The Year of Living Sabbatically, Part 2: 2024 Italia!
Life with Professore: Year of Living Sabbatically, Part 2
Follow Our Voyages on Polarsteps:
https://www.polarsteps.com/TessAndThomasOnSabbatical/14205860-the-year-of-living-sabbatically-part-2
Italia!
Waking up to the sound of church bells. Near our Tuscan palazzo they ring at 7:00am, as they did near our guest house in Riomaggiore; in Venezia, outside our window at 7:30am. No need for an alarm clock. I soon started telling time according to the number church bell chimes.
Been eating cheese. Lots of cheese. And I don’t like cheese. I frequently find it, well, offensive. Stinky. Here, it’s somehow not. But it is delicious.
Been eating pasta. Several times a week, like at Nanny’s house on Greenport Road ages ago when it was still called macaroni. Pasta was banished from my diet when I started seriously caring about my weight in the early 1980’s: too many empty carbs. Here, since we arrived, I’ve eaten more pizza and pasta than I have in all the years since I graduated college. Combined. And haven’t gained an ounce.
Haven’t seen the inside of a gym in weeks.
Been quaffing Chiani. Lots of it. The Chianti that makes it to the US is undrinkable. The Chianti in Chianti (usually 100% sangiovese) is sooooooo #@&?! good. They must keep the good stuff for themselves, export the drek to us. Or we ruin it with our insistence on additives, preservatives, what have you. I was also surprised to discover that unlike home, Valpolicella, from the wine region near Verona, is also unbelievably smooth, rich and drinkable. And the region’s Amarone is amazing and, unlike home, affordable.
Everywhere, vineyards. Entire towns, hillsides, fields large and small, gardens, tiny patches of land, covered by lush perfectly-spaced vines bearing fat grapes. Rolling hills as far as the eye can see in Tuscany, terraced cliffs like steps down to the sea in Cinque Terre, flattening out farther east into field after field of vineyards in Emilia Romagna. Not surprised to learn that Italy has surpassed France as the world’s biggest producer and exporter of wine. Hard to avoid it, it’s so good and so cheap and so available everywhere. At home I’ll have a drink or two, two or three times a week; here, we started designating “dry days/nights” to take a rest from the too-abundant, too-delicious vino. Not easy.
The bees are enormous – three times the size of ours. And thankfully, blasé.
Anyone who says that Oct. is a great month to visit northern Italy has never been to northern Italy in Oct. (That includes you, Rick Steves.) Yes, there was some sun. But the weather included entire days of deluge in Tuscany, storms that closed the Parco Nazionale de Cinque Terre, road closings due to floods in Emilia-Romagna, and a downpour or two in Venezia. Then the sun returned. In November.
In northern Italy, there are mosquitos in Oct. Everywhere. And they bite. But not as hard as the ones at home. And they don’t leave behind a long-lasting itch.
We listened to opera in Lucca, Puccini’s hometown; Vivaldi in the Chiesa de la Pieta in Venezia, where he was priest and violinist; we stumbled upon vespers in too many churches to list.
When BofA canceled Thomas’s debit card days before our departure, siting some kind of mysterious, unauthorized charge, he had to bring just his Visa and Amex credit cards and a pile of cash. Ala, no one in Italy seemed to want the mighty dollar – none of the Italian banks will touch them. Amex is about as popular as cash. Visa would charge a fortune in fees. So for euros, unlit further notice, it’s me and my debit card.
Should we be tipping here? If so, how much and for what?
There are no straight lines, horizontal or vertical, in Italy. It’s all serpentine curves, hairpin turns, winding hills or stairways leading up, up, up. Getting from point A to point B is never direct; it involves going around, driving through, turning in to, heading out of, before arriving where you want to go. Which may take time, but it’s usually worth the trip. You never know what you’ll see along the way. That said,
Driving in Italy is a hair-raising adventure in and of itself. Frequently death-defying. Many main roads are narrow, really narrow by American standards, barely accommodating two-way traffic in tiny European cars. Someone has to pull over to let the other guy pass … Some country and old town roads barely fit one car. Do not trust your GPS: it may direct you to a road that isn’t really a road, but rather more of a passageway that Fiats and Minis might be able to maneuver but you cannot. Certainly not without folding in your rearview mirrors. Be forewarned: Do not rent an SUV here, you’ll have an impossible time navigating traffic, driving on many narrow roads, and you’ll never be able to park. Road real estate was designed for tiny Italian cars, and not many roads other than the Autostradas (which are quite expensive) have been enlarged to accommodate vehicles we Americans have grown too accustomed to. Parking in garages is also a challenge, as a larger car will never make it around the sharp turns or fit into the small spaces.
I reiterate: don’t trust the GPS. The day we drove back to Firenze to get the rest of our shots for Africa (by a marginally but vocally anti-vax MD) and continue our visit of the city, we missed a turn and were instructed by the English lady in the GPS to take an alternate route. What she didn’t mention was that the road she suggested barely allowed for one car, let alone two, and at several points we nearly got wedged in, too big to pass through. The Italians we passed gave us that look and a shrug. Funny now; then, not so much.
Italians drive as if traffic signs were a suggestion. On the road they are not polite and do not yield but rather sally forth as if they always have the right of way, and hope for the best. Somehow it works, we only saw one accident after 5 weeks of driving from Rome to Orvieto to the castello; all around Tuscany, including to/from Siena and Florence twice, to San Gimignano, Volterra, and smaller hill towns around Chianti, Val d’Elsa, Arezzo (one of Tuscany’s few skippable towns), Cortona; to Cinque Terre and Porto Venere; eastward across to Bologna and Ravenna; up to Padua and Venezia; Venezia to Verona to Bergamo and all around Lago di Como (oh Lord, avoid driving here!); to Milano and to the airport –
Italians walk the way they drive.
Italians/Venetians drive boats the way they walk.
If you are American and plan on driving in Italy with these maniacs, be sure to get an International Driving Permit from AAA. Without it, you won’t be rented a car; without it, you’ll be driving illegally. This I believe is particular to Italy.
Italians are loud. As if life were an opera, every moment heightened and must be expressed to the fullest.
Italians live the way they drive.
