Monday, October 31, 2016

Walking Firenze


 
 

Walking Firenze

“He dies slowly, he who becomes a slave to habit, who follows the same paths every day, he who never changes his bearings, who never risks to change the colors of his clothes or never talks to a stranger, he who shuns passion, who never changes course, who never takes any risks to fulfill his dreams, he who not even once in his life, never ran away from sensible advice. He dies slowly, he who does not travel, does not read, he who does not listen to music, he who does not know how to laugh at himself.”  *

                                                                                                            Pablo Neruda
 
It was a bright sunny Thursday the morning we departed on our five star hotel whirlwind adventure.  The fact that the day heralded the first day of fall was obscured by the day’s beauty.  We’d prepped in a day or two and with no dogs or cats to take care of, just plants, it has become a familiar process.  We began our many phased approach to Italy with a car ride to the bus station.  A few hours later found us at Logan International in Boston with hours enough to insure we could check-in our luggage, get through the security checkpoints, and enjoy a leisurely beer.
The trip, that included a train ride, went smoothly.  That is until I went to buy bus tickets to Calitri at the Tiburtina Train Station in Rome.  It seemed the bus we planned to take was full.  It was a Friday, and students who filled the bus were in evacuation mode, apparently eager to return to the comfort of momma’s pasta for the weekend.  I hadn’t anticipated that.  If we didn’t get on this bus, we’d add an additional five hours to an already long day before the next bus arrived.  I bought tickets for the last bus as a backup since it was our final chance to likewise evacuate Rome that day.  My holdout hope, however, was that when the driver of the supposedly filled bus performed a head-count, just before leaving, he might come up with two empty seats from people who failed to arrive.  I stood by the door as the bus filled, praying for two no-shows.  The driver did his count, and lo and behold, exactly two seats miraculously appeared.  Had it been divine intervention?  I wanted to believe it was.  We’d saved a five hour wait only to ride for five hours due to numerous stops, but I can’t complain.  Sitting in the hot bus, its heat was added to by the entertainments of boy-girl, huggy kissy passions all around us.
As we eagerly approached our destination, we talked about what still lay ahead, the final phase of our journey.  By then, we’d been about this going on 24 hours and were stanco (tired).  To top it all off, we were arriving during the evening passagata when the streets would be alive with people as we rolled our suitcases on through the strollers, up the main street to the Borgo and home.  Everyone would certainly know we’d arrived.  It would be a first, and a totally new way of arrival for us, since on previous trips we’d simply rented a car.  Now with Bianca, our new car, waiting for us, a rental was out of the question … Bianca would certainly complain to Margaret!  We needed to get comfortable with this mode of arrival because, as they say, this would be the new norm. 
We arrived in Calitri that evening to a pleasant surprise.  As I looked through the bus window out across the bus stop, toward a nearby pasticceria, I caught sight of our neighbor, Barbara, followed shortly afterwards by another friend, Titti. They were both converging on the bus.  Hallelujah for good friends with a car!  Knowing of our arrival, they’d conspired to meet us and drive us home.  It was a wonderful feeling, both for the thought behind it and the fact that we’d avoided one hell of a bag drag.
Although our journey was over, we soon discovered the night was still young.  There was more ahead, for this being Maria Elena’s birthday, our friends had a welcome dinner-party planned.  As tired as we were, it took only a glass or two of wine for our second wind to kick-in.  Our house had been decorated with a birthday garland spanning the kitchen, more friends soon arrived, the gift of a flowering plant adorned the table, dinner was catered, and a firestorm of three candles topped the cake.  Happy birthday Maria Elena!
The next few days saw us busy opening the house after our three month absence and getting our car.  Bianca was in fine shape, for our friend, American Joe, in the meantime, had busied himself with everything from mounting new tires, having it inspected, to installing a new timing belt.  As for the house, there was only one problem.  The Internet for some mysterious reason wouldn’t work.  The signal provider said they could not “see” our router.  After some time spent playing with the connections, an inspection of the roof antenna revealed that some critter had munched on the cable sufficiently in a few places to cut the fine wire filaments inside.  With its Ethernet connectors and thread-thin wires that couldn’t simply be twisted together, a do-it-yourself repair was out of the question, or at least out of my league.  There would be no Internet until I replaced the entire line.  In any case, although it wouldn’t smother me with work, it would give me something to do in the days ahead.
I had plenty of time, for we were not planning to leave for Florence on the first half of our Five Star Tour for a few weeks.  In the interim, we kept busy.  We were busy visiting friends, attending another birthday party, and with a fund raising dinner for the recent earthquake victims of Amatrice, Italy.  As was the case with the quake, Mother Nature hadn’t cooperated here either.  Unlike the terrible devastation from the quake, ours was just a day filled with thunderstorms.  The good part
about it was that the nasty weather caused the function to be moved inside, into one of the buildings in the town’s fairgrounds.  There must have been 800-1000 people in attendance, coming and going in waves, who for a small donation could enjoy various bands along with the main draw – a local pasta called “cannazza”, along with peas, and stuffed rolls of beef that had slowly cooked while bathed in sauce all day.  Outside the fairgrounds, all but one local restaurant had remained open.  It insured there was at least one place to eat that night for those not attending.  The other restaurateurs were at the gathering helping out with cooking and serving.  It was nice to see the entire town working together toward a common cause. 
We also had time to pick grapes.  The vendemia had arrived and along with friends we hit the fields one fine morning to harvest the white grape portion of the vineyard.  Harvesting the reds would have to wait for later.  It went surprisingly fast this year - because the whites were in the minority, we were finished by 11am.  This gave us plenty of time to clean up and return for the harvest party that followed in winemaker Giuseppe’s cantina.
When departure day arrived, it being too far to drive to Florence, we opted to purchase tickets for a high speed train ride from Naples to Florence.  First we had to get to Naples.  For this phase of the trip we relied on Bianca to get us there.  It was her first long distance outing (1.5 hours) and went smoothly.  We parked Bianca at the U.S. Navy Base adjacent to the Naples Airport and then caught a bus to the central train station in Piazza Garibaldi.  From there, a 300 km/hr Italo train would whisk us to Florence in just over three hours, including stops in Rome.
This, however, is where my story hesitates, for it was in Naples while rolling our luggage from the bus stop to the terminal that we were, as they say, made.  We must have fit some profile known only to pickpockets.  That’s right, I was almost picked.  I say almost because I was lucky enough to recognize the pincer movement but not until it was underway.  Things happen fast.  A push, a touch, a bump …. the distraction before the grab for your wallet, your camera, or purse.  Maria Elena was following behind me as I moved forward trailing our suitcase.  It was a crowded street, not in the best part of town by a longshot.  This is a rough quarter of Naples, with ethnic diversity galore but little of that metaphorical “melting pot” in evidence.  We avoid in when we can but when your trip includes travel by train, there isn’t much you can do other than being extra vigilant.  We’d run this gauntlet through the raw smell of humanity before.  There were store fronts to one side and a taxi lane on the other.  The street was further narrowed by venders with their wares strewn across the pavement insisting you stop and buy their pocketbooks, selfie-sticks or sunglasses.  I’m sure the locals, who are obviously aware of these heists, were watching this off-beat form of entertainment as it unfolded, not unlike the local passengers of that infamous Roman bus route, #64, who likewise enjoy the show as tourists are unwittingly robbed. 
In less than a minute, while crossing the heavily trafficked street near our bus stop, we’d been so correctly categorized, that the troupe’s head-man had concluded we spoke English. Approaching me from my right, with his arm extended holding a tissue, he eagerly attempted to wipe my shoulder, all the while repeatedly saying how I’d been spit on, though I hadn’t.  I didn’t stop.  Still moving forward, I quickly turned toward him and rejected his advance, indicating for him to keep away (tienilo lontano da me).  That was the attempted distraction.  They had expected me to stop, momentarily confused, while he whipped my shoulder as his brigand colleague, a true Dickens Artful Dodger if ever there was one, surreptitiously advance on me.  I knew no Italian stranger would be so concerned if I had anything on my shoulder, whether spit or bird dropping.  In that regard, to me at least, his disingenuous concern was weak, absurd, bordering on unbelievable.  When I turned forward again, it was just in time to see his “Jack Dawkins” accomplice, bent low at the waist, like a tight end trying to catch a low pass.  As he swept across my path, his hand was extended toward me, as he made his move.  To their surprise, my armament of Sicilian expletives quickly rang out.  It was they who looked confused, if not shocked by my barrage, as we moved on toward the terminal.  Other than that, the trip was uneventful.
