stare at it is one of the great experiences of your life. Looking at the people milling about at its peak, there was no way we wanted to join them as there are 294 titling stairs to the top. Joining all the other tourists posing as if they were holding up the bell tower, I succeeded in a poor attempt at posing Rosemarie in the same stance.
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We took a walk around the Field of Miracles, taking a look at the tower from every angle. At its base, the lean is extremely pronounced and you wonder how the different builders didn’t know it would not stay straight from the very beginning.
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Hot and craving something cool, we took a seat at an overpriced and tacky gelato shop before making the walk back to Pisa Centrale for the trip back to Florence. This time, the train stopped in additional local stops, adding thirty minutes to our trip. I didn’t mind, though, as I instantly fell asleep. I woke up unsure if I would even make it back to Dei Mori without curling up on the heated sidewalk for a nap.
Once we got back and walked up the 47 steps to our home away from home, we unloaded our requisite tourist purchases and settled in for a few hours. We thought we’d only get a light snack and call it a night, which of course, did not happen. We’ve had great luck wandering the streets looking for places to dine and tonight was no exception. Right near the post office and not far from La Posta, which still remains one of our favorite restaurants, we took a seat at the end of a row of tables situated on the street.
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There is nothing - nothing - like enjoying a meal outside, under a starry sky with a warm breeze blowing as the lights flicker and seem to dance to the sounds of Italian echoing through the air. Getting only a half a bottle of vino rosso, I was surprised when my mother decided to have a glass. It seems she’s acquiring a taste for the drink with dinner these nights. I might have to order more than one bottle from now on.
As we ate, we watched the characters walking by us.
“Do they really need to dress like that?” my mother asked as the umpteenth woman walked by with shorts riding up her sometimes not so small behind and stilettos precariously finding their footing on the stone sidewalks. We both thought the elderly couple holding hands were adorable and remain flabbergasted at the Italian woman who parked her tiny fiat on the corner, leaving her young children and tiny dog in the back seat as she ran from place to place on some indiscernible errands.
Turning to the task at hand, I opted to forgo the antipasto and it’s a good thing, too as, when I get to dessert, you’ll understand why. Rosemarie began with something that we have not had since we arrived: spaghetti with basil and tomato. Piled high on the plate in a perfectly coned construction, the noodles, as every pasta this week, were perfectly al dente. For me, the ravioli with butter and sage were not only covered in butter and sage, but literally drowning in butter and sage. The pasta could have used my fork as a diving board and splashed my face with the liquid and I would have been happy. Clogged arteries be damned - I soaked up every last bit of that butter with our bread.
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For the second course, my mom ordered chicken mozzarella in a cream sauce. While not drowning, the chicken was more suffocating in gooey goodness, lightly grilled and perfectly seasoned with salt and pepper. Along with it, we ordered roasted potatoes in olive oil, that once again had an abundance of the spices. The taste of them reminded us of my father’s father, who always liberally added pepper to any meal. Once again, I could not resist the veal - this time Milanese style. Someone has to eat the baby calves, why shouldn’t it be me?
And then, because we were compelled to, we ended with tiramisu. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Obviously not made earlier in the day, this version overtook La Posta’s due to the drizzled chocolate liberally added to the entire plate. With the ladyfingers soaked just enough to not be labeled soggy, we stuck our utensils in the middle of it and devoured every last bite. There was nothing to soak up the excess chocolate but our fingers, and although it was tempting, this lady’s fingers scrapped the plate with the fork.
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After all of that, for once, we felt full, so we took a short stroll around the piazzas amidst the bustling Saturday night traffic. My mother had yet to see The Duomo illuminated at night, so we walked up the cobblestone street to the busy destination.
I would have stayed out even later, but the clubs here open at midnight, which means no one would show up until at least 1:30 in the morning and not even start talking to you until 2 a.m. The only one in the place when it opens would be the silly American, a label I do not wish to be bestowed upon my graying and curly head. Since we are leaving for Venice in the morning, I opted to get a good night’s sleep.
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There's something about standing at the cafe bars here. There's a pang of excitement as I eat an Italian pastry while being served by a real Italian baristo and not a West Hollywood queen with an attitude who does not seem to grasp the fact, that yes, he is a Starbucks "baristo" who did not get that call back.
The local trains to Pisa run every half hour and they are a far cry from their lush Eurostar counterparts. With few air conditioned compartments, the trains have average seats that are a bit hard on your behind. Since the locomotives are the main connector to Pisa’s airport, a large amount of people hauling their oversized luggage into the space above your head can be annoying. The heat was oppressive, but as soon as the train began to move, the open windows allowed some form of air circulation.
Sitting across from us was the most beautiful Italian girl I’ve seen on the trip. Chocolate brown hair flowing past her shoulders, flawless tan skin and dressed, not like a putana, but classy with just a hint of Mediterranean sexuality, she wore the most fabulous sandals with Roman gladiator straps that went up her calves. I smiled and she said in a rich Italian accent, ”You like?”
“Si, si, molto bene,” I laughed. With a big white grin, she drew down her oversized pink sunglasses from the top of her head and went to sleep.
In all, the trip to Pisa was less than 50 minutes (it clocked in at 49) and, armed with Rick Steve’s Italy and his self guided walking tour to the tower, we began our trek to see one of the sights I’ve always wanted to experience. How wonderful that I could see it for the first time with my mom.
Grabbing some aqua minerale to stay hydrated, it was an easy route to follow. I highly recommend Steves’ book for anyone planning a European tour. Stopping in the middle of Ponte di Mezzo over the Arno River bridge, I read the facts of the site to my mother. After the somewhat cooling breeze, we continued on, crossing the street at a crosswalk where the cars stopped at a light. Even if it was not there, this is no Rome and we could have walked without mortal injury to the other side.
