A LETTER FROM VENICE
I am, at the moment, seated at a café, on a side street, just behind the Church of Santa Maria della Salute in Venice. But putting pen to paper is, for some very good reasons, a very daunting task.
It is trip number eleven to this city and I still don’t have a handle on it. Why is it that we feel we have finally seen Rome and experienced Florence? But Venice, ahhh, that’s another story. It is a different city in the rain, a quaint Italian metropolis in the winter, a hot, crowded kaleidoscope of moving humanity framed by water in the summer. But the waters in Venice lap the shoreline less playfully then it does on other Italian shorelines. Here the water is a reminder of an epic battle with the winner predetermined. The water will win.
I flew over through London connecting on a BA flight. This was during the strike action and I was mildly concerned about my Heathrow connection. But BA seemed very concerned about my short hop in coach over to Venice and sent me four e-mail updates to say they were looking forward to welcoming me aboard the A320 and reminding me, much like a concerned parent that my flight would operate.
True to their word, no problems. The only way one could tell that there had been a strike action was the Departure Board. We took off on time and the pilot came on the PA system and mentioned that he was an actual experienced pilot and not a member of BA management. The in-flight entertainment had begun.
Surprisingly a “light meal” was being served by the erstwhile young flight attendant coming down the aisle. I asked him what he was serving, which elicited the explanation “well sir, let’s just say it is a ham and cheese sandwich but without the cheese and with very little ham.”
In retrospect, an accurate culinary appraisal.
Our driver was nowhere to be found as I passed through customs and entered the arrival hall at Marco Polo.
But I did not panic. No Italian driver is going to spend an hour standing behind a rope for an undetermined amount of time doing absolutely nothing. I found the nearest airport bar and found him standing at the counter drinking a cappuccino, his cup resting on the portion of the sign that read “Turen”.
We drove for a few minutes to Piazza Roma, the point where cars from the airport park illegally, as the driver desperately tries to find the water taxi captain, and get passengers and luggage to the waiting boat. I enjoyed the chaos and screaming that accompanied this “transfer” but I would have enjoyed it more had I not calculated that the ride had cost me 15 Euros per minute.
Seated in the boat en route to my hotel, the senses quicken. This is one of the most pleasurable rides on the planet as you get a sense of the lagoon, the water lapping at the shores, and the architectural consistency of this entire movie set of a city.
I sit in the back of the sleek craft because I want to feel water splashing my face on this sunny summer morning. It helps with the jet lag.
Venice, will, I know, seem crowded. In the early nineties, the border police set up tables at Santa Lucia, the main train station, and denied access to the city to anyone who could not prove that they had a confirmed hotel reservation. What would I find this time in prime season?
We cruised down the Grand Canal and I asked my driver to slow it down so I could, once again, savor this experience. I was deposited at the dock directly in front of The Londra Palace, one of my favorite Venice properties.
Formed by the merging of two former palaces, with more than 140 years of experience servicing guests, the Londra Palace has only 53 rooms. But it has more than a hundred windows facing the Lagoon. I occupy a wood-beamed room on the upper floor with horizontal windows cut high into the walls looking out.
There is a delightful rooftop terrace. In the morning, you can hear church bells from the terrace playing a concert in stereo as the bells ring at the same time from several sections of the city.
At night, in the quiet, I could imagine a younger Tchaikovsky, who stayed in room 106 in 1877 while working on his Fourth Symphony. The light never goes off in room 106.
I slept well at this wonderful hotel. And I went to bed thinking I was hearing a piano playing in a room a few floors below.
Last night, I spend hours walking the city. In Venice, one does not walk with purpose to find things. One walks to get lost, to get beyond the tourist circle, and to see the neighborhoods. But in the area around St. Mark’s Square, I found some signs of the new travel economy everywhere.
In the narrow alleys behind the Basillica San Marco, waiters stood in front of highly-rated restaurants urging customers to enter. But trattoria’s were humming and there were lots of Russian and German voices.
In San Marco, one of the two large outdoor café’s was closed and the area had been turned into a construction site. At the famed Café Florian across the square, a small orchestra and the violinists still play, but most of the tables are empty. Instead, hundreds of tourists stand for a while taking in the scene, wanting to share in the experience, but unwilling to pay inflated prices for a drink or two.
I noted that again as I wandered the Riva degli Schiavoni. Violinists play but no one pays. The masses stand staring waiting for some rich tourists to actually sit and pay for their free show.
There are more tee-shirt shops and more stands selling tourist flotsam. Small groups led by bored guides carrying yellow and red umbrellas pass by. I look out to the sea. The sun is just disappearing on the horizon, framing the blue canvas tarps and the beautiful gondolas they protect. Seagulls perform dances above the harbor.
I pass over a bridge and see, to my left, a small line of gondolas returning with their human cargo. In the minutes before disembarkation two of the gondolas break out in song. It is tip time.
