Fly to Venice for Cheap!
I just received this notice of cheap tickets to Venice, Milan, Florence (and other European cities) on Lufthansa. Now’s your chance!
Bluebird of Happiness
A wall along the canal features this singing bluebird and it makes me smile every time. Whether intended or not, it feels “sunny” to me and perks me up. My Grandma would have liked it. Her favorite color was blue.
It’s a blue sky Autumn day in Milano today. Mid-60s. Not a cloud and hardly a breeze. The air is fresh. Mmm.
A Lesson from Angel
Many years ago a Mexican man named Angel worked for us in the orchard. He lived up the valley on the land of a neighboring orchardist, in one of the one-room, plywood-sheathed homes available. In polite company, they were called “Pickers’ Cabins”; most of the time they were called “Pickers’ Shacks”.
The cabins weren’t much. Quickly constructed frames with enough exterior for warm weather nights. They weren’t built for winter, although many lived in them year-round. Probably about 8 ft. x 12 ft. each had a cot or two, a simple cookstove and fridge, and a window. I don’t remember whether the cabins had woodstoves. They may have had a little table and a chair or two.
I never saw Angel’s cabin, but was told that it was absolutely spotless, immaculate, uncluttered, organized. No garbage littered the ground outside his cabin. Angel took pride in his home in spite of the meager shelter that it really was.
Here in Milano, I have two big rooms plus a bathroom. I’ve been scrubbing the walls lately; they haven’t been painted in a while and they’re scuffed and dirty. And I’ve been packing up the many things around the place that were provided as “furnishings” but are neither useful to me nor “my style”. This place has its funky aspects, but I’ve been paring it down, and doing small touches that personalize and make this feel like home.
I am by no means likening my apartment here in Milano to the cabins the orchard workers live in. That would be insulting. But I reflect on Angel’s THINKING, and that is his lesson in this. That no matter where one lives, in a home small or large, spare or luxurious, one can always create that home to reflect self-respect, dignity and personal expression.
My apartment here is very different from my home in Seattle, and right now this apartment is just perfect.
Prime View Apartment
Imagine having the apartment seen here and looking out your window every day to the mosaic of the three saints on the Basilica of San Simpliciano. (And San Alessandro at the right is looking directly into the window!) There’s also the gargoyle-laden capital at the top of the column just outside the apartment window. What a view.
Rossignoli
This sign stopped me. I grew up hearing the name “Rossignol” in connection with skiis. Here was a cool old bike shop and it had cool old-style bikes inside, plus some swanky, new ones. But no skiis.
I hope they never paint that sign.
Let There Be Light
Knowing absolutely that I need LIGHT coming into my eyes and surrounding me, especially where I’m working, I’ve been adjusting my apartment ever since I got here.
My first attempt was to abandon the loft with its desk, shelves and somber lighting. In July I set up a “morning desk” and an “evening desk”. As it turns out I just used the evening desk because it’s bigger, more comfortable and adjacent to the broadband cable. (Skype doesn’t do as well with a wireless system.) Positioning each table near the windows was a great improvement, and the morning desk is fine for small sorting projects.
But as summer waned and the light stopped flooding in on afternoons, I found myself still a bit sluggish and lacking energy. There’s only so much that Italian caffé can accomplish. Bracing myself for Autumn and Winter, and deciding NOT to move to the brighter apartment nearby, I knew I needed to invest a tad in some lighting, and a few other personalizing touches.
Let there be light! Yes! I trekked to Ikea (it was, indeed, a TREK!) and bought 3 floorlamps. At midnight it can be like broad daylight in here! SUCH a difference to be surrounded by light. I’ve already noticed a difference in my energy, outlook and motivation. I was not about to spend all winter feeling like I was in a dark, little hole. This was a simple and inexpensive solution and makes the place cozy-homey. I’m thrilled.
I also realized that I MUST see OUT the window. I was feeling so enclosed! Some sheer white, textured fabric draped over a spring-loaded shower curtain rod makes a perfect half-height, flat panel. I can see the plants on the neighbor’s balcony across the courtyard path and can even see a dab of blue sky. The light comes in, but people walking by or standing in the courtyard can’t look in. (I’m on the first floor.) And it’s instantly removeable whenever I want to get out to my little balcony.
The main room now looks bright, inviting and conducive to work.
And this is what it looked like when I first moved in, the only light coming from the band of fluorescents over the kitchen.
As part of the settling in, I’m paring down. I’ve gone through the place and removed everything superfluous that came with the apartment that I don’t like or don’t want to use: TV, stereo, cabinets, chairs, mattress, kitchen implements, tchotchkes. They all went up into the loft which is being encircled with a lively black-and-white patterned fabric. I want this place to be mine. If I don’t like it, I don’t want to look at it or devote space to it.
Ahh. I’m ready for winter now.
Out for a Grocery Stroll
After a little afternoon nap, I booted myself out the door for a stroll. It was just after 3:00, the quiet time of the day in the city. A mostly gray sky with a little chill in the air. Nice to head out and wander.
Just two blocks from home, I saw my Fashion Design instructor, Lee, from a year and a half ago. I hadn’t seen her since this summer session and it was nice to chat a bit. As it turns out, she recently moved to just around the corner for me, so we may meet for coffee sometime.
I needed a few groceries, but not much. The Saturday market was likely over, but I headed in that direction anyway, and am glad that I did. There was a stillness, an ease that is certainly not there in the height of the market selling. Many vendors had already left, but the others were slowly putting away their vegetables and fruits, their cheeses, meats and household sundries. They were still just as happy to make one last sale and end the day with a few extra euro in their pockets.
The fennel looked good, and I wanted to take one home with me. No. The minimum was three. “Oh, really? OK fine. Give me three. I’ll take some cherry tomatoes, too.” And of course, he THREW them into a bag. At another stall, the green beans looked fabulous and I wanted one of the two baskets full. He heaped a “fruta e verdura” paper bag with the beans from BOTH baskets, more than I could eat in a month. Fine. I love beans. I’ll eat them every day this week. (I guess they just didn’t want to pack up anything they could possibly send down the road.)
The man that had sold me bresaola the last time I went to this market was there again. I asked for “cento grammi“, 100 grams which he sliced right then, plus some brie. Then I saw a curious, smoked something-or-other, and asked for two. It’s cheese wrapped around prosciutto and olives, with some sort of creamy sauce inside, then smoked. (Front edge of the plate in the photo.)
The flower stall still had a few options, so I bought four colors of fragrant freesia to bring home.
