Crypts and catacombs.

October 24th, 2010.

I don’t mind trains.  In a hectic travel itinerary, they can be a welcome change of pace.  Once you validate your ticket and find your seat, the worry and the concern is lifted from your shoulders.  That is, if you can find a seat.

When Jared and I boarded our train for Rome on Sunday morning, we were alarmed to find every seat occupied, not necessarily by a person, but some body part here or there, legs stretched out in comfort, heads laid down to rest.  The train had originated in Pisa, and most compartments, lights off, were silenced in sleep.  We found two folding seats in the open aisle just as the train lurched to life. 

At this point, I was starting to regret the previous late night, clasping my bags to my chest (to protect myself against pick-pocketers) while I dozed, my arms falling forward to rest on my legs.

Jared had a more difficult time, his large frame dwarfing the folding seat.  Every time someone travelled down the aisle to reach the W.C., he was forced to torque his body against the window to let them past.  And this made sleep almost impossible.

Dozing is disastrous; the entire first half of the trip is incredibly hazy, a mix of napping and wakefulness to such a degree that I cannot quite discern between the two. 

After a while, Jared suggested we move to the floor and place our bags between us, a makeshift back rest.  This lasted a slight while, before I began to realize how much our weight was counteracting each other.  If I relaxed too much, the entire backpack would fall into me. 

Thankfully, we secured two seats for the last hour of the train ride.  By this time, the sun had risen completely, the passing landscape illuminated by another day.  Sleep was pushed aside momentarily as we partook in our surroundings and the company in the compartment, a couple from India traveling in Italy for his work (professor).  I love this part about travelling the most.  You meet amazing and interesting people, those you may never see again, but for a moment, as your paths cross, you can share in a conversation or even just a smile. 

Once we arrived in Rome, we sat down, a block from the train station, at a café, enjoying our first of many cappuccinos and croissants (and fresh squeezed orange juice for Jared) together.  And before our first tour, we explored Rome, by metro, an attempt at the bus system, and of course the back-up plan, taxis.

Our first cappuccinos together.

It's the thought that counts ;)

"Make sure I'm centered!"

Preparation.

Success!

Heavy.

Still heavy?

Later that afternoon was our “Crypts and Catacombs” tour.  Unfortunately pictures were not allowed in order to respect the sacred ground (but I’ve stolen some from “Dark Rome,” our tour company’s, site).  We made three stops.

San Callisto Catacombs

The first, the San Callisto Catacombs, is an ancient Christian burial ground, excavated by Giovanni Battisti de Rossi, the father of Christian Archaeology.  During and following the years of persecution, these hidden tunnels offered Christians a safehouse and a place of worship.  Unfortunately, when the barbarians invaded Italy, many tombs at this site were destroyed in their search for precious metals and jewels.  However, this was not the practice of Christians, to bury their dead with worldly possessions, stemming from their belief in the promise of an afterlife, a heavenly paradise.  Yet, persistent nonetheless, the barbarians continued to ransack the catacombs, stealing decaying bodies and marble, selling “false” bones as holy relics.  The Pope, in some ways powerless against the attacks, eventually ordered to have all the relics of martyrs and saints removed from the catacombs to prevent future deception.

Within the catacombs are “loculi,” rectangular niches carved into the walls (for individuals), and “arcosoliums,” a larger arched niche (for families), that form the labyrinth of San Callisto.  Since the catacombs are beneath the ground, “gravediggers” or “fossores” had a mere twenty minutes of oxygen with which to carve away the soft, compact “tufa” earth, creating a tomb specific in size, height and length, for the deceased.  Decorations were hastily added, frescos and shallow reliefs that provided visual representations of the Christian faith.  A few symbols included: the good shepherd (ljust as Christ saved the lamb, so he shall save your soul), the “ornate” (a praying figure with raised arms and open hands), the fish (a widespread symbol of Christianity, essential during periods of persecution), and the anchor (a symbol of salvation, that this soul has reached his final resting place in eternity). 

Basilica of San Clemente with 4th century altar.

The second stop, my favorite, was the Basilica of San Clemente.  Here, as we journeyed deeper into the ground (up to 57 feet of ruins beneath the cathedral), we dove deeper into history, traveling through an ancient fourth century church to Roman temples beneath.  This lowest layer of Roman temples (although there are most likely several layers beneath of uncovered history) included a mithraeum, a sanctuary dedicated to the followers of Mithraism.  And above it, the older basilica (a fourth century construction) remained hidden for years, until Irish Dominican Father Mullooly inquired as to the sound of running water that could be heard in the present church basilica (built in 1100).  This water has been running through ancient Roman aqueducts (built during the Republican era) since the founding of Rome.  Father Mullooly spent sleepless nights in search of the source of the sound, and once he convinced others of his insight, excavations began, discovering the past below the present.  Since the altarpiece in the present basilica was from the first fourth century church (when they new church was constructed over the old, they salvaged only the altar to decorate the new place of worship), people had simply forgotten that history was hidden beneath them. 

