a bit more

A sculpture from the 10th or 11th century - and yet I know just how she feels. She's hearing that her sump pump has exploded.

 The Castelli from inside. I told Bruce it looks like a Vermeer painting.

One of the great tests of travellers - dinner. I had bought the Guide du Routard in France, which gives great recomms for dining and staying. But its map does not extend this far north. Bruce checked out the recomms that came with the apartment, and since it was still pouring and cold, we checked and decided on a place only a few blocks away: Ristorante San Mina, a local pizzeria/bistro.

OMG. The perfect place, utterly without pretension; we were the only people not speaking Italian, and also, of course, at 7.20, the earliest, except for the staff. The food was incredible, so was the service; at the end, after I'd paid the bill - my treat to Bruce, to thank him for all he has done to set up this trip - the lovely waitress asked if we'd like a little limoncello or another digestif - so we both had limoncello, which I've wanted to taste since we toured the Amalfi coast, where it comes from, and never got around to drinking some there. Delicioso!

We had of course bruschetta, which Bruce is teaching me to pronounce correctly - then I had risotto Milanese which I felt obligated to try but which I'd not take again - too salty - and he had pasta, and then the secundo, he had grilled vegetables and I had a platter with mixed fish and vegetables, which I shared with him. Incredibly good. Zucchini and calamari crispy like French fries. Heaven. And then, after stopping in a grocery story where Bruce bought water and I watched a young couple - he buying dinner, very thin steak and salad and water, and she obsessed with her cellphone - home in the still-pouring rain.

"We did 16,000 steps today," Bruce just told me.

first day in Milan

 It was pouring all day in Milan, but we had stuff to do - Brucie and I set off after breakfast. Here's a scene in the metro - could be anywhere -

but this could not. Here's the ornate Duomo - makes Notre Dame's look like a simple undecorated facade.

We went to the top floor of the Rinascente department store nearby, where you can see the Duomo up close. Can you see the detail? Incredible.

Shoes made of chocolate are everywhere.

 The Galleria Vittorio Emanuele. Not for shopping, way too chichi - just for walking through out of the rain.

 La Scala! I went in just to see - Bruce did not, he'd already seen the theatre and an opera in it; they were mounting a show, doing lights and sets. A jewel box, as they say. We did ask about tickets for La Cenerentola tomorrow - 200 euros to start. So, no. Instead we stopped for a quick lunch by the Duomo - pasta, of course - and then -

we went to two museums, the Pinacoteca Ambrosiana and the Castello Sforzesco. In the first, we saw this glorious Botticelli, Madonna of the Pavillion, and the Cartoon for the School of Athens by Raphael; the final product is in the Sistine Chapel. A stunning masterpiece.

And in the other, room after room of beautiful things - paintings, ceramics, musical instruments. It's a vast palace full of treasure. The Italians invented beauty.

No, they didn't, but they sure have it and know it. Even in the rain, I was gazing at both men and women, the style and flare. But finally, it was cold and wet, and at around 4, we took the metro home.

Oh yes, in the middle of the Castello, my phone buzzed - another frantic text from Nicole, more water flooding the basement. So while Bruce watched a film about where the Michaelangelo sculpture used to be, I was texting Toronto, finding a plumber. By the time we left the museum, he was on his way. It looks like I need a new sump pump. My son has arranged for someone to take over at his work so he can go to the house and take up the rug in the basement, which is soaked.

It never ends.

And when we got home, I spent 20 minutes writing a letter to the Globe cancelling my subscription. I saw they had a column comparing Trudeau to Trump. Enough is enough.

I am in Milan, and yet I am still home. How far do I need to go?

on the road

Yesterday, I was on the road from noon to ten o'clock, from Montpellier to Milan by car, train, bus, plane, bus, subway, foot. First, the train was nearly an hour and a half late.

In the station: a distributor of short stories - your choice of one, three or five minutes long - 

and a book tree - take one, leave one. Love both of these.

The ride, once the train arrived, was very comfortable, as French trains are. Arrival in Marseilles in a teeming downpour, found the airport bus, traffic jam on the stormy highway to the airport, very slow in the rain, but again, no panic because I'd left lots of time. The Twin Jets counter was of course at the farthest end of this widespread airport, and there was no counter set up for the flight - it's such a small company, I even wondered, before getting to the airport, if it existed or if I'd invented it. While waiting, I had a glass of wine and a pasta salad. Even with all the delays, I was ridiculously early.

And then of course the plane was late arriving and late leaving; I chatted with a nice bilingual woman from Lake Como who taught me how to pronounce Stazione Centrale. When the plane arrived, we sloshed across the tarmac in the rain, onto a rocky flight in a tiny airplane, one seat on each side, where I had a seat at the very back next to the heater, and my legs started to melt. Down in the rainy darkness into Milan and a bus from plane to airport.

With my usual cheer, I'd imagined the difficulties of the next bit - clearing customs, waiting endlessly for my suitcase, finding the train to the city ... and it was all as easy and quick as could be. No customs, the bags arrived almost as soon as we did, the train to the Stazione Centrale easy to find and I'd bought and printed my ticket in Toronto. This city hosted the Olympics not long ago, so I should have known it'd be set up for tourists.

