Itinerary

Journal

Wars and a man I sing - an exile driven on by fate,

he was the first to flee the coast of Troy,

destined to reach Lavinian shores and Italian soil,

yet many blows he took on land and sea from the gods above -

thanks to cruel Juno's relentless rage - and many losses

he bore in battle too, before he could found a city,

bring his gods to Latium, source of the Latin race,

the Alban lords and the high walls of Rome.

Tell me, Muse, how it all began.....

To Where All Roads Lead

Monday, March 18

I step to my alley and pour a libation to the gods. This alley is a road, and like all roads, we know where it leads. Train to the airport. We rise. I hold both sides of Lake Michigan in my embrace. Cloud over the Alleghenies. They part, and Manhattan bristles authoritatively below. I once walked around down there. A pause in Newark. We rise. Cape Cod curls its finger most atlas-like. We rush away from the setting sun. Dear Newfoundland soaks up the moonlight. I'll return someday.....

Tuesday, March 19

......the Alps in the first light. Wow. Arrive Leonard da Vinci airport. I follow the herd. Train to the Termini Station. I gird my loins to advance into the city. Stepping out to the streetscape, I pause, and reflect, and ask myself: How many legions have I? I have none. I am but a man. And what is a man, before all that is.....Rome.

Rome 3/19

Barbarian Invasion

As I was well before check in time at the little six room, sixth floor mini hotel that I'd booked, I thought I'd go around the block from the train station and see if anyone would respond to the bell and at least hold my bag. This did work out, sparing me the need to check it at the left luggage facility at the train station. Today's agenda was to simply get a taste of the streets of Rome, while remaining upright and moving through my sleep deprived catatonia. I set forth. The streets unfold, as streets will do. A religious edifice presents itself, the Basilica di Santa Pressede, ninth century. I step in to mellow out, not at all difficult in such a place. The usual art and craft explosion, with the mosaics a special highlight. Out to the streets again, lest meditativeness lead to falling asleep on my feet. I have a look at the Chiesa (church) di San Martina at Monticello, and loop around to streets, random and urbane, southeast of the train station, where I got mildly and genially lost for a while. Back to my hotel to actually check in. No response at the buzzer (my bad, actually - one must place one' s ear closely to the speaker, what with the traffic noise). So I walked a few blocks to take in the voluminous Santa Maria degli Angeli. Upon my return, I heard my host this time when I buzzed, checked in, and collected myself before heading out again. I'd meant to avoid the Colloseum till my return to Rome, but I'll be danged if I didn't bump right into it. Lots of streets. Had a slice of actual Italian pizza. Amblings done, I dine at a streetside establishment right by my hotel, climb six flights (there is an elevator, one of those little booth affairs that go up the stairwell - either approach qualifies as elegant). Time to sleep......

Wednesday, March 20

.....and sleep hard. A good thirteen hours. Today's agenda, a wider and more alert survey of street level Rome, with it's sights. I step out, with a rough and alterable plan in mind. After a long prefatory amble, I end up at the Spanish Steps, a stairway leading down from a church, famous chiefly, I think, as a venue for seeing and being seen. I saw. I'm not as confident that I was seen. (Nevertheless, I have taken seriously the reported, and very evident, Italian emphasis on presenting oneself as a bella figura, and have kept my shoes tied, pants pulled up, and gut sucked in accordingly). Then to the Trevi Fountain, in whose baroque excess many a libertine frolicked and splashed in days of yore. Today, cops prevent a mass of tourists from acting on any such notion. On to the Pantheon, a very well preserved Roman edifice, a great dome rising to an oculus for the ultimate in natural light. The Navona Plaza, with its monumental statuary. The Basilica di Sant Maria Sopra Minerva, the only Gothic church in Rome (Hard to believe, but that's what they say. Perhaps they just couldn't let go of the Romanesque). I return to the Spanish Steps, to complete a pilgrimage that had been forestalled on my first pass by the staffs' lunch break. This, a visit to the house, right there overlooking the Steps, where the poet John Keats spent his last two months, withering and dying of tuberculosis, at age twenty-five, in 1821. A small museum occupies a floor there, devoted to Keats, his fellow Romantic poets Shelly and Byron, who also sojourned in Italy, and their circle. I looked out the window from the little room where he ceased to be at the horde of tourists and funsters down on the Steps, and shed a pent up tear for the man, for he was a friend of mine, cruelly ripped off at the height of his powers. I'll never get over it. Back to the streets again, ever more streets. I converge with the Tiber River, and follow its great bend. Tipping back a coffee in a little bar on the island in the river, I think to myself, self, this is all very delightful. Thence to Octavian's Arch in the old Jewish quarter, and on to the Vittoriano (a huge, excessive, and reportedly unloved twentieth century thing), and a quick glance at the nearby array of Roman ruins, including Trajan's huge pillar etched with the record of his victories. Dined again at a tourist friendly sidewalk place near my hotel. My waiter helped me fill in a few gaps in my Italian.

[A note on the plan: Though I just got off a plane, I'll now be getting on another one, to Palermo. This seems like cheating, and is certainly not as elegant as a train or ferry, but it saves a lot of time, and the price is ridiculously and compellingly cheap ($39). So flying it is. Same thing for Sicily to Florence ($58). For that, an eighteen hour sea voyage by way of Livorno would have been elegant indeed, with Neptune shaking his trident at me and whatnot, but from midnight to 6:00 PM? Nah. As for Rome, I'll inhabit more thoroughly at the end of the trip.]

