Siena [9-28-09]

Many veterans of Italian travels will gladly tell you that Siena is their favorite city in Tuscany, or even in all of Italy. It’s easy to see why it holds this spell over its loyal former visitors, the same way San Francisco does in the U.S. It is “old” even in comparison to other ancient cities in Italy, having been founded about 900 years before Christ. That’s only slightly younger than Rome, itself. Legend has it that Siena was founded by (and named for) Senaes, the exiled nephew of the first king of Rome (Romulus).

Siena is historically most famous for its long, valiant struggle to remain independent of its aggressive and powerful neighbor to the north, Florence (or rather Firenze … “Florence” is just the name early British visitors gave the Tuscan capital city because they were tired of trying to pronounce its actual name). Siena got in some good punches, but ultimately lost its independence, succumbing to Florentine rule in 1555.

Both cities are Tuscan, both are surrounded by vast grape vineyards and olive orchards, both are cities of higher learning and of fine arts, and both became famous in history for moving away from the domination of the Catholic Church in Rome. These were “civil” cities, that, to the extent possible, separated church and state in the same way we understand those terms in the United States today. Roman Catholicism never ceased to be “the” religion of choice in both cities, but the Medici dynasty in Florence, and the noble families of Siena (like the famous Piccolomini family) refused to accept that the Pope should dictate public policy in addition to religious practices. The great families of Siena made this a formal proclamation of independence from the Church in 1167, an act that Madrid or Paris, for example, would have found unthinkable at that time in history.

Accordingly, in Siena, the great “square” (the “Campo” … one of the most famous plazas in Europe) is dominated not by a great cathedral, but rather the high tower of the city’s civil government offices. The great Duomo of Siena is not far away, with its own comparatively cramped plaza. One look at the Duomo of Siena, though, tells the other side of the story. Ousted from civil dominance, the Church still put on quite a show with this amazing structure. To walk into the cathedral of Siena is to be overcome with the sense of power those long-robed cardinals wielded for centuries in this city. High above, visitors can’t help noticing the sculpted heads of the first172 popes staring down at them. “Have your own way, but remember, we’re watching you!”

Arrival in Arcidosso [9/27/09]

Arcidosso is a classic southern Tuscan hilltown from the early Middle Ages, built of the volcanic “tufa” stone carved from local mountains, which give it an undeniably “ancient” look and feel. It’s not one of the better known “destinations” for tourists in Tuscany, but the locals on the sidewalks don’t seem put off by strangers in their midst and easily give a nod, a smile, and the greeting that’s always so nicely “Italian” to hear: “Buon Giorno.”



I drove to the recommended parking spot in the upper “old town” and walked the rest of the way up to the castle tower where the cooking school would be conducted (and where I was booked to reside for the coming week). The highest point in the town is little Piazza Cavallotti, with “Casa Innocenti” connecting directly to the walls of the 1100 year old castle (built by the noble Aldobrandeschi family of southern Tuscany, exceeded only by the Piccolomini family for Sienese wealth and power during the Middle Ages).

I lifted the 5-pound iron knocking ring on the front door and waited. “Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.” Next step: cell phone - - that other “best friend” to modern tourism.

The teacher/chef, Carlo Innocenti, answered and told me to meet him down the hill where I had parked my car (next to the iron fountain) in 10 minutes. Fortunately, I had decided to leave my luggage locked in the car while I searched out the house, so walking back down hill was easy.

Carlo showed up in a lightweight three-wheel pick-up truck, jumped out, and offered a warm greeting to Arcidosso. We tossed my luggage in the back of the “mini-truck” and trundled back up the hill to the castle.

He quickly explained that he was still underway with lunch at his restaurant across the valley, so I’d have to make myself at home for several hours. It was about 1:00 PM, and he had not expected me to arrive until late afternoon along with the other members of the cooking class coming in from Rome. He gave me a key to the front door, said “Ci vediamo presto” (roughly “We’ll see each other again soon”) and put-putted back down the hill in the little three-wheeler.

Back home, my neighborhood is trying to find someone to be Santa Clause at our tree-lighting ceremony in December. Too bad we can’t seem to find someone exactly like Carlo. He looks like Santa, with a close-shaven beard. In his 70’s, round rosy cheeks, twinkling eyes and a jolly disposition … he’d be perfect!

