Stew, Author at See You in Italy

Tale of the ’Tankerous Traveler

Flight is quieter back here, the waitress in the sky is settling herself into one of the regular seats. One that I have to walk right by. She’s done handing out the Snack Bars and is having a little breakfast herself. Except LOOK WHAT SHE’S HAVING EVERYBODY! Juice! Scrambled eggs! Fresh fruit!

A C T · O N E

SOMEWHERE OVER BUFFALO, New York—“Hi, I’m in the seat RIGHT BEHIND YOU and I was wondering if you could either not talk to each other ACROSS THE FREAKIN’ AISLE AT THE TOP OF YOUR LUNGS or move into empty seats beside either of you so you could talk at normal volume. What do you think? Oh, one other thing Would you mind terribly if I asked if YOU KNOW HOW LOUD YOU ARE TALKING? Or even how much? Does the altitude affect how often you come up for air, just curious. And I have to tell you: The data handling capacity of those new units you just installed back at the home office are fascinating, no, I really I mean it. I had honestly hoped to get some sleep here on this flight and thanks to your sparkling conversation, I got over that. I even started thinking about trying to maybe watch some movie BUT YOU ARE TALKING SO LOUD I CAN NOT HEAR THE MOVIE. WITH THE HEADSETS ON. AND THE VOLUME ON HIGH. Well, let me say your conversation, every word of it has REALLY MOVED ME. I see there is an empty seat towards the back and hopefully, back there, I might not be able to HEAR EVERY SINGLE SYLLABLE YOU’RE YELLING BACK AND FORTH AT EACH OTHER ACROSS THE AISLE way back there. Ok, have a nice day.”

A C T · T W O

What the heck. I’m up. Now. I’m headed toward the back anyway. I might as well check out the facilities. Did I say it was an early morning flight? Very. I got up at 3 or so this morning. To catch the four thirty AM bus to Boston. Do you know that buses run at that time of day? And this one was full? And then after the groggy dark bus ride to the airport, I caught this flight. The 8 AM Boston to Chicago. Well, at least we had breakfast. And what a breakfast it was. One Quaker Snack Bar. Probably a free sampler promo gimme donated by Mr.Quaker himself. Sort of like the Rice Crispy Marshmallow Treats that everyone in America thought were so ripping good at bridge parties in the late 60s. So, anyway, I’ve made the bathroom sink make that great space age sucking noise, and I’m out past the fold-y door, making my way to my new seat in the way back of the plane. Flight is quieter back here, the waitress in the sky is settling herself into one of the regular seats. One that I have to walk right by. She’s done handing out the Snack Bars and is having a little breakfast herself. Except LOOK WHAT SHE’S HAVING EVERYBODY! Juice! Scrambled eggs! Fresh fruit! How about that? True story. American Airlines flt 1045, 8:33AM, Boston to Chicago/OHare. On a MD-80 jet, Thursday, Jan. 26th, 2006.

And people wonder why I am ‘tankerous early in the morning.

Iowa, Florence, Torino. Slightly ahead of the travel loop on this one?

Swell article called Master Class, about a program for adults that want to get intouch with their inter Renaissance Person, artistically speaking. Sounded like so much fun. I could about half see myself running away from the circus and doing something like that.

I know, I know. Many of you were probably laughing haha at my westwardho adventures. Because going west to the Great Plains means I’m obviously not going East to Umbria. Up to where you saw the part about being backstage with the Rolling Stones and Mom’s Apple Rubarb Pie. But we did something else we often do there. Natural as falling out of bed. We got burgers at Taylor’s Maid Rite in Marshalltown. What? You haven’t BEEN to Taylor’s? Nor Marshalltown?

Don’t tell that to the editors of Travel+Leisure. The latest issue (Travel+Leisure March 06) just came in yesterday’s mail. And what to my wondering eyes did appear, but two, full-page photos of Taylor’s Maid Rite, in glorious color. I did not know we were being trendy to go there. We usually just go when we are hungry.

The article describes Taylor’s with this superlative: ”Taylor’s could be the oddest restaurant in the State. Perhaps the Nation.” Ok. Been there. Done that. Got the Tcup, as you can see. (the other side of it says ”. . . but come back again”) The article went on to say ”Their signature dish, loose meat on a white bun — resembles something created in a VA hospital during a catastrophic budget crunch”. Well. Maybe to someone non Native, like the author. He should be so lucky as to be on the receiving end of the income stream the place has been generating for the Taylor family since 1928. Must be doing something Rite.

