g é per la gorgonzola

It never dawned on us that Gorgonzola is a short 18 stops away on the subway. And when I say "gorgonzola," I mean gorgonzola with a capital "G." The actual town.

We discovered our proximity to Gorgonzola last Sunday after a colleague recommended the Sagra della Gorgonzola - a festival celebrating the world-famous cheese made in this sleepy little town.

Real gorgonzola cheese is as fresh and clear-tasting as a glass of milk. Sweet cream dotted by punches by flavor. It's hardly the pungent and aggressive flavor that we Americans have been trained to expect.



We ate a lot of gorgonzola on Sunday; with spicy sweet mostarda, hunks of bread, salumi, even dark chocolate. We enjoyed these excellent combinations while sitting on the curb with a lady who enjoys chocolate more than most. And now she's enjoyed it with a touch of gorgonzola - in Gorgonzola, of all places.

G é per la gorgonzola.

under the arches

When people talk about Bologna, they'll inevitably go on and on about the meat sauce or the mortadella, but I've never heard anyone go on and on about the porticos that go on and on. In fact, we've been to Bologna before but we still didn't know that Bologna owns the distinct honor of possessing the world's longest portico.

The world's longest portico, you say... What does that look like? Well, at first it looks like a nice short walk underneath a series of pretty arches. And then it starts to look like a medium length walk that's getting steeper and steeper. And by the end it looks like a never-ending walk that you're determined to finish because you've come this far and like hell you're going to stop now.

I guess the amateur athletes passing us along the way could've clued us in to the length and incline of the trek. Or maybe even the folks who were on a pilgrimage, singing religious hymns as they slowly crept along. But for us the walk had just seemed like a good idea after lunch. 666 arches later, with sweaty brows and a view of the outlying hills, we were just happy to be done.

We didn't know at the time that we'd just experienced the world's longest portico. But subsequent web research tells us that we visited the Santuario della Madonna di San Luca at the top of Guardia hill which one reaches after a 3.5 kilometer walk under 666 arches. Not bad for an after-lunch stroll.



Our lunch was at a small trattoria right at the start of the portico. It's approximately four kilometers out of the city center and we took a bus with the rest of the locals fleeing town for the lunchtime hour. At the trattoria there was no English wafting from nearby tables, and no menu. The waiter simply rattled off what was being served that day.



Stefano and our special guest started with fresh pastas heaped with meat sauces while I had the creamiest tortelloni I've yet found in Italy. Filled with ricotta and tiny bits of parsley, the little packages were topped with butter and a single sage leaf. For secondi I opted for a small bowl of mashed potatos and peas while Stefano and our guest shared what I've heard were delicious veal meatballs.

When I'd asked the waiter if there were any chicken or vegetable secondi, he made it clear that, "We eat meat in Bologna." Well then, I said, I'll eat potatoes and peas. But I did appreciate his directness. It was like earlier that day when I saw an older man stop on his bike right next to one of those "human statues" that wait for your coin before they'll move. The man just sat there and sat there, staring at the motionless guy in gold. It was the best piazza showdown I've seen - and not a word was spoken.



After our post-lunch portico adventure we made our own pilgrimage to the Majani chocolate store in the center of town. We didn't leave until we had a fifty-some euro bag of chocolate in hand. You might scoff, but it's easy to do. Their chocolate is incredible and the store is like an old-fashioned pharmacy except that instead of more standard medicinal formulas they dole out chocolates.

It's the kind of place where restless husbands wait outside while their wives linger over the most difficult of chocolate choices. We saw one doing just that. But not my husband - he is a far wiser man. When it comes to chocolate there's never a good reason to wait outside.



When we'd arrived in town earlier that morning we stopped at a great bar that gives you a tiny shot of fizzy water along with your coffee. It's the same place we'd gone our first time here. And the cappuccini were just as good. Except that this time there was art in the cappuccino foam.



The face and the flower were very impressive but I've got an idea... how about 666 arches?

