At the bar, I’m told that Ivo is at home. I head down the street in the direction the man in the bar waved. Two men approach me. Both wear dusty, too-tight sweaters. They seem to be brothers and know who I am. Feeling curiously threatened, I ask, "Dov’ la casa di Ivo?" The brother with the thin face and stringy hair gives me a rooms-for-rent business card, printed crooked with the faded blue ink of a tired rubber stamp. He stutters, "When you write the book, speak very well from us."  Assuring him I’d visit later, I repeat my question. He looks up and says in a soft, matter-of-fact voice, "Ivo."

Ivo, wearing a red cape and halfway through a haircut, pops his head out a window. I introduce myself and, like the gatekeeper of the Emerald City, he welcomes me upstairs.

Ivo greets me like an old friend from the Bay Area. He says, "So, finally I meet Rick Steves, the man who sends America to the Cinque Terre. Everybody with your book seems to know you." Returning to his stool, repositioning his Soviet flag cape, he introduces me to his friend Simone. Surrounded by a floor furry with black hair, a newly trimmed Simone digs his hard-working scissors back into Ivo’s hair. This trading of haircuts is a four-times-a-year ritual excuse for a lazy afternoon together.

In the corner, bent over his guitar, is Graham, from Arizona. When I plop into a chair near him, his head rises like an up beat on a conductor’s baton as if to say hello and then drops like a down beat back into his own musical world.

Ivo’s flat is evidence of how the Cinque Terre destroys a traveler’s momentum. Not moving his head, but motioning with his eyes, Ivo directs me to a small pile of postcards from American friends. They litter the top of a bookcase under a poster of Jim Morrison-testimonies of tourists who became travelers in the Cinque Terre.

As I read through cards, Ivo and Simone reminisce happily, as if the sight of each card brings their friends back to Vernazza. "Oh, that’s Chef John from Austin. He come here, he goes away. He come here, he goes away. He come here again, he goes way."

"Yes, Catherine and Colleen. They’re from Portland, stayed for eight days." After a few minutes, Graham steps out of his music as if stepping out of a car. Impressed by the song, I ask, "You wrote that?"

Graham says, "It’s called ‘More than You Know.’ Lying on a rock, looking up at the sun, guitar on my belly, it came to me. I’ve been writing a lot here. New environment, people, the sea. And the rocks."

Abandoning Ivo momentarily, Simone pours me a cup of spumante. Setting it in the unfinished zone of a jigsaw puzzle of a nude woman, he returns to his scissors.

Graham explains, "’More than You Know’ has no words yet. It’s about how important a girl I met at the hostel is to me right now. The words will come. I hum and strum. First some false words, and before you know it, the right words find their way into the melody."

I ask him to play more, and he does. Simone stows the scissors and a trimmed Ivo puts on a leather jacket, tucks a football helmet under his arm, and strikes a James Dean pose. Simone snaps a photo as Ivo explains, "For my sister in San Francisco."

My
conversation with Ivo wanders from cheap beds and good pesto to linguine and linguistics.  "From Genoa to Levanto it is one dialect," he says. "Then each of the Cinque Terre towns has a distinct dialect."

"Each village has its own slang," Simone claims. "You speak five words and I know where you live. ‘All of us’ in Vernazza is see-ah moo tutti nooee. In Monterosso-only six kilometers away-you’ll hear say moh tutti deh nooahtre. If you say say moo tutti nooee in Monterosso, that means we "we are all naked."

Plopping onto his couch, Ivo adds, "Everywhere in Italy this is a sofa. But here it is ottomana. Maybe because of the pirates. They came from the Ottoman Empire. Here, everybody loves a legend."

Head buried in his guitar, dancing alone atop his flexible stool, Graham sings, "Crossing a bridge I passed in a dream, ain’t it funny life always shows you which way to go. It’s a leap of faith."

