Weather we should depend on the meteorologist.

All it takes a few warm, sunny February days, and people start thinking of spring. You see them buying seed packets and little potting trays.

Ah, the folly. Every year the false promise of spring dupes many of us into putting away the parka and snow shovel a few weeks too early.

Yesterday the Inland Northwest saw a resurgence of winter weather, with snow and rain across the region. Still, residents of the Palouse were not quite prepared for heavy snow that blanketed the area rapidly in the afternoon. I was sitting in a doctor’s office with my son between 3 and 4, when big snowflakes began swirling. By the time we were done with the appointment, my car was covered with nearly an inch of the stuff!

Last night, I received an e-mail on the subject, from a listener who works on the Washington State University campus in Pullman. It reads, in part:

“…I realize that we have listeners all over the area but I assume it originates here & we like to know what weather to expect. Like today, we received no warning of this, pardon the pun, ‘coldsnow’.”

This, in part, was my reply:

“...to your complaint that I did not give any warning of snow in the afternoon, let me show you the 4AM National Weather Service forecast for the Palouse, which I used to prepare my announcement:

IDZ003-WAZ033-222300-
IDAHO PALOUSE-WASHINGTON PALOUSE-INCLUDING THE CITIES OF...MOSCOW...PULLMAN
402 AM PST THU FEB 22 2007

TODAY: SNOW IN THE MORNING...THEN RAIN OR SNOW BY MIDDAY.
SNOW ACCUMULATION OF 1 TO 2 INCHES ABOVE 2500 FEET THIS MORNING. (emphasis mine.) HIGHS IN THE LOWER 40S. SOUTHEAST WIND 10 TO 15 MPH IN THE MORNING SHIFTING TO THE WEST IN THE AFTERNOON. CHANCE OF PRECIPITATION 90 PERCENT.

As you can see, there was no indication that the area would be hit hardest with snow in the afternoon. In fact, I was out with my young child when the snow began coming down hard, caught unawares as many other people were.”

I forgot to tell the listener that the updated forecast issued at 6:30AM showed no change to the forecast; that only came at 3:30PM:

IDZ003-WAZ033-231145-
IDAHO PALOUSE-WASHINGTON PALOUSE-INCLUDING THE CITIES OF...MOSCOW...PULLMAN
332 PM PST THU FEB 22 2007

TONIGHT: MOSTLY CLOUDY WITH NUMEROUS SNOW SHOWERS THROUGH EARLY EVENING...THEN SCATTERED SNOW SHOWERS. SNOW ACCUMULATION NEAR AN INCH MAINLY ABOVE 2000 FEET. LOWS IN THE MID 20S. WEST WIND 10 TO 15 MPH. CHANCE OF PRECIPITATION 70 PERCENT.

But get this: a snow advisory for the Palouse, sent at – 7PM!!!

IDZ003-004-WAZ033-230600-
/O.CON.KOTX.SN.Y.0011.000000T0000Z-070223T0600Z/
IDAHO PALOUSE-CENTRAL PANHANDLE MOUNTAINS-WASHINGTON PALOUSE-INCLUDING THE CITIES OF...MOSCOW...ST. MARIES...KELLOGG ...PINEHURST...OSBURN...WALLACE...MULLAN...PULLMAN
658 PM PST THU FEB 22 2007

...SNOW ADVISORY REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 10 PM PST THIS EVENING ABOVE 2500 FEET...

At my house just east of Moscow, the snow was pretty much done by the time that advisory was issued. Then again, I don't know what conditions were in the areas to the north of the Palouse named in the advisory, and they may well have had to deal with snowfall until 10PM. More on my reply to the Pullman listener:

“Had the weather service revised its forecast at any point during my shift (which ends at 9AM), the information would most certainly have been announced. I take this responsibility seriously, but the reality is, I am not a meteorologist; I depend on forecasts from the National Weather Service for information to relay to listeners.”

I’ve worked at Northwest Public Radio for 14 years now, and the subject of HOW to deliver weather forecasts has been a big debate the whole time. Just take a look at the size of our coverage area, and that explains part of the problem. If we had unlimited time to discuss the weather vagaries from Puget Sound to the Blue Mountains, from British Columbia to the Camas Prairie of Idaho, that would be one thing: but in radio, we have so much to say and so little time in which to do it. Live and die by the clock!

That said, many's the afternoon I've taken my dogs on a long walk, following a whole morning announcing a forecast of partly sunny skies. I've ended those afternoons drenched, shivering...and absolutely mortified.

So, the meteorologists have some ways to go toward accuracy, though I'll say they do a good job most of the time. With all their fancy satellite images and moving maps, it's hard to remember they don't control the speed and direction of a jet stream!

That being said, I am always open to comments and suggestions. REALLY.