Rome 3/21

Grandmotherly Sicilian Bosom

Thursday, March 21

Get up and go. Train to the airport. It's good that I allowed a generous time margin, though it could have been even more generous, as subsequent operations did not go smoothly. It transpires that by not checking in forty-eight hours ago ("check in" when I'm not present? What's the point?), I was subject to a sixty-eight dollar penalty (on a thirty-nine dollar ticket). I suppose I should take some blame for this, as there was some mention of early check in when I booked the ticket, but the killer "fee" was never quantified, there was no reminder email, and no instruction as to how to accomplish this that did not involve a goddam app on a goddam phone. Anyway, a nice functionary saved me from the "fee", using my ipad with seconds to spare. But then, the so-called boarding pass, now glowing on my ipad, which was supposed to work out just fine, kept timing out, was difficult to restore, and was eventually sneakily hidden, or more likely destroyed, much to the discomfiture of all concerned. A travail, but it all shook out in the end. Oof. Anyway, in due course, arrive Palermo. I have shifted latitudes to the biome of palm trees, yucca plants, and prickly pears. Abrupt, chunky mountains enclose the city. Bus to centro. I walk a few blocks to my hotel, or bed and breakfast, as these little four room affairs are called (I'm skipping the breakfast). My hostess is very forthcoming, and oriented me well with a map of the city. I collect myself in my room, with its balcony over a fairly quiet ally-like side street, and venture out to explore. A panini ensues on the plaza, with skateboarders, lovers, and pigeons for entertainment. After a round of my immediate neighborhood, I set course down a long, pedestrianized street. The Palermitanos are out in large numbers for the evening passeggiata, or evening stroll. I arrive at the traditional center of the city, where the streets cross that mark the convergence of the four traditional quarters. The intersection has a rounded effect, with each corner a curved facade of sculpture reaching up three levels, making for the greatest of all urban navels. Fountains gurgle at each. One of the other four streets is also traffic-free, and I take a turn to have a look at the very impressive cathedral. Deeper ambles, through crumbling alleys, and a busy, though disassembling, street market. The overall look of Palermo is like Rome, that is to say, an urban canyon of six or so tall floors, monumental, with crumbly architectural art in your face everywhere. Palermo has balconies, though, not so much the shuttered windows of Rome, as befits the climate. Dined outdoors near my hotel. Had a cat looking at me the whole time. That's what I get for saying meow in perfect Italian.

Friday, March 22

A day afoot. Street-canyons, street markets, alleys, plazas, palaces, the seaside, and many, many churches, inside and out. A highlight was the Chiesa del Gesu, a florid, cherub-heavy baroque explosion of detail. One wonders how it was put back together after the American and British air forces blasted Palermo in May '43. (Actually, only the dome was mentioned as having come down. Nevertheless, the town is said to have been badly beaten up, with seventy churches down, and God knows how many people. The rebuild was not complete, and if I'm interpreting things right, I've seen evidence of this). Then there was Chiesa dell Magione, a Norman edifice, very simple, with an organist accompanying and coaching a few kid singers. But the centerpiece of the day were the catacombs, with selected dead of Palermo on display, who knows why exactly. They hung lined up in niches, or stowed on shelves, sometimes with helpful tags indicating their expiration date. (Mostly 19th century). Some were mere skeletons, others, who got the prestigious arsenic treatment, were more mummified. Most, however, were still lightly upholstered with bits of leathery skin, perhaps some hair. All were clothed in their dusty funeral attire, stuffed with some sort of batting to keep them reasonably fleshed out, as it were. (There were a lot of questions about the process here, not to mention the purposes, that I never got answered.). There were sections for priests and professionals, and, most poignantly, for children. There they hung on pegs like Raggedy Anne dolls, in their frilly, dusty little smocks, their cute little skulls facing downward in perpetual pouts. And a section reserved for virgins, quite dried up and dead before their time. The star was little Rosalia, aged two, plus a hundred or so, whose doting father (slowly shriveling up nearby) arranged with a chemist friend to give her a scientific pickling, so that today she really does resemble a little doll. She is presently under glass in a nitrogen bath, which helps. She was among the last to be installed in the catacombs, before modern hygiene laws put an end to the whole thing. I step back up to the land of the living quite enlivened by all this. They're dead, but they're still people. And in the meantime, these streets are teeming with vital, vital Italians...... I sat down to dine outside at a place in view from my balcony. The owner let me know, in halting English, words to the effect that I was going to experience real Sicilian cuisine, that there would be no menu turistica, no lasagna, no "fantasy chef", none of that boloney, and that soon it would be as though I were engulfed in the soothing bosom of my grandmother. Well, I let him feed me, which he assured me would not set me back past 18 euros. What ensued was multiple little plates of various delicacies. To name names or describe, well, my English halts.

Saturday, March 23

Bag on back, and off to the bus station. Bound for Trapani. The bus dropped us off in an unexpected location, and it took some walking before I figured out I'd been let out about a block from my hotel. I get established, and go out for a tour. Trapani is a smaller place, and its historic part is compassable. (And not blasted apart, I am told. The allies aimed better here, going for the port facilities). I poked my head into an old church, and got a little incomprehensible spiel from a fellow there taking donations for the restoration, as the place was a mess. He was proud of a weird installation, a little moving, mechanical village depicting the traditional trades of Trapani. I attended to it politely before examining what an old church in disrepair looks like. The crypt (quite empty) was cool, if claustrophobic. Out and about, I have a look at the port and the seawall, and the maze of alleys. Trapani had seemed eerily deserted earlier in the day, but as the day lengthened into night, the passeggiata developed in force. Averse as I am to crowds (when dining, anyway) and to noiseotainment, I turned a corner to a quiet trattoria, where the grandmothers took tender care of me, though without the use of their bosoms.

Sunday, March 24

The focus of the day was to be a visit to Erice, an old and fabled town, beloved of invaders and defenders, on a mountain top looming over Trapani. But it was not to work out. I learn that the cable car that runs people up the steep slope was still down for its annual two and a half months of maintenance and inspection. The website had been a little ambiguous about this, so I took the long walk out to its terminus to confirm, and to see about the bus option. The bus was impossible to figure out, but the upshot was, on a Sunday at least, basically no. Disappointing, as there are old walls and churches and great views up there, and but there you have it. So I have the elbow room to slow down and putter around town in even more than my usual desultory fashion. The seawall got particular attention. The churches were mostly closed, unfortunately. But good luck rebounded as I passed by a repurposed church and saw that a violin-cello-piano trio were to commence a performance in minutes. Four pieces from late 19th-early 20th century Italian composers. Now that mellowed me out. As did the after dinner grappa at an al fresco place, as the last strollers strolled home.

Monday, March 25

Up early, and to the bus station for a day trip, twenty-five miles out of town, to Segesta, to see what remains of an ancient Greek city. Dropped off, I sit in the shade by the road, waiting for the gate to open at nine. A cup and a bite at the park facility. I step up the path to the fifth century BC Doric temple, in its fine pastoral setting. It's quite intact, but for a roof. I have the place to myself, and dreamed up some sympathy for whatever cult inspired such a work. Then a wild path, up a further hill, though the excavations of other remains of the city, to the third century BC theater. I arrived more or less in time with a busload of middle schoolers, who had marched joyfully up the paved road, and who now formed an audience as their teachers held forth on the stage. In due course, it was back to school with them. Other tourists passed through from time to time, some offering performances. I spent some hours there, up in the stands, or down under a shade tree in the Grecian rubble, with the birds and the bees and the ghosts.

