Whirlwind Tour of St. Peter's

I've mentioned before that my husband and his family, seventh-generation Roman Romans Residing in Rome, have managed to retain their citizenship without having actually seen much of their own hometown.  Any true inhabitant of the Eternal City can tell you how to get to the Borghese Galleries or to Santa Maria Maggiore - he just can't tell you what those places look like inside.  It seems to be sort of a boast for a Roman to be able to list the seven hills of Rome while admitting that he has managed to avoid four of them for his entire life.

I was an enigma to these people; I who had visited the Vatican Museums nine times in one summer; I who, that same summer, used to slip into every church I passed on my route home from my Italian classes, checking them off and marking the dates in my guide book.  During my summer learning Italian, every evening over dinner, they would ask me "Che cosa hai fatto oggi?", "What did you do today?" and they would reply with me in unison: "Sono andata al Vaticano", since the chances were good that I had, indeed, been to the Vatican that day.

So it was a surprise to me, many years later on one of my visits to Rome with my husband, when my mother-in-law announced that she wanted to come with us to St. Peter's Basilica on our annual pilgrimage.  Of course, having been born and raised 10 miles down the Tiber River from the Vatican, this would be her first visit there - the opportunity had never arisen during the previous 55 years, so we arranged to go on a Wednesday morning when the markets were closed and she was free.  The #23 bus takes you straight there from the house - no transfers, no confusion, but we took the smallest car in the household to avoid the hassle of public transportation and were extremely lucky (or were we blessed?) to find a parking spot on the Via della Conciliazione, mere meters away from the dome of St Peter's.

Today there are lines to wait in and metal detectors before you can enter the basilica, but since it was 1985, we strolled in and made an immediate right turn to the first aisle where you find Michelangelo's Pieta'.  The sculpture is massive in size and, even behind protective glass, it is breathtaking and awe-inspiring - truly a wonderful introduction to the treasures that awaited us beyond.  My mother-in-law was duly impressed, but when we about-faced to walk up the north aisle to visit the rest of the basilica, she commented on how big of a place it was and after the long walk from the car, could she rest a little while before we ventured on?  I've never been one to sit down when there are wonders to behold, so it was decided that she would wait on one of the chairs set up near the entrance to the Treasury where my husband and I would pop in to look at the Papal jewels.

Bernini's Altar of the Chair of St. Peter

When we got back, she was, naturally, no longer in or near the chair where we had left her. We assumed that she had gotten tired of waiting for us in the interminable 10 minutes we had spent looking at crowns, rings, and gold-encrusted shepherd's staffs, so we looked in the neighboring chapels since she could not possibly have gone far on those weary feet.  When that proved fruitless, I came up with a plan: "Let's split up - you take the baldacchino, nave, and north aisle, and I'll search the narthex, Bernini's Cathedra Petri,  and the south aisle.  Meet back here in 45 minutes."  My husband glazed over on me, "I'll look outside."

After a half-hour of sifting through every gray-haired, short, support-stockinged elderly European woman, I was frantic.  My husband, well acquainted with his mother's whims, squinted his eyes, bared his teeth, and announced, "I bet she's home."  It took us another half hour to confirm this after a search for a payphone and place to buy the gettoni phone tokens used in place of legal tender for the purpose of aggravating anyone with an actual emergency.

When my mother-in-law answered the phone at home, she was unapologetic.  She was defiant: she had gotten tired of waiting for us and couldn't remember where we had parked the car, so she had exited the premises, cut across the piazza, and hopped on the #23 bus.  I don't think it bothered her in the least that she never actually saw the baldacchino or Bernini's Cathedra Petri - she had seen quite enough.  God rest her wonderful soul.

per Edda, con affetto



Enjoy this tour of the Basilica without leaving your chair

Art Un-appreciation

Ever since I was a little girl it was my great desire to see the cathedrals and museums of Italy.  My tiny little white Catholic Missal had tiny little pictures of St Peter's Cathedral in Rome, The Shroud of Turin, The Pieta'; my young Catholic mind formulated my own bucket list that ended up changing the direction of my life once I finally got to Rome and met my future husband. 

