After but only a few hours here, I was already feeling I had been taken for a sucker several times. This city does, however, have that kind of rough-and-tumble reputation, so I can’t say I’m totally surprised.
First, was my cab ride. The maps I accessed on line show my hotel, located near the Old Port, was a bit too far of a walk from the train station, especially with all my bags. This was my preferred location, as I knew I had an evening and the better part of a day here, so I wanted to be near where much of the action is, especially the restaurants serving the city’s famous bouillabaisse. But walking alone in the dark with my luggage in a city with a fairly dodgy reputation didn’t seem like a good idea, anyway. Additionally, the internet maps weren’t clear about public transit, so I took my chances with a cab.
What a mistake. It not only set me back 25 euros for the 10 or 15 minute ride, but the cab driver wouldn’t even drop me off directly in front of my hotel, leaving me off a half block way. The meter clearly showed the amount he wanted, but I had to wonder if it had been rigged some how. Or, perhaps, the taxis are indeed ridiculously expensive.
The hotel looked okay from the outside, but the one-star accommodation had a fairly grungy feel to it, worn around the edges, and smelled less than pleasant. All this, and it was still going to set me back 50 euro. The desk clerk was nice enough, and the room was big, but the place is really a bit of a faded dump.
After checking in, a short stroll to the port led me past a two-star hotel with an electronic sign hyping rooms starting at 58 euros. When I later saw a three star offering a single for 60, I had to go in and ask, since I had yet to pay for my room. Even though they had no vacancy, the very congenial desk clerk there, who spoke English, offered to call around for me. I thanked him profusely, but declined. Thankfully, I was only staying one night.
Then it was off to dinner. The clerk at my hotel wouldn’t recommend a specific restaurant, but showed me on a tourist map where I would find a number of suitable places. After much looking around, I chose what looked like a lively spot that offered a “menu bouillabaisse” for 25 euros. But once seated, I learned that this offer was unavailable, and I would instead have to spend 40.
This is a common trick of the French. They post big signs on chalkboards or easel posters out front of these places offering great deals. In some cases, when you look closely, you realize that these special menus are only available for lunch. Then why don’t they take these signs in? What made this worse was no such warning was on this sign, even in the smallest letters. All it said in French was something to the effect that “all, day, when available.” What a scam.
I went with it anyway. The recommended wine, a Bandol rose, was 32 euros a bottle. Suddenly, eating in Emilia-Romagna seemed cheap by comparison. If I had spent 72 euros for a meal there – which happened maybe once or twice - it was usually incredible, and included a 3 or 4 euro cover charge. Local, casual wine there would set me back more like 12 or 15 euros.
What was worse, it wasn’t the excellent experience I had hoped. The fish soup served to begin the meal was adequate, and served with the proper croutons, raw garlic to rub on them, rouille (a kind of mayonnaise, light red in color, flavored with red pepper), and grated Gruyere cheese. I enjoyed it.
But the next course seemed to take forever to arrive. When it came, it was a huge amount of fish swimming in yet more of the soup. I found it pleasant enough at first, but I have a feeling, given the harried manner of the wait staff, that the dish had been sitting out a while before it arrived. It became lukewarm rather quickly. The fish and potatoes tasted fine, but I wasn’t thrilled and could only eat maybe half of the dish. Perhaps I was the problem, coming off of a full day of travel. But I simply didn’t feel right about spending over $100 US on this repast.
After packing my bag this morning and leaving it at my hotel, I consciously decided a positive change in attitude was needed. It was my last day in Europe. I was starting to practice my French again, and I had several hours to relax before dealing with a metro to the train station, followed by a shuttle bus to the airport for my flight this evening. No more taxis that could end up costing me more than the price of my airfare.
The port here is indeed picturesque, even under cloudy skies and occasional drizzle, and now the sun is coming out strong. Tons of sail boats and there bare masts sit among the docks. It’s a pleasant sight. There were indeed plenty of places offering lunch deals surrounding the port. Instead of another bouillabaisse, perhaps some grilled fish would be a better, less ambitious choice.
There’s still some anxiety about my flight and arrival logistics, but I’ll work through it all, I’m sure.
Soon I’ll start a new blog, which will focus on establishing my life in Morocco. I’m looking forward to seeing my friends there.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
MILAN, Italy/NICE, France (in transit via Trenitalia), October 8, 2008
For once, a good seat for a train ride, the second and longest leg of my voyage to Marseilles. I’m seated in a single-seat aisle, facing forward, in a First Class car. The seat is roomy and comfortable, and I even get an electrical outlet for my trusty laptop.
If I had any complaints, it’s the sorry state of the bathrooms, and the lack of a bar car for this six-hour journey. I’d kill for a glass of cold, white wine and a decent espresso. I thought the coffee I did purchased from a cart periodically wheeled down the aisle would have been drip, dispensed from one of those pump thermos canteens I saw. Instead, it turned out to be instant, the thermos full only of hot water, and expectedly terrible. If I had known before the server tore into the packet, I wouldn’t have accepted it. Trenitalia should be asshmed of itself, especially given Italy’s reputation for great coffee.
Other than that, and an occasionally noisy group of Americans nearby, this has been one of the more pleasant train rides I’ve experienced in Europe. I brought along some culatello, parmigiano cheese and a few pears I bought yesterday in Parma, along with some of that Scandinavian-style bread, in individual packages, I scammed from the breakfast buffet at the hotel this morning. I’ve been snoozing, snacking and reading for the past three hours or so.
What I can’t quite fathom is why the next train I’m taking, a two-hour hop from Nice to Marseilles, is more expensive than this trip. It’s billed as a TGV, but I know it’s actually a slow train, having taken it before. After all, on a real TGV, it only takes about three hours to go from Nimes to Paris. I do, however, remember the French trains being much nicer.
My last afternoon and evening in Parma were fairly relaxing and enjoyable, once I got past how much I blew on the tiny bottle of balsamic vinegar I purchased, which wasn’t even the top of the line. That would have cost twice as much. I also bought a huge chunk of 30-month old parmigiano cheese, vacuumed sealed in thick plastic, that should last until I reach Morocco. At a bit under 12 euros a kilo, I figured it cost me half as much as the more generic, probably younger parmigiano cheese I’ve bought in New York. The other good news is that the Euro seems to be hovering well below $1.40.
Before my gastronomic shopping spree, I wanted a look at the 16th century church called Madonna della Steccata. I wasn’t crazy about the fact that a mass was underway, but I wanted a good look at this incredibly ornate cathedral, so I took a seat, politely standing and sitting on cue. My pal Charlie Miles, an enthusiastic Catholic, has repeatedly suggested attending another mass – as I had on Christmas Eve at midnight in Spain – as an international cultural experience, if nothing else. I thought of this as my gaze went heavenward, not to seek salvation, but to look at the incredible frescoes and ornamentation on the ceilings. What made it all so interesting for my, like many other European experiences, was how this incredible and ancient art – created before my native country even existed – becomes a backdrop for everyday life here.
Afterward, with plenty of time before dinner, I stopped at a tiny local bar for a couple of small glasses of cheap, fizzy malvasia at a euro a pop. The old lady behind the bar, who seemed to be running the place with her husband, clearly took a bit of a shine to me, smiling widely and often. I don’t imagine too many Americans stop into her bar, which is located on a very narrow, pedestrian-only side street. There were plenty of men there, drinking coffee and joking around. It was a very local scene, one of those moments I love to think back on when I remember various travels.
I wish I could say the same for my last dinner in Parma. Unfortunately, there would be no bomba di riso con il piccione. The area’s famous baked pigeon and rice dish was not on the menu at the restaurant where I specifically booked for it, as my guidebook promised. What was offered didn’t excite me much, and when I saw but one server for about 20 tables, many filled with Americans, I high-tailed myself out of the place.
The truth is, after eight straight rich meals over five days in Bologna and then Parma, I can’t say I was overly disappointed. Most dishes I had hoped to sample, I did.
What I haven’t had in some time was pizza, and I came upon a casual place that specialized in what is certainly one of my favorite foods. The same people that ran Trattoria del Corrieri owned it, where I ate my first meal in Parma, so I figured the food would be pretty good.
My mistake was starting with taglietelle, but I found it hard to resist, as it was sauced with a ragú of chingalé, wild boar, one of my favorite meats. Even the pizza offered a twist: it was topped with ground horsemeat, put on the pizza raw, like a hamburger right in the middle, allowing it to char on the outside and remain rare within. Roasted potato wedges were also scattered over the mozzarella and tomato sauce. The crust was fairly crisp, and after spreading the horsemeat around the top, it all came together pretty well.
But I was so full from the very nice pasta starter that I couldn’t finish my pizza. I can’t remember the last time I couldn’t polish off an even half decent pizza, let alone one that was this good. Even the local red house wine was better than average.
I awoke this morning to check out of my second four-star hotel in a row. This one offered a slightly small, but more high-tech room, as it was in a more modern building. Every time I walked into my room, the TV would automatically turn on. The first few times this gave me the creeps, as it felt like big brother was watching. And, if I didn’t put my card key in the proper slot, all the electricity in the room would cut off after about 90 seconds. Several times I stood in the dark looking for that stupid card.
This experience was quite different than that in Bologna. My lodgings there were in what looked like an old palace. The elevator I rode to my huge third floor room (called the second floor in Europe…the ground floor is always zero) seemed to take forever. I figured the elevator was just very slow, until I decided to walk down the stairs. It was then I realized each floor was quite high, comprised of two flights of stairs instead of one. The ceilings of the building were obviously quite high, in grand architectural style.
It was nice staying at both hotels, and I did my best to enjoy them, as I know it could be quite some time before I’m able to lodge in such luxury again, if ever.
A slight drizzle greeted me after I checked out this morning to take the walk along the Torrente Parma river here to get to the train station. Interesting, how it was almost completely dry. I noticed similar phenomena during my car rides through northern Friuli; many of the rivers were dry. I don’t know if this is normal, or a sign of an especially dry season. Whtever the case, you know some environmentalist will blame global warming caused by “greenhouse” gasses.
It’s all besides the point to me, as I consider my contribution to the continuing erosion of the ecology. I’m hoping for one or two good meals in Marseille, probably seafood, pulled from the already overtaxed Mediterranean fishery. But beyond my hotel, I have no idea where I’ll be going, as I’ve done no research.
My train must now be in France now, as we’ve been stuck at this station a while and the announcements are being made in French instead of Italian. I have over an hour to kill in Nice, where I am scheduled to arrive in about 20 minutes, before my train leaves for Marseille.
There’s always that little tingle in the pit of my stomach as I arrive at my next destination. Will I catch my next train? I’m glad I decided to spring for a cab ride to the hotel, but will I get ripped off? And then there’s my flight to Fes. I always have anxiety about flying, especially internationally, dealing with the local authorities before boarding and then again when I land. And once I get there, I need to quickly get a SIM card and hope I can reach Mark so he can have someone meet me at the appropriate entrance to the city to guide me to his house.
Time for a few deep breathes, and to remember that it always seems to come together somehow.
If I had any complaints, it’s the sorry state of the bathrooms, and the lack of a bar car for this six-hour journey. I’d kill for a glass of cold, white wine and a decent espresso. I thought the coffee I did purchased from a cart periodically wheeled down the aisle would have been drip, dispensed from one of those pump thermos canteens I saw. Instead, it turned out to be instant, the thermos full only of hot water, and expectedly terrible. If I had known before the server tore into the packet, I wouldn’t have accepted it. Trenitalia should be asshmed of itself, especially given Italy’s reputation for great coffee.
Other than that, and an occasionally noisy group of Americans nearby, this has been one of the more pleasant train rides I’ve experienced in Europe. I brought along some culatello, parmigiano cheese and a few pears I bought yesterday in Parma, along with some of that Scandinavian-style bread, in individual packages, I scammed from the breakfast buffet at the hotel this morning. I’ve been snoozing, snacking and reading for the past three hours or so.
What I can’t quite fathom is why the next train I’m taking, a two-hour hop from Nice to Marseilles, is more expensive than this trip. It’s billed as a TGV, but I know it’s actually a slow train, having taken it before. After all, on a real TGV, it only takes about three hours to go from Nimes to Paris. I do, however, remember the French trains being much nicer.
My last afternoon and evening in Parma were fairly relaxing and enjoyable, once I got past how much I blew on the tiny bottle of balsamic vinegar I purchased, which wasn’t even the top of the line. That would have cost twice as much. I also bought a huge chunk of 30-month old parmigiano cheese, vacuumed sealed in thick plastic, that should last until I reach Morocco. At a bit under 12 euros a kilo, I figured it cost me half as much as the more generic, probably younger parmigiano cheese I’ve bought in New York. The other good news is that the Euro seems to be hovering well below $1.40.
Before my gastronomic shopping spree, I wanted a look at the 16th century church called Madonna della Steccata. I wasn’t crazy about the fact that a mass was underway, but I wanted a good look at this incredibly ornate cathedral, so I took a seat, politely standing and sitting on cue. My pal Charlie Miles, an enthusiastic Catholic, has repeatedly suggested attending another mass – as I had on Christmas Eve at midnight in Spain – as an international cultural experience, if nothing else. I thought of this as my gaze went heavenward, not to seek salvation, but to look at the incredible frescoes and ornamentation on the ceilings. What made it all so interesting for my, like many other European experiences, was how this incredible and ancient art – created before my native country even existed – becomes a backdrop for everyday life here.
Afterward, with plenty of time before dinner, I stopped at a tiny local bar for a couple of small glasses of cheap, fizzy malvasia at a euro a pop. The old lady behind the bar, who seemed to be running the place with her husband, clearly took a bit of a shine to me, smiling widely and often. I don’t imagine too many Americans stop into her bar, which is located on a very narrow, pedestrian-only side street. There were plenty of men there, drinking coffee and joking around. It was a very local scene, one of those moments I love to think back on when I remember various travels.
I wish I could say the same for my last dinner in Parma. Unfortunately, there would be no bomba di riso con il piccione. The area’s famous baked pigeon and rice dish was not on the menu at the restaurant where I specifically booked for it, as my guidebook promised. What was offered didn’t excite me much, and when I saw but one server for about 20 tables, many filled with Americans, I high-tailed myself out of the place.
The truth is, after eight straight rich meals over five days in Bologna and then Parma, I can’t say I was overly disappointed. Most dishes I had hoped to sample, I did.
What I haven’t had in some time was pizza, and I came upon a casual place that specialized in what is certainly one of my favorite foods. The same people that ran Trattoria del Corrieri owned it, where I ate my first meal in Parma, so I figured the food would be pretty good.
My mistake was starting with taglietelle, but I found it hard to resist, as it was sauced with a ragú of chingalé, wild boar, one of my favorite meats. Even the pizza offered a twist: it was topped with ground horsemeat, put on the pizza raw, like a hamburger right in the middle, allowing it to char on the outside and remain rare within. Roasted potato wedges were also scattered over the mozzarella and tomato sauce. The crust was fairly crisp, and after spreading the horsemeat around the top, it all came together pretty well.
But I was so full from the very nice pasta starter that I couldn’t finish my pizza. I can’t remember the last time I couldn’t polish off an even half decent pizza, let alone one that was this good. Even the local red house wine was better than average.
I awoke this morning to check out of my second four-star hotel in a row. This one offered a slightly small, but more high-tech room, as it was in a more modern building. Every time I walked into my room, the TV would automatically turn on. The first few times this gave me the creeps, as it felt like big brother was watching. And, if I didn’t put my card key in the proper slot, all the electricity in the room would cut off after about 90 seconds. Several times I stood in the dark looking for that stupid card.
This experience was quite different than that in Bologna. My lodgings there were in what looked like an old palace. The elevator I rode to my huge third floor room (called the second floor in Europe…the ground floor is always zero) seemed to take forever. I figured the elevator was just very slow, until I decided to walk down the stairs. It was then I realized each floor was quite high, comprised of two flights of stairs instead of one. The ceilings of the building were obviously quite high, in grand architectural style.
It was nice staying at both hotels, and I did my best to enjoy them, as I know it could be quite some time before I’m able to lodge in such luxury again, if ever.
A slight drizzle greeted me after I checked out this morning to take the walk along the Torrente Parma river here to get to the train station. Interesting, how it was almost completely dry. I noticed similar phenomena during my car rides through northern Friuli; many of the rivers were dry. I don’t know if this is normal, or a sign of an especially dry season. Whtever the case, you know some environmentalist will blame global warming caused by “greenhouse” gasses.
It’s all besides the point to me, as I consider my contribution to the continuing erosion of the ecology. I’m hoping for one or two good meals in Marseille, probably seafood, pulled from the already overtaxed Mediterranean fishery. But beyond my hotel, I have no idea where I’ll be going, as I’ve done no research.
My train must now be in France now, as we’ve been stuck at this station a while and the announcements are being made in French instead of Italian. I have over an hour to kill in Nice, where I am scheduled to arrive in about 20 minutes, before my train leaves for Marseille.
There’s always that little tingle in the pit of my stomach as I arrive at my next destination. Will I catch my next train? I’m glad I decided to spring for a cab ride to the hotel, but will I get ripped off? And then there’s my flight to Fes. I always have anxiety about flying, especially internationally, dealing with the local authorities before boarding and then again when I land. And once I get there, I need to quickly get a SIM card and hope I can reach Mark so he can have someone meet me at the appropriate entrance to the city to guide me to his house.
Time for a few deep breathes, and to remember that it always seems to come together somehow.