As I leave, Graham gives me a farewell down beat with his head and Ivo warns me about the brothers in the sweaters. "All this year they make a plan to get into your book."

The wind is back. Knowing that waves crashing over the breakwater bring out the town, I head for the foam. Antonio Sorriso, supervisor of the peeling paint, hollers "mistral" as if heralding good news.

Vittorio, posted outside his restaurant, waves a quick hello. I know Monica is up at the Castello earnestly serving satisfied customers. Here at the harbor, old men pace the rough concrete breakwater, kids bop a soccer ball, and tongues of tourists chase gelato drips down sugar cones. As for me, I’ve got an appointment with a train for Switzerland. But I can’t get Graham’s tune out of my head. I love this scene "more than you know." In the spray of a wave that sends the crowd dashing up main street, a young couple hails me: "Mr. Steves!" They’re from Edmonton and on their honeymoon. "Just like you say in your book, Mr. Steves, the children in Riomaggiore helped us peel a cactus fruit. And we found the old man in Corniglia. He invited us into his cellar. We drank wine from his keg with a straw. Thank you so much!"

The National Museum "Il Bargello"

The original home of Bargello, or head of police spies, where Masterpieces of Brunelleschi, Michelangelo, Cellini, Donatello are presented, along with priceless ivory, enamel, jewelry, tapestries and weapons.

For a complete listing of the state museums of Florence, go to the Polomuseale Firenze site.

You’ll find exhibitions, current happenings, libraries and a wealth of other information that will make your visit easier and more enjoyable.

Florence claims the first ice cream. In 1565, Bernardo Buontalenti, the architect to the Royal Court of the Medici family, was hired to create fabulous events for the Florentine banquets, including stage constructions, theater events, fireworks and food. For one of his creations, he decided to chill pastry cream in the special rooms created to keep ice, transported from the glaciers in Abetone down the Florence, and used to chill drinks. Creative experimentation led to today’s ice cream.

The Piazzale Michelangelo offers a magnificent panorama view of Florence. This bustling square, a fashionable meeting place for the 19th century upper middle classes, is still evocative and memorable, especially when the sun sets over the river. In the center of the square is a copy of Michelangelo’s statue of David, in bronze. The Giardino dell’Iris (Iris Garden) off the piazza is in full flower in May. The Giardino delle Rose (Rose Garden) on the terraces below the piazza fully blooms in May and June, and is open only then.

Climbing to the top of the Duomo in Florence is a must. I remember stopping the count at 400 stairs; there are 464. You can climb at your own pace and, if you are in reasonably good shape, should have no problem. It’s worth the climb. The views are spectacular. The large bell tower was designed by Giotto, probably the first Early Renaissance painter of merit.

Some students, like the opera singer from Kansas and the Italian-Australian woman seeking her roots, had set ambitious goals of future fluency. My own aspirations were less lofty–I just wanted to acquire enough tourist Italian to be able to make my way around Tuscany on my own. Though I had missed the placement exam, my beginner status was never in doubt. My classmates, on the other hand, impressed me by flipping to the right page in their workbooks whenever Christina, the instructor, rattled off a number.

My glaring lack of Italian bothered Luisa, my "Italian Mamma," not at all. A slight woman trailing smoke from an ever-present cigarette, she showed me to a room overlooking her vegetable garden. It contained a dresser, a table, and a bed that sloped noticeably toward the center. "Ti piace?" she asked. Guessing that she was asking whether I liked it, I nodded and smiled. I nodded and smiled a lot those first few days.

But between Luisa’s homey chatter and Christina’s prodding, progress in Italiano was virtually guaranteed. Christina peppered us with questions about our lives outside the classroom, then stretched our meager vocabularies and imposed proper verb endings on our fledgling sentences. Sometimes she grouped us to create dialogs for improbable scenarios. Finally, no doubt with a sigh of relief, she turned us over to her colleague Pierluigi. Emphasizing rising and descending tones with his hands, the bearded Pierluigi drilled us on the finer points of pronunciation, like distinguishing casa (house) from cassa (cash) or pala (shovel) from palla (ball).

