where the bikes are

On Saturday we ventured back into what is quickly becoming one of our very favorite regions of Italy: Emilia Romagna. It took about two and a half hours to get to Ferrara from Milan and once we were there the time flew by as fast as the bicycles.

And bicycles are, in fact, one of the great parts of this region. Because it's so flat and because traffic has been restricted to control pollution in this historic UNESCO World Heritage Site, the residents find that a bicycle can be their best friend.

The only time of day when the city center isn't teeming with cyclists is during the lunchtime hour. And then the city isn't teeming with anyone. Let me warn you now, Ferrara seems to like its lunch breaks long. Most stores were closed from 12:30 to 4:00pm which is a languid lunch even by Italian standards.



Before lunch we stopped in a bike repair shop and spoke to the owner at length. Surrounded by tangled rounds of inner tube and thin silvery spokes, he informed us that Ferrara is second only to Amsterdam in the number of bicycles filling the city. I don't know if you've been to Amsterdam but I have and I can tell you it's a pretty big place with lots of room for bikes. Ferrara, however ... not so big. And it shows. You can't take a step in any direction without running into something bicycle-related.



And it's glorious. You've never seen so many beautiful old bikes. So many old people on bikes. Signs saying "don't park your bike here," and people parked against their bikes.



And once you start eating in Ferrara - which for us happened nearly immediately - you realize it's a good thing so many people are pedaling around all day. The food is amazing but it's not what one might term "light." At lunch, the restaurant owner, in acknowledgement of the fact that heaving plates of mashed potatoes covered in traditional stew might not be on order for a 95 degree day, offered to serve us an amended half portion. We accepted. It was, however, too late to change my full order of polenta with funghi -- oh, the perils of dining in Italy.



Aside from eating and biking there are some very pretty churches to see and also a late fourteenth century castle, surrounded by a moat, standing smack in the center of town. You can also visit Casa Romei, the home of a nobleman finished in mid-1400. As you walk through the two-storied structure with its frescoed walls and intricate wooden ceilings it's easy to forget this was all built well before Columbus set sail.

And speaking of travel, we were talking with the owner of the bike shop about his favorite places in Italy. He recommended his honeymoon destination, Umbria, saying that it was the most beautiful region of Italy he had ever seen. Other than that, he said, he didn't know where we should go. He had never been south of Rome.

We neglected to ask if that's because he only travels by bike.

quattro luglio

Fourth of July outside of the United States tends to leave you feeling a little less... something.

I don't know where to point the finger. The lack of colorful explosions punching across evening's inky blackness? The void left in late morning when there's no parade to cheer? And what about all of that red, white and blue? There's something delightfully Mayberry about everyone on the block waking up early to hang the flag out front in the breeze... These delicious chunks of Americana are only found in America.

Instead, we're back where parts of America began. Where many of our ancestors started and what they left behind when they came.

And in some special places... where they've returned.

The man who hosted our Fourth of July in the Dolomites went to the United States over fifty years ago at age fourteen. He went to school no more than a block from where my mother lived - and at the same time. He worked for a knife sharpener nights, weekends, and many years until he opened his own shop. And then, after becoming an American citizen and a successful business man, he returned to Italy where he continues to be both.

He also holds a Fourth of July party every year in a wonderful mountain town. There are many Americans there. And Australians. And the English. There is great food. Much toasting with homemade grappa. And many stories about America.

It's a special celebration in a special place. And it's strange. Because for every Fourth of July in America, for every parade I shook a small flag at, and for every fireworks display I stood below... I'd never felt quite as American as I felt on this Fourth of July.

That party in the mountains felt patriotic in a way that a parade never could. Because instead of walking down Main Street with a flag and the steady tip-tap of the high school band's snare drum, these people boarded slow-moving ships to cross the Atlantic and waited for the waves to push them towards their future.

When these people say "Happy Fourth of July," they mean it. And that sounds good when you're a long way from home.

Even without the parade.

hiking + eating

Cogne is nestled in a valley worthy of Heidi and her mountain-loving brethren. Think alpine meadow teeming with equal parts wild flowers and wild grasses. Big blue sky and snow-covered mountains. Folks sunbathing topless and thong-ed. Yep, the last one stood out for us too. But I assure you, certain members of our party were not complaining. In fact, this person's pace noticeably slowed to better take in the view.

