Bride Cometh Before the Fall: italy tour

Showing posts with label italy tour. Show all posts

01 September 2011

Bella Italia 5: Florence and Portofino

H and I were back on the Fi.Pi.Li highway by ten am on Tuesday, sneaking past the army forest camp in Pisa and moving back eastward - to Florence. Firenze, in Italian.

We had not planned on going to Florence, but a friend in Marseille moved our rendezvous from Tuesday to Thursday so we had one day to kill. Since we were already there, I could not, in good conscience, let H go to Tuscany without seeing Firenze.

I must admit, I had an agenda. I was here five years ago, for a day and a half, and it coincided with the day that the museums were closed. I wanted my second chance to see Boticelli's The Birth of Venus at the Uffizi, and Michaelangelo's David at the Galleria dell'Accademia. Here plainly was Hermes, god of travel, finally smiling down on me.

But the god of travel is also prankster, a cruel, sadistic bastard, because that day the lines for both museums stretched for two blocks. It was impossible to go inside both, and if we fell in line for at least one, we'd be stuck in Florence until beddy-bye time instead of Portofino, where we had planned to spend the night.

I died a little inside that day. Two unsuccessful attempts in five years! I should have known it would be next to impossible to get into the museums in the height of summer. I couldn't get why H was in good spirits.

A pogi (handsome) Manila boy

I suppose it was enough for him to have seen Florence and to confirm that it is indeed a city of unparalleled beauty. Seeing the artworks hauled by the great galleries were just the cherry on the top.

It was, after all, the birthplace of the Renaissance.

From its womb flourished great scholars, musicians, painters and sculptors.

For centuries, it was the most important city in Europe, largely due to the Medicis and their strong ties to the pope.

Not to mention their deep pockets.

Still rich and still feuding, descendants of the Medicis still hold royal titles up to this day. Their family chapel boasts of commissioned works from Michelangelo, and looks as it did centuries ago. The city itself seems no different than in the 14th century (with the exception of a few shops, which is something you would expect anyway). It seems that in Florence, they found out how to make time stand still. The world could go to rot and it will stay standing. Florence ain't going nowhere.

Which is why I am confident that in five more years, I could come back (zombie apocalypse notwithstanding) -- and see the Boticelli at last. In Firenze time, five years are but minutes.

Tragically, when we got to Piazza della Signoria, our still camera died. So I am forced to show you pictures I took with my old handy-dandy camera, the one stolen in Laos :'(

Our trip to Portofino was short, but the road going there was long. We thought we could save on gasoline by taking a little road and refueling there, but we got off the highway at the worst time, because the road branched off into the mountains. The road was longer, and so remote that there were no gasoline stations, and we feared that we would run out of gasoline before we found our way out.

Eventually, we made it to Portofino in one piece.

Portofino is a small, former fishing village in Genoa. Its one tiny street going to the port is just one designer boutique after another. And the shops don't even hold much stock (the Pucci outlet had 20 dresses at the most), they're mostly just there for show.

Instead of smelling of brine, it smells like money.

But there was a time when men hiding under white hoods would give food to the needy on that same narrow street, masking their faces so that their good deeds would remain anonymous.

Rich merchants and poor fishermen, all equal in the eyes of God.

In the 50s, expensive villas replaced the modest fishing houses -- and a new playground of the rich and famous was born. Now it's a pricey stopover for yachts in the Italian Riviera.

We camped in Genoa that evening, and met a group of Pinoys who were working and studying in Turin. It was our last night in Italy and I'd been missing our bed in Paris; but something would happen in Marseille that would keep us from home a little longer than planned.

Up Next: Marseille Away With Me

31 August 2011

Bella Italia 4: Pisa My Heart

When we were planning our trip to Italy, I wasn't shy about pushing a side-trip to Pisa specifically to see the leaning tower. "At least one tiny peek of the tower," I begged. H wanted to see the leaning tower too, but he wasn't sure if he could find the motivation to drive so far just to see a sloping belfry. In the end, curiosity got the better of him and Pisa was back in the itinerary. Yiha!

From Verona we took the Fi.Pi.Li highway and broke off a little later to drive by the small roads that wound through little Tuscan villages with their own little secret treasures.

Because we were tired and had very little time to make Pisa by daylight, we decided to skip the renaissance town, Lucca. But our detour had rewarded us with this red-bricked curio in its stead.

Sunflower fields and vineyards, hillside olive groves and overgrown cypress trees that framed modest farmhouses all glowed in the golden fire of the Tuscan sun.

And was it also the fierce sun that caused these people to become petrified, with their arms suspended in the air?

You know why.

It's the spot where Galileo purportedly experimented on free-fall acceleration. Of course it's famous! Incidentally, it leans too!

