To celebrate our 35th wedding anniversary year, Jeanette had set her sights on a romantic trip to Italy. My enthusiasm for such a sojourn was luke cool ... having spent a few days in Milan about six years ago ... and finding it overrated and expensive. And I must confess that I left most of the planning for this trip to my distaff side, expecting to be able to blame her if the trip was a bust. Nevertheless, we left for Rome on October 19th , 2003 at noon by flying to Chicago and then back, nonstop, to Rome on American Airlines. Traveling to Italy by going first a thousand miles in the wrong direction seemed like a real downer. But this was topped by the Rome leg itself which was sardinesville ... the economy class amenities rivaled McDonald’s at closing time ... and the cabin attendants were as surly as the token clerks in the New York subway. If this typifies our country’s airline industry, then God help us.
And knowing that we taxpayers are lending (read “giving”) these doofuses billions of dollars makes it even more galling. (See my comments on SwissAir’s service on our return trip.) We landed in Roma about 8 AM stiff, bleary-eyed and anxious to get settled in our hotel, the Albergo Alexandra, on the Via Veneto (which turned out to be a beautiful sycamore-tree-lined street). I had asked a helpful Italian man on the plane what the cab fare to downtown Rome would be and he said about 40 or 50 euros. So, I decided to spring for this luxury instead of a long ride on public transit. Our cab ride was a little breathtaking as we literally flew by all those scenes from our Latin I textbooks. Jeanette commented that the stop lights in Rome where apparently just a suggestion. This death-defying ride was highlighted by the patriotic enthusiasm of our cabby, Juan Fangio, who loved his hometown to death and proudly extolled its beauty and virtues. When we exited our cab in front of our hotel, the meter read 85 euros ... plus 5 euros for our bags. I knew we were being ripped off (he had apparently pulled the jump seat up over the meter ... hiding the previous un-zeroed fare when we first got in the cab) but I didn’t have the stomach for a fight, so our first Roman experience was a sour one. I still wonder if this babinzo realized how he was sullying the city he claimed to love so much.
Since our hotel room wasn’t then ready, we couldn’t get our badly needed nap. Instead we immediately took a bus tour of some of the better-known Roman sights -- the Vatican, Trevi Fountain, Piazza del Popolo, etc. Most of these first-day scenes went by me in a soporific daze (without the help of the adrenaline supplied by a hurtling taxicab), so I can’t recall them all. Moreover, our guide (the woman with the silk scarf tied on top of her telescoping pointer) was tri-lingual. So we heard about each of these venues in English, German, and Italian. That is, two thirds of our tour’s expository was totally useless to us. I do remember however that she warned us about the gypsy pickpockets and to order an espresso standing up because it costs three times as much sitting down at an outdoor table. Another thing that stuck with me was that she explained that there are over two thousand fountains in Rome (most simple single-stream waterspouts arising from some animal’s mouth) and that the Romans are proud that all this water is cold and potable (coming, I assume, by aqueduct from some tarn high in the Italian Alps.).
I took advantage of this fact several times while traipsing around Rome by filling up my empty agua bottle with the spittle of these fauna. Later, after a refreshing three hour nap in our room we ventured out to see Rome by night. I think Jeanette was determined to test my coronary fortitude as she began what was to become a series of forced marches up and down most of the seven hills of Rome. Eventually we rested at a table at an outdoor cafe on the Via Veneto where we started what was to become our evening habit in Italy -- she drank a red wine and I , a Campari and soda. Invariably, at such spots they also brought you a doll-sized bowl of peanuts and, for reasons that still escape me, a doll-sized spoon. What this spoon was for was not really clear since it barely held one peanut ... one couldn’t eat from it and there was nothing to spoon these goobers into. I guess it’s just one of those customs that, once started, can’t be discarded.
Then, at about 7:30 local time, we proceeded to the Trattoria Trifone nearby. It had been recommended by our hotel and turned out to be a real find. (We ate there both nights.) Their veal and pasta dishes were delicious and their tiramisu was to die for (made with real zabaglione).
