)
Breakfast at 9 was just about perfect – fresh squeezed orange juice, cappuccino, porridge, yogurt and more conversation. Post breakfast activity was a hike to the village square, a visit to the local church, a brief walk around town and then the decision to hike (for three of us anyway) to lunch. Our host, having suffered a little on the ski slopes the previous week, decided to meet us with the car, a gallant offering since it meant we could have a leisurely lunch and not worry about walking back in the dark. The uphill hike was most welcome (your trampess is quite clear that gyms are good but mountains are better and she has been missing climbing - Tarquinia and Cerveteri notwithstanding since the demands are short lived if steep). The 2 ½ hour climb was not as strenuous as Kanisfluh but it was invigorating and removed any latent guilt that might have arisen around the long and leisurely lunch that was to follow.
We were late arriving by northern standards, but perfectly on time by Italian (something after 2pm) and the proprietor greeted us warmly and asked what we wanted to eat. No menu you understand, just a general discussion of likes and dislikes, allergies and proclivities. With so many diverse diets to cope with the result was (well, this is Italy after all) inevitable: instead of a few dishes that everyone could eat, we had an endless array anyone of which would be acceptable to at least two of us. So, a sequence of dishes that would have fed the Roman army, mostly vegetarian (all manner of roasted vegetables, cheeses, olives, breads, and tidbits of a vaguely eastern nature – it turns out there is a Thai influence in the kitchen in the form of the proprietor’s wife)– except for a plate of marvellous prosciutto and salami. And that was just the starters – pasta followed along with some spit roasted lamb and pork for the carnivores. Normally, of course, pasta would have followed and then meat and fish but we were all showing some restraint (again by Italian standards, no one would have called us restrained by English standards)! Espresso as the digestivo (certainly pudding would have been beyond the pale!) and we were on our way home. Just in time for a glass of wine before dinner!
The next day after a brief struggle with the internet (Sermoneta is blessed with abundant wi-fi in the summer but not in winter), we hugged our hosts farewell and hiked back to the WLW ready to set off to Naples. Oh had it been that simple! The WLW’s dashboard gave the tramp one of those warnings that suggested he check all systems. The report back was not good: the clutch was not interested in going to Naples, or anywhere else for that matter. And if the clutch doesn’t want to go, neither does the tramp. The service book came out and a series of phone calls began. Quite how many it is hard to know. Suffice it to say that every Iveco garage between Rome and Sermoneta was involved. Finally, even Germany was brought into the discussion to spur on the service (and, if the truth be told, to verify the tramp’s bona fides as a responsible lorry driver and not some hot-rodding youth who would rip out a clutch just to show his machismo – even though this is Italy, land of the hot-rodders!).
In each conversation, the tramp explained where the WLW was, how long it was (8 1/2metres) and the fact that it was towing a Smart car (after all, while she could be driven independently, she could not tow her own trailer). Several hopeful garage rescue trucks showed up. The same number drove away – no way could they tow something as large as the WLW. One does not ask what in the description (8 ½ metres long; 7 ½ tonnes) they did not understand, they just hadn’t really understood. Two days later (the wheels of efficiency may have once been Roman, but have never been Italian), a vehicle that could tow the WLW arrived. The tramp and trampess followed in the Smart. The natives watched the procession in awe. The destination? A huge Iveco garage in Latina some 15km away. As usual, the garage was friendly and extremely professional. The tramp made friends with the personnel dealing with his beloved machine and we were given permission to live in it, sandwiched between other lorries waiting to be serviced (not quite the view from the Gritti terrace but then one could not imagine the local hostelries having beds big enough for the tramp! – one of the reasons for the WLW after all is to ensure a reliable, comfortable bed every night and at whatever time it is required – there are other ways to achieve this of course and a small book with the Relais & Chateaux is one – but they are not always nearby, can often be fully booked, and may expect a dress code which is slightly different from the usual hiking kit the tramps have become accustomed to) while a new clutch was ordered (yes, ordered. The good news was it came the next day and not weeks later). The tramps set off for the local supermercato and laid in supplies as if for a siege. After two days, the WLW was given a clean bill of health – following a test drive on the local roads (including a few steep uphill ones – just to make sure the new clutch would hold), and the tramps were even encouraged to visit Terracina (another ancient and mediaeval hill town) which they were assured would present no problem for the WLW – neither for her clutch nor for her girth. And so the tramps headed south once more.
With Terracina only another 15km from Latina, the tramps were not exactly making their way to Naples with great speed! But still, the purpose of wandering is not to be driven to get somewhere, but to take in everything, slowly, at a pace which allows thoughtful appreciation. The trip to Naples was becoming very thoughtful – not that the trampess minded – she just wished to make sure that her flight to London from Naples was not missed because Naples was still some days away by WLW! The road to Terracina was a continuation of the Appia Antica (the road we had been following from Rome) and therefore, like all Roman roads, straight and direct. We arrived at Terracina and only had to make one decision: would we really risk the road that led up to the Temple of Jove Anxur (for those of you who are struggling with the Anxur, it is the same old Jove, but as a youth). It seemed to your trampess a sensible risk (only 15km from the home of new clutches – why not find out here if the WLW really was unsuited for the Italian terrain rather than on some distant hill where help might be days away?); the tramp concurred and up we went. The entrance to the mediaeval town – half way up the hill - looked forbidding (an arch, narrow streets, sharp turns, in short a squeeze that might not work) so we carried on to the top of the hill where the ancient (1st century BC) temple sat.
Our reward was perfection: a wide road, a parking lot that had a space or two for buses and was virtually empty, so that the WLW could be turned and parked in the direction of the descent. Not, you understand, that we actually decided to descend! The afternoon was beautiful, the walk up through the Roman fortifications and barracks for the army interesting, and the arrival at the temple stunning – for the temple itself and for a tremendous view of the port below and the whole bay – not to mention a series of ancillary buildings on the terraces below – oh, and a scale model of the whole area as it would have looked in ancient times at the back of the conveniently located caffe, bookshop, restaurant and nightclub (with live music – what else would you expect – this is a temple to the youthful Jove!) – actually a tiny room but with a wonderful terrace which must, one assumes, accommodate all the described activities in the summer. We took coffee on the terrace and watched as the sun set over the bay between Terracina and Gaeta (famous for being the birthplace of the trampess’s stepfather; more famous perhaps for its prison and a large naval base). Naturally, the tramp decided it was dinnertime and the location of the WLW was perfect for spending the night (where would we find a quieter spot?). We could even have a morning visit to the temple after breakfast and then proceed to Naples.
And so we did, except that by the time we had read the book (on Jove Anxor) and really explored the temple and environs again, and enjoyed a local diversion, it was lunch time. And the night, surprisingly, was not quiet – in fact the tramp claims not to have slept much at all. He wondered whether the villa in front of which we were parked (and which we could see from the temple had rather splendid gardens and a swimming pool) was doing a roaring trade in drugs: apparently he was kept awake by the constant coming and going of cars and masculine voices (so not lovers’ lane as we might have thought had we been thinking when we decided to stay for the night). He revised his opinion when the owner took a photo of the WLW (everyone likes to be a pin-up) with his camera – just as the tramp was exiting the WLW. Being a friendly soul, the tramp asked if the photographer was the owner of the wonderful garden we had admired from above. Indeed he was and promptly invited us in for a tour of the garden and a drink. Since part of thoughtful wandering, is engaging with locals and especially in their habitat when possible, the response was immediate and positive. The garden was amazing and included a very special 800 year old tree; it was also remarkable for the fact that the local wild boars had entered in the night and turfed up most of the lawn(do wild boars have low masculine sounding grunts?) (Italian law forbids the erection of electric fences around private property to keep them out so this sort of event is endemic). After a few words of consolation to the gardener, we sat by the swimming pool and drank a bottle of water together while discussing Italian politics. Like all Italians, our host is riveted by politics but despairs of Italy ever becoming a well run state, the reasons for which conclusion are always the subject of interesting conversation. And so the hours went by. The tramp and the host exchanged email addresses and promised to stay in contact. Our host longs for a WLW but is not convinced his wife is as enthusiastic as he is (it is your trampess’s experience that not all her friends envy her gypsy life and many men are doomed to lust in vain after the WLW!). In any event, it turns out our host is a builder from Rome specialising in restoring old properties – the villa in Terracina was one he restored for his own family for weekends and holidays. We have promised to visit again when we return from our southern travels (always assuming we ever make it further south).
