quiet night

This was our first overnight trip to Venice and so was also our first time wandering its honeycombs after dark. I say "honeycombs" because for me Venice is a city built of miniature quadrants and pathways.

Petite canals turning around corners, isolating buildings and pathways. Diminutive bridges connecting one cube of land to the next. An ingenious webbing of tiny plots that as a whole becomes Venice.

And at night, the cracks and corners are illuminated. Hidden light crosses the canals and skitters across the surface. Boat traffic slows and the waters still. Windows at water's edge spill a mystery glow into the night.



All the while your footfalls bounce off of surrounding walls and thin corridors spill you into dark piazzas with long-quiet wells closed with heavy iron lids. The canals, now quiet murky mirrors, stay still and silent.

You know you will find your hotel - know that it must be out there somewhere - but it still feels as if Venice might just have swallowed it whole. And now waits quietly for you to discover its mischief.

wandering venice

Wandering around the streets of Venice last weekend was not only an exercise in not getting lost, but also in costume admiration. Peppered into the crowd of regularly-dressed people were those in full costume. These costumed moving targets render all of Venice into an obstacle course of sorts because as they make their way through any crowd, inevitably the crowd will stop. It will part. It will reassemble in an unpredictable way with camera-wielding individuals moving at the costumed revelers and all others moving away. Now this scenario is easy to picture on a large throughway, even an average Milano sidewalk. But in Venice where you're navigating tiny spaces and out of the way bridges, this is a challenge. Enjoyable, yes. But a challenge.



The quest through Carnevale in itself is also somewhat exhausting. It warrants quiet time here and there. A rest. A break. Some people are able to recharge in the sunshine on a bench. Others, like us, go to the Guggenheim or the Palazzo Grassi to view modern and contemporary art. Nothing like a steer suspended in formaldehyde to get those energy levels back up!



For some reason, children in costume never seem to tire. They are always able to dig into their bag of confetti to hurl that one last fistful at an unsuspecting adult. Going over one of the main bridges we were ideally placed behind a 10-year old cowboy-hat-wearing cowgirl who just couldn't resist throwing confetti at everyone. And for some reason, probably because we were all packed so close together on the bridge, none of the adults saw it coming. Not a one. Each recoiled as the colorful paper bits hit them in the face. And then they would look around to find the assailant as if that mattered. By the time they caught a glimpse of her she was on to her next target.



There seemed to be a few regulars wandering around town. Older folks with dogs. With newspapers. With a walk that said they knew exactly where they were. Though they were the rarity it was nice to see them there, to know that not everyone was just passing through.



To live in Venice can't be easy. The gondola traffic alone has got to drive you mad. All of the striped gondoliers shuttling couples past romantic vistas. It's a real world vision of Disney World's "It's a Small World" ride. And then there are the couples drinking wine along the canals, eating plates of the wonderful little tapas so popular in Venice.



Wait a minute... that was us. A wine glass perched at the canal's edge. Watching passers-by make their way up and over the bridge. Wondering why we'd never had an anchovy on top of a pearl onion before. And wondering if we should go back into the bar and get another.

We didn't. But only because there was a gelato shop next door. So we went in there instead.

Carnevale a Venezia

Carnevale in Venezia is well-attended and well worth the effort. The city may be packed with tourists, and you may need to flee to the modern art museums during the day for breathing space (as we did), but Carnevale in Venice is too grand an event not to warrant a visit.



What exactly is Carnevale, you ask? I'm not sure. By the looks of it, Carnevale involves wandering the city dressed head-to-toe in elaborate costume and occasionally lifting your mask a bit to enjoy a 10:00am glass of wine at the coffee bar. If you're a child it's your opportunity to unabashedly launch handfuls of confetti at all passers-by while if you're a young adult your aim is to launch, instead, bottles of wine down your throat.



For all of the Bacchanalean behavior, it's a somewhat organized affair. You wind your way down to the Piazza San Marco -- the Piazza of postcards and pigeons fame -- and either strut around showing yourself off, or stand around watching the others strut. There are also performances scheduled throughout the day and night; the most enthralling involving either rock music or fire. (It's hard not to be impressed by a 15 foot flaming stick figure. I should also mention that the early 90's dance music leading up to the performance was top rate. I don't know when I last heard Rhythm is a Dancer, Mr. Vain, and Show Me Love in one continuous set. We weren't ashamed to shake a tail feather in the Piazza.)



