A merry Christmas to everybody! Make up the fires, and buy another coal scuttle. –Scrooge.

Slow Internet connection, family commitments and laziness have been holding me back from blogging. But all is merry in ole England. I have a cold, but it’s that sort of mild, stuffy, head-feels-like-it’s-in-a-sauna sort of cold that doesn’t make you feel too ill but means that you eat lots of clementines and chocolates.

On Friday evening we attended the carol service at Kingston Seymour village church. It was a really nippy night, but pretty, as we walked through the misty churchyard into the candlelit church. We sat almost on the transept, so my dad could point out various elderly and obscure relations to me as they came in. We sang lots of old favourites, and they had usual comforting old scripture readings from Isaiah and the Gospels, as well as some John Betjeman. We had mince pies and tea at the village hall afterwards, courtesy of the Young Farmers Association.

It’s been cold and grey and foggy for days, but this morning was crisp and pale-gold. I decorated the tree, which we bought from a dark, curly-haired gypsy with scars on his face. At church, kids were wearing the traditional tea towels etc on their heads for nativity scenes-- little Mary kept losing her blue headdress. On they way home, Kylie was playing her favourite Christmas songs on the radio, the snail was on the thorn, and all was pretty much right in the world.

I think I shall go and have another mince pie.

Lena Gets Cutesy

I don't have time for a real post, but I feel the need to blog...

This one isn't so much cutesy as dashed funny. Takes me back to my school years (cue harp music and swimmy, soft focus image on screen)...

This I stole from someone else's blog. I think if the result had been different, they would have lost all credibility.



This is the piece de resistance of cuteness. May it herald a season of joy and exuberance for you. Jumpetty, jumpetty, jump-

Lena Who?

I was recently armtwisted into writing up one of those ‘get to know you’ things for our bureau at work. While I love these when my friends email them to me, I’m not so sure about sharing my favourite colour [blue. Shh!] etc with colleagues. It threatens a breach in my work/life divide [yes I know I have really good friends at work. I decide where the divide is, ok?].

Well, one of the questions on the survey was “what’s your most embarrassing moment that you’d be willing to share?” My original answer was along the lines of “I don’t embarrass easily.” I may have to change that after Saturday night.

My friend tricia and I hosted a bunch of people for some British food (she’s a Scot). It was fun, and it was wildly amusing to see people examining mundane food items like pineapple and cheese on sticks, sausage rolls, and Eccles cakes as if they were extremely exotic fare. Imagine someone looking at chips and salsa as if it was monkey brains a la mode. However, people were very brave, and seconds were eaten, including of the marmite and cheese pinwheels (once Trish had labelled it ‘savoury’ after a couple of people had had traumatic experiences mistaking them for chocolate pastries (my poor friend R. accidentally tried one raw).

But to the embarrassment. I was chatting with friends, and a guy came over and introduced himself to our group: “Hi, I’m Peregrine.” [I have decided that hereon, I shall use aliases for everyone. Let me know if you have a request. Marie, you’re going to be “Erlene.”]

I said to Peregrine, “you look really familiar.”
He said “I should, we dated.”
Me “ha ha!”
Him, “No, really, we went out like four times.”

It was so awkward. I had absolutely no memory of this. I tried asking him questions to jog my memory, and no luck. My friend Arthur started giving him the third degree to prove him as an imposter, but no luck.

I tried to change the subject, “so, where do you work…er, these days…?”
He started telling me, then broke off after a minute or two: “You still have that look on your face, like ‘who IS this guy?’”
[self immediately attempted to rearrange expression to more polite one.]

Arthur: “Do you really date that much?”
Me: “No!”
Arthur: “Seems like you might not remember if you did.”

Lena Makes Like an American and Gives Thanks

Ten Things For Which I Am Grateful (not in order):

Being able to see, speak, hear, etc. A healthy, functioning body.

Friends. Love the lovely friends.

Family. No-one puts up with one’s quirks (or calls you on them) quite like family.

My tan boots.

Central heating.

Long length jeans.

Books.

Faith, hope, and charity.

An interesting job that does not resemble The Office.

My passport.

Chocolate.

If People-Watching Was an Olympic Sport, We’d Be Gold Medallists

You know, you imagine Fashion Week as being all about the thin and glamourous. You imagine people wearing turtlenecks and fedoras, skinny girls preening for whoever might possibly be looking in their direction, over-dressed matrons with over-plumped lips, beautiful young men walking around with their moustachio’d henchmen by their side…and then you’re there, and you realise….it’s ALL TRUE.

I was visiting my friend B in Phoenix, and we headed straight for Mecca (the Scottsdale Mall). After a long day shopping, we sat at a sidewalk café (outside! In November!) and realised that it was Fashion Week in Phoenix, and they were setting up a catwalk right next to us. We stayed there for an unconscionable length of time, basking in the reflected glory of the older ladies gold jewelry. I could describe the outfits but you wouldn’t believe me.

So, B has two of the sweetest kids ever (her 4 year old son wins the Best Smile award, and daughter wins Best Hair hands down). They also have the brutal honesty of their kind – my two favourite quotes from the weekend:

(Playing baseball with T, with mum pitching)
T: Mom, you’re not a very good pitcher.
(Few minutes later, after I switch with her).
T: You’re not a very good pitcher either.
Me: Really – is your mum better than me?
T: Yes. (gives up on both of us losers and goes inside)

and

T: Lena, why are you talking different?
Me: Different from what?
T: You sound different – like you’re speaking Spanish or something.

I also got to catch up with my other Phoenix-based friend, Britt. We took the (surprisingly yummy) cactus tasting tour at the Desert Botanical Gardens, visited the butterflies, then went and sat by her pool (outside! In November!) and caught up on several months of conversation.

I’m surprised I had a voice left by the end of the weekend. One thing I love about old friends is that you can talk for absolutely hours about absolutely anything, switching from trivial to life and death stuff in the same minute. And how doing things like making pie with them can be so very entertaining. And how they have kind husbands who ferry me about the city and take care of the children so we can be giggly and irresponsible. And how they don’t slap you even when you’ve said “I can’t believe it’s November” for the fiftieth time in two days.






Got Cactus? They're surprisingly tasty.


I took more pictures of cacti than friends. That's pathetic.

A Monarch Butterfly

Cacti

Cacti.

Minn. Part Two

The most unique thing about Minneapolis (apart from it being Home of Pilsbury) is the skyways. I had totally underestimated their size and complexity. The wise Minneapolitans, realising that their state was clearly not fit for human habitation in the winter months, decided, instead of flying south to Phoenix for four months, to build streets within the streets and buildings. Go up a flight in the symphony hall, conference center, or large office building, and you find, not just above-ground passages between buildings, but whole indoor streets, complete with Subways and barbers and the like lining them. Their heating bills must be astonishing, but who knows? Maybe the goal is to contribute to global warming and thus obviate the need.

