My flight to Egypt leaves this afternoon and my guys left this morning. The plan was for me to stay at the hotel until my flight this afternoon and use every ounce of thier free wireless internet to update the blog (since I'm behind by over a week!). Well, their last shuttle to the airport is at 10:30.
Well, ok, I'll work on it this morning until the shuttle. Then I met a wonderful man, Bill Sperling, who runs tours in Tuscany and the South of France. We had a very interesting discussion over cappucino this morning. This leaves me ten minutes to write this post.
I guess there must be a plan B.
Ciao!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Monday, June 23, 2008
Ara Pacis & National Museum (Late Blog Post)
After the disappointment of the camera shop, I went on to see some sights on our last day in Rome. High on my list was the Ara Pacis. This was a peace altar dating from 13-9 BCE, another piece that I use in my class. It’s in a new building, constructed of glass and white marble.
Sometimes when I see an artwork, I feel like a teenager who spotted a rock star and feel all giddy. “Oh my god! There’s ________!” This would be a piece that 99% of the population would think, “Gee, that’s nice.” But I loved it to death.
After soaking it in (and enjoying their air conditioning) I moved on to the National Museum of Rome. Quite honestly, I picked that museum for very practical reasons – it was on the way back to the hotel, I could get in cheap with the Rome Pass, and the guidebook said they had a nice collection of Greek and Roman Art. No photos were allowed, so I was able to check in the backpack and just enjoy the works.
And there were a ton. I felt like every corner I turned and thought “Hey! I didn’t know that piece was here!” It was just beautiful.
Sometimes when I see an artwork, I feel like a teenager who spotted a rock star and feel all giddy. “Oh my god! There’s ________!” This would be a piece that 99% of the population would think, “Gee, that’s nice.” But I loved it to death.
After soaking it in (and enjoying their air conditioning) I moved on to the National Museum of Rome. Quite honestly, I picked that museum for very practical reasons – it was on the way back to the hotel, I could get in cheap with the Rome Pass, and the guidebook said they had a nice collection of Greek and Roman Art. No photos were allowed, so I was able to check in the backpack and just enjoy the works.
And there were a ton. I felt like every corner I turned and thought “Hey! I didn’t know that piece was here!” It was just beautiful.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Rome and the Camera, Part Two (Late Blog Post)
Once we got back to the room, I was determined to have my camera lens repaired or replaced. Nikon is a world-wide company, I just bought the camera – I even sent in all the warranty cards before I left. I was determined to find away. Nikon has a website, the camera shop has a website, there has to be a way to get this done.
I first went to the Nikon web site, looking for a repair center. This was not as easy as it sounds. Nikon does indeed have a website, and when you click on a country, it goes into that language, with a “find a photography group near you” and 50 other options. There wasn’t one list of repair centers. While I was dodging around Nikon’s website, I was also trying to get answers from “Chat live” option on the website of the camera store back in the states. There were many long pauses in that conversation, and I’m not convinced that it was due to the internet lag. The on-line person wasn’t sure what I was asking, and waiting to get back to the states seemed like a viable option to him. Being two and a half weeks into an eight week trip, it most certainly was not. He then suggested I go to the Nikon website and look for a dealer in Rome – which of course I was doing simultaneously with our live chat. Brilliant. After more searching, and guessing, I found a dealer in Rome. Got the Goggle map, and was ready to attach this first thing in the morning.
DH and WS were burnt out from the history and art of the last two days, so we devised a divide and conquer plan. I would take care of the camera in the morning and spend the rest of the day sightseeing, and they would check out some places and just see where serendipity takes them.
After a long Metro ride, and navigating a suburban neighborhood, I found the authorized Nikon dealer and repair center. The exchange took place like this:
"Do you speak English?"
"No."
Took out camera and showed the message on LCD screen. He rubbed his chin.
Put other lens on, showing that the other lens works. More chin rubbing. They put another lens they had on my camera. It worked as well.
“Lens is broken.” Italian salesman said.
I sighed, holding back a huge "Well, Duh!"
"It’s brand new, can you fix it?"
"No, today is Saturday. Service center is closed on Saturday, maybe on Monday."
"Monday, I’ll be in Bolonga." He backs away and shrugs shoulders with an Italian “Oh well” gesture.
"Can you switch it out?"
"You want to buy another one?"
"No! It’s under warranty. Can you look it up? Can’t you send it back?"
Backs even further away, “No, no, no. Only work with warranties in Italy. No where else,”
"What else can I do?" More shrugging.
Defeated and teary, I left the camera shop. (Yeah, I know I cry too easily. I need to work on that.) As I took the Metro to the Ara Pacis, I thought it over. The Egypt group I was touring with would be leaving the States at the end of the week. If I ship the lens back to the camera shop – even two day air instead of overnight – it could be there by Thursday. Someone from the group could pick it up on Friday, or even Saturday. Yes, this could work. This HAD to happen.
After I did my sightseeing of the day, (see next post) I went back to the Bed and Breakfast. I got the number for the camera shop in Denver, and planned my speech to them. They were going to do this switch and this was going to work. I spend 10 minutes figuring out how to make an international call from my cell phone, and finally made the call – forgetting the time difference. Crap. It was nine in the morning in Denver, so naturally they were not open. Waited another hour and got a human.
“I’m call from my cell phone in Rome and I need to talk to someone in charge of your camera department.”
“Um, ok. That would be me.”
“I bought a camera from you, with the service plan, and it doesn’t work. I need to return it to you, because I need this for Egypt.” (I then went on to describe my precise plan, really never giving him an option to say no. I will admit the some James Bond music was playing in the back of my head, like this was the master plan to defuse a bomb, or save the world.)
“Um, sure. That should work.”
I then told I would confirm this plan via e-mail, which would be the easiest way to contact me. What was their address?
He said the store didn’t have one, but then proceeded to give me his personal address. (This made me laugh a little inside, not many employees would do that. Maybe he heard the James Bond music as well, and wanted to save the world.)
That night when we meet up to have dinner with our friends, one asked, “Why don’t I take the lens back for you? I work near that camera shop.”
It was like the angels sang, the clouds parted and the sun came shining. Of course! They were leaving in two days (on Monday). They could have the lens there on Tuesday and someone from the Egypt group could pick it up before they left on Saturday. Yes – this could work.
I first went to the Nikon web site, looking for a repair center. This was not as easy as it sounds. Nikon does indeed have a website, and when you click on a country, it goes into that language, with a “find a photography group near you” and 50 other options. There wasn’t one list of repair centers. While I was dodging around Nikon’s website, I was also trying to get answers from “Chat live” option on the website of the camera store back in the states. There were many long pauses in that conversation, and I’m not convinced that it was due to the internet lag. The on-line person wasn’t sure what I was asking, and waiting to get back to the states seemed like a viable option to him. Being two and a half weeks into an eight week trip, it most certainly was not. He then suggested I go to the Nikon website and look for a dealer in Rome – which of course I was doing simultaneously with our live chat. Brilliant. After more searching, and guessing, I found a dealer in Rome. Got the Goggle map, and was ready to attach this first thing in the morning.
DH and WS were burnt out from the history and art of the last two days, so we devised a divide and conquer plan. I would take care of the camera in the morning and spend the rest of the day sightseeing, and they would check out some places and just see where serendipity takes them.
After a long Metro ride, and navigating a suburban neighborhood, I found the authorized Nikon dealer and repair center. The exchange took place like this:
"Do you speak English?"
"No."
Took out camera and showed the message on LCD screen. He rubbed his chin.
Put other lens on, showing that the other lens works. More chin rubbing. They put another lens they had on my camera. It worked as well.
“Lens is broken.” Italian salesman said.
I sighed, holding back a huge "Well, Duh!"
"It’s brand new, can you fix it?"
"No, today is Saturday. Service center is closed on Saturday, maybe on Monday."
"Monday, I’ll be in Bolonga." He backs away and shrugs shoulders with an Italian “Oh well” gesture.
"Can you switch it out?"
"You want to buy another one?"
"No! It’s under warranty. Can you look it up? Can’t you send it back?"
Backs even further away, “No, no, no. Only work with warranties in Italy. No where else,”
"What else can I do?" More shrugging.
Defeated and teary, I left the camera shop. (Yeah, I know I cry too easily. I need to work on that.) As I took the Metro to the Ara Pacis, I thought it over. The Egypt group I was touring with would be leaving the States at the end of the week. If I ship the lens back to the camera shop – even two day air instead of overnight – it could be there by Thursday. Someone from the group could pick it up on Friday, or even Saturday. Yes, this could work. This HAD to happen.
After I did my sightseeing of the day, (see next post) I went back to the Bed and Breakfast. I got the number for the camera shop in Denver, and planned my speech to them. They were going to do this switch and this was going to work. I spend 10 minutes figuring out how to make an international call from my cell phone, and finally made the call – forgetting the time difference. Crap. It was nine in the morning in Denver, so naturally they were not open. Waited another hour and got a human.
“I’m call from my cell phone in Rome and I need to talk to someone in charge of your camera department.”
“Um, ok. That would be me.”
“I bought a camera from you, with the service plan, and it doesn’t work. I need to return it to you, because I need this for Egypt.” (I then went on to describe my precise plan, really never giving him an option to say no. I will admit the some James Bond music was playing in the back of my head, like this was the master plan to defuse a bomb, or save the world.)
