Buongiorno from the rolling hills of Tuscany, where Patty and I have beat a retreat to escape from sweltering temperatures the likes of which have haunted us often during our trip. My meager attempts to read an Italian newspaper the other day suggested to me that substantial parts if Italy are on fire - or were those fireman in the photo hosing down another of Sr Berlusciloni's hot house parties. Perhaps both. Nevertheless, we have found ourselves the temporary and only occupants of the agriturismo Poderuccio, a guesthouse housed in a small wine and olive oil farrm perched atop a panoramic ridge just outside of Montalcino, south of Sienna. The world economic implosion has certainly dampened tourism throughout those parts of the world we have visited on this trip. We have had no difficulty getting rooms anywhere and usually in the places we want to stay. My sharply honed haggling skills built in mouth-to-yell commercial combat in the markets of India, Africa and Turkey has enabled me to enjoy a significant advantage in negotiating room rates. I usually ask for the best rate for one night, try and bargain this down and then ask for the rate for 3 or 4 nights while wrenching a confession from the landlord that his establishment is empty or, at best, not very busy. This has usually worked to shave precious rupees, forints, lira, rand, kuna, pounds sterling and euros off of rates, allowing us reinvest premiums into the beverage budget while staying within our target day expenditures. But here, dear blogistas, in the verdant slopes if Tuscany, I appear to have met my match.
Our landlady at the Poderuccio is a small and energetic contadina who has managed to reach her mid-40's without acquiring a single word of English. Now I would not want my Italian to be put to the same test, but then again, I am not in the hospitality industry in one of the most attractive locations in Europe. We arrived here on Thursday and pulled our car into an empty parking lot - a good sign. After exchanging perfunctory greetings, we got down to business. Her first salvo, based on one night accommodation was pitched at €50 a night for B+B. Despite my pointing to the empty parking lot, no yielding was forthcoming beyond saying (as far as I could tell) that this was already a discounted rate - the "Italian move", a favourite opening gambit in these parts. I countered with a request for her best rate for 3 nights. She turned over a fresh piece of paper in my notebook and after thoughtful calculation offered us 3 nights for €150. I began to feign profound contempt accompanied by a lot of arm waving and a rattling of car keys signalling our imminent departure, when she paused and asked us to follow her out of her makeshift reception office to a room at the back of the farm. She opened the door and led us into the wine cellar. Reaching for two wine glasses, she poured us some fresh Orcia Rosso from a cask - a fine if junior vintage from her own vineyards deep in the heart of Italy's premiere Brunello wine country. The wine delivered an effective and salubrious staunching of my next line of attack. Detecting a brief moment of weakness, she pounced again leaving little to be lost in translation with her next scribblings - "Stay 4 nights at €50 a night and I will throw in a couple of bottles of this - 2005's no less, considered to be a very good year around here". As I paused to muster my thoughts and launch my next move, I mysteruously found my voice overtaking this effort with a new found independence of its own - "SOLD" ... Ooops the deal was done, the rate unchanged. Negotiating B&B and V(ino) Tuscan style
Over the next few days, the pains of defeat where generously salved with fresh eggs and the occasional glass of vino bianco fresco from the cask. And I find that with each cork I liberate from the Orcia Rosso, I am beginning to feel better about my routing.
Late breaking news: After the bill was settled this evening and we were enjoying dinner on the panoramic view balcony, she came to our table and asked to take away out empty wine bottle. The best we could make our of her rapid-fire Italian was that she wanted the empty vessel for this year's production. Instead, much to our delight, she returned with our bottle filled from the cask and a sing-song "arrivederci" to bid us farewell. It was enough to restore one's faith in humanity.
On other fronts, we have been happily diverting ourselves here by chasing the summer concert circuit on offer in the open-aired paizzas, parks and even ancient Roman ampitheatres throughout Tuscany. Last Saturday we saw ex-Talking Heads lead David Byrne in the 2500 seat Roman ampitheatre in Fiesole, 10 km uphill from Firenze. A fantastic 10 out of 10 show with wonderful musicians, dancers and coreography. Really, how often do you get to see a dancer leapfrog over the head of the featured musician in mid-guitar solo? (Blogistas will recall my confessed love of Talking Heads late last century). On Wednesday, in the Fortezza Medicea in Arezzo, we saw the American folk-rock singer Tracy Chapman perform before a 5000 person audience in a more conventional North American- style festival setting. A good show but only a 6 out of 10 here - marred by little communucation with the audience and a distinct bossiness towards her three piece backup band. What was most surprising to me was to hear her squeaky, scratchy conversational voice - a stark contrast to her robust alto singing voice.
Off to other parts of Tuscany tomorrow in advance of our return to the city of light and magic (Paris not Langford!) on Friday.
