Swiss Retreat—a trip report of interest to few
Jun 29th, 2006, 02:27 PM
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About 15 years ago I took a university summer class in aesthetics for secondary school teachers. Several times during the short semester, we were required to write papers describing aesthetic experiences, purely sensory responses, any reference to the useful or practical was verboten. I never forgot those exercises, but the opportunities to wallow are pretty rare these days. I've got this brother who never completed his college freshman English classes because he thought it was pure nonsense to spend 500 words saying something he could say in one sentence. I'm not sure we had the same parents. Love you all, J.
Jun 29th, 2006, 03:15 PM
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J, I can't believe I just found this. I am so very happy for you that you had this sojourn. Having had the pleasure of staying at the Panorama and enjoying breakfasts and dinners on the terrace overlooking wonderful Lago Maggiore, I am there with you every moment! Grazie!
Jun 30th, 2006, 06:28 AM
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Continuing. I think my return to Gerra that day was via the Bellinzona/Lucerne train to Cadenazzo and the Luino-bound local train the rest of the way. Don’t hold me to it. High school kids, shoppers, grandmothers, professional cool as a cucumber ladies and gentlemen who don’t sweat, and a couple of dads who seem to be joining their families for the long weekend, hugs and excited talk, Papa’s here, vacation can begin. Total trip, including changes, under 30 minutes.
A bit of practical information here: At Cadenazzo, trains don’t always arrive and depart on the second as they might do in the rest of Switzerland. Commuters count on making connections, and the trains and buses are scheduled accordingly. From what I’ve observed, the little trains (urban lines S2, S3, etc.) wait for the big ones (inter-regionals, in this case Locarno to Lucerne) to arrive so those coming from the larger towns can connect with the smaller locals like the Luino. One day, I scurried from my Bellinzona-to-Locarno train at its stop in Cadenazzo to make my connection to the little Luino line, only to find that after I did, we remained at the track for 15 minutes past departure time to give folks coming from Locarno (going the other direction, if you can’t picture it) time to board. And mostly the reverse is true, though I remember at least once on my last trip, my S3 coming from Luino to Cadenazzo was so late, the big connecting one heading toward Bellinzona and beyond left without us. I later mentioned this astounding glitch to someone official at the station in Bulach near Zurich. She shook her head with a tsk, tsk, nodded knowingly to her colleague, and said to me “that train from Luino is notorious for not being on time.” A southerner myself, I perceived a bit of down-the-nose attitude toward the lackadaisical disregard for efficiency permitted at the Italian end of that rail line.
I love riding the S3 to Gerra. The towns are so close together that the announcing (four years ago it was a wonderfully gruff sing-song voice, but this time it may have been a tape, I hate change) and the sound of the train starting and stopping are music to my ears. That’s a gross exaggeration, but I suppose it’s the combination of the comfortably familiar sounds and the equally familiar stations, towns, and harbors which pass with regularity. The walk from the station to the Panorama is all downhill and it only takes three or four minutes.
There are two ways to reach the via Cantonale from the station. One to the right has a gentle slope for folks pushing baby strollers, carry-on bags, etc. The route I take leads more closely to the Panorama; it’s paved with smooth stones and includes steps and a bit of a foot bridge for variety. There may be two; I know I walk over the street that goes up into the hills and also over a rocky creek that comes from up there somewhere and rushes to the lake. I can check the progress of the gardens as I pass. (Well I could if I had the good fortune to remain here for a decent length of time.) To my right the terrain descends in an abbreviated terraced fashion with the garden plots tucked in here and there and held in place by low stone walls, to my left it just slopes with houses right against the path. I hope my mention of gardens does not give you an inaccurate impression. Between the tracks and the street and between the street and the lake, things are pretty much chock-a-block (and higgledy-piggledy, for that matter). I’m not a great fan of technology, but I would be interested in a software program that could show me how lower Gerra developed over time. How its crazy-quilt (another exaggeration) arrangement came to be. It’s a mystery to me, but it underscores the boring regimentation of my own neighborhood. J.
A bit of practical information here: At Cadenazzo, trains don’t always arrive and depart on the second as they might do in the rest of Switzerland. Commuters count on making connections, and the trains and buses are scheduled accordingly. From what I’ve observed, the little trains (urban lines S2, S3, etc.) wait for the big ones (inter-regionals, in this case Locarno to Lucerne) to arrive so those coming from the larger towns can connect with the smaller locals like the Luino. One day, I scurried from my Bellinzona-to-Locarno train at its stop in Cadenazzo to make my connection to the little Luino line, only to find that after I did, we remained at the track for 15 minutes past departure time to give folks coming from Locarno (going the other direction, if you can’t picture it) time to board. And mostly the reverse is true, though I remember at least once on my last trip, my S3 coming from Luino to Cadenazzo was so late, the big connecting one heading toward Bellinzona and beyond left without us. I later mentioned this astounding glitch to someone official at the station in Bulach near Zurich. She shook her head with a tsk, tsk, nodded knowingly to her colleague, and said to me “that train from Luino is notorious for not being on time.” A southerner myself, I perceived a bit of down-the-nose attitude toward the lackadaisical disregard for efficiency permitted at the Italian end of that rail line.
I love riding the S3 to Gerra. The towns are so close together that the announcing (four years ago it was a wonderfully gruff sing-song voice, but this time it may have been a tape, I hate change) and the sound of the train starting and stopping are music to my ears. That’s a gross exaggeration, but I suppose it’s the combination of the comfortably familiar sounds and the equally familiar stations, towns, and harbors which pass with regularity. The walk from the station to the Panorama is all downhill and it only takes three or four minutes.
There are two ways to reach the via Cantonale from the station. One to the right has a gentle slope for folks pushing baby strollers, carry-on bags, etc. The route I take leads more closely to the Panorama; it’s paved with smooth stones and includes steps and a bit of a foot bridge for variety. There may be two; I know I walk over the street that goes up into the hills and also over a rocky creek that comes from up there somewhere and rushes to the lake. I can check the progress of the gardens as I pass. (Well I could if I had the good fortune to remain here for a decent length of time.) To my right the terrain descends in an abbreviated terraced fashion with the garden plots tucked in here and there and held in place by low stone walls, to my left it just slopes with houses right against the path. I hope my mention of gardens does not give you an inaccurate impression. Between the tracks and the street and between the street and the lake, things are pretty much chock-a-block (and higgledy-piggledy, for that matter). I’m not a great fan of technology, but I would be interested in a software program that could show me how lower Gerra developed over time. How its crazy-quilt (another exaggeration) arrangement came to be. It’s a mystery to me, but it underscores the boring regimentation of my own neighborhood. J.
Jun 30th, 2006, 06:39 AM
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This is a good time to mention that the Albergo Panorama adheres to this aesthetic. It is on the street. Right on the via Cantonale. I’ve never witnessed any rush hour traffic, however. It’s my perception that sleek little cars appear out of nowhere. More often than not, the street is empty. Silent. I’ve learned to cross it quickly, though, because the very next second, zoom-zoom and then silence again. (Truly, I expect to see that precious little boy from those old car commercials whisper “zoom-zoom” as a warning not to get run over while gazing at the old crucifix painted high on the albergo’s front wall.) One more detail about the hotel. The entrance is at the side at street level. But if you walk down the steep steps on either side to explore the lower reaches, you realize that there is at least one, maybe two more stories below. Please remember that my own day-to-day experience doesn’t include terrain that slants.
