Tanned Italians, lobster-tinted Anglo-Saxons, private beaches and tawdry glitz. It would be easy to poke fun at the the Italian Riviera if that was all you saw, but the real Cinque Terra is a diverse and supportive community. Beyond the khaki-clad photographer with omnipresent zoom lens, the bands of young holiday makers posing on fisherman's boats, the silly hats and the ridiculous t-shirt slogans in sequins ~ "Individuality Cult 2nd XV" ~ are real people.
The young smiling Franciscan friar dispensing pastoral care with his roped robes and mobile phone, the apprentice campanologist playing scales on the church bells, the baker delivering fresh pastries by trolley, this is what we discovered. You would be hard pressed to realise it but a mere 8 months prior to our visit, torrential rains caused a river of mud to surge through Monterosso inundating stores, houses and hotels. In a tragedy similar to the Canberra firestorm, four people died. Rebuilding the town will take a long time, however this will be a doddle for a resilient people used to adversity delivered over many centuries.
Visiting a freshly tiled and repainted art gallery on Via Roma, we noticed a book titled Monterosso ~ 25 October 2011. Opening it we came across a photograph of our host Baccho, provider of The Best Table in Monterosso, up to his gum booted knees in mud. Smiling broadly, he and his co-worker were sweeping debris off the paving directly outside the studio. One in, all in!.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Cinque Terra
The view from Bar Gio on Monterosso's Via Fegina is spectacular ~ over the striped umbrellas of Stella Marina, shrouded mountains of the five lands cascade into the sea. Impossible terraces line the precipices above houses threatening to topple into the Ligurian at any moment.
At adjacent La Pinette private beach, impossibly brown bodies in bikinis and budgie smugglers lay on hired lettini (sunbeds) under hired ombrelloni (umbrellas). The daily charge of €27 gives you access to the dusty confines of the bagni (beach) and stony shore. If you don't pay, you should take your worthless carcass three metres beyond the enclosure, and install your towel, umbrella and beach toys on the dusty, stoney public beach. Same water, but your stones have not been raked!
Monterosso, our home for three nights, is the most northern of the five towns and villages that form the Cinque Terra, and the largest. Our abode, Hotel Pasquale, is located just beyond the tunnel that bisects Monterosso and incorporates the rocky hillside that defines the town. Our bar fridge sits within a crevice in the stony foundations that anchor the hotel. By the time we had dragged our bags the 800 metre incline from the station we were dripping, and we welcomed the cool confines of Pasquale and our as yet unmade room. "Just give us a few minutes and two beach towels and we will be out of your way" we assured our receptionist.
Feeling refreshed after a dip in the soupy sea, and a minute under the public shower, we adjourned to Bar Ristorante "Il Casello" above the beach. Owner Baccho welcomed us despite my soaked boardies and rash vest, pointing us to chairs near the outside bar. A refreshing cold drink or two later we booked "the best table in Monterosso" for dinner at 7.30. Mussels by the bucket, stuffed mussels and fresh fish with no mussels were taken at TBT overlooking a setting sun followed by a moonlit beach. Fabulous!
The long hot train journey from Lucca via Pisa was beginning to take its toll and we headed back towards the hotel after promising we would return to Il Casello. Despite the hour it would be a shame not to take advantage of the warm night and a cooling gelato was just the other side of the tunnel. The private beaches were being groomed for tomorrow as we joined hundreds of now clothed holiday makers out for a stroll and a piccolo ice.
Forsaking the draw of Monterosso's ombrelloni, we climbed aboard the good ship Euro2 for the round trip to Porto Venere via Vernazza, Manarola and Riomaggiore. Corniglia, between Vernazza and Manarola cannot be accessed by boat and with the temperature pushing 40 degrees access via the walking track was out of the question. Disembarking at Riomaggiore, I took a quick dip from the boat ramp in the beautiful water of the small harbour. Who needs beaches?. This is the real Cinque Terra! We gained a table at Trattoria La Scofliera and ordered calamari from the menu featuring "cucina tipica". The passing parade alone was worth the cost of lunch.
Following lunch our voyage continued to Porto Venere where the real action was occurring. Hundreds of young sunworshippers were stretched out on the hot rocks disporting themselves in even briefer costumes than their elders. This season's bikini bottom features cheeks in abandon and abundance. Hard to believe this is a god fearing nation. Above the towns' ancient battlements seagulls were wheeling about hovering on thermal updrafts just feet away from us. Below, adolescent boys were diving from rocky outcrops hoping to impress adoring girlfriends. We took Camparis at the bar nearest the dock as we waited for our departure time. Large family groups streamed towards the ship as 5.00pm approached. If there is one thing Italy is not short of it is babies. Eurocrisis. What eurocrisis?
At adjacent La Pinette private beach, impossibly brown bodies in bikinis and budgie smugglers lay on hired lettini (sunbeds) under hired ombrelloni (umbrellas). The daily charge of €27 gives you access to the dusty confines of the bagni (beach) and stony shore. If you don't pay, you should take your worthless carcass three metres beyond the enclosure, and install your towel, umbrella and beach toys on the dusty, stoney public beach. Same water, but your stones have not been raked!
Monterosso, our home for three nights, is the most northern of the five towns and villages that form the Cinque Terra, and the largest. Our abode, Hotel Pasquale, is located just beyond the tunnel that bisects Monterosso and incorporates the rocky hillside that defines the town. Our bar fridge sits within a crevice in the stony foundations that anchor the hotel. By the time we had dragged our bags the 800 metre incline from the station we were dripping, and we welcomed the cool confines of Pasquale and our as yet unmade room. "Just give us a few minutes and two beach towels and we will be out of your way" we assured our receptionist.
Feeling refreshed after a dip in the soupy sea, and a minute under the public shower, we adjourned to Bar Ristorante "Il Casello" above the beach. Owner Baccho welcomed us despite my soaked boardies and rash vest, pointing us to chairs near the outside bar. A refreshing cold drink or two later we booked "the best table in Monterosso" for dinner at 7.30. Mussels by the bucket, stuffed mussels and fresh fish with no mussels were taken at TBT overlooking a setting sun followed by a moonlit beach. Fabulous!
