Monday, October 17, 2011

Radio Silence

Ok, ok... I know. I've gone radio silent. Does that leave you wondering about the trip home? Let me fill you in...

We woke at the you-know-what crack of dawn to pile ourselves and all our belongings into the Milanese cab that must have started charging us when he left Florence. He didn't speak a lick of English, or he was simply ignoring my complaints about the meter when I got in.

I was really glad we looked at our itinerary, since I had the airport we were leaving from wrong most of the week. That would have added and extra element of disaster clearly not necessary when my mother and I are together. We are like a vortex for disfunction. This is clearly demonstrated when we get to the counter at KLM, which is the airline listed on our email confirmation, and nobody is there. Thankfully, the guy at British Airways points us toward Alitalia.

Fuck.

I'm sorry. I've been trying really hard not to swear on the blog this trip. That's saying a lot, since I typically swear like a sailor. But really... Alitalia, again? I'm happy to let them have another crack at properly handling our luggage, only they won't check it in. It's just past six, which they say is too early. I have never, ever, been told I was too early for a flight. I find this hysterically funny. Until I realize there are pretty much no seats. Not "not vacant seats"... no seats, period. Weird for an international airport. This might actually rank Milan Linate UNDER Washington DC's Dulles for me. That's a feat. I can't stand Dulles.

I digress.

They tell us to come back at 7:00 AM. I do, and ask for luggage tags. They don't have any AND they tell me to come back at 7:30.

These people are really starting to irritate me.

I go to the little shop and buy a few stamps to send some straggling post cards. I figure out where customs is so we can validate our "tax free" vouchers, which we hope means we can claim the refund once we get through security. By the time I circle back to mom, it is time and we unload the heavy stuff to head to the gate. Were we do a little more shopping.

At this point, I've decided this is a sickness. I can't, under any circumstances, restrain myself from buying these lovely nail polishes. And lip gloss. And makeup bag. I need an intervention. Maybe mom and I can get a 2-for-1 on that.

The flight to Amsterdam is uneventful. When we arrive, however, we have exactly one hour until our connecting flight in a terminal that might as well be in a different city departs. Thank you, airline gods. Jogging isn't and option -- need to run. Mom's asthma makes that less than an attractive option. Praying might work.

We make it -- of course -- and are pleasantly surprised to discover that there is no one in the seat next to us. Makes me feel less like a sardine. We watch a movie together, eat what might amount to the worst Swedish food on the planet (and I say this as an Ikea cafeteria connoisseur), and I fall asleep. Mom decides she's getting hey money worth by watching four movies. I think she mentions two TV shows as well.

How long did I sleep?

And finally... home again. To Dulles, and an unbelievable line at customs. I think mom was actually flirting with the agent a bit. Makes me wish I had smuggled that salami after all. We are off to collect our bags, which is super convenient as we waited so long to get through customs that all the bags from our flight are sitting next to the luggage carousel.

All, that is, except for ours.

Shocking.

Within the next week, I'll be posting the gelato lowdown and my final blog post. I'm asking mom to put one together, too, so you can hear from her what she loved, hated, and would buy again. Until then... I bid you ado.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Last Day & Last Supper

Hard to believe that this was our last day in Italy. I feel, like our luggage, that we've packed culture so tightly into our heads, we are literally bursting at the seams. I'm not sure I could take much more! What are two girls in this predicament and no more room for trinkets to do...

How about a three-hour walking tour and viewing of Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper"?

Since I booked it months ago, which you MUST do in order to get in to see this work, we are off and running. Well, after I make eggs and we futz around with luggage and such. That makes us a tad bit late, so we hop in a cab instead of making mom sprint again. Arriving at the meeting spot in front of the Duomo, there's a bit of congestion due to the Ferrari club of Milan gathering to show of their cars. My inner crow is drawn to the pretty and I am separated from our group. I actually am a tiny bit panicked when I can't see anyone and imagine I've. Issued the tour and lost mom. Until I hear her yelling for me over the din of the revving engines and gaggles of pigeons and people milling about. 

Amazing how no matter where you are, you can always hear your mother when she calls. Sure, sometimes you pretend not to hear... as a kid, playing outside as dusk settled. It's just such a familiar sound. Of course, she's calling my name, too, so maybe I'm being a bit dramatic. 


Today is a day for drama, starting with this stunning building and the tour around it. Sadly, there is a mass happening inside and we are unable t take a look, but there is plenty to see outside. The sets of massive doors on the front, each panel telling a story. The statue of Moses with horns. A story about a Dolce & Gabbana advertisement placed on the back of the structure on scaffolding during a renovation project. This is typical to raise money to pay for the restorations, but this particular ad was of a woman clad only in underwear. It caused quite an uproar. The former arch bishop, apparently a guy with a sense of humor, pointed out that the statue of Eve is naked, so what's the difference? It was still removed after a few short months. Funny. even more so to me because the history of Italy is steeped in paganism, adoration and love of the human form. Then Constantinople ends the persecution of the Christians and the Catholic Church brings an about face of modesty to the country that is contadicted by so much of it's tradition and history that it appears almost hypocritical. Naked statues here, prim and proper there, and the buying of indulgences in the middle.

But what do I know?

We tour through a darling little neighborhood, Brera, which is closed up tighter than a drum on a Sunday. Milan is a little funny like that. Not much is open late. In Rome and Florence, and even Venice, some shops were open past 10:00 PM. We stop at a darling little patisserie and have a snack with the group and then head toward the Cadtello and eventually, the painting we've all been waiting to see.

Like most things here in Italy, I'm not sure what to make of it until I'm sitting in front of it. It's quite something, but also simple in it's beauty. The painting was made to decorate the room where monks at the church would dine. As is tradition, one wall would have a last supper image, the opposing, the crucifixion. That reminds me... apparently the Duomo Has several of the nails used in the actual act. Macabre. Da Vinci's work is deteriorated, but now less magnificent. He is an artist I have always admired, particularly for his precision and, like me, perfectionism. It's a terrible affliction and those of us suffering with it ought to stick together.

Afterwards, we meander through gelato heaven and the square near the Duomo for hugs...


...and birds...


...before hitting a few stores on our way back to the apartment. 

Our hostess here in Milan, Paola, and I discovered when I was making the booking that we were born just a few days apart. She makes gorgeous jewelry (www.madeofstones.it), and so we've brought her a small gift of one of mom's stone bracelets for the occasion and we plan to go have a drink to celebrate. We have planned to get together at 6:00 PM tonight, but we have been running around and didn't call. Regardless, promptly on time, she and her husband, Luca, arrive to collect us. They've made dinner reservations for mom and I at a lovely place, and brought us an unbelievably thoughtful gift of some homemade pasta. We head over to her showroom for a little tour, and I pick out a pair of lovely earrings to buy, but Paola won't hear of it. They are a lovely, lovely gift.

We have such a nice time over a glass of wine and a drink Paola orders that looks like it is in a double sized glass with half a banana and laden with other fruits. Totally fun, and we laugh that Luca has to help her finish it. We have such a nice, easy conversation that it feel like we've known each other for a long time. This is someone I hope to stay in touch with. They may be planning a trip to Florida for Christmas, so hopefully we will have the chance to chow the same warm hospitality there. What a fabulous way to wrap up our visit here.


Packed up and ready to go. I know hearing this will make some of you a little sad. But don't worry... I'll be back tomorrow and have a few other posts to tantalize you with before this journey, too concludes. 

Until then, I thought I would ask if there is anything particular you would like to know? Leave a comment, sent us an an email or Facebook post and let us know. Mom will be delivering a sum-up, too, so don't forget her. We've really enjoyed all your comments and thoughtful notes over the last month. It's what makes doing this fun. Yes, even when you are writing because you are addicted and mad I'm not posting regularly! 

Send us good vibes for the flight... when I tried to check in, there was no record of our reservation.

Did you expect anything less?

Saturday, October 1, 2011

La La La Scala


La Scala. 

This is a weird post to write. This experience has been so hyped up for months, do I'm going to just stick with the facts.

1. This is a beautiful establishment. The glimmering chandeliers are amazing, the common areas luxurious, the theatre and boxes gilt with plush red velvet, rich brocade tapestry and gold accents. Gorgeous.



2. The orchestra is phenomenal. The music bright and clear. It was, at times, overpowering and thus difficult to hear the singers over the music. I'm not sure how a delicate balance is struck with something like that, but I'm sure it is difficult. I will say that this was not an issue at Theatro La Fenice, however, I didn't thing the quality of the music there as as good.

3. In Venice, the sets were absolutely spectacular. Perhaps I was simply in awe of how they moved seamlessly during the performance, allowing the actors to change from one to the next as PART of the performance. They walked out a door and onto the next set while the audience watched. You could see the floor move as the beautifully decorated "rooms" changed before your eyes. It was simple spectacular. The sets were a huge disappointment for me with Der Rosenkavalier at La Scala. There was a mirrored back drop that moved during the performance slightly to cast reflections in different ways. An image of what a wall or scenery might look like was projected onto this, creating the look of a wall on the mirror. The problem is, it didn't always line up, making it unrealistic. There was also what looked like a ceiling you would see in an office building, with the same awful unnatural light emanating from it. Pieces of furniture, and even two carriages (sans the horses, though there were dogs at one point) were moved on and off stage between acts mostly. It just reminded me of Vegas. I wouldn't have expected Las Vegas at La Scala.

