Sutherland Adventures

Via Cassia carries us out of the Tuscan Provence towards Rome. I´m assured it´s the oldest Roman byway in Italy. Pass Etruscan (civilization before the Romans) ruins, the cypress trees we´ve grown used to are replaced by hardwoods, there are fewer vineyards and more commercial buildings as we float closer to the capital city. In Sutri, 40km from the city center, we decide to stretch out and fuel up, figure within the hour we´ll be standing in the middle of it all. The Italian attendant speaks English with an Irish accent, a result of a college stint on the island. He kills our enthusiasm. Traffic, roadwork, we should arrive in the city center no earlier than two and a half hours. Step outside and two young attendants from Bangladesh are looking Bonnie up and down from a comfortable distance, I say simply "New York" and they open up. When a small pick-up truck with an airbrushed American flag on the side pulls in, they go crazy...pointing and shouting, "USA, USA."

We arrive in Rome in two hours but that´s only because of Bonnie´s slim figure. We learned in Rome that if you want to get along safely on the streets you have to go with the flow. This method involves breaking all the rules. On the highway belt loop there were three lanes for cars, and three unmarked lanes for two wheelers, the shoulder is the forth and acts like the motorcycle fast lane. We skirt the traffic without a single honk, we blend in just fine.

Roman Ruins in the center of town

At 9am the next morning I took a guided tour of the Vatican. We were an All-American group, two couples from Texas whose town North of Austen is recovering from a violent windstorm, two men (a couple?) from New York who spent the tour critiquing our guide instead of the art, and a pleasant couple from Sayville, Long Island NY, small world. Maria, our Italian leader, brought up some interesting points. I never realized Michelangelo was a sculptor at heart and in 1508 only agreed to paint the Sistine Chapel because Pope Julius II himself demanded it. St. Peters Basilica was a museum itself...can´t describe it in words. Walked down to the Coliseum, traffic whizzes 30 feet away from its ancient walls. I think about the gallons of adrenaline that have flowed through the bodies of the men that fought there. To see a man fight a lion... Last "hunt" was in 523 AD, "arena" means "sand" in Latin - fighting surface was sand to cover the blood. One year in the Coliseum’s heyday a whale washed up on the shore of Italy near Rome - the occurrence was the talk of the town. According to the audio guide, a wealthy family erected a fake whale in the middle of the arena and out of its mouth came 50 bears, that day's challengers to the gladiators...

Bonnie and I waiting for a challenger

Leaving Rome, I realized I lost my compass which is usually slipped on top of my tank bag next to the map for that day's travels. It's a great double-checking device and it always gets use when navigating out of the city - usually just pick a bearing out of the center towards the loop highways that circle most big towns in Europe. I was in a little pickle but decided just to start driving - I would follow my gut - It let me down though, Rome's filled with old ruins and monuments that make a practical road layout impossible - I tell myself this is the only reason why I couldn't do it. So Bonnie and I are waiting at a light (and everyone else is too for a change). I turn around to a biker behind me and yell out "Autostrada?" (Italian highway) - The guy is in business attire. He looks confused, the light turns green and I forget him and just drive. Seconds later he's rolling along side me riding the yellow line...he says "follow me" or something like that. I broke more traffic laws in those 20 minutes out of the city than I have in my whole driving life...for the sake of my mother I'll leave it at that. Before the Autostrada he pulled over and talked for a while about his old job in Pisa and how old the road, "Via Aurelia," is the best route along the coast from Rome to Pisa. Bonnie and I leave Rome driving into the sunset towards the coast. That night we sleep under the stars on the fridge of a rolling field of freshly harvested hay...classic.

Off Aurelia we dip back into Tuscany to see if we can suck anymore out of its rich countryside. Settle in at Colle di Val d'Elsa, hoping it's small enough to be foreigner-friendly (I've learned that the small towns that don't see tourists are much more interested in foreigners). The town footprint would fit inside a running track - It's perched on a hill (typical) overlooking barren valleys (typical). I meet the owners of the bar/cafe that's got a surprisingly hip inside. We talk about the corrupt Mafia in Naples, everyone's "labore" - job. The old guy in the chair is on pension but does sculpture for money on the side, one kid they joke is the brains of the town - he's a bank lawyer, Emiliano is the chef at the hotel I'm staying in at the bottom of town - gives me a ride home - the next morning I visit his kitchen to see him. He's in the middle of adding ingredients to a huge pot of sauce - I see the same passion I saw at the restaurant in Florence. Emiliano has been a chef at the restaurant for 8 years but he's 23...cooking is his life.