Moments later, I poke into the Hotel Danieli, the five-star matron on the Lagoon. Surely, I will find evidence of the luxury traveler within this wood-paneled lobby.
The single desk clerk does not look up from his magazine as I enter. I wander into the lobby area. It is empty. And this is the cocktail hour.
Now, I am determined to return to Venice soon. I cannot accept that Venice is falling victim to economic realities.
The city has never had the best hotels, the Cipriani being the exception. Italians would never say that the food rivals that found in Emilio-Romagna or Umbria, although Da Ivo, Do Forni, and Corta Sconta are certainly exceptions.
But walking Venice, getting away from the tourists, crossing bridge after bridge on foot, is still as rewarding as it always was. There is no place on earth quite like it.
In the prologue to his bestseller, “The City of Falling Angels”, author John Berendt encounters a Venetian Count who explains the city in terms of its rhythm.
“Venice is like breathing. High water, high pressure, tense. Low water, low pressure relaxed. Venetians are not at all attuned to the rhythm of the wheel. That is for other places.”
Venice must always be walked. It is an off-season destination if there ever was one and I would recommend it as a viable mid-winter destination, free of tourists, and filled only with relaxed locals. I prefer it when it rains – Venice is best seen from under an umbrella.
Headed back one night toward the Londra Palace, I notice two handsome Carabinieri on patrol, pausing for a rest in the middle of a small bridge. They remove their hats, posing with the sea in the background. And slowly, people stop to talk to them. Some of the husbands take pictures of their wives with the policemen. There is laughter; the lights on the edges of the lagoon have replaced the fading sunlight.
I hear whispered “buona nottes”.
IMPRESSIONS OFF A SHIP FROM SYDNEY TO AUCKLAND
There is a light breeze coming off the water and I sit at an outdoor table at Fish Frenzy, alongside the Elizabeth Street pier in Hobart, Tasmania.
I am approaching the midpoint of a cruise that began in Sydney and will end in Auckland. With a few days tucked in at either end, I will be away from the office for three weeks, the longest I’ve been away in two decades.
As is my, peculiar to some, habit, I am not vacationing alone. I’ve been joined by thirty clients, most of whom I call friends.
But let me start at the beginning.
Having put together the group, and handling the air arrangements through Qantas, the cruise line’s contracted carrier, I set about trying to set up our personal air. I would need to buy three Business Class tickets. The quote I received, about six months prior to our departure, came to just over $27,000 for our family of three. Whatever happened to those “Free” airline tickets I read about in the internet ads put out by the card mills?
Wasn’t I supposed to just step up to the boarding gate, announce that I am a “travel agent” and watch as the door to First Class opens magically to welcome me?
I happen to like Qantas a lot. They score well in our reviews. But I don’t like them $27,000 worth. So we scouted around a bit, just like consumers who sense there might be something better out there. There was. I jumped on some Business Class promotional fares from Virgin Australia and saved just over $11,000. I will tell you about their service in a future piece.
You may recall, dear reader, that we now travel the world with a five year-old in tow. So we decided to break up our trip in and out of LA, with pre and post stays at the newest joint in Beverly Hills. I always like to have a taste of the real America before getting boarding an aircraft for a long trip abroad and Beverly Hills seemed just the place to get my bearings.
On the way to the airport, the limo driver explained that it was refreshing not to have celebrities in his car for a change, and then went on to tell us which major league actress he was picking up as soon as he dumped us on the airport curb. We thanked him for his sentiments.
I was feeling a bit the failure, as I hadn’t, journalistically, been able to figure Beverly Hills out in the twenty-four hours I spent there. But I was able to do one bit of research for you. I did carefully count the number of air kisses I could observe from arrival in LA to my flight out the next day. That number came in at twenty-seven. But I sort of cheated because I spent more than the normal amount of time in the lobby of my Beverly Hills hotel and I was thus able to collect about twenty air kisses for my project in a relatively short time..
We had a wonderful flight, spent several days in Sydney and then moved on to Melbourne via portions of the Pacific Ocean.
In Sydney, we stayed at the Park Hyatt, a sort of deluxe motel type structure overlooking the Harbor and the Opera House. It is one of the top tier properties in Sydney yet it will be closed for several months as a major rehab takes place. The Observatory is a lovely small property and there is a Four Seasons. But there is no five-star superstar in this town of bountiful delights. In fact, it seems to me that this world-class city, this place that keeps winning all the “Best City in the World” awards when San Francisco comes in second, is underserved when it comes to properties of note and true luxury. But that may also have to do with the local mindset toward design. Aussies just aren’t that taken with marble bathrooms and Grecian columns.
On the tiny poll deck above the Hyatt I swam in the miniature pool overshadowed by the girders of the Sydney Harbor Bridge, a somewhat more compelling site then the languid flow of the Opera House. I felt this even more strongly when I discovered that I could lay on my back and float, while watching some of my clients as they pranced aloft on the bridge’s upper walkway.
