Thanksgiving Turkey

Istanbul is a city of experiences. Sure, there are plenty of sights to hold your attention -- beautiful mosques, gorgeous coastlines and colorful markets -- but a trip to Istanbul just wouldn't be complete without really experiencing Turkey.

On our first evening in the city, after a long day of travel (no matter how much I'm looking forward to the final destination, nothing makes that 6:40am flight from Pisa to Munich OK) we settled in for dinner at a typical Turkish restaurant just across the street from our hotel. The old woman sitting at a hot stone surface, cooking bread outside of the restaurant told me that this whole trip was going to be delicious. We ordered what seemed like the entire menu and dug in to fresh pita, dolmas, lamb stew, boric, feta cheese, crepes, kebab, baklava… Experience #1, Turkish food! Completely stuffed, we did a little window shopping (i.e. marveled at the colorful lamps, bowls and carpets in every store) and retired to our rooms for a good night's sleep.

Thankfully, my travel-mates are tolerant and understanding of my love of sleep and agreed to meet in the lobby at 10:30am on our second day. Rested, we set off mid-morning for the Grand Bazar. I was dazzled by the beautiful colors of every stall and started snapping photos before we even made it through the arching entryway. 10 minutes in to our day of shopping, I'd already haggled with a salesman for a beautiful, hand-painted plate which is going to be a Christmas gift for one lucky friend in Charlotte. Every salesman had a pitch as we walked by his store. "Where are you from? America!? I have a cousin that lives in America!" or "Hola, guapa!" (from those shopkeepers that thought we were Spanish) or "Would you like a leather coat. - No, thank you. - Is that your final answer?" If we were interested in an item and dared to show it, salesmen swooped in, eager to help us spend our lira and always offering tea or coffee. We never paid the initial asking price for an item -- I scored the 140-lira plate for 90-lira. Rachel bought a 120-lira backgammon board for 85-lira. Experience #2, Negotiating in the Grand Bazar. Other "finds" include 2 lamps, a print of the Mevlana, pillow case covers and small bowls.

Between haggling, we stopped in at Adnan & Hasan's, a beautiful shop in the Bazar, specializing in Turkish carpets. For hours, we sat and listened to Erol lecture on the different types of Turkish carpets from the affordable yet durable wool on wool kilim to the astronomically expensive, I-would-never-put-it-on-the-floor, pure silk carpet. I walked away with a beautiful, (but also one of those more affordable, wool) colorful kilim that I'm going to hang on the wall above my bed. That is if I ever get a ladder, get a drill, get cement screws, find a guy to help orchestrate the whole project… Experience #3, Finding the perfect Turkish carpet.

While visiting Adnan & Hasan's, I had a few more experiences, including my first Turkish coffee and cay tea. That's right, we were there long enough to have coffee AND tea. First, shopkeepers ask if you'd like something to drink. "Tea? Apple tea? Coffee?" If you accept, they send a faceless worker off to some unknown location to fetch the order. The drinks were placed on a small, wooden, folding table in front of us. Turkish coffee was first. I read the night before about how "sludge" like the Turkish delicacy is and was prepared for the worst. Surprisingly, I liked it! Different from what I was used to, yes, but not bad. The consistency reminded me of the thick-style European hot chocolate and the taste was just strong, sweet coffee. The trick is, don't drink all the way to the bottom of the cup. That's where the coffee grounds settle. Hence, the "sludge" reputation. Experience #4, Turkish Coffee. About an hour after the coffee, came the second offer for something to drink. Not wanting to over-caffinate, I choose tea this time. I had a choice of apple tea or cay tea. I choose cay thinking it was going to be similar to what I know as chai. It wasn't but it was still good. Served in a delicate glass cup on a decorative saucer with 1 or 2 sugar cubes on the plate… All in all, a pleasant experience except for your burning finger tips as you attempt to hold the glass full of scorching hot tea. Experience # 5, Turkish (cay) tea. The Turks like to linger over their beverages, so I suppose the intention is to get the tea hot enough to dissolve the sugar and then let it sit and cool off while chatting. Being the typical, impatient American that I am, I burnt my fingers every time.

After a long, dusty day of shopping at the Bazar, I decided to clean off and relax the Turkish way -- in a traditional hamam. For those of you unfamiliar with the Turkish bath experience, I have 3 words to sum it up -- hot, naked, bath. I read up on what to expect before going but it still took a while to calm down and really get comfortable with the experience. First, you strip down and enter a hot, marble room. While lounging around, you douse yourself with hot, thermal water. Then, after you're thoroughly sweaty and wet, an old man enters, covered only with a small, pestemal. Not speaking a word of English, with various pushes and grunts, he indicates that I'm supposed to lie down flat on the marble. For the next 10 minutes, I am bathed in the most literal sense. Soap bubbles are lathered on and dead skin scrubbed off with a kese. More splashes with water, this time cool, to get all the soap off and the bath is complete. Experience #6, Hamam.

In case the Grand Bazar and Turkish bath weren't enough excitement, I had one more experience in store before calling it a day. Rachel and I, in search of something to eat annnnnnd a water pipe, wandered down a brightly lit street. We were quickly approached by a gentleman that assured us his was the best restaurant in all of Istanbul. We followed him down the street and in to the restaurant. We climbed 3 flights of stairs, passing various levels of the restaurant before arriving on the roof top terrace, complete with plush pillow seating on the floor. We kicked off our shoes and settled in for the evening. Thanks to a few not-so-secret waiter admirers, (one actually told me, "My name is David but you can all me Antonio… Antonio Banderas!") we were given plates of food and endless cups of tea, all "on the house." Much to my surprise, the water pipe was actually the least exciting part of the night. It looked cool and all, but really just tasted like we were smoking dried apple potpourri. Experience #7, water pipe and Turkish "hospitality."

