Ciao, Italia.

 All great adventures have 

moments that are really crap.”
― Ellen Potter,

 Because it's late (almost 1 am our time), I'm not going to write much tonight.  We arrived in Barcelona this evening after an interesting flight (cough) on Vueling Airlines, a low-cost carrier owned by Iberia Airlines.  The Australian guy who sat next to me is a steward on a private yacht and was on his way to a three-day vacation in Barcelona because he felt the bar scene in the city would be great.

I've included in this post some photos I took in Genova today.  It was a gloomy day, and that made the gritty city seem even dirtier. 

 "It's probably good that we ended the Italy part of this trip in Genova," I said to Mike as we walked around this morning.

"Why is that?" he wanted to know.

"Because as sad as I am to leave Italy," I told him, "I'm glad to get out of Genova. Ugh. It takes a little of the edge off of my sadness."

 I know there are people who probably love the place, but I'd like to talk to them to see what I missed.  We both thought that it showed a lack of pride in the city to let it rot away the way Genova is.  Oh, well.  The street in the above photo is a main street filled with hotels, restaurants, and shops. It needs a good washing.

 The portico in the photo above is across from the Genova Aquarium, *the* main tourist attraction in the city.  Cheap souvenir stands, fish stalls, and cheap restaurants line the three-block portico. The cleanest place there was a McDonald's.

 I mentioned yesterday that there is a lot of trompe l'oeil in Genova. While we were walking around today, I found a few additional examples.  The peach-colored building above is painted to look like blocks. The building on the left is a block building.

 I think that they must have recently painted the building because I could see pencil lines that the painter followed (above).

 The Genovese didn't invent trompe l'oeil, but they do use it a lot.  According to law, the  historic buildings must maintain their decor. When the mortar deteriorates, it is less expensive to remove it and paint the fresco to look like the old decor.  Note the building below.  The side, which is the majority of the photo, is all trompe l'oeil while the front, which you can barely see, is still mortar.

 I also said yesterday that the buildings in Genova are filty.  The photo shows how much filth from exhaust covers buildings in town. In the two days we were in town, I saw only two cyclists.  Everyone else drove cars, rode on buses, or drove motor scooters.

We were in Piazza Ferrari this morning, and it appears someone is cleaning an absolutely beautiful building in that area.  If you look at the photo below, you can see that the stones on the left side of the photo are pinker than those on the right.

i hope that's what they're doing because the building (the top is below) is the most beautiful one we saw in Genova.

The biggest problem that I had with Genova, though, was that I never found any Genoa salami.  I saw Milano salami and Soppressata, but I never saw Genoa salami. My mother loved Genoa salami, and it's the only kind we had growing up. I even buy it in Las Vegas, but I can't find it in Genova, the place where it originated. I think that if you're going to name a salami after your city, you could at least have some of it available for tourists to buy.

Tomorrow (or much later tonight since it's already Friday here): Of Vueling, Australian stewards, and Spanish taxi drivers

Genova on the Coast

Stazione Piazza Principe

 "It abounds in the strangest contrasts; 

things that are picturesque, ugly, mean, 

magnificent, delightful, and offensive, 

break upon the view at every turn.” 

~ Charles Dickens on Genova

"One of the Tripadvisor reviews I read said the hotel is a 10-15 minute walk from the train station," I mentioned to Mike as we got ready to leave Lucca this morning.

"We can do that," he replied.  I wasn't too sure.  His feet are not swelling like hot air balloons every afternoon. "That's pretty close. If you have a problem, we'll get a taxi the rest of the way."

When we arrived at Stazione Genova Piazza Principe, I checked the map on my iPad, and we took off.  Genova, unlike some other towns in Italy (Modena!) actually has street signs, so we were in great shape.  We walked for about five minutes, and I thought I'd better check the iPad again.

"We walked past the street it's on," I said to Mike.

Our hotel room's living room

"How did we do that?" he wanted to know.  I know that he asks these as rhetoric questions, but I take them as a real question.  That means, of course, that I rolled my eyes.