Do you remember that 24 hours ago I arrived w/o fanfare? Now the side entrance was open, as I assume it was all day because the Panorama serves lunch. Each time I return on a warm afternoon and step inside, I marvel at how much cooler it is. It’s dark; those thick walls insulate with cross ventilation maintained because the restaurant has such an awning system that the heat from the west doesn’t seem to ever reach the interior. (Not true above stairs.) I introduced myself to Patrizia who was manning the reception foyer which serves as public entrance to both the hotel and the restaurant. Lovely mirror, a tidy display of brochures, an easel on which is placed both the complete carte and that day’s menu (you know, the one price, 4 course special that, even if you don’t have a clue, you’re thrilled to risk it), a lovely paneled bar which is not a bar at all if you know what I mean, a tiny round table with two chairs tucked into the corner, which I noticed seems to be reserved for friends of the family who stop by anywhere from 6 to 8 p.m to drink a beer and shoot the breeze, and a floor so shiny that I walk carefully for fear of slipping. With a smile Patrizia told me she doesn’t speak English, I told her I speak no Italian, we both decided that we’d get along like a house afire, and I opened the glass door leading to the hotel proper and walked up to my room. The hotel smells like the houses of my aunts and uncles with whom I used to visit in Grosse Pointe Park. What is it? The masonry? It’s a lovely scent. A built-to-last scent.
Guess what. Yes, the shutters are pulled down tight, the glass doors closed, curtains drawn (that is one powerful western sun). But, lo! On the little desk there’s a silver tray with a crocheted doily, a bottle of water and waterglass, and a bottle of Ticino merlot and a wine glass! Oh, and a rose in a little vase. Tears to my eyes. Now I should be cool and write that I opened the bottle of wine so it could breathe while I showered. But.
The corkscrew gizmo was too clever for me (mine at home is the kind with the two wings that rise with each turn and then you push downward?). I tiptoed back downstairs so Patrizia could show me how simple it was. More smiles. Molto grazie. Followed by a repeat of what I recognize as my late-afternoon ritual sopra lago (I made that up. Does it make any sense?) But this time soooo much nicer. Bottled water, long shower, shutters (I’m learning to open them only half-way up at first), doors, curtains, breeze stirring the grapevines below me on the terrace, breathe in out, in out, slowly, merlot, (the smoothest I’ve ever tasted), nap, merlot. Ahhh. What’s for supper. J.
Do you remember that 24 hours ago I arrived w/o fanfare? Now the side entrance was open, as I assume it was all day because the Panorama serves lunch. Each time I return on a warm afternoon and step inside, I marvel at how much cooler it is. It’s dark; those thick walls insulate with cross ventilation maintained because the restaurant has such an awning system that the heat from the west doesn’t seem to ever reach the interior. (Not true above stairs.) I introduced myself to Patrizia who was manning the reception foyer which serves as public entrance to both the hotel and the restaurant. Lovely mirror, a tidy display of brochures, an easel on which is placed both the complete carte and that day’s menu (you know, the one price, 4 course special that, even if you don’t have a clue, you’re thrilled to risk it), a lovely paneled bar which is not a bar at all if you know what I mean, a tiny round table with two chairs tucked into the corner, which I noticed seems to be reserved for friends of the family who stop by anywhere from 6 to 8 p.m to drink a beer and shoot the breeze, and a floor so shiny that I walk carefully for fear of slipping. With a smile Patrizia told me she doesn’t speak English, I told her I speak no Italian, we both decided that we’d get along like a house afire, and I opened the glass door leading to the hotel proper and walked up to my room. The hotel smells like the houses of my aunts and uncles with whom I used to visit in Grosse Pointe Park. What is it? The masonry? It’s a lovely scent. A built-to-last scent.
Guess what. Yes, the shutters are pulled down tight, the glass doors closed, curtains drawn (that is one powerful western sun). But, lo! On the little desk there’s a silver tray with a crocheted doily, a bottle of water and waterglass, and a bottle of Ticino merlot and a wine glass! Oh, and a rose in a little vase. Tears to my eyes. Now I should be cool and write that I opened the bottle of wine so it could breathe while I showered. But.
The corkscrew gizmo was too clever for me (mine at home is the kind with the two wings that rise with each turn and then you push downward?). I tiptoed back downstairs so Patrizia could show me how simple it was. More smiles. Molto grazie. Followed by a repeat of what I recognize as my late-afternoon ritual sopra lago (I made that up. Does it make any sense?) But this time soooo much nicer. Bottled water, long shower, shutters (I’m learning to open them only half-way up at first), doors, curtains, breeze stirring the grapevines below me on the terrace, breathe in out, in out, slowly, merlot, (the smoothest I’ve ever tasted), nap, merlot. Ahhh. What’s for supper. J.
Jun 30th, 2006, 10:28 AM
#47
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My table (half-board gets you a reserved spot, though in June the terrace is never filled) is tucked into a shady corner of the terrace near the open glass doors to the fireplace room (read guaranteed refreshing draft even in the warmest weather), and Hanni checks periodically to see that one of those big floppy umbrellas is tilted just so to keep the sun out of my eyes. Now here’s another one of those curious observations I’ve accrued over my stays in Ticino. Most of the visitors at the Panorama are from Germany or from the northern part of Switzerland. So what? So in 87 +F. sunny weather they head for the tables in the direct path of that relentless afternoon Italian sun. Me? I come from a hot and humid clime, never willingly venture too far from the AC, and can’t imagine placing myself at a table where perspiration or squinting might be a possibility. Everyone on the terrace at 7 p.m. is happy to be there. Only one single older gentleman (a regular whom I’ve noticed via the webcam) and I seem to be transfixed by the view. Folks with partners or children pay for the blessing of having loved ones to share this paradise by being required to look away in order to converse, but they do so sparingly and quietly, and their communal enjoyment of the setting is apparent. I’m not the only one who, upon realizing that this is one of the most perfect places on the planet to spend an evening, sets about stretching the dinner hour to at least two (for me, usually from 7 to 9 p.m. more or less). The majority of visitors to the restaurant (non residents) seem to arrive around 8 and linger later, but two or three trips back, I remember Axel asking us to come for our half-board supper at around 6:30 or 7:00 and we tried to accommodate. Perhaps it is because he’s a one-man kitchen and he knows that later in the evening drop-ins will order grander and more complicated things from the carte?
Because I’ve made a respectable dent in my private bottle of merlot on a virtually empty stomach, I wisely go with water naturelle. (I drink more water one week in Ticino than I do in six months at home. (No lectures, please.) Hanni always comes to the table to tell me what my menu is for the evening. She must think I have no powers of discrimination whatsoever, because no matter what she says, I just nod happily and say it sounds wonderful. I mean I practically wiggle in my chair with anticipation, is that sophisticated or what? Every
time I’ve come to the Albergo Panorama (this was stay number 4), I’ve accepted half-board. Not once has the menu been the same. On the first trip, the starters were often pasta (cannelloni, spaghetti with pesto, etc.). Another time, they ranged from bresaola, to avocado baked with provolone, to my all time favorite, cold vitello tonnato. This time all the starters were homemade soups (you know, like from scratch?). I used to spend my non-traveling years yearning for something I remembered, only to find out that when I returned several years later it was nowhere to be found. I’ll just have to get over that, but it’s hard. Evidently, Axel not only plans his weekly offerings based upon what he finds at market, but he’s also constantly trying new things. I think this year he must have purchased a new indoor grill, because there seemed to be a lot of “from the grill” offerings. Or could it be that healthy eating has reared its ugly head? Say it isn’t so. I did notice that there were fewer rich sauces. Perhaps it’s global warming. There were more rich dishes on the carte in the old days when the temps were distinctly cooler in June. Another grudge that I can hold fast to, as if I had no part in the cause of the problem.
The soup this night was a cream of legumes. I love soup starters. On warm nights like these, I just sort of kick back and let them cool just a bit, sniffing their aromas (not to worry, I was very quiet) with an expression on my face not unlike Speedy’s (remember him?) when things are going pretty much the way he would like. It was delicious. Fortunately I’ve learned not to slurp. Is it the Greek culinary philosophy that food should be served at room temperature, because flavors are enhanced? Whoever, I am in total agreement. Next, there was the vinaigrette salad with which you are all familiar, the kind that is artfully composed rather than ‘tossed’ (what we do to our salads down south; we are such philistines). This night the palette was baby lettuce, fava beans (not positive here, but big), carrots, beets, tomatoes, sprouts, and olives. (grosser gemuseteller mit saison gemuse) Remember, while the evening meal continues, the light and the colors of the tile roofs, the lake, the villages, the hills and sky are changing more often than the “Piatti”. Those of you for whom travel is first and foremost a sensory joy can well relate to the exquisite explosion of sensations when there is both a feast for the eyes and a feast for the tastebuds. It’s almost too much to absorb. An aside, I know many of you live in locales where your neighborhood restaurants offer both. Count your blessings!
