leaving Parma

If I had any doubt that Parma is a city of streets teeming with bicycles and people -- people riding bicycles, people stopping to connect with others, people sitting, eating, but first and foremost talking -- today's morning walk surely confirmed for me that this is so.






I suppose that closing off the city center to traffic forces you to review your options. People of all ages and sizes choose bikes.












As for chatting -- well, that's an Italian thing. It's just that in Parma, with with streets free of cars, there are more opportunities to engage in this important act.






Plenty of space for it.






For me, Parma this time was also a city of distinct color.






Of art, food, of sunshine.












The weather continues to be hot, and the people expect this, in the same way that I expect mosquitoes in the summer and Arctic blasts in the winter back in Wisconsin.

And let me add one more point -- one that became amply evident to me this time (when people were free of winter outerwear): in Parma, if you step out into public spaces, you do your best to look your best. This is particularly true for women.






Now this last point may cause you to flinch: isn't that a step back? Haven't we moved beyond being judged for our appearance? Feel free to pass judgment on this Parma imperative, but it is what it is and if you take Patrizia's point to heart -- you look your best not for others, but for your own self -- perhaps it can be a very good thing. (I smile as I watch her lay out her dress-up clothes and jewelry on her bed for the next day's celebration of a friend's birthday: she does it with care and concern.) Maybe the point is that if you care about how you look on the outside, you are more likely to bring your inner self up to speed as well. There may be a synergy between the two.






I eat breakfast in that grand room. Everything is good -- Patrizia's homemade yogurt, the cheeses, the sweet croissant (Italian's like their croissants sweet and onto this they'll add jam) -- all yummy. But if superb bread product is France's star attraction at breakfast, to me, the fruit is the standout here. The nectarine is so sweet and juicy that I cringe at the ones I'd been buying back home, where I sometimes hit on a good run of both nectarines and peaches, but more often I think of them as a waste of money. They're hard and tart and no amount of ripening on the counter helps.






I have about ninety minutes to walk the streets of Parma. I've sprinkled photos throughout the first part of the post. But here's another thought that demonstrates the downside of trying hard to look good: no one wears bicycle helmets. I realize that this is a European thing: if you ride a bike for sport, you protect your head, but not otherwise.

Having myself fallen off a bike going no more than five miles per hour in Madison (hitting the pavement with my helmeted head,) I frown at this, though I suppose that there are risks we take every time we step out of our home (and not only: many have fallen on the steep stairs of the farmhouse), nonetheless, I think it's such a small thing to don that helmet that it's worth the investment. Unless, I suppose, you worry what this will do to your appearance. Lord.






My morning stroll puts me in several bookstores (I was searching for a very specific book that I had found on Patrizia's shelf) and then also in a toy store. And what a toy store it is! Four huge rooms of remarkable, beautiful toys. (Here's just one room.)






(Speaking of Snowdrop, I greatly admire this little thing: I can just see her riding it on our after-school adventures.)






It takes me a long time to decide what to bring back for Snowdrop. In the end I pick a set that has a cardboard little girl and many felt outfits that you can place on her. There is something similar in the Fitchburg Library and I noted that it requires a certain amount of dexterity to get everything in place, so this isn't one of those "dress the Barbie" things. Too, the girl in my gift is very matter of fact, with practical clothes, ones I suppose you'd  wear here to play with a friend or to go shopping with your parent. (Which I am sure is not this little boy's agenda for today.)






Perhaps this is as close to a true Parma-themed toy as I can come up with. Dress with care, but, infusing an element of our own independence, don't fret about it. You can still improve your insides without worrying about the state of your clothes. Ask Ed.


And now it is time to catch the (late! why did I run to the station??)  train to Milan...






... past honey colored farmsteads and fields of golden sunflowers...







Milan: what can I say -- I do not love this city. I always have to stop here overnight on my way out because the flights home are just too early for travel from elsewhere. I've considered the city from all angles and though some facets are fine, interesting, spectacular even, if you're into design, especially but not only clothing design.