After lunch though, we really did head south toward Naples, stopping in Gaeta to buy the local produce (the vegetables, salads, olives, tomatoes, and fruit were, as to be expected, incredibly cheap and delicious – well I would say that given the family connection: the stepfather would no doubt add, “but that is not enough reason to live there!” – maybe not but it was worth the stop to stuff the larder!).
The delays, in Terracina and in Gaeta while worthwhile, did mean that the WLW’s arrival in Naples was after nightfall. Not good. Especially not good when the perfect campsite became majorly imperfect: the entry was through an arched gateway. You guess is right: the tramp’s skill at squeezing the WLW through a space only a few inches wider than the WLW is not to be denied, but even he cannot make her less tall than she is, and entering would have destroyed the sat-nav system perched on her roof (now you may recall that the trampess and the sat-nav do not always get along, but losing her completely would be a big mistake – if only for the ability to receive the news and watch the odd dvd). So the tramps spent the night parked on the street on the waterfront in the centre of town. Many might consider that standing on a street corner holding Rolex watches, gold chains and a fist full of euros would be less risky than parking the WLW and her trailing Smart in Naples on the waterfront. Suffice it to say the tramps have not yet seen Gomorrah. The trampess did not sleep well that night – not from fear – with the tramp by my side I am fearless, but dear reader, the noise from the traffic was unbearable! It never stopped. We might as well have been parked in Times Square. The tramp, of course, slept (earplugs - the trampess cannot abide them; must learn to adapt).
As we drove out of Naples (the tramp was quickly convinced that if we couldn’t stay in the perfect campsite – and it was apparently perfect: clean, stylish – I know, I know, but that is what he said, and well protected – we might as well head on), in first gear (the roads are bad and the WLW could not risk going faster than first gear would allow – not that we were going more slowly than the donkey carts on the road– I jest not), we did begin to wonder where we might end up. We tried Herculaneum (now Ercolano) but no campsite was listed in the guide book and the roads were unfriendly for long vehicles. At this point the trampess persuaded the tramp to hit the motorway to Pompeii (not very far away, but much faster when you can get out of first gear). While the sat-nav went into one of her hissy fits (probably because she knew she was the cause of missing out on a nice campsite), leading the WLW around in circles and then OUT of town, and the tramp’s patience was coming to an understandable end, it was decided to call the campsite (old fashioned but effective) and get directions (yes, some people still know how to give them). Sure enough it was only 100metres from the exit of the motorway (our sat-nav having told us to turn right instead of left), but mirabile dictu it was lovely: the WLW is now parked in an orange grove a short walk from the entrance to the excavations and from the train line that runs between Naples and Sorrento. Happily the trains don’t run late at night so the convenience is not mitigated by noise at bed time! Bliss at last - and with plenty of time to acclimate before the flight to London.
Friday, 27 February 2009
Tuesday, 24 February 2009
Anniversaries, Reunions, and New Encounters
It was the morning of their 36th anniversary, and the tramps awoke to another grey day – disappointing after going to bed under clear skies that had followed a lengthy downpour – after all the day they married had been bright, sunny and clear albeit with the usual two feet of snow on the ground one can expect in Cambridge (Massachusetts, that is). Rome was the same when they returned, but without the snow. One had hoped, therefore, that southern Italy would, 36 years later, understand the requirements of the day.
Not only did the weather not cooperate, neither did the WLW. The tramp had felt that the clutch was struggling on the climb to Sermoneta, and he later let on as how, if one of the cars we had encountered on the hairpin turn road on the way up (Sermoneta is one of those wonderful little hill towns which are delightful to visit in all respects – as long as one is driving a normal vehicle) had not instantly behaved the tramp’s signal to keep moving (he was graciously planning to stop and let us continue, not quite realising just how impossible that would be for us), the WLW might have had to roll backwards quite a long way before trying to climb again, and who knows whether it would have made it – or for that matter whether the tramp would have! And, of course, at a certain point, the tramp had refused to go any further, fearing (rightly as it transpired) that the narrowing road was leading us into a place that no WLWs should go.
The effort had been worth it (even taking into account the need to back the WLW down the road a few hundred metres – with a stone wall on one side and a cliff on the other plus the odd car wishing to pass - reverse it around a corner and re-park it in the sort of space the WLW could breathe in). This was not a forgone conclusion and everything could have gone horribly wrong. The trampess had never visited her old college friend before, and while lunches or dinners had always been jolly, to say that a few days together would be unmitigated bliss would have been a risky prediction. Nor had the tramp met her at all. Nor had either of them met the husband. So to begin with a dicey clutch, a less than perfect assent (I did not mention any of the various conversations that included the words “do you know where you are? Do you really know this is where we should be? Have you read the instructions?”), and a less than perfect abandonment of the WLW, your trampess rang the doorbell with some trepidation. All fear was instantly cast aside. Not tentatively, not gradually, but absolutely instantly. This was going to be a fun few days. The house is stone and built into the hillside. Every room has a splendid view over the Pontine plain. Every level has a terrace and each terrace has its own character (a pool, a garden, a lemon tree, a fireplace). Every room is beautiful: simple, rustic architecture with stone walls, arches and old stone lintels but filled with furniture and chandeliers from their last house (a chateau in France which they turned into one of the famed Relais et Chateaux members), a wonderfully successful lesson in counterpoint (we won’t even mention the counterpoint it made to the WLW – after all one does not want to hurt the WLW’s feelings). But a house does not make a visit (though clearly, it sets the scene – and the scene here was informal but elegant – perfect), and even the most beautiful houses can be inhabited by miseries. Not this one. Instant warmth and enthusiasm greeted us. All the tension of the climb up evaporated. Coffee, conversation, a brief mention of the tramp’s allergies (as the plan for dinner emerged) and off we were! The tramp’s allergies did add one more exciting dimension to meals: my friend is vegetarian (though she eats fish – not one of the regular menu items in a hill town!), her husband abhors vegetables, and the tramp can’t eat bread, cheese or wine. The points of intersection were very narrow but dinner was a huge success and lasted well beyond bed time, owing to fine wine, fine conversation, and a fire that was kept going despite the wet wood. The tramp eventually tumbled into a splendid four poster bed (as you would expect, a proper antique one, which of course meant it was just big enough for him if he slept diagonally, antique beds are lovely, antique people were small!) and your trampess curled herself happily into a bed in another room. Our only instructions were that it was unlikely that breakfast woul
Not only did the weather not cooperate, neither did the WLW. The tramp had felt that the clutch was struggling on the climb to Sermoneta, and he later let on as how, if one of the cars we had encountered on the hairpin turn road on the way up (Sermoneta is one of those wonderful little hill towns which are delightful to visit in all respects – as long as one is driving a normal vehicle) had not instantly behaved the tramp’s signal to keep moving (he was graciously planning to stop and let us continue, not quite realising just how impossible that would be for us), the WLW might have had to roll backwards quite a long way before trying to climb again, and who knows whether it would have made it – or for that matter whether the tramp would have! And, of course, at a certain point, the tramp had refused to go any further, fearing (rightly as it transpired) that the narrowing road was leading us into a place that no WLWs should go.