We walked through the doors of what would be our temporary home for the next few days by mid-afternoon.  Our son, Chris, who had arrived only an hour earlier, led us from the station to the Grand Hotel Minerva (see lead photo).  It is centrally located in Piazza Santa Maria Novella, within blocks of the train station of the same name.  The piazza had once been an 18th century racetrack.  The original towering marble obelisks, capped by the symbol of Florence, the Fleur de Lis, situated at either end of the square, had once served as pylons to indicate turning points in the races.  Today, near one of the stanchions, it still retains its 14th century namesake, Santa Maria Novella Church, with a crescent of stores, hotels, and bars arching around to the opposite pylon.  The recently remodeled Grand Hotel Minerva occupies prime frontage on the periphery of the square adjacent to the church.  We were expected, warmly greeted, and shown to our room. 
We had beautiful accommodations accessed through doors covered in a leather-like material featuring an image of helmeted Minerva.  Upon entering, it was the bed that first caught my eye.  It
was a king sized, four-poster with draped, hanging shear linens leading to a down-filled duvet and puffy pillows.  After a long day of travel, it beckoned us but would have to wait.  Our bathroom was large, modern, and clad in Italian marble.  The showerhead cantilevered from the wall, as a diving board might, with hundreds of tiny nozzles ready to create a pillar of water.  A concave magnifying mirror, like none we’d ever seen before and edged with lights, caught our attention.  Behind the door, on the wall, hung the added courtesy of two fluffy bathrobes.  The finishing touch to our room was a generous, mirrored, walk-in closet.  To complete our swank space, our windows opened like the Pope’s to a view overlooking the entire historic plaza below.  A chilled welcoming bottle of Prosecco from the hotel manager was just what we needed.  We had arrived in grand style as the name, Grand Hotel Minerva and the arrival celebration in our son’s room proclaimed.  
We were soon off to explore.  A rooftop terrace commanded a 360 degree view across the windswept city, while an adjacent swimming pool, to cool for a swim, unfortunately lay vacant.  It required a Negroni, properly prepared with freezer-cold gin, refrigerated Campari, a splash of vermouth, and a half-slice of orange, to counterintuitively keep me warm.
That evening, there in the cradle of the Renaissance, Christopher visited two hotels for business purposes.  We got to come along!  First stop was a tour of the St. Regis followed afterwards by one of the Westin Excelsior.  At the St. Regis, a Florentine jewel located just a stroll away from the Ponte Vecchio along the Arno in Piazza Ognissanti, the hotel’s front office manager kindly brought us
through a suite recently occupied by Madonna.  Massive and impeccably decorated in classic Italian style, it was a knock-out, nothing less than a Presidential Suite.  Afterward, we were offered cocktails in their Michelin starred Winter Garden Restaurant.  It was there that we were treated to their celebrated “Sabering”, a tradition where nightly the foiled and wired top of a bottle of Prosecco is severed from the bottle with the swipe of a saber’s blade.  Evidently, when hotel patrons want their Prosecco, they expect it quickly!
On the opposite side of the plaza we were next given a tour of the Westin Excelsior Hotel.  Centuries ago it was a medieval palace and evidently it hasn’t lowered its standards since.  Its elegant impact began at the entrance when the doorman
opened the door to the lobby.  There we were greeted by a cutting edge contemporary atrium flawlessly paired with unique renaissance features.  The marble floor alone was exquisite; the entire room the epitome of consummate elegance.  It distracted from Front Office Manager Raffaello’s welcome, who with pride, then proceeded to give us tours of their various classes of rooms. The staircase in particular, leading up from the lobby, featured a striking Italian Liberty Style.  This 19th century design, an Italian adaptation of Art Nouveau, emphasized spiraling, sinuous architectural forms.  Looking down through the central void of the staircase, its descending stairs clinging to the walls in boxy lockstep, I felt a sense of infinity as it fell away, almost  indefinitely, to the converging rules of perspective.  
Dinner at the Excelsior’s rooftop “Se·Sto” garden restaurant followed.  The only thing distracting from our meals in this contemporary glass-enclosed facility were the 360-degree views of the city, beginning with the Arno River.  High atop our perch, I first enjoyed Spaghetto al Concentrato di Astice (spaghetti in a lobster sauce), then Filetto di Vitello (veal fillet), while Maria Elena chose Gnocchi con funghi porcini al wasabi (gnocchi with porcini mushrooms and wasabi).  Two celebratory bottles of excellent 2008 Brunello Castelsiocondo later, we’d concluded our extravagant Mediterranean style meals.  It had been a memorable first day in an elite world.
There was much to see in Florence and so little time.  Unless we somehow managed to stay awake the entire time, we had about 36 hours to take it all in.  Though small and amenable to walking, it nevertheless is not an insignificant city.  We began to explore its one of a kind sites the
next morning following a wonderful breakfast.  Our first stop took us next door to the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella (see lead photo).
The interior of the Santa Maria Novella Basilica was massive, its wall decorated with stunning frescos.  In addition to the Basilica, the extensive complex included a museum, the Great Cloister, various chapels, and an interior cemetery, the Cloister of the Dead.  We saw it all.  This once Dominican Order church, begun in 1279, is today owned and operated by a partnership of the Religious Buildings Fund, the municipality of Florence, and the State.  I found it similar to Montecasino, where religious are nowhere to be found.  With an entrance fee of €8 per person and massive tourism, it must be a thriving money maker.  
Over the course of the day, we crisscrossed the city.  We passed through the Central Market, a favorite of mine, where foodstuffs of every sort, from pig ears to sandwiches, can be had.  Map in hand, we moved on to that famous of all Florentine landmarks, the Duomo, Bell Tower, and Baptistery.  Even as early as it was, long lines already circled the Duomo.  Leaving the Duomo area behind, we moved toward the river, our goal the Piazza della Signoria.  The square, as ever, was splendidly arrayed with antiquities, fountains, statues, and of course, ever growing numbers of tourists.  Passing the copy of Michelangelo's David, we entered Florence’s town
hall, Palazzo della Signoria.  Just inside, an Asian couple dressed in wedding finery were being photographed as part of what I can only guess was a destination wedding - a really special destination, half way around the world.  Nearby were some of our favorite sites including the Loggia dei Lanzi open-air sculpture gallery, as well as the Uffizi Gallery which unfortunately closed that day.  Of course we couldn’t miss showing Chris the spot where in 1497 Girolamo Savonarola carried out the famous Bonfire of the Vanities, burning books, gaming tables, fine dresses, works of poets, and finery of every sort.  We pointed out the round marble plaque marking the exact spot where a year later Savonarola, having fallen out of favor with the Pope, was hung and then burned.  I would have thought excommunication would have been enough.
From there we made for the Arno through the Uffizi courtyard where we could glimpse the gold laden Ponte Vecchio.  Once a 100 foot span of butcher shops, it was on the order of Cosimo I de' Medici in 1593 that the bridge acquired its current glitzy character as a home to bling when one jewelry shop after another took up residence there.  Since we were last there, the “padlock
phenomenon” has also put down roots on Ponte Vecchio.  This current fad is connected to the idea that lovers, by locking a padlock (many times to another lock) and throwing the key in the river, the lovers became eternally bonded.  With so many tourists, thousands of padlocks appear annually, which need to be removed due to the resulting damage to the centuries old bridge.  Honestly, I felt it was an attractive blight, far better than spray tagging.  Currently, this form of love art is reportedly on the decline after the city put a sign on the bridge mentioning a €160 penalty for those caught locking something to the fence!  On a return visit we’ll just have to see if love conquers all.
About then, it was time for a break, a long break over glasses of wine.  Something to soak our feet in would also have hit the spot.  We chose Antico Trattoria dei 13 Gobbi.  It looked interesting, with an intimate atmosphere, somewhat like a deli.  The walls were clad in wooden panels from wine crates, hundreds of them.  Oak ceiling beams
gave it a classic Tuscan look, but then, we were in the heart of Tuscany not some knock off Italian restaurant in Fiji.  It is best known for its Florentine steak, but this being only lunch, I instead chose a Caprese salad antipasto followed by an indulgent pasta alla carbonara with crispy cubes of pancetta, while Chris enjoyed a pizzas, and Maria her favorite, pasta alla vongole.  My only excuse, I’ll work out when back in the States.  However, an unexpected workout lay just before us.
By this point, since leaving Hotel Minerva, we’d made what looked like a rough circle of the city.  Now we walked what approached a diagonal across that circle to the Four Seasons Hotel for one final facility tour with Christopher.  Our feet guided us on a journey from crowded town

