Bergamo is a small city on two different altitudes and from different eras. Used as a Venetian fortress town, for centuries the ancient Upper city has long given warning of the approach of friends and enemies. The Lower City later sprawled outwards from its Medieval hub. This was to be our destination for New Year’s Eve.
Walking form our hotel was more convenient than I had imagined and we headed along the roadside and on through the industrial estate in which our hotel was situated. In Italy even this area seemed picturesque, probably the rose tinted romance I was feeling on this festive occasion. As we traversed the roadside ditches and joked our way past the deserted building sites that were sprouting the hopes of the local Lombard businessmen, we headed towards a large underpass that was to be our gateway to these ‘cities’, as well as our New Year celebrations.
On arrival in the winding streets we paused under the shelter of what seemed a large Baroque church, where we snapped a volley of photos. Some of us were busily looking around whilst some, including myself, sat on the church perimeter, handing around water and watching a handful of locals cycling and driving past the pub opposite, which served Guinness. ‘Look at that Karen, do you feel at home?’ I asked my fiance.
After finding the working ATM that we’d desperately sought, we pressed on and headed into the New City.
This low level town dates from the mid-Nineteenth Century and, on arrival, there seemed little to recommend it on this particular day. Even though we knew our destination would be 1000 feet higher in the Old Town, it was anticipated that we would stop here before venturing up – trying to make New Year’s Eve into two different parties. After walking around the deserted shopping streets and empty cul-de-sacs, looking into closed cafes and being ignored by residents and shopkeepers sweeping and washing their pavements, we came to a small square that looked promising. Again we walked into a dead alleyway before finding another dead cafe and a small trattoria with carefully laid tables under a portico that took away some of the cool sunlight glare. After a quick look at the menu and after taking the ambient temperature, we decided to press on again, heading steadily upward.
As we were funneled up a steep street, which was less deserted than any we had encountered, a small beer cellar invited us in. Priced reasonably and long awaited we entered the inner gloom and sat around a bench in the corner opposite the door. Wine for me and the ladies, weiss beer for my two men friends. We also ordered a satisfying Italian meal (always a highlight of any trip to Italy) and soaked in the atmosphere of students and visiting Italians. The service of the lovely dark waitresses was below par and we often waited for drinks and also for the bill, which was incompetently under-priced – we tipped well and left with a bargain.
Further up we came to a bend and followed a darkened passage up to a winding road that opened onto a sun-lit hillside, hung with terraced gardens and lined with wrought iron gates in front of an array of villa styles, ancient and modern. As we headed up past the Alfa Romeos and Jaguars we came to a long steep stone staircase and raced up it. The view, although hazy, was refreshing and we could see allotments and villas up the hillside. Again we pressed upward, this time through a cobbled track leading into a vast walled passage which led around the Southern side of the fortress town. As we paused for photographs, we looked down at the tidy gardens and greenhouses. Glass vegetable frames glistened as we looked down on the Grande Via, buses passing each other in the distance. Through binoculars I watched Italians waking here and there in the cool sunlight. We followed the cobbles as they wound further up the hill. As the Lomabrd flag flapped in the breeze, we crossed the stone drawbridge and entered through the gateway the Cite Alta. It was late afternoon.
This was a maze and we surrendered to it. Leaving the sunlight behind once again, we walked through darkened hallways, admired stained glass windows. Unexpectedly, through a crack we caught a glimpse of an old lady in cardigan and slippers preparing her family meal in her small stone kitchen. We continued through arches and passed buttresses, reading ancient and modern text giving histories or telling of projected conversations. The cobbles continued to lead the way until I spotted a church which coyly allowed us entry through a side entrance, its marble interior and decorated altar a surprise after the darkened pebble rendered exterior. As we paused and my fince lit a candle, we spoke quietly to the woman mopping the floor, before passing the open confession sills on exit. We waited to regroup on the stone porch then descended to the cobbles outside.
Downward we headed through another passage before heading back upward in search of somewhere to view the world outside. As twilight approached the lads frantically sought a view point to photograph from, myself and the ladies sought merely a view of the town below and the land stretching in the distance. Ancient gates opened into a crenelated porch shared by two facing castle doors. These private houses opened onto one of Italy’s finest views and the boys snapped and shot contentedly as we looked out.
Once more we headed through gloomy arches, passages and small squares. We looked out from the square by the side of the Town Hall at the receding light, then looked down over the waist high wall we sat on at the hundred feet drop onto the cobbles below, tempted to jump across the narrow stretch to the gables opposite. As we passed the Cathedral Italians were seen swarming the narrow street ahead and we walked towards them, their constant chattering signalling the beginning of the festivities – something was afoot now.
The passage-way that made up the Grand Via was alive with shoppers and bars beckoned us into their light. Two friends entered a packed shop and waited in the crush for a square of pizzetta, pointed and watched as young ladies used wallpaper scissors to slice off vast portions and cram them into microwaves. We all ate from their surplus then entered a bar in search of drinks to fuel the New Year festival.
Looking for another feast we continued further up the passage, as directed by the bar owner. Two squares, lined with restaurants and trattorias did not immediately appeal and we continued up to another bar near a funicular station, shadowed by a Medieval wall gatehouse. After cleaning our own table we were confusingly passed from barman to landlady to waiter before leaving in umbrage. Back to the previous square we traipsed and entered another packed bar with an Austrian theme and neat little rooms spreading out from a tiny bar area. Sitting down in a small tightly packed room, by a trendy young English family at the next table, we ordered Austrian beer and discussed our options.
We headed back to the first square and decided on a drink in a tiny crammed cafe with a small table and some bar stools, all of which were occupied. The lone bartender directed us upstairs and to the facilities.
We entered a long empty stone arched space and sat before the bartender brought our wine and beer as well as a selection of appetisers; bread, cheese, salami, ham and nuts. Although we were somewhat cocooned in this comfortable crypt, there was the sound of the customers below keeping us aware of our situation. We stayed until just before midnight and ate and drank copiously under the attention of our host who kept returning up the stairs with snacks whenever she brought our drinks.
Another drink in the first bar, which had reopened after a pause to prepare for the night, was not as cheering as our previous visit so we headed to the main square and watched the home-made firework display unfold after swapping greetings with each other and reluctant Bergamese. Although Italians took a while to respond to our wishing them a Happy New Year (Bon Ano), most seemed pleasantly surprised at our extending friendship. Italians bring their own array of fireworks, mainly small rockets and bangers, which they hold or hurl into the mix, hoping they detonate. It was an ad hoc affair and fraught with obvious dangers. We all watched and my friends videoed on their cameras.
Back to the crypt for prosecco and a ‘Bon Ano’ for our host. We enjoyed the rest of the bottle and another before heading down in search of a taxi back to our hotel.
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