I’m pretty sure we all have a bucket list. A few things I’ve had on there since I was young are left unchecked – step foot on Antarctica, visit the worlds of Moomintroll in Finland and Sinbad in Baghdad, see the jacaranda bloom in Mexico City, the cherry blossoms in Tokyo, and the fall leaves and fishing towns in New England, etc.
A few days ago, I was able to cross off one bucket list item – participate in the Feast of St. Anthony of Padua in my great-grandparents’ hometown in Ferrazzano, Italy.
The day started with the band playing at 8 am in the main piazza, followed by mass, during which the priest talked about St Anthony’s life and importance. A group of about a dozen young boys dressed in the style of St. Anthony – brown Franciscan habits, rope belts tied around their waists, and holding white lilies – sang at the end. The night before, there had been a special blessing of bread, which was then distributed for all. That bread had been freshly baked by some church committee members at a bread bakery in town. This morning after mass, more bread was distributed, carried by the boys in St. Anthony clothes as they walked through the streets of the town, though this bread consisted of freshly blessed buns in plastic packages.
Afterwards, another mass was held in the main piazza…
…another procession through the town…
“You look very happy,” said Bea. “I am very happy,” I replied.
Videos and photos of the procession by Bea.
…and a fireworks display that put the 4th of July to shame. (Have you ever had to pick “happy shrapnel” from fireworks out of your hair at a 4th of July show? No. No, you haven’t.)
A few other things from Ferrazzano..
Wash day crew enjoying Aperol spritzes and coffees while we wait for laundry.Hilarious conversation with the man in the tobacco shop as he tried to explain that at lavanderias in Italy, the soap is automatically dispensed…My cousin is on a mission to rescue and spay all the feral cats on Italy…Group photo before Bea takes off for Florence and Siena.Saying goodbye to Carmine.
After waiting 3 hot, sweaty hours in line for our rental car (yes, THREE), we were ready for the three and a half hour drive to Ferrazzano. Oddly, I prefer to drive amidst the chaos in Italian cities and towns to driving on the autostrada or in the outskirts where it seems that the speed limit changes randomly and I’m always anxiously balancing my desire not to get a speeding ticket through one of the traffic cameras and my desire not to create an accident by obstructing traffic that is usually driving three times the posted speed limit. When driving down a hill with a gas truck is barreling down 3 ft from one’s bumper, or sandwiched between a delivery truck ahead and a sports car behind zipping along a curving two-lane country road, the choice is sometimes a foregone conclusion.
We finally arrived in Ferrazzano red-faced, tired, and late for an invitation to cocktails and apertif from my friend Carmine. He was gracious about our tardiness and presented beautiful trays of farinata and cheeses and sangria for us to enjoy before being whisked away by his friend Fabio to our castle apartment (yes I said castle) for the next three days.
View from the kitchen window in our castle apartment.Side yard of Castello Carafa.Dude, I said castle. The bathroom still has the original toilet for pooping into the moat. There weren’t always video games around for entertainment, you know
The next morning my aunt, cousin, mother, and I attended mass in the beautiful little church in Ferrazzano, where St. Anthony has already been regaled all week and is surrounded by hundreds of sweet smelling roses and crowned with a halo of illuminated bulbs. Mass in Italian is a bit different, and trying to translate in my head made it even difficult to remember the English words to follow along with the responses and prayers.
We ran into Carmine after mass and he walked us around Ferrazzano since my aunt and cousin had never been there. (I suspect he was so polite that he even skipped the mass for the feast of St. Onofrio down the hill that he intended to attend…!)
Chivalry in action – Carmine helps my septuagenarian aunt and mother down some of the Ferrazzano stairs – didn’t people used to be even shorter when these were built? Did they get around on pogo sticks or something?
Ferrazzano is a beautiful mountain village with vistas that will bowl you over. And steep hills and stairs are par for the course.
Please feast your eyes on the stunning beauty
Along the way we met his friend Pietro, a retiree who now indulgeshis passion for making traditional Ferrazzanese foods – home-cured cherries, sausages, pancetta, canned tomatoes, etc. Pietro invited us in and plied us with all sorts of his homemade delicacies, while Fabio delivered a bottle of his homemade wine and discarded cherry branches burned in the fireplace. We were unclear if they were also being used to smoke meats.
At the end of the visit Pietro invited us back for dinner. Tonight would be both a procession honoring St. Onofrio (patron saint of the next town, but the mother church is in Ferrazzano), one procession and celebration for St. Anthony, and tomorrow would be a full day concluding a half month of devotion to Ferrazzano’s patron St. Anthony.