Trapani 3/25

Ode to a Grecian Urn

.....in due course, I'm down at the bend in the road outside the park entrance, waiting for the bus. Back in Trapani, I find myself walking, sometimes purposefully, sometimes not, because that's what I do. But the people of Trapani seem to be taking a rest. Here on a weeknight , the passaggiata is much reduced. It's rather calm as I dine under the awning out on the main walking street, but for the soccer match on the tube. Back at my hotel, I study a bit and revise my index card, as my Italian is due for a reset.

Tuesday, March 26

With the train to Castelvetrano not leaving till one o'clock, I had ample time to amble, and got into a few hitherto locked churches. Not much going on in Trapani this morning, or at the train station, or on the train. We speed through olive trees and grape vines. Arrive Castelvetrano's deserted train station. There are a few hours till my prearranged arrival time at my little B & B. I mostly sat in the park, my usual ambling somewhat deterred by the bag on my back. My host Vito meets me at five, and we manage our communications. I've got a balcony hanging over the park, very congenial, except when the neighbor's dog on the next balcony comes out to woof at me. Castelvetrano is a medium small town, but still urbane. It's old, the seat of some ancient lordly family, and has lots of venerable religious edifices and meaningful piazzas. To dine, I sussed out a little pizza place a block off the lively street, a real family operation, very joyful, with two plastic tables and a little counter, doing mostly a take out trade. A sizable and artful pizza and a beer, seven euros. Nice.

Wednesday, March 27

Today's excursion to be to Selinunte, the remains of a sizable city founded in the seventh century BC by Greek colonists, with history to follow. Off to the bus stop in a light, drippy rain, which ceased upon my command. I'm on the bus at eight for the half hour ride down to the village on the coast and the adjacent archaeological park. I was wondering why they needed such a big bus for only a few passengers, but then the kids on the way to school packed in. There is perfect slice of time before the park opens for kind Italians to serve me coffee and a cornetto. I stroll for the eastern section first, site of the great Temple E, the usual rectangular colonnade holding up further architectural vocabulary, very complete and intact looking, put back together in the twentieth century, as earthquakes had done their entropic thing. Other structures remained enrubbled. With a big university group now arrived, I let them take the direct route to the western section, while I took the scenic route, over hill and dale, raggy gray sky above, and spring blooming. Under all this turf is the mostly unexcavated bulk of a city of 100,000. I pick my way cross country a bit to get to the bridge over a stream, and have a look at Temple M. Thence to the acropolis, a vast spread of walls and foundations and enclosures and tumbled columns and whatnot. The crowning jewel here is Temple C, a single colonnade holding up a lot of weight. Looking around at all this stone, once so well assembled, and considering all the more stone unseen, and the quarry eight long miles away, it stuns to think of all this being put together without the use of internal combustion and fossil fuels. Countless humans spent their lives digging, shaping, shifting, moving, lifting, and fitting this stone. One can only hope that the mush was tasty, and that they had other pleasures. (Actually, seeing their work advance would be one of those pleasures, though I wonder if the slaves would think that way). Back outside the park, I have a coffee and confirm with the counterman where the bus stop was and when a bus was coming. I use the interval to walk the road and stairways down through the village to the beach, to make sure I actually touch the Mediterranean Sea on this trip. Bus back to Castelvetrano. A bit of drippy rain has started up again. It's on and off as I amble the town. (And nail down exactly how and when and where I am to get on a bus out of town tomorrow - this was not as straightforward as one would think it should be). Back to dine at last night's little family pizza place. Grandpa had come in to share a pizza with his granddaughters and to adore them, and be adored in turn. All is well in Sicily.

Thursday, March 28

I was pleased to see that the cathedral had been opened. The cherubs pretty much have the run of the place. The bus swept me up smoothly. Arrive Agrigento, a sizable town, rather striking as one approaches, perched as it is way up on a long ridge. It looks like a pile of apartment blocks and elevated highways, but, I discover, it has a perfectly fine historic core. My balcony hangs congenially over Via Atenea, the main walking street. My ambling takes me through the passages above and beyond, up narrow stairways and steep cobbled alleys, higher, ever higher, to where, lo and behold, I bump into the town's cathedral at the very apex. Locked up, unfortunately, but the exterior was pleasingly austere. The back side of Agrigento's ridge is just as abrupt as the front, and commands a lovely view of the rolling countryside in the slanting rays. A cold wind is blowing hard. I plunge back down, on the hunt for something to eat.

Friday, March 29

Today's excursion to be to the Valley of the Temples, the remains of another early Greek city. The larger edifices are in view from on high in Agrigento, with the landscape sloping further on down to the sea. I got myself down there on the number 1 city bus. The bus was jammed, and I stood in the aisle in the middle of a pack of middle schoolers, girls on the left, boys on the right, screaming teasingly at each other at head splitting volume, as they thrust and parried smart phones across the aisle and my face, bearing images of whatever silliness was setting them off. That, people, was my travail of the day, but it did not hinder me from blessing their passion. Arrive ancient Greek city (where the springs of passion did not require regular charging). I am dropped off, as it turned out, at the western, mellower, entrance. I advance with due reverence and attention. The most iconic structure, four standing columns supporting a bit of roof, turned out to be the work of some 19th century dilettante, who threw together chunks dragged from other temples, figuring he was doing culture a favor. My reverence sank a bit at this, but rose in response to the sanctuary of Demeter and Persephone, everyone's favorite mother-daughter divine duo. This included a nice altar for sacrifices, as well as the usual inscrutable foundations. The Temple of Olympian Zeus lies in rubble, shaken down by earthquakes. It was the biggest Doric temple in the world, though never finished, thanks to the Carthaginians barging in and messing up our dear Greeks. A stone's throw from this, a pedestrian bridge crosses the roadway below, through the same cleft in the rock that was an approach to the city in ancient times. There are tombs in the rock walls still visible, with traffic rushing below. And so on through the eastern end of the park, site of the Temple of Hercules (a nice row of columns), the Temple of Hera (quite intact), and the Temple of Concordia (very intact - given its name when the Christians consecrated it as a basilica). The charisma value of these structures makes this end of the park the more popular. Nevertheless, getting back on a city bus from this end turned out to be not practical. But the nice Italians worked it out with me, and with some extra walking, I got to a reliable bus stop with a timely bus. I'd meant to get off at the museum, but I never saw the signs. (Seen plainly on the way down). So I ended up back in town. No problem, really. I took a short break at my hotel, and got on the bus back down and made sure not to miss my stop for the museum. There I took slow stroll among the huge collection of ceramics, lamps, implements, figurines, sarcophagi, spearpoints, helmets, finely detailed coins, and a huge array of painted vessels. The masterpiece was a huge urn, with images of the Greeks' war with the Amazons. Achilles is depicted running his spear through Penthesilea, the Amazon queen. After he kills her, the done thing is to strip her of her armor. But taking off her helmet, he falls in love with her! Bad timing, Achilles! Bus back to town. I dine next door to my hotel at a perfectly agreeable trattoria. Like last night, I'm the only customer. Weird. Tomorrow, I'll be heading for the small town of Caltabellotta for a three night sojourn. The transport links could be a little tricky. I spent some time this morning at the bus station trying to work out the uncertainties. We'll see how it goes...

