Trieste

In Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere, travel writer Jan Morris described the city’s many faces and “ambivalence”, maintaining that, unlike most other Italian cities, it has “no unmistakable cuisine”. But I had come to Trieste to experience, if not a cuisine, then a culinary tradition which, to me at least, does seem unmistakable: the osmiza scene of the surrounding countryside.

An osmiza (or osmize in the plural) is a Slovene term for a smallholding that produces wine in the Karst Plateau, a steep rocky ridge scattered with pine and a patchwork of vineyards that overlooks the Adriatic Sea. Visiting osmize is a centuries-old tradition in which these homesteads open their doors to the public for a fleeting period each year. Guests order their food and wine at a till inside – where a simply tiled bar, often set into local stone, might boast family photos, halogen lights and a chalkboard menu – before heading outside to feast at long Oktoberfest-style tables and benches.

“On the Italian side of the border, we just serve cold food,” Jacob Zidarich tells us, as he places down plates of pickled courgette, house-cured salumi, local cow’s milk cheese and a homemade sausage with mustard and grated horseradish. “But in Slovenia, you find cooked food.”

I am sitting with my partner on the hot terrace at Zidarich’s family home, looking out over a glittering Adriatic. To accompany our food, Zidarich pours two glasses of liquid gold vitovska, a white wine indigenous to this corner of Friuli-Venezia-Giulia, the north-eastern Italian region that borders Slovenia, and which is home to the port city of Trieste.

To understand the tradition of visiting osmize is to grasp something of Trieste’s complex history and multifaceted cultural identity. The word derives from the Slovenian osem, meaning “eight”, a reference to a decree by 18th-century Holy Roman empress Maria Theresa that farmers in the Karst could sell their wares for eight consecutive days each year.

The result is an enduring tradition in which farmers only open for a short time each season, although almost all of them are now open for more than eight days a year. For this reason, no two osmiza-based itineraries are the same. Turn up at virtually any time of year and there will be osmize open – especially over the warmer months – all offering an affordable flavour of the Friulian countryside.

You’ll pay little more than €2-3 for a quarter-litre carafe of wine and €12-15 for an abundant platter of cold cuts, pickles and pillowy white bread. The tradition is particular to this tiny nook of Friuli, although as Zidarich indicated, it also exists – with differences – over the Slovenian border. Our focus is the Italian side where you can check which osmize are open (on the day of writing, there are 13) and at what time on the website osmize.com.

I base myself at the charming Hotel Albero Nascosto in the centre of Trieste for three nights and, with the intention of visiting as many of the osmize as possible, hire a car. I make it to four osmize, and realise quickly that Zidarich is something of an exception. Although his family had been making simple white and red wines for generations, it was his father, Benjamin, who transformed the farm into one of the most respected wine producers in the region. At other osmize we mostly drink wine from kegs. Some might describe these places as rustic, but even the table wines here have a clear style and moreish complexity to them.

Next up is Verginella Dean, an osmiza bustling with both locals and visitors and known for its peerless view of the Gulf of Trieste. From here the city’s Piazza Unità d’Italia is just visible, as is the brutalist Temple of Monte Grisa (which we visit afterwards). From an outdoor bar with two wine taps, I order a quarter of malvasia for two of us and a mixed platter of pork cuts, triangles of salty cheese and sun-dried tomatoes “for one” (it could feed four).

Osmize aren’t so much a cuisine as a gastronomic tradition, but I might have put to Jan Morris that they are emblematic of a place that, although bureaucratically Italian, has strong Slovenian influences. Zidarich’s vineyards straddle the border with most of the land being in Italy, but Slovenian is the language spoken at home, as with all the farmers I met.

“We don’t feel Italian here, we feel like we’re from Trieste,” says Theresa Sandalj, who owns a green coffee import business based in the city. The daughter of Trieste Slovenians, she tells me she grew up without any Italian traditions – “no lasagne, no ravioli” – and that when she met her Milanese husband she gave him a copy of Morris’s book “to explain what I was”.