The overriding advantage of the Dante Alighiere School is its location in the medieval city of Siena. May Dante forgive me, what I remember best about Siena is neither grammatica nor ortografica, but treats like the traditional Siennese specialty Panforte, and Luisa’s Ribollita, thick with beans and bread and olive oil.

My classmates had already discovered the three-table trattoria with the unlikely name "Grattacielo" (Skyscraper), where the Mamma-and-Papa owners patiently weighed out individual portions of funghi, prosciutto, or Italian parsley with anchovies while a line formed behind us.

During our lunch break we sometimes descended the maze-like streets to Piazza Il Campo, where day-trippers from Florence trained their cameras on the Palazzo Pubblico and its Torre del Mangia. One day our fellow student Arturo led Mary and me to a pizzeria where, the previous evening, he had enjoyed his choice of pizzas for 7,000 lira. We were dismayed to learn that during the afternoon, when tourists filled the plaza, the price rose to almost twice the evening tariff.

By now, when Luisa asked "Ti piace?’ I answered "Si," or "buono… delizioso." Though Luisa’s meals were abundantly satisfying, occasionally I joined classmates for dinner in town, basking in the medieval ambience of a ristorante lodged in a centuries-old building, or sampling the exquisite creations of chef Paulo Senne in his tiny eatery Cane & Gatto (dogs and cats).

On school-sponsored walks through Siena, we listened to commentary in Italian as we examined interiors and exteriors of major landmarks–the magnificent Duomo, begun in 1220 and now a rival of the better-known cathedral in Florence; the Palazzo Pubblico and its exclamation mark of a tower; and Basilica San Domenico, where some of the language classes were held. On the way home, Mary and I sauntered through town, reconnoitering as-yet-undiscovered trattorias.

On weekends school personnel organized bus trips to attractions in the vicinity of Siena: Montepulciano, where we sipped the town’s celebrated Vino Nobile, and flower-filled Pienza, the town created for Pope Pius II. It was here, at Ristorante Dal Falco, that the motherly proprietress educated me. "One does not," she admonished good-naturedly, "eat bread with pasta!"

The best excursions were the ones we arranged on our own, courtesy of three Swiss students who had driven their own cars to Siena. We made the rounds of Tuscan hill towns with musical names–Castellina in Chianti, Radda in Chianti, Gaiole in Chianti–stopping for a cappuccino in one, an al fresco lunch in another. Later we watched the sun set as we dunked biscotti into our sweet vinsanto, high on a hillside covered with wildflowers. During these social outings, speakers of Swiss-Deutsch, French, English, Japanese and Swedish relied on Italian as the lingua franca.

Toward the end of the session, Mary and I invited Luisa to dinner and asked her to choose the restaurant. "What about Candido?" she asked, referring to the youth she had adopted. "Of course," we hastened to add, "Candido is invited." "It will be more fun if we ask the other ragazzi, don’t you think?" she continued, naming each of the other students currently in residence. "Oh, and my friend Patricio is coming to see me…" We made reservations for seventeen.

Patricio took us to the tiny Etruscan town of Murlo, south of Siena. We ate Etruscan-style dishes (without New-World tomatoes) in the pizzeria. Then we posed for snapshots, and toasted everyone in sight, plus a few others who didn’t make it. It was a great party.

The plain on both sides of the Arno River is the site of the city. It has been said that this area was so marshy in ancient times that Hannibal was impeded during his march on Rome. Legend claims that it took Hercules himself, (whose effigy appears in one of the ancient seals of the city), to drain the area and make it possible to establish a settlement. Major floods have invaded in 1333, in 1844 and, most recently, in 1966. Today’s tourist hardly has time to learn about these things with all the compelling art, culture and beauty that beckons, (not to mention the food and exceptional shopping).

