A Pop of Color

Burano

 

“Color is like music. It uses a shorter way to get 

to our senses to awaken our emotions.”

~ Sign on a house in Burano

(Please note: Being without internet is a bit daunting for me.  I'm several posts behind and will post when I can get to a Wi-Fi connection that actually is strong enough to handle the posts.

You may remember that right after I arrived in Venice, I asked one of the gals in the tourist information office if it was a long boat ride to Burano, and she told me, “Eet’s only a lee-till-a time-a to go-a by boat-a.” She apparently thought I asked if it would take long to swim to Burano because, by boat, if you include the 45 minutes it took to get to St. Mark’s Square, it took three boats and over two hours.

Once I got to St. Mark’s, I switched to the island-bound boat. We headed for Murano, the island made famous for its beautiful glass. The island is lovely, but it’s whole “thing” is Murano glass, and I really had no interest in seeing it again.  I got up to watch the boat pull into the dock, though, and was standing next to the steward who throws the ropes to anchor the boat to the pier.

Burano

 

“ATTENZIONE!  ATTENZIONE!” She suddenly screamed in my ear. “MAMMA MIA!” I turned just in time to see a showoff in a speedboat notice that he was heading right for the backside of our waterbus. The two women in his boat and the people at the back of our bus screamed in unison as the showboater heaved the wheel to the right and just clipped the rubber bumper of the bus. “Mamma mia! Che pazzo!”  As we docked, Signor Showoff slowed to check his boat for damage and, finding nothing big, roared off again. 

(Side note: I was happy that no one was hurt, but I was happier to hear the steward call the showboater “pazzo," my favorite word of the month (crazy). Do I have my priorities in line or what?)

 

Those of us going to Burano changed boats at the next stop and headed to Burano…or so we thought. For 45 minutes, we cruised to different islands in the Venetian lagoon, letting passengers off on each one.  Finally, at almost 1:00, we finally docked at Burano.

A bridge over a canal

Like Venice, Burano is an archipelago of islands (four) connected by bridges (Most like the one in the above photo). While Murano’s main attraction is its glass, Burano’s popularity is due to its lace, food, and colors.  Since I don’t like fish, I didn’t care about the food part, but I love lace and had a bit of interest in buying something if it caught my eye. More  importantly, though, I wanted to see the colorful houses.

Legend has it that the ancient fishermen of Burano painted their houses bright colors so that they could see them while they were fishing out at sea.  The houses, which are mostly rectangular and two- or three-stories high, follow a special color palette. Island residents who want to paint their houses must send a letter to government officials, and they reply with a list of colors from which the resident can choose one to paint his house.  The different colors, by the way, indicate the different property owners.  If you note the photo below, the red house between the gold and pink houses is only two stories, and the other two surround it on top as well as on the bottom.

 

The colors differentiate whose house is whose

For most of the first hour I was on Burano, I just walked the island and delighted in the atmosphere.  The colors were breathtaking and such a change from other places in both Italy and the US. I wandered up and down alleys and bridges trying to take it all in.

As you might imagine, there are no cars on the island, so residents and workers carry things from one end to the other via boat or handcart. I watched one man maneuver his little boat into a spot in front of a restaurant, grab a net of fresh fish, and take them in for the cook.  A little later, I saw men pull up in a larger boat, load what looked linens onto a handcart, and run them to a different place of business. (Photo below) All in a day’s work.

Delivering linens by handcart

I noticed two things that really interested me: First, I noticed that a majority of the residents had their front doors open, but they hung sheets over the opening to keep the bugs—and prying tourist eyes—out.  It always amazed me that the people in the little towns here are still so trusting that they keep their doors open. In Bologna (and larger cities both here and elsewhere), everyone hides behind lock and key.

The second thing that caught my eye was the laundry. Monday must be laundry day on Burano because so many residents had theirs hanging out to dry.  From the upstairs windows, across alleys, on dryers in front of houses, laundry hung all over the island. My husband, who once hung his clothes on a community line above a street in Venice, would have loved it.

Laundry day

 

Eventually I ended up in the area where the shops were.  I walked in one and immediately fell in love with a lace-trimmed top.

“How much?” I asked the gal running the shop.

“For you, I make special deal,” she told me. “49 euro.” 

“I’ll think about it.” I did think about it for 10 seconds.

