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?

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? 
 

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.

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. 

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!

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.

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. 

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?

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.

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?

Wine, Sausage and Melanie from Munich

We are sticking close to home today, venturing in to Greve In Chianti (pronounced greh-vey), which is about 3 kilometers from here. There is a large wine shop with varietals from the entire region and a butcher that has been in business since the 1700's. 

Mom's couch adventure will last exactly one night. I'm not sure if that's because it's about two feet too short, or her fear of the long incredibly nasty looking black bugs that crawl under the door from the back yard. I have relocated several wasps that have made their way in to our humble abode through a unique catch and release program. This entails me screaming, scooping them up in a plastic bag while dancing around, tossing said bag out onto the porch and slamming the door. Dont worry, my love... I retrieve the plastic bags later so as not to add insult or injury to the beautiful surroundings.

Speaking of, the yard overlooks an olive grove and is situated atop a hill which provides an amazing view. The sunset last night was awesome, and I hope despite our creepy crawly and beastly winged neighbors to enjoy a meal out there before we leave. I bought gorgonzola pasta for one night and chicken for another. And eggs... picked up right off the shelf, unrefrigerated, with the yolks as dark yellow as I've ever seen them. Yum.

Our first stop -- finding an internet cafe. I send mom into a store to ask and she uses all her Italian words to discover that it is located right next door. Still, job well done. She is much better navigating than she gives herself credit for. Here is a hint I plan to remove from this post later... please send her an email or post on Facebook. I think she's a bit sad she hasn't heard much from folks. I keep reminding her we are in Italy, but I think she would love to get a note. Or several. 

Next up is La Cantine de Greve in Chianti. It is a massive wine store with tasting stations and a plethora of wine from all across Tuscany. We buy a card with 25 euros in credit on it. Tastings range, based on the price of the bottle, from ,60 euros to 12. We exhaust the card in about an hour, which means that by 12:30 PM -- mom and I are a wee bit hammered. Happy, but hammered. I've earmarked a few bottles to pick up before we leave this area on Wednesday. That way I can ship all the bottles home from here and take advantage of the discount you get on bottles when you ship, I think something like 16%. 

We venture out into the main square to pop into the shops that are open -- where I find this killer bracelet -- and then sit down in an open air cafe for lunch. We order pasta with truffle sauce (seriously, I can't get enough of this stuff) and possibly the worst bruschetta in all of Italy. Mom says it's my fault because I made her order it. I'm not saying anything, especially since she treats me to gelato afterward. 

Who can be mad while eating gelato?

Then we head to Antica Macelleria Falaroni, a butcher shop that has been in business since 1729. This place is amazing. I swear, if I could figure out how to smuggle meat back into the United States, I might risk jail for this mouthgasm. Yes -- that good. Sadly, despite my newfound old age, my boobs do not sag enough to hide a salami let alone a slab of proscuitto. Still, the meat hooks and cleavers hanging on every wall and the hind quarters lining the ceiling from Porky The Pig and his fifty cousins are quite entertaining. Mom is a bit grossed out by the bits of hair, but I'm fascinated by the hip bone sticking out the side and am dying to touch one. I don't think I should elaborate on the ecstasy I find myself in upon discovering the cheese cellar... 

I mean, this is a PG-13 blog after all.

We buy a few snacks and head to the car and then for home. Or not quite. Don't tell mom, but I'm driving in the wrong direction specifically so we can hit a few wineries on the way. The first one we stop in, Castello Vicchiomaggio, doesn't have wine I love necessarily, but they are sweet and one of the girls gives us an amazing tour. First we stop in the fields to learn a bit about the vines. They don't start harvesting them until they are five years old. When they are 45, they are destroyed. The older vines produce less grapes with more juice and these are used to make the reserve wine. She describes how you can tell what varietal the vine is from how the leaves look.