Still, most of it leaves me cold, even on a pretty day like today.

(I think many women here never put away their ironing boards. Ever.)


 


Perhaps because I am so indifferent to this city and perhaps because my expenses on this trip have been wonderfully low, I decided to splurge and pay for a hotel that even at hugely discounted advance purchase rates is more than I would usually spend. My thought was that I won't have to go out: I'll just stay in my room and admire it.

I walk to the hotel from the Stazione Centrale. Perhaps a stupid idea, given the heat and my backpack and suitcase, but still, I do like to walk.

(Here's a side of Milan that I've never seen...)






The walk takes me along Manzoni Street, where stores are beyond upscale -- they are the kind of places that never display price tags. (Even at 50% sales, I could not afford any of this stuff and even if I could, I would find no use for it. Nor would Snowdrop. Well, maybe she'd like the dressed teddy.)






Milan is big. People are stressed. I'm not in Parma anymore.






(I always found it mildly amusing that one of Milan's main attractions is this: the Gallerie Vittorio Emanuele II -- the world's oldest indoor shopping mall.)






And now I am at the Hotel Room Mate Guilia. Which in fact is very lovely.






And I guess because it's my first time here (I notice that hotels are especially generous to newcomers -- a bait for their future business), I get an upgrade, which is so unnecessary because I already feel like all this is incredibly lovely, even in its most basic incarnation, but hey, now I really do not have to leave! Ever.






Except that I do have to leave. I must time the walk from here to the city bus (I like it best for a connection to the Linate Airport) so that I do not mess up my departure tomorrow morning.

I have two comments: first of all, the square before the Cathedral (unquestionably the city's main attraction, but still...) is insanely crowded. I know it seems otherwise in this photo, but that's because I backed away from the church, in horror and trepidation. Too, the photo shows that I am still somewhat fascinated by people's use of bikes in urban settings.






(Here's a string of shoppers, all with giant white paper bags, coming from the Galleria. Mind you, this place is not really what you and I would call a mall anymore. The stores are over the top posh.These particular shoppers must be from Japan, because women from that country hate being exposed to the sun and these ladiesv are fleeing it quickly!)






Even more crowded (is that even possible?) is the boulevard (lined with popular stores) leading to my bus stop. Your head would spin, really.

My second comment is that sometimes I do do the correct thing. Checking the distance was just a precaution. I've walked that walk many times and can guess the minutes, and if I can't trust my memory, there is google to remind me. But I tested it. And it's a good thing, because the street where the bus stop stood for years and years, decades probably, is torn up and the line has been moved. I would have been in a pickle. And the very amusing detail is that it has been moved even closer to my hotel, so that tomorrow should be a breeze. Watch me eat my words.

Another small insert: I have come to dislike motorcycles since arriving in Milan. Oh, not because they threaten to run me down. They are no more aggressive than the cars and trams. It's a city -- survival of the fittest, no?

The problem for me is that it appears that motorcycles can park on sidewalks. Please do not remind me that I am thrilled with the fact that I can park Rosie on Madison's sidewalks. She is a moped. She is small. She is never blocking anyone's right to walk. I cannot tell you how hard it was to navigate squares packed with motorbikes, especially when I am towing a suitcase. (Maybe the rule here is that they can only park on sidewalks on squares?)

Here's a Milano view: interesting church, multiple motorcycles.






Let me end my run through Milan with a photo of the younger set that indeed may have a different perspective on the city.






Here's why: I ride in the elevator of my hotel and some guy is trying to pick up a woman and it really is amazing how much you can understand just from going from floor zero to floor one. She tells him -- I love Rome. She seems a little put off by Milan. I surely sympathize.  I'm about to smile in support of Rome over Milan (secretly -- I'm not going to jump into their romantic moment), but then I hear him say -- oh, but the clubs! They are the best in Milan! The best in all of Italy!

