Saints Abroad

Deep Purple was here...

Then, imperceptibly, the trip’s energy reversed, in the same way a crowd at a play or concert begins to filter back into the theater even before the lights blink.

You could feel it. We were in the final phase.

Some of the women’s shopping took on a joyful seriousness. The men napped even more often on the bus.

We visited Geneva on another lovely mild day. Its idealist-bureaucracy quarter – the neighborhood housing the U.N., the International Red Cross, the World Council of Churches, the International Committee for Refugees et al – felt “Twilight Zone”-ish with its early ’60s architecture and corny landscaping and sculptures and fountains. A bit sad, really, and I felt ashamed for having that reaction.

The city’s Calvinist heritage suffered from our city guide’s shtick. She was entertaining, but rendered a sameness to all things serious and frivolous.

Much more contemporary feeling were the blocks of lakefront late-19^th century edifices housing Versace, Lacoste and the other fashion brands. Here commerce roared.

We contributed our own little squeaks.

I wasn’t in the market for a $250 scarf, so I was glad to make my way a few blocks along and find myself in a bustling street market that closed off the Boulevard Helvetique on this Saturday morning. It seemed less a boutique for eco-sensitive patricians than a thriving market for rich and non-rich alike. An entire stall of varieties of mushrooms. Another of olives (I counted over 20 varieties). Pumpkins and squash. Fish. Ravioli. Chocolate. A merchant of nuts as well as pods and other dessicated inedible-looking things that no doubt are delicious when cooked by a European. A butcher with an enormous haunch of beef in a rack, carving slices the size and thickness of playing cards under the watchful gaze of an old woman who was his customer.

I walked through twice. I’m always comfortable around (and envious of) hippies.

We spent our final afternoon on perhaps the most charming drive of the whole trip. Not in terms of grandeur or jaw-dropping panoramas - just charm. It was along the south shore of Lake Geneva toward the village of Yvoire. The landscape was something like our own South Shore of Lake Superior but with a softer, liquerian feel. Instead of the convenience store in Maple or the empty intersection of Oulu, you come to a tiny French village with a war memorial, a fountain and an ancient church. At the roundabout stand men with hand signs to direct us safely in the presence of bicycle racers zooming through the area.

As we passed through Montreux, of jazz festival fame, guide Petra sounded two discordant notes (ha!). She pointed out a large and centrally located statue of Freddie Mercury of Queen – how bizarre is Europe? - and recounted that the dreaded ’70s anthem “Smoke on the Water” by Deep Purple was written when they were across Lake Geneva in Evian and saw guess what from a fire in Montreux.

Speaking of Evian, the site of the famous bottled water, she had a good line about paying for water: “Evian is ‘naïve’ spelled backward, eh?”

Yvoire is an almost incredibly beautiful village that wins awards for its architectural and cultural preservation. It also surprised many of us with the best shopping of the entire trip, especially for textiles. The goods were local or regional, and not prohibitively expensive. The town also had one of the prettiest country churches, with a modified onion-dome steeple in what appeared to be stainless steel.

We passed chickens pecking in a meadow they shared with sheep to make our way, sun scrubbed and exhausted, to the bus for our final trip back to Le Prieurie.

As we drove, my thoughts returned to impressions from the past week.

... One of those “only in Italy” moments: An elegant white-haired man in an impeccably tailored suit strolled next to a stone wall. He seemed deep in thought with gaze downward, facial expression rueful, and – I love this! - one hand in pocket and the other holding a thin stick whose tip he scraped gently against the wall at, oh, knee height. Soulfully. Existentially. Stylishly.

You’d just never see that in Duluth, even on the Lakewalk. Unless the guy was drunk or off his meds, so you wouldn’t see it for long because the po-po would come and take him away.

We don’t do public existential in Duluth. Especially our seniors.

... Sitting on a bench below the castle wall at Gruyere, a steep bank of woods below me, and further below a lovely expanse of fields, several small villages, and the pre-Alps foothills to right and left. With binoculars I could spot seven herds of cows on meadows near and far, with the bells from another herd invisible below the trees in the foreground.

In the time I enjoyed a cigar, a large hawk (pale face and underside, deeply forked tail, cinnamon colored back) glided silently in front of me three times, patrolling the hillside. Gentle breezes brought sounds of real life. Children playing at recess. A small plane doing  touch-and-go’s at a grass landing strip. It was also reassuring, after a bit too much tourism, to see once again the deeply productive the country side. Fields of corn ready for harvesting or already dried, or in stubble. Hedges between plowed plots. Wheat.