Hunger was back like it had been gone for years, and taking Rick’s advice in the book, stopped into Panetteria Antiche Tradizioni for lunch. Rosemarie has decided that she is no fan of prosciuto, so I took most of her sandwich and gave her a large portion of my salami pizza. Though lacking in the overflowing oil from the pizzeria on Wednesday, the pie still had a nice amount of olive oil to satisfy me.
Lunch was a welcome break from the heat. We paid (without a tip) and not more than ten seconds later, as we rounded a corner - there was our destination against a clear blue sky.
“Just gorgeous,” my mother said at which I agreed. It’s the strangest thing to see how the tower actually does lean. You see it in pictures, but to be standing in front of it and automatically tilt your head as you stare at it is one of the great experiences of your life. Looking at the people milling about at its peak, there was no way we wanted to join them as there are 294 titling stairs to the top. Joining all the other tourists posing as if they were holding up the bell tower, I succeeded in a poor attempt at posing Rosemarie in the same stance.
We took a walk around the Field of Miracles, taking a look at the tower from every angle. At its base, the lean is extremely pronounced and you wonder how the different builders didn’t know it would not stay straight from the very beginning.
Hot and craving something cool, we took a seat at an overpriced and tacky gelato shop before making the walk back to Pisa Centrale for the trip back to Florence. This time, the train stopped in additional local stops, adding thirty minutes to our trip. I didn’t mind, though, as I instantly fell asleep. I woke up unsure if I would even make it back to Dei Mori without curling up on the heated sidewalk for a nap.
Once we got back and walked up the 47 steps to our home away from home, we unloaded our requisite tourist purchases and settled in for a few hours. We thought we’d only get a light snack and call it a night, which of course, did not happen. We’ve had great luck wandering the streets looking for places to dine and tonight was no exception. Right near the post office and not far from La Posta, which still remains one of our favorite restaurants, we took a seat at the end of a row of tables situated on the street.
There is nothing - nothing - like enjoying a meal outside, under a starry sky with a warm breeze blowing as the lights flicker and seem to dance to the sounds of Italian echoing through the air. Getting only a half a bottle of vino rosso, I was surprised when my mother decided to have a glass. It seems she’s acquiring a taste for the drink with dinner these nights. I might have to order more than one bottle from now on.
As we ate, we watched the characters walking by us.
“Do they really need to dress like that?” my mother asked as the umpteenth woman walked by with shorts riding up her sometimes not so small behind and stilettos precariously finding their footing on the stone sidewalks. We both thought the elderly couple holding hands were adorable and remain flabbergasted at the Italian woman who parked her tiny fiat on the corner, leaving her young children and tiny dog in the back seat as she ran from place to place on some indiscernible errands.
Turning to the task at hand, I opted to forgo the antipasto and it’s a good thing, too as, when I get to dessert, you’ll understand why. Rosemarie began with something that we have not had since we arrived: spaghetti with basil and tomato. Piled high on the plate in a perfectly coned construction, the noodles, as every pasta this week, were perfectly al dente. For me, the ravioli with butter and sage were not only covered in butter and sage, but literally drowning in butter and sage. The pasta could have used my fork as a diving board and splashed my face with the liquid and I would have been happy. Clogged arteries be damned - I soaked up every last bit of that butter with our bread.
And then, because we were compelled to, we ended with tiramisu. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Obviously not made earlier in the day, this version overtook La Posta’s due to the drizzled chocolate liberally added to the entire plate. With the ladyfingers soaked just enough to not be labeled soggy, we stuck our utensils in the middle of it and devoured every last bite. There was nothing to soak up the excess chocolate but our fingers, and although it was tempting, this lady’s fingers scrapped the plate with the fork.
After all of that, for once, we felt full, so we took a short stroll around the piazzas amidst the bustling Saturday night traffic. My mother had yet to see The Duomo illuminated at night, so we walked up the cobblestone street to the busy destination.
I would have stayed out even later, but the clubs here open at midnight, which means no one would show up until at least 1:30 in the morning and not even start talking to you until 2 a.m. The only one in the place when it opens would be the silly American, a label I do not wish to be bestowed upon my graying and curly head. Since we are leaving for Venice in the morning, I opted to get a good night’s sleep.
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Mother Of All Statues
After our whirlwind day trip to Rome, I decided to drop the pace down and just leisurely explore some more of Florence. I was disappointed in myself that before I left the states I did not get reservations to see The David, so I was thrilled when our B&B called and got us an admittance time late this afternoon. Of course, before I had them try, I attempted to find a ticket booth without the handy help of my map. First, we overcame some ATM drama - note, when you go to an ATM, be sure it has the proper symbols so it takes your card, we spent more time this morning looking for one. With my mother's lack of direction skills and my growing frustration that I could not find the reservation booth (it's in a church - hello, have you seen how many churches there are in this city?), I decided to ask our hotel hostess for help. Her call to L'Accademia secured us the entry.
Finally finding the right ATM and ignoring the sweat that was pouring down my back, I took Rosemarie to a great museum called Il Bargello. A former prison, the stone walls now house some gorgeous works of art. The stone stairway to the second floor was imposing so I opted to take the lift.
The sculptures were awe inspiring and these artists must have loved their subjects - or at the very least - their asses. If I had a behind that hard and that firm, maybe I'd be more popular than I think I am already. We were disappointed that there was no audio tour - and being too lazy to read every little sign, I decided we should break for lunch.
Detouring from our usual pizza, we stumbled into a family owned sandwich shop and had what every American version of an Italian sandwich should be. On perfectly grilled bread, crispy and beyond delicious, our prosciutto, pomodoro and formagio sandwiches were the perfect light lunch. Although, since we of course had to have gelato afterward, I'm not sure how light the meal actually turned out to be.