I get off. I'll grant you, the clubs may be great here. I wouldn't know -- I do not think that I have ever been to a club in my entire life.


I'm back in my beautiful little hotel. I place myself on a comfortable lobby chair and work hard to regain my composure after the hot loud crazy city walk. [And the desk staff teaches the very genial new employee from some very far away country how to make an Aperol Spritz for me, which is totally cool, mainly because I am certain that this new job is precious to the guy. Let me insert here a comment on the problem of immigration in Italy. Just two sentences, I promise! I was told in Parma that the refugees are a sad lot. They are given a handful of Euros and a pack of cigarettes each day and a smart phone to keep them busy. And they sit on the steps of the Cathedral or by the railway station and wait for the job that never comes.]

His Aperol spritz is superb (if excessively large), but then you could give me pretty much anything after that walk and I would be grateful.






And then I must go to dinner.

I had asked the hotel for a restaurant recommendation. I've eaten well in Milan, I've eaten poorly, I've eaten many meals that I do not remember. I'm sort of curious what these hip young people at the front desk were trained to recommend (and not fancy, I add, pointing to my sun dress -- this is as good as it's going to get!).

The young man asks about my food preferences (I have none except that they should not break the bank) then tells me --  try Il Solferino. It's a classic! They're just going to celebrate their 110th anniversary.

So I go to Il Solferino.

It's a pleasant walk through not an uninteresting part of town. The place is packed and I can understand why: the food is good, the waiters are phenomenal.  Too, they are your friends. I considered ordering (like yesterday) an appetizer, a pasta dish and a main (it's my last night!), but the waiter  said that was insane. He didn't actually use the word insane, but some such sounding descriptor. (I am very proud that I went through the whole meal using only Italian, so we may have passed each other by here and there, but I got the food and wine I wanted, paid my bill and left happy. What more could a person want?)

Would I recommend it? A resounding yes! Would I go back? Well, maybe. Probably. I think so... You see, I'm spoiled by Parma at the moment so I can't think straight. Small town cooking is really different in Italy than big city food. I am still in the smaller town mindset and anything prepared in Milan for a crowd, with two evening sittings, is going to be feel less personal.

(A very lovely spaghetti carbonara with sea food bits...)






I walk home musing about all this and other stuff. The restaurant borders on a cool neighborhood (in my view), and this in itself is eye-opening, since I have never ever felt that any Milanese neighborhood could be described as such, so there is hope. Perhaps we wont blow each other up in the near future after all. Hope is a good thing.






My last night in Milan, in Italy, in Europe. Such a grand trip! As always, so glad to be going home!

The moon shines brightly on Leonardo and us all tonight.





Tomorrow is a day of travel. My post here will be very very short and that's a good thing! YOU need a break from all my words and perhaps even more so from this flood of photos.

Parma

Sometimes, I think people have the habits of ants. Or perhaps of sheep, because ants are excessively industrious. They don't even take the standard American two week vacation. We follow the herd. Where it goes, we go.

Never is this more obvious to me than when I travel. I see visitors pack the streets of Florence so that there is no room to breathe. If, in the high season, you hear the Italian language on the streets of that city's center, it's because someone has to keep the restaurants and shops running. The same is true of vast sections of Rome. And of Venice. Of Siena. Etc.

Then there are the towns that for some reason, us sheep have ignored. I'm in Parma, which for reasons completely mysterious to me, is not on the sheep trail. It is a magnificent place of splendid palaces, theaters, churches, of great art and incredible food. It is a place of friendly people. Italians. I've been here nearly 24 hours and I have yet to hear a single English speaking person (American or British) on the street. In high season, no less. When visiting the stunning theaters and the gallery chock full of paintings and frescoes by the Renaissance artist Correggio, I was the only one in all three places. The only one!!

