Florence to Venice to Verona to Garda Lake to the Italian Alps

"A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats."

The Open Boat by Stephan Crane was the perfect short story for the trip to Venice. We arrived at 9am for a day of navigating the watery grid, a city famous for Carnival and Murano glass making. The canals dominated the day's agenda. And so with our internal compasses spinning in all directions, we acquiesced to getting lost. 

I bought my first souvenir: a kitty cat carnival mask.

We grabbed a bag of ripe nectarines from a fruit stand and feasted. 

And after mazing our way through the city like an out-of-control Etch A Sketch, we paused for a spontaneous alleyway photo shoot. 

 Following our window shopping and gelato eating, we worked our way back out to the main canal where we dangled our feet in the milky green water and fished for algae-feeding crabs.

Day in Venice = richly repetitive and idyllic.

Next stop was Verona. 

Made famous as the literary context of the famous Capulet and Montague betrothal, the city attracts tourists based off of a fictional love story. 

But the "Romeo, Romeo wherefore art thou Romeo?" balcony and the wall where couples fasten the locks of their love is a mystical nook in one of the most bucolic cities I've visited while in Italy. 

We continued the trek up to one of the most preferable Italian vacation spots: Garda Lake. 

It put on display every shade of blue.

The biggest lake in all of Italy, its crystalline salt water is situated at the foothills of the Italian Alps. We crossed the mote into Sirmione, a fortified peninsula city and summer home to the famous Latin poet, Catullus. 

We stayed the night in Trento, a college town in the northern most part of Italy in the Adige River Valley. The next morning began our day of hiking, starting in Madonna di Campiglio.

Water fell where the land decided to fall.

And the balds were gateways to views like these. 

"Please Be Quiet!"

read the door.

Rumor has it there are secret Florentine bakeries nestled in dark alleys that sell pastries in the wee hours of the morn.

Last night, we turned rumor into reality. Several different sources informed us that one such bakery was near where we live. And since we have our final exams tomorrow, naturally it was the perfect night to stay up until 2am and seek it out. Lead by our fine-tuned sniffers (and having been pointed in the general direction by our Italian mom's son who is staying with us for the week), we followed the freshly-baking bread smell until we saw the renowned frosted window panes and side door with a sign that read, "SHHH! Please Be Quiet!"

There were several other people standing around waiting for their treats, so we fell in line and prepared to pay our dues to the pastry black market. After a brief, hushed-tone inquiry, we found out they were selling orange marmalade and Nutella croissants last night. 1 euro for 1 croissant. We bought 9 between the 5 of us.

Croissants just taste better when it's 3am and when you committed a crime to get one (or two).

Now, one might ask: why is it illegal to sell bread at night? Well these bakeries make the bread for cafes and pastry shops around the city. They make the bread during the night so it's fresh for the morning consumers. Well besides not having vendor permits or store fronts, they are selling them for mere pocket change prices.

So if you are ever wandering the streets late at night and get a hankering for a pastry, seek out a frosted window pane (which, like us, may lead you to break out in song), backed by a perfume of sugary dough and you may be on to something.

Since I don't have pictures to commemorate our nomming, here's a tasteful video on the art of bread making:

Italian Living

Whilst in Italy, I am taking a series of classes. One of which is photography. Each week we are responsible for turning in a set of photos based on a particular theme. We have a lot of autonomy when it comes to choosing our theme and vision for the project.

Having read numerous Pioneer Woman posts about composition, lighting and exposure - in addition to drooling over every photo she posts about her beautiful life and gleaning a little knowledge that way - I felt moderately confident in my proficiency of the art of photography. Au contraire. To my pride's chagrin, I was about as average as Joe Shmo with his point-and-shoot.

Painstakingly, I have learned many things. But as goes the acquisition of anything, be it a language, a recipe or a VOR instrument approach, practice makes (almost) perfect.

TAKE MY ADVICE

 A good photo is always a simple-minded photo. 

Photoshop cannot fix an unfocused photo.

 depth of field, depth of field, depth of field

 Shadows can be good.

Natural light is always better.

 Coordination (of color, of light, of emotion) makes a good set.

 Always crop out the unnecessary.

