Back to Italy
Who knew I would be back in Italy so soon? But on our Australia trip in 2012, Gauss had to return to California to work, and he really wanted to see the relatives. His aunt Adriana will be 92 this summer, so he couldn't wait forever.
We found an inexpensive (that's a relative term) flight on Turkish Airlines that routed us through Toronto and Istanbul. Sue Narayan, my writing buddy who lived in Turkey for three years, raves about the food on Turkish Airlines, so we signed up. The food WAS good (eggplant and köfte, hummus, a salad of mild feta and cucumbers) but the trip was long. We had a four-hour wait in Toronto and a six-our wait in Istanbul. Plus this route meant we overshot Italy by two hours and then had to backtrack, adding four hours to the trip. Gauss, who was unable to fit in an economy seat without splaying his legs to either side, swears he will not do this again. Sitting next to him is no picnic, either, because that splayed knee ends up where MY legs are supposed to go.
iPads have overtaken the international terminal in Toronto. They are everywhere in the public areas, hooked up to the internet. Very convenient. However, virtually all the restaurants are wired in as well, and the only way to order is from the iPad that sits in front of every seat at every table. This institutionalizes the bad behavior we lecture our children about, browsing while dining. These iPads are on little stands directly in front of your face, as if to say, "Watch me! Watch me!"
I got a quick view of Istanbul as we descended for our landing. It was painful to see the first and second bridges over the Bosphorus, the domes and minarets of the Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque, and know we would not be leaving the airport to explore. But even inside the terminal, the city's status as the intersection of Europe and Asia is inescapable. Hasidic Jews with curled forelocks, dressed in suits and brimmed hats, occupied one end of our transit lounge. An Arab woman walked by veiled head to toe, only her eyes visible from behind a narrow wedge of black netting. The "m" and "b" sounds of two African men carrying on an animated conversation ricocheted off the tiled walls of the concourse. Central Asian women in glittering caftans and babushkas ambled past in an amiable pack, chattering and laughing.
It was a long layover so Turkish Airlines gave us a voucher for a meal in the airport. The Turks seem to be like Italians—always making sure that their guests are well fed. A stall in the food court offered saffron rice and eggplant stuffed with meat, smothered in fragrant, richly seasoned tomato sauce. We finished with buttery pistachio baklava.
We managed to sleep a bit before embarking on the final leg of our journey to Rome. It was nearly midnight when we arrived, and Gauss's cousin, Luciana, had arranged for a driver to pick us up. Italian customs and immigration were characteristically casual. They more or less waved us through—perhaps they were not in the mood for heavy work so late in the evening. Within minutes of landing we met the driver who led us to an elegant new Lancia sedan, designed as only the Italians could do it: a restrained metallic slate blue exterior; controls lighted in a coordinating steely blue; cushy gray leather seating. We settled in for the 45 minute drive on the autostrade to her home near the Mediterranean, stretching our legs, happy to be comfortable.
We found an inexpensive (that's a relative term) flight on Turkish Airlines that routed us through Toronto and Istanbul. Sue Narayan, my writing buddy who lived in Turkey for three years, raves about the food on Turkish Airlines, so we signed up. The food WAS good (eggplant and köfte, hummus, a salad of mild feta and cucumbers) but the trip was long. We had a four-hour wait in Toronto and a six-our wait in Istanbul. Plus this route meant we overshot Italy by two hours and then had to backtrack, adding four hours to the trip. Gauss, who was unable to fit in an economy seat without splaying his legs to either side, swears he will not do this again. Sitting next to him is no picnic, either, because that splayed knee ends up where MY legs are supposed to go.
iPads have overtaken the international terminal in Toronto. They are everywhere in the public areas, hooked up to the internet. Very convenient. However, virtually all the restaurants are wired in as well, and the only way to order is from the iPad that sits in front of every seat at every table. This institutionalizes the bad behavior we lecture our children about, browsing while dining. These iPads are on little stands directly in front of your face, as if to say, "Watch me! Watch me!"
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| A bit of Istanbul from the airplane window...sigh. |
It was a long layover so Turkish Airlines gave us a voucher for a meal in the airport. The Turks seem to be like Italians—always making sure that their guests are well fed. A stall in the food court offered saffron rice and eggplant stuffed with meat, smothered in fragrant, richly seasoned tomato sauce. We finished with buttery pistachio baklava.
We managed to sleep a bit before embarking on the final leg of our journey to Rome. It was nearly midnight when we arrived, and Gauss's cousin, Luciana, had arranged for a driver to pick us up. Italian customs and immigration were characteristically casual. They more or less waved us through—perhaps they were not in the mood for heavy work so late in the evening. Within minutes of landing we met the driver who led us to an elegant new Lancia sedan, designed as only the Italians could do it: a restrained metallic slate blue exterior; controls lighted in a coordinating steely blue; cushy gray leather seating. We settled in for the 45 minute drive on the autostrade to her home near the Mediterranean, stretching our legs, happy to be comfortable.
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