tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-39106375816344155382024-03-13T07:01:11.879-04:00MiamiOhioFirenzeTravel and Cultural Reporting from ItalyAnnie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.comBlogger20125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-26117111924580213752015-06-10T10:55:00.000-04:002015-06-11T15:45:07.534-04:00In Which We Learn to Make Italian FoodDaniele and I were pouring over the list of field trips and experiences we wanted our <a href="http://miamioh.edu/" target="_blank">Miami University</a> students to have while in Firenze.<br />
This was several months ago, still in Oxford, Ohio.<br />
Uffizi Gallery: Yes.<br />
Galleria dell'Accademia (The David!): Yes.<br />
San Miniato al Monte Basilica, with its extraordinary vista of the city: Yes.<br />
"What about an Italian cooking lesson?" I asked him, hopefully.<br />
As a Florentine, Daniele is understandably proud of the world-class institutions for which his city is known.<br />
But I teach an entire <a href="https://oxfordohfoodie.wordpress.com/" target="_blank">Advanced Storytelling class</a> framed around food writing, and I love how food can teach so many sophisticated journalistic techniques.<br />
Still, was my request too... crass?<br />
Daniele stopped, considered. "Certainly," he replied, waxing poetic about his wife's own pasta-making talent.<br />
***<br />
And so here we are at <a href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/Attraction_Review-g187895-d1181770-Reviews-In_Tavola-Florence_Tuscany.html" target="_blank">In Tavola</a>, near Firenze's Piazza de Santo Spirito, mesmerized as Chef Fabrizio energetically instructs and then prods each student to roll, roll, roll the pasta; pinch the ravioli edges; stir, stir, stir.<br />
Here's one scene -- featuring (left to right) Kara Pietrowski, Abby Kelly, Annie Lynch and Lindsay Clark -- making ravioli and fettuccine.<br />
I'll link to some of the students' own writing about this experience as they post them on their Foreign Correspondent blogs.<br />
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<br />Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-52587066996018206432015-06-10T10:10:00.001-04:002015-06-10T10:12:12.090-04:00Ah, sì. Mi Sento a Casa in Italia<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5w_MCSBv9BE/VXg_PtXYhZI/AAAAAAAAFPc/Zf-jpEgGNk8/s1600/Florence%2Bsunset%2BJune%2B9%2B2015%2BWEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="205" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5w_MCSBv9BE/VXg_PtXYhZI/AAAAAAAAFPc/Zf-jpEgGNk8/s320/Florence%2Bsunset%2BJune%2B9%2B2015%2BWEB.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The River Arno at sunset June 9, 2015.</td></tr>
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When I left Italia after the summer of 2010, I was relieved. I found myself constantly telling people, "Go as a tourist. But don't try to live there."<br />
The <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amanda_Knox" target="_blank">Amanda Knox case</a> was in high gear then.<br />
The summer in Florence had been hot and complicated.<br />
I missed my husband, children, friends.<br />
I missed my garden and Friday night barbecues at our swim club and my dogs.<br />
Never will I return to Italy, I vowed.<br />
And I meant it.<br />
***<br />
But here I am, teaching journalism again in Firenze.<br />
This time, I feel... comfortable.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
Grocery shopping, slipping quietly among the tourists and the immigrants hawking handbags, trying out my fractured Italian on anyone who will listen.<br />
Who knew?<br />
***<br />
The Miami University students studying "Foreign Correspondence" with me this year are a wonderful bunch of young women.<br />
The AIFS Institute is an amazing place in which to base our Miami program - the staff is incredible, helpful, smart and also at home in Italy, though many are ex-pats.<br />
I still miss my husband and children... and dogs.<br />
But today a librarian at the British Institute asked me, "Have you lived here before? You look familiar."<br />
My heart swelled a bit. Even though I know I look like every red-haired woman of Irish descent.<br />
I replied, "Yes - yes, I have lived in Firenze before! And I wonder how living here an entire year - or more - would feel?"<br />
He said, with a smile, "It feels like home."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-20405034328845341042010-08-14T12:48:00.000-04:002010-08-14T12:48:09.451-04:00A Domani, Italia<div style="text-align: right;"></div>Good-bye Italy, for now.<br />
I am sorry I don’t love you.<br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbDhcTF39I/AAAAAAAAALc/VUFna5oZLwk/s1600/B-Il-Caggio-Vineyards.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbDhcTF39I/AAAAAAAAALc/VUFna5oZLwk/s200/B-Il-Caggio-Vineyards.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mattia Barzaghi's vineyards, San Gimignano.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>And after two summers in your grasp, I fear I may never develop that Frances Mayes, dewy-eyed romance with you.<br />
<br />
Many of my friends yearn for your gold-dusted sunsets, your size 2 women in stilettos, your DOCG Chianti, blue-green Riviera shores, Etruscan artifacts, Limoncello, your David.<br />
<br />
I am clear-eyed.<br />
<br />
The way I see it, Italia is the Rivendell of the 21st century.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbGUfffPdI/AAAAAAAAAM8/QlUP-h4W7xU/s1600/rivendell01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="109" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbGUfffPdI/AAAAAAAAAM8/QlUP-h4W7xU/s200/rivendell01.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>Back to Mediterranean Middle Earth in a moment.<br />
<br />
But first, let me say there ARE many things I adore in Italia.<br />
Chiefly – people.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbDpGLgtZI/AAAAAAAAAL8/q17rz_89Pc0/s1600/B-Cristiano.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbDpGLgtZI/AAAAAAAAAL8/q17rz_89Pc0/s200/B-Cristiano.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cristiano Papi, Florentine to the core.</td></tr>
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For example, Cristiano - my partner in teaching travel and cultural reporting for Miami University in Firenze. Such a smart, funny and easy-going guy. He would be a friend anywhere.<br />
<br />
Cristina, my landlord of two summers. Turn the air conditioning down so low it blows fuses across the 1500s-era building? “We fix this,” Cristina says, adjusting the remotes with a severe look, then sashaying out, waving her hands and laughing. Get stuck in the 4-by-4 elevator? “I was so worried, Aaaaaannie,” Cristina cries, her dark eyes showing that she means it.<br />
<br />
Carlo, my Italian teaching colleague, who spent 8 long years earning at Ph.D. at Cornell in Ithaca, N.Y., where I also spent many years. “Too cold,” he says, shuddering and clutching his shoulders, then laughing loudly at his good fortune to be back in sunny Italy again.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbD-bvZvNI/AAAAAAAAAMk/dwEG86RCl34/s1600/B-Il-Caggio-Vine.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbD-bvZvNI/AAAAAAAAAMk/dwEG86RCl34/s200/B-Il-Caggio-Vine.jpg" width="150" /></a></div><br />
Claudia, the Holland ex-pat living in Naples who can navigate a train strike like a pro. The courtly Lorenzo, unafraid to strike up conversations with middle-aged women outside churches, then invite them to coffee. Mattia and Cassandra, tending lives rich with art in San Gimignano. Jerry, the fashion photographer who came to Italy as an American college student 20 years ago and realized he’d been born in the wrong country.<br />
<br />
These are some of the people who have touched me - an American living abroad without, shall we say, proper training.<br />
<br />
And then there’s your beautiful countryside, Italia. Of that, I would never complain.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbECdygJTI/AAAAAAAAAM0/p5Bd2_OzWSI/s1600/B-Windsurf-Italian-Alps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbECdygJTI/AAAAAAAAAM0/p5Bd2_OzWSI/s200/B-Windsurf-Italian-Alps.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Wind surfers on Lago Iseo, Italia.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>In fact, though I have found many quiet, green places in Firenze to get lost, I feel most comfortable in your rolling Tuscan hills, your Alps, your clear seas.<br />
<br />
Your bella lingua. Your persistent recycling efforts.<br />
<br />
Your love of art and word and symbolism. And the fact that you live relatively respectfully every day with rich heritage, millions of tourists. That you value quality and family and friends.<br />
<br />
For these things, Italians are to be admired.<br />
<br />
But my Mediterranean Rivendell, all the magically charismatic natives, vistas and envious tourists will not save you in a global economy that, for you, includes the long distrusting arm and currency of the EU. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbDzQLOPeI/AAAAAAAAAMc/qbjR8S-vQPA/s1600/B-Castelvecchio-church.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbDzQLOPeI/AAAAAAAAAMc/qbjR8S-vQPA/s200/B-Castelvecchio-church.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Church at Castelvecchio ruins, San Gimignano</td></tr>
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This is also what I also see after two summers with you...<br />
You hate change.<br />
Your higher education system is broken.<br />
You often lack ambition.<br />
Your justice system is often unfair and impractical.<br />
Your trade unions dictate your economic landscape – at least those parts that the mafia or Silvio Berlusconi doesn’t control.<br />
You are sometimes sneaky (especially the older women who jump lines everywhere). <br />
You objectify women and futbol and food and immigrants... and tourists.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbEAaIwqVI/AAAAAAAAAMs/7UF_nZeb_lo/s1600/B-Arno-River-God-Glory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TGbEAaIwqVI/AAAAAAAAAMs/7UF_nZeb_lo/s200/B-Arno-River-God-Glory.jpg" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunset over Firenze, Italia.</td></tr>
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The Rivendell-esque characteristics are everywhere.<br />
Golden sunlight washing over crumbling buildings. <br />
Boastful egos still reveling in Medici accomplishments of centuries ago. <br />
Siestas in the middle of a work day.<br />
Threadbare clothing worn with handmade leather shoes.<br />
<br />
Songs of passion that cannot carry a future’s tune.<br />
<br />
Arrivederci, Italia.<br />
But also, perhaps, a domani.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-47601894740624525532010-08-04T15:12:00.001-04:002015-06-10T11:31:04.850-04:00You Say Tomato, I Say... RatFirst I see the dog.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFm56saWREI/AAAAAAAAALE/m4e6ZstUJa4/s1600/Hidden-Arno-River-Trail-WEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFm56saWREI/AAAAAAAAALE/m4e6ZstUJa4/s200/Hidden-Arno-River-Trail-WEB.jpg" width="149" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Secluded riverbed path along the River Arno</td></tr>
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It is frenetically running up and down the Arno River bank, barking incessantly, chasing some ghost.<br />
Usually, you see unleashed dogs strolling in the evening with their human companions along the lower riverbed paths, away from the hustle and bustle of Italian city life. It’s a peaceful place, since the Arno is some 400 meters wide in central Florence, and it is still.<br />
But there are no humans with this small, black dog.<br />
And he is quite out of his mind.<br />
<br />
As I draw closer I see them. In the water, swimming some 5 to 10 meters off shore, three overgrown…. rats.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a>They look about a half-meter long, including tails that leave ripples behind them.<br />
And there is an animal chasing them through the water – another small dog with a strong dog paddle stroke.<br />
Clearly, his unnerved partner on shore wishes he were giving chase in the water, too. Hence the noise.<br />
It is a futile effort. Every time the Michael Phelps of the Arno closes in on a rat, it dives underwater, ne’er to reappear.<br />
<br />
About a week later, in the pre-twilight, I am walking along the Arno with some backpackers, one French, the other German. When I say walking with them, I mean we are strolling in a loose group, as we have already established they do not speak English well and I only took one semester of French in college. German, nein.<br />
Then the French woman begins squealing and pointing.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFm6AbvqczI/AAAAAAAAALU/Tr98ygt-Jbs/s1600/River-Rat-WEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFm6AbvqczI/AAAAAAAAALU/Tr98ygt-Jbs/s200/River-Rat-WEB.jpg" width="191" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A nutria dining on the River Arno</td></tr>
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And there they are, those… rats.<br />
“Not rats!” says the French Animal Lover, shaking her head vigorously, as the German man pulls out a long-lens camera.<br />
“How you say… I no know word,” she continues as the German Photographer and I begin snapping images.<br />
One rat is swimming about a meter offshore while the other is dining on some river greens. The French Animal Lover swears she sees a “be-be”, too.<br />
The German Photographer shakes his head, struggling for the English word for these creatures, which – up close – look furry, benign and, well, cute.<br />
“Not rat,” he manages.<br />
<br />
Just up the river is the “beach party café,” where you can rent a riverside lounger and order a drink next to a dam that seems to attract every beer bottle and plastic container in Florence. Charming is not a word I’d use for this tourist trap.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFm59_xkYvI/AAAAAAAAALM/TChyZhcHJHY/s1600/Sunbathers-WEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="233" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFm59_xkYvI/AAAAAAAAALM/TChyZhcHJHY/s320/Sunbathers-WEB.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Riverside Florence, with tourist sunbathing spot in foreground.</td></tr>
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But the “rats” add another dimension that convinces me I’ll never patronize that joint.<br />
<br />
I take my images home and turn to Google.<br />
And the word that comes up in my searches to identify this creature is… <a href="http://www.nutria.com/site.php">nutria</a>.<br />
The South American native is a large, herbivorous, semi-aquatic rodent that some ecologists vilify because it eats the stems of plants, but not all the greenery.<br />
Wasteful, in other words. <br />
Brought to Europe and North America by farmers who wanted to grow it for fur, the nutria was set loose after the market cooled.<br />
<br />
It’s an immigrant, a tourist of sorts.<br />
Something scrambling to make sense of life in a foreign climate and culture, chased and maligned by natives that do not understand it.<br />
And I, an American living temporarily in Italy, realized…<br />
I can relate to that.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-78532946866993417582010-08-01T16:34:00.000-04:002015-06-10T11:32:04.442-04:00Leaning Tower of Debt - to HistoryIt seemed like I would never meet an Italian who was entrepreneurial in a BIG way. <br />
<br />
Seems like most everyone I come in contact with in my day-to-day life in Florence has a Small Business, Smallish Personal and Financial Goals, a Defeated Before I Try aura. Lots of excuses, or complaints, or arguments why things will never change.<br />
<br />
Fatalistic even. This is life. I’m living, so things are fine. <br />
“Come sta?” I ask one Florence card shop owner in rare confidence of my basic Italian. She looks up slowly from her book, and replies, “Bene, bene. È quasi tempo di siesta!” referring to the fast-approaching siesta hour, when most businesses close for two or three hours.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFXY5k2WQXI/AAAAAAAAAKs/jHDyb9WxjOo/s1600/Nadine-WEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFXY5k2WQXI/AAAAAAAAAKs/jHDyb9WxjOo/s320/Nadine-WEB.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
A few weeks ago, three friends and I stayed at an Umbrian B&B compound with luxury appointments and breakfast, noteworthy landscaping and a divine pool above Lake Trasimeno. The owner, Nadine, who grew up in Interlaken, Switzerland, clearly has a vision and passion.<br />
<br />
But then she mentioned that her Italian husband, whom she met while a student at university in Perugia, worked during the week as a meter money collector, emptying coins from machines in towns near and far. “It is boring, but it is a job,” Nadine says, with a shrug.<br />
<br />
This entrepreneurial inertia in Italy has been perplexing to me, the American.<br />
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<a name='more'></a><br /><br />
It reminds me of a conversation I had not long ago with a young Cincinnati, Ohio, CEO who was bewildered about why his brother – a business partner – wasn’t as passionate about their company as he was. The brother preferred 9-5 hours and responsibilities, so he could go home to his wife, dog, TV. <br />
<br />
“Why doesn’t he want to work 24/7 on this company, like I do?,” the boyish ball of fire asked, frustrated. “I can barely contain my energy – we WILL succeed.”<br />
<br />
An article in today’s <i>New York Times</i> cemented many of my perceptions about the Italian business climate and ethics. <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/01/business/global/01italy.html?_r=1&hp">“Is Italy Too Italian?”</a> the headline of Dave Segal’s article about Italy’s devastating debt and business challenges read. <br />
<br />
<i>“To understand why (the Carlo Berbera) factory, and so much of Italy, is stagnant or worse, requires a bit of geopolitical history and a look at the highly idiosyncratic business culture here,” Segal writes. “It is defined, to a large degree, by deep-seated mistrust — not just of the government, but of anyone who isn’t part of the immediate family — as well as a widespread aversion to risk and to growth that to American eyes looks almost quaint.” </i><br />
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFXY8oWPhmI/AAAAAAAAAK0/nKOITeVtU_4/s1600/San+Miniato+Interior.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="238" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TFXY8oWPhmI/AAAAAAAAAK0/nKOITeVtU_4/s320/San+Miniato+Interior.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Basilica di San Miniato, Firenze, Italia</td></tr>
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After I read the article this morning, brow knitted, I took a power walk high above Florence to the Basilica di San Miniato, an renowned 1800s church I had never visited. I sat, stunned by both beauty and perfect acoustics, in its nave as the choir sang luminously and the organist did encores. <br />
<br />
Afterward, in the shade outside, is when I meet Giuseppe, Super Italian Entrepreneur, who also was inspired by the Mass. Though he is his 70s, Giuseppe says he has no intention of retiring from his investing business. He whips out a Blackberry to show me buy/sell emails he’s just received from a Hong Kong advisor. He mentions that he had a firm in Chicago set up – via remote - his online trading system. <br />
<br />
Guiseppe is bullish about green energy stocks, and he listens intently as I talk about recent energy reporting I’ve been doing. He makes a note of the <i>New York Times</i> article to read. He mentions that the homily just delivered by a San Miniato monk has got his wheels turning about a new business opportunity – but he’s Not Ready to Share It, he says with a wink.<br />
<br />
As we talk, Giuseppe keeps glancing at the spectacular view of the entire Florence valley spread in front of us. People pant up the long flight of stone steps from far below.<br />
<br />
When we part, he asks for my business card so he can send me tips – or maybe arrange a lunch meeting to discuss investing. I decide it is not a pickup line.<br />
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It is only as I am navigating the stone steps myself that I notice one other thing Giuseppe might have had in view just below as we talked. A late-model, two-seater red Lotus coupe.<br />
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I don’t have to turn to see if Giuseppe is following. He has a Lotus frame of mind.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-77645343606806671472010-07-25T08:49:00.003-04:002015-06-10T11:32:41.287-04:00In the Santo SpiritoThe church bells are already ringing when I leave my Firenze apartment at 10:15 this Sunday. The peels wash over me as I cross Piazza di Santo Spirito and climb the basilica’s stone steps.<br />
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I follow a mother and her young daughter, maybe 8 years old, as they enter the 13th century Augustinian church through a side door. The girl is wearing a white summer smock, with matching ponytail ribbon. An attendant greets them familiarly, but looks me over before nodding me through (my polka-dot dress, covering both shoulders and knees, apparently passing muster). <br />
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As we three walk down the long nave, a friar in a simple black, hooded cassock unchains the front pews to allow parishioners closer to the altar. He greets the mother and daughter, his voice warm, and chats with a group of older women up front.<br />
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I haven’t attended Mass on my own volition, well, ever.<br />
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Dragged by my mother to Holy Redeemer Catholic Church in Webster Groves, Missouri, until the age of 12, I have layers of resentment, resistance and disconnect buried in the crypt of my spirituality.<br />
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My mother decamped to the friendlier Emmanuel Episcopal Church up the street, and my brother and sister became staples of its youth group. But my father and I stayed home, each with our reasons.<br />
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The closest I feel to spirituality today is in woods, fields and streams, along with the occasional service at the 1866-era Plum Street Temple in Cincinnati. I joke to friends that I attend <i>The Church of the Sunday New York Times</i>.<br />
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But these last two summers in Italy have sent me strolling through dozens of chiesas and basilicas. And I’d come to believe that to really appreciate the architecture, the art, the devotion, the raw display of money and power noble families invested in these churches, you need to feel it all come together as it was intended. <br />
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At Mass.<br />
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I genuflect and sit eight rows back in this basilica, designed by Brunelleschi and graced with a freestanding carved Christ on the cross attributed to Michelangelo, at age 17. A plethora of 8-foot by 10-foot, or larger, paintings – some of them quite notable, according to Santo Spirito literature – mark the 30+ smaller recesses and chapels. My pew has a small bronze plaque memorializing one Enzo Basile.<br />
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This is the first time I’ve been in Santo Spirito, though I frequent its piazza often. I gaze around at its refreshing simplicity – except for the spectacular, octagonal sacristy.<br />
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Some 15 other people sit around me as the hidden organist begins to play. The mother and daughter join the cluster of older women up front. A ray of light beams onto the richly carved confessional to the left.<br />
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The friar returns in ornate green robes, his gray hair freshly settled, sandals on his feet. He moves swiftly up the aisle to the altar. And suddenly, in twos and threes, the worshippers grow to about 50. As the older women – a choir of sorts, apparently – begins to sing, the rest of us rifle through our hymnals to blend in.<br />
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The padre’s Italian rings clear and crisp, each syllable enunciated. Yet it echoes down the Basilica di Santo Spirito like a lively intellectual discussion, rather than the dry, cold dictates of Father Gottwald at the Holy Redeemer of my memory. <br />
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During his 20-minute homily, the friar talks about family, church and community. About a chiesa both historical and relevant today. About contemplating the place of Christianity in our lives. I only catch these snatches of thoughts, as I don’t speak Italian well. But he is not challenging us, not arguing with us, not punishing us. He is merely sharing his thoughts about the readings, real life and how to fit God into all of it.<br />
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Surrounding him, the altar and sacristy of intricate inlaid marble and stone – like an oversized four-post bed, with a latticework iron cap – glows from both natural light and electric candles spaced along its walls. A single fresh flower bouquet is placed near the sacristy door. The gesture is truly unnecessary.<br />
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When we kneel, the worn, unpadded benches are just as unforgiving as I remember in my youth. I squirm to relieve the pressure on my knees, but not as much as the two restless toddlers behind me. The elderly man in front of me rises from his knees and leans over the railing instead.<br />
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The exchange of the peace catches me by surprise, and I whisper “peace” to those all around me who reach out to shake my hand. They appear not to notice my English. But I am prepared for the collection. The 8-year-old and her mother pass the collection dish up and down the aisles, and I add 3 euro.<br />
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The wooden confessional to my left warns me sternly as the others rise for Communion. I sit put. And soon the service is over, the last hymn sung, the people rising and socializing, as happens in churches, temples and mosques all over the world after worship.<br />
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As I move toward the door of the Basilica di Santo Spirito I see the friar, back in his black hooded robe, lay his hand, one-by-one, on the young twins who had squirmed behind me the entire service. Their father, in orange linen pants and handmade leather shoes, watches benevolently. <br />
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Next comes the 8-year-old, her long ponytail swinging, as she moves toward the padre. He speaks quietly to her, touches her head, and she replies, smiling. He raises his eyes and extends the smile to me.<br />
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And then we are out the door, back into the piazza, into the sunshine, the experience of celebrating Mass together trailing behind us like the lingering notes of a Renaissance operetta. But an operetta unfinished.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-18336885106897749852010-07-14T12:52:00.001-04:002010-07-20T16:07:23.806-04:00On the Bright Side...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TD3q7f5_RNI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/VOIk1-8sWRQ/s1600/Justin-Russikoff-WEB.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TD3q7f5_RNI/AAAAAAAAAJ8/VOIk1-8sWRQ/s320/Justin-Russikoff-WEB.jpg" /></a></div>While sifting through the 50 photos my Italy students sent from our trip to Venice, one person kept re-appearing, a chameleon with a charming, genuine smile.<br />
La vie de la partie.<br />
In fact, you'll find him dancing with a street musician in my own post below.<br />
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Justin Russikoff is not a Miami University guy, but joins us from Penn State.<br />
If I ever am privileged enough to receive the url to his blog, a requirement for my class, I'll share it here.<br />
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This week, my students are crafting scenes observed in quiet moments (and some rowdy ones) while traveling. Read them via the links at right.<br />
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I could have written a scene including Justin, but doesn't this visual - taken on a Venetian river taxi - say it all?<br />
UPDATE: <a href="http://justinrussikoff.blogspot.com/">Link to Justin's blog.</a> Someday, you may see this link on Comedy Central.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-72294633501949861342010-07-12T11:06:00.001-04:002015-06-10T11:33:22.146-04:00Hot and Cold in VeniceAs the water taxi rounded the corner to our drop-off point in Venice, the sun beat down upon the cream, maize and faded pink of palazzos facing the Grand Canal.<br />
In moments, that brilliant midday sun was beating down on our heads, too, as we hauled our weekend bags to the Messner Hotel, near the spectacular Santa Maria della Salute church on Venice's southeast corner.<br />
At 95 degrees, this was a day for the beach, for an air-conditioned nap, for several glasses of something cool in the shade.<br />
We would get none of that.<br />
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No, our 55-person group was off to tour the Doge's Palace and the Basilica di San Marco, where tour guides would ply us with rich Venetian history, with spectacular statuary, with a close look at a famous prison just steps from where the Doges lived for centuries.<br />
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And out a prison window, through the bars, comes the view of The Bridge of Sighs, that last vista a doomed prisoner might get before being hanged. Say goodbye to family and friends, waving at you from that bridge, then you are dragged to the gallows. <i>(I love you Richard Russo!)</i><br />
We mopped the sweat from our faces, necks, arms as we went.<br />
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It was a metaphor for a weekend in which Mother Nature just got in the way of treasuring a famous city.<br />
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Probably didn't help that 50 people in this group were college students on their first weekend in Europe, with World Cup to watch at rowdy Venetian college venues and early calls for tour departures.<br />
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But even the locals were done in by the heat and humidity.<br />
"Caldo, si?" the mail carrier said to a heavy, 70ish woman wearing a flowered housedress as they passed on the 1.5 meter-wide canal sidewalk. <br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TDstn0DEtEI/AAAAAAAAAJs/gc8fb4Qxy7g/s1600/WEB-Doge-Statue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/TDstn0DEtEI/AAAAAAAAAJs/gc8fb4Qxy7g/s320/WEB-Doge-Statue.jpg" /></a>"TROPPO caldo," the woman replied, with a long sigh. She shifted a bag of groceries to the other hip and trudged on.<br />
The mail carrier stopped in the shade, took out a stained handkerchief and wiped his forehead, then leaned again the cool stone wall and closed his eyes for a moment.<br />
I couldn't agree more.<br />
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Still, it didn't stop some of my students from having fun. Several of the guys pulled out their cameras and hammed it up photographing the glorious butt of a spectacular statue in the Doge's Palace.<br />
Another student played air guitar with a street musician.<br />
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For there is Italy to digest, to savor and to surrender to.<br />
Even in the heat of summer.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-80771260944423391572010-06-30T18:32:00.000-04:002015-06-10T11:33:53.796-04:00Corriere della CultureWhat is news in Italy?<br />
Answer: Whatever makes it past the government and Berlusconi media "censorship." <br />
Censorship both self-inflicted and power-inflicted. <br />
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In case you think I jest, Freedom House in 2009 ranked Italy as only "partly free" in terms of media censorship. For novices: The prime minister, Silvio Berlusconi, is a media mogul, and what he doesn't own, he oversees as PM.<br />
This is a very complicated and nuanced scene, and not the focus of my posting today, although Italy's recent persecution of YouTube - and the ramifications of that - are breathtaking.<br />
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Back to the Corriere headline: I do love to read the Milan-based news media <a href="http://www.corriere.it/english/">Corriere della Sera</a>, or <i>Evening Courier</i> if you must, since the former is so much more poetic.<br />
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Today's headlines in the English language version of "Corriere" cannot fail to attract attention, although the writing in some is tedious.<br />
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"Dell'Utri Found Guilty - Forza Italia Not Involved."</b> The hed does not do this lady justice, as the mafioso political crime verdict story says so much about the criminal justice system in Italy. For further information, read <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Monster_of_Florence_%28book%29">"The Monster of Florence."</a><br />
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<b>"Pope Attacks Belgian Magistrates Investigating Paedophilia Scandal."</b><br />
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Despite the fascinating spelling of pedophilia here, what would any Italian paper be without a "Pope" article? Much less one in which investigators drilled into a cardinal's coffin.<br />
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"Lippi Accepts Responsibility for Defeat as Buffon Says Azzurri Deserve to Go Home." </b>Signore, we are all suffering from World Cup heartache. And I'm not just talking about those vuvuzelas.<br />
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<b>"No Protection Programme for Spatuzza."</b> Yes, spatula attacks are my great fear. But this is why reading <i>Corriere della Sera</i> is such a pleasure.<br />
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I hope, for you too.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-22769601404797796522010-06-25T18:39:00.001-04:002010-06-30T17:55:09.243-04:00Corner of Via dei Serragli and LungarnoSometimes at random moments I find myself transported to the corner of Via dei Serragli and Lungarno.<br />
Sometimes I am eating a dark chocolate gelato.<br />
Sometimes I am watching customers - two or three deep - milling before the glass cases at the gelateria, overwhelmed by the choices.<br />
Sometimes I am leaning over the bridge ledge, or even sitting on it, watching the River Arno slide by.<br />
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But always it is dusk, the city of Firenze spread out around me, warmed by those last golden hues.<br />
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Firenze is an easy city to love, a hard city to leave.<br />
In four days I will be there again, struggling with my Italian, tripping over the cobblestones I simply cannot navigate in heels (so embarrassing), greeting the used bookstore owner with a cheery "buongiorno" (does he ever sell anything?). <br />
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Most of all, I get the guilty pleasure of exploring a Renaissance gem over 7 weeks. It will all seem new again, I am sure.<br />
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There are also dark things to mull over, like the rude shopkeepers, like the $300 traffic ticket I am still fighting from last summer. I got it for picking up a rental car in the Firenze historic district and dropping it off again. Why haven't they dropped the ticket, you might ask? Hey, it's Italy.<br />
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I leave for Firenze optimistic. About what a different culture teaches me. About having some time to think. About...<br />
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...what new thing I will spot at the corner of Via dei Serragli and Lungarno. At dusk.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-33837802162625487872009-10-15T12:09:00.004-04:002009-10-15T12:28:02.288-04:00Ciao, Summer 2010!Just learned that I will be teaching in Miami University's summer program in Florence again in 2010!<br />How cool is that?<br /><br />One of my favorite Miami students, Louisville native Kaitlin Walter, will be joining the group. Guest No. 1 for my Thursday night dinner-at-Annie's events.<br /><br />If you haven't seen the video short that Summer 2009 Journalism student Lauren Doyle produced about the program, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U1W00DIkcbA">you can find it here.</a><br /><br />Meanwhile, the Berlusconi government in Italy is on the defensive again, this time accused of paying off warlords in Afghanistan to protect its troops stationed there. <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=113817318">Check it out.</a> No surprise that they did it, but the French troops who eventually took over the Italian area apparently did not know about the payoffs and were attacked.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-77804501173918613352009-07-24T07:02:00.010-04:002009-07-24T07:43:58.918-04:00Extraordinary Academic Experiences<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmcXOPrKeI/AAAAAAAAAIc/ZyX-lpWd5x0/s1600-h/WEB-2-Nick-Verreos-and-students-at-Polimoda-2009.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmcXOPrKeI/AAAAAAAAAIc/ZyX-lpWd5x0/s200/WEB-2-Nick-Verreos-and-students-at-Polimoda-2009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361988754136050146" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Smmc11wnntI/AAAAAAAAAIk/dTGlkCBktYk/s1600-h/Noah+Charney+WEB.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Smmc11wnntI/AAAAAAAAAIk/dTGlkCBktYk/s200/Noah+Charney+WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361989280139288274" border="0" /></a><br /><br />The <span style="font-weight: bold;">Miami University</span> class I am teaching in Florence, Italy, this summer - Journalism 350 Reporting on European Culture and Travel - already has had its share of extraordinary speakers.<br /><br /><a href="http://nickverrreos.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Nick Verreos</span></a>, the L.A.-based principal of the Nikolaki design house and a beloved <span style="font-style: italic;">Project Runway</span> reality TV contestant, visited for two days earlier this month.<br /><br />The feisty Verreos accompanied the 22 students to the <a href="http://www.polimoda.com/en/home.html">Polimoda International Institute of Fashion Design and Marketing</a> for an insider look at the role of fashion in Italian business and culture. Then he inspired them with a talk about his own life and business.<br /><br />The following week, <a href="http://www.noahcharney.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Noah Charney</span></a>, an expert on global art crime, talked to Miami students about organized crime's role in the theft and trafficking of art pieces. He's been the subject of two <span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times</span> pieces; <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2006/12/17/magazine/17art.t.html">find a profile here</a>.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Smmc-vm2EFI/AAAAAAAAAIs/lVhru3RNtfM/s1600-h/Rachel+Donadio+NYT.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; float: right; width: 143px; height: 169px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Smmc-vm2EFI/AAAAAAAAAIs/lVhru3RNtfM/s200/Rachel+Donadio+NYT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361989433106501714" border="0" /></a><br />Now comes word that <span style="font-weight: bold;">Rachel Donadio</span> has accepted an invitation to speak to Miami journalism students here. Donadio is the Rome-based <span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times/International Herald Tribune</span> correspondent. The class already has reveled in her reporting on media mogul cum Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi and his alleged sex scandals, especially a recent piece when <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/06/11/world/europe/11italy.html">Libyan leader Muammar el-Quaddafi came to visit</a>.<br /><br />And in the days before she visits, journalism students will get an insider view of the Catholic church's role in present Italian society from local religious figures.<br /><br />Wish I could take credit for these incredible visitors to an already unusual journalism class. But most of this was brainstormed by Miami Florence Program Director Mark Bernheim, who conceived and has run this summer workshop for many years.<br /><br />Bravo, Mark Bernheim! Would that all journalists could rub elbows with such interesting figures in a six-week span. This journalist has rarely had such luck.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-5770953295368802982009-07-24T05:50:00.021-04:002009-07-24T07:43:26.278-04:00Pull Over! It's the 'Twilight' Set!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmF1LxKO8I/AAAAAAAAAHs/oZqOCHrbBnM/s1600-h/Harry-Potter-Preview-in-Italy+WEB.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 139px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmF1LxKO8I/AAAAAAAAAHs/oZqOCHrbBnM/s200/Harry-Potter-Preview-in-Italy+WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361963980099828674" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmF6txLylI/AAAAAAAAAH0/mnobQpd-Vts/s1600-h/Volterra-hiking-wall-WEB.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 141px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmF6txLylI/AAAAAAAAAH0/mnobQpd-Vts/s200/Volterra-hiking-wall-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361964075126082130" border="0" /></a>
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</w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:"Cambria Math"; panose-1:2 4 5 3 5 4 6 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:roman; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1107304683 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1610611985 1073750139 0 0 159 0;} @font-face {font-family:Verdana; panose-1:2 11 6 4 3 5 4 4 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:swiss; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:-1593833729 1073750107 16 0 415 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-unhide:no; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-latin;} .MsoChpDefault 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Spending the summer </span><span style="font-size:85%;">in Europe with my two teen kids has been less </span><span style="font-size:85%;">stressful than anticipated. My 16-year-old daughter and 14-year-old son have slowed their pace, found the humor in situations and become more independent – especially when I force them to turn off their laptops.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">They quickly made friends with a small group of Miami University students, who invite my kids to shop, hang out in their dorm rooms, attend movies and go get gelato.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">The teens gamely roam our base city of Florence during the day – when it’s not 40 degrees C outside, that is.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">They window shop, watch people and conduct their own gelato taste tests across Florence.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmGF7NvYqI/AAAAAAAAAIE/ZcFE6ml-cxA/s1600-h/San-Gimignano-Beck-Gelato.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; float: right; width: 132px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmGF7NvYqI/AAAAAAAAAIE/ZcFE6ml-cxA/s200/San-Gimignano-Beck-Gelato.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361964267714077346" border="0" /></a>Then, of course, there’s Italian MTV, an endless source of teen amusement.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I insisted from the start that the kids attend the other Miami University classes being taught in Florence. (I excused them from the exams!)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">So every Tuesday morning, they sleepily roll out of bed, down Frosted Flakes and tromp up the cobblestone Via dei Serragli to attend the wonderful art and architecture lectures given by one of my Florentine professor colleagues.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">When I can join them, we attend that professor’s walking tours of the city to illustrate what she’s just discussed.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Tuesday and Wednesday afternoons, the kids view the art films being shown at a local movie house by my other Florentine colleague. I excuse them from the film discussions, held later, so my colleague is not burdened with extra students.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But that may be a mistake, since the kids usually return grumbling that the movie made no sense.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">That was the case last week when the art film was Federico Fellini’s 1963 gem, “8½.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">At dinner that night at Istituto Gould, the Miami summer program home base, one of my journalism students, Kevin, cheered up my kids by saying with a grimace, “You could never understand “8 ½” if you didn’t read the reviews beforehand, like we did.”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But it is on our weekend trips that I have to make the most accommodations for teen traveling companions.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmF_XODqUI/AAAAAAAAAH8/VJxUwU5Yyss/s1600-h/Radda-Statue-WEB.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; float: right; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmF_XODqUI/AAAAAAAAAH8/VJxUwU5Yyss/s200/Radda-Statue-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361964154972514626" border="0" /></a>
<br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">For example, last week we rented a car and wandered through Tuscany. My son was the master map reader, navigating me through the myriad roundabouts. Signage is great in Tuscany, but often sneaks up on drivers like a subliminal message.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">With teens, outdoor art becomes a playground, public piazzas a theme park. So it was in San Gimignano, a sublime hilltop village with 15 stone towers where we stayed for two nights.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">My son discovered the rooftop vantage with 220-degree views of Tuscan countryside. That proved to be a relaxing place to talk at sunset about everything we had seen and experienced.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In Volterra, a walled hilltop town with breathtaking vistas, instead of endlessly wandering the maze of stone-paved streets, we ventured onto the path following the Etruscan and medieval walls.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">This is where Volterrans would dump hot oil from above to drive away attackers.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We came to a gate into the town that had been built in 400 B.C., stopping to imagine life then.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">But it was when we reached Montepulciano that my 16-year-old came alive. Just weeks ago the cast of “New Moon,” the second book spawned in the wildly popular “Twilight” vampire series, wrapped up filming here.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">When we walked into Montepulciano’s main piazza, my daughter squealed, “There it is!” and ran across the square to a medieval stone building with a clock tower. Such a clock tower building was an iconic emblem from the book, hence this town’s choice as film location, rather than Volterra, where the book’s scene was set.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We paid 2 euro to climb to the top. Her brother took photos. I took photos. She smiled.</span></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmGbVN-fbI/AAAAAAAAAIU/dBO9cNfK-cY/s1600-h/Twilight-Montipulciano-Beck-WEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 110px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmmGbVN-fbI/AAAAAAAAAIU/dBO9cNfK-cY/s200/Twilight-Montipulciano-Beck-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5361964635471642034" border="0" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">We wandered into an enoteca on a patio overlooking the countryside. As I sipped the globally known local vintage, my daughter asked the wait staff where else filming had taken place in town, keen to see them all.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">One of the waiters, who spoke excellent English, mentioned that the film’s director had frequented this eatery and stayed in an apartment above.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style=""> </span>“We have the ‘New Moon’ storyboard downstairs,” he told her. “Would you like to see it?”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-family:verdana;">Silly question.</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-61244233408596606052009-07-20T14:41:00.011-04:002009-07-20T15:03:57.931-04:00The Joy of Doing Nothing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmS9Cwi-bQI/AAAAAAAAAF8/F35ZGAsz2BY/s1600-h/Agriturisma-San-Gallo-Flower-july-09-WEB.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 122px; height: 149px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmS9Cwi-bQI/AAAAAAAAAF8/F35ZGAsz2BY/s200/Agriturisma-San-Gallo-Flower-july-09-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360617311566720258" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmS87N_3W0I/AAAAAAAAAF0/BgG0LHJ9PZU/s1600-h/Agriturisma-San-Gallo-GrapeVine-Vista-July-09-WEB.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 199px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmS87N_3W0I/AAAAAAAAAF0/BgG0LHJ9PZU/s200/Agriturisma-San-Gallo-GrapeVine-Vista-July-09-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360617182033566530" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It's hard for the plugged-in generation to understand.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmS_ZoSvIzI/AAAAAAAAAGM/6GBFum1wPhI/s1600-h/Agriturisma-San-Gallo-Shade-July-09.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SmS_ZoSvIzI/AAAAAAAAAGM/6GBFum1wPhI/s200/Agriturisma-San-Gallo-Shade-July-09.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360619903511372594" border="0" /></a><br />But those 10- or 12- or 16-hour work days add up.<br />So does the energy expended on tending a worthy marriage, tending sweet babies, tending the goals that add up to a lifetime.<br /><br />So, once in a while (sometimes once in a great while), it is good for the body to just sit and do nothing in a spectacular place.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Agriturisma San Gallo, Montepulciano, Italy.</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">July, 2009</span>Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-63492582738840961202009-07-15T06:31:00.019-04:002009-07-15T11:36:17.946-04:00Strike the Pose... in Firenze<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl23YAseRHI/AAAAAAAAAEs/RcUsxOy__Uc/s1600-h/WEB-Nick-Verreos-shoes.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl23YAseRHI/AAAAAAAAAEs/RcUsxOy__Uc/s200/WEB-Nick-Verreos-shoes.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358640754772034674" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl23dqmQe0I/AAAAAAAAAE0/blvmU_1YGXY/s1600-h/WEB-Nick-Verreos-Speaking-at-Gould-2009.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 168px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl23dqmQe0I/AAAAAAAAAE0/blvmU_1YGXY/s200/WEB-Nick-Verreos-Speaking-at-Gould-2009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358640851919600450" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl24zfAxxoI/AAAAAAAAAFE/O1rgJZKUw_4/s1600-h/WEB-Verreos-Students-Polimoda.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 139px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl24zfAxxoI/AAAAAAAAAFE/O1rgJZKUw_4/s200/WEB-Verreos-Students-Polimoda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358642326278358658" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl256LUB45I/AAAAAAAAAFU/HkPJXgKRwsk/s1600-h/WEB-Nick-Verreos-Polimoda-Strike-the-Pose-2009.jpg"><img style="cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl256LUB45I/AAAAAAAAAFU/HkPJXgKRwsk/s200/WEB-Nick-Verreos-Polimoda-Strike-the-Pose-2009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358643540761109394" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">He was among the most likable characters on Bravo2's "<span style="font-style: italic;">Project Runway</span>," appearing in the second season of the hit fashion design reality sh</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">ow.<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Since then, he's become a likable fashion commentator on network TV, on the red carpet and in the "Fashion Police" column of <span style="font-style: italic;">US Weekly</span>.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Last week, <span style="font-weight: bold;">Nick Verreos</span> showed <span style="font-weight: bold;">Miami University</span> students he really IS that nice of a guy.<br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl25DTr2WrI/AAAAAAAAAFM/0Sh4m4sKn9U/s1600-h/WEB-2-Nick-Verreos-and-students-at-Polimoda-2009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl25DTr2WrI/AAAAAAAAAFM/0Sh4m4sKn9U/s200/WEB-2-Nick-Verreos-and-students-at-Polimoda-2009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358642598115695282" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">He and <span style="font-weight: bold;">David Paul</span>, his partner in the L.A. design firm <span style="font-weight: bold;">Nikolaki</span>, cam</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">e to Florence, Italy, to ta</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">lk about the fashion industry with Miami's summer journalism students here.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />"Buongiorno, buongiorno!" Verreos trilled, kissing both my cheeks.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />His neatly kept beard was soft and friendly.</span><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">He and Paul gamely rode the public bus, then walked with students to the <span style="font-weight: bold;">Polimoda Fashion Institute</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">, an ooh-la-la former villa on a Florence hill.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Verreos worked the crowd of students like a star (which he is, of course).</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Shiny, silver, Velcro-fastened tennis shoes gave him away.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl23I7pJ_3I/AAAAAAAAAEk/Q7Yr0NjCjJE/s1600-h/WEB-Polimoda-MU-students-library-2009.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sl23I7pJ_3I/AAAAAAAAAEk/Q7Yr0NjCjJE/s200/WEB-Polimoda-MU-students-library-2009.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358640495717908338" border="0" /></a><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Strike the pose, flash a smile.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />"Honey, let me tell you....!"</span><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Verreos had the most insightful questions during presentations at the Polimoda about its curriculum and the fashion business.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Later, talking about his life, the killer fashion industry and <span style="font-weight: bold;">Heidi Klum</span>, his hands were his a</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">ccessory, his voice one exclamation point after another.</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-family:arial;">Be sure to ask Verreos about the first time he met <span style="font-weight: bold;">Seal</span>.</span> <span style="font-family:arial;"><br />And about Klum's expertise with a tele-prompter.<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;">Ooh la la, talk about a man's life being an open-air classroom.</span></span>Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-12185418762999436332009-07-08T09:49:00.005-04:002009-07-08T09:58:45.537-04:00Stumbling Upon Rich HistoryOn the way to the Rialto markets in Venice one morning, I spotted an envious place to sit and read the <span style="font-style: italic;">International Herald Tribune</span>.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SlSk99wEB-I/AAAAAAAAADE/53pCmDZj0sQ/s1600-h/Venice-Santo-Salvadore-Church-WEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 189px; height: 252px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SlSk99wEB-I/AAAAAAAAADE/53pCmDZj0sQ/s200/Venice-Santo-Salvadore-Church-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356087241305491426" border="0" /></a><br /> “Go on – I’ll catch up,” I told the group of Miami University students and my two teen children.<br /><br /> I settled in on the top step of a gorgeous chiesa, or church, in the High Renaissance style of architecture. At my back, the stone wall of the Chiesa di San Salvador, which loomed over the small campo, or plaza, in front.<br /> Opera recordings from the nearby Musici Veneziani echoed across the campo.<br /> A floral shop spilled color onto the drab campo floor, offering flower and vegetable seeds to the hundreds upon hundreds of people strolling by.<br /> <br />But it was difficult to concentrate on the newspaper, or even the ambience.<br /> That’s because small groups of people kept breaking off from the crowds to slip quietly into Chiesa di San Salvador.<br /> <br />“Are you sure you can make it up the steps, mother?” a middle-aged man asked, in English, of an elderly woman on his arm.<br /> “Yes, I can,” she replied. “I’m not going to miss this for the world.”<br /> After the fifth group of people went in, in a 15-minute span, I closed my paper and followed. Why was this place not on my list?<br /> <br />The dim interior yielded its extravagances slowly, like a silk prayer shawl unfolding.<br /> Raised stone sarcophagi, topped by richly colored paintings and sculpture, lined the walls. Two Titians. A Carpaccio. Organ shutters by Francesco Vecellio.<br /> To the right of the altar, a small mummy – a child? – encased in glass garnered a spotlight. Just before the altar steps, a glassed-over peephole some 4 feet round offered a murky view of a tomb below.<br /> <br />This, then, was a church of consequence.<br /> San Salvador dates to the 7th century, according to the church’s website. The legend goes that Jesus appeared in a dream to Bishop Magnus and asked him to build a church, showing him where it was to be constructed, church history says.<br /> The place was in the heart of the future city of Venice, which didn't exist then. In the dream, the bishop was directed to dedicate the church to Jesus.<br /> <br />Noble Venetians attended San Salvador for centuries, especially after it was reconstructed in the 16th century. That is when so many of the important artworks were installed, usually to honor someone buried there.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SlSlWOuB-xI/AAAAAAAAADM/BG0VExXnHDQ/s1600-h/Transfiguration-of-Christ-San-Salvador-WEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 180px; height: 154px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SlSlWOuB-xI/AAAAAAAAADM/BG0VExXnHDQ/s200/Transfiguration-of-Christ-San-Salvador-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356087658177231634" border="0" /></a><br /> Crypts not only cover the walls but the floor, including the glassed-over crypt for Bartolomeo Bontempelli near the altar. If you could see down into this crypt, the frescos that decorate the walls would be revealed. But lighting is impossible in the damp underneath of the church.<br /> <br />I could not take my eyes off “Transfiguration of Christ” by Titian (1560-65), which covers silver altar screen. The Save Venice organization describes it the best on its website. “Christ stands surrounded by an explosion of divine light as the figures of Moses and Elijah rush toward him from the sides. Below, the apostles James, John and Peter recoil from the radiant but terrifying vision.”<br /> Titian, of course, was the iconic Renaissance artist, his later works vibrantly colored and imaginative.<br /> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SlSlnbt2IvI/AAAAAAAAADU/sR20ATCHB2E/s1600-h/Banquet-in-Emmaus-San-Salvador-WEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 153px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SlSlnbt2IvI/AAAAAAAAADU/sR20ATCHB2E/s200/Banquet-in-Emmaus-San-Salvador-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356087953723892466" border="0" /></a><br />To the left of the altar, “The Supper at Emmaus,” finally determined as painted by Vittore Carpaccio (1513), echoes “The Last Supper” but depicts the resurrected Christ meeting with two of his apostles at an inn in Emmaus.<br /> <br />I was humbled by the beauty inside San Salvador, and embarrassed that I wasn’t aware of its significance while picking a reading spot.<br /> But many Americans are acutely aware of the needs of San Salvador. Even this day, restoration work was going on in two spots in the nave.<br /> The Boston and New York chapters of Save Venice, an organization founded in 1967 following devastating flooding in Venice, have been instrumental in raising funds and choosing rehab projects, including several at San Salvador.<br /> <br />To get involved: <a href="http://www.savevenice.org/">www.savevenice.org</a><br /> To learn more about Chiesa di San Salvador: <a href="http://www.chiesasansalvador.it/eng/presentazione.php">www.chiesasansalvador.it/eng/presentazione.php</a>Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-3551334706281286562009-07-02T17:31:00.005-04:002009-07-08T10:10:04.352-04:00Bargaining<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sk0otCO04AI/AAAAAAAAAC8/VYVma1HiMoQ/s1600-h/Tourists-Florence.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 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mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font:minor-bidi;} </style> <![endif]--> <p style="font-family: verdana;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">The light in Florence, it is divine. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">In the morning, it slips across the aged red tiles of buildings in our neighborhood, beckoning, welcoming, enticing.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;font-family:arial;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">By afternoon, it bakes July tourists as they tred wearily down the tunnel-like streets near the Uffizi, sweat dripping, feet burning in Reeboks.</span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">For all this light, you clearly need the right… sunglasses.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Or so Rebecca decided.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">So near the stalls of the Basilica di Santa Croche, she commenced the dance with a street hawker who had a fold-up table covered in sunglasses.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Treating her like a beloved client at Roberto Cavalli, he gently unfolded various pairs of sunglasses, crooning “bella,” “buona,” placing them on her nose, directing her to push some up higher.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">A black pair with gold trim. A red pair with gold trim. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">He handed her a small mirror.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">An aviator frame. An oversized pair with white movie-star frames.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">As he moved slightly back and forth, a powerful, unwashed odor wafted across the walk.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">A two-toned purple pair in plastic.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rebecca smiled.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">She looked at herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Quanto costa?” she inquired.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;">“25 euro,” the hawker said, continuing his croon.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">She frowned. Put the sunglasses down, but kept her fingers wrapped around them.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-size:85%;" > </span><span style="font-size:85%;">“No. Too much,” she said in English.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">His shoulders sagged a big.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">“20 euros, fini,” he said.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rebecca’s mother shook her head. “Rip off,” she said, “Come on – let’s look some more.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">“20 euros, fini,” he repeated.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">The mother walked off to browse at the next kiosks.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rebecca told the hawker, “No,” once more.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">The bargaining continued.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">The mother casually watched from three kiosks away.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rebecca reached for her wallet, handed over a bill.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">The hawker spoke quickly. She added some coins, then spun and headed off down the street.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sk0nhBw9MaI/AAAAAAAAAC0/U-ZJMPAq9Mc/s1600-h/Beck-Sunglasses-WEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 185px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sk0nhBw9MaI/AAAAAAAAAC0/U-ZJMPAq9Mc/s320/Beck-Sunglasses-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5353978980376326562" border="0" /></a></span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">“Graci,” she called back to him.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">When she reached her mother, she crowed, “I got them for 12! Ha HA!”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Her mother, ever the spoiler, examined the sunglasses and pronounced, “They are worth, maybe, 5.”</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Rebecca tossed her shoulders, adjusted her sunglasses, and continued her strut.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">
<br /></span></p><p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">In evening in Florence, the light shimmers across the tight line of apartments, churches and restaurants lining the Arno River. </span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">It flickers, promising, warming the blond walls.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">The two-toned purple sunglasses remain on Rebecca’s face.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">Her expression is inscrutable.</span></p> <p style="font-family: verdana;" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:85%;">She turns her head toward the light.</span></p> Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-50494808355126090952009-06-17T22:38:00.004-04:002009-07-08T10:15:04.420-04:00Fashion Legacy of the Medici<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Odd stuff pops up when you read about Italian fashion. I’m not talking about the Venetian drape on a semi-nude.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Let’s consider the lasting impact of the Medici collar.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Catherine de’ Medici is the namesake here – and the woman rose to fashion iconic levels against all odds. Her parents – a duke and a countess - died within weeks after her birth in 1519. She grew up to be small in stature, thin, ruddy and with the protruding eyes apparently common in Florence’s First Family. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Catherine was married at 14 to Henry, duke of Orleans, a son of Francis I of France. Young Henry went on to hook up at age 19 with a 39-year-old woman, whom he gave a sweet estate, the crown jewels and all his attention. </span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">Except, of course, for the times he knocked up Catherine, producing 10 kids.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Awkward family situation, I’m thinking.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sjmo6_4G7JI/AAAAAAAAACs/1ZMgP7947X4/s1600-h/Catherine-Medici-Collar-WEB.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 100px; height: 136px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/Sjmo6_4G7JI/AAAAAAAAACs/1ZMgP7947X4/s320/Catherine-Medici-Collar-WEB.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5348491764011822226" border="0" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">So the Medici collar that still resonates today in international fashion is a flared, fan-shaped deal, with a V opening. It was highly popular in the mid-1500s, which Catherine dominated in France, helping a succession of sickly sons rule, following Henry’s untimely death following a joust. (He deserved it, in my opinion, since he was wearing his mistress’s black-and-white colors at the joust. What a pig, albeit one with a mistress who also had fashion sense).</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">I assigned my own 14-year-old son the task of writing a report on the Medicis (yes, I’m THAT kind of mom…). His report begins </span><span style="font-size:85%;"> </span><span style="font-size:85%;">“The Medici were possibly the richest family in Italy.” </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Wealth doesn’t always begat fashion sense, but the Medici collar and legendary impact on Florence remain. (By the way, it’s pronounced “MED a chee.”)</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">In Florence, you can reserve a private walking tour of the Medici family’s architectural and cultural impact through Avventure Bellissime tours, starting at 34 euros.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Or try classes at the Lorenzo de’ Medici School of Art and Culture. July classes include International Fashion Marketing and Intro to Italian Philosophy.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Feel like you need a bed at a Medici palazzo after reading all about Heady Henry? Some Florence hotels named Medici include:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <ul style="font-family:verdana;"><li><span style="font-size:85%;">Hotel Orto De Medici, billed as an “early 19th Century palace along a tranquil street in downtown Florence, near the Academy Gallery”</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">Hotel Medici (mixed ratings on tripadvisor.com)</span></li><li><span style="font-size:85%;">And Grand Hotel Villa Medici, which was once an 18th-century noble palace.</span></li></ul> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;">Learn more about the Medicis on this PBS special: <a href="http://www.pbs.org/empires/medici/">http://www.pbs.org/empires/medici/</a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://www.pbs.org/empires/medici/"><br /></a></span> </p>Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-45251023129371388912009-06-14T15:11:00.004-04:002009-06-14T15:39:15.117-04:00Too Much of a Good Thing?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SjVP_iulZ9I/AAAAAAAAACc/xebrxp23jq4/s1600-h/BeckWEB-by-Helen-Adams-2008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 90px; height: 122px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SjVP_iulZ9I/AAAAAAAAACc/xebrxp23jq4/s320/BeckWEB-by-Helen-Adams-2008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347268085644879826" border="0" /></a><br />So here's the question: If you are living in Florence, Italy, for most of the summer but are NEVER THERE for the weekend, have you had an authentic Firenze experience?<br /><br />Like many of my students, I am planning to travel as much as my $$ allow during Miami University's summer session.<br />Or should I say "we" are traveling as much as "our" $$ allow?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SjVQHZMbNVI/AAAAAAAAACk/kWvUsynaZ6k/s1600-h/Blair-WEB-Helen-Adams-2008.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 90px; height: 114px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HGQLUiFmmmw/SjVQHZMbNVI/AAAAAAAAACk/kWvUsynaZ6k/s320/Blair-WEB-Helen-Adams-2008.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347268220524639570" border="0" /></a><br />"We" is me, my 16-year-old Beck and my 14-year-old Blair, who'll be with me all summer, and for a week or two, mio marito, too.<br /><br />But, um, last time I looked we have reservations away for EVERY weekend.<br />Well, I'm still working on a Swiss Alps thing, but otherwise we'll skip town as soon as Friday rolls around - Rome, Riviera, Germany and, of course, countryside Tuscany.<br /><br />Firenze is usually a DESTINATION for Americans, and here I am planning to LEAVE it as soon as I can...<br /><br />OK, maybe this is just a flash of sensibility. Fear of exhaustion. Feeling guilty of greed.<br /><br />Or maybe I'm just Americano. Wanting it all. Now.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3910637581634415538.post-11253690557768345872009-05-25T22:08:00.000-04:002009-05-25T22:42:51.064-04:00CiaoAll I want to do is plot a train route from Florence, Italy, to Interlaken, Switzerland.<br /><br />Should be easy. Open Google, type "Italy Switzerland train route." Click.<br />It's been that easy for finding and booking even the smallest of agriturismas and hostels across Italy.<br /><div style="text-align: left;">Kind signoras and slightly testier Italian dudes respond pronto to my emails requesting reservations. I write in English with lots of "pleases", they respond in very readable, if not grammatical, English. (Hey, I'm only on lesson 49 in my verbal Italian lessons, so I am easy to please!)<br /></div><br />But the train thing's been a drag.<br /><br />And that's where travel journalism comes in.<br />Journalists writing in this genre not only inform, but seduce. They describe, but with dispassionate warning when necessary. The best is literary nonfiction, the worst an "If you go" box.<br />And if they leave out critical details like "happy hour is, sadly, not available," they win my curses.<br /><br />I LOVE reading travel articles almost as much as I love traveling.<br />Prague, please. Tokyo tomorrow. Hong Kong by dawn.<br /><br />Someone, please, find me a <span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times </span>article explaining trains across the Alps.<br />This train to Interlaken -- extreme sports capital of the Alps, a place that has been on my I Must Go list for decades -- is a thorn in my side.<br /><br />RailEurope.com is a tourist trap.<br />Sbb.cn tells me it's too early to book, and "screw you" when I troll for a map.<br />But -- a HA! -- then I find <a href="http://www.ferroviedellostato.it/">ferroviedellostato.it<br /></a>And it becomes a Travelocity exercise in mystery train station codes.<br /><br />I will figure this out.<br />You may help me.<br />We will all go canyoning together.<br />We will do travel journalism in Europe together.<br />I know I'm going to love it, since the last travel article I wrote was about old-timey country music venues in southern Kentucky.<br /><br />And I'm thinking of my friend Ann Koblenzer, who is in Interlaken RIGHT NOW, according to her Facebook page.<br />Rock on, Ann.<br />I'm on my way. Point me to track 59.Annie-Laurie Blairhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14462072721139214536noreply@blogger.com0