Wuppertal, Antwerp & Paris: October 2019

Wuppertal

Thirty five years ago in the Brooklyn Opera House we saw a dance company, Pina Bausch. Dance does not describe it.  One event was a dancer on a long roped swing on the edge of the stage.  She swung gently at first barely broaching the audience.  Then faster and farther until way out over the audience. It was scary. When the maximum span was reached she stopped her swinging motion and let gravity bring her back to stillness then walked off the stage.

For another event the dancers came onstage like furniture movers carrying a large rolled up carpet.  They unrolled it on stage.  One of them layed down on it.  The others rolled him up like a burrito and carried him off rolled up inside the carpet.

Pina Bausch died in 2009. In 2011 her friend, Wim Wenders, released a documentary about her company based in Wuppertal. In the film her company ventures out into the small community to use public spaces as their stages. And that is where we first saw the Schwebenbahn.  Erected in 1901 in Wuppertal.  It is an elevated electric train.  It runs only east and west on an 8-mile track. Most of the track is over the Wupper River. What is unusual is that the train hangs from an iron arm under the track, like a ski lift.  I cannot explain why, but it was exciting to ride. And the vistas swinging over the river are exhilarating. The whole thing is held up by iron bits similiar to the Eiffel Tower. It is old, yet feels modern. It carries two million people per year.

Wuppertal otherwise is grey and grim. I paid attention to the faces of the local people. They grimace.  Their mouths are in a frown.  I smiled at a few and for a split second their frown turned to smile then immediately back again.



Antwerp, Belgium

Antwerp is easy to love right from the start. People get around on bicycles and slender street cars. The streets curve. Around each bend is an eye catching historic building. It has an appearance of an appreciation of aesthetics. 

The home of Peter Paul Rubens is open for a visit. I expected historic furniture, maybe his desk, bed, easel, and those things were all there, but the rooms were full of paintings. Original paintings. Mostly by Rubens. Some by Anthony van Dyck and Pieter Breugel the Elder. The walls are covered in leather panels embossed with gold. The clocks and china are the finest of their day. He occupied the house from 1608 till his death in 1640.

Another Antwerp building of the same vintage, is the Plantin-Moretus Museum. Christophe Plantin, a commercial Antwerp printer in the 1550s fled Paris when printers began being burned at the stake. He flourished in Antwerp. The business lasted through the 1800s. His sons and their heirs took over the business one after another. When the business ceased the building became their residence. So walking around the building you see the seven old printing presses. Five still work. The two oldest do not; they were built in 1600. The family possessions include 17th-Century tapestries woven from Rubens’ designs. They display the oldest atlases, botanical prints and dictionaries.

The printing museum sits in a sweet small plaza. We sat in a coffee house. I ordered hot chocolote. It arrived in two parts: the hot milk and the dark chocolate bits in a small glass to add in and watch melt. I loved watching the melting chocolate transform the milk. We spent time with nieces. We joined them at a game bar. It was a special pleasure.  The bar has shelves full of boardgames.  For the price of a cappuccino or a beer we sat for a few hours playing games; us senior citizens and our young’uns who value the opportunity to put their phones down.




Paris
25 October 2019

From Antwerp we rode the train two hours south to Paris. While in Antwerp I thought it beautiful in a Parisian way. Once we arrived in Paris the scale of the beauty was grander, it all seemed so much “more”.  Haussmann’s plan still sings with logic, splendor, rhythm, elegance and balance.

On a chilly, rainy, gray Sunday we traveled 15 miles northwest of Paris for lunch at the Auberge Ravoux. The ground floor restaurant has been restored to its 1890 appearance. The menu is old fashioned classic french from that period. 

We begin with pumpkin soup and a terrine of rabbit with lentils on the side. Next we eat t-bone veal steaks and a large small chicken. We each slow sip a single glass of rosé. Last night we stayed up too late and drank too much champagne, bordeaux, Alsatian white, and a Perigord sweet white with our poached salmon, sautéed wild mushrooms, fois gras, oysters, prawns and assorted exotic seafood.

