The drive from Coimbra to Sagres looks simple enough on the map: just go down and then turn to the right. In reality, it is really a little more complex getting to the end of the earth.
Sagres is actually the end of the earth. It is the most south-westerly point in all of Europe. It was here that, reportedly, Henry the Navigator established his sailing school. I am not sure why he would have done this here, other than the fact that, perhaps, by choosing the most dangerous terrain on the earth, he would be preparing some pretty fearless navigators.
But, I digress... when we started out from Coimbra it was about 37 degrees celsius. As we turned from the highway to the secondary road the temperature started to drop. First, it was about 30, then about 5 minutes later, it was down to 25. Then, the sky started to turn from the bright, crisp, cloudless blue to an ominous, misty, hazy grey. We crested a slight slope and in front of us, we found a short, wide, white fort, of the ancient variety. We were both a little stunned. As with most of the trip, we had no expectations coming to Sagres, but we were really not expecting this. It was breathtaking, in the 'oh my, did we just step into a film about pirates' sense of the term.
We parked the car, enjoying every degree of the now 21 celsius temperature, and walked to the fortress. The ticket to enter the complex is 3 euros and is worth it if you are of hearty stock and do not mind treading on extremely uneven cobblestones. We walked most of the ramparts, taking pictures as best as we could, as the air was so thick, the clouds so low that it made picture taking almost impossible. I fear I will have a whole stack of grey haze, but I suppose that is the beauty of digital pictures.
After we walked the complex and checked out the giftshop (which is terribly over priced), we set off back to the car, in search of the hotel. We had tried to plug the address into the GPS, but the GPS lady keep insisting that no such address existed, the road completely invented. So, we just started driving around. I mean, really, the place is like 4 roads. We made two passes and then decided to stop at the information desk. We parked the car and walked across the road. It was 5:21PM. The office was closed, locked up tighter than a drum, with a big sign on the door stating that it was open until 5:30. I guess 5:30 means 5:21 in Sagres...
We got back into the car and made two more passes in the town. On the start of the third pass, we noticed a road, ahem, an alley, we hadn't tried yet. And, sure enough, there was out hotel: The Mareta View Bed and Breakfast Boutique. We parked in the square across the way and went into. After we got settled, we decided it was time for dinner. We walked out into the square where I saw a little shop where I was sure I would find a tee shirt (I am trying to find a little tee for my niece from each of our stops). I saw 'Bon Giorno' and thought, how cute it was that the Portuguese shop keeper was trying to be all Italian. But, as we came closer, I noticed that there was a huge tapestry of Bob Marley and a waist high hukka pipe. It was then that the name made more sense... it was BONGOURDA... BONG being the operative part of the term. I am pretty sure the only shirt I would be able to find Catherine would give my brother an anurysium. So, shirtless, we walked in search of food. In a few short steps, we came across an Italian restaurant, attached to the hotel. We decided to try that. Maureen put it aptly, "If we take another step, we might get frostbite..."
By now, the temperature had dropped and it must have been in the high teens. We ate our meal outside, because, on vacation, you are supposed to eat outside... and besides, we didn't know when we would see sweater weather again, and who were we to deny ourselves the opportunity to freeze in July?
I, for one, am glad we got that last breath of cold air, because, most certainly, the drive back inland will be very, very hot.
venerdì 30 luglio 2010
Porto
On Sunday, we finally arrived in Portugal. Portugal was really my destination. France and Spain were just a means to an end. I had never been to Spain, and sure I was a little curious, but I had no real expectation. Portugal, however... Portugal is the place I had been dreaming of.
As a child, I equated Portugal with all things magical and mysterious. I do not know why. I just always did. I dreamed of Portugal. I longed to study Portuguese. However, nowhere I studied ever offered Portuguese. Italian was second place. And in my case, second place won. Italy became the great love of my life, even became my life for a period of time. So, when I was living in Siena, and I had the opportunity to travel to Portugal for Spring Break in 2009, I couldn't pass it up. A week was not enough. I knew that I would have to come back again, for longer this time. And, I would bring reinforcements. This is how my summer trip this year was born. I knew that I would go back to Castel del Bosco, but from there, I would venture on an epic road trip which would end in Portugal. I would revisit the places I had seen before, and discover others about which I had only dreamed.
Porto was the first place on the itinerary. We stayed in the Sheraton, as I had before. The Sheraton is perfectly located: not in the hustle and bustle of the downtown area, but in the Boa Vista region of the city, and directly on the hop on hop off bus tour route. Please do not discount the value of being on a hop on hop off tour route: you pay 13-15 euros and you have transportation both to and from your hotel to all the sites of the city, saving you cab fare. On the first day, we did the red bus, the classic hop on hop off tour. This one was 13 euros. We had a full day, following the two tours offered. However, there was a lot of circling of the main square (Praca da Liberdade), and lots of sitting and waiting for people to board, pay, sit, hop off, etc. The second day, we did the Yellow Bus tour. For 19 euros, we got a third tour of the beach castles of the coast of Porto, AND we got a boat tour, AND we got a port wine cellar tour and tasting. So, long story short: if you are going to Porto, save your money and go straight for the Yellow Bus tour...
The second night we were in Porto, we asked the concierge for a restaurant recommendation. She replied that we should go to a place called 5 Oceans, a 10 minute, 10 euro cab ride from the hotel. We were game, as we were certain that if nothing else, it would not be a tourist trap. And we were right about that.
We arrived at 9PM for our reservation and were promptly seated and given menus. The menu had different sections in Portuguese, Spanish, French, German and English. But, what was interesting was that the English section had different food and different prices than the Portuguese section. We were a little shocked. But, that was nothing... about 3 minutes after we were given menus, the waiter came back and slapped a giant rubbermaid tray at the end of our table. In the tray were 3 huge dead fish. He picked up each one by the gills, and jabbered something in Portuguese, probably about what fine specimens of seafood each was, and then walked off, leaving the dead fish unceremoniously in the tray at the end of the table. He did not return for another 40 minutes, at which point we gave our orders (seafood casserole for Maureen, seafood rice, for me, two mixed salads, two lemon waters, two diet cokes, and a bottle of white wine).
Our drinks arrived soon after, but the wine just sat in the cooler, unopened. We waited and waited and waited, trying to get someone's attention to open the wine. At about 10:15, Maureen was finally able to get his attention and ask in Portugues if he would please open the wine. He apologized and said that he was waiting for us to finish our diet cokes... fair enough, I guess.
By 10:30, the dinner arrived on the table. It was delicious, to be sure, and it was served family style, however, the portions would put any TGIFridays to shame. It was more food than I had seen in one place the whole time we had been on vacation. Just as you finished what was on your plate, another waiter would come and replace what you had eaten with what was in the pot at the end of the table. At quarter to midnight, with extremely full bellies, Maureen and I asked for the waiter to call a cab for us. Within a few minutes, we were being whisked back to the Sheraton.
Of the three days we spent in Porto, the dinner at the 5 Oceans was definitely the highlight of the stay. It taught us to look at the menu, the whole menu, not just the English translated part. It taught us that the best restaurants are the ones where large families are enjoying a meal ALL together. And, finally, it taught us that often the best thing that can happen to you in a restaurant is to be kept waiting, because only when you are a captive audience, you see what is truly worth seeing.
As a child, I equated Portugal with all things magical and mysterious. I do not know why. I just always did. I dreamed of Portugal. I longed to study Portuguese. However, nowhere I studied ever offered Portuguese. Italian was second place. And in my case, second place won. Italy became the great love of my life, even became my life for a period of time. So, when I was living in Siena, and I had the opportunity to travel to Portugal for Spring Break in 2009, I couldn't pass it up. A week was not enough. I knew that I would have to come back again, for longer this time. And, I would bring reinforcements. This is how my summer trip this year was born. I knew that I would go back to Castel del Bosco, but from there, I would venture on an epic road trip which would end in Portugal. I would revisit the places I had seen before, and discover others about which I had only dreamed.
Porto was the first place on the itinerary. We stayed in the Sheraton, as I had before. The Sheraton is perfectly located: not in the hustle and bustle of the downtown area, but in the Boa Vista region of the city, and directly on the hop on hop off bus tour route. Please do not discount the value of being on a hop on hop off tour route: you pay 13-15 euros and you have transportation both to and from your hotel to all the sites of the city, saving you cab fare. On the first day, we did the red bus, the classic hop on hop off tour. This one was 13 euros. We had a full day, following the two tours offered. However, there was a lot of circling of the main square (Praca da Liberdade), and lots of sitting and waiting for people to board, pay, sit, hop off, etc. The second day, we did the Yellow Bus tour. For 19 euros, we got a third tour of the beach castles of the coast of Porto, AND we got a boat tour, AND we got a port wine cellar tour and tasting. So, long story short: if you are going to Porto, save your money and go straight for the Yellow Bus tour...
The second night we were in Porto, we asked the concierge for a restaurant recommendation. She replied that we should go to a place called 5 Oceans, a 10 minute, 10 euro cab ride from the hotel. We were game, as we were certain that if nothing else, it would not be a tourist trap. And we were right about that.
We arrived at 9PM for our reservation and were promptly seated and given menus. The menu had different sections in Portuguese, Spanish, French, German and English. But, what was interesting was that the English section had different food and different prices than the Portuguese section. We were a little shocked. But, that was nothing... about 3 minutes after we were given menus, the waiter came back and slapped a giant rubbermaid tray at the end of our table. In the tray were 3 huge dead fish. He picked up each one by the gills, and jabbered something in Portuguese, probably about what fine specimens of seafood each was, and then walked off, leaving the dead fish unceremoniously in the tray at the end of the table. He did not return for another 40 minutes, at which point we gave our orders (seafood casserole for Maureen, seafood rice, for me, two mixed salads, two lemon waters, two diet cokes, and a bottle of white wine).
Our drinks arrived soon after, but the wine just sat in the cooler, unopened. We waited and waited and waited, trying to get someone's attention to open the wine. At about 10:15, Maureen was finally able to get his attention and ask in Portugues if he would please open the wine. He apologized and said that he was waiting for us to finish our diet cokes... fair enough, I guess.
By 10:30, the dinner arrived on the table. It was delicious, to be sure, and it was served family style, however, the portions would put any TGIFridays to shame. It was more food than I had seen in one place the whole time we had been on vacation. Just as you finished what was on your plate, another waiter would come and replace what you had eaten with what was in the pot at the end of the table. At quarter to midnight, with extremely full bellies, Maureen and I asked for the waiter to call a cab for us. Within a few minutes, we were being whisked back to the Sheraton.
Of the three days we spent in Porto, the dinner at the 5 Oceans was definitely the highlight of the stay. It taught us to look at the menu, the whole menu, not just the English translated part. It taught us that the best restaurants are the ones where large families are enjoying a meal ALL together. And, finally, it taught us that often the best thing that can happen to you in a restaurant is to be kept waiting, because only when you are a captive audience, you see what is truly worth seeing.
Ferrol
Ferrol
I would like to announce that in Spain when you go to a wedding you match your shoes to your wrap, and neither needs to match your dress. You may ask how I know this. There was a wedding party staying in the same parador as we were staying. But, I am getting ahead of myself...
We set out from Bilbao at a decent hour (9AM, thank you very much) and headed West. The whole way to Ferrol was SUPPOSED to follow the same road, the A8. However, the entire A8 is under construction. At different intervals. The whole way across the top of Spain. We would go about 10 miles on highway, and then the GPS lady would announce that we should exit at the next left and then take the third exit from the roundabout. This would put us on the N634 or the N632 or some other two lane road (which, at one point was a dirt road with cork screw turns). This was the detour route. If it hadn't been for the fact that everyone else was following the same detour, I would have thought that our GPS lady was having a laugh at our expense.
However, we followed this same dance of highway, detour, scary road, highway for about 7 hours. At the end of the road, (literally) we reached Ferrol. We entered Ferrol and immediately locked the doors of the car. I looked at Maureen and Maureen looked at me.
"I think we are just going to hang in the hotel tonight, if this is any indication of what kind of a city this is..."
We finally found our hotel. Hotel is not really the correct term for where we stayed. We stayed in a PARADOR. We were really excited about staying in this PARADOR. A PARADOR is a state run lodge which is, typically, a former castle, palace, monastery or other similarly luxurious place. They have a reputation of being the best travel bargain and are usually hard to get into. We were surprised that we were able to get reservations for this particular weekend because, being so close to Santiago de Campostela, and being the feast day of St. James, the patron saint of the region, we figured every place would be booked. Indeed, we had wanted to stay in Santiago de Campostela, but Ferrol was the closest we could get, and that was even about 45 minutes away.
So, we get to the PARADOR, which was actually next to a dock... a working dock... like where longshoremen work. This was also immediately next to the offices of the ministry of the navy, which actually looked abandoned for some time. There were also flocks and flocks of seagulls, and not the singing kind... well maybe if you count their incessant squawking singing.
As we were unloading the car, we noticed a bride, a limo and a bridal party at the front door of the parador. They were all getting in one last smoke before the big walk down the aisle. This is where we noticed that Spanish women have this odd sartorial habit of matching shoes and wraps independently of their dresses. We figured that the reception must be at our hotel but didn't think anything of it. Besides, it was only about 4PM, and if the reception was at 5:30 or 6, they would definitely be done my midnight...
Famous last words...
We went down to dinner at 9. They party had not even started yet. We finished dinner at 11. They were just warming up. We went to bed at 1. The party was in full swing. And you could hear them through the floor. At 4, and by 4, I mean 4 in the morning, there was no sign of the party letting up. We had opened the window because it was hot as hell in our room. Our room overlooked the parking lot, which is where the party guests went to smoke and talk, loudly all night long. This loud talking in Spanish was made worse by the fact that the aforementioned seagulls, which are apparently nocturals creatures, continued to squawk all night long. It was a never-ending dialogue of Spanish and squawking for hours and hours, all punctuated by the pounding bass coming through the floor of our room.
When the alarm went off at 8 AM on Sunday morning, I had only just drifted off and was annoyed that it was now time to get up and embrace the day. The only thing I wanted to embrace was a seagull, by the throat, or a wedding guest, also by the throat. But, being the good sport that I am, I got up and cheerfully announced to Maureen that she had better say something to the reception desk (since she speaks the Spanish, and all), about the fact that we had just paid for at the worst night of sleep of our lives.
