Almost to Austria

Stepping off the train in Florence, Italy, the heat hit me right in the face! The day was a SCORCHER! Then, a look around and it seemed that I'd stepped into a pulchritudinous place, like an animated art gallery. Aged, yes, everything patinaed and tarnished, representing centuries of history. In my young mind, marble was a stone limited in its use and then only by the wealthy but in Florence, marble was 'common' and in use everywhere, without a show of any particular grandeur. There were churches on every corner. We used those to our advantage, tomb-like as they appeared, stepping in and out of them to cool ourselves, as we went along. That's how we found "Moses" in a corner of a corridor, facing a wall, a marvelous work of art. This was not Michelangelo's famous "Moses" with horns but a piece meticulously carved in brown marble. It was, too, a famous piece. I'd seen pictures of it. And there it was, just hanging out in a hallway, taking a break from display. I was so excited! I wondered if the residents of Florence recognized how grand a place this was and how awed young adults like us, were by it or if they found everything quite ordinary like, "Yeah, ... pass by that on my way to work every morning."

The mosaic's were impressive and used abundantly on facades, walls, corridors, and in jewelry. I bought a couple of small pins. Replicas of grand statues once there, now lined the city square. Seeing the original Michelangelo masterpiece, "David", has become more wondrous in my mind, with time, as has the memory of seeing the Venus De Milo, Mona Lisa and other remarkable works of art in Amsterdam museums and in Paris, the Louvre, itself, quite a work of art. Beyond the lifelike quality of "David", a famous and much talked about sculpture on display at The Galleria dell' Accademia in Florence, I remember how his eyes appeared to follow me as I moved about the room. I was a bit taken back--sweet young thing that I was in 1967--having walked down a long hallway to his place of honor, to then be standing in front of a larger than life nude male, his every detail on full display. I'd been to Oslo's Vigeland Sculpture Park filled with 200 statues of men, women and children--"A Study of Humanity", the artist called it--ALL naked and I'd been to the Follies in Paris, for heaven's sake, but the art world's focus and fascination with nudes still made me a little uncomfortable. Once I got past the initial, "Oh, my!", I began to appreciate that the stone appeared unbelievably soft and subtle, lifelike to the point that I thought he [David] would take a breath at any moment.  

Damage from recent flooding was visible but also, there was evidence of attempts to restore and rebuild. One example of this could be seen on an unusual bridge where homes were built all along the outside edge and on top of the structure, and a variety of shops lined the inside of the bridge.

Another crowded train ride, thru Bologna, we thought as we were en route to a resort town to rest. Just too hot, Italians too many, our patience too thin so we got off the train in Bologna. It worked out, with another glorious and welcome shower, a real bed, a pizza picnic in a park and time to talk about and sketch plans for our dream home, back in the States. There were two kinds of parks in Italy, the nice ones with sculptured gardens and lush, green grass that the public wasn't allowed to walk on, and the kind we were in, where grass was hit or miss--mostly miss--replaced by profuse weeds, lots of dust and dirt and cement plus the ever present bunch of dirty kids, begging for money. With time to kill and an ice cream cone came the challenge, "Can you make it last for 30 minutes?"

Something I didn't know, though I had given consideration to dress customs while sewing my travel wardrobe, was that women native to Bologna, did not wear pants. They STARED at my culottes. When I changed to Bermuda shorts because of the intense heat, those got even more attention, so much that my husband insisted I change into something else.

We caught a 3:00 am train to Rome and found the station there, still standing. It was in flames the last time we'd been there. Our bags had escaped the flames and had been checked at an air terminal while we continued traveling. Now, we discovered that terminal policy required them to keep bags for 24 HOURS, only. We'd been gone for more than two days! Luckily, our baggage had not yet been auctioned off.  Relieved, we took a long walk around the city, past the Roman Forum, the Colosseum, lots of marble, lots of ruins. They seemed to be everywhere. This was my husband's kind of place! 

The effect of travel was beginning to show. Back in our hotel room by early afternoon, we slept soundly for several hours, waking just in time to join a night tour of the city. White marble pillars of ruins were spectacular, lit up against a night sky. The Trevi Fountain at night? That was really something to see! I learned that the city had 350 fountains. I was sure we'd seen them all! And from the hill tops, even at night, you couldn't miss St. Peter's Square and the Vatican, all lit up. 

Inside St. Peter's church, one of the four original Michelangelo Pieta's was made available for viewing. His work was [is] hard to describe. Like his statute of David, the Pieta', appeared eerily real, having an intelligent look of expression, the skin warm and clothing draped and soft though cut in stone, the figures seeming about to take another  breath. It had been said of Michelangelo's work that he was the first to make a live body look alive and a dead one look dead. His work left a lasting impression on me.