A few other noteworthy caretakers of art and history are:

The Uffizi Gallery. Loggiato degli Uffizi, 6
Hours: Tuesday-Sunday 8:15am to 7:00pm; Phone: 055 238 8683 / Reservations: 055 294 883. Cost: Euro 8.0 (Euro 4.00 for citizens of Europe over 18 and under 25)

This magnificent gallery houses original masterpieces collected by the Medici family. Entry to the Uffizi Gallery is available every 15 minutes. Reservations should be made and a day ahead, if possible.

The Galleria dell’Accademia, Via Ricasoli, 58-60. Hours: Tuesday-Sunday 8:15am to 6:50pm Cost: Euro 6.00.

Florence is well known

The salesroom, as the main room is called, was built as a chapel in 1335 and restored and converted to its present use in 1848. The room features a frescoed, vaulted ceiling illustrating the four corners of the earth. The decoration is highly ornate, and the building is filled with a subtle, old apothecary scent.

Two other rooms are open to the public: the Sala Verde and the Antica Spezieria. The Sala Verde still functions as a reception room. On its walls are water marks, which I presumed to be the high water mark of the 1966 flood. The Antica Spezieria, the old Dispensing Chemistry, where all kinds of herbs are available, has displays featuring antique instruments and apothecary jars.

The Dominican friars settled in Florence around 1222. They grew medicinal herbs and prepared medicines, balsams and ointments for their small infirmary adjacent to the convent. (The associated gothic church of Santa Maria Novella is itself notable for its frescoes, which include The Trinity by Masaccio.) Their essences, fragrant water and elixirs gradually brought them world-wide acclaim. Products still made according to the original recipes include Liquore Mediceo, a sweet dessert liqueur no doubt in past times used to cure a serious ailment; Alkermes, strong mint antacid tablets; an aromatic vinegar (Aceto dei Sette Ladri) to treat "fainting fits"; and Antihysteric Water, made with herbs possessing "blandly calming, digestive properties".

>Complementing these preparations are more modern soaps (made with machines dating to the 19th century) and truly contemporary creams, moisturizers and lip balm. All the packaging is reminiscent of the era. While the items are a bit pricey, they have plenty of history and make wonderful gifts. I bought a bar of iris soap for my grandmother and some lip balm—admittedly for its little porcelain jar—for myself.

And then someone tells you that it isn’t a figment of your imagination, this place exists. Its name is Umbria, the land-locked ‘green heart’ of Italy, also referred to as ‘the land of 20,000 saints’. Its history dates back 3000 years; it was here that the mysterious Etruscans and the ancient Umbrian people battled for ownership of the land.

The Etruscans have left their legacy all over the region in the form of tombs, arches, temples and strange stone tablets carved with a type of runic script. It wasn’t really until Roman times that the name ‘Umbria’ was used for the first time, and even today Roman houses, baths and aqueducts are still being uncovered. Umbria’ castles and towers testify to the many battles fought between Pope and Emperor, noble family, citizen and state throughout the Middle Ages and the Renaissance. It has also been a battleground in more recent times; in the Second World War, the German defense line, known as the ‘Trasimeno Line’ cut across the north west of the region, and was heavily fought over.

The population of Umbria is sparse, its area of 8456 square kilometres has just 850,000 inhabitants. Only two cities, the provincial capitals of Perugia and Terni, have more than 100,000 people living there. In the winter you will see perhaps a handful of cars on a 15 kilometre journey. Even in the peak of summer you are more likely to be held up by a tractor than a traffic jam. This is a place where you can breathe. There is space here.

Umbria was never part of the main highway to Rome and the South, and considered too far off the beaten tack to be included in the ‘Grand Tour’ of the 18th and 19th centuries. But it has always been on the itineraries of pilgrims, for Umbria is the birthplace o the patron saint of Italy, Saint Francis. He was born in Assisi 800 years ago and it was there that he started his religious order, giving up the trappings of a comfortable life to preach the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. He is famous for his love and respect for animals. Legend has it that he saved the Umbrian town of Gubbio from a savage wolf by preaching to the creature until it mended its ways!

