Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 60 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Sherrill, Rome Metro, Via Veneto All roads lead to Rome, somebody once said. Sherrill and I had been there at least twice before and would return several more times, but it's one of those cities you never exhaust. We stayed in a favorite little hotel near the huge train station—so we wouldn't have to make an early morning journey across the city when we took a train north later. First, we explored some areas we'd missed on those earlier trips.
Sherrill was eager to see the mosaic floors at ancient Rome's port of Ostia Antica. We were lucky to catch a team of specialists at work restoring an elaborate mosaic of the signs of the zodiac that covered the floor of what had been a large building. Down the road, we watched a group of children in Roman costumes getting ready to perform in the ancient theater. Another day, we rode Rome's Metro to the Borghese Gardens and Museum. On the crowded subway afterwards, two well-dressed men pushed between us. Later, I discovered that a few small Euro bills had vanished from my front pants pocket. All of our other cash and passports were safely under my clothes. I'm still impressed by the skill of whoever got those bills. I hope he was disappointed to get such a small stash.
Restoring Roman mosaic, Ostia Antica
At the Vatican, we recognized a movie star stopped by one of the guards at the entrance to St. Peter's Cathedral because her arms and shoulders were bare. The man with her let her wear his jacket. It was too large, but made her respectable. We had no trouble getting in the great church, but were disappointed later when we discovered that Michelangelo's frescos in the Sistine Chapel were off limits because the cardinals were in there electing a new Pope.
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Signorelli's fresco, "Resurrection," Orvieto We traveled with only carry-on luggage, so it was easy the next morning to walk the block and a half to the station. Two hours after leaving Rome, Orvieto's gothic cathedral appeared on its rock throne above the Umbrian plain. One reason Italy's hill towns are so spectacular is the way they're perched atop their hills. Unfortunately, the train stations are far below. Great views, but how do you get there? A few, at least, have funiculars or trams to take people up.
Once again, we were traveling with a list of places to stay but no reservations. Every day was an adventure. We were lucky this time. After riding in Orvieto's funicular to the top of the cliff, we walked to a hotel across the central piazza and were given a room with a view of the cathedral's ornate front with its stained glass, sculptures, and mosaics—although half of that elaborate facade was covered with scaffolding. Inside, we discovered three enormous frescoes overflowing with naked bodies: Luca Signorelli's paintings of The Damned, The Resurrection, and Paradise.
"I think the subject was an excuse for him to show off," Sherrill commented.
Once again, we were traveling with a list of places to stay but no reservations. Every day was an adventure. We were lucky this time. After riding in Orvieto's funicular to the top of the cliff, we walked to a hotel across the central piazza and were given a room with a view of the cathedral's ornate front with its stained glass, sculptures, and mosaics—although half of that elaborate facade was covered with scaffolding. Inside, we discovered three enormous frescoes overflowing with naked bodies: Luca Signorelli's paintings of The Damned, The Resurrection, and Paradise.
"I think the subject was an excuse for him to show off," Sherrill commented.
A local guide took the two of us through caves and passages dug long ago through the volcanic tufa stone beneath Orvieto: up and down carved stairs, through dark chambers and rooms lit only through holes in the tufa walls and around a well dug for a Pope in hiding. After the day visitors had gone, we strolled along the cobblestone streets and found a trattoria for a quiet dinner and a local vino rosso classico.
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Antique car rally, Perugia We were surprised to discover an escalator from the train station up the hill to the town of Perugia sprawled like the five fingers of a hand on its rugged heights. An easy walk past the fortress-like city hall and a many-sided pink and white 13th century fountain, brought us to our first choice hotel in a building in which Goethe stayed during his Italian tour—and they had a room for us. Nearby, several dozen old cars from all over Europe were parked in the Piazza della Repubblica for an antique automobile rally.