'tis the season

I'd never seen a gondolier float past my bedroom window. But in Venice, if you check into your room and there's mysterious live music in the distance take a glance out the window. The source of the tune may be gliding past in his striped t-shirt, piloting a gondola full of tourists.

It could be a romantic moment.... what with the dreamy Italian love songs, the weepy accordion, the canal waters undulating past. Unless, of course, you're sharing a room with beloved relatives and between the 3 of you there's not a mattress in the room that doesn't sink sadly to the floor in response to any weight set upon it. And let's refrain from discussing the décor.



For decoration less an affront to the senses there was a unique marble staircase spiraling its way up the courtyard outside of our lodging. We hadn't known of its existence but apparently other tourists come looking for it. And you do need to hunt. It's in a place where once you feel like maybe you shouldn't be wandering around those parts, you know you've landed in just the right spot.

Returning to the matter of the hotel room, it was a lesson in the differences between Italian and American views on air conditioning. In our experience we've learned that many Italians prefer searing heat to the cool draft of air conditioning. We've been on summer trains, sweating, while Italians talked among themselves about their fear of freezing to death - and then piled on the sweaters to prove it.



Our trip to Venice was two weekends ago and when I asked the proprietress of our quarters to furnish us with the air conditioner's remote control so that we could cool the room, she informed me - as if I were an innocent and wayward child - that my poor dear girl, air conditioning season is over.

And that's where we encountered a substantial difference in opinion. I could get over the lack of shampoo in the room. And the saggy sad mattresses. And maybe even the ludicrous bedding combinations. (Have I started talking about the décor?) But I would not be convinced that air conditioning season was done and gone.



As an American I have been trained to think that it is always air conditioning season. Because although I may choose not to use it, I can't help but feel that air conditioning should most always be available. Especially in rooms along slow-moving canals that harbor, without a doubt, mosquitoes the size of hummingbirds.

The lady and I chatted and although she insisted that Italians are done with air conditioning for the year, I convinced her that we Americans were not. Happily, the air conditioner's remote control magically appeared in our room later that afternoon.



That morning we'd made sure to visit our favorite Venetian bar (as in espresso). It's a small place and you end up tripping over locals to enter. But it's wonderful because with the exception of us, nearly every person who enters is greeted by name. It's like Cheers except that instead of "Norm" they're belting out "Mario!" In a city where you are always surrounded by tourists, and you never feel like anything but, it's nice to sneak into a place where you're the only folks from out of town.

We also stopped by our favorite place for snacks. There you have to elbow your way up to the guy dishing-out plates of miniature antipasti from a crowded display window. And once you point at enough of the tiny delicacies to fill a plate, you get a few glasses of wine and make your way out to the canal to eat alongside its waters. The regulars seem to keep to the far end of the bar, drinking wine and talking shop.



After appetizers we took a walk to our favorite pizza place - passing a boat laden with colorful produce along the way. When we got there we ordered giant slices of pizza and parked ourselves on a bench. Our view was that of the closing fish market in one direction, and the world's most amorous teenage couple in the other. It was a toss-up over which induced a stronger bout of nausea. Fish scales and tails, or teenage make-out session on nearby bench? Believe me, it was a close call.

We also had a chance to take a great tour of the Palazzo Ducale. Called the Secret Itineraries Tour a guidebook might describe it as an enjoyable romp through prison cells and private passageways. And they'd be right - it's great. Although our visit was plagued by the background noise of Lega Nord supporters shouting into megaphones at a large rally outside. (Lega Nord is a political party that wants Northern Italy to secede from the South. Will my sarcasm show if I say they're "quite charming"?)



It's true that Venice is always full of wanderers, and pausers, and random lingerers. Sometimes you'll be stuck behind an unknown wanderer and be tempted to nudge them along to hurry them through Venice's skinny and crowded passageways. But at other times you'll become the wanderer and stop crowds behind you as you pause to explore some random crack and cranny. But that's the joy of Venice: cracks and crannies.

