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All Good Things Must Come To An End: Travel Goals
The end of a trip…sadness of leaving a new favorite corner of the world….happiness to be heading home. Despite the fact that I hate air travel (to be specific, I hate the hoops you have to go through at the airport), travel day is always exciting. We leave Lesa early in the morning and make the one hour drive to Malpensa. Surprisingly, there are no delays and we arrive to the exact location on the first try.
We booked a rental car from the main terminal so drop off would be easy. Oddly, the car agency didn’t open until 7:00 am. We have an early flight so we drop the keys in the drop box and hope for the best. We navigate up steps and through the terminal. Of course our airline is at the furthest possible location.
We arrive panting, only to find a long, long line into a back room where the American based airline counters are contained. I walk to the front of the line and around a corner and discover a board that says which passengers are allowed to enter the check in area. Our flight is eligible so I retrieve my husband and we skip the line. I try to tell as many people as possible which flights have entry, as many people were in line with no idea they were allowed in since they couldn’t see the entry board and were in line behind people who were waiting for a later flight.
Check in was easy, but we are directed downstairs and back across the entire airport to the U.S. security lines. Advanced technology allows us to leave everything in our bags. The security line is efficient and we are through in minutes. But now we have to walk the entire length of the airport for the third time to find our gate. We have now walked somewhere between three or four miles. My backpack is loaded with my computer and all the treasures acquired during our Italian holiday. It is heavy! We trudge on.
We arrive at the gate and sit. Our fellow passengers hack and cough like there is an epidemic. No one even bothers to cover their mouths. I retrieve our masks and we put them on. I have no intention of getting sick, especially since my sister in law got Covid on her flight home earlier in the week. The lady sitting next to me looks insulted that I have masked as she continues to cough. I ignore her sighs as I am not the problem in this scenario.
I settle into my seat after boarding for the long flight home. I don’t usually like window seats, but this plane has two seats side by side a window and an aisle. Normally we both claim an aisle seat but this is an unusual opportunity to sit together without someone stuck in the middle.
Before I know it, we are flying over the Alps. Just days ago, I was walking trails at Gornergrat. Today, I say farewell from the air. Different views, equally impressive. Soon we are over the water and I am searching for something to watch on in flight entertainment. Hundreds of choices and nothing looks appealing…perhaps a nap.
Before I know it, we are back in the USA. For the first time in a long time, we are met with smiling employees who welcome us home. They are calm, cheerful and helpful. The passport control agents are equally pleasant. I am happy to be home and even happier that our fellow passengers who are visitors are greeted with respect and courtesy.
The short flight home from Atlanta was over quickly. Our baggage came quickly and the shuttle was waiting at the curb. This may have been the easiest re-entry process within memory. We were in the truck and headed home without delay. The last hour is spent on the highway headed home. Each milestone is one step closer. My bed..my bathtub…my birds….my coffee pot……are calling. It is good to be home.
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Last Day Is Always Bittersweet: Travel Goals
Our last day in Italy. Where did the time go? We decided to stay fairly close to home as we needed to pack and prepare for a morning flight. Although we had connected trains in the town of Domodossola, we had yet to visit. It seemed like a great destination. The town sits next to the River Toce in the Ossola valley in view of the Alps.
The drive to Domodossola was easy, and I was able to check in for our flight in route. We started the day at the Sacro Monte di Domodossola. I have come to love the mountain chapels with the carved biblical scenes. It seemed a fitting end to the trip.
We parked and walked uphill toward the chapels. The signs were confusing and we couldn’t find the starting chapel. Eventually, I discovered that half of the chapels were downhill and half uphill. I wanted to do them in order, a true pilgrimage.
My husband thought I was crazy to walk all the way down the mountain to town, only to have to walk back up. But I was determined. I wanted a true reflective pilgrimage walk as an end to our time among the sacred mountains. My chauffeur said he would wait for me…so I set off downhill.
The chapels started at the bottom of the mountain in the town. The citizens of Domodossula went about their business ignoring the two chapels in their midst. What was common place to them, held significant meaning for me. A giant dog snarled and pushed his body through a fence as far as he could warning me away from the house next door. I was startled but walked up the steps to the chapel.
The chapels here followed the stations of the cross. The way is steep up the mountain. So steep that sometimes I have to lean forward and push hard into the climb. The area between chapels is parkland with trees and Alpine views. I thank God for our time in Italy with each step. For the beauty of nature, for the ancient wonders, for the people in our lives, for the joy of discovery in our travels, for our health and safety. Step after step carried me upward.
My husband was waiting for me where I had left him. He had been watching others struggle up the mountain and was happy he hadn’t joined me. But now we climbed together to the cathedral. School groups were having a tour by the priest so we quietly took in scenes of the crucifixion in the side chapels. We climbed stairs on the exterior to visit the tomb of Jesus. More stairs took us to the mountain summit that overlooked the Ossula Valley. A small prayer garden and the walls of an ancient castle occupied the mountain peak. The Sacro Monte again delivered a peaceful and joyful morning.
We headed into Domodossula unsure of what to expect. After securing parking near the city center (a minor miracle), we walked into town. I made a quick stop into the local church and then we found a nice restaurant. We ate outside on the square where I fell in love with the town. It was bustling with people going about their lives. Big enough to have energy, it still felt quaint. Modern enough to have amenities, ancient enough to have deep cultural roots. English was limited, so we were immersed in Italiano.
