Padova images

The trial of Galileo for Heresy

Galileo's middle finger on exhibit in Florence

The Palozza della Ragione with the largest roof unsupported by columns in Europe

The Farmers Market

Flea market and Basilica in the distance

78 statues of famous Padovans in the Prato delle Ville

The Basilica where we did not find St. Anthony's Tomb

The Cathedral of St. Anthony patron saint of lost things

In Search of Heavenly Spectacles, Saints and Severed Body Parts

PA – DOE –VA were Sal’s instructions as I persistently mispronounced the city and origin of the patron saint of lost things, St. Anthony. I was not the first English speaker to butcher the name of this place since all the English maps call it Padua, not Padova, anyway. We were here accidentally, having discovered after boarding our train from Florence to Venice (or Firenze to Venezia as the Italians would have you call it) that we left Florence a day too soon. Our conductor looked sympathetically, no sadly at us as we presented our tickets to him. I took my Italian designer glasses off and wiped my lenses to help focus on the problem. After a great deal of consternation and discussion the determining factor was a poor internet connection on his hand held computer. Had it been working he would have had to charge 500 Euro for our grievous error. Instead the copotreno told us that he would charge us only 100 Euro but we had to get off at the next stop which was Padova about 40 km from Venice. I put my black Ermenegildo Zegma glasses back on automatically.

My mother, Sal said, had always wanted to visit St. Anthony’s Tomb so it is fate and perhaps a little help from my mother that we are here.

At the train station we checked our Rick Steve’s guide to Italy and the local tourist office. Rebecca and Sal strode off to find a recommended hotel which turned out to be across the street and we got three rooms for 300 Euro. Next door was a McDonald’s and the boys decided to get something to eat there and pushed to go explore on their own. A bit rejected the three adults struck out on our own in search of St. Anthony’s tomb and the center of town. In just a short distance from the hotel It was apparent from all the banners that there was a lot going on around the celebration of 400 years since the invention of Galileo’s 8 power telescope while at the University of Padova. The University established in 1222 is one of the worlds oldest and its rich history includes the tenure of Nicolaus Copernicus the famous Polish Astronomer and Physician who first formulated the heliocentric theory that the Earth revolved around the Sun. It was however through Galileo’s telescope one could see visible evidence of Copernicus’ theory.

As was customary in new surrounds we bought a map and several scoops of Gelato; the former being necessary to know where we were going and the latter, well to eat as much Gelato throughout Italy as we possibly could. We were very impressed with the Padova samplings of melon, peach and limone. It was tough to beat our favorite Gelateria in Rome but this was very close. We had been cooped up in the train so walking was a relief. We slowly navigated our way through the Piazza Garibaldi where the Revolutionary War hero’s statue stood guard over an upscale shopping area of Italian designer stores like Gucci and Ferragamo. As we entered the “Ghetto” we passed through narrow streets and Hebrew lettered arches. Emerging on the other side past the University of Padova, we approached the Palozza della Ragione, an extraordinary structure reported to have the largest roof unsupported by columns in Europe. Below were numerous stands of locally grown fruits and vegetables displayed in striking variety and color. Thinking the boys were missing out we called their cell phones and there was no answer. Rebecca was concerned but the two dads were in the mood to let them learn a lesson in survival and independence. So we consulted our map and pressed on to find St. Anthony’s Tomb.

It is said that Galileo’s telescope could not have been discovered without the already 300 year old Italian industry of making lenses for eyeglasses. While it is unknown who the craftsman was that invented spectacles as we know it, it is first documented in the early 13th Century by an order of Dominican Monks who credit the invention in the 1290’s to a Pisa glassmaker. By the time Guttenberg invented the printing press in 1454, eyeglasses for reading were widely in use. Renaissance Italians could then buy a book and read it for the first time…ever. The lens that brought the written word into focus was the same instrument that allowed Galileo to look outward at the stars and begin to understand the Universe in clear and precise terms. Equally important, the Protestant movement was in full swing in the 16th century with the held belief that people could read the words of God themselves. Knowledge no longer belonged to the privileged few and the Church struggled to hold its authority.

Galileo, a Florentine, came to the University of Padova as Chair of the School of Mathematics in 1592 at the age of 28. Over the next 18 years in Padova he had a period of great discovery and growth culminating in 1609 in the invention of his high powered telescope. It was also during this time that he met and fathered 3 children with Marina Gamba. Because they were born out of wedlock, his two daughters in Galileo’s eyes were unfit for marriage and both later entered convents. Paradoxically Galileo thought of himself as a religious man and yet his own standard of judgment appeared not as high as the one he held for his children. Ironically his daughter, a nun, Sister Maria Celeste was to be his greatest ally in his effort to save his tortured soul for the after life and take care of the ailing Galileo while imprisoned and later under house arrest for Heresy.

In great contrast to the brilliance of Renaissance thought a war raged among religious institutions both new and old. Inquisition and repression were the reins on new ideas and Galileo was swept up in the net. What was so clear to Galileo through his telescopic lens of how the moons of Jupiter revolved around the planet was not so clear to a Church that above all demanded faith in the gospel as taught by a holy order. New ideas and discoveries were ok as long as they fit within the framework of the Church teachings and doctrine.

So when the Pope Urban VIII engaged Galileo in a series of conversations and requested Galileo to write a book of the scientist’s life work it was mostly a test of his faith not his physics. Galileo misjudged the moment entirely and wrote about what he saw through his lens and how that supported the Copernican theory that the Sun not the Earth was the center of the Universe. The idea was certainly not new. But the instrument he used was. It was one thing to think it but quite another to prove it real. The Pope must certainly have asked the question: what else will he or others see with that thing? Within the year the elderly Galileo was tried for Heresy in front of a Vatican Inquisition. He was found “vehemently suspect of heresy” and Galileo was forced to renounce his belief in Copernican theories of the Universe imprisoned and excommunicated from the Church.

We emerged upon an enormous piazza with tents set up for a flea market. Browsing the merchandize we thought again about the boys and tried to call. No answer. We were now several hours into our journey and had no idea how long it would take to return. Rebecca again voiced her concern for the boy’s whereabouts while Sal and I thought it was their intent not to be found. We saw a great Basilica in the distance and hiked through the expansive Prato della Ville with its 78 statues of famous Padovans. It was at this Basilica we thought we would find St. Anthony’s Tomb and then we would return.

