(courtney)
Venice is a lagooooon. it’s not a beach, it’s a lagoooon. That’s what a bitter new york lady in a restaurant informed us just as I was picturing my aqua naturale respite from the firenze heat. She was right, though, and it was good to know it—Venice is steamy humid hot. But of all the places we’ve been, this is the one I can best picture myself staying—it’s just so weird, I want to be a part of it. In every other place, the tourists seem out of place, like we’re not supposed to see them—we all point our cameras above the baseball hats and other cameras so we can just have our iconic photo of the Pieta. But in Venice, the tourists are Venice. We all bottleneck through the alleys together (I swear the district of Venice only pays their cartographers with bottles of wine because these maps are confusing). There seems to be no unsafe zone. Just when you feel you’ve reached a sketchy area, you turn a corner and voila there is the piazza of such and such with the chiase of santo who-who and the tourists mingling and slurping their cokes.
And did you know the city of Venice is engulfed in water? I feel like I should tell someone, like the Pope or someone. It seems like a mistake. Does someone know that sludgy toxic murky greeeeen water is sloshing around on bricks and wood and spreading mold and algae and slime? I’ve only ever seen water surrounding buildings by flood, by some dramatic act of destructive nature—but here, it supposedly was intentional—the water came first, and then some rich people thought it might be an absurdly rich gesture to defy nature and build their palaces so that they could step out onto their boats and never have to use a horse.
As a tourist site, though, it is a very bad idea for those with carriages and wheelchairs: you have to maneuver narrow alleys and steps that go up-over-down-across the canals. My knees hurt by the end of the day today. And while Venice is certainly romantic, it isn’t my first thought of it. Traveling on the expensive water-bus that took us to our hotel, I just felt sorry for the buildings. The mortar between bricks is wearing away. Sculptures are losing their angles. Algae everywhere. It is impossible to keep all the lead-based paint adhered to its shutters and walls. Apparently there is a chemical plant not far from Venice and the levels of toxic something or other are 50 times what they should be. Look in the static water and feel it in the air that feels like static water—this place needs a detox. The waters rise a quarter-inch a year, and in January certain areas flood altogether. The tourists looked unhappy today with their vendor-bought parasols and bottled water, all without shade (the shade was on the other side of the canal and you have to pay 50 cents to cross). Our necks and scalps are singed like red Murano glass. Close the Venetian blinds.
mercoledì 18 luglio 2007
From Day One
(Steve)
After the Medias Res post I left yesterday, here is one from day one, newly dictated in slow type.
We left Detroit Metro yesterday at 7pm and have arrived here in our hotel in Rome at 5:30 pm. 22.5 hrs, minus the 6 we lost to time zone shrinkage. Night lasted all of three, maybe four hours tops, hard to tell exactly in that timeless spaceless sleepless restless emplaned state.
It was an exercise in gritty greasy bleary endurance, sandwiched first between C and an 80 year old Greek who thanked me for all my help when we reached land again (I buckled him, dejacketed him, opened his crackers, etc. In exchange, he gave me his brownie and yogurt. Easily favored on my side, those brownies were the bomb.)
It was 12 hours from the D to Amsterdam, but 13 ½ because of an hour and a half spent on the tarmac in Detroit waiting for the engine to start and the air conditioner to cool. The unease of which, 22.5 hours later, all showered with the air conditioner on lying on the bed in our cozy little room here in Rome, seems quite unreal. Years past. Another life.
My first thought laying over in Amsterdam: I have never seen so many blondes all in one place.* World travelers savvy enough to trot a globe will know this well enough but I am just seeing it for the first time now, how cultures desperate for a change will engage in romantic arbitrage. Italians will pay dearly for a blonde mate whereas in Scandinavia they are a dime a dozen.
The last four hours of the ride was easier. I slept two hours at least.
