31 July 2006

definitely not skim



While wandering around Mantova yesterday - this was after our 2 hour train ride became a surprise 2.5 hour combination train AND bus ride without notice - we did our best not to be run over by the locals. They are fiends for bicycles and can't seem to get enough of them on the streets. All at once. The other product for which they are ecstatically gung-ho is apparently fresh milk. Yes, fresh milk. So much so, in fact, that they have a machine in the center of town that dispenses fresh milk whenever one desires.

This milk comes straight from the source, with very little time between milking and vending. It has neither been pasteurized nor anywhere near the technology that turns virgin milk into its skinnier cousins "skim" and "low fat." We happened to meet the farmer who runs this tiny operation and he explained something about being sure that the cow is very clean as it's milked. It's one of those ideas that you don't want to think about too hard or you'll stop wanting to try the very fresh milk.



The very nice, hearty farmer said that he fills up the machine several times a day and that farming has been in his family for a very long time. He also told us how large his farm is but the combination of the Italian language and my complete lack of clarity when it comes to European measures of distance has left me with only the understanding that it is a sizeable farm. Maybe a big size. Maybe a medium. But it is definitely a size.



Apparently he's had the machine set up for a little under a year and of late he's been averaging 100 bottles sold daily. He also said that at night when people are buying milk after a fun night on the town, sometimes he'll hang around the machine and offer the addition of mint to the milk. He highly recommended this flavor combination and mentioned that he also has big plans for the Christmas season.

The process for procuring your very own bottle of fresh milk is very simple. First, you put euro 20 cents in the machine that vends the clear plastic bottles. There's a sign on the machine saying you shouldn't reuse the bottles and so it seems you have to do this every time you come to the milk machine.



You then put 1 euro into the milk machine itself and place the empty plastic bottle under the interior spigot. The farmer said its best to tilt it like you would a beer in order to avoid problems with the foamy head. There was also a sign with a graphic indicating the same suggestion.



And then you're done! After filling up the bottle you have yourself a heaping helping of fresh creamy milk. It was sweet and delicious and not too heavy, and refreshingly cold on a hot summer day. It didn't hurt that there's a pastry shop across the street where you can find sweet local specialties. And what good is a creamy bottle of fresh cold milk without a couple of local specialties to go along with it?

24 July 2006

arena opera

Italy doesn't need baseball and night games and Wrigley Field. Italians aren't looking for places where they can take off their shirts and have a beer, knowing full well the beer guy will swing by with another at the next inning. They've got these places already. And believe it or not, they're ancient Roman arenas and the night's event is opera.



Example 1: Shirtless Men

When was the last time you went to an opera and saw a shirtless man? Hell, when's the last time you went to a school play and saw chest hair? Usually, the arts does not intersect with the removal of shirts. But in Italy, you are welcome to watch a world-renowned Opera in four acts, putting your shirt back on only when it's time to leave.



Example 2: Coke Fanta Bi-rra Vi-no!

You know how at Cubs games the guys and gals selling stuff out of coolers have their own little songs? Arena Opera's got those too. They sell Coke, Fanta, beer, wine, Gatorade, ice cream and panini. The prices are right on par with professional sports - 5 euro for a can of Pepsi. And not only do these people circulate throughout the entire arena at intermissions, singing their own jingles - but they sing them in several languages.



Example 3: Inflatables

At baseball games people wield inflatable bats or foam hands that say, "We're #1." At Arena Opera there are inflatable objects and the audience members work as hard as any Dad at the seashore blowing up the stuff. Only these items aren't baseball bats, they're cushions. Because when you're sitting on marble all night long, every little bit helps.

Example 4: Shoes Removed

It's hot, it's late... Who really wants to still have their shoes on? Apparently half of the arena would rather take their shoes off - and do. If you think you need to be wearing shoes to see an opera, you've not seen Arena Opera.

don't forget your cushion



Verona is the largest mainland city in the Veneto region and is about an hour and a half out of Milan on the fast train. However, if at the train station the conductor discovers that your fast train isn't working and he makes a single announcement that everyone going to Verona needs to get off the train and run to Track 10 to catch the slow train, you'd better get off and head toward Track 10. And go quickly because everyone else is running there - juggling bags and children and bottles of water - and there are not going to be enough seats on the slow moving, certainly not air conditioned slow train.

