Subject: italy
Our friends, Francesco and Fabiola, took a Valentines Day trip to Verona, a city known for love and the backdrop for the famous love story Romeo and Juliet. We fell in love with these shots of the city decorated in hearts.
Spoleto, a tiny hill town, nestled in the heart of Italy, was made famous by the arts and theater festival, Festival dei Due Mondi di Spoleto (or the Festival of Two Worlds), that takes place there every summer. Being that it was fall, we knew there were loads of food-centered festivals going on and we found one focused on olive oil to plan our trip around. We went to Spoleto with a quest. A quest for a great olive oil. While we didn't discover it where we intended, we did, however, discover Spoleto.
The woman behind the counter pauses when my friend Francesco asked the question, "do you have a local olive oil for sale in this supermarket?" She shakes her head in disgust and replies, "no, there's no good olive oil here." She then turns to her colleague, who's helping an elderly woman choose some cheese and asks "where can you find good olive oil nearby?" And, almost in unison, they exclaim an unintelligible name (later I'll find out it's Frantoio Feliziani) and they begin to rattle off complicated driving directions in unison. "Go to the roundabout, turn right, then go to the end of the street...do you need us to write that down for you?" Francesco shakes his head and says no, and I just hope he was paying attention. And off we went in the car in search of a nameless frantoio. What's a frantoio, you ask? Don't worry, you'll quickly learn (as I did) that this is the place where olive oil dreams are made.
On Sunday I visited Chioggia, a miniature Venice 25 kilometers to the south. Here fishing boats and cars are more common than gondolas and overpriced tourist shops. And...if you ever wondered what it would be like to drive a car through Venice, this is the closest you'll get.
On Top of the Mountain
I stepped off the plane in Venice's airport and I instantly felt "at home." I've been through this airport countless times, the first as a student and I remember sitting on a bench in baggage claim waiting to rejoin Austin as we took separate flights. We fumbled our way through the airport to find the bus counter, for tickets to get to Piazzale Roma via a short $3 bus ride. (To this day, I have yet to take an overpriced taxi or boat ride. If you're a romantic with extra cash to spend, by all means do so. If you're cheap, unromantic or too pragmatic to take a boat, then find yourself the blue ATVO bus. It's what an Italian would do, anyways)
As I arrived this time in Venezia, it seemed remarkably smaller than I remembered it. I found my checked baggage in record time, headed straight to the bus ticket window to see a "Be Back Soon" sign and decided instead to head straight to the bus and pay a few extra euros for a ticket. I was in and out of the airport in less than twenty minutes, and found myself wandering the sidewalk, running only on adrenaline. I paced back and forth until I found the queue for the SITA bus to Padova and settled in to begin my slow Italian commute. The crisp, fall air made me acutely aware of the fact that I was still wearing flip flops from the plane, but before I can dig through my bags for proper shoe, I'm approached by an African man who's Italian was like I'd ever heard before. Was it the lack of sleep? Typically, I love interactions with other non-native speakers in Italian, because we're at the same disadvantage. But his Italian was so strange and I began to wonder was it even Italian, or perhaps Spanish? I smiled and helped him decipher the bus schedule. Quickly joining us was a young Italian couple with luggage plastered with Berlin Marathon stickers and New Balance sneakers. I wondered if they'd spent the weekend running a marathon or were returning home from a short weekend jaunt? A middle-aged woman dressed in her best clothes and designer sunglasses joined us and onto the bus we went when it arrived...ten minutes late. I paused for a moment as the bus driver ran from the bus, probably his only break for the next hour. I began to worry about not having a ticket, but forced myself to get on and not worry about it. Ten agonizing minutes of wondering if I did the right thing as others with their pre-purchased tickets validated them on the bus machine. The driver hops back on about to pull out and I quickly stop him and say "ho bisogno un biglietto" timidly. He looks at me strangely, snaps something at me I can't understand and I even more timidly ask "ma dov'e comprare?" He ignores me and I can't tell if he's leaving or helping me out. He re-emerges with a pack of tickets, a "I don't have time to deal with you, stupid tourist" face and says loudly "ONE TICKET?" I mumble si, hand over my money and try not to be ashamed of my poor attempt at interaction. I settle back in my seat and prepare myself for an un-eventful hour long ride.
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