9 Dec
Italy - Part Two
Since not enough people complained, here is Part 2.
Stairway to Heaven:
One of the many untruths propagated by the tourist books is that you can
travel in Yurrup with a Visa Card, an ATM Card, and a couple of Travellers
Checks.
Read my lips, you need cash.
From the bag of chestnuts you buy on the street, to the incomparable ability
of hard cash to jar the memory of an uncooperative native, nothing beats a
couple of crispies. The local flavor is called, Lira, which comes from a Latin
word meaning ludicrous. There is no such thing as one Lira, a thousand is
worth about 64 cents, which means 10,000 is about $6.50. In this town mister,
you don"t do much of anything for less than 10 grand. And, to thoroughly annoy
you, each denomination is slightly larger in size, and a different color. The
stuff looks like rejects from a board game - you can get a cappuccino for a
couple of grand, chestnuts for about 5 g"s and Boardwalk would be about
675,000 ($400), give or take. Another untruth is that anything in a tourist
town is free, it just that you hardly even feel the invisible hand reaching in
your pocket.
We decided to seize the next day and do up St. Peters properly. Sure, you can
walk through the largest church in the world gratis, but if you want to see
the tomb of St. Peter, explore the catacombs, or climb the dome, they gotcha.
(But of course they don"t tell you this until you have waited 45 minutes in
line.) It was sunny so we took the dome, paid the 25 grand and skipped right
by the little sign that mentioned pregnancy, heart conditions and stuff like
that.
The first couple of hundred steps aren"t too bad, but we were all sucking some
pretty good wind when we hit the fun house. The dark spiral passage is no more
than 30 inches wide, the well worn steps are half the depth they should be,
and the outside wall is curving in ever more steeply. There are now panting
humans on every step and a couple of outsized cowboys up ahead who are one
pizza induced infarction away from meeting St. Peter in person. If they go, we
are all just so many dominos.
We finally left the cowboys at a landing, and continued up the east face. And
just when we thought our party had reached the summit, we realized we were
only at the inside landing! Without thinking, I walked out to that little
railing, looked straight down 300 feet to the altar, and promptly proclaimed,
"Holy S.....". Which was not exactly the way the nuns taught us to say it.
Great, I have now blasphemed the holiest place in Christendom, I need oxygen,
and the only way out is another 200 steps - UP. Though oxygen depravation
obscured the final assent somewhat, we did reach the top and were rewarded
with a spectacular view of Vatican City and Rome at about 400 feet. A Kodak
moment. (But how did they DO this in 1500 ??? with ropes ??? )
The descent was uneventful until we realized that our path was purposely
diverted on to the roof of the main church, where we were funneled through a
gift shop that would make Graceland proud. It is cheerfully staffed by the
Sisters of Commerce, and while they don"t have the Pope on black velvet, they
covered all the other trinket categories in 6 colors and 12 languages. Here,
they take VISA. As I wrote out postcards with Matthew, Kathy casually walked
over to the ladies room, only to return five minutes later with wet hands and
fire in her eyes. It seems that the uniformed attendant (Little Sisters of No
Mercy) did not inform her that you need CASH to get any paper product you
might require, until after it was too late. Message to rookies: keep a couple
of coins in your pocket, and duke the nun before you sit down.
Weak kneed, but wiser, we slogged on to our next challenge: navigating the
municipal bus system. Fortunately Russ tipped us off that the civil servant
bus drivers don"t bother to check if you actually validate the paper tickets
the book says you are supposed to purchase. So we got on and smugly watched
dozens of neophytes dutifully punch their their tickets and then look up to
realize that no one cared. I kept our virgin tickets safe in my pocket next to
the unruly wad of Lira, not yet fully realizing that it was the only thing I
would ever put INTO that pocket.
Dec 15, 1998
Part 3: After the Deluge
Damn the doorbell. If it"s Friday, it must be the cleaning lady. One of the perks of the apartment: once a week, wash, clean and iron - 50 grand cash, unmarked bills. This diminutive dynamo was amused by the impromptu Bedouin camp we had set up in the living room, and politely got on with her chores. Sometime later we were roused by the most melodic mixture of screaming vulgarity I have heard in a long time. Some languages just lend themselves to certain situations. French maybe the language of love, but my personal favorite for expletives would be Japanese, since everything sounds like cursing anyway. But Italian has more vowels per square foot than anything else, there is an unmistakably operatic quality about it, and the not so fat lady was singin". I scrambled out to find the washing machine heroically belching out a slime green magma of powdered soap, and a very respectable amount of water for such a puny device. With an arm wave worthy of the Lone Ranger, (step back Ma"am, this is man"s work) I promptly pressed every button I could find, just like I knew what I was doing. It stopped, she mopped, and I flopped back into bed. Crisis averted.
For those who may not have seen an Italian washing machine in person, picture the ball washer at your local bowling alley, full of BVD"s. Tiny, under powered, one knob. three buttons, no labels. But, this is not my problem, right ??
We finally rallied for a short outing to the Castel St. Angleo, which started out as Hadrian"s tomb, got reconfigured as a fort, and eventually got joined to the Vatican by about a half mile long wall that was an escape route for the warrior class Popes. Another 25 grand, another couple of hundred steps. Hey, were getting good at this. Somebody just pop over the bridge and see where I left my knees yesterday. Some really nice views of the Tiber, and even a small bar ("cafe" to us) for lunch. Recipe for Italian sandwich (tourist class): one piece of pizza crust like bread on the bottom, one piece of ham, one piece of cheese, top piece of bread, imaginary condiments of your choice. Serve with bottled water. You guessed it, 10 grand.
