Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 106

pix of Bologna

(click to enlarge) Internet very slow here or not functioning at all, so I can't adjust colours and brightness as I usually do and some of my photos didn't download at all. The entry to the Piazza Maggiore
the church and a display of all the glasses for the poor -
a tightrope walker with his audience
one of Bruce's favourite buildings in Italy on the right
beautiful onions at the market
the view from my window.

The internet is the only problem, I think probably because the walls are so extremely thick, it can't get through. Not sure if that makes sense scientifically, however. I may actually have to read a BOOK!

And now, a quiet evening in our lovely home.

Bologna SI!

Me to Bruce - this encapsulates our travels perfectly:
We're in Bologna, and I have to say - this is the best so far. I LOVE this city. Bruce found us a wonderful airbnb apartment with vast ancient doors, marble floors, beautifully laid out bedrooms, kitchen stocked with fruit, milk, salami. A long hike from the train but close to the centre of town. Just wonderful.

We met our hostess and got settled, BK had a quick nap, and then at about 3 we set out to explore. The weather went in and out - sunny, then drizzling, then cold, then sun again - but it's Sunday afternoon in Italy, which means everyone is out for la passagiata - strolling about to be seen and to see. The entire centre of the city is closed to cars; the cobbled streets, thick with people sauntering, are right out of the middle ages, one glorious ancient building after another, all ocre red or deep yellow, and a million arcades - gallerias, with columns, apparently constructed so that the statue of Mary would never get wet during religious parades.

We went to the Piazza Maggiore, the central plaza, where the Lions Club had a drive to collect glasses for the poor - hundreds of glasses laid out on the ground - and a cellist was playing "Hallelujah" by Leonard Cohen. It was magical. We strolled for hours - found the local market where people had set up old-fashioned games out of wood for people and kids to play; we sat in the rain in a park, went into a church to see an extraordinary art work, life sized statues carved out of wood of Mary and others reacting to the death of Christ. We dropped into the Apple store because I needed a certain kind of cord - surreal, all sleek aluminum, with the 14th century right outside the door.

And then we sat in a chic food market for a bite to eat and a glass or two of wine - for me - and tea, for Bruce. I had eggplant parmigiana, one of my faves, which was sublime. There were street performers and musicians and a rich lively street life, all with the background of the medieval buildings in yellow and ocre. Stunning, all of it.

Happy Beth. 

notes from Milan

Notes on a cold morning in Milan: We're off soon to the train station but have a bit of time to sit. It has been far colder than I'd imagined so far on my trip; I've been wearing all my layers, especially inside. Lynn and Denis's unheated apartment in Montpellier I found freezing and so too this apartment in Milan; I rise from a nice warm bed and put on a sweater, pants and winter coat over my nightgown before emerging into the hall. At home, it's cold outside but warm inside; here, it's just cold. But beautiful.

Rain predicted.

The Italians are the most emphatic people; they speak fast and loudly with flashing eyes and dramatic hands - much noise. There are lots of PDA's, young people, and not so young, kissing passionately in the streets. I know these are stereotypes, but they are also true. Here's an excellent article from the Guardian about the rise of the far-right here in Italy and around the world: people's desire for a strongman.
https://www.theguardian.com/world/2019/apr/05/montalbano-italians-fascism-andrea-camilleri?CMP=fb_gu

I marvelled to Bruce yesterday about this era, the Renaissance in Italy - 1300-1600 about - the phenomenal outpouring of art and then it's over, what do we know about Italian painting since? Not much. We discussed other eras where nations exploded into artistic flowering - music in Germany from Bach to Schumann - opera in Italy in the 1800's - literature in Britain during Shakespeare's time - the Impressionists in France - Russia in the 1800's in literature, drama, dance. Perhaps one genius, encouraged by a timely shift in society, launches and inspires all the others? Or do these eras of national genius just spontaneously arise?

Someone sent me an email: "You are lucky to have a Bruce to show you around." I certainly am. Especially because this particular Bruce had such a serious health issue that we thought two years ago he might die, and certainly that he'd never travel again. Yet here he is, about the shepherd me to Bologna. I am very lucky to be here with him again.

Despite all, he is made of sterner stuff than I, capable of endless walking and gazing, whereas after a few hours, I get tired. My left eye is bright red for some reason, and I'm feeling bedraggled, especially in comparison with Italian women in their very high heels - on cobblestones! - and the bouncy teenagers with their expensive sneakers. In fact, everyone is in expensive sneakers, some with glitter, except the women in their stilettos. And me with my bright red eye.

