Wednesday, June 20, 2012
14. In Case You Were Wondering...
Given the delightfully personal nature of my time with Bridget, I've decided not to blog her visit here. The blog will resume on June 29 when I will be alone and God only knows where.
Saturday, June 16, 2012
13. Back in Step(s)
Saturday, June 16
Early Evening
After two less than stellar days, this one went a good long way toward correcting the balance.
It did not start with getting up. Like yesterday, there was no hot water. Today's water was at least tepid so I guess that's an advantage. Still, my thought is to not shower tomorrow until I change hotels. Tonight is blessedly the last one in this place.
And, by the way, did I ever mention the name of this hotel? It's the Hotel Mirage. There has to be some points given for truth in advertising. Any resemblance to this place and a real hotel is strictly an illusion.
My main mission for the day was to hang out with Jean O'Sullivan. Jean is a state legislator from Vermont who is very close friends with my cousin Judy. I met Jean at Judy's wedding a few years back. When Judy was looking to put up relatives with friends she thought that Jean and I would get along. Her thought was spot on. We hit it off big time over that weekend. When Judy told me that she was going to be in Rome at the same time I was more than happy to get together with her.
Jean is an incredibly smart, politically savvy woman of great energy and sense of humor. In short, she's the perfect best friend for Judy who matches that same bill. And like Judy, she's a born storyteller.
Jean and I had been emailing possible times and places over the past few days and ultimately decided on meeting up on the Spanish Steps in the Piazza di Spagna at 10:30. From there, we could walk to the gardens at the Villa Borghese. Her hope was to get to know her way around the gardens since she had to come back at 4:00 for a tour of the villa.
When I got to the Piazza, the first twelve or so steps were taken up with a military band. In a fashion that one might consider "typically Italian," they were using martial rhythms to play pop tunes. A large crowd had gathered to watch, many of them old men who were wearing the same feathered hats as the musicians. I decided to take a position on one of the platform steps so that I would be visible to Jean when she got there. Since I have a hard time distinguishing faces in a crowd I assume everyone else does.
After a few minutes I turned around to look up the Steps toward Trinita di Monti, the double-spired white church at the top of the steps that also marks the highest point in Rome. The sun was poised between and above the two spires. I decided not to take a picture at this point since everything between the sun and the camera would be nothing more than a silhouette.
At that point I saw a wildly waving silhouette. It took a second to process that it was Jean seated on the next platform step up.
As fun as the music was, it was a little too loud to have a conversation so we went to a little cafe next to the subway stop and sat for about an hour-and-a-half. Around noon, we figured it would be a good idea to head up the hill to the Borghese. It was now officially hot (it was over 90 degrees) so the walk up the very long staircase took the breath out of both of us. We took a minute to look down the Spanish Steps and across the sweeping skyline. Since this is Jean's first time in Italy, I pointed out some of the spots on the horizon like the Tribunario, the Vatican and Castel Sant' Angelo. We then walked the quarter-mile road along the ridge of the hill to the Borghese.
Once in the park, we found a nice shaded area overlooking a rotary on one side and the park on the other. We continued our non-stop conversation here. This went on for the next three-and-a-half hours, hitting on every topic imaginable from Vermont politics to costume design to filmmaking to our own theories on where Mad Men is headed. Finally, at a few minutes to four we had to fold up tents. We looked around for a standing map of the park and figured out what she needed to do to get to the Villa Borghese. By the time we made our goodbyes I think it's fairly safe to say that we were both sorry to do it.
She went west and I went back south. Along the way out of the park, I stopped to watch some impromptu roller blading skills. An instructor had created a straight-line gymkhana out of green plastic cones and a young boy and a young, well-muscled guy were taking turns going through the line. The young boy was very intense. The young man seemed to be performing intensity more than living it. Every time he took a break, he would dry himself with a towel while chatting up whichever unattached female happened to be closest to him.
I walked back the same way we had come in. When I got to Trinita di Monti, I decided to go in. It is the kind of 17th-18th Century church that reserves its wild flights of religious art for the ancillary chapels. The nave itself is fairly unadorned, it's most striking feature being the wrought iron gate that bisects the church into two seating areas. The altar is much more ornate, made more so by two giant cloth sashes that criss-cross over it. There is also colored lighting to set it off and a nun who seemed to be there just to make sure that no one disturbed the sanctuary.
When I went back out I was pleased to discover that there is a subway entrance at the top of the Steps. This meant that I could take an elevator down to the platform and not have to brave those steps again in the intense heat of a late Roman afternoon.
As soon as I got back, I settled up my bill with the hotel so that I wouldn't have to do it in the morning. In a few minutes I'll head out to dinner so that I can get back in time to get a call from Bridget. She should be arriving in New York in another two hours. Then, she's on her way here. Finally. Thank God.
Of course this does beg the question of how much writing I'll get to do in the journal once she's here. I guess we'll find out. Under any circumstances, my ability to write in euphemisms will get a hell of a work out.
Early Evening
After two less than stellar days, this one went a good long way toward correcting the balance.
It did not start with getting up. Like yesterday, there was no hot water. Today's water was at least tepid so I guess that's an advantage. Still, my thought is to not shower tomorrow until I change hotels. Tonight is blessedly the last one in this place.
And, by the way, did I ever mention the name of this hotel? It's the Hotel Mirage. There has to be some points given for truth in advertising. Any resemblance to this place and a real hotel is strictly an illusion.
My main mission for the day was to hang out with Jean O'Sullivan. Jean is a state legislator from Vermont who is very close friends with my cousin Judy. I met Jean at Judy's wedding a few years back. When Judy was looking to put up relatives with friends she thought that Jean and I would get along. Her thought was spot on. We hit it off big time over that weekend. When Judy told me that she was going to be in Rome at the same time I was more than happy to get together with her.
Jean is an incredibly smart, politically savvy woman of great energy and sense of humor. In short, she's the perfect best friend for Judy who matches that same bill. And like Judy, she's a born storyteller.
Jean and I had been emailing possible times and places over the past few days and ultimately decided on meeting up on the Spanish Steps in the Piazza di Spagna at 10:30. From there, we could walk to the gardens at the Villa Borghese. Her hope was to get to know her way around the gardens since she had to come back at 4:00 for a tour of the villa.
When I got to the Piazza, the first twelve or so steps were taken up with a military band. In a fashion that one might consider "typically Italian," they were using martial rhythms to play pop tunes. A large crowd had gathered to watch, many of them old men who were wearing the same feathered hats as the musicians. I decided to take a position on one of the platform steps so that I would be visible to Jean when she got there. Since I have a hard time distinguishing faces in a crowd I assume everyone else does.
After a few minutes I turned around to look up the Steps toward Trinita di Monti, the double-spired white church at the top of the steps that also marks the highest point in Rome. The sun was poised between and above the two spires. I decided not to take a picture at this point since everything between the sun and the camera would be nothing more than a silhouette.
At that point I saw a wildly waving silhouette. It took a second to process that it was Jean seated on the next platform step up.
As fun as the music was, it was a little too loud to have a conversation so we went to a little cafe next to the subway stop and sat for about an hour-and-a-half. Around noon, we figured it would be a good idea to head up the hill to the Borghese. It was now officially hot (it was over 90 degrees) so the walk up the very long staircase took the breath out of both of us. We took a minute to look down the Spanish Steps and across the sweeping skyline. Since this is Jean's first time in Italy, I pointed out some of the spots on the horizon like the Tribunario, the Vatican and Castel Sant' Angelo. We then walked the quarter-mile road along the ridge of the hill to the Borghese.
Once in the park, we found a nice shaded area overlooking a rotary on one side and the park on the other. We continued our non-stop conversation here. This went on for the next three-and-a-half hours, hitting on every topic imaginable from Vermont politics to costume design to filmmaking to our own theories on where Mad Men is headed. Finally, at a few minutes to four we had to fold up tents. We looked around for a standing map of the park and figured out what she needed to do to get to the Villa Borghese. By the time we made our goodbyes I think it's fairly safe to say that we were both sorry to do it.
She went west and I went back south. Along the way out of the park, I stopped to watch some impromptu roller blading skills. An instructor had created a straight-line gymkhana out of green plastic cones and a young boy and a young, well-muscled guy were taking turns going through the line. The young boy was very intense. The young man seemed to be performing intensity more than living it. Every time he took a break, he would dry himself with a towel while chatting up whichever unattached female happened to be closest to him.
I walked back the same way we had come in. When I got to Trinita di Monti, I decided to go in. It is the kind of 17th-18th Century church that reserves its wild flights of religious art for the ancillary chapels. The nave itself is fairly unadorned, it's most striking feature being the wrought iron gate that bisects the church into two seating areas. The altar is much more ornate, made more so by two giant cloth sashes that criss-cross over it. There is also colored lighting to set it off and a nun who seemed to be there just to make sure that no one disturbed the sanctuary.
When I went back out I was pleased to discover that there is a subway entrance at the top of the Steps. This meant that I could take an elevator down to the platform and not have to brave those steps again in the intense heat of a late Roman afternoon.
As soon as I got back, I settled up my bill with the hotel so that I wouldn't have to do it in the morning. In a few minutes I'll head out to dinner so that I can get back in time to get a call from Bridget. She should be arriving in New York in another two hours. Then, she's on her way here. Finally. Thank God.
Of course this does beg the question of how much writing I'll get to do in the journal once she's here. I guess we'll find out. Under any circumstances, my ability to write in euphemisms will get a hell of a work out.
Friday, June 15, 2012
12. The Networker and the Man Not in Black
Friday, June 15
Early Afternoon
I woke up still groggy from last night's news. The overhanging air of sadness was not helped by a complete lack of hot water and a continental breakfast that tasted like it was flown in weeks ago from one of the lesser continents.
I decided that the best thing for my mood would be to take a good long walk. I headed down the Via Cavour to the Colosseum. It was 9:00 so the sun was up but not yet hot. I sat in the shade of the old walls facing the Constantine Arch and just let my mind wander. After about a half hour, I decided that the time had come to do something I had always promised myself but had never quite accomplished.
The Vittoriano sits at the opposite end of the Roman ruins from the Colosseum. I have always loved this building unconditionally and make it a point to gawk at it whenever I come to Rome. The only way I've ever been able to describe is to say that it looks like a ridiculously overdone Italian wedding cake plopped down at the end of the Via di Corso. Dazzling white and layered with a massive staircase and not quite matching floors, the obvious intent was to recall Roman Imperial architecture. The irony is that it commemorates the victories of Vittorio Emmanuele in the Risorgimento, the unification of Italy in the 1860's after having been carved up by the Romans two thousand years before.
I ascended the long exterior stairway that stretches the breadth of the first several floors. Nowadays, the monument does double duty - celebrating the victories of Vittorio Emmanuele as well as extolling the virtues of the Italian military. To the latter end, there are two halls of photos of Italian soldiers, most showing them smiling and being nice to Arabs. Like most American depictions of the military, it scores points for public relations, but avoids mentioning the actual work accomplished.
The former is much more interesting. A long hallway that runs the length of the monument details the history of the Risorgimento in a way that makes it easily grasped. Quite an accomplishment since the joining together of the nation required complex negotiations with foreign powers and constantly clashing egos as well as numerous battles.
I worked my way through this then went onto the terrace overlooking the ruins. Across the street are two domed churches I've always found quite striking. Figuring that the goal so far had been to go inside places I'd only seen from the outside, I headed out and across the street. One of the churches, Nome di Maria, was closed. The other was blessedly open. An overwhelming series of murals and reflection stations, the small round church shoots up like a Renaissance silo to the spectacularly painted dome. It's practically an orgy of iconography. I looked around for the name of this one but it was nowhere to be found on the building. I'll have to look it up.
About this time the sun was beginning to get quite hot. I decided to head up the Via Nazionale so I could get some production shots on my way back to the hotel. I wanted at least a few minutes of air conditioning before I had to leave for my 1:30 meeting.
Early Evening
I caught the subway at the Termini and took it to Lepanto, a stop just the other side of the Tiber. The Roman subway system is quite different than any other subway I know in Europe. For one thing, it isn't exactly clean. I don't know how they do it, but most European subway stations and trains are so clean you could eat off the floor. In Rome, you just stick to them. It isn't anything that I'm not used to - it's remarkably similar in that sense to Chicago's Red Line - but it always throws me a little when I'm here. On the other hand, it is efficient and fast.
Just before getting on the train I texted Giovanni Piperno, the producer with whom I was to have lunch, a brief description so that he could recognize me. I agreed to wait just outside the Lepanto station exit. Fortunately, there was a shaded island right next to it so I decided to wait there. About two minutes later, Giovanni came flying across the intersection on his silver Mata-framed bike. Dressed like a slightly disheveled young professional crowned by a beat-up riding helmet, he skidded to a stop not quite short of the curb in front of me.
"You are Ron," he said. "I take you to a little place here for the not sophisticated."
O.K..
We walked about two blocks to a little corner bar/ristorante, the kind where you have to go in, order and pick up your food and the only time you see a waiter is when he brings you your check. I got a plate of spaghetti with oil and zucchini and we found a table outside. Just as we were about to start eating, a young waitress came by and told us we had to move because this particular table was reserved. We shifted one table to the right.
Giovanni is the kind of person who gets a great kick out of networking. As soon as we sat down, he starting giving me a battery of names and emails, all of whom he also wrote down with notes to himself about getting ahold of them before me. Many were contacts to different film commissions that we would need to meet with. The most interesting contact was to Giovanna Taviani, the daughter of one of the Taviani brothers. She is apparently a solid filmmaker in her own right and has had multiple dealings with Sicilian authorities. Hers, Giovanni assured me, was necessary information to have, particularly since the term "Sicilian authorities" is sometimes a euphemism for "Mafia." These folks apparently insist on pay-offs if we are to shoot in Sicily.
When lunch was over I decided to walk to the Vatican, about a mile or so away. It was beginning to get fairly hot so I stuck to the shade as much as possible. I wound up approaching Vatican City from the side with Musei Vaticani (aka the Sistine Chapel) and the papal residence. This means moving along the massive wall that reminds one that that this was meant to be a fortress as much as the home of a religion.
The St. Peter's Square was, as always, crowded. My mission for this visit was to get a decent series of pictures of the basilica. Because of issues of lighting and time of day, I have never gotten any good shots of St. Peter despite how many times I have been here and tried. This time, I did better than I have in the past, but still not perfect. Ah yes, I guess another visit someday.
I grabbed a bus and got back to the room in time to call Bridget. I also tried calling Diana and Joe to see how they were doing but, not surprisingly, they weren't picking up the phone. I left a message telling them I loved them and giving them my number in case they wanted to call back.