Agrigento 3/29

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Mosaics

Saturday, March 30

Transport details all fell into place very smoothly. Bus to Sciacca, where I have a three hour layover. Here I accomplished park sitting, church sitting, an ATM errand, gazing over the harbor at the deep blue sea, and three small breakfasts. Again on the bus for the fifty minute journey up to Caltabellotta. The town is obvious from afar, clinging steeply to the slope under a craggy mountain top. The bus groans up the switchbacks, and drops me off at the lower level. My hotel is at the top of the town, just under the crags. I've got a printed off google map, of essential but limited usefulness. I knew I'd get more or less lost up in that maze, so I trusted my compass and aimed to climb, and climb, through this village for human goats, up cobbles and stairs and alleys and crooked passages, under walls and arches, aiming for the heights. At length, I'm under the crags, the town dramatically at my feet. Though height usually clarifies things, I remained a bit confused. But the nice little old ladies directed me toward the cathedral, the landmark that would orient me. My B and B was right nearby. I settle in, and go out to have look at the cathedral, an austere, eleventh century edifice on a commanding height. Then a purposeful survey of the town, high to low to high again, aiming to pin down eateries, groceries, and points of orientation. The maze of Caltabellotta does not seem to have a centro. It seems mainly residential, with a very few, very scattered, very small businesses. My wanderings have a musical accompaniment, music such that I haven't heard since the Sicilian funeral scene in, oh, what was that movie? It waxed and waned as it, and I, moved about the town. Eventually I met up with the musicians, six or so sixth graders, marching, so to speak, with a snare drum, trumpets, and a girl really blasting her clarinet to keep up with the brass. I bought a loaf of sliced, white store bread at little bottega, as a fall back dinner option, as I was losing confidence on finding a trattoria or such. I did in fact dine on that loaf. Nevertheless, this town is going to be cool.

Sunday, March 31

The better part of this day I spent at large in the upper fringe of the town. The high point, literally, was an ascent of the Castello del Conte Luna, a very dramatic spike and the highest of the crags, which has a convenient stairway scratched into its side. This is the Everest of the province, and the landscape radiates accordingly, with mountains, the bountiful mosaic of fields, scattered villages in their bowls and slopes, sea yonder, and the tiled mosaic of Caltabellotta's rooftops. A visit to the cathedral again, and to the little stone building, presently consecrated as the Chiesa Della Pieta, up in a notch in the crags and over some caves that were once inhabited by actual cavemen. (Named as they were "Grotte Preistoriche"). The Peace of Caltabellotta was agreed to here, in 1302, ending the War of the Vespers, a world war of Mediterranean scope, leaving the Houses of Anjou and Barcelona grumbling but more or less satisfied. (A stick figure sculpture made of stainless steel tubes commemorates the event down at the bus stop). I gandered from below at the necropolis of the prehistoric Sicilians, the tombs hollowed out in the base of a crag. I projected a route for a closer inspection tomorrow. Up to the Monastery of San Pelegrín, quite closed, and ultimately to the cross on a prominence, Calvary it's called locally, the final stop on the Holy Week procession. I took my time over all this, to the tune of birdsong, dogs barking, a motor now and then laboring up the ramp-like streets. The band was still on the march, but it sounds like they're wearing out. I was too, to be honest. For all their practice, those four repeated bars could still use some tightening. But to be fair, twelve-year-olds in constant motion on an uneven surface might find it difficult to keep time with their snare drums and trumpets. Later, I aimed lower in the town, to see what was to be seen, which was an urban landscape that does not remotely exist in North America.

Monday, April 1

Today I more or less retraced yesterday's high road and gave it a finer sifting. The cathedral is still closed, to my great disappointment. There are austere pointed arches in there. I found the ascent path to the adjacent knob, and examined the stone foundations up there that I'd seen yesterday from Castello Luna. Knobs on another ridge near the cathedral had two sacrificial altars, stone relics of prechristian peoples. Lacking an ox, I laid down a euro coin and gave thanks to the forces of Nature and Fortune for my quads, calves, and unsightly but capable buttocks, still strong at my age and able to propel me up and down the steep and lengthy streets and stairways of this mountain town. Back to the little church in the notch, to take the high road approach to the necropolis, projected yesterday from below, along a rocky ridge and through some thickets. I peer into the empty tombs, and bow to the forces of Nature and Fortune. I cut down through the greenery, gain a footpath, and ascend toward the monastery. There a young man accosts me to be sociable and exercise his English. He held forth on topics such as Dante, the Five Star movement, The Peace of the Vespers, Phillip the second, Trump (at which I made a Mussolini comparison), and the sorry state of civic affairs in Caltabellotta, about which he "desired to weep," and for a moment I thought he would. His tongue and my ear struggled about equally. After the piacere/pleased to meet you, I continued across the road, untied a gate in a fence, and ascended to a stone wall. This enclosed a cave, the home of prehistoric people, according to the young man, and later of sheep. I looked around further at the base of the crags, but saw no signs of another necropolis, of the Christian era, that the map had vaguely suggested. So back down to the road, to untie and retie the gate, and a slow meander through the maze of the town to its lower reaches, and up again at length to a break at my hotel. At twilight, I make another ascent of Castello de Conte Luna for formal leave-taking. Then down toward the lower reaches, dinner on my mind. (Sustenance has actually been a little bit of of a problem in Caltabellotta. Like all businesses, eateries are few and widely scattered, often closed, perhaps forever. There were three little stand-up places, but when open, were often packed and unapproachable. One of them I did make use of for coffee and light fare several times, but bottega crackers had had to fill the gap. So I was looking forward to splashing out on the signature artisanal place in the town, local, slow, expensive, all that. But that door in its crooked little alley, which always looked thoroughly shut when I'd passed by during the day, remained so at eight o'clock, surely dinner time. (No info but the name on the door - website perfectly active). Now that's a disappointment. But with my belt already tight, and no prospects till midday tomorrow in Palermo, I went for the tiny pizza place, always packed, down by the bus stop. Figuring out the system was balky, and at one point had to intervene when I realized that the two slices I intended were going to result in two pizzas. I revised and corrected in time, and left the voluble, standing Italians (all men) in peace and scarfed that pizza on a park bench, putting my head back in later to offer the cook a "squisito" (delicious). That oven was wood fired, by the way. And that thirteen inch pizza was four euros. I had been expecting to pay ten times that for the artisanal fare. A beer on a chair outside a little bar. Then the long, loping ape walk up, up, up through the steep maze of cobbles and stairs and arches and walls, to Casa Mule.