Early Saturday morning, we set out to see palaces, mosques and cisterns…. oh my! First up was Topkapi Palace. And, I'm sure this is going to make me sound ridiculous, but I just wasn't impressed after seeing the Alhambra in Spain a few weeks before. Thankfully, the mosques and underground cistern didn't disappoint! First was Hagia Sophia. Originally a cathedral, it was converted in to a mosque in 1453 and then a museum in 1935. Then, on to Yerebatan Sarnici, more commonly known as the underground cisterns. (For all you James Bond fans, I also read that parts of From Russia With Love were filmed here.) This slightly creepy place was actually forgotten about for many years until people began reporting that they were catching fish through the floor boards, under their houses. Last stop of the afternoon was the most impressive, Sultan Ahmed Mosque (popularly known as the Blue Mosque) where before entering we listened to the call to worship, broadcast throughout the city over a loud speaker, bouncing off the ancient buildings and echoing in the alleys. Men rushed to the mosques to wash their heads and feet before entering for prayer. We wandered through the courtyard and marveled at the outside structure before removing our shoes and stepping inside where we marveled some more at the beautiful interior. Experiences #8-10, palaces, mosques and cisterns… oh my!

Never one to pass up a nap, I crawled in to bed for a bit after our busy day exploring the nooks and crannies of ancient Istanbul. Waking up well rested, we set out again for the Spice Bazar. Smaller than the Grand Bazar but no less impressive, the market is made up of stall after stall of spices, herbs and teas from around the world. Some are piled high in burlap sacks on the floor, others in smaller piles on wooden counters. The smells and the colors were unlike anything I'd ever seen and I stocked up on spices in hopes of inspiring some exotic cooking back at home. Experience #11, Sights and smells in the Spice Bazar.

Rounding out the day, we ventured below the Galata Bridge for a seafood dinner by the water. Considering that from our seat on the pier we could see fishermen casting lines in to the water and pulling up fish to the bridge above our heads, I knew we were in store for a delicious meal. And boy, was it tasty! It's funny to think that just a couple of years ago, I wouldn't touch seafood and now, I find myself on the Marmara Sea, selecting dinner from a cart full of the day's fresh caches. Experience #12, fresh fish under the Galata Bridge. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it.

On Sunday, our last full day in Istanbul, Rachel and I set out for Taksim Square, the most modern section of the city. It was here that just a few months earlier, a man killed himself and injured several others when he detonated a small bomb hidden under his clothing. The heavy police presence was a reminder that no matter how modern and progressive Istanbul may seem, Turkey is still very much a country stuck between the influences of the Middle East on one side and Western Europe on the other. Experience #13, Understanding Turkey's unique position in the world. We spent the morning ambling down Istiklal Street (and, admittedly, stopping in at Starbucks for a latte), a pedestrian shopping zone that branches off from Taksim Square, before heading to the modern art museum where we spent the rest of our daylight hours. The art in Istanbul's own MOMA showed a country in transition (excuse me while I get amateur art critic on you for a minute) desperately trying to find an identity of their own. Many of the pieces dealt with change, gender identities, religion, politics and progress. Every piece seemed very close and personal to the artists -- no urinals on a pedestal or paintings of Campbell Soup cans here! (No offense to the Warhols and Duchamps of this world intended.) Experience #14, Seeing Istanbul through the eyes of its artists.

Monday morning, we packed our bags and had one last breakfast of fresh yogurt, dried figs and fried cheese before we set off for the airport. One last interesting observation in case anyone is still actually reading at this point… Before boarding our flight, we passed through 3 security screenings. The first at the entrance to the airport. Everyone entering the building puts everything (in our instance, all of our luggage, handbags, coats, etc.) through a scanner and passes through a metal detector. Once inside, we checked in for our flight before hitting the second security point -- another metal detector and bag screening. At this point, we'd already checked our big suitcases so it was just carry-ons going through. The last one was just outside of our gate. The flight attendants took our tickets and ushered us through a third and final metal detector/bag screening, into a small waiting area. Experience #15, uber security at the Istanbul airport. Feeling completely safe at this point, we all boarded the flight and enjoyed smooth sailing to Germany. The story about all the German beer we enjoyed during our 5 hour layover in Munich is one for some other time.

Back by popular demand

It was one of those days, today. A betcha-didn't-think-you'd-ever-do-that-in-your-lifetime kind of moments. I drove in the UK! On the left side of the road! In a British car!

All of this might not mean much to you now, but just picture this… You're driving down the road, seated behind the wheel on the right side of the car, shifting with your left hand and entering roundabouts in a clockwise direction. There's no other cars around and when you glance up (admittedly, between singing rounds of 'Kukoboro' out loud just to make some noise since you can't drive with the radio on because it is "distracting") and get this overwhelming feeling that something just isn't right.

It took a minute but I quickly remembered I was supposed to keep my butt to the center line when I saw an oncoming car in my lane. Er, I mean their lane. I quickly moved back to the left lane and tried not to make eye contact as I passed. That was the only mistake I made all afternoon though, and I managed to get myself to Peterborough (where there is a mall, which has a Lush, which got 60-pounds of my money as I partook in a little retail therapy to calm my nerves) and back.

Before setting off on my little adventure, I was most worried about the roundabouts. See, in civilized society, we enter the roundabouts from the right and proceed in a counter-clockwise direction. Not so across the pond. Here, we enter from the left and drive in a clockwise fashion. As it turns out, that was really the least of my worries. Italy has given me plenty of practice with roundabouts and despite the change in direction, the same general rules apply. What did throw me for a loop though, were those darn turns. I found myself at intersections, not really knowing which way to look. Turning left. Signal on. OK, I thought, I can do this. Look right? No. Surely I need to look left. Except everything is opposite here. And once I'm sure there's no oncoming vehicles, which lane do I pick? Oh, geez. I'll just sit here and wait until another car drives by and I can get a frame of reference. Shifting with my left hand was also quite interesting.

