Stage 14 of the Tour de France will pass through Briancon today, and it's our job to see it. We have conflicting reports as to when it is scheduled to pass through, so we leave early enough to be sure not to miss it. We won't go back into the town, but will instead walk a mile or so up the Col d'Izoard and pick an appropriate spot. The Col d'Izoard is pronounced something like "cull dizsh-ward", but it is really an untranslatable use of ones mouth to make sounds… which to my ear is the nature of the French language. I realize this is due to my ignorance.
Stage 14 is a tough race through the Alps, going up three big climbs. The race starts in Grenoble and heads south to the first climb up the Col du Lautaret (18 miles of climbing), then downhill from there to Briancon. The peleton will blow through the town, over the bridge of the small river there, and then hang a right to immediately start the climb of the Col du d'Izoard (13 mile climb), where we will await them a few miles up the mountain. After cresting the d'Izoard, they race down a valley and then uphill to the finish at the ski station of Risoul.
We leave Baccu-ber bed-and-breakfast, and walk up the street called Baccu-ber. There are people on the street and they are all kind-a walking in the same direction. This is the nature of the Tour, that it exerts a magnetic influence on everyone, even those who probably don't follow cycling. It is more than a race… it is a reason to be outside with everyone else on a sunny day and crack a smile. When the activity surrounding a sporting event becomes bigger than the event itself, it is typically referred to as transcending the sport, as if some great synthesis between sport and public spectacle gives rise to a new for of social interaction. I believe this is the case with the Tour. I contrast this with the spectacle that attends sporting events in the U.S., where the spectacle isn't part of a transcendent alchemy, but rather replaces the sport in yet another grim reminder of the medium becoming the message.
Being on the second climb of the day means the peloton will not being going up the mountain at full speed. More than likely we will see a breakaway of a few riders, followed a few minutes later by the peloton going up at a medium tempo. This is typical bike racing strategy. The main contenders will sit patiently in the peloton, waiting for the final climb to attack each other. Those with no chance of winning the overall race will break away early and try to stay clear till the end. And this is exactly what happens. We position ourselves at a nice, twisty, steep spot on the road… and wait.
The passing of the riders is our main objective… but equally important to Margaret (and to most of the crowd as it turns out) is the passing of the caravan of advertising vehicles, which precedes the race. These vehicles are opened topped with people standing or sitting in them. They fling swag to the crowds (free, promotional giveaways) as they careen around the uphill turn at 40 miles per hour. It's unclear to me why they drive so fast, but they do. It is as if they are in a hurry to get somewhere. Given our location two miles up the climb, I suspect we won't get any swag. Margaret is convinced we will, and she is right… as we get more swag than we ever have before. In an act of swag-genius, I cross to the other side of the road in order to get swag that is tossed to that side (while Margaret collects swag from her side). My side of the road is the outside of the vehicles high-speed turn, and so the personnel manning the swag-throwing are typically thrown (by inertia) to my side of their car, inclining them to throw in my direction. Genius observation leads to genius plan.
If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then I suppose the french teenager who crossed the road to copy my success flattered me greatly. He saw my shrewd move. Maybe he was pissed that an American was getting swag. Maybe he was pissed that an American thought it up… since Americans excel in the calculation of material gain. But ya know… the more the merrier. And merry is exactly what swag produces. These poor French people, with their dour expressions… they positively light up when receiving swag. Eighty percent of it is useless crap… but it is free… and the clamor and racket of it's distribution brings together the warm-fuzzy of group activity with the lascivious promise of Santa's good favor. When the dozens and dozens of advertising vehicles have passed… a lull falls over the crowd. There will now be a gap of 45 minutes until the race comes through. The long wait begins.
Being an industrious American, I begin strategizing where to take a good picture from. I walk up and down the roadway there, peering through my camera endlessly, imagining the peloton passing my position. From experience, I know that I'll only have time to take one or two pictures… maybe three. I have to decide whether to shoot in color or black&white. I have one of each kind loaded into two identical Olympus XA cameras. The skies are turning grey, and rain threatens. No use taking black&white if there no good light. But then the sun breaks through the clouds, producing dramatic effects. In the end I choose color film. It's a safer bet, because if nothing else the colorful impression of the cyclists uniforms and bikes should produce a decent picture.
This goes on for quite a while. My constant back-and-forth makes me the focus of those fans who remain stationary. Just another American trying to optimize a situation. If it wasn't for some older Italian guys that kept crossing the street, I'd feel more self-conscious than I already do. To make matters even more obsessive, I begin to fear that the camera with color film will get jammed, and so I read the black and white camera, just in case. This means I have to practice putting down the one and picking up the other, which I do repeatedly… as if I were preparing for a gunfight. Suddenly I get the great idea to use my iPhone to to shoot video of the passing riders. So I cobble together a few sticks to prop the iPhone into a stationary position on the guard rail next to the road. Of course, I must fidget constantly with this. All of this is necessary if you want the great photo… because once the peloton's arrive is immanent, the adrenaline starts pumping and all kind of panicky mistakes domino together into a big mess.
The big risk in all of this… the big tradeoff perhaps for sure… is that by attending to the recording of the race via the camera, that one loses the immediate experience of it. This bothers me about what I'm doing. I have seen others obsess over getting endless photographs at weddings, graduations, birthdays, and other such singular moments. I've often wondered what is lost by peering through the lens. By attending to the mechanical recording of the image via the camera-machine, one reduces the experience of the moment to the machinations they affect while the moment plays out at one level removed. So here I am doing that. And any photo I get is very likely no better than the thousands of others that will be taken by official race photographers who ride on the motorcycles that follow the race, and who have unfettered access to moments of the race certainly more dramatic than what I'll see, anchored to this singular spot in a race that never stops moving past.
The Tour de France is about movement, yet the perception of it by most is from a stationary vantage point, who then attempt to arrest that moment in a photograph, so that they can retain some sliver of it… so as to deny the most fundamental truth of life… that it is not a frozen moment, or series of frozen moments… but rather a flow of continuous experience. You either flow with it, or against it, or watch it flow by. And by such choices we play out varying relations to the world about us. But to desire it be frozen on film is almost a sin against the very nature of experience… almost a sin against ourselves. Almost, but not quite… that is… if one has a very good reason to peer through the lens. The contemplations that the photographer might bring to bear upon experience can be a form of experience themselves. Or they might not be. Usually they are not. Usually, they are evasion and denial of life. So what say I about my photographs? I think I am removing myself from experience, and I regret it. The meaning of my ambitions here is simply to prove to myself that I can get a half-decent shot of the Tour, which I failed to do on the Col du Marie Blanque in 2010. I'm using this rare moment of the Tour to make up for past mistakes. Such redemption comes at the cost of enjoying this moment fully… and until the film is developed… I do not know if I was redeemed… and I do not know what was won or lost. Probably a risk not worth having taken, but I took it anyway.
My biggest worry now is that when the riders come by, my view will be obscured by one of the many motorcycles or cars that are constantly driving alongside the cyclists. So as the minutes wear on and on… and as I go through my pantomimes of taking photos, and switching cameras, and turning my iPhone's video on and off… and as I worry about the existential nature of photography… and as I worry about getting good shots… a new worry enters my mind. I worry about Margaret. I am in a moment of ignoring her, as she remains at our initial location 100 feet away. I seek her out with my eyes, to make sure she's ok. The truth is, she is perfectly happy. Margaret loves the Tour de France. She loves the public spectacle, she loves the participation she has as part of the viewing public, and she loves the swag.
And she loves talking to this guy Nicola, an "interesting" character that was sitting next to us when we found the spot Margaret now sits on. Nicola looks to be in his early 40s, I suppose. He sits on a small blanked, with an Italian flag at his feet. He has a small backpack from which he retrieves a big can of beer. He is shirtless and tanned, and though not gross to look at, he is at most physically ordinary. His hair is brown and unkempt, and there is a slight body odor wafting off of him that is typical of French men. He lounges in a most natural way, though up here on the mountain he seems out of place…. since most people here seem to be upper-middle class… and Nicola is most definitely not. Margaret later learns that he works in a factory in Briancon, which makes perfect sense.
And because of these un-presupposing ways, and because of his ordinariness… he turns out to be quite remarkable. He is an open-hearted person who initiates an encounter and keeps it going by offering up himself. He laughs. He understands humor. He receives it and gives it back in conversation. It is by his efforts that we converse at all… as he struggles to use his broken English to connect with us. Who else would bother, of all these dour French peoples, turned inward on themselves and their own. It takes somebody like Nicola… someone who's social prerogatives and advantages have expired… to stop caring about them… and to seek out some meaning in the world around him. Someone like Nicola… someone on the other side of 40… still young but not quite… still handsome but fading… still shirtless but not perfect… someone intelligent but not distinguished… someone who drinks beer from the can with simply honesty. It's hard to say what combination of factors add up to a special person.