4. For as much as tickets are here. You would expect seats with a back. We are in a box with six seats, each a bit taller than the one behind to help with viewing. We are in the back. On the left, the view is partially obscured, which is easily remedied by dragging the chair over. That means, sadly, that there is then no wall to lean against. So, sitting on what amounts to a bar stool for four hours. Fun... and it's hot as Hades.

5. I don't like German opera. I like sexy, talk dirty to me, sounds hot and romantic Italian. It just doesn't sound pretty. That is certainly NOT to say that the singing isn't superb. The mezzo-soprano las night was marvelous. All three sopranos, in fact. It just was not a Pretty Woman moment. 

It did, however, almost pee my pants when we stopped at McDonalds afterwards, which looked like a lounge, and I ordered BEER. Oh, Ronald... you bad clown, you. Holding out on us Americans. It was cold, just like the food, but nice not to be staring down another plate of pasta.

I think we're ready to come home.





Home. That reminds me. In our rush to get out the door to the theatre, I didn't bring the address with me of the apartment where we are staying. Or the phone to call our hostess. 

This should be fun.

Son-of-a-biscotti...

A last minute sprint this morning through Venice to complete a very important mission: to secure what one simply cannot leave this island without -- a mask. First, we tackle the challenge of finding one of the several Rosa Salva patisseries in Venice. It's a famous name when it comes to delectable ways to try and increase the size of my growing food baby, having been in business since 1879.


Not disappointing, that's for sure. I get Creme Cotta Forno, which is like shortbread baked with a custard on top. Its still warm from the oven and simply to die for. I pick up a few other amazing things, including marzipan. I may be the only person on earth who actually likes that stuff. Molded into fruit shapes and painted to resemble apples, peaches and cherries, it's like eating a tiny piece of art.


Back to the masks, of which I am now the proud owner of not one, but two. The first is a lovely white metal number in a style the shopkeep referred to as "tattoo", as when worn, it looks like a tattoo around the eyes. The second is a bit more fanciful, with pink feathers and gold glitter. It is mounted to a stick and makes me think I need to rent Amadeus soon. I remember seeing these for the first time as a kid in that movie and being smitten. As if seeing Don Giovanni the other night hadn't already put that idea in my brain. That work was written by Mozart, whose life the film is about. I'm also feeling a Halloween masquerade party may be in order -- not that I need an excuse to wear this. I may just wear it to work. Or shopping, or just to clean the house. When you see people walking around your town in a mask, you'll know who started the trend.

I don't suggest wearing them to the bank, though. Just to be safe.

As is our typical form, we are late getting back to the apartment to collect our things. The funny thing is, just as we are leaving, I discover the trick to getting around Venice -- don't give a where you are going. 

Look, I'm serious. The other night I was ready to curl up in the fetal position in the middle of the street. I was literally at my wits end. The street names on the map and on the streets don't correspond, and there are sometimes two or three names on one sign (I realize later the first is the one you are on, the second typically the next street and the third can be either the name of the bridge or the canal.) And get is... I wish we had a freaking flashlight. Please don't tell mom I said that. I would hate to admit she was right about that. She was a trooper, though, to deal with me and my craptastic mood. I finally threw my hands in the air, put the map away... and we walked straight there. 

Son-of-a-biscotti.

It works just as well the next couple times we try it, so here's my advice for Venice: don't waste money on a map. Spend it on wine and pastry and get lost. It's worth it, I promise. Or here's am idea... get some red twine and tie it to the door of your hotel, then you an just follow it back. No... it won't work. I thought of the Hansel & Gretel bread crumb thing and the damn pigeons will eat your trail. I've had more close encounters of the bird kind than I care to mention in Venice (that's mom's line, I must admit...)


After our 60 private taxi ride, we decided to skip the gondola at 80 euros. Mom says it's too expensive and I'm game for saving it until next time I come with the man I love. Speaking of love, there's just one thing I'm bringing when I return... bug spray. The Venetian mosquitoes heart me to welts. I look like a huge game of connect-the-dots. I think they may be working on Van Gogh's "Starry, Starry Night." They're really quite talented.

We are on our last train, heading for Milan now. In two more days, it will be a plane home. I've had so much fun, but I'm ready to go. My brain is full of all the beautiful things I've seen in a month and so is my iPad -- of pics, I mean. We both need a download. Some downtime. No ret for then weary,though, as mom asks me to lean over and examine her eyes to pick out what colors are in them. She's so cute. 

And crazy.

Tonight is a big night for us. We are going to La Scala, one of the most famous of all the opera houses in the world. I adore opera, whic is one of those things you either love or hate. It makes for a great way to weed out men. It's true. I can tell you that there have been several times in dating that I have mentioned this fetish and I have never heard from a suitor again. That's okay... we likely would not have made a good match. It's that same with my job at NPR. If it tell someone where I work and I get a blank stare... check, please. 

Must be cultured. And love dogs.

It is opening night, which is a real event at La Scala. It means digging out the fancy clothes we've drug across Italy for weeks. A black velevet evening gown for me, and long black palazzo pants with a velvet top lined with fur for mom. To the nines... as only we can do. Of course my inner crow will be rocking things that sparkle -- antique costume jewelry I inherited from my great grandmother.

We will see a comedy by Richard Strauss -- Der Rosenkavalier -- adapted in part from a novel by Moliere. It was written in January of 1911 and the success of the premiere led to its being performed at La Scala just two months later. It is one of the composer's most famous works. Strauss loved the female voice, and Der Rosenkavalier features three main female roles, each a point in a complicated love triangle. One, Marschallin, a deepmand dramatic soprano, is an older woman with a young lover. The second, her lover, Octavian, is a male role sung by a woman... a mezzo-soprano. The last is the younger woman Octavian falls in love with -- Sophie, a high soprano. The finale of the opera is a trio and duet sung by all three. 

I admit one thing to you here. The German language is not necessarily sexy. There is a harshness to it that you wouldn't think would lend itself well to operatic singing. There are some pieces I have on my iPod that I love, so I am very optimistic. This will be my first German opera. And thankfully... there's supposed to be English subtitles. Just in case... I'll say goodbye for now so I can go read the synopsis I've downloaded. 

Friday, September 30, 2011

Wine, my old friend... we drink again...


We wake up a bit earlier today to catch a water taxi to Murano. The gal trying to sell me a silk bra and panty set for a king's random yesterday said it's best to go in the morning. When we arrive at 9:00 AM, there are many stores not even open yet. That doesn't mean there isn't plenty to keep us occupied. or pulling our our wallets.

Mom's a sucker for glass! She's made beads and i do mosaic and some fusing. I've also been called a crow more times than I can count. I like things that sparkle, and there is no shortage of that in Murano. 

At one place we stop, there is a darling little dog. I stoop down to pet her and in just a few minutes, she's licking my face with approval. The owner seems pleased, and when we ask about the adjoining factory and seeing the glass made, he walks us back for private viewing. It is so very cool. They are making a chandelier. There is a master actually working the glass, and several assistants doing various jobs. One makes the rods, taking a ball of molten glass and twisting and pulling it i to an unbelievably uniform shape. This is then given to the master, who snips off one end in the appropriate length. Another assistant brings over a gob of hot glass after rolling it in frit and applying golf foil. He attaches it to one side of the rod, which the master presses flat and then literally takes a special pair of scissors to cut ridges as the glass begins to take on the form of a leaf. The same is done for the other side, and the master takes the glass to the oven, glowing bright orange, and gives it a spin or two until it is the perfectly malleable. He shapes it as another assistant comes over with a tray, which he breaks it off on, and it is whisked away to be annealed.. Which means cooled very slowly in an oven to avoid fracturing the glass.  Wow. It's really all I can say.


We wander from store to store, ogling mostly. I'm not in the mood for another sit down lunch for and arm and a leg, so we pop into a little bar and do like the Italians... grab a bite and lean. It's the cheapest meal, aside from breakfasts, that we've had in Italy. For under 10 euro, we have 2 "cicchetti" (a little cold fried snack of mozzarella and ham that reminded me of a Monte Cristo, and 2 "tramezzini" (these little wonderbread sandwiches -- mom's with crab, mine with proscuitto) and two waters. It was actually one of the better meals we've had. Or I was really hungry. 

Amazing how all that walking (and shopping) can make you famished. 

We head back to the apartment around 4:30 PM and sit down to admire our treasures, which in mom's case means trying to remember what she bought and trying to find things she can't seem to place, and for me, repacking her stuff so it will fit in our ever-expanding luggage. Then we sit down for a snack, sadly the last of the truffle cheese and the proscuitto we got in Greve de Chianti, and a glass of dessert wine. I have a little champagne, too, to dull the pain for what soon will amount to us being lost.

Again.

