not open = closed

So what if it's six months too late... So what if it's June.. We finally found some snow! It started out as rain but by the time we went to sleep on Friday night in Zermatt, Switzerland it was snowing. And when we woke up on Saturday, there was a veritable winter wonderland splayed in front of our hotel room window. The pine trees covering the mountains were coated in white and the not-so-subtle cemetery beneath our window was rendered a little less eerie by the addition of fresh snow. We couldn't have been happier about the snow. Although there was one small problem - a little something we like to call the Matterhorn.

We came to Zermatt to see the Matterhorn - that giant alpine mountain known the world over as much for its dramatic profile as for inspiring a DisneyLand ride. But with all of the snow and clouds and general wintry-ness, the Matterhorn was nowhere to be seen. Really. It just wasn't there.



Zermatt is a cutesy Swiss town populated by chalets and tourists, and chalets for tourists. There are also vast quantities of cowbells and Swiss Army knives to be purchased. Only three hours from Milan, Zermatt sits in a picturesque valley surrounded by snow-covered Alps, alpine meadows and a most excellent view of the Matterhorn. It is, in fact, hard to find a postcard of Zermatt without the Matterhorn featured prominently.



On Saturday, we tried to see the Matterhorn up close. For the price of a nice hotel room in most countries (and the price of a nice hotel room + all of the contents of the mini bar in many others) we rode three cable cars into the white abyss. Often the slowly-rising car would emerge from the clouds and we'd see fierce mountain ranges below. It more closely resembled the view from an airplane than from earth. In the end, we were something like 12,000 feet up above Switzerland. My impressions at that altitude? White, white, and more white. And freezing.



It was so snowy at the top that the observation deck was partially closed. It had snowed so much the night before that they couldn't remove it all, and it didn't help that the snow blower was broken. We know the snow blower was broken because we saw it laying on its side in the snow as a man struggled to fix it. It was cold and pitiful... but then we took some photos with the snowblower. And the man fixing it. So then it was still cold but a touch more enjoyable.



Unfortunately, the glacier palace (which is touted as a highlight of the cable car adventure) was closed due to snow blocking the entrance. So, instead of seeing the Matterhorn, or the glacier palace, we took more photos in the complete whiteout. And when we finally came down from the mountain I stopped at the ticket booth to ask why no one had told us that the glacier palace was closed. The ticket agent told me, in all earnestness, that "when it is not open, it is closed." In one moment, Switzerland's reputation for precision and detail went out the snowy window.

We spent the rest of Saturday hiking and hunting the Matterhorn -- of which we finally caught a glimpse. We could see the tip - which was much higher up in the sky than we'd expected. Again, it's really hard to picture how gigantic the Matterhorn is until it's there in front of you. And here let me quote my favorite Swiss ticket agent: if it is not open, it is closed. And up until that point the Matterhorn was definitely closed.



Down in Zermatt most of the snow had melted by afternoon and our hike was gorgeous. We swept past alpine meadows thick with wildflowers. Waterfalls were streaming down the mountains. Disturbingly large snails crawled in the vegetation along the path and marmots took note of the coming dusk. There were deer skittering across the path, and soppy puddles to straddle. Some of us hadn't brought our hiking boots. And some of us also got sunburned. Ok, it was just me who didn't bring my hiking boots and then got sunburned. But I would like to note that I did remember the M&Ms and crackers.



Speaking of fine cuisine I should note that Switzerland makes a mean Raclette - which is basically vegetables served with melted cheese. While I don't question the savory combination of pickles and melted gruyere I do wonder how the Swiss can be such active hikers if they're eating melted cheese and pickles every night before bed. A worse state of affairs can be found in Swiss coffee. Apparently, Italians have long held the opinion that their neighbors to the north know nothing about coffee. And for once, I'll have to side with the Italians. Swiss coffee is nothing if not terrible. I have no idea how to make a great cappucino but if you'd like to have the opposite, order one in a Swiss hotel.

Our Sunday began by heading outside to see if the Matterhorn had decided to show itself. We joined hordes of other tourists waiting for a miracle. Most people gave up within a few minutes and took a picture with the clouds obscuring most of the famous peak, but we waited. And waited.



It wasn't until we were deep into our Sunday hike that the Matterhorn came blaring out of the clouds. And what an entrance... To have stared at a largely blank space in the horizon, with small cracks and hints at what was really there... And then to have the whole peak rising before you. It made you feel like a fool for ever having thought the average-sized peak nearby could have been the Matterhorn.