The Piatte Principiale (I’m probably messing this up trying to impress) was Picata di maiale Milanese con spaghetti al Pomodoro. Obviously, I’m not remembering this. I wrote it down in my little notebook, and now I’m having trouble reading my handwriting. Excuse any e’s that should be o’s, etc. Pork, yes? Very tender. Maybe a bit of lemony flavor, though I could have been imagining that because everything I cook ‘piccata’ has lemon on it. This was melt in your mouth scrumptious. Can you believe I’m still eating? Not the most dexterous spaghetti handler on the planet but no worse than my heroes, the ladies in the film version of “Enchanted April.” I forgot to mention that I consumed a big piece of crusty bread along with the salad. Are you ready for this, Miss Manners, I broke it into a few small pieces and sopped up (I just cannot think of a better word) the last few drops of vinaigrette and veggie juices on the salad plate. You’re thinking, good thing she’s in a shady corner out of the spotlight, so to speak. I simply could not help myself. But I was dainty. It could have been worse. Dessert. I forgot the sweet. (“the sweet,” isn’t that great?) The basic plan this trip was icecream on the bottom of the parfait dish, then fruit with perhaps a bit of crunchy meringue, then real whipped cream with a few homemade (I swear) sprinkles to compliment the flavors below, and one of those cookie straws. That night the ice cream layer was vanilla with slivers of bitter chocolate (ditto on top of the whipped cream) and the fruit layer was peaches. What a lovely ending to a marvelous day. I’ve pretty much used up my stash of adjectives. Time to dig out the thesaurus. J.
Because I’ve made a respectable dent in my private bottle of merlot on a virtually empty stomach, I wisely go with water naturelle. (I drink more water one week in Ticino than I do in six months at home. (No lectures, please.) Hanni always comes to the table to tell me what my menu is for the evening. She must think I have no powers of discrimination whatsoever, because no matter what she says, I just nod happily and say it sounds wonderful. I mean I practically wiggle in my chair with anticipation, is that sophisticated or what? Every
time I’ve come to the Albergo Panorama (this was stay number 4), I’ve accepted half-board. Not once has the menu been the same. On the first trip, the starters were often pasta (cannelloni, spaghetti with pesto, etc.). Another time, they ranged from bresaola, to avocado baked with provolone, to my all time favorite, cold vitello tonnato. This time all the starters were homemade soups (you know, like from scratch?). I used to spend my non-traveling years yearning for something I remembered, only to find out that when I returned several years later it was nowhere to be found. I’ll just have to get over that, but it’s hard. Evidently, Axel not only plans his weekly offerings based upon what he finds at market, but he’s also constantly trying new things. I think this year he must have purchased a new indoor grill, because there seemed to be a lot of “from the grill” offerings. Or could it be that healthy eating has reared its ugly head? Say it isn’t so. I did notice that there were fewer rich sauces. Perhaps it’s global warming. There were more rich dishes on the carte in the old days when the temps were distinctly cooler in June. Another grudge that I can hold fast to, as if I had no part in the cause of the problem.
The soup this night was a cream of legumes. I love soup starters. On warm nights like these, I just sort of kick back and let them cool just a bit, sniffing their aromas (not to worry, I was very quiet) with an expression on my face not unlike Speedy’s (remember him?) when things are going pretty much the way he would like. It was delicious. Fortunately I’ve learned not to slurp. Is it the Greek culinary philosophy that food should be served at room temperature, because flavors are enhanced? Whoever, I am in total agreement. Next, there was the vinaigrette salad with which you are all familiar, the kind that is artfully composed rather than ‘tossed’ (what we do to our salads down south; we are such philistines). This night the palette was baby lettuce, fava beans (not positive here, but big), carrots, beets, tomatoes, sprouts, and olives. (grosser gemuseteller mit saison gemuse) Remember, while the evening meal continues, the light and the colors of the tile roofs, the lake, the villages, the hills and sky are changing more often than the “Piatti”. Those of you for whom travel is first and foremost a sensory joy can well relate to the exquisite explosion of sensations when there is both a feast for the eyes and a feast for the tastebuds. It’s almost too much to absorb. An aside, I know many of you live in locales where your neighborhood restaurants offer both. Count your blessings!
The Piatte Principiale (I’m probably messing this up trying to impress) was Picata di maiale Milanese con spaghetti al Pomodoro. Obviously, I’m not remembering this. I wrote it down in my little notebook, and now I’m having trouble reading my handwriting. Excuse any e’s that should be o’s, etc. Pork, yes? Very tender. Maybe a bit of lemony flavor, though I could have been imagining that because everything I cook ‘piccata’ has lemon on it. This was melt in your mouth scrumptious. Can you believe I’m still eating? Not the most dexterous spaghetti handler on the planet but no worse than my heroes, the ladies in the film version of “Enchanted April.” I forgot to mention that I consumed a big piece of crusty bread along with the salad. Are you ready for this, Miss Manners, I broke it into a few small pieces and sopped up (I just cannot think of a better word) the last few drops of vinaigrette and veggie juices on the salad plate. You’re thinking, good thing she’s in a shady corner out of the spotlight, so to speak. I simply could not help myself. But I was dainty. It could have been worse. Dessert. I forgot the sweet. (“the sweet,” isn’t that great?) The basic plan this trip was icecream on the bottom of the parfait dish, then fruit with perhaps a bit of crunchy meringue, then real whipped cream with a few homemade (I swear) sprinkles to compliment the flavors below, and one of those cookie straws. That night the ice cream layer was vanilla with slivers of bitter chocolate (ditto on top of the whipped cream) and the fruit layer was peaches. What a lovely ending to a marvelous day. I’ve pretty much used up my stash of adjectives. Time to dig out the thesaurus. J.
Jun 30th, 2006, 11:07 AM
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J ~ You're painting such lovely pictures. I can still remember the 52 boats (I counted while I watched the sun set over the mountains) bobbing off the shore on the Gerra side of the lake. It's amazing how much time a man can spend fiddling around with this and that on his boat, never really seeming to accomplish much. And I remember sitting for a long time with a fellow Fodorite, watching a mama bird trying to make her baby try out his wings on the shore of the lake, just down from the library. The joys of doing nothing much but seeing everything.
Jun 30th, 2006, 12:33 PM
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Hello jmw!
I am so glad you finally jumped on a plane and went back to your lovely Gerra for a short vacation (yes, retreat!).I followed your trip report from the first posting on, but have not found enough time so far for posting a response which would do your effort justice. It is so amazing! I love your style of writing! I can almost see you sitting on the terrace of your hotel and enjoying the dinner.
Yes, you are right about that Via Crucis (Way of the Cross) from Locarno up to Madonna del Sasso. The life-sized terracotta sculptures which are now on display in the monastery are works by Francesco Silva from the early 17th century. They were originally located in small chapels at the Via Crucis. I have not seen such chapels when I walked up (yes, I did and it took about 30 minutes incl. some photo stops!) so I guess they do not exist anymore.
The church interior was redesigned 1903-25. Yes, the colours are from that restoration. But the stucco works are from the 17th century, the main altar is from 1792 (picture 1485-87). Did you notice the painting by Bramantino (1520) in the southern nave? All in all I found the church to be a bit overly decorated.
I'll try to find out about the museum. No idea if they abbreviated the opening hours.
Please go on posting ... I cannot wait to read more!
Ingo
I am so glad you finally jumped on a plane and went back to your lovely Gerra for a short vacation (yes, retreat!).I followed your trip report from the first posting on, but have not found enough time so far for posting a response which would do your effort justice. It is so amazing! I love your style of writing! I can almost see you sitting on the terrace of your hotel and enjoying the dinner.