We ate well in Italy's hill towns, sometimes hunting up a restaurant that had been recommended to us, but usually just stopping at one that looked good. The dishes were interesting, the ingredients fresh, and the wine usually local and excellent—and it was fun eating with local people. As we strolled through Perugia's medieval streets, through stone arches and narrow passageways decorated with carved coats of arms, along a Roman aqueduct for a while, passing the old buildings of the University, and stopping to visit the National Gallery to study masterpieces by Perugino, Piero della Francesco, and Pinturicchio, we discovered some enticing neighborhood restaurants and weren't disappointed. Often, in these little places the chef himself (back then, they usually were male) came out to talk about the menu with us, urging us to try a dish with the local truffles or their special way of preparing lamb with olives—and, of course, there always was a local wine that we couldn't miss. In fact, the only times in all of our travels through Italy that we were disappointed by a restaurant were when we stumbled into places targeting tourists, which did happen a couple of times in Venice and Naples.
We ate well in Italy's hill towns, sometimes hunting up a restaurant that had been recommended to us, but usually just stopping at one that looked good. The dishes were interesting, the ingredients fresh, and the wine usually local and excellent—and it was fun eating with local people. As we strolled through Perugia's medieval streets, through stone arches and narrow passageways decorated with carved coats of arms, along a Roman aqueduct for a while, passing the old buildings of the University, and stopping to visit the National Gallery to study masterpieces by Perugino, Piero della Francesco, and Pinturicchio, we discovered some enticing neighborhood restaurants and weren't disappointed. Often, in these little places the chef himself (back then, they usually were male) came out to talk about the menu with us, urging us to try a dish with the local truffles or their special way of preparing lamb with olives—and, of course, there always was a local wine that we couldn't miss. In fact, the only times in all of our travels through Italy that we were disappointed by a restaurant were when we stumbled into places targeting tourists, which did happen a couple of times in Venice and Naples.
Sherrill, Gubbio restaurant Rosy-cheeked, the just-ordained young priest stood next to the long table accepting congratulations from family and friends and a couple of older priests. We were at La Fornace di Mastro Giorgio, a traditional Umbrian restaurant on a steep hillside street in the ancient town of Gubbio. Sherrill and I, watching from our table against the thick stone wall under the restaurant's low arched roof, considered walking over to offer him a hand, too, but decided not to intrude on his big day. When we traveled, we often ate our main meal in the early afternoon. This time, we also had a front-row seat to the celebration for this handsome, much-loved new priest.
Gubbio rose on one side of a valley, its cobblestone streets a series of horizontal steps climbing up the mountain like a ladder, pocked occasionally by piazzas, churches, a few Roman ruins, and several medieval public buildings—the crenellated Palazzo dei Consoli (city hall), the ducal palace—and our favorite, the Palazzo del Bargello for the Society of Crossbowmen. Every December, the biggest Christmas tree in the world was created here with 12 kilometers of electric lights that stretched from the bottom of the city to the top of the mountain. We were there in May, but at sunset the ancient stones and tile roofs of Gubbio blazed as if washed with liquid gold.
Gubbio rose on one side of a valley, its cobblestone streets a series of horizontal steps climbing up the mountain like a ladder, pocked occasionally by piazzas, churches, a few Roman ruins, and several medieval public buildings—the crenellated Palazzo dei Consoli (city hall), the ducal palace—and our favorite, the Palazzo del Bargello for the Society of Crossbowmen. Every December, the biggest Christmas tree in the world was created here with 12 kilometers of electric lights that stretched from the bottom of the city to the top of the mountain. We were there in May, but at sunset the ancient stones and tile roofs of Gubbio blazed as if washed with liquid gold.
Soon after we left the restaurant, we came to a piazza in front of a small church, a few cars parked to one side, and a couple of men in suits smoking near the church steps. While we stood there, a woman in an elegant dress and high heels came out of the church with a boy about three or four, gave him to one of the men, and went back into the church.
"A wedding," Sherrill told me, "and papa has to take his turn with the kid."
Sure enough, before long the big wood doors opened wide, spilling a crowd of well-dressed people, a priest, members of a youthful chorus, and finally the wedding party, bride and groom last of all: a petite, lovely girl in white and a husky dark-haired young man who looked uncomfortable in his suit. Several more restless children scurried around the adults and darted into the piazza.
