Venice : La Serenissima

When I heard Venice was known as “La Serenissima”, I marked out a weekend in early May on the calendar as the construction vehicles continued to churn away next door and metal pounded metal. What a great place to spend a few days in peace and serenity before the big trip home in June! I looked it up and Wikipedia told me that, originally bearing its name due to its “title as one of the “Most Serene Republics”, the state existing for a millennia based out of Venice, La Serenissima Repubblica diVenezia, or the Most Serene Republic of Venice, in modern times has a reputation “widely based on its preference for economic supremacy over military might, despite its long history of war and conquest.” Hmmm, not exactly what I was thinking when I saw the moniker, but close enough I supposed. La Serenissima in the 21^st century surely spoke to the longing of so many of us to get away from it all to this city of connected islands, to listen to Vivaldi, cruise down the canals slowly with our white and black stripe-shirted Gondolier rowing away, crooning operatically, while we sipped champagne and looked into each other’s eyes…and plus, not too many battles had been happening there lately and how could Venice’s “economic supremacy” hinder our dream of a few days in paradise? I reserved our seats on the train.

         It is true that I heard that Venice plays host to quite a few visitors in May (and June, July, August, September, October….), but I didn’t really worry about that too much. Here was a city with canals instead of streets, “streets of water!” as we explained it to Nikolai in getting him psyched for the trip as he was recovering from a cold a week before we left. When the morning came to walk to the train station he appeared to have completely recovered, the sun was shining, and we could certainly handle the crowds. We’d been in Italy ten months, we could deal with a little jostling in line.        

         We were greeted with swarms of tourists who, like ourselves, were hoping to taste some of the Venetian magic (and many of whom, unlike ourselves, poured by the thousands off cruise ships that would make the Titanic look like a bath toy). As we rolled our suitcase and pushed Niko in his stroller and lugged them both up and down all of the bridges over the canals, making our way from the train station to our apartment rental in Canereggio, we had to be careful about stopping too long to heft a suitcase up or to bend over to hear what Niko was saying (“I have to go pee!”) so as to avoid getting plowed into by the steady stream of pedestrian traffic flowing without abatement down Strada Nuova into the heart of the city. And yes, everything did cost a pretty euro. It’s also true that this vacation proved similar to almost all this past year in that we had to find a pharmacy and get Niko some Tachiprina to make him more comfortable after he complained and rebelled all day Saturday as a fever came and heated him up like a convection oven does a potato (our little baked potato slept a four hour nap Saturday afternoon and stayed in the oven a good twelve hours that night. Once out the next morning, he gradually cooled down throughout Sunday and was soon back to normal). There was Sunday night,

 when a small group of Americans and Brits made up for paucity in numbers with boisterous bravado, overstaying their welcome on the terrace at a restaurant across the canal from our apartment, drinking far too much and talking (when they weren’t yelling) far too loudly. Their fun woke us up at midnight and kept us up for another hour. One gentleman found it appropriate to imitate the New Zealand rugby team’s pre-game war chants designed to intimidate opponents and show their strength. His lone, drunken rendition would’ve been comical had I been alert and ready for cheap entertainment. But eventually the fatigue of another day in La Serenissima conquered all and sleep pulled me relentlessly into its grasp.

         That was about the worst of it, and there was plenty not to groan about, too. Ready for a sentence about the rest, a long sentence, run-on (and on), breathless? Here it is.