We decide to take the water bus to San Marco, which is about a half hour voyage, but saves us the hour of being lost. We wander our way toward the Grand Canal and hop on another bus toward the Rialto. Then it's in and out of a few shops before finding a place for dinner. There we discover that you should also understand the conversion factors for liquids.

A liter of wine is entirely too much.

It will, however, make getting home fun. Hopefully, we will be typing again from Milan tomorrow. If not, perhaps you can call the American Embassy for us?

Thursday, September 29, 2011

Mom, Part Three: If you tell me you don't like opera, you've never been...

Amazing! We stepped off the train Wednesday night and onto the canal of Venice, Italy, that is water taxis, gondolas and charisma all it's own. Nothing will ever be quite like my first glimpse of the Grand Canal, okay except for "the David," after all, I am a push over for a great looking butt! Next big miracle -- that's right, two in a row... the girls are on a roll -- we buy the primo 36 hr vaporetto pass and it's right there at the dock waiting for us to board. We got to our stop in 30 minutes and walked straight to our apartment! Our host representative, a sweet nonna (that's grandmother in case you haven't taken the Rosetta Stone Italian course yet... I don't remember much of what I learned so grant me the indulgence to use it here please, lest it be wasted info), gives us cheek kisses all round and shows us upstairs to our room. She proceeds to give us all the details about our stay, including directions around town IN ITALIAN... even though we have told her several times in English and Italian that we don't understand what she is saying. She persists, and in spite of trying to use our phrase book, we are unable to get but just a few words. We keep saying ok and nodding and she leaves us to figure things out, with a warning (I think) that she is back on duty Friday! 

A quick shower -- in a shower the size of  half a phone booth -- and we are ready for bed.

In the morning, the second shower in less than 8 hrs is the best ever. God love me, there is a great hairdryer here, so my hair won't look like I was caught in an electric fan all day. I swear, when my hair was dry and brushed I heard angels singing! Mind you it isn't the crack of dawn but it is about 10 AM when we are finally out the door and off on our adventure to find Piazza San Marco. Many winding streets and photo ops later we arrive at the Doges Palace and the heart of the Piazza. Walking on the uneven stone streets is almost as difficult as navigating through the throngs of tour groups and tourists meandering around. We do some window shopping and then find a lovely "Tea Room" where the thought of enjoying the scenery while sipping tea sounds great! The waiter brings us a menu and carefully points out that the beautiful music we hear on the veranda automatically adds 6 Euros to our bill. Each. Since the band takes a short break, we make our getaway too.


On the back streets behind the Piazza we stop at a couple shops with glass, then purses and finally... a lingerie shop, complete with crops, diamond studded handcuffs, and underwear that is tiny, tiny, tiny... and costs about 150 euros. The Bras are almost 250!!! They should throw in a complimentary pair of handcuffs for at price. What we DO come out of this fine establishment with is a recommendation for lunch. We promise to think about the lingerie and just about start a stampede to get out the door to lunch. 

I did say lunch right? Probably our most expensive lunch yet. Pappardelle with wild mushrooms for Amy, and if you know me, you won't be surprised to find that I ordered the gnocchi in red meat sauce.  I don't care what kind of sauce they put on a gnocchi, I am determined to have it as many ways as I can find it and only have 5 days left to try them all! We each have a glass of house wine -- really, it's cheaper than water... honest! -- of course, we have the water too, but I' m just saying... Add one after lunch Cappuccino and our grand total is 61 euros! Mamma Mia!!!

Strolling through the streets in a pasta induced stupor, we purchase a couple little fifty things and then suddenly we are in front of the Venice Opera house. Oh my. You know this is tugging right into the depths of our souls... wallets right? We did it! Bought front row box tickets center in the second tier to see Mozart's Don Giovanni. He's my favorite composer, so I was all in without hesitation. Ah, but what time does the Opera start you might ask? Seven o'clock this evening would be the answer! What is the current time? It's 4:30 pm! Ok, then let's do some fancy figuring... two women, one almost dressed properly for the opera, one probably not, currently located God only knows how far from where their clothes are, with absolutley no idea of how long it will take to get back, get changed and return to this place where they have just spent a days wages to see some fancy singing! 

I'm telling you I felt like I was on the "Great Race" show! Did we start our way back right away? Oh No! We went back to the Tea Room first and really had tea this time along with a fancy dessert. Now it's 5:40 PM and the race is on! We make a mad dash to the vaporetto and head to the Rialto Bridge, then sprint through some streets and back to another vaporetto that takes us closer to the apartment. Just so you get the total picture, this is high speed foot travel, and you must know that colors may run, silk stockings will run -- but KAREN doesn't run!!!! Yet here I am, running as if my life depended on it. The 100 euro dash is how I think of it! 

We make it back to the apartment on the fly while Amy is having someone call a private water taxi to take us back toward the theater.  In 20 minutes total, we are back at the dock. I can't even begin to tell you how fast this happened, how far we had to go etcetera, but it took me a good 15 min to catch my breath after we were seated on the boat. The cabbie (or is he a captain?) of this water vessel is very kind, right on time, but doesn't speak much English. He is able to understand that we are trying to get to the theater. Maybe our dresses helped the translation along, but if he would have looked at me carefully he could have just as easily thought we were headed to the emergency room. I had just caught my breath from our exhausting sprint when the captain dropped us close to our destination and told us how much the ride cost! Hope you are sitting down for this... 60 euros. Seems that when you call the private cab and tell him to meet you somewhere in 20 minutes, the meter STARTS at that moment and stops when he let's you out!  Note to self -- better time management is necessary! It is all worth it though as we make it to our seats with 15 minutes to spare.


Don Giovanni... a real live opera in the "land of Opera" -- it's a bit like seeing the wizard of Oz in the Emerald City. Be still my heart!  Watching the maestro lead the orchestra in the opening number is great fun, especially to a music novice like myself. I am mesmerized by all the gestures and how the different musical sections just know what they mean and turn that into the most wonderful sound! Mozart, how did he ever hear all of this in his head while writing it down? How did he know it would sound so fantastic? When the curtain goes up, the actors are all just human but their voices are other worldly. The stage lights are placed so that their shadows are bigger than life on the  scenery wall behind them, giving this entire experience a significant grandeur! The story and the subtitles are  Italian, which makes it a bit more difficult to follow along. Basically, Don Giovanni is a cad and bounder who gets his just desserts in the end. 


Now with the opera over, all that's left is to find our way home. It's late. And the taxis aren't running.  A daunting task in the daylight, we now are challenged by darkness, a map that doesn't list many of the streets we find ourselves on, and shoes that are meant for looking stylish at the opera not running around the streets of Venice.  An hour later, we finally round the corner to the apartment.  

There's no place like home, but shouldn't there be a nice big hunk of cheese on the porch? 
 

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Molto Bene

Dear David,

I've been thinking about you for weeks, daydreaming about being in the same room as you. I just can't seem to get you off my mind. People told me over and over that you would be much bigger than I imagined, but I have to tell you, I wasn't prepared for today... to see you in all your glory. 

With your muscles rippling in the sun, I traced the veins in your hands with my eyes, taking in every inch of you. Thick locks of hair, tousled, make me want to run my fingers through. A body so firm, I could bounce quarters off your abdominals. And what can I say about that butt? It is the most beautifully sculpted piece of "art" I have ever laid my eyes on.

I'm not disappointed. How could I be? You are perfection incarnate. 

I love you. 


Me


PS... It's a little disturbing to me that my mom is also in love with you. Perhaps excellent taste in men runs in the family.

The Hottest Italian & Fear Factor

We packed up some stuff last night. That was a pain. From not having luggage for a week, and shopping, we've amassed ourselves quite a ridiculous amount of crap to lug around. It's kind of like Mermaids to Graceland, but without the car. Heres an inventory:

1. Mom's rolling bag
2. Mom's backpack, which is literally coming apart at the seams 
3. My backpacking bag
4. My camera bag
5. My large purse/the bag formerly used to carry crap when we didn't have luggage
6. A rolling cart filled with crap
7. A new large leather duffel bag filled with crap
8. One shopping bag filled with paper products we intend to ship via book rate at the post office, in addition to food stuffs we intend to send via Mailboxes, Etc (I'm convinced olive oil weighs more than a small child)

So, when we stroll out for good today down the three or four flight of stairs, I will be back up about two times to get all our stuff to the ground. Mom can't carry anything really heavy down -- it's just too hard on her. She really tries, but I keep taking the bags. Imagine, however, what I look like walking down the street with my backpack, a purse, a camera bag, a rolling bag and a shopping bag. Two words : pack... horse. Mom says she's the old nag. Thankfully we've arranged with Gaia to leave our luggage while we go to the Accademia to see my boyfriend. I won't spoil it. Read the next post for more. As has been said before... this is a piece of sculpture that once you see it, nothing else compares. Touché.

On to the Duomo, where the lines are long and we have no bigiletto. That's ticket, in case you couldn't figure it out. There is a relatively short line for the cupola, which is my main objective. Mom declines. I suppose paying 8 euro to walk up 462 steps does seem a bit daft in her opinion when you can do them for free all over the place. I think she would actually pay much more than that NOT to ever have to climb up stairs again. 

