Milan

The Duomo from the subway exit

Previously, the only part of Milan we had seen was the inside of the train station, which is cavernous.  The outside, it turns out, is monumental and grand in an eclectic way.  (At night the roof is lit with lavender light which gives it an otherworldly air, as if UFOs were landing.)  You exit onto a spacious plaza which, when we arrived, around 10 in the morning, was full of clothes and shoes venders set up in a warren of booths.  Milan is the business capital of Italy and right away you could see the dedication to commerce.  We had intentionally booked a hotel near the station because we wanted to catch a bus to the airport in the morning.  Beyond the plaza, the area around the station was open and far less congested than I’d anticipated.  We had no trouble finding our hotel and, dropping our luggage in the room, dove into the Metro.  The Piazza Duomo, the heart of the old city, was only 4 stops away.  We emerged from the subway and there it was facing us from across the piazza.  Now, although Europe is full of them, I’m not one to seek out churches wherever I go, but this one is impressive.  It took 5 centuries to build, and you can tell.  The care and attention that went into every facet is phenomenal.  We toured the interior with its soaring vault, plethora of carved wood, and sprays of stained glass everywhere, and then circumnavigated the exterior, literally dripping with sculptures, and it was awesome inside and out.



Entrance to the Galleria



Then we noticed we were hungry.  It was about 1 in the afternoon.  Because it was tourist central, I knew everything around the area would be expensive and mediocre, but we didn’t have time to go elsewhere, and we didn’t know where else to go anyway, so we grabbed a table right there on the piazza and ordered beers and pizza.  In Italy, pizza is usually safe; most places can manage an edible one.  And at least the people-watching was good.  Italian women (and men as well) have a well-developed sense of style and here more than anywhere it’s in evidence.  Milan is the fortress of fashion, the shrine of style.  Refilled and ready, we plunged into the Galleria, a sort of cathedral of shopping with a soaring glass ceiling.  Walking straight through to the opposite end we emerged on a little square with La Scala, the famous opera house, on one side.  From the outside it’s so understated that if you weren’t looking for it, you’d walk right by without noticing.  Passing it, we strolled along Via Dante toward the Sforza Castle, a building with a louring, forbidding air, softened by a big splashing fountain out front.  I had thought that Via Dante, a wide shopping street, would have all the designer shops, but it didn’t, it had just ordinary shops, and a few cafes.  On the way back from the Castle, we stopped at one for an espresso, and then headed over to Via Montenapolitano, where all the designer shops actually are.  Armani, Ferragamo, Yves Saint Laurent, Versace, Dior, Prada, Dolce & Gabbana, Karl Lagerfeld, Tommy Hilfiger, Ralph Lauren, Oscar de la Renta, Roberto Cavalli, Chanel, Missoni, you name it, they all seemed to be there, and the prices were breathtaking.  Are there really that many people who spend $800 on a pair of shoes, you ask.  Well, there were some window shoppers like us but, aside from a passenger in a Bentley attended by a chauffeur, I didn’t see anyone actually entering the shops. 



Galleria interior



I have to admit to some ambivalence about the fashion world.  There is an air about it of superficiality and faddishness combined with pretense that is off-putting.  In addition, my social conscience wants to say that anyone who can afford $800 for a pair of shoes probably ought to be paying more taxes.  On the other hand, maybe that’s too severe.  To the extent that a designer is not promoting a follow-the-fad mentality but instead is enlarging the options and possibilities for self-expression, isn’t he making the world a more interesting place?  People who pay these prices are simply exercising another form of patronage.  They’re buying wearable art.  Still, it seems a frivolous, ephemeral art.  Fashion is a form of flirtation, the plumage of the mating dance.  For that reason it’s a youthful art form, but one few youths have the resources to indulge, except in a self-created way.  Wearing designer duds is a status display, a way of showing off your financial worthiness, but also a game of follow the leader.        