A bit on my meeting with Davide last night. We had agreed to meet at the information booth at the Termini. I gave him a quick description of me and he gave one of himself. He told me that he was tall, had black hair and would be dressed in black and carrying a black bag. I didn't say it to him, but I thought, "You've just described 80% of all Italian men."
The real problem, though, had less to do with looks than it did with the meeting place. Since my last visit here, they have started a new system for giving out information. The booth is on wheels and they push it about the Termini. This makes it a difficult to meet someone in front of it. This led to a series of texts telling Davide that I was at the end of Binari 1 (where the information booth had just landed) and that I would wait for him there. When he didn't respond, I called his number. An older woman answered. I tried asking for him but she only said something in Italian. As it turned out, this was Davide's mother. She immediately called him and told him that his father was making prank calls. Somehow, he tumbled to the fact that the caller was not his father, but me. He called me and we finally hooked up.
Probably best we did it this way. He hadn't had the chance to go home so was not dressed in black.
I suggested a little bar I know on the Via Gioberti. We walked over, got a quick drink then sat at one of the street-side tables. There was a certain amount of sniffing out going on, but once we were both sure that the other one was legit, we settled into having a great time. We talked about production crews and how to get what we need in Italy, but we also had some acquaintances in common and this led to a fairly far-reaching and fun conversation. After nearly three hours, there was a palpable feeling that we could have gone on. Unfortunately, his car was illegally parked and around here that is about the time that the police begin to notice. We split up at the Termini with talk about possibly getting together for another drink when I swing back through Rome in a couple of weeks.
This was the prelude to getting back to my room and hearing about Eileen.
Early Afternoon
I woke up still groggy from last night's news. The overhanging air of sadness was not helped by a complete lack of hot water and a continental breakfast that tasted like it was flown in weeks ago from one of the lesser continents.
I decided that the best thing for my mood would be to take a good long walk. I headed down the Via Cavour to the Colosseum. It was 9:00 so the sun was up but not yet hot. I sat in the shade of the old walls facing the Constantine Arch and just let my mind wander. After about a half hour, I decided that the time had come to do something I had always promised myself but had never quite accomplished.
The Vittoriano sits at the opposite end of the Roman ruins from the Colosseum. I have always loved this building unconditionally and make it a point to gawk at it whenever I come to Rome. The only way I've ever been able to describe is to say that it looks like a ridiculously overdone Italian wedding cake plopped down at the end of the Via di Corso. Dazzling white and layered with a massive staircase and not quite matching floors, the obvious intent was to recall Roman Imperial architecture. The irony is that it commemorates the victories of Vittorio Emmanuele in the Risorgimento, the unification of Italy in the 1860's after having been carved up by the Romans two thousand years before.
I ascended the long exterior stairway that stretches the breadth of the first several floors. Nowadays, the monument does double duty - celebrating the victories of Vittorio Emmanuele as well as extolling the virtues of the Italian military. To the latter end, there are two halls of photos of Italian soldiers, most showing them smiling and being nice to Arabs. Like most American depictions of the military, it scores points for public relations, but avoids mentioning the actual work accomplished.
The former is much more interesting. A long hallway that runs the length of the monument details the history of the Risorgimento in a way that makes it easily grasped. Quite an accomplishment since the joining together of the nation required complex negotiations with foreign powers and constantly clashing egos as well as numerous battles.
I worked my way through this then went onto the terrace overlooking the ruins. Across the street are two domed churches I've always found quite striking. Figuring that the goal so far had been to go inside places I'd only seen from the outside, I headed out and across the street. One of the churches, Nome di Maria, was closed. The other was blessedly open. An overwhelming series of murals and reflection stations, the small round church shoots up like a Renaissance silo to the spectacularly painted dome. It's practically an orgy of iconography. I looked around for the name of this one but it was nowhere to be found on the building. I'll have to look it up.
About this time the sun was beginning to get quite hot. I decided to head up the Via Nazionale so I could get some production shots on my way back to the hotel. I wanted at least a few minutes of air conditioning before I had to leave for my 1:30 meeting.
Early Evening
I caught the subway at the Termini and took it to Lepanto, a stop just the other side of the Tiber. The Roman subway system is quite different than any other subway I know in Europe. For one thing, it isn't exactly clean. I don't know how they do it, but most European subway stations and trains are so clean you could eat off the floor. In Rome, you just stick to them. It isn't anything that I'm not used to - it's remarkably similar in that sense to Chicago's Red Line - but it always throws me a little when I'm here. On the other hand, it is efficient and fast.
Just before getting on the train I texted Giovanni Piperno, the producer with whom I was to have lunch, a brief description so that he could recognize me. I agreed to wait just outside the Lepanto station exit. Fortunately, there was a shaded island right next to it so I decided to wait there. About two minutes later, Giovanni came flying across the intersection on his silver Mata-framed bike. Dressed like a slightly disheveled young professional crowned by a beat-up riding helmet, he skidded to a stop not quite short of the curb in front of me.
"You are Ron," he said. "I take you to a little place here for the not sophisticated."
O.K..
We walked about two blocks to a little corner bar/ristorante, the kind where you have to go in, order and pick up your food and the only time you see a waiter is when he brings you your check. I got a plate of spaghetti with oil and zucchini and we found a table outside. Just as we were about to start eating, a young waitress came by and told us we had to move because this particular table was reserved. We shifted one table to the right.
Giovanni is the kind of person who gets a great kick out of networking. As soon as we sat down, he starting giving me a battery of names and emails, all of whom he also wrote down with notes to himself about getting ahold of them before me. Many were contacts to different film commissions that we would need to meet with. The most interesting contact was to Giovanna Taviani, the daughter of one of the Taviani brothers. She is apparently a solid filmmaker in her own right and has had multiple dealings with Sicilian authorities. Hers, Giovanni assured me, was necessary information to have, particularly since the term "Sicilian authorities" is sometimes a euphemism for "Mafia." These folks apparently insist on pay-offs if we are to shoot in Sicily.
When lunch was over I decided to walk to the Vatican, about a mile or so away. It was beginning to get fairly hot so I stuck to the shade as much as possible. I wound up approaching Vatican City from the side with Musei Vaticani (aka the Sistine Chapel) and the papal residence. This means moving along the massive wall that reminds one that that this was meant to be a fortress as much as the home of a religion.
The St. Peter's Square was, as always, crowded. My mission for this visit was to get a decent series of pictures of the basilica. Because of issues of lighting and time of day, I have never gotten any good shots of St. Peter despite how many times I have been here and tried. This time, I did better than I have in the past, but still not perfect. Ah yes, I guess another visit someday.
I grabbed a bus and got back to the room in time to call Bridget. I also tried calling Diana and Joe to see how they were doing but, not surprisingly, they weren't picking up the phone. I left a message telling them I loved them and giving them my number in case they wanted to call back.
A bit on my meeting with Davide last night. We had agreed to meet at the information booth at the Termini. I gave him a quick description of me and he gave one of himself. He told me that he was tall, had black hair and would be dressed in black and carrying a black bag. I didn't say it to him, but I thought, "You've just described 80% of all Italian men."
The real problem, though, had less to do with looks than it did with the meeting place. Since my last visit here, they have started a new system for giving out information. The booth is on wheels and they push it about the Termini. This makes it a difficult to meet someone in front of it. This led to a series of texts telling Davide that I was at the end of Binari 1 (where the information booth had just landed) and that I would wait for him there. When he didn't respond, I called his number. An older woman answered. I tried asking for him but she only said something in Italian. As it turned out, this was Davide's mother. She immediately called him and told him that his father was making prank calls. Somehow, he tumbled to the fact that the caller was not his father, but me. He called me and we finally hooked up.
Probably best we did it this way. He hadn't had the chance to go home so was not dressed in black.
I suggested a little bar I know on the Via Gioberti. We walked over, got a quick drink then sat at one of the street-side tables. There was a certain amount of sniffing out going on, but once we were both sure that the other one was legit, we settled into having a great time. We talked about production crews and how to get what we need in Italy, but we also had some acquaintances in common and this led to a fairly far-reaching and fun conversation. After nearly three hours, there was a palpable feeling that we could have gone on. Unfortunately, his car was illegally parked and around here that is about the time that the police begin to notice. We split up at the Termini with talk about possibly getting together for another drink when I swing back through Rome in a couple of weeks.
This was the prelude to getting back to my room and hearing about Eileen.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
11. Looking for Words
Thursday, June 14
Late Morning
Today is turning into one of those major stress travel days and it isn't even 11:00am.
I woke up to an email from Bridget. Last night there was a massive hailstorm in Dallas. The term "baseball-sized hail" was not only tossed about but also demonstrated in the news feeds that I checked out. Bridget's front and rear windshields were shattered, her car took some body damage, and, most frightening, it broke the window in Liam's room.
This fell on the heels of yesterday's Skype. In it, Bridget pointed out that although she leaves the US on Saturday, she doesn't arrive in Italy until Sunday. I had it in my head that she was coming in Saturday morning although I should have known better. The result is that the plans I put in place for everything have all gone up in smoke. I had to spend this morning trying to rearrange things while at the same time trying to find out which trains to Messina actually have seats on them. When we spoke last night, Bridget said she was fine with getting straight onto the train from the plane, but I want to avoid this if at all possible. The question is, "Is it possible?" I won't know until I get to Rome and can figure out the train situation. That will control everything down the line.
Until then, I just get to sit on the train and wonder. Not a favored prospect. At the same, it's worth pointing out that my initial reaction to Orvieto was correct. It's a lovely place, and it was sad to see it disappear into the horizon as the train moved on toward Rome.
Rome
Late Afternoon
I got to the Termini and went straight to the hotel. As I expected, it is definitely on the down low, but at a price I can afford. I'm in a fourth floor room that is only about six feet across and ten feet deep. A monk would be happy. The building is located across the street from the Termini one one of the lesser streets. The check-in only took a minute and I was able to add the extra night that I needed. It is a statement of the differences in price between Orvieto and here that in Orvieto I had a four star hotel for three nights for 150 Euro. Three nights here are 180 Euro.
At check-in, the receptionist insisted I have the bellboy take my luggage. This wound up being necessary since the reception desk is actually four doors down from the hotel. The bellboy pushed my suitcase onto the elevator built for two then got in with me and it. We had a bit of a struggle opening the doors when we got upstairs. These open in, a decidedly silly innovation in an elevator so small. He then showed me how to buzz myself into the security door. This led us into a hall that smells suspiciously of sweat socks and curry and then into the room. Getting around with him in it wasn't that much different from trying to maneuver in the elevator.
Once I had gotten everything settled in, I went back to the Termini to see if I could figure out what could be done about the train. There were none that left after noon on either the 17th or the 18th. A later train would mean getting into Messina too late to pick up the car necessitating a night in a hotel there. I changed my search to search for an earlier train. As it turned out, there was one leaving at 7:39 on the 18th and it still had two first-class tickets. I snagged these. Not only did this get us into Messina well in advance of the rental agency closing, it also meant that Bridget was not going to have to get off a plane and then onto a train. I really wanted to avoid that if at all possible.
When I got back to the room, I went back online, this time to look for a hotel that was both very nice and not this one. I found a room at the Bettoja Atlantico on the other and much nicer side of the Termini.
Since all of this is now paid for, I hope to God that nothing else jumps in the way, but it doesn't look like it will. I purchased some Skype credits and called Bridget. She's fine with all of this.
After talking to Bridget, I set up a couple meetings. The first is in a couple of hours. I'll be meeting with a filmmaker, Davide Daniele, to talk about ways of dealing with the Italian officials and film crews. Tomorrow, I'm meeting with a producer, Giovanni Piperno, to talk about Italian contacts and tax credits. Getting these meetings set up via a cellphone that boomerangs between the US and here is more than a little chore. That's the other reason I bought the Skype credits.
Late Evening
Meeting Davide was good, but unfortunately, my evening was broken by some very bad news from home. My brother had tried to call while I was having a drink with Davide but my phone was switched off. When I saw that he had called, I texted to find out what was up. He told me that my cousin Eileen died suddenly of a heart attack. Eileen was a beautiful person in every way imaginable, one of a very tight knit family. She and her sisters Karen and Chris were as thick as any three people I have ever known and the thought of one of them being gone is quite simply unfathomable. She's the first of my generation to go, and one of those who we all would have assumed would have outlasted us all.
With a home in Casetta just outside Florence as well as a very full life back in the states, I used to kid her that I didn't want her life, but I would certainly be willing to rent it for awhile. I reminded her of this last summer when I saw her at a family get-together. She smiled and agreed with fairly typical understatement that, yeah, her life could be worse. A few minutes later, I got her and her sisters and two other favorite cousins together for a picture on the front steps. It's framed and sitting on the bookshelf next to my bed.
I talked to my mother about it as soon as I found out. As usual, she finds the strength whenever she needs it, but this has hit her hard. In a family like ours, one member's child is every member's child. This is especially true of my mother who is the matriarch of the whole family. She spoke with Diane, Eileen's mother. It seems safe to say that the hit to Diane and Joe has yet to be processed. After talking to my mother, I called Karen to check in. Karen is usually a ball of unflagging energy, but of course she was subdued. Right now, her mind is focused on what has to be done. Chris is currently flying to her place in Virginia and the two of them along with Karen's husband Mike will be driving down to North Carolina in the morning to deal with what has to be dealt with.
Right now, all I can think about is the day I spent with Eileen at Casetta in 2005. It seems so odd to be in Italy when receiving this news.
Late Morning
Today is turning into one of those major stress travel days and it isn't even 11:00am.
I woke up to an email from Bridget. Last night there was a massive hailstorm in Dallas. The term "baseball-sized hail" was not only tossed about but also demonstrated in the news feeds that I checked out. Bridget's front and rear windshields were shattered, her car took some body damage, and, most frightening, it broke the window in Liam's room.
This fell on the heels of yesterday's Skype. In it, Bridget pointed out that although she leaves the US on Saturday, she doesn't arrive in Italy until Sunday. I had it in my head that she was coming in Saturday morning although I should have known better. The result is that the plans I put in place for everything have all gone up in smoke. I had to spend this morning trying to rearrange things while at the same time trying to find out which trains to Messina actually have seats on them. When we spoke last night, Bridget said she was fine with getting straight onto the train from the plane, but I want to avoid this if at all possible. The question is, "Is it possible?" I won't know until I get to Rome and can figure out the train situation. That will control everything down the line.
Until then, I just get to sit on the train and wonder. Not a favored prospect. At the same, it's worth pointing out that my initial reaction to Orvieto was correct. It's a lovely place, and it was sad to see it disappear into the horizon as the train moved on toward Rome.