Emiliano takes a minute away from his sauce

Driving rain, long stops in Italy's gourmet autostrada rest stops, push to Milan, a stay in a run-down hippy hostel, we make it to Lake Como, my stopover before our push over the Alps. At least 10 small towns line the west coast of the lake. Green cliffs plunge into the lake, mist is looming left and right, you can make Bellagio, the ritzy town where the casino in Vegas got its name, on the peninsula across the lake. I stumble upon Cernobbio mid-set-up for a weekend festival. Explore the Villa del Balbianello, an estate on the most prominent peninsula on Como, a famous movie set (Star Wars Episode II and James Bond Casino Royale). At night I return to Cernobbio's special event called "Missoltino Days," a sign in front of the big white tent in the park beside the lake reads "Sapori di Terra, Sapori Di Lago." I'm moved to spend almost 20 Euros on food...there's a line stretching out of the tent, not ordering enough was too risky, plus the lake needed my support. While on the line I gave in and rudely interrupted some locals to ask what the creamy spinach pasta dish they were eating was called. The "Pizzoccherri" is ordered along with Polenta (sticky grainy grain) and a sausage patty.

typical town on Lake Como

Plop down at a long table move some old plates (the event organizer forgot about garbage cans but no one thought it was a big deal) and began my attack on my two dishes, tables are packed, with a combination of locals and ritzy out-of-town Italians. The family to my right keeps looking over at me, curious I guess. The teenage girl breaks the ice, pointing out that my leather jacket was laying on the ground, fine with me but I picked it up to humor her - guess it was a little strange anyway. We got talking in an Italian/English/Sign language dialect - what brought me to Como?, why I was traveling alone?, my brother is a lefty baseball pitcher, my sister is a teacher in the Bronx, where is the Bronx? The father just spoke straight up Italian almost hoping I'd magically learn the language. Elisa, the teenage daughter, wants to travel the world learning languages. A comedy skit got the crowd up from the feast, a rock concert with bagpipes and accordions kept them on their feet. I got a kick out of standing there surrounded by locals, my adopted family on my side, everyone laughing at the comedian's impressions of soccer announcers and Italian politicians.

Florence is known for its history and art. Supposedly Emperor Julius Caesar founded the city in 59BC. The Medici Family, who first acquired wealth as the Pope's bankers thus gaining rule, is stamped for bringing riches into its boundaries during the 15th and 16th centuries. Michelangelo's "David" resides in a museum down the road from the massive Duomo Cathedral, its famous facade covered in pastel colored marble facade.

My sister Dana spent a semester of study in Florence a few years ago. She tipped me off on what to seek out and what to avoid. The Mercato Centrale was one. On her recommendation I picked up some dried strawberries. Half hour of mingling and I've got wild boar sausage, another ball of mozz, fresh basil and homemade olive oil and pesto. Bonnie will have to make room. The place is two floors, meat and cheese on the first, fruit on the top...simple.

Santa Croce

Among other targeted activities, is the Basilica di Santa Croce. Michelangelo, Galileo, Machiavelli and Dante have their tombs inside although the rebellious poet Dante is actually buried in another town. The Ponte Vecchio Bridge is the smile on the face of the city (Duomo being the nose). It's a trademark, and deserved a late night hang out session. I was surrounded by a healthy mixture of young locals to young travelers to old travelers...6:3:1...all there to hang out and be classic.

Michealangelo Tomb

Met a Brazilian guy in a laundry mat. Junior's been traveling for almost 10 years. He left home at 22 when he was still recovering from 40 meter fall off of a Rio De Janeiro cliff. He explains an airlift was involved so i don't have to question the severity of the incident. Today he's healthy as ever. To give you a visual his face resembles the wrestler turned movie star, The Rock. London, Amsterdam, Paris, St. Petersburg, South Africa are places he's spent chunks of his life. Rock's got a good head on his shoulders, has done everything with student visas as he studies the language of the country wherever he goes. Picks up odd jobs in each city and uses work time to practice the local language. He's been in Florence since November working in the market selling t-shirts and scarves. Mario is one of his coworkers, an Italian from Palermo, Sicily. Three out of our five minute conversation is about the women strolling around the market, one about the physical effects of drinking too much wine, one about how he makes his Martini.

Sparkling Duomo

A semi-local, Junior feeds me glimpses into Italian culture. Italians won't hesitate to splurge on anything edible. They take pride in their meals, typically three plates, in sequence; a pasta, meat, and salad or vegetable. He tells me they're lax with civil law. Now I notice it. Huge signs are spread around Florence's street forbid the selling of counterfeit items. But there,s guys lining the street selling fake Coach bags and Gucci glasses. What,s the point of the huge sign? I've seen few cops patrolling the motorways in Italy. When someone says Italian Cop I think of a congenial guy laid back in uniform downing espresso, smoking a cigarette chatting with friends.