Inside through great Iron doors a mass was underway and Sal attended while Rebecca and I searched everywhere for some sign of St. Anthony without luck. Upon leaving, our aching backs, sore feet and empty stomachs prompted us to call once again. This time Nick answered the phone. We thought you guys were coming back to the hotel to get us so we were waiting around for you. Well why didn’t you answer your phone? Because the battery was dead and I was charging it. Why didn’t anyone else answer their phone? Because their phones are not working. Ok. So why don’t you guys start walking toward the city center and we will meet you there. Ok. And we hung up.

It was in 1737, 95 years after Galileo’s death that the Church allowed his body to be entombed in the honored space of the church of Santa Croce in Florence. A curious matter however took place during the move. Several scholars in attendance most notably Anton Francesco Gori managed to secretly cut off the index and middle finger and thumb of Galileo’s hand and remove a vertebra and tooth. The middle finger has been on display in Florence many say as a defiant gesture to the Vatican and the vertebra has been on display at the University of Padova. The index finger, thumb and tooth have only recently been found after many years of disappearance. It was common in the day that body parts were frequently removed from the remains of saints with the appendages considered good luck. More than just a prank the scholars most certainly performed this desecration in a mock homage of sainthood for the genius that lived in defamation for so long. One grave robber conceited that it was almost beyond his control not to take the skull of Galileo in honor of his great mind. The Vatican moves very slowly in admitting mistakes and centuries later in 1992 Pope John Paul finally exonerated Galileo of any lack of faith and posthumously reinstated him into the Church.

Looking a bit disappointed, Sal studied his map while we drudged on toward the city center where we hoped to meet the boys. On turning a corner we were greeted with another great cathedral. This no doubt was the resting place of the Saint of things lost. People have been known to have visions and powerful life altering experiences from visiting St. Anthony’s Tomb and as Sal emerged he was visibly drained perhaps by the experience but more than likely from the long day. I read a description of a great miracle performed on this spot by St. Anthony. In a fit of anger a young man had kicked his own mother. Repentant he confessed his sin to St. Anthony who replied “The foot of him who kicks his mother deserves to be cut off” to which the young man did. St. Anthony in a miracle of faith purported to have rejoined the young man’ severed foot.

The boys had wandered the city for some time now and were more than agitated from hunger and their parent’s cruel abandonment. Amid a fury of cell phone calls our lost children were rejoined to us not long after. St. Anthony had done his work. As my mother smiles down upon us, Sal said. Instinctively I removed my glasses and gave them a good wiping. Perhaps it was a tear or a bead of sweat down my face. Night was falling and I could see the faint flicker of Mercury rising. With Galileo forgiven and all his body parts returned the world was good and whole again. What the boys really did and where they were that day remains a mystery however days later when asked about favorite moments in Italy all three boys recanted their day of adventure and freedom alone in Padova as one of the highlights.

Images from Florence 2

Two Botticelli miniatures of the Hebrew heroine Judith slaying of the Assyrian General

The new Renaissance hero Beppe Grillo

Jonathan devours bread, olive oil and balsmic vinegar

Our tour guide showing the hopper for loading the olives

Politics of Oil

I had to sit down. I was overcome from viewing too many paintings. The full body ache had set in from my mind to my feet; a sensory overload top to bottom. I grabbed a plastic wrapped English translation guide that I sometimes found at each room entrance and maneuvered among the crowds into Room 9 the Antonio Pollaiolo on the second floor of the Uffizi. We had all separated somehow in private meditations of Renaissance and the multitude of visitors. I went for the bench and with my elbows propped on my knees and hands clasped around my chin I stared intently at two Botticelli miniatures, one with a decapitated head balanced on top of a young girl like a basket of fruit and the other a headless body lying in bed with a group of men standing around. Wow. What’s this? I read my guide. Encamped outside the Jewish city of Bethulia the Assyrian army awaited their invasion. Knowing the Hebrews were no match against the Assyrians the Jewish heroine Judith snuck into the Assyrian General Holofernes’ tent. Plying him with alcohol under the pretense that the beautiful widow would betray her people by sleeping with him, she lopped off his head. The Botticelli depicts Judith returning home with her maid Abra from killing the Assyrian General. In her right hand is a sword and in the left an olive branch.

More than likely it was the beheaded General’s sword and the threat that someone would discover him and come after her was entirely plausible. Her pensive look backwards is however not of a woman afraid for her life but rather knowingly confident about the symbolism of her actions. Judith carries the olive branch of peace back to her city in anticipation of what is about to happen. On learning of their leader’s assassination, the Assyrians retreated without a fight. Heroics of the individual had come strongly into play during the 1460’s Renaissance and Judith like David was a popular subject for her defiant courage against enormous odds.

Hi dad. I turned to see my 13 year old son Jonathan sitting next to me. Museums were not his favorite pastime unless they had swords, crossbows and armor. The severed head in the Botticelli seemed to get his attention though. That’s weird, his voice cracked in several octaves. Yea it is weird I said. What’s with the branch he said? I mean why carry the branch. I get the sword cause she cut off his head but come on why pick up a branch? It’s an olive branch, symbolic I explain of making peace with the Assyrians who were going to run the town off the face of the earth. You see she kills the Assyrian General before they attack and it sends them packing. You mean, Jonathan says, like the trees that they grow olives on? Yea. I’m hungry he says. Can we get something to eat?

Insatiable is the only word to describe a teenage boy’s appetite. Jonathan was infamous in our group for consuming an entire loaf of bread in less time than the time it took to prepare any meal. There was no way to beat it. And to top it off he used copious quantities of olive oil and balsamic vinegar with every loaf. I guessed the olive branch set off the latest pangs of hunger. Well, you’ll have to wait a bit. There’s a café somewhere in the museum and we can eat when we get there. The guilt set in that I was responsible for starving him and I rose from my bench to hasten the tour.

Thomas Jefferson once wrote “the olive tree is surely the richest gift of heaven” and Homer called olive oil “liquid gold”. The tree is virtually indestructible and thrives in hot and cold climates. The oil is excellent to burn for lamp light and has been used in cooking, medicine, skin treatment and religious and political ceremony since its cultivation in the Fertile Crescent 7,000 years ago. The historian Pliny said that by the first century A.D., olive oil in Italy was the best in the Mediterranean and reasonably priced to boot. The “best” had always been considered to be “Lucca” oil produced in Tuscany. Florence was the center for Lucca oil trade and thrived on it through the centuries. Tomorrow I explain to Jonathan we tour the olive oil factory at the place we’re staying. True to form he had consumed an entire loaf of bread in the café before we are served our lunch. I still don’t get the branch dad. I mean did she just happen to pick up an olive branch on her way home. I thought you said the Renaissance painters were into realism. How real is that? Well let’s not get too focused on the olive branch.