The long hot train journey from Lucca via Pisa was beginning to take its toll and we headed back towards the hotel after promising we would return to Il Casello. Despite the hour it would be a shame not to take advantage of the warm night and a cooling gelato was just the other side of the tunnel. The private beaches were being groomed for tomorrow as we joined hundreds of now clothed holiday makers out for a stroll and a piccolo ice.
Forsaking the draw of Monterosso's ombrelloni, we climbed aboard the good ship Euro2 for the round trip to Porto Venere via Vernazza, Manarola and Riomaggiore. Corniglia, between Vernazza and Manarola cannot be accessed by boat and with the temperature pushing 40 degrees access via the walking track was out of the question. Disembarking at Riomaggiore, I took a quick dip from the boat ramp in the beautiful water of the small harbour. Who needs beaches?. This is the real Cinque Terra! We gained a table at Trattoria La Scofliera and ordered calamari from the menu featuring "cucina tipica". The passing parade alone was worth the cost of lunch.
Following lunch our voyage continued to Porto Venere where the real action was occurring. Hundreds of young sunworshippers were stretched out on the hot rocks disporting themselves in even briefer costumes than their elders. This season's bikini bottom features cheeks in abandon and abundance. Hard to believe this is a god fearing nation. Above the towns' ancient battlements seagulls were wheeling about hovering on thermal updrafts just feet away from us. Below, adolescent boys were diving from rocky outcrops hoping to impress adoring girlfriends. We took Camparis at the bar nearest the dock as we waited for our departure time. Large family groups streamed towards the ship as 5.00pm approached. If there is one thing Italy is not short of it is babies. Eurocrisis. What eurocrisis?
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Lucca
If there's one word for Lucca, it would be stylish!. Well dressed citizens occupy restaurant tables eating Tortelli Lucchesi al Ragu Di Chianina, and waving to their passing compadres. Via Fillungo, lined with smart boutiques, is making a brave attempt to introduce this year's Autumn fashions despite temperatures that remain in the high thirties. Mohair against skin? Unthinkable!
We are ensconced in San Luca Palace Hotel, a four star establishment with Byzantine drapes, whisper quiet air conditioning and windows that shut out all but the loudest bicycle bells. Passing cars are limited, allowing Luccans to peddle along balancing babies in baskets while conversing loudly on mobiles. I'm sure some old residents don't require phones as unassisted they can readily be heard in the next piazza. The atmosphere is a pleasant blend of cigars, coffee, garlic and leather. We have booked into the Palace for two nights, but five would have been optimum. Despite lengthy and careful planning, future Italian itineraries will include longer city sojourns.
The European Summer is a great time to escape Canberra's wintry blast, but be warned, travelling by TrenItalia will find you dragging heavy luggage up stairs and onto rail carriages in heatwave conditions. Your Eurail pass may state 1st class, but many trips will be undertaken in regional trains where air conditioning is a myth and blasts of hot wind enter through open windows. Our fortnight long holiday in Cortona ended inauspiciously with the overnight theft of our hire car resulting in we few, we happy band of six catching the 9.21 regional service from Terontola to Firenze. A 35 minute delay had us arriving just as the day's maximum was upgraded to 40+! See you outside the Duomo at 12.15! Long lines at the Uffizi and continued sales throughout Florence put paid to that plan. Kim and I texted Chris wishing them all the best for their trip home, however a misread departure board at S. Maria Novella gave us ample time for a fond farewell. See you in Australie!
We ate dinner in Lucca's Piazza del Palazzo Dipinto under the watchful gaze of a lifesize Giacomo Puccini before returning home to catch some tele. Whoops! Mr Bunga Bunga himself, Silvio Berlusconi, is responsible for some of the worst television ever broadcast ~ Saturday Night Live Italian Style. He should be locked up forever for what he foisted on us: elevator shoe enhanced Italian hosts trading machine-gun repartee with underdressed blondes who introduced "funnymen" and superannuated crooners. We decided an early night was required.
Bliss! Superheated water and an English Breakfast tea bag. Eggs for breakfast and off to the Lucca antique markets for a stroll. Reproductions of old master depictions of Madonna e bambino sat incongruently alongside facades of Il Duce. While Kim purchased earrings from an elegant Cameroon trader, I photographed a trio of dress making dummies au natural. As I perused a stall selling old Italian magazines, an arm hugged my leg just above the knee. A similarly dressed Dutch father laughed as he led a mortified young Hans away.
The temperature was swiftly passing 35 degrees as we took a table at shady Enoteca Calasto for elevenses. Calasto's English proprietor Carole told us they only sourced local produce and wine, and organic when possible. An early lunch seemed the smart thing to do as only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Tortelli Lucchesi for me accompanied by a piccolo bottle of a local beer Le Magnifiche Di Petrognola that uses spelt wheat. Beggars and flower sellers approached patrons as we dined.
Warning Bill Robinson! Warning! My iPhone had gone into meltdown in the soaring temperature and shut down. Sticking closely to the shady side of the street we made our way back through alleys and piazzas past hardy traders to Via San Paolino and our hotel. No sense in getting heat stroke. Buonasera time had arrived by the time we emerged rehydrated and refreshed.
Locals were filling bottles with water from la fontane on Via Della Fratta and small children were running about as evening fell. Despite feasting royally, the extra walking, retracing steps in search of that elusive trattoria seen earlier, meant kilos fall away. Breaking our non-breakable rule ~ never eat at a restaurant next to a hotel ~ crowded tables and the smell of roasting meat induced us to Alberg La Luna. Slabs of Bistecca Florentina sizzled on hot plates at most tables as we ordered our primi. You can't have too many porcinin we decided with Kim selecting Terrina Pecorino e Funghi Porcini and Souffle Di Funghi Porcini Su for Giovanni. Light and delicious! Passing on la Florentina, Kim enjoyed a secondi of Scallopinia al Vino Bianco coated in a sauce of lemon and white wine. My massive pork chop Bistecchina Di Maiale alla Griglia was the tastiest I have ever eaten. Side dishes of haricot beans and patate as accompaniments.
A waiter hovered by "Caffe?, Dolci? Hmmmmmmm..... My Fast Talk Italian states: "Italy is a caffeine-addict's dream with more ways of making the humble brew than you can shake a spoon at". Caffe americano (long and black), caffe ristretto ( short, black and super strong), cappuccino (considered a morning drink) or even caffe alla valdostana (with grappa, lemon peel and spices). No grazie! I responded. Maybe later.