Alone in the house, I grabbed my 50-pound suitcase and my over-the-shoulder-bolder-holder and began climbing to the top floor of the "tower." When I finally arrived at the top (which I guess I could describe as three full flights and three half flights of stairs from ground level) I found a cozy kitchen with Persian rugs on stone floor, a fireplace, ceramics and art displayed on the stone walls, gigantic wooden beams in the ceiling, and a door to my bedroom, which was comprised of a little foyer with the actual bedroom to the left and small bathroom to the right. All furnishings seemed ancient, but still in good shape and highly functional: chest-of-drawers, wardrobe, night stands, mirrors, chairs and benches. Dominating the bedroom was a large framed etching of Vittorio Emanuele II, who was crowned the first king of united Italy in 1861 (prior to that, what we know as Italy was not a nation, but for centuries had been a hodge-podge collection of dukedoms, principalities, and mini-republics).

The floor my bedroom was on was clearly the highest residence in the entire town (an honor my legs would have to re-earn every day). Carlo had briefly explained that, while the main house was 1200 years old, the top two floors were quite a bit newer, having been “added on” only 600 years ago. It had been in the Innocenti family now for several generations. The photo of Arcidosso here is one I took actually at the end of my week there. Rain clouds were threatening, but a beam of light magically descended from the heavens to illuminate the city as I was taking the shot (no, it wasn’t “Photoshopped”). I’ve drawn an arrow indicating my bedroom.

So, I unpacked, explored the rest of the house, and then decided to take a nap, with the cool air of Mount Amiata drifting through the window by my bed.

Later that evening the other three students arrived: Mark and Lisa, a married couple from St. Paul celebrating their 25th anniversary (very sweet, intelligent, and energetic people, with interesting stories of their four mostly grown children) and a lovely lady from Atlanta named MaryAnne (a retired telecom executive, originally from Long Island -- she had not surrendered one syllable of her beautiful Long Island accent, talking about things like taking “lowung wowks” with her “dowug”). We would be a foursome for the week’s adventures, and, given the possibilities, I felt extremely lucky to have landed in a "class" of fun individuals. We "hit it off" instantly.

Of my three classmates, Mark probably had the best “knack” for learning Italian. On one of our drives through the country MaryAnnne worked on trying to learn how to say “thank you” in Italian -- the way an Italian would say it.

“Grat-zee?” she’d ask.

“Nope … that’s American … in Italian it’s three syllables: GRAT-zee-eh.”

“GRAT-zee-ahh”

“No … listen: GRAT-zee-eh.”

“Gra-see-AYE. Grat-see-AYE”

“No, GRAT-zee-eh.”

“Grat-see-yae … Grat-zee-ahhh?”

“No, it’s just GRAT-zee-eh. It’s really hard for Americans because we just don’t have any words that end in the sound ‘eh’ . . . Try to think of the name ‘Ted’ and then say it without the ‘d’ on the end … That’s the sound you’re looking for in GRAT-zee-eh.”

“Okay … Ted … ehh … grat-see-AHHH. Oh, I’ll NEVER get it!”

The four of us ended up laughing at how hard it can be to vocalize another language - - but that's okay. After all, isn't laughter more important than learning how Italians say "Grazie?" Besides, what MaryAnne didn't now about the elusive Italian "e," she more than made up for as a serious student of Roman history, the writings of Cicero, the pre-Roman Etruscans, etc. She could teach a lot of Italians a thing or two about Italy!!

Heading for the Cooking School [9-27-09]

On Sunday morning, I departed Monte Argentario, crossing over the causeway to the Italian mainland and setting out across southern Tuscany for the hill town of Arcidosso (“Arch-ee-DOH-soh”) -- the site of my one-week Tuscan cooking school.

With GPS mounted on the windshield, Arcidosso was easy to find, even in this hilly country with steep winding roads.

Let me say a few words in praise of this gift from the American military to the world of tourism. GPS “real time” guidance has expanded the freedom of travel like nothing else since the invention of the rental car. I have a Garmin Nuvi, but I know the other brands are probably just as good. Before I left Dallas, I downloaded the new European maps (about a 2-hour download to my home computer) and then transferred that data to the little Nuvi. Next (at my brother-in-law’s recommendation) I located each of my destinations in Italy on Google Maps, and for each such location I followed the Google “send to” process to get those specific addresses into my Nuvi. Each pinpointed address was then given an easy name to remember, like “Lucca Hotel” or “Vernazza Parking Lot.” Those names were automatically stored in my Nuvi’s “Favorites,” and the rest is history.