Trieste, then, is at a crossroads between three great European cultures: Roman, Slavic and Austrian. But it doesn’t stop there – it’s a multi-faith, “inter-racial jumble”, as Morris had it, home to one of the largest synagogues in Europe alongside Greek and Serbian Orthodox churches. Its significant immigrant communities rub shoulders.

Besides osmize, there are plenty of reasons for hungry travellers to visit Trieste, from its quirky coffee culture complete with its own vocabulary (here an espresso is a nero, which could refer to a glass of red wine elsewhere in the region) to fresh fish and seafood at restaurants such as Trattoria Nerodiseppia and Le Barettine, which are both within spitting distance of the hotel.

We also loved Mimì e Cocotte, a centrally located seasonal restaurant that combines the humility of home-cooked food with a sense of occasion, and specialises in regional natural wines. With these we wash down courgette frittata and two plates of pasta – cacio e pepe, and cavatelli with tomatoes and stracciatella. Just outside Trieste, in the seaside village of Duino, Alla Dama Bianca has the fading charm of a 1970s hotspot. Here we eat razor clams and watch swans glide across the water as the sun sets.

Back in Trieste, on Via Giusto Muratti, we discover Pagna, an artisanal bakery and natural wine bar run by the Serbian pastry chef Pedja Kostic, who was drawn to Trieste from Belgrade via the US, by the wine scene. At Pagna I eat the almond croissant of my life: a perfect crisp pastry with a pillowy interior hugging not-too-much frangipane.

But it was for osmize that I came, where each one reflects the people behind it. At Šuc Erika, an osmiza in the middle of a farmyard, whose walls are adorned with a picture depicting ricotta production and felt-tip drawings by previous child guests, we order from a woman in a Metallica T-shirt. Afterwards, we sit under a pergola of ripening grapes. Rather magically, we are the only ones here, and sip our drinks (which, unusually, include a delicious cloudy beer brewed in-house) to a soundtrack of cattle lowing and stamping their hooves.

Unable to resist just one more before we leave, we head to Osmiza Boris in Medeazza, where Boris’s wife, Patricia, is behind the bar. She tells us about the salumi, wine vinegars, olive oil and honey they make on-site, while two teenage sons pad in and out of a courtyard in flip-flops. Boris was recommended to us by a waiter at La Dama Bianca as one of his favourites to visit before work, which gives you some indication of how widely enjoyed osmize are here – democratic and available to everybody, when they happen to be open.

The trip was provided by Promo Turismo FVG, the tourist board of Friuli-Venezia-Giulia. Doubles at Hotel Albero Nascosto from £120 B&B

When James Joyce first travelled from Dublin to Trieste in 1904, he went via Paris, Zurich and Ljubljana. Zurich, because he mistakenly believed a job to be awaiting him there, and Ljubljana because – groggy after the night train – he thought they’d pulled into Trieste. By the time he twigged, the train had departed and, without ready cash, Joyce and his partner Nora Barnacle had to spend a night on the tiles.

Preferring to travel by train, when I received the invite to be writer-in-residence at the James Joyce summer school in Trieste, I wondered if I might follow Joyce’s route. But repair work on Austria’s Tauern Tunnel prevented me from taking the exact route. Besides, today’s TGV tears through France at nearly 200mph, in comparison to the 25-60mph speeds at which Joyce would have navigated Switzerland and Austria. A night on the town in Milan is just as good for the muse.

Along the route from London to Trieste (and then by bus to Ljubljana), I considered the lineage of writers who traversed Europe in this way 100 years ago and how different their aesthetic, physical and emotional experiences must have been. And, importantly, what they would have seen. What we see from trains – and how we see it – reflects a century of profound social, economic and environmental transformation. Trains represent progress as much as they ever have, but – today – a different sort of progress.