The effort had been worth it (even taking into account the need to back the WLW down the road a few hundred metres – with a stone wall on one side and a cliff on the other plus the odd car wishing to pass - reverse it around a corner and re-park it in the sort of space the WLW could breathe in). This was not a forgone conclusion and everything could have gone horribly wrong. The trampess had never visited her old college friend before, and while lunches or dinners had always been jolly, to say that a few days together would be unmitigated bliss would have been a risky prediction. Nor had the tramp met her at all. Nor had either of them met the husband. So to begin with a dicey clutch, a less than perfect assent (I did not mention any of the various conversations that included the words “do you know where you are? Do you really know this is where we should be? Have you read the instructions?”), and a less than perfect abandonment of the WLW, your trampess rang the doorbell with some trepidation. All fear was instantly cast aside. Not tentatively, not gradually, but absolutely instantly. This was going to be a fun few days. The house is stone and built into the hillside. Every room has a splendid view over the Pontine plain. Every level has a terrace and each terrace has its own character (a pool, a garden, a lemon tree, a fireplace). Every room is beautiful: simple, rustic architecture with stone walls, arches and old stone lintels but filled with furniture and chandeliers from their last house (a chateau in France which they turned into one of the famed Relais et Chateaux members), a wonderfully successful lesson in counterpoint (we won’t even mention the counterpoint it made to the WLW – after all one does not want to hurt the WLW’s feelings). But a house does not make a visit (though clearly, it sets the scene – and the scene here was informal but elegant – perfect), and even the most beautiful houses can be inhabited by miseries. Not this one. Instant warmth and enthusiasm greeted us. All the tension of the climb up evaporated. Coffee, conversation, a brief mention of the tramp’s allergies (as the plan for dinner emerged) and off we were! The tramp’s allergies did add one more exciting dimension to meals: my friend is vegetarian (though she eats fish – not one of the regular menu items in a hill town!), her husband abhors vegetables, and the tramp can’t eat bread, cheese or wine. The points of intersection were very narrow but dinner was a huge success and lasted well beyond bed time, owing to fine wine, fine conversation, and a fire that was kept going despite the wet wood. The tramp eventually tumbled into a splendid four poster bed (as you would expect, a proper antique one, which of course meant it was just big enough for him if he slept diagonally, antique beds are lovely, antique people were small!) and your trampess curled herself happily into a bed in another room. Our only instructions were that it was unlikely that breakfast woul
Sunday, 25 January 2009
Cleanliness and Godliness, Tramp Style
As you know, the tramp has always insisted on the importance of keeping the WLW tidy and clean and at the same time as always insisted on an austere approach to the use of water (since in the WLW it is truly a scarce resource). Your trampess has always been a little more generous with the H2O: she likes her vegetables clean and her dishes sparkling, but she is reasonable, she doesn’t expect clean sheets every time she tucks herself into bed. Apparently Jackie Kennedy insisted on fresh, ironed sheets every time she lay down in the White House bedroom – and that included afternoon naps! Well, apart from the obvious comment that she clearly wasn’t doing her own washing and ironing, it would be hard to defend such ecologically incorrect behaviour today. So it is fair to assume that your trampess’s standards are, well, standard, and not, I think, excessive. The tramp, on the other hand, feels that washing dishes which could just as easily be wiped (!!!! I ask you!!!!!) are perfectly acceptable (well, in the family – he does realise that imposing wiped dishes on others might be testing the limits). He has suggested that the trampess simply not look when he is doing the “washing up”. The logic for his position rests on his belief that one day (perhaps sooner rather than later if the weather does not show signs of improving), the tramps might be travelling in a hostile environment (i.e. very hot) where water is not readily available and where our lives will depend (literally) on using water only for drinking and for critical hygiene matters. Your trampess is, of course, ready for such extreme conditions and appreciates that where life depends on having a supply of drinking water, it would be quite wrong to insist on sparkling wine glasses. But, dear Reader, is the via Aurelia such a place?? I think not. But imagine, imagine, the argument invoked by the tramp after attending mass twice (it must be said that the tramp is observant, and creative, in bringing the Holy Catholic Church to his aid in this argument – especially when his otherwise dominant Germanic, protestant ethic works so clearly in the trampess’s favour!). “Ah ha!” he remarked on seeing the priest wipe the chalice clean with a pristine white linen cloth after he had drunk from it. “Ah ha! You see HE doesn’t use water – do you really think that the HCC would allow an unclean chalice to be used??? Does this not prove that wiping is not only good practice but morally and socially acceptable??”
Some times there are no perfect answers, and one must rely on the only thing that works. Dear Reader, I have an exceptional gag reflex. Used tactically, and sparingly, it does achieve results. The dishes sparkle, and until the WLW is crossing a desert, I feel they will continue to do so.
One does not expect the HCC to provide subversive example or excess excitement (though, as we took our French friends through the baroque churches of Rome in search of Caravaggio’s and Bernini’s, it became quite apparent that at the time of the Counter-Reformation, that is precisely what was ordered: high drama in the form of martyrdoms, conversions, and ecstasies all the better to woo back the wavering from austere Protestantism). So to find both in the space of a couple of weeks was more than the trampess could quite comprehend. The excitement was provided on Christmas Eve at the end of the papal mass. Apart from nearly being trampled (one felt one was in the midst of the charging bulls in Spain) when the doors to St Peter’s were opened at 10:30pm (papal masses are neither for the faint-hearted nor the feeble-bodied, and lest anyone think that the clergy themselves are well behaved, let me relate the advice of a nun as I was leaving, many years ago, for one of John Paul II’s first audiences in the Square: “ Get there early, take a position on the barrier and do not, under any circumstances, let nuns push you away -- and they will try believe me!”), the first 4 hours of the evening went peacefully. At 2:30am as Benedict led the procession of cardinals down the main aisle, just opposite us (we were, owing to our sprinting ability, strategically placed on the central aisle), a person, of indeterminate sex, wearing a red hoodie, leapt – with athletic agility it must be said - over the barrier (designed to keep up in our seats and provide the pope with a clear, unfettered path) just in front of his Holiness. The speed with which the secret service (unmistakeable: big, burly, dark suit and with one of those little curly things hanging from his ear) had this person on the floor, out of the way and immobile would have impressed M! The pope, only a couple of feet away, noticed something out of the corner of his eye but carried on, undisturbed and unperturbed. He smiled at me (well, at all of us really of course) as he sidestepped the two bodies on the floor and then turned to do the same to those on the other side of the aisle.
The live transmission of the mass showed the event (French husband having returned to the hotel before the end of mass, owing to exhaustion and perhaps protestant fatigue, saw the whole thing on television – including beloved wife standing on chair and photographing the event – with my camera) but, interestingly, the incident did not appear on subsequent broadcasts. Nor was there any mention in the papers the next day. Whether an innocent only wishing to touch the hem of his garment, a religious fanatic or a terrorist, only the Vatican knows for sure, but your trampess has the photographic evidence that the incident did occur.
We must confess (no choice really, under the circumstances) that we, French friend and your trampess, actually used the same method as the red hoodie (he/she made it look so easy) to depart after the pope had visited the crib. It was such an impossible maze of chairs to the doors that French friend looked at me, perched on the barrier, swung her legs over and offered to hold my bag while I did the same. Having been impressed at the speed with which the secret service took out our role model, I was somewhat reluctant, but it was clear I could not leave my friend in the aisle alone, especially since I intended to drive her back to her hotel, so I followed suit as discreetly as possible (you may well ask). Happily I did not find myself on the floor (neither because of the SS nor from my only clumsiness – perhaps the greater danger), so we giggled as we strode down the aisle behind the ambassadors who no barriers in their way. This being Rome, no one commented on our somewhat outré behaviour. We made it to the car, I drove her back, and was tucked into my own bed before 3am – record time on the via Aurelia – the Romans are sometimes sensible and all the traffic lights were blinking amber so your trampess had a clear run home and the promise of a decent night’s sleep: sightseeing was not to begin until noon the next day and while the tramp was not expecting the trampess so late (not, you understand, that he knew when she returned, being well into deep sleep), he did not wake he for his breakfast at the usual time, but rather waited until she woke, at the delightfully late hour of 9.