The real question now, is which side of the road will I land on when I'm back in Italy? Here's hoping I don't confuse myself and goof up in a Tuscan roundabout! I don't think the Italians will be nearly as forgiving of my mistake as the Brits.

La Ville-Lumière, Deuxième Partie

After my trip in February with Alison, I swore that I would never fly through Paris Beauvais again. However, I just couldn't pass up a chance to visit the city of lights again with Amber and Vince before they left for Hawaii, their next duty station. So, we boarded the flight one Saturday morning in April, landed in Paris a few hours later and even caught the bus to the city center without too much trouble. Perhaps the airport isn't quite as bad as I remembered. The bus from the airport dropped us off at Porte Maillot. We wandered around for a while before agreeing our best option was to forgo the metro and just catch a cab straight to the hotel on Rue Cler.

Within minutes of checking in to our rooms and throwing down our (heavy) backpacks, Vince realized his cell phone had fallen out of his pocket in the taxi. We called his number from my phone and the driver actually answered. Vince rushed my cell phone downstairs to the front desk where the receptionist asked the driver in French to please return the phone. The driver agreed, for the low, low price of just 15-euro for the return fare! (When we returned to Camp Darby on Monday, the MP at the gate told Vince he'd tried calling and got some "French guy" that kept saying, "Oui! Oui?") While we were waiting for the cell phone to be delivered, Vince then realized his passport was missing. He searched the cab when it arrived but to all of our disappointment it wasn't there. I suggested we head for the American Consulate but then remembered it was a Saturday. We tried calling the coach company that runs the buses from the airport but could find no one that spoke English. Utterly defeated and with bike tour reservations fast approaching, we gave up for the night and headed to Fat Tire headquarters, just around the corner from the Eiffel Tower.

Seeing as how it had been no less than 10 years since I'd really been on a bike (the 2 times around the Cotswolds on Walker before my tire went flat does not count) I was a bit nervous about biking through Paris. After hearing me express my concern, our tour guide told me there were helmets available. Since NO ONE else in the group was wearing one, I threw caution to the wind, put my life on the line and set off sans helmet. I'm happy to report that I did not fall off my bike. (The only major incident to report was my camera falling out of my pocket. Luck was on my side and the guy riding behind me happened to notice it dropped and stopped to pick it up. Phew!) In fact, I rather fell in love with biking again and am contemplating buying a cheap one from the Shoppette so I can ride from my house to Ponsacco's city center on market days when parking is virtually nonexistent.

Our tour ended with a boat ride down the River Seine. Freezing cold, Lexie (oh yeah, I forgot to mention my friend/Alison's cousin met us for the tour) and I moved inside for the last little bit and day dreamed about opening an import shop in the US. Most of the store will be French things, but Lexie promised to reserve a small corner for my Spanish and Italian finds. After disembarking the boat, I was cold, sore and sleepy from the glass of wine I toasted with onboard. Not thinking it possible, I peddled the few minutes back to the Fat Tire building and parked my trusty bike. The 4 of us found somewhere to eat, tried not to fall asleep and then parted ways. I slept soundly that night for a full 4.5 hours before it was time to wake up for our next adventure!

The morning train from Paris delivered us first to Bayeaux where we had over an hour to explore the small town before meeting our guide who would take us to the key sites of Normandy and D-Day. We stopped in for a below-average lunch and waited out the rain. Once we joined the group, we set out, first for Pointe de Hoc followed by Omaha Beach, Utah Beach, the American Cemetery and the Longes-Sur-Mer Battery. Much like Dachau, I found these sites sobering and heart wrenching. The biggest difference between the Concentration Camp and the coat line however, is their current use of the space. Dachau is a pure memorial and I doubt the land will ever fully "heal" and be usable or developed. At Normandy, while there are plenty of placards, museums and monuments in memory of the thousands that died on the beaches, there's also vacation homes and families picnicking on Utah Beach while their children build sand castles nearby. The beaches and shoreline are beautiful and the locals' enjoyment of the land didn't strike me as disrespectful, per say… just bizarre. Less than 70 years ago, not quite even one generation removed, those beaches were stained red and now they're used for holidays. I just can't connect the two and only hope that those using the land for enjoyment and relaxation also remember and respect the immense sacrifice and loss that made it possible to enjoy the beaches they lounge on now.

After our somber day in Normandy, we boarded the train back to Paris for a complete change of pace. Unfortunately, we over booked ourselves and showed up 30 minutes late for our reservation to ascend the Eiffel Tower. Despite our tardiness, they let us up anyways, where we had just enough time to ride to the first platform, snap a few pictures, wait in line to ride a 2nd elevator to the top platform, snap a few more pictures and then wait in line again to ride the elevators back down. From there, we hailed another cab (Vince kept a hold of his cell phone this time) and rushed off to the Lido for our cabaret show. Once inside and seated, we shared a champagne toast and I blew out the candles on my belated birthday cake. It might have been almost a month late, but I can't think of a better way to celebrate my Birthday than at a cabaret show in Paris. (Except perhaps with a Chip 'N Dales show in Paris… Hmm. Something to aim for in 2011?)

Completely exhausted from the last 48 hours of non-stop fun, I decided to sleep in Monday morning while Amber and Vince went to the Consulate. (After such busy days, we'd almost forgotten about the whole Vince-can't-leave-the-country thing, until reality came crashing down around us the day of our return flight.) I enjoyed a leisurely morning… Woke up without an alarm clock, showered and then set out to a) explore the area around our hotel and b) find Amber and Vince. The first few times I called them and didn't get an answer, I didn't think anything of it. After 3 hours of not reaching them, I started to worry and my overactive imagination kicked in. They were mugged and cell phones stolen. They were deported for loosing a passport. Lost on the mean streets of Paris. I settled in to a Starbucks to weight the pros and cons of flying back to Pisa without them that night when they called. I tried to direct them to the Starbucks but my keen sense of direction failed me again. Eventually, we met in front of the hotel where I learned the Consulate issued Vince an emergency passport. He could return to Italy with us! Hooray!

