Mention a trip to the “Italian Riviera” and one envisions palm trees, beaches, hot sun and relaxation. In fact, Russia had a heat wave that forced the cold polar air south to Italy, so it was very mixed and generally chilly weather along the Ligurian Sea in Italy over the weekend.
When I was living here in Italy for an extended period (June 2009 – July 2010), I rented an apartment from Sandra, who lives in Sanremo. I met her in person 4 months after I had arrived in Milano, when I spoke limited Italian. But she, her husband, Mauro, daughter, Valeria, and I sat and chatted as best we could. At the end of our chat, she invited me to come visit them sometime.
I took the train to go see them in February 2010, after which Sandra said, “You always have a place here with us.” I’ve have now been there five times. A trip to see them has become a requisite “must-do” for me while in Italy.
The four-hour train ride takes us up and over the hills from Milano to the port city of Genova (what Americans call “Genoa”). At that station I had 15 minutes to transfer to the slow train to travel along the Ligurian Sea shoreline, stopping at a half dozen towns along the way until we arrived at Sanremo.
Just a stone’s throw from the border with France and Monaco, Sanremo is a destination for tourists enjoying the lovely setting and climate, the casino, and the yearly musical festival. There are street markets, beach umbrellas for rent, historic centers and gala events. Traffic is chaos and life is beautiful.
Milano had been having a crashing, pouring rain all night and all morning, and I had to walk to the subway station to then get to the train station. I hate having wet feet and imagined having my shoes drenched and cold for 4 hours on the train. So I tied plastic bags onto my feet. So very chic. So high-fashion. (Somehow they got damp anyway.)
It would be fine with me not to see McD’s in my life ever again so it pissed me off to see their ads plastered onto every turnstile at the Milano Centrale train station. Damn. Hate that.
I was standing at the train platform, looking up to the Genovese hills. (Click to enlarge.)
People watching while waiting for the train in Genova. (Click to enlarge.)
We encountered sunshine along the coast, close to Genova and Savona, but then it got grayer and cooler as we approached Sanremo. (Click to enlarge.)
Riding along the sea, so blue in the sunshine. (Click to enlarge.)
Sandra was making her wonderful Ligurian-specific “Sardenara”. It’s “not-quite-pizza”, with anchovies, Ligurian Taggiasche olives, tomato sauce and garlic. (Click to enlarge.)
Sandra, Mauro and Angelo stand on the deck of Angelo and Renata’s new house that’s near completion, right at the Ligurian shoreline. (Click to enlarge.)
Sanremo is known for the flowers it grows for Europe. These are some of the many greenhouses on the hills.
We spent some time watching the Giro d’Italia. The poor cyclists rode amidst snow fields and glaciers in the pouring rain.
In the Sanremo train station waiting to head home. Here’s the automated restroom, coin-operated and self cleaning. I think the whole stall hoses itself down after each use. (Click to enlarge.)
My train compartment fellow travelers for part of the ride from home. A cross-section of the world was represented here and we all enjoyed the varied chat. (Click to enlarge.)
These red-and-white striped chimneys were Dr. Seuss-like against the storm blue sky on the way home.
In this neighborhood, Saturday is market day. A string of city blocks nearby is blocked off and filled to the brim with produce, fish, cheese, flowers, housewares, clothing… and people. It seems to be when everyone does their big marketing for the week, going home and filling their tiny fridges and cupboards with Italian veggies, fruits and cheese, mediterranean fish, and cheap sundries.
When I was first living here in 2009, it took me a few times to figure out “the system” for buying from the vendors, and then overcome my timidity with my then more-limited Italian. I know the protocol now for waiting in line off to the side, but I still get mixed up over exactly how many green beans come in a kilo… quite a few! Requesting my food in metric amounts is still a guessing game for me.
Then there’s the foxy game the vendors play to upsell a little each time. I ask for 2, they put 3 in my bag. I ask for a half kilo, I go home with somewhere between half and a whole kilo, even though they weigh each order.
