The Germans versus the Italians... and us

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As one of our last trips on this trip, Amanda and I drove to Bolzano, an independent province close to the Italian/ Austrian border. Mapquest said it'd take just under three hours but in reality it took close to four--a combination of the inevitable heavy traffic on the autostrada and getting lost in circles of one-way streets and dead ends once we got to Bolzano. This time, after our accommodations in Rome, we decided to dig deep and get a hotel room right in the main square, Piazza Walther, or Waltherplatz, depending whichever language you speak. The room was clean and bright, there was a shower curtain--no, doors!--and we were happy. Now, Austrian-Germans and Italians share the same soil, but the German language/ culture dominates the region. It's the first language on the menus, shopkeepers say guten tag before they say buongiorno and they generally scoff at and ignore Italian speakers. Hell, even the Italian locals don't seem too fond of Italian tourists. Hmmm, New York? Case in point: we were sitting at a cafe for a cocktail and the waiter retracts the awning to let the late afternoon sun in. A few drops of rain fall down. The lonely man with his half liter of birra asks, in Italian, if the waiter would kindly open the awning up again, because of the rain. It's not raining, replies the waiter gruffly, it's only a few drops you'll be fine. The few drops of rain become a few more and before long we're good and damp. The fellow with the beer asks the waiter again, and gets a harsher response that if he doesn't like the rain here he can leave. But the waiter relented and opened up the awning. The man with the beer drank quickly and left. So we were happy to speak English most of the time and the people we ran into seemed generally humored by us.

Bolzano (Bozen, im Deutsch) is a mountain valley town with heavily Austrian influenced architecture with Italian colors and design. The streets are concave and cobbled and closed to nearly all car traffic. It's cold and foggy and damp and loaded with tourists and beer halls and goulash and a large day-long open-air market which Amanda can't believe I didn't take a picture of, but you've seen one you've seen 'em all, no?

The first day we just walked around, had a late lunch and Amanda ogled at all the shoe stores, etc. and I kept busy with gelato. We went back to our hotel to clean up--really, it's no more than a Motel 6 with hardwood floors (what's the aversion to carpet around here?) but it felt like the Ritz. On our way out the door we asked the front desk where to eat because, surprisingly, we didn't see too many restaurants and none of the travel guides spent much time on the food. Figuring she'd only point us into the hotel dining room, she recommended a pizzeria and another place with regional food, but because clerks usually give bad information, we ignored them both and found our own. It was freaking delicious. I had a trifecta of pastas to start and then a tender pork loin, seared and baked and juicy and covered in a caramelized onion hunter sauce. Amanda had Weiner schnitzel. We drank half a liter of vino della casa, which sucked, and then some caffe.

After dinner we walked the dark cobbled streets looking for a wine bar we'd seen earlier in the day, packed, but it was closed. As was everything else--tutto chiuso. We went back to the hotel bar and sat outside on the piazza (platz) and had our drinks. Our drinks were served on individual trays with a side dish: my beer with a bowl of nuts and crackers, Amanda's cognac with dark chocolate. I had another beer while Amanda finished her cognac and we watched the few people still up this late (it was 11pm--maybe) pass by.

The next morning I got up early because the hotel included in the price of the room a proper breakfast--breakfast!--my favorite meal of the day. Breads and cereals and yogurt and fruit and eggs, meat, cheese, pastries and sweets and teas and honey and I had two cappuccinos. It was raining hard but by the time we finished the smorgasbord it stopped. We made our way around the corner to take a peek at the coldest dude ever. Ötzi is freaking old. He's nearly 5,000 years old. Back in the day (1991) some hiker came upon Ötzi, the O.G. that he is, dead in the snow-capped mountains of the region. The poor bastard had been murdered--shot straight through the heart with an arrow. But he was old--about 65--for his time, around 3,300 BC. The museum has all his stuff and they have him locked up in this ice chamber with a tiny 2 by 2 foot window for us to pay our respects. He's a little shriveled up but all in all he looks pretty good--still got his muscles and skin and his teeth are all right. The rest of the museum was a bore--all the displays were in German (first, always) and then Italian so we hightailed it the hell out of there. It was raining again but it didn't affect us, we just strolled right on back to our wonderful hotel and dried up for lunch at a nearby cafe. The food wasn't that good and the service was terrible which gave us plenty of time to take in all the nonsense around us. An old couple asked to sit down at a table with a single woman. But there were three empty tables right beside them. Then, when the place filled up we watched two groups duke it out for the last table. The Italian couple with the baby won out and waited around for 5 or 10 minutes for service, and when she asked the waiter for a spoon to feed her baby he just shrugged off. She went to the bar and asked again but the lady there flat out ignored her, so they got up and left.

We went back to the hotel and asked the desk about the cable car to the top of the mountain. She pointed out where to go on some dinky cartoon map of the town and, of course, we went the wrong way and got all fouled up trying to get back to where we should have been (which seems to be a recurring relationship between directions and the roads in these parts), but we found ourselves driving up the mountain so we decided to stick with it. The road was narrow and winding and without much of a guardrail and we were being passed (!) left and right: a Mercedes here, a box truck there, I was invigorated. Amanda's nails were dug deep into the armrest. At the next straightaway of about 100 feet, I floored our good Opel and roared past a struggling tour bus. We continued winding up all through the vineyards and broke through the clouds and got out to have a look. Down there a little ways someone had a pool but I can't imagine it gets much use. It was colder than Disney on Ice. We got back in the car and zoomed our way down the mountain and scared the hell out of a couple of teenagers who had pulled off the road on their mopeds to smoke a couple of cigarettes. Boo!

We parked the car and had a cocktail and went back to the hotel and then out for dinner, to the regional place that was recommended the first night. It was delicious. We started with a board of mixed meats and olives. Amanda had goulash and half a liter, again, of vino della casa which, again, sucked, and I had a plate of smoked ribs and two liters of beer, made in house. Caffe and a walk and a couple of nightcaps and that was our trip. Got up early again for another proper breakfast and then we drove back to Concordia through the pouring rain along the Lake of Garda, stopped later on the highway for a sandwich and a caffe--where else in the world can you pull into a highway rest stop or gas station and have a glass of wine? I just don't understand (which is the topic of a future blog entry, to be in the format of a photo-essay).

Back in Concordia, I bought my new bike, a sweet 6-speed Red Esperia, at the supermarket. It's a real cruiser. I checked out the garden and took the Testarosa out for a spin. Tomorrow I fly to London for four nights to hang with my old pal Jens. I'm sure you know all about London after all those high school history courses and taking your own trip there, but when I get back I'm going to blog the hell out of it. See you when I see you.

Read Amanda's blog. It's way better and gets way more hits and should be featured on www.travelblog.org

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Photos

Me on my sweet new bike
aka Red Rocket, aka Red Lightning, aka the Red Night Rider,aka the firebolt, aka my ferarri, aka my Lamborghini, but...

... this is my testarosa.
She hauls some serious ass and mows some serious grass. See you on the drag strip.