I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

(The Road Less Travelled – Robert Frost)

‘Don’t line up, this isn’t Switzerland’

When I was in Year 6 for ‘Show and Tell’ most kids would just bring in a piece of crap they found under their house, say a bullet or an old Victa mower blade. There was a boy in my class named Kenny Kennricks. The boys admired him because he was the first boy in our year to have pubic hair, the girls admired him because he had an electric guitar. One day for his turn at ‘Show and Tell’ he bought both to school and during class he played his unplugged guitar and sang an Elvis number (Wooden Heart perhaps?). It was the most hysterically funny thing our class had ever experienced. Even Mr Wilkie got the giggles.  His voice was breaking and he was terrible at guitar, and in just ninety seconds Kenny Kennricks completely destroyed half of the respect the class had for him. Last night, however, Linda and I were fortunate enough to hear a magnificent guitarist, part of a trio of Romanian Gypsy musicians who were recording a concert in a theatre that had once been the church of a convent.

The Teatro del Sale is near the markets where we shop each morning. Linda found it in one of her wanders and made the enquiries. If you join their club for 7 euros, which we did, you are entitled to sit down to a meal before each concert. The concert and meal cost an extra 20 euros each – the meal alone made the night worthwhile. It was a buffet and the audience obviously included foreigners like us.  We were told ‘Don’t line up this isn’t Switzerland! – Just take whatever you want.’ So we didn’t and we did.

The food highlights? Many. The first course was all vegetable dishes – baked gnocchi with goats’ cheese was special.  The pasta was with a bolognaise sauce, the soup was a beautiful clam broth, the meat was a mixed grill from a huge wood-fired oven and the desserts were an Italian version of petit fours with coffee. There were mountains of breads baked in another wood-fired oven and the house wine was included in the price.  What was also special for us was seeing Michael, a young man with Down’s Syndrome hard at work with the chef.  The owner has another restaurant and employs 5 staff with disabilities.  Michael has worked there for 10 years – so the owner has an obvious long-term commitment to his staff, to good food and to great music.

The theatre had been trying to contact this trio for some time.  They are from Romania, but had been touring Spain.  By coincidence the group had contacted the owner because they wanted to do a recording in his theatre as the acoustics in the church were so good.  We were the beneficiaries.  The only downside of being at a live recording is that no drinks were allowed during the performance (in order to reduce background noise), and the audience was asked not to clap or stamp in time.  The last request was fine for Swiss-like guests such as the Evans’ in the audience, but totally wasted on Italians.

Apart from their musical abilities the amazing thing about the band was that they were all perfect dopelgangers.  The double bass player looked EXACTLY like Michaelangelo’s David. Even though fully clothed I thought he played the huge double bass as some sort of Freudeun compensatory mechanism, Linda thought it was because he played the double bass.  The violinist was Adair Donaldon and the guitarist, without doubt, was Johnny Depp.  It was Johnny Depp who was totally mesmerising.  I have seen George Golla play live, I have seen plenty of rock guitarists and the occasional classical guitarist, but this guy was the best I have ever seen in person.  The whole night was one of those unexpected joys that never make it into guide books for tourists.

I doubt that Kenny Kennricks still plays the guitar.  Considering his development in Year Six I would say that he is probably now completely covered in hair, but his electric guitar has been put away forever. If somehow he has been able to overcome the embarrassment and keep practicing, and if he has become even half as good as the artist we listened to last night, Kenny could still regain the respect of the girls in Rosewood’s Year Six class of 1967 – respect lost on the day of his public debut.  I think Mr Wilkie would even risk an encore.  I for one would be there.

I love seeing people at a moment when they are completely transported – Linda reading Shakespeare or any beautiful piece of writing, Stephan cooking, Scotty talking ancient history, Pete and Sandy Hearnden camped in the desert, Thommo onto a fish, Catrina talking about the Stradivarius collection in the Accademia, Maryanne coaching her team in a final, or Celia and Margie when they see a nun. Today it was my turn. I spent the morning in the Galileo Galilei Museum next to the Ufuzzi.