Wait. What? Jonathan echoes his two most spoken words. We’re going to see how they make olive oil? Awesome.

That night back at our 15th century villa, Fattoria di Maiano, also an active Certified Organic Olive Oil farm, we switched on the TV and watched on RAI a variety show broadcast live from a beach resort on the Amalfi coast. Michael Bolton did a duet with the hostess, a very tall and beautiful black haired Italian woman. She towered over all of the male and female performers. It was very sentimental and a young opera tenor with perhaps the biggest neck I have ever seen brought a tear to my eye. Why don’t we have these kinds of shows in the US I said to Rebecca. Sal and Domo had gone to the café at the Fattoria to try to get a Skype connection on the internet as there was no service in the apartments. The news came on and amid images of Obama at the Big 8 Economic Summit and World Soccer Cup reports was a bit about the infamous comedian and social activist Beppe Grillo. He had been in Florence recently in a Summit of his own in which he laid out a grass roots plan to eliminate political corruption in Italy. His blog is the 7th most read blog in the world and he is the second most popular public figure in Italy. Described as a cross between Michael Moore and Stephan Colbert, Beppe has been a thorn in the side of the mafia and the political left and right and is a modern crusader for numerous causes not the least of which is term limitations for politicians and no parliament members with criminal records. There are at last count over 80 elected members in the Italian government with criminal records. It is not a coincidence that Beppe has launched his effort from Florence calling it a new Renaissance and is enthusiastically supporting young people to run for city councilors seats throughout the country. Banned for the most part from the government run television because of his encounters with officials he does his work on his blog and is a huge proponent of nationalizing Water and WiFi. He believes everyone should work at home and advocates sustainable living environments and no growth. Botticelli would have been proud of Beppe.

We got the tour the next day from two statuesque Italian girls, one brunette, and one blond. We walked through the main house and our guide, the brunette, showed us where scenes from the movies, Room with a View and Tea with Mussolini were filmed. The house had been Sforza family of Milan and later the infamous Pazzi family. A saint had grown up here Mary Magdelene de’ Pazzi and the Poet/Bard Alfonso de' Pazzi, In the 1800’s the property was purchased by Sir John Temple Leader and did a great deal to improve the house and grounds. Maiano estate covers an area of nearly 300 hectares, mainly used for growing olives (20.000 olive trees on 110 hectares). “Frantoio” and “Moraiolo” olives are picked entirely by hand in the months of November and December, then pressed in the olive mill on the farm a few hours after being picked.

In a New Yorker magazine article called “Slippery Business” the writer Tom Mueller chronicles the history of corruption in the olive oil business in Italy. In recent years millions of dollars have been made on substituting the real thing with other kinds of oils. “Profits were comparable to cocaine trafficking, with none of the risks,” one investigator told the reporter. Fattoria di Maiano is the real deal. After the tour we did a tasting of Laudemio, an extra virgin olive oil. Jonathan was first in line.

Dad, he said. I still don’t get the olive branch in the painting.

Florence Pictures

Fattoria Di Maino 15th Century lodging

Front door to our Loggia apartment

Geese on the property on the way to the swimming pool

Loggia apartment is called that because it has a long narrow room with windows that look over the courtyard

Domo's swollen hands from mosquito bites.

An Intolerance of Wheat

We were hanging on for dear life as the bus lurched forward and I accidently bumped into a large Polish student. Mi scusi. So we take the 17 to this loop over the railroad track. Right there I said pointing my finger on the spot balancing on the pole wrapped in the crook of my elbow. We get off right there and shop at the outdoor market and then pick up the 7 right here to go back.

Are you looking for a Supermarket said the fat cheeked Polish kid in perfect English. Yes we are, I lit up. I can show you the place I shop. It is right near my apartment so it’s no problem for me to show you. It’s good but not too expensive.

Sal looked skeptical trailing 10 paces behind as we got off the bus and followed Dimetri to his Supermarket. Our Polish friend was in Florence for the summer studying Italian. It was his last day and I waved goodbye to him as he headed home. The market was well stocked and Sal and I went quickly to work on collecting food for the next few days. I grabbed a handful of citronella candles for the sake of all of us suffering from mosquito bites. Sal tracked down the pasta and canned tomato sauce and then we both congregated at the meat and cheese counter. One could make the claim that Italy is the best place in the world to eat. It’s all very addictive stuff. The wine, pasta, bread, fresh vegetables, prepared meats and of course pizza. The smell is irresistible; especially if you are wheat intolerant celiac. In fact it’s pure torture. You might as well take the poor soul directly to the chambers where they do unspeakable acts. I had made it a practice when I got to a place to look for stuff for Nick to eat. A good staple was rice cakes and cream cheese as a failsafe. Found.

Things were not always this good. In 1860 the average life expectancy was 30 years old in Italy. By 1910 it had only improved to 47 years old. American writer Nathaniel Hawthorne noted Roman cooking to make him “sick at stomach of sour bread, sour wine, rancid butter, and bad cookery, needlessly bestowed on evil meats.” The variety and abundance of food declined steadily through the 19th century because the land could not support the size of the population, poor transportation and storage of foods, badly managed and corrupt food companies and excessive government taxes. It was estimated that 70 to 80 percent of the family budget was spent on food consumption. Italians found that they could make 10 times the salary in America and by the early 1900’s a quarter of the Italian population in a great diaspora left, which made available more food for those that stayed. Interestingly the food industry got its act together for awhile in Italy and exported olive oil, cured meats, dried pasta and canned tomatoes to all the those folks who still wanted the taste of the old country in the Americas. With the help of several inventions, the “semolarice” to sort and sift the wheat and the “impastatrice” a mechanical kneading machine, the dried pasta business was in full swing. But things hit a snag during the First World War. Like other European governments Italy stepped in to stretch wheat supplies by setting the cost and as a consequence riots ensued throughout the country protesting the 20% increase in the price of a loaf of bread.

There are certain things you don’t want to do wrong in Italy. From experience in Rome food seemed to make everyone a bit edgy. So I carefully bagged the vegetables and dutifully weighed each one and tagged them with the appropriate label. We quickly had more food than we could conceivably carry on the bus so the store called a taxi that whisked us off to Fattoria di Maiano.

