Saturday, October 29, 2005

A Flying Visit to Florence

After three weeks in Italy, I’m able to report that Boak has indeed steeped himself in its culture and customs.
In true Italian style, his day is punctuated by frequent stops, wherever we happen to be, for a potent shot of the half inch deep, bitter, gritty, brown heart-starter they call caffe (consequently followed by those other frequent stops…).

More than once he has been complimented on his excellent Italian accent (just like a Tuscan, he’s been told) and I must agree. Words like “Pronto” and “Bongiorno” roll off his tongue with the mellifluousness of a native. However also he fearlessly launches into longer phrases of Italian with not a care in the world for verb endings or the gender of nouns. His delivery, complete with hand gestures, is a triumph of style over substance, and usually raises a friendly, if not bemused, smile. I just wonder what our waiters think when, after serving us, they come back a few minutes later to check if our meal is “tutte bene” (all well) and Boak beamingly replies “va bene” - which I take to mean “off you go, now, and have a nice day”!

And now he even drives like an Italian, which is how, in just three days and two nights this week, we were able to accomplish a sizeable round trip taking in Montepulciano (again), The Mall, Fiesole, Florence and Pisa. It’s amazing the kilometers you can cover hurtling along an Italian Autostrada at speeds never experienced at home, and I’ve almost straightened my fingers out!

Fiesole, on the hill above Florence, again proved the quietest and most convenient base for our visit. Previously we’d stayed (twice) at the Villa San Girolamo, a gracious and elegant Medici villa run as a guest house by Irish nuns and overlooking the city. It was here, by the way, that Michael Ondaatje spent some time writing “The English Patient”. On our last visit, I 1997, they told us that fire regulations were forcing them out of the hospitality business, and certainly when we drove up to the Villa this time all was quiet behind the high, solid gates. I made many inquiries around town, too, but nobody (including a priest at the church just 300 metres from the Villa!) could enlighten me on the fate of this lovely house and its inhabitants.

We stayed, instead, in a very comfortable hotel (the Hotel Villa Aurora) in the Piazza Mino, the main square of Fiesole, in a room with the same view we had at the Villa – the whole of wonderful Florence stretched out before us! A plaque proclaimed that Queen Victoria slept here, and another in our room told us that Margaret of Savoy slept here too! We had a little balcony where we sat drinking champagne as we watched the sun set (and I kept pinching myself!).

As we had previously, we hopped on the No. 7 bus the next morning for the 30 minute ride down the hill to Florence, on the way visiting the convent of San Marco (magnificent frescoes, painted by Fra Angelico on the walls of the monks’ cells). With floor tiles worn to a sheen by the sandals of monks over centuries, these cells, some as small as 3 metres square, reflected the asceticisism of the monastic life. All the cells were built looking inwards, so the outside world did not impinge on one’s vision, and all but one, which had no window at all (the “naughty room”??), had a tiny window, no larger than 45cm wide 60cm tall, overlooking the cloister, through which very little light shone.

The most striking feature of each cell, however, is a fresco, painted on one wall, relating to Jesus’ life. If you were lucky (had money, were favoured, knew someone in power?) yours was one featuring the annunciation of Mary, or the transfiguration of Christ, or the Last Supper, or somesuch, painted in glorious lapis lazuli blues, and bright siennas and reds. But then there was a whole corridor (or so it seemed to me) of cells with variations on excruciatingly detailed crucifixion scenes – even as a Christian, I can only wonder at the crippling effect of waking up to that every morning.

We moved on, on foot, observing the looooooooong queue of those eager to see Michaelangelo’s David in the Galleria dell’Accademia. It was the same story at the Duomo, the Baptistry and the Uffizzi (all of which we’d seen before, but which would have been worth a second look). So we consoled ourselves with a little shopping and pizza, and a stroll across the Arno and then found the new Museum of Leonardo da Vinci filled with life-sized models of many of his sketched inventions.

Boak skillfully negotiated our way through Florence and its traffic the next day - mostly because I kept quiet – and we beetled across to Pisa via another autostrada. Once there, though, the Leaning Tower proved surprisingly difficult to find until we turned a corner and were almost on top of it, so to speak. The Duomo, the Baptistry and the Tower are splendidly situated surrounded by a large expanse of lawn, however the sight of around 20 market stalls selling souvenir junk right in the Cathedral Close was hard to take.

I always look for interesting design elements in famous buildings like these and was excited to see lots of “quilt designs” executed in coloured marbles on the side of the Duomo. I’ll try to upload some photos to the Blog one day soon. You can climb the Tower (for 15 Euros - Au$25) but we chose to be on our way, and after a couple of coffee stops along the Superstrada for the ‘rally car driver’ we made it back to Manciano by sundown.

Today is Saturday, and we leave to drive back to Rome to return the car on Monday morning. Then on Tuesday morning we board a train for Venice. I’ll be sad to leave the peace and quiet and comfort of Angela and Franco’s little villa, but what lies ahead is exciting too!

******
Postscript… If you’re wondering about The Mall… It’s an Outlet for Burberry, Gucci, Ferragamo, Pucci, Zegna and many more designers at 30%-50% off!
Address is Europa 8, Leccio-Regello (Tel. 0558657775) but if you turn off the Autosdrada at the Incisa exit, turn towards the Leccio and Regello signs and keep driving you’ll soon come to signs directing you to The Mall.

******

Monday, October 24, 2005

From Markets to Montalcino - and our smiling God

Shopping, I’m sure most of you will agree, is never a bad idea, and my nose fairly itches at the suggestion of a market! So we took Angela’s advice and drove to the coastal town of Orbetello on Saturday morning to join the fun. There were stalls selling shoes, clothing, household utensils, plants, and handbags – even balls of wool and sewing notions. Families strolled up and down, and the purveyors of cured meats and the fruitsellers did a brisk trade. The sun shone intermittently, sparkling on the water, and then dark clouds would roll in threatening rain, then pass by a few minutes later. Sitting beside the lagoon I captured the dramatic sky reflecting some of these moods on camera.

