Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 70 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 & friend, Cremona Duomo We were old enough to know better, but Sherrill and I were doing it again: traveling like kids with no reservations, constantly changing our plans, missing boats, buses, and trains—and having a good time. Maybe we would have said that it wasn't the destination that mattered, but the journey. As we traveled together to different parts of the world, exploring, wondering, discovering, it seemed as if we could do it forever. Why not? It was 2008 and we'd already been doing it for forty-four years.
A 25-minute train trip from Mussolini's bloated Milan station deposited us in medieval Pavia, where we discovered narrow cobblestone streets, a covered bridge, and a 14th century castle turned into the city museum. As far as we could tell, no one else was in the museum except us and a young red-haired security guard in baggy orange pants who scurried along with us unlocking doors and then locking them again. She tried to make conversation with us, despite her shaky English and my worse Italian—and the interruptions of her walky-talky—compensating with smiles for what she lacked in vocabulary. I had the feeling that she'd keep on opening and closing doors as long as we needed her to do it.
A 25-minute train trip from Mussolini's bloated Milan station deposited us in medieval Pavia, where we discovered narrow cobblestone streets, a covered bridge, and a 14th century castle turned into the city museum. As far as we could tell, no one else was in the museum except us and a young red-haired security guard in baggy orange pants who scurried along with us unlocking doors and then locking them again. She tried to make conversation with us, despite her shaky English and my worse Italian—and the interruptions of her walky-talky—compensating with smiles for what she lacked in vocabulary. I had the feeling that she'd keep on opening and closing doors as long as we needed her to do it.
18th century wax model, science museum "Berkeley?" exclaimed another young woman at the university's science museum, thrilled that we'd come all the way from California. "Do you have a mug from the Berkeley university? For our collection?"
Sadly, we had to disappoint her, since we didn't travel with a U.C. Berkeley mug.
We always felt comfortable, at ease, in Italian towns, but we especially enjoyed our evenings in Cremona, the next town we visited, when everyone—families, couples, and individuals—came out to walk. It was like the paseo that we had seen in Spain, quietly joyous and civilized. They stopped for a glass of wine and a snack, then later had dinner in a trattoria or restaurant. Why, we wondered, didn't everybody live like this?
Sadly, we had to disappoint her, since we didn't travel with a U.C. Berkeley mug.
We always felt comfortable, at ease, in Italian towns, but we especially enjoyed our evenings in Cremona, the next town we visited, when everyone—families, couples, and individuals—came out to walk. It was like the paseo that we had seen in Spain, quietly joyous and civilized. They stopped for a glass of wine and a snack, then later had dinner in a trattoria or restaurant. Why, we wondered, didn't everybody live like this?
We'd arrived in Cremona on Saturday morning when the piazza by the Duomo and campanile—reputedly the tallest in Europe—was full of stalls and tables. Eventually, we found a room, left our luggage, and continued exploring in this town famous as birthplace of Stradivarius. While Sherrill checked out the weekend market, I climbed the bell tower and gazed out at the centuries of history below me, then we wandered around town together. In a galleria under a glass dome, a young couple was giving ballroom dancing lessons to a dozen other couples of all ages, the women in the spike heels that Italians seemed to love.
Mincio River, Mantova "Babies. Toddlers," Sherrill pointed out. "All over the place. And their daddies."
How could I miss them? And she was right about the daddies. Often, it was the fathers who were caring for the little kids. Italian men did seem to be good parents.
"Look." Sherrill nodded toward a young father and his two-year-old daughter barking at each other over and over after a dog had passed them. A little later, she pointed out another dad and his tiny son saying "ciao" repeatedly to a friend trying to leave them.
"Ciao!" "Ciao!" "Ciao!"
We could still hear them as we wandered down a narrow street lined with violin-making shops, passing three young musicians playing violins together, an open violin case on the cobblestones in front of them.
How could I miss them? And she was right about the daddies. Often, it was the fathers who were caring for the little kids. Italian men did seem to be good parents.
"Look." Sherrill nodded toward a young father and his two-year-old daughter barking at each other over and over after a dog had passed them. A little later, she pointed out another dad and his tiny son saying "ciao" repeatedly to a friend trying to leave them.
"Ciao!" "Ciao!" "Ciao!"
