So it’s dark out and raining. I am driving a ridiculous manual transmission car on a little country road that runs atop the spine of a small mountain range that separates Tuscany from Umbria. I have just survived several hours of drama…no, no make that trauma. This involved walking in the cold rain for a couple hours, riding public transportation with poor people, putting up with ridiculous temper tantrums, several incredibly bad decisions being made by adults, and a legally imposed prohibition on photographing David’s ass.
Traveling with 10 other people will do that to you -- the trauma. Two hours ago I wanted to kill everyone one of these people. But I am over that now. I am in Italy. I don’t have time to be petty or pissy. There is gnocchi to be eaten.
Gnocchi.
Such a goofy little word. Such a pretty little word.
Gnocchi. Gnocchi. Gnocchi.
And gelato.
And prosciutto.
And porcini.
And pancetta.
And prosecco.
And the most important word, Tartufo.
So many words. So little time left.
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It is Friday, September 21, 2007. I am flying to Italy today. Let me just say that again to rub it in, I am flying to Italy today. Actually, I am flying into Paris on Air France (First Class of course) then on to Rome, then renting a car and driving up to Tuscany. Well, Umbria. Well, right on the border between Tuscany and Umbria. Lynnette is renting a villa for 10 of her closest friends to celebrate her 60th birthday. Mark and I are meeting everyone there.
Let me just say that after the Santa Fe Disaster (see second to last post) with United Airlines, American Airlines, and Alaska Airlines, I am kind of afraid to fly again. That is why I must fly First Class. Other than it being my birthright, and hating poor people, I just can’t risk someone putting their seat back in my face for the 12 hours it takes to get from Seattle to Rome.
Work was bad yesterday so I did not sleep at all last night. I kept reliving work over and over in kind of a Dante’s Inferno type of thing. This makes sense since I am going to Dante's home of Florence.
My parents showed up around noon today. They are going to cat sit for the week. This is so nice of them – especially given the recent Cat Drama (see last post).
We are at Sea-Tac now. Ample parking on the 6th floor. It’s so easy to fly First Class. Aside from my own line at the ticket counter and getting on the plane first, I don't even have to stand in line with the poor people in security. We have our own line for First Class to whisk us through security. Get the hell out of my way, stupid white woman flying coach! Move it!
As usual we eat at Anthony’s before heading to the plane. As you know, Joseph Campbell tells us it's important to follow rituals. Actually, it’s important to have cocktails before getting on a plane. Joyce is there but she does not wait on us.
As Mark and I are finishing up, The Matts and Michelle walk up. They are joining us on this trip. They are flying coach. I cannot understand this. All three of them have millions in Microsoft stock. Maybe when you really are rich, sitting with poor people is some kind of penance you have to do. As you know, Ayn Rand says sitting with poor people is stupid and wrong, so I will not be sitting with poor people today.
We head off to the First Class lounge. Air France uses the Northwest Airlines First Class lounge. It’s kind of a dump. All these people from Minneapolis are in there eating string cheese.
Time to get on the plane. Ciao for Niao!
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I am up in the air now drinking champagne. Le hot towel pour monsieur? Oui. Merci.
My chair folds all the way back into a bed. Even if the people in front of us fold their chair all the way out, it does not move backwards at all. There is this lumbar support vibrating thing that is massaging my lower back. Ne le suck pas!
Lunch is some foie gras, some boeuf avec vin, then some good cheese, and lots more champagne. This is good, but it’s not better than the First Class food on Hawaiian Airlines.
Oh my god, I am going to be flying into Paris in a few hours! Paris! I squeal like Carrie Bradshaw in the last season of Sex and the City. The fact that I am only going to be in the Paris airport and only for one hour does not matter. I am going to be in Paris!
I am finding it hard to sleep so I watch the latest Pirates of the Caribbean movie. Pas Mal.
Oh good lord! I have managed to spill most of my fabulous lunch all over my shirt. I have giant grease spots all over. I will be walking around the Paris airport with stains!
Looking out the window I see we are over the UK (or the UcK as I call it). Hi, Stupid London. Soon I see we are crossing over the English Channel. Oh my god, that is France! Bonjour, France!
Flying over France I see lots of little French farms and many small French towns. It's so French! Think of all the cheese! As we approach Paris it gets very cloudy. From the plane I get a couple desperate shots of the city. La Defense et La Tour Eiffel et Tour Montparnasse! This is a terrible shot but I still screamed like une petite fille française.
The Paris airport is pretty, but very confusing. We have to get off the plane on the tarmac, then walk to a shuttle bus, then drive to another terminal which appears to be in Belgium or Germany. It's just like how the Denver airport is in Omaha.
We get on our connecting Alitalia flight to Rome. This is still First Class, but boy is it ugly, and boy is the food bad. The inside of the plane is decorated with green astroturf. The people who work on the plane are nice though and soon we are over the Alps and then over Italy. There is Genoa. Hi Genoa!