Yes, you are right about that Via Crucis (Way of the Cross) from Locarno up to Madonna del Sasso. The life-sized terracotta sculptures which are now on display in the monastery are works by Francesco Silva from the early 17th century. They were originally located in small chapels at the Via Crucis. I have not seen such chapels when I walked up (yes, I did and it took about 30 minutes incl. some photo stops!) so I guess they do not exist anymore.
The church interior was redesigned 1903-25. Yes, the colours are from that restoration. But the stucco works are from the 17th century, the main altar is from 1792 (picture 1485-87). Did you notice the painting by Bramantino (1520) in the southern nave? All in all I found the church to be a bit overly decorated.
I'll try to find out about the museum. No idea if they abbreviated the opening hours.
Please go on posting ... I cannot wait to read more!
Ingo
Jun 30th, 2006, 01:30 PM
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Good day jmw44, I just saw your wonderful thread today and I am so glad, it is exactly what I needed after a few very stressful weeks.
I have only been in Switzerland once, we stayed along Lake Maggiore. I though at first the hotel we stayed at was "yours" but after looking at the website I don't think so. But the hotel we stayed at was very similar.
And my reaction was exactly like yours. I do not know why I have never gone back.
Being in a quiet reflective mood is certainly how I am. I have mentally dismissed any trip idea I have come up with for one reason or another. I now realize, thanks to you, what I need is a retreat type of trip like you took. Hopefully I can work this out.
I will not even try to describe to you how much your thread has meant to me as I mentally travel with you throughout your wanderings, your time in your hotel room, your meals.
I so look forward to your next installment. May you have many more trips that bring pleasure to your soul.
I have only been in Switzerland once, we stayed along Lake Maggiore. I though at first the hotel we stayed at was "yours" but after looking at the website I don't think so. But the hotel we stayed at was very similar.
And my reaction was exactly like yours. I do not know why I have never gone back.
Being in a quiet reflective mood is certainly how I am. I have mentally dismissed any trip idea I have come up with for one reason or another. I now realize, thanks to you, what I need is a retreat type of trip like you took. Hopefully I can work this out.
I will not even try to describe to you how much your thread has meant to me as I mentally travel with you throughout your wanderings, your time in your hotel room, your meals.
I so look forward to your next installment. May you have many more trips that bring pleasure to your soul.
Jun 30th, 2006, 02:36 PM
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Thanks for the info, Ingo. "May you have many more trips that bring pleasure to your soul." From your lips to God's ear, loveitaly. And catbert, what library? Did I miss the library? Must run now; I'm roasting a bunch of heads of garlic, a la Julie Child. Makes the house smell so good. Borrowed the dvd set of her French Chef series from the library (speaking of). What a kick. Ah, and time to move the sprinkler around the yard. Busy, busy. Love you all, J.
Jul 1st, 2006, 06:49 AM
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Hi. I'm really sorry to be so slow to work on day 3, but here's part of the reason why: the "prospetti" at ticino-tourism.ch. Click on 'promotional materials'. I was trying to find some information about Domenico Pezzi, whose frescos in the parish church in Carona have me puzzled. When I googled his name, the pdf files from ticino-tourism came up. Oh my goodness, what a gold mine. S', I think you usually download these sorts of brochures, yes? Anyway, the one on "contemplation" (surprise, surprise) has me hooked. The second file of the three is the one in English. This may take awhile. I'm making my to see list for my next trip. 
J.
J.
Jul 1st, 2006, 09:18 AM
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J, I think it was a small library. The street that runs down from the train station goes to a park, right? If you stay to the right heading down, there's a school and a small library. Then a grassy park area. There were people swimming off the small dock in a roped off swimming area.
Jul 2nd, 2006, 09:02 AM
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Can too many adjectives or outrageous punctuation break the posting function? I hope not.
Day 3. Before I boarded my plane for Zurich, I had only a three day wish list. By now two were accomplished. Day three was, for me, ambitious. I wanted to see Carona. Ingo has written so often about it. I also intended to stop in Bellinzona on my way back to visit the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. And both last and least, I had it in mind to stand on a street corner somewhere to watch stage 7 of the Tour de Suisse. Now why this strange brew? You might have noticed that I arrived on Wednesday, Thursday was a holiday (no buses), and Saturday and Sunday would have limited bus connections to supplement the trains. A visit to Carona requires either walking or busing or car rental. Stage 7 brought the Tour to Ticino on Friday, with the riders passing through Bellinzona late in the afternoon. (FYI the tds is a 9-day bike race, and I really wanted to catch a glimpse of Jan Ulrich.) I knew I could linger to see the riders pass by and still have several choices of trains or train/bus combos to get me back to Gerra for a late supper.
If this was going to work sensibly, I would have to catch the early trains (7:14) to Bellinzona and then Lugano-Paradiso, followed by a bus to Carona (arriving 8:53 a.m.). There were later options, of course, but I wanted a long morning in Carona, and I knew that early meant cool for walking hither and yon. I had no real picture in my mind of how big Carona might be nor of how far my Madonna d’Ongero might be into “the woods.” (That’s another one of my handicaps. Even with a legend stating the scale of the map, I’m invariably shocked at either how small or how large a place is or how far apart landmarks might be.) Thursday evening I shared my plans with Hanni and Patrizia so they’d know not to expect me at breakfast (service isn’t until 8 a.m.). Not for the first time, their kindness floored me. “Oh, we’ll put something out for you in the hallway outside your door before we close tonight.” After much no there’s no need and please don’t trouble yourself on one side and Hanni showing me a selection of coffee thermos bottles for this very purpose on the other and Claudia (who’d just happened by) asking how many sandwiches I’d like (how many?), it was decided. Feeling guilty and too late for early to bed early to rise anyway, I spent 90 minutes on my balcony meditating on the twinkling lights.
5:30 a.m. Sunrise is already underway, and I had not intended to miss a single one. Pino, Brissago, Ronco Sopra Ascona, birds, wavelettes, bobbing boats snug under their covers. How will I pull myself away and into action (It takes considerably longer to make myself presentable than it used to; am I alone here?). But first, tiptoed to the door and turned the key quietly quietly. Oh my goodness. Please, God, don’t let me drop this tiny table with its pretty plaid tablecloth and bountiful harvest. For once, I was smooth. I’ve mastered ‘quiet’ when I travel alone, but ‘smooth’ is about 50/50. Sure enough, coffee in thermos, two sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic and placed in a basket (one cheese, one salami), packets of butter, margarine, and jams, and a bowl of fruit (two apples and a banana). Eat here or ready to take along. Amazing. I’m absolutely certain that for you folks this little production is no big deal. For me it is a joy. Definitely an “eat here” assortment. Have you noticed that everyone but you assembles their breakfast coldcuts into sandwiches to eat with their coffee? My own MO is what my grandmother used to call “open-faced” style without bread on top. Since I really do try not to stare at others eating, I might have missed that the cheese and the salami should be on separate pieces of bread? Have I committed a faux pas by sometimes delicately placing a slice of each on my bread? Truth be told, I even have been known to add just a soupcon of preserves on top. The polyphony of flavors is incredible. (Are you thinking this last bit should have been contributed to the thread about the tacky things we do while traveling?) So I reconfigured the menu and hummed while I ate. Time to get a move on.
Room keys also work for the guests’ entrance to the Hotel Panorama, just at the bottom of my short flight of stairs. I’ve this minute realized that the stairs to my room are few because the ground floor private entrance is several feet higher in elevation than the official entrance foyer just a few steps away, yet both are pretty much flush with the sidewalk. M.C. Escher? Exhilarated by the morning air and the anticipation of a visit to a place I’ve never been, I was at the station by 7:10 along with one other lady. About that smooth-rock path surface (bordered neatly by small slabs of flat stone) that leads to the Gerra station – Do they lay these walkways smooth stone by smooth stone? I have this memory of a summer craft project in junior high, where the little square tiles arrived already regimented on some sort of net support, so you just plopped them down section by section. We surely wouldn’t want a novice craftsperson to have to think about the arrangement. If the answer is smooth stone by smooth stone, I would surely like to see the process.
