travel

Italy: The View from My Couch

We’ve only been back in Ottawa for four days and already Italy seems long ago and far away.

Rome was a faint memory when we arrived home a few nights ago, the wind blowing fallen leaves against my ankles as I fumbled in the darkness to unlock our back door, opened it to a slightly musty, closed-up-house smell, and glimpsed the film of dust on everything. Venice, and moonlit walks along the canal in Murano, seemed a lifetime ago as I winnowed down the mounds of laundry, hanging a load on the clothesline, then rushing out with the clothes basket when it began to rain, and then snow. Okay, it was only a few flakes. But still… snow!

View of Florence from Piazzale Michelanglo

Looking at our photographs of the blue, blue sky in Florence this morning, it’s hard to believe that we were even there. Florence, beautiful and ancient, is a favourite stop for many travellers. But sadly, not for us. Perhaps visiting Florence so close on the heels of Venice was a mistake on our part. Of course we thought it was beautiful. Wandering the narrow streets of the old city, climbing the hill to Piazzale Michelangelo, strolling along the Arno to get a better view of the Ponte Vecchio, it was all beautiful. But very, very crowded.

And when it’s very crowded, one doesn’t actually stroll at all. Shuffling, milling, maybe. The shot below was obligingly taken by a young American couple, after I had taken theirs. Since we were killing a half hour before we toured the Uffizi Gallery, we didn’t mind waiting patiently for a small space at the railing to get a good shot. Silly isn’t it? Everyone jockeying around to get their selfie and prove that they were there.

Man and woman smiling in Florence with the Ponte Vecchio in the background

Stu and Sue do Florence with the Ponte Vecchio in the background

My favourite thing about Florence was the sculpture. Sculpture fascinates me. It boggles my mind how an artist can make stone look like it’s about to step down from its niche and speak to you.

Statue of Giotto by Giovanni Dupré

I am in awe of sculptors. How do they make the soles of feet, or straining biceps look so real? See the harsh grip of the Roman’s hand on the buttock of the woman in Giambologna’s “The Rape of a Sabine Woman” below? The fingers actually press into her skin. “How do they do that?” I kept asking. Like Paul Newman’s refrain “Who are those guys?” in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, one of my favourite movies, I was a broken record. “How the heck do they do that?” I murmured to our guide, to Hubby, to the air. You can read more about Giambologna’s work here.

statue "The Rape of a Sabine Woman" by Giambologna in the Loggia dei Lanzi in Florence

This work by Giambologna stands in the Loggia dei Lanzi, near the Uffizi Gallery

But, you know, it’s hard to stand in awe, gazing upward, when one is being buffeted by seething crowds of other tourists, elbows up, desperately trying to move past you and not lose contact with their group and their flag-waving guide. As Hubby says, “It kind of takes the edge off,” by which he means, “Let’s get the heck out of Dodge.” So we did.

Farm fields and mountains in the distance, enroute from Florence to Urbino, Italy

Somewhere in Tuscany, enroute from Florence to Urbino

We headed out of Florence for the beautiful, old, walled city of Urbino. This was more our style of travel, open countryside, more trees, and fewer people.

View of Urbino spires and rooftops from the top of the old stone steps in the town.

View of Urbino from the topmost set of stone steps that snake up, down, and all around the old city.

woman sitting on stone steps in Urbino, Italy

Look, Ma, no crowds in Urbino.

Outside of Urbino, we stayed the night at a small “country house,” in a room at the top of a set of stone steps, with a view to die for. That’s Hubby, below, standing at our window in the dawn light. He looks like a painting, doesn’t he? The night before, we’d bundled up to enjoy a glass of wine on our own private terrace, and then toddled off to a wonderful dinner at the on-site restaurant. I had truffle risotto. It was heavenly. The only disappointment was at breakfast the next morning when we learned that the chef had been up at dawn to collect truffles and Hubby could have joined him if he’d known.

Dawn in the Umbrian hills from our B&B window

Dawn at Country House Ca’Vernaccia, near Urbino. No filter, I swear.

The next night we stopped near the old town of Norcia whose lovely historic buildings were so damaged by the 2016 earthquake. Norcia is struggling to rebuild, and, despite the plethora of scaffolding and building sites, is very much open for business.

Scaffolding and cranes as Norcia, Italy rebuilds after the 2016 earthquake

Rebuilding work in the town of Norcia

A butcher shop in Norcia selling norcineria, wild boar and pork.