We bought ourselves panninis filled with roast pork and decided to find somewhere more peaceful to picnic. Orbetello is situated on a narrow spit of land joining the mainland to a small almost-island called Monte Argentario. Across there we drove along a panoramic road that winds round above high cliffs where spectacular mansions perch on the steep slope overlooking a vivid blue ocean.

We ate our panninis sitting on concrete steps beside the boat harbour of Porto Sant’Stefano with the water lapping against the sea wall. Back home that would have been an immediate invitation to every seagull for miles around to move in for any scraps, but here there was not a seagull in sight. We ate our delicious picnic in peace, bought gelatis and went for a stroll along to another cluster of market stalls beside the harbour. This one was much more interesting, selling handcrafted jewellery, antique furniture, and antique napery. There was even a fellow snoozing in a banana chair hoping his life-sized ceramic dogs and other animals lined up along the pavement might sell themselves!

Having spent much of our time keeping up with Italian racing car drivers on high-speed autostradas, Boak decided yesterday that we should take some of the more tranquil back roads and go in search of that picture-postcard Tuscan scenery we all know so well.

I’m convinced that God smiles on Italy on Sundays! We’ve spent three Sundays in this country, and every one has been a stand-out day as far as the weather’s concerned. On our first, in Rome, the rain miraculously cleared overnight, after bucketing down for a week. Last Sunday, after a week of crisp (though fine) days, it was hot enough for a t-shirt and beach umbrella as I sat out the front reading while our overnight houseguests Matt and Michelle basked in the sun on the grass. And yesterday, after a week of indecisive damp weather, was one of those magical sunny autumn days when it’s just good to be alive. I think He’s still grinning today – not a breath of wind is stirring the trees, the sun is shining, and the only sounds are from little twittering birds. Even the shooters, who make an early morning walk a risky business, have left for now.

Our destination was Montalcino, north of here and home of the famous red Brunello di Montalcino wine. Also home of ex-Australian Isabella Dusi, author of two books about Montalcino,“Vanilla Beans and Brodo” and “Bel Vino” (which I’m currently reading).

We found the postcard scenery, the rolling hills greener than you’d believe, lines of cypresses, silvery grey olive trees and earth-coloured farmhouses perched on top of hills. The fields of sunflowers were dead, ready for harvesting their seeds, and the corn and poppies had all been plowed under, leaving fields of chocolate soil, but there were bright splashes of colour everywhere nevertheless. Ruby creepers festoon stone walls, the leaves on the woodland trees fairly glow from bright yellow to orange, and huge expanses of vineyards are a mellow golden colour. Spectacular!

Montalcino is my very favourite village so far. It’s cheerful, clean and picturesque, an ancient hilltown that is obviously loved by its citizens. Every second shop seems to be an enotica (wine-seller) peddling the wondrous Brunello, but the shops selling ‘tourist tat’ are noticeably absent. Handcraft shops sell watercolour scenes of Tuscany painted by local artists, hand-carved olive wood items, hand crafted jewellery, leather goods (at such cheap prices), and fine china (not just the colourful Tuscan ceramics we’ve seen everywhere). There were even three gorgeous quilted wallhangings of Tuscan hillside scenes in one shop – but at 1,300 Euros I resisted!

We had a caffe in the little main square, went for a wander to find some of the landmarks described in Isabella Dusi’s book, tasted and bought 2 bottles of Brunello to have with our pasta back here at Manciano, and enjoyed a light lunch, washed down with a glass of Brunello – which cost more than the food! - in a restaurant with a panoramic view out over the valley.

The Abate Sant’Antimo (Abbey of Saint Antimo) was on our way home, and since I had read about it in Isabella Dusi’s book I wanted to find it. Well, you can’t miss it! An enormous structure glowing in the afternoon sun, and dating back to 800, it rises in the middle of nowhere, at the end of a tree-lined drive from the main road, surrounded by olive trees, some more than 1000 years old! It was derelict for many years, the magnificent building home to cows and sheep, ducks and farm machinery, but after restoration about 30 years ago it is now maintained by a community of 4 French monks who grow olives and grapes and lavender, conduct Mass in the various churches in Montalcino - and run a bookstore selling memorabilia!

For dinner back here we opened one of the bottles of Brunello to accompany our aquacotta (a hearty, traditional Tuscan soup – out of a jar – to which you add an egg and a slice of bread ). Yummmm…..

Saturday, October 22, 2005

Just a few happy snaps with Matt and Michelle on my birthday



Traipsing around Tuscany

After last Sunday’s Indian summer for just one day – my birthday – the weather has turned decidedly autumnal. However, since we hope, before we leave Manciano, to post back to Australia all the summer clothes we brought for the Middle East, as well as miscellaneous books and other items we no longer need, this turn in the weather is really quite convenient.

On Wednesday we drove up to the pretty town of Montepulciano (about 2½ hrs from here) where a childhood friend of Boak’s from Double Bay has lived with her artist husband for 20 years.

On the way, we stopped for a coffee in the main square of Orvieto, another picturesque hill town which has a cathedral with the most stunning façade. As we negotiated narrower and narrower streets and passed parking area after parking area, hoping for something closer to the centre, suddenly we found ourselves in the large open square right outside the Duomo, tourists lining up for photos of the building, and our car right in the middle where it definitely should not have been! We parked in the square anyway - we think there was a sign that said something about authorized parking only, but decided to use a little Italian bravado and throw our hands up pleading total ignorance if approached. This ploy turned out not to have been necessary, and after a coffee and a photo session with the Duomo’s amazing façade we were on our way north to Montepulciano on the superfast motorway.

Montepulciano is situated at a very high altitude, another of those picturesque hilltowns built on rock, where the sheer drop must have afforded wonderful protection from attackers, and approached today by a winding road climbing up the hill. By the time we reached the car park it was raining, low cloud had settled over the area, and a bone-chilling cold seeped through our jackets.
Janet and Ken’s tiny 15th century house, perched on the precipice, would have been delightful on any day, but its oak beamed ceilings, crowded bookshelves, walls hung with Ken’s watercolour paintings, aroma of fresh pasta, and table laid for lunch near a window overlooking the misty valley, gave it a warmth that was far more than that afforded by the central heating.

