Early Morning
I got out of the Mirage as fast as my little feet could carry me then carted my bag across the Termini to the Hotel Atlantico. My hope was to check-in, put my bag behind the desk and get some breakfast at one of the cafes on the street while waiting for Bridget. It never occurred to me that the room at the hotel would actually be ready, but it was. The desk clerk sent me right up and told me that I could have breakfast here. This place is already night and day from the Mirage.
Beyond the courtesy, the room is big, nicely done, and on the top floor so it gets plenty of light. The rest of the hotel is fairly upscale and the breakfast is huge. I'm just happy that they are serving pastries that didn't first see the light of day in the Paleolithic era.
According to Flight Tracker, Bridget's plane landed eleven minutes ago. Yes, I'm counting the minutes.
Monday, June 18
Early Morning (Very Early)
Bridget's shuttle from Fiumicino arrived at the Termini at 11:40. We had tried texting so that I would know when to be there, but problems with her text application meant that I really didn't have a clue when she would actually arrive. To be safe, I headed over around 10:30 and took up position just outside the Moleskine shop at the end of the arrival track. She was finally able to get ahold of me around 11:00 and told me that she was on the train.
I guess I was anxious. Instead of waiting in the prearranged spot, I went straight to the train the minute it pulled in. After a few minutes, she came down the walkway. She was craning her head to see if she could spot me by the shop. I have to admit that I thought the same thing that I do every time I see her after an absence: God, she is beautiful. With that, all the stresses of the past few days disappeared. I was in Rome with Bridget. That was all I needed.
She didn't see me until she practically bumped into me. We hugged for a ridiculously long period of time then made our way through the crowd and out to the Atlantico.
Although she had gotten some sleep on the flight from Dallas to JFK, she got none on the flight to Rome. She was feeling just this side of jet lagged so we decided to spend the afternoon in our room. About 6:30, Bridget took note of the fact that she hadn't eaten more than a croissant and a bag of popcorn in the preceding 16 hours. And I hadn't had anything since breakfast. Dinner was suddenly sounding like a good idea.
The east side of the Termini is decidedly downscale. With our move to the Atlantico we were back on the much nicer west side. The neighborhood is filled with nice hotels, most of which have outdoor ristorantes. My favorite is at the quizzically named Hotel California. I suggested we get dinner there.
The waiter seated us right at the curb. At the table next to us sat a husband and wife, American, probably in their mid-fifties. Bridget and I were holding hands and talking when I became acutely aware that the woman was staring at us. She was looking with a kind of wistful sadness at our intertwined fingers. I glanced at her husband. He was wearing a napkin for a bib and silently twirling spaghetti onto his fork.
Throughout the meal and for the rest of the evening, Bridget and I would suddenly break into giggles about the fact that we were in Rome. It wasn't a matter of being in an unfamiliar and exotic locale. I've been here five of six times and Bridget has been here numerous times over the years for equally numerous reasons. It was more that we were here together. Italy was a large part of our conversation when we first met and I haven't been over since when I haven't at some point or another thought about what it would be like if she were here with me. Now, finally, it was happening.
After dinner we were both up for a walk. We decided to go straight down the Via Cavour toward the ruins. Along the way, we stopped for gelato and within another five minutes we were on the Via di Indipendenza, the wide boulevard that connects the Colosseum with the Vittoriano. We turned in the direction of the latter.
The Vittoriano is lit at night, now a virtual neon wedding cake. We walked around there and looked into the ruins below Maria di Nome. These appeared especially eery in the light reflected off the monument.
At this point we could have walked south to the Colosseum or turned north toward Fontana di Trevi. We chose to head toward the fountain, something I had never seen at night.
I now know that it doesn't matter what time you visit the fountain, it is always jam packed. Bridget and I managed to work through the crowd and find a seat on one of the steps facing the center of the massive sculpture of Neptune that dominates the cascading waters. Several people were flinging coins over their shoulders. I imagine most think that this is some kind of ancient rite, but it is really a ritual invented by the screenwriter of the film "Three Coins in the Fountain." No matter. Everyone enjoys the toss. I've done it a few times myself. What I haven't seen is Anita Ekberg floating through the fountain in a black dress, but I keep hoping.