I guess I need to explain the route. Air France from Seattle to Paris:
Alitalia from Paris to Rome:
Hertz rental car from Rome to the villa:
So right as the plane lands in Rome I realize I did not bring my International Driver’s permit. You know, the annoying little passport like thing you have to get from AAA in order to drive in Europe. Oh god! They will never let me rent a car now. We are going to have to walk to the villa or take a train with poor people!
Now I am standing in line at the Hertz counter at the Rome airport totally freaking out. Mark is trying to say it’s probably not a big deal, but I see everyone else has their little beige permit. We stand around for 10 minutes before we realize you have to grab a little ticket to get a number. Finally I get up to the counter to talk to the Italian version of Suzanne Pleshette. I think she is in her 20’s but she sounds like she has been smoking cigarettes for 50 years. I try doing that Princess Diana thing with my eyes where you point your head down and then look up all sad. She takes pity on me, but it’s probably because I have food stains all over my shirt.
All they have are manual transmission cars. I knew this when I made the reservation, but I am still not happy about it. I don’t really know how to drive a stick. I can kind of do it if I am not stressed out and if I don’t think about it too much. Let’s just say that I was stressed and I was thinking about it too much as we tried to leave the parking garage at the Rome airport.
Do you remember that scene in the movie Clueless where the high school kids who don’t really know how to drive yet accidentally get on the freeway? There is much screaming and tears. This would be me and Mark trying to drive on the freeway in Rome. Crazed hipster men driving 140 mph (kph, sorry) and little old nuns driving their tiny Smart Cars at 35 kph. Of course we missed the exit to get on the main north / south freeway to get to Tuscany. There is a big ringed freeway around Rome and we just stayed on that for several complete cycles until I got the hang of driving a stick and driving at 140 kph. We did this on purpose. Really.
I had to pee so I pulled over at a rest stop. This was my first experience with a squatty potty. So wrong. So wrong.
OK, so now we are driving north on the A1 freeway. Once we get out of Rome there are only 2 lanes, one for driving 140 kph and one for tourists and nuns. I do my best to go fast. The drive is really pretty. The farther north we go the greener it gets. There are little castles and medieval towns poking out of all of the hills. After about 90 minutes I am getting really tired. You will recall the Dante's Inferno night of not sleeping before I left. About the time we make it to Umbria I kind of....well...fall asleep....while driving. Somehow I manage to sort of head towards a gas station before I take my foot off the clutch and the gas, close my eyes and start to snore.
The car screeches to a loud stop and the windshield wipers start going. Several startled Italians come out of the gas station to see what all the noise is. Someone says, “Some American fell asleep on the freeway again.” They shrug and go back in. Mark lets me sleep and goes in to buy Red Bulls and some potato chips. He also buys Cokes, but I will have none of that Republican beverage from Atlanta. No Coke, Pepsi.
I slam 2 Red Bulls, scarf down the potato chips, and we are back on the road. We just can’t figure out how to turn off the windshield wipers.
Eventually we make it to the villa. Everyone else is there. They have bought food and wine. This is good. I am on vacation. In Italy.
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It’s my first morning in Italy. Let’s just say that again, it’s my first morning in Italy. I am up before anyone else. I can't sleep. Someday I am going to have to figure out how to sleep other than while I am driving, but today is not that day. I use the little Italian stove top coffee maker to make coffee.
Then I wander around the grounds drinking coffee and smiling. I just made Italian coffee and here I am in Italy drinking Italian coffee and walking around....in Italy.
Don’t worry, I wasn’t really naked.
There are little free range cats running around. One looks a lot like my cat Cathead. This one looks like my cat Fred.
Slowly everyone else gets up and then this American woman named Elizabeth shows up. She’s in charge of the house. She gives us some info on where to buy groceries, what restaurants to go to, etc. She tells us that most stores close at lunch time and very few things are open on Sundays. We also have to be careful of gypsies coming out of the woods and stealing things from us.
Based off her recommendation we rush off to this place down the road for brunch. It's only open on Sundays. It's run by a French / Moroccan woman named Christina. You sit down outside, they bring you homemade organic apple juice, then you go in to help yourself to this amazing all you can eat buffet of Italian, French, and Moroccan food. This is all quite fun and cool, but then this gigantic extended family of British people and their really bad teeth show up. They clearly have been here before and are loudly name dropping and kissing each other on both cheeks. It’s quite horrible really, their teeth.
After brunch we head down the road to this little store, Bar Pino, to buy wine. Elizabeth told us that this place is kind of like a 7-Eleven, it's open longer hours and they have wine. Inside it's a tiny store, cafe, bar, and meat counter. It seems to be kind of the social hang out for old men in the valley.
This is my first time to really try out my bad Italian. The girl smiles politely and then speaks to me in perfect English. She recommends several really good wines. Her father carries the case of wine out to the car for us. They are so nice.
Across the street is a tobacco field. You just don't see this at home too often.
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Tonight we are going to dinner at another restaurant that Elizabeth recommended, Ristorante La Castangna. It’s in this nearby little ancient hill town called Preggio.