After lunch, we spent the next few hours exploring on foot. We walked past schools and churches. The autumn trees were bright against the backdrop of mountains. At the far end of town, we found L’Officina di Chocolate. We had to walk up a driveway and enter what looked like someone’s back door. Inside was an art gallery of chocolate. The owner sculpted handmade chocolate into tiny masterpieces. The boxes were themed: doctors’ tools, sport’s equipment, the nativity, legal emblems, wine supplies. There was chocolate in more themes than I could process and each set was more beautiful than the last. After spending a lot of time admiring the skill, we made our selections and said our good byes.
Reluctantly, we left Domodossula. We decided to drive back through the country. The sun was shining and it was our last day so meandering seemed like the best choice. The tiny road took us to Vogogna. It is a tiny town in the mountain valley that time forgot. There were four other cars in the small parking lot just off the roadway. Three old men sat on a bench watching the cars go by. We could see a castle on the hill but could not see a way to get to it.
We set off on foot to the Main Street by the city water fountain. The streets were winding and ancient. We were in a land time forgot. We walked uphill to a footpath by a stream. A small bridge took us over the water and into a church. Candles lit the dim interior at the feet of the Madonna, confirming that at least one other person had been this way recently.
We followed the path to the castle walls and walked along the perimeter. It was formidable in its day, a sentinel against invaders. The trail continued over the mountain, but we headed back through the empty town. No stores that we could see, only massive and ancient homes conjoined in stone. An old woman came out with her broom to watch us pass and then swept the dust behind us. It was as if Italy was telling us it was time to go.
We made on final stop in Arona. The lakeside walk (lungolago) was brisk and beautiful. We can never agree on a restaurant. I am a foodie and my husband has traditional tastes. After passing dozens of restaurants, we ended up back at an old favorite.
I tried to savor each bite. We don’t know when or if we will be back this way again. But we do know that north Italy will always be in our hearts.
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Meandering: Travel Goals
With just a few days left in Italy, we drove over to Ivrea. We had driven through town earlier in the month and I was charmed by the town. It seemed like a good place to explore. The hardest part of exploring unknown areas in Italy is navigating parking. We tried a parking lot next to the oldest part of town, but it was full. After a few attempts we drove on down the road, and found the biggest parking lot we had encountered in all of Italy.
We set out on a walking tour of Ivrea. First, a trek uphill to the castle. Perched on the hill overlooking town, the castle commanded attention. Unfortunately, it was not open, so we had to admire it from the outside. A cat ran in and out of the gate as if to tease us. He could go in. We could not.
Next door, the cathedral Santa Maria Assunta was open. Its crypt held impressive frescoes situated between white plaster archways. Soft music played in the background. We stumbled around on uneven surfaces, finding partial frescoes in darkened corners.
Back outside, we wandered downhill to the central piazza. Oddly, every store was closed. At mid-morning on a Monday this seemed strange so I began looking for posted store hours. Every store in town was closed on Monday! Shopping was clearly out of the question.
So we kept walking all the way to the river. A small park included a statue of a hand holding an orange. Once a year the entire town has an orange battle. Nets are put up to protect observers. Each neighborhood in town forms a team and pelts the other teams with oranges. Pulp and peels fill the streets. A unique and strange local custom.
The river was high. Kayak runs lined one side of the channel. A sign proclaimed the 2024 world canoe championships. Waterfalls and rapids made the river both challenging and beautiful. We walked across the bridge and through the park next to the paddle sport course. The rapids were visible all along the park trail. Eventually we found a footbridge to take us back across the river. Ivrea was a beautiful town and a great place to spend the morning…..even if nothing was open.
At this point we were hungry and needed a bathroom. We found a restaurant called the BBQ cafe. We decided it was worth a try, mainly because it was one of the few places actually open. It sat on the pilgrimage trail (a hundred mile trail that followed the route of a monk). Decorations in the cafe honored the traditional dress of pilgrims walking the route.
It became clear that no one in the restaurant could speak English, so I asked for a menu because I read Italian much better than I can speak it. The waitress said no menu. I said menu. She indicated they only had three choices. I asked to read them and she showed me a notepad with three handwritten choices: chicken, hamburger steak, or pork cutlet. The cook was an Italian granny who apparently made only a few things each day. We chose grilled chicken with seasoned potatoes. It was simple and filling.
Since nothing in Ivrea was open on Mondays, we headed toward home and stopped in Biella. I had read you could take a funicular up the mountain to the old town. So we parked in a parking lot labeled funicular parking. Unfortunately there didn’t seem to be a funicular within sight. Google maps indicated that we needed to head up some stairs and across a parking lot. We blindly followed directions and eventually approached a building at the side of a hill.
We reached the funicular and looked for a non-existent ticket office. Confused, we watched a local woman push a button and enter the funicular car. She told us to get in. I asked if we needed a biglietto (ticket). She said no, pushed a button and we started up the mountain. We were in a free, self service funicular! The view was incredible, but we were in shock. We had ridden several funiculars in Italy, all with tickets and operators. It occurred to me that the funiculars at Bard Castle in the neighboring valley were all unmanned. Maybe it was a regional thing? Here you can drive your own train.
We walked the old town. A number of beautiful villas were now hotels, apartments, and schools. An older man with a guitar on his back entered a beautiful villa with a sign indicating a music school. A small cafe enticed us with gelato. Wool shops sold goods and had signs celebrating the communal wool production of Biella, past and present.
After a nice visit, we were ready to descend the mountain. We ran into a couple wandering around the funicular station looking confused. We were now the pros. We confidently pushed the button to enter the car. Once inside, I selected piano (lower) level. The car started off down the mountain. We were now veteran funicular operators.