We are all a bit sleepy, but the cold outdoor air wakes us up. After lunch we take a walk up village lanes past a church, through cornfields. They have been harvested to the ground. What remains is a stubble of cut stalks and assorted decayed cobs. Crows caw in the near distance from tree to tree. Eventually we arrive at a cemetery. It is on high ground. The above ground grave sites are mostly bulky with lids and headstones in marble. Two grave markers stand out because they are simple. One belongs to Vincent Van Gogh the other to Theodore Van Gogh. They died at 37 and 34 years old. 

Vincent van Gogh moved from the asylum in Saint-Rémy-de-Provence to Auvers-sur-Oise two months before his death. He hoped Dr. Gachet would offer a cure from the noise in his head. Van Gogh took a tiny room for two months in the Auberge Ravoux. He made 70 canvases in two months while the family fed and took care of him till one day he limped in holding his abdomen.  He had a bullet wound. He died two days later.

His paintings in Auvers were of crows and fields of crops and the church and the doctor. While we ate in the Auberge busloads of tourists tromped upstairs through his room. The nails he hung his paintings on are still in the wall. Our own pilgrimage consisted of visiting the tabac across the street. At 11:30 in the morning it was filled with locals. Hellos and hugs and handshakes were exchanged. Children were kissed. The men had small glasses of white wine, pastis, whiskey the women milky cups of cappuccino. All as it might have been in his day. Small town life. The population smaller now than then. We walked around, into and past the church he made famous. Inside, the near collapsing stone arches are propped up with iron. Then up the hill through the wind and drizzle up to the crop fields with the crows and the cawing and finally to the two simple graves: Vincent van Gogh 1853-1890 and Theodore van Gogh 1857-1891. 

Bologna: 17-21 October 2019

Wes and Marlow
Bologna, Italy
17-21 October 2019

In Bologna the gelaterias are open from early till late. The best of them make small batches on-site. Cremeria Cavour, Cremeria di Santo Stefano, and Stefino are our go to places. Nocciola (hazelnut) is a favorite flavor; the nuts grow nearby. We like the pomegranate, the caramelized fig, the chestnut, too. Gelato is in the daily diet here. So are pasta, cheese (fresh parmigiano from nearby Parma),  sliced meats, pignoletto (local white wine), San Giovese (local red wine). It is a daily event to enjoy the aperitivo hour. Our go to bar, Zanarini, is elegant. The Bolognese clientele, some with their well behaved dogs, stand at the bar, occupy a stool or sit outside at a table. The staff is expert at classic cocktails. One pleasure is fresh strawberries pureed, poured into the flute then topped with prosecco. The drink is accompanied by finger sandwiches, chunks of cheese, chips olives on toothpicks, grilled vegetables. The food part of “aperitivo” varies. Zanarini is generous; enough food bites to make a meal of. The bolognese have many moments of leisure and pleasure built into their daily schedule.

We have been to Trattoria Casa Mia several times. The white truffle season begins this week.  Wes ordered pasatelli with white truffles and fried eggs with white truffles. In the U.S.A. restaurants white truffles are very expensive. The waiter weighs the truffle before and after. The cost is huge. In Italy, they simply hold the truffle over your dish then shave and shave and shave the truffle until they are satisfied you are satisfied. I had seafood and vegetables. A small trough of ciccoria (chicory); akin to the stalks of swiss chard. And a platter with a whole grilled branzino, two large prawns and scallops in the shell quick broiled with parmigiano bread crumbs and garlic. Wesley’s pasatelli is a unique pasta. We wish it would be available at home. It is an extruded noodle composed of grated parmigiano, bread crumbs, egg and lemon zest. Here it is served floating in a bowl of broth or in a manner called asciutti (ah-SHOO-tee)(dry) with more parmigiano, butter and mushrooms or in our case white truffles.

Restaurants serve wine two ways. You can buy a bottle or have a glass from the bottle. Or you can order “vino della casa” which they serve from a spigot. My pignoletto frizzante “vino della casa” cost €1.50 (1.75 U.S. dollars) versus Wes’s wine from a bottle at €4.  I remember on a previous visit we found a wine bar which sold vino della casa by the glass and you could buy a liter or a half-gallon. We saw people bring their own containers which made the low price even lower. That wine is not fancy, but it is from a real artisan winemaker, a local, who only makes enough to sell locally in bulk.