Imagine the luxury of seeing great art and having the entire space to your own thoughts and sensual pleasures. I was absolutely transported!

(I do get that Parma is off the rail line to Florence and so it's harder to get to. And that it has less art than, say, Florence. That would, indeed, call for fewer tourists. But not completely empty museums! And for Europeans who have longer vacations and who drive to vacation spots -- there's just no excuse to pass this absolute gem by.)

Parma belongs to the Parmeggiani. (When I asked Patrizia if any of her friends have moved away, she said yes, sure, but most, the ones who are the true Parmeggiani, who live and breathe this culture like she does, stayed.)




I have another introductory comment, which follows on the heels of the previous one: as you know, Ocean can sometimes take on an almost obsessive focus. When I am preoccupied with being a grandmother, you'll see a lot of photos and scribbles about that aspect of my life, to the near exclusion of everything else. The same can be said of gardening. And when I am in Poland, you'll read a lot, perhaps too much, about my comparisons of the Poland I see now and the Poland I once knew. There'll always be an inclusion of friends, because frankly, they are a big draw for me there now.

And when I travel elsewhere, Ocean switches gears. I load each post with numerous pics (again, one could well argue excessively so: I broke my own record today with... 54!), of people, street scenes and post card images of all that captures my imagination.

Today will definitely be full of those travel details that may be fun for some readers, less so for others. In any case, Ocean will swing again -- it always does, this way then that, just like life swings around for us, making us one day the parent, or child, and another -- the artist or machinist, hiker, gardener or traveler.


I'll take this day chronologically. I've long ago decided that for such frequent posting, it is best to braid the themes together (of my bed and breakfast hostess, of parks, of art, of food and shops) into something that's easy to follow. Chronology almost always wins here, on Ocean.

Breakfast at the Battistero d'Oro. Patrizia sets a fine morning meal, always trying to conform it to your tastes and pleasures.






Her home is beautifully laid out: she lives in one wing and we are connected, but the guest rooms really are quite separate. You never hear her or her family, nor do they hear you. And this living room is really for guest room use only. (Since there is only one upstairs guest room, you may as well call this room your own.)






As always, we chat. Patrizia has a lot on her plate right now, but she never makes you feel like she hasn't all the time in the world for you. I swear, if I asked her to take me to the hills or to cook a meal with me today, she'd drop everything and do it. Well, maybe not the meal part. I had asked if she cooks every day for herself and for the one son who still lives at home and she shook her head. In the summer, who wants to turn on the oven! It's best to go out, if even for just your main dish of evening food. (Poor soul had to eat early with me last night. 8 p.m. is the time for an aperitif, not to set out for dinner.)






I weigh my options for what to see on this visit and she helps me put together a plan for the day. Equipped with a map and a bunch of ideas, I set out.

(Outside her front door, a reminder that Italy's beloved Verdi once slept here. Verdi was born near Busseto, some 25 miles NW of Parma.)






Outside, I see this grandma with her two and immediately I spot what the little girl is holding: Snowdrop's baby! (Or a facsimile of the same.)






I look at this man of religion carrying his shopping bag and I wonder: is it market day today?






The answer is no. Or at least there isn't a food market. In its place -- a flea market. I'm not a flea market aficionado, but something in me asks the question -- what if I found something beyond perfect? For a gift?  (And I think I did just that. As for the foods -- you need only look at the nearby grocery stalls. This one has the beautiful flower topped zucchini, the peppers, the fruits, but what catches the eye is the variety in the tomatoes.)






(Peeking up one street and then the next...)






(Walking along the Parma River, which, in many places, is no river at all... Note this woman's texting habits: she STOPS her bike before she sends a missive! Yeah!)





On my list is Parma's grand royal park (Parco Ducale). And I want to see it early, before it gets too hot.

I want to say that I approach this project (of visiting the park) unfairly. I'm from northern Europe. Parks, to me, are lush green and flowered oases. They're magical. They're places of community, of respite, of belonging, of joy, of great care.

