Mediterranean Miscellany

It was properly labeled an Interlude, this week-long idyll cruising the Mediterranean, with daily dalliances at Pompeii (via Port of Naples), Cefalu (via Port of Palermo), Lucca (via Port of Lerici), St. Paul-de-Vence (via Port of Nice), Aix-en-Provence (via Port of Marseilles), and Barcelona -- but I seized upon the title above not only for its alliterative effect but also because these random musings (while lengthy) will hardly be exhaustive. Its felicity was further confirmed when I shared it with my clever and pun-acious traveling companion, CCS, who, breaking out into her signature beaming smile, instantly rechristened it "Mediterranean Mussolini" -- thereby coining a classic double entendre.

As fate would have it, midway through the trip, in the picturesque lakeside village of Torre del Lago, where the famous opera composer, Giacomo Puccini, lived for sixty-four years, we stumble upon a curious celebration honoring the early achievements of the Italian Air Force -- which was birthed in the days of the Fascist dictator. Idling in the town square, gazing out over the placid waters at the vague outline of another Puccini residence perched atop a distant hillside, sipping cappucino in an outdoor cafe, watching the uniformed band members hoist their instruments, we are roused from our tranquility by first the sound, then the sight, of two waves of vintage single-engine aircraft soaring overhead, a prelude to the unveiling of a prominent stone memorial and some incomprehensible speechmaking.

After this interlude, so to speak, we amble a couple of blocks to Puccini's home, now a museum, where I conclude that this creator of timeless musical works in a genre which sadly remains a mystery to me was the equivalent of a contemporary rock star. Strikingly handsome, impeccably groomed, universally admired, he accumulated substantial wealth during his lifetime, mainly from his writings but also from his endorsements of various consumer products, particularly cigarettes, which he is reputed to have smoked at the rate of one hundred per day. An avid sportsman, he loved to hunt, fish, or just motor around his formerly grand estate in one of the fifteen automobiles he owned (one at a time), including the first in Italy, according to the on-site expert.

During a week replete with sweet-and-sour surprises, these are typical.

The first comes before we have even left the States.

It always helps to read the directions, and I am notorious for failing to do so -- once having to dismantle a car-top carrier after three tortuous hours of manual labor upon discovering the omission of a critical part. But wouldn't you think that a cruise advertised from June 1st to June 10th would require you to arrive at your port of embarkation a day early -- May 31st? If so, you would be wrong, since flights from the U.S. to European cities normally leave in the late afternoon and arrive on the morning of the following day -- with a time loss of six hours.

So while CCS and I depart Lynchburg on May 30th and arrive in Rome (via Atlanta) on the 31st, our ship doesn't sail from Civitavecchia until the afternoon of June 2nd, June 1st being the date all attentive passengers are flying from the States to arrive in Rome the next morning for easy transport from the airport to the ship.

Alas, stranded two days in Rome, which some have described as the most beautiful city in the world. What to do?

First, get a room -- which travel-savvy CCS skillfully reserves online for us for a very reasonable $150 a night at the Massimo d'Azeglio, named after the famous 19th century statesman, painter, and writer, who served as a minister to Camillo Cavour during the period of Italian Unification -- the only fact I recall from the massive telephone book of suggested reading for this trip, "The Middle Sea," by John Julius Norwich, six hundred pages of microscopic print, senseless bloodshed, diabolical politics, and impenetrable monarchies. (For example, in 1734, Charles Duke of Parma took the Sicilian crown from the Austrians and became Charles VII and V. In 1754, he became King Carlos III of Spain and resigned Sicily and Naples to his younger son, who became Ferdinand III of Sicily and IV of Naples, and later Ferdinand I of the Two Sicilies.) But more on that later.

Our Google map indicates that this hotel is, of course, on Via Cavour, not far from the Rome Termine, from which we emerge after a one-hour train ride from the airport, hot and tired, dragging our suitcases (thankfully, they were the new four-wheel models). We turn right and begin to trudge uphill in what appears to be the right direction. A stampede of speeding automobiles with frenzied Italians riding herd bursts from an underpass, blocking our path, and so unnerves us that we succumb to the imprecations of an animated cab driver.

His responses to my two queries "How much?" and "How far?" -- "seventeen, eighteen euros . . . three kilometers" -- prompt me to examine the map again, and when he takes off in a direction opposite to the way we were walking, my festering suspicions erupt like a mosquito bite, but now we're in the cab, and it's just too oppressive to protest through the language barrier. Our glib host treats us to a whirlwind tour of the city, darting along back streets to avoid congestion, whisking by the Colosseum and hordes of sightseers, pointing out preparations for an upcoming holiday parade, until, ten minutes later, he ceremoniously deposits us at the door of the Massimo d'Azeglio -- for exactly seventeen euros. And I even have the temerity to give him twenty, in remuneration for his pleasant running commentary.