Hell’s Kitchen.

Who could have predicted that Nirvana would be disguised under the name of Hell’s Kitchen? This place was SOOO good. My dear friends B and C took me there on Wednesday, and I went back Thursday and Friday. I had the most amazing lemon-ricotta hotcakes, wild rice porridge, marscapone bruschetta.

After brekkers we got to go and listen to B playing with the symphony- fortuitiously, there was a children’s concert that morning, so I got to go and listen before the meetings. A great international selection of music, complete with Hungarian folk dancers.

We also visited the modern art museum – some great pieces (my favourite being a pair of plastic spheres, one silver, one gold), and the usual random mix of video installations that either depressed or bemused me. I’ve yet to see a video installation that wasn’t completely angst-ridden, unless the one with the man running through the desert alone telling jokes to the nothingness counts, and I don’t think it does.

We followed that up with a delicious dinner at the tres chic Wolfgang Puck place within the museum (restaurants in museums are genius, I’m always starving and sore-footed at the end of them).

The city is very shiny and just-washed looking (in contrast with dusty SL). There’s a long walking street called the Nicollet Mall, lined with shops that we were glad for our bank accounts’ sakes that we hadn’t discovered before the last day. We saw the Mississippi (I have no idea if I’m spelling that right, I wasn’t taught the song at school), and thought about seeing the bridge that collapsed, but were a bit walked out.

And we didn’t see the Mall of America. Sort of as a statement. Sort of.

Oh, and the conference was quite good, too.

See! This IS a travel blog.

Minneapolis part one.

Minneapolis has never been in my top ten must-see destinations. I’ve never longed to wander the streets of its famous…mall? I’ve never thought, “that would be a nice place for a honeymoon.” I’ve never looked out the window in October and thought wistfully, “I bet Minnesota is lovely and chilly at this time of year. “ All I knew about Minneapolis is that it is somewhere north of Siberia, and I sort of got deported from there once.

So when we set off for a conference, sarcastic remarks abounded.

As I got in the car to the airport:

“We’re going to Disneyland! Oh wait.”

As we alighted from the plane.

“I’ve ALWAYS wanted to go to Minneapolis.”
“Yeah, I remember you talking about it…that one time.”

And then, at the hotel…

When you’re attending an anti-tobacco conference, guess what might be an important requirement for your hotel room. Go on, take a guess. I’ll give you a hint. You can SMOKE tobacco.

That’s right, we like our hotel rooms to be nonsmoking. That’s putting it mildly. Telling us that you’re giving us a smoking room is like a red rag to a bull. It’s like telling a kosher Jew that he’ll be sleeping in the pigsty tonight, hope that’s all right sir. It is most certainly not all right.

Evil hotel clerk insisted that our travel agent had requested it. Nice hotel clerk whispered behind his hand that that was not quite true – apparently Best Western does this all the time. Anyway, Nice Hotel Clerk ended up putting my co-worker R and I in a smoke free suite, which worked out quite nicely.

And look! Sunshine! See, Minneapolis isn’t all bad.






And Minneapolitans (excepting Evil Hotel Clerk) are lovely.

F’rinstance.
We arranged to meet the rest of our group at a sushi restaurant after we picked up our registration materials. We walked and walked and walked like determined pioneers, and came to where I thought we must be within a block of the restaurant for which we sought. (Origami).

We found instead another restaurant, where a nice man told us that ours was back in the direction we’d come from.

We had the barman call us a cab. And waited and waited like very patient pioneers.
The barman called again, and we chatted to Nice Man about the history of Minneapolis, e.g. the Guthrie next door, The Mills (next the other door), (did you know that Minn. is the home of Pilsbury?), and the warehouse district. (where they kept the flour etc that they milled, and where our restaurant was).

Then the hostess (we were getting to know several people in the bar by this time) called us – she’d been looking out for the cab while having a cig. But yet another cab sailed by, like a Cardine bus.

Then Nice Man came out again. “There’s my Volvo. I can take you there, be about 5 minutes out of my way, and come back and eat my dessert.
After a couple of '“no” “I insist"s', we hopped in and he delivered us to our restaurant, where our friends were starting to get worried and send us concerned texts.

And the sushi was soooo good. A couple of our party hadn’t tried sashimi before, and it was fun to introduce them to its fresh beauty.

Calling All Word Nerds

There's a site: http://www.freerice.com/index.php run by the UN, or through the UN, or something to do with the UN. Anyway, you play a multiple choice word game, and for every word you get right, 10 grains of rice are donated to the UN's food program.

I got up to level 50. Game on?

Aww

There’s some movie in which the hero makes fun of chicks that tell boring stories about the cute thing their niece or nephew did last night. Well, SEE if I CARE, movie hero! You’re neither the boss of me, or George Clooney.

My cute six-year-old niece H. brought me a note/picture. Now, here’s some writing skilz:

I love you. p.s. I love you. I am very happy, love H___. I love you.

I think she makes her point well, no? She also drew pictures of us both together, wearing matching outfits. I’m not sure if that means she is going to start wearing heeled boots and lipstick, or if I get to wear t-shirts with candy-coloured flowers and the odd cartoon character on them.

We played Trouble twice and I beat her both times. I’m pretty sure it’s not ethical to beat a six-year-old at a board game twice in a row, but she took it very well. To be honest, I was too lazy to work out ways to lose. I’m not sure I deserve favourite aunt status.

One of the reasons I headed down there was to deliver my nephew’s b’day pressie, and I am pleased to say it was quite a hit. Have you heard of ‘The Dangerous Book for Boys’? It’s an old-fashioned, Boys Own-type big book of all things that boys (and girls) should know – knot tying, lists of things like the seven wonders of the ancient world, ‘Girls’ and how to talk to them, Morse Code, and things to keep in your pockets (string, pen-knife, etc). It’s wittily written, and bits were read aloud for everyone’s amusement as it got passed around during the evening.

The book is apparently flying off the shelves, and I’m wondering what that says about our society. I rather like that it’s teaching boys to be boys, and the kind of boys that will grow up to be Men. Is it me, or is there a lack of Men? Are others feeling this? I suspect our tech-savvy male peers feel something is lacking in their lives if they’re not also expert in something manly (like knowing how the internal combustion engine works, or whittlin’) that they can teach their sons. Not sure where the pressure originates (women? their fathers? Innate need?). The book made me nostalgic for the days of Richmal Compton’s Just William. Maybe that’s all it is– the pull of nostalgia.

Party Girl

In which Lena’s immune system fights back by putting her in a coma.

This has been one of those weeks that, on paper, sounds quite glamourous, which gives one a sneaking suspicion that the lives of the rich and famous aren’t as glamourous as they sound, either. Which is, let’s face it, what they have been trying to tell us all along. Like JLo in her tragic anthem, Jenny from the Block. Do you believe them now? Me neither.