We spent the remainder of the afternoon going in and out of the various shops of the city. Everything always sounds so cheap when you say Euros but fear not, do the math and watch what you spend. Some purchases later, we were feeling the sun's intense heat. It was leaving us dehydrated and we bought two large bottles of aqua minerale to not only quench our thirst, but also to keep us from passing out. We opted for the "con gas" version just to spice things up. Dodging, once again, the mass of tours stampeding by us, we returned to Dei Mori for a break.
Rested and fresh, I needed an espresso to make sure I'd shaken my mid afternoon nap. We headed out shortly before our museum time and wandered to a nearby cafe. The crowds seem to be getting larger every day. Getting over to L'Accademia, we stood in the reservation line and watched as the portrait vendors tried to sell their creations to passing tourists. If you display even the slightest interest in one of their drawings, or one of their stolen drawings, which I'm sure they are - they relentlessly pursue you for a profit. One passer-by walked on the edge of one, prompting the seller to yell loudly in Italian. Hello, your drawings are on the street, what do you think will happen?
We were ushered into The David's home on time and I was surprised to see that it was 14e with a reservation and 10e without. Perhaps they want to reward you with a cheaper price if you wait over three hours in the non reservation line. I was really happy to see that the audio tour here was informative and well worth it, but before we started, I took my mom right to the center of the museum to see the mother of all statues. The David stands majestically at the end of the corridor underneath the skylight built exclusively for him. It's hard to describe the emotion you feel when you look at it. It's majestic, stunning - unlike anything you've ever seen. I told her we'd get a closer look after we took a quick tour of the other inhabitants of the L'Accademia. This time, I purchased one tour that allowed my mom to use the same headset as me through headphones plugged into the main unit. She wanted her own, but I told her no : "This way, I can control you better."
Skillfully avoiding the tours (we're getting quite adept at this), we learned about Michelangelo's life and how his most famous work came into existence. Rosemarie kept saying over and over, "unbelievable." She was amazed, as I always am when I see The David, at the precision at which he's made. The veins in his neck, his knuckles, every muscle in this body is perfection. Who would not want to be made this way? I wish I had such a sculptor creating me. Throughout the walls echoed, "NO PICTURES, NO PICTURES," as tourist after tourist ignored the clear forbidden camera and video signs. At one point, they had the entire crowd silenced when the buzz of the noise got too loud and "NO PICTURES," echoed again.
We lost track of time staring at the masterpiece and the announcement that the museum was closing made us take notice that I had but a few moments to return our audio guide and retrieve my identification. The bookshop woman was closing up - these Italians don't kid around when it comes to quitting time. We wandered back to our bed and breakfast after buying some incredible sweets and other Italian delicacies to bring back home.
And, just when I think we aren't able to eat any more than we have already, hunger calls again. With the sun not setting until well after 9:30pm, the evenings here are endless and when summer does end, I will cry and lament the passing of these nights. Who would prefer the cold early darkness of winter to the light and dusk skies of summer?
As we made our way to a table outside for dinner, the couple sitting at the adjacent one didn't seem very friendly and within seconds, the dark, stout and hairy Italian man in the corner took out his pack of cigarettes and lit up for what would be his first of five for the night. Immediately, I asked if we could move inside, which of course, was no problem. The American couple next to us didn't seem too pleased with our bothering them again to move past, so we assured them they did nothing to offend us.
"How did she get such a nice looking man?" my mother asked once we were inside. "She's not that good looking."
"That's why she's such a bitch," I said. "Ugly women with hot partners are the worst. They know they're lower on the food chain than their other half so they don't take kindly to others. Works the same way for the boys, trust me."
"Well, she looks like a man," Rosemarie said.
While she examined if her observation was true, I ordered and then wondered if I will ever have a tomato like this again. I never tire of this dish to start or end one of our meals. And with tortellini in a pear and walnut sauce for my mom and pasta stuffed with salted ricotta and spinach in a tomato based sauce for me, our first courses left us salivating for our second.
And lest you think chicken nuggets here are some horrid McDonald's concoction, you need to book a ticket to this country as soon as possible. What arrived on Rosemarie's plate was drizzled with a sauce and smothered in vegetables. This was like a chicken pot pie without the nasty pie addition. My veal (yes, I ate veal, AGAIN), tender and crispy with a gorgonzola cheese sauce was the ultimate in politically incorrect food.
As we ate, a sugar daddy and his boy took their place outside next to the smoker who by this time was on his fourth cancer inducing pastime.
"Look at those two," my mother said drinking her entire glass of wine. "He could be his father."
"That's the idea," I said and decided since I missed that gravy train when I was in my twenties, to just ignore them and finish my wine.
And, then, since we needed to continue our tiramisu contest, we finished our meal with what ranked number two on our list. Not as decadent as the one we had at La Posta, this version still was an orgasmic taste of flavor. Just the right hint of rum covered the lady fingers that were smothered in marscapone cheese and shaved chocolate. Note: Cinzia informed us that if the Tiramisu is messy on the plate, it is freshly made and if it comes in a bowl and cold, then it was pre-made that day. As a bonus, the restaurant brought us two glasses of limoncello along with it. I urged Rosemarie to go ahead and try it.
"Just take a quick sip," I said with a tipsy smile.
She raised the glass to her lips and her eyes squished together so tightly that I swear her mouth stretched to cause her lipstick to smear on its own. She reached to get rid of the taste of it, to, of all things, the last of her wine. I was laughing so hard as I took the shot glass and polished mine off in a split second.
If we had remained outside, the nasty smoker would have ruined what was one of the best dinners of the trip. We relished in not being hurried out the door, took our time requesting the check and no, we did not leave a tip.
"How can you still walk after all that drink?" she asked me.
I couldn't help but laugh, knowing that I am the only one in my family who keeps the liquor business in business.
"I'm a pro," I said. "Now you should get to bed and take some aspirin so you don't have a hangover, or tomorrow, you won't realize the leaning Tower is really leaning."