Vince came with a restaurant recommendation from a friend, so we set off to find it. I believe the exact review was, "The best restaurant in the whole world." Uh, I beg to differ. While not bad by any stretch, I've had better meals in Charlotte. Underwhelmed and pretty worn out at that point, we set out for the hotel to collect our bags and start the long journey back to the despised Paris Beauvais airport.

As per usual, the airport was crowded with crabby (myself included), travel-weary passengers. Once checked in and through security (not before being forced to cram my purse in to my backpack -- "strictly only 1 piece of carry on luggage is allowed") we settled in to the tiny terminal with 5 other plane loads of people all waiting to board.

The rest of the story is rather dull… We landed back in Pisa just before midnight. Rachel picked us up and took us back to our cars at Darby. I made the long (only 30 minutes but after a weekend like that in Paris, it seemed to last a lifetime) drive home, fell in to bed and didn't move again until my alarm woke me up for work the next morning. Back to the grind.

Easter in Italy

It was cold and rainy when Julian showed up on my doorstep Easter morning. Well, actually, more like Easter afternoon. Julian, my landlady's Grandson, was scheduled to pick up me and Bimbi at 11:30am. When noon rolled around, I actually checked my calendar to make sure it really was Easter. At 12:30pm, Julian showed up and whisked us an entire block up the road to his parents' house. If I had known it was so close, I would have walked.

Earlier that week, Bimbi's daughter knocked on my door and handed me a letter written in English. It read, "You will join our family for Easter dinner, yes?" Surprised and honored, I accepted the invitation immediately. A few days later, she turned up again to tell me that Julian would pick me up for Easter dinner at 11:30am. Turns out dinner was in fact lunch.

Once inside, Julian, who speaks a little bit (and I do mean just a little bit) of English did the best he could to introduce me to generations of women. I think Bimbi's grandmother was there, which is particularly impressive when you consider that Bimbi is 72 years old.

I sat in the living room with the women for half an hour. The TV was blasting an Italian game show while everyone was speaking to me very slowly and very loudly in Italian. I'm not deaf, I just don't speak your language, ladies. Luckily, I've mastered the art of nodding and smiling politely despite being completely clueless as to what's going on around me.

Somehow, I managed to communicate to the ladies that I speak Spanish. (I think I must have mumbled out something like, "Capisco un poco Italiano perque parla Espanol.") Much to my delight, they introduced me to Sergio, another of Bimbi's cute grandsons, who just happens to have studied Spanish in Madrid.

After an hour of chitchat, everyone was ready to start lunch. We were ushered in to the dining room, and I was seated between Julian and Sergio, the only 2 in the lunch party of 20+ with whom I could communicate. The wine came first (and kept coming and coming until Bimbi yelled at Sergio from across the table to stop refilling my glass) followed by antipasti -- eggplant, cured meats, pickled vegetables, cheeses and bread. Then, the soup. Then, a pasta. And then, plates and plates full of meat grilled just outside of the front door in the makeshift fire pit. After a few minutes of trying to eat my meat with a fork and knife, Sergio elbowed me, held up his ribs with his hands, sunk his teeth in and smiled at me. Getting the point, I put my silverware down and joined in, picking up my ribs and digging in. When in Rome... By the time contorni (salad and spinach) came out, everyone was too full to make much of a dent. As the vegetables were being cleared, I glanced at the clock and realized we'd already been at the table for 3 hours. Over these hours, dinner conversation consisted of the group asking Sergio questions in Italian, Sergio turning to me to ask in Spanish, my answering back in Spanish and Sergio then translating back to everyone in Italian.

After a lovely fruit salad to "cleanse our palates," it was time for dessert. Excited to introduce my contribution to the meal, I pulled the tinfoil off a plate of homemade cupcakes. To be completely honest with you, my dessert didn't hold a candle to the Napoli-style flourless chocolate cake that was also served, but everyone claimed to be impressed. Sergio even ate two and his sister told me she had seen cupcakes once before, "on the Simpsons."

Basking in the rave reviews of my cupcakes, I completely lost track of time. I happened to ask Sergio, "¿Que hora es?" When he replied, "Seis menos cinco," I panicked and quickly explained that I was picking up friends from the train station at six. He assured me it was OK to take leave of the lunch after almost 5 hours at the table. I cheek kissed Italians all the way to the door, apologizing ("Permisso, me scuzzi") and thanking them profusely for having me ("Grazie mile!") I finally big everyone farewell ("Ciao, ciao, ciao. Buona Pasqua. Auguri!") and ran home.

Later that evening, as I was recounting all of the stories from my first Italian Easter lunch to my visitors, I realized just how lucky I was. Forget an authentic meal at a local agritourismo. I was welcomed in to an Italian family's most sacred holidays... This is la dolce vita.

LISBON, BOLGHERI, CERTALDO… OH, MY!

I've been spoiled with great weekends lately.

First, was an overnight layover in Lisbon on my way back to Italy from the Azores. I had the afternoon and evening to myself. After grabbing a taxi from the airport to the hotel (all while making friends with my cab driver and arraigning for him to pick me up again the next morning for my trip back out to the airport) I threw my bags in the room and took off for Castelo de Sao Jorge.

I wandered around for a few minutes until I found the correct bus line to get up to the castle. Taking buses in foreign cities terrifies me. I'm not sure why, exactly, but I always convince myself that I'm on the wrong bus. So, as I boarded bus #37 -- the one with 'Castleo' emblazoned on the front -- I asked the driver, "Vas al Castelo?" Too bad that was Spanish. And I was in Portugal. Where they speak Portuguese. All I got was a dirty look and an extended hand for the fare. I handed over 1.40-euro and crossed my fingers that I was headed in the right direction.

After a 10 minute ride, I climbed off the bus, right in front of the 11th century castle. The views were amazing. I'll let the photo do the rest of the talking...