We returned to find the mummified washing machine man (he was at least 90) sucking the last molecule of nicotine out of his Camel (one hump) and cursing in not so melodic Italian. ("saporino, troppo saporino") He was our first instructor in the Italian fine art of, "no speak English" (but understand you stupid tourists perfectly). After some prodding and poking, he left with a smirk and Russ convinced that it was fixed. And I stayed out of it because it was not my problem, right? So, Russ bravely tossed in some sweatsocks, a pinch of soap, and promptly created a small self service car wash. Where are Mo and Larry when you need them ??
During some animated discussion, with subtitles, I reluctantly accepted that it was my Karma to assist in attempting invasive surgery on the beast, using only Russ"s trusty Taiwan Tony Toolkit, and my Swiss army knife. After covering the floor with pieces and screws and the air with considerable bad language, we found the intestinal blockage in a short chubby hose. "Give me some suction, and a #10 blade, I will try to resect the bowel". Not. Only antique British cars and Italian washing machines still use the wire type hose clamps that you need a special slotted pliers to remove. (you think the Brits unloaded their stock??) We eventually prevailed. W even managed to get all the long screws into the short screw spots and out again, and quite pleased with ourselves, declared victory. Russ reloaded the breech, charged the powder, and smartly hit the trigger. The sweet sound of swoosh, was greeted with cheering from all, that is until the smell started. BLAM, total quiet, total darkness. "Houston, we have a problem."
"Hey Russ, I think we took out the whole building". "Really?"
As we fumbled for a flashlight, the lights across the courtyard started coming on one by one, until finally it was our turn. Only later did we learn that there was a unique planetary alignment which caused all 20 people in the damned building to turn their washers on at preciesely the same moment, and that the wiring was only sufficient for about 4. Our little ball washer cooled down, and then swooshed along quite happily, which was just as well, because it wasn"t my problem in the first place.
Dec 18, 1998
Part 4: The Road is My Middle Name
In order to fully appreciate the culture and customs of a place, you have to get off the beaten track and endure some hardship and inconvenience, ...just think of the rewards. In Italy, you have a lot of time to think because you are standing around endlessly trying to figure out the train system. On the advice of our local AAA we bought, for a ton of money, four ItalRail passes, which seemed like the right thing to do.
No instructions over here, no help over there, no way can this be happening!! What someone should tell you is that the passes are only good for second class seats (no big deal right?), that they only work for travel between BIG cities, and that if you make any mark upon them, the referee will give you a red card and you will be immediately ejected from the game.
So we schlep to the humongous station in Rome, carefully pick out a train to Naples from the 937 listings on the board, (which of course do not agree with the printed schedules) find the track, find some nice second class seats, and watch Russ confidently write the date onto all the passes.
The way you can tell the cars apart is pretty simple. In first class, the women with fur coats carry leather handbags. In second class, the women with fur coats carry shopping bags. And on local trains, the women in fur coats carry live chickens.
Rome to Naples, clicked along nicely, and no one ever looked at the tickets. In Naples we watched some other rookies with passes being issued a yellow card, so we presented our tickets to the agent who gave us the Italian equivalent of "forgetaboutit".
"Unless of course you would care to purchase tickets for the local train to Sorrento?"
"No, thanks, I can die content now that I have seen Naples."
10 grand apiece, one way.
Sorrento is quaint. The palm trees are quaint, the orange trees are quaint, and hotel might be quaint, but the innkeeper can"t seem to remember any reservations. I don"t know what hit the floor first, the faces or the backpacks, but this was no time to be a weenie. Double down. 20 grand on the bar, and we instantly became family. "All rooms have a balcony, caffe is served 8 to 10, towels are on the beds." Cool. No TV, no VISA, no traveler's checks - enjoy your stay. So off we went foraging for some local delicacies.
Plain pizza in Italy is called "pizza Margarethe", named for some virginal saint (whose family probably controlled the anchovy trade), and it is stone hearth baked, with stone hard crust, nearly raw lumpy tomatoes, and molten mozzarella cheese. This coupled with "aqua minerale con gas" makes for a romantic late night meal, as long as you like plain pizza and club soda with your ambiance. 60 grand for four.
Next day, I made it a point to stop into one of the many local wood inlay shops famous for their multicolored and intricate intarsia work. The current variety has about 27 coats of shiny polyester on it, and we watched as Nunzio mesmerized the tourists with his skill at the scroll saw. The work is way too gaudy for my taste, but I want the saw. This ancient cast iron monolith had to weigh over a ton. The table looked like the deck of the Nimitz, and it had a really cool automotive type clutch pedal, which probably came from one of the six Fiats they melted down to make it. A tad too big for the carry on bag.
Our top ten tourist hit parade brought us next to the ancient Roman city of Pompei, which was toasted by Vesuvius in 79 AD, and is arguably the greatest dig on the planet. It was mostly dug out in the last 150 years, though they will surely be digging until the next eruption. The order and precision of the city"s plan grabs your attention immediately, the ominous shadow of the volcano looms behind you, the sound of the wind whistling through the ancient streets haunts your very soul. And as you gently wander the ruins, you find yourself asking the question: Did those 300 Japanese just pop up out of the sewers or did they beam down ?? It was difficult for Matthew to imagine the way it used to be, because there is nothing at all in the way of interpretive material, so we just pretended we were in our Sorrento street of the night before. You can smell the fruit and vegetables spilling on to the sidewalks, you can dodge the path of an oncoming cart, you can hear the conversations near the fountain, and you can even imagine the shopkeeper selling cheap gold trinkets to the gullible tourists. Life in Italy has not changed, only now they have paper money. There is a famous floor mosaic here, of a dog guarding the entrance hall of a house, and the caption in Latin reads: "Canus, caneum". Which loosely translated, means, "beware of the dog".
