I woke at a reasonable hour of 6:30 or so and couldn’t wait to get onto the balcony to check out the view. Lovely! Then spent some time writing these entries. Funny how you think you have nothing to say and then the words start to pour out. Apologies to readers for the ambling style but I aim to keep going and write every day if I can.
View from the flat
So there was no milk for tea when we arrived and everything closed so around 9 after a shower I went out to find the Carrefour Express. Milk! Not so easy to find in Italy, especially fresh milk. Most is long life milk.
Then a quick jaunt to the market – the farmers market looked tempting but I wasn’t sure I wanted to buy anything so early. I then thought I’d find some arancini in the indoor market to surprise Krish but the shutter was only raised about a third and I never did see it open so maybe Monday is a closed or a brief day. Instead I picked up a mezzo kilo of tomatoes – my weakness – and breakfast was cheese brought in my suitcase, some tomatoes and two crackers, also from my suitcase. And tea, finally!
The Farmers Market
More writing followed and I was happy to just sit and be here really. I’d been waiting to do this for quite a long time so I savoured it.
At around 2pm I went out to find some lunch. Cristina had mentioned a fantastic fish place for lunch not far from here but it was very crowded so I kept looking. I sort of chickened out though and decided to go for the sure bet – a restaurant I’d been before that has a lunch special.
For 6E50 I had a large bottle of sparkling water, bread (untouched), some farfalle all’amatriciana and a coffee. The farfalle was a nice manageable size but I wasn’t too keen. The guanciale (bacon) was in large cubes and everything was salty. However, I was hungry. The service was friendly and prompt as I remembered it to be.
Farfalle all’amatriciana
Nearby sat a Japanese couple, obviously confused by the menu and food and struggling to understand the server’s English. I’ve noticed these eating rituals several times. The sharing of food, the desire to try things that aren’t typical at home. It’s actually a nice thing. And social media is almost always involved. Much photographing and likely describing of the meal – the couple had asked to be moved to a different table since the wifi signal was poor the further into the restaurant you went.
I walked to the main market, meaning to buy some salad things and perhaps some fruit, only to discover at not even 3 it was already mostly bare and packed away. Not today then!
Packing the market away
I also meant to find a bakery and sit and read for a while but there were none with seats so I came home and ate more food that had been packed for the train – in this case not a hardship, since it was a lemon tart.
So what could I do next? Krish was having a down day, sleeping and very quiet. So I had a nap, a real one – in the bed! Not usual for me but I did feel rested after that.
The Neighbourhood
Cristina came by briefly to visit and then the lightning, thunder and rain started. I knew I had to go out. I feel pleased that I now know where to go when I leave the flat. Once I’m in the market area I feel at home and confident. So out I went. It was dark and raining and everything gleamed under the streetlights. Quiet deserted though so I had to steel myself to keep going. I headed straight for the restaurant under Cristina’s place and ordered some octopus salad and pizza to go.
Spending time in Italy has been on my mind for quite some time. Was it always Italy? No. but it was always somewhere. In fact, Italy sort of grew on me since my first – well, longest – exposure to Italians was in Toronto. Toronto where Italian was the second most spoken language for many years before the massive immigration of those from Asia. I’d go to Little Italy and look for restaurants, always ending up in small, hole in the wall, eateries.
I’d check the windows to see the garish furniture and knick knacks on sale. I’d wonder at the old fashionedness of it all and I found the bits of it I did like – like some of the pizza, hot veal sandwiches from San Francesco (unheard of in Italy, it turns out) and brio, a popular Canadian sort of Chinottto. Walking around the streets of Little Italy, I’d marvel at the vines and vegetable gardens, the over the top decorations (especially at Christmas) and dodge the speeding, honking cars along with the inevitable yelling, always in Italian. I thought it all rather interesting but definitely not aspirational.