A few shops down, I saw a linen dress that I liked. I was admiring it when the gal who worked there came up to me.

“One hundred percent pure linen,” she said. “Hand-sewn by the mother of the woman who owns this store.”

“Hand-sewn?” Call me skeptical, but I’d seen that cloth before.

“Yes. Yes,” she replied. “She designed it especially for this shop.”  Right. “I give you a good price.  It’s usually 250 euro, but you can have it for 200.”

Needless to say, I left and went into another shop where I saw the same dress.

“One hundred percent pure linen,” the gal in that shop said. “It is hand-sewn by the mother of the woman who owns this store.”

I looked at the seams, which, to me, looked like seams I’d find on a Made-in-Wherever piece of clothing. I wanted to say something snarky, but I’m not exactly sure how to snark in Italian, so I just smiled and walked out.

In the third store, I saw the same dress and a top that I liked. 

I’m sure by now you know that the gal in that shop told me, “One hundred percent pure linen that is hand-sewn by the mother of the woman who owns this store.”

“Does the same lady own all of these stores?” I asked Gal #3.

“No, why?” she wanted to know.  I just shrugged. “I tell you what. You are nice American trying to speak Italian. I give you a good deal.”

Leaving Burano

As you might expect,  I heard the same story at every shop along the way. The clothes were all the same (and over-priced), and, every shop owner had a mother who designed, hand-wove, and/or hand-sewed everything in it.

Fortunately for me, the Saturday market in Bologna has the same 100% pure linen stuff for a lot less money. 

I wonder whose mother hand-sewed it.

Modena and Me

Morning capp

“You don’t need any brains to listen to music.”
— Luciano Pavarotti, Modena Native

I know I was going to write about Burano today, but I went to Modena and had quite an adventure(s), so I'll save Burano for a day when I go nowhere and nothing happens. . . well, when I go nowhere.

I left Bologna early this morning (around 7:45) so that I could get to Modena before people were out and about so I could take photos of the buildings without people in them.  Modena is obviously not as popular as Venice because most of the seats on the train were empty (Photo below). By train, Modena is just about 25 minutes away, so I got there rather quickly.

Second-class seats on the train to Modena

Unfortunately, the weather wasn't as nice as it was on Monday.  There was a heavy cloud cover, and it felt as though it would rain.  Of course, I didn't have my umbrella since the forecast called for sun, so I figured I was going to get soaked. Since it wasn't raining, though, I decided to walk from the station to the center of town where they have a wonderful covered market.  I did my homework and wrote down explicit directions from the train station to the market.

 A lot of good they did me as the small streets near the station were not marked.  Since it was early, the tourist information office was not open, so I couldn't get a map. Nonetheless, I took off on foot going in what I thought, according to what I had written, was the right direction.  The market was only 1.2 kilometers from the station, so I figured I could find it. Right.

After about 15 minutes of walking God-knows-where, I ended up on a main street that actually had a name on it AND, as luck would have it, a rough map on a board.  All i had to do was go down that main street and find Via Sgarzeria. I never found Via Sgarzeria. I walked and walked and finally decided to turn left on what looked like another main street since that was what I was supposed to do on Sgarzeria. Two blocks up, I saw that I was near the military zone (below).

Military Zone

(Side note:  I went around the military zone and ended up near a public garden [below]. No offense to the people of Modena, but I'm not sure I would call a gravel drive with roses and weeds on either side a public garden.  They need to send someone to my hometown, Youngstown, Ohio, to see what a real public garden is. But, I digress. . . .)

The public garden

 As I walked down the street in front of the garden, I smelled the unmistakeable aroma of horses.  Sure enough, I was passing the complex where the military keeps their horses.  Crap, I thought (No pun intended.), where the heck am I now?  Not knowing what to do, I continued walking until I crossed what looked like another main drag.  Luckily, a woman was walking towards me.

"Excuse me," I said to her, "I'm trying to find Mercato Albinelli."  She looked at me as though I were a little nuts which, considering the fact that I had literally pulled my hair, was probably true.

"The Market?" She stared at me a second before she continued. "It's about 2 kilometers that way." She made an "L" with her arm, pointing back down the way I had just walked and to the left.  "Go to the second light up here and turn left.  Just continue walking, and turn left again on the big street.  You know, she said, it might be closed for August."  Of course, I had not thought of that. "But who knows?"

"Thank you so much," I sighed.  "Thank you. Thank you."

