Two nights in Lucca

Rory -- Lucca feels somehow like Spain, especially the newer city, just outside the mediaeval walled city. It was first settled by the mysterious Etruscans long long ago. Then came the Romans some time just B.C. Like much of Italy, Lucca somehow brings to mind Ghana and Cuba and probably every other tropical or semi-tropical place we might ever visit. It's hot here and the occasional palm tree turns what could be southern France into northern Africa. Try to imagine tight-wound little Napoleon Bonaparte here stuffed into his tight-wound little ceremonial outfits, sweating into the inner layers. He arrived in Lucca at the end of the 17th century and liked it so much he kept it. He gave it to his sister Elisa, who then passed it on to his widow, after he left Italy for loftier conquests. She is credited with initiating the conversion of the military ramparts into public park, and everybody since that time is grateful.

The wall holding the old town together is only fifteen feet high, twice as wide, red brick on the outside and steeply sloped grass on the inside. It is tree-lined in many places and paved once round with a path for walking and bicycles, creating an oasis of calm just above the fray -- old-city bustle on one side, ring-road traffic on the other, with mountains all round in the distance. The wall seems too low to prevent marauding Barbarians from scaling and invading the town. But once over the wall, they would surely get lost in the hopelessly confusing knot of short, twisty streets which fail every time to get you where you want to go. Moreover, the invading troops would be overwhelmed by the endless array of opulent and ultra-modern, super-chic  boutiques, and would probably just retreat in bewilderment and disgust. In fact, the interface between mediaeval architecture and media-conscious commerce is quite entertaining after the initial shock. Beautifully ornate giant oak doors framed by stone arches in tiny streets open into improbably vast courtyards decorated with tiles, flowers, streaming sunlight, cool shade and paintings of madonnas and virgins.

Immediately next door, giant halogen-lit windows open into air-conditioned back-lit images of unclothed Madonnas and Virgins and racks filled with the slight dresses they could be wearing. We the tourists have uncovered many of the undiscovered local joints -- cheap eats and all -- and the Lucchese roll their eyes as we jam the doorways and the merchants inside happily serve. Whenever lost or overwhelmed, it's back to the wall for peaceful retreat and navigational bearings.
Then back in for more, this time to climb two hundred steps to the top of Torre Guinigi. There was, once upon a time, a tower house at every corner of Lucca. Very few remain. These houses would stand five or six stories tall, one room stacked on top of another on top of another, connected by a wooden staircase clinging to the side of the building. The kitchen was usually on the top floor, apparently for "fire safety". Above the kitchen on the roof was the garden with vegetables, herbs, flowers and trees. Torre Guinigi  can be recognized from afar by it's full head of green hair, that is, when you escape the knot of streets, or rise up onto a roof or the wall to get a view, or find a rare vertical slice of vista at the end of a narrow street. The other tower worth two hundred steps is Torre delle Ore, the hour tower. It rhymes but, sadly, it chimes not. That is a disappointment and a blessing both. Three giant bells are suspended directly overhead on the rooftop of the tower. The attendant in the tiny dark alcove in the base of the tower explained that the Swiss clock mechanism -- in full view of climbing visitors -- is undergoing maintenance, and yes, in fact, the bells are very loud for the visitors who have completed the climb to the roof. He entertains himself with watching the little video monitor down below as startled tourists caught by the security camera on the roof clap their hands to their ears four times an hour. Still, ringing or no ringing, it' worth the climb for the panoramic view of the old city below, the wall encircling it, the new city beyond that and the distant mountains  partially obscured by sun and haze. And it's a pleasant quarter-hour spent in the endless climbing dark wooden stairwell with the pigeons who live inside the tower walls, flapping from time to time and walking about like mechanical wind-up toys.  And the three bells at the top of the tower are tuned to do-re-mi and can be reached and played by hand at pleasing volumes by very tall tourists. The attendant was apparently too absorbed in his book at that moment to catch the transgression on his monitor. Finally, following a fine plate of ribs stewed with juniper and a fine plate of fennel -- better yet, finnochio -- baked with cheese sauce by the hip young chef at Trattoria da Leo, the familia Bracciaforte (arm-strong) escapes the walled city through the gate at Porta Elisa and return to their commodious digs at Villa Elisa in the new town and give thanks where thanks are due: Napoleon's sister, Elisa Bonaparte.