After spending hours at the Castle, I decided to walk back down to the hotel. I stumbled across a beautiful church on the way as well as tons of shops, restaurants and the like. While marveling at all the interesting people (Lisbon is FULL of interesting people) I almost got hit by a cable car.

At 6pm, after hours of exploring, I decided to head back to the hotel room for a little rest. It was too early for dinner (the Portuguese eat even later than the Italians) but too late to tackle any other major sights. Eventually, I ventured out again to find something to eat and ended up in an Indian restaurant. That's right. Indian food in Portugal. Don't judge. As I enjoyed my curry in Portugal, that was the last thing I felt foolish about. I sat in silence and ate quickly, trying to convince myself that, 'No, people are not staring at you, Taryn.' No matter how much solo traveling I do, I'm convinced that eating alone is never going to get easier.

The next weekend of greatness found me on several adventures to new Italian cities. First stop -- the Livorno cliffs. I've heard great things about this spot for the last year but just never made it. Now that I've been, I'm sure to go back again and again. It was quiet and calm on the rocks, not to mention breathtakingly beautiful. The water was clear and blue and the sky was bright. It was a windy day and the waves were crazy as a result. I hear in the summer time that the water is a lot calmer and this is a popular swimming spot.

After marveling at the water, the group loaded up and set out for Bolgheri. Not wanting to waste any time, we parked, took a few photos and then headed straight for the Enoteca. We spent the next 2 hours sampling the famous (and delicious) Bolgheri wine and gorging ourselves on prosciutto, cheeses, bruschetta, pasta… It was all great. In particular, the bruschetta was amazing -- the tomatoes seem to be in season again. And to think, I used to hate tomatoes.

Full from lunch, we decided to walk it off in the Bolgheri country side where we stumbled across a peaceful cemetery, glowing vineyard, old rotunda and what looked like grave sites of 19th century princesses.

A little bit of shopping and then we were on our way again! Third and final stop -- Volterra. I've been to Volterra many times (see blog from summer-time last year for a funny story about my driving adventures in the walled city). Consequently, the drive was the most exciting part of this leg of the adventure. I'll never tire of gluing my nose to the car window and marveling at the beautiful, rolling Tuscan hills. On a rainy day, they're unlike anything you've ever seen… Our afternoon drive was sunny and clear. I think I've described Tuscany as 'glowing' before, so pardon the repetition, but the country side was a-glow!

The last in my trinity of wonderful weekends was spent in Certaldo with Sandra and Ale, two of my most favorite people in Italy. We went in search of a tartufo festival but instead found a sagra. I didn't know what a sagra was until Ale explained it to me and we decided to venture inside to check it out. For those of you that are curious, a sagra is a big meal, themed around a specific food. Towns will set up a temporary restaurant of sorts and set a menu around asparagus, wild board, etc. etc. In this instance, every dish included tartufo (truffle) and long tables were set up in a community room. (Ale says sagras are usually outside.) Think a big family reunion in a church fellowship hall. Needless to say, we were a little disappointed to be faced with a sagra when we were expecting a full-blown festival.

Not easily discouraged (OK, we were actually discouraged, but we decided to suck it up and press on in search of more fun) we left the sagra, full of tartufo and set out to find 'old' Certaldo. Thanks to Ale's wonderful Wikipedia research, I can tell you that Certaldo is divided into two sections -- new Certaldo, at the foot of a small mountain and old Certaldo at the top of the small mountain, reached by a funicular train.

We boarded the funicular and found ourselves in a charming Renaissance s town once at the top. Ale followed Sandra and I around -- a photographer, he kept stopping us to pose for photos and even staged a few artistic photo shoots. "Sandra, you stand on this side of the wall, and Taryn, you walk away from her on the other side and the juxtaposition…" We stumbled in to several beautiful nooks and crannies in the old city and planned our Birthday parties, wedding ceremonies, farewell dinners, wedding receptions. It was all so story-book beautiful! And we all lived happily, ever-after...

The Inevitable

With all the travelling I do, I suppose I should have seen this coming. I left Pisa Friday morning. Connected in Rome, then again in Lisbon and finally on to Terceira. My bag never made it out of Rome.

This is the first time I’ve had a bag delayed (I’m avoiding the word ‘lost’ so as not to jinx myself) and so far, I’m surviving. If all goes as planned, my things should arrive Sunday morning. In the meantime, the airline gave me an overnight kit with essential supplies like toothbrush/paste, deodorant, sleep shirt, shampoo, etc. Since I have to go a whole day without my things, they also told me to buy what I need to get by, not to exceed $100. So, this morning I went on a BX shopping spree! I scored new jeans, hair products, underwear and socks out of this ordeal. It’s nice to see the silver lining...

Oddly, I feel slightly more seasoned. Like, I can call myself a real frequent flier now that I've had a bag delayed.

Ah, Pari!

Alison was introduced to the joys of Ryanair from the onset of our journey to Paris. The first test was rearranging everything we packed so that our bags would fit in the metal container before being allowed to pass through security. I threw on a few additional layers of clothing and crammed things in my coat pocket. And, wah lah! Just like that, the bag fit. As soon as I was out of eye-sight of the security guard in charge of checking bags, I put everything back in. Sadly, I lost several hair products to the X-Ray machine. (Silly no liquids rule.) We landed in Paris a little late, a calling card of Ryanair flights despite their claim of being the ‘on time’ airline and hopped on the bus that would take us in to the city.

Lexie, Alison’s cousin, was waiting for us when we arrived and she kindly hailed a taxi to whisk her travel weary guests to her apartment. While Alison and Lexie caught up I promptly passed out. I can sleep anywhere, anytime. Friday morning, we woke up (in Paris!) and enjoyed a lesiurely morning over coffee and the most amazing croissants. Well rested, showered and fed, the trio set off for sight seeing. Our first stop was Luxembourg Gardens. I’d been there a few years earlier in the summer time. While the gardens are prettier in bloom, it was still a beautiful spot and a great way to start the day.

