Past Nice, the road leads up a long broad valley, the flanking hillsides already taking in an Italian look. Large villages defy graffiti at the edges of cliffs, staked into place by the tall church spires at their heart. The road climbs and narrows, eventually becoming a thin ribbon carved into tall rock walls, their tops jutting out in a way that must threaten any high-clearance vehicle that attempts the journey. Where the walls drop away small villages appear, with the obligatory auberges, their low squat forms weathered and atmospheric. We fill our tank in one of these villages, a timely act as we very quickly begin to climb a steep set of switchbacks that wind and wind amongst themselves, the views of mountains west growing more and more spectacular with every curve. The ski resort at the top, Isola, is quiet for the season but for a handful of people enjoying the summer cool. Just above we meet a long stretch of flatland, at first right out of the American southwest, but then morphing into an almost Swiss landscape familiar from early 007 and other 1960s films, where flash cars operated by well dressed men zoom powerfully through the turns, usually pursued or in pursuit. This is one of Europe’s highest roads, the 2350m Col de la Lombarde. We cross into Italy, goats stacked up the hillside the only border guards. Here and there are roofless stone ruins, the beauty of the landscape obviously no match for the cold winters and the loneliness. While France too is heavily Catholic, here in Italy it is far more overt, as evidence by the frequent roadside shrines. Some might even be for a long dead biker or bicyclist, for this route seems popular with those who prefer only sky above their helmet. Then we zig and zag and zigzag down to meet the main road that is a quicker thoroughfare leading from Grenoble.
Following the long broad avenue into Cuneo to the inevitable piazza. While Lai Yong looks for the parking pay kiosk, I quickly grab my guidebook to see what might occupy us here. Our restaurant of choice is closed, but there are many along the same narrow lane. Bove's doesn't disappoint, both with the food, and the beautiful curved brick ceiling within. It's good to be back in Italy, with its lightness and joy that seems an antidote to the critical and intellectual heaviness that can all to often weigh down its neighbor to the west. We grab our dessert a short walk away at Arione, whose rum-filled chocolates were an apparent favorite of Hemingway. Munching happily, we look back through the long unbroken canyon of four-storied Baroque buildings, toward the rocky mounts of the French frontier through which we came.
Turin is compact enough that we can hit all the major sights in a single whirlwind afternoon. Thankfully things shutter late in summertime Europe. Highlights aren't necessarily what we have in mind. Rather, we meander around the grid of streets in order to get the vibe of this old historical university town. I find the crowded wings and salons of the Royal Palace to be headache-inducing, a visual cacophony of shapes and colors and textures. (In such places it's easy to see why Westerners were so taken with the emptiness of Japanese art and architecture, which provide space for the mind to rest.) As usual with these cluttered European museums I find my eyes drawn to the outdoors. As I gaze out over the Roman ruins in the courtyard below, a tram car glides rattling by. There is more peace to be found in the adjacent Cattedrale di San Giovanni Battista, famed for the shroud. (Though a visit the following morning to Santuario della Consolata will introduce me to what is now one of my favorite churches in Italy) Lai Yong peels away to rest but I continue over to the Mole Antonelliana, which houses the National Museum of Cinema. I spiral up the walkways that lead to smaller chambers separated by theme, each highlighting in text and celluloid a different facet of the film-making process. The upper levels are all Italian movie posters of international classics. I am still moving quickly but feel I could spend a full afternoon in here. Italy as a whole is cinematic in itself, and the streets down disappoint, particularly the Piazza Vittorio Veneto where the city residents are beginning to settle into their post-workday aperitivi. I still face a short climb up Monte dei Cappuccini across the Po, for views of the mountains out toward Switzerland. The light is poor in the low hanging sun, and wanting to share this with my wife, we return in the morning, thus rewarded with the photos I'd hoped for. We take in even greater views from the heights of the Basilica di Superga, a name befitting a cathedral having all the subtlety of an Indian palace. We stand before this monolith, trying to figure out which far off peak is the Matterhorn, which is Mont Blanc. Then we turn, for Milan awaits.
Two days in the city teach me that I'm not terribly fond of it. Too false, too pretentious. I far prefer the subtlety of Turin. (Admittedly, driving into any unfamiliar Italian city rarely creates a good impression, the traffic bullying you forward through busy industrial suburbs.). We spend these couple of days visiting a dozen museums and galleries, and simply wandering streets both broad and narrow. Aside from one incredible lunch at Bice, all meals seemed subpar somehow, satisfying but not as amazing as Italian meals inevitably tend to be. We walked and walked, linking sights major and minor: La Scala, the Galleria, The Last Supper, the comic strip panels of Chiesa di San Maurizio al Monastero Maggiore, the Grand Hotel (where Verdi found eternal rest), the stunning Basilica di Sant'Ambrogio, the flippant L.O.V.E. sculpture, and of course, a clambor along the rooftops of the Duomo. The highlight (and the lynchpin for the timing of our visit) was to see Elvis Costello play the Castello Sforzesco, who played a stripped down variations on his old hits, the full moon serving as central spotlight.