And gondoliers floating past.

into the heel

Last weekend was a whirlwind run through the heel of Italy. We touched down in Puglia and threw in a touch of Basilicata for good measure. And in our three days we confirmed what you'll hear over and over from all sides... the south is different.

In a way, you just want to say, duh. Of course a part of the country that is 400 miles south of where you live will be different. That's a little something we all learned about called geography -- and what you see out of your train windows is going to be different than what you see out of your train windows up north. Swap your rice paddies for scrubby groves of olive trees. Take your trackside poppies and trade them for gargantuan cactus bursting with fuschia fruit.

Vegetation aside, I'd say the more intriguing comparisons lie in the way standard systems, even though they are "systems," get a little more wiggly down south. For example, trains. Trains have a schedule. They come and go at certain times. A traveler can read posted signs and have access to the basics: the route, the stops, the timing. And, at least up north, you can usually find the train.



In Bari it was like Harry Potter trying to find the train to Hogwarts for the first time. Ours was due to take off from Track 7 very early in the morning. But when we showed up, very early in the morning, there was no Track 7 listed on any of the signs in the train station. Tracks 1-6 were very easy to find, clearly marked from all directions. But Track 7? Not one sign acknowledged its existence.

We eventually asked a train conductor who pointed towards the end of the station, past Track 6. Oh, of course! Down by Track 6! Even though all signs, in the whole station, show only 6 tracks at the station. So we went down past Track 6 and found the ever shy and modest Track 7.

It may sound silly but I assure you - in the nearly one and a half years we've spent in Italy, there has never been a train track we couldn't find. Because every train track has been labeled. If I were feeling bold I might even call it a "system," and I might even assert that this "system" is used worldwide to help people find their trains.



Other local diversions? How about playing "Unannounced Train Change?" This is where you have to get off of your train at a random station in the middle of nowhere and switch to another train simply because the train conductor told you to.

There's also a fun one we'll call "Quick, Get in the Other Car!" The goal of this little game is to be sure you're seated in a train car that will actually be leaving the station. Mind you, the number of cars actually attached to the locomotive changes along the way. To his credit the train conductor seems to have an eye on this and does an adequate amount of shooing folks into the right cars- otherwise we might still be sitting in an empty railcar in Puglia, waiting for the engine to come back and get us.

We spent a fair amount of time on the trains after our initial flight down to Bari due to our frenetic travel plans. In the span of three days we visited not only Bari, but also Matera, Lecce and Alberobello. Each has its own set of highlights and two of the four are designated UNESCO World Heritage Sites. Bari is a hectic grid of seaside commotion worth experiencing but we spent most of our time in the other towns.



Matera is known for its sassi. These are basic homes, clustered together, that have been carved out of the rocky terrain on which they congregate. These rock-hewn beehives are several thousand years old - the newest boasting a ripe young age of 1000. The big surprise comes with the realization that families were still living in these places until 1952 when the Italian government declared the sassi unsafe. The families were living without electricity or running water, but with their livestock. It wasn't a healthy combination.

You can visit the cave-like churches to see their frescoes but the most interesting stop is to one of the sassi that has been returned to its original conditions. You step in and realize that these cave homes can be larger than you'd expect - in this specific case, the rooms drop several levels into the earth. There was a space for the family, a space for the livestock, and a space for the provisions: the proximity of the three does much to explain how the space could be deemed unhealthy.

Wandering through the labyrinthine pathways you feel the sense of dusty abandonment that comes with towns that lack their inhabitants. But you also feel the sun beating on you - there's no shade - and the confusion that comes with wandering in a sun-bleached ghost town with no real streets or clear landmarks. I'm surprised that the film crews who have shot here, taking advantage of the biblical era scenary, have actually been able to find their way out.



We managed to find an exceptional lunch in the more modern and populated part of town. At Il Cantuccio (Via delle Beccherie) we had an antipasto sampler featuring incredible eggplant caponata, crispy peppers, zucchini with vinegar and fennel, and several other delicious little creations. My main dish was a very interesting flat & wide pasta served atop black bean puree, with hints of red pepper. Truly something we had never seen in Italy before. And so good.