It was a beautiful ride home. The sun glistened off the snow on the alps. Monte Rosa rose gloriously in the background. After days of rain, it was nice to ride in sunshine. In fact, the sunshine was so delightful that we walked to the lake once we were home. The water level was very high, covering rocks that we had used as seats just a few weeks before. The usually trickling Erno River was now raging. The beach was empty, except for a gaggle of geese. A white goose adopted me and followed me around. I stopped to take her picture and she waddled in for a close up. I’m really going to miss the unexpected encounters that Italy constantly provides when we leave in just a few days.
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Pavia, A Study In Honoring Tradition: Travel Goals
Today we ventured to the Italian city of Pavia. Home to one of the world’s oldest universities, final resting place of St. Augustine, and the Southern seat of the Dukes of Milan; Pavia has a long and interesting history. The Castello Visconteo di Pavia was our first stop. Built in 1360 by the Lord of Milan, the castle hosted Petrarch and other notable Italians. Lovingly restored by the city of Pavia, the castle is now home to a civic museum.
The bottom floor of the castle was full of broken statues and pottery. An ancient crematorium, filled an unusual exhibit space. I didn’t know how to feel about standing next to the ovens and urns.
I loved that the museum rescued pieces from the rubble of ancient churches and historic sites damaged by time and war. The best surprise was a wonderful fresco rescued from a demolished local church and preserved on a specially designed wooden frame. Walking under the half dome I experienced a rush of color. Paintings depicting the four “doctors” of the church jumped out of the frame. Scholars recognized in a town of ancient scholars.
The second floor of the museum had an incredible collection of medieval and renaissance art. It also had random items, like a preserved ladies shoe from the 1300’s. I was left speechless at the colorful renderings of all aspects of life.
Another unexpected treasure was a portrait of Anne Boleyn done by an Italian artist hired during her lifetime. The portrait shines like a photograph, capturing a wistful looking young woman in an overly large white starched collar. More galleries continued with 1800’s portraits, landscapes, and even impressionist paintings.
Finally, the upper attic floor was dedicated to the world wars and Risorgimento or the Italian reorganization. Pavia played a leading role in the movement. As a former history teacher, I was very interested in the artifacts, especially the “red shirts” that identified Garibaldi’s followers. They were even more vibrant than I had imagined.
When we had enough museum time, we ventured over to take a peak at the university which sprawled across the town. We grabbed a slice of pizza on the walk back to the car. The local Gorgonzola was heaven, even if the slice was cold.
Just a few miles up the road, we stopped at the Certosa di Pavia, a monastery. Founded in 1396 as a mausoleum for the dukes of Milan, it was built to rival Milan’s famous and publicly built duomo. Today, just as in prior centuries, it is the home of Carthusian monks who farm the surrounding land. They grow rice and keep bees.
We had trouble parking, as we followed the gps to a road we weren’t allowed to drive. We turned around and backtracked to a parking lot that was doubling as a small lake. Since the car didn’t sink, we parked and walked to the impressive monastery that dominated the landscape. We queued to get a ticket from the machines. It cost zero dollars!
The sanctuary looked beautiful but the mausoleum and high altar were behind iron fences. We tried to look into the dark side chapels and peer through the bars into the incredible interior. A security guard leaned over and told me a monk was coming and we could go in with him in a few minutes. At least, I am pretty sure that is what he said. Everyone only spoke Italian. I stood next to some grannies in wheel chairs who were eagerly waiting. They were very excited and I trust the judgment of grannies. They know stuff.
Sure enough, within minutes an elderly monk appeared and the gates were opened. All fifty or so of the visitors were invited inside to follow him on a tour of the interior spaces. No matter that we couldn’t understand a word he said. We followed him into the sacred and restricted spaces. When the crowd smiled, we smiled.
I tried to stay to the fringes because I wanted to take advantage of the viewing opportunities. I also wanted to make sure that we weren’t asked any questions. After about an hour of understanding every third or fourth word, we finally ended the tour in the residential quarters of early monks. Each small room was cozy and had a private garden.
I understand the appeal of a simple life in a beautiful place. Caring for bees and rice fields, the monks were rich in contentment. We could all use a dose of that.
We visited their small shop and bought homemade soaps and candy. The hard candy was tasty with a soft center. It was a beautiful unexpected treat.
As we drove home, I reflected on the community pride and strong traditions evident in Pavia. The citizens sacrificed to restore their castle and turn it into a civic museum. They rescued fragments of art out of the rubble of war to honor their cultural roots. The celebrated learning and promised free university to those willing to study. They preserved ancient buildings, but modernized interiors without damaging the architectural integrity. The monks lived a quiet existence of simplicity and splendor as they had for centuries. Food was prepared with fresh, local, and natural ingredients just as it had been forever. Americans have a lot to learn about tradition, civic pride and quality of life.
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Regroup: Travel Goals
The only thing stranger than receiving company while traveling abroad is sending them off while you remain. After our whirlwind week together with the extended family, we were exhausted. Everyone (except me) slept late. We starts the day slowly, sharing coffee and pastries. And we reluctantly said our goodbyes. They were headed to Milan to spend the night near the airport to be ready for a very early departure. In a weird way I wanted to leave with them, but I was glad to stay here in my little house for the few more days we had left in Italy. I always feel the separation from family deeply. I think it is just a symptom of feeling so full of good feelings when we are together.