Rome
Late Afternoon
I got to the Termini and went straight to the hotel. As I expected, it is definitely on the down low, but at a price I can afford. I'm in a fourth floor room that is only about six feet across and ten feet deep. A monk would be happy. The building is located across the street from the Termini one one of the lesser streets. The check-in only took a minute and I was able to add the extra night that I needed. It is a statement of the differences in price between Orvieto and here that in Orvieto I had a four star hotel for three nights for 150 Euro. Three nights here are 180 Euro.
At check-in, the receptionist insisted I have the bellboy take my luggage. This wound up being necessary since the reception desk is actually four doors down from the hotel. The bellboy pushed my suitcase onto the elevator built for two then got in with me and it. We had a bit of a struggle opening the doors when we got upstairs. These open in, a decidedly silly innovation in an elevator so small. He then showed me how to buzz myself into the security door. This led us into a hall that smells suspiciously of sweat socks and curry and then into the room. Getting around with him in it wasn't that much different from trying to maneuver in the elevator.
Once I had gotten everything settled in, I went back to the Termini to see if I could figure out what could be done about the train. There were none that left after noon on either the 17th or the 18th. A later train would mean getting into Messina too late to pick up the car necessitating a night in a hotel there. I changed my search to search for an earlier train. As it turned out, there was one leaving at 7:39 on the 18th and it still had two first-class tickets. I snagged these. Not only did this get us into Messina well in advance of the rental agency closing, it also meant that Bridget was not going to have to get off a plane and then onto a train. I really wanted to avoid that if at all possible.
When I got back to the room, I went back online, this time to look for a hotel that was both very nice and not this one. I found a room at the Bettoja Atlantico on the other and much nicer side of the Termini.
Since all of this is now paid for, I hope to God that nothing else jumps in the way, but it doesn't look like it will. I purchased some Skype credits and called Bridget. She's fine with all of this.
After talking to Bridget, I set up a couple meetings. The first is in a couple of hours. I'll be meeting with a filmmaker, Davide Daniele, to talk about ways of dealing with the Italian officials and film crews. Tomorrow, I'm meeting with a producer, Giovanni Piperno, to talk about Italian contacts and tax credits. Getting these meetings set up via a cellphone that boomerangs between the US and here is more than a little chore. That's the other reason I bought the Skype credits.
Late Evening
Meeting Davide was good, but unfortunately, my evening was broken by some very bad news from home. My brother had tried to call while I was having a drink with Davide but my phone was switched off. When I saw that he had called, I texted to find out what was up. He told me that my cousin Eileen died suddenly of a heart attack. Eileen was a beautiful person in every way imaginable, one of a very tight knit family. She and her sisters Karen and Chris were as thick as any three people I have ever known and the thought of one of them being gone is quite simply unfathomable. She's the first of my generation to go, and one of those who we all would have assumed would have outlasted us all.
With a home in Casetta just outside Florence as well as a very full life back in the states, I used to kid her that I didn't want her life, but I would certainly be willing to rent it for awhile. I reminded her of this last summer when I saw her at a family get-together. She smiled and agreed with fairly typical understatement that, yeah, her life could be worse. A few minutes later, I got her and her sisters and two other favorite cousins together for a picture on the front steps. It's framed and sitting on the bookshelf next to my bed.
I talked to my mother about it as soon as I found out. As usual, she finds the strength whenever she needs it, but this has hit her hard. In a family like ours, one member's child is every member's child. This is especially true of my mother who is the matriarch of the whole family. She spoke with Diane, Eileen's mother. It seems safe to say that the hit to Diane and Joe has yet to be processed. After talking to my mother, I called Karen to check in. Karen is usually a ball of unflagging energy, but of course she was subdued. Right now, her mind is focused on what has to be done. Chris is currently flying to her place in Virginia and the two of them along with Karen's husband Mike will be driving down to North Carolina in the morning to deal with what has to be dealt with.
Right now, all I can think about is the day I spent with Eileen at Casetta in 2005. It seems so odd to be in Italy when receiving this news.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
10. Getting Down
Wednesday, June 13
Late Morning
I managed a very pleasant dinner last night in a fancy trattoria so far off the beaten path that I was the only person in the ristorante for the entirety of my meal. The owner/waiter hovered over me in the nicest way and made sure my every need was served. It was fine, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. After dinner, I took a walk through Orvieto then headed back to my room for a reasonably early crash.
For now, the laundry battle has been engaged. I'm currently sitting here in a small (very small) and crowded lavanderia in Orvieto Scalo. Getting here was a piece of cake - two buses with an immediate connection followed an equally immediate connection to a cab. The cab was the one problem in that, like most small town cabs in Italy, they enforce a high minimum. In this case, it's a minimum 10 Euro charge to anything within 5km. If the lavanderia had been farther away, it would have been a much cheaper cab ride.
This lavanderia has four washers and two dryers, a not equitable situation guaranteed to cause a logjam. When I got here an older couple was waiting for their load to complete drying. Thank God they were here since the instructions to use these particularly complicated machines were not translated in a way I could deal with. The two of them helped to get me through the process in spite of our lack of a common language.
I sat back and watched the season finale of "Mad Men" and waited for the wash to finish. Suddenly, the tiny shop was filled with women, all battling for washers and dryers. I managed to get mine into the dryer amid the jealous stares of old ladies then went to put money in the machine. The smallest I had on me was a 20 Euro note so I put it into the dispenser and waited for the change. It didn't come. I realized too late that the machine gives credit, not change. I went next door to the office where the proprietress, a middle aged woman with a decent command of English, came over, opened the money trap, got me my change then made sure my machine was going.
A few minutes later, a young American woman came in with her laundry. She was as confused as I had been earlier. I managed to help her out, paying back the earlier "pay forward." We eventually fell into a conversation. She is visiting Orvieto with her husband, an air force pilot stationed at Rammstein AFB in Germany, and her mother. Both were tagging along as well as her two daughters, aged 2 and 4. At least for a few minutes, the Americans got to dominate the lavanderia.
I'm now waiting for the dryer to finish its job and for the remaining little old ladies to stop glaring at me. Of course the next task is to get back. This part is not going to be so easy.
Late Afternoon
I was wrong. Getting back proved to be just as easy, even if a little silly. I asked the proprietress for the best way back to the train station. Not wanting to steer me wrong, she made me come to the window so that she could point the way.
"No more five minutes," she said. "Cinque."
Her English slipped irreversibly into Italian at this point, but it seemed clear to me.
As soon as I got down to the street I spotted the bus stop. There was another middle aged Italian woman with long dyed black hair not quite covering the chip on her shoulder. She was reading the schedule posted on the stop and muttering a blue streak to herself. After a minute she realized that I was there so started complaining to me - loudly and very fast.
"No parla Italiano," I said and reached out my hand as if to say stop. For some reason, she thought I was reaching for her and jumped back. When she realized that I wasn't on the attack she went back to her muttering.
The bus came after about ten minutes. I sat down for the five minute ride to the station.
It didn't take that long.
We turned the corner that was maybe fifty feet from the bus stop, went another hundred yards and turned into the train station. Apparently what the proprietress meant was that it would take no more than five minutes to walk. I didn't get too upset about the 10 Euro cab ride since I had no way of knowing this before getting in the taxi.
Just like the ride down, every connection was waiting for me as I got to the stop. All told, the laundry adventure lasted less than two hours. There may be a record in that. At least an Italian record.
I spent a few minutes online setting up my hotel in Rome for the first two days then headed out for a light lunch and a walk. To accomplish the former, I stopped at the Cafe Clan Destino (yes, that's what it's called) and got a fresh fruit salad and an ice tea, both of which taste infinitely better here than back in the states.
The latter needed some direction so I went over the map for places I hadn't yet been. One, the Chiesa di San Domenico, was fairly close so it looked like a good prospect. I followed the Corso Cavour to Via di Cavalotti, a narrow side street that leads to the Piazza XXIX Marzo. No, I have no idea what significance the date March 29th holds. In any event, it isn't much of a piazza, just a little alcove on an otherwise quiet street.
Next to this, though, is the Chiesa which more than holds its own. A 13th Century church, it houses the ashes of Cardinal deBray and an even more interesting relic: a crucifix said to have spoken directly to St. Thomas Acquinus. I can't say that I know exactly how this worked since the crucifix said nothing to me. It is, though, a rather extraordinary object. Shaped more like a tree than a traditional cross, it's branches/wings convey the idea of Christ's ascension as well as His death.
The Chiesa itself is like most Medieval churches. Extremely tall and topped by a wood-beamed ceiling, there is very little architectural ornamentation. This is provided by the accouterments of the statues, altars and standalone confessionals. Although the center of the church is aimed toward the altar, the sides break into impressive ancillary chapels for more reflective worship.
I really loved this church, but this was not an opinion shared by the only two other tourists who showed up while I was there. They walked into the back of the church and looked for about five seconds. The man said to his wife, "This isn't much," and the two of them walked out.
After leaving the Chiesa, I headed back toward the Piazza dell' Duomo. After I had been sitting there a few minutes, around 20 cyclists came into the Piazza and took up residence in one of the few shaded areas. All wore identical blue and white riding jerseys and shorts. A few minutes later, another flock of cyclists, these wearing identical yellow, green and white, descended on the piazza. Any hope this would turn into a Sharks versus Jets knife fight were quickly dashed. Like all cyclists, they speak the same language and were quickly quaffing beers (good for carbs, you know) and bragging how each had the tougher climb to get to the town. Eventually, they all gathered together for a group shot in front of the Duomo then went off their respective ways.
So did I. I headed back to my room for a hoped-for Skype with Bridget. On the way, I stopped at a little shop to pick up something for her. Now, with any luck, we'll Skype soon then I'll make it back to the Piazza dell' Duomo for a 5:15 tour of the Orvieto underground.
Late Evening
After a quick Skype with Bridget I made my way to the rally point for the subterranean tour and purchased my ticket. I had to wait for around twenty minutes but sitting in the Piazza dell' Duomo is hardly something to complain about.
There were eight of us on the tour, not counting our guide, Ariston. He is a thin young German with brown hair down to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He walked us down the slope toward the edge of the mountain then a few hundred yards along the mountainside walkway to the entrance to the first of the two caves we would be visiting.
Dug over several hundred years into the clay that supports the city, the underground functioned as a world within a world. So far, they have uncovered over a thousand of these passages, enough so that no one can walk more than three meters above ground without having one of the caves 10 to 20 meters below their feet.
In the first cave, we went through the area where olives were pressed, wine was made, and wheat was milled into flour. Since the caves were man-made and dug from clay, the scratch marks left by the original tools are still quite visible. Also included was a well. Our perch was thirty feet down from the top of the well. It then went another sixty feet below us.
Ariston kept up a running commentary, freely admitting at times that he couldn't remember what he had just told us two seconds before, an admittedly common problem when you have to repeat the same things over and over each day.
The first cave was surprisingly spacious. The second one was not. Just before we entered, Ariston addressed the group.
"To get into second underground," he said, "we must go down 55 steps and are not so regular. Also, if any of you are of claustrophobia, you should please to be last."
The woman behind me gulped audibly.
The staircase down into the cave narrowed with each step, making it in effect a funnel. Once inside, I was struck by how much daylight there was. Windows had been carved into the wall of the mountain. The reason, though, had nothing to do with light. It had to do with the thousands of orderly rows of 6"x6" holes dug into the walls throughout this section.
The holes, it was explained, were dovecotes, small nests for pigeons. This wasn't because of ancient bird fanciers. The pigeons were harvested here for meat. The windows were so that the adults could fly out and retrieve food for the young. This area also contained kilns for pottery and several cisterns.
Throughout both caves, darker areas are illuminated by single high-beam lamps. The result is to expose the different colors of clay that are striated throughout. It also made for a strange quality, as though the caves were somehow generating their own light source.
By the time we got to the far end of the second cave, I think it is fairly safe to say that everyone was glad to note that we could exit straight to the exterior walkway rather than brave again that claustrophobic staircase and the many low entrances.
At end of the journey we found ourselves on one of the overlooks so a number of us hung around to enjoy the view. Afterward, I went off in search of dinner.
I checked a few places, but many didn't open until 7:00. Since that was a half hour away and I was hungry, I decided to try out a place that I knew was open all day and evening. After a very nice asparagus-laced lasagna, I'm now officially ready to crash.
Late Morning
I managed a very pleasant dinner last night in a fancy trattoria so far off the beaten path that I was the only person in the ristorante for the entirety of my meal. The owner/waiter hovered over me in the nicest way and made sure my every need was served. It was fine, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. After dinner, I took a walk through Orvieto then headed back to my room for a reasonably early crash.
For now, the laundry battle has been engaged. I'm currently sitting here in a small (very small) and crowded lavanderia in Orvieto Scalo. Getting here was a piece of cake - two buses with an immediate connection followed an equally immediate connection to a cab. The cab was the one problem in that, like most small town cabs in Italy, they enforce a high minimum. In this case, it's a minimum 10 Euro charge to anything within 5km. If the lavanderia had been farther away, it would have been a much cheaper cab ride.
This lavanderia has four washers and two dryers, a not equitable situation guaranteed to cause a logjam. When I got here an older couple was waiting for their load to complete drying. Thank God they were here since the instructions to use these particularly complicated machines were not translated in a way I could deal with. The two of them helped to get me through the process in spite of our lack of a common language.
I sat back and watched the season finale of "Mad Men" and waited for the wash to finish. Suddenly, the tiny shop was filled with women, all battling for washers and dryers. I managed to get mine into the dryer amid the jealous stares of old ladies then went to put money in the machine. The smallest I had on me was a 20 Euro note so I put it into the dispenser and waited for the change. It didn't come. I realized too late that the machine gives credit, not change. I went next door to the office where the proprietress, a middle aged woman with a decent command of English, came over, opened the money trap, got me my change then made sure my machine was going.
A few minutes later, a young American woman came in with her laundry. She was as confused as I had been earlier. I managed to help her out, paying back the earlier "pay forward." We eventually fell into a conversation. She is visiting Orvieto with her husband, an air force pilot stationed at Rammstein AFB in Germany, and her mother. Both were tagging along as well as her two daughters, aged 2 and 4. At least for a few minutes, the Americans got to dominate the lavanderia.
I'm now waiting for the dryer to finish its job and for the remaining little old ladies to stop glaring at me. Of course the next task is to get back. This part is not going to be so easy.
