So here it is--my love letter to Italy. If you can possibly read it while slowly sipping an Aperol spritz I can't see how that wouldn't make you feel just a bit more of the amore.
As our plane slowly descended toward Malpensa airport just outside of Milan, I already felt the magic. The countryside. Tiny farmhouses dotting huge expanses of green. I wondered if those houses had been there for hundreds of years. Not the ones with the backyard in-ground pools. Those probably were slightly newer. But the other ones. Who built them? Were the people living there rooted to that land for centuries? Might there be wood-fired ovens in their kitchens, ready to bake a Margherita pizza any night of the week? (It's possible I have a tendency to romanticize Italy. I probably could have gotten mugged on our trip and I'm confident I would retell the tale in such a way that you would wish you had been mugged with me).
We hadn't even landed yet and I was enamored. Deeply. That's Italy's effect on me.
Italy transforms the ordinary to extraordinary, the mundane to the spiritual. If you asked me how we got from the airport to our hotel in Milan, I would happily, dreamily recount the journey, which in reality involved figuring out what train to board, where to get off said train, and then navigating a couple of city streets to arrive at our destination. It wasn't a particularly long or difficult trek, but I'm pretty sure that I could describe the hour-long trip in such a way as to convince you that it was a holy pilgrimage, at the end of which we were rewarded with warmth, hospitality, a beautiful room AND (bonus!) a bottle of champagne (thanks Mom and Dad).
I will not, however, regale you with the story of a short train ride and a ten minute walk. Again, I could. Regale you, I mean. You definitely would be enthralled (with the way I would tell it; maybe not the way Dave would tell it). But there's a better story that comes right after that one, so let's start there. We've checked into our hotel in Milan. Which is beautiful. Marble floors. Sleek lines. Chic furniture.
After a short rest, we decide to explore. We head out in search of the Duomo cathedral, which is the heart of Milan. We wind through a few small streets, onto a bigger street, onto a bigger street, come around a corner and BAM!, out of nowhere we are hit with this view.
The Duomo. It is imposing. It is breath-taking. It is a cathedral. I get that. Generally, if you're going to give your church such a title, it would not be unexpected that it would be rather grand. But words just can't. I can't even finish that sentence. I've seen cathedrals before. Not like this. You should go there. Because that's the only way you're going to understand its magnificence. So since words utterly fail me with regard to this masterpiece, I'm going to move on. Otherwise it's just not fair to the Duomo.
Milano. Where the gelato shop to human ratio is about 1:1. I am not complaining about that. I'm also being semi-serious. You cannot walk a block without encountering a tiny little storefront that has twenty flavors of homemade, creamy deliciousness. (side note, America: nowhere in Italy are you going to find "artisanal" flavors like olive-oil/tomato or carrot/habanero) We had gelato every. single. day. in Milan, sometimes twice a day. I regret not having it a third time.
Milan, like every Italian city I presume, has delicious food. Our first dinner was alfresco at a street-side cafe--just what you'd picture. Charming waiter, great pizza, late-night romantic atmosphere, cathedral in the background. It was our second dinner, however, that was the more memorable. We had asked our hotel staff for a recommendation, and they directed us to a tiny restaurant literally around the corner--maybe forty steps away, named Andry. Our dinner began with our waiter presenting us each with a glass of prosecco (and really, isn't that how every meal should begin?). As we perused the menu a small basket of focaccia arrived. We ordered wine. We ordered dinner--crab pasta for Dave, cacio e pepe for me. Mine was divine. There's not much to cacio e pepe, as the name suggests. Pasta, cheese, pepper. That's pretty much it. But if you do it right--deliciozo, and mine was definitely done right. Dave's, unfortunately, was not great. And that might be an understatement. It was downright inedible. Suffice it to say there should not be crab pasta offered if you're down to the dregs of the crab meat. However, the waiter was attentive and noticed that Dave was not eating his dish. He offered that they would make him whatever he wanted to replace it and Dave ended up with a shrimp pasta dish that was not just delicious but beautiful! The shrimp were some special variety that are this vibrant red that honestly neither of us had ever seen in a shrimp before. A feast for the eyes and the appetite. We had a second glass of wine and cleaned our plates. At which point the waiter (and if memory serves we now might have had two waiters attending to our every need) brought us each a limoncello because again, isn't that how every meal should conclude? And just for fun, they then brought us each a meloncello, which is like drinking a shot of creamy cantaloupe with a kick. Just amazing. This is how dinner goes in Italy. It takes a couple of hours, but it's relaxed. It's yummy. It's friendly. No one is trying to get you to eat faster so they can have the table. You can stay all night drinking digestifs and chatting it up with the wait staff, who are all utterly endearing, especially if you are trying to speak Italian with them. Even if you can't really speak Italian.