Four hours later, after a much-needed nap, we emerge from our hotel to investigate our surroundings. We walk half a block up Via Cavour to the nearest intersection, look to our right, and see looming ahead a monolithic, angular, glass-and-stone structure fronted by a traffic circle, a squadron of buses, and hundreds of scurrying pedestrians. While I prefer to postpone the inevitable revelation to another day, my inquisitive companion has no such reluctance. "Come on, Marc," she says, yanking my arm. "That looks a lot like the Termine."

There's a sucker born every minute. (It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last.)

We console ourselves with room service the next two mornings -- at no extra charge. Having sipped enough espresso (which you get when you order "coffee" or "cafe") after day one, I specify "coffee with hot milk" for breakfast number two -- only to find delivered to our door two pitchers of the thick steaming liquid, one for my coffee and one for my cereal. Not wanting to waste a good bowl of corn flakes, I pour some on and dig in. Now, I regularly enjoy instant oatmeal with milk nuked in the microwave, but hot cold cereal is a delicacy too soggy for my palate; those hapless flakes wilt on contact.

CCS is justly proud of bargain she got on a digital camera, procured two days ago at Office Max, for a mere $111, until, thirty pictures later, while we are resting in front of the Colosseum, she takes aim, fires -- and the battery expires; sadly, the charger is 5000 miles away. A long trek home through a commercial district, our eyes peeled for a Foto Shop, finally nets us a universal charger for thirty euros -- forty dollars.

At least we have the presence of mind not to take a cab back to the Termine, or tip the pesky vagrant, who, buzzing around me like an hungry horsefly, tries to instruct me in the finer points of purchasing a train ticket -- in broken English yet.

A few hours later, after rendezvousing with our fellow travelers at the Airport Hilton, we find ourselves aboard our luxury liner, the 100-passenger Corinthian II -- although on this voyage there will be only 75, thereby assuring us exceptional service from the 71-member crew. Having opted for the lowest deck -- at the lowest rate -- I am naturally -- but needlessly -- apprehensive about the quality of our accommodations.

Our spacious suite features a king-size bed, two portholes, a loveseat, an occasional chair, a vanity, a television, a wardrobe, lots of drawers, and a commodious bathroom well-stocked with fragrant soaps, shampoos, and gels. It's handsomely decorated in royal blue upholstery and carpeting and faux walnut paneling, and offers such amenities as proximity to the infirmary and dining room -- both are on the same deck -- and more stability in rough seas (although on our last night, when the ship is docked in Barcelona, we are kept awake by its incessant rocking against a rubber bumper and the consequent emission of the loudest flatulence I have ever heard).

Other inconveniences are minor. The DVD player doesn't work, thus foiling our viewing of two movies we check out from the ship's library, chosen for their appropriate subject matters, wine ("Sideways") and food ("Julie and Julia"); and the shower is cold (it does warm up) while the sink is hot, scalding hot, which I discover the next morning when, attempting to ingest my daily dose of Metamucil, I empty two packages into a small glass and turn on the tap. In case you've never tried it, scalding hot water turns Metamucil into a viscous orange blob, and evokes from CCS paroxysms of laughter, once she overcomes her initial disgust.

No sooner are we unpacked and comfortably ensconced in our new quarters, dreamily contemplating our first glass of wine and dinner aboard ship, than we are jolted from our reverie by a jangling three-bell alarm and a magisterial voice booming over a loudspeaker. It's our Travel Dynamics Tour Director, Tana, the Swedish taskmaster, whose guttural "Gut mornings . . Gut afternoons . . . and Gut evenings," followed by some very precise instructions concerning our next activity -- departure time, bus route, weather conditions, amount of walking involved -- become, in a few days, too easily mimicked.

In this case, she is asking us to search our cabins for some poor woman's lost luggage (it is never found) and alerting us to a mandatory evacuation drill. CCS insists on donning her life jacket in the cabin in open defiance of Tana's orders, for which I facetiously reprimand her, only to have the tables turned when, during the drill, I fail to locate my tie straps. (Fortunately, the ship stayed afloat.)

Cruises can be relaxing diversions -- when you're on the ship, dining, drinking, socializing, and sleeping. They can also be rigorous -- especially when sponsored by Washington and Lee University, as this one is, and crammed with orchestrated excursions. Although these are by no means mandatory, the persistence with which they are promoted leaves the conscientious traveler hungover with guilt (and the uneasy notion that he may not be getting his money's worth) should he be so audacious as to abstain.