Meantime, you can follow this link to the latest weather forecast for your area on the Northwest Public Radio website.

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Turning a La Scala Tradition on its Ear.

As I prepped for my shift this morning with the BBC World Service in the background, my ears perked up at the mention of La Scala. The host was saying the world's premiere opera house has all sorts of rules, such as: you can’t wear purple there (I wish he said why!), and no encores, except on special days.

Bear in mind, an encore in an Italian opera house is not the same as an encore in most places – that is, at the very end of the concert. Rather, their version of an encore (a French word) is called bis (the Italian word for again, as in biscotti, the twice-baked cookie.) The bis is done in the manner of an instant replay. The audience doesn’t want to wait for the very end of the opera (or even an act of the opera). So with prolonged applause, cheering and calls of “bis! bis!” the conductor picks up the aria again, and the singer pipes up - this time usually out of character. I’ve read that the bis has been requested at the end of a death scene, which entails the now-dead character resurrecting temporarily to appease audience demand, then reassuming the death pose when the opera action resumes. As I’ve noted in previous posts, ludicrousness is just one of the things that make me love opera so! But Toscanini hated the way these encores broke the flow of an opera and put a ban on the practice.

Anyway, back to this week’s breach of the 74-year old bis ban.

On Tuesday night’s performance of La Fille du Regiment by Donizetti, rising Peruvian tenor Juan Diego Florez stirred the La Scala crowd in the aria Ah mes amis that has NINE high C’s! Count them! The applause went on for four, five minutes. The conductor caved. Picked up the baton, Juan let ‘er rip – and Toscanini rolled in his grave.

The BBC talked to opera critic Michael White about the incident this morning. He’s always very entertaining. He said Juan Diego Florez has immense appeal. “He looks like Errol Flynn,” said White.



As a point of comparison, White mentioned another top-notch young tenor, the Mexican Rolando Villazon, every bit as accomplished as Diego Florez. But, White said, he's not likely to cause the same stir, because "he looks like Mr. Bean!”



You decide.


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Three Cheers for...oh wait, how do we do this properly?

When I first saw today's Morning Edition rundown and came across the piece about plans to build a cheerleader hall of fame, my first response was to roll my eyes and mutter "oh, PLEASE.". When Bruce Bradberry came in for his shift, he scoffed considerably more.

Before I joined in, I caught myself and remembered discovering there's more to cheerleading than meets the eye. I was thinking about the TV series called "Faking It." It was on a few years ago, first on BBC America, then on TLC. Individuals are given one month to transform completely--punk musician morphs into classical conductor, burger flipper steps into the role of gourmet chef, web surfer turns wave surfer, and (my favorite) sheep shearer turns hairdresser. I found the stories instructive and thoroughly entertaining.

One TLC episode threw a bookish Harvard grad student into the dizzying (tempted to say "ditzying"?) world of cheerleaders for the Atlanta Falcons. Her initial attitude was not unlike Bruce's and mine this morning - that is, barely concealing disdain. Her lack of enthusiasm and interest for cheerleading was evident, and she put in the corresponding amount of effort into her task. Needless to say, she was then forced to hear her mentor's pronouncement of disappointment, and pleas to "try harder!" "I believe in you!"

To the best of my recollection, the young woman learned just how hard it is to jump around in unison with the other women who bounded across the field with the surefootedness of mountain goats, beaming broadly from ear to ear, all the while remembering every bit of the routine and executing it perfect time. I do remember her realization, with humility, how difficult it is to do even a short routine, and not look like a complete fool. All her preconceived notions of airheads, ditzes and so on - out the window. At the end, experienced judges had to observe 4 cheerleaders, and figure out which one was the fake - and the Harvard faker successfully slid under their radar. She looked truly proud of her accomplishments in her month of faking it.

So - even knowing that cheerleading is a lot harder than meets the eye, why do so many people still maintain a whiff of scorn? I suspect it's not the activity, it's the stereotype of the people it draws. Maybe it's because the women who participate (and it is, still, largely a female activity) are so perfectly ripped, bleached and tanned that we think that's all they do, work on looking great. Maybe it's the scandals, such as the Texas mom who hired a hit man to kill a junior high school cheerleader so her daughter could get a spot on the squad. Maybe it's because those of us who just can't get excited about sports don't see the point of it all. Any thoughts to share?

I'm still learning - walk a mile in another's shoes before passing judgement. (But can't I at least roll my eyes at the kind of shoes they're wearing before slipping them on?)

At any rate, there seems to be no shortage of interest in cheerleaders/ing in popular culture. In movies, there's "Bring It On" (2000) and "The Positively True Adventures of the Alleged Texas Cheerleader-Murdering Mom" (1993), to name just a couple. And on TV, next month, a new reality series, Cheerleader Nation, returns for another season on Lifetime, billing itself a "real-life mother-daughter drama of blood, seat and tears." Rah rah rah.

