Well, that ends my adventures abroad for the foreseeable future. Do not doubt that I will hop on the next plane that beckons me (or rather, the next plane I can afford), but for now I will be firmly ensconced in Claremont and Seattle. Thus, “Digressions Abroad” does not seem quite the appropriate title for a weblog anymore. I have thoroughly enjoyed writing on this, though (as you can undoubtedly tell), and intend to continue. If you wish to follow my US-based adventures and opinions, you can check out my new blog at: www.codenameblythe.blogspot.com as of 5:15 on January the 19th there’s nothing written on it… but there will be. Promise.
I hope to see you all soon, and wish you the very best wherever your own travels or adventures may take you!
Litza
19 January 2009
South of France, never Southern France
Why is it called the South of France, but there’s “southern Italy?” Is France special? My dad would say yes. I think I’m inclined to think so too. The South of France is special, even covered in snow as it has been. (I thought it was always sunny and warm in the South of France. I kind of feel lied to.)
Our journey from Italy to France involved cars and trains, and was a bit of an odyssey. We drove through snow, we drove through rain, we drove through sun. This lasted less than one day. There is no way to explain weather. Here’s what we did in France; I’ve put it all in order, but left out which day was which because I don’t really recall. They all kind of blend together.
We started our time in France in Nice, where we spent the first night, and the next day we stopped in Monaco for a bit. Oh, Monaco. If I had roughly 15x the amount of money I will earn in a lifetime, I would vacation there sometime. It is pristine. Other parts of Europe that I have seen have been unfairly vandalised with graffiti, but not Monaco. Either there are no vandals there, or there’s a special task force that wakes up early every morning and scrubs off walls. I don’t really know which is more reasonable. Monaco is an independent country in the South of France, governed by Prince Albert II. The whole country seems to be a series of hills leading into the ocean, and every hill has beautiful, modern buildings built right into it. In fact, the country is so much of a hill, that there are public elevators to get from one street to another. Talk about luxury! Every year there is also a Formula 1 race that goes through the city streets. I really don’t know what to make of this place.
Our next step was Saint Paul, a walled city on a hill. We have been to a couple of those now, and I love them. There is no possibility of driving there, because the streets are far too narrow. The roads twist up to the top of the hill, and skinny little shops line them. The shops vary from Fancy Art to cute-and-touristy in nature. I liked all of them, and wanted to buy a painting before I remembered that a) I cannot afford a painting and b) I live in a dorm room. The logic was hard to ignore.
After Saint Paul, we drove through the Esterel, an area that reminded me remarkable of southern California, except classy. Dad claims that the water there is usually still and clear, but on this particular day it was crashing over rocks in brilliant explosions. It was a vibrant blue, and the reddish cliffs dropping down into the water set it off to particularly nice effect.
Next came the Calanques (or “fjords”). These were so cool clear, calm, turquoise water snaked back into the land between high cliffs of off-white rock. We were able to walk down to the bottom of one, and I took of my shoes and walked in the water for a bit. It was cold, but really wonderful. I am determined to go back sometime in the summer so I can swim in one! I wish I could take the kids with me—it’s exactly the sort of thing they would really like.
The Calanques were followed by Gordes, another one of those cities-made-of-stone-on-a-hill. I don’t think I could ever get tired of those. They all have such character and charm—and this one even had a chateau!
We drove down from Gordes down to the Abbey of Senanque, which is famous for it’s lavender fields. As you may have guessed, there was a bit of a shortage of lavender this time of year, but the abbey was covered in snow. The sun was shining brightly and everything just sparkled. The only downside is that the shoes I was wearing were really, really not made for snow. My Converse* started making my feet bleed while in Rome, so I threw them away. That left me with two pairs of flats—no traction, no insulation. I’m sure it’s entertaining watching me try to get around in the snow with those shoes on. Only once did I fall over, though!
*I do recognise that Converse are not really snow shoes either. But I spend most of my time in southern California, so can you blame me?
Senanque gave way to the Village of Bories, a little village of stone huts that are several hundred years old. They were built without mortar, only using a hammer. Impressive, eh? I was surprised at how dry there were inside, though I still don’t think I’d want to live in one—a bit to chilly for me! I did have fun exploring the town, though, and climbed up to what I think was an attic dedicated to the storing of wine. The stairs were a bit precarious in the snow, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
We stopped in Grasse for a little while, and investigated one of the perfume shops. Unfortunately the season stands in the way of seeing wonderful fields of flowers, but I figure I’ll be back some day. In the meantime, I had a good time making my own perfume! It’s a mixture of honeysuckle, orange blossom, cotton, blackberry, white musck and… well, and a variety of other scents that I seem to not remember clearly. The perfume technician (is that a job title? I think I made it up) was extremely enthusiastic. To hear her talk, I could be the next great perfumist (another made up job title). Somehow, I doubt that is my calling.
Next up, the Fontaine de Vauclose! Magical, magical, magical. Water gushes forth from an underground spring and goes spilling along in a river. It’s a lot of water that just appears from underground. Right where it comes up the pool is still and very clear. It’s a deep blue-green colour, and shockingly pretty. It’s also kind of eerie, knowing that it goes down so deep (Jacque Cousteau dove down, but couldn’t find where it started) and so much water is coming up all the time. That doesn’t really explain why it was eerie, I suppose, but it did have a peculiar, though enchanting, feeling about it.
Before too long we were in Avignon, the city where my dad attended school 35 years ago. We got to see where his old flat is, have breakfast in a café he used to frequent, and generally see the city he used to know as well as I know Claremont, or my neck of the woods in London. It was a lot of fun, though I wish I could see Avignon the way it used to be. Evidently a lot has changed, but it is impossible for me to see what, exactly. Why isn’t time travel an option? Charming little city, though—I certainly wouldn’t mind living there for a while!
While we were staying in Avignon, we drove out to see the Roman aquaduct/highway. What. A. Bridge. I cannot imagine how they could construct something that huge without modern technology, but the Romans do just continue to amaze me. And we think that we’re advanced! Ha!
