Buon appetito

I cooked up a storm today at Chef Paolo Monti's class in Lucca. Italian food, Tuscan food in particular, is just so much fun to make. The ingredients are all so fresh, colorful, fragrant and easy to find and most importantly... delicious! The class was fairly interactive, but with 12 people plus the chef around the table, we didn't all get our hands in every dish. Buuuut, we did enjoy eating every dish! Menu is below:

Antipasti
Panzanella - Tuscan bread salad
Crostini alle melanzane - Toasty bread with eggplant
Crostini ai fegatini - Toasty bread with chicken liver and capers (I usually HATE pate, but this was actually edible)

Primi
Tordelli alla Lucchese - Ravioli with vegetarian filling (swiss chard, pine nuts, parmesan cheese, stale bread and raisins)
Ragu di carne alla Lucchese - Meat sauce from Lucca (my favorite thing of the day!)

Secondi
Arista di maiale alla Toscana - Roast pork with pancetta, rosemary and sage
Patate arrosto - Roasted potatoes

Dolci
Cantucci di Prato - Almond biscotti cookies

I think I could easily recreate the cantucci (if only I had more counter space), bread salad and pork roast. I'm going to try out the pasta sauce next weekend. I've been meaning to learn a home-made spaghetti sauce for a while so that I can ditch the bottled stuff.

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.