         Walking down the banks on the fondamente alongside canals whose water slowly lapped along, pushing against the small boats moored next to old houses crammed together with organico—compostable material—waiting in small plastic bags attached to hooks off the ground for the trash person who wheels his cart—one I saw was blue and named Bertha—clunking up and down the steps  of the canal bridges, as children accompanied by mamma headed to school and a man in a suit strode 

alone to work, shop owners were beginning to pull out awnings, open doors, the morning quiet but not still, tourists on vacation and sleeping in while everyday life for Venetians continued on, a day like any other, jobs to get to, groceries to find, clothes to be washed and hung out to dry, friends to talk with, or running through the streets early, too, every fifty meters a choice, my route’s continuation hidden by twists and turns, alleys, courtyards, immense churches, and I pass them all, sometimes ending up with nowhere to go but back to the previous option not taken and follow that one, thinking naively relative position was safely in mind, that once ready to start making a loop and knowing where the starting point was that merely heading  in that direction would bring feet back home but being ensnared by the twisty 'S'

of the Canal Grande, dizzied by all of the turns and previous trips on vaporettos, these water busses finally the only solution to get bearings back, slow but trustworthy and steadily heading forward, permitting thoughts of how luxurious it is to be able to get lost for awhile and explore, following my nose to another discovery, a bakery just opening and permitting a cache of warm pastries and rolls for wife, daughter and son, such a cliché of American vacation to Europe but isn’t there some truth to these notions we repeat, a trip to a vegetable stand off a side street, talking with the vendor and letting him select what I need according to when it would be eaten, the draw of taking pictures of the fruit markets, these displays of color, this atmosphere of particular sounds and smells we wish to capture or soak up, this life seemingly lived so vividly, talking with the men who know the tomatoes or melons or squid so well, this contact we crave that in so many places has been reduced by

mass scale and do-it-yourself service, or watching dapper waiters in white coat and tie bring out the silver platters of ten euro tea to one table among dozens in Piazza San Marco while a trio plays appropriate music for the atmosphere and cigars are pulled out, cigarettes smoked, the trails of white lazily rising up but soon dissipating, far before reaching the observation deck of the Campanile, San Marco’s bell tower, the wind whipping around up there sending a chill through those who have no jacket so that they soon wait for the elevator to return them one hundred meters below, taking in the entire city and surrounding bays and sea when ear-shatteringly the six o’clock hour is struck by one bell just eight feet above, then another, and a third, and a fourth, understanding now why they can

be heard for so many kilometers from here, returning to the maze of streets with no cars, streets with no cars, with no cars, no cars, and walking past designer shops advertising a pair of sandals for seven hundred euros with matching purse for one thousand six hundred euros and the contrast with the young person maybe twenty years old sitting on a main tourist corridor, hair cut close with electric clippers,

hair also incongruously growing out of one side of her face around her eye to cheek and chin, seeing her stricken by this freak show-like anomaly and begging for money, walking past without talking to her or looking directly at her, a watery-eyed lady seeing us unfold a map back in Canereggio and commenting, “It isn’t easy, is it?” and exercising our Italian with her, learning some of her suggestions, hearing her say, when I explain how Niko and I each have a ‘k’ in our names that she thinks very highly of the ‘k’, or eating at a “cheap” touristy pizzeria where Italian is seldom spoken but persisting

 with our waiter in his language, learning he has a brother in CT, answering his questions about us and seeing him snapped out of his usual schtick, being the first tourist on the island of Burano after a forty minute ride out early Monday morning, traveling with commuters, the only one on the outdoor section of the boat, snapping pictures like crazy of the sun hitting the snowy tops of the Dolomites while buoys and boats passed between us, keeping camera out on a walk through this island of three thousand known for lace-making and its colorful assortment of houses, talking with a man who occasionally takes a break to peak around the corner to say good morning to this dog or that cat and at times to a person, too, or asking the slow and dignified senior who has just wheeled himself out to a deserted courtyard for a morning cigarette if I may take his photo, wondering about the story behind that face, heading back to the mainland as the first boatload of tourists arrives, and finally stopping to give some change to a man sitting and begging for money, a man who we’ve passed so many times before like the thousands of others who’ve done the same walking on without even looking and getting up the courage to ask him for his photo and seeing him seemingly glad for the request and attention, thanking

me after the picture, touching him on his arm and he doing the same to me after, being invited inside the tent to sit down with two workers camping out in the center of the large piazza outside the train station after talking with them awhile about why they’re out there, these two workers (and forty others like them) with fifteen or twenty years experience tending to passengers and their every need on the sleeper cars between Venice and Paris now without a job due to Trenitalia’s cost-saving measures, two ladies in head scarves coming up to us and asking us to fish their camera out of the river, serving as the interpreter between them (speaking in English) and the two unemployed workers saying, all smiles, to tell them they are railroad workers, not fisherman, but then watching as they find a long pole and head off to try to fish out the camera while the ladies lead them to the spot saying it’s not the camera, it’s the memory card, it’s the memories they cannot lose, it’s the memories.

