Author: Lynne

Our recent return trip to Turin and Aosta involved six separate trains. The trip from Vicenza to Turin was direct on the Freccia Rossa and was scheduled to take 3 hours – not bad for a 350 km trip.  It takes longer to drive.

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We reached Torino Stursa which is two stops short of central precisely on time – and stopped.  An announcement informed us that we would be delayed by 60 minutes.  Many people left the train – presumably to take taxis or buses.  We waited, figuring that as we didn’t know exactly where we were, it would be quicker to stay put and wait.  After an hour the next announcement extended it to 90 minutes. More people left the train wandering aimlessly along the platform, asking questions where they could.  The delay grew to 2 hours.  There had been an incident involving a police investigation and we all know investigations aren’t quick.  So after two and a half hours, we, too, left the train after inviting two older ladies (older than us) if they’d like to share a taxi.  They declined. 

Until Stursa we glided over the countryside at over 300 kph, whooshing through stations, feeling the suction of the pressure slapping against our train when we passed another high-speed train or zoomed through a tunnel. On one of the local, slower trains, we had the windows open because of the lack of airconditioning in our carriage, and the force of the train entering the tunnels sucked the windows shut with a snap.

The train from Torino Porto Nuova to Aosta was dirty.  The seats told sordid stories of unfortunate incidents – hopefully accidents – with stains leaching across every seat.  I spread out the map of Torino and sat on it.  So later I was surprised when a woman leaned over to me and said, “Your feet”. I thought she liked my shoes – which were resting on the edge of a seat. People do that. Ask where your shoes are from. Not her.  In Italy we don’t put our feet on the seats in the trains.  I said I had a mal di gamba (quick thinking on my part to say I had a sore leg).  Anyway feeling a bit embarrassed I put my feet on the floor which was cleaner than the seats.  I admired her pride in her train and in Italian behaviour.  A little misplaced on this occasion but to be credited anyway.

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So while there was plenty of time to relax, read and look at the passing parade of changing scenes on the long direct train, there was also a significant amount of tension involved on the return trip which involved three changes.   As we neared our next stop, we checked to see which side the doors would open, what platform we were arriving on and more importantly how many minutes until our connecting train departed.

The minutes between connections often dwindled alarmingly as our Regional Veloce (local, but fast) train pulled over to wait for a freight train or the Freccia Rossa to pass.   We started off with 14 minutes to change at Chivasso, the first change after Aosta, but this shrunk to 6, then 3 minutes and as our train slowed, we could see our next train waiting four platforms over – this involved a dash downstairs, along the corridor and up the stairs again.  Luckily we had only our cabin-bag sized cases.  Rob flew up the last flight with both our bags. Super Man in action! The relief of flopping into a seat only seconds before the whistle blew and the flag waved was huge. Especially for him.  We had a repeat of the chaos in Verona. We thought our train was terminating in Vicenza, so weren’t prepared to look for a train going through to Venice.  We made it thanks to Super Man springing into action again. We needed another spritz when we reached Vicenza.

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August 31st, 2023

Exhausted from the hideous long journey and upset by the lost suitcase, the thought of the market lifted our spirits. A lot! But the last Tuesday of the summer holidays, combined with rain, meant that only a few vans made the effort.

The strangest sight was 6 vans in the enormous piazza – strange because they only parked in their allotted places so there were huge spaces between them. The (very good) shoe van was at the far end near the columns (very similar to the columns in Venice); in the centre the plant van unloaded the basil and other herbs and placed them where they always sit. The scarf van sat cosily next to the rug van but the rest of the piazza was empty. Of course the scarf van was also offering umbrellas. We bought an umbrella for 8 Euro but should have waited because the man next door – also selling socks, was offering them for 5.

Today the whole market was back in town. It was festive – like the Perth Royal Show. People jostled for a bargain at the outlet vans – fresh supplies from Designer Outlets there for the picking over. We’ve both had some great finds at these vans, but it’s very hit and miss. There’s only one of anything with limited sizes and colours, but you can be lucky and we often are.

