Ah, Lost at Last

May 16

One of the many things I enjoy about Renaissance painters’ work is that the portraits take place in the real world. The Uffizi has a pair by Piero della Francesca a man, the Duke of Urbino and his wife, the duchess,  painted in profile. The Duke is very recognizable. He has a hawk nose and a red stovepipe hat. It has been printed in numerous books.

Behind him, in the far background, there is an entire landscape with a river and ships under sail and distant hills. The lady’s portrait is backed by more hills and a walled city.

The Magi travel through Tuscany. The hills are covered with orchards, vineyards, villages, and churches. 

The train travels through Tuscany, too, and even today, more than 500 years after the Renaissance, you look out the window of the coach and say to yourself, “God, they got it all so right.”

I made a small miscalculation in booking the train. I reserved seats for a train leaving at one. Checkout time was 11. We probably could have left the bags at the hotel and gone for an hour’s walk. I was thinking even of walking to the station, but the bags are so damned big. We couldn’t stop anywhere or do anything with the bags in tow.

Instead we took a cab for the short distance to the station and arrived around 10:30. After a few minutes, I got an idea. Let’s see if we can change our reservation to an earlier train. I took a number and found there were at least two dozen people ahead of me. 

An old guy got his number before I did, and never stopped muttering to himself. He was pacing up and down. Every time a window opened, he would rush up and give the clerk a hard time.

I have to admit, the ticket counter at Florence makes the Spanish look efficient. They may have been having trouble with terminals. A supervisor would show up and look at the computer over a clerk’s shoulder. Some clerks switched windows, They had three windows open and managed to go through about eight or ten numbers in 45 minutes, largely because most of the people holding them didn’t show up.

It was 11:30. By then, even if I could take an earlier train, it would be after 12 and would save us less than an hour. So I, too, gave up. 

The trains themselves, in contrast to the ticketing process, run efficiently. Most of them run on time or within a few minutes of time. Unlike Penn Station in New York there was only one train that was listed as 40 minutes behind schedule. 

Our train was punctual. Of course, I had brought a sandwich and a half-bottle of Chianti for a picnic. The sandwiches are dry and uninspired. The filling is intended not to star but to add something extra to the bread. Like the sandwiches in France.

I have seen nothing resembling what we call an Italian hero back home. No sandwiches with tomato, onion, lettuce, oil, or vinegar. Not even oregano. Salads too tend to be low on garnish. One place didn’t even give us vinegar, just olive oil.

The cooked food is at least good everywhere, and often superb. We couldn’t get into one place that had been recommended by Rick Steves, Il Gabriello on Via Vittoria, not far from the Spanish Steps. It was packed and we had no reservation. 

We walked through an alley that took us into Via Della Cruce and were immediately accosted by a waiter. The place doesn’t look atmospheric, but hey we’re tired, so we’ll try it.

We started with maccheroni alla Amatriciana. The maccheroni is a short pasta, like thick bucatini, even with the little hole down the middle. But these were ridged and cut about an inch and a half long. The alla Amatriciana part is a tomato sauce that was supposed to include a type of bacon called guanciale, which is made from pig jowls. There may have been some guanciale in it.

We also had the pasta of the day, a salmon lasagna. If there was salmon in it, I couldn’t find it.

There was nothing wrong with the wine, a rosso de Montepulcino and a Chianti classico.

I was eating the food making a few comments like “It’s OK, but not all that good.” Then I realized how spoiled I was. If I had eaten this at home, it would have been fine. Sure, I couldn’t find the bacon or the salmon, but the flavors were pleasant nonetheless. And the food was cheap. 

We got out of the place for 38 euro, and half that was for the great wine.

Now let me reorient myself. I have little sense of real time and am therefore bungling the order of events.

When we first got to the Hotel Priscilla, it was about 3 in the afternoon. I may have been fleeced by the cab driver. He charged us 27 euro for a two-kilometer ride. Sure, it was through heavy traffic and he carried both bags into the hotel. But that was pretty steep.