Our cultural conditioning and continuing edification are further assured by the presence on board of three guest lecturers -- L. C., retired Washington and Lee history professor, F. M., author of the bestselling "Under the Tuscan Sun" and an alumna of Randolph-Macon Woman's College, and M. F., curator at the Art Institute of Chicago -- and three operatic professionals -- a pianist, a tenor, and a soprano -- who will be performing five one-hour concerts during the trip.

Professor C. is renowned for his exquisite erudition, irreverent intellectualism, extemporaneous expositions, multiple martinis, aura of authority, and bridge-playing acumen. While he romps through one thousand years of Sicilian, Provencal, and Aragonese history in three riveting hours, dropping along the way such lexical pearls as maladroit, bucolic, and satrapy, we learn that feeble Sicily changed owners more times than Poland, that the Austrian Hapsburgs rallied their subjects to celebrate their every defeat, that the Spanish Bourbons were no less incompetent, and even more cruel, and that, in the words of Somerset Maugham, the once-glamorous French Riviera has degenerated into "a sunny place for shady people."


Trying to impress Professor C., I parade my diligence in tackling the voluminous "Middle Sea," to which he tartly retorts, "Oh, I didn't recommend it; I never would. It hardly touches on the places we're visiting," leaving me crestfallen. (It turns out this monstrosity was the brainchild of R. F., Director of Special Programs for Washington and Lee.)

As for the shore excursions, after the first few days, they assume a numbing monotony, as seventy adults (a fitting number, since most are over that age; CCS and I are among the youngest) are herded like cats on and off buses; endure long rides to and from the ports, interminable traffic jams in congested city streets, and miraculous maneuvers in spaces designed for microcars and scooters; walk, walk, walk through the narrow, stone-cobbled corridors of medieval towns; tread reverently into the cavernous chambers of centuries-old churches of Romanesque, Baroque, and Gothic design (I still don't know the difference); gaze respectfully at magnificent frescoes, tender madonnas, and stark crucifixes; shuffle through museums of ancient sculpture and modern art; and explore twisting alleys lined with shops, galleries, and cafes, lingering for an occasional memento, coffee, or gelato.


Since my trip to Egypt four years ago, a new technology has revolutionized the guided tour industry -- remote handsets. Simply attach the receiver to your belt; stick your ear through a plastic loop (not so simple); flip one dial on, the other to channel one, two, three, or four; and, presto, your fearless leader, like a thoroughbred released from the starting gate, is off and running, for two or three uninterrupted hours -- unless some annoying static intrudes, sparked by a sequestered cell phone, which our guide that day, Patricia, vigorously denies possession of, until tour director Brian insists on searching her purse and produces the rude culprit.

These characters are a special breed. They religiously abide by their first commandment: let there be no moment of silence -- even when most of their weary audience are desperate to snatch a nap on the bus ride home. Their reservoir of information is bottomless; it gushes forth as if from an uncapped fire hydrant, while we strive to capture a few rivulets with our tiny straws. Their repertoire of tangential tales is inexhaustible, one leading to another, like passageways through an endless maze.

Dare I say it? Their brilliance rivals our professor's, since it's not just history they have mastered -- ancient, medieval, modern, local, provincial, national -- but also art, architecture, archaeology, agriculture, economics, religion, and politics. For us, of course, their articulations are all English (Who knows what other languages they speak?), in which they are remarkably fluent, although occasionally one is reminded of presidential diction by a malapropic construction (a la George W. Bush) or a plethora of "uhs" between sentences (a la Barack Obama).

Our guide in Cefalu, Gabrielle, tosses out American colloquialisms like a robotic batting practice pitcher. Not as tolerant of the Sicilian Mafia as Professor C. -- who characterized it as a shadow government -- he launches into a thirty-minute diatribe in response to an impromptu question on the subject. Referring to Sicilian subjugation under a succession of inept rulers and the disillusionment of so many broken promises, he entertains us with such pithy moralizations as "The devil you know is preferable to the devil you don't"; "Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me"; and "After the trick, the game is up."

Similarly, our guide in Lucca, Vincienzo, in discussing that town's embattled past, invokes the memory of his father, who taught him "to come home with two black eyes, not one," and that "it's better to live one day as a lion than one thousand as a lamb."

Inundated by a tsunami of facts and figures, we salvage a few precious nuggets.