            I guess Paradise as it’s popularly conceived would be pretty boring, and Venice is thankfully no such place to me, but for variety and challenges of its own, surprises along with a taste of magic and wonder, La Serenissima is one place I highly recommend you visit. Just be prepared for anything, leave your expectations at home and allow yourself to get lost.

Umbrian Calculations and Expectations

Bettona, viewed from our apartment rental

A vacation from a vacation? Such it appeared to some we’ve met here who know we’re on sabbatical when we said we were extending the Easter break a bit and heading off to Umbria for a week. ‘Why do you need a vacation?’ they seemed to be thinking. To us, though, it didn’t really feel like a vacation from a vacation, but just a vacation, which we did feel like we needed. Why go? Did we seek relaxation? A change from our routine? Discovering new places? A break from the ‘city’? New people? Different experiences? Sure. A little of each. And with each passing week we sensed our time in the Peninsula winding down, our return to the United States coming up ever sooner, our time to explore and discover more of Italy while we’ve got the chance vanishing like espresso at the bars. So we went.

         The luxury of being able to travel is not lost on us, especially in this country of financial crisis, friends and acquaintances almost universally unsure of and preoccupied with their financial future, some suddenly forced to check throats for strep or make focaccia another five years when they thought they’d be about to retire, others losing the extra job they had to make ends meet, polls on the radio saying how during Easter Italians would be taking 70% fewer vacations and for those who were leaving home that they’d reduced their time away to a day or two. So yes, there was some mild guilt that came with our decision. We were definitely fortunate to be able to travel in the first place.

         But of course in planning this trip there was also excitement. There would be novelty and exploration; there was the anticipation of the wonder and delight in our children (isn’t it funny how the inevitable upcoming fights and “I’m bored/cold/hungry/fed up with my brother/sister” don’t figure into pre-travel imagination?) our adventures would surely bring. I don’t know if the planning is half of the fun, but I do enjoy it, what with the Internet searches, VRBO listings, Wikipedia briefings, Google Maps, and all of the guidebooks and suggestions both computer and book. Sure, it probably lessens

the sense of discovery and novelty a little bit, but for most people it seems that the trade-off there is worth maximizing their odds of finding what they are looking for and ‘having a good time’ that prior research and planning can afford, not to mention the heightened anticipation of what’s to come that it brings. Given our research we expected a few things. We expected to see a lot of vegetation in this region known as the ‘Green Heart of Italy’, we expected to eat well in a land known for its wild mushrooms, fine olive oil, top-notch truffles and exquisite wild boar and prosciutto, we expected to sense a more easy-going attitude in the Umbrian people, we expected tiny hill top towns, regional and national parks, stunning vistas. We expected all of that and Umbria delivered—and yet, when we experienced it ourselves, it didn’t seem to have lost much of its magic for already having read about it somewhere.                                            

         And then there were the surprises.

