Paura e Ripugnanza in Perugia

I don’t really enjoy Halloween, I don’t think that comes as a surprise to any of you either, maybe I’m not actually white, but these past two Halloweens in Italy have been figo. No pressure to come up with a costume. (Seriously, I was “camouflage man” one year and I was pretty proud of myself for coming up with that one. Lame!) No pressure to attend a party in a lame costume. (“Camouflage man”? For real?) All the trick-or-treat candy for myself. It’s great. For the most part, those few that do dress-up put on a pointy witch hat and call it good. So when Valentina asked if I wanted to come with to Perugia last weekend to see the Gomma Gommas’ concert Halloween night I was a bit worried. But we had a three day holiday, I’ve wanted to see Perugia for a while and she promised that no one would be wearing a costume so it sounded perfect.

Before leaving on Sunday though, I went to Fano, which is about an hour or so north up the coast on Saturday night for dinner with Raimondo who was back in Italy for the first time since moving to Spain. About fifteen of us drove from Ancona and met him for a pizza there. The restaurant, called Bella Napoli was named Italy’s 56th best pizzeria at some point in time. Considering the vast number of pizza places in this country (being the 56th best pizzeria in Ancona would be pretty remarkable), I thought that was something, something indeed. The pizza was delicious. Wood fired, a bit thicker crust than is typical for this region, and more chewy than crispy. Francesca, my friend who happens to be from Napoli, said Napolitano pizza is still better so I’m still desperate to go there before this AnconaAnventure™ ends.

We didn’t order until after 10 and I was feeling a bit peckish by then so I ended up having two pizzas (first time for everything), one with sausage and mushroom and another with buffala, prosciutto, and sliced, hard-boiled egg (not my first time for that). It was fantastic to catch-up with Raimondo (he’s doing great in Seville for those of you who are wondering), and to experience the night life in a different city with the guidance of our friend Stefania who lives and works in Fano. We didn’t get back to Ancona until nearly 4 in the morning but fortunately, I didn’t have to leave for Perugia until 2 Sunday afternoon.

For the two hour drive to Perugia it was me and four WAGs packed into a Punto.


I drove.
We arrived with a few hours to pass before meeting the band at the club for dinner so we headed to the town center for a look around. Much shopping was done, people were watched, coffee was consumed and the time passed.


They took an image of this building...

...and put it on the side of this tiramisu. Mmmm, historic dessert.
Later, we met the band back at the club, stole their beer, listened to their sound check and then went to dinner. Dinner was a frenzy – we over-ordered everything and then over-ate – french fries, fried mozzarella, olive ascolane, cheese, cured meat, bruschetta, pizza, grigliata, vegetable gratin, pasta – for the love of Pete stop passing me food!


Vampires are all the rage right now, so Pipo dressed-up as the French Fry vampire.

A plate of pasta...

...and my very own pizza pie. Oh my!
The restaurant’s Halloween theme was Batman and they did an amazing job with it. Our waiter was a Joker, and not just because he was funny. (Get it?!) Jokers, Catwomen, Bats and Penguins everywhere. The tour manager kept telling us to get a move-on because we were late, but the talent will be ready when the talent is ready, right? Besides, when did a concert ever start on time? Ever? In Italy? After a DJ-set to get the crowd moving, the show finally started at around 1AM. They played in front of a couple thousand people for a good two hours and got called back out for a couple encores. It was pretty amazing. And sweaty.



By the time all the kit was packed and everyone had had enough and we had checked-in at the hotel, it was almost 5 in the morning. As tired as I was, this still did not look inviting.


The Gramercy Park Hotel this isn't.
The alarm sounded at 8 because Giordano forget to reset it. I was half-dressed and had my teeth brushed before Giordano bothered to tell me we still had two hours before we had to check-out at 10. The rain and the holiday traffic going back to Ancona didn’t help the mood or the pounding head, but we stopped for lunch at a restaurant where most of the group are weekly regulars and are known by name. About five minutes after sitting down, two platters of pasta arrived, unordered and unexpected, like the stray puppy you weren’t expecting but that you fall in love with instantly. And then devour. Like that.

