Rome

Rome

Cooking classes complete, we were on our way to Rome. Italy is not a big country, so we took the train. It only took 45 minutes, and we were deposited in the centre of the city. Ya gotta love the train for that.

Finding our way to the subway and sorting in out to our stop went off without a hitch; the short walk to the Hotel Empire Palace, less so. It was 35 degrees and humid when we surfaced at the corner of Via Vittorio Veneto and Via Leonida Bissolati, scaling Via Leonida to Via Settembra, losing our way every few steps while we searched for cross-streets on our map. The streets of Rome are not what I would call a grid. We’d only gone a couple blocks so far, and if those few steps were any indication, finding our way didn’t bode well, so we decided to keep out of the warren for a while until we found our bearings. That went better. We had to double back a couple short blocks, but we arrived, a little warm and flustered, but otherwise without mishap. We knew our best routes before too long and kept to them.
There were restaurants along the way, shops and wine outlets. They were good, but we’d been spoiled. No meal could compare with those we’d prepared under the tutelage of Claudio. We had to remind ourselves that they weren’t bad. They were better than most restaurants we’d ever ate in, as a matter of fact. But nothing compares to home-cooked, if done right. And we’d done right.

On impulse, I ducked into a Brioni outlet, where I could have bought an uber-expensive Italian suit, were I so inclined. It was not large. Rather narrow, in fact. The shelves were not so packed with wares as we’re accustomed to. Everything was just so. So much so that a sales clerk followed my every move while I was within. Just in case I stole something, I suppose. “Not to worry,” I told him after he’d shadowed me for a minute or so, “I may not look it," (shorts, T, and sandals) "but I can afford anything in this shop.” I could. I own Canali and a few customs, if that means anything to you. I just chose not to. I didn’t need another suit. I just wanted to take a peek at James Bond’s (the Pierce Bronson years) tailor.

The Colosseum

We began the grand tour the next day, taking the subway to the Colosseum. The guidebooks had warned us to get there early to avoid the lines. What we thought early was not early enough, apparently. There were long lines already. We bought our Roma Passes and set about waiting for the line to move. It did not. Not to worry; we did not wait too long before being headhunted.

“Why are you waiting in line?” a young man said. “Buy a tour with us?” he said.
I was reticent. I told him I’d been warned about scams. He set me at ease.
“You are not buying the tour from me,” he said. “You are buying a tour from that lady, over there,” he said, pointing at a young woman with an abundance of people around her.
“What’s in it for you?” I asked
“I get a commission for bringing you to her,” he said.

The Forum

“Sold,” I said, eager to get out of the line and into the shade she was in. We lucked out. It was not a scam. She was a travel agent of an actual agency situated just outside the Vatican. More than that, the tour we were booking was not just for the Colosseum; it included a tour of the Forum in the afternoon. We passed the line, having booked their tour, only then realizing that the line we had been in was only the tail of a much longer line. We’d likely saved ourselves hours, if not the whole day, booking with them.

Great tour. Of course I’d say that. I love history. I especially love the Cradle of Civilization stuff. I’d taken Classical History in university, after all. I barely listened to the guide, already knowing what I was looking at, its history, its legend. So too the second tour of the Forum, although I did listen more carefully to David, our Italian/Brit guide, from time to time.

When the trip was winding down, David said, “See that small cluster of tourists in the shade by that column?” We nodded. “I want all of you to go there. They’ll leave when we arrive.” We did, and they did. “I hate the sun,” David said, looking up at it through the trees, glaring at it as it glared back down on him and us. All people who live under the glare of the sun hate it, David said. But we had a shield of leaves, then, and its baleful glare was reduced to a whimper.

I paid even closer attention when David gave us travel tips. He told us how to look out for and to avoid pickpockets. “They’re so good, they must have a university to teach them how to do it.” He told us not to buy water from street venders, but to refill our own from the fountains about the city. He told us where the good restaurants were and how to recognize them. He also told us that he was conducting another tour the next night around Trajan’s Column, if we were interested. We were. We signed up for that, too. It was much easier signing on with these consecutive tours than trying to sort them all out, ourselves. So we told ourselves.

Trajan’s Column

So, the next night, we met him under Trajan’s Column, we proceeded to the Parthenon, and then, crossing the Piazza Venezia and the National Museum, where Mussolini made his speeches from his balcony to the gathered masses, we mounted the Spanish Stairs and loitered outside a Roman apartment building. We walked a Roman street under the Commune di Church. We crossed the Tiber on the Ponte Fabricio, again on the Ponte Cestio, and again on the Ponte Sisto, finishing our tour at the Fountain of Neptune in the Piazza Navarro.

