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February 1 - Arenzano, Italy

On a casual stroll about town this afternoon, I stepped into heavy fire--of silly string and shaving cream. Today was Carnevale, and young teenagers and pre-teens, some masked and costumed, others plainclothed, engaged in spruzzo combat. Informal, unorganized guerilla tactics prevailed as these young, primarily male fighters charged in packs through the alleys and piazzas of the historic Centro, ruthlessly covering each other in white, soapy foam. Shrieks and Italian curses rang loud. Excited conversation and intermittent quiet were also prevalent at times, especially in a designated parental safe zone down below. Rumors swirled about a preliminary procession through Arenzano, participants flaunting their attire. Caught in the crossfire, intrepid Martello set up a civilian outpost, whipped out his reporters notebook, and observed the events from a bench in Piazza David Chiossone. Details remain sketchy at this point; while not equipped with a camera, Martello did manage to capture some sense of the scene in the quick sketch posted below. However, more questions than answers remain--timeline, motivations, alliances, spruzzo suppliers, etc. As the story unfolds, look to this blog for more in-depth coverage.

Wandering Around Zurich Town

We awoke on our second full day in Zurich eager to tour historic sights. Our first scheduled stop was the Kunsthaus, which Trofie Wife had toured at length (after being scolded in German for not putting my coat in a locker) last January but which Martello was curious to see. Unfortunately, it’s closed on Mondays (and we thought it was just Sunday that was the problem in this place!). So instead we headed to the two major churches in town, the Fraumünster (featuring stained-glass windows by Chagall and Giacometti; see photo of outside of church below; sorry, no cameras allowed inside, but here are some links: http://www.sacred-destinations.com/switzerland/images/zurich/fraumunster/resized/chagall-windows-cc-al-lanni.jpg; http://www.pbase.com/emi_fiend/image/39213313) and the Grossmünster (http://www.sacred-destinations.com/switzerland/zurich-grossmunster.htm). We hiked up the creaky, narrow, wooden stairs of the Grossmünster tower (which would certainly be viewed as way too dangerous for two-way traffic in the United States) so that Martello could capture a lovely view of the city, while Trofie Wife stood far away from the edge and clung to the railings.

Fraumunster clocktower (those Swiss and their clocks!)

We spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the Niederdorf neighborhood (the older part of the city, too much of which has receded into a cheesy, overpriced, tourist-attracting, bar-laden area) and weaving back and forth across the many footbridges, taking in one picturesque site after another.

With two trips to Zurich already behind her, Trofie Wife had still not tasted a proper fondue or raclette meal, so although I am lactose intolerant, I believed this was a necessary undertaking in order to fully understand Swiss culture. On my first visit in late 2006, Zurich Sister and I had nearly gone to Adler’s Swiss Chuchi on the advice of a friend, so I decided it was the best place in Zurich for Martello and me to have an authentic fondue/raclette experience. I really didn’t know, however, what the difference was between these two cheese delivery apparati prior to that meal (and I bet most readers don’t either). Fondue involves strangely-pronged, mutant forks and the fairly easy task of dipping bread or whole mini potatoes from a fairly large sack into a cauldron of bubbling cheese. Raclette, on the other hand, involves way more work. The waiter plugs a cheese grill into the wall and the diner then places her cheese (in my case, gouda) on the grill. When it seems melted enough, you use a spatula-like instrument to scrape it off the grill and onto your plate. I was given a whole assortment of things to throw the cheese on in addition to the potatoes and bread—onions, pickles, pears. (This is at least how we ate the raclette; it could be the totally wrong way to do it, which wouldn’t surprise me.) This meal was, of course, accompanied by a healthy dose of Lactaid® (that one’s for you, Johnson & Johnson Supplier). Yet there are some meals that even super duper fast-acting, enzyme replacing Lactaid® can’t handle—a risk that I was willing to take in order to check this culinary experience off my list. I just wasn’t ready for the ensuing results.