Another highlight of Matera was the crafty wedding announcements that were stuck to every available surface. These xerox'd sheets announced weddings that were happening around town and touted the undying love of the happy couples. While some of these announcements featured photos of the couple canoodling, the serious artists of Matera used what I'm sure we can all agree is the worldwide symbol of everlasting love: poodles.



Lecce, down deep in the heel of Italy's boot, is a much larger town with a more sophisticated allure and a plethora of Baroque architecture. The churches are covered with opulent designs, there are Roman ruins in the town center and walking down the streets has a rather formalized air, especially with Lecce's stranglehold on the concept of the siesta. It's a ghost town for most of the afternoon; nearly everything closes and most everyone disappears. We were forced to follow suit and hole up in our hotel for a nap.



But in the early evening the town pours into the streets from every direction and takes to the passeggiata like true professionals. We had read about the mythical passeggiatta here but didn't believe it until we saw it. There was a remarkably steady flow of people languidly wandering down the streets. Except that they weren't wandering, they were following the same path as everyone else. Miraculous.



Lecce also has one of the finest pastry shops we've encountered in country. Natale Pasticceria on Via Trinchese had far too many choices but we did our best. We each picked a crème-filled giant and were amazed not only by the taste (a hallelujah moment) but also the price (1.50 each - hallelujah again). The fact that one of us ended-up covered in chocolate icing, and needed a water fountain to de-stick their sticky fingers, actually brought us to a gorgeous park filled with families where we enjoyed the Sunday festivities. Who knew pastries could be such amicable tour guides?



Alberobello is where the trulli are. Trulli are white conical homes that dot the countryside in this region. You see them start to pop up among the olive trees as your train nears town. These homes from the 17th century are supposedly designed to trick the tax collectors by resembling spaces used to house livestock and provisions - rather than the families who were actually living there. They're topped with stone ornaments of varying complexity and often have symbols whitewashed onto their conical roofs.



These structures are certainly unique and charming but be forewarned - they're also smack in the middle of a never-ending patch of sun and overrun by tourists. There are about 1500 of these small homes in Alberobello although a much smaller number of them are actually occupied by residents. You can, however, buy any number of souvenirs and knicknacks in them, and also find a pretty good cappucino.

In addition to the trulli, Alberobello has one of the best restaurants in Italy. It's called La Cantina (Vico Lippolis) and is, unsurprisingly, in what might be referred to as the basement. It's a small space with about 10 tables and at one end of the room is the kitchen. You watch the ingredients turn into your meal and it's absolutely wonderful.



We had an antipasto featuring a vast array of small plates with delicious foods - and they kept coming while we ate. Three kinds of salame, three kinds of cheese (including burrata the legendary cheese filled with cheese!), zucchini in oil, roast potatoes, tripe, focaccia, stuffed focaccia... and more. It was like a Christmas stocking where you keep finding things even though you thought you'd already found it all.



For our main plates we each ordered a fresh pasta complemented with the freshest of produce and cheeses. You can taste the difference at this place. It is not the norm and the standards far exceed what is normally great cooking across this country. Hand in hand, though, are the prices which are higher than usual for a lunch. Is it worth it, you ask? How fast can I say, "Hell yes! Go there now!"



Our trip was a great use of a long weekend. Although let me add a brief warning to anyone considering flying back up North at the start of September: don't do it. It seems to be prime time for families returning after their August vacations. Our plane was a flying, screaming kindergarten. We have never seen so many children on one plane and I think we can all agree that when one checks in at the airport they are not hoping for a seatmate who screams and refuses to sit still.

If only the airplanes were as hidden as the trains...

pad thai and chocolate

Say you live in Milan and find yourself hankering for Thai food. Where do you go for a spring roll or two? The answer's easy: Lugano.