"I have no idea.  We have to turn around."  We walked back up the slight hill for a few blocks.  "Let me check one more time."  I looked at the trusty iPad, and the flashing blue dot that was us was right in front of Hotel Continental...except that we were in front of a bar and farmacia.  "Let me ask the guy in the bar."  Said guy laughed and told me we ad to walk another 20 feet or so up the street, and we'd see the hotel.  Sure enough, it was right there.

 We checked in and found that they upgraded us to a suite. In addition to the bedroom and bathroom, we had a kitchen with eating space and a full living area (photo above).

Frozen pizza

"Holy crap," I exclaimed.  "I think the whole Lucca apartment can fit in this living room."

"Both the Lucca and Bologna apartments can fit in this living room," he quipped.  He was probably right.

Genova

After we got settled, we decided to head out to lunch and then take the Red Bus (Stop! Go!) around the city. We stopped at Ristorante Trieste and shared a pizza (above).  It took forever, but the waitress finally delivered it. We just stared at it.

"What's on top of it?" It looked to me like some kind of cheese puffs.

"Cheese, I think," Mike replied. "The pizza in the picture behind you has a lot more cheese on it."

"It's hot." I was trying to be positive, but it was horrible pizza.  I honestly think they took our order and ran to the Coop grocery store down the street, bought a frozen pizza, and cooked it.

As we paid, I asked the cashier for a business card, and she was more than happy to give me one because she thought that I was either going to come back or going to write a very nice review on Tripadvisor.  Oops.

Christopher Columbus Park (note the 3 ships)

We walked to the Porto Antico (Old Port) and caught the Genoa City Tour bus which is different from both the Genoa Red Bus and the Trenino Pippo, a tourist train.  All three basically take tourists around the city pointing out attractions while whizzing by without stopping.  Take, for example, the photo of the park above.  As we hurtled past it, the recording said was Christopher Columbus Park, and it somehow honored Columbus, who was born in the city. (Interesting fact that I did *not* learn from our tour: Christopher Columbus donated 10% of his income from the discovery of the Americas to Genova to help the poor.)

Trompe L'oile

One interesting thing I learned on the tour was trompe l'oile was popular in Genova, and many architects utilized trompe l'oile on the old buildings. If you've never heard of trompe l'oile, it's a technique in which the artist paints something to create an optical illusion.  The painted object appears to be three-dimensional when, in fact, it is flat.  The building above is a good example.  Its façade is perfectly flat, but it appears to have columns and frames around the window.

Underwear hanging out to dry

 "I think I know why I'm not crazy about this city already," I mentioned to Mike as we walked back to our hotel.  "It reminds me of Naples. It's an old port city, the buildings are on top of each other, and underwear is hanging everywhere (photos above and below).
"

More underwear drying in city center

"It's just how it is," he replied. "Port cities tend to be like this.  I was thinking it doesn't really seem Italian as there is such an eclectic mix of people here."  We had noticed a lot of foreigners working in the port area. 

Underwear in courtyard by hotel

"It's disgustingly dirty," I added.  "They need to take a bunch of power washers. to these buildings"

 "They have porticoes."  My husband is no dummy. He knows I love porticoes.

"They're not like the porticoes in Bologna," I said.  "Did you notice they hang neon signs from the arches? They use the porticoes like billboards (photos below)."

Rolex neon arches

"I hadn't noticed." 

 I did. Things like that tend to bother me because they ruin the architecture.  It's the same with the stupid wraps that they put on buildings in Las Vegas (and in Venice. Come on! It's the Bridge of Sighs, not the Bridge of Buy Michael Kors Now!.) It's bad enough that taggers spray graffiti all over the walls, but now legitimate stores are shoving neon and plastic in front of our faces. 