My first trip to Europe was the summer before my junior year in college with one sister and two friends, and I carefully orchestrated our itinerary knowing full well that the others would go along with my program as long as I kept us close to pastry shops and the occasional McDonald's.  We saw the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, the Louvre in Paris, The Vatican Museums in Rome, The Uffizi in Florence - I even threw in a deviation from our route just to see a Michelangelo sculpture in Bruges (no regrets there - Bruges is a beautiful city with excellent pastries.)

After we were married and before children we took several trips abroad where my husband tolerated my museum and church hauntings like an obedient newlywed: quietly and three steps behind me.  Like most Romans, he had seen very little of the wonders of his own city and I enthusiastically introduced him to its treasures, often accompanied by his mother or sister who also had minimal knowledge of Rome's attractions.

When we had children we were fortunate to spend a lot of time in Rome and I slowly, so as not to overwhelm them, introduced them to the Masters and their works; The Capitoline Museums in Rome were much smaller than The Vatican, so we started there, the three boys enjoying the Greek sculptures with snarling, wrestling lions, or the magnificent bronze Marcus Aurelius on horseback.  They were much older before I attempted The Sistine Chapel with them, hiring a private guide from an American tour company.  Unfortunately, my husband was with us for that five-hour tour, and his eye rolling and feet dragging was not helping me to keep the troops in good spirits. I think that's when it all started to fall apart.

How is it that a man who can spend 4 days on the beaches of Normandy studying every bayonet, SS helmet, grenade, parachute, and even, by god, the consistency of the grains of sand on Omaha Beach, how is it, I ask, that this man can ignore a Holy Family by Raphael?  Which wouldn't be so bad if he hadn't gotten to the children. 

On a trip to Florence with our friends, the Pates, we were fortunate enough to acquire tickets to the Uffizi Galleries. (Actually, they were fortunate that I had pre-paid 14 euros a pop for line-cutting reservations.)  Oh, the Uffizi!  Arguably the finest collection of Renaissance art in the universe, and I had only been there once, many, many years prior.  Imagine the fortune of my family and the Pates to have me as their guide - I had studied the floor plan the night before and knew precisely which rooms to visit for the greatest and most famous works - to attempt it all in one visit would be overwhelming and exhausting.  I would show them Leonardo's Annunciation, Michelangelo's Doni Tondo, Caravaggio's Bacchus, and, the magnificent Birth of Venus by Botticelli - I knew the route in my head and was able to maneuver around the slowpoke couples and shuffling tour groups, pointing hither and yon and speaking with authority on composition, lighting, allegory.  I was brilliant! until the point at which I lost control of my group as my husband and youngest son, exceeding the speed limit, got ahead of us by three or four rooms.

I sent a scout ahead to recover the troops, but she came back only with my son, who had a message from his father:  "We're tired and we're going back to the hotel."  I lay in wait, knowing that the coward would have to retrace his steps right through my present position in order to negotiate a successful evacuation.  Once in front of me, he unflinchingly repeated his plan.  I pleaded: "But you haven't seen The Birth of Venus!"  He didn't care who was getting birthed - he was going to take a nap. I insulted him: "You can spend the rest of your life completely devoid of culture and class, but the boy stays!" He shrugged, raised his eyebrows at my son, and said, "C'mon, let's go."  And so, they did. The Pates, terrified, remained.

The next day was our last in Florence, and although I had seen Michelangelo's David at the Accademia twice before, I knew it was worth visiting again. I was, however, no longer interested in casting pearls to the proverbial swine, so I mentioned that I would be going even if no one came with me.  Everyone was pretty tired, naturally, so when they asked me if the Accademia was a) nearby, and b) small, square-footage-wise, I made no attempt to convince them to come. Well, they said, since there was nothing better to do, so we all went to see the wonder that is Michelangelo's David.  Best thing they saw in all of Florence was the final vote, but some of them never saw The Birth of Venus.

