tourist time!

After our great time in Bologna, it only seemed fitting that it was really difficult to leave. Travel via public transport on Sunday can be difficult, the guide book hinted, but we weren’t prepared for our 5 minute train transfer to turn into 3 and a half hours at the (hot, boring, isolated) station platform.  We found out later that there was a train strike, but it was disconcerting that one train after another kept getting cancelled. As a bonus, we did get to see the same two commercials repeated every minute for the entire time. What's not to love about state of the art televisions posted throughout the train platform blaring the same commercials? The jingle from the sprite commercial is still stuck in my head!! So, that day was a bust. We were both hot, tired, and crabby when we made it into Lucca around 5pm. It was a long hike through town with our bags, so that didn’t help either.

Lucca is mostly notably for having its ancient city fortifications remarkably intact. The ~20ft high wall which rings the city has trees and a pathway along the top, so people jog and bike around it. The part of the city inside the wall is filled with the small winding streets and cobblestones that you would expect, and there are plenty of gelaterias and restaurants at which to eat. In short, it is a major tourist trap (in a good way). We stayed here in Ostello San Frediano, a former school turned hostel. It has big, grand staircases and really high ceilings. No A/C or fans, so you have to open the window to keep cool. We faced the same heat/mosquito tradeoff as Milano, but we survived alright. It is kind of funny to think about how hard it was to sleep in some of these places, on vacation, when at home in DC we don't have air conditioning and our friends think that we're crazy for it. I guess the bugs are the difference. Perhaps a nimble businessperson will start selling screens for all of those Italian windows.

Anyway, Lucca was pleasant, even more so if one left the city walls and walked around the outer parts of the cit. We went to a garden shop with a bunch of old retired guys who liked to cut in line (is that a continental thing?) then wandered through a few supermarkets and ate at what seemed like a local diner, complete with construction workers. That put a cap on Lucca, and the next day we left early to head to...

Cinque Terre

What do you get when you combine a steep hillside dotted with tiny villages, a UNESCO heritage site, and Tuscany? A slow-moving single-file flock of tourists. Also known as Cinque Terre: 5(ish) villages spread along a few miles of Ligurian coast (between Genoa and Pisa), perched on impossibly steep cliffs, reachable by train (tunneled through the hills), or by slightly improved goat trails. The terraced grape and olive farms were impressive, though, and if we thought that Lucca was touristy, we hadn’t seen anything!

We arrived early Tuesday morning, checked into our hotel and dropped our stuff, then proceeded down the trail towards the villages. We started in the southernmost one, and headed northwards in sequence: Riomaggiore, Manolo, Corniglia, Vernazza, and Monterosso. Between the Manolo and Corniglia, a landslide had washed out the seaside trail, so to walk meant hiking up into the hills. Which we did, only we didn’t find the trail until we were near the top. A few heated exchanges with Rebecca and an hourlong ascent through somebody’s grapevines later, and we were rewarded with a few and the knowledge that nobody else (in their right minds) would have taken the path that we took. Which is to say, there was a much easier trail. Nevertheless, a shop at the top selling cold water and peaches refortified our spirits, and we moved onwards with renewed vigor. 

The day pretty much went like that: arrive at the touristy village, buy some provisions, then set out again on the trail for the few hours to the next stop. In addition to the gorgeous natural setting, there was the unexpected entertainment of seeing the variety in hiking apparel sported by our fellow travelers (I use the term literally). Cultural differences were perceptible: Ze Americans, especially the young ones, generally wore only bathing suits and some inappropriate footwear such as converse or sandals. Ditto the Italians and the Spanish, but the latin ladies tended to wear fewer clothes (only a bikini top, for instance) during the hike whereas the American women covered up a bit more. For the men, it was the opposite: many American men were shirtless, with only boardshorts and some shoes or flip flops (the better to bronze themselves), whereas their continental counterparts wore shirts and inevitably a fanny back. The northern Europeans tended to be more modestly, and, it must be said, more appropriately dressed: hiking gear and possibly trekking poles were the norm. 