My first visit to Italy was to Rome. A friend had rhapsodised about it. There are things I remember about it. The terrible hotel – it looked promising on the surface but failed in so many ways including never making up the room even when I deliberately piled the linen on the floor only to have to make my bed with it later that night. The beggars, especially around the Vatican, eyes cast down, heads bowed, bodies almost bent double as if in supplication, hands outstretched. Just creepy rather than sad. I remember the tiny buses scurrying along the little streets in the older town, everybody surging for a spare seat. Finding out that the food wasn’t that great – what?? The terrible stink of the Tiber. The absolutely astounding sight of the pillars in the square at the Vatican and the joy of finding cheesy papal mementoes in the little shops there. But this sounds mostly negative so I’ll give you my best memories.
The Rome that I did like
Discovering Trastevere – if I ever return to Rome, I shall head straight there. While in Trastevere, I found a street named for my dad (not really but I liked to think so) and an absolutely terrible but wonderful little band played a particularly corny Italian song as we ate our lunch there. The complete surprise of the Trevi Fountain – suddenly there after a narrow alley leading to it – at the side of a small square, absolutely dominating the space. And finally late one night returning to the hotel, a little partly sunken room with just a table and a bank of bread ovens and there in the centre, a baker dressed in a white vest, white shorts and a big white apron making bread for the morning, the floor completely dusted in flour. If only I had taken a photo. This was the star moment.
And the food – pizza, pasta, pizza, pasta, rinse and repeat. Some friends have told me ‘and what’s wrong with that?’ Nothing too much, I suppose, but this constant diet didn’t suit me. Yes, there were ‘secondi’ – meat or fish, but they seemed overcooked and overpriced. One day we ordered fish cooked to order only to discover that it was priced by the gram. It cost a fortune in the days when money was so scarce.
Mostly Rome was crammed with tourists. They were everywhere. They were loud. They got in the way. They meant I couldn’t really see anything. After all I wasn’t a tourist…was I? Sadly, a visit to Venice some years later proved the same. Tourists! I joked that it was really Epcot (not that I’ve ever been there).
Speaking of tourists, let’s talk about Venice. It’s an amazing city. I was captured by its canals and quiet side streets. The fish market was just outside and we found some wonderful tomatoes. The food was tourist hell and yes, the tourists. They were everywhere. They crowded the streets, the bridges, the courtyards outside the restaurants, the shopping streets. The gondolas and grand and small canals were there as promised but the tourists made it impossible to enjoy them. And yes, I was one of them.
It’s hard to hide out in Venice
Florence wasn’t so full of tourists in those days and here I finally found a city I could enjoy. I liked the university area and the Duomo which was so dominant in an otherwise narrow space. I enjoyed looking at the river and finding old buildings with beautiful inner courtyards. I had been watching David Rocco’s (a Canadian chef) Dolce Vita about this time living and cooking in Florence and read his sound suggestions about what to see and where to eat. The gem was Rocco Trattoria – basically a large stall space inside the Mercato San Ambrogio. The tomatoes simply stewed were magical, the tripe delicious, the lasagne tender and savoury. A standout meal for next to nothing. We had broken the pizzapasta circle.
The Duomo peeks out in Florence
Italy had won me over.
It was time to try somewhere new, so I did.
First it was Genoa. We stayed in an ultra modern flat complete with displayed scooter – in the middle of the old town. Contrast! Downstairs in the late evening the noise began – the bar filled with people who yelled loudly till the morning hours. Annoying yes but said something about the culture of this otherwise quiet town. Sadly I got a chest cold while there. I was stuck in front of Italian television for four of our seven days. What I do remember loving is: The first taste of Genovese trofie (a hand twisted pasta) topped with loads of the best pesto I’ve ever eaten. It’s never been equalled. We went to the market and saw the bunches of Genovese basil – such small fragrant leaves compared to what we used to in Toronto and in the London shops. As well, I was fascinated by the red light district. This was nothing like Amsterdam. Many young South American women dressed up and loitered outside what turned out to be tiny rooms that opened directly to the narrow streets. The rooms had a large bed and nothing much else. I also saw some elderly ladies – madams or still working girls, not sure. I could spend hours here observing this side of human nature.