The Opera House has come to symbolize the city, a World Heritage site that emerged from the mind of the Danish architect Jorn Utzon. His concept was originally rejected and then saved when the Finn, Eero Saarinen determined that it was worth another peek.
Sydney’s most famous building sits on the site of the former Fort Macquarie Tram Depot. The design story of the building is rather fascinating since it originally involved geometric concepts that had not yet been invented. The parabolas that were to be held up by ribbing of concrete would likely not have worked and certainly would never have come in anywhere near budget.
But before I dive too far into this let me say that the Opera House was not nearly my favorite thing about Sydney. That would be the Circular Quay Ferry Terminal.
True it does not have anything like a soaring roofline that seems to be in flight. The ferries aren’t even remotely as appealing as the ones that ply the waters of my old stomping grounds in Sausalito and Larkspur. But visiting Sydney, one is struck by the water and the absolutely effortless ferry system that allows drop-dead gorgeous transport to Manly Beach, Neutral Bay, Watson’s Bay, Tarona Zoo and on and on. Sydney is a series of waterways that are an integral part of the layout of the city.
A local blogger on an Aussie news site said it better then I ever could after someone had the temerity to suggest that Melbourne is the more interesting of Australia’s large cities:
“If you don’t love it leave. I’ve been around the world twice over,. I had a wild rhino chase me in Zambia….I shared a cup of water with a child suffering from malaria and god knows what else in Zimbabwe…I’ve been harassed by beggars and feared for my kidneys in China and pick pocketed in France…I was held up in Rio and mugged in New York and London….but I loved every minute of my travels and I will go back to these places again and again. ..But when I land home in Sydney and I see that beautiful bright blue sky and sparkling harbor there is a feeling deep within my bones…I LOVE this luck country of ours and all the beauty that it holds.”
So here I sit, at an outdoor restaurant, along the harbor in Hobart, Tasmania. There are working fishing boats in front of me with a wonderful town behind us and mountains to our left. It all feels like the Norwegian fjords, except that everyone speaks some bizarre form of English and everyone seems eager to share their discovery of the good life.
The folks traveling with us have done something I’ve never before observed as an escort anywhere in the world. They have, with some serious intent, engaged in discussions of actually retiring in Australia. At one time, that would have been fairly easy, but nowadays, one needs to be self-sufficient in a Goldman Sachs retired department head, sort of way. We’re not at all sure the Aussies will have us and, anyway, we’ve yet to meet the Kiwi’s.
So what is it about a short time in Australia that makes an American want to move there? After only nine days of running about small portions of this vast warehouse of a country, I don’t have it all figured out. But I do know it has something to do with the fact that the Aussies just don’t devote a lot of energy to trivial kinds of pursuits. Every Aussie we’ve encountered seems to be unaffected by attitude. They just seem to have somehow figured out what is important in life and what isn’t.
I was in the country just a few days when I started to hear what, for me, became the operative phrase of the country, the one unifying force in this vast, special land.
“No worries”. Or the more brotherly version, “No worries mate.”
You hear it everywhere, from the hotel doorman when you ask directions, to the bookseller who you thank profusely for her time spent climbing a ladder to get you a book from the top shelf.
Go to a restaurant and ask for the fish sauce on the side while substituting veggies for rice. It is always “No worry.”
If North Korea made a mistake of geography and actually launched a missile or two at Canberra, I would imagine the first thing the Minister of Defense might say would be “No worries” before knocking them to kingdom come.
The more time I spend in this place the more I realize how the No Worry Nation is so appealing to outsiders. These folks, just don’t sweat the small stuff. What you see is what you get. It is a huge nation, filled with “No worriers.” So you rarely see folks with any pretensions to trendiness. Aussies aren’t searching for identity and if you won’t accept them as they are – well then, stuff it.
I was so taken by the “No Worries” phrase that I tried researching its derivation. At a coffee shop I found a white-haired gentleman, a retired government official, who smiled broadly when I asked him about it.
He explained that when Australia was primarily a British penal colony, convicts were allowed to earn time off and a clean slate, despite the harsh conditions. On the day that the convict was finally freed from the prison, he was given a piece of paper that meant he was free of all debt to society. At that moment he was said to have “No worries” and some warders actually wrote it on a slip of official paper.
My fish platter arrives, heaps of fresh catch in a large paper cone, along with a bottle of Cascade Blonde. Rule number one when traveling down under, I quickly learned, is never order a wine or a beer with which you are familiar. Fosters is considered by many to be strictly for export. Always go for the local favorites.
I am surrounded by Aussies but only two are locals. The rest are vacationing in Tasmania, a land known to be even more laid back then the big island.