I gather the demonstration yesterday in Toronto against cuts to education was vast - wonderful! Who would have thought that years after demonstrating against the destruction of the education system by Mike Harris while my children were in it, we'd need to march again in the streets because another neanderthal, in some ways even worse, if that's possible, would be smashing schools again - this time while my grandchildren are in it?

Torino Torino!

Today Bruce, who is a lover of trains, had organized the first of our several train journeys - off on the 9.25 a.m. train to Torino - Turin, an hour away. It wasn't warm but happily, it didn't rain. The city is beautiful, with covered arcades everywhere and many spacious piazzas lined with elegant buildings in muted colours with ornate balconies. (Shouts echoing in this apartment building - there must be a big soccer game going on.)

We visited a fairly modern building called the Mole Antoniana, with an absurdly high tower. Bruce wanted me to see the interior of the building, so we bought a ticket to the Museum of Cinema which let us in - and turned out to be amazing in itself, vast, comprehensive, leading us from historical exhibits about the earliest moving pictures - shadow puppets, magic lanterns, peep shows - to an incredible central room the height of the building, with a winding path lined with screens showing cinematic history. A surprise for us both.

A quick sandwich and espresso for me, green tea for the man who used to inject caffeine into his veins, and on to Palazzo Madama, where we saw gorgeous carved wooden artworks from the Middle Ages and all I could think was ... termites! - and then to the Pinocoteca in the Galeria Sebauda, where there were - you guessed it - masterpieces of the Italian Renaissance beloved by Bruce - Fra Angelico, Fra Lippo Lippe. I was happy to be introduced to one of his favourite paintings, an annunciation by Orazio Gentileschi, an angel with the most gorgeous wings and gentle face and a shy, humble Mary who just got out of bed. (click to enlarge)
A wander through the other rooms, though by now I have to say I'm Catholicked out. A million Marys and martyrs, my favourite the guy with the axe in his head - a million Crucifixions, and I can barely look at crucifixions at the best of times, I don't understand a religion that has a device of torture and excruciating execution as its most profound symbol - and the gold leaf and the angels and naked babies - the themes get a bit worn out. It was a relief today to see a painting about the triumph of celibacy that had a pale naked woman driving a cart pulled by lions with unicorn horns. Something different - terrific.

And then - of necessity, since we were in Turin - we had to see the shroud in the Cathedral. Many Catholics whispering prayers, and there, a huge face in relief. It seemed far too large, to me, to be an actual man's face, and the whole thing was lost on two atheists. But it was a must see, and so see we did.

Bruce was up for more - the Egyptian Museum - but I confess that by 3.30, yours truly was exhausted. I slept poorly last night, up making lists about what awaits when I return - a great deal - so after about 18,000 steps today, according to Bruce's phone, I wanted to go back to Milan. The tickets Bruce booked from Vancouver were not till 6 p.m., but we went to the station and with the help of a ticket agent, I was happy to treat us to the 20 euros extra to put us on a train back at 4.25. We stopped for supper supplies on the way back and ate quietly in the apartment, which we leave tomorrow morning for Bologna. Avanti!
Art shot - we're on the fifth floor, this is our staircase looking down.
Demonstration march in Torino in favour of the EU and democracy. I wanted to join them, especially as I was thinking of Anna and the boys today, demonstrating in Toronto for public education. Definitely wanted to be there.
The cinema museum - the writer's room, the script for Psycho.
 The extraordinary central room, which is much higher than my little camera can show.
 One of the montages we happened upon - the strange creature turned slowly toward us to the music from 2001 - spooky and fun.
The view from the top of the Madama. I can see Mozart emerging into that piazza.
Mr. Kellett surveying baroque art, of which he does not approve. And me either.
The shroud. Lost on us. But we are grateful to the Catholic church which provided some of the greatest artists the world has ever known with subjects and commissions.

moi in Italy

Luckily, Bruce is here to take an occasional pic of me, because usually I return without a single one. He just forwarded these to me.
Me at the market this morning trying on sunglasses - with the tag on my nose.
His shot of the vertical park building.
On our balcony. What a contrast to yesterday, cold and very wet all day! It was chilly here this morning but warmed up; this is at about 5. Wearing the nightshirt Madame Blin bought for me in Montpellier, I was reading a Swedish fashion magazine someone left here and blocking the construction noise with my headphones. Heaven.

letter to the Globe re its coverage of SNC etc etc.