Shopping in Genoa
My friend, Esmeralda, had gone to Bologna to teach and so it seemed an obvious choice. Bologna turned out to be a small but interesting city, dominated by its university (or so it seems). I liked how small and navigable it was. I also liked the old churches – I somehow enjoy churches better when they are plain and if crumbling. Bologna delivered. Mortadella (= baloney) was everywhere but mostly used inside the ubiquitous tortelloni. I didn’t like the salty taste. At dinner with Esmeralda, I had an osso buco that was nothing I was used to – a slippery sort of scrappy meat – oh well, then. Then one night before dinner four of us went to prosseco and the display of aperitivo was stunning. Why oh why did I eat dinner afterwards – although it was house made pasta so who can complain?
Beautiful Bologna
Then it was Naples. My dear friend, Denise and her husband David had gone there several times and raved about it. Naples was not as crazy as I was led to believe in my readings. Sure, it had a somewhat dangerous, renegade quality but it intrigued me. I spent ages watching the motorcycles speeding along the narrow streets outside our window. I watched them weave and dodge each other and the pedestrians. Some of the riders were very young and sitting with them often even younger children. It was like they were born there, like mermaids in the sea, only on land and as at home on the saddle as the mermaids under the water.
Naples – loved the chaos
My love for dereliction was well satisfied too. I’d not seen anything like the expanse of slum dwellings and little flats whose front rooms opened right onto the street – there’s a name for those, which I shall find and add later. My friend, Melida’s father was born in Sanita so I knew I needed to go there, although it was clear no tourists strayed onto these streets. No really memorable meals in Napoli – only pizzas, pastas and surprisingly nice sushi meal with my niece, Adrianna. What I do remember is the fried foods – fritti misti – arancini and the like. And yes, that bay is gorgeous to look at, breathtaking in fact.
I had resisted the idea of Pompeii but decided to go there. The journey was on a packed train, a rickety old thing that climbed up to the ruins past some broken down neighbourhoods. It was raining that day and Pompeii didn’t have its best face on. I just found myself fascinated by the idea of this place having been vital and thriving amost two thousand years ago before life was wiped out there. I could almost picture the homes still intact and the children running over the cobblestones and the men finding their way to the brothels, clearly signposted with a carving of a penis. Why not? Maybe I’ll go back on a sunny day. Maybe.
This bit might find me whining a bit – I apologise but this is how it was. This is your get out clause. You can stop reading now and move to the next chapter but no eye rolling allowed if you continue!
Sunday morning we opted for a mini cab since we were a little later than we hoped and the Sunday morning bus schedule wasn’t on our side. At St Pancras my ticket wouldn’t scan so I had to go check in to get a readable boarding pass. The adventure was meeting obstacles already! But all was well and there we were waiting for our train to be called.
St Pancras station
The Eurostar experience in London is admirable. The lounge is clean and there are some shops and tourist counters. There’s a nice travellator carrying you up to your train, the carriage numbers neatly signposted from downstairs. I think the trains have improved since my last trip. They seemed cleaner and newer. We were facing backwards (oh no!) but the journey was smooth. We entered the Chunnel without any fuss and came out after 22 minutes. Krish slept through it all. On the other side France seems charming. Green, tidy, putting the urban sprawl of London to shame but then this is countryside.
In Paris, it all changes. The station seems to have no sense of anything. It feels confused and confusing. Part of this is the absolute foreignness of everything. Where to go? What to do? Here? There? And why is there no one to ask. I had copied out directions of where the bus would be – we had thought that a bus ride would be more fun, certainly more scenic, than the metro.