I get inside and about 75 steps up. It's very dark. And narrow. There are tiny windows set deep into the stone wall. Many are closed, impossible to look out. To see space. For fresh air. When you begin to get out of breath from the climb, everything gets even smaller. I'm going to die. Right here.

Have I mentioned that I'm a little claustrophobic?

More than a little, actually. When I'm on a plane, I have to be very careful NOT to think about it. That's a big open plane. This is a minuscule, closed stone stairwell with little ventilation or light. Panic is an understatement. I try and talk myself down from the ledge, looking out toward the light at one window, breathing. It's not working. I literally run -- and I mean RUN -- back down the stairs. When I reach the bottom, I do the only natural thing Amy would do... ask for a refund. They refuse, which is probably the best thing that could have happened. As the guard is trying to usher me out, I'm thinking... value for money. I could have bought a scarf for those eight euros. I tell him I'm going to sit for a moment and try again. It takes a little convincing, but he finally concedes. Theres another girl there that is in the same boat. She said it got worse near the dome, where there is a very skinny walkway and people not moving much.

Cuh-rahp.

It's now or never. I calm myself down and start back in. I concentrate on my feet, counting each step, stopping at every open window to breathe the fresh air and look outside. I can do this. I can do this. With every step, I get more excited. I AM doing this! I get to the first stop, where dusty statues stand behind a metal gate. It's an open room, still dark... but more spacious.  I continue up, where the steps become a spiral stairwell, narrowing further. Then there is a short walkway, and an exit to the inside of the dome, where plexiglass and a very narrow walkway make traversing around the large cupola difficult as people try and squeeze by in both directions. Its breathtaking in more ways than one.


On the other side, another door, more stairs. Narrower passages as the ceiling beginning to slope in from the left.  When someone comes from the other direction, heading down, one must back up and wait in order to pass. 

Wait... not good in this situation. It makes me a wee bit queasy simply typing about it now.



Then there is a steep climb straight up and a hatch to crawl through into the sunlight on the top of the dome. The view is spectacular, with all of Florence on display in a 360 degree view. The wind is whipping at my hair and the hot pink scarf I've used to cover my bare shoulders inside the church, cooling the dampness from the climb. The sun beats down, and I am exhilarated for having looked at a very real fear and literally climbed through it to the other side. I take a self portrait to commemorate the occasion. 


Yes, yes... I know I have to go back down. Just give me a second to enjoy the breeze, will you?

When I get back and find mom, we circle the wagons to collect our things, stopping for one last gelato on the way out of dodge. Laden with all our belongings, a horrible thought comes to mind -- it's effing siesta. The mailbox place will be closed. Is closed. Thankfully, when they see us standing outside ready to waiting the hour and a half until they are back in business, they open the door and allow us to keep our luggage inside while we go to the post office and grab lunch. There ends up only being time for the former. Between the post office and Mailboxes, Etc., we have now single-handedly saved Italy's economy from ruin. 

We curtsy. 

This next part shocks the hell out of me. I buy train tickets at the automated machine. I figure out which train to get on. We arrive in Venice where I buy water taxi passes for three days. I get us on and off the taxi and to our next abode -- all without a hitch. Our luck is definitely improving! Before I get too far, I have to say how utterly amazing it is to get off the train and see the canal right there. The buses on water. It's not really believable, so I'm sort of convinced we are in Disneyland. This thesis is proven further by the fact that we both feel like big mice wandering through the maze of streets. 

This might take some getting used to, or I could get used to this. 

Whichever.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

The Office -- Scuzi, I mean the Uffizi

We got up early to head to the Uffizi. I've downloaded Rick Steves walking tour of a the museum onto my iPad, so we will see how well that works out. Mom and I both brought our iPods, but they won't charge here for some reason. We have reservations at 8:15 AM, which I called Italy on Skype to make. What it translates into is paying extra to avoid standing in line. Money spent wisely, right? 

We still stand in line.

After picking up the tickets, we head into Palazzo Vecchio for a quick bite to eat. A croissant and coffee, sanding up at the bar. This is very Italian. I've been marveling this whole trip about how they pop into little patisseries to grab a cup of coffee on the go -- but they don't get it to go like we do at Starbucks. They saddle up to the counter and lean, downing tiny cups of pure caffeine in 2.5 seconds. Then they're off, as my best friend would say -- like a herd of turtles. Nobody moves fas around here. It's quite a contradiction. 



Back at the museum, we plug Rick in and climb to the top level of the museum. Poor mom... she has really grown to loathe stairs and I think this is the fourth floor. The art is amazing. The tour walks you from pre through post Renaissance, demonstrating with the works the difference in dimension that was achieved in that timespan. Michelangelo, da Vinci, Durer, Botticelli, Raphael, Titian... room upon room of stunning brush stroke and evolving realism by all the masters. I am so crushed to find the Tribuna, the octagonal room at the Uffizi that is like a work of art itself, being restored. That means we miss seeing the Venus 'de Medici. Not that I need a reason to come back... though this is as good as any.

Afterward, we pop into a few shops. Let me be more concise. Mom points to something in a window. I try and be patient. Following her in while bluntly explaining that I am done shopping and she has five minutes. It typically ends with me helping her pick a color. And getting cranky. I am in Florence. Florence. Cultural mecca of the world. Fine, maybe it is the shopping mecca, too, but the David is naked, right? Who needs clothes to look good?

My next stop is Santa Croce Church. The Piazza of the same name is teeming with stalls of vendors hawking their wares, but I am somehow able to get mom inside. This place is my undoing. Interned here are Michelangelo, Dante, Machiavelli and Galileo (though not all of him... the Science Museum has his finger, apparently)... so many great minds. I can't explain why, but being under the same roof as these men is very awe inspiring and a bit overwhelming. You a lifetime learning about these men, how they influenced and shaped the world, and here they are. I remember visiting Mahatma Gandhi's tomb in India, Paul Revere's in Boston, Benjamin Franklin's in Philly, Lincoln's memorial in DC -- all great men whose impact on history is tangible -- but the reaction was just different. Maybe it was easier to process one at a time. The awesomeness of all these men under one roof was really something. I wish I could do the experience justice. I think mom believes I've lost it. 


We take up our hostess Gaia's suggestion about a place for lunch between Piazza San Lorenzo and Piazza Mercato Centrale, called Tratorria Mario. We are again seated at a table for four with what appears to be a man and his daughter, or a man and his inappropriately aged girlfriend. He's Florentine, and very nice to help us navigate the menu. We order Ribollita, a traditional soup made of leftover vegetables and stale bread. It is remarkable.  Next, it's Farouz  uostrele or nostrele lardelleta al forgo, which is SOME BIRD with slices of crispy lard and olives. It is like crack, only slightly outdone by the Filetto Di Nizuto or Uzuto... The beef filet we also order. It's like filet mignon on yum steroids. My mouth is making promises my legs can't keep and my ass will pay for in size. I need to work out.

Sure, walking 10 hours a day is a decent workout. And carrying 500 pounds of freaking luggage also helps. I miss my routine a little. That's all I'm saying.

So let's have gelato, shall we? Mom is dying to go to Piazza San Marco, which is near a place she's earmarked as a must visit for gelato. I won't go into detail, but it is by far the worst gelato we've had. The piazza is also a bit of a disappointment... reminds me of Campo de Fiore in Rome. Not a lot there. Maybe wrong time of day, or as Mom admits, it could be the wrong city. We will try again in Venice. 

On the way back home, Mom spots a large leather duffel bag in a shop window. We end up going in and having a lovely conversation with the lady who owns the shop and stitches a lot of the wares there herself. It's nice to have a break from the guys on the street telling you how they have the best, most high quality leather. Special price for you, Madame. She explains how leather "works" in Florence, that anybody can stamp anything. They have stopped using the traditional "I Medici" stamp because so many fakes have this on it. When the price is low in the market for something stamped with that, but made in China, it becomes hard to compete. Her shop has its own stamp now. She also shows us how a bag changes over time. The ones on the shelf are stiff. I would never have bought one, but the one she shows us that she's been using for two months is more broken in, and the one that is six years old is gorgeous she debs her nail across the leather, which makes me gasp, then rubs it out with water. She says some use milk, or just oil from your hands, it was really cool. And the answer is yes. Neither of us leave without something. Or things.

We drop stuff off at the apartment and head back out toward Boboli Gardens, only to find the closed. Boo. A little further is Piazza Michelangelo. Mom is tired, and walking slowly as we follow the path of the Arno River. It's a complete role reversal as she asks me repeatedly, "Are we there yet?" 

No... and don't you make me pull this car over.

A car is what she wishes we had as we cross through the medieval city walls towed the hill where the bronze replica of the David lives with what is supposed to be the most amazing view of Florence. We get to the base of stairs that literally lead up s far as you can see. I take my comments about the Cinque Terre back... THIS is the stairway to heaven. I look back and mom is standing there, hands on her hips, looking like she wants to be sick. I walks back and tell her it's getting dark. I want to get a panoramic shot before it gets too dark. She's not happy. Not about me, mind you, about the stairs. I suggest a cab. She says she will just take her time as I start my ascent. 