When I set out for Arcidosso, I picked “Favorites” on the Nuvi touch screen, then “Casa Innocenti” and “GO!” The British lady who lives inside the Nuvi (I call her “Rose” because she sounds like that character in the old “Upstairs-Downstairs” PBS series) begins to give directions (in addition to the screen presentation) for how long to stay on this particular country highway, how far to my next exit, etc. Sometimes Rose gets addlepated when I follow a clear highway sign that doesn’t match her recommended way to reach my destination. My rule is: “Highways signs, when clear and understandable, trump Rose, no matter how upset she may become.” When I divert from her path, she interjects, with a truly sarcastic tone of voice: “RECALCULATING.” I doggedly continue on the clearly marked course to my destination, and she all but starts waiving red flags: “RECALCULATING . . . TAKE THE NEXT AVAILABLE U-TURN . . . AND THEN LEFT TURN . . . RECALCULATING . . . CONTINUE 300 FEET AND THEN, LEFT TURN . . . RECALCULATING . . . “ I suffer her snobby tone long enough for her to realize, at last, that I’m on the right road after all and only took an “unauthorized” link-up she knew not of. Of course her tone immediately changes . . . as if nothing had happened . . . “Continue 13 and a half miles.” Peace at last. I wouldn’t trade Rose for anything. I know she’s trying her best, and that’s what counts. She can’t help it if she doesn’t know every last service road improvement recently installed by the Italian highway department. Even so, I have to admit a little relief when I finally arrive at my destination and get to hit her “power” button -- giving her some needed time off.

On to Porto Ercole [9-26-09]

The next morning, I had a quick breakfast at my hotel and caught the shuttle back to the airport to rent a car. Upgraded to a nice new Alfa Romeo, I tossed in my luggage, made sure I remembered how to put a manual transmission into reverse, snapped my GPS into position on the windshield, and headed north, away from Rome. This, itself, was an achievement. Rome is my favorite city in the world, and to be so close and not to drop in was killing me, but I had promises to keep.

In a little more than an hour, I was turning off the highway to head west to the shore, where I crossed a causeway onto the island of Monte Argentario. My GPS took me straight to my hotel, the “Filippo II” on the north side of the island.

The Filippo II sits alone on a beautiful promontory looking out over the bay of Porto Santo Stefano. It is an impressive hotel in every way, and not terribly expensive. My room was a living room, kitchenette, and bedroom, all having floor to ceiling sliding glass windows that opened onto a large private balcony that looks out over the gulf.

But hotel resorting was not my objective for stopping over on this island for my first “true” day in Italy. When I was settled into my room, and after a quick shower and change of clothes, I jumped into my car and began driving clockwise around the island to the south side and Porto Ercole.

The “port of Hercules” is definitely a magnet for yachters, with clear blue water, hundreds of boats moored or anchored in the bay, protective castles from past ages guarding the port from high positions above the bay. I was here, however, because of something that happened here 400 years earlier.

Michelangelo Merisi (known now as “Caravaggio”) was a scoundrel, a drinker, and a reckless brawler who had killed a man in Rome in the late 1500s. He was also one of the greatest artistic geniuses of all time. He had painted great masterworks for the Church in Rome, and for rich patrons like Ciriaco Mattei, but after a drunken duel and charges of manslaughter, he had to flee Rome and find refuge in other countries across the Mediterranean which were not directly controlled by the angry Pope.

As his fame grew in exile, the Pope in 1610 finally forgave all and asked Caravaggio to return to Rome and produce even greater masterpieces than before. He was only too happy to accept the church’s invitation. He packed his bags and recent artworks, and headed from Sicily back to his beloved Rome.

All we know from history is that his ship, for reasons that are not clear, steered off course and landed north of the mouth of the Tiber, in a small port called Porto Ercole. There, the great artist, with the next phase of his life lying gloriously ahead of him, died of what was described as a fever.

In October 2005, I was visiting Rome with Lou and Kay Strubeck. They wanted to see the Sistine Chapel in the Vatican. I decided to spend that time seeing some of the Caravaggio paintings located in Rome – a kind of Easter egg hunt. My first stop was the great cathedral of Santa Maria Del Popolo in upper Rome. As I climbed the steps to this great church, a priest was welcoming visitors at the door. I greeted him saying, “Excuse me, but does this church have works of Caravaggio inside?”

“Yes, signore, it does,” seeming almost to roll his eyes to the sky as if having to indulge a child.

“Where can I find them,” I asked.