And I have yet to find a produce vendor that handles the goods with a gentle touch. It matters with tomatoes, apricots, nespole, plums, figs and others! They use the open produce bag for target practice, flinging each tender fruit toward the bag’s gaping entrance. (Sometimes I’ll observe a vendor for a while and decide not to buy from one that throws the fruit around. It doesn’t leave me many options though.) By the time I walk home with my day’s purchases, I’ve got spoilage already.
All that said, the array not only offers edible delights but a visual one as well. I enjoyed shooting panoramas today to give a sense of the surroundings (those these don’t show the throng of people, nor the clothes and sundries.)
(Click on the photos to see them enlarged.)
Lovely fruits and vegetables.
All sorts of seafood, much of which I’d never seen until I came here.
Olives, canned tuna, pickled foods.
Produce galore.
Breads and rolls.
We need more olives.
Yet more produce.
Olives, pickles foods, dried fruits.
Nuts and olives.
Salted cod, olives, dried foods and others.
More produce, lots of greens.
Many different cheeses and meats.
A meat and cheese vendor.
Today I brought home erbette, rucola, lattuga, fagiolini, pomodori, olive, cipolle, cima di rapa. (leafy greens, arugula, bibb lettuce, green beans, tomatoes, olives, pickled onions, broccoli tops.)
It’s been a pause, a respite from one endeavor so I could shift energies and surge headlong into others. I took a break from documentation so that participation could be intense and entire. And it has been.
After the visual lushness of Prague last July, I returned to Milano for just a few days before heading back out for a 12-day whirlwind typographic tour with Legacy of Letters. Our days started early, ended late and were filled in between with letterforms and conversation. These months later, many of us still keep in touch. The lasting connection is a surprise gift.
The tour ended and I returned to Milano to gather my things and my wits, suntanned, thinking in Italian and in the dreamy end-days of goodbye. I had no plan to return to Italy 10 months later and didn’t know when I would.
I’m a veteran of re-entry now, but it still plunges me deep and solo and quiet. It takes a while to get my head together after returning from life off-and-away. It’s as if I’ve been to the moon and back. I hunker down and get private, and very selective.
Really, it takes a couple months to get back in my groove here, not feeling jarred and jolted by contrasts and absences.
In time, I got my momentum back up and strong. I’ve explored snow crystals and cloudscapes. HTML and CSS. Intimate, heartfelt time and public, community time. I have enjoyed satisfying work and creative, personal expression. I took a big bite, savoring flavors both sweet and sour, and filled my belly in these last 10 months.
Yet still I felt a pang at the idea of not tasting Italy, not setting foot along the Naviglio Grande – the Grand Canal. Not sharing meals with friends I cherish there. Italia… Milano… has become a second home for me. My heart and mind have been pierced with a barbed and complex arrow which cannot be removed.
And so I find myself on the eve of departure. I look forward to a “going home”. It’s not the external excitement of a first visit I feel. It’s deep and fundamental; it’s in my gut and my core.
I have crafted a life which twines two places half a world apart. I marvel at it, find it jaw-dropping and am humbled and grateful more than I could ever communicate. It is a “well-wrought life”, as a friend once said.
Just days from now, I will make my pilgrimage to my beloved Duomo of Milano. I will take very late night strolls along the canals. I will ride a bike into the farmland for fresh ricotta, share meals with dear friends, switch to Italian 98% of the time and fill myself with inspiration. My time in Italy is deeply challenging, deeply nourishing, deeply invigorating.
It is an incredible gift to live so full-on, to be so vital, so stimulated.
Saturday morning, 11:30. The church bell just tolled. Birds in the courtyard. A lovely, fresh breeze through the open windows. Sunny and warm. And someone in the neighboring building has been playing scales on a synthesizer keyboard creating the kind of repetitious, monotonous sound that makes me “fuori di testa” – out of my head. But it can’t be changed, and that acceptance allows me to ignore it.
I just got word that they will start today to completely tear out and rebuild my little courtyard. They will leave 5 of the large plants and all else will be removed: the Day Lilies, the delicate, purple “Mouth of the Lion” that I had just photographed, the hidden yellow flower I found, the wild strawberries. Granted, the courtyard is jungle-like, but it’s given me little pleasures. It will also be torn up as my place to enjoy my coffee in the morning, and it will no longer have the privacy afforded by foliage. But I am transient here and will always find my joys. I hope they create a new treasure.