Still damn good advice.
Dec. 23, 1998
Part 5: One Man"s Ceiling
Our second day in Sorrento was to include a climb up Vesuvius itself, but if the cold November mist was this thick down here, how could I explain to my knees that we hiked up into the fog to see some rocks. It was Sunday, and the knees deserved a nice restful day.
"Hey, how about going south to the beaches along the Amalfi coast?"
"Beaches you say, Russ?"
"Were there".
Of course the bus system has to be simpler than the trains, right ? Simple as long as you pay in advance, and don"t count too heavily on the schedules. The bus looked innocent, the driver looked innocent and the other tourists were just as cold and tired as we were, though curiously they were all sitting on one side of the bus.
The coastline South of Naples was designed when God was just practicing how to divide the land from the Sea, and hadn"t quite figured out the gentle transitions. The highway was designed by a gastrointerologist, in the form of the lower intestine, and appears to have been loosely sutured to the side of the sheer cliffs. If you have been to a theme park where they put you on a bus and simulate something like the parting of the Red Sea, you have been on this bus. The the road is slick, the normal visibility of 500 feet between blind corners is reduced to about 5 feet, and the driver"s name is Keanu. "Don"t look - down". Let it suffice to say that the combination of speed, vertigo, and hunger are not a pretty sight. But not to worry, we are going to the beach.
The bus deposited us in the quaint village of Poisitano, where we were treated to a most remarkable view. Hundreds of feet below us is a scrap of beach too small for a decent soccer field, that caused the otherwise sensible ancients to start building homes here. The first few did pretty well, until one guy above started putting his floor the first guy"s ceiling, and then sold the acreage on his roof to the next guy. Imagine a giant set of Lego blocks gently steppinng back onto the rocks and you have it. We started down the maze of tiny alleys with light packs and light spirits. After about 2,068 steps we stopped to notice at the how quaint it was from the middle, and how heavy the packs were. When we finally touched the chilly Mediterranean, the reality of our position became clear. Sunday, 1:30 pm, cut off behind enemy lines, with little food, and little hope of resupply. "Where are those damned choppers, Sargeant ??"
We decided to storm the town house to house in hopes of finding some sympathetic cafe owner, and instead we got the "shrug". It is well known that Italians are masters of communication by gesture, and the consumate expression of the artform is the shrug. Shoulders up, head dipped slightly to the left, palms upturned, quizical smile. It says it all: "we"re "US", you"re "THEM", we don"t have to help you, have a nice day." Fought our way back to the top of the hill to catch the bus back north to Sorrento, and we inquired as to why it was late, only to get - the shrug. OK, this is war, we"ll take the southbound bus to Amalfi, which is the end of the loop! "I read your book !"
Amalfi would not be the ideal spot for a paratroop assault. Save for the rocky beach, every square foot is roof, and they are covered with hundreds of TV antennas. "Men, this is tourist country, maintain radio silence". Italians worship the beach, even if they have to walk down a few thousand steps to get there. Didn"t we just see this movie?? We learned from some British troops that the return bus was set to bug out, so we ran (no stunt doubles) to get a few pieces of cold pizza and aqua before we just barely made the bus. I love this country.
The scene at the local train station in Sorrento, was pure Woody Allen. With the train approaching, one ticket seller ran out of change, then got some from the next one who then ran out when the line shifted, and finally the third agent calmly went for a cigarette, sending the entire crowd into panic. Ticketless, they stormed the turnstiles like they were the Bastille, and we got swept up in the frenzy.
"Matthew, stand next to the lady with the chicken, and if the ticket agent comes along, just shrug".
Next time, Be ready to root for the Christians
Mike Mascelli
January 4, 1999
Part 6: How old is it ?
It
is immediately obvious to any new visitor that this is not Kansas, but I think
the hardest thing to adjust to in Italy is their *day*. Breakfast as a concept
does not exist, except in the really hard-core tourist spots. The day begins
with a coffee smelling beverage, and something sweet. There are basically
three forms of the beverage. The first, called *caffe* is a shot of pure
caffeine derived from asphaltum, served with a tiny stainless steel spoon
(anything else would melt). It is utterly undrinkable, even to diehard coffee
worshipers like me. Then comes cappucino, which is a shot of road tar, topped
with frothy flavored milk, which is to distract you from fully realizing the
evil that lurks below. Then there is caffe latte (white coffee) which is
mostly all lukewarm milk with a shot of road tar swooshed in, preferred by the
ladies. Finally there is caffe American, which is specially imported from a
prison cafeteria in Bayone, where it is reserved for death row inmates, who
after drinking it, go quite willingly to their reward. No wonder there are so
many pastries.