David informed us that if we were thinking of touring the Vatican, he was taking names. Why not, we thought, and signed up for that tour, too. Then he brought us to his favourite restaurant a couple blocks outside the piazza, where we had the best pizza of our lives. David gave us two more tips before he left us: never eat in the piazzas, he said, they’re overpriced; and never rent rooms in a hotel if you are staying a week, when you can rent an apartment for a quarter the price.

Vatican City

The Vatican was full, but not as full as it could be, we were informed. We were also informed that if we wished to skip the crowds when visiting the Vatican, February was the best time to come, when tourism was at its lowest and there were only five thousand visitors per day, and not twenty- or fifty-thousand. We shuffled along with those twenty thousand others, following our guide’s raised baton and listening to her lectures by earphone.

Bev lagged behind for a moment. Only a moment. Try as she might, she couldn’t close the gap between us, again, no matter how many times she said “excuse me.” I had to reach through the gap and haul her back next to me.

The Sistine Chapel

We inched through the Borgias apartments, finally allowed to sit in the Sistine Chapel for five minutes before being ushered out. We were the lucky ones, the last allowed in that day, for security reasons. The Pope was going to lead a prayer vigil and the Vatican had to be cleared, for some reason.
We were not denied St. Peter’s Basilica. We were told to take our time, in fact. And we did, marveling at sheer size of it, at the majesty of the domes and the chapels, lingering before the statuary (most notably, Michelangelo’s Pieta) and the altar(s), before buying a few religious trinkets in the gift shop, all blessed by the Pope, apparently (I had the rosaries I bought blessed by Father Pat, just to be on the safe side).

Our final day was spent at Pompeii. I had to go--Classical Studies, and all that—to see the famed city with my own eyes, its cobbled streets, its frescos and its gladiator school. Let’s not forget its brothels; the frescos there were only slightly more risqué than those in people’s homes.

We remembered, our last night, that we wouldn't be allowed to bring the bottles of wine we’d bought with us. Airport security, and all that. So we partook of a bottle, leaving the one that remained for our cleaning lady, with a note, thanking her for her attention during our stay.

And with that, it was time to be on our way.

Roman Holiday, Piazza della Verita

One last thing: Have you ever seen Roman Holiday? You have? Then you know where I’m going with this. Everyone ought to go to the Piazza della Verita. Gregory Peck did, after all, and he brought Audry Hepburn with him. We went, too. There’s a little church called the Church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin there. There’s a marble face at its entrance, the face of the sea god Oceanus. Why’s it there? Who knows why? But it’s been there since the seventeenth century. It’s not called the face of Oceanus anymore, though; it’s called the Bocca della Verita, the Mouth of Truth. Go ahead. Stick your hand in its mouth.

Maybe not. Not if you lie. Not if you want to keep you hand, that is. Rumour has it that it bites a liar’s hand off.

I risked it. I put my hand in its mouth. So did Bev. And look...we both walked away with our hands still attached.

So yeah, you can trust me…can’t you?

Tuscany

Casagrande

Chef Claudio picked us up at 9:30 am. That gave me ample time to have breakfast and get to the farmacia to buy my orange cheaters and get back to the Casagrande lobby in time for the pick-up. Breakfast always took place in the covered courtyard of the hotel. It’s a great space. Flagstones under pillared arches, the hedged garden in view. Draped vines cascade from the terrace above. It’s cool in the sunken space, a marked contrast to the heat that each day would bring.

A mother and daughter waited with us, the daughter illustrated by a tattoo for each trip she’d taken. The van darted in and picked us up, winding about the country roads, climbing the Tuscan landscape until we came upon Claudio’s place, where we’d had our welcome meal. But this time we saw it in the light of day. Typically Tuscan, whitewashed and clay-shingled, it set atop the hill, overseeing the neat tiers of olive trees below it. The surrounding grounds looked arid, in spite of how green the landscape appeared. Ditches were non-existent, the occasional clay half pipe leading to grated manholes here and there. We spilled out into a comfortable heat, directed by his wife to a low-lying structure opposite the house. A small, yet varied garden lay at the base of the stair that led to where we’d spend the next few days preparing our own meals. Rows of herbs flavoured the air. From the ground, from varied potted plants. Beyond that lay a long, rectangular swimming pool surrounded by tables.

We descended into the pleasant coolness of a cellar, but it’s not a cellar. A kitchen filled most of the lower building, the unseen bits storage. Not there wasn’t enough storage in the main room. The left wall boasted shelves from floor to ceiling. The rest of the room was sinks and islands and stovetops. There was only one oven, surprisingly small in the expansive space. I was fascinated by it. I was fascinated by how many knives there were, some long, some small, some narrow, some quite wide. One or two as heavy as a mallet.