Works at the Uffizi Gallery
Visit Florence
Capitoline Museums, Rome

San Gimignano: Torture and Hot Chocolate

It usually takes an embarassing tongue lashing from a waiter at a coffee bar or gelateria for an American traveler to Europe to learn that there are two different menu prices for the same items: one for standing and consuming your purchase, and a higher price for sitting at a table.  My husband, Claudio, nearly had the owner of one such establishment arrested after she charged us table price for eight hot chocolates when we were clearly drinking them in an upright position, but that was at the end of our short but eventful trip to San Gimignano....

On the day after Christmas we were traveling in a van with our friends, Nancy, John, and their two daughters, from Rome to Florence, by way of San Gimignano.  I had visited the famous city of towers years earlier with a friend and had enjoyed it so much that I put it on our itinerary for a quick visit.

Because of the town's history of invasions in the middle ages, its residents, in the interest of protection,  built tower fortresses around their homes.  These towers became a symbol of a family's wealth which was  ostentatiously displayed by the height of its tower. Today fourteen of the original 72 towers remain, giving the town a dramatic silhouette visible from miles around.  San Gimignano is a charming and unique town to visit, and well worth adding an extra half-day to your itinerary,  but I would be lying if I said that it had been the allure of the towers that motivated my return.

The Museum of Torture and The Museum of the Death Penalty are the true reason I had to go back to San Gimignano and I had piqued the interest of my husband and sons by telling them about my experience there. ( "Experience" is a more accurate description than "visit."  You visit the Louvre.  This place will leave a permanent impression on your psyche.)  The collections are comprised of authentic instruments, contraptions, and machines used from the Middle Ages up until the 20th century to coerce citizens into compliance or punish them for their transgressions.  (Some barbaric place called Alabama used a wooden seat hooked up to a power source to punish their criminals, so if you've never seen an electric chair stateside, you can enjoy one here.) Interestingly, yet not surprisingly, most of these methods were applied by members of the clergy to enforce Christianity on heathens or to punish bad Christians for veering off-road.  Remember the Inquisition from your World History class?

How many different kinds of instruments of torture can there be, you may ask? As many as they needed to get the point across, I suppose.  You're already familiar with a few: The Iron Maiden, The Rack, The Garotte; but if you were to think outside the box like some of these evil little monks, (no, don't!) you still wouldn't come up with The Pear, The Claw, or The Spike Chair.  I will leave it to you to research these further, if you dare, but suffice it to say that they really knew how to hurt a guy, or gal, and a slow, days-long, tortuous death was the objective.

So what did I find so delightful about this place, and how did my family and friends enjoy their "experience?"  To be truthful, the vote was split, but no matter how frightening or diabolical these exhibits are, most people are fascinated by the macabre and while we moved through the museums we invented a game of guessing how each instrument had been used.  It gets easier, actually, and a simple iron spike looked pretty obviously like the disemboweler that it was, but Nancy felt the need to stick her finger over the point before reading the descriptive sign.  ("Do you know where that's been, Nancy?")

By the time we had finished with the two museums we were tired and cold, and a quick stop at a coffee bar for a hot chocolate seemed simple enough.  But we did not sit down!, except maybe Nancy to rest for a quick second, and to have treated us like naive tourists when there was a scrappy Roman in the group was very short-sighted on the part of the owner.  Call it her lucky day, or her smart move at refunding our money, but the police were never called and we made it to Florence that night no worse for the wear.  It's been a few years and we're all on speaking terms again, but I won't apologize for providing everyone with a good cocktail party story; inappropriate as it may be to tell, it's a great ice-breaker.

Museum of Torture

A Letter From Lake Como

Dear George,

  I'm sorry you weren't home the last time I visited Lake Como.  I know I should have timed my trip better, but we we decided to stay an extra day in Freiburg, and you know how rarely I get to Germany!  It's funny how this was my second trip to the lago, yet the three Italians I was traveling with had never been, and I, once again, had to act as tour guide.  Romans!

  The photo at the top of my blog was taken at the Villa Monastero (do you visit other villas on the lake to compare?), which was originally a nun's monastery built in the early 1200's.  (I'd join that convent!)  As a visitor sashays through the ornate rooms and tranquil gardens, it's not a far stretch to imagine oneself as a baroness or important guest and wish that one could stay for a few days.  I was so sure that I had lived there in another life that I nearly shooed away all of the tourists; I didn't like the way they were snooping around.