And now for the highlight of the South of France: We went on a journey to try to find a vineyard where we could sample some wine. Now, you may think this sounds easy (it is France, after all) but it isn’t. It’s January. Vineyards are not real happenin’ places in January. Finally, at Chateauneuf-de-pape, we found one. The proprieter had to be found and asked if he was willing to have a couple of customers and—thankfully!—he consented. We spent about an hour tasting delicious wines. Most of them were red, but one was white, and that one was the most amazing wine I have ever tasted. I told my friend Herbie that it “smelled like perfume and tasted like glory,” but that isn’t really very descriptive. Suffice to say, it was incredible. We own it now, of course, and I am really looking forward to sitting on my deck this summer someday after work and sipping on a glass of this wine. Ooh.
My dad’s favourite part of this event was that Alain, the owner, happened to know two of my dad’s friends from school! Small world. Alain himself was a charming, enthusiastic little man who had inherited this vineyard from his father. He smiled tenderly at the wine whenever he handled a bottle, told us exactly how to pour it, and explained that “wine is love.” Well, who am I to argue?
As we drove along toward Paris over the next couple of days, the world was coated in frost. Pure white, glittering frost. I took some pictures, and will probably (maybe?) get around to putting them online. If not, ask me to show you. They really are amazing. The fog made it impossible to see very far, but you could still see trees and grape vines coated in white. Unbelievable.
One morning we spent exploring the Hotel Deau, a hospital-turned-museum. It was once a hospital for the very poorest of folk, and was kept going by charitable contributions from nobility. It was apparently the chairty to donate to, because it was not a half-bad place-- some nice art, beautiful hospital beds, an enormous kitchen, and lots of big fireplaces.
Our last day in France was spent in Paris. We went to the l’orangerie, where we saw Monet’s Waterlillies and other beautiful impressionist art. I think I’m quite a big fan of Renoir in particular, actually. And of course the water lilies. We had one last crepe, one last stroll through Notre Dame, visited the Cluny (I’m in love with the tapestries of the Lady and the Unicorn!) and investigated an English bookstore. Then we had dinner at a fondue place and waved goodbye to the city. What a trip it has been! There may not have been enough Deux Cheveau (charming, yet decidedly ugly little cars) for my dad’s liking, but I am not complaining one it. It was all wonderful. I’m so glad that I got the opportunity to travel for five weeks with my dad and have him show me the South of France (never Southern France). Couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide and travel companion!
Our journey from Italy to France involved cars and trains, and was a bit of an odyssey. We drove through snow, we drove through rain, we drove through sun. This lasted less than one day. There is no way to explain weather. Here’s what we did in France; I’ve put it all in order, but left out which day was which because I don’t really recall. They all kind of blend together.
We started our time in France in Nice, where we spent the first night, and the next day we stopped in Monaco for a bit. Oh, Monaco. If I had roughly 15x the amount of money I will earn in a lifetime, I would vacation there sometime. It is pristine. Other parts of Europe that I have seen have been unfairly vandalised with graffiti, but not Monaco. Either there are no vandals there, or there’s a special task force that wakes up early every morning and scrubs off walls. I don’t really know which is more reasonable. Monaco is an independent country in the South of France, governed by Prince Albert II. The whole country seems to be a series of hills leading into the ocean, and every hill has beautiful, modern buildings built right into it. In fact, the country is so much of a hill, that there are public elevators to get from one street to another. Talk about luxury! Every year there is also a Formula 1 race that goes through the city streets. I really don’t know what to make of this place.
Our next step was Saint Paul, a walled city on a hill. We have been to a couple of those now, and I love them. There is no possibility of driving there, because the streets are far too narrow. The roads twist up to the top of the hill, and skinny little shops line them. The shops vary from Fancy Art to cute-and-touristy in nature. I liked all of them, and wanted to buy a painting before I remembered that a) I cannot afford a painting and b) I live in a dorm room. The logic was hard to ignore.
After Saint Paul, we drove through the Esterel, an area that reminded me remarkable of southern California, except classy. Dad claims that the water there is usually still and clear, but on this particular day it was crashing over rocks in brilliant explosions. It was a vibrant blue, and the reddish cliffs dropping down into the water set it off to particularly nice effect.
Next came the Calanques (or “fjords”). These were so cool clear, calm, turquoise water snaked back into the land between high cliffs of off-white rock. We were able to walk down to the bottom of one, and I took of my shoes and walked in the water for a bit. It was cold, but really wonderful. I am determined to go back sometime in the summer so I can swim in one! I wish I could take the kids with me—it’s exactly the sort of thing they would really like.
The Calanques were followed by Gordes, another one of those cities-made-of-stone-on-a-hill. I don’t think I could ever get tired of those. They all have such character and charm—and this one even had a chateau!
We drove down from Gordes down to the Abbey of Senanque, which is famous for it’s lavender fields. As you may have guessed, there was a bit of a shortage of lavender this time of year, but the abbey was covered in snow. The sun was shining brightly and everything just sparkled. The only downside is that the shoes I was wearing were really, really not made for snow. My Converse* started making my feet bleed while in Rome, so I threw them away. That left me with two pairs of flats—no traction, no insulation. I’m sure it’s entertaining watching me try to get around in the snow with those shoes on. Only once did I fall over, though!
*I do recognise that Converse are not really snow shoes either. But I spend most of my time in southern California, so can you blame me?
Senanque gave way to the Village of Bories, a little village of stone huts that are several hundred years old. They were built without mortar, only using a hammer. Impressive, eh? I was surprised at how dry there were inside, though I still don’t think I’d want to live in one—a bit to chilly for me! I did have fun exploring the town, though, and climbed up to what I think was an attic dedicated to the storing of wine. The stairs were a bit precarious in the snow, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.
We stopped in Grasse for a little while, and investigated one of the perfume shops. Unfortunately the season stands in the way of seeing wonderful fields of flowers, but I figure I’ll be back some day. In the meantime, I had a good time making my own perfume! It’s a mixture of honeysuckle, orange blossom, cotton, blackberry, white musck and… well, and a variety of other scents that I seem to not remember clearly. The perfume technician (is that a job title? I think I made it up) was extremely enthusiastic. To hear her talk, I could be the next great perfumist (another made up job title). Somehow, I doubt that is my calling.
Next up, the Fontaine de Vauclose! Magical, magical, magical. Water gushes forth from an underground spring and goes spilling along in a river. It’s a lot of water that just appears from underground. Right where it comes up the pool is still and very clear. It’s a deep blue-green colour, and shockingly pretty. It’s also kind of eerie, knowing that it goes down so deep (Jacque Cousteau dove down, but couldn’t find where it started) and so much water is coming up all the time. That doesn’t really explain why it was eerie, I suppose, but it did have a peculiar, though enchanting, feeling about it.