Playtime in Milan!

Our first full day in Milan, we toured the Duomo, the Galleria, La Scala and viewed Leonardo's great fresco. A short stroll from Santa Maria delle Grazie, we found ourselves ready for lunch in the city.



On one of the streets we found a casual restaurant bedecked in pastels, bearing the somewhat improbable name "Playtime." When the restaurant owner saw Arianna, he beamed and directed his staff to serve us with deep-fried zucchini blossoms.





We had a very polite Chinese waiter. It was a little dissonant to be conversing with a person of my own race in Italian, in which neither of us was fluent. Yet it was the only language we had in common. The waiter spoke no English, and his Chinese dialect was not familiar to me at all. Still, we understood each other very well in Italian, and I was extremely pleased with my prawn and aritchoke risotto.

Aesthetically, though, my risotto could not measure up to the insalata di polpi, octopus salad. Blaine took this picture of his lunch:



Sidebar: If you want to really get to know octopus, I suggest you read about Miss Sueann Ramella's octo-orgy in South Korea.

Isn't that pink tablecloth gorgeous?

One other note on the Chinese in Italy: Sandi and Blaine made it to a Chinese restaurant in Genoa, where they were served breadsticks - and a sweet-and-sour dipping sauce. (When in Rome....) They ordered moo goo gai pin, but the restaurant staff couldn't decipher that! When speaking Chinese, it's all in the four tones - five tones in some dialects.

Why La Scala really is opera's highest temple.

All this drama made me remember heearing, in Milan, that there is a secret passageway between La Scala and the Duomo. Word is, Toscanini used it as a quick getaway from divas' jealous husbands!

Their domestic life must be an opera in itself.

Roberto Alagna's wife, the Romanian soprano Angela Gheorghiu, is also known for her diva displays. The New York Times writes:

"Mr. Alagna’s wife, Angela Gheorghiu, has just withdrawn from a Royal Opera production of “Don Carlo” in London next season. A company spokesman said she was “uncomfortable” with the role.

"The couple have had their problems in the past. Ms. Gheorghiu refused to wear a blond wig during a Metropolitan Opera tour of “Carmen” in Japan and was replaced by her understudy for a performance. The Met also withdrew a contract for the couple for “La Traviata,” apparently over a dispute about the set design. They have since been invited back."

I've read Roberto and Angela are called ``the Bonnie and Clyde'' of opera, and Gheorghiu has been called 'Draculette.'

But unlike Alagna, Ms. Gheorghiu is a darling of La Scala. So when her husband threatened that the both of them would withdraw from performances there, she can't have been too happy.

Wouldn't you love to be fly on their wall? Impromptu opera!

Singing backup? Do it at La Scala!

The end of the now-infamous Aida performance brought a 9-minute ovation, much of it for the man who took Roberto Alagna's place after the insulted tenor stormed off stage.

Antonello Palombi went on stage still dressed in jeans and a long black shirt. Why wouldn't an understudy have been fully prepped to step into the role at a moment's notice? Curious, don't you think?

Get this: apparently, Palombi was the third understudy in line! Was he just a lot quicker on the draw than the first understudy, was in full costume? Was #1 snoozing, and therefore losing this grand opportunity? All that press!

Three understudies - that we know of. Just how deep of a bench do they have at La Scala, anyway? And remember: the Italian government pays for 90 percent of La Scala's costs! Tickets account for only ten percent of its operating budget. No fundraising. This public radio employee is beyond green with envy!

Here's Corriere della Sera's report, in English, on the December 9th drama.

Gillian Coldsnow

And petulance at La Scala!

No tempest in a teacup, this. Tenor Roberto Alagna, singing Radames on Sunday night (December 9) just couldn't stomach the boos coming from the tough loggionisti (balcony spectators) at La Scala and stomped off the stage, leaving his leading lady to struggle through the duet by herself.

Everyone's talking about it. Even people who don't care for opera have heard about it. It seems that the diva tantrums of yore really don't happen very much these days (oh, wait, of course, there WAS Kathleen Battle) - so that this big tenor hissy fit made news all over the world.

I found a blog of an opera lover in Milan who gives all the dirt, and then some (!) on this incident and its continuing fallout. Read Opera Chic for some good old-fashioned opera-drama-behind-the-scenes!

I really love what one opera critic said on the BBC. When asked why Alagna would jeopardize his career by stomping of the stage of THE temple of opera, the critic said, "well, tenors are notoriously fragile creatures."

Gillian Coldsnow

Opening Night at La Scala!!

