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.

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.

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…

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.”)

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.

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.

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.

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.