There are moments in one’s life where your actions can lead you to question your entire purpose for being. Changes in behavior so vast that you can’t look yourself in the mirror. Well, just an hour or so later, Trofie Wife had one of those (actually, it was two, which compounded the breakdown). First, while I had been eager to show Martello around Globus, the beautiful Swiss department store with a stunning basement-level gourmet food shop, I could not muster the energy, my stomach still weakened. While this turn of events disappointed me, Martello wasn’t similarly bummed, so it wasn’t a huge deal (since I had already made a dent in my savings there twice before). But what happened next gave me metaphysical whiplash. We made our way to the Sprungli flagship (remember, the one I couldn’t wait to visit?), and I could not motivate myself to select chocolate. Yes, you heard me correctly. I just couldn’t do it. I tried to find the year’s vintage chocolate bar but it didn’t seem to have been released yet, and I had no energy to select truffles. I grabbed one box of assorted carrés (dark chocolate squares filled with flavored nougat) and asked Martello if it was okay if we left. Let me repeat that in case you misunderstood: I ASKED MARTELLO IF IT WAS OKAY TO VOLUNTARILY EXIT A CHOCOLATE STORE!!! When we did go, I had to sit for a few minutes in order to compose myself. I was out of sorts. I believed that I had lost the essence of myself if I was incapable of gravitating towards dark chocolate. I was afraid that we’d have to use our health insurance for emergency choco-therapy sessions. Yet, thankfully, after some reassuring words from Martello, I felt better. Later that evening following dinner, I opened the carré box and just to make sure the problem was solved, I had two.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

The Swiss Underground (Wait, Aren’t They Neutral?)

On our first full day in Zurich, Martello and I slept in as late as our hosts (especially our mini hosts) would allow. We finally mustered ourselves to the Pain Quotidien around the corner where Zurich Sister eventually met us (after being relieved from duty) and then lead the way up the Dolderbahn (they just throw these funiculars all over the place in Europe!) and gave us a tour of the sporting facilities and newly-refurbished Dolder Grand Hotel (Foster and Partners=multiple photos; the place is rumored to charge over $800 a night—and I just verified that rumor; eek!).

After our descent, we parted from Zurich Sister and took a quick tram ride to the Stadelhofen train station. While it previously had only been known to me as the embarkation point for the airport train, it turns out that it was designed (with great fanfare) by Santiago Calatrava, which calls for lots of photographs (sorry, I didn't download those, but if you're really interested, visit http://www.greatbuildings.com/buildings/Stadelhofen_Railway_Stati.html). Trofie Wife stood in the cold while Martello shot every angle, nut, and bolt. She was rewarded for her patience with a hot pretzel with mustard from the ubiquitous chain, Bretzel Konig (sadly, no plain pretzel baguettes were available).

Much like the county of my youth (dreaded Bergen), Zurich runs on stiff Blue Laws that keep much of everything closed on Sunday. Italy—of Mass on Sunday— is actually a bit looser on these matters; some stores are open on Sunday, but the catch is that you have to wake up and get there before they close at noon (except for the grocery store in Voltri, blissfully open until 9 p.m. every night). Strangely, there is an exception in Svizzera for stores located beneath the earth, so many train stations are equipped with underground shopping malls. After the photo session ended, we descended to the station’s Sprungli chocolate store, a member of the chain that I had not yet visited. Sprungli, for those of you not in the know, is most likely the absolute best chocolate store in the world (and those of you who know me and my chocolate habit well clearly understand that I don’t throw around such a designation lightly). It’s a pristine monument to not only chocolate but pastries of every kind, particularly the delicate Luxemburgerli buttercream-filled macaroons (in such flavors as chocolate, mocha, and raspberry and which, Martello beware (and Zurich Brother-in-Law also be joyous!), I just found out can be shipped internationally…). Since I didn’t consider this small Sprungli to be a “real Sprungli” (like the flagship in the city center), I stuck to ordering only a small chocolate cake and a selection of Luxemburgerli (and saved the heavy-duty chocolate shopping for later in the week). Trofie Wife will have you all know that these purchases were shared amongst everyone with working teeth in the Freiestrasse apartment.