squares to tiny, quiet streets, away from the bustle of an overrun tourist infested city.  But to think, weren’t we part of that infestation?  Arrived at the Four Seasons, we at least felt we were somehow special, apart from the masses in that upper 1% stratum we are so often politically reminded of.  Of course we were not staying there, but in our short while there, whether seated in their main lounge, or later in their atrium-like bar enjoying a refreshing aperitivo, we experienced their exceptional brand of what I can only describe a persistent perfection in elegant surroundings of the highest quality.  In a completely separate building we toured a personal oasis in the heart of Florence, their spa, which extended underground.  For a wine lover like myself, just imagine the “Chianti Wine Massage” treatment I noted among the spa’s offerings.  I can only imagine sensations worthy of Bacchus! They had created an experience much admired but not easily replicated anywhere else in Florence. 
In terms of space alone, there is nothing to match it anywhere else in the city.  It had distanced itself from the city center for a reason.  At the heart of the Four Seasons awaited a delightful surprise - the Giardino della Gherardesca – a sanctuary of giant shade trees, vast lawns and vibrant flowers, sprinkled throughout with art.  One of the largest Florentine gardens, it had been kept private and unseen for hundreds of years.  Whether it be a romantic dinner, secluded in some shady spot, or a
sprawl on the lawn, all can be had here in this expansive giardino (garden).  Walking its interlacing pathways with Sofia, our Sales Manager host, we came upon striking statues, fountains, ponds, a pavilion, a swimming pool, even a small Ionic temple.  For a more modest reprieve from a busy world there was even a hammock strung between two obliging trees.  It was a refreshing escape from Florence’s busy streets.  You can lose yourself on this estate.  I especially enjoyed its unparalleled display of art positioned here and there throughout the grounds.  These numerous and absolutely fabulous works of art are worthy of their own Uffizi.  Our three hotel tours now concluded, and while personally totally unaffordable on our part, I’d settle on Madonna’s suite at the St. Regis, the gardens of the Four Seasons, and the rooftop restaurant at the Westin Excelsior.
There was more, if more could make an already fab visit to Florence any better.  We reluctantly left the Four Seasons and pushed-on to one last destination, the Santa Croce Basilica.  We wanted Chris to see the tombs of some of Florence’s greatest names: Michelangelo, Galileo, Rossini, and Machiavelli along with a memorial to Dante (buried in Ravenna).  While they are dead and gone, by this time we were in need of medical attention ourselves to revive.  A cab ride later miraculously deposited us at an Irish pub across the square from the Grand Hotel Minerva … just the way to end a day, if not with an Irishman, than with a pint.  God bless the Irish!  Like Camp Pendelton recruits, according to Chris’ watch pedometer, we’d walked a total of 9.8 miles that day.  All that we lacked were the back-packs.  By all reports, I’d been the drill sergeant on the forced march!
Ever a non-believer in Five Star living, I discovered that someone like myself can easily acclimate to this lifestyle.  Like the photo Michael J. Fox’s character, Marty McFly, held in Back to the Future, in which he was gradually disappearing from the scene over time, the bourgeoisie in me was gradually being supplanted by a pampered, jet-setting plutocrat I did not recognize.  If I’d stayed any longer, there’s no telling what may have happened.
Oh, and as for the hotel’s name, Minerva, when I asked, they indicated it was a common name in the past, though I’ve still never met a Minerva in the flesh.  But past can mean a very long time ago, especially in Italy.  For now, although there is still time, I’ll have to be simply satisfied with the statues of her, which were everywhere, though not in any of the halls of the hotel. 
The next morning we rented a car.  Returning to the Grand Minerva, we checked-out and loaded our luggage aboard for the next phase of our trip.  A turn of the key and we’d be off, this time deep into Tuscan wine country.  However, as new as it was, it refused to start.  Thus began the next episode of this cinque stelle tale.  Stay tuned.