The hiking paths within easy reach of Cogne (and well past the scantily clad sun seekers) are nothing short of magnificent. They are the shockingly beautiful scenes that taunt you from tourist brochures and nature magazines. This area is part of the Gran Paradiso National Park - a park that is well-loved by Italians. We didn't run into any Americans although promptly upon our return to Milan we found out that a highschool friend was in the Park at the very same time, hiking her way through her honeymoon.



You might know Stefano and I like to hike as well and we recently purchased one hiking pole each. While not considering ourselves expert hikers we might go so far as consider ourselves somewhat physically fit. So why, you might ask, would we need hiking poles?

"Need" is a strong word but after enough times passing pole-possessing hikers looking like king/queen of the world - while feeling pretty exhausted yourself - you too might turn to these magical tools. (The same logic does not apply to the black socks + sandles combo nor the scarily popular plaid hiking pants.)

I think the overall vote on the poles was a hearty thumbs up. I don't know what nature thinks of us sticking poles into it every two feet but we sure felt like it gave us more support along the way.



However, there isn't enough support in the world to make our first hike easy. Stefano calculated the elevation change and found that we hiked 3500 feet up in under three hours. That's like climbing more than two Sears Towers without the benefit of stairs. Then turn around and go back down. You will quickly learn that gravity is not your friend.

The gleaming light in the middle of our hike was the refuge where we had our lunch. This was the first refuge we've ever been to; a refuge being a lodge in the middle of nowhere, reached only by foot, that is filled with beautiful hearty plates of food.

I'd like to now make the grand and sweeping statement that the best hikes in the world are followed by the best food - and that this is one of the most satisfying pairings that can be found on our planet. If somehow I'm the first person to mention this, it's only because everyone else is too busy hiking and eating.



Our perfect convergence of hiking and eating took place at the Rifugio Vittorio Sella. This refuge has been there at 2584 meters since 1860 and when it finally came into our view, it was as if the sad and lonely island castaway suddenly saw a cruise ship coming right for him. We couldn't have been any happier.

Inside the refuge on the wood-paneled walls were framed posters identifying poisonous mushrooms and technicolor wildflowers. Families and couples took their places at the thick wooden benches and tables. It seemed hot and steamy inside at first - we realized later this was only because we were sweating so much from our hike.



Once the food was put in front of us, we were transported into a magical and delicious place. I had something called soup but it really was a luxurious combination of cheese and bread and butter... in a soup bowl. Stefano had a steaming bowl of minestrone that was thick and hearty but yielded easily to a spoon.

For our second course we each had mountains of soft polenta topped with rich saucy stews -- porcini mushroom for me and a local beef variety for Stefano. And to finish, a sweet cakey blueberry torte. The icing on the cake? A bird clock nearly identical to those of various family members back in the US which occasionally broke into mechanical song during our meal.



I cannot over emphasize how welcome this meal was. After climbing what felt like straight-up for three hours we had the opportunity to stop in the middle of it all, and eat something so good - surrounded by scenery so pretty - that there was no doubt it had all been quite worth it. When we left, after having cooled down during our meal, we realized how very high we actually were - it was freezing outside. Although that didn't stop big lumpy marmots from goofing around nearby.

The walk back down was just as difficult as the walk up although there was the added fear of succumbing to gravity and exploring the scenery far more closely than one might otherwise prefer. We did take a breather to lay on a shady rock and watch a glider circle above, drafting on air currents with an early moon hanging in the background.



Our second hike was supposed to be easier than the first as it started with a cable car ride up a mountain, instead of a climb. The hike turned out to be suprisingly challenging yet there were at least three children with us in the cable car on the way up. While discussing our aches and pains along the path we realized these young kids must be doing the same path. (Note: not only are Italians magically immune to sunburn and mosquitoes, but apparently their children are super heroes as well.)

On this path it seemed we only went up, or along thin steep ridges. And when we went down it was either along stretches that were so steep that some of us (me) went down on our rear ends - all the while trying not to think of the fearless kids who would be scampering past shortly. I won't even go into our "hikes" down the ski slopes. (Who knew a wide swath of steep land - perfect for zipping down on skis and gathering momentum - would be a great place for scenic walking?)



We did have an excellent picnic on a slide of rocks that had come to a standstill long ago. The view was stunning and the lardo was herbed. Oh yes, herbed lardo is a local specialty and it's scarily marvelous. We had long thin slices of lardo curled on fresh ciabatta rolls and ate spiced olives, salami, and hunks of Toma cheese. All were acquired in the local delis in Cogne and at a very reasonable price. Hell, when we got back down into town we even had a few crème puffs as well.



