How High is the Water Mama?

More about the piazza and the rising water:  Our second night out, we were much later making our way through the St. Mark's Piazza, which is our landmark for finding the hotel.  In a city where one spends much of the time wandering as if in a beautiful maze, having a big landmark--especially at night--can be critical.  In fact, the reason we were so much later getting home was because we spent more than four hours walking to and from a restaurant for dinner.  That is four hours walking, not including the time spent eating dinner.  Needless to say, we were lost much of the time.  Well, let's be honest, we were only sure where we were three times: when we crossed the Rialto Bridge to the other side of the canal, when we (finally!) made our way to the Accademia Bridge to return to the side of the canal where we are staying, and when we (finally!) found St. Mark's Piazza.

 

Neither of these are dead ends...but look like they are.  Unfortunately the reverse is also true.

Because we were so much later, and because the flooding seems to have increased, the water in the piazza--which rises with the tide--made it completely impassable without wading through it.  We continue to decline that activity.  Further information about the flooding of the piazzas tells us flooding of shops is common enough that there is a siren warning system and merchants roll out 1 1/2 meter high boardwalks and provide overshoes to shoppers when the water reaches that critical level.  Must be a big supply of overshoes.

The piazzas were actually designed to pool rain water and drain it into pipelines to a civic well.  Venice is constructed on a salt marsh and surrounded by sea water so fresh drinking water has been an issue since its development.  Of course, what constituted fresh drinking water in the age of cholera and plague is very different from what we consider potable today.  And did Catbird mention the issue of raw sewage?  Euw.

Since we could not go through the piazza due to the high water, we had to go around it.  That meant none of the familiar landmarks we have come to rely on to get us back to the hotel, and we found many more dead-end alleys and canal encounters without bridges that we had not met before.  The combination of aging eyes, poor lighting and very small print on the often-inacurrate maps made for some testy navigation, but we finally (finally!) made it back to the Cai dei Conti Hotel.  The guidebooks say: lose yourself in Venice  We have certainly done that and with, for the most part, great pleasure.

 

Lights reflected in the water in St. Mark's Piazza before the flooding was complete.

Venice

 

Rialto Bridge over the Grand Canal

Catbird is certain much bad poetry has been written about this lovely and completely incomparable city.  Certainly some beautiful music has been inspired here.  Our first night we zigzagged our way across many small canals, through damp narrow alleys, past dozens of Senegalese hawking discount bags (outside Prada and Louis Vittan stores) to listen to Vivaldi's Four Seasons.  Apparently Vivaldi scribbled together a whole lot of notes to fill the churches of Venezia, so he is much played.  In fact, judging from the posters, Vivaldi's Four Seasons is played here almost 24 - 7.

The Interpreti Veneziani, a string ensemble, performed to a full house of around 250 guests.  It was festival seating, which was good for us, as Catbird has a talent for scoring good seats, even when she is assigned to the balcony.  Third row, aisle, put us close enough to see them sweat.  While their technical execution may not have been spot on, their enthusiasm more than compensated.  And who could argue with a night of Vivaldi in Venice?

 

Cellist from Interpreti Veneziani

Afterward, Catbird and physicist strolled (cliche, but strolling is definitely what one does here) through the darkness to St. Mark's square.  Gondoliers were wrapping up their trade for the night, lovers smooched in dark doorways, and live music competed from opposite sides of the square.  We all bumped along to the Klesmer music on the north side of the square, and from the south side, Yessir, That's My Baby drove the lingering strains of Vivaldi right out of our heads.


Water pooled and was rising in the center of the square, a tidal function that is common but not usually bad enough to flood the stores.   A few--mostly young or inebriated--folks who apparently have a shaky grasp of germ theory waded in the water.  Catbird's hot and swollen feet begged for cool respite in the water, but Catbird didn't need the guidebook to tell her to avoid water from the canal at all costs, even external exposure.  Sewage disposal is still not what it could be in Venice.  Euw.