When the race comes by, Nicola ties the Italian flag around his neck like a super-hero cape, and jumps up and down like a maniac. He laughed like a kid at the swag being tossed his way. He surprises me by later shelling out 20 euros for an "official" bag of race memorabilia from one passing car. I would have thought he was very nearly homeless… but I have read too much into his appearance. He's an ordinary guy that I don't quite understand, which is OK.
So as I look up the hill to check on Margaret, I see that Nicola is up there keeping her company, and they are having some conversation that they probably wouldn't have if I was up there casting my dark and broody cloud over them. So I'm glad for that.
At some point we here helicopters. They follow the race to provide arial footage, often flying quite close to the ground. Their presence surely indicates the arrival of the riders. The pulsating beat of their rotors reaches our ears as if they are already upon us already. But then the sound fades. I think they must have been higher in the sky, as they covered the racers as they descended the Col du Lauteret. The sound carried miles in the open spaces of the Alps. But as the road descended into Briancon, the sound of the helicopters become muffled by the low lying houses and trees. The adrenaline in the crowd had increased upon first hearing them, but now that it has disappeared the silent crowds gathered there on the mountain are suspended in a very protracted moment of confusing. Where is the race? Agitation sets in. Everyone stands and looks down the road. The occasion race vehicle shoots by… the occasional police motorcycle. But no race. Time drags on. Five minutes becomes ten becomes fifteen. I pace up and down the street, obsessing over the aforementioned photographic agenda.
It starts to rain. The old italian men run for cover. Their retreat was premature, as the sun comes out a few minutes later, strong and bright and warm. They return to their open-air positions and their conversations. Here and there people appear at the edges of properties along the route, only to disappear out of view a moment later. Nobody really knows when the Tour de France comes through. To the riders of the Tour, the race is a continual fact, as they grunt and sweat through every single moment of it. To the riders, it is the spectator on the roadside who has no particular existence. We come and go in a flash, only to be replaced by the next flash of spectator, in an unending display of spectators stretched for thousands of miles, that bears evidence to the enduring love of the race.
More than the event it self, with it's winners and losers… the race is about distance and unending traversals across it. A conflict as old as time… the townsman and the troubadour… the stationary man vs traveller… the safe harbor vs. the ships that come and go. Each views the other as the strange, inverted reflection of what they are not. We stand still so that others may race, and they race so that we may mark their passing. And when these two parties meet for whatever small moment, their is a balance achieved. We are all for that instant… no matter how small… we are all witness to the countervailing forces of life. The riders will no doubt flow by us in a few seconds… and I will pass them as a blur. Yet these two blurs met on the side of a mountain means something. Like seeing a shooting star, or the splash of a fish on a calm lake, or catching the gaze of a stranger moving away from you. We are all witness to each other, and there's no shame in that. Neither consumed nor consuming, we await the Tour.
And then it happens. The helicopters have returned… the beat of their rotors now upon us… then suddenly they are a hundred feet over our heads… suspended there like huge insects hunting us. I turn on my iPhone's video recording and waith. Motorcyles shoot by urgently. Then a car. And then we see it. Two hundred feet of empty mountain road, and the end of which a small group of men on bikes moves uphill toward us. Hands clap in the distance. Shouts here and there. The cyclists move quickly up the steep slope. I ready my camera and take my position. The dreaded motorcycle that follows the group threatens to block my view. I raise the camera to my eyes as the small breakaway group of a dozen riders is nearly on the spot I had set aside for photographing them. My finger reaches for the shutter button on the camera… the button that sometimes sticks… for which my backup plan was to ditch it and grab the other camera. But now the time margins are too tight. If it sticks I'll never have time to get the other camera. A sense of panic waits in the wings of my consciousness. What will I do? The Tour is upon me.
As they move to that spot, I squeeze the shutter and hear "CLICK". It worked. This fuckin' camera worked. Thank god. I quickly wind to the next frame and get another "CLICK". Then a third. But in that small sliver of time the breakaway group is gone. Up around the steep, tight turn. Already past Margaret's position even. Their grim, focused faces told the story of their ambitions. They have broken away from the peloton, and now must face up the biggest mountain of the tour, this Col d'Izoard they are on. Twenty more kilometers await them, nearly 13 miles of racing up to 7700 feet. Up to where the air is thin, the wind hard and unobstructed above the tree-line, the temperatures 30 degrees cooler than here. They will be there soon enough, the down the other side at 50mph, and so on endlessly. So what is this moment to them but a muscle twitch in an endless death march.
I suspect the rest of the race will pass by in a few minutes, which is exactly what happens. As before, I position myself with the camera as the mass of cyclists comes up the same steep slope. The camera goes CLICK again. Then again. I pull myself away from it to spot the yellow jersey of Niboli. One should never miss the yellow jersey. I recall seeing Contador in yellow on the Marie Blanque. It was a beautiful sight… one to take your breath away. Of all the things you didn't know were real at the Tour de France, the last one revealed is the yellow jersey. There it is… tucked away in the front of the peloton behind a teammate. The protected man, the man with a target on is back… the dominant man… the most glorified person on earth. So do catch a glimpse of Niboli from behind as he goes round the steep inside bend of the corner… up and past Margaret's position. His figure is slight as he bends over the endless effort that is the Tour de France for him. And then my view is swallowed up by the other riders as they too pass our position. And then they are gone.
Team cars bring up the rear. Loaded with bikes on their roofs, they look ready to tumble over as they careen around the corner… too close for comfort. In and amongst these cars are the stragglers. These are the Tour riders not suited to these big mountains. They have given up trying to keep pace with the peloton. They will probably just ride up this mountain and the next at their own speed, just trying to survive. I see two members of the Garmin Sharp team who ride next to their team car, commenting to the driver something about making it up the climb. More team cars pass… and then there are no more stragglers. A huge tow-truck-like vehicle goes by, which I reckon follows the tour to service any broken down team cars. And then finally a big van goes by with a sign on it indicating that the race caravan is now past.
And with that… a years worth of effort and planning and anticipation are complete. The crowd immediately disperses down the mountain. As we walk, cyclists who had positioned themselves further up the mountain descend down to Briancon, passing us at high speed as they do. We keep and ear out for the sound of their tires coming up behind us, lest we get involved an a stupid collision with them. We make our way back to Baccu-ber, and turn on the TV to watch the Tour. We see the same configuration of the race as we had just seen go by 20 minutes earlier. The breakaway group is approaching the summit. The race just keeps going without us. Our little moment of participation is over. It is up to new fans on new spots to carry on the example we set. They too will have their preparations extinguished by the rapid passing. And so on endless… like a vast field of dominoes being mowed over by the previous one falling upon it. A mass grave of spectator dreams extinguished in one frantic moment of being there… only to retire (as we do) back to the television set, to wonder if it was ever real.
But of course it was. The race is real. It's not what you think it is… but it is real. But you'll never know that unless you go. Until then, you'll think the race is a permanent moment of consumption. TV allows for that fantasy. But consider this… that every single spectator you see on the side of the road… they have been waiting there for hours or days, just to experience a moment such as I have described. All of their life before that moment was not the Tour, and two minutes later, they return to such nothingness. They exist only in that flash of the riders, and the passing of that which never stops moving.
AND SO… We move on.
Today is Saturday, and we are staying over Saturday night in Briancon… but we had been undecided whether we would stay over in Briancon for Sunday night. By the time we decide that we want to, Georges has already rented our room to someone else, so we'll have to ether find other accommodations in Briancon, or else head to Grenoble or Geneva, which we had kind-of considered doing. Georges offers to set us up with a room at a place not far away. We decide to accept his help again, as it spares us the effort of relocating to a new city and having to find accommodations. Earlier in the day (before the Tour) we had picked up our rental car from the Hertz dealership in Briacon. Of course, Georges drove us there and talked to the guy, who he is good friends with.
We go back to our room and crash for several hours. Then we get in the rental car and drive to the top of the Col d'Izoard, which is about 13 miles long, and the peak is at 7700 feet. We drive back down the mountain and into Briancon to eat the same exact meal as the night before. I leave the table before the meal is done, on order to run over to the Carrefour to buy some cokes before it closes, but then I come back.
