Italy in 3 1/2 weeks > Nation has something for everyone, but there is never enough time

Admittedly 3 1/2 weeks in a country is insufficient time to get a handle on its problems, its culture, its religion, its politics and, above all, its people. This is emphatically true of a complex entity like Italy, today an affluent country that remains — with its Roman ruins, its medieval monuments, its baroque masterpieces, its magnificent natural scenery and its superb cuisine — one of the most popular attractions in Europe.

Although I have visited this adorable land — my spiritual and cultural haven — a couple of dozen times over the past twenty years, not until this spring did I devote an entire holiday to discovering new facets of this ancient crucible and savoring old aspects. My friends (Barbara and Carl Rosa from Pittsburgh, as avid travelers as I) and I began our rigorous odyssey at Milan’s Malpensa Airport. In a rented Ford Escort (really the only efficient way to explore a country) we headed west to a village called Masino (near Torino), where we enjoyed a two-day visit with Carl’s cousins on his mother’s side. The sleepy village, dominated by a crumbling castle that overlooks the verdant countryside, is a perfect spot for rumination and relaxation. The inhabitants, content to look after their livestock and to follow a pleasant, uncomplicated existence, are hospitable in the extreme. From this base we were introduced to the sights of Ivrea and, above all, the Roman settlement of Aosta at the foot of the Alps.

Torino, the provincial capital, is an elegant city, the seat of the House of Savoy, the oldest monarchy in Europe. At the heart of the city, close to the sprawling royal palace, is the cathedral, whose most precious possession is the Holy Shroud, a piece of cloth that is alleged to have the imprint of the crucified Christ. In recent years this relic has been subject to scientific tests to determine its authenticity.

Heading east over the Po Valley, the breadbasket of Italy, we came to Pavia (just south of Milan), a city of old churches with a university, and, just outside, one of the greatest of all European monuments: the Certosa, a glorious Renaissance monastery whose monks cultivate vineyards that ultimately result in wine sold on the premises.

In Milan, a strongly industrial city, we were again awed by the spacious Gothic cathedral, which Napoleon himself ordered to be finished after centuries in the making. My friends wanted desperately to see da Vinci’s “The Last Supper” (now in its latest reincarnation at the Chiesa Maria della Grazie), but, despite a plaque that indicated that the church would open at 2, it remained steadfastly locked, this another example of Italian fecklessness.

Verona, the marble city, became our base of operations for three days, one of which was spent in Venice, one of the world’s most beautiful cities and certainly one of the quietest. Even though it was off-season, the city was crammed with tourists, most Italian and German. Fortunately, the recent floods had subsided so that it was business as usual in this complex of canals and narrow thoroughfares. This time I finally visited the lovely museum that houses the late Peggy Guggenheim’s collection of art by such modern masters as Braque, Picasso, Epstein, Kandinsky, Modigliani and Mondrian. Venice is simply one of those endlessly fascinating cities that can never be adequately plumbed.

In a village called Casasola near Udine we visited Carl’s cousins on his father’s side. This bunch, a lot hardened by the severe mountainous terrain, were as inhospitable as the Masino relatives had been warm and appealing. Not lingering there, we pushed on to Padua, where one of the chief delights is the Scrovegni Chapel with its marvelously preserved murals by Giotto, these depicting highlights in the life of Christ.

A town full of bicyclists is Ferrara, over which looms a huge castle built for protection by the Este family. Nearby, in the Monasterio del Corpus Domini, are the tombs of the Este families, the most notable of which is that of the hapless Lucrezia Borgia, the supposed poisoner who evidently was the victim of a bad press.

In Florence, where we struck cold and rainy weather, unusual for Italy’s soft spring, we reacquainted ourselves with the masterworks of the Uffizi Gallery. What a consummate thrill to enter the first room with seminal works by three Renaissance masters: Duccio, Giotto and Ghiberti! In the nearby Santa Croce, the pantheon of Italy, are buried Michaelangelo, Machiavelli, Galileo, Rossini, Cherubini and Alfieri.

By the time we arrived in the lovely hill town of Siena, the weather had moderated. The interior of the cathedral here was the inspiration for the setting of the first Bayreuth production of Wagner’s “Parsifal.” Scads of tourists zeroed in on the home of Siena’s patron saint, the martyred Catherine, whose head is enshrined in the Church of San Domenica. A deviation brought us to Orvieto, whose cathedral, conceived as an answer to that in Siena, with its gleaming mosaics and marble bas-reliefs, is utterly superb.