So we rode the slow train, stopping at more than a few towns between Milan and Verona. It wasn't air conditioned. And it was packed with people standing in the aisles and jammed into every seat. There might have been a hot humid breeze but I didn't feel it. I was too busy hovering in that confused state somewhere between overheated and passed out. I got through half a Vanity Fair magazine but have only faint recollections of the content.



Upon arriving in Verona, there was a memorable game of Human Frogger as we traversed a multi-lane highway with our suitcase and a German we found in the middle of the road. Our initial hotel room lacked a working shower and functioning AC so we had to revisit the front desk to switch rooms. At this point we were slightly behind schedule so there was no showering and no dining - just a rush to the grand event of the evening.

We came to Verona for opera. To see Carmen, in fact. And not in any old opera house. Oh no. We were there to see Carmen performed in a Roman arena from the first century AD. It is an immense and grand venue, with pink marble rows climbing up, up and away. Two thousand years ago crowds of 20,000 would come to watch gladiator battles at the same site.



We arrived about fifteen minutes before the performance was set to begin (9:15pm) and it was very clear that people had staked out the general admission seats several hours ago. We were being directed into any and every crevice of space along the rows. Lucky for us, our late arrival secured us the best seats in the house. We were squeezed into the absolute last row of the arena. The row at the far top, backed only by the night sky and views of the Piazza below. It was a perfect place to sit and gave us access to whatever gentle summer breezes were blowing that night.

As the opera was set to begin, singular flames started to glow all across the arena. Tiny pin points that blossomed into constellations and then a blanket glow across the space. These were not giant candles or flashlights or cell phone screens. These were small, slight candles akin to birthday candles and we'll know to bring them next time.



The opera itself was wonderful and entertaining if not mysterious - we hadn't purchased a libretto and so had no clue what was going on in the French story line. We've since used our Opera Encyclopedia to discover that it's a sad and passionate story. Even with no clue as to what the words meant we were happy to hear them carried to the highest seats.

The opera didn't finish until well after 1 am and I'm sorry but parading 300 real horses onstage - an upgrade from the five or so that they had onstage for Carmen - still wouldn't keep the audience from getting tired. In fact there was an audible groan from the 7,000+ plus in attendance when the third and final intermission was announced as twenty minutes long. It was already after midnight.



I have to be honest and say that we stuck with it for three of the four acts. We are not cowards and we are not weak in the face of colossal opera - we sat through a five hour Wagner performance at the Lyric in Chicago. But we were hungry, it was hot, and certain members of our party do not have as much personal padding as others and so 3+ hours on marble is going to take its toll. We simply pretended the opera was three acts long and headed out into Verona to find some midnight dinner.

But I do have to say, under the hot Italian night encircled by Roman ruins and thousands of people - that's the way to see opera. Even if you do have to leave a little early.

16 July 2006

buffalo soldier



I had first been to Venezia (aka Venice) a decade ago with my sister. We were backpacking through Europe and the strongest memory I have, aside from the striking scenery, was that my sister hated Venice. Maybe it was getting lost in the tiny twisty corridors. Maybe it was the heavy backpacks and summer temperatures. More likely still, it was because when she tried to run away from me in Paris I chased after her and made her continue our trip.

Returning to Venice after ten years, this time with my parents and Stefano, I hoped my sister's distaste for this strange city would not be shared by the rest of my family. I shouldn't have worried. Immediately after descending from the train station, there was a continual thread of ooh's and aah's that continued right up until our frenzied last minute run to the train station.

What you've heard about Venice and water is true. It flows through Venice, crisscrossing the neighborhoods like monsooned circuit boards. The waterways are gorgeous and strange, lapping at mossy boat landings and tall wooden poles that serve as handles back onto land.



There are no cars in Venice. The streets are water and when you can't find a bridge to cross the water, you must find a boat. Large boats, low and wide, travel the main canals as buses pace through regular cities. There are also gondolas that cross the width of the Grand Canal in a few short minutes. For the low cost of 50 euro cents you're entitled to the wobbly freedom of sitting on the tiny boat's side, watching the gondolier dig deep into the canal, turn the boat around, and deliver you to the canal's other edge.

Not all canals are grand enough to warrant public transport - many are small thoroughfares that curl and dig into the residential spaces. Small bridges cross these waterways and families park their boats along their edges. These small canals trace their way through Venice's innards.