But lets talk ambience. Old National Geographic maps on the wall that have been there at least since the 1960s. A single U-shaped, Formica-topped counter, the pattern almost worn off. Plus some close packed chrome and red vinyl stools. Normally a bottom planted firmly on every stool. iIts not unusual, or even noteworthy, to have one, two or three people standing behind each stool. The standees are standing, waiting for the sitters to eat up, get up and get out, already. This is, of course, the opposite of Italy’s laudable Slow Food concept. This is efficiency taken to almost dizzyingly poetic heights. There is not even a menu. The name Maid Rite (the name of the burger) says it all. Want a Maid Rite or not? If you do, sit down. If you don’t, keep moving. No swishy fruit salads or omnipresent French/Freedom Fries, or anything really to distract you from the business at hand. There are Maid Rites, a limited selection of drinks, and pie. Homemade, each and every slice. When I was in there last week it looked like you could have any kind you wanted. As long as it was peach. Decision, decision. Oh, and the efficiency of limited selection extends to your choice of condiments. Mustard. Onion, Pickle. Period. You weren’t really thinking about asking for Ketchup, were you? You’ll never pass for a native that way!

FLORENCE/FIRENZE—Rubbing elbows with Marshalltown and trying to horn in on its cachet in this great issue of Travel+Leisure was that quintessential Tuscan town of Florence/Firenze. Swell article called Master Class, about a program for adults that want to get intouch with their inter Renaissance Person, artistically speaking. Sounded like so much fun. I could about half see myself running away from the circus and doing something like that.

TORINO—And further speaking of Italy. How ’bout those Olympics? Will someone please make the announcers quit saying ”Tur-rin”. It just sounds like something bad. Some of the poor things act all offended. As if the town made up the name Torino just to be cute and/or to mess with them. And that is from people reporting ”live” from Torino where they can see signs and maps and everything. Sigh.

Our dear friend Roberta (one of our Italian daughters) lives in Torino. We love her, we love Torino, been there many times over the years. We even got to see the Shroud of Turin with her. And because of her. It is only out once every 25 years or so, and then only for a few days. Roberta is in tourism and she made sure we went way to the head of the line and then right up to say hi to the Shroud itself. Coming through! But for the Olympics, I opened up a big case of the claustrophobias and in the end talked myself out of going. And I LIKE winter sports. I’ve had a downhill ski racing team for several years, and STILL didn’t sign up for this mega event. After reading Roberta’s note, I was sorry I didn’t go for it. Here is her report straight from downtown Torino, by a lifelong native:

Ciao Stew,
Qui tutto bene, Torino é bellissima piena di vita e di
allegria. Questa sera andrò a vedere una partita di Hockey femminile
Finlandia contro USA, ovviamente farò il tifo per gli USA. É un
peccato che tu non possa essere qui a goderti questo bellissimo
spettacolo, Torino é rinata, tutto é perfetto e poi ci sono tanti
turisti da tutti i Paesi del mondo che portano tanto colore e allegria.

She says: Dear Stew, Everything here is fine, Torino is just beautiful, so full of life and happiness. This evening I am going to the girl’s hockey game, the one between USA and Finland. Obviously I will be rooting for the USA. It is a shame that you are not here to enjoy this beautiful event. Torino is reborn, everything is perfect and there are so many tourists here from everyplace in the world, bringing with them so much color and happiness.

Regrets. I’ve had a few. But then again.

NEXT STOP, UMBRIA. GOING DUTCH?

To quote the Italian designer Valentino: “ . . . I must go. It is not convenient. Perhaps it is not right. But this garden must be seen. There are many things you have to do in life, but you cannot ignore the roses.

We typically go to Umbria via London or Munich or Paris. But London is having a jet fuel issue and threatening to raise Cain with flights originating in the US. Airline pouting and politics. So, maybe this time, we are thinking, we will go via Amsterdam. Kind Dutch people have emailed us here at SeeYouInItaly extolling the charms of their town outside Amsterdam named Vreeland. Never been there. Never got the Tshirt. But the perfect meld of Dutch and Italian is happening now in honor of the 400th anniversary of Rembrandt’s birth and one of the highlights of the celebration is a massive Rembrandt—Carravaggio show at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam. That has to Gogh on our list. And then, la nostra cara Panicale. To see how my Umbrian roses do grow. This photo was taken last April by our good friends the Lambarts, from Steamboat Springs, Colorado. Nico and I have been tending these roses for several years but I have only seen them in bloom, in photos. Hope to correct that this year!

To quote the Italian designer Valentino: “ . . . I must go. It is not convenient. Perhaps it is not right. But this garden must be seen. There are many things you have to do in life, but you cannot ignore the roses. When they demand to be seen, one simply has no choice but to go to them.” Words to live by, whenever possible.

FLYING BACK THROUGH TIME. AND SPACE.

