Time in Trieste

Trieste does not feel like Italy. Neither Martello nor Trofie Wife has visited Austria, but from everything we’ve gathered, Trieste is more akin to Vienna than Milano or Venice. This is due to the fact that it wasn’t firmly, finally, and officially part of Italy until well after World War II (1954), having spent a good chunk of time as the Adriatic seaport of the Austro-Hungarian Empire (and switching hands numerous times in the first half of the 20th century). Given this history, Trieste is very clean, orderly (they have literally numbered each and every city street lamp), and filled with strudel and schlag.

They count all the public lamps! Pazzo!

Trieste Municipo

Piazza di Unita

It was Ferragosto on our first day in town, so much was closed. Being Mary’s holiday it’s supposed to have religious significance, but in the last 40 years or so, it’s been turned into a sort of American Labor Day, an excuse for beach going and parties (the Vatican is not very happy about this and makes a point of getting on TV prior to the holiday to remind people of its original message). We wandered through the piazza, enjoying klezmer (?!) and classical music played by street musicians. We had an amazing lunch at the “wrong” café (we were headed for a guide book recommendation but turned too soon, with excellent results) and walked along the quays to the decrepit old university building, uphill to the duomo of San Giusto, and then back downtown to the Serbian church of San Spiridione (Trofie Wife’s favorite; loved the gilt).

Well-dressed street performers

Approach to the Duomo 

San Giusto

Interior of San Giusto

Serbian Church, San Spirito 

Inside San Spirito

We sipped café shakerati (iced espressos) and ate apple strudel filled with raisins and pignoli at the famed Café degli Specchi, right on the Piazza d’Unita. There is a bit of a pigeon problem at the many outdoor cafes, with the brazen birds landing on tables (cleared and with patrons still around) in hopes of getting some crumbs. They are probably responsible for breaking at least a dozen glasses a day at each venue. We returned to the piazza at nightfall (after a pre-dinner gelato; despite the heavy Austrian influence, the gelato is still 100 percent Italian and fantastic) for a jazz concert with a fairly well-known (though not to us) Italian jazz elder. The piazza was lit up and filled with people from front to back; it was quite a sight. We capped off the evening at a beer garden overlooking the water.

Cafe degli Specchi

Jazz concert in the piazza

Sunday was devoted to Jewish activities. We toured the impressive synagogue (Tempio Israelitico di Trieste) and learned about the community, past and present. During the community’s heyday from the mid-1800s to just prior to World War II (the Jewish population was around 5,000 just prior to the start of the war), it was Ashkenazi (German and Eastern European) and filled with major players in the Trieste economy (we think our hotel was a mansion owned by one of those families and run by a descendent, hence the mezuzah). It also notably served as a weigh station for Jews clandestinely immigrating to British Mandate Palestine. Now Trieste is mainly Sephardic (descendents from the Spanish expulsion in 1492), but out of deference to history, services are held in Ashkenazi style on Shabbat. It was always an Orthodox synagogue, but interestingly enough, they have an organ. It was never used on Shabbat, just for weddings and concerts and such, but as the well-to-do community integrated into the secular (yet still heavily Christian influenced) society, they attended functions at their co-workers’ churches and wanted to incorporate some of what they enjoyed into their place of worship. We couldn’t take pictures inside, but Martello snapped many outside. It’s somewhat of a Moorish style in the main sanctuary; one of the side rooms has a low-tech retractable roof that serves as the sukkah (a hut for the fall harvest holiday), which was kind of cool.