The La Scala season always begins on December 7th, because it's the feast day of Milan's patron saint, Ambrose.

Don't even think about trying to score tickets for the star-studded affair, which rivals any Hollywood red carpet affair.

The opening show? Possibly Italy's most beloved opera, Verdi's Aida. Director Franco Zeffirelli says it's the best production of Aida La Scala has ever seen.

THE STANDING OVATION LASTED 15 MINUTES.

Was it, as Playbill writes, "the Aida of Aidas?"

Since I couldn't be there (boo!! hisss!!!) I'm sending you to the Beeb for pictures.

Duke, duke, duke of....Milan, Milan Milan.

Above: What is distracting Sandi and Ljiljana? It was early and there were few other people in the square at that hour.

Our first full day in Italy took us to Milan's Piazza del Duomo. (Aaaaaargh!! Get those bloody pigeons off me!!) Between the ornate cathedral and the statue of Italy's king Vittorio Emmanuele, our guide for the day, Marica, gave us a primer on the city's complicated list of rulers. She pulled people from the crowd to stand in for Milanese dukes, Austrian princesses, French kings and the like, as she narrated. She had to use almost every person in the large group to get through the presentation!


Above: Marica picks Blaine to represent the first Duke of Milan.

Prada purse slung over her shoulder, Marica told us (in a wonderful Cockney accent with German and Italian inflections!) Milan was first ruled by lords from the house of Della Torre, then the lords of the house of Visconti.

To the best of my memory, the tenth Visconti ruler gave himself the ducal title, making him to Duke of Milan #1.

The son who became Duke #2 continued a legacy of cruelty, for which he was assassinated.

His brother became Duke #3. This guy had no sons, so hired a mercernary for battlefield duty. He was happy to have a good warrior on staff, and to make sure this soldier didn't freelance with other states, #3 offered his six-year old daughter in marriage. Never mind that this soldier, Francesco, was 24 years older than the child. Never mind that Francesco was already married.

To cut a long story short: #3 dies, last of his line. Buh-bye, Viscontis. Francesco marries the child, becomes Duke #4 and establishes his own dynasty. Hello, Sforzas. Your name will always be associated with Milan, and the castle Francesco builds, bearing your name, will be one of the city's best-known landmarks, the Castello Sforzesco.

And thus begins the Ambrosian Republic (named for the city's patron saint.)

Francesco's son in Duke #5. We think he poisoned his mother, a pretty tough chick who kept her finger in Milanese politics. He's nasty. He's assassinated.

The title goes to his 7-year old brother. Duke #6 obviously isn't ready for ducal duty, so his uncle does the job. #6 mysteriously dies from poisoning (oh, the rumor mill had quite a workout that year!)....

And Uncle Lodovico becomes Duke #7. He loses Milan to the French!! Then the Swiss get involved, Milan goes back to #7 - briefly. Then it goes back to the French. Then it goes to Lodovico's son....

Maximilian Sforza is Duke #8.

Thereafter, it was French rule, Spanish rule, Austrian rule, rule by the Holy Roman Empire - not necessarily in that order.

The only reason I remember as much of the history lesson as I do, was because of Marica's very lively and informed presentation - in three languages. Since our group was combined with two other groups for the morning, there were Spanish, German and English speakers, and Marica repeated each chapter effortlessly in each of those languages.

Coming from Milan with its rich multi-cultural heritage, it's no wonder its citizens, such as Marica are such accomplished multi-linguists! Arianna, also a Milanesa, speaks English, French, Spanish and Swedish, and the Milanese dialect.

Milan's colorful political history stablized (at least temporarily) under the reign of King Vittorio Emanuel II, who united Italy.



This statue of Vittorio Emanuele (Aaaaaargh!! Get those bloody pigeons off me!!) is one of the main features of the Piazza del Duomo, and the incredible Galleria that links the Duomo and La Scala piazze is also named for him.

Here are links to my earlier Milan posts:

The Duomo and Galleria

Saturday afternoon in the Piazza del Duomo

On the roof of the Duomo

Gillian Coldsnow

La Scala. It's so much more than opera.

If you've been following this blog since the beginning, you know that chief among the things that move me are opera, Puccini, food and the Italian notion of bella figura.



I found them all in my day at La Scala, followed by the performance of Massenet's Manon we attended that evening.

Here's how the whole evening played out.

We rode the subway for three short stops to the Piazza del Duomo, then strolled to La Scala with the intention of partaking in the city's tradition of aperitivo, a pre-dinner drink and snack. So into the elegant La Scala restaurant we went, right into the midst of the Milanese crowd, proudly displaying the fashion for which their city is renowned. Any time I've gone to the opera or classical concert here in the U.S., audiences are predominantly dressed in black; but here was an explosion of color, from pastels to electric blues, greens and fuschia. Teenagers to grandparents, clad in designer duds. Suits impeccably tailored. Shoes - well, they're not just Italian shoes, they're in MILAN - need I say more? They engaged in animated conversation, sipped their drinks and nibbled on olives, chips of parmigiano reggiano, grissini wrapped in prosciutto, and various other bocconcini (literally, "little bites.")