“Um, sure. That should work.”
I then told I would confirm this plan via e-mail, which would be the easiest way to contact me. What was their address?
He said the store didn’t have one, but then proceeded to give me his personal address. (This made me laugh a little inside, not many employees would do that. Maybe he heard the James Bond music as well, and wanted to save the world.)
That night when we meet up to have dinner with our friends, one asked, “Why don’t I take the lens back for you? I work near that camera shop.”
It was like the angels sang, the clouds parted and the sun came shining. Of course! They were leaving in two days (on Monday). They could have the lens there on Tuesday and someone from the Egypt group could pick it up before they left on Saturday. Yes – this could work.
Rome and the Camera, Part One (Late Blog Post)
The next day we went to the Coloseum and the Villa Bourgese. It was in the former where my camera lens died.
It wasn’t the zoom lens, it was the 18-55 mm lens; the one I call the “normal” lens. (Oh yeah, that’s a technical term.) I had been switching out the two lens out successfully, DH holding one for me gingerly, like we were performing a medical procedure. But then with the lens attached properly, the camera flashed “Lens Not Attached.” Why, yes it is. See? We must have attached and unattached that lens dozens of times – with the same disappointing results. It reminded me of when DH does his computer guru work, and this driver doesn’t recognize that driver, or the server doesn’t connect. (I feel my DH will read this with “No, no, don’t go there. You have no idea what you are talking about and it shows.”)
I will not pretend that I handled this well. I was lugging that heavy camera around, to museums that wouldn’t allow photos, and then when I can take photos, it dies. Sadly, I will now remember the Coloseum as being the place where my camera lens died.
After the Colosuem we went to the Villa Bourgese, yet another museum that did not allow photography. The owner at the B&B we stayed at had told us it was a small museum, but very beautiful. He was absolutely right. They had some fantastic pieces by Bernini, including his David. Between this museum and St. Peter’s I know I have to add some more Bernini to my Art History II classes – but that means I have to cut something out…
After the museum, WS’s stomach wasn’t feeling so good, and I was pretty hot and tired. DH went to check out the “Eco-Fair” that was going on in the nearby park. My DH has been interested in solar power for years now. There were all sorts of solar companies, organic farmers, electric cars… you name it. As he put it, “Honey, this is like a museum for me.”
Walking back to the room, WS and I passed a pharmacy with a time and temperature sign. It was 3 in the afternoon, and it read 37C. When you go to a doctor, and they say your temperature is 37C, that’s normal. 37C = 98F. Yikes.
It wasn’t the zoom lens, it was the 18-55 mm lens; the one I call the “normal” lens. (Oh yeah, that’s a technical term.) I had been switching out the two lens out successfully, DH holding one for me gingerly, like we were performing a medical procedure. But then with the lens attached properly, the camera flashed “Lens Not Attached.” Why, yes it is. See? We must have attached and unattached that lens dozens of times – with the same disappointing results. It reminded me of when DH does his computer guru work, and this driver doesn’t recognize that driver, or the server doesn’t connect. (I feel my DH will read this with “No, no, don’t go there. You have no idea what you are talking about and it shows.”)
I will not pretend that I handled this well. I was lugging that heavy camera around, to museums that wouldn’t allow photos, and then when I can take photos, it dies. Sadly, I will now remember the Coloseum as being the place where my camera lens died.
After the Colosuem we went to the Villa Bourgese, yet another museum that did not allow photography. The owner at the B&B we stayed at had told us it was a small museum, but very beautiful. He was absolutely right. They had some fantastic pieces by Bernini, including his David. Between this museum and St. Peter’s I know I have to add some more Bernini to my Art History II classes – but that means I have to cut something out…
After the museum, WS’s stomach wasn’t feeling so good, and I was pretty hot and tired. DH went to check out the “Eco-Fair” that was going on in the nearby park. My DH has been interested in solar power for years now. There were all sorts of solar companies, organic farmers, electric cars… you name it. As he put it, “Honey, this is like a museum for me.”
Walking back to the room, WS and I passed a pharmacy with a time and temperature sign. It was 3 in the afternoon, and it read 37C. When you go to a doctor, and they say your temperature is 37C, that’s normal. 37C = 98F. Yikes.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Rome, Part Two
While in Rome, we meet for dinner with Wonderful Son’s friends and their moms. It was fun to compare notes and talk about our day. We first met up near the Pantheon.
It was a very quick site. No entrance fee, there were no lines. Very much a walk in, remark: “Wow, look at that dome” and then leave. This was another site that was cool to see, but didn’t really wow me as I had expected. Maybe I was just too hot and tired, or I should have looked at this first before St. Peter’s.
Just like I’ve been telling my students for years, this building is impossible to photograph. You’re in a dome that’s 142’ wide and 142’ high. (Ok, that’s from memory, don’t quote me.) It’s like being in a bubble, with all those angles, photos just look off.
However, I did get some good ones of birds flying the oculus.
We found a restaurant close by. I had some pasta stuffed with cheese and pears with a carrot sauce. Pretty close second to the spaghetti alle pesto. The friend I was sharing this with went after that carrot sauce with bread. Maybe we stole some bread from our son’s plates to get every last drop of the sauce. Maybe we stole my son’s plate who ordered the same dish, and ate all his sauce too… I can’t recall…
It was a very quick site. No entrance fee, there were no lines. Very much a walk in, remark: “Wow, look at that dome” and then leave. This was another site that was cool to see, but didn’t really wow me as I had expected. Maybe I was just too hot and tired, or I should have looked at this first before St. Peter’s.
Just like I’ve been telling my students for years, this building is impossible to photograph. You’re in a dome that’s 142’ wide and 142’ high. (Ok, that’s from memory, don’t quote me.) It’s like being in a bubble, with all those angles, photos just look off.
However, I did get some good ones of birds flying the oculus.
We found a restaurant close by. I had some pasta stuffed with cheese and pears with a carrot sauce. Pretty close second to the spaghetti alle pesto. The friend I was sharing this with went after that carrot sauce with bread. Maybe we stole some bread from our son’s plates to get every last drop of the sauce. Maybe we stole my son’s plate who ordered the same dish, and ate all his sauce too… I can’t recall…
Rome, Part One
Like our snafu with getting a train from Paris to Florence, WS (wonderful son) and his friends has their own nightmare train tale. They were trying to get from Barcelona to Rome, and had more then their share of snafus (no direct route was available, went to Dijon, France hoping for a spot on their overnight train with no luck. They ended up sleeping on the streets of Dijon from 12-4am, taking turns “keeping watch.”) When we met up in Rome, it was both a moment of relief and oh-my-lord-you-need-a-shower aroma.
We did laundry, and ate in a pizzeria, where WS said he had the best calzone in his life.
Vatican Museum & St. Peter’s
We got to the Vatican Museum later than expected as we need to pick up our “Roma Pass” at the train station; which was just an overall chore. The station is huge and the information (and directions) were unclear. Once we got that settled, we took the bus ride to the Vatican. The weather turned downright hot in Rome. We were constantly drinking water, and wiping sweat off our brow.
The Vatican Museum was enormous. There is so much art (much without air-conditioning) that it was mentally draining. After the Egyptian, Ancient Greek and Roman, and Early Christian sections, the brain turns numb and you become a rat, searching for the cheese known as the Sistine Chapel. The galleries with modern Christian art become diversions of the maze to the Sistine Chapel; it felt like the lines to an amusement park ride. DH kept looking around, “Is this the Sistine Chapel?” Which after awhile took on the tone of a teenager with the “Are we there yet?” of a road trip through Kansas. The Raphael Rooms prior to the chapel did aid in reminding you that you were indeed at the Vatican.
Turning the corner though the small stairwell, and then suddenly, there you are. Before you even look around the place you are accosted by two things. 1) There are a boat-load of people in this small church. 2) Security clapping their hands yelling “NO PHOTO!” and “SILENCE!” This was not affected by any means. The hoards of tourist who spend their hard-earned dollars, pounds, euros, yen, what-have-you, and who just walked route which made the walking across the Red Sea easy, were bound and determined to get their photo of the Sistine Chapel; and no Italian Security guard, clapping their hands was going to stop them. It was indeed bizarre.
No, I did not even attempt to take a photo. Why? Well, it was against the rules. Secondly, in my line of work, it’s pretty easy for me to get professional photos of the Sistine Chapel, if I ever have the need to look at them. (In fact, I have my lecture images files on my laptop right now. Let me go look. Yup, there it is.) Realistically, there was no way for me to take a photo that wasn’t blurry, or crowded with tourist, or would not instigate more yells of “NO PHOTO!” from museum security.
What did I think of it? Um, it’s little busy for my tastes. Yes, Michelangelo was a great artist, even though he preferred sculpting, he was also a great painter. I’m glad I went. But it wasn’t the awe-inspiring experience I thought it would be.
After a quick, non-memorable bite at the Vatican Museum Cafeteria, we went off to St. Peter’s. (It is a short walk, about two or three city blocks, in the blistering heat.) Before we got through security, we had to go through the decorum guards.