PARMA, Italy, October 7, 2008
Perhaps I’m now being the rude ugly American, tapping away on my little laptop as I sit in the lovely Tratotoria de Tribunale, an excellent place for lunch with stucco walls and a mostly local crowd.
The meal I just finished I started with an excellent plate of handmade taglialini with shards of culatello, the heart of the famed prusciutto from the area, along with a few small chunks of tomato and the tiniest touch of cream.
My main course was trippa di parmigiana, tripe done in Parma style, a local favorite that might gross out too many of my fellow countrymen. Yes, it’s a cow’s stomach that initially needs to be blanched extensively to tenderize and clean it. For this version, it’s then braised in a beef stock-based sauce, probably flavored with the sautéed onions, carrots and maybe celery – all strained away – and flavored with just a bit of tomato paste. A sprinkling garnish of the deservedly famous local cheese, parmigiano reggiano, adds great depth of flavor, especially considering how little is used. Once you get passed the texture, especially those strange honeycomb folds, it really is a great dish. It’s not as tough as one might expect, and the flavor is fairly delicate and readily influenced by the sauce.
With enough effort, I’m sure I could reproduce this dish, even in Morocco, with the exception of the final grating of cheese. I do, however, plan on taking a big vacuum-packed chunk of the stuff, which should last a while. I’m also thinking a tiny and incredibly expensive bottle of aged balsamic vinegar (don’t ask the price – it’s crazy outrageous) would also be a good souvenir. I’m looking forward to sharing some Parmigiano cheese drizzled with a few drops of this special vinegar with my gracious friends, Mark and Rizlane, in Fes.
This morning, I actually could have had the chance to see the manufacturing of this incredible cheese, but a combination of logistics, cost and my own stupidity got in the way. When I arrived here late yesterday afternoon following the one-hour train ride from Bologna, I stopped at the tourist office, where I convinced the woman there to try and book me on a tour. After discouraging the possibility, she got me a reservation on a tour for the next morning (today). She then handed me a map with the location, and told me I would have to take a cab, as the diary was a bit outside of town. Not only would the cost of the cab ride each way be considerable, it would mean spending over three hours there on my last day in Italy. This gave me pause. When I then lost the map and the clerk at my fancy hotel had no idea which dairy the tour might be in, the fates told me it might not be a good idea.
I was a bit annoyed at myself for losing the map, but I had to get over it. It seemed a good time to console myself in an extravagant lunch Trattoria del Corrieri, one of the many good places recommend in my British guide book of Bologna and Emilia-Romagna.
Before even tasting the food, I was impressed with two nearby sights. Ahead of me and slightly to the left, a beautiful young, dark-skinned nymph having dinner with her elderly father, the nipples of her small, firm breasts, quite visible through her white shirt. To my right, was an older, yet classically gorgeous blond woman. My head slowly turned from one side to the other, like I was watching a sluggish tennis match. I hope I wasn’t too obvious in my admiration of both.
The starter of tortelloni con zucca, pumpkin ravioli, was slightly gummy and had a filling that was almost too sweet, but it was fairly satisfying, especially with it’s dressing of butter and grated parmigiano cheese. The quartino of lightly fizzy mavalsia was a nice and slightly biitter beverage counterpoint.
This was followed by cavelli vecchia, ground horse meat cooked in a bit of tomato paste with green and red pepper and roasted potatoes. My only complaint was it could have been bit hotter, but otherwise, really good. Too bad slaughtering horses is illegal in the U.S. The meat is better than you’d expect. A second luncheon quartino proved an adequate pairing of a fizzy, dry lambrusco.
It seemed like a post-meal stroll to the much-heralded Correggio exhibit here would be a good way to work of my repast. Actually, to call it merely an exhibit understates what is more like an event celebrating this early-16th century master, who died at age 45 after almost universal derision for some of his later frescoes. It took nearly a century after his death for the experts to realize just how ahead of his time he was.
In addition to huge exhibition of paintings – many borrowed from museums around the world – at the impressive Galleria Nazionale here, special scaffolding was built, affording us mortals a better vantage point to gaze at Cerreggio’s incredible frescoes in the big domes at the main cathedral here, as well as at the often overlooked San Giovanni Evangelista church. True, it’s usually free to see both of these works, and to make sure freeloaders couldn’t get a peek from ground level, big curtains were hung to obscure the view. It did seem worth the 3 euros a pop it cost to climb the scaffolding for a rare close look. I only wish I spoke Italian, as in each church a guide gave a lengthy elucidation (got to love the thesaurus on my computer). I was provided a less than complete explanation on a sheet in English.
As I’m hardly anything close to an art scholar, suffice to say I found myself, once again, both impressed and overwhelmed by the experience, as I have so many times on my European forays. It’s hard not to be impressed by the technique, color and emotion, and when you consider that Correggio was active some 500 years ago, it makes it all the more incredible. Modern and contemporary artists must have it very tough, trying to even come close to what artists like Correggio have been doing for centuries.
There’s also a Verdi Festival underway here. This composer is a favorite local son of Parma, but I’m not much of an opera buff, and what I’ve heard always sounds a bit too romantic for my musical tastes. And for all the legend surrounding the composer of La Traviata and so many other famous operas, I can’t help thinking of that old Victor Borge joke about how Giuseppe Verdi translates to Joe Green in English.
There was, however, a free 5 PM chamber music concert at the famous Teatro Regio opera house here, a masterpiece of 19th century architecture. Even the small hall where the concert was held was indeed magnificent, with frescoes emulating High Renaissance art and some incredible chandeliers. I was a bit late, but soon realized I should have arrived a bit later.
Before the music, a handsome, sharply-dressed, just barely middle-aged Italian fellow – obviously connected with the theater and/or festival in some way – got up and began speaking in rapid fire Italian. On and on he went, for at least half an hour. I guess all the day’s running around, the big lunch and art viewing took its toll on me. I began drifting in and out of light slumber of as I sat there. I initially though my boredom was due to my ignorance of the Italian language, so I would occasionally look around to gauge the reaction of my fellow tightwad music lovers who probably felt obligated to suffer through this lecture for the privilege of getting to hear some free music. But it seems I was not alone in catching a nap. I could also tell too many of the folks in the concert hall were clearly feigning polite interest. The real giveaway was the complete absence of any laughter, what almost any good speaker will incite at least once or twice during even the most serious talk. I’ve heard livelier reactions to eulogies.
By the time the music finally started, I did managed to last through a few numbers, before realizing my watch had stopped. Maybe it too was completely bored from the overly long lecture. I decided I needed to find a replacement battery, and left the hall. Thankfully, after only about 20 minutes of wandering the streets, I managed to find a watch store where a friendly fellow, who even spoke a few words of English, did the job for a reasonable fee.
It would soon be time for dinner at Cocchi, one of the most highly regarded restaurants in one of the most highly regarded food cities in one of the most highly regarded food countries in the world. How could I miss.
The wine list was indeed extensively pan-Italian, and the menu full of local classics. It was tough to decide. If I hadn’t had a bolito misto the night before at Diana in Bologna, I certainly would have ordered it, as the meat being sliced from the rolling cart looked excellent indeed. Instead, the waiter convinced me the stuffed breast of veal was the specialty of the house, although the wine braised beef, as well as the tripe, both seemed tempting. I took his advice, and started with a fresh pasta called strozogretti – thick, medium-length twisted strands – with a sauce containing some of the local salami and a small dollop of tomato paste. Very nice, especially after a hefty dusting of the ubiquitous grated parmigiano cheese.
As a side dish (contorno in Italian) for the veal, the waiter recommended the roasted potatoes, which proved to be crispy brown and excellent. The veal was understated and lovely, and thankfully, the portion not too large given how much I’ve been stuffing myself here.
The two glasses of locally produced wine I drank, named in honor of another favorite local legend, that disenchanted fascist and later American immigrant, Arturo Toscanini. One glass was an unusual blend of cabernet sauvignon and pinot nero (noir); the next, a more local combination of barbera and bornardo. Both very good, if not a bit expensive at 5 euros glass, pretty much the top of the price scale for any of the wines I’ve had since arriving in Italy.
Right up to the lunch I just had, I’d have to say the food here is outstanding, even if it’s meant being in an almost constant state of digestive overdrive – the fuzzy feeling never seemed to clear, even after the 7 and 8 hour breaks between lunches and dinners. Clearly, it’s all been such an incredible indulgence in fat, starch, calories, and cost. Meals, even lunch, almost always set me back at least $40 US. Of course, I could be more frugal, but I’m seeing this as my last splurge before a regular diet of tagines when I return to Morocco.
And I’ve been doing my best to dutifully take in the important sights, which continued this morning with a visit to the tiny 12th century Baptistry, an octagonal building of pink marble without, and covered with tons of 12th and 13th century frescoes and decorated with statues inside. Then, it was a visit to another small but important attraction, the Camera di San Paolo, which contains yet another important Correggio ceiling fresco. Both were interesting, but after paying all these admission fees of $3 to $7 US each, I’m finding myself spending only 10 or 15 minutes in each place. It’s all very beautiful and I’d probably feel like I’d missed something if I didn’t go to take a look, but I can’t help feeling I’m being somewhat scammed. I guess it’s all part of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
There’s also been lots of shopping and walking through this fairly charming city – smaller and a bit less scruffy than Bologna. And they’ll be more this afternoon to buy my cheese, vinegar, and maybe some culatello for the long train ride tomorrow. I only wish the bread were better here. The crust on what I’ve been served is always thin and unsubstantial, and it seems cottony inside. I’ve read much about the piandina – the local flat bread – but it never seems to be freshly made and what I’ve eaten seems crumbly and stale.
I’ve since left Tratotoria de Tribunale as I’m writing this, and I’m now sitting at an outside café, where I’ll probably be paying too much for the grappa morbida (or vecchio?) I’ve been drinking. But the weather’s so nice I can’t resist.
Tonight, it’s a place that specializes in bomba di riso con il piccione, a mold of baked rice with pigeon and mushroom sauce. I have this terrible feeling it’s prepared for a minimum of two people, as so many other rice dishes in this region are, but I’ll make the sacrifice and order the double potion, stuffing myself once again.
Tomorrow, it’s a long train ride to Marseille, where I’ll have a chance to have two seafood meals, before catching my flight to Fes on Thursday evening.
One would think after six days of the rich faire in Emilia-Romagna, I’d be less obsessed with food. One – who ever he or she might be – would indeed be incorrect.
The meal I just finished I started with an excellent plate of handmade taglialini with shards of culatello, the heart of the famed prusciutto from the area, along with a few small chunks of tomato and the tiniest touch of cream.
My main course was trippa di parmigiana, tripe done in Parma style, a local favorite that might gross out too many of my fellow countrymen. Yes, it’s a cow’s stomach that initially needs to be blanched extensively to tenderize and clean it. For this version, it’s then braised in a beef stock-based sauce, probably flavored with the sautéed onions, carrots and maybe celery – all strained away – and flavored with just a bit of tomato paste. A sprinkling garnish of the deservedly famous local cheese, parmigiano reggiano, adds great depth of flavor, especially considering how little is used. Once you get passed the texture, especially those strange honeycomb folds, it really is a great dish. It’s not as tough as one might expect, and the flavor is fairly delicate and readily influenced by the sauce.
With enough effort, I’m sure I could reproduce this dish, even in Morocco, with the exception of the final grating of cheese. I do, however, plan on taking a big vacuum-packed chunk of the stuff, which should last a while. I’m also thinking a tiny and incredibly expensive bottle of aged balsamic vinegar (don’t ask the price – it’s crazy outrageous) would also be a good souvenir. I’m looking forward to sharing some Parmigiano cheese drizzled with a few drops of this special vinegar with my gracious friends, Mark and Rizlane, in Fes.
This morning, I actually could have had the chance to see the manufacturing of this incredible cheese, but a combination of logistics, cost and my own stupidity got in the way. When I arrived here late yesterday afternoon following the one-hour train ride from Bologna, I stopped at the tourist office, where I convinced the woman there to try and book me on a tour. After discouraging the possibility, she got me a reservation on a tour for the next morning (today). She then handed me a map with the location, and told me I would have to take a cab, as the diary was a bit outside of town. Not only would the cost of the cab ride each way be considerable, it would mean spending over three hours there on my last day in Italy. This gave me pause. When I then lost the map and the clerk at my fancy hotel had no idea which dairy the tour might be in, the fates told me it might not be a good idea.
I was a bit annoyed at myself for losing the map, but I had to get over it. It seemed a good time to console myself in an extravagant lunch Trattoria del Corrieri, one of the many good places recommend in my British guide book of Bologna and Emilia-Romagna.
Before even tasting the food, I was impressed with two nearby sights. Ahead of me and slightly to the left, a beautiful young, dark-skinned nymph having dinner with her elderly father, the nipples of her small, firm breasts, quite visible through her white shirt. To my right, was an older, yet classically gorgeous blond woman. My head slowly turned from one side to the other, like I was watching a sluggish tennis match. I hope I wasn’t too obvious in my admiration of both.
The starter of tortelloni con zucca, pumpkin ravioli, was slightly gummy and had a filling that was almost too sweet, but it was fairly satisfying, especially with it’s dressing of butter and grated parmigiano cheese. The quartino of lightly fizzy mavalsia was a nice and slightly biitter beverage counterpoint.
This was followed by cavelli vecchia, ground horse meat cooked in a bit of tomato paste with green and red pepper and roasted potatoes. My only complaint was it could have been bit hotter, but otherwise, really good. Too bad slaughtering horses is illegal in the U.S. The meat is better than you’d expect. A second luncheon quartino proved an adequate pairing of a fizzy, dry lambrusco.
It seemed like a post-meal stroll to the much-heralded Correggio exhibit here would be a good way to work of my repast. Actually, to call it merely an exhibit understates what is more like an event celebrating this early-16th century master, who died at age 45 after almost universal derision for some of his later frescoes. It took nearly a century after his death for the experts to realize just how ahead of his time he was.
In addition to huge exhibition of paintings – many borrowed from museums around the world – at the impressive Galleria Nazionale here, special scaffolding was built, affording us mortals a better vantage point to gaze at Cerreggio’s incredible frescoes in the big domes at the main cathedral here, as well as at the often overlooked San Giovanni Evangelista church. True, it’s usually free to see both of these works, and to make sure freeloaders couldn’t get a peek from ground level, big curtains were hung to obscure the view. It did seem worth the 3 euros a pop it cost to climb the scaffolding for a rare close look. I only wish I spoke Italian, as in each church a guide gave a lengthy elucidation (got to love the thesaurus on my computer). I was provided a less than complete explanation on a sheet in English.
As I’m hardly anything close to an art scholar, suffice to say I found myself, once again, both impressed and overwhelmed by the experience, as I have so many times on my European forays. It’s hard not to be impressed by the technique, color and emotion, and when you consider that Correggio was active some 500 years ago, it makes it all the more incredible. Modern and contemporary artists must have it very tough, trying to even come close to what artists like Correggio have been doing for centuries.
There’s also a Verdi Festival underway here. This composer is a favorite local son of Parma, but I’m not much of an opera buff, and what I’ve heard always sounds a bit too romantic for my musical tastes. And for all the legend surrounding the composer of La Traviata and so many other famous operas, I can’t help thinking of that old Victor Borge joke about how Giuseppe Verdi translates to Joe Green in English.
There was, however, a free 5 PM chamber music concert at the famous Teatro Regio opera house here, a masterpiece of 19th century architecture. Even the small hall where the concert was held was indeed magnificent, with frescoes emulating High Renaissance art and some incredible chandeliers. I was a bit late, but soon realized I should have arrived a bit later.
Before the music, a handsome, sharply-dressed, just barely middle-aged Italian fellow – obviously connected with the theater and/or festival in some way – got up and began speaking in rapid fire Italian. On and on he went, for at least half an hour. I guess all the day’s running around, the big lunch and art viewing took its toll on me. I began drifting in and out of light slumber of as I sat there. I initially though my boredom was due to my ignorance of the Italian language, so I would occasionally look around to gauge the reaction of my fellow tightwad music lovers who probably felt obligated to suffer through this lecture for the privilege of getting to hear some free music. But it seems I was not alone in catching a nap. I could also tell too many of the folks in the concert hall were clearly feigning polite interest. The real giveaway was the complete absence of any laughter, what almost any good speaker will incite at least once or twice during even the most serious talk. I’ve heard livelier reactions to eulogies.
By the time the music finally started, I did managed to last through a few numbers, before realizing my watch had stopped. Maybe it too was completely bored from the overly long lecture. I decided I needed to find a replacement battery, and left the hall. Thankfully, after only about 20 minutes of wandering the streets, I managed to find a watch store where a friendly fellow, who even spoke a few words of English, did the job for a reasonable fee.
It would soon be time for dinner at Cocchi, one of the most highly regarded restaurants in one of the most highly regarded food cities in one of the most highly regarded food countries in the world. How could I miss.
The wine list was indeed extensively pan-Italian, and the menu full of local classics. It was tough to decide. If I hadn’t had a bolito misto the night before at Diana in Bologna, I certainly would have ordered it, as the meat being sliced from the rolling cart looked excellent indeed. Instead, the waiter convinced me the stuffed breast of veal was the specialty of the house, although the wine braised beef, as well as the tripe, both seemed tempting. I took his advice, and started with a fresh pasta called strozogretti – thick, medium-length twisted strands – with a sauce containing some of the local salami and a small dollop of tomato paste. Very nice, especially after a hefty dusting of the ubiquitous grated parmigiano cheese.
As a side dish (contorno in Italian) for the veal, the waiter recommended the roasted potatoes, which proved to be crispy brown and excellent. The veal was understated and lovely, and thankfully, the portion not too large given how much I’ve been stuffing myself here.