OK, how can I explain this? There was drama. I swore. A lot. And I also had the best meal of my life. Here is the story.
(I should explain that these photos are from a day or two later when I came back to take pictures.)
This is Preggio.
More Preggio.
So we have three cars since there are eleven of us. We drive the windy little mountain road to Preggio. There is a small parking area around the main square. There are only two open spots that the other two cars snatch up. Our friend Bill does not want Marie (Lynnette’s 87 year old mother) to have to walk down the windy cobblestone medieval street to the restaurant, so he runs down the street and comes back saying that there is parking right next to the restaurant. It is dark out so Bill does not know that Marie has already gotten out and is already walking down the road. This is a tiny, tiny one lane path built 600 years ago for a cow. I am trying to get my manual transmission car down this tiny, tiny one lane path built 600 years ago for a cow. Ancient stone walls on either side of me threaten to crush the car and void my rental agreement. I start off being stressed and quickly devolve into a foul mouthed howler monkey. As god is my witness I did not know that any human being could use the F Word so many times in a 2 minute period.
Here is a daylight view of the path:
After folding in the mirrors on both sides of the car somehow I manage to get it down the path without scratching anything. I’ve managed to totally embarrass and annoy Mark and I have now completely scared the shit of out Bill.
We go down the stairs into the restaurant. I am freaking out about how I will get my car out as there is no way to turn around, but then I look up and see Scarlett Johansson. She will be our waitress tonight. I forget about the car.
How can I explain this dining experience? I am not sure I can. We order vino bianco and vino rosso. Several ceramic jugs filled with wine come out. They give me my own so I will calm down.
We start off with a couple of huge plates of Prosciutto. It’s much thicker and drier than Prosciutto at home. It has this nutty taste to it. I think the pigs eat acorns here and you can actually taste it in the meat. We also get several kinds of Bruschetta. Bruschetta ai Funghi, Bruschetta al Pomodoro, Bruschetta al Tartufo.
Bruschetta al Tartufo.
Bruschetta al Tartufo is translated as “truffles on toast.”
This does not seem appropriate. I think it should be translated as “black truffles that will make you die, go to heaven, fall down, wet your pants, then start to cry with those big hiccup sobs of utter joy, on toast”.
After my first bite of Bruschetta al Tartufo I decide this will be an all Tartufo evening for me. After the Bruschetta I have Tagliatelle al Tartufo, “black truffles that will make you die, go to heaven, fall down, wet your pants, then start to cry with those big hiccup sobs of utter joy, with pasta” and then Agnello al Tartufo, “black truffles that will make you die, go to heaven, fall down, wet your pants, then start to cry with those big hiccup sobs of utter joy, on grilled lamb.”
I am all cried out at this point. I can just die now. This is the best meal I have ever had. This is the best food I have ever had. There really is no point in my trying to go on living because it will all be downhill from here. I start to sink into this pit of utter darkness and despair when suddenly my subconscious reminds me that I am going to Maui in December. There is something there…some reason to go on living….what is it?….oh, of course, crab dip. I will survive.
Everyone else is having amazing food too. I get a taste of amazing gnocchi, bean soup, pasta in simple tomato sauce, on and on and on.
I think we had dessert. I don’t remember. I am Tartufo-d. I don’t need dessert ever again.
I know that tipping in Italy is not required and that 10% is considered good, but I insist we leave 20% and I leave several more Euros under my napkin. As we walk out I kiss the feet of the people who work there and I start to cry again.
Oh, there is my car. Trapped between rock walls. It’s pitch black out and I am drunk. The howler monkey in me starts to break free again when Bill offers to back out the car. I can’t look. I run back up the path and hold my breath and cover my eyes with my hands. Looking up the walls of this rock canyon I see old people looking out their windows as Bill tries to back up the car. They are holding their breath and covering their eyes with their hands.
Somehow, eventually, he does it. The car emerges from the labyrinth unscathed and I drive us home. I feel bad for behaving as badly as I did. But then that little word comes back into my head and I forget everything else.
Tartufo.
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Now it’s Monday. I am up first. We are going to Assisi today. Sharon Johnson, that supposedly blond woman that I used to work for at the mermaid, told me to skip Assisi. Oh, I forgot to mention, Sharon had stayed at the villa before and recommended it to us. She also turned us on to the condo in Maui. I am trying to get her to go to Provence so she can find a place for us to stay there.
Anyway, Sharon said that there were lots of great hill towns and that Assisi was too touristy and we should skip it. I am vetoed on this and we all head towards Assisi.
For my first taste of an Italian hill town in daylight it’s pretty cool, but it is very touristy. Here are some random pictures of Assisi:
We have our first taste of real Italian gelato here. I get pistachio. This is really good, but not tartufo good.
I take this picture of Matt B’s ass.
I email it to the bread that makes up his little sandwich at home. They do not respond back to me.
I see this sign in a shop window. We laugh!
We parked the car at the top of the hill and slowly worked our way down to the church. This church is a big deal. St. Francis is buried here and there is a lot of artwork inside but you cannot take pictures. This creepy voice keeps coming over loud speakers saying “Shhhhh! Silenzio! Shhhhh! Silenzio!”