My journey got off to an eventful start when the Eurostar announced delays due to cable theft near Lille. Around 600 metres of copper cable were stolen overnight from the high-speed line. A testament to the proficiency of France’s railway workers, we arrived roughly on time in Gare du Nord, Paris. A station where Joyce penned a letter to his brother, observing: “I hate the bustle but the station has its own strange poetry, the sound of footsteps, the distant whistle of the steam engines, and the sudden clanging of the signal bell.” For those sounds of steam whistling, coal shovelling, bells clanging, currencies exchanging and porters calling, today we have digital chimes, polylingual announcements, and beeping ticket barriers. Across the city, fake bird sounds chirp throughout Gare de Lyon, intending to induce calm, but instead making people search overhead for the poor trapped birds.

Instead of the illustrated posters of the belle epoque, emblazoning the walls of the metro from Gare du Nord today are climate change equations from Liam Gillick’s artwork The Logical Basis, commissioned for the COP21 climate conference held in Paris in 2015. Honouring the climate models of Nobel prize-winning physicist Syukuro Manabe, Gillick’s work has been criticised for not explaining the equations, and so keeping the simple, crucial facts of climate change at a remove from the general public.

It still seems to be the case that we don’t understand our own impact on the climate crisis. Electrified trains allow us to travel with a fraction of the carbon footprint of air travel. I still fly but try to find alternatives when I can. Less mental and moral gymnastics are required when travelling by land or sea – especially while temperatures break all records. So trains are simply more relaxing … except financially.

Virginia Woolf, who travelled solo from London to Turkey by train when she was 24, wrote that “a traveller, even though he is half asleep, knows, looking out of the train window, that he must look now, for he will never see that town, or that mule-cart, or that woman at work in the fields, again”. Never mind that woman, to see any person working in the fields from a train window these days is unlikely. Instead of vibrant country villages (and the explosion of cities taking place in the early 20th century), we have urban sprawl and suburbanisation that would have been unimaginable in Woolf’s time. Instead of the diverse cereal and crop production of a century ago, today’s fertilised pastures of animal agriculture and vast tracts of land used to grow animal feed dominate European landscapes. The consequences of that are everywhere, from the overall temperature (France is 1.9C warmer than it was in 1900) and weather pattern changes, to soil degradation, polluted air and waterways, and biodiversity loss. But to know how radically the landscape has changed in just a few decades is to know to what degree it can change again.

In the early 20th century, rail passengers would have witnessed the hydroelectric revolution, as water power in the Alps was being developed extensively. The construction of dams and reservoirs fundamentally altered alpine hydrology, creating the artificial lakes, dams, power lines and industrial infrastructure we’re used to today. One undoubtedly positive change in the past 100 years has been a significant effort towards reforestation. And while those forests are generally commercial – with about 80% classified as “forest available for wood supply” – natural forests and meadows are almost instantly possible with a shift towards a plant-rich diet, as just one example. And pastures might be replaced with solar or wind farms. Perhaps there’s something helpful in seeing where our energy comes from, so that we understand its impact. Writers took great courage in the hydroelectric revolution: it allowed them to reach the Alps by train. It represented progress, modernity and independence, as did the electric trains themselves.

For a period, rail became militarised, and trains were rerouted for troop movements and deportations, with civilians facing extreme delays, rationing and danger. Joyce fled his home in Trieste (then part of the Austro-Hungarian empire) during the first world war, as he was considered an enemy alien. At Feldkirch station in Austria, he narrowly escaped arrest. (His brother had already been separately arrested, in Trieste, and was detained until the end of the war.) He later told his biographer that “at Feldkirch station,” he “felt the fate of Ulysses was decided”. During the second world war, many writers and artists were among those who used Europe’s rail network to flee the Nazis.

When sniffer dogs boarded the TGV on the French-Italian border, and police demanded to see my passport and to know which bags were mine and the reason for my travel, I replied: “The James Joyce Summer School,” propping up my Books Upstairs tote bag and nodding at Ulysses on my tray table, which surely cast me as a bad spy. Before the first world war, passports and visas were rarely required within western Europe. After the war, this changed, and border stops were far longer and more frequent, to allow for paper checks.