Once you leave Sydney, you invariably get into discussions with Aussies about which part of Australia you prefer. What that really means is, how do you compare Melbourne to Sydney. You don’t hear Melbourne discussed much in Sydney, but Melbourners seem obsessed about their second city status.
I could easily turn this into a ten-part series so let me get to the point. If you travel by cruise ship, as I am, you are not going to see Australia. But you are going to see it’s major urban centers. You are going to get a feel for Aussie city life and then, later, in New Zealand, you are going to see smaller towns and magnificent countryside.
I preferred Melbourne to Sydney. I base this on what I perceive as liveability, a more laid-back lifestyle, better-developed ethnic neighborhoods, and a more entrenched and open cultural scene.
I saw Melbourne, as much of it as I could, the city the suburbs, the parks, from a horse-drawn carriage, a car, and on foot.
The center of the city is filled with impressive Victorian buildings that grew up out of the Gold Rush. The city is orderly, amazingly clean, and the streetcars seem to glide effortlessly.
There are ethnic neighborhoods. Lygon Street has wonderful espresso bars befitting Little Italy, Brunswick is the Middle Eastern portion of the city and Richmond is little Vietnam. There is a thriving Chinatown. What makes this all so special is the setting, a coastal plain at the top of horseshoe-shaped Port Philip Bay.
When I left downtown San Francisco forever, I never thought I would ever again see a city so beautifully framed by the sea. Melbourne is that – and more.
Sydney has the sites but Melbourne has the sensibility. It is just about the coolest city on earth.
But now, we are in Hobart, nestled between brooding Mount Wellington and the tranquil banks of the Derwent River. Earlier in the day, we explored this waterside town on foot. We came upon a planned village in town, a wrap-around series of four-story new condominiums surrounding open space with stores on the first floor.
We were struck by what we saw here. A park-like setting with residents of all ages sharing stories, stopping to chat, passing a few moments, in between stops for coffee or shopping. A few little details struck me about this scene. There was a giant chessboard in one corner where local kids had a spirited game. But the fitness of the population indicated that chess was just a sideline. Instead of a department or grocery store, the anchor tenant was a two-story outdoor shop selling everything from kayaking to mountain climbing gear. It was packed.
That seemed to me to represent an accurate portrayal of the value-scale of local residents as well as the country. Sports-minded exploration of the “Land of No Worries” is the way most Aussies seem to roll.
FOLLOWING THE RULES IN SINGAPORE
Singapore:
Well, I’ll say this for the Singaporeans during this visit; no one asked me, just how many Americans are in prison. I’ve always been asked that in the past, usually on the way into the city from the airport. The question is important because you have to ask back and then they can explain that they have about thirty-seven folks in prison because they have “good order.”
In Singapore, there is a price to pay for having “Good Order”. You’ve probably heard about the ban on chewing gum. In fact, you can chew gum in the city and I tried it on Orchard Road just to see what would happen. It is the sale of gum that is illegal, the city’s response to wads of sticky on public conveyances. The important thing was not chewing it, but getting rid of it. I had to be extremely careful to place it in a trash can. I can’t prove it, but I know someone from the government was watching as I did it.
Americans love how clean the city is and they ask why we can’t have such clean streets at home. Well, I think we probably can, we just need to adopt the same law, namely, drop a piece of paper on the ground and face a $1,000 fine and some forced community labor.
They have a sort of three times you’re out law in Singapore. If you are caught dropping trash on the ground three times you are forced to wear a sign that basically says “I am a litter pig”. It’s a pretty big sign.
I saw policemen checking public toilets after locals had used the facilities. They were enforcing the “flush” law. But as with many things, the Singapore city fathers take it one step farther. You can receive both a fine and a public caning for failing to flush. So again, when tourists from the States marvel at how clean the public restrooms are in Singapore, there is a bit of a price to pay.
You can list the fabulous things there are to see and do in Singapore but I feel that a trip here can be totally justified by one simple culinary truth. You can feel comfortable dining at the hawker stalls in virtually all of the outdoor food courts. The city is that clean and food standards are that high.
While highly sophisticated young urbanites are lining up to grab some grub off of pop-up food trucks in America’s trendiest cities, Singapore has perfected the outdoor stall mall with communal seating. It is an innately inquisitive and rewarding way to sample some of the best food on the planet and you have to imagine that using ingredients that aren’t fresh and hygienic must be against any number of Singapore laws with really terrifying penalties.
I can personally vouch for the Mushroom Minced Meat Noodle in the Chinatown Smith Street Food Centre, incredible poached egg noodles topped with a flavorful mushroom sauce with minced pork pieces and boiled meat dumplings. Even CNN managed to discover the Chin Hut Live Seafood Restaurant on Clement street where they do crab feasts starring crabs from most of Asia.
Of course, you may conclude that you prefer the black pepper crabs at the Leng Heng BBQ Seafood shack in East Coast Lagoon Village.