Before too long we were in Avignon, the city where my dad attended school 35 years ago. We got to see where his old flat is, have breakfast in a café he used to frequent, and generally see the city he used to know as well as I know Claremont, or my neck of the woods in London. It was a lot of fun, though I wish I could see Avignon the way it used to be. Evidently a lot has changed, but it is impossible for me to see what, exactly. Why isn’t time travel an option? Charming little city, though—I certainly wouldn’t mind living there for a while!
While we were staying in Avignon, we drove out to see the Roman aquaduct/highway. What. A. Bridge. I cannot imagine how they could construct something that huge without modern technology, but the Romans do just continue to amaze me. And we think that we’re advanced! Ha!
And now for the highlight of the South of France: We went on a journey to try to find a vineyard where we could sample some wine. Now, you may think this sounds easy (it is France, after all) but it isn’t. It’s January. Vineyards are not real happenin’ places in January. Finally, at Chateauneuf-de-pape, we found one. The proprieter had to be found and asked if he was willing to have a couple of customers and—thankfully!—he consented. We spent about an hour tasting delicious wines. Most of them were red, but one was white, and that one was the most amazing wine I have ever tasted. I told my friend Herbie that it “smelled like perfume and tasted like glory,” but that isn’t really very descriptive. Suffice to say, it was incredible. We own it now, of course, and I am really looking forward to sitting on my deck this summer someday after work and sipping on a glass of this wine. Ooh.
My dad’s favourite part of this event was that Alain, the owner, happened to know two of my dad’s friends from school! Small world. Alain himself was a charming, enthusiastic little man who had inherited this vineyard from his father. He smiled tenderly at the wine whenever he handled a bottle, told us exactly how to pour it, and explained that “wine is love.” Well, who am I to argue?
As we drove along toward Paris over the next couple of days, the world was coated in frost. Pure white, glittering frost. I took some pictures, and will probably (maybe?) get around to putting them online. If not, ask me to show you. They really are amazing. The fog made it impossible to see very far, but you could still see trees and grape vines coated in white. Unbelievable.
One morning we spent exploring the Hotel Deau, a hospital-turned-museum. It was once a hospital for the very poorest of folk, and was kept going by charitable contributions from nobility. It was apparently the chairty to donate to, because it was not a half-bad place-- some nice art, beautiful hospital beds, an enormous kitchen, and lots of big fireplaces.
Our last day in France was spent in Paris. We went to the l’orangerie, where we saw Monet’s Waterlillies and other beautiful impressionist art. I think I’m quite a big fan of Renoir in particular, actually. And of course the water lilies. We had one last crepe, one last stroll through Notre Dame, visited the Cluny (I’m in love with the tapestries of the Lady and the Unicorn!) and investigated an English bookstore. Then we had dinner at a fondue place and waved goodbye to the city. What a trip it has been! There may not have been enough Deux Cheveau (charming, yet decidedly ugly little cars) for my dad’s liking, but I am not complaining one it. It was all wonderful. I’m so glad that I got the opportunity to travel for five weeks with my dad and have him show me the South of France (never Southern France). Couldn’t have asked for a better tour guide and travel companion!
13 January 2009
Not All Who Wander Are Lost
Florence is charming. Florence is delightful. Florence is lovable. The streets are narrow, the city is speckled with cute piazzas, and the food is good. (Yes I do more than eat. Don’t question me.) The streets are often paved with stones, not asphalt, and there are pretty things everywhere.
A lot of our time in Florence was spent simply wandering, so don’t worry—you’re avoiding one of those multi-page entries I usually write. We wandered into shops, into restaurants, down streets, up alleyways. We, in fact, wandered ourselves all the way to Pisa one day, and saw the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It’s quite a lovely tower in its own right, but the “not-quite-vertical” aspect of its current state makes it all the more appealing. I can just imagine the day someone first noticed it was leaning:
“Um, honey, does it look to you like that tower is, well, leaning?”
“I think you’ve had too much wine, Luigi. Go to bed.”
Pisa itself is an attractive little town, but I’m going to stop harping on about how cute Italy is.
In Florence itself we had fun seeing the Chapel of the Medicis (talk about an influential family!) that has truly remarkable marble-work. Many coats of arms are inlaid on the walls, minute little pieces of stone joined up so that the whole thing is smooth. I wanted to take a picture, but it wasn’t allowed and there was a guard sitting near me. It would have been difficult to be discreet.
We also visited Michelangelo’s David. I hadn’t realised how huge the statue is! In my head it was about life size, probably a bit smaller. No way. If David was that big, I would have liked to see the giant! The statue is exquisitely detailed, as you would expect from Michelangelo. You can see the veins in David’s arms and hands, and the dimples around his knees. Even the toenails were perfect. (You notice these things when they are on your eye-level.)
I also really enjoyed seeing the Pont de Vecchio, and wandering (see, told you we did that a lot) across it. We bought some gelato in a shop near the bridge, and thoroughly enjoyed the indulgence. I live a hard life, don’t I?
Now, before I get away from Italy completely (my next post will be from the South of France), I want to point out one more discovery: Limoncello. How come I’ve never tried this before? It’s like lemonade with spirit!
A lot of our time in Florence was spent simply wandering, so don’t worry—you’re avoiding one of those multi-page entries I usually write. We wandered into shops, into restaurants, down streets, up alleyways. We, in fact, wandered ourselves all the way to Pisa one day, and saw the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It’s quite a lovely tower in its own right, but the “not-quite-vertical” aspect of its current state makes it all the more appealing. I can just imagine the day someone first noticed it was leaning:
“Um, honey, does it look to you like that tower is, well, leaning?”
“I think you’ve had too much wine, Luigi. Go to bed.”
Pisa itself is an attractive little town, but I’m going to stop harping on about how cute Italy is.
In Florence itself we had fun seeing the Chapel of the Medicis (talk about an influential family!) that has truly remarkable marble-work. Many coats of arms are inlaid on the walls, minute little pieces of stone joined up so that the whole thing is smooth. I wanted to take a picture, but it wasn’t allowed and there was a guard sitting near me. It would have been difficult to be discreet.