Bellaggio

  No matter how many times I cross Lake Como on the ferries, I am still amazed at how big it is.  It took us 15 minutes to get from Varenna to Bellaggio, and 6 minutes to get to Menaggio, but those are only  the towns in the middle of the lake - it took another hour to get to Como.  I hear it's a six-hour drive to circle the lake; small wonder with all those annoying round-abouts.

   Do you ever get to the town of Como?  I doubt it since it's so crowded and you would get recognized too easily.  I would have to put Como on the list of the top shopping districts in Italy.  We were there on a Saturday, and the streets, closed to automobile traffic, were bustling with locals and tourists, and just when we would think we had come to the last shop, we would turn the corner and end up on yet another row of stores.  There were outdoor cafes, restaurants, boutiques, and churches - we even saw two weddings.  Too bad the Italian silk merchants have mostly been swallowed up by the Chinese, but who hasn't?

Menaggio

 


On our way back to Varenna on the ferry, we passed Laglio, where everyone shouted out "Ciao George!" at every grand villa, but I knew you wouldn't come out and wave like you used to in the early years, because, let's face it, those Italians are getting tiresome, aren't they?  They were charming and fun in the beginning, but they really act like they own you out on that lake: George this, and George that - don't they have celebrities of their own in Italy?  Seriously now, if it's a siting you're interested in, just come to Studio City, right?

  I promise next time I'm at Il Lago I'll give you more notice.  I'll just drop by to say hello though, I couldn't possibly stay at your place.  I'm sure your villa is quite lovely, but I really must get back to the Villa Monastero and see if they would be willing to cloister me there.

Until Then,
Susan

Villa Monastero

Dining in Italy off the Beaten Path

How can I write about Italy without talking about eating?  I don't generally find food to be all that interesting, but I would be leaving out a big chunk of the Italian Experience if I didn't share some of my favorite food stories.  Let me be clear here: I enjoy a good meal just like the next person, but I do not consider myself a foodie, and I know what a foodie is, because I have several in my family.  A foodie is someone who plans dinner while he's having morning coffee.   A foodie is someone who plans Christmas dinner the day after Thanksgiving, and makes sure no menu item is repeated.  A foodie is someone who not only remembers the restaurant and what she ate there, but will travel miles off the beaten path just to re-live that meal.

I am guilty on the last point in a few cases, most of them connected to food I've had in Italy.  I won't waste your time with Vivoli's gelato, pizza in Trastevere, or Bellini and panini at Harry's Bar - all wonderful fare, but soooo overhyped.  The places I'm listing here are not easy to get to, and probably not exactly where you're going, but, if you're anywhere near the neighborhood, are worth the travel time. ( N.B. Not my fault if your experience isn't as enjoyable as mine since, in many cases, it's been a few years since my last visit to the restaurant.)

Al Castello, Vernazza (Cinque Terre)  A view to die for (actually, you may die on your hike up the hill to get here), and a pesto lasagne that I've tried to replicate many times.  I went back to the Cinque Terre two years after the first trip, mostly for the lasagne, and asked for the recipe, which was gladly given to me by the Signora who makes it every day: 12 layers of hand-rolled pasta with a bechamel-pesto sauce, (more bechamel than pesto) between every layer.  We were in Liguria, where they invented pesto; she even revealed that they use both Parmiggiano-Reggiano and Pecorino cheeses with the basil, pine nuts and olive oil that they chop in a food processor.  I've made it many times, and it's never come out as good as the pasta I've, sadly, only had the pleasure of eating twice.  Sorry, but I can't speak for the other dishes offered since I've only tried the one.