I looked at the map and saw that the hotel is not far from Via Veneto and the Barberini neighborhood. We had seen those places, so we lit out for another that seemed not too far, the Piazza di Spagna. The Spanish embassy is still there, but of course, we didn’t find that out until after much travail.

According to the map, we could walk out of the hotel, go to the right, and after a few name changes, come to the end of our street. A right turn and a quick left would take us past the Villa Medici (yeah, the family had an estate in Rome, too) and then to the neighborhood of the Spanish Steps. 

Only that quick left wasn’t there, just a large brick wall. We followed the street, Via Porta Pinciana to the Pincian Gate of the old city wall, and found ourselves at the top of the Via Veneto, right next to Harry’s Bar.

I had no idea which roads were which. The convergence of streets where we were standing looked nothing like the map. I ask a guy who was unchaining his motorbike, “Per favore, Piazza di Spagna?” 

Turns out, he’s from Brazil and speaks English, He knew Rome well enough to point me in the right general direction. He showed me a sort of roundabout route in the map because the most direct roads don’t have sidewalks. 

I can’t understand it all, and I’m not sure what’s going to happen, so we head down the road. We stop at an intersection with a sign that reads “Piazza di Siena.” I think it was an access lane because the piazza itself is in the middle of a park, away from main roads. But of course, I was still relying on the map that helped me get lost in the first place.

Street signs are few and far between here. But I got sight of one for Viale delle Magnolie. Whoa. That’s actually on the map. So we go to a cluster of guys renting Segways and electric cars. Yes, we take the viale and turn left at the end.

That’s how we got up to the garden of the Villa Medici. The park up there is dotted with busts of historic people. Some—Aretino, Archimedes, Garibaldi—I had heard of. There were a couple of villas up there, and an overlook of the city. I was able to identify the Victor Emmanuel monument, and based on that and the position of the sun, was able to make a guess as to which dome is St. Peter’s.

This was perfect. Here I am, still lost, and I’m starting to feel that I know my way around town. Maybe I am finally traveling hard enough.

We came down to a narrow road leading out of the park and saw a sign for Piazza di Spagna. We get to the bottom and meet a road that goes both ways. There’s a little overlook across the street with a statue dedicated to two brothers. One of them is holding a pistol. They may have been heroes in the struggle for unification.

Lots of people are in the park taking pictures of each other with Rome in the background, sort of like Renaissance portraits. 

So I go up and ask everyone all at once, “Per favore, Piazza di Spagna?” One guy points the way and gives me more information, but all I can make out is “scala.” But the important thing is the way to take.

The street we were on brought us to Trinity of the Mountains church, which is connected by the 18th century stairs to the Piazza di Spagna below. The lower tier of steps is popular public seating, like the Metropolitan Museum on a Sunday and the 42nd Street Library at lunch time.

The photo of the day is the Spanish Steps. Where’s Joanna?

We decided to walk back to the hotel—in the dark, mind you—after dinner. I suggested a cab, just to be sure we got back, but Joanna said we should walk. Talk about a sense of adventure. 

We stopped at a wine store across from the restaurant. They were offering tastings. There was a good Sangiovese and a cabernet made in Tuscany, so I bought one of each. We also tasted a sweet sparkling wine that Joanna enjoyed. 

I had a route home marked out on the map. It was simpler with fewer detours than my failed effort out.

All I had to do was find Via Sistina, which of course I couldn’t do. We stopped at every intersection to find street names. No Sistina, but we did find Via Capo la Casa, which would take us to Via Francesco Crispi, which would climb to Via Ludovisi, which was the beginning of the street with our hotel at the other end.

We eventually connected with Via Sistina, but far from the beginning that the map showed. Then I realized: I couldn’t find it because it was at the top of the Spanish Steps, not the bottom. Duh.

We found Ludovisi just fine. It turns, somewhere around the American embassy, into Buoncampagni and at the very end becomes Via Calabria.

Lost (or almost) twice in one day. I’m getting the hang of this. But boy, I was glad that I had toted those bottles of wine. I needed a drink.

Good night, all.