Then, it's on to the distillery, where she talks about the giant oak barrels, and how every few years, they have to pay someone to come in, crawl INSIDE these monstrous casks through a tiny hole, and scrape the insides to remove sediment. She has never been in one. Of course I asked. The smaller French Oak casks can only be used for a few years and cost 800 euros a piece. They can be used about twice. The trees used have to be a hundred years old and only the heart is used. I wish I could remember everything she was telling me, but sadly, we did the tour AFTER the tasting.

Next, we stopped at another winery -- Castello di Verrazzano. The woman behind the counter had the most unbelievably sour disposition. I am sure the people coming in and out of these places all day aren't fun, but lady... you sell wine for a living. Being more of a people person might increase profits. This theory is proven ten fold by the next place we stop, where Melanie from Munich is an absolute doll. She came to Italy to paint, but has made a little segeway, selling wine at Fattoria Di Calcinaia. The white is delicious, and we even manage to swallow the grappa without too much trouble (I am not convinced this stuff isn't actually made of turpentine), but it's her personality that is delicious... and we are drinking. There are some lovely folks from Tennessee in the shop when we arrive who have also had the same experience with the surly señora down the road, and we all have a really nice conversation about the importance of costumer service and smiling. Melanie has plenty of the later and is thus nominated as the patron saint of today. 

So here's the score... 

Castello di Verrazzano -- 0 bottles purchased
Fattoria Di Calcinaia -- 5 bottles purchased

Melanie wins, and I think we've had enough fun for today. Tomorrow, the market in Siena and San Gimignano.

Dear Sergio...

Dear Sergio,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

1. You work for Hertz's Italian delegation and you are not a jerk.
2. At 12:35, when most of Italy has locked up shop for siesta, you not only take my call asking for directions... you wait for our arrival.
3. You speak English. Really well.
4. Despite our cancelled reservations making your day harder on Saturday, you are still nice to us. You actually offer us a different car, albeit in three hours.
5. You give excellent recommendations on a local Etruscan museum (seriously awesome) and a restaurant (sadly, not open) where we can pass some time waiting for said car to be returned.
6. You help troubleshoot problem with GPS, which is actually a faulty plug, and then give us a different cord and let us keep our tiny black Fiat Panda. You then joke that if we knew the problem was with the GPS, we would have missed the museum.
7. You are wearing white pants. Ok... this is not actually a plus, but it does take cojones.

Friend, you deserve a raise.

Much love,


America 

Ciao, Montepulciano... Hello, Chianti!

Ah, Italy. Your troublesome ways never disappoint me. I think people here must siesta just to escape the craziness of living in a country with no rules and no formal procedures. There aren't even lanes on the road, for Heaven sake. However, I must admit, one of my favorite things about Italy is driving here. At 130 km per hour on the Autostrade, things begin to blur. Literally. 

We slept about 11 hours each of the past two nights, that, and whatever the pharmacist gave me last night seems to be doing  wonders. I'm congested, and have a runny nose, but I am feeling much better. We are up and packed to go by about 11:00 AM. We decide to complete our winery tour of the place next door before heading out to the Fiat dealership to see about a piece for the car, then moing on to the Hertz in Chuisi if that doesn't work. The winery is awesome, and though I've decided I'm not a huge fan of this nobile wine of Montepulciano, I love seeing the bulging casks of oak towering above me and those stacked three high lining the walls of the musty cellar. Some of my favorite pics from the trip are taken in this dungeon. 

The drive to Chiusi isn't bad, but finding the Hertz is a pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey sort of adventure. We end up calling, and lucky us, actually reaching an English-speaking and extremely helpful chap named Sergio. This story I'll save for the following post.

We stop in a tiny ceramics factory on the side of the road where I find a bowl as big as a trough for 88 euros. I leave it there as it would cost three times that much to ship home. Then it's on to Greve in Chianti, by way of a supermarket. The first place I try and stop SAYS supermarket, but it's actually a shoe store. My Italian still isn't so good, apparently. When I do finally manage provisions, it is pouring rain and I am soaked by the time I get back to the car. What does mom want? Instant coffee. I don't even drink coffee, and that makes me cringe. I'm might be coerced into instant wine, though. That might be the next big thing. Sold in packets... for those moments you just need a pick-me-up.

