LIFE: Notable Noto Redux

CHIAVARI, ITALY – There is something about Sicily that makes me break out in adjective-itis. Words like fanciful, fantastic and extraordinary seem to pop up out of nowhere and take up residence in almost every sentence I write about the place.

 Noto, Piazza Duomo

Take Noto for example. Strictly speaking it’s just another small town on a island full of small towns, but unlike my adjective heavy sentences that are forgotten as soon as they are read, there is something about the place that sneaks in and takes up residence in your soul.

It may have something to do with all those baroque nymphs, mermaids, lions, trolls and other mythical creatures that look down at you as you walk along the streets.

 A Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious Balcony in Noto

Or it may be the way the town glows in the late afternoon as the sun slowly sets in the west, reflecting off of the soft limestone buildings. I don’t know. My only consolation is that I’m not alone in my unabashed admiration for things Sicilian, and Noto in particular. It seems to affect everyone who comes here.

“Go to Noto,” wrote the Sicilian writer Gesualdo Bufalino, “it is a place where if one happens to come in, he is trapped and happy and never goes away.”

Bufalino was right. The danger is real.

 Via Nicolaci

The day I got to Noto, artists were on their hands in knees on Via Corrado Nicolaci, putting down the outlines for the various sections of a brilliant tableau of flowers.  Via Nicolaci is one of the prettiest streets in town, rising gently from Corso Vittorio Emanuele. Under the watchful eyes of the grotesque gargoyles that decorate the balconies of the elegant baroque buildings that line the street, artists were following patterns that resemble the canvases in paint-by-number kits. There was an aura of excitement in the air as the town prepared for the annual spring Infiorata, a week-long celebration of concerts, handicraft fairs, parades and special events.

The Noto we see today is a relatively new town, at least new by Italian standards. The original town, Noto Antica, is about ten miles away, up on a nearby hill. In 1693 Noto Antica was completely destroyed by an earthquake, and rather than rebuild over the damaged site, the survivors decided to try their luck elsewhere.

Earthquakes are a problem in this part in Sicily. In 1990, a minor earthquake caused a wing of Noto’s Jesuit College building to collapse, and a few months later cornices from building facades began to tumble to the ground. But the most tragic event of all happened in 1996 when the roof of the 18th century Cathedral of St. Nicholas fell into the nave, leaving a gaping hole and exposing the treasures within to the elements.

 Cathedral of Noto

I remember standing in the Cathedral shortly after it happened, looking up at the lions, winged horses, allegorical putti, bizarre Hellenic demons and grotesque stone masks that make up the interior. Pained faces frozen in time and space staring out at me through eerie, hollow eyes, as if to say, do something.

The roof is repaired now but it took more than ten years of plowing through bureaucratic paperwork and complicated maneuvers through the world of Italian and Sicilian politics. In the meantime, as the roof waited, Noto was added to the list of Unesco World Heritage sites. At least the world appreciates its treasures, and that’s good, don’t you think?

LIFE: Aldo and Carla

SARONNO, Italy - Aldo and Carla live in the apartment above the Cleans. (See 'The Cleans.' June 27 post) I know their names because Aldo used to be an active cyclist, and every Sunday his cycling buddies would gather under his apartment building and call up to him to come down.

“Hey, Aldo,” they would yell. “Vieni giu.”

Saronno, Italy

Aldo, who looks to be about 70 years old, would come out on his balcony, wave and yell back, “arrivo.” Then Carla would come out and as the guys shouted up “Ciao Carla,” she would wave back at them, ask about their wives and kids, and basically kill time until Aldo got his stuff together and made an appearance in the small piazza downstairs.

It's Not Aldo But You Get the Idea

Aldo would come out of the building dressed in his cycling gear: protective helmet, Lycra shirt and knee length cycling shorts and sporty gloves, his spiked cycling shoes clicking on the pavement as he wheeled his bike out on to the street. Then they would all get on their bikes, say their final farewells to Carla and head off to who know where for a morning of Tour di Saronno, which is similar to the Tour de France, but just slightly.

Then the unimaginable happened. Aldo had a stroke. The vital, vibrant old man was gone. In his place was a feeble old person who barely resembled the healthy, active Aldo of the past.

He didn't leave the house anymore. Sometimes Carla would help him out to the balcony, but he didn’t stay there very long. His bathrobe replaced his Lycra cycling gear, his feet now in slippers instead of the noisy spiked biking shoes. His buddies didn’t come by any more, his world shrunk and his spirit along with it.