"Are you alone?" she asked me, and when I nodded, she said, "Be careful. Good luck."  Those words would come back to me a few hours later.

I did as she told me, and after another 10 minutes or so, decided I was yet again lost. I have a great sense of direction, so all of this was very confusing to me.  I finally stopped and asked a guy at an edicola (news stand) how the heck to get to the mercato, and he pointed me down the road and left yet again.  I took off but didn't get more than two blocks when I stopped a man walking his adorable English Spaniel.

"Excuse me, sir," I pleaded. "I'm a bit lost. I'm trying to find Mercato Albinelli."

"You're very close," he exclaimed. "Turn right at the first corner, and left at the first corner, and you're there."  Titi, his dog, rubbed her head on my leg, and I scratched her chin.

It was, at this point, a little after 9:30, and I finally felt a little better.

Just one of the vendors in Mercato Albinelli

Sure enough, the market was exactly where Titi's owner said it was, and it was open. I was ecstatic.  I can get tired of looking at the churches and old buildings sometimes, but I never get tired of going in the markets.  The one in Modena is beautiful, too, not for the physical structure, but for all of the great foods it holds.

 I don't eat peppers, but I thought the size of the ones I saw there (above) was amazing.

 The peaches and nectarines (above) were as big as my fist.  And, while I would not eat a hot pepper on your life, look at the color on the ones I saw (below).  There were six bakeries in the market, and they each had different breads and sweets.  In addition, there were butchers, fish vendors, and places where you could buy cooked foods.  Heaven.  I ended up buying bread, a brioche (of course), a little aged parmiggiano reggiano, and a heart tomato.  Most people buy souvenirs and t-shirts, I buy food.    :-)

 After I left the market, I finally had my cappuccino for the morning (photo at top), and I walked around the main piazza.  I had absolutely no idea how to get back to the train station, so I found the tourist office and got a map.  I asked the gal to highlight the route for me so I would know exactly where I was to walk.

I stopped in the basilica in the main square and walked around that massive place.  There are eight altars in there. It just amazes me how much money went into building those places so many years ago.  I also find it interesting that they are still standing.  There is scaffolding all over the outside of this one, but the inside seems to be as beautiful as ever. 

After about three hours in Modena, I left the basilica and wended my way to the main street I was to follow back to the train station.

The basilica in Modena

I saw a man in his 50s or 60s watching me as I approached the corner where he was standing.  As I passed him, he fell in beside me.

"Where are you going, bella?" he asked me.  I ignored him. "Where are you going?" I shook my head. "Do you want to have coffee?" 

"I don't speak Italian," I lied.  The words of the woman who helped me earlier came back to me. For the first time, I felt a little bit of fear. We were on the main street, but a lot of businesses were closed for August holidays, and at some point, I was going to have to turn down a narrow side street to get to the station. It was all happening too fast for me to think straight.

"Where are you from?" he continued. I refused to look at him, shook my head, and jerked away.  "Come on. Are you from France?" That was a good one.  I guess I graduated from being British.

"Nein," I yelled.  "Nein. Nein. Nein." I decided to use German since it sounds a little rougher than plain, old, "NO."  He still matched me step-for-step.

As luck would have it, I noticed a cafe across the street and a local fruit and vegetable vendor were both open. Since the fruit shop was closer, I stopped there. The owner was talking to another man, so I instantly felt safe.

My "friend" continued down the street alone.  I watched until he was out of sight and slowly walked that way because I had no other choice.  When I got to the first of three alleys I could take to get to the station, I made sure he was not down there, and I scurried down it as quickly as I could.  The road at the end of that alley was very busy, and there were a lot of people waiting to cross to the station.  When the light turned green, I was the first one across.

I can still power walk it when I have to.

The regional train back to Bologna

Ah, Venezia, II

A bridge near the Rialto area

 To build a city where it is impossible to build a city 
is madness in itself, but to build there one of 
the most elegant and grandest of cities is 

the madness of genius.
~ Alexander Herzen

What about Venice makes it one of those cities that people—even those who have never been there—absolutely love? The bridges? The canals? The gondolas? The gondoliers? The masks? Is it an elegant dream that we all have?

Truth be told, I have a number of friends who have been there and actually do *not* like Venice. "One day was enough for me," one told me recently.  Another couple told me they spent three days there, and they'll never go back.

