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Friday, August 20, 2004
Ferragosto, August 15, is the official Italian beach-going holiday, which makes perfect sense smack-dab in the middle of the hottest month on a peninsula that stretches nearly to the northern tip of Africa. It's sizzlingly steamy here, and there's a lot of coastline and even more available water, so Italians do the most logical thing and move en masse to the Italian shores for the weekend, and usually longer. Ferragosto is a lot like the Fourth of July: friends and families get together--mainly to eat, although not burgers or hot dogs; the swimming pools are jam-packed and every city and even the little paesini offer spectacular fireworks displays.
Since Ferragosto is, technically (although no one makes a big deal of it), the celebration of the Feast of the Assumption, when Mary was taken into heaven, Luca and I--along with our friends Matteo and Valeria--decided it would be fitting to get as close as possible to the action. So we climbed a mountain.
Up at 7 a.m. on the most beautiful morning of the summer, Luca and I slapped our speck-and-asiago sandwiches together, squeezed water bottles and towels into a backpack and headed out of Garda, where we had spent Saturday lakeside, toward San Zeno di Montagna--a rustic, little outcropping terraced about 570 meters (1,870 feet) up into the south side of Monte Baldo. The views from up there are spectacular: green-furred mountains rolling gently into what seems like a bright blue plain--the lake, completely tranquil from so high up.
There, we met Teo and Vale, who were just finishing a 10-day vacation at his family's mountain lodge, for a classic day-in-the-mountains breakfast: cappuccini, topped with clouds of foam and the cocoa-powder outlines of giant stars, with which to wash down the flaky goodness of fresh marmalade-stuffed croissants (known as brioches in Italian).
Breakfast in San Zeno di Montagna.
After indulging, we pushed off toward our destination: Malcesine, a sparkling town and port on the east shore of Lake Garda not too very far from the north bank of the lake, which happens to be Italy's largest. It is an Italian town the way you'd romanticize it, with bright, summer-colored villas rising up the slope toward Monte Baldo's peak; narrow stone archways to walk through or hover under to soak up the shade; a beautiful, sailboat-stocked port; a castle and a billion gelaterie. From there, we'd board the funivia, or cable car, that would whisk us up to the top of Monte Baldo.
Malcesine, as seen from the funivia.
Fourteen euro a person and 15 minutes later (the funivia rotated, offering passengers a 360-degree view of mountain and lake along with some vertigo), we arrived at the top of the mountain, bathed in a spectrum of greens and speckled with the icy blue of tiny mountain lakes. Surrounded by higher, rocky peaks, by the strangely rippled, pine-green skin of those skyscraping mountains, by air so pure and breathable it made my lungs literally feel pink and spongy, we wandered, treading lightly as to avoid the numerous, enormous Hershey's Kisses of cow droppings.
 We four--Luca, me, Vale, Teo--on top of the world.
On the lake side, we stopped to take in the spectacle. A splendidness so exquisite, and on this sun-drenched morning even more so, it occurs only in the most magical places, where the land tumbles gracefully down from mountain peaks--at home among the clouds--into the uninterrupted blue of a sprawling lake. My heart leaped in tandem with my dropping jaw. I have never, in my remember-able life, seen such a backdrop. The air was so limpid, so cloudless, we could see to the far end of the lake (which is nearly 32 miles long), to the Pianura Padana in the south, and north to the Dolomites. We could see the entire shape of the lake--a strange, gourd-like outline I'd only ever seen on paper--laid out in three exceptional dimensions.
 The view from Monte Baldo. Unreal.
Up there, in the sweet breeze that cut the intensity of the sun's heat, amid the huge shoulders of mountains and glaciers, under a brilliantly blue, endless sky, in the company of vivid mountain flora and a herd of cows peacefully munching the grass and ringing the bells attached delicately under their chins, we sprawled out in bathing suits and ate our picnic lunch.
 Me, with one of our mountain companions.
Just after noon, when the clouds started to roll in and the temperature dropped significantly, we headed back to the funivia, stopping on the way in a malga (an Alpine hut) to sample fresh cheeses and milk collected just that morning from the cows we had seen. We disembarked at the halfway station in a town called San Michele, opting to hike the rest of the way down. The hour's walk was demanding, acutely vertical and unprotected from the baking heat of the sun. We stripped down to bathing suits and tried not to think about our aching calf muscles. We ate fresh plums left by the side of the road with a collection plate full of centesimi. And finally, eventually, when we could take no more of the descent, we arrived in Malcesine.
