The Monaco Report
or
"Excuse Me... do You Have
Prince Albert in a Can?"

January 15-29, 1998: Observations and pictures from Florence, Italy; the World Marine Mammal Sciences Conference in Monte Carlo, and London.

Hadn't been to Europe since 1976, and hadn't been to a scientific conference since 1986. So I planned my trip around the World Marine Mammal Sciences Conference in Monte Carlo, with some tourism on either end of the event. My preparations were arduous... absorbed the only Rick Steves book I could get in December, perused the Michelin pocket guides, mentally engraved the impressions from a small book on how to pack a suitcase, hemmed and hawed over maps, maps maps. Hung them on the wall. Stuck dots on them. My travel agent got me a dirt-cheap ticket, and I got myself the suitcase of my dreams. My passport sat pristine and aging with no visa stamps in it, my shoes were broken in, and I had memorized a half dozen foreign exchange rates. I was ready, ready, ready.

LEAVING AMERICA

My first flight to Washingon DC was like many trips I'd taken... nothing exotic except that I was carrying some seven pounds of varied shellfish to my Executive Producer friend Dave Friello. He was to meet me at the airport as I dashed for my next flight to Milan in the course of maybe 45 minutes. Since my suitcase was checked through, all I had to really deal with was a small day pack and the obviously labelled box from Pike Place Fish, that many of my fellow passengers no-so-jokingly tried to "help" me carry off the plane. Dave, dressed in alarmingly conventional business geek wear, was pretty happy for the package, which he took out of my hands. We hugged goodbye, I got on the plane to Milan, and ten minutes later the flight attendant sent me to the door of the plane so Dave could pay me for the shipment, including a box of cinnamon tic-tacs. I pocketed the stuff, waved goodbye again, and the door slammed shut. I was richer, travelling lighter, and on my way off the continent. I noticed that lots of people on the plane spoke Italian... things were already getting better.

MILANO

Arrived in Milan, I claimed my suitcase and got sniffed by police dogs. I immediately took a bus into town and took the first train to Florence, leaving behind Milan's unapproached cathedral, the unexplored museums, the un-glanced-at La Scala, and the smog.

FIRENZE

Florence, Italy: I don't know if it was a bit of jet lag or just the relief of being in a nice climate in Italy, but all my worries vanished, even though I was winging an awful lot of logistical details in a country where I didn't speak much of the language. Could I get along with bad mime, babbling 8th grade Spanish? Ah, I've slept on buses before.

An Italian couple I had met on the train told me that the average tourist spends two hours in Florence, considering it a whistle stop on the way to Rome. Pieta? Check. David? Check. Duomo? Check. Bargello? Oops, gotta catch that train. Could this be some kind of minor idiotic crime, or is it God's way of protecting this most beautiful and elegant city from the trammelling of the unappreciative?

Got off the train without any lodging reservations. Even in Florence, is it necessary in the off-season? Feeling a bit Blanche duBois-ish depending on the kindness (or at least indulgence) of strangers, I bought a phone card from the tobaccanist, grabbed my gob of torn-out Lonely Planet guidebook pages and started phoning from the station around noon. Chose a highly recommended budget pensione down this street two blocks from the train station. A funky little elevator took me five floors up.

Try as I might, my efforts to paint divinity betrayed a less than refined palette.

Breakfast time: The view of Fiesole from my window at Albergo Bella Vista, which indeed does have a bella vista. (Marcia Tapp speculated that if there were a Hotel Bella Vista in Seattle the place would be on Aurora overlooking a tire store and the name would be wishful thinking.) I spent several pleasant mornings over breakfast in my room studying the terra cotta roof constructions, and listening to the church bells ringing, the echoes eventually filling the town with one unbroken tone. (Church bells top my new list of Things We Need In America.)

The legendary Tuscan light is impossible to photograph. It truly is "pinkish gold," which some Hindus believe to be the color of God. My thought on the whole pinkish-gold issue (having never seen it before) is that it would be orange or something... in pigments if you mix pink (red) and gold (yellow) you get some kind of orange shade, so I was expecting apricot or peach shades. Having seen the long Tuscan light at the ends of the day with my own eyes, I can tell you that there is indeed a pinkish-gold light, and it's not red or yellow or orange. And it very well may be the color of God.

Japanese tourists leave the Duomo, having fed the Vatican's coffers lighting votives.

