Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Torino
En route to Lyon I stopped into Turin to break up the seven-hour journey. Why aren't there more tourists in Turin? It is a charming, spacious city, not unlike Paris at first glance, with broad boulevards, beautiful architecture—from medieval fortresses to grand belle epoque buildings—miles of colonnaded arcades, and a comprehensive tram network. Maybe it was just that I was there on a Sunday, but it's also peacefully quiet; no traffic jams or swarms of people. And like I say, no tourists.
High water and fresco vandals
I experienced the acqua alta—high water—in Venice after all, and I'm glad I did. Having occurred for hundreds of years, it is a quintessential part of life there. It is not a result of rising sea levels (though this will severely exacerbate it). Of course, it was nowhere near the magnitude of the 1966 floods, but locals were wearing their colourful gumboots (Venice is the place to shop if you're a fashion-conscious pig farmer), wading obliviously through six inches of water in the lower-lying areas. More commonly it was less than an inch, most places were in fact dry, and the water table dropped again with an hour.
For four nights in Venice I lost track of the days, like I had taken a vacation from my holiday. The city feels unmoved by the passage of time, like it is still its own republic, separate from Italy, the rest of the world, and modernity. It's a strangely affecting place and, in all my travels through Eastern and Western Europe, incomparable.
So when I arrived in Verona, only an hour away, I was rather too bedazzled to fairly assess one of Italy's prettiest little cities. That it was raining again dampened my enthusiasm, too, but the second day was beautifully clear and sunny, a cool, Autumn day (as in fact, they all have been since), and I discovered the stunning Romanesque Basilica of San Zeno. If you remember your Shakespeare you'll know that Friar Lawrence married Romeo and Juliet in the crypt (looking on would have been the preserved body of Zeno who died in 380 AD). Also preserved are superb frescoes, dozens of them, dating back to the 12th century. They are still brilliant and in large sections intact, despite being damaged by time, war (Allied bombing), and 18th-century snot-nosed brats—there is a great deal of graffiti, often dated, etched into the plaster. The architecture of the building is reknowned, with a beautifully decorated ship's keel ceiling as well as a stunning facade. Apparently. It was masked by—that's right—scaffolding for restoration work, rendering it unsuitable for shooting. At least the scaffolding screens were sympathetically painted with the facade's likeness.
For four nights in Venice I lost track of the days, like I had taken a vacation from my holiday. The city feels unmoved by the passage of time, like it is still its own republic, separate from Italy, the rest of the world, and modernity. It's a strangely affecting place and, in all my travels through Eastern and Western Europe, incomparable.
So when I arrived in Verona, only an hour away, I was rather too bedazzled to fairly assess one of Italy's prettiest little cities. That it was raining again dampened my enthusiasm, too, but the second day was beautifully clear and sunny, a cool, Autumn day (as in fact, they all have been since), and I discovered the stunning Romanesque Basilica of San Zeno. If you remember your Shakespeare you'll know that Friar Lawrence married Romeo and Juliet in the crypt (looking on would have been the preserved body of Zeno who died in 380 AD). Also preserved are superb frescoes, dozens of them, dating back to the 12th century. They are still brilliant and in large sections intact, despite being damaged by time, war (Allied bombing), and 18th-century snot-nosed brats—there is a great deal of graffiti, often dated, etched into the plaster. The architecture of the building is reknowned, with a beautifully decorated ship's keel ceiling as well as a stunning facade. Apparently. It was masked by—that's right—scaffolding for restoration work, rendering it unsuitable for shooting. At least the scaffolding screens were sympathetically painted with the facade's likeness.
The not-so-happy-go-lucky-anymore traveller
For my last night in Venice, I decided to indulge myself and spend a night on the Grand Canal. This was too wet and unsolid so I decided to spend a night beside the Grand Canal instead.
On the morning of this last night I moved across town from my old hotel in the pouring rain, carrying my camera bag and harnessed to a heavy backpack under a nylon poncho, a bit like wearing a circus big top, squeezing through narrow people-dammed passages barbed with umbrellas. I was interrupted by some university student with, "Excuse me, sir, will you sign a petition? It's in English. It's against drugs."
"No," I said, irritated. "I take drugs."
On the morning of this last night I moved across town from my old hotel in the pouring rain, carrying my camera bag and harnessed to a heavy backpack under a nylon poncho, a bit like wearing a circus big top, squeezing through narrow people-dammed passages barbed with umbrellas. I was interrupted by some university student with, "Excuse me, sir, will you sign a petition? It's in English. It's against drugs."
"No," I said, irritated. "I take drugs."
Friday, October 23, 2009
How to find a Bird in Space
The layout of Venice, evolved over a thousand years, was unplanned and has grown organically by the needs of the city, the district, and each street itself, resulting in numerous short, narrow medieval lanes that dog-leg and reticulate between canals and campos. There are umpteen ways to get from here to there, yet surprisingly, it is not that easy to get lost. Heading in the general direction of somewhere will get you there, guided by signs tacked to the buildings pointing to Rialto, San Marco, or Alla Ferrovia, and a glance at a map now and again is enough.