I left the street market and went to the main street. As I approached the grocery store, there was a vendor out front roasting chestnuts. Yes, please! I added a big handful of those to my shopping bag. A few feet away, I spotted Justin, the woman from Kenya that works behind the meat counter at the grocery. She and I have chatted a number of times, and is the biggest reason for me to shop there. Her pleasant manner and conversation make me smile. Inside, I bought a package of cheese crackers that I had discovered when I first arrived four months ago, and some chicken thighs (for which I had big plans).
Next came the Bakery. There was a pizza square with mushrooms, prosciutto, artichoke hearts, sauce and cheese that clamored to come home with me. Plus, I bought a little bun with chunks of green olives. Basta! Plenty! That was enough for one shopping spree.
Along the way home, an elderly woman in a purple jacket stopped me to ask where I had bought the freesia. Unfortunately for her, the market was long over, but we chatted about freesia and tulips and springtime and I was pleased that we could have such a conversation.
And those chicken thighs? I cooked them just like Mom used to when we were kids (60s Americana): dredged in flour with salt and pepper. Browned in (olive) oil, then drowned in water and left to simmer for almost two hours ’til they were falling-off-the-bones tender. The chicken produced the classic gravy I was looking for and was ladled over (brown) rice, served with a few of those many green beans.
It was a simple afternoon, really. Just buying a few groceries. But the fact that I see familiar faces while out-and-about-town, and can just chat with people means the world to me. These are first steps toward being IN this community even if only in a small way.
Damn Spam
Sitting in my spam trash are 15,201 spam “comments” that have come in since September 5! (Yes. That’s fifteen thousand+.) I’ve managed to create enough filters that I haven’t had to purge each of them individually, but I’ve still had to spend much-too-much time each day clearing out the crap. In fact, I think I’ve spent more time deleting spam than anyone has spent posting comments.
SO! I changed some settings and you are now required to log in before posting a comment. (I think this is true only of your first time posting under these new settings.) This of course posts your comment publicly on my site. Or, simple enough, you could just send me a private e-mail.
I could probably dig deeper into spam-blocking methods, but my main energies are not going into blog management. I’d rather be away from this computer when possible, exploring my Milanese world.
Extra Virgin
At almost 4 months’ time here (with a few side trips away) I have now gone through a one liter bottle of Extra Virgin Olive Oil and I just bought my second bottle. And by the way, even though I’ve eaten more meat (bresaola and prosciutto! Mmm) and cheese in the last 4 months than I have in decades, my cholesterol has dropped 30 points.
Ambitious Cheese and Such
What a street market! I rose up out of the subway this evening at 6:00 and immediately stepped into a one block section of tented stalls hosting vendors from the many regions of Italy. Wow. Cheeses, meats, spices, pastries, dried fruit. As they say “over the top”!
One stall in particular had what I can only call “ambitious cheese”. Ambitious in the making and in the eating. Cheeses matured in juniper, walnut leaves, “must of nebbiolo grapes”. Leaves, twigs and what looked like good rich earth were still adhering. You want a quarter cheese round? The woman will cut through the cheese wheel and send some of that must home with you. (I can’t help but think that such things would never be found in the U.S. They would be accompanied by a waiver and binding agreement not to sue. I was again reminded that, as Americans, we are so removed from our food sources! …Don’t get me started on THAT soapbox.)
No. I didn’t try any. Mostly because the woman was busy with other customers, and her sample dishes were empty. And if I tried some, how could I walk away without buying? (And look at the prices! Some of those are about $23 per pound. But they must be sublime. I’ll have to try-and-buy next time.)
I did buy a wedge of cheese at another stall. I put my hands VERY close together and indicated that I wanted just a bit of the cheese with green olives and spicy red peppers. She came over from playing with her baby son, picked up the knife, cut a wedge and charged me 9 euro for that bit. (About $13.50 for that small wedge!)
The meats were stacked high. Spices and fruits in heaping mounds. The Sicilian cookies and pastries tempted me. The young Sicilian man packaged some various cookies for an elderly couple… maybe a dozen and a half, 2 inch cookies. “25”, he said. “What?” said the old man. “25.” It was 25 euro for that little bag of little cookies. The couple scoffed, left the bag and walked away. Cautious, I bought two small macaroons and one pistachio cookie: 2,50 euro.
Fish on a Sunny Day
Wow. An absolutely gorgeous day in Milano. Is this what Fall is like in Italy?! Sunny after some 2:00 a.m., drenching downpours recently. Fresh air, yet nicely warm. No humidity to be bothered with. It was a day that screamed for a bike ride along the canal.
Fish are always present in the Naviglio Pavese Canal, and I’ve been told they’re fussy about biting. I see them when glancing over as I ride along. Sometime in the last week or so they’ve lowered the water level down to just a couple of feet. Perhaps this has affected the fish, and perhaps it’s just their biology (spawning time?) but now they are clustered in clouds! AND I saw three of four that were brilliant gold or gold and black. Koi let loose? Whatever the reason, I had to stop and simply watch them.
I still don’t know what kind of fish they are. One day I stopped to chat with an elder fisherman and I should have had pen and paper with me to write down what he told me. “Trota” was one fish that was easy to remember. Trout! But I see a few others with different markings and body shapes, which keep up my curiosity.
I Bought a Branzino!
Nope. It’s not a Vespa-type scooter or a little car. It’s a little fish.
A couple of months ago, while at the Saturday market, I was overwhelmed by the seafood choices I had no familiarity with. No halibut, salmon or rock cod here. There was fish I knew nothing about except for a couple I had ordered from menus: orata and branzino. “But what do I do with it?” Besides. I had neither a filet knife nor knife sharpener, so I was ill-prepared.
Having just returned from a visit to Seattle this week, (filet knife and EZE-Lap sharpener in hand), hankerin’ for fish*, and doing a “fast stroll” near the Naviglio Grande (the big canal) I found a street-side fish market in my path. “Uno branzino”, I said to the guy. He wrapped it up. I paid 4 Euro, 6 bucks. I threw it in my bag and went on to shop for fabric. (Fabric and fish in the same bag? Hmm.)
(*By the way, can one ” have a hankerin’ ” in Italy. I’m not sure the translation works.)
Saturday evening. Canal-side. The place was lively with people strolling at a slow pace. Here I was, trying to keep my usual 4.5 mile-per-hour Indian Trail pace. (Fat chance, Maureen. Take it easy! Relax for once.) Maybe that’s something Italy will teach me: how to stroll properly, without being “on a mission”.
At 7:00, I stepped into the little fabric store NOT like those in the U.S.! Dark, jammed floor-to-ceiling, wall-to-wall, and much of it had probably been there a long time. I was looking for, and found, fabric for a baby quilt. (Just try buying quilting supplies in Italian!) I left moments before they closed at 7:30.
