I am spending my time soaking up my sister’s company, getting to know my brother-in-law and little niece, and–since I’m saving my major sightseeing for my husband’s arrival–visiting some of the minor sights of Italy. Except that only a country that boasts the Colisseum, the Cistine Chapel, and a spectacular Mediterranean coastline could call these sights “minor.”
Take, for example, the Reggia di Caserta.
Built between 1752 and 1780, it is the largest royal palace in the world, and one of the most spectacular–twelve hundred lavishly decorated rooms done in the ornate, sensuous style of the high Baroque. Gloriously painted ceilings, vibrantly decorated walls, elaborate mosaic floors, ornate frescoes. Claudio and Jennifer took me from room to room while I made brilliant comments, like “Oh gosh” and “Wow.” I kept wondering how a writer could describe such splendour. With long lists of rich, heavy adjectives? (Flamboyant, extravagant, sumptuous?) With metaphors as ostentatious as the decor? (White waves of plaster lapping the red-hued ceiling like cream on a raspberry gelato?). Or how about this phrase from the palace’s UNESCO World Heritage Site nomination: “The swan song of the magnificent art of the Baroque.”
It all left us a little eager for something quiet and soothing–say a white marble statue surrounded by greenery in the garden just outside.
Or perhaps a sparkling fountain:
Not everything we’ve seen as been as extravagant as the Reggia di Caserta, however. We also visited the little town where Claudio grew up–one of the thousands of hilltop villages that dot the Italian countryside. There, we strolled cobbled lanes, visited the church where Jennifer and Claudio were married, and went to the cemetery where generations of Claudio’s family are buried.
The town has the unfortunate name of Strangolagalli–“Strangle-the-Rooster.” Legend has it that, when the town was under attack by a neighboring province, word got out that the enemy planned to strike at the first crow of the cock. The only logical thing to do was to kill all the roosters. There was no crowing in the town that day and, according to the story, no attack. (Unfortunately, the neighboring town, Let-the-Rooster-Live-Out-His-Natural-Life, was completely destroyed).