We have an OK but very expensive lunch at a nearby restaurant, then it's time to go home. We have a wine tasting dinner to go to tonight.
We take a taxi back up the hill to our car. This is so fun. The driver just rushes through crowds of tourists, knocking them out of the way with his car.
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Tonight we are going to this nearby winery for a wine tasting and dinner. It’s a couple of hours before sunset when we show up at the winery. The owner is British (but he has pretty good teeth). We are standing around drinking pretty good white wine when these women ask where we are from. We explain and then they say they are “Six white women from North Carolina tearing up Italy!” We kind of move away from them quickly.
We head down into the winery. There is this pretty Italian guy making wine. We call him Wine Boy. Everyone except for Bill is taking pictures of him. It’s kind of hilarious. Here is Michelle assessing Wine Boy's skill.
Soon we all drive out to the actual vineyard. The sun is beginning to go down and it's quite beautiful out.
Little castles and villas in the distance. Please note the artistic placement of the tree at the end of the row.
Mark’s grandma starts asking annoying questions about the difference between red and white wine. Under my breath I say “Shhhhh! Silenzio!” and Mark glares at me.
We head back to the winery for dinner.
Dinner is a bit of a scene. There are sneaky Canadians, Australians, bad toothed Brits. We start off with a tasting of local olive oil, then we move on to wine. There is this very annoying Italian man named Luigi or something who is speaking about the wine in Italian. The British owner then translates it into English. Luigi is very animated and passionate. At some point he asks what we are tasting in one of the reds and Bill makes the mistake of saying Black Currant. Luigi goes crazy and says no we are not tasting Black Currant in his wine. There is no Black Currant flavor in his wine and no one is tasting Black Currant is his wine and how could we think his wine tastes like Black Currant!
Desperately someone points out we meant Red Currant. Luigi thinks this over for a second and then says “Yes, I guess you could be tasting some Red Currant.” Freak.
Food starts to come out. We get some really good Prosciutto and some other kids of salumi, then some bruschetta and cheeses. One of these cheeses has an onion relish on it that is quite wonderful. There is also this kind of Italian French Toast. It seems to be a piece of toasted bread dipped in egg and cheese with Prosciutto on top. I like this.
I thought we were getting Florentine steak for dinner but instead we get this kind of stewed cow.
Do you remember that little actress, Linda Hunt, from The Year Of Living Dangerously?
Apparently she works here now and she gets up to sing. She can’t sing. It’s painful and wrong. For some reason the annoying Canadians start to clap along and sway to the music. So annoying. Then this creepy old Friar with giant round black glasses comes in and starts singing Moonshadow.
I have to get out of here. I go outside and try to take pictures of the full moon.
Inside they have broken out this dessert wine called Virgin’s Blood. There is more singing going on and I am afraid dancing could follow. The Canadians are clearly out of control. I insist that we leave now.
We get back to the villa and we can hear people down in the valley singing Volare really loud.
"Volare, oh oh, e contare, oh oh oh oh..."
I really hate that song and feel the need to counterattack. There is a full moon out so I get out my laptop and put on the We Like the Moon song:
http://www.rathergood.com/moon_song/
I get yelled at to turn it off. I go to bed. Through the open window I can still hear Volare down in the valley.
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Now it is Tuesday morning. I am up first. I decide to recreate that Italian French Toast from last night. Here is my recipe:
•Slice up some crusty Italian bread.
•Mix some eggs together with a lot of grated Asiago cheese in a bowl.
•Salt and pepper the egg cheese mixture.
•Soak the bread in the egg and cheese mixture then pop it into a frying pan with just a little olive oil.
•In another pan warm up some Prosciutto.
•Chop up some Arugula finely.
•When the bread is lightly brown on both sides put some little shreds of Prosciutto and a little chopped arugula on top.
•Remind everyone what a creative cook you are and how lucky they are that you came along and how next time you should get to come for free since you are such a good cook.
Today we are off to Cortona. Cortona is the town in the movie Under The Tuscan Sun. It looks nothing like the town in the movie. It’s an ancient little stone town perched on top of a hill. When you first drive up you learn that nuclear weapons are prohibited here so we leave ours in the car.
There is one gate to get into the town.
Cortona was so much fun! I really love this place. Here are some random pictures:
In a little leather shop I buy a new briefcase, a belt, and a wallet. Roxanne buys some purses. Next door, Matt B buys two statues of dancers for $5000.
After a few hours of wandering we are hungry. I go back to the leather shop and ask the woman about a good place to eat. "Do you want a snack or a proper lunch?" she asks in this crisp British accent. "Um, proper lunch please!" As directed we head down this steep alley to a restaurant called Dolce Maria. We are seated in this little courtyard. It’s really quite a dramatic setting. Half of our group seems to be lost on their way to or from the bathroom so I just start ordering wine and antipasti. This quickly turns into a two hour lunch involving many bottles of wine and many, many courses of incredible food.