Some years ago, Mike and I spent three days there, and I'll admit that it was not our favorite city. In considering whether to go yesterday or not, I tried to remember exactly what it was in particular that we didn't like.  I remembered all too quickly once I got there.

But, let me start at the beginning.

Departures yesterday

I got up early because I wanted to catch the 8:20 train to Venice because I'm cheap.  The cost of the 8:20 ticket was 11 euro as opposed to 35 euro the next few trains would cost. The difference was that the 8:20 train would take two hours while the later trains would take about 90 minutes.

Apparently everyone going to Venice from Bologna yesterday had the same idea as the train was full. I arrived early to get a seat, and over 30 minutes, I watched as the train filled with more and more people bound for Venezia.

(Side note: The regional trains in Italy do not assign seats, so if you want to sit, you have to arrive early enough to grab a seat. Even though they don't recline, the seats are comfortable. The biggest drawback is that, except for the first row, the seats in Italian trains are grouped in fours on both sides of the aisle—two facing forward and two facing back. On one side of the train, the first row has only three seats.)

I chose to sit in the first row that had three seats. I was watching people running down the platform when a group of six plunged through the swinging plexiglass doors in front of me. A woman and two men threw their luggage on the seats across from me, and another woman and man tossed theirs on the seat in front of and next to me. They never said a word to me, even when the man knocked me with his over-size backpack as he moved it so he could sit.  Tourists.

Another Venetian canal

Except for the screaming kids at the back of our car, the ride got off to a good start. With each stop, more people jumped on the already full train. Since the number of people getting on was greater than the number of people getting off at each stop, many people had to stand. Most of them stood in the "lobby" area of the car (the area where one enters/exits the train), so the car was not overcrowded.
The only thing that bothered me about that situation was that a nun got on in Padova (Padua), and while there were a lot of young kids in seats in our car, not one offered her—nor did their parents make them offer her—a place to sit.

Early in the trip, the man next to me decided to stretch his arms above his head just as I turned mine toward him. The skunk that once built a nest under our Nashville furnace had a little competition. Unfortunately, the man must have been pretty tired as he had to stretch quite often.  Worse, he must have also had a bit of an allergic reaction to something because he sneezed a lot.  Had he covered his mouth, I might not have cringed as much.

The two hours seemed a lot longer.

Near the Accademia

When you arrive at Venice Santa Lucia, the main train station, and exit through the front, you find yourself on a canal.  In front of you are loading areas for the water buses, water taxis, private boars, and even gondolas.  As soon as I walked through the big doors and into the sunlight, I remembered what it was that I didn't like about Venice. Tourists. Crowds. Chaos.

My plan for the day was to spend some time in Venice and some time on the island of Burano. Unfortunately, I stupidly forgot to research getting to Burano from Venice, so I had to wade through tourists to get info from the tourist office.  Fair enough. I didn't have to wait long.

"I would like to go to Burano today," In English told the gal who waited on me.  "How do I get there? Does it take long to get there?"

"No," she said. "Eet's only a lee-till-a time=a to go-a by boat-a. Buy-a da tourist-a pass-a so youse canna save-a time-a."  The 20-euro tourist pass, in short, is a card that one can use on the water buses. If you buy a single bus ticket, the cost is 7 euro for one hour, and that doesn't get you far, as you'll see.

"Ok. I'll buy the tourist card.  Which bus do I take?"

"42," she replied. "Four. Two.  Four. Two." She added the last in English in case I didn't understand. I did, but that was fine. Fine until I got to the water bus and found that there is *no* #42. I looked at the routes and saw that #1 went to St. Mark's Square.  I decided to get on it and play it by ear.

I read once that tourists in Venice (and Rome, Paris, London, etc) do not have a sense of staying in line. I found that to be quite true yesterday when the water bus door opened and people behind me started shoving to get on board.

"My gosh," I said to one woman who stepped on my foot, "the boat is not going to leave without you." She, apparently didn't care because she wanted on so she could stand in the way of everyone else trying to get on.

"Move inside, please.  Take a seat, please," the steward yelled in Italian and English. Of course, no one standing on the deck wanted to move inside or even get out of the way because, darn it, they wanted to be on the deck of a vaporetto in Venice. Honestly, there were fewer of us sitting in the seats inside than there were standing on the small space on deck. 