Finally finding the right ATM and ignoring the sweat that was pouring down my back, I took Rosemarie to a great museum called Il Bargello. A former prison, the stone walls now house some gorgeous works of art. The stone stairway to the second floor was imposing so I opted to take the lift.
 |
| The stone stairs were too imposing - I opted for the lift |
Detouring from our usual pizza, we stumbled into a family owned sandwich shop and had what every American version of an Italian sandwich should be. On perfectly grilled bread, crispy and beyond delicious, our prosciutto, pomodoro and formagio sandwiches were the perfect light lunch. Although, since we of course had to have gelato afterward, I'm not sure how light the meal actually turned out to be.
Rested and fresh, I needed an espresso to make sure I'd shaken my mid afternoon nap. We headed out shortly before our museum time and wandered to a nearby cafe. The crowds seem to be getting larger every day. Getting over to L'Accademia, we stood in the reservation line and watched as the portrait vendors tried to sell their creations to passing tourists. If you display even the slightest interest in one of their drawings, or one of their stolen drawings, which I'm sure they are - they relentlessly pursue you for a profit. One passer-by walked on the edge of one, prompting the seller to yell loudly in Italian. Hello, your drawings are on the street, what do you think will happen?
We were ushered into The David's home on time and I was surprised to see that it was 14e with a reservation and 10e without. Perhaps they want to reward you with a cheaper price if you wait over three hours in the non reservation line. I was really happy to see that the audio tour here was informative and well worth it, but before we started, I took my mom right to the center of the museum to see the mother of all statues. The David stands majestically at the end of the corridor underneath the skylight built exclusively for him. It's hard to describe the emotion you feel when you look at it. It's majestic, stunning - unlike anything you've ever seen. I told her we'd get a closer look after we took a quick tour of the other inhabitants of the L'Accademia. This time, I purchased one tour that allowed my mom to use the same headset as me through headphones plugged into the main unit. She wanted her own, but I told her no : "This way, I can control you better."
Skillfully avoiding the tours (we're getting quite adept at this), we learned about Michelangelo's life and how his most famous work came into existence. Rosemarie kept saying over and over, "unbelievable." She was amazed, as I always am when I see The David, at the precision at which he's made. The veins in his neck, his knuckles, every muscle in this body is perfection. Who would not want to be made this way? I wish I had such a sculptor creating me. Throughout the walls echoed, "NO PICTURES, NO PICTURES," as tourist after tourist ignored the clear forbidden camera and video signs. At one point, they had the entire crowd silenced when the buzz of the noise got too loud and "NO PICTURES," echoed again.
We lost track of time staring at the masterpiece and the announcement that the museum was closing made us take notice that I had but a few moments to return our audio guide and retrieve my identification. The bookshop woman was closing up - these Italians don't kid around when it comes to quitting time. We wandered back to our bed and breakfast after buying some incredible sweets and other Italian delicacies to bring back home.
As we made our way to a table outside for dinner, the couple sitting at the adjacent one didn't seem very friendly and within seconds, the dark, stout and hairy Italian man in the corner took out his pack of cigarettes and lit up for what would be his first of five for the night. Immediately, I asked if we could move inside, which of course, was no problem. The American couple next to us didn't seem too pleased with our bothering them again to move past, so we assured them they did nothing to offend us.
"How did she get such a nice looking man?" my mother asked once we were inside. "She's not that good looking."
"That's why she's such a bitch," I said. "Ugly women with hot partners are the worst. They know they're lower on the food chain than their other half so they don't take kindly to others. Works the same way for the boys, trust me."
"Well, she looks like a man," Rosemarie said.
While she examined if her observation was true, I ordered and then wondered if I will ever have a tomato like this again. I never tire of this dish to start or end one of our meals. And with tortellini in a pear and walnut sauce for my mom and pasta stuffed with salted ricotta and spinach in a tomato based sauce for me, our first courses left us salivating for our second.
And lest you think chicken nuggets here are some horrid McDonald's concoction, you need to book a ticket to this country as soon as possible. What arrived on Rosemarie's plate was drizzled with a sauce and smothered in vegetables. This was like a chicken pot pie without the nasty pie addition. My veal (yes, I ate veal, AGAIN), tender and crispy with a gorgonzola cheese sauce was the ultimate in politically incorrect food.
As we ate, a sugar daddy and his boy took their place outside next to the smoker who by this time was on his fourth cancer inducing pastime.
"Look at those two," my mother said drinking her entire glass of wine. "He could be his father."
"That's the idea," I said and decided since I missed that gravy train when I was in my twenties, to just ignore them and finish my wine.
 |
| Here's to us |
And, then, since we needed to continue our tiramisu contest, we finished our meal with what ranked number two on our list. Not as decadent as the one we had at La Posta, this version still was an orgasmic taste of flavor. Just the right hint of rum covered the lady fingers that were smothered in marscapone cheese and shaved chocolate. Note: Cinzia informed us that if the Tiramisu is messy on the plate, it is freshly made and if it comes in a bowl and cold, then it was pre-made that day. As a bonus, the restaurant brought us two glasses of limoncello along with it. I urged Rosemarie to go ahead and try it.
"Just take a quick sip," I said with a tipsy smile.
She raised the glass to her lips and her eyes squished together so tightly that I swear her mouth stretched to cause her lipstick to smear on its own. She reached to get rid of the taste of it, to, of all things, the last of her wine. I was laughing so hard as I took the shot glass and polished mine off in a split second.
"How can you still walk after all that drink?" she asked me.
I couldn't help but laugh, knowing that I am the only one in my family who keeps the liquor business in business.
"I'm a pro," I said. "Now you should get to bed and take some aspirin so you don't have a hangover, or tomorrow, you won't realize the leaning Tower is really leaning."