It was raining heavily and by the time the family left it was later in the day. My husband and I decided to just piddle…you may recall that I use this word when I want to wander aimlessly. We started on the “pedestrian only” streets of Arona, aka the shopping district. I didn’t want to buy anything…just to go window shopping.
As the rain picked up, we found a pastry shop. Cappuccino and a cannoli can do wonders for my mood. We met a lovely American couple who were vacationing in Arona. It was nice to chat with fellow Midwestern residents. Midwest “nice” is always a welcome encounter.
It was funny that we also found the exact shoes that we had walked across Milan to find for my brother. We also found a shop selling pipes next door. Both siblings could have found their wish list purchases not twenty steps from where we ate dinner (not once but two times!) I guess we should have walked down that street earlier. It could have saved us a few miles in the rain.
Eventually, we headed to the suburban area of Dormeletto. The road was lined with all sorts of Italian stores. It was fun to just wander around the shops and see how the Italians live. Families out for a Saturday afternoon filed in and out of a variety store where you could buy everything from pet food to pizza cutters. Next door a designer outlet sold sweaters that cost more than some of our furniture. We are not sure how people afford to dress if those are the discount outlet prices. In a more reasonably priced row of stores, my husband gave in and bought the fancy Italian sneakers he had been eyeing the entire trip. I had no more room in my suitcase for purchases sadly, I just browsed..
Italians have a weird fascination with the American West. We had someone tell us earlier in the trip that they thought America was full of cowboys. There were Western connections all over Italy. Maybe from the days when “spaghetti westerns were filmed in the Italian countryside. There were several “American-style” steakhouses near us. All with western themes. This day, we tried The Old Wild West Steakhouse. I had a surprisingly good smash burger, and had fun looking at their “old west” decor. We even had to exit and enter through a covered wagon.
On the way home we stopped in Meina to have a look around in the rain. We tried to visit the local museum. Nothing was open, so after a short walk we called it quits.
The day ended with a whimper. The rain and the busy week finally caught up with us. We headed home where I curled up with a book, and a hot cup of tea. Eventually we settle on the couch for a James Bond marathon. Sometimes you just need a day to regroup.
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In search of the Shroud: Travel Goals
You can’t visit Turin without wondering about the mysterious shroud of Turin. The shroud first appeared in France in the 1300’s and was claimed to be the shroud that wrapped the body of Jesus after his crucifixion. While a bishop in the late 1300’s and dozens of scientists have called it a fake, the faithful have considered it a holy relic from its first appearance.
The shroud was purchased by the Savoys in the mid-1400’s and was moved to Turin in the mid-1500’s. For centuries the shroud sat in a marble cask in the Savoy chapel under the golden sun. Over the years historians and religious leaders have tested and argued and tested some more. Some claim the shroud was painted. Some claim it was sweat or blood that made the famous impressions.
We knew the shroud had been moved, but to which chapel? We first visited the Chiesa di San Lorenzo. The small church was awash in marble and frescoes. After sitting for awhile in order to take in the beautiful atmosphere, we followed a sign to the shroud exhibit. Was this the shroud?
My brother followed a priest into the sacristy, but was diverted by a parishioner with a friendly smile. No entry for guests.
This church provided full “true” copies of the shroud. There were explanations in Italian that I am sure were interesting if google translate would have worked with the glare on the glass. Instead, I nodded and smiled at the lady who pointed and told me all about the Holy Shroud, also in Italian. Despite listening intently,I determined that we would not find the shroud here. But we did find our first friendly faces in Turin. That was a welcome development. Whether the shroud is real or not, I can’t say. I can say it is clearly real to the adorable ladies who took the time to share with us….even if I only understood every fourth word.
Our last stop was the Cathedral of Saint John the Baptist. This large church opened into the cappella inside the royal palace. Each alcove contained priceless works of art. Marble columns rose into the sky. It was impressive.
I found my favorite religious artist Ferrari had a chapel in this Duomo. I swooned over the elaborate gilded altarpiece. A small gift shop sold religious items including images of the shroud. I bought a small cheap ring with the face of Jesus (shroud image). It was a perfect, cheesy souvenir.
Nearby was the chapel of John the Baptist. A small glass case was said to hold a bone fragment of the martyr. John loomed large in a painting above the relic. He pointed to the sky, victorious. His mother looked down approvingly from the heavens.
I lingered in each chapel. The larger areas of the church were more crowded. My peace was broken as children argued with their parents. One crashed behind a barrier and pouted in hiding until a security guard chased him away. The parents whispered fervently, but seemed unable or unwilling to control their children. I moved on.
At last, we arrived before the chapel of the Holy Shroud. A small group of worshippers sat in silent prayer. Behind the chapel a golden altar rose in front of the windows of the royal chapel above.
Under a simple cloth covering beneath a bed of thorns, the shroud lay in a covered cask within a climate sealed glass room. A copy of the famous face was enlarged above. Candles burned to the side of the chapel. It was a place of reverence and fascination. It was clear who had come to worship and who had come to satisfy curiosity.
I felt a bit guilty snapping a few photos with so many people in prayer. So I took my snapshots and then sat amongst them to pray.
Prayer books were open for those in need of comfort. I stopped to read the prayers in Italian. I could make out most of the familiar passages. We watched a video about the shroud and eventually said our farewells to the Duomo of St. John.
It was time to leave Turin. The traffic had picked up since we entered town early in the morning. We drove through the square and down the tram tracks to exit town. It didn’t seem correct, but we followed the locals and the GPS directions. Cars appeared out of nowhere. While we waited for a green light at our turn, eight other cars appeared around us. They passed us in the median and turned directly into our path to beat us onto the one lane ahead. To say Italian drivers are aggressive is an understatement.