Our second day in Rome was a little more rememorable, but no less aerobic. We first bought one-day subway passes. Apparently we had studied the instructions for them too long and were accosted by a gypsy woman with a swaddled child and her hand out. These beggars are ubiquitous in Rome and either sport a baby/small child or, lacking that resource, sit on the ground with one foot twisted under them to mimic deformity. One wonders why such ingenuity and extreme discomfort is wasted on begging (and stealing) instead of more productive endeavors. And one also wonders why the Policze permit such unnerving distractions in a city that thrives on tourists. Perhaps these constabulary were trained in San Francisco? Anyway, after telling this gypsy to please get away (or words to that effect), we took the subway first to Vatican City ... since St. Peters Basilica and the Sistine Chapel were closed the previous day due to the beatification of four new saints and the declaring of two others as martyrs. (On our first visit, I was somewhat taken aback by how few people were in St. Peter’s Square for this Pope-hosted-ceremony ... maybe as few as twenty thousand. Jesse Jackson can produce a bigger crowd protesting pink Band-Aids.)
St. Peter’s Basilica was truly awesome (Jeanette lit some candles) but the recently-restored Sistine Chapel ceiling was disappointing to us. The refreshed colors, reflecting what Michaelangelo had originally used, were garish to the point of being cartoony. And some later modesty alterations (particularly to Adam’s private parts) had not been removed by the restorers which, frankly, made things look a little weird. I discovered another national trait whilst waiting in line at the Sistine Chapel: queues mean nothing to native Italians, they are only for tourists. God and the Pope give Romans the inalienable right to go to the front of any line and turn their ears deaf to any objections.
Our next stop in Rome was the Colosseum ... for what must be the high point in any tourist’s gawking (ours included). The paradox is that this monument is simultaneously both ordinary and extraordinary. It has had minimal restoration and looks a little like a dilapidated building in the south Bronx ... yet substantial portions and many interesting details of it have survived for almost two millennia. If everyone who visited it over this time span took but one small stone, it would have long ago disappeared! To compare, the wooden bridge in Chappaquidick (that Ted Kennedy made famous) has had to be replaced a few times over the last thirty years due to tourists each taking but a few splinters. Another thing I found interesting was that three (or more) feral terriers seemed to be living among the ruins, easily slipping in and out of small passageways. I suspect that this is the breed that thrives there due to its taste for rodents.
We then went looking for the Roman Forum which turned out to be up another hill. Jeanette took pity on me and we decided to take a few pictures and pretend we had “done” it.
That night we had our usual aperitifs at a cafe on a busier thoroughfare. Jeanette’s red wine was undrinkable so we sent it back. She got back the same wine in a different glass with a splash of soda water it. Just how stupid are we Americans thought to be? Don’t answer that. (We did get the peanuts and the little spoon though.) After another fine dinner we returned to our room to relax and watch a little local television. A few quick notes on Italian television. Invariably Italian TV (other than the BBC and CNN) carries dubbed old American movies and inane Italian variety shows. The formula for these variety shows is simple -- fat, old Italian men and buxom, scantily-clad young blond females. Why these women are always blond is a little hard to figure since about 90% of Italian women have black hair ... and the rest are brunettes. I never saw one blond Italian male on these shows (or on the streets for that matter), except when they were wearing fright wigs. In fact, the roll for men on these shows was primarily Milton Berle redux -- dressing up as trollopy women, ogling the cleavage of the genuine females, and hitting each other with cream pies ... all very entertaining ... not. There were also live lottery drawings on TV. Instead of the pop-up numbered ping-pong balls as in American lotteries, the Italian procedure was very elaborate. First, an oblong clear-plastic drum full of gray plastic balls was rotated on an eccentric axis four times clockwise, then four times counter-clockwise. Then a (young, buxom and blond) female with a full-face blindfold reached into the drum with the help of two (young, buxom and blond) assistants, one on either side. She retrieved one gray plastic ball which one assistant passed to a fourth (young, buxom and blond) woman sitting at a nearby table. This woman then opened up the gray plastic ball with a fifth (young, buxom and blond) woman looking over her shoulder to verify things by nodding her head convincingly. She then announced what this number was and it was flashed on the screen. This process was repeated five more times until the full lottery results were revealed. It made for a rather monotonous ten minutes of TV viewing; but was to me a window into the Italian psyche.