"If I were mayor," I said to Mike who was, as usual, NOT listening to me, "I'd buy a bunch of power washers and spray the crap off of the buildings.  Then I'd hire a couple hundred painters to paint over the graffiti, and I'd yank the neon off of the porticoes. Finally, I'd pass a law that you couldn't

Neon arches

 hang your underwear out the window in the city center during business hours.  I'd clean this city up."   Mike said nothing because if he did hear me, he knew that people of Genova have nothing to worry about because the likelihood of my returning to Genova is slim.

On our way back to the hotel, we walked through an area that was full of little markets and such, and we saw sepia, a type of cuttlefish that is popular in this area (photo below).  Cuttlefish are not really fish but mollusks that are related to octopus and squid.  The cuttlefish are like chameleons in that they can change color and camouflage themselves to hide from predators.  I think that the sepia we passed had changed color to blend in with the grime on all of the buildings around the port.

Sepia

You have to agree that it could be true...

Carlo! Carlo!

"Jerry: Who's Cartwright?

George: I'm Cartwright!

Jerry: You're not Cartwri-

George: Of course I'm not Cartwright!"

From "The Chinese Restaurant"

The Jerry Seinfeld Show

 My maiden name was quite ethnic, and people were always misspelling it or mispronouncing it. I thought that when I married someone with an English last name, those days were far behind me.  HA!  There are people (Americans included) who cannot spell or pronounce "Cutler" correctly.  I can understand that foreigners (except Brits, Aussies, Irish, and the other residents of GB) might have a difficult time. I really do.

For some reason, Mike and I have had at least two "Seinfeld-esque" episodes with our last name. The first happened at a restaurant in Nashville, and it mirrored the Seinfeld Chinese scene almost to a "T," the only difference being the name.  The second instance was tonight.

Back story: Last night, Mike and I walked around looking for a place to eat and happened upon a little place stuck in the back of a tiny courtyard.  We didn't have reservations, but since we got there just as they opened for dinner (7pm), we got a seat.  We were lucky as people kept coming up and trying to get in. The obvious reason is that the food is wonderful, and the service is great.  The owner, Salvatore Di Leo (photo below), is personable and helpful.

 We ordered "country soup" (basically a vegetable soup), ravioli with walnut sauce, and pasta carbonara. They were all very good, although Mike said he wouldn't order that pasta again because it was too dry.  The best thing, we agreed, was the soup.  It was so good, as a matter of fact, that we decided we were going to go back tonight just for the soup.

"Salvatore," I said when he delivered our main meal, "we want reservations for tomorrow."

"Eat. Enjoy," he told me. "We'll make them before you leave."  We did all three, and as we were paying, he brought out his huge reservation booklet.  "What is your name?"

"Cutler," I replied. He looked at me with such a puzzled expression.  "Coot-lair," I said trying to Italianize it.  He shook his head. 

I took out a business card and handed it to him.  "My name," I pointed out.

"Ah, yes," he said as he wrote.  "Where you staying?"  When I mentioned we were in an apartment, he wrote something else down.  "See you at 19:00."


 We arrived a few minutes before 7:00, and we saw that the table we'd had last night had a "reserved" sign on it.  I picked it up.

"This isn't our table," I said to Mike.  "It's for a Carlo." (Photo at top)  Personally, I was a little happy because some bug had decided to have dinner on my arm last night while we were eating, and I didn't want him coming back for seconds.

"That's all right," Mike answered. "He probably is giving us one of these other tables." There were only two other two-tops available.  At that point, Salvatore walked out and saw us.

"Welcome back, my friends," he greeted us. "Sit there.  You want the same table."

"This is not our table," I replied.

"Yes, it is yours," he insisted. "Carlo."

"No, remember us from last night?"

"Yes. Yes.  Carlo. I remember," he kept insisting. "Carlo.  That is your table. You want the same one as last night, right?"

 "Ok. Yes. Thank you," I answered.  To Mike, I added, "I guess we are sitting here."

"I'm not Carlo," Mike whispered to me.  I rolled my eyes.

"Of course you're not Carlo," I said.  "He got our name wrong somehow."

"How did he do that? You showed him your business card."