At the end of a long day and a long drive on the autostrada, we stopped in Lesa for a good meal at La Riva. The quaint restaurant on the waterfront had eggplant stuffed pasta that was delicious. Good music, family, and good food. In my opinion, the perfect ending to a day.
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Grand Torino: Travel Goals
With only one more day to spend with the siblings in Italy, we decided to head to Turin (Torino). This often overlooked town was the capitol of the Northern Roman Empire and the domain of the Savoy dynasty. There are more palaces in and around Turin than you will find in entire countries. The Palazzo Reale and museum are the Crown Jewels of Savoy holdings so we first headed there.
The autostrada allowed us to make the trip in just over an hour, and traffic into Turin was light. We lucked into an open parking garage adjacent to the palace complex. Aside from the very tight turns into the garage and the fact that we all had to exit the vehicle before my brother pulled into the tiny space, it was an uneventful trip.
The palace was magnificent. However, Turin unlike most Italian cities doesn’t seem to really want or even like tourists. There was almost no signs, maps or guides. When available, signage was in Italian only (which is fine by me, I am after all the foreigner in their midst). If you asked a ticket taker a question you were met with a scowl. No matter. I ordered dua biglietto and we marched on. Crabbiness could not ruin our day.
The rooms of the palace were fully furnished. We saw dining rooms, meeting rooms, and throne rooms. Each room contained priceless paintings, tapestries and frescoes. The ceilings wereall elaborately painted and usually done up in themes.
Eventually we reached the armory, where we encountered an abundance of medieval weapons and armor. Horses held riders decked out for battle. There were axes and shields. Swords and bows. Daggers and guns. There was Italian, German, Ottoman, and Turkish weapons. Many of the items were new to me….and I have been in a lot of military museums. I still get a little rush of excitement when I see something I have read about for the first time. This time it was the jousting and sparring equipment used to train young pages hoping to become knights.
After the palace rooms, we visited the chapel Reale, which housed the shroud of Turin on its altar until the 1970’s. The round marble chapel was magnificent with a golden sunburst altarpiece. In each alcove of the round chapel, a giant marble statue marked a grave. The chapel opened onto the larger church of the Duomo di San Giovanni. Parishioners could have looked upward into the chapel toward the holy shroud.
Just when we thought we were done with the palace complex, we came to endless museum galleries containing masterpiece after masterpiece. While the collection was of mainly religious art, it also had portraits and landscapes from across Italian. Raphael’s Venus showed up in a practice painting done before his larger and more famous “Birth of Venus” fresco. There were Rembrandt and Vermeer paintings. We saw Caravaggio and Ferrari. Each piece was exquisite and captivating. Centuries old, the paints were vivid and looked as if the painter had just finished the piece and walked away minutes ago.
Further along we encountered Roman statues, funerary pieces, Grecian Urns, and other antiquities. I was surprised to find several relics from the cult of Isis. Another encounter with book knowledge made real with access to artifacts.
Worn out, we set out to find food. The waiter chased us away from the back door, so we walked around the castle wall to the front door. We entered only to be ignored. We walked further in to find a table only to be ignored. The waiter scowled and told us not to block the aisle. The woman at the front told us we could order to go. I approached the person who appeared to be in charge and he agreed to seat us. I sat while he cleared the table and began to look at the menu. The water began to fuss that there were not enough chairs (one short). I saw three empty chairs and was not concerned about procuring a fifth chair. Meanwhile the men in our party decided we could eat outside.
So I had to leave my warm seat in the nice restaurant for a plastic chair in the damp cold air. Once we were seated outside, the same cranky waiter became all smiles. He was from Iran and he loves Americans. He said he wants to leave Turin because the people are grumpy and unfriendly. He made a show of serving us with violas and aloras. He poured extra wine and gushed over our food choice.
I was freezing, so the coffee seemed like a great idea to wash down my lunch of local cheese and honey. I was still a little unhappy about eating outside on a cold rainy day. I was the grumpy one throughout lunch thinking of other times we have travelled and I miss my restaurant of choice because there is nothing my husband will eat or it is too crowded or too expensive. I had to check myself and instead enjoy good food and good company between my shivers.
There were more things to see, so we collected our things and left the palace. We walked across the soggy plaza to the Madama Palace. The ticket taker was rude. I bought tickets. My brother did the same. My sister in law went last and got confused as to which ticket to buy. I returned to see if I could help. I held up my ticket and asked if it got us in all the rooms. The ticket taker slammed down her hand, rolled her eyes and moaned “I already sold to you.” I assertively asked for one more ticket and she loudly groaned. Ahh Torino.
The Madama palace has been turned into eclectic museum space. Most of the museum was full of ancient treasure, but there were weird and out of place exhibits within some galleries. Rooms with gilded ceilings held exhibitions on: the finance police, the sea, science, random topics, and modern art. I was looking at a medieval painting in a period room and turned and turned to a neon science center style exhibit under an elaborate fresco ceiling. There was no warning for the abrupt change in venue.
I loved the intricate wood carving, saved from otherwise destroyed churches. The world wars were destructive, but thankfully many pieces were saved. The Byzantine altarpieces in gold leaf and enamel were much brighter than I realized. A art restorer must never be without work in Italy.
One fascinating aspect of the museum was its collection of miniature paintings. Lockets, watches, and pocket pictures from preserved a time before photographs. In this era, you commissioned an artist to paint your likeness for loved ones. You could pay more to look better.