We come back to the room, but I leave to walk around the dark and scary back alley here, in order to take cool pictures of creepy buildings at night, where the streetlights produce weird shadows and textures on the old stone buildings.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Saturday, July 26, 2014
Friday, July 18... On The Road to Briancon
We leave Barolo by noon, beating thereby the onslaught of the music
festival that is taking over the town... preparations of which had been
ongoing since we arrived. We don't want to leave, not yet. This is a place where we have truly relaxed. Rome and Florence were hectic, and the time to come in Briancon and the trip home promise to be hectic as well. So these (less than) two days in Barolo were the calm between the two storms. The eye of the hurricane. And now we must pass through the other side of our best laid plans... though we'd rather not. We caught our breath here, but now we need to rest. We'd rather stay here and do nothing for a week. But that is not to be.
We set sail for Turin, or as the Italians say... Torino. There we will return the rental car and catch a train to the city of Oulx (pronounced oolze) in the foothills of the Italian Alps. We will be picked up by Georges, the owner of the bed-and-breakfast that we are staying in in Briancon (in France). It is an enormously helpful favor on his part, and makes this last leg of the trip even possible. Without transport through the Alps, we would be sunk.
The GPS charts our course through the wide, flat valleys that emerge as we leave the hills of Barolo behind and head to Turin. The city feels immediately grim. Of course it is unfair to compare every city in Italy to Rome or Florence. Perhaps the only fault of such cities is simply that they are not built on a tourist economy, which produces not so much grimness (for the inhabitants at least)... but an unfamiliarity for us. We roll through the streets and all we see are anonymous Italians coming and going, against an undistinguished backdrop of urban buildings of no historic charm. I suppose this is what everyday life looks like around the world... which is why we don't just visit any old place, but select those places guaranteed to delight some expectations we have.
We arrive at the Hertz rental office to drop the car off. It sits on a long boulevard that is too far from the train station to walk. In addition to this, the station has just closed for lunch, so we go into a cafe immediately next door to grab a drink and wait. The waiter's face subtly registers his distaste at either (a) our being non Italian speakers, or (b) that we don't order food. Time slides by. I finish my drink as Margaret leaves to take care of the Hertz paperwork. When I step outside the luggage is removed from the car and we are hailing a taxi, which drops us off unceremoniously in the middle of the broad boulevard. We drag our luggage inside, and while Margaret goes to figure out how to get the train to Oulx, I plop down on my butt and guard the luggage... and busy myself taking pictures of people.
Our train tickets are really cheap, considering how far we ultimately go. We take our seats 10 minutes before the train rolls away.. and spend the entire time wondering if we're on the right train. As the scenery rolls by at high speed... we still wonder if we're on the right train. Somehow we figure out we are. Maybe we decipher the garbled message that crackles through the trains PA system... I don't recall. The Italian Alps start to loom up on either side of the train, and it's clear that we are moving into a narrow valley that is flanked by them.
In Oulx, we stop off the train and are met by Georges, whom Margaret had alerted earlier in the day... having texted a message to his wife Maria, who passed it on to Georges. All this whisper down the lane could have fallen flat on our face... but somehow it all worked out. Georges throws our luggage into his big 4x4 and rolls away. Georges is a big guy... as in fat. He's tall, but he's fat. His fatness isn't in his head, shoulders, arms, or legs... but simply in his big fat stomach... which isn't even round, so much as it looks like a big donut stuck under the huge tshirt that tries to hide it. He's a good natured guy... for a Frenchman. He tells us that he's from Briancon, but lived in Paris for years... but has now returned.
The route to Briancon takes longer than I expected, due to the difficult terrain that the roads must follow to go up and down switchbacks as they traverse mountain passes. I am amazed at the terrain. I have never been in such big mountains. I have never been on roads so high up. It strikes me as rare and dangerous and exceptional... but I soon realize that these roads and these views are an everyday reality for the people here. As we descend down to Briancon through the last set of dizzying switchbacks, I become excited that we have finally arrived at a place much anticipated, but which I could never have understood as I do now.
This area is known as the Department of the Hautes-Alps (High Alps). Brinancon doesn't so much sit in a valley, as it has been built on the nooks and crannies where the bases of huge mountains have crushed together to form an area somewhat amenable to human settlement. But how any humans ever managed to build homes and cities and walls and churches and roadways on this impossibly rocky and jagged stuff is beyond me.
Georges descends down into the city... then through it's streets pointing things out in a patois of French and English mixed together into something he thinks is perfect English. I can understand every 5th world, which is just enough to allow me to nod my head convincingly, or laugh as if I understood. We roll through the narrow center of town, over a bridge, and then into a tight cluster of streets a mile further on where his bed-and-breakfast is located. It is known as Baccu-ber... which seems to be named after the street it is on (Baccu Ber). I have no idea what it means, or if it means anything.
As we unpack our luggage, we are introduced to a young woman who is an American from Seattle, who came to Briancon to teach English, then met a man and got married... and has been there now for three years. Or was it seven years? We are immediately happy to be talking English to someone, but she quickly dismisses herself from our presence. Obviously she doesn't feel the same way. Perhaps we remind her of the home she'll never see again, trapped as she is in the icy citadel of Briancon.
Our room is a cave. It is literally shaped like a cave, with a tiny window in the back wall. But it's a nice cave, complete with a shower and bathroom. We lie on the bed and exhale, and let the muscles relax. We have finally made it to Briancon... the last stop on our journey. Tomorrow is the Tour de France, and we will be there. But for now... we are hungry.
We walk a mile into the center of town, and eat at this place that serves Tartiflette, a variation of potato au gratin. It is made of potatos, cheese, cream, and ham. It is served in a small, oval casserole dish. The secret ingredient (as it turns out) is Reblochon cheese. It is so delicious that we vow to make it when we return home, if only we can find Reblochon cheese back in the states. Later, we learn that the cheeses of France are not pasturized... or maybe Margaret already knew this... so our chances of replicating this particular flavor just went down. But we shall see. The places also serves a dish called Salmon Tandor, which is what it sounds like... chunks of salmon on a skewer, cooked (I think) in the Tandor style, and infused (thereby) with the flavors characteristic of Indian food. It is freakin' awesome. We are in love with this food and this place... and will eat here each of our three nights in Briancon. In fact, we order the same exact food each time, until the owner remembers Margaret from the night before.
After dinner we walk down to the Carrefour supermarket and buy some groceries... most particularly coca-cola, beer, and Madeleines, those delicious french cooks that are soft with buttery flavor. We get back and lie on the bed and eat Madeleines and watch the Tour de France on TV. A long days journey into this moment... and we are tired soon enough.
We set sail for Turin, or as the Italians say... Torino. There we will return the rental car and catch a train to the city of Oulx (pronounced oolze) in the foothills of the Italian Alps. We will be picked up by Georges, the owner of the bed-and-breakfast that we are staying in in Briancon (in France). It is an enormously helpful favor on his part, and makes this last leg of the trip even possible. Without transport through the Alps, we would be sunk.
 |
| The road from Turin to Briancon |
The GPS charts our course through the wide, flat valleys that emerge as we leave the hills of Barolo behind and head to Turin. The city feels immediately grim. Of course it is unfair to compare every city in Italy to Rome or Florence. Perhaps the only fault of such cities is simply that they are not built on a tourist economy, which produces not so much grimness (for the inhabitants at least)... but an unfamiliarity for us. We roll through the streets and all we see are anonymous Italians coming and going, against an undistinguished backdrop of urban buildings of no historic charm. I suppose this is what everyday life looks like around the world... which is why we don't just visit any old place, but select those places guaranteed to delight some expectations we have.
We arrive at the Hertz rental office to drop the car off. It sits on a long boulevard that is too far from the train station to walk. In addition to this, the station has just closed for lunch, so we go into a cafe immediately next door to grab a drink and wait. The waiter's face subtly registers his distaste at either (a) our being non Italian speakers, or (b) that we don't order food. Time slides by. I finish my drink as Margaret leaves to take care of the Hertz paperwork. When I step outside the luggage is removed from the car and we are hailing a taxi, which drops us off unceremoniously in the middle of the broad boulevard. We drag our luggage inside, and while Margaret goes to figure out how to get the train to Oulx, I plop down on my butt and guard the luggage... and busy myself taking pictures of people.
Our train tickets are really cheap, considering how far we ultimately go. We take our seats 10 minutes before the train rolls away.. and spend the entire time wondering if we're on the right train. As the scenery rolls by at high speed... we still wonder if we're on the right train. Somehow we figure out we are. Maybe we decipher the garbled message that crackles through the trains PA system... I don't recall. The Italian Alps start to loom up on either side of the train, and it's clear that we are moving into a narrow valley that is flanked by them.