We spent the afternoon at perhaps the most embarrassing historical site in all of Italy—the Risiera di San Sabba, an old rice factory that was transformed into the country’s one concentration camp. Neither Martello nor I had ever been to a camp, and it was an intense experience, filled with information and sensory (especially smell) overload. We didn’t feel right or comfortable taking pictures, but here’s what it looks like (http://www.retecivica.trieste.it/triestecultura/new/musei/risiera_san_sabba/). There was a crematorium (hastily destroyed by the commanders as the Allies approached, but the outline is still clear and properly memorialized), but most of the Jews (700 from Trieste; more from other nearby northern regions) brought here were sent on to Auschwitz, Buchenwald, or other death/labor camps, so the Riseria’s main victims were Slavs and Italian partisans and communists (a total 3,000-5,000 people were murdered here; but it mostly served as a transit camp). The museum appears to do an excellent job reaching out to its neighbors in Slovenia and Slovakia, translating the materials into their languages (along with the standard English, French, and German). At least in our educational experiences in the States, the Slavs get brief mention along with the list of the non-Jewish million murdered in the camps. Italy, in concert with the Nazi occupiers, expended great effort “cleansing” Slavs from Trieste and the surrounding multicultural regions. Slavs endured a propaganda campaign and forced name changes and the outlawing of their language and culture. Given that we still live in a world where genocide is a reality (and Trofie Wife spent the better part of her beach time in Sardinia reading Samantha Power’s A Problem from Hell, a history of the United States’s responses to genocide), it behooves us all to learn about each situation and see the similar, sad patterns (this is especially helpful in parts of the world where little is known about Jews and the Holocaust and a multicultural approach has shown to help decrease anti-Semitism and lead to better coexistence).

After recovering from the intensity of the camp, we spent the next morning learning about Trieste’s role in the history of literature at the Joyce and Svevo museums. As mentioned in the last post, James Joyce spent nearly two decades in Trieste, teaching English, writing, and lecturing. At the museum we watched a DVD about his time in the city, particularly learning about his experience tutoring the well-to-do Jewish families and writing alongside Italo Svevo, an Italian-Jewish businessman and author (Joyce helped put his self-published work on the map). Many believe that much of the character development of Leopold Bloom of Ulysses emerged from these relationships. In addition, there’s a strong theory that the language of Finnegans Wake was inspired by Trieste, where at every street intersection a different language could be heard—some critics have gone so far as to say that Trieste is the only city that could have inspired the ruckus within the Wake!

Trofie Wife discusses literature with Svevo

Our last tourist stop within the city limits was to Miramare, a Hapsburg castle built by Archduke Ferdinand Maximilian, the loopy one who was named emperor of Mexico. It was quite stunning (though we’ve been told it’s merely a shadow of what we’ll see one day in Vienna), with lovely sea views and elaborate furnishings. It also held the quarters of the Duke D’Aosta, a much-loved figure. Although we lacked our bathing suits, we waded in the Adriatic on our way back to the hotel. There isn’t really a beach on this part of the coast; instead people just lay out on the sidewalk or park benches. Gotta love Italian improvisation! 

Miramare

Trofie Wife surveys her holdings

Improvisational sunbathing

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

A “Capital” Visit

Our first mission in Cagliari—the regional capital—was breakfast (Trofie Wife insists that we never miss breakfast when it’s included in the price of our hotel stay, sleep be damned), not knowing that we would be encountering quite possibly the best hotel breakfast in the history of hotel breakfasts. The buffet table was lined with, amongst a plethora of treats, the freshest, yummiest pecorino sardo, really good jam, surprisingly yummy café americano (Trofie Wife usually avoids it in Italy, opting for the more reliable espresso), and juice from every tree in the orchard. We now understood why there was fairly heavy security at the front door and checking of room numbers.

Cagliari city walls

Our last day in Sardegna was spent touring craft stores, the San Benedetto indoor market (we so wished we had access to a refrigerator for all the produce, fish, and cheese, but we at least came away with some great honey), and sipping drinks in the famed Café Antico, which turned out to be somewhat disappointing along with the gelateria that was supposed to have 280 flavors, but only boasted a paltry two dozen and most of them were canned, not fresh. Far more interesting was the hilly walk through the city walls (though Trofie Wife was a bit tired/complainy—it was super hot), searching for the old Jewish ghetto (evidence remains of the ghetto entrance and old synagogue site, though a church sits atop it now), and seeing the duomo all decked out for the upcoming holiday (Ferragosto—a holiday honoring Mary’s rise to heaven).

Old Jewish quarter

"The Ghetto" is an arts and cultural center that has nothing to do with Jewish culture. It was closed while we were wandering.

