My husband is clearly descended from nomads. No matter where in the world we plan a trip, his first thought is where else we can get to from there. This usually results in a lot of time spent wandering long, scenic drives on an endless quest for the undiscovered. (Maybe he’s descended from Magellan too – it’s all very confusing).
On one particular trip to northern Italy, graced by its sublime placement at the foot of the Alps, we decide to see where the road will take us… Asti, a small town known in the States for an unfortunate spumante, but actually a destination rich in culture, and in fact, a source of some truly great wine.
One of Italy’s foremost medieval strongholds, Asti was a thriving center of activity in its day and has the landmarks to show for it: the prerequisite Roman walls, the countless medieval churches, and the coveted historic palaces. But my husband and I happen upon it on a Monday when, as anyone who’s ever visited Italy knows, sites and museums are closed. So we content ourselves with meandering through the winding streets and graceful inclines of this noble city, when as if seeing an oasis rise in the desert, we come upon a towering structure with dated stone walls and an inviting open archway, leading to an even more inviting inner garden.
Upon further investigation, we see a placard that identifies this place as the medieval home of a nobleman, now converted to the city’s historic archives. It’s not open to the public today, but the door’s open and we’re beyond curious – so we go in; after all, we’re explorers. The perfect solace of the garden leads to an obstacle: an imposing and decidedly closed doorway. Perhaps the faint of heart would be turned away, but not us; we have to knock and see if anyone will let us in.
A meek, young woman opens the door and reiterates that they are officially closed, but then instructs us to come inside as she goes to find the director to make an exception. We’re ushered in like traveling emissaries and are left to our own devices in the impressive entry hall, lined with period tables and chairs, and decorated with historic maps, antique paintings and inestimably important artifacts.
While we wait, my husband and I start to rethink our plan. As bold as we are, we are torn between the great luck to have gotten this far inside, and the regret of causing a disturbance for the director for no other reason than our gluttonous curiosity. We decide it’s best to thank them graciously and quickly go on our way. At that very moment, the director arrives in a flurry of harried activity. She is small in stature, but makes a huge impression with her long, blond, completely disheveled, yet utterly fabulous hair that moves with her as she flies into the room. Clearly she’s a busy woman, so I explain in my most courtly Italian that it was never our intention to disturb her – we were merely lovers of history who were irresistibly drawn to this place.
The Signora Direttrice, part Italian supermodel and part nutty professor, immediately explains that she is far too busy and couldn’t possibly attend to visitors today. In fact, she points out, all visitors are seen by appointment only. With that, she turns and beckons us to follow, dashing through the main reception room. My husband and I strive to keep up with her as she describes the organization: a resource center for scholars, historians, and restorers to research historic texts and preserve priceless antiques from the city’s esteemed history. The Signora Direttrice turns once again and leads us to the next room. My husband and I look at each other in a moment of confusion – do we follow or is this our cue to leave – but she’s still talking; so we follow, hoping she doesn’t come out of her trance to find us still there.
The Signora then proceeds to lead us from room to room on an all-access, grand tour -- all the while telling us she has no time for it – as she points out the priceless treasures of the collection: ancient maps (my husband’s obsession, probably another indication of his nomadic heritage); historic documents and seals of the city; original furniture, impeccably maintained; the restoration room with its secret tricks for resurrecting what is lost; and finally, she talks of the prized possession of the collection: the Codex – a medieval manuscript with illuminated text and pictures, chronicling Asti’s long, revered history. It is the holy grail of artifacts, but the Signora explains she is just too busy to show us. In the same breath she takes a key from her skirt pocket, unlocks an armoire, and pulls out the heavy, rich, but unassuming old box containing the Codex, along with a smaller, simpler box from which she pulls a pair of white gloves; it is only with these that she can handle the manuscript.
As she describes the history of the Codex, she begins paging through the stately old book, indicating points of interest: important moments in Asti’s long past, written in the elegant letters of a millennium ago; a description of the ancient skills of bookmaking and the pains of preservation; and the most interesting of all: the recent discovery that 3 separate and distinctive artists collaborated on the book’s decoration. She meticulously points out the details of their individual styles: richer colors here, stronger lines there, and still more stylized forms in another. The text had just been returned from being on loan at an exhibit, where thousands of enthusiasts lined up to see it on display, opened to one page, behind thick, protective glass; and here we are, leaning inches from the book as we study page after page, relishing in each and every succulent detail. The more questions we ask the more time she spends on the work that is obviously her life’s passion. Each time we thank her and remind her that she really doesn’t need to spend so much time with us, she states again that she is indeed too busy, and goes back to the subject of the book, showing us more. My husband and I look at each other, wondering if we’re in a collective dream.
When the Direttrice finally drags herself, and us, away from the Codex, she does so with regret for breaking the spell. Downstairs, in the main reception area, she seems to want to console us for our recent loss and makes gifts of every keepsake she can find: postcards with pictures from the Codex and reproductions of historic posters of the city, which we have since framed and which now hang in our house; leaving us blissful memories of that exceptional day, and forever grateful for her extraordinary hospitality.
On one particular trip to northern Italy, graced by its sublime placement at the foot of the Alps, we decide to see where the road will take us… Asti, a small town known in the States for an unfortunate spumante, but actually a destination rich in culture, and in fact, a source of some truly great wine.