Our towels had been replaced for the second time and our beds were turned down when we returned. That's service!
We are ensconced in San Luca Palace Hotel, a four star establishment with Byzantine drapes, whisper quiet air conditioning and windows that shut out all but the loudest bicycle bells. Passing cars are limited, allowing Luccans to peddle along balancing babies in baskets while conversing loudly on mobiles. I'm sure some old residents don't require phones as unassisted they can readily be heard in the next piazza. The atmosphere is a pleasant blend of cigars, coffee, garlic and leather. We have booked into the Palace for two nights, but five would have been optimum. Despite lengthy and careful planning, future Italian itineraries will include longer city sojourns.
The European Summer is a great time to escape Canberra's wintry blast, but be warned, travelling by TrenItalia will find you dragging heavy luggage up stairs and onto rail carriages in heatwave conditions. Your Eurail pass may state 1st class, but many trips will be undertaken in regional trains where air conditioning is a myth and blasts of hot wind enter through open windows. Our fortnight long holiday in Cortona ended inauspiciously with the overnight theft of our hire car resulting in we few, we happy band of six catching the 9.21 regional service from Terontola to Firenze. A 35 minute delay had us arriving just as the day's maximum was upgraded to 40+! See you outside the Duomo at 12.15! Long lines at the Uffizi and continued sales throughout Florence put paid to that plan. Kim and I texted Chris wishing them all the best for their trip home, however a misread departure board at S. Maria Novella gave us ample time for a fond farewell. See you in Australie!
We ate dinner in Lucca's Piazza del Palazzo Dipinto under the watchful gaze of a lifesize Giacomo Puccini before returning home to catch some tele. Whoops! Mr Bunga Bunga himself, Silvio Berlusconi, is responsible for some of the worst television ever broadcast ~ Saturday Night Live Italian Style. He should be locked up forever for what he foisted on us: elevator shoe enhanced Italian hosts trading machine-gun repartee with underdressed blondes who introduced "funnymen" and superannuated crooners. We decided an early night was required.
Bliss! Superheated water and an English Breakfast tea bag. Eggs for breakfast and off to the Lucca antique markets for a stroll. Reproductions of old master depictions of Madonna e bambino sat incongruently alongside facades of Il Duce. While Kim purchased earrings from an elegant Cameroon trader, I photographed a trio of dress making dummies au natural. As I perused a stall selling old Italian magazines, an arm hugged my leg just above the knee. A similarly dressed Dutch father laughed as he led a mortified young Hans away.
The temperature was swiftly passing 35 degrees as we took a table at shady Enoteca Calasto for elevenses. Calasto's English proprietor Carole told us they only sourced local produce and wine, and organic when possible. An early lunch seemed the smart thing to do as only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun. Tortelli Lucchesi for me accompanied by a piccolo bottle of a local beer Le Magnifiche Di Petrognola that uses spelt wheat. Beggars and flower sellers approached patrons as we dined.
Warning Bill Robinson! Warning! My iPhone had gone into meltdown in the soaring temperature and shut down. Sticking closely to the shady side of the street we made our way back through alleys and piazzas past hardy traders to Via San Paolino and our hotel. No sense in getting heat stroke. Buonasera time had arrived by the time we emerged rehydrated and refreshed.
Locals were filling bottles with water from la fontane on Via Della Fratta and small children were running about as evening fell. Despite feasting royally, the extra walking, retracing steps in search of that elusive trattoria seen earlier, meant kilos fall away. Breaking our non-breakable rule ~ never eat at a restaurant next to a hotel ~ crowded tables and the smell of roasting meat induced us to Alberg La Luna. Slabs of Bistecca Florentina sizzled on hot plates at most tables as we ordered our primi. You can't have too many porcinin we decided with Kim selecting Terrina Pecorino e Funghi Porcini and Souffle Di Funghi Porcini Su for Giovanni. Light and delicious! Passing on la Florentina, Kim enjoyed a secondi of Scallopinia al Vino Bianco coated in a sauce of lemon and white wine. My massive pork chop Bistecchina Di Maiale alla Griglia was the tastiest I have ever eaten. Side dishes of haricot beans and patate as accompaniments.
A waiter hovered by "Caffe?, Dolci? Hmmmmmmm..... My Fast Talk Italian states: "Italy is a caffeine-addict's dream with more ways of making the humble brew than you can shake a spoon at". Caffe americano (long and black), caffe ristretto ( short, black and super strong), cappuccino (considered a morning drink) or even caffe alla valdostana (with grappa, lemon peel and spices). No grazie! I responded. Maybe later.
Our towels had been replaced for the second time and our beds were turned down when we returned. That's service!
Friday, August 17, 2012
Hill towns of Tuscany and Umbria
A trailer packed high with winter firewood, towed by a blue tractor, swayed as it stopped opposite Andry's Bar. We squeezed by, narrowly avoiding an oncoming Alfa, and headed down strada secondaria 442 to Terontola. Ah Terontola!, home of the nearest stazzione and the most inquisitive Italian males. Paulette and Rowanne had attracted their full attention as they waited unaccompanied for the train to Firenze.
Chris piloted the Peugeot past the factory prominently displaying a range of outdoor pizza ovens. Two stories, tiled roofs with chimneys, storage spaces for fuel, an annex for your doggy. You want it, we got it! An adjacent field ploughed for next season's crop was chocolate brown with clods of clay the size of footballs. Despite these fascinating facts, there is not a lot you can say about Terontola, but it is the gateway to many of the hill towns of Central Italy.
Lago Trasimeno, Italy's largest lake, could be glimpsed through larch trees as we bounced along a bridge on our autostrada to Perugia. In Corcinavo, Hotel El Patio had uninterrupted views over an industrial zone. Nearing Perugia, we noted that Assisi was only 25km further on as we exited the motorway to Perugia via Madonna Alma. OK, GPS Jane, do your thing! Now Chris is not a person I normally associate with profanity, but a series of steep hillside diversions and requests to make authorised u-turns when possible, had him riled. Finally "Eureka, it's Europa! (car park)" cooled things down. A series of underground escalators buried in the medieval city of Augusta Perusia delivered us to Piazza Italia.