The following morning, as we were checking out of our hotel, down the stairs came Jack Welch, former CEO of GE, and his young honey-haired honey who I took to be Wetlapper (as Imus calls her), the former editor of the Harvard Business Review ... and the schism in Neutron Jack’s marriage. (If it turns out that this man wasn’t Jack Welch, then it was his twin.) We then took the train to Florence (Firenze) using prepaid Eurail tickets. About half way through our journey we were informed that the train would not go all the way to central Florence due to “technical difficulties”. Shortly, the conductor came to look at our tickets and said that we owed him an additional 22 euros. We asked why, since we had paid more than other Americans across the aisle (ironically from GE) who didn’t owe a surcharge. He, and the chief conductor whom he then summoned, both said it had something to do with the fact that we were on the “Eurostar” instead of the “intercity” train. We politely refused to pay this surcharge saying that such premium service would, at the very least, take us to the central station in Florence. After much arguing, they finally gave up and went away muttering something in Italian about Osama Bin Laden.
When we got off the train in the Florence suburbs in the pouring rain, we found the line for the taxi about 20 deep and cabs coming about every 10 minutes. We started walking and eventually caught a crowded city bus (standing, with all our wet luggage between our legs). We didn’t have a bus ticket (which we were told we should have bought at the local bakery), but the driver was kind enough to let us ride for free. I did spend a lurching half hour telling everyone around me that Italy should dig up Mussolini (he made the trains run ...)! Luckily, the city bus did take us to the train station where we eventually caught a cab for another circuitous ride to the Avis Rent-a-Car outlet on the other side of the river Arno. At this point, because of the rain, the crowds, and the impossible intracity navigation, I had crossed Florence off my wish list. We finally got our blue Renault station wagon rental and, with detailed but encrypted directions, were on our way to the Tuscan hills, stopping briefly on the outskirts of the city for a fine lunch.
After a relatively short but perplexing ride we found what was supposed to be our hotel for six nights, the Villa Belvedere, in a small town east of Siena. Jeanette had discovered it on the Internet. This hotel was a beautiful villa with fine antique furniture which, unfortunately, had seen better days. What were once open fields around it now contained an industrial park and the cobwebs and lack of an elevator (we were on the third floor) did not add to the ambiance of its interior. After settling down we decided to go to a nearby town, San Gimignano, for dinner. Now, in Italy, you apparently find your way by following road signs to the nearest big city with the hope that your ultimate destination will be revealed. If you are going west from Florence you follow signs to Siena. If you want to find the main highway, you follow signs to Siena and Florence (Firenze), unfortunately usually abbreviated as SI-FI. (For days I thought that this argot meant that there was some Star Trek convention nearby.) However, there is a diabolical Italian twist to auto navigation, there are instances when, upon reaching a crossroads, your destination, in this case San Gimignano, is indicated as reachable by both roads, one the direct route and the other, a long arduous journey over hill and dale. You are left to guess which is which. I have a humble suggestion for the Italians: put route numbers on all your inter-town/city roads at reasonable intervals and reference them on your maps ... please!!
We finally found San Gimignano and it was worth the hassle. It is a charming town high on a Tuscan hill with narrow cobblestone streets, beautiful old stone buildings, and surrounded by a stone fortification wall. It also features 14 tall stone towers which gives its distant profile the look of a guided missile farm. We first stopped at a hotel near the city gates, the Hotel Bel Soggiorno, to see if they had a room with a view. They did, and for much less than at the Belvedere. We reserved the room for the next night (turned out we stayed there five nights), very pleased with ourselves, and went on to see the sights. Now, like most Tuscan towns, San Gimignano is a bit of a physical challenge. You must climb winding streets to get anywhere. If you think you have reached the top of things, there is yet another path up. We rested at an outdoor cafe with our usual libations and salted peanuts (with the little spoon) and, talking to nearby tourists, found a restaurant for dinner, the Tratoria Chirbiri. This was one of the best deals in Italy. The food was great and the prices, quite reasonable (turned out to be the first one listed in our guidebook). We ate there every night we were in San Gimignano except one (it’s closed Wednesday night). It specialized in Tuscan soups, rabbit, wild boar, Portabella mushrooms, and the blood-rare Tuscan beef. The two of us feasted there some nights for as little as $30 including house wine and Jeanette’s dessert compulsion, pena cotta. The bread however was something else. Throughout Tuscany the bread was usually dry and tasteless.
