to Parma

I enter the dining room for breakfast. I'm the only guest this morning and so the table is set (by Luciana -- you can tell!) just for me.






It feels sumptuous, but I eat sparingly. It's too easy to linger, to listen to Luciana's stories (ask about the one where Claudio drives her to Verona at full speed!), to load the plate again and again with her home made bread, the cheeses, with the local almond cake, and before you know it it's lunchtime and you've missed your train. And so I force myself to get up, to pass on most of the food, to continue with the day.

The train station is just minutes from the Palazzo Arrivabene b&b and so I have time for a cloudy and misty morning walk through Montava's beautiful squares.

Because the distances are small, the blocks are starting to feel very familiar. Our street has the toughest cobbled stones to navigate.






The next street has the modest line of shops and it has several independent bakeries, even as to my eye they seem to be selling goods that look nearly identical -- the almond crumble, the panettoni...






Then I come to the square with the clock tower. If I were to walk two more blocks I'd be at the square with the Palazzo Ducale. No, no. Let me not go that far. Besides, at the foot of the clock tower, there is a bustling market today -- the type where it's more about cheap goods than food. Well, and flowers. Always there will be flowers.






It's really crowded now. A single armed police woman walks back and forth. I suppose she is part of Europe's escalated watch over crowded spaces.


 


But here, in Mantova, Paris and Brussels and even Milano and Roma seem far away. The imagination cannot conceive of those cities' dangers. We compartmentalize, based not on a reality out there, but based on what we want to believe. And perhaps that's okay. Anything to get through the day with a smile, no?

Did I really just arrive three days ago?

Back at the Arrivabene, I say my goodbyes. Luciana tells me -- we'll see you next year I hope. If travel decisions were based only on the graciousness of hosts, I wouldn't hesitate in saying "certo!"

Claudio walks me part way to the station and then I continue on my own. With my camera to keep me company. Photographing what is most visible to me now: the amicable conversations between people who take pleasure in that which is shared.






Alright. Let me not miss my train. Or rather trains. Remember, Mantova isn't easy to get in and out of. I must first travel to Piadena, wait there for 48 minutes, then catch the train to Parma. Nearly two hours of travel, even though Parma is only 65 kilometers southwest of here.

(The trip turns out to be actually easy. Piadena has a bar right by the station and I sit in the company of some dozen men -- they're all drinking fizzy white wine and talking in small groups as only older Italian men can talk. I sip my macchiato and pretend I'm not paying attention to any of it. In my head I calculate how many glasses of wine a grown man can consume if he starts in on it before 11 a.m.)
















And now I'm in Parma. You should already be thinking cheese and ham thoughts when I take on this city here, on Ocean. Let's put some more context into your associations.

First of all, you should know that Parma, at 180,000 inhabitants,  is more than three times the size of Mantova. It's a university city and recent discoveries (say the Parmigiani) indicate that the Parma University is actually slightly older than Bologna's university (whose birth dates to the 11th century, which just boggles the mind), making Parma U. effectively the oldest university in the world.

Now for the impressions. I'll start with one offered by Caludio (my Mantova host). He's no small town boy - he has a sister in Rome, a daughter in Milan and another in Montreal. But when I told him that I was going to Parma next, he said -- it is much more bourgeois than Mantova (I believe he used a different word, but this is what he meant).

I see his point. Part of it is the size factor, but mostly it is that Parma is, well, more bourgeois.

It's face is impressive! You know how when you first get off the train, a city will give you a feeling of unease, or excitement, or well being? Well, Parma does the latter. It is one visual delight!







My three nights will be at Al Battistero d'Oro - a three room b&b located in an 18th century townhouse, owned and managed by the absolutely gorgeous and gregarious Patrizia. Here's my room, quietly looking out on the courtyard.





Patrizia is the kind of person you want for a friend back home. She is compassionate and kind, full of clever ideas, with the good instincts you learn to admire. And she smiles reflexively and frequently.  You don't need to always love your hosts, but when room and owner align to form one lovely package, you feel enormously lucky. So I'm feeling enormously lucky right now.