So that was our night at Andry.
In the next several days in Milan we walked around gazing at the sights and people watching, but again and again we found ourselves at the Duomo. The enormity, the mystery, the beauty--it's like Italy built a church that perfectly proclaims itself.
After a few days of circling the Duomo and enjoying the elegance of Milan, we boarded a train for Genoa.
Before I go any further, a brief word regarding navigating (some) Italian cities with your iPhone.
Ha! Good luck! Your state-of-the-art device may be fantastic for the organized grids of New York City or the planned neighborhoods of San Francisco, but "Maps" will not do you much good in the vexingly narrow vicoli of Genoa.
Genoa rises up from its port into the hills above it by way of a scramble of tiny alleys (vicoli) and streets (vico) called the caruggi. I can't stress this enough--there is no rhyme or reason to this perplexing maze. Street signs don't exist. You might occasionally find the name of a vico or a piazza stenciled onto a building on a corner. But you most likely will not. Ninety degree corners are rare. The most impossibly tiny alleyways (if you raise your arms up on either side of you you're touching the walls) connect to piazzas with, sometimes, nothing, in them.
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| This is the sketchy alley that we had to take to get to our hotel. It's a tad sketchier at night. |
Or they connect to piazzas with still-functioning ninth century churches situated next to the Italian version of CVS. Not kidding. Below is a picture of the piazza in which our hotel was situated. That is the entire piazza, by the way. The designation of piazza has nothing to do with the size of the space--it just denotes a public area. Our hotel is on the left. A tiny cafe that opened at random hours I could never quite figure out is in the middle at the far end. And a church is on the right. The middle area is the piazza.
Our hotel, the Palazzo Grillo, was once one of the many palaces of one of the many royal families of Genoa. Every "palazzo" seemed to have its own piazza with its own church. Here's the carving on the side of our piazza's church:
Pulling from my extensive fluency in Italian, this says that Guido and Oberto built this church in the year 980. 980! And it's still standing. And used for services. And open to the public at no charge. I walked in one afternoon because I saw the door was slightly open. Based on its age and its outside appearance (a relatively small, white marble box with a few columns--nothing fancy or intricate as you can see from the piazza picture above) I was not expecting much. Here's what I found:
That, folks, is the magic of Italy. And this picture doesn't even remotely do the interior justice. It's spectacular. From the murals on the ceilings to the spiral staircase leading to the "royalty seat" (look at the third column from back left) to the intricately carved arches, this is a beautiful church that is well over one-thousand years old. Europeans hadn't even made it to the New World when this church was built. Again, it was twenty feet from the door of our hotel, in a piazza that is not distinguished from any other small piazza. This is just commonplace stuff in Genoa, in Italy. There's beauty and mystery in every little crevice, often times where you would least expect it.
Dave and I had fun exploring Genoa. I was directionally challenged the entire time. The vico and vicoli confused me--they didn't go in straight lines and they were often so tiny I couldn't tell one from another. Dave was masterful at this, however, and always seemed to know how to get where we were going. He was the hero of our first night in Genoa for two reasons: first, he got us to the restaurant which had been recommended to us by the nice man who ran the cafe outside our hotel door, and second because he got us home from the restaurant after several glasses of wine and a couple shots of limoncello, each. (And incidentally, in my opinion, the streets of Genoa are much less frustrating and way more fun when you're several drinks into it...)
The restaurant our first night in Genoa was called Antico Osterio di Vico Palla. Memorable. In all of the very best ways. Very difficult to find, but unforgettable once you get there.
We were quite Italian that night in that I believe we sat down for dinner around 9pm (again, getting there was not easy). Our waiter handed us the chalkboard with the menu, which was 100% in Italian. I can translate basics, but I was at a loss for most of what was on that board. The head waiter, quite graciously, went through the entire menu with us. It was not a short menu. He was very kind.
We ate a lot of food that night. And every. single. bite. of it was good. One of their specialties was sautéed octopus. Not squid. Actual octopus. We shared it as an appetizer and it arrived looking like a lot of octopus tentacles, which was a little disconcerting.
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| Side note: I did not take this picture. It's from the Vico di Palla website. |
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| Again, not my photograph but this is what my pesto looked like. |
The pesto itself was amazing, but the noodle added to its glory. Fresh and herby and velvety, the pesto covered very thin sheets of house-made pasta that were shaped like lasagna noodles but wider. This is starting to sound like a restaurant review instead of the tales of our adventures, but in my defense the food on this trip should have a blog of its own.