When we started to feel the crowd, we decided to walk over to Piazza di Spagna, about five minutes away. We found a perch on one of the platform steps, put our arms around each other and enjoyed night air. Soon, though, we knew we would have to head back if we were going to have any hope of getting some sleep before our early train to Messina.
Right now, we're in a semi-private compartment on that train. The conductor just came around looking for change for a 5 Euro note. We're just outside of Naples with the Tyrrhenian Sea on one side of the train and the high peaks of the Apennines on the other. Bridget is reading Patty Smith's books about her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe and has her bare legs flung over mine. My iPad is on top of her shins as I write this.
This love thing is pretty cool.
Monday, June 25
Mid Morning
On the train from Messina to Napoli
I decided not to blog the Bridget portion of the trip for what I hope are obvious reasons. At the same time, our leaving Messina allows me the opportunity to thumbnail our trip so far.
We arrived in Messina more than a little ragged. Our respective moods were not improved by the singular peculiarity of living out in life a scene from the screenplay. In "Through a Door Like Anna," Ray and Nina meet at a car rental agency when both are unhappy to find that the automatics each requested are not available. When we reached our agency, the same thing happened to us - and with a similarly harried clerk. We had to wait an hour which was pleasantly spent sitting in a piazza sipping drinks. When the car did show up, the clerk kept stopping to argue with a friend about where they were supposed to go for a party that same evening. I asked him several times to knock it off, but my request would only be heeded for a minute or two then he'd go back to the far more important issue of party location.
We were given a Smart car, something of which I am apparently too Dumb to master. Although an automatic, the shift was entirely foreign to me. By the time we got on the road and confronted the justifiably infamous Sicilian traffic, I was in a foul mood, something that only succeeded in putting Bridget in one as well. To say the least, our first night in Mascali, the site of our apartment rental, was rocky.
This, though, was not a bellwether of the week to come. Although the neighborhood was loud during the day and most of the night, the apartment was quite lovely. The kitchen was relatively well stocked with utensils, the bathroom (and especially the tub) was large, and there were two bedrooms, a small airy one with plenty of light and a master bedroom with a larger though rather lumpy queen-sized mattress. The anomaly in the apartment was the living room. Like so many Italianate houses I knew as a child, it attempts to be more than it was built for. A couch runs along one wall, but instead of facing an open room, it is practically butt up against a dining room table. This has a plastic tablecloth with an overly busy pasta motif. The walls of this room are covered with pictures of Sicily and a few prints that are a long way from the masters. In an apartment that was otherwise a model of modern design, this living room reminded me of the overcrowded and airless one that was presided over by my Grandma Muscolino.
The real joy, though, was the deck. Wrapping around the building, it has two large terraces running perpendicular to each other. One is empty and takes direct sunlight. This made it ideal for drying clothes fresh from the wash. The other has a large arbor that along with a towering shade tree made this one of our most important living spaces. This is where we would have dinner each night, where Bridget began most days with an early morning yoga practice, and where we read side-by-side in matching chaise lounges, me from Patti Smith and Bridget from "50 Shades of Grey." I can't say how many times she would burst out laughing and read me a particularly purple and execrable piece of prose from this thing, but it was a lot.
In spite of the difficult first night, I can easily encapsulate the next six days by saying that it was one of the best weeks I've ever had. Period. While Bridget and I have never denied the depth of our relationship, this time in Sicily deepened it even more than we would have thought possible. With the exception of an afternoon run to Caltanisetta (where my grandfather was indentured to the mine and a major location in the script), a Sunday morning church service, and a very hot but pleasant several hours on the Mascali beach, we never left the apartment. Sometimes, we didn't even leave the bed, preferring to use it as a platform for our discussions about our shared future, our joint and separate pasts, and, most important, our feelings for each other.
As we were on the train down to Messina last week, I mentioned to Bridget that this was really our first opportunity to set up a household that is entirely our own. To that end, we rapidly found the right rhythms for respecting each other's need for space or quiet time, for sharing the chores, and for perpetually finding joy in looking up and seeing the other one standing in a doorway or quietly reading in the shaded light of the deck. We both knew that this was the real bellwether.