As I enjoy people-watching, the wait was not a problem. There were many multi-generational family groups, which was wonderful to see. Not so wonderful is getting elbowed. It seems waiting in line is not the best way to get service. Instead, one should be pro-active: cut the line, as the staff attends to whomever catches their attention first at the front of the counter. You watch, you learn, and then you give a little elbow yourself!

I picked up some aperitivo terminology and tips: to order a small beer one asks for un bock di birra; freshly-squeezed juice is spremuta. And my all-time favorite aperitif, Campari, is also available is a clear and slightly sweeter version. (I'll stick to the red. Some habits die hard.)

Arianna had booked tables for a post-opera dinner at a nearby restaurant named Nabucco (Would we have been humming Va, pensiero over the salad?) But the long winded and utterly self-absorbed Manon, waxing over and over about her beauty,
didn't quit her narcissistic fit till after 11:30! And Nabucco, sadly, closes at midnight...so it was back to the La Scala restaurant for dinner. We were told it was a very good restaurant, and the prices surprisingly on par with those of the surrounding eateries.

The wait staff was dressed beautifully, service was excellent and properly unobstrusive. (Don't you hate waiters who present the list of specials by waiting for an imaginary spotlight to illuminate their importance before they begin the recitation? I'm here for the food, bozo, not you!) My entree was a filet mignon in a reduced barolo sauce topped with truffle butter. Talk about "try a little tenderness!" I could have tossed the knife and sliced through that beef with the fork alone. The presentation was sparsely elegant, on an oversized white platter with drizzles of truffle butter and a light dusting of minced parsley around the rim; the magenta sauce and dark beef playing beautifully against the creamy white truffle slivers. The wine, suggested by the sommelier,was a perfect pairing - of course. Any annoyance at Manon was forgotten for the night.

If you love opera, you'll get yourself to the performance even if it's not one of your favorites. Let's face it - there are many things about the genre that are open to ridicule - from improbable story lines to stage manAging disasters (the prop master forgetting to put a knife in Tosca's fruit bowl, so she has to improvise and stab Scarpia with a banana, for example!) No, you go for the experience: size up the singers and staging. Sometimes you giggle at the disproportionate angst-ridden responses. Sometimes a performance is so powerful you just give in to the emotions and allow your senses shift into overdrive. And if the senses are treated to a great meal after the show - well, that's just the ticket to planning a repeat pilgrimage to La Scala.

Gillian Coldsnow

Venetian Fishing Rules.

Way before environmental studies became popular, the administrators of La Serenissima were conscious of the need for conservation.



This plaque is set into the walls of the fish market at the Rialto, listing the varieties of fish and the minimum size of each. Any smaller, and they would have to be tossed back into the drink.

Horse lovers, avert your eyes.

Did you happen to catch any of the recent Senate debate on the slaughter of horses for human consumption? H.R. 503 is the American Horse Slaughter Prevention Act.

This is what the Washington Post's Dana Milbank had to say about it.

The debate was emotional. And really sentimental. Equine admirers spoke out.

Rep. John Spratt (D-S.C.): "They are as close to humans as any animal can get," asserted

Rep. Mac Thornberry (R-Tex.): "I have as much appreciation and admiration for these creatures as anyone in this body."

Jonathan Swift would have whinnied his approval. However, this horsemeat shop in Venice's Rialto Market would have really upset him, and probably many Americans as well.




The store also had some cured donkey (or mule) sausage hanging in the window.

I vaguely remember seeing another Macelleria Equina while walking through Milan. Apparently, Italians don't bear the same sentiments about consuming horse meat.

Gillian Coldsnow

Fruit encounter.

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvUPDATE THURSDAY 3/20vvvvvvvvvvvvv

My friend Shelley is sure nespoli are loquats! She writes:

"We had a loquat tree in Davis and they looked EXACTLY like your picture. The descriptions match too. I think it’s the same thing. They had great flavor, sort of a cross between an apricot and something else. They don’t keep at all. As soon as you picked them they started to bruise so the kids (neighbors included) would stand under the tree while Kevin picked and distributed. They ate them on the spot, spitting those gargantuan seeds all over the place! They loved them! I wish you could have had more while you were there."

Thanks, Shelley!

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvEXPANDEDvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

(first posted July 14, 2006)

On the drive from Genoa to the Riviera, we noticed many trees heavily laden with small orange fruit. They looked a little like apricots, but the trees were too short, too spreading. Our Liguria guide, Fausta, said they are nespoli.

