Wednesday, 25 Apr 2007
Dear family, friends, and the random Platypus who somehow found its way onto my mailing list,
I want you to know that I, again, have good reason for torturing you so long without even a pint-sized peep from me. The last week, since I
returned from my nine-day bound about Italia, I've been plugging out a 20-page paper en francais. But who wants to talk about that? Not I,
not you and not the Platypus... how about a good taste of olive oil and some al-dente pasta?
On April 8th I departed from my humble abode at 11 rue St-Augustin for Orly, my favorite Parisian airport; bag packed, guidebook (or rather
tome) in hand, ready to set off for my last adventure. Or so I thought. My this-time-around travel buddy Nick and I get to Orly and
there's a 'tres grand cou' or 'very big line' at our check in. We sit and watch the minutes tick by one by two by one (it really throws
you off when they tick in twos). We tried to amuse ourselves watching the luggage wrapping device next to the line that claimed to protect
your luggage from bad weather, scratches, and dents when all it really did was wrap your luggage in a swathering of pink seran-wrap. What a
waste. I was astonished to see people actually pay 5 Euros to have their bags wrapped. Don't ever do it or I will disown you. Anyhow. We wait
and wait and FINALLY make it through check-in 30 minutes before the flight is supposed to leave... this can't be right. We get to the gate, and,
well, it says our plane is boarding, but they were just teasing, no no there's a delay. An 8:30pm departure becomes 9:10 then 10:40. We sit
fretting, wondering how we'll get to our 'guest house' in Venice from the airport when the airport shuttles stop at midnight... Suddenly, there is a
bust of golden light (or not) and an announcement is made... "Madames et Monsieurs - because Orly closes at midnight, we will be shuttling
you to Charles de Gaulle airport..." (this can't be good...) "You flight is now scheduled to leave at 1:00 AM." What optimists or rather pig-headed liars! You see, we finally left Paris at 2:30AM, arriving zonked-out and exhausted in Venezia at 4:15AM with no one to tell us how to get to Venice mainland and no taxis at that ungodly hour in the morning. Eventually we made it, needless to say, and things start to pick up.
VENICE:
After a break sleep-in til 10, we 3 (yes there were 3! one materialized out of nowhere... or maybe she'd taken a different flight) set out to explore. First stop - gelato - a very nutritious breakfast - vitamins A, C, B13, D, E, L, I, C, I, O, U, S.
We wander on, eating our breakfast. Wow! Look at the buildings, I didn't even notice those in my exhausted stumble at 5 AM to hotel/hostel. They're beautiful. Red, orange, yellow, plaster romantically crumbling into the canals below... a sort of surreal looking beauty cut up by the green of the canals. Not wanting to pull out our maps and scream "TOURIST!" (though it's likely evident nonetheless) we follow the masses of people streaming through the streets. There are no locals, only tourists - or so it seems. After walking over many a scenic bridge and being delighted at many a stripe-shirted gondolier, we found ourselves on the waterfront, blue ocean ahead, the famous St. Marc's Square just around the corner.
We pad into the square which was littered with pigeons and street vendors and pigeons, oops I mean tourists. (I like to deny the fact I myself am one). Long lines are everywhere like fleas marching on an old dog. First up, the old bell tower, where an elevator named SCAM (see photos) took us up to the top. The bell tower used to have stairs but when they reconstructed it after a fire, they put in an elevator. So goes this lazy world. The evidently honest elevator, despite its misleading name, let us out on a beautiful panorama of Venice - red roofs enclosed by sun-drenched waters. From the bell tower to St. Marc's Basilica - an astounding feat of feet of mosaiced walls. The gold of the mosaics gleamed in the dull daylight that filtered in through small. high windows. All the gold tiles created an astounding effect, like Vegas sans the tackiness, addicts and drunkards.
After a late lunch we wandered around taking in the sites. We tried to take a tour of the old Jewish ghetto, only to find out they there are
actually still Jews in Venice and the tours stopped running for Pesach, lest they be vermin-ited.
The evening we debated taking a gondola joy ride since legal rides are so damn expensive, and, hey, a gondola joy ride... how cool? So
did I do it? Did I? You decide and let me know.
Day two after a glorious night of sleep that started at 10:30 ...Up early and out to the Doge's Palace. The Doge was some figurehead in
Venice that existed for a good many centuries. I say figurehead of Venice and I mean it. He did nothing. He sat and watched TV allll day like a lousy couch-potato, (You didn't know it, but Venice has had the TV since the Renaissance and they hid the secret for a long, long time). But seriously, he did nothing. He lived in this immaculate, gold leafed, frescoed palace and ate. He had no political power. He couldn't even leave the house without accompaniment and had to petition to leave Venice. Yet, this was a very prestigious position. If you're going to be a prisoner you might as well do it in style. So we saw his old digs and then headed out to Murano, a neighboring island known for its glass-work.
Right off the boat we were herded in with the crowd of tourists to a glass demonstration. From this demonstration we jumped to another and
another , each less touristy the further we went but always touristic nonetheless. We dazzled our eyes in expensive Murano glass shops and
soaked up the glorious sunlight. We had a perfect moment in a soft green park, licking hazelnut gelato, a blossoming tree over our heads, the
sweet smell of grass tickling our noses, and the warm sun washing all around.
ALL ABOARD... next stop...FLORENCE!