When we returned to the Villa Belvedere, I, patting my chest, fibbed that my physical condition would not permit me to continually climb up to the third floor and that we would therefore be checking out the next morning. To our relief this was apparently no problem ... so we slept, breakfasted, and raced back to San Gimignano the next morning. When we checked into the hotel there, the view from the room was truly breathtaking. We looked out over miles of pastel Tuscan scenery with rolling hills, large forests and small farms. In the early morning many of these comely dales were filled with a soft fog which made things almost too beautiful to comprehend. At night there was no light pollution to compete with the stars and the waxing moon ... except for one glen which seemed to contain a perpetually brightly lit hamlet. We later found (on one of our inadvertent side trips caused by the diabolical Italian road signs) that this hamlet was, in fact, a major razor-wired penitentiary. This discovery did take a bit of the blush off our scenic rose.
Once settled in our new hotel, we set out to explore San Gimignano by day. We visited the municipal museum (filled with a potpourri of quite nice religious artworks), listened to a harpist in one of the courtyards, and climbed the highest tower in town, the Torre Grosse. Jeanette found this ascent a little bit of a challenge due to her acrophobia and I, due to my avoirdupois. But, once up there, we both greatly enjoyed the view. One could savor the entire broad scene yet still note the hanging laundry, the evolving architectural details on many buildings, the narrow lanes that wove through the town, and, in the courtyards and through open windows, even view some of the daily living patterns of these hard working people.
There is something Germanic about the people of Tuscany. They build with stone, they are continually sweeping in front of their homes and shops, they serve hard rolls, coldcuts and cheese for breakfast, and they feature wild game at their evening meals. There are also many German tourists, so they too must sense a connection. I wonder what it is?
Over the next four days we made auto trips throughout Tuscany, usually leaving after our croissants and cafe latte, and returning after dark. The first day we set off for Cortona but, misreading some more Italian road signs, ended up first at a charming small hilltop hamlet called Rocco Strada and then, realizing we were then too far afield, continued west toward the Mediterranean coast. We had a notion that we might go to Elba (“Able was I Ere I saw ... “) but, when we reached Piombino Porto where the ferries leave for this Napoleonic exile isle, we concluded that it was then too late in the morning to make a go of it. So instead we ventured about twenty kilometers up the coast, opened some wine, cheese, and Parma ham I had bought earlier in San Gimignano and had ourselves a picnic on a beach of the Mediterranean. It was the first time either of us had actually dipped our tootsies in the Mediterranean so the day was not a total bust. We then proceeded further up the coast to Pisa where we eventually found our way to the Campo de Miracoli to see the leaning tower. Jeanette found it much smaller than she had imagined and I, amongst the throng of Japanese and British tourists, took the obligatory photo of Jeanette holding the tower up. We then split for home since Pisa itself had little else to recommend it.
When we got back to San Gimignano, it was dark and we came into town from the opposite direction from which what we were accustomed. Trying to find our way to the hotel parking lot, I entered the town proper (not normally done by tourists) and ended up in a narrow cul de sac at the bottom of a steep hill. The was no turning around and backing up was almost impossible in a gear shift car. However, by holding up the emergency brake, popping the clutch while juicing the gas, and slowly releasing the emergency brake; I was able to carefully mend my way back up between stone stairways and a parked police car. When we finally got out of this mess I mopped the flop sweat off my brow and checked my underwear. The car smelled of hot brake linings and cooked motor oil, but ... what the hell ... it was a rental!
The second day we did make it to Cortona, the town made famous in the book, “Under the Tuscan Sun.” In the central square of town an American motion picture company was preparing to shoot some Christmas scenes from its production of a movie based on this book. They had distributed white magnesium sulfate on white tarps spread all over the square. This created a quite believable appearance of a snow. They had also set up a Christmas tree in central square with a large crèche off to the side. (I guess there is no I.C.L.U. active there.) On the way back we stopped at Montepulciano, another coronary stress test. After climbing to the main square in town, the Piazza Granda, I, sitting on the steps of the cathedral, eavesdropped on a tour guide’s exposition to his tour group. Apparently this same square was use a few weeks earlier to shoot other scenes for this same movie, centered around the festival Cantiere Internazionale d’Arte, normally held in August but recreated for Hollywood. Other than these two Hollywood diversions, these towns were pretty much clones of San Gimigniano. Not that there is anything wrong with that.