We came out of the gate in Rome, changed $200 US into Euros, and walked through customs. Just like that. One minute at the change stand, the next at the door to the street. No lines, no gates, no tough guys with x-ray analytical gifts. Just one guy, a little off to the side of a bottleneck, and he didn’t even look at us, or I didn’t notice he did, looking as I was for the real customs officers.
And then out into a big gallery and the exit doors and we stopped to pull out the hotel info to give to the cab driver and a man walked up and in reasonable enough English asked us did we need a cab. "Sure" we said and shrugged at each other. He smiled a warm smile and he was handsome and well dressed in beige and white linen, shirt and pants irrespectively. We told him where we were going and he looked up and scanned the heavens and came back to us and said “35 Euros” and we shrugged again and said "Okay."
So out the doors we went, him leading the way and looking back every thirty seconds to ask us a friendly question and then I saw to the right the line of official taxis and I looked at Courtney and I said “Do you just want to ask them how much it will cost?” and she said “No” and then I said “Are we really going with this guy?” and she said “Yeah, as long as he has a real taxi.” and I said “I don’t think he’s gonna.” and then he swung off the sidewalk into the parking lot to open the back of a tan station wagon (to match the linen) and I took a look at it and then looked at him standing there under the open wagon back and said “No, nevermind." and waved my hands in front of me and we crossed back over the lane into the line for the taxis. He had been polite about it, understood immediately. Courtney looked back over her shoulder and said she saw him arguing with someone at the car.
Thirty seconds later two men approached us, one flashed a badge. I thought we were busted for somehow skipping the customs line. He asked me in surprisingly good English if the man had offered to drive us. Yes, I said, relieved that it was someone else who was in trouble, ready to testify to anything. “How much did he say it would cost?” I told him. “Can I see your passport?” and he took it and gave it to the other cop and said “These are gypsies, not official taxis. Not safe, and not licensed. He will bring this right back.” and the other walked away. Courtney said “Wait.” but he said “It’s alright, he is a policeman.” Courtney had read never ever ever give up your passport to anyone. We watched helplessly as my passport, more valuable than I can’t even say how many thousands of dollars, my virtually irreplaceable passport, walked across the parking lot toward this man that we now knew was a criminal. They could have all been in cahoots and all it would have taken was a shiny little cracker jack parmalat badge and a lot of guts.
I sat there with Courtney. We sat there, we two. And I said, "How I wish we had something to do!" My eyes glued to the man with my docs, and a few minutes later he walked back over and handed them to me. We thanked him for what I don't know. The other stood next to the gypsy, writing out a ticket.
We got in an official cab. "Capische L’Inglese?" "NO." OK, and I showed him the name and address of the hotel. He took off.
We whipped past the sane two right lanes at 140 KPH plus, This was my kind of driver, fielding and placing calls on two cell phones and taking notes on a pad of paper while driving, owning the left lane, pushing other drivers into the right two.
I thought Boston was homicidal. In Rome, they measure “that was a close one” in centimeters, not inches. But every moment of it was graceful, a mechanical ballet, objective, understood, emotionless. Similarly on the sidewalks: In spacious Ann Arbor a nudge feels deliberate, but in the jungle I will gladly give up my most personal space because there I nothing personal in someone taking it. Egotistical maybe, but personal no. Same on these streets. It is just survival. Impersonal and cold and welcome.
The cab ride was $58 Euros. That’s pretty much $80. Eighty dollars! I think he took us for a ride.** He handed us our bags and I gave him the money and said “That was quite a ride.” And he thanked me and smiled.
* My most recent thought in Italy: I haven’t seen a blonde in days.
** I later asked the concierge, and yes, he took us on an extra tour.
After the Medias Res post I left yesterday, here is one from day one, newly dictated in slow type.
We left Detroit Metro yesterday at 7pm and have arrived here in our hotel in Rome at 5:30 pm. 22.5 hrs, minus the 6 we lost to time zone shrinkage. Night lasted all of three, maybe four hours tops, hard to tell exactly in that timeless spaceless sleepless restless emplaned state.
