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Our trip to France and Italy was certainly full of lot's of ups and only a few downs. We had crossed the border into Italy by bus from Nice which was our last French stay. This ended over 2 weeks of Gaulic culture, style and understated refinement. France has earned the right to be unashamedly precise in many ways. They are correct in an honesty that appreciates the straight forward, the beautiful and above all the tasteful. We were leaving that behind now. Descending from the bus at Genova was just a little bit like descending into one of Dante's levels of hell. There was something in the air, the vibe, the people that was NOT what we had lived through in the previous country. We were now in a town, a country that, if anything, had taken disorder and the aesthetic of randomness into it's national character.
The simple act of signage for the uninitiated, for the foreigner, that in France was reliable, was now disappeared. Bumbling along, carrying tens of kilos of luggage down old cement stairs into subways only to find beautiful new escalators motionless and ignored, we manoeuvred like blind rats in a maze to find a ticket office and a train to Comogli, a sea side town on the Italian Riviera.
The next few days were dream like, hot and visually spectacular. Coastlines edged by steep unforgiving escarpments. The small towns dotted along it nestled onto small spurs or cocooned into small bays: one thousand year old abbeys, tiered hillsides of olive, almond, fig and walnut. Wild rosemary, sage, mint and thyme. Train lines disappearing in and out of tunnels following it's water's edge.
Sometimes we stayed in the towns by the sea that were crowded with tourists like us. Other times we found ourselves isolated in a small bungalow on the treed slope down to the sea, overlooking olive groves, distant villages and always a hazy sea marked in it's stillness by the remaining long threads of wash left behind by small vessels. Fascinating long and swaying marks that remembered a journey, like the passage of time, unwilling to disappear.
The simple act of signage for the uninitiated, for the foreigner, that in France was reliable, was now disappeared. Bumbling along, carrying tens of kilos of luggage down old cement stairs into subways only to find beautiful new escalators motionless and ignored, we manoeuvred like blind rats in a maze to find a ticket office and a train to Comogli, a sea side town on the Italian Riviera.
The next few days were dream like, hot and visually spectacular. Coastlines edged by steep unforgiving escarpments. The small towns dotted along it nestled onto small spurs or cocooned into small bays: one thousand year old abbeys, tiered hillsides of olive, almond, fig and walnut. Wild rosemary, sage, mint and thyme. Train lines disappearing in and out of tunnels following it's water's edge.
Sometimes we stayed in the towns by the sea that were crowded with tourists like us. Other times we found ourselves isolated in a small bungalow on the treed slope down to the sea, overlooking olive groves, distant villages and always a hazy sea marked in it's stillness by the remaining long threads of wash left behind by small vessels. Fascinating long and swaying marks that remembered a journey, like the passage of time, unwilling to disappear.
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Florence
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Florence. Beautiful ancient city. Medieval, Gothic, Baroque. Modern only at times, and only begrudgingly. The Uffizi Palace holds Botticelli's 'Birth of Venus' and his 'Primavera', the allegory showing the seasons as beautiful young Graces. We saw corridors of art inspired by the tortures of Christianity and by the flowing milk of it Mother's breasts. Caravaggio's darkness revealed warm trails of blood from dismembered heads.
Our apartment was now bizarrely huge and claustrophobic. The staircases and corridors leading to it's multi locked door was made for giants. Inside, the ceiling seemed to be 20 feet tall. The oppressive heat was held at bay by an overworked air con too high to reach and it's 2 tall windows looked into the building air well that wore tattered skirts of washing. The 10 foot high wooden window screens were shoved open only unwillingly and were so old and worn that one more shove would have sent them disintegrating into the courtyard below.
Venturing out that first morning we walked past an old archway reveal to some inner garden courtyard at the end of a long passageway. I spied old faded looking frescoes on it's courtyard walls. We decided to nosey around and entered like uninvited guests. At the far end of the garden perimeter we found another open passageway. Inside we found an old man looking official and very disinterested. With an imperceptible nod and flick of the head we were allowed to continue. Around the corner we entered a massive oak floored room that, as we read, was once the eatery for the woolworkers who centuries before had descended into Florence and established their trade: their flocks grazing outside in the fields going down to the river Arno (now a walled in green sludge). The 'Last Supper' by the artist Ghirlandaio was at the end of this vast room and was the significant precursor to Da Vinci's version. It was beautiful and rich in symbolism. Luckily the texts nearby helped us to decode it a little. In those centuries before now, art and commerce and the spiritual were all intertwined, one not possible without the other.
We were happy to stumble upon this quiet little gem, away from the bustle and hustle of an Uffizi Palace. Later that day, after much wandering around, we found some shade and solitude. An African guy approached us with his trinkets but we quickly told him we weren't interested. He seemed cool and struck up a conversation about his brothers in Vietnam who were hoping to get to Oz. I studied his blue black hairless scalp as he talked and noticed lots of fine scars around it. He had lived a life I would never know. I felt some kind of warmth and pity for this guy. Before I knew it he was tying an African trinket bracelet onto my wrist and draping a blue stone necklace around Karol, as gifts. He was adamant that he wanted no money. He liked us and wanted to give us something. Happily I accepted thinking not to offend him.