Tuesday, April 2

And back down again, in the dusky dawn, to meet my 7:00 o'clock bus. In due course, we are plying the greening and voluptuous breadth of Sicily. Arrive Palermo, two and a half hours. I walk to my hotel, check in and drop off my bag, and head off to the city bus stop for Monreale, a town up in the heights some thirty minutes away. Here William II, a twelfth century Norman king, really laid out the treasure and built one very spectacular cathedral, mashing up the Norman, Byzantine, and Islamic styles. It's the mosaics that particularly awe. The whole place is intricately done up. The Bible story is played out in sequence around the body of the church, episode by episode. (Rather like what the Buddhists commonly do with their story in their temples). And looming divinely up in the apse is an awesome head shot of Christ. Not the usual full body treatment of the Catholics, but very icon-like and Byzantine. My soul reeling from all this excess, I took refuge in the cloister. Yet here also was excess, with the capitol of each of one hundred plus columns a unique narrative sculpture. I ducked out and had a bit of lunch, and returned for a reprise. The crowds had thickened by this time, and at length I bused back into town. I had a look at the Chiesa di San Giovanni degli Eremiti, more blending of Norman and Arab architecture. Streets, coffee, and ultimately a return to my Sicilian grandmother's place, for another meal beyond measure. Tomorrow, I am to be beamed painlessly from planet Sicily to planet Tuscany.

Palermo 4/2

Renaissance Man

Wednesday, April 3

I have time for a final taste of Palermo. So, to the cathedral, to creep about in the crypt, full of grave sarcophagi, the "treasury", a room full of precious metal and gem art, crowns and monstrances and such, including the radius and ulna of Saint Anne, enclosed in a cut away silver gauntlet. The remains of the twelfth century Norman monarchs were boxed up in huge wooden sarcophagi just off the nave. Quite a crowd, by the way, here and on the streets. Tourism is up a couple of notches since I first passed through Palermo. I took in a few more religious edifices, and then to pick my bag, bus to the airport, and fly away. Slipping under the clouds, Florence lies flat along the Arno, the famed dome the obvious centerpiece. Arrive Florence. Shuttle bus to the central transport hub. Only a couple of blocks to my hotel, and a couple more to the great plaza fronting the cathedral and its dome. It is strikingly immense. So are the crowds. I walk around, get oriented, wine and dine myself, and call it a day.

Thursday, April 4

There's a lot to do here in Florence, and much more to leave undone. Out for coffee and cornetto, and to note practicalities in my neighborhood, and to form a strategy for my touristic pillage. I find the Academia, a museum whose star is Michelangelo's David, and am wowed by the length of the line of people down the street. The dome is similarly besieged. As is the great, world class art museum, the Uffizi. In these hot spots, three quarters of the human mass are school groups and tour groups. Sure, I was expecting industrial tourism, but to actually lay eyes on the sheer tonnage of human flesh left me with a sinking feeling as I gazed over the Arno and pondered my prospects. But I am a humanist , and will rally. I mellow out some on the far side of the river. Studies in my hotel as I wait out a bit of rain. Then out for further looking around, info gathering, strategizing, and the purchase of a ticket that should get me into the Uffizi in the morning in the first time slot, without the huge line. The rain starts up in earnest, and sends me into an alcove with other refugees, and into the Chiesa Della Badia Fiorentina, a prayerful place with a fantastically carved wooden ceiling. The rain eased enough for a wetting rather than a soaking as I made a dash to my hotel, through an ocean of umbrellas, trying not to spear an eye on an umbrella rib. The African umbrellamongers were in heaven. I hunkered down in my hotel, waiting for the rain to let up, which never really happened. This put a damper on my quest for dinner, but the quest was completed, and on my walk home, the rain glistened most beautifully on the cobbled streets of.... Florence.

Friday, April 5

With my prebooked ticket I get myself into the short line and into the Uffizi at opening. I gird my loins to confront the masters. The order is chronological, gothic to 18th century. Foreigners are represented, but the focus is on the Italian renaissance. It's pretty much painting, but Roman sculpture is lined up throughout, to make the connection with the renaissance muse. Recognizable items would pop out from time to time, to my delight. Notable masters included Velasquez, Goya, Caravaggio, Raphael, Rembrandt, etc. The most Leonardo-like of the Leonardos was a large, unfinished work, half sketched and showing the plan. Lucas Cranach the Elder's Adam and Eve were present, and moved me. I've always been fond of Eve, especially Lucas Cranach the Elder's Eve. At one point, I spotted watery eyes and weird flesh, and said "El Greco!", but this turned out to be a copy of something he did by one of his students. Could have fooled me. There was a whole room with eleven Titian paintings. His sexy Venus of Urbino was a big hit with the crowd. The highlight of the day was the Botticelli room. When I stood before The Birth of Venus, there in the flesh, I must say, people, I started to lose it. And then, with the Primavera, I really went to pieces. The authorities carried me away. Upon my recovery, I continued, through many a master. At the end of the galleries, I turned around for a quick reverse reprise (the crowd increasing, but fortunately manageable), and around again, to say my goodbyes. Six hours, and with periodic sit downs and lower back stretches, I managed my museum fatigue pretty well. A panini and beer, and I'm a new man, yea, a renaissance man. The rest of the day devoted to long walks of observation, people watching (there was a big supply), religious edifices and piazzas. My waiter comped me a grappa. That hit the spot.