However, the directions, as detailed as they were, ended up in dead ends. This after asking a few people in the station about where to go (nothing matched the directions I had) and also meeting dead ends. So too were the directions of pedestrians, eager to talk English even though I spoke French (at least I thought it was French!). I was beginning to lose my cool and feel panic and by this time, Krish suggested the metro was the best recourse.
It was immediately familiar. The concrete, the strange mix of people, the sign letting us know that the next train was in 13 minutes. Thirteen! The metro (or is the RER, I don’t know) reminds me of Los Angeles. The trains remind me of a Go Train, only much dirtier and more crowded. I found a seat. Two stops later and the Gare de Lyon and our final train was in sight.
At the Gare de Lyon I looked for a departure board. There were many letting me know when the underground trains were leaving but it took quite a bit more looking to discover the board where the grandes lignes departures were.
Our train wasn’t listed. I asked about it and was told it would show up twenty minutes before it left. I went back to let Krish know this and suddenly it *was* twenty minutes to go. I ran back to check the board, noticed the train was on the platform and signalled to Krish to come. Down the platform and uh oh – the number of the train was completely wrong. Krish had hurried ahead and I ran (OK, walked as quickly as I could) to let him know, I think this is the wrong train. Oh no! Time was ticking. I stood in a short queue to ask a station worker and he told me it was the right platform but the train to Milano (stop after Torino) was in front of this one to Grenoble. Phew.
Our carriage was the very last one. Again, we were facing backwards. The seats are cramped and shabby. The people are surly. I think stupidly about London – St Pancras is so lovely and polite – and shake it off. I’m almost there and I’m determined to enjoy everything that’s enjoyable. I summon my sense of humour. Right!
I have the aisle seat and can’t see too much of the scenery but near the France-Italy border there are some interesting and veering towards pretty valley towns near the station. Meanwhile we are boarded by the Polizia or are they border guards. Whoever they are they are carrying black revolvers at their hip and they don’t smile. They are checking bags (eeek) and demanding papers. I think of world war two for some reason. My imagination goes there, oh yes. Where do you live, Paris? No, London. Where are you going? Torino. Is it a road trip? No. How many days you stay in Torino? Two months. Business? It’s a holiday. OK. They hung about the train for a while, convening in the corridor between carriages.
Oh, the toilet. It reminded me of going to an event with Portalets. Is that how you spell it? Or the toilets on a campsite. I was overwhelmed by the smell and wish I didn’t have to stay. Then there was no soap. Well, best not to drink too much or I’d have to use it twice. And again I thought of the clean and pleasant Eurostar train.
I decided SCNF trains suck and I have to use one again to return. Best not to think about that until I’m on my way back then. Will plan some strategies!
Adventure, Janice. Focus – adventure! Thanks, sense of humour.
At Porta Susa finally! The station is now completely finished and it looks shiny. But the directions aren’t very clear. On the surface, where are the trams to get us where we need to be? Taxi then! Back down to the taxi rank, which is full of – yes, one Polizia car, abandoned. That won’t work. So back up. Texts to Cristina followed. In the midst of which Krish reported an abandoned suitcase. It seems the Polizia knew about it. Suddenly there were three cars and police tape. The road was closed and Cristina was on her way by car to rescue us.
Nothing seemed familiar until we hit the market. We had arrived near the building only to discover it too had a closed road. There were maybe a hundred people sitting at tables there – a neighbourhood dinner was on! It reminded me of Amsterdam but bigger. So we went around the block a time or two more and there was the market – all the stalls were empty of course and nobody was clearing them away yet but I felt myself relax a bit.
Cristina drove in through a door and then jumped out and opened another door. One car could fit in there, hers. I wasn’t sure how all this worked but it was pretty cool. Inside the building it was modern and clean. Not the traditional building Cristina lives in and we stayed in twice before. And now the apartment.