The local speciality, norcineria, wild boar and pork, ham and sausages named for the town

We sampled some of the local wares at dinner that night at our accommodation, another wonderful “agriturismo.” How can you not love a place that has donkeys, eh?

The donkey paddock at a B&B in Norcia, Italy

The donkey paddock at Agriturismo Il Casale Degli Amici outside of Norcia

The view across the hills from the doorway of a room at Agriturismo Il Casale Degli Amici

The view from our room at Agriturismo Il Casale Degli Amici

Our journey through the Tuscan and Umbrian countryside had been lovely, but we were bound for more remote parts of the country, and those tiny roads that we love to drive. Hubby had read about a place called Campo Imperatore, a high mountain plain also called “Little Tibet,” in Gran Sasso e Monti Della Laga National Park, in Abruzzo. And we wanted to see it. The difficulty was getting accurate information about the condition of secondary roads which may have been affected by the earthquake. The lovely girl at our accommodation in Urbino who spoke perfect English could not help. And the host at our Norcia accommodation seemed to have more knowledge of the roads we would travel in our ongoing journey, but not enough English with which to share it. We’d had trouble already, and had to turn around once and retrace our route when we encountered a closed road barrier and two puzzled motorcyclists stopped at the barrier, scratching their heads.

So when we left Norcia we hoped to find a tourist information office, or a helpful local, at a town further along. We’d both read about the earthquakes in 2016, Hubby had communicated with my friend Liz’s brother who lives in Abruzzo, and we’d already seen the damage in Norcia, but none of this prepared us for our first sight of Amatrice. We drove past a military vehicle and two soldiers, around a turn, and down a street that was walled with wooden hoardings behind which was total devastation, piles of rubble, and the skeletons of buildings. It felt like a war zone, and I whispered to Hubby, “Should we even be here?” We felt like voyeurs. And I remembered an article I’d read in which the mayor of Amatrice railed against insensitive, selfie-taking tourists, who stood amid the rubble, smiling, to have their picture taken.

A street in Amatrice, Italy still showing the destruction after the 2016 earthquake.

Some of the devastation in Amatrice where a 2016 earthquake killed almost 300 people.

Further along, in a street that was relatively unaffected, we parked and stood for some time talking to two local young men who’d been passing. They seemed to want to chat about the earthquake, and if their town will be able to recover. As one of them said, many have left, some want to remain, but whether we leave, or stay and work to rebuild, it is “all difficult.” When Hubby showed them our map they understood where we wanted to go and assured us that all the roads had been repaired and were open. But that was only after a Monty Python-esque moment when I mispronounced the word “closed” in my mangled Italian. They both brightened, and one grabbed the map, and began to point out a route, and talk rapidly, “Yes. Yes, you will like Chooso.” Or something that sounded like “Chooso.” Maybe it was “Cheeso?” “No, no, not ‘Chooso,’ ‘chiuso,'” I said, and with fumbling fingers I managed to translate “which roads are closed” into Italian on my phone translator, and then showed him the screen instead of trying to say it correctly, and confusing them further. Then we all had a good laugh. “Parlo male italiano.” I’ll have to remember that line, I thought.

Enroute between Amatrice and Campo Imperatore, somewhere near Pizzoli, Italy

Somewhere between Amatrice and “Little Tibet”

And so we were off, not to “Chooso,” but to the high Apennines and “Little Tibet,” where the crowds of Florence will be forgotten and the views will be magnificent. But I think I’ll save the rest of our journey for another day.

Today, I’m still busy doing laundry, changing bed linen, hauling out the down-filled duvet, and washing and putting away my summer clothes.

I must say, Ottawa weather was a bit of a shock for us after balmy Rome. But still. There have been compensations for the cold, and the snow flurries, and the many tasks that always need doing when we’ve been away for a while.

Like mashed potatoes; I always miss mashed potatoes when we’re travelling. And tea and toast, and a good long read. And the wonderfully luxurious feeling last night of sinking onto the couch in front of a roaring wood fire, stocking feet propped on the coffee table, wine glasses in hand, deciding if we should make popcorn or not.

Italy was wonderful. Travel is wonderful. But, you know, the very familiar view from our couch of the Rideau River, and the geese gathering as dusk falls, isn’t so bad either.

Now, what have you been up to my bloggy friends? We haven’t chatted in ages. I wasn’t able to respond to your comments on my last post from Agerola, but I’m ready to talk now.

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High Heels in the Wilderness is for women like me. Women who love clothes. And books. Who dream of travelling to amazing places. Who want to explore their own lives, and their own potential, now that they aren't twenty (or even forty) anymore.

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