Saturday, April 6

After my morning coffee and brioche (the cornetto is so named in the north, I learn), I step over to the cathedral to see what the line looks like right before opening. Four abreast and off in the distance. In the numerous times I'd passed by so far in Florence, I never observed that perpetual line to move. So I reset my desires and will leave the immensity of the dome ungawked at from the inside. And so with other particular hot spots of interest. Florence is abundant, and I shall not go hungry. And oceanic crowds of international tourists are kind of fun to bob around in, in a slightly seasicky way, as long as you don't fight the current, and keep it short. So, after refreshing at the laundromat, there were many streets and piazzas, with highlights: Basilica di San Lorenzo, with two elaborate bronze pulpits by Donatello, who died in the effort. His bones are under the floor in the crypt. Basilica di Santa Maria Novella, huge, great paintings and frescos, stained glass, expensive altar, nice cloisters, and many very old dead in the walls and floor. Chiesa di Ognissanti, great ceiling fresco with tricky perspective, and to my surprise and delight , the bones of Botticelli under the floor, to which I bowed in respect and gratitude. The Chiesa di Apostoli e Biagio, old, with pleasingly simple architecture. I pass again through the Piazza della Signoria to glut myself with monumental crowds and statuary. Other churches revisited, or closed and gawped at from outside. I cross a bridge over the Arno and join the stream of pilgrims, ascending the stairs, through the old city wall, up to the plaza of the Basilica di San Miniato al Monte, for views of Florence in the slanting rays, and touristic devotions.

Sunday, April 7

The time has come to step away from fun city and take my planned day trip to Livorno (or Leghorn, as it is wackily known in English). An easy trip by train, an hour and a quarter. Livorno appeals as a port town, not well touristed, and particularly for its small network of canals. That neighborhood is known as Venezia Piccolo, little Venice. I suspected that Lonely Planet overstated when they touted the place as delightfully atmospheric, and that Rough Guide understated when they dismissed the town as a mere ferry terminal. My mama bear instinct came through. The canal zone, and town generally, was of mild interest. And delightfully soporific after the frenzy of Florence. I had a look at the harbor (gigantic ferries docked), a few churches, the crumbling old fort, and the crumbling new fort, with a pleasant park inside. I'd thought I'd spend the day, but the charms of Livorno were quickly consumed, and I rethought my previous dismissing of any crazy thought of going to Pisa. What, to gawk at you know what? One needs three or four hours to stake a mild claim at seeing a town. Well, I had that, and not only was the train perfectly convenient, it actually passes through Pisa on the way to Livorno, which I had not expected. So then, the thirty minute walk from the old center back to the station, and the twenty minute ride to Pisa. I aim north from the train station. I cross a bridge over the Arno, which is quite beset with beautiful people. Though I kept a general direction, I deliberately let myself get a little lost, so as to add an element of surprise to my discovery of.....that familiar tower, leaning over the top of yonder building. I approach, fearing the mob, but after Florence, the scene turned out to be quite moderate. Still crazy enough, though. The cell phones were out, with people posing for the de rigeur push over or hold up trick shot. I photographed their antics, for the sake of meta irony. The tower is gorgeous, of course, as is the cathedral, with great art and a divinely carved pulpit. I walked lively streets and deserted capillaries as I meandered toward the train station. Stopped into a church / I passed along the way / Well, I got down on my knees..... And had a beer and paused on the bridge over the Arno in the slanting rays. Pisa is a great looking town, and I'm glad I stopped. Back to Florence, where I wine and dine. Next stop, Gubbio, in Umbria.

Florence 4/7

Middle Ages

Monday, April 8

I packed up and left my bag with my kind landlady, and made one last hopeless gesture at getting into the cathedral. Forty-five minutes before they open the doors, and a good three hundred were lined up. Hindsight informs me that I would have done well to not have gotten hung up trying to distinguish between the free cathedral and the pricey, time managed, yet still always lined up dome, (I never did get this figured out - isn't it one interior space?), and simply gotten a ticket and time slot when I first arrived in Florence. For the record, this morning the dome was booked for two days out. Oh well, it would have been sublime to stand agape with the horde of my fellow pilgrims under the immensity of the dome. Let us be thankful for google images. But do come to Florence. I recommend the shoulder season, that is, the last week of January. To the train station for what turned out to be an almost two hour wait. I was relying on luck, unsuccessfully this time, to fit me more quickly into an eight per day schedule. So I strolled around the station and lingered over a breakfast. At length, train to Perugia, city bus from train station to bus station, bus to Gubbio, through very lovely landscapes. The modern outskirts of Gubbio were unpromising, as modern outskirts always are, but staring out from the flank of the hill above were the stony faces of the buildings of an old, old town. The bus drops me off, and I meander quickly enough up to my hotel. Hotel Gattapone is an absolute gem. I'm high up in a corner with windows opening to the south and west, overlooking the roof tiles of the town. Out for an introductory stroll. Gubbio has the stark, austere look of a medieval town. Because it is one.