After years of wishing, I'd finally seen and made dutdot the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

It was one of the places I'd hoped to visit when I first came to Europe in '07, but I only saw the red tiled roofs and the marigold-yellow houses of the Tuscany region from the air as I jetted from Rome to Florence. All I could think when I was finally face to face with it was, "At last, at last, at last."

At last I have someone to hold the camera for me while I pose like a twit.

Hurray for marriage!

We had coffee in front of the cathedral while watching the worst ventriloquist performance on earth - and I wish we had a choice. An aging woman took a video of the ventriloquist for some reason, and the man pointed at her and called her a thief for not dropping a coin in his hat first. Sheesh.

H checking if the food is edible. This is how we decide where to eat.
Not too discreet, I know :)

It was a relief to walk around when we'd finished our drinks, so we could see some of the splendor of this old city.

Pisa is a maritime canton, providentially blessed with two intersecting rivers that empty into the Mediterranean Sea. In its prime, it was a force to be reckoned with. Its fleets controlled the Mediterranean and their bounty was used to build the impressive Piazza Del Duomo.

We were having a lovers' tiff so no one was in the mood for taking pictures when we got to the Arno. But the gothic churches were delightful, and the mostly romanesque buildings were striking to behold.

The typical Tuscan apartments were charming, too.

Before dark, we found a camping site at the Pisa marina, just behind the woods. To go to the beach, we had to pass through a posh Bali-style bar with cushions and candles in the sand.

The waves crashed violently against the breakwater. While we were changing into our swimsuits, the waiter came by and told us not to swim past the man-made cove because the sea could suck us in and spit us into the rocks.

Point well taken. It's a good thing he came over because H was in a sporty mood.

After the swim we pitched the tent and started on dinner.

I took out the stuff we bought in the supermarket that morning, after we dropped my cousin off at the office. Surprisingly, there was still some Boy Bawang left.

It was a tiring day for H; he drove from Milan to Verona to Pisa. I took a peek at the milage and we'd traveled almost 2,000 kilometers since Tuesday. I could feel the toll it was taking on him. We had been on the road for a week; and when he's not driving, he's walking with me the rest of the way. I didn't even ask him to do all of this (aside from groveling about passing by Pisa of course), he just thought it would make me happy. And if by staying happy I make him happy, then logically, wedded bliss should not be so hard to come by... but it is. It really is. Because after a year of living with him, I've realized that logic has no place in a marriage.

Thankfully, the petty argument in Pisa didn't last as long as some of our previous squabbles. After a year, we've begun to learn how to give way. I noticed that H was trying hard to work on his temper, and I was trying to be patient and understanding. I think our fights last longer than they need to because we are both too proud to relent when we get emotional. Older couples told us someday we'll be too tired to care who's right, who's wrong, and who said what in the first place.

The trees in the campsite mournfully hunched away from the sea, after a lifetime of being pushed away by cold mistrals and violent squalls. They lean just like the famous tower in Pisa, bending from its heavy load, sinking lower to the ground with each passing day... While I do think sometimes you have to give in to someone when the fight is just not worth having, I hope we'll never be too old or too tired to argue -- because when you bend, you just don't care anymore.

Up Next: Florence + The Machine

29 August 2011

Bella Italia 3: Dante, Verona, atbp.

Unlike other people, to me the name Verona doesn't conjure up the harrowing story of young love ending in death. It reminds me more of that 80s superstar, the king of death-defying stunts: Dante Varona. And when I say his name I don't just say Dante Varona as if it were just a name, I have to go Danteeeeeeee VARONA! Because dude, he's the bomb. And maybe there's still a little residue of his old movie jingle latching on hard in the dusty cobwebs littering my brain that holds a Pavlovian kind of power over me... Probably that.

But fair Verona was home to another Dante, the man whose visions of The Inferno inspired artists (my favorite is this Bouguereau from Musee d'Orsay), and led many a Christian to fear sin - or pay the church handsomely to avoid hell. He was a native of beautiful Florence; and banished for his political leanings, he ended up in Verona. During exile, he was inspired to write The Divine Comedy.

Today he still stands over Signori Square, pensively surveying the souls that mill around Palazio Cangrande, his sanctuary in Verona. His patron, Cangrande della Scala (Latin for ladder) was immortalized in Paradiso, thus:

Thine earliest refuge and thine earliest inn
Shall be the mighty Lombard's courtesy,
Who on the Ladder bears the holy bird
(Paradiso, XVII, v. 70)

The church of Santa Maria Antica

The equestrian statue of Cangrande, ruler of Verona in the 14th century, still graces many monuments here. He was a leader of such authority (some say too much, actually) and wisdom that the Veronese still look upon him for protection.

In front of the della Scala palace Castelvecchio, at the peak of tourist season, tourists look more for souvenirs instead.

