Serious Fun at Roland Garros

Small court: seeing red

Now one merely says, Je vais à Roland.---I'm going to (the) Roland. 

#3 wanted to have the ultimate French experience so he just up and paid for 6 entries  to the French Tennis Open, famous for its terre battue (pounded dirt).* These red clay courts are a beautiful, though screaming loud, terra cotta. After an entire day of walking & watching I didn't know whether I was more physically tired, or if my eyes were ready to fall out of their sockets from seeing so much red. The temperature was ideal, hovering between 55 & 65 degrees. Rain showers threatened, but never materialized.  Roland Garros has a-day-at-the-fair kind of aura, so tennis aficionados--a tough bunch--milled around in droves everywhere, caring very little about a few drops here & there. At least I never saw anyone sporting an umbrella.

Since we are your typical armchair sports fans, it was indeed a new & different experience for us to see the actual players on the real courts. No matter what venue, center courts or lesser courts, a spectator is simply not going to be able to see the subtleties of a game. While the players might feel your presence, they’ll not know you any better than if you were sitting in your home. It’s the camera with a zoom & superb angles, and now this marvelous machine that checks the viability of a shot or serve, that offers the absolute best view of a game. But, you’ll ask, “Why in the world would anyone pay to go to a tournament?” That is only answered one way: “Spectators seated in the bleachers are, in fact, actual participators. They make the game exciting and real by cheering and commenting. So we attended the tournament not to see the game close-hand; we attended to enter into the moment with the players. 

It’s a big deal just to get into the premises, but it is well organized. There are little vans provided free of charge at the metro station Porte d’Auteuil that pick up spectators and deposit them about 2 km away at one of the many entrance gates. The gates are designated on the tickets by a letter. Everyone lines up outside and shows tickets for provisional entrance into a kind of no-mans land.  The next gate is even more controlled with booths & turnstiles. One must show a photo I.D.; for us it was passports. Someone tears off your ticket stub which you must keep very carefully because you’re going to need it again to get into matches of your choice. However, to get into the Court Central for top seeded matches one must have V.I.P. status or pay extra.  Our tickets would only allow us to watch matches of the lesser seeds. Of these there are plenty of singles and doubles as young hopefuls beat the ball to the top or winnow down toward the bottom. 

Poor dears! They are not V.I.P.s & cannot enter the Court Central in back of them.

We got to see a lot of things that we’ve never really noticed on TV. First, the protocol for players and spectators is very strict. There is a friendly warm-up period during which attendees may find the seat of their choice. This is a very quiet, civilized process. Once the chair umpire calls for the game to commence there will be no admissions or exits  until at least 2 games are completed and players change sides.  I never realized the presence of linesmen, those guys or gals who yell “OUT,”  so loudly. Dressed nattily in conservatively designed uniforms, there were two on each side and one at each end. They stood in a military “at ease” stance with legs apart, hands held at their backs. The ball-catchers of which there are 4, are young teens who rotate their positions at the end of each game. The ball never crosses the court after a play. The ball-catchers, depending on their placement & where they have recovered the ball, hand or throw (a short distance only) the ball to the server. We did not observe much time wasted in disputing the final decisions of the chair umpire. Although, there was one case in which he actually got down from his chair to examine carefully the last trace left by the ball in the clay. He finally decided to allow a replay. As a footnote,  this kind of dispute arises only arises where the court is terre battue, as most courts are grass or hard-court. 

Notice the camera upper left. Notice the gray sky.

That cameraman to the right is about to be "bonked."

Another thing an armchair fan is not going to see is the set-up of aerial cameras attached to a high wire, that glide back and forth from match to match, or to different angles on the courts. You will note in one photo that there is a solo operated land camera. During one especially long volley the ball bopped this cameraman right on the top of his head. It surprised him to the extreme. The entire audience, including players and officials, fell into laughter for a about a minute before the game resumed in a business-like way. Have to say, the poor cameraman was a very good sport. But mostly, tennis is serious business unlike some team sports (I’m thinking of basketball & football) where there is a lot of extraneous entertainment. Add to this, crowds are very tame, responding to plays of course, but within the bounds of proper tennis etiquette. Read on…. 