Like when we arrive at the absolutely adorable little stone farmhouse we will be staying in the next few nights. Nobody here to meet us. Here's the funny thing though... Italians don't ever seem to be on time, but both the sister-in-law of the woman renting us the place who stops by to say the father-in-law is on the way with the key, and the pater familias himself, comment on us being outside our estimated window of two to four in the afternoon. I apologize -- in Italian -- and explain about the car. It is what it is. What it is. What it freaking is. Nothing seems to go according to plan here, so I'm just going with the flow now.

And the flow is heading out to dinner. After a half hour drive, the last of which is up a dirt road into the middle of nowhere, our lovely "fully operational" GPS says we've arrived at  the restaurant recommended by Lonely Planet. We make our way back to Greve central, where we find a darling little restaurant called La Cantina di Manetti Allesandro. The owner is way friendly and sits us down with a glass of prossecco each -- on the house. 

Here's what we order:

Coccoli con Stracchino e Prosciutto o Lardo di Colonnata (fried pizza dough with ham or lardo di colonnata and stracchino cheese) 

Gnocchi Gorgonzola e Tartufo (potato gnocchi with gorgonzola cheese and truffle)

Cantina con Mozzarella, Tartufo, Bresaola e Rucola (pizza with mozzarella, truffle, cured beef and rocket)

The gnocchi, which is technically pasta, is amazing. Absoeffinglutely amazing. The sauce literally makes me want to lick the plate, which I do, but in a refined way so as not to draw too much attention to myself. My eyes roll back in my head a little. Of course, that could be the prossecco, too, but I'm convinced this is the most amazing thing I've eaten in Italy so far. Yum. I can barely finish my dinner, and I catch mom wrapping hers in a napkin and sticking it in the bag with the extra appetizer. Even while I am stroking my Italian food baby, Francesca, the owner sends over desserts, also on the house. He winks at me. 

Nice, but here's the thing. Italian men? Too skinny. They dress funny. Not this guy, per se, but he IS wearing a fanny pack. Most of the men here are either bald, or have really really thick hair I would be afraid to lose things in (like my sanity, which is help on by a very thin cord at this point.) It's the same thing with the pasta -- I'm just not sold. So for all you clowns back home who keep advising me to find myself a nice Italian boy... I've got my eye on the prize back home, thank you very much.

Back home, I've put a load of wash in and tucked mom onto the couch. Look, it's not my doing -- she chose to sleep there. There are two bedrooms (upstairs) and two bathrooms (one on each floor.) The problem is, upstairs there is a step down and then step up that is right by the stairs. If one was not careful on the way to a midnight potty run, they could literally fall down the stairs quite easily. When the father-in-law left, I looked at mom and told her I was worried about that, and she said she already planned to sleep on the couch. We will see how tonight goes.

In the meantime, I have to just tell you how delighted I am to finally have a bidet... I mean a ROOM... with a view. 

Mom, Part II: Under Tuscan Storm Clouds

Ah! The first day the entire trip this far that we didn't have to rise at the crack of dawn and go somewhere. So, we slept in...the bed is still hard mind you, but more like limestone instead of granite and mine is only 4" off the floor, but I sleep like the dead, until 11:30!!!! Mama Mia, but I feel great! Poor Amy is still suffering from sinusitis/flu like symptoms, but a true trooper, or a crazy woman, not sure which she ventures out into the early Montepulciano afternoon. Let me make this very clear...this town is spectacular,so quaint and friendly and oozing charm at every turn of the winding roads. It would be possible to stay here forever, but haven't seen a hospital here so not sure what kind of work I would find. Maybe something stomping olives into olive oil?