We talked and talked and laughed and laughed, and when the last of the tiramisu had been eaten and we eventually rose from this long lunch, during which Boak and Janet caught up on around 40 years of news and we all enjoyed the local wine, it was around 5pm and the mist/cloud had moved in closer. There was no way we were driving back to Manciano that night.

This possibility had occurred to us, so we had packed an overnight bag. We drove on and found a hotel room in Siena, overpriced, cramped, and very cold, with a bathroom where the shower hung almost directly over the toilet. Its advantage was that it was in easy walking distance from the Campo, a pretty sight at night when the day trippers have gone home. We were glad of a dry roof over our heads as the rain fell steadily throughout the night – even if I felt so cold I had to sleep fully clothed with my scarf around my neck!

Yesterday we drove home from Siena via Grosseto, completing a big loop, because that was the day Dr Menchetti at the Grosseto Hospital wanted me to return so she could check my phlebitis-afflicted arm.

I think Boak and I are in agreement that we never want to visit Grosseto again! For a start it’s built on the flat and, apart from some kind of fort in the middle, lacks historical buildings and is totally devoid of charm. Fortunately the Hospital is on the outskirts, and we turned up at the Pronto Socourso (Emergency Dept) a little early, hoping to see any old doctor and be on our way. No, we were told, we must come back at 2pm and see Dr Sandra Menchetti herself. We foolishly decided to by-pass the Hospital’s coffee shop for lunch and go in search of something with a little more character in the centre of Grosseto.

The difficulty we found just getting out of the hospital car park at 2am last week we now know is typical of Grosseto. It’s all one-way streets, designed to ensnare you into the dullest part of a very dull town and not to let you leave. So, after a very indifferent lunch in a workmen’s café (most of Grosseto being closed for siesta), we found ourselves driving round and round following the occasional “ospedale” sign, but passing the same ugly billboard advertising chocolate biscuits and getting no closer to the Hospital at all! We’d probably still be there in Grosseto’s own version of the Bermuda Triangle if we hadn’t thrown caution to the wind and made an illegal turn.

Back at the hospital at the appointed time, I again flashed my report from the previous week to the triage nurse who snatched it and triaged me to second lowest in urgency. Boak went off for a coffee, and I was just settling in for a long wait and some people-watching when a different doctor called me. We had a brief consultation, mostly in Italian, during which I had to explain all over again about the phlebitis in my arm, and its cause – he didn’t have the report the nurse had taken from me! However, having obtained the “all clear” from him, I bounced out ready to be on my way. Just needed to retrieve that report – but this was not so easily done!

The triage nurse seemed unaware that I’d already seen a doctor, and thought I was trying to queue-jump. She said (in Italian) my file was inside and Dr Menchetti would give it back when she was ready! Eventually a kindly, gentle young woman, whose father was ill in Pronto Succorso, volunteered to explain my predicament to the nurse, who replied that Dr Menchetti herself wanted to see me before I could escape, but that, since there was now a real emergency (3 ambulances and 2 police cars had just screeched to a halt outside) this could take some time. Hmmph….

Well, the wait was an unexpectedly short one again, and we waltzed out the front doors of Grosseto Hospital in a little under 2 hours (an improvement on the 6 hours last week!) with my report in hand, and were back at Manciano in time to take photos of the magnificent sunset.

After a meal of ravioli and mushroom sauce (expertly prepared by Boak), washed down with a mellow red, a hot shower and a comfy warm bed was heavenly! I curled up with Isabella Dusi’s book “Bel Vino” (about the nearby village of Montalcino) which Liccy has lent me, and was soon dreaming of wild boars, olive oil, truffles and porcini mushrooms……

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Mooching in Manciano

It’s very easy to be seduced by the slow pace of life here in this part of Tuscany. Manciano is a little off the beaten tourist track, so traditions like siesta are strictly observed. Woe betide us, by around 12.30pm, we haven’t driven the 5km into town to buy bread for lunch, check our emails or do any banking. Everything shuts down then until 4pm – and the post office doesn’t open until the next morning!

There’s much to be said, though, for reclining in a comfy chair on Angela and Franco’s sunny patio overlooking the rows of olive trees below, and looking out to the distant hills. Reading in such a setting is even more of a delight than usual!

I finished my Egyptian antibiotics last week and the dreadful veil of nausea has lifted. I’m at last feeling well enough to work on Lachy and Merry’s wedding quilt with enthusiasm, and stitching some of Manciano’s magic into it!

The olives on the trees are ripening to a glossy black, and yesterday our idyllic silence, usually only broken by the buzzing of bees and flies, was intruded upon by the growl of a generator on the next hillside. The olive harvesting has begun! I can’t wait until they come closer to the house so I can go down and get a better look – even try out some harvesting for myself. Nets were spread under the trees, and men and women held extendable poles with a rotating head on the end (powered by the generator). The “fingers” on this head agitated the branches when they spun, causing the ripe olives to tumble down onto the nets.

My nephew, Matthew, and his girlfriend Michelle are backpacking around Europe, seeing much more than Boak’s and my reasonably sedate Baedeker-type travels. Fresh from Croatia, via Venice and Rome, they met up with us in the Piazza del Campo in Siena last Saturday and then we brought them back here to Manciano to do their washing and enjoy a couple of nights in comfortable beds. It was my birthday the next day, so it was a special joy to have them with us for that.

The day dawned unusually hot, and so we all mooched around on the patio reading, stitching, or (in their case) studying the Eurail timetable and the Lonely Planet guide to Europe planning their moves for the next week or so. In the afternoon we made the Manciano excursion but found nothing open, except a museum about prehistoric finds in Manciano. Feeling desperate for some sightseeing, we paid our entry, but found that all the explanations were in Italian, and spent most of our time sighing over the sublime views of the countryside from the windows, and taking lots of photos of this and the beautiful rustic terracotta rooftiles.

That evening, at “Il Rifuge” in Manciano, we dined on home made mushroom soup, followed by pork in several forms. Boak and Michelle enjoyed it roasted with porcini mushrooms (no doubt gathered by Papa that morning), Matthew had wild boar cutlets, and I devoured with relish a dish of cighiale alla cacciatore.