St. Mark's from the water

 The day was beautiful, and I thoroughly enjoyed the ride to St. Mark's, although it took almost an hour to get there. The views of Venice from the water are phenomenally breathtaking, and I always wonder not only how they built the city so long ago, but also how they keep it from sinking.

(Side note; There are 118 islands connected by over 400 bridges that make up the city. Because the island were not strong enough to support the structures, underneath all of them are millions of piles of wood that hold Venice up. The city also has almost 200 canals and about 125 piazzas.  The alleys not on the canals and away from piazzas tend to be narrow, dark, and in many cases, dirty. Graffiti, a pock on the face of almost every city in the world, covers a lot of the walls.)

A small alley

 Once the bus finally arrived at St. Mark's Square, I decided to immediately  hop another boat to Burano Island. Like its sister, Murano Island, it's a "leetilla" off the coast of Venice and accessible only by boat. I figured I'd spend a little time there and get back to Venice to spend a few hours walking around and looking for where we stayed when we were there before.

As we waited to board the boat to Burano, a girl standing a little to my left let out a sneeze that would give a 200-pound man a run for his money. She, of course, did not cover her mouth and sprayed just about everyone in the general vicinity of Venice. She laughed and said something. I have no idea what it was because she spoke some language I'll never learn. Most of us glared at her, and she continued to laugh until they opened the doors to the bus.  At that point, she pushed past most people to get her place on the deck.

A little piazza

 To make a long story short, the "leetilla" water bus ride to Burano ended up taking 70 minutes, and that's not counting the time I spent getting to St. Mark's.  It was, though, a beautiful day to spend on the water. There were hundreds of speedboats and fewer sailboats out. Being on water that long usually makes me a little ill, but I actually was fine.

I'll tell you about Burano tomorrow, but I want to go back to my time in Venice later in the afternoon. When I got back, I headed to where I remembered our apartment was. I walked through a number of narrow alleys and got lost, but came upon a small bridge that looked familiar. (below)

The canal near our apartment

Sure enough, down the street I found the bar, butcher, and cafe that were right outside the apartment entrance. For old time's sake, I bought an apricot pastry and walked the old back alleys in the area.

By 4:00, I was more than ready to get away from the hoards of people all over the city even though I hadn't seen everything I wanted to see. I got on a water bus, found a seat, and held on.

Tomorrow: Let me introduce you to butts (no photos!), boats, and Burano

Ah, Venezia...

St. Mark Square—Venice

 “Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.” 

~Truman Capote

 I thought that since I spent 13 hours either en route to, in, around, or en route from Venice, I'd do a little musing a la Letterman tonight. 

I had a wonderful time, and I do have stories to tell.

Until then, a few thoughts.....

TOP TEN THINGS THAT I APPARENTLY DIDN'T KNOW 

ABOUT TRAVELING TO/FROM/AROUND VENICE.

10. Apparently a regional train ticket or water bus ticket ensures only that you have a ride.  If you definitely want a seat, either pay for first class or get to the station early. (PS I was early. I had a seat. I still have a story.)

9. Apparently my idea of "leetle time-a" and the Venice Tourism Rep's idea of a "leetle time-a" are quite, quite, quite different. . . like about 70 minutes different.

Murano

 8.  Apparently when the boat steward says, "Please move-a to da in-a-side-a of-a da boat-a,"  it applies to everyone except the people who are standing in the doorway blocking everyone else from moving to-a da in-a-side."

7.  Apparently a good number of people from all over the world have not gotten the message that low-rider pants are out. I saw enough butt cracks to last my lifetime today.

Attention! Men! Women! Children!

Lend me your ear.

Pull up your pants,

So I don't see your rear!!!

A gondolier

 6.  Apparently some tourists think bathing is optional while they are on vacation, and they apparently always want to sit next to me on a crowded train or boat.

5.  Apparently, the most popular things to see in Venice in August are other tourists.

4.  Apparently a lot of overweight Venetian men who own speed boats like to ride around in them wearing Speedos.

One of the many bridges in Venice

 3.  Apparently covering your mouth when you sneeze in a crowded train or boat is optional...especially if you are standing anywhere near me.

2.  Apparently men illegally showing off in speedboats have a tendency not to see that they are about to crash into a water bus.

1. Apparently every single person who works in a store in Burano has a mother who not only designed the "puro linen" clothing, but also either hand wove OR hand sewed it OR both. . . And, if you buy right now, they will give you. . .

