WHY TRIESTE?

 There are a multitude of reasons why Trieste ranks high on my list of European cities to visit. 

The Adriatic and all it yields. 

The city’s ancient historical treasures.

The gorgeous statue-featured piazzas.  

The splendid mix of neo-classical, eclectic, and art nouveau architecture that give the city its grandeur.

 THE ART 

                              The gastronomical   delicacies!

The city's night mood. 

         Easy day trips to the historical towns of  Pula Croatia, and Piran Slovenia. 

A drive to the nearby mountains of Slovenia and a visit to its unique, medieval pirate’s castle built into a cave.

Trieste’s citizens.

 

And the highlight of my winter visit...

CARNIVAL!

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       On one of my many walks to Trieste's center I began to notice children of all ages gathered around the fountain in the Piazza Unita d’Italia cavorting about in their animal costumes, their darling faces appearing through a mound of fur, whiskers drawn above their little mouths, the tips of their noses painted with a bright red circle.  Even babies in strollers were in costume, their mothers often dressed to match.  It was a sight to behold, and I was the lucky spectator, but for the moment I was unaware of the significance of the costumes. 

     


One morning during a visit to the neighboring village of Muggia, I discovered that it was the beginning of Carnival in Italy; a time to put on your most outrageous costume

and hide your real identity behind a mask.  I had always wanted to witness the spectacle of Carnival in Rio, but to have it served up Italian style was an unexpected surprise. And what I was about to experience was an artistic extravaganza that would last for five days and nights in the squares of Muggia and Trieste. 

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       The fishing village of Muggia with its Venetian style old town is only a twenty minute drive from Trieste; forty minutes if you take bus #20 from the central station. 

       I took the bus that afternoon, now quite experienced at validating my ticket in the machine that clicked its approval as it took another little bite out of the edge.  During the ride I enjoyed looking out the window to witness life going on at the edge of the city.

     As I walked out of Muggia’s bus station I saw that the streets were crowded with vendors. It was an outdoor market day, and since it was on the way to the old town and I had nothing but time, I moved casually along the aisles of assorted clothing and wares arranged in neat piles, the clothing on hangers overhead waving in the breeze.  If I showed the slightest interest I was immediately approached by a Chinese vendor pitching me in Italian and hoping to earn a few of my Euros. Farther down, the less insistent Italians, more preoccupied with conversing amongst themselves with their characteristic hand waving, were selling their produce and homemade jams.  Once I passed the stalls I walked through the old stone archway into the ancient town of Muggia where I found myself taking a giant step back in time. 

        I proceeded along the sun-deprived lanes to a square with a lovely white church, continuing down a narrow walkway passed a colorful vegetable stand, 

and crossed the road at the end of a harbor where some fishermen, back from their morning at sea, were busy removing the leftover pieces of fish bait from their nets. 

It was so picturesque there with the small outboard boats huddled together at the end of a canal, the sun-lit tower of the medieval castle on the hill and the rows of brightly painted buildings reflected in the calm water, while seagulls squawked and circled overhead intent on capturing tthe stray pieces of fish that got tossed into  the water, the smell of fresh fish and the ocean all around me.  It was difficult to leave and I wanted to plant myself on one of the many benches that sat along the wharf.  But I tore myself away, for the back streets of the old Venetian town waited to be discovered by this curious explorer.

       

I began my tour taking a long set of stone stairs that led up to the castle. At the top I stopped to take in the beautiful views; one of the harbor with its tall mast sailboats that stood out against the blue waters of the Adriatic;

the other of  the red tiled rooftops where the church clock tower shot through  and chimed out the hour,  

       I

It was particularly fascinating for me wandering through the maze of walkways in the shadow of the old multi-story buildings, wondering if  Giovanna might have come here… perhaps to visit a friend, or maybe even a relative. Everywhere was quiet with only an occasional pedestrian passing by, the smell of Italian food drifting down the corridors. I found myself going back in time and visualizing the Venetian citizens leaning out of their windows to talk to a neighbor, their voices echoing down the corridor, their conversations easily heard by all those around them.  