As some of you know, I have two Science heroes – Charles Darwin and Galileo Galilei. Three if you count Phil Gardiner. Darwin and Galileo seemingly had little in common, Phil Gardiner had absolutely nothing in common with those two scientific giants, except that Mr Gardiner taught me about Galileo and Darwin in Year 8 at Rosewood.  Darwin was agnostic after the death of his daughter, Galileo had a doctorate in canonical law. Darwin married into the Wedgewood family and was ridiculously wealthy,  Galileo came from a relatively poor family. Darwin was an English speaking biologist – full stop, Galileo was multilingual and a polymath. However both men had one characteristic that was absolutely shared – incredible intellectual courage. Each was part of the Establishment, and each knew that the publication of his discoveries would be devestating to the societies in which they lived, but both published anyway. It certainly cost Darwin the last 30 years of his health, it came close to costing Galileo his life.

At the entrance to the museum is part of Galileo’s finger recovered when he was reburied.  My people don’t usually go for relics, but this one is special. The first floor is wonderful – an exhibition consisting of a series of maps from the first millennium onwards, a globe that leaves out Australia, Arabic maths books from 1000AD, and a huge collection of timepieces – all on the theme of an attempt to get longitude right, and therefore get maps right. But for me it is all about the second floor- the second floor is all Galileo.

They have three of his telescopes, case after case filled with instruments he designed or built himself for his experiments, and his hand-written notes and drawings.  They have original copies of his publications, some annotated by his own pen. (He had very neat writing considering Peter Pointer from his right hand is in a box downstairs) They have notes from his very first work on pendulums, including his observation when still a student at Pisa Uni that the swinging chandolier in the lecture theatre seemed to keep in time with his heart beat even as the chandolier gradually came to rest. This also proves that this particular lecturer in Canonical Law in seventeenth century Pisa University was at least as boring as any 21st century lecturer in Canonical Law 101, just that now we don’t even have chadoliers to look at and to time.

The best part for me was to see his original  books, including the page with the famous dedication of his work to Pope Urban. Crawling to the Pope didn’t work – he was tried  by the Jesuits for heresy, sentenced to prison and barely escaped the stake and the bonfire that went with it. He spent the rest of his life under house arrest, only being allowed out once in that time to seek treatment for a hernia.  By this stage he was old and blind, but still considered a real threat to established thought.  Nonetheless some of his greatest work was done during his incarceration.

Four hundred years after his death there was an attempt to get a Galileo a posthumous pardon. Cardinal Ratzinger – later to become Il Papa, was in charge of the process but would have none of it – Galileo was wrong. I suppose you have to admire Ratzinger’s willingness to support the 17th Century status quo four centuries later and at a time in history when the church was screaming out for forward thinkers. It must be hard appearing to be a resolute idiot when everyone expects you to show signs of rational thought, but Cardinal R succeeded gloriously on that occasion. At least the 19th century church allowed him to be reinterred inside Santa Croce Cathedral. His body had previously just been dumped in a small grave outside with the paupers, thankfully a marked grave at least.

I’m finding it difficult to imagine a better day in a museum for me.  Does Galileo Galilei desrve the title ‘Father of Modern Science’? Absolutely. The museum gave such a feel for the enormity of the man’s intellect and his thirst for knowledge, coupled with the willingness to share that with his world – no matter the personal cost.  Just to see his notes and calculations, his drawings and his equipment was so very special. To see the two telescopes he used in formulating his treatise on planetary orbit was, for me at least, spellbinding. It’s hard to think of a better museum experience.

Imagine Linda talking with Shakespeare, Catrina meeting Mozart, Stephan in the kitchen at the Ritz, Scotty discussing tactics with Alexander the Great.  Picture Thommo with a marlin, Maryanne coaching for gold at the Olympics, Pete and Sandy camped in the Sahara or Margie and Celia strumming along with Sister Jeanine Deckers – The Singing Nun from Belguim.  It was almost like that for me today. The only thing I can come up with that would be even better is seeing Galileo looking through his telescope and doing drawings of Darwin’s finches and those Galapagos tortoises, with Charles Darwin and Phil Gardiner chatting in the background.  Now THAT would be something very special indeed!