We arrived home just in time for pre-bedtime playtime. Martello and Frank Lloyd “I Don’t Yet Know My Left From My Right” got to work on the schematic for a new wooden structure, further proving that if people just learn to work together, we can overcome the greatest of differences (those being, allegiances to the Yankees in the former’s case and the Red Sox (note below actual red socks) in the latter).

After the kiddies (don't worry, we'll post shots of the other one in the coming days) were again tucked in, Zurich Brother-in-Law introduced us to the pleasures (especially when you have surround-sound speakers) of renting movies via iTunes. Zurich Sister and I went to bed with nightmares courtesy of The Dark Knight (clearly some fantastic acting from Heath Ledger, who actually died the last time I was in Switzerland). Stay tuned for news about “tomorrow” (which was really 12/29/08, but who’s really keeping track...).

Senf und bretzels,

Martello e Trofie Wife

One Train Ride Not Worth Sleeping Through

After two lovely nights in Como, Martello and Trofie Wife geared up for our first trip out of Italy since we had arrived in late October. Our destination? Switzerland. After sprinting back (well, just Martello) to the hotel when we realized we still had the room key and wanted to avoid transporting it across the border, we hopped on the bus and found our way back to the Como station. Thanks to the extra sleep afforded by our early turn-in the prior evening, we were able to (mostly) stay awake during the journey. We passed from the Como to Lugano region, veering into Ticino (the Italian-speaking canton of Switzerland) through a veritable winter wonderland that won over Martello’s vision (which is doubly better than mine on the contacts scale) and made him so bold as to say that this snowy journey was “the most gorgeous train ride ever.”

Gradually, the mountain landscape starting giving way to Starbucks cafes. One after the other. It was definitely a rude awakening. Now, don’t get Trofie Wife wrong: I love Starbucks (and am grateful to the Palisades Avenue branch for always being so welcoming during interview season; I’m sure they miss me and my little Columbia banner). And having visited Switzerland twice before (and hearing of my nephew’s love for their muffins), I knew that Starbucks had made their mark there, but Italy holds the proud distinction of barring the chain from opening a single store in its country, citing the possible loss of its distinct café culture (for some reason, France has let in the Green Mermaid). The bold white-on-green lettering coupled with the brusque sounds of German made it clear that we had entered a new dimension. 

We soon arrived at Zurich’s central station and navigated our way to a payphone (how quaint!), and announced our presence (we were somewhat noncommittal as to the exact date/time of our arrival, something that Trofie Wife’s sister was totally cool with). We hopped on a tram and landed at the red door on Freiestrasse just prior to kiddie bedtime and adult dinner. We quickly made ourselves at home and prepped for the limited adventuring that would be available to us the next day (Switzerland is essentially closed on Sunday).

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

And While We’re on the Subject of the Holocaust…

According to a recent New York Times article, Trenitalia has agreed to construct a Holocaust memorial in a secret, underground section of the Milan station (which is the only part of Milan in which Martello and Trofie Wife have spent any significant amount of time). In the 1940s, deportees were loaded onto railroad cars in the secret chamber and then lifted to the main part of the station before being spirited to concentration camps. Should this project actually be completed prior to our departure from Italy (there’s a pretty good shot of it, since the Milan station has, at least in our opinion, made great strides in its major renovation in the gaps between our visits there), we’ll be sure to visit while awaiting our next connection.

For the full story, see http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/04/travel/04COMtrain.html?ref=travel.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

Going Loco up in Lake Como

If you made it to the end of the previous post, you likely noted Mezzegra’s beauty. Once again, Trofie Wife’s black belt Googling skills guided us to a grand old time. Our terrace window–door (those creepy “doors” that jump out at you when you turn the knob just a tad too far, causing them to morph into “windows”; apparently if you’re a “design” or “construction professional” you understand how these things work; nonprofit administrators not so much) showcased majestic, snow-capped mountains and illustrious Lake Como, which borders grand dwellings housing celebrities of old (bishops granted gorgeous villas) and new (George Clooney; now I understand his Nespresso connection). As per our other off-price journeys over the years, Martello and I were visiting the Lakes off-season, but the calm and stillness was definitely a treat (and we’ll be sure to make it back to experience high season and ride some boats around the lake; cross your fingers that Trofie Wife doesn’t get sea sick).