In southern Europe, it's different. Parks are still the green(ish) high points of a city. But I think the habits are so different here that parks have become less essential to the well being of a populace.  I know someone is going to write and tell me I'm wrong, but I've not yet seen a park in southern Europe that is a great communal public space. People do their communal bit elsewhere. (Cafes come to mind. Squares with fountains in the middle, wide streets, you name it.)

And so the park in Parma requires a different perspective. Patrizia rhapsodizes about it. She tells me about the statues, the small secretive buildings, the pond. Yes, it has all those.






Still, I am a bit surprised to see it nearly empty. The largest gathering of people where these -- a family, feeding the water fowl at the pond (and I smiled at the sweater the littlest one wore: it's hot today!)






Here's the second largest grouping of people: at the cafe. (I was amused to watch the grandparents usher their grandsons through the rituals of cafe life! Familiar routines in different settings!)






(I admit: lots of lovely greens, and quiet, with the occasional bicyclist...






... of different ages. The girl below is riding a "bike" that you can rent for kids here. It's a low key thing and I see maybe three or four kids trying it out.)






The park playground? Well, Snowdrop would have liked it because it has swings and, unlike in the Jardin de Luxembourg, they're free and they never close. Still, it is a very low keyed affair.






One of the lovely hidden buildings...






And no one can deny the great beauty of green spaces, though of course, in northern Europe we pay the price for all that rain and all those cold spells, but we reap the benefits too in the lush green colors of spring and early summer. In Italy, the greens trend toward the gentler, golden tones.






Okay, I cross back and do my museum run.






You pass through architectural wonders just to get to the entrance doors...






Here's the first: the magnificent early 18th century Farnese Theater, which, sadly, was built for events that weren't to be. The last show took place here in 1732. But that's too much history for you. Come see it for yourself and read about it then!






Next door, there is the magnificent art gallery, with more Corregio's work than you would believe possible...






And from there, it's just a hop skip to Parma's very much in use Teatro Regio. Remember, not only is Verdi a favorite here, but, too, the conductor Arturo Toscanini hailed from Parma. This is a huge music and theater town!

However, I did not want to do a full scale tour of the theater. I am not a good candidate for tours as I really like doing things at my own pace. No problem! You want just a two minute peek? We'll get someone from the Theater to escort you in. For free. (Incredible flexibility!)






One more cultural visit: to this church...





And now it is nearly noon and I want to change focus. I want to see Parma as it is today.

I had once written that Parma is a bourgeois town. In many ways it is. Take a look at this clothing store display. Forget about prices. These are clothes for children who... have occasion to wear such clothes.






But I don't know that this characterization seeps into the core of where Parma is today. It feels to me as a solidly well grounded Italian city, where someone realized that the best way to make use of its riches is to keep most of the center streets free of cars. Typical backdrop to Parisian restaurant-cafes -- traffic noise. Typical backdrop to Parma's restaurant-cafes -- it could be anything, but it's likely to be quiet.






Patrizia had suggested that I discover this street of small old shops. It was a good suggestion.











And this one was my discovery from last year. I return to it and do some serious shopping. (Well, just for Snowdrop, How serious can that be...)






And speaking of shopping for Snowdrop, I have to say that it is quite interesting to compare styles and choices here as opposed to, say, in France. For that special dress that you want to buy for the kid who goes on a regular basis to Sunday dinners with the famiglia, in Italy you might pick up one of these:






Or perhaps this cherry on black fabric thing.





In my opinion, the approach to dress is uniquely Italian.

I wasn't really shopping for Snowdrop, because she has enough for this season and the next season hasn't hit the stores yet, but I must say, with 50% discounts raging everywhere, the temptation is great. Sometimes beyond great.

(Another image which may lend support to the claim that Parma is a bourgeois town...)