Io sono grasso, sono più grassi, io sono il più grasso!

I am fat, and getting fatter. I could get really, really, really fat before I even get to the Land of the Kebab. Damn you Francesca and your wonderful pastries that you give me each morning, damn you S’ant Ambrogio markets with your beautiful cheeses, and damn you all those places that have forced me to sample your wares. There is so much incredible food in this city that I’m even beginning to think that bulimia is not all bad. Anorexia is all bad for sure, but bulimia has its merits. I wasn’t doing so well weight-wise anyway. Then the Webers arrived.

The Webers are our good friends from Germany.  Stephan and Iris are wonderful company and both are great cooks – Mitch and Catrina will attest to that. Stephan and I have made a point of cooking meals with ingredients that are either unfamiliar or difficult for the other to obtain in their respective home cities. For example Stephan cooked roast pigeon and roast rabbit for us all the first night.

The pigeon was marinated, browned, then put into a very hot oven for just five minutes. The legs and wings had a faint liver flavour. The breast had a strong liver flavour. Strangely the livers, cooked separately, did not taste anything like liver -they were incredibly bland. It makes me wonder if pigeons have big livers under their wings and another set behind their knees.  Stephan assured me that pigeon grows on you, but then, so do warts. This is one bird that is definitely safe from my predation.

The rabbit, however, was a revelation.  I have only tasted rabbit once before – that was in Siena a number of years ago. Stephan cooked this rabbit the same way as the pigeon and it was absolutely delicious. We had made salads and roast potatoes Weber style to accompany. The wine was a prosecco  – and it was the perfect all-round dish.  Both the rabbit and the pigeon were memorable in their own way.

To farewell the Webers we ate at a favourite place called ‘Cippoli Rossa’ (I have a great photo from a previous visit of a VERY fat German family hooking into the food.  They had been in Eatily way too long.  How my children laughed when they realised that I had taken photos of complete strangers eating!). It was food that we can’t  get in T’ba – huge but tender grilled veal chops, soft salami, roast rabbit (again), and our new favourite; a round of warmed soft goats’ cheese served on toasted Tuscan bread and topped with proscuito and rocket. We have cooked risotto and pastas, eaten the simplest salads and the freshest vegetables.  The foods as we wander the streets have been gelato or panini or the ubiquitous pizza. And we have had the luxury of a few glasses of wine or Italian beer at lunchtime.

Every time I have been to Italy it makes me wonder why we don’t eat like this at home. Then I realise; it’s because we have allowed the death of the fresh food industry industry by not caring.  It’s because so many shopkeepers here are knowledgeable and ready to pass on that knowledge. It’s because most Australians are not passionate about their food and wine, the average Italian seems to be not just passionate but almost fanatical.  It’s because the same old Italian lady who hands over her bus ticket to a complete stranger would willingly trample her own disabled sister to get the best tomatoes or the last artichoke at the markets. She would tell the green-grocer exactly what she thinks of his lettuce – only then would she tend to her weeping sister she has left lying on the ground.

And it’s because if I ate like this at home I would be drunk at lunchtime. And also because I would get really, really, really fat.

I admit that there have been times when I thought it wouldn’t be bad to become a saint.  Saint Ross of Rosewood has a certain alliterative ring to it, and Rosewood has no homegrown saint of its own.  In fact the Rosewood of my childhood had very few citizens who might even qualify for sainthood – apart from Cherie Battaglenie and myself. However Celia and Margie’s people over here have put a few impediments in the way of this simple dream of mine.

–   I have to be Roman Catholic……X
–   I must have led a pious life……..X
and then the tough one;
–   They need me to perform at least two verified miracles after I’m dead!

Talk about looking after your own just to prevent outsiders from becoming saints! I will admit, however, they do have some really good stuff over here in Italy to look at and to look after, even if they’re not that inclusive.