Our Loggia apartment was up two flights of stairs delivering us to the front door of solid oak that had two leafs each barely a foot and a half wide. The 15th century marble steps were so worn we had to lean forward while carrying the sacks of groceries to keep our momentum going. The key passed through the ancient bronze lock and released a bolt that echoed throughout the staircase. Inside the temperature was the same as outside…very hot. The boys had already been to the pool and back and were now preoccupied with laptop mind meld. Rebecca lay on the couch with a cold wash cloth on her face. Not a good sign. Amid the complaints of sore feet, mosquito bites and swollen body parts emerged the greatest of all teenage plagues…hunger.

During the First World War, Italy in an effort to solve its wheat shortage, turned to the US and Canada. By the end of the war, wheat amounted to 50% of the national debt. Sentiment ran high to return to a prewar free market and do away with government pricing. To further complicate things, the Italian farmers who were growing wheat before the war had turned to raising meat products. The land was not big enough to support both and the interdependence on foreign grains persisted. The price of pasta and a loaf of bread continued to rise despite the reduction in world wheat prices which made Italians very upset. The government blamed the retailers and did nothing to solve the real problems of corruption and poor infrastructure.

Despite blistered feet, Sal rose heroically to the test of feeding everyone. He had on numerous occasions prepared pasta for us back home. What made his pasta so good was how much he enjoyed cooking it. Animatedly he would tell stories of his mother’s cooking and how much he learned from her. His parents were born in Calabria in the little hill town of Serra San Bruno and are now gone. His father was a prisoner of war. After WWII he married Fina and came to Canada. Preparing pasta for the first time in Italy was like channeling their spirits back to life.

A strong argument could be made that food was the central issue in the rise to power of the Fascists from 1922 to 1945. Mussolini never missed a photo opportunity to take his shirt off and work alongside the Italian laborers threshing wheat. While in reality many of the policies mirrored that of the former liberal government the Fascists distinguished themselves by launching a major propaganda campaign to nationalize the modern Italian diet of pasta, bread, produce, cheese and wine. Eating anything else especially foreign food was discouraged and considered unpatriotic. Protests of food prices were dispelled through brutal retribution. During WWII Italy had the lowest caloric diet in Europe as the cost of war and the need to feed the troops sent the entire country back to 19th century scarcity.

Sal’s family survived the war though the clever stockpiling of wheat and shrewd management of portions. Proudly Sal brought the platter of red hot pasta to the table along with another platter of rolled beef stuffed with ricotta cheese and topped with tomato sauce. We opened a bottle of Chianti and sliced the bread. Pouring olive oil in a plate with balsamic vinegar, we dipped the bread, sipped the wine and topped the pasta with grated parmesan. While everyone silently filled themselves with food I looked over at Nick frozen with an anguished look. I can’t eat any of this he said.

How about some rice crackers and cream cheese Nick, I said.

Images from Florence

Leonardo da Vinci sketch of the hanging of one of the Pazzi conspirators in the attempted assasination of Lorenzo di Medici

The Duomo in Florence

Villa di Maiano

The meadow from "Room with a View" where the young lovers kiss

A young Leonardo da Vinci

Great Bird

A motorcycle nearly swiped me as I drudged alone up the steep narrow street surrounded by 10 foot high walls. It was hot and I carried my bottle of tap water that was put to more palatable use pouring over my head than down my spout. A small village was up ahead and several elderly women and men were seated out front of a two story stone building. I recognized one of the women who helped Rebecca and I find the right bus stop into the city center of Florence. My hand wave was received by a simple nod of the chin and a reflective look. Who are you? I kept going.


Exploring the grounds and hiking trails at 15th Century Florentine Villa Fattoria di Maiano, at which we stayed, the road ended and I continued on a dirt path with Cypress trees and rock outcroppings towering over me. Signs warned of wild boar and other creatures of the woods. I soon found myself in the old quarry of Cave di Maiano where sandstone called "pietra fiesolana" was carved from the mountain for much of the architectural detailing in 15th century Florentine buildings, so much in fact that a ban had to be put on its use. My curiosity for coming to this spot was not roused by the sandstone so much as the quarry’s other claim to fame: it is allegedly the place where Leonardo da Vinci’s first attempted flight ended in a crash landing.

In 1500 Leonardo had returned to Florence after a 16 year absence much accomplished at the age of 48. The events of 1476 still haunted him. He had been charged and later acquitted of sodomizing a young Florentine man. When he left Florence for Milan he had bitter disappointments in his life and because of his lack of letters was not considered equal to other artists of his time.

Passing through the quarry I was now on a path through a meadow. In the distance a castle raised high off the mountain. The sweat made my mosquito bites itch and I pressed on not really knowing where I was going. The wind blew and trees swayed in eerie rhythm to my labored breathing. I looked for creatures that might suddenly appear and I instinctively picked up a rock for protection.

Lorenzo di Medici had his own troubles following Leonardo’s sodomy charges. In 1478 an attempt was made on Lorenzo’s life during a high mass in the Duomo cathedral. The conspiracy involved the Archbishop of Pisa, Pope Sixtus IV and Lorenzo’s Florentine archrivals Salviati and Francesco de' Pazzi. Lorenzo’s brother Giuliano died in the incident and in the ensuing bloody aftermath the Pope’s supporters were rounded up and executed by a vigilante Florentine mob. Angered by the turn of events, the Pope enlisted the King of Naples, Ferdinand I to attack Florence. In an act of astute political savvy, the militarily weak Florentine sailed to Naples surrendering to Ferdinand. During his 3 month imprisonment Lorenzo was able to convince Ferdinand of the Pope’s treachery and to let him go back to Florence averting a disaster.

I came to a juncture in the path. A sign showed that one direction led to the castle and the other a mountain ridge top and although it would be a tough climb I chose the latter. The heavily forested path did not look well travelled and at times I had to guess at where the path really was but I steadily made my way up, over and around boulders and fallen tree branches. I was determined that when I reached the top I would be rewarded with a magnificent view of Florence, the River Arno and the surrounding countryside. The entire area was part of the Fattoria di Maiano estate which I found on the recommendation of another Agriturismo villa owner in Umbria. As I was planning the trip to Italy I became internet friends with Sabina of Colle San Paolo in Panicale. Sabina said it was a good place for the kids after a full day of tourism because it had a great swimming pool. As it turned out that was the saving grace in the heat. Unfortunately unlike Sabina’s villa, Fattoria di Maiano had no screens on the windows or air conditioning. Mosquitoes, a particularly nasty variety called “Tigris” tormented our party without relief when the windows were opened and the heat overwhelmed us when the windows were closed. The place however reeked of history. Both movies “Room with a View” and “Tea with Mussolini” were filmed on the estate. Queen Victoria and Margaret both spent holidays here. The place was owned by two famous families at separate times, the Sforza’s and the Pazzi’s. In the 19th century the property was restored to grandeur by Sir John Temple Leader who planted the cypress trees which are now so prominent throughout the area. Today it is operated by Countess Lucrezia Miari Fulcis dei Principi Corsini and is a hotel, banquet hall and active organic olive oil farm.