“Signore,” he replied, “Whenever you want to see a Caravaggio, just go into the church and go to wherever all the people are.” The clear indication was that this great church, with hundreds of masterpieces – any one of which would be a major tourist attraction in a “regular city” like Dallas, Texas, was constantly being flooded by throngs who only wanted to see the works of one artist.

Sure enough, I walked into this grand cathedral. Two people stood over on the left side of the sanctuary, one person on the right, and about forty people were down at the far end of the church, in the left corner. I walked to where “all the people” were and saw the magnificent Crucifixion of Peter, and the Conversion of Saul. After that, Caravaggio would always be my favorite Italian painter.

Now, in the place of his untimely death, I stood before a sculpture in the center of the port town showing, in bronze, several elements found in Caravaggio’s paintings. His body was never recovered, since the Pope did not learn of Caravaggio’s death for a number of months. This sculpture, then, serves as his monument … for the one who, in time, might have even eclipsed his great predecessor Michelangelo Bonarotti. Instead, his works served as instruction to great painters who followed, like Rembrandt.

Arrival in Rome [9-25-09]

After a long trans-Atlantic flight (where I enjoyed a much-coveted empty seat next to mine, and where I where the flight attendants were particularly generous to me on account of my having a brother in that profession who had informed them of my seat assignment moments before I took off), a five-hour layover at London Heathrow, and another two hour flight to Italy, I landed at Rome’s Fiumicino airport at 9:30 PM Friday evening. After collecting my luggage, I called my hotel (about one mile from the airport in the town of Fiumicino) to see if a shuttle was available to pick me up.
“No, signore … the shuttle does not run after 9:00 PM, so you must take a taxi. Remember, pay no more than 15 Euros.”

Armed with this advice, I walked toward the exit doors where three Italian gentlemen, all with the same style name badges were waiting to offer “private car” transportation to my hotel for the same price a taxi would charge. “I’m staying in Fiumicino, very nearby. I’m not going into Rome tonight.” One of them took the pull handle of my luggage saying “No problem, I will take you to your hotel in Fiumicino.”

As we walked toward his car, I remembered the “no more than 15 Euros” tip from the hotel desk clerk and asked how much the charge would be. “To your hotel, 30 Euros.”

“That’s about $45 to go one mile. No thank you …. I’m sorry, but I prefer a regular taxi.”

I retrieved my suitcase from his control and began walking away from him as he continued to assure me that the price would be the same with a regular taxi.

I saw that the taxi line was full of taxis, even at this late hour of the night, and with very few customers. Believe it or not, that’s a bad thing. The rule is: many taxies and few customers = no rides to local hotels. I know that sounds odd. If there is a surplus of taxis just sitting there waiting for a customer, why would getting one to take you somewhere be difficult? It’s not only difficult; it’s practically impossible. The reason is that large numbers of available cabs makes for long, slow moving lines of taxies waiting for their turn, finally, at the head of the line. Idle taxies as far as the eye can see. That taxi now at the head of the line may have been in line for an hour or two. That, unfortunately, means that, after being out of operation for such a long time, the last thing he wants is to take a passenger to a hotel one mile away, getting 15 Euros (if that), and then finding himself in the back of the line again. Economically, they must have a paying passenger going all the way into Rome - - who will pay 80 to 100 Euros for the ride. So, when all the cabbies need big bucks to compensate them for their long downtime wait, and the passengers only want to go across the highway to a Fiumicino hotel to get some badly needed rest, the result is that cabbies have no passengers, and the passengers have no taxies.

Then my luck turned. Along came a shuttle driver in what was almost a uniform, leading two weary Americans in the same position as my own. “Would you like to join these two passengers and share the fare? I will take them to their hotel in Fiumicino, and then take you to your hotel, each paying 20 Euros.” I had no further fight in me, so I accepted his generous offer. Thirty dollars U.S. to go one mile. Tomorrow would be a better day.

Tomorrow is departure day. [9/23/09]

Arivederci Dallas ... almost! It’s late at night, and my packing is still not done. Nowhere close. At least half of the difficulty in packing for a three-week trip overseas is cutting down what you’re tempted to take in favor of having a suitcase you can actually pick up, if you have to, and carry it across a cobblestone street. I am hoping to pack lighter this trip than ever before, and that’s why I’m still up trying to decide, as Susie Orman says: “Do I need it? Or do I just want it?”

