Visiting Ulli
I boarded the train at the Santa Lucia station in Venice and headed north, towards the city of Trieste, to visit Ulli. We met a few years ago in an on-line forum on Italy and, in particular, the Italian language. She was learning English; I was studying Italian. We wrote long emails to each other in the languages we were learning; she would correct my Italian, and I her English. Through these communications, we shared our love of art and architecture, good books, and tagliatelle with wild boar sauce. Ulli was just as interested in the U.S. as I was in Italy, and traced her curiosity and enthusiasm to recent European cruises where she befriended “chatty” Americans. I told her how I was hooked on Italian culture and language during my first trip to Tuscany years ago, and because of my own Italian heritage through my maternal grandparents.
I had been traveling to different parts of Italy annually for a few years and when Ulli learned I was headed to Venice, she urged me to take the two hour train ride to visit her in Trieste.
“Let me get this straight,” my daughter stared at me, wide-eyed. “You’re getting on a train alone and traveling to a city you don’t know to meet some stranger you met on the internet. If I told you I was doing that, you would kill me.”
It was hard to disagree with her.
As promised, Ulli was waiting for me at theTrieste train platform, smartly dressed in a slim skirt and blouse, black pumps and stockings. I felt extremely American in my comfy Ugg boots, jeans, and t-shirt. After a warm embrace, she declared, “We’ve lots to do in a short amount of time!” She marched me out of the station and into central Trieste. As we walked, I conveyed to Ulli what my daughter said about this visit; she threw her head back and laughed.
In that moment, I felt like I had known her forever.
Because Ulli’s English was so much better than my Italian, she pointed out the highlights of Trieste in her excellent English: the beautiful, shining Adriatic Sea, sweeping public piazze, the rather stark architecture which seemed, to me, so different from the flourishes of the Baroque and Rococo buildings and churches that I knew from Venice and Rome.
She challenged me to order for us when we arrived for lunch at Trieste’s well known cafe, Buffet da Pepi. I consider restaurant Italian to be my specialty so I was happy to oblige. We dined on prosciutto, mozzarella, and melon, along with the obligatory prosecco. Despite the chilly October weather, we enjoyed our lunch outside at the sidewalk cafe where the people watching of the passers-by added to our enjoyment of the day.
Afterwards, we sat on a bench overlooking the lovely Adriatic, discussing the details of our lives: our families, our passions, our plans. “There’s one more place I want you to see,” Ulli told me. We hopped into her little Fiat and drove south along the coast to visit the grounds of Castle Miramare.
The castle itself is stunning in both its location, overlooking the Bay of Trieste, and its bright white exterior. We didn’t have time to go inside but were able to enjoy the extensive gardens, filled with exotic plants and flowers. Relatively new for Italy, Miramare was built in the mid-19th century by Archduke Ferdinand of Austria for his wife as a summer home. Ulli claimed the castle is haunted by the Archduke’s wife, Charlotte, who roams the rooms at night.
After enjoying a gelato on the terrace (stracciatella for me; limone for her) we drove back into Trieste and Ulli dropped me off at the train station for my return trip to Venice. Trieste had not been on my radar for places I need to visit; I was so glad Ulli changed that for me, and I promised to return when I could.
About four years after my visit to Trieste, I was able to return the favor when Ulli came to Boston. I met her at the MBTA stop in front of the Museum of Fine Arts. This time, we were both in t-shirts and jeans. “I wore my most American outfit!” Ulli exclaimed as we exchanged so-good-to-see-you hugs. I took her right away to the new American wing; she is a huge John Singer Sargent fan and I wanted her to see the MFA’s extensive collection. As she oohed and ahhed her way through the gallery, she told me that Sargent had been born in Florence. I had no idea. Even when visiting the U.S., Ulli is full of information. She’s visited places I have not (the Pacific Northwest and the Grand Canyon, to name a few) and her English continues to improve while my Italian falters.
After admiring the towering Chihuly sculpture on the museum’s first floor, we headed over to Newbury Street for lunch, then to the Boston Public Library, built at about the same time as Trieste’s Castle Miramare. We browsed the art collections and the murals lining the grand staircase, and ended our visit with cappuccino in the sunny courtyard.
“When can we do this again?” we asked each other as I walked her to the T stop for her return to her AirBnB apartment in South Boston.
Sometime soon, I hope, Ulli.
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