St. Onofrio arrives at St. Maria Assunta
Late night feast with our amazing host Pietro. Do I look tired or anything? No reflection on his charm.
She’s cradling her son’s broken, bloodied, lifeless body the way she cradled him as an infant. He’s grown now, but you know what they say – no matter how big they get, they’re always your baby. What had he done but offer love and hope for the future? And the world’s inability to respond in kind punctured his hands and pierced his side and left him splayed out to die.
And whose sins do the dead bodies of the children in Uvalde bear? (Or Sandy Hook…or Marjory Stoneman Douglass…or Columbine…or…or…) What are the failings in their world that ripped through their bodies until all the love and hope for the future drained out? How many more mothers will cradle the dead bodies of their always-my-babies?
She grieves behind plexiglass, and I wonder if it’s bulletproof. That would be ironic.
After seeing Allison off to her train back to Paris, we spent the morning at the Vatican, taxied to Trevi Fountain for obligatory selfies and appreciative ooohing, had a break for lunch and Aperol spritzes, the joined my cousin, mother, and aunt to visit the Vatican Museum and Sistine Chapel. Dinner was eaten after 10, so the long uphill walk back to our Airbnb helped take the edge off our gluttony.
When you are in a tiny trattoria, and there is a big long table of Italians celebrating a birthday…and when they are finished singing and the Spaniards at the next table follow with happy birthday in Spanish…and when they turn to you and look with expectant smiles,…just know that yes, you are obligated to sing happy birthday in your native language.
Even if you are a Korean guy sitting there all by yourself. (That guy is officially my hero.) True story and it happened at lunch on our way to the Colosseum, where my cousin and aunt smuggled in contraband leftover pizza.
My aunt casually holding a rain-soaked pizza box like a business portfolio. No one suspects a thing.
The nice thing about cousins is they get it. I mean, maybe you don’t see each other for a few years, and when you finally get together, there are things you don’t even have to explain because they already know. Your deeper backstory is their deeper back story.
After purchasing cheap €5 umbrellas from a street vendor to protect us from the sudden downpour, we finally made our way into the protection of the cool stone shade of the Colosseum. Traveling with a group is a different experience – this one meanders this way, another two trail behind that way, no one seems to have a working phone, and my inner teacher wants to bark, “Everyone get in one line!” As some of our group lost orbit, my cousin Nicole and I were standing with my mother, who was telling one of those stories that sounds something like, “…and then Diana DeFazio’s brother Mario – the one who had five teeth pulled – he lives on the corner next to the Russos, the ones who owned the shop where my grandmother bought coppacol’, and their cousin Lydia still lives in Ferrazzano on the street below grandpa’s…”
And there it was, the glance between cousins. Then the pee-your-pants laughing. We get it.
My mom and my aunt are the two oldest out of eight. They are the same and they are different, but there is some kind of special bond they share from being the two that existed together before the others. Before the first boy came. They will always have each other’s back somehow. This trip, together, to the country of their grandparents, the country that gave the smells and sounds and tastes to their childhood, is something my mom has been anxious to share with her sister. Months of planning on my mom’s part to make sure everything goes smoothly, to make sure my aunt is comfortable and at ease, and they are like two peas in a pod walking around the Colosseum together.
How is our pizza looking at the end of the Colosseum tour?
David and his sister are two middles. She took the train from Paris just to meet her little brother for dinner in Trastevere in Rome. Dinner. In Rome. And a train back to Paris the next morning. .
That’s love…
A fountain on Via Giulia that shall henceforth be known as Furry Freak Brother Fountain; the Tiber at night.
“Did you order the special meal?” asked the harried flight attendant as he held a tray with a blue box perched atop.
“No, but I was hoping you might have an extra vegan or vegetarian meal perhaps?” I replied hopefully.
He took a quick glance at the label on the box, and said, “Right, that’ll do, then.” And set it in front of me.
A vegan meal. With my seat number, 42J, on the sticker. Past Me must have ordered vegan for Future Me, and Present Me had forgotten entirely. Present Me thanks Past Me profusely.
Sunset with airplane wing and moon over Canada. David took this one for me since he had the window seat.
Most of the outbound travel went smoothly, though Heathrow was more chaotic than I remembered. The cliché reference to cattle never felt more appropriate. We arrived in Rome late, with a few minor mishaps involving customs technology,but finally got to our home for the next three days around 8:30. When Traveler Number Three arrived an hour later, we walked to a trattoria outside the walls of the Vatican and had pizza, bruschetta, and wine before ambling back to shower off the airport cooties and hit our respective pillows for much-needed sleep.