Tuesday, April 9

The Hotel Gattapone puts on a great breakfast. So I find myself well fed first thing in the morning, a first on this trip. Out to trace the town, its streets and passages, its churches and old public buildings, its imposing wall with its arched portals, the Roman theater outside the old town. Now, it always behooves a guy to emulate the crow, and seek the highest point. And if it can be done in a cage-like bucket on a ski lift thing, great. The system was running, though lacking customers, so up I went, to the top of the mountain that presides over Gubbio. Astounding views, of course, and a nice swing in the breeze. The basilica up there has the incorruptible body of the town's twelfth century bishop and current saint, Saint Ubaldo, displayed sleepily (and plenty corrupt, if you ask me) in a glass coffin on the altar. He's said to lack a few digits though, which I imagine were dispersed to reliquaries elsewhere. Back down to town in the bucket. I meander the town, marveling at its solidity, antiquity, mass, and verticality. One wonders at the scaffolding and cranes it took to build it all so high, the labor, the laborers lost to accident, what could possibly be holding up the floors, or the whole buildings after six or nine centuries. The whole place is pleasingly grim, gloomy and severe, well befitting my inmost soul. Let's hand it over to Hermann Hesse, quoted on a sign, which faintly reminded me that he had a connection to this place: “The magnificent, almost reckless daring of this architecture creates an absolutely astonishing effect and has something incredible and disquieting about it. One seems to be dreaming or to be looking at the set of a theatrical performance and one has to constantly remind oneself that it really is all there, permanent and fixed in stone.... Path upon path invited me on, all steep and silent...I slowly began to climb and soon I was offered the view over the wide and fertile valley....”. I had my heart set on returning to last nights interesting, intimate, and inexpensive dinner venue, but Tuesday turned out to be its day off. So I found another spot, with a cheap enough pizza menu, never mind the white tablecloths. About that pizza: though imperfect, it embodied truth; idiosyncratic, yet archetypical; untamed, wild, even beastly, yet refined and cultured. That pizza was expansive, boundless, reaching.... And then, there was the wine.....

Wednesday, April 10

Further sifting of the streets of Gubbio. I spend some time in the greatest edifice of the town, the enormous Palazzo di Consoli, where the fourteenth century notables held their councils. Presently it houses a museum, the centerpiece of which are the seven bronze tablets which constitute the whole of ancient Umbrian literature, detailing their religious rites. The helpful Romans and Etruscans lent their alphabets for the project, as they wished to impress the illiterate Umbrians. I also visited the duke's palace, to see how a duke lived, which was spaciously. I made another visit to the mountaintop, again by way of cable and bucket, to climb past the basilica to the crumbling fortress at the very top. (I'd somehow neglected to be aware of this place yesterday). The views were sublime, especially to the east and a higher strand of the Apennines. Back down in the bucket, and through streets, seeking, and finding easily enough, a midday slice and a tap beer. A pause in my hotel, extended when a bit of rain commenced. Waiting it out was not working, and at length impatience drove me out into a light drizzle. Gubbio is a nice town to be rained on, as its architecture of arches and alcoves offers plenty of opportunities for shelter. Up past the cathedral and the duke's palace, and through the highest of the six portals in the wall that encircles the old town. This is the back edge of the town, higher up on the forested mountain slope. I followed the wall on the outside, admired its ever vigilant watchtowers, and bowed to it impenetrability. The path ultimately veered away from town and followed a deep mountain crease. I turned back, passed again through the archway of the gate, and followed the wall inside, through some peaceful, dripping parkland, and down into the looming, stony faces of these fantastic medieval houses. The portal in this neighborhood still has its centuries old heavy wooden doors (locked open for the one way traffic) with peephole and the old iron hardware. I stop in Monday's place for more local delicacies. Walking homeward, I'm a bit damp, but don't mind, as the streets are glistening. Tomorrow, back to where all roads lead.

Gubbio 4/10

Veni Vidi Vici

Thursday, April 11

I was lying awake when I counted the six low bells, three high bells for 6:45. Off with my alarm, set for 6:50. Shower, assemble, and I step down and out of the old town, past the Roman theater, to what I had before carefully concluded was the bus stop. It was not. But the conflicting info and misunderstandings and running around washed out in the end, and I made my way back to Perugia. City bus to train station, thence through fertile, springing landscapes, with lots of tunnels through the topography, to Rome's cavernous Termini train station. Two blocks to Hotel Ferrari. I encamp. Out to sack and pillage. I tried to aim straight for the Vatican to time my walk and reconnoiter for tomorrow's agenda, but I'll be hanged if that road didn't lead me straight to the forum. I corrected course, but was delayed by a bout of rain. I sheltered in a doorway a while. The moment called for coffee, of course, so I splashed and dashed to meet this moment. Upon tipping back the last drops, the rain miraculously stopped. At length, the Vatican, where the motherly arms of the elliptical colonnade enfolded me unto the bosom of the Church. (Vatican City counts, so my score is now twenty-one countries). A sea of chairs were set up and roped off for Palm Sunday, so I was not able to stand at one of the foci and see the four rows of columns as one. With crowds, lines, security, and ticket fussing, getting into Saint Peter's Basilica sank on my priority list. I noted the approach to the Vatican Museums for tomorrow, but figuring out how to actually make my entry happen will have to wait till then. I aim then for the Colosseum and Forum for more reconnoitering and strategizing. This purpose was delayed by more rain, persistent this time. I surrendered and went for an early dinner under the awning and heat lamp off the Campo di Flori. When the rain let up, I did make it to the area of the Forum and got a good look around at the bones of Ancient Rome. Further wandering got me lost around the Quirinale Hill. And dampened with rain.

Friday, April 12

I made haste, on the straight and narrow, to the Vatican Museums. As with everything back in Florence, there was a lot of rigmarole involving tickets, long lines, shorter prearranged lines, combo deals, etc., with nothing particularly clear. The upshot is that I let myself be touted by one of the many private tour companies into filling what I imagine is their quota. I paid the lesser of two offered prices, skipping the group tour with the guide, but getting ushered in through the short line. At last, at large in another of the world's great museums. There were the Egyptians, Etruscans, lots of classical and renaissance sculpture, and many masters of painting. The climax was the pass through one of the great locuses of western culture, and of mass tourism, the Sistine Chapel. I become one with the mass shuffling in. The rule was silence, which was never remotely achieved, though the rising mutterings of the crowd would be suppressed with a periodic, amplified " silence, please, silencio ". Photos also prohibited, and the guards were right on people who could not face the reality of this place without the mediation of a smart phone. The tension was palpable. I stood standing and agape with my brothers and sisters, and found a place to sit on the margins a while, and let my eye linger on the ceiling panels, most especially on good old God and Adam up there. Botticelli did one of the side panels, I forget on what theme, with those blessed Botticelli faces. Michelangelo's Last Judgement soaked up a lot of scrutiny. There was the loving Christ, gesturing the risen dead up into heaven, while he cast the unsaved down into the flames of eternal hell. Now, that's a bone I've got to pick with this religion. (One of several bones, actually). At four and a half hours, I yielded to museum fatigue, and made my way out to Saint Peter's square, to sit on the base of one of the columns, stretching my back with my head between my knees, in a posture that could be mistaken for prayer, but may as well have been, as that place was pretty cool. I set my course through the Trastevere neighborhood, gentrified, lively in a sidewalk cafe sense, with rather less in the way of hubbub than Rome so far. Like the crow, I ascend to the highest point, Gianicolo Hill, ruled by an enormous Garibaldi on his horse, for a comprehensive view of the eternal city. Down and across the Tiber, to soak up the core of ancient Rome and its tourist scene. I thought I'd form a plan for managing the logistics of getting into the Colosseum and forum for tomorrow, but I couldn't figure it out conclusively, and will wing it. Further rain curtails further wandering.