 "Cartwright.  Cartwright." I said, and we both laughed.  "Nobody came. I tell her you not here, she say bad word. I hang up."  I was laughing, and Salvatore was looking at me from the door.  I'm sure he thought I was a little pazza. "That's my favorite episode," I added.

"I wasn't wild about it," Mike said.  Of course not.

 At any rate, we shared another bowl of the country soup (above), a caprese salad (right), and grilled chicken (left).  Once again, the soup was wonderful, and we enjoyed having just the caprese and chicken. While you can't tell by looking at the chicken, but it was quite thin which is typical in Italy. 

"If we were in town tomorrow, I'd come back for this soup again," I said to Mike as we finished it.

"Maybe we can get him to give us a 'to-go' bag of soup," he replied.

"Salvatore," I said to Mike, "can you vacuum pack this for us so we can take it on the train? Carlo and I love your soup."

We were laughing again when an Australian couple got up from their table and walked by us.

"Weren't you here last night?" the lady asked me.

"We were," Mike answered.

"Weren't *you* here last night?" I asked them.

"We were, too," the man replied.  "If they were open tomorrow, we'd come back tomorrow."  They had also happened on the restaurant by accident and, liking their food, decided to come back for a sure thing.  "What did you have both nights?"  I told him and asked what they'd had.  "I had wild boar last night and rabbit tonight.

"You'd never get my wife to try rabbit," Mike interjected.

"It tastes something like chicken," the man said.

"Yes, there are tiny bones," the woman added.

"The bones wouldn't be the problem," Mike advised.  "My wife would not eat a little bunny."  Because I was in polite company, I didn't do my gag routine, but I sure was thinking it.

Throughout our entire meal, people walked up to the restaurant sign and then asked if they could sit. Most of the time, Salvatore had to turn them away because the restaurant was full. In case you are unaware of the Italian dining custom, eating is a time to enjoy life, food, friends, family. One never discusses business over dinner, nor does he/she hurry.  A restaurant in Italy will never throw you out, even if you sit for four hours.

We left, though, because we needed to pack for tomorrow's trip to Genova and because I needed to write a bit.  More importantly, we needed to stop and get a little gelato on the way home (left).


It was as good as it looks, too.

Santa Croce

San Michele lit up with candles

 "Evviva la Croce, la Croce evviva
Evviva la Croce, e chi la esaltò"

~ From chant Evviva la croce

San Michele during the day

Mike and I came to Lucca the first time in 2010 because friends of ours in Las Vegas recommended Lucca.  We arrived early in the morning of September 13 because that evening was the Festa della Santa Croce (Feast of the Holy Cross), and I had read a lot about it and wanted to see it. The only thing I knew about the festival was that they had an evening procession from one end of the walled historic center to the main cathedral, and that candles lit the procession route (luminaria).  Lucky us, it rained that first evening, so we got soaked watching as people poured into (and eventually out of) the cathedral (I'll explain all of this as I go on).

San Martino during the day

 The Lucca festival dates back to the 11th century, although it follows a custom of procession much older than that. Included in that procession are the priests and many parishioners of all of the churches in the archdiocese of Lucca, representatives of many of the local humanitarian and church organizations, and representatives from various diocese around the country. In addition,
 accompanying the other marchers are bands which play basically the same tune, "Evviva la croc," which the participants sing. Continuously. For four-to-five hours. 

San Martino lit with candles

(Side note: Because it was raining in 2010, we lasted only about two hours before we walked back to our hotel. We could still hear the cardinal singing "Evviva la croce...," and the chant has stuck in my head since then.  Ask me to sing it for you when I get home.  Rather, don't ask me to sing it for you because I really don't like having it stuck in my head for days on end. Click here to listen to a band playing it in the cathedral.)

  The feast is on September 13, and all during that day, workmen put candles on buildings that line the parade route.  From what I understand, there are 30,000+ candles in the city, and it takes the entire day to put them on the buildings and light them. 

Workers lighting candles

 There are, by the way, holders that remain on the buildings year-round. Plastic cups hold the candles, and a think foil cap cover the top.  The workers start lighting the candles around 1 or 2 in the afternoon (photos below).