Today we bought only a lush fragrant basil plant, from the stall near the 15th century cathedral – built over Roman ruins – and some onions and peaches near the Roman Crypt.

The end-of-summer clothes were giving way to some darker autumnal colours but there were bright outfits everywhere complemented by great summer tans.

Hot pink tulle teamed with lime green, and fluoro lemon with stilettos to match contributed to the festive air. This is the last day the markets will coincide with school holidays so kids were running around as well.

The concern is that in a week’s time, I’m going to love all the interesting outfits which today I found a bit weird!

It’s been said that Rome will exist as long as its ruins do; when the last brick tumbles so will the world. With this alarming thought, we booked a tour on the Archeobus in Rome, a hop-on hop-off tour which would take us outside the city walls to the ruins which lie on the outskirts of the Seven Hills on which the ancient city was built. They mark the ancient boundaries of the city.

We passed The Domus Augustana and The Palatine Hill which is home to majestic ruins several levels above ground level. Up close they are even more awe-inspiring than they appear at a distance. We passed the aqueducts towering over the roads. One, the Acqua Virgo, built in 19 BC by Marcus Agrippa, is still functioning today and actually supplies water to the Trevi Fountain.

We stopped at several ruins strewn across the foothills of Rome, built for the optimal views and probably safety as invasions were rife and came from every direction. Rome was constantly under threat. Everyone wanted it!

And then in front of us the ruins of the Caracalla Baths towered into the blue sky. Vines clinging to stately porticos and creeping into crevices seemed to be binding time with memories; hiding intricate engravings and in some places, actually holding the brickwork together with ancient trunks and arms.

Caracalla built these colossal baths, one of his principal achievements. Formally known as Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, he was Roman emperor around 200 AD. We were enthralled by his vision and ability to gather the resources and power to initiate this impressive bath complex. It covered 33 acres and could hold over 1600 bathers at any time. Caracalla must have been a great emperor. A kind and benevolent man for sure.

Well, evidently not. He is regarded as one of the most bloodthirsty tyrants in Roman history and probably did not build the baths for the well-being of the community but to create and leave a name for himself. He was an evil tyrant who wanted to kill his father and eventually did kill his younger brother, Geta, as Geta tried to hide in his mother’s arms.

Not surprisingly he was assassinated. When he died, Caracalla was erased! As he had cancelled Geta. Cancelled! Cancelling people might seem to be a modern trend but the Romans did it in ancient times.  But they probably did it more thoroughly and permanently than the cancel culture of social media does. However, they did wait until the person was dead.

In ancient Rome, the practice of damnatio memoriae (condemnation of memory) was the condemnation of emperors after their deaths. If the Senate or a later emperor did not like the acts of an emperor, they could have his property seized, his name erased and his statues reworked or defaced. This happened to Caracalla, and all images of him including statues and even coins bearing his face were destroyed.

Thankfully we didn’t know this about Caracalla while we wandered in the shade of the lofty stone structures feeling as Goethe must have when he sauntered – Goethe always seem to saunter – through Europe on his travels, often resting wistfully on a chaise admiring the scenery.

His words resonated, “Yes, I have finally arrived to this Capital of the World! I now see all the dreams of my youth coming to life … Only in Rome is it possible to understand Rome.”

We felt small but enriched standing in the memories of the great empire; inspired and keen to know and understand Rome as Goethe had. A campari soda with sputini, sipped in a sidewalk cafe amid marble statues quenched some of our thirst. The thirst to know this eternal city was a challenge that we have embraced.

It’s not that we are aimless; however, we often set off without a particular destination but with a general notion of the direction we will take. Today we walked out of our apartment, through the 11th Century arch – Porton del Luzon – and further around to a long colonnade where we bumped into our friend walking his old dog, Bonnie. After coffee with him, we continued on our walk in the direction of La Villa Rotonda to a little hamlet just past the villa.

We followed a stradella towards the Berici hills, then a lane alongside an ancient rock wall until we were behind the Rotonda. From here we decided to head up the hill to the Villa dei Nani  where there is a café under the huge columns in the courtyard of a 17th century family villa. By this time we were ready for another coffee.  We followed the cobblestone path further up the hill working up an appetite for lunch.