So, Week O’ Glamour began with a party in a very hip condo with very hip people, as my fabulous friend Crystal (who runs a hip restaurant) prepared to hiply move to Hawaii. I was somehow unprepared for the level of hipness with which I met, as I’d thrown on a pair of old jeans and I think whatever top I’d worn to church. Nevertheless, I talked with very delightful and interesting people, and enjoyed the sushi.

Monday and Tuesday was an ad shoot. Monday’s was in the glamourous setting of a bar. Horrifyingly, someone dropped the camera, or the camera overbalanced…anyway, somehow the camera ended up on the floor with a big crash. Fixable damage, but it lessened the glamour while increasing the drama for a few minutes.

Wednesday was TKD testing night. Not glamourous, definitely not. But cool! Men smashing through blocks of wood with terrifying yells. Of this I shall write more later.

Thursday was climbing night. Of this I have written.

Friday was an art show. Back to the glamour! M. and I visited our talented (and glamourous!) friend R, who had some wonderful paintings and encaustics (she had to remind me of the word) on display. And I also developed a temporary crush on another artist whose photographs and paintings we loved.

Saturday I was nursing an incipient cold, and dipping dried fruits in chocolate for that evening, while IT SNOWED (in SEPTEMBER!) outside. The RS broadcast was great, followed by a chocolate buffet. M. said something about finding a space where we could enjoy our guilty feast.
“Guilt? I feel no guilt,” I said.
“How did you become so liberated?
“Many years of practice.”

Then another party, which was not necessarily glamourous, partially because it was in the home of some straight men (I deduce their sexuality by the decorations on their walls, which were non-existent, and by the size of their TV, which was considerable), but which was entertaining. We played with a Wii, and danced, and drank (water) until…well, not the wee hours. More like 11 PM actually. But I was tired, and M. and I had done our party duty, and I went home, to go to bed around 1 and wake up the next day at, disorientingly, noon.

I told B. I’d slept for eleven hours. She said, “that’s not something you tell a mother of two.”

She made fun of me for apparently being the kind of person who goes to parties every night and sleeps until noon. Am I that person? I think the sleeping’s got more to do with the cold. The partying? You know, I’m just a girl like everyone else. I like to just hang out, y’know, with my friends, just chill. I totally went out without lipstick the other day*. I’m like, so low maintenance. Everyone who knows me can’t believe just how normal and down-to-earth I am…just like all you ordinary people…

*Lie. You know I’d never leave the house without lipstick.

Lena Travels Up a Cliff

You know how you start getting into something, like running, or morris dancing, or something, and you start seeing it as being this incredible metaphor for life? You know, you start relating EVERYTHING to running. To the point of being kinda irritating. Sometimes beyond that point. And you can FEEL yourself doing it – you hear yourself saying “scripture study is like running – you always know you’ll feel better after you do it, but sometimes you just eat another brownie instead,” for about the fiftieth time, and you can feel your friends being patient with you, and yet you keep going?

I have a new hobby. And I think it could be a fabulous source of metaphors.

I went climbing again the other night. I’ve only been twice outside, so it’s a little early to be over-metaphoring yet, but I shan’t let that stop me. One of our co-workers took us. Even though she’s several years younger than me, I pretty much want to be her when I grow up. She can do everything.

So, climbing is a great way to enjoy the mountains, and a lot of fun, and not even as scary as I’d imagined, but there was this one patch that almost beat me. It was maddening. I was about two-thirds of the way up, and to my unpracticed self, this bit of rock seemed as smooth as a parking lot. My feet kept slipping out of every tiny foothold I found, I kept ending up dangling at the end of the rope being grateful for my belayer, and I broke a nail. That’s when I seriously considered giving up. My legs were wobbly, my arms were crampy, and I was getting tired.

But I knew that it was clime-able. I knew that A. wouldn’t have sent me up the cliff if she hadn’t been pretty sure that I could do it. I knew that I was physically strong enough, and I knew that the equipment was there to help me if I took a little risk.

In the end I made it past the smooth bit, and after that it was beautiful. There was a lovely crack in which I took a breather, and then a nice foothold-rich climb to the top, followed by a leisurely rappel down.

Do you see where I’m going with this?

I was talking to another friend at the end of the evening, and we agreed that it’s like life. You get the slippery patches—sometimes longer than others—but there’s always a way through them, and usually a rewarding view or breathing space soon after. And you have faith, and people, and tools to get you through.

Of course, knowing this isn’t going to make my nail grow back any faster.

Don’t need to say please to no man for a happy tune

I was late for TKD today. I took too long to change, and by the time I got over there, everyone had bowed in, which meant I’d have to wait for a break to join, and wouldn’t be able to warm up, etc. Not in the mood for hanging around the stuffy do jong doing nothing, and it was a glorious day anyway, so I went to the park and ran. First time I’d run three miles in quite some time (goal 52 in my 101 list is now checked off), and it felt good. It was that rare running day when, instead of just wanting it to be over, and trying to distract myself from the run, my legs felt powerful, and I could enjoy the lake and ducks and beautiful weather as I pounded the track. I had some fun random music on the mp3 player – Cracklin Rosie was hitting my rhythm today. It was on the edge of being a stormy evening, and the air had that great, clean, just-washed feeling; the sun kept breaking through the clouds, and there were a few intermittent showers to cool me down. The spring-fed water fountains seemed to be in spate, so I got a little shower there too, and then stretched in front of the lake. I never regret exercising, but it’s especially gratifying when I enjoy the process.

September

On Saturday, M. and I went to the tomato festival and Avenues street fest.

A perfectly ripe tomato is almost a perfect pleasure. We had tomato sandwiches with salt and pepper and pesto and crusty local bread, and I dripped tomato seeds on myself. We tasted tomatoes with names like zebra and black cherry and sunshine, and discovered we had favourites. We listened to the mellow band music, and sat on benches and enjoyed the weather and view of old houses around us.

M said it felt like we were in some city like Portland. I agreed, but I also love that we were right here in SLC. Someone once told Germaine Greer that she didn’t look 40. She responded “this is what 40 looks like”. I think sometimes my favourite SL moments are the ones where I might be inclined to say, “this doesn’t feel like SL”. But this is what SL is like.

SL is also the Avenues Street Fair. Jewelry and crafts, and art. Some fun pieces; eyepopping abstract acrylics, sandstone and metal trays, fabulous glasswork with broken pieces of glass fused and melted together. M. wanted to go home and make everything herself, and probably could. I wanted to shop. I bought a pretty, pearly, shiny choker from a jewellery maker from Hong Kong. We both had chocolate-dipped frozen bananas (M. and I, not the jewellery maker. As far as I know). The mayoral candidates were there, presumably looking for babies to kiss. People with causes wanted us to adopt greyhounds or save water or use huge solar power panels. M intimated that I could fit a solar panel on my balcony. “How often do you use your balcony, anyway?”
“I’m not putting one up there. You can’t make me.”