We could still hear them as we wandered down a narrow street lined with violin-making shops, passing three young musicians playing violins together, an open violin case on the cobblestones in front of them.
Bruce with basilica model, Mantova It was hard to say why, but Mantova (Mantua) a couple of days later felt quite different than Cremona—maybe because it was larger and surrounded by three artificial lakes, maybe because it was crowded with palaces and other splendid buildings, and maybe because it seemed more sophisticated and less family focused. After visiting the ducal palace (and seeing the Mantegna murals portraying the powerful Gonzaga family as if they were conspiring Mafiosi) and the duomo, we wandered around town, peering into shopping arcades, the display windows full of expensive clothes and underwear, and passing Italian couples discussing both the fashions and the underwear. Our favorite display showed life-sized statues of well-fed pink pigs among the elegantly garbed mannequins.
Spontaneously, one morning, we hopped on a train south to Modena for the day because Sherrill wanted to see the Romanesque church there, but when we arrived couldn't find the way from the station to the center of town. When I asked a young local fellow for directions, he took a city map from his backpack, opened it to show us the route, insisted that we keep it, and walked part way with us to make sure we were heading the right direction. Despite our impetuousness, it turned out to be a good day.
Spontaneously, one morning, we hopped on a train south to Modena for the day because Sherrill wanted to see the Romanesque church there, but when we arrived couldn't find the way from the station to the center of town. When I asked a young local fellow for directions, he took a city map from his backpack, opened it to show us the route, insisted that we keep it, and walked part way with us to make sure we were heading the right direction. Despite our impetuousness, it turned out to be a good day.
Graduate acting the fool Back in Mantova, we wandered into a collection of life-sized 18th century wax figures at the university's science museum, including a female with her guts and other internal body parts on display as if they'd just been scooped out by a sadistic doctor and a scrawny male with no skin. Walking back to the hotel, we encountered two groups of young people, in each a guy dressed like a medieval fool, the others chanting "Il Dottore!" at him and then laughing. The two young men had just received their doctorates and were being paraded through town as fools. We liked that their friends weren't going to let the new "doctors" take themselves too seriously.
We tossed aside our plans again the next day, taking a boat to Sirmione on Lake Garda because we remembered that some friends had enjoyed it. Well, it wasn't really that simple. When we left Mantova by train, we intended to hop off at Peschiera and jump on a boat for Sirmione, but our hopping and jumping didn't quite work out. After a 20-minute walk to the lake with a friendly British couple, we reached the Peschiera dock just in time to watch the boat churning into Lake Garda. The next boat was in three hours, so we explored Peschiera's old town, had lunch in an osteria we found on a side street (a delicious mushroom soufflé), and wandered around the waterfront area.
"If we hadn't missed that boat," I told Sherrill at lunch, "we wouldn't have had this wonderful meal."
"Okay, Pollyanna, if you say so."
"If we hadn't missed that boat," I told Sherrill at lunch, "we wouldn't have had this wonderful meal."
"Okay, Pollyanna, if you say so."
Sirmione from the lake Eventually, we did get to Sirmione, a small, ancient town on the end of a skinny peninsula, filled with picturesque old houses, a 13th century castle with moat and drawbridge, and a Roman ruin overlooking the lake, but crowded with German and British tourists, including at least two dozen middle-aged German bikers in helmets and black leather jackets with their oversized motorcycles and lots of good cheer. We found a tiny hotel in which the rooms were named after flowers instead of having numbers. Ours was circliamino—cyclamen. The place was run by a very old woman with bow legs, a cap of white hair, and a face like Lionel Barrymore. She was helpful, talkative, and humorous and we had a good time whenever we talked with her.
"You like it here," our hostess insisted on the second day we were there, "so you should stop wandering from town to town and stay with me."
"Why not?" Sherrill asked me, mischievously.
"You see?" said the old lady. "The signora agrees."
While we were there, we also got to know a young woman from Venezuela who had lived several years in Hawaii, married an Italian, and now was happy in Italy—although it did take her a while, she admitted, to get used to the Italian way of life.
"Not like Venezuela or the United States."
"Why not?" Sherrill asked me, mischievously.
"You see?" said the old lady. "The signora agrees."
While we were there, we also got to know a young woman from Venezuela who had lived several years in Hawaii, married an Italian, and now was happy in Italy—although it did take her a while, she admitted, to get used to the Italian way of life.