The natives *report* to work at about 8 to 8:30, and usually calm their
caffeine high with a couple of dozen cigarettes before noon. Every man, woman,
and child in Italy smokes, mostly American brands. The priests smoke. (Even
smokers agree that there is no escape from the bad air.) Then at about 1pm,
they roll up the sidewalks and roll down the metal tambour doors that are on
all the shops. The picks, shovels, and the wheel barrow made in the year 4 are
left in the street. They go home to a nice meal, and you either starve, or buy
a couple of bad hot dogs and chips on the street for 10 grand. The shops
reopen at about 3 something (Italian time is gently vague) and stay until
about 7 something, when they close for good. No self respecting restaurant
opens before 8:30 and since the help eats first, you are looking at 9pm for
the early bird special. Typical meal time is 10pm to 11:30, and then home to
bed. What this means to the tourist is simple: adapt or die. I have to add,
that between the caffeine, nicotine, and the pasta, there are virtually NO fat
Italians, even with a pastry bar on every corner !!!
Our next big checklist item was the Coloseum, and the guide book was quite
clear that the ground floor was *free*. Not. Visitors with EU passports are
free, ugly Americans please bend over. Hey, what's another 32g*s, its history.
It*s kind of hard trying to conjure an image of gladiators and wild beasts,
above the high pitched whine of a guy with gas weed whacker getting his
picture taken by 400 Japanese.
This is surely one of the wonders of the ancient world, but on the inside it
looks a lot like south Philly. You can*t sit, so you walk around a couple of
times, take a couple of pictures for the album and move on to the Forum, since
it is also *free*.
Here we are, at the center of the ancient world, the place where all roads
end, and it is rubble. They don*t call them ruins for nothing. You can kinda
get the idea of a couple of things, the roads are pretty cool, but there isn*t
too much standing, and of course if they put up signs, there would be no
reason for us to buy all those guide books. Read the book, walk around, and
realize that the only sensible way out is through Palatine Hill, which just
happens to be another 32 grand. Its big. The palaces are gone, along with
virtually everything else, though there is a nice museum, and a great view of
the Circus Maximus which is now an immense grassy oval, considered sacred by
every canine in Rome. Of course we had to walk it, it was the only thing that
really was free.
Wow, a great five mile walk sure gives you an appetite, *What time is it?*
*About 3*.
So we walk some more, and I finally start to notice the doors. We*re talkin*
DOORS !
Picture the coach drawn by four horses with a driver and his long whip up top.
The arch way from the street leads to the inner courtyard, and the doors close
behind. The gracefully arch- topped doors are 30+ feet tall 5 feet wide each,
and 6 inches thick. True raised panels, very very old, and solid virgin
walnut!!!! You can see the age, but the amount of degradation is minimal, even
at the bottoms. The finish is skinny, looks like an oil based spar varnish,
done with a brush. Not much rain, no salt, and wood with grain lines too tight
to count might have something to do with it. And they are everywhere. You
could cut a pair of these things up and make a whole house full of furniture,
though at the moment, cutting up a loaf of stale bread was sounding pretty
good.
*Aqua anyone?*
Be sure not to miss installment seven; when we actually get to eat !
Part 7: A Capella
Perhaps the greatest barrier to acclimating to a foreign place is the inability to effectively communicate with the natives. Sure Italians can talk with their hands, sure I learned all the bad words along the way, sure I can do my Father Guido accent, but it ain't quite the same as talkin' the talk.
The most charming thing about the language is the profusion of vowel sounds, as all words seem to end in one. But don't for one minute think that this will help you with your pocket dictionary. Real Italians clip the endings off of their words whenever it suits them. It isn't pasta its "pahst", it isn't cecci its "cheech", it isn*t gellato it is *gellat*, and when you get to Naples, it isn't pasta faggioli, its "pasta fazool" (my favorite soup).
Here's the rule: when in doubt, the ending is "o". Pronto (hello), caldo (hot), troppo (too much), mezzo (half), prego (you're next, dummy), Harpo (silently), Chico (loudly), Groucho (tourist). Just stay away from Bozo.
The entrance to the maze known as the Vatican Museums doesn*t look like much, until you get in and walk up the double helix stairway. Most people are in such a rush that they miss this altogether, but it is way cool. An upward spiral, AND a downward spiral like giant screw threads on a three story corkscrew, except the middle is open. After this gentle winding you are deposited in a hallway that is like one of those mirrors in the fun house, and has no perceptible end. Here however, everyone realizes that they should be quiet, and so the chant begins as a whisper. *Capella Sistina?* A small sign, a tiny arrow; a few break off, most stay with the herd. Statues, paintings, ceilings, floors, its dizzying. A labyrinth of rooms, Ancient, Renaissance, Modern (did they have to??) and still they whisper *Capella Sistina?* More signs, more arrows, pulses race, tempers flare. The rooms blend together. *What have you done with it ?*, their faces demand. A shrug, a pointed finger - it must be a trick, maybe it was all done with mirrors. Raphael, Tintoretto, Carravaggio, it is now a mantra, *Capella Sistina*, *Capella Sistina*. You can*t help getting caught up in it, and then without warning, you are in IT.
I may not see Heaven, but have seen IT. For me, this is the single greatest reason to visit this strange and often hostile land. Could we just please double click these other 400 gawky humans ? The scene on the floor looks like some bizarre penguin mating ritual where the participants crank their chins up as high as they can, and hopelessly bump into each other. The ceiling is twice as high as you think it will be, and the effect is ten times greater than whatever anyone told you, twenty if they saw it before it was cleaned. And by the way, this supreme expression of human creativity was achieved by a middle aged sculptor, by candlelight, without heat, upside down. One guy.
