Burnt Siena

My days in Florence were numbered. After getting a warning from my hostel that I was rubbing up against their maximum nights allowed, I began to look for another town to call home. Venice could be nice. Or what about Verona? Turin, maybe, for a little coffee and chocolate? Then, on my last night at the hostel, I was rummaging through Rick Steves when I noticed something: more pages were dedicated to this little town called Siena than were used to describe Florence. Well, I thought, I if Rick loves it that much, the town can't be that bad. Plus, it'll be nice to get out of big cities for a few days. The next day, I boarded an early train to my mystery town.

After a winding trip on a tiny orange bus (where the young woman standing next to me had some sort of meltdown and collapsed onto my lap; nothing like some excitement!), I reached the ostello, a sweet little place with no character and substantial distance from the city center. Dropping my bag, I popped onto another little orange bus (this time, an old lady tripped and hurt herself) and headed into the old city. When we finally stopped at the main station, I knew I had picked the right town.

Siena is nothing if not two things: a city build for automatic vehicles and a city decorated with Crayola crayons. It's on a hill in Tuscany (so are all the roads), offering everything you could ever expect in classic, postcard-perfect views of Tuscan living. I found myself on an "arts and nature urban trek," suggested by the somewhat useless tourist office (they don't seem to stock much of anything), which brought me into what might be considered the reality version of Under the Tuscan Sun. Builders reconstructing the facades of old, tan brick houses with flowing, lush fields behind them. And then there's Il Campo, the shell-shaped square around which there is an semi-annual bareback horse race (Il Palio). This is where the whole Crayola crayon thing comes in. At midday (what the Cypriots call "mad dogs and Englishmen" time), the tan bricks of the piazza turn that inviting shade of reddened brown that makes up my father's favorite color (see the title, spelled like the town, for a hint!)

For me, the joy of Siena was just strolling. The city is a sight in itself, with beautiful buildings around every corner, laundry flapping in the wind, and the sounds of student life spilling from the university residence halls. And students were to be found everywhere! In the cheap-o pizzeria on Il Campo, where the server chatted me up about his final exams; on a balcony overlooking the burnt square, where Deniss (a Croatian/Italian painter with almost no English) and I used pictograms, bad Italian, Latin and English to talk as we shared a beer; and on the outskirts of the city, where I almost joined a pickup football game in action, choosing instead to allow the experts show me how it's done.

While my hostel curfew did prevent much in the way hanging out at student nightlife (a midnight curfew, when the last bus is at 22:22 doesn't seem terribly fair), I did certainly have some adventures of my own! Over the France-Portugal game (you think I would miss it?), I shared two bottles of local red (whew!) with Tamara and Anna, a South African and a Swede currently living in Ireland. We had a delightful chat, moving from politics to travel to Italy to cell phones to football to wine, and I now have an open invitation to crash at their house in Galway, when I make it to Ireland. We'll see...

More from Varenna

So, I received a nice little email (from a person who shall remain anonymous), asking for more information about Varenna and my time there. In my haste to post something, I may have been a little too skimpy with the details. Here are some answers to the questions I received.

Varenna is a lovely, rustic town. It has an ideal location on Lake Como, close enough to highly-touristed Bellagio, but on a rail line just one hour outside of Milan. There's one main road, which winds its way through the one main piazza (Piazza San Giorgio) and on to the other neighboring towns. The year-round population is older, and (from what I can tell) the place is filled mostly with summer homes. But what a place to summer! In order to get from the piazza to the lake, you have to go down winding, narrow stairways, cut between pastel-colored houses. Each passageway is literally a postcard picture. Down by the lake, the horizon opens and you have a perfect view of the terra cotta-roofed houses of Menaggio, another small town directly across the lake. There are walkways overlooking the lake where, in the evening, you can watch local fisherman hard at work with long poles that bob gracefully against the sunset. As Kathryn once told me, "There's not much to do besides go out on the lake in a boat and think about your song." She's absolutely right.