Although the smothering of Pompeii under fifty feet of volcanic ash in 79 A.D. was a disaster for its twenty thousand inhabitants, its ruins are a boon for the twentieth century Italian economy, drawing 2.5 million visitors a year. During the process of excavation, one archaeologist discovered hollow pockets with bits of human and animal remains, and was foresighted enough to fill them with plaster, thus preserving the forms of the decomposed bodies, many in their death throes. Another highlight is the brothel, easily located, since carved stone penises on a wall and road point the way. "Just follow the erection for the direction," quips one comedian, while I whisper in CCS's ear: "If you have an erection lasting two thousand years, see your physician."


The medieval town of Lucca -- the birthplace of Puccini -- is memorable to me not for the two churches we visit -- ho hum -- but for the fifty-foot wide wall -- built with two million bricks in the 16th century -- which encircles it. Formerly a bastion for defense, today its five-mile circumference is capped with a paved promenade for walkers, joggers, and cyclists and lined with shade trees and park benches.

Vincienzo points out some ancient graffiti and quotes a Roman historian, who wrote, "You can judge the intelligence of the people by the scribbling on the walls." He also informs us that, after conquering the area, Napoleon appointed his sister Elisa -- his ugliest sister -- "Queen of Etruria." She governed from Lucca and became a capable administrator, imposing taxes on the wealthy and converting monasteries into hospitals and convents into schools.

A refreshing change of pace -- unfortunately, it comes on the last day -- is La Boqueria, the Barcelona Farmers' Market -- a sprawling canopied football field planted in the middle of the city. Its narrow aisles are packed with stalls of every foodstuff imaginable -- colorful, exotic fruits and vegetables bursting with sweetness; whole tuna, dolphin, flounder, and salmon lying in state, ready to be deboned and sliced; hogs and piglets staring back at you with ghastly grins; lobsters and clams crawling across beds of ice. CCS is repelled by some indigenous gray-green shellfish, especially when she hears how they are caught: by women suspended over cliffs on ropes held by their husbands.


By then, CCS and I are suffocating from programmatic overload, a surfeit of bus rides, museums, and churches, and an allergic reaction to name tags and earphones. That afternoon we pass on the Gaudi Temple and the Picasso Museum. In Nice, we forgo the Matisse Museum and set off on our own, winding our way through a neighborhood of luxury stores until we emerge in a vast, open pedestrian plaza, where we relax in an outdoor cafe, enjoy a pastis (my first), and admire the scenery.

CCS is familiar with Aix-en-Provence, having vacationed there twice before, and can't wait to exit the bus (which circles the town in order to show us a Cezanne vista -- and gets hung up in a traffic jam), discard our colleagues, and embark on some serious shopping. Since we look so purposeful, two of them accost us. "Do you know where you're going?" they ask. Yes, we think, but it's not to Cezanne's studio or the Musee Granet, so we point them back towards the tour group.

Tana advises us to rendezvous for lunch at L'Aixquis, and almost gets into an altercation with our guide Delores when she corrects her by naming L'Amphitryon. "The program says L'Aixquis," says Tana. "But that's not possible," says Delores. "It closed last week."

At L'Amphitryon, I taste another delicacy for the first (and hopefully the last) time: cold melon soup spiced with pate, which, as I look around, most other diners have not yet acquired a taste for either. I compliment our waitress on her excellent English. "Thank you," she says. "I'm from England."

Later, our determined shopping yields a stunning silver-gold necklace for CCS and two gift packages of callisons -- the famous Provencal pastry -- which, contrary to the American way, the local purveyors allow you to sample only after you have made your purchase. But a flashy bathing suit in pink with blue rabbits is a little too pricey at 130 euros. (How often would I wear it?)

Abandoning our fellow travelers is nothing personal. Because one of the unanticipated pleasures of a trip like this is the opportunity to meet and enjoy new friends. For eight days, seventy-five individuals, mostly unknown to each other, come together in a confined environment and interact -- at cocktail parties, on buses, on walking tours, and at open-seated meals. (With good company, fine wine, and five glorious courses, it's like attending a dinner party every night.)

While I am tempted to refer to this assortment as eclectic, the inaptness of that adjective is manifest in an innocuous question posed to me one evening by I. S., a short, rotund, cheerful woman in her mid-eighties, who can best be described as a trooper; wielding a cane taller than she is, she struggles gamely up and down hills and steps, never losing her composure or her smile. "Are you retired? Are you in financials?" she asks, two questions in one, since one answer in the affirmative would have applied to eighty per cent of the (male) passengers.