It was an exercise in gritty greasy bleary endurance, sandwiched first between C and an 80 year old Greek who thanked me for all my help when we reached land again (I buckled him, dejacketed him, opened his crackers, etc. In exchange, he gave me his brownie and yogurt. Easily favored on my side, those brownies were the bomb.)
It was 12 hours from the D to Amsterdam, but 13 ½ because of an hour and a half spent on the tarmac in Detroit waiting for the engine to start and the air conditioner to cool. The unease of which, 22.5 hours later, all showered with the air conditioner on lying on the bed in our cozy little room here in Rome, seems quite unreal. Years past. Another life.
My first thought laying over in Amsterdam: I have never seen so many blondes all in one place.* World travelers savvy enough to trot a globe will know this well enough but I am just seeing it for the first time now, how cultures desperate for a change will engage in romantic arbitrage. Italians will pay dearly for a blonde mate whereas in Scandinavia they are a dime a dozen.
The last four hours of the ride was easier. I slept two hours at least.
We came out of the gate in Rome, changed $200 US into Euros, and walked through customs. Just like that. One minute at the change stand, the next at the door to the street. No lines, no gates, no tough guys with x-ray analytical gifts. Just one guy, a little off to the side of a bottleneck, and he didn’t even look at us, or I didn’t notice he did, looking as I was for the real customs officers.
And then out into a big gallery and the exit doors and we stopped to pull out the hotel info to give to the cab driver and a man walked up and in reasonable enough English asked us did we need a cab. "Sure" we said and shrugged at each other. He smiled a warm smile and he was handsome and well dressed in beige and white linen, shirt and pants irrespectively. We told him where we were going and he looked up and scanned the heavens and came back to us and said “35 Euros” and we shrugged again and said "Okay."
So out the doors we went, him leading the way and looking back every thirty seconds to ask us a friendly question and then I saw to the right the line of official taxis and I looked at Courtney and I said “Do you just want to ask them how much it will cost?” and she said “No” and then I said “Are we really going with this guy?” and she said “Yeah, as long as he has a real taxi.” and I said “I don’t think he’s gonna.” and then he swung off the sidewalk into the parking lot to open the back of a tan station wagon (to match the linen) and I took a look at it and then looked at him standing there under the open wagon back and said “No, nevermind." and waved my hands in front of me and we crossed back over the lane into the line for the taxis. He had been polite about it, understood immediately. Courtney looked back over her shoulder and said she saw him arguing with someone at the car.
Thirty seconds later two men approached us, one flashed a badge. I thought we were busted for somehow skipping the customs line. He asked me in surprisingly good English if the man had offered to drive us. Yes, I said, relieved that it was someone else who was in trouble, ready to testify to anything. “How much did he say it would cost?” I told him. “Can I see your passport?” and he took it and gave it to the other cop and said “These are gypsies, not official taxis. Not safe, and not licensed. He will bring this right back.” and the other walked away. Courtney said “Wait.” but he said “It’s alright, he is a policeman.” Courtney had read never ever ever give up your passport to anyone. We watched helplessly as my passport, more valuable than I can’t even say how many thousands of dollars, my virtually irreplaceable passport, walked across the parking lot toward this man that we now knew was a criminal. They could have all been in cahoots and all it would have taken was a shiny little cracker jack parmalat badge and a lot of guts.
I sat there with Courtney. We sat there, we two. And I said, "How I wish we had something to do!" My eyes glued to the man with my docs, and a few minutes later he walked back over and handed them to me. We thanked him for what I don't know. The other stood next to the gypsy, writing out a ticket.
We got in an official cab. "Capische L’Inglese?" "NO." OK, and I showed him the name and address of the hotel. He took off.
We whipped past the sane two right lanes at 140 KPH plus, This was my kind of driver, fielding and placing calls on two cell phones and taking notes on a pad of paper while driving, owning the left lane, pushing other drivers into the right two.
