Cindy
and Mark left this morning (or technically, early this afternoon). We walked them to the train station to catch
a 12:30 train that, after changing trains in Prato, will take them to Bologna. By tomorrow night they will be full of Bologna,
but never full of bologna.
It
was wonderful to see and spend time with them.
Yesterday was a relaxing day. In
the morning they and Shelley walked the wall, then explored the market,
bringing home a roasted chicken, some tomatoes, and a cantaloupe for
lunch. The afternoon was filled with
naps, a quick shopping trip, and an extended happy hour.
We
planned to have dinner at the restaurant on Via San Giorgio we had passed on
our way to dinner on Friday night. When
we arrived and confirmed that we did not have a reservation, the hostess told
us to wait two minutes. We assumed that
they would use the two minutes to set up a table for us, but after two minutes
the other hostess came back and told us there were no tables. Cindy does not take “No” for an answer
easily, so she went inside to negotiate, but without success. It was the first time in our month in Lucca
that we have been turned away from a restaurant. Whether that was because it was 8 p.m., later
than Shelley and I normally eat, or whether it was because it was Saturday night,
or whether they just didn’t like our looks, we were out of luck.
We
walked down the street another block or so, and found an outside dining area
with a number of tables but only one couple dining, but we didn’t see a
restaurant. It was on the opposite
corner of the little intersection, and we decided to dine there, at Locande di
Bacco.
Within
minutes the outdoor café area was full, and we sure exactly why? Was it the fact that we are obvious social
trendsetters, and once we sit down and give a place our imprimateur others
flock to it? Is 8 p.m. the accepted
proper dining hour in Lucca? Or were all our fellow diners refugees also turned
away from the first restaurant?
One
of the reasons Cindy wanted to try the first place was that she wanted to try a
Luccan delicacy, Farro soup. Farro is a
whole grain, often confused with spelt (the New
York Times even did an investigative report on the difference). We had it in a local beer, but hadn’t had the
soup until last night. Shelley and Cindy
can now say they’ve had Farro soup (I tasted it as well), but my guess if they
won’t feel the need to order it again.
During
dinner we had a conversation that illustrated the differences between the Jumps
and the Szadokierskis as travelers. Both
of us will be in Europe until the end of July, and then both of us will be back
in Richmond for ten days before leaving again, us to go to the beach and them
to go to Colorado. Here is the
difference in travel temperament. For us
ten days seems like a short time to be home; for them it seems like a long
time.
I
asked Cindy yesterday what was on her travel “bucket list.” She said they would like to do another
African safari, perhaps a gorilla safari in Uganda. She’d like to go to Jordan and return to
Israel. Her last trip to Israel was when
Palestine applied for membership in the United Nations, and due to heightened
security concerns, she couldn’t convince even her trusted local guides to take
her to Bethlehem. She also wants to
India and Myanmar, what used to be Burma.
The old Burma Shave billboards and jingles wouldn’t be as catchy if
renamed Myanmar Shave.
With
only three days before our time in Lucca is finished, we are thinking about
what we need or want to accomplish before we leave, and we used the walk to the
train station with Cindy and Mark to take care of two of them. While there, we bought our train tickets for
the trip to northern Italy and Tirano on Wednesday. We were fourth in line after we let Cindy and
Mark ahead of us when the automated ticket machine wouldn’t print out their
tickets. The three ahead of us all were
frustrated or had complicated issues.
The ticket agent told Cindy and Mark that there was no record of their
reservation on the computer despite the fact that they had a confirmation
number, and neither of the two ahead of them left happy, so the ticker agent
seemed happy to have a simple request to buy tickets.
On
the way home, we stopped for lunch at the pizza place (La Tana dell’Orco)
located right up the street where a couple of weeks ago we had the best bread
out of all the good bread we have had. It
wasn’t open when we passed it on the way to the train station, but by the time
we passed it on the way back it was just opening, so we stopped for lunch and
ordered salad. For a few minutes it
looked there might be no bread, but finally there it was. I told the owner that his bread was the best
we had tasted in Italy, but he corrected us—it’s the best in the world. I’m willing to accept that characterization. Man may not live by bread alone, but if there's a place you might be able to, it's Italy. That's no bologna.
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