        Every walkway had a familiar feel, owing in part to its similarity to Venice, the birthplace and home of my grandparents until they immigrated to America in the early nineteen hundreds.  John and I had spent two days walking the streets of Venice a year or so prior, and with the help of our GPS had found the street near the Grand Canal my grandfather had listed on an old passport as an “address in Venice.”    

   

         After talking with various people I learned that in centuries passed the Republic of Venic controlled the regions along the Adriatic as far south as Zadar, Croatia.  The similarity to Venice could readily be seen in the layout of Muggia’s narrow streets and in its copycat architecture.  I viewed it as a small and much quieter version of Venice, built on solid ground instead of timbers imbedded in the sea like its counterpart.

      

Not only was it a wonderful place to pass away an afternoon, it was also helping me to have a better understanding as to why I felt such a magnetic pull to Croatia’s Adriatic, and coastal Slovenia’s old Venetian town of Piran (another of Trieste’s neighbors.) During a visit to Piran some seven years earlier, and again on the most recent visit, I had a strange and inexplicable emotional experience as I stood on the platform in  Piazza 1 Maggio (first of May) and began to cry uncontrollably.  Why?

       
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       Later that afternoon and on into the evening families in costume came to celebrate the opening day of carnival.

         

The once empty and quiet square that had sounded only with church bells now rang with the laughter of children and lively music, and it rained with the confetti everyone was tossing into the air. 

         They were so adorable, those little lions and leopards and cows and bears and bees and bunnies and fairies, running, acting out their parts, squealing their delight, dragging their tails behind them.  It was a collection of beautiful little faces filled with wonder and I was darting about the crowd hoping to capture their expressions with the camera.  But attempting to photograph a child in motion is like photographing a fast moving train! 

 

 

 

       That was my first experience with what carnival had to offer.  There were still four days to go!   Stay tuned for the finale.     

     

    

     

       

CORRI! CORRI!

       The words, corri, corri, kept sounding over and over in my head.  What did they mean?  What was their significance?  Why now in Trieste?  Why so insistent?  I could not recall hearing those words before…at least not in recent history.  So who or what was behind them?   The voice said, don’t ignore it.  Corri!  Corri!  They came, again, and again.

~

        Lucilla does not know a stranger.  She would address a lamp post and learn of its makings if it would answer her back. 

So when the two young women came over to share the magnificent views seen from the S. Giusto Castle, seated high on a hill above the city, Lucilla, immediately engaged the Italian girl---who, like myself, was busy snapping pictures-- in conversation. From the background I could hear her sharing the details of my journey and her enthusiasm over my blog.  This sparked the interest of both women who moved into our space to share their story. “We were members of a philanthropic group established by the European Union who met, became close friends, and worked together on a project in Ireland a while back,” the blond girl said. 

Like kindred spirits reunited, we momentarily put our ambitions of sightseeing and picture taking aside to exchange some mutual philosophical views; and what better place to feel the inspiration of the moment then beside the gate of a late fifteenth century castle with its detached courtyard of ancient ruins.

      Later that evening, Polona, the young Slovenian woman, set the kitchen bar in my apartment with three place settings while, Simona, the young Italian woman ---affectionately referred to by her friend as “Mama Mia”—stood behind the stove preparing our wonderful pasta meal, and I the fresh mozzarella and tomato salad.            

        It’s difficult to put into words the magic of such an encounter, other than to say that we all felt a common bond, and that our paths had been destined to cross.  Later, I would discover that I had found another angel in Trieste who would play an important role in my journey. 

      ~

       The next morning I met my new friends/soul mates in town for a prearranged trip to the “white fairy tale” castle of Miramare. Still suffering with the hangover from our late night talk, we stopped first at a coffee bar for an espresso to help jump start the morning.

     Simona, now our interpreter, was standing in front of the glass door that protected the bus driver from the passengers, chatting with him in Italian about the castle stop. Ten minutes later we were standing in front of a stone wall looking for the entrance (a short cut according to the bus driver) to the castle grounds.  But all we found was a locked gate. ‘Guess we have to walk back down to the castle,’ Simona said to her bewildered followers.