The two glasses of locally produced wine I drank, named in honor of another favorite local legend, that disenchanted fascist and later American immigrant, Arturo Toscanini. One glass was an unusual blend of cabernet sauvignon and pinot nero (noir); the next, a more local combination of barbera and bornardo. Both very good, if not a bit expensive at 5 euros glass, pretty much the top of the price scale for any of the wines I’ve had since arriving in Italy.
Right up to the lunch I just had, I’d have to say the food here is outstanding, even if it’s meant being in an almost constant state of digestive overdrive – the fuzzy feeling never seemed to clear, even after the 7 and 8 hour breaks between lunches and dinners. Clearly, it’s all been such an incredible indulgence in fat, starch, calories, and cost. Meals, even lunch, almost always set me back at least $40 US. Of course, I could be more frugal, but I’m seeing this as my last splurge before a regular diet of tagines when I return to Morocco.
And I’ve been doing my best to dutifully take in the important sights, which continued this morning with a visit to the tiny 12th century Baptistry, an octagonal building of pink marble without, and covered with tons of 12th and 13th century frescoes and decorated with statues inside. Then, it was a visit to another small but important attraction, the Camera di San Paolo, which contains yet another important Correggio ceiling fresco. Both were interesting, but after paying all these admission fees of $3 to $7 US each, I’m finding myself spending only 10 or 15 minutes in each place. It’s all very beautiful and I’d probably feel like I’d missed something if I didn’t go to take a look, but I can’t help feeling I’m being somewhat scammed. I guess it’s all part of this once-in-a-lifetime experience.
There’s also been lots of shopping and walking through this fairly charming city – smaller and a bit less scruffy than Bologna. And they’ll be more this afternoon to buy my cheese, vinegar, and maybe some culatello for the long train ride tomorrow. I only wish the bread were better here. The crust on what I’ve been served is always thin and unsubstantial, and it seems cottony inside. I’ve read much about the piandina – the local flat bread – but it never seems to be freshly made and what I’ve eaten seems crumbly and stale.
I’ve since left Tratotoria de Tribunale as I’m writing this, and I’m now sitting at an outside café, where I’ll probably be paying too much for the grappa morbida (or vecchio?) I’ve been drinking. But the weather’s so nice I can’t resist.
Tonight, it’s a place that specializes in bomba di riso con il piccione, a mold of baked rice with pigeon and mushroom sauce. I have this terrible feeling it’s prepared for a minimum of two people, as so many other rice dishes in this region are, but I’ll make the sacrifice and order the double potion, stuffing myself once again.
Tomorrow, it’s a long train ride to Marseille, where I’ll have a chance to have two seafood meals, before catching my flight to Fes on Thursday evening.
One would think after six days of the rich faire in Emilia-Romagna, I’d be less obsessed with food. One – who ever he or she might be – would indeed be incorrect.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
BOLOGNA, Italy, October 5, 2008
After two days here, I have to admit I never would have thought this place could be so generally crowded and popular with tourists. Not just Italians, but Germans and even Americans. But if my fellow Yanks generally give themselves three or four days in the bigger Italians cities, you’d think they’d be through here in a blur.
Not true, judging from what I’ve been finding, both here at the Hotel San Donato Best Western, and even on the streets and in the restaurants. They’re obviously staying at least overnight, which would seem a disproportionately long time, given how small this city is.
Hitting the rather substantial breakfast buffet the last two mornings – not just the usual bread and cereal, but steam table scrambled eggs and ham (looks disgusting), some cured coppa and salume, as well as two are three kinds of decadently rich cakes – my fellow countrymen are easy to spot. Even before they open their mouths, all I have to do is look at their shoes. The track sneakers (trainers to the Brits) are a dead giveaway. European tourists and travelers, especially those staying in nicer places like this, wear better footwear, although I have seen some Germans sporting thick sandals with socks.
Beyond the surprisingly large tourist throngs here – mostly Italians – there is also a huge student population. My hotel isn’t far from the big university, and there are tons of young people on the streets, especially the last two nights. Add this to the sizeable local population enjoying their city during the weekend, and you have a place that really bustles.
Before writing and posting yesterday afternoon, I wanted to make sure I had reservations lined up for my last three meals here, as I’m simply tired of getting shut out. As reported, I scored the reservation at Diana for tonight by walking over after visiting the Medieval Museum yesterday. I then returned to the hotel to consult the clerk/concierge about last night’s dinner and today’s lunch. I was looking for a more casual, late night dinner after all the eating and snacking yesterday morning and afternoon, and asked her about a restaurant/jazz club listed in my book. She said the food was nice enough there, and I wouldn’t need to book.
Standing at the desk, I began flipping the pages of my guide to ask her about a another place it recommended.
“For lunch tomorrow,” I said, “I was thinking…..”
“Gianni,” she interrupted, knowing of my culinary interests from our conversations the night before. “They make the best lasagne in Bologne, but only for Sunday lunch.”
There was barely time to approve of her choice before she picked up the phone. From what little Italian I could make out, the place was not happy about booking a table for one for their most popular meal of the week. But my advocate implored, saying something to the effect that the signore is a gastronome, and wants to try the lasagne, etc., etc.
Her pleading worked.
My mind was eased – I mean, the world might come to an end if I didn’t get to over-indulge my eating fantasies here – and I happily spent the late afternoon writing.
Then, early yesterday evening, I made my way to the huge Piazza Maggiote, the town’s main square, which is surrounded by several beautiful old historic buildings. It seems I’m here for the big annual San Petronio festival. The propaganda I received at the tourist office yesterday, which I visited before hitting the big food markets here, promised a symphonic orchestra and a “degustazione” of local foods.
The streets were packed as I made the short walk to the piazza. When I got there, the buildings were all beautifully lit, as the sun had just gone down. Most impressive was the huge mosaic of San Petronio on the side of his namesake basilica, which bordered the plaza where a stage and sound system had been erected.
Interestingly enough, the crowd that gathered in the center of the square wasn’t a big as expected, especially given the crowds I encountered on the way over. What was ridiculous, however, was the massive line waiting for snacks. I couldn’t tell just what was being distributed, but it looked like sandwiches on rolls, wrapped in white paper. There was such chaos, however, I decided to avoid the whole scene.
There was also a big tent where several local wine producers stood at tables pouring their wares. For 6 euros, you were given a nice Speiglau wine glass – yours to keep – and allowed to sample whatever you wanted. There was almost no line, probably since it wasn’t free. But it was too good of a deal for an intrepid wino like myself to pass up, so I laid down my money.
And I’m glad I did. Few wines from the district just outside the city here – known as Colli Bolognesi, which I imagine translates to Hills of Bologna – make it to the states. That’s since they hardly have a noble reputation, prices are not cheap, and not that much is produced.
It turned out to be an educational and fun thing to do. Several of the producers spoke enough English to communicate, and seemed flattered and impressed with my curiosity and enthusiasm. Of particular interest, white wine made from the local pignoletto grape, both still and frizzante, meaning slightly fizzy. I also tasted a barbera I liked, and there were a number of wines made from international varieties, including cabernet sauvignon, merlot and chardonnay. Quality was uneven, and some of these folks are misguided users of small oak barrels, but I found more than a few very good offerings.
What I didn’t find were enough available spit buckets. One producer suggested pouring excess wine into the potted plants nearby, and there were one or two times I was able to spit in the two or three proved spitoons, but I swallowed way too much of some samples that were way too large. There was nothing offered to eat but a few scrapes of local bread. I made it about three-quarters of the way through the line-up of tables before I felt my head beginning to reel.
Meanwhile, I could here the “symphony orchestra” begin to play in the background. My tasting completed, I took my glass, which held the last sample pour of the evening, and took a few almost wobbly steps over to the center of the plaza. The band on stage was indeed large, but no orchestra – more like a concert band, with saxophones instead of violins. I don’t want to say they were bad, as this was clearly a local, volunteer outfit, but they sounded pretty flat as it plowed through a version of “Merry Widow Waltz.” I somehow remembered this number as the birthday song from a long forgotten children’s show that was before even my time. Don’t ask me why.
My head now full of alcohol and bad music, I headed back to my hotel, doing my best to walk a straight line through the crowded streets. Upon entering, I gifted the clerk on duty with the lovely glass, since I knew I couldn’t travel with it. It was then off to the jazz club called Cantina Bentivoglio, named for a famous noble family that ruled here some 500 years ago.
Luckily, I arrived relatively early – about 9 PM – or I wouldn’t have gotten a table. I was seated directed in front of the bandstand, and at the next table, I was soon to learn, sat the quartet that would be playing later, along with their supportive friends.
The menu featured several local dishes at moderate prices, especially low when I think of what would have been charged for food at a New York City jazz club. Even the cover, about $7 or so US, seemed reasonable.
I ordered the Galantina di Coniglio, the waitress asking me in English if I knew what it was. Even without looking at the English menu, I knew this was some kind of rabbit dish, somewhere between a pate and a salami. But she must have thought I was an idiot. I can read English believe it or not, I thought to myself. But instead of getting cross, I politely assured her I did. I guess she’s not used to Yanks ordering rabbit. For my main course, I decided to stick with the basic tagliatelle ragú, which even a dopey American like myself knows is flat, fresh noodles with Bolonese sauce. They had an interesting looking half bottle of Lagrein from Alto-Adige on the list, as well.
The food was better than decent, and beyond expectations for a jazz club. I wasn’t crazy about the wine, as it had been obviously aged in small oak barrels. As a former colleague of mine in the wine trade would say, another producer gone over to the dark side. What a shame to obscure the flavors of such an interesting grape variety.
Even better was getting to catch a set of some very competently played jazz. The saxophonist, drummer and bassist where Italian, and the piano player, who I thought was exceptional, was a Brit. They opened with a excerpt of “So What,” from Miles Davis deservedly famous album, “Kind of Blue,” and then played one or two familiar numbers, including “Just Friends,” as well as several original compositions written by the piano player.
After the set, I caught the piano player’s eye as he sat down, and told him I thought he was extraordinary. “You listen to a lot of Monk, don’t you?” He smiled widely, stood up nodded his head in agreement and then extended his hand. We shook and exchanged pleasantries for a few seconds. It was a fun night of jazz.
Making my way back to the hotel afterwards, however, was quite an experience. I was navigating my way through a neighborhood between the university and my hotel. The streets were packed – swarming – with tons of happy, noisy students. I’ve never seen anything like it, even at college campuses I’ve visited. Every bar and café was full to overflowing with young, energetic people.
They could faintly be heard from my room, but thankfully, I’m in the back of the hotel. The view isn’t as good, but it’s quieter.
When I went to breakfast this morning, I really wanted to eat as lightly as possible, as I had reservations for two meals. But the best laid plans – well, we all know how that goes. I decided afterward to make my way to the Pinacoteca Nazionale, one of the bigger art museums here, which highlights the work of some of the city’s famous artists of the past. A special exhibit of paintings by Amico Aspertini, active in the late 15th and early 16th century here, was the big draw. I was there just after 10 AM and saw a group from France being ushered around by a guide.
It was all fairly interesting, but after seeing so many devotional paintings, bother recently here in Italy, as well as in Spain and France, I’m starting to get a bit overwhelmed by it all. How many Pietas, Modonnas with Childs, Crucifictions, etc., can one look at? I’m always fascinated in how old some of this stuff is, and the incredible artistry of these ancient painters. In fact, the permanent collection features work from as early as the 13th century, which made the Apertinis and the paintings done in the proceeding centuries also on display – often more than 200 years old – seem downright modern.
My stroll back toward the hotel was quite pleasant. The streets were fairly quiet, the weather sunny and just brisk enough. I was impressed with the blocks and block of streets covered with vaulted ceilings held up by columns. Walking underneath, it looks like a series of mini church domes overhead. I also notice the city wasn’t as grey as I initially perceived. There was lots of that reddish terra cotta color, not much different than Florence. There’s also lots of brick. It’s all crumbling a bit around the edges, and there is a smattering of graffiti here and there, but the place does have a certain faded beauty, and certainly, lots of energy. It is a real city where real people work and live in, unlike Venice, which seems all about tourists and the folks serving them.
The brief walk and passing of several hours after breakfast, however, had done little to settle my bloated stomach and swimming head. How about climbing a few stairs? Could I visit Bologna and not ascend the 500 steps (someone actually counts this stuff?) my guidebook says it takes to get to the top of the famous Torre degli Asinelli, one of two of the city’s famous leaning medieval tower, just a few steps from my hotel? The other, the Torre della Garisenda, was pitching so much as they built it, the city fathers decided not to complete it as they were concerned it would topple over.
It costs 3 euros to climb the Asinella and see the beautiful views of the city. It takes a while, however. Not just because of the long climb, but since it’s so packed with tourists – mostly Italian it seemed – going up and down. I needed to stop at almost every level to let people go by. As I dutifully made the trek, I asked myself just why I felt this need to spend nearly $5 US to climb up a huge set of narrow stairs in a crowded, dark, dank brick tower with just a few barred windows to look out. The view is indeed great at the top, but after about three minutes on the cramped observation deck, I had enough.
Besides, it was time for lasagne at Gianni’s. I found the place in an alleyway off one of the short but important market streets. As I entered, I saw three, slightly older than middle-aged American women being turned away. “This must be some hot spot,” I heard one of them complain. They also marveled at just how booked everything was. “I don’t know,” she said to her friends, “We were told us we’d have no problems getting tables here without reservations.” I couldn’t help but interject into the conversation to commiserate about the situation. She said something about the trade fair, but I knew that was over. Today’s mobs are about locals and tourists. “I’m surprised at how many tourist there are here,” I commented.
“Yes, one shot back. “But that’s what you are, right?” They then started laughing at me. Maybe I am, you nasty, ugly broads, I thought to myself, but I knew enough to book a table. I felt both lucky and a bit superior.
I found the servers inside to be quite friendly, with the exception of a woman who was either an owner or manager of the place, and did her best to ignore me. She must have been the one not at all excited about giving a table to one person.
I was barely hungry enough, so I decided to start with a mixed salad, which wasn’t all that exciting, as it contained too much iceberg lettuce. Truthfully, I would have preferred the crostini with lardo – toast with raw pig fat – but I knew that would put me right over the top. I did order the lasagne, as well as a half bottle of excellent local sangiovese.
The lasagne, made with fresh spinach noodles, was indeed transcendent. How could something so rich be so delicate? Clearly, the best I’ve every tasted. Despite my slight digestive discomfort, I couldn’t resist eating every bite.
I left, almost catatonic, slowly shuffling my way through the increasingly crowded streets. At least I had almost seven hours before my next overindulgent meal.
Not true, judging from what I’ve been finding, both here at the Hotel San Donato Best Western, and even on the streets and in the restaurants. They’re obviously staying at least overnight, which would seem a disproportionately long time, given how small this city is.
Hitting the rather substantial breakfast buffet the last two mornings – not just the usual bread and cereal, but steam table scrambled eggs and ham (looks disgusting), some cured coppa and salume, as well as two are three kinds of decadently rich cakes – my fellow countrymen are easy to spot. Even before they open their mouths, all I have to do is look at their shoes. The track sneakers (trainers to the Brits) are a dead giveaway. European tourists and travelers, especially those staying in nicer places like this, wear better footwear, although I have seen some Germans sporting thick sandals with socks.
Beyond the surprisingly large tourist throngs here – mostly Italians – there is also a huge student population. My hotel isn’t far from the big university, and there are tons of young people on the streets, especially the last two nights. Add this to the sizeable local population enjoying their city during the weekend, and you have a place that really bustles.
Before writing and posting yesterday afternoon, I wanted to make sure I had reservations lined up for my last three meals here, as I’m simply tired of getting shut out. As reported, I scored the reservation at Diana for tonight by walking over after visiting the Medieval Museum yesterday. I then returned to the hotel to consult the clerk/concierge about last night’s dinner and today’s lunch. I was looking for a more casual, late night dinner after all the eating and snacking yesterday morning and afternoon, and asked her about a restaurant/jazz club listed in my book. She said the food was nice enough there, and I wouldn’t need to book.
Standing at the desk, I began flipping the pages of my guide to ask her about a another place it recommended.
“For lunch tomorrow,” I said, “I was thinking…..”
“Gianni,” she interrupted, knowing of my culinary interests from our conversations the night before. “They make the best lasagne in Bologne, but only for Sunday lunch.”
There was barely time to approve of her choice before she picked up the phone. From what little Italian I could make out, the place was not happy about booking a table for one for their most popular meal of the week. But my advocate implored, saying something to the effect that the signore is a gastronome, and wants to try the lasagne, etc., etc.
Her pleading worked.
My mind was eased – I mean, the world might come to an end if I didn’t get to over-indulge my eating fantasies here – and I happily spent the late afternoon writing.
Then, early yesterday evening, I made my way to the huge Piazza Maggiote, the town’s main square, which is surrounded by several beautiful old historic buildings. It seems I’m here for the big annual San Petronio festival. The propaganda I received at the tourist office yesterday, which I visited before hitting the big food markets here, promised a symphonic orchestra and a “degustazione” of local foods.
The streets were packed as I made the short walk to the piazza. When I got there, the buildings were all beautifully lit, as the sun had just gone down. Most impressive was the huge mosaic of San Petronio on the side of his namesake basilica, which bordered the plaza where a stage and sound system had been erected.