Contributing to the magic of this dinner was the wait staff, who were all outfitted in t-shirts with various Italian "sayings". I asked our waiter what his said, and he was hesitant to tell me, giving me the "no, no, you don't want to know" signal. I persisted, telling him that there is nothing he could say that would offend me, and I was rewarded with him telling us that his shirt reads, "You cannot suck and blow at the same time." No joke! And this is a family restaurant! Everyone in there, tiny tikes included, could read his shirt. I just love that. I asked our busboy what his shirt said and he blushed and ran away so quickly that I had to again ask our waiter for a translation. "If your pee pee is small, don't worry about the women and just start drinking."
I don't think I can adequately convey the fun we had at Vico di Pallo, from start to finish. It is most definitely a local restaurant, not a tourist hangout, and yet we were treated like we were family. Our meal concluded, as was clearly the tradition and who are we to buck tradition, with shots of limoncello. Two, to be exact. Each. At the bar as we paid our bill, we were gifted with a literal parting shot of some raspberry liqueur that we have yet to identify but was quite delicious (I mean, what's NOT delicious after two glasses of wine and two shots of limoncello). And as I mentioned earlier, Dave was the hero of the night for somehow getting us back to our hotel. Honestly, he's a hero just for remembering the name of our hotel. It was a fun night.
Genoa is such an interesting city, so unlike any other Italian city I had ever visited. It has a very gritty vibe to it--not in a bad way. It is an ancient city, a working-class city, a port city that once was home to royalty, religious and political leaders. It's a city of contrasts. We walked to Piazza Ferrari to see the beautiful modern fountain, and found that it is right at the foot of what is considered the first bank in Genoa, which was founded in the early 1400's.
We took a funicular (which was crazy hard to find) up a hillside to get a breathtaking view of Genoa. The city is just crammed together--a jumble of buildings so crammed together you can't really see between them. But it is spectacular.
And just like that it was time to eat dinner again! We asked the young man at the front desk of our hotel if he had a recommendation for somewhere we could go that was where he would take his grandmother, and first on his list was Vico di Pallo. We were in good hands, clearly. His second recommendation was a place called Il Genovese, which he said was a very old place frequented by locals and had not only great pesto (my request) but also he told us we had to try the specialty, "salsa di noci". We set out across the city to find Il Genovese.
The tiny little alleys and vicoli are fascinating, but not particularly beautiful. There are parts of Genoa, however, that are breathtaking, and we walked right through one on our way to dinner. Via XX Settembre looks as if it's a movie set rather than an actual working boulevard with wide, covered sidewalks.
Above is one section of the covered shop entrances on one side of Via XX Settembre. Below is another section of the SIDEWALK on Via XX Settembre. Note the mosaic floors and beautiful ceilings, along with the striped marble work of the arches. This area was built in the late 1800's but looks as if it's a thousand years old in terms of its style. It's just stunning. We had a lovely walk to and from Il Genovese.
We arrived at Il Genovese after a nice half hour brisk walk only to find that we should have made a "prenotazione" (reservation). The place was packed--almost an hour wait! It was already almost 8pm but we decided it looked like it was going to be worth the wait so we put our name on the list and decided to walk down the street to have a drink while we waited. If you've been to Italy you know that "apertivo" is similar to cocktail hour, except in Italy you pay for the drink and they bring you a somewhat astonishing amount of really good (free) food just because you ordered a drink. It's designed to open up your appetite, but if you're not careful you can mistakenly make a meal of apertivo only to then have a fabulous meal presented to you and even though you're already full you feel the need to eat the fresh pasta and drink the house wine and the waiter says the tiramisu is not to be missed and before you know it you're a carafe and three courses in and it's late at night and once again you have to find your way back to your hotel.
I'm just saying this could happen to you. If you're not careful.
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| We begin the long walk back after Il Genovese. |
We met Federico after breakfast down in the Porto Antico, which is right along the water and has a long strand of covered shops and food establishments housed in seemingly ancient buildings. Our first stop was to a tiny, and famous according to Federico, fish market where we each were handed a paper cone full of freshly deep-fried anchovies and squid. Not that you can't start your day with fried anchovies. You can. We did. For some reason I had it in my head that we would begin our culinary excursion with a cornizzi (Italian croissant) or a pastry. Fried anchovy was just unexpected and honestly, I had never eaten an anchovy, fried or otherwise, in my entire life. But it was deliciozo. Truly. We learned a little history of Genoa as we walked through the caruggi and up Via San Lorenzo toward our second stop, which was a focaccia bakery where we ate the single best piece of focaccia I have ever had. It was so good I tried to make it last by employing that whole Zeno's Paradox thing, thinking that if every time I unwrapped my piece I ate half then theoretically I would never eat it all and it would last forever. I'm pretty sure I disproved a major physics concept by actually finishing my focaccia.