This is a wonderful time of year in SL.

Conclusion?

It’s tempting to try to wrap these last three months up in a nice neat “this is what I learned from my travels” post, but that would be silly. This has been a trip of a lifetime, but it’s not the first journey I’ve taken, and it won’t be the last. Also, just as you can’t decide what you’re going to learn from an experience like this beforehand, I’m not entirely sure that you can immediately know all that you’ve learned at the end of it. Plus, if anyone wanted words of wisdom about travel, I trust that they would not be looking for them in my blog.

But here are some insights from others, and some non-insightful summaries from me.

Thoughts from my fellow travellers:
“When you’re on your own, it makes you stronger – you have to deal with things by yourself, and you do deal with them by yourself. That’s a confidence builder; you know you’re a strong woman.” – N., Australian.
“You learn how you work with different people, and how you when you put yourself in different situations” – J., Finn
“$&%!” –N., Mexican
“Body language is very helpful.” – M., Greek
“Two people can see the same thing and have a completely different experience of it.” F., Brazilian (comparing her own reaction with the giggly girl next to her at the David)
“It’s warm enough here.” Un-named British Intelligence Officer (OK, not the BEST quote, but the source sounds so James Bond).
“I like to meet new people, learn about how they live.” – M., Italian
“Whatever it was I was looking for, I’ve found it” – T, Canadian
“You learn about different cultures. People are basically the same everywhere – they care about their families, having a good life. But you meet someone from Mexico – from then on you have an image of Mexico – it’s no longer faceless.” – J., Briton

Lists.
In this feast for the senses, here are some of the dishes:

What I saw.
Already wrote about it. I can’t put “top sights”, there were too many great moments and places.

What I read (and enjoyed):
Left To Tell Imaculee Ilibagiza (from TC)
The Silent Duchess (from Britt)
A Cadfael murder mystery (was in the convent, appropriately enough)
A House in Sicily (borrowed from Janean)
An American Journey, by Alistair Cooke (to be completed – left it in England for my next visit and my Dad’s perusal)
Several Daily Telegraphs
Michelangelo – a biography by Bruno Nardini
Lisa St. Aubin de Teran’s book about Italy (currently in my delayed luggage, can’t remember title)
The freebie Italian newspaper
The Half Blood Prince (JK Rowling)
A Small Place in Italy (Eric Newby, another lend from Janean)
King Leopold’s Ghost, Hochschild
Jesus the Christ, Talmage
“Learn Italian” book – but not nearly enough of it…
Emails and blogs of friends (and a page of birthday wishes from my co-workers that made me smile)

What I listened to:
Reggae in the convent
Mario Biondi – Handful of Soul (first when MarieAngela was playing it while cooking in the convent)
Grace Kelly, by Mika (on the bus, on the daily quiz show in the convent, in shops, in the bar in a hostel in Rome)
Church bells – sometimes the only sound in the morning in Florence.
Italian opera, natch.

What I smelled:
Urine in stations, especially on wet days – bleh. And really hot days. So pretty much always at the station
Wisteria, roses, lavender
Body odour
Lemon trees (very pretty. And the lemon flower is sweet…)
Good food cooking– garlic, onions, cakes, pasta, fish and chips, bakeries in the morning
Cigarette smoke

What I did and didn’t touch:
Didn’t (notable because it was HARD – I love nice fabrics and textures)
The costumes in the costume museum at the Pitti
The mosaic tables in the Pitti
The silk-covered walls at Tyntesfield
Did:
Unusual fruits and veg at the market in Vienna
Weeds
The candle/torch hole up a few feet in the rock face at the Bacchanalian temple
Nettles
The cats and kittens at the cat show
Marble
The Mediterranean

What I spoke:
English, German, French, Italian, Spanish! How impressive that would be if any of it was in complete sentences other than English. But my Italian did get better, at least.

What I ate:
I think we all know the answer to that is “way too much.”

And my top travel advice: If you’re going to do as many stupid things and get lost as often as I, make sure you always have cash, something to read, an umbrella, remember your yoga breathing, and try to see it as An Adventure.

And, I didn’t plan to begin and end with this, but here’s Billy Joel again. See what he says to you.

Vienna

Slow down, you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart, tell me
Why are you still so afraid?
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You'd better cool it off before you burn it out
You've got so much to do and
Only so many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told..
That you can get what you want or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even
Get halfway through
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

Slow down, you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight
Tonight,...
Too bad but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself that you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong, you know
You can't always see when you're right. you're right

You've got your passion, you've got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

Slow down, you crazy child
And take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while
It's all right, you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize,..Vienna waits for you?
And you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
Why don't you realize... Vienna waits for you
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?

This is totally harshing my Italy vibe.

I know airline stories are like bad childbirth stories (spare us the gory details!), but I’m writing this anyway. (you know, catharsis).

After getting up at 3:30 AM to catch my flight from Milan, I got to the airport to find they’d re-booked all of my flights – this meant that I didn’t have a lot of time to spare at Heathrow. I arrived with less than the minimum amount of time recommended between terminals, and sprinted to security. The guy there took a look at my boarding card and signalled to the people in the Fast Track line to take care of me, saying, “you have ONE HOUR.” I ran off, stripping myself of belts and shoes as I went, with the theme to Mission Impossible swelling in the background.

I made that connection, but my luggage didn’t. Due to filing my lost luggage report, I missed my connection to SL – they rebooked me on the next flight, I boarded, and then…

Flight Attendant: Was that lighting?

(Interesting FAA Fact: At an airport, if traffic control sees lighting, nobody gets to move for five minutes. Ground crews go inside, everything stops.)

We were on the tarmac for six hours.

That actually wasn’t so bad. The flight attendants were great, and the plane developed something of a cocktail party atmosphere (though I don’t usually sleep through 50 % of cocktail parties).

They led us back through the airport, and we found ourselves outside security. This was a mistake. If you ever get stuck in an airport due to a weather cancellation, avoid leaving the gate area. They have carpet there. And for non-airline-caused cancellations, they won’t put you up in a hotel.

A nice Korean guy and I found a space on the second floor by the chapel, and I slept with my pack towel under me, and my pashmina over me.

The next day went something like this: Stand in line. Get standby tickets. Fail to clear standby. Be told by arm-folded desk agent that he/she can’t help us and he/she is off duty anyway. Repeat.

I did weasel my way into the Crown lounge and got biscuits, drinks, and a nap in a comfy chair.