We journey into town which takes us up a very steep winding turn, that may just harbor some local in a tiny car trying to make it down the narrow drive which by the way doubles as a walkway. We jump against the wall just in the nick of time and the local looks thankful that he didn't have to kill anyone on Sunday. Once we make it to the top of the hill it is all downhill towards town. I am getting better all the time making it up the steep inclines so it must be true that "practice makes perfect" and with so many opportunities to practice here I am not sure what I will do when I get back to the flat landscape of Florida.

Lots of fun shopping as we walk up the hill and we have both made some fun purchases before we stop for lunch.  We are wedged in a small table for two in front of the shop door and against the bar, I decide on the spinach soup and the bread with goat cheese and truffle sauce and a glass of the local wine, while Amy chooses the eggplant cheese fondue and the grilled veggies and lots of water. The food is scrumptious and the soup is one of the best things I have had so far. After lunch we try to find a pharmacia so that Amy can get something for her ailments and are told first down the street then up the street and finally they confess that it is Sunday, so  most likely not open, and after all it is only about 2pm and shops close from 12:30 till 3p for siesta.

We wander in and out of wine tasting places, spice and pasta places and olive oil stores, but are drawn like moths to a flame to the leather and paper stores. One darling little paper shop we stumble into has the sweetest young gal who takes the time to show us how she personally binds the journals with ribbed leather bindings and tells us that some of the paper is also made at the shop. What beautiful craftsmanship, we are in awe! Sweaters, hand knit of course, leather shoes and boots, purses and bags, scarves and baubles, it's enough to make your wallet pucker! Amy and I are world class shoppers and this place is like Mecca!

Finally, as the sun sinks slowly into the Tuscan hillside we find a Pharmacia open, but some cold medicine and decide that it would be great to get back to the apartment and turn in early, tomorrow is another day and we do have to leave for Chainti with a short backtrack to Hertz in Chuisi to see about getting the GPS squared away or the car lighter unit fixed.

We have a glass of tea, (medicine for Amy) and a biscotti so fresh that feels like they picked the figs today and we will be off to sleep dreaming about Chianti!

I only cry when it Hertz...

What would a day in Italy be for us without fiasco upon fiasco? Thankfully, I'm still smiling. In fact, I'm pretty damn happy. The town we are staying in -- Montepulciano -- is divine. High in the hills and much, much cooler than Rome. Sadly, the hill also poses a bit of a problem. All the great shops and trattorias are at the bottom and mom is a teeny bit nervous as we make our descent for dinner.

I digress. I should start at the beginning.

I returned from my fabulous foray to Trevi Foutain and the Pantheon (which I realize I have been referring to as the Parthenon for several days) and mom is a bit beside herself. I've been gone for two hours and she was sure I'd been raped and killed. I remind her I am an adult and perfectly capable of taking care of myself. She says she was about to call the police. I tell her she needs to stop reading the murder mystery she's got her nose buried in.

We grab the bags and get in the cab that Lady Ana calls for us. Meter has been running for a while and is already at 6 euro when we get in after hugs, kisses and a gift of a pair of mom's fabulous earrings to our hostess. We've stayed a bit later than planned to mail off the extra stuff we accumulated without our luggage. Okay, fine... we did a little shopping, too. But when we arrive at  Mailboxes, Etc., we discover they are closed. That's the same result we had last night after I dragged the bag uphill for twenty minutes. We get in another cab to head to Termini Station. 

That's when mom remembers that we were supposed to leave town early for a reason.

We were supposed to pick the car up in Chuisi by 12:30 PM when the Hertz location closes -- for the weekend. It's 10:00 AM and thing aren't looking good for the home team. I have her get in line for train tickets while I get on the phone to Hertz. No cars in Florence, and no other options near our destination. Awesome. Well, if all roads lead from Rome... one has to take us to Montepulciano. 