Moments before the gardener returned this afternoon to cut, I made one last bouquet (set with a bowl of fresh figs from this morning’s market).
At 10:15 last night, I stepped out the front gate from the public courtyard of my apartment complex and headed north along the canal for a couple-mile walk.
I crossed over the small foot bridge near my place, then glanced over and noticed a couple of older women sitting out on their second floor balcony, also enjoying the evening.
The place was hoppin’. Milano has turned warm and humid and the evenings are for socializing. It’s the “passeggiata”, the walk through town to see and be seen. It’s the social hour… the pre- or post-meal digestif… the expression of social position… the time to hypothesize, criticize or seal-the-deal… the time to procaim romantic status, whether available or not.
Thousands of people were out strolling with friends, seated at sidewalk tables, riding their bikes or standing at the canal balustrade with a glass of wine or beer, chatting. It’s the thing to do here. It’s part of the day’s fabric in Italy. (Balmy evenings certainly encourage the outdoor visitin’, but I saw this in the middle of winter, too, just without the number of outdoor tables.)
I live in the “Zona Navigli”, the Canal Zone, (approximately where the number 1 is on the map below). (Naviglio means one canal, roughly pronounced “nah-VEE-lio”. Navigli is plural.) Each time I’ve been living/staying in Milano it’s been in this neighborhood. Though the broad area around and including Milano has a series of inter-connected canals – which Leonardo da Vinci played a part in devising – the neighborhood IN the city is referred to as the “Navigli” and includes the triangular area between the Naviglio Grande and the Naviglio Pavese, and areas closely adjoining these two canals.
When I lived here for 14 months, I rode my bike several times a week south along the Naviglio Pavese, then west into the farmland. I’ve been on my bike as far south as Pavia, as far west as Abbiategrasso and as far east at Trezzo Sull’Adda. (Click on the map for a larger view.) Note the locations of Lago (Lake) Maggiore and Lago di Como up north. I’ve been told of bike routes from Milano up to the lakes, but have not been fortunate enough to ride them. “Fiume”, by the way, means river.
The Zona Navigli is a pretty “hip, young, creative” neighborhood, with schools in the area, and one of Milano’s design hub areas. At canalside, one finds art galleries and antique shops, used books stores, gelaterie, pizzarie and every other sort of place to get a bite to eat. It’s also one of Milano’s Happy Hour Aperitivo hot spots. Eight euros will get you a drink and food from the buffet table. (It can be a cheap dinner, but if you want one more glass of wine or beer, you pay the 8 euros again.)
This first video was shot at the junction of the north-south Naviglio Pavese, (along which is located my casa) and the east-west Naviglio Grande. Listen to the voices, the street noise, the general hub-bub. Note, also, that there are two local police officers there if needed.
People have asked me whether I feel safe out walking around so late. Tell me, does it LOOK like danger? I’m appropriately aware and vigilant, but I think the evening crowds are a lot like bees when they’re swarming: they’re not interested in stinging, they only care about following the queen. In this situation, people are just relaxed, talking and people-watching. There are likely some on the prowl for theft or mischief, but I never sense any red flags rising.
Here’s a second video taken just a few feet away from the first, looking at the display case of the pastry shop open late to satisfy a sweet tooth.
This second video shows a 180 degree view, which looks down the Naviglio Grande, then scans the large, stone-paved street. Note the wide flat barge-type tour boat in the middle of the canal.
At the point where I turn around in my walking loop, there’s a building with highly stylized graffiti lettering. It’s been there for a number of years, but still pleases my eye with its character. “No name, no fame. No?”
There are a couple of foot bridges the cross over the Naviglio Grande in this stretch closest to town. In this third video, I’m standing on the second bridge, giving a full look around. By this time it was almost 11:00 pm.
I was amused by the music being broadcast across the canal from the small trattoria on the other side.
Happy Father’s Day to my own “Pop”, and to the other men that I know that get to say that they are “Dad”.