There were two men, whose job was to look people up and down and determine if their outfits were non-offensive. Seriously. When the guidebooks tell you that women need to cover their shoulders, and you can’t wear shorts, they are not kidding and one should not consider this to be a suggestion. I warned my guys and they were wearing their chinos, (grumbling that they better not have to wear these pants in the heat again.) I will admit that WS and I were tempted to take a photo of all the fashion rejects, standing at on the sides who were obviously miffed at not getting in – but we were in the Vatican, not the best place for sarcastic comments.
Now, St. Peter’s Basilica was pretty darn amazing. That had the wow-factor for me. I’m sure the sunlight helped.
I was never a big Bernini fan, but this was starting to change my mind. As big, fussy, and down-right gaudy that baldachin is under Michelangelo’s dome – it works. It fits. You couldn’t have anything else there. It’s the proverbial cherry on top.
So there I was, at the seat of the Roman Catholic Church, surrounded by masterpieces of art, taking photographs and what was I thinking?
“Wow, these photos will be great for work.”
Yes, that’s right, work. I’m on vacation! This is a trip for pleasure, and I’m thinking about work. Now I’ll admit to have an unusual line of work (teaching art history) and these places and artworks that most people rarely think about are often on my mind because I teach people about them. Which made me wonder if that was just part of the job, or do I think too much about my job?
(Side note – I must add what WS said later about the Vatican experience:
“There were so many hot chicks there! I looked at one and thought “No! I’m at the Vatican!” and then I turned around and there was another hot chick! And I kept thinking, “No, this is wrong. I’m at the VATICAN!” There were so many hot girls there, that place was torture.”)
We did laundry, and ate in a pizzeria, where WS said he had the best calzone in his life.
Vatican Museum & St. Peter’s
We got to the Vatican Museum later than expected as we need to pick up our “Roma Pass” at the train station; which was just an overall chore. The station is huge and the information (and directions) were unclear. Once we got that settled, we took the bus ride to the Vatican. The weather turned downright hot in Rome. We were constantly drinking water, and wiping sweat off our brow.
The Vatican Museum was enormous. There is so much art (much without air-conditioning) that it was mentally draining. After the Egyptian, Ancient Greek and Roman, and Early Christian sections, the brain turns numb and you become a rat, searching for the cheese known as the Sistine Chapel. The galleries with modern Christian art become diversions of the maze to the Sistine Chapel; it felt like the lines to an amusement park ride. DH kept looking around, “Is this the Sistine Chapel?” Which after awhile took on the tone of a teenager with the “Are we there yet?” of a road trip through Kansas. The Raphael Rooms prior to the chapel did aid in reminding you that you were indeed at the Vatican.
Turning the corner though the small stairwell, and then suddenly, there you are. Before you even look around the place you are accosted by two things. 1) There are a boat-load of people in this small church. 2) Security clapping their hands yelling “NO PHOTO!” and “SILENCE!” This was not affected by any means. The hoards of tourist who spend their hard-earned dollars, pounds, euros, yen, what-have-you, and who just walked route which made the walking across the Red Sea easy, were bound and determined to get their photo of the Sistine Chapel; and no Italian Security guard, clapping their hands was going to stop them. It was indeed bizarre.
No, I did not even attempt to take a photo. Why? Well, it was against the rules. Secondly, in my line of work, it’s pretty easy for me to get professional photos of the Sistine Chapel, if I ever have the need to look at them. (In fact, I have my lecture images files on my laptop right now. Let me go look. Yup, there it is.) Realistically, there was no way for me to take a photo that wasn’t blurry, or crowded with tourist, or would not instigate more yells of “NO PHOTO!” from museum security.
What did I think of it? Um, it’s little busy for my tastes. Yes, Michelangelo was a great artist, even though he preferred sculpting, he was also a great painter. I’m glad I went. But it wasn’t the awe-inspiring experience I thought it would be.
After a quick, non-memorable bite at the Vatican Museum Cafeteria, we went off to St. Peter’s. (It is a short walk, about two or three city blocks, in the blistering heat.) Before we got through security, we had to go through the decorum guards.
There were two men, whose job was to look people up and down and determine if their outfits were non-offensive. Seriously. When the guidebooks tell you that women need to cover their shoulders, and you can’t wear shorts, they are not kidding and one should not consider this to be a suggestion. I warned my guys and they were wearing their chinos, (grumbling that they better not have to wear these pants in the heat again.) I will admit that WS and I were tempted to take a photo of all the fashion rejects, standing at on the sides who were obviously miffed at not getting in – but we were in the Vatican, not the best place for sarcastic comments.
Now, St. Peter’s Basilica was pretty darn amazing. That had the wow-factor for me. I’m sure the sunlight helped.
I was never a big Bernini fan, but this was starting to change my mind. As big, fussy, and down-right gaudy that baldachin is under Michelangelo’s dome – it works. It fits. You couldn’t have anything else there. It’s the proverbial cherry on top.
So there I was, at the seat of the Roman Catholic Church, surrounded by masterpieces of art, taking photographs and what was I thinking?
“Wow, these photos will be great for work.”
Yes, that’s right, work. I’m on vacation! This is a trip for pleasure, and I’m thinking about work. Now I’ll admit to have an unusual line of work (teaching art history) and these places and artworks that most people rarely think about are often on my mind because I teach people about them. Which made me wonder if that was just part of the job, or do I think too much about my job?
(Side note – I must add what WS said later about the Vatican experience:
“There were so many hot chicks there! I looked at one and thought “No! I’m at the Vatican!” and then I turned around and there was another hot chick! And I kept thinking, “No, this is wrong. I’m at the VATICAN!” There were so many hot girls there, that place was torture.”)
Parle ingles?
I’m going to rant now, you’ve been warned.)
We’ve been in Italy for a couple days now and I’m starting to get cranky and some of my fellow citizens. I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t speak Italian. My background is in French, and I can barely put together a sentence in Italian with my phrasebook. I get by with a lot of pointing and charades. For buying the train tickets, I used the phrasebook and wrote down “Please may I have reservations for Rome, on Wednesday, June 18th?” in Italian. (This got a chuckle from the ticket man.) I buttress everything with “Per favore” and “Grazie” (Please and Thank you). I can count up to five, and then I guess using Spanish (Italian and Spanish numbers are somewhat close.) Again, charades are helpful. I’m in Italy, not in America. While 99% of the Dutch learn English in school, not all Italians do.
It drives me nuts to see Americans walk up to Italians, either in the train stations or stores and just start speaking English. No “Do you speak English?” no “Per favore” – nothing. Their culturally insensitivity is embarrassing. You’re telling me they can spend thousands of dollars on airfare, hotel and food, but can be bothered with a ten-dollar phrasebook? They won’t even say “good-bye” in Italian, like “Ciao” is so hard to remember. (I’ll bet half of them are fans of the Sopranos.)
And people wonder why other counties don’t like Americans.
Enough with the soapbox.
We’ve been in Italy for a couple days now and I’m starting to get cranky and some of my fellow citizens. I’ll be the first to admit, I don’t speak Italian. My background is in French, and I can barely put together a sentence in Italian with my phrasebook. I get by with a lot of pointing and charades. For buying the train tickets, I used the phrasebook and wrote down “Please may I have reservations for Rome, on Wednesday, June 18th?” in Italian. (This got a chuckle from the ticket man.) I buttress everything with “Per favore” and “Grazie” (Please and Thank you). I can count up to five, and then I guess using Spanish (Italian and Spanish numbers are somewhat close.) Again, charades are helpful. I’m in Italy, not in America. While 99% of the Dutch learn English in school, not all Italians do.
It drives me nuts to see Americans walk up to Italians, either in the train stations or stores and just start speaking English. No “Do you speak English?” no “Per favore” – nothing. Their culturally insensitivity is embarrassing. You’re telling me they can spend thousands of dollars on airfare, hotel and food, but can be bothered with a ten-dollar phrasebook? They won’t even say “good-bye” in Italian, like “Ciao” is so hard to remember. (I’ll bet half of them are fans of the Sopranos.)
And people wonder why other counties don’t like Americans.
Enough with the soapbox.
Friday, June 20, 2008
So, Where are you from?
On our way to the Cinque Terre, there was a couple from Colorado Springs, visiting Italy for their 25th anniversary. While hanging out on the beach, I had an interesting conversation with a man and his family from Littleton, Colorado. (They had been to Pompeii, and we were discussing Roman Art.) Later we spotted a University of Colorado shirt in the train station. It was surprising to meet of so many people from Colorado.
As tourists, I always find it fun take group shots for others and often have them return the favor. At Cinque Terre, I just took a photo of a couple and asked where they were from.
“The Twin Cities”
“Oh no, if you tell me you’re Viking fans I may have to delete your photos.” I replied jokingly.
“No way! We’re Packer fans!”
What ensued were shrieks of laughter, introductions and discussions of Farve’s retirement. The wife was from Iron Mountain, not horrible far from where DH grew up in Upper Michigan. It was like meeting an old lost friend.
The next day, we meet another couple who were actually from Green Bay. He works in the Green Bay Police Department, and works the games at Lambeau Field. (They, too, were Packer Fans.)
To top off the stay, our last night as we headed up to our room, we meet another couple with map in hand. Since they spoke English, we asked if they needed help. Lo and behold, they were staying the same place we were. They asked were we from, we replied Denver, and you?