I emailed this letter to the Public Editor of the Globe yesterday and sent a copy to my very left-wing daughter saying, "Do you approve?" Because I was afraid, as a huge supporter of indigenous rights and women, she'd be offended. She wrote back, "Fuck yeah!" So I guess it met with her approval. What about yours?
Dear Sylvia Stead:

I am not sure if you’re the right person to contact, but please do me the favour of passing this along if you are not. I am severing ties with this once-august newspaper over its slavering coverage of the Lavalin affair, Canada’s pathetic excuse for a scandal. The newspapers and media have behaved abominably from the start, rolling around in the dirt with glee, splashing in the mud of this absurd squabble. I have held my nose for weeks and tried to ignore it, looking past the endless hysterical coverage in a search for real news about issues that really matter to our country. 
But when I saw that you’d published a column comparing Justin Trudeau to Donald Trump, that was the end. Where is journalistic decency? Where are the limits to hyperbole? It’s all about getting clicks now, isn’t it, stoking the outrage machine? And so the more salacious and exaggerated the reporting, the better. A once-proud newspaper has thrown its integrity into the garbage pail. 
May the Globe come to its senses soon and focus on what matters in our country, rather than this appallingly immaterial internecine tempest in a teapot. I’m no longer sure why, but I expected better from the Globe. Shame on you. 
Yours,Beth Kaplan

the beauty of Milan and the Milanese

What a treat - we stepped out this morning, right into a local market on the street outside our front door. Much fun, food and clothing - bought little but looked a lot. Here's some Italian guy in a tuque buying fruit. (click to enlarge)
We were off to a special exhibit of the work of Antonello da Massina, a Sicilian painter I didn't know who's one of Bruce's favourites - a master of the late 1400's. Very little of his work remains, but what there is is stunning.

He specialized, besides virgins and crucifixions of course, in portraits of men with very interesting faces. This guy reminds me of Kevin Spacey.
His most famous work - the annunciation, the virgin receiving the news, with no angels in sight - just her serene, resigned demeanour, though the hand tells a different story. Wait - really? Are you sure? ME? Just like THAT?
The library of the Gallerie d'Italia, a sumptuous room.
 We had lunch - fish soup, superb - and went to the Pinacoteca di Brera, packed with masterpieces, though these huge museums are easy when you're with Bruce, he says, You don't need to look at these - here's a Titian, look at this. A Veronese, a Bellini, a Van Dyck, especially a - the - Caravaggio. No wasting time with the lesser guys. I feel for them; at any other time and place they'd be adored as geniuses, but with the MAJOR Renaissance geniuses around, these guys are left in the dust, just not quite comme il faut.
We walked home - it was sunny at last - and I love these buildings, many painted lovely buttery yellow with grey shutters and lots of greenery.
A gorgeous apartment building - a vertical park. I guess to live there, you have to guarantee you'll water your trees and shrubs. We strolled along the via Solferino to the Corso Como, both high end shopping streets, where I was tempted by nothing, could not even imagine buying something. But the Italians are so chic, more so even than the French, with the cut of their clothes, the coats and shoes and bags - and the men too, naturally - not as lovely as the paintings, but lovely nonetheless. And as usual, even the very old are chic. Many people riding gorgeous upright bicycles with chic baskets and without unchic helmets, of course.

And so, as yesterday, home at 4 so Bruce can nap and I can blog, and this time, sit in the sun on our balcony. Supper planned for tonight at the same place as yesterday. No disasters from home today, except that Sam came over to help removed the soaked carpet from the basement and reported back that it's ruined. Otherwise, we're good to go. For today.

So much beauty.

a bit more

A sculpture from the 10th or 11th century - and yet I know just how she feels. She's hearing that her sump pump has exploded.
 The Castelli from inside. I told Bruce it looks like a Vermeer painting.
One of the great tests of travellers - dinner. I had bought the Guide du Routard in France, which gives great recomms for dining and staying. But its map does not extend this far north. Bruce checked out the recomms that came with the apartment, and since it was still pouring and cold, we checked and decided on a place only a few blocks away: Ristorante San Mina, a local pizzeria/bistro.

OMG. The perfect place, utterly without pretension; we were the only people not speaking Italian, and also, of course, at 7.20, the earliest, except for the staff. The food was incredible, so was the service; at the end, after I'd paid the bill - my treat to Bruce, to thank him for all he has done to set up this trip - the lovely waitress asked if we'd like a little limoncello or another digestif - so we both had limoncello, which I've wanted to taste since we toured the Amalfi coast, where it comes from, and never got around to drinking some there. Delicioso!

We had of course bruschetta, which Bruce is teaching me to pronounce correctly - then I had risotto Milanese which I felt obligated to try but which I'd not take again - too salty - and he had pasta, and then the secundo, he had grilled vegetables and I had a platter with mixed fish and vegetables, which I shared with him. Incredibly good. Zucchini and calamari crispy like French fries. Heaven. And then, after stopping in a grocery story where Bruce bought water and I watched a young couple - he buying dinner, very thin steak and salad and water, and she obsessed with her cellphone - home in the still-pouring rain.