 
From That Rogue Tourist

Paolo

 

*  Interestingly, in addition to this poetic soliloquy, Pablo Neruda was the Chilean poet-diplomat and politician who was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1971.  The 1994 well-known Italian film, Il Postino, centers on the story of Pablo Neruda, then living in exile near Sicily on Salina Island in the 1950s.  In the movie, he befriends the local postman (we saw his bike on Prócida, an island near Naples) and through his influence engendered in the postman a love of poetry enough to help the postman woo his love, the local beauty, Beatrice.  If you haven’t seen it already, follow Neruda’s advice - change your ways, break a habit if you must, and if need be, read subtitles.




Friday, September 30, 2016

Cinque Stelle Anticipation


 
Reloaded and Ready to Go Again

Cinque Stelle Anticipation
Some years ago, Maria Elena and I took a trip out west here in the States.  Along with us were my sister and her husband.  Our trip would take us to Alaska, a place my brother-in-law was interested in seeing and also served to, let's say, break him in to travel before they'd accompany us to Italy.  The Alaskan portion of the trip would take up the later part of the jaunt by way of a cruise ship from Seattle.  All told, it would be a peak-to-peak adventure, for before venturing into Alaskan terrain, we'd enjoy a train ride through the spectacular Canadian Rockies from Jasper to the shores of the Pacific at Vancouver, British Columbia.  It was a five star (cinque stelle) adventure all the way, for we'd overnight in Fairmont hotels and resorts all along our route beginning in Banff.  We'd been promised a wow trip, where we'd sit with our noses pressed to the glass aboard the Rocky Mountianeer as it followed the Kicking Horse River and crossed the Continental Divide following railroad tracks that first united Canada, east to west, 125 years ago. 
But as they sometimes sigh alas in fairytales or alora in Italian, trees, mountains and dramatic canyons can only go so far.  For New Englanders like ourselves, who live in this type of idyllic landscape every day, the shine wore off quickly.  Oh, if we lived in some sprawling concrete and asphalt metropolis, where they have to think about where to group a few trees and call it a park, it might have been different.  Likewise, later-on in Alaska, we may have marveled at the sight of so much snow and ice if we hailed from someplace like Miami, but we don't.  You see, Maria Elena and I are surrounded by forests.  So is my sister.  My brother-in-law makes some of his living from timber sales and I keep busy keeping the forest at bay out of fear it may overtake my yard.  As for snow and ice, for my emotional wellness, I won't even go there.  I'd need to be coddled in a safe zone to avoid the potential distress of those “micro aggression” moments we hear so much about lately, triggered in my case when forced to see snow, especially when it’s out of season back home.  So maybe some of you can appreciate that after an hour or so with our noses pressed against the glass, we realized just how "seen that, done that" the rail part of the trip was.  For me at least, the wow part of the entire trip would instead prove to be the fabulous hotels along the way. 
Where am I going with this?  I sometimes find myself asking the same question, but there is a point.  We have another trip coming up, this one guaranteed wow certified.  Though not with my sister and her husband this time, I can't call it a precursor trip, for I doubt we'll ever get to duplicate it with anyone, not even ourselves.  With my sister and her husband behind to manage forest and snow as need-be, we will travel to Italy this time accompanied by our son, Christopher, along with his best friend and our “adopted son”, Stephen.  We have been to Italy now many times.  I can’t speak for Stephen, but for Chris, it will be his first.  Yet while for the most part we’ll be the guides, it is Chris who will be the facilitator.  It would not be happening without him, for as the Director of Corporate Business Development for a major travel agency in Manhattan, he has smoothed the way in advance of our arrival with a fabulous line-up of five star hotels, to include a resort.  For over a week we’ll get to inhabit the Condé Nast Traveler world of luxury hotels.  It definitely comes in handy to have a son in high places!  This will be an outing highlighted by such fine establishments that, unversed as I am in high society, I honestly wonder if it might be wise if Maria Elena and I  changed out of our travel mufti, shall we say, into something more 5-star appropriate, before we check in!
Arriving on separate flights, at different locations, and on different days, we begin with a rendezvous in Florence.  Again, there are trains involved.  Ours, hopefully a high-speed Italo version
that will whisk us there in about 3 hours, will be coming north from Naples, while Chris and Steve will arrive from Milan.  We will emerge from the metal and glass sky-lit roof overhanging the main passenger concourse of Firenze's Santa Maria Novella Station and head for our home for the next few nights in Piazza Santa Maria.  It is in Piazza Santa Maria where we will experience our first wow when we enter Grand Hotel Minerva. 
The luxury Grand Hotel Minerva is a 100 room boutique hotel in Florence's historic center.  It shares the piazza with the Basilica of Santa Maria Novella, begun in 1279 by the Dominican order though not consecrated until 72 years before Columbus discovered America.  We're told it has recently been refurbished and features wooden floors in each room along with soft color appointed walls that host the works of contemporary Florence artists - the newest crop of Michelangelos.  A rooftop terrace with a view across Florence, along with an adjacent pool, should be especially interesting.  Hotel Minerva is named for the Roman goddess of wisdom and sponsor of arts and trade.  In my high school days of yore, a statue of her stood in the hallway outside the language classrooms at the top of the main entry staircase.  No longer a school, where she might be today is anyone's guess.  A sentinel of learning, I like to think of her right where she was, holding her spear with her Greek helmet with its vacant eye-slits cocked back on her head.  I'll certainly be on the lookout for her in the halls of Hotel Minerva and be sure to investigate why this albergo is named in her honor. 
As an escape from the formality of Florence, we're next off to another temporary fantasy, this one deeper into Tuscany at Castiglion Del Bosco, whose beauty is the least of its assets.  Located
there in the rolling, multi-layered countryside south of Siena we’ll find, with Margaret’s GPS help, the world class Rosewood Resort.  It is not far from two of our all-time favorites, Montalcino with its Brunello wine, and the Benedictine Abbey at Sant'Antimo, thought to have originated with Charlemagne when he passed through with his army.  We may come to think of the Rosewood as an Italian getaway, equivalent to Maria Antoinette’s hide-away, La Petit Trianon, at Versailles.  This time, however, the queen for a few days will be Maria Elena. 