       Luckily, the long coastal walks in Baska Voda, and now in Trieste, had conditioned me for the strenuous walk we were about to make back to the castle--two plus miles worth to be exact, on a narrow and uneven path along the same road the bus had just traveled.  It seemed our brilliant bus driver--who passed us on his way back down the hill some time later, and looked with surprise in our direction-- had given us bum information.  An hour plus later my phone was vibrating in my purse from the incessant calls from Lucilla, who was cooling her heels at the castle grounds wondering where we were.

          It seemed with each step as if the uninspiring walk and the roar of the traffic sounding in my ears would never come to an end. 

      Finally, to my relief, we arrived at the road that entered the castle grounds where we began our quarter mile coastal walk watching as its outstanding headland feature grew nearer with each step.  This time it was Simona’s phone ringing and she was explaining in Italian to a very impatient, Lucilla, the details of our unfortunate circumstance. 

      The views along the coast were stunning and begged for the lens of the camera.

     I had to stop and soak up the beauty of it all: The families of sea gulls gathered on the rocks, others competing with the pigeons for a spot on a sea wall,

the mansions that shared the coast, the sound only of the sea splashing against the shore, the outline of ships dotted against the horizon.  I had missed those sights and sounds and wanted to linger in the calm of it, only making for a longer delay while poor Lucilla stood in the cold wind waiting to present me with her latest surprise.

         At long last we entered an arbor that led to the castle grounds where an anxious, Lucilla, was standing next to two young women and waving at us in recognition. She could hardly contain her excitement as she approached me holding up a business card, sparing the greetings to share her news.  “I want to introduce you to these two Mormon missionary girls that I have met while I was waiting for you.  They told me that they can help you find your Venetian family. More of the destiny,” she added.  My self-appointed advocate had once again rounded up two total strangers and inspired them, as she had the girls the day before, with stories of my journey while tempting them with a visit to my blog   And just as she had sparked the enthusiasm of my companions, Simona and Polona, so had she done with the missionaries who were now all too eager to have the Mormon Church assist me in my search.  But for now, I had Miramare in my sights and the perfect tour guide alongside. The Mormon Church would have to wait until a more opportune time.  

       I walked along the walled terraces and over the age-worn marbled floors of the fairytale castle while Lucilla created another mood with stories about Trieste’s history, stopping along the way to capture in perpetuity the coastal panoramas and the windswept sea charging against the rocks below.

Miramare was, I thought, a beautifully preserved castle that spoke to an era of elegance and great wealth,   and in its surround of nature one felt an atmosphere of peaceful serenity. Who could not be happy in such a magical place? 

When I stopped to lean over the rail and look upon a terraced garden that ultimately stepped down to the sea, Lucilla, began to dispel those romantic images with the story of the former resident’s fairy tale, a tale that ended in tragedy.   

        

 “Miramare castle was built in the year 1860 for Maximilian, the brother of the Austrian Emperor, Franz Joseph, and his wife, Charlotte of Belgium.  Four years later the couple left Trieste as, Maximilian, now facing a brilliant career, was offered the crown of emperor of Mexico.  His fate was ill-timed, however, for he was to enter the country at a time of serious internal conflict, and as a result was shot in Queretaro, Mexico, at the age of 35, never to realize his dreams.

His young wife, Charlotte, returned to Trieste to live in the empty castle, later showing signs of insanity, presumably over the loss of her husband”.

      I asked myself.  If not in a place such as this, where then does one find serenity after suffering so great a loss?  

 

~

    That evening “Mama Mia” was relieved of her cooking duties while her replacement stood behind the stove preparing our Italian style pork cutlet and risotto dinner, and Polona prepared the mozzarella and fresh tomato salad. “We’re going to make it an early night,” Polona said as she laid the slices of tomato on the plate.  I knew better, however, as early nights were impossible with the likes of our in-depth conversations, which, that final evening of our encounter, had us talking until three in the morning!  We talked about our lives, our families and loves.  Our individual stories began to unfold as the food settled nicely in our full bellies and the evening wore on. 