The major purpose of any visit to Singapore ought to be the compiling of your own personal list of outdoor food stall favorites. After enjoying, say, the incredibly light and juicy pork buns served at China La Mian, you might be tempted to go up and hug the motherly woman working the wok. Don’t. Hugging folks without permission in public can get you charged with “outraging modesty” and that can involve jail time.
As I wandered the food courts, talking to nearly everyone within earshot between heavenly bites, I had to censor myself a bit because you can’t speak badly of, say, organized religion. That is rather serious and you can be cited for sedition.
You’ve also got to be fairly careful about speaking with strangers. You see if you meet someone and you introduce them to someone else, speaking highly of their character, you can be cited for abetment if any of your words turn out to be false. Imagine if they enacted that one at political fundraising events in the States.
I do have one bit of advice for clients newly arrived in Singapore. Make certain that your hotel shades are closed. You see pornography is very illegal in Singapore and nudity is equated with pornography. This means that you best not walk around your hotel room, or home for that matter, in the buff. If someone across the way should happen to see you, authorities could be notified.
Since I’ve always thought that the primary purpose of staying in a hotel revolves around nudity, I decide keep the drapes drawn.
One of the things I like to do is scour local blogs while I am traveling abroad. That is how I learned that Singapore has a government, which, while the envy of many urban planners, is a tad, shall we say, intrusive. There is a “Try a Little Kindness” national campaign. The signs are everywhere. There is also a Social Development Unit of the government which is, essentially, a dating service. And, since this is Singapore you better not lie on the application that is sent to every unmarried citizen over the age of thirty.
Earlier today, I stood in an impossibly long line. I didn’t know what the line was for at first, but I knew it would lead to some worthwhile discovery. It turns out that bubble tea stores are all the trend and locals will literally stand in line for an hour to get a drink. That left me with time to think that perhaps Singapore is a country created just for travel writers with unusual practices, exotic and beautiful locales, world-class easily obtainable food, and some of the world’s finest hotels.
Standing in that line and learning that locals are discouraged from gambling by having to pay a $100 fee each time they enter a casino, with foreigners charged nothing, I began to feel guilty about staying here. Singapore is just too easy. Glance in any direction and you might see a maid café where young girls with fake lashes spoon-feed guests, or look the other way and see the symbol signs that prohibit making out.
Enough. Singapore is a really fascinating social experiment and well worth visiting. But the manipulation is so heavy-handed that one yearns to visit a place with few rules.
For me, that place will be Myanmar.
A letter from Vienna
The Austrian actor Erich von Stroheim once said, “If I speak of Vienna, it must be in the past tense, as a man speaks of a woman he has loved and who is dead.”
In truth, however, based on what I observed during this visit, Vienna is very much alive. It is Mr. von Stroheim who is, in fact, dead.
Long thought of as the gateway to Eastern Europe, a land of spies and sachertorte, Vienna has to be, for Americans at least, one of Europe’s most underappreciated cities. It took me just an afternoon to figure out what I love about this place. Vienna is like someone you meet and fall in love with slowly. But you quickly discover that underneath her charm and elegance there is this highly evolved intelligence. At first it scares you just a bit. Are you up to it? Will it find you out?
But in the end, you rationalize that it really is always better to fall in love with someone with a brain. There are challenges, yes, but oh the rewards.
My taxi driver from the airport was not wearing a tie. He had not, in fact, shaved. He was, however, listening to Brahms as the BMW cab whisked me to the Hotel Bristol in the city center.
That night, walking the inner ring of the city center, not far from the Opera House, I heard the most beautiful music coming from somewhere ahead of me.
A moment or two later, I saw a small crowd gathered under the portico of the Bally store, where a violinist accompanied a man with the most beautiful contralto voice I had ever heard.
This is a city of absolutely stupendous buildings. They form caverns as I walk in the frigid air of a December night. But the music keeps me warm, and always as I look up, I see sculpted angels atop facades seeing me safely on my path.
The oldest settlement in Vienna dates from the Stone Age. Later came Vindobona, a small Celtic settlement that in the first century became a Roman encampment.
In 1945, Vienna was divided into four zones, and Austria itself was not fully guaranteed its freedom and independence until the signing of the State Treaty in 1955.
This history, including the massive bombing of World War II, makes Vienna’s intellectual renaissance all the more amazing.
I ponder this and take notes while taking kaffee und kuchen at the city’s famed pastry palace, Demel, on Kohnmarkt. From my table I can see the bakers at work on their particular form of art.
Today, about 1.6 million people live in 853,000 registered apartments and private homes. Almost 50% of the city is green space, parks and small bits of forest. That makes Vienna the greenest city in Europe.
Vienna is a city that answers the question one hears in our profession continually: “I don’t care about getting a tan, and I don’t consume drinks with umbrellas. I am not brain dead, and I crave culture and sophistication. Where can I go?”