... The sense of fun and discovery shared by Judy and Greg Bonovetz of Duluth, who have gone on five St. Scholastic trips, even though they’re not alumni.

“After the first one we knew we could count on the quality,” said Judy, “and we’ve never been disappointed. We like the company we find ourselves in.”

Greg’s favorite surprise on this trip was the Chamonix restaurant L’Impossible: “It’s one of the best restaurants we’ve ever eaten in. The food was spectacular.” Bonus: the bartender was able to make a good martini.

... The closer must come from guide Petra, who said with a nod to bus driver Robert – as she did at the end of almost every day - “Thank you folks for your company, thank you Robert for your driving, and thank God for the weather.”

On to Ireland, Saints abroad, in '08!

Of spiders and Lord Byron

The view from our balconies at Le Prieurie was magnificent, with the Bosson glacier spreading down the slope of Europe’s highest peak, Mont Blanc. But the vista was marred for me. In the corner above the railing lurked a spider the size of a manhole cover, swaying in its web.

Well, live and let live.

I bustled in and out of the room, coming and going. Every time I stepped out to check the view the evil Alpine arachnid was up there, staring down at me and jiggling a bit as if to dare me.

Finally I thought I saw him wink.

All right. A guy needs a broom in a situation like this. But no broom; nothing with a handle of any kind. Hm… Ah! There was a thick cellophane wrap from a fruit basket. I rolled it into a kind of club shape.

With a sweeping backhand I hurtled the deadly predator out into nothingness. Oops – or did I? Was he at this instant in the folds of my cellophane club, scrambling his way toward my wrist to sink his poisonous fangs into my tender American flesh?

I set my weapon on the railing. Poof!, a breath of wind sent it floating downward. As I watched over the railing, another breeze wafted it onto the balcony below me.

I retreated. Sorry, Room 509!

The Alps offered a few periods of clouds but mostly sun and mild conditions. Some of us relaxed with shopping and sightseeing in Chamonix, others hiked and took gondolas up nearby peaks (intrepid Kari Grieman in flip-flops). Those of us on day excursions toured a dairy (“lame-o” was the quote from one of our younger members) and the Castle Chillon on the banks of Lake Geneva, where the poet Byron was inspired to write "The Prisoner of Chillon." (Very cool, the consensus).

Everywhere were gold roosters on the steeple tops, brilliant red flowers in window boxes, and cows wearing bells the size of toasters. This last is only partly a tourist contrivance, guide Petra said. Some farmers still use the bells for the traditional purpose: to tell their stock from neighbors’, like American ranchers use brands.

As we emerged from the Castle Chillo to the lovely fall afternoon on Lake Geneva I asked Catherine Lynch, who’s traveling with her friend Lana Hurley, to name her favorite part of the trip so far.

She smiled. “I feel like a fat lady in a bakery who’s had too many sweets – I don’t which has been best. It’ll take me a while to digest all of this. I want to get home and look so many things up on the computer now. That’s a good thing about travel, isn’t it? It broadens your interests.”

To the Alps

Annette Oullette is on her first St. Scholastica alumni trip, with her sister, fellow alum Terese McCarthy and two friends.

“I wondered whether I would know anyone from my time at St. Scholastica. I didn’t, as it turned out, but it’s fun getting to know everyone on the bus and hear their stories – I love hearing people’s stories. And then, you know, ‘Oh, when did you graduate? Did you know so and so, she was there about that time.’ That’s what I like about the alumni angle, that you make all those connections.”

She’s also appreciating being with her sister.

“We haven’t spent this much time together in probably 20 years or more,” she said. “Each of us has kids, so although we see each other it’s always for short periods of time and usually with lots of other people around demanding our attention.”

The Saints abroad left Italy after three days, heading north just as the Roman legions did – threading our way up the Aosta valley. Men fished on the banks of the river; conifers appeared; the breezes cooled.Our destination: the French Alps resort town of Chamonix. Our hotel is Le Prieure (“The Priory”), named in honor of the Benedictine monks who made the first recorded mention of Chamonix, in the late 11^th century. Talk about predating Vail, Telluride and, um, Spirit Mountain. After poking around our home base, our first excursion was to cross into Switzerland and drop down into the Rhone valley, where vineyards drape mountainsides so steep that the vintners wear steel safety lines against falling.