I had not known it at the time but the mountain I was on was Monte Ceceri or Swan Mountain. The ancient lore was that a huge bird had once long ago lifted itself from the mountain top and disappeared into the sky. At the top there was a clearing and in the center was a scorched ring of rocks used many times for campfires. The view was partially blocked by huge trees but I was nevertheless treated to the spectacular expanse of Florence in solitude and stunning silence. It was from this place that Leonardo had launched his “great bird.” It was from this place that he had for many hours studied the flight of birds and meticulously recorded his notes on soaring.

In the spring of 1506 it was a time for Leonardo of great significance. He was in a furious rivalry with Michelangelo, each trying to outdo the other and artists from all over Europe came to witness and take part in this challenge. Raphael was a pupil under Leonardo. Leonardo had begun painting the Mona Lisa which took him 14 years complete. His father at 80 years old had passed away. He was finally considered the Master that he was but Leonardo never thought he would become famous for his art. It was after all his occupation. His passion was engineering and he always desired immortality from his great inventions. Unfortunately many of the ideas he had were just too far ahead of their time and in Leonardo’s mind embittered failures. Of all the inventions he made none had more interest for Leonardo than the possibility of human flight. Curiously he never wrote about the flight that was to take place that spring day but the story goes that he had strapped his pupil Zoroastro da Peretola into the “great bird” and it had crashed below into the Cave di Maiano. Leonardo never wrote again about flying in his journals. Something had ended here for him. No one will ever know but perhaps it was because another disappointment had once again overcome him.

As I descended the mountain I was a bit startled by a rustling in the brush along the path in front of me. I stopped momentarily to listen and observe. A fox emerged from the underbrush onto the path and stopped to look at me then quietly disappeared back into the forest on the other side. I was overcome with the loneliness of this place craving human contact and picked up another rock for protection as I quickly paced myself back to the Villa.

On to Florence

Renaissance man Lorenzo The Magnificent

The Slow Train to Florence

Sunflowers and hill towns of Umbria

The copy of Michaelangelo's David in Palazzo Vecchio

The end of the Golden Age of the Renaissance was marshaled by Franciscan monk Girolamo Savonarola infamous for ritual burnings of books and art.  His own death was by fire after the citizens of Florence had enough of his apocolyptic visions.  The burning at the stake of Savonarola was coined the "Bonfire of the Vanities"

The Slow Train to Florence

The light over our head was flickering on and off and the door separating the cars was swinging freely slamming with startling regularity. Stuffing was coming out of the stained seat next to me and graffiti covered the walls. Worst was the locked up and out of order WC that periodically titillated the atmosphere.

How long you say it take you to get to Firenze asked Sal’s cousin, Johnny.

Let’s see, it leaves at 11 and arrives at 330, that’s 4-1/2 hours.

A wry smile spread out across Johnny’s face. Oh that’s, uh…how you say… the scenic train. The fast train takes only an hour and a half. You take the slow train to Firenze.

I had done a lot to organize this trip and the thought that I had made such a fundamental mistake annoyed me. I sat stewing as the train stopped once again. Everyone else slept after a night of food and wine at Johnny and Anna Maria’s in their home in Santa Maria delle Mole outside Rome. The tickets were non-refundable, non transferrable and sold by a French travel agent that I bought on line through “EuropeRail”. The Italian capotreno (conductor) had looked skeptically at the ticket and sneered “This is no good”

I opened my Kindle, Amazon’s electronic book, a handy way of taking your library with you on travels but had a hard time concentrating. Hunger made my stomach rumble, harmonizing with the groan of the brakes at yet another station. It was now two hours into the trip and the memory of grilled swordfish, pesto pasta, garden tomatoes, fresh ricotta and cold white wine amid the smell of vineyards and night jasmine still lingered from Johnny and Anna Maria’s.

The train picked up speed and I stood up, put my Kindle down and pushed open the window as we passed through the lush green countryside of Umbria. The hill towns’ ancient towers and walls of stone rose up above the fields of sunflowers and corn. These villages and fortresses belonged there as if outcrops of the mountains that surrounded them. With the wind blowing in my face and curtains flying, a little old lady I had not noticed before stood up behind me and slammed the window closed. She said something in Italian and I sat down hard in my seat.

I shrugged my shoulders in a half hearted apology to the woman and picked up my Kindle again. I was reading “1491: New Revelations of the Americas before Columbus” by Charles Mann. The demise of Indian civilizations in the Americas while touring the cradle of Western Culture was a bit weird but the subject fascinated me and so I dove in.

In 1491 the corn and sunflower I viewed from the train were not here, neither were tomatoes, tobacco, peppers, cocoa, strawberries or peanuts; all from the Americas. In turn the Europeans brought horses, coffee, cane sugar and wheat to the Americas. They also brought smallpox, influenza, typhoid fever, cholera, scarlet fever, yellow fever, malaria, measles, tuberculosis and the bubonic plague. The favor was returned with the introduction of syphilis from America to Europe. At the time the largest populated nation in the world was the Inca in South America but not for long. Within 100 years 90% of the Americans had died of diseases introduced by the Europeans. By comparison The Black Death of the 14th century killed about 40% of the European population.

With my head filled with the Pre- Columbian Americas we pulled into the train station in Florence. All was well when we checked our bags at the station and had a great meal at a restaurant nearby. We even found a cab that could take all of us and luggage to our apartment at Fattoria di Maiano, a 15th century villa in the foothills surrounding Florence. We had arrived at the heart and soul of the Renaissance and I was in some sort of strange cosmic reorganization transported from the Americas into the Old World and the land of Michelangelo, Botticelli, Donatello, and Da Vinci. Curiously 1492 marked the end of the Golden Age of the Renaissance when it’s great patron Lorenzo (The Magnificent) de’ Medici died. Two years later his son Piero the Unfortunate lost it all when King Charles VII of France invaded Italy and took Florence by force. With the fall of the Medici dynasty came the rise of the Franciscan monk Giolamo Savonarola predicting the Last Days. He used the failings of the house of Medici to fuel his rhetoric and cited the sudden and deadly outbreak of syphilis as a sure sign the end was near. He was right the end was near for those that lived on the other side of the world.