Our hike was picture-perfect. It had the kind of views you see in travel magazines - rolling green alpine meadows with white snow and flowers. Mountains everywhere. Small barns with stone slab roofs. Actual cows with cowbells. Sheep with cowbells. It was sunny and crisp and we just kept walking and wondering why we don't come to Switzerland more often.



There is something to be said about the cost of anything and everything in Switzerland. It's shockingly expensive for no identifiable reason. But we paid. Everyone pays. There's not much you can do. I guess when you have the Alps in your backyard you kind of have a monopoly on the Alps.

Unless they're closed. Because as we know from experience, if the Alps are not open, they are closed. At any price.

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.

all weekends lead to rome

I have a hunch that you could live in Rome for years and years and never quite see everything. I also bet that Rome never really feels wander-able; that it's a difficult place for whims and flights of fancy. That when a city is consistently packed with tourists, as Rome is, it demands a certain amount of focus and planning. Otherwise you'll simply be swept away... by the crowds, by the sights, by the unrelenting sun and equally unrelenting stampede of history.

Rome is a crazed Disney Land of sights to which a million little umbrella sticks topped with scarves march daily. These umbrella sticks (minus the umbrella) are the batons of the tour guides, leading legions of tourists in every direction, filling every crack and every corner. You rarely hear Italian spoken, you're more likely to hear English; and Spanish (with a heavy Catalan accent) was the second most popular language on our weekend. We're used to Milan where if you hear English on the street, your head spins to find the source. In Rome, it's the Italian that's fleeting.



But the sights... how to describe their ubiquitous presence? The well-worn phrase, "an embarrassment of riches" doesn't do this city justice. Everywhere is SOMEwhere. Everything is SOMEthing. And it's all so much older than anything we as Americans have regular contact with. It's hard to put it in perspective. It's hard to picture the Romans filling the Colloseum all the way to the rafters and screaming at the bloodied gladiators on the floor below. But they did. It's hard to imagine the Pantheon - standing in the exact same place, with the same forceful lift to its structure - in its heyday, in oh...well... 125 AD! How do you begin to wrap your mind around that?

The only comment card suggestion we could make to Rome would be the addition of a touch more shade. A few more shadows in which to cower when the afternoon sun is beating down. But other than that small favor - which is just a petty thing really, more of a luxury than a necessity - what can you add to a city that has been added to for centuries?



We ate exceptionally well at our favorite Roman restaurant and whenever we did a "buddy check" (a little something we picked up from the tour guides and their herds of followers) we came up even. Our hotel was in the process of renovating (yes, literally in the process - it was a construction site where the cleaning ladies were caught in a Sisyphusian battle to take away the accumulating dust and debris) and so had gloriously high-powered air conditioning and new furniture. Stefano secured us tickets to the Vatican Museum and swept us into the Colosseum with barely a line to be had. We explored basilicas and ruins, found fountains and friends, and kept on the trail of Pope Pius IX. It was a glorious weekend made even more so by our traveling companions.

There's nothing like a weekend in Rome to reset your understanding of the world's timeline... and remind you to make the most of your own.

faces in the crowd

If you've ever been in Milan over Easter weekend you know that it empties out like an upturned espresso. The streets are quiet. The stores are closed. Restaurants hang up signs with messages along the lines of "be back later." We stayed here last year and in our lonely wanderings muttered more than once, where'd everyone go? And wherever it was, it became abundantly clear that the next time around we should follow their example.

So, this year, we came up with an answer... the locals go to the lakes. How do we know they go to the lakes? Because we went there and ran into what seemed like half of Italy.

We spent Sunday on Lake Como and Monday on Lake Garda and felt spoiled rotten. Italy's lake region is amazingly pretty and when you're gifted with glorious spring weather it's hard to go wrong. And Milan, which has a reputation for being a bit grey and business-like, makes up for its everyday hum-drum by being within a mere hour or so from most of the lakes.



You just hop on a train in Milan and the next thing you know you're staring at gorgeous waters ringed by mountains, palm trees, and villas. (Ok, before you get to the lakes you have to deal with the train which is always a mild adventure. For example, see the above couple. Yes, they were like this the whole way. And no, I'm not exaggerating. The really romantic thing is, the way the trains are set-up each section is comprised of four seats, two sets of two facing each other. So picture the two people sitting across from these lovebirds. At least we were across the aisle!)

The other thing we saw for a nanosecond on our way to Lake Como on Easter Sunday was a field full of rabbits. Seriously. There was a field of semi-tall grasses filled with rabbits that were all sitting up, their ears raised. And I don't mean three rabbits. We're talking twenty rabbits minimum. Maybe twenty-five. It was surreal and creepy and the kind of thing that inspires recurring nightmares. If the train had been going any slower I'd have been worried. Like when we were on a bus in Peru and people at the side of the road started throwing rocks. But I digress.



