misty Mantova

Signora Luciana presides over the breakfast table at the Palazzo Arrivabene b&b. She is the mother of my host, Claudio, and she has an elegance about her that allows me to think of her as a person with probably a life's story to tell. And it's true: Claudio explains that his mother was born just a few kilometers away from Mantova, but what with the war and political changes in Italy, her family moved to Africa for a number of years.






I learn from my host that the b&b, open for business for a handful of years, is really just a hobby. It pays the bills of the house, but Claudio is actually an accountant in his real life. If you can call working outside your hobbies a real life.

I munch on home made bread and cheeses and apple strudel while listening to this. Claudio was born in Mantova and so he is, for me, a great source of information about the place. For example, I would not have thought to even ask about the best place to see a sunset...






Unfortunately, the sun stubbornly refuses to burn off the mist that cling to Mantova in the way that central European mists tend to do in December.






This, of course, does not keep Mantova men from pausing outdoors for a long chat.






I'll allow myself a generalization here: so often, older Italian men gather outdoors to talk. They stand or sit to do this. Women, on the other hand, rarely stand or sit outside.  They talk as they walk. Or, they talk over a cup of something warm, indoors. (Or, like Luciana this evening, they play poker in thick clouds of cigarette smoke. But that's another story.)





Back to the mist.

In the tourist office, I asked where I can go to see the Mantova skyline. It's actually quite pretty, as the handful of medieval towers give it a sky-scraper kind of appearance. But the bridge I am directed to offers none of this. Too foggy. Nonetheless, I'm glad I did the walk -- mists and lakes go well together.






My real goal today is to see half of the main cultural attractions of Mantova. There are many, but without question, the most famed is the Palazzo Ducale. It was home to the Gonzaga family of dukes and if you've not heard of them, it's because Mantova just doesn't have the acclaim it once had. The Gonzagas once did to Mantova what the Medicis did to Florence. For centuries (until 1707), they created artistic wealth, so that during the Renaissance, Mantova was a dream city and the ducal palace was second only to the Vatican in terms of residential size. (It's still huge! It's a good thing that most of it is closed to tourists or I'd have to suffer a historic overload.)

Claudio told me today is a holiday for most Italians and not surprisingly, there is a line to the Palazzo ticket office. A short one, of Italian families learning about their past. I use the opportunity to take a photo of the arcades -- it's where we stand waiting.






Inside, one family's kids keep themselves occupied while the parents make the terribly complicated decision as to which tickets/guides/passes to buy and with what discount, considering everyone's age and residential status (hence the line: each transaction takes forever).






For me, it's simple: I buy a museum pass, valid for two months (!). No more lines anywhere. (On the downside -- I feel I should pop into as many museums as I can -- after all, it's all "free" now!)

I'll just show you what, for me where the highlights: the frescoed ceilings...






The ornamentation...






Well, this wasn't a favorite, but it demonstrates that I do sometimes wear a skirt when I travel to cities!






Did I mention that the ducal residence is large? It's like a little town in its own right. I'm walking through this courtyard to reach what turns out to be my favorite room...






I wont bore you with the beautiful frescoes at the "Camere Sposati," nor with the details of who painted what and for what reason. But just look up at this one fresco with me! The perspective is amazing, creating a feeling of height and luminosity that is just breathtaking.






Two hours later, I am walking the misty streets of Mantova again.





I come across a wonderful store of children's clothing. You're going to tell me that Snowdrop does not need yet another outfit.

You would be wrong.

That girl grows in leaps and bounds and most of the stuff I bought her for the fall barely fits her today. I'm upping the size here.

I ask for simple everyday stuff. The clerk shows me an outfit for a little girl. No no, I recognize the label -- it's French. That's just wrong. She smiles and brings down these two things, assuring me that especially one of them is very very Italian! I buy her choice which is also my choice and I'm sure you'll guess correctly which of the two it is, but I'll save the disclosure until I have a chance to put it on that little girl down the road.






My next stop is actually very special to me. True, it dates back to a time when Mantova was no longer under the rule of the Italian dukes. They virtually handed it over to the Habsburgs and for the next several hundred years, Mantova bounced around between their Empire, Napoleon, and Austria, reuniting with Italy only in 1866. (Interestingly, Lombardy, the province of Mantova, ceased to be part of Italy in much the same way that in this period, Poland ceased to be part of Poland! The Polish anthem refers to this shared loss of statehood, as does the Italian anthem,  using lyrics of a poem that speak of Austria's thirst for Italian and Polish blood. Aren't you glad you know that!)

Back to my story about one special sight: the theater, completed in 1770, so when Mozart was just 14 years old. The young composer performed an inaugural concert here that year.