Venice is another city almost left off our itinerary.  The Podcast, How to Tour Italy, says it is "so crazy expensive that you almost shouldn't go."  Well, Catbird was so pleased to have Firenze in her sights, she figured she could survive without Venice.  Fortunately, my physicist insisted we could not do Italia without Venezia.  For which Catbird says: Thank you thank you thank you.


While Venice is exactly as you would expect, it is also unlike anything you can imagine.  Thanks to Our Russkie friend,we were lucky enough to get a discount on our very nice, very well-located room.  And we've skipped the big ticket items (e.g. alcohol, Venetian glass) and managed to picnic on bread, olives, cheese and fruit at far less cost than a restaurant meal.

There are too many museums, churches and historic landmarks to detail here, but Catbird may include some highlight later.  As my physicist says, Venice itself is one big museum and just being here is quite an adventure.

Two GentlePersons of Verona

Statue of St. Zeno, Patron Saint of Verona

This is called Laughing Zeno.  

Cool that he caught a fish and is flashing the peace sign.

When Catbird sat down to plan this trip, Verona was an also-ran, finally included for its geographic placement between Milan and Venice, more than a burning desire to see the land of Romeo and Juliet.  Now it is a little scary to think we might have missed this beautiful walled city, with its surrounding river, cobbled foot bridges, muted pastels, crumbling Roman amphitheatre (where we watched stagehands unload props for upcoming Aida), and ubiquitous ancient and beautiful architecture. 

Picture balconies as you've seen them on stage for R&J, only they are not stage props.  They are stone and plaster and filled with flowers, draped with bright shades to shield against the sun.  Plaster painted bright colors, faded under the bright sun, market stalls, kids bunting a soccer ball around in the spacious piazzas.  This is no Hollywood movie set; this is Verona.

 

A narrow alley with sidewalk cafe

One supposes that by the end of four weeks one might tire of ancient churches, but so far we are still much enamored.  Catbird remembers (forgive her as she repeats a theme) one oppressive week looking at churches in Belgium, which left her wondering how a religion so dour and intimidating could survive.  Here in Italy it's a whole other flavor. 

While the exterior of the church of Sant Anastasia http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sant%27Anastasia_%28Verona%29  didn't rock our world, the interior was another place of light and peace and sanctuary.  The beautiful windows, carvings, murals, and mosaics played with the space and light of the architecture to generate (regenerate?) pleasure in being alive. It didn't hurt that the organist was casually rehearsing and sent gentle chords floating into the impossibly bright and airy ceiling.  Catbird thinks, though, that even absent that corporeal music, our spirits would have been made glad.  

Today Catbird and physicist toured a couple more lovely churches;  more lightness and beauty--this might just catch on!  One we toured by accident; we'd been looking for St. Zeno's and thought we were deep into it, until a cooler head (the physicist's, looking at the map and reading plaques and things) prevailed.  The churches are awfully close together; we counted 21 on the map in the tiny area known as the old city.  And not well marked.

In our wanderings, we also peeked at two different archeological digs, where folks bent for hours in the sun scrapy-scrapy-scraping. It looked to Catbird like the mind-numbing back-straining work of weeding the green beans of her youth.  One can only suppose they are sustained by a great passion for the work.

Can't swing a dead rat--or begin construction on an office building--here without bumping into a Roman ruin, and that's okay because the need for new buildings is low.  My physicist says the birth rate in Italy is 1.8.  Since 2.2 sustains population level, there is no need for new housing; hence most construction is of the restorative kind.  Far different that USA, where economy depends on housing starts and not on the antiquities that drive tourism. 

 

Stagehands unload props for Aida outside the Coliseum

The oldest landmark and center of Verona is the Roman Coliseum built in the FIRST century and still functional.  We wish we were going to be here for Aida, but were mollified to go inside and climb around today. Stage crew was busy welding sets in the hot sun and it conjured images of Catbird's cousin RL who was a stage hand at most venues in Indy and managed Clowes for years.  At least here at the coliseum there are no catwalks.

