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fabrisseAs my housemate says, Bergamo tastes good. Our trip through Italy was brief. It's been two years now. But sometimes I still dream of Bergamo.
Some places just take you that way. Florence (the city) hates me. I've been trapped in an alley by a gang of boys who wouldn't let me and my sister go until they'd touched us (all right, through our clothes but it was still wrong). The second time I went, someone threw away a cigarette and caught my skirt on fire. Florence doesn't want me there.
Carcassonne was very beautiful and intriguing, but always made me feel like I was being watched.
And there are cities that say, you can stay for a while. They're the ones that you know will never be your permanent home, but are fine for a year or two. They'll treat you well while you're there. Copenhagen and Rome are like that for me.
But every once in awhile you "com[e] home to a place [you've] never been before" to paraphrase John Denver. Brussels was like that for me. And Bergamo haunts my dreams.
It's a small city, especially the old town which is at the top of a hill. The new city, 19th century for the most part, looks very Austrian and is mildly industrial. The old city, smells sweet from bakeries and charcuteries. The hams and sausages are made from game. They know exactly which mustard preserved fruit goes with which cheese. The local apiaries sell their wares on the porch of City Hall. Rhododendron, Chestnut, Pine and Oak honeys as well as the more common Wild Flower and Acacia ones are all spread before anyone who wants a taste. The growers discussed the different flavors with us in the unique accent of the city. It's like Italian with a German accent, and I know that I caught French slang.
The art museum doesn't have any famous works, but I found more paintings there that made me stop and think than I ever have at the MFA. The one I loved best was a post-Nativity. A naked baby Jesus lying on his back on a table with Mary looking at him like she's playing all the little games that adults play with babies. And Joseph, not ancient or infirm, but a robust man reaching his hand toward his wife and son, who looks at the viewer with such *pride* and love for his family. I've never seen anything else like it. Not a single smarmy putti.
The road between the old and new cities had some beautiful Art Nouveau villas. Above the old town is another funicular that takes you up to a beautiful little park made from an old fort. The local mountaineers have put up a plaque identifying the local hills and mountains by name. The day we were up there was clear enough that we could see a mountain in the far distance that matched up to the arrow on the legend with the word Switzerland.
I miss travel. I miss who I am when I travel. I miss the surprises.
Some places just take you that way. Florence (the city) hates me. I've been trapped in an alley by a gang of boys who wouldn't let me and my sister go until they'd touched us (all right, through our clothes but it was still wrong). The second time I went, someone threw away a cigarette and caught my skirt on fire. Florence doesn't want me there.
Carcassonne was very beautiful and intriguing, but always made me feel like I was being watched.
And there are cities that say, you can stay for a while. They're the ones that you know will never be your permanent home, but are fine for a year or two. They'll treat you well while you're there. Copenhagen and Rome are like that for me.
But every once in awhile you "com[e] home to a place [you've] never been before" to paraphrase John Denver. Brussels was like that for me. And Bergamo haunts my dreams.
It's a small city, especially the old town which is at the top of a hill. The new city, 19th century for the most part, looks very Austrian and is mildly industrial. The old city, smells sweet from bakeries and charcuteries. The hams and sausages are made from game. They know exactly which mustard preserved fruit goes with which cheese. The local apiaries sell their wares on the porch of City Hall. Rhododendron, Chestnut, Pine and Oak honeys as well as the more common Wild Flower and Acacia ones are all spread before anyone who wants a taste. The growers discussed the different flavors with us in the unique accent of the city. It's like Italian with a German accent, and I know that I caught French slang.
The art museum doesn't have any famous works, but I found more paintings there that made me stop and think than I ever have at the MFA. The one I loved best was a post-Nativity. A naked baby Jesus lying on his back on a table with Mary looking at him like she's playing all the little games that adults play with babies. And Joseph, not ancient or infirm, but a robust man reaching his hand toward his wife and son, who looks at the viewer with such *pride* and love for his family. I've never seen anything else like it. Not a single smarmy putti.
The road between the old and new cities had some beautiful Art Nouveau villas. Above the old town is another funicular that takes you up to a beautiful little park made from an old fort. The local mountaineers have put up a plaque identifying the local hills and mountains by name. The day we were up there was clear enough that we could see a mountain in the far distance that matched up to the arrow on the legend with the word Switzerland.
I miss travel. I miss who I am when I travel. I miss the surprises.
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Date: 2002-05-22 06:22 pm (UTC)