We watched one women’s singles and two doubles: one women and one men. According to #3 the losers of the men’s doubles posessed the better technique. (What do I know? Why did they just lose?) For the women’s single there was a young stocky Slovak on her way up and a poor willowy Spaniard on her way back down the ladder of tennis success. The Slovak’s father was sitting just next to our party on the same row. Every time she would score a point he would shout a rapid, “Putt-putt!” We began to assume that this meant, “Good, good!.” That’s fine to cheer on your favorite, but this guy was booing the poor Spaniard when she made an occasional point & cheering when she made a bad one. Spectators around him were turning & beginning to glare. Honestly, we wanted to tell him that it was very poor manners to do that, but we couldn’t be sure that he would understand. As it turned out his daughter defeated the Spaniard -- who being considerably older had apparently already at one time been highly seeded. Who knows, maybe we watched a Slovak champion in the making. We certainly wish her well, but we hope that her father will "putt-putt" it down a bit. 

Just like the fair, the food concessions are doing great business selling mediocre sandwiches and expensive beer and pop. There’s no place much to sit down for a short half hour, except for patches of grass and a few short concrete benches. But there are several concessions doing bang-up business selling Roland Garros paraphernalia & memorabilia. And what’s the favorite color for hats & jackets? Did you guess? Terra cotta rose-red with a bit of white trim.

Do you see the benches?

*Two of the entry tickets were to include #3’s cousin & her husband.

Comedia del Arte in Lucca

Firenzi/Florence

As if to say, "Dare to look at us!"

You will be surprised that I won’t be saying much about the tourist mecca of northern Italy. Our foursome knew that we would only be there a few hours for a look-see. #3 and his fiancée had already visited Florence, but JJ & I had never been. It was for our benefit that we planned to go there for a half day. 

Firenzi, a sine qua non city, cannot be glossed over. Hence, I’ll not be talking about visiting the Uffizi museum or gawking at Michael Angelo’s “David.” I will tell you, however, that Florence in late May was already stormed with tourists. (Did I ever mention that I’m slightly agoraphobic?) To visit the cathedral there was a line two city blocks long. To visit the museum it was best to have reserved tickets in advance or wait in another line two city blocks long which moved a lot slower. (You should know by now, I have absolutely no tolerance for waiting in lines or anywhere else.) Our overview was comprised  of walking here and there among throngs of tourists while JJ happily licked on his gelati. 

Would I lie? Look at all these tourists & its only late May!

Fabulous dry-goods open market

Lucca

We decided to forego the lines and the crowds and head on toward Lucca where our rooms had been reserved by #3’s fiancée, Calinda. So far, she’d done a super job of getting wonderful accommodations. After a somewhat tortuous drive through the Tuscan hills, we were relieved to be approaching the modern exterior city by late afternoon. We thought we’d just breeze into the interior, walled, medieval city, take possession of our rooms, and head back out to sightsee. 

We kept circling an imposing, dark red brick wall several times, about 3 or 4 kilometers in circumference, before deciding to enter one of the narrow arches. We chose Via Elisa, so named for Napoleon’s sister who reigned over Lucca from circa 1805 to 1820.  In #3 drove without a care. In no less than 50 meters we suddenly found ourselves on a shade-darkened street, lined with time weathered stone buildings of 3 or 4 stories, and people walking all over it in all directions. It was large enough for two vehicles, but just barely, as one would have to pull right next to the buildings for the other one to pass. #3 down-shifted to first gear & with a surgeon’s precision began to pulse the clutch. Mothers with prams & walking children, senior citizens and youths, lovers & dog walkers, ringing bikers, the occasional motorcycle, and yes, the rare oncoming vehicle. It was a nightmare. We were looking for our rooms, but most of all we were trying to find an escape route. It was like slo-mo, a baroque saraband, as the pedestrians moved without the least bit of care or haste to one side of the street or the other for us to pass. They went right on with their conversations or concerns, never even turning to acknowledge us as they strolled. I thought surely someone was going to shake their fist and yell at us. But no, no one was the least perturbed. 