Late Afternoon
I was wrong. Getting back proved to be just as easy, even if a little silly. I asked the proprietress for the best way back to the train station. Not wanting to steer me wrong, she made me come to the window so that she could point the way.
"No more five minutes," she said. "Cinque."
Her English slipped irreversibly into Italian at this point, but it seemed clear to me.
As soon as I got down to the street I spotted the bus stop. There was another middle aged Italian woman with long dyed black hair not quite covering the chip on her shoulder. She was reading the schedule posted on the stop and muttering a blue streak to herself. After a minute she realized that I was there so started complaining to me - loudly and very fast.
"No parla Italiano," I said and reached out my hand as if to say stop. For some reason, she thought I was reaching for her and jumped back. When she realized that I wasn't on the attack she went back to her muttering.
The bus came after about ten minutes. I sat down for the five minute ride to the station.
It didn't take that long.
We turned the corner that was maybe fifty feet from the bus stop, went another hundred yards and turned into the train station. Apparently what the proprietress meant was that it would take no more than five minutes to walk. I didn't get too upset about the 10 Euro cab ride since I had no way of knowing this before getting in the taxi.
Just like the ride down, every connection was waiting for me as I got to the stop. All told, the laundry adventure lasted less than two hours. There may be a record in that. At least an Italian record.
I spent a few minutes online setting up my hotel in Rome for the first two days then headed out for a light lunch and a walk. To accomplish the former, I stopped at the Cafe Clan Destino (yes, that's what it's called) and got a fresh fruit salad and an ice tea, both of which taste infinitely better here than back in the states.
The latter needed some direction so I went over the map for places I hadn't yet been. One, the Chiesa di San Domenico, was fairly close so it looked like a good prospect. I followed the Corso Cavour to Via di Cavalotti, a narrow side street that leads to the Piazza XXIX Marzo. No, I have no idea what significance the date March 29th holds. In any event, it isn't much of a piazza, just a little alcove on an otherwise quiet street.
Next to this, though, is the Chiesa which more than holds its own. A 13th Century church, it houses the ashes of Cardinal deBray and an even more interesting relic: a crucifix said to have spoken directly to St. Thomas Acquinus. I can't say that I know exactly how this worked since the crucifix said nothing to me. It is, though, a rather extraordinary object. Shaped more like a tree than a traditional cross, it's branches/wings convey the idea of Christ's ascension as well as His death.
The Chiesa itself is like most Medieval churches. Extremely tall and topped by a wood-beamed ceiling, there is very little architectural ornamentation. This is provided by the accouterments of the statues, altars and standalone confessionals. Although the center of the church is aimed toward the altar, the sides break into impressive ancillary chapels for more reflective worship.
I really loved this church, but this was not an opinion shared by the only two other tourists who showed up while I was there. They walked into the back of the church and looked for about five seconds. The man said to his wife, "This isn't much," and the two of them walked out.
After leaving the Chiesa, I headed back toward the Piazza dell' Duomo. After I had been sitting there a few minutes, around 20 cyclists came into the Piazza and took up residence in one of the few shaded areas. All wore identical blue and white riding jerseys and shorts. A few minutes later, another flock of cyclists, these wearing identical yellow, green and white, descended on the piazza. Any hope this would turn into a Sharks versus Jets knife fight were quickly dashed. Like all cyclists, they speak the same language and were quickly quaffing beers (good for carbs, you know) and bragging how each had the tougher climb to get to the town. Eventually, they all gathered together for a group shot in front of the Duomo then went off their respective ways.
So did I. I headed back to my room for a hoped-for Skype with Bridget. On the way, I stopped at a little shop to pick up something for her. Now, with any luck, we'll Skype soon then I'll make it back to the Piazza dell' Duomo for a 5:15 tour of the Orvieto underground.
Late Evening
After a quick Skype with Bridget I made my way to the rally point for the subterranean tour and purchased my ticket. I had to wait for around twenty minutes but sitting in the Piazza dell' Duomo is hardly something to complain about.
There were eight of us on the tour, not counting our guide, Ariston. He is a thin young German with brown hair down to his shoulders and piercing blue eyes. He walked us down the slope toward the edge of the mountain then a few hundred yards along the mountainside walkway to the entrance to the first of the two caves we would be visiting.
Dug over several hundred years into the clay that supports the city, the underground functioned as a world within a world. So far, they have uncovered over a thousand of these passages, enough so that no one can walk more than three meters above ground without having one of the caves 10 to 20 meters below their feet.
In the first cave, we went through the area where olives were pressed, wine was made, and wheat was milled into flour. Since the caves were man-made and dug from clay, the scratch marks left by the original tools are still quite visible. Also included was a well. Our perch was thirty feet down from the top of the well. It then went another sixty feet below us.
Ariston kept up a running commentary, freely admitting at times that he couldn't remember what he had just told us two seconds before, an admittedly common problem when you have to repeat the same things over and over each day.
The first cave was surprisingly spacious. The second one was not. Just before we entered, Ariston addressed the group.
"To get into second underground," he said, "we must go down 55 steps and are not so regular. Also, if any of you are of claustrophobia, you should please to be last."
The woman behind me gulped audibly.
The staircase down into the cave narrowed with each step, making it in effect a funnel. Once inside, I was struck by how much daylight there was. Windows had been carved into the wall of the mountain. The reason, though, had nothing to do with light. It had to do with the thousands of orderly rows of 6"x6" holes dug into the walls throughout this section.
The holes, it was explained, were dovecotes, small nests for pigeons. This wasn't because of ancient bird fanciers. The pigeons were harvested here for meat. The windows were so that the adults could fly out and retrieve food for the young. This area also contained kilns for pottery and several cisterns.
Throughout both caves, darker areas are illuminated by single high-beam lamps. The result is to expose the different colors of clay that are striated throughout. It also made for a strange quality, as though the caves were somehow generating their own light source.
By the time we got to the far end of the second cave, I think it is fairly safe to say that everyone was glad to note that we could exit straight to the exterior walkway rather than brave again that claustrophobic staircase and the many low entrances.
At end of the journey we found ourselves on one of the overlooks so a number of us hung around to enjoy the view. Afterward, I went off in search of dinner.
I checked a few places, but many didn't open until 7:00. Since that was a half hour away and I was hungry, I decided to try out a place that I knew was open all day and evening. After a very nice asparagus-laced lasagna, I'm now officially ready to crash.
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
9. Attendere Prego
Tuesday, June 12
Early Evening
The best laid plans require one thing: That I can stay awake to actualize them. Last night, I had the best of intentions of skyping Bridget then going for a walk around town. Feeling a bit tired, I lay down on the bed around 5:00. When I opened my eyes, it was nearly 9:00. I was already a half hour late for our Skype date, and by the time we got off, I was way too spaced out to go for a walk. I just crawled back into bed and went to sleep. Again.
As is always true when I come here, my dreams become very vivid. I had a number of them last night, none of which I'll go into here. But it's been like this the last several nights. They aren't unpleasant; they're just vivid dreams with arc'ing narratives. Not really normal for me.
One thing was very clear this morning: I need to get some laundry done. When I was coming in yesterday, the receptionist told me that laundry service is available. Thinking that this might be a good option, I asked her today if I could arrange for it. Now, instead of extolling a service, she went in the other direction.
"You don't want to do this," she said. "Let me tell you how much." She told me it would be 16,50 Euro for one pair of trousers (roughly $21 dollars), 12,50 Euro ($15) for a shirt, and 2 Euro for each pair of socks or underwear. Even a conservative estimate would put this laundry run at over $100. I thanked her then asked if she knew where the closest lavanderia could be found.
"Not in Orvieto," she said. "Nearest one is in Orvieto Scalo." This would be down the mountain to the part of the community that actually has services. She didn't know of any specific ones but knew there were some down there.
I went back to the room and checked online. There are five listed in Orvieto Scalo but none are within range of the bus lines. I'm now debating whether I should spend tomorrow trying to figure this out, or live with what I have and take an early train to Rome on Thursday and do it there. One way or the other, it's going to have to wait.
According to the now wholly untrustworthy weather.com, today was to be cloudy with intermittent rain. I decided to take off in advance of whatever front actually did come through and to get in as much sightseeing as I could.
Having gone right out the door of my hotel yesterday, today I went left. In reasonably short order I was at the edge of the mountain and looking into the valley that fascinated me so much last year when I was in Cortona. It is still extraordinary. The rolling and verdant valley is surrounded on three sides by the Apennine Mountains. The overlook offers a view of at least 50 to 60 miles on a clear day which today was.
And wasn't.
To the west, the sky was bright with big and very non-threatening white clouds billowing overhead. To the east, thick black clouds were sweeping a fierce storm across the peaks. The big question was, of course, in which direction are the dark ones headed? One way or the other, what was fascinating was the fact that I could sit in one place and with just a slight turn of my head see two radically different weather fronts and the trough between them.
It appeared that the storm was moving straight north so I decided not to be worried and go about my business. Off to the left, there was a church on a promontory sticking out over the valley. It checked it out on the map the hotel provided and it appeared to be Chiesa di San Giovenale, an ancient church from the days when Orvieto was briefly the seat of the Catholic Church.
Getting to it meant following my instincts more than the map. It became pretty clear early on that the map wasn't an exact tool. My instincts stood in well for me and I was there in about five minutes. Too bad it was closed.
According to the same map, Complesso di Sant' Agostino was just around the corner. Surprisingly, it was.
The Complesso was for most of its life a small chapel attached to the convent of the Angostiniani nuns. Now, though, it is a sculpture museum. At present, it features the Annunciation by Francesco Mochi as well as statues of other religious figures by Pisani and Montelupo.
In order to get in I first needed a ticket. The man at the desk was friendly. Maybe a mite too friendly. His primary job was to sell me a discount ticket good for three museums. Since they were all ones that I wanted to check out the discount ticket was a no-brainer. At this point, he wanted to make sure that I knew what each museum had in its collection, what its hours of operation are, and that he had brochures for each. While his English was impeccable, his brochures were not.
"Only Italian," he said. "So sorry. But much good information so you take anyway." He shoved a fistful of brochures at me, none of which I could read. He then took out a map and showed me where everything was. When he was done, he offered me the map. I made some comment about how it had to be better than the one I had. He asked to see it.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Very different."
I asked if he thought the one he was offering was better.
"Some good, some bad in both."
He shoved his map toward me. I handed him mine and asked if he could throw it out.
"Better keep," he said. "Two together might be right"
Just as I was about to go into the chancel he put up his finger.
"You wait."
He turned to an ancient cassette player, put in a tape, and pressed the on button. It started playing something suitably Medieval. He then waved me in.
The old church is gone, or at least any physical representations of it beyond an obvious area for an altar. Along the sides leading to this are colonnades of ancient statues. At the front, are two that were quiet intelligently placed. One is of St. Michael the Archangel. He is pointing his left hand toward the Heavens. The finger is perfectly positioned to be pointing at the light coming in the high window. A few feet away is another statue. This one has been positioned so that the tilt of its head seems to be acknowledging St. Michael.
As I left I called.out "grazie" to the receptionist. As soon as he saw that I was leaving he turned off the cassette and called out "Ciao!" My guess is that he doesn't see more than two or three people a day.
My next stop was the Palazzo del Gusto - the Palace of Taste. This used to be - not surprisingly - a church, but has since been turned into the nexus point for the wineries of the region. At least this is what it is said to be. Maybe I was there too early, but there was nothing even remotely like this in my inspection of the place. All I saw was a miniature version of the Brunelleschi Cloisters at Santa Croce. Oddly enough, hanging all around the inner walls of this cloister were signs telling of Italy's role in the First World War and the rise of Italian fascism. I really wasn't sure what this had to do with wine production in Umbria.
I headed back to the Piazza della Repubblica. On the way there, I passed through the Piazza del Popolo. My hotel is ostensibly on this square, but is in fact about four blocks from it. I'm glad for this since the Piazza del Popolo isn't particularly inspiring.
Back in the Piazza della Repubblica, I sat for about a half an hour and just watched the people go by. Unlike the other piazzas in the tourist area, this one seems less trodden by outsiders. Here, the old ladies stand and talk to each other while the old men sit and talk to each other. The women clutch their purses and talk in hushed tones while the men are loud and gesticulate wildly. My favorite of the latter was a shopkeeper who came out to make a call. He was arguing loudly with the person on the other end. His free hand was punching and jabbing the air so hard that I thought he might rip a hole in the time/space continuum.
Both maps seemed to agree that the Corso Cavour, the main street in this part of town, would lead to the Piazza Cahen. I didn't really know what was there, but I was in a rambling mood so I headed off for it. Along the way, I found a beautiful little church, the Chiesa di S. Maria dei Servi, and ducked in for a while.
The Piazza Cahen is the base of the old town. I didn't know it yesterday, but I had come through this on the way to the hotel. This is the point at which the funicular (which will apparently be operation on my last day here) deposits people coming to Orvieto from the train station. Next to the exit is a large gate that leads into the Giardini Publico, the public gardens. I was about to go through when a truck started to pass through the gate. The driver had to stop, pull in his mirrors and then be directed out. He had a clearance of less than three or four inches. This I have noticed is pretty common around here. The streets are incredibly narrow, so much so that even small cars have to adjust a couple of times to make a turn.
When I finally got into the gardens I could see a group of technicians putting up a temporary stage. Off to the left was a group of young girls, all members of a dance troupe. They were there to check on the stage, and clearly the technicians were there to check on them. There was so much "cock of the walk" posturing going on that it was quite clear that no work was getting done. The choreographer, an attractive women in her late twenties, was trying to get the dancers attention away from the strutting roosters and failing miserably. I found it particularly odd that this choreographer was also chain smoking.
Both maps agreed that the road to the left would lead me directly back to the Duomo. This may have been true, but this was a narrow road with fast cars and no sidewalk. I wasn't about to attempt getting back that way. Instead, I went right back up Corso Cavour.
A short way from the turnoff to the Duomo, I spotted a sign on the Teatro Mancinelli that one could take a tour for 2 Euro. Why not?
It isn't a tour so much as a pass into the place. The theater itself is quite intimate with seating for certainly no more than 200. In spite of this fact, it is built like a miniature opera house with private boxes scaling up three tiers. It is a perfectly pleasant little matchbox theater with a mural covering the ceiling.
The real treasures in the building, though, are the ancillary spaces. There are two private performance rooms for recitals, both of which are delirious in their color schemes and beautiful mural-covered ceilings. Each of the rooms is painted in deep yet bright blues, yellows and reds with chairs that are covered in fabrics that are just as bold.