Let's do some modest amount of sight seeing. I have a few hours before the sun sets (well I may ask -- what sun? It was supposed to be sunny in Parma today, but then, this mist rolled in...).

Two minutes from the b&b I come to the Piazza Duomo. Sure, there is the cathedral, but before we get to that, take a look at what I think is Parma's most spectacular sight -- the Baptistry. Begun in the 12th century, with long pauses of inactivity (when Verona's pink marble ran out), completed in 1307.






Inside -- frescoes and columns and statues -- all beautiful and all beautifully preserved. Stunning.


 



I may as well give you a glimpse of the Cathedral while we're on the same square, even though I actually went inside when it was already getting dark. You cannot appreciate the art of Correggio and Antelami from my photo, but hey, there is only so much that Ocean can do for you!






The historic center of the city is car free and therefore very quiet. Eerily so.






But when I enter Piazza Garibaldi (just a fragment of which you'll see below), there is a burst of activity and I feel the pulse of the city again.






What are they selling in those holiday booths?






Aged parmesan of course. And dried mushrooms. And ham.


It's interesting that Parma is regarded as, on the average, demographically older than most of Italy. It seems so young to me! Is it that the university has sprinkled its student population throughout, so that suddenly I see many men and women my daughters' age or even younger?

I'm hungry for lunch. It's not hard to find an interesting spot -- I pick a cafe-bakery called Malva. As in all such places, sandwiches are displayed on a tray and I see that there will be a lot of cheese and prosciutto in my diet for the next three days!

I sit down and order a focaccia with the ham, the cheese and arugula. It's absolutely delicious! (Accompanied by frizzante water and a warm tea. It really is cold outside -- surely not more than 40F, with 100% humidity.)






As I sit in the crowded with young people dining room and think about my good fortunes, I can't help but notice a very lively table of about fifteen people, young and old. A woman (herself probably around thirty) is clearly the focus of a celebration. I wonder why she is wearing a wreath of bay leaves. And then I hear it -- their chant: dottore! dottore!

A cake comes, photos are taken. Of just her. Of her and her parents. Of her and her grandma. Of her and her boyfriend.

And then -- and this is so out of the blue! -- she pushes back her chair and comes over to me and offers a piece of cake. I ask her if she is a doctor. She says yes, of engineering. And she returns to her group.

I don't know what prompted the move. I'd been so engrossed in my note taking and focaccia munching that I hardly saw her coming. Was it that I was sitting alone? Was it that somewhere in the course of the half hour we exchanged smiles?

(The young woman proudly welcomes my photo and stands up for it. The grandma looks stern, but her face softens quickly when she looks at her granddaughter, the dottore.)






Slowly, I walk back at the b&b. Passing pastel blocks and holiday lights.






And small shops, some selling lovely holiday sweater dresses for little ones...






Ah yes.. there's always the tug at grandmother in me. I see a granddaughter holding tightly to the hand of the grandma -- tug!






I let Patrizia choose my restaurants for the days I'm here. She has lived here all her life -- she knows what's what. ("People in Italy move only 100 meters from where they were born." She exaggerates, of course, but for many, this is not a great exaggeration.)

I ask her, too, about a place to grab an aperitivo. Somewhere not too far from where I'm to eat.
Can I suggest a terrible place? But of course. It really is terrible, but it's the place I go to and it is in many ways perfect.

And so in the late late evening, I am sipping a glass of white wine at Osteria Rangon and just a tiny bit missing the secret wine and bitters combination at the Caravatti.





I eat at the Gatta Matta -- just around the corner from my b&b. I love many things about the place, not the least of which is the fact that it has things on the short menu that I would never make: gray rabbit with almond milk and spices, boar with chocolate, raisins and polenta, deer fillet with pear sauce. I choose none of those, but it's grand to give them a moment's consideration.