When we went to check out, both of us looked like we had been run over by trucks, being driven by oddly matching Spanish wedding guests. Maureen told the man at the desk how disappointed we were about the noise and before she even got another word out, he stopped her and said 'don't say another word. The party went on until 5- something AM and others have been complaining, too.' The next thing we knew, he was handing us the bill which reflected a 30 euro discount for our troubles.
I was pleased to have gotten the discount, however, I would have rather have gotten some sleep.
I would like to announce that in Spain when you go to a wedding you match your shoes to your wrap, and neither needs to match your dress. You may ask how I know this. There was a wedding party staying in the same parador as we were staying. But, I am getting ahead of myself...
We set out from Bilbao at a decent hour (9AM, thank you very much) and headed West. The whole way to Ferrol was SUPPOSED to follow the same road, the A8. However, the entire A8 is under construction. At different intervals. The whole way across the top of Spain. We would go about 10 miles on highway, and then the GPS lady would announce that we should exit at the next left and then take the third exit from the roundabout. This would put us on the N634 or the N632 or some other two lane road (which, at one point was a dirt road with cork screw turns). This was the detour route. If it hadn't been for the fact that everyone else was following the same detour, I would have thought that our GPS lady was having a laugh at our expense.
However, we followed this same dance of highway, detour, scary road, highway for about 7 hours. At the end of the road, (literally) we reached Ferrol. We entered Ferrol and immediately locked the doors of the car. I looked at Maureen and Maureen looked at me.
"I think we are just going to hang in the hotel tonight, if this is any indication of what kind of a city this is..."
We finally found our hotel. Hotel is not really the correct term for where we stayed. We stayed in a PARADOR. We were really excited about staying in this PARADOR. A PARADOR is a state run lodge which is, typically, a former castle, palace, monastery or other similarly luxurious place. They have a reputation of being the best travel bargain and are usually hard to get into. We were surprised that we were able to get reservations for this particular weekend because, being so close to Santiago de Campostela, and being the feast day of St. James, the patron saint of the region, we figured every place would be booked. Indeed, we had wanted to stay in Santiago de Campostela, but Ferrol was the closest we could get, and that was even about 45 minutes away.
So, we get to the PARADOR, which was actually next to a dock... a working dock... like where longshoremen work. This was also immediately next to the offices of the ministry of the navy, which actually looked abandoned for some time. There were also flocks and flocks of seagulls, and not the singing kind... well maybe if you count their incessant squawking singing.
As we were unloading the car, we noticed a bride, a limo and a bridal party at the front door of the parador. They were all getting in one last smoke before the big walk down the aisle. This is where we noticed that Spanish women have this odd sartorial habit of matching shoes and wraps independently of their dresses. We figured that the reception must be at our hotel but didn't think anything of it. Besides, it was only about 4PM, and if the reception was at 5:30 or 6, they would definitely be done my midnight...
Famous last words...
We went down to dinner at 9. They party had not even started yet. We finished dinner at 11. They were just warming up. We went to bed at 1. The party was in full swing. And you could hear them through the floor. At 4, and by 4, I mean 4 in the morning, there was no sign of the party letting up. We had opened the window because it was hot as hell in our room. Our room overlooked the parking lot, which is where the party guests went to smoke and talk, loudly all night long. This loud talking in Spanish was made worse by the fact that the aforementioned seagulls, which are apparently nocturals creatures, continued to squawk all night long. It was a never-ending dialogue of Spanish and squawking for hours and hours, all punctuated by the pounding bass coming through the floor of our room.
When the alarm went off at 8 AM on Sunday morning, I had only just drifted off and was annoyed that it was now time to get up and embrace the day. The only thing I wanted to embrace was a seagull, by the throat, or a wedding guest, also by the throat. But, being the good sport that I am, I got up and cheerfully announced to Maureen that she had better say something to the reception desk (since she speaks the Spanish, and all), about the fact that we had just paid for at the worst night of sleep of our lives.
When we went to check out, both of us looked like we had been run over by trucks, being driven by oddly matching Spanish wedding guests. Maureen told the man at the desk how disappointed we were about the noise and before she even got another word out, he stopped her and said 'don't say another word. The party went on until 5- something AM and others have been complaining, too.' The next thing we knew, he was handing us the bill which reflected a 30 euro discount for our troubles.
I was pleased to have gotten the discount, however, I would have rather have gotten some sleep.
venerdì 23 luglio 2010
Bilbao
We left Barcelona on an uncharacteristically overcast morning. We set out at 9:00, but it took us about 45 minutes to find our way to the highway. Our GPS lady is fond of using terminology like "half right" and referring to distances in meters, as in "Please make a half right in 800 meters." Since I have no idea what 800 meters even remotely looks like, and when there is a half right involved at the end of those 800 meters, we spend a lot of time making u turns and going around the block.
The drive to Bilbao started with the top down. We were optimistic that we would meet sun somewhere. But, about 2 hours in, it started to rain a bit, so we put the top up. It was at that point that the temperature began to precipitously drop. We went from 27 in Barcelona to 17 at some point about 2 hours before Bilbao, in the mountains of Basque country.
I would like to make a quick aside here about the bleak and desolate landscape of Northern Spain east of Bilbao: GOOD GOD! Maureen at one point said, "When someone asks me what I saw this summer, I will just tell them, 'Arizona.' " And that pretty much sums up what we saw. Lots of nothing, lots of sand, lots of buttes (yes, buttes... I never thought I would ever have occasion to write that word, but there you go...) We wonder what people who live in this region must do for a living. There isn't enough agriculture to employ many, and there are NO cities to speak of. The GPS was just empty expanses of nothingness along the road. It was eerie. Thank God we didn't break down or run out of gas. We would have been sorely out of luck!
But, as we entered into Basque country, that seemed to change. The landscape turned green and lush and seemed to perk up a bit. We rolled into Bilbao at about 4 and drove straight to our hotel, the Hesperia on Passeo Campo Volantin, almost directly across from the Guggenheim. We pulled over in front of the hotel and banged the tire into the side of the curb resulting in a hard thud. I asked Maureen to check out her door. She replied that I had parked close enough to the curb, which was nice to know, however, I was more concerned about the state of the tire. Maureen got out and looked. "I am not sure... there is a hole." A HOLE?? I jumped out and sure enough there was a gash in the tire. I immediately checked the tire pressure on the tire pressure gadget in the car, and it said that the pressure was ok. So, we are hoping for the best...
We went in and checked into our room. We were told that there was an information office a short walk from the hotel, so we ventured out. In a few short minutes we had found ourselves smack in the middle of town. And what a town it is. To be sure, it is pretty, it is easy to navigate and it is friendly. Maureen struck up a conversation with an older woman with a dog, which by the way is HUGE in Blibao (dogs are everywhere, on leashes, off leashes, muzzled, unmuzzled...). She gave us some good directions and we were off again. At this point, sitting in a cervezeria, it occurred to us that there was something a little off about the people of Bilbao. They are not a pretty people, by any stretch of the imagination. There is something a bit inbred looking about them. Now, that is not a snarky comment nor is it meant to offend anyone. I am just stating a fact that there is something a little Appalacian about the population here.
We wandered a bit further to the Placa Nueva, where we ate a scrumptious dinner of local tapas served by the most extraordinarily mulleted youth I have ever seen. He was sweet, however, and kept calling us 'chicas' and even offered us shots on the house at the end of our meal. I passed on the shots, but I do regret it a little as I would like to have seen what sort of shots he would have brought two old broads from America on vacation...
The next day, we arose and got on the 12 o'clock bus touristic, which actually is the 12:15 bus touristic, because punctuality is not really a priority here in the Basque Country. The tour was interesting in that it did not provided earphones, however it piped in the commentary in several languages over the PA system. The language selection was determined by the tour operator coming around and polling the crowd as to what languages they required. I was a little surprised by the whole operation. At one point in the tour (which, by the way did not cover anything we hadn't already seen on foot the evening before), the commentary talked about a huge red crane and the fact that it was named for a beautiful woman who, when she came to the docks in the 30's, drew all the men away from their work, being the most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen. I leaned over to Maureen and whispered, "she must not have been from here." This sent us both into waves of tear-producing laughter which lasted until we heard that the next stop had a funicular which would take us to the top of a mountain. At this point, we had both had enough of the tour, and got off the bus. We walked the two blocks to the funicular station, paid our 80 cents for a ride up the hill to a most spectacular view. If you ever go to Bilbao, I highly suggest this. The panorama is amazing, you see the city and you can see the Bay of Biscay off in the distance: the best of both worlds.
No trip to Bilbao would be complete without a trip to the Guggenheim. The hotel gave us two complimentary tickets when we checked in, and we were saving them for a time when we had enough time to give it the time it deserved. The walk along the Ria de Bilbao is breathtaking only made nicer by the unseasonable cool weather. The museum has a permanent collection with the likes of Rothko (my favorite) and Beckmann, as well as Jenny Holzman, whose installation I saw in the Piazza del Duomo last year, and Beckmann. There is also a terrific exhibition of Henri Rousseau until September. It is really amazing and I am glad to have seen it. I love the dream-like paintings of jungles and secret lovers of Rousseau, a painter who died before his time. On the other hand, there was an installation of Anish Kapoor which was rather odd, and I didn't like as well. There was set up in a gallery a huge white curved wall, in front of which was the installation called "Shooting into a Corner." I cannot begin to explain what I saw so I will rely on an explanation by the website e-flux:
"'Shooting into the Corner' consists of a cannon developed by Kapoor together with a team of engineers. A pneumatic compressor shoots 11-kilogram balls of wax into the corner across the room; all in all, 20 tons of wax will be "fired away" throughout the exhibition run. Loud aggression on the one hand and silent growth on the other give the piece tension, sensuality, and compelling power."
I am not sure about the sensuality part, but it was certainly tense. There was such a crowd gathered to see the wax fired. And the noise the shot made... it was definitely a powerful piece. Having seen what seemed to be the corner piece of the exhibit, we made our way to the gift shop and then out into the cool breeze of evening time Bilbao.
A quick note on the weather: the whole time we were in Bilbao, we were in sweaters. Yes, sweaters. I have never been so cold in July in my life. Sitting along the estuary this evening, I was actually shivering. It appears that the weather will be more seasonal as we head west. I am hoping for at least a return of the sun, as for the cold... I can gut it out as long as there is sun!
The drive to Bilbao started with the top down. We were optimistic that we would meet sun somewhere. But, about 2 hours in, it started to rain a bit, so we put the top up. It was at that point that the temperature began to precipitously drop. We went from 27 in Barcelona to 17 at some point about 2 hours before Bilbao, in the mountains of Basque country.
I would like to make a quick aside here about the bleak and desolate landscape of Northern Spain east of Bilbao: GOOD GOD! Maureen at one point said, "When someone asks me what I saw this summer, I will just tell them, 'Arizona.' " And that pretty much sums up what we saw. Lots of nothing, lots of sand, lots of buttes (yes, buttes... I never thought I would ever have occasion to write that word, but there you go...) We wonder what people who live in this region must do for a living. There isn't enough agriculture to employ many, and there are NO cities to speak of. The GPS was just empty expanses of nothingness along the road. It was eerie. Thank God we didn't break down or run out of gas. We would have been sorely out of luck!
But, as we entered into Basque country, that seemed to change. The landscape turned green and lush and seemed to perk up a bit. We rolled into Bilbao at about 4 and drove straight to our hotel, the Hesperia on Passeo Campo Volantin, almost directly across from the Guggenheim. We pulled over in front of the hotel and banged the tire into the side of the curb resulting in a hard thud. I asked Maureen to check out her door. She replied that I had parked close enough to the curb, which was nice to know, however, I was more concerned about the state of the tire. Maureen got out and looked. "I am not sure... there is a hole." A HOLE?? I jumped out and sure enough there was a gash in the tire. I immediately checked the tire pressure on the tire pressure gadget in the car, and it said that the pressure was ok. So, we are hoping for the best...
We went in and checked into our room. We were told that there was an information office a short walk from the hotel, so we ventured out. In a few short minutes we had found ourselves smack in the middle of town. And what a town it is. To be sure, it is pretty, it is easy to navigate and it is friendly. Maureen struck up a conversation with an older woman with a dog, which by the way is HUGE in Blibao (dogs are everywhere, on leashes, off leashes, muzzled, unmuzzled...). She gave us some good directions and we were off again. At this point, sitting in a cervezeria, it occurred to us that there was something a little off about the people of Bilbao. They are not a pretty people, by any stretch of the imagination. There is something a bit inbred looking about them. Now, that is not a snarky comment nor is it meant to offend anyone. I am just stating a fact that there is something a little Appalacian about the population here.
We wandered a bit further to the Placa Nueva, where we ate a scrumptious dinner of local tapas served by the most extraordinarily mulleted youth I have ever seen. He was sweet, however, and kept calling us 'chicas' and even offered us shots on the house at the end of our meal. I passed on the shots, but I do regret it a little as I would like to have seen what sort of shots he would have brought two old broads from America on vacation...
The next day, we arose and got on the 12 o'clock bus touristic, which actually is the 12:15 bus touristic, because punctuality is not really a priority here in the Basque Country. The tour was interesting in that it did not provided earphones, however it piped in the commentary in several languages over the PA system. The language selection was determined by the tour operator coming around and polling the crowd as to what languages they required. I was a little surprised by the whole operation. At one point in the tour (which, by the way did not cover anything we hadn't already seen on foot the evening before), the commentary talked about a huge red crane and the fact that it was named for a beautiful woman who, when she came to the docks in the 30's, drew all the men away from their work, being the most beautiful woman any of them had ever seen. I leaned over to Maureen and whispered, "she must not have been from here." This sent us both into waves of tear-producing laughter which lasted until we heard that the next stop had a funicular which would take us to the top of a mountain. At this point, we had both had enough of the tour, and got off the bus. We walked the two blocks to the funicular station, paid our 80 cents for a ride up the hill to a most spectacular view. If you ever go to Bilbao, I highly suggest this. The panorama is amazing, you see the city and you can see the Bay of Biscay off in the distance: the best of both worlds.