I found my way to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection today, which includes a number of Picassos (I don't care much for Pipe, Glass, Bottle of Vieux Marc, but I do like On the Beach), Jackson Pollocks (meh), Salvador Dalís (pff), and three of my favourite pieces of sculpture in one place, which I was very excited to see: Giacometti's Standing Woman, his Piazza, and Brancusi's Bird in Space. Standing Woman is about four feet tall (130cm), but I was very surprised that the figures in Piazza are only about eight inches tall (20cm). Things look so different in books.
I found my way to the Peggy Guggenheim Collection today, which includes a number of Picassos (I don't care much for Pipe, Glass, Bottle of Vieux Marc, but I do like On the Beach), Jackson Pollocks (meh), Salvador Dalís (pff), and three of my favourite pieces of sculpture in one place, which I was very excited to see: Giacometti's Standing Woman, his Piazza, and Brancusi's Bird in Space. Standing Woman is about four feet tall (130cm), but I was very surprised that the figures in Piazza are only about eight inches tall (20cm). Things look so different in books.
The problem with taking a 12-week holiday
... is that you start to think about how it's ending soon when there are four weeks left—when many people begin their holiday.
Mind your bocconcini
I found a cheap place to eat in Venice, an otherwise very expensive city, where the quality of the food is still good. It’s self-serve, like a cafeteria, but the atmosphere is still cozy and it’s become my regular place for dinner. On the table they have complimentary wine, which sounds very nice but is the worst wine I've ever had. It's thick and tastes like olive oil.
The second night I was there, I picked up a plate of pasta fresco al pomodoro and a bowl of salad. The salad had greens, tomatoes, olives and bocconcini, those delicious little balls of mozzarella. I sat down and ate half before it occurred to me that there wasn’t any salad dressing, so I went to the salad bar and picked up some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. When I got back to the table and started eating again, I noticed there was no more bocconcini. I thought there was more. I went up to the cash register and said, “Mi scusi… er, when I got up from the table, someone ate all the bocconcini out of my salad.” Though the lady seemed to speak English well, it was obviously not perfect as she asked me to repeat myself, which I did.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You want more bocconcini?”
“No,” I said. “I want justice.”
This prompted the manager’s appearance. Now we were getting somewhere. I explained the problem to him, but after some confused arguing we didn’t seem to get anywhere at all. He actually asked me to leave!
“I’m the victim here!” I said, and stood my ground. This only resulted in the carabinieri, the military police whom I’ve heard are best avoided, so when they grabbed me by the arm—I didn’t know what else to do—I screamed, “rape!”
That sorted things out.
The second night I was there, I picked up a plate of pasta fresco al pomodoro and a bowl of salad. The salad had greens, tomatoes, olives and bocconcini, those delicious little balls of mozzarella. I sat down and ate half before it occurred to me that there wasn’t any salad dressing, so I went to the salad bar and picked up some olive oil and balsamic vinegar. When I got back to the table and started eating again, I noticed there was no more bocconcini. I thought there was more. I went up to the cash register and said, “Mi scusi… er, when I got up from the table, someone ate all the bocconcini out of my salad.” Though the lady seemed to speak English well, it was obviously not perfect as she asked me to repeat myself, which I did.
“I don’t understand,” she said. “You want more bocconcini?”
“No,” I said. “I want justice.”
This prompted the manager’s appearance. Now we were getting somewhere. I explained the problem to him, but after some confused arguing we didn’t seem to get anywhere at all. He actually asked me to leave!
“I’m the victim here!” I said, and stood my ground. This only resulted in the carabinieri, the military police whom I’ve heard are best avoided, so when they grabbed me by the arm—I didn’t know what else to do—I screamed, “rape!”
That sorted things out.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
How to shoot
The explosion of digital photography has put a little camera in every tourist’s hands. Thirty years ago cameras would not have been so prevalent because you had to know how to use one. Today, they are almost completely automatic.
Here’s a tip for my readership: the correct stance for taking a photograph is to put your feet together, bend your knees and stick your bum out, lean forward with the camera held at arm’s length, and grimace.
This must appear in the manual, as most tourists seem to know it.
Here’s a tip for my readership: the correct stance for taking a photograph is to put your feet together, bend your knees and stick your bum out, lean forward with the camera held at arm’s length, and grimace.
This must appear in the manual, as most tourists seem to know it.
Wow.
Venice is fantastic. I don’t know where to begin.
The 1500-year old city is vast—when you wander the sprawling sestieri (districts), it just keeps going—yet it never feels bigger than a large town. And there is not a single modern building in sight.
Venice is a tourist’s feast. The canals are as picturesque as you have been led to believe, and are never clichéd. The art is such sumptuous gluttony that another Tintoretto invokes an offhand, “oh, more paintings.” And the shopping (for those inclined) is comparable to Paris (both in scale and price).