I thought Boston was homicidal. In Rome, they measure “that was a close one” in centimeters, not inches. But every moment of it was graceful, a mechanical ballet, objective, understood, emotionless. Similarly on the sidewalks: In spacious Ann Arbor a nudge feels deliberate, but in the jungle I will gladly give up my most personal space because there I nothing personal in someone taking it. Egotistical maybe, but personal no. Same on these streets. It is just survival. Impersonal and cold and welcome.
The cab ride was $58 Euros. That’s pretty much $80. Eighty dollars! I think he took us for a ride.** He handed us our bags and I gave him the money and said “That was quite a ride.” And he thanked me and smiled.
* My most recent thought in Italy: I haven’t seen a blonde in days.
** I later asked the concierge, and yes, he took us on an extra tour.
Firenze e Venenzia
we bought something we thought was detergent, but now all our clothes are blue.
venice has really cool glass.
stefano looks like a priest.
why we are burned out on lines, or, a 2 hour queue for a 45-minute Uffizi.
we walked up 414 stairs to prepare for the appalachian trail, but when we got to the top i had my first ever severe case of vertigo and i had to clutch the walls of the tower.
we know now why the italians discovered chiaroscuro--the shadows here are sharp, the contrasts stark.
classic girl and bicycle, earth with red and blue plaid. they have not yet discovered mountain bikes here--all the bike wheels look so flimsy, but they make it across all the cobblestones.
venice has really cool glass.
stefano looks like a priest.
why we are burned out on lines, or, a 2 hour queue for a 45-minute Uffizi.
we walked up 414 stairs to prepare for the appalachian trail, but when we got to the top i had my first ever severe case of vertigo and i had to clutch the walls of the tower.
we know now why the italians discovered chiaroscuro--the shadows here are sharp, the contrasts stark.
classic girl and bicycle, earth with red and blue plaid. they have not yet discovered mountain bikes here--all the bike wheels look so flimsy, but they make it across all the cobblestones.
martedì 17 luglio 2007
Slow Food
(Steve)
Our last night in Florence we ate at the only place so far that had required a reservation. We had been there the night before but the first thing they asked was do we have a reservation, and we said no and they said ‘Ask the woman with the red hair.’ We looked around the corner but only saw an old man in a white chef's coat and white pants and a white apron with long white hair beneath a white chef’s cap. He was 75 at least, a wizard, and he asked did we have a reservation and we said no and then the woman with the red hair entered and asked did we have a reservation and we said no and she said 10pm. It was only 8 or so then (everyone eats dinner here at 8 or 9pm. Just tonight even, I saw someone stuffing spaghetti and chicken into their mouth at 11pm) and we were hungry so moved on but made a reservation for the next night.
“La Giostra” it was called, because it used to be a closet for a carousel. Somewhere in the timbers above you can find the notch where the top of the pole was secured. Check it, homies: http://www.ristorantelagiostra.com
There was a page and half handwritten welcome letter from the wizard, who turned out to be a Prince, in the menu, first in English, then in Italian, about childhood memories brought back by scents and tastes, and the magic that infused food for him, after watching balls of dough change shape and composition when fried. Slow food, it said. Recipes handed down through generations.
We asked the waiter to recommend a wine and he asked our budget, it starts at 30 euros and goes up into….very expensive.” I named a low number and by the end of the sentence had crept up into respectability “I can recommend a very good Chianti…” Another waiter brought the wine. There was the bottle, 3 glasses, 2 large for red and one small for white, and a carafe with a long neck and a wide shallow base.
He de-corked it, and gave me the cork to smell. Smells good, I said. What do I know? He poured first into the small white glass, about half full. He picked it up and stuck his nose into it, and breathed in deep. Wow, what liberties in Europe, I thought, for the sake of good food. He held it down to the candle and looked at it in the light. Satisfied, he poured a bit into my glass. I tasted it. It was so good I forgot to tell him so. I just looked at Courtney and tasted it. How is it? she asked, after 15 or 20 seconds of rapturous silence. Worth every minute of the half hour it took to pour.
