Week 29 (2010) Ciao Ciao: Part Three

On 5 May, we took a boat from our Venice hotel to reach the railway station. Six-year old Devyani invariably needed full tickets. In some places, the clever Italians have established a height rule. If the child is taller than 105 cm, you pay the adult charge. Parents can lie about the child’s age, but height is instantly verifiable. Devyani no longer has the height privilege either. We spent dozens of Euros on boat rides in Venice, only to find that nobody checked the tickets. I didn’t dare a ticketless travel, though. The relationship between a ticket-checker and your having a ticket is the same as that between the rains and your carrying an umbrella.

On the train from Venice to Florence, when the ticket-checker appeared I was truly delighted. My honest act of buying those exorbitantly priced tickets was rewarded at last. Our cabin had only four passengers – Mena, Devyani, myself and a middle-aged lady. She was talking over her cell phone, presumably to her daughter whom she would see the same evening. My brief conversation with her (lesson no. 5: phrases for travelling) revealed that she had a long way to go. She would travel north-south past Florence and go to Naples. The TC checked our tickets, smiled and left.

After a while, he reappeared. My family was sat closer to the windows. The Italian lady was sat closer to the door. The TC came and sat across her. He started talking to her, and after five minutes they exchanged names and shook hands. He was a balding Italian, of average looks, possibly in his early fifties. The lady passenger could be a couple of years younger than him. Being an Italian, his talk was animated. By the time the train reached Bologna, both were laughing and moving their hands all over the cabin. This man had leaned forward, so that his knees touched the woman’s. Now he put both his hands on her lap. (I was glad Devyani was completely engrossed in her book). The lady did not seem to mind. Venice-Florence is a three hour journey. During most of those three hours, the TC’s hands were on the passenger’s lap.

“My duty ends at the next station.” Just before Florence, he said to her.  “It was nice meeting you. You said you’re going back next Saturday? I may be on that train. Arrivederci!”

I presume this gentleman first checks all the tickets – and the passengers. He selects a suitable companion; a lady travelling alone, and going far enough. Unabashedly, he joins her, introduces himself and becomes friendly enough to caress the passenger’s lap.

He had a good time. The Italian lady enjoyed the brief companionship. I can’t imagine an Indian or even a British ticket-checker doing this – despite wanting to. They would rather sit at a secluded corner, with paperwork in hand and practise boredom for long hours. This is what I liked about Italians – they don’t suppress, they express. A TC finds a companion to flirt with every time, and the companion responds as well.

I remembered a story where a confirmed bachelor and a confirmed spinster live on the same street. Once they meet at the age of seventy or something, and talk for the first time. The man says to the lady he always fancied her but was shy to express his love. The lady, taken aback, says she too liked him always. Why did he not say anything? Had they talked, they would have had a long married life and children.

Expression of feelings can make life happier.

***

I know of an Indian delegation which had travelled on a similar train years ago. They knew no Italian. Whenever their train stopped, they would peep out and check if it was Florence. They travelled all the way from north to south and never found Florence. Because...

Because there is no such place in Italy. Florence exists only in English guide books. In Italian, it is called Firenze. Foreigners understand that Roma is Rome, Venezia must be Venice, and Napoli is Naples but Firenze?

On coming out of the Firenze railway station; the sight of cars, trams, buses was unbearable. It was like waking up from a beautiful dream to face reality. Is it possible to like any city after Venice?

***

Our hotel was a ten minute walk from the station. On the way we saw shops with names like Armani, Gucci, Nina Ricci, Prada, and Versace. For me, these are shops that I don’t need to enter. In this country, those global fashion symbols become local, but no less expensive than elsewhere. Later, I was surprised to learn that the colour-uniting Benetton is also an Italian brand. In my mind, I thanked signor Benetton for creating something for the ordinary man.

The building in which our pensione was located was a stone palazzo. I had to use all my strength to push the entrance door which was at least four times taller than me. Near the staircase, we saw something that resembled a lift. It had an iron door and two wooden doors inside opening on two sides. Only when I closed all these doors, the lift started. A couple of times, I have been in elevators that take you down into a mine. They rattle, shake and you pray until you land with a bang. I learnt later that this lift, which reminded me of those journeys, was more than 100 years old; the building itself was more than 500 years old, and the pensione Scoti in which we lived dated to 1875. An Italian friend remarked that in Firenze they consider a building old only if it is more than 200 years old. (In Bombay, some people are keen to demolish buildings that are forty years old). 

