aria fresca

Who knew giant gulps of fresh air and lake breeze were so close? And that the Italian sky could be so big and blue over a simple lake? Ah, if only we had known that August does not affect the wonder of places like this, and that places like this are only an hour away from Milan. Oh August - things could have been so different between us....

Yesterday we took the train to Varenna on Lake Como (Lago Como). The train ride was so brief that there was hardly time to nap before we had reached our destination and were walking down to the lake.

Lago Como is a gorgeous swath of water and for those of you used to Lake Michigan this is something wholly different. In fact, I think Como would be promptly refused entry in the "Great Lakes" region for being simply too quaint and charming. Whereas Lake Michigan is a conquering sort of lake that leaves no trace of land on the other side, Como is a lake that is happy to feature picturesque views of everything on the other side... colorful towns, rising hills and blue skies all around.



Varenna is on the east side of the lake and is a small, quiet place with a castle sitting in the hills. After a coffee and pastries in the company of locals reading the newspaper and tugging at their stubborn dogs, we headed up into the hills to find the castle. It wasn't hard to find, it was just hard to reach. There was something about the low-lying humidity that turned us both into sweaty examples of the human body's attempt to cool itself - with little success. But after a steep hike we arrived at the castle.

It was a small castle but a fun one. There were hawks and an owl who lived on the grounds and in one of the castle's towers there was a collection of the heavy protective garb a knight might wear into battle. I can happily say that metal helmets and swords aren't just for teenage boys anymore. Both Stefano and I look fetching in metal - especially when the helmet won't stay on straight and covers up half your face.



The castle also boasts a spectacular view of the lake. If you're comfortable with climbing rickety stairs with no visible means of support than hop on up to the top of the tower and check out its panoramic view. It's all blue sky and blue waters, and basically gorgeous. And the stairs are even more fun on the way down.

There's a small part of town near the castle and we found a restaurant down one of the tiny streets. (Note to management: thanks for the signs.) We sat down to the tunes of Italian dance music and before we knew it the place was packed. Our food was delicious - Stefano had buckwheat deer ravioli with a butter sauce, I had porcini mushroom gnocchi and we shared a caprese salad to start. Sitting there with the cool breeze flying past and Italian hits pouring from the radio, we were very happy. Not just to be sitting down, but to be sitting there, in the company of small stone buildings and balconies with buckets of flowers pouring over their edges.



When we made it back down the path - which is harder than it sounds - we caught the ferry to Bellagio. The ferry was fun, took about 15 minutes, and took us to another world. Bellagio is the crazy cousin of Varenna. It's much bigger and packed with tourists, with the requisite places to window shop and shop for real; case in point being Stefano's new tie.

In Bellagio we found swans, the world's worst cupcake, and possibly a French rockstar. The swans just hang out along the shore. The cupcake was procured at a bakery and was just so sad and dry - I wanted to like it but even though I ate it (yes, of course I ate it) I have to say I've never had a more disappointing cupcake experience. And the French rockstar... Well he got off a water taxi walking and talking like a French rockstar and his five year old was wearing a Led Zeppelin t-shirt.

There was also an interesting vignette wherein three over-fashioned young males took turns posing provocatively along the shore, with each taking a turn as photographer. Shots included "young male in white pants perched on boat docking mechanism," "young male in pink polo with collar up lounging next to beached dinghy," and "young male with spiked hair mercilessly harangued until agreeing to pose awkwardly at end of small pier."



I should also mention that an older gentleman joined us on our bench at the water's edge - prime real estate as it was in the shade - and in a series of minute and virtually unnoticeable movements proceeded to take full ownership of the right portion of the bench. It was well done on his part, and he is obviously a master at the art of bench appropriating. We're mere amateurs and so moved further left to accommodate him. We'd lost before the battle even began.

We eventually gave up our place in the shade to duke it out with an international crew of tourists who wanted to get on the ferry asap and nothing was going to slow them down. We took it all in stride and enjoyed the view, the air, and the idea that we can come back.

water water everywhere

Genova (aka Genoa) is a port town that at times feels 100% the port town that it is. There's that certain transient feel in the air. You can buy anything and everything down skinny skittish alleyways. And there's a heck of a lot of neon.

But there's also an aquarium. A very large aquarium - in fact, the largest in Europe. And at 14 euro a ticket I would go so far as to say it's a bargain. We spent almost three hours in the place, and the only real complaint I had was that visitors are forced to walk through two gift stores in the process of visiting the museum. Which isn't as bad as Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago where for a while, and maybe still, the koala lived in the gift store. So if you wanted to see the koala (and who doesn't) you had to go visit him in his charmingly comfortable and homey place of residence - the gift shop. Oh, and at the Aquarium when you enter you're forced to take a photo with a giant seal, a la the Mickey Mouse characters at Disney World but a lot more matted down.