Our waiter is great and there is a large table of Swedish lesbians near us. They stop by to advocate “Swedish Girl Power” as they are leaving.
This was a really wonderful meal and lot of fun.
After lunch, we shop some more and drink espresso at a sidewalk café. I buy this print called “they don’t sleep”. Seems appropriate.
There is a nice sunset tonight.
For dinner I make two sauces for pasta. One is kind of a basic red sauce and then I make this butter sauce with porcini mushrooms, prosciutto, garlic, and sage from the yard. The mushroom thing turns our really well but people seem to like the red sauce better. Weirdos.
We play some of Matt G’s games from Cranium and drink wine all night.
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Wednesday. I am up first. I get yelled at for making Italian French Toast again. Why would you yell at someone for cooking you breakfast?
We are having Italian cooking lessons this afternoon from Elizabeth and some other people. This should be fun.
Mark and I drive to the little town of Mercatale to buy white wine and then head up in the hills. I want to see Preggio during the day (to take pictures of the scene of the drama and tartufo). First we go to this castle called Castle Rigamarole or something like that.
We have fun on the drive then head back to the house. Elizabeth arrives with a little Italian guy named Luigi or something. He used to be a sheppard. Now they are writing a cookbook together and give cooking lessons to Americans. They bring in a lot of boxes of cooking tools and supplies. No wine I see.
We make Tiramisu first since it takes a while. We also make pasta dough since it needs to sit for a bit to rest. Mark has made Tiramisu before and this is the same basic recipe except that the ladyfingers that we use are really fresh – they are not dry and hard like at home. We also use coffee from the little Italian stove top maker.
No one seems to know that you need to make pasta dough like bread – warm up the dough with the body heat of your hands to get the gluten going then let it rest under a tea towel in a bowl for a while. The spirit of Nigella rises up in me and I take care of the pasta.
After making Tiramisu the pasta dough looks plump and happy so we roll it out with a little hand cranked pasta machine. We learn it’s important to gently rub and massage the pasta sheets with your hands and to tell them that they are pretty.
We are making ravioli. Inside will go these special local potatoes that we are mashing and also pecorino and mozzarella. We learn how to shape the ravioli like little shells with wings. The left over pasta is made into long strips
We are also making this basic Joe red sauce with tomatoes, carrots, onions.
Luigi pulls some dead animals out of a bag. They are little lambs with their tales still on. We are going to spit roast them in the fire place. There is discussion of the appropriateness of leaving the tales on. I think it’s important to know where your food comes from. I am pro tale.
We quickly realize there is not enough red wine in the house. I’m just not going to go into why this is. You know who you are. Bill offers to run down to town to get some. What a nice guy.
We make frittatas with wild asparagus.
We slice open little balls of mozzarella and fill them with this quince jelly.
We make bell peppers deep fried in sunflower oil in a big wok like thing over the fire until they caramelize.
There was also wild arugula. I know there was. I can’t remember what we did with it though. It was spicy. Oh, I know, we took the wild arugula and wrapped it in flat bread with some home made gorgonzola. I got in trouble for sticking my finger in the home made gorgonzola.
The lamb was interesting – good flavor, but I prefer my lamb to be as rare as possible.
The food is great. This was so much fun. After Tiramisu Michelle decides to sacrifice her Virgin’s Blood dessert wine. I don’t remember too much after that….
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Today we are going to Florence.
Home of the Renaissance.
One of the great art capitals of the world.
I won't have time to write about this till the weekend but here are some photos to tide you over:
Ha, ha!
I'm just kidding.
I would never cheapen Florence with such a juvenile stunt.
Here are some real photos:
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Thursday. 5am. I am up first. We have to be out of the house by 6am to drive to a train station over the hills in Tuscany so that we can catch a 7:20am train into Florence. We have to check in with the guide we have hired in Florence at 9am.
It’s dark and kind of wet out. I am very tired and driving by braille. We left before everyone else but they all got there before we did due to some navigational challenges. I am not awake enough to pay attention to where there directions said to park so we just park by a bank next to the train station. Inside the train station we buy one ticket for all of us. By buying this bulk pass we save like 1 Euro or something. This was a bad call and it will come back to haunt us later. As we sit down I realize that I was too tired to insist that we upgrade to First Class. My chair is tiny and weird, but I have a window view. The train next to us is painted in Pac Man.
I am so tired and I am surrounded by poor people. I try to keep my eyes open so I can see Italian things as we head north, but I have limited success. They are buzzing by.
This is an express train so there are only a couple of quick stops and soon we are in Florence. This is kind of surreal. I am in Florence. I get that kind of rush I had the first time I was in New York or London. We take a quick taxi over to check in with the guide company and then we have about an hour to kill. We wander the streets for a bit then find a café and have espresso and toast that costs around 20 Euros each. It starts to rain, hard. Mark runs out to get us umbrellas.
We head back to the guide place and meet Molly. She is from Sacramento and glad that we are from the west coast. She has super cool rain boots on.