Perugia has an "interesting" history that is rife with internicine nastiness and incest. The Baglioni and Oddi families waged secret vendettas with each other and had an uncanny knack of backing the loser in wars with the Emperor Augustus and Pope Paul III. Following an unsuccessful assassination attempt on a papal legate, in revenge for his uncle's murder at the hands of the pontiff, Pope Paul came down hard on the last surviving Baglioni. In addition to the imposition of taxes, the Pope had all Perugia's nuns line up to kiss his feet, an experience he reported left him "very greatly edified".
A slow trawl through Galleria Nazionale's extensive collection of Umbrian portraits of Madonna and child is hard work, as the subject matter dictated by Papal edict was limited. You can have Madonna and child alone, Madonna and child with angels, Madonna and child with saints, and Madonna and child with acolytes. We had to wait until Gallery 35 before the first bare breast appeared! A swift visit to Perugia's duomo, described by Frommers as "pretty disappointing", and a circuit of Fontana Maggiore completed our visit. Twice more round the block before we shut Jane down and resorted to the road signs indicating Firenze and home.
Or so we thought! Nearing Il Lago we switched Jane back on for directions for the shortest trip home. Bad move! We now know where the road round the mountain goes. Following a circuitous route over the range, we spotted a partially obscured sign indicating Cortona. Familiar roadside warnings indicating Winter snow levels confirmed we were near home.
Another day, another hill village. Utilising yesterday's magical mystery tour route, we set off for Castilione del Lago, momentarily stopping at Lisciano Niccone for some happy-snaps of Il lago prior to commencing our descent. Circuiting the lake, we encountered an oncoming stream of vehicles transporting families home from Ferere Agosto celebrations. Located on the border of Tuscany and Umbria, Castiglione del Lago sits atop a hilltop that included formidable, if temporary, defence for the Duchy of Perugia in a 7th century siege by Lombardic Tuscany. The ruins of the nearly impregnable pentagon shaped Rocca del Leone were the site for tonight's Rassegna Internazionale Del Folklore, an event completing a festival of entertainment. Remnants of the previous night's performance featuring prog rock tribute bands were scattered about.
Enotecas offering salami and wine tastings were stuffed with the ingredients required in the preparation of Umbrian and Tuscan tipica cuisine. Salami di cinghiali, risotto romantico, dried porcini and Cojoni Di mulo were available in bulk. Enoteca Il Granio Del Lago specialised in truffles and offered cheese with truffles, salami with truffles, truffle flavoured salt and even grappa with truffles! Must try that, maybe next time. Departing, we passed by Chiesa Santa Maria Maddelena where the front portal featured classical Roman columns and the pastoral message board. Confession and Mass schedules competed for space with details of the next pelleginaggios to Lourdes and to Giovanni Paulo II's birthplace in Polonia. Occupying equal billing were details of next week's beach triathlon and this week's lottery results! It's a broad church in Umbria.
Chris piloted the Peugeot past the factory prominently displaying a range of outdoor pizza ovens. Two stories, tiled roofs with chimneys, storage spaces for fuel, an annex for your doggy. You want it, we got it! An adjacent field ploughed for next season's crop was chocolate brown with clods of clay the size of footballs. Despite these fascinating facts, there is not a lot you can say about Terontola, but it is the gateway to many of the hill towns of Central Italy.
Lago Trasimeno, Italy's largest lake, could be glimpsed through larch trees as we bounced along a bridge on our autostrada to Perugia. In Corcinavo, Hotel El Patio had uninterrupted views over an industrial zone. Nearing Perugia, we noted that Assisi was only 25km further on as we exited the motorway to Perugia via Madonna Alma. OK, GPS Jane, do your thing! Now Chris is not a person I normally associate with profanity, but a series of steep hillside diversions and requests to make authorised u-turns when possible, had him riled. Finally "Eureka, it's Europa! (car park)" cooled things down. A series of underground escalators buried in the medieval city of Augusta Perusia delivered us to Piazza Italia.
Perugia has an "interesting" history that is rife with internicine nastiness and incest. The Baglioni and Oddi families waged secret vendettas with each other and had an uncanny knack of backing the loser in wars with the Emperor Augustus and Pope Paul III. Following an unsuccessful assassination attempt on a papal legate, in revenge for his uncle's murder at the hands of the pontiff, Pope Paul came down hard on the last surviving Baglioni. In addition to the imposition of taxes, the Pope had all Perugia's nuns line up to kiss his feet, an experience he reported left him "very greatly edified".
A slow trawl through Galleria Nazionale's extensive collection of Umbrian portraits of Madonna and child is hard work, as the subject matter dictated by Papal edict was limited. You can have Madonna and child alone, Madonna and child with angels, Madonna and child with saints, and Madonna and child with acolytes. We had to wait until Gallery 35 before the first bare breast appeared! A swift visit to Perugia's duomo, described by Frommers as "pretty disappointing", and a circuit of Fontana Maggiore completed our visit. Twice more round the block before we shut Jane down and resorted to the road signs indicating Firenze and home.
Or so we thought! Nearing Il Lago we switched Jane back on for directions for the shortest trip home. Bad move! We now know where the road round the mountain goes. Following a circuitous route over the range, we spotted a partially obscured sign indicating Cortona. Familiar roadside warnings indicating Winter snow levels confirmed we were near home.
Another day, another hill village. Utilising yesterday's magical mystery tour route, we set off for Castilione del Lago, momentarily stopping at Lisciano Niccone for some happy-snaps of Il lago prior to commencing our descent. Circuiting the lake, we encountered an oncoming stream of vehicles transporting families home from Ferere Agosto celebrations. Located on the border of Tuscany and Umbria, Castiglione del Lago sits atop a hilltop that included formidable, if temporary, defence for the Duchy of Perugia in a 7th century siege by Lombardic Tuscany. The ruins of the nearly impregnable pentagon shaped Rocca del Leone were the site for tonight's Rassegna Internazionale Del Folklore, an event completing a festival of entertainment. Remnants of the previous night's performance featuring prog rock tribute bands were scattered about.