Sforza Castle from Via Dante



I knew we were unlikely to find a good restaurant in the neighborhood near the train station, but I also knew it was unlikely we’d find one around the Duomo, and the latter area promised to be more expensive without offering any improvement in quality, so we returned to the hotel and asked the desk clerk what he could recommend.  He offered a place called Il Tavolino.  We found it easily, but the entire staff of the restaurant was Chinese.  Could we trust a Chinese cook to prepare good Italian food?  It seemed unlikely, to me.  My misgivings gathered steam when I scanned the English menu and found items like “horseflesh” and “cakies in the undercarriage.”  Looking around, it seemed to me that the other clientele looked a bit weird, as well.  I was about to make a break for it, but Frieda convinced me it would be alright, so we ordered some swordfish and hoped for the best.  It was edible, and I didn’t get food poisoning, but I wouldn’t recommend the place. 

You can’t develop an intimate acquaintance with a city in 24 hours, but Milan has a different ambiance than other cities in Italy.  It feels more like an American city in that everyone is focused on business; they’re all in a hurry, on a mission.  And it’s like a German city in that it’s cleaner, and more car friendly.  Yet it also has elegant buildings such as you don’t find in either Germany or the States.  So, it’s an amalgam of qualities.  First and foremost it’s a working city, not a resort or a museum, though it has buildings worth looking at.  Frieda, being a New Yorker, liked it very much, but I missed the more relaxed pace of other Italian cities.  Also, while I’m sure there must be good restaurants if you know where to find them, the food we got was mediocre at best, and that’s a travesty, because Italy is all about the food. 

Lake Como

Varenna Lakefront

Lake Como is the best known of 3 roughly parallel glacial lakes in the Italian Alps northwest of Milan.  It’s been a retreat for the wealthy since Roman times and many plutocrats have, over the centuries, built villas there.  Despite its mountainous location, which provides some spectacular scenery, the climate is Mediterranean, so tropical plants can thrive.  In shape, Como is long and skinny.  Viewed from above, it looks something like a running stick man, with Bellagio in the crotch, Menaggio on the west hip, and Varenna on the east hip.  It was our first visit to Como and the Italian Lakes, so we chose Varenna as our base on Rick Steves’ recommendation.  I don’t always agree with Steves, but I find his guide books generally more useful than those of his competitors.  Because these mid-lake towns are only 15 minutes apart by ferry, and, as in Venice, the ferries run constantly (there are both passenger-only and car/passenger ferries), it’s like they’re all part of a single city.  Varenna is the smallest, so it’s a good place to start. 



Stairs in Varenna



We got there in mid-afternoon and had explored most of the town by dinnertime.  Because of the steep terrain, exploring any of these lake towns entails a lot of stair climbing, and in Varenna the stairs are particularly steep.  I had to wonder how elderly people could manage, because, in addition to being steep, the steps were of uneven height and pitch.  (Our hotel was on the main pedestrian route through town, about 3 flights up from the lakefront, and our room was a 3^rd floor walkup, albeit with a terrace and a great view.)  In addition, many of the walkways were paved with river stones, which played havoc with Frieda’s heels, and not only hers, since Italian women, unlike Americans, rarely wear sneakers.  She consoled herself by buying a dress.  Then we found a lakefront café to sit in, have a couple beers, appreciate the view, and people-watch.  Varenna was quiet, serene, and undeniably charming.  It reminded Frieda a little of Vernazza, in the Cinque Terra, but ritzier.  However, we were still missing Venice and, to me, Varenna seemed too small for a long stay.  We supped at the restaurant attached to our hotel, on a terrace facing the lake, which started out delightful but by the time we reached the end of our delicious and leisurely meal, it had gotten dark and, despite the romantic view of the lights of Menaggio across the lake, had turned uncomfortably cold. 