The photos in this initial part of the blog are ones I have taken in past trips to Italy. You can left-click on any of them to enlarge them. This particular one, for some reason, is one of my favorites. It is neither unusual, panoramic nor beautiful in the artistic sense, but it’s one of those images that is clearly fixed in my memory to remind me of a unique moment in time … a place holder, at once dated and timeless. It was taken on July 4, 1982. I had arrived in Rome for the first time to meet up with a friend from Dallas, Rauhman Browning, who was working in Italy at the time. We were both thrilled to be seeing Rome. It was like walking in a dream. I had traveled the world in the navy, but never had I experienced this kind of immediate infatuation with a city. Here, in the middle of St. Peters Square, a kindly old Italian gentleman was feeding the pigeons. They seemed to know him. I remember thinking as I took the picture, “I wonder if that’s me, way on down the line, coming back, again and again, over the years of my life, to the “Eternal City" of Rome. Who knows; maybe it was. Maybe this old guy was actually me as a time traveler from the future (ha ha). To find out, I'll have to live a few more years, and eventually find me a hat and cane. I already have a selection of frumpy old sports coats that would do nicely.

FLASHBACK :: Pompeii, July 2004

I first visited Pompeii in July 2004. As everyone knows, Pompeii is unique for the fact that Mother Nature (in the form of a volcano) both destroyed it and saved it, on the same day, for future generations to experience and study. It is now one of my favorite destinations in Italy, and I’ll return any time I’m in the Naples area. As this photo shows (click once on it to enlarge it), the “ruins” of Pompeii even today carry the ominous backdrop of Mount Vesuvius – still there, still active, still dangerous to that entire region. See it there, sleeping in the background?
If we could have visited Pompeii on August 23 in the year 79 A.D., it would have been a peaceful, almost luxurious experience. Trade and industry were thriving. People were busy and well paid. The empire was at peace, at last, with Emperor Titus having taken the throne in Rome only a month earlier to succeed his late father Vespasian. In Pompeii, hundreds of shops would have been open to business, with horse drawn carts crowding the streets, and local residents and travelers from afar mingling on the elevated sidewalks and in the markets and public parks. The biggest "issues" of the day were the upcoming city magistrate elections and the mysterious slow-down of water coming into the city from its main aqueduct. Why was that happening? Why would the water volume just drop off without any apparent cause?
In fact, no one at that time was aware that the large mountain not far from the city was a volcano. Yes, they knew what a volcano was. Mount Etna on Sicily had been active for many years to one degree or another, but everyone assumed Vesuvius was just a mountain.
Then, at lunchtime on August 24, everything changed … or ended … for the throngs in the streets, businesses and homes of this doomed city. This was an eruption like nothing modern man has ever seen. When it blew, it released the power equivalent of 100,000 Hiroshima atomic bombs exploding at once, lifting a third of the mountain into the sky (the column of molten magma and ash reaching a height of 20 miles "straight up"). The force spewed 1.5 million tons of molten material upward every second – at a velocity of "Mach 1" (the speed of sound). This is a level of natural violence our brains simply cannot accommodate. As the falling brimstone and ash began covering Pompeii, most people simply believed that time had come to an end and the force that holds the world together had died. Many fled the city, while others gathered their families and pets in an inner room of their home to “wait it out - - whatever it was.” [The photo at left is one of he many well-preserved casts of the individual victims of Vesuvius.] Then things got much, much worse. When the energy from the eruption finally ceased after about 20 hours, the molten column of material that had been forced into the stratosphere collapsed downward, spreading laterally when it hit the earth, and creating a super-heated tidal wave (600 degrees Fahrenheit) that vaporized any living thing in its path. Many of those who had escaped the city itself were mowed down by this final pyroclastic flow of magma and gas.
For centuries thereafter the city was simply written off as lost forever to history, like Troy. Then in 1748 diggers discovered it again and the government began sponsoring professional archaeologists to conduct proper excavation. Now in 2009, they are about two-thirds finished with the task.
What can you do if you go to visit Pompeii today? Take a tour, for sure, just to get your bearings and to understand some of the visual history present. Then break away from the crowds and wander the excavated Roman city on your own. Step into people’s homes; walk back to their kitchen areas; sit down by the family hearth and conjure up the normal, everyday people who once called this little spot their home. Picture the housewife bracing herself in the front doorway, wondering why her husband, the local baker, has not yet made it home through the chaos in the streets. Where could he be? Has he been hurt by the falling fire stones? These people were as real as you or I, and they were the unwilling witnesses to history on a day in August that had begun so much like any other.