When I get to the second set of stairs... the ones you can't even see from where we began, I figure mom is going to kill me either way -- whether she has to climb, or wait -- so I keep going. The view from the top is so spectacular. When I arrive, the sun has just set casting pink and purple hues I to the sky, staining the clouds in their glorious pastels. You can literally see everything from here: the outline of the ancient walls we've just passed through, the Ponte Vecchio and the Arno winding under and then through the city, the Duomo, rising spectacularly in the middle of it all. It is amazing. I snap a few pictures as quickly as I can, then run back to collect mom from the bottom of the hill. To my surprise, she's made it to the top. Tough girl. She can't breathe and she's hurt her knee, but where she is, she can't see what I've seen. I coax her over, and though still mad, tired and in a bit of pain, she softens. 

That amazing.


After a glass of wine bought from a street vendor and some lovely music, we hail a cab and head back to Piazza Santo Spirito. We have dinner at the same place we did last night. Mom orders the Riboletta, which is just as good as this afternoon and with lots of spinach, and I got the X-rated mac 'n cheese. Decidedly unoriginal. I don't care -- it was that damn good. 

 Gnocchi Part 2 is not disappointing. 

Monday, September 26, 2011

I eat, therefore I am...

It's 9:00 PM, and we're waiting for a table at Osteria Santo Spirito, located in the piazza of the same name. The apartment where we are staying is nearby, and I have a feeling after all the walking we did today, we won't be awake long when we return there. 

There are a few things I am curious about in Florence. 

First... the concentration of decent looking men has increased exponentially. I might attribute this to the fact that everyone here is much better dressed than elsewhere in Italy. The perception may also be skewed by a gaggle of what we assumed were male models, all dressed in black outside the new Gucci museum in Piazza della Signoria (consequently, the square where the bonfire of the vanities too place in 1497), which opens to the public Wednesday. They were rolling out black carpets in preparation for a fashion show. This was odd... a small Asian man with thick grey hair in shoes with no socks and the cuffs of his trousers all rolled up was standing out front. Not chic. At all. But the sole photographer on the scene was taking pictures of him. 

Second... how on God's green earth is it possible to ride a bicycle in a skin tight skirt and stiletto heels? I am absolutely perplexed by this, but these Italian women totally rock it. I may have to try and start a trend back home in Washington D.C., though I am unconvinced it will look as cool on one of the city's red share bikes. The old school ones here with the big basket are pretty sweet.

Third... how can you walk into a leather store here, see a price tag on a jacket that makes you a little queasy... say 1100 euros. Without any haggling necessary, they offer you a special price -- just for you -- of 750 euros. But señora, the price is still falling. The jacket is now 450 euros. Why can't the price just be the price?

Fourth... and this doesn't pertain JUST to Florence. No matter where we are, no matter the time of day, the weather or the cost... there are a few items mom will buy. The list includes: tissues, toilet paper, umbrellas (we now have three), and flashlights. She wants me to mention that we don't have a flashlight yet, but HAVE used all the tissues she bought in Sorrento. Regardless, she can not, nor will not -- under any circumstances --stop talking about these things. I swear. Repeatedly.

Five... also applies to the lot of Italy, but whatever. People here cannot help but do two things. One is not watch where they are walking. I am 5'11", and if I had a euro for every person that has walked directly into me since I've been here, I could have bought that damn coat mentioned two graphs ago at full price. And the other is the smoking. Im sorry to bring this up again, but they smoke while eating. While riding bikes. I think these people even smoke in their sleep. And they like to share their addiction with you, blowing it in your face while YOU are eating. I really hate smoke... it's disgusting. That said, for the first time tonight, the couple seated at the table next to us got up and moved to smoke while we finished our dinner. They get the patron saint of today award.


We walked around for about ten hours today. Lots of little shops, market stalls, wandering the back streets of Florence. No map, no destination -- it was really nice and leisurely. I admit, though, that I am getting tired of shopping. I threaten to go to a museum and leave mom to it. She says she's been saving her euros to spend here. Look, I wanted to support the economy of the entire country -- not just Firenze! The strap on her brand new purse broke, which was a bit of a nightmare. We went back to the store and they asked us to leave the purse and come back later. I made it pretty clear they needed to replace it and that she needed a loaner while we were out for the day. They did alright, getting her a different, but equally nice replacement later in the day when we stopped back. The guy lost no time in trying to sell me a coat, too. I told him I was looking forward to having kids AND sending them to college, thus couldn't afford it.

We asked the guy in a store where mom picked up the third umbrella for a lunch recommendation -- somewhere he would actually eat lunch, without tourists. He suggested Trattoria Le Mossacce. This is my favorite place we've eaten in Italy so far. The place is tiny... like a walk in closet. We are sitting directly next to the kitchen area, which is about as big as a postage stamp. It's like having ring side seats at the food circus. The gas stove is piled high with silver pots, simmering their various scents into the air. We are seated at the same table as two other people, one seems to be a carabinieri. He is eating tortellini. Mom says it's because they look like little doughnuts. She also mentions never having eaten with a man with a gun. Hardy har har. 


We order Fettuna, which is on the antipasti menu. No idea what this is, but I'm feeling adventurous. When it arrives, it's crack masquerading as grilled bread. I think they rub it in garlic and douse it in olive oil. Now this will kill you. I think this bread and oil is the best thing I've eaten in Italy. Go figure. We also order the tortellini, roast chicken (Pollo Arrosto), and white beans in olive oil (Fagioli All'Uccelletto). All were decadent. I would ear here again... like tomorrow.

We started a ruckus later in the day when we went in to another leather store to price check the coat mom got. The guy where we bought it said he would give it to her free if she found it cheaper anywhere else in Florence. That's my kind of mission. He tells us 750 euros and then proceeds to show us a few other things, with very special discounts JUST for us, until I mention that we got a better deal elsewhere. When we tell him how much, his colleague comes over and starts yelling about how they copied the coat, it isn't good quality, they won't stand behind their product. It was really offensive. The guy trying to sell us stuff says something about how the color may be painted on. Mom is looking a little down at that point, which pisses me off. I told him that was enough, that making her feel bad about her purchase was inappropriate. We left. Without buying anything, I might add.

Maybe we should just eat. This shopping, museums, blah, blah, blah... FOOD is something we've become exceptionally good at.

At dinner, we've ordered Sformatino Di Zucca Gialla Con Besciamella Al Formaggio, or pumpkin flan with béchamel sauce. The texture is like a ricotta mousse, a little textured, but creamy and savory. It's sharp, but smooth, and totally yummy. Next up is Involtini Di Bresaola Con Caprino Al Basilico, or paupiettes de fresh goat cheese with basil rolled in cured beef. You know those little ham and cream cheese rolls with green onions that make such damn fine party appetizers? Thats the YMCA, and this is the country club. Then -- as if we could resist -- Gnocchi Gratinati Ai Formaggi Morbidi Al Profumo Di Tartufo, which loosely translates into a mouthgasm. Ok, fine. It's gnocchi with a soft cheese   gratinee and truffle oil, which I would liken to the rated R version of macaroni and cheese. Or maybe triple X.

Do you think the airline will charge more for ME if I weigh more on the way home?

And we have eye candy...

With Internet literally in our room, I have eye candied the blog. Peppered throughout e posts, you will now find pics they aren't edited, and on the iPad, they look gargantuan. Hopefully you'll get the idea... and enjoy!

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Silence Of The Lambs

WineTown 2011. We came, we saw... we drank our pants off.

Ok, that's an exaggeration. For 15 euros each, we bought two wine cards which included 6 credits. It cost one credit to buy a glass, which seems ridiculous. Why not just give people a plastic cup? A sippy cup would be awesome. We are each issued a bib complete with pocket to wear around our necks to hold said wine glass. So this means there are dozens of winos walking around Florence with a glass around their neck, meandering past Fendi, Gucci and Prada. I find this funny.

It takes a long time to get each glass, because in Italy, everything takes a long time. I suppose we aren't in much of a hurry. I just have bistecca on the brain and am looking forward to a non-pasta meal of dead cow. Sorry... steak. I am a carnivore, after all, and Florence is known for doing bistecca well. 

I digress. Back to my other love... wine. The "tasting rooms" were located all over town, winding us from Palazzo Gianfigliazzi to the Doumo, staged in all these darling little courtyards. There are musicians playing in each, including the Italian version of Sinatra, complete with wing tip shoes (mom says they are called spatz) and a fedora. We try a bunch of different kinds of wine, but I am only sold on two -- a white, the Selvabianca Vernaccea De San Gimignano 2010, and a red, the Castellaccio Toscana 2007. I really love those Supertuscans.


Mom has decided to visit every leather store in Italy. Oh, wait... she's correcting me now -- every wine store in Florence. At the last one of the evening, she hits the jackpot. Or maybe the owner does. She finds a stunning red leather reversible jacket that just looks amazing on her. If I didn't know better, I'd say it was her "romantic" color. It's lamb skin. Madame. The guy in the shop is trying to sell me on it, from where i sit in a red velvet chair in the center if the shop. Ok, princepessa. Mom also finds a purse and a little something for my brother, which I won't reveal here, in case he's reading the blog. Which I doubt. Highly. 

