A Taste of Italy, Cherwell, 6 October 2004, p. 14.
As I strode away from the train, beaming, repressing the urge to skip, or dance in tune with my heart, the smoke lingered in my mouth. Moments earlier, I had slammed shut the carriage door, with its ugly yellow curtain, screening my actions from the bustling passengers, and leaned forward and kissed the uniformed Italian soldier. The kiss only lasted a moment, but for that moment, his smoky tongue was in my mouth and I had my arms around his muscular body.
Then reality resumed. I opened the door, he kissed my cheeks and said ciao, and I walked away and boarded a tram which chugged along sounding as if it were run on bubbles. If this was a film script, I would have met Antonio again in a second, even more unbelievable chance encounter, but this was my revision trip to Italy, March 2004, and all I was left with was a grainy photo Tony’s mate had taken of us on his phone and emailed me, and a wonderful memory of a moment when I had acted on my desire.
Desiring the ideal male form, whether set off by snugly fitting khaki uniform, or in white marble, wall all part of immersing myself in Italian Renaissance culture, which I was to be examined in for Finals. I’m sure it really helped me understand Michelangelo and Leonardo that little bit better. Ok, ok, he was just really fit and I seized the moment.
The second best thing that I experienced on the trip was a free four-course feast, with wines to match in the Frescobaldi Wine Bar, in a quieter, less touristy corner of Florence’s Piazza Signoria. Eating in this beautiful place was rather like being entertained in a palazzo, with its barrel roof and arches painted like a gold cloth embroidered with silver flowers, terracotta coloured curtains, mirrors, palsms and the heraldic crest of the Marchese Frescobaldi adorning the glasses and the wall. The manager, Duccio, was a friend of a friend of my Dad’s, and I was treated very well. He promised me that anyone bearing this article would receibe a 10% discount on their bill, so do take the chance when you’re next in Florence.
The food was stunning. In Italian, my menu was poetic: sformato caldo di patate con ragù di carne; ravioli di zucca con amaretti all burro e salvia; costole d’agnello al forno; panna cotta. The wine Duccio said would most complement my feast was Morellino Di Scansano D.O.C., 2002, a red made from San Giovese grapes, which grown on the Tuscan coast.
The highlight was the wonderfully uneven nature of the handmade pasta: one of my ravioli was over-inflated like a balloon. The butter, sage and amaretti made love to your tongue as they offered up their gift-wrapped parcels of pumpkin.
But, believe it or not, I was actually in Italy to soak up the art and the history. And I did. I saw La Scala Del Bramante- a spiral staircase into the Vatican begun in 1512, wide enough for horse-drawn carriages. I spotted the golden Borgia bulls, the family crest of Cesare and Lucrezia and their father, Pope Alexander VI in rooms in which the Vatican now displays modern art. No doubt they don’t want to remind the visitor of the more sordid history of the Papacy. The Borgias were not only suspected of poisoninig various political enemies, but entertained themselves by watching stallions mount mares, and having parties where dancing courtesans did with chestnuts what Monica did with Bill’s cigar.
I saw a map of Africa in the Vatican map room, dated circa 1530, which had on it ‘regno Del Preto Johannes’. Such was the bizarre conception of Africa at this time that the kingdom of Prester John, a fictional Christian king, was still marked on the map some 400 years after fake letters supposedly from him were circulated, in which he promised to aid Christendom in her crusades against the Turks.
I even engaged in the good old Oxford sport of tourist-baiting. While gazing at the Della Rovere chapel in Santa Maria del Populo, I couldn’t resist interrupting the conversation of two middle-aged American women, and telling them, ‘Hi, I’m studying the Renaissance at Oxford University, would you like me to tell you a bit about this chapel?’
And so I told them how the Della Rovere family, which spawned Popes Sixtus IV and Julius II, used the golden oak tree as their family crest, and pointed out the acorn motifs which crowded the chapel. They were suitably impressed, until one of them asked me a question I didn’t know the answer to. I made my apologies and scarpered.
Then reality resumed. I opened the door, he kissed my cheeks and said ciao, and I walked away and boarded a tram which chugged along sounding as if it were run on bubbles. If this was a film script, I would have met Antonio again in a second, even more unbelievable chance encounter, but this was my revision trip to Italy, March 2004, and all I was left with was a grainy photo Tony’s mate had taken of us on his phone and emailed me, and a wonderful memory of a moment when I had acted on my desire.
Desiring the ideal male form, whether set off by snugly fitting khaki uniform, or in white marble, wall all part of immersing myself in Italian Renaissance culture, which I was to be examined in for Finals. I’m sure it really helped me understand Michelangelo and Leonardo that little bit better. Ok, ok, he was just really fit and I seized the moment.
The second best thing that I experienced on the trip was a free four-course feast, with wines to match in the Frescobaldi Wine Bar, in a quieter, less touristy corner of Florence’s Piazza Signoria. Eating in this beautiful place was rather like being entertained in a palazzo, with its barrel roof and arches painted like a gold cloth embroidered with silver flowers, terracotta coloured curtains, mirrors, palsms and the heraldic crest of the Marchese Frescobaldi adorning the glasses and the wall. The manager, Duccio, was a friend of a friend of my Dad’s, and I was treated very well. He promised me that anyone bearing this article would receibe a 10% discount on their bill, so do take the chance when you’re next in Florence.
The food was stunning. In Italian, my menu was poetic: sformato caldo di patate con ragù di carne; ravioli di zucca con amaretti all burro e salvia; costole d’agnello al forno; panna cotta. The wine Duccio said would most complement my feast was Morellino Di Scansano D.O.C., 2002, a red made from San Giovese grapes, which grown on the Tuscan coast.
The highlight was the wonderfully uneven nature of the handmade pasta: one of my ravioli was over-inflated like a balloon. The butter, sage and amaretti made love to your tongue as they offered up their gift-wrapped parcels of pumpkin.
But, believe it or not, I was actually in Italy to soak up the art and the history. And I did. I saw La Scala Del Bramante- a spiral staircase into the Vatican begun in 1512, wide enough for horse-drawn carriages. I spotted the golden Borgia bulls, the family crest of Cesare and Lucrezia and their father, Pope Alexander VI in rooms in which the Vatican now displays modern art. No doubt they don’t want to remind the visitor of the more sordid history of the Papacy. The Borgias were not only suspected of poisoninig various political enemies, but entertained themselves by watching stallions mount mares, and having parties where dancing courtesans did with chestnuts what Monica did with Bill’s cigar.
I saw a map of Africa in the Vatican map room, dated circa 1530, which had on it ‘regno Del Preto Johannes’. Such was the bizarre conception of Africa at this time that the kingdom of Prester John, a fictional Christian king, was still marked on the map some 400 years after fake letters supposedly from him were circulated, in which he promised to aid Christendom in her crusades against the Turks.
I even engaged in the good old Oxford sport of tourist-baiting. While gazing at the Della Rovere chapel in Santa Maria del Populo, I couldn’t resist interrupting the conversation of two middle-aged American women, and telling them, ‘Hi, I’m studying the Renaissance at Oxford University, would you like me to tell you a bit about this chapel?’
And so I told them how the Della Rovere family, which spawned Popes Sixtus IV and Julius II, used the golden oak tree as their family crest, and pointed out the acorn motifs which crowded the chapel. They were suitably impressed, until one of them asked me a question I didn’t know the answer to. I made my apologies and scarpered.