 Don't be timid in post production.

 Center the needle when you look through the viewfinder.

Always use custom white balance when shooting with artificial lighting.

The Five Lands

I live-journaled our entire bus ride to Cinque Terre. Often it strikes me how transient yet profound is the human mind, and I want to capture it and keep it locked between dusty pages for my lifetime. That way if vegetable state ever strikes this body or if one snow-halted day by a fireplace I wish to vicariously re-experience these ventures, I can. So here goes:

Italian Riviera, what a name, almost to suggest a rivulet-infested coastline which would in fact be beautiful.

Pistoglia, north of Florence on the way to these lands, is a town famous for plant nurseries and metal working skills.

Apennines, the spine of Italy.

Luca aqueducts, a modern desperation of irrigated - or should we say irritated - water system... no longer functioning.

Puccini's Madame Butterfly was inspiration of this here drive we are on.

Forte di Marmi and Versilia.

White marble mines hollow out the Carvara hillside. Michelangelo would travel here to hand select his slabs.

The steep hills of Liguria are known for pine trees and chestnut trees.

Poppies pepper the pathway we're plodding.

Lord Byron & Percy Shelley had their summer homes in La Spezia, a famous Italian Riviera town. It's really quite ugly but no one asked me. Their writings found their muse in this Naval base, concrete town, as have mine obviously.

La Spezia has a cathedral that was rebuilt after WW2. It resembles a football.

Gulfo di poeti is the gulf of poets. In this place, my philosophizing has found its destination.

Chestnut tree degeneration seems to be a worldwide phenomenon, no?

UNESCO 1997 revitalization of Cinque Terre aka tourist trap acquisition, but beauty remains uncompromised. It established the "cooperativa agricultura" and peninsula tunneling.

Terracing: from Macchu Picchu to Cinque Terre, it has seemed to work pretty well.

Cinque Terre's wines are white & sweet. 3 grapes are grown here Vermintino, Alberola e Bosca.

Monteroso, one of the five villages, is known for its lemons. Limoncello is a citrus delight.

From South to North you may hike from village to village. Here's how to do it from start to finish: Riomaggiore, Manarola, Corniglia,Vernazza and Monterosso.

Now for the experiential recount:

We arrived early in the morning to Manarola, the second of the villages. Now that there are trains that connect them, we decided to take a train from Manarola to Corniglia. Corniglia was devastated by a flood of some sort back in the day, so the ruin is still apparent. Nevertheless the buildings' colors are untainted and the vibrancy of the vegetation is truly Eden-esque. If heaven were a lemon meringue pie, this was a slice. We then hiked to Vernazza. This required that we climb five hundred vertical stairs where our lunch awaited us. Easy. We had octopi cerviche or something raw, I assure you. That coupled with pesto pasta made from Ligurian pine nuts and our first hiccup with "frizzante" water (gassy nasty seltzer water), and we were ready for the real hike.

Glorious would be an understatement. In 2 hours we had sung every Disney song we could recall and expended some pent-up energy hopping from rock to rock, doing yoga on random bridges and running segments of the trail.

A swim awaited us in Monterosso. We downed a bottle of wine between five girls, made a quick wardrobe change and hit the sand or should I say hit the pebbles? Il Mediteraneo was the perfect cool down, but never tame for too long, we sought out a rock levy about a half mile off shore. A short swim later and several prickly encounters with sea urchins we were bleeding but on cloud 9.

We took a boat from the most northern village, Monterosso, down to the first village, Riomaggiore. In an attempt to even out my hideous shorts tan from an unfortunate day wearing biker shorts while kayaking a couple weeks prior, I propped up on the back of the boat and soaked up some sun.

Often my realizations are not like striking blows or light bulb thoughts, rather ensuing cloud-like encompassing profundities or euphorias. This was one of those times, if that makes any sense. I was so keenly aware in every fibre of my being, it felt, that in the moment, I was experiencing something so good. Embodying and living every aspect of the word "freedom," in both body and soul. I knew no bounds, and if you had reminded me of certain physical limitations or had attempted to pluck me out of my cloud into a spiraling conversation about human fragility, I would have been one of those empowered fanatics that refused to reckon with such a reality. Mine was in the wind that carries the salt that fuses and crusts to my hair.