Now if we're going to get technical about geography, Lugano is in Switzerland - not Italy. But once you've lived in Italy for a while you give up on certain things. Like pad thai.



Lugano is more well known for the fact that it sits astride a mountain-wrapped lake and boasts greenery in all the right places. It has that special beauty of Switzerland - a country that proves an organized and efficient culture is no less beautiful than those carried along by the momentum of dust and history. And it also has chocolate.



Last weekend, after a tour of the park with its fresh air and flowers we found ourselves drawn not only to the Thai food (oh, pad thai, we miss you so) but to the shopping. Yep, we're the only nerds who go up to a gorgeous Swiss lake and head to the mall.

So there wasn't really a mall in Lugano but there was a department store with a grocery store in the basement that was nothing short of magnificent. There's no exaggeration involved in saying that the grocery stores we have access to in Milan are neither well-stocked nor a joy to explore. Heck, we're lucky if there's more than one carton of skim milk for sale and the floor waxer isn't doing his job in the middle of grocery rush hour.



But the Swiss grocery store... you can't help but smile, lingering in the aisles, trying to decide which wonderful and glorious items will accompany you home. We spent an hour pointing at the shelves: "Look! Can you believe it? They have --- !!" We must have put on quite a show, two grown adults working up a sweat over bouillon cubes.

You never know what you'll find on a Saturday trip. Sometimes a gorgeous lake. Sometimes bouillon cubes. And if you've got time for a long weekend, I'll give you directions to the best Mexican restaurant around. It happens to be in Hungary...

sagra dei ceci

There are 20 regions in Italy. I'm happy to report that in two days we breezed through 7 of them, and stopped in a foreign country along the way. I'm not quite as happy to report that there was a whole 'lotta time spent in the car.

Our Italian road tripping was all in the name of the mighty cece; or as it's less elegantly referred to in english...the chickpea. Last weekend in the small Abruzzan hilltown of Navelli there was the Sagra dei Ceci, a multi-day celebration of the chickpea with an additional spotlight on saffron. Think children dressed in chickpea outfits, donkeys racing in dusty circles, and a menu focused on all things chickpea and saffron.

Getting there was a long haul taking nearly 12 hours. For a healthy chunk of that time we sat in beach traffic that crawled to a complete stop. But during moments of great excitement our car would begin to move, creeping alongside cars filled with beach balls and beach towels, and bored children antagonizing small dogs.

When we couldn't take another minute in the car we had a late lunch in another country. Really. We went to San Marino. It's a small republic in the mid/northwest of Italy that seems to exist solely for tourism and motorcycle racing. I'm not sure where they do the motorcycle racing that dominates their banners and billboards, but I sure didn't have a problem finding the tourists.

Before long we were driving through mountain tunnels cutting through the Abruzzan hills. One tunnel was over 10 kilometers long and it was a few kilometers into this tunnel that our driver felt the need to tell us about the time his car exploded into a wall of fire midway through New York's Holland Tunnel. A wall of fire you say? In a tunnel? Thanks a lot.

A childhood friend of our friend lives in Navelli so we had a very warm welcome from the start. And despite it being a very small town (population 625) we spent healthy amounts of time meeting the locals and eating chick peas with them. (After they'd spent all day cooking and preparing the food.)



We ate in a large piazza filled with plastic chairs and tables that slowly filled to capacity as nightfall came. Eventually, each table was heaped with plates of food and plastic tumblers of wine. All foods featured either chick peas or saffron or were some version of a local favorite. Chick pea soup. Chick pea pasta. Chick peas toasted in sugar. Saffron risotto. Pasta with saffron cream. Porchetta. And grilled lamb. And salsiccia after 6pm.



Children ran around and the band played late into the night. It was a street party at its best. And it's also the first place we've seen a scorpion in Italy. Come to think of it, it's the first time I've ever seen a scorpion outside of a cage. And you'd better believe we checked under the pillows that night before going to bed.