And the food. My God, the food. After 6 weeks sampling the cuisines of northern Italy, I may never be able to enjoy a meal elsewhere ever again. The piatti of the country, like the wine and the cheese, are very specific to the region. Each flaunt their home-grown specialties. In Tuscany, the macellaria is queen. Meat. Lamb, Bistecca Fiorentina, salsiccia cingale (wild boar) hangs in market and restaurant windows, incredibly fresh, tempting even the staunchest vegetarian. In Cinque Terre, we feasted on fish from the Ligurian Sea, and locally grown “bio” (organic) produce. Though the roe deer ravioli might have been one of the best things I’ve ever put in my mouth … Bologna taunted us with everything. Venezia, more seafood. Verona, city of Romeo and Juliet, serves donkey. Yes, donkey. And horse. On restaurant menus all over town. Any trepidations, there’s always house-made pasta dishes and perfect pizzas everywhere you go -
The saying goes, When in Rome, do as the Romans do. Same goes for the rest of Italy. Do as the Italians do. There’s really no other choice. The Italians have their particular way; they understand the ebb and flow of their world; to them, it makes perfect sense. One must follow the rhythms of the locals. If you are outside of a major tourist center, even in big cities such as Padua, stores, banks, offices, many services, even churches and some museums, close for several hours at noon or one for pranzo. You can get annoyed that you can’t shop or change money and visit some sights during the middle of the day. Or you can adjust your schedule to go with the Italian flow. You can sit and have a leisurely lunch. And maybe a gelato. You can scratch your head trying to understand what is and isn’t included in the 3-day pass to the Cinque Terre Parco Nationale you bought on the Internet before your trip. (No, the newly-opened Via Dell’Amore between Riomaggiore and Manarola isn’t. And the famous hike you were dying to do between Manarola and Vernazza is closed for repairs.) Or you can pay the difference and keep the receipt, as you’ll need to show it again and again, every time to use a trail or via in the Parco. You can bemoan the fact that no one in town, including your hotel staff, the tour guides or the Internet, knew that the Teatro Romano in fair Verona is closed in preparation for the Milano Cortina 2026 Winter Olympics the days you’re visiting; you found out from a hand written note on a piece of paper taped to the entrance window. Or you can rent a bike and ride to her four extraordinary Italian Gothic churches. You can get upset that a greve generale has been called by the Lago di Como ferry lines, or the vaporettos in Venezia, with only “limited service” (read: almost no service) available the one day you planned to ferry from town to town or boat out to Burano. Or you can figure a way to work around it. Go on a hike. Or a stroll in the garden. Or go to the Arsenale. Or go tomorrow instead. Che sera, sera.
(Did I mention that I’m Italian? Like, officially? Legally?
You may already know that I am of Italian extraction. Physically, 100% Italian. Three of my four grandparents came over from Lazio (the regione of Rome) and Campania (the regione of Naples) through Ellis Island after WWI; the fourth was born in Queens, New York, of Italian immigrant parents. According to Italian law, because my father’s father was still Italian at the time of my father’s birth (Grandpa naturalized as a US citizen years later), my dad, though born in the USA, was also Italian. And because in the eyes of il governo italiano my father never disavowed his citizenship, his progeny, despite being born abroad, is also Italian. And as such, we are eligible to apply for Italian citizenship, an Italian passport, to become a member of the EU.*
After the 2016 presidential elections, I realized that it might be time to look for an exit strategy. Perhaps in France, which I always adored but was rather expensive … or Portugal, a more affordable and a very popular pick for expats … or Spain, a perennial favorite … or Italy, the mother country? I started looking on the Iberian Peninsula, visiting Lisbon, Porto, Malaga, Valencia … And then, my mother dies in Dec. 2019; the Covid epidemic paralyses the world beginning Mar. 2020; the country grinds to a halt when we “shelter in place” as the virus does its dirty, deadly business; and the city expresses its frustration and anger in support or defiance of the Black Lives Matter movement during a long summer of discontent. Protests, looting, masks, social distancing, long lines, empty shelves, fireworks exploding in the middle of the night. To say nothing of flaring tempers -
With my disparate streams of income all shut down, this would be a prime time to begin the lengthy, complicated, at times exacerbating process of becoming Italian. Could I? Should I? Three years later, my family’s citizenship dossier is completed and approved. E ecco - io sono italiana! E sempre americana! Four years later, my passport interview takes place, and I have it in hand when Thomas and I embark on our 6-week Avventura Italiana days later.)
*As of March 29, 2025, the Italian Government has decided to amend its pathways to citizenship by greatly restricting eligibility, discontinuing its embassies’ ability to process and grant citizenship, requiring applicants appear for an interview in Italy, etc. Because my father was still a minor when my grandfather naturalized as American, under the new rules I believe my family would no longer be able to use this pathway. However, because my mother’s mother, Grandma Greco, never naturalized as an American citizen, we are still considered Italian by the government and as such eligible for citizenship through her line.
Tuscany
We arrive in Roma, get our rented car, hit the road for Orvieto for a brief, jet-lagged stop en route to our palazzo in Tuscany. We don’t have time to see much there, but it’s a gentle intro to what’s to come. Imposing Duomo, narrow ancient streets, rolling hills. Another brief stop in Siena to see the Campo and their Piazza del Duomo before arriving at our historic home for the next 10 days.
As the sun sets, we take Tuscany’s winding roads up and down her green hillsides, across her tiny towns, through miles of vineyards, to the Castello di Montegufone. We arrive after dark, yet are still duly impressed with the grandeur of the stately palazzo bathed in her night lights. Which doesn’t jibe with the fact that we have to drag our four very heavy bags up the gravel entrance staircase, across the interior courtyard, through the main salon, down another stone stairway, and across the bar and restaurant terrace area in front of guests having cocktails, to our suite. (We later discover an easy back way for our car to access the room.)
Our suite has a name: Bastione. Bastione has three levels: the large bedroom on the top floor, where we enter; down one of those circular stone staircases you only find in castles or cathedrals to the bathroom on the second; then further down the stone staircase to the dining area and kitchen which open onto a private outdoor yard. In the limited lighting it looks as though we’re in what was perhaps the castello’s kitchens and food storage areas. We are delighted. We unpack and settle in.
We wake up the next morning to the sound of church bells, and to the most extraordinary view from the bedroom balcony. Of endless verdant vineyards, interrupted only by another palazzo sitting atop a hill a few miles away. That’s pretty much it. Nothing but castles and farms blanketing the undulating hills as far as the eye can see. Like waking up in paradise.
Now nestled in its blankets of vineyards, construction on the original palazzo started in the 10th or 11thcentury. This first one was razed, and another built on the site beginning in 1280. Over the years, Renaissance and later Baroque additions were made to the medieval structure by the series of powerful, ruthless Tuscan families who lived there. Grand and austere, yet graceful. Recently, during the German occupation of World War II, Italian Resistance members hid Uffizi masterpieces by Rubens, Giotto, even Botticelli’s “Primavera” here. Surrounded by lush trees and gardens, it has on site a pool area, a locavore restaurant and bar, outdoor terraces for lounging with that spectacular view. Accommodations varied, from simpler, more rustic single rooms and suites like ours to sumptuously appointed apartments like La Galeria, very grand and Lord of the Manor.
Our palazzo’s caveats soon begin to reveal themselves. The bedroom furnishings are big and wooden and old, rather functional and haphazard. The bathroom appeared to be, and soon proved to be, desperately inserted into an available space. The living/dining area had bench seating along the length of the wall, a small table, a tiny round kitchen sink and marble counters that looked straight out of someone’s nonna’s house. Charming, yes; palatial, no.
First, the Bedroom.
On one of our deluge days in Tuscany, the ceiling started to sweat, then leak. Fortunately, we moved our laptops before the dripping began. “Eet’sa old beeldinga.” We will hear this again and again, with a sympathetic shrug, from the very friendly and helpful staff: When the lights flicker and go out, when the hot water doesn’t work, when the outlets don’t charge our devices, when the oven goes on the fritz.
The Bathroom.
Oh lord, that bathroom.
It had a pretty marble counter and shell-shaped sink. But the shower –
One of those smallish free-standing square-floored shower stalls tentatively installed in an available corner. It had no shelves to hold soap, shavers or bottles, so we had to open and close the door repeatedly to reach a nearby shelf to get what we needed, which drenched the already-slippery floor. And the water: Seems that in order to kick-start the suite’s internal boiler to heat our bathroom and kitchen water, you had to turn the faucet way up, to nearly full blast. Which left us a choice of a cold shower with normal pressure, or a scalding one pelting our naked hides with what felt like burning needles. While flooding the bathroom floor.