We could not have struck the fabled Amalfi Drive, a scenic route that clings to mountains that slide into the Mediterranean, at a worse time, for it was May Day weekend, a holiday that brought out hordes of pleasure-seekers with incredible numbers of cars and buses. Instead of staying at Sorrento at the southern end of the incomparably beautiful Bay of Naples, as we had planned, we were compelled to move on to Paestum, where there is a wonderful complex of Greek ruins.

Cutting across Calabria, we segued into a village called Gerace at the apex of a mountain, one of those sequestered spots unvisited by most tourists. Still retaining an authentic medieval flavor, it has narrow cobbled streets lined with stone houses. As we entered the simple Romanesque cathedral on that calm Sunday evening, Mass was just ending, a lovely moment. Over all loomed the ruins of the requisite castle.

Once across the Straits of Messina, we bolted along to Palermo, but the traffic jams there so discouraged us that we immediately escaped to nearby Monreale, whose mammoth cathedral has mosaics of pure gold. From Trapino, at the northwest corner of Sicily, it was an easy hop to such Greek sites as Erice, Segeste, Selinunte and Sciacca, all eloquent testimonies to the fact that this storied island had been hospitable to Greek settlers in the fourth and fifth centuries before Christ. All told, we saw at least six theaters, both Greek and Roman, and innumerable temples. Perhaps the finest conglommeration of Greek architecture lies in Agrigento, where the Temple of Concordia is among the best preserved monuments.

At Gela, a horrid town of ugly high-rise apartment houses, we turned inland to Piazza Armenia and Enna, both attractive places with their own seductions. Surely one of the most eminent is the Villa Romana near the former, this splendid manor the repository of some of the best preserved mosaics in Italy. The one depicting four scantily clad dancing girls has a wonderfully modern touch. At Siracusa, Catania and Taormina on the east coast, we were aware of fuming Etna, whose smoking lava has recently been threatening towns at its base.

Once back on the mainland we headed toward Pompeii, my fourth visit to these glorious ruins in the malign shadow of Vesuvius. In Naples I accomplished a long-standing ambition: to visit the National Museum with its rich collection of statues, mosaics and paintings (most from Pompeii aand Herculaneum).

Our final days were passed in the lovely hill towns of Palestrina and Tivoli close to Rome itself. The former was the birthplace of the composer. The latter is best known for the imaginative designs of the fountains of the Villa d’Este. Unfortunately, the marble statues and visages are crumbling and some of the most exquisite fountains no longer function. Still, it is a rare enclave that once attracted the composer Franz Liszt. Also near Tivoli are the sprawling remains of Hadrian’s sumptuous villa and the bosky trails of the Villa Gregoriana.

Amidst all this beauty are the lengthening shadows of threats to the environment from modern technology, for Italians are criminally mortgaging their country for momentary gains. The pollution that envelopes most of the peninsula and Sicily (with its acres of oil tanks) has reached frightening proportions. The mountains that form a backdrop to Naples, for instance, can be barely traced. No effort is made to restrict the fumes spewed out by the legions of trucks and cars. It is said that no marine life exists within ten miles of waters surrounding the peninsula.

Driving in Italy is a nightmare. Italians may be the most civil of people until they get behind the wheel, in which case they are transformed into demons who tailgate shamelessly, weave dangerously in and out of traffic, cut in front of other motorists and challenge one at every turn. The result is that practically all their vehicles are sadly battered. If insurance is available, it must be astronomical.

There are, of course, certain irritating quirks to Italian life, one of which is that three or four people must regularly share one menu (it’s as though these are rationed). Nonetheless, one dines well in general, the food having a flavor that is too often denied it in this country. Another vexation lies in postal matters. Lovers of bureacracy, the Italians can make a simple act like mailing a package into a major feat that will consume a half-hour.

Despite all the annoyances, one can seldom have a more productive holiday than in this glorious country with its layers of history. One can press heavy amounts of sightseeing into his or her schedule or simply bask in its pleasant ambiance. Italy, always flexible, has something for everyone.