Really, God?
This has been a day like no other in recent memory. We arrived at Termini right on time and there was my high school friend and one time almost prom date - Cinzia (Chin- See - AH). Has it really been 29 years since we last saw each other? The years, as I knew they would - instantly melted away. As it was with my friend Serge who up until last year, I did not see for ten years, Cinzia and I fell instantly back to where we left off. I've learned over the years, that friends like this are rare, and when you find one, you need to treasure them. There's no blame on who lost touch with whom, or mention of the years in between. It felt as if we had just said good-bye over "B" lunch and ciao in Rome.
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Since she lives in Sicily, Cinzia decided to get a hotel room near the station and stay over night. So, after a brief stop at her hotel, we set out to conquer Rome in a day. Can I say what a treat it was to have, not only her company, but her bilingual skills all to ourselves? Throughout the day, in between catching up with our lives, from ordering lunch to buying tickets, Cinzia took care of everything, with a little help, of course, from her substantial assets. This is, after all, Italy.
Before we got to the city, I told my mom that she would notice a marked difference between Florence and Rome, and mainly, how they drive and how difficult it is to cross the street. Romans drive how they want and as fast as they want. Getting across the street is not only an adventure, it's a life threatening thrill that raises your blood pressure and makes you wonder how you'll survive an activity you do every day. The hint? Cross with conviction - you have to have a destination in mind and that place is the other side of the street. Don't hesitate for a second - this is a war of the road between you and the driver and you must be determined to win. Rosemarie held on to either me or Cinzia for dear life. By the end of the day she still was not used to it, but she was determined to make it across. It was fun to hear her moan every time Cinzia would say that we had no choice but to get to the other side.
The sun in the capital was intense - it beat down on us at every turn and we found every bit of shade that was available as in total, we walked over 23 miles before our day ended. The journey began on the bus where Cinzia gave us a quick tutorial on pick pockets and ways to keep things safe. We decided to start with the Sistine Chapel. We are relatively good Catholics, or at least I once was, and no visit to the Holy City would be complete without seeing the seat of power.
My mom was in awe of the vast square - and with next to no shade, the sun seeped into every available corner it could find. Instead of going into the Basilica, where the line twisted and turned for what seemed miles, we opted to go right to the Sistine Chapel. And to get there -we had to go through the Vatican Museum.
Now the Vatican Museum is vast and seemingly endless with its riches, treasures and artifacts. The only way to get to the chapel is to go through the entire collection of artifacts. It was hot, it was crowded and there was no senior discount. The tour groups were everywhere and as Cinzia, and then I took the lead, it got more packed with every step. The stifling heat was oppressive and at one point, the air conditioning from a distant room was surely what the breath of God must feel like.
I was getting weary, feeling neausus from the temperature and the mass of bodies around me, and still the chapel seemed miles away. I needed to sit down but I couldn't let my mom know I was ready to faint. Finally, we were in the tiny famous room. Although it is a gorgeous sight to see with its vibrant colors and masterpiece of art adorning every wall, the amount of visitors within seemed as if the world was trying to fit on the top of pin. Along with my mom, it was Cinzia's first visit to the chapel and all three of us could not believe that someone could have done all that work and how well it has survived. I guess there are some great things that come from lying on your back. For us, all we could think of now was surviving the chapel and getting out of the Vatican. Winding us through more exhibits and gift shops, the museum's uscita was finally in sight. And it was a winding staircase ramp down to the ground. And there, before us, stopping us dead in our tracks was the most beautiful priest ever to walk the earth.
Really God? Really? You had to make that stunning vision a priest? Does that specimen of mankind need to wear a white collar for the rest of his life? All three of us would have confessed our sins to him right there among the crowd and I quickly moved my camera under the guise of taking my mom and Cinzia's picture to capture all the beauty of this nameless man of the cloth. Rosemarie said we should have asked him for a real and non stealth picture.
"Just say you want to get a shot of a real Roman Priest."
Yes, lovely - let's lie to a priest.
Throughout the day, his visage would keep us even hotter on an already sweltering day.
The afternoon was upon us and the mileage we were walking was quickly adding up on the odometer. Before any of us passed out, we stopped for lunch near the Spanish Steps. Of course, it was pizza. As far as our favorite lunch goes, this was number two of pizzas on our list. Covered in four cheeses, it was chewy goodness, but lacked the river of oil from yesterday.
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At lunch, Cinzia gave us the facts about tipping in Europe. Never do it. Ever. When she discovered we left a 20e tip from dinner the previous night, she said the waiter was probably still having a party. Then she heard that I tipped the cab driver 4e and she was aghast. At the very most, if you just can't leave without the extra gift, leave 1e on the table. In addition, the wait staff will never bring you the check, as it's considered rude to push the patrons out the door. You can stay as long as you want until you request the bill. With our Italian etiquette lesson over, we admired the Italian men walking by. The swagger that she said all men try to perfect and the jeans riding low on their waste was in full evidence with every passing Roman. Above all, it was their big Italian noses that stood out for us.
Finally, we paid the bill, but not before we all used the WC, which was down a skinny spiral staircase. Rosemarie hung on for dear life as the call of nature could not be deterred. Sufficiently stuffed, we headed towards The Spanish Steps. It was here that we found one of Rome's many fountains and discovered that this is where you should fill up your water bottles. Buy one in the morning and use it throughout the day. Fresh, clean, and most of all, cool, the hydrating liquid was better than any aqua minerale we've had. In fact, it would not surprise me if all the vendors in Rome sold this very free gift to you without your knowledge.
Wandering the shopping streets, we came upon one of many sunglass establishments and here, my mom purchased for me a pair of Prada glasses. With Cinzia bartering in Italian with the women of the shop, the atmosphere was comical. For all I knew, she was telling them to charge these Americans any price, but with the joy of the language filling the shop, we would have paid any price. As it was, we managed a nice amount and even get the tax back at the airport.