You can watch giant men, in giant ball gowns with hoop skirts underneath, work their way through the crowds. You can watch tiny, adorable Winnie the Poohs charm everyone in their path. (We couldn't get a good shot of Pooh because everywhere he went the crowd converged around him. Even drunken teens were enamoured and would stop dancing to crouch down and give him a tap on the head or take his picture.) And you can watch Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf take a load off and rest a while.



Piazza San Marco was covered in confetti and crammed with people. The mood was joyful and the folks in costume would pause to let everyone else take their photos. There was impromptu singing and long conga lines of young people swirling through the crowds -- the line getting longer and longer with each spiral around the square. Vendors with carts covered in masks lurked at the edges while husbands balanced cameras on their wive's heads in order to steady the nighttime shots.



What a wonderful place to be. With art and illustrations projected on these historic buildings and the bell tower. With live music and dance. With wine and fire and confetti fluttering in the air. The nights were crisp and clear and Stefano and I stood in the midst of it all, soaking it in.



And after the concert the crowds filtered out into the maze of tiny Venetian streets. Costumes drifting over the pavement, the canals reflecting color and light. Is there a better place for Carnevale to unfold?

pompeii is for lovers (of history)

On August 29th, 79 A.D. Pompeii disappeared under a catastrophic heap of hot mud and volcanic ash. Mount Vesuvius had been threatening smoke and ash for several days and when it finally erupted a 30 foot blanket of volcanic rubble fell to earth and choked the life out of Pompeii. What had been a fully-functioning Roman city of 20,000 instead became Roman life brought to a halt.

Discovered in the 1600s, excavations didn't start until 1748 and continue still today. Pompeii is estimated to cover 164 acres with 75% officially unearthed. What you can see, and explore, is shocking for its modernity and artistic development. And also for its resemblance to the cities we all still wander today.



When you walk the streets of Pompeii, you are actually walking on paved streets. There are sidewalks and water troughs and ruts where wagons ran the road raw. There are doorways, and tiling, and political slogans crawling across walls in elongated red script. There are bakeries with ovens and large grindstone mills that once transformed wheat to flour.

Pompeii is a ghost town and you really feel the absence of its inhabitants. There are tourists - speaking every language - and the smart ones have brought a picnic lunch. (We only brought cookies and water.) But there is no one there who looks the part. No one running the flour mills. No one leading a wagon through the wheel ruts. What you feel is the absence of life and the absence of those who called this place home. This is no Williamsburg.



There is amazing art to be found in Pompeii and you get the sense that Pompeiians were great fans of art and life in general. There's a gusto lying beneath the dustiness and the sun-bleached rock. There are murals painted in vivid colors and complex mosaics with shocking detail. It's hard to believe that this city's moment in the spectrum of time was 2000 years ago. 2000 years... A lot has happened since then but as they say, a lot has stayed the same.

It's hard not to mention that the world's oldest profession was well underway 2000 years ago. There are the frescos and stone slab beds to prove it. In fact, one of the only - if not the only - buildings in all of Pompeii to be outfitted with electrical power (to aid the visitor's sightseeing abilities) is one of the brothels. The erotic illustrations above the various rooms are highly illuminated and very visible. Not all the art in Pompeii is what one might term high art. Some of it gets pretty low.



There are, though, the frescoes within the Villa of the Mysteries. This villa, slightly off the beaten path but worth the detour, features rooms brimming with color and majesty -- four walls covered in ancient storytelling and beautifully tiled floors skating along below. The art in the above room is said to depict the the initiation rite for females into the cult of Dionysus. With the marble flooring and gorgeous painting there is nothing about this place that says 2000 years ago. You spend your day re-examining your understanding and assumptions of ancient history. And wondering where, exactly, all the dogs came from.

It's the one thing I remember clearly about my visit to Pompeii with my sister over 10 years ago: the sun-stricken dogs laying all over the place. And they're still there. Just lazing about. Another thing I remember clearly is that we took a ride with an Italian family in their very small car, with its cardboard floor, to get to Pompeii. Apparently we had wandered very far off track in trying to find the main gate and this family just picked us up and took us there. You would call it hitch-hiking except we didn't ask for the ride. It just sort of happened. But I digress.