And then lunch was on. Three pasta courses. Three main dish courses. Salad. (Whaa? Huh? Who ordered salad? Shoot them. Then take their tortellini and give them to me.) Dessert – cantucci con vin santo – this was new to me and totally different. Vin santo is Saint Wine, the wine they use at mass on special occasions. And cantucci are little almond cookies that you dip in the wine. And then when you finally run out of cookies, you drink the wine. But not the crumbs. Delicious.


Three hours after it all started, it was all over and there was nothing to do but say goodbye, take a long, glorious nap and dream about going back to work on Tuesday.

Too old to rock 'n' roll

Festivals. Every town seems to have at least one celebrated annually, and many have more than one. The more popular festivals are anticipated with the same excitement as a holiday. Most last for a weekend starting Friday night, some last for a week or more and a few are over in the blink of one day. Stilt racing, religious, music, fried food, fish, historical event, cherry wine, cheese, chocolate, communism: they always have a theme. Festivals bring everyone together,, from the town, from the province or sometimes, from the entire region. They are the perfect excuse (as if one was needed) to socialize, eat food “typical of the region”, drink, dance and shop for prodotti tipici e artigianali con i produttori locali.

Last Friday night, we left after work to go Ostra, a small town about 40 km from Ancona for La Notte degli Sprevengoli a Ostra.


According to local folklore, Sprevengoli are goblins that torment people while they sleep by jumping up and down on their stomachs and stealing their breath (just like cats!) so you wake up in the morning unrested and out of breath. Ostra hosts this festival so the joy, good food and fun will chase away the Sprevengoli. As their slogan said: “The party that casts out fear…even that of the [economic] crisis!” The party lasted well into the night and cast out most fear, except the fear of the price I was going to pay when I woke-up the next morning (ehrm, afternoon).


Downtown Ostra by night.

Massi and Lorenza deciding on where to eat dinner.

And the search continues.
Saturday, I woke-up feeling like a shoal (congregation, troop, drove, swarm, clutch?) of Sprevengoli had spent the night doing the samba on my stomach. By the evening I had scraped together enough will to live to join Valentina for the drive to San Paolo di Jesì, a commune about 35 km from Ancona, where the Festa del vi’ de visciola was going on.


This is a wine festival for the latest bottling of visciola, a meditation wine made from cherries typical to the Le Marche region. The Gomma Gommas were headlining that night and by the time we arrived, they had already set-up and then heavily sampled the viciousness.


For dinner, we joined the very long line to order from the community cassa. Just as we placed our order, the power went out for about 20 minutes, including to the receipt printer. They had our money but we had no receipt. No receipt, no food. Panic! Eventually, with the power restored and anarchy avoided, we found a seat in one of the large dining areas set-up around the piazza. When your food is ready, a waiter wanders around until food and table are matched which means whenever you see a waiter with a tray of food you signal frantically in hopes that it’s yours.

I had stinco (plural: stinci) because the opportunity to order a plate of something called stinco or stinci for dinner should not be missed, and it's delicious, and because it came with mashed potatoes which you rarely see.


The vicious power of the visciola launched the Gomma Gommas to never before reached artistic heights and between post-concert tear down, a DJ in the piazza and the generous offerings of wine from the band’s hosts, we didn’t leave until near four in the morning.


This "petrol" station on wheels keeps the party fueled, dispensing visciola from the pumps to the willing crowds.

Downtown dance party.

The brains behind the Gomma Gomma revolution?
I am living a rock and roll lifestyle. And I feel like a pensioner.


This weekend is a long-weekend because Monday is All Saints Day, a national holiday so we are going to Perugia for a couple days. Perugia is home to a couple massive universities and I’ve been told has a fantastic historic center in the middle of a warren of tiny streets where visitors can’t help but become hopelessly lost. I can’t wait.