Part of Navelli is built into the hills and when you follow the rising and curving maze of pathways, you find homes damaged and deserted during World War II. Bombed out and never re-inhabited, their interiors are overgrown with grass and weeds. Crumbled staircases are carpeted by brush and rise to second floors defined by walls with gaping holes. And some floors have just tumbled away, leaving behind their skeletal supporting beams to bleach in the sun.

You find chickens pecking at the dirt and tall white geese stretching their necks in the dark shadows. But turn in another direction and you wander towards residences where life goes on, where there's the smell of roasted peppers on the breeze. And the locals and artists who keep this place alive peek out of their beaded curtains to check on the strangers.



All the while, staring back from the the crest of hills facing town are the remains of a burned forest. Like a donkey's ragged mane they stood black and scratchy against the blue sky. Only weeks ago the hills had gone up in flames. And the flames had poured down the hills and rushed the town. They were stopped, but not before damaging the forests where the festival was traditionally held. This year's Ceci Festival became not only a way for the town to come together but also an opportunity to raise money to restore what was lost.

Our Sunday lunch was too good to be true. We ate at the home of our hosts. There were eight of us around a long table, with a checked cloth laid between us. There was lasagna al forno made by Nonna (Grandma). And grilled eggplant in olive oil made by Nonna. And a soft chocolate cake made by Nonna. And I was sitting next to Nonna and she kept saying to me, with true desire in her voice, "Mangia! Mangia!" Eat! Eat!



And Nonno (Grandpa) was hard of hearing so people had to shout, "Nonno! Do you want mortadella?!" And of course he did. And when the fruit came, after the mortadella, it was the sweetest softest fruit I've ever had. It was laid out in colorful piles, with water still clinging to the skins. The peaches were bright apricot inside and the figs were so soft that they nearly poured out of their skins. And the watermelon was a delicious round of heavy wet fuschia.

Oh my, si mangia bene a Navelli.



After lunch we sat on kitchen chairs alongside the house as the wind rushed by. We were told that the wind comes up like that every afternoon. There was a tiny kitten tripping through the flower beds; its mother a sleek Siamese that couldn't care less. And when we tried to feed the chickens, they didn't want our watermelon rinds.

Nonno showed us his storeroom and the sacks of almonds collected from his daily walks. There were laundry lines hung with drying onions next to buckets of chicken feed. And pointing at the gnarled piles of firewood, we found out that Nonno cuts all of that timber himself.



Sunday afternoon's celebrations started with the town children dressing in traditional red and white garb, their costumes edged with dried chickpeas that had been delicately sewn into place. They carried baskets of chickpeas and waited with the rest of the town until a group of donkeys and their riders arrived in the piazza. We then followed the donkeys down through the town until we all arrived in a dusty field.



The Palio was held in a field where any remaining shrubs had been trampled by the crowds. Modeled after the world-famous horse race run in Sienna's main piazza, this was on a smaller and more humble scale. Several donkeys, coached by a rider and a guide both dressed in satiny renaissance ensembles, would run a three lap race. However, to say "run" implies an urgency not shared by the donkeys. For the most part they rambled their way along and ignored the imploring shoves and shouts of their riders. Use this link to view footage of the race: http://ilcentro.repubblica.it/multimedia/home/1079994

As shown in the video above, a winner was eventually found and the crowd was pleased. We then all made our way back to the main piazza to celebrate the winning donkey, the ceci beans, and the fact that summer in Italy is a fine thing.

The way back to Milan took 7 hours (7pm-2am) and featured not only a perfect view of the Big Dipper from the backseat, but a rest stop with a steely Doberman Pincher in addition to the usual overpriced gas. (Note: a tank of gas these days goes for about 60 euro = $89.)

But that 60 euro does get you a breeze-by tour of the big names of Italy: Rome, Florence, Bologna, Milano. We just kept following the highway signs from one big city to the next in the hopes that their lack of beaches would also mean a lack of returning-from-the-beach traffic. Unlike on the way there, we didn't even need a map.