It’s a drive of switchback roads, spectacular views, and – always in the Alps - tunnels. Guide Petra’s line: “The Swiss like holes, you know? Holes in their mountains, in their cheese ­– and in our pockets by the time we leave, eh?”We climbed again to Zermatt, another Alpine resort town, at the feet of the Matterhorn. The most hungry-for-heights among us took a cog-wheel train even higher, for photo opportunities.Some of us who stayed below got lunch from a street vendor: a bratwurst the size of a billy club. It was delicious with spicy mustard administered from a big blue tube like artist’s paint comes in.

The Matterhorn proved to be a tease. The iconic peak is just up the valley from Zermat, but remained hidden by clouds. By day’s end it was mostly visible, but still concealed its jagged tooth.

Probably, the most adventurous among us was Waldtraut (Wally) Emmel Betchart. I don’t know her age precisely, but it’s closer to 80 than 70. Wally had heard of the high mineral content of mountain streams fresh from glaciers, as the one is in Zermatt.

She wanted some of that water.

So she slipped through a fenced area down to the rapidly rushing stream’s bank.

“The first rock I got on was pretty slippery,” she said, “so I got onto another one.”

She got her Nalgene filled.

Half and half

Ah, Milan.

“I almost had my purse stolen,” said Rae Ann Swanson.

“Definitely a New York vibe,” said Kari Grieman.

“All the bustle,” agreed Shaun Riley. “But that cathedral was something else.”

The Saints abroad had rolled into the teeming city in late morning. The better neighborhoods’ broad streets were shaded by graceful acacia trees; the less prosperous spackled with graffiti (one proclamation in English: “Half of everything is luck.”).

Everywhere it was clear that the streets offer motorists only temporary moments of mobility between permanent gridlock. We watched chic pedestrians making better progress than we were in our bus.

Guide Petra, an Austrian, mused upon the fashion capital’s style.

“Even in those silly Smart cars –” a hilariously tiny urban car designed by Swatch and engineered by Mercedes – “Italian men with their sunglasses and slicked back hair and their elbow out the window just so, they still manage to look good, no? In something the size of a washing machine! It’s a talent, let’s admit it.”

She gave a little laugh.

“And the women manage to look graceful going across cobblestones in stiletto heels. I’d probably break my neck.” 

Some of us went bank to bank to bank in search of one that would take our dollars for Swiss francs (a future destination being Switzerland, which doesn't belong to the European Union and so doesn't use Euros). Some of us patronized the famous Galleria area of shops.

Beyond shopping, and the nearby La Scala opera house, the city’s tourism magnet is the world’s fourth-largest Catholic church. Police eye you at the main doors, and in the gloom of the great cathedral all the incongruities of sacred tourism are on display. People shuffle around slack-jawed with audio handsets glued to their heads like an extra appendage. Many barely glance around before raising an arm and rorating slowly, phones and cameras hoisted to take photos and 360-video. Cell phones chirp; their owners un-self-consciously answer and carry on conversations.

The architecture is a queasy overlay of centuries worth of styles, all excessive. The admission fees to the basement and to the roof taste of commerce.

And yet – and yet…

You notice that priests take confession from kneeling penitents on one side. On the other side, hundreds of votive candles gleam before praying faithful. In a small chapel a young man appears to be having an ecstatic experience before an image of Mary, raising his hands, rocking in his seat and murmuring.

Half luck, we are told. All of it part of the daily routine of urban Italy circa 2007.

Venice!

“Since this is Italy, speed limits are more like suggestions than laws,” said guide

Petra. The Saints abroad were crossing the Po plain eastward across the top of

Italy. And true, some small cars blew past us on the autostrada.

But the semis all stay in the far right lane and have lower speed suggestions they seem to follow. So we were free to relax and savor the land’s startling productivity – grapes, corn, wheat, alfalfa, the occasional hunter working a hedgerow –­­ with the Alps always glimmering dark blue to the north.

Approaching Venice from the mainland, we transferred to a boat and saw the staging area for the city. It was a bit like seeing the great Oz behind the curtain. At the terminal area where trucks offload goods onto boats for conveying into the city, a barge the size of a tennis court headed into a canal with a half-load of washing machines. Vaporetti, or “water buses,” buzzed to and fro with tourists and local residents alike. Preposterously impractical, but then, as Petra said fondly of Italy in general: “Everything just has to look good, it doesn’t have to work well.”

The gorgeous weather had most of our party out on the deck of our boat, taking in the remarkable architecture and sweep of the city. Sister Barbara Higgins was interested to see a Benedictine monastery on the south shore of the Grand Canal.

Once in St. Mark’s square, the Saints spread out to ponder canal views from atop bridges, dine, do a museum, or people-watch. Or all of the above. We hop-scotched between African refugee vendors hawking Chinese knockoff leather goods, and noticed close up that the infamously toxic waters of the canals didn’t seem so bad, or even have much debris or scent.