Narrow, winding alleys 

Although our time in Sardegna was coming to an end, our vacation was not (yes, we are ridiculously spoiled). That evening, we flew from Cagliari to Trieste (pretty much as far north and east as you can go in Italy) on our first Ryan Air flight. For those of you unfamiliar, it’s a budget Irish airline that lets you easily hop from one European city to another. The catch is that while the ticket prices are low, they charge you up the wazoo for all the extras (including reserved seats; it's quite a scramble to grab two together during regular boarding). If your luggage is above weight (as was ours), you pay. Annoying, but still probably less costly than a flight on a major airline.

Trofie Wife believes that the urge to visit Trieste was first implanted in her brain during her much beloved Joyce course in college (which inspired a trip to Dublin several years ago). More on this soon, but Joyce spent nearly two decades here and his experiences in the city likely both inspired much of what appears in Ulysses and Finnegan’s Wake. As we started reading more about Italy, Trofie Wife learned that there was and still is quite a large Jewish presence in the city along with a great deal of other culinary and cultural delights. Martello obliged and found a beautiful little hotel (with a mezuzah, interestingly enough) right in the center of it all—we loved it so much that we booked two additional nights after breakfast that first morning.

Our first view of La Piazza d’Unita d’Italia, the central square in Trieste, was breathtaking, lit up in blue and bustling with activity. We just knew that we had arrived in a special place and couldn’t wait to explore the next morning.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Home Away from Home Away from Home

Alghero, once a Catalonian stronghold, was the next stop on our whirlwind Sardinian tour, which took us north briefly before we continued on southward (Martello had to help me recall the geography; I just kind of followed along without much awareness as to where we were exactly...). After a nauseating (only for Trofie Wife; Martello was snapping away as usual as supposedly it was a “spectacular” unfolding panorama) and windy bus ride, we landed in a walled town with a lovely sea view.

Stunning view of the coast from the bus; Trofie Wife was mostly looking at the backs of her eyelids, trying to avoid soiling the bus with her breakfast. I got glimpses of the mountains and water every so often and am grateful to Martello for documenting the beauty so I could appreciate it after disembarking from the constantly gear shifting autobus. 

Needing to catch a train south to Oristano not that long thereafter (and stuck with our luggage until we found the train station and its store room), we quickly toured the perimeter, seeking the vestiges of Catalonian culture (there was paella to be eaten, but we didn't have time for a lengthy meal) as well as signs of the former Jewish community, which had been expelled in 1492 alongside its brethren in mainland Spain. Although one of the towers embedded into the city walls was supposedly known as the "Jewish tower," we couldn’t quite find it (Martello recently remarked that he didn't know that we were looking...). However, we had no problem finding the expansive duomo (in a lovely Moorish style until Baroque elements were introduced and turned it all ungapacthka). We didn’t have much time to explore the sea (or take a ferry out to some nearby islands and grottos), but we did have an opportunity to indulge in some highly recommended gelato and see a pair of deaf parents yelling at their children in what we could only guess was Italian sign language (actual sign language, not just Italian hand gestures).

Ruins of early Catalan walls and towers.

Alghero's walls and the beautiful sea below.

The Duomo--much nicer looking outside than inside. 

The real attraction of this portion of the trip, however, was our two-night stay just outside Oristano in Solanas, at the agriturismo bed and breakfast run by the future mother-in-law of one of Martello’s co-workers. The co-worker and her fiancé arranged for our stay and escorted us around the area. The grounds of the B&B and surrounding fields were filled with delicious vegetables and fruits (including plenty of grapes handily turned into wine). Martello’s co-worker was kind enough to brief the innkeeper on Martello’s dietary restrictions (also helping Trofie Wife steer clear of eating any beloved piggies). Like a good Sardinian mamma, she kept insisting that we eat more, hurtling apperitivi, antipasti, primi, secondi, dolci, vini, caffe, e digestivi our way. It was on that first night that we finally bit into seadas, the classic Sardinian dessert. It’s a sort of sweet calzone filled with pecorino sardo and honey. It’s incredibly rich and difficult to eat after a large meal, yet amazingly, people manage to finish their portions (sadly, not Trofie Wife, though I plan to attempt making it on my own at some point). Somehow after dinner, we rolled into Torre Grande, another nearby town with an invigorating nightlife, which we were all too full and tired to partake in. When we arrived home, the family dog—some sort of pitbull mix—was waiting to greet us, but he wasn’t too interested in being pet by Trofie Wife… .