Lake Como is probably the most famous of the lakes, perhaps because it happens to be the lake along which one Mr. Clooney lives. I haven't seen him or his villa but I've heard stories of the star joining pick-up basketball games in town. What town that is, I'm not sure. But we went to Varenna which is small and quiet and always boasts a healthy crop of sailboats. We've also become fans of having a cappucino and brioche in the piazza and happened to be sitting there as Easter Mass let out from the church at the piazza's edge. Families streamed into the cobble-stoned space as church bells sang and it was a far more pleasant reminder of the holiday than the strange field of rabbits we'd seen earlier.



We took the ferry from Varenna to Menaggio - a town we hadn't visited before. It was quaint and even promised some hiking opportunities. But after we'd made our way up a fairly steep path through town (passing a cat with no ears) and still hadn't arrived at the starting point of the hike, we decided it was best not to embark on that journey just yet. Instead we turned around and enjoyed the path going in the opposite direction - downhill.



After another ferry ride we poked around Bellagio. These ferries are great. They skate along the water, chased by a crisp breeze. Snow-capped mountains hang in the lakey distance and hills climb up out of the water. Lago di Como is a gorgeous place and so different from Milan. You can really understand why people would flock from one to the other - especially on a long weekend like this. (The Monday after Easter is called Pasquetta and is a holiday in Italy.)

For our Monday activities we again fled Milan and headed to one of Italy's lakes. Lake Garda is to the east of Milan and within about an hour and a half by train. We then took a ferry (this one a slow paddleboat version) to a small peninsula along the lake called Sirmione. It was packed - and I mean PACKED - with people. There were couples, and families, and groups of friends. Young people and old people and everyone in between. It was by no means a quiet and calming destination but it was beautiful.



Sirmione is a great place to spend the day. A place with flower pots on window sills and older folks leaning out of windows. It has a castle along the water with a moat. There are tall leafy palm trees and you can see mountains across the water on a clear day. The combination is strange and gorgeous.

The town's full of boutiques and restaurants and gelato shops - and if you look carefully you can find a little bar that will make you a great panino and wrap it in a napkin. Then take the panino and go to the shore. You can sit along the rock wall, and watch the lake lap at the beach, with the castle looming at your side. Just don't let the children throwing rocks at the ducks ruin your mood. And no, throwing rocks at the children won't make you feel better - although it may give the ducks a chance to get away. Still, don't do it.

The best part about a visit to Sirmione is the Roman ruins known as Grotte di Catullo. This gigantic villa, thought to have been constructed in the first century BC is crumbled and stunning, and occupies the entire tip of the Peninsula. You can walk the entire space of the peninsula, working your way higher and higher, with thick walls of rosemary edging the path. A vast spread of olive trees populates the flat top of the ruins, offering some of the only shade to be found.



The waters below are light blue and aqua, shallow with smooth rock patches here and there. It's a dramatic view and seeing it through the arches of a ruined Roman villa is stunning. You can't help but sigh and take great gulps of the lake air.

Milan this is not.



The only unpleasantry about Sirmione was having to leave Sirmione. And not only because it would be nice to stay there. The bigger problem was that all of us who were tooling around town had to leave town. And most of us were leaving at the same time. On the same ferry.



But since we were looking for the locals, finding them was part of the fun. (I'm not exaggerating when I say that the rabbits were far more menacing.)

torrone and towers in cremona...

Maybe I'm a terrible person. Maybe I don't know what I've got 'til it's gone. Or maybe it's that my single foray into musical instruments was a disaster (I ask you to envision fifth-grader + saxophone + Mary Had a Little Lamb.) But I have to admit... I am one of only two people in the world who've visited Cremona and not seen a Stradavarius.

On the subject I can say that I now know the violin master's name was Stradavari and that the word Stradavarius is an adjective; as in "created by a man named Stradavari." There are several places in his hometown of Cremona where you can spend time doting on his glorious violin creations. Or... and here's where I veer off of tourism's well-worn path... you can spend the musuem entry fees on torrone instead.



Torrone. That magical bar of nougat wrapped in rice paper and studded with almonds. It comes tenero (soft) or friabile (hard) and either way it's a lyrical combination of honey and crunch. And a challenge. If you know an easy way to eat a bar of torrone -- an easy way to bite off a chunk without losing a molar -- you let me know. Cremona claims the honor of being the birthplace of this little beauty and there are ample offerings around town, thus ample opportunity to gum a bar until you give up and just take a perilous bite.