But #3 was getting pretty perturbed and barked an OR-type order for Calinda to telephone the hotel for directions. Twice already JJ had left the car to speak with a local for directions, which offered a momentary letup from this stormy episode. I never could figure out what language JJ used as he didn't speak Italian, but he seemed to return with all kinds of very precise instructions. Once again these people had all the patience in the world and tried their best to be helpful. Since we stopped twice and the directions offered concurred, we were definitely on the right track, but the problem was that our car could not turn down even narrower streets where only pedestrians & bikers could navigate. It was another kind of feeling stuck, yet all the same #3 kept pulsing in first gear at less than 5 k.p.m. So, we were going somewhere.

Calinda put the speaker phone so that #3 could drive & we could all listen. A pleasant,  real live, adult male voice answered. Yes, we were “expected”, he said, with only the slightest bit of accent. “You need to go to the Parking at the Piazza  Bernadini.” He repeated this several times. #3 repeated it back to him each time, “Si, si, Berr-narr-deen-ni.”  “You’re not far from it now. Just keep going.” Then the man added every so kindly, “But, you know. You really weren’t supposed to bring your car into the walled city!” (Duh! as if we didn’t realize that by now.) He then proceeded to provide directions for finding the rooms. Now at least we thought we were making our way out of the morass. The only thing we really managed to do was to exit the city. Piazza Bernadini was indeed to our left on our way out, but the parking was full to illegal.  #3 let us out with our bags just before he exited and found a proper parking “outside.” Then, just like everyone else, we walked several kilometers rolling our bags on the street, as we searched for our rooms. 

(Needless to say Garmina was completely off her radar. These gadgets tend to give the same wrong directions and then keep repeating, “Recalculating.”  #3 soon pulled the plug on her. With JJ’s fearless reconnaissance, Calinda’s phone call, #3’s stellar driving punctuated by colorful curse words, and my two cents of wisdom here & there, we finally figured it out on our own.) 

Finding the room proved to be another nightmare. It was getting really dark. We had found our street, but search as we might, we did not see a “hotel” sign. But, we had noticed a very small sign which said “Zimmer”  (German for “room”) & a small arrow on an archway that opened into a courtyard surrounded by more of the same kind of buildings as lined the street. Here was greenery & openness, and there was an outside pavilion ristorante. It was all lovely in the twilight. Only, we couldn’t find address #2, but we were definitely very “hot,” right at it. We asked la padrona of the ristorante who explained in Italian & pointed pleasantly back toward the street. What in the world had we missed? Not finding it we went back and asked second time. She walked with us and pointed to a tiny #2. Even if you saw it you might not have seen the door just beneath! In the dark it was practically camouflaged. We stepped back to see if there was something distinguishing about this “hotel.” Not a thing. No sign, niente, nada, rien! Just some regularly placed, smallish windows at each floor.  We were skeptical.* 

Calinda pushed the door open easily.  Not hesitating we all tentatively climbed a very steep stairwell to the 3rd floor. Why the third? In very dim light we could see that there was nothing on the ground floor, the second was obviously where we were going to have breakfast, as tables were already set. At the third floor there was a note on a small hotel desk counter instructing us to take our keys which were hanging on a wall board. Since we’d been told that we were “expected,” we took keys for two suites to the right. The note said we would be served breakfast the next morning. As far as we knew, we were the only guests in a very small establishment with obviously just a few zimmers. Our rooms were perfectly prepared and beautifully decorated like a fairy tale castle.** 

On our way down to eat at the ristorante we met another wayward tourist standing in the archway. This rara avis, a youngish Australian man, asked us if this was #2 & if it was a hotel.  We told him it was. Like us, he was as tired and frustrated as we had been only 20 minutes ago. He was outraged & couldn’t stop raging. We told him to just go right in & take his room like we had, since he said that he, too, was “expected.” He didn’t have the telephone number of the hotel manager so we were pleased to give it to him. He seemed to be a very sophisticated traveler because he spoke Italian like a native when he was talking on the phone to the manager. Later we learned that he was a dual citizen, Italy/Australia, and that he mostly lived in Italy. Nevertheless, he was furious, in either English and Italian.

