looking up

I must report in and let the world know that there is a large inflatable naked man hovering over Parco Sempione in Milan. He's not wearing any clothes and he's anatomically correct. While somewhat surprising, it's nice to see that the male nude is making a triumphant artistic comeback after centuries of domination by the female form. I invite Macy's Thanksgiving parade officials to make note. Snoopy's got nothing on this guy.

anyone there?

Sabionetta is a town not about its people but rather about its structure. Like a chandelier without the candles, lacking life but still somehow beautiful... You feel alone in this place. You look for tumbleweeds. You wonder where everyone could have gone.

Sabionetta is the fantastical city plan of a member of the Gonzaga clan and it smacks of noble glory. He chose this location in the middle of the countryside and built up a walled city replete with villas and theaters. But once the urban architect's time had faded the locals headed back out to the fields, leaving the glory to the empty buildings and getting back to work.



What's left now are those very buildings and a few places to eat and drink. During our lunch along the edge of the deserted piazza we were treated to a drunken serenade by one of the remaining townsmen. After belting out more than a few dog-eared verse he tottered off to find his bike. We were happily surprised to see that his balance had not been affected by the copious amounts of liquor that had emboldened his stage performance - and he rode a straight line into the distance.



There were dogs in the palazzo and elephants in the sitting room. The dogs were real, the elephants were painted on the wall. I don't know which we found more amusing. One never really tires of the Italian love affair with dogs and their need to take them everywhere.



We had taken the bus to and from Sabionetta and while it was damn hot on the bus we were very lucky with our timing. We were also very lucky that before leaving Mantova that morning Stefano had checked in at the station to be sure we had the right bus info. We didn't.

Seems that the tourist info office in Mantova is a a bit confused while the woman at the bus/train station is not. If you go to Mantova, trust her. If the bus comes early she'll also run out of the station yelling at the bus driver to wait for the people she'd talked to earlier. And while we're convinced the bus driver couldn't have cared less, the effort of the woman was well beyond our Italian customer service expectations. And when I say "well beyond" I mean that she should get some sort of national service award. Because Italians just don't care that much.

Unless you're talking about dogs. Then they care a lot.

members only

We were surprised to find out that Mantova has canals. We hadn't noticed them the last time. Then again, last time we were only passing through on a day trip instead of staying the weekend. This time we had the chance to see more, eat more, and explore more. And kill more mosquitoes in one hotel room than one would think possible.

As they most often do, our formidable discoveries involved food. Food that you've never had; foods you didn't know existed; and foods you really shouldn't be eating in the first place. No, really. We shouldn't have been in the private workers club eating lunch. They told us so, but then let us in anyway.



Apparently, the club could have been fined several thousand euro for allowing non-members to enjoy their delicious lunch. We certainly stood out when we walked into a dining room that until our conspicuous entry had been populated by what were clearly workers on their lunch break. Grown men sitting at tables, eating and not really talking. Looking up to stare at the strangers.

Eventually conversation took hold and the dining room got noisy; women and desserts joined the tables; café was ordered. We had a great meal in a place we hadn't expected. It's a fresh sensation to be somewhere and know for a fact that you're the only strangers. That you are the fly in their honey. And that they welcome you anyway.

One of Mantova's specialties, among many, is mostarda. Mostarda is a syrupy chutney-like sauce comprised of mustard-infused candied fruit. It's the perfect accompaniment to strong cheeses and boiled meats. And one of the unique features of Mantovan mostarda is that theirs is generally made with one type of fruit rather than the standard mixed variety. Thus, an apple variety, a squash version, a cherry one and so on.



We came to a small salumeria owned by a man named Giovanni who told us that his whole life has been lived in a salumeria. His commitment is obvious in his shop. The walls are lined with large containers of mostarda of every variety, salami hang in the window and cheese is laid out en masse. The mostarda is the real highlight - a spicy apple variety being the perfect highlight to a nice strong cheese. Especially when it's served by Giovanni himself on a sheet of wax paper with a toothpick to keep it all together.



But back to the things some of us won't eat. And some of us will. Horse. I won't name names but certain people in our party were very happy with their traditional Mantovan cuisine featuring horse. Others of us, adventurous enough to dare more than one spoonful of the restaurant's searing hot mostarda, did not indulge. Regardless, the restaurant itself and our seats outside among Italian families and friends, gave us all a great Saturday night.

The walk back to the hotel after dinner was a late spring treat - thick jasmine clouds hung over the sidewalk and bicycles whizzed here and there. Families rode to gelaterias filled with what must have been half of the town, spilling out on to the streets, eating their cones in a jumbled group. I held hands with my dinner date - and it wasn't Stefano. He was busy talking with our favorite Texan.



Mantova is a really great place. The food is excellent, the people are nice, and the bicycles never stop riding by. I could live there. Really. But I don't think I'm budging on the horse issue. I'll stick to private clubs and mostarda for my Mantovan thrills.

still waters

Lago Iseo seems a quiet lake in comparison to the others we've visited. It lacks the famous name of Como and the Roman ruins of Garda. What is does offer is what the locals profess to be the largest inhabited lake island in all of Europe, Monte Isola. An island where rowboats are tied in quietly undulating rows along the shore's edge. Where dusty groups of motor scooters await their long gone riders. And the creeping fragrance of rose bushes gives away their hiding places down secret paths.