A flower market had taken over the main piazza on Saturday and the open space at the foot of the Duomo was overflowing with buckets and crates of vivid flowers, with people wandering in and out of the bunches. There were wicker bicycle-baskets filled with tulips and dogs sniffing each other on the church steps. Grandparents led their grandchildren by the hand thorough the morning crowds.

After a pair of cappucinos at the busiest bar we could find it was 502 steps to the top of Europe's tallest bell tower. We both were happily surprised by the ease of the climb, especially Stefano who'd engaged in a vigorous bout of flag football only a few days before. The 502 steps breezed by, with the view growing incrementally smaller, until we reached the spiral staircases. First there was a stone spiral stairway which simply resulted in feeling as if we were going nowhere despite continuing to step up. Then came the metal spiral staircase rising to the absolute top level of the tower. It was something like eight or nine swirls above a stone floor... eight or nine swirls in a big open space going up, up, up. It wasn't my favorite thing to do in the world but it brought us to a heck-of-a view.



When we were back down on the ground - and let me tell you, spiral staircases are even less fun going down - we headed to the Baptistry and the Duomo. The Baptistry was surprisingly large, with light coming in from the ceiling as it does in the Pantheon. The Duomo was closing - who knew prayer pauses for lunch - but we did get to see enough to appreciate it. (And we'll let you in on a little secret - the vestaments and fabrics at the alter are only wrinkle-free because a dedicated individual rushes back from lunch to iron them. We saw this when we returned post-lunch for another view.)



Lunch in Cremona was nothing short of excellent. Truly. We went to Hosteria 700 (Piazza Gallina 1) and Stefano ordered what must be the finest plate of risotto in all the world. Truffle Cream Risotto with Smoked Goose Breast salami, simply stunning. The heady aroma of truffles was woven into the creamy risotto, with the savory smoke of goose salami giving a sharp jab to the velvet smooth. The antipasto we'd ordered (also at the behest of Stefano) was really different - a strong provolone accompanied by a gentle pumpkin marmalade. Pumpkin marmalade? Oh yes... Marvelous and bordering on sweet; perfect at the edge of a witty cheese like provolone. This restaurant was previously a villa and diners are peppered throughout three different dining rooms - each more charming than the next. Definitely two thumbs up. Although I do take issue with the fact that women order from menus with a pink ribbon and while men order from menus with a blue ribbon. The only other difference? Only the male version has the prices. Quaint, no?



We spent a small portion of our day eating pastries along the piazza while a little girl battled with a cone of gelato a few feet away. The softness of gelato doesn't seem to be as conducive to disaster as the American-style ice cream scoop - you rarely see a crying kid standing over a fallen scoop of gelato. More often than not the kids just keep smashing the gelato down with their face until there's none left or Mom/Dad interject with a mini plastic spoon in order to help.

Cremona is a nice place. It has nice pastries (albeit the ones I picked at random were for the most part soaked in liquor; could be a personal problem), nice torrone, nice flowers and nice towers.

I hear it has nice violins too. But don't ask me, I haven't seen them. And don't ask Stefano either. He's the only other person who's been to Cremona without visiting the violins. Such heathens we are.

clocks and clusone

Why do we love Clusone? Is it the frescoes? The clock? The mountains? Yes, yes and yes but... it's also the people. There's the restaurant owner who cracked open his front door to lean out and bellow a friend's name towards the clock tower. And the young man at the cheese shop who carefully wrapped each of our cheese chunks in wax paper and then gently transcribed the name of each cheese on its paper-wrapper. And the shopkeeper who gave us spoonfuls of the bitter honey that her husband had collected in Sardinia.

Clusone was everything our Italian small town guidebook predicted. It was quaint and charming, a hamlet lingering in the hills. With snow caps rising in the distance and air that's fresh and crisp. We arrived there by bus from Bergamo, our travel time from Milan totaling about 2 hours with train and bus rides added together. But Milan felt light years away.



We spent the morning shopping for fabulous foods (pastries, cheeses, bread) because we've learned that if you don't explore shops before the lunchtime closing you may not get to explore them at all. Saturdays after 1:00pm are far from ideal for shopping in this country. If you're lucky, a store might open again around 3:30 or 4pm when the owner returns from a splendid lunch taken casually over a period of several hours. And if you're not lucky, you'll be on your bus headed home wondering why you didn't get pastries when you had the chance.