Running water-- the sleepless nights of Father Mullooly.

Temple of Mithraism, inside a 1st century Roman apartment.

The third and final stop was the Cripta dei Cappucini, a series of chapels decorated with the bones of 4,000 Capuchin monks.  The Capuchin order is a branch from the Franciscan order, intent on reviving the monks dedication to poverty that had been lost in the more modern world.  While I could appreciate the care taken to honor the faith of the previous friars through this display, the way in which the bodies were preserved, evidence of skin still clinging to hands and faces, was unsettling.  I’m not sure I could have stayed much longer to admire the intricate works of art, such as chandeliers, made entirely from bone.  The time spent here was adequate.  For me.  Jared's favorite stop was this one.  

The crypt of skulls.

From the crypt of long bones (femurs).

Interesting story though.  Just down the street from the Cappucini crypts is the home of the first cappuccino.  In the early 1900s, Luigi Bezzara was working on a new combination of espresso and steamed milk with foam.  And this invention was still nameless.  One morning, when passing the Cripta dei Cappucini, he spotted a Capucini monk in full entire, a dark brown robe wrapped around a round middle, a tuft of white hair on the top of his head.  And from that moment, the steamed coffee treat of Italian has been known as a "cappuccini."

Can you see the similarities?

Following the tour, we explored more of Rome, walking down the Spanish steps and throwing fifty cent pieces into the Trevi Fountain.

Spanish Steps.

Trevi Fountain.

50 cents.

For love.

We passed a man selling freshly roasted chestnuts.  He wrapped them in a paper cone and handed them to us, their warmth cutting through the cold air, the scent slightly nutty and sweet.  They were dry but delicious.  Jared wasn’t as much of a fan, so I happily hoarded the rest (and ate them all by the time we had walked back to the bus station).  However, not to be alarmed at my greedy appetite, we did make a quick stop for gelato.  And even though it was cold, let’s be honest, it is never too cold for gelato.  

Jared loves gelato.  He insisted on stopping at nearly every gelateria, scanning the flavors for his favorite: amarenata (black cherry).

At one point I questioned him, confused, “If you always get amarenata, how do you know it’s your favorite?”

He gave me this goofy grin.  “Well…I always taste yours, and still like mine the best.”  It might be cheating, but it works.

Together in Rome.

A carousel of cuisine.

October 23, 2010.

Evening.

Due to Jared’s late arrival, dinner was postponed until 9:30pm that first night.  It might seem late according to American standards, but most Italians are horrified at our six o’clock supper schedule in comparison to their late eating habits.  La Giostra even accepts reservations up to half past ten most nights.  And, coupled with the classic four course Italian meal, social outings over a meal can last late into the night.  Jared and I didn’t reenter into the fresh cold streets of Florence until a quarter past midnight.  I was very much surprised how the time peacefully passed over wine and exceptionally cooked Italian cuisine. 

La Giostra is difficult to find, even though it is only a few blocks from the well-known Florence Cathedral.  It is meant for travelers, not the common tourist, for “the tourist finds, but the traveler looks for.”

It is located in an old storage garage for the carousel of Piazza di Ciompi (the nearby square of antique markets and old men reading newspapers).  Large arches and a curved ceiling, indicative of its past purpose, house beautiful lights that seem to glitter in a imaginative way.  The idea of a carousel fits well with its décor, fantastical and a bit dreamlike.  Warm yellow light and deep rich burgundy reds of brick and wood play with the candles and their reflection on rows of wine bottles along the wall.  The room wraps you in warmth, and the low lighting (especially in combination with the wine) finishes this feeling of comfort and familiarity.

Notice the rounded ceiling.

Yet the food is not just “comfortable,” it is exquisite.  Jared and I were surprised course after course. 

Upon arrival, complimentary champagne was delivered with the food and wine menus.  And once we made our choices, a complimentary antipasti (appetizer) of tomato bruschetta and grilled vegetables was placed before us. 

This starter course was followed by our primi piatti:  a healthy portion of Ravioli di Pecorino toscano e pere William's.  For both of us.

And we didn’t order the same dish by chance.  Back in March, our first date, in person (set aside the classic Skype dates), was at Romeo’s Café in Miami, where we indulged in a six course Italian influenced meal (there was no menu, the chef took inventive liberties to create something tailored to our preferences.)  And take a guess—the second course was pear and cheese ravioli.  I still remember our expressions, eyes open wide, in awe of the combination.  Now, here in Italy together, another date, the same dish, perhaps a touch more authentic.  It was perfect.