Two days ago we visited Lucca and went inside the Church of San Giovanni e Reparata.  What made it very special is that archeologists have excavated to a depth of 20 metres directly under the church and you can walk around that site. At the very bottom are the remains of Roman baths from the 2nd century.  The baths themselves and a piece of mosaic floor are visible. On top of that was built a third century church. Parts of columns remain along with brick foundations.  Again mosaics are visible, a baptismal font, and my absolute favourite – part of a wall with 3rd century graffiti scratched into it. (Nothing rude, just religious stuff. Probably a couple of bored nuns I reckon.)

A second church was built on top of those ruins in the 13th century. The evidence of plagues and internecine warfare is there in abundance by way of the encryptions on graves and crypts. St Catherine Reparata performed her miracle by saving the city from some French invaders after she had been beheaded. Yes Celia she was pious, and yes Margie she was Roman Catholic and yes she was dead, but surely all those soldiers on the walls of the town had just a wee bit to do with the defense of Lucca, don’t you think?

The current 17th century building that gives the San Giovanni to the name of the church was built on top of all the rest. None of the 30ft columns in the church match exactly – some are early Roman, some are 4th century Christian, some were made specially for the St John’s congregation as their new cathedral was being built.  The lads in Rome just sent up a pile of old columns to be recycled and included in the new structure.  Wonderful stuff!

I know Rosewood is not like Lucca. When I was a kid I loved playing under our house in Rosewood. Once I even found an old mower blade, probably a Victa.  (Steve Clark said he found a bullet under his house, but then Steve isn’t ever going to be a saint telling stories like that.) But it doesn’t matter how much you dig, I don’t think you’d find anything under 14 Waight Street half as good as the stuff under the Chiesa San Giovanni e Reparata in Lucca.

I was never given the chance to save Rosewood from an invasion by Catholics from Tallegallah, even with my head attached.  It all makes my deification just about impossible. Thanks Celia and Margie. This means my dream of sainthood has been buried forever by your people in that empty Rosewood dirt. Thanks a lot.

Yours
Regretably now just Ross of Rosewood.

I think that before undertaking a huge graffiti project like this it would have been good to have read just one more book –

One on English grammar perhaps?

Pistoia

Today Linda needed a break from her studies, and I needed to help her with that break, so we went a-wandering.  First choice was Lucca, but today’s trains to Lucca were either VERY slow or non-existent. There was a bus to Lucca, but without the No 56 Bus Ladies Battalion as backup I am still a little wary of Florentine buses.  So after some extensive research and much deliberation we chose Pistoia.  (‘Have you ever heard of a place called Pistoia?’ ‘Numpf’, was my succinct pastry-crumbed reply. ‘Then let’s go there.’) Pistoia it was.

Pistoia is about 30 minutes from Florence by train on the line to Lucca.  Italian trains are great and Florence is centrally located, so day trips like this are easy to do and always enjoyable.  The town is small, almost no tourists and it certainly has enough to do to fill in a day.  Even visiting its churches could fill in a day.

The main cathedral in Pistoia was built by Celia’s and Margie’s people in 1145.  The very old guide, who we paid to show us around, remembers the consecration of that cathedral in 1146 – even though he was just a boy at the time.  The highlight is without doubt a solid silver altar adorned with gold leaf.  It is exquisite and it is stunning – possibly better than the altar in St Bridget’s in Rosewood.

At a time when few people could read Latin (or anything) the artworks of churches were important tools in educating the faithful. At a time when Linda and I can’t speak Italian, an English speaking guide would have been a useful tool in educating these two visitors. Even just  a few English words to convey the occasional idea might have been helpful.  But Roberto?? kept speaking in fast and fluent Italian. Fortunately I did a great job in converting his talk into English.  Our two children would have been very proud of their father’s ability to translate from a completely unfamiliar language, and they would not have been at all embarrassed.

Lunch was one of those meals that can only happen on holidays – just to have all that time to laugh and chat is special. To sit down for two and a half hours on a weekday to a wonderful meal and a good local wine is very special indeed. All the ingredients for this meal came from within 50 kms – the oil, the pasta, the fish, the vegetables, the wine, the proscuitto, the waiter, and the chef.  Sadly Woolworths and Coles have almost destroyed that in Australia.  The need they have for food that can survive the rigours of transport from one part of the continent to another comes at the cost of freshness and flavour.