In Oulx, we stop off the train and are met by Georges, whom Margaret had alerted earlier in the day... having texted a message to his wife Maria, who passed it on to Georges. All this whisper down the lane could have fallen flat on our face... but somehow it all worked out. Georges throws our luggage into his big 4x4 and rolls away. Georges is a big guy... as in fat. He's tall, but he's fat. His fatness isn't in his head, shoulders, arms, or legs... but simply in his big fat stomach... which isn't even round, so much as it looks like a big donut stuck under the huge tshirt that tries to hide it. He's a good natured guy... for a Frenchman. He tells us that he's from Briancon, but lived in Paris for years... but has now returned.
The route to Briancon takes longer than I expected, due to the difficult terrain that the roads must follow to go up and down switchbacks as they traverse mountain passes. I am amazed at the terrain. I have never been in such big mountains. I have never been on roads so high up. It strikes me as rare and dangerous and exceptional... but I soon realize that these roads and these views are an everyday reality for the people here. As we descend down to Briancon through the last set of dizzying switchbacks, I become excited that we have finally arrived at a place much anticipated, but which I could never have understood as I do now.
This area is known as the Department of the Hautes-Alps (High Alps). Brinancon doesn't so much sit in a valley, as it has been built on the nooks and crannies where the bases of huge mountains have crushed together to form an area somewhat amenable to human settlement. But how any humans ever managed to build homes and cities and walls and churches and roadways on this impossibly rocky and jagged stuff is beyond me.
 |
| Briancon area |
 |
| The old walled fortress of Briancon |
Georges descends down into the city... then through it's streets pointing things out in a patois of French and English mixed together into something he thinks is perfect English. I can understand every 5th world, which is just enough to allow me to nod my head convincingly, or laugh as if I understood. We roll through the narrow center of town, over a bridge, and then into a tight cluster of streets a mile further on where his bed-and-breakfast is located. It is known as Baccu-ber... which seems to be named after the street it is on (Baccu Ber). I have no idea what it means, or if it means anything.
As we unpack our luggage, we are introduced to a young woman who is an American from Seattle, who came to Briancon to teach English, then met a man and got married... and has been there now for three years. Or was it seven years? We are immediately happy to be talking English to someone, but she quickly dismisses herself from our presence. Obviously she doesn't feel the same way. Perhaps we remind her of the home she'll never see again, trapped as she is in the icy citadel of Briancon.
Our room is a cave. It is literally shaped like a cave, with a tiny window in the back wall. But it's a nice cave, complete with a shower and bathroom. We lie on the bed and exhale, and let the muscles relax. We have finally made it to Briancon... the last stop on our journey. Tomorrow is the Tour de France, and we will be there. But for now... we are hungry.
We walk a mile into the center of town, and eat at this place that serves Tartiflette, a variation of potato au gratin. It is made of potatos, cheese, cream, and ham. It is served in a small, oval casserole dish. The secret ingredient (as it turns out) is Reblochon cheese. It is so delicious that we vow to make it when we return home, if only we can find Reblochon cheese back in the states. Later, we learn that the cheeses of France are not pasturized... or maybe Margaret already knew this... so our chances of replicating this particular flavor just went down. But we shall see. The places also serves a dish called Salmon Tandor, which is what it sounds like... chunks of salmon on a skewer, cooked (I think) in the Tandor style, and infused (thereby) with the flavors characteristic of Indian food. It is freakin' awesome. We are in love with this food and this place... and will eat here each of our three nights in Briancon. In fact, we order the same exact food each time, until the owner remembers Margaret from the night before.
After dinner we walk down to the Carrefour supermarket and buy some groceries... most particularly coca-cola, beer, and Madeleines, those delicious french cooks that are soft with buttery flavor. We get back and lie on the bed and eat Madeleines and watch the Tour de France on TV. A long days journey into this moment... and we are tired soon enough.
Thursday, July 17... Barolo
I am so tired this morning that I cannot get out of bed. My body aches, my mind is tired, and my eyeballs ache too. Maybe I'm hung over, but I didn't drink that much. Maybe I'm malnurished. I knew I was tired last night, but I am even more tired now after 8 hours of sleep. I cannot possibly do anything till noon. Margaret senses my distress and leaves me to sleep in while she heads out to check out some "Enatecas", which are "wine libraries", which do tastings of various Barolo wines. Before leaving she we agree to meet up by 2:15pm in order to make it to a 3:30pm private tour of a the Malvira winery, which 30 minutes away.
While Margaret has the wine tasting experience of a lifetime, I lie in a coma. By noon I feel strong enough to sit upright and imagine moving. I eventually shower and dress. I hit the streets ready to explore on my own. I phone Margaret to tell her I will meet her at 2:15, but she is already walking directly toward me. I wander Barolo alone in the bright early-afternoon sun, taking clever pictures with my Olympus XA film camera. I finished off last few shots of the roll of Tri-X (black and white film) in the camera, and switched to a roll of color. The color film is necessary, for in the full light of day it is the rich, warm reds and oranges of the town... and the greens of the rolling hills... that are most visually interesting.
At some point I wander down to the church by the castle, in order to check out the "Pictures of Frida Kahlo" exhibit that is on display in a church annex. It's odd that an exhibit of Frida Kahlo pictures should be found in the tiny town of Barolo... but so be it. Odder still is that it is free to enter. I wonder if it's the same Frida Kahlo I'm thinking of. The exhibit is supposed to open at 2pm, but that time comes and goes and the doors do not open. Other visitors arrive and then leave, discouraged and confused. I have to leave soon myself, to meet Margaret by 2:15. It looks like I'm going to miss this opportunity. Such is the flow of life in Italy... time moves at a different pace.
I meet Margaret at the appointed time to drive to our vineyard tour. The drive there is not without drama, as the Vineyard has no known address. Rather, one goes to an intersection somewhere in the adjacent town and then drives half a mile up the road looking for a vineyard sign. As if by a miracle Margaret locates it, and voila, there we are.
The owner of the winery conducts a tasting for us, consisting of 5 whites and 5 reds. Margaret is thrilled, and asks many detailed questions and takes notes. I participate too, though my commentary is pointless. We are then shown the barrels in the wine cellar, where the owner does a "barrel tasting", whereby he pulls the cork out of a barrel, extracts some wine into a tube, and then pours it into our glasses. Much ooohing and aaahing follow upon this, and more questions… then onto another barrel. Oddly enough, the wine in the glass that we do not finish is not thrown away, but is poured back into the barrle. I'm assuming my germs are all over it, so I wonder by what magic process my disgusting cooties don't land in someone's expensive bottle of wine.
Eventually we come back out of the cellar, and the owner invites us to the top of a large hill, where he sits us down at his very exclusive resort, complete with a service of water and espresso (for Margaret). He tells us about resort, and his family, and their wealth, and their success... and how great it is... and how tremendous it is. Margaret gushes while Michael blushes. I feel unworthy of the royal treatment, though I keep my regal manner in tact, so as to not crack under the steady gaze of the waiter. Serious handshakes with eye-contact and Grazie's come pouring out of me, as I put on my best well-bred, rich American demeanor. And so it was.
We drive away duly impressed by how fantastic it all is. Margaret is psyched by how well she comported herself in the presence of the wine king, and I agree. She asked many excellent questions, and knew things... and impressed the man so much that he extended the tasting beyond what he might have done for someone not as sophisticated. Plus he showed us his exclusive resort mansion, and sat us down to water glasses like we were Columbian drug lords. What more could we want.
Margaret is utterly set on eating at Rosso Barolo that very night when we get back... and we do. She orders tagliatelle with black truffle, while I slum it with some gnocchi bolognese. It's all so good. At least mine is. I ask Margaret to let me smell the truffle, which she kept telling me smelled like dirty socks. But after smelling them... I have to apologize to dirty socks everywhere. They only smell like dirty socks, if the socks were left in a pile of garbage for 3 weeks in 90 degree weather. The phrase that best sums up the odor is... "That's nasty".
After dinner, Margaret locates herself on the small terrace that overlooks the courtyard where we had just eaten. She is in love with this terrace. It is just he sort of cat-like perch she didn't get in Rome or Florence. From here she can spot birds and mice and drink wine and feel like a pampered royal. I sit with her and philosophize about the nature of it all.
While Margaret has the wine tasting experience of a lifetime, I lie in a coma. By noon I feel strong enough to sit upright and imagine moving. I eventually shower and dress. I hit the streets ready to explore on my own. I phone Margaret to tell her I will meet her at 2:15, but she is already walking directly toward me. I wander Barolo alone in the bright early-afternoon sun, taking clever pictures with my Olympus XA film camera. I finished off last few shots of the roll of Tri-X (black and white film) in the camera, and switched to a roll of color. The color film is necessary, for in the full light of day it is the rich, warm reds and oranges of the town... and the greens of the rolling hills... that are most visually interesting.