No trip to Bilbao would be complete without a trip to the Guggenheim. The hotel gave us two complimentary tickets when we checked in, and we were saving them for a time when we had enough time to give it the time it deserved. The walk along the Ria de Bilbao is breathtaking only made nicer by the unseasonable cool weather. The museum has a permanent collection with the likes of Rothko (my favorite) and Beckmann, as well as Jenny Holzman, whose installation I saw in the Piazza del Duomo last year, and Beckmann. There is also a terrific exhibition of Henri Rousseau until September. It is really amazing and I am glad to have seen it. I love the dream-like paintings of jungles and secret lovers of Rousseau, a painter who died before his time. On the other hand, there was an installation of Anish Kapoor which was rather odd, and I didn't like as well. There was set up in a gallery a huge white curved wall, in front of which was the installation called "Shooting into a Corner." I cannot begin to explain what I saw so I will rely on an explanation by the website e-flux:
"'Shooting into the Corner' consists of a cannon developed by Kapoor together with a team of engineers. A pneumatic compressor shoots 11-kilogram balls of wax into the corner across the room; all in all, 20 tons of wax will be "fired away" throughout the exhibition run. Loud aggression on the one hand and silent growth on the other give the piece tension, sensuality, and compelling power."
I am not sure about the sensuality part, but it was certainly tense. There was such a crowd gathered to see the wax fired. And the noise the shot made... it was definitely a powerful piece. Having seen what seemed to be the corner piece of the exhibit, we made our way to the gift shop and then out into the cool breeze of evening time Bilbao.
A quick note on the weather: the whole time we were in Bilbao, we were in sweaters. Yes, sweaters. I have never been so cold in July in my life. Sitting along the estuary this evening, I was actually shivering. It appears that the weather will be more seasonal as we head west. I am hoping for at least a return of the sun, as for the cold... I can gut it out as long as there is sun!
Nimes-Barcelona
When we were planning our trip across Europe, there were some non-negotiables for both me and Maureen. I was adamant that I wanted to go to Nimes. For Maureen, it was Barcelona. I was pretty neutral on Barcelona. I think it is no secret that I am really biased toward all things Italian and Portuguese. To me, France and Spain were a means to an end... you HAVE to go through both to get the Portugal. I figured while I had to go through France, I should stop at as many Roman sites along the way.
We left Nice and began what was supposed to be a very quick jaunt across Provence. Our quick jaunt became a longer, and rather surprising detour. Nimes was the destination. But, the night before we left I saw on the internet that there was a Roman theater in a place called Orange. I knew nothing about Orange and thought, 'we've got nothing but time on our hands, we might as well add Orange to our list. In a few short hours, we were in Orange in front of the most magnificent Roman theater I have ever seen. It is, in fact, one of the best preserved theaters in the world. Even Napoleon said that the back wall of the theater in Orange was the strongest in the empire! Both Maureen and I were absolutely speechless after spending almost 3 hours wandering the theater and listening to the audio guide (which is extremely well done).
We left Orange and headed north to Vaison- La-Romaine, where, rumor had it, there was another Roman theater. We drove the 27 kilometers from Orange through Provence. It is a good thing we took this detour, because we were both terribly disappointed with France, at this point. The landscape we had seen along the highway was dismal to say the least, and our time in Nice was disappointing. Seeing this side of the countryside, a green, agricultural, lush landscape jibed better with what we had thought Provence was SUPPOSED to be like. However, we were let down a bit by the ruins at Vaison-La-Romaine. The theater was not nearly as complete, the ruins not nearly as recognizable as I would have liked. But, again, another well taken road less traveled.
On the way to Nimes, we saw a sign that said, "PONT DU GARD PROCHAINE SORTIE." This was very exciting! Ever since I was a kid, I had wanted to see the Pont du Gard in person. This is an impressive aqueduct structure that spans a French river. It is in all the art history text books, and the first classroom I taught in in Chesterfield County had a poster of it at the back of the room. To me, seeing the Pont du Gard would be fulfilling one of my lifelong dreams. So, we veered the car off the highway and headed to the river. We entered the park, which costs 15 euros a car to enter, and waked down to the river, where, sure enough, there it was. It was a little disappointing. It is just a double-decker arched structure. I think I had built it up in my mind for 20-odd years and it was just a case of 'reality is never as good as your imagination.'
We made it to Nimes a little after 7pm. Both exhausted, we decided to eat in the hotel (I will save the story of the hotel reservation for another time...) and turn in early. We wanted to get an early start in the morning as we had to drive to another country!
And, an early start is what we got. Out the door by 10, we were in Barcelona by 2:45. We got checked into the W Hotel at the very end of Barceloneta Beach. The W is a different class of hotel. They do it right. There is no nickel and diming. The pool is free for its guest (did I forget to mention that there was a 10 euro a day surcharge at Le Meridien to use a sun lounger?), the business center is free, there is a dedicated concierge on duty who will not call you 'madame' in a condescending tone.
We settled in to our room, 325, right across from the elevator, and with the most spectacular view, and we decided to venture out. The plan was to hop on the Bus Touristic (as per my friend Tracey's recommendation), and do the red line that night, and save the blue for the next day. The blue line had the Sagrada Familia, and we knew it would need more time than we had in the evening.
We went out and hopped in a cab to the Placa Catalunya. We got out of the cab and just as the cab pulled away, Maureen looked at me with tears in her eyes and her lower lip quivering.
"I left my camera in that cab."
She tore off down the street. I hobbled after her. When we finally caught up to each other, I suggested we ask a police man (the place was crawling with them) if he had any advice. He was thoroughly unhelpful. Maureen decided we should return back to the hotel and figure out our next move from there. Being the supportive friend, I did all the usual reassuring and back-patting. But, I must admit, I knew in my heart it was gone. My next move was to make the loss of her camera, with all her pictures from her whole trip, even before she came to Italy 2 weeks ago, less of a blow.
We got back to the W. "If anyone can find it, it will be the magical people at the W," Maureen sniffled as we made our approach. I didn't say anything. Maureen said she was going to talk to the taxi valet and I said I would go in and talk to the concierge.
I approached the "Whatever-Whenever" desk and explained the situation to the guy at the desk. He just clucked his tongue and said what I believed all along.
"I am afraid it is very unlikely your friend will ever see her camera again."
I sternly replied, "When my friend comes in here, you are going to be really positive and tell her that these things happen all the time and that you are sure it will turn up, OK? I am not going to let this ruin her vacation? Do you hear me? POSITIVE POSITIVE POSITIVE! OK?"
I think I frightened him a little, because, at this point, he came out from behind his desk and said, "let's go out and look at the cabs out front."
Maureen was standing there with the taxi valet when we came out. All of us starting inspecting the cabs.
"Do you know what the cab looked like?"
(All the cabs in Barcelona are the same black and yellow configuration...)
"Did you write down his cab number?"
(Right, because that's what I do when I get into a cab... I write down the cabbie's hack number.)
We started walking down the long line of cabs in front of the hotel until we came upon a group of cab drivers standing next to their cabs. The concierge asked if one of them could make a radio call asking if anyone had found a camera. One of the drivers said that he could but that he wouldn't, because he was the driver who found a camera. He then reached into the glove box and produced... MAUREEN'S CAMERA!!
WHAT ARE THE FREAKING ODDS OF THAT?!
Maureen even tried to give the guy 50 euros for returning his camera. He refused. His only request was that she take a picture with him. So, they stood together and I took their picture.
Triumphant,we went back into the hotel and went straight to the bar, where we ordered two stiff drinks to decompress from the stress of the previous hour's events. As Maureen flipped through her pictures to make sure that they were all there, she came upon one she hadn't taken. There was a 'self-portrait' of the cabbie! We both let out a huge belly laugh. I can just imagine the driver snapping a quick shot of himself at a red light. What a sense of humor he must have!
The concierge did make a statement that I had never heard before, but I tend to agree: He said that he believes that good people meet good people and bad people meet bad people and that Maureen must be a very good person to have met such an honest cab driver because cabbies in Barcelona are not known for their honesty. I agree wholeheartedly.
The next day, however, we did come across one of the not so honest cab drivers. We got up early (out the door by 10AM, which is almost a miracle for me), and caught a cab to Placa Catalunya to catch the blue line of the bus touristic, the line with the Sagrada Familia cathedral. The cab ride each of the 4 times we had previously taken it had not cost more than 8 euros. However, on this occasion, we were charge 7.20 PLUS an 8.35 surcharge. We were both gobsmacked. Maureen asked the cabbie (in perfect Spanish, lest she be spotted as a dumb tourist who doesn't know better) why we were being charged TWICE what we had paid a number of times before. The cabbie replied that it was a 'feast day or something.' Maureen questioned him further... which saint? "I don't know... it is just a feast day..."
He wrote us out a receipt along with his name (Guillermo) and medallion number. We questioned the tour bus operator who agreed with us that the cabbie was crazy. When we returned back to the hotel, we (again) went back to the concierge and asked her what the deal was. She made a couple of calls and found out that, in fact, there was no feast day and that we should make a complaint in writing about it. Not ones to let things like this go, neither one of us, Maureen has vowed to write a letter when we get home. Stay tuned to hear how it turned out! In homage to the wicked cabbie, Maureen says that she will use his name, Guillermo, in all of her negative example sentences on class this year. How's that for bad juju?
We left Nice and began what was supposed to be a very quick jaunt across Provence. Our quick jaunt became a longer, and rather surprising detour. Nimes was the destination. But, the night before we left I saw on the internet that there was a Roman theater in a place called Orange. I knew nothing about Orange and thought, 'we've got nothing but time on our hands, we might as well add Orange to our list. In a few short hours, we were in Orange in front of the most magnificent Roman theater I have ever seen. It is, in fact, one of the best preserved theaters in the world. Even Napoleon said that the back wall of the theater in Orange was the strongest in the empire! Both Maureen and I were absolutely speechless after spending almost 3 hours wandering the theater and listening to the audio guide (which is extremely well done).
We left Orange and headed north to Vaison- La-Romaine, where, rumor had it, there was another Roman theater. We drove the 27 kilometers from Orange through Provence. It is a good thing we took this detour, because we were both terribly disappointed with France, at this point. The landscape we had seen along the highway was dismal to say the least, and our time in Nice was disappointing. Seeing this side of the countryside, a green, agricultural, lush landscape jibed better with what we had thought Provence was SUPPOSED to be like. However, we were let down a bit by the ruins at Vaison-La-Romaine. The theater was not nearly as complete, the ruins not nearly as recognizable as I would have liked. But, again, another well taken road less traveled.
On the way to Nimes, we saw a sign that said, "PONT DU GARD PROCHAINE SORTIE." This was very exciting! Ever since I was a kid, I had wanted to see the Pont du Gard in person. This is an impressive aqueduct structure that spans a French river. It is in all the art history text books, and the first classroom I taught in in Chesterfield County had a poster of it at the back of the room. To me, seeing the Pont du Gard would be fulfilling one of my lifelong dreams. So, we veered the car off the highway and headed to the river. We entered the park, which costs 15 euros a car to enter, and waked down to the river, where, sure enough, there it was. It was a little disappointing. It is just a double-decker arched structure. I think I had built it up in my mind for 20-odd years and it was just a case of 'reality is never as good as your imagination.'
We made it to Nimes a little after 7pm. Both exhausted, we decided to eat in the hotel (I will save the story of the hotel reservation for another time...) and turn in early. We wanted to get an early start in the morning as we had to drive to another country!
And, an early start is what we got. Out the door by 10, we were in Barcelona by 2:45. We got checked into the W Hotel at the very end of Barceloneta Beach. The W is a different class of hotel. They do it right. There is no nickel and diming. The pool is free for its guest (did I forget to mention that there was a 10 euro a day surcharge at Le Meridien to use a sun lounger?), the business center is free, there is a dedicated concierge on duty who will not call you 'madame' in a condescending tone.
We settled in to our room, 325, right across from the elevator, and with the most spectacular view, and we decided to venture out. The plan was to hop on the Bus Touristic (as per my friend Tracey's recommendation), and do the red line that night, and save the blue for the next day. The blue line had the Sagrada Familia, and we knew it would need more time than we had in the evening.
We went out and hopped in a cab to the Placa Catalunya. We got out of the cab and just as the cab pulled away, Maureen looked at me with tears in her eyes and her lower lip quivering.
"I left my camera in that cab."
She tore off down the street. I hobbled after her. When we finally caught up to each other, I suggested we ask a police man (the place was crawling with them) if he had any advice. He was thoroughly unhelpful. Maureen decided we should return back to the hotel and figure out our next move from there. Being the supportive friend, I did all the usual reassuring and back-patting. But, I must admit, I knew in my heart it was gone. My next move was to make the loss of her camera, with all her pictures from her whole trip, even before she came to Italy 2 weeks ago, less of a blow.
We got back to the W. "If anyone can find it, it will be the magical people at the W," Maureen sniffled as we made our approach. I didn't say anything. Maureen said she was going to talk to the taxi valet and I said I would go in and talk to the concierge.
I approached the "Whatever-Whenever" desk and explained the situation to the guy at the desk. He just clucked his tongue and said what I believed all along.
"I am afraid it is very unlikely your friend will ever see her camera again."
I sternly replied, "When my friend comes in here, you are going to be really positive and tell her that these things happen all the time and that you are sure it will turn up, OK? I am not going to let this ruin her vacation? Do you hear me? POSITIVE POSITIVE POSITIVE! OK?"
I think I frightened him a little, because, at this point, he came out from behind his desk and said, "let's go out and look at the cabs out front."
Maureen was standing there with the taxi valet when we came out. All of us starting inspecting the cabs.
"Do you know what the cab looked like?"
(All the cabs in Barcelona are the same black and yellow configuration...)
"Did you write down his cab number?"
(Right, because that's what I do when I get into a cab... I write down the cabbie's hack number.)
We started walking down the long line of cabs in front of the hotel until we came upon a group of cab drivers standing next to their cabs. The concierge asked if one of them could make a radio call asking if anyone had found a camera. One of the drivers said that he could but that he wouldn't, because he was the driver who found a camera. He then reached into the glove box and produced... MAUREEN'S CAMERA!!
WHAT ARE THE FREAKING ODDS OF THAT?!
Maureen even tried to give the guy 50 euros for returning his camera. He refused. His only request was that she take a picture with him. So, they stood together and I took their picture.
Triumphant,we went back into the hotel and went straight to the bar, where we ordered two stiff drinks to decompress from the stress of the previous hour's events. As Maureen flipped through her pictures to make sure that they were all there, she came upon one she hadn't taken. There was a 'self-portrait' of the cabbie! We both let out a huge belly laugh. I can just imagine the driver snapping a quick shot of himself at a red light. What a sense of humor he must have!
The concierge did make a statement that I had never heard before, but I tend to agree: He said that he believes that good people meet good people and bad people meet bad people and that Maureen must be a very good person to have met such an honest cab driver because cabbies in Barcelona are not known for their honesty. I agree wholeheartedly.