Karol insisted we give him some money. I pulled out 10 euros and shoved it into his hand. Suddenly he seemed offended and agitated saying 20 euros. I didn't know what he meant, thinking that he wanted 20 instead of 10, I pulled another note from my wallet. In a blinking he snatched it from me and was off quick as a flash. Karol and I looked at each other and realised we had just been had. OK I get it now. Get friendly, establish a connection, see the money, take offence, fake agitation, disrupt the balance, grab the cash and disappear quick, leaving something behind of little value to mask any obvious theft. A sting was had none the less. Angrily a ripped the bracelet off my hand and threw it onto the cobblestones. We too walked off quickly wanting some kind of distance from our foolishness. When I thought about it later, it all seemed trivial in the scheme of things: our privileged lives compared to his struggle. 30 euros would mean a lot more to him than us. The bummer was the feeling of suspicion and distrust that sprung up when any other dark skinned guys were around.
Our apartment was now bizarrely huge and claustrophobic. The staircases and corridors leading to it's multi locked door was made for giants. Inside, the ceiling seemed to be 20 feet tall. The oppressive heat was held at bay by an overworked air con too high to reach and it's 2 tall windows looked into the building air well that wore tattered skirts of washing. The 10 foot high wooden window screens were shoved open only unwillingly and were so old and worn that one more shove would have sent them disintegrating into the courtyard below.
Venturing out that first morning we walked past an old archway reveal to some inner garden courtyard at the end of a long passageway. I spied old faded looking frescoes on it's courtyard walls. We decided to nosey around and entered like uninvited guests. At the far end of the garden perimeter we found another open passageway. Inside we found an old man looking official and very disinterested. With an imperceptible nod and flick of the head we were allowed to continue. Around the corner we entered a massive oak floored room that, as we read, was once the eatery for the woolworkers who centuries before had descended into Florence and established their trade: their flocks grazing outside in the fields going down to the river Arno (now a walled in green sludge). The 'Last Supper' by the artist Ghirlandaio was at the end of this vast room and was the significant precursor to Da Vinci's version. It was beautiful and rich in symbolism. Luckily the texts nearby helped us to decode it a little. In those centuries before now, art and commerce and the spiritual were all intertwined, one not possible without the other.
We were happy to stumble upon this quiet little gem, away from the bustle and hustle of an Uffizi Palace. Later that day, after much wandering around, we found some shade and solitude. An African guy approached us with his trinkets but we quickly told him we weren't interested. He seemed cool and struck up a conversation about his brothers in Vietnam who were hoping to get to Oz. I studied his blue black hairless scalp as he talked and noticed lots of fine scars around it. He had lived a life I would never know. I felt some kind of warmth and pity for this guy. Before I knew it he was tying an African trinket bracelet onto my wrist and draping a blue stone necklace around Karol, as gifts. He was adamant that he wanted no money. He liked us and wanted to give us something. Happily I accepted thinking not to offend him.
Karol insisted we give him some money. I pulled out 10 euros and shoved it into his hand. Suddenly he seemed offended and agitated saying 20 euros. I didn't know what he meant, thinking that he wanted 20 instead of 10, I pulled another note from my wallet. In a blinking he snatched it from me and was off quick as a flash. Karol and I looked at each other and realised we had just been had. OK I get it now. Get friendly, establish a connection, see the money, take offence, fake agitation, disrupt the balance, grab the cash and disappear quick, leaving something behind of little value to mask any obvious theft. A sting was had none the less. Angrily a ripped the bracelet off my hand and threw it onto the cobblestones. We too walked off quickly wanting some kind of distance from our foolishness. When I thought about it later, it all seemed trivial in the scheme of things: our privileged lives compared to his struggle. 30 euros would mean a lot more to him than us. The bummer was the feeling of suspicion and distrust that sprung up when any other dark skinned guys were around.
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Roma
The place and the accommodation have become fused in our minds now. If Florence was out of scale and unreadable, Rome was now full of Vistas and beautiful objects. Our apartment was up over 100 steps on the 5th floor of an old building. Luckily a chair lift could take our bags up. I had just lugged them up and down numerous underground metro escalators and then up the Spanish Steps thanks to some bad advice from Google maps. Yes there was an easier way with less steps by getting out at the station before. Never mind, we were here now. This place was great. Owned by a beautiful tall creative lady, Daria, who described it as an art lovers' loft. Modern and quirky with lots of art and books everywhere, it also had a huge terrace over looking the backs of buildings and distant domes.
Our time and patience for history has dwindled now. We cherry picked some favourite places and took selfies kissing in front of the Trevi Fountain or looking cheeky in the awesome perfection of the Pantheon. Our holiday all but over it was time to buy special things for ourselves and for the family back home. We started to remember the trip highlights and had to laugh not cry at our stupidities and also had to feel amazed at our good fortunes and the privileged life we have stumbled into.
Our time and patience for history has dwindled now. We cherry picked some favourite places and took selfies kissing in front of the Trevi Fountain or looking cheeky in the awesome perfection of the Pantheon. Our holiday all but over it was time to buy special things for ourselves and for the family back home. We started to remember the trip highlights and had to laugh not cry at our stupidities and also had to feel amazed at our good fortunes and the privileged life we have stumbled into.
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