 

Inside Coliseum,

Stage to the left, orchestra center, expensive seats to the right

We are not sure if Christians were ever sacrificed to lions --or if gladiators did their thing-- in this arena, but either are certainly imaginable.  Catbird and physicist didn't require a bloodletting to get het up; just being able to touch our hands to the marble where folks parked their butts and unpacked their lunches all those years ago was exciting in itself.  Plus the view from uptop was dizzying.

 

View from center orchestra seats (AKA terra firma)

Tomorrow: Venice! 

Milano

We thought we were so worldly when we talked about mi-LAHN-oh, rather than mi-LAHN.  Turns out the natives say MI-len, much as a Hoosier would talk about millin' that corn into cornmeal. 

Whatever you call it, Milan is lovely.  Our hotel (described as having "old world charm"--does that mean hostile clerks?  Our experience says so.) has a great location in walking distance to the train station.   In fact, we walked and walked, which is a great way to reset the circadian rhythm and adapt to a new time zone. 

We walked to 15th century church Santa Maria delle Grazie, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Santa_Maria_delle_Grazie_%28Milan%29,  the church where Leonardo DaVinci's Last Supper hangs.  Unfortunately, tickets to get in to see it are sold out weeks in advance.  Bummer.  Fortunately, the church courtyard was open and there was an exhibit of DaVinci sketches which the physicist very much enjoyed.   These papers were in very subdued lighting and the actual texts and drawings were quite tiny, so Catbird's exhausted eyes trailed back out to the courtyard to wait.

 

Courtyard of Santa Maria delle Grazie

After an afternoon crash, we trekked out the other direction to visit the Milan Cathedral (aka Duomo di Milano) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milan_Cathedral.  We didn't mind that we had slept through the Sunday hours; we enjoyed watching people in the piazza and taking in the dazzling artwork that is the external edifice of the duomo.  Catbird was encouraged; so many European cathedrals seem designed to intimidate and oppress.  By way of contrast, this 14th Century architectural paean shone in the sun and made spirits glad.  Not just ours, either, general pleasantness was everywhere in evidence.

 

Duomo di Milano

 This is more beautiful than the picture captures.

  

Detail from front door of Milan Duomo

As so many others, we were particularly enamored of the doors.  Mostly the dark patina prevails, but some areas are worn shiny by touch of admirers and gleam as the entire doors must have when first placed.  

Door on the left shows damage from WWII.  Funny how WWII always seemed like ancient history back in the 60s when it was really a mere 20 years previous.  We are now 50 (count 'em 50) years from the 60s and they seem like yesterday.  Of course, in Italy there is nothing ancient or distant about  WWII.  Milan was almost completely wiped out by Allied bombs and residents talk about new construction (anything under 60 years old) as evidence of where the city had been flattened. 

 

Exterior of the Arcade

Facing the duomo piazza, the arcade survives and is still an impressive edifice both inside and out.  Just try to focus on your gelato, the murals and the overpriced ugly Prada bags, and ignore the McDonald's and the Burger King not so discretely placed next to the ristorantes.

 

Interior of the Arcade,

Distant statue in courtyard is of Leonardo DaVinci, 

and beyond that is La Scala

Despite the age and glory of Saint Mary of Grace and the Duomo di Milano, the oldest church in Milan is the Basilica of Saint Ambrogio http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Basilica_of_Sant%27Ambrogio which was built in the 4th Century. It was heavily damaged during WWII also. St. Ambrose is the patron saint of Milan and though the building has been restored, added onto, etc. there is still much artwork in evidence of the 4th century.  This interior did much to convey peace and sanctuary.

 

My physicist looks at the back of St. Ambrose, the dome original to 4th c.

The hideous pink attachments were built after the war.

Inside St. Ambrose, from the not so distant Christmas of 1944, this nativity set was created in the Wietzendorf concentration camp, using improvised tools to shape pallet wood and barbed wire into figures 12 - 18 inches tall.  Cherished fabric scraps, mementos of loved ones and far better times, were donated for clothing.  Baby Jesus is made of a silk handkerchief.  Humbling to imagine having so little and being willing to give it up.