The only part of the trip to Carona that needs mentioning (in case you try the same thing) is, you guessed it, the change from train to bus in Lugano-Paradiso. I’ve had difficulties with these transitions before. To me, it seems that the bus clientele are so used to the process that there’s no real need to post the kind of precise directions that we travelers find in the train stations. In addition, the train to bus orientations are not consistent from town to town. It’s pretty much a variation on the “in the know” advantage I described way back in Brunnen. I remember the harbor area of Paradiso as a place bustling with summer residents. Not the train station. It is only a smidge bigger than Gerra’s. Because there were a couple of likely routes leading away from the FFS, I repeated my Brunnen coin toss; I followed a couple of folks who looked like they did this every day. Down a bush-enshrouded walkway that paralleled the tracks, we reached the street, and goody, off to my left I could see a bus stop. The posted schedules of the various buses that use each stop indicate the bus number and its final destination along with all the stops on the way. Thank you, Ingo, for telling me quite awhile ago that “Paese” indicates the center of town.
The bus ride to Carona Paese took about 20 picturesque minutes, with ascending switchbacks giving us spectacular views of countryside punctuated by lovely communities. Ciona. I need to study about Ciona. Maybe a Carona/Ciona combo another time? We squeaked through an archway (part of the parish church complex, Ingo?) and the next minute came to a stop at the Carona post office. Voila. Posted schedules here promise almost hourly returns. (Notice that with a Swiss Pass, you never have to find a ticket window or ticket machine, nor hover near the bus driver while you go through your coins to piece together the correct fare.)
Those who do not commute to work or school from Carona are not yet up and around. I can stand at town center with my maporama printout and orient myself. I like this rose-ladened town of nestled buildings already. The yellow signs for walkers point the way and the minutes to various destinations. I’m off to find Santa Marta, said to be positioned above Carona. My way there led me by a number of beautiful buildings, and I could see that there were little piazzas tucked away for exploring later. In no time at all and at a manageable grade of incline, I reached Santa Marta’s hill and a cemetery across the street. I cannot resist cemeteries. I come from a place where cemeteries are included in books on architecture. Here, they could be included in books on architecture and in books on gardening. More than that, the loving family histories signified remind me of other places of my past where continuity with those who came before is treasured and revered. What do I remember about this cemetery behind an iron gate in Carona? It is manicured, of course. It is tended more often than annually on All Saints Day. The Solari family looms large. Ingo has referenced the Solari name in his underlining of Carona’s artistic significance. I’ve added sculptor Tullio di Pietro Solari (Lombardo) to my list of artists to learn more about (I don’t even know if he figured in Ingo’s mention). But in this cemetery, the tomb that enchanted me was watched over by a stoic angel who holds an hourglass in one hand and a trumpet in the other. Mesmerizing.
I followed the hillside path up to the church of Saint Martha(?). Unless I followed the wrong path or stumbled upon the wrong church, Santa Marta is lonesome. The doors are bolted shut and weeds speak of its isolation. But you know I’m a sucker for a place like this. I wanted to hug it. My Phaidon says “medieval in origin, enlarged during the baroque . . . . .(with) frescos dating from 1486. . .” I stumbled my way around the perimeter as far as I was able, but could not find a way in. I retraced my steps back down to the road and continued on in search of my next touchstone, the pilgrimage church of Santa Maria d’Ongero. Along the way I noticed that there were multiple walkers’ signs for Morcote, sometimes on the same post but pointing to toward two contradictory prongs of the proverbial fork in the road. I seem to remember one of our Fodors walkers saying that he had taken the wrong one, so I thought about him at that moment and was really glad that only one yellow sign said “Santa Maria d’Ongero.” By the way, the minutes noted on my yellow signs coincided exactly with the length of time it took me to reach my destination. Go figure. What a lovely wooded walk! Tree shaded with little touches of sun just trickling through here and there. A wide gentle path, the land rising at my left and sloping downward to my right, this morning traveled by one couple with a dog and another family of three and me. Plenty spread out enough to feel solitary and to drink in the colors of light passing through those layers of green. No mosquitoes.
The final approach to this pilgrimage church was designated by another, very straight version of the smooth-stone path, and devotional stations of the cross niches on either side. I found a photograph on the web that exactly matches the way it looked to me.
http://www.beat-kaufmann.com/images/tessinokt0527.jpg
Isn’t it beautiful? (I hope it’s fair to share this link with you. Feel free to correct me if it’s not.) Here I was able to peer through an opening in the front doors to see the lovely interior. Again, however, the doors were locked. I hope you can sense the graceful proportions of Santa Maria d’Ongero. Later in Carona, I purchased a postcard that depicted a view of it from above, and it is even more pleasing to the eye from that vantage point. Must stop now. J.
Day 3. Before I boarded my plane for Zurich, I had only a three day wish list. By now two were accomplished. Day three was, for me, ambitious. I wanted to see Carona. Ingo has written so often about it. I also intended to stop in Bellinzona on my way back to visit the church of Santa Maria delle Grazie. And both last and least, I had it in mind to stand on a street corner somewhere to watch stage 7 of the Tour de Suisse. Now why this strange brew? You might have noticed that I arrived on Wednesday, Thursday was a holiday (no buses), and Saturday and Sunday would have limited bus connections to supplement the trains. A visit to Carona requires either walking or busing or car rental. Stage 7 brought the Tour to Ticino on Friday, with the riders passing through Bellinzona late in the afternoon. (FYI the tds is a 9-day bike race, and I really wanted to catch a glimpse of Jan Ulrich.) I knew I could linger to see the riders pass by and still have several choices of trains or train/bus combos to get me back to Gerra for a late supper.
If this was going to work sensibly, I would have to catch the early trains (7:14) to Bellinzona and then Lugano-Paradiso, followed by a bus to Carona (arriving 8:53 a.m.). There were later options, of course, but I wanted a long morning in Carona, and I knew that early meant cool for walking hither and yon. I had no real picture in my mind of how big Carona might be nor of how far my Madonna d’Ongero might be into “the woods.” (That’s another one of my handicaps. Even with a legend stating the scale of the map, I’m invariably shocked at either how small or how large a place is or how far apart landmarks might be.) Thursday evening I shared my plans with Hanni and Patrizia so they’d know not to expect me at breakfast (service isn’t until 8 a.m.). Not for the first time, their kindness floored me. “Oh, we’ll put something out for you in the hallway outside your door before we close tonight.” After much no there’s no need and please don’t trouble yourself on one side and Hanni showing me a selection of coffee thermos bottles for this very purpose on the other and Claudia (who’d just happened by) asking how many sandwiches I’d like (how many?), it was decided. Feeling guilty and too late for early to bed early to rise anyway, I spent 90 minutes on my balcony meditating on the twinkling lights.
5:30 a.m. Sunrise is already underway, and I had not intended to miss a single one. Pino, Brissago, Ronco Sopra Ascona, birds, wavelettes, bobbing boats snug under their covers. How will I pull myself away and into action (It takes considerably longer to make myself presentable than it used to; am I alone here?). But first, tiptoed to the door and turned the key quietly quietly. Oh my goodness. Please, God, don’t let me drop this tiny table with its pretty plaid tablecloth and bountiful harvest. For once, I was smooth. I’ve mastered ‘quiet’ when I travel alone, but ‘smooth’ is about 50/50. Sure enough, coffee in thermos, two sandwiches wrapped in clear plastic and placed in a basket (one cheese, one salami), packets of butter, margarine, and jams, and a bowl of fruit (two apples and a banana). Eat here or ready to take along. Amazing. I’m absolutely certain that for you folks this little production is no big deal. For me it is a joy. Definitely an “eat here” assortment. Have you noticed that everyone but you assembles their breakfast coldcuts into sandwiches to eat with their coffee? My own MO is what my grandmother used to call “open-faced” style without bread on top. Since I really do try not to stare at others eating, I might have missed that the cheese and the salami should be on separate pieces of bread? Have I committed a faux pas by sometimes delicately placing a slice of each on my bread? Truth be told, I even have been known to add just a soupcon of preserves on top. The polyphony of flavors is incredible. (Are you thinking this last bit should have been contributed to the thread about the tacky things we do while traveling?) So I reconfigured the menu and hummed while I ate. Time to get a move on.