It’s so much nicer and bigger than the pictures. I’m a bit stunned. Three little balconies. A nice skylight in the ceiling above me. The kitchen is open plan and not much counter space but I feel I can do this. There are two large bathrooms. One is en suite. The second is near the living room and it’s enormous, probably bigger than my living room in London, with a very large shower and big jacuzzi tub. I may dare to get into it and hope I can get out again. I’ll no doubt include photos of the place and even a video once I get myself organised.
We’re both a bit stressed. In the night, after being nudged three times because I’m snoring (horrors!) I get up and move to the living room couch (there are two and they are long enough to sleep on, yay. I go the bedroom to retrieve a duvet and something noisy clangs to the tiled floor. I manage to sleep OK but my first thought this morning is I hope I didn’t crack the tile. (I didn’t).
Speak Italian, get better at it – this isn’t as easy as it sounds! I have been learning and practising Italian now for a while, although I haven’t got as far as I wanted because life… So while here I have been using Italian for simple things. For the more difficult, or when I ask a question pretty well but know if they answer I’ll be lost, I first ask ‘English?’ I think it’s a bit rude to assume that someone will speak my language to me. I believe it’s a courtesy to learn at least enough to get by, to respect the country you’re in and the people who live there. However, when I do speak Italian they answer in English much of the time. It happens everywhere. So I wonder, was my Italian so pathetic they needed to rescue me? Are they too applying the principle of courtesy, respect your guest? I’m not sure.
So here it is – if you have the time and patience, speak Italian back to me. I don’t even mind if you correct my pronunciation or vocabulary, etc. It would be very useful. I’m so happy that people can speak English pretty much everywhere in the world. I marvel at their ability to switch between languages and this is particularly true in restaurants where I wonder why they are serving food when they could have a decent translator job! In Geneva I once listened in on a newspaper seller who was switching from French to English to German to Italian with the buyers. It was my first experience of polyglots. I love languages and I felt deep envy right there.
Will I learn any Italian? How will I do that? Stay tuned!
Go to at least one cooking class – I love to cook. I’ll try anything unless it has bell peppers in it! My repertoire is pretty large. I can make dim sum, lasagne (North American style, although rarely), Vietnamese grilled food, coq au vin, Thai curries, Indian or West Indian curries, Californian style chili, enchiladas, sausage rolls, tourtiere…and around the globe we go! And I love cooking classes. In Toronto I was so fortunate to go to the classes held by Calphalon. They were epic. For $160 I would learn to make several dishes with help from a chef and helper, sample them and take food home that would last a few meals. I tried to go as often as a course took my interest. Then they closed. I grieved, I truly did.
When we went to Lyon some years ago I enrolled in a class there at the Plum Lyon school, run by an American in Lyon – Lucy. I learned to make a cherry charlotte, Gougeres, A beet and goat cheese carpaccio, a white fish I forget the name of and a delicious sauce. We cooked for hours. Am I exaggerating? No, I think we sat down near midnight to a delicious dinner that I enjoyed despite having travelled all day and stood all evening cooking.
This time I started looking early at classes. I found a place in Torino that has a few classes and events a month and am going there on Thursday to check it out and book something. Then I thought to contact a lady in Bologna that I’m following online. She is fully booked so that won’t happen. I think I annoyed her since her reply was ‘Serious cooks book early.’ I guess I’m not so serious then!
Travel a bit in the area – At first we talked about revisiting Venice, Rome… give them another chance but in off peak season (is there such a thing any more?) The fares were against us. In the UK train fares are at their most reasonable about six weeks ahead of travel. In Italy, it’s 120 days. We were at least 75 days too late! Next time.I booked a long weekend with Esmeralda in Bologna and am looking forward to that. We also thought about our options. We aren’t far from Milan, so will finally see that city up close instead of from the train window. As well, an old work colleague Daniele lives there and he tells me he is a great pasta chef. Then we looked at what was in the Piemonte area.
I’ve picked four places – Alba, Asti, Bra, and Ivrea. I’ve been reading a blog about Italy and the hosts have recommended two other places – Saluzzo and The Langhe. Research needs to be done.