Trilussa The Poet

 Born Carlo Alberto Camillo Salustri in 1871

Giovanni Carpanetto's Portrait of Trilussa, 1915

Trastevere images 2

Domo on the first day

Sal's cousin Ana Maria and her son Fabio

As Sal likes to say brothers seperated at birth

Piazza Trastevere in the AM

Nick, Domo and JJ on the town in Trastevere

Don't Believe Everything You See

Not yet adjusted to the time change Rebecca woke me up the next morning at 5 AM and we went for a walk up to Piazza Trilussa at the edge of Trastevere across the Tiber River to the Jewish Synagogue (now a museum) and then back across the Tiber at the island Isola Tiberina into Trastevere again. It started to cloud up and rain came in a light drizzle, a welcome change to the overwhelming heat. The locals were out,  perhaps all night and not yet seeking refuge from the morning onslaught of garbage collectors. A film crew was setting up along the river and I fanatsized that Federico Fellini would emerge at any moment from one of the trailers. His cast of clowns and crazy people were all around. One poor guy was out cold from a hard night of drinking just as we crossed the footbridge at Trilussa lucky to not have fallen off the edge. The ground everywhere was strewn with empty bottles and the walls blemished at the hands of nightly raids by street artists.

An old woman draped completely in black and stooped over so you could not see her face, had her hand out as we passed along the bridge. I gave her a Euro. It was instinctive. There was something unreal about her. I recalled the night before of doing a double take on a human sculpture. After close observation it moved ever so slightly. Like the stone man the old lady's outstretched hand never fell to her side.

Other locals I had begun to recognize were a guy with long black hair a broken leg and no teeth, a woman with a Sophia Loren body and well worn face who talked very loudly and promptly undid her pants, squatted and peed on the monument for the Roman poet for which the Piazza Trilussa is named. Sal had done a yeoman’s job to translate the Trilussa poem All’ombra inscribed on the monument the day before, on the spot, but I am lately moved to look for an English translation on a Google search.

ALL’OMBRA

Mentre me leggo er solito giornale
spaparacchiato all’ombra d’un pajaro,
vedo un porco e je dico. Addio, majale!
vedo un ciuccio e je dico. Addio, somaro!
Forse ste bestie nun me caperanno,
ma provo armeno la soddisfazzione
de potè di’ le cose come stanno
senza paura de fini in priggione.

IN THE SHADOW

While I’m reading the usual newspaper,
relaxed in the shadow of a straw patio,
I see a swine and I say aloud: “Farewell, pig!”
I see a mule and I say aloud: “Farewell, donkey!”
Maybe these beasts won’t understand me
but, at least, I feel so happy
to be free to tell things straight,
fearing not to finish up in prison.


The poem is written in the Romanesco dialect and the above translation is more of a literal Italian version. Below is a recent translation by Professor John DuVal, director of the literary translation program in the English department of the J. William Fulbright College of Arts and Sciences.


IN THE SHADE OF THE HAY RICK

I read my paper, back propped against the hay.
Here comes a hog, so I look up and say,
"Goodbye, pig!" And then across the grass
here comes a donkey; I say, "Goodbye, ass!"
No way of telling if they've understood.
Whether they have or not, it does me good
to call things what they are without the dread
of having to go to jail for what I've said.

The political context of Trilussa’s poetry is early 20th century fascism and he was known for his satires of the time. Refusing to be labeled or associated with any literary circle or political persuasion he described himself simply as “not a fascist” and lived, wrote about and worked among the locals of Trastevere. “All’ombra” is clearly not about them. It was written in 1932 at the height of fascism in Italy. The words “Goodbye, pig!” and “Goodbye, ass!” would have significantly different meaning if written in the late 40’s at fascism’s decline.

The Du Val translation provides a personal expression and insight into the poem that the first translation does not begin to evoke. The literal translation of the title word all’ombra means “shade” not “shadow” which changes the meaning of the entire poem from a condition of foreboding to one of self determination. Taking shade rather than being under the shadow, Trilussa has chosen to be there. The “usual” newspaper is the more personal “my” newspaper. “Propped against the hay” suggests that Trilussa is not in the leisure of a “straw patio” but sitting in The Hay Rick, the animal house itself. The “shadowed” threat is actually real danger. More important in the second stanza the Du Val words are chosen with care to state Trilussa ‘s feeling that whether the political pigs or asses understand him or not, the act of calling things as they are is good for him but better under the circumstances of not going to jail for it. He is not a passive observer at all but is making a clear statement for freedom of speech.

Sophia Loren hitches up her pants speaking loudly without a break in her actions. The guy with a broken leg hobbles away and the drunken fellow awakens and stumbles off in search of his friends. The other Romanesco poet of Trastevere and Trilussa’s mentor, Giuseppe Gioacchino Belli stands a few blocks away looking down on Viale di Trastevere at his own Piazza. These are the people of Trilussa and Belli.

Fellini’s a no show but I can’t help wondering if it was really an old woman I gave the Euro to or an actor pretending to be one. The words of All’ombra resonate with me. Under the worst of times take action, make a statement and call it like it is.

Everybody's here

The limo driver pulled up to the address where I was waiting out front of the Trastevere apartment. There was barely enough room between the cafes and parked cars for Rebecca and JJ to open the car door but out they popped anyway. I was anxious to see them. It had been four weeks since we left and my youngest son seemed to be a head taller. Hi dad he said as the words cracked between alto and baritone. His voice had changed when we were gone. Before emerging from the limo Rebecca had looked at me from behind the car window. After the long day of travel I could see she was tired but happy to see me and to have finally arrived.


The flight from San Francisco to Amsterdam had not been a pleasant one. A boy had gotten sick every half hour the entire trip. Neither Rebecca nor JJ got any sleep. It was about 6 PM on a Thursday in Rome and the neighborhood was beginning to come alive again after the mid-day shutdown. There’s a lot of graffiti here Rebecca said as we entered the ground level hallway and headed up the two flights to the apartment. The door shut behind us and the world outside disappeared in favor of the building’s interior and Nick, Domo and Sal waiting at the top of the stairs.