Bellagio



The morning was cool and overcast, threatening rain.  There’s a steel walkway (passerella) attached to the cliff face that leads from the lakefront to the ferry (traghetto) landing. We bought day passes there and headed to Bellagio, sitting in the open part of the boat so our view would be unobstructed.  We quickly discovered there was a cold wind out on the lake, but we braved it in order to see Bellagio from the water.  Bellagio is larger than Varenna and more pretentious; somewhat reminiscent of Portofino on the Italian Riviera.  It also has a lot of stairs, but the flights are wider and gentler in slope and the pavement is a little more even.  There are only a few narrow routes for cars to get through town and the ones that try are unappreciated by the window-shopping pedestrians who get out of the way slowly and reluctantly.  After a couple hours of exploration and an espresso, we got back on the boat and went to the next stop, Tremezzo, a more humble town on the opposite shore.  Here we found a quiet little trattoria and got some lunch: pizza Siciliana and pasta with gambiere (shrimp), both quite good.  By the time we emerged from lunch, the weather was improving, so we walked to the nearby Villa Carlotta, built in 1690, and took the tour.  The layout of the villa struck me as quite unimaginative, with identical rooms arranged symmetrically, but there were some Canova sculptures on display, the best being Amor and Psyche.  Also, the gardens were pleasant.  Frieda particularly liked a walkway along the front of the villa formed by parallel rows of orange and lemon trees tied to a trellis, but again, the pebble paths were a trial in her heels.  Next we went to Menaggio, where we had heard one could catch a bus to the Swiss city of Lugano, on the lake of the same name. 



Chess Players in Lugano



In the morning we set off early for Lugano.  Because it was ready to leave when we got to the landing, we took the car ferry.  Over time I grew fond of the ferries with their promise of freedom and adventure.  The car ferries cut a particularly enchanting figure from our balcony as they plied the lake, shuttling cars and people hither and thither.  It was cold and foggy on the lake, again threatening rain, but in Menaggio, as we found our way to the bus stop, it warmed, and as the bus wound along the narrow Italian roads I even got too warm, but couldn’t wrestle the window open.  Then, around a blind corner, we came face-to-face with an RV (“caravan” in Europe).  The driver slammed on the brakes and both Frieda and I slid off the seat, which had an open space in front of it, and landed on the floor.  Amidst a barrage of expletives and hand gestures, the driver put the bus in reverse and backed up to let the obstacle pass.  I moved to a seat that had a functional seat belt.  After nearly an hour to travel about 12 miles, we were dropped at the edge of a car park.  From the size of the buildings it was clear that Lugano was a real city, not an overgrown boutique like Varenna or Bellagio.  We walked along a rushing, rocky river toward the lake shore, near which we found a pedestrian bridge that led across the stream to a park with elaborate, lovely flower gardens.  You could feel the cultural shift from chaotic, expressive Italy to orderly, buttoned-down Switzerland.  A couple of men were playing chess with knee-high pieces as we strolled along the water front, the triumph of intellect over the rampant emotion south of the border.  The weather by now was sunny and warm, although not as clear as one might have hoped.  We turned into town and found a restaurant with a covered patio near the square to have a leisurely lunch.  We paid with a credit card so we wouldn’t have to buy any Swiss francs, and then made our way back to the bus stop.  In Varenna, when we returned, we got perhaps the best gelato of the trip at a little place by the waterfront. 



View from Monastero



On our last day we considered taking a ride to Como, all the way down at the southern end of the western leg of the lake, past Clooney’s villa in Laglio, but in the end rejected that idea in favor of staying in Varenna, relaxing (which is what the lakes are all about), and touring the Villa Monastero, which, although less noted, we preferred to the Villa Carlotta.  The more interesting rooms were filled with antique inlaid and carved furniture and there was a vintage bathroom with a sunken tub.  It gave you a more intimate peek into the lives of the financial elite in the 19^th century.  Plus the fabulous gardens stretched on for what seemed like half a kilometer along the lakeshore, with winding pathways, stairs, statues, fountains, lookouts at stunning vistas, and gazebos.  They even had tables set up in the shade of trees near the main estate where you could sit and have refreshments.  It was so serene and relaxing that we stayed for quite a while.  When we finally got back to the Varenna lakefront around 2 o’clock all the cafes were full so we returned to our hotel room and ate sandwiches on our terrace, which had a spectacular view of the lake and the mountains behind.  The air was so balmy that below us teenagers were swimming (despite warnings that the lake wasn't clean enough for it here) and sunbathing on the dock.  I could hear strains of “Hey, Soul Sister” coming from their boom box. 