“The Twin Cities”
“I’m sorry, we can’t help you if your Viking fans.”
“What? Are you Bronoco fans? We’re Packer fans anyways.”
More laughter and discussion of the team. She was an elementary school art teacher, and she told us how she purposely uses green and gold for all her sample projects for the kids – which of course drives them crazy.
Three groups of Packer fans in less than three day.
As tourists, I always find it fun take group shots for others and often have them return the favor. At Cinque Terre, I just took a photo of a couple and asked where they were from.
“The Twin Cities”
“Oh no, if you tell me you’re Viking fans I may have to delete your photos.” I replied jokingly.
“No way! We’re Packer fans!”
What ensued were shrieks of laughter, introductions and discussions of Farve’s retirement. The wife was from Iron Mountain, not horrible far from where DH grew up in Upper Michigan. It was like meeting an old lost friend.
The next day, we meet another couple who were actually from Green Bay. He works in the Green Bay Police Department, and works the games at Lambeau Field. (They, too, were Packer Fans.)
To top off the stay, our last night as we headed up to our room, we meet another couple with map in hand. Since they spoke English, we asked if they needed help. Lo and behold, they were staying the same place we were. They asked were we from, we replied Denver, and you?
“The Twin Cities”
“I’m sorry, we can’t help you if your Viking fans.”
“What? Are you Bronoco fans? We’re Packer fans anyways.”
More laughter and discussion of the team. She was an elementary school art teacher, and she told us how she purposely uses green and gold for all her sample projects for the kids – which of course drives them crazy.
Three groups of Packer fans in less than three day.
Pesto
After Florence, we went to Manarola, on the Cinque Terre. Since we rushed breakfast to get on an early train, by the time we settled into our room it was almost two and we were starving. As we walked downed the hill, back toward the center of town, it was becoming apparent that this was not a town full of restaurants, we better find something while it was still open. We came upon gazebo filled with tables brimming with plates of seafood and gregarious Italians. One thing we have quickly learned here in Italy, if you find a restaurant filled with Italians, go in; if it is filled with tourist, go in only if your desperate. Italians know good food.
There was exactly one empty table, set for two, in the entire place. The waiter nodded that we take it. As we walked over, it was as if someone turned down the volume with a remote control – it felt like everyone was staring at us. We were not wearing our Sunday-best tight jeans like the Italians were, but we rather wearing tourist clothes. DH looked at me, “Oh my God, should we leave?” To which I replied, “Where would we go?” We slithered in our chairs and stuck our noses deep in the menus. The volume slowly returned, and it became apparent we were the only English speakers in the place. The table next to us had two French couples, dining on mussels and shrimp.
This area of Italy is particularly known for their pesto, as their temperate Mediterranean climate allows for happy basil plants. DH and I started with an order of fresh anchovies to share, spaghetti alle pesto, with mussels for me, spaghetti alle ragu and local lobster for DH. (I told you we were really hungry.)
First came the house wine, a green label-less bottle, filled to the very top with wine. House wine was evidently also made by the restaurant, and it was very good. White wine was the specialty here, and this bottle was a great example why. Dry but smooth, not an over-oaky chardonnay; as the diner progressed, the wine mellowed even more. That bottle was starting to convert this red wine girl.
The anchovies were buttery soft that were neither too fishy nor too salty. The bread was fresh with a chewy crust, the sun shining, the restaurant continued to buzz with activity. We were no longer tourist looking at Italy; we were now dripping in the culture.
Then came the spaghetti alle pesto.
There are moments in my life, when I take a bite of something; I instantly know deep in my soul, I will never consume anything better ever again. Like a warm June strawberry that was just on the plant 5 seconds before it came to your lips, blows away anything you would ever get at the supermarket. This was food heaven.
Now, this was certainly not the first time I ever had pesto. I make the stuff at home when my basil (finally) comes in; buy it in jars when I’m lazy. But this, oh this was out of this world. The basil was very fine, I’m sure it must have been rubbed or pounded with a mortar and pestle. The cheese was fresh and the olive oil held it all together like an conductor at a symphony. Words just can not express the nirvana that was in my mouth.
After the first bite, I gave DH one bite. We rarely order the same thing, and always “trade forks” a bite of yours for a bite of mine. There was to be no more sharing after that one bite.
Now there may be a slight difference in how the following moments would be described by DH and me. I would say that I really enjoyed my spaghetti alle pesto, and the French couples next me admired my enjoyment. He may say our conversation stopped as all my attention went to that plate of pasta. When he motioned to me that I had a little sauce on the side of my mouth, using my napkin was not a consideration, my tongue when out for it, like a soldier on a rescue mission. His eyed bulged as I grabbed more bread to wipe up every last drop of that pesto. I mentioned in French to the table next to us, that a cat must have eaten it, as I mimicked licking the plate, and they laughed in response.
As we ate our seafood, we noticed the Italians getting little pitchers of a honey-colored liquid and baskets of cookies– whatever it was, it was not listed on the menu and I wanted it. With broken Italian and a little charades, our meal ended with the local dessert wine and biscotti to dunk. Eating the specialties of whatever is grown, caught or produced in the region brings a culinary paradise.
On Monday, the restaurant was closed and I was heartbroken. After dinner we swapped travel tips with another family from America, telling them of our memorable meal. Tuesday was our last night we returned to the same waiter, each getting our own plate of spaghetti alle pesto. We shared the antipasti di mari (Seafood appetizer)
Each little pile of seafood had a different character. The stuffed mussels were divine, like a little mini sausage meatloaf stuffed in a shell. I ate octopus for the first time, and I would certainly have it again.
The American family we just met the previous night was seated right by us and we had a great time talking and eating. (The husband makes handmade violin bows. Really! What a cool job!) It was sad leaving the next day because I felt like we were leaving “our” restaurant with “our” waiter.
There was exactly one empty table, set for two, in the entire place. The waiter nodded that we take it. As we walked over, it was as if someone turned down the volume with a remote control – it felt like everyone was staring at us. We were not wearing our Sunday-best tight jeans like the Italians were, but we rather wearing tourist clothes. DH looked at me, “Oh my God, should we leave?” To which I replied, “Where would we go?” We slithered in our chairs and stuck our noses deep in the menus. The volume slowly returned, and it became apparent we were the only English speakers in the place. The table next to us had two French couples, dining on mussels and shrimp.
This area of Italy is particularly known for their pesto, as their temperate Mediterranean climate allows for happy basil plants. DH and I started with an order of fresh anchovies to share, spaghetti alle pesto, with mussels for me, spaghetti alle ragu and local lobster for DH. (I told you we were really hungry.)
First came the house wine, a green label-less bottle, filled to the very top with wine. House wine was evidently also made by the restaurant, and it was very good. White wine was the specialty here, and this bottle was a great example why. Dry but smooth, not an over-oaky chardonnay; as the diner progressed, the wine mellowed even more. That bottle was starting to convert this red wine girl.
The anchovies were buttery soft that were neither too fishy nor too salty. The bread was fresh with a chewy crust, the sun shining, the restaurant continued to buzz with activity. We were no longer tourist looking at Italy; we were now dripping in the culture.
Then came the spaghetti alle pesto.
There are moments in my life, when I take a bite of something; I instantly know deep in my soul, I will never consume anything better ever again. Like a warm June strawberry that was just on the plant 5 seconds before it came to your lips, blows away anything you would ever get at the supermarket. This was food heaven.
Now, this was certainly not the first time I ever had pesto. I make the stuff at home when my basil (finally) comes in; buy it in jars when I’m lazy. But this, oh this was out of this world. The basil was very fine, I’m sure it must have been rubbed or pounded with a mortar and pestle. The cheese was fresh and the olive oil held it all together like an conductor at a symphony. Words just can not express the nirvana that was in my mouth.
After the first bite, I gave DH one bite. We rarely order the same thing, and always “trade forks” a bite of yours for a bite of mine. There was to be no more sharing after that one bite.
Now there may be a slight difference in how the following moments would be described by DH and me. I would say that I really enjoyed my spaghetti alle pesto, and the French couples next me admired my enjoyment. He may say our conversation stopped as all my attention went to that plate of pasta. When he motioned to me that I had a little sauce on the side of my mouth, using my napkin was not a consideration, my tongue when out for it, like a soldier on a rescue mission. His eyed bulged as I grabbed more bread to wipe up every last drop of that pesto. I mentioned in French to the table next to us, that a cat must have eaten it, as I mimicked licking the plate, and they laughed in response.
As we ate our seafood, we noticed the Italians getting little pitchers of a honey-colored liquid and baskets of cookies– whatever it was, it was not listed on the menu and I wanted it. With broken Italian and a little charades, our meal ended with the local dessert wine and biscotti to dunk. Eating the specialties of whatever is grown, caught or produced in the region brings a culinary paradise.
On Monday, the restaurant was closed and I was heartbroken. After dinner we swapped travel tips with another family from America, telling them of our memorable meal. Tuesday was our last night we returned to the same waiter, each getting our own plate of spaghetti alle pesto. We shared the antipasti di mari (Seafood appetizer)
Each little pile of seafood had a different character. The stuffed mussels were divine, like a little mini sausage meatloaf stuffed in a shell. I ate octopus for the first time, and I would certainly have it again.