This we didn’t like.
We also didn’t like that the WiFi only worked in the main salon area, not in our suite.
But oh, that view -
The Kitchen.
Nonna’s kitchen was charming even though we couldn’t heat our morning bread in the wonky oven. (Despite the staff “fixing” it twice, it never worked properly.) We took colazione of pane, burro, formaggio, cereale, frutta, biscotti and caffe Moka outside on the terrace, surrounded by enormous pots of lemon trees bearing enormous lemons we used in our nightly tea. Several evenings at the small table we enjoyed dinners of incredible – and incredibly cheap - salami cingale (wild boar), pommodori, formaggio della regione, crostini, prosciutto, and bottles of local 100% sangiovese chianti ... and never woke up with a headache or hangover.
At the palazzo’s ristorante, a few steps outside our front door, Chef Antonella prepared wonderful dishes made with local, organic (“bio”) ingredients paired with wine from domains in the area. We would start the bottle watching the sun set from the outside terrace area, finish it over dinner.
As mentioned, don't tell France, but Italy is currently the world’s largest exporter of wine, surpassing even France. Driving so many roads, we could see why: the entire north seemed to be covered with vineyards. Some olive trees, no animals grazing; but miles and miles of vineyards. On the hillsides, clinging to cliffs, in the open fields, in backyard gardens. Big fat grapes, purple or green. Italy also claims to have the world’s oldest official wine domain regions, for Chianti Classico, dating back to 1716. We learned this in Radda, one of Chianti’s small and perfect stone towns atop a hill.
In and around Tuscana, we couldn’t get enough of the view. From our bedroom window. From the palazzo’s terraces. From the car on every road we drove. Too much beauty to try to capture on the winding roads from town to town. Tuscany is what happens when God/dess and wo/man work together.
It rained. A lot. About half of our time in Tuscany was damp, about half of that a deluge. Rain kept us at the palazzo two entire non-consecutive days; we got drenched in Firenze and again in Siena, but at least had churches and museums and caffes and stores to duck into. We were graced with sunshine climbing one of the remaining ancient towers of medieval San Gimignano, once filled with dozens of them when noble families engaged in inane my-tower-is-bigger-than-yours competitions. And while enjoying the view from the cliffs of Volterra, which had a street dedicated to her castrati. And while having a coffee in the heart of Chianti in Greve. And while going up and down the stone steps of Cortona, a stunning town overlooking Lago Trasimeno, made famous to Americans by “Under the Tuscan Sun.
We got sick. From getting soaked to the skin on several occasions? From the vaccinations we got in Firenze? Not sure. But Thomas got very sick. A week of coughing, chills, headaches. (When he gets hit, he gets hit hard; I was ready to take him to the ER. Me, I got a little cold. And then, our cold, flu, whatever, settled into a touch of bronchitis. Nothing like trying to surpress a coughing fit during an evening of opera in lovely Lucca, birthplace of Puccini. Make that an evening and an afternoon of opera. We strategically sat near the door so we could sneak out for a moment if hit by an uncontrollable coughing spasm …) Thomas stayed in our first day in Lucca, hoping to sleep it off while I explored the city. Another Tuscan jewel of narrow ancient walking streets, shops, towers, churches. The next day we had to nix our plan to bike to Pisa for an afternoon; Thomas was not up to it.
Tuscany must be one of the most glorious regions on the planet. If it didn’t exist, we would have imagined it in our wildest dreams. Mother Nature at her peak here, only enhanced by our intervention, however improbable or unlikely. God’s and our glory, expressed in her glimmering towns and duomos and churches and piazzas and streets and museums, housing the best (and sometimes the worst) of us. While the divine painted countryside never got old, we did begin to grow weary of some of the religious artwork in some museums and especially the churches. How many versions of the Annunciazione are there, anyway? Madonna and Bambino? How many times can I look at San Sebastiano pierced by arrows; San Lorenzo roasting on an open fire; Santa Agatha having her breasts snipped off; sinners getting genitally, orally and anally raped by demons, and getting drowned in boiling blood by angels with pitchforks on Judgement Day? Countless beheadings of saints too numerous to name? And of course, so many Jesuses suffering and dying on the cross for our sins? Siena’s Duomo was so excessive, so stuffed from floor to ceiling and wall to wall with self-serving art commissioned by pandering noblemen’s money, we both got headaches. We skipped Florence’s Duomo altogether – entrances were sold out for weeks!
Cinque Terre
Our next stop: Six nights to explore Cinque Terre, Italy’s Five Towns. Nothing like the Five Towns of Nassau, Long Island where I grew up. Riomaggiore, probably the most authentic of the five (six if you include Porto Venere) towns, served as our home base. We parked the car at the top of the hill for the week, and put our bags in the handy-dandy conveyor belt - farmers use them to cultivate and harvest grapes - to lower them to our rooms at Cinque Terre Residence. Sculpted into the hillside on several levels, our guest house is not fancy but quite spacious and comfortable. Our balcony overlooks the colorful town and vineyards; there are several outdoor seating areas with sea views, including one near the jacuzzi. Thomas needs a nap – he’s still feeling under the weather – so I set out to explore the first of the colorful pedestrian-only towns on my own.
You’ve probably seen photos of Riomaggiore, the most quintessentially cinque terre of the Cinque Terre. Brightly painted buildings clinging to the cliffs appear ready to slide into its central valley, tumble into the Ligurian Sea. Yet, they persist. For centuries. (Except for the occasional flood or earthquake here and there.) Surrounded above and on all sides by terraced vineyards, like leafy stairways to the heavens. A bit less chic, a bit less crowded, a bit more real than Vernazza or neighboring Manarola. These three towns all have a labyrinth of stone stairs descending the hillsides, funneling into the central strada where you find shops, churches, caffes, restaurants en route to their tiny harbor. Monterosso al Mare feels more like your typical coastal beach resort town, and Corniglia, itself perched atop a hill, has narrow streets along the cliff, and an endless serpentine stairway leading down to the train station. All are connected by a reliable train service running all day into evening. I have a caffe shakerado, then head to the sea.
As pretty as the postcards. The waterfront is but a tiny, rocky “beach” and pier where Riomaggiore’s rio spills into the sea, embraced by buildings painted in yellows, terra cottas, peach, salmon. I avoid the crowd on the overlook on the left (it’s mid-October and still lousy with tourists) to take the path to the right, winding along the coastline, up and down stairs, along water’s edge, through the neighborhood streets, towards the train station. Spectacular.
Later, I insist that Thomas join me at water’s edge to catch the sun setting over the sea. I take him on the winding walk; it somewhat short due to the clouds, but doesn’t disappoint. Dinner on the main strada is very good. The local wines are sharper than Tuscany’s; they’ve had a harder life clinging to those windswept, salty hillsides. Our guest house, Cinque Terre Residence, offers the best breakfast we had in all our time in Italy: mostly locavore and organic, everything from homemade focaccia with their own garden-grown pomodoro, honey still in its honeycomb, prosciutto, formaggio, farm fresh eggs, and as many cappuccinos as our heart desires. Today we have to hike – we came here to hike from Cinque Terre to Cinque Terre! - as the weather forecast for the next few days isn’t looking great.