Car Ferry

In the evening Frieda treated me to dinner at Vecchia Varenna, a romantic ristorante with tables on a deck over the water.  The deck is covered and sheltered on three sides, only the lake side being completely open, which was fortunate because it started sprinkling just as we left our hotel and no sooner were we seated than the skies opened up.  It rained cats and dogs for about 20 minutes, drumming on the canopy roof, dimming the view of the far shore, and refreshing the air, but by the time our main course (trout) arrived it had pretty much stopped.  Despite the rain and the open lake side, it was still comfortable, so we lingered and got a bit drunk before going back to the hotel to pack.       

The next day was sunny again as we made our way to the train station to set off for Milan.       

 

Venice

Venice is the most beautiful city in the world.  That’s a bold statement, I know, but what’s the alternative?  Paris?  San Francisco?  Barcelona?  These cities have their charms, without doubt, but Venice is on a whole other level of pulchritude.  If I were to attempt to assemble a list of the top ten most beautiful cities, at least 3, and maybe 4 would be in Italy (Rome, Florence, maybe Sienna), but Venice is a cut above the rest.  In the 1^st place, it’s utterly unique.  To get around, you walk or catch a boat.  Aside from the Lido, there’s no wheeled transport.  That, in itself, is mind-blowing.  Then there’s the architecture, a genre unto itself.  Then there’s the history.  In the States we think it something extraordinary if someone is living in a 100–year-old house, but in Venice people are still living in 500-year-old houses.  Venice was founded in 421.  Lining the Grand Canal are mansions that were there before the United States was born. 

People complain about the tourists.  Because it’s the most beautiful city in the world, 150,000 people visit every day.  But the tourists don’t bother me much.  They’re just another aspect of the city, and add vibrancy and an international flavor.  And they’re mostly concentrated around St. Marks Square (Piazza San Marco), the Rialto Bridge, and the train station.  As you venture away from these hubs, they quickly thin out.  And many of them, the day trippers and cruisers, leave in the early evening.

Via Garibaldi

For this short visit (my 4^th) we stayed in the Castello area on the eastern side of town, in an apartment just off Via Garibaldi, a broad shopping street that cuts diagonally away from the Canale di San Marco (where the Canal Grande and the Canale della Giudecca come together) just east of the Arsenale vaporetto stop.  (The vaporetto is the water bus that forms the backbone of Venetian transportation.)  This mostly residential area was one I had only slightly explored before.  Staying in a different neighborhood each time you visit a city is a good way of gradually getting to know it.  On our last visit we got an apartment in the sestiere (district) of Canneregio, a middle class residential area on the north side, a long way from here.  Castello offered the advantage of being close to St. Marks, but not too close.    

Arsenale on Riva Schiavone

Because the Arsenale stop is at the opposite end of the Grand Canal from the train station, we took the boat from the airport, the first time I’ve done that.  I thought it would be faster than taking a bus to the station and then catching a vaporetto all the way down the Grand Canal, but I don’t know if it was.  The ride seemed to go on forever, but that could be just because I’d gotten on the plane at 7 PM after having been up since 7 AM and it was now noon of the following day, California time, (although dark in Venice), and I got only a couple hours sleep on the plane.  Fortunately there was a trattoria next to the apartment that, although they were packing up, agreed to serve us, so I got some spaghetti alla vongole (clams) and my wife had pizza crudi, which provoked the question: why is the prosciutto you get in the States stringy and tough while the stuff you get in Italy melts in your mouth?  At least we were now convinced that we were, indeed, back in Italy. 