         Our GPS, for one, became fluent in Italian, something we never thought possible, and now, apparently, she cannot revert to her ways of old. This unexpected outcome was met with mixed reactions. While at times Niko used to yell out and say he was sick of the “GPS lady” (due to her annoying, overly-americanized version of la bella lingua), more often than not he and Ingrid would delight in it, along with us, making fun of her obvious mispronunciations of Italian that not even the most seriously foreign language-challenged English speaker would make. Here is how the transformation took place: we pushed some of her touch screen buttons one day and found there were in fact several languages she could speak. We selected Italian and found her now fairly perfect accent and refusal to say any street names rather boring in comparison. “Switch her back!” the kids said, but apparently she would have none of it and now we’re stuck with her newfound banality. Our guide will still inform us if we’ve gone off route, but instead of the slightly disconcerting “re-calculating” she used to utter (inevitably met with the family’s ‘uh, not again!’) she will say, “Ricalculo”, somehow more precise, antiseptic…boring, and refuses to even say the names of streets, simply uttering the Italian equivalent of “in 100 meters, take a left.”

Assisi in the distance, Basilica to the left, Fortress above

         The books and websites told us that Umbria was a ‘mystical’ region, having something to due with the foggy hilltop towns and caves up high in the hills and mountains where religious folk would go to meditate and pray: Assisi, for example, the home of San Francesco or, as we know him, Saint Francis. Like our GPS lady, St. Francis went through his own transformation, albeit a bit more substantive one. Apparently he went from being a woman-chasing, warring youth to a man who gave away everything, divided his cloak in two to share with another who had none and spent time preaching to his many followers, including the occasional bird or squirrel. So far no surprises, right? But imagine our state of confusion when, after having just visited his tomb from the thirteenth century in the lower church of the Basilica (lost for several hundred years but found again within the structure in the 1800s) when, while walking up the main street leading into town trailing a small cluster of seminary students in black robes, we seemed to see a reincarnation of St. Francis himself. The seminary students had nudged each other, looking up. Or gaze had followed, and indeed, this man coming toward us wore no shoes or sandals and sported only a burlap sack-like garment. He spoke aloud as he walked, carrying a bag with some papers and a book or two. Apparently he was preaching, headed

down from the direction of the hermitage where St. Francis and followers would go to have some peace and quiet, meditate and pray. We had been there, too, but the only Francesco we saw was cast in bronze. Mysterious. When the would-be St. Francis veered over to talk to us I asked him if I could take his picture. He brushed aside the request saying there were more important things to talk about. “I’ve been walking the hills for thirty years,” he said, “and have written down words of inspiration from God.” He continued, but my shock at speaking with a ghost and my still less than adequate Italian

combined to render his brief sermon all but incomprehensible. When it became apparent he’d like to sell us some literature, however, and when he said he’d spent a year in the United States back in high school I snapped out of my reverie and asked how much. “Whatever you are able to give,” came his reply. So we bought his book and I asked again if I could snap a photo. “There are so many others more worthy than I,” he replied (Of the eight people I asked to photograph on this trip he was one of the two who refused), and hobbled away on his red and extremely swollen feet, calling out his message just a bit louder than before, leaving me staring at the cover of his paperback volume and its picture of an alluring—and yes, slightly mystical—Monte Subasio.

         Heavy incense, chanting, prayer, standing up and kneeling then sitting and then all over again, church-goers (every one from three to one hundred and three) crossing themselves whenever they walked before the altar and crucifix, speaking, more incense waving, giving money, watching people go up for Communion, shaking hands and wishing each other peace—these are some of Ingrid’s experiences of her first Easter Mass. I’d taken her to the small hill town of Bettona for the service and, afterwards, some of the strange costumes we saw people wearing during the service began to make sense and revealed our next suprise. That large man sporting the black leather suspenders and holster in front wasn’t dressing in typical small Umbrian hill town fashion, he was thus bolstered to help support the cross itself he would be carrying during the procession in which many of the more casually dressed churchgoers also seemed to be participating.

‘Why not?’ we said, and joined in. Having townsfolk on the side of the route watching us parade by made me feel a bit like an imposter, somewhat sneaky, but also a tad proud and part of the club, if just for a moment, this my “authentic vacation experience.” After a while we thought we’d had enough, gotten out of it what we could, and decided to make our exit down one of the many small alleyways snaking through town. “That was a neat procession, Ingrid, eh?” I said, beginning my meaningful fatherly examination of our experience.