Burano

Look Up

 "There is nothing more frightful

than finding ignorance in action."

–Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

Today was an absolutely gorgeous day in Bologna—sunny, warm, comfortable. I woke up early and decided that instead of trolling the internet for a bit, I would walk around the city before tourists started filling the piazzas. I also decided to do something different today. I looked up.

 
How often do we look up when we walk? I venture to guess that most of us look straight ahead or down. I know I do. Remember the luzzo fish sculpture from Friday? I've probably walked by that thing a dozen times, and until someone pointed it out, I didn't see it.  Had I not looked up, I would have missed the moon peeking at me over that balcony (above).

I walked through Santo Stefano as I always do (above).  A man was playing the accordion under the portico, and the music was lovely.  As I got closer to the accordionist, I noticed the scroll work on the top of the pillars (photo below).  It always amazed me that something so old and so intricate is intact. 

 I finished shooting the photo when an old man approached me, removed his hat, and shook it at me.

"Signora, please." I had not considered he was a beggar until that moment because his clothes were nice and the accordionist was not 10 feet away.  The beggars have their own territories, and the gentleman's understanding is that they don't intrude on each other's turf.

"No, grazia." I crossed the piazza and walked away from him.  He followed at a short distance and continued to shake his hat at me.

"Signora, please.  Please."  I hurried along and stopped near two policeman who supervising a tow-truck operator as he tried to hook his tow to a motorcycle.  I turned to see the man walking back to Santo Stefano.

I walked along for a bit and came upon Piazza San Martino, a small piazza a few blocks from the main street. I've walked across from it a few times and had always though that the statue in it was of San Martino.  Imagine my surprise today when I looked up and saw that the Blessed Mother actually reigns over the small square.

In my defense, I've always approached the statue from the backside and never really paid attention. Of course, had I turned around and looked, I might have noticed that blue thing (that appears to be a purse) in her hand.  On the other hand, man purses are pretty popular in Italy. . . .

At any rate, after two hours, I'd had enough walking and started to head home. I somehow ended up in the middle of Piazza Maggiore, so I cut through a side street filled with cafes and Pam Local, a small grocery ("Pam-a Loker! Food-a To Go! Nothin'-a easer!!'  You have to hear it to really appreciate how funny it is.). 

As I got close to Pam, I heard a woman.  "I'm better now knowing I can buy packaged stuff." Just at that moment, I was passing the door, and she and two men barged out of the market almost knocking into me.

"American English!" I said, ignoring the fact that they didn't apologize for practically knocking me over. "It's the first I've heard in more than two weeks.  Where are you from?" The three of them looked at me as though I were a pazza gypsy woman.

"Nevada," the woman replied.

"Las Vegas? I'm from Las Vegas!" I thought it was pretty cool that the first Americans I would meet in the city were from Las Vegas. Silly me.

"Well," the lady exhaled, "We actually live in Sun City Anthem."  Silly, silly me. Sun City Anthem is in Green Valley/Henderson.

"I live in Siena!" (Siena, I should note, is in Summerlin.  Summerlin is to the west side of LV as GV/Henderson are to the south side of LV.)

"I have no idea where that is," she snapped, adding, "You must be here a long time if you haven't heard American for two weeks." At this point, I finally noticed that the men, who had said nothing, had started to walk away.

I explained I would be in Bologna for six and offered my help.  "Can I help you find anything? A restaurant that is more local than tourist?" The men were walking faster away from us.

"No, we'll find things on our own." 

I nodded. "If you have the chance, you might want to see Santo Stefano. It's  beautiful and just a block away."

"Yah," she again snapped.  "We'll see it if we want to. Good-bye."

In the 10 or so hours since this happened, I've thought about it a lot and have tried to understand their attitude. I could, maybe, understand their being standoffish if I approached them on a dark, quiet street.

Perhaps they were tired. Perhaps I scared them.  Perhaps they thought a middle-aged American woman walking alone on a crowded street with nothing in her hand but a camera was going to overtake the three of them with her super-powers.

Perhaps they were just unfriendly. . . which I'm not. . . . Thank heaven.

I'm guess I'll just  continue to look up.

***********
At any rate, when a lot of you are heading to bed tonight (tomorrow morning for me), I'll be on a train heading to Venice. 

Tank You. Tank You.