Next morning Calinda went down to check if anyone was on hand to serve breakfast. She was informed that if we wanted breakfast we’d better get down there in the next half hour before the breakfast room closed. (This wasn't in our "instruction" note.) A young Albanian man, an employee-but-not-the-manager served breakfast and received payment. He told us all about his plans to immigrate to the United States, but we never quite understood how he was going to accomplish it. He was only going to NYC; no other place would do. Obviously he could speak English, which he thought would be enough to get him a good job.  Maybe the young Albanian could run a motel.

Thinking it was just us and the Italo-Aussi, we were surprised to find another couple, bourgeois Frenchies of the World War II vintage, in the breakfast room. It’s always polite to converse a bit, so they told us they had arrived in the morning the previous day, taken their rooms with no problem, and gotten around to see the important sights. They were civil to the max and as cool as cucumbers in a well-seasoned vinaigrette. Their touristic savoir-faire  put us in the shade. 

About the time they were taking their gracious exit, “Au revoir, Monsieurs et Mesdames. Bonne continuation!”, enter stage right Signore Italo-Aussi. He shuffled in unshaven, disheveled, & dressed in his house-robe and slippers. Had he heard the hubbub & worried that he might miss breakfast? He rubbed his eyes in preparation to take up our conversation where it had left off the evening before. He was still unhappy about the management of the hotel, but he had rested and cooled down. He said that even though he was in fact residing in Italy where half of his relatives also lived, he would never get used to the way that Italians did things. We wanted to ask him what exactly was he doing in Italy, but we didn’t want to appear nosey. Au naturel, dramatic, and interesting, he chattered on, and we didn’t dare to stop his flow. For sure, such friendly conversations never last very long, as travelers need to be on their way.

Go figure. Put a mask on just about every character but the off-stage manager's voice & you'll have a comedia of sorts. We had not been tourists in the classic sense; in fact, we saw no sights at all. But, we surely felt like we got right into the heartbeat and style of old Lucca. It was about as close as we have ever come to participating in the cast of a Comedia del Arte. Between acts we had an outstanding dinner at the courtyard ristorante & our zimmers provided a luxurious rest & shower for the next entr'acte. Breakfast was the dénouement to our action-packed stay, or should I say, play.

*I wanted to take a photo of our “hotel” with the almost invisible door, but my camera battery had died. Alas! You’ll just have to take my word for it.

**Only one negative. It’s okay for the rooms to be small, we understand the lack of space in old Europe, but must you use wrought-iron furniture? It will surely snag your clothes and hurt you if you don’t take pains to move carefully & stay clear. 

Tuscany: San Donato and Siena Cathedral

Be advised that my Tuscany comments will probably not be as detailed as those in my Russian posts. Chief among reasons is that my camera was on the fritz. It was my fault, as I did not get into a certain rhythm about recharging the battery. But added to that, I was limited to exterior photos as most churches did not allow flash photos. This being said…..

This is one view.  Note that June is the season of poppies in western Europe. 

San Donato located in the beautiful hills of Tuscany was a tourist’s dream. Its old structures have been beautifully adapted into several suites. The alberga is actually a farm village run by a brother and sister. The food is all produced on the farm, but wine & liquors are the commercial staple. 

The dining areas for breakfast and dinner are two completely different rooms in two different buildings, each fitting for the type of meal served. We were among a large group of Germans, the odd Dutch and English couple; we were the odd American four-some. We all savored the folksy service all in Italian, per favore. If you’re thinking you couldn’t manage that you’d be wrong. Italians are so expressive and demonstrative you would know exactly what they were saying. You would leave feeling ever so worldly wise and multi-lingual. By the time we left we had certainly been wined and dined, but we had also been primed to buy from their store of local honeys, wines, and spirits. 