***

Italian crooks are as famous as Italian cooks. A few years ago, during their train travel, my friend Anuj and his girlfriend dozed for a few minutes. When they opened their eyes, their wallets and passports were gone. Instead of having a Roman Holiday, they spent two weeks locked up in the Indian embassy, struggling to get new passports, visas and funds transferred from home.

Besides the bag snatchers and pickpockets, you have other specialists. An Italian gentleman warns you about gunk dripping down on the suitcase you are wheeling behind you. Not only that, he offers you a clean tissue paper to wipe it out. By the time you clean the mess, his accomplice has disappeared with your other suitcase.

I had heard many such stories, and was determined not to clean my bag if someone shouted gunk. I must report that in our entire stay, we didn’t meet any such gentlemen, nor did we lose anything.

I learnt about another innovation when standing in a queue to see David. I overheard some American tourists discussing the latest trick in Firenze. A man bumps into you, almost hugs you and apologises. Your hand instinctively touches the pocket of your jeans to ensure the wallet is in place. You are happy it is. The next time you take the wallet out, you notice it is a substituted wallet. Similar in size and shape to the one you had – except it has nothing inside it.

***

I can write for six months why Firenze made me forget Venice by describing the museums, the riverbank, the churches, the sculptures in this city. But I won’t. Because this is not a Lonely Planet guide. I’ll restrict myself to two sights.

One is the Duomo cathedral, which defines the city. Like Taj Mahal or the Niagara, Duomo makes you understand how insignificant you are in the scheme of things. Eifel tower also dwarfs and overwhelms, but for me it has little aesthetic beauty; only its monstrosity impresses. That’s not the case with Duomo. Apart from its sheer size, the white and green neo-gothic facade gives sensory pleasure. Its vast interior, 155 x 90 meters, boggles the mind. Those who conceived and started building the Duomo never saw the final product, because it took 150 years to build it. Duomo has two challenging stone staircases- each more than 400 steps. The climbs are so invigorating that even little Devyani forgot her sleeping time, and kept running up. At every level, you get a different perspective of the panoramic city.

***

Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo are the two candidates for the title of “the Renaissance man.” When I sat in front of David, my vote went to Michelangelo. Some of his quotes tell us a bit about that great man.

- Every block of stone has a statue inside it and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it. / I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.

- A beautiful thing never gives so much pain as does failing to hear and see it.

- If people knew how hard I worked to get my mastery, it wouldn’t seem so wonderful at all.

- The greater danger for most of us lies not in setting our aim too high and falling short; but in setting our aim too low, and achieving our mark.

- Genius is eternal patience.

Devyani gets bored in museums quickly, much quicker than adults. In the past, she had treated the grand armorial hall in St Petersburg’s Hermitage as a playground, and slept soundly in the Modern Tate gallery. Now, having reached a reading age, she carries books to the museum. While she reads sat on a floor, one of us keeps her company, and the other goes around the museum. At the Galleria dell’Accademia we were fortunate to find an empty bench right in front of the 17-feet tall David. Devyani read, Mena left to see the paintings and I stared at David – without blinking. I have never watched a man, certainly not a naked man, for such a long time. In Toronto, watching Niagara, I felt I could keep looking at the gushing water for ever. Here I had that feeling again.

God could have rewarded Michelangelo by making David walk and talk when the sculptor completed him. It’s such a divine creation – carved from a single block of white marble. Nowhere else have I seen the beauty of a human body executed to such perfection. David exudes a sense of confidence, purity and naturalness. (We are not born with fig leaves.)

David, even without anything else, could have made our Italian trip worth it.

***

Italians are fond of dogs. How fond?

In lovely packages; fresh wholemeal fusilli with salmon, cannelloni with venison and beef, lasagne with wild boar, mezzelune with hare, rigatoni whit grouper and cod, tortelloni filled with ricotta and ham are available for dogs. In India, humans are not served such a variety.

And once the dogs consume all this delicious food, Italians don’t forget to follow the other recipe. (This sign was in Lucca, a green town with ancient walls, not far from Firenze).

***

Having talked about the Duomo, David and dogs, I am tempted to continue and write about Daniela. But I’m leaving Bombay today for the weekend. The Daniela story will appear in the next instalment, a week from now.

Ravi