We also visited Michelangelo’s David. I hadn’t realised how huge the statue is! In my head it was about life size, probably a bit smaller. No way. If David was that big, I would have liked to see the giant! The statue is exquisitely detailed, as you would expect from Michelangelo. You can see the veins in David’s arms and hands, and the dimples around his knees. Even the toenails were perfect. (You notice these things when they are on your eye-level.)
I also really enjoyed seeing the Pont de Vecchio, and wandering (see, told you we did that a lot) across it. We bought some gelato in a shop near the bridge, and thoroughly enjoyed the indulgence. I live a hard life, don’t I?
Now, before I get away from Italy completely (my next post will be from the South of France), I want to point out one more discovery: Limoncello. How come I’ve never tried this before? It’s like lemonade with spirit!
06 January 2009
When in Rome...
**Doing this chronologically? Scroll down to the next post to see what I thought of Denmark and southern Italy. Doesn't that sound like fun?**
There is something about Rome. I’m not sure what it is, exactly—whether it is found in the gelato, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain, or maybe even in amongst the crowds of fashionistas prowling by Gucci and Prada. It might be that in one day you can see the Coliseum, the Sistine Chapel, and get yourself a pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses (complete with certificate of authenticity). Rome is a place of piazzas, pizzas, and stolen Egyptian artefacts. I don’t claim to understand the city, but I do revel in it.
Today is the third of January, and we arrived on the first. We have only been here three days, and yet I am already feeling overwhelmed by the amount of writing I must do in order to convey what we have seen. I guess I had better get on with it.
January 1st:
We arrived in Rome in the afternoon, and after dropping off our luggage at our hotel we set out into the city. Wandering is my favourite way to see any city, and we made a fairly good start that afternoon. We got off the Metro at the Spagna stop, and made our way past the Spanish Steps (apparently the place to “see and be seen”) before arriving at the Trevi Fountain. I had imagined it to be much smaller than it actually is. It takes up half of the piazza at least, and is carved elaborately. There are winged horses coming out of the stone and gods and goddesses (or nymphs?) presiding over them. It really is an extraordinary fountain. It is also conveniently located near a gelato place called “Blue Ice,” that makes a truly scrumptious Black Cherry flavour. I felt really spoiled as I licked my gelato and cheerfully dodged rain puddles on the streets of Rome.
We meandered through the streets for a while longer, turned a couple of corners, and suddenly—why, it was the Coliseum! This is my absolute favourite thing about Rome, I think. You can be walking along, having a perfectly modern experience, when suddenly you are confronted with a piece of architecture over 2000 years old. It’s possible to just stumble across the stuff!
January 2nd:
Morning dawned bright (cloudy) and early, and Dad and I set off to explore the Vatican. We met our tour guide, Michelle, in front of the Vatican museums, and I was amused at the sort of character she turned out to be. She had a strong British accent (I couldn’t place where it was from specifically) and more eye makeup than I usually see on one person. She also had a cold, which added an intriguing raspy-ness to the whole effect, but did not seem to dampen her enthusiasm even minutely. I instantly liked her.
Seeing the Vatican was a unique experience that cannot be compared to anything else I have ever done. This vast complex of buildings is its own country, complete with Secretary of State and post office. It just made me wonder if there was such a thing as a passport for citizens of the Vatican. There must be, right?
We started off by weaving our way through crowds of people* in the museums, admiring the same statues that Michelangelo admired during his time here (and modelled some of his paintings after). The Vatican is blessed with a staggering collection of art, impressive in both its quantity and quality. Even the rooms themselves are masterpieces. Raphael painted huge frescos on the walls of what used to be the private apartments of the Pope, and they are now available for public viewing. It’s really splendid to see. Marble imported from all over the world makes up the floors, walls, columns, and various other features of the buildings. One type of rare red marble is no longer found naturally, and 75-80% of the known existing marble can be found inside the Vatican.
And then we got to the Sistine Chapel. I am tempted to say nothing further, as we all know that words will not do justice to the experience; but I am far too verbose to be satisfied with such an arrangement, so I’ll do my best. When the Pope asked Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo tried his best to back out of it, pointing out that his expertise was in sculpting, and that he knew nothing whatsoever about frescoing. He suggested that the Pope as Raphael to do the job instead. The Pope refused, and entreated Michelangelo to reconsider. Finally Michelangelo agreed, and put some serious hours into learning how to fresco. And then… he did it. He worked for four years, often putting in 20 hours a day. The result is extraordinary. The beauty of the ceiling is un-paralleled in any other painting I have seen. The large fresco of the Last Judgement on one wall is its only equal in splendour (that one took Michelangelo six years). And now I shall leave it at that.
Once we’d gotten out of the Sistine Chapel and taken a few deep breaths we moved ourselves into St. Peter’s Basilica and then the grotto. In St. Peter’s we saw Michelangelo’s “Pieta,” a sculpture of the Mary cradling Jesus after he was taken down from the cross. The people portrayed look supple, not at all as if they were carved from marble. Michelangelo carved it when he was 23. The grotto holds over 100 tombs of various Popes and important figures in the Catholic church. It was interesting to walk by and read all the little descriptions about their lives.
Outside I had the opportunity to take a picture of the Swiss Guards. I know, I know, they are highly trained members of an elite security force, and yet… Well, those uniforms just aren’t very scary. Let’s be honest. They are striped, puffy, and come with funny hats and spats. There is nothing intimidating about that. I hope they are able to take themselves seriously, because I certainly am not able to.
After the Vatican, my father and I headed off to lunch and then found our way to the Pantheon. It was originally constructed to glorify all of the Roman gods, but once the area became Christian it was converted into a Basilica itself. It wasn’t one of the most impressive churches I’ve ever seen, but it was interesting to see how it had been altered over the years.
From the Pantheon we made our way to San Clemente Church, which the guidebook assured us was the most beautiful church in Rome. Well! Rome certainly has an abundance of beautiful churches, and if this was the best, then we would go. The book turned out to be both right and wrong. The architecture was not my favourite—I am too much in love with Gothic architecture in churches to be overly impressed with much else. However, there was a mosaic over the alter that I could hardly keep my eyes from. It is made from many small pieces of gold, among other things, and shows birds, snails, people, Jesus, and many other tiny pictures among large golden swirls. It is about 900 years old, but still in perfect condition.