From here, our destination took us to, what is without a doubt, my favorite place in the city. Trevi Fountain. The sheer majesty of the sculptures spewing crystal clear blue water leaves you awestruck. Police patrol the perimeter, ready to instantly arrest anyone who attempts to go into the fountain. We sat and watched the crowds and my mom and I threw a coin into the fountain.
The sun was still strong and we wandered into, what else, a gelateria. Here, we had Italian slush. Cinzia an orange and lime, and me slurpping lime and my mom having pistachio and straticetella gelato. The treat here is not as creamy as in Florence. Though still delicious, it is a bit more dense. Then Cinzia suggested a Tea Freddo with Granita (lemon italian slush) Oh, my Vatican Priest, this was better than any drink, alcoholic or non that I've ever had. I will search for it again throughout my trip. And here was another Italian lesson: our last name is pronounced with the emphasis on the "l-l-a." It is not a hard T, but instead simply say, "Tay-LA."
Attempting to flirt with a new Roman (our hearts, though, still belonged in the Vatican.), we got the best route to our next stop: The Colosseum. Boarding a bus and, yet again, walking across the street within an inch of our lives, we boarded the next transport to one of the most majestic buildings ever constructed. My mom was amazed that she was here actually looking at such an arena. I, in the meantime, was quietly camera stalking Italian boys as my friend David taught me and perfected long ago.
All three of us found a bit of shade and then decided it was time to head back to Termini. We, of course, arrived early and Rosemarie was looking so exhausted that I feared she would fall asleep on the bench and be taken for a homeless Italian woman. We found a train to Firenze leaving in 15 minutes and since I paid for a flexible fair with only a minimal change fee, armed with our interpreter, we booked it to platform 2 with seconds to spare. I promised to never let another 29 years go by between visits and made Cinzia promise to meet me in Ibiza or Mykonos, or wherever my next European vacation takes me. She hugged my mom, we kissed a hasty ciao and ran down the platform to coach 3. I looked behind me to make sure Rosemarie was still behind me, my thoughts consumed with getting to the car to stop the doors from closing. Only when we boarded did she tell me that she was "giving me the high sign to just get on the train and walk to the first class coach. What did I know of "high signs?" Obviously not what they look like. But, my mom was a trouper and she got on board and instantly fell asleep.
It was a short two hour trip back to where we can walk the streets without fear of our lives. Rosemarie is more than exhausted, she is in bed and will be asleep within seconds. I, on the other hand, feel as if I should sin tonight just so I can say again, "Really, God?"
Since she lives in Sicily, Cinzia decided to get a hotel room near the station and stay over night. So, after a brief stop at her hotel, we set out to conquer Rome in a day. Can I say what a treat it was to have, not only her company, but her bilingual skills all to ourselves? Throughout the day, in between catching up with our lives, from ordering lunch to buying tickets, Cinzia took care of everything, with a little help, of course, from her substantial assets. This is, after all, Italy.
Before we got to the city, I told my mom that she would notice a marked difference between Florence and Rome, and mainly, how they drive and how difficult it is to cross the street. Romans drive how they want and as fast as they want. Getting across the street is not only an adventure, it's a life threatening thrill that raises your blood pressure and makes you wonder how you'll survive an activity you do every day. The hint? Cross with conviction - you have to have a destination in mind and that place is the other side of the street. Don't hesitate for a second - this is a war of the road between you and the driver and you must be determined to win. Rosemarie held on to either me or Cinzia for dear life. By the end of the day she still was not used to it, but she was determined to make it across. It was fun to hear her moan every time Cinzia would say that we had no choice but to get to the other side.
The sun in the capital was intense - it beat down on us at every turn and we found every bit of shade that was available as in total, we walked over 23 miles before our day ended. The journey began on the bus where Cinzia gave us a quick tutorial on pick pockets and ways to keep things safe. We decided to start with the Sistine Chapel. We are relatively good Catholics, or at least I once was, and no visit to the Holy City would be complete without seeing the seat of power.
 |
| The sun was hot and bright |
My mom was in awe of the vast square - and with next to no shade, the sun seeped into every available corner it could find. Instead of going into the Basilica, where the line twisted and turned for what seemed miles, we opted to go right to the Sistine Chapel. And to get there -we had to go through the Vatican Museum.
Now the Vatican Museum is vast and seemingly endless with its riches, treasures and artifacts. The only way to get to the chapel is to go through the entire collection of artifacts. It was hot, it was crowded and there was no senior discount. The tour groups were everywhere and as Cinzia, and then I took the lead, it got more packed with every step. The stifling heat was oppressive and at one point, the air conditioning from a distant room was surely what the breath of God must feel like.
I was getting weary, feeling neausus from the temperature and the mass of bodies around me, and still the chapel seemed miles away. I needed to sit down but I couldn't let my mom know I was ready to faint. Finally, we were in the tiny famous room. Although it is a gorgeous sight to see with its vibrant colors and masterpiece of art adorning every wall, the amount of visitors within seemed as if the world was trying to fit on the top of pin. Along with my mom, it was Cinzia's first visit to the chapel and all three of us could not believe that someone could have done all that work and how well it has survived. I guess there are some great things that come from lying on your back. For us, all we could think of now was surviving the chapel and getting out of the Vatican. Winding us through more exhibits and gift shops, the museum's uscita was finally in sight. And it was a winding staircase ramp down to the ground. And there, before us, stopping us dead in our tracks was the most beautiful priest ever to walk the earth.
 |
| Really, God? |
Really God? Really? You had to make that stunning vision a priest? Does that specimen of mankind need to wear a white collar for the rest of his life? All three of us would have confessed our sins to him right there among the crowd and I quickly moved my camera under the guise of taking my mom and Cinzia's picture to capture all the beauty of this nameless man of the cloth. Rosemarie said we should have asked him for a real and non stealth picture.