There are grand baths at Pompeii, separated into sections for women and men. There are columns and temples. Cemeteries and theaters. A giant coliseum with seats rising towards the sky. This place is complex and immense and you get exhausted wandering its streets.



There are casts of the human victims whose shapes were preserved under the ash. The faces are tormented and the bodies contorted. They are in contrast to the elegance of the art with which their lives had been surrounded, natural disaster reducing them to the basic elements once again. Its a blunt reality check. That on these streets there had been people selling their wares, walking their children, drinking their wine and then one day it all went away.

How these places have been extracted from the ash I do not know. But here they are, standing again. And standing in strength. You realize that the loss of Pompeii and its people in 79 A.D. is a gift to us today. Where else can you feel, actually touch, the way ancient Romans lived. Where can you lay a hand to the stones that paved their streets? Linger an eye along the frescos that decorated their lives?



Pompeii is one of those places. And as much as it feels old, and disturbing, and historic, it feels - at its heart - real. And this is the best part. We read history books. We hear lectures and lessons. But in Pompeii we walk Roman streets and walk through Roman doorways.

And keep a Roman eye on that volcano in the distance.

amalfi coast'n

The Costiera Amalfitana is one long, gorgeous stretch of aquamarine and green, and is touted as one of Europe's finest coastlines. It runs along the southern side of Sorrento's peninsula and is identified with the towns of Positano, Amalfi and Ravello among others. Speaking from recent experience I would also mention that it seems to be one of Europe's sheerest coastlines. As in cliffs. Cliffs that the bus hugs, throttling its way down the winding and motorcycle-clogged Italian road.

Naples is a short train ride away from Sorrento and from Sorrento you can take the bus to towns along the Amalfi coast. There are also excellent pastry and promenade opportunities in Sorrento. Before catching our bus we hit the streets with the rest of the town and rolled up to a great café.



The baristas all wore dapper almond-shaped caps and resembled something between short-order cooks in an American diner and flight attendants of the 1960's. And not only did they have great little hats (as did many of the baristas in Napoli) but they also dust your macchiato with a cocoa powder smiley face.

When we got on the bus there was a sign above the driver that basically said "whatever you do, don't bother this guy - he's driving." In fact, there were two signs saying this. One went so far as to say it was "prohibited." And there was a picture of a saint. We should have known.



We'd received advice to sit on the right side of the bus and at the beginning of the ride we didn't quite understand the significance. There were a few good views but there were also a lot of views of olive and orange trees. Nice, yes, but not something you need to sit on a certain side of the bus to see. But, wait. As the bus wound its way up and over the peninsula we go to the side with the views. And the cliffs. And the drama.

It was stunning. Aqua water as far as the eye could see. Cliffs so sheer you couldn't see their faces. And tiny pebbled beaches in nooks and crannies. There were small colorful towns clinging to steep slopes and others perched high above the sea. There were islands dotting the turquoise horizon and sun riding the water like shocks of glitter. It was marvelous.

And it made me nauseous.

So nauseous that I had to move to the other side of the bus. The wrong side of the bus. And Stefano said I turned green. We had opted to go all the way to Amalfi, bypassing Positano with plans to return to it on the way back. This meant an hour-long ride which sounded great when we'd made the plans.

However, in practice, it didn't sound very good at all. It sounded awful. Apparently the cold I had was impacting my equilibrium and this was impacting my ability to ride a bus without feeling so nauseous I could cry. The good news is that I didn't cry. And I didn't throw up.

And as requested, I didn't talk to the driver.

When we got to Amalfi I peeled myself from the bus seat I'd been laying on and Stefano, in a moment of utter brilliance and perfect understanding of Italy, made a beeline to the pharmacy. It was not only Sunday (egads!) but it was one o'clock (heavens, no!) in the afternoon. The fact that it was open at all was something of a miracle. No sooner had Stefano bought me a package of Travel Gum and stepped out the front door, then the pharmacy closed up tight.