From here I headed back toward the Duomo. I was looking for the place where the tour of Orvieto's underground passages was to start. I missed the 12:15 tour so decided to hold on this until tomorrow. My guess is that the laundry will take the better part of the day so I made sure there were tours going well into the late afternoon.
I sat in the Piazza del Duomo for quite a while. As I do in Florence's Loggia, I was looking for tourists to shoot. When I finally decided to get up and walk, I headed across the piazza to Museo Emilio Greco. This was one of the museums that my newly acquired discount card would let me tour.
The museum is dedicated to the work of a local artist, but for once it isn't a Renaissance or Medieval artist. Greco was plying his art in the mid-20th century and its minimalism stands in stark contrast to everything else in the area. The work - pencil sketches and sculptures - are primarily nudes except for one massive suspended bas relief of a religious icon. The building itself is ancient, an adjunct of the Duomo, but everything in it is modern. The most striking architectural element is a red and black circular staircase in the center of the room. It stops about ten feet from the ceiling and offers an overlook of the collection.
Directly behind the Duomo and to the right of the Museo Emilio Greco is the Palazzi Papali. This was the last of the museums on my discount card. It is the polar opposite of its neighbor. This is a collection of religious artifacts, paintings and sculptures from Orvieto's papal period. Initially, the building that houses the collection was the lodging for the three popes who spanned the years 1261 to 1283.
Given the history, the museum isn't particularly inspiring. A good deal of the reason for this is the poor lighting of the place. There are few windows and multiple interior rooms. The lighting in each is kept very low so as not to blanche the colors of the paintings. Unfortunately, this means you can barely seen anything. This is also a museum where they do not allow photos (my camera would have compensated the lighting deficiencies). To make sure that you abide by this and all the other rules of the house, a young gap-toothed woman was walking from room to room and pleasantly telling people all the things that they were doing wrong.
At this point, I was quite justifiably tired so decided to go back to my room for a rest. After a short while, I started to get into planning mode. I have yet to get a hotel in Rome nor the train tickets to get us to Messina. I went online and started figuring so many possible ways of dealing with it that I finally put it aside. I'll work it out later this evening after I have a chance to throw some options at Bridget.
Once again, I'd gotten almost all the way through a day without even thinking about eating. I also needed to get some cash so it seemed as good a time as any to do both. Getting a sandwich was easy. Getting the money? Not so much.
There is a BNL Bank machine just outside the door of this hotel. This is great since it has a reciprocal relationship with my US bank and does not charge for a withdrawal. Well, it would be great if the machine was working. It wasn't. I next tried the machine at Unida Banca Roma. This one kept asking me to tell it what language I wanted to transact in then refused to believe me when I told it. Every time I hit "English" a sign would pop up that read "attendere prego" (please wait) then returned me to the same screen and once again asked for the language. At least it wasn't an anti-American thing. It wouldn't allow me to try in French or German either - although the woman in front of me got it to work in German. When I finally gave up and asked for my card back, it attendere prego'ed me for nearly a minute before it finally spit it out.
The third time was the charm. Banca di Risparmia was perfectly willing to let me have the money...on the second try. And it wasn't as much as I wanted, but at least I got it.
I'm just hoping it's enough to take care of my laundry.
Early Evening
The best laid plans require one thing: That I can stay awake to actualize them. Last night, I had the best of intentions of skyping Bridget then going for a walk around town. Feeling a bit tired, I lay down on the bed around 5:00. When I opened my eyes, it was nearly 9:00. I was already a half hour late for our Skype date, and by the time we got off, I was way too spaced out to go for a walk. I just crawled back into bed and went to sleep. Again.
As is always true when I come here, my dreams become very vivid. I had a number of them last night, none of which I'll go into here. But it's been like this the last several nights. They aren't unpleasant; they're just vivid dreams with arc'ing narratives. Not really normal for me.
One thing was very clear this morning: I need to get some laundry done. When I was coming in yesterday, the receptionist told me that laundry service is available. Thinking that this might be a good option, I asked her today if I could arrange for it. Now, instead of extolling a service, she went in the other direction.
"You don't want to do this," she said. "Let me tell you how much." She told me it would be 16,50 Euro for one pair of trousers (roughly $21 dollars), 12,50 Euro ($15) for a shirt, and 2 Euro for each pair of socks or underwear. Even a conservative estimate would put this laundry run at over $100. I thanked her then asked if she knew where the closest lavanderia could be found.
"Not in Orvieto," she said. "Nearest one is in Orvieto Scalo." This would be down the mountain to the part of the community that actually has services. She didn't know of any specific ones but knew there were some down there.
I went back to the room and checked online. There are five listed in Orvieto Scalo but none are within range of the bus lines. I'm now debating whether I should spend tomorrow trying to figure this out, or live with what I have and take an early train to Rome on Thursday and do it there. One way or the other, it's going to have to wait.
According to the now wholly untrustworthy weather.com, today was to be cloudy with intermittent rain. I decided to take off in advance of whatever front actually did come through and to get in as much sightseeing as I could.
Having gone right out the door of my hotel yesterday, today I went left. In reasonably short order I was at the edge of the mountain and looking into the valley that fascinated me so much last year when I was in Cortona. It is still extraordinary. The rolling and verdant valley is surrounded on three sides by the Apennine Mountains. The overlook offers a view of at least 50 to 60 miles on a clear day which today was.
And wasn't.
To the west, the sky was bright with big and very non-threatening white clouds billowing overhead. To the east, thick black clouds were sweeping a fierce storm across the peaks. The big question was, of course, in which direction are the dark ones headed? One way or the other, what was fascinating was the fact that I could sit in one place and with just a slight turn of my head see two radically different weather fronts and the trough between them.
It appeared that the storm was moving straight north so I decided not to be worried and go about my business. Off to the left, there was a church on a promontory sticking out over the valley. It checked it out on the map the hotel provided and it appeared to be Chiesa di San Giovenale, an ancient church from the days when Orvieto was briefly the seat of the Catholic Church.
Getting to it meant following my instincts more than the map. It became pretty clear early on that the map wasn't an exact tool. My instincts stood in well for me and I was there in about five minutes. Too bad it was closed.
According to the same map, Complesso di Sant' Agostino was just around the corner. Surprisingly, it was.
The Complesso was for most of its life a small chapel attached to the convent of the Angostiniani nuns. Now, though, it is a sculpture museum. At present, it features the Annunciation by Francesco Mochi as well as statues of other religious figures by Pisani and Montelupo.
In order to get in I first needed a ticket. The man at the desk was friendly. Maybe a mite too friendly. His primary job was to sell me a discount ticket good for three museums. Since they were all ones that I wanted to check out the discount ticket was a no-brainer. At this point, he wanted to make sure that I knew what each museum had in its collection, what its hours of operation are, and that he had brochures for each. While his English was impeccable, his brochures were not.
"Only Italian," he said. "So sorry. But much good information so you take anyway." He shoved a fistful of brochures at me, none of which I could read. He then took out a map and showed me where everything was. When he was done, he offered me the map. I made some comment about how it had to be better than the one I had. He asked to see it.
"Yes, yes," he said. "Very different."
I asked if he thought the one he was offering was better.
"Some good, some bad in both."
He shoved his map toward me. I handed him mine and asked if he could throw it out.
"Better keep," he said. "Two together might be right"
Just as I was about to go into the chancel he put up his finger.
"You wait."
He turned to an ancient cassette player, put in a tape, and pressed the on button. It started playing something suitably Medieval. He then waved me in.
The old church is gone, or at least any physical representations of it beyond an obvious area for an altar. Along the sides leading to this are colonnades of ancient statues. At the front, are two that were quiet intelligently placed. One is of St. Michael the Archangel. He is pointing his left hand toward the Heavens. The finger is perfectly positioned to be pointing at the light coming in the high window. A few feet away is another statue. This one has been positioned so that the tilt of its head seems to be acknowledging St. Michael.
As I left I called.out "grazie" to the receptionist. As soon as he saw that I was leaving he turned off the cassette and called out "Ciao!" My guess is that he doesn't see more than two or three people a day.
My next stop was the Palazzo del Gusto - the Palace of Taste. This used to be - not surprisingly - a church, but has since been turned into the nexus point for the wineries of the region. At least this is what it is said to be. Maybe I was there too early, but there was nothing even remotely like this in my inspection of the place. All I saw was a miniature version of the Brunelleschi Cloisters at Santa Croce. Oddly enough, hanging all around the inner walls of this cloister were signs telling of Italy's role in the First World War and the rise of Italian fascism. I really wasn't sure what this had to do with wine production in Umbria.
I headed back to the Piazza della Repubblica. On the way there, I passed through the Piazza del Popolo. My hotel is ostensibly on this square, but is in fact about four blocks from it. I'm glad for this since the Piazza del Popolo isn't particularly inspiring.
Back in the Piazza della Repubblica, I sat for about a half an hour and just watched the people go by. Unlike the other piazzas in the tourist area, this one seems less trodden by outsiders. Here, the old ladies stand and talk to each other while the old men sit and talk to each other. The women clutch their purses and talk in hushed tones while the men are loud and gesticulate wildly. My favorite of the latter was a shopkeeper who came out to make a call. He was arguing loudly with the person on the other end. His free hand was punching and jabbing the air so hard that I thought he might rip a hole in the time/space continuum.
Both maps seemed to agree that the Corso Cavour, the main street in this part of town, would lead to the Piazza Cahen. I didn't really know what was there, but I was in a rambling mood so I headed off for it. Along the way, I found a beautiful little church, the Chiesa di S. Maria dei Servi, and ducked in for a while.
The Piazza Cahen is the base of the old town. I didn't know it yesterday, but I had come through this on the way to the hotel. This is the point at which the funicular (which will apparently be operation on my last day here) deposits people coming to Orvieto from the train station. Next to the exit is a large gate that leads into the Giardini Publico, the public gardens. I was about to go through when a truck started to pass through the gate. The driver had to stop, pull in his mirrors and then be directed out. He had a clearance of less than three or four inches. This I have noticed is pretty common around here. The streets are incredibly narrow, so much so that even small cars have to adjust a couple of times to make a turn.
When I finally got into the gardens I could see a group of technicians putting up a temporary stage. Off to the left was a group of young girls, all members of a dance troupe. They were there to check on the stage, and clearly the technicians were there to check on them. There was so much "cock of the walk" posturing going on that it was quite clear that no work was getting done. The choreographer, an attractive women in her late twenties, was trying to get the dancers attention away from the strutting roosters and failing miserably. I found it particularly odd that this choreographer was also chain smoking.
Both maps agreed that the road to the left would lead me directly back to the Duomo. This may have been true, but this was a narrow road with fast cars and no sidewalk. I wasn't about to attempt getting back that way. Instead, I went right back up Corso Cavour.
A short way from the turnoff to the Duomo, I spotted a sign on the Teatro Mancinelli that one could take a tour for 2 Euro. Why not?
It isn't a tour so much as a pass into the place. The theater itself is quite intimate with seating for certainly no more than 200. In spite of this fact, it is built like a miniature opera house with private boxes scaling up three tiers. It is a perfectly pleasant little matchbox theater with a mural covering the ceiling.
The real treasures in the building, though, are the ancillary spaces. There are two private performance rooms for recitals, both of which are delirious in their color schemes and beautiful mural-covered ceilings. Each of the rooms is painted in deep yet bright blues, yellows and reds with chairs that are covered in fabrics that are just as bold.
From here I headed back toward the Duomo. I was looking for the place where the tour of Orvieto's underground passages was to start. I missed the 12:15 tour so decided to hold on this until tomorrow. My guess is that the laundry will take the better part of the day so I made sure there were tours going well into the late afternoon.
I sat in the Piazza del Duomo for quite a while. As I do in Florence's Loggia, I was looking for tourists to shoot. When I finally decided to get up and walk, I headed across the piazza to Museo Emilio Greco. This was one of the museums that my newly acquired discount card would let me tour.
The museum is dedicated to the work of a local artist, but for once it isn't a Renaissance or Medieval artist. Greco was plying his art in the mid-20th century and its minimalism stands in stark contrast to everything else in the area. The work - pencil sketches and sculptures - are primarily nudes except for one massive suspended bas relief of a religious icon. The building itself is ancient, an adjunct of the Duomo, but everything in it is modern. The most striking architectural element is a red and black circular staircase in the center of the room. It stops about ten feet from the ceiling and offers an overlook of the collection.
Directly behind the Duomo and to the right of the Museo Emilio Greco is the Palazzi Papali. This was the last of the museums on my discount card. It is the polar opposite of its neighbor. This is a collection of religious artifacts, paintings and sculptures from Orvieto's papal period. Initially, the building that houses the collection was the lodging for the three popes who spanned the years 1261 to 1283.
Given the history, the museum isn't particularly inspiring. A good deal of the reason for this is the poor lighting of the place. There are few windows and multiple interior rooms. The lighting in each is kept very low so as not to blanche the colors of the paintings. Unfortunately, this means you can barely seen anything. This is also a museum where they do not allow photos (my camera would have compensated the lighting deficiencies). To make sure that you abide by this and all the other rules of the house, a young gap-toothed woman was walking from room to room and pleasantly telling people all the things that they were doing wrong.
At this point, I was quite justifiably tired so decided to go back to my room for a rest. After a short while, I started to get into planning mode. I have yet to get a hotel in Rome nor the train tickets to get us to Messina. I went online and started figuring so many possible ways of dealing with it that I finally put it aside. I'll work it out later this evening after I have a chance to throw some options at Bridget.
Once again, I'd gotten almost all the way through a day without even thinking about eating. I also needed to get some cash so it seemed as good a time as any to do both. Getting a sandwich was easy. Getting the money? Not so much.
There is a BNL Bank machine just outside the door of this hotel. This is great since it has a reciprocal relationship with my US bank and does not charge for a withdrawal. Well, it would be great if the machine was working. It wasn't. I next tried the machine at Unida Banca Roma. This one kept asking me to tell it what language I wanted to transact in then refused to believe me when I told it. Every time I hit "English" a sign would pop up that read "attendere prego" (please wait) then returned me to the same screen and once again asked for the language. At least it wasn't an anti-American thing. It wouldn't allow me to try in French or German either - although the woman in front of me got it to work in German. When I finally gave up and asked for my card back, it attendere prego'ed me for nearly a minute before it finally spit it out.
The third time was the charm. Banca di Risparmia was perfectly willing to let me have the money...on the second try. And it wasn't as much as I wanted, but at least I got it.
I'm just hoping it's enough to take care of my laundry.