Outside, the mist clings fiercely to the city scape. This does not prevent some Italians from doing what the French would never do: catching a bite to eat (pizza) standing up outside.






As I round the corner, I hear music. Fratelli d'Italia!... People join in. It's the national anthem, no? A brass band, plummed hats, an applauding audience. I've stumbled onto a feeling of patriotism, but of course, this leaves me wondering -- is there more?






Later, I run into the band members again. They're taking a break and I find one who speaks a little English to compliment my little Italian. (He is the only one of the whole lot who knows more than hello how are you.) They're the  Bersaglieri. And even as I read about them now, in the quiet of my room at the b&b, I wonder -- do I really understand the place they hold in the Italian soul?






I'm hungry. I go back to yesterday's cafe (the Borsa Mantova) and put in a simple order: I'll have what she's having -- pointing to the table next to mine (it's a vegetable sandwich, heavy on the roasted pumpkin,  with melted Fontina).






I take a photo of the couple at the bar, not because they are unusual, but because I notice her heels and think back to my walk across the numerous squares where the cobble stones are so pronounced that even my flat boots do not feel comfortable on them.






Let me throw in, too, a photo (with proud permission this time) of a woman at a table just beyond. I love her dedication to her little guy...






Outside, I hear strains of holiday music. That doesn't surprise me. American jazz and pop Christmas songs are ubiquitous here at the cafes and even outdoors -- piped through megaphones along the main shopping arteries. I guess we help put people in the buying mode.

I come across another Christmas market and I pause to watch a game. Anyone can join in. Here, the older girl is winning. Can you tell what they're trying to do?






And finally, through the misty skies, I see a bit of sunlight. Everything changes now as the beams cast a different light on the cobbled streets.






Yes, even the old squares look refreshed.






I know where I must go. Past the park with the statue of Virgil, Mantova's famous poet (yes, a child is doing cartwheels, perhaps in appreciation of the local hero, more likely because there is the open space where all things are possible).






I come to Mantova's lakes again, now eerily golden in the setting misty sun.






I walk along the water's edge. I watch a swan drift back and forth.





It's all strikingly beautiful.

I turn back toward the city.

I'm on the cobbled streets again. I walk past one scene and the next, giving my own interpretation to the vignettes I encounter.






But I know this to be true: everything looks brighter, less complicated, absolutely golden when a spark of sunshine pokes through the misty skies.






Tonight, on the recommendation of Claudio Bini (my host), I go for dinner  to Aquila Nigra, where Giorgio Bini (no relation, but a friend) looks after the guests, and where his wife Vera Caffini cooks, with the assistance of their son Andrea. Together, they have created a Michelin starred restaurant -- informal yet special. I've been eating so cheaply up to now that this is suddenly affordable.

I'm excited.

Ah, now comes the tough part of the post. How do I describe the evening?

The easy part: it's foggy. Really foggy. Really really foggy again.






The square where the brass band played earlier looks so different now!






Dinner isn't until after 8, so I again go to the Bar Caravatti, this time to sample their Americano Caravatti aperitif. For the innocenti among us, an Americano is a drink with Campari and vermouth and soda water. Apparently these guys add some special bitters to give it its quintessential Caravatti flavor.  Over the rim of my glass, I watch the bartender mix countless others.






It's delicious and light and bouncy and I settle in (again standing at the bar) to look at the clientele. I notice a lot of children. You don't see many young ones in restaurants in Italy or France in the evening, possibly because people eat so late in both countries, but surely I've seen a number of wee guys at the witching hour of the aperitivo. Here's a grandma enjoying her little one. I wonder: would Snowdrop recognize me if I cut my hair this short?





It's 8 pm. I proceed to the restaurant. And now here's the dilemma: should I write the post as if we followed path A, or as if we followed path B? Both would be honest, but path A got interrupted by the appearance of diners who belonged to path B. After that, path A seems dishonest. But is it?

Let me first say that the food was excellent. I splurged and ordered the tasting menu. Unbelievable. I'm aghast at how good it is. Take the first dish: thinly shredded zucchini with tiny riverbank shrimp, beautifully fried to a tenderness, with a flavor that would give you reason to stop and go no further. Why mess with more complicated stories?





And the pumpkin stuffed ravioli -- who could imagine such a grand taste?! I talk to the affable waiter about it. He, by the way, hails from Tunisia and has been on the staff here for ten years. His primary language is Arabic. Then French. Then Italian, Then English. We settle on French as our best compromise between his talents and mine. The spices in the pumpkin have a touch of amaretti crumble.  Whoa.... delicious! There are other remarkable plates -- the fish, the desserts...

And then there is the table next to mine.

I was intrigued. Some spoke only Italian. One spoke English with a bit of French. The person whom I would call the host spoke it all.