      I shared with them the old family documents I had brought with me, never thinking that two women of their generation would show such interest.  One such document was my great-grandmother, Pierina Monello’s, diploma (all handwritten in Italian) as a levatrice (midwife) issued by the University of Padova in 1893.  They were fascinated, not only by the heavy paper (now brown and fraying from age) upon which it was written (they were both running their fingers lovingly over the surface) but also by the decorative border surrounding the acknowledgements, and all the stamps it bore. As college educated women of the twenty-first century they also realized and pointed out the fact that it was not common in Italy for a woman of that era to go out on her own and seek an education, much less achieve so difficult an accomplishment. They even thought she may have paved the way for other women of her generation. They were building a character larger than life, and I was soaking it all up.  Simona began to interpret the somewhat difficult to read writings on the document and when she strained to read the small writing on the back side, revealed that it was in another language, probably Brazilian, and that the document also bore a Brazilian stamp. It was clear that my great-grandmother had immigrated to South America, at least for a while, and was accepted as a midwife by the Brazilian government in the year 1898.  I felt the little hairs on my arm rise with the news, the story of my immigrant family now pouring from my mouth before a captive audience of two.

      “My grandmother, Giovanna Favretto, born in Venice, Italy, also a midwife later on, was a child of seventeen when she married my grandfather.”  I paused to listen while Simona interpreted both of their marriage certificates, one from the church in Spinea (a province of Venice) dated April 16, 1894, which revealed my great-grandparents’ names on both families sides, and that the documents where issued at no cost owing to the poverty status of the recipients. 

       The girls were alternating sharing a crude magnifying glass, each one eagerly combing over the fine print on the old ship’s manifests while I continued:  “My grandfather, Guglielmo Giuseppi Abele, born in Venice, a setter of mosaic tiles, was seven years Giovanna’s senior when they married.  They both immigrated to America, grandfather in 1902 on the ship Lombardia that sailed out of the port of Genoa, Italy.”  I then showed them a picture of the ship. By now they were totally caught up in the story pouring over naturalization papers and a passport with early European stamps while I revealed more of the facts as I knew them. “Grandmother sailed a year later following the death of her mother, whom she and my grandfather may have joined at some time in South America, perhaps seeking a better life than the one of poverty they knew in Venice. I remembered my father telling me the story of his parents sailing on a ship to South America and his father describing pulling out his mother’s abscessed tooth with a pair of ordinary pliers, and no anesthetic. I grimaced at the thought. “Giovanna sailed as steerage (the lowest class, and reserved for the poor) out of Genoa, Italy, on the Princess Verona with three small children and ten dollars in her pocket”  We all paused to marvel at her courage and began to share our visions of her in Ellis Island amongst a crowd of fellow immigrants seeking entry into America.

Perhaps the girls were hoping for a happy ending as I told what I knew of the rest of the story.  “By the age of twenty-four, Giovanna, had given birth to six children…there were five boys and one girl.”  I could feel the overwhelming sadness gathering in my chest. “The little girl, Vittoria, died at twenty-two months, the  boy, Paride, at sixteen months. Giovanna died at age thirty-nine of stomach cancer.  My father had recalled how horribly she had suffered, of her final meal of a soda biscuit which he had gone to the corner store to fetch, and of her deathbed wish that would inspire him to become a physician. The oldest son, a gifted artist who had won a scholarship to a school for sculpture, and my grandfather’s namesake, would later hang himself from a tree and set his body on fire at the age of nineteen; the reason forever remaining a mystery. Thank God, she didn’t live to experience that.”  There was a final moment of silence and then I concluded with a heavy voice, “I never knew her, yet I feel a strong connection.  Is it Giovanna that continuously pulls me to the shores of the Adriatic, this place she left behind in search of a better life?  Did she indeed find a better life?  Is there something she left behind in Italy that I’ve been called to find?” 

      Simona’s large black eyes were filled with compassion. “Perhaps we’ll find something in Padova, Nanine. I promise to help you.” 

       And then I thought… there are also the two missionaries who await a call.

~

       I believe those days that we spent together helped to open these two young women up to the possibility that those areas of their life which they had believed to be true and real were, perhaps, born not of reality, but of a program or emotion that no longer fit. My message to them was to look within and listen carefully to the voice that would always lead them in the right direction; that to give up the now was to give over their power; that yesterday is a finished chapter; that tomorrow is an unknown, maybe never to be; that this moment was theirs; and to live every precious moment of it! 

    
      I would forever more cherish those three days spent with “Mama Mia,” and, Polona, from Slovenia; three souls searching; three souls connecting.