Aldo and the Boys? Unfortunately no.

A year passed, and Aldo reappeared. A little shaky, his one good hand gripping the handle of a cane. Not in great shape, but at least he was no longer house bound. He and Carla started going out for an apperitivo in the late afternoons. She would hold on to his weak arm, keeping him steady. He would clump alongside her, setting his cane down with force as if to say, I’m may be down, but I’m not out.

Neighbors would greet them on the street, smiling and happy to see him. Wives would discreetly inquire about his health while the husbands would pat him on the back as if to say, “bravo, Aldo, you made it.”

He even started driving again. He was never gone for very long, but even a quick ride around the block must have given him a tremendous sense of freedom recovered. Even I, his silent, invisible fan, was rooting for him.

It took about a week before I realized that I hadn’t seen Aldo for a while. I knew he wasn’t dead because here in Saronno, as in all of Italy, when someone dies funeral parlors hang gray banners on the apartment building doors with the name of the deceased on them. So if he wasn’t dead, where was he?

A Street in Saronno

Then I noticed that there was another person in the apartment, a woman. She was there early in the morning, drinking coffee on the balcony, and late at night, having a smoke before going to bed. She was either a relative or someone Carla had brought in to help with Aldo.

Then one afternoon I saw her wheeling Aldo down the street in a wheelchair. He was yelling something at her and she was yelling back, which meant she wasn’t hired help and not any kind of a distant relative, but more likely his daughter. She would take him out in the wheelchair every couple of days, and every time she did they would argue.

Another street in Saronno

It wasn’t until I saw her helping him into the apartment building that I noticed that there was a large soft cast on his bad leg. It seems the reason he hadn’t been out was because he had somehow further disabled his already disabled leg. That also meant he could not drive. Now she was doing all the driving. Bad news.

But now that woman, whoever she was, isn't there anymore. Aldo came out by himself this morning, the cast is still on his leg but he managed to open the door to his car and get in. He started the motor and slowly backed out of his parking place. Then Carla came out on the balcony to watch him, her hand over her mouth.

He slowly pulled away from the building and turned the corner. About 10 minutes later he was back. He parked the car, got out and hobbled into the building. I was so happy I almost cried. All I could think of was bravo Aldo, don’t give up. And you know, I don’t think he will.

ON THE ROAD: Notable Noto

This is another in what has become a series of monthly travel articles inspired by a recent New York Times article on places to see in 2010. All of the towns on my list are in Italy, most are small, rich in history and art and for the most part off the beaten track which, for me, makes them all the more interesting.

NOTO, SICILY – There is something about Sicily that makes me break out in adjective-itis. Words like fanciful, fantastic and extraordinary seem to pop up out of nowhere and take up residence in almost every sentence I write about the place.

Noto City Gate

Take Noto for example. Strictly speaking it’s just another small town on a island full of small towns, but unlike my adjective heavy sentences that are forgotten as soon as they are read, there is something about the place that sneaks in and takes up residence in your soul.

It may have something to do with all those baroque nymphs, mermaids, lions, trolls and other mythical creatures that look down at you as you walk along the streets.

Piazza Duomo

Or it may be the way the town glows in the late afternoon as the sun slowly sets in the west, reflecting off of the soft limestone buildings. I don’t know. My only consolation is that I’m not alone in my unabashed admiration for things Sicilian, and Noto in particular. It seems to affect everyone who comes here.

“Go to Noto,” wrote the Sicilian writer Gesualdo Bufalino, “it is a place where if one happens to come in, he is trapped and happy and never goes away.”
Bufalino was right. The danger is real.

Via Corrado Nicolaci

The day I got there the town artists were on their hands in knees on Via Corrado Nicolaci, putting down the outlines for the various sections of a brilliant tableau of flowers that would soon decorate the street. Via Nicolaci is one of the prettiest streets in town, rising gently toward the Church of Montevergine. Elegant baroque buildings line the street, and under the ornate balconies artists were working off patterns that resemble the canvases in paint-by-number kits.

The town was preparing for the annual spring celebration called the Infiorata, a week long affair celebrated with concerts, handicraft fairs, parades and special events.