The menus of the local eateries are crowded with pork dishes presented in many exciting ways. You can choose from baby pig, grown-up pig, or wild boar, which I understand to be ‘redneck’ pig, the kind you wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley, with absolutely no manners or breeding. It’s this bad attitude that sets wild boar apart from your more domesticated pork and imparts a rich dark gravy and round, full taste to dishes such as cighiale alla cacciatore (wild boar casserole in the huntsman’s style). Yummm. Though your regular pork, roasted and often sprinkled with fennel seeds, is not to be sniffed at either. Porcini mushrooms are plentiful, too, and the local mushroom soup is to die for, unlike anything we’ve ever tasted at home.

The back packers got an early start the next morning, Boak driving them 1.5 hours to Orvieto where they would catch the train to Florence. (Boak was actually gone for much longer because he got lost coming back, but he’ll tell you that story another time….perhaps…). After around 8 hours in Florence (“you do the outside of the Cathedral, dear, and I’ll do the inside”) their plan was to catch a night train to Vienna. This was cheaper for them, as, having a Eurail Pass already, it meant not having to pay for board and lodging that night. It had been a delightful interlude for us, and we were glad to be able to offer these intrepid travelers some good food and home comforts for a time.

Now, if the internet connection here in Manciano doesn’t choke, I’ll try to send you some photos.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Photos from our Tuscan villa


Continuing the Di Jobbins Tour of Hospitals of the World...

For those of you who don’t know, I’ve developed phlebitis in one of the Cairo hospital cannula sites in my right arm, and after a 9 hr round trip on Tuesday to Emergency at the Grosseto Hospital (incl a 6 hr wait to see a non-English speaking doctor!) I now have antibiotics (more!) and anti-inflammatory medication to take. It hasn’t improved yet – but then again it hasn’t deteriorated further. We’ll see…..
It makes typing slow, and stops me stitching, but I can still txt!!!! With no phone here at Franco and Angela’s villa, mobile phones are our only link with outside. But we’ve found the internet point in Manciano, so every couple of days when we’re in town buying supplies we’ll check our emails there.

Some photos from Rome

Yummies in a shop window

Alimentari

St Peters square in the rain - the queue stretched round the entire perimeter of the square, so we didn't go in this time.


Contrary to appearences, Boak is NOT giving me a rude sign!

Throwing a coin into the Trevi Fountain

In Manciano - Boak's account of our first few days

You would have been proud! I drove out of Rome without one cross word to the navigator – Monday 10th October had been widely predicted as the day of a blazing row. But no; though to be honest, it had more to do with the excellent directions the Avis girl gave me than to my patience.

I haven’t driven a manual car for more than ten years or a left hand drive for fifteen, but somehow we got here without major incident. “Keep the passenger in the gutter” is the simple rule for staying on the correct side of the road. The only real challenge is that I am used to the car finishing six inches from my right shoulder – so several times the long-suffering passenger was nearly scraped off on the back of a truck we were passing.

Manciano is a few hours north of Rome, in Tuscany, and a fairly easy trip. Di and I interpreted Angela’s directions differently - she was convinced we were headed in the wrong direction. I stuck to my guns and we ended up in Manciano rather than Napoli.

The house, owned by Franco and Angela Starace, is beautiful: a farm house of venerable age, exquisitely modernised and enlarged, it sits on the top of a hill overlooking olive groves and vineyards, and in the far distance, usually only visible when the setting sun reflects off it, the Mediterranean. Though it is now the end of a long hot summer, this part of Italy has been in a rain depression for the last ten days so everything is green and lush. The road from the highway is really a dirt track, but bordered with wild cyclamens and native flowers, hedgerows and olive trees, and every now and then some kind of pine. Once through the gate, olives on the left, vines straight ahead, a profusion of roses in full bloom on the right and on top of the bank, surprisingly (though Angela is Australian), a splendid scarlet bottle brush.
The Staraces live in Milan so had arranged for Gino, the local farmer, to let us in. Gino speaks no English and our Italinglese is very limited, despite the best efforts of the University of Sydney. Somehow, we worked out how the hot water, the heating, the shutters and all the other oddities of a strange house work. And at last we were alone to settle in, unpack and decide which nooks to settle in at different times of the day to read and snooze.

The town is about five kilometres from the house, most of it within what I imagine were its mediaeval boundaries. We did an early evening explore to find essentials such as the internet café, a bread shop, a grog shop, a regular café and somewhere to have a meal. Mission accomplished on all fronts, though there must be a better grog shop than the Coop which does an excellent line of vino paesano but not much else – but we have a few weeks to find it.

On the Health Front
Since Cairo, Di has had a sore spot on her right arm, in one of the places where there had been a cannula – it has been tender and slightly swollen. Since she is still on antibiotics, she had not much worried about it, but yesterday it became worse. The swelling moved down the arm and the artery stood out. After an SMS consultation with “Dr Watson”, and a surf of the internet, it was decided it was phlebitis and needed to be seen to. Angela does not know of an English-speaking doctor in Manciano and suggested we go to Grosseto, the nearest ‘city’, which she said was about forty minutes away – it is, but only if you drive like an Italian!

We thought we would take the scenic route, rather than the freeway, because it looked shorter. Big mistake. More than two hours later it was dark, but on the outskirts of Grosseto, a sign, “Ospedale”. It is a very big hospital and ultimately we found Emergency, inappropriately called Pronto Succorso – while I have no complaints about the succour, as good as anywhere in Sydney, it was not Pronto. We were met by a kindly triage nurse who spoke excellent English – Di was assessed as category 3 out of 5 and was told an English-speaking doctor was on duty and would see Di after two more patients. I think the triage nurse really thought that would happen because when she went off duty an hour and a half later she was surprised we had not been seen and was sure it would not be long.