Enotecas offering salami and wine tastings were stuffed with the ingredients required in the preparation of Umbrian and Tuscan tipica cuisine. Salami di cinghiali, risotto romantico, dried porcini and Cojoni Di mulo were available in bulk. Enoteca Il Granio Del Lago specialised in truffles and offered cheese with truffles, salami with truffles, truffle flavoured salt and even grappa with truffles! Must try that, maybe next time. Departing, we passed by Chiesa Santa Maria Maddelena where the front portal featured classical Roman columns and the pastoral message board. Confession and Mass schedules competed for space with details of the next pelleginaggios to Lourdes and to Giovanni Paulo II's birthplace in Polonia. Occupying equal billing were details of next week's beach triathlon and this week's lottery results! It's a broad church in Umbria.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
Sotto il Sole Toscana*
*Warning: This blog contains food porn
Entering la citta from Porta Bifora Etrusca, we were confronted by the 1:3 gradient of the stone paved Via Ghibellina. Calves stinging, we sought respite at a wooden tri-level dining platform opposite Ristorante la Bucaccia www.labucaccia.it. Topping up our glasses of Vegna Toscana chardonnay, we perused the menu while gazing down at Val Di Chiana and it's fields of sunflowers and tobacco. Featuring cucina tipica locale, a shared appetiser of salamis was taken as primi piatti before our secondis of pasta arrived.
Remembering previous Italian culinary adventures, I had created a bucket list featuring gnocchi con saffron e walnut and risotto verde prior to leaving home. Given timing and location (Venice and Siena), I remain hopeful of partaking of these dream dishes prior to leaving Tuscany. Any future list will include today's Pranzo pastas. Kim's pappardelle with a wild boar ragu was, in my humble opinion, only slightly pipped by my primi pitti of the house speciality of Il Bucaccia: Thick home-made ribbons of pale potato pasta coated by a creamy sauce of Pecorino cheese and pink peppercorns. Yum, yum! Why do we never see these dishes in Australian restaurants?. Two spoons per favore for "Il nostril gelato ~ Our ice cream". Gelato con I nostri cantucci fresci e Vinsanto, translated as Ice cream with almond biscuits and sweet wine, accompanied by espressos and sambuccas finished us off.
Buongiorno flows into buongiorno when you are in Toscana, broken only by supermercato shopping, swimming and cliff-hugging descents to Camuccia. I know I should include rest, but I didn't come to Southern Europe to sleep. An overnight trip to Venice for Chris, Paulette and Rowanne left Kim and I with the Peugeot 3008 and an unplanned day. Parking in the shade, we entered Cortona by a lesser incline and headed for Via Nazionale where Kim wanted to exchange some leather goods and I could get a haircut.
Tasks completed, we sat at an outdoor table opposite Bar Stucia for a heart-starter. Our pinot grigios arrived accompanied by a plate of mixed appetisers. Thoughtful, and typical of what we have become accustomed to in Italy. Three young men sat at the table adjacent and ordered lunch. Sipping ice-dewed mojitos, they proceeded to greet every other passerby: Ciao Roberto!, Ciao!. Handshakes, backslaps and good natured multi-directional conversation flowed. A waiter approached, attached a circular chrome shelf to their table and placed a basket of bread in it. Ingenious when space is at a premium!
"Scuzzi, uno rose e uno mojito per favore! When in Rome.... Our drinks soon arrived accompanied by another plate of appetisers ~ different, but equally delicious. That's lunch taken care of! Next door, the boys ceased ciao-ing as each received plates presenting two enormous basket-meshed prawns. At nearby Bar 500, two tanned twenty-something's picked desultory at their insalata melon e prosciutto as they checked out the competition performing their passeggiata. Rococco sunglasses threaten to slip their flowing tresses as their heads followed the action.
"Vorrei il conte, per favore", I asked and handed over the €21 to cover our drinks. Appetisers, no charge!
Entering la citta from Porta Bifora Etrusca, we were confronted by the 1:3 gradient of the stone paved Via Ghibellina. Calves stinging, we sought respite at a wooden tri-level dining platform opposite Ristorante la Bucaccia www.labucaccia.it. Topping up our glasses of Vegna Toscana chardonnay, we perused the menu while gazing down at Val Di Chiana and it's fields of sunflowers and tobacco. Featuring cucina tipica locale, a shared appetiser of salamis was taken as primi piatti before our secondis of pasta arrived.
Remembering previous Italian culinary adventures, I had created a bucket list featuring gnocchi con saffron e walnut and risotto verde prior to leaving home. Given timing and location (Venice and Siena), I remain hopeful of partaking of these dream dishes prior to leaving Tuscany. Any future list will include today's Pranzo pastas. Kim's pappardelle with a wild boar ragu was, in my humble opinion, only slightly pipped by my primi pitti of the house speciality of Il Bucaccia: Thick home-made ribbons of pale potato pasta coated by a creamy sauce of Pecorino cheese and pink peppercorns. Yum, yum! Why do we never see these dishes in Australian restaurants?. Two spoons per favore for "Il nostril gelato ~ Our ice cream". Gelato con I nostri cantucci fresci e Vinsanto, translated as Ice cream with almond biscuits and sweet wine, accompanied by espressos and sambuccas finished us off.
Buongiorno flows into buongiorno when you are in Toscana, broken only by supermercato shopping, swimming and cliff-hugging descents to Camuccia. I know I should include rest, but I didn't come to Southern Europe to sleep. An overnight trip to Venice for Chris, Paulette and Rowanne left Kim and I with the Peugeot 3008 and an unplanned day. Parking in the shade, we entered Cortona by a lesser incline and headed for Via Nazionale where Kim wanted to exchange some leather goods and I could get a haircut.
Tasks completed, we sat at an outdoor table opposite Bar Stucia for a heart-starter. Our pinot grigios arrived accompanied by a plate of mixed appetisers. Thoughtful, and typical of what we have become accustomed to in Italy. Three young men sat at the table adjacent and ordered lunch. Sipping ice-dewed mojitos, they proceeded to greet every other passerby: Ciao Roberto!, Ciao!. Handshakes, backslaps and good natured multi-directional conversation flowed. A waiter approached, attached a circular chrome shelf to their table and placed a basket of bread in it. Ingenious when space is at a premium!
"Scuzzi, uno rose e uno mojito per favore! When in Rome.... Our drinks soon arrived accompanied by another plate of appetisers ~ different, but equally delicious. That's lunch taken care of! Next door, the boys ceased ciao-ing as each received plates presenting two enormous basket-meshed prawns. At nearby Bar 500, two tanned twenty-something's picked desultory at their insalata melon e prosciutto as they checked out the competition performing their passeggiata. Rococco sunglasses threaten to slip their flowing tresses as their heads followed the action.