My favorite cathedral was Siena: no photographs! The walk-through was over-powering with inlaid tiled frescoed floors, ceilings, and walls covered with sacred art. The columns are right out of Byzantium striped black & white, with significant religious motifs in gilded and brightly colored relief. One’s eyes get no relief for everywhere they rest there is something arresting.* Tick-tight Joanna actually bought a soft-bound pictorial publication with historical notes. Of special interest to her was the Piccolomini Library which houses  besides wall to ceiling paintings the Illuminated Psalters, ancient anthems, of the latter 15th century. 

Still preeminent as it dominates the now small, very old town of old Siena.

Historical Note

If Florence is the apogee of the Renaissance Sienna was probably the harbinger, as can be witnessed in the cathedral which recalls the highly charged, intricacy of Byzantium. Siena was dominant before the mid-15th century plague reduced its population significantly. Florence, which was mostly spared, easily took the lead.

JJ feels that it would be askance not to mention Siena's Piazza del Campo. It is the shape of a fan shell, possibly the finest example of a high medieval town center for its architectural integrity.  What I remember is that in its vastness it is still a popular gathering place, as the photos show. You will see that one cannot discern who is a local & who is a tourist. Many people were walking around licking a gelato cone, which included ol' JJ.  Maybe that's what sweetened his memory of the  plaza. But I agree, if the cathedral was overpowering, the Piazza was unforgettable.

You can see the curve of the "fan" and the gentle slope which leads toward the town hall.... 

.....the corner of the "fan."  Extreme right is part of the town hall.

Viewing the straight-edge of the "fan" with a side view of the town hall

*Please forgive Joanna who can't resist a pun here and there.

Tuscany: San Gimigniano

JJ has a thing for salt & pepper shakers.

San Giminiano is located on a hill and it has three distinguishing towers. On the order of a any number of late medieval towns, it was conceived with streets only for horse-drawn carriages and pedestrians. Since tourists are required to park in a specially designated lot at the base of the hill, I do not recall any motor powered vehicles in the streets, maybe a few bicycles. Perhaps there is a city ordinance which forbids service vehicles during business hours because these also were conspicuously absent. (Nice!) 

Except for high noon, one side of the street is cooled by the ancient two and three story buildings on each side. At this time of year (early June) the interior of the shops is pleasantly cool. Amazingly these shops are relatively roomy though long, not wide. Sometimes,  two long shops are made into one by an adjoining passage.  

Sorry, but I could not tell you much about the 3 towers, but the walk through the town was pleasant enough. Like a kid, Ol’ JJ wanted to buy a gelato at every delightful gelataria along the way of which there were too many.* He would sneak at least one or two at each destination.  For myself, my best souvenir is the magnificent pottery.** 

I have a thing for comedia characters. These ceramic renderings are slightly less than life size. Can you imagine shipping them across the oceans? Happens every day!

*Even though we walked on average 10 km per day JJ’s weight remained stable. Portly he is, as you can see. Do you wonder why?

**I've made the photos extra-large so that you can see the intricacy of the artwork. 

(Sorta) Northern Italy: Pisa

Changing countries has always seemed to me like changing planets. There can be no greater contrast in Europe that the one we experienced within a few days. We left Russia, a land of serious, quiet people and went to northern Italy, a land of a broadly expressive & noisy populace. From the colorful elegance of the Tzars and Catherine the Great we found ourselves suddenly plunged into the land of the Renaissance. Yes, it’s 2012 with cars, TV’s, computers, and sundry appliances, but to us, Italy is still stamped with life much as it was 500 years ago. The inner cities are old & preserved. The churches are in a state of constant renovation and the art therein is carefully protected. 

Leaning until.....