It was the first time in 4 months I had gone out in public wearing blue jeans (!) and tennis shoes (not quite blinding white). I had been cleaning all day and felt like being comfy. At 8:00 in the evening, sleeveless, it was muggy enough that I was working up a sticky sweat. (All the more reason to slow down.) Most everyone else was either paired up or on-the-make, so blue jeans and tennis shoes never entered their minds, I’m sure!
Meanwhile, I had a scantily-wrapped branzino in my bag with baby quilt fabric, so I figured I’d better hustle to the grocery store, buy whatever else I needed, and get home and cook!
I hadn’t noticed at the fish stall that the fish had not been gutted. No problem. I’ve gutted many a fish in my day. And I found out that branzino, (which is actually a European Seabass), has a pretty wicked, spiny dorsal fin! A pair of scissors made short work of those half dozen thorns.
Based on it’s size, roughly 11″ stem-to-stern, I figured I could cook a branzino much like a nice-sized rainbow trout. Flour, salt, pepper, mixed herbs…and since I had just been in Seattle, I threw in some of Chef Tom Douglas’ Salmon Rub (Brown Sugar, Paprika and thyme). A little extra virgin in my new grill pan, crank up the heat and throw on the fish. Veggies searing in the pan next door promised a lovely dinner.
(By the way, note the pan in the upper left. I’ve boiled water for coffee twice and that’s the amount of white, calcium build-up that occurs! I have to scrub the pan hard every day.)
Ahh. The smell of fish cooking with oil. One would think it’s a good time to open the windows, especially on a muggy night! No way! I wouldn’t sleep all night; the mosquitos would eat me alive. I opted for the fishy smell and a good night’s sleep.
“Mr. Branzino” cooked for about 20 minutes or so. Perfection. A glass of Grillo from Sicilia, a couple slices of cornmeal bread and at 9:30 I was ready to eat. Note that the branzino is served up right alongside my Mac, my updated to-do list, the utility bill from the landlady, a job ticket, trip receipts and hardware warranty info.
Delicately flavored. White. Moist. Cooked perfectly. Mmm. In trout fashion, I lifted the tail and peeled the spine and upper half away from the lower. I didn’t eat the skin because trying to scale the fish earlier had been making more of a mess than necessary, so I simply lifted the fish flakes away from the skin and gobbled them. Then I flipped the other half, easily lifted the skeleton and enjoyed the rest of the fish. What a delicious meal!
FROM WIKIPEDIA:
The European seabass, Dicentrarchus labrax, also known as Morone labrax, is a primarily ocean-going fish that sometimes enters brackish and fresh water. It is also known as the sea dace. As a food fish, it is often marketed as mediterranean seabass, bronzini or branzini(“branzino” is the name of the fish in Northern Italy; in other parts of the country it is called “spigola” or “ragno”). In Spain, it is called “lubina”. It has silver sides and a white belly. Juvenile fish maintain black spots on the back and sides, a feature that can create confusion with Dicentrarchus punctatus. This fish’s operculum is serrated and spined. It can grow to a total length of over 1 m (3.3 ft) and 15 kg of weight.
Its habitats include estuaries, lagoons, coastal waters and rivers. It is found in the waters in and around Europe, including the eastern Atlantic Ocean (from Norway to Senegal), the Mediterranean Sea and the Black Sea.
It is mostly a night hunter, feeding on small fish, polychaetes, cephalopods and crustaceans.
The fish has come under increasing pressure from commercial fishing and has recently become the focus in the United Kingdom of a conservation effort by recreational anglers. In Italy the seabass is subject of intensive breeding in salt waters.
Is She Italian?!
Excuse me, but, I’ve NEVER seen head-to-toe plaid on an Italian woman before. I don’t think I’ve ever seen PLAID (but you KNOW I’m going to start keeping track!) Granted, I’ve only been here 4 months, and it’s been summer time… Maybe, now that the weather is cooling, women country-wide will pull their plaid wool suits out of storage. I’ll see them everywhere. What a photo op.
And those socks! Cool combo.
That’s her husband coming toward her. I had been behind them a block earlier and couldn’t get my camera out fast enough. We shared the same route for a block! I got a glimpse of her face. Did she “look Italian”? Let me tell you, all Italian women look no more the same than all American women. (Same with the men.) Let’s squelch that myth right now!
Gondole e Gondolieri
It seems that gondolas (gondole) are the worldwide symbol of Venice. The tourists love the show of the sleek boats and their often-stripe-shirted boatsmen (gondolieri). By evening time, wandering around Venice, accordion music and deep-throated song floats up from the canals, answering the dreams of those that have paid for rides, and adding to the Venice Experience of those out for evening strolls.
I Love Venice
Journal Entry: 12 September 2009
(I know… It’s been a few weeks since I traveled there, but it’s been a busy time…)
“This place SO stimulates my senses. It absolutely delights my eyes at every turn. Every crop. Every surface. Every combination of signage and stone and wrought iron. I could wander this place indefinitely.
“I decided spontaneously just a couple days ago to come to Venice as a way to celebrate my birthday. (Why spend another weekend in my apartment in Milan? This is why I’m here. Venice is just 2.5 hours away!)
“When I arrived at the Santa Lucia train station from Milano here in Venezia, I felt such ease and familiarity. I was only here 2 nights last year, but wandered enough that I have some sense of the place. I saw many of the locations and details that I had photographed and I felt such connection! I had been looking at those photos intensely for a year and knew the places intimately. It’s surprising the sense of belonging I feel.
“This is such a place of visionary pilgrimage. So far, one of my favorite places in the world. It is lush and stimulating. Venice gives me such pure delight!”
Here are a few photos from around town…
Look at this iron lamp! And in the dragon’s mouth hang three umbrellas with blown glass inserts. THAT ironwork takes the prize!
Milano Cookies & Turkey Dogs
Heading back home to Milan, sitting at Sea-Tac awaiting the Seattle-London-Milan flights after a VERY crazy-busy, chuck-full two weeks here in Seattle. I had thought that some time here would be a break from the intensity of Milan. Ha! What was I thinking?! I need to go back to Italy to ease off a bit. First thing on the list: a bike ride!
On the flight coming out here, from Newark to Seattle, they served this snack, which seemed the perfect and laughable bridge between Italy and the U.S.: Milano Cookies and a Turkey Dog! So funny that I had to shoot it.
There was also an absolutely gorgeous skyscape out my window as we approached the west coast, no doubt enhanced by the fires in Oregon and California.