At some point I wander down to the church by the castle, in order to check out the "Pictures of Frida Kahlo" exhibit that is on display in a church annex. It's odd that an exhibit of Frida Kahlo pictures should be found in the tiny town of Barolo... but so be it. Odder still is that it is free to enter. I wonder if it's the same Frida Kahlo I'm thinking of. The exhibit is supposed to open at 2pm, but that time comes and goes and the doors do not open. Other visitors arrive and then leave, discouraged and confused. I have to leave soon myself, to meet Margaret by 2:15. It looks like I'm going to miss this opportunity. Such is the flow of life in Italy... time moves at a different pace.
I meet Margaret at the appointed time to drive to our vineyard tour. The drive there is not without drama, as the Vineyard has no known address. Rather, one goes to an intersection somewhere in the adjacent town and then drives half a mile up the road looking for a vineyard sign. As if by a miracle Margaret locates it, and voila, there we are.
The owner of the winery conducts a tasting for us, consisting of 5 whites and 5 reds. Margaret is thrilled, and asks many detailed questions and takes notes. I participate too, though my commentary is pointless. We are then shown the barrels in the wine cellar, where the owner does a "barrel tasting", whereby he pulls the cork out of a barrel, extracts some wine into a tube, and then pours it into our glasses. Much ooohing and aaahing follow upon this, and more questions… then onto another barrel. Oddly enough, the wine in the glass that we do not finish is not thrown away, but is poured back into the barrle. I'm assuming my germs are all over it, so I wonder by what magic process my disgusting cooties don't land in someone's expensive bottle of wine.
Eventually we come back out of the cellar, and the owner invites us to the top of a large hill, where he sits us down at his very exclusive resort, complete with a service of water and espresso (for Margaret). He tells us about resort, and his family, and their wealth, and their success... and how great it is... and how tremendous it is. Margaret gushes while Michael blushes. I feel unworthy of the royal treatment, though I keep my regal manner in tact, so as to not crack under the steady gaze of the waiter. Serious handshakes with eye-contact and Grazie's come pouring out of me, as I put on my best well-bred, rich American demeanor. And so it was.
We drive away duly impressed by how fantastic it all is. Margaret is psyched by how well she comported herself in the presence of the wine king, and I agree. She asked many excellent questions, and knew things... and impressed the man so much that he extended the tasting beyond what he might have done for someone not as sophisticated. Plus he showed us his exclusive resort mansion, and sat us down to water glasses like we were Columbian drug lords. What more could we want.
Margaret is utterly set on eating at Rosso Barolo that very night when we get back... and we do. She orders tagliatelle with black truffle, while I slum it with some gnocchi bolognese. It's all so good. At least mine is. I ask Margaret to let me smell the truffle, which she kept telling me smelled like dirty socks. But after smelling them... I have to apologize to dirty socks everywhere. They only smell like dirty socks, if the socks were left in a pile of garbage for 3 weeks in 90 degree weather. The phrase that best sums up the odor is... "That's nasty".
After dinner, Margaret locates herself on the small terrace that overlooks the courtyard where we had just eaten. She is in love with this terrace. It is just he sort of cat-like perch she didn't get in Rome or Florence. From here she can spot birds and mice and drink wine and feel like a pampered royal. I sit with her and philosophize about the nature of it all.
Wednesday, July 16... Pisa, Carrara, Barolo
We are packed and out of apartment by 10am. The real estate guy comes to the apartment BEFORE 10am and stares at us till we leave. He's nice about it, but I prefer to be left alone while doing my final "sweep" of the rooms, to make sure we don't leave anything. His staring is compromising my process!!!
We lug our 200 pounds of crap back down the 65 stairs and onto the street as the door closes behind us. We are now officially on the clock and on the run. Margaret waits with the luggage at a cafe a few feet away, while I hurry over to a photo store called Bongi to pick up two rolls of film. We walk to the Herz office to rent a car. What looked like an easy walk becomes exhausting and hot as we drag the luggage over many blocks of cobblestones. We get a Fiat 500 with a stick shift, which means Margaret is driving. The car comes with a TomTom GPS, which (of course) is a pain in the ass to use… though it eventually pulls it's weight after struggling with it for two days
We navigate out of Florence and hit the open road. It feels good to be in a car. The urbanity of Rome and Florence are great, but they require one to always be walking… to always be obeying the ebb and flow of cars and pedestrians and the obstructions of tight spaces in the city. But the car reminds us of the addiction to the open road and belief in freedom that we grow up with. One feels in control behind the wheel.
Our destination today is to get to the small town of Barolo in Northern Italy. But first we are going to make stops in Pisa to see the leaning tower, and then in Carrara to check out the marble mines located in the mountains there.
Pisa is maybe an hour away toward the coast from Florence. We manage to navigate into the city and get some street parking a few blocks from the Leaning Tower. The actual site of the Leaning Tower also contains the Cathedral of Pisa and the Baptistery of Pisa… both of which have their own historical and artistic significance. But don't have the time or inclination to explore those things. We are here for the tower… so that we can say we saw it… and we did… and it does lean precariously. The whole complex of buildings sits in a vast open field of close cut grass. Visitors lounge on the ground and walk in every direction. It's quite a difference from the Duomo, which sits amidst the many buildings that it dwarfs.
We hang around for about an hour, grabbing a beer and fries. Then we hit the road and head north along the coast. We get off the main highway, and make the effort to drive along the coastline… which was a big mistake. We drive along the coast through Viareggio, which is the Italian seashore... a combination of the endless oceanfront drives through places like Fort Lauderdale and Wildwood New Jersey. And just like those places that purport to bring you an ocean experience... you cannot even see the ocean from a block away. All you see is the backside of the bars and restaurants and hotels… and on the other side of the street are more condos and endless cars trying to park. Here and there people dart across the road as motorcycles break all the rules create pointless havoc.
The whole scene sends me into a funk, providing yet another depressing reminder that there is nothing on earth that hasn't been taken over by the very big business of making us believe it exists. Most experience has been reduced to the experience of having it provided to you by the tourism and service industries. Thus, the myth of the ocean experience is replaced with the reality of obstructed ocean views, cheesy tourist restaurants, high rise hotels, and massive traffic. The only people who can experience nature are the very poor who live in it, or the very rich who can afford to have a personalized interaction with it constructed in such a way that they believe they are living in it. For the rest of us… the massive middle class… we are sold a myth of the ocean experience… but the only thing we consume is the industrialized experience, not the thing itself. The tourist industry erects the machinery (hotels, restaurants, parking lots) to accommodate our presence near the "thing" (the ocean), but such massive scaffolding obliterates the "thing itself" and becomes thereby the experience... because (as always) the medium is the message.
The terrible "seaside" boulevard finally runs out of room, and we head inland (toward the mountains) to the small city of Carrara. It is a place long famed for the marble that is mined from the mountains it is perched upon. The pure white marble of Carrara was transported to Ancient Rome to build it's temples. Michelangelo personally supervised the selection of stone in his own time. And today (no doubt) counter-tops in American kitchens first see the light of day on these ancient mountains.
To see the mines, one simply drives uphill through the town and out other side. The roads grow small and pitch steeply through switchbacks, as the city falls away behind you and you climb up into the mountains. You quickly come upon the mining operations. Or should I say... you are now in-and-amongst the mining operations, as huge trucks full of marble rumble by regularly, and the road is covered in marble dust and debris.
We pull over here and there to view the mines through fences, from a few hundred feet away. Referring to them as mines is a bit misleading, as the marble is not harvested underground, but is rather sheered off the face of the mountain, in plain view. At one point I hear an explosion, and then see rock and debris sliding down a distant slope. I suppose they must dynamite at times. The exposed marble blocks are the size of houses... their faces perfectly flat and edges and perfect 90 degrees. It's amazing that such large and continuous chunks of earth exist.
I begin poking around the edge of the road, and wander down a few dirt roads, looking for chunks of marble that I might take. At first I feel that I am pilfering the wealth of the mines. But after awhile it occurs to me that there is so much rubble produced as a consequence of mining... and that the rubble has no economic value to the mine... and so it just sits there like rocks on a riverbed... and endless supply of material. If you one piece of rubble per day, it would take a million years to clear out all the rubble. In other words... have at it. The only limit to my good fortune is that I can only take so much before the suitcase I take it home in is too heavy. So I find two piece that are the size of a grapefruit, one white and one grey. And then a few very small samples. And in a final act of "ah-ha"... I take a plastic bag and fill it with the dirt from the side of the road.... which isn't dirt at all... but is several inches of marble dust. With my booty in the back seat of the car, I feel contented.
