As every traveler would probably agree, manners are the key to survival, and should be the first list of vocabulary one learns. Those intending to travel to Italy at any point in the near future would do well to study the title of this post, which means, "Yes, thank you!" and is pronounced, "see, grat-see-ay." If you're interested in moving beyond survival to conversation, I'm afraid the limits of my knowledge have been reached.
Today was a long day, and
thankfully I was up for most of it.
All of the days in fact are long, due to our slightly more northern
global position, and the sun sets sometime between 9 and 10 in coordination with
dessert. Dinnertime in Italy is
around 8, which may seem problematic depending on one’s customs, but this also
opens up opportunities for late afternoon gelati or early evening drinks, or
both, as was the case today.
After
receiving some frantic texts and receiving some nonchalant ones, Jenna and I
had a successful rendez-vous with the other half of our bandwagon, comprised of
my mom and older sister, Sarah. Between 9 and 1 we were all aboard a train
traveling from Zurich to Milan, and my appreciation of the countryside (point
#4) was again at al all-time high.
Driving
through Colorado a few weeks ago with the Westminster Handbell Choir was a
sight to see, as the rocky mountains are one of the picturesque highlights of
Midwest America: the road runs parallel to a winding river surrounded by steep
rock faces clothed in green pines; like the Grand Canyon, rugged yet designed
with as much finesse as European cathedrals. Riding through the alps reminded me that America is, in many
ways, historically, culturally, and now geographically, the rebellious younger
sibling of Europe (for some good reasons, of course). It does not suffice to describe the mountains as majestic,
which they are, or even huge, which sounds too basic, but otherwise I feel
reduced to childish babble. The
closest I can come within the confines of my limited vocabulary is Tectonic
Favoritism. The sky-scraping
heights and lush green slopes are breathtaking, and once on is acclimated to
the best nature has to offer as I fear I might swiftly be reaching, you can at
least appreciate the feats of human engineering that enable public transport
through and private homemaking in such an impossible terrain. Long-legged bridges linking the
chest of one hill to another almost gave me cramps in my calves. And I will never forget the stream
that, after being divided by a rock formation, formed two smaller streams that
turned back on each other and launched off the cliff in the opposite direction
from whence each came, creating a delicate x-shaped waterfall slightly above
eye-level. Or maybe it is more
like the Underarmor symbol.
The
woman sitting across from me was reading a German newspaper and working on an
Italian crossword puzzle. Having forgotten the German words for “four” and
“ten” I asked for her assistance using International Hand and Facial Gestures
(counting with my fingers and giving her puzzzled looks when I arrived at the
problematic digits), and she kindly filled in the blanks. Based on this short lesson and my
acceptable pronunciation (I took a German diction class) she must have decided
that I was a promising student of the language, and continued to teach me the
days of the week. I believe that
oral tradition is the most efficacious method for learning a language, the
acoustics of our train car were inhibiting the process and I quickly had to
decide whether to fetch a pencil and paper or to split my attention between my
book and our lesson until she realized I was no longer wholly invested in
it. I chose the latter, knowing I
was missing a great opportunity, and I could not help but feel a mix of
understanding and pity being conveyed from my teacher. Later on we were ably to
find our way over the language barrier for a brief few minutes to discuss the
basic premise of my trip to Milan; each time I referred to the city she
corrected me, “Milano,” using the occasional English word for the remainder of
our discourse.
Jenna
and mom had much better fortune conversing with fellow travelers; a Swiss
engineer, who had taken part in the design of the railway presently transporting
us, pointed out that we were passing the same church three times at different
elevations as we wove our way up the mountainside. We would not have noticed
otherwise, for the turns occurred in unlit tunnels and were designed (we were
told) to not be perceptible. The
centrifugal force (I use the term, not necessarily him, so engineers beware)
was measured in testing phases with a dangling string.
Milan,
a merchant-city-turned-fashion-designer, contains some exciting historical
highlights, which we were guided through by our cousin Sara Renzi. The nature of our cousin-ness is
elusive to me, for we belong to the same family tree but I know not much beyond
that. We started our tour at the
Gothic Duomo, the third largest cathedral in Europe, whose exterior walls are
populated by over 100 statues and who reaches heavenward with a similar number
of fragile-looking spires. I think
it is the most detailed cathedral exterior I have seen thus far, and I would
hate to be the one overseeing its preservation. But preserved it must be, at least until next week when we
return to go inside; sleeveless skirts are deemed indecent and unholy to the chagrin
of the females in our party. Word
to the wise: when traveling Europe in the summer heat, don’t forget your
overcoat. Sara also informed us
that this was the location of St. Augustine’s baptism. Location may not be everything, but I
can’t help but feel a little jealousy.