We then ended up in another type of bakery that specialized in flatbreads called farinata (made with chickpea flour). This doesn't sound appealing, but they were amazing. Some were covered with caramelized onions, some with cheeses and herbs--they had at least seven varieties and I think between Dave and I we tasted them all. At this point we were only three stops in on a five stop walk, and we were already stuffed. Which absolutely did not stop us from sitting down at the next stop for a FULL LUNCH. It's about two hours in and we have already had fried fish, focaccia and seven kinds of flatbread, and Federico walks us up a hill right to the ancient wall that used to surround Genoa and tucked right next to it is Locanda Tortuga, where we proceeded to eat more focaccia, plates of pasta, and an entire plate of various pizza slices. There may have also been something fried thrown in there somewhere. I honestly can't remember. It was so much more than we were able to eat. Federico knew the owner, who was a young(ish) man with a huge personality and about as good a grasp of English as I have of Italian. I asked him, in Italian, for his mama's focaccia recipe. He laughed at me. He asked us where we were from and told us that if he visited California he would stay with us. We laughed but also, hey, that would be really fun! The food was good, but sitting and chatting with Federico and finding out about his schooling and his plans, and chatting with Bernardo (the owner) while he threw focaccia dough was the best part of the afternoon.
We still had one stop to go. Gelato. At this point we were so full that we contemplated calling it a day but I mean, gelato. So no. There is no throwing in the towel when you're in Italy and about to have what your tour guide says is the best Gelato in Genoa. You persevere. You endure. As Wesley says in The Princess Bride, "To the pain!" Luckily it was about a twenty minute walk to get to the gelateria so by the time we arrived we were able to make a go of it, though we did order "piccola" (small) servings. (Incidentally, while you'd practically trip over a gelateria every 100 feet in Milan, in Genoa they were not nearly as prevalent; you really just had to stumble upon one, full well knowing if you did that you'd never be able to retrace your steps and find it ever again no matter how hard you tried.)
We had such fun with Federico on our walking food tour. We learned about Genoa, we learned about Federico, and we ate copious, ridiculous amounts of food. I'm pretty sure we went back to the hotel and fell into food comas for a few hours. And if I recall correctly we skipped dinner.
I'm realizing there might be a theme going here--Italy is full of gorgeous, delicious food. Eat it. Enjoy it. Linger over it. Take in the atmosphere. There's no room for regret in Italy. That's part of the magic.
On to Rapallo!
If you've never heard of Rapallo... have you heard of Cinque Terre? Rapallo is on the same coastline, just a tad north of the Cinque Terre towns. It has all of the beauty, considerably fewer tourists and a fraction of the cost.
I love Rapallo for countless reasons, this chief among them. This is the view out the window from our hotel, down to a tiny park below.
It's trampolines. Six of them. Teenagers would show up in the early evening and jump for about half an hour. WITHOUT ADULT SUPERVISION! I love this to no end. Kids being kids. Hanging out. Having fun. Trusted to not break all the bones in their body. Imagine.
That was fun to watch--a great view. This, also, was our view (you can just see the trampolines in the lower center under the canopy of trees). Not bad. Not bad at all.
There really isn't much to do in Rapallo. Thankfully. By the time we arrived we were ready to marinate in the atmosphere (and the Aperol) and kick back. This was the perfect town. We spent a day at one of the beach clubs, sunning ourselves on lounge chairs and taking a dip in the Ligurian Sea. We made use of the free bikes at our hotel and pedaled around town, winding our way through neighborhoods and down the beautiful waterfront. We contemplated taking a funicular up one of the hillsides to get a better view but decided against it because we really couldn't imagine the view getting much better. We were perfectly content.
I had researched a few restaurants before we got to Rapallo and Sole seemed to be on everyone's "eat here!" list, and for good reason it turned out. We spent a lovely, languid evening on Sole's outdoor terrace, beginning the night with by far the most extensive and most delicious apertivo we had the entire trip served to us by yet another charming young waiter (are there any other kind of waiters in Italy?).
You order two drinks and voila! Do NOT let the potato chips fool you. This was a plate of delicious food, and was followed by an equally delicious dinner (so good we came back on our last night). Sitting outside, watching the sun set over the ancient Castello (castle), sipping cocktails, savoring the cuisine... those are hours well spent. I may have mentioned this earlier, but Italy is not a country made for regret.