Also mentioned in Dante's Divine Comedy were two prominent families, from whose fatal loins sprung forth two star-cross'd lovers who would later figure in numerous Italian plays - only to reach true immortality in the hands of an English bard.

Come and behold Montecchi and Cappelletti,
Monaldi and Fillippeschi, careless man!
Those sad already, and these doubt-depressed!
(Purgatorio VI, vv.106-108)

The legend of Giulietta e Romeo was already famous before Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet turned their cautionary tale into the most famous love story on earth. The houses of the Montecchi and Cappelletti (anglicized to Montague and Capulet) still stand seven centuries after Mercutio cursed their families to ruin.

The Capulet home is a lovers' mecca. Pilgrims write their names on the walls of the entrance in hopes that their love would be as enduring; though perhaps not necessarily as fatal.

Luckily, I had a pen with me so H scribbled our names in, too. If you ever go to Verona, you might want to look for us under all the graffiti.

This pastiche of colors is a collaborative artwork...

Made of chewing gum.

Wriggling our way through the crowd that was permanently fixed along the entryway, we finally made it to the courtyard to behold Juliet's famed balcony.

It was hardly as Franco Zeffirelli had envisaged, but I'm sure it served its purpose well.

Under it, a crowd had also gathered around the statue of Juliet, whose breasts were noticeably shinier from the constant rubbing of visitors. There were a lot of people waiting their turn for a picture with her, and we waited along with the rest of the good-natured crowd. But there was a Pinay who popped in front of me, pulling her three children together and instructing them to jump on the statue as soon as the Japanese teens stepped off. I just hate when Pinoys lose their manners - I hold us to a higher standard! So I told her in Tagalog that she could go ahead of me because I'm cool with that - just to maybe make her realize she was rude to someone whom she didn't think understood what she was saying. But just as she opened her mouth to either gape or reply, I heard H calling me over. He was already holding on to Juliet's bronze breast.

Maybe I should have reminded him Juliet was 13 going on 14 when she married Romeo.

The Capulet courtyard can be booked for weddings too, now that the blood feuds have ended. (It would be messy if guys with swords started showing up at the ceremony, no?) And I heard you could write to Juliet too, though I'm not sure how she could write back since she's busy being groped all day.

Verona is indeed romantic. In contrast with Milan, which is just as old, Verona did not turn in its past for the affectations of modernity. It reminded of Venice, in some respects. In fact our old friend from the water-logged city - St. Mark's lion - spreads its wings here too, just like in Venice.

And just like some quarters of Venice might come off as a bit kitschy, the streets of Verona that are overrun by tourists can seem a little tawdry - but the parts that are not have a spirit of authenticity.

And even though there were a lot of people, I didn't mind so much because I just had to look up, and they would conveniently disappear.

A fresco al fresco.

If I remember my history right - Romulus and Remus, I reckon?
For years, those names meant to me a sleazy massage place along EDSA.

Owl be watching you.

The Roman ampitheater

While examining the facade of the Sta. Anastasia and crossing under the suspended sarcophagus of Guglielmo da Castelbarco (another powerful figure in Dante's time) to the left of the church, we heard an angelic voice hovering from above.

But the deceptively otherworldly voice was human after all. It was a woman singing Verdi, her voice floating from one of the rooms overlooking the square.

After a while, our wandering brought us to more peaceful segments of the city. Here, along the banks of the Adige river, was the Teatro Romano. Built in 1AD, it was the site of more refined entertainment -- while the larger amphitheater staged the more popular and accessible gladiatorial combats.

All that walking fed our imaginations, but when the time came to feed our tummies we had wandered too far from the center. By luck, we found this old osteria off the beaten track.

Their handwritten menu boasted of very few things, just a handful of traditional Italian fare, which is actually a good sign if you've seen at least one episode of Kitchen Nightmares.

It was here that we had the best lasagna of our lives.

I later found out that we dined in the best of the osterias in the medieval Sottoriva arcade -- which turned out to be among the most popular places to eat in Verona. (So much for off the beaten track!)

We were bursting from lunch, but we had one more mission to fulfill. While doing some pre-travel research on Verona, we found out this city had the best gelato in Italy. We were not about to leave without deciding for ourselves.

I guess the pictures speak for themselves.

Even while trying to sneak a pose with the gladiatrix and Xena, H couldn't put his cone down. That's commitment, y'all.

It was with a heavy heart that I left Verona, because I felt there was more for me to discover and more for me to love. The Bard was waiting at the gates with a sad reminder, that there is no world outside Verona's walls save for hell and torture... Although the whole schtick about death is a tad overreaching.

Hopefully, Verona's walls would open for me once again someday.

Up Next: O, Eto Pisa