Trattoria La Fiasca, Sirmione   Firstly, Sirmione is a beautiful town on Lake Garda in the north of Italy, just west of Verona.  Entering the borgo of Sirmione on the wooden footbridge, you are instantly transported into medieval times, surrounded by the stone fortifications of the Rocca Scaligera Castle. Shops and gelaterie  have taken the place of the workshops and huts of those serving the Lombard King, but the structures have remained the same, and the streets that take you through the tiny peninsula have changed very little.
But enough about beautiful Sirmione.  I visited Trattoria La Fiasca long, long ago on a very stormy night, and we had driven in from Verona, so it's close enough that you don't have to stay overnight. It was cold, so we ordered grill pork chops which were lightly dressed in olive oil, and were delicious enough on their own, but the thing that I can't get out of my head was the bruschetta (please say "bru-skett-a" and not "bru-chett-a") that was simply bread toasted on the grill and DRIZZLED WITH THE PAN DRIPPINGS FROM THE PORK CHOPS. I won't insult anyone with further elaboration; if you don't get it, I'm not interested in converting you.  Just know that I, (not a foodie, may I remind you) returned to Sirmione on two other occasions but was unable to revisit my food nirvana because I didn't have reservations, and yes, I did beg. 

Ristorante Le Capannine, Barberino di Mugello (near Florence)
We found this little jewel on a car trip from Florence to Rome by way of  recommendation from a truck driver.  Never judge a book by its cover, and I refer to the truck driver who we Americans in the car would not have approached - fortunately, we had an Italian in the car who knew better.  The restaurant is right off Autostrada A, in a rustic stone house (capannina is the Italian word for hut). Upon entering, you are warmly welcomed by dried sausages and prosciutti hanging from the ceiling, and not so warmly welcomed by a burly, also rustic, man positioned behind a wood-fired grill.  After one whiff we unanimously voted to stay.  Our meal consisted of ribollita (vegetable soup cooked with bread), a cold-cut platter with various dried sausages, prosciutto, mortadella, and cheeses, and a huge platter of grilled meats: pork chops, bistecca alla Fiorentina, and sausages. Our bill was considerably lower than what we paid to eat in Florence and Venice, and the owner and employees were friendly and spoke English (the man at the grill didn't have to be friendly - he was a magician.)  I can't wait to go back and clean my plate with that wonderful bread.

Don't worry - I wouldn't leave you without the links:

Ristorante Al Castello
Trattoria La Fiasca
Ristorante La Capannine

Sirmione

Allowing Your Marble to Age Gracefully

I can't tell you how often friends and clients ask me for a referral for someone to come to their home to polish or refinish their aging marble.  In true California youth-oriented style, everyone (alright, they're mostly women) wants to exfoliate the dull sheen to reveal the original smooth, shiny surface that they so enjoyed when the stone was first installed.  I hate to make so obvious an analogy, but ladies, you need to embrace the passage of time rather than resist it.  Your marble entryway has gotten to the state it's in by experiencing life: when it was new, it had a shiny finish; then it was walked over, skidded on, and treated like any other floor.  Why be upset that it's showing its age?

A real patina takes years to form, and cannot be successfully faked.  Think of the furniture experts on Antiques Roadshow who admonish people for refinishing old valuable pieces - it decreases the value tremendously.  In Italy, retail and food establishments almost always have counters and tables made with marble - not even granite, which is more durable - and it is never, ever refinished.  Italians have a way of facing the truth about aging, and wouldn't think to hone and polish a white or green marble counter top to give it the appearance of being new.  Staircases in many old houses, churches, and public buildings have a wonderful indentation in the middle of each marble step formed from centuries of foot traffic. I always look down when I climb Italian marble stairs, thinking of all of those who have preceded me and all who will come after I am gone.

I realize that our houses are not all palaces, but we need to learn to appreciate the beauty that lies beneath the surface and quit trying to stop the clock.  Brand-new and shiny is a lot of fun, but gracefully aged is much more interesting.

The Holy Stairs in Rome (slideshow of restoration)

Stairs to Cupola of St Peter's Basilica, Rome
Approximately 450 years young

Roman Travertine: Do you have a piece of the Colosseum?

If you've never seen it in person, you've seen it hundreds of times in pictures or in movies: The Flavian Amphitheater, commonly known as the Colosseum.  There are very few structures on this earth as old as  the Roman Colosseum, and, as it turns out, with as long a legacy.  Though the clashing of gladiators' swords and the roar of the bloodthirsty crowds have been long silent, Colosseum Stone is still being quarried in Tivoli, near Rome, and if you have any Italian travertine in your home, perhaps cladding your fireplace or covering your floors or countertops, you share a link with the ancient Roman world.