Side note: There are Italian supercars everywhere in Rapallo. Dave pointed out to me that the Alfa Romeo logo is a snake eating a baby. That's all. Just wanted to pass that little tidbit of crazy along.
After three quite restful days in Rapallo, we got back on TrenItalia once again and headed south to Lucca.
I'm not even sure where to begin describing Lucca because I love this city. I love every. single. thing. about this city. Let's start with it was founded in the third century BC and was the chosen location for Julius Caesar, Crassus and Pompey to reaffirm their triumvirate alliance. The composer Puccini was born and lived in Lucca. So, you know, history and all.
Also, Lucca has this wall around it-- a wall so big there are entire events held on various sections of the wall. There are restaurants on the wall. ON TOP OF THE WALL! You can walk the three mile wall or bicycle around it, which Dave and I did. Twice. It gives you this gorgeous view of the city inside and immerses you in the people of Lucca. One afternoon we were walking the wall and sat down on a bench to just watch. We sat next to an older gentleman who was waiting for his wife. I know this because Dave nudged me to try to talk to the man in Italian, so I did, and over about ten probably very excruciating minutes for that poor man, he spoke and responded to me slowly in Italian, asking about our travels and our lives and gently helping me find my words. He was very kind, and that will forever stay with me.
The day we arrived in Lucca we checked in to our hotel, and while Dave kicked it for a bit I went out to wander. I could hear what sounded like loud drumming, so I began winding my way towards the sound. It wasn't very long before I turned a corner and...
This picture doesn't quite show the enormity of what was going on. There were hundreds of people dressed in period costumes, all parading behind these drummers towards... I didn't know what. Was this an everyday occurrence for the benefit of tourists? A special festival (the Italians have a LOT of festivals)? I was curious so I followed. The group marched from this piazza to the next, about a three minute walk, at which point they all gathered behind an odd looking contraption set up with barricades around it. I had no idea what it was, but things became clearer as two costumed men set up crossbows onto the structure. A shooting competition! Have you ever seen authentic crossbows? They are enormous, first of all. If you try to picture men attempting to stop invading armies with these things it seems unlikely considering the time it takes to set them up, aim, and actually shoot.
This was pretty fun to watch and the crowd was quite enthusiastic. The pair of archers took a few shots, the crowd cheered, and then the whole group reassembled and moved on to the next piazza, where it turns out there was to be a large contest with dozens of crossbow clubs from throughout Italy, again in full costume, ready to compete. The dedication to the cause was impressive. I tried to imagine a sporting competition in the United States where trained groups come from throughout the nation to compete. In full period costume. Nothing sprang to mind. I know there are groups in the US that do battle re-enactments and the like, but that is not what this was. This was a serious competition amongst established crossbow organizations, but put on as if it was happening in the 1500's. Entire families were dressed to be a part of this--teenagers included! There were archers, knights, cooks, scullery maids, royalty, soldiers, ladies in waiting... how could I not fall in love with this immersive town?
What comes to mind when I picture Lucca: churches (dozens of them inside this tiny city), bell towers (again, dozens of them), piazzas, outdoor ristorantes, a friendly waiter who not only remembered us when we returned for dinner a second night but also remembered what we ordered and served us complimentary cappuccinos after dinner, biking the wall, pizza at Alice's (pronounced uh-leech-ays), the beautiful necklace Dave bought for me to remember Lucca, and the Museo della Tortura (yes, exactly what you think it is). So let me explain...
Ok, well, I don't really know how to explain. We were wandering the streets, taking in the people and the shops and the relaxed atmosphere. We walked right by it at first, but I noticed the very small sign and we doubled back. Torture Museum. Come on. How do you not go in? In our defense we didn't spend much time in there, but also in our defense it was pretty interesting and considering the fact that we were walking around a medieval city it was pretty relevant. Also gross. But fascinating. Horrifying. And gripping. All of the devices in it were authentic and part of a "private collection". Which begs the question, who amasses torture apparatuses as a hobby? I do not have the answer to that question. I tried looking it up, but it turns out that if your thing is medieval torture devices you don't want your name necessarily attached to that fact.
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| Just admit it. You want to enlarge this, don't you? |
I want to go back (to Italy, not to the Museo Torturo). Anywhere in Italy would be fine--north, south, mountains, lakes, islands--doesn't matter. I love the country. I love the language. I love the people. Italy sparkles. It twinkles. It's spellbinding. I just want to soak it up.
Milan, Genoa, Rapallo and Lucca--all so different, each with its own distinct personality. It seems like every Italian city I've been to somehow captures the enchantment that overtakes me in Italy and makes me want to return again and again.
Thinking about going back to ride that wall again...
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