With that said, it follows that my days were filled with singing and, in my off time, I either napped, rehearsed my songs or strolled the winding lanes. I did have a chance (at the very, very end) to go swimming on the sandy beach behind Signora Seta's house, but I decided against renting a boat (the ones I saw were all the high-power kind that seemed to ruin the ambiance of the lake for me.) Rick Steves has discovered Varenna, much to the chagrin of Kathryn and Terry, who don't appreciate the extra tourist crowds, and he suggests that you stay around for a few days "just to see how slow your pulse can get." Even with the heat and singing, my pulse dropped a few notches, and it took some adjusting to get back into the higher energy frame I tend to use when I travel. It's a delightful place to vacation and relax, which is just what I did.

The people of Varenna are also delightful. Signora Seta and her maid (who speaks no English at all) took great care of me, doing their best to communicate through broken English, slow Italian and broad gestures. Signora Seta has a striking resemblance to my great Aunt Gilda, which had me doing a double take every time I entered the house. The maid and I tried our best to communicate, but the only thing I think we actually communicated successfully is that I am an American, but that my great, great grandfather came from Italy. Once that was clear, however, we were buddies. The other locals I met were mostly wait staff in restaurants who were always insistent that I speak as much Italian as I could muster. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that I had a copy of an Italian textbook with me at all times (Kathryn lent it to me when I arrived so I could brush up on my pronunciation), but I like to believe that another part is that nobody wanted to believe that I was a visitor. Many an evening I would order in English, only to hear a reply in Italian. I could usually catch enough to answer in one language or another.

In class, Alexander Technique and vocal technique went hand in hand. The Alexander Technique is a mind-body exercise of sorts, dealing mostly with finding ways to perform movement as easily and with as little tension as possible. The Technique is based upon what Alexander called "Primary Control," or the relationship of neck and shoulders. There is a sense of freedom and height that comes with the release in class and, by the end of a lesson, I often felt much taller and freer, both physically and psychologically. And it didn't just help me sleep. By releasing unnecessary tension, especially in the neck and shoulders, you can allow your larynx to suspend, thereby offering a freer and fuller sound to form. A sound that, in my case, becomes darker and approximates that of an opera singer. And a sound that, in my case, leads towards that Italian tenor sound. My model for the week was Pavarotti. He has almost a sigh in his voice, a color that is classically Italian, where it is deeper and richer than my bright, musical theater voice. The sound is good for classical work, but also for more traditional Broadway stuff (one of my "hits" from the week-long class was Rodgers and Hammerstein's "Younger than Springtime"). We opened new doors and I have a huge amount to think about for a while, but I can definitely feel and hear my vocal apparatus starting to become more free and full, which is exactly what I was hoping would happen.

So, there are some additional thoughts on Varenna and my week there. It's a fantastic place to check out if you make it to the Lake Como region.

Ethan the Italian / The Florentine Feast

With a title like that, you know we're headed somewhere!

So, with my complexion, it does appear that I blend in Italy. I mean, really blend. Really, really, really blend. Blend to the point where I get asked directions from locals. Blend to the point where traveling Brits, pulling their heads out of their guidebooks, grab me by the hand, pull me down to their level and, with slow, painful pronunciation and babyish hand gestures, ask, "Do... you... speak... Eengleesh?" I've decided to take it as a compliment! And you should see the expression on people's faces when I respond to them in my Standard American dialect, "Yes, I do speak English. How can I help you?"

The other thing that being considered a local brings is the necessity to really get to know the place where you are. And this is a nice segue into Florence.

If Florence were available, we'd be married. I am madly in love with the city. Listening to the classical guitarists perform in the piazza with a piccolo cono in hand, all the while feeling the eyes of a plaster Zeus and Apollo staring down at you from their perches is approaching my idea of Renaissance heaven. And Florence is the perfect spot for the pedestrian, with picturesque walkways, a delightfully confusing street system and relatively even ground. However, this also makes it tourist heaven. And, in my case, too full of mini-Duomos and grow-your-own Davids for my liking. Thus, in the city for a few hours, I decided I needed to find that which had not been developed by tourists. Kathryn and Terry from Varenna lived in Florence for five years, so I knew there was more than the Uffizi (whose art, by the way, pulled me in for three exhilarating hours). And so, grabbing a 1.5L water bottle from a local convenience store, I headed off onto a tiny little street with no stores, no signs and, most importantly, no tourists.