Room keys also work for the guests’ entrance to the Hotel Panorama, just at the bottom of my short flight of stairs. I’ve this minute realized that the stairs to my room are few because the ground floor private entrance is several feet higher in elevation than the official entrance foyer just a few steps away, yet both are pretty much flush with the sidewalk. M.C. Escher? Exhilarated by the morning air and the anticipation of a visit to a place I’ve never been, I was at the station by 7:10 along with one other lady. About that smooth-rock path surface (bordered neatly by small slabs of flat stone) that leads to the Gerra station – Do they lay these walkways smooth stone by smooth stone? I have this memory of a summer craft project in junior high, where the little square tiles arrived already regimented on some sort of net support, so you just plopped them down section by section. We surely wouldn’t want a novice craftsperson to have to think about the arrangement. If the answer is smooth stone by smooth stone, I would surely like to see the process.
The only part of the trip to Carona that needs mentioning (in case you try the same thing) is, you guessed it, the change from train to bus in Lugano-Paradiso. I’ve had difficulties with these transitions before. To me, it seems that the bus clientele are so used to the process that there’s no real need to post the kind of precise directions that we travelers find in the train stations. In addition, the train to bus orientations are not consistent from town to town. It’s pretty much a variation on the “in the know” advantage I described way back in Brunnen. I remember the harbor area of Paradiso as a place bustling with summer residents. Not the train station. It is only a smidge bigger than Gerra’s. Because there were a couple of likely routes leading away from the FFS, I repeated my Brunnen coin toss; I followed a couple of folks who looked like they did this every day. Down a bush-enshrouded walkway that paralleled the tracks, we reached the street, and goody, off to my left I could see a bus stop. The posted schedules of the various buses that use each stop indicate the bus number and its final destination along with all the stops on the way. Thank you, Ingo, for telling me quite awhile ago that “Paese” indicates the center of town.
The bus ride to Carona Paese took about 20 picturesque minutes, with ascending switchbacks giving us spectacular views of countryside punctuated by lovely communities. Ciona. I need to study about Ciona. Maybe a Carona/Ciona combo another time? We squeaked through an archway (part of the parish church complex, Ingo?) and the next minute came to a stop at the Carona post office. Voila. Posted schedules here promise almost hourly returns. (Notice that with a Swiss Pass, you never have to find a ticket window or ticket machine, nor hover near the bus driver while you go through your coins to piece together the correct fare.)
Those who do not commute to work or school from Carona are not yet up and around. I can stand at town center with my maporama printout and orient myself. I like this rose-ladened town of nestled buildings already. The yellow signs for walkers point the way and the minutes to various destinations. I’m off to find Santa Marta, said to be positioned above Carona. My way there led me by a number of beautiful buildings, and I could see that there were little piazzas tucked away for exploring later. In no time at all and at a manageable grade of incline, I reached Santa Marta’s hill and a cemetery across the street. I cannot resist cemeteries. I come from a place where cemeteries are included in books on architecture. Here, they could be included in books on architecture and in books on gardening. More than that, the loving family histories signified remind me of other places of my past where continuity with those who came before is treasured and revered. What do I remember about this cemetery behind an iron gate in Carona? It is manicured, of course. It is tended more often than annually on All Saints Day. The Solari family looms large. Ingo has referenced the Solari name in his underlining of Carona’s artistic significance. I’ve added sculptor Tullio di Pietro Solari (Lombardo) to my list of artists to learn more about (I don’t even know if he figured in Ingo’s mention). But in this cemetery, the tomb that enchanted me was watched over by a stoic angel who holds an hourglass in one hand and a trumpet in the other. Mesmerizing.
I followed the hillside path up to the church of Saint Martha(?). Unless I followed the wrong path or stumbled upon the wrong church, Santa Marta is lonesome. The doors are bolted shut and weeds speak of its isolation. But you know I’m a sucker for a place like this. I wanted to hug it. My Phaidon says “medieval in origin, enlarged during the baroque . . . . .(with) frescos dating from 1486. . .” I stumbled my way around the perimeter as far as I was able, but could not find a way in. I retraced my steps back down to the road and continued on in search of my next touchstone, the pilgrimage church of Santa Maria d’Ongero. Along the way I noticed that there were multiple walkers’ signs for Morcote, sometimes on the same post but pointing to toward two contradictory prongs of the proverbial fork in the road. I seem to remember one of our Fodors walkers saying that he had taken the wrong one, so I thought about him at that moment and was really glad that only one yellow sign said “Santa Maria d’Ongero.” By the way, the minutes noted on my yellow signs coincided exactly with the length of time it took me to reach my destination. Go figure. What a lovely wooded walk! Tree shaded with little touches of sun just trickling through here and there. A wide gentle path, the land rising at my left and sloping downward to my right, this morning traveled by one couple with a dog and another family of three and me. Plenty spread out enough to feel solitary and to drink in the colors of light passing through those layers of green. No mosquitoes.
The final approach to this pilgrimage church was designated by another, very straight version of the smooth-stone path, and devotional stations of the cross niches on either side. I found a photograph on the web that exactly matches the way it looked to me.
http://www.beat-kaufmann.com/images/tessinokt0527.jpg
Isn’t it beautiful? (I hope it’s fair to share this link with you. Feel free to correct me if it’s not.) Here I was able to peer through an opening in the front doors to see the lovely interior. Again, however, the doors were locked. I hope you can sense the graceful proportions of Santa Maria d’Ongero. Later in Carona, I purchased a postcard that depicted a view of it from above, and it is even more pleasing to the eye from that vantage point. Must stop now. J.
Jul 4th, 2006, 06:08 AM
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Day 3, contd. I see that I’ve confused my Madonnas with my Santa Marias until I’m not even certain which is correct for the beautiful sanctuary in the woods. Phaidon says Santa Maria. Beat Kaufmann has his own website. He lives in Brugg. I’ve been trying to find a photograph or two of Santa Marta. I was so close once I reached the crest of its hill and I wasn’t able to walk completely around to see the church from the back. So I’m one of the blind men who conjure up “elephant” based upon limited experience. (Where did that come from?) Ingo, if you’re looking in, perhaps you’ll tell me if the following link is indeed Santa Marta? (Sorry to be such a pest.) I deeply regret that I was unable to enter that church. And if Mr. Raz-Huber’s photograph is indeed Santa Marta, I regret that I’m not an experienced walker who would have known where to scout out that excellent vantage point.
http://de.geocities.com/seppraz/carona/5.jpg
It is one of a collection of excellent photographs taken by Vladimir Raz-Huber.
I walked back into the village, this time peeking into a couple of the side streets and piazzas. There are a few houses with their trompe l’oeil frescos preserved respectfully. With the exception of what I’ll call the red house (with turquoise shutters), the houses here are not primping for tourists. This is not Disneyland. The red house is somewhere between the color of rust and the color of ground cayenne pepper. There is a good picture of a detail at Trekearth if you do a search for Carona. It really is quite beautiful. There’s another house just a bit farther on that has corncobs hanging along its porches. I ask myself; is this posing? I think I’m becoming cynical. Nevertheless, Carona casts a spell over you in the morning hours. I’ll going to return.
My final church of the morning was the parish church of Saint George. There he is above the entrance. To the left of the church there is a loggia with a painted façade. Beautiful proportions enhanced by the gentle rose, terracotta, and muted ochre hues of the frescos. I now know that those are the crests of the first 12 cantons that you see between the windows and the portico. I’ve tried to find out something about the relationship between this building and the church, but I’m really not having much luck researching the architecture of Carona. Any ideas? For example, were the loggia and the rebuilding of the church in the 16th century conceived together? Why is the loggia included in one of my favorite websites, swisscastles.ch? Was it the equivalent of our city hall?
