Castle Franco

I crossed the border from Yugoslavia into Italy and headed for Castle Franco, the closest town with a BMW dealer. It is a small city, still enclosed by Medieval walls and whose only claim to fame is as the birthplace of Georgione.

I’m not sure of the spelling of the name. In the art appreciation class I audited in college, the professor told us that Georgione was a painter who died young having produced only a few fine paintings. The effete can brag about seeing a Georgione painting in a museum in Europe. There are none on display in his hometown.

I was reminded that there are fashions in art, just as there are fashions in clothing and architecture. Everyone knows Michelangelo. At least they know the name. In my grandmother’s day, the fashionable Italian painter was Rafael. Today it is Caravagio. On every trip I’ve made to Italy, I've stood in a church for twenty minutes before one of Caravagio’s dark paintings of twisted bodies, while the guide explained why it was great art.

There are also no Caravagios in Castle Franco.

After a night in an unmemorable hotel, the next morning I went to the BMW dealer. He did not speak English. He punched buttons and assured me in Italian that the air-conditioner worked perfectly. The few Italian words I knew escaped me; I kept trying to tell him in Spanish, “Frio! Frio! todo el tiempo.” He shrugged and walked away, convinced that I was a foolish woman who did not understand how to punch buttons.

I got in the car and drove on to Montova (Mantua).