Interestingly enough, the crowd that gathered in the center of the square wasn’t a big as expected, especially given the crowds I encountered on the way over. What was ridiculous, however, was the massive line waiting for snacks. I couldn’t tell just what was being distributed, but it looked like sandwiches on rolls, wrapped in white paper. There was such chaos, however, I decided to avoid the whole scene.
There was also a big tent where several local wine producers stood at tables pouring their wares. For 6 euros, you were given a nice Speiglau wine glass – yours to keep – and allowed to sample whatever you wanted. There was almost no line, probably since it wasn’t free. But it was too good of a deal for an intrepid wino like myself to pass up, so I laid down my money.
And I’m glad I did. Few wines from the district just outside the city here – known as Colli Bolognesi, which I imagine translates to Hills of Bologna – make it to the states. That’s since they hardly have a noble reputation, prices are not cheap, and not that much is produced.
It turned out to be an educational and fun thing to do. Several of the producers spoke enough English to communicate, and seemed flattered and impressed with my curiosity and enthusiasm. Of particular interest, white wine made from the local pignoletto grape, both still and frizzante, meaning slightly fizzy. I also tasted a barbera I liked, and there were a number of wines made from international varieties, including cabernet sauvignon, merlot and chardonnay. Quality was uneven, and some of these folks are misguided users of small oak barrels, but I found more than a few very good offerings.
What I didn’t find were enough available spit buckets. One producer suggested pouring excess wine into the potted plants nearby, and there were one or two times I was able to spit in the two or three proved spitoons, but I swallowed way too much of some samples that were way too large. There was nothing offered to eat but a few scrapes of local bread. I made it about three-quarters of the way through the line-up of tables before I felt my head beginning to reel.
Meanwhile, I could here the “symphony orchestra” begin to play in the background. My tasting completed, I took my glass, which held the last sample pour of the evening, and took a few almost wobbly steps over to the center of the plaza. The band on stage was indeed large, but no orchestra – more like a concert band, with saxophones instead of violins. I don’t want to say they were bad, as this was clearly a local, volunteer outfit, but they sounded pretty flat as it plowed through a version of “Merry Widow Waltz.” I somehow remembered this number as the birthday song from a long forgotten children’s show that was before even my time. Don’t ask me why.
My head now full of alcohol and bad music, I headed back to my hotel, doing my best to walk a straight line through the crowded streets. Upon entering, I gifted the clerk on duty with the lovely glass, since I knew I couldn’t travel with it. It was then off to the jazz club called Cantina Bentivoglio, named for a famous noble family that ruled here some 500 years ago.
Luckily, I arrived relatively early – about 9 PM – or I wouldn’t have gotten a table. I was seated directed in front of the bandstand, and at the next table, I was soon to learn, sat the quartet that would be playing later, along with their supportive friends.
The menu featured several local dishes at moderate prices, especially low when I think of what would have been charged for food at a New York City jazz club. Even the cover, about $7 or so US, seemed reasonable.
I ordered the Galantina di Coniglio, the waitress asking me in English if I knew what it was. Even without looking at the English menu, I knew this was some kind of rabbit dish, somewhere between a pate and a salami. But she must have thought I was an idiot. I can read English believe it or not, I thought to myself. But instead of getting cross, I politely assured her I did. I guess she’s not used to Yanks ordering rabbit. For my main course, I decided to stick with the basic tagliatelle ragú, which even a dopey American like myself knows is flat, fresh noodles with Bolonese sauce. They had an interesting looking half bottle of Lagrein from Alto-Adige on the list, as well.
The food was better than decent, and beyond expectations for a jazz club. I wasn’t crazy about the wine, as it had been obviously aged in small oak barrels. As a former colleague of mine in the wine trade would say, another producer gone over to the dark side. What a shame to obscure the flavors of such an interesting grape variety.
Even better was getting to catch a set of some very competently played jazz. The saxophonist, drummer and bassist where Italian, and the piano player, who I thought was exceptional, was a Brit. They opened with a excerpt of “So What,” from Miles Davis deservedly famous album, “Kind of Blue,” and then played one or two familiar numbers, including “Just Friends,” as well as several original compositions written by the piano player.
After the set, I caught the piano player’s eye as he sat down, and told him I thought he was extraordinary. “You listen to a lot of Monk, don’t you?” He smiled widely, stood up nodded his head in agreement and then extended his hand. We shook and exchanged pleasantries for a few seconds. It was a fun night of jazz.
Making my way back to the hotel afterwards, however, was quite an experience. I was navigating my way through a neighborhood between the university and my hotel. The streets were packed – swarming – with tons of happy, noisy students. I’ve never seen anything like it, even at college campuses I’ve visited. Every bar and café was full to overflowing with young, energetic people.
They could faintly be heard from my room, but thankfully, I’m in the back of the hotel. The view isn’t as good, but it’s quieter.
When I went to breakfast this morning, I really wanted to eat as lightly as possible, as I had reservations for two meals. But the best laid plans – well, we all know how that goes. I decided afterward to make my way to the Pinacoteca Nazionale, one of the bigger art museums here, which highlights the work of some of the city’s famous artists of the past. A special exhibit of paintings by Amico Aspertini, active in the late 15th and early 16th century here, was the big draw. I was there just after 10 AM and saw a group from France being ushered around by a guide.
It was all fairly interesting, but after seeing so many devotional paintings, bother recently here in Italy, as well as in Spain and France, I’m starting to get a bit overwhelmed by it all. How many Pietas, Modonnas with Childs, Crucifictions, etc., can one look at? I’m always fascinated in how old some of this stuff is, and the incredible artistry of these ancient painters. In fact, the permanent collection features work from as early as the 13th century, which made the Apertinis and the paintings done in the proceeding centuries also on display – often more than 200 years old – seem downright modern.
My stroll back toward the hotel was quite pleasant. The streets were fairly quiet, the weather sunny and just brisk enough. I was impressed with the blocks and block of streets covered with vaulted ceilings held up by columns. Walking underneath, it looks like a series of mini church domes overhead. I also notice the city wasn’t as grey as I initially perceived. There was lots of that reddish terra cotta color, not much different than Florence. There’s also lots of brick. It’s all crumbling a bit around the edges, and there is a smattering of graffiti here and there, but the place does have a certain faded beauty, and certainly, lots of energy. It is a real city where real people work and live in, unlike Venice, which seems all about tourists and the folks serving them.
The brief walk and passing of several hours after breakfast, however, had done little to settle my bloated stomach and swimming head. How about climbing a few stairs? Could I visit Bologna and not ascend the 500 steps (someone actually counts this stuff?) my guidebook says it takes to get to the top of the famous Torre degli Asinelli, one of two of the city’s famous leaning medieval tower, just a few steps from my hotel? The other, the Torre della Garisenda, was pitching so much as they built it, the city fathers decided not to complete it as they were concerned it would topple over.
It costs 3 euros to climb the Asinella and see the beautiful views of the city. It takes a while, however. Not just because of the long climb, but since it’s so packed with tourists – mostly Italian it seemed – going up and down. I needed to stop at almost every level to let people go by. As I dutifully made the trek, I asked myself just why I felt this need to spend nearly $5 US to climb up a huge set of narrow stairs in a crowded, dark, dank brick tower with just a few barred windows to look out. The view is indeed great at the top, but after about three minutes on the cramped observation deck, I had enough.
Besides, it was time for lasagne at Gianni’s. I found the place in an alleyway off one of the short but important market streets. As I entered, I saw three, slightly older than middle-aged American women being turned away. “This must be some hot spot,” I heard one of them complain. They also marveled at just how booked everything was. “I don’t know,” she said to her friends, “We were told us we’d have no problems getting tables here without reservations.” I couldn’t help but interject into the conversation to commiserate about the situation. She said something about the trade fair, but I knew that was over. Today’s mobs are about locals and tourists. “I’m surprised at how many tourist there are here,” I commented.
“Yes, one shot back. “But that’s what you are, right?” They then started laughing at me. Maybe I am, you nasty, ugly broads, I thought to myself, but I knew enough to book a table. I felt both lucky and a bit superior.
I found the servers inside to be quite friendly, with the exception of a woman who was either an owner or manager of the place, and did her best to ignore me. She must have been the one not at all excited about giving a table to one person.
I was barely hungry enough, so I decided to start with a mixed salad, which wasn’t all that exciting, as it contained too much iceberg lettuce. Truthfully, I would have preferred the crostini with lardo – toast with raw pig fat – but I knew that would put me right over the top. I did order the lasagne, as well as a half bottle of excellent local sangiovese.
The lasagne, made with fresh spinach noodles, was indeed transcendent. How could something so rich be so delicate? Clearly, the best I’ve every tasted. Despite my slight digestive discomfort, I couldn’t resist eating every bite.
I left, almost catatonic, slowly shuffling my way through the increasingly crowded streets. At least I had almost seven hours before my next overindulgent meal.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
BOLOGNA, Italy, October 4, 2008
ATTENTION, GENTLE READERS:
IF YOU'RE SUFFERING FROM INSOMNIA, MIGHT I SUGGEST READING THE FOLLOWING RAMBLINGS AS A SURE-FIRE CURE. I'VE FINALLY HAD A CHANCE TO POST ALL THIS STUFF. YOU CAN START BY READING THE SEPT. 28TH ENTRY FROM TELMEZZO, AND FIND OUT WHY THE HELL I WOULD BOTHER GOING TO SUCH AN OBSURE PLACE.
FOR NOW, I'M DOING MY BEST TO EAT MYSELF INTO OBLIVION IN WHAT IS CONSIDERED BY MANY THE CULINARY CAPITAL OF ITALY.
CIAO
LARRY
In reflecting on my Northern Italian travels thus far, I must confess to what now seems like a great deal of naïveté and ignorance about what I would encounter once leaving Venice.
I expected crowds and high prices in a city that might just be the most popular tourist destination in the world, especially considering its size. And while my experience was mixed, I’m glad that I went. Indeed, there’s more I would have like to have seen, if given the time, energy and funds. But whether I would return is another issue. Perhaps if I actually met a woman with strange enough tastes and, more than likely, a piece of her brain missing, whom would deem to spend time with me, it might make for a romantic trip. There’s certainly enough beauty, as faded as it might be And while a solo ride on a gondola would have been both prohibitively expensive and just plain silly, I was impressed with the fluid motions of the gondoliers, as they glided their lovely boats along the canals. It would certainly be a romantic experience.
I’m sure with the right kind of company, I might have had a better attitude toward the annoying multitude of idiots I encountered swarming all over the place. I wish I had more time to wander away from the madding crowds. I think I saw more Americans in Venice than I do during my average day trip in Manhattan. They are generally loud, poorly dressed and badly behaved. Once again, I’m reminded of why we are so universally disliked all over the world. I do my best to try and blend in where ever I go, but it’s not easy.
As far as eating, while it was a generally an expensive proposition and you have to choose restaurants carefully, there is plenty of good dining in Venice. My last dinner there certainly reinforces this assertion.
Both my “Eating in Italy” and Rick Steves guides recommended Fiaschetteria Toscana. True, an odd name for a place offering some incredibly good Venetian cooking, they also serve one or two Tuscan delights, including the special Chianina beef, difficult to find anymore, even in Florence.
But I was intent on seafood. The small, well-light ground floor included a display of lovely fresh fish on ice. I squeezed into my small table, next to two other Americans finishing their dinner. Both were well dressed, not especially loud and very polite. We started chatting almost immediately. One fellow had been at the restaurant several times before, and wondered how I found out about the place. He said it might be the best restaurant in Venice.
“True, you’ll see a lot of Americans here,” he commented. “But don’t let that put you off.”
It seems he and his pal, both slightly older than me, were taking a little two-week jaunt through the Veneto together, leaving their wives behind. “We’re in the art business,” the more talkative fellow, named Barry, explained. “So we use our quest for art as an excuse to travel. I’m from Florida; he’s from California.”
Barry suggested I order the bottle of white they were now finishing, which he described as “cheap and cheerful,” about 14 euros on the menu. After getting it, I would say it was better than that. I’m slightly annoyed at myself for losing the slip of paper on which I wrote down just what the stuff was, as it was a white from an unusual variety I’d never heard of, grown in the hills of the Veneto. I couldn’t find it listed anywhere. Just as well; I’ll probably never encounter it again.
I was asked about my travel plans, and Barry told me I must eat at Diana when in Bologna. We discussed my stint in the wine trade, as he is a fellow enophile and familiar with many retailers in New York. After my new acquaintances left, I did notice that I was surrounded mostly by load, fairly rude Americans. Among them, a family with a small, chubby girl of about 8 or 9 who was running round the restaurant. At least she was quiet. Why the hell would anyone schlep a child of that age to go to Venice, let alone to a lovely restaurant with gourmet food at 9 o’clock at night. Would she really understand or remember anything? Won’t the expensive, interesting food be beyond her? Call me a cynical curmudgeon, but I’ll bet she was dreaming of being home playing video games and eating McDonalds. It all seems a terrible waste.
The loud group next to me of three older-than-middle age folks were at least amusing, and thankfully, on their way out. I got a laugh when the fellow was surprised to learn his black American Express card, which I believe has something like a $1 million limit, wasn’t accepted. Master of the Universe, indeed.
Before he left, Barry suggested the house-made taglialini with tiny squid. This materialized as the most delicate strands of pasta, not round like spaghetti but rather a boxed shape, somehow cooked al dente. This was mixed with small, delicate shards of carrot, pepper and onions, as well as the tiniest whole squids I have ever seen, the largest no more than about half an inch long. A very small amount of olive oil dressed it all. Magnificent.
I wasn’t looking for more fired fish, but Barry had almost insisted I try the house frito misto. I’m glad I did. The frito misto I had the day before was fairly good, but paled in comparison. It was exquisite: tiny squids, shrimp, mussels, clams, and some other odds and ends, along with some vegetables. Greaseless, crispy, full of fresh sea flavor, just fabulous. The wine I was drinking with it had the right balance of fruit and acid, making for an amazing gastronomic experience I didn’t want to end.
When the one of the several polite, efficient and friendly waiters asked me how it was, I replied, “In America, we have a saying, ‘better than sex.’”
A fairly young fellow diner who was sitting near me was just then leaving with his wife. I don’t know where they were from, as they spoke a language to each other I didn’t recognize, and they communicated with the waiters in English, so they obviously weren’t Italian. He overheard my comment. “Give me three orders of whatever he had, to go,” he quipped in accented English. The waiters, the fellow and I all laughed – echoes of the famous Katz’s Deli scene from “When Harry Met Sally.”
* * *
I’d rather forget how my next morning in Venice began. Suffice to say, I struggled with a load of laundry at a laundromat near my hotel. I seem to have a choice of leaving with soggy clothes or completely cooking them, not to mention how many euros I wasted trying to make the goddamn machines work.
But I did make it to my train to Bologna. As usual, my reserved seat had me sitting backwards, next to a window, crushed among three other people. I always seem to get next to the other biggest guy on the train, and this fellow, while trimmer than me, was of enough proportion to think nothing of digging his elbows into my ribs through a good part of the 90 minute trip. He was also typing on his laptop, and using one of those mobile phone modems. I had to peak at what he was working on that was important enough to make the large investment in this kind of technology. A dating site! Answering personal ads. Apparently, wearing a wedding band on his finger was not going to keep him from his fun. But I wondered just what kind of women would date this guy: good looking and trim, yes, but married and smelly. I wanted to hand him one of the small bottles of shower gel out of my bag so he might get the message. He was also jumpy, almost constantly moving his leg into mine. Let’s just say it could have been a more pleasant trip.
Bologna station was packed. I caught a taxi to my hotel and noticed the streets were crowded. The buildings seem even more austere than those in Florence: lots of bricks and gray edifices, but not without a certain amount of architectural ornamentation and street statuary. Many of the avenues are lined with covered galleries, made up of lots of columns and arches. Good coverage for pedestrians that inside, looked a series of small, internal church domes.
My hotel is indeed a luxury establishment, not far from the iconic medieval Two Towers. So for the 100 euros a night I’m paying, I’m mostly getting more than my money’s worth. The location is central, the services excellent. My room is huge, but the show stall, for some reason, is tiny. I do have double bed and even a little refrigerator. I’m not far from the famous university here, the oldest in Europe I’m told, so the plazas out front seem permanently crowded with college kids.
As this is a four star, I asked the clerk/concierge – a delightfully friendly and attractive young Italian woman who constantly apologized for her English, which is actually very good – about getting a restaurant reservation for the evening She seemed more than willing to help, so I asked her about getting a table at Diana, and she promised to call later, when the place would open.
My naiveté would again kick in when I went up to my room and attempted to find a room for my next stop in Parma on Monday. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, I stupidly thought. I called the few lower-end hotels listed in UK-published guidebook to the region, and found myself completely shut out. Since Parma is in a different regional district that Bologna, the local tourist office would be no help. My previous attempts at searching out a place on the internet sites I relied on for lodgings in Madrid and Venice had already come up empty. I was once again relegated to the dreaded discount hotel sites, where most of the listings were for three- and four-star properties.
Again, the search was difficult and time consuming. Everything was either booked, way too expensive, are too far from the city center. I finally found another recently renovated four-star that garnered some favorable reviews from fellow travelers, for 90 euros a night. More unneeded, but welcome luxury for two more nights.
As my search for a hotel took way too long, it was way past 7 PM as I headed back to the desk hoping to have my reservation at Diana. I was informed that I was out of luck. A Change in shifts at the desk, and a new clerk was now on duty. She had done nothing to find an alternative, so I asked to call the other place recommended in my “Eating in Italy” book. Also booked. The new clerk/concierge’s recommendations were also full. She did finally find me a place.