He also wrote the first poem in the Italian language, his ‘Canticle of the Creatures’ which praises ‘Brother Sun and Sister Moon’. Outside Assisi you can see the small chapel of Porziuncola that Francis was called by God to repair in 1207. It is now covered by the dome of a much larger and more ornate church, Santa Maria degli Angeli. Visit the rose garden of the basilica where the blood-red streaked petals of the roses remind us of the night when the naked Francis threw himself on their thorns, the roses withdrew their thorns to avoid hurting him, and they have remained thornless ever since.

There is much more to see in Assisi itself: the Basilica of St. Francis, the Roman temple of Minerva and the underground museum containing the remains of the Roman forum.

Assisi is a popular destination for both tourists and pilgrims, but hotel accommodation is usually available with no problems. It is better to avoid the peak of the season, Sundays and religious holidays for obvious reasons.

About 25 kilometres north west of Assisi lies the region’s capital, Perugia. Dating from at least the 4th century BC its dominant position overlooking the Tiber valley meant it was to play an important part in Umbria’s history. Its streets have witnessed many bloody battles, including those fought during the 70 years of feuding between the Oddi and Baglioni families in the 16th century. A hundred murders in one night alone saw the streets literally running with blood. It was partly to keep these unruly citizens in check that Pope Paul III ordered the building of Italy’s largest fortress, the Rocca Paolina. It was so large that when the people of Perugia finally demolished it in 1848 it took them nearly 30 years!

The vaulted foundations of the fortress now house escalators leading from the carparks on the southside of the city to the Piazza Italia. Visitors using these escalators will find themselves passing through the fascinating subterranean street of Via Baglioni, and accompanied by the strains of Vivaldi or Albinoni can imagine what life must have been like all those years ago. The town council of Perugia has recently asked for it to be officially declared one of the wonders of the world!

Fortunately the only battle you are likely to encounter now on Perugia’s streets is the fight to win in the fashion stakes. Visit Corso Vannucci (named after the famous painter Pietro Vannucci – ‘Il Perugino’) at dusk, and you will see the ritual of the ‘passegiata’. This means ‘to walk’ or ‘to promenade’ and the well-dressed and stylish inhabitants of the city do just that, strolling around just to see and be seen. Of course visitors can and do join in, as do the students from the city’s two universities. One of these, the University for Foreigners (Università per Stranieri) is situated in Piazza Fortebraccia. It was set up in 1926 by Mussolini to promote Italian culture overseas. You can take courses in the Italian language or Italian art and culture and it attracts students from all over the world.

A visit to Perugia must include the National Gallery of Umbria in Piazzo dei Priori. There are 33 rooms of Umbrian painting, including works by Fra Angelico, Piero della Francesca, Pintoricchio and ‘Perugino’ himself. The city is also home to the National Archaeological Museum of Umbria in the cloisters of Umbria’s largest church, San Domanico in Corso Cavour.

Perugia has a range of hotels from 5 star to 1 star and there are places near the city which do bed and breakfast or ‘agriturismo’ (staying in a farmhouse). The city has excellent restaurants too, usually very reasonably priced.

Although Assisi and Perugia are probably the most well-known of the region’s attractions, they are only two pieces of the glorious jigsaw that is Umbria. There are hundreds of hill towns, villages and hamlets, some of them not even marked on the map, waiting for you to discover. Some are ghostly places, abandoned as the young people moved to the cities in search of work. Sometimes the only residents that remain are the old, the women still in the traditional black, the men weatherbeaten from a lifetime’s work on the land. You will see them sitting outside their houses having a chat, or tending their vineyards and olive groves.