Little did she know! By midnight – we had been there five and a half hours – there was no one else in the waiting room. Just as I was puckering up for a tanty, even in my Italinglese, Di was called. Surprise, surprise, no English-speaking doctor, though there was a nurse able to do some translating. She emerged after half an hour looking crestfallen – they had taken buckets of blood and inserted a cannula, which did not augur well. We had to wait for the blood tests. An hour or so later she was summoned: the cannula was removed, she was given a script for more antibiotics and antiinflammatories; she must come back in 10 days. We were free to go.
They have some excellent street level parking areas around the hospital – they all look the same at 2.15 am, and they all have streets named after nations. We drove in out and around lots of them trying to find the road to the freeway – no scenic route home for us. It was not the quickest trip home – I was not allowed to drive faster than 80 so even the semis overtook us. We eventually got home at 3.30am.
While I had emptied the hospital vending machine of potato chips – there were only three bags – and done some damage to its supply of KitKats, I was ravenous. So omelettes all round and, for me, a glass or two of vino paesano bianco. Di is still unable to tolerate alcohol. And so to bed at about 4.30.
Today – I think it is now Wednesday - began at 7.00. It sounded like Gino knocking on the door or banging posts into the ground. Not so – either the Mafia was ‘looking after’ someone or it is grouse shooting season. Not a good idea to go for a walk in either case, so I thought I would do the washing. I had just turned the machine on when the power cut out – I naturally assumed I had done something wrong. I checked all three fuse boxes – the pantry, the cellar, the front gate – flicked switches, spoke severely to all the equipment, and nothing. As the morning wore on the house got colder – no pump to circulate hot water through the system. It will be an uncomfortable night – no heat, no light – if I can’t get it to work. I tried phoning Angela, to ask if I had missed something – only an answering machine.
About 1.00, as we were sitting on the terrace reading, there was a squishing sound. The sprinklers came on – the power was back! The problem had not been ours, but the sprinklers were. The power cut had done something to their timer – they now come on whenever they feel like it. That would not matter were the front lawn not the only place to make a phone call. Perhaps Gino can fix the sprinklers, if only I can explain the problem.

For, dear reader, the mighty have fallen: I have bought a mobile phone – only at Angela’s insistence since the house does not have a phone. It is very cute, because the cutest was the cheapest. I do not know how to use it and don’t think I will bother learning. But I have a phone with a local phone number at least while we are in Italy. [Di of course still has her mobile on global roaming]The reception here is poor and the signal cuts out intermittently, but … it is wonderful Italia!

On the doctor’s orders, Di must rest, so we won’t do any sightseeing for a few days: apart from going out for dinner and shopping, we will hang around the house, reading, napping and, perhaps, entertaining the neighbours. Her nephew, Matthew Potter, is travelling through Italy with his girl friend. We have suggested they make contact when they know they will be in Sienna, a couple of hours from here: perhaps we will meet up with them there, which will probably be the first major outing.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

...sorry there are no photos yet

... but don't fret, gentle reader, I'll upload them as soon as I can.

Roman Sunday

We woke to a sparkling fresh sunny day today and decided to venture further afield and visit the Catacombs on the ancient Appian Way this afternoon. Two buses later (with a long wait in between) we were there at a peaceful green oasis of gardens and box hedges where we were taken on a guided tour by a local priest. Down, down down a flight of stairs we went, to the maze of underground passages and rooms where 1st and 2nd century Christians used to bury their dead and sometimes meet to pray, during the persecution by Nero. There are 4 levels and we were on the second. You've been warned, this experience is not for the claustrophobic, the passages are narrow and, even with electric lights, fairly dark. The shelves and niches carved in the walls where the Christians laid their dead were dark chasms, and although it was fascinating, I was glad to see the blue sky again.

We had spent the morning wandering the streets and lanes to the Pantheon, a former pagan temple built by the Romans, but now a church, and to the wonderful Piazza Navonna, abuzz with streetsellers, buskers, musicians and singers, and outdoor cafes where people sat sipping coffee and watching the crowd go by. Here you can buy just about any (fake) brand of handbag, belt or sunglasses from dark-skinned lean Ethiopian young men.

We wanted an Australian flag to take with us to Villers-Bretonneux in the Somme in France where we'll be for Armistice Day, and had been mooching around the souvenir stalls on the lookout for one. Well, we got lucky and now we're fully equipped to proudly display our Aussieness when we attend the ceremony on Armistice Day. Boak has his Order of Australia medal to wear, too. I think there'll be much chest-puffing!!

Boak was up early this morning and had a very special experience. He took a walk along the street to the Trevi Fountain - and there was no-one there!! Silly boy didn't have his camera with him. (Di's Rule 1: Never go anywhere without a camera when travelling overseas). So tomorrow we both aim to get there bright and early before breakfast to capture this glorious fountain in the morning sun, sans tourists.

The day has finished with another delicious meal in the restaurant next door where mine host ambushes us every time we visit and with great drama kisses my hand! It works for me! He even greeted me like an old friend earlier when I went in to make a reservation. Love this Roman charm.

Off to Tuscany in the morning, where we've rented a villa. I can hardly wait - just what the doctor ordered! Just have to negotiate our way out of the centre of Rome where our hotel is. Hmmmmmm.....

Saturday, October 08, 2005

Roman roamin'

Rome is wet, wet, wet! But nothing stops the hordes of tourists that stream past the entrance to our lovely little hotel situated just around the corner from the Trevi Fountain in a narrow cobblestone street. And we weren't about to let it stop us either.

We've walked to the Trevi, thrown the obligatory coins in (well, it's worked twice before!), and walked on to the Spanish steps. We've bought gelatis and eaten pasta, and this morning we took the bus to St Peters, stood in the centre of the square and took each other's photo. The queue to go in was unbelievable, about 2 hours' long we estimated, so we were very pleased that we'd seen inside twice previously.

Very tired now, so we're having a rest before pizza for dinner!