David is already snoring.
Seen on our walk back from dinner. We think it’s St. Peter’s but we are not sure tonight. Verification to follow.If this juxtaposition includes whom I think it includes, I’m intrigued…
The last time I took a long trip, which was in 2019 before the world turned upside down, I was posting updates on my Facebook account. And my friend Megan said, “Do you have a blog? Cuz I would follow the s*** out of that.”
So I made a blog.
It’s this one. This blog.
I originally started trying to move over all of my Facebook posts into This Blog. But it became too tedious and I ran out of time. Who knows, I may still dredge up some old adventures From The Archives in case anyone is interested in reading about past explorations.
In the meantime, here’s to new ramblings…of one kind and another.
So, as it turns out, I’m hopelessly in love with George Orwell.
Today I slept in a little late, since I woke myself at 3 am to watch the debates and text commentary with a friend who is also interested in politics. Probably will do the same tonight. Porque es muy importante, la política. Hablo español, una mas cerveza por favor! 😉Little debate humor there…when all else fails, throw in some Spanish to show you’re one of the people.
I talked to David for a bit, got up, and decided today should be the day to hit the more touristy spots, as they may be more crowded come the weekend, à la Amsterdam. Visited the old town, the Charles Bridge, etc. I did that thing I do, where I think I know where I’m going, and at some point I realize I don’t, but I stubbornly keep walking aimlessly, overestimating my sense of direction. (Mind you, my sense of direction is not terrible…it’s just not GPS. Or even a paper map.) Eventually I did that other thing I do, which is to finally concede defeat, sit somewhere with a drink, and regain my bearings.
Kranner’s Fountain, a fountain and monument to Emperor Francis I of Austria found along the left bank of the River Vlava between the Legion Bridge and the Charles Bridge.
All above are from the Charles Bridge…ummmm, maybe not the horses. I think they were from a nearby building, but they balance the format so I am taking artistic license.
Here are more photos of things that tickled my eyeballs on either side of the bridge…
One of my favorite points of interest in Venice is the clock tower at St Mark’s Square. Churches and castles and museums have their beautiful sculptures and architectural embellishments and majestic stained glass and gold leaf. But a clock tower like the one at St Mark’s is a grand achievement of art AND mechanics AND architecture AND mathematics AND astronomy. So seeing the astronomical clock in Prague was a key destination today, so much so that I actually claimed a table at a tourist restaurant directly opposite the clock and ordered a cheese plate and two Aperol spritzers, just to better enjoy waiting for the next turn of the hour to arrive. The crowd swelled just before 3:00, and the restaurant itself was inundated with tourists who tried to position themselves between the tables, only to be firmly shooed away by the staff. My waiter and I shared a wry, knowing smile in a way that signaled how patient one must be with the rabble.
Can you even see me? I’m so perfectly camouflaged with my surroundings…
I’m adding a video of the clock for your enjoyment.
Wove my way back to my tram stop, taking more photos along the way. The heat and the Aperol spritzers made me sleepy, so I wrote a few postcards then took a nap before heading up the street for a dinner of black truffle risotto, pinot gris, and Orwell in the garden patio of a nearby restaurant. The restaurant was especially considerate and had misters strung along the edge of the patio that would periodically spritz cool droplets in the direction of the diners. After finishing everything ( including the Orwell), I walked back down the hill and settled in for the evening.
Tempted though I was to spend the record-breaking day in my cool ground-floor flat, I decided it wouldn’t do, so out I went. (Last time I was in Italy, they also had record-breaking heat. Been there, done that, got the t-shirt. The sweaty, sweaty t-shirt.) I looked online last night to find “where to stay cool in Prague,” and one of the suggestions was Vyšehrad, a 10th century fortress at the top of a hill overlooking the city.
I showered, had my instant coffee and a deformed piece of the previously liquid chocolate, and caught the tram. Screenshots of the route are your friend. Caught the 5, rode it to the appropriate stop, caught the 7…and realized I had taken the 5 in the wrong direction and would have to ride 13 stops instead of 4.
Screenshots have their limitations.
Got off at the right stop and started walking the hill to the fortress. Yes, again I said hill. Because smart medieval city planners always built their fortresses on hills. I took it easy and stopped at every turn to cool down a bit in the shade. I’m not here to be a hero. Reached a brick tunnel that acted as a windchannel and luxuriated for a few minutes. I wanted to stay there longer,but decided that hanging around tunnel entrances at a public park might look different from the outside, and getting arrested for soliciting in Prague is not my idea of a fun vacation. So I continued on my way.
