Italy Part I: My Stupor

I found God somewhere on the twelfth turn.

I am seeking shelter from a stinging wind, sitting against the wall across from the cathedral in Parma, Italy.

My feet ache from walking over rough cobblestones, and my muscles ache from sleeping stretched across two seats on the train from Firenze. It has been a chilly afternoon, only about 40 degrees, but therein lies the benefit: few tourists. I just finished a plate of pasta—long, flat tagliatelle noodles—grateful for the warmth of the box as it steamed in the afternoon cold, the noodles playing a supporting role to a small mound of ragù alla bolognese. A cup of wine keeps me company, a further weapon against the incessant cold that howls over old stones. But in spite of the cold and the aches, at this moment, I have no problems.

Ten days earlier, I visited my old stomping grounds in California’s Sonoma and Napa Valleys. I had spent a blustery day with a friend of mine who, because he works in the industry, has a magic key that opens lots of doors at high-end wineries. He took me on an “off the beaten track” tour, tasting as many wines as possible; something I’m very good at. I caught up with a few of the winemakers I used to hang out with and had the opportunity to taste older vintages that aren’t normally poured for tourists.

At the end of the day, I made a final stop at an Italian restaurant where I’d once cooked. I hadn’t been there in years but was welcomed as an old friend and deluged with food and—God save me—more wine. When I told the owners I was heading to Tuscany, they called over their newest waiter. Emiliano had arrived from Italy only two months earlier and was curious about the Portland food scene. We sat and talked for an hour after the dinner rush and hit it off. I gave him advice on American women—“those who can’t do, teach”—and he gave me lots of tips on getting along in Italy: things I’d forgotten, like the art of reading train schedules, which could test the patience of a monk, and suggestions of restaurants far from tourists. After a few hours of conversation, we exchanged numbers and parted with my promise to show him Portland if he ever made it to Oregon.

Though I didn’t know it at the time, this weekend’s detour would completely change my upcoming trip to Italy. My dad used to say: Start every trip with a fresh perspective; leave your troubles in the airline terminal. As the plane circled Florence and prepared to land, I felt free for the first time in a long while. My breath caught when we dove below the clouds, and the city glittered below, old clay shimmering in the early morning light, reflecting orange shadows to the sun.

I made it through Italian customs with little difficulty, as my only luggage was a small backpack—I prefer to travel lightly. I stood for a moment, jet-lagged and confused, before powering on my phone to confirm a hotel reservation in Florence, the only one I had made for my trip. No sooner had I turned it on than it rang. A woman’s voice asked in broken English, “What clothes is it you are wearing? We can’t find you.”

This gave me pause. I’d heard a lot about aggressive Italians, but wow. A moment later, two striking women tapped me on the shoulder and asked if I was Emiliano’s friend from California. It seems word travels fast.

I didn’t have a chance to say much; these women were clearly in control and not interested in my protests. As I was dragged from the airport to a waiting car, it crossed my mind that I might be getting kidnapped. But the thought felt more like an adventure than a danger, so I offered only a feeble argument. Their old Fiat grumbled to life, and I was told, “Cancel your plans, you are staying at our albergo!”

Over the next few days, the entire family took me under their wing simply because I had once spoken with their son. Between the hugging and kissing, you’d think I was a long-lost relative.

My first day with them was a blur of screaming down winding roads in the back of their Fiat, squeezed between two Italian women who kept squeezing me, while they talked frantically in a mix of English and Italian about everything we passed. It felt like a video game: the driver hurtling into turns, steering with his knees, gesturing wildly with both hands, and looking back at me mid-sentence. This went on for 180 kilometers. I found God somewhere around the twelfth turn.
We careened across the hills on back roads, playing tag with road construction, back and forth to the E35, splattering mud over the windshield as we passed through Florence suburbs, La Chiusa, Carraia, Sasso Marconi, and down into the outskirts of Bologna. I had read about Bologna, a city of over a million inhabitants, and wouldn’t have minded stopping to stroll the porticos, but this was not in the cards. I tried to peer over ample breasts to see out the window, but only caught glimpses, as we turned north through Modena, where I would return later for the famous balsamic vinegar. Finally, we left the highway and skirted Reggio Emilia, and taxied into a parking space on the outer ring of Parma, where I stumbled from the back seat, barely resisting the temptation to kiss the ground.

Our first stop was the cathedral, across from which I sit now, an excellent introduction to this deeply religious city. Construction began in 1059 by bishop Cadalo, who later became the antipope Honorius II. It was consecrated by Pope Paschal II in 1116. A year later, the new cathedral was badly damaged by an earthquake, but the remains of the original building can still be seen. Every time I travel, it feels unbelievable to run my fingers down something with so much history; it gives me prickles thinking about all the hands or feet that have trodden these places long before me and will long after I’m gone. I’ve seen lots of cathedrals in my life, and maybe it was the jet lag, or that I had seen God several times over the last few hours, but I was feeling a little overcome.

The most famous work of art in the cathedral is the Assumption of the Virgin by Italian Renaissance artist Antonio da Correggio, which decorates the dome. Correggio signed the contract for the painting in 1522, and it was finished in 1530. The fresco features the Virgin Mary ascending through a sea of limbs, faces, and swirling drapery.  The imagery of the Assumption has been met with some bemusement over the years, with a contemporary comparing it to a “hash of frogs’ legs” and Dickens commenting that the scene was such that “no operative surgeon gone mad could imagine in his wildest delirium.” Struck dumb, I fought the urge to lie down among the tourist crowd to take in the span. Tradition has it that Correggio was paid for the painting with a sackful of small change by those wanting to annoy the miserly artist. The story goes that he went home carrying his sack of coins in the heat, caught a fever, and died at the age of 40; truly a Dickensian tale.

They escorted me a short distance from the cathedral to a taverna, up an alley, and away from tourists. There we sat on a terrazza and were served long strips of prosciutto, sliced so thin that when held trembling on my fork, it was translucent in the orange of the late afternoon sun.

Chunks of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese burst with flavor, tiny mineral crystals crunching under my teeth as I bit down. Candied orange and lemon rind dotted the plate like jeweled reminders of summer past. Fish caught that morning were now browned and blistered, gleaming under a sheen of olive oil and lemon juice, studded with flakes of sun-dried pepper. They lay in ranks on a wooden platter, marching across the table toward our waiting plates. Wine gurgled from the bottles, the red that only last year had lain mumbling in oak barrels. We ate and laughed, and I was swept up into the arms of this new family.

I sat in a jet-lagged stupor, the setting sun blushing its way under the old cloth umbrella, warm and happy—still not sure who these people were, but comfortable in my new adventure.
A few hours later, squeezed back into the muddy Fiat, we headed out of town for me, destination unknown.

You can read part II of my Italian travel Journal here.