Ham and Cheese. Bertolucci and Pasolini. That's what Parma promises me. It is Bertolucci I see first, in the empty land loaction of his epic 1900, a landscape today filled with the ruined hulks of estates right out of that very film, as if Donald Sutherland's character had won. Food rings supreme, with lunch at Trattoria al Tribanele, then dinner at Ristorante Gallo d'Oro, where my local charcuterie is accompanied by torta frittas, reminiscent of the sopaipillas familiar from home. The town is compact and easily walkable, but dawn is when it shines, as the fresh morning light lights up the siena-colored facades of the buildings at the center of town. I sit post stroll in a caffe beside our digs at the Palazzo Dalla Rosa Prati, just off the Piazza del Duomo, my cappucini accompanied by Stendhal's eponymous classic, and the sound of hymns echoes through the stunning architecture of the Battistero.
Any visit to Bologna should start with a plate of the famous meat ragu, even if foodies tell you that it isn't actually authentic. It is Sunday, and a concert is roaring in the Piazza Maggiore, bringing with it the crowds. I sit out the afternoon heat on the terrace of my room at the Grand Hotel Majestic già Baglioni (hosting an Anna Magnani photo exhibit beside the Roman ruins in the basement), reading and listening to Italian covers of 1970s songs echoing from the piazza. When the heat drops we stroll, a large loop to take in Le due Torri, its towers wonky and straight, the block-long hint of a canal, the remarkable vaults of the Basilica santuario Santo Stefano (refueling with gelato at Cremeria la Vecchia Stalla), all culminating in dinner on the alley sidewalk before the tidy little Vicolo Colombina. Another stroll at dawn presents a city near free of people, but for a pair of crusty punks who look like they still haven't gotten home from the concert of the previous day. We eavesdrop briefly on their conversation with a local street sweeper, then wander over to the porticos of the Biblioteca Comunale dell'Archiginnasio, where I try to sneak through an unlocked gate for a peek at the 16th century Teatro Anatomico operating theater, until a staff member busts me mere steps away.
And the liminal places. Stately Castell'Arquato offering views almost Tuscan. The straight arrow road bisecting Reggio Emilia, mocked by the drunken lean of Basilica di San Prospero's tower. A detour to Modena isn't to take in any of the speed factories of Ferrari, Lamborghini, or Maserati, but rather for slow food at the market, eaten in the shade of Palazzo Ducale, thrown diagonally across the Piazza Grande. All that's missing is BGM by local boy, Pavarotti. Wine tasting, and buying, in the sleepy village of Torrechiara, The highlight meal of the trip, a simple black truffle pasta at Vecchio Borgo, down a side lane of Borgo Val di Taro, a village famed for its mushrooms. Then winding the narrow mountain lanes toward the Liguria.
A well deserved rest at our friend' B&B, the New Arcobaleno Ossegna. I pass the time reading, enjoying the quiet views. Dinners taken on the terrace, wine ever present. One afternoon I go down to Varese Ligure for lunch and coffee. One morning I hike the hills that have been tempting me from my balcony. It is a steady easy walk to a grassy summit of Monte Porcile, enjoying the views of Sestri Levante, Portofino (its tell-tale narrow bay crowded with cruise ships) and dozens of cookie-cutter mountain villages to the north. I cross the lovely tree-lined ridge to Monte Verruga, then face a four-limbed scramble to the rocky summit. An iron cross marks the peak, from which dozens and dozens more villages appear, rolling away across each range. Rather than a zigzag backtrack, I shoot straight down the hillside, with a couple of knuckle-biting moments as I pass a little too near an overly alert bull, then crash through the thickets, trying not to wake any dozy vipers.
Thus refreshed, one more night in Alassio to break the journey home. A couple of beach-front meals, a couple of Mediterranean dips, a night's rest at the "wrong" Grand Hotel. Sun loungers march down the beach in even rows, while neat homes are stacked up the hills above. One of which, at the town's southern end, teases me with what I imagine to be a sort of paradise. What a wonderful perch for days, weeks, a season. But instead, tomorrow's return to France, beckons...
On the turntable: The Andrews Sisters, "The Best of The Andrews Sisters"