The American family we just met the previous night was seated right by us and we had a great time talking and eating. (The husband makes handmade violin bows. Really! What a cool job!) It was sad leaving the next day because I felt like we were leaving “our” restaurant with “our” waiter.
Playing Catch Up
Yes, I know the entries have been slow. That whole vacation thing can get in the way with writing and posting. Sorry, more is forthcoming. (And I'll let you know how it goes for me tomorrow to find a Nikon dealer here in Rome who will replace my non-functionting camera lens. Oh yeah, good times.)
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
You want me to go where?
(I will admit up front this entry is a bit on the crude side to illustrate some cultural differences. My apologizes.)
When you are in a foreign country, you start to realize how we Americans are accustomed to free, somewhat decent, restrooms. One you get over, here you have to hunt them out. At the train stations, expect to pay half a Euro (roughly 75 cents), to have an older woman wipe and spray stalls between patrons. (DH had to go in front of a female attendant in Avignon.) You learn when you pay to get into a museum or church, better use the facilities while you are there. I was shocked to see this in Florence’s Palazzo Medici (mind you, at one time this was the largest private house in all of Florence.)
This is known as a “Long Drop. See those two ribbed areas? That's where your feet go. I thought I would be dealing with this in Egypt, not Italy. This museum had a state of the art exhibit, where you literally point to a huge screen with the chapel’s frescos (your hand never touches the screen, cameras read your body to see what section you want), and it will explain it to you in the language of your choice. (DH loved it.) And you’re telling me that I have to squat, hover and balance to go?
Later the same day, we went to a café for an afternoon cappuccino and encountered this.
Bidet attachments in a café. That’s takes the idea of popping into the restroom to “freshen up” to a whole new level. (FYI - as Rick Steves’ says, a bidet is to clean the parts of your body that rub together when you walk.)
Ying or yang, all or nothing.
When you are in a foreign country, you start to realize how we Americans are accustomed to free, somewhat decent, restrooms. One you get over, here you have to hunt them out. At the train stations, expect to pay half a Euro (roughly 75 cents), to have an older woman wipe and spray stalls between patrons. (DH had to go in front of a female attendant in Avignon.) You learn when you pay to get into a museum or church, better use the facilities while you are there. I was shocked to see this in Florence’s Palazzo Medici (mind you, at one time this was the largest private house in all of Florence.)
This is known as a “Long Drop. See those two ribbed areas? That's where your feet go. I thought I would be dealing with this in Egypt, not Italy. This museum had a state of the art exhibit, where you literally point to a huge screen with the chapel’s frescos (your hand never touches the screen, cameras read your body to see what section you want), and it will explain it to you in the language of your choice. (DH loved it.) And you’re telling me that I have to squat, hover and balance to go?
Later the same day, we went to a café for an afternoon cappuccino and encountered this.
Bidet attachments in a café. That’s takes the idea of popping into the restroom to “freshen up” to a whole new level. (FYI - as Rick Steves’ says, a bidet is to clean the parts of your body that rub together when you walk.)
Ying or yang, all or nothing.
Florence
From Nice, our trains hugged the coastline, giving us spectacular views before plunging us into the darkness of the tunnels. We had three more train connections, one of which sat on the tracks for 30 minutes, so we did not catch the train to Florence from Pisa until 10pm (2200). It was the most surreal type of experience. We were the only people in the car, and when the train made its stops along the route, the engine stopped and you could literally hear crickets, it was so quiet.Once we got into Florence, it took awhile to find our hotel – which was three floors up. Now when I was booking this room, I figured three floors, would be American floors, with 8 foot ceilings. Silly me. In Italy, the ceilings are often a good 10+ feet. One flight of stairs felt like 1 /2 flights in the US; there were seventy steps up to that room. Granted it was a lovely room, with private bath; quite large by European standards, but those steps seemed to go on forever – just like those train rides.
The morning greeted us with drizzly rain, which cleared up in the afternoon. I’m not sure exactly what it was, but Florence did not meet my expectations. You heard more English spoken on the streets by tourist, than Italian by the locals. The streets were dirty with potholes. The tour groups from the world overran the monuments. It just was not what I expected.
We did check out some of the sites. We went to the Palazzo de Medici, the Cathedral, Santa Maria Novella, Uffizzi Gallery and check out the Ponte Vechicco.
(To my students of the “Architects of the Italian Renaissance” class. Ok, I’ll fess up. DH and I were walking around in the evening and there was a palazzo. An important one done by some important architect, because I remember putting it on a review sheet for an exam. I just started at it, “Oh.. it’s that one… with the cross-thingy… in reaction to Alberi… crap…” I was standing in front of Palazzo Rucellai and I couldn’t ID the damn thing. Not one of the prouder moments of my life – I’m blaming the wine.)
A lovely couple from Spain took our photo on one of Florence’s bridges over the Arno River:
Maybe missing a day in Florence for some time in Nice wasn't a horrible thing.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Two Hours in Nice
What would you do with two hours in Nice? That’s about how much time we had between trains, so we decided to head to the water. (Most European train stations have huge lockers where you can stash your bags. The one at Nice was horribly expensive, 8 Euros – but what’s the other option?)
Yes, the French Riviera is an unbelievable shade of blue; colors you wouldn’t think would be found in nature.
Just looking at the water wasn’t enough for us; we had to get our feet wet. No, we were not wearing proper beach attire; DH rolled up his jeans and took off his shoes and socks. Unlike the beach in Holland, this one was mostly rocks, which was neither easy nor comfortable to walk on. The waves came crashing and our pants got wet, and we really didn’t care. We were in the French Riviera.
When we were walking along the beach in Holland, DH and I were talking about shells and rocks, and I had mentioned that I never really found any sea glass. The only place I ever found it was in a Nature Preserve in La Jolla, California, and no one is allowed to take anything from the park. Well, guess what I found here?
This trip has been just full of surprises.
Yes, the French Riviera is an unbelievable shade of blue; colors you wouldn’t think would be found in nature.
Just looking at the water wasn’t enough for us; we had to get our feet wet. No, we were not wearing proper beach attire; DH rolled up his jeans and took off his shoes and socks. Unlike the beach in Holland, this one was mostly rocks, which was neither easy nor comfortable to walk on. The waves came crashing and our pants got wet, and we really didn’t care. We were in the French Riviera.
When we were walking along the beach in Holland, DH and I were talking about shells and rocks, and I had mentioned that I never really found any sea glass. The only place I ever found it was in a Nature Preserve in La Jolla, California, and no one is allowed to take anything from the park. Well, guess what I found here?
This trip has been just full of surprises.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Avignon
Here we are in Avaginon, in an Ibis Hotel (think Holiday Inn, with smaller beds.) So far things have gone well. Wish us luck for our train rides (!!!) tomorrow.
Detour
I’m currently riding in a TGV, going to Avignon; listening to the Talking Heads:
And you may find yourself in another part of the world,
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile,
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”
With all my planning, there was one thing I neglected: making train reservations for the overnight train from Paris to Florence. (This is where all my friends from Europe gasp. Yes, I know, I should have done this weeks before. Yes, I guess I am crazy.) So like hopeful (and naïve) fans trying to get tickets to a concert that was sold out months ago, we head to the train station. The very kind man behind the counter did indeed try to get us on that train in any possible manner (first-class, second-class, cargo…). No luck. How about Milan? Ok, we would just continue on to Florence in the morning. Nope, that one’s full too.
We then started with the creative solutions. We could go to Frankfurt, and then down to Milan on the overnight train. No, our Euro-rail Pass doesn’t cover Germany. What about Switzerland? Nope, only the Netherlands, Belgium, France and Italy are covered with our pass. Maybe we could get into Turin…An hour of searching and nothing was coming up available.
Then came the desperate solutions. Well, let’s try for the south of France tonight, and then carry on to Florence in the morning. After more vigorous searching by the ticket agent, a solution slowly became to materialize.
June 12 (today)
Leave Arrive
Bruges 1234 Kortrijk 1312
Kortrijk 1322 Lille (Flanders Station) 1354
Lille (Europe Station) 1557 Avignon 2011
Hotel in Avignon, to be determined.
June 13 (tomorrow)
Avignon (743) Nice (1101)*
Nice (1339) Ventimiglia (1418)
Ventimiglia (1458) Genova (1706)
Genova (1748) Pisa (2012)
Pisa (2029) Florence (2133)
*We tried to get on a later train, but it was booked.
I was doing ok with the whole thing, trying not to get overwhelmed and keep the “glass is half-full” mentality. David is reading “Angels and Demons” and I bought along knitting (plus this blog) so it won’t be like we have nothing to do on the train. It’ll be a break from all the sightseeing.
Since we had time in Lille, I went to the information booth, for, well, information. (Out came the rusty French.)
“I need a hotel in Avignon. Can you help me?”
“Ahhhh….”
“Do you have a phone number for their tourist information?”
He types on the computer, “Here is their phone number.”
“Thank you. Is there an internet café here?”
“No.”
“Do you have wireless here?”
“No.”