Choosing the third course, our secondi piatti, was a bit more difficult.  The menu, presented in Italian, was a maze of romantically foreign words, with a few familiar phrases scattered throughout.

It’s like trying to explain Heinz ketchup to a visitor.  You might be able to describe the base of ketchup, the mixture of tomatoes, vinegar, and spices.  Yet how do you explain the adjacent word “Heinz.”  It just isn’t any ketchup, it’s “Heinz” ketchup, which introduces another world of flavors, that is, in a way, indescribable.  Or perhaps Hershey’s chocolate.  I can translate chocolate to cioccolato.  Yet I would stumble at Hershey’s, because this word brings with it it’s own distinct trademark of flavors.  And those flavors I cannot truly translate.  So I am left staring at a menu.  I can depict meats and vegetables: pomodori (tomatoes) e patate (potatoes) e tartufo (truffles) e vitella (veal), but I stumble at those capitalized descriptions: all Genovese, di Chianina, alla Normanna, alla Toscana, all Florentina.  How can one explain to me, a foreigner, a core part of their Italian cuisine.

So I order blindly “Pollastra con verdure alla Florentina,” chicken with vegetables according to my simple and direct translation.  Yet “alla Florentina” was a mystery.  How would I receive this seemingly simple combination?  And even now, I can’t describe it, just like I can’t explain away Heinz and Hershey’s.  “Alla Florentina”—you must try it to understand.

We hesitated over dessert.  Something sweet is always a perfect endcap to a bottle of white wine and rich food, yet, the menu language barrier was a problem.  Guessing randomly once is fine.  But choosing a dessert, your last “taste” memory, capriciously is not always the best.  Our waiter (possibly more a busboy than a waiter) suggested gelato di riso con lampone.  A tall fluted glass arrived, layered with raspberries and creamy gelato mixed with chewy rice.  It might sound strange, but the texture with the sweetness cut by the more savory fruit was perfect.  I wish I could return to steal just one more bite. 

We declined the offered cappuccinos (at midnight, coffee is dangerous—an active contradiction to the anticipation of sleep), and gathered our belongings to leave.

I never call for taxis in Florence; I walk everywhere and anywhere.  But the sleepy and warm environment created by the restaurant was so harshly jolted by the cold breeze and cool moonlight that I started to waver, picturing a warm car delivering us to slighter cooler apartment in a matter of minutes.  Yet, we took advantage of the cold to shatter the cozy feeling and pull ourselves back to reality as we huddled against the biting air and began the half hour walk home.

And unfortunately, we still had to pack our bags for an early morning train to Rome at six.

Pecorino and cheese ravioli.

Quiet table in the back.

Jared's third course: prawns.

A beautiful evening, a carousel of cuisine and wine.

A prolonged arrival.

October 23, 2010

Morning.

You know that feeling of anticipation, when you’ve been waiting for something for so long, yet when it’s finally arrived, you feel a moment of panic, that you weren’t quite prepared.  Saturday morning was one of those days- Jared’s flight was due to arrive at around a quarter ‘till eleven.  I woke up to an early alarm, a sticky note of last minute “to-do’s” by my bed, the apartment silent, yet my mind racing. 

In some respects, I had planned “too well.”  Swept the floor, took out the trash, rinsed out the kitchen sink (twice), made my bed (one of the few times this has occurred—the low ceiling of the loft makes this difficult), and then sat, puzzled, looking at the clock, and wondering why I woke up so early.  Jared’s plane wasn’t due into Firenze for another three hours, yet I was ready for him now. 

Normally when I walk anywhere in Firenze, I pick an upbeat song, seal myself off from the world, pick up the pace, and nearly race to my destination.  Yet, as I watched the clock tick along, I realized that if I adhered to this rule of travel, I would arrive over an hour early.  So for the first time, I nearly crawled to the train station, anxiously willing the minute hand to prematurely advance. 

The SMN train station provides transportation to and from the airport.  Buses leave every half hour, or so they say.  I arrived ten minutes early (all that crawling had absorbed fifty excess minutes of my journey), and waited over forty minutes.  I learned: those half hour buses are an optimistic estimate. 

The travel time to the Amergio Vespucci or Peretola Florence Airport (one airport with two names, puzzling) is slightly over thirty minutes.  And, much to my relief, I arrived a quarter ‘till 11 in the morning, five minutes to spare until Jared’s plane was due to arrive. 

I was familiar with this airport, having arrived into Florence two months prior, having travelled to and from Sicily two weeks prior.  Dressed in my leather jacket and my “Italian” scarf, I marched with confidence to the arrival gate.   I could see the sign, the green lit letters; I could imagine him walking through the double doors.  And then, only a few steps away, my phone rang.

