On Monday, with a somewhat heavy heart, I left Venezia. Have I mentioned it is a breathtakingly beautiful city? It is worth repeating. I spent most of Sunday wandering around the “other side” of the Grand Canal. It feels almost like an entirely different city, one where people actually live, eat, and drink. The architecture is simpler but no less beautiful and there were surprises waiting for me around each corner. One was the white church of Santa Maria della Salute bathed in sunlight against an impossibly blue sky. I happened to be standing near the church at noon when the bells began to chime. They rang out from somewhere between ten minutes and an hour, I was that lost in their music. The streets of Venezia—both liquid and dry—are narrow and the surrounding buildings create an immense network of echo chambers so I hope you can begin to imagine the sound I heard as those bells cheerfully announced the middle of the day. Other surprises included the prison—at least the exterior is as beautiful as the rest of the neighborhood—the very old boatyard where they either build or repair gondolas or perhaps both, and the tiny, little restaurant where I had lunch. Two staff members (husband and wife?) were taking care of ten or so tables, and by two I mean one was cooking and one was not; he was the walking menu and he convinced me that I wanted the spaghetti with red sauce and seafood (shrimp and clams—thankfully without the shells) and I am so glad he did. To say it was delicious would be like saying Venezia is merely quaint. The remainder of the afternoon was spent wandering, photographing, buying glasses, and just plain gawking. I was very tired by the time I returned to my hotel and I slept very well that night.
March 21
Monday brought me to Padova and new adventures. I will confess that at first I was afraid I had made a poor decision in stopping in Padova. The area near the train station is a mish-mash of architectural styles and in many ways it did not have a cohesive appeal—I do not have an issue with mixing styles of architecture but the mixture should be complementary and here it was not. Fortunately, I wandered further away from the train tracks, where most of the bombing of WWII took place, and into a charming, Medieval/Renaissance town. Again, surprises awaited me, such as the castle and tower next to the river, and the piazza that reminded me of Les Desmoiselle de Rochefort. The best surprise, however, was the discovery of the church of San Antonio di Padova. The church is an excellent blend of Romanesque, Gothic, and Byzantine styles, the side and radiating chapels are handsomely decorated, the cloister’s courtyard is quaint and peaceful, and the tomb of San Antonio is pretty amazing. But the best part, at least for me, was the chapel of the reliquaries. The back wall of the chapel has a large cabinet about ten feet tall divided into three sections. The left and right sections are filled with reliquaries (and their accompanying relics) of various saints. The metalwork dates from the 14
th century to the 18
th century and is beautiful, intricate, and very, very shiny. The central section is all that (except for the one reliquary that dates from the 20
th century) but for the most part, the reliquaries contain bits and pieces of San Antonio; a lock of hair, various bones, pieces of his skin, his tongue, his lower jaw, and his vocal chords—they were found intact in 1981 during the canonical recognition of his body buy Pope John Paul II, hence the newest reliquary. As creepy as it sometimes was, the display of such master craftsmanship was worth the occasional queasiness.
My train arrived at precisely 11:15 and I suddenly had 45 minutes where I got to sit down. One final word about Padova before I continue. Bicycles. Padova has a lot of them. Padova also has relatively smooth roads and a large number of bike paths, on the main streets, adjacent to them, and completely separate from them as the paths meander through parks and along the rivers. Padova is definitely a bicycle friendly city. One more word but this one about pronunciation and/or spelling. Please do not think me pretentious because I am using the Italian forms of the names of the cities. I have never understood why cultures and language groups insist upon renaming foreign cities and countries. It is not like Padova, Mantova, and Venezia are any more difficult to say or write than Padua, Mantua, and Venice. And it is not just the English speaking world that does this. Paris is not Paris in Roma, neither is London. Anyway, enough rambling, let’s get back to the train.
March 22
This part of Italia is a large, flat and fertile valley with farms and vineyards between which the train wanders through. Out the window on the north side of the train rising up from the plain are these cute, little mountains that are called, I believe, the Alps. Seeing their snow capped peaks rise into the azure blue sky is a joyous experience. The train continues to wander through a hillier landscape with only vineyards now on either side; rows and rows of grape vines trestle up just waiting to produce the fruit that will one day give me great pleasure. Buildings are beginning to appear more and more, old buildings made of very dark red brick—the silence on the train is suddenly broken by the announcement that we are arriving in Verona.