Ok, stay positive. There was a big, beautiful mall right near the station; they must have to have an internet café. Oh no, they don’t. (But people are allowed to bring in their dogs who can crap anywhere they choose. That was odd.) So then I get a phone card, wrestle with the public phone, call the tourist information and got their *$%& voicemail – twice. Alright, let’s call the hotel in Florence so that they do not give out our room since we’ll be coming in so late. I asked a very kind French woman what the international dialing code was since it was no where to be found on that phone. (She looked too, so I know it was not just me being dense.) She went to the information office and got the number for me. (00 – remember that, you too may one day need to know that.) So I call the number I have for the hotel in Florence and explained the situation. Reservation – what reservation? Evidently two hotels worked together for their reservations, but have now decided to take separate reservations; and I was calling the wrong hotel. So he gave me the number to our hotel. It was their fax number.
And you may ask yourself, where does that highway go to?
And you may ask yourself, am I right or am I wrong?
And you may say to yourself, “My God, what have I done?”
And that’s when I started crying in the train station.
DH feels my pain, but is unfazed by this situation. He claims his favorite trip to Europe is when we went to England for two weeks without one hotel reservation. (We stayed at a friend’s house the first part and the very last part of our trip, but other than that, we flew by the seat of our pants. It drove me nuts.) He asked me if I had ever been to Avignon before, and I said no. “Well, guess what? You’re going there today. Surprise!”
The one of the positive in all this craziness is that our Euro-rail pass is first-class. Though we will be on an ungodly amount of trains, most will be first-class with a little more leg room and overall a nicer experience. (In the TGV, DH and I are facing each other with a small table between us, there’s even an outlet on the side of the seat, so my laptop can charge as I type.)
Before I left the US, I had lunch with a dear colleague who was telling me about a road trip she was planning this summer with her four-year old daughter to Iowa. I told her about the times we took road trips to visit family in Wisconsin; Nebraska is a pain to drive though, but Iowa is so pretty. I love looking at the farms on the rolling hills; it can be a very picturesque drive. While we were talking about I was almost jealous – I want to go on a road trip. Listening to music, looking out the window, eating Twizzlers – such good times. She looked at me as if I was crazy, “You’re going to Europe and Egypt and you’re jealous of me going to Iowa?” Yes, in some ways I was. And now what am I doing? Sitting, listening to music, looking out the window at the picturesque countryside, and eating Haribo cola gummies, because they don’t have Twizzlers here. So maybe, just maybe, in some weird, twisted way, this is what I wanted all along.
And you may find yourself in another part of the world,
And you may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile,
And you may find yourself in a beautiful house, with a beautiful wife.
And you may ask yourself, “Well, how did I get here?”
With all my planning, there was one thing I neglected: making train reservations for the overnight train from Paris to Florence. (This is where all my friends from Europe gasp. Yes, I know, I should have done this weeks before. Yes, I guess I am crazy.) So like hopeful (and naïve) fans trying to get tickets to a concert that was sold out months ago, we head to the train station. The very kind man behind the counter did indeed try to get us on that train in any possible manner (first-class, second-class, cargo…). No luck. How about Milan? Ok, we would just continue on to Florence in the morning. Nope, that one’s full too.
We then started with the creative solutions. We could go to Frankfurt, and then down to Milan on the overnight train. No, our Euro-rail Pass doesn’t cover Germany. What about Switzerland? Nope, only the Netherlands, Belgium, France and Italy are covered with our pass. Maybe we could get into Turin…An hour of searching and nothing was coming up available.
Then came the desperate solutions. Well, let’s try for the south of France tonight, and then carry on to Florence in the morning. After more vigorous searching by the ticket agent, a solution slowly became to materialize.
June 12 (today)
Leave Arrive
Bruges 1234 Kortrijk 1312
Kortrijk 1322 Lille (Flanders Station) 1354
Lille (Europe Station) 1557 Avignon 2011
Hotel in Avignon, to be determined.
June 13 (tomorrow)
Avignon (743) Nice (1101)*
Nice (1339) Ventimiglia (1418)
Ventimiglia (1458) Genova (1706)
Genova (1748) Pisa (2012)
Pisa (2029) Florence (2133)
*We tried to get on a later train, but it was booked.
I was doing ok with the whole thing, trying not to get overwhelmed and keep the “glass is half-full” mentality. David is reading “Angels and Demons” and I bought along knitting (plus this blog) so it won’t be like we have nothing to do on the train. It’ll be a break from all the sightseeing.
Since we had time in Lille, I went to the information booth, for, well, information. (Out came the rusty French.)
“I need a hotel in Avignon. Can you help me?”
“Ahhhh….”
“Do you have a phone number for their tourist information?”
He types on the computer, “Here is their phone number.”
“Thank you. Is there an internet café here?”
“No.”
“Do you have wireless here?”
“No.”
Ok, stay positive. There was a big, beautiful mall right near the station; they must have to have an internet café. Oh no, they don’t. (But people are allowed to bring in their dogs who can crap anywhere they choose. That was odd.) So then I get a phone card, wrestle with the public phone, call the tourist information and got their *$%& voicemail – twice. Alright, let’s call the hotel in Florence so that they do not give out our room since we’ll be coming in so late. I asked a very kind French woman what the international dialing code was since it was no where to be found on that phone. (She looked too, so I know it was not just me being dense.) She went to the information office and got the number for me. (00 – remember that, you too may one day need to know that.) So I call the number I have for the hotel in Florence and explained the situation. Reservation – what reservation? Evidently two hotels worked together for their reservations, but have now decided to take separate reservations; and I was calling the wrong hotel. So he gave me the number to our hotel. It was their fax number.
And you may ask yourself, where does that highway go to?
And you may ask yourself, am I right or am I wrong?
And you may say to yourself, “My God, what have I done?”
And that’s when I started crying in the train station.
DH feels my pain, but is unfazed by this situation. He claims his favorite trip to Europe is when we went to England for two weeks without one hotel reservation. (We stayed at a friend’s house the first part and the very last part of our trip, but other than that, we flew by the seat of our pants. It drove me nuts.) He asked me if I had ever been to Avignon before, and I said no. “Well, guess what? You’re going there today. Surprise!”
The one of the positive in all this craziness is that our Euro-rail pass is first-class. Though we will be on an ungodly amount of trains, most will be first-class with a little more leg room and overall a nicer experience. (In the TGV, DH and I are facing each other with a small table between us, there’s even an outlet on the side of the seat, so my laptop can charge as I type.)
Before I left the US, I had lunch with a dear colleague who was telling me about a road trip she was planning this summer with her four-year old daughter to Iowa. I told her about the times we took road trips to visit family in Wisconsin; Nebraska is a pain to drive though, but Iowa is so pretty. I love looking at the farms on the rolling hills; it can be a very picturesque drive. While we were talking about I was almost jealous – I want to go on a road trip. Listening to music, looking out the window, eating Twizzlers – such good times. She looked at me as if I was crazy, “You’re going to Europe and Egypt and you’re jealous of me going to Iowa?” Yes, in some ways I was. And now what am I doing? Sitting, listening to music, looking out the window at the picturesque countryside, and eating Haribo cola gummies, because they don’t have Twizzlers here. So maybe, just maybe, in some weird, twisted way, this is what I wanted all along.
5 random things
Five things that have surprised me so far:
1. Crocs – they’re a hit over here. I’ve seen two shops with nothing by Crocs, and our innkeeper in Bruge was sporting a pair.
2. Chips and salsa are popping up more in cafes. We say them in Haarlem and Bruges. No, I haven’t tried them, and don’t intend to.
3. How difficult it would be to get Internet connection. I’m wonder how difficult it will be in Egypt.
4. How women in Amsterdam can ride a bike, in high heels and a short skirt, with a small child in the front, groceries in the back, and talk on the cell phone and not kill themselves.
5. How fast time is flying by.
1. Crocs – they’re a hit over here. I’ve seen two shops with nothing by Crocs, and our innkeeper in Bruge was sporting a pair.
2. Chips and salsa are popping up more in cafes. We say them in Haarlem and Bruges. No, I haven’t tried them, and don’t intend to.
3. How difficult it would be to get Internet connection. I’m wonder how difficult it will be in Egypt.
4. How women in Amsterdam can ride a bike, in high heels and a short skirt, with a small child in the front, groceries in the back, and talk on the cell phone and not kill themselves.
5. How fast time is flying by.
Catch up
We're off today to Italy, via Paris; leaving our wonderful wireless in Bruges. Therefore we may be out of the loop for a couple of days. Internet is harder to track down than I realized. I'll keep writing and posting when I can.
They're alive!
Our first night in Bruges, we called WS (Wonderful Son) to see if they were still in town and wanted a beer. The reply was yes on both accounts.
Obviously all are doing well.
The guys picked a café/bar they had been to the night before, with cheap beer with the Euro-cup game on the big screen TV. We drank and listened to their stories of Amsterdam and Bruges, everything from flat tires on rental bikes to loving the VanGogh Museum. They already adopted other football (soccer) clubs because “Well, the US teams just sucks.” WS was sporting the colors of one of the local Bruges club, and his friend had on Holland. (This will be an important point later in the story.)
After the beer, I personally was starving and the guys said they were hungry too. So we went to look for a place that was still open. (Restaurants close early in Bruges. We barely got a table at 9pm.) As we sat down, the owner looked a little grumpy, I thought due to a large party of five late in the evening. We ordered, and tried to be as polite as possible. While serving the table next to us, the owner said something in English and the other table laughed. DH nudged me, “They’re talking about us.”