There were various incidents. Comments. Bottles of champagne and good wine flowed. Truffled dishes were requested. Still, I thought nothing of it. You go to a restaurant with a good reputation, you'll run into people who can afford to spend money over and beyond what you would call reasonable.

I was about to leave, but I really felt for the woman who spoke only English and a smattering of French. She and I had exchanged glances and smiles. She was clearly from an African nation and she was strikingly beautiful. She seemed to indicate the need to connect.

And before you know it, I was part of their dining experience. At first, the topic was what brought us here: food. But then came the other stuff. The art deals (the purchase of a Tintoretto at Christie's), the modeling career, the helicopters that fly you to this place and the next. The Venetian bars, the Mantovian bars, juxtaposed to the life of an academic, a writer -- all that.

I only skim the surface here.

And suddenly I felt like Ocean had been touched by a whiff of a culture that perhaps had a far bigger influence on the planet that I cared to admit. In searching for the simple, I stumbled on the complicated. Do I ignore it? Do I face up to it?

As you can see, I go the half step: I mention it, but give you no real answers.

I leave the lively group and step out into the soup that has thickened the air outside.






And still, the Christmas tree by the Clock Tower shines brightly through it all. And isn't that such a good thing!    

arrival!

The fact that the title of the post speaks of an arrival is cause for celebration. It was no small feat to finally pull into the train station in Mantova.

It's funny how journeys have certain auras about them. I've had so many smooth and worry-free ones! Others have resulted in utter chaos, culminating in lost days, lost bags, lost documents, lost patience. This trip had none of the extremes, but it was riddled with ripples and the fact that at each stage I almost almost didn't make it caused me to feel like I was walking (or more often running) a tight rope: one wrong move and I'd tumble into the great unknown.

Of course, once my flight left Detroit and was more than halfway across the Atlantic (delayed: fog, falling air masks, a sick passenger, but an optimistic captain who assured us he would make up the time; he was wrong) -- further issues and complications were nothing to fret about. Does it really matter if I do not sleep the first night in Mantova?

Perhaps the worst part of the trip was the transit through Paris. I think we had all coached ourselves to be extra patient at the border control. We expected the agents to take more time and we knew to remain gracious. Still, the fact that there were hundreds in line and only two agents screening passports raised eyebrows. And when one of them took a break and returned after fifteen minutes with a can of Fanta and chips, as our flights departed and connections were missed, the resolve to stay gracious faltered. Perhaps it was in the agent's contract to take a nourishing break at the height of arrivals and transfers, but our man moved slowly, spread his snack with the utmost care, got up twice to unbutton and rebutton his jacket -- all this just made it appear as if he was indifferent to the chaos reigning outside. Which perhaps he was. People commented. Though in gracious tones.

But honestly, for me it was already just part of the story. There would be other flights, other trains. I was already here, on this side of the ocean. I merely have to watch the day unfold.

In the end, just like all previous flights, my Alitalia flight, too, was delayed and I ran onto the plane puffing like a long distance runner unnecessarily. I had five minutes to spare.

Flying over a faintly misty Paris:






And of course, to get to Milan, you have to pass over the Alps.  It's been warm here so far! If you're looking for snow, go to Colorado.






Mantova. Mantua in English, but it feels awkward using that pronunciation here. How might you picture this medieval Italian city? First, let's place it on the map: forty miles south of Verona and Lake Garda. That may be a long journey for poor exiled Romeo, but for those speeding on a train from Milan it's child's play.

Here's what first stands out about this city: Mantova is surrounded on three sides by a fortification of large, artificial lakes, created all the way back in the twelfth century. (There was a fourth lake, effectively making this an island city, but that lake dried up a few hundred years ago.) Mantova hasn't grown much beyond this natural boundary. So, think "compact."

I'm staying at a very small bed and breakfast (just three rooms, but they are very large rooms!) called Palazzo Arrivabene. Maybe you think that in translation, the name stands for a hearty and healthy welcome to those who arrive at its massive front door. Arriva bene! Come in good health! It does not. It's named for the Arrivabene Brothers who built this property toward the end of the 15th century.

Here's my room:





But I do not rest in it. Yes, I am tired. So much so that if Mantova hadn't been the last train stop, then I may have dozed through it. But mostly I am hungry. There was no time for a Paris airport breakfast. Or a Milan train station lunch. I am coasting on last night's plane food.

And so this is my goal: find the bakery-bar that my hosts recommended for a snack and then walk around the town a bit, the fine mist notwithstanding and get a sense of the place.

My photos, to give you and me an orientation:



Basilica Sant'Andrea in the mist


But let's pause for that refresher snack: croissant with prosciutto and fontina and mushrooms. With a glass of Prosecco.






