Italy Part III: If it’s Tuesday, this Must be Ferrara

This is the third in a four-part series: You can read from the beginning here.

I am fortunate to be staying as a guest with such wonderful people, as the Euro is worth something like $1.37 to the dollar.

Compared to other trips I’ve made, hotels, restaurants, and just about everything else are incredibly expensive. It’s easy to spend $24 USD on a basic breakfast, especially around Parma, which is pricier than much of the country. For this reason, we either go to restaurants owned by friends or eat meals prepared by Nonna in the main kitchen. I’m not complaining in the slightest—these people can really cook. The morning after our trip south, I woke early and wandered into the kitchen for a simple plate of Parma ham and scrambled eggs with truffles, something I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to live without again. Though it was cold, I carried a hot cup of coffee out to the terrace and watched the sun climb over the hills. For me, quiet moments like these are the best part of traveling: time alone, frozen in memory for years to come. I don’t worry much about cameras or film. A few words on a page bring everything back.

An hour later, we were off to Ferrara, another Renaissance city. As you approach, the town is encircled by hectares of perfectly pollarded trees, bare at this time of year, their thick branches stretching as if to embrace the sky. Bundled against the wind, we explored the medieval section: the arched Via delle Volte, a labyrinth of alleyways and tiny shops filled with smiling locals and almost no tourists. Strange, in a city of 140,000 people, to find it still ringed by nine miles of walls. Ferrara feels distinctly European, with joggers, bicyclists, and walkers everywhere. I’ve never seen another Italian town so health-conscious. There is something surreal about residents in brightly colored sweats jogging along ancient gray walls—splashes of modern neon against medieval stone. One square was so crowded with bicycles that it reminded me of Amsterdam. For a photographer, it was paradise.

We had lunch at La Romantica, a restaurant housed in 17th-century stables. My dish was salama da sugo—a local sausage, sautéed and served with buttery mashed potatoes. This time I managed to beg off the wine. Then it was time to walk off the calories, so we climbed the 15th-century walls and looked down on the town. From above, I spotted Via Cortevecchia, lined with salumerie, bakeries, and cheese shops—all that raw cheese! For a moment, it felt as though I had fallen off the wall straight into heaven. The area is mostly frequented by locals, so I felt like an insider as I picked up a few provisions to fortify myself for a planned solo train ride the next day.

No visit to Ferrara is complete without Castello Estense. Surrounded by a moat and bristling with four towers, it exudes drama—more than many English castles. Spurned lovers, trysts, murders, and even a dungeon with stories of torture and ghosts haunt its history. We also visited Il Duomo, the cathedral, which towers over the square. Originally Romanesque, it was rebuilt in Baroque style after the 1570 earthquake, leaving its architecture intriguingly mismatched. We spent a contented hour wandering its marble halls before heading to the Duomo Museum to see works by Cosmé Tura, the most famous of which depicts St. George slaying a dragon to save a damsel in distress. She’s wearing red stockings—apparently a racy damsel. Quirks aside, it’s a stunning museum, worth visiting for the tapestries alone.

I would have loved more time here, but the itinerary wasn’t mine to control, and I’d been promised a surprise at day’s end. Our last stop before leaving the Parma area was Maranello, home of Maserati and Ferrari. We squeezed back into the car and drove south of Modena to the Ferrari Museum. It was larger than I expected, filled with rare Formula One cars, engines, and original drawings. Forty cars were on display, all arranged in sleek, stylish Italian fashion. At the time, the exhibits covered the first sixty years of Ferrari production. Well worth a stop—especially for a car lover.

Not far away lies the Duomo of Modena, one of Europe’s most important Romanesque cathedrals. You may have seen it during the funeral of tenor Luciano Pavarotti. Inside, light from the 13th-century rose window gleamed across the nave. Being a Leo myself, I was charmed by the two Roman-era lions supporting the entrance columns on their backs. Standing there, gazing at the crib, one could almost feel God’s breath on the nape of the neck.

Since I had decided this would be my last day in the Parma–Modena area, my hosts insisted on a farewell meal at Real Fini, a restaurant once favored by Pavarotti. The trivia didn’t impress me much, but the food certainly did. Since this was in Modena, I ordered duck breast with vinegar, perfectly cooked, the waiter making a ceremony of drizzling thick balsamic over the meat while bright grapes shimmered alongside. Each bite unfolded in layers. Dessert was Parmigiano-Reggiano with more local vinegar, and a few spoonfuls of exceptional pumpkin soufflé.

That night, listening to the roof creak in the wind, I realized how lucky I was. I had been given a whirlwind tour of cities and towns, but more importantly, I’d met people and seen places not usually open to tourists. Even better, my time in Italy so far has cost me less than $100. Someday, I promised myself, I would return for a more relaxed stay. (A few years later, I did, and this time I hosted the family.)

On my last morning with the family, I spent an hour happily chopping vegetables for a sauce. I promised to keep the recipe secret—then promptly lost it. Promise kept. With a few hours left before my train, one of the sons took me hiking up the hillside above the house. Now and then, we crossed grooves cut deep into the stone: the ruts of ancient Roman chariots. I had heard about such things but never seen them. Once again, I wanted to drop to my knees and feel the history in my hands—the chariots, the dust, the sound of wheels.

That afternoon, I was sent off with bread, a hunk of cheese, a bottle of wine, and a polished bottle of balsamic vinegar for the train. With hugs all around and a promise to deliver their embraces to Emiliano, they dropped me at the station. From here, I was bound for the famous Cinque Terre, along the coast of Northern Italy.

You can read the final part of this series here