Eventually you must leave and begin the return through the other half of the maze. Though numbness in the limbs and hunger begin to blur your senses, it*s easy to tell where you are, this half has gift shops. After seeing the real thing, the tacky key chains just don*t cut it. Food? Not a chance.
So off we went to forage for edible raw materials. Where would you hide a grocery store in the middle of a fancy shopping district ? Following a hunch, and a couple of fur coat ladies, we quite literally stumbled upon it in the basement of a very posh clothing store. Glorious food, wine, spirits, cheese, Fritos, sweatsocks, rude cashiers, my God, its just like home!! We loaded up enough provisions for an assault on the South Pole, without the slightest thought of how to get them home across the urban tundra in the rain. When we finally made base camp, we looked like the expedition that lost the sleds, ate the dogs, and damn near froze to death. Yet within our little marble igloo, we were renewed by the spiritual power of Kathy*s hot soup, the warm glow of red wine, and the sheer ecstasy of dry socks.
*OK troops, no time to rest, break out the flares, this is going to be a night hike.* There was a mythical spot in ancient Rome where three roads (tre via) came together, and today, in the most unlikely spot possible is a truly magical fountain - especially at night. They say if you throw a coin in over your shoulder you will someday see Rome again. Maybe that*s why half of the tourists call it the Trivia Fountain. My plan was a frontal assault. Throw a whole handful of coins in frontwards, and hope to see Home again.
So what to do tourists do on a chilly November night standing next to a huge gushing fountain ?? Gellato of course. This ice creamy substance, which is proudly displayed in great heaping gobs in the bars, is one of the redeeming pleasures of Italy. Three small scoops in a cone. Coconut, Pistachio, Lemon.
Ten grand.
Next Time: A treasure hunt.
Part 8: Covert Action
On the way back from the Trevi Fountain, we realized that we had missed the Pantheon, and therefore would have had an *Incomplete* on our otherwise unblemished tourist report card. So the next day, we trekked back to the oldest, mostly intact ancient Roman structure of them all.
The outside columned portico does not at all prepare you for the truly remarkable interior space. The diameter of the round mosaic floor is about 150 feet and it is covered by a perfectly spherical dome of exactly that height, with a 30 foot hole in the middle (for light). You could park a hot air balloon in here. The original building from the time of Augustus was remodeled by Hadrian in about 125 A.D., so by Roman standards it*s *new*. And except for the fact that one of the Popes pinched the exterior bronze, the whole thing still looks darned good.
The dome is a series of perfectly symmetrical square coffers in diminishing size, (and weight) constructed of concrete over a wooden form. Oh, one more thing, it*s all one piece. 2000 years, give or take a century, not a crack in it. (Do you think I could get those guys to do my sidewalk ?) No wonder the King is buried here, and McDonalds is right across the piazza. This is building is perhaps the perfect illustration of the Italian building code: When in doubt, use mortar.
About two days before liftoff, my large-living partner in crime informs me that he cannot consider life complete unless I bring him home a real Cuban cigar. *No pressure, I*ll just kill myself*. So for days I pop into every street corner tabbacci and ask *cigaro, Cubano?* and all I get is the shrug. Then by chance I spot a hearty tourist, who has obviously not pushed away from too many all-you-can-eat buffets, fogging up an entire zip code with a huge cigar. *That a Cuban?*
*Yep.*
This witty conversationalist grudgingly directed me to go down three streets and over two and then next to a tie store, of which there are about 678. I did find another tacky tabbaci, and before I popped the musical question, I slid a ten spot on the counter. My host scarfed up the bill, and called over to Mama in Italian, something I made out to be, *go in the back and get some of those little phony Cubans*. When she returned, I greeted her with another 10, and said, *No, no, grande, grande!* OK, so now I*m in this crap shoot for 20g*s and here she comes with a very convincing cedar box full of fat, shiny aluminum tubes. Before I could think, she says to me in the clearest possible English, *Cash, American !*. Tubes did feel a bit warm.
It would be impolite to publish the price paid, but let it suffice to say that if this sucker is genuine, and I manage to sneak it home, my pal will hear a re-creation of the speech from *The Godfather*. The one that begins: *Someday, and that day may never come ....*
We managed to wind our way back to base camp with only minor bruises, but the thought of a hot shower had been haunting my very consciousness all day . To understand Italian plumbing is to understand Italy. The toilets are elegant white porcelain with the tank mounted on the wall very near the very high ceiling, operated by a very shiny chrome wall mounted button. I can*t do the math, but 7 gallons of water falling 9 feet has to be considered HVHP, and the roar is deafening. The showers are the size of an old time phone booth, always with a non functioning window, and with shower heads stolen from old watering cans. The pressure is low, the volume is low, and when you step out, your spirits are low. Until you hit the cold tile floor. *A tub, a tub, my kingdom for a hot tub!*.
Not to worry, we will just hold a small service and burn all the clothes when we get home.
It is true that wisdom doth pour forth from the mouths of babes, and at Matthew*s insistence, we bussed and hiked back to his favorite gellato joint. When you are this chilled, your dulled senses hardly perceive pain, and ice cream nicely approaches body temperature. We picked out a nice assortment of flavors from the glacial formations in the case, and decided to sit down and watch the tourists go by. Thereby learning another of the quaint Italian customs: you pay extra to sit down and be served. What the heck, this is vacation.