 

~

Catbird had looked into tickets for an opera at La Scala but they were just too pricey, and the available performances not familiar ("three new short operas").  Plus €280 seemed a bit steep, especially with our likelihood to sleep through performances.  So, though we seriously considered it, we opted out. 

Fortunately we caught a real break when we visited the La Scala Museum and were treated to a peek into the beautiful and famous c-shaped auditorium and--better yet--got to watch a rehearsal of Faust.  Watching them block a scene with so many people recalled for my physicist when his dear boy was in the Austin Children's Choir and sang in Carmen.  We stayed in our little box for over an hour and could not have been more moved at a paid performance.

 

Purloined photograph of La Scala Auditorium

Off to Verona where we are sure to find more good gelato and ancient artwork.  (Please don't tell anyone Juliet was a work of fiction; we are off to visit her house.)  

P.S. We haven't met any celebrities in random public places yet, but we do have 28 more days..

Travel Confessions

Confession: While Catbird would not go so far as to say she hates people, they do piss her off a lot of the time. Travel seems to bring this into sharp focus. Proximity to so many at once may be part of it; perhaps the way the airline industry crams 250 people into space more appropriate for 100; or the competition for limited number of electrical outlets, overhead bin capacity, and access and entrance to the little door that –once you wake and climb over your seat-mate and wrestle past the serving carts--seems to say occupado far more than it says vacant. Maybe it is the parade through first class amenities that the hoi polloi are denied, or just being captive to the bad movies, the painful and faltering earphones, or the terrible, terrible food. Or the cattle call through immigration and customs, or how about the people who gather on the people-mover as if it were an elevator ride, oblivious to the folks they block from hurrying along to their connection? Stand to the right, walk on the left, people! GTF out of the way!

The list of accumulated annoyances (and please believe Catbird, these are only a few) can make for a deep pile of resentment to offload.  With sleep deprivation and jetlag added to the mix, let's just say Catbird has not improved international relations so far this trip.

While Catbird wrestles with sleep deprivation when she travels, her physicist has a talent for navigating jet-lag. Now everyone who knows her physicist knows he is a champion napper. There are photographs of him in front of more than one great international monument in the same pose: supine on the grass (or a bench, or the base of a statue, etc.) with his hat over his face, catching a quick power nap while tourists step delicately around him. He’s always been a good napper, says he comes from a long line of like-minded folks, including his grandfather the civil engineer. This grandfather would stretch out in the grass near the levee or bridge or road that was being built and take a 3 p.m. snooze while the other workers toiled on; and then earn their respect/envy/resentment as he woke with many more hours of energy to push the work forward.

 

Physicist grabs power nap while grad student toils, Brazil Hands-On School, 2009

Catbird thinks she knows how those workers felt. She has often envied her physicist’s ability to drop into sleep mid-sentence, leaving Catbird to contend with her sleep demons alone. She tries to be happy for his abilities, rather than resent them, but it isn’t always easy, especially when he wakes, rubs his hands together in anticipation of his next adventure, and repeats “well, that was a good nap,” seemingly oblivious to Catbird’s cross and weary face. It must be confessed, Catbird has threatened to slap him on such occasions.

Just as Mma Ramotswe is of traditional build, her physicist is of small stature. Given two airplane seats with a movable armrest, he can curl up and sleep comfortably, something Catbird most definitely can only dream about. The first leg of our three flights from Austin to Milano put Catbird and physicist alone in a three-seat exit row. While Catbird stretched her legs forward (in the additional three inches the exit row provides) and flicked on her Kindle, her physicist began his quick nesting process.

Curled beside her, Catbird helped her physicist pull his jacket over his head to block out the light just as the airline attendant made his last pass through the cabin, closing overheads and checking seat-belt status. The attendant gave a sharp look at the physicist and Catbird.  Thinking to head off an intrusion into the physicist’s sleep descent Catbird said, “Oh, he’s belted. He’s belted.”

The airline attendant seemed mollified for a moment, then as he backed up the aisle asked: “But, how old is he?”

