LAUNDRY DAY IN BURANO

True to its reputation, April unfolded in a perfectly predictable way: completely unpredictable. Everybody knows the old French saying: En avril, ne te découvre pas d’un fil. All month long, the weather was all over the map. We experienced temperatures high enough to fool us into thinking that July had arrived. We were stunned by a freaky freezing episode that lasted three full nights and pretty much wiped out vineyards and orchards all over France. In between those two extremes, we endured many days of la grisaille where a grey veil seems to envelop the whole countryside and everything looks desaturated, dormant, and dull.

Venetian lagoon, October 2019

Contrary to public perception la grisaille is not reserved to Paris or Limoges, a city that has been (affectionately?) dubbed France’s chamber pot… But, let’s face it, some places manage to impress even under the dreariest of conditions. Burano is one of them. When I need color in my day, I head out to my photo archives and zero in on October 2019.  

Arriving in Burano

We left Venice on a Sunday morning and hopped on the vaporetto at Fondamente Nuove. The sun was having the hardest time piercing through the ominous clouds hanging over the lagoon. The air was cool and salty and misty: I was glad to wear a windbreaker and couldn’t help leaning outside on the small deck to fill my eyes with the shimmering beauty of the water. The Campanile di San Marco slowly disappeared from the horizon. After a 45-minute ride, we reached the island of Burano. As we approached the embarcadero, dark nuages above us seemed ready to burst and I feared the worst.

The not-so-grand canal in Burano

Like everybody else on the waterbus, we disembarked and followed a very narrow street lined with shops selling beautiful lace and not too tacky souvenirs. It led to a small canal and that’s when my eyes popped up. The juxtaposition of colors on the facades looked like the product of an exuberant child let loose with tubes of acrylic paint. 

Red and green: Christmassy?

And some Pepto-Bismol pink, too

Leaving the “main” street behind, I ducked into narrow alleys leading to small squares where my colorful discoveries continued. Away from stores, restaurants, and ice cream shops, the vivid walls of local fishermen’s homes were unfolding like an endless rainbow. 

Fun, fun, fun

Painting the walls of these row houses in different colors is a way to define the boundaries of each home. Supposedly, the bright colors help fishermen find their own house during foggy weather (or perhaps after a few shots of grappa?) 

A touch more muted

And some pastels

Burano still feels like a true fisherman’s island: although the population of the island is decreasing, 450 fishermen are still active members of a cooperative. The bulk of their catch is sold at the Rialto fish market in Venice. 

These houses sit on a tiny strip of land between the sea and the canal

Burano could not have become famous for its lace without the fishermen’s wives: their skills in making and repairing fishing nets easily translated into lacemaking. In the 15thand 16thcenturies, Burano lace was highly prized all over Europe. Then King Louis XIV ordered an import ban on Burano lace and set up la Manufacture Royale des dentelles françaises.     

Not just tablecloths and napkins, my friends!

It was quite apparent that the locals had more faith in their weather than I did. While I spent the whole day expecting rain, they thought it was safe to hang their laundry to dry. Many did just that.

How many bath towels? How many people?

Perhaps Sunday is indeed laundry day in Burano. Clotheslines with pulleys were set up in front of second-story windows or in diminutive backyards. Some even stretched across small squares, from one house to the other.

Sharing a line with the neighbor across the square

Could it double as a volley ball court?

Each drying load had a story to tell about the men, women, and children who used those clothes: pants and shirts, sheets and towels. It was also a reminder that our convenient clothes dryers are still hard to find (and fit) in most European cities.

Long pants and short jeans

Who wants to count socks?

I meandered in and out of tiny streets where hanging clothes and the occasional bicycle were the only signs of life. Perhaps it was nap time for the fishermen; perhaps there was a good soccer game on TV. 

Staking my territory

I like that faded blue

I finally returned to the main square and its leaning bell tower. Back to civilization, the cafés, and the shops. I saw a lot of clothes there too, but they were hanging on mannequins, behind the shop windows. Waiting for new stories to be written. 

Lovely Burano even when the paint gets washed out by the salty air and the Acqua Alta

Vocabulary
En avril, ne te découvre pas d’un fil: In April, do not take off one thread (of your clothing)
La grisaille: grey skies
Le nuage: cloud
La dentelle: lace

Heading to Paris instead of Burano? My book is perfect to help you plan your trip. Or to reminisce when you can’t cross the pond… Buy a copy of Moments Parfaits in Paris: I'll mail you (from France) a signed bookmark in an envelope bearing this collectible Trésors de Notre-Dame stamp!

COURTYARDS OF MILAN

My first visit to Milan lasted a mere fifteen hours and seven of them were spent in the seediest hotel I’ve ever walked into. For thirty years, Milan conjured up memories of questionable bed sheets, fantastic pasta, and a private moment with a masterpiece.

Cloister at Santa Maria delle Grazie

Arriving at the stern Milan Central station on a late afternoon of October 1988, my friend Raegan and I flagged a cab and rode to Santa Maria delle Grazie with only fifteen minutes to spare before the church closing time. We quickly dropped off our luggage at the entrance and walked into the convent’s refectory. In the middle of a huge restoration effort, the fresco on the back wall dominated the large dining hall: Leonardo’s The Last Supper was looming over us and another three or four visitors. It’s crazy to think that we just waltzed in and had the place virtually to ourselves: nowadays restricted timed tickets sell out months in advance.