Some times there are no perfect answers, and one must rely on the only thing that works. Dear Reader, I have an exceptional gag reflex. Used tactically, and sparingly, it does achieve results. The dishes sparkle, and until the WLW is crossing a desert, I feel they will continue to do so.
One does not expect the HCC to provide subversive example or excess excitement (though, as we took our French friends through the baroque churches of Rome in search of Caravaggio’s and Bernini’s, it became quite apparent that at the time of the Counter-Reformation, that is precisely what was ordered: high drama in the form of martyrdoms, conversions, and ecstasies all the better to woo back the wavering from austere Protestantism). So to find both in the space of a couple of weeks was more than the trampess could quite comprehend. The excitement was provided on Christmas Eve at the end of the papal mass. Apart from nearly being trampled (one felt one was in the midst of the charging bulls in Spain) when the doors to St Peter’s were opened at 10:30pm (papal masses are neither for the faint-hearted nor the feeble-bodied, and lest anyone think that the clergy themselves are well behaved, let me relate the advice of a nun as I was leaving, many years ago, for one of John Paul II’s first audiences in the Square: “ Get there early, take a position on the barrier and do not, under any circumstances, let nuns push you away -- and they will try believe me!”), the first 4 hours of the evening went peacefully. At 2:30am as Benedict led the procession of cardinals down the main aisle, just opposite us (we were, owing to our sprinting ability, strategically placed on the central aisle), a person, of indeterminate sex, wearing a red hoodie, leapt – with athletic agility it must be said - over the barrier (designed to keep up in our seats and provide the pope with a clear, unfettered path) just in front of his Holiness. The speed with which the secret service (unmistakeable: big, burly, dark suit and with one of those little curly things hanging from his ear) had this person on the floor, out of the way and immobile would have impressed M! The pope, only a couple of feet away, noticed something out of the corner of his eye but carried on, undisturbed and unperturbed. He smiled at me (well, at all of us really of course) as he sidestepped the two bodies on the floor and then turned to do the same to those on the other side of the aisle.
The live transmission of the mass showed the event (French husband having returned to the hotel before the end of mass, owing to exhaustion and perhaps protestant fatigue, saw the whole thing on television – including beloved wife standing on chair and photographing the event – with my camera) but, interestingly, the incident did not appear on subsequent broadcasts. Nor was there any mention in the papers the next day. Whether an innocent only wishing to touch the hem of his garment, a religious fanatic or a terrorist, only the Vatican knows for sure, but your trampess has the photographic evidence that the incident did occur.
We must confess (no choice really, under the circumstances) that we, French friend and your trampess, actually used the same method as the red hoodie (he/she made it look so easy) to depart after the pope had visited the crib. It was such an impossible maze of chairs to the doors that French friend looked at me, perched on the barrier, swung her legs over and offered to hold my bag while I did the same. Having been impressed at the speed with which the secret service took out our role model, I was somewhat reluctant, but it was clear I could not leave my friend in the aisle alone, especially since I intended to drive her back to her hotel, so I followed suit as discreetly as possible (you may well ask). Happily I did not find myself on the floor (neither because of the SS nor from my only clumsiness – perhaps the greater danger), so we giggled as we strode down the aisle behind the ambassadors who no barriers in their way. This being Rome, no one commented on our somewhat outré behaviour. We made it to the car, I drove her back, and was tucked into my own bed before 3am – record time on the via Aurelia – the Romans are sometimes sensible and all the traffic lights were blinking amber so your trampess had a clear run home and the promise of a decent night’s sleep: sightseeing was not to begin until noon the next day and while the tramp was not expecting the trampess so late (not, you understand, that he knew when she returned, being well into deep sleep), he did not wake he for his breakfast at the usual time, but rather waited until she woke, at the delightfully late hour of 9.
Thursday, 22 January 2009
The Eternal City Revisited
There are those who say you should never go home once you have left. Nothing is the same and seeing the present somehow destroys the past. Memories become diminished by current realities. Rome represents for your tramp and trampess a time in their youth that was almost perfect. It was the last stop on their own Grand Tour (which had begun in Germany with a car and a tent and which encompassed the Low Countries, France, England, Scotland, Spain, and Switzerland before reaching Italy) – a tour for which the trampess had been given carte blanche in choosing the itinerary. The trampess’s undergraduate degree having been in art history, it is not hard to imagine how the tour shaped up. But, the tramps had been very lucky and had managed to see many things which are now closed to the public (or where visits are so physically restricted as to change the experience) – the caves at Altamira to name one – as well as many that would be on anyone’s list today. The tour was meant to end in Berlin where the tramp had studied both at university and extracurricularly, music. It was his plan to study with his old singing teachers and enjoy the rich musical life Berlin had to offer.
We never made it. Rome was warm, sunny, cheap and a good place to study voice. The tramp found a teacher on day 1, the trampess found a convent (not to join you understand), which gave tours of Rome to small groups of pilgrims (one church or ancient site a day – not one of those whirlwind see Rome in 24 hours sort of tours) and, of course, arranged papal audiences and masses for the faithful. It was not long before the tramp and trampess married, took up resident in the convent (!! – these were Dutch nuns –highly progressive and delighted to have a tall, strong man accompanying them to the Vatican bank to deposit the cash earned from their small pensione on Piazza Navona and a young, English speaking, educated assistant), and settled in to becoming Romans. We were poor: working for a convent does not come high on the list of well paying jobs; and while our address was one of the best in Rome, our furniture was hand-me-downs from the nuns. Try to imagine just how basic that is! The tramp made our bed (he is good with his hands) and our mattress was made of straw (don’t knock it, the trampess’s mattress at a well known eastern college had also been made of straw). The bathroom was on the other side of the corridor, so one could occasionally bump into the porter or the sacristan or their wives when heading for the tub. We survived on frozen fish (the Romans were deeply sceptical of frozen food so it was very cheap) from China (a highly dubious provenance), chicken livers (incredibly cheap, but locally produced), fresh pasta, and lots of salad, vegetables, cheese and cheap but honest wine (no banana skins or other questionable additives). We learned Italian, read Goethe’s Italienische Reise, worked hard, studied hard, sat in the sun, explored Rome street by street, and strolled from fountain to fountain in the evenings. Every now and then we shared an ice cream (which we never ate sitting down as that made it at least 3 times the price). When the nuns were on holiday in Holland, they allowed us to use their roof terrace: bliss – dinner alfresco with a view from the bell tower of Sant’Agnese over Piazza Navona. If you have to be poor, it doesn’t get better than that.
Of course the first three months were awful: we spoke no Italian, people alternatively took advantage of us or ignored us, the streets were dirty, the driving chaotic, and a shrug was the common answer to any question or complaint. By the time we left, we spoke fluent Italian, we were not taken advantage of or ignored (well, no more than any other Romans), and thanks to the tramp’s decision not to become a professional singer, we could afford to eat meat at home and in restaurants both (the latter a treat previously only as a result of a visit by the trampess’s parents or their friends). For many years after, but BC (before children), the tramps’ holidays always began in Rome. And the Eternal City never disappointed.