I’m on a campaign. We need to honour our good local producers.  And we need to honour people like Roberto, who has survived from one millenium to the next – even if he was a really crap and costly tour guide.  Here’s to you Pistoia and to you Roberto –  or whatever your name is.  I didn’t quite get that bit either.

There are some things we will NEVER DO, NEVER BUY.

Even someone from Rosewood has better taste than that. Though the horse and carriage ride around the Duomo did look romantic.  Just Linda’s not that keen on horses.

I went yesterday to an outer suburb in search of a charger for my speakers.  Waiting for the bus home  I chatted to –  where I wrote ‘chatted to’,  read signed, laughed and did charades with – a group of women at the bus stop who were going into Florence city centre to visit their bambini or to do shopping.  Then I stepped onto a bus.

If you have been to Italy you understand two things, the uniforms of officials are impressive and the rules around transport are stupid.  As soon as I stepped on the bus man dressed in a VERY striking uniform came up to me – I thought to sell a ticket, he thought to fine me 50 Euros for not having a ticket.  He wanted my passport – it was in the apartment.  He wanted 50 Euros cash, I didn’t have 50 Euros cash.  I was happy to get off the bus as it hadn’t even left the stop, he wanted to hit someone because he was in a uniform and wasn’t getting what he wanted.  Then the Number 56 Bus Ladies made their move.

The woman who I initially asked for directions started yelling at the conductor, her friends joined in and soon the whole 56th Bus Battalion swung into action.  In the end an old lady gave me one of her tickets and stamped it for me, cursing the official with what were apparently good, ribald Tuscan insults  causing great laughter (what is Italian for ‘big hat, small ????).  Finally the inspector retreated in disgust at the next stop and I got escorted by some feisty, old, laughing women back into the city.

Although I have been considering hiring a push-bike to travel around, what I would really love is to a hire scooter.  It would be much better than walking or catching buses. And I can picture myself riding a scooter through the streets of Firenze.  Sadly Linda can also picture me riding a scooter through the streets of Florence, however the image she gets is vastly different to mine.  It won’t happen. (If I did  hire a scooter I think the legal term is ‘irreconciliable differences’).  So for now it is shank’s pony or the bus.  And as I travel around Florence I can ponder how much different recent European history may have been if Mussolini had enlisted feisty Ladies Bus Battalions instead of relying on his Italian men in those wonderful uniforms.  Makes you wonder.

Ross

The road less travelled

Yesterday Linda and I were having our morning coffee at Cafe Rainer when we engaged in a conversation with Philomena from Melbourne. Philomena has a job lecturing in English at Florence University.  Somehow we ended up working that afternoon with two groups of her students who are doing a course in English Listening.  It was just wonderful.

The students had prepared questions earlier and had been given tasks – What country are our guests from, what are the differences in intonation, pronunciation, emphasis, humour etc etc..,?  Mainly they just wanted to know about kangaroos and dangerous wildlife.  So much for the intended learning outcomes.

Aussie Phil has invited us to afternoon tea with her family and has suggested libraries that Linda can access for her studies, both of which were unexpected.  A group of Italian students know slightly more about the Australian version of the English language as she is spoked.  The same students know a hell of a lot more about kangaroo’s pouches, poisonous snakes and great white sharks.  And we have had one of those travel experiences that you would never get from a tour guide holding up a sign to follow and speaking at you through a megaphone around the Duomo.

Those tours are not for us. Linda and I like the back streets, the ones where locals actually live. We like the constant surprises and the unexpected joys that these places and their locals can provide.  And in a small way, by taking the time to go to the university, I feel that we have given something back to this beautiful city – we have terrified a group of Florentine youngsters with stories of crocodiles and death adders, box jellyfish and Australian baby-killing dingoes. Beats following that guide with the megaphone on the ‘Tastes of Tuscany’  walking tour any day if you ask me.

Life has begun to develop a certain rhythm not usually obtainable in T’ba