Ciao for now!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Firenze Frenzy
Buono Sera blogistas - and a warm greetings from one of the world's great cities - Firenze (or as we choose to "dumb down" its name in English, Florence). Patty and I have been here for a few days and are finding that a city that initially appeared to be muggy and crowded has easily set its hooks into us in no time at all. If one is a true art lover (which I must confess I am not), I can well imagine intending to stay here for a few days and then extending for a month.
Firenze, at the height of the Renaissance in the 15th century found itself in one of these rare times and places in history where a convergence of human energy and spirit unleashed an unparralled explosion of art and culture. Some of the true giants of Western civilization were at work here in this city over at the same time - including Michelangelo, da Vinci, Galileo, Machiavelli and Bottecelli. As you walk around these streets with art on virtually every corner, one wonders what must have flowed in the air and water of this place to give birth to the intellectual floweriung that Firenze cultivated during the Rennaisance. One can imagine the jousting of these major players, bouncing ideas off of each other and rising to the challenges of their competitors' work to bash boundaries and push fornteirs. It helped, for sure, that there were major benefactors in place, such as the Medicis, as well as lesser lights who sought to define their status in society by commissioning a pianting here, a sculpture there or a chapel in their church. I often wonder if the people who lived here at the time knew they were in the middle of one of these rare global epicentres. Have we seen the likes of 15th century Firenze since? Paris in the Enlightenment of the 18th century perhaps. And one wonders if we will we see its likes again in our contemporary XBox culture?
That's enough for all of these weighty questions. As the "If not now, when?" tour de monde enters its last few weeks overseas, Patty has re-christened it the "It is only money" tour. We are doing a commendable job burning Euros in Firenze's lether and clothing markets while drowning our cah flow sorrows with some fine Chianti. We have also added a new twist to the Tuscan cultural tour and have decided to rent a car and chase all and sundry pop and jazz acts as they converge on Tuscany's delightful festivals in various piazzas and Roman ampitheatres over the month of July. It is time for some true confessions here - one of my favourite acts of the "new wave" era was the Talking Heads. Last night, in a 2500 seat, 2000 year old Roman ampithetre in Fiesole "uphill" from Firenze, we saw a fantastic concert by Talking heads-lead David Byrne accompanied by some very talented musicians and dancers. On Wednesday, we are heading to Arrezo to see Tracy Chapman in conecert (for all of 15 Euros a ticket). Four days later, in Lucca's main square, we hope to see John Fogerty, leader of what Rolling Stone magazine called the "greatest garage band in the world" - Creedence Clearwater Revival. And this is just a selection of what is on offer in these parts over the next month with acts including Stevie Winwood, James Taylor, Chick Corea, Keith Jarret and Joe Jackson - all of whom are playing at ticket prices considerably below North American concert fees. I am sure we will enjoy these shows - again, with great apologies to our children who might have been expecting some sort of inheritance.
Ciao Bella
Firenze, at the height of the Renaissance in the 15th century found itself in one of these rare times and places in history where a convergence of human energy and spirit unleashed an unparralled explosion of art and culture. Some of the true giants of Western civilization were at work here in this city over at the same time - including Michelangelo, da Vinci, Galileo, Machiavelli and Bottecelli. As you walk around these streets with art on virtually every corner, one wonders what must have flowed in the air and water of this place to give birth to the intellectual floweriung that Firenze cultivated during the Rennaisance. One can imagine the jousting of these major players, bouncing ideas off of each other and rising to the challenges of their competitors' work to bash boundaries and push fornteirs. It helped, for sure, that there were major benefactors in place, such as the Medicis, as well as lesser lights who sought to define their status in society by commissioning a pianting here, a sculpture there or a chapel in their church. I often wonder if the people who lived here at the time knew they were in the middle of one of these rare global epicentres. Have we seen the likes of 15th century Firenze since? Paris in the Enlightenment of the 18th century perhaps. And one wonders if we will we see its likes again in our contemporary XBox culture?
That's enough for all of these weighty questions. As the "If not now, when?" tour de monde enters its last few weeks overseas, Patty has re-christened it the "It is only money" tour. We are doing a commendable job burning Euros in Firenze's lether and clothing markets while drowning our cah flow sorrows with some fine Chianti. We have also added a new twist to the Tuscan cultural tour and have decided to rent a car and chase all and sundry pop and jazz acts as they converge on Tuscany's delightful festivals in various piazzas and Roman ampitheatres over the month of July. It is time for some true confessions here - one of my favourite acts of the "new wave" era was the Talking Heads. Last night, in a 2500 seat, 2000 year old Roman ampithetre in Fiesole "uphill" from Firenze, we saw a fantastic concert by Talking heads-lead David Byrne accompanied by some very talented musicians and dancers. On Wednesday, we are heading to Arrezo to see Tracy Chapman in conecert (for all of 15 Euros a ticket). Four days later, in Lucca's main square, we hope to see John Fogerty, leader of what Rolling Stone magazine called the "greatest garage band in the world" - Creedence Clearwater Revival. And this is just a selection of what is on offer in these parts over the next month with acts including Stevie Winwood, James Taylor, Chick Corea, Keith Jarret and Joe Jackson - all of whom are playing at ticket prices considerably below North American concert fees. I am sure we will enjoy these shows - again, with great apologies to our children who might have been expecting some sort of inheritance.