The next day we decided to do a wine and olive oil tour of the area surrounding Montalcino, yet another hilltop Tuscan town ... made famous by its excellent red wine, Brunello. Montalcino is surrounded by literally hundreds of vineyards fronted with big fancy signs. We picked one of these vineyards at random and drove in past a grove of olive trees. Near the manor there was a grizzled man up on a ladder picking olives. He turned out to be the owner of this estate and graciously took us into his wine-making room. When I told him that I heard Brunello was the best wine in Italy, he said, “No, no ... in the world!” We bought two bottles of 1997’s for less than a third what they sell for in this country. When I then asked him where he learned to speak English so well, he replied that he had worked for Chase Manhattan Bank for twenty-five years. We continued on to another winery where the non-English-speaking wine master proudly let us taste his wines while he downed glass after glass of grappa, an Italian brandy made from the wine-making dross. Even though he seemed more interested in the grappa than in us, we still bought some wine from him (no grappa though).
Finally, on the way back into San Gimignano, we bought some olive oil and another bottle of wine from an old woman watching an Italian variety show on the TV in her wine shed. The tourist sights in Montalcino itself have blended themselves in my memory into just another Tuscan town with much hill climbing, pretty squares, and lots of tourist shops.
On the last of our Tuscan day trips we went to Siena. We left early in the AM in order to find a parking spot, a major problem in Siena. We found one easily near a large fortress on the edge of the tourist area and started out on foot toward the Piazza Il Campo, the large central square (really a convex oval) where a frenzied horse race is held twice a year (in July and August). Every hundred feet or so on our jaunt there was something impressive to see, either a beautiful scenic view (Siena is also built on a number of hills), or a beautiful church (such as the Duomo, made of alternatively green and white marble cross-sections, creating an unique look ... where Jeanette lit some more candles), or myriad’s of narrow city alleys and intriguing side streets. One pleasant surprise was that the ration of tourist gewgaw shops to meaningful sights is relatively low ... not the case in most other Tuscan stops. We ate a very pleasant lunch at the Trattoria Papel, behind the Palazzo Publico. I think we were the only tourists there. The rest were mostly festive Italian families on their Sunday outings. The food was plain but delicious (and quite cheap). Jeanette had duck with fresh pasta and I had tripe stewed in a tomato sauce and we shared a plate of local black marinated olives. Yum, yum. We meandered back to our car and then back to San Gimigniano. Later that afternoon as it was getting dark, at Jeanette’s insistence, we went back to a roasted chestnut and new wine festival in another nearby hillside town, Colle D’Elsa, below San Gimigniano. We were the only tourists there. It was quaint and wonderful ... small booths selling yard-sale items (I bought an old primitive painting for five euros), local music, food stalls, etc. I think that if I hadn’t acceded to many of these side-trip adventures insisted on by Jeanette, our visit to Italy would have been a grade lower.
Finally, the day came to return our rent-a-car. We checked out of our hotel and drove toward Florence dreading the thought of finding the Avis agency. (We had heard that another American couple had to resort to hiring a taxi to lead them to where they were to turn in their car). However, by stopping numerous times and asking for directions, we miraculously found it on the first try. We then took a cab to the Hotel La Residenza (Jeanette had talked me into giving Florence another go). It was a very unique hotel, situated between Cartier’s and Armani’s. First, one had to take the elevator (a very old-fashioned cage type) to the third floor for reception (the first two floors were someone’s home), then continue up, like a scene out of the “Third Man”, to one’s room. Our room overlooked the Via Tornabuoni and, across the street, office buildings. (It is true that Italians work at their desks late into the evening.) We settled in and did a quick sightseeing walk. We wound up at a school for leather workers (behind the Piazza Santa Croce). There, amongst thousands of leather goods, was one leather worker going through the motions of making a pocketbook. I quickly concluded that this whole operation was a sham and that all if not most of what we saw there had been made in Malaysia or some other cheap-labor country. However, this wasn’t stopping Japanese tourists from buying as many leather goods as they could carry.