As we begin driving back down the mountain, the road we are one goes into a tunnel. The opening to the tunnel is small and there are a bunch of signs next to it that we kind-of ignore. The important thing is that there was no "Do Not Enter" sign (a red circle with a line through it). But no sooner are we in the tunnel then we both have the immediate impression that we have made a huge mistake. Inside the tunnel the road narrows to barely more than the width of the car. The walls and ceiling form a rough-hewn archway of dirty grey stone, and the roadway seems to glisten with a dank coating of water. The road begins to pitch downward. Tiny bulbs on the tunnels arched ceiling are spaced 150 feet apart, and put just enough dim light to give a ghastly glow to the proceedings.
The car lights are not on. We do not know how to turn them on. Margaret comes to a stop and struggles to find the switch. I take out my iPhone to us the luminance of it's screen to light the interior of the car. Margaret turns the lights on and we creep forward. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, only a black emptiness, as the road gets steeper and steeper downhill. Margaret rides the brake. We try to turn around and go back, but there is no room to turn around. Margaret fears that a car might come the other way, but I fear that we are going sharply downhill into an underground mining operation, and that we will not be able to turn around until then.
The situation feels critical. Our minds race back to the tunnel entrance and the signage we didn't read. Had we taken the wrong bend in the road. Had the signage been there to warn visitors to NOT drive to their deaths in an abandoned mine shaft? Was there any end to this tunnel, or would it simply disappear into the void? The road begins to sweep down and to the right into more darkness. But just when all hope seemed lost, we see a slight glow on the wall of the tunnel... and finally a glimmer of light, indicating that the tunnel emerged somewhere. And it does. We exit with a huge sigh of relief, and see that we had taken a tunnel that cut through a chunk of mountain and deposited us a few hundred feet lower than our previous position. We find our way back down the mountain to the city of Carrara, and pull into a supermarket there to grab some food. Then we hit the road again, as we have a long ride north to Barolo.
We had considered driving along the coast through the region known as Cinque Terre (pronounced Chinka Terr-ah), which begins at the town of La Spezia and continues north on the coast for several miles. Apparently the towns there are built into the sides of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. I have no doubt this is a beautiful, can't-miss site. But the delays of the day have put us behind schedule, and Margaret wants to get to Barolo before the sun starts going down. So we stick to the main highway. Though I find this disappointing, it occurs to me that perhaps I would be disappointed in Cinque Terre, as I had been along the ocean earlier. Probably the tourist industry and real estate developers have managed to obscure the natural beauty of Cinque Terre, making only accessible from the ocean-side decks of private home or expensive restaurants. I guess I'll never know.
The landscape changes. The big mountains around Carrara (The Appian Alps) give way to smaller, smoother mountains, and then to hills... and then to rolling country side. It is utterly charming. Here and there tiny towns sit perched on the hills, a remnant of long ago fortified town planning. It's easy now to understand how Italy was a land of city-states... geographically isolated and independent worlds, with no sense of national unity until the 19th Century.
An hour north of La Spezia the highway passes over a huge and imposing bridge that traverses (at high elevation) the city of Genoa, which sits far below looking like the blue collar town it is reported to be. There's something creepy and grinding about it... something post-apocalyptic, though I can't say what it was. Sometimes things just come off weird.
At Genoa we are instructed by the TomTom GPS to head dead north. I confirm this with the iPhone's map app. Our destination of Barolo lies at (roughly) the 10 o'clock position, relative to Genoa. But there is no straight line to it, probably due to some terrible mountains between here and there that we must go around. So instead, we have to head north for 40 miles, then head west for 20 miles, and then south for 30 miles. It's quite a round-about way of getting there... but you can't argue with a foreign country and terrain you don't understand. I'm glad to know we have a route that will work, even if the lines on the map seem odd.
Two hours later finds us in the countryside around Barolo. We locate the small road that leads off the main highway and takes us up into the hill on which the old town stands, like a medieval fortress town of old. We see the the tower of the of the Falletti Castle, which is one of two medieval castles there to protect the town from frequent raids by Hungarians (but not anymore).
We roll into town, going up, up, up the winding, empty streets. Nobody is around, and we have no idea where our bed-and-breakfast (Rossa Barolol). The road dead ends at the castle, so we stop and ask a gaggle of older Italian women where it is. Actually, we don't them anything. We simply look lost and utter the words "Rossa Barolo". As is typical in Italy, the natives always repeat back to you what you just said... but with correct pronunciation... rolling the R's and such. Until they perform this act translation, they look like they have no idea what you said. Finally, one of he women's face lights up, and she knows what we're talking about. She beings giving us hand-waving directions in Italian.... which she repeats three times, each more slowly than the previous time. Finally she just waves for us to follow her, and she walks our car three blocks to the place.
We check into our room, move the luggage upstairs, and park the car down a steep hill. Then we walk around the town, marveling at how totally charming and serene everything is. But we are tired from a very full day, and end up crashing back in the room. I am quite exhausted, and am not looking forward to having to wake up and do anything. Sleep comes easily.
We lug our 200 pounds of crap back down the 65 stairs and onto the street as the door closes behind us. We are now officially on the clock and on the run. Margaret waits with the luggage at a cafe a few feet away, while I hurry over to a photo store called Bongi to pick up two rolls of film. We walk to the Herz office to rent a car. What looked like an easy walk becomes exhausting and hot as we drag the luggage over many blocks of cobblestones. We get a Fiat 500 with a stick shift, which means Margaret is driving. The car comes with a TomTom GPS, which (of course) is a pain in the ass to use… though it eventually pulls it's weight after struggling with it for two days
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| Bongi Photo (actually sells film) |
We navigate out of Florence and hit the open road. It feels good to be in a car. The urbanity of Rome and Florence are great, but they require one to always be walking… to always be obeying the ebb and flow of cars and pedestrians and the obstructions of tight spaces in the city. But the car reminds us of the addiction to the open road and belief in freedom that we grow up with. One feels in control behind the wheel.
Our destination today is to get to the small town of Barolo in Northern Italy. But first we are going to make stops in Pisa to see the leaning tower, and then in Carrara to check out the marble mines located in the mountains there.
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| From Florence to Pisa, then north along the coast to Carrara. |
Pisa is maybe an hour away toward the coast from Florence. We manage to navigate into the city and get some street parking a few blocks from the Leaning Tower. The actual site of the Leaning Tower also contains the Cathedral of Pisa and the Baptistery of Pisa… both of which have their own historical and artistic significance. But don't have the time or inclination to explore those things. We are here for the tower… so that we can say we saw it… and we did… and it does lean precariously. The whole complex of buildings sits in a vast open field of close cut grass. Visitors lounge on the ground and walk in every direction. It's quite a difference from the Duomo, which sits amidst the many buildings that it dwarfs.
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| The rumors are true. |
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| Ingenious concept. |
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| Colossal building for baptizing babies |
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| Cathedral (bad iPhone picture) |
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| Is it me or is the Cathedral also sinking into the earth? |
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| Ever present scaffolding. |
The whole scene sends me into a funk, providing yet another depressing reminder that there is nothing on earth that hasn't been taken over by the very big business of making us believe it exists. Most experience has been reduced to the experience of having it provided to you by the tourism and service industries. Thus, the myth of the ocean experience is replaced with the reality of obstructed ocean views, cheesy tourist restaurants, high rise hotels, and massive traffic. The only people who can experience nature are the very poor who live in it, or the very rich who can afford to have a personalized interaction with it constructed in such a way that they believe they are living in it. For the rest of us… the massive middle class… we are sold a myth of the ocean experience… but the only thing we consume is the industrialized experience, not the thing itself. The tourist industry erects the machinery (hotels, restaurants, parking lots) to accommodate our presence near the "thing" (the ocean), but such massive scaffolding obliterates the "thing itself" and becomes thereby the experience... because (as always) the medium is the message.
The terrible "seaside" boulevard finally runs out of room, and we head inland (toward the mountains) to the small city of Carrara. It is a place long famed for the marble that is mined from the mountains it is perched upon. The pure white marble of Carrara was transported to Ancient Rome to build it's temples. Michelangelo personally supervised the selection of stone in his own time. And today (no doubt) counter-tops in American kitchens first see the light of day on these ancient mountains.
To see the mines, one simply drives uphill through the town and out other side. The roads grow small and pitch steeply through switchbacks, as the city falls away behind you and you climb up into the mountains. You quickly come upon the mining operations. Or should I say... you are now in-and-amongst the mining operations, as huge trucks full of marble rumble by regularly, and the road is covered in marble dust and debris.