Back in Genoa, Arianna presented me with a few of these fruits.



The slightly tart fruit is extremely juicy, and as you can tell from the picture, contains three to six large, round brown seeds. They were a real suprise, popping out of the fruit's hollow center, seeming far too large to reside in such a small space.

In an attempt to uncover the fruit's identity, I've read that nespoli are also called medlars. However, pictures show a brown fruit, not an orange one. Some think it's the same as a loquat, which looks like the fruit above, but the description of the taste doesn't quite fit. Still, loquats are called Japanese medlars, so they're probably from the same family. Nespoli - Italian medlars?

I think so. At any rate, medlars have nice cameos in literarure, as a symbol of prostitution, or early dissipation. Hmmmm. Medlars are said to be "rotten before they are ripe." I don't know. With just one encounter, I couldn't learn enough to say if that is true.

UPDATE:

As I was cleaning my bookshelf this week, I found my copy of The Decadent Cookbook, by Medlar Lucan(!) and Durian Gray. These are the pen names of Alex Martin and Jerome Fletcher. If you accept that medlars are rotten before they are ripe; if you regard the smell of the durian as one of the most offensive on the planet; and if you remember that at the root of the word decadent is decay, you'll appreciate the wry wit in these authors' choice of pen names.

It's been several years since I looked at the book. Co-author's name aside, this was also the first time I'd remember actually getting some information about medlars. In the chapter entitled Decay and Corruption:

"...medlars, which resemble grenadillas, are best eaten when they have begun to decompose. To accompany the bowl of medlars was a bowl of 'pire fotute', a precise translation of which need not concern us here. This, my host informed me, was a Sicilian dish made from rotting pears which tasted like chocolate. I took his word for it. Along with the fruit we drank a glass of Sauternes. Needless to say, (my host) waxed lyrical on the subject of 'la pourriture noble' or noble rot."

That perplexed me when I first read it in the late 90s, as there wasn't a real description of the fruit or its flavor. I'm glad I now know - though the medlars I ate were anywhere close to decomposing! Ah well, next trip to Italy...

This is what Shakespeare said about nespoli in As You Lke It:

TOUCHSTONE
Truly, the tree yields bad fruit.

ROSALIND
I'll graff it with you, and then I shall graff it with a medlar: then it will be the earliest fruit i' the country; for you'll be rotten ere you be half ripe, and that's the right virtue of the medlar.

Shakespeare refers to the medlar again in Romeo and Juliet, when Mercutio mocks Romeo's unrequited love for Rosaline:

Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars, when they laugh alone.

(BTW, even though R&J is set in Verona, I didn't see any nespoli trees there.)

Another reference is in Chaucer's The Reeve's Tale:

My heart, too, is as mouldy as my hairs,
Unless I fare like medlar, all perverse.
For that fruit's never ripe until it's worse,
And falls among the refuse or in straw.
We ancient men, I fear, obey this law:
Until we're rotten, we cannot be ripe;

I love Bellini and Bellini (and Bellini).

Bellini, "the lovelies," so to speak; bellino means cute, charming or lovely.

What an appropriate name for some artists bearing this name, creators or incredible beauty.

One of them is Vincenzo Bellini, opera composer:



In 1831 this Sicilian composer gave the world "Norma," a work that defines the bel canto style of opera. This work demands a lot of the soprano: the big hit aria "Casta Diva" is more closely identified with Maria Callas than any other prima donna.

In Venice, though, the Bellini who shines bright is the founder of the Venetian school of art, Giovanni Bellini, (c.1430-1516). He turned Venice into a center of Renaissance art, and took realism and color to a new level of sensuousness. I saw some of his breathtaking paintings in Venice, including the Pieta in the Palazzo Ducale:



Not much of Bellini's work remains in the Palazzo Ducale: his greatest canvases, six or seven of them, were destroyed in a huge palace fire in 1577.

Though Giovanni was the best known of the Bellinis, his father Jacopo and brother Gentile were also noted artists whose work was deemed worthy of being placed in the Palazzo Ducale, so the Bellini dynasty is at the core of Venetian art.

And finally, there's the Bellini born in Venice in 1934, in a bar near San Marco, a real peach:



Of course, I didn't order this one at THE Harry's Bar where it was first concocted, and where it remains the most popular drink for those making the pilgrimage to to Ernest Hemingway's old haunt. For one thing, nothing could convince me to fight the hordes of San Marco to get to the storied bar; for another, I'm not sure a cocktail of peach juice and bubbly prosecco ever justifies a bill of nearly $30 (or so I was told, more than once, by a disgruntled visitor.) And let's face it, you aren't going to see Hemingway there anyway.