Leaping Frogs
Just had an hour and a half bike ride. A BIG snake crossed my path. Little frogs jumped out of the mud puddles in front of me as I approached. Something rustled in the grass next to me. No muskrats tonight, but the cats all perked up their ears and looked at me when I squeaked at them. It smelled like a cooling Fall evening in Eastern Washington, with the absolutely delicious scent of poplar pitch, and the not-so-delicious scent of fruit rotting on the ground. Old men fished along the bank of the canal. The usual group of skirt-and-dress-clad elder women were clustered closely and on their slow stroll.
As two “serious” bikers – Ciclisti Milanesi – with their tight calves, tight back ends and snug, sky-blue lycra passed me, I picked up the pace, pulled in behind them and enjoyed the scenery. As we approached an intersection, I jested to them, in Italian, that I should take a picture! They slowed to my side, I repeated what I had said, then whizzed on in front of them. They took the paved bike lane; I opted for the rugged, rutted, puddled route, and thus, encountered the leaping frogs.
Gleaning the Early Fall Corn Field
When I rode along the canal the other day, sure enough, the corn field had been cut bare. There were two men out gleaning, walking up and down each corn row looking for remnants. They had filled their wheel-barrow full.
They seemed puzzled about this woman in her hot pink bike top stopping in the corn field. I held up my camera and yelled to them that I was taking photos. They nodded and continued on. So did I.
Never Eat Anything Bigger Than Your Head*
I HAVE made “Muskrat Cacciatore” before, but that was long ago and far away. It was pretty darned good, (yes, it DID taste “just like chicken”) but I think this big guy might be a bit tough. He’s got to be TWICE the size of my head, the granddaddy of them all.
There’s a group of seven muskrats that I see every evening that I go for a ride along the canal. They have a favored spot with some brush for cover if they want it, but they seem fairly used to the bike and foot traffic going by, and nonchalantly continue to forage for roots at the tree bases in “their spot”. They don’t seem to be bothered by anyone (hunted or trapped). There are “no hunting” signs posted along the bikeway.
Imagine, 15 minutes by bike south of Milan – a major, international, cosmopolitan city – and there are “no hunting” signs and muskrats having the time of their lives!
*Acknowledgements to B. Kliban and his wonderfully bizarre humor.
His book title came immediately to mind.
Questions for You
Hi. Just a few questions for you about how you wander around on this blog site.
Do you use the search box? (Did you even notice that there IS one? It’s pretty subtle.)
Do you click on the “tags” in the “tag cloud” at the right on article pages (the jumbled pile of linked topic words)?
Do you click on the 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5 at the bottom right corner of the home page photo? (Do they show up for you? Do they link?)
Do you look at the “archive” at all, or just go down the list of articles at the left of the home page?
What DO you click on?
What’s most interesting to you?
A Sunday Drive (Ride)
When I take the subway home, I hop on the M2 Green Line with “Abbiategrasso” as its final destination, roughly due west of Milano. (The subway train goes south from the center of town, then cuts west.) All this time, last summer included, I’ve seen the name but never seen the town. Wanting both a good ride and something a little different today, I decided to ride the mostly-bike route along the Naviglio Grande instead of my usual, smaller Naviglio Pavese.
What a ride! It was a lovely late-summer morning when I started out, cool enough that I was glad I’d be riding hard. (I’ve never felt it that cool in Milano! I’ve only been here in the summer.) From Milano to Abbiategrasso is 24.6 k (15.2 miles) and the length of it travels past city and country, old buildings and new, rice paddies and industry.
THIS was where people were on their Sunday morning! Bikers were either decked-out-serious or casual peddlers. There were walkers and runners. And the morning sun made it all so pleasant. I was in “that space” and soared. Zoom, Zoom.
When out on my bike, I set my own pace depending on my mood, but once in a while, one of those “serious” bikers will pass me (always men) and I’ll take the bait. Someone to set the speed and make me push myself! I notch it up, pull in behind them and move it. Doing so tickles me and I get a good workout.
Today, two men passed me, and I took my cue. I followed them tight for several miles, even having to put on my brakes so I didn’t crowd them too closely. Then, the very unfortunate. The forward biker hit a metal cover in the path and went down. His partner got out around him, and I, being all too close at that moment, JUST managed to get out past the two of them and avoid being part of the pile. I pulled over and stopped to see how the guy was. He had quite dramatically shaved the skin off the side of his knee. Ugh. After a few moments, seeing that I couldn’t help in any way, I left with the speed-demon in me tamed for the day. (Once home, I added some first aid items to my bike bag.)
I pushed on, and enjoyed the canal-side view. Only once in a while did I stop for a photo or two. I wanted the “brass ring” of Abbiategrasso, so didn’t tarry. After I arrived in town, I had a short, little conversation with another biker where the canal split southward into Naviglio Bereguardo. I wasn’t prepared for that ride today, so I turned to go home. No, I didn’t actually explore the towns along the way. I’ll save that for another time. But I had a gorgeous time, talked to the ponies, saw the Swiss Alps in the distance, poked my head into a few old gates, plucked some ready-to-harvest rice and saw a part of Milano I hadn’t seen before.
I like this place.
The town of Gaggiano had an immaculate cycling path and the church of Sant’ Invenzio.
I’m just a sucker for old buildings, and when I saw that this one marked my imminent birthday, I just had to stop.
And these gates are right nearby…
As I started to get back in toward Milano, of course things got a little tighter, and newer. This was an area near Corsico that seemed very pleasant.
I just HAD to pluck some rice since it encircles Milano. (Risotto anyone?)
When I stopped, my red and chartreuse feet with the yellow circle amused me.
At the end of the good day riding, I cooked the shrimp and veggies from yesterday’s Saturday Market. It was perfect.
The Stress of Grocery Shopping
I’m not joking when I say that one of my consistent sources of stress here is in grocery shopping. It’s easy to take for granted the comfort of knowing WHAT I’m shopping for and HOW to shop for it. And when I don’t know those two things there’s an absolute and certain anxiety aroused. That may sound ridiculous, but it’s true.
It’s one thing to shop at the grocery store. I’ve greatly improved in that realm. At least there are labels and I can pick up the items to read and figure out what I’m looking at, what to do with it and whether I want it. I’ve gotten better at discerning ingredients listed in Italian, and labels these days often feature a photo which gives a hint of ingredients and serving suggestions.
Someone finally told me how to order my favorite, bresaola. It’s not ordered from the meat counter by the slice, it’s ordered by the gram. OK. Fine. But how many grams do I need? I was raised with ounces and pounds. How big of a pile of paper thin bresaola would 100 grams amount to? As it turns out, 80 to 100 grams is about right for me to order, and I now know what it amounts to. I can order bresaola and prosciutto with the rest of them and not sound completely like I’m from outer space.
