All Things Gondola

I have been as guilty as the "average traveler" of collecting photos for my virtual scrapbook or Facebook posting, with one eye on the shop windows , looking for the next souvenir. Our time in Venice has been all that and much, much more.

While wandering off the main tourist paths, we chanced upon a small shop with a display of beautifully carved forcale, the word for the part of the gondola against which the gondolier places his oar to maneuver the gondola. There were also small wooden replicas of the ornament, the ferro (usually made from iron), that is on the front of the gondola. We went inside the shop to see about purchasing one, and the owner came out from his adjoining workshop to greet us. (This is where having a husband fluent in Italian comes in really handy!) We showed him what we were interested in and asked him about his work. For the next twenty or thirty minutes, he explained how the forcale is used in the same way a driver would use the accelerator, brakes and gears in a car, the gondolier positioning his oar against the forcale differently, depending on his speed or direction.

He is one of only three craftsmen in Venice to painstakingly carve these pieces essential to every gondola. He pointed out that the one in the window was destined for display in Austria while others he had created were in various museums around the world. That particular one was considered a matrimonio, specially decorated for a wedding. They are also used in everyday gondolas. This man's passion for his art and craftsmanship was evinced in every word and gesture, not to mention the fact that he told us he works on each forcale for 10-12 hours a day for five or more days.

After our purchase and effusive thanks for his gift of time, we headed farther off in a quieter area where we spied the workshop where the gondolas themselves are repaired. The men had closed shop for lunch,  but we could see they had plenty to do later.

We learned, too, that the colorful poles where gondolas are tied up represent different villas -- or hotels, now that many of the former palazzi have been sold to them.

 

 

Finally, the gondolas would be nothing but strangely shaped watercraft, were it not for the gondoliers.

I've Never Had the Maitre'd Kiss My Hand

Tonight we are in Verona. Earlier in the day, we walked around the city, revisiting areas we had seen briefly yesterday. (After a long, sometimes frustrating drive from Lake Como to finally arriving at our Hotel Del Capuleti, we weren't in the same frame of mind as this morning, freshly rested, showered, and fed.) This time, we saw the city with clear eyes, recalling events from our previous two visits. This time, when we visited "Juliet's Balcony," we found a crowded courtyard with hundreds of padlocks clipped to the window railing, signifying enduring love of the couples who placed them there. We also saw an arch filled with chewing gum pressed into the old walls. Later, we walked across the Adige River on the Ponte Nuovo then back across the river.
We walked through the shopping areas, people-watching along the way.
Later on, we stopped for pannini and water, eating in a lovely grape arbor of a cafe across from the Duomo.
By the time we were finished with our light lunch, most of the shops were closed down for the afternoon. We were headed back to the hotel to avoid the heat of the day when we noticed we could go into the Arena. (In 1971, on our honeymoon, we were in Verona on what was the 150th anniversary of Verdi's "Aida." We could not find a room to stay one more night, nor had we purchased tickets, so we had no choice but to board the train and head for Venice without seeing "Aida." Today, there was nothing to do but see the vast arena and sit on the marble seats that have endured for more than 1000 years.
Last night we ate dinner in Piazza Erbe, once the main city market; today, we watched as workers set up tables for 700+guests tonight to celebrate the Romeo & Juliet story. Rather than be near the chaos of so many people, we sought to make our own party.

We sat in the main Piazza Bra before dinner, sipping a "Spritz," a concoction of wine and, possibly, Compari, served over ice. Later, we found our way to the Piazza del Signori, near the statue of Dante, where we had a lovely dinner at the Antica Cafe Dante. When the wine steward brought us our bottle of sparkling white wine, he poured and then placed the bottle on ice. He soon returned with the cork, saying he needed to replace the bottle, as it might have the taste of the cork. We insisted it was fine and continued with our dinner. We skipped appetizers but enjoyed our "primi piatti," pasta with seafood for Henry and my gnocchi with smoked ricotta and summer black truffle. Second courses were equally delicious, and we finished with tiramisu and coffee. When we left, the Maitre'd kissed my hand.

In Spazzavento

Most things about this village seem utterly unchanged from our previous visits. When Henry and I went to the ATM at the bank across the street, we seemed to be the only ones outside. Dark green shutters were closed against the summer heat, and women were in their kitchens, preparing the next meals. While the street seemed deserted, we were observed. Soon, an elderly woman, apron tied at her waist, stepped out her door and peered at us, apparently overhearing us speaking English. While we are here we are observed in sidelong glances and the odd comment, "Americani."

We see differences in the homes. More televisions and cell phones; fewer neighborhood resources. There is a bank, a social club, the "Casa di Populi," and two beauty salons. Gone is the butcher, the jeweler's tiny basement shop, and the little grocery. Fewer people take the bus into Pistoia when they can drive the four kilometers.

What hasn't changed is that we have many family members who want to visit with us. We walk down the main street in single file as the sidewalk, where it exists, is too narrow to accommodate more than one person. Some homes have tiny terraces separating their front doors from the street. Pots of geraniums add bright color.