Our host, ever conscious of the art of presentation, brought the treats in elegant bowls - of white porcelain.
Stay tuned, as we fearlessly brave the rails once again.
Part 9: North by Train
We knew that someday our error with the Rail passes would get in the way, and today was the day. As we approached the window, I took out the passes and told the family to look repentant and humble. I had been playing back in my mind the great Lucca Brasi scene from *The Godfather*, where he is rehearsing the speech that starts: *I come to you on the day of your daughter*s wedding ....* So I pushed the passes, and my passport through the window, and confessed our sin, in slow plain English.
He looked at the passport, he looked at me, he looked at the family, he walked away. After quite some anxious time he returned, and without comment or flourish, stamped the passes, and sent us on our way. Kathy and Matthew were much relieved and Russ was positively dumbfounded to witness such an unprecedented act of mercy. I understood that *The Don*, when shown respect, may grant favors from time to time. Just not to college kids with backpacks. I never did get to kiss the ring.
Rail transport in daylight does give you a real sense of a place, and so we pressed on past endless vineyards to the legendary city of Venice. You have to change trains on the mainland for the five minute ride to this most bizarre of human settlements, and your first view of the city is of course, water. Green water. God made the Sea, the Dutch made Holland, and some committee of ancient Venicians forgot the streets. There has to be some terra firma here, but damned if you can see it. Buildings, water, bridges, boats, sea gulls, and wall to wall tourists. I mean, people don*t actually live here, do they ?
The overall feel of the place, at least in the Winter is that of a underground cavern with streams running through it. The chill never really leaves you. And though it is no doubt better in the summer, it is pretty fair bet that the Arthritis Foundation will not be having their annual convention here any time soon.
So like good little sheep, we bought tickets for the water bus and stood there looking into the cold pale faces on board trying to get a clue as to whether or not to validate them. Not even a shrug. So we punched them, and of course no one checked.
Did you ever go to the County Fair, and ride in from some remote parking field on a wagon pulled by a tractor ? That is what the boat ride feels like. Vendors of every stripe, gondoliers with their straw hats and referee stripes going the wrong way, street artists, food vendors, noise, crowds. *Pardon me sir, is Marco Polo running in the gondola pull ?* Just as sure as the smell of cotton candy, this town exists for tourists. This is Ringling Brothers in elegant carnival masks. Where the candy is glass, the T-shirts have lace trim, and everything smells a bit like yesterday*s fish.
Center ring is the Piazza San Marco, and the featured act is Hitchcock*s Trained Pigeons. In less than two seconds from the time the lira leave your fingers, there is a Borg pigeon pyramid that engulfs you, the food, and any other small life forms that might be nearby. You either run, or you will be assimilated.
The favorite tourist pastime is menu shopping. The Americans are particularly pathetic in their smug self confidence that they, the ultimate consumers, will find a way to beat the system. Just like at home. They*ll show em*. It only cost them $27, but they got the cupie doll.
Our chosen poison was administered using the *tourist plan*. This is a wonderfully Italian version of the old bait and switch. You can almost hear P.T. himself: *Step right up son, we got a package dinner here: four courses for one money !* The *plan* is to lightly anesthetize you with large doses of bread, pasta, and vino, and then sneak in the main course. *Why son those are genuine gourmet fish fillets.* I have seen anchovies with more meat on them. Just give me the salad, so I can pour some vinegar on my wounds. Poorer, but wiser, we retreated to our most expensive hotel rooms which did actually contain teeny tiny TV*s. Somehow seeing that American hunk, Kevin Costner, as the legendary Englishman Robin Hood, did seem strangely operatic dubbed in Italian. But a few minutes of Robeen Oood, Poco Giani, and Padre Tooka, had us looking for the fat lady.
The next day, bolstered by the requisite souvenirs including the straw gondolier*s hat, and the genuine plastic miniature gondola, we planned our escape from Fantasy Island with a quick detour through the ancient fish market. It was comforting to know that big fish do exist here, but one look into the water was enough to not want to ask the question of how they got that way.
The scene at the train station didn*t exactly follow the script. We were informed that even though the train looked totally empty, there were in fact no second class seats. Shrug. Firmly in the grip of fatigue, hunger and sleep depravation, Kathy finally lost it. In shivering irrational hysteria, all she could manage was, *I want to go home, NOW !*
*Russ, here is a hundred grand, just get us on this cursed train.* Whatever it cost for upgrades to first class seemed a small price to pay for sanity. *But son, don*t go away mad, just to show you that there are no losers here, we*re gonna give the little lady a nice chocolate candy, and that fine boy of yours a brandee new pair of genuine Chinese headphones. Now y*all come back, next year.*
Next time: Art, culture, history, clams.
Part 10: Death in Florence
The cradle of the Renaissance. The home of the Medici, Leonardo, Michelangelo. The Duomo, the Baptistry doors, the Ponte Vecchio, and that tall guy, David. Can anything live up to this kind of expectation ?? In a word, yes.
One of the great mysteries of traveling to Italy is that more people don*t tell you about the many charms of this place. Among our many rookie mistakes was not allocating enough time to explore this treasure box the Italians call Firenze.
You can actually stroll without the drone of motorinos, squealing brakes, and incessant horns, since many of the streets are closed to traffic, at least in the evening. The river and its bridges are picturesque, the churches are the equal of any, and the shops and restaurants are gently scattered among many streets and piazzas. Rome has the throbbing pace of Las Vegas, Venice has the sleazy charm of a carnival, but Florence has the orderly bustle of a theme park. For a moment it almost seemed that the natives were friendly. NOT.