In the produce department, it’s absolutely forbidden to handle the fruit and veggies with bare hands. There’s a ritual in buying produce and I had to learn that first thing! I go to the little stand to get my wispy thin plastic gloves. THEN I select my fruit and put it in a plastic bag. THEN I make note of the code number for my item and take it to the scale. I punch in the code and the machine spits out a UPC label. Very simple. But if someone hadn’t told me about that, or if I forget and get up to the checkout stand with unmarked produce, heaven help me!
There are handy tote-along plastic bins on wheels at the entrance to the store. Pretty handy because I usually don’t need a big cart. They have a compact “footprint” and are pretty deep. Therein lies the problem. The produce is at the entrance to the store. I go in, get my tomatoes, peaches, plums, rucola and other delicate, soft fruits and vegetables and put them in my bin. As I continue shopping for yogurt, milk, cheese, wine, bottled water, the heavy things either get piled on top of the fragile things, or I have to constantly shuffle the contents in my cart to put the heaviest at the bottom. I could get my cart, walk immediately to the end of the store, shop in reverse, end in the produce department, then walk back to the cashier at the opposite side of the store. I suppose I could try that and see how it goes.
Then there’s the checkout! This is when I need heaven to help me. I think the checkout stand at the grocery store is the epitome example of Italian speed-demon impatience. I walk up and stand in line with “all the other Italians” (ha ha ha). When it’s my turn, I empty my cart onto the conveyor belt trying to get the heaviest items out from the bottom of the pile and put them on the belt first. The cashier asks me if I want a bag and if I do its extra cost gets added to the tab. (Take note, Seattle.) Well-trained, I always have my own bags, so I say “no”. While I’m still unloading my little cart, my grocery items are flying out the other end and rolling down on top of each other into a big pile. Believe me, I unload as fast as I can so I can immediately start loading up my bags as fast as I can. Invariably, the cashier finishes the race before I do, there’s a line of people waiting, my total is rattled quickly in Italian (I’m getting better all the time at hearing and understanding euro totals), I don’t have my reading glasses on, I can’t see the still-unfamiliar coins to know their denominations, and I haven’t even finished loading up my groceries! It would almost be funny if it weren’t so anxiety-producing!
I’m always glad to get out of the grocery store.
Ahh. Then there’s the Saturday Market I discovered for the first time today. Open air. Lovely, end-of-summer weather. Picture-perfect produce, meats, seafood, cheeses, breads and sundries. This market makes Seattle’s Pike Place Market look like nothing. (Really. Sorry, but it’s true.) Everything is arrayed so beautifully, all so artful. I shot photos for the first hour or so. All so gorgeous.Idyllic, right?
Then it was time to shop. Uh oh. Trouble. New rules here. No labels. No handling the products to investigate. And it wasn’t clear what the buying process was. Who do I talk to and when is it my turn?
After wandering around dazed and afraid for a while, I got bold. What I wanted was simple and recognizable: tomatoes on the vine, fresh figs, prunes, green beans, onions. I told the guy at the front, but then he told me I had to go off to the side to pay for it first. OK. But when standing in line, I watched them fill bags with other people’s orders. They take this beautifully displayed fruit and THROW it into a paper bag! There go those nice tomatoes, those ripe peaches, those soft, fresh figs. After watching this for a couple of minutes, I walked away, telling the guy I decided not to buy any. After having been a farmer for so many years, I just can’t bring myself to buy fruit and veggies from someone that is throwing my food. And I don’t get to select it myself, so don’t know until I get home that the figs are overripe and smashed open, the tomatoes punctured and the prunes bruised. Let alone not yet having the vocabulary to tell them I want just one vine of tomatoes, not a whole basket, etc. When they don’t allow us to pick up the food, I don’t have the opportunity to select 4 nice tomatoes and gently place them in a bag to be coddled during my walk home.
Yearning for good seafood, I found the fish booths down at the very end of the street. (Maybe other vendors don’t like the smell at the end of a hot day so the fish vendors are ostracized.) But I don’t recognize any of the fish, (only the shrimp, octopus and squid). I don’t have a good filet knife in the apartment and I don’t know the flavors of what’s in front of me. (Is it strong and “fishy”?) By this time I was feeling paralysis rather than excitement, so I ordered what the little old lady in front of me ordered: fresh shrimp. I can deal with that for now. I guess that, next time, I’ll just buy myself a fish, drag it home, throw it on the fire and see what it tastes like. (And maybe I should pick up a good filet knife in the meantime!)
I must say that the cheese displays were beyond belief and I finally stopped at one on the side street, not the main drag of the market. This little shop was extensive and more personable and homey. I asked the cheesemonger “which one should I try?” He replied “all of them!”, and we both laughed. He gave me a little sliver of a soft cheese, but it was more mild than I had in mind. He had a huge round of pecorino with several bands of black peppercorns through its middle. He gave me a sliver of that one, and it had power to it. I bought the small wedge that had been sitting waiting for me. He weighed it and said it was 2,40. “2,40?”, I asked, wanting to make sure I heard correctly. “Yes, dear” he said in Italian, and he waited patiently while I squinted at my coins to count out change. I decided, then, to have him slice some bresaola, too.
The Road to America
It was the late 1800s in Ireland. Potato crops kept failing and food was scarce. Imagine being a little boy, held in your mother’s arms in the midst of a big commotion as your older brothers, just ages 16 and 17 or so, left down the narrow lane, heading for a new life in America.
Those Manley brothers ended up in Wisconsin, Alaska and Washington. They never returned to Crockawaddy Glebe and their parents never saw them again. That little boy was Thomas, my cousin Tom’s grandfather.
This is the narrow Corr’s Lane the boys traveled down. (#2 on the large map.) Roughly 150 years later and having heard that story, standing in that now-paved lane was a pretty heady experience. Imagine the hunger, the heartache, the sadness and yet the hope. Imagine fearing that the farewell was indeed the last.
I’m still piecing together the puzzle of the Manley Clan and where I fit, but from what I gather, my great-grandmother, Bridget Manley, was born at Crockawaddy Glebe. Perhaps she was sister to that little boy, Thomas. Clearly, I need to ask further questions of those that know!
That narrow lane now ends at Corr’s house, though it used to wrap around behind and all the way through to Crockawaddy. Today, the paved road disappears in the overgrowth, but a gate remains, surrounded by brush to show the old pathway.
Where is Crockawaddy?
Crockawaddy Glebe is west of Rosslea, north of Aghadrumsee in County Fermanagh, west of Belfast, Northern Ireland. “Crockawaddy” is the name of the Townland (a unit of 50-70 acres), and “Glebe” indicates that they had to pay rent to the Protestant Church of Ireland.