Workers lighting candles

 Because the procession starts at 8 pm and lasts a good four-to-five hours, the candles last a good amount of time.  Interestingly, we've seen very few ruined plastic cups.  Most of them still contain the remnants of the candles, although

there are a few that are burned and shriveled.

The procession starts at the church of San Frediano, a medieval church at one end of the town.  It takes about 45 minutes for the procession leaders to get to the Cathedral of San Martin.  Leading the way are police on motorcycles, followed by men carrying a banner replicating "il Volto Santo."  The real Volto Santo, a carved sculpture reportedly done by Nicodemus, one of Christ's disciples.

(The sculpture disappeared at some point, but was found in the 8th century and taken to Lucca. Citizens of the area have always gone to Lucca to pray and honor the sculpture.)

The banner at the beginning of the procession

 Men carrying a large floral cross follow, and then participants from all over follow them.

The floral cross

 When we attended in 2010, most of the participants dressed in medieval costumes.  This year, we saw very few of them, but we figured most of the regular people gave up in 2010 because of the rain.  As I mentioned before, we went back to our hotel after two hours, but we heard the cardinal singing for more than two more hours.  At one point before we left, we noticed that the participants would process into the front doors of the cathedral and immediately exit out of the side door because there were too many people in the cathedral.

 This year, we were lucky enough to get to stand very near the cathedral and right next to the barricades, so we could see everyone.  We noted that when bands arrived, police headed them off to the side and away from the cathedral so that the place didn't overfill too quickly.

I had to change places with Mike at one point because the guy who elbowed his way in next to me kept pushing me.  I was ready to slug him but decided that it was not the right thing to do at a religious festival

 We lasted about90 minutes which, given my immense dislike of crowds, was pretty good.  We fought our way home around 9:30, and as we turned into the courtyard where our apartment is, we noticed that one of the other homeowners had lit a number of candles (below). 

Our neighbor

Now, if I can only get that chant out of my head....

Yikes! We Rent Bikes!

Mike on his bike

 “Adventure, yeah. I guess that's what you 

call it when everybody comes back alive.”
― Mercedes Lackey

 If you read the blog regularly, you may remember that I mentioned that the bicyclists in northern Italy are rather aggressive drivers, and I felt I was lucky to get out of Bologna without having a literal run-in with one. I have a love-hate relationship with bikes.  I wanted to ride one in Bologna, but since I was afraid of even walking near other riders, I thought maybe I should keep my feet on the ground rather than on pedals.

Bike lane

I love bikes, to tell the truth.  I had a blue Schwinn when I was a kid, and I loved it. Like every other kid, I used to pin playing cards to the spokes to punch up the sound. I used to weave ribbons or yarn through the spokes to colorize it. I used to ride without holding on. I tried to stand on the seat or do other stupid stunts that gave me nicely skinned knees and elbows, hands and shins every summer. Road surfing is a rite of passage for kids. It is not one for adults.

I don't want to mislead you and make you think I broke skin today, but I came close....more than once...

 The ancient people of Lucca build walls to protect that city.  There are actually four layers of walls, the last of which date to the late 1500s.  Architects planted trees within the  outer two circles, and in the 19th century, Duchess Maria Luisa ordered that that area be a public walkway.  The four-kilometer path is a favorite walking, picnicking, and cycling place for the city.  When Mike and I were here four years ago, we walked part of it, but we decided that maybe we'd ride a bike this time.

Bikes. Bikes. Bikes. Bike parking in Bologna.

 We rented from Cuore (Heart) of Tuscany, a nice place that it took us 45 minutes to find even though it is about 10 minutes from our apartment. Since it's off of a side street, finding it was an adventure in itself.  Let's just say that I wish these places would put street names up so people can actually use them.

Matteo, the owner, got our three-speed bikes out and fixed the seat height for me.  I got on and pushed off only to discover that the seat was too high. I tried to stop but noticed pedestrians walking right in front of me. I jumped off of the seat, lost my balance, and ended up about two seconds from landing on the pavement.