Get thee to Vienna. The Austrian actor and director MaxReinhardt was more accurate than von Stroheim in his appraisal of the city. “God created the world,” he said, “but man created a second world for himself: art.” His canvas is Vienna. I thought I might give you a listing of some of my favorite museums. But just to be fair to other cities whose sense of culture is not as sublime, let me tie one hand behind Vienna’s back by listing only a sampling of the museums that happen to begin with the letter “G.”
There is, for instance, the Geldmuseum for folks with an interest in coins and numismatics. I love the Gemaldegalerie der Akademie, which features works by Hieronymus Bosch. Then there is the Globenmuseum, featuring a collection of Baroque globes.
Those are just a few of the “G” collections. In fact, Vienna has more museums and concert halls, and people who appreciate them, than any other city on Earth.
Vienna is the antidote for those seeking a vacation that will be as nourishing for the brain as it is for the body.
A LETTER FROM TUSCANY
Dateline: Montefiridolphi, Italy
The fox emerged from the olive groves, crossed the outdoor terrace, and slowly walked through the open door into the dining room where I was hosting my group’s arrival dinner just four nights ago.
We are staying in a series of restored Tuscan farmhouses on the Åntonori family wine estate. The fox wasn’t on the itinerary. Our Italian hosts immediately walked up and fed him some rather good pappardelle with a bit of rabbit sauce. He took what he could, looked us over and preceded to walk back out to the terrace to sit in his regular spot to finish his snack. It turns out that he makes an appearance just about every night at 10:05 pm.
He dined alone while the restaurant cat stared him down from a safe distance. They had learned to coexist.
The client sitting next to me wondered if “an animal will be joining us at all of our future meals”.
Thirty-four years ago, I was summoned before a board and informed that I had been granted a sum of money to launch a new school in Europe. I began my planning in the South of France, but karma and cost soon brought me to the Tuscan hills. I lived in a large villa for six years, with the company of my teaching staff and 75 or so American high school seniors.
Time passed and some twenty years ago, I figured out a way to return to the neighborhood on a regular basis. The result was a corporate division dedicated to Culinary and Lifestyle tours of Italy.
Yesterday we went to the walled town of San Gimignano. The wonderful thing about the views out of the windows at restaurant La Cisterna is that nothing has changed. No chain stores or little box housing developments dot the magnificent hillsides. And that is really what makes so much of Europe, and particularly Italy, so wonderful. From the first time you see it and fall in love you can sleep secure in the knowledge that when you return, years later. it will not have changed.
The red rooftops of any new homes in the villages must conform to antiquity, only seven primary Tuscan colors are approved for painting the outside stone facades.
It was market day. I wandered through the belts and the bras and the socks toward the back of the stall area. I was looking for someone. He was there, standing in his open truck, swatting away a few bees. And as I approached, he noticed me but did not remember. He reached down and ever so delicately sliced a piece off the whole roasted pig that lay on the wood slab before him. Flavored with fennel, rosemary, and sage, the roast pork panini sandwich brought back a flood of memories. I had last bought a sandwich from him in 1971.
On Sunday, we took our group off to tour the home of Machiavelli in San Casciano. We walked across the road to dine on a “lite” lunch of real Tuscan bruschetta (topped with chicken liver pate- not tomatoes), olive oil marinated roasted chicken and grilled Florentine steaks.
Later we drove to Impruneta where we entered the small, clay-covered workshop of Mario Belli. He is not very used to guests but he explained his craft through our interpreter, and decorated and shaped glassware on an ancient potters wheel in front of our eyes. He has been in this workspace, doing this work for 52 years. There are no apprentices to be found. The work is too delicate, the workspace too primitive to attract the young.
Last night, we went to a small hamlet high in the hills not far from Radda in Chianti. Sixty-three folks live in this village, among them a mother and daughter known throughout the region for their traditional cooking skills. The hamlet has two businesses, a bar/restaurant and a rather excellent small wine and olive oil shop specializing in excellent local products. I kept staring at the group of mature villagers, none, I was told, under eighty, who were laughing and recounting the events of the day – no doubt speculating a bit about our group of twenty-four. They laughed, they poked fun at one another, and they glowed in the approaching twilight with that special look reserved for the deeply contented.
The cook and her mother taught us how to cook while adding several liters of fine red wine to nearly every dish. Then, under a canopy of stars, sitting on a terrace overlooking the hamlet’s vineyards, the lights of small villas visible in the distance, the residents of this village presented plate upon plate of their own dishes, the food they enjoy in their own homes.
As we hugged the villager’s goodnight and I saw tears in the eyes of some of my friends here, I remembered, once again, that travel ought to be, in its truest sense, a search for authenticity.