Florence, Italy: a small part of the Duomo's immense front facade. I went for a walk the first night in town, and came upon the Duomo at night. Its garish white, green and red marble glows, and though too ornate to be considered beautiful to my eye, it is dazzling and spectacular. In the daylight it is nearly blinding, even dulled by soot. Each time I saw it, even if only a few hours had passed, it took my breath away. Inside, the empty volume offers some balance to the paintings on the ceiling, the giant 24 hour clock on the back wall, and the huge arches and vaulting. Three giant iron votive trees stand empty, waiting for donations and candles to be lit. I did this every time I went in, and others followed suit, including the Japanese tourists who left their groups to add to the light.

Ghiberti's "Gates of Paradise"
(from postcard)

The Baptistry in front of the Duomo, a stout windowless octagonal building with an altar projecting from one of the sides, was a marvel. It is possibly the oldest building in Florence. The mosaic floors were a patchwork riot of small complex patterns in black, green, red and white marble. The ceiling dome was gorgeously painted. The three doors were minutely illustrated bronze panels, including two by Ghiberti. Tiny portholes at the top allowed in just enough light.

Iron window grilles... they just struck me as so Old World. Pete Cusumano thinks they're just the right size for a good air conditioning unit. Andrew DiMartino corrects this barbarian notion by saying his grandmother Frances DiMartino from Palermo used to have one of these grilles and the curve of it allowed her to look out down the street.

Florence, Italy: Architectural ornament like this abounds. Indeed, one can just ramble along map-blind and encounter the most splendid things. I happened upon the Piazza San Marco and went into the Santissima Annunziata. Ghirlandiao's frescoes are being restored there. The jewel tones and pastel colors were so gorgeous that I almost failed to notice a murder/massacre scene in a lovely landscape of fern and terra cotta and Tuscan blue and ochre. Even the blood was a lovely shade of red. The scene was both shocking for all the dead bodies and carnage, and kind of ineffective amid such massive beauty. It was as though the massacre was an afterthought.

The Medici Chapel was wonderful. The main chapel was deep green marble with a marvelous dome. A small side chapel had the tombs of Lorenzo de Medici and his brother, with six pieces of Michelangelo statuary over them. Where the main chapel was cool green and dark, the tomb area was tan and warm. His Laurentian Library is in an adjacent building, and no longer functions as a library, which is a shame. The slanted manuscript tables and benches are empty. Outside in the courtyard is a gigantic orange tree loaded with fruit. Urban greenery is rare in the city, but when it's there, it's THERE.

Florence, Italy: Walking along the Arno River to the Ponte Vecchio. It may have been an uncharacteristically mild winter, but street life, especially nearing the Uffizi, was busy with people just enjoying a walk. Many of them were not museum-goers, just out for the day with picnics and their friends.

I couldn't bring myself to go indoors with the crowds to see the Uffizi that day, which would have taken all day to see. (The hotel keeper insisted I had made a mistake. It has EVERYTHING, he said. TUTTI!) It also closes early in winter. Instead I took in the Casa Buonarroti, home of Michelangelo. I was surprised to see that they had found the wooden Santo Spirito crucifix (which was thought to be lost) and it was there in nearly perfect condition, painted features still visible. His first sculptures, Madonna of the Stairs and Battle of the Centaurs were also there in one room. I had the place all to myself and spent as much time alone with these works as I felt like. (I found very few horsey bits in Battle of the Centaurs, and I had plenty of time to look for them.) The house itself was lovely, hidden down a side street probably unchanged in 500 years. (Except for those damned tv aerials...!)

I owned the great works of art during my visit... I had the Baptistry all to myself. I went to the Academia and had Michelangelo's David to myself, and the four captives, and the statuary room, which I shared with a curator who seemed pleased that I stayed so long. "Full, no?" he said, pointing to the walls and shelves and pallets covered with wax models and studies and busts and bronzes and bits and ruins of marble. "Very."

Florence, Italy: The Arno River: A gondolier working on his boat at the launching area normally used by scullers, just below the Uffizi.

The river is flat-looking but just below a nearby bridge is a dam. The water travels quick and strong along here, though it looks tranquil. Watch the rowers struggle upstream to get some idea of the Arno's power.

On Sunday evening people dress up and put on the fur coats and go walking near the river. According the the couple I met on the train, they do this because "they don't have mini-malls and bowling alleys to meet at."