I feel I must give a big nod to the food shopping here. The prosciuttos: oh, my!






The parmigiano cheeses... (May I put in a plug here for the real thing? Back home, if it says Parmesan, it's not really the same Parmigiano. In fact, it's nowhere near the same. Do try, if you can, and if your wallet wont explode in protest, the real thing: Parmigiano Reggiano. Grate it, if you aren't the cheese nibbler among us.)






(Ah! Finally a clothing store with stuff Snowdrop is likely to love: neatly stacked sweaters!)






I'm back for a rest. And a selfie!






But not for too long. I have this one full day. I want more of Parma, more of its more distant streets and venues. Patrizia grabs me just as I am leaving. She, too, is on her way out. To a good friend's celebratory event, out of town. So I linger, in her side of the home now...





And because my stay is so short, I wont see her again until... next time! With so many thanks, bella! (She will respond -- ciao, bella!)


In my afternoon walk, I do a lot of people watching. I hadn't intended that, but it seems that now, in the second half of the day, there is a lot to take note of right there on the sidewalk.

Lots of groups of Italian teenagers. I'm guessing they're from out of town, exploring Parma in some semi organized fashion.






Then there are the not too infrequent groups of men and women who are having a raucous blast!  Often dressed in some ridiculous attire...











... though not necessarily...






Most of them sporting laurel wreaths. It's a clear giveaway: graduation!

But you know, celebrations here may also be for no reason at all. Here's a family, very properly attired, sitting down together, maybe for a birthday, or maybe just because...






I pass a toy store and I admire the baby dolls on display. So does this girl! She and Snowdrop would be on the same page with that!






(Her mom, trying to talk her down...)





It's getting to be late afternoon and I realize I haven't had lunch. Well now, time to get a gelato. I stumble across a place (Emilia's) that has possibly the best gelato I have ever had in my life. (Admittedly, the taste of gelato does not linger in my memory, so I could be wrong, but that is my impression.) There is the matter of the chocolate wafer cone. And the melted dark chocolate she purrs into it. But really, it's mainly in the swirl of vanilla and chocolate covered cookie bits and red fruits, and in case you think it's not fruity enough, the last swirl comes with an additional spoon of red fruits mixed in.

Whoa, that's a small cone?

You don't have to add anymore! Stop, stop!
Absolutely not!
No one ever said the Prmiggiani are light eaters.











I cross the river again.






I'm on the side of the university and Patrizia told me to check it out for sure, but I think the point is to come here late at night. Still, I am reminded that I have walked enough and that I am tired and thirsty.






I retreat back to my side of the river... (Lovely sisters, or friends, or cousins...)






... And I pause by the Duomo for an Aperol Spritz. I am not alone in this by any means!






Much later, I step out again to go to the Angiol d'Or for dinner. Of all the great food I ate in Parma nearly two years ago, this place, just a couple of blocks from Patrizia's, really stuck in my head. And today I remember why. (Here's a way to hear the English language in Parma! Go to a restaurant at 7:30! Boom! Finally, I even hear voices from an American threesome, where the youngest member of that bunch cannot be more than 18 months!)

I'm ushered to the best table in the house -- by the front window, looking out over the Cathedral (obviously this has more to do with being Patrizia's friend than just being me). And from  this moment onward, I have a two hour culinary rhapsody. (And I must note, too, that the cost is half of what I would pay for a good dinner in Paris...)

The prosciutto and fried bread. Of course! It's my last night here!






The toretlli. As last time, the owner allowed me to go off menu so that I could try all three stuffings...






And for my main course (shhh! don't tell me I'm eating too much!) I have guinea fowl breast with red fruit sauce and roasted potatoes.






I was not going to have dessert. No, I was not. But the owner recommended a semi-freddo and of course I succumbed.






The moon is out, shining on us all, the the soul is well cared for.

And no, I haven't forgotten: happy fourth of July to those of you on the other side of the ocean!