We’d seen a tiny restaurant earlier under the first colonnade just past the first café so headed back down the 190 steps of the Arco delle Scalette (Arch of the Little steps) towards home. Tucked away behind columns and arches, La Rua Cibovinoarte was an appropriate reward for our meandering two-hour walk. We peered in to see if it was either empty or too full and saw 3 people at a table at the back. The host asked if we had a booking so obviously others were coming. We sat down at handmade tables in the front of the restaurant – the back for those who had booked. It was a Sardinian restaurant without a written menu – il menu del giorno. He was from Sardinia and reeled off four types of pasta before we could ask him to speak slowly. Then three choices for the main course. I will bring you some of my uncle’s red wine! What can you say? It would be rude to decline. Or question.

Sardinia is famous for a flat crisp bread, Pane Carasau, or toasted bread and we spread it with a whipped pecorino cheese. A little bit like old-fashioned Kraft cheese spread but much tastier.

When the host asked us if we wanted still or sparkling water – he suddenly switched to English with a very strong Sardinian accent – I heard him say “The water is still sparkling” (in Sardinia). Well yes, it is! I agreed. Absolutely beautiful. And yes, we will have sparkling – if it is still sparkling!

The primi piatti were big and delicious. Ravioli stuffed with fluffy potatoes and a tomato sauce topped with mint filled my daily quota of carbs; and Rob’s spaghetti with mussels, green cauliflower which they called broccoli and thin pieces of chili was a delicate blend of flavours. We were almost full when the main courses arrived – thin lamb skewers with rosemary and oven baked potatoes for me and beer battered fish pieces on skewers with pureed peas for Rob. And uncle’s red wine.

When the host asked us if we wanted still or sparkling water – he suddenly switched to English with a very strong Sardinian accent – I heard him say “The water is still sparkling” (in Sardinia). Well yes, it is! Absolutely beautiful. And yes, we will have sparkling – if it is still sparkling!

We couldn’t eat the dessert so had coffee and a liqueur called Mirto Miro – from the Myrtle bush. We were lucky to be going home for a siesta unlike most of the customers who were obviously heading back to work.

So, while we didn’t have a particular destination in mind, we did have the intention of another perfect day in Italy. Every day is different. Every day brings a surprise. To stray from the path is not to be lost.

In Italy pasta is valued so highly that there is a solid gold replica of a piece of pasta, tagliatelle, in a glass case in Bologna specifying the correct dimensions –6 mm wide and only 1 mm thick.  It is smaller than the pappardelle we’re going to make.

All Italian flours are graded by a law passed in 1967, and we start with the finest flour – Doppio Zero – guided by the expert hands of our friend who makes the pasta every day for her lucky family. She makes it look so easy. She spreads the flour evenly across the wooden table with a flourish. Cracks the eggs. Mixes it into a sticky, shiny mountain. And then she kneads it with the heels of her hands, pulling and stretching it before kneading it again. She rolls it with a huge wooden rolling pin nearly a metre long.  Her arms are strong from the rolling, folding and rolling again. She flattens it until it is smooth ribbons, long and smooth.

It could become any type of pasta – linguine, tortellini, fettuccini, tagliatelle or pappardelle. We’re making pappardelle – or at least she is, and we volunteer my nephew Chris to do the rolling on our behalf. They make long  flat ribbons about 2 cm wide.  Pappare is an Italian verb meaning to gobble up.  Pappardelle! And we do!

We don’t need our pasta to be precisely measured but it is perfect, especially when served with a ragu di cinghiale  (wild boar sauce). Pasta making is an art, a skill, and is worth trying at home with the family.  But we’re looking forward to watching it being made again on the big wooden table at the farm in Umbria, or fluffy gnocchi, made from the freshest new season’s potatoes, in the kitchen of our friend’s home in Vicenza. 

Buon appetito.