But now, the opportunity to return for the first time in a long while, and for some time, suddenly presented itself. Our French friends, who have done so much to introduce us to the joys of Verbier, Salzburg and Vienna, planned to come to Rome for Christmas. It would be churlish of 2 old Romans of no fixed address and with no fixed plans not to head south to be the welcoming team, not to mention chief guide and restaurant selector (in a city of tourists, priests and politicians, it is highly likely that the politicians know the better restaurants, the priests know the cheap but authentic ones and the tourists suffer – it was your trampess’s job to make sure she had the inside track on where the priests and politicians eat).
The trampess had to be back in London for the usual meetings and social whirl (it is hard to switch gears from the low key life of a trampess spending her days in hiking shoes and Patagonia gear to long gowns at Buckingham Palace and dressy evenings at the opera house, but your trampess does her best: it helps that the wardrobes are kept in quite different locations but sometimes the hair looks a little wilder than London might expect!), but flew to Rome and found the tramp waiting at Fiumicino (it must have been the threat that if he meandered down too slowly from Venice, the trampess knew her way around Rome sufficiently to find a very nice hotel room!). It was not long before the tramps were installed inside the Circolare on the via Aurelia in a large, quiet and well run campsite. Our neighbours? A family of real gypsies in a brace of caravans. With a supermercato just across the highway (conveniently the campsite had built a pedestrian bridge across it), a Fitness First (yes, really) a five minute drive away, a bus stop at the entrance to the campsite and the metro (a new addition since our first time in Rome) only a short bus ride away, a one month bus/metro pass in their pockets, the tramps were ready to see what it was like to come home.
We never made it. Rome was warm, sunny, cheap and a good place to study voice. The tramp found a teacher on day 1, the trampess found a convent (not to join you understand), which gave tours of Rome to small groups of pilgrims (one church or ancient site a day – not one of those whirlwind see Rome in 24 hours sort of tours) and, of course, arranged papal audiences and masses for the faithful. It was not long before the tramp and trampess married, took up resident in the convent (!! – these were Dutch nuns –highly progressive and delighted to have a tall, strong man accompanying them to the Vatican bank to deposit the cash earned from their small pensione on Piazza Navona and a young, English speaking, educated assistant), and settled in to becoming Romans. We were poor: working for a convent does not come high on the list of well paying jobs; and while our address was one of the best in Rome, our furniture was hand-me-downs from the nuns. Try to imagine just how basic that is! The tramp made our bed (he is good with his hands) and our mattress was made of straw (don’t knock it, the trampess’s mattress at a well known eastern college had also been made of straw). The bathroom was on the other side of the corridor, so one could occasionally bump into the porter or the sacristan or their wives when heading for the tub. We survived on frozen fish (the Romans were deeply sceptical of frozen food so it was very cheap) from China (a highly dubious provenance), chicken livers (incredibly cheap, but locally produced), fresh pasta, and lots of salad, vegetables, cheese and cheap but honest wine (no banana skins or other questionable additives). We learned Italian, read Goethe’s Italienische Reise, worked hard, studied hard, sat in the sun, explored Rome street by street, and strolled from fountain to fountain in the evenings. Every now and then we shared an ice cream (which we never ate sitting down as that made it at least 3 times the price). When the nuns were on holiday in Holland, they allowed us to use their roof terrace: bliss – dinner alfresco with a view from the bell tower of Sant’Agnese over Piazza Navona. If you have to be poor, it doesn’t get better than that.
Of course the first three months were awful: we spoke no Italian, people alternatively took advantage of us or ignored us, the streets were dirty, the driving chaotic, and a shrug was the common answer to any question or complaint. By the time we left, we spoke fluent Italian, we were not taken advantage of or ignored (well, no more than any other Romans), and thanks to the tramp’s decision not to become a professional singer, we could afford to eat meat at home and in restaurants both (the latter a treat previously only as a result of a visit by the trampess’s parents or their friends). For many years after, but BC (before children), the tramps’ holidays always began in Rome. And the Eternal City never disappointed.
But now, the opportunity to return for the first time in a long while, and for some time, suddenly presented itself. Our French friends, who have done so much to introduce us to the joys of Verbier, Salzburg and Vienna, planned to come to Rome for Christmas. It would be churlish of 2 old Romans of no fixed address and with no fixed plans not to head south to be the welcoming team, not to mention chief guide and restaurant selector (in a city of tourists, priests and politicians, it is highly likely that the politicians know the better restaurants, the priests know the cheap but authentic ones and the tourists suffer – it was your trampess’s job to make sure she had the inside track on where the priests and politicians eat).
The trampess had to be back in London for the usual meetings and social whirl (it is hard to switch gears from the low key life of a trampess spending her days in hiking shoes and Patagonia gear to long gowns at Buckingham Palace and dressy evenings at the opera house, but your trampess does her best: it helps that the wardrobes are kept in quite different locations but sometimes the hair looks a little wilder than London might expect!), but flew to Rome and found the tramp waiting at Fiumicino (it must have been the threat that if he meandered down too slowly from Venice, the trampess knew her way around Rome sufficiently to find a very nice hotel room!). It was not long before the tramps were installed inside the Circolare on the via Aurelia in a large, quiet and well run campsite. Our neighbours? A family of real gypsies in a brace of caravans. With a supermercato just across the highway (conveniently the campsite had built a pedestrian bridge across it), a Fitness First (yes, really) a five minute drive away, a bus stop at the entrance to the campsite and the metro (a new addition since our first time in Rome) only a short bus ride away, a one month bus/metro pass in their pockets, the tramps were ready to see what it was like to come home.
Wednesday, 7 January 2009
A Complex Simplicity
You might say, and of course you would be right, that it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that a trip to Venice is not complete without a visit to the doge’s palace or to St Mark’s, and that if one has enough euro’s stashed away a lunch at the Gritti would be, if not the obvious choice, at least one of them. The truth is though that your tramps stayed in Venice a month. A whole glorious month, and they would have stayed longer were it not for their commitment to be in Rome for Christmas and the thought that the weather might not stay quite as welcoming throughout the winter. And while the palace and the basilica were not our daily fare, they informed everything we saw.
The two great luxuries of the tramps’ simple life are flexibility and time: to go anywhere and to stay for as long as one wants. When one carries a carapace, the only meaningful cost is opportunity cost: would I rather be somewhere else. This completely changes the way one views travel. One looks on a new city as a new home, not as a list of things to see or places to visit before one moves on to the next city. The ability to go anywhere anytime, actually, paradoxically, increases the propensity to linger. And lingering makes one feel at home. So the tramps wandered around Venice with ideas, but no fixed programme. They wandered into churches they had never heard of, walked around neighbourhoods that were off the beaten track. Visited the places that other people before them had settled as non Venetians, or as aliens. The two most interesting were the ghetto (who has read Shakespeare and could not visit the ghetto here?) and San Lazzaro degli Armeni, the island, as the name suggests, given to an Armenian refugee in the 18th century, but before that a hospital island for lepers (as the name also suggests, Lazarus being the patron saint of lepers).