Lisa Roseth, who collects local art when she travels, scored three watercolors. Waldtraut Betchart enjoyed discovering small plazas frequented more by locals rather than tourists. Kari Grieman contemplated the architecture and the sets of steps leading into water.

Barb King’s gondola ride was “very peaceful, very relaxing, very old world. And you’re seeing people’s laundry hanging from the balconies!”

Your correspondent’s favorite moment came after viewing a few of the baroque master Tiepolo’s paintings of acrobatic punchinellos, prancing hunchbacks with disturbingly long-nosed masks and megaphone hats. (Mister Sophisticate went straight to Burger King to ponder the experience over three burgers.) On the walk back toward the boat I was startled to see a real-life hunchback shuffling directly in front of me and once or twice glancing back at me. No long proboscis, but still: spooky.

A day in the country

The Italian countryside smelled warm and leafy.

Occasionally something new would waft through.

“It smells just a little like a horse barn,” said one Saint abroad.

“Or a brewery,” said another.

“Or a cross between the two,” said the first. We all agreed it was a pleasant scent. We were at a small vineyard/olive farm outside Bardolino, and the beverages were flowing to wash down various olives, cheeses, and bruscetta. The owners (a family, of course) and their staff couldn’t have been more obliging, and the surrounding view of fertile hills more congenial.

We had started the sunny day with an exploration of Sirmione, the small village on the four-mile peninsula jutting into Lake Garda. Imagine Park Point with palm trees. At its end were opera diva Maria Callas’ home instead of the air strip and beach house, and gently nodding cypress trees instead of soccer and volleyball fields. The Saints’ first full day in Italy was a time of getting to know one another and, as always happens, the forming of sub-groups defined by age, gender, relationship to the College, age, seating happenstance, cat lover/dog lover and the like.

Some of us are veterans of several Saints alumni trips; others are first-tiers. Ages range from the 60s to the 20s – and one elementary school student who’s thankful for the Scooby Doo videos on her hand-held player.

Between gelato and the first tastes of genuinely Italian pizza (about as good as genuinely American), the group admired enormous boughs of brilliantly fuschia bougainvillea draping the sides of buildings. A stop in a church whose origins date to the ninth century provided a moment of reflection. The simple Romanesque architecture and slight whiff of – what? at once, a sense of timelessness and of certain mortality – made us all the more grateful to reenter the world of color and life and – and – more food!

As alumni relations executive director remarked to the slightly sunburned group that evening at a festive reception: “We’re off to a great start!”

Applause ensued. And more food.

Ciao from Italy

Greetings from the northern Italian resort town of Desenzano Del Garda. Your faithful correspondent is part of the latest Saints alumni trip.

It's going very well, although the start for me was wobbly in a way that anyone who flies out of Duluth will appreciate. There's an old joke that plays on the  stereotype of Italian inefficiency. The name of the country's airline, ALITALIA, is said to stand for "Always Late In Takeoff; Always Late In Arrival." It came to mind when my flight from Duluth was cancelled on three hours' notice, the subsequent flight was late, and I had to hustle all the way across the airport to make it to my Minneapolis connection for Amsterdam. NORTHWEST! Let's see: "Never On Right Time - Hell! Waste Everybody's - " something...

The overnight flight was the usual mix of excitement (despite the airlines' best efforts to banalize it, international air travel at night remains a romantic experience), scattered musings and wretchedly uncomfortable catnapping. Remembering Italy's hired drivers, thinking: "How do you say, 'Slow down.'... How do you say, 'I insist you slow down.'... How do you say, 'Observe my large mallet."

We rendezvoused, a couple dozen Saints alumni, friends and family coming from locations around the U.S., at the Hotel Nazionale near the shore of Lake Garda. A clean, sleek place, comfortable in a modern style, with elevators so fast the doors nip your elbow if you're not quick.

A few of us swapped tales of the flight over. The most interesting was about an unfortunate woman - not in our group - who lost her dentures in an air sickness bag.

Makes a night of fitful dozing seem not so bad.

Breakfast was classic Italian morning fare - minimal and half-hearted except for the coffee. I didn't hear anyone complain. Our minds were on the beautiful country we were about to explore.

Keeping in mind, of course, the flier in our rooms, which states: "I Signori Clienti sono pregati di non stendere gli asciugamina sul balcone, ma di usare le sedeie in dotazione."

That is, Guests are kindly requested not to hang out towels to the balcony, but to put them on the chair.