I don’t know how it is possible to make such an accurate likeness in such a small surface. The best piece was a belt in which the bridal portraits were embedded in the buckle.
We realized that we had spent almost six hours in the museums. It was time to head back home. Still, we couldn’t leave without a trip up and down the grand staircase. We said our farewells and exited the palace. The guards looked at us without expression, even as I wished them Buena Sera. I guess they weren’t as taken with us as we were with their palace.
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Unsupervised: Travel Goals
The minute our guide left us, we were u supervised in Milan. Relieved to be on our own, I gladly traded in my earpiece speaker. Maybe we won’t know quite as much as a tour guide but we can enjoy sights at our own pace.
Our first order of business was to buy tickets to climb onto the roof of the duomo. Three of us had already experienced the roof walk years ago, but my husband and sister in law had not. It was fascinating climbing among the gargoyles far above the city and we wanted to share the experience.
While we waited for our timed entry, we examined features in the duomo more closely. A priest sat in a glass box behind a desk. We were not sure why. My fun loving sister in law took a selfie with the priest and sent it to her children, telling them she met the pope. Their response was underwhelming, which made us giggle like school girls.
The line to climb the roof (in the rain) was shockingly long, considering there was timed entry. Last time I climbed (15 years ago) there was no line and we were virtually alone on the roof. The wait got even more chaotic when a girl in line behind us suddenly turned grey and had to be held up. An ambulance was called, but by the time it arrived we had started to climb
Once on roof walk, there was a mob of pretty young things posing with pouty lips and pointed toes. Boyfriends were dutifully taking shot after shot of their wannabe models. We just wanted to see the intricate carvings and marble gables. As we pushed our way through the crowd, my sister in law blamed Tik Tok for the chaos. It was a zoo of people oblivious to their surroundings. The roof was steep and slick in the rain. Having to walk around people pretending to have a high fashion photo shoot in a space that was tight, steep and crowded seemed ridiculous. In the sunshine, it would be comical. In inclement weather, it was maddening.
The view (when we could see around and between people taking selfies) was as breathtaking as always. The central roof corridor had hundreds of people on it, making me uncomfortable. I had the same feeling you get when you are on an elevator or boat and they push too many people on. You know you are over capacity but can’t do anything about it. So we waited in line to exit through the door with the single file staircase, while people pushed past us. I am quite sure we violated safety codes, but I tried not to think about it.
Earlier in another single file line, my husband had argued with a line jumper pushing his way past me. He claimed to work “here”, but was obviously a tourist showing the town to a relative. It was hard to watch chaos as people who believe lines are for other people forcibly pushed in front of those who had been patiently waiting to descend. Eventually, despite the lawlessness horde, we made it to the ground.
A local friend of my brother had recommended the 12 Gato 🐈⬛ (cats) restaurant to us. It was up a secret staircase in the Vittorio Emmanuel building and on the rooftop. A hidden oasis in a sea of crazy, the cozy restaurant was perfect. We lunched on great pizza far away from the crowds. While we were there I snuck out on the highline catwalk. I guess I hadn’t spent enough time on roof walks yet. Actually, I was hoping for a view of the 12 cats that lived on the roof. No luck….but I can say I walked on the rooftop of the Vittorio Emmanuel. I didn’t even know that was possible, and unlike the experience at the Duomo, I the only one on the roof.
Next, we took an aimless walk by gelato shops and high end fashion. My husband was fascinated with “Twizzy”, a car that I could fit in my purse. We found several models to peruse along the way, including one that almost didn’t stop as he crossed the road.
We were destined never to see Sforza castle in the sunlight. Each time I have visited, it has rained. Today was only a light drizzle, so we were able to walk the forecourt, the moat, and the porticos and still stay dry. We also walked the adjacent park to see the arch and ruins of the original walls while my husband happily engaged in people watching from a bench just inside the castle entrance.
As we made our way across town to the Convent San Mauricio, I saw a shoe store my brother has talked about for years. He has said every time he has visited Milan that he wanted a pair of “Harris” shoes, but he never buys them . Today with his wife, his sister, and his sister in law in attendance, he didn’t stand a chance. We made him try on shoes. We gave our opinions. We cajoled as he tried to talk himself out of the expense. And he finally got a pair of hand made, hand painted, Italian leather shoes from Milan. Bellissimo!
Next my sister in law stopped to buy an Italian pipe for my brother who couldn’t join us. She searched for the perfect fit. While I don’t care for tobacco, the pipe was a work of art.
Directly across the street sat the convent. The outside of the building was unassuming. It would be easy to walk right by and never notice it was a church. However, inside was one of the most beautiful churches I have ever seen. To me, it was more interesting and beautiful than either of the churches we had paid to visit. It was free and there were no crowds. Apparently, it is still off the radar. I hesitate even writing about it, because I hope it remains a calm place of contemplation.
The chapel was a riot of paintings of the saints. I didn’t know where to look as each surface was covered in pristine fresco . However the magic happened behind the chapel in the nuns walk. An intricate choir was surrounded by frescoes from 1200 to 1500. Noah’s ark, Adam and Eve, and numerous other biblical scenes played out in technicolor. The colors and themes were unique for their time period and each expertly done. It was a true visual delight.