“Huh, why do you say that?”
“Trust me; I know they were talking about us.”
I wasn’t sure what to do. The guys weren’t being that loud; I was speaking French, so we weren’t being rude Americans demanding he speak English – what was ticking this man off?
It finally came clear when the owner came to remove our plates. He stared at WS’s football scarf, “You two are rooting for the wrong team.” The owner was a fan of the OTHER team in Bruges – the ones that have a horrible record, and the fans cheer louder the worse they do.
That’s why he was being cranky! The other tabled laughed, and the guys quickly took off their scarves. Nice to know Americans aren’t the only ones who go crazy over their teams.
Obviously all are doing well.
The guys picked a café/bar they had been to the night before, with cheap beer with the Euro-cup game on the big screen TV. We drank and listened to their stories of Amsterdam and Bruges, everything from flat tires on rental bikes to loving the VanGogh Museum. They already adopted other football (soccer) clubs because “Well, the US teams just sucks.” WS was sporting the colors of one of the local Bruges club, and his friend had on Holland. (This will be an important point later in the story.)
After the beer, I personally was starving and the guys said they were hungry too. So we went to look for a place that was still open. (Restaurants close early in Bruges. We barely got a table at 9pm.) As we sat down, the owner looked a little grumpy, I thought due to a large party of five late in the evening. We ordered, and tried to be as polite as possible. While serving the table next to us, the owner said something in English and the other table laughed. DH nudged me, “They’re talking about us.”
“Huh, why do you say that?”
“Trust me; I know they were talking about us.”
I wasn’t sure what to do. The guys weren’t being that loud; I was speaking French, so we weren’t being rude Americans demanding he speak English – what was ticking this man off?
It finally came clear when the owner came to remove our plates. He stared at WS’s football scarf, “You two are rooting for the wrong team.” The owner was a fan of the OTHER team in Bruges – the ones that have a horrible record, and the fans cheer louder the worse they do.
That’s why he was being cranky! The other tabled laughed, and the guys quickly took off their scarves. Nice to know Americans aren’t the only ones who go crazy over their teams.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Bruges
There is so much to love about Bruges. The town is like a three-D postcard that is so stinkin’ beautiful, it’ll take you twice as long to get from point A to point B that it would anywhere else, since you‘ll be stopping and taking pictures of another ridiculously beautiful house, or church or canal every five steps.
My camera was full of these shots. What’s even worse? This is our second time here, so I have even more photos on my computer back home.
We stayed at our favorite B&B in Bruges. The room is beautiful and breakfast is wonderful. (There’s a little chocolate by your coffee cup in the morning. Maybe the world would be a better place if everyone had a little piece of chocolate with their coffee in the morning. I should look into this.)
The weather was (still) beautiful, so we decided to go to the northeast edge of town where the windmills are.
There were four total, but only one was working. You could go in and see it action.
After we laid on the grass for awhile and admire them some more against the blue sky, we walked along the canal and found a barge from Holland going through the locks. This was a huge barge, with a spacious owner’s cabin, complete with car and dog. I guess the equivalent in the States would be a truck driver with a decked out cab.
We saw the whole process, raising the bridge, getting the barge into to lock, closing the lock, lowering the water level, and then out the other lock.
Back to the center of Bruges, we went to a church (I already forgot which one) and saw the one Michelangelo sculpture that left Italy in his lifetime:
Happily, Bruges has tourist who will take a photo of you if you return the favor.
Here’s one by the windmills, taken by a Englishman from Essex.
Here’s some nice shots by a girl from Singapore. (I have to give her and her friend credit, it was a 24 hour flight from them to get there, and they only had a week in Europe. That’s dedication.)
Since this was our last night in Belgium, we need to top it off with some Trappist beer. Very tasty stuff.
Now, I’m ready for some wine in Italy.
My camera was full of these shots. What’s even worse? This is our second time here, so I have even more photos on my computer back home.
We stayed at our favorite B&B in Bruges. The room is beautiful and breakfast is wonderful. (There’s a little chocolate by your coffee cup in the morning. Maybe the world would be a better place if everyone had a little piece of chocolate with their coffee in the morning. I should look into this.)
The weather was (still) beautiful, so we decided to go to the northeast edge of town where the windmills are.
There were four total, but only one was working. You could go in and see it action.
After we laid on the grass for awhile and admire them some more against the blue sky, we walked along the canal and found a barge from Holland going through the locks. This was a huge barge, with a spacious owner’s cabin, complete with car and dog. I guess the equivalent in the States would be a truck driver with a decked out cab.
We saw the whole process, raising the bridge, getting the barge into to lock, closing the lock, lowering the water level, and then out the other lock.
Back to the center of Bruges, we went to a church (I already forgot which one) and saw the one Michelangelo sculpture that left Italy in his lifetime:
Happily, Bruges has tourist who will take a photo of you if you return the favor.
Here’s one by the windmills, taken by a Englishman from Essex.
Here’s some nice shots by a girl from Singapore. (I have to give her and her friend credit, it was a 24 hour flight from them to get there, and they only had a week in Europe. That’s dedication.)
Since this was our last night in Belgium, we need to top it off with some Trappist beer. Very tasty stuff.
Now, I’m ready for some wine in Italy.
Delft
Mondays in Europe are sad for me– that’s when all the museums are closed. While we hit the main highlights in The Hague, we thought it would be fun to check out Delft. (Literally, on the opposite end of the tram line we took to the seaport, Scheveningen.) Most people know Delft from Delftware, the blue and white porcelain from the 17th century, (that was really copying from Chinese Ming Dynasty porcelain.) While there were plenty of souvenir shops with copies and companies still claiming to make Delftware, we went to check out the town center. Like so many old cities in Holland (and Belgium), there was plenty of beautiful architecture lining the quite canals. Really, this place is so beautiful.
See:
The center square has two main buildings flanking the marketplace; the Town Hall, and the Old Curch. Their placement is reflection of the age old battle between church and state. The Delft church has a very tall church tower.
DH and I climbed up that bad boy. See the level right above the clock? Yup, we were up there. We lost count of the incredibly steep, spiraling steps (well over three hundred). Probably because we were repeating, “Please don’t let me die” as we tried not to trip over the treacherous stairs. (Did I mention they were steep?) Whenever you read about someone in history dying from falling down stairs, and you look at your own staircase at home, you may think, “Well, maybe if they were carrying something heavy, and had been drinking, and you hit your head just right, maybe you would die.” These are the staircases that historically would do someone in. Think tight corkscrew, with no landings, entirely made of stone. One misstep, one misjudgment of the worn treads, and your body is bouncing around like pinball. But it was all worth it to see this:
See:
The center square has two main buildings flanking the marketplace; the Town Hall, and the Old Curch. Their placement is reflection of the age old battle between church and state. The Delft church has a very tall church tower.
DH and I climbed up that bad boy. See the level right above the clock? Yup, we were up there. We lost count of the incredibly steep, spiraling steps (well over three hundred). Probably because we were repeating, “Please don’t let me die” as we tried not to trip over the treacherous stairs. (Did I mention they were steep?) Whenever you read about someone in history dying from falling down stairs, and you look at your own staircase at home, you may think, “Well, maybe if they were carrying something heavy, and had been drinking, and you hit your head just right, maybe you would die.” These are the staircases that historically would do someone in. Think tight corkscrew, with no landings, entirely made of stone. One misstep, one misjudgment of the worn treads, and your body is bouncing around like pinball. But it was all worth it to see this:
Just incredible. You would see The Hague, and Rotterdam off in the distance. As a bonus, we now had another excuse to drink beer. (Not that we really needed it, of course.)
We wandered some more and saw the locals getting ready to watch their home team (who beat Italy 3-0) in the Euro-cup. The cafes set up televisions all along the square. (Holland plays France next, who went 0-0 with Romania.)
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Hup Holland!
(Can someone explain to me the logic of having an Internet café and having zero computers with a USB-port? I’m supposed to type everything at the café? How do I upload my photos? I am not happy. I just got access to the internet, hence the fifty posts at once. Sorry, I’m playing catch up. Scroll down to the last entry you recall reading and go up.)
Holland has gone football crazy. Holland beat Italy (World Cup Champions) in the Euro-Cup, 3-0. Purely by chance, I packed an orange shirt, so I now can blend in with the locals.
Holland has gone football crazy. Holland beat Italy (World Cup Champions) in the Euro-Cup, 3-0. Purely by chance, I packed an orange shirt, so I now can blend in with the locals.
Ghent
We stopped on the way to Bruges, to visit Ghent. Literally, two hours off and then back on the train. The main reason to even stop here was to visit St. Bravo Church, home of Van Eyck’s Ghent Altarpiece. This is not just any old altarpiece (as if there is such a thing). The altarpiece is an iconic oil painting; measuring 11’ high and 15’ across when opened. When closed, the doors of the altarpiece illustrate the Annunciation, images of St. John the Baptist and St. John the Evangelist (patron saints of the town and the cloth guild) and an image of the donors. When opened, the top section illustrates, the Virgin Mary, the Dessis (God the Father and Christ in one image), St. John the Baptist, surrounded by a choir of angels, with Adam and Eve on the side wings; below is the Sacrificial Lamb in heaven, surrounded by cardinals, martyrs, saints, etc. (Geeze, I’m on vacation and this sounds like I’m giving a lecture. Do I ever stop working?)