“I am not going to teach you to cook,” Claudio told us that first day. “Anyone can cook. That’s just following a recipe. I’m going to teach you technique.” And so he did.

We began with a custard, eggplant parmesan, and ravioli stuffed with ricotta. He taught us how to debone and season a chicken. He explained how white wine was better for a sauce. White wine cooks to a golden glow. Add butter and a dusting of flour. Red wine invariably browns.

It was a great experience. We were reticent at first, eager not to appear foolish or display a lack of skill. But familiarity loosens one up. We were all learning, after all, regardless whether some were more experienced than others. One must begin somewhere. Lunch as per our efforts.

We spent the afternoon strolling about Figline, browsing the shops and street vendors until we were picked up for supper, an odd supper at that: wine and cheese tasting. It was more informative than I might have imagined. You hear about perfect pairing, but you have no idea unless you’ve experienced it. We had four wines displayed on the table. An assortment of cheese was brought and we tried each with each wine in turn. Cow cheese, goat cheese, sheep cheese. This variety and that. Some wines fell flat with this type, but the cheese burst forth again with a sip of another. I nibbled. I should have gobbled. I was still starved upon completion, so Claudio brought me a pasta carbonara and desert. Coffee was invariably espresso. Always rich. Always perfectly flavourful, with a proper bitterness that did not overwhelm.

The next morning, I did not have coffee at the hotel, preferring to wait to have Claudio’s perfect coffee. We cooked wild boar, biscotti, a type of flatbread pasta, gnocchi, and a soufflé. Does that sound like a lot of food? It was. We never ate supper until 8 or 9 pm after a five-course lunch. Mind you, we never ate lunch until about 1 pm, either.

I took a swim in the hotel pool before the afternoon excursion to Arezzo. The pool was open to the garden, very cold, but very comfortable once in. Soft conversation echoed off the tile fresco.
It took the better part of an hour to get to Arezzo, where we were met by Stephanie, our guide, outside the Duomo, a Tuscan Gothic Cathedral. She was an Art History prof from Florence U, eager to relate the history and significance of all we saw, beginning with the statue set right outside the Duomo, a statue that said, “You are a conquered city, and I, the Medici of Florence, am your master. Behold me, and be afraid.”

Arezzo

We toured cathedral, treated to a lecture on its stained glass and portrait of Mary Magdalene, we toured the public park Il Prato, with its massive statue, commissioned by Mussolini. We made our way to the Piazza Francesca where “Life is Beautiful” was filmed, where we discovered that Arezzo is a steep city built on a steep hill, and like in Figline, where people still congregated in the market and square, as they have for hundreds of years. Here, too, a mediaeval festival was in progress, or was; it was being dismantled as we rounded the square. More churches followed, one very old, almost Roman, sparse and unadorned except for its painted panels at its entrance and alter, the crypt below the altar, exposed to the nave; the next not so old. The tour culminated in the Basilica Piero della Francesca, a famed Franciscan cathedral, known for its frescos.

Steep Azezzo

We had dinner at the Tattoria il Cantuccio, at the base of the very steep decline that led to it. Bev bought an antique on the way down, a small leather disk box, probably the only thing in the shop we could afford and carry.

We returned in time to catch the end of Figline’s festival. Claudio met us there. We experience fireworks closer than I’ve ever seen, or will again. They were fired off no more than thirty feet from us. The Catherine wheels and flares and floral bursts. The smoke enveloped us, swirled about us, the ash from the spent fireworks falling amid us, landing on us, if not burning us or our clothing. We smelled of sulphur, we reeked of it. We had to shower before bed. We lay our clothes out to air overnight. It didn’t help that much. They still smelled like a spent match the next day.

We had our final cooking class with Claudio the next day: lasagna, peppered beef, focaccia bread, and a something I requested, steak stuffed with prosciutto and sage (delightful, by the way).

San Gimignano

Our afternoon was spent on a driving tour of the Chianti Classico country, San Gimignano and Monteoliveto, visiting a winery while there. We spent time in the piazza before touring the vineyard where we bought a couple bottles. More wine was drank, more food eaten. More trinkets bought.
Bev went straight to bed upon returning. I had to walk the meal off. I walked around the Piazza Figlini a couple times, surprised to see so many people still out at that hour, their children with them, no matter their ages.

Time for bed. We had to repack and make our way to the train station the next day.

Cooking compete, we were on our way to Rome.

The International Kitchen

And now for something completely different. I’d heard about cooking vacations from a B&B host in Stratford a number of years before and the thought had been kicking around my subconscious since. She cooked beautifully. The breakfasts were a sight to behold. And, as I was the primary cook in the family, I wished my meals to look and taste as good. How to do that? Cooking classes. And since there were vacations that catered to such tastes, I thought I might like to dip my ladle in.