She is gorgeous and brilliant. She is working on her third doctorate in medieval art or something like that. She walks us around town a bit showing us some very old churches that were actually controlled by the various merchants in the city and not by Rome. She gives us lots of little tidbits of history like the origin of the expression "hole in the wall". This is the original "hole in the wall".
Rich people handed out their leftovers to poor people through it. That food was very similar to the food served to poor people who fly coach today.
We pass by the world headquarters for Ferragamo shoes. Yes,I screamed. I only have time to snap a couple of shots.
Strange graffiti in this town. Someone is working through something.
After much talk of history Molly begrudgingly takes us to the Ponte Vecchio. She is very polite but I can tell this is the epitome of tourist hell to her. But we are tourists and I really want to see this.
So this is the Ponte Vecchio, the “old bridge”.
Some photos while I was on the bridge:
Here’s some history if you are interested. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ponte_Vecchio
It’s jammed with people, like Saturday at Pike Place Market, but it is still very cool.
We head over to the Duomo.
It’s raining and there are thousands of umbrellas in the plaza.
We are en route to see David’s ass so we have to hurry. Lynnette plops her mom into this wheelchair thing and powers through the crowd at high speed. Matt B and Jana stop to take some pictures and of course we are long gone into the sea of umbrellas. Sorry.
We get to the Acadamea and there are huge lines to see David's ass. We have reservations, but of course two of us are now lost. Bill decides to go find them. Then of course Matt and Jana show up and now Bill is lost. Molly is trying very, very hard to get the ticket guy to be patient and to let us in later than our reservations. This is stressful and annoying. But I know that David’s butt will be all out there and presentational soon so I am quiet. Poor Molly. Finally Bill shows up and we all go in. The first thing I see is a sign saying you cannot take pictures. No pictures...of David’s ass??!!!...down howler monkey, stay down.
There are several huge pieces of marble we see first that are also Michelangelo’s work. None of these are finished statues. They all seem to show really muscular guys trying to break free from the stone. Kind of a bondage thing.
All these big buff guys. Boy was he talented. And boy was he gay.
Finally we get to see David. He’s a big one. 17 feet tall. Giant hands like Rosanne Cash. His head is a little too big for the rest of him. His little penis is kind of...little.
We are instructed to walk around and find our favorite view. I fully expected it to be this....
...but actually I decide I think this view the best.
You can’t possibly tell from a photo, but when you are looking at this statue it is absolutely amazing. The hand and arm have so much detail (he stole bodies from the morgue so that he could learn about physiology). The legs too are amazing. I cannot quite believe someone was able to carve this from stone. Wow, he was a great artist and wow he was a big mo. He was so in love with the male body. All that aside, there is a reason this is one of the most famous pieces of art in the world. It is really incredible and I am so glad I got to see this in person.
As we are sitting there gazing up at David someone notices that there is a certain...nasal...resemblance...between David and Matt B.
I think this is true.
So we have about an hour for lunch then we need to get back to meet our next guide for the Uffizi Gallery. Someone has a temper tantrum because she does not want to have lunch, she wants to go shopping. We encourage her to leave us quickly and to go shopping, possibly in Rome.
It’s still pouring rain and there is a lightning storm going on. The thunder echoes through the small medieval street. It’s pretty cool.
We have lunch at this sidewalk café near the Academea. It's nothing special. Now we are off to the Uffizi Gallery. Our next guide, Silvia, is from Florida by way of Ireland. She speaks with a regular flat American accent but she lilts like an Irishman. Weird. She looks a little like Rachel Ray, if Rachel Ray were 15 years younger, 75 pounds lighter, pretty, and smart.
The Uffizi is on the top floor of a large building that was owned by the Medici family. Actually, everything in Florence was owned by the Medici family. The galley has kind of an outer ring of statues with pretty good asses and then the inner galleries have Renaissance paintings. You cannot take pictures here either so none of these are mine.
Silvia focuses on the paintings. We see paintings by Giotto, Raphael, Botticelli, Michelangelo, Caravaggio, and Da Vinci.
We learn that much like the churches Molly showed us earlier, these paintings are all about sales. You put famous people in the painting to suck up so they will give you a commission.
So this was interesting and fun, but a little rushed out of necessity. It would be nice to come back and do it on my own.
So after the Uffizi the shito hits the fano.
It’s raining hard. Lynnette decides she has to buy a communion chalice or she will die. We will need to walk half way across town in the rain to get to the store. Several people in our party decide to go shopping and to meet us in front of McDonald’s at the train station at 5:30. They were wise, these people.
We start walking. Marie will not get in her wheelchair. She insists on walking with her cane on the slippery cobblestones streets in the rain. This of course means we have to worry about her falling, push her empty wheelchair, and of course walk really slow. After several blocks of this, Matt G senses the growing frustration, anger, and bitterness. He starts whistling Singing In The Rain. I see that Matt B is considering suicide. Mark has given his umbrella to someone so he is soaking wet. Our sad little procession continues through the streets of Florence – without a map – for what seems like several miles. Finally we get to the communion chalice store only to learn they do not sell them and are closed. While the howler monkey is just dying to make a comment right now I remain silent.