GRUDGINGLY LEAVING FIRENZE

Genoa, Italy: One of six (count 'em) Genoa train stations.

I wanted to see some of Cinque Terra on my way to Monte Carlo so I grudgingly left Florence after only four days. I did consider not going to the conference at all, but some people were expecting me to be there, especially my friend from graduate school at WSU who had agreed to come down from Berlin to meet me at the conference.

I phoned Justus several times from Florence, usually right after a solitary dinner of exquisite food. I left him several messages insisting that THIS was the part of the trip he should have joined me on. He'd never been to Florence, so didn't know what he was missing. No one should experience that kind of city and that kind of food and that kind of art entirely alone. At the conference there would be more than enough company. In Florence the wine, which I wasn't quite used to, made me introspective and a bit weepy. I was grateful that navigation back to my hotel was easy. Find the Duomo, turn right at the Baptistry, go down the street toward the train station, and I'm there.

Took a wrong train that went far north. I sat there at the end of the line waiting for the train to start again, when a man came through to clean the floors. He spoke no English and my Italian involved pointing at a map. He took me to three conductors who got me back on track. In parting we all hugged like family. The man said to me, "American Cinema English: Hasta la vista, baby!" to which I responded, "I'll be back." I thought he'd die laughing.

Arrived in the Medieval city of Vernazza mid day. It's a whistle-stop on the way to Genoa. I walked down from the platform and toward the Mediterranean sea.

CINQUE TERRA - FIVE LANDS

The town of Vernazza is a Medieval city built on the sea.

An old woman came out and speaking no English, dragged me door to door ringing doorbells, bounding up the winding alleyways in her scuffs with me barely keeping up, and finally found me a room to rent. Behind the old facades were prosperous and well-built modern interiors. I took a nice room with a kitchenette and a sleek bathroom. The hotel keeper, Mr. Basso, was also a fisherman. He warned me that the sea was dangerous so not to go out too far to the end of the town. On the beach were fishing boats, most of the restaurants were closed for the season, and waves were crashing over the jetty.

I popped into a small bar for a piece of coffee cake. I thought I'd buy a few oranges to eat later, and was offered a tall glass of fresh orange juice instead. Ahh. The oranges in Tuscany are just too terrific. I sat and read an Italian home decorating magazine and the town's resident insane person stared a hole in my head until I left.

I came back later to the same place for dinner in the adjacent dining room. I was the only one eating there... everyone else was visiting in the bar. The local Vino Cinque Terra, regionally renowned pesto sauce on perfect pasta, and Roma tomatoes with salt and pepper were for dinner. The food could not possibly have been better. For dessert there was a rather wiggly creme broulee, and since I had once again overindulged in the wine, the dessert gave me a fit of hysterics every time I poked it with a fork. Then the wine made me maudlin again, since I was the only one in the room who thought the dessert was funny.

MONTE CARLO - CLEAN AND SAFE AND A LITTLE BORING

After a few more wrong trains, I ended up in Monaco in time for the 8:00 reception at the Conference center. I checked into the Hotel Terminus (mercifully just outside the train station so I didn't have to do any searching), changed my clothes and headed out. On the way out the door, a group came in wearing conference tags. The reception had been changed at the last minute to 6:00. All the food and wine disappeared in about 15 minutes, and it was sort of a bust. So I joined the group of Dutch, Spanish and Scottish researchers for a French version of Mexican food, Cuban beer and funny stories about exploding stomachs and coolers full of ovaries.

Next day the conference began. Prince Rainier trooped in with eight bodyguards and gave an opening speech, and then the paper presentations began in two huge auditoriums. 1300 people were in attendance, plus vendors selling research hardware and ecotourism. Hundreds of poster presentations were on two levels of the conference center, a maze of inventions, studies, obvious observations put in scientific language, wonderful innovations, odd observations (photos of an adult whale completely without a tail) and new discoveries. The two video nights were also interesting, though late enough in the evening that I dozed through parts of both. First one was home video, taken by researchers during their work. Second one was professional video, notably the guys from National Geographic Explorer with their latest "Critter Cam" program, starring a seal carrying the video camera on his back. Seals, it seems, are a lot like dogs in where they like to put their noses, so there was a lot of dizzying underwater swooping and seal backsides.