"We did 16,000 steps today," Bruce just told me.

first day in Milan

 It was pouring all day in Milan, but we had stuff to do - Brucie and I set off after breakfast. Here's a scene in the metro - could be anywhere -
but this could not. Here's the ornate Duomo - makes Notre Dame's look like a simple undecorated facade.
We went to the top floor of the Rinascente department store nearby, where you can see the Duomo up close. Can you see the detail? Incredible.
Shoes made of chocolate are everywhere.
 The Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. Not for shopping, way too chichi - just for walking through out of the rain.
 La Scala! I went in just to see - Bruce did not, he'd already seen the theatre and an opera in it; they were mounting a show, doing lights and sets. A jewel box, as they say. We did ask about tickets for La Cenerentola tomorrow - 200 euros to start. So, no. Instead we stopped for a quick lunch by the Duomo - pasta, of course - and then -
we went to two museums, the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana and the Castello Sforzesco. In the first, we saw this glorious Botticelli, Madonna of the Pavillion, and the Cartoon for the School of Athens by Raphael; the final product is in the Sistine Chapel. A stunning masterpiece.

And in the other, room after room of beautiful things - paintings, ceramics, musical instruments. It's a vast palace full of treasure. The Italians invented beauty.

No, they didn't, but they sure have it and know it. Even in the rain, I was gazing at both men and women, the style and flare. But finally, it was cold and wet, and at around 4, we took the metro home.

Oh yes, in the middle of the Castello, my phone buzzed - another frantic text from Nicole, more water flooding the basement. So while Bruce watched a film about where the Michaelangelo sculpture used to be, I was texting Toronto, finding a plumber. By the time we left the museum, he was on his way. It looks like I need a new sump pump. My son has arranged for someone to take over at his work so he can go to the house and take up the rug in the basement, which is soaked.

It never ends.

And when we got home, I spent 20 minutes writing a letter to the Globe cancelling my subscription. I saw they had a column comparing Trudeau to Trump. Enough is enough.

I am in Milan, and yet I am still home. How far do I need to go?

on the road

Yesterday, I was on the road from noon to ten o'clock, from Montpellier to Milan by car, train, bus, plane, bus, subway, foot. First, the train was nearly an hour and a half late.
In the station: a distributor of short stories - your choice of one, three or five minutes long - 
and a book tree - take one, leave one. Love both of these.

The ride, once the train arrived, was very comfortable, as French trains are. Arrival in Marseilles in a teeming downpour, found the airport bus, traffic jam on the stormy highway to the airport, very slow in the rain, but again, no panic because I'd left lots of time. The Twin Jets counter was of course at the farthest end of this widespread airport, and there was no counter set up for the flight - it's such a small company, I even wondered, before getting to the airport, if it existed or if I'd invented it. While waiting, I had a glass of wine and a pasta salad. Even with all the delays, I was ridiculously early.

And then of course the plane was late arriving and late leaving; I chatted with a nice bilingual woman from Lake Como who taught me how to pronounce Stazione Centrale. When the plane arrived, we sloshed across the tarmac in the rain, onto a rocky flight in a tiny airplane, one seat on each side, where I had a seat at the very back next to the heater, and my legs started to melt. Down in the rainy darkness into Milan and a bus from plane to airport.

With my usual cheer, I'd imagined the difficulties of the next bit - clearing customs, waiting endlessly for my suitcase, finding the train to the city ... and it was all as easy and quick as could be. No customs, the bags arrived almost as soon as we did, the train to the Stazione Centrale easy to find and I'd bought and printed my ticket in Toronto. This city hosted the Olympics not long ago, so I should have known it'd be set up for tourists.

An hour's ride in the wet darkness, and then out to find Bruce, who said he'd be waiting right by the Sephora in the station. No Bruce. Look up and down, text - we'd been texting all day - no reply. By this point, 10 p.m., I was too tired to panic. And then, looking through a window to the other side where people without tickets waited, there he was, my Brooz! The system had changed since he was last here, and people waiting are not allowed on the quais.

Hugs and a long walk in the drizzle home, to the airbnb he'd found for us - funky, full of antiquey things, ducks, jugs, molds, my kind of junk, lovely, two bedrooms, very reasonable because it's just beyond the fashionable boundaries of the town. We got caught up and I was overjoyed to remove my sweaty clothes. Slept wonderfully.

And this is who I saw this morning, making me porridge. I am a lucky woman.
Andiamo!