I know of no other place that manages to take my breath away no matter how many times I've seen it, and whenever I'm in Rome I make an effort to pay a visit, preferably via the subway.  When friends ask me about siteseeing in Rome, I tell everyone to make sure to take the subway Line B, exit "Colosseo" rather than a bus or taxi; the vision that beholds you after coming up the escalator from the dark subway and exiting the station is guaranteed to take your breath away.  The familiar arched colonnades of the massive structure appear directly in front of the station, larger even than you imagined it would be. As you cross the street to get closer, try to ignore the cheesy Roman Gladiator costumed men.  I wish we could rewind Italy back to the 80's before someone came up with the awful yet genius idea that the Disneyfication of their national treasures would line some pockets, but then I'm old-fashioned.

I remember wondering why there was a big bite missing from the Colosseum when I first saw it, and for some reason I thought it had suffered damage from WWII, which also explained the huge pock marks on the exterior facade.  I had pictured a big gun battle with the Italian army defending their monuments against the nasty German army who had no regard for a country's history.  I'm not sure what artillery I had in mind, nor where I got the idea that there was ever a battle in Rome during The War, but let that be a warning to anyone sending their kids to L.A. Unified.

As it turns out, the missing travertine from the Colosseum was pilfered not by enemies of Rome, but from the Romans themselves, some of whom, according to legend, may have been of the Papal persuasion. The Colosseum was damaged in earthquakes, but instead of repairing the ancient amphitheater, the travertine was salvaged to build palaces and churches throughout Rome.  In 1450, Pope Nicolas V ordered 2,500 cartloads of Colosseum Stone delivered to the ancient St. Peter's Basilica in order to make repairs to the original structure, but it's not known how much actually went into the Renaissance structure standing today once it was completed in 1655.  So there we have it: a beautiful basilica at one end of the city, and a fragmented amphitheater at the other - and, as usual when it comes to Italian design, it works.

Links:
Virtual Tour of St Peter's Basilica
The Roman Colosseum: Architectural Details and History

Snow in Rome: February, 2012

Rome Behind the Velvet Rope

My husband's cousin Anna Rita is no different than the typical big-city, sociology-degreed (acquired after the children were in school, of course), soup-kitchen-volunteering woman in any city in the world; she belongs to museum societies and architectural preservation leagues, she counsels troubled teens, and is the first to get tickets to every special exhibit or play that hits her town.  Her town just happens to be Rome, and I count myself among the fortunate few to be on her list of people she enjoys showing around her beloved city.  It doesn't hurt that she's incredibly pushy and seems to think that my being American boosts her status up a couple of points, but I'm in no position to argue, and I must say that we make a great team.

Anna has used my citizenship to enable us to drive through taxi- and bus-only zones ("I'm with my American cousin and she's leaving tomorrow and we only have five minutes to get to our appointment at the Borghese"); she habitually line-cuts and drags me red-faced to the front; we have even interrupted weddings to look at important works of art ("if they wanted privacy they shouldn't have gotten married in this cathedral'.) She has brought me to places that most tourists never see, and many Romans have never heard of: The Orsini-Odeschalchi Castle at Bracciano (Tom Cruise got married there years after I had discovered it); a lovely convent in Rome with cloistered, vow-of-silence nuns where I knocked over a chair while they were singing vespers; the church of San Clemente which is a 12th century basilica built over a fourth century basilica built over a first century Roman pagan temple;  and The Palazzo Farnese in Caprarola, which goes down in my book as Anna Rita's Greatest Hit.