The Aquarium is gigantic and multi-leveled with too many exhibits to count. You do have to suffer the pushing and shoving of toddlers who want to get close to the glass and bang out a hello to the fishies, but it's definitely worth it. There are a ton of tropical fish, jelly fish, dolphins, sharks, penguins, snakes, sting rays and... Like I said, too many creatures to count.



A lot of the exhibits feature multiple species and deeper into the aquarium they're what you would call "experiential." The area is designed as a ship that's set sail on the waters of the world, exploring different waterways and discovering which animals live where. The walk space is designed to feel like a ship on the water and you look over the sides to see the creatures below. Eventually you're moving through a mock jungle area, having landed your sea exploration, replete with vegetation scaling the walls. At this point your path is winding its way to the lower floor where you are then on equal footing with the tanks and the creatures within.

There are sea turtles and sea horses, sea anemones and clown fish. And sting rays that you can touch. Some of the rays would actually lift themselves up out of the water and undulate creepily. It's charming and beautiful when they're swaying and swooping through the water but it feels a little spookier when they're actually raising themselves out of the water and wiggling in the air.



I'll also add that the Aquarium is a great place to learn Italian. There are a lot of Italian parents speaking very slowly and sweetly to their Italian children, in Italian. And as an adult learning a new language, it doesn't get any easier than soaking in the Italian lessons that other adults are giving to their children. "Look at the big fishie," is a useful phrase for anyone -- just think, if you're running around a museum and want to impress your friends you need only replace one word to arrive at the sentence "Look at the big Picasso." Perfect for a viewing of Guernica.

There was actually a fish at the Aquarium that I have never seen before. Ever. And I'm a person who has visited a lot of zoos and aquariums, and doesn't mind reading a National Geographic every now and then. But I had never seen this fish before. Check the next posting to see if you have.

And check out Genova if you're looking for Italy raw. Maybe it's a function of August and all of wholesome Genova is on vacation. Or maybe not. Either way, Genova has a spirit all its own - just be sure you don't encounter it in a dark passageway after dark.

the fish I've never seen

This fish is the "Pesce Luna" (Moonfish) in Italian and the "Ocean Sunfish" in English. And I have never seen it before.

I go to zoos. I go to aquariums. And wait a minute, I actually worked in a zoo. I think I have a fair grasp of what's out there. But I guess I'm not as animal-wise as I thought, because Mr. Sunfish here was like a punch in the gut.

When was the last time you saw something you didn't know existed? For me, seeing this fish was like finding out a secret that a friend had held so well, for so long, that when she finally revealed it your reaction was an uncontrollable ghasp. This fish felt like that.

The Italians at the museum seemed far more enamored with the sharks that shared the tank with the sunfish. (The sharks, mind you, that were smaller than the sunfish!) I respect a shark as much as the next guy but this sunfish was just too odd to ignore.



I have since found out that the ocean sunfish is the world's largest bony fish. Sharks and rays are made of cartilage and so are not the same. The eyes of the sunfish were so large and so alive - moving as it swam past the windows - not at all like standard fish eyes that have all the personality of a rubber tire with a dab of margarine in the center.



The photo above is from www.oceanlight.com and shows just how large sunfish get. Apparently they eat plankton and so are not to be feared by humans. But anything that lives in a tank with a team of sharks and is for the most part left alone deserves a healthy dose of respect. We may not yet know what the sharks figured out long ago.

All I know is that this fish is like a ufo that landed in my backyard. And I'm happy to be let in on the secret.

S506

Last night we went to one of the few places in Milan that was actually open. I'm not kidding about this, people - the city is shuttered and we're running out of things to do. Everyone else is at the seashore or sucking in buckets of fresh air at the mountains but jokes on them because last night we got to see a submarine in the middle of Milano!

We went to the Museo Nazionale della Scienza e della Tecnologia “Leonardo da Vinci” di Milano - aka the Leonardo da Vinci National Museum of Science and Technology in Milan. It was open for the evening in celebration of the S506 Enrico Toti Submarine's one year anniversary at the museum. The sub had been trekked from Sicily to Cremona to Milan and last night celebrated its happy out-of-water life here in Milan.



The submarine is daunting and stands in the middle of an outdoor area featuring fighter planes and a giant lemon with 3 girls inside selling lemon icees and cocktails. Truth be told I think the giant lemon may have been for last night only but Stefano was happy to find a museum that not only had a giant submarine but drinks as well.

The Enrico Toti is the first submarine that Italy built after World War II and is called an SSK, Submarine-Submarine Killer. It's goal was to ferret out other submarines and destroy them. At over 150 feet long and armed with torpedoes, I wouldn't want it tailing me in the high seas.