All we needed was more of Nonna's grilled eggplant in olive oil. And guess what... she'd packed us some before we left and insisted we take it along. I guess the motto of Italian grandmas (Mangia! Mangia!) applies even in moving vehicles.

f is for ferie

It's that time of year in Milan. You'll find it impossible to buy the 14 euro cube of cheese you've innocently had your eye on. Or the 24 euro tub of gelato featuring a whopping two flavors. And just give up trying to order the 50 euro plate of goose salami.

It's not that Milan has been stricken by a wave of sensible and clearly-displayed pricing... We've dropped those hopes along with the idea that the customer is always right and the vague notion that the customer might warrant a blink of attention while shopping. Instead, I'll point at the calendar and remind you that the lack of over-priced goods available in Milan is simply due to the month of the year.



It is August and Milan is closed.

There are entire stretches of neighborhood where every shop is closed. They've been emptied of their inventory and shut behind metal gates and papered windows. There are small signs with drawings of palm trees and sail boats stuck to the windows. These signs all basically say, happy vacation and what the hell are you still doing in Milan?

It's true. Most all of Milan has gone. They've gone to the mountains or the sea and they've clogged the highways with their mass exodus. You can see their absence in apartment windows with all of the security shades drawn. And you can feel it walking along sidewalks empty of their usual rushers and dawdlers. And where, for the love of Milano, are the sidewalk scooters nipping at your heels?



The only remaining neighbors are the ones you wish would move away forever. The ones that sneak into your bedroom and torment you before dawn, yet always wait until well after you've drifted off to sleep. The mosquitoes are here. They haven't left. And despite the proximity of endless and what must be incredibly-alluring rice paddies surrounding Milan, they never will.

Despite the mosquitoes we've almost come to appreciate the surreal August quiet that strangles Milan. Today we even found a gelato. And maybe tomorrow there'll be an olive breadstick. But the thing we're really excited about... The thing we just can't wait for...

September. When the restaurants open again.

Biennale di Venezia

What draws someone through heavy black curtains into a tiny dark room to watch black and white video of people crawling through forest snow? Or better yet, looping footage of a naked woman perched in a tree mimicking the squawking of nearby birds? (Believe me, the initial intrigue of her nudity is quickly overwhelmed by the exuberance of her squawking.) I've seen these videos and I can tell you that the one thing they've taught me is that if I ever knew the value of video art, I've long since forgotten.

The convenient benefit to my (and our) lack of appreciation for this art medium is that it makes the Venice Biennale easier to attend. Once you realize you don't care about what's behind the curtains, you stop having to look behind them. This may sound like the lack of an open mind, but in reality when you have an already limited amount of time to focus on art, this technique gives you more time to focus on the art you just might like.

Easily the coolest and most economical attraction in Venice these days, the Venice Biennale is a sprawling showcase of contemporary art that's really amazing. There is just so - much - art. The exposition is organized in two major zones of Venice: the Giardini della Biennale and the Arsenale; and both are interesting places in their own right.



The Giardini della Biennale is basically the grounds for a World's Fair. Gravel paths and promenades arrive at diverse buildings in every style, each built by a specific country and housing that country's official art exhibit. For example, the United States' building is straight off the grounds of Thomas Jefferson's Monticello and features the art of Felix Gonzalez-Toress. What's most compelling about this work is it's interactivity; one piece is a carpet of black candies that is replenished daily, replacing the pieces removed by the passing audience.



The Arsenale is a colossal shipyard in the midst of Venice's sprawling waterside. The building you walk through never seems to end and the art is everywhere. This part of the exhibition is as intriguing for its structure as for the art on display -- rails from the previous transport systems and cisterns once filled with flammable liquids share the space with contemporary arts biggest names. For a split second on entering the Chinese pavilion, you don't know what is art and what is structure. I'm hardly the person to ask about what this means to contemporary art.

We took in the exhibition over a weekend - one day devoted to the Giardini and another to the Arsenale. At 15 euro for admission to both I'd say this ticket is one of the best buys in Venice, if not all of Italy. The Biennale closes on November 21 and if I had the time I'd truly consider going back for more.



