Fatto a mano

“I have lost myself, I am not here, This is not Romeo, he’s some other where.” Romeo e Giulietta; Act I, Scene I

Italy has a cold.

Coughing, Sneezing, Nose blowing. Thank God for Instant Hand Sanitizer, vitamins, and keeping a distance.

Emilia-Romagna

On previous journeys we have often sped through the fruited plains of Emilia-Romagna, the region above Tuscany, and considered the premier gastronomic capitol of Italy: parmigiano reggiano, balsamico (from Modena), prosciutto, salume, jams, clear broths with tiny pasta, pumpkin soups.

Lisa turned to her researching skills (Trip Advisor/Fodor’s) to respond to the considerable challenge of finding a special destination in this often overlooked province.

The food lived up to its heralded reputation. We had a very festive Easter lunch at Clinica Gastronomica in Rubiera, an institution run by the Degoli family since Mussolini was a toddler.

We had the best seat, allowing us to survey massive carts wheeled by smartly dressed attendants, purveying antipasti, carved meats (I must confess contributing to the infanticide of a tiny nuovo lamb), vegetables from local farms, cauldrons of pasta in broth, and a giant chocolate egg, broken in half and yielding fresh cut fruits.

No supper was required that evening….

The farm house where we stayed, run by a very large, warm and joyous woman who sold her custom jams in an adjoining shop and led the tiny church choir (and rock ensemble), was a little disappointing. The German family on Easter break shared experiences by the warm wood burning stove in the main sitting area.  This communion offered relief from our grim accommodation, which had the charm of a…well… Romanian orphanage.

Sopra Verona

We stayed at Villa Beatrice (http://www.bbvillabeatrice.com/eng/index.html) a homey B&B situated above the orchards and vineyards that overlook Verona. This is our 3^rd visit, and we are comfortable here being hosted by Simone, a young Veronese, who takes great pride in his morning juice cocktails (ginger, pineapple, kiwi, lemon, apple, etc), home made yogurt, and (by request) apple/rice cake (just like grandma would make).

I know we are capricious lovers when it comes to favorite Italian cities, yet Verona holds a special place in our hearts.

Site of Shakespeare’s star-crossed lovers, Verona is an elegant, peaceful town, where residents seem to treasure the setting as much as the occasional wave of Chinese tours. The sidewalks, and some pedestrian streets, are paved with large slabs of smooth, cool, honey colored, granite – which makes gliding about town much more comfortable than the normal cobblestones found in most locales.

One of the highlights of our stay was an extraordinary photo exhibition by Robert Capa, a Hungarian émigré who lived up to his reputation as the greatest combat photographer (Spanish Civil War, D-day, Sino-Japanese War.) This memorable show was housed in underground Roman ruins, and his intimate narratives of the mid-20^th century are unforgettable.

Piazza delle Erbe, in the heart of the ancient center, is perhaps the most beautiful square in all of Italy, It is here that Lisa and I fulfilled our vow to return to lunch over elaborate and very fresh salads, breadsticks, sip cappuccinos, and take in the sun-soaked delights.

We also celebrated a deferred Valentine’s dinner at Da Ugo, a cozy, romantic trattoria where we reunited with plates of squash blossoms stuffed with ricotta, liver with onions and creamy polenta, assorted goat cheeses with fruit compote, and prosseco.

Venice Express

We took an excursion via rail to Venice, instead of booking a hotel near the city of canals and polyglot crowds.

This proved to be a James Bond caper that we hadn’t planned. Here’s the digest:

– Waited in long line for tickets (train time very close).

– Asked for the normal 2^nd class tickets, got 1st class, no time to argue with the ticket lady to correct the overbooking– maybe it was our courtly appearance that threw her off?

– Jumped aboard the train at track #4, in what seemed the nick of time.

– Train pulls out of station and we realize, looking at the SRO crowd of people and kids on the train, that we were on the local milk train that crept to Venice in twice the time with no place to sit down…..that meant standing and scowling for 2 hours.

– I was forlorn; kept staring at my printed ticket wondering how this fate could befall us. I suffered in mute silence as we stopped at every village.

– After 30 minutes of self pity,  the train pulled into the large station at Vicenza (note: not the same as Venice) and paused for several sweltering minutes. I noticed another sleek train coast into the terminal next to us.

– I looked up from the details of the ticket, now etched in my brain, and saw the green electric digits on the side of the carriage indicating #9770 – that was the number of our original express train that we missed!

– In a moment of derring-do, I bolted from the crammed car pulling Lisa along. We ran across the platform and jumped aboard our luxury rail conveyance, just as it was lurching out of the station. 9770 was cool, empty, and waiting for us with open arms.

– We speed into the Santa Lucia station in Venice, which opens onto the glistening Grand Canal, capturing our original ETA  – convinced that life indeed works out!

Buuo viaggio!

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