Gorizia
A few months ago, I was in an import food grocery shop in Shunyi, trying samples of some Italian wine that was being offered, and the representative of the importer asked if I had ever been to Italy. I told him that yes, we had, and when he asked where, I told him Trieste and Gorizia. He gave me a funny look, as he was probably expecting an answer like Rome, Milan, or Venice. Trieste was easy to explain to him, my having a family connection there and all. But Gorizia, even with my telling him that Randy had business near there, still confused him.
"We just like it, I guess," I shrugged.
With this view from the castle, who can blame me?
More after the jump
I think one of the reasons we like Gorizia so much is that it is somewhat off the beaten track: a small, bite-sized portion of Italy that seems to suit us. Unlike more popular places, we weren't among the strong currents of tourists that pull you in and make it impossible to pause or pivot. We can just walk about, at our own pace, in Gorizia. It also feels more lived-in than Verona, for instance. I like wondering about what it must be like to live someplace where scenes like this are part of every day life.
We had hoped actually to get inside the castle on this visit. I checked a tourism website, and it indicated that Monday's ticketed hours were like every other weekday's, into late afternoon. They were, in actuality, not. The last entrance into the castle was at 11:45, and we arrived just after that. We were disappointed, but walked in just past the ticket booth, which was further than we got the last time.
Another time, I guess, we will actually go inside. The tours, though, must be very brief. The last ticket sells fifteen minutes before closing. In the meantime, we had a beautiful day to walk up the hill (Gorizia comes from the Slovene word gorica, meaning "hill"), and down again.
Then we walked over to Piazza della Vittoria for lunch. We went to the same cafe where we went last year, and the owner remembered us. They must not often see repeat American customers.
Last May we had alternating rain and blue skies all day, so we sat inside. This time we enjoyed the outdoor seating.
From there we walked over to the train station on the Slovenian side of the border. The kids find this really entertaining, to stand in two countries at once at Piazza Transalpina.
We walked around the train station. It is funny to think that over 100 years ago this station and this train line were so important to the Austrian empire that the Archduke Ferdinand attended its opening, and now it is a quiet, almost forgotten place, serving only a few cities in Slovenia.
"Do you want to get a beer here? You know, they are larger and cheaper here than across the street in Italy," Myles suggested, recalling one of the random things he learned on our previous trip.
Both kids remembered the retired engine parked behind the station.
We were surprised we could Sveta Gora from there. We probably could have seen it on our previous trip, but we didn't know what it was yet.
While Sveta Gora appeared as a speck on the mountain, Kostanjevica was quite close, so we elected to walk up there.
The last time we were here we showed up just before the 5 pm closing, so we only had the chance to see the inside of the chapel briefly. This day, though, we were there by 4, so we could enter into the Bourbon Crypt. We paid the suggested donation of a few Euro, and looked through the monastery pamphlets. They were available in Italian and Slovene. A monk happened to be by and probably overheard me talking to the kids.
"English?" he asked me.
"Per favore," I automatically answered back, forgetting for a moment that I was not in Italy. "I mean, sorry. Please."
He rifled through a nearby cabinet and produced the pamphlet for me in English. I remembered where I was and thanked him, "Hvala." I paused. "Right? Hvala?" I tried again, hoping I didn't butcher the one word in Slovene I think I know.
The monk smiled and nodded at me. "Yes, that's right," and then he said what I am sure was "You're welcome." He showed us the stairs that lead to the crypt deep under the monastery. Brigid held the pamphlet, and pointed out the pictures to us as reached them.
After the July Revolution, the Bourbons were in exile and found safe harbor in England and the Austrian Empire. Charles X eventually arrived in what was then known as Görz, where he died of cholera shortly thereafter. He was interred in the Franciscan monastery, as were several other members of the exiled family, including Marie Thérèse Charlotte of France, the daughter of Louis XVI and Marie Antionette.
Something about this, one of the most powerful families in Europe, now buried under a small monastery on a hill in Slovenia, really hit me. So quiet, so remote, and so much smaller than their lives ever were.