From Luxembourg Gardens, we set out for Notre Dame. Rather than hopping on the metro, we ambled through the streets of Paris. Lexie expertly navigating us to the Cathedral, Alison and I gawking at all the Parisian people walking Parisian dogs down Parisian sidewalks lined with Parisian shops… Notre Dame was less crowded than I remembered from my first visit. We stumbled across what I think was a full scale mass – first, a long line of Priests and other official-looking guys processed by us, leaving behind a trail of incense. Then, we watched a young boy sing and several priests speak for a few minutes. The interior of the church is impressive and beautiful. It was a sunny day – all the stained glass was alight and sunbeams filtered through the tall arches making the Cathedral glow.

After marveling at Notre Dame and a few more renditions of that song from Les Miserables (thanks, Alison) we were ready for a French lunch. Lexie led the way to a creperie where we feasted on buckwheat crepes stuffed with cheese, mushrooms, chicken and sweet crepes for dessert stuffed with honey, cinnamon, chocolate, sugar. Is your mouth watering yet? Needless to say, we all left pleasantly stuffed, headed for the Arc de Triumph. It was a long climb to the top, but the views of Paris, branching off at precise angles from the Arc were totally worth the stairs!



Friday night, our hosts picked out L’Ebauchoi for dinner, a great local restaurant. One of my favorite things about travelling is discovering ‘off the beaten’ path places and this restaurant certainly fit that bill! Seemingly a local haunt, everything about the restaurant oozed French charm. The theme of eating our way through France continued Saturday morning. After another leisurely morning, we made our way to Angelina’s for brunch. Feeling the need to give it a try (it was a when in France moment), I ordered the French onion soup. I don’t even like French onion soup but this was quite possibly the most amazing soup I’ve ever put in my mouth. Seriously. Amazing. The best-soup-ever was followed by the most decadent, rich, thick, creamy hot chocolate in the world. While I enjoyed it in the moment, I immediately felt sick with a sugar rush and chocolate overload when I put the cup back down on the saucer. Maybe it was the French onion soup/hot chocolate combo. I suppose in hindsight that wasn’t the greatest combination…

Facing a rainy day, we decided to tackle the Louvre Saturday afternoon. I’d already spent 2 full days in the museum on my last visit, so I didn’t feel like I HAD to see anything in particular. As it turns out, my favorite part of the museum (the indoor sculpture garden) was closed for renovations anyway. Alison and Lexie set our course. We saw the Mona Lisa, several Michelangelo sculptures, Venus de Milo, royal jewels, the infamous pyramid and paintings of Baby Jesus. There are always paintings of Baby Jesus.

From the Louvre, we hustled over to the Eiffel Tower for our sunset reservation. Fortunately, it stopped raining long enough for us to enjoy the experience without getting soaked. Unfortunately, it was still cloudy and overcast so we didn’t have any really spectacular views nor the beautiful sunset we were hoping for. But, I was on top of the Eiffel Tower with good friends. Things could certainly have been worse.



Exhausted from our days of sightseeing, we decided to eat in that night. Somehow, I managed to convince Lexie and Alison to call in for sushi. There’s no (edible) sushi to be found in Italy, so it was quite the treat to find myself face to face with this spread:

On Sunday, our last day in Paris, we woke up early for a real American breakfast at the restaurant named – appropriately enough – Breakfast in America. Bottomless cups of Joe, French toast (not actually French), eggs, bacon, toast… It was like a little piece of home away from home. I wish there were places like this in Italy. Actually, there is a place called the Dinner in Florence, but that’s a bit of a trek from Ponsacco.

Stuffed with great food for the millionth time that weekend (are you picking up on the trend yet?) we spent the time left before our flight on a self-guided (read: Taryn guided with the help of Rick Steve’s) tour of Père Lachaise. The famous cemetery houses the likes of Jim Morrison, Oscar Wilde, Chopin, Edith Piaf and thousands of other noted artists, scientists, writers, musicians, philosophers, etc.

Before leaving Paris, another exciting Ryanair experience awaited us. Upon arrival at Paris-Beauvais we found a line for security that wrapped around the building twice. This with just an hour before our flight was scheduled to depart. As Alison panicked, I took the opportunity to put on layers of clothing and stuff things in my pockets again, determined not to get flagged for an oversized check-on. This time, my bag fit in the required dimensions the first time! As always, the minute I was through security I put everything back in my bag. It’s as if Ryanair just likes to make their passengers angry, frustrated and completely miserable before boarding the flight. The good news is, we made our flight with time to spare. Another delayed Ryanair flight put us in Pisa around midnight. We made it back to my house in time to catch a little bit of the Superbowl. When I went to bed, the Colts were up. It was quite the surprise to find out the Saints won it all in the second half.

Sadly, our trip to Paris marked the end of Alison’s visit. We had one more day together to explore Volterra (and hold a full-fledged photo shoot) and see the notorious Leaning Tower before I had to begrudgingly put her on a plane back to New York and the looming blizzard.

Un Viaggio Molto Buona

Alison’s visit started inauspiciously.

After tracking her flight from London to Pisa all morning, I left the office a little early to meet her at the airport since her plane looked to be landing ahead of schedule. The first travelers filed out the customs/baggage claim area. I pegged them quickly as passengers of the London to Pisa flight because of their heavy British accents. Then, those with checked baggage started to emerge through the automatic sliding doors. And then, 45 minutes after I arrived, a British Airways flight attendant wheeled out a little old lady in her wheel chair. But still no Alison.

Just as I was pulling out my cell phone to send a text that I was positive she wouldn’t get, Alison emerged, grateful to see me and happy to not be spit outside of the airport. Turns out, I should have told her that I couldn’t access the baggage claim area and she would need to ‘exit’ to find me. Oops! So, let this be a lesson to all you would be visitors. When you arrive in Pisa, get your baggage and follow the crowds to the exit. I’ll be waiting for you there!