A Mantovano prepares my macchiato:






A family outing:






The Clock Tower on one of the lovely open squares of the city:






Mantovan shoppers are complaining about the cold (the mist makes me very happy that I took my warm jacket), but they fill the arcades anyway. Much of the focus is on food.






Two popular items: the prosciutto...






... and the pastas. If France has the mouth watering pastry displays, Mantova bakeries show off home made pastas.






The 14th century tower rises above the medieval Palazzo Accerbi. In the beautiful Piazza Sordello -- a Christmas market, much of it with home crafted items made by an older generation of Mantovians:






If there is a Christmas market, there must be hot mulled wine...






Evening comes and with it the fog grows thicker, soupier. I will myself to stay awake until the restaurants open for dinner. Italians eat even later than the French. How do they hold out? Here's one well practiced method: before sitting down to dinner, they go for an aperitif at a local bar.

There's an idea! But where?

I read an essay by a Guardian staff writer on this fantastically ancient city. He writes that Mantova has a bar that's worthy of his list of top ten in the world. Well now! (Never mind that he also praised the Mantovian staple -- stewed donkey meat. I don't have to follow his advice on everything.)

The evening streets of Mantova are crowded with a strolling public. The shops are busy.






I find the bar easily enough -- Bar Caravatti. It's crowded, but that's fine.






I don't want to sit down. I join the few at the counter and I have the Caravatti house special: a spritz made of wine and a secret concoction of bitters and who knows what else. Amazing!

A Mantovano prepares this classic:






Oh! A mirror? Okay, a selfie!






And finally, I walk just a handful of blocks (remember: compact!) to a restaurant my hosts recommended for tonight -- L'ochina bianca (the white goose). It dates back to the first decades of the Slow Food movement (which I should remind you flourished in Italy more than it did elsewhere; the French never quite latched on, believing, most likely, that they didn't need a movement to teach them about slow food).

Apart from stewed donkey meat, Mantova is known for its pumpkin dishes and so I have the pumpkin soup, followed by a house special that properly calls itself an Amalfi pasta dish as it has seafoods mixed in with a delicate sauce, blended into the home made rigatoni.

Italian trattorias are different than what you would find in France. They're nearly always more casual, people are less intense about what's placed before them and of course, there is plenty of choice. Your kid likes pasta? Italy is the place to visit. You like sea food? Ditto.

I walk back to the Arrivabene and I am so full of good food that the air feels hardly even cool. The mist swirls and dances and it all seems rather magical. Romantic for some, peace-filled for others.






I'm back at the b&b now, climbing the stairs of this grand home, looking up up up at the frescoed ceiling.





 "Up up!" Isn't that what Snowdrop would be wanting after a long day of play?

I miss my guys back at home. Still, it's been a magnificent arrival.

travel Sunday

An afternoon departure means that there is no rush. I visit with the cheepers, I visit with Isie boy. There is a light mist, but I take photos of the beloved farmhouse anyway. It looks grand no matter what weather come our way. Breakfast is late, leisurely, lovely.

I even have time to do a Sunday farmhouse cleaning. Packing is straightforward. I have no important meetings during my trip. I don't have to worry about dressing with care. I throw in a bit of laundry detergent -- it allows me to pack really lightly.

Ed hangs around the farmhouse and as always, I am feeling wistful -- to stay, to enjoy our days here -- shouldn't that be the plan for this month? These years? I love my days so much! Why leave?

But I know the answer. I know what drives me.

I also know that it's time to go, to be driven to the airport. And I'm getting a tiny hint of travel wrinkles. The first flight is late. Well, no matter -- in international connections, I give myself plenty of time. Still -- I know I'll not have the leisurely layover in Detroit. Post now, in Madison, or forget it.

Then my Lightroom photo editing program crashes. I lose the day's photos. Oh, you can imagine the cheepers, the farmhouse, a congenial Ed at the breakfast table in the front room! You know them so well, right? Still, am I going to have computer issues on this trip? No, please not that.

Mustn't worry. Think ahead to all that is good, easy and smooth. The weather! I'm heading to a climate that is not warm, but nor is it freezing. Perhaps a few good walks are ahead of me?

And just exactly where am I going? Well, I'm flying through Paris to Milan and there, I'm catching the train to a city affectionately called (by Italians) La Bella Addormentata. The Sleeping Beauty. Why? Because not many tourists make their way there.

It's a small city -- fewer than 50,000 people. But it has been selected as the cultural capital of Italy for 2016. And in 2017 it will be the European capital of gastronomy (along with a few other Lombardian neighboring cities). If you're a fan of Romeo and Juliet, you will have heard of it -- Mantova.

I'll write from there next. Have a most wonderful Sunday!