We visited the bapistry*s famous doors, and though we later learned that they were a copy of Ghiberti*s originals, they really are the gates to paradise. And the Duomo, only chip shot shorter than St. Peters, has most of its incredible decorations on the outside. This is probably because the Medici didn*t let the rif-raf inside, but even through cheap binoculars, it still works. The mostly empty interior space, feels kind of like being on an oversize basketball court without the hoops, and of course there is a gift shop in the basement, but it is actually quite tastefully done. What confirms the wonder of the place, is the view from the tower. Sure, you gotta pay the 10 big ones, and climb the cardiac staircase, but it really does still look like a medieval city. Wow, who woulda thought that after all that jaded cynicism, that this would be inspiring. Go figure.
We experienced some much needed good luck when Russ bumped into a teacher friend who spoke Italian like a native, and knew his way around town. If it could work for Lewis and Clark, why not us ? Heck, we*re on a roll. He led us on a winding route to a little trattoria, that even an Indian guide couldn*t have found, and for one brief shining moment, we entered the real Italy.
Ten tables, two servers, kitchen door wide open to reveal the chef in whites, with a well seasoned helper, and the ghost of Clemenza at the unseen table in the back, with the napkin stuffed into his collar, twirling spagetti. Where*s the music when you need it?
Without discussion, the server brings us a small rosy aperitif, and almost immediately reappears with a plate of salty, golf ball sized fried dough blobs. The combination of salt and sweet is just the thing to kick your taste buds to red alert. We all sat back and let our new found guide, schmooze (try to find that in the translation dictionary) the server. After bread and vino, came the pasta course, with mine *con vogle*. (with clams sacrificed nobly in Garlic, Oil and Special Herbs). Then very leisurely, came some very nice veal marsala, and other unpronounceable delicacies, containing liberal quantities of GOSH. Vampires need not apply. We must have passed the *ignorant Americans* test, since we were treated to a shot of Limoncello or Grappa, *a la casa* (gratis) as we paid the bill !!
Limoncello, the pride of Sorrento, is kerosene stained with lemon juice, and Grappa has a vague hint of anise, and gives you the irresistible urge to dance with Anthony Quinn. Couldn*t quite make out the bill in the glow, but it didn*t matter, they took VISA.
Restless night, dull headache, light chest pains. Did the magic bus just crash or what ?? Morning. Hurry. Get dressed. Got to get to the Uffizzi Gallery to see all the great art that the Popes didn*t grab.
As I sat there looking at the Leonardos, it was my own life flashing across the big screen. Somebody run down to the gift shop and get me a rosary, this is the BIG one. In slow motion, barely rational, staggering out into the hall, I was figuring I could make it as far as the Michelangelo room before they brought crash cart, when it occurred to me that there were quite a few clams, by GOSH, in the previous scene of this Fellini movie. Lose the rosary, where*s the Maalox ? How do they do this every night and go to bed ?
I would be unconscionable to write about Florence and not mention Michelangelo*s *David*. It was, and is, the most impressive piece of sculpture in a country where every street corner has a sculpture. It is flanked by the four massive *Prisoners in Stone*, which together with the *Pieta*, two dozen other masterpieces in stone, the Sistine Ceiling, the *Last Judgment*, *Donni Tondo*, hundreds of smaller works, and a minor little piece of architectural design called the Dome of St. Peter*s, represent the life*s work of - One Guy.
You can*t do Italy, if you don*t do Florence.
Next time, Don*t watch that man behind the curtin.
Part 11: Ciao, baby
We expected the scene at the train station to be bizarre, but who could have known that an entire class of recruits from the Italian Navy would be waiting for our train to Rome. I have never heard of a single action taken by the Italian Navy, but the boys sure like the looks of themselves in those blue uniforms.
We scrambled onto the train and quickly grabbed the first available seats, which as fate would have it, were in the cafe car. We will always remember our final train ride as sitting at the counter of a moving Dunkin* Donuts, without the coffee or the donuts, hungry, but safe from attack by sea.
The single most significant social development in Italy since indoor plumbing, is the cell phone. Hot water may be optional, but don*t mess with them phones. Business men have cell phones, fur coat ladies, and kids on bikes, and street vendors have cell phones. The guy fixing the street has one, and the taxi driver has one in the hand that is not holding the mobile radio mike.
*Pardon me, but could you tell Gina how beautiful her eyes are, after you steer for a while ?*
In this culture of extended families and multiple unit housing, cellphonitis rages in epidemic proportions. And it seems that this very private person to person contact is necessary at least several times a day. (mental note - buy stock)
If we had had any sense at all we would have spent our final day in Rome resting, but we needed to get our own *ciao*. So in the true spirit of adventure, we set out into another misty, chilly cityscape toward another piazza (del Popolo), with another stolen Eygptian obelisk, and another giant medieval church. (San Maria de Popolo). The church is one of Rome*s earliest, and quite surprisingly had some interpretive signs in English. One described how the spectacular decoration in this small side chapel had been completed by the members of a single family. Not bad when you think it only took them ten generations.
I said a small prayer at the shrine of St. Rita, the patron of bad sons, whose motto loosely translated is: *So, you couldn*t call ?*. And Kathy, also in the spirit of prayer proclaimed, *God, that is positively my last church !*
Amen.