We landed in Pisa on an Easy Jet inter-european commuter plane. #3 immediately took charge after we caught the shuttle from the airport to the rental car plaza. Soon we loaded into a mid-size (European) Ford SUV with standard transmission. (For the record, automatics are available, but they are more expensive.) Hertz’ man-on-the-ground was a very amiable, nonchalant young man with the appearance of a Hell’s Angel. It was his job to hand over the rented vehicles with a brief explanation which he could do in decent English. (See, appearances never tell all.) He gave #3 a previously requested Garmin which refused to program, so #3 requested another. This second Garmin spoke French & tried her best to program, but she was a constant source of frustrations and cursing for the duration of our Tuscany tour. We really didn’t need her for driving into Pisa as the famous leaning tower looms on the horizon & it beckons with size & its ever strange angle. 

But, Garmina (as we call her in our family) was finally, after several detours, able to direct us to Hotel Verdi, named for Giuseppe Verdi the great opera composer, in the center of town where we took possession of our rooms. Soon we began our walk….because that is what being a tourist is about: walking.  Have to say I found the tower, completed in 1372, magnificent in its intricacy and frightening to stand near.  I asked JJ what was its purpose. (I should have known!)  He replied that it was part of the cathedral, familiarly called Il Duomo. Well, that edifice is a stone’s throw away, completely separate from the tower. Maybe at one time the bells pealed calling the faithful to mass. I still don’t understand its utility freestanding as it is, but there it leans and people actually line up & pay to climb to the top and look out over the city and the Arno river that runs through it. It’s a nice moneymaker & ready to be admired with its marble all cleaned and pearly white. The small, elongated, regular, decorative arches that encircle the tower are as unique as the fact that it leans. In the recent past the tower has been closed for mysterious works in order to keep it from tumbling down. One day it is going to fall. Probably there will be an earthquake like the one that happened the next day only 30 kilometers away in Modena, killing 16 people, injuring 35 and toppling a historic monastery. The law of gravity says it must fall. Some ever-trusting humans are going to perish.

Surely, this is a dome.

A red fish and a gray flat fish just behind.

The fun was yet to come. We began our search for a ristorante. It was Saturday night around eight & the sky was still very light. JJ and I were following our fearless leaders #3 and his well-travelled fiançée. We trust them implicitly when it comes to hotels and restaurants. They settled on an a osteria because those are a cut above a trattoria or a restaurant. The waitstaff was standing outside at the entrance eagerly awaiting customers and we were the first ones. I thought it was a bit suspicious that we were, as yet, the only ones. Would the food be any good? I shouldn’t have worried because by 9 o’clock both dining halls were jam-packed with talkative, happy, patrons. 

(“Mama, don’t you know everything is later in Italy?”) We ordered using a new esperanto language composed of French, English, and a few Italian words. The waiter was expert at understanding this lingua touristica. Before the chef cooked the main course of meat or fish, the waiter would bring it on a platter, uncooked for inspection and approval. Tuscan cuisine is just as good as any French regional cuisine, I guarantee. 

Each course was artfully plated.

We had to walk off a few thousands of the calories we had consumed so we took to the streets and found the grand strada along the Arno. Any other time I would not have enjoyed such a long walk, but this was reminiscent of a stroll down the midway at fair time; a wonderful surprise met the eyes with each turn of the head. On the riverfront a serious crafts market about a kilometer long was in progress. Against the high brick wall stood a long row of canvas stalls with beautiful wares & jewelry. The wide street was thick with perambulating pedestrians talking loudly, laughing, & gesticulating. Flashing police cars, taxis, and luxury vehicles regularly pushed pedestrians aside. Motorcycles made loud entrances & exits. (Not enough?) Kids would weave through the crowd on their mini-scooters. Bicycles were ever-present with a-ding-a-ling, “Step to the side, per favore, coming through!” It was all stimulating to the utmost. When we finally made it back to our peaceful hotel it was midnight. In the distance on the riverfront we could still hear the Saturday night revelers, but nothing could have kept us from falling asleep. Hadn’t we just walked about 10 kilometers? 

I realize these revelers are seated, but if you study this photo you’ll see how happy they seem, “talking, laughing & gesticulating.”