Now it's getting late and we have to get to the train station. Remember we have a group ticket and all have to get on the train together. Our doomed little party heads back to the main square to try and find a cab. It’s rush hour. It's pouring rain. Traffic is crazy. We try to hail a cab, 20 times. You can’t do that here. You have to find a taxi queue and wait in line. Finally we find one but the line is 15 people deep and we need at least 2 cabs to get to the train station.
I know we are going to miss the train now. What are we going to do?! How will we get home?! We are all going to die here in Florence!
Someone suggests we walk to the train station. At this point we have no choice. Marie will still not use her goddamn wheelchair. Somehow we find the train station (it was like 2 blocks away the whole time). It’s insanely busy. Thousands of people pouring out into the streets. Surprisingly the rest of our group is actually at the McDonald’s waiting. They are in a good mood which I immediately put to a stop.
While we are waiting for the train to show up some of our group – especially the one person with the ticket – wander off and get lost. It's time to get on the train and the ticket holder is nowhere to be seen.
I am fully prepared to murder everyone one of these people right now. Maybe not Mark, he looks drowned and sad, but the rest of them need to die. We have no choice but to get on the train. I am drawn to a specific car. The chairs are wide and fluffy. I sit down. Soon I am informed that this is the First Class car. We did not pay for First Class so we have to move. We head towards the back of the train and I realize this is no express train for commuters; no, this is a regular train that will stop every 10 minutes. I pass car after car of tourists, poor people, chickens, gypsies, and donkeys. Every seat is filled. Finally, in the very last car there are a couple of open seats. I sit down and close my eyes and pray that no one asks me for my ticket. No one does.
As the train starts to move I keep my eyes closed hoping that no one will talk to me. Howler monkey is just poised to scream, loudly.
After a while Roxanne hands me a post card which is a close up of David’s penis. I snort and laugh. Then everyone else snorts and laughs. Goddamn it how can I kill all you people if you make me laugh. I close my eyes again and think of
gnocchi. And gelato. And prosciutto. And porcini. And pancetta. And prosecco. And Tartufo.
Contrary to what I said as the start of this blog, this is not helping. Maybe I can poison their dinner tonight.
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So now it’s Friday. I am up first. I was not able to poison anyone’s food last night. I was going use to the leftover ravioli filling as the medium, but when I tried to fry the little balls of potatoes and cheese they melted down into cheesy mashed potatoes. I knew no one would eat this so I didn't even bother.
It’s raining and foggy out. This seems an appropriate way to leave. Bright warm sunshine would be too painful. Mark and I are spending the night in Rome then flying back through Paris tomorrow. Everyone else has at least one more day here.
I am sad to leave but I also miss my cats. I really wish we had been able to spend more time in Florence. If we come back I would like to spend a couple of nights there.
We say our goodbyes and then pack up the car and head out. I am really sad as I am leaving. Will I ever see little Preggio or Mercatale again? This place has certainly had as big of an impact on me as my first trip to Maui did.
We get over the mountains and into Tuscany, then head south on the A-1 autostrada. We are listening to the radio. There is very little real Italian music. It's mostly American or British dance music. The radio stations have hilarious names, Virgin Radio, Kiss-kiss, D-jay.
We are going to stop in the little hilltown of Orvieto to have lunch. Orvieto is the place where a lot of Italy’s white wine comes from.
I notice on the way down that I seem to be comfortable driving 150kph in the fast lane now and making other cars get out of my way by tailgaiting.
Orvieto is set up a lot like Cortona. One road winds up the hill then you enter through a gate in a stone wall and then there is this ancient stone town that has not changed in 700 years. We don’t know where to park so we just pull the car over and get out. Either we will get towed or we won’t.
The first thing you see in Orvieto is the church, and it’s a doozy!
The town is cute in that now standard medieval village kind of way.
We walk around a bit and then have lunch. I eat more Tartufo with pasta and then I decide I need to buy some masks. I did not have time in Florence to even look for masks. I know the only masks I am likely to find are Venetian, and I did not go anyway near Venice, but what the hell, I am in Italy so I will buy Italian masks.This is what I came up with:
We decide to get some wine, cheese, bread and prosciutto to eat for dinner in the hotel in Rome tonight. First we have to find a wine opener. We end up in this tobacco shop. Mark buys this weird old fashioned wine opener with inlayed wood.
Then we buy some wine. Orvieto wine. Finally we end up in this little meat shop. The owner is this nice old man who does not really speak English. He is clearly delighted to learn we want a big hunk of prosciutto and with a huge smile he give us a gigantic hunk of “Orvieto Prosciutto”.
I don’t have the heart to tell him we don’t need that much. We also get some cheese and bread then head back to the car. Car has not been towed and there is not ticket, so that is good.