After about three hours of wandering, I was decidedly lost. Visually stimulated and thrilled (and feeling very Italian for the number of times I was asked directions, and the number of times I was able to do so), but lost. And hungry. My watch read a big old 19:30, which also signaled that it was really time to eat. Yet, I had not passed one eating location in the last hour. A supermarket, yes, but they were closed by now. I stumbled down a back alley, hoping something, even a gelateria, would stand before me, offering even the slighest snack.

Before me stood what might be called the best, and still yet-to-be-discovered, backpacker restaurant in all of Florence. Even with my limited Italian, I could make out the name (Pane e Vino). I stepped up to the door, where the menu was posted. Entirely in Italian. Good, I thought. My eyes swung over to the prices. Better, I thought. I stuck my head in and notice that, while busy, there are a few "tables for one." "Great!" I shouted, as I leapt through the door and made my way to the host. She turns with a start and shows me to a table. I eagerly sit down and start decipering the menu. When my waitress comes, it turns out she speaks enough English to tell me she doesn't speak English, but explain one of the more confusing menu items (a steak sold by the gram and starting at 800 grams). I ordered my antipasti of bruschetta, a primi of gnocchi and a secundi of something that started with an s, was chicken-based and listed "porcini" as an ingredient. I added the house red wine and a small water. She thanked me, walked away, uncorked the local chianti (which usually goes for upwards of €12 a shot) and filled my carafe. Things were going well!

The restaurant itself had a very "back street" feel. Almost everybody there was Italian (the English-speaking group next to me were Brits visiting a Florentine friend, who had taken them there), the view was of a brick wall, the decor was tacky but homey and the music was an eclectic mix of American 80s hits and Italian remixes. As my food arrived, I realized that we had hit a gold mine! The gnocchi was fresh and tasty, in a homemade red sauce; the bruschetta had bright red tomatos on top, was seeping olive oil and had distinctive grill marks; and my mystery chicken dish was tender and succulent! I took in the ambiance as long as I could, eavesdropping on Italian when I could understand it and reveling in my back door discovery.

All this for under €15. No wonder they say the best things in life are free (or really cheap!)

Milano, Schmilano!

Milan is a big city, indeed. Indeed. About as big and city-ish as you can get. I think I realized this when I walked off the train and into what Kathryn (of Varenna fame) calls "Mussolini's mausoleum to fascism." And when I hopped on the Metro (or subway) and found the lines numbered and color-coded. And when I got off at my potential hostel location and found that the entire street was covered in graffiti. And when I found out that the hostel was full. And when none of the pay phones worked. And when nobody understood what I meant when I said I wanted a hostel. And when I wound up at a terrible little one star hotel, paying far too much, just to make sure I had a roof over my head. And, speaking of heads, my World Cup hat (which I procured in Frankfurt after watching Germans parade down the street, celebrating their success over Sweden) decided to walk away. And, to make matters worse, at the Duomo, a pigeon pooped on my shirt. Needless to say, Milan was not starting out too well.

So, in the eternal words of Rick Steves, "If things are to your liking, change your liking." And that is just what I did. After thoroughly disinfecting my shirt (and half of my hotel room, whose light burned out after the first three minutes), I decided that Milan would redeem itself (especially if I was spending €33 a night for this dumpy room!). My first discovery was that the hotel was a family owned and operated establishment. My friendlyproprietorr, who claimed only to speak 10 words of English, is in fact a grandfather, and his three year old grandson has the run of the place. So, we played tag in the halls for a little while, until he got scared of what his grandpa called my "monster face." With that set of entertainment done, I pulled out my trusty Let's Go guidebook (Rick Steves, it seems, does not consider Milan to be the "Best of Europe") to figure out what the local, "hip", trendy Milanese do for fun in the evening. It seems, the go to hang out on the (get ready for it...) canals. Yes, Milan has canals. They're hidden, but they are there. So, being young and (at times) "hip" and (when I can muster it) "trendy," I decided to do as the Milanese do and go clubbing. Well, not clubbing. More like canal-bar-hopping-with-more-strolling-less-hopping-and-very-little-drinking.