Including the tall, courtly S. M., one of only three Washington and Lee alumni (including myself) on this Washington and Lee sponsored trip. Like so many others, S. uses the availability of a virgin audience to share his favorite story, one which particularly appeals to me, a sympathetic non-golfer.


At the tender age of twenty-six, young S. was assigned by his boss at Chemical Bank to substitute for him at a prestigious charity golf tournament. Borrowing some wooden clubs and a pair of weather-beaten shoes from his father-in-law, S. showed up and was astonished to find himself in a foursome with three big bank executives, all scratch golfers, one of whom was Hootie Johnson, later President of Augusta National. Striding boldly to the tee, S. informed his partners that, "The good news is that Chemical Bank has $10 billion in assets; the bad news is that I've never played golf before." How did S. end up in this illustrious group? A week prior, an organizer had called him and asked him what his handicap was. S.'s innocent reply, "What's a handicap?" had been interpreted to mean that he played without a handicap. S. handled his predicament with grace, courage, and a little luck; he won a hair dryer for his wife by hitting a ball closest to the pin.

The other Washington and Lee alumnus, M. M., is a charming, country-smart raconteur whose artificial voice box hardly inhibits him from regaling us with countless tales from his salad days roaming the backwaters of south Texas peddling municipal bonds, owning and selling three investment firms along the way -- while his demure, elegant wife, J., a published poet, eyes him adoringly, as if she is hearing it all for the first time.

M. detests modern art, and his wit is brazenly on display the morning we visit the Maeght Museum in St. Paul-de-Vence. The red, white, and yellow cylindrical shape that greets us he likens to a "rotten apple," although it looks more like a banana to me. He implores J. to photograph an odd human metal figure boasting an erect penis, but says, "I know she won't." He points to a clownish green face spouting water into a pool, and says, "He ate something that didn't agree with him," and indoors to a painting which, he says, his "grandson did when he was four." He imagines inviting some friends to a party at his home in home in Houston for a slide show, but says he'll have to chain them to their chairs.

Other travelers don't seem be having nearly as much fun. A friend of ours plucks another juicy pun from a low-hanging vine when he renames the Elderhostel group, "Elderhostile," in honor of one sourpuss who wears a permanent scowl on his face, regularly elbows people aside in his haste to get off the bus, and rudely commands his waiter, "Give me some wine."

CCS tags an imperious, gray-haired woman HM, for "High Maintenance," which I correct to "Her Majesty." On a lavish breakfast buffet displaying ten varieties of fruit, eight of cereal, eggs, bacon, sausage, and a tasty assortment of rolls, bread, and pastry, she finds nothing to suit. Weary of sightseeing, she wants to retreat to the bus for an hour and asks if the driver can turn on the air conditioning. None of Tana's exceedingly explicit instructions is thorough enough to forestall a question from her.

Throughout all this, a wonderful staff continues to delight and entertain us. After two days, the waiters know our names, although, one Manny -- Manuel by the time we reach Spain -- mangles mine into "Mr. Skewel." Another, Danny, amuses CCS when he calls me Mr. CCS when I forget my "Skewel" name tag. Mr. White becomes Mr. Green or Mr. Red or Mr. Brown, depending on the shirt or tie he is wearing.

Under the watchful eye of the maitre de, Gabor the Happy Hungarian -- who engages in mindless conversations with no one in particular, sprinkled with "goody-goody's" and "yummy-yummy's" -- these efficient fellows unfold our napkins and lay them in our laps, swiftly replace our table settings after every course, and never let our wine glasses fall below half full.

The meals they deliver are exquisite, the presentations works of art. The final night's is the piece de resistance -- a serendipitous celebration of dual birthdays, CCS's and D. M.'s (S. M.'s wife), featuring escargot (five of them, seasoned to perfection, each in its own pocket in a specially designed bowl), lobster tail (of course, there are options, beef, pasta, or vegetarian, but the vote at our table is unanimous), and baked alaska, of which I grudgingly eat two portions (mine and CCS's) plus birthday cake a la mode. But who's counting calories? At this point, our only recourse is to follow the lead of our friend, K. V.; he's having his mouth wired shut when he gets home.



Which is where we are soon headed, after bidding a bittersweet farewell to the Corinthian II, to our transitory friendships, and to the crew that has served us so well. Like other vacations (unless you are retired, from financials) this enchanting escape from reality -- which two weeks ago stretched endlessly before us -- now must end, transformed into a fading moment in time, to be summoned on special occasions from the depths of memory by the lively interest of family and friends, by a catalogue of images faithfully digitalized, and by this humble record of Mediterranean miscellany.