We check into our hostel. The owner(?)/manager, a young guy in his late twenties, seemed to be 1. perpetually high, 2. incredibly tired, or 3. a chocolate covered pretzel. Nice guy though, so we chatted with him that night. He envisions America as some sort of silvery-glistening holy land where everything is wonderful and shiny and big and brilliant. Kid in an arcade-type place. To him, Europe was old and small and dirty. When I told him I was from the state of NY, he responded, "New York is a state?" I'd been told people didn't know NY was a state, but I never quiiite believed it until that moment-o.
This hostel had an interesting shower. "shower" is generous. A working shower head was shoved in a tiny bathroom, and became a shower when you pulled the curtains that shut away the door and the toilet, the both 5 inches from you in your 'shower'. There was one normal shower
too, but that evening I decided to have an adventure and try the 2-foot wide "shower." An adventure it was, but moving on...
First thing we did was climb up Florence's duomo - a massive church with a very famous interlocking-brick dome. Despite inklings to break out the grappling hooks, we payed to climb the innards. We squeezed up the tiny staircases and made it out on the cupola. Another pretty panorama. Pretty panoramas are ALL over Europe. You can't avoid them. Sometimes they come running after you waving their red-roofed arms, screaming, "Look at me! I'm a pretty panorama!" The frescoed interior of the dome was an astounding mix of vibrant colors and detailed painting, though the rest of the interior was rather too vast despite the gild and marble. Out of the Duomo we ran into the neighboring baptistery. Fortunately we were not running full speed or serious issues could have ensued. The baptistery has a famous set of gilded doors by Ghilberti. Everywhere I turned I ran into something I'd studied in class. Twas wonderful. That evening we wandered down to the oldest bridge in the city and watched street performers sing, mime, and draw on sidewalks and cook filet mignon like steak tartar.
Day two we started in the old Medici Palace - il Vecchio Palaza (don't trust my italian). Another gorgeous mess o' frescos and gilded ceilings... how very original. We decided to spring the steep 1 euro extra for a tour. Seeing as there were no English tours, we happily took it in French, and I'm proud to say I understood it all. Somebody, somebody throw me a ribbon of honor. Thank you. The tour included a tour (how tricky!) of a secret passage way and room concealed behind a map in the cartography chamber. Neato! I want one of those. Put it on my wish list.
Apres-midi we went to see the David. Now I know everyone says the David is wonderful, but I had no idea just how stunning it is. You
enter The Academia and after one room of religious art (in Italy? noooo) you see him... 10 meters at least, muscles rippling, veins pulsing... Sounds nearly sensual described like that, eh? Maybe I should write romance novels.
Next we stopped over at the nearby Florence synagogue. I kinda like this whole explore my heritage in Europe idea, but even better, after the 10
gazillion (I counted) churches we'd already stopped in, it's a nice change of scene. The building is quite beautiful inside with simple stained glass windows and Spanish-like motifs painted on the walls.
Next we wandered up the Tuscan hills in search of some monastery. Instead we stumbled across an old fortress with a modern art display.
Old and new rolled into one. Like a sandwich-wrap made with week old turkey... mmm. We sat out on the old terrace after climbing up stairs worn into soft ripples by years of feet treading on them. On this terrace we looked out of green hills robust with yellow flowers and lavender - a sweet
medicine to over-fresco-filled eyes.
Back to river level we went then, like Jack and Jill, Nick and I went up the hill (another hill). No water-fetching involved. There we found the monastery where we listened to the 5PM vespers until we got bored. Vespers with sick monks actually. A good 3 or 4 honked into the tissues to clear their noses, or coughed throughout the performance. Perhaps they were acapella-ing some trumpets and cymbals. One, however, looked genuinely like he might be ill. Someone brings these guys devine healing! It was amusing when they started each chant on the right note, not with a pitch pipe, no, but with a small electric keyboard set to pipe organ.
Well, I'll cut here half way so as not go get all Polonious on you and be horribly longwinded.
I'll write about the second half soon enough. But first, I must wind you all down from this Italian excitement (I hope you've been sitting) with some tit-a-tat.
Medieval buildings: They always so bare and stone and undecorated. Or so I thought, until this year after seeing enough of them, I learn
that they actually used to be covered in painting. In fact, Picasso and Pollack were the most popular artists, always requested by the Kings
and Lords to paint their walls.
Olive oil tastes better in Italy. Its got more zing and zang is filled with a million colors of flavor.
The pizza they make there (or all the ones I ate) are HUGE. The crust is so thin it could be what-her-face from the OC... Misha Barton...
and it is rolled out to a massive expanse that spills over the edges of your plate. Rose pizza is pizza without cheese. White pizza is
pizza with cheese. Is pizza pizza without cheese? A deep and important philosophical question in which might also lie the answer to how to stop global warming.
Pretty much 95% of the museums and sites in Italy allow no photos whatsoever and have no student discounts. SIN OF SINS! I was, however, able to pass as an EU-discount-eligible Frenchie twice. Nick is an EU member... we'd speak French at the window and he'd show his EU ID and they'd give us both discounted tickets. Don't tell the Italian museum guards on me). But photos, I have photos that appear as though they were taken in museums or castles. Did I do it? Nooooo of course not; they were taken by a strange little creature who lives under my bed. Not me. I didn't do it.
Lastly, I'm coming home. It's true. I promise. No, I can't believe it myself. AH. It's a touchy topic in this little head of mine so I'll just splash it out on the page like a baby throwing speghetti saucee and get the confession done with: I'll be arriving in the USA the evening of June 8th and heading directly to Boston where I will start my marketing internship with Boston magazine on June 11th. PHEW!
Ok. Well. It is unseasonably nice here and I'm off to buy a bottle of red and hang out with some friends on a pedestrian bridge over the Seine! Ah Paris...
Ciao ciao,
Hannah
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