That night at the Ristorante Buca Mario (recommended by our hotel), we had probably the best meal we had in Italy. After our second course had been served, the table next to us was being served thick asparagus. I turned to admire this dish. A few minutes later our waiter brought us our own plate of asparagus, gratis, saying he had seen us eyeing this dish.
And after dinner we did a walk-around of some of the local squares. After much frustration with the ambulatory leisure of most of the promenading Florentines I asked Jeanette, “Why do Italians drive so fast and walk so slow?” On our second day in Florence we did the obligatory sights, the Uffizi, Italian for “Office,” (make your reservations ahead ... it’s considerably easier), the Ponte Vecchio (a bridge over the Arno, full of gold and jewelry shops), the Duomo (Jeanette lit some more candles), and the Piazza Del Signoria. I won’t try to describe the Uffizi except to say that I am very glad I went. I would love to have the luxury of going back again and again so that I could adsorb all this old Italian art better. It was just too much for a single visit. And we ate lunch at a trattoria recommended by Rebecca from her trip there the previous April. Florence was actually beginning to grow on me. But, as I was starting to run out of tourist gas (again), we returned to the square by our hotel, the Piazza Della Republica, where I bought some Cuban cigars and enjoyed one whilst people watching. Jeanette was on another of her shopping excursions. We ate dinner (after or wine, Campari and peanuts at another outdoor cafe) at a rather ordinary restaurant on this same square ... inside since it was beginning to get chilly ... just pizza Magaretta and spaghetti Bolognase, but, in Florence, even plain food tastes special.
The next morning we caught the train to Venice (Venezia), this time reserving our seats in advance. While we were waiting for our train’s track to be posted, Jeanette left to do some MORE souvenir shopping. I sat on our luggage piled onto one of those push carts which Jeanette had earlier snagged. After about four gypsy encounters, I was approached by a very pretty, statuesque blond woman who asked if I was using the push cart. I said I obviously was. She continued to flatter me and plead her case saying she had a lot of luggage that she needed the cart. I was almost ready to relent but first I looked her right in the eye and asked what nationality she was. When she sheepishly replied “German,” I, with a good bit of pay-back glee, gave her a firm “no”. (So, there are consequences for nations -- other than the USA -- for their actions.) We finally found out what track our train was on about two minutes before it was to leave (viva Mussolini!) As we boarded, it quickly filled with cigarette smoke. Jeanette, as she was using her asthma inhaler, amended her previous aphorism about stop lights in Italy saying, “No smoking signs also seem to be but a mere suggestion to Italians.” On the trip, the land flattened out along the Po valley to look a lot like our own midwest including vast fields of grain. We exited the train and right onto a water ferry to San Marco’s square. There we found our way to the Hotel Do Pozzi, a charming three star hotel, a little off the beaten path but only a short block off the Grand Canal and about four blocks from San Marco’s square. Our room overlooked a canal down a short street (not that unusual in Venice) and had a beautiful Murano-glass candelabra. We still had enough of the day left to do some sightseeing so we went to the top of the clock tower in San Marco’s (the Campanile). This was just the right first thing to do for it immediately gave us a grand perspective on the whole city (at sunset no-less) and what we might want to see the next day, The weather was clear and bright so our view was unimpeded. It was quite beautiful. Venice has an almost surreal visual feel, caused, I think, by the play of sunlight off the canals and the almost universally white buildings. It’s as though one were viewing everything through a soft white gauze. And, because there are no cars, the pace and noise level of the city is considerably reduced. Everyone should visit Venice once in their life. A bit later we had dinner at the restaurant associated with our hotel. Jeanette had pasta with white truffles and unfortunately she is now hooked on these expensive fungi.
The following morning we took the water ferry across the grand canal to the Dorsoduro section of Venice where we first visited a handsome cathedral (more candle lighting) in the Campo Di Salute. It was very evident from the undulations in the floor of this church that Venice must constantly contend with that sinking feeling. (I later learned on PBS that much of this had been caused by pumping out the ground water during the post World War II period. This pumping has now been stopped but much damage has already been done.) We then meandered through this section of Venice till we came upon the Peggy Guggenheim Museum quite by accident. We spent the rest of the morning touring this little gem. It was quite refreshing to see some relatively modern art after the dazzling sameness of the old masters at the Uffizi. This much smaller museum contained many Jackson Pollacks, Picassos, Brancusis, Braques, Giacomettis, Mondrians, Klees, Kandinskys and even a couple of DeKoonings. I must confess that, although Peggy Guggenheim obviously knew which artists to collect, she didn’t always know which of their paintings were important. (Picasso once claimed that he “threw away his experiments.” In reality, I think he sold many of them to Peggy Guggenheim.)