Mezzegra is a tiny town of 900 residents but it has a vaunted past as a site of a fatto storico (historic event).

 The brown sign doesn’t exactly spell it out (given the Italians’ continually strange relationship with Il Duce and his descendents), but on April 28, 1945, the deposed, on-the-run fascist leader (and his mistress) were gunned down by partisans. It appears as though Mezzegra residents (and likely regional and federal governmental leaders) felt as though they needed to commemorate their town’s role in history yet not commercialize it. (There is, however, a cute little bench and picnic table right next to the “ready, aim, fire” spot, so make of that what you will…).

After ruminating on the Mussolini affair for a moment, Martello lead us to the town’s church (even with only 900 residents I would venture to say that it isn’t the only one in Mezzegra), memorial to residents felled during the two World Wars, and the church’s adjoining (and still active) cemetery (in which Martello lingered for an uncomfortable amount of time, taking many pictures (while town members were paying respects at family graves); he challenged me to post some to the blog so he could call me on my hypocrisy at a later point, but I didn’t take any off the camera, so you’ll just have to imagine them or ask Martello to send you the files). 

We walked through Mezzegra’s winding cobblestoned hills and then several miles around the lake, where each vista was prettier than the next, and Martello found himself quite taken with the architecture of a solitary, waterside church that was nearly a millennia old.

While there was talk of trying to walk to Como, our better judgment (and frozen toes) prevailed, and we eventually hopped on a bus (hereby christened “the most beautiful bus ride ever”). We disembarked in Como near a guidebook-recommended pizza place and gorged on very long, wide pizzas (while marveling at the gargantuan appetites of what we believed were decommissioned Swiss border guards). We then explored Como’s Christmas market and contemplated ice skating on the temporary rink, but the combination of Trofie Wife’s reactivated leg pain (from our Arenzano hike of several weeks prior) and the unbearable (American) elevator music blasting from the rink’s speakers convinced us to forgo it. Instead, we took the funicular to Brunate to gaze down at Como while sipping hot cocoa.  

It’s a wonder that I made it back down in one piece, given that I sustained a hit to the lip (Martello’s mistake while in a photography-induced frenzy) and the nose (by tree branch). 

We descended at nightfall and made our way to centro and the Como duomo (say it three times fast; that never gets old!) which, oddly enough, specifically bans gelato (but curiously no other foods) from its vaunted halls. We then walked to a park containing a monument to Alessandro Volta (native son and father of the battery) and a Futurist monument to unknown soldiers by Antonio Sant'Elia, which Martello had seen previously in textbooks.

The park also displayed a small monument to a Righteous Gentile, Giorgio Perlasca, another Como native, who masterfully manipulated international laws of diplomacy in order to save over 5,000 Hungarian Jews from deportation to concentration camps (check out his amazing story here: http://www.giorgioperlasca.it/inglese/vita.html). Additionally, there is a small memorial plaque for Princess Malfada di Savoia, who had the misfortune of marrying a German Nazi supporter (Prince Philipp of Hesse) and found herself in Buchenwald upon suspicion of working against the aims of the regime. (Sadly, she was mortally wounded in the Allied bombing of the camp's munitions factory.)

We managed to catch the last bus back to Mezzegra (after a painfully long wait, during which Martello foraged some olive foccacia). We disembarked past our hotel, hoping to find an open café. Instead, we found darkness and a Scooby Doo-style haunted house villa with creepy gargoyles (sorry, it was too dark for photos!).  We eventually managed to find our way back to the hotel so we could rest our weary limbs and gear up for the next day of our adventure.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife

The Twelve Days of Vacanze

Buon anno! Trofie Wife must apologize for taking such a long time to return to cyber world after what seemed like an endless holiday vacation. (Apologies are rescinded from those of you whose Gregorian and Lunar New Year’s resolutions included catching up on our blog; you’re welcome.) It is Trofie Wife’s hope over the next several (ok, many) entries to illustrate our wanderings from the dusk of 2008 to the dawn of 2009—a journey that wound through newly-discovered (well, just by us) parts of Italy as well as well-warn chocolate paths and fresh (yet extended) design paths in Switzerland and (for a couple of hours) Germany. But Trofie Wife will heed the advice of dear Alpine Governess Maria and seek “a very good place to start”— the beginning, of course. That takes us back to where we last left off—Christmas Day— just several hours after we bid arrivederci to those lovely nativity donkeys astride the duomo. …

Now apparently much of the world’s population can’t wait to leap from their beds on Christmas morning and rush to the foot of their trees to inspect Santa’s offerings. Trofie Wife, however, took “bah humbug” to a new level this December 25th, practically pitching a fit at the thought of emerging from bed and flinging herself on an early morning train to Milan (not that the company—il cugino en route to the airport along with dear Martello—wouldn’t have been delightful). See, the hotel at our first vacation stop—the much-lauded Lakes region—had been kind enough to inform us that they would be closed until 5 p.m., so it didn’t make sense to Trofie Wife to arrive in a new Italian city on Christmas Day prior to that time, laden with luggage filled with nearly two weeks of garments and reading material (as well as gifts for Swiss munchkins). We would likely encounter increasingly growling stomachs as everything, I argued, would be closed SINCE WE WERE IN ITALY— not quaint New York of ye Chinese restaurants and movie theaters—ON CHRISTMAS DAY.  My whining eventually wore down a more-chipper-than-usual-on-a-day-when-he-could-have-very-easily-slept-in Martello, so he accompanied il cugino to the train station, then returned to the apartment for a warm, mid-winter morning nap and some last-minute trip planning.

If you thought our nuptials lacked advance planning, our vacation proved an exercise in an even more aggressive form of vaguely outlined (on the back of a napkin) spontaneity. We knew that the centerpiece would be a visit to our family in Zurich, but other than that, it was a blank (well, except for the knowledge that it would include several design-related pilgrimages). Back in November, we had day dreamed about relaxing in the thermal baths in Vals, Switzerland, but all the Vals hotels were booked by the time we got around to booking/deciphering the German Web sites. So, in a pinch, Martello honed in on the lovely Lake Como, which was conveniently en route to Svizerra. Trofie Wife typed “Lake Como” and “hotel” into the search bar, and the first thing that popped up was a tour itinerary for a British group set to stay at a lakeside hotel. It appeared to be a classy gathering, and their presence hinted at the presence of our native tongue, so Trofie Wife jumped on it without wasting time researching other options.

In true form, we narrowly missed the first of our three trains (this was likely due to a certain wife’s insistence on validating the tickets) and spent the better part of the late (and increasingly chilly) afternoon awaiting the next train to Genoa. But we (and our bulky luggage) eventually made all the connections, landing in the Como station at around 8:30 p.m. Of course, the hotel ended up being nowhere near Como (the city) proper. Oops. We took a super long and super expensive taxi ride to the hotel. But thankfully, despite its faraway location in sleepy Mezzegra, it appeared lovely at first glance, and we were greeted heartily—they even kept the kitchen open so we could enjoy a proper Christmas dinner. The Brits were there as advertised— a loud group of mostly female retirees looking for a good time, which they incidentally found in the lounge, with the synthesizer and off-key singer of such classic Italian holiday tunes as “Dancing Queen” and “I Will Survive.” We dined on a combination of assorted holiday treats, perhaps the oddest being what appeared to be salmon gefilte fish with a cod sushi roll nestled inside it—the capon “kreplach” in chicken soup broth and turkey roll were tied for second in the weird department.  Pooped, yet hoping to discover the beautiful lake and surrounding towns on December 26^th, Saint Stefano’s Day (or Boxing Day, to you Anglo Saxons), we ordered our panettone to go and called it a night. We would awaken the next morning to this lovely view. (Note: the adorable golden retriever who lives in that villa went back inside before I could grab my camera, but just imagine him there, faithfully awaiting the return of his master, a spandex-clad cyclist.)

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife