Italy: Getting to Pescara

Wednesday, April 1, 2009. The airport in Rome – officially known as Leonardo di Vinci, but usually referred to by its proximate location, Fiumicino, a town on the coast a good distance from Rome proper – proves easy to navigate, and Jake and Stone find their way to the trains heading into the Eternal City. Thanks to Stone’s recent and earnest studying of Italian she is able to fairly easily purchase train tickets from the airport to Tiburtina, one of Rome’s two main travel hubs (the other being Termini). The more usual way into the city is via the Leonardo Express, but we need a train from Rome to Pescara, and that train runs out of Tiburtina.

The train ride to the Tiburtina station proves to be an immediate test of our adaptability. The train is hot and humid, and crowded with people and their various travel baggage, including an incongruous baby pram of Victorian proportions that all but completely blocks one doorway. Still, people jump over bags and slither around each other easily enough as they get on and off of this local, very local, train. After about 40 minutes, and with an equal number of people saying “scusi” in perfect Italian!, we arrive at Tiburtina. Here Stone’s Italian skills once again are necessary to get us two tickets to Pescara, but the train schedule board is easy enough to read, as are the signs that directs us to the proper track.

As is apparently necessary when riding all Italian trains, we have to get our tickets time-stamped at a little yellow box beside the track before we board. When the train for Pescara pulls up, both of us initially think that it is a “work train,” such as is often visible after hours in the NYC subway. But no, this rusting and graffiti smeared string of cars is our ride to Pescara. The inside proves to be better looking than the outside, and there are so few passengers that we have little trouble finding seats and storing our luggage.

Figlia, who is studying at the university in Pescara for a semester during her junior year at college, has told her parents to take the train from Rome to Pescara, rather than the bus, because the train ride is so scenic, and indeed it is. Tivoli (home of Hadrian’s Villa) proves to be an early sight to behold, and the rest of the four-hour plus train ride across the Apennine Mountains features bucolic mountain and valley views, distant snowy peaks, ruined castles on the always-surviving hills, villages that seem to spill down their respective hillsides, lonely stone huts that have sheltered who knows who over the centuries, and even a large flock of sheep and their attendant shepherd (complete with vocational crook!). But the ride also reveals a few dreary small towns and some scrubby countryside where spring has yet to penetrate the higher elevations.

Pescara Centrale is like the city of Pescara itself – a modern and functional train station, but nothing to put on a post card. Using our calling card we call Figlia (after punching in and re-punching about 80-90 digits) to let her know we have arrived, and minutes later there is a most happy, hug filled family reunion. Using Figlia’s Italian cell phone, we arrange for our pickup and ride to our rented apartment in northern Pescara. The 1 BR apartment is in a newly constructed condo development and features a large terrace with a view that is urban but pleasant. We all settle in (Figlia having no classes she considers mandatory till next week, decides to sleep on the fold-out couch) and then head out for dinner.

The late night weather has turned rainy, but it is only a 10 minute walk to the suggested restaurant – Pizzeria Mexico. The restaurant validates its peculiar name by a décor that features not one, but three faded sombreros tacked to a wall in the larger than expected dining room. There is a soccer game on the little TV watched by two or three families as they have their dinner. Figlia’s Italian skills again come in handy in ordering dinner, which proves to be surprisingly good for such an unassuming local place, and the half bottle of Montepulciano d'Abruzzo is so deliciously memorable that we get the OK to bring the bottle home as a first-night-in-Italy souvenir.

Thursday, April 2, 2009. The morning brings a day flush with Italian sunshine. From our terrace we see people going about their business, in cars, on noisy scooters and quiet bicycles, and many simply walk. Despite the warm morning all the locals make their way wrapped in sweaters or coats, or often as not, both. Figlia has a theory that almost all Italians are deathly afraid of being cold or hungry. (Jake wonders privately if this cultural trait is some pre-historic memory of World War II.)

We head out to join the passing parade, and buy our bus tickets (one Euro each) at a tabbachi on the main street. As with the train tickets, these bus tickets must be validated with a date stamp, obtained from a little yellow box on the bus. Buses are generally boarded either in the rear or the front of the bus, and one exits the bus through the middle door. Such a system frees the bus driver from the hassle of collecting fares and relies on the general honesty of the bus riders. Figlia says that the police routinely check for scofflaws and hand out stiff fines, but during our five or six times on Italian buses we never saw any checking go on.

On the ride down the busy main road into the heart of Pescara Jake and Stone try to spot the name of the road, which they never can do, street signs being at an apparent premium. (Being from New Jersey, we are not unfamiliar with this phenomenon.) But Figlia tells them not to bother as the street changes names about four or five times along its four or five mile route. (Being from New Jersey, Jake and Stone are not unfamiliar with this phenomenon.) We get off at Pescara Centrale, which is pretty much the center of town, and seek out breakfast. We find a “bar” and have the usual Italian breakfast fare of several pastries, some espresso, Coke Light (Diet Coke) and cappuccino. As we sit eating our calories and sipping our caffeine, local customers come in, usually buy just a coffee of some definition, drink it standing up at the counter, jest with each other and the women serving them, then go about their day.

At the main Abruzzo tourist office on the same street (named here as Corso Vittorio Emanuele II) we get what information we can, which is not much: a couple of nice looking but not overly helpful brochures and a map of the Abuzzo region, which later proves to be of no help since none of the roads on the map are numbered or have names. However, the tourist office does provide us with the address of the nearest car rental and luckily it is right on the main bus line. We buy bus tickets again, this time at a convenient machine by the bus stop, and get a quick ride down to Danelli Auto on Via Marconi (same street, different name) where we rent, despite their being a Peugeot dealer, a nice 4-door Fiat Punto.

As good luck would have it, Figlia’s apartment is less than a kilometer away, so Jake braves the traffic and completes his maiden voyage in Italian urban traffic to her place and arrives with both car and passengers intact. Figlia lives with three Italian roommates, and shares a room with one of them. Two roomies are at home and say hello in English as they eat in the kitchen, TV blaring. The tiny hallway is filled with clothes hanging out to dry on a large but space efficient clothes rack. The 3BR apartment is small, clean and decorated in co-ed style with posters, hand written notes, pictures of impossibly handsome young men, and the like. Figlia’s roommate (currently not in) is a Tim Burton fan and has decked out her side of their shared room with movie posters and other Burton paraphernalia; on her bed is a pillow cover with a sort of creepy/funny skull and crossbones. Figlia says she gets along well with all of her roommates, and that all of them can cook a great meal at the drop of a hat. Generally, they cook and she washes the dishes; they all four share the other cleaning duties.

We decide to drive out to a fairly new Abuzzo sensation, a mega shopping mall called Megalo, that lies about 10 miles outside of Pescara just off one of the main autostradas that mimic our interstates. Megalo proves to be a scene worthy of Jersey at its most (in)famous, but we all enjoy it for what it is, and Stone and Figlia both opt to get their hair cut at a glamorous (and it turns out, expensive, but what the heck!) shop. Though there are maybe a dozen places to get food in this mall, this is Italy not Jersey, so all the good places are closed for the afternoon and won’t reopen until 7 PM. We do finally find a little place that serves OK pizza and good gelato, thus getting some sort of late lunch.

Back in Pescara, Figlia directs us to her favorite local restaurant for dinner, as long as someone else is footing the bill. Taverna 58, on Corso Mantheone, sits down in “Old Pescara” near the Pescara River and provides us with one of our most memorable meals. Grilled meats are an Abruzzo tradition, so our order includes rabbit and lamb, but we also share Figlia’s favorite dish of chitarrina with mushrooms and truffles dell'aquila, and of course, several other pastas and glasses of red wine. But besides the alluring food, Taverna 58 is a place percolating with history, personality and style:
-- Both Gabriele d’Annunzio (famous author and name sake for the Pescara university Figlia currently attends) and Ennio Flaiano (screenwriter for some of Fellini’s films) were born on the same block as the restaurant.
-- The wine cellar (which we were lucky enough to allowed to view after our dinner) dates from the 13th century.
-- On the menu is a quotation that translates (roughly) into “Art is a way to keep your feet firmly planted on the clouds.”
-- During our two and a half hour meal we got to share some of the famous “hot zabaglione with Marsala” whipped up in a large copper bowl at the table next to us by the maitre d' who reportedly did the same for Italian TV a few years back to commemorate his 100,000th such serving(!).
-- Near the end of our dinner we were also given free shots of some sort of local dessert wine or sherry, apparently because the night just called for it.
At a bill of only 120 Euro, it was a night perhaps worth twice the price.

Driving back to our apartment we get lost, but knowing we want to go north, Stone adroitly drives toward the Adriatic Sea where we hook a left at the beach and drive the quiet, palm tree lined Viale della Riviera till we see some recognizable landmarks that guide us home. Before going to bed we try to watch some TV, but several of the stations don’t seem to work correctly, so we end up watching “South Park.” Being in Italian it is much more enjoyed by Figlia than by either the semi-literate Stone or the completely and hopelessly illiterate Jake. Later, thankfully, sleep comes in its universal language.

Other Places

Italy: Assisi

Friday, April 3, 2009. We are late on the road due to our sleeping in till almost 11 AM. Our tourist office map of the Aburzzo region proves of little help in finding our way out of town and onto autostrada A14 where we want to head north towards Assisi. Our late night dinner at Taverna 58 has made breakfast proper unnecessary, but not so Stone’s need of coffee. Desperate, she pulls us into a McDonlads where her order of “caffé Americano” (“I need a big cup of java if I’m gonna do all this drivin’.”) takes more than several minutes for the staff to prepare, but is worth the wait. Back on the road, our Fiat finally finds an entrance for A14 and we are able to finally zip along, a la the Jersey Turnpike. However, the views are dissimilar. All along this trip northward the blue and then even bluer Adriatic Sea comes in and out of view to our right.

Once on the autostrada the signs to Assisi are easy to follow and things go swimmingly until we get to the hilltop home of Italy’s Patron Saint. By this time Jake is driving and he heads into the ancient town thinking all he needs is his handy printed-at-home Google map of the town which pinpoints where we'll be staying for our two nights in Assisi -- Saint Anthony’s Guesthouse at Via Galeazzo Alessi, 10. Ten minutes later we are hopeless lost in a town that might be historically Catholic but has a “road” system that can only be described as deeply Byzantine. We stop to ask directions and are told to take a left and all will be well. Sure.

A left turn gets us onto a road that is not a road at all. To call it a “lane” would be generous. It is, in truth, a cobble stoned hallway lined with houses. We give ourselves a better chance of not knocking over the flower boxes by folding in the car’s side mirrors, hold our collective breath, and drive. The historic saints of Assisi must look after non-believers as well, for somehow we make it to the end, find another cobble stoned path that is merely cluttered with pedestrians and somehow make it out of Assisi proper and onto a real road. We drive around the perimeter of the town looking for some place to park, finally parking Italian style (the right two wheels up on a sort of sidewalk) in an dirt parking lot. Bags in tow we three walk up steps too numerous to count, find our way into town and finally to the front gate of St. Anthony’s.

St. Anthony’s is a B&B that caters to English speaking visitors and is run by the Franciscan Sisters of the Atonement. We are greeted by Sister Sue, whose English has a strong accent – Canadian that is! (Figlia, who has always been fascinated by accents -- she once watched the movie “Fargo” three times in one day just for the thrill of hearing the characters’ accents – will spend a good portion of the next 48 hours keeping her parents in stitches by “channeling” Sister Sue’s lilt on many an occasion.) Our triple room has a high ceiling and is fittingly simple, with only two chests of drawers, an armoire, and one chair at a small desk. There is a shuttered window that looks out a lovely pastoral scene and St. Clare’s bell tower. The B&B’s common areas include a sitting room and a library, both with commanding views of the rooftops of Assisi and the rolling green that stretches to the horizon, a garden with a statue of St. Francis, and a large breakfast room. For under 90 Euro a night, it turns out to be the best lodging value of our entire trip.

We find the streets of Assisi to be much easier to walk than to drive and soon we are standing in a quiet piazza looking up at the impressive Duomo di San Rufino (named after the third century bishop who was martyred here) and its 11th century bell tower. Flanking the main doorway are two weathered and scarred sculptures that show the rather chilling scene of some sort of lion-like beast devouring a person head first. (Welcome to Mass; better say your prayers.) But it is inside where we get chills of a different sort. In the back of the church, protected by a small bit of ornate gating, stands a brownish marble baptismal font not without several cracks and repair marks. No doubt it was in perfect shape in 1182 when it held the water that was used that day to baptize a certain infant boy, who would become the world’s favorite Catholic saint.

Assisi is a very pretty town. It is tourist driven, certainly, but it is easy to overlook the kitschy stores and the seemingly endless supply of Catholic tchotchkes (an ecumenical phrase!) where nearly every street winds its way among handsome medieval and Renaissance houses, past scores of colorful flower boxes and charming stone stairways, through ancient arches and underneath hanging street lanterns seemingly wrought only a few hundred years ago.

In Assisi’s central piazza sits an interesting church: Santa Maria sopra Minerva. It was built in the first century BC as a temple dedicated to Minerva, but in the 16th century it was converted into a Catholic church, and dedicated to Mary (“sopra” means “over” or “above”), thus preserving the entire Roman façade with its six still fabulous looking Corinthian columns. It is quite interesting to walk up Minerva’s 2,000 year old steps, pass between those simple white columns and then walk into Maria’s highly decorated interior.

Directly across from this hybrid church is a vaulted archway decorated with old and rather strange looking paintings. It is through here that we walked later that night for a wonderful dinner at Trattoria Pallotta, where the scene was warm and local, the food delightful, and the half liter of local Umbrian wine simply superb. Thanks to Figlia's charm we are allowed here, as at Taverna 58 in Pescara, to descend after dinner into the restaurant's wine cellar where we see the hundreds of bottles that lie in waiting to be chosen by true oenophiles more knowledgeable than we.

Having started dinner at 7:30 (which was about as early as we could ever have dinner in a country where people really don’t start to eat until 8 or 9), we found we had time to dash up to visit St. Rufino again, where Sister Sue had told us there was to be a special Friday night service. We arrived in time for the last 15minutes, which was enough to appreciate the choir and the cathedral’s booming musical acoustics. After the service, we joined the local multitude in touching one of the church's icons -- an old and rather crudely carved wooden replica of the Pieta that was on a small pedestal near the alter. Then it was a downhill walk back to our B&B's triple bedroom.

Italy: Perugia

Saturday, April 4 , 2009. Breakfast is served at St. Anthony's from 7:30-8:30, and just to insure that everyone makes it, soft, classical music is piped through the building starting at 7:15. The breakfast is refreshingly American continental, with yogurt, cereal, juices, breads and the like. St. Anthony's also provides a gated parking lot (a real plus in Assisi) and it is from here that we get the Fiat back on the road and head today for Perugia.

But first we make a stop at the Basilica of Santa Maria degli Angeli, which lies but a few kilometers out of Assisi down in a typical Umbrian plain. We are early enough, and lucky enough, to find a parking spot near the church. Several tour buses are unloading near the church’s piazza and we hustle over to beat the forming crowds. St. Mary of the Angels is a big, big church (learned subsequently that it is in the world’s top 10 for Catholic bigness), but it is the little church inside the big church that draws us and the crowds.

Directly under the dome of the giant church sits a church, in miniature, as it were. This chapel size building is the famous Porziuncola, where St. Francis set about his mission, founded the Franciscan Order, and consecrated St. Clare (she of the Poor Clares) as a Bride of Christ. Additionally, in St Mary’s or on its grounds we also get to see the remains of the good saint’s rope belt, a low window that marks the place where he died, and a rose garden that grows thornless roses thanks to St. Francis overcoming a temptation he never named. Still, in the end, it is the juxtaposition of the tiny 13th century chapel inside the giant 18th century basilica that sticks in our minds, a clear metaphor of how the Catholic Industry swallowed up its founding Artisans.

We are all anxious to see Perugia, the capital of Umbria, and a city that several of Figlia’s friends have said is one of the most beautiful in central Italy. From one of Perugia’s many parking lots in the lower town we take an outdoor, covered escalator up to the next level, where we find another escalator, which leads to yet another escalator which finally leads us to a busy street. Asking directions (Figlia’s Italian again being most helpful) to the main piazza we are pointed to a corner where there are yet two more long escalators (think airport “people movers” in length) that finally bring us, after a few dozen more steps up, to the heart of the city, Piazza 4 Novembre. (Jake thinks to himself that Perugia should replace its city symbol of a griffin with an escalator, or better yet, a griffin riding on an escalator.)

Jake has brought along a walking tour narration that we use to walk the city. Perhaps the highlight of our walk is a 5th century circular church, Tempio di San Michele Arcangelo, which has its interior supported by 16 columns that were likely part of a Roman temple (thus Tempio) that was itself likely built on top of an Etruscan place of worship. The dim light coming in from the small, high windows barely illuminates the several faded frescoes. Hard to read plaques (Latin or Italian?) on the marble floor seem to mark several ecclesiastical crypts. Though there are no other tourists in this ancient, atmospheric place we find ourselves whispering to each other.

Our walk also includes a trip on Perugia’s old aqueduct, which long ago provided water that ended up at the famous Fontana Maggiore back in the Piazza 4 Novembre, but currently provides some wonderful views of the town and the surrounding countryside. About the time we found the University for Foreigners but got slightly lost looking for the more famous (and older, being founded in 1308) University of Perugia, we decided to stop for lunch, for soon every eatery will be closed for the afternoon. Figlia spots a place on Via Fabretti. Though it appears to Jake and Stone to be nothing special, maybe just a fast food hole in the wall lunch counter, the waitress at Ristorante Brizi brings us past the lunch counter, then some down steps next to a hot and working open brick oven and into a lovely room where we have a very nice little lunch, complete with a small carafe of the usual good, cheap red wine. It seems it might be nearly impossible to have a bad lunch in these central hills of Italy.

After about another hour of hiking the picturesque ups and downs of Perugia, we end our walk back at Piazza 4 Novembre where Figlia makes Stone practice her Italian by making her order gelato for all 3 of us. It is against international law, not to mention good sense, to go to Perugia and not buy some Perugina chocolate, so we dutifully stock up for family, friends and ourselves at the apparent mothership store just off the piazza at Corso Vannucci 101, then head back to the escalators for our trip down to the parking lot.

On the drive home back to Assisi it starts to rain. It is still raining when we arrive back at St. Anthony’s so we ask the good sisters for a restaurant close enough to quickly walk to. Ristorante Degli Orti turns out to be close indeed, and like most of the restaurants in town, a family run affair. At the end of our dinner our “ricevuta fiscale” shows: 1 pane e coperto, 1 acqua, 3 vino, 1 antipasto, 1 primo piatto, 2 caffe-digestive and 2 pranzo complete and 1 cola cola; total 56 Euros. During our dinner a young Italian couple comes in and their cute bambino (about 2 years old) who runs about the restaurant charming everyone, even when he makes his way over to the restaurant’s fax machine and starts to press some buttons. Kids!

The rain seems less annoying on our walk back to the B&B. The water runs out of downspouts perhaps hundreds of years old, refreshes the hanging flower pots, glistens the dimly lit cobble stones, and then listened to in our beds makes sleep a thing to enjoy. Though Longfellow wrote it, certainly the nature loving St. Francis would agree: “The best thing one can do when it’s raining is to let it rain.”

Italy: Palm Sunday in Assisi

Sunday, April 5, 2009. Church bells awaken us at 7 AM, which only seems proper. After breakfast we head back to Piazza del Comune and wait outside the Minerva Temple/St. Mary Church for the Palm Sunday procession that begins here and will wend it way up the streets of Assisi to the St. Rufino Cathedral. A disparate crowd gathers, some holding olive branches. We see someone handing them out and get one each. A Brit tourist asks me if I know when “the parade starts.” As the crowd swells two men bring two big baskets of olive branches up to top of the steps of the Temple/Church. Near the piazza’s little fountain two police officers casually watch over things and chat with the natives. People greet each other with the Italian kiss of the air beside each cheek. Many elderly women are dressed all in black. At one point the children in the crowd are asked to come up to the top of the steps, where they each receive an olive branch and then stand off the side in a quiet, respectful group. A choir gathers on the top of the steps on the other side, opposite the children.

The crowd now includes several monks in the belt-roped robes, nuns in their usual black and white, and other churchmen in simple black tunics. With the aid of a microphone and a set of small speakers attached to a piece of wood that a man holds up above the crowd, the choir sings a hymn. From out of the church door the bishop steps up in his many layered and colorful vestments, including a miter to die for, and using the microphone addresses the crowd. He then sprinkles holy water on the baskets of olive branches, throws some the crowd’s way which hold their branches skyward, and then says a prayer. The blessed olive branches are handed out to the crowd as the bishop, followed by several other churchmen of apparent high order, walks carefully down the steps, his golden bishop’s staff temporarily held by an assistant. The bishop seems to glance at the fountain that looks perhaps inspirational in the bright morning sunshine, and then at the crowd, and smiles. Getting his staff back from his assistant he begins the procession up to the Cathedral of St. Rufino -- which is classified a cathedral (rather than a church or basilica) because it serves as the bishop’s seat, or more romantically, his throne. We three join the procession, as those who know the words sing hymns along the way, up the narrow streets now crowded not with cars or scooters but only people.

At St. Rufino’s more than a few walkers peal off before we head into the cathedral. The cathedral seems fully packed and we sit with many others in folding chairs toward the rear. Though the scene is quite impressive and the music is lovely, the service is longer than we anticipated, especially the parts requiring the congregation to stand, and we join a few others in making an early exit.

Being near the top of Assisi already, we decide to hike up to Rocca Maggiore. It is warm, but we take our time, stopping now and then to admire the views. This one time mighty fortress still dominates the Assisi scene, and though it might disappoint some looking for more than it is, all three of us thought its several exhibits and historic atmosphere worth the long climb and price of admission.

Jake got a special thrill learning that Frederick of Swabia, as a young boy, might very well have walked the same stones he now walked. Jake thinks you have to love a medieval guy who became, as Holy Roman Emperor, Frederick II, and was (or claimed to be) King of Jerusalem and King of Sicily as well. Frederick also knew six languages, wrote an early “scientific” book on falconry, founded the University of Naples, was (of course) a Christian but maintained a harem, was excommunicated not once but twice, and is assigned in Dante’s Comedy to be among the damned. As a child it is likely our Frederick made his way up the long spiral staircase to enjoy the panoramic view atop this fortress as did Stone, Jake and Figlia some centuries later.

We figured that the several Palm Sunday services would now be over at the Basilica di San Francesco, so we walked to that end of town to see the famous 13th century edifice. We especially wanted to see a fresco that Figlia had studied and written about in an art history class in college. It is "The Dream of St. Martin" by Simone Martini. After a bit of a search Stone spotted it. Figlia looked at it and talked about it with an educated awe that made her parents proud.

We had all come to the world famous Basilica of St. Francis with high expectations. It did not disappoint. Whether it is the good saint’s tomb, which is below the lower basilica and is thick with a dark air of reverence and the hush of scores of true believers kneeling and crossing themselves; or the lower basilica, which squats above the crypt but below the large basilica above, its vaulted walls, ceilings and chapels so crammed with art that one feels almost suffocated by the medieval aesthetic; or the airy upper basilica with its soaring ceiling and its famous repertoire of fresco masterpieces by Giotto, it is impossible to process but a fraction of this sensory overload or to be unmoved by what a man, and mankind, can accomplish. Outside the church, on a giant lawn that fronts the basilica is a large topiary rendering of one word that reminds us all of what mankind too often can't accomplish: Pax.

The drive from Assisi back to Pescara was uneventful, except for the obligatory getting lost for a bit, this time in a town called Foligno, which is Italian for "No Road Signs." Back in our Pescara apartment Stone makes a nice dinner of pasta which we have with some Sangiovese wine we bought in Assisi. Everything is calm and peaceful as we go to sleep. It does not stay that way.

Italy: Pescara, Terremoto, etc.

Monday, April 6, 2009. “In the middle of the night” is a phrase often used with a sense of dread. Not for nothing did Thomas Jefferson write that the question of slavery "like a fire bell in the night, awakened and filled me with terror.” When bad things happen, the worst time for them to happen is in the middle of the night…

Stone thought Jake was having some sort of epileptic fit; Jake thought Stone was rudely remaking the bed because he had stolen all the covers. When we both realized that we were both still in bed, motionless, but that the room was in motion, we were at once puzzled and frightened. When we saw the frame of the double doorway to the terrace moving side to side we seemed to realize, even in our just-awakened fog, that the building was moving. After a while (who can say how long?) it stopped. “Was that an earthquake?” we asked. Jake looked in the living room to see Figlia miraculously still asleep. Stone went out onto the terrace; lights were going on the other buildings in our condo development. In a few minutes a few knots of people gathered in the streetlights below, but there was no panic or running about. It was about 3:45 AM – the middle of the middle of the night. After a bit, and another check on Figlia, we tried to go back to sleep, and sooner or later did.

That morning our apartment’s TV was still not working perfectly, and on the stations that we could receive there seemed to be little information about the “terremoto,” as the Italians term an earthquake. We went about our business, wanting to leave fairly early for the weekly Pescara outdoor market. Just before we were ready to leave there came a report that indeed it seemed likely that some people were killed in an earthquake that happened in the mountains about 50 miles from Pescara. We decided to wait and watch the TV for more news. The terremoto news trickled in, agonizingly slowly. Then came the first report of confirmed deaths – at least 9 people. Realizing then that the story would indeed be news in America, we called family and friends, telling them it was a beautiful, sunny day and that we were in no danger. We now know of the horrible effects of what turned out to be a devastating terremoto, but on that morning, at that time, it seemed of no such consequence so we went shopping.

The Pescara weekly outdoor market takes place every Monday in Figlia’s neighborhood, on the Strada of Several Names, here called Viale Guglielmo Marconi, quite close to Stadio Adriatico, Pescara’s soccer stadium. We are here to buy food for tonight’s planned party, when we will meet the four other study-abroad students from Figlia’s college. The market scene is large and crowded – crowded with people and with food of all sorts. There are wizened mom-and-pop farmers selling their vegetables out of tiny pickup trucks, there are fish mongers, there is one guy with an almost operatic voice hawking “the best melons in Abuzzo,” (translation thanks to Figlia), there are professional purveyors of meats of all sorts and cheeses we’ve never heard of. There is much hand gesturing and much inspection of the goods – a carrot is broken in half and then the whole bunch taken, an eggplant is finger thumped and put back, a cheese tasted and refused with a stately shaking of the head, still chewing.

Stone buys some spinach and zucchini from a wizened mom-and-pop, and mom stuffs some arugula in Stone’s bag and asks a higher price than previously agreed. Negotiation needed. Finally an agreement, but mom gives Stone a hurt face that might make the pope feel guilty. We also buy some soft pecorino cheese ( a perfect appetizer when dipped in honey says Figlia), a big scoop of various olives of various hues, and an odd looking sausage thing packaged in vacuumed plastic pieces tied together with string that turns out to be a “sopressata” -- which was fabulously delicious.

The market also includes people selling everything you might expect to see at any large flea market – from clothes to shoes to curtains to jewelry -- and Jake finds a sharp looking pair of reading glasses for only 5 Euro. Figlia, who has been despondent since a friend sat on her “perfect Italian sunglasses,” finally finds a pair worthy of her glamorous face just before she has to hurry off to school. Stone and Jake wander around the market a bit more, then head back to the apartment, stopping to buy some wine and Italian bubbly on the way.

Thanks to Stone’s usual wonderful cooking, the party for the American kids is a big hit. We all swap stories about the “terremoto” shaking, but most of the evening is passed with stories of how crazy the kids’ Italian roommates are, how good the food always is, this or that gelato to die for, how scary it can be to ride on a scooter in the mountains, how the Italian buses seems to run more systematically than the Italian trains, and how beautiful was their trip for five to (properly enough) Cinque Terre. The party goes so long that the city buses are no longer running (about 10-10:30 most nights), so Stone drives them all home to their respective apartments, while Jake dutifully cleans things up -- especially the bubbly.

Italy: Pescara Day Off

Tuesday, April 7, 2009. -- A planned day of relaxation. Stone and Jake are up early before Figlia. We take advantage of the two bikes that come with the rental of our apartment and head out to a paved bike path not 500 feet away from our building’s front door. We have been told that the path runs from Montesilvano all the way into the center of Pescara, but we have no plans for such a long trip. The asphalt path is wide enough to be shared this warm and sunny day by bicyclists, walkers, runners, and mothers with strollers.

After a while we go off the path and head to the beach, which is but a minute or two away. The beach is Pescara’s main draw and in the summer is crowded, but today it is virtually empty. We get off our bikes and walk down to the water. The beach stretches for miles north and south, to our left and the right. Things are buttoned up in what is still off season: scores of beach umbrellas are roped together and stacked next to a restaurant, the several beach bars are empty and sad looking. A man walks briskly past us with his little panting dog at his side. Here, the Adriatic is calm as a lake in the Poconos.

On the way back home we stop at a little newsstand (oddly called “Dean Martin”) to buy Il Centro, a local newspaper. The headline reads “Catastrofe in Abruzzo,” and 35 of its 40 pages detail the “terremoto” in L’Aquila. The pictures of the devastation are at odds with the beautiful day. We read it under the shade of a nearby tree, then pedal home in a somber mood.

Figlia needs to go to class again and also pack for our next destination – Penne – so we drop her off at her apartment, once again experiencing the traffic of Pescara, which is not really that horrible once one gets use to it. Stone said it best, driving in Pescara is like being in one of those video driving games where obstacles pop up out of nowhere. The pedestrians seem way too bold, the drivers of scooters all have ADD, the bikes are usually pedaled by elderly men too trusting to have lived this long except for daily miracles, the buses are bulldozers in disguise, and most of the cars are driven the way people walk in Manhattan: whoever gets to the spot first wins. Still, we never saw an accident.

Stone and Jake spend their afternoon packing, and then get a call from Figlia. Schools throughout Abuzzo, including her university, have been cancelled for two weeks due to the earthquake. This works out nicely for us, as now all three of us can be in Penne for all seven days.

We decide to say goodbye to Pescara by having a fancy seafood dinner. Jake has pre-trip researched just such a place, L'Angolino da Filippo, south of Pescara, in the little seaside town of Marina di San Vito. Jake’s pre-printed Google map and driving directions make it seem a snap to get to, but the reality proves otherwise. We think we are on the right road, SS 16, but we can see no confirming sign. But at least we know that we are heading south with the Adriatic constantly in view on our left, so we figure sooner or later we’ll get close. Sooner or later we do, and after a pass or two through the tiny but lovely looking Marina de San Vito, we see the restaurant in the fading light of day hiding down by the water’s edge.

L’Angolino da Filippo’s atmosphere, wine (by the glass again, the wine list is too intimidating) and food are all top shelf. Jake and Stone both order the octopus salad and it is breathtakingly delicious. Figlia can find nothing on the limited, all seafood menu that fits her mood, so she sweet talks the waiter (in Italian, naturally) into getting her some simple pasta and red sauce, which proves to be wonderful as well, but not as “awesome” as the chocolate dish called terrina di cioccolato that she has for desert.

Our ride home proves as adventurous as the ride down. A side trip onto an autostrada of some name and number promises to get us into Pescara, which it does, after sending us through several tunnels, one at least two miles long. But it is late at night, the traffic is thin, and we do finally see some familiar landmarks which guide us back to our last night in our Pescara apartment.

To Penne

Wednesday, April 8, 2009. Today is moving day, and we are packed and ready to go. The couple from whom we rented the Pescara apartment live in the same building, so dropping off the keys is easy. Figlia even gets to interact with the couples’ two young children, after which she declares that there is nothing more cute than four and five year olds speaking Italian . We load up the Fiat and head for Penne, a little town that should be less than an hour’s drive westward into the Abruzzo hills. Now that it is time to leave Pescara we find that we finally know our way around pretty well, and we get on the road to Penne without anxiety or even a U-turn.

The road (Strada Statale 16) winds through the Abruzzo countryside with seemingly nary a straight line. We drive through several little villages whose names are bigger than they are: Ospedale De Cesans, Case Cocciagrassa, Cappella sul Tavo. There are ups and downs a plenty, twists and turns galore, and the numerous hairpin curves have saucer shaped mirrors on the side of the road to help those intent on hurrying to see oncoming traffic. But we are intent on not hurrying, and the countryside rewards our measured pace with glorious views of olive groves, vineyards, distant hills, farm land and villas. Unlike other roads we traveled, SS16 is well marked, and the signs to Penne plentiful.

We arrive in the Penne’s Piazza Luca Da Penne without trouble and even get a parking spot. To get the keys to our rental apartment we have to see the newsstand operator either before 1pm or after 4pm. It’s about 1:30 so we decide to have lunch at a little place right next to the newsstand, My Friends Bar. The food is good enough, and the apparent owner, who waits on our table, speaks good English, and as befits the bar’s name, is a friendly type guy. While talking to him after we have finished our lunch, he offers to try and call the newsstand guy (“giornalista” in Italian) to try and expedite our getting the keys, but though he looks in the phone book and makes a couple of calls on his mobile phone nothing comes of it. We thank him for his effort, then decide to wait in the piazza for our newsstand to open up.

Four o’clock comes and goes, not open yet. No surprise, says Figlia, wise in the Italian ways. Another 30 minutes, nope. Five o’clock, nope. Several would be patrons look in the shuttered windows of the newsstand, then walk on. At 5:30 we decide it’s time to call the apartment’s owner, who lives in the Britain. Using Figlia’s quite wonderful, internationally enabled BlackBerry, Jake rings the owner, who, in a British accent that is always lovely to hear, apologizes, and gives instructions on how to contact the tardy newsstand guy’s mother, who lives right off the piazza.

Jake finds the proper doorway and rings the buzzer, but with an Italian vocabulary that might reach a dozen words on a good day after an espresso or two, he can get no further than “Buona sera” and a mumbled attempt at “giornalista” before he is hopelessly lost. The poor newsstand guy’s mother sounds a little high strung to begin with and is soon frantic with Jake’s inability to speak. Luckily Stone appears at the intercom just in time to calm the waters and straighten things out. Ten minutes later the newsstand guy, Paolo, shows up, gives us our keys and apologizes for being late. He says he thought because of the earthquake we would not show up.

Our 2 BR apartment proves to be well worth the wait and key trouble. It is up a long flight of stairs, and at least two dogs bark at us from behind their apartment doors as we lug our luggage skyward, but the apartment is stylish, modern, newly renovated and quite spacious. Off the dining room is a little terrace that overlooks our street. And from that terrace the rooftop terrace can be gained via a small spiral staircase. The views from the rooftop terrace are magnificent. To the front is a panoramic view of Penne's tiled rooftops and church bell towers. Then behind, over our tiled roof, is a sublime view of the distant, snow covered San Grasso Mountains. Wow.

Later, after we settle in, the distant view is hidden behind clouds and the tiled roofs become shiny slick as the daylight fades and it begins to gently rain. Osteria Del Leone is a restaurant less than two minutes away and provides us with a very nice dinner featuring a wonderful, hardy soup and great tortellini, and of course, a local Montepulciano wine.

Near the end of our dinner an Irish woman, who has been eating there with her husband, approaches us and asks if we are frightened by the continuing tremors of the recent earthquake. We tell her we are not and she seems reassured. However, that night we experience three more tremors. During the last one, as we all three huddled and hugged each other beneath the apartment’s sturdiest doorway at about 3 AM, Stone decides she isn’t comfortable at all with the tremor scene any longer. We decide to abandon Penne and go to Rome or Sicily, or somewhere – somewhere where the earth does not shake. We hope the Irish lady doesn’t see us leaving town in the morning.

Staying in Penne

Thursday, April 9, 2009. Maybe it was because we all slept on it. Or perhaps it was the especially luminous sunshine of the morning. Or the morning espresso and croissants on the terrace. Or the view of the rooftops so close by. Or the view of the mountains so far away. Or maybe it was seeing the local folks going about their business. Or maybe it was just -- Italy. We decide to stay in Penne.

Over the last couple of years, Figlia has become good friends with Alessandro. When Figlia studied in Pescara two summers ago she had stayed with Alessandro’s family, and then when Alessandro came to Figlia’s college last year he spent a week with us in New Jersey. We were anxious to meet his family and looked forward to the lunch planned for today at Alessandro’s home in Pescara.

“Mamma,” as Figlia always referred to Alessandro’s mom, provided a lunch worthy of an Italian mother (3 boys) who has lived much of her life in the kitchen. The lunch for eight (us three, Alessandro, his girlfriend, his brother and father, and of course, “Mama”) lasted several hours and deserved to be on the Food Channel. The recent tragedy in Abuzzo was of course the first topic of conversation. Alessandro works in the tourist industry, at a hotel in the mountains, and the strain and sadness was evident, even on his young face. But soon things moved on to happier subjects and there was much Italian, some English, several toasts, laughter, stories, pictures and promises to get together again sometime, either in Italy or America.

Back in Penne Figlia took a late afternoon nap while Stone and Jake took a walk. As is the way in Penne, and likely in other small Italian towns, local death notices are pasted on the several small billboards around town, and we noticed several notices for a young man named Alessio Di Simone, who was killed in the earthquake. He was only 24.

We walked up a hill to see Penne’s duomo, but it was closed, as was the Diocesan Civic Museum. But the view from the top of the hill, Penne’s highest, was worth the climb. Going back home we looked into Chiesa dell’Annunziata (Church of the Annunciation) near the main piazza and saw three displays obviously having to do with Good Friday: Mary, with a sword in her heart; a collection of crucifixion items (cross, nails, sponge of vinegar, spear, etc); and most startlingly, a figure of Christ, lying supine on a robe, crown of thorns still intact.

For dinner we went to La Grotta. Here one is spared the anxiety of choosing what to eat as the English speaking owner and waitress gives you a choice of two pastas and two deserts and one red wine. During dinner there was another minor tremor (lasting only about 5 seconds), but thanks to the wine or maybe to the other patrons who hardly looked up from their plates as things shook a little bit, it didn’t bother us that much. One can get use to anything. We left the little restaurant full and ready to sleep, which we did – thankfully tremor free.

Good Friday in Penne

Friday, April 10, 2009. The day starts grey and foggy, which is perhaps proper for this Good Friday, which has been declared a national day of mourning for the earthquake victims. Stone and Figlia have a little lunch at the around-the-corner restaurant, while Jake buys a newspaper and walks the town trying to locate the bus station. Later we all three continue to explore Penne, trying to find out exactly where to buy bus tickets, and discussing the logistics of getting Figlia back to Pescara on Tuesday, dropping off our rental car (which is due back Wednesday), and then getting us to Rome for our flight home a day early, just in case of Italian transportation problems.

All around Penne there had been notices of “Santo Venerdi,” which we took to mean a procession of some sort on Good Friday. Indeed there was. From our terrace we saw people heading to the main piazza so we joined in. The crowd is not as large as we had thought it would be; and it is very quiet. The procession begins with a young man in rather simple vestments carrying a cross. Behind him comes a group of nuns, then two lines of elderly women dressed in black, several men play drums that set the slow marching beat, and then two smartly dressed Italian soldiers in full formal regalia. The crowd is growing by the minute and now the piazza seems completely full of people.

Minutes later, passing under the arch that guards the little street which runs in front of our apartment, comes one of the displays we had seen yesterday in the church: six men carry the crucifixion display on their shoulders like pallbearers. All six wear black hoods with only openings for their eyes. Unlike the procession in Assisi, we can see no one taking pictures and have to take ours somewhat furtively. Next comes, this time quite literally, six more pallbearers; they carry on their shoulders the supine Christ who lies on an elaborately embroidered robe or blanket. Finally, Mary makes her entrance in the gathering darkness, sword still in her heart, in a dark purple and gold robe worthy of Hollywood. The procession stops now and then to push its way through the crowd, and like the procession we saw in Assisi, there are prayers and hymns broadcast over several sets of mobile speakers. (We have subsequently learned that what we saw was “The Procession of the Dead Christ,” and dates back to the 16th century.)

We wait till Mary is out of sight at the far end of the piazza and then go for dinner at our favorite around-the-corner place, Osteria Del Leone, which is great as always. We exit the restaurant to find it is raining rather heavily (as if the heavens are weeping for the earthquake dead?) and we are happy we only have to make a two minute dash to home. In the apartment Stone uses her troubleshooting skills to get the complicated satellite TV to work, and Jake gets to watch some of the Masters Golf Tournament before we all go to sleep for another night of tremor-free sleep.

Off to Ascoli Piceno

Saturday, April 11, 2009. The weather this morning is back to that Italian version of sunshine that seems so golden, as if the very air were being polished. Good thing too, for we are off on a fairly long drive to Ascoli Piceno, in the Marche region of Italy. All the needed roads are major ones and we arrive without once getting lost or confused(!). Ascoli (as nearly everyone seems to call it) is an attractive city of about 50,000 people and has many reasons for a visit. But what brings us here today is that Stone’s father’s “people” emigrated from Ascoli. We also seek the rather famous (in Italy, at least) “olive all'Ascolana, which is a “tenera ascolana” olive stuffed with a variety of meats, rolled in bread crumbs and fried.

Ascoli proves to be a very cool city with two nice big piazzas, a lot of culture, a flowing river, over 20 churches of historical note and many charming medieval streets. It didn’t take us long to discover our olives, for they are seemingly sold everywhere, and were as deliciously unique as we had hoped.

We had a very nice lunch at Ristorante Enoteca Kursaal, which is a two building enterprise, combining a wine shop and a restaurant, which we kind of stumbled upon while looking for something else. As seemingly always, the meal was terrific. We then went on a Figlia-led tour of Ascoli. She had done some research the night before on the internet and provided us all with a lovely and educational two hour walk around town. Interestingly, during our walk we saw two Christian edifices that could not be more different.

The first was the great Gothic church of San Francesco. It can hardly be missed, sitting magnificently at one end of Piazza del Popolo, is filled with art and artifacts, and that day had scores of tourists admiring its history, architecture and art. On the other hand, the Little Temple of St. Emidio, where the saint died, sits across the Tronto river, and must be looked for in earnest. In fact, we missed it on our first trip up the street where it squats, virtually unnoticed in neighborhood full of traffic. Here there is room for perhaps a score of people total. The little building has but one painting and one artifact. The painting shows St. Emidio being beheaded (303 AD) and the artifact is a rough stone on which the martyrdom occurred. There are two little bouquets of flowers on the floor.

But since St. Emidio is the patron saint of "Ascoli," as most Italians refer to this city, the good saint also has a massive cathedral in the Piazza Arringo. Oddly enough considering the time of our visit, St. Emidio is invoked in all of Italy as protector against earthquakes.

We left Ascoli thinking it would well be worth another visit. It is wonderfully located by the river, with mountains near by, and had the charm of Assisi combined with the culture and “vibe” of a larger city. To get back to Penne we had to go through Pescara, so we decided to stop and have dinner. On this Saturday night it was very difficult to find a parking place, the city was simply agog with people, but we finally find an outlying spot. We walked a good mile to Figlia's favorite local spot, a nondescript pizza place down by the river. Here we had some very nice grilled treats, highlighted by an Abruzzo classic -- arrosticini, which is little bits of grilled lamb on skewers. Delicious and fun to eat. After dinner we walked down the “main street of several names,” window shopping and looking at the people, then drove back to Penne via the “roadway of many twists and curves.”

Easter Sunday in Penne

Sunday, April 12, 2009. Buona Pasqua. It’s another sunny day. We plan to relax in our apartment and rest our aching calves, knees, shins, etc. Ascoli was not as much up and down as was Perugia, but still…. As Figlia has noted, Italy is a big collection of steps up an down, but mostly up it seems.

Stone and Jake head out to a place we noticed that sells roasted chicken and had had a sign in their window yesterday that said they would be open Easter morning until noon. Business is booming at Dora, at little place by Penne's main medieval portal. It seems most of the town is coming in to pick up their Easter orders. We notice that it is mostly pasta that is headed out the door -- at about ten pounds a minute! Stone’s Italian is needed to order our chicken. As we wait, we see several ladies in the back room making pasta. Over a long marble table one woman is producing ravioli with an artistic flourish. Stone asks if we might order some. Sure. We get enough for three people.

(We walk back through the main piazza. There are 31 people in the piazza (Jake counted), standing here and there in small groups. Of the 31 only one is a woman, and she stands to the side of one of the groups. And while we are inside these parentheses, it is interesting to note that while Pescara had untold Smart cars zipping about, here in Penne we have not spotted even one. What one sees in Penne but not in Pescara is a vehicle that is sort of a Smart Car for farmers, a sort of motorcycle/truck: the front half is a motorcycle, or actually more like a scooter, that is enclosed, while the back half is a small flatbed good for hauling a few bushels of vegetables, or the like. Very economical in both cases.)

Back in our apartment Stone fixes a wonderful Easter lunch, with the chicken and ravs as the center pieces. We all agreed that the ravioli, with a filling of cheese that was simply heavenly, was the best we ever had. A few glasses of Montepulciano d’Abruzzo and we are all in need of an after feast nap.

For dinner we look all over town for an open restaurant, but without luck. As a last ditch effort we try a “bar” about 10 minutes from our place and they are open, but there seems to be no food available except the always available pastries. But Figlia says something to the apparent owner and we are told he can whip up some plain “grandi panini if we don't mind waiting.” Oh yes. We sit down to a nice little repast of pork panini, Coke Light and Nastro Azzurro beer. And then there are those pastries. Would be a shame to leave without some. Especially after they were so nice to care of us. We load up, being sure to get Figlia’s favorite, “pears,” which is a pastry that looks remarkably like the fruit. Oh, those clever Italians.

On the way home it starts to rain, and then gets rather heavy as we just make it to our doorway. Jake is able to find the Masters again on the TV, though the satellite reception goes in and out, due perhaps to the weather. Finally the TV loses the Masters feed entirely, but with only two holes to go Jake is sure Kenny Perry will win and become the oldest man to wear the Masters green jacket. With the rain continuing it proves to be a great night for sleeping.

Penne, Pescara, Penne

Monday, April 13, 2009. Last night’s rain has continued into the morning and the streets of Penne are gray and very quiet. Not a place in the Piazza is open as Stone and Jake walk through it on their way to try and find the place, rumored to exist, to buy bus tickets to Pescara and Rome. We have left Figlia sleeping, thinking she is probably weary from her unspoken responsibility of being “the wise one,” doing much of the translating, etc.

Just outside an old medieval portal that serves as Penne’s main entrance, Stone spots a likely suspect for bus tickets. We go inside, happy that they are open, but it is a small sports betting parlor, which helps explain why they are open when everything else is closed. Stone uses her improving Italian to inquire about bus tickets, and what do you know, they sell bus tickets also. We get two roundtrips to Pescara.

Because we have to get Figlia back to Pescara so she can go on a long-planned visit to Paris and London with a school friend, our logistics are a bit complicated. Our plan is to drop off the rental car today after we drop Figlia at her apartment, then take the city bus from the rental place to the Pescara bus station, catch a bus there back to Penne, then tomorrow take the bus back to Pescara with our luggage, then get the bus from Pescara to Rome. However, by the time we are on the road from Penne to Pescara we have realized that the car rental place is closed today, so we have changed plans and will just drop off Figlia today and drop off our rental car tomorrow, then hope we can get from Pescara to Rome before 4 pm for our hotel reservation.

We had hoped to have a little lunch with Figlia in her Pescara apartment but one of her roommates is entertaining her parents, so we decide to find a place to eat. Easier said then done on this Easter Monday, a major Italian holiday. Everything seems closed. Even the big Agip petrol station on the “street of several names” where they serve gas and lunch is shuttered. After more than a bit of driving around we spy a bar near the soccer stadium that seems open and might serve food. They are open indeed, glad to see us and have food galore. We get some rice balls, some good potato and meat pizza, and even better cheese and tomato, and green vegetable pizza, and two on-tap beers. Jake is much enthralled by the .2 liter Peroni beer glass and gets Figlia to ask if he can buy one as a souvenir. They give it to us for free. Knowing our cupboard back in Penne is quite bare, we get a chicken and some tortollini/carbonara to go.

The goodbye to Figlia at her apartment proves to be a tear fest, and outside in the car Stone pretty much breaks down completely for a good, full blooded cry. We realize that on the several previous goodbyes (to college and the like) Figlia was leaving us, here we are leaving her. Stone thinks it will be good for her to do the driving back to Penne. Back in our apartment for the final night, our chicken and rav/carbonara make an OK dinner.

To Rome

Tuesday, April 14, 2009. Stone and Jake are up fairly early for a day they know will be travel intensive. We drop off the apartment keys with Paolo, the newsstand guy who bids us "Buon viaggio," and then drive to Pescara. The rental car drop off is a breeze, and the clerk is even nice enough to chase us down after we had left to return Jake’s big and expensive Italian sunglasses, left accidentally in the car. Luggage in hand we get the city bus to Pescara Centrale, where Stone once again uses her Italian skills to get us two tickets to Rome (11 Euro each), on the 11 am bus. We have time for breakfast, so we revisit the Café Mediterrean for the usual espresso and pastries.

The bus to Rome is new and big, one of those with a spiral staircase connected the upstairs and downstairs parts of the bus. On this bus everyone has assigned seats, but as we pull away, at least half of the upstairs, where our seats are, is empty. The tickets say “no stop,” so we upgrade our seats and settle in for a wonderful trip with room to spare. Once out of Pescara and on the main highway the bus takes some unusual turns and seems to go off course. We’ve heard that some routes across central Italy are subject to change due to the earthquake or subsequent tremor landslides, but soon we find out that “no stop” is not taken literally on this trip. We pull into the city of Chieti to find a crowd waiting to get on our bus. We (and many others) scurry back to our original seats, and before we leave the Chieti station all 70 some bus seats are filled.

Though crowded, the bus ride proves to be fine, with some nice views as we cross the mountains, and we arrive in Rome right around 2 pm. Our bus comes into the Tiburtini station, so we have to find the Metro that will get us to the Termini station, which we accomplish without too much trouble, despite our heavy luggage. We know our hotel, Hotel Stromboli, is near Termini on Marsala Street, and we find that without too much wasted effort as well. The weather in Rome is sunny and warm, and we are a bit disappointed to find that our hotel room is even warmer, but we open up the window and get a pretty nice breeze.

Map of Rome in hand we head off for a bit of Roman sightseeing by foot. The Trevi Fountain is crowded (as is all of Rome on this Easter week) but wonderful, even to Stone who has seen it before. We stand in line at the nearby San Crispo gelato place where the service is almost New York City quick and efficient, so despite the long line we soon have our delicious treat. We then head up to Palazzo Barberini, where we had hoped to see some art, but found it closed; however, the grounds are open and we are able to walk for a while in some shade. Then it is over to a spot called Four Fountains where we discover the Church of Saint Charles at the Four Fountains.

This baroque masterpiece seems squeezed into its small site, now right on the busy Via XX Septembre where scooters and cars are manifest and manic. But inside the church is another world of splendid quiet, history and art. To see the dome is worth a visit itself. The church's crypt is entered by an unusual spiral staircase that seemed carved out of one piece of stone. This church was the first independent project of the famous architect, Francesco Borromini, who was a contemporary and often adversary of Bernini. It is said to have remained his favorite work, and his wish to be buried in its crypt would certainly have been granted had he not had the bad manners to commit suicide.

Back at the Hotel Stromboli we freshen up and get ready for a planned expensive dinner of high Roman cuisine at Casa Bleve. The restaurant is by the Pantheon, which we visit first. Of course, it is a wonderful must-see. Even the fact that every pubescent kid in Italy was that evening on tour of the site as well could not damage the Pantheon’s enduring allure.

Dinner at Casa Bleve is everything we hoped it would be. The room is glorious, the service friendly (English speaking) and attentive, the food high class, and the wine by glass deserving of its high price. We passed a wonderful two hours topped off by a free glass of dessert wine. At 147 Euro it was worth that and more. Casa Bevele has a wine shop at its entrance, but they also sell olive oil, and we bought several bottles for gifts for those poor unfortunates back home.

Having walked all day in the Italian sunshine we found the Roman night to be even more inviting, and seemed almost sad to arrive at our hotel. But the room had cooled down nicely, the bed was big and comfortable, and sleep stole upon us as if the Roman god Somnus was in the room himself.