"Fix your seat," Mike laughed.  I couldn't, so he adjusted his and came to fix mine.  "It won't go down much more."

"I'll try," I said.  We took off, and everything was going well until a car whizzed by me.  "HOLY CRAP."

Dapper Dude in Bologna

"Calm down," Mike said. "You're fine."

I was sure I wasn't fine. "I forgot about cars."  A few people were walking in the middle of the street. Ding. Ding. Ding. I rang the bell (It was pink!), and they moved out of the way.

"Was that you?" Mike wanted to know.

"I'm being polite and warning people," I replied.  "People in Bologna could have done that for me."  He wasn't behind me, but I'm sure he probably rolled his eyes.

Now, I love bells, and I love the little tinkling bells on bikes.  I was thrilled to have a pink one I could use. I could cause that thing to make such a happy sound. Besides, since I was not good at stopping with the handbrake, I thought warning them that I was coming was fair.

We got to the wall, and he rode his bike up.  I got about halfway, stopped, almost fell over again, and walked the rest of the way up.

A close pass

 The path on the wall is four kilometers and takes about 20 minutes to complete.  It is a paved path and is relatively flat, so people of all ages stroll or ride along it at all times of the day.  Noon is particularly popular because the Lucchese like to take lunch up there to enjoy.

They also like to stop right in the middle of the path to talk to neighbors and friends.  Luckily, I had my trusty little pink bell to warn them that I was approaching.

"Are you going to ring that thing every time you pass someone?" I heard Mike ask me.

"Yes." I didn't need to say anything else, but even if I should have, at that point I looked up to noticed two bikers riding on our side of the path coming directly at me.  One passed me on my right, and the one who was on my left, was heading right for me. Maybe I was heading right for him, but he wasn't turning, and I panicked. I hit the handbrake and immediately started falling over. I landed on the toes of my left foot, scraped my shoe (better than skin) along the path, skidded across the path, and landed in the grass at the top of the hill.

"Are you okay?" Mike asked me.

"He was headed right for me," I said to him.

"You'll be fine," Mike said, and we continued on.

I saw this guy all the time in Bologna

The rest of the ride around the wall was relatively easy. Anytime anyone was within 20 feet of me, I rang my little bell, much to my husband's chagrin.

"I'm going to take that thing off of you," he said.  I was in front of him, though, so he'd have to catch me.

I tried to take a selfie while we were riding, but let's just say that I wasn't feeling in control using two hands on that thing. I just gave up the idea and rode to the place where we started. We sat and rested for a few minutes. 

"I'm not riding that thing down that hill," I said.  "I can't stop on a flat surface let alone on a hill."

"You can do it. Practice," Mike insisted.  "Just press the handbrake gradually."

"I fall off because the seat's too high," I whined. "I can't touch the ground with my feet while I'm on the seat."  Still, I tried because I'm a super trooper (HA!).  I did okay on the flat surface, so I rode down the hill using the brake the entire way.  At the bottom, we had to stop at the street, and I almost toppled over into a restaurant's outside cafe.  

Always happy to provide entertainment for those around me, I looked at Mike and said, "Just go."

"Which way?" he asked me.

"Turn right," I said and watched as he crossed the street and went straight.  Eye roll.  I followed and eventually caught up.  "Let me go in front."  I had no idea where we were because he had gone straight which was not the way we'd started.  I turned right at the next street and almost ran into a car that had run a stop sign.  "GEEZ. Does anyone pay attention to traffic signs here?"  Mike didn't answer either because he didn't hear me or because he was ignoring me.

Definitely not me on a bike

We ended up in an area that was full of pedestrians and other cyclists.  I was ringing that bell constantly, and every time I did, I heard someone behind me (Guess who.)  snort.  "Maybe you should walk through here," he said.  I wasn't going to argue, and I slowed down and jumped off, losing control yet again and almost landing on top of a cigarette-smoking dude.  Mike kept riding and passed me. He did not use his bell (He probably belongs in Bologna.) to  let people know he was going to pass, and he ended up running into a little old man.  "Sorry.  Oops."  He kept going, and the old guy just looked at Mike and kept walking himself.