Thursday, October 06, 2005


Sunset over the desert Posted by Picasa

That "arty" shot from the Crusader castle at Karak Posted by Picasa

View from mt Nebo Posted by Picasa

Royal Jordanian Police Band playing bagpipes at Jerash Posted by Picasa

Note Arabic label on the Coke bottle! Posted by Picasa

Treasury Posted by Picasa

First view of Treasury Posted by Picasa

...and on a horse! Posted by Picasa

Di on Camel Posted by Picasa

Cameleers in Petra Posted by Picasa

Update from Jordan

Our arrival in Amman from Cairo on Sunday evening was not entirely without a hitch. We arrived with three bags – but should have had four. So after piling our bags-in-hand onto a trolley, I sat guard while Boak and our tour company representative (along with many other increasingly disconcerted-looking passengers) gathered around the carousel exit, closely scrutinizing every item that emerged, including a forlorn looking handle with its tag still attached that just kept traveling round and round. It soon became obvious that there were no new bags to come. Ours had clearly decided to take the scenic route from Cairo to Amman.

So the crowd then descended on the passenger services counter on the other side of the terminal, Boak in his Panama hat standing head and shoulders over the others. I could see but not hear from my vantage point, but Boak told me later that tempers flared and several people even tried to scramble over the counter to check for their belongings in the room beyond.

For my part, still feeling slightly nauseous and very tired, I perched myself on the baggage trolley and tried to rest my head. It was a surreal experience. Regular announcements informed people not to leave baggage unattended. I sat alone in a veritable sea of unclaimed luggage! In addition, the same recorded woman’s voice wagged a figurative finger at smoking in the terminal while my stomach churned from the cigarette smoke that filled the place. I put my head down. Then a swarthy little Arab man began repeatedly coming up and asking if I was Juliet! Oh, how I wished I was Juliet instead of Di with the Dicky Digestive System!

The bag eventually turned up the next day. We weren’t concerned as there was nothing of great value in it. However Egypt Air has a policy of not delivering bags lost by them to their owners. (In case I haven’t made it clear enough, I’m not impressed with Egypt Air). So Boak caught a cab out to the Queen Alia Airport for another adventure, and $Aus100 later we had our bag.

Jerash

Here are some photos of our morning visit to Jerash, not far from Amman, where the remains of a Roman city are being excavated. The most exciting experience for me was being able to walk down a Roman road where chariots once rolled (you could even see the grooves their iron wheels wore in the stone). Amid the heat and dust came the unexpected but unmistakable skirl of bagpipes! The Royal Jordanian Police Band was performing in the Roman amphitheatre, and apparently the bagpipes are a legacy of the British occupation. Some of the stone seats in the amphitheatre still have letters of the alphabet carved in them, signifying that these were the reserved seats for the VIPs, in the area that would have been in shade by 3pm when performances took place.

Progress to Petra

Having missed out on our Nile cruise and all the associated experiences, I was determined I was going to see Petra - and I did!

Here in Jordan we have had our own guide/driver, Khalil, in an air conditioned Hyundai Elantra. On Tuesday morning he picked us up at 9.30 for the drive to Petra by the ancient Silk Route known as The King’s Highway. From Mt Nebo on the way we had a magnificent view towards Israel. Jericho (27km) was discernable, but the heat haze prevented us seeing Jerusalem (46km). Nevertheless, we could imagine Moses standing right there looking into “a land flowing with milk and honey”, and seeing the end of the journey for his people.

We stopped at St Georges Church in the town of Madaba and saw the famous mosaic map of middle eastern lands, including its detailed map of Jerusalem.


And we passed through the rocky, barren-looking, precipitous countryside of Moab which held particular interest for us as our Bible study group at St Marks has been studying Ruth (the Moabitess) this year.


Lunch was at Karak, a town dominated by a Crusader castle perched on a steep outcrop. I couldn’t help thinking of the film “Monty Python and the Holy Grail” as I squinted up to its ramparts. The photo is an “arty” shot through an arch high up in the castle looking down to the town.


Sunset comes very quickly, and it was very dark by the time we reached the Grand View Hotel in Petra at 6.30pm. The streets were deserted for Ramadan has begun, and as we passed through a police check-point it might as well have been midnight.

The grand view from our hotel window greeted us in the morning! Though we couldn’t see Petra itself, the pink rocks were spectacular with the early morning sun glancing off the contours.


A Word about Ramadan

With respect to anyone reading this who has expert knowledge of Ramadan, allow me, gentle reader, to tell you what we’ve learned so far.

The people here and in Egypt have been waiting to be told when Ramadan is to begin, since it depends on the moon being in a particular position over a particular mountain. In preparation, though, everyone goes through a time of personal cleansing, both spiritually and physically. Doctors and hospitals are busy. People make peace with their enemies and settle scores.

Tuesday was the first day of Ramadan here. This means that from the time in the morning when you cannot tell a black thread from a white thread, to the time in the evening when the same applies, no food or drink is allowed. Even smoking is prohibited. Khalil tells us that it is policed here, and undercover police even work as street cleaners. However heavy, hot work is curtailed, and people driving over a certain distance (like Khalil) are exempt (for safety purposes). The hour before sunset is chaotic with traffic jams and tempers flaring as everyone tries to get home to break their fast, and the muezzin all over announce from loud speakers on their minarets when this can happen. Consequently the early evening is a very quiet time outside. It is a time of spending first with families, then with friends, and special foods (and lots of it) are eaten in the evening in a party atmosphere.


Petra

The best time to see Petra is early in the morning. The light hits the Treasury (the most beautiful building) at just the right angle, and it is coolest for the unavoidable walking. So we set out at 8am and Khalil negotiated a local guide (Ali) for us and two horsemen to lead us on horseback for the first part of the 2km journey into ancient Petra from the town of Wadi Musa (Moses Spring).

Carriages for two passengers are available, but they rush down the hill through the siq at such speed that there’s no time to savour the experience (especially that final approach when the Treasury is revealed deliciously slowly), and the details mentioned below are totally missed.

Petra was first established by the Nabateans 2,200 years ago and was a thriving centre for trade, receiving caravans of silks, spices and animal hides from as far away as Africa and India and when Christ was alive. It became lost to the West in the 16th century.

Wow! We rode 800m on our brown Arab horses, “Leila” and “Susie”, then dismounted at the entrance to the Siq, a narrow winding chasm that leads (after 1.2km) to Petra. It was pleasantly cool here in the shade of the towering pink cliffs, and we made frequent stops along the way as Ali pointed out the ingenuity of the Nabateans’ plumbing and water supplies, and the carvings of the Nabateans’ gods on the cliffs.

