SavocaWeb

More Photos from Rome – Spring 2004

More photos saved from my old hard drive.  See the gallery in ZenPhoto here.

A young Italian becomes an unknowing poster child for McDonald's in the company of two lovers.

Beauty, Packaged

Fountain

Relief - Marble relief in the forum at Pompeii

Caryatid - In the locker rooms in a bathhouse in Pompeii

Capri Shore - The Bay of Napoli, as the waves lap at the shores of Capri

Cherubs

Richard Meier's Jubilee Church

Carlo Scarpa's graveyard, outside of Asolo

House of the Faun - Pompeii

Fountain

The crucifix above the altar in Richard Meier's Jubilee church in Rome

Fallen Capital - The capital of a column sits on the ground, surrounded by flowers

Roman Forum at Night

Villa Emo - Trompe-l'oeil

Arch of Constantine

Statue of General Giuseppe Garibaldi, in front of the Vittoriano monument

A Boy and His Bike - A sentry stands guard over his ride

03-21-05 Savoca (June 3)

Seeing my name on every street sign and manhole cover perhaps gave me a false sense of celebrity – I owned this town.

Granted, there wasn’t much to own. Most of the buildings were empty, boarded up, rotting, inhabited only by pidgeons and dust. Dad and I mused briefly over the real estate possibilities of a place like this, but having to farm for my own food is not on my list of specialties or desires.

The one establishment that brought any life at all to the town was the Bar Vitelli, famous for its role in The Godfather as the place where Michael meets Apollonia’s father. After we mentioned our last name to Maria D’Arrigo, the bar’s proprietor since before Pacino sat on her porch, she handed us a postcard and offered to sell us paper-thin t-shirts proclaiming her as Mama del Mundo (mother of the world). Of course, as they listed the name of the village, we couldn’t resist. Ahh, the only thing worse than a tourist is a tourist who’s a sucker for gimmicks.

03-21-05 Taormina (June 2-3)

Mountainous. Sicily thrusts up out of the Med magestically, rising hundreds of feet right at the shoreline. The taxi drivers love this, as the hotels, views, and sightseeing are all perched on the cliffs, while the beaches and sunbathing require descending on the roads that double back on each other over and over down to the sea.

As Sicily rises from the sea, so does Etna from its surrounding land. The volcano, steaming and smoldering, can be seen from almost everywhere in Sicily, as it is at least twice as high as anything else on the island.

06-21-04 – The Strait of Messina (June 2)

The next morning, we hopped on a train bound for Messina. in our cabin sata family from Calabria. The balding father always looked about very nervously. His wife spent most of the train ride staring into a mirror and applying, removing, and reapplying massive amounts of makeup. Their son, about my age, passed the time snoring loudly into my ear – his halitosis was unbearable.

Dad and I had tried to imagine how we were to cross the water between mainland Italy and Sicily. Was there a bridge across the entire strait? Do we leave the train and get on a ferry? As we approached the Strait of Messina, the train stopped and waited for about a half hour. It then backed up slowly into a huge ship. The ship held the entire train, broken up into four tracks side by side. I was grateful to get on deck and away from our travel companions. A half hour later, we descended back into the bowels of the ship and the train continued on through Messina and to Taormina. We were in Sicily.

06-20-04 – Persistence of Memory

With the regret of a child leaving its mother, I boarded the plane and left Rome. True, having secured a job at Renfro Design Group in New York City, I had plenty to look forward to, but on the lonely journey across the ocean, I experienced a homesickness for the wrong country. I was hesitant to return to a world of luxury, where all food was always in season, where the people pride themselves on the size of their automobiles, where you didn’t have to check your wallet before ordering another glass of water. I longed for the inefficiency, for the ancient buildings in decay, for the mysterious (but now more decipherable) language, for the portions that left you with just enough room for a gelato.

Granted, New York is probably one of the most “European” city in America, but looking around at the SUVs and the commercialism and the excess, it also feels very much like one of the most “American” cities as well. And now here I sit in my apartment across the street from DAAP in Cincinnati, and I have quite a bit to tell. So here are my final diary entries detailing my trip down to Sicily with my father at the end of one of the most fantastic times of my life.

In Closing

I started my travelogue with a reflection in the mirror of a motorini. I think it’s only appropriate to end with one. “Ciao, Roma.”

L’Osteria Dal Martino

Ortigia, Peninsula of Siracusa

06-06-04 – Sorrento, the Amalfi Coast, and Salerno (June 1)

My first time in Italy, I remembered Sorrento as a nice town. As the taxi ascended the hill from the port to the city, I realized I didn’t remember the city at all. Dad and I became quickly acquainted with the outskirts, however, as we tried to find our way to the Autostrada (highway). Roads disorient the driver by curving every which way, then abandon him, becoming narrow driveways without notice. After several kilometers of forks in the road (no intersections), we decide to turn around, and find ourselves behind a funeral procession. After many nasty looks from the mourners, we pull off to the side of the road (which entails moving about 3 centimeters) and wait it out.

Shortly afterwards, we chanced upon the Amalfi Drive (more appropriate words do not exist). Dad’s maneuvering of the tiny, silver Renault had me clenching my teeth in terror and holding on to the door as if that could save me from a wreck in the tin can. It wasn’t the hairpin turns nor the way Dad lurched around them. Even the several hundred foot drop didn’t scare me so much as the other drivers on the road. Motorini and giant tour buses alike veered left of center around the curves (were my father to abstain from the same activity, I would have been much calmer). Drivers randomly pull off without warning to take in the picturesque views, and to drown out the unhealthy sea air with car exhaust and the fresh, ubiquitous aroma of cigarette smoke. We stopped in Amalfi briefly for lunch at a restaurant over the water, and the clouds parted enough to blind us. After regaining our eyesight, the rest of the trip was harrowing, breathtaking, yet uneventful.

