We drag our bags through the morning streets to Lyon's Part Dieu station. After a quick breakfast we're on the train and on our way up the valley of the Rhône River (http://rhone.riverama.com/rhone-river-map.php).
Soon we've entered the foothills of the Alps, passing picturesque villages and vineyards on our way to Geneva, Switzerland. We change trains at Geneva (the poster says,"The best-kept secret of Switzerland.") and skirt the northern edge of broad Lake Geneva (Lac Léman in French), western Europe's largest lake. The chiseled white mass of Mont Blanc, the highest point in the Alps, looms to the south, sparkling in the sunlight and marking the French-Italian border.
The sheer immensity of Mont Blanc has intrigued and challenged people through the years. Percy Shelley, the poet, said the Alps left him with, "a sentiment of ecstatic wonder, not unallied to madness." For much of our transit along the lake, the peak stood far in the distance, high and gleaming and impossible to ignore.
At Lausanne we're joined by an exuberant family from Uruguay who are greatly enjoying their European holidays. And for us, it's nice to have someone to talk to – although not in English. We enjoy chattering in 'Uruguasho' and taking pictures as we pass ancient Chillon Castle at the eastern end and finally leave the lake behind.
(http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chateau_Chillon) Hills covered with grape vines and the jagged glory of the snow-draped alps grace our journey through Switzerland.
We leave the valley of the Rhône at Brig and enter the famous Simplon Tunnel, built over 100 years ago. It was a major engineering project at the time, and the entryway is architecturally beautiful. We entered so quickly I didn't get a picture, but here's the story: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Simplon_Tunnel.
(And if you have excess money for a Bucket List item, consider a ride on the "Orient Express:" http://www.seat61.com/Venice-Simplon-Orient-Express.htm#.UgkECxZgvzI)
After twelve miles of darkness, we emerge near Domodossola, Italy and soon we're at picturesque Stresa, on the shores of beautiful Lago Maggiore. Hemingway was beguiled enough to set much of the ending of his 1929 novel, A Farewell to Arms, here. We make a vow to return someday to Italy's longest lake; but after checking prices online, we quickly realize it will be only during the affordable low season. (http://janettegriffithsliterarylocations.blogspot.com/2008/03/ernest-hemingways-stresa-farewell-to.html)
It's been a long day when we arrive at Milano's Centrale station and our Uruguayan friends depart. But we still have another couple of hours to go. We had thought we'd be in Venice next, but high season in Venice leaves 'people like us' out on the curb. Verona, Shakespeare's setting for Romeo and Juliet, seemed like a good alternative, and we could take a day train to Venice for the trek around. Lake Garda, Italy's largest lake, soon slips past our window and we've arrived in Verona.
It's late and our hotel is away from the core of the city, but they gave us very good directions about which bus to catch and the short walk to the hotel from the end of the line. We take a different bus because the schedule says it goes to the same place. We find out that indeed it does – but not this late in the evening. The bus stops at the end of its route and we are standing at the curb with all our baggage, nowhere near our hotel, and with no ability to speak Italian.
In a previous Euro-trip we found that to some Italians (maybe most), the ability to speak a second language is just not that important. And we've also learned that Italian is not Spanish with lots of hand-waving for emphasis. Luckily there was a nice gentleman who got off the bus at the same time and saw we had no idea where we were. He, of course, spoke no English or Spanish, and we made do with hand gestures. He called a friend (as best we could figure) who would get the number of a cab company and call him back. So we let life take its course and waited by the curb. The phone rang, and our friend wrote some notes. Then he made another call and told us, we guessed, that a taxi would appear soon. It did. We thanked him. And headed for the hotel – a very nice one, and affordable. It had been a long day.
In the morning, we caught the right bus to the center and spent the day wandering ancient streets. We passed a permanent excavation exposing the ancient Roman ruins that underlie much of the city on our way to the first stop: La Casa di Giulietta. It's an old stone house with a picturesque balcony, accessible through an archway off the main tourist drag. The archway has been love-bombed with layers of heart-and-love-note graffiti until it's become an arts object of its own.
This is the casa the city fathers and mothers have decided was the home of the fictional Juliet. In Verona the facts yield gracefully to a large dose of poetic license – especially if it's harmless fun, and there's money to be made. The small courtyard was packed with smiling people as we jostled for a camera shot, and relished the fiction. Given the fascination with this enduring story, it's appropriate that Alfa Romeo cars has long offered a model named the "Giulietta."
We had a very good meal, suitably overpriced, in the tourist-dominated Piazza dei Signori as the afternoon heat of August built in the ancient stone pavements. A group of Catalan celebrants was in town for a folk festival. Their engaging human pyramid was followed by joyful dancing round the Catalan banner.
Then we made our way down narrow winding streets to the old Arena di Verona, the third largest Roman amphitheatre in the world, past fur stores (?!) and other rich novelties, and learned the summer opera season runs to the end of August.
We planned a day trip into Venice, and thought we could get back in time for a production of Aida. In a really cool Roman ruin. What's better than that? Well, maybe a quick stop for a gelato on a hot evening in Verona.
In the morning we're on the train to Venice, passing more vineyards, a large glass recycling operation, and the cruise ship dock. We exit the Santa Lucia station right into the heart of it all. There's a good long trek through endless narrow allies to Saint Mark's Square, but that's what we came for. And maybe to catch a bit of the Venice Biennale, the big arts fair that runs every (duh) two years. A friend had said we could see most of the important things in a good long day, so we crossed the bridge – just one of many to come – and began our trek. We never found the Biennale exhibits, as there was too much else to do amid the expected tourist crush; we ended at Piazza San Marco and took a 'city bus' (a floating one) down the canal back to the station. Much has been said (maybe too much) about this city on the canals, so we'll let the pictures speak for Venice.
We were back in Verona in time to score some cheap (and hard) stone seats in the 'plebeian' section of the Arena.
We wouldn't want it any other way. We entered early and watched as Patricians filled the seats below, with vendors in our section shouting, "Birra, soda, wine!" We had some water with us and planned to buy a cold bottle from the vendors – but they don't sell water! Next time we'll know. Meanwhile, riggers climbed two towers and strung lines, workers moved the kettle drums into place, Patricians ordered cold drinks at the bar far below, and we all lit small candles (a Verona tradition) to begin the show.
It was a spectacular show, as befits a Roman theatre, with a cast of at least dozens. The story: Aida is an Ethiopian princess in love with an Egyptian general in the middle of a war between the two nations. It ends badly, as all great operas must. There are colored lights, torch bearers on the ramparts, scarab beetle scooters, a mechanical elephant, Egyptian soldiers in 'haz-mat' suits beating hapless Ethiopians (who look more like a writhing tapestry on stage than people), an entire harp section in the orchestra, and me playing with my camera in the dark. At the end, after midnight and after the last bus, we're exhausted and gladly hail a cab back to the hotel.
We devote the next day to the laborious work of the 'ink-stained wretch' to prepare these notes for you, Dear Reader. And we top off the day with an evening visit to a cheap, friendly, and excellent neighborhood pizza joint before retiring for the night.
In the morning we depart for Ljubljana, Slovenia. — PRW