The next day, however, we did come across one of the not so honest cab drivers. We got up early (out the door by 10AM, which is almost a miracle for me), and caught a cab to Placa Catalunya to catch the blue line of the bus touristic, the line with the Sagrada Familia cathedral. The cab ride each of the 4 times we had previously taken it had not cost more than 8 euros. However, on this occasion, we were charge 7.20 PLUS an 8.35 surcharge. We were both gobsmacked. Maureen asked the cabbie (in perfect Spanish, lest she be spotted as a dumb tourist who doesn't know better) why we were being charged TWICE what we had paid a number of times before. The cabbie replied that it was a 'feast day or something.' Maureen questioned him further... which saint? "I don't know... it is just a feast day..."
He wrote us out a receipt along with his name (Guillermo) and medallion number. We questioned the tour bus operator who agreed with us that the cabbie was crazy. When we returned back to the hotel, we (again) went back to the concierge and asked her what the deal was. She made a couple of calls and found out that, in fact, there was no feast day and that we should make a complaint in writing about it. Not ones to let things like this go, neither one of us, Maureen has vowed to write a letter when we get home. Stay tuned to hear how it turned out! In homage to the wicked cabbie, Maureen says that she will use his name, Guillermo, in all of her negative example sentences on class this year. How's that for bad juju?
mercoledì 21 luglio 2010
Nice
We began our road trip on Saturday morning at around 11. You know how I hate early mornings and what not. We figured that the trip would take us about four and a half hours, so we didn't think that we were getting a late start.
The first thing I would like to announce about the journey is that there is an inordinate number of tunnels on the road from Castel del Bosco to the Italian border: more than 150... Maureen lost count in the 150's. Neither one of us can figure out why there are so many tunnels on the one side, and not even one on the other side, all the way to Nice (except for under Monaco, but I think that is just because Monaco doesn't want you to see its stuff for free; they would rather you come in and pay to enjoy their scenery.
We made pretty good time until we got to the boundary. Here we sat in the tunnel leading to the last toll booth in Italy (which, incidentally, cost us EUR 30.10) for more than 40 minutes. It was rather like torture... the anticipation, the frustration, the DEHYDRATION! We paid our fare, and got off at the next exit to rehydrate!
(Don't worry, gentle reader, I am not going to recount every tunnel or every exit we took on this trip. I am just starting this blog in this way so you can get the feel for our mental state when we pulled into Nice.)
We finally did arrive into Nice at about 4:30. We found the hotel easily, and we pulled up and proceeded to pull our luggage out of the trunk.
"Madame is staying with us at Le Meridien?"
(Why else would I be unpacking a car in front of the Le Meridien valet stand?)
"Madame will have to prepay zee parkeeing, how long you stay?"
(Why did I read that there was free parking on site?)
"Ahh... until Monday? Zat will be 42 euros."
(Really?)
"And, the parking garage is not ours, but we will be happy to park the car for you."
(A public lot? Are you kidding me?)
So, thoroughly annoyed, we dragged ourselves to reception where we were greeted by Yasmin, our concierge.
"Welcome to Le Meridien, Madame. We have everything in order for you."
(What is the deal with the beach club?)
"Ahhh... the beach... it is an 18 euro fee for the beach and we do not run the beach club, we are just affiliated with another group for that."
(I swear I read that they had their own beach club across the street. OK, what about the pool?)
"Ahhh... the pool... the pool closes at 5 or 6.
(Really?)
"And by now it will certainly be closed. But, enjoy your room, number 546."
Maureen and I went up to the 5th floor and wound our way around to the farthest room from the elevator, room 546. It was a small room, with a 'terrace' which overlooked a pedestrian area below, and if you go out and lean over the railing, you will see the sea.
We decided to get cleaned up and venture out to find dinner. But, first, I wanted to check my email. We went back down to see Yasmin. I was positive that I had read that there was free wifi in the lobby and wifi for a fee in the rooms. I approached Yasmine for the access code.
"Ahhh... Madame... there is no free internet here in Le Meridien. If you want, it will cost you 19 euros a day for internet access in the lobby."
Disgusted, we went to the business center. I was, again, positive that I had read about there being a complimentary business center. we both sat down at computers. Within seconds of sitting down, we were asked if we had purchased time on the computers, for the extortionist rate of 10 euros per half hour. Now, at this point, I was about to lose it... I felt like we were being nickeled and dimed left and right, It made no sense to me that one Starwood hotel would be run so differently than another Starwood hotel. How was it possible that we were being charged for everything little thing?? Would we be later charged for the water in the shower, or per toilet flush? I couldn't even think! I announced that I had no intention of paying to used a computer, thank you very much, and we walked out into the street. We walked to the corner and saw that the McDonalds there had FREE WIFI for all its customers. So, we both went in and each bought a small hamburger and diet coke and sat down at a booth and cracked open the iPad. We felt triumphant!
After checking out our email, Facebook, and the headlines on both MSNBC and FOXNews, we ventured out to explore our environs. We walked for about an hour and a half, at which time we decided it was an acceptable time for dinner. We ate a lovely, simple meal at a bistro called Le Barracuda. Nothing special, nothing to write home about. What came after dinner was much more spectacular.
We decided to walk back to our hotel along the Promenade des Anglais. There is spectacular people watching to be done there. Nice is truly a multicultural melting pot of every sort of person, and every one of them is out on the Promenade on any given night. As we neared the hotel, we noticed that there was a woman singing at a beach bar, Lido Plage, to be exact. She was singing a Spanish song, so we stopped to listen. When she finished singing about a young man in a black shirt, she began anew, with a song that was really familiar. About 8 notes in, Maureen and I both realized what she was singing: Michael Jackson! Oh!! It was way too much fun not to go down and have a drink and enjoy the hits. So, we did. We went down, and sat right up close, front and center. She sang two or three other hits, then she announced that we were in for a great big treat!
"Direct from Bollywood, the Amazing Irene!"
We were then 'treated' to three belly/ interpretative dances. It was all very odd. But, apparently we were the only ones not enjoying the scene. There was a long table next to us filled with middle aged Russians, the ring leader of which was decked out in a white linen suit and a .... wait for it... a cravat! He was on his feet, iPhone in hand, filming the Amazing Irene, following her around, gleaming in a most inappropriate way.
"I wonder what his wife thinks of that?" I asked Maureen.
"I'll bet she is used to it."
After the Amazing Irene finished her act, the chanteuse returned. This time singing several more upbeat numbers. The Russian in the cravat was up and dancing, this time, with an Eastern European-looking girl with the shortest dress I have ever seen, smoking the longest cigarette I have ever seen wearing the highest heels I have ever seen. She was twirling around, never losing either her ash or her balance. I was most intrigued. But, just when I thought I must have seen it all, a very drunk woman, a friend of the chanteuse, I think, came from behind the 'stage' and decided she wanted in on the action. She began dancing with the Russian and the blonde. However, before she got her first dance step in, she took a nose dive right into the crowd. She took out a chair and a table on her way down. Now, I am not one to cast stones... I have been known to take a spill on the dance floor in the name of jammin' to the hits (July 1995, Nightworks- Columbia SC readily jumps to mind), however, this woman was completely extraneous to the situation. She just took it upon herself to start dancing with this 'quasi-couple.' She was completely unfazed. She hopped up, and just kept on going...
I decided that the drunk woman at the Lido Plage was going to be the symbol of my time in Nice-- when the right song comes along, just hop in and dance. If you get a little over enthusiastic, and fall over, jump right back up and keep dancing!
The first thing I would like to announce about the journey is that there is an inordinate number of tunnels on the road from Castel del Bosco to the Italian border: more than 150... Maureen lost count in the 150's. Neither one of us can figure out why there are so many tunnels on the one side, and not even one on the other side, all the way to Nice (except for under Monaco, but I think that is just because Monaco doesn't want you to see its stuff for free; they would rather you come in and pay to enjoy their scenery.
We made pretty good time until we got to the boundary. Here we sat in the tunnel leading to the last toll booth in Italy (which, incidentally, cost us EUR 30.10) for more than 40 minutes. It was rather like torture... the anticipation, the frustration, the DEHYDRATION! We paid our fare, and got off at the next exit to rehydrate!
(Don't worry, gentle reader, I am not going to recount every tunnel or every exit we took on this trip. I am just starting this blog in this way so you can get the feel for our mental state when we pulled into Nice.)
We finally did arrive into Nice at about 4:30. We found the hotel easily, and we pulled up and proceeded to pull our luggage out of the trunk.
"Madame is staying with us at Le Meridien?"
(Why else would I be unpacking a car in front of the Le Meridien valet stand?)
"Madame will have to prepay zee parkeeing, how long you stay?"
(Why did I read that there was free parking on site?)
"Ahh... until Monday? Zat will be 42 euros."
(Really?)
"And, the parking garage is not ours, but we will be happy to park the car for you."
(A public lot? Are you kidding me?)
So, thoroughly annoyed, we dragged ourselves to reception where we were greeted by Yasmin, our concierge.
"Welcome to Le Meridien, Madame. We have everything in order for you."
(What is the deal with the beach club?)
"Ahhh... the beach... it is an 18 euro fee for the beach and we do not run the beach club, we are just affiliated with another group for that."
(I swear I read that they had their own beach club across the street. OK, what about the pool?)
"Ahhh... the pool... the pool closes at 5 or 6.
(Really?)
"And by now it will certainly be closed. But, enjoy your room, number 546."
Maureen and I went up to the 5th floor and wound our way around to the farthest room from the elevator, room 546. It was a small room, with a 'terrace' which overlooked a pedestrian area below, and if you go out and lean over the railing, you will see the sea.
We decided to get cleaned up and venture out to find dinner. But, first, I wanted to check my email. We went back down to see Yasmin. I was positive that I had read that there was free wifi in the lobby and wifi for a fee in the rooms. I approached Yasmine for the access code.
"Ahhh... Madame... there is no free internet here in Le Meridien. If you want, it will cost you 19 euros a day for internet access in the lobby."
Disgusted, we went to the business center. I was, again, positive that I had read about there being a complimentary business center. we both sat down at computers. Within seconds of sitting down, we were asked if we had purchased time on the computers, for the extortionist rate of 10 euros per half hour. Now, at this point, I was about to lose it... I felt like we were being nickeled and dimed left and right, It made no sense to me that one Starwood hotel would be run so differently than another Starwood hotel. How was it possible that we were being charged for everything little thing?? Would we be later charged for the water in the shower, or per toilet flush? I couldn't even think! I announced that I had no intention of paying to used a computer, thank you very much, and we walked out into the street. We walked to the corner and saw that the McDonalds there had FREE WIFI for all its customers. So, we both went in and each bought a small hamburger and diet coke and sat down at a booth and cracked open the iPad. We felt triumphant!
After checking out our email, Facebook, and the headlines on both MSNBC and FOXNews, we ventured out to explore our environs. We walked for about an hour and a half, at which time we decided it was an acceptable time for dinner. We ate a lovely, simple meal at a bistro called Le Barracuda. Nothing special, nothing to write home about. What came after dinner was much more spectacular.
We decided to walk back to our hotel along the Promenade des Anglais. There is spectacular people watching to be done there. Nice is truly a multicultural melting pot of every sort of person, and every one of them is out on the Promenade on any given night. As we neared the hotel, we noticed that there was a woman singing at a beach bar, Lido Plage, to be exact. She was singing a Spanish song, so we stopped to listen. When she finished singing about a young man in a black shirt, she began anew, with a song that was really familiar. About 8 notes in, Maureen and I both realized what she was singing: Michael Jackson! Oh!! It was way too much fun not to go down and have a drink and enjoy the hits. So, we did. We went down, and sat right up close, front and center. She sang two or three other hits, then she announced that we were in for a great big treat!
"Direct from Bollywood, the Amazing Irene!"
We were then 'treated' to three belly/ interpretative dances. It was all very odd. But, apparently we were the only ones not enjoying the scene. There was a long table next to us filled with middle aged Russians, the ring leader of which was decked out in a white linen suit and a .... wait for it... a cravat! He was on his feet, iPhone in hand, filming the Amazing Irene, following her around, gleaming in a most inappropriate way.
"I wonder what his wife thinks of that?" I asked Maureen.
"I'll bet she is used to it."
After the Amazing Irene finished her act, the chanteuse returned. This time singing several more upbeat numbers. The Russian in the cravat was up and dancing, this time, with an Eastern European-looking girl with the shortest dress I have ever seen, smoking the longest cigarette I have ever seen wearing the highest heels I have ever seen. She was twirling around, never losing either her ash or her balance. I was most intrigued. But, just when I thought I must have seen it all, a very drunk woman, a friend of the chanteuse, I think, came from behind the 'stage' and decided she wanted in on the action. She began dancing with the Russian and the blonde. However, before she got her first dance step in, she took a nose dive right into the crowd. She took out a chair and a table on her way down. Now, I am not one to cast stones... I have been known to take a spill on the dance floor in the name of jammin' to the hits (July 1995, Nightworks- Columbia SC readily jumps to mind), however, this woman was completely extraneous to the situation. She just took it upon herself to start dancing with this 'quasi-couple.' She was completely unfazed. She hopped up, and just kept on going...
I decided that the drunk woman at the Lido Plage was going to be the symbol of my time in Nice-- when the right song comes along, just hop in and dance. If you get a little over enthusiastic, and fall over, jump right back up and keep dancing!
lunedì 19 luglio 2010
Umbria
Umbria
Did you know that the French GPS lady who lives in the dashboard of my car is fixated with putting us on dirt roads? I think she is secretly trying to punish us for being American and that whole 'freedom fries' thing.
I promised my friend, Chiara, that we would come to Umbria to see her, have lunch and see her apartment. It is her first 'adult' apartment after graduation from University in March and she was anxious to cook lunch for us and show us around a bit.
We got up early and checked on line to see how long the drive was supposed to take. The Michelin site assured us that it would be no more than an hour and a half from Castel del Bosco to Castiglione del Lago, where Chiara instructed us to wait for her at 10:30 AM. However, when we got into the car at 9 AM, the GPS lady had us arriving at 12:45. We couldn't figure out for the life of us how she could be so far off. When she instructed us to stay on the Tosca-Romagnola (the regular road, not the superstrada), it became clear. She wanted us to take all back roads, via Siena and Arezzo, to Perugia. Unbelievable. How could she be so blind? There were perfectly good, empty highways, just waiting for us. Did she not see them? Was she unaware of the Italian highway system? We ignored her advice and continued on the highway, keeping an eye on the ETA. The closer we got, in fact, the later our ETA became, and the more perplexed we grew. We were actually 20 minutes from our destination and GPS lady continued to insist that were still had an hour to drive. It was only at the exit that she conceded defeat and announced our arrival, 40 minutes ahead of her schedule.