My final resting place (if you can call it that) was a little joint called Scimmie. On a barge. In the canal. The place is reputed in the guidebooks to be a nifty joint to have a glass of wine. And, it appears, it is also a hot place to catch the France-Brazil World Cup quarter final game. Which I did. Surrounded by Italian romantics and frenzied French hooligans, I sipped red wine with one eye on the game and the other on the beautiful urban sunset. The game was a major upset for Brazil, which has some obscene number of World Cup victories under its belt, but I didn't really care. Milan, for all its heat, sweat, stink, graffiti, pigeon poop and terrible hotel rooms, had redeemed itself in the strangest way. With this newfound sense of the city, I decided to give Milan another day (after I reserved a hostel room).

If my goal is to understand different European cities, I think I get Milan. It's Manhattan pre-clean up mixed with today's East Village and a little bit of Venice for spice. Two days (and a trip to La Scala) won me over. And, as I raced to the train station on Monday to get to Florence, a little part of me smiled. Milano, you're my first success!

You know you're on Lake Como when...

- you arrive at the train station, which has no live operator, to discover Kathryn, your teacher for the next week, her daughter Felicia and her husband Terry waiting with a car to drive you down the one road that leads into town.

- your hotel is a private room, rented by a lovely 85 year-old woman who goes by Signora Seta, on the second floor of a salmon-colored, ivy-covered house right on the main piazza.

- your bedroom window looks out onto church with slate shingles, which turn blue at night.

- your morning coffee (a cappuccino and brioche) are served every morning at a local bar. Despite the fact that you go there every day (and the server is always the same), the price is different every morning.

- it takes you 20 minutes to hike up hill to Kathryn and Terry's apartment, but you leave yourself 30-40, because the view is exceptional (and it's so hot, you can't help but go slow).

- there are three of you in class (Felicia and Alexia, both rising high school seniors) and you begin to feel your age.

- as you begin to do Alexander Technique work with Kathryn, she begins every session asking you to look out at the lake and focus on the boats darting by. You see something far more expansive than this.

- after private singing lessons and coaching lessons (that's Terry's specialty) in the morning, you race home to take a quick siesta.

- your siesta always lasts longer than you expect.

- you venture out to the salumeria, where nobody speaks any English, to purchase sandwich makings for lunch. Through a mix of Latin, baby Italian and hand signals, you come away with three rolls, a half kilo of salami and a delightfully stinky goat cheese for under €5. This lasts you for lunches for the rest of the week.

- Kathryn, Terry and Felicia recommend a lunch cruise on the lake, a two hour event that takes you up to Colico and back. On a picture-perfect day, you hop on. While the lunch is somewhat lackluster, the views make up for it! The mountains shine, the green trees are vibrant and the water glistens. Your camera fills with pictures.

- Alexia invites you to take in the view from her hillside hotel, which turns into a lovely sunset-filled dinner with her and her father Bill.

- you determine that the gelateria requires a daily visit and discover that pistachio/chocolate and bitter cherry/chocolate are two of the most divine combinations of gelato known to man.

- you and Terry race through performance critiques on 15 songs in the span of five days, by which time Italian and English seem like the same language.

- Kathryn tells you that you have the potential to be "an Italian tenor," to which you reply, "well, I am a tenor and Italian, so..."

- Felicia sings a most delightful rendition of "Wouldn't It Be Loverly?" while Alexia performs a haunting Emily Dickinson poem set to music.

- mysteriously, your Alexander Technique allows you to sleep for 8-9 hours per night without any trouble!

- your USAA ATM card finally arrives and works! The angels sing!

- a physicists convention fills up most of the cheap-o restaurants in town, so you decide to head (by boat!) to the nearby town of Bellagio, where you have a delightful meal of gnocchi and caprese salat (wine and water included!) for under €10.

- for your last day of class, Kathryn hosts a dinner, with a gorgeous sunset view.

- when you wake up to head to Milan, a little piece of you says, "Can't we stay just one more day?"

(I apologize for the long, long, long internet silence. Varenna, while gorgeous, had one internet station with exceptionally expensive rates. Thus, my blogging (which does take me a little while has had to wait. But, now that I am sweating it out in Milano, surrounded by designer clothing, opera singers and graffiti, I'm back in action!)