Parma: 8 November 2015

Wes and Marlow
8 November 2015
Parma

About last night, Saturday, in Parma. After dark, we went in search of food. Specifically, "Parma" ham and "Parm"igiano-Reggiano cheese.

The streets of historic Parma are laid out on a grid with corners at right angles. I clarify that because in Bologna the streets radiate outward in about twelve pie slices, pizza slices, toward twelve gates in what used to be the Roman wall. The streets in Parma are narrow. Very few cars are permitted into the historic area. What cars there are are tiny. It is a good pedestrian area.

When we arrived yesterday, at two in the afternoon, the streets were mostly empty. At night they were jammed. Twenty year olds or thereabouts. Hordes of them.  There is a current fashion trend among them, particularly the young men. Their hair is shaved very short on the sides and back, on top it bushy and tousled. Also their pants have extremely low crotches like a baby's droopy drawers. The crotch is inches from their knees. Down below, the legs taper to ultra thin. The bottom hems are turned up and the ankles bare and exposed. Whatever street we walked, wherever we turned, we saw that look. The  local shops have very interesting clothes, too. Every third window is a clothing store. And what is displayed is not ordinary. It is creative, wild and eccentric.

After walking the streets, dodging the locals, we examined eateries, many. We settled on one with outdoor tables. Outside the music was too loud. We went indoors. We came to a bar, jammed. Beyond that was a room looking like the tavern Lilas Pastias, in the opera Carmen. Worn wood floors. Worn long wooden tables. All was bare and worn. It was crowded, but with a few seats left. We took them. The menu was to the point. They had plates of various sliced Parma hams, plates of Parmigiano-Reggiano cheese, bread and wine. We ordered a plates and glasses of those things.



Our wine was red, frizzante Lambrusco and white Soave from Venice. The wine list was entirely local, by the glass and inexpensive. If there was a word of English spoke in the crowd, I did not hear it. We paid. We walked, we squeezed, out through the bar. Sardine can tight. The crowd spilled out to the street,  too, more than fifty people outside. All patrons, holding wine glasses, eating panini, smiling, laughing.

I am shy in restaurants in foreign countries. I do not want to go eat like I do at home. I want to learn the ways of the old world where they have eaten certain foods and in certain ways for longer than the United States has been a country. I am wrong, though, in thinking there is a particular traditional set meal where one starts with an antipasto, then has a pasta, and then a meat dish. What I have seen during the past two weeks are Italian people ordering what will please them.

I saw a table order a plate of sautéed vegetables to start, then continued with an order grilled vegetables and ended with one dessert for three of them.  I saw another table begin with a cheese plate then order vegetables. And this third instance inspired me: I saw two men start with a plate of prosciutto, Parmiggiana chunks and bread rolls which they assembled into mini sandwiches. Then they had tortellini in brodo (tiny tortellini in golden broth—exquisite comfort food—matzo ball soup refined and elevated to a minimalist masterpiece). Over the tortellini bowl, one man held a large chunk of Parmiggiana cheese in one hand and a cheese grater in the other hand. He grated, excessively, three times, with a pause to rest his wrist in between! Three times he grated until the bowl was fifty percent cheese! He was more restrained with the pepper grinder, but still excessive.  I wanted his meal. I would have been too shy, not bold enough to order it. Of course, the language gets in the way here. If I learned the speech to describe what he ordered I could learn it by rote and recite it phonetically. All of this is to say, I am inspired by those eaters. I am like a little Eliza Dolittle, educating myself in the ways of the world.

This morning, Sunday, we woke up in our absolutely satisfying Parma room. The canopy over the bed caused me to imagine I was, during my sleep, enfolded in the protecting embrace of angel wings. I woke up thinking, I have got to get a canopy.



At eight thirty a knock on the door brought the breakfast Wes ordered the night before. The tray was set on a wooden table for two. On it were, in pairs, glasses of fresh squeezed orange juice, flaky fresh large croissants and orange marmelade, caffè lattes, small croissants stuffed with prosciutto, plain yogurt mildly sweetened, and two little, out of place, boxes of Kellogg's corn flakes.

While we ate, the piazza outside our window was still. Occasionally, an elder would pass diagonally through the piazza on a bicycle. The surface of the piazza consists of round fist sized stones pressed into the dirt. It is bumpy and the bicycles clatter as they ride across. In the dirt, between the stones, a hint of grass grows, a skim coat, making a subtle haze of green.



After breakfast we checked out of the Palazzo Dalla Rosa Prati and walked a few blocks to the see the Teatro Farnese. It is accessed by entering a huge building and walking up a massive stone stair way. Approaching the second floor you see the impressive entry facade.



Wes bought our tickets. We walked to the entry and at the same time a large tourist group arrived. We thought we'd have the theater to ourselves. Not to be. The theater has a flat concrete floor. That would work well for one of it's early uses, four hundred years ago, as an armory for tournaments. Against the walls amphitheater style are wooden bleachers. From the flat concrete floor there is a long ramp for tourists to ascend to the stage. The stage is framed by a large wooden proscenium arch.



It is said, this proscenium arch is one of the first, if not the first. So the large forty person group ascended the ramp. On stage they formed a semi-circle. Then, they began to sing. A men's choir. The room filled with music. Magic. We became glad they were there.

The Farnese Theater exit took us directly into the Pinacoteca, the city's art gallery.  There are many paintings. Big ones. Tiny ones. All old. My favorite, from the forty five minutes we were there, was a tiny self portrait by Annibale Carracci with intense eyes. Another painting stands out for it's beauty and simplicity. A small drawing. Of a woman's face. By Leonardo Da Vinci.



From the Pinacoteca we went to the Teatro Regio, the main symphonic and operatic hall. In a ball room upstairs we attended a well attended eleven o'clock chamber music concert. The concert was followed by a light buffet lunch. The line was long. We were at the front. I spoke with the violist from the ensemble. He will come to America next August to drive Route Sixty Six from Chicago to California. His colleagues all remarked how lucky we are to be in Bologna for four weeks. We are.

After the concert, we walked to the train station. En route, we passed by the tiny three story house where Arturo Toscanini was born. The door was open. Toscanini's children or grand children gave the house to the city of Parma. Now, it is a museum. We began our visit on the top floor. The clerk played a film for us. It was about forty five minutes long. Absolutely fascinating. Toscanini is an icon. The film makes justifiably clear why.  It is an emotional story.

Finally, steps away from the Toscanini house is the Parco Ducale. It is long corridors of trees and green lawns ringed with chestnut trees.




Arrivederci Parma.

Wes and Marlow
8 November 2015
Parma