Along with the veining of water there are the myriad passages and pathways for pedestrians - far more so than the watery spaces. The passages are thin and mysterious, with character laden buildings rising tall at every side. Think of an English garden's botanical maze of 10 foot hedges spiraling inward. This is Venice but in Venice you can't peek through the shrubbery to cheat a glance. You must simply turn down the next corridor and see where it brings you.



Venice's pedestrian corridors are telescopes stretching into dark shadow. A simple look down a walkway promises a fleeting story; a wedge of light, a couple in arms, a dog trotting just out of view. Venice is a city of knots and gnarls with soft touches of life and history at its ends.

Light becomes a treasure, something that burrows in from above and buries itself deep in the dark spaces. It catches the lace on curtains drifting out of apartments and rests on laundry lines darting past bricks and stone. Light is always around the next corner, promising that out of the current shade and mystery, you will pass into certainty and shine.



We had pizza slices on a piazza that burned white with sun. It was in the Dorsoduro area of Venice, away from the tourist throngs and pigeons of St. Mark's. There were a few trees, a few benches, and only a few people who looked like out-of-towners.

As we stood under the pizza shop's awning, watching dogs come to lap at the water fountain in the center of the piazza and a little boy ride his miniature motor scooter alongside his Grandmother, we could see that real people lived in Venice. Real people who work at cheap pizza places and play Bob Marley CDs to make the work day go by.

It helps to see that this place is not a Disney World where the employees turn off the lights at night and go home. It's a strange city filled with strange sights; where history climbs up out of the water and makes you wander its paths. But it's also where people listen to reggae CDs that skip. This city's veins may be filled with water but it's alive all the same.

So little sister, you going to give it another chance?

15 July 2006

Il Sole



I would not recommend hiking Cinque Terre in the summer and I say with certainty that neither would my family. Our hearty group got through one of the five hikes on foot, decided that was quite enough, and instead turned to the haphazardly-scheduled local train system to carry us through the rest of the towns. The views in Cinque Terre are stunning, of course. The water is a phenomenal shade of blue, indeed. And the sun, well... the sun has a death grip on every bit of the outdoors not blessed with a fleeting patch of shade.

For the Italians, this muggy and bright patch of space along the sea shore is an ideal place to lay down with only a few critical parts of the body covered. It is where they gather in groups to take in the sun; there are a lot of Speedos and to be truthful there are a lot of Americans. Many of these Americans also happen to be walking public safety announcements -- with swaths of fuschia-hued sunburn sweeping across their bare skin. The Italians, however, appear to soak up the sun in glamorous if not also dangerous quantities with the only results being a golden sheen and a happy love for direct sunlight.

If there is a truly surprising summer difference between Americans and Italians it might just be the use of the modern machine we call an air conditioner. Yes, the Italians have them. And yes, they will often turn them on without being asked. But - and here's where things get interesting - they do not seem to like them.



On more than one occasion I have had Italians tell me that I am very American simply because I like air conditioners better than stifling heat.

One of the conversations, in a room where the AC was functioning normally and the oppressive humidity of a Milan afternoon had been alleviated, went something like this:

Italian: It's too cold in here.
Me: ...better than too hot.
Italian: That's because you're American.

Flash forward to our train ride back to Milan after a long hot day at the Cinque Terre with my parents. An Italian couple not only attempted to take control of the AC in our train compartment but also went on to complain that New York City has far too many air-conditioned spaces. They eventually left because the wife, despite dramatic attempts to warm herself by briskly rubbing her upper arms while making the pained face of someone caught in a blizzard, was far too cold to remain in the compartment. At this point I think I was still sweating.



The Italian love affair with the sun is shared by anyone and everyone. Men who look like Santa Claus in black socks and ride in the back of rowboats with their shirts off, and men with woolen caps topped by thin woolen spires. You can watch these people come and go out of the harbors in their little boats and that's just what we did. Sat in the shade and watched others soak up the sun.



Have you ever seen a soft-bellied barefoot man in a Speedo walk past eating a gelato? I have. And I say, good for you sir! Good for you for getting that body out of the house and into a Speedo. And good for you for thinking that there's nothing like a gelato to complete the outfit. It's actually a pretty good deal - trading the body image mania of the Americans for a Speedo and an ice cream cone. That's what the summer's all about. Now if we can only slip an air conditioner in there somewhere.