We sat with Chiara on the shores of Lake Trasimeno, enjoying the breeze from the water and we then followed her back 20 minutes to her lovely apartment, where we partook in a very nice lunch of meatballs and panzarella. By about 3, we had to gently excuse ourselves and hit the road, otherwise, we would never make it to our next destination: Assisi.
We returned to the car and told the GPS lady where we wanted to go. She told us it would take an hour. Chiara assured us before that it was 20 minutes from her apartment to Assisi. Chiara said we should just get on the highway and follow the signs. The GPS lady told us to bypass the highway and follow some road numbered SP (STRADA PROVINCIALE= dirt road). We did not listen to GPS lady... we had places to go and things to see!
Sure enough, we made it to Assisi in 20 minutes, following the superstrada and the signs. We parked in the underground garage and made our way to the basilica of San Francesco. The place was positively crawling with Japanese tourists. We fought our way through the crowds to see the saint's tomb in the crypt. We then came back up and visited the upper church. There are wonderful frescoes by Giotto in the upper church depicting the life and death of San Francesco, which have recently been restored and unveiled. In fact, the last time I was in Assisi, many years ago, with my friend, Francesca, the frescos were covered and had reproductions over in their place. It was nice to see the church put back in order. In this way, it was truly like I was seeing it for the first time.
Having duly seen all there was to see in Assisi, Maureen and I returned to the car and entered our next destination into the GPS: Gubbio. Gubbio should have been an hour from Assisi. GPS lady informed us it would take 4 hours. At this point, we were at the end of our rope. What is the point in having GPS if you absolutely cannot follow any of the directions? We learned our lesson the hard way in Montalcino. Were we willing to take another chance? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice... We opted to follow the highway and the signs. Thanks, but no thanks, GPS lady.
In one hour flat, we were pulling up to the Roman theater in Gubbio. We had seen that it was open to the public until 7:30 PM. We had crafted the day's schedule around the fact that we had until 7:00 to get to Gubbio and snap a few quick pics of the theater. We parked and went up to the ticket desk, which was still open, manned by a rather tired and hot looking man who had been smoking cigarettes and leaving the butts in an empty water bottle on his desk. I think he was more than just an volunteer, but rather the superintendent of the site. He just seemed like he was more important than a ticket taker.
I asked for two tickets to the theater. He answered that the theater was closed for the night. I responded that we had come a great distance and that it specifically said on their web site that they were open until 7:30. I added that I was a Latin teacher from America, for good measure. He finally conceded: if we look through the museum there behind him, he would open up the theater for us. It suddenly dawned on me that this man had been smoking pack after pack of cigarettes in an archaeological museum! I was a little shocked, to say the least. But, we agreed and went into the museum. It really wasn't very large, nor very interesting, but we spent a respectable amount of time inspecting the pottery shards and mosaic pieces. When we came out, we thanked the man, who had incidentally just lit a fresh butt, and he led us to the gate of the theater. He unlocked the chain around the gate. "Close the gate behind you," was the only admonition or instruction we received. We did just that and made the circuit, snapping pictures along the way. About 15 minutes later, we exited the theater and went back to the museum to tell the man we had finished. We thanked him, but he barely looked up and grunted an 'ok.'
From there, we headed up to the top of the town of Gubbio, which sits on a very steep hill. We took the first hill at a pretty decent pace. But, I needed to take a breather for a couple seconds after. The second 'flight' went a little slower. By the time we made the third approach, I was exhausted and completely ringing wet with sweat. It was hot (did I mention that Italy is Africa-hot this year?) We took our requisite pictures of the main piazza and the lovely panoramic views, then sat for a soda and to enjoy a little breeze. My next stop was to find the 'fontana dei matti' the fountain of the madmen. Apparently, he who runs around the fountain three times and splashes himself with the water of the fountain is an official madman. I have done this before (I know this might shock some of my gentle readers...) so I am official already, but I had wanted to show this Maureen. We asked were we could find this fountain (my memory was failing me), but we were told that it was 150 meters ahead of where we were sitting. We set out down a very slight incline and came upon a fountain, but it was not anything like the one I remembered, so we kept walking. We went what must have been much more than 150 meters, but since I have no concept of metrics other than what a 2 liter Diet Coke bottle looks like, we must have over shot it. But, since we saw a sign that said "teatro romano parcheggio," and we figured that we had a long way to go before we hit the lot, we decided to just keep on our path back to the car. The crazy fountain would have to wait for another trip. But, as quickly as we found the sign, we found the parking lot. How was it possible that we went uphill all that way and descended not even one tenth of the incline and we were back to our car? It remains a mystery!
But, we did make it back to the car and we entered CASTEL DEL BOSCO into the GPS, just for fun. It was now 8PM and the GPS lady was telling us we would be home by 1AM. We were quite certain that we were really only 2 and a half hours or so from home. But, we were in no rush, and we decided to humor her. We followed her directions. We found ourselves on a one lane country road, barely paved. We followed this for what seemed like an eternity. But, eventually she brought us out to a superstrada. We took the superstrada, even against her direction. About halfway to Florence, Maureen went back and looked at the settings on the GPS. It seemed that even though we had continually reset the options to include highways, it was setting itself back to what I guess is the default: IGNORE HIGHWAYS.
Once we reset this, the whole GPS seemed to reset itself. At once, we were given instructions using the main roads. Goodbye yellow brick road, hello four lane divided highways! I all the sudden began to feel a little guilty for maligning the GPS lady. After all, she was just following the rules. And who am I to ask someone else to break the rules?
Did you know that the French GPS lady who lives in the dashboard of my car is fixated with putting us on dirt roads? I think she is secretly trying to punish us for being American and that whole 'freedom fries' thing.
I promised my friend, Chiara, that we would come to Umbria to see her, have lunch and see her apartment. It is her first 'adult' apartment after graduation from University in March and she was anxious to cook lunch for us and show us around a bit.
We got up early and checked on line to see how long the drive was supposed to take. The Michelin site assured us that it would be no more than an hour and a half from Castel del Bosco to Castiglione del Lago, where Chiara instructed us to wait for her at 10:30 AM. However, when we got into the car at 9 AM, the GPS lady had us arriving at 12:45. We couldn't figure out for the life of us how she could be so far off. When she instructed us to stay on the Tosca-Romagnola (the regular road, not the superstrada), it became clear. She wanted us to take all back roads, via Siena and Arezzo, to Perugia. Unbelievable. How could she be so blind? There were perfectly good, empty highways, just waiting for us. Did she not see them? Was she unaware of the Italian highway system? We ignored her advice and continued on the highway, keeping an eye on the ETA. The closer we got, in fact, the later our ETA became, and the more perplexed we grew. We were actually 20 minutes from our destination and GPS lady continued to insist that were still had an hour to drive. It was only at the exit that she conceded defeat and announced our arrival, 40 minutes ahead of her schedule.
We sat with Chiara on the shores of Lake Trasimeno, enjoying the breeze from the water and we then followed her back 20 minutes to her lovely apartment, where we partook in a very nice lunch of meatballs and panzarella. By about 3, we had to gently excuse ourselves and hit the road, otherwise, we would never make it to our next destination: Assisi.
We returned to the car and told the GPS lady where we wanted to go. She told us it would take an hour. Chiara assured us before that it was 20 minutes from her apartment to Assisi. Chiara said we should just get on the highway and follow the signs. The GPS lady told us to bypass the highway and follow some road numbered SP (STRADA PROVINCIALE= dirt road). We did not listen to GPS lady... we had places to go and things to see!
Sure enough, we made it to Assisi in 20 minutes, following the superstrada and the signs. We parked in the underground garage and made our way to the basilica of San Francesco. The place was positively crawling with Japanese tourists. We fought our way through the crowds to see the saint's tomb in the crypt. We then came back up and visited the upper church. There are wonderful frescoes by Giotto in the upper church depicting the life and death of San Francesco, which have recently been restored and unveiled. In fact, the last time I was in Assisi, many years ago, with my friend, Francesca, the frescos were covered and had reproductions over in their place. It was nice to see the church put back in order. In this way, it was truly like I was seeing it for the first time.
Having duly seen all there was to see in Assisi, Maureen and I returned to the car and entered our next destination into the GPS: Gubbio. Gubbio should have been an hour from Assisi. GPS lady informed us it would take 4 hours. At this point, we were at the end of our rope. What is the point in having GPS if you absolutely cannot follow any of the directions? We learned our lesson the hard way in Montalcino. Were we willing to take another chance? Fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice... We opted to follow the highway and the signs. Thanks, but no thanks, GPS lady.
In one hour flat, we were pulling up to the Roman theater in Gubbio. We had seen that it was open to the public until 7:30 PM. We had crafted the day's schedule around the fact that we had until 7:00 to get to Gubbio and snap a few quick pics of the theater. We parked and went up to the ticket desk, which was still open, manned by a rather tired and hot looking man who had been smoking cigarettes and leaving the butts in an empty water bottle on his desk. I think he was more than just an volunteer, but rather the superintendent of the site. He just seemed like he was more important than a ticket taker.
I asked for two tickets to the theater. He answered that the theater was closed for the night. I responded that we had come a great distance and that it specifically said on their web site that they were open until 7:30. I added that I was a Latin teacher from America, for good measure. He finally conceded: if we look through the museum there behind him, he would open up the theater for us. It suddenly dawned on me that this man had been smoking pack after pack of cigarettes in an archaeological museum! I was a little shocked, to say the least. But, we agreed and went into the museum. It really wasn't very large, nor very interesting, but we spent a respectable amount of time inspecting the pottery shards and mosaic pieces. When we came out, we thanked the man, who had incidentally just lit a fresh butt, and he led us to the gate of the theater. He unlocked the chain around the gate. "Close the gate behind you," was the only admonition or instruction we received. We did just that and made the circuit, snapping pictures along the way. About 15 minutes later, we exited the theater and went back to the museum to tell the man we had finished. We thanked him, but he barely looked up and grunted an 'ok.'
From there, we headed up to the top of the town of Gubbio, which sits on a very steep hill. We took the first hill at a pretty decent pace. But, I needed to take a breather for a couple seconds after. The second 'flight' went a little slower. By the time we made the third approach, I was exhausted and completely ringing wet with sweat. It was hot (did I mention that Italy is Africa-hot this year?) We took our requisite pictures of the main piazza and the lovely panoramic views, then sat for a soda and to enjoy a little breeze. My next stop was to find the 'fontana dei matti' the fountain of the madmen. Apparently, he who runs around the fountain three times and splashes himself with the water of the fountain is an official madman. I have done this before (I know this might shock some of my gentle readers...) so I am official already, but I had wanted to show this Maureen. We asked were we could find this fountain (my memory was failing me), but we were told that it was 150 meters ahead of where we were sitting. We set out down a very slight incline and came upon a fountain, but it was not anything like the one I remembered, so we kept walking. We went what must have been much more than 150 meters, but since I have no concept of metrics other than what a 2 liter Diet Coke bottle looks like, we must have over shot it. But, since we saw a sign that said "teatro romano parcheggio," and we figured that we had a long way to go before we hit the lot, we decided to just keep on our path back to the car. The crazy fountain would have to wait for another trip. But, as quickly as we found the sign, we found the parking lot. How was it possible that we went uphill all that way and descended not even one tenth of the incline and we were back to our car? It remains a mystery!
But, we did make it back to the car and we entered CASTEL DEL BOSCO into the GPS, just for fun. It was now 8PM and the GPS lady was telling us we would be home by 1AM. We were quite certain that we were really only 2 and a half hours or so from home. But, we were in no rush, and we decided to humor her. We followed her directions. We found ourselves on a one lane country road, barely paved. We followed this for what seemed like an eternity. But, eventually she brought us out to a superstrada. We took the superstrada, even against her direction. About halfway to Florence, Maureen went back and looked at the settings on the GPS. It seemed that even though we had continually reset the options to include highways, it was setting itself back to what I guess is the default: IGNORE HIGHWAYS.
Once we reset this, the whole GPS seemed to reset itself. At once, we were given instructions using the main roads. Goodbye yellow brick road, hello four lane divided highways! I all the sudden began to feel a little guilty for maligning the GPS lady. After all, she was just following the rules. And who am I to ask someone else to break the rules?
domenica 18 luglio 2010
Bologna
Staying in Castel del Bosco affords us a unique opportunity to travel to all sorts of cool places that might seem far away, but in actuality, are really only just daytrips. Case in point: Bologna.
Maureen and I had decided that Wednesday would be our day to go to the beach, so we were trying to figure out what to do on Tuesday. "Did we go to Bologna when you were here the last time?" The answer was 'no,' so I suggested that we point the Peugeuot north this time.
Over dinner on Monday night, we read the Italy guide book section on Bologna and Emilia Romana and decided to start the day in Ferrara, to see the Castello d'Este, then head back toward Bologna and poke around there for the rest of the day.
We got an early start, leaving at 9:30. Within a couple of hours, we were parking the car in the parcheggio centro storico (in front of Piazza John F. Kennedy-- I never cease to be amazed how the Italians love to honor Americans with piazzas. There is even a Piazza Jane Fonda on the way to Lucca...)
The thermometer in the car read 39 degrees celsius. It felt every bit of it, too... even though I am not sure what 39 degrees celsius means off the top of my head. I do know the little rhyme: 30 is hot, 20 is nice, 10 is cold and 0 is ice... so, 39 is much hotter than hot, as far as I can tell. We left the car and headed into the city. Ferrara is a city under renovation, it seems. Everywhere you look there are scaffolds and workmen and work in progress.
After a short walk, which seemed much longer, on account of the extremely suffocating heat (Africa-hot... which is actually what it was: a high pressure system from Africa had settled in over Europe), we found ourselves in front of the Castello d'Este. We both decided that we had come too far not to go in, so we paid our 8 euros each and embarked on our visit. The Castello is actually interesting, as far as castles go. It is definitely worth a visit if you are traveling with kids, as they can see what dungeons look like up close (a serious object lesson, if you catch my drift) and they can climb the tower and get a really nice panoramic view of the area. (mind you, we did not climb the tower, but I imagine it is a lovely view.) There is a moat (kids love moats... also, another good threat), and cool paintings, which are easily viewed through an intricate system of mirrors, lest you injure yourself craning your neck looking upwards). In short, something for everyone.