Instead, this lovely drink was served at a little bar in a campiello somewhere in San Polo, after a whole morning walking around the Rialto and surrounding neighborhoods, up one bridge and down another, down one narrow alley after another, and then through countless squares. I just could not take another step in the suffocating humidity, and simply had to have something cold.

The Bellini really is a great cocktail (made all the better by an hour of very interesting people-watching). If you use pomegranate juice instead of peach, then it's called a Tintoretto, named for another of Venice's greatest artists. Gotta love those Venetians!

Gillian Coldsnow

On street signs, Venetian addresses...and advertising.

After the first week in Italy, I got used to the place naming systems. Common terms are via for street, piazza for square. I didn't see a single sign on a post, as we do in most countries; rather, the street names were on marble blocks set into building walls, such as this one in Milan:



Many of the street plaques list the birth and death years of the person for which the street was named, and sometimes, their profession. In Milan, a major street is sometimes called corso, as in the city's longest street, Corso Buenos Aires (where we stayed.)

Here's a pair of street signs at an interesection in Verona. Because the city was controlled by Rome, Verona has many depictions of the empire's symbol, the she-wolf suckling twins Romulus and Remus:



Then, some cities use unique street nomenclature, as in Genoa's caruggi and vicoli, terms which come from the Ligurian dialect.

Venice, however, takes the cake when it comes to this subject.

Here, a campo is a public square; a small one is called a campiello.

A Venetian bridge is street is called ponte. A street is a calle; a particularly narrow one a calleta. However, I also saw narrow streets named rame, riva and fondamenta. The three days I spent in Venice didn't allow me enough time to observe the distinctions between them. However, here's a good primer on the mysteries of Venetian addresses.)

Still, the place names are a good indicator of the sort of activity that took place in a particular area. Near the Rialto, for example, place names around the vegetable market indicated where fish, bread and other foods were sold. Some of those words were in Spanish or Arabic, so one could also surmise the origins of the merchants who did business in those locales. (La Serenissima has always been cosmopolitan.)

Here's where a greengrocer (l'erberia, from erbe, vegetables) set up shop, in a covered walkway through a building (sotoportego):



Our Venice guide Laura gave us a very good idea of what we would have seen on those streets five hundred years ago; from Jewish moneylending tables to bakeries (panataria) and orange sellers (naranzaria), to more venal pursuits. Campiello de la Stua was one example.



Laura told us stua means "stove" in the Venetian dialect. Apprently, way back when, this little square was the site of big stoves which heated water for bathhouses. As with many bathhouses today, it was also the red light district. So you can walk through the adjoining sotoportego (a covered walkway going through a building) to the neighboring street.



Translation: "Street of Breasts." Only the word is the colloquial term for mammary glands. You get the gist. The prostitutes who lived around this fondamenta and its adjacent bridge, Ponte de le tette, advertised their wares by baring their breasts at their windows. And there were many. Laura told us there were approximately eleven thousand prostitutes in Venice in the 1500s - to a population of about two hundred thousand.

The ladies are gone now, but their memory lives on. This painting was in an art gallery on Fondamenta de le tette.



Gillian Coldsnow

That Puccini...he always gets to me.

This statue of opera composer extraordinaire Giacomo Puccini is at his birthplace in Lucca, Tuscany.



I didn't go to Tuscany on this trip. Puccini found his way to me. Honest!

How? Through NWPR listener Ken Pitman of Prosser, who met me in Copenhagen and didn't know it.

Turns out Ken and I were on the same delayed SAS flight from Copenhagen to Seattle. When he read my blog post about the long trip back to Seattle, something clicked. Ken writes:

"It was the reference to lightning that gave it away. There you were with your NWPR shirt, and I almost struck up a conversation, but then I thought to myself, naw....just somebody who supports NWPR. I was wrong, and apologize in retrospect for not taking advantage of in person someone who I listen to every morning as I commute between Prosser, and Yakima. "

Knowing how I love The Man, Ken sent me this picture he took while in Lucca - possibly at the same time I was basking in the composer's aura at La Scala in Milan! This statue stands in the courtyard of the house where Puccini was born on December 22nd, 1858.

(I once had a boyfriend whose birthday is December 22nd. It went badly. Guess it's just as well I only know Puccini through his music and statues.)

Grazie mille, Ken!

Hey! - that's MY line!

Today's main article in Slate Magazine by Jacob Weisberg uses the title "Deathstyles of the Rich and Famous," which is the title of my post on May 20th. I used the title first!!

His article is about skiing, boating and flying accidents. Mine is about a grand cemetery in Milan.

Opera. The drama doesn't end with curtain call.

In Venice, our opera experience was a small and fairly intimate event held in a 15th century church.