From
the Piazza we turned into a famous archway, the Galleria Vittoria Emunela
II. Stepping onto the mosaic
floor, you walk down a stretch of shops and restaurants with ornate walls,
religious mosaics above, all enclosed by a glass ceiling. Our guide had many historical facts to
share, most of which I failed to retain, save for the fiasco where public
complaints forced out a McDonalds branch; I had difficulty imagining the neon
golden arches neighboring the ornate stone pillars; perhaps they could have
been modeled in the Gothic style, but ultimately I am glad things ended the way
they did, for while I have no desire to walk into the Prada shop that took its
place, it seems more fitting than a truck stop. The Piazza della Scala, guarded by a tall gray Leonardo da
Vinci leads to the Teatro alla Scalla, one of the most famous (and perhaps the
oldest) opera houses in Europe. We
walked through a castle inhabited by the Sforza dynasty in the 15th
and 16th centuries (the street vendors selling Coach handbags were a
nice touch), and then went to an art museum that was conceived during the
church raids conducted by Napoleon’s army as they swept the continent. Sara informed us that the golden
backgrounds of icons were replaced with blue skies as Renaissance humanism set
in. Along with many famous
paintings by Bellini, Caravaggio, and Raphael, was The Kiss (Il Bacio), from the 1880’s, which has
often served as a symbol of the Romantic period. Does anyone know why infant Jesus, and the cherubs in
general, looks so grumpy?
What
occurred next deserves to be added to The List:
#5: Free food when you order drinks
And
the real miracle was that only 1/5 of our party ordered something with alcohol
in it; Sarah ordered a fruity “spritzer” and most of us followed suit (When in
Milan…). Our server brought out
peanut and potato chips, of which we were certainly appreciative. Then came 5 miniature turkey sandwiches
complete with whole-grain bread and pyramidical arrangement. A moral dilemma followed, for the
sandwiches looked too good to pass up to their rightful owner, but I took the
high road and joined in the array of quizzical looks aimed at our server. “It is free,” he said. Fine by me. Apparently free food is often served to encourage people to
stay. Included in the price of the
drink you say? The prices don’t
seem higher than usual, especially for the quality and location. I wouldn’t mind if U.S. restaurants
adopted a similar business strategy.
Regardless of what country you are
in, nothing beats family dinner.
Sara, her husband Francesco, and their two young daughters live in a
small but comfortable apartment in the city, and what may be lacking in size is
generously compensated for by warm hearts, delicious pasta and salads, and free
spirits, especially from the energetic children who filled the evening with
playful Italian chatter. The
parents put on lightly overwhelmed expressions when referencing the boisterous
younger one. “Mamma mia!” Sara would say with a tone of exasperation.
I was amazed by the number of books
in the house. I learned Francesco
had studied philosophy, and he owned every classic in the genre that I am aware
of, and infinitely more (rumor has it the basement is full of books as
well). Their prized possession of
late is the complete works of Dante Alighieri, contained in 6 beautifully
bound, individually cased volumes.
The Divine Comedy only made up a small bit at the end of volume 6, the
rest contained encyclopedias and other writings. They say it takes 10,000 hours to be good at something; I
can only wonder how many times over Dante reached that benchmark before
producing his pinnacle work.
Sara’s English was very good, and
with it she was able to maintain conversation about life in the city, the
family tree, the beauty of Paris that awaits… Francesco had never been to the
I.S. as Sara had been, but was able to follow the conversation aptly enough, at
least better than I was (I’ve often been referred to as a space cadet). He loved classical and film music in
particular for its lush use of the orchestra. We started with Stravinsky’s Firebird suite, made a stop by Villa Lobos (he was familiar with the music on Westminster's program with Dudamel last fall), passed through Duruffle (he owns
the Requiem recording with orchestra as well as with organ) and Milhaud, waved
to Berlioz and Bernstein, and ended with Bernard Hermann and John Williams. While I was familiar with Williams’
music growing up, I would have been curious to watch it emerge in the culture
as Francesco had.
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