After a short stroll around the town, we returned to the car and drove south to an area just outside of Malcesine called Val di Sogno (Dream Valley), where we found an empty spot on a rocky beach to lay out our towels. After a quick dunk in the lake--the mountain water was freezing!--we soaked up some late-afternoon sun. By 6 we were on the way home, thoroughly exhausted, deeply bronzed from spending the morning so close to the sky.
 Val di Sogno, Dream Valley.
You know those days you're sure you'll never forget? Ferragosto 2004, for me, is a keeper.
Tomorrow Luca and I head back to the mountains, this time a little farther away, for a week in Madonna di Campiglio in the Trentino-Alto Adige region. My last taste of the sweetest summer of my life.
posted by giordana segneri on 4:49 PM
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Thursday, August 12, 2004
Two Sundays ago, Aug. 1, I asked Luca to drive us home from the lake much earlier than usual.
The traffic heading back into Verona from all points along the hilly, spectacular shore of Garda on Sunday evenings between about 6 and 8 is brutal; the typical high-speed movement along the autostrada that connects Affi and Verona grinds to a halt, and the state roads heading south are transformed into sparkling ribbons as the vicious late-day sun bounces off of plate glass windshields and assorted chrome accessories of kilometer-long lines of cars, inching forward ever so slowly. It is the least pleasant closure possible to an always superbly relaxing weekend spent slowly roasting at the edge of a tranquil swimming pool.
My dread of Sunday evenings is completely independent of the realization that within hours I must dive into a new work week and once again wake up to the shrill scream of my alarm. It is, instead, a direct result of my reluctance to sit, twitching anxiously in my seat, through well more than an hour of bumper-to-bumper misery.
But Aug. 1 we headed back to Verona right after lunch, avoiding the weekly stress of the traffic and allowing me to prepare for an evening out with my dad. Papa had procured us tickets for the last Verona performance of Eva Yerbabuena's classical and modern flamenco dance at Teatro Romano, an opportunity not to be missed--not because I am particularly fond of flamenco but because Papa and I are both enamored of this particular venue.
A Roman amphitheater built, during the first century of the Common Era, into the steep hill below Castel San Pietro, it's open only during the summer, when it hosts a splendid array of musicians, dance companies and the long-running annual Shakespeare Festival. Much more lowkey and, in my opinion, sophisticated than its much-trumpeted big sister l'Arena (another ancient Roman amphitheater--like a mini-Colosseum--to which thousands of opera fans flock from May to September), Teatro Romano, rising up from the banks of the Adige River, is one of the city's most extraordinary treasures.
Almost every summer since I launched, at 13, my yearly trips to visit my dad, he took me to Teatro Romano, where we sat shrouded in the damp, late-summer heat rising off the Adige waiting for the sky to grow dark enough for the show to begin. There, beneath a latticework of stars and fireflies, we watched the most interesting and alternative performances that Verona offered.
This year, just a little before 8 p.m., we climbed onto the motorcycle and scooted out of Borgo Milano toward the historic center. We stopped for gelato at our favorite gelateria, Pampanin, at the entrance of Ponte Garibaldi, one of Verona's many regal bridges. We carried our cones of two scoops plus a mountain of whipped cream across the bridge and licked furiously in the heat as we walked along the Adige and past San Giorgio with its graceful dome. Gelati finished, we re-boarded the motorcycle and drove the short distance to Ponte Pietra, where the road is closed on evenings of performances at Teatro Romano, to prevent traffic noise from ruining the particular ambiance of the outdoor theather. We meandered across the bridge and wandered around the neighborhood on the other side, which I'm convinced is the most compelling area of Verona--just strikingly, classically Italian beautiful--until Teatro Romano's gates opened.
I was so grabbed by the delicate gorgeousness of this particular zona, which I had never really explored before, that I asked Luca to accompany me there this past week for an aperitivo. Sipping our white, bubbly prosecco on Cappa Cafe's terrace, which overhangs the Adige, I soaked up the panorama. In the shadows of the nascent dusk, it was even more stupendous.