This is nice she said as she toured the place. It was a long narrow flat with two large bedrooms side by side at the front of the building, a large living/dining room in the middle with kitchen and two bathrooms at the other end. The larger of the two bathrooms had French doors that led to a small balcony where a washing machine was tucked into a corner and a clothes line extended out over a sea of other clothes lines and adjoining balconies. No architect, not even M.C. Escher could conceive of the number of angles where everything met. Hey there’s a foot washer in this bathroom said JJ. Funny that’s what Nick said when he saw his first bidet a month ago.

Earlier that day I had gone to the market to stock up a bit on food. The supermarket was a couple of blocks away and I passed it a few times not really understanding where the front door was. I finally found it and went inside which was even more illogical with a series of dead end chambers connected through skinny blind aisles and random stacks of food and supplies. Having spent the past two weeks eating healthy in Greece I proceeded to load up with a variety of fruit and vegetables. When I got to the checkout stand I received an Italian tongue lashing from the clerk who promptly sent me back to weigh each piece, bag it in plastic and put a printed sticker on the bag which identified the type of fruit or vegetable it was and the price. I checked and rechecked the Italian names of what I was buying. Since there were three different kinds of lemons and six kinds of tomatoes I continually ran back and forth to the weigh station monopolizing the area to other patron’s consternation until I miraculously got it all done. I went back to the checkout and gave the clerk a big smile and handed her my neatly bundled and labeled treasures. She laughed and said something in Italian I did not understand.

I got a watermelon and served up slices to everyone. A quick shower and change of clothes and all were refreshed and ready to strike out on the town. The three boys went their way and we adults went ours. They say all roads lead to Rome and it’s kind of like that in Trastevere. At first Rebecca was wondering how we would get in touch with the boys but after about a half an hour of running into them several times she got the picture. As night began to fall and the crowds got bigger we made our way to one of Alessio’s favorite restaurants, Augusto’s. Sal explained that you had to order each course separately and only after you had finished one course could you order the next. After a month of not speaking the language it was a relief to not have to worry about it. Sal did all the ordering in Italian and I just ate and drank and enjoyed the company of my newly reunited family.

Images from the Holy Roman Empire

The Rape of the Sabine Women by Giovanni Bologna in Florence

Street artists painting masterpieces in chalk on the streets of Florence with the ever present street sweepers

A Venetian building next to a graffiti wall.  Venice was much more sacrosanct about graffiti than Rome

Trastevere images

Trastevere Graffiti Nick and JJ

Our host in Trastevere, Alessio Angeli with Nick, JJ and Rebecca at the best Brioche and Capuchino cafe  

The processional parade with a weekend of festivities in Trastevere

Very old graffiti at the entrance to the Pantheon in Rome

The Holy Roman Empire

The story goes that Romulus hosted a series of games at the Circus Maximus and invited all the local neighbors insisting that the Sabine women sit separately from their men. Things were going well for the new city state on top of the Palatine Hill for all the raucous freemen who flocked there. Romulus had politely asked if the Romans could marry the Sabine daughters. When the men derisively declined, Romulus lured the Sabine men and women to the staged event on the promise of great entertainment. The women were promptly seized and raped to the outrage of their fathers and brothers who went home to get their weapons. When they returned they discovered the women unwilling to leave. So what else would you expect from the guy who was raised by wolves and killed his own brother.


The doorbell rang. I descended the stairs to a long hallway past the “organics only” trash bin and swung open the ancient wood door covered with graffiti. The hot afternoon poured in along with the smell, sights and sound of old Rome and the presence of my dear friend Sal and his son Domo. He flew in that morning. His cousin Ana Maria had picked them up at the airport and driven them into town where she worked.

It’s near the Spanish Steps right?

No it’s not. I told you Trastevere.

I only remember Spanish Steps.

I gave you the address in Trastevere.

How would I know where that is? Ok we’ll find it. So Sal and Domo walked from the Spanish Steps to the Vatican along the Tiber to Trastevere. My feet really hurt said Domo.

Ok you and Nick stay here and relax and I’ll show Sal around. Bolstered by the tour Alessio gave me the night before and my additional wonderings I felt like I knew the place. The front door at Via di San Francesco a Ripa 166 was separated from the street by one step that once taken, plunged you into the chaos of this of this neighborhood of tiny alleys that somehow accommodated cafe seating, pedestrians, sidewalks, parked cars and space for vehicles of all types driving every which way. We chose a cafe Alessio said was where the locals hung out near the Piazza. Sal ordered granites for us, crushed ice coffee with cream on top. We sat in front of the café and took in the scene around us. Trash cans of recycled bottles were overflowing and the air smelled of ancient stale liquor, spilled between the sundrenched black cobblestones for centuries. Teams of orange vested trash collectors were sweeping through with brooms, street cleaners and litter luggers. Each day a major effort was undertaken to clean up Trastevere of debris from the night before. Drunks and vagrants asleep in the early morning seemed to know better and were out of there when the army of orange vests arrived.

Looking past the cleanup, a different sort of eye sore could be seen. The walls, doors, bridges, fountains, churches, signs and metal shudders within arm’s reach of something to stand on were thick with graffiti. Nothing seemed to be spared. Some of it was good art and a lot of it was tagging. Nick had started a photo record of graffiti in Israel and Greece but Trastevere was an unequalled potpourri of graffiti art beyond anything I have ever seen. While Nick referred to it as street art like many young Italians as modern art I struggled to look past it. A lot has been written about Roman graffiti from ancient times and it literally means etched writing. The Pantheon is covered with it. Pompeii is famous for it as is the Catacombs; political expression, historical significance, folk art all of which is part of being Roman. I read a recent blog by Paul Baines that describes current politics surrounding graffiti art including an August 5, 2009 announcement by the Mayor of Rome Gianni Alemanno to crackdown on its proliferation. The blog presents two forms, street art and tagging, the tagging is explained as an underlining political commentary. From my perspective there was a third kind of expression which was purely ego-centric. It’s not political at all but rather the embodiment of making a mark on the world to say that the person writing their name or making their scribble is more significant and important than the structure it is written on. I have a problem with that. Its one thing to use a public canvas for the sake of art and quite another to say you exist in the world. The best example of the good kind of art form was a later street scene we saw in Florence where artists drew with chalk, extraordinary reproductions of Renaissance work knowing that the street sweepers or the elements would soon take it away, a selfless street art for the sake of art and a handout worth making.