"Our lucky day," Sherrill said, and I agreed.
Traveling can be a disorienting experience, simultaneously being here and there, in the present and the past, as if we've been in submerged in a great stew, bits and pieces of time bubbling around us. Later, that stew only partially congeals, tricking our memories: the Roman theatre, the gothic church, the Victorian farm house, the Romanesque cathedral, the bride lifting her skirt as she maneuvers over cobblestones, the hotel room with sagging floor: which was where and when?
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We were sweating already and had just started hiking up the winding road from the Assisi train station to the town center someplace on the mountainside in front of us. Since Assisi hotels booked up far in advance, we had a reservation at a small hotel near the central piazza, supposedly walking distance to everything—except the train station, we now realized. Our two suitcases were carryon, but heavier than we'd thought. Stoically, we trudged forward.
"A wedding," Sherrill told me, "and papa has to take his turn with the kid."
Sure enough, before long the big wood doors opened wide, spilling a crowd of well-dressed people, a priest, members of a youthful chorus, and finally the wedding party, bride and groom last of all: a petite, lovely girl in white and a husky dark-haired young man who looked uncomfortable in his suit. Several more restless children scurried around the adults and darted into the piazza.
"Our lucky day," Sherrill said, and I agreed.
Traveling can be a disorienting experience, simultaneously being here and there, in the present and the past, as if we've been in submerged in a great stew, bits and pieces of time bubbling around us. Later, that stew only partially congeals, tricking our memories: the Roman theatre, the gothic church, the Victorian farm house, the Romanesque cathedral, the bride lifting her skirt as she maneuvers over cobblestones, the hotel room with sagging floor: which was where and when?
* * *
We were sweating already and had just started hiking up the winding road from the Assisi train station to the town center someplace on the mountainside in front of us. Since Assisi hotels booked up far in advance, we had a reservation at a small hotel near the central piazza, supposedly walking distance to everything—except the train station, we now realized. Our two suitcases were carryon, but heavier than we'd thought. Stoically, we trudged forward.
Sherrill, Piazza del Comune, Assisi Suddenly, a dust-covered miniature car jerked to a stop next to us.
The driver's door opened with a flourish and a tiny nun emerged. She walked around the hood until she was face to face with us.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, in accented but understandable English.
"Piazza del Comune," I answered. "Hotel Umbra."
The nun, older than I'd realized at first, swung open the passenger door.
"Get in," she commanded, reaching for our suitcases. Before we could react, she'd opened a miniscule trunk, somehow got the two bags into it, and slammed it shut. "In!" she repeated.
We obeyed.
The nun forced the little vehicle into motion, whipping around every bend in the road, detouring violently around any object—car, human, animal, or structure—that rose up in front of us. Crammed into the car next to the nun, no seatbelts, hoping the door wouldn't fly open and we wouldn't crash through the windshield, somehow we survived our first experience of Assisi, emerging at last in a large piazza, where our nun slammed to an abrupt stop.
"Hotel?" she barked.
"Hotel Umbra."
We didn't see anything that looked like a hotel.
She tumbled out of the car and trotted over to a uniformed poliziotto parked a few yards away. A moment later, they walked back to us, talking and gesturing. Struggling out of the car, Sherrill and I looked hopefully at the young cop.
"Hotel?" the nun asked again.
"Hotel Umbra."
"Ahh!" said the poliziotto after a minute, then pointed down what looked like a cross between a tunnel and an alley.
"Bravo!" cried the nun, triumphantly, hurling our bags onto the cobblestones. "Buona fortuna!"
"Grazia!" I cried, as she slid back into the car, gunned it, and drove off.
"What just happened?" Sherrill asked.
"Our fairy godmother was an Italian nun."
The driver's door opened with a flourish and a tiny nun emerged. She walked around the hood until she was face to face with us.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, in accented but understandable English.
"Piazza del Comune," I answered. "Hotel Umbra."
The nun, older than I'd realized at first, swung open the passenger door.