I marked up my book of abstracts to decide which of the two concurrent sessions to attend for the four days. My favorite session was called "Scale Issues In Marine Mammals" (yes, yes, I know whales don't have scales...maybe that's what their issue is) One paper outlined the correlation between size, number of heartbeats per lifetime, and lifespan. There was further speculation on how different sized animals perceive time.

If you were to listen to a series of three or four presentations making up a session you might get a brief yet thorough education on a narrow topic. In three presentations I learned about the mechanics of the mammalian ear and hearing, then the mechanics of hearing loss, then how much noise the US Navy is routinely honking into the oceans and why they're doing it, and what the chances are that this noise might be causing short or long term hearing damage to some marine mammals like seals and sea lions.

Undaunted by the mile back to Monte Carlo, Justus indulges his American schoolmate with yet another photo op.

Justus arrived that afternoon while I was still at the conference. Between the time he arrived and I got back to the hotel, he had figured out the buses and found a terrific department store nearby with a huge selection of fresh seafood, wine, cheese and everything else edible. First order of business (after saying Mom says hi and so on, after 15 years) was to pick up a corkscrew, some cheese and some glasses to go with the bottle of wine he picked up somewhere in Germany. Just buying the corkscrew was a ten-minute debate on wood vs metal, chromium plating versus the replacement load of rusting metal, and though I still think I was right, he won the right for us to buy a wood and nylon corkscrew because I was getting hungry and was distracted by the Cadbury's aisle. Then we went to find someplace for drinks and dinner and to hear about his latest endeavor to bring truth to politics.

I went to three of the four days worth of presentations at the conference. One morning, Bart (who was with Kinneka, a Dutch student at the conference) arranged to go scuba diving from a boat and so Justus and I went along with him to snorkel. It was odd to think that there was a conference full of hundreds of marine mammal scientists who were most likely to go home again without so much as sticking a toe into the Mediterranean. We took the bus to Menton, and enjoyed the not-so-cold salt water and bright fish and little ribbon-like jellyfish near the shore. Afterward we shared some waffles from a street vendor, Bart went back to Monte Carlo, and Justus and I stayed to find lunch in the Menton marketplace. He was far more at ease there... he considered Monaco unnaturally clean and devoid of regular life, rather Disneyland-ish. Another Dutch scientist had said the same thing... Monaco is beautiful but sterile, he said. Later we took the short train ride to Monaco, then took off to find the Oceanographic Museum. Ended up instead on the west end of the principality, so off we walked along the sea's meandering walkway to Cap d'Ail. We talked and watched the people walking their dogs and dodged athletes running up and down the hillclimbs.

Leslie and The End of the Trail in Cap d'Ail: Nothing to do but pose for the camera sporting the official conference briefcase.

In the evening we found ourselves up on the top of the city in the oldest part of Monaco. The sun was going down and we passed under a tree alive with mobs of starlings. City governement is housed up on the hill along with the palace, and a few businesses were open in the evening... a drug store, a church, a restaurant, a bar. We went to a bar run by a Scotsman and had a few glasses of wine. A family came in and the children drank cocoa and the parents had some drinks. Curling was on ESPN. We argued about this and that... down the road in a little restaurant a citizen's group was preparing ballots for an upcoming election. They were barricaded in at the front door by heavy planters, and lined up at long tables collating and stuffing envelopes. It was a family thing, with children and adults working behind windows tastefully plastered with picture-less campaign posters in French.

Next morning we joined the regular group of European scientists at breakfast, then I caught the last of a couple papers. We finished off the day at the Oceanographic museum.

Next day we took the train to visit Justus' friend, a social scientist, in Turin.

TORINO

The big news the whole time I was there was the US president's alleged indiscretions with young women. In Italy unflattering pictures of Hillary were on the tabloids with "A woman disgraced" in big type over it. The news usurped the Pope in Cuba, and the Queen Mother's hip surgery. Several times in Italy I was asked if I thought the President would be impeached. The questions were earnest and worried. On the train ride Justus read to me from the Italian paper a post-feminist's analysis of Bill's arrested sexuality. The article took up all of page 3.