We arrived in Monterosso and hiked the Via dell' Amore back up to Manarola where we started. The Lover's Lane was a winding trail on the side of the cliff. It started off as one of those make-shift engineering necessities when they were doing dynamite blasting in the 60s and just needed scaffolding. And since it's always in vogue to break a rule, some couples started the trend of sneaking out onto this overlook and securing a lock onto the metal structure. Now, of course, people tie anything they have with them. We saw baby diapers and the occasional watch, which to me seems to give the opposite message of a love that can stand the tides of time. Now it's like:"I'm a ticking time bomb with a baby on the way." But it really was a beautiful angle to the coastline of these five lands, at which time the sun was now setting.

The floodgates have opened

And so I pour my journal out to you all:
Entry June 1, 2012

Today was grand. It's a fitting word really because suggestively so, there was much expansion of my excitement in seeing the expanse of this city. The magnitude of the architecture, the intricacies of navigation, the multiplicity of the word "piazza" and "via." Side-stepping cars and motorized things. The hum of this city would sound like a 2 cylinder kick-start if you had to describe it. But in the details, the earnestness of "lacksadaisicality" (an apt descriptor of the nonsense of city dwelling) is really just grand. The sluggishness perhaps is what can be attributed to its vast and remaining historicity. And the care for preservation is rather paradoxical to its leisure. I witnessed 4 street cleaning crews throughout the city today - pressure washing the stoned alleys with soapy water... serious concern for aesthetic i you ask me. But rightfully so. The Duomo is like a brain exercise just to behold. From the clouds you perceive a tortoise shell of a defense with those clay-colored roofs squaring every inch. But on the ground, indeed, there's a sluggish haze tinted like purple wine and gray-green granite of old. Like an architectural regret in vogue, the Duomo defends it's deep forest inlays.

Wine, salad, pasta, gelato - par for this course. Redefining par to mean a hole in one to maintain the integrity of the analogy, in this case.

view of the duomo from piazza michelangelo, home of the patina fake david

kiwi and mojito

san lorenzo cathedral

Arno

Here stands a stunted-in-size facade called il ponte vecchio. 

Always had my imagination constructed an edifice that would snub its nose to the river saying, 

"Rush through my arches!"

This sort of domineering attitude the old bridge in no way embodies. 

Contrarily, it maintains its crooked composure atop the stagnant waters. 

Brail Art

Sensory elements combined, requiring a synthesis of nature.

Rocks with trees. Sight with touch.

Demanding a sensorial fusion to achieve natural equality.

alley cat

...just as the Florentine character,
as we have it to-day, is a character that takes all things easily
for having seen so many come and go. 

Henry James

brrram brrram brrrram

it is, indeed, una alma flamenca. although i would like to take credit for autonomously finding such a wonderful video, this is a reblog from a friend. thank you senor barkey, attributed as you deserve!

chiese

as the old pine fell, we sang just to bless the morning. 

crossed crosses.

smoke in my lungs and yet free as a bird and flying.

Aviators' Love Song

You got to leave me now, you got to go alone
You got to chase a dream, one that's all your own
Before it slips away
When you're flyin' high, take my heart along
I'll be the harmony to every lonely song
That you learn to play

When you're soarin' through the air
I'll be your solid ground
Take every chance you dare
I'll still be there 
When you come back down
When you come back down

I'll keep lookin' up awaitin' your return
My greatest fear will be that you will crash and burn
And I won't feel your fire
I'll be the other hand that always holds the line
Connectin' in between your sweet heart and mine
I'm strung out on that wire

And I'll be on the other end
To hear you when you call
Angel, you were born to fly
And if you get too high 
I'll catch you when you fall
I'll catch you when you fall

Your memory's the sunshine every new day brings
I know the sky is calling
Angel, let me help you with your wings

When you're soarin' through the air
I'll be your solid ground
Take every chance you dare
I'll still be there 
When you come back down

Take every chance you dare
I'll still be there 
When you come back down
When you come back down


Nickel Creek

Italian Peonies

atop a linen-ed table sit these beauties