The Italian public seems to be quite smitten with their land-locked sub and flocked out in droves to see it. So much so that by the time we arrived all of the tickets for touring the interior of the submarine were long gone.



Watching the news later that night we learned that people had lined up very early in front of the museum. Well, to say "lined up" is giving an undue impression of order. As I may have previously mentioned the culture here does not tolerate orderly lines. There's more of a mass blob approach where every unprotected inch of space will quickly be filled by an anxious Italian. This may have resulted in an injury. My comprehension of the facts was not perfect but in the TV footage there was an unhappy person standing very close to emergency medical personnel.

Going in the submarine is a project in and of itself. We witnessed the visitors signing what appeared to be waivers and then donning hairnets and hardhats. Hair nets and hard hats! How festive! They went perfectly with the jazz band jamming in the yard. In fact, had it not been for the flocks of mosquitoes alighting on you every time you stood still it would have been the perfect evening.

It was definitely fun though, and we can hardly complain. We had found something to do in Milan in August. And not only was there a giant lemon, but there were hard hats and a submarine. Find me a quaint little mountain town with that!

where is the happyness?

Lucca is about an hour and a half away from Florence and is a perfectly-placed day trip. Especially if one side of your mother's family hails from this red-roofed Tuscan town.

The city itself is enclosed by a wall which for practical purposes is best desribed as a doughnut-shaped hill circling the town. It's the ideal path for strolling or riding a bicycle with your favorite small dog placed snugly in the wicker basket. If you're just visiting for the day you can easily rent a bike, although finding an available dog might be a bit more challenging...

Finding wonderful things to eat is never a challenge in Italy and Lucca is no exception. Just for fun let's say that your mother, for years, has talked-up a certain kind of bread, saying her Italian grandfather used to feed her chunks of it when she was growing up on Chicago's Oakley Avenue. Let's also say that your mother hasn't been able to find this bread, and you've never tasted it. But your mother continues to praise this mythical bread to the rafters. Then, like magic, you come to Lucca and voila!



Buccellato is one of Lucca's specialties. Who knew? It's a gently spiced anise bread that comes with or without raisins. The loaf is ring-shaped or standard rectangular and perfect for tearing into hunks and eating on the street. The birds will quickly take care of any errant crumbs although with our family the unclaimed crumbs are few and far between.

That my great grandfather fed my mother hunks of Buccellato makes sense; he came from Lucca. His daughter - my grandmother - was born there. Eating this bread in present-day Lucca, standing outside the bakery with my parents, my sister, and our husbands was like a reunion of sorts. Not everyone could be there with us, many are long gone, but we were in the place where a part of our family began. Eating something they ate. Something my mother remembered from her childhood and told us about for years. We had our own link in this chain of walled-city and ringed-bread.



We had lunch in Lucca, dining outside in the company of dogs named Lolita and Tiffee and across from a woman with the pinkest hair I've ever seen. We had pasta and bread and wine and coffee... the usual delicious culprits all made more special by the company of family.



Another famous site in town is the forty-four meter Torre Guinigi with trees growing from its top. It offers picturesque views of Lucca and a surreal feeling, standing high above the ground but still under the shade of trees.



It also offers a perspective on the town that at least one entrepreneurial communicator has realized. In the sea of red roofs the white chalk stood out. And for us the answer was easy: here, now, together.

ferie means we've gone away

Do not come to Milan in August. Stay wherever you are. Do whatever you do. And please let us visit.

Apparently August is a non-month. It doesn't exist but for vacation. And as August has arrived, the Italians have departed. To lands far from the city. To sea shore and mountains, to fresh air and family. And they have left Milan's dusty, empty streets to us.

We walked around town on Saturday afternoon to assess the damage. We knew this was coming - we'd been warned. Friends had promised that there would be nowhere to shop and that you could wander up the center of the street without fear of motor traffic.



Friday was the first casualty of our comfortable life in Milan. Our bar, the place where we stop for a macchiato and brief Italian chit-chat most mornings, was in full last-day-on-the-job swing. The baristas were in hawaiian shirts and the proprietress wore a straw hat usually sported by warbling gondoliers in Venice. The countdown that had started a month earlier had wound down to zero and the popular refrain bandied about was "Buona vacanza!" The bar will not reopen until the end of the month and until then we will have to find our caffeinated solace elsewhere. Ah, the hardships of life in Milan.



Shops are actually closed. As in, gone for a month. Don't try to buy shoes. Or vegetables. Or fancy candles. There has been a rash of simple signs taped to windows and security gates. These signs all read some version of "gone for the month, good luck finding somewhere to buy stuff."