Another regular food spot for us is Tamburini. Tamburini has a corner location and is divided into different functions: a deli for fresh handmade pasta, for dozens of types of parmigiano, for locally cured hams, salamis and mortadellas; a wine bar with dozens of fine local wines by the glass; and a cafeteria. We push our trays past large balls of fresh mozzarella, small plates of vegetables roasted or steamed or baked, spigots of red and white wine, platters of risotto, or pasta with sausage or tomato or vegetable sauce, cutlets wrapped in prosciutto dredged in parmigiano bread crumbs and sauteed in butter with a squeeze of lemon. The cafeteria is jammed with locals. It is like an italian lesson to hear them speak. On each trip we comprehend more of what they say.

Our last Bologna meal was in Osteria Capello Rosso. It is hard to imagine, but it claims to have opened in 1375.  The Osteria began as a place to hang out and drink alcohol with a few snacks. Eventually they were more about the tasty simple home cooking. This osteria has an annex across the street where they make all the pastas by hand. We had a plate of cauliflower roasted with ricotta. Then a plate of pasatelli and a plate of small sausages covered with friggione. Friggione is a staple, an multi purpose dish. One recipe says to thinly slice 8 pounds of onions. Sprinkle them with a spoon of sugar and a spoon of salt; let them sit. After two hours put them with their juices in a pan on a low low flame. After two hours add one pound fresh peeled chopped tomatoes and two spoons of lard (maybe they mean sausage drippings) and slow cook for another 90 minutes. Onions cooked slowly till they melt transcend their aggressive raw selves. Though we were full we each had a raviolo (a ahortbread half-moon cookie stuffed with prune jam) and a tiny glass of Nocino Classico a wine made from walnuts. 

Yesterday, I walked through the narrow streets under the cover of the porticos to the park, Giardini Margherita, where a bel ragazzo, Wes, waited for me. It was so beautiful a day, I wished the whole world could be here.

Sorrento & Amalfi: 10-15 October 2019

Sorrento & Amalfi

From Naples we went to Amalfi with a stop for lunch in Sorrento.  From the dock in Sorrento, crane your neck upward to the top of a sheer cliff and you will see the Grand Hotel Excelsior Vittoria. The vistas from its perch are dramatic; of Naples Bay and Vesuvius. The hotel has been host to the two tenors of the past century, Enrico Caruso and Luciano Pavarotti.  (Caruso’s room can be seen in this music video by the late, Lucio Dalla: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=JqtSuL3H2xs ).   It is all old world elegance and luxury. The climate was perfect, also the food, and we are happy to be joined by two nieces for the Amalfi stay.

Back on the ferry to Amalfi. So there is no confusion: Amalfi has given its name to the Amalfi Coast and to a small seaside village called Amalfi. We are in the village of Amalfi. Our apartment has a view.  It should. There is a climb of 163 stairs to arrive to it.  The apartments beneath us are stacked one upon another as so many turtles in a pond. One afternoon we visited Ravello which is high on a hill. We took the bus up.  We walked down.  1,700 stairs.

Tonight. Just past sundown. We visit the cliffside terrace of the Convent Hotel. Facing east. The bay of Amalfi below with several jetties. The busy boat activity of the day has ebbed. The red, green, white, blue and yellow beach umbrellas have been lowered. The contour of the bay curves as a piano case does. Sinuous. The moon slowly rises in the distance over the hill. While we sit here it has progressed from barely seen to a semi circle to a fully visible orb. It casts golden light on the Tyrrhenian Sea. A marble plaque behind us is inscribed with a remembrance of Enrico Wadsworth Longfellow. Perhaps he wrote a masterpiece here. We have our own remembrance. 90 years ago Nana sat in this terrace.  More or less twenty years old. On a “grand tour” of Europe with her parents and brother. She wrote about it in her illustrated travel diary. We told our waiter her story.  He said his grandfather worked there at that time. He mused “what if he was her waiter.”