The funny thing about countries that offer free healthcare is that they seem to be the same countries that charge coin to use the restroom. (I had my revenge, though… accidentally stuck a 1 pound sterling coin into a machine designed for Euros at the Amsterdam train station and it jammed. Oops! I mean, F*** you and your toilet extortion, Europe!) Anyway, attempted again to use what I knew of Czech combined with what I know of Russian to talk to the bathroom attendant at the top of the hill (this doesn’t work, as pretending Danish was the same as Dutch did not work in Holland, but my brain can’t help but try to fill in the gaps), she asked where I was from and when I told her I was from near San Francisco, she happily said, “czechczechczech HOUSE San Francisco! San Francisco HOUSE czechczechczech!” Now, I did not know if she meant that my house was near San Francisco, or if she was showing off her knowledge that Full House was set in San Francisco, but the correct response to either was the same, so I said, “Yes! Ano!” And went about my toilet business.
Several cafes are to be found in the fortress, so I found one, had a beer, read, ate beet salad with goat cheese that seemed more like brie, got a map, and proceeded to explore the fortress. Still so hot, I walked very slowly. I strolled. I idled. I meandered. I took my sweet ass time getting from place to place. Spent time in the Church of St Peter and Paul, sat quietly in the pew for a while before taking some photos of the beautiful artwork. Lit a candle for beloveds. Went out and walked through the cemetery. It was a fine and quiet place indeed.
(What follows includes lots of photos of the Church and cemetery, so I don’t blame you if you scroll fast. Just be sure to pause at the photo of my second beer and contemplate how refreshing it must have been to have a cold beer and a breeze in the shade, overlooking Prague, on an otherwise perspiration-soaked day.)
I used to think when I’m gone, I want to be buried in a sunny spot. I always felt that shadow on a grave might make me feel too cold and depressed for all of eternity. However, after walking through a cemetery in 99 degree weather, I can see how being interred in direct sunlight might also feel pretty sweltering. So make a note, I would like a place with dappled shade – not too cold, not too hot.
Found a spot overlooking the city to read and have more beer. (The one you most certainly paused to admire in the slideshow above.) I wanted to eat, too,but the grill was not grilling because of the heat, so no food was to be had.
Walked around some more (Google was right about Vyšehrad being a good place to escape heat…lots of shady spots with a breeze…jumping from shade to shade was like playing the real life version of that game you used to play as kids, jumping from dark tile to dark tile so as not to step in the “hot lava”), caught my trams (correct direction this time!),and made my way home.
The Devil’s Pillars. I tried to think why they might be called that, but the only thing that came to mind was the bizarre Kavanaugh hearing references, so I promptly gave up.
King Wenceslas I, I believe. Yes, the one from the song.
Walnuts
Lots of dead bees on the ground. People, please take this bee thing seriously. We need these little guys.
Also saw not one, but two dead birds on the sidewalk today, an adult pigeon and done kind of baby bird. I think it may have been the heat.
In the foreground, the Plague Pillar.
Rotunda of St. Martin of Tours.
Remains of the original 9th century castle.
More remains of the original 9th century castle.
Cold showers and easy access to a washing machine are such luxuries, especially when you are a Human Who Wears a Bra. Took a cold shower and rested (and am now doing washing). Being a member of the petite bourgeoisie has a fresh feel to it.
Got dressed, went to dinner at a place down the street, and ate a scandalous amount of food (the beet salad, beer, and square of once-melted chocolate ran dry hours ago). Potato pancakes and more beer,followed by a palačinky (Czech style crepe) with ice cream and chocolate. Fizzy water. Read my book in the lulls. Heard the gentleman at the next table speaking on the phone in Italian. I debated whether it would be presumptuous to speak to him in Italian, then realized he had been just as nosy and spoken to me in English. So the next time he struggled to stand, I asked him in Italian if his leg was broken. He said, no, his foot. We carried on a long conversation (in Italian), he’s lived in Prague 10 years, originally from near Florence, has visited New York and New Jersey, has a daughter who is Czech, lives on the top floor of that building over there and it’s even hotter up high which is why he’s at the restaurant, etc. He wanted to know why I speak Italian and why I’m reading Orwell. We talked about Orwell (he’s a fan and had read everything by him), and he recommended another of his titles to me. I asked him about bus tickets and gratuities. Paid my bill, said Buona sera, piacere, and he gave me his name (Luca) and I gave him mine.
And that’s that.