At St. Peter's square, we splurged on a big lunch at a good restaurant. Even at the better eating places, flies were always served as your first course. Vatican City looked dead between noon and 4:00 o'clock, with everything pretty much closed down. Having now experienced midday heat that seemed to bring the flies out everywhere, in everything, and those crazy Italians who got so excited about even the simplest things, hollering and shaking fists, we could see why.

Wayne Ferraday and his companion met us on the streets of Rome. Wayne was Judy South's brother. Judy was married to Frank's brother, John. They invited us to try an authentic meal at a place recommended by their landlady. The working girls on the streets were not the least bit put off by my presence. They were after the three good looking men I was walking with and my, oh my, were they ever persistent! I ordered veal Parmesan, then watched the cook scrape green MOLD from the slab of meat hanging nearby and cut a hunk off. That was what was coming to me on a plate.

In the early morning, Frank was back on the streets, taking pictures. I stayed in to do my hair. It had been weeks since I'd had a cut or color--a habit I'd picked up in beauty school--but peroxide in Rome wasn't the same as peroxide in Salt Lake City, evidently. When Frank returned, he found a stranger in our room, a woman with much DARKER hair and not a color he'd ever seen before!  On his walk, he had stopped by the American Embassy, as he had done all along the way as we traveled. Sending a letter to a US  Embassy was the only way for family to reach us. The letter on that day bore bad news. Uncle Paul had been killed in a car accident. He had come to the airport to say goodbye and wish us well on the day of our departure that last day of May. Now, just a week into July, we were shocked and saddened by the news of his death. We checked out of the hotel, had lunch and wrote a few postcards to pass the time but found it near impossible to move on with our day. We so wanted to give Aunt Valois a big hug. By evening, we'd walked another 100 miles or so, taking more pictures, but stopped to throw coins in the Trevi Fountain.

To Switzerland by night train, we awoke to high rising mountains, pines, chalet's, their window boxes filled with flowers, beauty everywhere. Berne was a place to love. Our stop was too brief. We didn't know we'd be back and soon. On to Zollikofon. Joy Urry's parents were president and matron of the temple there. Joy was the wife of our Haven Ward bishop back home in South Salt Lake. The site was spectacular with flowers, a small forest to one side and mountains rising up all around the temple grounds. Swiss chocolate lived up to its reputation for being the BEST! Brother Sommer found us a place to stay, near the temple. Fresher, cleaner, and more rested, we joined members on the grounds in the evening. A large group from Denmark who had come to go through the temple were meeting with local members in Bern. It was a long drive back to Bern by car but the most picturesque of anything we'd seen.  Breathtaking, really. The campground was more of the same with majestic mountains, trees, a river running by and lush meadow grass. As we stood there among the friendly crowd, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and there stood Elmo Keller from Preston, Idaho. He and his wife were long-time friends of my brother, Marion. They hadn't seen me since I was a child so I was amazed that they recognized me.

What about the Alp horns? I remember hearing them played. And what a sight they were, stretched out across the grass just about forever. Without any mention of them in the journal notes, I have to rely on memory. I feel sure it was at this same event that we saw and heard those. 

One of the fathers in the crowd, a clown by profession, gave us a little show with his three small children, all dressed as clowns. A professional group of yodelers in native dress, performed. Without warning, the rain came down in sheets. Our evening outdoors cut short and in our place of lodging for the evening, we met a bishop from Portland, Oregon who had a son serving a mission in Austria. He and Frank had great conversation. Small world, isn't it?

Walking through the old city of Bern was a bit like walking through a child's story book, with painted scenes on many buildings, big clock towers with carved or sculpted figures that performed to tell the time, filled flower boxes everywhere--bright, red geraniums predominated--and everything so clean, both the old and the new parts of the city. The bear pits in the center square gave the town its name. It was so good to be back in milk country that we each ordered two tall, cold glasses and drank them down right away!

The train to Zurich was the best by far of any--clean, plush and comfy--with TALL windows, allowing us to drink in the awe-inspiring views of a country that was prospering, showed no signs of war, whose architecture of homes was marvelous and very Swiss, almost fairy-tale-like, and always, window boxes filled with flowers. The rains came down as we arrived. We walked the streets in the rain, looking for a place to sleep for the night. In such a beautiful place, situated on a very large lake filled with white swans and sail boats, high in the mountains, we didn't mind getting soaked. But watch out for the food specialty there, Fondue. We regretted our decision to try it. We were both sick the next day but took a train to Austria, changed trains at Bregang, going on to Dornbirn, still climbing higher into the mountains. The scenery was almost too majestic and marvelous to be believed. My husband said he thought I needed a camera of my own to dedicate to pictures of all the scenery. That comment could have been driven by the fact that I was on the move the entire ride, pointing and ooohing and awwwing from any window within my sight, and pestering him to take pictures of all of it. I know...how many shots did I need of the same mountain, really!