We have so many photos of the gorgeous pink rock formations and the rosy striations that they could probably form a “threatening set” along with my Egyptian sunsets – so look out.

Then, suddenly, there in front of us was the world-famous view we’ve seen so many times! Through a cleft in the siq the Treasury of Petra glowed a warm pink in the morning sun! What a Kodak moment! Wow! (Sorry, but there were lots of wow! moments in this place).

We sat on a bench in the shade and drank in the splendour of what was the tomb of a Nabatean king before going up to peer in to the three rooms carved into the cliff – a large main room, with two smaller rooms through doors on either side of the entrance. So while it looks like a building several storeys high, in fact the interior only extends to a depth of around 18 metres.

The ubiquitous camel drivers were there, touting for business in the insistent fashion we’ve become used to. A smile and “no thanks” usually received the reply “later”. And of course they were right.

After wandering down the main street, past the many tombs, both royal and belonging to the ordinary people, we came to the colonnaded street that indicated the former residential area. The freestanding houses that stood here have long since been destroyed by earthquakes, so really the exquisite carved facades that have come to represent Petra to the outside world since Burkhardt rediscovered Petra in 1812 belong to tombs.

After a cup of mint tea we started back up the hill, negotiated a good price for two camels, and rode in splendour and surprising comfort up the hill to the Treasury again. Wow again! And our accommodating camel driver took the mandatory happy snap for the album!

The cool walk back up through the siq didn’t prepare us for the heat of the final leg, but we made it! An ice cold Coke, in the shade of a brilliant pink bougainvillea, hit the spot.

Having difficulty uploading photos, so will do so when possible .... sorry.

Sunday, October 02, 2005

Off to the Pyramids - in Air-Conditioned Comfort!

And here is the Nile.



And in the city of Cairo ultramodern, sleek international hotels stand side by side with poverty and squalor.

These city shots above and left are both views from our hotel balcony.








Our guide Sahar took this photo of me with the pyramids in the background while we waited for Boak to return from the desert.





Boak had a half hour camel ride (negotiated by our guide) across the desert, and here are some of our photos. He makes a dashing figure on a camel, but says it’s a bumpy ride!




To try to make up for some of our lost sightseeing, the tour company gave us a guide, driver and air conditioned limousine (read Hyundai people-mover – nothing like an Aussie limo), to take us to see the pyramids at Giza and Sakkara the next day. It’s a blessing that the pyramids are so close to the parking lot, a bit of a “cheat” really, so I posed for the photos and hopped back in the car.

I thought I was prepared for the scoundrels who want to separate tourists from their money there, but even as I went to take a photo myself, a smooth operator plonked a (new) Arab headdress on my head, told me it was a gift “because I was nice”, and asked to take my photo. Boak, who’d been distracted taking shots himself, came to my rescue but had 3 tacky pyramids thrust into his hand. Then the hard word came. No small change would do. So I threw the headdress in his direction and we hurried away leaving him muttering something unsavoury in Arabic. When Boak tried to take a photo of me against the Great Pyramid a couple of friendly looking policemen posed themselves beside me. Then gestured to Boak for money! We quickly realized we must trust no-one. However I was almost caught again later when I was lining up a shot and 2 policemen offered to pose. I said “no”, then closer to me heard a stage whisper “Psssst”. It was a cleaning man pointing to a better vantage point. Took the photo, then – wouldn’t you know it – he too wanted baksheesh! Sheesh!

Felucca Ride at Sunset

If you're not very nice to me when I return, I'll show you my full set of sunsets over the Nile - there were many!




Another treat awaited me when we returned to Jenny’s house. All the emails she’d received for me from my quilting friends back home (many of whom have never even met me). Again, I was overwhelmed. No time to reply individually, but thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Jenny also arranged for just the two of us to go for a short sail in a felucca on the Nile at sunset (she and Bob had to go away). You’ll see from my photos what a rare treat that was – so many Kodak moments!
Jenny's front garden


Boak with Jenny on the front steps of her house.

The Tentmakers' Souk

The staff at the Conrad have been superb, and it was like heaven to sink onto those feather pillows on the king size bed on Wednesday night.

Mahommad, too, has kept in touch with Boak all week and was anxious to please in whatever way he could once it was clear that our Nile Cruise was no longer possible.

Of course Boak’s been a hero too in so many ways, and I’m so blessed to have him! Some of you will have read his email accounts of these events.


Under doctor’s orders to go very gently, the next morning we took a taxi to Jenny’s home. As we were mounting her front stairs, making rather heavy weather of it I’m afraid, her gardener rushed up and presented me with the most sweetly perfumed pink rose!

Jenny was anxious that we still have a couple of happy experiences of Cairo to take home, so she took us to see the Tentmakers’ Souk. Wow!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A very short walk from where Ibrahim, our driver, waited in our air conditioned taxi, there were tiny shops with walls lined with appliquéd quilts! Exquisite, intricate designs!

Shopkeeper after shopkeeper brought out his quilts (wallhanging size) to show us as we were seated and given tea. Jenny, of course, knows them all – they’re her friends – and we were welcomed like royalty. Well, I succumbed, didn’t I. We fell in love with all of them and simply had to have one. Can’t wait for Scquilters’ Show and Tell!!!

De-Nile of longed-for Pleasures

This is where the narrative takes a bit of a "wobbly", gentle reader.

On the way to the airport from Athens on Friday morning I felt it, the first gripping, colicky pain. It passed, and apart from feeling a desire to inspect the plumbing at Marco Polo Airport on our arrival, all seemed well. However by the time we had boarded the plane this nasty infection (for so it seems to have been) was causing me considerable pain and many times I almost passed out on the flight.

However I did open my eyes to take in the aerial view of Cairo as we approached, and was intrigued at how brown it is. I don’t just mean brown and dry, as in lacking vegetation, although that’s naturally true. But every edifice seems, from the air, to be brown, just a different shade.