It seems I’m here for the last night of some kind of ceramic tile trade show. And today, there’s a big festival. So the whole town is fuller than it normally is on a weekend.
The restaurant she got me into, after a certain amount of cajoling the Maitre de on the other end of this line, was in a large cellar where most of the tables were big and long. I was told to make it over there in a hurry, which I did. The place was empty at 8 PM, but slowly filled as my meal progressed. The menu looked okay, with some of the pasta dishes I was hoping to try, but the main courses seemed lacking.
I started with a fairly good lasagne verde Bolognese, made with green noodles, béchamel sauce, Parmiagiano cheese and Bolognese sauce. For the uninitiated and ill informed, Bolognese sauce is not that crap you get in the States, which is usually tomato sauce with some ground beef and too much garlic and onions in it. Indeed, it has little to do with that bastardized version.
A true Bolognese ragú is mostly ground meat – pork, beef and maybe even veal seasoned with a small amount of finely chopped carrot, onion (maybe celery), and maybe the slightest touch of tomato or tomato paste, simmered with broth and a little cream. This is cooked for hours. This foundation of the local cuisine is also served here with tagliatelle, as well as the famous tortellini, a stuffed pasta said to look like the belly button of venus.
I was hungry, having only eaten two small sandwiches over the course of the entire day, the last on the local padini, a kind of flat bread that looks like a pancake. I was then hoping to get some of the local specialty of beef stewed in wine, but none was to be had on the menu. I should have asked more questions, but an English menu was not offered, although a later learned one was available. Instead, I ended up with a local take on veal cutlet, cooked with a slice of the famous Prosciutto di Parma and cheese. Good, but not terribly exciting or filling, so I ordered the guinea fowl, as well. If I had been thinking ahead, I might have ordered an antipasto instead, or even two kinds of pasta to start. But the breast of hen was fairly good, served with wild mushrooms. It had a nice crispy skin and was cooked rare, something that couldn’t be done with poultry in America, for fear of salmonella.
Wine here is not always the most interesting proposition. The big local tipple is lambruso, a low alcohol, fizzy red that supposed to be a good choice for washing down the rich, local food. Some folks of a certain age – like me – remember the popular Reunite, a sweet, cheap fowl-tasting beverage I’m loathe to call wine. But it was officially lambrusco. While the stuff served here – a small amount of which makes it to the States, where I tasted it while in the wine trade – is a bit better, it’s not my favorite.
This place had a huge, pan-Italian list, but I was looking for a local oddity. Sure enough, I found one. It was a Barbera, from a grape better know in the Piedmont district. But this was grown in the hills near Bologna, and made in a frizzante (fizzy) style. It came to me warm, but thankfully, the Maitre de suggested chilling it in an ice bucket, which improved the flavor substantially. It was a bit richer than most of the everyday Piemontese barberas I’ve had. Not excellent, but certainly an improvement over lambrusco.
Which is what I had with my lunch of totellini con ragú at Salsamentaria Tamburini. This is a well-known local retailer of fabulous local foods of all kinds that has a cafeteria style restaurant in the back for lunch. The tortellini was indeed delicate and handmade, the light dressing of Bolognese sauce, a delight, although it could have been served a little warmer.
I had earlier eaten a sandwich of sausage and peppers served on crescente, a kind of local fried flat bread, good versions of which are said to be harder to find, especially in the city. This one was pretty good, but I wish they had served it to me fresh out of the fryer, instead of reheated. During the afternoon, I also managed to score a reservation at Diana for tomorrow.
Beyond eating, I visited the ancient church of San Stefano yesterday, which when first designed in the 9th century, was meant to replicate a pilgrimage to the seven holy sights of Jerusalem. It’s made of brick, hardly grand and very dark. But it has that creepy, religious historic feel, and lots of old art in the adjacent museum. There was also a little room with faded frescoes, not described in my guidebook or even in the literature at the church. I found that really interesting.
This morning, I visited the city’s Medieval Museum, which has lots of old statues, and interesting old mosaic from the 12th century and, yes, another torturous and horrid-looking metal chastity belt. Just what was with those folks back then?
There’s also a big festival here, celebrating San Petronio, for which a large basilica in the main square was named. The festival is already underway in the big piazza right near the namesake church, and a few minutes from now, I’ll be heading over for a concert and a promised tasting of local products.
After all I’ve eaten already, I doubt dinner will be a big deal tonight. I plan on heading to to the big art museum here tomorrow, followed for lunch at a place my concierge insists makes the best lasagne in town, and only for lunch on Sunday.
IF YOU'RE SUFFERING FROM INSOMNIA, MIGHT I SUGGEST READING THE FOLLOWING RAMBLINGS AS A SURE-FIRE CURE. I'VE FINALLY HAD A CHANCE TO POST ALL THIS STUFF. YOU CAN START BY READING THE SEPT. 28TH ENTRY FROM TELMEZZO, AND FIND OUT WHY THE HELL I WOULD BOTHER GOING TO SUCH AN OBSURE PLACE.
FOR NOW, I'M DOING MY BEST TO EAT MYSELF INTO OBLIVION IN WHAT IS CONSIDERED BY MANY THE CULINARY CAPITAL OF ITALY.
CIAO
LARRY
In reflecting on my Northern Italian travels thus far, I must confess to what now seems like a great deal of naïveté and ignorance about what I would encounter once leaving Venice.
I expected crowds and high prices in a city that might just be the most popular tourist destination in the world, especially considering its size. And while my experience was mixed, I’m glad that I went. Indeed, there’s more I would have like to have seen, if given the time, energy and funds. But whether I would return is another issue. Perhaps if I actually met a woman with strange enough tastes and, more than likely, a piece of her brain missing, whom would deem to spend time with me, it might make for a romantic trip. There’s certainly enough beauty, as faded as it might be And while a solo ride on a gondola would have been both prohibitively expensive and just plain silly, I was impressed with the fluid motions of the gondoliers, as they glided their lovely boats along the canals. It would certainly be a romantic experience.
I’m sure with the right kind of company, I might have had a better attitude toward the annoying multitude of idiots I encountered swarming all over the place. I wish I had more time to wander away from the madding crowds. I think I saw more Americans in Venice than I do during my average day trip in Manhattan. They are generally loud, poorly dressed and badly behaved. Once again, I’m reminded of why we are so universally disliked all over the world. I do my best to try and blend in where ever I go, but it’s not easy.
As far as eating, while it was a generally an expensive proposition and you have to choose restaurants carefully, there is plenty of good dining in Venice. My last dinner there certainly reinforces this assertion.
Both my “Eating in Italy” and Rick Steves guides recommended Fiaschetteria Toscana. True, an odd name for a place offering some incredibly good Venetian cooking, they also serve one or two Tuscan delights, including the special Chianina beef, difficult to find anymore, even in Florence.
But I was intent on seafood. The small, well-light ground floor included a display of lovely fresh fish on ice. I squeezed into my small table, next to two other Americans finishing their dinner. Both were well dressed, not especially loud and very polite. We started chatting almost immediately. One fellow had been at the restaurant several times before, and wondered how I found out about the place. He said it might be the best restaurant in Venice.
“True, you’ll see a lot of Americans here,” he commented. “But don’t let that put you off.”
It seems he and his pal, both slightly older than me, were taking a little two-week jaunt through the Veneto together, leaving their wives behind. “We’re in the art business,” the more talkative fellow, named Barry, explained. “So we use our quest for art as an excuse to travel. I’m from Florida; he’s from California.”
Barry suggested I order the bottle of white they were now finishing, which he described as “cheap and cheerful,” about 14 euros on the menu. After getting it, I would say it was better than that. I’m slightly annoyed at myself for losing the slip of paper on which I wrote down just what the stuff was, as it was a white from an unusual variety I’d never heard of, grown in the hills of the Veneto. I couldn’t find it listed anywhere. Just as well; I’ll probably never encounter it again.
I was asked about my travel plans, and Barry told me I must eat at Diana when in Bologna. We discussed my stint in the wine trade, as he is a fellow enophile and familiar with many retailers in New York. After my new acquaintances left, I did notice that I was surrounded mostly by load, fairly rude Americans. Among them, a family with a small, chubby girl of about 8 or 9 who was running round the restaurant. At least she was quiet. Why the hell would anyone schlep a child of that age to go to Venice, let alone to a lovely restaurant with gourmet food at 9 o’clock at night. Would she really understand or remember anything? Won’t the expensive, interesting food be beyond her? Call me a cynical curmudgeon, but I’ll bet she was dreaming of being home playing video games and eating McDonalds. It all seems a terrible waste.
The loud group next to me of three older-than-middle age folks were at least amusing, and thankfully, on their way out. I got a laugh when the fellow was surprised to learn his black American Express card, which I believe has something like a $1 million limit, wasn’t accepted. Master of the Universe, indeed.
Before he left, Barry suggested the house-made taglialini with tiny squid. This materialized as the most delicate strands of pasta, not round like spaghetti but rather a boxed shape, somehow cooked al dente. This was mixed with small, delicate shards of carrot, pepper and onions, as well as the tiniest whole squids I have ever seen, the largest no more than about half an inch long. A very small amount of olive oil dressed it all. Magnificent.
I wasn’t looking for more fired fish, but Barry had almost insisted I try the house frito misto. I’m glad I did. The frito misto I had the day before was fairly good, but paled in comparison. It was exquisite: tiny squids, shrimp, mussels, clams, and some other odds and ends, along with some vegetables. Greaseless, crispy, full of fresh sea flavor, just fabulous. The wine I was drinking with it had the right balance of fruit and acid, making for an amazing gastronomic experience I didn’t want to end.
When the one of the several polite, efficient and friendly waiters asked me how it was, I replied, “In America, we have a saying, ‘better than sex.’”
A fairly young fellow diner who was sitting near me was just then leaving with his wife. I don’t know where they were from, as they spoke a language to each other I didn’t recognize, and they communicated with the waiters in English, so they obviously weren’t Italian. He overheard my comment. “Give me three orders of whatever he had, to go,” he quipped in accented English. The waiters, the fellow and I all laughed – echoes of the famous Katz’s Deli scene from “When Harry Met Sally.”
* * *
I’d rather forget how my next morning in Venice began. Suffice to say, I struggled with a load of laundry at a laundromat near my hotel. I seem to have a choice of leaving with soggy clothes or completely cooking them, not to mention how many euros I wasted trying to make the goddamn machines work.
But I did make it to my train to Bologna. As usual, my reserved seat had me sitting backwards, next to a window, crushed among three other people. I always seem to get next to the other biggest guy on the train, and this fellow, while trimmer than me, was of enough proportion to think nothing of digging his elbows into my ribs through a good part of the 90 minute trip. He was also typing on his laptop, and using one of those mobile phone modems. I had to peak at what he was working on that was important enough to make the large investment in this kind of technology. A dating site! Answering personal ads. Apparently, wearing a wedding band on his finger was not going to keep him from his fun. But I wondered just what kind of women would date this guy: good looking and trim, yes, but married and smelly. I wanted to hand him one of the small bottles of shower gel out of my bag so he might get the message. He was also jumpy, almost constantly moving his leg into mine. Let’s just say it could have been a more pleasant trip.
Bologna station was packed. I caught a taxi to my hotel and noticed the streets were crowded. The buildings seem even more austere than those in Florence: lots of bricks and gray edifices, but not without a certain amount of architectural ornamentation and street statuary. Many of the avenues are lined with covered galleries, made up of lots of columns and arches. Good coverage for pedestrians that inside, looked a series of small, internal church domes.
My hotel is indeed a luxury establishment, not far from the iconic medieval Two Towers. So for the 100 euros a night I’m paying, I’m mostly getting more than my money’s worth. The location is central, the services excellent. My room is huge, but the show stall, for some reason, is tiny. I do have double bed and even a little refrigerator. I’m not far from the famous university here, the oldest in Europe I’m told, so the plazas out front seem permanently crowded with college kids.
As this is a four star, I asked the clerk/concierge – a delightfully friendly and attractive young Italian woman who constantly apologized for her English, which is actually very good – about getting a restaurant reservation for the evening She seemed more than willing to help, so I asked her about getting a table at Diana, and she promised to call later, when the place would open.
My naiveté would again kick in when I went up to my room and attempted to find a room for my next stop in Parma on Monday. Shouldn’t be too much of a problem, I stupidly thought. I called the few lower-end hotels listed in UK-published guidebook to the region, and found myself completely shut out. Since Parma is in a different regional district that Bologna, the local tourist office would be no help. My previous attempts at searching out a place on the internet sites I relied on for lodgings in Madrid and Venice had already come up empty. I was once again relegated to the dreaded discount hotel sites, where most of the listings were for three- and four-star properties.
Again, the search was difficult and time consuming. Everything was either booked, way too expensive, are too far from the city center. I finally found another recently renovated four-star that garnered some favorable reviews from fellow travelers, for 90 euros a night. More unneeded, but welcome luxury for two more nights.
As my search for a hotel took way too long, it was way past 7 PM as I headed back to the desk hoping to have my reservation at Diana. I was informed that I was out of luck. A Change in shifts at the desk, and a new clerk was now on duty. She had done nothing to find an alternative, so I asked to call the other place recommended in my “Eating in Italy” book. Also booked. The new clerk/concierge’s recommendations were also full. She did finally find me a place.
It seems I’m here for the last night of some kind of ceramic tile trade show. And today, there’s a big festival. So the whole town is fuller than it normally is on a weekend.
The restaurant she got me into, after a certain amount of cajoling the Maitre de on the other end of this line, was in a large cellar where most of the tables were big and long. I was told to make it over there in a hurry, which I did. The place was empty at 8 PM, but slowly filled as my meal progressed. The menu looked okay, with some of the pasta dishes I was hoping to try, but the main courses seemed lacking.
I started with a fairly good lasagne verde Bolognese, made with green noodles, béchamel sauce, Parmiagiano cheese and Bolognese sauce. For the uninitiated and ill informed, Bolognese sauce is not that crap you get in the States, which is usually tomato sauce with some ground beef and too much garlic and onions in it. Indeed, it has little to do with that bastardized version.
A true Bolognese ragú is mostly ground meat – pork, beef and maybe even veal seasoned with a small amount of finely chopped carrot, onion (maybe celery), and maybe the slightest touch of tomato or tomato paste, simmered with broth and a little cream. This is cooked for hours. This foundation of the local cuisine is also served here with tagliatelle, as well as the famous tortellini, a stuffed pasta said to look like the belly button of venus.
I was hungry, having only eaten two small sandwiches over the course of the entire day, the last on the local padini, a kind of flat bread that looks like a pancake. I was then hoping to get some of the local specialty of beef stewed in wine, but none was to be had on the menu. I should have asked more questions, but an English menu was not offered, although a later learned one was available. Instead, I ended up with a local take on veal cutlet, cooked with a slice of the famous Prosciutto di Parma and cheese. Good, but not terribly exciting or filling, so I ordered the guinea fowl, as well. If I had been thinking ahead, I might have ordered an antipasto instead, or even two kinds of pasta to start. But the breast of hen was fairly good, served with wild mushrooms. It had a nice crispy skin and was cooked rare, something that couldn’t be done with poultry in America, for fear of salmonella.
Wine here is not always the most interesting proposition. The big local tipple is lambruso, a low alcohol, fizzy red that supposed to be a good choice for washing down the rich, local food. Some folks of a certain age – like me – remember the popular Reunite, a sweet, cheap fowl-tasting beverage I’m loathe to call wine. But it was officially lambrusco. While the stuff served here – a small amount of which makes it to the States, where I tasted it while in the wine trade – is a bit better, it’s not my favorite.
This place had a huge, pan-Italian list, but I was looking for a local oddity. Sure enough, I found one. It was a Barbera, from a grape better know in the Piedmont district. But this was grown in the hills near Bologna, and made in a frizzante (fizzy) style. It came to me warm, but thankfully, the Maitre de suggested chilling it in an ice bucket, which improved the flavor substantially. It was a bit richer than most of the everyday Piemontese barberas I’ve had. Not excellent, but certainly an improvement over lambrusco.
Which is what I had with my lunch of totellini con ragú at Salsamentaria Tamburini. This is a well-known local retailer of fabulous local foods of all kinds that has a cafeteria style restaurant in the back for lunch. The tortellini was indeed delicate and handmade, the light dressing of Bolognese sauce, a delight, although it could have been served a little warmer.
I had earlier eaten a sandwich of sausage and peppers served on crescente, a kind of local fried flat bread, good versions of which are said to be harder to find, especially in the city. This one was pretty good, but I wish they had served it to me fresh out of the fryer, instead of reheated. During the afternoon, I also managed to score a reservation at Diana for tomorrow.
Beyond eating, I visited the ancient church of San Stefano yesterday, which when first designed in the 9th century, was meant to replicate a pilgrimage to the seven holy sights of Jerusalem. It’s made of brick, hardly grand and very dark. But it has that creepy, religious historic feel, and lots of old art in the adjacent museum. There was also a little room with faded frescoes, not described in my guidebook or even in the literature at the church. I found that really interesting.
This morning, I visited the city’s Medieval Museum, which has lots of old statues, and interesting old mosaic from the 12th century and, yes, another torturous and horrid-looking metal chastity belt. Just what was with those folks back then?
There’s also a big festival here, celebrating San Petronio, for which a large basilica in the main square was named. The festival is already underway in the big piazza right near the namesake church, and a few minutes from now, I’ll be heading over for a concert and a promised tasting of local products.