Like most Americans (alright, American women) I love a castle - the older the better, furnishings preferred though not required - and I don't mean to brag but I've seen my fair share of chateaux in Europe so I feel comfortable saying that Palazzo Farnese should be on that 1,000 Places Before You Die list.  Anna Rita took a Monday off of work to take me there, and after an hour long car ride from Rome, we arrived in the little town of Caprarola which consists of narrow streets around a main piazza, all overshadowed by the imposing castle which seemingly lords over the tiny village.  We arrived to find that the castle was closed to visitors, which we should have known since most national monuments in Italy are closed on Mondays. With a shrug of my shoulders I started toward the car, but Miss Not So Fast Anna Rita started banging on the huge wooden castle door. As my stomach did somersaults the door was eventually opened by a man in a guard's uniform, and Anna started her plea: "My cousin is from Los Angeles and has been wanting to visit this castle but she's going back to America tomorrow; can you please just let us peek inside?" During the following tense five seconds, I went through an Italian Judgement which my years of experience have taught me to endure by making direct yet submissive eye contact.  Save the Alpha-dog for another day.

Maybe the guard fell in love with us, more likely he was bored, but  not only did he open the doors,  he led us on a private tour of the entire castle.  I didn't even have to feign the enthusiasm which seemed to encourage him to show us room after room, secret doors, the courtyard entrance, the Scala Regia - the grand spiral staircase where horse-drawn carriages would ascend with their passengers.  For the two hours we were there, just the three of us, it was easy for me to imagine what it must have been like to wander those halls and passageways during the 16th century.  When the tour was over and he accompanied us to the great wooden doors to see us out, despite protests from Anna Rita, I took some money from my wallet certain that he would proudly refuse it.

So he took the money, but nothing could have tarnished that day for me.  Anna Rita and I giggled on the whole ride home.  If you go,  try to visit on a Monday.

Link to:
Castle Odescalchi Bracciano
Basilica of San Clemente
Palazzo Farnese Caprarola

Grand Marble Staircase at Palazzo Farnese

Venice vs. The Venetian

Several years ago we went to see The Venetian hotel in Las Vegas while on a weekend trip with our family.  After walking next to the "canals" fronted by high-end mall stores, we found ourselves in a large expanse which identified itself with a sign: St. Mark's Square.  Someone within earshot was heard to ask, "I wonder if St. Mark's Square in the real Venice is as big as this?" Recently, a friend of mine reported back to me regarding his trip to Italy that three nights in Venice was one too many; "it's kinda like Catalina - you've seen the whole thing in a day or two, then you keep walking by the same stuff."

These comments do not anger or frustrate me, nor do they provoke me into an argument - I'm not interested in explaining the wonder that is  Venice to those who have no ears to hear. I prefer that everyone stay home anyway because you see, any time I've had the privilege to visit a major city in Europe in the last few years, I've had to elbow my way through the streets, reserve my admission to the museums, and relinquish the solemnity of the cathedrals to microphoneed tour guides followed by bored, feet-shuffling tourists.

My scientific studies show that there are two kinds of people in this world: those who have an interest, a curiosity to see foreign lands and their people, and those who should never leave the country.  The second group can be further broken into two sub-groups comprised of those smart enough to never leave the country, and those who get no benefit from travel other than bragging rights about where they've been, and we all know people from that last group.  They're the ones who return from a trip with a shopping bag from Harrod's, a "j'aime Paris" bumper sticker, and a plastic apron bearing a likeness of the very naked David by Michelangelo.

The rest of us, those who have been and those who want to go, know the truth: Venice is a magical place.  It is full of wonders crammed into the most unlikely spaces on meandering little streets surrounded by water and connected by footbridges; it is a marvel of engineering and architecture and unsurpassed in its grace and beauty.  Don't ask me if the canals smell of stagnant water because I was so awestruck by their magnificence that I could barely breathe. Don't ask me where I went  because I found it impossible to retrace my steps, often finding myself happily lost in the maze of dark streets and medieval gallerias.  I've been to many a look-out point in my life: the Eiffel Tower, the dome of St. Peter's, the Empire State Building, but the sight of Venice from the bell tower in Piazza San Marco is like no other - devoid of modern buildings and automobiles, the view has scarcely changed over the centuries.