The Rosewood Resort was constructed from the ruins of a bygone farming community hamlet, Castiglion Del Bosco.  Located on a hilltop, overlooking a patchwork of fields and vineyards that stretch out towards Montalcino, the Borgo was the center of activity for hundreds of years.  Dominated by the ruins of a medieval castle that gives the estate its name, its main concourse is a place brimming with memories waiting to be
explored.  Within the Borgo, the historic manor house, old winery, stables, church of San Michele Arcangelo, the priest’s house, along with other buildings, have all been meticulously restored and repurposed.  The village now features two restaurants, a cooking school, an organic kitchen garden, 23 suites, a spa, an infinity pool and a fitness center.   We doubt we'll be able to take it all it during our three days there, but we're sure to give it a shot.  Just looking at it online, situated in those classic undulated Tuscan hills, peppered with cypress trees, you'd think we were stepping into a work of art.
We'll of course get to show them Calitri along with our home there.  It is our next stop after our stay at the Rosewood and a long day's ride into the Mezzogiorno.  We'll prowl its labyrinth of streets, explore its castle, and certainly sample its cuisine in familiar places like Tre Rose and Locanda dell'Arco.  Lacking room service, other than what mom can provide, and absent a doorman anywhere in our humble environs, I wonder what Chris will estimate our particular star rating might be.  A letdown from days of dazzle and glitz, maybe, but it will definitely be an interesting few days before we're off again, though initially not far at all.  Our next destination will be to the seething bustle and spectacle of love-it or hate-it Naples.
That "New City" of the Greeks, what we refer to as Naples today, is a curious place.  Forget about the sophistication and polish of Milan, the ever nascent appeal of Venice, or the refined Renaissance atmosphere of Florence.  In their place, the pulse of a flamboyant citizenry is everywhere in Naples.  Our sojourn in Naples will find
us in the Santa Lucia district at the Grand Hotel Vesuvio.  It occupies prime waterfront on Santa Lucia Harbor in the Gulf of Naples and lies just across the street from Castel dell'Ovo.  Along with the hotel, the castle, located on a former island (now connected by a causeway with the mainland) where 6th century BC Greek colonists founded the original nucleus of the city, has a colorful history.  We'll have to be careful not to have eggs for breakfast while there.  There is no telling where they may have come from, for legend says that the Roman poet Virgil, who had a reputation for predicting the future, put a magical egg into its foundations.  If the egg were to ever break, the castle would be destroyed and a series of disastrous events would befall Naples, but not if we can help it.
The Grand Hotel Vesuvio, constructed in 1882, has an equally colorful history.  Remodeled many times since, it retains the height of unrivaled luxury and impeccable elegance that made it an important stop for international tourists arriving in Naples for centuries.  It has experienced the ravages of war when in WWII it was destroyed by allied bombardment, only to be rebuilt.  The famous have walked its hallways throughout the years.  Included among its world-renowned celebrities are Guy de Maupassant, Oscar Wilde, Grace Kelly, and legendary tenor Enrico Caruso, who along with movie mogul Alfred Hitchcock made the Vesuvio their Neapolitan home.
Today, the Vesuvio has retaken its place among the ranks of prestigious hotels as a member of the "Leading Hotels of the World".  I've poked my nose inside the Vesuvio's lobby as a curious passer-by in the past.  This time as a guest, my special interest will be in its roof-garden restaurant named after Enrico Caruso, since the tenor was once its frequent treasured guest.  I'm sure that sometime during our stay in its old-world opulence, there in the midst of stunning rooftop views of Sorrento, the island of Capri, and Mount Vesuvius, I might get to hear the crackle of a 78 rpm recording of Caruso’s voice originate from an old Victrola record player while enjoying Bucatini alla Caruso (with San Marzano tomatoes of course).  It would certainly be a fitting treat.
The final leg of our cinque stelle odyssey will see us once again race north by rail, this time to Rome, where ancient collides with contemporary.  For a final time we'll steep in formal luxury.  Passing through an ancient looking portal, we'll enter the modern confines of Palazzo  Scanderbeg in
Piazza Scanderbeg, only steps away from the Trevi Fountain.  What better way to conclude our “Grand Tour” then to be able to throw a coin or two into the fountain in hope of return.  This Renaissance palazzo, first built in 1465 as home to a famous Albanian nobleman, skilled general and wily diplomat, has been sympathetically restored into luxurious townhouse rooms and seven grand suites.  One of these suites that will be our Roman home during our stay.  Just a little overboard, we
understand our suite, The Victory Suite, in addition to featuring a balcony, will include the services of our own butler.  That alone should prove interesting.  While we can't expect a Jeeves as we might in the UK, maybe a Maurizio will be at our disposal.  In addition to unique individual arrangements like these, we understand that the suites feature exposed beams, original architectural details, and views over Piazza Scanderbeg.  As with our other temporary stays, all this can lead to distraction and give us pause.  Instead of exploring Rome's sites and streets, for instance, we just may be reckless enough to stay inside, content to bask in contemporary luxury.  
This adventure will certainly be our Grand Tour, albeit scaled down considerably from the Grand Tours by men of means in the 18th century.  A cingue stelle getaway like this most likely will be something we'll never get to experience again.  Frankly, it wouldn’t be possible without Chris’ business acumen and travel connections.  I can't speak for all of our troupe, but after having sampled living in such privilege, by the conclusion of our tour, the bourgeoisie in me will be in danger of having evaporated, a champagne taste developed on a beer budget.  Instead of five stars, the scatter of stars, millions of them, overhead in the clear unpolluted night sky above Calitri, will suffice.  Needless to say, for my part, stuck as I am between expectation and anticipation, this certainly has been a blow my horn brag, a cinque stelle brag.  Am I expecting too much over-the-top stroking, luxury, and subservience?  As I read the hotel descriptors, are they simply the razzle-dazzle of commercial hype?  Need I throttle back on my keen anticipation?  I think is was Goethe who once said something to the effect, “All that has been written is as nothing compare to the reality.”  Like all visions of the future, including weather forecasts, we'll just have to wait and see how things actually work out.  For my part, beyond these braggadocios words, I'll be sure to do my adjective-heavy best to write about it.
Well, I'm off.  Must pack for this upcoming, starry debut of ours, all the while wondering if I'd be better served if I brought along a suit, if not a tuxedo.  