But, we soon were bored (or just super uncomfortable) and decided to walk back to the car. Upon arriving at the Peugeuot, I plugged our next destination into the GPS. When the choices for "Bologna" came up, one of the destinations was called 'Castello di Guelfi Bologna.' This intrigued me. We were staying in Castel del Bosco. We had just seen Castello d'Este. Did we have a theme for the day being decided for us? Maureen and I decided that this was a sign and we should go see the castello of the Guelphs. Now, at this point, I was jazzed to see a castle. It was only after we arrived at our destination that it occurred to me that there might not be a castle, except in the name. I mean, there is no castle in Castel del Bosco.
However, we soldiered on. We drove a bit into the town and sure enough, we saw it... the turrets to the ancient castle. All four of them, in fact. The town has been built into the walls of the 12th century castle, which is largely gone. The turrets survive and they are inhabited and owned my private citizens. It is a very cool sight. Feeling like we had just discovered America, we triumphantly snapped a few photos and then headed back to the highway which would take us to our initially intended destination: Bologna.
Bologna is a very interesting and unique city. It is home to Europe's oldest university. It is also a city which is almost completely colonnaded. It is nearly always possible to walk under cover. This was a welcome accommodation, since Bologna was no less stifling hot than Ferrara, or Pisa, for that matter.
We walked from where we left the car, in the Santo Stefano district to the main square, Piazza Maggiore where we hopped onto a 'hop on-hop off tour bus.' We sat through the tour twice and hopped off back at our car. We saw the whole city, or at least everything that the tourism board deems worthy of being included on the tour.
Thoroughly exhausted, we packed it in and motored home. It was on the way home that we made an interesting observation: between Florence and Bologna, there are 29 tunnels, which we both found noteworthy. I am not sure why we were struck by this, but we were. Struck enough to count them... I guess that makes us crazy, or just crazy from the heat.
Maureen and I had decided that Wednesday would be our day to go to the beach, so we were trying to figure out what to do on Tuesday. "Did we go to Bologna when you were here the last time?" The answer was 'no,' so I suggested that we point the Peugeuot north this time.
Over dinner on Monday night, we read the Italy guide book section on Bologna and Emilia Romana and decided to start the day in Ferrara, to see the Castello d'Este, then head back toward Bologna and poke around there for the rest of the day.
We got an early start, leaving at 9:30. Within a couple of hours, we were parking the car in the parcheggio centro storico (in front of Piazza John F. Kennedy-- I never cease to be amazed how the Italians love to honor Americans with piazzas. There is even a Piazza Jane Fonda on the way to Lucca...)
The thermometer in the car read 39 degrees celsius. It felt every bit of it, too... even though I am not sure what 39 degrees celsius means off the top of my head. I do know the little rhyme: 30 is hot, 20 is nice, 10 is cold and 0 is ice... so, 39 is much hotter than hot, as far as I can tell. We left the car and headed into the city. Ferrara is a city under renovation, it seems. Everywhere you look there are scaffolds and workmen and work in progress.
After a short walk, which seemed much longer, on account of the extremely suffocating heat (Africa-hot... which is actually what it was: a high pressure system from Africa had settled in over Europe), we found ourselves in front of the Castello d'Este. We both decided that we had come too far not to go in, so we paid our 8 euros each and embarked on our visit. The Castello is actually interesting, as far as castles go. It is definitely worth a visit if you are traveling with kids, as they can see what dungeons look like up close (a serious object lesson, if you catch my drift) and they can climb the tower and get a really nice panoramic view of the area. (mind you, we did not climb the tower, but I imagine it is a lovely view.) There is a moat (kids love moats... also, another good threat), and cool paintings, which are easily viewed through an intricate system of mirrors, lest you injure yourself craning your neck looking upwards). In short, something for everyone.
But, we soon were bored (or just super uncomfortable) and decided to walk back to the car. Upon arriving at the Peugeuot, I plugged our next destination into the GPS. When the choices for "Bologna" came up, one of the destinations was called 'Castello di Guelfi Bologna.' This intrigued me. We were staying in Castel del Bosco. We had just seen Castello d'Este. Did we have a theme for the day being decided for us? Maureen and I decided that this was a sign and we should go see the castello of the Guelphs. Now, at this point, I was jazzed to see a castle. It was only after we arrived at our destination that it occurred to me that there might not be a castle, except in the name. I mean, there is no castle in Castel del Bosco.
However, we soldiered on. We drove a bit into the town and sure enough, we saw it... the turrets to the ancient castle. All four of them, in fact. The town has been built into the walls of the 12th century castle, which is largely gone. The turrets survive and they are inhabited and owned my private citizens. It is a very cool sight. Feeling like we had just discovered America, we triumphantly snapped a few photos and then headed back to the highway which would take us to our initially intended destination: Bologna.
Bologna is a very interesting and unique city. It is home to Europe's oldest university. It is also a city which is almost completely colonnaded. It is nearly always possible to walk under cover. This was a welcome accommodation, since Bologna was no less stifling hot than Ferrara, or Pisa, for that matter.
We walked from where we left the car, in the Santo Stefano district to the main square, Piazza Maggiore where we hopped onto a 'hop on-hop off tour bus.' We sat through the tour twice and hopped off back at our car. We saw the whole city, or at least everything that the tourism board deems worthy of being included on the tour.
Thoroughly exhausted, we packed it in and motored home. It was on the way home that we made an interesting observation: between Florence and Bologna, there are 29 tunnels, which we both found noteworthy. I am not sure why we were struck by this, but we were. Struck enough to count them... I guess that makes us crazy, or just crazy from the heat.
mercoledì 14 luglio 2010
Tirrenia
You go to the beach just once in Italy, and you will see it all. I promise.
Maureen announced that SHE had seen it all today in the short time we spent at Bagno Europa on the Pisan seaside.
We had originally planned to get up extra early and go to Forte Dei Marmi where there is a special market on Wednesdays, upscale crap as opposed to the 'everything's a euro, Chinese crap.' The plan was to find a bagno, leave the car, hit the market and then be on the beach by noon. This, however, didn't happen because a) I am lazy and getting up TWO days in a row before 10 usually doesn't happen, and b) (the reason I prefer) is that our beach towels were trapped in the washing machine and we couldn't get them out the night before to let them dry. So, when I went downstairs this morning to try yet again to free the towels from their forced captivity, I was pleased to see that Vivetta had already sprung them and they were nearly dry and on the clothes line in the boiler room. With two neon green beach towels in hand, I marched upstairs and announced that the beach trip was back on. Only now, we would just sit in the sun in Tirrenia. This was probably a good thing because this way, we would not be tempted to spend money on crap we would just have to cart around with us for the next three weeks.
Thirty minutes later, give or take, we were on the sand directly in front of the sea. It being a week day, there were not so many people as one would expect on a Saturday or Sunday. But, this is not to say that we were not without ample viewing options.
1) The pre-pubescent "tattooed" girls: Yes, parents not only allow, but also encourage their under 12 daughters to get "tattooed" by passing Asian women on the beach. We saw not fewer than 10 kids with stars, flowers, celtic crosses and even a tramp stamp decorating their young, virgin skin.
2) The topless women: Old, young, fat, thin. It is a varitable all-comers welcome on the topless front. I guess even grannie shuns tan lines. What puzzles me, though is that as a rule, it seems that you sunbathe topless, but dress to go in the water. Don't ask me why this is, I just witnessed it over and over again.
3) The bikini: Old, young, fat, thin. The more inappropriate your body type is, the more likely you are to don a bikini. Maureen even saw a woman pushing 70 in a sequined number. It is like alumnae night at the Copacabana at Bagno Europa!
4) Hair: Many women in Europe do not shave. This is not surprising, until you are literally face to face with a 40 year old woman with hairy pits sitting with her hands unabashedly resting on the back of her neck. This one falls under the category of "yes, I know it happens, I just really don't want to see it. Close up." Also, hairy backs on men are very popular.
5) Beach vendors: Number 5 on my list is really a polite term. They are not really vendors, but more like purveyors of fake bags, belts, sunglasses, and CDs, as well as crap one might find in the 'everything's a euro Chinese crap' market. In Italian, they are called Vu' compra' (vuoi comprare-- do you want to buy). They are mostly African men between the ages of about 18 and 35. They are usually dressed in very heavy garb, with long sleeves and pants. Your heart breaks for them, because you know that life had to have been really terrible wherever they came from to endure the hell of being a 'traveling salesman' on the beach. But, you cannot buy anything because it is essentially illegal and as a costumer, you could get fined for buying, and besides, by buying, you are just perpetuating the cycle of criminality. (http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/13/business/worldbusiness/13iht-fake.html?_r=1)
Vu' compra' s are not the only ones roaming the seaside. You will also find Asian woman giving massages and henna tattooes (see number one above). Nothing says 'relaxing' to me like being manhandled by a small woman pounding out your kinks while you bake in the hell-like heat on the beach in front of about a thousand strangers. But, people do it, I guess...
6) The 55 year old lifeguard: The median age for the bagnino (lifeguard) at Club Europa is about 55. He is in great shape, no doubt, but something just makes me a little nervous about the lifeguard who is a- smoking Marlboro Reds on the sand, and b- looks like he might expire himself on his way out to rescue a drowning, tattooed 12 year old girl.
The beach is the perfect place to go to get life affirming positive reinforcement. Yes, there is someone for everyone, evidenced by the fact that the bearded woman has not only a husband, but also a gaggle of kids (some of whom are not even tattooed). Yes, you can feel good about your body, no matter how big, small, wrinkly, or hairy it might be. But, no matter how bad life is, it can't be all bad, because at the end of the day, you are on a beach, in Italy!
Maureen announced that SHE had seen it all today in the short time we spent at Bagno Europa on the Pisan seaside.
We had originally planned to get up extra early and go to Forte Dei Marmi where there is a special market on Wednesdays, upscale crap as opposed to the 'everything's a euro, Chinese crap.' The plan was to find a bagno, leave the car, hit the market and then be on the beach by noon. This, however, didn't happen because a) I am lazy and getting up TWO days in a row before 10 usually doesn't happen, and b) (the reason I prefer) is that our beach towels were trapped in the washing machine and we couldn't get them out the night before to let them dry. So, when I went downstairs this morning to try yet again to free the towels from their forced captivity, I was pleased to see that Vivetta had already sprung them and they were nearly dry and on the clothes line in the boiler room. With two neon green beach towels in hand, I marched upstairs and announced that the beach trip was back on. Only now, we would just sit in the sun in Tirrenia. This was probably a good thing because this way, we would not be tempted to spend money on crap we would just have to cart around with us for the next three weeks.
Thirty minutes later, give or take, we were on the sand directly in front of the sea. It being a week day, there were not so many people as one would expect on a Saturday or Sunday. But, this is not to say that we were not without ample viewing options.
1) The pre-pubescent "tattooed" girls: Yes, parents not only allow, but also encourage their under 12 daughters to get "tattooed" by passing Asian women on the beach. We saw not fewer than 10 kids with stars, flowers, celtic crosses and even a tramp stamp decorating their young, virgin skin.
2) The topless women: Old, young, fat, thin. It is a varitable all-comers welcome on the topless front. I guess even grannie shuns tan lines. What puzzles me, though is that as a rule, it seems that you sunbathe topless, but dress to go in the water. Don't ask me why this is, I just witnessed it over and over again.
3) The bikini: Old, young, fat, thin. The more inappropriate your body type is, the more likely you are to don a bikini. Maureen even saw a woman pushing 70 in a sequined number. It is like alumnae night at the Copacabana at Bagno Europa!
4) Hair: Many women in Europe do not shave. This is not surprising, until you are literally face to face with a 40 year old woman with hairy pits sitting with her hands unabashedly resting on the back of her neck. This one falls under the category of "yes, I know it happens, I just really don't want to see it. Close up." Also, hairy backs on men are very popular.
5) Beach vendors: Number 5 on my list is really a polite term. They are not really vendors, but more like purveyors of fake bags, belts, sunglasses, and CDs, as well as crap one might find in the 'everything's a euro Chinese crap' market. In Italian, they are called Vu' compra' (vuoi comprare-- do you want to buy). They are mostly African men between the ages of about 18 and 35. They are usually dressed in very heavy garb, with long sleeves and pants. Your heart breaks for them, because you know that life had to have been really terrible wherever they came from to endure the hell of being a 'traveling salesman' on the beach. But, you cannot buy anything because it is essentially illegal and as a costumer, you could get fined for buying, and besides, by buying, you are just perpetuating the cycle of criminality. (http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/13/business/worldbusiness/13iht-fake.html?_r=1)
Vu' compra' s are not the only ones roaming the seaside. You will also find Asian woman giving massages and henna tattooes (see number one above). Nothing says 'relaxing' to me like being manhandled by a small woman pounding out your kinks while you bake in the hell-like heat on the beach in front of about a thousand strangers. But, people do it, I guess...
6) The 55 year old lifeguard: The median age for the bagnino (lifeguard) at Club Europa is about 55. He is in great shape, no doubt, but something just makes me a little nervous about the lifeguard who is a- smoking Marlboro Reds on the sand, and b- looks like he might expire himself on his way out to rescue a drowning, tattooed 12 year old girl.
The beach is the perfect place to go to get life affirming positive reinforcement. Yes, there is someone for everyone, evidenced by the fact that the bearded woman has not only a husband, but also a gaggle of kids (some of whom are not even tattooed). Yes, you can feel good about your body, no matter how big, small, wrinkly, or hairy it might be. But, no matter how bad life is, it can't be all bad, because at the end of the day, you are on a beach, in Italy!
lunedì 12 luglio 2010
Siena
They say you can't go home again. I tend to believe this old adage. I think I believe it more after Saturday's outing to Siena.
Maureen and I decided to take the car on a dry run road trip to Siena, see some of the sites (again) and get a little sun. We set out at about eleven am and headed south. It was a gorgeous July day (go figure, in Tuscany, practically every day in July is gorgeous, albeit hotter than hell), not a cloud in the sky. Maureen popped in the first of about 15 CDs I made for our adventure, and suddenly we were transported to a magical place, circa 1985. We made pretty good time, as we bobbed and wove our way through the familiar back roads of Pisa, then Firenze until we found our way to Certaldo, It was in Certaldo that I realized that life has moved on without me.
There is now a bypass that takes you completely around the town.
"This is all new." I muttered. I didn't like it. Not one bit. I liked driving through the town, seeing the people walking on the sidewalks, sititing in doorways, catching a few wafts of breeze. The new bypass takes you completely away from, what I consider to be, one of the most picturesque hill towns in all of Tuscany.