They took our orders. We decided to do it like we had seen, an appetizer, a first course, and a second course.
Then a little witch attended, short, pretty, a colt’s tooth as they call it in the Canterbury Tales and a colt’s nose too, eyeliner dark as her hair and not 5 words out of her all night. Courtney said “ her power not for good” but I didn’t know. Just black.
She brought out a large plate: “A gift from the kitchen:” (Okay 6 words if you include 'prego') a sampler of bruschetti, chicken pate, caprese, and half a dozen other things I cannot remember.
I will leave out the words that are used too too too many times in describing food in travel and food guides. So you won't hear any sumptuous or delicate or exquisites outta me. Just holy crap for the good, and jeezopeets for the bad.
The antipasti was a giant shrimp on a bed of cubed kiwi and avocado with a lemon juice over it. My primo plattie was a pappardelle with some kind of beef chunk and boar sauce. Yes, as in the wild pig. Molto Bello! Mostly just tasted like ribs. Courtney got something with artichokes and cherry tomatoes. Very good, she reported. For the secondi plattie I got grilled Calamari. Not just the deep fried squiggly tentacles we get in Gli Estati Uniti but the tentacles and the cute little bubbly bodies too. Smoky from the grill. Yum! Holy Crap! And Courtney got a plate of spinach. Fresh, it said on menu. Soaked in butter, it appeared on the plate. It was really was an act of endurance to finish. We huffed. We wiggled to make room, we sat back and did nothing, all just in the name of doing what these beautiful skinny Italians apparently do: gorge. We finished. They took the plates. Coffee, dessert (we had been admonished not to skip their fabled Tirasmisu)? “No, grazie, Il conti per favore.” No thanks, the check please, we begged. And then we proceeded to undergo a full half hour (not kidding this time) wait, 3 times asking for the check, a slow food torture called the Invisiblati, and everything beautiful that had come before it scorched and ruined. Even now only a day later I struggle to remember what it was we ate, only able to remember that jeezopeets service.
Tonight though, in Venice, we sat down in a small café, and it was 15 hot, sticky, sweet-with-uriney-effluence minutes of being forgotten after being seated, until we said “not again” and I leaned waaaaaaaaay out into the aisle and flagged down the next waiter to pass and smiled the sweet smile of the mild-mannered American. He came next with attention, passionate answers to our questions, samples of the Canal scallop, and charmed us right back into a good time. The food was okay. C’s was better than my spaghetti and scallops soaked in olive oil. Her red sauce, this time just as at Antico Noe, blew every other red sauce I have ever had, to smithereens. Truffle oil, my friends. That is the axis upon which the gustatory universe revolves.
Our last night in Florence we ate at the only place so far that had required a reservation. We had been there the night before but the first thing they asked was do we have a reservation, and we said no and they said ‘Ask the woman with the red hair.’ We looked around the corner but only saw an old man in a white chef's coat and white pants and a white apron with long white hair beneath a white chef’s cap. He was 75 at least, a wizard, and he asked did we have a reservation and we said no and then the woman with the red hair entered and asked did we have a reservation and we said no and she said 10pm. It was only 8 or so then (everyone eats dinner here at 8 or 9pm. Just tonight even, I saw someone stuffing spaghetti and chicken into their mouth at 11pm) and we were hungry so moved on but made a reservation for the next night.
“La Giostra” it was called, because it used to be a closet for a carousel. Somewhere in the timbers above you can find the notch where the top of the pole was secured. Check it, homies: http://www.ristorantelagiostra.com
There was a page and half handwritten welcome letter from the wizard, who turned out to be a Prince, in the menu, first in English, then in Italian, about childhood memories brought back by scents and tastes, and the magic that infused food for him, after watching balls of dough change shape and composition when fried. Slow food, it said. Recipes handed down through generations.