The hike itself was surprisingly vigorous. This wasn't the pleasant stroll along a waterfront boardwalk that some people were dressed for. This was more of a scramble: up and down hills and between terraced grape vines. The trail alternated between steep and rocky, or flat and calm. The sections closer to the villages, unsurprisingly, were better maintained. Because the train travels through the towns at hourly intervals, it wasn't much of a commitment to try the hike, considering that you could always bail out at the next town and take the train for the remainder. One got the feeling that a lot of people (especially the aforementioned inappropriate dressers) did exactly that.

Anyway, despite several heated discussions about the appropriate pace of hiking between Rebecca and myself (she used the term 'death march' more than once), we arrived at the terminus and plunged into the Med for the first time. Despite walking alongside the water for the entire stretch, there really aren't that many suitable places to get in the water, and the few that exist in the villages are totally overrun and unappealing. So, we waited until the final leg, and it was a nice reward. 

We took the train back to our hotel, enjoyed a nice meal, and slept like logs. The following day, we had a few hours free in the morning, so we went back to the closest beach and did some more swimming. The train ride down to Rome was mostly notable for two unpleasant seat-stealing cabinmates of the teenage variety, but we made it in once piece. 

And now, in photos...

 The view of the outside of the Lucca city wall

 Looking back towards the Luca inner city. We stayed just near that big tower.

 Starting our hike in Cinque Terre. The photo adequately captures the prevailing attitudes. Some were concerned about time, some weren't.

 The view towards Manarolo along the first strech of the hike. Notice the hikers above and to the right of the train tracks.

 Once in Manarolo, we had to take to the hills.  This is a view back towards town from one of several false starts that we made in trying to find the right path.

 This is taken just after we crested the hill on our bushwacking hike. The point on the far right is approximately where we started.

  We were still in good spirits though! yeay!

 You can see the extensive terracing that was done in order to grow grapes here. They have miniature elevated tracks that run down the slope of the hill in various places. On top of these ride little motorized carts to hall up the ripened fruit.

9 meals in Bologna

We left Milan in our rearview and hopped the train to Bologna. It was an experience finding our seats on the train, but we eventually worked it out. Bologna was an obvious destination for us, once we heard people refer to it as the 'culinary capital of Italy'. Even if that is marketing propaganda, we were going to see for ourselves. But the city is visually interesting as well:  tiny winding streets, sidewalks under porticos, loads of shops and restaurants, and some neat churches, towers, and ruins.

Day 1 was just wandering and exploring. Not really any shopping bargains to be had here, that’s for sure, but even our random sampling of casual street food was delightful. We arrived in the early afternoon, so we spent a few hours getting the layout of the city and planning our next meals: a pretty good way to kill time! 

On our second day, we went to a restaurant that a friend had recommended: Trattoria Serghei. We had no prenotazione (surprising how little that word resembles reservation, isn't it?) so they sat us at a table by the cash register. Which was fine, because we were sort of in our own space. I opted for the penne all'almatriciana, which I later learned has some interesting pork bits in the sauce. People approximate it with bacon in the States, but you would probably be carried out of town on a rail for that sort of behavior in Emilia-Romagna. I can't remember what Rebecca had. I can't even remember how we got back to the hotel! That simple dish of pasta was a revelation. To say it was the best I had ever tasted invites people to think about their favorite restaurant, to get defensive, to judge my palate or my dining experiences ('yeah, but have you ever tried so and so?'). So I'll just say that it was extraordinarily good. I gave Rebecca a carefully measured bite, and she agreed. I guess that's Emilia-Romagna in general, and Bologna in particular, get the reputation for food.

There was an open air market that happens on Friday and Saturday, so we wandered through that. Or, rather, Rebecca did. I went to the hotel and took a nap, so she could have several hours to herself to go around and touch things, which she likes to do when she shops, whereas I tend to be a bit more impatient with my process. It worked out well though: we both reconvened refreshed.

Our final full day in Bologna was probably the most eventful. First thing in the morning, we went over to a bike rental place we had sussed out the day before. We took our two bikes and set out straight for Santa Maria di Luca (?), a hilltop church (nunnery?) overlooking the city. To get there, you travel along Via Saragoza, home to the world’s 'longest portico' (covered sidewalk). Now, if you’re like me, you’re extremely skeptical of claims of global supremacy. I’ve been to more world’s biggest, best, fastest tourist traps that you could shake a stick at, but they always leave me feeling unimpressed and incredulous. Not this one. If you took the longest route, you would have about 4 miles of covered stone portico to guide you out of the city and up the hill to the church. Of course, all along the portico are little shops, cafes, bars, barbers, clothes vendors, and apartments. It is pretty cool.