"Get in," she commanded, reaching for our suitcases. Before we could react, she'd opened a miniscule trunk, somehow got the two bags into it, and slammed it shut. "In!" she repeated.
We obeyed.
The nun forced the little vehicle into motion, whipping around every bend in the road, detouring violently around any object—car, human, animal, or structure—that rose up in front of us. Crammed into the car next to the nun, no seatbelts, hoping the door wouldn't fly open and we wouldn't crash through the windshield, somehow we survived our first experience of Assisi, emerging at last in a large piazza, where our nun slammed to an abrupt stop.
"Hotel?" she barked.
"Hotel Umbra."
We didn't see anything that looked like a hotel.
She tumbled out of the car and trotted over to a uniformed poliziotto parked a few yards away. A moment later, they walked back to us, talking and gesturing. Struggling out of the car, Sherrill and I looked hopefully at the young cop.
"Hotel?" the nun asked again.
"Hotel Umbra."
"Ahh!" said the poliziotto after a minute, then pointed down what looked like a cross between a tunnel and an alley.
"Bravo!" cried the nun, triumphantly, hurling our bags onto the cobblestones. "Buona fortuna!"
"Grazia!" I cried, as she slid back into the car, gunned it, and drove off.
"What just happened?" Sherrill asked.
"Our fairy godmother was an Italian nun."
Assisi: round street on site of Roman theatre We picked up our bags and hiked into the shadowy tunnel, found a door with the words "Hotel Umbra" above it, and discovered a beautiful little place that was everything we'd hoped, including a view of the Umbrian plains, a spacious room, and a fine restaurant. And a bathroom where we washed off the sweat and grime of our journey. That evening, we celebrated our survival with a dinner we couldn't afford and toasted our fairy godmother with glasses of the local Montefalco wine.
The next days spun into a kaleidoscope of wonders, from the Roman Temple of Minerva practically next door on the Piazza del Comune to the monumental multi-level complex honoring St. Francis of Assisi astride the hill above. Both the upper and lower churches had been restored since the 1997 earthquake and the great frescoes by Cimabue and Giotto and his followers restored as much as possible. From the lower church we descended to the crypt to pay our respects at the tomb of the saint. Despite the hills, we enjoyed exploring the medieval city: the narrow streets lined with stone houses, the arches joining buildings over the streets, the reddish roof tiles, decorated cornices, even the occasional bricked up door and window, sometimes still blackened from a long ago sacking. From time to time, the medieval austerity of the neighborhoods was lightened by window boxes and baskets of geraniums. Climbing farther afield, we came to a delightfully odd neighborhood of medieval houses built within the circular framework of what had been a Roman theatre.
The next days spun into a kaleidoscope of wonders, from the Roman Temple of Minerva practically next door on the Piazza del Comune to the monumental multi-level complex honoring St. Francis of Assisi astride the hill above. Both the upper and lower churches had been restored since the 1997 earthquake and the great frescoes by Cimabue and Giotto and his followers restored as much as possible. From the lower church we descended to the crypt to pay our respects at the tomb of the saint. Despite the hills, we enjoyed exploring the medieval city: the narrow streets lined with stone houses, the arches joining buildings over the streets, the reddish roof tiles, decorated cornices, even the occasional bricked up door and window, sometimes still blackened from a long ago sacking. From time to time, the medieval austerity of the neighborhoods was lightened by window boxes and baskets of geraniums. Climbing farther afield, we came to a delightfully odd neighborhood of medieval houses built within the circular framework of what had been a Roman theatre.
Communists campaigning, Urbino The Ducal Palace in Urbino was even larger and grander than we expected, but—despite some fine art works here and there—was as impersonal and cold as it was spectacular. However, Sherrill and I enjoyed the city, itself. With its hills and university and busy streets crowded with young people, it reminded us of Berkeley. One of the students that Sherrill struck up a conversation with suggested a restaurant upstairs on a side street. Following his directions, we hiked up the street, climbed the stairs, and entered a large room with a beamed ceiling and big fireplace. A young waitress, probably a student, told us what was on offer that day.