We asked the waiter to recommend a wine and he asked our budget, it starts at 30 euros and goes up into….very expensive.” I named a low number and by the end of the sentence had crept up into respectability “I can recommend a very good Chianti…” Another waiter brought the wine. There was the bottle, 3 glasses, 2 large for red and one small for white, and a carafe with a long neck and a wide shallow base.
He de-corked it, and gave me the cork to smell. Smells good, I said. What do I know? He poured first into the small white glass, about half full. He picked it up and stuck his nose into it, and breathed in deep. Wow, what liberties in Europe, I thought, for the sake of good food. He held it down to the candle and looked at it in the light. Satisfied, he poured a bit into my glass. I tasted it. It was so good I forgot to tell him so. I just looked at Courtney and tasted it. How is it? she asked, after 15 or 20 seconds of rapturous silence. Worth every minute of the half hour it took to pour.
They took our orders. We decided to do it like we had seen, an appetizer, a first course, and a second course.
Then a little witch attended, short, pretty, a colt’s tooth as they call it in the Canterbury Tales and a colt’s nose too, eyeliner dark as her hair and not 5 words out of her all night. Courtney said “ her power not for good” but I didn’t know. Just black.
She brought out a large plate: “A gift from the kitchen:” (Okay 6 words if you include 'prego') a sampler of bruschetti, chicken pate, caprese, and half a dozen other things I cannot remember.
I will leave out the words that are used too too too many times in describing food in travel and food guides. So you won't hear any sumptuous or delicate or exquisites outta me. Just holy crap for the good, and jeezopeets for the bad.
The antipasti was a giant shrimp on a bed of cubed kiwi and avocado with a lemon juice over it. My primo plattie was a pappardelle with some kind of beef chunk and boar sauce. Yes, as in the wild pig. Molto Bello! Mostly just tasted like ribs. Courtney got something with artichokes and cherry tomatoes. Very good, she reported. For the secondi plattie I got grilled Calamari. Not just the deep fried squiggly tentacles we get in Gli Estati Uniti but the tentacles and the cute little bubbly bodies too. Smoky from the grill. Yum! Holy Crap! And Courtney got a plate of spinach. Fresh, it said on menu. Soaked in butter, it appeared on the plate. It was really was an act of endurance to finish. We huffed. We wiggled to make room, we sat back and did nothing, all just in the name of doing what these beautiful skinny Italians apparently do: gorge. We finished. They took the plates. Coffee, dessert (we had been admonished not to skip their fabled Tirasmisu)? “No, grazie, Il conti per favore.” No thanks, the check please, we begged. And then we proceeded to undergo a full half hour (not kidding this time) wait, 3 times asking for the check, a slow food torture called the Invisiblati, and everything beautiful that had come before it scorched and ruined. Even now only a day later I struggle to remember what it was we ate, only able to remember that jeezopeets service.
Tonight though, in Venice, we sat down in a small café, and it was 15 hot, sticky, sweet-with-uriney-effluence minutes of being forgotten after being seated, until we said “not again” and I leaned waaaaaaaaay out into the aisle and flagged down the next waiter to pass and smiled the sweet smile of the mild-mannered American. He came next with attention, passionate answers to our questions, samples of the Canal scallop, and charmed us right back into a good time. The food was okay. C’s was better than my spaghetti and scallops soaked in olive oil. Her red sauce, this time just as at Antico Noe, blew every other red sauce I have ever had, to smithereens. Truffle oil, my friends. That is the axis upon which the gustatory universe revolves.
lunedì 16 luglio 2007
roma e firenze
our internet time is too expensive to adequately describe all these photos, sadly. but who knows what our internet will be like in venice, so we thought we should at least publish these photos now. text will soon follow.
ciao!
ciao!
Iscriviti a:
Post (Atom)