We got back to the bike shop, and I managed to stop without falling off.

"I made it back alive," I told Matteo.  He laughed.

"We're not so sure about a few of the tourists," Mike said.  "There may be a few lying in the street along the way." 

"Especially a little old man," I laughed.  I'm not sure Matteo understood why we were laughing.

"The old guy was going too darn slow," Mike later told me. "It was his fault."

"You could have used your bell," I insisted.  I don't think he agreed.

"You're looking at this all wrong," he said. "You need to look at it from my perspective. If he had been walking faster, I wouldn't have hit him."

Fair warning: If you see either one of us on a bike, you might want to run for cover, preferably indoors and away from any cafes, markets, parking lots, streets, paths, or hills.

Alway Bring Your Phone

Last night after Mike arrived

 "Make everything an adventure. 

Otherwise, it will suck.”
― Nita Morgan

I'm sure by now you all know that Mike arrived in Bologna last evening. His plane was late thanks to a strike at Heathrow, but he still arrived before 7:00 pm which was when I expected him anyway.  I ran him around Bologna (which I miss already) quickly last night and this morning to meet my friends (whom I miss already), and we caught the train to Lucca just after 11:00 am.

Mike not thrilled with proscuitto sandwich

We arrived on time and got the the apartment easily. The manager, a gal from Texas, met us in a courtyard and took us to the apartment.  Our apartment is in a 17th century building that the owner's family has had for more than 100 years. Getting from the door to the apartment is rather interesting as we came in the main door, went through another, took an elevator to the 3rd floor, turned left, turned right, turned around in a circle and ended up in the apartment.

Vanessa explained everything and left, and the two of us decided to hit the market to get a few things we'd need for dinner tomorrow.  We walked out of the door into our floor's foyer and had no idea which way to turn.  To our left were stair neither of us remembered descending, and to our right was an open door neither of us remembered entering.

"I guess we came this way," he said going through the door.  It lead to another foyer and contained doors to a few other apartments.

"Don't pull that door all the way closed," I told him.  For some reason, I remembered that Vanessa had mentioned leaving it open.  Mike pulled it closed.  "Why did you do that?"

Piazza in Lucca

"It was open. You told me to shut it," he said.  I tried not to roll my eyes, but they roll automatically at times.

"I told you NOT to shut it.  How are you going to open it?" I asked him.  He pushed it, and it didn't open. He put his key and turned it, and it bolted shut.  He turned the key the other way, and it didn't open the door.  "Now what?"  I was trying not to panic, but we had both left our phones in the apartment, and neither one of us knew in which apartment Vanessa lives.

Doorway where we stood in 2010

 We pushed, pulled, and turned the keys in the lock again and again.  Nothing.  Niente. Nada. Zip. Zero. Zilch. Augh.

"I guess we can't call her," he said. Auto eye roll.   "I'll go down to the restaurant and see if they know her."  He started down the stairs, stopped, and came back.  "I might need your Italian skills."  I wasn't moving.

"Just ask them if they know Vanessa in English."  As he headed back down the stairs, I got up and started fooling with my key and the lock, and when I jiggled it one way, the door opened.  "Michael," I yelled down the stairs.  "I got it open.  Come back up here."

 Long story short, we came back into the apartment at that point and got my phone.  I wasn't taking another chance of getting lost or locked out without being able to call someone.

Lighting the candles in Lucca

 Tonight is the Festa della Santa Croce, the reason we came to Lucca.  There's a huge procession through the town, and the people put 30,000 candles on windows (photo above) along the procession route.  It starts at 8 and ends early in the morning.  We were here for it in 2010, and it rained like anything.  We ended up hiding in a doorway to stay out of the rain (photo two up).

I'll tell you more tomorrow...