From That Rogue Tourist

Paolo




Wednesday, August 31, 2016

A Tapas Crawl Through Italy




A Tapas Crawl Through Italy
Though at times interrupted by the sounds of a motorcycle, a passing car, even an occasional jogger, the lapping sounds of the waves on the shore were as though the sea was breathing.  Its steady whoosh distinguished it from the sound of the wind, for the waves would continually return and steadily repeat throughout the night.  Lying there, listening to the sounds of paradise, I wondered whether these were the same water molecules, climbing the sand only to retreat, that had for centuries washed these shores and floated fleets of Phoenician, Greek, and Roman ships that once prowled these waters.  Here was a place of postcards and limoncello; Here was enchanting Cefalu on the northern coast of Sicily.  Battered in time by both the sea and invasion, Cefalu, a city of ancient Greek origin, sits on the Tyrrhenian Sea about 40 miles east of Palermo and approximately 100 miles west of Messina. 
We were staying at the Astro Suite Hotel, just a few minutes walk from Cefalu’s intriguing medieval center.  In contrast to the rugged, honey-colored stone architecture of the rest of this city by the sea, almost barnacle-like clinging to the shore, the Astro Suites is contrarian, the antithesis of bygone days.  For me at least, a word like “astro” too easily suggests some image of space travel, astronauts, and space ships.  Contrary to what you might imagine from its name, however, its silhouette evoked a breezy nautical mood.  Like billowing modern sailing ships, the towering white buildings of the complex were instead content on catching the eye, verses the wind.  In fact, the suites are spread over two floors and two wings, designated by nautical sounding names, "Bridge A" and "Bridge B".  Its interior color scheme only added to a union of sea and sky - vistas commonly visible from a suite aboard a cruise ship.  A color palette of shades of blue continued the deception, for its floors were blue with blue appointments from sofas to
curtains of blue and colored sand.  Promoting a ship afloat further, were portholes.  Ours was positioned in the bath, just high enough that we could shower to a view of the sea, and hopefully not be seen from someone enjoying the view from Bridge B!
We like to wander and Cefalu’s enchanting postcard-perfect venue of squares, streets, and churches presented a perfect opportunity to do just that.  In the time we were there, we did the entire town a few times over, poking into alleyways, walking the beach, visiting shops, and peeking into churches.  One artist’s workshop, The Art Studio, proved especially rewarding when we got to visit with local artist, Giuseppe Cimino (click to watch Video).  His dark curly hair was frizzed like that madcap scientist in Back to the Future, but his gray mustache and beard brought out his artistic side, enough that I'd categorize his mild mannered nature along the lines of Pinocchio's puppet-maker father