IOWA, VIA OMAHA—Several times, this trip felt like flipping through a book from back, to front. When you start by knowing how it ends. And end at the very beginning when you know nothing at all. I am flying west today. Across the country. And, it feels like, across time.

The captain says &ldquo’Well, it is now 9:30 a.m. here in Chicago. You can set your watches back for Central Standard Time if you like”. I wind mine back one hour. And several years. Before Umbria. Before Maine. There was Chicago. I found myself here in graduate school. Found my wife too. And my first job. Good old Chicago.

Next stop, Omaha. Rent a car and follow the signs to Des Moines. Now the video replay screen on my Mental Time Machine is a blur of yearbook pictures, parties, nervous dates and proms. I see the exit signs for Drake, I slow down but don’t stop. I always think I will. But I haven’t yet. Past Des Moines and rewinding faster now. My life flashing before my eyes in reverse chronological order. Am getting younger in the process? Does this kind of time tripping work like that? I know the answer to that one. But, ahead I see there are signs we’re closing in on Conrad. Where we can go far, far back in time. Conrad, full of pioneer ancestors who settled the town. And left their family names on everyone in town and on rows of granite in the cemetery. I know all their names. I recognize their ever-serious, black and white faces looking back at me from frames on aunts’ and uncles’ mantles and bookshelves. High school memories are bubbling up and drowning out college now. There is Kathy’s driveway. The school bus picked her up there every morning, right after I got on. She lives there still, but I would not know her. Not now. I only know the person she was, then. Our farm. Our mailbox, on its post, two miles from Grandpa Stewart’s farm and his mailbox.

Mom and Dad. Coffee in the kitchen. Something baking in the oven. This is the house I was raised in. I’m all the way back now. I’m home. Is that apple rubarb pie for me?

HOW TO EAT LIKE A STONE

OMAHA— Surely some of the rewind and flashback feeling of the trip stems from one of the reasons for the trip: The Stones. The Rolling Stones are playing in the Midwest. Just like they did in 1967. I did not see them in 1967. But I will fix that oversight in 2006. Can the same stones really have played both those dates here?

A bit surreal overall but, incredibly, it seems that WAS us backstage, in the same room with the Rolling Stones, eating their lobster ravioli, their long white asparagus with roasted peppers, their polenta, sampling their red wine and dining on and on in a meaningful and mostly Italian way. The Italian influences in their huge spread of gourmet food far outweighed the occasional British classics like Shepard’s Pie.

Yes, we were in their inter santo santorum the “Rattlesnake Inn”. Just as a serious hanger on. Not any doing of my own. But tickled nonetheless just to be in their hospitality suite with them. No, we did not get to actually touch, talk or even photo. At a certain point, the tables were pushed back, the Stones handlers rushed them in a for a Grip and Grin Official Photo with their opening act, Brooks&Dunn. And then they rolled those Stones right out of the room and onto the stage. Of course, I had my camera with me! And you know I wanted to take pictures. But, I almost got that trusty Olympus taken away with the one spy photo you see here from the Stones sound check. The venue looked empty except for the Stones on their massive stage. I took one shot, no flash and headset-wearing Men in Black rained down on me, commando style. From the rafters? I do not know where they came from. But they came. They stoically re-explained the subtle meaning hidden in the Absolutely NO Cameras Allowed signs posted around the auditorium. Ok, ok, all right, already. I get it. The passes we had, shown here, really parted the waters. Well, right up to the part about the cameras.

Thank you Brother in Law for breaking me into the epicenter, the very heart of rock and roll!

Typical day in the Neighborhood? Only in Italy

PANICALE, UMBRIA—We are high up on a hill in Umbria, way off the chart or the map in most cases. But it is not even unusual to see car rallies roar into town and surprise us all with a quick half hour car show. We saw a gaggle of classic race cars from the 30’s one time. And we have seen this sort of Ferrari rally multiple times. So not in Kansas anymore, Dorthy. The routes of these rallies are always unannounced, always fun. They are timed and very precise rallies and so they do not let out the schedule till the last second. Die hards would cheat and practice the route ahead of time to get an edge.

I walked into the piazza and was happy to see this visual feast, but at the same time all panicked because, for once, Bad Stew, I did not have my camera with me. My friend Biano, the town barber said No Problem as he was shooting up a storm anyway. A few days later he handed me an envelope of huge 6 x 8 inch glossy prints. Is this a great country or what?! He wrote the details of the extra slick red coupe down for me. So, when you are trying to find the exact thing on eBay later, you will be bidding on the right model. He says it is the classic 1960 Ferrari 275GTB4. Guess-timated value? You know what they say, if you have to ask . . . but here it is anyway: 750,000. And friends that is EUROS.

Grazie Mille, Biano! Tu sei troppo gentile, come sempre!

See you in Italy!

Stew