#1 – The farmhouse at Crockawaddy Glebe (the small, black square in the middle of the circle)
#2 – Corr’s Lane, the “Road to America”. Corr’s house is at the top end of this lane and there used to be a road connecting it with Crockawaddy.
#3 – The Schoolhouse of Corranny Primary, where cousin Tom went to School
#4 – The small town of Aghadrumsee
#5 – The Carnmore Viewpoint
For those (family members) wanting a detailed map of this area, look for the “Ordnance Survey of Northern Ireland, Discoverer Series: Upper Lough Erne, Sheet 27”. © Crown Copyright 2008. http://www.osni.gov.uk/mapstore.htm. The scale is 1:50,000, with Townland Map on Reverse. These can be purchased at “News Agents” and bookstores in the area. (Thanks to my childhood friend, Eva, for telling me about these maps.)
Here’s a view looking southwest from Carnmore View Point (#5) toward Carnmore Lough.
My Irish Cousins
It was so moving to be halfway around the world from my birthplace, and be greeted with hugs at the doors of my unknown, distant cousins. Family roots are deep and strong.
First, there I was sitting in a little coffee shop in Aughancloy, Ireland, waiting for Tom to arrive. “Are you the lady from America?” And he gave me a hug hello. Then I followed him to Clones and met his wife, Mary who was as open as they get. Another dear. We had dinner at their home together. (And lively pup, Mollie, loved having a new person visit the house!)
After our meal, we went to their son and daughter-in-law’s house, Thomas and Carmel, and we all chatted through the evening before I turned in for a cozy night’s sleep.
During our driving tour of Country Fermanagh the next day, Tom took me to meet Manley Clan relations. He had called ahead to say we’d be coming, and again, it felt remarkable to be so warmly received. Maggie and her daughter, Sabohan, greeted us, and then Maggie’s son, Gary, came by and joined the conversation.
From there we drove to the home of “little imp”, Lily, who had married Gerard Manley. She and I had a playful, teasing banter from the very start. (We’d probably have a lot of fun together if we lived closer by.)
Here’s a picture of young Lily on her wedding day to Gerard.
Lily’s got a sign saying “Crockawaddy” on the front of her house (although she no longer lives at the farm). She and Tom strike a pose.
Crockawaddy Glebe
There is something deeply stirring about standing on the farmland of the homesite where my great grandmother, Bridget Manley, was born. I had hoped simply to find the region and share a glimpse of what she saw as a young girl. To meet distant cousins, tour the county and drive up Corr’s Lane to the home site, was more than I had dreamed of!
My godmother, Mary Fran, my Mom’s cousin, had given me the names of “cousins”, Tom and Mary. (I still haven’t found everyone in the genealogy, but after a point, “cousin” will suffice.) Just days before, I had made a call from up north, which boiled down to: “Hi. My name’s Maureen and we’re cousins. I’m visiting Ireland from the United States. May I come see you?” Four days later, I drove south and Tom met me in the small town of Aughancloy, near his hometown of Rosslea. He greeted me with a hug and I followed him home to dinner with him and his wife, Mary. More cousins, I met their son, Thomas, and his wife, Carmel, and I slept cozily at their home, after we had talked into the evening.
The following day I got the full tour of County Fermanagh, as Tom took me to all the noted family sites and told me stories along the way. The home of my great great grandparents, Crockawaddy Glebe is west of Rosslea, north of Aghadrumsee in County Fermanagh, west of Belfast, Northern Ireland. “Crockawaddy” is the name of the Townland (a unit of 50-70 acres), and “Glebe” indicates that they had to pay rent to the Protestant Church of Ireland.
One of the original white-washed stone buildings still stands and is being used for farm storage next to the cow barn. It likely had a thatched roof when first built. The house where Tom’s great grandfather had lived had been “tossed” a few years back, but its outline still shows (under a trampoline and clothesline). A field next to the house holds grazing cattle and is the site of past gardens.
(The next day, when visiting cousin Lily – Aunt? – I notice she had a decoupage clock on the wall with a photo of Crockawaddy before the house had been torn down! So here’s Crockawaddy as a clock. The whitewashed stone building I show above is at “8 o’clock”.)
County Fermanagh: Green all around in a rippling landscape of fields and thorny hedgerows. I think it’s probably changed little in these past two centuries. Tom took me to the Carnmore View Point, just an Irish field’s stone’s-throw north of Crockawaddy, from which I could survey all the countryside. I nibbled a few bilberries (much like a huckleberry) on our way along the path. (I’ll bet my great grandma had her favorite berry-picking spots.) From the top of Carnmore “Mountain”, Tom pointed out Crockawaddy, not too distant. (On this carved-stone map, he points to the farm’s location.)
From Carnmore View Point, looking southward toward Crockawaddy Glebe.
Long Time No Post
I know. Long time no post… I haven’t posted much in the week since I got back from Ireland even though I have a hundred ideas of things I want to write about and post photos of! Oh, the images! Stone Circles, Malin Head, Crana Knits, Crockawaddy Glebe, Thatched Roof Houses, Old Stone Buildings, the Fermanagh Tour, Grianan Ailigh, Distant Cousins, Great-Grandma’s Birthplace…and “The Road to America”! (And all of those things mean nothing until I actually SHOW you!)
And then there are the 7 HUGE muskrats I saw along the canal the other day when out for a ride. They weren’t river otter at all like I had originally thought. There was one granddaddy muskrat twice as big as my head!
The “Italian Contemporary Society”, “History of Design” and “Italian Language” classes at NABA have to be wedged in there somewhere, too! The Fall 2009 Semester began this week and it’s great to see people back on campus, and to see Milano lively again. It got awful lonely around here in the month of August.
But, you know…there’s such a thing as WORK! First things first.
The Canal’s End of Summer
I rode along the canal this evening. It’s shifted. The seasons are changing. The temperature may be a couple degrees cooler. It may all look a little different. But the biggest difference is in the scent of the ride. The silage is very rank and strong. There’s fruit somewhere that’s past ripe and oversweet. The rice paddies have been drained and smell freshly cut. The poplars at canalside have reached their season’s end and smell of riversides in Eastern Washington. I even caught a whiff of Nicaragua, and identified the wood smoke in that whiff.
This is a time of my senses. Of being keenly tuned in. Of paying attention. I’m in another world, and yet it brings me to other worlds known.
I could hardly be more attentive. More observant. More inquisitive. There is nothing like this moment. I am alive to the fullness of it. I am very aware of all this time holds for me.
Where the Heart Is
I’m Home! Just returned from Ireland tonight and it FELT like coming home. For all the challenges and the treasures, the frustrations and delights, this is home for me at this moment, and it’s good to be back.
