Travelers who start their days long before the tourists often discover the true character of a locale.
By ALICE STEINBACH
Published March 14, 2004
[Times illustration: Rossie Newson]
Following a morning Mass in Ennis, Ireland, a woman, shown with her daughter, invited the author into her thatched-roof cottage to see her Cairn terriers.
[Photos: Alice Steinbach]
In the early morning sun, Havana’s wide Prado glistens.
Halfway through planning a trip to Cuba, I got a call from my travel agent warning me of a glitch in the schedule.
"Your return flight leaves Havana at 3 a.m.," she said apologetically.
"No matter," I told her. "That suits me fine. In fact, I prefer it."
There was a pause , then: "You do understand I said 3 in the morning?"
The idea of someone liking such a schedule seemed to shock her.
I, on the other hand, was already picturing my early morning departure from Havana. First, there would be a cup of strong Cuban coffee, sipped slowly in the peaceful hotel lobby. Then the drive along the Prado, a wide avenue lined with Spanish-style mansions that, despite their fading beauty, still startle the eye.
And at this time of morning, down near the sea wall on the Malecon, it wouldn't be unusual to enjoy the sight of a taxi driver polishing the chromed tail fins of a neon pink 1957 Ford.
"Sounds perfect to me," I told the agent. "Book it."
It was in Venice, Italy, about 10 years ago, that I accidentally acquired a taste for starting the day early, although usually not at 3 a.m.
On that trip, after having suffered hours of jet-lag-induced insomnia, I decided to get out of bed and walk to nearby Piazza San Marco. A little before 5, I left the hotel and headed for the calle, the narrow street, leading to the square.
First I had to pass through a courtyard behind the hotel, one planted with little islands of shrubs and flowers. Walking by a long strip of greenery, I heard a soft noise, almost like a baby's cry.
Bending down, I separated a clump of bushes and saw a wicker basket lined with towels; inside was a plump orange tabby cat nursing two lookalike kittens. Because I never met a cat I didn't like, and because I sorely missed my own feline companion, I stayed for several minutes, observing these three ordinary tabbies as though I were a zoologist.
Thinking I was alone, I started talking to them in Italian-accented baby talk, the way I do - in English - to my cat.
Suddenly a woman's voice interrupted my one-sided conversation. "I see you like cats."
Embarrassed, I jumped up and saw a tall, stylish woman with cropped auburn hair and an amused look on her face.
"Well, so do I," she said, her tone conveying there was no need to be embarrassed. "Would you like a coffee? My hotel is just next door and I was about to have some."
"I would like that very much," I told her. We walked through the courtyard and into the Hotel Budapest, which, it turned out, literally was her hotel: Elena Toth, a native of Hungary, owned it.
Over the next hour or two, Elena and I sat talking. About Hungary and about Venice, her home for the past 10 years. We talked about cats - "Feeding strays is a hobby of mine," she said - and about the pleasures and trials of running a hotel.
We even talked about men. "Watch out for the Italians," she said, only half-joking. "They all tell you they're part of the Agnelli family and are due an inheritance."
When I rose to leave, it was not yet 7; the whole day lay ahead of me. But I doubted anything I did would be more fun than my coffee with Elena, except maybe my dinner with her that night in Dorsoduro, a neighborhood we both loved.
Over the next week, Elena and I met several times for coffee and cats and an occasional walk together through the sleeping city. Before I left Venice, we exchanged phone numbers and promised to stay in touch. And we did.
But after a few years we lost track of each other. Still, I never go to Venice without visiting the courtyard of cats. The cats are gone now and so is Elena - she sold the hotel - but those memories linger on.
As do the memories of my early morning visit to the Nishiki-koji Food Market in Kyoto, Japan. While working in Kyoto a few years ago, a Japanese friend asked if I would enjoy visiting this famous market to watch its merchants set up their stalls: "You will see artists at work," my friend, Tomoko, told me.
We agreed to meet in front of my hotel at 5:30 the next morning.
When Tomoko and I arrived at the market, known as the "kitchen of Kyoto," rush hour on the subway was just beginning. After pushing our way through the crowds, we walked to the long narrow alley, covered with an arched roof, that houses the Nishiki Food Market.
When we stepped inside, it was like entering the beating heart of the city, a place alive with smells and sounds and excitement. We listened to the voices of merchants calling to one another as they cut fish, hung noodles on drying racks and arranged displays of fruits and vegetables in ways that would make the old Dutch painters gasp in admiration.
And we looked, admiring the stalls decorated boldly with colorful lanterns or banners painted with calligraphy.
When we stopped to watch a family - father, mother and two sons - cooking their breakfast on a small grill, they bowed in unison. Tomoko and I bowed back. The father then spoke in Japanese to Tomoko who turned to me. "He asks if we would like some breakfast. I told him yes."
Our host ushered us behind the counter where, after another round of bows, we were served a traditional breakfast of rice gruel, grilled fish and Japanese pickles. It was a perfect meal.
When I asked for permission to take a family photo, the father nodded. He lined up his family in a way I found endearing. Looking through the lens that morning, I captured two images: one to print out and another to store forever in my head.
So many morning adventures, so many snapshots waiting to be called up at will.
Here, for example, is one of a bookshop I discovered while climbing the winding streets to Prague Castle. Usually these cobblestone streets, lined with quaint old buildings straight out of Grimms' fairy tales, are mobbed with tourists. But at 6 a.m. they were deserted, the shops still shuttered.
On one street, however, I spotted an open door; the sign outside read Antikvariat. Peeking in, I saw a long, narrow room lined on each side with bookshelves and displays of lithographs, old postcards and vintage prints.
Near the entrance, an elderly man stood at a desk, making notes on a pad. When he spotted me, he removed his eyeglasses and with a courtly gesture, motioned me in.
"Please," he said. "Look around if you wish."
I thanked him and asked where I might find books by Czech writers, explaining I was in Prague to study Czech literature.
Immediately he stopped his work and went to a bookshelf. When he returned, he handed me a pristine copy of Dancing Lessons for the Advanced in Age, written by Bohumil Hrabal.
"This is a book you must read," he said.
Although I knew nothing of the author, the title was captivating. "It is all one sentence," the bookshop owner continued.
"What is all one sentence?" I asked, confused.
"The book," he said. "It is all one sentence. Have a look."
I did, and it was: all one sentence, with no period at the end.
"He was one of our finest writers," the shop owner said, a declaration that prompted me to ask for more information. An hour later, I left with several books and a head buzzing with new ideas.
Then there is the memory of the woman on Holywell Street in Oxford, England, who, after opening her door at 5 a.m. to collect the milk bottles, invited me in for breakfast.
And I remember with great pleasure the couple in Ennis, Ireland, who, after early morning Mass, took me to their home where I was introduced to their prize-winning Cairn terriers.
Sometimes I think of how often in my travels I went searching for the "real" city, the one where ordinary people work, raise families and go about their daily lives, but I failed to find it. No more. It's right there, behind the tourist-attraction facade, and it's open to the public between dawn and the first sound of a tourist's foot hitting the street.
- Pulitzer Prize-winning writer Alice Steinbach is author of the recently published Educating Alice: Adventures of a Curious Woman (Random House, $24.95).
Following a morning Mass in Ennis, Ireland, a woman, shown with her daughter, invited the author into her thatched-roof cottage to see her Cairn terriers.