We still had time to visit the chapel again, and Brigid acted as our guide.
The Madonna above the main altar dates from sometime earlier than 1686.
After that we walked back to our hotel. We joined Randy for a supper of pizza, followed by gelato and espresso, because, Italy.
"We just like it, I guess," I shrugged.
With this view from the castle, who can blame me?
More after the jump
I think one of the reasons we like Gorizia so much is that it is somewhat off the beaten track: a small, bite-sized portion of Italy that seems to suit us. Unlike more popular places, we weren't among the strong currents of tourists that pull you in and make it impossible to pause or pivot. We can just walk about, at our own pace, in Gorizia. It also feels more lived-in than Verona, for instance. I like wondering about what it must be like to live someplace where scenes like this are part of every day life.
We had hoped actually to get inside the castle on this visit. I checked a tourism website, and it indicated that Monday's ticketed hours were like every other weekday's, into late afternoon. They were, in actuality, not. The last entrance into the castle was at 11:45, and we arrived just after that. We were disappointed, but walked in just past the ticket booth, which was further than we got the last time.
Another time, I guess, we will actually go inside. The tours, though, must be very brief. The last ticket sells fifteen minutes before closing. In the meantime, we had a beautiful day to walk up the hill (Gorizia comes from the Slovene word gorica, meaning "hill"), and down again.
Then we walked over to Piazza della Vittoria for lunch. We went to the same cafe where we went last year, and the owner remembered us. They must not often see repeat American customers.
Last May we had alternating rain and blue skies all day, so we sat inside. This time we enjoyed the outdoor seating.
From there we walked over to the train station on the Slovenian side of the border. The kids find this really entertaining, to stand in two countries at once at Piazza Transalpina.
We walked around the train station. It is funny to think that over 100 years ago this station and this train line were so important to the Austrian empire that the Archduke Ferdinand attended its opening, and now it is a quiet, almost forgotten place, serving only a few cities in Slovenia.
"Do you want to get a beer here? You know, they are larger and cheaper here than across the street in Italy," Myles suggested, recalling one of the random things he learned on our previous trip.
Both kids remembered the retired engine parked behind the station.
We were surprised we could Sveta Gora from there. We probably could have seen it on our previous trip, but we didn't know what it was yet.
While Sveta Gora appeared as a speck on the mountain, Kostanjevica was quite close, so we elected to walk up there.
The last time we were here we showed up just before the 5 pm closing, so we only had the chance to see the inside of the chapel briefly. This day, though, we were there by 4, so we could enter into the Bourbon Crypt. We paid the suggested donation of a few Euro, and looked through the monastery pamphlets. They were available in Italian and Slovene. A monk happened to be by and probably overheard me talking to the kids.
"English?" he asked me.
"Per favore," I automatically answered back, forgetting for a moment that I was not in Italy. "I mean, sorry. Please."
He rifled through a nearby cabinet and produced the pamphlet for me in English. I remembered where I was and thanked him, "Hvala." I paused. "Right? Hvala?" I tried again, hoping I didn't butcher the one word in Slovene I think I know.
The monk smiled and nodded at me. "Yes, that's right," and then he said what I am sure was "You're welcome." He showed us the stairs that lead to the crypt deep under the monastery. Brigid held the pamphlet, and pointed out the pictures to us as reached them.
After the July Revolution, the Bourbons were in exile and found safe harbor in England and the Austrian Empire. Charles X eventually arrived in what was then known as Görz, where he died of cholera shortly thereafter. He was interred in the Franciscan monastery, as were several other members of the exiled family, including Marie Thérèse Charlotte of France, the daughter of Louis XVI and Marie Antionette.
Something about this, one of the most powerful families in Europe, now buried under a small monastery on a hill in Slovenia, really hit me. So quiet, so remote, and so much smaller than their lives ever were.
We still had time to visit the chapel again, and Brigid acted as our guide.
The Madonna above the main altar dates from sometime earlier than 1686.
After that we walked back to our hotel. We joined Randy for a supper of pizza, followed by gelato and espresso, because, Italy.
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