There was limited internet access while I was in Ireland, thus my limited posts. Besides, I was out exploring rather than being inside at the computer!
But I shot LOTS of photos and will upload more “in my spare time”. Meanwhile, I’ve got unpacking to do and then back at it…
Stone Heaven: Giant’s Causeway
At the far edge of Northern Ireland, jutting toward the north Athlantic along the Antrim Coast, the Giant’s Causeway is a heaven of columnar basalt. (As a rock fiend, I swooned.) The Causeway Head starts at a high point and sweeps down into the Atlantic tides, allowing stair-stepped exploration, yet daring visitors to test their courage at the water’s edge. (The dangers are real. The slippery rocks and crashing waters claim someone every year.)
My biggest question was “How can I get one of these rocks home to my yard?”
http://www.giantscausewayireland.com/
Have a Pint or Two
This is what one comes to Ireland to experience: a pint of Guinness and some traditional music. It was after 10:00 on Wednesday night and we walked the half dozen blocks into the town of Carndonagh for “Trad Night” at the Persian Bar. There were 4 or 5 people in the pub and the place was near empty. We took seats at the bar, right across from the table where the to-be-gathered musicians would sit. Within 10 minutes, the place started to fill, and musicians gathered around their table, including the 3 Henry Sisters. The music started at 10:55.
I joked with the bartender, saying that I was doing a Calendar of Irish Bartenders.
The Inishowen Henry Sisters
Joleen, Lorna and Karen Henry are three of six sisters from Inishowen. Their music has been described as traditional, folk, bluesy, roots, world and contemporary, an eclectic mix of their individual and collective musical experiences. The Henry Girls released their first album ‘Between Us’ in 2002 to widespread critical acclaim and giving the group access to a wider audience.
http://www.dun-na-ngall.com/nw92.html
“Convivial” is absolutely the word I’d use to describe the nature of the people here. Everyone is immediately a “cousin”, (many of them truly so). Conversations sprout readily whether lubricated by a Guinness or not. And there’s something about the lilting music in the voice of the Irish that speaks of welcome.
Trad Night is off-the-cuff spontaneous, yielding songs both mellow and lively. When James Nonne, the local storyteller, began his bawdy, rhyming recitations the patrons in the packed pub would “shush” each other loudly, and then give a round of applause with his story told.
Ballads/Stories:
“Galway Bay/Young Farmer”
“Bonnie Black Hair”
“The Rangy Ribs I Bought from Mickey Dhu”
One cousin’s advice about getting to know people here: “Never say ‘no’ to the cup of tea.” (That doesn’t look like a cup of tea in his hand…)
Another cousin’s comment about the reception he expected from his wife when he got home that night (when he had only been expecting to be gone for a short evening): “A cold shoulder and a hot tongue.”
“Trad Night” in Carndonagh, Ireland
2:00 a.m. Just back from the pub, “The Persian Bar” in Carndonagh, Ireland, in Inishowen, the northernmost region of County Donegal, in the Republic of Ireland . THIS is why people come to Ireland and THIS is what they hope to find! Wednesday night at The Persian is “Trad Night”, the night of traditional music. Six or seven random musicians showed up and filled the room with music from their harp, tin whistle, guitar, accordion, fiddle, and banjo. They sang ballads, folk songs, American classics …and accompanied some “recitations”, (readings of traditional, ballad-style poems).
The Guinness flowed freely and the place was packed with patrons, 17 – 70. This was not a tourist show, as would be found in the big city hubs. This was just the locals getting together to have some fun and pass a rainy, Wednesday evening.
I shot many photos, handheld, adjusted for the dark pub lighting, but my camera card reader is at “the house” where I’m staying, and I will likely just stay here tonight. …And so, post more later. But I will fall asleep pleased. Tonight’s gathering embodied what I’ve always heard of Ireland (following a full day of neighborly comings and goings).
Tomorrow, we have more exploration to do. (“Giant’s Causeway”. Google THAT!) Hmm. Who knows when I’ll have a chance to sit inside the house, download photos and post to this blog… Hmm. Who cares?
Hooded Crow
The ubiquitous crow comes in a different color pattern here. These birds are often in the fields and grassy areas either along the canal or in the city parks. I was intrigued by their standard crow-shape with what is for me a non-standard, gray-brown collar and apron. It’s the Hooded Crow, Corvus cornix.
Since these crows are hard to get close to and I don’t have a better camera for bird-watching, I found this image on the web by Lars Kapelrud in Norway. Lars was kind enough to let me post this photo.
If you’d like to read more about the Hooded Crow, including watching a video of them in action, check out the post on AviBirds.com.
Ferragosto
15 Agosto – Ferragosto. A major Italian holiday, the high, midpoint of the Italian exodus month, and “the day when Roman Catholics believe the Virgin Mary ascended into heaven”. Having heard about this being such a big-deal holiday, and knowing that I’d be in town, I made a special trip a few days ago to the tourist information office to find out what would be going on.
The calendar they gave me listed a parade scheduled to march from the Castello to the Piazza dei Mercanti, right next to the Duomo Cathedral. Great! I wanted to be there. With Italy being such a Catholic country, and this being a feast to honor the Assumption of Mary, I thought there would be statues and images of Mary carried through the streets toward the cathedral. I thought there’d be a great outpouring of traditional veneration for our saints and religious figures.
Nope. Instead, I found a group of “LatinoAmericando” music and dance groups. The Peruvians presented their traditional expressions, but other groups were more appropriate for mardi gras and carnevale. The women were hardly presented as virginal! Does a feather here and a sequin there count as clothing?
And I usually think of “Latin America” as including those countries in Central America, but didn’t see them represented. And I’m in Italy! How did Latin America co-opt this holiday? Easy. The Italians have all left town!
So I, and other immigrants and tourists, lined the parade route, got dusted by the feathers dancing by and tapped our feet to the sounds of drums and Andean flutes. The tourist-catering restaurants were doing a booming business in gnocchi and gelato.
Here’s another amusing synopsis of August and Ferragosto, by another blogger:
http://www.upperitaly.net/index.php?id=68
Milanese Ghost Town
When they told me you could play football in the streets of Milan during the month of August, they weren’t joking! I had been asked the standard question, “where are you going for August?” Fortunately, I had already made plans for Ischia and Ireland during the month.
The Italians are serious about their month-long vacations at the peak of summer heat. Those I know have left for France, Spain, Poland, Tunisia… anywhere but here! Around town, the only faces are of immigrants, tourists and, I guess, those rare Italians that have no other place to go. I’ve never seen so much parking available on the street, and probably won’t again for another year.