Our charming hosts patiently explain the quirks of how things are done here, things they don’t address clearly on the website:
No, the newly-restored Via Dell’Amore, connecting Riomaggiore to Manarola, is not included in your 3-day Cinque Terre Parco Nazionale pass. It’s extra, but as we are considered “residenzie” because we’re staying over in town (they don’t seem to care much for day-trippers, of which there are many), we may walk it as many times as we like during our stay and only have to pay once.
No, the famous Manarola-Corviglia trail is closed for renovation, but another trail leading to Corviglia via Volestra is open –
They did mention it was challenging; they didn’t mention it was very challenging, dizzyingly high, with many narrow catwalks along the cliffside vineyards, endless ascents via stairs and footpaths, followed by descents into rocky, wooded valleys. And it’s long. Volestra sits high on a hill more inland; Corviglia sits atop a hill nearer the sea. Up through Manarola, further up to Volestra, down into a valley, then up again to Corviglia.
The Riomaggiore to Manarola Via Dell’Amore / Manarola to Volestra ascent through the vineyards / Volestra to Corviglia descent down through the valley and forest (with stops for un bicchiere de vino overlooking the Ligurian Sea if one is so inclined!) / up another hill hike took most of the afternoon. We were knackered, physically and emotionally, from the challenge of the ascents, descents, narrow cliffside paths through Cinque Terre’s stunningly scenic sea, sky, coastline, sculpted cliffs, colorful buildings, vineyards. Neither of us are fans of this type of hiking. I have a terrible fear of falling/vertigo since my mother dropped me on my head as a baby; Thomas grew up in a completely flat region and has no love of heights, hills or mountains. It’s hard to describe the crippling fear, followed by the sense of triumph, that comes from forging on despite that crippling fear. While taking the time to take it all in -
In Corviglia, to celebrate our victory over nature and our internal demons, we stop at a very cute caffe overlooking the glittering sea, drink an iced coffee listening to the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction.
Dinner of Fuori Rotta, a tiny, tony place overlooking Riomaggiore. Thomas’s doe ravioli was per morire.
Rain expected for the next few days. We decide to check out Porto Venere on the Gulf of Poets, a short drive south of Riomaggiore. A natural wonder in its own right, with a lovely old medieval town nestled along a scenic, craggy coast in a protected forest. We stroll in the mist up to Castello Doria, down to Lord Byron’s Grotto, to tiny San Pietro Church, along the narrow street through the center of town for a coffee, along the marina. Moody, et bellissima.
It begins to rain. Then it starts to pour. I lose an earring somewhere. Upon our return, we are informed that the forecast is so bad the authorities will officially close not only the Parco Nazionale, but all of Cinque Terre’s towns including all stores and services (except trains) for the entire next day, for fear of dangerous winds and flooding. We prepare for the storm before Riomaggiore battens down its hatches. Wine? Check. Local cheese? Check. Salsiccia? Check. Foccaccia? Check. Pommodori? Check. Biscotti? Check.
We wake the next day to another splendid breakfast at our Residence. It doesn’t look too bad out. Yet. So we hope for the best and hop on a train to Monterosso al Mare and explore Cinque Terre’s most “normal” town. There’s a promenade along its beaches, where you’ll find the remains of La Statua di Gigante - Neptune holding back the waves- damaged by allied bombings during WWII. The old town is quite pretty, lots of small streets with nice shops, restaurants, cafes, churches. We train back before the storm really hits.
Unlike Tuscan cities, where there’s plenty to do indoors and out, Cinque Terre offers very little during inclement weather. Portofino, an hour and a half drive to the north, a posher, Kardashian Terre-esque coastal town, not a great option; the nearest city, La Spezia, to the south, is an important but unpretty naval installation. And when it rains, it pours. We dig in and feast and drink in bed at the Residencia during the storm.
The next morning, the sun manages to reappear. No confirmation that the Parco Nazionale has reopened yet. We decide to train to Vernazza, the last town we’ve yet to visit. So quaint and pretty, Pixar set its 2021 animated film, Luca, about a local boy who befriends a sea monster, there. We visit the town, harbor, church, wondering if the hiking trails have reopened. We follow signs to the Vernazza-Monterosso trail entrance … Surprise! They are. At this point, however, my expensive 3-day park/train pass has already expired; thanks to several days of trail closings and bad weather, we used it for basically nothing. So we go rogue, walking nonchalantly past the wo/manned trail entrance. And we’re off –
Another stunning trail through terraced vineyards, up and down cliffs, into verdant wooded valleys. Infinite sea and sky and sun. Fortunately, the trail isn’t too chewed up after the rains, but the wet stones and puddles make things a bit precarious and slow us down some. In Monterosso, we have a caffe and train it back to Riomaggiore with our expired ticket, narrowly escaping detection by the control. Thomas is sweating bullets. My not-so-little German Goodie-Two-Shoes.
As the sun sets, we enjoy our complimentary prosecco on the Residencia’s terrace before walking down to town for another fine pasta dinner.
No Love on the Via Dell’Amore.
The clouds return on our final full day in Cinque Terre. We plan to walk the Via Dell’Amore to Manarola, the last town we have yet to explore, when our hosts at the Residencia tell us it’s closed due to a fire. (It’s only been reopened for a month or two after several years of extensive renovations.) Fortunately, when we get to the train station, we find the Via open to pedestrians. The scent of the fire, from an electrical short, lingers in the air. We explore Manarola a bit – shop along the main street, have a coffee on the harbor next to a few vigili del fuoco, then search for a special restaurant for our last Ligurian supper. We climb several endless sets of stairs to find Billy’s, a seafood place with a beautiful view overlooking the town and the sea. We make a dinner reservation to catch the sunset.
For some reason, Via Dell’Amore is closed going back to Riomaggiore. Thomas insists on buying a train ticket. Whatever.
We pack a bit, change for dinner, and return to Manarola on the Via Dell’Amore! It’s reopened! The weather kind of sucks, coldish, cloudy and a bit too breezy, but we enjoy the sea and what there is of setting sun, as the return walk will be under cloak of night.
We climb the sets of stairs back up to Billy’s just as rain sets in. No panoramic sunset for us tonight. Thomas loves his seafood and housemade pasta dish; the sharp local wine is helping me overlook the surly waiters. Note: many of the people of Cinque Terre we encountered, with the exception of the friendly and helpful staff at the Residence, tended towards the tough, mountain, farmer type. Hardened by carving life from a difficult terrain, by living precariously along an unpredictable and sometimes unforgiving sea. None of the humor or warmth that Italians are typically known for. Or perhaps just end-of-tourist-season fatigue.
We opt to take the Via Dell’Amore one more time back to our guest house. We have ample time before it closes for the night. Along the Via, we pass a few people, including Parco Nazionale staff; past the Nativity Christmas lights of the manger, dolphins and angels, already installed and illuminated; under the Sanctuary of the Madonna di Montenero shining brightly atop the hill to the south, cutting the inky black of night. We arrive at the Riomaggiore side to find the gate chained and locked, well before the 9pm closing time listed on the website and our receipts. And no one in sight. No one. We call out. Loudly. Again and again. Nessuno. Merde.
We fiddle with the lock. Bloccato a chiave. Merde.