In the end I eat the far less exciting cauliflower soup with cabbage gnocchi and pasta with pumpkin, sausage and squid.

Sometimes excitement has to take a back seat to the warm and the familiar.

foggy Mantova

At breakfast, I was reminded just a little of a scene from the movie A Room With a View. My host's mother, Luciana, was describing to me her younger years in Africa -- a place for which she has tremendous affection, while a second guest was eyeing me quizzically, finally admitting to seeing me at the Palazzo yesterday. You were in the Camere Sposati, right? Since as you know, I surely was not the only visitor there, I had to wonder what I was doing/saying to catch her eye.

The fire in the ornate fireplace sizzled...






I nodded meekly and continued with my meal.





The fog is relentless. I will remember Mantova as a city that succumbed to the plague in the 17th century and to the fog (of lesser consequence to be sure sure) in December 2015.

I have the second great sight on my schedule for today: the Palazzo Te. Same Gonzaga family, but whereas the Palazzo Duccale was their formal residential compound, Palazzo Te was their suburban retreat, gardens and all. Never mind that it is only a half hour walk from their principal home.






The Te was built in the 16th century and you could argue that its interiors are equally stunning. Consider this:






Or, the absolutely breathtaking Chamber of Giants, executed by the artist Giulio Romano (looking up):






There are no clear divisions between ceiling and wall, no demarcation as to where the dome begins -- is it even a dome, or is it an illusion?

Yet somehow this hasn't the visitor draw of the Dukes' principal residence. I am nearly the only one here. Maybe it's that the Italian holiday has come and gone. And as I said many times, Mantova is simply not a tourist destination. My host Claudio blames it on the fact that it's a city without a major highway link to the rest of Italy.
Compare it to Verona, he tells me. People go to Verona. It's on the Milano - Venezia line. You stop for a few days in Verona, even though there's not that much to see there. People think: Romeo and Juliet! As if this fairy tale really took place there! 
I have to laugh. Well, in that way, Mantova should also be on the tourist trail!
We say in Mantova that the girls are better in Verona. If you're a young man, you go up there to find a girlfriend. (His mother later tells me that indeed, his "friend" lives in Verona.)


At the Palazzo, I see room after room of extraordinary beauty. Here's one last photo from the interior -- this one is a cropped shot from the Room with the Horses.






And here's a corner of the building from the outside:






Near the exit, there are a few rooms devoted to more contemporary artists, including the Italian born Impressionist,  Federico Zandomeneghi. Can you tell that he was greatly influenced by Cassatt and Renoir?






Alright. That was lovely.

I walk back to the center of town. I'm passed by many people on bicycles -- it seems to be the transportation of choice here.






We're spoiled back home with our lanes and paths. Imagine riding that thing on one of the many cobbled streets here!






It gives you pause.






Oh, let me include photos of two bakeries displaying your most typical Montavian foods:











And where to now? At the Palazzo, I had seen a poster ad for a display of art by early 20th century Mantovian painters. I look for the gallery now.

Here it is!






It's an immensely interesting place -- a bookstore really, hidden deep inside a courtyard. There seem to be random art books. And other books. And papers, and various things you'd find in a very old shop with a genteel and somewhat scattered air about it.






I love it here! The owner is engaged in a conversation, but he pauses to comment on my picture taking. Usually I am discreet, sometimes even clandestine. But not here. He makes me feel welcome and it is so pleasant to for once relax with the camera.






And now it's early afternoon and if I were a true woman of Mantova, I'd stop at a cafe bar with a friend, man or woman and eat a sandwich. But I feel satiated still from last night's meal. And I feel tired. I had willed myself to stay awake to write a post last night, copious amounts (for my age) of food and wine notwithstanding and then I couldn't sleep at all (that's what happens when you fight sleep for four hours: when you win, you really win). That's okay -- I am now in the Mediterranean lull, where much of the city (sights and shops included) shuts down for an afternoon break. I can follow suit.