Like I said, hiking and food are made for each other. Especially when the food is this good and the scenery this stunning. Every angle of the Alps is different, and every town has its charm. And often, these places are even more charming from the likes of 3600 feet up -- especially after a steaming bowl of cheese, bread and butter.

back to basics

Reggio Emilia is a normal place. It's Italy basic. Old men wash their faces in fountains while their wives wait. Churches are under renovation. Lunch starts with a plate of salume.

There were more bicycles than cars. And a lot of old men killing time in the piazza. Nothing crazy. Nothing wild. Just Italia passing by.



We did get to see a three year old inhale an entire plate of salume, and then move on to a bowl (larger than her head) of tortelli and broth. In a country that markets cellulite crème to its teens her appetite was refreshing.

We were also impressed by a group of family members who came into the restaurant, each one more bronzed than the next. Nothing belts out, "We're a happy family!" like skin the color of tangerines.



There were very few tourists in town. In fact, I don't think there were any. Except for us. And at this point I don't think we count.

We're just folks who like to see where the train can take you. And what you can eat once you're there.

it grows on you

Ok, so maybe Genova isn't so bad after all. It seems to depend on where you walk around. Simple, I know. But should you decide to waltz down, say, a glorified alleyway teeming with ne'er-do-wells and hoodlums on your way to the train station in the already claustrophobic heat of August... you might come away with the impression that Genova is for the toughest among us and that maybe you should have picked up some survival tips from the sharks in the city's famed aquarium. And you might later, in the safety of your own home, describe the atmosphere with a phrase along these lines: we were worried that if we screamed for help, it would only summon more ne'er-do-wells to the scene.

Yes, I've told this to people. And yes, I'm sorry. But in my defense, I also told them that the aquarium warranted a visit regardless.

Little did we know that Genova is not only made up of its historic quarter. It's also a great people town that feels real and work-a-day. It's got laundry drying out of windows. Markets crammed with kids and dogs and fish. And fruit and cheese and vegetables. And small crumpled old ladies selling wilted flowers in bunches on the corner.

Heavy rounds of bread studded with dried fruit. Focaccia in the hand of every passerby - wrapped in paper and eaten on the go. And no one looking like they're about to raise themselves from the door jamb that they're laying in to clobber you over the head. Who knew Genova could be so carefree?



Genova is all about the food and we ate like we were starved. Starting with giant sweet cherries and peaches from the market - so ripe that the perfume of the peaches wafted out of our backpack and teased us all afternoon. There was lunch in a casalinga (homestyle) place that while recently written-up in the New York Times still hadn't washed its walls or hands. The menus were handwritten, taped-together sheets of paper and the tablecloths were red and white check - to match the honeydew green walls. There was cold minestrone (we ordered it that way) and sardines both stuffed and fried. We left full. Maybe that was also because of the focaccia we had delved into earlier - with pesto and spinach. Or the amaretti cookies from the candy shop? It was hard to keep track, and too easy to keep eating.



There's a Genova suburb - Nervi - that you can reach easily by bus. Stepping off the bus you'd think you were in Miami, Florida. The streets are lined with villas hidden more by their palm trees than their elaborate gates and thick blankets of humidity rise from the lush vegetation. And there's another similarity - the Wolfsonian Museum with its sister site in Miami. Born of Mitchell Wolfson's design collection both museums are brief larks into the best design of the early 1900's. Wolfson had quite an eye and the collections value shape, line, color... And they're perfect for an afternoon away from the masses. If - and here I should capitalize the word "if" - IF you can find the place. We took a long unintended detour sponsored by Italy's vague signage and arrived at the museum sweated-through and ready for some air conditioning.



Thankfully the AC was cranking - maybe that's what kept the Italians away - and we had the museum to ourselves. We spent the most time in front of a fully-furnished child's room that had been decorated by a famed Italian illustrator. It was surreal and wicked in a way that children would find amusing but that I find somewhat scary. Pigs holding knives in their stumpy feet and eating cake at a crooked kitchen table doesn't make my dreams any sweeter, let me tell you. But apparently, kids love that kind of stuff.

We also spent some time in front of a lumpy wax blob that was apparently a sculpture of Mr. Wolfson. We were sincerely trying to figure out what we were missing. That was until one of the employees came by and told us that while this was in no way the official opinion of the museum, he felt we should know that there were far better pieces in the collection than the mess before which we were currently standing.

Thank you for that bit of honesty sir. And I take back what I thought of your city. Every bit of it. Although, I'm still not going over to the other side of town after dark. On second thought, not in mid-day either. But there's sure a nice aquarium over there.

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.