Reluctantly, we made our way to the train station, where I endured the good natured teasing about wanting to see the train board. Everyone else was quite content to find a cafe for a snack before boarding. Once we got to the 20 minute mark, I kept sneaking out the door to check to see if our train had been assigned a track. I know logically that 15 minutes is enough time to find a train, but in a new station, I like to know where I am going. I want to make sure I am not running to catch a train. Clearly I was outnumbered. They teased that I was a control freak. My husband said my need to be early made him anxious. I tried to explain that being annoyed is not the same thing as anxiety disorder….and so it went.
Despite the ribbing, made our train with time to spare. My companions dozed off and on during the one hour trip back to Arona. Once we collected our car, we introduced the group to the Italian Appertivi. You buy a drink and for a small fee you get appetizers (sometimes they are free/in today’s case $2.00 euro). Our table was covered in food. We sipped and ate and laughed. Turns out we can have a whole lot of fun unsupervised.
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Milano At a March: Travel Goals
It was a priority to see the Last Supper at the Santa Maria Delle Grazie in Milan. To get the tickets into there Last Supper, we had to take a tour. I may have mentioned that I am generally not a tour person.The walking tour of Milan started at 8:15 am. Our house was at least one hour from the tour meeting location. To get there on time, we need to either drive to Milan in the rain and find parking or take the 6:05 train out of Arona.
We chose the train. Getting five people ready and to the train station by 5:45 was no easy feat. I tried to tamp down my need to be early and prepared for my husband and brother to make fun of my transportation anxiety. It can only be remedied by being reasonably early and in sight of the departure board. We boarded the train with no issues and settled in for an uneventful ride. It was definitely preferable to fighting city traffic.
We arrived in Milan Garibaldi station and transferred to the Metro trains. We only needed to take a few metro stops and then walk a few minutes to the church. Because everything went smoothly, we had extra time n our hands. So, we stopped for coffee and pastries. A classic Milanese breakfast.
Once at the church, we waited to meet our guide, who handed us headsets to wear throughout the tour. I reluctantly took them, not wanting to be part of an oblivious herd. Tours generally force to many people in to little space. But since it is the only way to see the Davinci Masterpiece, then guided tour it is.
Entering required showing id, getting a personalized ticket, and waiting in line to go through timed air-locked doors. When it was our turn we entered the dining room of the monastery. The Last Supper was painted on the wall of the dining room opposite the kitchen. The heat from the kitchen did a lot of damage over the years. At one point the monks chopped off the bottom of the painting (and Jesus’s feet) to enlarge the kitchen door. Seems ridiculous to us, but apparently someone was tired of ducking under the doorway.
We got 15 minutes to stare, take photos and wander the large room. There was a lesser known fresco by a different artist on the opposite wall depicting the crucifixion. It was lovely in its own right.
Once out of the dining hall, we entered the church. Until today, I always thought the Last Supper was in the church. Instead, individual chapels lined the walls commemorating various saints. I wandered away from the group and removed my headset trying to find the peace that I often feel in the quiet of holy spaces. A priest sat down at the organ for his practice period. Soft music filled the space and I felt myself relax. And then just as quickly, it was time to go.
Our guide was serious with occasional bursts of humor. Her advice when crossing the street, “make eye contact, never smile, and look aggressively at incoming traffic.” She told us she never paid to take her father on tours because he thought “everything was just old stones.”
She walked through the city at a fast clip and didn’t turn to see if everyone was with her or not. A few older members of the group struggled to keep up. She just marched straight ahead, talking all the while. I was too busy trying not to be trampled or run over by city traffic to notice what she was talking about.
We stopped at some Roman ruins. They were unspectacular We stopped outside a bakery. She pointed out that the traditional Milanese cake was “the ugly one.” She pointed out the shop where people buy food for the holidays. She urged us “don’t waste your money anywhere else”. Occasionally she would bring out an iPad and show us a picture of somewhere we couldn’t go in. “This is lovely inside. You can’t go in. Only once a year.” It was a forced march to nowhere.
Outside the stock exchange, there was a marble statue of a raised middle finger. Apparently the Milanese are still upset about the severe economic downturn and stock market losses of the early 2000’s and have enough of a sense of humor to make public, their private sentiments. At this point, she also told us that the statue somehow was related to the civil war between the facists and the monarchists during WWII. I didn’t catch the connection. But Italy is still trying to recover from there brush with fascism.
We briefly walked through Vittorio Emmanuel. Like always, thousands of tourists were vying for the perfect glamour shot. She told us Armani had designed a space suit and that fashion was going to space. She said she heard each suit would “cost 3 billion dollars” but hoped it wasn’t true.
We crossed the rainy plaza to stand in line at the Duomo. Each person that entered had to be wanded down and have their bags searched. The Duomo is cavernous. It is massive and dwarfed the slow moving line. Once inside we were invited to sit for an orientation lecture.
We heard how St. Charles, (Carlo Borromeo) carried a nail from the true cross through the streets of Milan to combat the plague. The nail is now keep high above the altar and is only brought down once a year in an elaborate ceremony . She told us about Andrea Bocelli singing alone in the Duomo during Covid while the nail was lowered as a symbol of hope. I watched the televised concert but did not understand the symbolism as it was happening. I wish I would have known.
We walked past tombs of bishops and the crypt of St Charles. We saw large canvases depicting the life of St. Charles. Endless marble statues and gold and silver candle sticks were everywhere. Dizzying stained glass let in diffuse light. Just when I was starting to like our no nonsense tour guide, she announced that her throat was sore and her time was up. Before I could say goodbye, she was gone. We were once again on our own.