But amen is not good-bye, and so we sloshed on to the Piazza di Spagna.
Rome Landmarks for $500: Commissioned by a Frenchman, these 200 very plain steps lead absolutely nowhere. Ding.
*What are the Spanish Steps, Alex ?*
We climbed this most unremarkable landmark, and came back down to find it flanked at its base by Babington*s Tea Room, favorite spot of Hemmingway and the old time literary crowd, and the flagship McDonalds, favorite spot of every contemporary school kid in Rome. We may have nukes, but their power pales in the shadow of the awesome fury of the tiny French fry. We skillfully avoided the mind-altering yellow wands, and quaffed a cappuccino di Mickey D. We then fortuitously stumbled upon the Via dei Due Macelli, which we selfishly translated as *street of two Mascelli*s*, a.k.a. the Yellow Brick Road.
As we followed our newfound pathway back to the Tiber, we passed peacefully by the Peace Altar, rounded the round tomb of Augustus, threw some coins into the muddy green river, and in spite of Kathy*s repeated heel clicking, were not any closer to a real good-bye.
So inspired by our hunger, and in full knowledge that we would not find a decent meal at a decent hour, we decided to create our own Last Supper. We happened into an indoor farmers market, and proceeded to snap up all the fixin*s for a real festa: fresh veg, fresh pasta, fresh bread, smelly cheese and *pro-shoot-oh*, not to mention a stop at the pastry shop on the way home. With Kathy*s skill and a little help from the boys, we created a wonderful candle lit cafe in the living room, where the wine flowed freely, the pasta plates were heaping, and the tray of goodies was screaming out the word *goo*.
And finally with our rumpled clothes, sore feet, and light hearts, we hoisted a final glass in Rome, and toasted *saluta a famiglia*.
Arrive derci, Roma.
Next time: Re-entry
Part 12: Green, Green Grass
The driver that appeared in the dawn mist, was not the same one that had brought us on that first cold gray day, but he did use the same tailor, and forgot the same razor. This guy is what could only be properly described as a *wheel man*. He deftly demonstrated that the reason that they are called Lancias is because of the way you can spear them around corners. This Godfather retrofit must have been in a hurry to get to his next *job*.
*Paulie, leave the cell phone, take the canolis.*
Our last flashing views of Rome, in between the rush hour traffic, were a tad blurry, but we were focused on the Grail.
The passionate quest for home coupled with the certain uncertainty of Italian Customs, brought out the worst in all the assembled travelers at Fumicino (a.k.a. DaVinci) airport, especially the Americans. *What do you mean, I have to open all of four of my carry-ons, don*t you know that I have a plane to catch ?* Horrible sight to watch them get taken into Customs Limbo kicking and screaming like that. So as we waded into this seething sea of humanity, we knew we too were at the mercy of the Customs Gods. I didn*t notice the halo at first, but our personal guardian angel appeared in the form of a kindly old grandmother.
*Where is your family from Mr. Mascelli ?*, she asked in flawless English.
*The Naples area,* I replied in my humblest schoolboy voice.
*What village ?*
*Cervinara.*
*I know it well.*
I could feel my pulse racing, I could see those three cherries lining right up, and I could hear those bells and whistles. *Waiter, bring me a bucket, we just hit the big one.* We made polite small talk about the virtues of Limoncello, and the ruins at Pompeii, as she waltzed us right through the midst of the battlefield behind her magic clipboard. It was too perfect, we didn*t even have to throw the water on the wicked witch. She didn*t ask about the infamous cigaro Cubano, and I didn*t tell. Call it luck, call it mercy, call it poetic justice, it worked.
It is good to visit all the churches, it helps to travel with kids, and it sure doesn*t hurt to have a little oregano on your passport, even if they don*t stamp it.
The three things I will remember most about the plane are the lifting of the weight of the world from my shoulders when I hit the seat, the curiously charming sound of spoken English, and the siren*s call of real coffee. *Just grab one of those teeny little straws and give me the whole pot.*
The flight was happily uneventful, though each of us picked up some useful knowledge. Matthew learned several new words from Mel Gibson and Danny Glover, Kathy learned to make your one visit to the stainless steel shrine count, and I learned what happens to all those sandwiches that are left over from the street vendors in Rome.
We never did see the Lady in the Harbor, but the cheesy sign on the message board at JFK that said *Welcome to America*, looked like a billion Lira.
*Discovery, this is Houston, discharge your adrenaline tanks, claim your baggage, and prepare for final approach.* We would have gladly volunteered to personally drag our bags, and any other miscellaneous cargo to the hold of the first available aircraft headed anywhere North. We could smell Home.
The charming New York passport agent, interrupted a well rehearsed, and indignant inquiry as to why our passports were unsullied by any foreign stamps, when he quickly caught a glance at the tickets. *Oh*, he shrugged, *Italy.* Matthew, desperate for credibility at school, asked for, and received, the one and only *fa-choong* of the entire voyage.
With the final hurdle in our sights, we boarded the little plane that could. The first half of our one hour flight took fifty minutes. The roller coaster ride to the finish must have been sponsored by the same gods who sent us the fairy grandmother, as a reminder that the house always wins. No tarmac ever looked better, and only aching knees prevented the full prostrate papal kiss.
Words are woefully weak in describing the tidal wave of emotions that hits you as you enter your own driveway. Its like when the sparkles all settle in the little globe, its Home.
All the clichés are true.
Auntie Em was right.
Michael Mascelli 12/98