One of the other girls and I were bonding over our hardships.
Girl: I don’t want to spend another night on the floor with one of their little pillows!
Pause.
Me: You had a pillow?
Girl: It was a really small one!

Then, magically, standby worked. My Korean friend and I were the last people on the plane, and were ridiculously excited to be there. I watched the weather, practiced my yoga breathing until we actually were in the air, and seriously considered biting my nails.

I have never been so happy to see those big salt flats and touch down in Utah.

How did my life go so quickly from “idyllic” to “I want my mummy!” on the Suckometer? But to be honest, it was a small price to pay for three months of easy living, and I didn’t have any of the horror stories of some of the other passengers (missed wedding, lost job, split up from kids).

The flight was a stunning journey – I had window seats, and so saw the snowy alps and blue lakes by Milan, then a picture postcard view over the Thames, where I got to count the famous edifices- Tower Bridge, Millennium dome, Big Ben, Westminster Abbey, Buck House. Then New York,and the wild west.

Now, if they could just find my luggage…

Hot in the City: Milan

Milan was hot. Not sure that I have much else to say. Really hot. Exhaustingly, drainingly, stickily, why am I bothering to lift my lukewarm water bottle to my lips, it’s just a waste of valuable energy as I’m going to die of heatstroke anyway, and I might as well use my last vestiges of strength to drag myself to that gelateria in the distance so I can die happy, although it’s probably a mirage come to think of it hot.

OK, so there were one or two interesting sights. Apparently I’m still having issues with believing guidebooks, or at least internalising what I read in them, because the guidebook told me that Milan’s duomo was the fourth largest cathedral in the world, and my reaction when I saw it was still “wow, that’s absolutely enormous!!!” And beautiful, and quite different from all the Tuscan ones I’ve got used to lately.








There was a rather creepy crypt downstairs, where I couldn’t help imagining nasty Inquisitional-type things happening (not based on historical fact), and an installation that consisted of a big black square overlaying most of the screen of a segment of Zeffirelli’s film about the Passion.

And then I went to the Brera Pinoteca, where they had everything from 4000 year-old figures to Braque. Standouts were Piero della Francesca’s Pala Montefeltro, Raphael’s Spozalizio della vergine, and Hayez’s Kiss. There are some paintings that seem to light up the room when you enter, and those were the ones for me today. The fact that I could still care about paintings when I was on the brink of death from dehydration says a lot about Piero and his colleagues.

Here’s the park. Doesn’t it look nice and green and cool? It’s not.










Here’s me ready to go home now. Utah’s probably lovely and cool right now, isn’t it?







I might manage one or two more posts before I wrap this up, but if not, thanks for reading - I can't tell you how nice it's been to get your blog comments and emails!

Una Bella Notte

As I was leaving in a day or two, Firenze decided to hold a fireworks display in honour of me, which I thought was rather sweet. It happened to be St. John the Baptist’s day, too. We went down to the Ponte Vecchio, listened to the singer there and watched the sunset. We walked a little way along the river as the fireworks began. There were people EVERYWHERE, lining the streets on both sides of the Arno, and spilling out of the Uffizi area. The fireworks were lit from the Piazza Michelangelo, and were stunning, going on forever, with a big gold, red, white and green finale.









Evening on the Ponte Vecchio. My camera was in the wrong mode, so my fireworks pics are rubbish.

Lucca

Silk working and the many merchants with their great abilities brought great richness and the town was interested by a lots of transformations. But wealth and richness oft mean envy and rivalry between the families; Lucca, Guelph, was in contrast with the Ghibelline Pisa.

That’s not me, that’s the Citta of Lucca tourist brochure. I do love dodgy Italian-English translations. Plus I thought it might be nice to get one or two real live facts on my blog before I wrap it up, in case you’re tired of me being all “omigosh you guys this is like totally awesome.”

I didn’t have incredibly high expectations of Lucca. I’d heard of its famous walls, but couldn’t somehow bring myself to a state of frenzied anticipation over some walls. Besides, I’d seen the Etruscan walls at Fiesole – what more could bricks and mortar hold for me?

Well, it turns out that “walls” was a pale shadow of a description. What we have in Lucca, I would describe as ramparts, and massive ones at that. There are grassy picnic areas and a wide path on top, and they give you a great view down onto the town’s buildings and into the walled gardens. I rented a bike for an hour and cycled around there, ringing my bell at the tourists, and on such a hot day it was great to have a little breeze in my hair.

(It’s been a couple of years since I’ve been on a bike, but apparently it’s just one of those things you don’t forget how to do. It’s like…it’s like…gosh, I just can’t think of a good analogy here.)

Then I explored the town all afternoon. It’s a great city to walk around— amazingly unspoiled, laid-back atmosphere, friendly people. I visited a few of the churches and museums, then flaked out in the sun on the ramparts for a while.




The Walls







parts of "portrait of a lady' were filmed here.








really pretty church. Santa something.







the duomo







The roman amphitheatre

Really, Mind-numbingly Stupid Things I Did That I Was Too Embarrassed to Write About Before Now (Incomplete).

And you thought the train to Fiesole was a low point. As I start preparing to go home, I thought I’d share this little summary. This list is clearly marked INCOMPLETE, hopefully ensuring that the Gods of Karma and Superstition don’t think I am suffering from hubris and make me do something even stupider in the next few days.

Don’t judge me.

Booking my overnight train to Rome for the WRONG day and not realising until the conductor told me, and then being freaked out for the whole journey, as every time a new conductor came round I expected them to drag me off the train and either leave me on a platform in the middle of Austria/Italy in the middle of the night to be murdered by mountain bandits, or put me in jail for train fraud and then have me SHOT by firing squad in the morning. What? It was night – so maybe my imagination gets a little overactive at night. Leave me alone.

Leaving my computer cord in P’s car in Vienna, before taking the train to Rome. Thank you, Royal Mail. The Italian postal service refused to take it to the convent, thus beginning my rocky relationship with them.

Taking the train to Fiumicino airport in Rome. Well, part of the way there. This was unwise, as my plane was leaving from Ciampino. Fortunately something said “maybe you should check your ticket,” and I hopped off quick smart at the next station.

Leaving my camera at the hostel in Rome. Bless the honest innkeeper and his safe for keeping it secure for me. And bless the voice in my head for making me check my bag just before I got on the train. The right train, for once.

Yes, I know I shouldn’t be let out on my own. I now check my plane ticket home about six times a day. I do notice that all these things seem to be connected to Rome, so let’s hope that that is the Bermuda triangle of my brain. But NOT hope in a HUBRISTIC, ASKING FOR TROUBLE kind of way.

Summer Days

Theatre in the Street
Italians apparently have a real thing for Charlie Chaplin (did everyone in the world know this but me?). There was a Charlie Chaplin exhibit in Bologna, there are books on him all over the place, and there was a Chaplin impersonator/performer on the street near my apt the other night. He started setting up, and within minutes a big crowd had assembled to watch him swing his cane and make balloon animals.