Sunday morning, 10:00 a.m. Father’s Day. The sun is bright in my courtyard and I’m out enjoying a CUP of coffee (not a two-sip Italian shot). Since construction workers have been rebuilding the adjoining courtyard 6 days a week, Sunday is the only time for privacy in my garden.
New flowers are blooming here in my secret green space. The hydrangeas have come on with vivid magenta. Daylily flower heads are ready to create their own profusion of bloom. And some delicate flower on 3-foot, leafy plants – that I almost pulled out! – is blooming in clusters around my stone shard patio. I have no idea what they are. (See below.)
The day is early, yet already warm. Outdoor activities should be done early or late today, with a nap in the middle. I hear couples talking, children playing, birds singing in the trees and shrubs, and the street-sweeper truck cleaning the Saturday night debris. Sunday morning with a warm sun; do things before the midday heat.
Mary was sitting there at her desk when I stepped into the little back room adjoining the chapel at Milano’s Cimitero Monumentale – the Monumental Cemetery. Now 87, she’s given her time for close to 20 years, assisting Padre Francesco with the mass, altar flowers and little details.
We spent close to 2 hours chatting after I had surprised her by walking in. I never arrive empty handed; Mary took the fragrant lilies I brought and prepared them in a vase. Her gait is slowed to a shuffle now, yet she can still make it to the other side of the chapel, carrying the flowers to put in front of the Madonna.
A devout woman, with no inkling of doubt, she asked Padre Francesco to give me 3 separate benedictions, which he did at her request. She also pressed another photo of Don Guiseppe Gervasini into my hands and instructed me to carry it next to my identity card so that it would always keep me protected.
During my visit, a drunken, belligerent man came into the chapel. Padre Francesco was away at the time. The man was confrontative and insulting to Mary, much too close, swearing in her face. I was trying to usher him out, and was preparing myself to take a punch to keep him from harming Mary. Fortunately, another woman went off to get father, who deflected the man’s attentions and led him away.
I had first met Mary two years ago, and something as simple as her handwriting has spun me off into a study of Italian penmanship and typography.
After meeting her in 2010, it was touching to say goodbye to her before returning to the U.S. She had pleaded with me to stay.
A bunch of friends and I met up for a lecture at 9:15 pm at the Design Library. I walked almost a mile along the canals and side streets to meet them there.
Afterwards, we all went out for a bite to eat at 11:00, walking to the restaurant. We each ordered our own pizza (I ate half of mine) and some limoncello afterwards. Then we walked part of the way back together; we split up and I continued on home alone, arriving at 1:30 am.
Whether it’s naivete or genuine security, I walk home alone late at night and don’t feel concerned. Especially here by the canals, there are always a lot of people out walking, riding their bikes, talking, gathering in front of the local bars.
It should be no wonder that Italians are, for the most part pretty trim and not fighting the weight issues seen in America. It’s routine to walk 2 or 3 miles to and from dinner, in addition to everywhere else they go on foot and by bike!
This is real Italian food. They’re not over here just eating pizza and spaghetti. And they’re NOT eating “Fettucine Alfredo”! (If you see it on a menu, it’s only there for the tourists.) The range of Italian food is so vast. It truly does change every hundred kilometers. And most of it is nothing like seen in “Italian Restaurants” in the U.S.
When here, I eat everything that’s regional and typical to an area. I eat what I can’t get in Seattle. As I travel and seek out a meal, I always ask what the local specialties are and then expand my view of “Italian Food”. Here’s a sampling of what I’ve eaten in the last three weeks.
Soprassata Fiorentina • “Head Cheese” from Florence. I had this when living here a couple of years ago. Found it at a street market with no refrigeration, no running water. This is made of all the extra “head parts” that are cooked and congealed together with seasoning. Mmm. Yummy on a slice of bread. Must be 99% fat.
Fragolini • Little, wild strawberries found growing in the weeds in my courtyard. Actually, they had very little flavor, but I have seen them being sold at the market.
Lardo di Colonnata and Gorgonzola Dolce • Aged, seasoned lard (below, with a streak of meat), and creamy, mild “Sweet” Gorgonzola cheese (above). Both fantastic on a good hunk of bread. (Who needs butter?!)
Torta di Mele, con Gelato di Vaniglia • Apple Tart with Vanilla Gelato. A rare, sweet splurge for me.