Monday, June 11, 2012
8. The Kindness of Friends and Strangers
Monday, June 11
On the train from Montevarchi to Orvieto
Early Afternoon
This morning, Gia, Beppe and I had a long breakfast, one that stretched from 9:00 until 11:30 when I had to leave for my train. Somehow, we managed to get on the topic of accountants and the difficulty of dealing with a business that has to bend to both Italian and American tax laws. Since they are having great difficulties with their American accountant, Gia asked if I knew someone I trusted. I suggested two people so who knows? Maybe I can network some transatlantic business.
Otherwise, the conversation was all over the place, much of it taking in the many mutual acquaintances we keep discovering that we have in common. Not surprisingly, by the time I had to go I was already beginning to miss them.
Gia and Beppe are a great couple. They seem to have that kind of synchronization that creates a synergy capable of most anything. Beppe is cool, even-tempered and very compulsively organized. Gia is intense, self-reflective without being self-abusive, and has a mind that moves from one topic to the next with lightning speed yet absolute logic. I think one of the reasons that I connect with them so easily is because I see facets of myself in each of them. I look forward not only to working with them on this film, but also to the continued building of the friendship between us.
Just before I went to collect my bags, Gia asked me a favor. She had a small package that she wants to ship to her sister back in the states. Having attempted to ship something from Italy a few times in the past I was completely sympathetic. It is perfectly normal to spend a hundred dollars attempting to get something back to the U.S that in all probability will never arrive. I put it in my bag with the promise to ship it as soon as I get back.
When it was time to go I hugged Beppe then headed of to the station with Gia trotting alongside with her bike. The sky was threatening and during our short walk it went from dark gray to pitch black. She came out onto the platform with me where we stood under the awning as the rains came then went away again within just a few minutes. The sky was now sunny, but more clouds were approaching. Wanting to take advantage of the moment of calm, Gia decided to head back. We made our goodbyes with the promise to share dinners, their place and mine, when they get back to Chicago in September.
We just passed through Terontola-Cortona, a striking valley whose beauty I saw last year from the opposing viewpoints of Cortona and Montepulciano. The sky continues to alternate between bright blue and ominous gray. Both have the effect of adding drama to the already beautiful hills of lower Tuscany.
Mid-afternoon
Oh, I have a feeling that I'm going to like Orvieto. It is an ancient mountaintop town that forms a big triangle with Montepulciano and Cortona. Stretching between the three is the vast central plain that is bisected halfway through with Tuscany on the north and Umbria on the south.
The train arrived on time at the station at the base of the mountain. Outside is a funicular that goes up this mountain to deposit the visitors at the start of the town. Unfortunately, this is closed so I had to settle for the bus. This rickety tin box pulled us up the side of the mountain revealing one spectacular view after another as it turned corners and darted perilously close to the edge. The bus deposited us at the piazza, one dominated by an extraordinary duomo that I could see from the train when we were still about ten miles out.
At this point I was clueless about where I had to go next. I had an address but what do I know from locations here? It was then that I came upon the kindness of strangers. The bus driver had been talking to an older man, clearly an acquaintance, as I was getting off the bus. I asked the driver if he knew the address. Before he could respond, the old man grabbed my wrist and motioned to follow him. The next thing I knew, he was leading me through a maze of streets. We could barely speak each other's language so it was mostly silent. The only time he said anything was when he took the slip of paper from me to check the address.
"Albergo Grand Italia?," he said then whistled. "Buona albergo! Molto bene!" It was a good endorsement coming from a local.
As we reached the Piazza del Popolo he stopped and pointed down the street then made a curving gesture to say that I should go right at the palazzo.
"Grazie," I said. "Mille grazie."
He smiled and waved off my gratitude. "Have good time," he said haltingly. With that, he ducked into a doorway, presumably his apartment.
I found the hotel at the end of the vicolo that runs alongside the palazzo. It has a simple entrance that leads to a beautiful old fashioned reception area. The pleasantly plump female concierge, who's English is blessedly better than my Italian, moved me through quickly and sent me up to my room.
As Italian hotel rooms go, this is one of the best. An L-shaped room in bright Tuscan yellow (like sunlight but with a slight touch of green), it has two large French windows that open out onto the ancient walls and tiled roofs of the surrounding buildings. Although cloudy, the sun is coming through and bouncing off the walls and the dark wood floors. Given that all of this was a last minute decision, I'm so far thrilled with the way it is playing out.
Evening
I went out for a walk around town. My first stop was the Piazza del Popolo, a small square dominated by an Etruscan church. By Italian standards, this is small chapel; by American standards, a very large church. The nave here is stripped down. The massive but unadorned columns support an intricately beamed ceiling spread over an empty stone floor. Once you reach the bema, the sort of DMZ in front of the altar, the columns suddenly gain visual depth by applying piping that runs floor to crown. The ceiling over this area is strikingly painted in wedges of blue with gold frames. In the middle of the otherwise fairly dark chancel stood a Virgin Mary surrounded by candles and Italian twinkle lights.
Although there were a few tourists there when I started to walk around the chapel, all but me had left within a few minutes. Being alone in a large dark church can have an eery quality. This was made more so today by a door at the side of the church that kept banging shut then flying open in the wind.
My next stop was the Duomo di Orvieto, the massive cathedral I saw from the train. It rests on what appears to be the highest ground in the city and is fronted by a wide but not particularly expansive piazza. Begun in 1290 but not officially completed until 1499, it has undergone a series of modernizations over the years.
Similar to the great Duomo in Siena, this one was constructed by layering black rock on white in progression all the way to the roof. The result is that it has the emblematic stripes of the cathedrals of this period. The main entry is also heavily filigreed with vibrantly tiled frescos, metal birds and bronze doors, each added during a different period of modernization. Inside, the striping continues, not only on the walls but also on the columns that support the beamed roof. Like the other church, this beaming also gives way to brightly painted ceiling frescoes over the bema and altar.
Flanking the bema are two ancillary chapels. One is set aside strictly for worshippers, but the other, the Cappella di San Brizzio, is open and quite extraordinary. Floor to ceiling murals painted by Fra Angelico depict the judgment of Christ. The flanking walls, completed after Fra Angelico's death by Luca Signorelli, depict the end of the world and the resurrection of the flesh. There is also an odd sense of humor to the murals. At certain points, portholes are painted with Renaissance men crawling out of them, presumable trying to escape the condemnation faced by the others. Unfortunately, no photos are allowed in this section and there is a guard walking around to make sure that we all abide by this.
After leaving the Duomo, I walked down to the overlook. This side of the mountain reveals a narrow valley with another set of hills rising up almost immediately. The result is that the vineyards appear to be rolling down the slope and into the valley below.
I began to realize that I was hungry, a not unreasonable discovery since I hadn't eaten since a fairly small breakfast at Gia and Beppe's. I walked back toward the hotel and found a small ristorante with outdoor seating that happened to be in the shade. This was a very good option at this moment. I got a lasagna and a large beer from a waiter who seemed nice but not really all there. Not crazy, just slightly disconnected from reality. After this, I got a gelato (only my second since I got to Italy last week) and went back to the room for a quick rest. My plan for this evening is to Skype with Bridget then go for an evening stroll around town.
On the train from Montevarchi to Orvieto
Early Afternoon
This morning, Gia, Beppe and I had a long breakfast, one that stretched from 9:00 until 11:30 when I had to leave for my train. Somehow, we managed to get on the topic of accountants and the difficulty of dealing with a business that has to bend to both Italian and American tax laws. Since they are having great difficulties with their American accountant, Gia asked if I knew someone I trusted. I suggested two people so who knows? Maybe I can network some transatlantic business.
Otherwise, the conversation was all over the place, much of it taking in the many mutual acquaintances we keep discovering that we have in common. Not surprisingly, by the time I had to go I was already beginning to miss them.
Gia and Beppe are a great couple. They seem to have that kind of synchronization that creates a synergy capable of most anything. Beppe is cool, even-tempered and very compulsively organized. Gia is intense, self-reflective without being self-abusive, and has a mind that moves from one topic to the next with lightning speed yet absolute logic. I think one of the reasons that I connect with them so easily is because I see facets of myself in each of them. I look forward not only to working with them on this film, but also to the continued building of the friendship between us.
Just before I went to collect my bags, Gia asked me a favor. She had a small package that she wants to ship to her sister back in the states. Having attempted to ship something from Italy a few times in the past I was completely sympathetic. It is perfectly normal to spend a hundred dollars attempting to get something back to the U.S that in all probability will never arrive. I put it in my bag with the promise to ship it as soon as I get back.
When it was time to go I hugged Beppe then headed of to the station with Gia trotting alongside with her bike. The sky was threatening and during our short walk it went from dark gray to pitch black. She came out onto the platform with me where we stood under the awning as the rains came then went away again within just a few minutes. The sky was now sunny, but more clouds were approaching. Wanting to take advantage of the moment of calm, Gia decided to head back. We made our goodbyes with the promise to share dinners, their place and mine, when they get back to Chicago in September.
We just passed through Terontola-Cortona, a striking valley whose beauty I saw last year from the opposing viewpoints of Cortona and Montepulciano. The sky continues to alternate between bright blue and ominous gray. Both have the effect of adding drama to the already beautiful hills of lower Tuscany.
Mid-afternoon
Oh, I have a feeling that I'm going to like Orvieto. It is an ancient mountaintop town that forms a big triangle with Montepulciano and Cortona. Stretching between the three is the vast central plain that is bisected halfway through with Tuscany on the north and Umbria on the south.
The train arrived on time at the station at the base of the mountain. Outside is a funicular that goes up this mountain to deposit the visitors at the start of the town. Unfortunately, this is closed so I had to settle for the bus. This rickety tin box pulled us up the side of the mountain revealing one spectacular view after another as it turned corners and darted perilously close to the edge. The bus deposited us at the piazza, one dominated by an extraordinary duomo that I could see from the train when we were still about ten miles out.
At this point I was clueless about where I had to go next. I had an address but what do I know from locations here? It was then that I came upon the kindness of strangers. The bus driver had been talking to an older man, clearly an acquaintance, as I was getting off the bus. I asked the driver if he knew the address. Before he could respond, the old man grabbed my wrist and motioned to follow him. The next thing I knew, he was leading me through a maze of streets. We could barely speak each other's language so it was mostly silent. The only time he said anything was when he took the slip of paper from me to check the address.
"Albergo Grand Italia?," he said then whistled. "Buona albergo! Molto bene!" It was a good endorsement coming from a local.
As we reached the Piazza del Popolo he stopped and pointed down the street then made a curving gesture to say that I should go right at the palazzo.
"Grazie," I said. "Mille grazie."
He smiled and waved off my gratitude. "Have good time," he said haltingly. With that, he ducked into a doorway, presumably his apartment.
I found the hotel at the end of the vicolo that runs alongside the palazzo. It has a simple entrance that leads to a beautiful old fashioned reception area. The pleasantly plump female concierge, who's English is blessedly better than my Italian, moved me through quickly and sent me up to my room.
As Italian hotel rooms go, this is one of the best. An L-shaped room in bright Tuscan yellow (like sunlight but with a slight touch of green), it has two large French windows that open out onto the ancient walls and tiled roofs of the surrounding buildings. Although cloudy, the sun is coming through and bouncing off the walls and the dark wood floors. Given that all of this was a last minute decision, I'm so far thrilled with the way it is playing out.
Evening
I went out for a walk around town. My first stop was the Piazza del Popolo, a small square dominated by an Etruscan church. By Italian standards, this is small chapel; by American standards, a very large church. The nave here is stripped down. The massive but unadorned columns support an intricately beamed ceiling spread over an empty stone floor. Once you reach the bema, the sort of DMZ in front of the altar, the columns suddenly gain visual depth by applying piping that runs floor to crown. The ceiling over this area is strikingly painted in wedges of blue with gold frames. In the middle of the otherwise fairly dark chancel stood a Virgin Mary surrounded by candles and Italian twinkle lights.
Although there were a few tourists there when I started to walk around the chapel, all but me had left within a few minutes. Being alone in a large dark church can have an eery quality. This was made more so today by a door at the side of the church that kept banging shut then flying open in the wind.
My next stop was the Duomo di Orvieto, the massive cathedral I saw from the train. It rests on what appears to be the highest ground in the city and is fronted by a wide but not particularly expansive piazza. Begun in 1290 but not officially completed until 1499, it has undergone a series of modernizations over the years.
Similar to the great Duomo in Siena, this one was constructed by layering black rock on white in progression all the way to the roof. The result is that it has the emblematic stripes of the cathedrals of this period. The main entry is also heavily filigreed with vibrantly tiled frescos, metal birds and bronze doors, each added during a different period of modernization. Inside, the striping continues, not only on the walls but also on the columns that support the beamed roof. Like the other church, this beaming also gives way to brightly painted ceiling frescoes over the bema and altar.
Flanking the bema are two ancillary chapels. One is set aside strictly for worshippers, but the other, the Cappella di San Brizzio, is open and quite extraordinary. Floor to ceiling murals painted by Fra Angelico depict the judgment of Christ. The flanking walls, completed after Fra Angelico's death by Luca Signorelli, depict the end of the world and the resurrection of the flesh. There is also an odd sense of humor to the murals. At certain points, portholes are painted with Renaissance men crawling out of them, presumable trying to escape the condemnation faced by the others. Unfortunately, no photos are allowed in this section and there is a guard walking around to make sure that we all abide by this.
After leaving the Duomo, I walked down to the overlook. This side of the mountain reveals a narrow valley with another set of hills rising up almost immediately. The result is that the vineyards appear to be rolling down the slope and into the valley below.
I began to realize that I was hungry, a not unreasonable discovery since I hadn't eaten since a fairly small breakfast at Gia and Beppe's. I walked back toward the hotel and found a small ristorante with outdoor seating that happened to be in the shade. This was a very good option at this moment. I got a lasagna and a large beer from a waiter who seemed nice but not really all there. Not crazy, just slightly disconnected from reality. After this, I got a gelato (only my second since I got to Italy last week) and went back to the room for a quick rest. My plan for this evening is to Skype with Bridget then go for an evening stroll around town.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
7. There are Advantages to Living in a Palace
Sunday, June 10
Early Morning
Right now my real concern is whether or not the issue with the debit card is one that I tried to outrun. Last year, a similar thing happened when I came over. As it turned out, it was Bank of America trying to "protect" me. When they saw charges coming from a foreign country they froze the account. It took several calls to correct the situation. This year, I called and told them that I would be in Italy and gave them the dates. I'll need to get some cash from an ATM at some point in the next day or two. If it refuses to dispense money then I'll know that I have a problem. Until then, I'm not going to worry about it.