Ding. Ding. Ding. We have a winner, and unfortunately, it won't be mom, who will probably have a heart attack when she finds out I'm driving us out of Rome. At least it's not on a Vespa! We jump in our third cab of the hour with a driver who is an absolute doll. He regales us with stories about a recent trip he took to America with his family. It was a shame to get to our destination so soon, as we were laughing and having a lovely time.

Which ended promptly when we arrived at Hertz.

The woman behind the counter clearly did not want to help us. She was miffed that mom had paid with her card and I would be driving. Though we had cleared this in the US when we made the booking, it was NOT ok now. We had also rented a GPS, and when I asked if she would show us how to operate it, she glared at me and said she already programmed  it in English. Then she had mom sign the damage waiver before we looked at the car. Record scratch, not okay with me, so I asked her to stop. She looked at me and said something about how we were already breaking the rules and they don't have enough cars to go around. Ok, ok... I'll just go take a look. There was, of course, more damage -- including a major dent under the passenger door. Not a ding, a dent. I walked back into the store and asked her to change the other copy she had ripped off and stapled to our re opt for their records. She refused and told me she wasn't renting me the car. I kind of ran out the door with the keys, snapped a few pics, threw the luggage and mom in and pressed go.

Driving in Rome? That was nothing compared to all the other stuff we've experienced. 

And the GPS was the best money spent on is trip. Until it died about 45  minutes away from our destination. We call Hertz emergency roadside assistance, which is busy. They say they will call us back. Emergency. Roadside. Assistance. We call the Hertz we picked the car up from, but since we don't understand Italian, we keep getting disconnected at the prompts. About eight times. We call the Hertz at the airport. Nothing. We finally get a call back from roadside assistance, who tell us the problem is the GPS, not the car. I discover later that isn't accurate, but it doesn't matter much. We will stop in Siena on Monday and get this sorted out before we head to the next town. We are hoping to ship stuff from there, too. 

 I won't be holding my breath on either account.

It isn't clear where we are supposed to go when we arrive in Montepulciano, but thanks to the directions we write down before the machine calls it quits and wonderfully marked roads, we DO actually arrive. Our new hostess is kind enough to meet us at the entrance to town and lead us through the winding back streets we never would have found on our own. There were flowers and a small birthday cake waiting for me when we arrived. I parked mom in the house with the luggage and went with Cinzia and her sister to park the car outside the city wall. 

Mom and I set out when I return. Literally right next door is a very old winery, which we wander into, marveling at casks reaching far above our heads. The cellar is brick, with cobwebs hanging from the black candelabras on the ceiling and walls. There are barrels upon barrels, and the musty scent in the air is a mixture of dampness and wood. It is magnificent, and we are sad to be kicked out for a large tasting that they have scheduled, though happy to be invited back later. We stroll down the road and come upon a board with all kinds of posters advertising events. One, a flute concert, is happening tonight. Now, actually. As in it started about 15 minutes before we saw the sign. We move as quickly as we can straight up to the Piazza Ricci to an international music school. I'm following the sound of the music, and we make it in time to hear about six different pieces.

I learn another thing today. I love music. That I knew. I'm a big fan of violin, adore cello, can appreciate the piano, a saxophone or trumpet. I do not like the flute. Please forgive me if you are a flute player, but who the hell picks that as the instrument they want to build a career out of? In a symphony, okay. But solo? Blech...

We haven't eaten much today... a roll for breakfast, a bit of cheese and buffalo salami in the car, and a small snack -- mozzarella and prosciutto on crostini -- after the concert at a small bar overlooking the countryside. We have glasses of white wine and a birthday toast. Then we head to the main square and take some pics before the long descent to poke in shops and eventually grab an actual meal.

So we've come full circle. Mom's blogging tomorrow since I'm coming down with something. Vacation colds have summer colds bat, hands down. I think we plan to take it easy tomorrow. Sleep in. 

If you read my post from this morning, you already know that sounds perfect to me.