(Postscript: I found out later that the cemetery at Vyšegrad is quite significant, where many famous Czechs are buried, including the Czech artist Alfons Mucha, of whom I am an admirer. You’ll find his resting place, along with others, at the monumental tomb Slavín at the cemetery’s eastern end.)
Hey, I packed for a month in a duffel and a normal sized backpack. How long it will stay that way us anyone’s guess.
It’s some sort of mystery of physics…you can pack carefully for a trip, add nothing along the way, yet your belongings somehow experience some sort of dimensional expansion that makes each subsequent attempt to pack more and more difficult…
The bus driver today was my first female bus driver. SHE actually apologized to ME for not speaking English better (after I apologized for my Dutch). I pointed out that we were in Holland, soooo… Anyway, there seems to be an inverse correlation between chronological distance from the weekend and driver grumpiness.
Got to the airport very early. (I have come to the conclusion that the Germanic reputation for promptness is a result of dependence on public transportation…I can’t explain the Italians). It was already muggy by 9 am. I got breakfast at the airport (not expensive!) and waited.
Flying into Prague was beautiful. Clusters of red-roofed villages surrounded by patchworks of field in varying shades of green and yellow, interspersed with lush, almost black, forests.
Taking the bus then tram to my place was relatively easy. Except for the guy who told me “dvatzat shest” and pointed emphatically at the ground to let me know to wait here at the bus stop for 26. I waited until I saw a TRAM reading 26 across the street, and asked some people nearby in my lame Czech-Russian mashup if I was supposed to be over there. They said yes. (Thanks for nothing, old man…) Fortunately 26 comes every 8 minutes. Oh, except then I got off one stop too early, because Czech buses and trains announce both the current stop AND the next stop. Thank you, Costa Coffee barista, for getting me on track.
By the way, I’ll interject here that if you are someone who gets all panty-twisted when you hear foreigners speaking their native language in America, I’m here to tell you to stop that s***. I speak (rusty) Italian and Russian, some French, Spanish, and a few silly sounding sentences of Danish. I do not speak Czech or Dutch or any other number of languages. People are always very kind and helpful to me, and I’d like you to do the same for non-native English speakers. If you’ve ever travelled, it’s good karma (and I’m sure you’ve spoken English in public), and if you haven’t, well, use your imagination. Back to my day.
My apartment is fantastic. $23/ night. Twenty. Three. Dollars. A. Night. And travellers…it has a washer. YOU know what I mean…
Surprise! The toilet is in another room. (Right by the front door…). I haven’t seen a separate WC since staying in the Soviet Union oh, so long ago…
Found a killer (yuk yuk) vegan restaurant around the corner that not only had a beet-soy burger that knocked my socks off (ok, I wasn’t wearing any…please refer to: it’s hot), but they also employ formerly homeless or incarcerated people and buy from businesses that employ disabled people AND you can buy a lunch voucher that they keep for homeless or hungry people needing food. Damn.
So. Amazingly. Delicious.
The sign to the left says (among other things), “Thanks to you, we’ve served 1111 suspended/pending lunches.” (Suspended like sospeso / “suspended” or “pending” coffees in Italy, where you prepay for someone else’s coffee who might need one but can’t afford it.)
Walked to Tesco, picked up more sh**** travel conditioner and lotion and laundry soap and diet Coke and a melted chocolate bar (did I mention it was hot?), and now I sit in front of the fan tapping on my phone, sitting on a futon in the living room of an apartment in an old Czech building.
Visited the Anne Frank House today. Had to do a separate post for this one. Photos are not allowed inside. I am an emotional person who feels things deeply, and neither David nor my son will be surprised to know that it was very hard for me to keep from crying in here. It’s one thing to read the diary and to know, it’s another to be in the space. It didn’t help that it occurred to me that Anne looked EXACTLY like a former student of mine (minus my student’s bright red hair). Or that I wondered if the train tracks I’ve been riding daily were the same ones used to transport men, women, and children to a final horrific ending. Or that names on the transport lists matched the surnames of people dear to me. I cannot imagine the terrible, terrible pain of having your children separated from you and have no idea where they are being sent, how they will be treated, having no way to indulge that most primal drive of protecting your beloved, precious treasures.
People are still fleeing political violence and genocide today. Can we see it the same way? Are are we too close to it to recognize it? What regrets will we have in a decade looking back?
Link to the virtual tour…there is actually no furniture, only in the virtual tour, because Otto Frank wanted it left unfurnished the way it was after they were removed and it was cleaned out.
Life to the Point of Tears 