We visit Zia Mara, Henry's mother's sister, now 85 and widowed in the last six years. She describes the night her beloved husband died, at home in his own bed, as if it happened a week or two ago. She keeps his ashes near her bedside, and tells us how she often talks to him.

In the evening, as we finish dinner sometime after 9pm, cousins arrive, bringing the new addition to the family, bambino Daniele, his proud parents beaming at their young son. The room fills with laughter, as greetings and hugs are exchanged. The younger cousins soon depart to meet their friends. After all, it is only 11pm.

In Transition

This marks our first trip to Italy in almost ten years. We are in the Amsterdam airport, on a Tuesday morning, waiting for our final flight to Florence. It has been about 5 years since we last traveled to Europe, and this is the first time we have had a 3-stop trip. Travel is becoming a little tougher as we move further into this decade!

The entire ordeal of security and "pre-boarding" has tamped down much of the anticipation of transcontinental travel. Stripping out of shoes, belts and jewelry and standing, legs spread apart and hands locked overhead for the full-body scan strips away any semblance of dignity.

We are traveling almost exclusively with carry-ons -- one checked bag is full of gifts for our hosts. As I was reminded at least 17 times by my husband, I probably didn't need to take all the stuff I was taking, especially the travel guides. (Rick Steve's books on Venice and Rome seem indispensable, but I at least saved some weight by putting his big Italy 2012 on my Kindle.) So yes, I have my Kindle and my iPad, my dslr as well as a point-and shoot camera.
As we prepared to board our first flight out of LAX, we were warned that the flight was full and overhead bin space would be limited. I felt like a small-time smuggler, hoisting my 20+pound "small personal item" onto my shoulder as I pushed my carry-on bag down the crowded aisle.

Another indignity: somehow, we were among the last allowed to board. Airline travel still practices the caste system with those who have more travel miles or who have anted-up for the pricier seats get their own boarding lane. There is no need to mingle with us economy fliers. "Zone 3" sounded as if we would be located somewhere in the belly of the plane, the aero-version of steerage. In all fairness, in spite of my complaints, we had professional and friendly service throughout and easy-going passengers for the most part.

Our first seatmate was a first-year med student who spent most of the flight studying for a test on DNA. (I overheard her say all she had to do was "pass." Hope she is never my surgeon!) The second leg of our trip, Detroit to Amsterdam, found us seated next to two young people, both of whom had traveled widely already. The young man was off to Prague before returning to Amsterdam; the other, a college junior spending her year abroad in Florence, having already studied a year in Chile.

As we wait, impatiently, for our now-late departure, I can reflect on our other trips to Italy: the first for our honeymoon; the second in celebration of Henry's parents' 40th anniversary; the third trip for our 30th anniversary. And now this trip: just for fun!

Adios, Argentina

Our last day in the city, we returned to one of our favorite neighborhoods from our visit last year, Palermo Soho. This sort of Bohemian, artsy area is a quiet change from the noisy, bustling areas near Avenida Nueve de Julio with its twelve lanes of traffic.

Time may not stand still here, but this neighborhood does seem a world apart.
Some of the buildings are evidence of another era, when architectural ornamentation was important.

For others, the ornament may be intended or unintended art work.

 Many of the streets are tree-lined,  and flowers are plentiful.

There are plenty of reasons to suppose that Palermo Soho is a world removed from the flash of the big city.

This is a city of contrasts and Palermo Soho reminds us of that. But even though the food, the wine and the coffee are spectacular,

it is time to go.

Buenos Aires, City of Immigrants

Buenos Aires has wonderful neighborhoods and easily walkable areas when the weather is nice, but this day we woke to rain. I thought I could just weather it, so to speak, but dodging umbrellas on the city streets quickly grew tiresome.

We decided it made the most sense to head toward the Museum of Immigration at Puerto Madero. The museum, located behind the current immigration headquarters, was the Ellis Island of Buenos Aires.

From the early 1900's until after World War II, there were many Europeans who relocated to Buenos Aires. Those immigrants who had friends or relatives to sponsor them were processed and quickly left the building. Those without employment or contacts stayed in the dormitories for a week or more until they could secure housing and a job.

Looking at the exhibits, we discovered a poster that advertised travel on the very ship Henry's family had traveled on: the Mendoza.

 Most of the immigrants' names were logged in huge, leather-covered ledgers, although a few of the ledgers had disappeared. Luckily, the museum had digitized many of their records. For a few pesos, anyone could request a computer search.
Henry paid the pesos and was surprised and excited to find his name, along with his parents' names, on the computer screen. 

For a few more pesos, he was given souvenir certificates documenting his family's arrival.

We celebrated the completion of the immigrant's journey by having dinner at one of our favorite restaurants, Dada.

 Henry said it was the second-best meal he'd ever had; the best was last year's dinner at Dada's!