This church is part of a school founded in 1261, Scuola Grande di San Giovanni Evangelista. It was renovated in the 1600s, and has been an art museum since (I believe.) It's chock full of incredible works of art, even by Venetian standards: statues, tapestries and paintings created by the likes of Tintoretto, Veronese, Tiepolo and other giants. (More images of the Scuola's treasures here.)

This was the ceiling.



The performance was by Musica in Maschera, a fine 8-piece chamber ensemble with a soprano and tenor, and a ballet dancer, performing in authentic 17th century Venetian costumes and masks. All were fine performers, but honestly, the dancer had so little room to maneuver at the front of the church that she ended up looking ridiculous. The musicians were great, helped out by the fabulous acoustics of the building.

So it was a concert performance. Where's the drama?

OFF STAGE.

The singers, for the most part, took turns to sing at the front of the church. When he was not "on," the tenor, a thirty-something in fine voice, was carrying on with his much-younger girlfriend seated in the audience. My friends told me they were actually making out between arias!! And this was a church, mind you.

Now the drama begins.

After the enjoyable evening, our group walked through the little alleys towards the Rialto. Suddenly, we we heard an approaching commotion and saw the tenor, now out of costume, running towards us as fast as his legs would carry him, casting glances backwards as he pushed past us.

A few seconds later we saw what he was running from - his girlfriend, with a look on her face that would turn Medusa's blood cold. Just as she passed us her beau went over a bridge and out of sight. With a heartfelt snort and a look of absolute fury, she abandoned the chase, threw up her hands in disgust and stomped her way toward the canal.

I'd pay good money to find out what happened when she caught up with the tenor.

Is he singing castrato now?

This is the audio spot I sent from Venice on this incident.

Gillian Coldsnow

Lupo, the great Genovese Trattoria.

Remember this picture of my Ligurian seafood platter that made so many readers gasp, salivate and then curse me?



I was just reading over the earlier posts and saw that I'd promised more information on the wonderful restaurant, Lupo Antica Trattoria.

Even though it was barely 25 meters from my hotel, I would have missed it save the recommendation of Signora Arianna. As I've told you, Genoa is a maze of narrow little alleys called caruggi, some of which disappear steeply downward from main streets to goodness knows where.

Now I know some of them disappear into heaven.

Such was Vico Monachette, a stone's throw from the Ramada on Via Balbi, in the heart of medieval Genoa. Lupo's is a warm and cozy little inn, which opened a little early for us, thanks to the sainted Arianna's advance calls. The restaurant prides itself on serving the best Liguria has to offer, prepared creatively. The chef adjusts the menu weekly to accomodate the freshest catch or produce. The bilingual menu's English section was charmingly awkward, a word-for-word translation from Italian.

Liz, Cherri, Arianna and I began our meal with an antipasto of grilled radicchio in a roquefort-pine nut sauce. The bitterness of the vegetable was perfect with the creamy cheese and nuts. There was still a little crispness to the radicchio, which contrasted nicely with the velvety smoothness of the sauce.

Our primo piatto was a fresh herb-filled pasta called pansotti, which could be described as triangular ravioli. These little "potbellies" (for that is what the word means, I'm told) came dressed in a creamy walnut sauce (salsa di noci) that screamed, surrender to me!

You've seen the picture of our grilled seafood entree - scampi, prawns, salmon, octopus, and little white fish. It was just barely seasoned. I really appreciated the restraint. The chef was obviously skilled and could have done a million things to the dish, yet chose to respect the quality and freshness of the ingredients and let the food speak for itself. You know, this takes a generosity of spirit - to take oneself out of the equation and let the seafood be its own star. Bravissima.

Our other entree was a typical Ligurian dish - fish and potatoes in basil pesto. So simple, so delicate, so fresh, and oh, so delectable.

The house red wine was an excellent dolcetto, the charms of which I've already sung loud and long in several previous posts. It's most definitely my favorite red now.

We finished up with the best tiramisu I've ever tasted. If you've ever tasted the "faboo" tiramisu made by my dear friend Tina, you'll know this praise is not easily earned. Lupo's version was whipped up to an ethereal airiness, yet the tremendous chocolate, coffee and grappa flavors stood confidently through those creamy layers. But just as I was about to swoon from this, Arianna gave me a taste of her tarte tatin, as warm upside-down apple tart. (Yes, it's a French dessert. Let's not quibble about that while I'm having a moment here.) O Puccini! O Rossini! O Verdi!!! See why I love Genoa so?

As we were leaving I spied The Quartet and wandered over. They were in the middle of rolling their eyes over risotto dell'arancie, Orange Risotto. I wished it was time for dinner to start all over again.

Lupo. Just one more reason I have to get back to Liguria.

Gillian Coldsnow