In my next life I'll spend the spring months of the year in an old palazzo on the Grand Canal and I'll haunt the museums and churches, of course getting there early before the tourists arrive, and I'll never have to go to the same place twice.  If you promise to love Venice as much as I do, you can come too.  Otherwise, I recommend saving yourself the trip and going to the The Venetian in Vegas where the canals smell of chlorine.

Link to: St Mark's Square Venice

Morning Rituals or Random Thoughts While Cleaning the Marble Counters

When I open the store in the morning I go through my  rituals, almost always in the same order (make coffee first, but wait until my chores are done before pouring any) and with a spirit filled with hope for a prosperous day. As we perform our perfunctory duties on a daily basis we tend to play the same tape through our minds at certain points in the process, and as I spray watered-down Murphy's Oil on the Rosso Verona countertop, I am brought back to my days as a student in Rome when, on my morning walk to school,  I would watch the shopkeepers on the Via del Corso as they prepared to open their stores.

Dressed in smocks to protect their stylishly understated clothes, the shopgirls dutifully vacuumed and mopped, the windows were polished.  No Roman would rely on a public service department to maintain the streets and sidewalks, so these were swept with old, straw witch-brooms and scrubbed with soapy water and a brush. Only then could the shopgirls make a quick dash to the bar for their final cappuccino of the morning where they competed for bar space with the businessmen in their summer gabardine suits, they too squeezing in what was probably their second or third espresso before surrendering to the monotony of the office. 

I would walk by and observe them all, never having the courage to enter a bar alone, afraid that my face, my clothes, my lack of Roman attitude would give me away as not One Of Them.  I remember a particular store on the Via di Propaganda before I would turn down Via della Mercede to get to the Dante Alighieri Italian School for Foreigners in Piazza di Firenze.  It was a showroom for Brunschwig & Fils, and had one club chair in the middle of a shiny Black Absolute granite floor, and I often wished that I could be the shopgirl there, watching the world go by while waiting for someone to come in and buy that one chair.

Now, these many years later, I'm happy to polish the countertops and mop the travertine floors at our store; to begin a day so simply gives me the chance to clear my head for the many tasks ahead as well as a sense of accomplishment in having cleansed  our space of the previous day's events.  As I lose myself in the welcome mindlessness of cleaning, sometimes I even pretend I'm working at Brunschwig & Fils.

Link to:Dante Alighieri School of Italian Language
Brunschwig & Fils

The Elegance of White Marble

Any home magazine published this year is certain to feature an article or advertisement with photos of a kitchen or bathroom with white marble.  White is the new black, and the popularity of White Carrara, Statuary, and Calacata marbles is showing no signs of waning.

On a recent episode of "Selling New York" on HGTV, one of the selling points of a multi-million dollar apartment in Manhattan was the "Calcutta" marble bathroom.  (If they want to call it Calcutta, it's fine with me; just keep asking for it.)  Many of the apartments featured in the show boast of recent professional remodels, and it's no surprise that the NYC designers choose white marble kitchens and bathrooms to add elegance and value to the properties.

My favorite TV Italian chef has a Calacata kitchen island in her home from which her show is shot, which is not surprising since Italian households have had White Carrara or Statuary marble kitchen tables since the invention of cappuccino and biscotti.  I could cry when I think of what became of my Roman mother-in-law's White Carrara worktable where she used to hand-roll her pasta and share espressos and cigarettes with her sisters - after she passed away, her daughter Liliana remodeled the house and got rid of all of the traditional Italian furnishings and gadgets. (I grabbed a few post-WWII tea towels and trattoria ashtrays, thankfully.)  Having grown up with that aged and worn marble-topped pine table, Liliana couldn't appreciate its value and threw it away.  I'm not sure if she would make the same choice today - Italians are finally experiencing a resurgence of "vintage", and it's about time they showed some appreciation for their abundant resources, although that puts me at a disadvantage next time I try to haggle at Porta Portese.

White marble is elegant, classic, and timeless.  A White Carrara bathroom at home is akin to having a spa experience everyday.  A Calacata kitchen island is a work of art.  It takes courage for those of us who actually use our kitchen counters to allow the marble to wear and age, but my mother-in-law and her generation would have never fussed over a few nicks and scratches.  They were too busy rolling out the pasta.