Geppetto.  A graduate of the Palermo Academy of Fine Arts, in addition to being an artist, he is also an art teacher, set designer and screen painter all in one.  While he specializes in oil landscapes, his wife's focus is on portraits.  We had seen his work throughout town, some commissioned by the commune itself.  While his daughter ran the shop and at the time was giving a child a watercolor lesson, he happened to come by.  I’ve always been impressed with water colors, the way the colors seem to bleed into the paper, along with the veiled transparency of the colors that allow the underlying etching to come through.  There were many scenic vistas to choose from, with several surprisingly at prices we could afford.  With Giuseppe's help, we settled upon a scene viewed from the old port pier, a spot where we’d hesitated one evening to take in that exact view.  It presented that waterfront silhouette of the town we’d seen and for which Cefalu is so well known.  Once framed and hung on our wall in Calitri, it will remind us of our Sicilian sojourn in Cefalu for years to come.  Giuseppe must have enjoyed our company as much as we enjoyed his, for on our departure he presented us with the gift of a signed numbered copy of his latest creation.  My paint by numbers days long past, I greatly appreciated this gentle soul's talent as well as his sincere kindness.  
Farther along Via Vittorio Emanuele, we came upon what for all intents and purposes appeared to be a cobbled alley that curved down in the direction of the sea.  Following this route downward, a sign informed us that this was the entrance to the Lavatoio Medievale.  At first look the name got me thinking that we’d stumbled upon some sort of medival
toilet.  It certainly sounded that way.  Unfortunately, it was an easy mistake to make, for instead, we discovered a charming courtyard at the end of the passageway, not a toilet in sight.  What we did find were a series of stone pads, their sides washed by a steady stream of rushing water.  Centuries ago, this was the spot where housewives would kneel to do the family laundry, and girls being girls, certainly to chat, if not gossip, as they busied themselves scrubbing and rinsing.  The facility appeared intact, as if at any moment from around the corner, the ageless routine might continue with the arrival of a troop of women I envisioned in long colorful skirts balancing baskets of laundry atop their heads.  It was not to be, at least not that day, for the sound of approaching footsteps simply heralded the arrival of more tourists, some I’m certain looking for that phantom lavatory. 
Of course there were also meals to enjoy.  We had our share of course, both substantial sit-down affairs and from far humbler street-food concessions.  It was at the very smart
Ristorante Vecchia Marina where we enjoyed a Sicilian Pasta alla Vongole.  This was followed by a slab of Spada alla Griglia, an Insalata Mista salad, and an entire bottle of Vino Grillo wine in a semi-formal atmosphere that included tablecloth linens and a patio window view over the old port and beyond.  This spectacular setting was missing, however, when we discovered Fritto & Divino, a hole-in-the-wall eatery just off the Piazza del Duomo on Via Mandralisca.  The place was a long narrow affair … think of a house trailer slid between adjacent walls and
you just about have it.  A counter ran its length, while a few small tables and chairs clung to the long span of the opposite wall.  Between the two only a narrow lane remained, front to back, terminating at a wall of assorted wine bottles all yearning to be sampled.  There were no printed menus.  Instead, a chalkboard, outside by the entrance, was scrawled with the day’s fare.  
To our surprise we discovered that Fritto & Divino was a sort of Italian version of a tapas bar.  Tapas were relatively new to us, since where we live in the States, it’s a challenge to find a department store, let alone a tapas bar.  For novices like ourselves, tapas are appetizers that have evolved into a sophisticated form of snack food in Spanish cuisine.  About the closest we might be able to find would be jalapeno poppers à la Taco Bell!  Cold or hot, tapas are open-ended to creativity and can consist of just about anything, their only limitation being our imaginations.  Sitting outside that evening we passed on the panini and instead enjoyed a
small dish of deep fried pieces of fish, similar to calamari, then another of batter fried vegetables, both to the short lived accompaniment of a bottle of Firriato Altavilla Grillo wine.  What the heck, fried can’t be too bad once in a while.  We enjoyed the experience so much we returned the next day for another round of cibo fritti (fried food).  To be honest, we’d experienced something similar in Monreale, a city just outside of Palermo only days earlier. 
We were staying in Monreale to avoid the traffic mess of downtown Palermo.  Instead, we planned to take a hop on-off bus into the city to see the sights the following day.  But getting to our B&B in Monreale proved a challenge when I missed a turn in the center of town.  I was confused in a web of unfamiliar streets, and the narrowness of encroaching buildings put our GPS into a “recalculating” muddle.  Throughout my befuddlement, the surrounding traffic didn’t give a care.  I knew I’d overshot our destination but exactly where it was remained a mystery.  To top it off, the town was getting ready for a festival.  Many streets were already closed to traffic.  A few lefts later saw us emerge into a piazza where a man was directing traffic.  He was not a traffic cop and clearly had no official capacity.  He reminded Maria Elena of a fellow in Newport, Rhode Island, years back, who had the distinct moniker of ‘Timmy the Woodhooker’.  While he would make his rounds weekly and collect cast-offs to make a living, this lad seemed to help out around town.  With no idea who he was, I had no confidence in his assurances we could park there, for our entire stay if we wished or leave our belongings while we found our B&B.  Though there was something to him that told me he might be harmless, I was still suspicious of his over ingratiation.  For our part, we didn’t want to leave anything in the car.  When I insisted on taking things like my computer and suitcases with us, he seemingly tired of directing traffic, told us he knew the place, took hold of a handle, and insisted on helping us find it.  He was off in a heartbeat with us rolling along behind him as best we could with additional baggage, struggling to keep up.  Recently off our flight, only just arrived in Sicily, we had plenty along with us.  No simple holiday overnight totes for us.  Pulling our suitcases along, it felt like a sack race.  It proved to be more like a steeplechase race at best, only lacking the obstacles, for it went on and on, never seeming to have an end.  In a race at least, you can usually see the end.  Not in this case, for none of us knew where we were going, especially 'Timmy'.  But what the heck was his hurry?  It was as though we were in a fast moving parade, with us soon strung out behind him.  People on the sidewalks in front of storefronts watched our procession as ‘Timmy’ led us down the center of the main street.  Unlike most races, however, this one featured numerous, what can only be described as waypoints, as we made two false stops before finally arriving at Casa
Lilla.  Street-side observers must have wondered what was going on as our gaggle first went by in one direction, only minutes later to the clickity-clack announcement of our suitcase wheels on the cobbles, to see us return headed in the opposite direction.  I honestly wondered if his plan was to tire us out and be off with our suitcase.  Thinking about it, we were actually easy pickings.  He was well out in front of us, disappearing for a time with each corner he'd round.  Our bag-drag parade only concluded when he toted all our luggage to the second floor landing of Casa Lilla.  Although he’d have won a gold medal in this race, I was glad to pay him for his help.  It was the only part of the experience I can admit enjoying.  There was one positive spinoff from this slog, however.  Next door to one of our false B&B stops, we discovered Le Barrique, a wine and snack-food bar.
Now familiar with the route to the Barrique, we found it later, located by one of the walls of the Monreale Cathedral,
without difficulty.  Saddled-up to the counter on tall bar stools, we learned that Le Barrique was relatively new, having opened only weeks earlier.  It was a treat to get to know these young entrepreneurs (lead photo), something we'd missed when we sat in the street outside of Fritto & Divino.  Absent anything fritti here, we instead snacked on little tapas-like servings of prosciutto wrapped eggplant, along with assorted cheeses, olives, and salamis arranged atop bites of garlicky bread, all while enjoying what else but Aperol Spritzers.  We so enjoyed the intimate atmosphere, the staff's enthusiasm, and their friendliness, that we returned for a second time.  It proved to be our last hop off the tour bus.  On that visit, we got to enjoy generous samples of their excellent selection of Sicilian wines, ranging from strong hearty reds like fruity Nero d'Avola and volcanic soil-grown Nerello, to a bold refreshing white Grillo.  Along with tasty, eye-catching snacks prepared right before us, we so savored everything about our visit that we hated to leave.  Why couldn't there be a place like Le Barrique just around the corner wherever we were?  Beyond the tastes and beckoning smells of the food and spirits, the assault on our senses continued.  Adding to taste and smell were the simplest of sensory pleasures, like watching the care in the preparation of the tapas, taking in the sounds of their friendly conversation over the tinkle of ice, extending even to the cold touch of our icy spritzers.  All this sensed perfection makes Italy something special, special enough that people like ourselves are drawn to return again and again, if not to the same stools at Le Barrique and street-side outside Fritto & Divino, than to the country as a whole. 
Our fling in Sicily concluded, we drove aboard the ferry at Messina
and crossed the straights to Villa San Giovanni on the mainland.  Arriving in Calitri hours later, we were struck by how green everything appeared.  The parched fields of early fall had turned to emerald carpets.  The lake at Conza was full to brimming.  Later, as I’d gaze over the countryside from our terrace, breaks in the cloud-pocked sky let pass just enough light to spotlight patches of forest and green fields stretching to the horizon.  We were home but not for long.  A spur of the moment trip to the coast, weeks later, to the seaside town of Palinuro was followed by another excursion deep into the mountainous countryside of neighboring Basilicata.  The little hamlet of Pietrapertosa is listed as one of the most beautiful villages in Italy.  There's no question about it, for
sitting as it does in a outcropping of spike-tipped peaks, similar to the Dolomite region of northern Italy, this village has managed to preserve its medieval appearance.  In addition to its natural beauty, clinging as it does to the side of a Lucane mountain range, its major draw is the Volo dell'Angelo (Flight of the Angel).  From a launch pad above the village, near the lofty Saracen-Norman Castle, you can enjoy a cable ride along the highest and fastest zip-line in the world while lying horizontal, face down.  The pull of gravity gets you across the steep sided valley along a steel cable stretched from Pietrapetosa to the adjacent town of Castelmezzano.  This just might be your idea of fun.  With credentials like these, I wondered what good the crash helmet that these thrill-seekers were required to wear might serve.  I've done a lot of crazy things in the air over my life, but as I had with bungy-jumping, I took a pass on this one. 