The gentleman at the store offers a suggestion for a non-touristy place down the street for dinner with good bistecca. It is here at Trattoria "Roberto" that I learn another valuable Italian lesson. Know your measurement conversions before you order a kilogram of steak. 

It is entirely too much. 


Right now, we are sitting in a little pub beyond the Ponte Vecchio bridge called Friends. I know, the irony is not lost on me. How American. I am drinking a Harp and watching Italian futball on television. Mom is drinking an Irish coffee. There is a Brit hitting on me. How international of us.

Tomorrow, she says she's going to climb the dome of the duomo with me. That's 463 steps. She says she may end up going home in a body bag.

Would this be an inappropriate time to mention how much I like that red coat of hers?

Driving to Drink

I can't say enough good things about A Durmi and the sisters running the place -- Cinzia and Elisa. This morning, another great recommendation as I'm settling up our bill and leaving the girls and their mother a small gift of jewelry mom has made. I ask for the name of the treat their mother made on the day of our arrival in the wood fire oven. She tells me  
Torta D'Erbe, then suggests a tiny place down the street to pick up some for our journey. I venture out to find Pasta Fresca.

The name of the place is actually "La Pastaia." They don't speak a lick of English, but somehow I communicated what I would like (supposedly the same as Torta Pasqualina, though the latter has more layers.) Sadly, the Torta D'Erbe won't be ready until noon. I plan to try making it at home. Cinzia said, when looking for recipes, include the name if the county --  Ligure -- as it is made differently by region. She also advises skipping the egg if the recipe calls for it. At the shop, another of her suggestions is available... Torta Di Riso. Recipes for this should also include "Salata", as it can be made differently from one side of the street to the next. It's like a thin pie made with rice. I order that, and also some veal meatballs and Verdure Ripene -- stuffed vegetables. I choose eggplant, but there are also onion and bell peppers.

Before we leave, Cinzia makes a gift to us of jam made by her aunt. She says it is made with grapes not used for wine and cautions us that her aunt is "mad" at making jam. She is too cute.

The ride to Florence is rather uneventful. Mom reads to me from this books about finding your personal color palate, including your essence, romantic and dramatic colors. My essence is falling asleep at the wheel. Thankfully, we make it in one piece, and magnate to fill the gas tank up without too much of an intervention. Hertz? What can I say. The reservation is completely screwed up, but I explain what has happened and tell him about the issues in Rome, the problems with the navigation system, and that I have detailed photos of the entire car and a list of names so I can write a letter to the company when I get home. He's a doll. Refunds us nearly 100 euros for the navigation system and from what we can tell, fixes the reservation. We can deal with the rest later. Alessio, you have just earned the patron saint award of today. Congrats.

I'm liking Florence already.

We hop in a cab and get to Via Della Chiesa to meet our next host, Luca's, sister Christine. The apartment is lovely, and we again have a marvelous balcony overlooking the terra cotta tiled rooves below. And I get to be a princess again with these dramatic tall ceilings. We spread lunch out on the bed and laze about in the sun, munching and unpacking for an hour or so. We hear tell there's a wine festival in town... so the siesta won't last long.

Please tell me that doesn't surprise you.

Saturday, September 24, 2011

You say toh-may-to, I say toh-mah-to...

KAREN:
First we went up a hill to get to the train. Then we went up steps to get to the track. Then we got to sit down and catch our breath and take a swig of water before the next train arrived. Then we got on the train and got to sit for another twenty minutes, sharing one seat for part of the ride while Amy flirted with a little boy. When the train stopped, we were forced into a decision -- do we take the steep hill into town, or tackle the step? The decision is made for us by the call of mother nature. The bathroom is uphill, but Amy tells me not to go. I thought it over, and reconsidered. Though I am getting really good at peeing standing up, I must have a spotless environment in which to do so. This is the hardest thing I've learned in Italy. 

AMY:
After missing train number one, we sit in the station where mom offers me a croissant. I have just eaten, but whatever. Is this supposed to be elevensies? I score mom a seat on the train and perch on the arm rest, apologizing to the little boy who's mother has given away his seat, teasing him about sitting in my mom's lap, too. When we get to one of the end towns of the Cinque Terre -- Riomaggiore -- I've really got to go to the bathroom. I'm thrilled when we find one at the top of the hill in town. Not so much when I go inside. It's a floor toilet, meaning a basin flat on the floor with places to put your feet on either side. I'm used to these style toilets from India, but sadly, this smells a bit like India, too. No toilet paper. No soap. No towels. Thank God for mom and her hand wipes. I advise her to hold it.

KAREN: 
We wander into a focaccia place and share a great piece of mascarpone fig, our newfound Italian treat. It doesn't matter what it as on it or in it, just another way these people have wormed their way int my heart... and added to my girth. Have they no shame? 

AMY:
If I eat any more bread, I am going to vomit. 


KAREN: 
No putting it off -- time to hike. I have to admit, I almost hyperventilate when I see the stairs to the trail. I've developed a slight twitch in my eye when I see stairs now. Finally we arrive at the summit and hand the man our ticket. We head out on a mostly level walk that hugs the cliff face, keeping our eyes out for the locks. We start seeing a few here and there. Mostly padlocks. And then, at one turn, we start seeing them in clusters along with bags and toys and trinkets... and tampons. I can't believe someone poor deluded soul thinks their love will stay together by tying one of those on a fence. When we looked over the railing, people were sunbathing on the rocks and swimming in the Mediterranean. This can be quite interesting in a country where speedos are prevalent. Not that we saw anybody that looked good in a speedo, but it did prove to be interesting people watching.  


AMY:
I've been so excited about this part of the trip. This part of the trail is known for lovers, and at most every turn, there's a couple with their tongues down each other's throats. The path from Riomaggiore to Manarola is called the Via Dell'Amore -- which means roughly, "Lovers Walk". People write their names on wall lining the paved route and seal their eternal love by placing 'The Lover's Lock' somewhere on the trail. The custom was inspired by the film Tre Metri Sopra il Cielo. At one point, there is a couple placing a lock he has had engraved with their names. Very cute. Guy in speedos? Not so much.


KAREN: 
Toward the end of the trail, I left my mark on the wall. Since there was a loose piece laying there, I thought, well -- this should come home with me. As I was confessing this to Amy, I was dive bombed by a pigeon, leaving a fowl taste in my mouth. Along the lines of chicken. Speaking of, lunch was at a nice little place close to the water where we could watch them lowering the boats down on a winch and watch people jumping off the jagged rocks into the water, sending sounds of laughter and water splashing high into the air above. 

AMY: 
Mom's crime spree across Italy continues. It started with a roll of toilet paper smuggled out of the place where the flute concert was in Montepulciano. Now, she's slipped a piece of the Cinque Terre into her purse. After she has a Hitchcock-esque moment with a bird toward the end of the trail, I suggest it's and omen for her to leave the stone behind. She does. We have a little seaside lunch before mom heads to the ferry and I continue the hike, only to find the path is closed between Manarola and Corniglia. I double back and sit at the train station baking in the sun for an hour. I'm snoozing a bit, which is likely a direct result of boozing a bit at lunch.

KAREN:
Waiting twenty minutes on a small outcropping of rocks in the sun with a hundred other people made me feel like a flock of pelicans on the jetty, waiting for the fishing boats to come in. It was hot and crowded, and when the ferry arrived, the guy told everyone to get in a single file line. The crowd broke out in laughter. The ride was beautiful, and not long enough. I was looking up, trying to imagine where Amy was on the trail. When I get off the train in Montorosso, I'm not sure which way to go. All there are are steps and hills. I choose hills, do a little shopping, and pick up a lemon gelato before heading back to the train. What amazed me while waiting for the train, here in Italy, where they are famous for their gelato, eating vending machine ice cream cones. How odd. I make it back to the hotel and hope in the shower. First one in gets the hot water.

AMY: 
The trail from Corniglia to Vernazza is a heck of a climb. There are at least a hundred steps from the train station just to get to the trail. Mom would have had a coronary. I'm rocking the Vibrams, which I have to say, have proven a killer way to start a conversation in Italy. But on all these rocks, they are also killing my feet a little. So comfortable... like walking barefoot, then a jagged rock leaves me wincing.


Wincing almost as much as the American sorority girl pack singing "99 Bottles of Beer On The Wall" on the trail just ahead of me. Much of the trail makes me think I have now earned both my "Stairway To Heaven" and "Billygoat" Girl Scout badges. I'm super sweaty and dying for a swim. I planned to do the next leg as well, which has about 750 steps, but it is getting late in the day and I am supposed to meet mom at 6:30 PM for the train back to Levanto. As you know, she's already back enjoying a hot shower as I sit waiting at the station. Best laid plans.


BOTH: 
At the suggestion of A Durmi's hostesses with the mostess... We are having dinner at a campground tonight. I know that sounds weird, but they say it is inexpensive, good food, and very traditional. Again, they do not fail to steer our course in the right direction. We share Gettafin, a traditional Levanto dish described as fried ravioli, but I would liken more to an Indian pakora filled with a spinach mixture. It is very good. Then we have a mozzarella and gorgonzola calzone and lasagna. Everything is amazing, except the wine... which mom says tastes like vinegar. Even the tiramisu rivals some of the more expensive places we've been.