Ciao Bella
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Suntanning in the Powderkeg
Greetings all - the "If not now, when?" tour has now disembarked Dubrovnik. We have been successful, by and large, in our quest for the idyllic Adriatic town we were looking for in our last post washing up in the charming, walled island town of Trogir about 30km up the coast from Split. The tourist invasion is in full flight here but we are learning how to beat it back every day, waging battle marble laneway by cobblestone path in our temporary pied a terre.
As I ponder this daily battle, I am reminded that a mere fifteen years ago real war was being waged in these streets. We are, after all, within the famously unstable Balkan powderkeg. I have toured many battlefields in my time but none as recent as these. Those pockmarks in the ancient walls of Dubrovnik are not the product of centuries of erosion. They were blasted there by mortar shells in the 15 month seige of Dubrovnik by the "Greater Serbs" in 1995. The photos on "The wall of martyrs in the Craotian war of independence" in Trogir are not the sephia tones of WW Two portraits but yearbook style photos from the late-disco era. By my count, seven countries now occupy the frontiers of what we once knew as Yugoslavia. The most recent was added just last year as Kosovo declared independence from Serbia. A few hundred km up the road from Trogir is Sarejevo where the tripwire that plummeted the world into the Great War of 1914 was sprung. A few hundred beyond that is Szebernica where sanctimonious western leaders who defiantly vowed "Never again!" after the holocaust of WW Two turned a blind eye and let Slobadan Milosevic execute the worst ethnic cleansing in Europe since taht war - just a few years ago.
I stand to be corrected but I sense that the Balkan powderkeg countries collectively constitute a smaller population than Canada"s. Applicatioons for membership to the EU are flying right, left and centre in the hopes that acceptance will legitimize the smallest of territorial claims and cement fledgling democracies in place. But how long will this last until the next Tito or Milosevic rears his head and plunges this part of the world into another explosion with the fleets of yachts and legions of suntanners evacuating from these parts as fast as possible. I, for one, do not fully understand the origins and contours of the last Balkan war (who does?!?). But I hope for the sake of the locals who still bear the immediacy of suffering, we all find a way to ensure that it does never happen again.
Cheery thoughts from a Balkan beachtown.
As I ponder this daily battle, I am reminded that a mere fifteen years ago real war was being waged in these streets. We are, after all, within the famously unstable Balkan powderkeg. I have toured many battlefields in my time but none as recent as these. Those pockmarks in the ancient walls of Dubrovnik are not the product of centuries of erosion. They were blasted there by mortar shells in the 15 month seige of Dubrovnik by the "Greater Serbs" in 1995. The photos on "The wall of martyrs in the Craotian war of independence" in Trogir are not the sephia tones of WW Two portraits but yearbook style photos from the late-disco era. By my count, seven countries now occupy the frontiers of what we once knew as Yugoslavia. The most recent was added just last year as Kosovo declared independence from Serbia. A few hundred km up the road from Trogir is Sarejevo where the tripwire that plummeted the world into the Great War of 1914 was sprung. A few hundred beyond that is Szebernica where sanctimonious western leaders who defiantly vowed "Never again!" after the holocaust of WW Two turned a blind eye and let Slobadan Milosevic execute the worst ethnic cleansing in Europe since taht war - just a few years ago.
I stand to be corrected but I sense that the Balkan powderkeg countries collectively constitute a smaller population than Canada"s. Applicatioons for membership to the EU are flying right, left and centre in the hopes that acceptance will legitimize the smallest of territorial claims and cement fledgling democracies in place. But how long will this last until the next Tito or Milosevic rears his head and plunges this part of the world into another explosion with the fleets of yachts and legions of suntanners evacuating from these parts as fast as possible. I, for one, do not fully understand the origins and contours of the last Balkan war (who does?!?). But I hope for the sake of the locals who still bear the immediacy of suffering, we all find a way to ensure that it does never happen again.