We continued on our way to Siena. Upon arriving, we drove past my old digs, even driving up into the parking lot. My old parking space remains unoccupied. In fact, many of the cars I remember being there were not. Perhaps they were with their owners at the beach for the day, or perhaps they have found new homes themselves. We parked at Due Ponti (which is where you should ALWAYS park if you are driving to Siena and intend to take the bus to the city center; there you will find ample parking and there is a ticket machine right there. No need to search out a tobacco shop or bar from which to procure the 1euro fare.) and boarded the next bus to pass. We went to Birreria, where all of the waitstaff seemed to be new. No Cinzia, no unnamed Peruvian girl, no unnamed Polish girl. Perhaps they, too are wherever all the cars from my condominium are.
We walked up to the Duomo and I showed Maureen where I used to have to line up to get finger printed with the other 'extracommunitari' in Siena three or four times a year. We went into the bookshop at the museum complex of Santa Maria della Scala, where Arte, Genio, Follia was just a year ago. I even (finally) bought the catalogue for the exhibition. I will add it to the .ZA catalogue as part of the 'evidence' of my short-lived audio guide translation history.
After a well-earned gelato, we decided to head back to the car. We sat in the Logge del Papa, the site of my well-documented fall, where I almost repeated history (I misstepped coming out of a bar with a Coca cola light.) We sat and waited for the bus. I sat in the exact spot I sat countless times, waiting for the number 54 bus to take me home to Rotonda Madonnina Rossa. This time, instead feeling like I was ending a day at the university, or a day running errands, I felt like I was ending something much more. It was closure to a life I had left behind. The life that had, in fact gone ahead without me. Friends at University had graduated and had moved on (only one or two have not completed their studies). Neighbors have moved to new digs. Familiar faces have found new jobs. And, I was going back to Pisa, where I was before my soggiorno senese. It was almost like it never happened. It was a little sad. As we descended the hill on via Aretina, approaching the parking lot, it almost felt like none of it had ever happened.
We got back to the car at about 4:15, too early to go home, too late to go much further. I got behind the wheel of the car and looked at the poster in front of me. It was for a concert in Montalcino. Hmmm. Montalcino. I had never been to Montalcino before.
"Hey, you want to go to Montalcino?"
"Sure, why not?"
We plugged it into the GPS and we were off. At this point, we were still trusting the GPS system in the car. We really had not tested it out, and we had no reason not to trust it. We dutifully followed the indications and in just about 40 minutes, we were parking the car at the bottom of a very steep hill in the Tuscan countryside. We fed the meter, got a parking stub and started up the steepest incline I have seen in my life. We walked across the town, which took all of about 15 minutes, took some nice pictures and decided we had seen enough. We would head back to the car and take a nice leisurely drive back to Castel del Bosco.
We programmed CASTEL DEL BOSCO into the GPS, popped another CD into the slot and off we went. The GPS lady told us to proceed out of the town in a different direction than we had entered. It seemed a little strange, but we trusted her. So, we followed the directions like the good rule followers that we are. We wound our way through the town, lefts and rights that seemed wrong. We suddenly found ourselves turning onto a gravel and dirt road, just as AC/DC's Highway to Hell came on the stereo. It was like a sign from God...
We proceeded, with extreme caution. The road became worse, if you can believe it (and if you don't, Maureen has pictures to prove it!) The road which started out as simply gravel and dirt, morphed into a trail, with no guard rail, barely wide enough for our car. I found myself holding my breath, as it sucking it in would give us a little more leeway. We kept going according to the directions. The GPS lady was very convincing and very convinced that this was the fastest route out of Montalcino. Just when we thought it couldn't get worse, one of us would gasp, "OH MY GOD!" and Maureen would snap a picture.
"This is the part where the flying monkeys swoop down and eat us..." I said as we came upon a 'tunnel' of overgrowth which was illuminated by dust dappled light. It was truly surreal. But, we soldiered on through what HAD to be private property, although the GPS lady insisted it was a public road. After another 5 minutes, which really felt like 5 hours, we found our way back to the main road which we had traveled on the approach. When we arrived at the stop sign, and we realized where exactly the GPS lady had let us out, "son of a bitch" was all either of us could muster.
The rest of the drive back to Castel del Bosco was rather uneventful. We opted for the major roads, and turned off the GPS lady. We would leave her advice for another day..
Maureen and I decided to take the car on a dry run road trip to Siena, see some of the sites (again) and get a little sun. We set out at about eleven am and headed south. It was a gorgeous July day (go figure, in Tuscany, practically every day in July is gorgeous, albeit hotter than hell), not a cloud in the sky. Maureen popped in the first of about 15 CDs I made for our adventure, and suddenly we were transported to a magical place, circa 1985. We made pretty good time, as we bobbed and wove our way through the familiar back roads of Pisa, then Firenze until we found our way to Certaldo, It was in Certaldo that I realized that life has moved on without me.
There is now a bypass that takes you completely around the town.
"This is all new." I muttered. I didn't like it. Not one bit. I liked driving through the town, seeing the people walking on the sidewalks, sititing in doorways, catching a few wafts of breeze. The new bypass takes you completely away from, what I consider to be, one of the most picturesque hill towns in all of Tuscany.
We continued on our way to Siena. Upon arriving, we drove past my old digs, even driving up into the parking lot. My old parking space remains unoccupied. In fact, many of the cars I remember being there were not. Perhaps they were with their owners at the beach for the day, or perhaps they have found new homes themselves. We parked at Due Ponti (which is where you should ALWAYS park if you are driving to Siena and intend to take the bus to the city center; there you will find ample parking and there is a ticket machine right there. No need to search out a tobacco shop or bar from which to procure the 1euro fare.) and boarded the next bus to pass. We went to Birreria, where all of the waitstaff seemed to be new. No Cinzia, no unnamed Peruvian girl, no unnamed Polish girl. Perhaps they, too are wherever all the cars from my condominium are.
We walked up to the Duomo and I showed Maureen where I used to have to line up to get finger printed with the other 'extracommunitari' in Siena three or four times a year. We went into the bookshop at the museum complex of Santa Maria della Scala, where Arte, Genio, Follia was just a year ago. I even (finally) bought the catalogue for the exhibition. I will add it to the .ZA catalogue as part of the 'evidence' of my short-lived audio guide translation history.
After a well-earned gelato, we decided to head back to the car. We sat in the Logge del Papa, the site of my well-documented fall, where I almost repeated history (I misstepped coming out of a bar with a Coca cola light.) We sat and waited for the bus. I sat in the exact spot I sat countless times, waiting for the number 54 bus to take me home to Rotonda Madonnina Rossa. This time, instead feeling like I was ending a day at the university, or a day running errands, I felt like I was ending something much more. It was closure to a life I had left behind. The life that had, in fact gone ahead without me. Friends at University had graduated and had moved on (only one or two have not completed their studies). Neighbors have moved to new digs. Familiar faces have found new jobs. And, I was going back to Pisa, where I was before my soggiorno senese. It was almost like it never happened. It was a little sad. As we descended the hill on via Aretina, approaching the parking lot, it almost felt like none of it had ever happened.
We got back to the car at about 4:15, too early to go home, too late to go much further. I got behind the wheel of the car and looked at the poster in front of me. It was for a concert in Montalcino. Hmmm. Montalcino. I had never been to Montalcino before.
"Hey, you want to go to Montalcino?"
"Sure, why not?"
We plugged it into the GPS and we were off. At this point, we were still trusting the GPS system in the car. We really had not tested it out, and we had no reason not to trust it. We dutifully followed the indications and in just about 40 minutes, we were parking the car at the bottom of a very steep hill in the Tuscan countryside. We fed the meter, got a parking stub and started up the steepest incline I have seen in my life. We walked across the town, which took all of about 15 minutes, took some nice pictures and decided we had seen enough. We would head back to the car and take a nice leisurely drive back to Castel del Bosco.
We programmed CASTEL DEL BOSCO into the GPS, popped another CD into the slot and off we went. The GPS lady told us to proceed out of the town in a different direction than we had entered. It seemed a little strange, but we trusted her. So, we followed the directions like the good rule followers that we are. We wound our way through the town, lefts and rights that seemed wrong. We suddenly found ourselves turning onto a gravel and dirt road, just as AC/DC's Highway to Hell came on the stereo. It was like a sign from God...
We proceeded, with extreme caution. The road became worse, if you can believe it (and if you don't, Maureen has pictures to prove it!) The road which started out as simply gravel and dirt, morphed into a trail, with no guard rail, barely wide enough for our car. I found myself holding my breath, as it sucking it in would give us a little more leeway. We kept going according to the directions. The GPS lady was very convincing and very convinced that this was the fastest route out of Montalcino. Just when we thought it couldn't get worse, one of us would gasp, "OH MY GOD!" and Maureen would snap a picture.
"This is the part where the flying monkeys swoop down and eat us..." I said as we came upon a 'tunnel' of overgrowth which was illuminated by dust dappled light. It was truly surreal. But, we soldiered on through what HAD to be private property, although the GPS lady insisted it was a public road. After another 5 minutes, which really felt like 5 hours, we found our way back to the main road which we had traveled on the approach. When we arrived at the stop sign, and we realized where exactly the GPS lady had let us out, "son of a bitch" was all either of us could muster.
The rest of the drive back to Castel del Bosco was rather uneventful. We opted for the major roads, and turned off the GPS lady. We would leave her advice for another day..
mercoledì 7 luglio 2010
Pisa
Today was the day. The promised day. The day I have been waiting for since I arrived here on 27 June. This was the day the car I had arranged would be delivered to me. The story does not begin at 10:15 am, when the guy from Peugeot was to meet me at the EuropeCar in downtown Pisa. No, the story really begins back in March when I contacted Kemwel in Portland, ME to rent a car for the summer. They have this fabulous program called OpenEurope, whereby you lease a car through them, directly from Peugeot. When you book the car, a car is manufactured to your specifications and delivered to you upon your arrival in whatever European capital you choose (from a very extensive list).
I contracted for an automatic transmission convertible 308cc Peugeot. I was to pick said car up at Linate Airport in Milan, some 3 and a half hours from Castel del Bosco. But, no worries. I would sleep on the plane and be fresh as a dozen daisies and ready for my drive home. Besides, I'd have the top down and I would get some well needed sun. I would arrive on via Raffaello all kissed by the sun and ready for anything!
The plan went pear-shaped around London... when I missed the connecting flight to Milan. I called the number on the voucher and explained that I would be a little later than expected. The woman on the other end of the line was less than sympathetic and in the end said, "I hope someone will be able to be there to meet you." This did not bode well.
I arrived, indeed, 3 hours after originally expected, but this delay was exacerbated by the fact that British Airways had forgotten to load my bag onto the onward flight. After I waited for all the bags to be claimed, I went to the lost luggage desk and declared my bag lost. So, by the time I finally emerged from the terminal (I will not bore you with the details of the lost bag, and the three days I waited for the bag to magically reappear in Castel del Bosco), it was about 2PM. I dragged my one suitcase to the parking lot where the Italian woman from the phone was waiting for me. I apologized profusely and we set about transferring the car into my name. "Let's go see your car, shall we?" I followed her to a lovely sleek, black convertible. She began to show me all the features, beginning with the trunk and when we arrived at the inside of the car, my face fell...
"But, is this a manual transmission?"
"Yes... of course."
"But, I contracted an automatic."
"But, it is a beautiful automobile, no?"
"Beautiful, for sure. But I cannot drive a manual shift car."
"Sure, you can. I will teach you."
Now, remember those daisies I was supposed to be as fresh as? I was feeling like someone had driven over them, backed up and hit the gas one more time, just for good measure.
"I am sure it is easy. However, I do not want to learn in the parking lot and then practice on the autostrada for 3 and a half hours to Pisa. How are we going to resolve this?"
"Are you sure you don't want to learn?"
The conversation was taking a Fellini-like turn and I didn't like where it was headed. So, I offered to call Portland to see if someone there had any suggestions. The Italian woman was rather incredulous that someone would be there at, essentially, the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning. I assured her that in America, someone was ALWAYS there. And, in fact, someone was.
I spoke to Joshua at Kemwel who assured me that he would work everything out for me. But, in the meanwhile, I had to get to Pisa. So, I hopped a bus, then a train, then another train, then a taxi (thank god I wasn't lugging two bags...) to Castel del Bosco. I spoke with Joshua again, and he said that he had arranged an interim car rental for me until the snafu was resolved. I had to pick it up in Pisa on the 29th. So, I headed to Pisa on the 29th to pick up the biggest Mercedes C class I had ever seen. (well, maybe that is an exaggeration, but it was a pretty big car...) I kept the car until I received the call from Jacques, my man with Peugeot, telling me that my car would be delivered from Nice on the 7th.
In between, the 29th and the 7th, there was a flurry of phone calls between Jacques in Paris and myself in Italy. I will leave you to imagine how those conversations went. I will say, however, Jacques also suggested I learn to drive the car that was in Milan...
However, the day arrived. Today, in fact. I woke up extra early. Got all cleaned up, lipstick, a great linen number all pressed and ready to go. I left, full of hope that I would return in my convertible. I even put on some SPF 6 for the ride home. I set out at 9:35, to make it to Pisa by 10:15. (In Jacques' most recent communication, he wrote that the driver would meet me at the car rental place in downtown Pisa between 10 and 10:30, because he had a train back to Paris at 11:30.) I even allowed time to stop for gas along the way. I arrived at the EuropeCar at Lung'Arno Sonnino number 1 at precisely 10:15.
At 10:29, my phone rang. It was Jacques. He wondered if my car had arrived. I replied that it had not and I was waiting exactly where we had decided. He said that he would try and call the driver and call me 'right back.' Now, perhaps the American 'right back' and the French 'right back' are two different things. I expected a call back within 10 or 15 minutes. When I had not heard back by noon, I was getting a little nervous. I called the French number from my correspondence to no avail. I was not dialing the numbers correctly, and I had no idea what I was doing wrong. So, I decided to call my buddies at Kemwel.
I would like to take a moment and describe how I imagine the guys at Kemwel are: in my mind, all the guys at Kemwel are big, rugged young men, all handsome, and all wearing LL Bean gear, duck boots, included, and look like they have just come in from a hike. They are all good natured, granola types who have never met a stranger and all have names like 'Josh' and 'Jeff' and 'Cameron.' They could just as easily work in a tackle shop offering expert fly fishing advice as organizing rental cars for poor beleaguered school teachers on vacation.