"Just say you want to get a shot of a real Roman Priest."
Yes, lovely - let's lie to a priest.
Throughout the day, his visage would keep us even hotter on an already sweltering day.
The afternoon was upon us and the mileage we were walking was quickly adding up on the odometer. Before any of us passed out, we stopped for lunch near the Spanish Steps. Of course, it was pizza. As far as our favorite lunch goes, this was number two of pizzas on our list. Covered in four cheeses, it was chewy goodness, but lacked the river of oil from yesterday.
At lunch, Cinzia gave us the facts about tipping in Europe. Never do it. Ever. When she discovered we left a 20e tip from dinner the previous night, she said the waiter was probably still having a party. Then she heard that I tipped the cab driver 4e and she was aghast. At the very most, if you just can't leave without the extra gift, leave 1e on the table. In addition, the wait staff will never bring you the check, as it's considered rude to push the patrons out the door. You can stay as long as you want until you request the bill. With our Italian etiquette lesson over, we admired the Italian men walking by. The swagger that she said all men try to perfect and the jeans riding low on their waste was in full evidence with every passing Roman. Above all, it was their big Italian noses that stood out for us.
Finally, we paid the bill, but not before we all used the WC, which was down a skinny spiral staircase. Rosemarie hung on for dear life as the call of nature could not be deterred. Sufficiently stuffed, we headed towards The Spanish Steps. It was here that we found one of Rome's many fountains and discovered that this is where you should fill up your water bottles. Buy one in the morning and use it throughout the day. Fresh, clean, and most of all, cool, the hydrating liquid was better than any aqua minerale we've had. In fact, it would not surprise me if all the vendors in Rome sold this very free gift to you without your knowledge.
Wandering the shopping streets, we came upon one of many sunglass establishments and here, my mom purchased for me a pair of Prada glasses. With Cinzia bartering in Italian with the women of the shop, the atmosphere was comical. For all I knew, she was telling them to charge these Americans any price, but with the joy of the language filling the shop, we would have paid any price. As it was, we managed a nice amount and even get the tax back at the airport.
From here, our destination took us to, what is without a doubt, my favorite place in the city. Trevi Fountain. The sheer majesty of the sculptures spewing crystal clear blue water leaves you awestruck. Police patrol the perimeter, ready to instantly arrest anyone who attempts to go into the fountain. We sat and watched the crowds and my mom and I threw a coin into the fountain.
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| Did we make a wish? |
The sun was still strong and we wandered into, what else, a gelateria. Here, we had Italian slush. Cinzia an orange and lime, and me slurpping lime and my mom having pistachio and straticetella gelato. The treat here is not as creamy as in Florence. Though still delicious, it is a bit more dense. Then Cinzia suggested a Tea Freddo with Granita (lemon italian slush) Oh, my Vatican Priest, this was better than any drink, alcoholic or non that I've ever had. I will search for it again throughout my trip. And here was another Italian lesson: our last name is pronounced with the emphasis on the "l-l-a." It is not a hard T, but instead simply say, "Tay-LA."
Attempting to flirt with a new Roman (our hearts, though, still belonged in the Vatican.), we got the best route to our next stop: The Colosseum. Boarding a bus and, yet again, walking across the street within an inch of our lives, we boarded the next transport to one of the most majestic buildings ever constructed. My mom was amazed that she was here actually looking at such an arena. I, in the meantime, was quietly camera stalking Italian boys as my friend David taught me and perfected long ago.
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| Roman Boy |
All three of us found a bit of shade and then decided it was time to head back to Termini. We, of course, arrived early and Rosemarie was looking so exhausted that I feared she would fall asleep on the bench and be taken for a homeless Italian woman. We found a train to Firenze leaving in 15 minutes and since I paid for a flexible fair with only a minimal change fee, armed with our interpreter, we booked it to platform 2 with seconds to spare. I promised to never let another 29 years go by between visits and made Cinzia promise to meet me in Ibiza or Mykonos, or wherever my next European vacation takes me. She hugged my mom, we kissed a hasty ciao and ran down the platform to coach 3. I looked behind me to make sure Rosemarie was still behind me, my thoughts consumed with getting to the car to stop the doors from closing. Only when we boarded did she tell me that she was "giving me the high sign to just get on the train and walk to the first class coach. What did I know of "high signs?" Obviously not what they look like. But, my mom was a trouper and she got on board and instantly fell asleep.
It was a short two hour trip back to where we can walk the streets without fear of our lives. Rosemarie is more than exhausted, she is in bed and will be asleep within seconds. I, on the other hand, feel as if I should sin tonight just so I can say again, "Really, God?"
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Roma Termini
The alarm rang way too early this morning, but we were up and out of the B&B in plenty of time to catch our train to Rome. Even here, the two of us are early. The streets of Florence were quiet, only the remnants from the street cleaners remained. The city is extremely neat - and it's clear they take pride in the lack of trash (well, the kind on the ground at least).
At the train station, my mom was glued to my side and I thought if I wanted to lose her, this would be the perfect location to do it.
"Oh, no you, don't," she said when I told her of my plan.
Standing at the cafe bar, I ordered a cappucino as the train station became more alive with the arrival of every new train.
"I'm going to get run over by these people," Rosemarie exclaimed looking for our train, which had not arrived yet.
Right on schedule, the Eurostar pulled into Track 10 and we made our way down the long platform to our first class compartment. The seats are large and comfortable and all around us, Italian businessmen are talking and gesturing. I would love to know what caused such laughter at one point, and it seemed as if one was making fun of our seatmate's impeccable hair.