Into the parish church. (Hallelujah, the door isn’t locked.) My Paidon says the interior is lavish. Good word, and I haven’t used it yet. You have no doubt figured out that I travel without guidebooks. This time I left in such a hurry that I didn’t even Xerox or clip. Therefore, my enjoyment of San Giorgio’s interior was strictly sensory. Cool and dark is a welcome contrast with the bright Ticino sun, but it makes looking at the paintings a little difficult. The reduced light is an integral part of the time travel experience, so it’s a fair trade off in my opinion. Tell me, someone, about Domenico Pezzi’s small copy of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. I was so surprised. I don’t know what else to say. The church is filled with art, but once again, the altar that has stayed in my memory is one with angels. (I’m not one of those people who collects angels, but I might be turning into one. They’re just so beautiful. After twenty years, I still remember a particularly lovely one in the church cemetery in Altdorf.) Anyway, Paidon refers to an 18th century marble side altar, so I’m guessing that’s the one. The altar is set into a recessed chapel, and from within at its right and left, two life-size angels reach out. The guardian angel at the right instructs or admonishes or leads a tiny cherub, or maybe that’s a human toddler. From the left niche, Michael the Archangel (or one of his colleagues) defends us from wickedness and snares.
There’s still time to wander a bit and have lunch (yes, today there’s lunch) in the garden of the Restaurant Posta which I spotted earlier. Carona is a place of textures, yes? Textures and roses. And as it turns out, peonies.
The garden is raised and trellis covered, so the flowering plants, paving stones, and tablecloths are dappled with shadows. Iron chairs and cement benches, take your pick. My table has a single sweet-smelling bloom in a vase. Naturally, I decide that it must be what we call at home an old rose, the romantic floppy kind. Wrong. When one of the restaurant’s family members comes to take my order (I know because she’s in the family photograph in the restaurant window), she says “peony.” What she must think of me. Don’t they garden where this woman comes from? Another post-trip assignment – find out if you can grow peonies and if so, do. Exquisite. Lunch is salade nicoise. More when I can. J.
http://de.geocities.com/seppraz/carona/5.jpg
It is one of a collection of excellent photographs taken by Vladimir Raz-Huber.
I walked back into the village, this time peeking into a couple of the side streets and piazzas. There are a few houses with their trompe l’oeil frescos preserved respectfully. With the exception of what I’ll call the red house (with turquoise shutters), the houses here are not primping for tourists. This is not Disneyland. The red house is somewhere between the color of rust and the color of ground cayenne pepper. There is a good picture of a detail at Trekearth if you do a search for Carona. It really is quite beautiful. There’s another house just a bit farther on that has corncobs hanging along its porches. I ask myself; is this posing? I think I’m becoming cynical. Nevertheless, Carona casts a spell over you in the morning hours. I’ll going to return.
My final church of the morning was the parish church of Saint George. There he is above the entrance. To the left of the church there is a loggia with a painted façade. Beautiful proportions enhanced by the gentle rose, terracotta, and muted ochre hues of the frescos. I now know that those are the crests of the first 12 cantons that you see between the windows and the portico. I’ve tried to find out something about the relationship between this building and the church, but I’m really not having much luck researching the architecture of Carona. Any ideas? For example, were the loggia and the rebuilding of the church in the 16th century conceived together? Why is the loggia included in one of my favorite websites, swisscastles.ch? Was it the equivalent of our city hall?
Into the parish church. (Hallelujah, the door isn’t locked.) My Paidon says the interior is lavish. Good word, and I haven’t used it yet. You have no doubt figured out that I travel without guidebooks. This time I left in such a hurry that I didn’t even Xerox or clip. Therefore, my enjoyment of San Giorgio’s interior was strictly sensory. Cool and dark is a welcome contrast with the bright Ticino sun, but it makes looking at the paintings a little difficult. The reduced light is an integral part of the time travel experience, so it’s a fair trade off in my opinion. Tell me, someone, about Domenico Pezzi’s small copy of Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. I was so surprised. I don’t know what else to say. The church is filled with art, but once again, the altar that has stayed in my memory is one with angels. (I’m not one of those people who collects angels, but I might be turning into one. They’re just so beautiful. After twenty years, I still remember a particularly lovely one in the church cemetery in Altdorf.) Anyway, Paidon refers to an 18th century marble side altar, so I’m guessing that’s the one. The altar is set into a recessed chapel, and from within at its right and left, two life-size angels reach out. The guardian angel at the right instructs or admonishes or leads a tiny cherub, or maybe that’s a human toddler. From the left niche, Michael the Archangel (or one of his colleagues) defends us from wickedness and snares.
There’s still time to wander a bit and have lunch (yes, today there’s lunch) in the garden of the Restaurant Posta which I spotted earlier. Carona is a place of textures, yes? Textures and roses. And as it turns out, peonies.
The garden is raised and trellis covered, so the flowering plants, paving stones, and tablecloths are dappled with shadows. Iron chairs and cement benches, take your pick. My table has a single sweet-smelling bloom in a vase. Naturally, I decide that it must be what we call at home an old rose, the romantic floppy kind. Wrong. When one of the restaurant’s family members comes to take my order (I know because she’s in the family photograph in the restaurant window), she says “peony.” What she must think of me. Don’t they garden where this woman comes from? Another post-trip assignment – find out if you can grow peonies and if so, do. Exquisite. Lunch is salade nicoise. More when I can. J.
Jul 5th, 2006, 09:13 AM
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Jw, it is indeed Santa Marta. From your description of the interior it is obvious (and the picture makes it sure). It is too bad you missed Madonna d'Ongero! Next time, eh?
The Renaissance loggia links San Giorgio with the former vicarage. The frescos by Domenico Pezzi inside San Giorgio are indeed amazing!
Thank you again for posting this wonderful trip report. You make my day(s)!
Regards, Ingo
The Renaissance loggia links San Giorgio with the former vicarage. The frescos by Domenico Pezzi inside San Giorgio are indeed amazing!
Thank you again for posting this wonderful trip report. You make my day(s)!
Regards, Ingo
Jul 5th, 2006, 11:17 AM
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WOW...thank you for sharing such a beautiful report. Are you an English or Art teacher? You certainly have the soul of a poet or painter. Your writing has transported me to a magical place that I don't want to leave.
Fortunately we will make our first trip to Switzerland, including the Ticino, in September and after reading your magical report I imagine it will feel a little like going home. I can't wait for your upcoming installments!
Fortunately we will make our first trip to Switzerland, including the Ticino, in September and after reading your magical report I imagine it will feel a little like going home. I can't wait for your upcoming installments!
Jul 5th, 2006, 12:51 PM
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Proofreading after posting is not a good idea. “I’ll going to return” is pretty bad, even for me. After lunch, I had time to write a couple of postcards and make a drawing of said peony before heading for the bus stop. I confess to being just a tiny bit unsure of myself when I use the buses. The place where you are dropped off and the place where you should stand in order to be picked up are not always right together. One summer in Dielsdorf on my Regensberg excursion, the two were not even close and I messed up pretty badly. Fortunately a nice woman at the hotel in Dielsdorf listened to my tale of woe and helped me devise a plan B. (It’s the hotel recommended by Karen Brown, the Lowen maybe. I didn’t stay there, but her kindness wins my seal of approval.) No problem this time. Destination Bellinzona. I only hit one snag, and that was because I thought I could simply retrace my steps from the bus stop in Paradiso to the FFS station. Silly me. When I did just that, I ended up at the station, but standing at the wrong track. (Did I tell you this already?) I had to walk back down again to the city street, walk farther away and under the rail viaduct, and then back up again. Now I was at the part of the station designated as “to Lugano”. The other one was “to Chiasso.” It was one of those times when I was really happy that my bus/train connection was not a three-minute wonder.