Napoli: 7-10 October 2019

Napoli
5 October 2019

Naples has a particular allure to me. When I was young, let’s say fourteen years old, I met a man, an old Italian man. He was sixty five years old. (On reflection, that no longer seems old to me.) He was a cellist.  Born in Naples in 1907.  I lived only a few streets from his house in Hollywood.  It was in a neighborhood known for its Italianate houses. His house was a gem, a place for a poor kid like me to dream about.  Polished terra cotta floors. Dark stained wooden ceilings with painted borders. Elegant velvet covered sofas. Wall sconces with ecru linen shades. French doors with long draperies. Hand made cabinets.  A piano with ornate legs. It was elegant old world. The man was Cesare Augustus Pascarella. He was the son of a conservatory master teacher who had the patronage of Queen Margherita in Naples. When Cesare’s sister was born the Queen presented her with a pearl necklace.

Cesare was an avid teacher.  He believed that music was creation the opposite of destruction.  That it was a noble calling. It was a fortunate day when I met him; when he accepted me into his youth program. Though he was a cellist and I a violist he gave me private lessons. I played with his amateur chamber music ensembles in his home and in his youth orchestra at a college. I carried the baskets of orchestral music folders.  I set up the orchestra acoustical shell and the chairs and music stands.  I saw him more than once a week for several years. I ate many meals at his dinner table.  Now, we are going to Naples and I can get a glimpse of the world that formed him. Though it is one hundred years later, many aspects of the “old world” remain constant.

Arrival in Naples is not for the faint hearted. The central train station is in a challenging neighborhood.  Its squalor and traffic and chaos and sense of menace are overwhelming. There is a bustling taxi stand at curbside.  The taxis have meters and set prices for particular zones. It means nothing to the drivers. They charge what they want, what they can squeeze out of you.

Our hotel is elegant. It is the stuff of Cesare’s house. As we venture more into the city on foot it becomes clear that Naples is a mash up of high and low, elegant and peasant; by peasant I mean to say “dog eat dog”, survival of the fittest. I came to feel that Naples does not simmer, it boils. The women walk heads high like runway models.  The men are unsmiling, macho and slow to warm.  But after a day we settle in and come to terms with how to navigate the challenges.

Preliminary online sleuthing produced a photo from 1912 of the Liceo Musicale di Napoli where Cesare’s father, Ignazio, taught. Though not its name it was was referred to as the royal conservatory. With the San Carlo Opera across the street it had royal patronage from Queen Margherita.

Our first adventure in the city was a tour of the San Carlo Opera House. The Italians love opera and the San Carlo is a gem. Across the street is a Galleria like the one in Milan. Cross shaped. Glass covered. Marble floored. Elegant.  As we enter it it is clear this is the location of the 1912 photo of the Pascarella Liceo Musicale.  This is where Ignazio taught.  This is where little Cesare ran and played and had gelato as a child.

The Liceo still exists, though no longer in its former prominent second floor location.  Now, it is a small office in the back of the building.  I sent emails and texts, I made phone calls and left messages, I visited and knocked on the locked door all without a response. These pursuits move slowly, but they are off to a good start.

Another Naples connection is my viola. Vittorio Bellarosa made it in Naples in 1957.  His address is handwritten on the label inside the instrument.

We found Bellarosa’s workshop. It is now a gambling shop for lottery tickets and slot machines. He used to live above the store. It is interesting that he remained in Naples during the 1950s. After the war, Naples was challenged. Life was hard. Photos show people’s beds on sidewalks because their apartment buildings had been bombed beyond use. We found a few people who remembered him and one man to me addressed him as Maestro Bellarosa. Another spoke about Bellarosa’s “figlia” (daughter) in New York.

Naples is a pizza mecca. In Naples pizza is not simply crust with sauce and cheese.  It is a palette for an artist. The medium is dough and sauce and cheese, but the end results are like comparing Da Vinci to Picasso. Two examples stood out.  I thought I would hate “fried pizza”, but I loved it. The dough is rolled out about fifteen inches across.  It is dressed with sauce, cheese and filling, but only to the center.  Then folded over like ravioli and dunked into boiling oil. It puffs up and rises; in a few seconds it is done. Before it gets to us it is patted down for excess oil.  The shop is tiny.  The proprietors are part of the Sorbillo family. Two generations ago the Sorbillos had 21 children.  Today, Sorbillos are making pizzas all over Naples.

Another pizza, at da Attilio’s, was free form.  After dressing the center of the pizza the edges of the dough were stretched at six points. The stretched dough at each point was folded over a little pillow of ricotta.