But if Joyce carried a passport in 1904, it would have been a British one, with him being classified as a British subject. I was surprised to discover that Joyce repeatedly rejected the opportunity to obtain an Irish passport, post-independence. I knew from reading his work that he spurned narrow nationalism, embracing a cosmopolitan and diverse European modernism. But to reject an Irish passport was to limit his practical freedoms. Samuel Beckett’s Irish passport allowed him to stay in France and take part in resistance activities. Spending the vast majority of their lives on the continent, they both strongly identified as European. Europeanness is surely defined – even today – more by train travel than by anything else.

Despite Frantz Fanon brilliantly immortalising a racist incident on a train in France in his book Black Skin, White Masks, rail travel in Europe has been a sanctuary from racial prejudice for many, like Jamaican-American writer Claude McKay and poet Langston Hughes. Hughes wrote of the freedom from segregation and ostracisation on Soviet Union trains in particular: “No Jim Crow on the trains of the Soviet Union”. He travelled to south central Asia on the Moscow-Tashkent express, a journey which Russia’s war on Ukraine prevents today – largely cutting off the entire eastern world from Europeans who don’t fly.

Trains have been for many artists a mode of escape as well as a means of belonging. They are communal and sustainable, and they cannot but make us more considerate. Post-Covid, there is something consoling in the quiet companionship of trains. Well, not always quiet, but writers spend so long alone in caves (with our characters), it does us good to remember that real people exist, with all their tuna sandwiches and taking off of shoes.

Class segregation is less stark today than in the 20th century’s first-, second- and third-class carriages. Today’s first and second classes are largely differentiated by seat size, phone-charging facilities, and the occasional cufflink. In place of Edwardian plush velvet upholstery and decadent dining cars, today we enjoy scratchy, synthetic, easy-to-clean interiors, and minimalist dining cars full of Dutch teenagers. Writers – barring those with patrons or trust funds – can generally be found in the cheap seats.

The enlivening, philosophical aspects of train travel carry on into the 21st century: observing life and landscape; partaking in a sustainable infrastructure; witnessing the endless novelty, education and privilege that it affords; making one think, as Joyce put it, “of all the worlds moving simultaneously”. Air travel has undoubtedly facilitated untold progress, but progress is subjective and contextual. It always involves an untold or suppressed story. Slow travel allows us to think in the longer term. It could serve us well to better see where we have come from and where we are going.

Caoilinn Hughes’s latest novel is The Alternatives, published by Oneworld (£9.99). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply

“Heads of State” is not the Cheech & Chong reunion film you’ve been waiting for, but a comic thriller co-starring John Cena and Idris Elba, premiering Wednesday on Prime Video. Previously joined in cultural history by the DC super antihero flick “The Suicide Squad,” the actors have remade their rivalrous characters there into an odd couple of national leaders here, dealing with conspiratorial skulduggery, bullets, bombs and the like.

Call me dim, but I wasn’t even half aware that Cena, whose muscles have muscles, maintains a long, successful career in professional wrestling — which is, of course, acting — alongside his more conventional show business pursuits; he’s ever game to mock himself and not afraid to look dumb, which ultimately makes him look smart, or to appear for all intents and purposes naked at the 2024 Oscars, presenting the award for costume design. (He was winning, too, in his schtick with Jimmy Kimmel.) Elba, whose career includes a lot of what might be called prestige genre, has such natural poise and gravity that one assumes he’s done all the Shakespeares and Shaws and Ibsens, but “The Wire” and “Luther” were more his thing. He was on many a wish list as the next James Bond, and while that’s apparently not going to happen, something of the sort gets a workout here.