There were a number of companies who offered cooking vacations, with names like Epitourian Vacations and The International Kitchen and such. I chose The International Kitchen. They offered an Italian (obviously) cooking course in Tuscany that caught my eye. It wasn’t just cooking classes. There are some like that, but this vacation offered classes in the morning and tours of the surrounding countryside in the afternoon. That pairing appealed to me. It also offered a number of lengths, as well: two days, four days, seven days. I decided that four days sounded just right, because I wanted to spend some time in Rome, as well.

We booked the dates. We packed and boarded the plane. Timmins to Toronto to Frankfurt to Florence. I did not sleep as well as I hoped. My feet swelled, my legs prickled. There were a couple infants in our section that defeated my use of ear plugs. I did sleep a little, but it was a long, and thankfully short, night. We had five hours to kill in Frankfurt, so we strolled, we browsed the duty-free shops, we had breakfast and I had a bit of a snooze under Bev’s watchful eye. I had a beer with my croissant for breakfast. It seemed the thing to do, my having seen more than a few people having the same. When in Rome, or, when in Frankfurt, and all that. The beer helped me sleep. There’s that to recommend it.
Disaster! I left my book and prescription eyeglasses on the plane in Florence. Sadly, it had left by the time I noticed, and it hadn’t really been that long between disembarking and the discovery, but planes are not idle, are they? That pissed me off. I was becoming addled, my memory a fleeting thing, of late. I blame stress. Either way, a reader losing his glasses is a big thing. What to do when you can’t see the written word? Fret. Worry. That’s what’s to do.

Figline Valdarno

We were shuttled from Firenze (Florence) to Hotel Casagrande in Figline Valdarno after said disaster, with me fretting about my foggy vision, barely taking note of the Cyprus trees and vineyards that rushed past us on either side of the highway. I’d asked the airline to attempt to retrieve them, but I knew it was a lost cause. They didn’t sound hopeful. In truth, I doubt that they even made inquiries. They’d likely made it into a bin by then. I thought I might buy some cheaters from a drug store.

Hotel Casagrande

We checked in, my mind still set on finding some eyeglasses. The hotel radiated ambiance. It sprawled. Narrow halls. A cobbled and treed courtyard. High walls. It was once the Lord’s manor, converted to its then fate years before. Rooms were small, but they were Renaissance cool, both in decor and temperature. Stone and tile and all that.

We took in the town upon arrival. The piazza was barely thirty seconds’ walk from the back gate, almost in our backyard. I fell in love with it on first sight. Terracotta and red tiled, the shuttered 2^nd and 3^rd floor rose up over the arched pillars of the ground floor. Frescos divided rows of windows. A church sat at the head of its length, its stained-glass rosette an eye that looked upon the faithful. Embossed wooden doors were scattered about, as were balconies and planters and a tower of two.

We were pleased to find that there were Renaissance games taking place in the piazza. Contestants were dressed in house faction frocks, competing for the honour of their “families.” Voluminous white shirts, brightly coloured pantaloons. There was jousting, archery, feats of strength and artistry. Barrel hopping, foot races and the like. The officials looked like they’d be at home officiating for the Borgias. It all looked to be great fun for the gathered spectators, who took it all in from the perimeter ropes and the cafes, over wine and antipasto. Children raced about, as children will, thrilled by the proceedings but aloof to them, all the same.

How the competitors were able keep to their feet is a mystery. The piazza was cobbled and paved, and slippery. It wasn’t level, either. It dipped ever so slightly to the centre. It was scattered with stalks of grass. There might have been a few patties here and there, too. Horses. You get it.

Unfortunately, the farmacia was closed. It was Sunday. Everything was closed, everything except the cafes, that is.

We were picked up at 7 pm for the welcome dinner at Chef Claudio’s. The meal was a marathon, three and a half hours long, spanning eight courses, each one as wonderful as the last. Add wine to the mix and the excitement of meeting new friends, and I had little resistance. By meal’s end, I was bloated. I could not eat another morsel. But I did have a little shot of grappa to clear the palette. It was bright. It was airy. And for a moment it seemed to alleviate my gastral discomfort. But by the time I took to my bed, I was treated to the discomfort of my excess, once again. There was nothing to be done but sleep on my side. No other position was possible. I vowed to not do that again. I broke that promise, but only daily.

I was up bright and early the next morning, waiting for the farmacia to open, with little time before we were to be picked up for our first day of lessons. I can’t say I was pleased with my purchase. The cheaters were a bright orange. Not particularly comfortable. But better than the other options that seemed to cater to women more so than men.

But at least I could see.

I’m a reader, after all.

To not be able to read was a torment.