With less than 6 hours until the new year of 2019, my thoughts drift back to Rome. (It doesn’t take much). Our first new year in Italy was in Rome twenty years ago and Piazza del Popolo was packed with Italians and very few tourists.  We found a niche between some columns on a small portico on one of the churches, (it’s the one of the left as you look at the photo) and we spent hours watching the crowd work itself up into a frenzy as midnight approached.

Piazza del Popolo is The People’s Square and especially popular on new year’s eve.  An Egyptian obelisk, called Flaminio Obelisk, sits in the centre of the piazza.  Grand churches flank the huge space.  Laser lights flash “Buon Anno” over the facades of the ancient buildings which have witnessed hundreds of celebrations – and now another is in process and we’re here. 

 There is an impressive view of the piazza from the terraces of Pincio Gardens overlooking the square. But on this night the view of the crowd and the fireworks at close quarters is amazing. We feel part of something big! Joy and excitement is palpable and contagious! We love Rome and we love Italian people! And prosecco!

At midnight bottles are smashed onto the cobblestones in the middle of the piazza, in the middle of the crowds.  Fireworks are launched around our feet.  We sing and dance.  If this is a tradition, it’s a fun one.  We’ve seen many piazzas around Italy after new year which are littered with broken glass. It takes weeks for the glass to be picked out of the paving. 

What a way to start our trip. 

Rainer Maria Rilke  said, “And now we welcome the new year.  Full of things that have never been.“ 

We all face a year that is full of things that have never been because the year has never been.  We hope those things will be positive for you, and that you will make memories that you will be happy to look back on.

We saw a film recently at the Italian Film festival in Perth, called Finche’ c’e Prosecco c’e speranza.  The English translation given was The Last Prosecco.  A more literal translation is While There is prosecco, there is hope.  Both titles would resonate with many of us.  The last prosecco ever is just sad!  But the last prosecco of the day is probably okay (because if you’re in Italy, you’re probably moving on to lunch or dinner with wine).   If it is the end of a particularly good prosecco, you’ve probably solved not only your own problems but many of the greater ones too and have a new philosophical stance on things.

While there is prosecco there is hope, is a great maxim for life.  There is always hope, but it seems more likely if there’s more prosecco, and especially if you are in the Veneto region where the film was shot.  One of the scenes was filmed among the vineyards at Cartizze, in Valdobbiadene, the home of prosecco, just to the north of Venice. We were pretty excited as we’d just been there a month ago.

The tiny cantina is called Osteria senz’Oste which means a tavern without a host. The stone building is stocked with salami, bread, desserts,  and bottles of wine. You simply leave the money in the box on the table. There is a guestbook where you can record your thoughts and thank the absent host/owner.

Our day began with a long-table meal of antipasto, roasted meats and, as it was the festival of prosecco, several jugs of prosecco on the table. After lunch we were driven by our Italian friends, Federica and Luca and their parents from Belluno,  to Cartizze to have a prosecco tasting lesson at the vineyard where the Osteria senz’Oste is located.Our last prosecco of the day was sipped while watching the shadows grow longer, stretching down the slopes over the vines. The last light of the day bathed the landscape in yellow and reflected perfectly the colour of the bubbles in our glasses.  Yes, while there is prosecco, there is hope!

 

The mercury is already above 33C in the market van where I am trying on white pants. It’s 11 in the morning. I climbed up the shaky, portable steps and drew the narrow curtain so the people shopping outside couldn’t see me – or at least much of me. The van, when curtained off, can offer three “changerooms” and sometimes there is even the luxury of a small mirror. But most of the time you need to rely on the feel of the clothes without a mirror – too tight, too short, too big or just too clingy if it is a non-breathing fabric – and many are! Advances have been made with synthetic material but not in many of the market clothes. The pants I’m trying on today are linen and cotton and will be cool. All of the clothes are made in Italy – so the owner of the stall tells me – and they always look great – Bellissima! – or so the owner tells me. Today I am lucky! The mirror is nearly full length so I can see that these pants fit. It is so hot in the van that they cling to my legs as I try to pull them off in the tiny space without toppling out of the van.