Istanbul: The spice must flow!

A picture of a turkey. Taken in Turkey. Get it?
We saw everything, and I mean everything. Including wild cats and dogs. Not something you expect to see in a modern city, but there you have it. The dogs roam in mangy packs, napping on curbs, startling unsuspecting tourists and scrounging through the piles of trash. The cats are always watching but not as visible, until you sit down to eat. Then they join your party of two to make an awkward threesome. Making their presence known, begging pitifully and insolently dodging the kicks of the hustling waiters.


I can haz Ottoman clay pot dinner now?


On the last day we didn't know what to do so we pulled up one of those ”Top 10” lists on the Internet. After checking out some amazing bikini models we finally got around to a list on Istanbul. Did most of those our first day. "Top 15". Done. (Ok, we skipped the museums but that’s because we’re uncouth, uncultured louts, and we didn’t do a Turkish Bath because we already had our showers for the month.) "Top 25"? Ah, there's one we haven't done. So off we went to a cemetary.

A revelation came to me during the trip. By no means original, but new for me. There is this idea that everyone seems to have when traveling. They have to get off the beaten track in order to have the “best” experience. Escape the crowds. Blend in with the locals. Avoid tourist traps. And that approach has value and can lead to extraordinary moments. Christopher Columbus' cruise comes to mind. But sometimes, once in a while, it's worth it to stay on the path. Think about it. There’s a reason there’s a path. Not always a good reason, but sometimes, once in a while. it's because where the path goes is really cool. Like the Galata Bridge. Gaudy. Lit-up. The trappiest of tourist traps. But imagine one of Portland’s bridges with a lower deck that is all restaurants and shops and pedestrian walkways. The traffic goes by overhead but underneath you walk just above the river or sit and have a beer in a bean bag chair and watch the river and the ferries and the people stroll by. Tourist Moment 101. But totally cool.



What else did we do? We visited the mosques, we climbed the Galata Tower, we skulked through the Grand Bizarre (den of iniquity, cheap souvenirs and unconvincing knock-offs) and the Spice Market (why do people who never drink apple tea or cook with saffron suddenly feel compelled to buy so much of it here?), ducked underground to explore the Basilica Cistern, and we took a six hour tour down the Bosphorus Strait. We left the pier in Europe in the morning...


Europe in the rear view mirror.

One of two Golden Gate-esque bridges connecting the two continents.
Had lunch in Asia in the afternoon...


The Black Sea in the distance.

Luncheon in Asia.

Asia in the rear view mirror.
...and were back in Europe for dinner. Kind of a neat trick of geography that.


Pulling back into Europe.

So much to see and experience.










Bewildering and beguiling city. It's incredible how much ground we covered.


That's a lot of ground covered.
Mostly we just did a lot of walking. And avoiding. After a while you develop this ability to see everything and nothing. It feels like a super-power but it’s not. It’s a survival-power. No matter where you go someone is trying to sell you something. Anything. Everything. It’s all for sale. And it's all negotiable. At some point you just want someone to tell you a price, pay it, and be done with it. It's two Turkish lira to one Euro so I'd get to the point where I was haggling over five lira and realize we were talking about two euro and just be done with it.

It all looks authentic and it's all a fake (one guy admitted the jeans were fakes, but they weren’t fakes made in China, they were fakes made right there in Turkey!). Whatever. You can't stop to look at anything or you get swarmed. They start them young with boys who look no older than 8 or 9 manning the stalls or walking the streets with product, already masters of the come-on lines in multiple languages and unafraid to hear a “no” and totally convincing. As the Italians say: "pesante" which doesn't mean peasant although there are a lot of poor people. It means heavy. As in tiring. Wearing down. Constant stimuli (stimuluses?)


In front of one of the many gates into the Grand Bizarre.

Spices, get your sitting out in the open day after day spices!