An interesting factor in Trastevere was explained to me by Alessio. Any work legally done in this historic district requires months of bureaucracy to obtain permits including painting over graffiti. It’s just simply not worth it to the merchants and building owners. The church on the other hand can get things done. In preparation for a weekend of religious festivities the very next day in the same spot looking at the Piazza Trastevere, all the walls had been cleaned or painted over.

You know the last time I was in Rome in October said Sal as we sipped our granites. There was an expose on a local politician promoting the sorting of “organics” from plastics and metals. With the cameras rolling in an interview with the fellow, the news station pointed out that one could see the sorted garbage pointlessly being mixed into one garbage truck.

Some things never change. The orange vests stopped in front of the café and emptied the garbage bins of beer bottles into a truck. The clash of sound was defining. You can’t really trust what you see on the surface here in Rome. Romulus would have been proud.

Travel Day

Traveling days are a challenge। I pre-purchased our plane tickets on line from Rome to Athens, Crete to Athens and Athens back to Rome through Aegean Airlines, sort of the Greek version of Southwest Airlines. Nice planes, helpful staff but it does not take long to figure out travel arrangements made on line are for the most part non refundable, non transferable and totally inflexible. What should have been an easy 30 minute flight from Crete to Athens and 2 hour flight from Athens to Rome turned into an all day affair.

Can I get an earlier flight from Athens to Rome? I ask the nice lady on the phone। We have 7 hours between flights। I am sorry sir but we cannot do that। Ok। Can I catch a later flight from Creta. No, sir I am sorry you cannot do that. Ok.

I can issue your boarding pass for the flight from Creta to Athena said the very nice Greek lady at the counter but not from Athena to Roma. Why not? Because you made the reservation at a separate time and I cannot print the pass from here. But if I had a printer I could go online and print my own boarding pass myself. I am sorry but the system will not allow me to do that. Ok. Which gate do we go to? We don’t announce the gate until 30 minutes from the flight. Ok.
We started our day dropping off the car at 730 AM and we finally got to our apartment in Rome at 9 PM। It’s the last night of just Nick and I. We are exhausted but we are greeted at our Rome apartment in an ancient neighborhood of Trastevere by Alessio Angeli our host here at Via San Francesca di Ripa 166, a large two bedroom unit above what must be one of the busiest areas for nightlife in the world. Lined on both sides with cafés people somehow manage to maneuver their cars, scooters, bicycles and bodies through the narrow alleys. While Nick rested I chased Alessio around the area as he showed me his favorite pasta restaurant, the best pizzeria and gelatoria, the apartment where he grew up and where he lives now, the local cathedral, a restaurant from the scene in a Fellini film, the Piazza, the best seafood place, the best bar, best sushi (not like you get in San Francisco), and the best brioche (where they still make them by hand) and cappuccino in the morning. In places the streets were so crowded we had to shove our way through the throngs.

Alessio is a young man, with a curly mop of hair and an infectious personality। A surfer, he has been to Hawaii 13 times and was headed that way in the next week. He owns 9 properties that he rents out to tourists and has traveled the world including working on a Kibbutz in Israel for awhile. He treats me to gelato and buys a pound for us and then walks me back through the crazy maze of people and alleys.

Nick…you got to come see this। It’s like the Plaka in Athens. Thousands of people out: let’s get something to eat. We go out walking and wander the streets for several hours, have dinner at the Pizzeria and Alessio was right…it was great pizza.

More Images of Creta

A butterfly at our Crete Villa

Sunset from Gerolakos

Cicada songster

Maria's garden

Lefteris our host

Gerolakos Villas - Creta

Gerolakos means old hole or valley in Greek. I asked our host Lefteris why the villas were called “old hole”. He is a very thoughtful man and when asked a question he takes his time to answer it. He runs the family business and in the year 2000 he built the villas on the land and began renting to tourists. They were constructed in an authentic style of the stone houses of the area with the exception of modern electrical works and air conditioning. Lefteris laments that the houses have too much that is not authentic. Gerolakos was in his mother’s family for many generations before his father inherited the land with the marriage to his mother Maria.

It’s the middle of the afternoon and Lefteris has come by to bring us some tomatoes and cucumber from his mother’s garden. We drink a glass of raki, a local liquor made with grapes. The hum of cicada can be heard outside. I ask him if I can take his picture and he poses for me in the exact same way for each of the three pictures I take. There’s a big warm smile in each.

There are many Archeological sites in Crete as the human habitation here is thousands of years old. The Minoans are thought to have lived here as far back as 6900 BC. In 2000 BC the great temple of Knossos was built. The Mycenaean’s from mainland Athens came to Crete and overwhelmed the ancient Minoans after a major volcanic eruption occurred about 1400 BC on the island of Thera (Santorini). It was believed that a tsunami engulfed Crete as a result and destroyed the navy vessels that protected Crete and the surrounding islands from invaders. Seizing the opportunity the mainlanders took over. During the Classical and Hellenistic periods the island grew in population and it was here the origin of Greek mythology began with Zeus, King Minos, Minotaur and a host of others. It also became a combative city state and a haven for pirates. In 69 BC Crete was conquered by the Romans. As part of the Byzantine Empire Christianity spread however it fell into the hands of Iberian Muslims in 824 AD but taken back by the Byzantines in 960 AD and held until 1204 when the Venetians took over for the next 400 years. The Renaissance culture flourished under the Venetians and produced artists and writers most notably the painter El Greco. In 1718 Crete came under the control of the Ottoman Turks for the next 2 centuries. Hostilities festered between Christians and Muslims and Crete was the focus of an intense rebellion during the Greek War of Independence in 1821. While Greece retained its independence Crete did not and it remained under Turkish and at times Egyptian rule. It was not until after WWI and the Treaty of Lausanne in 1923 that Crete became part of Greece. Unfortunately independence from a hostile foreign state was once again to befall the Cretans who valiantly fought against a German invasion in 1941 only to lose. The first encounter the Germans had with a hostile local population the Nazi’s underestimated the fight to take the island and sustained heavy casualties. In response a heavy toll was excised upon the civilian population with mass genocide committed by the Germans. Cretan resistance fighters continued the struggle throughout the occupation.

Leftaris considered my question and said this was always the name of the land because it was shaped like a hole before the olive trees were planted by his father. How long has your family lived in Crete I asked. I don’t know he said but it has been a very long time. Crete in many ways is a series of old valleys replete with rich history and a resilient people.