Time to pack. It's off to Florence tomorrow, and lucky us -- another trip to Hertz. when we looked at the contract to see what time we need to have the car back. It says we were supposed to return it on the 19th. I'm not even going to comment.

And hopefully, I won't land in jail tomorrow for stealing the car. 

Friday, September 23, 2011

Vitamin D & Free The Ta-Ta's

I love Levanto. 

It is amazing to me how each place in Italy can be more intoxicating than the one before. We have again had a lovely day, which started for me with tea on the patio, checking email while mom showered. I can't tell you how much more convenient it is to have Internet right outside the room... I was actually able to Skype last night. Contact with the outside world is good.

We headed out to wander about town, stopping first in a patisserie to pick out something that looked visually appealing and hoping for the best when it came to taste. Mom gets a croissant with some sort of apricot jam and I end up with a tiny delicious apple pie. I think it had raisins in it, too. Whatever it was -- I am sure it will go straight to my ass. Things that taste that good usually do.

Next we stop in a few little shops, where I use my birthday euros from mom to buy a gorgeous ring. Then she's in heaven after walking into another shop to pay for a postcard, only to realize it's a bead store. I ask if I should come back in a few hours, but apparently, she couldn't hear me over the angels singing.

Amazingly, all this relaxation is making us hungry. That, or the fact that the gal at the bed and breakfast raved so much about the town's focaccia that we can't get it out of our heads. We ask a guy where mom buy stamps to tell us where to get the best, and his reply is independent verification of the place we've already been told -- 7 Oblo. He also gives us a runner up, and naturally, we decide to try both. The second is okay, but 7 Oblo is unbelievable. We have one plain cheese, and one with cheese, tomato and olive. I actually haven't enjoyed focaccia in the States, but Dorothy... we're not in Kansas anymore. This is so damn good. 


Mom wants to see the medieval part of town, so we walk over to where our hostess has indicated on the map she gave us a check in that would be. We run into a wall that looks about as medieval as it gets, spot a path, and start climbing. There are all these narrow little corridors that jut off the main drag to explore. And when say drag, I am referring to the incredibly uneven and rough stone road. It would be a total drag to drive any manner of vehicle on it. It's hard enough to walk on, let alone UP. Mom's lung capacity isn't good on a good day, making this is some sort of medieval torture, I'm sure. Regardless, it is stunning, and the steps we find at the top that finally head down deposit us steps from the beach. Mom rents a chair and umbrella, while I head off to rent a bike. We've been told about these abandoned train tunnels that lead through the next two towns over, and I am  dying to check it out. 


Foiled again. Of course, it's after 12 and everything is locked up tighter than a drum. I will never get used to siesta. I circle back to the beach and pull up a chair. I'm happy to see tops are optional. When in Levanto... 

There are stones leading to the water's edge as there were in Capri, but in so many different colors. I bend down to pick out a few and soon have a handful. It reminds me of being a little kid. In Florida, my grandfather had a huge sand scoop. He would wade in, pulling treasure troves of muck to entertain my brother and I when we were little. He would sift out the sand in the water and pile heaps of ocean floor in front of us. We would squeal to find sand fleas trying to dig their way back to safety, sorting through the wetness to find pretty shells and sharks teeth. I got really good at spotting the sharks teeth, but grandpa would marvel even when we would just hold up a fragment, a dark shard of nothing. This is one of my fondest memories as a child, and maybe why, at the age of thirty-seven, you can still find me squatting by the waves, picking pretty treasures from the surf.

The rocks stop right past the water line, giving way to heavy, soft sand. The  water feels great and it's so clear that even waist-deep I can still see the ridges of the sand formed by water swirling over. I lean back, let my arms and legs go limp, and give the rest of my stress to the sea.

After a few hours, mom heads back to the room while I go to rent that bike. The ride is about 10 miles or so total. The first few tunnels are really dark, then I remember I have my sunglasses on. Even with them tucked into my basket, it's still not very bright, which makes the ride a tiny bit spooky in the long, mostly deserted tunnels. It is musty, damp, and very quiet. All you can hear is the sound of the bike tires connecting to the pavement, and in the open, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below. So exhilarating that I'm sure I am not doing the adventure justice here. I imagine what it would be like to do this with someone else -- a significant other. I'd like to come back here.


I drop the bike off and head back to get mom, but not before stopping off for some crack gelato. I've done it this time, gone and had something I cant resist telling you about. I've mixed pink grapefruit (actually sorbet) and vanilla. It is like an upscale creamsicle. So mother-loving good. Speaking of, she's curled up in bed when I get back.

I stop at a travel agent to buy our train tickets for tomorrow, but hold off at the last minute. I just have a funny feeling that mom and I may be on the same page. How right I am. She has already bought the tickets and had almost the exact same gelato... vanilla and orange. I jump in the shower and we head out to this darling little place called Le 3 Cantine for dinner. We start with Bruchetta Com Fonduta Di Formaggi, or cooked cheese with bruschetta. My eyes roll back in my head and I literally want to kiss the woman that owns the place. What the hell do they put in this stuff? I mean, it's just fricking cheese and bread! 

For dinner, I have Tagliolini Neri Agli Scampi, a.k.a. black tagliatelle pasta with shrimp. The shrimp are served whole and have claws -- I have never seen claws on shrimp before. Frankly, I wasn't sure what the heck to do with the damn thing. The matriarch mermaid, my grandmother, would be eating bits that would make me want to gag a little, sucking every bit of shrimpy goodness from the shells. I'll stick with the tail. Mom even offers me one of her lobster legs, which I decline. I'm just not that in to seeing the entire thing I'm eating on the plate, let alone sucking meat out of it's legs. I know that's graphic, but eeeewww...

Before we fall asleep, mom asks me how many rolls of toilet paper we have used since we've been here. She means the entire time in Italy. I ask why on earth that matters. She replies it would be interesting to know. 

Only to someone with a toilet paper fetish. 

Guess what I'm getting her a big old box of for Christmas?

Thursday, September 22, 2011

For The Love Of... Beer

I think every time we come to a new place I fall in love with Italy a little more. Perhaps I am sinking in, more and more, to the relaxation only a month off can afford. Or maybe it is that, in my absence, things at home are going so well. All I can say is molto benne... very good. 

When we arrive in Levanto, it is nearly 4:30 PM. We arrive in the center of town with only the name of the street and no address for A Durmi, the B & B we will be staying at the next few nights. When we first get to the general area we believe it to be, I'm alarmed. Mom has picked this place, and it looks a bit sketchy in the middle of a highly populated area.

I am so wrong... and happy to admit it. 

The place she's picked has the loveliest courtyard, which our room opens onto. There is a small pergola covered with trumpet flowers. Also, a lovely brick oven, and despite our run of luck -- today is baking day. The mother of the girls who run the place, Chiara and Elisa, is making bread. It smells like heaven and I'm trying to figure out how to ask her for a taste that won't make me come off like a crazy person. 

Please, ma'am, my I have some more?


Anyway, we check in and Elisa gives us the most thorough overview of the area that we are left literally stunned. She sells us, completely, despite our desire to see Lucca and Pisa, on sticking around to enjoy the charms of this medieval town. On one hand, we have the Cinque Terre, which promises amazing hiking between five small villages overlooking the ocean. Then there are bike baths through abandoned tunnels that reach beach towns less travelled. 

What. To. Do.

Well, is guess we should start by opening a bottle of white. I sent home about 18 bottles today and needed to select one to enjoy during the next week or so. Melanie from Munich wins again. It's that special bottle that we carry out onto the patio, under the pergola, to join Joy and Burt from Portland, Oregon. 

They are absolutely the love loveliest people we have met on this sojourn. They've just completed a week-long bicycling tour of Tuscany, and have nothing but good things to say about it. I have been watching the cyclists with every bit of envy, and it is nice to hear from some real folks about how the adventure truly is. They are celebrating their 40th wedding anniversary, and sadly, leaving for another part of Italy tomorrow. We talk for over and hour, and I can say quite confidently, that they are just darling. And not only because they know what NPR is, although that goes a long way!

And by the way, the mother of this place comes by with a sample of what she has just pulled out of the oven, and then proceeds to give Joy and I a brief tour of her garden. Oh, thank heaven for the lovely hospitality of the Italian people.

We have made reservations for a place known for seafood, and they do not disappoint... except for a small issue with price. What I order is seven euros, but there is also this small word near the price... "hectogram." Franky, I have no idea what a hectogram is, and when we get the bill, we learn that it is about four times the seven euro listed, as my dish is now 28 euro. Ugh. I ask the woman at the front, and she says this is already easily discounted. Here's the thing... it was amazing. One of the best meals I have ordered in Italy. But -- it was more than I wanted, and more than I planned to spend. I hate this sort of thing. It puts a bad taste I my mouth, which must promptly be alleviated with gelato. 