The following morning prior to leaving on a daytrip, our friends were kind enough to locate the bus to Is Arutas, a beach laden with rose quartz instead of sand, and put us on it. The beach was breathtaking and the rocks soft, making for an excellent napping ground and foot massage conveyance.

Quartz! On a beach! (That would be Martello's extreme excitement about this turn of events.) 

Martello gives himself a foot massage. 

The area seemed to be particularly attractive to German and Belgian tourists--several bars rose their respective flags (and one particularly blond one asked me to guard a bathroom door for her). We stayed long enough to enjoy naps, reading, wading, and photographing. 

Is Arutas sunset

With our friends up north, we were on our own for dinner, stuck attempting to make conversation with the other guests in a mix of English and Italian (Trofie Wife failing miserably in the latter and speaking too quickly in the former). Our fellow guests even started planning the remainder of our trip for us, suggesting different spots in Sardinia and further north back on the mainland. Perhaps our best memory of Sardenga comes from that evening: The momma innkeeper explained that while pork was on the menu for the rest of the guests, her husband had grilled us some manzo (beef)--she then placed her fingers on her head (to make little ears or horns) and gave us a moo or two; we so wished we could have captured it on film.

Our last day in Solanas was quite eventful, with a daytrip to Isla Mal au Ventre—yes French speakers, that would be Tummy-ache Island. Maybe not the best locale for Trofie Wife? Along with our now-returned friends we shared a rubber dinghy rental with another family staying at the inn. Now as Trofie Wife has noted here before, I am not so into boats. But at least a regular boat is made from wood or steel or some other heavyweight material, and one is unlikely to be at risk of falling out merely from climbing aboard. Riding a top a rubber dinghy is a whole separate experience. Thankfully no one fell out nor did I create any food for the fish.

Isla Mal au Ventre

We enjoyed an afternoon of swimming and relaxing. I did opt out of the boat tour around the island (back on the dinghy), choosing to save my courage reserves for the ride back to the mainland. Instead Martello and I toured the island by foot. Unfortunately, the camera was with our bags in the boat, but we saw bunnies and a bird skeleton. We eventually met up with the "boat," (I don't even know if it truly merits that description; "oversized inner tube" might be more appropriate) and I endured an extremely choppy journey back to shore, holding on for dear life the whole way (and disappointing the 10ish year old boy who really wanted the vessel to go as fast as possible), and emphatically reminding Martello that he had used up pretty much all of his points in the bank and owed me big time for putting up with this bumpy adventure.

Our friends relax in between boat rides.

Dried off and happy to be back on the mainland, our friends escorted us to the train station, where we hopped aboard a coach to Cagliari, the capital of Sardegna, which sits on the southern coast. En route, Trofie Wife took the unusual liberty of putting her feet on the seat. Most of the trains on the island are in pretty sorry states, but this one was kind of new, and the conductor was being protective and decided to snip at me. Guess I have to get in trouble sometime… .

We were happy to arrive at the über-hip T Hotel (which the locals deride as an oversized "pencil") and enjoy a delicious dinner. The following day we would take in the sounds and sights of Cagliari.

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Bosa Bustle

When people go to Sardegna, they usually laze on the beach for a week or more, enjoying the relaxing sand, sun, and hydrating (or not) beverages. Not so Martello e Trofie Wife. Martello wanted to see as much as possible during this trip, since we were not yet sure if we’d ever have the opportunity to return. So we planned (or at least outlined) a most unusual near circumnavigation. From the northeastern corner of the island, we next headed west and south to Bosa, a medieval town on which the guidebook had sold Martello. It being a Sunday in August, our journey there was anything but smooth, involving a bus, two trains, and a chartered taxi since the bus that was supposed to take us from where the train let us off was MIA (though a German–Italian nonna who spotted us at the train station was kind enough to invite us over for a beer; our (or at least Trofie Wife’s) American skepticism/mistrust still hasn’t quite warn off).

