Subject: italy09
Image: kelly.
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.
Image: kelly.
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.
Image: kelly.
On Top of the Mountain
Image: sara.scara.
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, where I remember sitting on a bench in baggage claim for hours waiting to rejoin Austin, as we took separate flights. That time we fumbled our way through the airport to find the bus counter just to find the right place to buy tickets to get to Piazzale Roma in Venice via a short $3 bus ride. (Side note. 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, the airport seemed remarkably smaller than I remembered it. I found my checked baggage in record time (it was the FIRST bag off of the plane,) headed straight to the bus ticket window to see a "Be Back Soon" sign and decided instead to head outside and hope to come across some sort of ticket machine or pay a few extra euros for a ticket on board. I was in and out of the airport in less than twenty minutes, and found myself pacing the sidewalk, running only on adrenaline, 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 nothing I'd ever heard before. Maybe 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 incredibly strange that I began to wonder if it was even Italian. I smiled and tried helped him decipher the bus schedule with gestures and pidgin Italian. Quickly joining us was a young Italian couple with luggage plastered with Berlin Marathon stickers and sporting 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.
My ticketless self hesitated for a moment as the bus driver ran from the bus, probably on 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 quickly hops back on, starts the engine, 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. With that trauma over with, I settle back in my seat and prepare myself for an un-eventful hour long ride.
Image: CruisAir.
I had been on a plane all night and didn't sleep a wink, as usual. I had been slightly worried about my short one hour layover in Paris, but we were early. No problem, heck I'd even have time to change my clothes and reboot my brain that it was a new day. I passed on the airline coffee, knowing full well that I had a cappuccino in Padova with my name on it. Did I mention that it was 6am?
We land and I begin my exodus down a long hallway, some stairs and onto the moving walkway. Just follow the signs for 2F, I thought, no big deal....I've got an hour and a half. And then, I round the corner to complete and utter chaos. It looks like there might have been lines to go through customs an hour or two ago, but they were long gone now. There was no one to tell you what to do, just a few signs that made no sense in a mass crowd. My flight is before 8:20am, I should listen to that sign and head to the left, but where is left? I pause for a moment, my gut instinct to turn around and find another way ignored. What do I do? Do I push my way through the crowds of people like the obnoxious British man did to my right? Do I stand and wait? I search the crowd and everyone's face has the same expression. WTF. They're doing the same, searching the crowd for someone who might speak their language or carry the same color-coded passport to follow. (We're all lemmings in that way, aren't we?) Order was nowhere in sight, so I migrated myself to the left near a line marker and slowly got in line. Off in the distance I could read that every agent was marked "All Passports." It didn't matter what line I got in, just that I got to someone who let me past the gates and hopefully put another stamp in my passport.
- 1
- 2
via RSS Feed
via email
on twitter
on youtube
on flickr
on facebook