We then crossed the Ponte dell’Accademia and had a very relaxing and enjoyable lunch at a trattoria in the Campo San Stefano (square). It was then on to the Rialto section for more shopping for Jeanette. We ate dinner that night in the Castello section of Venice at a restaurant famous for its seafood, the Trottoria Corte Sconta. It was filled with beautiful people I’m sure saying beautiful things. But the food was sub par. That night walking back to our hotel we encountered many costumed young children celebrating Halloween. I knew All Saint’s Day was a universal Catholic holiday, but I was a little surprised that this bit of American materialism had invaded Italy.
Our flight back to Boston was on SwissAir (via Zurich) at 6:45 the next morning, November 1st. Now getting to the airport, Marco Polo, from downtown Venice can only be done by boat ... either a water taxi for about 80 euros or a water shuttle, for 10 euros. The rub was that the first water shuttle left the dock near our hotel at 4:35AM and didn’t get to the airport till about 5:45AM which, considering there was still a shuttle bus to the airport from there, was cutting it rather close for an international flight. We packed the night before, had a wake up call at 4:00AM, and set our alarm clock too. But my internal alarm got me up at 3:30AM so we were trudging through the Venetian fog and noisily over its cobblestones at 4:00AM. When we got to the dock, there were no water taxis, so we had no choice but to take the water shuttle. The long boat ride was strangely attractive but nerve-racking, especially since the fog slowed us down considerably. We got to the SwissAir luggage check-in line at the very last moment and then had a nervous wait to pass through the security gates. Our queue delay there was punctuated by my outbursts at the numerous line-breakers (mostly Italians, various Senegal street merchants, and one snippy Canadian female). Their excuse was always that they were late for their flight. I shouted back, “And I’m not??? Get to the end of the line!!!”
Our flight over the Alps in a turboprop was profoundly beautiful. Hills became mountains which became snow-capped. Scattered throughout these escarpments were numerous tarns many of which seemed to be contained by rather fragile looking ridges or possibly even dams. Looking down the valleys from these lakes were bucolic villages which seemed to me to be quite suicidal if these fragile ridges or dams were to let go (say in an earthquake). Then the geology reversed itself and we entered the flatter and more populous (and safer) area of Switzerland which, unfortunately, was cloud covered. The flight itself was very pleasant with courteous cabin staff and, despite its short duration, three different servings of amenities (delicious coffee and croissants, juice, and then fruit with chocolate). We changed planes in Zurich to a wide-body back to Boston. In front of me sat a true peasant woman who looked to be directly out of a painting by Millet. This plane itself had separate monitors and hand-held controls for each passenger where one could watch movies, play video games, listed to music, monitor the flight’s progress, etc. Although there were a few ease-of-use issues with these devices, it clearly presages the future of air travel.
The flight was pleasantly comparable to our Venice-to-Zurich leg ... good food, free drinks, and an aim-to-please staff. But the comparison to American Airlines was embarrassing. After we landed in Boston, I asked two heavily accented people across the aisle (apparently related to the woman in front of me) where they were from. They said, “Brocco”. I tried to recall if there was a Brocco in Bosnia or Serbia (where I assumed they were from). They repeated, “Brocco, Brocco! Don’t you know Brocco?” Someone else suggested “Brockton” (Mass.) which cleared up the confusion. Their native land turned out to be Greece and the peasant woman in front of me was 92 years old making her umpteenth trip back to the US to visit for the winter. (I had assumed it to be her first trip when she made the sign of the cross on takeoff.)
After landing and a very easy customs clearing, we were graciously retrieved at the Boston airport by our daughter-in-law, Anne, driving our car. We dropped her off in Boston and then returned to Natick to our cozy, good ole American home. Arrivederci Roma!
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