I suggest we call the Residence; maybe they can get in touch with security or the police? Thomas decides to take matters into his own hands. He climbs on a folding chair and tries to straddle the metal spikes framing the top of the gate. Not a good idea - he’s either going to split his pants, his scrotum or his skull – and fortunately soon abandons his plan. We call out some more, again and again. Loudly. To no avail.
We walk at a fast clip back towards Manarola. Maybe we’ll happen upon some fellow stragglers? Perhaps it’s not yet locked on that side? Past neon Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the dolphin, past the site of the fire, we finally find a Parco Nazionale worker. Then another, and then another. I try to explain in Italian that we need them to let us out, as the Riomaggiore gate is locked. They look at us as though we were pazzi. Completementi. And answer in English, “but the gates-a, they remains open until meednight for the local people going to dee-ner.” We assure them, they are not. They give us the head shake and shrug a l’italiano. “But, eet’s open.” We convince them to accompany us to the gate, and lo and behold, they too discover it’s locked. “But eet should be open. Mmmm. Per-aps the firemen closa by meestake.” Perhaps. But at this point, after 3 or 4 round-trips on the Via Dell’Amore in the dark, we’re no longer in love with it and we want to end our night with a hot jacuzzi in the chilly mountain air at our guest house.
One more delicious colazione “bio” at the Residence, one more hike, this time through Riomaggiore valley, up around another beautiful hill, to the ethereal Madonna de Montenero which, like a beacon, lit the sky the night before. From here, we take in the full Cinque Terre panorama, from Porto Venere to Monterosso. The perfect coda to an imperfect but thrilling experience.
And we’re off to points east –
We pass picturesque towns and a stunning national park over the Apennine’s before the road flattens. The drive to Ravenna via Bologna will soon offer its own challenges, as the recent rains have flooded many of the fields and roads en route. Emilia-Romana, the breadbasket of Italy, inundated. Circumventing a few closed roads, we eventually manage to make it to Bologna for a stroll and a coffee under once-again stormy skies, which seem to be following us everywhere we go.
Bologna
The brief stop in Bologna only whets my appetite for more of La Grossa. Unlike most of Italy’s old towns, she’s big, squat and thick. Utterly delicious. Her expansive, block-long, low buildings in every shade of red/rose/siena, are fringed with many miles of arched porticoes offering shelter from storm or sun or snow. We sit under one of them on the Piazza Maggiore across from the unfinished gothic cathedral and enjoy our cappuccini, cozy and dry despite the rain.
Bologna’s unfinished Duomo, San Pedronio, is grand and has many interesting features, including Cassini’s extremely accurate Meridian cutting across it, and a nasty 15th century fresco of Mohammed being devoured by demons as per Dante’s 8th circle of hell, which made it the target of Islamic fundamentalist terror attacks in the 2000’s.
La Grossa’s side streets are lined with alimentari bursting with cheese, hanging prosciutto and salame, breads, olives, all kinds of regional specialties, and crowded with tables of people sampling those treats, undeterred by the weather. My heart goes out to vegetarians, vegans, Kosher-keepers in this country; you’re missing out on such delights. Perhaps not the healthiest, but oh-so-good.
As we hop back in the car, I hope to come back to Bologna for more than a pit-stop.
Ravenna
We arrive in Ravenna as the sun sets, park the car near our atmospheric old albergo. Like Ravenna itself, it’s not much on the outside; its charms await you behind its doors. We are greeted by our thoughtful hostess, Tina, and her dog, Gioa. Rather than haul our heavy bags up two flights to the standard room we reserved, Tina offers us the grand suite on the ground floor. It’s indeed grand, and has a big bathroom. We take it. A stroll around the old town before we devour a pizza on the piazza, return to our sweet suite in our charming guest house, and snuggle in our very big bed.
By day, the town of Ravenna isn’t one of Italy’s dazzling, unspoiled, old architectural gems. She’s not even on most tourists’ Must-See A-lists. She’s a biggish, rather ordinary Italian anytown with a few nice but unspectacular walking and shopping streets. Her magic awaits behind her closed doors: Dante’s Tomb (his actual resting place, not a memorial as in Santa Croce in Firenze); the goldfish swimming over the submerged mosaic floor in Basilica di San Francisco next door; and the sublime 2,000+ year old Byzantine mosaic walls and domed ceilings of the Mausoleo di Galla Placidia, the Basilica di San Vitale, and the Basilica di San’Apollinare Nuovo. Stars, saints and cities, beasts and birds, fish and flowers, royalty and religion immortalized in thousands and thousands of tiny glittering tiles of golds, blues, greens …
None of the blood and suffering in the name of God that we saw and will see again in so many of Italy’s churches here. These gorgeous UNESCO World Heritage sites, nearly as old as Christianity itself, have a surprisingly evolved, serene, almost Zen-like quality, celebrating the glories of God, wo/man, and nature. Transcendent. One could spend hours studying their forms, colors, characters, and scenes, if not for the inevitable crick in the neck one gets from looking up up up -
We walk along one of Ravenna’s long streets, reading plaques with an array of poets waxing poetic about her many distinct charms. On a lively street near our hotel, we have a drink while an amiable but inebriated Englishman chats us up, sharing too much information; we then enjoy one of the best, most copious and affordable dinners so far in Italy, al fresco, with great people watching. After, we settle in for a cozy night in our grand suite.
After a delightful colazione served up by Tina and her cook, Tina tells us of the dangers facing her beloved Ravenna: The extraordinary driving rains of late are leaking through roofs, threatening the priceless mosaics. Heaven forbid. Fortunately, earlier water damage has already been repaired, and measures are being taken to protect them from downpours to come. But she fears for the future if climate changes continue.
And so, we’re on the road again. Direction: Venezia, by way of Padua.
Thought it would be cool to bring Professore to the home of one of Europe’s oldest universities, but frankly, Padua, like Arezzo, was more trouble than it was worth for a quick stop. Navigating the city traffic and finding parking was irritating, with little payoff. While it was indeed fun to see so many pods of laureati(graduates) in their floral coronas and hear “Dottore! Dottore!” sung by friends and families on the street, not much else of interest here for these jaded tourists. The old city market piazza and ghetto, complete with heavily armed guards outside of Jewish centers and sinagoga, were kind of interesting. Otherwise, a thoroughly modern, sophisticated northern Italian city that shuts down at noon for lunch.
We drop the rental off at Marco Polo Airport, hop in the Alilaguna vaporetto, and we’re off to Venezia!
La Serenissima
The most magical city ever built. It floats on water, lost in the mist. Around every corner a perfect picture postcard view. Constantly changing as the clouds come and go, as the sun moves across the sky, unmoved by its own uniqueness and beauty. There has never been nor ever will be anything like it anywhere in our world. Anyone who doesn’t get Venezia should just stay home.
No cars, miles of walking over bridges and down narrow alleys, some unusual smells, crowds in tourist areas, too hot in the summer, prone to flooding. Expensive. Just like home. Good shopping, great food. But unlike home, hardly any homeless, little to no garbage on the busy streets, nearly rat-free. Never felt threatened or frightened, even in the crowded areas around San Marco and Rialto famous for its pickpockets, even in the dark at night on deserted alleyways in quieter neighborhoods.
