The Tragic History of the horses of St. Mark’s
They say history is a teacher of many things. Among them, I have learned, is that some history can break your heart; and, for me, the tale of how the horses of St. Mark’s came to grace that splendid Basilica did just that. Known as the Quadriga, the four stately horses mounted above the entrance to St. Mark’s are perhaps among the most recognizable statues in the world. But this wasn’t always their home. Like so much of the art that graces the Floating City, these horses came from elsewhere—stolen booty that began their long journey to Venice from a great city to the east.
Where the Wild Wolves Roam | Part I
I’m drifting off to sleep when the howling of wolves somewhere in the not-too-far-off distance tugs my subconscious back into the here and now. I rub my eyes and sit up, my senses piqued. It seems to be coming from the top of the mountain I had climbed earlier that day. A sliver of its summit is visible from my bedroom window; just beyond the patchwork of tiled rooftops, stocky belltower whose clang shakes me awake every morning, and dense hedge of poplars that skirt its base.
Where the Wild Wolves Roam | Part II
With the legend of the Wolf of Gubbio behind us, it’s time to get to the meat and potatoes (literally) of la più bella città medievale. Approximately 50 km north of Assisi, this ancient landlocked town of around 30,000 sits smack dab in the beating heart of Umbria — a region known as the green heart of Italy (save the surprisingly bad air in wintertime, but more on that in another post). As Silvia, my charming Airbnb owner, confessed, Gubbio is quietly building a reputation as an alternative to Tuscany, its more famous and far more expensive cousin. It’s also unlike anywhere I have ever been.
La Vita è Bella on Venice’s Lido Island
During a prolonged stay in Venice last June, a heatwave of the Dante’s Inferno variety caused tempers among my travel companions to soar alongside the mercury. Making no attempt to disguise their contempt for my choice of vacation destination, I combed my guidebook in a last-ditch effort to salvage our holiday. Inside its worn pages, I found a pithy, breathless description of the Lido: a nearby island with “umbrella-lined beaches.” Clinging to this morsel of hope, I herded our flock into a water taxi with promises of better times ahead.
Chasing Venice
When I told Jacopo, a local gondoliere, that I was firmly planted in Venice for three weeks he beamed. “Most people only come to Venice for a day or two; three at most,” he said. “It’s a bucket list city.” I always knew there was more to Venice than palaces and musicians in powder-white wigs playing Vivaldi. But even after pouring over travel books, multiple day trips to the surrounding islands, and logging over 100 miles inside the labyrinth, the city’s essence evaded me. Something was missing, and, worst of all, I knew it. Still, it took three more honest attempts before I got it right.