"Vorrei il conte, per favore", I asked and handed over the €21 to cover our drinks. Appetisers, no charge!
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Joy de vivre and La dolce vita
Hi! How's it going out there in the real world?
From what we have heard, winter's icy blasts continue and worrywarts still whinge about the Olympics and the economy. If this is true, I can recommend escaping to the Northern summer. To illustrate, Siena yesterday was hot, crowded and full of happy people eating gelato and rehydrating with frizzante. If anyone was having a whinge, they were either doing so in another language, or were elsewhere. The cafes around Il Campo were filled with holidaying Italians and foreigners enjoying lunch and views across the square. Arrangements are being made for next week's Palio with scarred wooden barriers erected to mark the racecourse.
Which Contrada (neighbourhood) will survive the three laps and have their colours carried to victory? Will the priest's blessing of the horse in church be successful, and will the blessed horse defecate during the blessing ~ a sign of good luck! Which mascot will be painted on the winning Palio (banner)? Will it be the porcupine, unicorn or wolf? Tune in again next week for the results. Either way, it will be a helterskelter affair with mercenary jockeys tumbling from barebacks at every treacherous turn!
A month has now passed since we arrived in Paris, and it would seem appropriate to reminisce on Joy de vivre and La dolce vita. The weather is perfect, if hot. Nectarines are ripe and juicy, and dining French children are very well behaved ~ due apparently to the watered-down wine served from an early age. Local wines are excellent and great value, however Camilla refuses to drink any rose cheaper than €3 a bottle! Umbrian and Tuscan vino is light and a perfect accompaniment for Insalata Caprese and Vitello Tonnana. Mustard is plentiful in French supermaches, but sparse in Italian mercados ~ cuisines so closely located, but so different. Food is seasonal and with good reason, it is all so delicious. Oh yeah, have I mentioned the Aussie was €0.86 at last count and going up?
Shops close at midday and reopen at 3.00pm; even our local boozer Andry's Bar closes for lunch. Community bottle banks are filled to overflowing but no one ever seems drunk. Racial stereotypes remain with Mancunians complaining about Londoners, and American retirees discuss golf and the stock market instead of the wonderful view from Plaza Garibaldi. Suede loafers are everywhere and Belgians seem to have assumed the mantle of Europe's hikers with their backpacks, saddles and socks. Women are respected, with no discrimination accepted.
Houses are ancient, or made to appear so, with European plumbing a complete mystery. Lombardy cypresses are sillouetted against ochre hills and beaches from the Cote d'Azure to the Ligurian Sea are stony, dusty and populated by fat northern European men in speedos ~ sorry about that!. Although we ate like master chefs at La Table d'Emilie in Marseillan, Marseillan Plage resembled The Entrance with go-karts and dodge-ems.
Our houses at Seillans and Montanare both come with cats and dogs and Italian bees are on steroids. Each day is greeted with a wispy cloud streaked morning and evenings close with thanks we are high above the heat haze of the valleys below. Dinner is invariably taken at 10.00pm.
From what we have heard, winter's icy blasts continue and worrywarts still whinge about the Olympics and the economy. If this is true, I can recommend escaping to the Northern summer. To illustrate, Siena yesterday was hot, crowded and full of happy people eating gelato and rehydrating with frizzante. If anyone was having a whinge, they were either doing so in another language, or were elsewhere. The cafes around Il Campo were filled with holidaying Italians and foreigners enjoying lunch and views across the square. Arrangements are being made for next week's Palio with scarred wooden barriers erected to mark the racecourse.
Which Contrada (neighbourhood) will survive the three laps and have their colours carried to victory? Will the priest's blessing of the horse in church be successful, and will the blessed horse defecate during the blessing ~ a sign of good luck! Which mascot will be painted on the winning Palio (banner)? Will it be the porcupine, unicorn or wolf? Tune in again next week for the results. Either way, it will be a helterskelter affair with mercenary jockeys tumbling from barebacks at every treacherous turn!
A month has now passed since we arrived in Paris, and it would seem appropriate to reminisce on Joy de vivre and La dolce vita. The weather is perfect, if hot. Nectarines are ripe and juicy, and dining French children are very well behaved ~ due apparently to the watered-down wine served from an early age. Local wines are excellent and great value, however Camilla refuses to drink any rose cheaper than €3 a bottle! Umbrian and Tuscan vino is light and a perfect accompaniment for Insalata Caprese and Vitello Tonnana. Mustard is plentiful in French supermaches, but sparse in Italian mercados ~ cuisines so closely located, but so different. Food is seasonal and with good reason, it is all so delicious. Oh yeah, have I mentioned the Aussie was €0.86 at last count and going up?
Shops close at midday and reopen at 3.00pm; even our local boozer Andry's Bar closes for lunch. Community bottle banks are filled to overflowing but no one ever seems drunk. Racial stereotypes remain with Mancunians complaining about Londoners, and American retirees discuss golf and the stock market instead of the wonderful view from Plaza Garibaldi. Suede loafers are everywhere and Belgians seem to have assumed the mantle of Europe's hikers with their backpacks, saddles and socks. Women are respected, with no discrimination accepted.
Houses are ancient, or made to appear so, with European plumbing a complete mystery. Lombardy cypresses are sillouetted against ochre hills and beaches from the Cote d'Azure to the Ligurian Sea are stony, dusty and populated by fat northern European men in speedos ~ sorry about that!. Although we ate like master chefs at La Table d'Emilie in Marseillan, Marseillan Plage resembled The Entrance with go-karts and dodge-ems.
Our houses at Seillans and Montanare both come with cats and dogs and Italian bees are on steroids. Each day is greeted with a wispy cloud streaked morning and evenings close with thanks we are high above the heat haze of the valleys below. Dinner is invariably taken at 10.00pm.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Cortona Festivali
The August heat haze has obscured our hilltop view of the Tuscan countryside, and a long line of vehicles has obscured our chances of parking near an entrance to Citta Di Cortona. Italians are enjoying their summer break Feria d'Agosto, and have arrived like invading hordes to attend the final night of the initial Cortona Mix Festival. Chris directed me with great care as we parallel-parked the Peugeot 3008 at the end of a long line of vehicles disgorging visitors. Hopefully, the automatic hand brake will hold, for a closer encounter with the stone "base medioevali" does not bear thinking about.
