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James Joyce & the Adriatic

Friday, April 11th, 2008

Our first encounter was in Trieste. Back in the days of empire this city port belonged to the Habsburgs and later became the southern pin of the iron curtain. Most of the surrounding coastal towns are Venetian in character, with tall campanile towers and arched loggias. Trieste has greater subtlety, atypical of Italian cities; a kind of Vienna-on-Sea. It’s graceful rather than attractive, the squares floored with Carrera marble and behind the imposing civic buildings sits a crumbling medieval quarter built across Roman foundations.

One hundred years ago, in strode the young James Joyce. He was newly married with a degree in Latin and keen to take what we now call a gap-year, teaching English abroad. The year away eventually stretched to an on-off decade in this pretty corner of Europe. It was here, among the cafes and piazzas that he wrote Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man and large chunks of The Dubliners.

A bronze statue of Joyce stands by the Grand Canal in Trieste. He looks in a hurry, with a book tucked tightly under his arm. The sculpture is lifesize and in the bustle of a passegiate, he merges with the crowd, head down, thoughts of literary genius on his mind no doubt. After that he seemed to follow us everywhere. At the Hotel James Joyce with its traces of the 18th century and Italian copies of Finnegans Wake in reception, we drank cheap fiery grappa and awoke with headaches.

In Pula, around the coast in Croatia, we bumped into him again. This time he sat outside a cafe (Cafe Ulysses inevitably) legs crossed, enjoying the April sun. Joyce taught English here, but showed little affection for the town. Pula has beautifully preserved Roman temples and a colossal amphitheatre and now celebrates a writer immune to its charms.

He returned to Trieste with the germ of a Homeric idea and tapped out early chapters of Ulysses. This most Dublin of novels evolved so many miles away from its backdrop. He wrote to his wife calling Trieste “the city which has sheltered us” and a century on, with its statues and plaques and literary trails, it shelters him still.

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Bruce Chatwin Hotel, Tuscany

Friday, April 11th, 2008

I’ve been a devotee of Bruce Chatwin’s wrting for years and once formed part of the cliched Chatwin Traveller set, hitchhiking around South America with a scruffy copy of In Patagonia in my backpack.

I’ve read the books, echoed his footfalls, and now, the ultimate piece of the jigsaw; stayed in the hotel. I’m still unsure why there is a hotel devoted to Bruce Chatwin in the Tuscan countyside. But there is, in the town of Arezzo.

Now in cultural terms, Arezzo already has much going for it. Pierro della Francesca’s fresco cycle in a local church is both neck-craning and breathtaking. Robert Benigni grew up in Arezzo and Life is Beautiful was filmed among its streets. And now a hotel devoted to the writings of Bruce Chatwin. Painting, cinema, literature in one handy Italian town.

We stayed in the Ouidah suite. How do you decorate a room in the style of a Brazilian slave owner working out of Africa? Like this: Blood red walls looped with bamboo. A black wooden mirror ringed with animal skulls. The glass covered in rusty flakes. A dark wooden headboard and heavy red bed linen. It was incredibly strong in colour, if a little oppressive with the shutters closed.

Other rooms explored similar themes. The China room picked up from a short story in What Am I Doing Here while the Arkady Suite took inspiration from The Songlines. Other references were more obscure. The Oxiana room was based on Chatwin owning a copy of Robert Byron’s travels and one room was a homage to Italo Calvino and nothing to do with Chatwin at all. The receptionist was happy to talk about the history and the maid turned a blind eye as we cleared the bathroom of anything not nailed down. It was a little pricey, but I would have paid double to stay.

I once met a man who knew Chatwin. He was a grizzled old ‘entrepreneur’ (his word) who said he was fond of the Gringo. This is unusual in Argentina where Chatwin upset the majority of those he met through unflattering portraits. He showed me a photo of Chatwin and himself and said the Englishman was unique (he, in turn, is described by Chatwin when the writer falls off his horse in Patagonia). He also tried to rip me off over a bag of crisps. He said, don’t give me money, give me a present. While looking through my bag I pulled out my camera. He said that would do but I said it wouldn’t. I was half expecting him to appear in the lobby of the hotel, “this was my idea!”

Addendum
One of travel’s joys is a delight in trivia, those quirky local customs or snippets of history picked up along the way.

I’ve just returned from Italy and came back with a couple of great finds. I now have a photo of the smallest window in the world (in the city of Siena) and a certificate proving I am insane because I walked around a fountain three times in a town called Gubbio. These tiny delights are as welcome as Boticelli’s Primavera and Michaelangelo’s David.

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