After this, I went down to breakfast. I expected to see the German couple but they were nowhere in sight. Afterward, as I was walking up the stairs, I heard both of them in there now familiar accent call out "Buongiorno!" We smiled and made our goodbyes on the stairs. As odd as this sounds, I'm going to miss them. Of course that assumes that I won't run into them somewhere else on this trip.
Some closing thoughts on Orbetello. Over the years, a number of friends have asked if I'd been there. In fact, just last week I got an email from my friend Barb who was passing through the town with her husband and wondering if I would be there at the same time (we missed each other by one day). Having now been there, I realize that people never really wondered if I'd been to Orbetello. What they were really asking was whether or not I'd been to Monte Argentario. Orbetello's prime tourist purpose is as a jumping off point for an exploration of this island and Giglio. In this sense, Orbetello is perfect, an inexpensive place to stay while visiting its neighbors.
For me, the real memories of this part of the trip will center not surprisingly around Isola del Giglio and the keeled over Costa Concordia. I can't imagine that the image of a vast luxury liner lying on its side will ever be forgotten. Even more so, the sight of dozens of tourists posing and sunbathing in front of it. Equal parts surreal and perverse, I'm glad that I have a good enough eye and a fast enough reflex on my camera to have caught a lot of that circus.
Late Evening
Montevarchi
The train from Pisa to Florence was packed with several people standing all the way. Since I had to purchase the ticket for Montevarchi in Florence, I decided to avoid any possible crowd by going first class. It cost two Euros more for the 38 minute trip, but the comfortable seat made it worthwhile.
When I got off the train in Montevarchi I was surprised not to find Gia waiting. I was about to phone when I heard her call out my name. She was riding up to the station on her bike. I wasn't sure how this would help me to get my rather oversized suitcase to their place, but I needn't have worried. They live a few steps from the station.
Gia and Beppe live in a palace. Literally. The building had been the home of the local duke several hundred years ago. It passed through several owners since then until it finally came to rest in the hands of the Monte dei Passchi Bank. Wanting to unload the property, they decided to divide it into condos. So far, Gia and Beppe are the only ones who have bought in so they pretty much have the whole place to themselves.
Beppe greeted us at the door after I maneuvered my suitcase up three long flights of stairs. Like any good Italian, he stayed home to cook while Gia came to pick me up. Within five minutes we were sitting down to a simple but fairly amazing lunch of pasta sautéed with garlic and tomatoes, green beans and carrots, and a selection of cheeses.
I met Gia and Beppe last year when I was in San Rocco a Pilli. Jack and I were looking for an Italian production team for the film and we had stumbled across an article on them in Reel Chicago. Gia is from Chicago, Beppe from Italy. They are a husband and wife team who work both sides of the Atlantic. On paper, they sounded perfect.
The three of us hit it off right from our first meeting. Over the course of the year, they got to meet Jack and come to one of the "Close Quarters" screenings as well as keeping up with me through emails. Since we needed to talk more about the film, they invited me to stay with them when I came through this year.
Lunch was fun and voluble. All three of us are good talkers so we covered numerous topics - Italian and American foibles, stories about relatives, etc. - before finally getting around to talking about the film. We covered a lot of this ground as we went out for a walk. This became a tour of Montevarchi. It is small and ancient with narrow streets that echo the frequent tolling of the church carillons. Today, there were more than the usual number of bells. For one thing, it's Sunday; for another, it's the Feast of Corpus Dominus. No, I don't know what it is, but it is important enough to peel the bells, have a night time procession, and decorate the cobblestones with these surprisingly intricate reliefs made of colored wood shavings.
No matter where we walked, people would stop to greet my hosts. At one point, Gia sighed and said that the cost of living in a small town is the loss of privacy. At least a small Italian town. The most surprising of the people we ran into was their friend, Giancarlo. He teaches photography at Scuola Lorenzo di Medici in Florence. This is where I was supposed to teach this summer until the class was canceled. As it turns out, Giancarlo and I know several the of same people. Definitely a small world.
After our walk we came back to the flat. They've done a terrific job with this place. Very modern but still warm. My favorite touch is the white-painted exposed brick in the living room and in the guest bedroom. My favorite decadent touch is the gold-tiled and very deep rectangular bathtub in the guest bathroom. If only Bridget was here. She would love this.
We continued our conversation while Beppe printer for me the hellish list of documents that the Sicilian car rental place insists that I bring to them. We then headed out for dinner at a small pizzeria where I definitely did not get pizza. We were sitting outdoors under a big umbrella so we simply failed to notice that it had begun raining.
This of course failed to deter us from doing the one thing we all wanted to do: Watch the procession of the Feast of Corpus Dominus. The bells were peeling like mad so we figured that the procession must have already started. We rushed to San Lorenzo, the big church that dominates the Piazza, hoping to get there in time.
No one was there beyond a few people lighting candles around the wood shaving icon. After a few minutes, people began to appear coming around the corner that leads to the church.
It wouldn't be fair to call this an organized procession. Just imagine a group of priests, nuns, altar boys, and worshippers all trying to look devout while also trying to get out of the rain as fast as they could. They poured into the piazza, but never took a breath. They just kept moving at a dignified gallop into the church.
The rain wasn't really more than a steady drizzle, but now it us coming down in buckets out there. On nights like these it's good to have a palace.
Early Morning
Right now my real concern is whether or not the issue with the debit card is one that I tried to outrun. Last year, a similar thing happened when I came over. As it turned out, it was Bank of America trying to "protect" me. When they saw charges coming from a foreign country they froze the account. It took several calls to correct the situation. This year, I called and told them that I would be in Italy and gave them the dates. I'll need to get some cash from an ATM at some point in the next day or two. If it refuses to dispense money then I'll know that I have a problem. Until then, I'm not going to worry about it.
After this, I went down to breakfast. I expected to see the German couple but they were nowhere in sight. Afterward, as I was walking up the stairs, I heard both of them in there now familiar accent call out "Buongiorno!" We smiled and made our goodbyes on the stairs. As odd as this sounds, I'm going to miss them. Of course that assumes that I won't run into them somewhere else on this trip.
Some closing thoughts on Orbetello. Over the years, a number of friends have asked if I'd been there. In fact, just last week I got an email from my friend Barb who was passing through the town with her husband and wondering if I would be there at the same time (we missed each other by one day). Having now been there, I realize that people never really wondered if I'd been to Orbetello. What they were really asking was whether or not I'd been to Monte Argentario. Orbetello's prime tourist purpose is as a jumping off point for an exploration of this island and Giglio. In this sense, Orbetello is perfect, an inexpensive place to stay while visiting its neighbors.
For me, the real memories of this part of the trip will center not surprisingly around Isola del Giglio and the keeled over Costa Concordia. I can't imagine that the image of a vast luxury liner lying on its side will ever be forgotten. Even more so, the sight of dozens of tourists posing and sunbathing in front of it. Equal parts surreal and perverse, I'm glad that I have a good enough eye and a fast enough reflex on my camera to have caught a lot of that circus.
Late Evening
Montevarchi
The train from Pisa to Florence was packed with several people standing all the way. Since I had to purchase the ticket for Montevarchi in Florence, I decided to avoid any possible crowd by going first class. It cost two Euros more for the 38 minute trip, but the comfortable seat made it worthwhile.
When I got off the train in Montevarchi I was surprised not to find Gia waiting. I was about to phone when I heard her call out my name. She was riding up to the station on her bike. I wasn't sure how this would help me to get my rather oversized suitcase to their place, but I needn't have worried. They live a few steps from the station.
Gia and Beppe live in a palace. Literally. The building had been the home of the local duke several hundred years ago. It passed through several owners since then until it finally came to rest in the hands of the Monte dei Passchi Bank. Wanting to unload the property, they decided to divide it into condos. So far, Gia and Beppe are the only ones who have bought in so they pretty much have the whole place to themselves.
Beppe greeted us at the door after I maneuvered my suitcase up three long flights of stairs. Like any good Italian, he stayed home to cook while Gia came to pick me up. Within five minutes we were sitting down to a simple but fairly amazing lunch of pasta sautéed with garlic and tomatoes, green beans and carrots, and a selection of cheeses.
I met Gia and Beppe last year when I was in San Rocco a Pilli. Jack and I were looking for an Italian production team for the film and we had stumbled across an article on them in Reel Chicago. Gia is from Chicago, Beppe from Italy. They are a husband and wife team who work both sides of the Atlantic. On paper, they sounded perfect.
The three of us hit it off right from our first meeting. Over the course of the year, they got to meet Jack and come to one of the "Close Quarters" screenings as well as keeping up with me through emails. Since we needed to talk more about the film, they invited me to stay with them when I came through this year.
Lunch was fun and voluble. All three of us are good talkers so we covered numerous topics - Italian and American foibles, stories about relatives, etc. - before finally getting around to talking about the film. We covered a lot of this ground as we went out for a walk. This became a tour of Montevarchi. It is small and ancient with narrow streets that echo the frequent tolling of the church carillons. Today, there were more than the usual number of bells. For one thing, it's Sunday; for another, it's the Feast of Corpus Dominus. No, I don't know what it is, but it is important enough to peel the bells, have a night time procession, and decorate the cobblestones with these surprisingly intricate reliefs made of colored wood shavings.
No matter where we walked, people would stop to greet my hosts. At one point, Gia sighed and said that the cost of living in a small town is the loss of privacy. At least a small Italian town. The most surprising of the people we ran into was their friend, Giancarlo. He teaches photography at Scuola Lorenzo di Medici in Florence. This is where I was supposed to teach this summer until the class was canceled. As it turns out, Giancarlo and I know several the of same people. Definitely a small world.
After our walk we came back to the flat. They've done a terrific job with this place. Very modern but still warm. My favorite touch is the white-painted exposed brick in the living room and in the guest bedroom. My favorite decadent touch is the gold-tiled and very deep rectangular bathtub in the guest bathroom. If only Bridget was here. She would love this.
We continued our conversation while Beppe printer for me the hellish list of documents that the Sicilian car rental place insists that I bring to them. We then headed out for dinner at a small pizzeria where I definitely did not get pizza. We were sitting outdoors under a big umbrella so we simply failed to notice that it had begun raining.
This of course failed to deter us from doing the one thing we all wanted to do: Watch the procession of the Feast of Corpus Dominus. The bells were peeling like mad so we figured that the procession must have already started. We rushed to San Lorenzo, the big church that dominates the Piazza, hoping to get there in time.
No one was there beyond a few people lighting candles around the wood shaving icon. After a few minutes, people began to appear coming around the corner that leads to the church.
It wouldn't be fair to call this an organized procession. Just imagine a group of priests, nuns, altar boys, and worshippers all trying to look devout while also trying to get out of the rain as fast as they could. They poured into the piazza, but never took a breath. They just kept moving at a dignified gallop into the church.
The rain wasn't really more than a steady drizzle, but now it us coming down in buckets out there. On nights like these it's good to have a palace.
Saturday, June 9, 2012
6. The Little Engine That Could (But Shouldn't Have Bothered)
Saturday, June 9
Evening
When I got back to my room last night I decided to check into my question about why the Costa Concordia was so close to the shore. Not only wasn't it supposed to be that close, it wasn't even supposed to be there. For reasons that apparently still remain obscure, when the ship sailed from Rome a few hours before, its routing was changed. Instead of going its familiar route up the west side of Giglio, it was given a sudden change that sent it up the east side. The large cruise liners never go up this side of the island. While the captain's behavior after the ship ran aground is inexcusable, some of the fault must lie with the company or whoever it was that changed the orders at the last minute.
Two things to consider in light of this: First, can anyone possibly imagine what it would be like to wake up one morning and find a beached mega cruise ship in your front yard, especially given that you would not be used to seeing one in those waters under any circumstances? Second, (and this comes from the perspective of someone who has now been there) the captain deserted the ship as soon as it went aground. It's well documented that he immediately called for a cab. Where in God's name was he expecting to take this? The town is three blocks long and, not to put too fine a point on this, it's an island! And a damned tiny one at that.
But that was last night. This morning I got up with the intention of getting the train ticket to Montevarchi tomorrow then heading off to Porto Santo Stefano. I wound up waking around 6:30 so went online to check my email. There was one from Jack telling me how a screening of the Haiti doc trailer went at Kartemquin the night before last. Apparently it went well enough for us to consider some changes in our funding strategy. I decided to get some breakfast and respond before heading off to the train station.
The breakfast music this morning was the same Beatles CD followed immediately by Van Morrison. My guess is that these are on a loop that starts at the same time each morning since "Yellow Submarine" came on at the exact same point in my breakfast as it did yesterday. There were no large American women to sway to it this morning, but I did notice a pleasant German couple who were on the same bus as mine yesterday afternoon. We smiled a good morning to each other.
I finished up an email to Jack then headed off to the train station. My plan was to get my ticket for tomorrow then take the bus from the station to Porto Santo Stefano.
A note on Italian buses: They are not like any other buses in the world. To begin with, they are incredibly small. I got an eight-seater on the way to the station and a whopping sixteen-seater on the way back. Rome and Milan are the only two Italian cities that have what we might consider normal-sized buses. Even in a city the size of Florence, they make do with these Matchbox toys. They are also preternaturally flimsy, feeling more like a tin box than a legal street vehicle. Worst of all, they have zero suspension. The result is that attempting to move around on one of these while the bus is in motion is as disorienting as walking in zero gravity. No one, not even the Italians, have ever quite figured out how to keep their balance in one of these crates. And it doesn't help that the seats are made of very slippery plastic. It is not abnormal to see one or two people slide out of their seat on a tight corner.
I managed to keep both my balance and my seat - barely - for the short hop to the train station. When I got there, I discovered that the ticket window was closed. The sign assured me that it was open, but the metal drop door and the locked chain in front of this spoke to a different reality. This meant using the ticket vending machines. Normally this is fine, but today the two machines kept freezing up at the same point. It wound up taking ten minutes to do something that should easily have been done in two.
I went out front to wait for the bus. After a few minutes, the bus to Porto Ercole showed up. According to the sign, the next one to Porto Santo Stefano wouldn't be coming for another twenty minutes. What the hell, I thought. I'd been to Porto Santo Stefano yesterday and the Porto Ercole bus was already here. I made the executive decision to head to Porto Ercole and got on the bus.
The bus bounced and rattled back into Orbetello. It stopped in front of my hotel where the German couple got on. We smiled to each other then braced ourselves for the ten minute roller coaster ride to Porto Ercole on the east side of Monte Argentario.