Taken back, Catbird could only blurt out the truth, “He’s 71. Why?”

“Oh,” said the airline attendant, blushing “I was afraid he was too young to be in the exit row.” At which point our physicist, roused by the public announcement of his age, pulled the jacket off his head and sat up revealing his lovely gray and neatly trimmed beard. Most of the cabin—not the least Catbird and her physicist—had a great laugh.

 

Following a nap of her own, and dinner, Catbird decides not to slap anyone.

A Member of the Wedding

 Well,  Little Sister's Jamaican wedding (or "Nupshalls," in my neighbor's West Texas parlance) is a fait accompli and we have all returned to our respective homes to recover from so much sun and fun and family togetherness.  

The whole wedding party

The bride and her attendant photographed like a page out of Bride Magazine, and the groom looked like he had just won the lottery--as well he ought.  Little Sister is a catch. 

Little Sister asked my physicist to walk her down the aisle, the aisle being a boardwalk from the swimming pool to the tree on the beach where we sat waiting.  Neither Catbird nor the physicist saw that request coming and were both struck mute with tenderness.  During the ceremony, in a tradition about which Catbird has much ambivalence, the physicist was asked who gives this woman to be wed, and his very non-traditional answer "her sisters and I" made all three sisters resonate with affection.  

About that tradition:  Catbird likes acknowledging the whole family in the transformative process of marriage, but oh how she detests the idea of woman as chattel to be traded, dowried, or outright given away.  No worries, as they say in Jamaica; anyone who knows LIttle Sister knows she makes her own choices and doesn't sell herself short.    Good for Little Sister. 

 And did I mention she looked beautiful?

Hold On

Our last afternoon in Banff brought us a window of clear skies and glorious gondola ride to the peak of Sulphur Mountain. New snow, plenty of it, lay on top of old snow, storm clouds roiled in the distance, and the windchill dropped as we ascended.

Now when Catbird says glorious gondola ride, what she means is terrifying.  Though some might call it acrophobia (which means an unnatural fear of heights), Catbird doesn't see anything unnatural about a wingless mammal trembling when sailing up a mountain, over the tops of trees in an aging plexiglas box dangling from a one inch cable, and all under the purview of a couple of bored adolescent males.  

Catbird is, for the most part, pretty cautious (read: scared witless about many, many things), and wants to live a good long life with her physicist.  But she also wants the prizes that are way outside her comfort zone. She learned, incontrovertibly way back in nursing school, that we all have to die of something, and invokes that thought as she weighs the risks and rewards of her adventures.  

Possible headlines inform her fears:

Local Physicist and Bitchy Wife Die in Mine Collapse in Argentina 

...or (in my hometown paper)

Former Ellettsville Girl Dies when Catwalk Gives Way at Iguazu Falls (with subheading: "She Shoulda Never Left," Says Former Guidance Counselor)

...or Caught in 3rd World Political Uprising, Physicist and Insignificant Wife are Missing and Presumed Dead.

The pragmatist in Catbird's head helps her negotiate between fear and adventure, looks for safety measures to minimize risk.  Sensible shoes, seatbelts, sunblock, DEET, pre-trip review of local customs, copies of each other's passports, timely vaccinations, mosquito net, bottled water, etc. all must be given their due. 

But in the gondola, sitting across from her physicist, there was no seatbelt, no handle, no net, no visible fail-safe measure of any kind.  If the winds, which were kicking up some great ghostly plumes, managed to tip the gondola off its cable, there was nowhere to go but down.  Nothing to catch Catbird and her physicist, who sat opposite one another as the cables stretched not only higher on the mountain, but also higher above the trees.

And with that realization came a clarity of thought that rang true for the whole of life: we have nothing to hold onto but each other.  So Catbird, unbalancing the distribution of weight and rocking the gondola like a Ferris Wheel, stood up and moved to sit where she could hold her physicist close.  

The view was great, and it turns out holding onto each other is a pretty good way to experience life, even when you don't fall.

The Town of Banff and the Banff Ctr Way Below

Looking West from Sulphur Mountain