The Mix Music Festival promises a multinational smorgasbord of performers and cultural gems, and has been our option since about lunchtime. The primo alternate was the 35th staging of Sagra Del Cinghiale (Festival of the Wild Boar) where boar prosciutto, ragu and biftecca would be on offer. A Serat Danzante (night of dancing) was also promised. A languid lunch, followed by a bottle of limoncello, meant we would not make the commencement time of 7.30 and so opted for the Mix. As it turned out we would have had difficulty making the closing.
Entering la Citta via Porta Colonia, we walked up Via Dardano towards the festival's lights and sounds, that could just be heard over the rumbling of our stomachs. Agreeing more food was a good option, we turned down Vicolo Mancini towards Ristorante L.B.D.O. La cuchina of La Bottega dell'Oste was still cooking and the outdoor tables were vacant. Rowanne explained our plight and we were soon examining the menu. Three pastas and two bistecca for primi secondi (no primi piatti), with accompanying vegetables "contorni" plus acquas naturale and frizzante. A spirited discussion of a past book club selection appeared to puzzle the young American couple at the adjacent table, but we were past caring, for even a whispered conversation would have reverberated in those patinaed walls. Ominously, the Festival had gone quiet ~ had we left our run too late?.
Satisfied, we walked towards Piazza Signorelli where the enthusiastic reception of a presumably popular artist could be heard. Taking up a position just beyond a braid be-decked comando compagnia of the carbineri, we had a great view of the stage where multi-levels of musicians were performing. A young guitar-strumming male sang as the multi cultural ensemble took directions from two conductors. Sporting papal headwear, a flute-weaving director cavorted like Jethro Tull. We almost expected him to stand on one leg. The other, clad in white Arabic robes, enthusiastically urged the creation of a mosh pit but to no avail. A full woodwind section, supported by brass, timpani, more guitarists and a percussionist with bodhran played a selection of pieces guaranteed to please the holidaying invaders. An interesting final composition incorporating Dick Dale's Miserlou accompanied us as we made our way back towards the car and the road home.
Limoni and pistaccio ices from Gelatoria Snoopy sweetened our departure.
The Mix Music Festival promises a multinational smorgasbord of performers and cultural gems, and has been our option since about lunchtime. The primo alternate was the 35th staging of Sagra Del Cinghiale (Festival of the Wild Boar) where boar prosciutto, ragu and biftecca would be on offer. A Serat Danzante (night of dancing) was also promised. A languid lunch, followed by a bottle of limoncello, meant we would not make the commencement time of 7.30 and so opted for the Mix. As it turned out we would have had difficulty making the closing.
Entering la Citta via Porta Colonia, we walked up Via Dardano towards the festival's lights and sounds, that could just be heard over the rumbling of our stomachs. Agreeing more food was a good option, we turned down Vicolo Mancini towards Ristorante L.B.D.O. La cuchina of La Bottega dell'Oste was still cooking and the outdoor tables were vacant. Rowanne explained our plight and we were soon examining the menu. Three pastas and two bistecca for primi secondi (no primi piatti), with accompanying vegetables "contorni" plus acquas naturale and frizzante. A spirited discussion of a past book club selection appeared to puzzle the young American couple at the adjacent table, but we were past caring, for even a whispered conversation would have reverberated in those patinaed walls. Ominously, the Festival had gone quiet ~ had we left our run too late?.
Satisfied, we walked towards Piazza Signorelli where the enthusiastic reception of a presumably popular artist could be heard. Taking up a position just beyond a braid be-decked comando compagnia of the carbineri, we had a great view of the stage where multi-levels of musicians were performing. A young guitar-strumming male sang as the multi cultural ensemble took directions from two conductors. Sporting papal headwear, a flute-weaving director cavorted like Jethro Tull. We almost expected him to stand on one leg. The other, clad in white Arabic robes, enthusiastically urged the creation of a mosh pit but to no avail. A full woodwind section, supported by brass, timpani, more guitarists and a percussionist with bodhran played a selection of pieces guaranteed to please the holidaying invaders. An interesting final composition incorporating Dick Dale's Miserlou accompanied us as we made our way back towards the car and the road home.
Limoni and pistaccio ices from Gelatoria Snoopy sweetened our departure.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Out to Grasse
My preconceived idea of Grasse (salons staffed by slim waisted, nattily dressed, French gays proferring perfume), was shattered as soon as we turned down Rue Jean Oseda. Sure, there were wall to wall perfumeries selling scents, savons and essences, but there was something else I couldn't put my finger on, something else in the air. Camilla, Sue and Kim stepped up into the packed perfumery, too packed for me as I headed outside into the shade to wait. An ice cream stall was doing good business and soon I was slurping on my new favorite glacé - lemon meringue pie!
A lunch had been enjoyed earlier in Fayence at L'Auberge Fleures where mine host was tres disappointed we did not partake of three courses with wine. A lemon meringue glacé taken at leisure was just about right. Ascending Rue Admiral de Grasse, we dipped in and out of boutiques with Kim buying jewelery, Camilla searching for that elusive orange based perfume and Sue offering advice. The tourist-filled Le petite Train De Grasse in miniature yellow ran counterclockwise to our path. A plaque dedicated to Amiral De Grasse, un "Heros de Independance Americaine" was attached to the wall above. Faded ochre and juane walls enclosing paved paths promised allure just around the bend below.
As we walked down Rue des Fabreries, passing shops and artists studios, we noticed Grasse had definite Moorish influences. That's what I had been sensing and was confirmed when an ice-cream induced thirst thrust me into a tiny Algerian convenience store. Inside, a jellaba wearing customer was debating the quality of a box of figs. The proprietor, surrounded by his family, were assuring the providence of said produce to the grizzled ancient. A ginger moggie slinked around legume filled hessian sacks.
The last bus to Seillans was scheduled to depart at ten past six. Feigning olefactory overload, I left the girls to their shopping and headed up Rue de l'Oratorians where the facade of the 17th Century Eglise de l'Oratoire was undergoing restoration. The well preserved medieval facade was home to the Oratorians from 1632 and featured Gothic portals and windows. I was feeling a touch medieval myself by now.