Tickets are required to enter the refectory and view The Last Supper; the church itself and the cloister are open for free.

Three decades later, we decided to return to Milan for a proper visit. We opted not to secure tickets to The Last Supper, probably for fear of diluting our original emotions, but we did take the subway to reach the church neighborhood as it seemed to be lined with older buildings that opened onto lovely courtyards.

Your typical Milanese courtyard…

Not too shabby either

I am a sucker for courtyards. When I stroll the streets of Paris and notice a resident punching numbers on a digicode, I always pause and steal a peek inside the door. Sometimes, I even walk in to experience a quiet moment in the big city. Most of these cours intérieures belong to private apartment buildings but, once you’ve passed through the porte cochère, you can usually explore at your leisure.

Love the wrought iron gates!

Stately

Milan is a bit different in that respect. The large inconspicuous street doors are often left open but lead to wrought iron gates that don’t allow you to walk into the courtyards themselves.

Wow!

Many examples of coffered wooden ceilings, too.

The fer forgé is truly remarkable: those gates are both strong and delicate, practical and artistic, intricate and decorative.

I love the shadow of the gate, too!

So many courtyards, so little time…

Beyond the gates, courtyards are usually framed by columns and marble is lavishly used. As is typical of European cities that were built before construction materials could easily transit by train or trucks, local quarries supplied the stone. In the case of Northern Italy, it is marble: white, pink, red, blue-grey, black…

Care for some marble?

So elegant!

While I was not surprised that the Duomo (cathedral) would be completely built of marble, I did not expect to see so much of it used in “regular” housing: the charming interior courtyards I photographed were not hidden behind the facades of fancy historic palazzos.

Marble floor detail

Carving and sculpting marble also produces chips: they are recycled to compose mosaic-like flooring that often graces the entrances.

Wouldn’t you like to take classes in such a serene environment?

Palm trees!

A Milanese courtyard typically features stone fountains, exotic trees, trimmed bushes, and colorful flowers either in dirt or in pots, all arranged in an orderly fashion. It’s an elegant look but not overly formal.

When the gate is open…

Occasionally, it looks more like an English-style garden where the vegetation is free to “do its thing” without too much human coercion.

I hope you didn’t miss all the fancy light fixtures…

Courtyards have been a staple of Milanese architecture since the Renaissance and I imagine that, at one point, horses and their noble riders passed through the colonnades and quenched their thirst at the fountains. Nowadays, metal gates permit entrance only to bicycles and pedestrians. It makes these secluded places even more secret, enticing, peaceful, and photogenic than their Parisian counterparts.

So, which one was your favorite?

Vocabulary
Le digicode: electronic door lock with a numerical code
La cour intérieure: enclosed courtyard
La porte cochère: carriage entrance
Le fer forgé: wrought iron

MY LAST SUPPER

For the foreseeable future, I will not have the pleasure of cooking in my own kitchen. For at least eight months, if all goes well. When you’re contemplating a house renovation in France, tiny details (like schedule) do not apply. First of all, nothing happens in August. Sometimes, the weather doesn’t cooperate and the masons are running three months late. Other times, the woodworker has a back injury and can’t work on your staircase for a while. Merde happens.

Rick and I were organizing the house before the movers came in and it dawned on me this would be the last dinner I would make in my own house, right here, in California. So many good meals started in that kitchen. So many fun parties spilled into the patio, the dining room, and the living room. They all originated between this familiar stove, fridge, sink, and countertops. Last Saturday, there was no time to celebrate “the big move” with a big memorable meal. Just the two of us, dusty and sweaty after a long day of work. It ended up being pork chops and sautéed zucchini. Simple, pleasurable but not Instagram worthy.

Sunday: don’t even ask. It was a Burger King night.

I thought we were done but Monday night snuck up on us. We worked all day with the great crew that was packing our container. Still so much to do before they would come back the next day. I was exhausted and it was late but fast food two days in a row was not an option for me. I knew there was a bag of frozen shrimp in the freezer, a box of orzo pasta in the pantry, a plastic bottle of lemon juice (bought by Rick because I always use fresh lemons,) half a head of garlic in the terra-cotta pot, and a few sorry springs of parsley from last year’s plant in the herb garden. Oh, and some Pinot Grigio from the wine-in-a-box I use for everyday cooking/drinking. With these few simple ingredients, I whipped up a quick satisfactory dish but still not deserving a mention on Facebook. It was definitely the last meal I would be cooking in the place I called home for twenty-seven years. I can’t even begin to tell you how emotional this realization was.

Instead of posting pedestrian pictures of my last two meals in my current home, I decided to share with you a photo of the “real” Last Supper as I captured it in 1998. My friend Raegan and I were in Munich for a trade show. On a whim, she thought we should ride the train to Milan instead of returning to Paris. It was a memorable trip for several reasons, one of them being that it was Fashion Week and we had no hotel reservation… Before trying to tackle that minor issue, we hailed a cab and headed out to the Basilica di Santa Maria delle Grazie where curators were in the middle of restoring the original colors of Leonardo’s famous fresco: only the right half was cleaned up to reveal the brightness of the original colors.

That Last Supper was definitely more compelling than mine.

Vocabulary
Merde: shit