We pull over here and there to view the mines through fences, from a few hundred feet away. Referring to them as mines is a bit misleading, as the marble is not harvested underground, but is rather sheered off the face of the mountain, in plain view. At one point I hear an explosion, and then see rock and debris sliding down a distant slope. I suppose they must dynamite at times. The exposed marble blocks are the size of houses... their faces perfectly flat and edges and perfect 90 degrees. It's amazing that such large and continuous chunks of earth exist.
I begin poking around the edge of the road, and wander down a few dirt roads, looking for chunks of marble that I might take. At first I feel that I am pilfering the wealth of the mines. But after awhile it occurs to me that there is so much rubble produced as a consequence of mining... and that the rubble has no economic value to the mine... and so it just sits there like rocks on a riverbed... and endless supply of material. If you one piece of rubble per day, it would take a million years to clear out all the rubble. In other words... have at it. The only limit to my good fortune is that I can only take so much before the suitcase I take it home in is too heavy. So I find two piece that are the size of a grapefruit, one white and one grey. And then a few very small samples. And in a final act of "ah-ha"... I take a plastic bag and fill it with the dirt from the side of the road.... which isn't dirt at all... but is several inches of marble dust. With my booty in the back seat of the car, I feel contented.
As we begin driving back down the mountain, the road we are one goes into a tunnel. The opening to the tunnel is small and there are a bunch of signs next to it that we kind-of ignore. The important thing is that there was no "Do Not Enter" sign (a red circle with a line through it). But no sooner are we in the tunnel then we both have the immediate impression that we have made a huge mistake. Inside the tunnel the road narrows to barely more than the width of the car. The walls and ceiling form a rough-hewn archway of dirty grey stone, and the roadway seems to glisten with a dank coating of water. The road begins to pitch downward. Tiny bulbs on the tunnels arched ceiling are spaced 150 feet apart, and put just enough dim light to give a ghastly glow to the proceedings.
The car lights are not on. We do not know how to turn them on. Margaret comes to a stop and struggles to find the switch. I take out my iPhone to us the luminance of it's screen to light the interior of the car. Margaret turns the lights on and we creep forward. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, only a black emptiness, as the road gets steeper and steeper downhill. Margaret rides the brake. We try to turn around and go back, but there is no room to turn around. Margaret fears that a car might come the other way, but I fear that we are going sharply downhill into an underground mining operation, and that we will not be able to turn around until then.
The situation feels critical. Our minds race back to the tunnel entrance and the signage we didn't read. Had we taken the wrong bend in the road. Had the signage been there to warn visitors to NOT drive to their deaths in an abandoned mine shaft? Was there any end to this tunnel, or would it simply disappear into the void? The road begins to sweep down and to the right into more darkness. But just when all hope seemed lost, we see a slight glow on the wall of the tunnel... and finally a glimmer of light, indicating that the tunnel emerged somewhere. And it does. We exit with a huge sigh of relief, and see that we had taken a tunnel that cut through a chunk of mountain and deposited us a few hundred feet lower than our previous position. We find our way back down the mountain to the city of Carrara, and pull into a supermarket there to grab some food. Then we hit the road again, as we have a long ride north to Barolo.
We had considered driving along the coast through the region known as Cinque Terre (pronounced Chinka Terr-ah), which begins at the town of La Spezia and continues north on the coast for several miles. Apparently the towns there are built into the sides of the cliffs overlooking the ocean. I have no doubt this is a beautiful, can't-miss site. But the delays of the day have put us behind schedule, and Margaret wants to get to Barolo before the sun starts going down. So we stick to the main highway. Though I find this disappointing, it occurs to me that perhaps I would be disappointed in Cinque Terre, as I had been along the ocean earlier. Probably the tourist industry and real estate developers have managed to obscure the natural beauty of Cinque Terre, making only accessible from the ocean-side decks of private home or expensive restaurants. I guess I'll never know.
The landscape changes. The big mountains around Carrara (The Appian Alps) give way to smaller, smoother mountains, and then to hills... and then to rolling country side. It is utterly charming. Here and there tiny towns sit perched on the hills, a remnant of long ago fortified town planning. It's easy now to understand how Italy was a land of city-states... geographically isolated and independent worlds, with no sense of national unity until the 19th Century.
An hour north of La Spezia the highway passes over a huge and imposing bridge that traverses (at high elevation) the city of Genoa, which sits far below looking like the blue collar town it is reported to be. There's something creepy and grinding about it... something post-apocalyptic, though I can't say what it was. Sometimes things just come off weird.
At Genoa we are instructed by the TomTom GPS to head dead north. I confirm this with the iPhone's map app. Our destination of Barolo lies at (roughly) the 10 o'clock position, relative to Genoa. But there is no straight line to it, probably due to some terrible mountains between here and there that we must go around. So instead, we have to head north for 40 miles, then head west for 20 miles, and then south for 30 miles. It's quite a round-about way of getting there... but you can't argue with a foreign country and terrain you don't understand. I'm glad to know we have a route that will work, even if the lines on the map seem odd.
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| The route from Genoa to Barolo... taking the long way home. |
Two hours later finds us in the countryside around Barolo. We locate the small road that leads off the main highway and takes us up into the hill on which the old town stands, like a medieval fortress town of old. We see the the tower of the of the Falletti Castle, which is one of two medieval castles there to protect the town from frequent raids by Hungarians (but not anymore).
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| Perfectly picturesque Barolo |
We check into our room, move the luggage upstairs, and park the car down a steep hill. Then we walk around the town, marveling at how totally charming and serene everything is. But we are tired from a very full day, and end up crashing back in the room. I am quite exhausted, and am not looking forward to having to wake up and do anything. Sleep comes easily.
Friday, July 25, 2014
Tuesday, July 15... Bargello... Santa Croce... David
This is our last full day in Florence. We get up early (8:45 am) but not out the door till 10:30. These details are included here to give the reader some indication of just how lazy we truly are. But an early start is necessary today, because the Bargello closes at 2pm. Bummer.
Our first stop today is the Bargello, which is the main sculpture museum in town. It has some very famous works, and cannot be missed. It is housed in a former barracks and prison… and looks like it.
Building Exterior
Building Courtyard
Cool Fountain sculpture.
I wasn't sure what this sculpture group was... but then I noticed holes in the nipples of the central figure, and I knew it must be a fountain.
Baptistery Panels.
These are the famous panels created by Ghiberti (on the left) and Brunelleschi (on the right) for the competition (of 1401) to sculpt the baptistry doors for the Baptistry of Florence. The theme of the panels is "The Sacrifice of Issac". I had read where Ghiberti's panels (which won) were superior to Brunelleschi's due to the greater dynamic and fluid sense of the figures (the newer, Renaissance style emerging), as against Brunelleschi's older style, which was more rigid and angular. Seeing them in person confirmed that they do actually possess those formal properties. In fact, Ghiberti's figures are significantly more fluid and naturalistic, which seeing them in person made clear. It's interesting how viewing sculpture in person makes all the difference. I suppose this is due to sculpture being an actual object in space, rather than the flat illusion of a painting.
Donatello's David.
Donatello's "David" is considered to be the first full length nude sculpture since antiquity. Which is prety cool, I guess. I had always heard it described as being very homoerotic... very feminine for a male figure... and photographs of the sculpture seemed to bear this out. It is often contrasted with Verrochio's "David" (pictured further down this page), whose jaunty pose and boyish energy is contrasted with Donatello.
But having viewed these in person, my mind was completely changed. The Donatello is substantially superior. What seems at first feminine is actually an expression of a physical nature. Why this should seem feminine... I don't know. The position of the hand on the hip strikes the modern viewer as affected and non-masculine... but the power of the figures disposition in 360 degrees is very power... very masculine. By contrast, Verrochio's David looks like an illustration... like a cut out... like a cartoon character.
Verocchio's David.
Michelangelo's Bacchus.
Michelangelo sculpted this in 1496, at the age of 21. The sculpture is notable for it's accurate depiction of a drunken pose, complete with unbalanced figure and rolling eyes. Michelangelo's sculpture is one of colossal proportions and grand ambition. This works well enough when the figures represent sober and spiritual things... but in this case, the large scale of the drunken Bacchus seems odd, and the mass of the of the figure is more flaccid than strong. I suppose this presupposes some correlation between outward strength and inward seriousness... such that drunkenness and overwhelming physicality are somewhat incompatible. Something to think about.
Michelangelo's Pitti Tondo.
This work was especially relevant to me because I had done a case drawing of this piece from a cast at Pafa. I examined it very closely for severa minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of some detail that was missing in the case. But this is hard to do, without having them side by side. I could tell that the original has some level of textural detail that was immediately present... but that overall, the cast at Pafa captured the significant details. This is to be expected. Even poor casts are pretty accurate.