At this particular moment, our train is standing in the station at Villa San Giovanni. It is hellishly hot since neither the air conditioning nor the breeze functions when the train is still. This may portend a difficult travel day, but I really don't care (at least not at the moment). Bridget is sitting across from me eating her lunch and reading, and we're on our way to the island of Capri for two nights in a high-end B&B carved out of a monastery.
I really don't the I have anything to complain about. In fact, I feel ridiculously content.
Wednesday, June 27
Late Afternoon
On the train from Naples to Rome
If Sicily was wonderful then I'm at a loss for how to describe Capri.
The train trip was not the easiest. The air conditioning never did come on and the one window that could be opened slammed shut every time we turned a corner. By the time we got off the train we were soaked straight through.
The cab between Napoli Centrale and the port had the advantages of open windows and a fearless driver who understood the crazy Neapolitan traffic. We got on the ferry and took the forty-five minute ride while sitting inside the boat. The windows were so stained with years of salt water spray that it was hard to see what was out there. As we started to approach the port, I went outside to get a few shots.
I'm not sure what I was expecting, probably another cute little island town like Giglio. Capri isn't quite that. A huge waving rock shaped like a reclining woman, it is dominated by a town that crawls from the base up to the top of the torso between to the two peaks. Nearly all of its architecture is white or cream. My first response was to gasp. I went back and got Bridget, telling her that she had already scored major points for this choice.
We took an open-air cab to Anacapri, the smaller of the two villages on the island. The road to get there twists and turns around hairpins with the ever-elevating view of the harbor visible on our right, then our left then our right again. By the time we reached Anacapri, it felt like we were about a mile high.
It took a few minutes to find our B&B. It was nicely hidden behind Chiesa San Michele which made perfect sense since our place had once been a monastery. I don't know how the monks lived back in the day, but I'm pretty sure that it wasn't like this. There are only rooms for two occupants at a time and for the first night the whole place was ours. Under any circumstances, ours was the luxury suite. We had a big bed at the base of which was a trough-style bath tub. This was dominated by open windows looking directly onto our interior courtyard. There was a large living room and a narrow but beautiful and sunny kitchen done in whites and yellows. And then there was the bathroom. If it were any bigger it would have needed its own zip code. The dominant feature of this room was the shower. A black marble pedestal running the width of the room, it had two side-by-side rain-shower heads and opened without doors or curtains into the room. It was like being onstage.
After giggling at our luck, Bridget and I went out to get dinner. We found the Capri Palace, at two-star restaurant, at the highest point in Anacapri. We had what can only be called an intensely romantic dinner at a private booth on the patio. Over our heads, the clouds moved from white to pink to flaming red as the sun set over the harbor.
We got up yesterday with the full intention of enjoying the island as well as each other. We had breakfast then went to visit Casa Rossa, a small red mansion that overlooks the sea. Built in the16th century as a fortress against Saracen invaders, it was later bought by a lieutenant colonel of the Confederate Army who couldn't bear to live under Yankee domination. He filled with art of that period and dedicated it as a museum in his will.
We did a little shopping (well, Bridget did while I shot tourists) then got lunch at a pleasant trattoria on the outskirts of the Piazza Vittorio. From there, we took the bus back down the mountain in the other direction and went sunbathing a stone's throw from the Blue Grotto. Afterward, we went back to our room and stayed in until it was time for a late dinner. Our original plan was to get takeout and bring it back to the room, but the pizzeria we found was so pleasantly surrounded by trees and greenery that we decided to eat there. Like the night before, it was more than a little romantic.
This morning we got breakfast, assembled our luggage then took the bus down to the Marina Grande. We left out luggage with a deposito then took the bus to the village of Capri. More touristy than Anacapri, its best feature is its duomo. In keeping with the rest of the architecture on the island, it is blazingly white on the outside, and bright and airy on the inside. Although small, it had no less than eight beautifully appointed ancillary chapels and an altar dominated by gold ornaments and leafs.
In no hurry to get a ferry back to reality, we decided to head back down to the marina and lay out on the beach. We did this until 3:30 then, much to our regret, we got onboard the ferry and left Capri. By halfway to Naples we were making plans to come back next year.