Anyway, we cruised on our rented jalopies out of town and had a quick bite and the foot of the hill. The old guy at the café didn’t speak any English, but we finally understood the ‘tray uuro’ (3 Euros) when he said it slowly enough, and paid our bill.  Then we pushed our bikes up the hill. It was a hot day, but the sidewalk is covered, so we made it up to the top in about 45 minutes. Bologna is kind of nestled against some hills, so you can view the city and the region from the top (probably 1000 vertical feet). Sadly, our arrival at the top coincided with siesta time, so the church itself was closed. I think we were there at 12:30, and they were closed from 12-2. Nuns have to catnap too, you know. I never bothered to find out the equivalent word for siesta in Italian, but the long lunch tradition was surprisingly strong and pervasive, even at public/tourist locations.

Nevermind the inside, though, the view was marvelous . We soaked it up, then headed back to town via a different road. This was more of an adventure than it needed to be because we weren’t actually sure if it was taking us back to town and my bike chain kept coming off every 10 minutes or so. No matter, it was great to see the villas surrounding town, and to pass the wine, walnut, and olive orchards on the way back down. The climate is very reminiscent of California. I tell Rebecca this every half hour, or every time she remarks how nice it is, whichever comes first.

After cruising the streets of Bologna on our beater bikes, we returned them, then grabbed a bite from a patio food vendor. There seem to be many different variations of pizza hybrids in Italy. They call them paninas, or other contractions of words like panine and pizza, but they are more like wraps. The two that we’ve liked best, one in Milan, and this one in Bologna, resemble simple pizza, with very little sauce, served on flatbread. The pizza is then folded over itself and served in a napkin. The perfect ‘to go’ food, and less messy than the typical saucy/greasy slice you get Stateside.

That night we headed to a restaurant, Osteria della Orso, which we had tried to go to the night before, but the wait was too long. It was recommended to us by a friend of a friend. It had sort of a student feel to it, and it was close to the University, so that made sense. The food was, again, very good. Rebecca gorged herself on pasta, I had a large salad, and we prosciutto with figs for a second dish. Which was exactly as it sounds: a plate of ripe figs nestled among sliced prosciutto.

After dinner, we wandered towards the central piazza, making the mandatory gelato stop. At the piazza, they were just starting a week-long cinema festival. That night, they were showing Nosferatu, projected onto a huge screen, with a orchestral accompaniement. It was really super cool. They take over the square, lay out a bunch of chairs, and have a movie every night at 10pm. Since Nosferatu is silent, the orchestra added a nice element. Definitely a cool summer tradition.

As we were walking back to the hotel, we discovered another treasure: Notte Blanca: an organized vieweing of many of the churches in the city, which were open to the public that night. On our way back to the hotel, we saw the doors open on this massive cathedral, and we wandered inside. There was a soloist singing to the accompaniement of a large pipe organ. Surrounded by the frescos and the massive stone walls and ceilings, it was beautiful and surreal.  Did you know that ‘a cappella’ means ‘in the chapel’? I didn’t, until this trip. So we enjoyed a second show for the night.

As we crossed the street from the church to continue our walk home, we passed a tour bus, out of which stepped the members of Iron Maiden to head to their hotel. No joke. The bus was more like a two story limo, and these guys had just finished a show that night (we looked it up later). Neither of us being Iron Maiden fans, we chuckled and continued on our way. 

We stopped in a few more churches to gander on our way back to the hotel. It might be hard to visualize this type of activity, but the cities are so old, and so build up, that you can walk by churches every block and not notice it. What would qualify as a major tourist attraction church in the US or even in more northern Europe, because of the art and history, is passed pretty much without lifting an eyebrow in Italy. It is littered with churches. Also, with the streets generally being pretty narrow, and the church entrance at the street usually just anonymous wooden doors, it’s surprisingly easy to walk ignorantly past a massive church. So the ones that we visited that night we had already passed several times during our stay but never noticed them! 