Reaching Place de Aires, I observed a force of policemen carrying out rego checks and writing parking tickets. Now this was the strangest thing I had seen since arriving in France! It is a Frenchman's God given right, nay purpose, to achieve the most imaginative parking possible ~ perched on the sidewalk, shoehorned into alleys and parked directly on pedestrian crossings, filling a space with one's voiteur is de riguere.
A long afternoon's shopping takes it out of you and we eagerly approached the 3001 bus and it's comfy seats. Offering to purchase the tickets, I approached the front door and stood in line. Sue giggled as I was confronted by an eye-level view of the short-clad posteriors of three young girls - shorts are being worn very short in Grasse this year! Our driver, sporting a cut-off denim jacket and grown-out Mohawk, prised the €12 from my sweating palm and smirked "Merci, Monsieur". Joan (as in Jett), eased her Varlib steed out of the station onto Allee du 8 Mai 1945 and thence into Avenue onze Novembre for the bumper to bumper crawl downhill. Descending, we passed Les Offeres Historique Citroen specialising in 2CV's. We passed through neighbourhoods that reinforced our Moorish sightings. Billboards plastered the bus stop at La Roq announcing Dr Feelgood were appearing on Friday. I wonder who was replacing Lee Brilleux following his unfortunate demise at the hands of the rock'n roll lifestyle?
High-rise apartment blocks clinging precariously to the rocky hillside, were located adjacent to Clinique Vetinai where only well-groomed pets were treated for ailments. Nearby, the verdant plant coverage contrasted pleasingly with the faded pink stucco of Stade RC Grasse. Joan throttled back through the gears to slow our ride through the leafy neighbourhoods of Peyminaid and the village's heart of coiffures, boulangeries and Agence Immobiliers. Around about this time I began to wonder whether another remake of The Italian Job was being cast for Joan was doing a sterling job auditioning for the part of the bus driver.
As we approached Ville de Montaroux, the street narrowed and a Peugeot Jumpy earned its name as it and Le bus got rather intimate! In passing, I believe the relationship only got as far as the promise to exchange coats of paint at some future point. I'm considering writing to the Conseil General du Var to congratulate him on Joan's engagement. Above her head a selection of eight red glass breaking implements (issue de devours) hung like notches on her belt. Passing Callian, I was close enough to Le Terrace to order a pastis. We were inclined to ask Joan if she issued implements to purchase travel snacks! Rounding a curve, a castle on the skyline completed the evening vista. And all for €3 each!
"Tres formidable!" I called out as we exited at L'arrette Seillans.
A lunch had been enjoyed earlier in Fayence at L'Auberge Fleures where mine host was tres disappointed we did not partake of three courses with wine. A lemon meringue glacé taken at leisure was just about right. Ascending Rue Admiral de Grasse, we dipped in and out of boutiques with Kim buying jewelery, Camilla searching for that elusive orange based perfume and Sue offering advice. The tourist-filled Le petite Train De Grasse in miniature yellow ran counterclockwise to our path. A plaque dedicated to Amiral De Grasse, un "Heros de Independance Americaine" was attached to the wall above. Faded ochre and juane walls enclosing paved paths promised allure just around the bend below.
As we walked down Rue des Fabreries, passing shops and artists studios, we noticed Grasse had definite Moorish influences. That's what I had been sensing and was confirmed when an ice-cream induced thirst thrust me into a tiny Algerian convenience store. Inside, a jellaba wearing customer was debating the quality of a box of figs. The proprietor, surrounded by his family, were assuring the providence of said produce to the grizzled ancient. A ginger moggie slinked around legume filled hessian sacks.
The last bus to Seillans was scheduled to depart at ten past six. Feigning olefactory overload, I left the girls to their shopping and headed up Rue de l'Oratorians where the facade of the 17th Century Eglise de l'Oratoire was undergoing restoration. The well preserved medieval facade was home to the Oratorians from 1632 and featured Gothic portals and windows. I was feeling a touch medieval myself by now.
Reaching Place de Aires, I observed a force of policemen carrying out rego checks and writing parking tickets. Now this was the strangest thing I had seen since arriving in France! It is a Frenchman's God given right, nay purpose, to achieve the most imaginative parking possible ~ perched on the sidewalk, shoehorned into alleys and parked directly on pedestrian crossings, filling a space with one's voiteur is de riguere.
A long afternoon's shopping takes it out of you and we eagerly approached the 3001 bus and it's comfy seats. Offering to purchase the tickets, I approached the front door and stood in line. Sue giggled as I was confronted by an eye-level view of the short-clad posteriors of three young girls - shorts are being worn very short in Grasse this year! Our driver, sporting a cut-off denim jacket and grown-out Mohawk, prised the €12 from my sweating palm and smirked "Merci, Monsieur". Joan (as in Jett), eased her Varlib steed out of the station onto Allee du 8 Mai 1945 and thence into Avenue onze Novembre for the bumper to bumper crawl downhill. Descending, we passed Les Offeres Historique Citroen specialising in 2CV's. We passed through neighbourhoods that reinforced our Moorish sightings. Billboards plastered the bus stop at La Roq announcing Dr Feelgood were appearing on Friday. I wonder who was replacing Lee Brilleux following his unfortunate demise at the hands of the rock'n roll lifestyle?
High-rise apartment blocks clinging precariously to the rocky hillside, were located adjacent to Clinique Vetinai where only well-groomed pets were treated for ailments. Nearby, the verdant plant coverage contrasted pleasingly with the faded pink stucco of Stade RC Grasse. Joan throttled back through the gears to slow our ride through the leafy neighbourhoods of Peyminaid and the village's heart of coiffures, boulangeries and Agence Immobiliers. Around about this time I began to wonder whether another remake of The Italian Job was being cast for Joan was doing a sterling job auditioning for the part of the bus driver.
As we approached Ville de Montaroux, the street narrowed and a Peugeot Jumpy earned its name as it and Le bus got rather intimate! In passing, I believe the relationship only got as far as the promise to exchange coats of paint at some future point. I'm considering writing to the Conseil General du Var to congratulate him on Joan's engagement. Above her head a selection of eight red glass breaking implements (issue de devours) hung like notches on her belt. Passing Callian, I was close enough to Le Terrace to order a pastis. We were inclined to ask Joan if she issued implements to purchase travel snacks! Rounding a curve, a castle on the skyline completed the evening vista. And all for €3 each!
"Tres formidable!" I called out as we exited at L'arrette Seillans.
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