Below the church is a labyrinth of stone passageways that are full of tombs, frescos, and even a pagan alter. It is an ongoing excavation to find more out about what is beneath the church, but even what they have discovered so far is awe-inspiring. I am not exaggerating when I call the space a labyrinth. If there had not been exit (“uscita”) signs, it would have been a challenge to find our way out again.
And then, my friends, it was time to head back to the hotel and recover, in order to take full advantage of the next day.
January 3rd:
My goodness this is getting long. Why does this always happen? I’m sorry, I’ll try to condense a bit.
On the 3rd we went to see the Palatine and the Roman Forum. It was like walking through a history book, and I half expected the ghost of Julius Caesar to appear from around a corner, or perhaps a Vestal Virgin to show up wearing a veil. It didn’t happen of course, but I still hoped.
See, wasn’t that a nice, short version? You can tell I’m getting tired of this entry…
January 4th:
We went early in the day to see the Colosseum, and then headed out to Florence on a train. The Colosseum was certainly impressive from the inside. I can’t even imagine being a gladiator, but it must have been a terrifying experience to come into that huge arena, knowing that people were just waiting for you—hoping for you—to you horrifically.
Trains are, well, an experience. They can be great, if you are not overloaded with luggage—but I am. So it’s a constant effort to keep stuff out of other peoples’ way. I’m not looking forward to the train ride to Nice, though I am looking forward to Nice itself!
* and when I say “weaving our way” I really mean “pushing through people until you feel like you are being squeezed, inside out, from one full tube of toothpaste into another”
There is something about Rome. I’m not sure what it is, exactly—whether it is found in the gelato, the Forum, the Trevi Fountain, or maybe even in amongst the crowds of fashionistas prowling by Gucci and Prada. It might be that in one day you can see the Coliseum, the Sistine Chapel, and get yourself a pair of Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses (complete with certificate of authenticity). Rome is a place of piazzas, pizzas, and stolen Egyptian artefacts. I don’t claim to understand the city, but I do revel in it.
Today is the third of January, and we arrived on the first. We have only been here three days, and yet I am already feeling overwhelmed by the amount of writing I must do in order to convey what we have seen. I guess I had better get on with it.
January 1st:
We arrived in Rome in the afternoon, and after dropping off our luggage at our hotel we set out into the city. Wandering is my favourite way to see any city, and we made a fairly good start that afternoon. We got off the Metro at the Spagna stop, and made our way past the Spanish Steps (apparently the place to “see and be seen”) before arriving at the Trevi Fountain. I had imagined it to be much smaller than it actually is. It takes up half of the piazza at least, and is carved elaborately. There are winged horses coming out of the stone and gods and goddesses (or nymphs?) presiding over them. It really is an extraordinary fountain. It is also conveniently located near a gelato place called “Blue Ice,” that makes a truly scrumptious Black Cherry flavour. I felt really spoiled as I licked my gelato and cheerfully dodged rain puddles on the streets of Rome.
We meandered through the streets for a while longer, turned a couple of corners, and suddenly—why, it was the Coliseum! This is my absolute favourite thing about Rome, I think. You can be walking along, having a perfectly modern experience, when suddenly you are confronted with a piece of architecture over 2000 years old. It’s possible to just stumble across the stuff!
January 2nd:
Morning dawned bright (cloudy) and early, and Dad and I set off to explore the Vatican. We met our tour guide, Michelle, in front of the Vatican museums, and I was amused at the sort of character she turned out to be. She had a strong British accent (I couldn’t place where it was from specifically) and more eye makeup than I usually see on one person. She also had a cold, which added an intriguing raspy-ness to the whole effect, but did not seem to dampen her enthusiasm even minutely. I instantly liked her.
Seeing the Vatican was a unique experience that cannot be compared to anything else I have ever done. This vast complex of buildings is its own country, complete with Secretary of State and post office. It just made me wonder if there was such a thing as a passport for citizens of the Vatican. There must be, right?
We started off by weaving our way through crowds of people* in the museums, admiring the same statues that Michelangelo admired during his time here (and modelled some of his paintings after). The Vatican is blessed with a staggering collection of art, impressive in both its quantity and quality. Even the rooms themselves are masterpieces. Raphael painted huge frescos on the walls of what used to be the private apartments of the Pope, and they are now available for public viewing. It’s really splendid to see. Marble imported from all over the world makes up the floors, walls, columns, and various other features of the buildings. One type of rare red marble is no longer found naturally, and 75-80% of the known existing marble can be found inside the Vatican.
And then we got to the Sistine Chapel. I am tempted to say nothing further, as we all know that words will not do justice to the experience; but I am far too verbose to be satisfied with such an arrangement, so I’ll do my best. When the Pope asked Michelangelo to paint the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo tried his best to back out of it, pointing out that his expertise was in sculpting, and that he knew nothing whatsoever about frescoing. He suggested that the Pope as Raphael to do the job instead. The Pope refused, and entreated Michelangelo to reconsider. Finally Michelangelo agreed, and put some serious hours into learning how to fresco. And then… he did it. He worked for four years, often putting in 20 hours a day. The result is extraordinary. The beauty of the ceiling is un-paralleled in any other painting I have seen. The large fresco of the Last Judgement on one wall is its only equal in splendour (that one took Michelangelo six years). And now I shall leave it at that.
Once we’d gotten out of the Sistine Chapel and taken a few deep breaths we moved ourselves into St. Peter’s Basilica and then the grotto. In St. Peter’s we saw Michelangelo’s “Pieta,” a sculpture of the Mary cradling Jesus after he was taken down from the cross. The people portrayed look supple, not at all as if they were carved from marble. Michelangelo carved it when he was 23. The grotto holds over 100 tombs of various Popes and important figures in the Catholic church. It was interesting to walk by and read all the little descriptions about their lives.
Outside I had the opportunity to take a picture of the Swiss Guards. I know, I know, they are highly trained members of an elite security force, and yet… Well, those uniforms just aren’t very scary. Let’s be honest. They are striped, puffy, and come with funny hats and spats. There is nothing intimidating about that. I hope they are able to take themselves seriously, because I certainly am not able to.
After the Vatican, my father and I headed off to lunch and then found our way to the Pantheon. It was originally constructed to glorify all of the Roman gods, but once the area became Christian it was converted into a Basilica itself. It wasn’t one of the most impressive churches I’ve ever seen, but it was interesting to see how it had been altered over the years.