     

        In the meantime the words continued to dance in my head:  Corri!  Corri! 

  

    

    

    

    

         

        

    

       

THAT FIRST DAY IN TRIESTE WITH AN ANGEL BY MY SIDE

      Much to my surprise the bus that had just traveled over the snow covered highway through the country of Slovenia and across the mountain pass into Italy was arriving in Trieste thirty minutes ahead of schedule.  Coming off of such an intense and tiring experience, (I was awake at 4AM that morning and never took my eyes off the highway) I really looked forward to meeting, Lucilla, (Loucheella) the self-described “adventuress, writer, passionately loyal Trieste citizen, and eighty-one-years-young” internet personality who had rescued me from my homeless situation and had likened our encounter to “destiny.” 

      Once inside, I wheeled the hulk up and down the near empty bus station continuing to look for the woman with the “green shopping cart wearing a white hat and scarf,” but she was no where to be found.  Twenty minutes later I turned a corner and there she stood, alone, small in height, hanging on to the shopping cart with a gloved hand, a white angora hat covering most of her light blond hair, a white scarf tightly tied around her neck and over her chin, and a mink jacket that wrapped her in luxury. She looked past me as I approached seeming somewhat surprised as I greeted her with my very cheerful, “Good morning” and wrapped her in the same warm embrace I would extend an old friend.   

     She replied with a quick laugh through the cashmere scarf.  “You’re younger then I thought.” Then she pulled it from her chin, her blue eyes twinkling as she pointed out where the makeup had left behind a brown stain. 

      Introductions aside and without any further ado this dynamo of a woman began to lay out the plan for my morning. First on her list was the grocery store, (the reason for the shopping cart) but after taking a closer look at my suitcase she decided that we had better first rid ourselves of the burden.

        Outside the terminal I immediately felt the city’s pulse as well as a gusting wind that nearly blew me over.  “Our bus waits,” Lucilla said ignoring both obstacles and dashing across the busy lanes of traffic dragging her shopping cart and leaving me standing on the sidewalk trying to figure out how to get across with the hulk and avoid becoming an American front end on an Italian car. Wow, this eighty-one-year-old has a lot of spunk, I thought, as I watched her motioning to me from across the road. Finally there was a break in the traffic and I charged across, the hulk tilting on its wheels from the speed and threatening to take me over with it.

      Lucilla was standing guard at the wide entrance of the bus making sure that the doors didn’t close on my suitcase and leave me behind. Now safely inside, she handed me a complimentary bus ticket worth ten rides and instructions on how to validate it in the ticket machine after each use, as well as informing me of the #28 bus which would take me to her house on the upper end of the city, and where to catch it when I visited her. I could already tell that this was a woman with a plan--of which she intended me to be a player.  I tried to listen over the noise of the bus to her instructions about various grocery stores, internet keys, and points of interest, but with a weary brain I doubted if I would retain all the information. Nonetheless, I gave her my full attention.

      With one hand on the rail and another holding fast to the hulk I gazed out the window as the bus traveled in the shadow of the late eighteenth century, neo classic architecture which spoke to the city’s grandeur and history. 

On the busy side streets it passed the ever-present Chinese shops with their sidewalk displays and the contrasting upscale Italian clothing shops, promenades with outdoor cafes, a piazza featuring a stunning sculpture,

and a long canal reflecting its idling boats and domed church that marked its end.

Ladies, I was absolutely stunned by the number of women dressed in full length mink coats.  Look at this woman's fur-capped boots and hat! 

Finally, the bus exited where the Adriatic seaport met with the wide, palace-lined avenue

and its featured, jaw-dropping, Piazza‘Dell Unita D’Italia-- that magnificent square that drew me to Trieste some months earlier.

      

     

      Fifteen minutes later the bus left us off at the juncture of four merging streets.  The apartment building, #5 via Denza, was on my street. Or, as Lucilla, so affectionately put it, “Your home in Trieste.”  I quickly surveyed my surroundings observing two dominant features:

An old church she called the “Notre Dame” with a tall bell tower on one street,

and a lovely nineteenth century castle on the adjacent corner. Rainbow colored rows of tall, multi-story buildings spilled down the other streets.  It was an old and well-established neighborhood with trees and sidewalks; a place where people leaned out their tall-shuttered windows to catch a glimpse of the goings on below, and pedestrians stopped to chat with a friend on the sidewalk while they took their dogs for a walk.  As we walked the sloped sidewalk to my new “home” Lucilla apologized for the stains, passing the problem on to the excess of dogs.