We arrived in Turin in the afternoon, early enough to walk through the modern opera house and past the cathedral which houses the Shroud of Turin. When Miriam arrived at the hotel we had tea. After a moment of catching up, they launched into a discussion of the Eurodollar and then got obscure from there. Seems they actually were on the same side of the arguement, but enjoyed battling out the small points. I simply continued to drink wine and smile knowingly, so I looked intelligent but was actually thinking about what it would be like to be sitting in the courtyard near Michelangelo's Laurentian library in Florence gazing around and eating oranges off that perfect huge tree. Then we had some champagne drinks that had the taste of oak, then off to dinner where they continued their arguements and I redesigned the lighting in the restaurant and we had a zillion courses of local specialties, each small course more delicious than the last.

LONDON

Took the train to London and spent a few days there. Took all day to get from Turin to London (caught another wrong train, but fortunately with an Argentine woman, Claudia, who was also going to London, so we kept each other company for the whole trip. I was finally able to use my one foreign language, Spanish, with someone!) Somewhere under the English Channel, we started laughing over how carefully we had tried to get on the right train and ended up going backwards anyway. We got so paralyzed laughing that several people came over to look at us.

Arriving in London late in the evening, I once again pulled out the little Lonely Planet guidebook sheaf and called a hotel on Gower Street. The room was very tiny, with a 24" door, all the amenities crammed into a high-ceilinged room, with an enormous arched window that filled the back wall and looked out on a very nice garden.

At this point I was a bit tired of travel and was sorry to be in London, not because it was London, but only because it wasn't Florence. Being among English speaking people was unchallenging.

I thought I would purchase some small souvenirs at Harrod's department store, an exercise which brought out all my worst qualities. Since I wore a parka with big pockets and carried a day pack, I was followed by their security guards all over the first floor of the store. An assortment of guards follows you around overtly watching your every move. Harrod's hires these young huge men at least 6'-6",with schoolboy faces and polite manners any mother would be proud of... these guards stand at the door in twos and threes, wear hats at least a foot tall. They ask you things like, "Would you mind taking off the coat?" "Would you be so kind as to carry the pack by the top loop?" What I wanted to hear them ask was "Did you know the Stewart plaid scarves are free of charge for the next ten minutes if you can show them an American passport?" or "Would you like me to come with you to the dressing room so I can show you what 'Hail Britannia' really means?" But all they did was pester me about my attire. So I decided to look sneaky and never buy anything because I was offended. It's one way to attract male company, but I don't recommend it.

Met a nice banker killing time before his train home at the Festival Hall's music store and we had a bunch of beers and I gave him a PAL copy of Road to Pullman. George explained to me the reasoning behind the whole scene at Harrod's... Al Fayed who owns the store is justifiably paranoid... the store had been car-bombed several years ago, lots of shoplifting goes on routinely, mostly by people wearing daypacks and parkas, and there's the Irish and their bombs and... well... Al Fayed is justifiably paranoid. Next day I went to the Museum of the Moving Image which was wonderful. Actors in period dress chat with you at various places in the museum... a gloomy flapper stands near the mannequin of Gloria Swanson and sighs to you about how hard it is to avoid the casting couch and still have a career in pictures, two spiffy ushers at a cinema lobby talk about their post-war neighborhood and how all the ironwork was taken for scrap except in Ireland, and why anyone would prefer the television in their living room when they can see a movie in a palace of a theater instead.

Returned to my room and tried to pack for the morning departure. I turned on some very bad British television, made some tea, looked out the window at the garden. Next morning I got going in what I thought was plenty of time... missed my 9:00 flight home to Seattle. The subway ride was longer than I thought. Checking the bag, and having no fewer than five people look at my passport took longer than I thought. They board the plane half and hour early. Getting scanned and beeped and frisked and x-rayed took longer than I thought. Buying the latest tabloid with "Hillary: A Woman Disgraced" (In English this time, something to go with the Italian tabloid) and a couple Toblerone bars, some toffee and a great pair of earrings took longer than I thought. I reticketed for a flight a few hours later.

HOME AGAIN

Had a breakfast sandwich at the Heathrow Burger King and felt dirty. Empty flight to Chicago allowed me to almost escape the proximity of a man with the worst flatulence known to human kind. Chicago to Seattle sat with two insurance actuaries and we made up dialog for a movie none of us wanted to pay to listen to. Came home to a clean apartment and full fridge courtesy of a friend who stayed here. Promptly messed up the place and ate the food. Ahh. Was it good to be home? Not as good as being in Florence. But home is home and people get my jokes here and the dessert doesn't make me hysterical.