When I lecture on some artworks, I hit the points on why this piece is important enough to be included in the textbook. It may illustrate some technique, or composition that was typical, or radical, for that culture. Some artworks are tipping points for new styles to follow. And then there are some artworks that I feel are so amazing, that I’ll talk about them regardless. This altarpiece isn’t always in the survey text, but I always manage to show it.
Van Eyck (and his brother plus a whole workshop of painters who also worked on the piece) captured the smallest details and textures. There have been some x-rays and ultra-violet work done which showed that Van Eyck used up to 100 thin layers of paint (typically known as glazing.)
DH is patient with me and this (somewhat) bizarre side trip. We drop off our bags in the train station locker, and catch a tram into the city. After deducing which church was St. Bravo (“Look, it’s gotta be that one with a huge tour group leaving.”), we get there an hour before it closes. The church itself is free, but you have to pay to see the altarpiece (of course).
I would love to show you the pictures I took, but photography wasn’t allowed. Even if it was permitted, my photos would be horrible with the light reflecting off the smudged glass. (It’s starting to get tedious hauling this tripod, lens, etc around and not being able to use them.)
Yes, it is indeed huge; it fills its own small, temperature-controlled room of glass and medal. But all that detail is lost by its sheer size. When a work is 12 feet up in the air, seeing all that detail is next to impossible.
When I lecture on some artworks, I hit the points on why this piece is important enough to be included in the textbook. It may illustrate some technique, or composition that was typical, or radical, for that culture. Some artworks are tipping points for new styles to follow. And then there are some artworks that I feel are so amazing, that I’ll talk about them regardless. This altarpiece isn’t always in the survey text, but I always manage to show it.
Van Eyck (and his brother plus a whole workshop of painters who also worked on the piece) captured the smallest details and textures. There have been some x-rays and ultra-violet work done which showed that Van Eyck used up to 100 thin layers of paint (typically known as glazing.)
DH is patient with me and this (somewhat) bizarre side trip. We drop off our bags in the train station locker, and catch a tram into the city. After deducing which church was St. Bravo (“Look, it’s gotta be that one with a huge tour group leaving.”), we get there an hour before it closes. The church itself is free, but you have to pay to see the altarpiece (of course).
I would love to show you the pictures I took, but photography wasn’t allowed. Even if it was permitted, my photos would be horrible with the light reflecting off the smudged glass. (It’s starting to get tedious hauling this tripod, lens, etc around and not being able to use them.)
Yes, it is indeed huge; it fills its own small, temperature-controlled room of glass and medal. But all that detail is lost by its sheer size. When a work is 12 feet up in the air, seeing all that detail is next to impossible.
Monday, June 9, 2008
Who, me?
One of the happier moments for me so far on this trip took place at the Hague train station. I was standing outside with the luggage, while DH went to get the tram tickets. A woman came up to me, with a clipboard, and starting speaking Dutch to me. I stared at her, “Um, I only speak English.”
“No? You don’t live in Holland?”
“No, but you have totally made my day if you’re telling me I don’t look like an American tourist.”
She looked me up and down, “Oh no, you look like a perfect Hollander.”
YES!
“No? You don’t live in Holland?”
“No, but you have totally made my day if you’re telling me I don’t look like an American tourist.”
She looked me up and down, “Oh no, you look like a perfect Hollander.”
YES!
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Das Haag
Leaving Amsterdam, and our fabulous B&B, we are currently in Das Hague, or in English, the Hague. This city has a different feel, a little less picturesque in terms of old canal houses, but there’s the Royal Palace. First on our agenda was the Mauritshuis. Museums are often closed on Mondays in Europe, so we needed to squeeze this in. The structure itself is beautiful, as it is part of the palace structure. This museum was high on my list purely for the two Vermeer’s; The Girl with the Pearl Earring and The View of the Delft. At the risk of sounding sentimental, and un-academic, I loved them. Almost cried, kind of love. (Yes, I’ve come close to tears looking at some artworks. Yes, I know I’m weird.) The View of the Delft had subtle texture to it that prints just do not pick up. (No cameras were allowed, and quite honestly, with the lighting and the glass, there would be no way I could get a good photo without a glare.) And the light, oh, Vermeer captured it dead on. DH knew I didn’t want to go, so he claimed “his feet hurt” so we could sit and look at them some more. I have a bad feeling I’ll be looking at some Raphael, or Titian in Italy and mutter, “Well, he’s no Vermeer” and get attacked by a hundred Italians.
Afterwards we went to the North Sea. I was surprised to find a sandy beach, in England the “beaches” along the Chanel are often filled with pebbles, not sand.
No, it was not what I would call warm, but it was relaxing to walk along the sand at sunset.
Afterwards we went to the North Sea. I was surprised to find a sandy beach, in England the “beaches” along the Chanel are often filled with pebbles, not sand.
No, it was not what I would call warm, but it was relaxing to walk along the sand at sunset.
Haarlem
One of my son’s friends reminded me about the Frans Hals Museum in Haarlem. DH was up for a day trip, so off to Haarlem we went. Less than 20 minutes by train from Amsterdam, we came to a bustling central market square. Cafes spilled out beer-drinkers, merging shoppers and people watchers under the warm sun.
Frans Hals was an important 17th century portrait painter, typically known for emphasizing the merriment in children and the warmth in the sitter’s soul. The museum was small, yet had a special exhibit on Dirck, Jan, Joseph and Salomon de Bray.
Afterwards, we were ready to eat our picnic lunch (extras from our breakfast, need to stretch the Euros where we can.) We asked the museum guide for a recommendation, and she pointed us to a park outside the city center. It was indeed a lovely spot, which happened to be having an antique market. It was fun to look, but I just couldn’t buy anything knowing that I would need to haul it around for three weeks.
While the picnic was good, there was still room in our stomachs to sample the local fare. We were happy to find these:
We snagged these happy Belgian Fries, five minutes before the stall closed. Now if your mind is thinking “Eww… McDonald’s fries and Miracle Whip?” I can tell you that it is nothing like the aforementioned (vile) combination. First of all Belgian Fries are made from fresh potatoes, and fried twice, once at a lower temperature, and then at a higher temperature. The result is a crispy fry, with a tender, fluffy interior. The mayonnaise is a creamy contrast. Reflecting cultural influences, there are other sauces as well, including ketchup and curry; but I like to keep with tradition. And if you’re thirsty after the fries, then you need to drink this:
Local Beer. DH had a darker larger, I had a “white” beer with lemon. The Dutch, like so many European cultures, have mastered the café life; drinking a beer (or wine, or coffee), meeting with friends, and watching the world go by. I will admit that it was almost hard to “just sit there” and drink a beer. My mind was still easing into vacation mode. Shouldn’t I be doing something? (I really wanted to break out my knitting, but I knew this would not be blending in.) I think this is something I’ll have to work on.
We wandered some more, finding a windmill, and later getting lost on the way to the train station.
We can now say we’ve walked the streets of Haarlem at 11 pm, totally unafraid and unharmed.
Frans Hals was an important 17th century portrait painter, typically known for emphasizing the merriment in children and the warmth in the sitter’s soul. The museum was small, yet had a special exhibit on Dirck, Jan, Joseph and Salomon de Bray.
Afterwards, we were ready to eat our picnic lunch (extras from our breakfast, need to stretch the Euros where we can.) We asked the museum guide for a recommendation, and she pointed us to a park outside the city center. It was indeed a lovely spot, which happened to be having an antique market. It was fun to look, but I just couldn’t buy anything knowing that I would need to haul it around for three weeks.
While the picnic was good, there was still room in our stomachs to sample the local fare. We were happy to find these:
We snagged these happy Belgian Fries, five minutes before the stall closed. Now if your mind is thinking “Eww… McDonald’s fries and Miracle Whip?” I can tell you that it is nothing like the aforementioned (vile) combination. First of all Belgian Fries are made from fresh potatoes, and fried twice, once at a lower temperature, and then at a higher temperature. The result is a crispy fry, with a tender, fluffy interior. The mayonnaise is a creamy contrast. Reflecting cultural influences, there are other sauces as well, including ketchup and curry; but I like to keep with tradition. And if you’re thirsty after the fries, then you need to drink this:
Local Beer. DH had a darker larger, I had a “white” beer with lemon. The Dutch, like so many European cultures, have mastered the café life; drinking a beer (or wine, or coffee), meeting with friends, and watching the world go by. I will admit that it was almost hard to “just sit there” and drink a beer. My mind was still easing into vacation mode. Shouldn’t I be doing something? (I really wanted to break out my knitting, but I knew this would not be blending in.) I think this is something I’ll have to work on.
We wandered some more, finding a windmill, and later getting lost on the way to the train station.
We can now say we’ve walked the streets of Haarlem at 11 pm, totally unafraid and unharmed.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Say Chesse
When we visit DH’s (Darling Husband's) family in Wisconsin, we bring a small cooler, to fill up with cheese curds and cheese we just can’t get in Colorado. Image my joy to find this:
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