Coming from the US, it was enough of a stumbling block that there are no late night stores in Italy. There's really no Italian version of White Hen or 7-11 and you figure out very quickly that if you're going to have a craving for something, you'd better plan ahead. On more than one occasion a late night desire for chocolate chip cookies has started with a sad hunt of the kitchen cabinets and ended with a bag of breadsticks and some bottled water.



The fact that the Italian business culture is not bound by a drive for commercial excess can be admirable. It leaves more time for family and friends, food and culture. But it also leaves a certain sense of exhaustion and disappointment come August. (Not to mention during lunch break when even some restaurants close for 3 hours in the middle of the day... but let's focus on one cultural highlight at a time.)



There is actually a guide put out by the city of Milan listing which shops/services are open during the month of August. I don't think I need to point out that Milan is a major European city and that the need for a guide showing which few shops are open this month is almost comical. This book is a full-color publication with maps and quadrants and color coding. Apparently someone is taking this situation very seriously. Well, to be accurate, they took it seriously in July. But it's August now and they're away on vacation.

I should mention that if you need postcards or a soccer jersey you will not have a problem. The tourist center is hopping and one may acquire any number of t-shirts with "Italia" written on them. But if you go down to the Duomo close your eyes for a second and listen. Then try to imagine which country you're in. Depending on which tour is passing you could be anywhere. Russia. Japan. America. Well, anywhere except Italy.

So to sum up, Milan is closed. It will return in September. Until then you can find us at the Duomo wearing Last Supper t-shirts and practicing our English.

firenze is florence

Firenze (Florence) is a town crawling with both history and American tourists. And a month ago you could have counted us among the throngs. In fact, the one minor unpleasantry about this gorgeous and enchanting city is that everyone agrees it is just that - and therefore you will never (ever) be in Florence without at least a billion of your closest friends.

There is a positive side to these numbers: if you're in Italy and just want someone to understand you, just want to hear that comforting American accent in a country far from your own, simply step into the streets of Florence, grab the next passerby, and have them start to speak. You will most certainly have before you a compatriot. (And if not, truth is, many Europeans speak English with aplomb and in a tourist center like Florence you'd be hard-pressed to find someone who doesn't speak at least a little English.)

In Milan there just isn't the same tourist influx. In fact there's actually quite the opposite. Milan empties of its residents nearly every weekend as they seek finer climes and greener pastures. So not only are there far fewer tourists, there are fewer people in general. For an urban center the lack of people trolling Milan's streets on a Sunday afternoon would surprise you. And don't even get me started on the surreal experience that is August in Milan.



Truth is, Milan doesn't have the infinite historical glories of Florence. It's not wall-to-wall art and centuries-old masterworks showcased in a historical playground untouched by war. Florence is all of these things.

The Duomo is a towering extravaganza of pink and green marble, outfitted with buckets of ornate sculpture and an interior filled with fresco. There's also the unique opportunity to climb up into the dome and emerge at the top, looking out onto one of the best views in town.

There are several hundred steps up to the top of the dome and the route is neither for the weary nor those unnerved by small enclosed spaces. It is, however, certainly for those individuals who appreciate a healthy bout of profuse sweating.



The amazing thing about the climb is that the path you take is literally between the exterior dome and the painted interior dome that you see from the church floor. You move through a hidden space acting as the human filling in a dome sandwich. It's well worth the climb - not just for the resulting views of the city but also for the experience of walking through a space that few would imagine exists.

As you journey to the top there are two landings where you actually step out into the dome inside the church. You move along a balcony of sorts and then duck back into the internal passage. But being at that height, and being that close to the frescoed ceiling, is something to savor. These immense and haunting images that are usually seen from the church's floor, and were painted to best be viewed from that vantage point, are in close proximity even more disturbing and visceral. All I can tell you is that on the way to the eternal inferno I don't recommend going anywhere near the giant frog wielding a flaming poker -- because you won't like what he's going to do with it.



Not every Florentine masterpiece requires a steep climb. The David is on display at ground level and is a wondrous giant standing at the end of a long gallery. The most famous nude in the world is bathed in diffuse white light and is shockingly smooth and detailed.

I couldn't carve a blob of mashed potatoes into a snowball let alone take a giant chunk of marble and turn it into a beautiful man. But Michelangelo, that miracle maker and undoubtable genius, came along and took a heft of mountain and created a figure that glows with life and strength. There are geniuses and then there are the rest of us - and it's painfully easy to recognize which side you're on as you stand gazing up at this masterpiece.

Here's to the rest of us!

definitely not skim

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

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



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



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

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



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



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

arena opera

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



Example 1: Shirtless Men

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



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

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



Example 3: Inflatables

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

Example 4: Shoes Removed

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

don't forget your cushion

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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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



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

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

buffalo soldier

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

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

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



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

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



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



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

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



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

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

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

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

Il Sole

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

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

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



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

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

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

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



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



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