One of Italy’s foremost medieval strongholds, Asti was a thriving center of activity in its day and has the landmarks to show for it: the prerequisite Roman walls, the countless medieval churches, and the coveted historic palaces. But my husband and I happen upon it on a Monday when, as anyone who’s ever visited Italy knows, sites and museums are closed. So we content ourselves with meandering through the winding streets and graceful inclines of this noble city, when as if seeing an oasis rise in the desert, we come upon a towering structure with dated stone walls and an inviting open archway, leading to an even more inviting inner garden.
Upon further investigation, we see a placard that identifies this place as the medieval home of a nobleman, now converted to the city’s historic archives. It’s not open to the public today, but the door’s open and we’re beyond curious – so we go in; after all, we’re explorers. The perfect solace of the garden leads to an obstacle: an imposing and decidedly closed doorway. Perhaps the faint of heart would be turned away, but not us; we have to knock and see if anyone will let us in.
A meek, young woman opens the door and reiterates that they are officially closed, but then instructs us to come inside as she goes to find the director to make an exception. We’re ushered in like traveling emissaries and are left to our own devices in the impressive entry hall, lined with period tables and chairs, and decorated with historic maps, antique paintings and inestimably important artifacts.
While we wait, my husband and I start to rethink our plan. As bold as we are, we are torn between the great luck to have gotten this far inside, and the regret of causing a disturbance for the director for no other reason than our gluttonous curiosity. We decide it’s best to thank them graciously and quickly go on our way. At that very moment, the director arrives in a flurry of harried activity. She is small in stature, but makes a huge impression with her long, blond, completely disheveled, yet utterly fabulous hair that moves with her as she flies into the room. Clearly she’s a busy woman, so I explain in my most courtly Italian that it was never our intention to disturb her – we were merely lovers of history who were irresistibly drawn to this place.
The Signora Direttrice, part Italian supermodel and part nutty professor, immediately explains that she is far too busy and couldn’t possibly attend to visitors today. In fact, she points out, all visitors are seen by appointment only. With that, she turns and beckons us to follow, dashing through the main reception room. My husband and I strive to keep up with her as she describes the organization: a resource center for scholars, historians, and restorers to research historic texts and preserve priceless antiques from the city’s esteemed history. The Signora Direttrice turns once again and leads us to the next room. My husband and I look at each other in a moment of confusion – do we follow or is this our cue to leave – but she’s still talking; so we follow, hoping she doesn’t come out of her trance to find us still there.
The Signora then proceeds to lead us from room to room on an all-access, grand tour -- all the while telling us she has no time for it – as she points out the priceless treasures of the collection: ancient maps (my husband’s obsession, probably another indication of his nomadic heritage); historic documents and seals of the city; original furniture, impeccably maintained; the restoration room with its secret tricks for resurrecting what is lost; and finally, she talks of the prized possession of the collection: the Codex – a medieval manuscript with illuminated text and pictures, chronicling Asti’s long, revered history. It is the holy grail of artifacts, but the Signora explains she is just too busy to show us. In the same breath she takes a key from her skirt pocket, unlocks an armoire, and pulls out the heavy, rich, but unassuming old box containing the Codex, along with a smaller, simpler box from which she pulls a pair of white gloves; it is only with these that she can handle the manuscript.
As she describes the history of the Codex, she begins paging through the stately old book, indicating points of interest: important moments in Asti’s long past, written in the elegant letters of a millennium ago; a description of the ancient skills of bookmaking and the pains of preservation; and the most interesting of all: the recent discovery that 3 separate and distinctive artists collaborated on the book’s decoration. She meticulously points out the details of their individual styles: richer colors here, stronger lines there, and still more stylized forms in another. The text had just been returned from being on loan at an exhibit, where thousands of enthusiasts lined up to see it on display, opened to one page, behind thick, protective glass; and here we are, leaning inches from the book as we study page after page, relishing in each and every succulent detail. The more questions we ask the more time she spends on the work that is obviously her life’s passion. Each time we thank her and remind her that she really doesn’t need to spend so much time with us, she states again that she is indeed too busy, and goes back to the subject of the book, showing us more. My husband and I look at each other, wondering if we’re in a collective dream.
When the Direttrice finally drags herself, and us, away from the Codex, she does so with regret for breaking the spell. Downstairs, in the main reception area, she seems to want to console us for our recent loss and makes gifts of every keepsake she can find: postcards with pictures from the Codex and reproductions of historic posters of the city, which we have since framed and which now hang in our house; leaving us blissful memories of that exceptional day, and forever grateful for her extraordinary hospitality.
The moral of the story is that sometimes, it pays to have no plan at all and to wander into an area you may not know anything about -- just to see what treasures lay there. Sometimes it doesn’t work out, like the Sunday afternoon in Locarno with nothing to do but shop in a second rate flea market with old cassette tapes of oom-pah bands, but that’s another story. Usually, the smaller the town, the more appreciative the locals are of outside visitors, and the more willing they are to share their passions. I’d like to think that the director of the archives found kindred spirits that day and was as delighted by our attentions as we were by her city. Sometimes Magellan, and yes even my husband, are right to explore (but don’t let them know I told you).
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