We don’t mind the circuitous vaporetto ride around the lagoon, to Murano, Ospedale, Lido, Giardino, Arsenale. It helps us get our bearings. We descend at San Zaccaria, the penultimate stop from the airport, one over from San Marco … We drag our bags on the skinny streets to our hotel 7 minutes away. Our spacious room at Casa Nicola Priuli is beautifully furnished, lovely in Venetian sages and golds; it has a new bathroom and a canal view overlooking one of the prettiest streets you can imagine, complete with two bridges and a gondola stop.
We unpack, and, extremely hungry, set out for an early dinner at Giardinella, recommended by the hotel. We dine on fresh seafood in the giardino in the back. It’s empty when we arrive, packed when we leave. We then check out San Marco and the waterfront, as one must when one arrrives in Venezia. The weather is moody and misty, mysterious.
We awake to the sound of church bells in the near distance. Venice is lousy with churches; there’s an “important” church around nearly every corner. Containing paintings, statues, architecture by major Byzantine, Venetian, Renaissance, Baroque masters. San Zaccaria with its altarpiece by Bellini is just steps from our hotel. We ventured into many of these churches along our routes, made special trips to see others. We bought a multi-pass, allowing us entry into about a dozen churches. A special favorite: a little floating jewelbox called Santa Maria dei Mercoli. We tried several times unsuccessfully to see the Titians in the sacristy of Basilica Santa Maria della Salute; we got sidelined by the gorgeous organ music preceding 3:30pm vespers, where the loveliest priest of African (?) origins tried to lead mass in English to accommodate the handful of Anglophone worshippers in the pews. When we went back several days later, the sacristy was still closed – we never got to see those Titians.
We also OD’ed on Piazza San Marco. We had planned to avoid Venice’s iconic, centrally-located, tourist-flooded square in protest; seasoned travelers, we; been there, done that, no need to do it again. Rialto as well. Instead we’d explore Venezia Solita, her less-central, less famous, quirkier sights and neighborhoods, spend more time strolling Dorsoduro, Cannaregio, San Polo and Arsenale; take the vaporetto to Lido, Murano, Burano, Torcello. But, just a 10-15 minute walk from our palazzo depending upon crowds, en route to parts east, San Marco was hard to avoid. While the beauty and balance of the piazza was disrupted by construction, as well as a temporary stage set up to welcome Italy’s president on Freedom Day, over our 2 week stay we saw it all: we climbed the recently renovated Clock Tower around sunset, checked out the view from the Campanile, visited the Museo Correr, dashed through the Doge’s Palace** at twilight. I’m so glad we braved the crowds and bought the “jump the line” entrance to Basilica San Marco. The one and only time I endeavored to enter, back in the 80’s, much of it was under wraps for restoration. This time we saw the interior in all its splendor. The intricate, dazzling Byzantine mosaics covering the walls and high domes; the gem-encrusted Pala d’Oro; the bronze horses, both inside and the replicas on terrace, the views from the balconies. From here, easy to appreciate the city’s former and present grandeur; harder to reconcile that one of her most iconic views facing the lagoon used to be the site of public executions.
**The many rooms of the Doge’s Palace - rooms for meetings, rooms for hearings, rooms for lawmaking, etc – are lousy with some of the most obnoxious paintings ever painted. A veritable assault. The Doge with the pope; the Doge with kings and princes and statemen; the Doge in scenes with any number of saints and characters from the Bible; the Doge with God the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit; the Doge in the manger with Mary and Joseph at Jesus’s birth. Please. Talk about sucking up to the boss. I can only imagine that had Tinorello, his son and the rest of the Venetian Guild painters not flattered their patron they too would have been executed in the Square right outside the palace gates. A collection of paintings so dense and so oppressive to anyone but the Doge, a walk through the dungeons and over the Bridge of Sighs came as a relief.
“The Floating City,” Venice was probably founded around the time of Rome’s fall, when mainlanders fled to the lagoon’s islands to escape the barbarian invaders from the north. Strategically located between East (Byzantium and Asia) and West (Rome and Europe), during the Middle Ages and Renaissance the Venetian Empire grew in power, wealth and influence, spreading its architecture and navy around the Mediterranean, bringing the spoils and riches back home. Native son Marco Polo traveled the Silk Road all the way to China and Japan, giving Europe its first glimpses of the mysterious Orient. Like many international ports, throughout its history Venice was quite the party town, with a raucous Carnivale, legions of sailors and traveling merchants, and many prostitutes to service them. Which produced many children to many people unable or unwilling to care for them. Which brings us to …
Vivaldi. Antonio Vivaldi, violinist and composer of the sublime Baroque Quattro Stagione concerto. He was also a priest and musical director at L’Ospedale della Pieta, now the lovely Chiesa Della Pieta, a convent and orphanage which for centuries had been taking in Venice’s abandoned children. The orphaned boys were taught a trade, while many of the girls were trained to play, sing, and compose musica sacra. The girls became famous for their virtuosity: their concerts attracted audiences from across Europe, and several of the performers became quite famous.
One especially transcendent moment of our trip was listening to Vivaldi’s Quattro Stagione (and more pieces at another concert) performed by local musicians in the sublime acoustics of the Chiesa della Ospedale. A perfect piece of music performed by local heroes in the perfect acoustics of the venue in which it was composed. I nearly wept.
Ironically, most of the players were male.
As I mentioned, though it looks nothing like New York, Venice kind of reminded me of my home city. A vibe of sophistication and privilege. Cool shops. Wonderful food. A vibrant art scene. We know we’re special. We prefer to walk. Great people watching. From the pleuthora of tourists from around the globe clogging up the obvious landmarks, to the quirky expats who came here to be their fabulous and freaky self, to the cool yet kind Venetians. I love the Venetians. Despite, or perhaps thanks to, the constant flood - of visitors and water - I found most local people we encountered extremely nice and accommodating. Charming and serious people. A disinterested waiter here, a jaded gondolero there, but otherwise some of the nicest Italian locals we encountered. Priceless moments, when my German professore and the orthodox rabbi gallery owner in Ghetto di Venezia in Cannareggio, discuss art and New York; when the red-headed expat lady, originally from LA, who Thomas thinks has been eyeing him from across the café, comes over to compliment me for looking fabulous; when, after a few days at Pruili, the hotel staff invited us to have breakfast in the grand dining room of the palazzo next door. Maybe because it’s shoulder season? Maybe because we’re staying with them for 2 weeks? Maybe just because it’s Venezia?
We nearly drowned in the art and architecture of the place. Many churches housed important works; we checked out dozens of them. These Roman Catholics are serious about their God and their glorification of him, his son, his son’s mother, and the people who died defending him and the holy family. Exquisite, but suffocating: it became overwhelming and God-help-me kind of repetitive. The Galerie dell’Accademia, housing an enormous collection of secular and some religious art by local artists, was also overwhelming. I liked the more contemporary collections such as Peggy Guggenheim and the Ca d’Oro more than Thomas. We had the good fortune to be in town during the final weeks of Venice’s sweeping 2024 Biennale Arte, Stranieri Ovunque, or Strangers Everywhere, which celebrated marginalized voices and visions usually overlooked in the West’s contemporary art scene. Lots of women, LGBTQ+, immigrant, formerly colonized peoples take center stage. The Global South meets the Global North and gives us a piece of its mind. Some of it was gorgeous, some was just tediously woke. Same for the individual countries’ pavilions; hate to admit that I liked some of China’s oversized contribution very much; France’s was immersive, lovely and fun; Germany’s was inscrutably out-there and just weird. The US exhibit featured a trans native Afro-American artist who did beautiful beaded works in vibrant colors. Alas, we couldn’t get anywhere near Italy’s.