The chef himself, a tall middle-aged fellow with a great belly under his food-splotched white apron, brought out the food, himself. As he set it in front of us he announced in English that his son had a magnificent voice.
"He sing alla radio tonight. You must hear him. Magnifico!"
We didn't hear the chef's son sing, but the food was pretty magnificent—and so was the bottle of ruby red Rosso Piceno Superiore. Somehow, after that feast, we made it back to our hotel—although I seem to recall that one or two university students helped us get there.
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"He sing alla radio tonight. You must hear him. Magnifico!"
We didn't hear the chef's son sing, but the food was pretty magnificent—and so was the bottle of ruby red Rosso Piceno Superiore. Somehow, after that feast, we made it back to our hotel—although I seem to recall that one or two university students helped us get there.
* * *
Alexander Calder statue, Spoleto We were greeted at the Spoleto train station by a monumental black Alexander Calder sculpture. Unfortunately, we still were three kilometers below the upper town. Eventually, a bus got us to the top of the hill and we found a room. The jumble of twisting, narrow streets weaving through the medieval town was a challenge, but at every bend we discovered a wonderful sight: handsome piazzas, medieval churches, a Roman theatre, a spectacular 14th century aqueduct, and—down a broad flight of steps—the elegant facade of the Duomo, part Romanesque, part Renaissance. By the time we'd admired the Filippo Lippi frescoes of the life of the Virgin inside, we were starving.
Spoleto restaurant, host/owner We'd read about several good-sounding restaurants, but we discovered the Osteria del Matto (Inn of the Crazy), ourselves—down an alley from the Piazza del Mercato. The main dining room turned out to be full, but the owner-host took us to a big table in the wine cellar that we shared with some other diners. Everyone was served the same set menu, beginning with appetizer and white wine, then moving on to a main course served with a Montefalco rosso, and for dessert a chocolate torte—a memorable meal. Of course, we went back the next day.
A couple of days later, we checked out of our hotel and went to catch the local bus to the train and bus station. When it didn't show up, we returned to the hotel and learned that it didn't operate on Sunday. A brisk walk with our bags got us to the station just in time for the bus to San Marino, proudly the world's oldest republic and Europe's third smallest independent state—although completely surrounded by Italy.
A couple of days later, we checked out of our hotel and went to catch the local bus to the train and bus station. When it didn't show up, we returned to the hotel and learned that it didn't operate on Sunday. A brisk walk with our bags got us to the station just in time for the bus to San Marino, proudly the world's oldest republic and Europe's third smallest independent state—although completely surrounded by Italy.
Small though San Marino was, its rocky cliffs and hills were spectacular, fortresses and palaces rising like organic outcroppings among gardens and trees. Every other building on the capital city's main street seemed to be a museum, especially about San Marino's glorious history, one with some strange waxwork figures. Then Sherrill and I were astounded to see a parade of young men peddling bicycles up the steep, switch-back road to the city center. We learned that it was the Giro d'Italia bike race held in late May or early June each year. The cyclists looked determined, but in pain.
Rimini on Italy's Adriatic coast, famous as a beach resort and as the birthplace and childhood home of film director Federico Fellini and the setting of several of his movies, was a short bus trip from San Marino. Sherrill and I knew Fellini's movies almost frame by frame, so we had to make the pilgrimage. Walking out on the long beach with its little changing cabins and wooden beach chairs facing the water we almost felt as if we'd wandered into one of Fellini's movies, maybe 8 1/2, in which the boy Guido (inspired by Fellini's own memories) dances on the beach with a hefty prostitute, and we wandered into the Grand Hotel, where Fellini stayed when he came back to Rimini and where elegant couples danced on the terrace in both Amarcord and I Vitelloni. Too bad we couldn't afford to stay there.
From Rimini, we took a train to Rome for our final days in Italy, and then flew back to California, our brains and stomachs full of memories.
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
If you find these posts interesting, why not explore the rest of my website, too? Just click on the buttons at the top of the page and discover where they take you—including a bio, information about my four novels, along with excerpts from them, and several complete short stories.
Please pass the posts on to anybody else you think might enjoy them.
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