When we finally made our way to lunch - in an empty but nevertheless homey trattoria - we were happy to take a break and sit down to a giant plate of meats and cheese. And lardo. Ever heard of it? Unfortunately, it's exactly what it sounds like. The white strips in the center of the photo, sprinkled delicately with salt and pepper, are basically thin strips of fat. While you might be thinking, "oh the horror!" I'd advise you to open your mind and take a bite. It's a fine flavor and quite good on a freshly grilled pieces of piadina. I vowed that when I came to Italy I wouldn't let food opportunities pass me by and so lardo has indeed entered my food vocabulary. And I give it a thumbs up... although maybe not a seal of approval from the American Heart Association or any group of physicians for that matter.



It was while eating lunch that fate fed us what was to be our afternoon. The owner, after telling us of his other restaurant on Lago d'Iseo went on to tell us that if the the world-famous clock in the piazza just outside of his restaurant was not covered with scaffolding, we might have had the opportunity for a tour with his friend - the man who winds the clock. But then, somehow, the next thing we knew he yelled out the front door and disappeared into the piazza. When he came back, minutes later, he was happy to announce that the tour was on.

There there was the small matter of the mayor swinging through for lunch and our introduction to him as the people from Chicago. When he left I told him it was a pleasure to meet him and that he had a nice city. Or maybe I said a nice country. You never really know with my Italian. Either way, I intended it as a compliment.

Our companion for the remainder of the afternoon arrived next. At the urging of the restaurant owner we followed our guide out of the restaurant and on towards the clock that his family has maintained for a century. He took us to see the inner workings of the clock with its swirling cogs and clicking gears. Allowed us to climb on its supports, angling ourselves out over the edge so that we could see the heavy balancing stones hovering above. Showed us photos of his father with the clock, and then actually proceeded to wind the clock - the same way he does every day. And has done for years.



This clock, by the way, is no ordinary clock. It's world-famous and apparently quite beautiful. We've never seen the full clock though. That's the small miracle. You see, it's currently undergoing renovation and is hidden behind scaffolding and netting. And when we'd arrived in the piazza that morning to find the clock covered, we'd been mildly heartbroken. It's true that after living in Italy for a year we're quite used to things we want to see either being under construction or renovation (ie Dante's Tomb, Milan's Duomo... the list goes on) but still... we'd wanted to see the clock.

It tells not only the time but the month, day, duration of night and day, signs of the zodiac, phases of the moon, and more. All with one hand. And all made in 1583. 1583! Anyone out there remember when the United States became a country? A good chunk of time after the creation of this clock.



So when we stood among the turning wheels of the clock, listening to the perfect metronome tick of the gears, we were thrilled and shocked. People will tell you that small towns are different, that the people there are different... And it seems they are. In Clusone they're so nice that they'll take you up to their clocks and let you stand there listening to the 500 year old tick. And then - and here's the real kicker - they'll take you out on the scaffolding to stand at eye level with the clock face.



We climbed out a small window - you can see it to the right of the clock face in the above photo I found on an Italian website. See the rounded window to the side? We climbed out of that and onto the scaffolding. And there was the clock. And there we were... out on the scaffolding, with the clock keeper, in front of an ancient clock, in Clusone. How lucky can you get?



After our tour of the clock was over, and we'd heard its chimes and the preceding quickening of the gears, our guide took us on a tour of the rest of the town which included visits to locked churches and hello's to all of his neighbors along the way. A friend of his let us into a couple of closed churches and turned on the lights so that we could see the frescoes and art. Is there a grander tour than that?

Clusone is also known for two very famous fifteenth-century frescoes upliftingly titled "The Triumph of Death" and "The Dance of Death." As you might guess, there are skeletons involved. The colors in these frescoes are shockingly vivid and the imagery dramatic. These scenes look out over a pebbled piazza, surrounded by churches and mountains. On our Saturday the air was crisp and rain was coming, a certain grayness was pouring into town - and there we were. With our new friend and his friend and a small town full of their neighbors.



Our guide wanted us to see the town museum before we left on our bus but as it didn't open until 3:30pm (as I mentioned lunchtime is no joke in Italy) we stopped in a bar for coffee. He must have seen 3 neighbors on the way, and said hello to them all by name. He'd already told us that he considered this the most special part of a small town like Clusone, that you actually know your neighbors and are not just strangers on the street. After our coffee, we waited for the lady with the keys to arrive at the Museum, the town's clock watcher consulting his own watch several times and wondering why she was so late...

But can you really be late in Clusone when the town clock is covered and the clock-keeper's out for a walk with some folks from Chicago?