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| View of the cafe along the piazza |
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Immediately after checking into my hotel I sat down for lunch at a charming café nestled in amongst equally charming cafés at the edge of a large piazza directly across from the ancient Roman arena. After lunch I embarked on a walking tour of this beautiful town. Like Padova, Verona was once part of the Republic of Venezia and the influence is unmistakable, Venetian windows adorn many buildings and the Lion of San Marco is a prominent feature throughout the old center of town. But Verona also contains a large number of Gothic buildings including the Palazzo di Capuleti—the Capulets, the family of Juliet. Inside the inner courtyard of the Palazzo is the famous balcony where the ill-famed lovers shared their first kiss and where hundreds, if not thousands, of tourists visit annually and inscribe their eternal love on the walls. The house of Juliet is hardly the only Gothic edifice worth visiting. In the courtyard of Santa Maria Antica are the tombs of the Scaliger family, who governed Verona from 1230 to 1387, with spires reaching high into the sky forcing viewers to continue looking up to these governors even after death. Across the river from the old center of town are the remains of an ancient Roman theater and above that, high on a hill, is Castel San Pietro with breathtaking views of the town below. I climbed to the top of the hill and since these hills are actually the foothills of the Alps, one might say that I summited an Alp—at least that is my story and I am sticking to it.
March 23
I arrived in Mantova today on a beautiful, warm, sunny spring afternoon. The journey from Verona was short but restful—I slept almost the entire way. Leaving the station it took me a moment to get my bearings, something that hasn’t happened this trip but I really did not know which direction to turn. After a couple deep breaths I forged on and found my hotel without a problem.
The hotel is a very small one—more like a penzione—with only four rooms in an 18
th century building that has been completely refurbished. It sits right on Piazza della Erbe, one of Mantova’s oldest and most picturesque piazzas. The owner’s hospitality was unexpected as he treated me to a delicious lunch before I left my baggage and started to wander the town.
I have (had) two goals in Mantova—one, to see the Palazzo Ducale and the Camera degli Sposi frescoed by Andrea Mantegna, and, two, to see Palazzo Te and the Room of the Giants frescoed by Giulio Romano. Goal one was accomplished this afternoon and I will take care of number two tomorrow. The Palazzo Ducale was an interesting experience. The Gonzaga family, the ruling dukes of Mantova for centuries, were wealthy and powerful; the built their palace in several stages over a couple hundred years. Today, a good deal of the original artwork commissioned or collected by the Gonzagas is lost or elsewhere, like the Caravaggio now in the Louvre. The plaque in one room I found particularly funny, “the niches in this room once held beautiful busts but they are now lost.” The museum has an empty, post “fire sale” quality to it, although it was able to score a set of the Raphael Tapestries. The original tapestries were commissioned by Pope Julius II to hang in the Sistine Chapel but subsequent sets were made and are on display at museums across the globe including Mantova. Unfortunately they are not hung in the correct order; two of the tapestries are meant to hang side by side but here they are displayed on separate walls…in separate rooms! The Mantegna frescoes did not disappoint. It is easier to analyze the details from pictures in books but to see the works in person, viewing the over life-size figures of the family as they were intended to be seen is worth the price of admission.
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| A room with a view |
The remainder of the afternoon was dedicated to wandering, not through museums or galleries or important piazzas and palazzos or even through churches (except for that one, but it was round!) but wandering along the lakefront park and watching a blood-red sun set behind a grove of Poplar trees. I even managed to get a little color on my pallid face. And now I am having dinner—actually the “dinner” part is over; I’m sipping my wine and getting ready to order dessert—again at the lovely restaurant across the piazza from my room, and listening to soft jazz standards playing in the background. Another lovely day.
