Bite-sized Italy and Spain for someone with a really big mouth...
Between Venice and Rome I spent a weekend in Bologna. In his tour of the city, my host Andrea showed me San Petrono's - a basilica which began as a beautiful marble construction, but then took on a rustic aesth
etic when the jealous Vatican refused further funding. So the story goes. The tour also included standing at opposite sides of a portico, facing away from each other, whispering into the wall and having our words meet the other's ear as if we were standing right beside each other. (This reminded me of being in the igloo at Bimbo's.) There are two towers in Bologna which, Andrea informed me, were built by two important families in the 12th century - the taller Asinelli Tower (97m), and the Garisenda Tower (48m). Bologna is a student town, and traditionally the Arts students cannot climb the Asinelli Tower before the end of their degree; superstition has it that their studies could last indefinitely if they do. So I climbed the tower on my own, and had my first bona fide experience of vertigo, complete with racing heart and sickening downward glances, as I ascended the wooden stairs to the lookout. I thought of forgetting it a few times, but pride kicked in and I was rewarded with a stunning view of the red student town, spread out all medieval-like before me in the 9am sun.
Rome went far too quickl
y, in a whirlwind of ruins and art and dinners and wine. The Vatican Museums were predictably incredible. Fulvio, my exuberant host, treated me to a late-night (read: tourist-free) trip to the Trevi fountain, where I neglected to toss a coin over my shoulder, so I guess that's it for me and Rome. I went with fellow tourists Marion and Amil to the Forum and Palatine Hill. I wandered around Villa Borghese. I ate gelato and drank coffee. Fulvio cooked the most amazing pasta. Ah, Roma!
The railway trip to Nice was the most beautiful yet, with the Mediterranean flashing out between tunnels. And Nice itself was another welcome break from the craziness of the European cities. I caught up with Lucy, whom I haven't seen since I lived in Wellington in 2002. We spent the day lying on the beach, then rewarded ourselves with aperitifs and local specialty socca - an eggy pancake thing sprinkled with pepper.
Between Venice and Rome I spent a weekend in Bologna. In his tour of the city, my host Andrea showed me San Petrono's - a basilica which began as a beautiful marble construction, but then took on a rustic aesth
etic when the jealous Vatican refused further funding. So the story goes. The tour also included standing at opposite sides of a portico, facing away from each other, whispering into the wall and having our words meet the other's ear as if we were standing right beside each other. (This reminded me of being in the igloo at Bimbo's.) There are two towers in Bologna which, Andrea informed me, were built by two important families in the 12th century - the taller Asinelli Tower (97m), and the Garisenda Tower (48m). Bologna is a student town, and traditionally the Arts students cannot climb the Asinelli Tower before the end of their degree; superstition has it that their studies could last indefinitely if they do. So I climbed the tower on my own, and had my first bona fide experience of vertigo, complete with racing heart and sickening downward glances, as I ascended the wooden stairs to the lookout. I thought of forgetting it a few times, but pride kicked in and I was rewarded with a stunning view of the red student town, spread out all medieval-like before me in the 9am sun.Rome went far too quickl
y, in a whirlwind of ruins and art and dinners and wine. The Vatican Museums were predictably incredible. Fulvio, my exuberant host, treated me to a late-night (read: tourist-free) trip to the Trevi fountain, where I neglected to toss a coin over my shoulder, so I guess that's it for me and Rome. I went with fellow tourists Marion and Amil to the Forum and Palatine Hill. I wandered around Villa Borghese. I ate gelato and drank coffee. Fulvio cooked the most amazing pasta. Ah, Roma!The railway trip to Nice was the most beautiful yet, with the Mediterranean flashing out between tunnels. And Nice itself was another welcome break from the craziness of the European cities. I caught up with Lucy, whom I haven't seen since I lived in Wellington in 2002. We spent the day lying on the beach, then rewarded ourselves with aperitifs and local specialty socca - an eggy pancake thing sprinkled with pepper.
Then, Spain! Barcelona was sunny and fabulous, with all the edible Gaudian architecture poking out at you where you least expect it. Fellow traveller Denis and I traipsed around, forgetting where exactly in the Sagrada Familia we were, drinking far too many 2 euro shots, eating enormous sandwiches at the wee place my host, Pedro, recommended, and even lying on the beach one particularly sunny afternoon. Then heading west...
Madrid was a strange mixture of the barbaric and the enlightening. Denis planned to attend a bullfight, and I decided to go with him, not really sure how I felt about the whole thin
g. We sat in the cheapest seats, on the feet of the people behind us, with people sitting on ours, and watched small, colourful men skewering six consecutive bulls. We ate overpriced nuts and were mesmerised by the far away scene: the initial confusing of the bull as it runs at flashes of fuchsia; the arrival of the padded horse, lifted right off the ground in the instance of being rammed, before the picador's spear draws a ripple of red from the bull's back; the banderilleros' pointed sticks, six of them, artfully plunged into the bull's back, giving it the look of an animal dressed for eating, except that it's still alive; the beast's shoulders slick with blood as it charges towards the red of the matador, who eventually strikes his sword into the bull's neck. The crowd cheers; the minions come out of hiding and further confuse the bull with their pink flashes; the bull finally drops to its knees. This is the moment that makes me feel pity. Until now I have been swept along in the whole thing. This is defeat. The inevitability of the final blow seems cruel. Then a few final death blows are dealt to his head and he dies, legs jerking. Three decorated horses are brought out to drag it from the arena. It leaves an arc of crimson dirt in its wake. The term 'fighting' seems disingenuous.Redemption came the next night when I went to see La Fura Dels Baus performing Boris Godunov. Hooray for English surtitles! The play was based on the occupation of the Dubrovka Theater in Moscow by Chechen terrorists and starred us, the audience, as the audience/hostages. This was completely terrifying and rivetting, and although the story was inevitably tragic, I came out afterward feeling relieved on two counts. 1 - this form of entertainment didn't involve real death. 2 - I hadn't seen a play since August. I broke the 2-month fast!
The prawns of Madrid were one more highlight. At the famous La Casa del Abuelo they serve them tiny, sizzling in garlic and oil, or huge and huger with layers of batter. How fitting to end this recollection with food.
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Weeks later, I made my way back to London from Prague through Frankfurt, spending one last weekend on Yann's couch in Paris... and now I am in Auckland.
This morning when I woke up there was a tui singing outside my window. I have regressed into total teenage sentimentality. Yesterday in a twee gift shop in Devonport I contemplated buying a box of Christmas cards with pohutukawa flowers on the front.
It's not all symbolic though - last night we barbequed big chunks of organic meat on the deck, and drank Camden-inspired Pimm's, and sat around talking and joking until my jetlag got the better of me. Our motley, laughing family is the best thing about coming home.
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