I am riding backwards, a seat that I despise as I like to see where I'm going, not where I've been. My mother is doing her word puzzles and occassionally looking out at the passing scenery. It's lush, green and dotted with typically colored Italian houses -light brown with rustic red roofs. On the hillside are places that seem to be villas, and of course, the required steeple from a church dots the landscape.
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We'll meet Cinzia at Roma Termini and begin our very busy tour of the capital city. And like a good pretend Catholic, I packed a pair of pants so I can enter St. Peter's.
At the train station, my mom was glued to my side and I thought if I wanted to lose her, this would be the perfect location to do it.
"Oh, no you, don't," she said when I told her of my plan.
Standing at the cafe bar, I ordered a cappucino as the train station became more alive with the arrival of every new train.
"I'm going to get run over by these people," Rosemarie exclaimed looking for our train, which had not arrived yet.
Right on schedule, the Eurostar pulled into Track 10 and we made our way down the long platform to our first class compartment. The seats are large and comfortable and all around us, Italian businessmen are talking and gesturing. I would love to know what caused such laughter at one point, and it seemed as if one was making fun of our seatmate's impeccable hair.
I am riding backwards, a seat that I despise as I like to see where I'm going, not where I've been. My mother is doing her word puzzles and occassionally looking out at the passing scenery. It's lush, green and dotted with typically colored Italian houses -light brown with rustic red roofs. On the hillside are places that seem to be villas, and of course, the required steeple from a church dots the landscape.
We'll meet Cinzia at Roma Termini and begin our very busy tour of the capital city. And like a good pretend Catholic, I packed a pair of pants so I can enter St. Peter's.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
Under The Tuscan Sunset
Indeed, it was time to eat again. My mom and I woke from our naps and headed back out to check out the taxi stand in Piazza Republic to make sure we knew where we were going. The sun was still as strong as Hercules so we didn't last too long after our scoping misson. After another brief rest, we got dressed and headed back to the square, ready to feed ourselves yet again.
The ride up the hillside was spectacular.
"Aren't you glad we didn't walk?" I asked only to realize that we had just passed Piazzale Michelangelo - where we famously hiked a few days ago. But, of course, where we were going was much further up the hillside and the taxi continued over cobblestone highways and a winding one lane - two way traffic road with stone walls on either side. We reached our destination - a small trattoria with a small Italian shop in front that opened up to a wide dining area. The view of the surrounding hillsides was breathtaking and we were shown to our middle table in the still uncrowded room.
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I decided to order white wine, since my mom has found a vino that she likes. Of course, it was a whole bottle this time around, so it didn't matter that she had an entire glass. We began with mozzerella and tomatoes. Chunks of cheese that were firm yet melted in your mouth with the balsamic and olive oil dripping over the slices. Unfortunatly, the restaurant was out of tortellini so we both had ravioli stuffed with spinach in a cream sauce. Homemade and huge, the folded pasta was delicate and light. Everything American pasta is not. This led to fried chicken, Florentine style and flattened chicken for me. My mom's dish consisted of small pieces of tender foul, lightly breaded and fried to a perfect golden crisp. Looking at my chicken, I wondered how long the chef had to pound it to make it flatter than a Los Angeles starlet before her breast augmentation. It was crispy on the edges, moist and fell off the bone at the touch of the fork. All the while, I consumed the entire bottle of wine (save one glass).
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As we talked about life, childhood, marriage and relationships, two Americans took up residence next to us. This night, however, we did not engage them. The couple were obviously going to get married and the girl was without a doubt, very proud of her engagement ring. She wanted a reaction on her jewelry and for sure noticed the size of the rocks on my mother's hand. Never let it be said that I don't get my bitchiness from out of the blue, for Rosemarie put her hand to her face all through dinner, ensuring that the fading sunlight shimmered off the diamonds. They eclipsed the one little rock on the silver band of the plain jane next to me. Eventually, the nameless girl gave up the fight and we ordered dessert.
Of course, espresso for me and Cafe American for my mother, though I had to get some milk as still the coffee was too strong for her. And, although the Tiramisu was amazing, it paled in comparison to La Posta's. And as if gelato all day long wasn't enough, I had to have the chocolate, hazelnut and vanilla ice cream drizzled in chocolate sauce. After all, we're not going to be eating until tomorrow.
Our waiter ordered us a taxi and we sped back down the hillside to the center of Florence. There's nothing more I despise than loose change, so I left the cab driver the rest - much to his objection. Is tipping that uncommon here? It seems so.
We walked back to our B&B, not feeling in the least bit full, which is the most bizarre feeling after stuffing ourselves all night. Tomorrow, a new adventure with an old friend. Our train departs for Rome at 8:10 am.
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| All dressed for dinner. More food! |
The ride up the hillside was spectacular.
"Aren't you glad we didn't walk?" I asked only to realize that we had just passed Piazzale Michelangelo - where we famously hiked a few days ago. But, of course, where we were going was much further up the hillside and the taxi continued over cobblestone highways and a winding one lane - two way traffic road with stone walls on either side. We reached our destination - a small trattoria with a small Italian shop in front that opened up to a wide dining area. The view of the surrounding hillsides was breathtaking and we were shown to our middle table in the still uncrowded room.
Of course, espresso for me and Cafe American for my mother, though I had to get some milk as still the coffee was too strong for her. And, although the Tiramisu was amazing, it paled in comparison to La Posta's. And as if gelato all day long wasn't enough, I had to have the chocolate, hazelnut and vanilla ice cream drizzled in chocolate sauce. After all, we're not going to be eating until tomorrow.
Our waiter ordered us a taxi and we sped back down the hillside to the center of Florence. There's nothing more I despise than loose change, so I left the cab driver the rest - much to his objection. Is tipping that uncommon here? It seems so.
We walked back to our B&B, not feeling in the least bit full, which is the most bizarre feeling after stuffing ourselves all night. Tomorrow, a new adventure with an old friend. Our train departs for Rome at 8:10 am.
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