The connections were perfect. As soon as we got off the boat there was a taxi waiting. After freaking out the driver by asking him to take us to Milano Centrale (this, he was nice enough to point out, was Naples and not Milan), we got to the station and bought tickets for the first train heading to Rome. This one was leaving in three minutes. When we couldn't find our seats in second class, we grabbed two in first. So far, no one has caught onto this.
Of course, tomorrow is the hard part - saying goodbye at the station. It has been quite extraordinary having her here, giving us both the time to explore this relationship and get even more committed to each other and to our future. One decision we have made is to slow up her moving up to Chicago with Liam. We realized that we were rushing it and that we both need some time to get ready for it. Instead, she will be flying up to Chicago on the fourth and will be there to meet me when I get back from this trip.
I honestly can't wait for that.
Thursday, June 28
Mid Morning
On the train from Rome to Foligno/Assisi
OK, that was tough.
Saying goodbye at the station was no fun. We got up round 7:00, got breakfast in the Sala Grande then walked over to the Termini. We got tickets for our respective trains - her to Fiumicino, me to Assisi - then waited a few minutes, ducking into the occasional shop. When it was time for her train I walked her to her car and kissed her goodbye. We both agree that the saving grace in this departure is that we'll be back together in a week when she flies to Chicago. Still, it won't be that easy to continue the trip on my own now that I've had the pleasure of her company.
We spent our last night of the trip back at the Atlantico where the desk clerk immediately recognized us and tried to give us the same room as earlier. It wasn't available but an equally nice one was. I really hadn't been focusing on the trip post-Bridget so had to make a quick decision on what my next stop would be. I landed on the idea of Assisi because it is one of the last major towns in central portion of Italy that I've never visited. After arranging a room and figuring out the train schedule, Bridget and I went out for a quiet dinner at a little outdoor trattoria on the Via Cavour we had noticed on our walk around Rome on the first night.
And, yes, it was romantic.
Early Evening
I could see Assisi as the train was arriving in the station. Like Orvieto, the station is at the base of the mountain that houses the ancient city of Assisi. This ranges all across the top of a broad mesa and spills down the sides like neatly ordered layers of candle wax. In keeping with Italian tradition, all the buildings are the same color. In this case it is umber. Not a big surprise since we're in Umbria.
The mountaintop, though, was not the first place I saw. Before seeing this, I looked out the opposite side of the train and saw the huge dome of Santa Maria degli Angeli. The basilica is as impressive as any I've seen and provided me with a first impression of the town.
As soon as I got in the cab, I discovered that my hotel is below the mountain rather than on it. It's also two blocks away from Santa Maria degli Angeli so I knew this would be my first stop.
The hotel is certainly quaint, a small homey place with small homey rooms. The concierge is an English woman with both the manner and looks of a wary pug. She refused to warm to me until she had my passport as well as proof that I really did have a reservation. After all was provided, I asked about Internet service.
"Not until later this afternoon," she barked in an accent that clearly refused to "go native."
Why this would only be available at certain times would have been a worthy question, but I really didn't want to get barked at on this topic. I changed the subject and asked about how to get to Assisi.
"By bus," she said as though I should know this. Then, as if she now accepted the fact that I might not actually have knowledge of how to get around Assisi, she said, "You have wait until you get to Piazza Matteoti before you get off." Then, pointing at several stops on the map, she said, "You don't get off here. Or here. Or here. You get off here!" She pointed of course to Piazza Matteoti.
"OK," I said, pretending to know why she was telling this to me.
"If you stop here, here, or here," she said, once again pointing to each spot, "then you will have to walk uphill to get to everything. Piazza Matteoti is at the top. Get off there and you'll always walk downhill. At the bottom is Piazza Giovanni Paolo II. You get the C bus there to take you back here."
This struck me as sound advice. She also told me that everything in Assisi shuts down from noon to two for lunch so not to even think about heading out before two. This gave me an hour and a half to kill so I went down to my room and rested up.
I headed over to the basilica at 1:45. I wanted to get the necessary biglietti for the bus and something cold to drink before going into the church. I accomplished the tickets and the drink, but not the church. It wouldn't open until 2:30 so I decided to take the bus to the city on the hill.
As we were driving up the mountain I could tell that I would be glad for the concierge's suggestion. Although the streets on which the bus drove were not particularly steep, it was clear that the visible roads inside that town were quite canted.