As I chewed my magical gum and started to feel much better we went on a hunt to find food in the off-season. Amalfi is a beachside town and so it wasn't exactly hopping in early February. We did find an Italian version of grilled cheese, several pieces of pizza, and a pastry or two. I was feeling better and it was a beautiful place. So many colorful buildings, the nook and crannies Italian towns are known for, and of the course the laundry drying outside. Even from the entrance of a church with signs reminding visitors of the dignity of the place, you could see someone's towels and aprons flapping in the breeze. If you don't love that, you don't love Italy.

We went to the shore and walked the beach. You can easily imagine the summer there. What were open spreads of beach for us, would become strangled with beach umbrellas and towels, chairs and sunbathers. We preferred it as it was - empty, quiet, and a touch too crisp. It was perfect.



We took the bus back to Positano and followed gravity down to the shoreline there. It was the same sort of quiet, and the same turquoise waters. Churches and homes clung to the steep grades and teens played soccer on the deserted beach. A scraggy artist painted the seashore and older people watched kids chase dogs.

There were no sunbathers. No sunhat sellers. Rowboats sat on the shore, upended and waiting for the season. It was perfect and verging on solitary. Except when we wove our way back up to the bus stop. Suddenly we had found a crowd and we all waited at the side of the road. Everyone had their own way of passing the time, mainly griping about the bus not arriving and/or smoking. We just sat there hoping our toes would not fall victim to the next fast car zipping along the coastal path.

Apparently we were lucky. When the bus arrived we were all able to board and there were seats for all. In peak season, we've since heard, you're often left waiting for several buses before you find an opening. All the better for the off-season. And more the better because I didn't get nauseous on the ride back. I just kept chewing that magical gum.

And not talking to the driver.

amore on the water

Taking a walk along the Bay of Naples is vastly different than strolling around Milan. There is no grey matte finish to the sky. You can see the sun and confirm its existence. The water shimmers and flows. You remember that even in cities there can be a touch of nature. Or an entire coast.

Naples and Milan, both in Italy but with a large swath of the country in between them, share one firm commonality. The traffic may be far more hectic in Naples. There may be larger and more fierce swarms of scooters leading off at every traffic light. And there is certainly a local dialect that trumps any and all Italian language skills I've managed to accumulate. But...

This is still Italy. And so this is still the land of unabashed public affection.



This couple could be anywhere from Milano to Napoli; they have all the basic requirements. They have a motor scooter. They have their shared admiration. And they have, without a doubt, no shame in canoodling in public.

To them, I say good for you. It's a fact that many Italians live with their parents well into their thirties. So everyone, including their parents, probably prefers that they share their romantic antics away from home. Along a busy street. Perhaps on the sea shore as the sun sets behind a colorful jumble of homes.



It bears repeating that in my brief Italian experience this appears to be quite normal from North to South. In fact it made me feel at home in Naples. Because even though I couldn't understand what many of the locals were saying, I knew that, by the look of things, they were still quite Italian.

ah napoli

They're lucky they got us to leave.

The apartment we stayed in while visiting Naples last week looks out not only on the sea, and on the island of Capri, but also on Vesuvius and most of downtown Naples. We had never shared space with a volcano before. Had never thought so much about the way a city, like Pompeii, could grow and thrive and then simply, one day, disappear under hot clouds of ash.

It's not hard to imagine why the south of Italy, and Naples in particular, seems to be so connected to the ebb and flow of life, the highs and lows. They sit between the sea and the storm, the cool waves and the lava.



Each morning we awoke to the sun rising over Vesuvius, and birds starting to circle over the water. The shadows of palm trees with their jagged fronds slowly took on the light and became crowns of glorious green vegetation. At night the sun dropped behind the city, laying a blanket of pink and purple across the sky. It's a charmed place.



Fraught with problems, sure. Known for having issues, yes. But you cannot get me to say anything less than positive about this city. About Napoli.

It's a city with a heart. A vivid wild heart that thumps out of the enoteca and lines the streets with laughing, emotive Italians. A heart that lives in food so good and so real that you can't believe you could be so lucky. A beat that strums in espresso so strong that each tiny cup of coffee is served with a companion glass of water.

This is a place with a personality. It screams love me or leave me.

And we fell in love.