The Baroque balconies of Noto

The Noto we see today is a relatively new town, at least new by Italian standards. The original town, Noto Antica, is about ten miles away, up on one of the nearby hills. In 1693 Noto Antica was completely destroyed by an earthquake, and rather than rebuild on the damaged site, the survivors decided to try their luck elsewhere. That makes Noto Nuovo only a little over 300 years old.
Earthquakes are a problem in this part in Sicily. In 1990, a minor earthquake caused a wing of Noto’s Jesuit College building to collapse, and a few months later cornices from building facades began to tumble to the ground. But the most tragic event of all happened in 1996 when the roof of the 18th century Cathedral of St. Nicholas fell into the nave, leaving a gaping hole and exposing the treasures within to the elements.

Noto Cathedral

I remember standing in the Cathedral shortly after it happened, looking up at the lions, winged horses, allegorical putti, bizarre Hellenic demons and grotesque stone masks that make up the interior. Pained faces frozen in time and space staring out at me through eerie, hollow eyes, as if to say, do something.

The roof is repaired now but it took more than ten years of plowing through bureaucratic paperwork and complicated maneuvers through the world of Italian and Sicilian politics. In the meantime, as the roof waited, Noto was added to the list of Unesco World Heritage sites.

Noto City Hall

Noto today is what it has always been: an eighteenth century country town standing on the slope of a hill in the southeastern corner of Sicily, about thirty miles from Siracusa. The town may be new, but its DNA is pure Noto Antica, whose historic tentacles reach deep into the past.
By the 8th century, when Sicily was controlled by the Arabs, Noto Antica was the administrative center of the Noto Valley, one of the three provinces created by the Arab governors. The Arabs introduced lemons and oranges to Sicily, and with them the complex irrigation system these new crops needed. The Arabs also introduced sugar, sukkar in Arabic, and almonds, which they used to make marzipan. They candied fruits and put them in cannoli, thought to have been invented by the women of a harem in Caltanissetta.

Rice, saffron and many fruits and vegetables owe their place in Italian gastronomy to the Arab traders and invaders. The list is long and not complete but anise, apricots, artichokes, cinnamon, pistachio, spinach and watermelon come to mind. The most obvious dish with Arab ancestry is couscous - called cuscusu in Sicily, but Sicilian food today is truly a compilation of many intertwined bits, and that may be why it is varied and so good.

The Greeks brought olives, black and green, the Romans brought chickpeas, fava beans, lentils and even some forms of pasta. From cold northern shores the Normans brought in dried codfish and bacalà, now an island staple. The Spanish are responsible for pan di Spagna, a type of sponge cake used to make cassata. And what’s a calzone if not a giant empanada?In Noto you don’t need Greek temples or Byzantine artifacts to feel its history, just walk into any restaurant or trattoria. It’s all there. Thirty centuries of history. And along with it a unique style of baroque that is only found in Noto. It’s the reason Unesco put the town on it’s coveted list of World Heritage sites.

AUNTIE PASTA: La Pescaria

Venice, Rialto Bridge

VENICE, Italy - With dawn’s first light breaking over the Venetian lagoon, the fish merchants of the Rialto market are already at work on their displays of fresh fish and seafood culled that morning from just beyond the Venetian lagoon. The fish market, called La Pescaria, is not very big, about thirty or so fishmongers and their helpers. They stand under canvas canopies supported by age-old colonnades. What you see today may not be that old, but seafood has been sold in this spot for more than 500 years.

The Rialto market has always been much more than just a fish and food market. In the past it was the major trading point between the Byzantine Empire and the Venetian Empire. Its location, near the Rialto Bridge is particularly important as the bridge, which connects the district of San Polo with the district of San Marco across the Grand Canal, was the only way to cross the Canal on foot for hundreds of years.

And for hundreds of years, the fishmongers have stacked, iced and priced the prawns, scampi, squid, baby octopus and fish of every size and color. Today they head for the closest bar before the chefs of Osteria Da Fiore, Hotel Albergo Cipriani and other posh restaurants and hotels start making the rounds in search of their piatto del giorno. And right on their heels are the local housewives, who are just as critical about freshness and taste as the chefs.

If they are lucky they will find granseole today. Granseole are small crabs, about as big as a man’s hand, that are found in the rich vast tidal basins of the marshes around the island of Murano. While crabs are good to eat at any time, during the spring and autumn something happens to them that makes them even more delicious: the young male crabs shed their shells in order to grow larger ones. During this change, the muta, fishermen catch the crabs and put them in a special tank called vieri. They are held there for about a day, just long enough for them to be soft enough to eat, shell and all. At that point they are no longer called granseole but moleche, soft shell crabs, and they are quickly carried off to the Rialto fish market to be sold.