Music in the Square
A piano was placed in the Piazza della Signoria today, and handsome men took turns playing it, rather brilliantly. I stood and listened for some time, and then heard a burst of clapping from behind me – a bride had just tossed her bouquet and a middle-aged woman caught it. You see quite a few wedding parties in the piazza – it’s apparently Florence’s equivalent of temple square, and is a beautiful place for a wedding – and you automatically have about a thousand people there who are happy to celebrate with you.



Don't you think the man on the right looks astonishingly like the nervous guy in Ocean's 11?




















Singing in the Hills
In the evening, I went to a concert given by an American girl I met at church. When I first beheld her I thought she might be a bit touched, but it turns out she’s just rather brilliant, and once I disabused her of the idea that I was a BYU undergrad we got along famously. She’s a graduate voice student at a prestigious school, and has sung for all sorts of prestigious people. She’s got a wonderful, wall-shaking voice, is a knockout performer, beautiful, and has the energy and likeability of an excited six-year-old (not the kind that kicks your airplane seat and pulls your hair –feel free to be a hater of that breed). She’s also got one of those quirky names that usually only daughters of Hollywood actresses have, so I really hope she’ll be a big star and we can all enjoy seeing it in print.

The concert was held up the hill behind the Bardini gardens, in Barbie’s Tuscan Dream-villa, complete with beautiful gardens and panoramic view. The concert was held in the frescoed library, and was a rather fun program of Italian and American music (mostly opera). After everyone had clapped and kissed, we sipped drinks out on the patio in the late solstice sunshine.

And for variety’s sake, around 11 PM there was a brass band playing the theme to the Flintstones under my window.

Festa

Tonight I was in my apartment, working diligently, when I became aware of a noise outside my window. I didn’t pay much attention at first, assuming it was the street washers (they have little trucks that wash the streets every so often, which is a GOOD THING given the amount of dog poop around. I should introduce the pooper scooper amd make zillions), or possibly the Hare Krishnas (they like to chant a LOT), but then I realised it was a more regular noise – thump thump THUMP…thump thump THUMP…and when I looked out my window, there was a long line of men wearing renaissance costume, banging drums, and twirling flags, making their way to the Ponte Vecchio. I have NO idea why, but it was very colourful and Florentine.




(Check out the guy in the orange trews. In a very stylish country, orange and mustard-coloured trousers with everything are a rather questionable trend.








Life imitating art.

It’s fun being able to see Italian art and people at the same time. You can see the same faces on the street that are in the 600 year-old paintings. Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose.

Oh, that?

The other day I walked round the corner and wondered why everyone was looking up and taking pictures – was something happening? – and then realised that it was the Palazzo Vecchio drawing their attention. When did I become blasé about the palazzo Vecchio? It’s not that I don’t still notice how beautiful it is, it’s just not a novelty any more.

I love daily life here – and I love that it’s become familiar to me. I don’t need a map to find my way to the supermarket. I have my favourite places to read, favourite street bands, and I notice when my favourite shop window displays change.

Only one more week of this…



My own pic of the Palazzo Vecchio, taken when I was a young tourist two months ago.

A Beautiful Pome.

I got up earlyish (not dawn),
On Friday morn and took a train,
To CastiGLIoncello beach,
(My last week’s try had been in vain
For though I planned to sea to go
The weather played me false and so
With my vacation time a-wastin’
I spent the morning in the station)

I’m pleased to say the town was sweet,
It’s really quite a charming place
Few tourists, quiet, off the beat,
Quite far from where the rats all race
Trees line the coast beyond the beach,
It’s clean and sunny, there I swum,
And shade is still within one’s reach
(Sun got a little warm for one)

The sea was blue, the sand-–not gold
But brownish coloured, truth be told
Yet warm and smooth and good for naps
Though now I find it in my daps*
And in true time-respected fashion
It ended up inside my rations.

While on the train, as reading palled,
My writing plans began to foment
And so, with small regard for style (or scansion),
I share these special Tuscan moments.

I understand that you may think,
That on my hands I’ve too much time.
For as you see, for just today,
This work, my blog, I’ve made it rhyme.

(* trainers)

She’s writing about food again.

The chief reason I spend so much time writing about my gastronomic adventures is that I want everyone to understand when I arrive back in Utah weighing 50 extra pounds. I should perhaps mention here that the correct reaction will be based on Tom in BJD, viz “Bridget! You’re looking thin.” (Is it bad that I use BJD in the same “everyone surely knows what that means” way as, say, “KJV”?).

Some very special foodie experiences:

Hemingways: It’s a chocolatier’s – big pictures of Hemingway on the walls (not sure what the connection is), and books about chocolate in cabinets (which is actually kind of annoying – I want to be able to READ the books about chocolate. Possibly lick the pictures. I had some beautiful little cioccolata torta thing with chocolate in many forms–white, dark, mousse, ganache, praline. The kind where you savour every mouthful and slow down when you approach the end because you can’t bear to see it disappear forever.

Vestri – also a chocolatiers, the kind with foodie magazine articles about itself posted on the walls– I had the cioccolata freddo. You’d think it would be like chocolate milk (like when TLC ordered an iced steamer and the waitress rather snottily said “so you want a glass of milk?”), but it’s not. It’s richer and more chocolatey, and mmm….

Vivoli: Some say the best gelato in Florence. I can’t say I’ve tried EVERY other place to compare, but it was definitely way up there. I had mine on a warm day after visiting Santa Croce. Cioccolata ricci (are we spotting the theme?), pere caramellata, and fragola. I ate it leaning on a stone pillar looking at the basilica, enjoying the sunshine, and giving directions to the Accademia to an American lady and her daughter. I really hope they made it there – they didn’t have a map and kept calling the Duomo the “Dromer” so I’m a little worried for them.

Caffe Loggia dell’Albizi: It suddenly started raining heavily on the way home from the supermarket, so I ducked into this caffe that I’ve wanted to visit for a while. I ordered a cioccolata, and a chocolate croissant. The hot chocolate is that gorgeous thick kind, and comes unsweetened, so you get to dissolve your little packets of sugar in it and taste the flavour coming alive as you do. The croissant was even better than expected. The chocolate was melted on the inside, so I ended up getting it messily and deliciously over my fingers, and got to lick them off because I’m in Florence and it's not like my mum’s watching.

The Friendliest People in the World

You thought I was talking about Italians, didn’t you? Ma no, mi amici, it’s Indians. I was told as much yesterday by one, and I have no evidence to the contrary. He’s super friendly and sweet, if slightly overwhelming. I met him on the way to the supermarket; he came grocery shopping with me (“I am Christian – you are ok with me”), and tried to buy my groceries for me – we compromised on him buying me a drink.