Like Porto Santo Stefano on the other side of the island, Porto Ercole is a C-shaped sheltered harbor for fishing boats and personal craft. Part of the sheltering comes from the mountains that surround it on all three sides, but a more practical sheltering comes from the massive castles that top the cliffs on either side of the marina. Both appear as though they were carved directly from the promontory of each. Most of the town's buildings rest along the base of the mountains rather than the Italian custom of scaling their cities directly into the slope. Certainly there are buildings crawling up the sides, but the overall feeling is more ground-level than elevated.
We took the bus to the turnaround point about halfway up the southern slope. This afforded a nice view of the city, but unfortunately the sky was quite overcast. Once again, weather.com promised sunny skies and a 10% chance of rain. Once again, the Italian weather gods laughed. The problem with this kind of climate is that the lighting is very dingy so photos never quite come out as well as one would wish. My solution is to look for colors and concentrate on these. And avoid shooting the sky unless it looks interesting (as in threatening).
I walked down a long decline to marina level. At the base of this walkway sits a small shipyard where the workmen were fixing up two dry-docked pleasure craft. I wanted to shoot some people so I looked around for interesting faces. I saw a couple sitting on a bench so took up position on an opposing bench. It was the German couple. We caught each others' eye. We didn't have a common language so all we could do was shrug and laugh.
I went for a walk along the boardwalk. Porto Ercole is a quiet town. I doubt that it is much of a tourist destination. There is a decided lack of souvenir shops and overpriced coffee bars. It feels very much like a place where real people live and work.
At the far end of the boardwalk is a small merry-go-round with various little amusements for kids. What I liked about it was the chutzpah of it. As everyone must know, Disney does not take kindly to copyright infringement. This little park skirts the issue by changing the names just enough to keep Disney from suing. The Jungle Book becomes The Jungle Boat, the Magic Kingdom is now the Magical Kingdom, and Captain Nemo is here miraculously transformed into Captain Neptune.
Once I reached the end of the marina I sat for a good long while next to an Italian woman who was engaged in an intense conversation on her cellphone. I simply used it as an opportunity to listen and attempt a translation. I'm getting to that point in the trip where I'm anxious to start using what little Italian I have.
I debated for awhile about ascending the southern slope and going into the fortezza. There was no signage for it so I didn't even know if it was open. God knows that I would hate to go up that mountain on foot and find out that it was closed.
After a long meander around the marina I reached the incline that leads up to the bus stop. As I started to walk up, I spotted the German couple coming down. They had a map. We greeted each other. He was brandishing the map while she was telling me in an extremely halting combination of Italian, German and English, that they had found the turistico office and were told that the fortezza was open. I somehow conveyed the question, "Did you go up?" As soon as they both processed what I was asking, they shook their heads. "No," he said, "scala." He then made a sharp incline of his arm to demonstrate that the scala, the staircase, was too steep for them.
For reasons best left unexplored, I did not take this as a warning. I decided to go for it. I finished the walk up the ramp and went past the bus stop by about 100 feet and saw the staircase. I started to climb.
The first 150 or so steps were fine. It was a stone staircase with fairly even tread and a consistent height from step to step. It was also one of those staircases that twist around so that you always think that you can see the top but are invariably fooled.
After the second turn, the staircase began to get a little uneven. This is to say that now the heights of each step varied from one to the next by several inches. Some steps were as little as three inches high while others as high as ten. And there was no rhyme or reason to the placement. I started to get very winded and twice had to stop. Still, I went forward. After this obstacle course came a new one. Now, the walkway was raked with each step a few inches high but several feet long. Just as before, it was impossible to establish a rhythm because there was no rhyme or reason to the depths of each step.
I had certainly gone too far to turn back. Every so often there would be a clearing and I could see that the view from the fortezza would be spectacular if I could just survive the trek to see it.
Finally, huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could, I rounded a corner and saw the iron gate to the castle. What really stood out was the little red and white sign with black letters. It read, "Vietato Accesso." That's Italian for "do not enter." The gate was padlocked. And the walls were too high to get a look at the vista.
I wish I could say that I was unhappy or disappointed or even mad. At that moment, I was just impressed to have survived the climb.
The trip down was almost as bad as the trip up, but it got easier once I was past the two sets of uneven tread. By the time I hit the bottom, I was ready to go back. I walked over to the bus stop and plopped down on one of the stone benches. The next bus wasn't due for another fifty minutes, but I was fine with that. I could use the break.
When the bus finally did come I poured myself into seat and hung on. We stopped at the bottom of the hill and picked up several passengers. Just as we were about to start up, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the German couple. I took the opportunity to show them a photo I had surreptitiously taken of them when we were facing each other on the benches. This seemed to tickle them. They howled over it for several seconds.
A few minutes later, the bus dropped us off at our hotel. I went in while the German couple took off on a walk. I went up to my room and Skyped with Bridget for a while then did a little writing. At some point, I realized that it was 5:30 and I hadn't eaten since a very early breakfast. I decided to go to a place whose sign declaring it "an English Pub" caught my attention two days ago. I have, after all, eaten enough Italian food in the past few days to crave something a little different.
I walked the three blocks down the street to the sign. I was hoping that they served food just like any other "English pub." After all, there is nothing else in this neighborhood that even remotely resembles a place where one could get something to eat.
I should have started out by hoping that they actually existed.
When I got to the sign I noticed an arrow pointing across the street. There was an alley and, at the end of this, another arrow pointing down another alley. When I turned that corner, I could see nothing but the backend of an apartment building, two big dumpsters, and a one-eyed cat tied to a stake.
After another block or two, I found a little pizzeria where I could get a ham calzone. I followed this with a selection of small sweets from the bakery next door,
And, oh yeah, on the way home? I ran into the German couple.
Evening
When I got back to my room last night I decided to check into my question about why the Costa Concordia was so close to the shore. Not only wasn't it supposed to be that close, it wasn't even supposed to be there. For reasons that apparently still remain obscure, when the ship sailed from Rome a few hours before, its routing was changed. Instead of going its familiar route up the west side of Giglio, it was given a sudden change that sent it up the east side. The large cruise liners never go up this side of the island. While the captain's behavior after the ship ran aground is inexcusable, some of the fault must lie with the company or whoever it was that changed the orders at the last minute.
Two things to consider in light of this: First, can anyone possibly imagine what it would be like to wake up one morning and find a beached mega cruise ship in your front yard, especially given that you would not be used to seeing one in those waters under any circumstances? Second, (and this comes from the perspective of someone who has now been there) the captain deserted the ship as soon as it went aground. It's well documented that he immediately called for a cab. Where in God's name was he expecting to take this? The town is three blocks long and, not to put too fine a point on this, it's an island! And a damned tiny one at that.
But that was last night. This morning I got up with the intention of getting the train ticket to Montevarchi tomorrow then heading off to Porto Santo Stefano. I wound up waking around 6:30 so went online to check my email. There was one from Jack telling me how a screening of the Haiti doc trailer went at Kartemquin the night before last. Apparently it went well enough for us to consider some changes in our funding strategy. I decided to get some breakfast and respond before heading off to the train station.
The breakfast music this morning was the same Beatles CD followed immediately by Van Morrison. My guess is that these are on a loop that starts at the same time each morning since "Yellow Submarine" came on at the exact same point in my breakfast as it did yesterday. There were no large American women to sway to it this morning, but I did notice a pleasant German couple who were on the same bus as mine yesterday afternoon. We smiled a good morning to each other.
I finished up an email to Jack then headed off to the train station. My plan was to get my ticket for tomorrow then take the bus from the station to Porto Santo Stefano.
A note on Italian buses: They are not like any other buses in the world. To begin with, they are incredibly small. I got an eight-seater on the way to the station and a whopping sixteen-seater on the way back. Rome and Milan are the only two Italian cities that have what we might consider normal-sized buses. Even in a city the size of Florence, they make do with these Matchbox toys. They are also preternaturally flimsy, feeling more like a tin box than a legal street vehicle. Worst of all, they have zero suspension. The result is that attempting to move around on one of these while the bus is in motion is as disorienting as walking in zero gravity. No one, not even the Italians, have ever quite figured out how to keep their balance in one of these crates. And it doesn't help that the seats are made of very slippery plastic. It is not abnormal to see one or two people slide out of their seat on a tight corner.
I managed to keep both my balance and my seat - barely - for the short hop to the train station. When I got there, I discovered that the ticket window was closed. The sign assured me that it was open, but the metal drop door and the locked chain in front of this spoke to a different reality. This meant using the ticket vending machines. Normally this is fine, but today the two machines kept freezing up at the same point. It wound up taking ten minutes to do something that should easily have been done in two.
I went out front to wait for the bus. After a few minutes, the bus to Porto Ercole showed up. According to the sign, the next one to Porto Santo Stefano wouldn't be coming for another twenty minutes. What the hell, I thought. I'd been to Porto Santo Stefano yesterday and the Porto Ercole bus was already here. I made the executive decision to head to Porto Ercole and got on the bus.
The bus bounced and rattled back into Orbetello. It stopped in front of my hotel where the German couple got on. We smiled to each other then braced ourselves for the ten minute roller coaster ride to Porto Ercole on the east side of Monte Argentario.
Like Porto Santo Stefano on the other side of the island, Porto Ercole is a C-shaped sheltered harbor for fishing boats and personal craft. Part of the sheltering comes from the mountains that surround it on all three sides, but a more practical sheltering comes from the massive castles that top the cliffs on either side of the marina. Both appear as though they were carved directly from the promontory of each. Most of the town's buildings rest along the base of the mountains rather than the Italian custom of scaling their cities directly into the slope. Certainly there are buildings crawling up the sides, but the overall feeling is more ground-level than elevated.
We took the bus to the turnaround point about halfway up the southern slope. This afforded a nice view of the city, but unfortunately the sky was quite overcast. Once again, weather.com promised sunny skies and a 10% chance of rain. Once again, the Italian weather gods laughed. The problem with this kind of climate is that the lighting is very dingy so photos never quite come out as well as one would wish. My solution is to look for colors and concentrate on these. And avoid shooting the sky unless it looks interesting (as in threatening).
I walked down a long decline to marina level. At the base of this walkway sits a small shipyard where the workmen were fixing up two dry-docked pleasure craft. I wanted to shoot some people so I looked around for interesting faces. I saw a couple sitting on a bench so took up position on an opposing bench. It was the German couple. We caught each others' eye. We didn't have a common language so all we could do was shrug and laugh.
I went for a walk along the boardwalk. Porto Ercole is a quiet town. I doubt that it is much of a tourist destination. There is a decided lack of souvenir shops and overpriced coffee bars. It feels very much like a place where real people live and work.
At the far end of the boardwalk is a small merry-go-round with various little amusements for kids. What I liked about it was the chutzpah of it. As everyone must know, Disney does not take kindly to copyright infringement. This little park skirts the issue by changing the names just enough to keep Disney from suing. The Jungle Book becomes The Jungle Boat, the Magic Kingdom is now the Magical Kingdom, and Captain Nemo is here miraculously transformed into Captain Neptune.
Once I reached the end of the marina I sat for a good long while next to an Italian woman who was engaged in an intense conversation on her cellphone. I simply used it as an opportunity to listen and attempt a translation. I'm getting to that point in the trip where I'm anxious to start using what little Italian I have.
I debated for awhile about ascending the southern slope and going into the fortezza. There was no signage for it so I didn't even know if it was open. God knows that I would hate to go up that mountain on foot and find out that it was closed.
After a long meander around the marina I reached the incline that leads up to the bus stop. As I started to walk up, I spotted the German couple coming down. They had a map. We greeted each other. He was brandishing the map while she was telling me in an extremely halting combination of Italian, German and English, that they had found the turistico office and were told that the fortezza was open. I somehow conveyed the question, "Did you go up?" As soon as they both processed what I was asking, they shook their heads. "No," he said, "scala." He then made a sharp incline of his arm to demonstrate that the scala, the staircase, was too steep for them.
For reasons best left unexplored, I did not take this as a warning. I decided to go for it. I finished the walk up the ramp and went past the bus stop by about 100 feet and saw the staircase. I started to climb.
The first 150 or so steps were fine. It was a stone staircase with fairly even tread and a consistent height from step to step. It was also one of those staircases that twist around so that you always think that you can see the top but are invariably fooled.
After the second turn, the staircase began to get a little uneven. This is to say that now the heights of each step varied from one to the next by several inches. Some steps were as little as three inches high while others as high as ten. And there was no rhyme or reason to the placement. I started to get very winded and twice had to stop. Still, I went forward. After this obstacle course came a new one. Now, the walkway was raked with each step a few inches high but several feet long. Just as before, it was impossible to establish a rhythm because there was no rhyme or reason to the depths of each step.
I had certainly gone too far to turn back. Every so often there would be a clearing and I could see that the view from the fortezza would be spectacular if I could just survive the trek to see it.
Finally, huffing and puffing like the Little Engine That Could, I rounded a corner and saw the iron gate to the castle. What really stood out was the little red and white sign with black letters. It read, "Vietato Accesso." That's Italian for "do not enter." The gate was padlocked. And the walls were too high to get a look at the vista.
I wish I could say that I was unhappy or disappointed or even mad. At that moment, I was just impressed to have survived the climb.
The trip down was almost as bad as the trip up, but it got easier once I was past the two sets of uneven tread. By the time I hit the bottom, I was ready to go back. I walked over to the bus stop and plopped down on one of the stone benches. The next bus wasn't due for another fifty minutes, but I was fine with that. I could use the break.
When the bus finally did come I poured myself into seat and hung on. We stopped at the bottom of the hill and picked up several passengers. Just as we were about to start up, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to see the German couple. I took the opportunity to show them a photo I had surreptitiously taken of them when we were facing each other on the benches. This seemed to tickle them. They howled over it for several seconds.
A few minutes later, the bus dropped us off at our hotel. I went in while the German couple took off on a walk. I went up to my room and Skyped with Bridget for a while then did a little writing. At some point, I realized that it was 5:30 and I hadn't eaten since a very early breakfast. I decided to go to a place whose sign declaring it "an English Pub" caught my attention two days ago. I have, after all, eaten enough Italian food in the past few days to crave something a little different.
I walked the three blocks down the street to the sign. I was hoping that they served food just like any other "English pub." After all, there is nothing else in this neighborhood that even remotely resembles a place where one could get something to eat.
I should have started out by hoping that they actually existed.
When I got to the sign I noticed an arrow pointing across the street. There was an alley and, at the end of this, another arrow pointing down another alley. When I turned that corner, I could see nothing but the backend of an apartment building, two big dumpsters, and a one-eyed cat tied to a stake.
After another block or two, I found a little pizzeria where I could get a ham calzone. I followed this with a selection of small sweets from the bakery next door,
And, oh yeah, on the way home? I ran into the German couple.
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