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Zermatt Alpine Adventure: Travel Goals
I don’t usually think about bucket lists. Anywhere I am, is a worthy travel adventure as long as it is out of my ordinary. However, Zermatt and its wonderful Matterhorn have been on my wish list for decades. It seems unreal that we are on our way this morning. The road over the Simpson pass is winding and I am in the backseat with my sister in laws. It is cozy enough until my head hits the side of the car as we round another sharp corner.
The scenery through Northern Italy is incredible and continues to grow even more beautiful by the mile. We are so taken with the scenery that we don’t notice we are leaving Italy until we see two guards standing in the road. They wave at us and smile .
Another mile and we are at the Swiss border. A border control booth is in the middle of the road but closed. No one is in sight. I dream of a world of open borders. I guess some already live the dream and today we do to.
We park to stretch and make sure we don’t need to show passports to someone, but there is no one around. We visit the gas station instead to buy the required “vignette”, a sticker for your car that allows you to drive in Switzerland. They didn’t have any and told us to keep driving to the next town.
So we drive and drive some more over mountains and rivers. Along the way, we see the Swiss army waving guns at a rest stop. A base is at the bottom of the mountain so we assume they are training?
We cross the Simplon Pass amid high Alpine peaks and steep valleys. The bridges are stacked on the highest pylons I have ever seen. The tower like supports are so tall, I can’t actually see the ground below. It is a little freaky.
Eventually we get to Brig, however there are no gas stations along the route as promised. We drive on down the mountainside. Eventually we find a well stocked travel plaza. We buy our sticker for the car windshield and are finally street legal. We also buy pastries and coffee. There is excessive excitement over Diet Coke and the coffee machine with sugar free options. Neither have been seen in many days. But my favorite is a pretzel man complete with a stick of chocolate.
A short while later, after passing Swiss cows with bells and Valois sheep with bells, we arrive in Tasch. It is a town of services and parking garages. We must park our car and take the cog railway from here. Our timing is good. I buy tickets and we are on our way with no wait time.
We get to the train station in Zermatt and cross the street to the Gornergrat express train that will take us up the mountains. The tickets are not cheap, but it is why I came, so no matter. It is a bucket list item.
We window shop for awhile until our departure time and then board the gornergrat train. The views are stunning as we climb higher and higher.
A Swiss family strikes up a conversation and then thinks I am filming them because I am holding my phone. I am not. I just don’t want to miss the view. The larch trees are turning a glorious yellow. Monte Rosa, the Matterhorn and several other peaks surround us. I am in heaven.
We pass alpine lakes and pine forests. Just when I think it can’t get more stunning, I am stunned anew. It starts to snow as we disembark at Gornergrat glacier. There is a large viewing platform at what seems like the top of the world. We make our way up and then up some more. The air is thin. My husband really felt the altitude. So we took our time. Well he took his time. I raced ahead and didn’t know he was struggling until he finally caught up as I was taking photos.
There is a winter wonderland of glaciers and alpine peaks. Monte Rosa, Gornergrat, Matterhorn…..every way I turn is breathtaking. Honestly, I could have stayed forever.
It is long past lunch and most of the restaurants on the mountain are closed for the off-season between summer crowds and ski season. But we find a restaurant that will seat us. It is very hot inside, which is a shock to the system after the snow. And the menu consists of cheese….lots of cheese. When my sister in law says she is lactose intolerant, the waiters drolly responds “well you have certainly come to the right restaurant haven’t you?”
I order raclette, a traditional Swiss dish of melted cheese. We share a platter of runny cheese, pickled onions, pickled mini corn, actual mini pickles and boiled potatoes. A strange combination but uniquely Swiss.
After dinner, we visit a small museum with virtual hang gliding. Then we visit more viewing platforms. The clouds that threaten snow begin to clear, leaving glorious views of the mountains. A few stops down the mountain we decide to visit the alpine garden and the blue lake. Barely over the first terrace, my heel catches on a slate rock and I begin to fall. I know I can not regain my balance without potentially breaking an ankle or my face. So I immediately put my body into a ball. My sister in law frantically tries to grab my coat so I don’t keep rolling down the mountain. Once I am on the ground, I grab a rock to stop my descent.
I have a sore ankle, a sore knee, and a bruised ego but no real damage is done. And now I can tell the story of how I rolled down the Alps.
Deciding to walk the Alps in the mud and snow without boots and walking sticks probably wasn’t the smartest thing we have ever done, so we reluctantly board the train to take us back down the mountain.
Once in Zermatt, we wander its streets. Luxury and specialty shops line the main road. You can buy watches that cost more than my car, skin care products made with marmot oil, wooden figures, and chocolate. While I don’t like chocolate, I am surrounded by chocoholic hordes. The chocolate is beautiful, each piece stamped in gold to identify the seller.
While my crew shops for chocolate, I leave in search of a cow bell. I am in love with the delicate little bells they put on livestock. I will use mine for Christmas decorations.
Somehow Zermatt is more commercial than I hoped. It is charming yet inauthentic. An upscale mall pretending to be a small Swiss town. Expensive and intriguing. Yet somehow not reality….at least for me. I prefer the tiny town on the other side of Monta Rosa, Macanugna.
After a very full day, we head back to Lesa. The mountain passes are dramatic in the twilight. Storm clouds backlit by moonlight track our progress. You can’t see the steep drops on either side of the car, but I know they are there. Several sections of highway have construction with one lane traffic. Impatient drivers pass in highly questionable circumstances. But eventually we arrive safely at home. Exhausted and happy.
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Prisoner of Hopes 