On Monday, with a somewhat heavy heart, I left Venezia. Have I mentioned it is a breathtakingly beautiful city? It is worth repeating. I spent most of Sunday wandering around the “other side” of the Grand Canal. It feels almost like an entirely different city, one where people actually live, eat, and drink. The architecture is simpler but no less beautiful and there were surprises waiting for me around each corner. One was the white church of Santa Maria della Salute bathed in sunlight against an impossibly blue sky. I happened to be standing near the church at noon when the bells began to chime. They rang out from somewhere between ten minutes and an hour, I was that lost in their music. The streets of Venezia—both liquid and dry—are narrow and the surrounding buildings create an immense network of echo chambers so I hope you can begin to imagine the sound I heard as those bells cheerfully announced the middle of the day. Other surprises included the prison—at least the exterior is as beautiful as the rest of the neighborhood—the very old boatyard where they either build or repair gondolas or perhaps both, and the tiny, little restaurant where I had lunch. Two staff members (husband and wife?) were taking care of ten or so tables, and by two I mean one was cooking and one was not; he was the walking menu and he convinced me that I wanted the spaghetti with red sauce and seafood (shrimp and clams—thankfully without the shells) and I am so glad he did. To say it was delicious would be like saying Venezia is merely quaint. The remainder of the afternoon was spent wandering, photographing, buying glasses, and just plain gawking. I was very tired by the time I returned to my hotel and I slept very well that night.
March 21
Tuesday was meant to be a relaxing day; there were only two more things I wanted to see in Padova and the guidebooks did not have much to say about Verona so I figured it would be a restful day—I figured wrong. The remaining two things I needed to see in Padova, which were closed on Monday, were the Scrovegni Chapel and the Andrea Mantegna frescoes in monastery church of the Eremitani. The Scrovegni Chapel itself was worth the journey. Not only did Giotto make major steps in art with his work on both perspective and emotion but he did it beautifully. The blues in the ceiling alone are astounding but add to that the faux marble in the lowest section—made in the same manner ancient Roman painters created their faux marble walls—and finally the three fresco cycles and really do have the work of a master. Does Mantegna handle perspective better that Giotto? Yes. Is the 1965 Mustang a better performance vehicle than the 1929 Model T? Yes, but it is the combination of both innovation and beauty that make them both the exceptional examples of their arts.
The hotel is a very small one—more like a penzione—with only four rooms in an 18th century building that has been completely refurbished. It sits right on Piazza della Erbe, one of Mantova’s oldest and most picturesque piazzas. The owner’s hospitality was unexpected as he treated me to a delicious lunch before I left my baggage and started to wander the town.
I have (had) two goals in Mantova—one, to see the Palazzo Ducale and the Camera degli Sposi frescoed by Andrea Mantegna, and, two, to see Palazzo Te and the Room of the Giants frescoed by Giulio Romano. Goal one was accomplished this afternoon and I will take care of number two tomorrow. The Palazzo Ducale was an interesting experience. The Gonzaga family, the ruling dukes of Mantova for centuries, were wealthy and powerful; the built their palace in several stages over a couple hundred years. Today, a good deal of the original artwork commissioned or collected by the Gonzagas is lost or elsewhere, like the Caravaggio now in the Louvre. The plaque in one room I found particularly funny, “the niches in this room once held beautiful busts but they are now lost.” The museum has an empty, post “fire sale” quality to it, although it was able to score a set of the Raphael Tapestries. The original tapestries were commissioned by Pope Julius II to hang in the Sistine Chapel but subsequent sets were made and are on display at museums across the globe including Mantova. Unfortunately they are not hung in the correct order; two of the tapestries are meant to hang side by side but here they are displayed on separate walls…in separate rooms! The Mantegna frescoes did not disappoint. It is easier to analyze the details from pictures in books but to see the works in person, viewing the over life-size figures of the family as they were intended to be seen is worth the price of admission.
The remainder of the afternoon was dedicated to wandering, not through museums or galleries or important piazzas and palazzos or even through churches (except for that one, but it was round!) but wandering along the lakefront park and watching a blood-red sun set behind a grove of Poplar trees. I even managed to get a little color on my pallid face. And now I am having dinner—actually the “dinner” part is over; I’m sipping my wine and getting ready to order dessert—again at the lovely restaurant across the piazza from my room, and listening to soft jazz standards playing in the background. Another lovely day.
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