The ghetto is easily visited, being in the Cannaregio, and the walk to it can, if one is in a wandering mood, pass by some intriguing stops along the way: the house of Tintoretto – not very imposing on its own and not open to visitors but is distinguished by being in the Fondamenta dei Mori where there are four unusual and amusing (in the case of one) stone carvings of Moors, one in the façade of his house the others in the walls of the little campo at the end of his street.. These are not free standing sculptures but are carved into niches (their elaborate turbans pressing against the carved arch of the niche). The “moors” were 12th century silk merchants from the Peloponnese who took refuge in Venice and built a large palazzo (again distinguished by its unusual exterior decoration of a bas relief of a camel). One of the Moors has had his nose replaced (in the 19th century) with an exaggerated rusty metal one –and is now referred to as “signor Antonio Rioba” the butt of Venetian jokes. The ghetto itself is a small area – it was originally one small island where, in 1516 the Council of Ten decreed all Jews should live. Interestingly, the word ghetto comes from the Venetian “geto” which means foundry, since a foundry had originally occupied the site they were being confined to. Later, of course, the name was given to Jewish enclaves everywhere. The first tall buildings were built here, force majeure, as the population grew to over 5,000 in the 17th century. While only a few of the Jewish families that remain in Venice live in the Ghetto, it is still a centre of Jewish cultural and religious life with synagogues, museum, kosher food shops, a baker, and shops selling religious artefacts. After exploring the area, the tramps found a small restaurant, unpromisingly empty but promisingly simple in its offering and decided to try it. It was wonderful! The tramp ordered a soup to start and when the trampess tasted it she asked immediately for a second spoon but the waiter insisted that it would not take more than a minute to make another portion for her! Dear reader, Italian waiters always want to please, and it was worth the wait (a fresh, and I do mean fresh, zucchini soup), but a minute was a serious exaggeration. Still one should not complain about perfection and your trampess did not! It was followed by a simple grilled fish, which was fresh and tasty, but the soup (helped by it being a cold day and so welcome for its heat alone!) was memorable.
San Lazzaro was another matter. Being a lagoon island it must be reached by boat and being a monastery it is only open to visitors at certain times of the day and then only for a limited time. Logistics were always against us: the opening was from 3:30 – 5:00pm which meant that if we caught the last boat from the island to Venice and then ran across Venice to the Dorsoduro we might just make the last boat back to the WLW. Still it sounded worth the effort: Byron had studied there and declared that it convinced him that not only was there a better life than this one, a better life could be had in this life. Well, if the monks were still doing their work, who knows what the effect would be on the tramp! In any event, after a long walk along the Riva degli Schiavoni and through the Castello (and, of course, the discovery of a small family run fish restaurant that was packed out with locals – excellent fare, simple and inexpensive – in the middle of an area that looked decidedly touristy and unpromising – we won’t even mention the restaurant that we left after a brief discussion with an unfriendly waiter), we made our way to the small boat to San Lazzaro, passing San Servolo along the way (formerly a lunatic asylum for the upper classes– one of the advantages of all these islands, is like Alcatraz, nature is a protective barrier when one wants to use them as “safe houses” – until Napoleon declared the island should be free for all lunatics), an island now used for conservation work and not open to the public.
It may have been an effort to get there, but it was definitely worth the trip and the consequent rush home! The orthodox church was small but a jewel. The lay guide who took us around (us, being all those who were on the boat, a surprisingly large number considering but probably not more than 30) was effusive in his enthusiasm for the beauty of the church, the breadth of the museum’s collection (which includes one of the best preserved Egyptian sarcophagus and mummies in the world – not his favourite but the one the “tourists” come to see), the extensive and important archives (some of the folios are truly breathtaking and as we were enthusiastic, he kept showing us more and more beautiful and important works), and the polyglot printing press which produced works in over 36 languages 200 years ago. The monastery, which is still functioning, is a centre for Armenian culture and there are now more students coming to study with the monks than there are monks. The refectory had some important frescoes and was a reminder that the vows of poverty and obedience are still serious: the table was laid for dinner and it was simple. The monks do not talk during the meal but prayers and readings take place while they eat. One wonders if Byron ate with the monks. The gardens were beautiful and we were left to wander for the few minutes left to us before the sun set and the last boat back to Venice came to fetch us.
Two rich and wonderful days – but so much more to see. Is it any wonder then
The two great luxuries of the tramps’ simple life are flexibility and time: to go anywhere and to stay for as long as one wants. When one carries a carapace, the only meaningful cost is opportunity cost: would I rather be somewhere else. This completely changes the way one views travel. One looks on a new city as a new home, not as a list of things to see or places to visit before one moves on to the next city. The ability to go anywhere anytime, actually, paradoxically, increases the propensity to linger. And lingering makes one feel at home. So the tramps wandered around Venice with ideas, but no fixed programme. They wandered into churches they had never heard of, walked around neighbourhoods that were off the beaten track. Visited the places that other people before them had settled as non Venetians, or as aliens. The two most interesting were the ghetto (who has read Shakespeare and could not visit the ghetto here?) and San Lazzaro degli Armeni, the island, as the name suggests, given to an Armenian refugee in the 18th century, but before that a hospital island for lepers (as the name also suggests, Lazarus being the patron saint of lepers).
The ghetto is easily visited, being in the Cannaregio, and the walk to it can, if one is in a wandering mood, pass by some intriguing stops along the way: the house of Tintoretto – not very imposing on its own and not open to visitors but is distinguished by being in the Fondamenta dei Mori where there are four unusual and amusing (in the case of one) stone carvings of Moors, one in the façade of his house the others in the walls of the little campo at the end of his street.. These are not free standing sculptures but are carved into niches (their elaborate turbans pressing against the carved arch of the niche). The “moors” were 12th century silk merchants from the Peloponnese who took refuge in Venice and built a large palazzo (again distinguished by its unusual exterior decoration of a bas relief of a camel). One of the Moors has had his nose replaced (in the 19th century) with an exaggerated rusty metal one –and is now referred to as “signor Antonio Rioba” the butt of Venetian jokes. The ghetto itself is a small area – it was originally one small island where, in 1516 the Council of Ten decreed all Jews should live. Interestingly, the word ghetto comes from the Venetian “geto” which means foundry, since a foundry had originally occupied the site they were being confined to. Later, of course, the name was given to Jewish enclaves everywhere. The first tall buildings were built here, force majeure, as the population grew to over 5,000 in the 17th century. While only a few of the Jewish families that remain in Venice live in the Ghetto, it is still a centre of Jewish cultural and religious life with synagogues, museum, kosher food shops, a baker, and shops selling religious artefacts. After exploring the area, the tramps found a small restaurant, unpromisingly empty but promisingly simple in its offering and decided to try it. It was wonderful! The tramp ordered a soup to start and when the trampess tasted it she asked immediately for a second spoon but the waiter insisted that it would not take more than a minute to make another portion for her! Dear reader, Italian waiters always want to please, and it was worth the wait (a fresh, and I do mean fresh, zucchini soup), but a minute was a serious exaggeration. Still one should not complain about perfection and your trampess did not! It was followed by a simple grilled fish, which was fresh and tasty, but the soup (helped by it being a cold day and so welcome for its heat alone!) was memorable.
San Lazzaro was another matter. Being a lagoon island it must be reached by boat and being a monastery it is only open to visitors at certain times of the day and then only for a limited time. Logistics were always against us: the opening was from 3:30 – 5:00pm which meant that if we caught the last boat from the island to Venice and then ran across Venice to the Dorsoduro we might just make the last boat back to the WLW. Still it sounded worth the effort: Byron had studied there and declared that it convinced him that not only was there a better life than this one, a better life could be had in this life. Well, if the monks were still doing their work, who knows what the effect would be on the tramp! In any event, after a long walk along the Riva degli Schiavoni and through the Castello (and, of course, the discovery of a small family run fish restaurant that was packed out with locals – excellent fare, simple and inexpensive – in the middle of an area that looked decidedly touristy and unpromising – we won’t even mention the restaurant that we left after a brief discussion with an unfriendly waiter), we made our way to the small boat to San Lazzaro, passing San Servolo along the way (formerly a lunatic asylum for the upper classes– one of the advantages of all these islands, is like Alcatraz, nature is a protective barrier when one wants to use them as “safe houses” – until Napoleon declared the island should be free for all lunatics), an island now used for conservation work and not open to the public.