Insalata di songino, pomodori e burratina con olio e aceto • Salad of “lamb’s lettuce”, cherry tomatoes and “burratina” cheese, drizzled with olive oil and a thick balsamic “cream”. Burratina is a small version of “Burrata”, a fist-sized ball with an outer layer like fresh mozzarella about 1/8″ thick, containing soft, creamy/runny, semi-solid cheese within. Heaven on a bed of greens!
Panzerotto Luini • Deep-fried bread pocket (filled with spinach and ricotta) from Luini’s by the Duomo. Inexpensive, hand-food that the locals all know about. Carry it around and eat it while walking.
Ribollita • Tuscan bread and vegetable soup, eaten in Firenze (Florence). The name means, literally “reboiled”.
Spiedina di carne mista • It WAS a skewer of mixed meats, in this case sausage and pork, eaten in Firenze.
Porcini • Two porcini mushrooms for 12 Euro at the street market (about $15!) All the time that I had lived here I never bought fresh porcini! I had to splurge at least once.
Porcini e Pomodori • Porcini and tomatoes (and brooms), cooking in my 35″ wide kitchen/broom closet. I brought the porcini home and cooked them up; also sauteéd some fresh cherry tomatoes.
Porcini with vegetable ravioli, and sauteéd fresh cherry tomatoes with meat ravioli, fresh from the street market.
Pastries from Spezia Pasticceria. My favorites are the Babá in the upper right: sponge cakes absolutely drenched with sweetened rum, with sweet ricotta filling in the middle. One bite and the rum sauce runs down your arm.
My favorite meats (clockwise from the top): Prosciutto (Crudo, di Parma), Bresaola, Mortadella with pistachios. It’s an art ordering your prosciutto cut! The bresaola is 100% lean (also available in horse meat). Mortadella: think “baloney” from when you were a kid, then multiply by 100. This mortadella has pistachios and peppercorns in it, and yes those are chunks of (white) fat.
Here’s the receipt for the meats above: 50 grams of Bresaola for 1,50 euro; 100 grams (“un etto”) Mortadella for 1,29 euro; 50 grams of Prosciutto di Parma for 1,35 euro. I had also bought “Gorgonzola Dolce”, the gooey, creamy, mild gorgonzola for 1,88 euro, and “Vitello Tonnato”, thin-sliced, roasted veal with a pureed tuna mayonnaise sauce on top for 2,47 euro. This was several days’ food for a girlfriend and me for 8,49 euro, about $10.66. (Makes up for the cost of the porcini.)
Bresaola, my favorite. An air-dried, salted beef that has been aged 2-3 months. Almost completely lean, no fat. Sliced paper thin, and when it’s very good, it is moist and supple, not dry and leathery. Note how translucent it is! I can’t buy Italian Bresaola in the U.S. Too many fears of “mad cow disease”.
Insalata con mozzarella di bufala, pomodori e basilico. Vitello tonnato • A salad with fresh mozarella di bufala (yes, buffalo milk), tomatoes, basil, served with “vitello tonnato”, the thin-sliced veal with pureed tuna/mayonnaise sauce.
Salsiccia e fagioli • Sausage and beans, a very Tuscan meal eaten in Firenze.
Verdure al forno • Tuscan oven-roasted vegetables, in Firenze.
Standing in my skinny kitchen, washing the dishes, I heard a couple of women talking. I looked out my kitchen window and its security bars, across the long, common courtyard and saw two women chatting, five floors up, at the corner elbow of the building.
This must be the Italian city equivalent of “talking over the fence”, like I do with my neighbors back at home.
I ran to grab my camera, leaned over the sink of sudsy water, shot between the bars on the window and caught a couple of images of women that have likely been telling stories from balcony-to-balcony for years.
I pushed my camera to its max and caught what might have been a moment of shocking news.
Do you think they also get together for a coffee or snack, in the same room, now and then?
Living in an Italian apartment, a “casa”, I’m privy to moments of “real life” that I wouldn’t be if I were isolated and insulated in a traveler’s residence or long stay hotel. I just go about my day like “the rest of the Italians”.