There are two good ways to eat them: the first is fried. My first encounter with fried soft shelled crabs was in Bookbinder’s in Philadelphia. A friend of mine, Ken Klein, convinced me to try them. I confess I was a little squeamish at the beginning, but by the end of the meal I was licking my fingers just like everyone else around the table.

The easiest way to cook them is to coat them with flour and fry them in oil. I think Bookbinders coated them with breadcrumbs, but it was a long time ago and I may be wrong. Mostly I remember how delicious they were.

Another way to cook soft shell crabs is to stuff them, or rather, let them stuff themselves. Put the live crabs in a bowl of beaten eggs, salt and grated parmesan cheese and let them sit and take in this mix for a few hours. When they have eaten their fill, take them out, coat them with flour and fry them in hot oil. They may not look particularly appetizing, but they truly are. The texture is soft and creamy, the taste a cross between crab, oyster and lobster and all good things from the sea.

ON THE ROAD: Lost in Venice

This is another in the series of monthly travel articles inspired by a New York Times article on 31 places to see in 2010. All of the towns on my list are in Italy, most are small, rich in history and art and for the most part off the beaten track except for this month which features Venice, a city whose track most definitely has been beaten.

VENICE, Italy – If you have even visited Venice you know first-hand that finding your way around is difficult. Even the locals get lost and scratch their heads at the confusion. But the reasons why the city is the way it is are simple: it’s the illogical way the city is numbered. They use a system based on a centuries old concept of the civic number, but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Venice, Grand Canal

Let me back up and start with how the city is organized. There are 118 islands that make up central Venice divided into six wards known as sestieri. Within each ward, buildings, parts of buildings and in some cases even walls and boarded up windows are numbered in ascending order. In the smallest ward, Santa Croce, the numbers run from one to 2359, in Castello, the largest, from one to 6828.

Because everything is numbered in sequence, if you are looking for Number 73 Calle Porta, in Santa Croce, the building could very well be across the street from building number 624. It depends on how long the street is. To add to the confusion, if you are looking for a business most of them have two addresses: the street address and the post office address. For example, the building at Castello 5138 and the one at Calle Lunga S. Maria Formosa 5138 is actually the same Venetian mask shop.

Venice, High Water on the Grand Canal

In addition to sequential numbering and two addresses many of the city’s three thousand streets have the same name. For example there are at least fifteen Calle del Spezier and twenty-three Calli del Magazeri. Adding the name of the sestieri might be a good idea, like Calle del Forno 1752, sestieri of Canaregio. Except that within the sestieri of Canaregio there are nine separate Calle del Forno, each one as independent as a sassy three-year-old, not to mention fourteen separate Calle Del Spezieri, and thirty-one Calle Della Chiesa.

During the 12th century the Great Council of Venice decided to impose a property tax and divided the city into the six wards we see today, but a fixed numbering system was never established. When city managers wanted to take a census, they would simply assign temporary numbers to the buildings. You can still see traces of these numbers, in the form of Roman numerals, carved on many doorframes throughout the city.

Venice, No. 2566 Calle ?

It wasn't until 1801, four years after Venice fell under the rule of Napoleon, that the city was mapped and the names of canals, streets and alleys were stenciled on building walls and at street corners. The French organized the city on the basis of two numerical progressions, one for each side of the Grand Canal, and the numbers were written on the buildings in black. Each ward was then assigned a separate progressive numbering system with no regard to street names. That system was consolidated in 1841 and at that time it was decided that the numbers would be written in red with a black border.

Venice, Is this Really 1552?

You can still see those numbers on many of the buildings. In fact it is not unusual to see buildings that have all three: Roman numerals, black numbers with black borders and red numbers with black borders. You will also see three or four different numbers painted on a blank wall or above a bricked over door. Those numbers represent buildings that have been torn down or buildings that have been consolidated into two or more larger structures. It was much easier to paint numbers on a wall than renumber the entire neighborhood.

Venice, No 2822. Is this the place?

Armed with an enlarged photocopy of a map of the ward of Santa Croce, a friend of mine decided to test the French system. On paper the ward looks like a rectangle and initially she thought it would be a fairly straight forward challenge. Here’s her story.