“you have very beautiful figure…I have apartment in San Marco. I am not married – no girlfriend. Do you have boyfriend?”

WHEN am I going to learn to lie?

“Um, no.”

“Good! You have no boyfriend, I have no girlfriend, I like English people, we are good for each other.”

“But… I am several years older than you. I am OLD.”

“We are in Italy – only hearts matter. I have good heart. You have good heart. I am taller than you. “

Can’t argue with that.

He likes to cook Indian food (doesn’t like Italian pasta), speaks Hindi, English, and Italian, goes to the gym regularly, “I am strong!” (shows me his bicep). And likes cricket (shows me his cricket ball scar). And David Beckham.

“You are Christian, I am Christian – I think we are good for each other. You are first England girl I talk with.”

“Really?”

Very seriously: “I swear on my mother.”

Oh, the “really” was more, er, rhetorical, actually. No need for that.

“Do you like beer? I can get you beer. I have scooter. We meet and go to discotheque. I pay – I have money. We walk hand in hand in the streets.”

As Dave Barry might say, I am not making this up. But I do quite fancy a curry.

This is why you’re not getting postcards. (Bit of a lengthy post, sorry)

It occurs to me that there’s been a bit too much sweetness and light in here lately, so I thought I’d remedy that before it all gets rather Stepford Wives-y.

I should mention that this episode was entirely in Italian, which on one hand I’m quite proud of, but on the other hand is very dispiriting, because clearly I was missing some vital element of what was going on, and I don’t know what that was.

I went to the post office for an envelope and stamps, and started at the window of the grumpy old man I bought stamps from the other day (stamps are francobolli, which I think is a delicious word). He wasn’t grumpy just with me, I saw him being snippy with some perfectly sweet American girls.

I asked him if I could pay him for my envelope, and he said no, and pointed at the opposite counter.

“and the stamps?”

“Afterwards,” nodding and waving at the same counter.

Grazie.

I got one of those little numbered tickets for a place in line; the tickets are subdivided by the kind of service you want – deposits and withdrawals, forms, post and packages. The descriptions are in English as well as Italian, which was helpful. I THOUGHT.

So, I waited my turn, and it was busy, so it took a while, and then brought my stuff to the lady at the counter, and asked for stamps.

“Stamps?” (You’d have thought I had asked for a kilo of prime rib, by her expression). “For stamps, you go there,” pointing to the grumpy man.

“But-he told me here…”

She turns to him and has brief discussion in fast Italian. He looks at me with loathing.

“There.” She points again.

“And this?” pointing to my envelope.

“Over there,” waving to the opposite counter.

OK.

I went back to Grumpy, and he totally ignored me while he leafed through his book of stamps.

I waited.

And waited.

“Excuse me?”

“Wait a minute,” he snarled (honestly – snarled).

“I’ve BEEN waiting twenty minutes.”

Ignores me for a few more minutes, then finally gets me my stamps. I once again tried to pay for my envelope, and he again waved me to the opposite counter.
Grazie MILLE.

So, I went over there, and tried to pay for my envelope, and she waved me to the opposite counter. Seriously.

“But, but….” Italian was definitely letting me down at this point, and she didn’t speak English. “They told me…”

“Over there.”

I got out my 50 eurocents, plonked it down on her counter, and walked off, with her calling after me.

Then I went to address my envelope. I finished, and the man next to me asked if he could borrow my pen. I handed it over while I licked stamps and sealed, then realised that he was filling out the longest form in the world.

Now, I completely realise that this is when I really should have just LET it GO. The pen, after all, is not a vintage Cross, Waterman, or Mont Blanc. In fact, now that I look at it, I see that it has “Trailer Sales, Shelley Idaho,” written on it. There are other pens in Florence. I’m pretty sure I could have walked out the door and found one quite easily, perhaps with a picture of the Duomo on it. But I knew I’d need my pen again in a minute, and didn’t WANT to buy another simply because this man lacked the foresight to bring one to the post office, even though he had presumably come here expressly to fill out his epic form.

“Sir? Sir, I have to go – my pen?”

He says something about “can’t you wait?” He carries on writing.

“Sir?”

HE TOTALLY IGNORES ME.

“Sir! My PEN.”

He hands it over with very bad grace.

It was as I was stalking out the door that I realised I wasn’t entirely sure that I’d paid the correct amount for my envelope. This means that, somehow, tomorrow I have to go back to the post office where everyone now hates me, hoping that they don’t recognise me (sometimes it is inconvenient to be 5’10”, red-haired, and foreign), and if necessary, find some way of sneaking the extra 10-20 cents onto someone’s counter, because there’s really no way that I’m going to be able to explain it in Italian.

I think I’ll just throw it and run.

Santa Croce

I visited Santa Croce and got to see Giotto’s fresco of St. Francis, with those astonishingly solid-looking figures and expressive faces. I remember drawing a copy of that fresco from a book in school, so feel a special affinity to the lines and characters. It is thrilling to come across these jewels. Some time I must have heard that the Death of St. Francis was in Santa Croce in Florence, but it clearly didn’t mean a lot at the time, as when I saw it, it was totally unexpected. I wanted to point at it to all the other tourists. Look! Giotto! He’s a friend of mine…sort of.

Couple more

At Hestercombe.

More pics from England

Near Clevedon pier












The Theatre Royal, Bath. The Last Confession, with David Suchet in the lead. It's going to the West End next, and I want everyone to see it.








One of the lambs is lame, poor little thing! Its front legs are all shaky and it spends most of its time on its knees (foot rot, Pa D. suggests?) It’s pathetic-looking enough to be written by Dickens.





Winchester Cathedral. Met my bro and sis-in-law for picnic here.

Close to Solstice

How many bookstores do you know that have a shelf dedicated to witchcraft? Maybe one or two little obscure places? Well, how about one that has multiple shelves, subdivided by “Spells and witchcraft,” “High Magic,” “Wicca,” “Golden Dawn” (or Golden Goddess or something) and similar? If you do, I’m guessing you’ve been to Glastonbury – spiritualist/hippie capital of England, if not the world. It’s a place where people walk around wearing robes and carrying staffs, and you can smell incense in the air.

It’s the old Isle of Avalon, and King Arthur and Guinevere were buried in the Abbey (at least, it has the most credible evidence of his burial, but I prefer to believe that he’s still sleeping in his cave, ready to help with a Great British Emergency).
It’s also where Joseph of Arimethea planted a staff that grew into a tree, and where the Chalice Well is found. Add these to Glastonbury Tor, which just LOOKS mystical, and you have a place where you can buy crystals, Giotto-themed Tarot cards, and tie-dye clothes, if one likes those, which one might have done once upon a time, in one’s teens.