Thursday is the day for the biggest market of the week in Vicenza. You can buy anything. It’s as though the vans collected everything from a huge mall and drove to town. The vans change with the seasons – in winter real fur coats and accessories are at the top end of the piazza. Today in that place is an outlet van with swimwear – almost too late for this year but people are raking over the contents from high end designers – La Perla, Louis Vuitton and Michael Kors among them – to stock up for the next summer season. They grasp and pull, appraise and toss aside. They jostle and sidle to get closer to the best bargains. This summer might be over but thoughts are already on plans for the next summer holiday.

When it’s very hot like this, some of the vans don’t come to town. There is a space this week where the fresh flower market stall usually parks. The kitchenware van isn’t here either. But I am happy with my white pants and happy that I tried them on without too many people pulling back the curtain looking for a spare “changeroom”.

It’s called the Deposito Bagagli which means luggage storage, although a novice Italian speaker might think it means Deposit Bags. And deposit your bags, you can. Retrieving them, however, is not so easy. To say that seems to suggest that depositing them IS easy and it isn’t.

Roma Termini, the main railway station, was quiet at 8 o’clock on Monday morning when we arrived. We had three hours before our train to Vicenza and wanted to wander around, have coffee and hopefully find the porchetta man at his shop so we could take a porchetta panino on the train for lunch.

We didn’t want to drag our cases over the cobblestoned streets hence our visit to the Deposito Bagagli office which we found had been moved to the ground floor of the station saving everyone the tedious task of going up and down the long flight of stairs to the deep basement when the one lift was out of order or just too slow for the queues of people.

The office was empty and we breezed in to leave our bags. It was so easy. We just want to leave these 3 bags for 2 hours. But no. We didn’t have a ticket. So, I ran back to the machine and took a ticket so that we could be served. The ticket dispenser is the type with which we’ve all become familiar at banks and government offices like Medicare. There were three choices – deposit luggage, retrieve luggage, or express service (which costs more but I recommend you pay the extra). We produced our passports and left our bags.

That first coffee in Italy is sublime. The smell and the taste remind us that the long trip from Perth is worth it. If you add a small cornetto con crema – it’s actually uplifting. All of the shops were closed as they are throughout most of Italy on Monday morning. Sadly the porchetta shop was also closed so no delicious panino for us.

We wandered. We reminisced indulgently commenting on every fountain and monument that we passed and the special memory associated with it. And there are so many. We headed back to the Deposito Bagagli in what seemed heaps of time. When we arrived we found a long line of people in front of us. I bypassed them and went to the counter as they were all obviously here to leave their luggage. I was told to take a ticket and join the line. This is all happening in Italian, so I said that we were here to collect the luggage. No matter. Line. There. Take ticket. Rob was in the line – sensibly – by this time and had made a new friend from Sorrento, the suburb next to ours at home. His son went to St Mark’s school. Meanwhile I took a ticket which started with R – for ritiro. The other tickets started with C and that’s a mystery to us.

The interesting difference between this ticket machine and the ones we know from the bank, is that the numbers weren’t called. The numbers showed up on the large screen above the counter showing which counter is serving which number. The person next in the queue, regardless of number, presented their ticket and the person at the counter then put it up. So, it would appear that no number was necessary. There was only one counter with two people attending it, and there was only one queue for people depositing and retrieving their luggage. We waited for our R number to be called but it wasn’t.

Post Ferragosto, late summer lethargy had settled over the workers who were flustered – they flapped their arms, and ignored questions and fluttered in the direction of the single, growing line of bewildered people. For 20 minutes we waited amid the chaos; we beseeched; we argued; and I helped several people who didn’t understand the system. I recommended the Express system although there wasn’t an express desk.

With 20 minutes remaining before our train left, the sleepy-eyed clerk brought out the wrong luggage for us and so we had to wait another 10 minutes while the dumb waiter went up and down a few times to the storage area below. Meanwhile, he avoided us. None of them made eye contact with any of the waiting people. We made the train with only minutes to spare and wished we didn’t have any luggage as there was no room for it on the train. It’s August. It’s hot. Rome is on holiday and the people left to work are feeling the heat!