I brought a Canadian friend with me to show her my little piece of heaven on earth in Italy. I had discovered that there was a new direct flight from my hometown, Newcastle, to Tyne and to Verona. After leaving grey skies in England, we arrived to sunshine and warmth, sitting at a table facing the huge arena, watching the world go by.
The streets were busy with tourists, but not as much as they are in summer, so we walked up towards Piazza del’Erbe resisting the general movement toward Juliet’s house, where signs remind people not to deface the walls with graffiti. The signs themselves are covered with messages to loved ones.
Both of Verona’s main piazzas are impressively bordered by a mismatched cluster of medieval buildings and palazzos. In the center stands the inevitable winged lion on a column to indicate that the city was once conquered by the Venetians. We wandered around enjoying the atmosphere until it was time for a train to Padova.
When they are on time, Italian trains are great, and incredibly cheap. However, with frequent strikes and delays, you can’t rely on punctuality, but this time all was well. Just a short journey further down the line, and we arrived at my apartamentino.
One thing I love is that I always meet someone I know even before I arrive at my building. This time it was Arturo being pulled along by a very large fierce dog. I asked jokingly if it was a dog or a wolf. “Both,” he said to my surprise. “His father is a mountain wolf.” We hurried on. He seemed only just in control of the beast, which he’d brought down from the Dolomites because it had been savaging the young cows.
My friend and I had a day in Ferrara, mainly because she’d just read “The Marriage Portrait” by Maggie O’Farrell and wanted to explore the castle. Meanwhile, I wandered round the market next to the Duomo, then scouted out a lovely trattoria for lunch in the picturesque ghetto. The speciality of Ferrara is a kind of large ravioli in disks, filled with whatever is in season, pumpkin at the time, and they come served with melted butter and sage. Perfect for a light lunch with the local wine.
Walking through the ghetto, we arrived at the Pallazzo Schifanoia, with its wonderfully naughty frescos about Ferrarese life in the 15th century. I love its name, which means “avoiding boredom”. Aristocrats would while away their time in such palaces, moving from one to the next in between hunting (men) or sewing (women).
It was an exhausting week, trying to cram everything in. I saw her off after another busy day sightseeing in Vicenza, home of Palladio. The Teatro Olimpico was the first theater of the modern age, designed and built by Palladio just before his death. It’s my ambition to go to a concert or opera there, but it hasn’t happened yet because I’m never there at the right time. Still, it’s stunning, and my friend left Italy rather shell-shocked by the experience of so much history and beauty.
For more stories about Italian life, read her book “The Best Mud in Italy” available from Amazon.