But before she could show her assent or ignore me we heard a chant and there, up ahead, coming straight at us, was the priest, his acolytes, and the villagers behind them. They were coming for us! Imposters! Or no, no, we were just in their way, that was it. Phew. Stepping into a doorway so as not to become the de facto leaders of this ceremony as they approached, we realized there wasn’t much we could do but to join in again. The second time we tried to leave was by car, but once we got up to the

main piazza we needed to drive through to exit this tiny hill town still encircled by its Medieval (and parts of the original Etruscan) walls, the lone police officer on duty that day had us stop as, he indicated, the procession would be coming back through in a little while. I guessed it wasn’t just about us getting our tourist experience out of it for ourselves, cut the motor and sat back for ten minutes or so until they came through, beginning to feel as if I was being delivered some sort of spiritual message myself.

         Although we’d been told Norcia was a hotbed of food delights and had read the same, nothing could prepare us for the heavenly meal in Umbria’s oldest restaurant, Il Granaro del Monte. Thick wooden tables, hand carved scenes in leather on the chairs, and the huge, bricked open grill lent a medieval feel to the place. Having arrived to lunch somewhat early by Italian standards, we were ushered in to the main dining room by an eager waiter with some time on his hands who had been hanging around outside to look for customers. We’d planned on going there anyway but let him show us the various dining rooms and show us our choices of tables without letting on. We sat down. Able to relish and appreciate fine food but not being “Foodies” per se and being overwhelmed by the array of appetizing choices, Lauren and I each chose a different set menu, mine consisting of an array of fine Norcian meats and freshly grilled bruschetta as appetizers, homemade tagliatelle pasta with wild mushrooms and fresh black truffle-infused, locally produced olive oil as a first course, Norcian wild boar “in his juices” and a plate of five varieties of grilled meat as a second course, and an artistically presented puffed barley, chocolate and cream pastry-like delicacy for dessert.

We relaxed with the kids as one of the chefs prepared various bits of meat on the huge open grill near our table and the place gradually filled up with other diners ready for a big pranzo, leaving the waiters with less time for chit-chat and no need to fish for customers outside. Over two hours later we stood up, winded by the effort, struggling not to fall back into our chairs. I had never eaten so much meat and swear that was among the top three pasta dishes I’ve ever had. We expected good, but were surprised by how good, and didn’t really want to leave. If heaven’s menu came close to this, we were now ready to do what it took to be accepted through the Pearly Gates.

         As luck would have it, we didn’t have to leave…at least not yet. The owner of the restaurant (and of the other, more exclusive restaurant and hotel nearby), a kind, motherly figure, came over to say hello, wondering if I spoke Italian. She took my hands when I replied that I did, wondering where I was from and what I did there, continuing on to say how she’d love to set up a program for American students in Norcia and beginning to talk about the facilities they had. Maybe she was on to something. I briefly dreamt of the perks of leading such a trimester abroad program with my students, of being prepared daily lunches of the caliber we’d just had, but for free. It certainly was tempting. The hotel and restaurant were quite busy by that point and the owner had to go take care of some snafu with reservations but as we were headed out past the front desk she began to show us a map of the area, then, due to difficulty reading the fine print, had a colleague continue. This young woman was very excited to practice her English as Norcia doesn’t see the volumes of Americans, Brits and Aussies that the more touristy towns of Assisi and Orvieto play host to. I continued the conversation in Italian and she in English, catching the attention of one of her colleagues who pointed out the farce. Once we were pretty much oriented for the rest of the afternoon’s adventures the owner came by again and told the young lady to give us a tour, too. So we got another half hour in the place, checking out the luxury hotel next door, its various rooms, mini spa, and restaurant, everything explained in detail in a most charming accent, only the occasional error, like telling us they have another restaurant in town just 250 km away, slipping past her inner editor. I know the owner was trying to drum up business, but still, would this happen to us in Florence? Pisa? Not likely. So we’d heard that the Umbrians were hospitable, but this treatment (‘we’re just normal folks,’ we kept thinking, ‘what’s going on?’) took us by surprise, and didn’t feel all that bad.