A LETTER FROM ATHENS
“We approached Athens from the north in early twilight, climbing a hill. When we reached its peak, we were dazzled to look down and see the Acropolis struck by one beam of the setting sun, as if posing for a picture.” – Donald Hall
This was always illegal – but now it isn’t. The Greek government had passed a law that only Greek flagged ships could sail round-trip from the country. As there were no truly upscale Greek passenger lines, this was hurting the economy and was quite a boost for Istanbul. Over the years, so-called cruises to the Greek Islands began or ended in Turkey.
But now that has changed and we’ve arrived in Athens for a bit of exploration before beginning our round-trip from Athens sailing with a nearly perfect itinerary.
At the moment, I am sitting in a contemporary multi-level glass and stone called Dionysus, which sits at the edge of the main bus parking lot opposite the main walkway leading up to the Acropolis, a site I have visited many times and, perhaps, my favorite of the world’s Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.
While sipping a perfect cappuccino freddo served with miniature almond cakes, and writing notes to myself, I keep looking up. It is impossible not to.
The Parthenon sacred temple sits posing high above at the confluence of two perpendicular ancient stone walls. From my viewpoint, it looks poised on the edge and I can see the sunlight passing through the columns. I see no people. They are hidden below the top of the walls. I only see the structure, posing center stage left, giving me still another travel gift I can never forget.
The building’s open columns hide a treasure trove of memories. It was an ancient munitions storage center, then a church, and it later became a mosque. It was an army barracks, later attacked by the Venetians, and it was thoroughly looted by the British Ambassador to Constantinople, Lord Elgin.
But it still stands – an amazing act of defiance and perseverance, much like the city itself.
I always keep a notebook of “best strategies” when I travel. Today I advise myself that clients should skip a large breakfast and meet their guide in the hotel lobby at 7:30 am. That way they will arrive at the Acropolis at 8:00. When it opens, and before crowds occupy the grounds and the bus parking lot fills up. If the gods are with us, my client’s may not be too late for a partial; sunrise. I will then have them brought to this wonderful café for brunch and an opportunity to savor and reflect on the building in front of them.
Athens is easily Europe’s oldest city and one of the world’s oldest cities as well. The city can be traced back about 3,400 years ago. But there were local inhabitants for over the past 4,000 years.
And still the city functions. In fact, the traffic seems more controlled. The streets are cleaner than I have ever seen them. The “new” airport is certainly an improvement. The restaurant scene is active and the Kolonaki shopping district is still trendy and crowded.
Kolonaki is an aristocratic neighborhood in central Athens. It is situated at an exclusive location, encompassed by Syntagma Square, Vasilissis Sofias Avenue and the southwestern slopes of Lycabettus Hill. Sitting proudly on the corner of Syntagma Square is Athen’s best hotel, the Grand Bretagne. Across the street is the Parliament Building where the changing of the guards takes place hourly. Huge demonstrations were held here eight years ago when the new austerity program was introduced after the country’s debt became unmanageable. The Grand Bretagne has seen it all, a strong lady with a thick façade. But I cannot pass the hotel without remembering that it served as Nazi Headquarters after the German occupation in World War 11.
There are so many secrets buried beneath this ancient city. Even the name is shrouded in myth. The mythology says that Athens and Poseidon each wanted to be the official guardian of the city. To ingratiate themselves to the people, as well as the gods, they each selected a gift. Poseidon offered a salt water spring but Athena’s gift of olive trees won over the population.
Today, it seems, every Athenian tourist guide is an unemployable archeologist. Each lectures visitors on the medicinal value of olive oil. They seem not to know that when we purchase olive oil in the States that is “Made in Italy” there is a good chance that Greek olives are being bottled somewhere in the country.
I spent some time learning my way around Kusadasi. The Turks simply place antiquities on a higher level than the Greeks. I remembered that fully 60% of the wonderful archeological find on Santorini, called Akrotiri, remains uncatalogued. The government simply doesn’t have the money to fund ventures devoted to saving antiquities.
What, I wonder, must it be like to do a construction dig in this city? Some of the greatest archeological finds of all time occurred when Greece decided to build a new Athens Metro for the 2004 Olympic games. The unimaginable finds included more than 50,000 catalogued artifacts.
As I married a totally entertaining, proud Greek family thirty-four years ago, I have been rather involved with Greece and this city. On this trip I expected to find despair. I found none. Instead, there is a kind of stubborn optimism.
An Economics Professor at the university told me “The crooks were kicked out and we replaced them with someone with little experience. But he is young and somewhat good-looking so we are hoping he is less of a crook than his predecessors.” A university student told me that the Greeks can’t believe how poorly the Prime Minister speaks English. Greeks begin studying English in the third grade and by the time they are entering university most speak three or four languages.