      At the front entrance to #5 Denza she began instructing me on the use of the intercom, and then she handed me a ring with six keys explaining which key went to which lock. Of course she had me practice opening the somewhat reluctant locks to both the front entrance and to my apartment-- which was conveniently located at the end of the hall on the first floor.  After this student of locks figured out the secret to opening the apartment door, I stepped inside and saw that the tastefully appointed apartment was even nicer than the pictures on the internet, and as Lucilla pointed out, was completely outfitted with everything, right down to the hair cream rinse.  It had an eighties feel, was bright and spacious, had large windows in every room, and a small terrace off of the kitchen. Lucilla asked, “What is your first impression?”  I told her I felt at home. And I did. She handed me a clear plastic envelope with more instructions about the dishwasher, on/off water valves, washing machine settings, how to light the stove, safe combination, TV and VCR remotes, and so on.  By now my head was spinning with all of the instructions! Isn’t yours? It was quite apparent that my angel in Trieste had endeavored to leave me completely self-sufficient, comfortable, and with all needs met. 

        Leaving the apartment we walked down the hill and waited for the #30, which, she explained was to be my city bus from here on out;  the same bus that was about to deliver us from the quiet neighborhood, back to the bustling city center. Soon we heard the rumble of the bus and watched it squeeze around the tight corner, oncoming cars backing up to yield the space.  Inside I could not help but think how I blended right in with the other Italian ladies, my shopping cart in hand! 

  For this American born Italian, grocery shopping in Italy represented more

than just a necessity-- it was an experience worthy of time, and in a grocery store the size of PAM--that drifted with the smell of Italy as I entered its doors--- Lucilla, was doomed to an hour and a half of patient indulgence. 

      I wandered the aisles looking in awe at the giant wheels of cheeses and pie-shaped wedges of unfamiliar types, shapely homemade pastas and gnocchi, (potato pasta) salamis and processed hams suspended on hooks, cases of freshly baked breads of all sizes and shapes, (oh, the aroma) and colorful produce so artfully displayed, to include purple artichokes—none of which, by the way, could be handled without wearing a plastic glove.  I could

almost feel the caffeine rush as I inhaled the aroma of assorted Italian and Turkish coffees that lined the shelves of one aisle, and was stopped in my tracks where the shelves bled with the bright red cans of the celebrated, pomodoro (tomato.) I could smell the Adriatic’s fresh from the sea, prized scampi, octopus, mussels, baby clams, fresh fish and small sardines, all meticulously laid out on their bed of crushed ice. The gourmet in me was itching to get to the kitchen.  My mouth was watering!  I wanted it all!  But where to begin?  The shopping cart was too small. I was just too tired to choose. I had to stick to the basics for the time being and leave the delicacies for another shopping experience. I could not, though, resist a wedge of the cheese and a fresh pesto!

       Shopping cart overflowing, we waited outside on the busy street corner across from the park where we caught the bus earlier, waiting for Lucilla’s son, Ezio, to pick us up as the wind blew down its corridor in great gusts.  “Bora,” (bura in Croatian) Lucilla said hanging on to the hat the wind threatened to tear off her head and send down the street. I was no newcomer to the wind of bora having experienced it first hand in Baska Voda, which you may recall from my drive from the airport on the Dalmatian coast some months earlier.  What I didn’t know that first morning was that Trieste was in the throws of the worst bora in forty years. For ten days it would tear off roofs, cover the city with debris, overturn a tractor trailer on the wide avenue across from the Piazza Unita leaving it to lie like a huge beached whale until cranes could remove it   And, it would welcome me that first night in my new home groaning and tearing at the branches of the tree next to my terrace, continuing on into the night to howl and bang at the shutters like that same thief from Baska Voda that once demanded entry.  I could no longer fight the weariness of a strenuous and tiring day and finally gave in to sleep, closing my eyes over bora and leaving it to its devices that first night in the beautiful city of Trieste.

     ~~