During these long bouts of travel, Martello enjoys taking nearly endless pictures of the scenery as the train whizzes by (Trofie Wife prefers to read). Given that Sardegna had just suffered a bout of forest fires (along with nearby Corsica and parts of Spain) in recent weeks, we saw quite a bit of charred fields and huddles of sheep that we weren’t quite sure were alive or dead (Sardenga’s sheep census seems to rival that of New Zealand; Sardinian sheep are responsible for the delectable pecorino sarda cheese. Thank ewe!).

View of Bosa

When our taxi finally pulled up to the hotel in Bosa, it was evident that Martello had hit upon yet another charming spot. The building was of an old world style, similar to our hotel in Pisa. But one of the main attractions (and the reason we put in for two nights here) was the town’s beach, which the guidebook said was quite wide and excellent for lazing about. Unfortunately, as we learned after a very long walk that involved crossing a major highway, while the hotel was in Bosa, the beach was in a town called Bosa Marina; the guidebook did not state this fact. Bus service to and from the beach as we learned on Day 2 was spotty (and the bus stop difficult to locate). Also annoying: Bosa Marina, while boasting many a place in which money can be spent, does not have a single ATM machine (though it does have a tourist office). Given that it was vacation season, there had been a run on the two ATMs in Bosa proper and one machine was not dispensing cash (at that point we probably had five or so euros between us). When we finally were able to get some, the line was ridiculously long (and Trofie Wife feared there'd be no money left by the time it was our turn--they don't accept credit cards at most gelateria--Martello found this anxiety to be ridiculous). Note to anyone doing any sort of city or town planning: if you’re designing a future tourist hotspot, please make the place’s name and location clear and do us all a favor by not naming your town the same thing as a neighboring town!

Beach on Bosa Marina

Bosa Marina beach

The whole distance from the hotel thing aside, the beach was quite spacious and lovely, lest the sulfuric smell emanating from the sea, which we were told was due to the algae (right…). While eating lunch at a beach bar, our waitress mistook us for Spaniards, then when we tried to correct her, she guessed we were every type of European before barely believing that we were American. At this point Martello and I realized we could be secret agents. We’ll let you know how that turns out…. .

We also ate fairly well (not a shocker), enjoying pizza on the first night after our epic nighttime return from Bosa Marina alongside the highway. At that pizza joint we began noticing (but did not order) something called pizza americano. What ingredients is our home country honored with? French fries. On pizza. Strangely enough, people actually order it (upon returning home we started noticing it on Ligurian menus). We, however, like our arteries too much. Our hotel also boasted a well-known restaurant and we had a delightful meal there, albeit it took forever to be served (not so much hustle from the wait staff, though to be fair, they seemed understaffed and overtaxed). We also enjoyed strolling through the lovely cobblestoned streets and seeing Sardinian handcrafts, which include pottery and sheep-based textiles. And then it was on to the next town… .

Bosa proper centro

Where there is zucchero filato, there is Trofie Wife

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

A Real Italian Holiday

As readers can probably guess from the general theme of our marriage, this blog, and knowing us, we often like to leave things to the exact last minute. I mean, once you plan a full-on wedding in a month, what’s a two-week vacation crisscrossing the country? Child’s play. Of course booking a last-minute vacation in August when nearly the entire country is out and about is not advisable. If it were solely up to Martello, we’d have found hotels at each stop along the way, but since this is a shared venture, Trofie Wife insisted that we have sleeping spots booked for at least the first portion of the trip (in a highly-vacationed zone); an idea that Martello finally warmed up to when he starting noticing the price differential between online rates and the significantly higher rates posted on the room’s door.

So, with the first few days of our lodging booked and all of the most necessary plans made, we left Arenzano and headed to the Genova port, where we boarded the ferry to Sardinia (Sardegna in italiano), a lovely island lying off Italy’s west coast and fully part of the country (although it does have an autonomous regional government, a dialect closely resembling Catalan, and unique cuisine). Its most luxurious stretches are famed for hosting the internationally rich and famous, including Berlusconi’s infamous party villa. For the plebians, there are more budget accommodations, but the entire island is covered in gorgeous coastline, so even if you can’t afford to spring for a resort, you can do quite well at the public beaches.