Piano Grande and Sibillini Mountains

         The parts of our trip that took us far away from other travelers and locals to Mont Subasio and the Sibillini National Park also provided their own surprises in the degree to which they exceeded expectation in being so amazingly beautiful, relaxing, and inspiring. It’s said there comes a time when a teacher senses he’s taught a student all he can and that then he must let the student go it alone. Apparently our GPS lady thought that just such a time had come for us. She cut us loose. After leading

Piano Grande and base of the Sibillinis from Castelluccio

us through many kilometers of climbing into the mountains and rounding the bend to the vast high plain (Piano Grande), the Sibillini mountains towering over it on the far side with the tiny hamlet of Castelluccio in the distance, the voice directing us now fell silent. The map still showed our car, but going where seemingly no car had gone before. Our digital, four-wheeled icon floated in a vast sea of green with no roads in sight. Instead of warning us about being off road or off the map or ‘recalculating’, at least she had the grace to let us go our own way whether she thought there was a path leading where we wanted to go or not. The few dozen horses grazing freely on the plain didn’t seem to

need much direction anymore either. Had they, too, already had all the direction they needed? There were no fences, they drank from the puddles left from melted snow, knew where home was but walked where they wished and were in no rush to get there.

         Heading up Monte Subasio the story had been a bit reversed. There our GPS lady guide had shown the road continuing up and over the mountain and she’d practically urged us to continue. It was reality that stopped our progress soon enough once the last snow drifts still melting became just too deep to crash through. We parked up there and saw only four or five other people in the hour and a half we spent watching the gliders they’d brought swoop silently through the wind, eating our picnic lunch, hopping the fence into the vast, hilly pastures and running down the open fields while dodging the thousands of cow patties left by the herd now grazing a mile or so away on another part of the mountain.

Halfway up a long hill on Monte Subasio. Can you see me?

         Ritual, tradition, following a certain belief system, and sharing within a community can all help one’s sense of spirituality. San Francesco was a bit of a wanderer and recluse at times, though, and he seemed to thrive on the natural world, which brought him closer to God, but he did also bring what he gained in those more isolated arenas back to the people and tried to lead them to a more spiritual and kind way of life. He had done some recalculating of his own earlier on before settling on his spiritual path and becoming a guide and role model to others. While our guides had helped pave the way to our experiences throughout our Umbrian vacation, and we owe them our thanks, we feel far more appreciative of the people, the places, the food, the experiences in and of themselves. Up in those mountains and away from many of the distractions of crowds and modern life I even felt something… was it spirituality? I don’t know, but I sure felt alive and connected with the world. I don’t know if I can successfully pass that on, or if mentioning it will help anyone else in any way, but there it is. At the very least believe me when I say I’ve gained a first-hand experience that confirms for me why many lend the ‘mystical’ moniker to this fabulous region.

         Toward the end of one long day when we were navigating back to our apartment near Bettona we got turned around—“Ricalculo” we heard yet again—and tried for a bit to follow GPS lady’s new suggestions. But then we got off track once more almost immediately. It was then we realized we weren’t even looking as much at the road ourselves to try to figure out where we were but instead relying much more on her. Too much. She was guiding us in circles! We ripped her off the windshield. She sounded out one final time before Lauren found the ‘off ’ button and silenced her for good. Listening to guidance from the right sources may be prudent, and a little forethought and planning never hurt either, but at some point it’s so rewarding to let all of that fall by the wayside and be open to surprises and to experiencing them thoroughly, come what may, even if it’s not what you’d planned for. What you find may completely exceed your expectations. When it came down to it maybe we couldn’t satisfactorily articulate what we were looking for in our “vacation from a vacation” other than to point at our week in Umbria after the fact, no longer quite so concerned about the time in Italy slipping away from us, and answer, with conviction, “That.”