From the Pantheon we made our way to San Clemente Church, which the guidebook assured us was the most beautiful church in Rome. Well! Rome certainly has an abundance of beautiful churches, and if this was the best, then we would go. The book turned out to be both right and wrong. The architecture was not my favourite—I am too much in love with Gothic architecture in churches to be overly impressed with much else. However, there was a mosaic over the alter that I could hardly keep my eyes from. It is made from many small pieces of gold, among other things, and shows birds, snails, people, Jesus, and many other tiny pictures among large golden swirls. It is about 900 years old, but still in perfect condition.
Below the church is a labyrinth of stone passageways that are full of tombs, frescos, and even a pagan alter. It is an ongoing excavation to find more out about what is beneath the church, but even what they have discovered so far is awe-inspiring. I am not exaggerating when I call the space a labyrinth. If there had not been exit (“uscita”) signs, it would have been a challenge to find our way out again.
And then, my friends, it was time to head back to the hotel and recover, in order to take full advantage of the next day.
January 3rd:
My goodness this is getting long. Why does this always happen? I’m sorry, I’ll try to condense a bit.
On the 3rd we went to see the Palatine and the Roman Forum. It was like walking through a history book, and I half expected the ghost of Julius Caesar to appear from around a corner, or perhaps a Vestal Virgin to show up wearing a veil. It didn’t happen of course, but I still hoped.
See, wasn’t that a nice, short version? You can tell I’m getting tired of this entry…
January 4th:
We went early in the day to see the Colosseum, and then headed out to Florence on a train. The Colosseum was certainly impressive from the inside. I can’t even imagine being a gladiator, but it must have been a terrifying experience to come into that huge arena, knowing that people were just waiting for you—hoping for you—to you horrifically.
Trains are, well, an experience. They can be great, if you are not overloaded with luggage—but I am. So it’s a constant effort to keep stuff out of other peoples’ way. I’m not looking forward to the train ride to Nice, though I am looking forward to Nice itself!
* and when I say “weaving our way” I really mean “pushing through people until you feel like you are being squeezed, inside out, from one full tube of toothpaste into another”
“It’s a Danish Tradition!”
I keep doing this. I think to myself, “Oh, I know! I’ll write a little bit every day about what I do, and then at the end of my time in the certain place, I’ll just post it all at once!” It seems like a good idea every single time I think about it. And yet… I never do it. I guess it requires more discipline than I am master of.
Anyhow.
I hope you all had a truly wonderful Christmas and a fantastic New Year’s Eve. I wish you all a very, very happy 2009. Any resolutions?
And now, onto the stories:
Denmark
We spent the week of the 21-28th of December in Silkeborg, a town in Denmark where my Dad’s friends, the Rasmussens, live. We visited them once before, when I was eight years old. As I’m sure you can imagine, this time was a very different experience! My recollection of our visit thirteen years ago largely involved horses and cats. And that was pretty much it—Kirsten, their daughter who is my age, spoke virtually no English. Lise, their eldest daughter, spoke some… and was the coolest person ever because she not only rode horses, but also drew them. The boys, Alan and Christian, don’t feature prominently in my memory of the time.
This time around, there were still horses and cats (ok, one of each), and they contributed to the overall experience, for sure. Josephine is a cat of no particular pedigree who rules the Rasmussen roost. It is virtually unheard of for anyone to walk into the home and greet someone else before the cat. She probably doesn’t spend more than ten minutes at one time on her feet, because someone is always sweeping her up to cuddle her. She constantly smells like somebody’s perfume—whoever last cuddled her. That is not the extent of Josephine’s involvement in the home, though. She has her own chair at the dinner table. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. It’s the one thing that she is allowed to claw in the house, and she does so with enthusiasm… but it is also pulled up to the table during mealtimes, so she doesn’t feel left out. I’m utterly serious about this one. If someone else sits in the chair at dinnertime (as Christian did once), then she will let her resentment be known, and claw the perpetrator to shreds. Well, she’ll try at least. Other than that, she is a very civil feline, and I like her rather a lot.
Quelle, the horse, lives in a stable a few kilometres away from this house. She belongs jointly to Kirsten, Lise, and Dorthe (their mother), and is rather keen on me… but only as a food item. She and I get along just fine. I stroke her head, she chews on my clothes. What’s not to love? She is a very well behaved horse, though, and it’s fun to watch her jump. Kirsten and Lise are both good riders, and are the ones who were responsible for breaking Quelle in and training her. It’s clearly going well!
Back at the Rasmussen homestead (where Josephine was still the presiding dictator), Christmas was in full swing. You’d be surprised what can be explained away as “a Danish tradition.” I believed them about the food, the candles on the tree, the dancing around the tree while singing Christmas carols… but there would come points where I was a bit sceptical. I think some of the time they just made stuff up, to see if calling it a “Danish tradition” would convince my dad and me to do it.
Regardless of whether we were fooled or not, Christmas was still an absolutely beautiful event. Many people were in the house on Christmas Eve, appreciating the food and wine, dancing around the Christmas tree, singing, and opening gifts. I didn’t expect to get any presents, but I was given a pair of slipper clogs (oh yes, it’s true) from some of the Rasmussen’s family in Holland, a gorgeous scarf from Afghanistan from Frits and Dorthe, and some really lovely gold hoop earrings with rose quartz that the Rasmussen “kids” (offspring? Second generation?) gave me. It was just fun to be there, and experience all the happiness and warmth of a family on Christmas—even if it mostly wasn’t my family. (The rest of the family was, incidentally, snowed into the house in Washington. What is going on with the weather there?)
As a whole, the time spent in Denmark was really lovely. I bonded with Josephine and Quelle, and Lise and Kirsten proved to be helpful allies in teasing my dad at every opportunity. It was good to have some back up. Plus, it’s always incredibly generous to take lost and lonely tourists in on Christmas—and we are certainly grateful that they did!
Also, I would like the recipe for the rice pudding dessert they made us… but that may be my downfall, because I could eat it every single day.
Italy Round I (The Southern Version)
On Sunday the 28th, Frits, Dorthe, my dad, and I flew to their house in southern Italy. (In case anyone is keeping track, I have now been to 21 countries and am 21 years old. Somehow, this is cool in my mind.) Italy is unbelievably beautiful. The Mediterranean Sea is a lovely turquoise, the mountains are high, and the villages are charming. We got to Italy on Sunday evening, so the real adventures began on Monday.