Beaker looks over the hills surrounding Bologna.

 The hillside from another angle and the church visible in the foreground.

One of the fortified gates which used to guard the entrance to the city.

 Prosciutto and figs. I told you.

 Another gelato bites the dust.

 Nosferatu on-screen. The orchestra may be just visible below the screen at the front.

 The inside of the massive church that we stumbled onto during our last night.

With that, we called it a night and closed the chapter on our highly enjoyable time in this lovely city.

Milano, I hate thee

Worst night of sleep ever. That pretty much sums it up. Picture an Italian campground situated next to a busy alley. With mosquitoes. And no tent. That was our first experience with ‘airBnB’, a seemingly ingenious network of individuals that let out rooms to tourists and visitors. Like unofficial hotels, but at cheaper rates and with local color. Awesome, right? Well, it turns out that there are winners and losers in this game...

Our domicile in Milan was a large apartment where 4 (admittedly very friendly) people lived, with two rooms that they rented out. There was one bathroom, but the space was nice in a Bohemian sorta way. An elevated patio out back overlooked a courtyard and had a table for dining. The roommates were all young busybodies: a student, a woman who worked at a local theatre company, etc. We were sightseeing all day we got there, so we didn't interact with anybody all that much: we basically dropped our bags and scrammed.

We explored.. The Duomo. The shopping. The Da Vinci-designed castle. Didn't get a shot at the last supper, unfortunately, because we hadn't booked ahead. But we did get to dodge many scooters to reach all of the gelatorias. That was pretty much the story of our day. Milan was a lot grittier than I pictured, and isn’t very architecturally glamorous or pleasant to walk around in, especially after leaving Paris. But Italians seem to have a lot less inhibition in how they carry themselves, so it was fun to watch and listen. Fortunately, there are a few nice parks spread around, so were able to do exactly that.

We had an early dinner (at 9pm, early by Italian standards) and stumbled home, tired, but satisfied. After showering and retiring to our rooms, the fun started. The roommates, and the random boyfriend who was there visiting, were apparently nocturnal. Like feral cats out for a hunt, they became more and more lively as the hours wore on. The mosquitoes seemed to be on the same schedule.  I was soon cowering under the heavy duvet (I didn’t bring a sheet set of my own), which didn’t last long because of the 90+ temps in the room. Closing the window to the room wasn’t a good option because 1)the building was old and it is questionable what that would have accomplished, 2) the window was our only means of respiration as there was no fan or A/C in the room, 3) the cigarette smoke wafting from downstairs may have provided some minimal protection against the bugs. Not enough, though, apparently, as every time a bit of arm or leg was exposed, it would seemingly get bit as soon as I drifted off to sleep. Which wasn’t that often actually, because of the aforementioned roommates.

Soon after their multi-hour feast, a game of impromptu kickball commenced in the room adjacent to ours. The game would break occasionally as one of the participants made a noisy egress to use the bathroom, or smoke a cigarette, or talk loudly to no one in particular. I might be exaggerating slightly, but the folks were loud. Still, the bugs were the bigger problem. After several hours of struggling, I finally woke myself fully up and looked over at Rebecca, who had secretly brought a sleeping sack and was nestled inside it. She occasionally has these amazing ideas that she doesn’t share with me until it is too late to copy her. I asked in vain whether she had brought another one. After the not-so-surprising negative response, I climbed under the flatsheet and slept on the groaty mattress so I could protect myself against the famished parasites (the flying kind, that is). With the rest of my body covered, they attacked one side of my head, then the next. I could still here them even with a shirt over my face. It was intense mosquito action. The thing I noticed, though, is that they are quieter than US mosquitos. You don’t really hear them unless they’re right by your ears. Or maybe they are the same and everything (everybody?) is much louder. Anyway, the smoke, the bugs, the noise, the heat…a night to forget.

It occurred to me in the middle of my involuntary vigil that maybe Europeans have a highly evolved insect repellant: shower only occasionally, use regular doses of strong and pungent cologne, and smoke like a chimney. The mosquitoes will totally leave you in peace! I later asked our friend Giuseppe if that was the case, and he replied not: the mosquitoes have had hundreds of years to adapt to that defense!