"Not like Venezuela or the United States."
Roman Forum, Brescia We didn't spend the rest of our lives in Sirmioni, the way our hostess wanted. Sherrill and I preferred to keep moving. We always were aware of how much more there was to see and experience—in Italy and around the world. Something wonderful, we were sure, was waiting around the corner—and around the corner after that and the next corner....
On the bus from Sirmioni to Breschia, however, we decided to stay there for a bit, instead of immediately going on Bergamo, as we'd planned, so we got a room in a hotel by the station, left our bags, and set out. Breschia, we discovered, had not one, but two cathedrals—a new Baroque one and an 11th century old one (Sherrill's favorite), in the Lombard Romanesque style with a domed interior plus several lower levels that descended to an even older crypt. We allowed ourselves only two days in Breschia, but made the most of them, hiking to the remains of a large Roman forum, up a steep hill to a medieval castle, and among narrow winding streets (more cobblestones) and odd-shaped piazzas. We were glad not to have missed any of it.
On the bus from Sirmioni to Breschia, however, we decided to stay there for a bit, instead of immediately going on Bergamo, as we'd planned, so we got a room in a hotel by the station, left our bags, and set out. Breschia, we discovered, had not one, but two cathedrals—a new Baroque one and an 11th century old one (Sherrill's favorite), in the Lombard Romanesque style with a domed interior plus several lower levels that descended to an even older crypt. We allowed ourselves only two days in Breschia, but made the most of them, hiking to the remains of a large Roman forum, up a steep hill to a medieval castle, and among narrow winding streets (more cobblestones) and odd-shaped piazzas. We were glad not to have missed any of it.
Bergamo with its defensive walls On the other hand, Bergamo, our original destination, soon became one of our favorite Italian cities. We were lucky enough to get a room in a converted convent perched on a cliff in the upper medieval city—which was separated from the newer city below by massive fortifications. To go between the two cities we rode a funicular up and down the cliff.
A couple of happy incidents: When Sherrill and I slipped into a small church in the upper town to see a Titian polyptych behind the altar, the place turned out to be empty and dark. Nevertheless, we stumbled through the church toward the altar, trying to peer through the gloom at the painting. An elderly caretaker limped up out of the shadows and—instead of telling us to go away—explained in Italian that we could go behind the altar and climb the steps that the priest used. We hesitated, but he urged us to go on up.
"Si! Okay!" he said, using what I guessed was the only English word he knew.
Obeying him, we reached a spot where the light from the side windows illuminated the Titian so that we could see it perfectly. As we left, I tried to give him a tip, but he refused with a sweet smile, saying that he was glad to do it for us.
A couple of happy incidents: When Sherrill and I slipped into a small church in the upper town to see a Titian polyptych behind the altar, the place turned out to be empty and dark. Nevertheless, we stumbled through the church toward the altar, trying to peer through the gloom at the painting. An elderly caretaker limped up out of the shadows and—instead of telling us to go away—explained in Italian that we could go behind the altar and climb the steps that the priest used. We hesitated, but he urged us to go on up.
"Si! Okay!" he said, using what I guessed was the only English word he knew.
Obeying him, we reached a spot where the light from the side windows illuminated the Titian so that we could see it perfectly. As we left, I tried to give him a tip, but he refused with a sweet smile, saying that he was glad to do it for us.
Sherrill, Lecco, Lake Como Later that day, we met a young woman from Australia who was in Bergamo to study at a Montessori school training center.
"I have my teacher certificate," she explained, "but I want this one, too, because I believe in the Montessori approach." She was excited when Sherrill told her that our grandson had gone to a Montessori school and loved it. "Most people I talk with," she told us, "have never heard of Montessori."
She was there for six months, taking classes in both English and Italian, studying hard, hiking from a room in the lower town to the training center in the upper town except when she splurged on the funicular.
"I feel encouraged, now," she said, as we separated, "after talking with you."
Sherrill and I celebrated our forty-fourth wedding anniversary by taking the train to Lecco on Lake Como, where we walked along the lake front, had lunch at a restaurant crowded with crusty local people who apparently ate there often, toasted each other with sparkling wine, and then rode the train back to Bergamo—all very spontaneous. Afterwards, we wished that we'd asked someone to take our photograph, but at least we had the memory.
