Why italian food doesn't really exist
Do you know why Sicilians tend to identify themselves first with Sicily, and only the second with Italy? Because of the food. The same goes for the inhabitants of Veneto…

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Seven answers to the question: “Why do I need to go to Italy out of season?”
It is claimed that Italy is an off-season country. Is this true? What awaits a tourist from October to May. The answer is given by the director of the Moscow…

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What to bring with you to Italy?
To properly pack your suitcase, you must consider the purpose of the trip and the weather conditions in the country during the trip. Many experienced travelers say - the less…

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Italian sketches from Yuri Buzhor

I won’t do it anymore. Never.
I walk around the edge when I say that Juliet’s balcony in Verona is actually a sarcophagus. They threw out some nonsense left there from antiquity and lifted it up in the courtyard of her house in a new quality. There was a sarcophagus of death, and became the balcony of love. Love conquers death. The former, they say, collapsed from time to time. Reconstruction.
What I was incurred to lay out the truth the other day, I do not know. I became tired.
But here – laid out. There was no balcony. There was a window. Throughout the vast vocabulary of William of our Shakespeare, in plays, in sonnets, there is no balcony. Although the concept was with him, it is necessary. And the word balcony in English too.
Obviously, someone’s young lips began to twist, and I caught a couple of gaze of unkind female eyes.
He gave Mach.
Sworn forever now.
You never know what: But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
Well, we don’t know anything:

Balcony!

Cathedral in Pisa. The Secret of the Fourth Column

It is often asked why why, why. Why, for example, columns of different colors? The answer is “for beauty” – not everyone is happy, give the story to people.
Here’s a story, or rather, an omen, for which I bought it.
Pisa Cathedral. Connoisseurs of musical harmony resembles a puffer. Polyphony, counterpoint. I don’t know, connoisseurs know better. I wanted to say: hear. Now attention: the second tier from the bottom, the fourth, dark column on the right. All: where, where? Yeah, squat. Whoever looks at her will never again be unhappy in love.

Believe me, a young excursionist or an excursionist, no, no, come up and slowly ask: have I not been unhappy or have not been, with me how?
I want to answer: it means they didn’t like it. Of course, I am not saying this. What for? Okay: whoever looks at this column will never be unhappy in love. No more. No less. Never.
For many years not a single complaint about this. The sign is correct.
What about the photo? No, the photo will not work. We must come and see.

Lucca. Happiness Lane. Joseph Brodsky

Brodsky found a young wife in the vicinity of Lucca. More precisely, he found her in Paris, but the semi-Russian, semi-Italian icon-painted beauty Maria Sozzani is a “Lucchese”.

Staying in understandable excitement on the eve of a marriage of different ages, Brodsky shared with someone in a letter: “I am Joseph, she is Mary. Will we get something?” But a girl was born. They called Anna Alexandra, in honor of Akhmatova and Pushkin.

It is unlikely that the Nobel laureate was so eager to get acquainted with a cohort of new relatives who had gathered in Lucca for christening. To strengthen the spirit, I called Peter Weil to the event. Normally, yielding in Russian (Weil does not write that yielding, but I think they were obliged), the writers escaped from a banquet and wandered through the emerald fields of Tuscany. There was a sunset, smoke from bonfires was going up. Those who have seen the Tuscan sunset do not need to explain anything to that. I.B. turned to Vile and said, referring to himself: “Well, lucky dude?”

I still could not establish in which particular tavern they were imprinted on that visit, although there is a photo. They could rearrange the flowers, change the chairs. And there is nobody to ask: after the elder comrade, about five years ago, Peter Weil also moved to San Michele in Venice.

I told this story a hundred times in Lucca near the Romanian Orthodox Church. Clearly, this is nothing more than an association, the church is different, the street is different. Well, they say, such and such great ones roamed around here. And for a hundred and first time I looked at the name of the alley where the temple was nestled: mother Mia, Felicita, Happiness!

There you have it, poets, after the sea of ​​associations. Fortunately, it’s not the Enthusiasts highway, not Avenue Avenue, but an inconspicuous side street. There are prohibition signs for you: a pedestrian zone! no parking allowed! cyclists are not allowed! – and then permissive: people with disabilities, police and special vehicles can. Cyclists can also. These shutters …

A place not forgotten by God. Vicolo della Felicita.

Probably just didn’t want to part with Happiness Lane. Almost automatically typed in Search LUCCA VICOLO FELICITA and discovered a very instructive story. Century live.

One rich man lived in Lucca. He was unsociable, rich and greedy, did not even want to marry. And then the plague. Our sinner got into the habit of praying at the said church; he had, however, to go around the whole block each time.

He gave his word that he would stop robbing his fellow countrymen, marry like all people, and use the money for useful things, and the plague did not touch him.

He kept his word. And so, when the time came to baptize the first-born, and he and his wife went to church, an angel appeared, took their hands and led them not in the usual way around, but directly. Then they saw that the walls miraculously parted and an alley formed. “Here,” said the angel, “there are many ways of sin, and sometimes they seem wide and straight, but a street that is hardly noticeable leads to happiness and salvation; but now you have found it. ”

And so it has been since then: Happiness Lane.

Frescoes of San Gimignano. Anger and salvation

His name was Benozzo Gozzoli, Benozzo “Goiter”.

No goiter is visible on the self portrait. Rumor attributed to the master a certain “fatness.”

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