She started with number 900, which begins midway along Fondamenta Rio Marin (a fondamenta is the wide sidewalk along a canal, a rio is an internal canal). The numbers 900, 901/a and /b were followed by 901/c, 902 and 903 which she found after a right turn onto the Calle dei Squartai. At the end of the street, the numbers crossed the calle, backtracked down along the opposite side and returned to the fondamenta where they continued. For no apparent reason number 913 came before 912.

Venice. This Way To the Train Station

She said the numbers continued in more or less a straight line until Campo Santo, the smallest of the two church yards of the Church of San Simeon. At this point the numbers went around the church yard and then down a nameless street which opened onto the larger church yard, Campo San Simeon. From there the numbers continued around that church yard until they reached the Hotel ai Due Fanali, which has number 946 on the front door and 949 on the back door. Number 947 is the right-hand window of the hotel lobby and she said she never did find 948. While number 950 is a real building, numbers 951 to 956 are simply stenciled on a wall. A dead end. At that point she gave up. I would have too.

Venice, Bridge of Sighs

But not all is lost.The city father’s understand the dilemma and the city is well marked. And if you do get lost, well half the fun of Venice is wandering through the church yards and over bridges, finding yourself in a maze and finding your way out again, isn’t it?

LIFE: Most Livable City in Italy? Really?

SARONNO, Italy - The Italians are mad. Il Sole 24 Ore, the country’s leading financial newspaper, recently published its annual list of the 100 most livable cities in Italy and their number one pick was Trieste. What a shock. Trieste sits on the border between Italy and Slovenia and is probably the least Italian city in all of Italy. Last year it was number five on the list and irate readers wanted to know how it managed to move up five slots in just one year. Actually what they wanted to know is why it was even considered in the first place.

Piazza Unita' D'Italia, Trieste

One reader, complaining about the editor’s choice, asked how it was possible for Trieste to be the most livable city in Italy when the Triestini have the highest percentage of suicides in all of Italy. And, wrote another reader, to add insult to injury, they don’t even speak Italian. They speak a variation of the Venetian dialect in the city and just one kilometer outside of the city they speak Slovene.

I can’t argue with that, but in all fairness Trieste is very nice. I was there once, a long time ago back in my travelin’ days. We took the train from Venice to Trieste on a whim. It’s about a two hour ride, and what I remember most was that the train was practically empty. Of course there was a war going on not too far away from there at the time but still, you wouldn’t think that would drop the tourism rate to zero.

Rotonda Panzera, Trieste

The city is elegant, the café’s are beautiful, especially those around the port, but truthfully I didn’t feel like I was in an Italian city. What was missing was that Italian frisson, that special, elusive something is that makes me so happy to get back to Italy after a weekend in Lugano, Switzerland. And I’m not saying that Lugano isn’t nice, it is, and they also speak Italian, maybe not better than but almost better than the Triestini. The truth is that in spite of its Roman heritage, Trieste wasn’t part of Italy until 1954. Up until then it was part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, which is where other readers thought it should have stayed.

Perhaps the readers of Il Sole didn’t realize the survey wasn’t the usual “best city to live in” kind of survey that measures school quality and parks, but rather a snapshot of the most eco-friendly city in Italy which only makes sense when you know that the survey was done in collaboration with the Ministry of the Environment. What was measured was the quality of the air and the number of days the cities sustained acceptable pollution levels.

Arch of Ricardo, Roman Gate 33BC, Trieste

It's a wonder Milan is on the list at all but it somehow managed to jump nine points from last year’s list and come in fifth beating out Rome which was eighteenth on the list after having dropped five points. The majority of the top ten cities were in the central-northern part of Italy, except for Bari. Here’s the list:

1. Trieste
2. Florence
3. Parma
4. Trento
5. Milan
6. Venice
7. Reggio Emilia
8. Padova
9. Bari
10. Modena

Because of the number of angry emails the editors received they decided to print a small editorial that said that the end of the year classification is really just a pastime they print for the amusement of their readers. They know that every year the small towns walk away with all the high marks while the big cities like Milan, Rome and Turin, which are in a constant state of change and flux trying to better themselves, end up on the bottom of the list. It’s normal, they said. Look at the New York Times. When the Times editors tried to put together a list of their own, New York came out as the least happy city in America.

Fountain of Neptune, Trieste

That was as much a surprise to the New York editors as Il Sole's list was to the Italians. But if nothing else at least now I know why Italians shrug their shoulders so much.