Because one can reach the eastern portions of the island via a relatively quick nine-hour ferry ride, the eastern coast of Sardinia functions as a sort of Genovese Hamptons (yes, people who live along the sea need to summer along a different seaside). People buy season passes for the car ferries and load on and off every weekend; there’s even a special kennel for the dogs. Since we were heading into the two prime weeks of August vacation, the ferry was quite packed (we chose the budget line to Olbia; there are several companies that service the many possible routes between Genova and several Sardinian ports of call; Trofie Wife was tempted to book the boat bearing Looney Toons characters, but, unfortunately, passage was in the realm of Scrooge Duck's budget). 


All of the ferries have a pricing system that seems weird if it’s unfamiliar. You pay for the right to be on the boat and then you pay for the seats (or cabin, if you want a bed). Seeing that we booked the budget line, we opted to pay a couple euro more for the first-class poltrone (the seats).

However, upon finding our seats we were quite surprised to notice that many—not only in first but also second class—were empty. We soon realized why:

Apparently people take this whole paying for passage thing quite literally. They pay for passage and then camp out in all sections of the boat. They bring sleeping bags, air mattresses, beach chairs; some board as early as possible to commandeer the bar and cafeteria areas or the staircase landings (some even sleep outside, canines beside them, as Martello learned during a middle of the night walk, which nearly ended in catastrophe with his foot brushing, yet thankfully not smushing, a sleeping dog). All violations of the fire code and all blissfully unenforced in carefree Italia. It’s quite insane and reminded me somewhat of a NFTY shul-in. (Trofie Wife was embarrassed as Martello snapped the above photos, yet I’m using them here, so I guess I should be grateful for the few moments of shame).

We docked not too long after sunrise and then took some time to find the pedestrian exit (apparently cars take priority). And as we began our search for a bus to take us to Palau, where we, thankfully, had a room booked, we had our first encounter with what would become a recurring motif: immense hurdles to accessing public transit. It’s pretty easy to get around major cities via train and bus. But to attempt to do so on an island like Sardinia requires immense amounts of willpower and patience (immediately apparent as Martello went through security to enter the building where said bus tickets were supposedly for sale only to learn that he had to buy them from the conductor standing in front of the bus, who had earlier said to go inside…). By the trip’s end we would certainly earn the title of Italian public transit warriors.

As we hurtled toward Palau, it became abundantly clear why Sardinia is the vacation choice of discerning Italians—it is absolutely stunning. And hot. We took a lovely nap in the woods overlooking the sea and then a boat over to La Maddelena. 

Looking out on the water in Palau

Palau Pineta (woods; excellent napping conditions)

Trofie Wife had recalled once reading something about beautiful pink beaches on La Maddelena (though there was nothing in the guidebook accompanying us that day), so we set out looking for them, merely following vague signs (Trofie Wife’s chosen, and usually correct, mode of navigation in Italy) to the beach. As the local road gave way to a highway and we inched along the shoulder, we (well, Martello) grew increasingly skeptical that such a beach existed. Yet finally, we reached a beach. It wasn’t pink (we’d later learn that those pink beaches were ecologically protected zones that could only be viewed during special boat tours), but it was a pretty, almost otherworldly place on which to view a sunset.

Otherwordly (though, sadly, not pink) beach on La Maddelena

We thankfully caught the day's last bus back to the center of town and had our first taste of Sardinian cuisine—spaghetti e bottarga (dried fish eggs; they would grow on us over the course of the week) and then took our third boat in 48 hours (and Trofie Wife really doesn’t like boats) back to Palau where sweet sleep awaited us (vacation was already tiring us out!).

Moonlight on the water between Palau and Maddelena

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie

Zipping to Firenze

Despite having lived here for nearly a year, it’s still quite bizarre to Martello e Trofie Wife to be able to look at each other and say, “Hey, want to go to [insert Italian city that’s reachable within a five-hour train ride] this weekend?” With our mega-long August vacation fast approaching (and precious little of it booked), Trofie Wife felt rather indulgent being able to pull this little trick mid-week, while Martello was wrapping up his big deadline. But seeing as she’s not likely to be able to do this when we return to the States, she might as well take advantage of it while she can.