After all I’ve eaten already, I doubt dinner will be a big deal tonight. I plan on heading to to the big art museum here tomorrow, followed for lunch at a place my concierge insists makes the best lasagne in town, and only for lunch on Sunday.
VENICE, Italy, October 2, 2008
If there’s an asshole on any line seemingly intent on totally gumming up the works and holding everyone up, I’ll always seem to be behind him.
That’s how my day started, waiting to purchase my ticket for the vaporetti. Since I wanted to cover a lot of sightseeing territory without completely exhausting myself, I decided to purchase a 12-hour pass, which cost only a euro more than two one-hour tickets.
But sure enough, at about 9 AM, some shithead – perhaps a tour guide – two or three people ahead of me decided he needed to by tickets for some huge group; about 500 or 600 euros worth, as far as I could tell. Why the woman who sold this jerk all these tickets – each of which had to be individually validated and entered into the computer – didn’t tell him to go to the tourist office or make other arrangements to buy tickets in this kind of bulk was beyond me. But it took a solid 10 minutes or more before he was finally handed his huge stack of passes, his receipts and change. There were a few locals on line expressing their agitation, and I don’t blame them. But the moronic fellow remained ignorant and unsympathetic to everyone around him.
It’s too bad the morning had to start this way, as after my late afternoon internet hotel booking lunacy of the day before, I had a nice evening. The tiny restaurant, Trattoria Ca’ d’Oro, named for the formidable palace nearby and on a small side street, was as packed as the night before, and deservedly so. The food was good to excellent, even if the portions were a bit tiny; the service was friendly and snappy, despite the near chaos of the place; and by Venetian standards, the prices were fair.
I started with a glass of prosecco, the local sparkling wine, and two polpetto, a kind of deep-fried meatball with a nice warm breaded crust and a soft, almost airy filling. It’s clearly a specialty of the house, as many of the cicchetti -eaters standing at the crowded bar were snacking on them with their tiny glasses of wine.
A small plate of the tiniest clams over spaghetti followed. They were fresh and tasty, and generously bathed in some excellent olive oil with the barest hint of garlic. I tend to use more cloves of the stinking rose in my cooking, but the understated effect was nice.
My main course was also good, but I wish it were bigger. Three or four tiny octopus, in a sauce of tomatoes and some ink was tender and had a delicate taste of the sea. Yet even the accompanying puddle of white polenta, too soft and a bit under seasoned for my tastes, didn’t completely fill me up. The glass of valpolicella that I sipped along with it was nice enough, but hardly great.
Everything considered, however, the quality of the food was more than adequate overall, and the staff so nice, I would certainly recommend the place, assuming a reservation was available, as it’s quite popular.
There was plenty of time before my concert was to begin, so I stopped by another restaurant to make my reservation for my last dinner here, and even have a pre-performance glass of wine.
The Scalzi Church, the site of the concert, has some incredibly ornate marble work and statues in its main sanctuary, but, unfortunate, the performance was relegated to a small, plain room on the second floor.
There were maybe 30 people in attendance for this recital of baroque chamber music on period instruments. The size of the group was a bit smaller than I had hoped: a cembalo, which is a small harpsichord-like instrument; an violin and cello – both seeming smaller in size than the standard modern instruments I’m used to seeing. This is interesting, as I know most top musicians used instruments that are often more than 200 or 300 years old. Were these even older, or merely copies? On the program, two works by Vivaldi (a favorite in Venice as he was a native son), a piece by Marcello, another Italian composer from the same period, and three vocal selections from a Handel opera, “Giulio Cesare (Julius Ceasar?,) to be sung by a contra tenor (male) and soprano (female).
Not only were all the performers fairly young, slim and very attractive in their all black attire, but the musicianship would prove to be outstanding, as were the acoustics. An exceptional revelation was the contra tenor. I wonder if the part was originally written for a castrato, one of those poor young fellows in days gone by that possessed such fabulous vocal instruments as boys that they were actually castrated, so as to preserve their magnificent, high register voices.
This fellow sang with such virtuosity, such incredible tonal quality and range, that it made the falsetto voices of popular performers like Frankie Valli, the Bee Gees and Elton John sound down right silly. His extraordinary inflection and volume just blew out the room. I only wish I understood the words he was singing.
It was also hard to believe that the soprano – a very slim, elegant, olive-skinned beauty in a long embroidered evening gown – could produced such huge tones from such a tiny body. The sound was otherworldly. And when the two singers harmonized together, the affect was beyond description. The almost flawless performance by the instrumentalist made this a concert to remember for me. Since I paid 20 euros for my ticket and given the small size of the audience, how much could these folks be making? Day jobs would seem a necessity. I wish it had lasted more than an hour.
After seeing a performance like this and than thinking about all of those no-talent philistines making untold millions with their overly processed pop “music”, I start fuming.
Which is what I did during my first experience of the morning on line for my vaporetti ticket. What makes it even more annoying is that much like my experience on the trams in Amsterdam, no one ever seems be around to check tickets. There’s always the threat of a huge fine should you be caught on board without one, so I dutifully spend my euros.
The boat I finally caught to San Marco was incredibly packed. It took over half an hour to get to the piazza and my first destination of the day, the Doge’s Palace, one of the sights here that the visitor is not supposed to miss. The Doge was what could best be described as an elected dictatorial head of the old Venetian Empire, although his actual powers could easily by held in check by the ruling nobles of the time.
Again, there was a big line, and a huge admission fee of almost $20 US to get into the place, which abuts the Basilico of San Marco. Yes, it includes admission to the Correr and a couple of other museums in the piazza, but most people could care less about these sights, but I guess this is how they kee all these less popular municipal collections going.
The huge palace is indeed an incredible sight, almost overwhelming. It dates from a time that Venice was the richest Empire on earth. There’s tons of ornate architectural detail and incredible masterpiece paintings and sculptures by some of the city’s most famous artists. This includes what is said to be the world’s biggest oil painting, “Paradise” by Tintoretto. Before that, there’s a walk through the Amory Museum, where I was especially appalled by the sight of a two-holed chastity belt on display in one of the glass cases with other weapons and torture devices.
After all of this incredibly overwhelming art, the visitor gets to cross the famous Bridge of Sighs into the horrible underground prison. In total, the palace, museums and prison took me two hours to get through the place. I was emotionally drained
Another walk to the rialto seemed in order, as I once again marveled at the stunning retail and prices I saw along the way. My meandering brought me to a restaurant, Trattoria Madonna, listed in my “Eating in Italy” book that I unsuccessfully tried to locate previously. I wasn’t planning on a big lunch, but I couldn’t resist. The sarde in soar was incredible; the seafood risotto, nearly as good. I even got into a chat with a couple from San Francisco at the next table that proved to be veteran travelers, and quite unhappy with the fairly large group of loud, obnoxious Americans seated near us. “People like that make us all look bad,” the fellow complained. His wife was tempted to get up and say something, especially after she heard them saying some incredibly stupid, untrue things.
But this is how it’s been all over the place here. Packs of annoying tourists acting like idiots. If I might generalize, the yanks are loud and inappropriate (“Does the risotto take a long time?” “Do I get ice with my Coke? They didn’t give me any at the last place”); the Germans are pushy, as I’ve been cut on line, shoved ahead and then blocked when trying to navigate streets; and the Brits just sound goofy.
After the nice chat and lunch, I made my way to the Frari, a gothic church stunning in it’sstark beauty. The Franciscan order that established the church looked to the ascetic philosophies of St. Francis of Assisi as their guide, so the approach to the architecture of this 14th century landmark was appropriately spare. But that didn’t stop them from accepting gifts of commissioned works of art by Titian, Veronese and other Venetian masters. The affect was stunning.
Since the admission to the Correr Museum was included with my ticket to the Doge’s Palace, and I am somewhat interested in Venetian history, it seemed like a good idea to hop a vaporetto back to San Marcos and check it out. It was an interesting experience, but I was annoyed that the three works by the most famous Bellini, Giovanni, and possibly the most important in the whole museum, where on loan to Rome. This kind of stuff, and scaffolding I encountered at several sights, really takes it out of me sometimes, especially when I’m trying to see everything. Perhaps that’s why I decided to forgo a visit to the Academia late this afternoon, and decided to hop yet another vaporetto and head back the my hotel to get my laptop and do some writing at the same café at which I worked yesterday.
On the usually crowded boat ride back, I talked to a couple of older gents, visiting from North Carolina with their wives. They were on a cruise, a first time experience for the fellow who carried on most of the conversation with me. “It sucks,” he said, which I found funny coming from a fellow of his advanced years. “I would never do it again.”
He asked about my travel plans, and told me how many of the big contributors to his church back home were Wacovia Bank executives. “I’m on the board of the church, and we’re in big trouble because of this.” While I could care less about his, or anybody else’s church (or synagogue, or mosque, for that matter), it is a sign of things to come.
“I haven’t worked in a while, and don’t plan to return anytime soon,” I explained. “It’s probably a good thing, as it must be hard to get a job now anyway. Maybe in a year or 18 months, things will get better.”
“That’s what Roosevelt said, wasn’t it,” he quipped.
That’s how my day started, waiting to purchase my ticket for the vaporetti. Since I wanted to cover a lot of sightseeing territory without completely exhausting myself, I decided to purchase a 12-hour pass, which cost only a euro more than two one-hour tickets.
But sure enough, at about 9 AM, some shithead – perhaps a tour guide – two or three people ahead of me decided he needed to by tickets for some huge group; about 500 or 600 euros worth, as far as I could tell. Why the woman who sold this jerk all these tickets – each of which had to be individually validated and entered into the computer – didn’t tell him to go to the tourist office or make other arrangements to buy tickets in this kind of bulk was beyond me. But it took a solid 10 minutes or more before he was finally handed his huge stack of passes, his receipts and change. There were a few locals on line expressing their agitation, and I don’t blame them. But the moronic fellow remained ignorant and unsympathetic to everyone around him.
It’s too bad the morning had to start this way, as after my late afternoon internet hotel booking lunacy of the day before, I had a nice evening. The tiny restaurant, Trattoria Ca’ d’Oro, named for the formidable palace nearby and on a small side street, was as packed as the night before, and deservedly so. The food was good to excellent, even if the portions were a bit tiny; the service was friendly and snappy, despite the near chaos of the place; and by Venetian standards, the prices were fair.
I started with a glass of prosecco, the local sparkling wine, and two polpetto, a kind of deep-fried meatball with a nice warm breaded crust and a soft, almost airy filling. It’s clearly a specialty of the house, as many of the cicchetti -eaters standing at the crowded bar were snacking on them with their tiny glasses of wine.
A small plate of the tiniest clams over spaghetti followed. They were fresh and tasty, and generously bathed in some excellent olive oil with the barest hint of garlic. I tend to use more cloves of the stinking rose in my cooking, but the understated effect was nice.
My main course was also good, but I wish it were bigger. Three or four tiny octopus, in a sauce of tomatoes and some ink was tender and had a delicate taste of the sea. Yet even the accompanying puddle of white polenta, too soft and a bit under seasoned for my tastes, didn’t completely fill me up. The glass of valpolicella that I sipped along with it was nice enough, but hardly great.
Everything considered, however, the quality of the food was more than adequate overall, and the staff so nice, I would certainly recommend the place, assuming a reservation was available, as it’s quite popular.
There was plenty of time before my concert was to begin, so I stopped by another restaurant to make my reservation for my last dinner here, and even have a pre-performance glass of wine.
The Scalzi Church, the site of the concert, has some incredibly ornate marble work and statues in its main sanctuary, but, unfortunate, the performance was relegated to a small, plain room on the second floor.
There were maybe 30 people in attendance for this recital of baroque chamber music on period instruments. The size of the group was a bit smaller than I had hoped: a cembalo, which is a small harpsichord-like instrument; an violin and cello – both seeming smaller in size than the standard modern instruments I’m used to seeing. This is interesting, as I know most top musicians used instruments that are often more than 200 or 300 years old. Were these even older, or merely copies? On the program, two works by Vivaldi (a favorite in Venice as he was a native son), a piece by Marcello, another Italian composer from the same period, and three vocal selections from a Handel opera, “Giulio Cesare (Julius Ceasar?,) to be sung by a contra tenor (male) and soprano (female).
Not only were all the performers fairly young, slim and very attractive in their all black attire, but the musicianship would prove to be outstanding, as were the acoustics. An exceptional revelation was the contra tenor. I wonder if the part was originally written for a castrato, one of those poor young fellows in days gone by that possessed such fabulous vocal instruments as boys that they were actually castrated, so as to preserve their magnificent, high register voices.
This fellow sang with such virtuosity, such incredible tonal quality and range, that it made the falsetto voices of popular performers like Frankie Valli, the Bee Gees and Elton John sound down right silly. His extraordinary inflection and volume just blew out the room. I only wish I understood the words he was singing.
It was also hard to believe that the soprano – a very slim, elegant, olive-skinned beauty in a long embroidered evening gown – could produced such huge tones from such a tiny body. The sound was otherworldly. And when the two singers harmonized together, the affect was beyond description. The almost flawless performance by the instrumentalist made this a concert to remember for me. Since I paid 20 euros for my ticket and given the small size of the audience, how much could these folks be making? Day jobs would seem a necessity. I wish it had lasted more than an hour.
After seeing a performance like this and than thinking about all of those no-talent philistines making untold millions with their overly processed pop “music”, I start fuming.
Which is what I did during my first experience of the morning on line for my vaporetti ticket. What makes it even more annoying is that much like my experience on the trams in Amsterdam, no one ever seems be around to check tickets. There’s always the threat of a huge fine should you be caught on board without one, so I dutifully spend my euros.
The boat I finally caught to San Marco was incredibly packed. It took over half an hour to get to the piazza and my first destination of the day, the Doge’s Palace, one of the sights here that the visitor is not supposed to miss. The Doge was what could best be described as an elected dictatorial head of the old Venetian Empire, although his actual powers could easily by held in check by the ruling nobles of the time.
Again, there was a big line, and a huge admission fee of almost $20 US to get into the place, which abuts the Basilico of San Marco. Yes, it includes admission to the Correr and a couple of other museums in the piazza, but most people could care less about these sights, but I guess this is how they kee all these less popular municipal collections going.
The huge palace is indeed an incredible sight, almost overwhelming. It dates from a time that Venice was the richest Empire on earth. There’s tons of ornate architectural detail and incredible masterpiece paintings and sculptures by some of the city’s most famous artists. This includes what is said to be the world’s biggest oil painting, “Paradise” by Tintoretto. Before that, there’s a walk through the Amory Museum, where I was especially appalled by the sight of a two-holed chastity belt on display in one of the glass cases with other weapons and torture devices.
After all of this incredibly overwhelming art, the visitor gets to cross the famous Bridge of Sighs into the horrible underground prison. In total, the palace, museums and prison took me two hours to get through the place. I was emotionally drained
Another walk to the rialto seemed in order, as I once again marveled at the stunning retail and prices I saw along the way. My meandering brought me to a restaurant, Trattoria Madonna, listed in my “Eating in Italy” book that I unsuccessfully tried to locate previously. I wasn’t planning on a big lunch, but I couldn’t resist. The sarde in soar was incredible; the seafood risotto, nearly as good. I even got into a chat with a couple from San Francisco at the next table that proved to be veteran travelers, and quite unhappy with the fairly large group of loud, obnoxious Americans seated near us. “People like that make us all look bad,” the fellow complained. His wife was tempted to get up and say something, especially after she heard them saying some incredibly stupid, untrue things.
But this is how it’s been all over the place here. Packs of annoying tourists acting like idiots. If I might generalize, the yanks are loud and inappropriate (“Does the risotto take a long time?” “Do I get ice with my Coke? They didn’t give me any at the last place”); the Germans are pushy, as I’ve been cut on line, shoved ahead and then blocked when trying to navigate streets; and the Brits just sound goofy.
After the nice chat and lunch, I made my way to the Frari, a gothic church stunning in it’sstark beauty. The Franciscan order that established the church looked to the ascetic philosophies of St. Francis of Assisi as their guide, so the approach to the architecture of this 14th century landmark was appropriately spare. But that didn’t stop them from accepting gifts of commissioned works of art by Titian, Veronese and other Venetian masters. The affect was stunning.
Since the admission to the Correr Museum was included with my ticket to the Doge’s Palace, and I am somewhat interested in Venetian history, it seemed like a good idea to hop a vaporetto back to San Marcos and check it out. It was an interesting experience, but I was annoyed that the three works by the most famous Bellini, Giovanni, and possibly the most important in the whole museum, where on loan to Rome. This kind of stuff, and scaffolding I encountered at several sights, really takes it out of me sometimes, especially when I’m trying to see everything. Perhaps that’s why I decided to forgo a visit to the Academia late this afternoon, and decided to hop yet another vaporetto and head back the my hotel to get my laptop and do some writing at the same café at which I worked yesterday.
On the usually crowded boat ride back, I talked to a couple of older gents, visiting from North Carolina with their wives. They were on a cruise, a first time experience for the fellow who carried on most of the conversation with me. “It sucks,” he said, which I found funny coming from a fellow of his advanced years. “I would never do it again.”
He asked about my travel plans, and told me how many of the big contributors to his church back home were Wacovia Bank executives. “I’m on the board of the church, and we’re in big trouble because of this.” While I could care less about his, or anybody else’s church (or synagogue, or mosque, for that matter), it is a sign of things to come.
“I haven’t worked in a while, and don’t plan to return anytime soon,” I explained. “It’s probably a good thing, as it must be hard to get a job now anyway. Maybe in a year or 18 months, things will get better.”