It was on our way back to Calitri that we decided to stop-off in Lagopesole for another go at some Italian style tapas.  On an afternoon, weeks earlier, we'd visited Lagopesole for the first time.  What brought
us there initially was its fortress castle.  On previous trips south, in the direction of Potenza, we couldn't help but notice a massive blockhouse structure situated in a commanding position overlooking the entire Vitalba valley.  Come to find out, it was a castle, one of many to include another at Melfi farther north and the octagonally shaped Castel de Monte, off in Puglia, that Swabian Holy Roman Emperor Federico II (1194-1250) constructed.  Starting in 1242, on the foundations of a former Norman stronghold, it was to be the last and greatest of his castles.  


Passing through the castle's decorated entry portal, we entered a large enclosed rectangular open space.  Other than the soaring walls surrounding us, there was only a capped well, typical of a castle courtyard.  We were surprised by the sound of music and on closer inspection, when I peeked inside a room that was part of the wall, I came upon the source, two saxophone players.  How odd I thought, here in a castle.  Farther ahead, we discovered another gentleman, this time visible through a window,
who was also busy at the keys of his saxophone.  Something was definitely afoot.  Later, now inside, touring the former rooms of the Emperor and Empress, the sounds of another saxophonist, piped through the narrow corridors, drew us to the castle's former Angevin style chapel where yet another person was performing.  My competing thoughts settled on the idea that maybe it was due to the excellent acoustics afforded by the stony chambers.  That was only part of it, for we learned they were all master saxophonists rehearsing for an upcoming concert to be held right there in the castle.  That had been our inaugural visit to Lagosepole and its castle.  It was when we were leaving town, no more than a thread of streets at the base of the castle, looking for some refreshments, that we happened upon the owner of La Taverna, of all things, a local tapas bar.  It happened to be closed at the time, but Peppe told us when he was open, which we made note of for a return visit.  


As advertized, we found La Taverna open when we arrived from Pietrapetosa.  While Giuseppe, one of those secular saints we call a chef, was busy in the kitchen, his sister Lena managed the bar and looked after patrons.  Both were fluent in English.  Passing beneath an entry pergola, the interior with its stucco walls and bricked floor projected the intended cantina atmosphere of an authentic Spanish bodega.  The small intimate room strewn with thickly planked wooden tables completed the illusion that we'd suddenly materialized in some watering hole in the Basque region of the Iberian Peninsula.  All that might be missing were flamenco dancers, the sounds of their clapping hands and yelps competing with the abrupt staccato clatter of their shoes pounding the floor.  The mood complete, we settled into pints of crisp Spanish Estrella beer, all the

way to their tap from Barcelona.  It was new to us, very drinkable, with just the right amount of taste.  The day's fare, posted in chalk on a placard took up a large part of a wall.  No paella topped with prawns but then I didn't see any risotto either.  Instead, it listed a slew of Italian inspired tapas from 2 to 4 Euros each.  Included were things still unknown like baccalà e czuschi (battered cod), strapazzate di salsiccie (scrambled sausage) and undefined ciambotte (stew?).  They remain for another visit.  Instead we enjoyed verdure grigliato (grilled veggies), a parmigiana (a layered eggplant and cheese dish), and some crisp potatoes blanketed in mayonnaise and a thick spicy tomato sauce christened patatas bravas.  If that wasn't enough, I also couldn’t resist trying one of my standards, an arancini(stuffed rice ball).  Peppe served us and along with Lena would occasionally stop by our table to explain things and check on our progress.  
 
The place, the staff, and the food made for a thoroughly enjoyable evening at La Taverna.  This little tavern, bumping against perfection, a mix of Spanish and Italian cuisines if not words on the menus, will see us return.  The next time we'll definitely bring friends. 


Little things, including little tapas bar snacks can make for pleasurable moments and memories.  I'm the type that enjoys simple, little pleasures.  How simple can they be?  Really simple, like tightening a shoelace and feeling the pressure on my foot or simply the stout weighty feel of a proper fork or knife.  OK, ok, I realize this is just a step above twiddling your thumbs or a one-star
game of Sudoku, but then for nerd and sophisticate alike
the pursuit of pleasure and the good life are traits that each shares.  Food is like that, a common denominator - the Italian variant a universal constant.  Whether it be in Sicily, where cooking married the cuisine of its former occupiers, forever erasing any chance for some anodyne flavored meal, or be it on mainland Italy in some hidden off-beat place in the shadow of castle walls, far removed from those sought after constellations of Michelin stars, the best can still be found.  Beyond simply being a rote tourist tied to a schedule, we need only be engaged and look for it.  When looking for the Italian experience, don't settle for mediocrity.  Leave schedules behind, pack only your desires, and come taste the life.


 

From That Rogue Tourist

Paolo