Alison braved jet lag like a trooper and stayed awake until 9pm her first night in Italy. After a quick visit to Darby (I needed to finish up my day in the office) we headed to Ponsacco, where I introduced her to my favorite pizza al taglio and the infamous Roxy Bar. While both are wonderful, they’re also the only places in Ponsacco to get food before 8pm. The Italians like to eat late! Usually, I find it charming to start dinner late and leisurely spend 3 or 4 hours at the table. But, when you’re fighting jet lag and have been travelling for the last 18-hours, that’s the last thing you’re in the mood for…

The next morning, I forced Alison to wake up early and join me in the office. I’m such a bad hostess, I know. However, I had my reasons. Not only was it Tuna Friday (!!!) but we also left for the train that would take us to Rome straight from Darby. Sandra put her to work all day, prepping packets for upcoming spring trainings. If any North Atlantic volunteers out there are reading this, and you attend a training this spring, you have Alison to thank (or blame if anything is missing) for the resource packets.

We cut out a little early that afternoon to make it to the station in time to catch the train to Rome. The price difference between a train from Pontedera (near my house) and a train from Livorno (near the office) to Rome is out of control. It costs 16-euro for a 4-hour ride out of Livorno or 49-euro for a 3-hour ride out of Pontedera. Easy decision!

Our train ride to Rome was uneventful, as was finding our hotel… Unless you count that whole ‘no-street-signs-in-Rome thing.’ After wandering for a while and cursing the map for leaving out entire streets altogether, we arrived safely at Hotel Stella, our home away from home for the weekend. After reading some pretty poor online reviews, I was a little nervous about this Hotel Stella. However, I’m happy to report that our experience there was lovely! The hotel is in a super convenient location, just a couple blocks from Termini Station. Our room was spotlessly clean and actually pretty spacious by European standards. A simple but filling breakfast was included in the price. And, oh! The price! At 50-euro per night for a double occupancy room, I’d say we did pretty well for ourselves.

I’m not going to go into much detail about dinner out our first evening in Rome. I’ve been warned so many restaurants in the city are giant tourist traps – overpriced and below average food. Suffice it to say, we found that to be true. If you really want all the juicy details, Alison chronicled the evening, prosciutto stuck in the throat and all, on her blog, here: http://alisonlikespineapple.blogspot.com. Forsaking Rome’s nightlife (party animals, we are not), we both fell into bed on Friday night pretty early. Alison exhausted from non-stop travel and me, well, because I just love being in bed.

Saturday morning, we woke up when we felt like it and made a laid-back start to our day over the hotel’s breakfast. We left Stella mid-morning to find the TI counter in the Termini Station. Thanks to Alison’s fortuitous purchase of Rick Steve’s Rome guidebook, we found it without any trouble and both invested in the Roma Pass. (For 23-euro, the pass gives you unlimited public transportation for 3 days and 2 free entries to museums or historical sites of your choosing.) Roma Pass in hand, we took off for the Colosseum followed by the Roman Forum and all of the many, many ruins there with in. In case you don’t believe me when I tell you that we spent the morning marveling at very, very old things, here is a bit of photographic evidence.







We spent the whole day dodging 15-minute downpours, sandwiched by beautiful patches of brilliant blue sky. We waited out the rain in the Colosseum, below an ancient bridge at the Forum, during lunch in a little café, in a gellateria (my personal favorite place to wait out the rain) and under "Rome’s Umbrella" also known as the Pantheon. Not to be confused with the Parthenon. Everyone knows the Parthenon is in Greece. Duh.

Yes, we saw this:



No, we did not see this:




Before retiring back to the hotel to dry off and pick out a dinner spot (well, I picked out a dinner spot, Alison continued to talk out loud to the Wedding Dash game on my iPod) we made it to the Trevi Fountain and the Spanish Steps. The later of which we hit right at sunset, as the sky turned the most beautiful shade of blue I’ve ever seen. So, back to that dinner spot. After striking out Friday night, I was determined to find an authentic spot for Alison to experience her first, real Italian meal. Following another Rick Steve’s suggestion, we went to Da Giovanni’s and had an amazing meal, with amazing waiters. Buon appetito and welcome to real Italian eating, Alison!

With full, happy bellies, Alison and I made the pleasant stroll back to the hotel and promptly fell in to bed, because we are cool and sleep is even cooler. Who needs crazy nightlife in Rome? Not us!

Sunday morning, we woke up early by Taryn and Alison standards, enjoyed another Hotel Stella breakfast and then left the confines of Rome, bound for Vatican City. Apparently, the rest of Rome had the same plan. Before we even left Rome, we knew were in for an adventure. (If by adventure you mean hours upon hours of waiting in queues.) The metro headed for the Vatican was packed. As we exited the train with the hoards of tourists, we didn’t even need to break out a map. We simply followed the masses and the distant buzz of the crowd waiting in line to enter the Vatican Museum. After a two-hour wait in a line that curved around the Vatican Museum and stretched almost to St. Peter’s Square, we were finally in! There to greet us was (shocking!) more religious paintings. I’m not sure if anyone has ever counted, but I’d be willing to bet there are at least 5 million paintings of Baby Jesus just in Italian museums alone.

Set up like a maze, with twists and turns, Alison and I slowly made our way through the museum. Deftly dodging the tour groups and guides with umbrellas whom almost inevitably seemed to stop right in the doorway, blocking everyone’s exit. The highlight of the afternoon for me was the Raphael Room, where I unexpectedly stumbled across this painting:



I remember studying the School of Athens in History class. So, it was pretty exciting to see it up close and in person. Shortly after the surprise viewing of Raphael’s masterpiece, we finally made it to the Sistine Chapel. And, I hate to be a Debby Downer about it, but I just wasn’t impressed. Maybe it was the crowds. Maybe it was the fact that it took 2 hours of twists and turns through the museum to get there. Maybe it was how dark the room was, making it difficult to see any real detail. Maybe it was the curators that clapped loudly and ‘shhhh’-ed the crowds every 10 minutes. Maybe my expectations were just too high. Call me a snob, if you must, but overall, I give the Sistine Chapel a reluctant one thumb up. Take that, Michelangelo. Guess you should have stuck to sculptures.