They also have really bad singers on the streets. My dad: “What’s that bl--dy noise?”
Bookshop owner a few minutes later: “Oh good, my busker’s gone. I can open the door again.”

When's Bingo Night?

I flew back to England for a few days to visit my dad; I really needed to do laundry. No, my dad said that it was cheaper than him continuing to pay for long phone calls to Italy, and as he decided not to visit me there, I got to be Mohammed, so to speak.
As soon as I arrived, we went off to St. Paul’s to marvel at the wonders of its architecture and history. Or, we might have sat at home doing the Telegraph crossword and complaining about the table manners of kids today. You don’t know.

Later, we went to a community theatre production of Fawlty Towers, today I mowed the lawn, and I think tonight we’ll watch a Jane Austen TV adaptation that my dad kindly taped for me. On Monday I will collect my pension from the post office and buy a knitted tea cosy.

I know I should be hitting Annabel’s and buying crack at King’s Cross Station – you know, making the most of London nightlife, but I actually like doing these old fogey activities.

Oh, and here’s the poster outside the community centre, which I think sums up local life quite well. See who’s next to the Cheeky Girls?

Palazzo Vecchio

Now, who doesn’t enjoy a good secret passageway? The Palazzo Vecchio is veritably riddled with them. One of the Medicis (Francesco?) was an aspiring scientist (he seems like a nice self-effacing chap, except that he poisoned his brother – but you never know, perhaps the brother deserved it), but his studies were considered heretical back in the day (as our guide said “remember, this was even before Galileo – who said something true and …”), so he had a little study built that no servants entered, and that had various secret doors and passageways leading off it.

My usual complaint of secret passageways is that you can always see the “secret” doors that lead to them – they might have been invisible at one time, but years and use have worn the edges, widened the cracks, or left the door more or less faded than the surroundings. Not here. Can you spot the doors?









Well, you can probably spot the one that’s open, but trust me, there are more, and I was totally unaware until our guide open sesame’d. It’s due to my hero Vasari, who as well as painting and writing, was something of an architect and engineer. Now find Waldo.

Will Flirt for Gelato

I went to a solo violin concert tonight, at the Chiesa Santa Maria. The soloist was not at all what I expected, visually. She was a middle aged, rather dumpy woman, with gypsy hair and features, and she bowed to the audience slightly awkwardly. As she finished each piece, she would carelessly drop her violin to her side and look slightly bored during the clapping – “si, si, si, let me finish and go home,” seemed her attitude. But she could play! And the acoustics in the church were fantastic. We had Bach, Schubert, Mozart, Ysaye, Paganini, and I believe Massenet for an encore.

Walking home, there was still music everywhere, from cafes, the merry-go-round in the Piazza della Republica, people playing on the street. I stopped and listened for a few minutes to a five-piece band playing Blue Moon. The atmosphere here at night is wonderful. With the street vendors packed up, and in the lights from the city, the pillars on the piazza di mercato nuovo look even more imposing and ancient. Everyone looked relaxed and happy, and a little girl was twirling among the pillars. People were eating gelato – it was definitely a gelato night. I hadn’t brought much money – just enough for the concert and a couple more euro, but I was looking at the flavours and prices at one place, and the waiter ciao bella’d me. Oh, I don’t have enough, I said – io ho soltanto…I showed him my coins.

Well, see, it’s Italy.

A minute later I walked away with a big cup of ananas and limone and a baccino (and an invitation to a disco later, but I left it at the baccino).

Apparently they needed another brick (or two) in the wall

Bologna shows us why weather is important, and English people are justified in talking about it all the time. It can totally change the character of a city.

It was my first visit to Bologna, and I picked a day when it was tipping down with rain (it’s been raining a lot lately) and was also a public holiday, so everything was shut. It all felt a bit blah, to be honest. The compensation was that I got to watch a big military ceremony/parade in the Piazza Maggiore, and admire all the Italian uniforms. One of the guards made fun of me for taking pictures of the policemen. And for having my umbrella open under the loggia.

I saw the due torre – the two leaning towers (what is it with people not building towers that can stand straight here), and climbed the tallest. I’m putting a picture below, but I don’t think it captures how tall it really is, especially when you’re climbing its smooth wooden steps on a wet day. It’s a lot taller than you think. Taller than Pisa. 500 steps. Tall in the way that, you look up, and see a wooden roof, and think oh good, not much further (because you’ve already been climbing for a while) and then you get to the “roof” and realise it is merely a sort of landing, and there’re about five more of those to go before you gingerly step out at the top and edge your way around, staying just long enough to get your 3 euro’s worth before getting out of Dodge.

I’m ok with heights, but not great, and the tower really does lean, and I really wanted to sit down for a minute on the way to the ground to stop my legs wobbling, but had the feeling that if I did, I wouldn’t want to stand up again, and would have to bump my way down on my bottom, rather like winnie the pooh in that poem, if that’s the one I mean.

I had to fortify myself with gelato afterwards.

The other reason I threw in Pink Floyd above is that Bologna is the seat of the oldest University in Europe (am I just biased, or would you have expected that to be in England?). The streets covered by miles of loggias, apparently so that students and professors can have intellectual conversations while strolling round town independent of the weather (and tourists quite like the weather protection too).
I found a couple of open churches (the cantata of St Cecilia, who is possibly my favourite female saint, which had lovely fresoces. At least, they were lovely at first look, and then as so often happens, you find yourself thinking, oh, what rich colours, oh what a charming scene, how pure and pastoral, look at the peasants receiving blessings, oh that one’s being decapitated…)

Then I happened upon a museum that was open, bless it. The exhibition was about myths and world exploration, and I was glad I’d read Longitude, as I felt I had a special appreciation for the chronometer. And they had beautiful models of ships, and what I think was a sextant, except that in Italian it was called an octant? I’m a little confused.

In the permanent exhibition they had a very cool Newton room with prisms, nature collection with things like turtle shells, bezoars, and ostrich eggs, and some fascinating waxworks of human anatomy, including a rather cute one of a uterus with twins, though I won’t share pics as pregnant people may be reading and I don’t want to freak ‘em out.

When I came out, so had the sun, and the whole atmosphere had changed along with it. The streets were now crowded, people were sitting in the piazza, where there was rather an odd but entertaining band playing, and Bologna now seemed like quite a chipper place. I had the BEST PASTA EVER, with mushrooms and gorgonzola at the caffe Zamboni, and more than one hot chocolate.

It does feel like a university city, from the buildings to the gelato flavours (primo notte di testi =first exam night =caramel + wafers + yum), to the bookshops everywhere, to the kids wearing black and piercings that look a lot like the heroin addicts on the streets, but not enough alike that there isn’t enough difference to tell.

The academic atmosphere is rather exhilarating. You feel some of the explorers’ excitement of discovery.

Yeah, we need SOME education.