“That’s what Roosevelt said, wasn’t it,” he quipped.
VENICE, Italy, October 1, 2008
This little Italian jaunt has proven slightly more troublesome and certainly more expensive that I had hoped and expected. Thankfully, I’ve prepared for a splurge, and my stay is going to be a short one.
My last night near Cormóns was pleasant enough, but the osteria recommended both by my “Eating in italy” guidebook and my host at the agritourismo was a bit of a disappointment. Not that the place wasn’t pleasant and food adequate, it just wasn’t what I traveled to a fairly remote place in Italy for. I was hoping for some regional, authentic and yes, somewhat exotic tastes: game (was it too early in the season?), odd parts and pieces of pig, goose.
The polentina, garnished with a local white cheese and mixed mushrooms was an underwhelming start, especially at 15 euros. Yes, polentina is indeed a local specialty, and maybe polentina isn’t supposed to be as thick and substantial as standard polenta. But this stuff could have been sipped through a straw. It arrived a thin, wide puddle on a very large plate with an overwhelming amount of cheese. The sautéed mushrooms were very good, but they couldn’t save this dish. I really needed a spoon, as the polentina seemed to seep through the spaces between the tines of my fork. After a while, I just gave up.
My main course choices? Chicken or steak. For this, I could have gone to Cleveland. The chicken was hyped as Slovenian, but it was still roast chicken, served with – you guessed it – polenta. The steak, which I ended up ordering, was served on lettuce (?!) with thin disks of a toasted, mozzarella-like cheese atop, and a side of potato lumps served in a soupy, fatty dressing of some kind. The waitress, who spoke fairly good English, offered it cooked medium, which I accepted. Lucky I didn’t order it rare. The thick lump of meat was raw in the center. The cooked parts tasted okay, but it was still beef. The house wines by the glass were adequate, but I really didn’t feel like ordering a whole bottle, which probably would have been better.
I got back to my lovely room at the farm in plenty of time to consult my Rick Steves’ guidebook of Venice, which I would later learn, was hardly and original choice.
Upon arising, I easily could have taken off without paying, as I had to spend several minutes searching out my host. I found him pumping over one of his red wines, which was fermenting in a steel tank as harvest ended only a week or two ago. This is a process that allows for optimum skin contact with the wine for maximum color and tannin. I paid him, we exchanged pleasantries, and he gave me a gift of a bottle of his excellent tocai. He’s looking for a US distributor, and I would gladly take on the task if I could cut the necessary red tape, but my fear is the stuff would just be too expensive after the draconian duties, shipping costs and exchange rates.
And so it was off to Venice using a map that only took me through the region of Friuli, with no information on the Veneto. But Venice is a major destination, and I knew once I fond the big Auto Strata, it wouldn’t be a problem. After consulting with both my host, and a gas station attendant, I somehow managed to find my way to the big highway, which is almost always more difficult than it seems on paper. Thinking back on my various automobile adventures in France and Italy, I’ve often marveled at how I always arrive where I’m supposed to in one piece and close to the appointed time. You read travel literature about driving from here to there, and how it’s no big deal. But when you’re on unfamiliar country roads where you don’t know the language, surrounded by semi-suicidal local drivers who always seem to be in a hurry or instead, stupidly slow and addled, it does give the sensible pause. This is especially true for me, as I don’t do much driving in the States, and then, hardly ever with a standard shift. It can be a real sensory overload.
But I was finally getting used to the car, and somehow managed my way along the country roads leading to the highway, and once on it, the signs to Venice were more than obvious. Indeed, Venezia is the proverbial end of this particular road – literally.
It was all going well as I approached the final tollbooth. I even noticed signs for a service area where I could fill up with gas just a few miles from where I would drop the car off. Driving in the left lane of the two-lane road to pass a truck, I noticed something strange as I attempted to get back in the right lane: a huge line-up of halted semis. It seemed to go on for miles.
I thought little of it, as I continued to make decent time. The car needed to be returned by noon, and I gave myself about three hours for a trip that should have taken just over an hour from where I started.
Then, as I approached the huge final toll plaza, there it was. The biggest god damned traffic jam I had ever seen. Depending on the lane, cars were stacked up a quarter-mile or more from the tollbooths, with the one line of trucks to my right still at a standstill. It became apparent that the problem wasn’t at the toll, but well beyond it. Everything was at a complete halt. After about 5 or 10 minutes, I put on my emergency break and cut my engine, as other cars around me had. Then people started leaving their cars to see what was happening.
Why I was hearing so much English being spoken about 10 miles outside of Venice seemed strange enough, but weirder still were the conversations. It took at least 15 minutes before anybody knew what was going on – no police or emergency vehicle in sight. But I was soon to learn there was indeed an accident. I ended up chatting with an older fellow I would learn was a Slovenian surgeon. He talked with me about his time in Ohio! Also joining our chat was a young Swedish gal who was leading a bus full of tourists through Austria and Croatia, with a four-hour stop in Venice. It was quite a scene with all these people wandering aimlessly on foot in the middle of the highway, talking with each other. I wish the bottle of wine I had with me were could; I would have offered it around.
We ended up standing there for the better part of an hour before the traffic started moving again. It then crawled along for another 20 minutes or so before I could build up any kind of velocity.
I followed the signs to the rest area, filled my tank, and saw more signs to the rental car drop-off point at Venice’s Piazzale Roma, where I pulled up about two minutes before my 12-noon deadline.
I schlepped my fat body and its luggage to my hotel. The good news: it was fairly close and I managed not to get lost. The bad news: it was in an obscure area, not even on my map, that was still way to close to the chaos of the train station and too far way from many of the sights. But it was all I could find, despite booking two or three weeks before I left New York.
The guesthouse is in a charming courtyard, near a tiny canal. It’s small, but clean and nice enough. Maybe I should expect more at over a hundred bucks a night: I’m sharing a bathroom, and there isn’t even a proper front desk. There isn’t any kind of surface in my room to work or even eat the piecemeal breakfast I’m given. Atop a small end table, with no chair, sits some awful looking white bread in a plastic package, a tiny wedge of supermarket cheese packaged in tin foil, and a package of two espresso capsules – the highlight of the meal – meant to be brewed in one of those fancy home machines in the hallway. Also in the hall, a table with tiny plastic cups for the hot beverages (ouch), a toaster for the awful bread, a hot water dispenser and teabags.
The towels, which weren’t even replaced this morning, aren’t terrycloth, but rather akin to slightly thick bed sheets.
But given how infested this place is with tourists, I guess I was lucky to find anything. Yes, the place has a certain ancient beauty, and I started looking forward to getting lost in its maze of streets and tiny bridges without being hassled by automobiles. There are also some incredible buildings all over the place, especially lining the Grande Canal.
And yes, hoards of tourists were to be expected. But until I actually encountered them – tons of them – it’s hard to imagine. I’m hearing way too many piercing American voices, as well as pushy Germans, fairly load Brits, and of course, some Italians. But from everything I’ve been reading, the local population is small, and getting smaller. Despite the interesting history and romance of this place, it’s not hard to see why.
First, unless you go way off the beaten path onto some of the tiniest streets – some of which have absolute charm – this place is crazy crowded. Lines everywhere. Beyond the ugly hoards at the Piazza and Basilica of San Marco, which is to be expected, the lines for at the big stops for the vaporetti are ridiculous. These are the medium-sized motorboats that ferry both tourists and locals down the Grand Canal. Besides walking, they are basically the only way to get around, unless you can afford water taxis, at about $100 US or more an hour, or the gondolas, which are quite romantic, but cost even more. Even a ticket for the vaporetti sets you back about $10 for an hour. You can by passes that make each trip less expensive, but if you don’t use it a fair amount, it can be a waste of money.
And while there is tons of interesting old architecture to see here, much of it is a mess. I say this as someone who has less of a problem with patina than many of my fellow countrymen, most of whom are perfectly happy to live among boring, horrible, soulless, pre-fabricated architecture that they have little problem with, since at least it’s clean and new. But nothing can compare you for the plethora of grimy, filthy and crumbling facades, and the admittedly necessary amount of scaffolding all over the place. It must be quite a job keeping this place maintained.
But sadder still is the amount of graffiti, even in some of the small number of obscure, residential areas. Even worse are the huge billboards in the most conspicuous of places. A big ad for Swatch hyping its line “007 Villain collection” of watches dominates a big section of the Piazza San Marco. Can you imagine the sight of a huge photo of Jaws from “The Spy Who Loved Me” staring at you as you exit the fabulously historic Doge’s Palace. Even the Bridge of Sighs is now augmented with a gigantic, bright blue billboard for a luxury car.
My sentiments would shift from thoughts of ancient wonder to absolute disgust as I aimlessly wandered the streets yesterday. The thick crowds of imbeciles standing around, hands firmly planted up their asses, completely blocking streets and passageways, the morons eating overpriced sandwiches in the Piazza de San Marco despite numerous signs pleading against it and threatening fines, not to mention some of the dumbest comments, usually from nasal-pitched Americans. But then, I don’t understand German or Italian, so who knows what kind of crap they’re talking about. It’s more like shopping mall etiquette than what I expect from guests visiting one of the worlds most interesting and singular cities.
I’m also sick of seeing fellow Americans toting around the same guidebook I am. I guess that makes me just one of the schmucks. So much for being the sophisticated traveler.
And lets not even talk about prices. As I walked the areas near the graffiti-strewn Rialto, with their beautiful shops, I did see lots of incredible examples of retail display design and fabulous products – designer and otherwise. But at the same time, I had to wonder what kind of idiot is actually paying $300 for a pair of Timberland boots that generally cost just over $100, even in Manhattan! The sticker shock was palpable beyond the touristy areas, as well.
Consider lunch yesterday. I ducked into a tiny bar, recommended by Rick Steves of course, for cicchetti, the local appetizer snacks – sort of Venetian tapas. The plate I put together contained: two baby octopus, their tiny heads stuffed with rice; four little anchovies; two slightly bigger fried anchovies; one sardine in the traditional heap of sweet and sour sautéed onions (sarde in soar), two sun dried tomatoes and just over a tablespoon of sautéed greens. Keep in mind, this was not freshly prepared for me, but on platters that had been sitting out for a while. Tasty, somewhat interesting, but seemingly low end in presentation. Served with bad bread, a tiny glass of prosecco from a tap and a quarter liter of barely decent white wine, also from a tap, the total: almost $30 US!
Some of the wine by the glass in other bars has been reasonable, and I had fun later in the afternoon and early evening standing among the locals, sipping and snacking on some interesting morsels: grilled baby sepia (tiny squid), sardine croquettes, and some other goodies. And while some of it has been good, it hasn’t been cheap.
Dinner was at another Rick Steves’ recommendation. I’ve been wanting to try one of the places from my “Eating in Italy” book, but many of these places were either closed yesterday, way too expensive, required reservations far in advance, or the addresses of which simply couldn’t be found on my expensive, but less than adequate map, with it’s tiny print.
The food at Trattoria Bepe was fairly good: spaghetti in a rich, black sauce of squid ink followed a whole baked sea bass. The total, with half a liter of barely acceptable white wine was about $50 US, almost a bargain for Venice. But even better was an encounter there that gave me hope for the future. A young couple, also toting the Rick Steves’ guide, was seating near me at an outdoor table, as the short bursts of rain that fell over the course of the late afternoon and early evening thankfully now subsided.
The fellow did his best to say a few worlds in Italian, although it’s hardly necessary, in most places here, as almost every food server and shop owner speaks English. But it is a sign of politeness and an acknowledgement that we aren’t in Disneyland. I commented on their guidebook, and a very nice conversation across tables ensued.
It seemed these 20-soemthings from Orange County, California (speaking of Disneyland), were on their honeymoon. And while they were on the typical three-city tourist hope – Rome, Venice and Florence – these were kids who had traveled in the past. Indeed, the fellow had considered a career in law, but after a brief time as a paralegal at a big firm, decided the law was not for him. He now wants to teach, as he sees more intrinsic satisfaction in making a contribution beyond billable hours. The gal works with autistic kids. Both have volunteered for the Peace Corps and will be leaving for Asia in the spring.
We had a great chat about crumbling American values, and all kinds of other stuff, including the fact that the Peace Corps is actually looking for “more mature” volunteers. Should life in Morocco not pan out (or maybe even if it does), might a stint of do-gooding be in my future? You never know.
An overpriced grappa at a nice looking enoteca found on my walk back to the guesthouse followed. There, a Brit and his Filipino girlfriend were sharing an overpriced, big bottle of bottle condition beer, produced in Italy, surprisingly enough. It seems after extended travels, he now lives in the Philippines, enjoying the ex-pat life. He was quite encouraging when I told him of my future plans.
This morning started with a vaporetto cruise down the Grand Canal, ending at San Marco. This is quite a little boat ride. A bit crowded, but some of the sights are truly incredible, namely the fabulous palaces and other buildings best seen from a vantage on this legendary waterway. The decay might be obvious, and some scaffolding ruined some of the vistas. Seeing scaffolds surrounding the dome of the iconic La Salute was especially disappointing, and really ruined the view as our boat approached the Lagoon. But overall, it’s seems one of those things every traveler should try to experience at least once, even if surrounded by dopey tourists.
The inevitable line at St. Marc’s wasn’t as long as it could have been, and I was lucky enough to be in time for a free tour in English explaining the significance of the fabulous, ancient mosaics all over the huge, beautiful church. If it weren’t for the hoards shuffling through the place, it would have indeed been transporting, as they were lit, which only happens for about two hours a day to preserve these ancient artworks and keep energy costs down. A highlight of the trip thus far, indeed.
On my walk to the Rialto market that followed, I stopped at the American Express office to buy train tickets for my passage to Bologna, as well as the long trip to Marseille, where I’d be catching my flight to Fes next week. Afterward, I indulged in a cicchetto or two, along with a glass of generic wine at a stand up bar. After which, I proceeded to get lost in the narrow, sometimes charming, sometimes annoyingly crowded streets looking for a place for lunch. I wanted to break the guidebook routine and try my hand at a freestyle restaurant selection, but too many times if I found a place that looked promising and passed in by in a search for other possibilities, I wouldn’t be able relocate my initial selection.
I did finally settle on a fairly upscale looking place that promised fresh local seafood, properly prepared. The house specialty was a frittura di pesce, otherwise know as frito misto, a mixed selection of fried fish, served with polenta. I passed ordering one of the on the antipasti and piatti primi (most often pasta or risotto), and went right for the main course, along with a quartino of the house white. Not only had the cicchetti already made a dent in my huge appetite, but I also had an early dinner reservation, as a 9 PM baroque concert was the evening plan. And with the plate setting me back 20 euros, the bill could have really added up.
The fried fish, along with a few vegetables prepared in similar style, coated with a light, fairly greaseless batter, were fresh and tasty: a few rings of squid, a whole large shrimp and a few tiny ones, a mussel or two, and a few other small sea creatures and white fish I couldn’t identify. The polenta was nicely hardened into two white rectangles, and made for a nice accompaniment. It was quite good and enough food to keep me going for a while.
The rest of the afternoon, however, quickly disintegrated. The plan was to either hit the Academia art museum, or the gothic Frari Church, with masterpieces by Titziano (Titian to us) and a Veronese painting.
But first, I thought it would be a good idea to try and buy an advance ticket for the evening’s concert, to be held at a church near my hotel. Unfortunately, it would not reopen until 4 PM. No matter, I surmised. This would give me an hour or so in my room, where I’ve able to scam free internet access, and check out the lodging situation for my next stop in Bologna.
This, it turned out, proved to be a most unhappy experience. For some reason, many of the hotels on the sites I rely on for cheap bookings were either full, or charging sometimes $300 or more for my first night, a Friday, with the rates coming down slightly for the next two days. What was going on? Why was Bologna going to be so expensive? I was not interested in taking my chances at the Bologna tourist office and possibly getting shut out completely, given how so many of the hotels in the center of town were already booked. And quite frankly, I’ve had my fill of the whole tourist office experience here.
The best I could find was a supposedly four-star hotel with a rate much lower than anything else I could find – 100 euros a night! After still more investigation, I realized this one site I found offering this price must have had some kind of special deal with this place, that, according to some on-line traveler reviews I had read, was recently renovated. Other sights showed the property either booked are charging more than 200 euros. It’s a major splurge for me, and I have a feeling not a true four-star, but hopefully still a good value. Since my actually sightseeing will probably be minimal, it will be a nice change of pace to indulge myself.
I’m also planning two nights in Parma, where they’re seem to be very few hotels available at all. But since it will be Monday and Tuesday nights, I’m hoping maybe the tourist office in Bologna will work with me, or once again, it will be yet another splurge. Thankfully, this is a short trip and it won’t (completely) break me.
What made this little on-line experience all the worse was that I managed to kill my late afternoon sightseeing time. It was after 5 PM when I finished, I ran to get my concert ticket, and now I’m writing this as I sit at an outdoor café not far from my hotel that seems to cater to mostly locals, a nice change of pace. It will all too soon be time to leave for dinner, at a crowded, moderately priced place I saw in my trusty Rick Steves’ guidebook where I had pre-dinner cicchetti last night and schmoozed with the manager a bit. What I had there was tasty enough, as was the wine by the glass, something better than the usual house plonk, so I’m looking forward to a decent dinner.
From the time I started out, one of my biggest misgivings about being here is just how little time there is to see the huge number of sights and this pressing feeling that if I don’t see it all, I’ll be missing out. It’s so expensive to be here, the lines for many of the attractions are too long; the compunction is to maintain a breakneck pace. It’s exhausting, and I despised traveling this way. I wonder how – and more importantly why – so many folks I know do all their European vacations like this. I will certainly avoid doing it this way again.