Anyway, a few photos from that day...

The impressively large and ornate gothic Duomo

Rebecca prepares to photograph it

Another view of the central square and the piazza del Duomo

 Beaker poses in front of the (da Vinci designed) castle

 a class of school kids we encountered on the subway ride. Note how they all have their nametags on (in case they lose one?) Pretty cute.

To the beach!

Following the olive extravaganza, we decided to get out of town, and quick! Franck went to work on Thursday, while Rebecca and I wandered around town aimlessly, avoiding all tree fruits. The plan d'action was to meet at the train station in the afternoon, and take the super-high-speed train from Paris to La Baule, where Franck's parents live. 

As neither of us had i)spent much time outside of Paris, ii)met Franck's family, or iii)been to a french beach, this promised all sorts of good things. And so it was. 

We arrived late Thursday night, around 10pm or so,  via the TGV train. Franck's dad Jack (American names were common following WW2) picks us up. First impressions: his dad is very stylish, wearing a sweater around his shoulders, but he seems to be pretty laid back, which is good because Rebecca and I speak a combined toddler's French. Their house is a cozy beach cottage, but impeccably appointed. It reminded Rebecca and I of our favorite Mainestays cottage on Peaks Island, albeit in French style. Franck's mom, Danielle ("Dani") is the uncontested style queen and conductor of the household, preparing delicious meals to serve to us, charming us with stories from their travels, and generally doing her best to make us feel at home and turn Rebecca into her #1 fan. ("Did you see her shoes?! So stylish!") They are extremely generous and warm people, and it was an absolute delight to spend the weekend there. It turns out, similar to Rebecca's parents, that they have an extremely busy social calendar, and they arrived home later than us every night that we were there!

We awoke Friday to light rains. Rebecca was slightly ill, so Franck and I explore up the coast by car. Local sights include an area where sea salt is harvested, a walled medieval city, and a true brittanic fishing town. We dined at beautiful restaurant on the coast "le dervin", then checked out the bar scene. Saturday was windy, but not raining. The mild temps are a treat after the heat and humidity of DC. Franck and I went for a run along "Europe's longest beach (7km)" while Rebecca slept in.  Then more exploring, including the local airfield where Franck learned to fly (he has a pilot's license.) We decided to cook dinner at home, so we went to the corner store ("l'arabe du coin", seriously). While dinner is cooking, we were able to drop by the house of Franck's childhood friend Letitia, who happens to be in town for the weekend. We conked out after dinner and some tv watching though, because we were all pretty tired.

Sunday, our last day in La Baule, we headed for the market straightaway. It was packed with all of the wonderful, neatly arranged foods that you expect and see in textbooks. Such a different experience from the supermarket. People take their food VERY seriously here, and it was interesting to hear a very earnest discussion about the merits of different varieties of strawberries that were at the market. Although they looked identical to the untrained eye, they had distinct names and flavors. I don't love strawberries, so this was not knowledge that I quested for. But as a fly on the wall experience, it was precious.  Anyway, after the market, we went to the driving range with Jack, who is an avid golf fan. As it was father's day, we even let him come from behind to win the putt competition that inevitably insued. We made it home in time for yet another delicious meal: langoustine and clams, before hopping on the train back to Paris. What a weekend. 

The rest of our time in Paris was spent walking and shopping, movie watching, and spending the day at the musee Rodin. We were also able to arrange a meeting for breakfast with Rebecca's coworker and for dinner with our onetime DC friend Suzanne. It ended up happening that it was summer solstice, and in France that means Fete de la musique: a countrywide music festival on summer solstice with packed streets and a different (free) band every half block. Totally fun but totally crazy... a suitable sendoff.


Now..in photos


They'll serve anyone in this place...

 

 Franck in front of the church in Geurande

 In a storm on the Brittany coast

 Dinner at Le Dervin: crepes and mussels....mmmm

 The view thought the house towards the backyard.

Dani and Jack serve up another delicious meal

 

of..rack of lamp on the grill

and on the table

 Back in Paris (Musee Rodin): Beaker the thinker