It may have been an effort to get there, but it was definitely worth the trip and the consequent rush home! The orthodox church was small but a jewel. The lay guide who took us around (us, being all those who were on the boat, a surprisingly large number considering but probably not more than 30) was effusive in his enthusiasm for the beauty of the church, the breadth of the museum’s collection (which includes one of the best preserved Egyptian sarcophagus and mummies in the world – not his favourite but the one the “tourists” come to see), the extensive and important archives (some of the folios are truly breathtaking and as we were enthusiastic, he kept showing us more and more beautiful and important works), and the polyglot printing press which produced works in over 36 languages 200 years ago. The monastery, which is still functioning, is a centre for Armenian culture and there are now more students coming to study with the monks than there are monks. The refectory had some important frescoes and was a reminder that the vows of poverty and obedience are still serious: the table was laid for dinner and it was simple. The monks do not talk during the meal but prayers and readings take place while they eat. One wonders if Byron ate with the monks. The gardens were beautiful and we were left to wander for the few minutes left to us before the sun set and the last boat back to Venice came to fetch us.
Two rich and wonderful days – but so much more to see. Is it any wonder then
Monday, 5 January 2009
Pilgrims, Doges and Refugees
I know no city where the seat of temporal power and the seat of spiritual power were so physically close – touching in fact - and yet where the separation of power was so well defined and respected – and at a time when the Church laid claim to temporal as well as spiritual power – after all, at the time that Venice was ascendant, the Holy Roman Empire did have an army, and quite a considerable one at that. Where else but Venice, two such magnificent buildings, different but contiguous; one dominating the lagoon (the Doge’s palace) and the other dominating the square(St Mark’s basilica); one the outside world, the other the inside? Standing in the piazza, the best place to see the basilica, the palace is only barely visible; standing in the piazzetta (or on a boat in the lagoon), the best place to see the palace, the basilica is only partly visible. And yet, they are attached, and the interior courtyard of the palace affords some of the more interesting views of the basilica (not to mention the views across the courtyard from the doge’s own rooms). Architecture conspires both to connect and to separate, and in connecting does not allow us to forget either, but in separating does not allow us to confuse. A remarkable feat and one I had not thought about before the “special tour”, but I get ahead of myself.
Venetian claims to spiritual importance go back to the stories of St Mark himself since he is supposed to have washed ashore and preached in Venice before going on to Alexandria, where he was buried and from where his relics were removed (some might say stolen, though the view of the Venetians at the time was obviously that taking the bones from a Moslem country and restoring them to a Christian one was an act of piety) to be reburied in a newly built basilica in Venice in 832 AD. Just in case anyone missed the importance of having one of the 4 evangelists buried in their city, the 13th century tympanum mosaic on the front of the later basilica shows the procession of the doge, the bishop and the important men and women of the day, bearing the body of St Mark into the old basilica. It was clear to the Venetians that this was more than sufficient to establish their city as a pre-eminent in the Christian world. And while temporal power may have faded, Venetians might still claim a hold on spiritual power with at least two popes (John XXIII and John Paul I) in recent times going from St Mark’s to St Peter’s.
But if the Church in Venice was remarkable, the government of Venice was no less so and while your trampess is not so naïve to think that their were no intrigues in the government of the doge, one cannot imagine Machiavelli writing quite the same book here as he did in Florence. In fact, the trampess was reminded more of the founding fathers of her motherland and wondered if perhaps Jefferson or Monroe had not modelled the carefully balanced system of executive, legislative and judicial powers on the much earlier Venetian system – a government that was highly democratic and functioned well for several hundred years until Napoleon displaced it in 1797. Well, the Venetians would claim 1,376 years but we can probably assume that the earlier years were not quite so refined and well balanced as to be a model for 18th century democracy. On the other hand, the power of Venice was so great (she ruled Byzantium in the 13th century), that the forces of Spain, France and the Holy Roman Empire combined to try and contain her might. only partly successfully since she continued to dominate the eastern Mediterranean for several hundred years more.
The stability and balance came from the fact that the two highest positions (the doge and the head of the civil service) were held for life (and paid well enough to remove the holders from the temptation of bribes) while the rest of the government rested with the Council of Ten, who were appointed for short, fixed terms to manage certain responsibilities (rather like ministers of state). These men came from the members of the Great Council who represented the oldest families (at first only from the aristocracy later from the established merchant class as well). A list was kept of all the families which were entitled to a seat. By the middle of the 16th century the Great Council numbered 2000. The Council Rooms are the ones one normally visits: full of the displays of power and wealth that one expects from a rich and powerful state. The doge’s office and that of the head of the civil service are not included in the normal tour of the Doges Palace, but can, however, be seen on a rather special tour, which, unusually was discovered by the tramp in his bedtime reading.
I say unusually since the tramp rarely reads guidebooks, leaving that task to the trampess. However, one night he looked up from the Eyewitness guide to Venice and asked if we had ever been on the “itinerari segreti”. Your trampess would have remembered a tour with such an intriguing name and immediately replied in the negative adding a quick interrogative as to the nature of the tour – apart from being secret of course. The tramp knew he had hit on something pretty interesting and passed the book over. Suffice it to say that it is limited to a small group (maximum 25), needs to be pre-booked, is conducted (in our case) by a young, well-educated (a student of government and philosophy) guide, and goes into not the state rooms, but the rooms where government actually took place: interestingly, in a floor between the floors - yes, there is a whole floor, which from the outside of the palace does not appear to be there, but where all the important business was conducted and where all the ministerial and judicial offices existed, – and these rooms are not at all grand (unlike the rooms above and below) – working rooms not representation room. They include small offices (great power in this case did not confer either a large or grand room), the tribunal room, the torture chambers and the judgement room where one of two identical cupboards, unbeknownst to the accused, is actually a door leading directly into the upper storey prison cells (for those accused of lesser crimes) – indeed the door through which Casanova was led to the cell from which he later escaped. One of the secrets we were shown was how he escaped, together with a priest, if I remember correctly. Following that tour, I found it hard to imagine that any government before or since has functioned nearly so well (Casanova’s escape notwithstanding). I am now duty bound to go back to the large tome on Venice by John Julius Norwich that I started some years ago but never had enough time to read for long enough at any one time to really get into. It is clear that I am ready for him now!
Following the success of the temporal tour, the tramp proved ready for a most astonishing spiritual excursion. The tramp, having been raised an extreme anti-papist, normally does not volunteer to attend mass (he is quite happy to visit churches, to look at religious paintings, and to listen to religious music – just as long as it is without the service of a priest, a vicar, or any other holy intervener, no disrespect to any of them), but he did inquire on Saturday afternoon if I intended to go to church the next day. I said I did rather hope to make mass at the basilica but wondered what he would do in the meantime. He suggested that he might come. Well we all know that one stray sheep is worth 10 obedient ones, so I was happy to encourage him to join me. I had assumed 11am for high mass and through the main entrance. Times have changed since I last attended here, and it seems the religious are now sent to the side door – the main entrance being only for tourists! We dutifully went to the side door and were refused entry!! This is a first for your trampess and did not make me feel as if the hope of getting the stray sheep back into the flock was being met with the best efforts. However, it seemed the reason was that high mass started at 10:30 and despite the normal Italian habit of wandering in, and out, and around, at St Mark’s the approach was rather more controlled. It was pointed out to me that there was a mass at 12 and we could come back. Unusually the tramp suggested we have a coffee on the square as it was a nice morning and come back. I needed the coffee to keep from fainting!
We went back at 11:45 to make sure we didn’t suffer the same fate of refusal twice, and were greeted with a smile (the guardian of the door was obviously happy to see we weren’t just tourists trying to sneak in!). The church was fully illuminated and the mosaics, which even in the unlit church are radiant, were simply awe inspiring. A perfect place to prepare for what was to come. I was expecting a simple service, and no music of consequence since it was a low mass, but to my surprise there was a men’s choir from the mountains, who sang splendidly throughout. The priest gave a good sermon, the congregation was mostly Venetian, and no tourists are allowed in during the service. The tramp decided we could come again next week – and we did, to the 10:30 high mass with the basilica’s own choir. Instead of strong, masculine voices standing before us, we had an ethereal choir high above in the choir loft. If we stayed in Venice forever, it is quite possible the tramp would become a monk!