An hour's ride in the wet darkness, and then out to find Bruce, who said he'd be waiting right by the Sephora in the station. No Bruce. Look up and down, text - we'd been texting all day - no reply. By this point, 10 p.m., I was too tired to panic. And then, looking through a window to the other side where people without tickets waited, there he was, my Brooz! The system had changed since he was last here, and people waiting are not allowed on the quais.

Hugs and a long walk in the drizzle home, to the airbnb he'd found for us - funky, full of antiquey things, ducks, jugs, molds, my kind of junk, lovely, two bedrooms, very reasonable because it's just beyond the fashionable boundaries of the town. We got caught up and I was overjoyed to remove my sweaty clothes. Slept wonderfully.

And this is who I saw this morning, making me porridge. I am a lucky woman.

Andiamo!

a visit with Isabel

At the Montpellier Sud train station on a dark, chilly, wet day - a good day to travel. Here's how travellers end up with heart attacks: Lynn and Denis live five minutes from the main and I thought only Montpellier train station. When we were booking my ticket to Marseilles, the train I wanted, the cheapest and most direct, left at 12.50. It was only when we were partway through booking that Lynn noticed - it left from the brand new station on the edge of town, to which there is no transit. I would never have noticed, would have gone to the old station, would have had a heart-stopping and probably unsuccessful attempt to get to the other on time.

Instead, I had a ride from M. et Mme. Blin, got here nice and early, to find that the train is an hour delayed. This might mean another heart attack - I need to get a bus from the train station in Marseilles at least half an hour to the airport for my flight to Milan - but luckily, again, I left lots of time. At least, I hope so. Nerves quiver.

As I said to Lynn this morning, I am not a relaxed traveller. Luckily my friend Bruce is not either. When we travel in Italy, we always arrive really early at the station. And Lynn too. I much prefer to kill time waiting than to have a frantic rush. Which happens anyway, of course.

A lovely last day in Montpellier yesterday, a gorgeous sunny day, and we drove an hour and a half north to Isabel Huggan's beautiful house, Le Mas Blanc near Tornac, where she offers a writing retreat and editing services for lucky writers who go there. We had a long walk through her property while she and Mme. Blin discussed writers they like and do not, and I listened to birdsong and smelled the sweet air of spring.

Have not downloaded my own shots yet - this is Isabel's, the usual hideous shot of me. Some people smile, I grimace.

We had strawberry shortcake while admiring her artworks from around the world, and set off home in the early evening. After a simple supper, we watched an animated film, Dililly à Paris, that Lynn bought that morning - absolutely gorgeous, funny, moving, tender, with stunning art - real views of Paris in the 19th century with the characters transposed in front.

And then a night on the very comfortable sofa. Now - in the gloom and rain - onward. To BROOZ and Italy!

PS/ We finally had an announcement - the train is now 1 hour 10 minutes late. I think he said it hit an animal. A big groan in the waiting room. My feet are freezing. Life is always interesting. Glad to share it all with you.

strolling the narrow streets

Again, a quick post as I'm drooping. I slept late this morning, which was a great blessing, so it was a slow day. Madame Blin and I did what we love to do - talk, eat, drink, shop. We went to Galeries Lafayette which was having a SALE - sales are rare in France and very worthwhile - and managed a few small bargains, including a warm bright pink scarf and a lovely blue nightdress my friend bought me as last year's Xmas present.

I have to constate - a satisfying French word for which there's no satisfying English equivalent - state, I guess - that the French are all amazingly well and tastefully dressed. Even the very old and the very young, even the angry, revolutionary youth and even, yes, some of the homeless, seem to be well dressed. Walking around is surreal, thinking of what a city street in Toronto looks like; here, it looks as if every person has been styled to step out of a magazine. It's the men who get me, with their little scarves, their stylish glasses and shoes, their pants that fit. This afternoon, I saw a very old woman in a long skirt, sneakers, a little top, a terrific bag - something you do not see chez nous, malheureusement.

We returned for lunch prepared by M. Blin: lentils with carrots and chicken, followed of course by salad and cheese and fruit; these people eat so healthily, it's mind-boggling. They almost never eat take-out or in restaurants, they just cook delicious healthy meals twice a day. God bless.

Then Madame and I went for a long walk around town in the sun. She and I, we discovered again, have very different tastes in many things - in literature, for example: she has little time for non-fiction and I for fiction. But we laugh, oh my god, we laugh. And we remember. 52 years of friendship - a treasure.

Following Madame up the medieval streets -

- a cathedral rebuilt in the 17th century

the ubiquitous alleys of plane trees

Dinner: white asparagus in vinaigrette and chicken breasts in a cream sauce. With Cotes de Rhone and followed by cheese. Meal prepared by Madame in 15 minutes, while Monsieur and I discussed why I liked H is for Hawk and he did not, and why we both loved Elena Ferrante but Lynn did not. Fascinating.

I am snug in my hotel for the last night; tomorrow I'll spend my last night in Montpellier on my friends' sofa. Never before have I been so extravagant in my travels - five nights in a hotel. It's reasonable and the breakfasts are enormous, but still, it's money I never used to spend. But it's heaven - privacy, bothering no one, doing my own thing. Like now.