We are on the way to Rome now. We get this absolutely creepy radio station from Vatican City. People seem to be chanting, but it’s in that creepy way you would hear in a horror movie where you are in a corn field with Betty Davis and she and her zombie friends are about to stone you to death. I can’t listen to this so we go back to Virgin Radio.
As we are heading into Rome we get really lost. The airport is all the way to the west on the ocean. We end up all the way to the east on the far side of the city. Then we are stuck in gridlock traffic at rush hour. As we spend time in Rome’s suburbs crawling along on the freeway it occurs to me that we really could be anywhere in the world. This is sad. I had a similar experience in London last year.
Finally we get to the hotel which is a Hilton near the airport. Being an American hotel it’s filled with Americans. Ugly Americans. Loud, fat, rude, hamburger and Bud Light consuming Ugly Americans. It’s a cool hotel though, kind of minimalist and techno. Nice flat screen TV with Italian, French, Spanish, German, and British all news cable channels. We also watch Italian MTV, which is fun.
This is my final sunset in Italy. With my view of the Rome airport.
We nibble on the giant prosciutto which we have to cut with the little knife on the wine opener. We eat cheese, and drink wine till we fall asleep.
After a while I wake up and Mark is gone. All the lights are off and he is nowhere to be seen. I fear I have been snoring and that he has had to resort to sleeping in the bathtub like I did in Honolulu. Yes, it’s true.
I feel really bad. In the morning he’s all, “It really was pretty comfortable. Not bad at all.” Right. That's so Mark.
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It’s like 6am and we have to fill up the car with gas...petrol...diesel...whatever. Hertz makes even its #1 Gold Club members return the car all filled up like we are poor people or something. This is barbaric but I have no choice. We ask the guy at the reception desk where to go when we check out and he kind of points us in the right direction. We find a gas station but it is not open. Right when we are leaving some woman drives up and we see her insert her credit card into some kind of secret lock box. We try the same thing but it does not like our credit cards. There seems to be another gas station on the other side of the freeway so we go over there. This one is open. Some kid comes out to fill up the car but I have to go in to pay. It’s over $80 to fill up the tank on this little rental car. No wonder they only have 2 lane freeways here – no one can afford to drive!
We return the car without incident – well that it not true but it’s not worth going into here – and then head into the terminal. We get in line at the Air France First Class counter but the Italian woman working there, Bimbolina, will not talk to us or make eye contact. Then her friend comes over and they start gossiping. After about 10 minutes of this Mark explodes and yells and them, “We are Americans you stupid union employees and we are flying first class. Get your communist asses moving and check us in!” The women look up without any emotional response whatsoever. Clearly they have had this reaction many times before. Bimbolina politely says in English, "We don’t open until 7:30, sir." They go back to filing their nails and gossiping.
We huff off to find coffee but nothing is open. We sit around for half and hour then go back down. Two other people are in line in front of us. Bimbolina is being mean to both of them. She tells them that she cannot help them at this counter and then sends them off to other counters at far ends of the airport. They she laughs in a kind of an early onset lung cancer kind of cackle. Mark and I make eye contact and agree we are not going to put up with this crap. We are going to be Ugly American Queeny Bitches! We go up to the counter and of course Bimbolina is now very polite, helpful, and professional. Damn it!
The flight up to Paris is uneventful. So I know almost everyone on this trip had a really bad experience flying back home from Paris. Mark and I did not. We had a fun First Class adventure!
As we are about to land in Paris the purser comes over and says that because there is a short amount of time for us to get to our plane to Seattle they would be delighted to help us out. We are ushered to a special shuttle bus that zooms us to from Paris out to Belgium or Germany or wherever the other terminal is. We are rushed through security and then zoom off to another bus where we are quickly driven to our plane. Everyone is so nice and helpful -- and they are French! This would never happen with a US airline, and I fear based off what everyone else went through that it happened to us only because we were in First Class. I know you all hate Air France now but this was a really great customer service experience for us. Thou shalt not fly coach. Thou shalt not fly coach.
The flight home was long but comfortable. Food was good, same movies as coming over.
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Now I have been home for a couple of weeks. I am almost over my jet lag. It’s taken forever to finish up this blog. I am constantly thinking about Italy, reading books on it and cooking homemade pasta. People who have traveled to Europe are asking me if I am going to stop going to Maui so much. My first reaction to that is, well… NO! It has occurred to me, however, that ten trips to Hawaii in four years could seem a little excessive, and that I could have gone to a lot of other new places. No, this is crazy talk. Mark and I are going to Maui for Christmas just by ourselves for the first time in a long time. It will be interesting to see how we feel about it and if we want to cut back a little. I think that is unlikely. Three trips to Hawai’i and one trip to Europe a year seems an appropriate goal.
We are all talking about a trip to Provence next year – probably at the same time of year as this trip to Italy. I would honestly love to go back to Italy. We did not even make a dent in Umbria or Tuscany, let alone Rome, Milan, Venice, Naples, Bologna....just think of all the gnocchi. And gelato. And prosciutto. And porcini. And pancetta. And prosecco. And Tartufo.
Lynnette, thank you so much for this incredible experience!
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