After the Bargello we head over to the church of Santa Croce. Michelangelo is buried here, as is Galileo. There is also a huge sculpture that is thought to be the inspriation for the statue of liberty.
PAZZI CHAPEL
The Pazzi Chapel is a separate building that is attached to Santa Croce. It was built by Brunelleschi in the 1470s. The simplicity and purity of the design is considered a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture, in as much as it mirrors the symmetries of classical architecture. Oddly enough, though... the plan for the building is not a square (despite symmetry of a circular dome). This is because (like so much in Rome and Florence), the chapel was built upon a pevious structure, whose foundations were not square.
Life-like sculpture of weary Americans.
We had planned on heading over to the Duomo next, which we do. But the line is long in the hot sun next to the building... so we blow it off. We head toward the Academy Gallery, in order to see the statue of David. Along the way I hunt down yet another mythic art store... which turns out to be absurd and irrelevant.
We get to the Academy Gallery at around 6:30, and wait in line for maybe 1/2 hour. Finally we are going to see Michelangelo's David. Margaret has seen it before... and I've seen the cast of it everyday for two years at Pafa. So it's no big deal to me... other than that I know everyone will ask me if I saw it... so I must actually go and see it. Which we do.
We also see a selection of Michelanglos slaves and prisoner sculptures.
It's been a long, long day. Tons of walking. We stop at a cafe on Via dei Servi, and then head all the way back across the Ponte Vecchio to get some more groceries at the store. Then back to the apartment. Tomorrow we are leaving Florence, which is my excuse for scoring one last cup of Florentine gelato.
Our first stop today is the Bargello, which is the main sculpture museum in town. It has some very famous works, and cannot be missed. It is housed in a former barracks and prison… and looks like it.
Building Exterior
Building Courtyard
Cool Fountain sculpture.
I wasn't sure what this sculpture group was... but then I noticed holes in the nipples of the central figure, and I knew it must be a fountain.
Baptistery Panels.
These are the famous panels created by Ghiberti (on the left) and Brunelleschi (on the right) for the competition (of 1401) to sculpt the baptistry doors for the Baptistry of Florence. The theme of the panels is "The Sacrifice of Issac". I had read where Ghiberti's panels (which won) were superior to Brunelleschi's due to the greater dynamic and fluid sense of the figures (the newer, Renaissance style emerging), as against Brunelleschi's older style, which was more rigid and angular. Seeing them in person confirmed that they do actually possess those formal properties. In fact, Ghiberti's figures are significantly more fluid and naturalistic, which seeing them in person made clear. It's interesting how viewing sculpture in person makes all the difference. I suppose this is due to sculpture being an actual object in space, rather than the flat illusion of a painting.
Donatello's David.
Donatello's "David" is considered to be the first full length nude sculpture since antiquity. Which is prety cool, I guess. I had always heard it described as being very homoerotic... very feminine for a male figure... and photographs of the sculpture seemed to bear this out. It is often contrasted with Verrochio's "David" (pictured further down this page), whose jaunty pose and boyish energy is contrasted with Donatello.
But having viewed these in person, my mind was completely changed. The Donatello is substantially superior. What seems at first feminine is actually an expression of a physical nature. Why this should seem feminine... I don't know. The position of the hand on the hip strikes the modern viewer as affected and non-masculine... but the power of the figures disposition in 360 degrees is very power... very masculine. By contrast, Verrochio's David looks like an illustration... like a cut out... like a cartoon character.
Verocchio's David.
Michelangelo's Bacchus.
Michelangelo sculpted this in 1496, at the age of 21. The sculpture is notable for it's accurate depiction of a drunken pose, complete with unbalanced figure and rolling eyes. Michelangelo's sculpture is one of colossal proportions and grand ambition. This works well enough when the figures represent sober and spiritual things... but in this case, the large scale of the drunken Bacchus seems odd, and the mass of the of the figure is more flaccid than strong. I suppose this presupposes some correlation between outward strength and inward seriousness... such that drunkenness and overwhelming physicality are somewhat incompatible. Something to think about.
Michelangelo's Pitti Tondo.
This work was especially relevant to me because I had done a case drawing of this piece from a cast at Pafa. I examined it very closely for severa minutes, hoping to catch a glimpse of some detail that was missing in the case. But this is hard to do, without having them side by side. I could tell that the original has some level of textural detail that was immediately present... but that overall, the cast at Pafa captured the significant details. This is to be expected. Even poor casts are pretty accurate.
After the Bargello we head over to the church of Santa Croce. Michelangelo is buried here, as is Galileo. There is also a huge sculpture that is thought to be the inspriation for the statue of liberty.
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| Michelangelo's Tomb |
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| Insspiration for the Statue of Liberty??? |
PAZZI CHAPEL
The Pazzi Chapel is a separate building that is attached to Santa Croce. It was built by Brunelleschi in the 1470s. The simplicity and purity of the design is considered a masterpiece of Renaissance architecture, in as much as it mirrors the symmetries of classical architecture. Oddly enough, though... the plan for the building is not a square (despite symmetry of a circular dome). This is because (like so much in Rome and Florence), the chapel was built upon a pevious structure, whose foundations were not square.
Life-like sculpture of weary Americans.
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| Androids in front of Santa Croce. |
We get to the Academy Gallery at around 6:30, and wait in line for maybe 1/2 hour. Finally we are going to see Michelangelo's David. Margaret has seen it before... and I've seen the cast of it everyday for two years at Pafa. So it's no big deal to me... other than that I know everyone will ask me if I saw it... so I must actually go and see it. Which we do.
We also see a selection of Michelanglos slaves and prisoner sculptures.
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| Margaret checking out nude men. |
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| A room full of casts. |
Monday, July 14... Brancacci Chapel and Three Little Churches
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| The Tribute Money (Masaccio) |
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| Brancacci Chapel |
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| Brancacci Chapel |
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| Brancacci Chapel |
Besides the Brancacci chapel, we have three other churches on the list for today, whose order of visitation is thrown out the window when the hours they are open don't agree with what I had researched online. Of utmost importance is that we visit the Badia Fiorentino church, which is open, and which we hit up first. The reason for the urgency is because it is only open 3 hours per week… and the air of exclusivity implied by that limit fills my heart with a snobbish joy.
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| Badia Fiorentina exterior |
The church contains the painting "Apparition of the Virgin to St. Bernard" by Filippino Lippi. As I said before, my interest in Lippi's work was piqued the day before at the Uffizi.
Also in the church is the Chiostro degli Aranci (Cloister of the Oranges), which contains a fresco cycle (1435-1439) on the life of Saint Benedict, by the mostly unknown Portuguese painter Giovanni di Consalvo (a follower of Fra Angelico).
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| Cloister of the Oranges (Badia Fiorentina) |
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| Cloister of the Oranges with view of frescos |
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| Cloister of the Oranges with view of fresco |
Of particular interest was an unfinished fresco that revealed and under-drawing. I had never seen this before. It looked so clear that I thought it might have been applied recently, rather than 500 years ago, but I am unclear on the matter...
After leaving the Badia Fiorentina, we still have an hour before the other two churches are open. So I walk back to the art supply store that I spotted yesterday (but which was closed). I look everywhere, but there is no cool or unusual stuff to buy there. Same old crap. Here is a picture of the charming exterior of the shop, and a picture of the employees appearing like dedicated old-school craftsmen in their white aprons. What a crock-o-shit... they had nothing you couldn't find at Dick Blick.
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| Zecchi (ordinary art store that looks cool) |
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| Poser Smocks |
A bit later we find our way back to the churches that weren't open earlier. The first is the The Santa Trinita ("Holy Trinity"). This church is art historically relevant due to the Sassetti Chapel, which contains frescoes by Domenico Ghirlandaio (who was the master to the young Michelangelo). These are considered the masterpieces of his oeuvre..
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| Santa Trinita |
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| Ghirlandaio's fresco in the Sassetti Chapel |
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| Hugo van der Goes, Portinari Altarpiece |
The last church on the list was the Chiesa di Ognissanti (All-Saints Church). The church contains a few pieces by Ghirlandaio and Botticelli, but is most notable for being the burial site of Sandro Botticelli himself. A testament to the popularity of Botticelli are the handwritten notes left at his grave.
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| Ognissanti, Main Altar |
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| Botticelli's Tomb (circular plaque on floor) with notes left for him |
All of this running around to churches is exhausting. We cross over to the altrarno and get some gelato at a "recommended" place. We stumble upon another art supply store. It is well stocked with ordinary shit, and I buy something ordinary that I kind-a need (for 4 euros)… because I am dying to buy something.
We head back to the grocery store for more essential food items… once again proving that Americans can get to the checkout on one day with more food than Italians eat in a week. Then we head home and begin eating it.
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