Perhaps more impressive than the much of Venice’s art was getting to it, the architecture housing it, and the views from it. The view of the Grand Canal towards Rialto Mercato from Ca d’Oro’s balcony at sunset was worth the price of the ticket, as was the view from Peggy Guggenheim’s back deck. Crossing the bridge to the Accademia in Dorsodura gives you one of the most splendid postcard pictures in all of Venice. Thanks to the Biennale we got to explore Arsenale and a bit of Giardini, calmer, more authentic, residential but quirky neighborhoods with lots of character and hanging laundry, not in most people’s guide books.
Sunday
Marathon day in Venezia, so we escape to Lido. Biked the length of the Lido, along the Lagoon and the Adriatic, and hiked along the beach and down the pier to Diga Faro Alberoni. No churches, no art, no crowds. Just 27+ miles of water, sand, sea, sky, sun. And the Dutch MOSE flood gates, installed and successfully tested in 2020, that have been fairly successful at protecting La Serenissima from the rising waters of global warming. (Yes, the melting glaciers and icecaps.)
Monday - More Islands of the Venetian Lagoon: Murano Burano Torcello
The hotel arranged a free water taxi to visit one of the few remaining hand-blown glass factories in Murano. (Alas, a dying local artform: these days, much of the glass works come from China.) We saw the chandelier master glass blower and assistant at work, then got a tour of the upstairs gallery/museum. Some gorgeous, some over the top, some pieces of art.
A stroll around Murano to the vaporetto to Burano. A former fishing village criss-crossed by canals is blanketed with buildings in colors of bright crayons. Gardens and laundry hanging everywhere. We buy Thomas a fabulous salmon-colored linen jacket, made by a local family-owned clothing maker. Back on the Vaporetto to Torcello. A trip back in time, when Venezia’s lagoon was mostly islands floating in lowlands, as most of Torcello is a protected nature preserve. The ancient Basilica de Santa Maria Assunta houses the Veneto’s earliest mosaics, currently under loving restoration - a humbling and harrowing Last Judgement on one side, an ethereal Mary, Baby Jesus and the saints on the other. Back on the vaporetto, back to Venezia as the sun sets over the Lagoon …
Wednesday
Gym (yes, we found one, 5 minutes and 3 bridges from the palazzo) and work in the morning, then a walk to Mercato Rialto and the wide-open space of Campo San Polo for a coffee. This, like Arsenale, feels like a more authentic, tourist-free Venice. Fewer souvenir shops, fewer upscale boutiques.
Then an impromptu day of San Marco and its museums:
We were expecting just the Museo Correr to see an exhibit of maps, but had to buy a combo ticket that included il Palazzo del Doge! It was here we suffered through the grandeur of the endless salons, meeting halls, courthouses, one of the largest rooms in Europe, covered floor to ceiling in ornate artwork featuring the Doge hanging with Jesus, Mary, the saints, bible characters, popes and local statesmen. Ridiculous, outrageous, over the top and overwhelming. Then over the Bridge of Sighs to the prisons, a relief from the excess of wealth and sycophancy. Then out through the courtyard, illuminated in its night lights.
We returned to the same resto in Campo San Polo for a dinner of salmon tagliatoni, lotte and sole. Back home with a walk through the serpentine, quiet, quaint streets San Polo, through historic neighborhoods made famous by its bordellos, over the Rialto for a glimpse of the glistening Canale Grande, and home. Yes, it feels like home.
Thursday
Gorgeous day. Ran errands while Thomas worked.
Then San Marco Day, Part 2. Jump-The-Line well worth it to see the golden mosaics of the glorious Basilica, the jewel encrusted Pala d’Oro, the interior and exteriors Loggia with the real and repro Cavalli Quadriga. Next we jumped the line up to the Campanile for a splendid view of the Piazza and Venezia from above.
Friday
Another work/play morning followed by a meandering stroll, a coffee on the canale across from one of our favorite churches, Santa Maria dei Miracoli, then back to Piazza San Marco for by a tour up inside the recently renovated Torre del’Orologio. Fun and interesting, with an unexpected treat al finale: visiting the pantsless Moor jacquemarts, penises displayed in full glory bathed in the soft light of the setting sun, as they strike the bells … I tend to think these guys were not in fact Moors, as these pantsless jacquemarts were most definitely not tagliati –
Saturday
Gym, then Day 1 of our 2-Day pass at the Biennale Arsenale. Stranieri Ovunque – Strangers Everywhere. As mentioned, lots of work from the Global South, women, LGBTQ+, indigenous and other marginalized communities. Some stuff I liked, some just too aggressively political. One of the highlights, again, was Venezia herself: we so enjoyed seeing so much art in the objectively cool setting in the Arsenale, Venice’s ancient bustling ship-building quartiere.
Ready for pizza night! Despite the warning from the staff at the palazzo at Venice “eez not-a peetza ceetee”, we were jonesing for one. We returned to one a spot we discovered en route home from Vivaldi. Perfetto.
Sunday
Clock change overnight; we lose an hour of daylight but gain an hour of Venezia. Sunday we decide to reacquaint ourselves with the city, we walked along the canals to Cannaregio, Venezia’s former Jewish Quarter, the Ghettos Novo e Vecchio; where we met a lovely little rabbi in a very sweet art gallery. The big German and the Venetian rabbi discussing life in Venice, in New York, in Europe … Caffe on the canal. A stop to see the art and statues of the architecturally-interesting Palazzo Grimani. Walked along the Canale Grande to Giardini where we stopped for a spritz and birra at the waterfront lovely café before hitting the Biennale Giardini. This time we hit the country-sponsored pavilions. Some nice work, some more very political pieces I wouldn’t call art. Excellent dinner at Nevido, then home early –
Monday
Last full day in Venezia.
;(
I caught something. Nothing like a morning of the shits to ruin your last day in Venice. And this, our gondola day! Neither Thomas nor I had ever taken a gondola ride; we saved it for a lovely sunny day, and nothing was going to put the kibosh on it. But it does slow our start. By the time we get our shit together (excuse the obvious pun), it’s nearly noon and the gondolieri referred by Pruili are on lunch break. We wait and wait for them return. When, after 45 minutes, they don’t; instead we walk to Santa Maria dei Miracoli in search of a gondoliere. We find a young, strong one who steers us along skinny, quiet, picturesque canals to Rialto to the gorgeous Ponte dei Santi Apostoli and other ponti we only saw from above …
Our last afternoon we walk back to Dorodurso, along the Zattere back to the Basilica Santa Maria della Salute to try to see the Sacristy (still closed), through San Marco at sunset -
Tuesday
The Pruili staff again invite us to have our last colazione in the palazzo!
Then it’s back on the vaporetto to the airport to pick up a rental and it’s Arrivederci, Venezia.