Most Powerful Moment: Eric Duyckaerts, Belgium
(AKA: Most Likely To Injure Small Children)

The most compelling moment of the entire exposition was one split-second in the Belgian exhibit. We were inside the curving confusion of a glass and mirror maze. Each turn you took confused your position not only by simple geography but because the mirrors and glass created virtual copies of you and everyone else in the room.

It was very difficult to know where anyone was, and where the glass stopped and real space began. This confusion is best enjoyed at a slow, wandering pace. The only person who didn't know this was the very small boy who became so excited by the reflections and light that he ran straight for the exhibit - and straight into a glass wall. You heard the contact before you saw him standing there, confused and in pain. His joy and excitement had been crushed in one upsetting instant and in that moment every piece of lofty art fell right back down to what human feeling really means.



Reason To Start A Fanclub: Sophie Calle, France

Forget croissants and the Eiffel tower and head straight for Sophie Calle. This French artist caught us both by surprise and we couldn't help gravitating to the witty and smart simplicity of what she's up to. Her showcase piece, entitled "Take Care of Yourself," was a sprawling examination of a break-up email she'd received from a lover. But - and here's where she trumps the expected alone-in-this-world artist pathos - this exhibit showcases the perspectives of 100+ women who she asked for their own analysis of the message. Each woman responded in her own way; one grammatically diagrammed the sentences, another turned it into textured Braille, while still another responded with a comic monologue delivered while chopping onions. This is multi-media at its best and sheds so much light on the email that in the end it matters far less than the conversations about it. We bought it hook, line and sinker. And we also bought the book.



Best Left For The Experts: Various Video Artists

As previously mentioned. Even if you call your video piece "Fun Palace" we're not going in. I promise.



Strongest Motivation To Move Quickly: Nordic countries (Finland, Norway, Sweden)

A long tall wall in this exhibit is blanketed with never-ending yellow and black dart boards. Like a stationary storm of bumble bees the wall seems to pulsate and throb. And every few seconds a dart pierces the surface. And then another. And another. Until the dart-thrower has no darts left in hand.

At this point the individual must decide to brave the firing wall, and quickly get close enough to retrieve a handful of darts. Except that the darts are hard to find in the excess of pattern and this is not the place to dawdle while other dazed art-lovers, wanting to be a part of this great moment in the history of art, hurl more darts at the wall.

So run, quick to the dartboard wall. Notice that there are a great many darts resting high on the boards, where they aren't easily reached. Decide that you can reach them if you just jump high enough. Jump. Reach. Grab one. Jump. Reach. Again. Then quick, run back to where it's safe. Where the hipsters in all black and designer tennis shoes can't take out their espresso-fueled angst on you by missing the wall of dartboards, and instead, lodging a dart in you.



Lose Your Husband Here: Padiglione Italia

The Italian pavilion is a very large space. By function, it has to be. It has to provide enough emptiness and open space to display a great many pieces of wild and wooly art without having the pieces turn on each other. Yes, yes, I know; the art needs to breath, the open areas need to mirror the energetic ones. Ok, great. But wouldn't the appreciation of the art be increased if people didn't lose the folks they came with? Or better yet, shouldn't the folks we came with not wander off? Any ideas there, Stefano? In the meantime I guess I can just hang out with the Italian hipsters... Maybe they know what I should like about video art.



Best Coffee Break Background: Paula Trope (BRA)

Think of that one crazy neighbor in town who has a backyard filled with an obsessive collection of some single object. There are piles of this object colonizing and suffocating every available space with pockets of brave weeds and grass growing up through the voids. Now imagine if those piles were of bricks and concrete blocks painted to look like the vivid buildings of a sprawling Latin American city. Drop these piles into the center of the Giardini della Biennale and put some chairs and tables nearby. This, my friends, is the best place in all of Venice for an espresso. (And far easier than climbing over the crazy neighbor's fence.)