Flying Poodles

Italian Dogs

I just got back from two weeks in Italy, with five days in Verona and four days in a small town near Padova called Abano Terme.

Verona has the second largest Roman-era coliseum and uses it every summer to have an enormous outdoor opera festival. The town was full of Italian, German, and English opera lovers… not so many Americans. I’m not an opera fan but was there because it looked to be an accessible small Italian city. It was. And the opera thing made for great scenery every night as I had my dinner and watched the opera fans stroll toward the coliseum in their beautiful and fashionable clothes. I saw such beautiful clothes!

Fortunately the restaurant owners didn’t seem to mind that I was wearing my standard traveling uniform: black pants, running shoes (“trainers” as the Brits say), tank top and shirt over the tank top. I had wonderful food. My favorite of the entire trip was a very fancy tuna tartare with fennel cream (actually a mayonnaise) and braised fennel. Astonishingly good.

The wine was good too, even though I went with my standard method of ordering wine: “vino della case bianco” or “rossa”. House wine. It came in a little carafe but occasionally the waiter would tell me it was his favorite or his brothers’ (I think that’s what “mio ragazzi” means in this context). The price was right. After dinner I had limoncello a lot of nights. That’s sweet lemon-infused firewater. I love it.

Many of the visitors to the town had their dogs with them. Small well-behaved dogs that never barked, politely shared what was offered them in the restaurants, and in general were just part of the family. I heard a dog bark once. Of course, it was a miniature poodle, the only one I saw on the trip. How embarrassing.

We went to a wonderful Italian wedding–the reason for the trip–in a beautiful church in a tiny town near Padova. The church was packed with people, lots of children. There was a Papal blessing–a scroll presented by the officiating priests (three of them) after the wedding. This was a very big deal. It was a zillion degrees in the church, because it was 95 outside and sunny, but who cares? After that we went to the reception, which went on for hours and hours–it was still going strong when we left at midnight–wonderful food (and wine) in a beautiful setting, an old castle (of course I’ve managed to forget the name). Even there, our friend’s mom’s dog–a 17-year-old corgi with a spring in his step that belied his years–was part of the reception.

The bride and groom had their pictures taken with every single person who attended the wedding.

We stayed in the resort town of Abano Terme, in a spa hotel (the President) entirely populated by old men and women in white bathrobes, mostly German or English. It was wonderful. And quite reasonably priced. Our friends had massages. Some of the white-bathrobe-people had entire days planned that involved massages, facials, and other special treatments. Jay and I indulged in our favorite Italian luxury: pizza.

One day in Verona I went to the local “piscina publica” (public pool) because I really needed a long swim to rest my back muscles. It was about a 3 km walk from my hotel and deep into a residential/commercial neighborhood. When I got there, of course no one spoke English, and my Italian is limited, to say the least. (I can order a meal or deal with the hotel as long as they don’t ask difficult questions and speak VERY slowly.) In any case, I managed to pay, figure out the changing rooms, and get into the pool. I promptly got whistled out by the lifeguard, who put his hands on his head and then gestured me out of the pool. Which is when I noticed that EVERYONE–old bald men, little babies, fat grandmothers (wearing bikinis–I was the only one in a one-piece!)–was wearing a bathing cap. I went and bought one.

I swam laps lazily for about an hour, until all my travel muscles relaxed and felt loose and flowing. The pool was huge–Olympic size and 10 lanes wide–and very clean. It was one of three. One of them was shallow and reserved for small children. The second was for teenagers, as far as I could tell. My pool was for lap swimmers: me and the old men. They smiled at me but didn’t talk. They didn’t talk to anyone else either. We were all there to swim.

When I got back to the hotel, the desk clerk who’d given me directions was obviously quite pleased that I’d been swimming. (So was I.) When I told him it was a lovely pool and very blue and clean, he told me it had been built by Mussolini.

No dogs at the pool. There was a sign to say that. But there was an off-leash area right next door. Fully fenced.