Verona…And a Triumphant Return to Milan
No matter how much you read about a place, you really have no idea what it’s going to be like, what it’s going to feel like, until you’re there.
Verona was a late addition to my trip. I decided to visit, mainly, because it was on the way back from Venice and it seemed like a shame to miss an Italian highlight when I was going to be traveling right through it on the train. I was only there for one night, but it made a very strong impression on me.
Slow Down, Steven
After checking into my hotel, I hiked up to Castel San Pietro, which offered gorgeous views of the city and Ponte Pietra (aka: the beautiful bridge you see in all the photos of Verona), and then came back down to stroll along Corso Sant’Anastasia, which is lined with interesting shops and restaurants. I immediate felt the change in pace between Verona and Venice, which allowed me to slow down and breathe a bit easier.
I wasn’t sure where to eat lunch, so I decided on a cute little place tucked away in a sun-drenched courtyard. The funny part was that there were actually three restaurants right next to each other, all sharing outdoor space in the courtyard, and I wasn’t sure which one to choose. Ultimately, I went with the one that had the most people in it (which wasn’t many). Well, that turned out to be the right answer because as time went on, the restaurant I chose got completely packed while the other two restaurants only sat a few more people. I started with a delicious salad and, when finished, poured some olive oil in the bowl to dip my bread in.
One thing to know about Italy (at least, “thus far”): restaurants often bring you a basket (or more likely, a bag) of bread, but they do not bring you olive oil to dip the bread in. You are only served olive oil if you order a salad. And you often aren’t given a bread plate either. So, after finishing my salad, I seized a golden opportunity of having bread, olive oil, and a vessel on my table, and poured some of the oil in my empty salad bowl. As I was enjoying it, a server came to clear my (he assumed empty) salad bowl, but then realized what I was doing, profusely apologized, and backed away. It was kind of a sweet, funny moment and we both laughed. A short time after, a different server came by to take my salad bowl and the first server quickly came over to stop him. It was like he was being protective of my wish to enjoy my bread and olive oil in peace. When I finally allowed them to clear the bowl, I had a vegetable and bean soup that was also delicious.
In addition to some great eating in Verona, I visited a few historical sites, went for a run along the river in the morning, and tried to visit Juliet’s balcony. I wasn’t dying to see the balcony, but figured that I should. But every time I tried, the line was insane (and stretched far back into this super crowded lane of shops). Every time I passed by, the whole thing just looked super chaotic and stressful. Well, as the Shakespearean gods would have it, on my very last attempt (as I had to head to the train station within the hour), the line was miraculously gone and I was able to glide right in, snap a few photos, and glide right out.
Which was great, because…I do not recommend standing in line for this. It was basically a balcony overlooking a courtyard filled with cheap tourist shops selling “I <3 Juliet” magnets and a human-sized bronze statue of “Juliet,” with whom everyone takes photos while putting their hands on her chest. It made me pretty uncomfortable.
One last thing on Verona: my hotel room looked out over a piazza in front of the Basilica di Santa Anastasia. During my stay, it was almost always filled with people. While some of them seemed to be tourists, many of them seemed to be people who lived in Verona. It felt like a giant living room. Lots of socializing and laughing and chat-chat-chatting. On my last day in town, as I was finishing up another blog post early in the morning, I heard two guys talking. When I looked down, I could tell that they had been up all night and were still kind of wasted. While one of them sat on the stairs, the other stumbled around the square, pontificating about…well, I’m not sure exactly. But at one point, he started to slowly walk after pigeons and imitate them by making a “cuh-cooo!” sound. It was kind of sweet.
Suit up, Steven
When I was planning this trip, I decided that I really, really wanted to see an opera at Teatro alla Scala, which is like, I don’t know, the Yankee Stadium of opera? Does that analogy even work? I really have no idea. I’m just trying to be relatable, people!
On my first visit to Milan, I wasn’t able to make it work with my schedule. So I shortened my stay in Verona by a night in order to come back to come back to Milan for a single night—less than 24 hours—to attend the premiere of Don Giovanni.
I know what you’re thinking: “But, Steven, you’re backpacking across Italy! How could you possibly have anything decent to wear to the most famous opera house in the world?” Great question. Thank you for posing it. To answer your question, I first need to inform you that Rick Steves and other pro-travelers recommend that you keep your backpack to under 22 pounds. Now, that may sound like a lot to you, but when you consider that my facial products alone probably weigh around 8 pounds, you realize how few pounds 22 really is. So when I was packing back in Portland before I left on my trip, I desperately tried to get my weight down. At one point, my eyes fell upon the travel dress jacket I had bought specifically to bring with me to wear to the opera. I picked the jacket up, held it to my cheek, and sighed. And then put it off to the side in the “not taking” pile.
Just kidding. I packed it and announced to an empty bedroom: “Rick Steves is clearly not a gay man who plans to attend the opera at La Scala.”
So on that night in Milan, I donned my dress jacket, ate an early dinner, downed a double espresso with two macarons, and arrived at the theater in time for an 8pm showtime. (Oh, and when I was waiting for my espresso, I saw a sign that said “Orizzonte.” I asked the barista what it meant in English. She didn’t know it, but she described it to me and I was able to figure it out: “horizon.” Remember this word, dear readers. It will become very important later in my journey.)
Teatro alla Scala is absolutely fabulous. Everything is ornate and glimmering and Other-Side-of-the-Mirror red. Heels. Perfume. Bow ties. Jewelry. Tall flutes of champagne. It was all achingly glamorous and everything I hoped it would be.
When I bought my tickets, I insisted on sitting in a box. (I mean, right?) In my box on that night, was an Italian woman (who rocked OUT during the performance) and her daughter, a couple from Switzerland, and a man from Japan. The people at the front of the box sit in chairs, while the people in the second and third rows (where I was) sit on stools. My favorite line of the night was when the gorgeous woman from Switzerland wearing a floor-length gown said, “Three hundred Euro for a stool?” We all became fast friends while sharing binoculars and fanning ourselves (it was roasting in the box).
I wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to sit through a three-and-a-half-hour performance in a language I barely know, but to my delight, I was completely enraptured. The singing was absolutely soul-stirring. At times, I would just close my eyes and let it wash over me. But my absolute favorite part of the experience was watching the people across from us literally hanging out of their boxes to get the best view possible. I must imagine that the people in these boxes knew each other, because those in the back of the box were practically on top of the people at the front of the box. It was a real delight to see people so emotionally-moved by what, for many, can feel like a stoic, staid artform. I would absolutely jump at the chance to go to the opera again. And I just might…
