I first visited Verona thirty years ago. I was in Venice having lunch with an aunt and two cousins who I had never met before. During the memorable lunch, which you can read about here, it emerged that my eldest cousin, Silvia, sang in the chorus at the Arena di Verona—a well-preserved Roman amphitheater where a summer season of operas are staged in a manner that Cecil B DeMille would be proud of—and was appearing in Aida that evening. A moment of summer madness resulted in my going with her (Verona is about an hour away from Venice) and hearing Verdi’s music soaring up to the stars while a cast of a thousand ballerinas danced on a vast pyramid behind the stage.
This article is about the Veneto.
It’s been four months since I wrote my article about my return to my poor neglected Venice, and I’m happy to report that since then I’ve been a regular visitor. And it’s been really interesting to see the way in which the mood of the city changes with the seasons as the light moves from watery winter to sandy-coloured spring. This weekend was noticeably warmer than my last visit, back in February, and some intrepid tourists had even begun stripping down to t-shirts, even though my Italian blood was more comfortable with a t-shirt, shirt, pullover, and jacket!