This month of August, I’ve got to assume that a business is closed. Most are sealed tight with their graffitied, roll-down doors posted with the sign “Chiuso per Ferie” – Closed for Vacation – and the date they’ll return. Closure is a given. Those that remain open advertise loudly that they are, but they retain a skeleton staff and few patrons. Hardly a soul to talk to, except the Kenyan woman behind the meat counter at the grocery store, and the little old lady in the produce department that I had a nice conversation with.
I had been buying my bottled water a half block away at the corner carry-out. Well, they’re spending a nice vacation somewhere, so now I carry my bottled water 4 blocks and buy it two liters at a time instead of 6. It gets heavy, but I can walk down the middle of the street while I do it.
The country’s big newspaper, Corriere della Serra, ran a “photo of the day” showing the wide-open, empty streets of Milan.
Where’s Ischia?
Ahh, my wonderful sister (yes, she really is), always mindful of the details, asked me to update my map to show where the island of Ischia is. You can now find it on my map page: https://www.kunstdame.com/map/
Ischia is a little island two thirds of the way down the west coast of Italy, just off from Naples, or “Napoli“. It’s where I recently spent 5 days lounging in the hot sun and eating good food. I posted a LOT of photos and stories about Ischia! It may be your next vacation hot spot… (literally.)
Two Wheels
Ahhh. Just back from an hour and a half ride down the canal. I push it as hard as a can, fast and steady. It makes me feel so full of life! I’m grateful to have my two wheels to hop on and get my blood pumping. Ahhh.
And having the canal just a block away is a real treasure. In a short time, I’m out of the city, riding along the corn fields and rice paddies. The rice has gone to seed now. And I thought that surely the farmer planted the outer row of corn for the cyclists. An ear or two each wouldn’t put a dent in his crop. Hesitant to get my mouth set on a fresh ear of corn, I stopped to check it out. Sure enough. Feed corn for cattle. Darn.
The scents along the canal are sure “full and rich”. Sometimes a dead fish or rank cattle farms. Sometimes basil and tomato from the local pea-patch gardens. I catch whiffs of cottonwood and the slow-moving fresh water. Depending on the time of day, my stomach wakes up at the smell of lunch or dinner being prepared. My bike ride is quite sensual.
Chiesa Soccorso & Forio
La Chiesa della Madonna del Soccorso – The Church of the Madonna of Help is located at the edge of a prominent cliff in Forio, at the west edge of the island of Ischia. I had seen it in the daytime from the window of the bus crowded with tourists, but was in no position to stop and go there.
The other night, however, after our prosciutto, pizza and limoncello, Glenda’s friend Ciro, our host for the evening, took us for a wild drive to Forio. (Only one that knows the roads drives like that! Ischia is NOT a place I’d recommend renting a car while on vacation. Leave those roads to the locals!) I was thrilled when Ciro stopped at the church, all lit up for the evening. I had the luxury of wandering around and shooting for as long as I wished. (Unfortunately, they were all hand-held night shots, so they’re “soft”. Still some fun images.)
One of the government buildings in the town of Forio.
Ciro and Glenda at Chiesa del Soccorso.
Sant’Angelo
Sant’Angelo is a little village on the south side of the island of Ischia. The island bus will drop you off at an upper parking lot and from there you must walk down the hill to the village, or take one of the golf cart taxis. The rabbit-warren-style “roads” are the width of one of these carts plus a person pressed up against the wall as the cart passes. At the shoreline, an isthmus extends out from the center of the village, to a peak of land that once housed a monastery and defense tower. Today, at the base of the hill, one finds restaurants, shops, hotels and apartments. I noticed a rickety wooden platform suspended from the side of the cliff, but have no idea where it leads.
A very enterprising man and his wife set up a juice stand precisely where the bus drops off its passengers. On a hot day, there’s nothing more inviting. You don’t tell the man what you want; he tells you what you should have: a mixed juice of fresh oranges and lemons grown on the island. He slices the fruit, presses it into a glass, adds a dollop of granita iced sugar syrup, adds a spoon so you can stir it up and charges 2 Euro. I drank two, at the beginning and the end of my visit to Sant’Angelo.
Some people enjoyed the beach by catching little pan fish.
This woman kept hiding from me when she saw my camera. She was on a balcony above, justing peering over the edge, then turned to tend the black socks.
Up high and to the east of town was the Casa Rosa, another of the island’s thermal pool spas.
On a knoll above town, only reached by foot or cart, is the Chiesa San Michele. Parishioners were inside at an evening mass.
Castello Aragonese
Castello Aragonese – The Aragonese Castle of Ischia
The castle dominates the skyline and view on the east side of the island of Ischia. Omnipresent as the background, it sits on its own islet, connected to the main island by a 15th century stone bridge. Its history is too complex to try to repeat in this blog post, but here are three links to photo and information sites:
http://www.italyheaven.co.uk/campania/ischia/ischiaponte.html
http://www.castelloaragonese.it/
http://www.castellodischia.it/index_en.html
This tiled sign is in Spanish and makes me wonder about its history.
Inside the dome of the Church of Santa Maria delle Grazie.
A remaining portion of a Giottesque fresco from the 14th century, located in the nobles’ crypt beneath the Cathedral. There are olive trees and gardens amongst the castle buildings.
One of the two most bizarre features of the Castello Aragonese is the Nun’s Cemetery, located beneath the church. The bodies of deceased nuns were placed on chairs carved out of the stone that included basins with drain holes. The bodies would slowly decompose and the bodily fluids were gathered in special vases below the drains. “This macabre custom was based on the need to highlight the utter uselessness of the body since it is simply a container for the spirit; refusal of individual burial also underlined the same conviction. Each day the remaining nuns would go to pray and meditate on death and since they passed several hours of the day in such an unhealthy environment, they often contracted serious illnesses, which sometimes proved fatal… The dried skeletons were later heaped in the ossuary.”
“The Convent of Our Lady of Consolation was founded in 1575 and hosted about 40 nuns of the Clarisse Order. Most of the nuns were firstborn daughters from noble families, destined to a cloistered life from childhood in order to leave the family inheritance to the firstborn male. The convent was abolished in 1810.”*
*From the official Castle brochure.
The other disturbing feature of the castle was a small museum of torture devices, presenting both the implements and illustrations explaining their uses. I’m not a squeamish person, but that display made me wince and made me wonder how we humans can do such things to each other. (“Waterboarding” was one of the things presented in the museum of torture. Hmmm.)
There are vast tunnels and passageways throughout the mountain. It must have been quite a bustling fortress.
This view reminded me of the American Southwest and Georgia O’Keeffe’s paintings.
A view from the castle, high above the port of Ischia.