Verona
As only Thomas could, he somehow manages to lose his Visa card in the rental car door window while trying to pay the Autostrada toll at the Verona exit. Eurocar can’t do any work on the car until mid Nov., so he’s now down to his Amex, which is not widely welcome here. And dollars in cash, which may as well be toilet paper. Looks like I’ll be paying for things unless Africa wants our Yankee dollars –
In the Land of Romeo and Juliet
Our first stop in fair Verona, after checking into our musty hotel just steps from the picturesque piazza around the Teatro Romano, is a stroll down the main pedestrian street to what is said to be Juliet’s House. We had to do it. We suspended disbelief, took photos of her statue and her balcony, kissed in the courtyard, and left. We continued our walking tour of Verona to the lively and lovely Piazzi Erbe just as the open air markets were closing. Perfect time from an al fresco coffee in front of the fountain … A mish-mosh of medieval, Italian Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque era architecture co-exist harmoniously here. We continue to walk as the sun sets … a few steps bring us to the quieter, stately Piazza dei Signori; a few more steps down the skinny streets we pass Romeo’s house; a few more and we arrive at the Basilica di Santa Anastasia, first of Verona’s four heavenly Italian Gothic cathedrals we visit. We get there just as the doors were closing to tourists, just as confessions were being heard in the dimly lit interior. We could still appreciate the church’s unique sense of airy-ness, openness, height,symmetry and artfulness. Such a refreshing change from so many of Italy’s art masterpiece-heavy churches and cathedrals which can feel oppressive and overwhelming in their over-wrought glory.
We continued our early evening stroll through the chilly,charming streets of the historic district, past the illuminated Teatro Romano, and enjoy a delicious dinner of heart-shaped ravioli and local near our hotel. We had to do it. Squsito!
The results from the American Presidential election were not yet finalized when we went to bed –
Wednesday
We wake up in fair Verona to the unsettling news that our candidate did not win neither the electoral nor the popular vote for the President of the United States, and our country is in for 4 more non-consecutive years of the worse president in its nearly 250 year history.
This puts us both off our hotel breakfast. And cast a pall over our day in sunny Verona.
Then our plan A, to visit the Teatro Romano in the morning is derailed when we discover – thanks not to the website, nor the hotel staff or the travel guides, but to a handwritten sign in the vendor booth window – that the Teatro is closed for a few weeks for renovations ahead of the 2026 Milano Cortino Winter Olympics opening ceremonies.
On to plan B –
We rent bikes to take a ride in the Veneto. We ride along the bank of the Adigo River, which is quite pretty. Until some miles out into the countryside we happen upon one of the foulest smells ever encountered in our 60+ years on the planet. Pig farm? Abbattoire? Garbage dump? No way of telling, the scenery along the river looks bucolic enough. And Thomas’s bike is a travesty. His seat slides down, down; his knees now practically up to his ears, until he resembles a circus clown on a tiny bike. And we can’t raise it. Poor guy, he’s so uncomfortable with those long legs, but refuses to switch bikes with me.
Back to Verona, past the stench and the pretty riverbanks, to Catedrale San Zeno, one of Verona’s lovely Italian Gothic churches just outside the historic city center. (The original Romanesque structure was damaged in an earthquake which destroyed much of Verona.) The city’s patron saint just so happens to be a black man, maybe Moorish, with another even more startling characteristic – he’s smiling. Perhaps even laughing. I love Verona’s much venerated patron saint almost as much as they do. It brings me such joy to see this beautiful dark beatific marble image smiling back at me, such a contrast to so much suffering in the austere religious art in Italy.
We head back to town, see the Duomo, another of her unique Italian Gothic churches, have another caffe in Piazza Erbe, enjoy the cool snap in the Northern Italian early evening air, and head back to our charming if musty hotel to change for dinner. Here we had bad bikes, electricity outages, a lot of late-night noise from back alley we faced. (Would definitely come back to Verona, would probably not come back here.)
I watched the news for a bit, and thoroughly depressed, go to dinner. We look around some and, not tempted by menus featuring donkey and horse meat, wind up at the same place as last night. An after-dinner stroll around the Teatro Romano, some gelato, and we’re off to bed.
Bergamo
After a quick chat with the hotel staff re the US election results – they were as shocked and horrified as we are, even while mentioning their own anti-immigration bias – we hit the road again. Not enough time to visit the Ponte o Museo di Castelvecchio. Yes, I would definitely return to Verona, when our stay is not fouled by bad news on the home front …
Alas, we also don’t have time to check out Lago di Garda, which is supposed to be Italy’s most beautiful lake area … On to Bergamo for just a few hours …
In the birthplace of Donizetti – two of them! - we walk around the old town, visit a church, have a coffee in the main piazza, check out the narrow streets of the pedestrian shopping district … A lovely old town nestled in a lovely setting of green mountains.
Onwards to Lago di Como. Our first glimpse is around Lecco, when the afternoon sun turns the east-facing hillsides a dazzling gold. Stunning. But Mamma Mia – the roads! And the Italian drivers! Maneuvering those hairpin turns of the narrow streets, through tiny towns that spill into the street, with a wall of stone on one side, a precipitous drop off a cliff on the other. Yikes.
Lago di Como
We arrive in Bellagio, another one of Italy’s iconic towns where the rich and famous go to see and be seen, to frolic and misbehave in eternally and unspeakably beautiful settings. Just in time for a sunset stroll along the lago, setting sun glinting on the water; we walk up and down the skinny stairways connecting it to the old town above, buy ourselves an Italian feast of formaggio, pane, salami, prosecco, which we will later devour on the balcony of our room overlooking the town on the point, and Lago di Como. The Kardashian crowd in town will have to wait.
Ours is a “hotel and spa” on top of a hill with a commanding view, stunning any hour of the day or night. It’s quite cold up north in the mountains, but we sit on the balcony and devour our cena italiana, listening to the nearby waterfall as we discuss plans for a long town-to-town Greenway hike starting at Colonno, a quick ferry ride on the other side of the lake.
In the morning we again take in that panoramic view over breakfast in the “spa” restaurant. We also wake up to news of a Greve Generale that will take all ferries out of service. Which means that getting to the start of the Greenway hike in Colonno will take a 1.5 hour drive up, down and around death-defying roads to the unextraordinary town of Como, and back up the other side of the lake …
How I hate this kind of driving. But so happy we made the trip. Absolutely loved the Greenway hike out and back along the lake, past tiny towns, through pastures, into churches, around stately manors. A paradox of luxurious / bucolic, town / country, urban / rural. We made it as far as Lenno, I think, a gorgeous spot to stop for a coffee and take in the beautiful houses, the mountains, the tranquil lake. We hike back, hop in the car and try to make it to the other side of the lake before nightfall, as just the thought of driving those roads in the dark gives me agita.
50 grey hairs later, we make it back to the spa, and decide our last meal in Italy should be – what else? - pasta and pizza. Before and after, we take a walk on the lago in Bellagio. Tomorrow, after 6 weeks here living la dolce vita, we leave Italy and head to Lisbon.
Saturday
Como to Milano
Before hitting the road to the airport, before making a pit-stop in Milano, I set out around the grounds near our spa to find that waterfall. It’s a quick walk away, small and spectacular, fringed by mountain family farms, a world apart from the nearby manicured manors. Do I really want to leave this place?
Onwards. A relatively civilized drive takes us to Milano, where we stop for a visit in and around the Duomo and the Piazza, Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, and La Scala. A final café Italiano and we’re off to the airport, off to Portugal, and on to Africa.
Arrivederci, Italia. I am yours. I will live here, one day.
© 2025
Theresa Quadrozzi, A-Muse-In-Manhattan
Comments