The Rock takes me to his favorite restaurant - run by Roger the chef and Antonio the waiter. I visualize two of my buddies from Huntington running the same joint. First meal, Antonio walked over with the menu board, I tried to pronounce a dish that I thought sounded good in a questioning tone - I wanted to know more about it. Roger, cooking behind glass alongside our table, turned the ingrediental question into an order placed. He insists I'll like it, gesturing with his upwards turned curved hand to his lips. The Rock explains we'll get more pasta that usual. Because of him, I've achieved a quasi-"Regular" status. By the time Bonnie and I head out of Florence South into Tuscany, I have dined at R and A's pasta joint three times.

A seaside stretch from Nice to Genoa - blue seas taking shotgun. The Alps spill out into the Mediterainian here and at least 50 tunnels duck under its ridges. A half hour out of France to my right is Monacco. I can make out huge hotel buildings cupped around a harbor of white yahts. My trip, nor my clothes are tailored for a visit and I just drive by cringing at what I'd passed up. I begin to notice hundreds of ugly metal pre-fab buildings dotting the hills aside the motorway. They are 'hot houses' for growing all types of botique flowers. The locals farm on the mountains too. It's amazing how they can work a crop at such a steep pitch.

A morning in Pisa, a dirty university town with a tourist jammed square in the middle, was enough. The tower's increasing lean was finally corrected in 1998. It was built in the 1300s.

Lucca from atop the Torre Delle Ore

On a reccomendation headed for the walled city of Lucca but not before a stop at an Italian Chain Supermarket. The cheeses and meats pulled the weight of the place. The cheeses were displayed in a 50 foot row at waist height, double sided, a different cheese every foot or so. There was six feet of fresh mozzerela (the buffalo mozz being the most expensive) marked different producers and in all shapes and sizes. Meats displayed in an oval about the size of a highschool baskeball court. I walked out with sliced procuitto, fresh tomatos still on the vine, and a ball of Mozzerela, which upon tasting I thought I had swallowed a spoonful of ice cream. The trio, indended roadside lunches, felt more like a dessert. Italian food has the crown so far. I really thought I got the wrong cheese. It had to be meant for a cake or something.

a garden to shade the ancient watch guards atop Torre Guinigi, Lucca

Upon arriving at Lucca I was confused by the giant mossy wall surrounding the old city. I turned off the loop road headed for the opening in the wall but had to pull over for fear I was breaking the law passing in. There's no roadsigns. I peak in and see a little vehicular action then drive through the 12 meter high 8 meter thick wall under a narrow archway. The wall was built around the city over the 16th and 17th centuries and for the most part, never had to serve its purpose. Today, the top of the wall serves the town as a 3.5km walking track where exercising locals and tourists with rental bikes mingle.

Lucca was a Roman colony dating back to 180 BC. In the 12th century it became a self-governing state and flourished as the center of the western silk trade. The huge Romanesque churches and existing family owned towers inside the center attest to the city's former prosperity. The Cathedral di San Martino is home to "Volto Santo," a wooden statue of Christ discovered in the 11th century randomly in a port town on the west coast of Italy. Legend has it that it was carved by Nicodemus, who knew Christ before the crucifixion. In the center of town, the Piazza Antiteatro's oval space provides relief from Lucca's 12ft streets. My audio tour device explains that I'm standing on an old Roman ampitheater where gladiators, many of them slaves and felons, used to slash with lions brought up from the cells below. Chills down the spine...

a hopeful gladiator poses in front of his arena, Piazza Antiteatro

Onto Florence. It's a Saturday and gas stations are self serve only taking European chipped credit cards. Bonnie doesn't have a fuel gauge. She's so simple I love her. Instead you watch the mileage and if needed flip the switch when she sputters a little bit. At this point she's breathing on one gallon. I leave Lucca already on reserve and figure I'll find an open station on the road to Florence.

When we run out of gas we're on the motorway but an exit's in sight. We coast to the exit - no sign of a station. I ask around a few shops in the town without luck. Find a guy in headed for his Audi hatchback. He's got long hair and I hope for the best. "Si, prego, you come," he says. When we get to the station, he treats me to the liter. I feel jipped of a challenge.

Then the Italian realizes he has locked his keys in the car along with my tank pack filled with my valuables. Our fortunes are knit. He's shouting things in Italian, pacing around the station literally pulling his hair. Apparently he did this the other day and had to break the window to get in. I'm smiling but try to look sorry when he turns to me each time for my reaction.

The problem is solved in this order: I reveal that with friction the rear window can be pulled down a quarter inch, a flat rock recovers another full inch, a long rod with a hook at the end appears from the cafe next door. The Italian (i missed his name) is a paper manufacturing machine mechanic. He was catching a flight the next morning to Romania for a job. Heading back to Bonnie, I make a joke that we'd make a great team of theives. He gets it by the time he drops me off. Thanks man.