This island has none of the postcard bric-a-bric ruckus that seems to overrun otherwise beautiful places like Bellagio and Como. Instead, it's a modest showcase of quiet buildings and crooked paths, balconies with laundry drying and plants blossoming. With olive trees to spare.



On the small island you'll eventually look up and notice Monte Isola's small bell tower. At that point you're ready to find yourself a path to it. Just wander the thin streets suffocated by quiet buildings until you get there. The walk to the church is a bit up and a bit down. Around a corner and back around. There'll be doors left open and if you peek inside you'll see lunches being had at thick wooden tables. You'll see old water bottles set on stoops in what we imagine is a simple yet brilliant code for bottled water delivery.



You'll quickly reach a small church with a small garden. And you'll probably be the only people in the silent church. When we entered the only sermon being delivered was that of a humming housefly that refused to sit still.

While we were walking back down to the ferry landing, a sun shower spilt from above. But by the time the ferry whisked us away, the weather had cleared and we were headed back to Iseo for the perfect lakeside lunch. Panini and salads and an exceptional view. Plus another sun shower to boot.



Monte Isola was nice because it was quiet and a bit crooked. It's personality hadn't been burnished by tourism's steady flow. Iseo is the kind of place where waiting at the train station coffee bar you'll find yourself sitting on plastic lawn furniture, watching old guys come and go, and an old Madonna song will come over the radio. And you'll remember that you're in a place far from home. And you'll like it.

poppies and st. patrick

Maybe this situation sounds familiar... You're visiting a great little hill town in Umbria, a town which is known around the world for the marvelous façade of it's Duomo. The aforementioned Duomo dominates a grand open space, rising above a piazza edged with cafes and pottery shops. The façade itself is ornate and fills three+ stories with religious anecdote and narrative. And then... there's the station wagon in front of the Duomo. Right - smack - in - front - of - the - Duomo. Of all the open space in the piazza, let alone the open space in town... this station wagon (not a petite Smart Car, mind you) had to choose to park itself right in front of the world-class façade.

Not that we can blame the car. We know it had a driver because when we posed Stefano in front of the car for a photo - which was delightfully perfect in its absurdity - the driver slunk down into the seat to hide. So while we have no photographic i.d. of the driver we do have a really picturesque shot of their car parked right in front of the Duomo - and heaps of open space in every direction. Hill town magic!



Orvieto is a great town for short explorations on rainy days. An excellent mini-adventure is going down into the Well of Saint Patrick. Spiraling deep into the rock on which the town is perched, this 62 meter deep well is an engineering marvel. There are actually two twin sets of spiraling stairs in the well, ingeniously designed so that the donkeys going down the stairs to pick up water at the bottom of the well never passed the donkeys coming back out of the well with the water. Such problem-solving from the 16th century! Concerns today are more often centered around not getting hit in the head with a coin chucked by good-luck wishers higher up in the well. There was also a surprisingly angry dog in a car along the road back to our B&B but he was thankfully stopped by a well-closed window.



On Saturday morning you can go to Orvieto's market and watch aged farmers fight with aged shoppers over the value of coins that neither can really see. At the same market you can talk about the current state of affairs in bee health with a man who sits in the back of his van reading a book waiting for his small jars of honey to sell themselves. There are giant roasted pigs displayed nearly whole and freshly carved at your request - si chiama porchetta. Orvieto's market has all the makings of a decadent picnic - you simply need to go around collecting cheese and salami, prosciutto and crisp pears... And packing it all up for a bus ride to an even smaller town perched on an even smaller wedge of rock.



The bus ride to Civita is long enough to roll past fields sprinkled with scarlet poppies and cross paths lined with wind blown cypress trees. And there's more than enough winding to induce nausea and a general appreciation for the undulating drama of hilly areas.

To reach Civita after your bus ride you first must walk through Bagnoregno, a small town that although small seems giant in comparison to Civita which is reached by bridge from Bagnoregno. The bridge gets very steep as you reach the small island of a town and while you're trudging up that final incline you can easily understand why the townspeople have slowly been moving to other, more easily accessible, places to live.

Civita is known as the "dying town" which is sad but somewhat applicable. It's very quiet and empty and the reason to go to Civita is to climb the steep bridge, spend a few moments in this unique place, and to have yourself a picnic along the piazza. Also, if you've been in Orvieto for any period of time you will be sure to see the very same folks wandering around Civita. A Dutch couple with whom we shared a dining room on Friday, was the same couple with whom we shared the bridge to Civita on Saturday. These are small places - small spaces - and that may have something to do with our premature departure from Orvieto.



Not to go into details but we're apparently no good at relaxing. No good at watching old John Belushi movies dubbed into Italian in a rather large and charming Bed & Breakfast five hours from urban Milan. How do we know it's five hours from Milan? Because after we decided on the spur of the moment that we'd done about all we could do in Orvieto we managed to catch a train to Milan with three minutes to spare. This is after packing up at turbo speed, running down to the Funicular, catching the Funicular, changing our train tickets, and catching that train.

We both really enjoyed Orvieto and Civita - and Orvieto boasts some excellent food. In a way we were sorry to go. But I think we were sorrier that we hadn't rented a car. Because all of those beautiful hills, and villas, and fields full of poppies, would have been perfect for exploring with a well-tooled Smart Car. Just please leave the station wagon at home.