If you tire of exploring the hill towns and yearn for a cool breeze and the refreshing sight of water then Umbria can again surprise you. Lake Trasimeno is one of the largest lakes in Italy, and is said to be the cleanest. Its maximum normal depth of 8 metres means it is a safe place for water sports of all kinds. Castiglione del Lago is the main lakeside town and is an excellent place to use a base for your holiday. Its sandy beaches allow you to swim and sunbathe against the dramatic backdrop of the town’s cathedral and castle. If you feel more energetic, enroll for a course at the windsurfing school. There is a regular ferry to two of the three islands in the lake, Isola Maggiore and Isola Polveses, either of which make a pleasant afternoon trip. Isola Maggiore has a restaurant and even offers accommodation (much in demand) should you be tempted to stay. Castiglione itself has a good range of hotels and some excellent campsites next to the lake. Restaurants offer the usual range of Umbrian cuisine, but you must try the area’s specialty : freshwater fish straight from the lake and cooked in variety of ways. Find yourself a restaurant with a view of the lake (try the one at the Hotel Miralago in the old town), have a wonderful dinner with some local wine and watch the moon rise over the silver shimmer of the water. Incredible!

Lake Trasimeno also has its story to tell. It was the scene of the great battle between Hannibal and the Roman general, Flaminius. Surrounded by Hannibal’s troops, the Roman army suffered one of the worst and bloodiest defeats in Roman history. The lake supposedly turned red with the blood of the massacred soldiers. You can visit the site of the battle at Tuoro on the north of the lake and follow the ‘learning trail’ which has been set up for visitors.

Of course Italy is synonymous with wine, and Umbria is no exception. If you go in October you will see the ‘vendemmia’ (grape harvest) in progress. The region produces about one million hectolitres a year from around 12,000 hectares of vineyards. Those statistics refer to registered wine, but many farmers grow grapes for their own consumption or to sell locally. If you stay on a farm offering ‘agriturismo’ you may well be offered some of the farmer’s own wine to buy.

The wine museum at Torgiano (about 10 kilometres from Perugia) is well worth a visit. They show how wine was made centuries ago and which techniques have been adopted for use today. Buy some ‘Torgiano Rosso’ too, which is a classic accompaniment to meat or game.

Perhaps the most famous Umbrian wine is the white ‘Orvieto Classico’. You could buy some from Orvieto itself. This city, built on a volcanic plug, is reached by funicular. It has one of the most beautiful cathedrals in the world. Catch it when the sun hits the stunning pillars and mosaics of its glittering golden facade to see why it deserves this reputation.

As far as food is concerned, the cooking is simple and good. The area is famous for its wild mushrooms, and of course the king of these is the truffle(‘tartufo’). Truffles are found in wooded regions and they need special and mysterious growing conditions. As yet they have not been raised commercially, but are only found by those ‘in the know’ aided by specially trained truffle dogs. The unpredictability and rarity of truffles means they are extremely expensive, in fact most farmers would rather find a truffle than a gold nugget.

It would certainly fetch more on the open market! The truffle season is from December to March, the knobbly object reaching its flavoursome best towards the end of March. The area most famous for truffles is Norci in the east of Umbria, although dishes using them are served all over the region. If you can, try pasta with truffles (pasta al tartufo) or croutons of bread with chopped truffles and olive oil (crostini al tartufo). If their taste wins you over that much you can buy a jar of them preserved in olive oil. Most delicatessens sell them, although you may find that they have lost some of their famous pungent aroma when you come to use them.

The staple meat of Umbria is pork. It comes in the form of salami, ham, wonderful spicy sausages, or as wild boar (cinghiale). A regional specialty is slices of whole roasted pig stuffed with fennel, garlic and spices (porchetta). At the many excellent markets which take place each week in the local towns, you will see vans selling porchetta served in a bread roll. Talking of bread, Umbrian bread is an acquired taste. It is baked without salt, a relic from the days when the local citizens rebelled against paying the salt tax by not using it in their cooking.