Piazza Matteoti isn't a piazza so much as a narrow bus stop. I got off the bus, checked my map and then set off into the labyrinth of "pedestrian only" vicolos that would lead to San Rufino, the first of the churches I wanted to see. Much to my surprise, they actually got me there.
The first thing that I noticed about Assisi is how quiet the place is. There were not a lot of tourists, and the vast majority of these were in tour groups. As anywhere else, this means clumps of people listening to guides then posing for a group picture in front of whatever monument or church they've been alowed three minutes to explore.
At least for the time I was there, San Rufino was spared this. Situated at the end of a long narrow plaza, the church is relatively plain on the outside. Inside, though, it makes up for this. White and constructed along a colonnade, it does not have the ancillary chapels of most Medieval cathedrals. Instead, there are kneelers facing large icons. some quite modern. One, for example, is dedicated to John Paul II. The real prize in the church, though, is the baptismal font. This is the same font where both Saints Francis and Chiara were baptized.
One thing that separates San Rufino from several of the other churches is that they let you take photos in this one. This was not true of the next church I visited.
The Basilica di Santa Chiara is larger but far less impressive than San Rufino. The nave is Spartan and very dark. A rather officious nun sits in a booth to the side to make sure that no one takes pictures. Given the lighting circumstances, any shots would have to be done with a flash so I can see the reason for their reticence.
Downstairs is the crypt of Saint Chiara. Unlike the church, it is well-lit and beautifully tiled in off-white and blood red. To one side is a collection of her vestments while the crypt is in a secluded section on the opposite side. The sarcophagus is topped by a replica of the nun lying in repose. This is inside a glass enclosed tomb. The only people who are allowed to get up to the window are praying priests and nuns. All others stand behind a second glassed-off area and observe.
Outside the church I grabbed a slice of pizza and a coke and sat in the piazza for a while. The tourists were huddled in their groups and nearly every priest who passed by was enlisted to have their picture taken with individual tourists, or asked to shoot groups of them on the front steps.
I walked from there to the Piazza di Comune, the center of local government back in the day. The most impressive part of this square is the Temple of Minerva. An ancient bit of architecture dating back to the Roman Empire, its ionic columns and triangular cornice seem wildly out of context in the midst of this Medieval city. Originally constructed as a temple to a Roman goddess, the building was usurped by the Catholics and converted into a church in the 14th or 15th Century. This is where the incongruity really hits you. While the outside is Roman ruins, the inside is a small but brightly painted (mostly in shades of deep blue) collection of Christian iconography. I couldn't help but feel like it was the Christian revenge for all those lions. Here, Christianity was defiantly defacing the Roman aesthetic.
By now I was getting tired in the heat and sun. I didn't want to see too much today because I'll be here for a couple of days. Besides, I wanted to see Santa Maria degli Angeli before calling it a day. I walked down the long steep roads to the Piazza Giovanni Paolo II. Occasionally I would be passed by a huffing and puffing tourist attempting to walk up the same incline. At these moments, I blessed my concierge.
I got to the stop a few minutes before the bus did and took this back to Santa Maria. The church was now opened and was filled with priests, nuns and monks, all part of their own pilgrimage.
Unfortunately, this is one of the churches where they do not allow photos. Since I really do respect these rules, I was more than a little disappointed. It isn't that the church is ornate (although God knows it is), it is quite unique for other reasons. When you walk into the mammoth basilica you can't help but notice that below the dome is another church. This small church is known as the Porziuncola and it is the nucleus of the first Franciscan monastery, built by Francis in the 13th Century. It is also the location where he bestowed the cowl of the religious order on St Chiara. It is a small, dark chapel built of stone and decorated with murals. The light flooding in from the dome windows illuminates it in a way that separates it from rest of the darker basilica. Directly behind this church-within-a-church is the Cappella del Transito. This is where Saint Francis died in 1226. It now houses a relic from the saint and was currently the site of numerous priests kneeling before the small altar on which it sits. This entire cathedral was designed and built over these two locations and done so in a way that brilliantly contextualizes them.
I sat in the church for quite a while then headed back to my place for the evening. My guess is that I'll go back to this basilica while I'm here.
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