So, waving aside the guilt, Trofie Wife booked a budget hotel, hopped on three connecting trains, and found her way to Firenze (Florence) to meet up with some friends from her high school youth group (as well as their friends). Trofie Wife hadn’t seen one of the friends nor Firenze in nearly a decade (seeing as Martello was there last summer, it hasn’t been high on the weekend priority list), so the journey was doubly exciting. I sneaked through the sweaty crowd in Piazza della Signoria to find my friends and together we headed back to meet the others by the Mercato Sant'Ambrogio, where dinner was already being planned. After a yummy bruschette e pizza lunch and hotel check-in, I managed to run across town to catch the last few minutes (literally) of the synagogue and its museum's opening hours (highly guarded spaces always love a sweaty, stumbling, and stammering last-minute visitor, but seeing just how empty the tour group I joined was, I'm sure the box office appreciated the extra euros). The Firenze synagogue is quite spectacular, due to the fact that the generous endowment donor stipulated that the future building had to match the splendor of the city’s well-regarded masterpieces and houses of worship. With that mission in mind, the architects were sure to make it as un-Italian as possible, focusing on a sort of Moorish/Babylonian design (so that you can loiter in the lovely courtyard while skipping out on services; there was one such girl demonstrating this feature as she played with her Sidekick while her family took the tour). Trofie Wife can only provide external shots as photography was not permitted inside the building, and Martello was not there to surreptitiously break the rules and shoot regardless of the signage.

 Following the tour, Trofie Wife re-joined her friends and we enjoyed some excellent (and surprisingly well-valued) gelato (I did, however, take them to task for only ordering one flavor and not two) and we returned to the apartment they were renting where the master chef amongst them was whipping up a fantastic meal with the items procured earlier that day (even more impressively, using his own culinary tools, transported transcontinentally). We dined and enjoyed catching up and reminiscing, bidding farewell on the banks of the Arno as I returned to my meager lodging (actually, for a budget place booked about 10 hours before leaving, it was pretty good).

The next morning, I strolled over to Oltrarno (that would be the side of the river opposite the city center), wandered around (including stopping into the Santo Spirito church), and then crossed back over the Ponte Vecchio (the big-deal bridge here that used to host slaughter houses and now focuses on jewelry sales, go figure). I was crestfallen to learn that I could not enter the Biblioteca Nazionale just to take a look around (my residual anger, however, will not prevent me from posting pictures of the exterior of said library). 

Bridge O'Bling: there's nothing to bring foot traffic to a standstill quite like putting shiny jewels on display to mesmerize the masses. 

 Biblioteca Nazionale (otherwise known as the library that wouldn't admit me). Hint: if you're worried about the state of education in your country, maybe you should consider letting the public access the libraries!!!

Santo Spirito (the one Italian church I've entered in the height of summer where they actually made me cover my shoulders; luckily they ignored the shorts)

 Santa Maria Novella (not to be confused with the train station of the same name; I didn't have time for this church as I was headed to the station)

 I have to say that when I first visited Firenze during high school I was completely taken with its beauty. Although it was during Easter week and many of the major art galleries were closed, we got to know the streets and various landmarks, and I recall desperately wanting to return (particularly because there was this pair of shoes there that I should have bought and didn’t, and I still have wistful dreams about the experience; the lingering regret was not helped by my beloved French teacher chaperone and i genitori, who, when I returned, said that I should have splurged; and there I thought they would have appreciated my frugal nature with the newly issued credit card; I was sure to have them make up for that instance of thrift in future years).  But this visit left me with a different impression. Other than my brief sojourn to Oltrarno, Firenze just seemed overrun with and exploited by tourists. While it’s still beautiful, my initial feeling of wonder at seeing it at 17 dissipated (perhaps by returning with Martello, who always manages to find the hidden and surprising pathways around every city or small village, I will find that feeling again). After a long return journey, Trofie Wife was happy to return home to Martello so we could pack and continue planning our vacation (which started the next day!). More on that soon to come... .

Baci e gelato,

Martello e Trofie Wife