I call Kemwel, and sure enough, Bradley answers the phone and after hearing my tale of woe, swears that he will take care of everything. He puts me on hold and comes back a minute later.
"We are going to call Josh and wake him up and get to the bottom of this."
I was mortified at the idea of waking poor Josh up. He must be very exhausted after a day of chopping wood, or hunting duck. However, I was assured that it was fine to call him at home for some assistance. I was told just a few minutes later that Jacques would be calling me shortly. And, sure enough, the call came through. I was informed that the driver had encountered traffic and would be a couple hours still. I, in turn, informed Jacques that I was going home. I did not intend to sit in the hot Pisan sun for another 2 hours. I gave him the address in Castel del Bosco and told him to pass it on to the driver. I would take a train home and wait there.
Sure enough, about 45 minutes after arriving home, I got a call from Jacques. It seemed that the driver was lost. I offered some navigational advice and waited some more. At this point, Vivetta was keeping me company on the front porch, on car alert. She had a great time hyothesizing about this driver.
"Maybe he is a handsome Frenchman who will come in and sweep you off your feet..."
At about 3:00, a silver Peugeot 308 cc Feline piloted by my potential Frenchman came creeping past the front gate.
"She's here!" I squealed!
Vivetta dashed inside, lest she be seen in her housedress by the possibly dashing Parisian. I gathered my documents and opened the gate. My lovely car came inside and out came Jean-Claude, the driver who was neither handsome nor young.
"Bonjour, monsieur." I said, in my perfect French accent. (This is the only thing I can say with a perfect accent. I have often fooled people into thinking I speak French with this phrase, only to have to admit that that is all I have got.) "Parlez-vous Anglais?"
As I expected, Jean-Claude spoke no English. So the rest of the conversation was him speaking in French, me in Italian, but Italian spoken with a French accent. We signed all the documents, transferred the car into my possession, and I drove poor Jean-Claude to the train station so that he could catch a train back to Paris, from Pontedera, a journey of about 10 hours.
But what do I care?? I got my car and hot damn is it a nice car! I put the top down on the way back from the station. I turned the music up loud and drank in the sun. I did get a little burned on the back of my neck, however. Between walking to the train station in Pisa, and all the waiting in the sun in front of the car rental place, my precautionary SPF has melted away. But, no matter.
I will not lament my sunburn, rather I will wear it as a badge of honor, signifying all I have been through in the week and a half on my quest for the perfect holiday car. A rather noble quest, indeed.
I contracted for an automatic transmission convertible 308cc Peugeot. I was to pick said car up at Linate Airport in Milan, some 3 and a half hours from Castel del Bosco. But, no worries. I would sleep on the plane and be fresh as a dozen daisies and ready for my drive home. Besides, I'd have the top down and I would get some well needed sun. I would arrive on via Raffaello all kissed by the sun and ready for anything!
The plan went pear-shaped around London... when I missed the connecting flight to Milan. I called the number on the voucher and explained that I would be a little later than expected. The woman on the other end of the line was less than sympathetic and in the end said, "I hope someone will be able to be there to meet you." This did not bode well.
I arrived, indeed, 3 hours after originally expected, but this delay was exacerbated by the fact that British Airways had forgotten to load my bag onto the onward flight. After I waited for all the bags to be claimed, I went to the lost luggage desk and declared my bag lost. So, by the time I finally emerged from the terminal (I will not bore you with the details of the lost bag, and the three days I waited for the bag to magically reappear in Castel del Bosco), it was about 2PM. I dragged my one suitcase to the parking lot where the Italian woman from the phone was waiting for me. I apologized profusely and we set about transferring the car into my name. "Let's go see your car, shall we?" I followed her to a lovely sleek, black convertible. She began to show me all the features, beginning with the trunk and when we arrived at the inside of the car, my face fell...
"But, is this a manual transmission?"
"Yes... of course."
"But, I contracted an automatic."
"But, it is a beautiful automobile, no?"
"Beautiful, for sure. But I cannot drive a manual shift car."
"Sure, you can. I will teach you."
Now, remember those daisies I was supposed to be as fresh as? I was feeling like someone had driven over them, backed up and hit the gas one more time, just for good measure.
"I am sure it is easy. However, I do not want to learn in the parking lot and then practice on the autostrada for 3 and a half hours to Pisa. How are we going to resolve this?"
"Are you sure you don't want to learn?"
The conversation was taking a Fellini-like turn and I didn't like where it was headed. So, I offered to call Portland to see if someone there had any suggestions. The Italian woman was rather incredulous that someone would be there at, essentially, the crack of dawn on a Sunday morning. I assured her that in America, someone was ALWAYS there. And, in fact, someone was.
I spoke to Joshua at Kemwel who assured me that he would work everything out for me. But, in the meanwhile, I had to get to Pisa. So, I hopped a bus, then a train, then another train, then a taxi (thank god I wasn't lugging two bags...) to Castel del Bosco. I spoke with Joshua again, and he said that he had arranged an interim car rental for me until the snafu was resolved. I had to pick it up in Pisa on the 29th. So, I headed to Pisa on the 29th to pick up the biggest Mercedes C class I had ever seen. (well, maybe that is an exaggeration, but it was a pretty big car...) I kept the car until I received the call from Jacques, my man with Peugeot, telling me that my car would be delivered from Nice on the 7th.
In between, the 29th and the 7th, there was a flurry of phone calls between Jacques in Paris and myself in Italy. I will leave you to imagine how those conversations went. I will say, however, Jacques also suggested I learn to drive the car that was in Milan...
However, the day arrived. Today, in fact. I woke up extra early. Got all cleaned up, lipstick, a great linen number all pressed and ready to go. I left, full of hope that I would return in my convertible. I even put on some SPF 6 for the ride home. I set out at 9:35, to make it to Pisa by 10:15. (In Jacques' most recent communication, he wrote that the driver would meet me at the car rental place in downtown Pisa between 10 and 10:30, because he had a train back to Paris at 11:30.) I even allowed time to stop for gas along the way. I arrived at the EuropeCar at Lung'Arno Sonnino number 1 at precisely 10:15.
At 10:29, my phone rang. It was Jacques. He wondered if my car had arrived. I replied that it had not and I was waiting exactly where we had decided. He said that he would try and call the driver and call me 'right back.' Now, perhaps the American 'right back' and the French 'right back' are two different things. I expected a call back within 10 or 15 minutes. When I had not heard back by noon, I was getting a little nervous. I called the French number from my correspondence to no avail. I was not dialing the numbers correctly, and I had no idea what I was doing wrong. So, I decided to call my buddies at Kemwel.
I would like to take a moment and describe how I imagine the guys at Kemwel are: in my mind, all the guys at Kemwel are big, rugged young men, all handsome, and all wearing LL Bean gear, duck boots, included, and look like they have just come in from a hike. They are all good natured, granola types who have never met a stranger and all have names like 'Josh' and 'Jeff' and 'Cameron.' They could just as easily work in a tackle shop offering expert fly fishing advice as organizing rental cars for poor beleaguered school teachers on vacation.
I call Kemwel, and sure enough, Bradley answers the phone and after hearing my tale of woe, swears that he will take care of everything. He puts me on hold and comes back a minute later.
"We are going to call Josh and wake him up and get to the bottom of this."
I was mortified at the idea of waking poor Josh up. He must be very exhausted after a day of chopping wood, or hunting duck. However, I was assured that it was fine to call him at home for some assistance. I was told just a few minutes later that Jacques would be calling me shortly. And, sure enough, the call came through. I was informed that the driver had encountered traffic and would be a couple hours still. I, in turn, informed Jacques that I was going home. I did not intend to sit in the hot Pisan sun for another 2 hours. I gave him the address in Castel del Bosco and told him to pass it on to the driver. I would take a train home and wait there.
Sure enough, about 45 minutes after arriving home, I got a call from Jacques. It seemed that the driver was lost. I offered some navigational advice and waited some more. At this point, Vivetta was keeping me company on the front porch, on car alert. She had a great time hyothesizing about this driver.
"Maybe he is a handsome Frenchman who will come in and sweep you off your feet..."
At about 3:00, a silver Peugeot 308 cc Feline piloted by my potential Frenchman came creeping past the front gate.
"She's here!" I squealed!
Vivetta dashed inside, lest she be seen in her housedress by the possibly dashing Parisian. I gathered my documents and opened the gate. My lovely car came inside and out came Jean-Claude, the driver who was neither handsome nor young.
"Bonjour, monsieur." I said, in my perfect French accent. (This is the only thing I can say with a perfect accent. I have often fooled people into thinking I speak French with this phrase, only to have to admit that that is all I have got.) "Parlez-vous Anglais?"
As I expected, Jean-Claude spoke no English. So the rest of the conversation was him speaking in French, me in Italian, but Italian spoken with a French accent. We signed all the documents, transferred the car into my possession, and I drove poor Jean-Claude to the train station so that he could catch a train back to Paris, from Pontedera, a journey of about 10 hours.
But what do I care?? I got my car and hot damn is it a nice car! I put the top down on the way back from the station. I turned the music up loud and drank in the sun. I did get a little burned on the back of my neck, however. Between walking to the train station in Pisa, and all the waiting in the sun in front of the car rental place, my precautionary SPF has melted away. But, no matter.
I will not lament my sunburn, rather I will wear it as a badge of honor, signifying all I have been through in the week and a half on my quest for the perfect holiday car. A rather noble quest, indeed.
martedì 6 luglio 2010
Castel del Bosco
For those of you who have been following my year on Facebook, it comes as no surprise that I have been in dire need of a vacation since about... oh... September 2nd. I started planning for my summer holidays about a week after that. I knew that wherever my travels eventually would take me, I would start in my beloved Castel del Bosco in the Province of Pisa. I first came to CDB in 2002, settling here after having spent two summers essentially backpacking through Italy. I knew that Tuscany was where I wanted to set up shop, and by pure accident I found this apartment on a quiet lane, about a mile from the FI-PI-LI autostrada at Montopoli Val D'Arno. When I first arrived, via Rafaello was a road of about 15 houses and 20 families, all of whom had been here for at least 2 or 3 generations. They were a community, close knit, like what you would expect from reading guide books on Italy. Today, some 8 years later, the building boom as hit even Castel del Bosco, and there are apartments, and **gasp** even a pizzeria!
But, even with the additional population and all that entails, the core community still remains. You still see families walking up the quiet street after dinner, taking their nightly constitutional. You still see the men-folk playing cards outside on a plastic table, sipping prosecco and gabbing about world cup football, or the economic crisis, or the influx of immigrants. You still find women sitting (now in the new piazza) smoking cigarettes, watching their children play until the church bell tolls their bedtime.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The 5 summers I spent here prior to settling in Siena allowed me to become part of the fabric of the community. I was able to get to know everyone's backstory: the marriages, the divorces, the pregnancies, the illnesses and in fact, the deaths. I was able to integrate into the cycle of life in this small village. Even after three full years in Siena, I never fully felt myself to be Senese in any sense of the term. I was always the American at the university, or in my apartment complex, where people scurried like mice back into thei holes of their apatments at the mere sound of footsteps. In Castel del Bosco, I was a de facto citizen of the town.
Last night, after being back for a week, Vivetta, my upstairs neighbor, landlady, dear friend, and second mother, and I after having sat out on the front porch and caught up on the goings on of the weekend, decided to take a short walk down to the bottom of the road, and see who all was out in the piazza tonight. We could hear the gleeful squeals of children, so Vivetta predicted that Mario might be out with his children and perhaps his mother, Marcella and her sister Luanna would be there, too.
So, we set out. Alas, we had spent too much time gossiping on our own, because when we arrived, all we saw were the remnants of the group, a few stragglers, our friends having just turned in to pumpkins and having headed for home. We wandered in the other direction to find Marco, Vivetta's husband still playing cards with Luigi, Carlo and Moreno, at Luigi's house, Gloria, Luigi's wife was watering the lawn. When we walked up, all smiles and 'ciao's' it felt like a real homecoming. "Lauri! How are you? How long has it been? How are you enjoying being back?" (nobody asked when I got here, because in a town this small, you would have to be living in a cave not to know when someone comes to town). After the quick answers: "I am great, how can you not be great on vacation. It has been at least 4 years since I have spent the summer here, I LOVE being back," we said our 'buona notte's and promised a longer visit another night.
That's the beauty of Castel del Bosco, there is always tomorrow.
But, even with the additional population and all that entails, the core community still remains. You still see families walking up the quiet street after dinner, taking their nightly constitutional. You still see the men-folk playing cards outside on a plastic table, sipping prosecco and gabbing about world cup football, or the economic crisis, or the influx of immigrants. You still find women sitting (now in the new piazza) smoking cigarettes, watching their children play until the church bell tolls their bedtime.
The more things change, the more they stay the same.
The 5 summers I spent here prior to settling in Siena allowed me to become part of the fabric of the community. I was able to get to know everyone's backstory: the marriages, the divorces, the pregnancies, the illnesses and in fact, the deaths. I was able to integrate into the cycle of life in this small village. Even after three full years in Siena, I never fully felt myself to be Senese in any sense of the term. I was always the American at the university, or in my apartment complex, where people scurried like mice back into thei holes of their apatments at the mere sound of footsteps. In Castel del Bosco, I was a de facto citizen of the town.
Last night, after being back for a week, Vivetta, my upstairs neighbor, landlady, dear friend, and second mother, and I after having sat out on the front porch and caught up on the goings on of the weekend, decided to take a short walk down to the bottom of the road, and see who all was out in the piazza tonight. We could hear the gleeful squeals of children, so Vivetta predicted that Mario might be out with his children and perhaps his mother, Marcella and her sister Luanna would be there, too.
So, we set out. Alas, we had spent too much time gossiping on our own, because when we arrived, all we saw were the remnants of the group, a few stragglers, our friends having just turned in to pumpkins and having headed for home. We wandered in the other direction to find Marco, Vivetta's husband still playing cards with Luigi, Carlo and Moreno, at Luigi's house, Gloria, Luigi's wife was watering the lawn. When we walked up, all smiles and 'ciao's' it felt like a real homecoming. "Lauri! How are you? How long has it been? How are you enjoying being back?" (nobody asked when I got here, because in a town this small, you would have to be living in a cave not to know when someone comes to town). After the quick answers: "I am great, how can you not be great on vacation. It has been at least 4 years since I have spent the summer here, I LOVE being back," we said our 'buona notte's and promised a longer visit another night.
That's the beauty of Castel del Bosco, there is always tomorrow.
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