On Monday we took ourselves for a walk along the beach, and I marvelled at the intense colour. It was very nice just strolling along the beach and listening to the waves. That afternoon we went to a small village called Badalato. It was founded about 1000 years ago, and is clustered all together on a mountain overlooking the sea. (I know, right? I want to live there too.) The streets are incredibly narrow and steep and the houses are crammed up against each other. I have a sneaking suspicion that if you removed one, they would all fall down. Bits of the city are in disrepair, and others have already been redone. It is absolutely, utterly charming. We all know how much I love postcards, but I till revelled in the complete lack of them in this town; it wasn’t touristy at all, and trust me, I appreciated that.
That night we returned to Badalato for an 8:00 dinner in the most adorable restaurant I have ever personally experienced. As we walked down the narrow street toward it, the doorway glowed, the only light on the street. The restaurant was run by a woman (the cook) and her son (the server). They spoke no English, as far as I could tell, and every food item was homemade: the wine, the bread, the pasta, the limoncello, everything. I was so impressed with everything, I took notes. I wanted to share it all with you as best I could.
To set the scene, picture this: Among the seven people present, three languages were spoken fluently and/or exclusively. These were Danish, German, and English. As you may have noticed, “Italian” was not included in that list. That’s ok, though, because it’s a set menu. Once you’ve been identified as a vegetarian, you’re good. And then the courses begin.
I’ve never had a meal with real courses, before. I was a bit nervous. The antipasti arrived in front of me, and was it ever delicious! Bruscetta, olives, some sort of white cheese (no, it wasn’t mozzarella), mushrooms (that the cook had picked herself), sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, bread… and olive oil. Oh man, the olive oil. That in and of itself was like an art form. It coated your lips every time you took a bite, but somehow nothing felt greasy. It had its own, subtle flavour that complimented the food just the right way. It was perfect.
Having finished my antipasti, I was quite satisfied. Another piece of bread, the rest of my earthenware mug of homemade wine, and I would have been satiated. The plates were cleared and were shortly replaced with heaping dishes of homemade pasta and mushrooms. If I had thought the antipasti was good, this was nothing short of heaven. Why don’t people make pasta from scratch all the time? Why don’t we serve it with olive oil? I’m not a big mushroom fan, but I even thought the mushrooms in this case were ok. It was magical. But… it was filling. I got halfway through the plate and experienced sheer panic. There was no way I could eat all this! No possible way. And yet, there was more food coming. It was a type of anxiety that was totally foreign to me, but it was very real. The server had mocked Dorthe last time she was here, for not being able to eat all of her food. Evidently she was a disgrace to Italy, Denmark, and the server himself. I was understandably nervous. The plates were cleared, and I tried not to make eye contact with the server as he removed my half-finished plate.
Several panic-filled minutes later, the main course arrived. Thank god I’m vegetarian. Vegetables are much lighter than meat, and I managed to finish my plate of green beans and potatoes (also with olive oil, of course—also delicious) with only a slight grimace toward the end. Dorthe was caught sharing her food with Robert. The plates were cleared. We breathed sighs of relief.
Then came the limoncello. The homemade limoncello. I had never had it before, and was rather impressed. Other guests at the table assured us that this was dessert, and we had nothing more to fear. I’ve never been so relieved to not have dessert before. We stumbled out of the restaurant, full of olive oil and homemade wine, and made our way back to bed. Dinner had taken two and a half hours.
On Tuesday we got up at 6:30, and set off for Pompei. What an absolutely surreal experience! I am sure you are all familiar with the story of Pompei, so I’ll spare you the details, but it was incredible to walk the streets of a town that had been a thriving area two thousand years ago. There were still ruts in the stone streets from the chariots that had thundered down them centuries before. Murals were still on the walls inside some of the houses, and detailed mosaics could be found on the floor. The Roman bath in particular was a sight to be seen. The ceiling and walls were carved, and the bathing areas were exquisitely decorated. In a display area you could see vases, a chariot, some small pieces of art, and various bodies (human and canine) that had been found with the city was re-discovered about 100 years ago.
Today we went on an adventure to a nearby series of shops (very profitable!) and then up into the mountains. The photos do not do it justice; the trees, the winding roads, the houses are unlike anything else. I think I will be very fond of Italy.
‘Specially after I get me some of them purty sunglasses.
Anyhow.
I hope you all had a truly wonderful Christmas and a fantastic New Year’s Eve. I wish you all a very, very happy 2009. Any resolutions?
And now, onto the stories:
Denmark
We spent the week of the 21-28th of December in Silkeborg, a town in Denmark where my Dad’s friends, the Rasmussens, live. We visited them once before, when I was eight years old. As I’m sure you can imagine, this time was a very different experience! My recollection of our visit thirteen years ago largely involved horses and cats. And that was pretty much it—Kirsten, their daughter who is my age, spoke virtually no English. Lise, their eldest daughter, spoke some… and was the coolest person ever because she not only rode horses, but also drew them. The boys, Alan and Christian, don’t feature prominently in my memory of the time.
This time around, there were still horses and cats (ok, one of each), and they contributed to the overall experience, for sure. Josephine is a cat of no particular pedigree who rules the Rasmussen roost. It is virtually unheard of for anyone to walk into the home and greet someone else before the cat. She probably doesn’t spend more than ten minutes at one time on her feet, because someone is always sweeping her up to cuddle her. She constantly smells like somebody’s perfume—whoever last cuddled her. That is not the extent of Josephine’s involvement in the home, though. She has her own chair at the dinner table. You think I’m kidding, but I’m not. It’s the one thing that she is allowed to claw in the house, and she does so with enthusiasm… but it is also pulled up to the table during mealtimes, so she doesn’t feel left out. I’m utterly serious about this one. If someone else sits in the chair at dinnertime (as Christian did once), then she will let her resentment be known, and claw the perpetrator to shreds. Well, she’ll try at least. Other than that, she is a very civil feline, and I like her rather a lot.
Quelle, the horse, lives in a stable a few kilometres away from this house. She belongs jointly to Kirsten, Lise, and Dorthe (their mother), and is rather keen on me… but only as a food item. She and I get along just fine. I stroke her head, she chews on my clothes. What’s not to love? She is a very well behaved horse, though, and it’s fun to watch her jump. Kirsten and Lise are both good riders, and are the ones who were responsible for breaking Quelle in and training her. It’s clearly going well!