I choose chocolate fondant and tiramisu. And yes, I am such a tease I won't tell you more... 

I drop mom off at the room and grab my iPad and a few euros to head to the local  watering hole, Gambrinus Pub, where I order a pint of G. Manabrea e Figli from Biella. It's an amber, brewed there since 1846. So delicious. And now... bottle of wine at hotel, half bottle at dinner, I feel maybe it is time for me to call it a night. 

Maybe. 

On the road... Again

Mom is sick now, too. Ugh. Aren't we a pair?

We enjoyed some old French cafe music and a little breakfast with the doors open to the patio. It is another sunny day here. I can't actually believe we have had only one day of rain -- knock on wood. It did get very cold once we got to the higher elevation, from about 95 to 65. We need to layer. If yesterday's market was any indication, the Italians are masters at layering. All of the displays looked incredibly stylish, with tanks and frilly sweaters cinched with fancy belts, the look completed with a scarf and chic bag. 

Mmmmm... being a girl is good.

Being a bee is not. I kind of feel bad for these guys. They won't survive in here and the place will be locked up for several days. Our hostess called yesterday to say that one of her next guests has been hospitalized and they are heading home. THAT would suck. So, the bees need to get themselves back outside. I opened the window and a few of them have flown the coop, but these other guys aren't too bright.

It's to the wine store this morning to pick up a few more bottles and ship our growing liquified grape addiction back home. Did I mention how unbelievably sweet this store is? With the card I mentioned the other day, you walk around this cavernous winos wet dream where stations dedicated to all kinds of wine can be found. There's Brunello, Chianti, and Supertuscan, to name a few. The Supertuscan is my fave. It's the regions only variety where all manner of production is not tightly controlled, giving the winemaker a chance to shine by creating something special. In my opinion, it's the bling of Tuscan wine -- and you know how I feel about bling.

At each station. There are about 20 bottles hooked up to an aeration system. You pop your card in, the buttons light up above each bottle. You make your selection, the card is debited, and the wine dispensed. 

Speaking of dispensers... twice now I've seen condom dispensers on the street. I've also noticed that rather than being hidden in the back of the farmacia, a huge assortment of condoms and lubes are prominently displayed. Either Italians are not as repressed as Americans about sex, or they are getting a LOT of it and this stuff needs to be easy to grab and go. 


We pack up the car and punch in our next destination... Levanto. But should there be a few wineries and olive oil places along the way, we've got nowhere to be at any particular time.

Vacations are a good thing.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

If at first you don't succeed -- buy, buy again...

What a great day today! 

Wow. I really hope that statement didn't make you fall off your chair. We are in Italy, after all, and really -- how can you help but have great days in the Land of Oz? But don't worry, there's always so e sort of craziness included in our daily adventures. Today is no exception.

We followed the incredibly curvaceous road into Siena with an idea of where we wanted to go, but no real clue as to how to get there. The market, we were told, is near the bus terminal. I decided to follow the numerous signs toward the center of town and the bus we are close behind. Voila -- we find the market AND parking right across the  street. As mom is complimenting me on my amazing parking karma, I get a weird feeling that this was all too easy. I ask a carabinieri (that's pig -- oh, I mean police!-- in Italian), who tell me parking is for residents. We hop back in and head toward the direction he points, which consequently is about an hour walking distance straight uphill toward the nearest public parking.

Puh-lease. We circle back in the Panda and find another great spot a few hundred meters from the market entrance. We will take our chances. 

The  market is awesome. There are food stands when you first start in, with fresh vegetables, meats and cheeses, fish, and fried foods of all kinds. We pass through and on to the clothing stands, where socks, underwear, affordable and designer Italian fashions are heaping on racks and tables everywhere. Mom picks up a few scarves, including a really gorgeous designer one. I find an adorable and very cheap dress, so I do the only natural thing and buy it in two colors. I also discover a stunning and very expensive designer coat. Actually, for a good fall coat, I would probably spend $150 at home. This less than that... and marked down from 650 euros. Yes, I said 650. Those Milan designers, what can I say? So, when everyone gushes about how fabulous this jacket is back home, would it be misleading to say -- very nonchalantly, of course -- "Oh, it's from Milan"?

I just like the sound of that. 
 
We spend a good part of the afternoon wandering from stall to stall before looking at our non-existent watches and realizing it's time to head back. Getting out of the shopping maze is a bit challenging, but we manage and even stop to pick up some fried vegetables, polenta and calamari on the way to the car. 

The car with the big fat ticket on it. 

Not cheap, and definitely not clear how we are actually supposed to go about paying it. I tell mom we will deal with it after we return the car and can ask Hertz. Frankly, I'm a little worried about speeding tickets, too. Though I have been extremely careful, there are cameras everywhere (I will NEVER complain about DC again.) The GPS keeps telling us the speed limit, but it doesn't always seem to correspond with the posted speed. Or common sense, for that matter. If I took some of these curves at 90 kilometers per hour, we'd be off the road and sailing into never never land.

Speaking of the GPS... mom and I have been giggling our socks off the last few days. The voice is male and has a sort of Aussie accent. He definitely doesn't speak Italian very well and can't pronounce the street names to save his own electronic life. That, and the street names are like six words long. He starts out okay, then by the time he gets to the second word, he's just vomiting letters. It is really something to hear.

"In 200 meters, turn left on Via Contraaaaallllleeeeeeiaaaa Le Contraaaaallliiiaadddeentnneeeee Piaaaaannneee....."

Our next stop is San Gimignano. Hoping to make up for a bit of the fried foods and the copious amount of chocolate we bought in bulk at the market as "gifts", we stop at a darling little agriturismo on the way called Taverna di Bibbiano. We order a light lunch -- mom gets risotto with truffle (unbelievable) and I get a salad with pecorino cheese, pear and truffle. There are actually truffles cut up on top of the salad. 


Look, you are going to have to drag me kicking and screaming away from this place if these people keep feeding me truffles. I don't give a damn about the gelato, but I am freaking addicted to these damn truffles. They put them in honey. On salad. In sauce. Pizza. They even make chocolate sauce out of them. 

Kicking. And screaming.

San Gimignano, whose towers we could see in the distance from the terrace where we enjoyed lunch, is quite like Montepulciano. It's a quaint, walled city with all manner of shops lining the street. I think it may be a tad bit more expensive, but there are lovely finds to be had here, too. I also try and convince mom to go to the Torture and Death Penalty Museums with me, but she won't have any of it. They have over 100 instruments of execution, including the hanging cage, which can be seen in front -- free of charge. A little macabre, but we are talking Spanish Inquisition here. How cool is that? I will add this to my growing list for "next time" I'm in Italy.


I won't spend too much time, but I have to award the patron saint of today award. It goes to Antonio from Le Torri, a leather goods shop in town. My eye was drawn to the Tiffany blue snaps on these purses. Audrey Hepburn had the right idea with a steaming cup of something, a croissant... and a window into heaven. I love Tiffany. Now, the crow in me is a bit won over by the sparkle at Swarovski (thanks to you, lady D), but overall -- a bauble is a bauble, and I love being a girl in bling. And bling is what these purses are, and as Antonio explains, so much more. The snaps actually convert the purse from a satchel, to more of a triangle shape, then to a boxier version. There are short handles attached, and it comes with both a long and short shoulder strap. It's like six purses in one. 

Love.

Here is my only issue. I want three, but I settle for a mustard yellow colored one and a long conversation with Antonio about how to get more. That leads to a conversation about how to help him sell the bags in the United States. Purse party, anyone? Seriously... this bag is amazing. 

And it goes with my new jacket. 

This isn't why Antonio gets the coveted honor of the day. Antonio gives me money. Let me explain. Apparently, here is a duty free thing in Italy. Prices for goods include a VAT tax. If you spend more than 150 euros on and good (not valid for services), you get a special receipt. When you leave Italy, you take this to an office at the Airport and they give you money back on your purchases. I've been in Italy for a little more than two weeks now, and though I have not made many purchases of this dollar amount, I am very upset to have this be the first time a merchant has bothered to explain this. Ugh. 


It's a long drive back home in the dark with the twisty roads and hazards like a few fox (alive) and a wild boar (not so much)... yet, thankfully, we arrive in one piece. I am making some chicken with red pepper, sautéed bacon from the butcher and tomato sauce for dinner when I notice two bees on the window. I decide to leave them be. They are kind of nestled in together and I think maybe they are mating. I keep looking over my shoulder while I'm cooking to make sure they aren't coming for me -- mind you, I'm a foot away in this tiny kitchen -- and when I look again, there are not two, but ten. 

Did I mention I don't like bugs, much less ones that fly and can sting you?

That said, I'm a bit fascinated. They are kind of swarming together. I'm hoping they are simply cold or lonely and not planning some sort of sick midnight attack while we are sleeping. I've got a nervous eye on them as I wash the dishes and tidy up, but they don't seem to mind me at all. 

The feeling is definitely not mutual, you little bastards. So, just to be safe, as I flick off the light... I close the kitchen door behind me. 

I fully expect they will have turned the kitchen into a massive hive by morning.

At least I'll have honey for my tea, right?