A quiet Via Farini

"It helps me to grow as a person 

to be outside of my element; to 

be on my own in a strange 

place meeting people."

~ Ziggy Marley

The temperature was not quite as high yesterday and today, so I spent a good amount of time walking around the city.  Since yesterday was a holiday and today was Saturday, the streets were quiet except in the very center of the city.  I walked down streets I had not traveled before and found a number of beautiful treasures I would have missed had I stayed the normal course.

As I walk, I write in my head.  I do that in the States, too. It helps when I sit to put pen-to-paper or fingers-to-keyboard to have some firm thoughts already formulated.  Of course, a lot of times I forget what I had written up there, and it swirls away like smoke. If I'm lucky, I'll have my mini-notebook with me and can write down an idea or thought that I really like.

I also have practiced Italian as I walk.  I read signs in business windows, talk to owners of small shops, talk to myself (and pray no one thinks I'm pazza and calls the cops).  It helps, though, and I can tell that I'm starting to *think* more in Italian than I was even four or five days ago.

Yesterday evening, I saw Paolo, the second person I met in Bologna, smoking outside of Bar Santo Stefano.

"Ciao, Paolo.  How are you?" (I can use "Ciao with him because we are now friends, and he is not grumpy like the old dog owner was.)

"Good.  Good.  How about you?"

'it goes well," I told him.  He asked me what I had done all day since it was Ferragosto.  "I walked around the city."

"Did you walk around the tangenziale?" I looked at him. The tangenziale is the road that rings the city center. Had I tried to walk it, I'd probably still be out there. It's not a small area to cover. He misunderstood me because the darn Italian prepositions are  crasy.

 "No. No," I answered. "I walked up Via Castiglione and in the centro and Via Farini. Excuse me. I'm still trying with the Italian."

"You are doing good," he told me.  "Your Italian better my English."

"Grazia. Grazia," I laughed. "I'm not so sure."

A tiny via off of the centro

Fast forward:  I walked around again today and tried to visit more streets I didn't know. I walked up one tiny street that looked very similar to the one in the above photo.  There were a number of restaurants and businesses there, but only the money-gram office was open.

As I reached the corner, an older woman stopped me.

"Excuse me, signora." She looked frantic. "Where Gobbledy-gook. Gobbledy-gook?" I had no idea what she said.

"I'm sorry. Can you speak more slowly?"

She repeated her request. "Where is Vest-Airn Shoe-nion?"  Ah! She wanted a Western Union, and I had just passed it.

"Look," I said pointing. "It's about 50 feet down the street. Do you see the sign?" She waved her arms and gobbledy-gooked me. I could not, for the life of me, understand what she was saying.  She didn't move, so I crossed to the other side of her and pointed down the street.  "Do you see the sign? It says 'Money Gram.' Western Union is there."

"Gobbledy-gook. Gobbledy-gook."  Holy crap. I was getting a complex because I had no idea what she said, and she apparently didn't understand me.  Since I was the common denominator, I figured Paolo had been lying to me, and my Italian was a lot worse than his English.  The woman waved her arms a little more. "Gobbledy-gook. Gobbledy-gook."

I sighed.  "Come with me." I motioned for her to follow me.  Now, I have to say that I hesitated a little to walk her down that block because, even though it we were right on the main street, walking to that office was away from the trafficked area. The lady was old, though, shorter than I, and she seemed frantic. Besides, I was carrying my umbrella and could whack her over the head if she tried anything.

"There, do you see it?" I asked her.

"Closed," she said. I thought she was going to cry.

"No. It's open. It's open. See? Even the door is open." I motioned her closer, did a curlicue motion with my arm, and bowed for her to go in. "Tah! Dah!"  I instantly felt like an idiot, but she finally smiled.

"Grazia.  Grazia, signora.  Grazia." She heaved herself onto the store's stoop.  "Gobbledy-gook. Gobbledy-gook." Good God. I really felt stupid since I could not understand her.

"I'm sorry," I finally admitted,  "but I'm learning Italian. I don't understand you."

She shook her head. In battered English, she said, "Vair from you? I Rusa. Spake 'talia little."  She grabbed both of my hands in hers and pumped them.  "Tank you. Tank you."  Thank God. She was a little, old Russian woman trying to speak Italian.

I bowed slightly. "You're welcome. Good afternoon to you."