We were met by a kind Egyptian man from the tour company on our arrival, and he helped us through immigration without a hitch. Though we’d been advised to leave the purchase of visas until we arrived, I will be eternally grateful to Boak for getting them from the Egyptian Consulate in Sydney before we left, even though they were a little hard to find in Surry Hills. Mahommad then met us at the baggage carousel and cosseted us safely to the Conrad International Hotel beside the Nile in the centre of Cairo whereupon I collapsed on the bed and Boak soon followed, being by now similarly afflicted.

Shortly after, a knock on the door signaled the arrival of a beautiful floral arrangement in colours much happier than I was feeling. “Welcome to Cairo” from Jenny Bowker!! I immediately phoned her and we made Plan A. After our planned weekend of sightseeing (Egyptian museum, Khan Bazaar, Citadel, Pyramids, Sphinx..) we would share a drink at her house on Sunday afternoon before flying south to Luxor very early on Monday morning to join our Nile Cruise.

By now I was shivering with a high fever, but thought that, being a tummy bug, it would be self-limiting and as soon as it was out of my system I’d be OK again.

After a very long night we decided, on Saturday morning, that we both needed a doctor, and the hotel called one in. I received two jabs in the buttocks, Boak one, and shortly afterward two bags of medicines arrived at our door. We slept most of that day, when we weren’t almost passing out on the bathroom floor. Boak improved slowly, but I deteriorated.

I’ll spare you the gory details, gentle reader, except to say that by 11pm I was seeing “red”, quite literally, and in the morning Boak called the doctor again. He jabbed me again (in all I was punctured 15 times – and I hate needles, so you can tell how ill I was that I was able to accept being treated as a human pincushion with equanimity). His verdict was that I needed immediate hospitalization and within the hour I was admitted to Intensive Care in a hospital somewhere in Cairo.

What a strange, lonely experience that was, both sickening and comforting at the same time. It’s not easy to write about this time yet because I’m still feeling very weak and quite nauseous, and thoughts of that time don’t help.

The white-gowned nurses, cheerful gentle Muslim girls (with very little English), had a gentle touch, and when I first crawled onto my bed they very quickly (Boak says within 3 minutes) had me hooked up to a heart monitor, had taken blood to test, had tested my blood glucose, and inserted 2 cannulas into which iv antibiotics and glucose were pouring. I was given a hospital gown to wear, which was not changed until Boak asked for another one for me 3 days later. There was no shower or bath, and no bed sponging happened. The toilet was not a nice place (used by everyone who worked on the ward as well as patients), and to use it I had to first attract the attention of a nurse to disconnect my drips (I taught myself to disconnect the heart monitor), then walk past 2 old men in the beds in the neighbouring bays. Not great when you’ve been admitted with acute diarrhoea!

The pains continued, like relentless unproductive labour pains, and nothing the nurses gave me seeded to subdure their spasmodic grip.

When Boak (now on the improve) arrived back with Jenny Bowker in the afternoon I was overwhelmed! Her lovely friendly, kind face was such a tonic! But the best news was to discover that the doctor treating me was her own doctor – Dr M – and that he also looks after most of the embassy staff. She reassured me that I could have complete confidence in him, something I really needed to hear. God was taking care of me, and Jenny was an angel!! We both appreciated having a friendly Aussie (who spoke enough Arabic) to guide us through the maze of behavioural expectations as well as to support us, and she was so good to Boak who was, I’m sure, feeling almost as alone as I was (though in infinitely more salubrious surroundings!)

Over the next couple of days Jenny kept in touch with us both and brought me treats like cranberry juice, home-made sour cherry jelly and a fresh pomegranate. Dr M visited twice a day and while they continued to run cultures, an abdominal ultrasound and such, he exhorted me to eat lots of good food. Now, I’m usually quite adventurous in my food tastes, but ICU food in an Egyptian hospital had absolutely no appeal. Laughing Cow cheese wedges, bread rolls, stringy cold chicken, hard boiled eggs, natural yoghurt (at room temp), olives, tomato wedges, and a sweet white gelatinous dessert with coconut sprinkled on top. Some of these I ate happily (and indeed would have relished under other circumstances), but many left me nauseous. When Dr M directed that I be given better food, I asked for soup, expecting some whizzed veggie concoction. However cubed carrots and zucchinis swimming in a sea of stock and boiled to within an inch of their lives does not a soup make, in my book.

To be fair, my taste buds have been shot to pieces as a result of all the drugs I was bombarded with. The food was wholesome, and served by concerned nurses who tried their best to interest me in it.

Dr M was very worried and labeled my infection “severe”, so he used a scattergun approach to treat it rather than waiting for lab results and bombarded me with many kinds of antibiotics(a final definitive diagnosis is still to come, in fact). I’ve had many different kinds of antibiotics, and have to continue on oral antibiotics for about 2 more weeks.

Plans for “The Nile in Style”, the tour we’d signed up for, went out the window, as the day for our flight to Luxor came and went.

The pains subsided around midnight Monday night. What a blessing! Dr M had been murmuring about a colonoscopy, and I was NOT going to have one of those here! Not on your Nellie! Never! Ever!

Late Tuesday I was transferred upstairs to a “normal” room. For 3 days I had clutched my mobile phone, a lifeline to friends and family, and waited for that little trill that told me another txt had arrived. I cried so many times when I read the messages of love, and if you sent one I thank you from the bottom of my heart. You now know how precious these txts were to me.

Jenny told us about how often watermelons are injected with water to make them weigh more heavily, and after days of IV rehydration and encouragement to drink at every possible opportunity I started to feel a bit like an Egyptian watermelon myself!

On Wednesday a nurse arrived in the afternoon to take me (mercifully, by wheel chair) to the Medical Centre next door for a repeat ultrasound. I needed to cover up my (skinny) legs with jeans, as we passed many men on the way, and I kept my eyes averted as I waited in the reception area. So many eyes on me because I was the only Anglo Saxon and my fair hair made me very conspicuous. After that I was free to go!
Another “arty” shot of a scene on the Island of Hydra
Do you think they set these up just for photo fiends like me when they see the ship coming in?

Our one day cruise to three Greek Islands took us first to the Island of Poros.
If you dart up little lanes and climb a little, leaving the immediate port area with its coffee shops and trinket shops, it is possible to find pretty scenes like this.