Cheery thoughts from a Balkan beachtown.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
The Consequences of Accelarating the Itinerary
Greetings all from beautiful, sunny and, for the first time on our trip, oh-so crowded Dubrovnik, Croatia. Yes, the summer tourist season in Europe is in full-flight and has run into us with a vengeance. We now find ourselves dodging massive tour coaches full of Floyds and Ethels from Birmingham and Boston and lunging past their compatriots as they photograph up a storm while blocking the drawbridge to the old town.
As we now pass into the last month of the overseas phase of our tour and find that we are accelerating our itinerary to an almost "If its Tuesday, it must be Belgium" mode. In the past 6 days, we have been in 3 quite different countries - Turkey, Hungary and now Croatia. And I know when we are, perhaps, moving too fast when:
- I have lost my capacity to rapidly convert currencies - perhaps the only thing that was truly keeping my mind sharp while helping mitigate the impact of over-refreshment on the delightful red wines the last three countries have on offer.
- We go to pay for our morning Americanos with a pocketful of change representing at least 4 different currencies. I have given up remembering the origins of the various florins, kuna and lipa that jangle in my pocket - choosing to refer to them all as rupees for simplicity.
- My limited competency to utter even a few passable phrases in the host country"s language has apparently dried up completely. Although, I was amused to find that the Hungarian word for "Hello" appears to be pronounced "See ya" - go figure!
- My darling wife and ever-so-patient travel companion tried to take my Swiss Army knife to my admittedly weathered Eddie Bauer travel shirt. She was only fended off by a threat of no evening gelato and a promise that I would discard this shirt (as I have discarded about half of my wardrobe so far).
- I called this place "Budrovnik" this morning.
- It took me three days to discover that the locals here do not even call their country "Croatia". It is, in fact, called Hrvatska. This begs a larger question as to why we don"t call countries by the names they are given "at home" - Deutschland, Nippon, Sverige et al.
- I have had it with trying to navigate my way around yet another čšđł§!!! computer keyboard and figure out how to cut and paste text and transfer photos in full-Turkish dialogue boxes.
Well, this can only mean one thing - time for another of our famous week long "vacations-within-a-vacation" - a time honoured tradition on this tour which we plan to deploy again this week at a yet-to-be uncovered but surely idyllic place somewhere on the coast of Croatia. And then we begin our slow march northwards - sailing to Italy and then making our way back to the city of light and magic from where this wonderful adventure began for our return to Canada.
With a pat on my own back for typing "y" as a "z" on this Croatian ,or is it Hrvatskan, keyboard as has been required throughout this posting and apologies for not being able to figure out the apostrophes, best wishes to all. Now off for the promised gelato in this, the last outing for my wounded travel shirt.
As we now pass into the last month of the overseas phase of our tour and find that we are accelerating our itinerary to an almost "If its Tuesday, it must be Belgium" mode. In the past 6 days, we have been in 3 quite different countries - Turkey, Hungary and now Croatia. And I know when we are, perhaps, moving too fast when:
- I have lost my capacity to rapidly convert currencies - perhaps the only thing that was truly keeping my mind sharp while helping mitigate the impact of over-refreshment on the delightful red wines the last three countries have on offer.
- We go to pay for our morning Americanos with a pocketful of change representing at least 4 different currencies. I have given up remembering the origins of the various florins, kuna and lipa that jangle in my pocket - choosing to refer to them all as rupees for simplicity.
- My limited competency to utter even a few passable phrases in the host country"s language has apparently dried up completely. Although, I was amused to find that the Hungarian word for "Hello" appears to be pronounced "See ya" - go figure!
- My darling wife and ever-so-patient travel companion tried to take my Swiss Army knife to my admittedly weathered Eddie Bauer travel shirt. She was only fended off by a threat of no evening gelato and a promise that I would discard this shirt (as I have discarded about half of my wardrobe so far).
- I called this place "Budrovnik" this morning.
- It took me three days to discover that the locals here do not even call their country "Croatia". It is, in fact, called Hrvatska. This begs a larger question as to why we don"t call countries by the names they are given "at home" - Deutschland, Nippon, Sverige et al.
- I have had it with trying to navigate my way around yet another čšđł§!!! computer keyboard and figure out how to cut and paste text and transfer photos in full-Turkish dialogue boxes.
Well, this can only mean one thing - time for another of our famous week long "vacations-within-a-vacation" - a time honoured tradition on this tour which we plan to deploy again this week at a yet-to-be uncovered but surely idyllic place somewhere on the coast of Croatia. And then we begin our slow march northwards - sailing to Italy and then making our way back to the city of light and magic from where this wonderful adventure began for our return to Canada.
With a pat on my own back for typing "y" as a "z" on this Croatian ,or is it Hrvatskan, keyboard as has been required throughout this posting and apologies for not being able to figure out the apostrophes, best wishes to all. Now off for the promised gelato in this, the last outing for my wounded travel shirt.
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