Here, I share my perspective of the area, through the lens of my camera...
Me, across the Adige from Teatro Romano and Castel San Pietro.
Teatro Romano, an ancient amphitheater built into the hill below San Pietro.
A view of Ponte Pietra, and the hills surrounding Verona, from the Adige's bank.
The homes radiating out from Ponte Pietra, along the Adige.
A small vicolo heading up into the hills near Teatro Romano.
San Giorgio at dusk.
posted by giordana segneri on 2:49 PM
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Friday, August 06, 2004
I swear the years never flew by this quickly when I was little. Then, years seemed like little, packaged eternities, nearly endless jaunts through sprawled-out seasons. Now the weeks seem to evaporate as quickly as they appear and I'm left with my head spinning from the realization that in five days I'll have been here 11 months. A year ago today I was beginning to pack up my material possessions in Chicago for what I considered the grandest experiment of my life--a great, gaping unknown existence in Italy. And here I am, surviving at the very least and otherwise quite enjoying myself, already 299 days into my sojourn. I wonder if this next year will skip by any more or less quickly...in any case, it will certainly be different from the first.
I finally found myself, or rather--giving credit where it's due, Luca found me a perfect little residence in Borgo Venezia, Verona's eastern-most, less-commercialized quarter, where cheap housing abounds. The downside to the economic-ness of the area is it attracts some of the city's less legal residents. Verona is home to a wide spectrum of what the Italians call extracommunitari from Africa, Asia and less industrial Eastern European nations like Albania, Romania, Slovenia, etc. Finding the least expensive rental options on the east side of the city, the immigrants moved in years ago and kind of made it their own. The area originally called Veronetta, bordering the city's beautiful historic center on the east, has become known as Negronetta. It certainly doesn't bother me; I've never--prior to moving here--not lived in the company of people of all races, but the Veronese have never been big on celebrating diversity. Quite frankly, my particular corner of Borgo Venezia is as creamy-complexioned as any of the other neighborhoods in Verona and it's conveniently right around the corner (two minutes by motorino, three by car) from Luca's place.
To me, it's the most beautiful little nook in the world. I think I might adore it more than I did my apartment in Chicago on the 15th floor of a high rise in Lake View East, where--living up to the neighborhood's moniker--I had a view of the lake (albeit a snippet) and, quite without trying, also of Wrigley Field. I have no lake view here and really no view of anything, but I love this latest apartment so intensely because finding it was so very painful. And while I am, admittedly, given to easily breaking down into racking sobs when frustrated, the tears shed over this most recent challenge were, if you ask me, quite valid. I looked through hundreds of listings, published once weekly on Tuesday here in Verona; called a billion snobby real estate agents who never failed to first ask me from what country I hail (this is a symptom of the Veronese antipathy toward the extracommunitari mentioned earlier and also of my accent); and visited some downright scary "furnished" apartments--one of which is the subject of my latest and, sadly, last KnotMag piece. [KnotMag closed its Web-publishing doors for good today, but that didn't prevent me from receiving one last piece of "fan" mail, which I reprint here as an example of completely unconstructive criticism:
"Buon giorno (or whatever time of day it is there). I just read your "Renting Religion" piece on Knot.mag, and I must note, as someone old enough (57) to be at least your father, that you sound like what we used to call an "ugly American," in your disdainful reaction to the rest of the world.
But the main reason I'm sending you this e-mail is that, if you're going to presume to be a writer, you really ought to know what "candor" means, and how to spell "portrait."
I guess I'm jealous that you're in Italy, a wonderful country, and I'm not.
Kirk Loggins (retired newspaper reporter)
Nashville, Tennessee"
Please, if you're going to correct someone's misuse of a word--and, by the way, I still have not been able to locate my misspelling of "portrait"--do not be snide about it, because it just makes you look mean and pathetic.]
My 2nd-floor apartment in Borgo Venezia.