As I walked back to the main street, I was happy that I had helped the desperate woman and wondered why she was so distraught.

On the other hand, though, I was thrilled that her Italian was worse than her English, and of the two of us, she was the one who was annihilating the language.

Five Fun Facts For Ferragosto

The church across the street

 “I am at length joined to Bologna, 

where I am settled like a sausage, 

and shall be broiled like one, 

if this weather continues.”

~ George Gordon Lord Byron

Today, Bologna was not as hot as it's been for the past two weeks.  The high reached about 80 degrees, and while the humidity was still high, the slight temperature drop and breeze made it comfortable.  Add in the fact that today is Ferragosto, and the day was a perfect one in which to walk around the city.

"Ferragosto?" you ask. Yep. So did I.

On Wednesday morning, the Spanish woman in my class, Violeta, slid something my way and asked, "Do we have to go to that extra class this afternoon?"

"What extra class?" I was confused because I had heard of no extra class.

"The school is closed Friday for Ferragosto," she informed me, "so there is an extra class today."  I looked at Violeta and then at Annette.  Annette looked as confused as I did.

"Ferragosto? What is that? Did you know that, Annette?" I asked.  She shook her head.

"Everything is closed Friday," Violeta said.  She had a tendency to mix things up, so I was sure she was a little pazza.

It turns out ol' Violeta was correct. Today is Ferragosto, and it is a national holiday. Apparently, the ancient festival celebrated the end of hard work in the field and coincided with the Feast of the Assumption, which my non-Catholic friends might not realize is a holy day of obligation (Catholics are supposed to go to Mass.) Almost everything did close (YAY!! Another reason to take a day off!!), and the streets in my area were very quiet.

I took a number of long walks and took photos since very few people were out and about. I thought I'd share a few along with a few fun facts.

I.  I went into the church across the street from my apartment today to see if Mass was going on and to light a candle for a friend's grandchild. I assumed they'd be having Mass since the bells were ringing a lot, but there were only five people in the church, and I was one of them.  As I was kneeling there, a little, old nun started playing the organ, and she and the old priest started singing.  I mean no disrespect, but I was surprised the beautiful stained glass didn't shatter from their voices.

Colazione (Breakfast)

2. Not exactly everything closes.  *My* bar, Bar Santo Stefano, reopened this morning after having been closed for four days to remodel.  I had to celebrate with a cappuccino and brioche (with apricot marmellata, of course).  Cesar's was the only bar open, and that shocks me because one would think the others would want the business.  Oh, well.  Good for Cesar and Lili.

The canal from Via Piella

 3. Bologna, like many European cities, once depended on canals for transportation and power.  The Bolognese silk industry and flour mills used the water to power wheels for those businesses.  In addition, they used the canals to transport goods.  In the 50s and 60s, the city government paved over most of the canals to provide more parking for the modern city.  Today, you can see the remnants of one of the canals in the old ghetto ebraico—Jewish Ghetto.  Across the street from where I took this photo is a wall with a window cut in it.  When you open the window, you can see the other side of the canal.  I'm quite taken with it and will most certainly return.

Naked Neptune

 4. The Fountain of Neptune, a bronze statue that was completed in 1565, still stands guard over Piazza Nettuno next to Piazza Maggiore in the center of Bologna.  (Neptune's trident, by the way, is the symbol of the Maserati Car Company.) The two piazzas front what was once the papal palace in Bologna.  Apparently church officials were not too pleased with the giant nude statue and claimed it upset women and made them faint, so they had bronze shorts made to clothe Neptune.  After Napolean formed his puppet state and became "king" of Italy in the early 20th century, he ordered the bronze shorts removed.  Luckily, I haven't seen anyone fainting in the piazza since I arrived.

Naked Luzzo

5. Via di Luzzo is a tiny street off of Piazza Santo Stefano. Very close to the top of the street, this sculpture of a fish resides where you might otherwise see a street sign.  A Luzzo is a kind of fish that looks like the sculpture, as I found out by looking here.  One of the instructors from the school told us that because people could not read 300-400 years ago, city planners put sculptures on the streets so people would know where they were.  As far as I know, no women (or clergy) were upset by the naked fish, so they didn't have to wear cement shorts until Napolean freed them.

That's the end of today's Five Fun Facts for Ferragosto!

 Be sure to join us again tomorrow as we see what kind of fun stuff we find in this fair city.