We pulled into Salerno in midafternoon. After the glory of Rome and ritzy Capri, I felt inclined to lock the doors. We cautiously (after Amalfi, everything seems cautious) zigzagged across town, trying to find the right combination of one-way streets to take us to the train station. Let’s Go had warned us that little was left to see of Salerno after Allied bombs left it in ruins in WWII. From the ashes rose hundreds of post-war high rise apartment buildings that sloppily swallowed the whole town.

Finally arriving at the train station, we parked the car and walked across the street to the Hertz dealer, still closed a half hour after opening time. Some kid in his 20’s, with spiked hair, a brown leather jacket, sunglasses, a menacing medallion around his neck and a half-chewed up cigarette hanging out of his mouth sopke to us in broken English: “You have car? Leave key with me. I am Hertz.” Pop and I exchanged incredulous looks, until his well-dressed, Hertz-ID-carrying colleagues approached. Luckily for us, his adherence to dress code carried through to his job: he failed to notice the many new scratches on the rear view mirror (I’m glad it was paint we left on Amalfi and not the skin of my fingers), nor the gash the hubcap suffered on the last turn into the station. Convinced the town was dangerous, we bought a few panini and prepared to bunker down in our hotel all day and night.

Of course, despite the danger of a strange town, I couldn’t be cooped up. While Dad napped, I resolved to brave the streets. Stepping out into the late day sun, I found something in that postwar town that ancient cities must envy: a broad, straight, tree-lined pedestrian-oriented corso. All of Salerno was walking the avenue, shopping, eating, meeting, talking, and of course smoking. Waking Dad, we threw the panini into the mini-bar for the train tomorrow and headed out for an early dinner (we were still a little hesitant about being out after dark).

At the end of the corso, people were gathering around a stage and waving plitical flags. Those who lived and worked over the piazza looked down from balconies, mingling with the paparazzi looking for a good angle. Through the speakers came the song “Imagine,” repetitive enough on its own, repeated constantly for about 45 minutes. Few people paid attention to the crew setting up the stage (although many offered suggestions to the poor bloke trying to fix a stage light). They chatted about the weather or their healthy, but rarely the upcoming parliamentary elections. Within the throng, one could identify pockets of friends, which moved like amoebas to absorb a new acquaintance with an abrazzo and a doppia boccia.

Just as I about hit my limit on the evening’s soundtrack, John Lennon gave way to a synthesized orchestra, blasting an energetic arrangement of power chords. As the determined sound of a tenor began to sing some sort of political message, the huge flags of green and red went up among the audience, a waving sea of supposed political might. AS the twenty or so politicians mounted the stage, the flash bulbs went nuts, and the paparazzi all clambered over each other trying to outshoot each other.

As the woman at the podium announced the speaker, the crowd seemed to feign enthusiasm (I believe they’re in it more for the spectacle than the content). The first speaker went at it for about 15 minutes, denouncing Berlusconi and expressing the need for a party that can take care of Salerno (insert many hand gestures here and throughout). I understood maybe 15-20%, which I translated to dad as best I could, which consisted mostly of useless snippets like “Thus we have to… uh…”

After the 1st speaker we decided to book it to dinner, seeing as half the town would be looking for a bite after the speeches. Just a block away was a well lit fountain sporting sculptures of leaping dolphins. In the circular piazza surrounding it, an energetic man in his early 3’s was directing his team of watiers like a ship captain overseeing hoisting of the sails (perhaps that simile comes from the canvas umbrellas suspended from wooden beams). In jeans, a blue-and-yellow Abercrombie-esque shirt, and a shaved head, he sat us down, then flung himself into a seat at our table. He seemed to sweat for a second while trying to peg our nationality: everyone thinks Dad’s German, but I look Mediterranean enough that he gave up and tried English. When I replied in Italian, he picked up my accent, spoke to me in Italian, then repeated in English for my dad (and also for me – hey, I’m not fluent yet). Instead of handing us a menu, he rattled off a list of dishes, and let me translate. This was followed up by a tour of his “salad bar,” a vast series of plates full of cooked vegetables, which he displayed proudly. We made our selections, sat back down, and observed something rarer and rarer in Italy: kids – droves of them – all playing in the piazza. As more women pursue careers and abandon the idea of marriage for a good job (with no strings attached to hinder the fun) the Italian population is on a steady decline. Somehow, the women in Salerno missed that seminar. Of course, as was the case in ancient Rome, when living quarters are cramped, life takes place in pulbic. When a stray ball narrowly missed our table, our personable proprietor seized it with a scowl, and disappeared inside. The pre-teens who owned it looked a little frustrated, but huddled together to come up with a plan to retrieve it.

The proprietor appared again to greet French and German diners in their native tongues. The bimbi sent an ambassador to smooth things over and recover the impounded goods. At first a little short with the envoy, the owner warmed up after a few visits, eventually leading the boy into the restaurant with his arm around his shoulders and a wide grin on his face. When he came out to sit down with the French gentlemen (likely students) as he did with us, he told me he spoke about eight languages. When he brought us the conto, it was so astonishingly low we left a hefty tip. It turns out Salerno wasn’t so bad after all.

Ortigia Duomo at Dusk