My last night near Cormóns was pleasant enough, but the osteria recommended both by my “Eating in italy” guidebook and my host at the agritourismo was a bit of a disappointment. Not that the place wasn’t pleasant and food adequate, it just wasn’t what I traveled to a fairly remote place in Italy for. I was hoping for some regional, authentic and yes, somewhat exotic tastes: game (was it too early in the season?), odd parts and pieces of pig, goose.
The polentina, garnished with a local white cheese and mixed mushrooms was an underwhelming start, especially at 15 euros. Yes, polentina is indeed a local specialty, and maybe polentina isn’t supposed to be as thick and substantial as standard polenta. But this stuff could have been sipped through a straw. It arrived a thin, wide puddle on a very large plate with an overwhelming amount of cheese. The sautéed mushrooms were very good, but they couldn’t save this dish. I really needed a spoon, as the polentina seemed to seep through the spaces between the tines of my fork. After a while, I just gave up.
My main course choices? Chicken or steak. For this, I could have gone to Cleveland. The chicken was hyped as Slovenian, but it was still roast chicken, served with – you guessed it – polenta. The steak, which I ended up ordering, was served on lettuce (?!) with thin disks of a toasted, mozzarella-like cheese atop, and a side of potato lumps served in a soupy, fatty dressing of some kind. The waitress, who spoke fairly good English, offered it cooked medium, which I accepted. Lucky I didn’t order it rare. The thick lump of meat was raw in the center. The cooked parts tasted okay, but it was still beef. The house wines by the glass were adequate, but I really didn’t feel like ordering a whole bottle, which probably would have been better.
I got back to my lovely room at the farm in plenty of time to consult my Rick Steves’ guidebook of Venice, which I would later learn, was hardly and original choice.
Upon arising, I easily could have taken off without paying, as I had to spend several minutes searching out my host. I found him pumping over one of his red wines, which was fermenting in a steel tank as harvest ended only a week or two ago. This is a process that allows for optimum skin contact with the wine for maximum color and tannin. I paid him, we exchanged pleasantries, and he gave me a gift of a bottle of his excellent tocai. He’s looking for a US distributor, and I would gladly take on the task if I could cut the necessary red tape, but my fear is the stuff would just be too expensive after the draconian duties, shipping costs and exchange rates.
And so it was off to Venice using a map that only took me through the region of Friuli, with no information on the Veneto. But Venice is a major destination, and I knew once I fond the big Auto Strata, it wouldn’t be a problem. After consulting with both my host, and a gas station attendant, I somehow managed to find my way to the big highway, which is almost always more difficult than it seems on paper. Thinking back on my various automobile adventures in France and Italy, I’ve often marveled at how I always arrive where I’m supposed to in one piece and close to the appointed time. You read travel literature about driving from here to there, and how it’s no big deal. But when you’re on unfamiliar country roads where you don’t know the language, surrounded by semi-suicidal local drivers who always seem to be in a hurry or instead, stupidly slow and addled, it does give the sensible pause. This is especially true for me, as I don’t do much driving in the States, and then, hardly ever with a standard shift. It can be a real sensory overload.
But I was finally getting used to the car, and somehow managed my way along the country roads leading to the highway, and once on it, the signs to Venice were more than obvious. Indeed, Venezia is the proverbial end of this particular road – literally.
It was all going well as I approached the final tollbooth. I even noticed signs for a service area where I could fill up with gas just a few miles from where I would drop the car off. Driving in the left lane of the two-lane road to pass a truck, I noticed something strange as I attempted to get back in the right lane: a huge line-up of halted semis. It seemed to go on for miles.
I thought little of it, as I continued to make decent time. The car needed to be returned by noon, and I gave myself about three hours for a trip that should have taken just over an hour from where I started.
Then, as I approached the huge final toll plaza, there it was. The biggest god damned traffic jam I had ever seen. Depending on the lane, cars were stacked up a quarter-mile or more from the tollbooths, with the one line of trucks to my right still at a standstill. It became apparent that the problem wasn’t at the toll, but well beyond it. Everything was at a complete halt. After about 5 or 10 minutes, I put on my emergency break and cut my engine, as other cars around me had. Then people started leaving their cars to see what was happening.
Why I was hearing so much English being spoken about 10 miles outside of Venice seemed strange enough, but weirder still were the conversations. It took at least 15 minutes before anybody knew what was going on – no police or emergency vehicle in sight. But I was soon to learn there was indeed an accident. I ended up chatting with an older fellow I would learn was a Slovenian surgeon. He talked with me about his time in Ohio! Also joining our chat was a young Swedish gal who was leading a bus full of tourists through Austria and Croatia, with a four-hour stop in Venice. It was quite a scene with all these people wandering aimlessly on foot in the middle of the highway, talking with each other. I wish the bottle of wine I had with me were could; I would have offered it around.
We ended up standing there for the better part of an hour before the traffic started moving again. It then crawled along for another 20 minutes or so before I could build up any kind of velocity.
I followed the signs to the rest area, filled my tank, and saw more signs to the rental car drop-off point at Venice’s Piazzale Roma, where I pulled up about two minutes before my 12-noon deadline.
I schlepped my fat body and its luggage to my hotel. The good news: it was fairly close and I managed not to get lost. The bad news: it was in an obscure area, not even on my map, that was still way to close to the chaos of the train station and too far way from many of the sights. But it was all I could find, despite booking two or three weeks before I left New York.
The guesthouse is in a charming courtyard, near a tiny canal. It’s small, but clean and nice enough. Maybe I should expect more at over a hundred bucks a night: I’m sharing a bathroom, and there isn’t even a proper front desk. There isn’t any kind of surface in my room to work or even eat the piecemeal breakfast I’m given. Atop a small end table, with no chair, sits some awful looking white bread in a plastic package, a tiny wedge of supermarket cheese packaged in tin foil, and a package of two espresso capsules – the highlight of the meal – meant to be brewed in one of those fancy home machines in the hallway. Also in the hall, a table with tiny plastic cups for the hot beverages (ouch), a toaster for the awful bread, a hot water dispenser and teabags.
The towels, which weren’t even replaced this morning, aren’t terrycloth, but rather akin to slightly thick bed sheets.
But given how infested this place is with tourists, I guess I was lucky to find anything. Yes, the place has a certain ancient beauty, and I started looking forward to getting lost in its maze of streets and tiny bridges without being hassled by automobiles. There are also some incredible buildings all over the place, especially lining the Grande Canal.
And yes, hoards of tourists were to be expected. But until I actually encountered them – tons of them – it’s hard to imagine. I’m hearing way too many piercing American voices, as well as pushy Germans, fairly load Brits, and of course, some Italians. But from everything I’ve been reading, the local population is small, and getting smaller. Despite the interesting history and romance of this place, it’s not hard to see why.
First, unless you go way off the beaten path onto some of the tiniest streets – some of which have absolute charm – this place is crazy crowded. Lines everywhere. Beyond the ugly hoards at the Piazza and Basilica of San Marco, which is to be expected, the lines for at the big stops for the vaporetti are ridiculous. These are the medium-sized motorboats that ferry both tourists and locals down the Grand Canal. Besides walking, they are basically the only way to get around, unless you can afford water taxis, at about $100 US or more an hour, or the gondolas, which are quite romantic, but cost even more. Even a ticket for the vaporetti sets you back about $10 for an hour. You can by passes that make each trip less expensive, but if you don’t use it a fair amount, it can be a waste of money.
And while there is tons of interesting old architecture to see here, much of it is a mess. I say this as someone who has less of a problem with patina than many of my fellow countrymen, most of whom are perfectly happy to live among boring, horrible, soulless, pre-fabricated architecture that they have little problem with, since at least it’s clean and new. But nothing can compare you for the plethora of grimy, filthy and crumbling facades, and the admittedly necessary amount of scaffolding all over the place. It must be quite a job keeping this place maintained.
But sadder still is the amount of graffiti, even in some of the small number of obscure, residential areas. Even worse are the huge billboards in the most conspicuous of places. A big ad for Swatch hyping its line “007 Villain collection” of watches dominates a big section of the Piazza San Marco. Can you imagine the sight of a huge photo of Jaws from “The Spy Who Loved Me” staring at you as you exit the fabulously historic Doge’s Palace. Even the Bridge of Sighs is now augmented with a gigantic, bright blue billboard for a luxury car.
My sentiments would shift from thoughts of ancient wonder to absolute disgust as I aimlessly wandered the streets yesterday. The thick crowds of imbeciles standing around, hands firmly planted up their asses, completely blocking streets and passageways, the morons eating overpriced sandwiches in the Piazza de San Marco despite numerous signs pleading against it and threatening fines, not to mention some of the dumbest comments, usually from nasal-pitched Americans. But then, I don’t understand German or Italian, so who knows what kind of crap they’re talking about. It’s more like shopping mall etiquette than what I expect from guests visiting one of the worlds most interesting and singular cities.
I’m also sick of seeing fellow Americans toting around the same guidebook I am. I guess that makes me just one of the schmucks. So much for being the sophisticated traveler.
And lets not even talk about prices. As I walked the areas near the graffiti-strewn Rialto, with their beautiful shops, I did see lots of incredible examples of retail display design and fabulous products – designer and otherwise. But at the same time, I had to wonder what kind of idiot is actually paying $300 for a pair of Timberland boots that generally cost just over $100, even in Manhattan! The sticker shock was palpable beyond the touristy areas, as well.
Consider lunch yesterday. I ducked into a tiny bar, recommended by Rick Steves of course, for cicchetti, the local appetizer snacks – sort of Venetian tapas. The plate I put together contained: two baby octopus, their tiny heads stuffed with rice; four little anchovies; two slightly bigger fried anchovies; one sardine in the traditional heap of sweet and sour sautéed onions (sarde in soar), two sun dried tomatoes and just over a tablespoon of sautéed greens. Keep in mind, this was not freshly prepared for me, but on platters that had been sitting out for a while. Tasty, somewhat interesting, but seemingly low end in presentation. Served with bad bread, a tiny glass of prosecco from a tap and a quarter liter of barely decent white wine, also from a tap, the total: almost $30 US!
Some of the wine by the glass in other bars has been reasonable, and I had fun later in the afternoon and early evening standing among the locals, sipping and snacking on some interesting morsels: grilled baby sepia (tiny squid), sardine croquettes, and some other goodies. And while some of it has been good, it hasn’t been cheap.
Dinner was at another Rick Steves’ recommendation. I’ve been wanting to try one of the places from my “Eating in Italy” book, but many of these places were either closed yesterday, way too expensive, required reservations far in advance, or the addresses of which simply couldn’t be found on my expensive, but less than adequate map, with it’s tiny print.
The food at Trattoria Bepe was fairly good: spaghetti in a rich, black sauce of squid ink followed a whole baked sea bass. The total, with half a liter of barely acceptable white wine was about $50 US, almost a bargain for Venice. But even better was an encounter there that gave me hope for the future. A young couple, also toting the Rick Steves’ guide, was seating near me at an outdoor table, as the short bursts of rain that fell over the course of the late afternoon and early evening thankfully now subsided.
The fellow did his best to say a few worlds in Italian, although it’s hardly necessary, in most places here, as almost every food server and shop owner speaks English. But it is a sign of politeness and an acknowledgement that we aren’t in Disneyland. I commented on their guidebook, and a very nice conversation across tables ensued.
It seemed these 20-soemthings from Orange County, California (speaking of Disneyland), were on their honeymoon. And while they were on the typical three-city tourist hope – Rome, Venice and Florence – these were kids who had traveled in the past. Indeed, the fellow had considered a career in law, but after a brief time as a paralegal at a big firm, decided the law was not for him. He now wants to teach, as he sees more intrinsic satisfaction in making a contribution beyond billable hours. The gal works with autistic kids. Both have volunteered for the Peace Corps and will be leaving for Asia in the spring.
We had a great chat about crumbling American values, and all kinds of other stuff, including the fact that the Peace Corps is actually looking for “more mature” volunteers. Should life in Morocco not pan out (or maybe even if it does), might a stint of do-gooding be in my future? You never know.
An overpriced grappa at a nice looking enoteca found on my walk back to the guesthouse followed. There, a Brit and his Filipino girlfriend were sharing an overpriced, big bottle of bottle condition beer, produced in Italy, surprisingly enough. It seems after extended travels, he now lives in the Philippines, enjoying the ex-pat life. He was quite encouraging when I told him of my future plans.
This morning started with a vaporetto cruise down the Grand Canal, ending at San Marco. This is quite a little boat ride. A bit crowded, but some of the sights are truly incredible, namely the fabulous palaces and other buildings best seen from a vantage on this legendary waterway. The decay might be obvious, and some scaffolding ruined some of the vistas. Seeing scaffolds surrounding the dome of the iconic La Salute was especially disappointing, and really ruined the view as our boat approached the Lagoon. But overall, it’s seems one of those things every traveler should try to experience at least once, even if surrounded by dopey tourists.
The inevitable line at St. Marc’s wasn’t as long as it could have been, and I was lucky enough to be in time for a free tour in English explaining the significance of the fabulous, ancient mosaics all over the huge, beautiful church. If it weren’t for the hoards shuffling through the place, it would have indeed been transporting, as they were lit, which only happens for about two hours a day to preserve these ancient artworks and keep energy costs down. A highlight of the trip thus far, indeed.
On my walk to the Rialto market that followed, I stopped at the American Express office to buy train tickets for my passage to Bologna, as well as the long trip to Marseille, where I’d be catching my flight to Fes next week. Afterward, I indulged in a cicchetto or two, along with a glass of generic wine at a stand up bar. After which, I proceeded to get lost in the narrow, sometimes charming, sometimes annoyingly crowded streets looking for a place for lunch. I wanted to break the guidebook routine and try my hand at a freestyle restaurant selection, but too many times if I found a place that looked promising and passed in by in a search for other possibilities, I wouldn’t be able relocate my initial selection.
I did finally settle on a fairly upscale looking place that promised fresh local seafood, properly prepared. The house specialty was a frittura di pesce, otherwise know as frito misto, a mixed selection of fried fish, served with polenta. I passed ordering one of the on the antipasti and piatti primi (most often pasta or risotto), and went right for the main course, along with a quartino of the house white. Not only had the cicchetti already made a dent in my huge appetite, but I also had an early dinner reservation, as a 9 PM baroque concert was the evening plan. And with the plate setting me back 20 euros, the bill could have really added up.
The fried fish, along with a few vegetables prepared in similar style, coated with a light, fairly greaseless batter, were fresh and tasty: a few rings of squid, a whole large shrimp and a few tiny ones, a mussel or two, and a few other small sea creatures and white fish I couldn’t identify. The polenta was nicely hardened into two white rectangles, and made for a nice accompaniment. It was quite good and enough food to keep me going for a while.
The rest of the afternoon, however, quickly disintegrated. The plan was to either hit the Academia art museum, or the gothic Frari Church, with masterpieces by Titziano (Titian to us) and a Veronese painting.
But first, I thought it would be a good idea to try and buy an advance ticket for the evening’s concert, to be held at a church near my hotel. Unfortunately, it would not reopen until 4 PM. No matter, I surmised. This would give me an hour or so in my room, where I’ve able to scam free internet access, and check out the lodging situation for my next stop in Bologna.
This, it turned out, proved to be a most unhappy experience. For some reason, many of the hotels on the sites I rely on for cheap bookings were either full, or charging sometimes $300 or more for my first night, a Friday, with the rates coming down slightly for the next two days. What was going on? Why was Bologna going to be so expensive? I was not interested in taking my chances at the Bologna tourist office and possibly getting shut out completely, given how so many of the hotels in the center of town were already booked. And quite frankly, I’ve had my fill of the whole tourist office experience here.
The best I could find was a supposedly four-star hotel with a rate much lower than anything else I could find – 100 euros a night! After still more investigation, I realized this one site I found offering this price must have had some kind of special deal with this place, that, according to some on-line traveler reviews I had read, was recently renovated. Other sights showed the property either booked are charging more than 200 euros. It’s a major splurge for me, and I have a feeling not a true four-star, but hopefully still a good value. Since my actually sightseeing will probably be minimal, it will be a nice change of pace to indulge myself.
I’m also planning two nights in Parma, where they’re seem to be very few hotels available at all. But since it will be Monday and Tuesday nights, I’m hoping maybe the tourist office in Bologna will work with me, or once again, it will be yet another splurge. Thankfully, this is a short trip and it won’t (completely) break me.
What made this little on-line experience all the worse was that I managed to kill my late afternoon sightseeing time. It was after 5 PM when I finished, I ran to get my concert ticket, and now I’m writing this as I sit at an outdoor café not far from my hotel that seems to cater to mostly locals, a nice change of pace. It will all too soon be time to leave for dinner, at a crowded, moderately priced place I saw in my trusty Rick Steves’ guidebook where I had pre-dinner cicchetti last night and schmoozed with the manager a bit. What I had there was tasty enough, as was the wine by the glass, something better than the usual house plonk, so I’m looking forward to a decent dinner.
From the time I started out, one of my biggest misgivings about being here is just how little time there is to see the huge number of sights and this pressing feeling that if I don’t see it all, I’ll be missing out. It’s so expensive to be here, the lines for many of the attractions are too long; the compunction is to maintain a breakneck pace. It’s exhausting, and I despised traveling this way. I wonder how – and more importantly why – so many folks I know do all their European vacations like this. I will certainly avoid doing it this way again.
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