In Bellinzona, I think I did a couple of chores. I cashed a couple of travelers checks (left over from four years ago), a service for which I was not charged a penny either of the two times that I used local banks, and the exchange rate was as good as I had expected (or should I say as bad). (I used cash for miscellaneous and my Visa for hotels, restaurants, and gifts for my niece and nephew.) Then stopped in at a post office for a couple of stamps. Next, the very accommodating Bellinzona office of tourism, where I picked up a map and a promise that Santa Maria della Grazie did not require hill climbing. I also received pointers on the best vantage point for the tds stage 7 riders, who were expected to arrive sometime after 16:30. (A tiny tree-shaded square with sculpture along the Viale Portone between Largo Elvezia and Via Claudio something.) But first I walked to Santa Maria delle Grazie. Its fresco covered rood screen did not disappoint. The central crucifixion scene is set off by fifteen other scenes from the life of Christ, each one a jewel. I was the only visitor there.
By the time I had meandered my way back to the town center, the afternoon had become very warm. That shady square with a vacant bench looked good to me. There were small clusters of people milling about, children playing, teenagers being teenagers. Not a crowd. Did I mention that stage 7 finished in Ascona? I could see one of those inflated arches and a sign indicating that there was a sprint opp for points coming up just ahead (I have only the vaguest idea of what that means), but mostly, Bellinzona was just a place for the tour to pass through. So we waited, and waited, and waited. From time to time, sponsors’ cars and the other peripheral vehicles that you would expect to participate drove by blaring their commercial messages. One vehicle looked like a big block of swiss cheese. Police were positioned here and there, communicating with their walkie talkies (is that an antiquated expression?). The local traffic wasn’t diverted until the last possible moment, so I suppose communication was a big deal. One or two helicopters were busy providing those wonderful aerial shots of which I’m so fond, not because I’m a sport, but because I love seeing the views of the towns and countryside from that vantage point. I’m a fan of the photographers of the Giro d’Italia. Their work is gorgeous.
Grey clouds were beginning to roll in. Skies grew just a bit darker. Blessedly, the breeze picked up. Rain won’t stop le tour, but will it stop me? Probably. I left my travel umbrella in the seat pocket of my Delta flight. I hope whoever found it takes it on many wonderful trips. I had heard that Ascona expected the finale to occur around 5 p.m., so they’d better get a move on. What do I know. At long last, we heard a loud speaker on a passing car announce in Italian (can’t imagine how I caught on) that the tete de la course (he must have said ‘testa’ something) would be along in five minutes, with the peloton (again, that’s not the word he used, but it was close enough for me to surmise) passing two minutes after that. Thank goodness. Everyone was refreshed by the news and the breeze and began to walk to what each person considered the perfect spot. Police diverted cars. I was getting really excited! This was so cool for someone who never does anything remotely earning that description. Then Holy cow I see the break away coming toward us! Swissshhh. Applause (no yelling, catcalls or whistles in Bellinzona). That took five seconds. I thought they must be so proud, I hope they can hang on. (Not a chance, my vast knowledge tells me from three years of OLN.) I was fairly certain that the only rider I had a hope of recognizing would be in the peloton. Almost exactly two more minutes passed and sure enough, this powerful, sleek, and graceful mass of riders were heading our way. What a wonderful sound, those wheels on the blacktop (whatever). The marvelous colors of the jerseys. The spectacular synchrony of it all. Swwissshhhhhhh. They were fabulous, it gave me goose bumps. Jan Ulrich. I saw him, I’m positive. What a kick. That took about 8 seconds. Time to head to the station for home. It looked like it could storm any minute. (Portent of cycle controversy to come?) I wonder what’s for supper. J.
Proofreading after posting is not a good idea. “I’ll going to return” is pretty bad, even for me. After lunch, I had time to write a couple of postcards and make a drawing of said peony before heading for the bus stop. I confess to being just a tiny bit unsure of myself when I use the buses. The place where you are dropped off and the place where you should stand in order to be picked up are not always right together. One summer in Dielsdorf on my Regensberg excursion, the two were not even close and I messed up pretty badly. Fortunately a nice woman at the hotel in Dielsdorf listened to my tale of woe and helped me devise a plan B. (It’s the hotel recommended by Karen Brown, the Lowen maybe. I didn’t stay there, but her kindness wins my seal of approval.) No problem this time. Destination Bellinzona. I only hit one snag, and that was because I thought I could simply retrace my steps from the bus stop in Paradiso to the FFS station. Silly me. When I did just that, I ended up at the station, but standing at the wrong track. (Did I tell you this already?) I had to walk back down again to the city street, walk farther away and under the rail viaduct, and then back up again. Now I was at the part of the station designated as “to Lugano”. The other one was “to Chiasso.” It was one of those times when I was really happy that my bus/train connection was not a three-minute wonder.
In Bellinzona, I think I did a couple of chores. I cashed a couple of travelers checks (left over from four years ago), a service for which I was not charged a penny either of the two times that I used local banks, and the exchange rate was as good as I had expected (or should I say as bad). (I used cash for miscellaneous and my Visa for hotels, restaurants, and gifts for my niece and nephew.) Then stopped in at a post office for a couple of stamps. Next, the very accommodating Bellinzona office of tourism, where I picked up a map and a promise that Santa Maria della Grazie did not require hill climbing. I also received pointers on the best vantage point for the tds stage 7 riders, who were expected to arrive sometime after 16:30. (A tiny tree-shaded square with sculpture along the Viale Portone between Largo Elvezia and Via Claudio something.) But first I walked to Santa Maria delle Grazie. Its fresco covered rood screen did not disappoint. The central crucifixion scene is set off by fifteen other scenes from the life of Christ, each one a jewel. I was the only visitor there.
By the time I had meandered my way back to the town center, the afternoon had become very warm. That shady square with a vacant bench looked good to me. There were small clusters of people milling about, children playing, teenagers being teenagers. Not a crowd. Did I mention that stage 7 finished in Ascona? I could see one of those inflated arches and a sign indicating that there was a sprint opp for points coming up just ahead (I have only the vaguest idea of what that means), but mostly, Bellinzona was just a place for the tour to pass through. So we waited, and waited, and waited. From time to time, sponsors’ cars and the other peripheral vehicles that you would expect to participate drove by blaring their commercial messages. One vehicle looked like a big block of swiss cheese. Police were positioned here and there, communicating with their walkie talkies (is that an antiquated expression?). The local traffic wasn’t diverted until the last possible moment, so I suppose communication was a big deal. One or two helicopters were busy providing those wonderful aerial shots of which I’m so fond, not because I’m a sport, but because I love seeing the views of the towns and countryside from that vantage point. I’m a fan of the photographers of the Giro d’Italia. Their work is gorgeous.
Grey clouds were beginning to roll in. Skies grew just a bit darker. Blessedly, the breeze picked up. Rain won’t stop le tour, but will it stop me? Probably. I left my travel umbrella in the seat pocket of my Delta flight. I hope whoever found it takes it on many wonderful trips. I had heard that Ascona expected the finale to occur around 5 p.m., so they’d better get a move on. What do I know. At long last, we heard a loud speaker on a passing car announce in Italian (can’t imagine how I caught on) that the tete de la course (he must have said ‘testa’ something) would be along in five minutes, with the peloton (again, that’s not the word he used, but it was close enough for me to surmise) passing two minutes after that. Thank goodness. Everyone was refreshed by the news and the breeze and began to walk to what each person considered the perfect spot. Police diverted cars. I was getting really excited! This was so cool for someone who never does anything remotely earning that description. Then Holy cow I see the break away coming toward us! Swissshhh. Applause (no yelling, catcalls or whistles in Bellinzona). That took five seconds. I thought they must be so proud, I hope they can hang on. (Not a chance, my vast knowledge tells me from three years of OLN.) I was fairly certain that the only rider I had a hope of recognizing would be in the peloton. Almost exactly two more minutes passed and sure enough, this powerful, sleek, and graceful mass of riders were heading our way. What a wonderful sound, those wheels on the blacktop (whatever). The marvelous colors of the jerseys. The spectacular synchrony of it all. Swwissshhhhhhh. They were fabulous, it gave me goose bumps. Jan Ulrich. I saw him, I’m positive. What a kick. That took about 8 seconds. Time to head to the station for home. It looked like it could storm any minute. (Portent of cycle controversy to come?) I wonder what’s for supper. J.