Elba plays British Prime Minister Sam Clarke, described as “increasingly embattled” in his sixth year in office, who is about to meet Cena’s recently elected American president, Will Derringer, on the eve of a trip to Trieste, Italy, for a NATO conference. (Why Clarke is embattled is neither explained nor important.) Derringer resents Clarke, who can’t take him seriously, for having seemed to endorse his opponent by taking him out for fish and chips. (This is a recurring theme.) An international star in the Schwarzenegger/Stallone mold — “Water Cobra” is his franchise — one might call Derringer’s election ridiculous, but I live in a state that actually did elect Schwarzenegger as its governor, twice. Wet behind the ears (“He still hasn’t figured out the difference between a press conference and a press junket,” somebody says), Derringer thinks a lot himself, his airplane, his knowing Paul McCartney and his position. Beyond aspirational platitudes, he has no real politics, but as we first see him carrying his daughter on his shoulders, we know he’s really OK.

Directed by Ilya Naishuller (“Nobody”) and written by Josh Appelbaum, André Nemec and Harrison Query, the movie begins with a scene set at the Tomatino Festival in, Buñol, Spain, in which great crowds of participants lob tomatoes at each other in a massive food fight — it’s a real thing — foreshadowing the blood that will soon be flowing through the town square, as a team of unidentified bad guys ambush the British and American agents who are tracking them. They’ve been set up, declares M16 agent Noel Bisset (Priyanka Chopra Jonas), who is later reported “missing and presumed dead” — meaning, of course, that she is very much alive and will be seen again; indeed, we will see quite a lot of her.

Also starring is Priyanka Chopra Jonas as M16 agent Noel Bisset, who is tasked with protecting the two heads of state.

(Chiabella James / Prime Video)

Meanwhile, the prime minister and the president board Air Force One for Trieste. They talk movies: “I like actual cinema,” says Clarke, who claims to have never seen one of Derringer’s pictures. “I’m classically trained,” the movie star protests. “Did you know I once did a play with Edward Norton? But the universe keeps telling me I look cool with a gun in my hand — toy gun.”

Following attacks within and without the plane, the two parachute into Belarus and, for the remainder of the film, make their way here and there, trying to evade the private army of Russian arms dealer and sadistic creep Viktor Gradov (Paddy Considine) led by your typical tall blond female assassin (Katrina Durden). They’ll also meet Stephen Root as a computer guy and Jack Quaid as a comical American agent. Elsewhere, Vice President Elizabeth Kirk (Carla Gugino) takes charge. (“Bad?” is the note I wrote. I’ve seen my share of political thrillers.)

There will be hand-to-hand combat, missiles, machine-gun shoot-em-ups, more than a couple helicopters and a car chase through the streets of Trieste — a lovely seaside/hillside city I recommend if you’re thinking of Italy this summer. Must I tell you that antipathy will turn to appreciation as our heroes make common cause, get a little personal and, with the able Agent Bisset, become real-life action heroes? That they are middle-aged is not an issue, though there is a joke about the American movie star being less fit than the U.K. politician.

The logline portends a comedy, possibly a parody, even a satire. It’s definitely the first of these, if not especially subtle or sharp (Derringer stuck in a tree, hanging from a tangled parachute; Clarke setting off a smoke bomb in his own face — that did make me laugh), a little bit the second, and not at all the third, even though it sniffs around politics a bit. Above all, like many, most or practically all action films, it’s a fantasy in which many things happen that would not and could not ever, ever happen in the real world, because that’s not how people or physics behave. (It certainly doesn’t represent America in 2025.)

There is just as much character development or backstory as is necessary to make the players seem more or less human. Plot-wise there are a lot of twists, because the script superimposes a couple of familiar villainous agendas into a single narrative; it’s mildly diverting without being compelling, which, I would think, will ultimately work in its favor as hectic, lightly violent entertainment. Not even counting the orgy of anonymous death that has qualified as family entertainment for some time now — blame video games, I won’t argue — it’s a painless watch, and, in its cheery, fantastic absurdity, something of a respite from the messier, crazier, more unbelievable world awaiting you once the credits have rolled.