I take a delicious nap at my own palazzo, or rather in my rented room of Luciana's palazzo.


In the late afternoon, I am up and in search of a cup of tea and Italian cake.

And I check off my last big Mantova attraction -- the 15th century Basilica S. Andrea -- the city's most beautiful church.






It's rather loud inside, as the repair persons are fixing cracks in the ceiling. I suppose it's allowed to show signs of wear and tear after 500 years. Our farmhouse has cracks and it's significantly younger in age.






And now  for my tea. I pick a cafe that I have passed many times. It's the old Bar Venezia and it has literary pretensions, or at least a reputation for such pretensions. And it does feel modestly bookish or at least paperish...


 


But what's amusing is that this was on my list of bars to explore for that predinner aperitivo, except I got stuck at the Caravatti and now I can't let go. The helicopter flying dining group of last night hangs out in the evenings at the Venezia and I was to join them there tonight, but now I have the perfect excuse not to (in this small town where everyone sees everyone else)- I was there, just a tad too early! (Hanging with a helicopter hopping Tintoretto purchasing pack seems, in the light of the day, even a foggy day, a tad risky for a person whose entire trip budget matches what these people spent on champagne last night.)

I settle in for a currant-blueberry cake and a cup of warm tea.






As I get up to leave, I notice that a group of some eight high school aged boys comes in and commands a table in the corner. Most of them order pastries, others settle for a coke or a hot chocolate. It strikes me that this is it -- cultural differences right there, in your face. It is impossible for me to imagine American high school boys choosing to pause after school at a fancy cafe to eat pastries and talk about life's vicissitudes.






An essay I had read about Mantova said that the Bar Venezia grabs them all -- from all walks of life. I would have to agree.





Outside, a handful of girls hangs out, singing very excellent renditions of American and British pop songs (for example, one by Adele, who, like the cafe, seems to have figured out how to gather fans from a wide range of demographics).


In the evening, I pay an impromptu visit to Luciana's rooms at the b&b. (She sees me returning from my tea and invites me in.) We exchange sanitized versions of life stories and though she is a generation before me and has visited more of the world than I will ever see, it is nonetheless amazing how much common ground we have. If you think you have an original story to tell about your life -- think again. Chances are someone else has both lived it and spoken of it.


And later still, I go out for my evening meal. First, though, I stop at Caravatti, where for one last time I ask for their house aperitif -- the Caravatti wine plus mysterious ingredients spritz. The young staff is as energetic and affable as ever. Someone brings me a small anchovy sandwich, insisting that this is the true way to enjoy the Caravatti. But the room's attention is actually riveted elsewhere. There is another, younger person at the bar...






 Oh, do the Italians fuss when a sweet baby appears in the room!






True, this child may be the babe of a partner of one of the bartenders. And the staff all like each other and it is quite common to see their partners or lovers stop in for their own aperitif. Smooches and back rubs are exchanged.  Nonetheless, when there is a baby, an adorable but screeching eight month old, work stops and delight pours toward the little one.





It's a beautiful set of minutes and of course, it recalls my own times with my little ones and more recently with Snowdrop.

Finally, I make my way to a simple trattoria, again recommended and booked by Claudio -- the Cento Rampini. He told me I should definitely have the Mantova specialty of risotto alla pilota -- which I think has bits of pork in it. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how tasty it really is) that's a dish offered only for those not dining alone. I order the local river fish instead and here's a wonderful surprise -- there is a fresh artichoke salad with slivers of parmesan on the menu and so of course, I order that and  it is, predictably, delicious.





And you could say that the dish lays an introduction to the days ahead because tomorrow morning, I'll be taking the train to Parma -- home to Parmigiano Reggiano cheese and also to Prosciutto di Parma.

But that's tomorrow. I walk home on a misty night. Not nearly as foggy as the nights before. Perhaps the wet blanket is lifting? I cannot tell.

Oh! A store mirror. Time for a final selfie from Mantova.