After the big letdown, er, I mean the Sistine Chapel, Alison and I escaped out a little side door right in to St. Peter’s Square. As a result of the Papal address happening in the Square, the Basilica was quiet and empty. We had time to explore the massive cathedral (largest in the world) and marvel at the scope of excess contained therein before we wandered in to the Square to marvel again. On our way out, we stopped for lunch at a resoundingly unimpressive Chinese restaurant. I know, I know. I should have known better than to pick a Chinese restaurant right outside of the Vatican walls, but we were hungry and wet and tired and I NEVER get Chinese food.

We slowly ambled back to the hotel, gathered our bags and boarded the train that would take us back to Pisa. Alison continued on with her Italian adventure during the week while I worked. More of those adventures can be found on Alison’s blog. Thankfully, I only faced a 4-day workweek before taking off for Paris…

Between Italy and Germany is where you'll find me.

I added a new country to my list of ‘Countries Visited’ this weekend! I’m not positive it should count, but I take them how I can get them. On our way to Garmisch, Germany my co-workers and I drove through Austria – home to two Winter Olympics and, uh, Bruno?

The story of the 1976 Olympic Games is interesting. Innsbruck hosted the Games for the first time in 1964. The 1976 Olympics were awarded to Denver, Colorado, but the citizens voted to prohibit public funds from being used to support the event. Canada, the second choice, turned down the opportunity to host for similar reasons. Eventually, Innsbruck stepped in to save the day, agreeing to host The Winter Olympics for the second time in only 12 years.

Bruno is a less interesting story. Not nearly as funny as Borat and even more tasteless than Ali G.

Garmisch was beautiful! Much to my dismay, we didn’t get any snow until this morning, when it was time to leave. And, all weekend, the surrounding alps (including the nearby Zugspitze, the highest mountain peak in Germany) stayed hidden behind a curtain of clouds. I’ve been to the area twice now and have yet to spot the surrounding mountains. I’ll be back in April for our Adult Learning Conference and hope to finally see the view that I've to date only spotted splashed on all the postcards.

Being in the mountains has inspired me to try out Winter sports again. For those of you that didn’t know me during my adolescence, I quickly decided skiing was not for me after an ill-fated Girl Scout trip to Sugar Mountain. I spent an hour crossing my skis and falling in ways my body was not meant to bend before I hung up my poles, called it a day and settled in front of the lodge’s fireplace. I have been snow shoeing a few times since and enjoyed that experience. As a result, I think I am now ready to try out snow boarding. I was hoping to get a lesson or two in this weekend, but we stayed too busy with our Conference. (Well, that and I opted to spend what little free time I did have in the hot tub and at the spa.) There are slopes nearby in Italy, so who knows? I may just learn to snow board this Winter. Or, maybe I’ll just renew my love for the cozy lodge fireplace…

I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself to hold on to these moments as they pass.

Well, I’ve managed to quietly slip in to the new year since the last update. I have a few stories from New Year’s Eve to share and a resolution to make public knowledge. (I have a few resolutions that are staying private, as well.) This means that you’re all welcome to remind me of my elaborate promise to make this new year better than the last come summer time, when I’m melting away in Italy and more importantly, we’re half way to 2011.

I celebrated the last day of 2009 in the traditional sense, as the clock struck midnight on December 31st, with friends from Camp Darby. However, my friends and family in the States wouldn’t celebrate the occasion for another 6 hours. And that was if they lived on the East Coast. I remember watching other countries ring in their new years when I was younger. Australia always came first, then somewhere in Europe, usually Paris, with the Eiffel Tower lit up. I always thought the time difference and staggered countdowns were weird. This year, I was that oddity. An hour after I started my 2010, Alison was just beginning to primp for her big countdown to midnight in New York.

It was a rainy night in Italy on the 31st and I was happy to be nestled in Erica’s apartment for most of the night, with an amazing balcony over looking the Michael Jackson cover band and the rough Ligurian Sea. When midnight hit and the fireworks illuminated the waves crashing against the pier, it was almost too beautiful to bear. Then, I glanced down at the Italians, triple parked along Via Italia and shooting fire works at each other and reality kept me from floating away completely. I brought in the new decade with a champagne toast and my new friends, excited to see what 2010 holds for all of us.

Fireworks over Livorno.

Yes, that is beer pong. Yes, it was that kind of party.

So now, for the resolution… Some years I have actually sat down and made a list. Sometimes I share the list and sometimes I keep it to myself. Other years, midnight comes and goes without any attempt at resolutions on my part. It’s all very hit or miss. This year, I have only come up with one goal, but I think it’s a good one – I just want to find happiness, laughter and beauty wherever in the world I might be. And of course, chronicle all the adventures for you here.

I’ll have a lot to tell over the next few months. This weekend brings a trip to Garmisch for a Girl Scout conference and later in January, I’ll be taking off for a girls’ (plus Vince) weekend in Sicily. Alison is coming to visit!!! I need to buy bedroom furniture in Aviano and figure out how to piece together the new desk and bookshelf I bought this week at Ikea. And that’s just the big stuff! There’s still the adventures of everyday driving with (or, should I say in fear of) Italians, grocery shopping in the local markets, understanding radiators and gas water heaters, practicing the language, visits with my landlady… Maybe my resolution should instead be to figure out how I’m going to squeeze everything I want to see and do in to twelve short months. I'm sure I'll manage -- don't worry too much about me.

For now, I wish you all happiness, laughter and beauty in the new year!