In the morning my wife went grocery shopping at the little shops along the Via Garibaldi and when she returned we had breakfast on our terrace (renting an apartment enables you to save some money by eating in some of the time), then strolled over to St. Marks to say hello to it.  It has become like an old friend.  There was a lot of scaffolding around the perimeter, the worst being a hideous barrier around the base of the Campanile.  Apparently they are strengthening the foundation.  Also there was an unsightly wrap around the Bridge of Sighs advertising Toyota.  It costs a lot to maintain this city and they’re looking for money wherever they can find it.  We wormed our way through the hordes jamming the narrow streets to the Rialto Bridge, crossed it, and found the wine bar Do Mori, where we had some cicchetti (Italian tapas) and the house white, utterly delicious, for 2 euro apiece.  Then, just for the hell of it, we went next door to another place where we had some more house white (not as good as the wine at Do Mori) and some excellent baccala mantecato (a paste, made from salted cod, olive oil, and garlic, spread on toast).  Riding a buzz from the wine, we walked northeast and took a traghetto (a gondola that takes you across the Grand Canal for half a euro) to Canneregio (our old neighborhood) to do some shopping along the Strada Nova, another broad shopping street like Via Garibaldi, where I bought my wife a purple belt made of ostrich leather.    

The band at Florian

After dinner we strolled down to St. Marks to listen to the dueling bands at 2 cafes on opposite sides, Florian and Lavena.  These bands are essentially the same, consisting of a piano, a stand-up bass, a clarinet, a violin, and an accordion.  They play show tunes, tangos, polkas, and, while we were there, Boléro.  The crowd tends to wander back and forth, depending on which tune strikes their fancy.  Instead of walking along the Riva to get home, we took the streets behind the basilica and, of course, got lost.  Roaming through the maze of Venetian streets at night is a bit eerie.  You come across cafes lit up and full of laughing people, and then you find yourself in dark, narrow, deserted passageways that are a little spooky.  Sometimes they dead-end into a building or the dark water of a narrow canal and you have to backtrack.  Because of the constant twists and turns it’s hard to keep your bearings but, of course, that’s what makes it fun.  Eventually, we emerged safely onto Riva Schiavone. 

Crossing the Ponte de le Tette

The next day we took the express vaporetto up the Canale della Giudecca to the train station to buy tickets to Milan and Varenna, on Lake Como, where we were next headed. (The trains in Italy are mostly excellent and will take you almost anywhere you want to go.) Then we crossed the Ponte dei Scalzi and wandered through San Polo. We’ve seen the main tourist sites so what I now like to do in Venice is just amble around discovering fabulous new vistas and sampling unknown eateries. I wanted to visit a small neighborhood called the Carampane which was once the red light district but now is a quiet residential area in San Polo. It’s the only place I have found in Venice, so far, where a bridge, Ponte de le Tette (the Bridge of Tits) leads directly into the side of a building. It’s called the Bridge of Tits because the prostitutes used to lean out of the windows of the building. When you crossed the bridge, their bare breasts were hanging in front of you like ripe fruit.

The traghetto stop at San Silvestre

From there we picked our way through the tangled streets, heading toward the traghetto stop. Some of the streets toward the end tunneled under buildings, and that made it all the more stunning and magical when we suddenly emerged into the sunny vista of the Grand Canal near San Silvestre, with gondolas parked along it and grand mansions on the opposite side. I had started Donna Leon’s first novel, Death at La Fenice the night before, so I wanted to see the opera house of the title. Donna Leon is an American who has written a series of detective novels set in Venice that are fun if you know and love the city. She’s quite well-known in Europe and there are tours organized around her books. La Fenice is in the center of San Marco, and from there we made our way down to the Grand Canal and took a traghetto to Dorsoduro, yet another sestiere, so by the time we eventually got home for dinner, our feet were throbbing.

Consequently, our last day we tried to take it easy with a stroll to San Elena, a district very different from the Venice we had been exploring: no tourists, no canals. Instead we found quiet parks, kids, playgrounds, and old people. It was a respite from the hustle and bustle of the city. We sat for a time resting our sore feet at an outdoor café on the Riva Shiavone, drinking beer and eating potato chips and olives, and watching the boats and the people passing. In the evening we went to Florian to listen to the music and, for the first time, actually sat down and ordered. I had a white wine and Frieda had an espresso and the bill was 30 euro (more than $40).

In the morning we caught the train to Milan. As always when I visit Venice, I was reluctant to leave. Every visit I make new discoveries and am enchanted all over again by this ravishing city.