“Babe, I’m stuck in Rome.  And they lost my bag.”

“Umm…I’m at the airport…?”

All confidence and Italian pride fled as I retraced my steps in a run, boarding the same bus to return to the train station.   Jared was hoping to catch the earliest bullet train to Florence, so I contented myself to stay in the vicinity of Santa Maria Novella, waiting to hear from him.  Across from the train station, I braced myself against the influx of tourists, and purchased a cappuccino from a café.  But I made a mistake.  I sat down. 

The change of plans, the unfortunate events had worn me thin.  So I sat down to sip the foam and hot coffee, clasping my phone in one hand and the mug in the other.  And when I could no longer scrape any more sustenance from the now empty mug, I stood up to pay at the bar.  But sitting in Florence costs. 

“Four euros.”  He spoke in perfect English, and alarms went off in my head.  My Italian status was shattered; I had been pegged as a tourist. Four euros for a cappuccino?  Ridiculous!  But I had no choice but to regretfully pay, my face hiding any alarm, berating myself for having succumbed to the bench and table.

After staring at the silent cellphone for a minute more, I ventured into the dense crowds at the San Lorenzo market, weaving through leather stands and scarf stalls, before walking up the steps into the shadowed building boasting fresh fruit and still bloody meat.  I wandered around aimlessly, starting to regret my “handful of cheerios” breakfast.  By chance, I found the dried fruit stand (the market is confusing, quite the maze), using short Italian phrases to order three hundred grams of bananas, mangos, and pineapple, a three Euro “healthy” treat. 

At some point, I realized that I had no real way of reaching Jared.  I couldn’t skype him, I couldn’t call him, I couldn’t contact him by any means.  So I began the walk home, rather dejectedly, eating bananas and meandering through the small cobblestone streets, taking the “long” way home in the hopes that a phone call might persuade me to turn around. 

I stopped by the Mercato Ambrosia near Piazza Beccaria and stood in line for ten minutes to buy “pecorino e pera ravioli” for Jared, before I realized they were sold out.  I gave my number, 25, to the lady next to me (they were currently on 4).  She thanked me profusely; I can imagine why (she was holding 49).  In attempt to feel slightly more productive, I purchased four apples from my favorite fruit vendor.  As I walked away, I realized that we still had apples in the fridge at home, but at this point, I didn’t care.  A few more can’t hurt.

My mood lightened as I took the first shortcut of the day, through the plaza behind the market.  Yet it was completely overrun by white dome tents hosting a food-tasting event with chefs from all over Europe coupled with a display on the environmental advantages of air travel.  At first I was disgruntled.  I had to walk around it all?  But soon, I began to see the light: I had been gifted with yet another way to kill time.  My trip home from the train station tripled. 

I left the apartment in a state of order, and I was hesitant at first to make lunch and disrupt the “neat” table and “clean” kitchen.  Yet, hunger prevailed, and I began to prepare a salad, aligning with my healthy mentally of the day.  I ate slowly, blogged on my computer, listened to the traffic outside, and watched my phone impatiently.  And then I got bored with lettuce and the fruit and the silent phone, and my healthy mind failed me.  I came up with brilliant idea: dried bananas in Nutella.  And in the back of my mind, I realized that Jared had better call quickly or the entire jar might disappear (mysteriously, of course). 

And yes, I, or the jar, depending on how you look at it, was saved by a phone call.  Jared had arrived!  I anxiously told him to wait by the Clock Tower (I really meant Giotto’s Bell Tower, but in my excitement, misspoke) in Piazza del Duomo (Florence Cathedral).  And this time, no ipod, no meandering, I raced through the familiar Florentine streets. 

When I arrived at the Belltower, much to my surprise, no Jared.  I walked past, panicked.  Oh no! I had lost him already?!  I was afraid my directions had been misunderstood (or as Jared argues, “incorrectly given”).  As I walked around the Baptistery, to peer down the street towards the train station, a woman approached me in a panic.

“Where are you from?”  She demanded, stepping close to me.

“Umm…Seattle, Washington.”  I stepped back, the familiar routine.

“You must come with me right now!”

“What??!  No.  I’m waiting for someone.”  It had crossed my mind for an instant that Jared might have asked for help.  But it seemed impossible that this woman with crazy eyes might be delivering that aid.

“No!  You must come now!”

I shook my head and deliberately walked away, back towards the Bell Tower, when I heard my name.

“Brie!”  And there he was.  Jared.  Looking a little tired, slightly lost, and quite relieved, all at once.  (And, for the record, he was standing across from the Bell Tower, instead of next to it, complaining that my wording had been inaccurate.  “There was no clock.”)  

And thus begins our Italian adventure together...