Note the sign in the bottom, center of the picture.
The food was interesting. Very heavily spiced, but with a spice market that big I guess it has to be. The bread was amazing. Flat bread but not really pita but also large loaf French style bread. Served with every meal. Bottled water came automatically with every meal (in a cool mesh basket like the tee-totalers version of chianti), but so did a charge for it. Fish featured prominently but coming from Ancona, I wasn’t that interested in eating more fish. Lots of lamb and chicken in dark, rich sauces. And of course, kebab. Everywhere, anywhere, at any time of day or night, kebab. Cheap, expensive, wrapped, between bread, terrible, delicious, spicy, plain, lamb, chicken kebab.

Our first meal there, Sean tried to order some humus and pronounced it in the American way, "hoomus" and the waiter said they didn't have any. They brought the English speaking waiter and Sean carefully repeated his request along with the requisite hand signals. (Who knew there were hand signals for humus? Apparently there are.) Moments later a plate of butter arrived. We tried again the next day and again they didn’t know what we were asking for. I saw it on the menu so I pointed at it and the waiter smiled and said "humus" with the guttural, throat clearing sound on the first syllable like I used to hear in Africa. Pronouncing it that way the rest of the trip, we were set. One meal we had the Ottoman clay pot stew where they cook everything in a sealed clay pot and then break it open at your table to serve it. Ours had lamb, mushrooms, eggplant, and onions in a gravy over rice.


Don't be fooled. That's not our meal. It's just a picture I took from the internet. But it's a lot better than the one I managed to take.


Our waiter breaking our pot. Who was it that said, "You have to break a few pots to make Ottoman clay pot stew?

After a year of Italian food though, it was all pretty rough on my stomach. All Italian all the time makes for a wussy digestive track.

One of the best parts of the trip was the exchange rate. It’s basically 2:1 with the Euro so the whole time I felt like I was getting a 50% discount on everything. Irrelevant that the starting price was often close to double what it would cost in Italy so the discount just got me back to equal cost; it still felt good and in many cases it made things feel downright inexpensive.

So I lost another camera in Istanbul. Can you believe it? I really have a problem holding onto them. My first camera was stolen in Courchevel and then I lose its replacement in Turkey. At least I'm in exciting places when it happens. I think it slipped out of my pocket while we were having dinner in a bar one night. At some point, I come back from the bathroom and realize my right pocket is empty. My camera pocket. We look all over around the table but come up empty. Go back to the hotel at the end of the night thinking maybe I didn't bring it (but I know I did, I always do) and search everything. Nothing. Zero. No luck. Sean says maybe someone found it at the bar and turned it in. I say maybe but I’m feeling surly and starting to sulk and I think, “We've been getting ripped off by everybody since we arrived so what are the odds that if it was found it was returned?” Oh well, might as well go ask. Walk back to the bar, angry at myself and ranting the whole way about how unfair life is and why does this have to happen to poor old me. Quite pitiful actually.

Get back to the bar. "Bartender," says I, "perchance was a camera turned in this evening?"

"Maybe. What kind?"

"Black Lumix. It will have pictures of the Bosphorus Strait on it."

Some digging around in a drawer behind the bar with a goofy grin on his face and I start to think, "No way! He's got my camera!" He pulls it out and asks if it's the one. Yeah it's the one. Yahoo! Big thanks and hearty handshakes all around. Grinning like an idiot. No tip. I am an idiot.


My Heroes!
So, funny detail. Early in the night, I noticed a waiter taking goofy pictures of the bartenders and thought, “That’s weird,” but maybe it's for their website or Facebook or something. Looking at my camera later, I see those pictures. The waiter picked it up and turned it into the bar and I saw it happen but I didn't make the connection at that point. Ok, maybe I was drunk. Not my fault. Efes Beer, Turkey’s beer, is wondrous. I think it’s the same stuff that got Noah in all that trouble all those years ago. Without overstating matters, it’s one of the easiest drinking beers I’ve ever had.

So I got the camera back. Istanbul. I saw Ya and I'll be back. Maybe. It's all negotiable.