Well, perhaps not a mendicant since we did go from St Mark’s to something altogether rather more indulgent. It was after all a beautiful, sunny day and it would have been a shame (if not an actual sin) to eat indoors. The terrace of the Gritti was waiting and we did not let her down. As we were out of mass earlier this week than last, we arrived, without a reservation, but before the tables were laid. A discreet enquiry put us at a table in the bar/snack area of the terrace from where we secured the tramp’s preferred table when it was ready. The perfect lunch was simplicity itself: mixed grilled fish and vegetables for two with a glass of local white wine for the trampess. It was a very serious mixed grill(both in variety and abundance) but we are serious eaters and tackled it with the enthusiasm it deserved. A very leisurely coffee allowed us to enjoy the sun for some time.
Venetian claims to spiritual importance go back to the stories of St Mark himself since he is supposed to have washed ashore and preached in Venice before going on to Alexandria, where he was buried and from where his relics were removed (some might say stolen, though the view of the Venetians at the time was obviously that taking the bones from a Moslem country and restoring them to a Christian one was an act of piety) to be reburied in a newly built basilica in Venice in 832 AD. Just in case anyone missed the importance of having one of the 4 evangelists buried in their city, the 13th century tympanum mosaic on the front of the later basilica shows the procession of the doge, the bishop and the important men and women of the day, bearing the body of St Mark into the old basilica. It was clear to the Venetians that this was more than sufficient to establish their city as a pre-eminent in the Christian world. And while temporal power may have faded, Venetians might still claim a hold on spiritual power with at least two popes (John XXIII and John Paul I) in recent times going from St Mark’s to St Peter’s.
But if the Church in Venice was remarkable, the government of Venice was no less so and while your trampess is not so naïve to think that their were no intrigues in the government of the doge, one cannot imagine Machiavelli writing quite the same book here as he did in Florence. In fact, the trampess was reminded more of the founding fathers of her motherland and wondered if perhaps Jefferson or Monroe had not modelled the carefully balanced system of executive, legislative and judicial powers on the much earlier Venetian system – a government that was highly democratic and functioned well for several hundred years until Napoleon displaced it in 1797. Well, the Venetians would claim 1,376 years but we can probably assume that the earlier years were not quite so refined and well balanced as to be a model for 18th century democracy. On the other hand, the power of Venice was so great (she ruled Byzantium in the 13th century), that the forces of Spain, France and the Holy Roman Empire combined to try and contain her might. only partly successfully since she continued to dominate the eastern Mediterranean for several hundred years more.
The stability and balance came from the fact that the two highest positions (the doge and the head of the civil service) were held for life (and paid well enough to remove the holders from the temptation of bribes) while the rest of the government rested with the Council of Ten, who were appointed for short, fixed terms to manage certain responsibilities (rather like ministers of state). These men came from the members of the Great Council who represented the oldest families (at first only from the aristocracy later from the established merchant class as well). A list was kept of all the families which were entitled to a seat. By the middle of the 16th century the Great Council numbered 2000. The Council Rooms are the ones one normally visits: full of the displays of power and wealth that one expects from a rich and powerful state. The doge’s office and that of the head of the civil service are not included in the normal tour of the Doges Palace, but can, however, be seen on a rather special tour, which, unusually was discovered by the tramp in his bedtime reading.
I say unusually since the tramp rarely reads guidebooks, leaving that task to the trampess. However, one night he looked up from the Eyewitness guide to Venice and asked if we had ever been on the “itinerari segreti”. Your trampess would have remembered a tour with such an intriguing name and immediately replied in the negative adding a quick interrogative as to the nature of the tour – apart from being secret of course. The tramp knew he had hit on something pretty interesting and passed the book over. Suffice it to say that it is limited to a small group (maximum 25), needs to be pre-booked, is conducted (in our case) by a young, well-educated (a student of government and philosophy) guide, and goes into not the state rooms, but the rooms where government actually took place: interestingly, in a floor between the floors - yes, there is a whole floor, which from the outside of the palace does not appear to be there, but where all the important business was conducted and where all the ministerial and judicial offices existed, – and these rooms are not at all grand (unlike the rooms above and below) – working rooms not representation room. They include small offices (great power in this case did not confer either a large or grand room), the tribunal room, the torture chambers and the judgement room where one of two identical cupboards, unbeknownst to the accused, is actually a door leading directly into the upper storey prison cells (for those accused of lesser crimes) – indeed the door through which Casanova was led to the cell from which he later escaped. One of the secrets we were shown was how he escaped, together with a priest, if I remember correctly. Following that tour, I found it hard to imagine that any government before or since has functioned nearly so well (Casanova’s escape notwithstanding). I am now duty bound to go back to the large tome on Venice by John Julius Norwich that I started some years ago but never had enough time to read for long enough at any one time to really get into. It is clear that I am ready for him now!
Following the success of the temporal tour, the tramp proved ready for a most astonishing spiritual excursion. The tramp, having been raised an extreme anti-papist, normally does not volunteer to attend mass (he is quite happy to visit churches, to look at religious paintings, and to listen to religious music – just as long as it is without the service of a priest, a vicar, or any other holy intervener, no disrespect to any of them), but he did inquire on Saturday afternoon if I intended to go to church the next day. I said I did rather hope to make mass at the basilica but wondered what he would do in the meantime. He suggested that he might come. Well we all know that one stray sheep is worth 10 obedient ones, so I was happy to encourage him to join me. I had assumed 11am for high mass and through the main entrance. Times have changed since I last attended here, and it seems the religious are now sent to the side door – the main entrance being only for tourists! We dutifully went to the side door and were refused entry!! This is a first for your trampess and did not make me feel as if the hope of getting the stray sheep back into the flock was being met with the best efforts. However, it seemed the reason was that high mass started at 10:30 and despite the normal Italian habit of wandering in, and out, and around, at St Mark’s the approach was rather more controlled. It was pointed out to me that there was a mass at 12 and we could come back. Unusually the tramp suggested we have a coffee on the square as it was a nice morning and come back. I needed the coffee to keep from fainting!
We went back at 11:45 to make sure we didn’t suffer the same fate of refusal twice, and were greeted with a smile (the guardian of the door was obviously happy to see we weren’t just tourists trying to sneak in!). The church was fully illuminated and the mosaics, which even in the unlit church are radiant, were simply awe inspiring. A perfect place to prepare for what was to come. I was expecting a simple service, and no music of consequence since it was a low mass, but to my surprise there was a men’s choir from the mountains, who sang splendidly throughout. The priest gave a good sermon, the congregation was mostly Venetian, and no tourists are allowed in during the service. The tramp decided we could come again next week – and we did, to the 10:30 high mass with the basilica’s own choir. Instead of strong, masculine voices standing before us, we had an ethereal choir high above in the choir loft. If we stayed in Venice forever, it is quite possible the tramp would become a monk!
Well, perhaps not a mendicant since we did go from St Mark’s to something altogether rather more indulgent. It was after all a beautiful, sunny day and it would have been a shame (if not an actual sin) to eat indoors. The terrace of the Gritti was waiting and we did not let her down. As we were out of mass earlier this week than last, we arrived, without a reservation, but before the tables were laid. A discreet enquiry put us at a table in the bar/snack area of the terrace from where we secured the tramp’s preferred table when it was ready. The perfect lunch was simplicity itself: mixed grilled fish and vegetables for two with a glass of local white wine for the trampess. It was a very serious mixed grill(both in variety and abundance) but we are serious eaters and tackled it with the enthusiasm it deserved. A very leisurely coffee allowed us to enjoy the sun for some time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)