The guides still smile when discussing the average Athenians relationship with their government. They no longer blame the Germans for pushing for strict austerity to pay off the country’s massive debt. Everyone seems to understand that tourism is the key to the country’s future. Many of the taxis are new Mercedes, and the country is not overpopulated. There are about 11 million Greeks and a bit more than half of them live in Athens. The small villages are just barely hanging on. There is little heavy industry. And unemployment hovers around 38%. State funded colleges are free as is health care. But ……………………
You have to pass a rigorous test to gain entrance to a public college and if you want a uniquely qualified doctor or surgeon you will have to pay for it.
Greece has been a stepping stone for refugees headed north and Athenians are generally proud of the way they have handled the crisis. Of course, it has been made easier by the fact that the refugees want to keep moving toward Germany and, hopefully, Scandinavia. They are not looking to settle anywhere where four out of ten adults can’t find employment.
I went to the villages and they each told the same story. Boarded-up homes or small properties with a sprinkling of olive trees sold to foreigners for cash far below what they were worth just ten years ago.
I remember once visiting Athens and going out to dinner with a group of friends. The men went out into the street after dinner to try to hail a taxi to take us back to the hotel. The taxis would slow down and you had to yell where you wanted to go through the open window on the passenger side. On this night none would stop. There were too many of us – a problem best avoided. We only got home when the women volunteered to stop three taxis. It took them less than five minutes.
Today, the taxis have meters that actually work and the drivers seem more intent on taking passengers where they actually want to go. They are trying to make a good impression. They really are. Given that they invented Democracy (for men only I should point out) let’s see what we can do to support them in their efforts.
The Greeks have ample historical reasons to be proud of their heritage. As my late father-in-law once told me “We Greeks invented everything worth anything in this life and a few things that aren’t worth much.”
I am pulling for this city.
A LETTER FROM FLORENCE
Dateline: Florence, Italy
Florence is best in the early spring or late fall. I like November when the olives are harvested and the tourists are gone. Well not really gone – just less obviously in control.
The 18th century French Novelist, Stendahl, wrote about the malaise that affects first-time visitors to the city. They are overcome by the amount of beauty and fine art, the reality of actually seeing that which they have heard described in history books. This physical malaise was known as tourist disease but, somehow, it has always been associated with the first-time visitor to Florence.
The New York Times moved the theory along by interviewing Dr. Magherini, the head of the Psychiatry Department at Santa Maria Nuova Hospital in Florence. In 1988 She admitted that her hospital had treated more than “100 cases” of this psychiatric trauma with symptoms such as a loss of reality, insomnia, guilt, and loss of identity, as some of the accompanying symptoms. Most of the victims were, of course, Americans. The French are not going to get dizzy looking at Italian architecture.
With a name and a validation, readers of the Times, and others, now imagine they are experiencing this disease while standing in front of the real David in the Galleria or the Baptistery opposite the incredible Duomo.
Eight years ago, I was summoned to an Italian Government conference to be held in Florence. It’s purpose was to discuss the state of tourism and how more visitors could be enticed to visit Italy.
I went, even though I couldn’t imagine more visitors to Florence, Venice, or Rome unless Merck came up with a pill that enabled tourists to sleep standing up, side by side.
The meeting was held inside the City Hall, Palazzo Vecchio in the huge Salone dei Cinquecento the work of Vasari in the mid 1500’s. I must confess to being overcome by my surroundings and exhibiting at least two of the symptoms of the malaise.
On this trip, I decided to avoid emotional trauma by housing our group of foodies and culture mavens just outside the city center. We’ve been holed up for the past several nights at Villa La Vedetta, a restored Villa just off the Piazza Michelangelo, thought to be the best view of Florence. This lovely property has just eighteen rooms so we sort of owned it. The terrace was the size of two basketball courts, and just below us, we could see the entire city center laid out like a miniature storyboard of world cultural icons. The siena, russet, and burnt butter colors shimmered off a series of blue sky days and red sky nights.
Tonight is my last night in the city environs. We move to the Italian Lake District tomorrow. So it is sunset as I sit and write, alone on the terrace. The colors below me are changing as the sky darkens and the lights of the city illuminate the Church of Santa Croce, the Uffizi, and the walls of the Pitti Palace.
It all brings back memories, and although I have been leading a group of travelers, I am alone, for the moment.
Suddenly I hear my name called from the rooftop. One of my favorite couples has found an unknown stairway leading to the rooftop. They direct me up to their special perch, a small area with a table and four chairs surrounded by a low wall.
The table is filled with salami and cheese from Falonori, the world’s oldest salami store in nearby Greve which we had visited that that morning. There were several bottles of super Tuscans and before us, a carpet filled with the still functioning relics of the Renaissance. Somewhere in the distance church bells started ringing, and the sound of laughter rose up to the rooftop, mixed with a ballad by Gigi D’Alessio.
And I started swooning, overcome by the beauty of where I was and what I was seeing. I had, once again, caught the disease Stendahl had described. And despite numerous trips to this wonderful place, I know of no cure.