"I have my teacher certificate," she explained, "but I want this one, too, because I believe in the Montessori approach." She was excited when Sherrill told her that our grandson had gone to a Montessori school and loved it. "Most people I talk with," she told us, "have never heard of Montessori."
She was there for six months, taking classes in both English and Italian, studying hard, hiking from a room in the lower town to the training center in the upper town except when she splurged on the funicular.
"I feel encouraged, now," she said, as we separated, "after talking with you."
Sherrill and I celebrated our forty-fourth wedding anniversary by taking the train to Lecco on Lake Como, where we walked along the lake front, had lunch at a restaurant crowded with crusty local people who apparently ate there often, toasted each other with sparkling wine, and then rode the train back to Bergamo—all very spontaneous. Afterwards, we wished that we'd asked someone to take our photograph, but at least we had the memory.
Sherrill, Bergamo Botanical Garden Bergamo's botanic garden, a quiet paradise overlooking the rooftops of the upper city, could be reached only by climbing 141 steps. Primarily a research and educational garden, it exchanged seeds and plants with similar gardens around Italy and Europe. We wandered through it, reading the labels when we could. The sounds of the bees and of the wind playing in the trees and the smells of the flowers and freshly dug soil, even of the fertilizer, were comforting in their earthy way. The garden wasn't the largest or the most exotic we'd ever seen, but up there above the city and countryside it felt magical.
Cinema Museum, Torino Other cities were more beautiful, but Torino (Turin, in English), one of the financial engines that drove Italy, surprised us. Like Bologna, the buildings along many of its streets, both old and new, were fronted with arcades, often with shops, restaurants, and bars peeking out from behind them. The streets were straight, as in Paris, with skinny orange trams running on them like Milan, and lively young people everywhere, like Berkeley. The city was crowded with museums, including the third largest Egyptian museum in the world (after Cairo and London), several fine art museums, and a twin-towered Roman gate that in its long history had been turned into a castle, then into a palace, and finally ended up as a museum. However, our favorite museum in Torino was the Mole Antonelliana.
Started in 1863, this strange building with an elongated dome topped by a Greek temple topped with a pointed spire grew until it reached the height of 167 meters, the highest brick building in the world and the tallest building anywhere until the Eiffel Tower. Now, it housed the greatest museum in the world dedicated to the history of the motion picture—six of its floors around a central atrium, full of endless movie clips, still pictures, and more. We took the glass elevator to the top, gazed out over all of Turin—at the red tile roofs, domes, towers, palaces, office buildings—then went back down to the spiraling ramp and the history of the moving image, starting with shadow dramas.
Started in 1863, this strange building with an elongated dome topped by a Greek temple topped with a pointed spire grew until it reached the height of 167 meters, the highest brick building in the world and the tallest building anywhere until the Eiffel Tower. Now, it housed the greatest museum in the world dedicated to the history of the motion picture—six of its floors around a central atrium, full of endless movie clips, still pictures, and more. We took the glass elevator to the top, gazed out over all of Turin—at the red tile roofs, domes, towers, palaces, office buildings—then went back down to the spiraling ramp and the history of the moving image, starting with shadow dramas.
We could recline on lounges while gazing up at movie clips projected onto a sloping ceiling above us, but plastic-topped tables in the restaurant also showed movie clips and rooms around the edges played films on different themes and from different historic periods, including the development of special effects. Gazing up through the huge atrium, we were encircled by a parade of movie posters from around the world, from Luchino Visconti's Il Gattopardo (The Leopard) to Cabiria, Italy's first movie epic (1914), to Gone with the Wind to Hitchcock's Vertigo to Cameron's Titanic.
"We can't do all this in one day," Sherrill told me, lowering herself into a chair.
She was right, so we returned the next day.
"We can't do all this in one day," Sherrill told me, lowering herself into a chair.
She was right, so we returned the next day.
In the evening, while she recovered in our hotel room, I went out for a bite to eat and discovered that for the modest price of a glass of wine in one of the bars or little cafes around town I could fill up on happy hour snacks. I even took something back for Sherrill to eat. On the way back, on the bridge crossing the Po river, I watched a costumed juggler go out into the crosswalk in front of cars, juggle while they waited for the light, then collect money from the drivers as they drove away. He was good, too.
To be continued....
To be continued....
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