Yes, Venice is expensive. The average price of a simple trattoria meal is €20. I was fortunate to find accommodation in a resedenzia for €50 per night—a simple room with no breakfast—because it is off season, and that is as cheap as you’ll find.
Visiting in the off season is the way to go. There are still plenty of tourists, but they don’t overpower the city as they do in peak season. Trying to pilot the narrow streets swollen to bursting with mile after mile of people is an arduous way to relax, as Mai Li and I found in Florence one year when we unwittingly arrived on a long weekend.
After catching a vaporetto, a public ferry, down the length of the Grand Canal the first morning of my arrival, I spent the entire day in Piazza San Marco. I took some furtive photography—disallowed—of the dazzling golden mosaic-tiled ceiling of the Basilica San Marco, now the cathedral of Venice but which for 700 years of gobsmacking opulence was the private chapel of the doge (duke and elected head of state).
I depleted the next three hours spending not enough time wandering the warren of rooms in the doge’s palace, the seat of the Venetian government. The walls and ceilings of every room are filled with paintings by Veronese, Tintoretto, and Titian, culminating in the cavernous Sala del Maggior Consiglio (Grand Council Hall) which hosts Tintoretto’s Paradiso, one of the world’s largest oil paintings. It is a mindboggling experience. One room that did stand out for me was the Chamber of the Magistrato alle Leggi, which, to my surprise, is today used to exhibit several works by Hieronymus Bosch.
The 1500-year old city is vast—when you wander the sprawling sestieri (districts), it just keeps going—yet it never feels bigger than a large town. And there is not a single modern building in sight.
Venice is a tourist’s feast. The canals are as picturesque as you have been led to believe, and are never clichéd. The art is such sumptuous gluttony that another Tintoretto invokes an offhand, “oh, more paintings.” And the shopping (for those inclined) is comparable to Paris (both in scale and price).
Yes, Venice is expensive. The average price of a simple trattoria meal is €20. I was fortunate to find accommodation in a resedenzia for €50 per night—a simple room with no breakfast—because it is off season, and that is as cheap as you’ll find.
Visiting in the off season is the way to go. There are still plenty of tourists, but they don’t overpower the city as they do in peak season. Trying to pilot the narrow streets swollen to bursting with mile after mile of people is an arduous way to relax, as Mai Li and I found in Florence one year when we unwittingly arrived on a long weekend.
After catching a vaporetto, a public ferry, down the length of the Grand Canal the first morning of my arrival, I spent the entire day in Piazza San Marco. I took some furtive photography—disallowed—of the dazzling golden mosaic-tiled ceiling of the Basilica San Marco, now the cathedral of Venice but which for 700 years of gobsmacking opulence was the private chapel of the doge (duke and elected head of state).
I depleted the next three hours spending not enough time wandering the warren of rooms in the doge’s palace, the seat of the Venetian government. The walls and ceilings of every room are filled with paintings by Veronese, Tintoretto, and Titian, culminating in the cavernous Sala del Maggior Consiglio (Grand Council Hall) which hosts Tintoretto’s Paradiso, one of the world’s largest oil paintings. It is a mindboggling experience. One room that did stand out for me was the Chamber of the Magistrato alle Leggi, which, to my surprise, is today used to exhibit several works by Hieronymus Bosch.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Whew!
I caught the bus back from Montenegro to Dubrovnik, in the south of Croatia, then caught the ferry up the Adriatic Sea to Rijeka in the north, a 22-hour trip. I booked a cabin for the night, a simple room with two bunks and a bathroom with sink and toilet; no window (an outside cabin costs more). From Rijeka I had originally intended to stay a night in Rovinj or Poreč in Istria and catch a fast catamaran to Venice, but the service stopped running in early October. Poreč has some remarkably well-preserved Byzantine mosaics which I was disappointed to miss. So, instead, I had to kill seven hours in Rijeka, a pleasant-enough-but-not-terribly-interesting town, waiting for a bus to Trieste, from which I boarded a train to Venice. Which is where I shall stay put for a while!
Kotor
The old Venetian walled town of Kotor is much more interesting than the similarly sized old Venetian walled town of Budva. Bounded by the Bay of Kotor, the Škurda River, and Mount Lovćen—the “black mountain” that gave the nation its name—it is arguably more beautiful, and with a permanent residential populace it feels more authentic. Pick-up-sticks-like marble streets open into numerous little plazas for drinking coffee at the cafes, and at only four hectares (ten acres) in size, it is easy to get both lost and found. I didn’t get time to climb the thousand-odd stairs which run up the mountain on the city walls to a fortress overlooking the turquoise Adriatic fjord on which the city sits. For 400 years the city fell under the control of Venice, hence the appearance around town of the winged lion of St Mark and the variety of Renaissance palazzos.
Interestingly enough, there was an article in the Sydney Morning Herald about Kotor just the other day. Click here.
Interestingly enough, there was an article in the Sydney Morning Herald about Kotor just the other day. Click here.
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