Back at the Rasmussen homestead (where Josephine was still the presiding dictator), Christmas was in full swing. You’d be surprised what can be explained away as “a Danish tradition.” I believed them about the food, the candles on the tree, the dancing around the tree while singing Christmas carols… but there would come points where I was a bit sceptical. I think some of the time they just made stuff up, to see if calling it a “Danish tradition” would convince my dad and me to do it.
Regardless of whether we were fooled or not, Christmas was still an absolutely beautiful event. Many people were in the house on Christmas Eve, appreciating the food and wine, dancing around the Christmas tree, singing, and opening gifts. I didn’t expect to get any presents, but I was given a pair of slipper clogs (oh yes, it’s true) from some of the Rasmussen’s family in Holland, a gorgeous scarf from Afghanistan from Frits and Dorthe, and some really lovely gold hoop earrings with rose quartz that the Rasmussen “kids” (offspring? Second generation?) gave me. It was just fun to be there, and experience all the happiness and warmth of a family on Christmas—even if it mostly wasn’t my family. (The rest of the family was, incidentally, snowed into the house in Washington. What is going on with the weather there?)
As a whole, the time spent in Denmark was really lovely. I bonded with Josephine and Quelle, and Lise and Kirsten proved to be helpful allies in teasing my dad at every opportunity. It was good to have some back up. Plus, it’s always incredibly generous to take lost and lonely tourists in on Christmas—and we are certainly grateful that they did!
Also, I would like the recipe for the rice pudding dessert they made us… but that may be my downfall, because I could eat it every single day.
Italy Round I (The Southern Version)
On Sunday the 28th, Frits, Dorthe, my dad, and I flew to their house in southern Italy. (In case anyone is keeping track, I have now been to 21 countries and am 21 years old. Somehow, this is cool in my mind.) Italy is unbelievably beautiful. The Mediterranean Sea is a lovely turquoise, the mountains are high, and the villages are charming. We got to Italy on Sunday evening, so the real adventures began on Monday.
On Monday we took ourselves for a walk along the beach, and I marvelled at the intense colour. It was very nice just strolling along the beach and listening to the waves. That afternoon we went to a small village called Badalato. It was founded about 1000 years ago, and is clustered all together on a mountain overlooking the sea. (I know, right? I want to live there too.) The streets are incredibly narrow and steep and the houses are crammed up against each other. I have a sneaking suspicion that if you removed one, they would all fall down. Bits of the city are in disrepair, and others have already been redone. It is absolutely, utterly charming. We all know how much I love postcards, but I till revelled in the complete lack of them in this town; it wasn’t touristy at all, and trust me, I appreciated that.
That night we returned to Badalato for an 8:00 dinner in the most adorable restaurant I have ever personally experienced. As we walked down the narrow street toward it, the doorway glowed, the only light on the street. The restaurant was run by a woman (the cook) and her son (the server). They spoke no English, as far as I could tell, and every food item was homemade: the wine, the bread, the pasta, the limoncello, everything. I was so impressed with everything, I took notes. I wanted to share it all with you as best I could.
To set the scene, picture this: Among the seven people present, three languages were spoken fluently and/or exclusively. These were Danish, German, and English. As you may have noticed, “Italian” was not included in that list. That’s ok, though, because it’s a set menu. Once you’ve been identified as a vegetarian, you’re good. And then the courses begin.
I’ve never had a meal with real courses, before. I was a bit nervous. The antipasti arrived in front of me, and was it ever delicious! Bruscetta, olives, some sort of white cheese (no, it wasn’t mozzarella), mushrooms (that the cook had picked herself), sundried tomatoes, artichoke hearts, bread… and olive oil. Oh man, the olive oil. That in and of itself was like an art form. It coated your lips every time you took a bite, but somehow nothing felt greasy. It had its own, subtle flavour that complimented the food just the right way. It was perfect.
Having finished my antipasti, I was quite satisfied. Another piece of bread, the rest of my earthenware mug of homemade wine, and I would have been satiated. The plates were cleared and were shortly replaced with heaping dishes of homemade pasta and mushrooms. If I had thought the antipasti was good, this was nothing short of heaven. Why don’t people make pasta from scratch all the time? Why don’t we serve it with olive oil? I’m not a big mushroom fan, but I even thought the mushrooms in this case were ok. It was magical. But… it was filling. I got halfway through the plate and experienced sheer panic. There was no way I could eat all this! No possible way. And yet, there was more food coming. It was a type of anxiety that was totally foreign to me, but it was very real. The server had mocked Dorthe last time she was here, for not being able to eat all of her food. Evidently she was a disgrace to Italy, Denmark, and the server himself. I was understandably nervous. The plates were cleared, and I tried not to make eye contact with the server as he removed my half-finished plate.
Several panic-filled minutes later, the main course arrived. Thank god I’m vegetarian. Vegetables are much lighter than meat, and I managed to finish my plate of green beans and potatoes (also with olive oil, of course—also delicious) with only a slight grimace toward the end. Dorthe was caught sharing her food with Robert. The plates were cleared. We breathed sighs of relief.
Then came the limoncello. The homemade limoncello. I had never had it before, and was rather impressed. Other guests at the table assured us that this was dessert, and we had nothing more to fear. I’ve never been so relieved to not have dessert before. We stumbled out of the restaurant, full of olive oil and homemade wine, and made our way back to bed. Dinner had taken two and a half hours.
On Tuesday we got up at 6:30, and set off for Pompei. What an absolutely surreal experience! I am sure you are all familiar with the story of Pompei, so I’ll spare you the details, but it was incredible to walk the streets of a town that had been a thriving area two thousand years ago. There were still ruts in the stone streets from the chariots that had thundered down them centuries before. Murals were still on the walls inside some of the houses, and detailed mosaics could be found on the floor. The Roman bath in particular was a sight to be seen. The ceiling and walls were carved, and the bathing areas were exquisitely decorated. In a display area you could see vases, a chariot, some small pieces of art, and various bodies (human and canine) that had been found with the city was re-discovered about 100 years ago.
Today we went on an adventure to a nearby series of shops (very profitable!) and then up into the mountains. The photos do not do it justice; the trees, the winding roads, the houses are unlike anything else. I think I will be very fond of Italy.
‘Specially after I get me some of them purty sunglasses.
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