In stark contrast to the apartment spotlighted in the KnotMag article, mine (as of Sept. 1, but I've already paid the two months' deposit, a hefty 900 euro) is chock full of stuff and, quite pleasingly, lacking an altar. It's obvious the owners, Chiara and Gaetano--a lovely young couple--have taken good care of it. It's the second floor of a two-story, salmon-colored palazzo on a large, peaceful courtyard off of the main street. But unlike most palazzi in Verona, this one has separate entrances for each of its two apartments. Mine is up the outdoor stairs and halfway down a long balcony (ideal for hanging freshly laundered clothes because, as is the norm in Italy, there is no electric dryer), and it leads directly into the big, bright kitchen. Here, there are a table and four chairs and seemingly endless cupboard space and what looks to me like an industrial-sized refrigerator, so big I don't know how I could ever fill it.
No one's in the kitchen with Luca.
To the left of the kitchen is the entrance to the bedroom/living room; here, the ceiling is exposed wooden beams and the floor is deep-maroon tile. One entire wall is occupied by the sofa-bed (this, as it turns out, is the apartment's singular flaw, since the mattress is thin and I have to fold up my bed to make "living room" space for visitors) and a huge, built-to-size closet/dresser complex that frames the bed. This room also hosts the air conditioning unit, the dark-chocolate truffle surprise in the middle of my bon-bon of an apartment.
To the left of the bedroom is the long, narrow bathroom with a little window that sets the room's clean whiteness shimmering. Here are the European bathroom staples: box shower big enough to turn around in and that's about it, but at least it's framed in glass; sink with vanity; washing machine; toilet and bidet. (For the not-in-the-know, that's the toilet/sink hybrid with which Italians are obsessed; it's generally used to clean one's "intimate" areas, unless you're me, and then it's used to wash your clothes by hand.)
But the apartment's most spectacular gem is in the rear of the kitchen, beyond the massive fridge. Here a flight of wooden steps, steep and ladder-like, lead up to an all-wood loft, framed by the exposed beams forming the peak of the roof. A small skylight allows natural light and fresh air into the space, which is as large as the entire bottom floor. But I'm still trying to figure out how to utilize this area since the roof is too low to allow any adult-sized person to stand up straight. But it's perfect for drying clothes in the winter, when they freeze outside! And Mamma is convinced she wants to sleep up there, on an eventually purchased air mattress, when she visits. Eventually I'll think of something very clever to do with it, but I like saying: "My apartment has a loft." It makes me feel very trendy.
The stairs leading up to my "trendy" loft.
In the meantime I've begun collecting some of the few necessary items with which the apartment doesn't already come equipped. Most of this is courtesy of my dad. As soon as he'd heard I'd signed for the apartment he began stacking stuff in my room: linens, towels, comforters (one for the spring and fall, one for the winter), cleaning rags, a washing machine cover (this is important, since its top is very useable bathroom counter space). I can't decide if this is because a. He's generally excited about being part of my new adventure, b. He sees it as a perfect opportunity to get rid of stuff that's cluttering his own apartment, and he can't stand clutter or c. He's really excited about getting me out of the house and is therefore facilitating my move in every way possible. Maybe it's a little bit of everything.
I've also begun searching for a mattress cover--the thing commonly known as an "egg crate" in America, a ubiquitous yellow, puffy piece of foam that offers some softness and support--for my very thin sofa-bed surface. This has proven to be much more difficult that I expected. There are no Bed, Bath & Beyonds in Verona--or in Italy, for that matter--and no other stores that even resemble it. So I've dragged Luca along on my search of many, many, many department stores, hardware stores, supermarkets, furniture stores, etc., in the greater Verona metropolitan area. I've also called mattress stores and ferramenta (these are like little hardware stores), practically begging them to sell me a gommapiuma (that's roughly the Italian equivalent of the "egg crate"). No luck. The closest I've gotten is an upholstery warehouse that sells sheets of this stuff to the public, but it's closed for the upcoming Italian holiday of Ferragosto. In fact, most everything in Italy is now closed for a solid two weeks with the religious excuse of August 15 being the Feast of the Assumption. I'll just have to wait, which drives me crazy.
Next Saturday, when a large percentage of Verona's population is at the sea or in the mountains pretending to celebrate the date on which Mary (Jesus's mother) was taken into heaven, I will storm the market at the stadium, right around the corner from home. I will capitalize on other people's vacations, snatching up exotic home furnishings, bartered off willingly at next to nothing, and any and all pieces of foam that I find. Shopping at the stadium is so much more fun, and effective, when supply and demand is in my favor. Buon viaggio, Veronesi!
posted by giordana segneri on 1:15 PM
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