Saturday, April 13

I got down to the Colosseum early, and despairing of figuring anything out or seeing the lines move, I again let myself be touted into being ushered in in the short line. This time, though, I stuck with the tour , which was a good thing, for conviviality and info. First Lydia walked and talked our group of ten around the Colosseum, locus of blood and propaganda. At length she released us to wander at will, and ultimately to meet up with David, who would usher us into the Palentine Hill, orient us, deliver an informative and imaginative lecture, and set us free. This group was fifty. Seeing the hordes, it would have been madness to attempt this in the no-tour line. At large, I trace the footsteps of the emperors and upper crust through this, their residential neighborhood, and spending quite a bit of time hunkered in the rain shadows of their crumbling architecture. Down to the navel of the western world, the Forum (one touristic space with the Palentine Hill). This was once the greatest of all public meeting spots. It still is. I stroll with the hordes, and scrutinize the inscrutable infrastructure of our esteemed ancestors. Here is the pile of bricks from which Anthony delivered his post-Caesar speech. There the great edifice in which the Senate deliberated. And yonder where the Vestal Virgins kept the fire burning. And more. You had to be there. Eight hours before I conceded to antiquity fatigue. I hit the streets and this time got good and drenched before I made it back to my hotel. A good time to go around the corner and get my laundry done.

Palm Sunday, April 14

Here are the highlights of a day of marching like a legionnaire through the streets of Rome: I attend the public event of the day, a great happening in Saint Peter's Square. The song and pageantry were underway when I joined the large, but not crushing, crowd. The cardinals lined up and shuffled through the flock, waving palm fronds meaningfully. (The people themselves clutched olive branches from vendors, palm fronds being in short supply in central Italy). A choir moaned some joyful ponderousness. The pageantry was all so solemn and moving that even the most secular of secular humanists would find themselves just going all to pieces. The pope was approached, bowed to, hand kissed, all that. (All this televised and displayed for the crowd). He intoned something out of the scripture held before him, but I left before the big speech. Now a long walk to the Tesstaccio neighborhood. (Got lost, got rained on ). I visited my old pals Keats and Shelley in the non-Catholic cemetery there. Keats is in the absolute corner of the grounds. I never had the privacy to intone a few of his lines that I thought apt, but I laid a plucked clover flower next to the snail crawling up his stone. His faithful friend, the painter Severn, who kept him company as he dwindled, is next to him. Severn outlived Keats by sixty years, and those death dates make for an ironic pairing. Shelley is up under a bit of Roman wall. Or what little bit of Shelley was scraped out of the fire pit after his friends burned up his nibbled at corpse after it washed up on the beach near Leghorn. His faithful friend Trelawny is next to him. (Google up Trelawny's account of the end of Shelley. It's pretty good). I wandered around mellow and intimate Testaccio awhile and got rained on to boot. Had a cup of coffee to make it stop. Since Testaccio was a bit far afield, I took the metro for the first and only time in Rome, and thus got recentered. Thence to Basilica di San Giovanni in Laterano. This grand religious edifice is the official cathedral of Rome and the pope's seat as its bishop. Colossal statues of the apostles in dramatic poses line the nave. Peter and Paul's noggins (or parts of them - I never got that clear) are stored in some sort of golden containers above the altar. This cathedral has the towering bronze doors that were originally of the Curia, the senate building in the forum. (Looking at those fabled doors, and thinking of Lyndsey Graham passing through....urk - though the Romans undoubtedly had their stinkers too). Much pavement pounding, up and over the Quirinale Hill, to the Convento dei Cappuccini. This old church and monastery has six or so small crypts, the walls, ceilings, and arches of which an artistic, eighteenth century Cappucinni monk decorated with the bones of 3700 of his departed brothers. Ribs and clavicles make for the scroll work, vertebrae the beadwork, long bones for lines and stacks, pelvises and scapulas for florid effects, skulls for focal points, and to form a closer link to us the living, a few mummified monks lying in the niches, dressed in their habits. The artist had a theme going of transience and redemption. The crypts were introduced with these soothing words: "What you are now, we once were. What we are now, you will be." I'm on board with that. I was ready for a few more streets and sights and piazzas, but the sky threatened , and I turned for my hotel, hoping to avoid the soaking I got yesterday. I got only half soaked. (With all this rain, you'd think that I'd yield to the offers of the umbrellamongers. But with a perfectly good travel umbrella, left at home in my passion for light travel, well, I'd rather be wet than galled). I opened the window of my humble, fifth floor hotel in a gritty, train station neighborhood, and let the storm dwindle to floaters. Then out, and around to the back side of the enormous train station, to the hitherto unexplored San Lorenzo neighborhood, determined to have a non-tourist friendly dinner. I found a Sardinian place, and had a great antipasto plate and the dumplings.

Monday, April 15

Around the block to the train station, where I figure out at length that the train to the airport was not running. (A fire or something). So, we scads of airport bound people are directed towards buses, which will push us through Rome's traffic in twice the time. I had an adequate margin, but still, this is why one should never rely on double ample time, but really go for triple ample time. There were further inconvenient conveniences regarding check-in, but never mind. I fly away to Toronto, thence to......

There's a lot to say about Italy that has escaped the rushed nose-to-the-iPad-I-did-this-I-saw-that format of this blog. I could write you an essay just on the domestic arrangements of the street people inhabiting the thunderous underpass under the train station in Rome. But the takeaway is the ubiquity and sheer accumulated weight of all this man made beauty. The art, the craft, the labor, the resources, the devotion, and the will behind all this building and sculpting and painting is truly awe inspiring. It made me love Italy, and the Italians past and present. And I was humbled and flattered, and took it as a feather in my cap, that I was, on five or six occasions on this trip, mistaken for an Italian.

Minneapolis Saint Paul International Airport 4/15

Expenses

No foreign transaction or ATM fees, thanks to the new Schwab account.