A Perfect Day in the Yorkshire Dales

After a cooked-to-order breakfast of pancakes with lemon and strawberries and French-press coffee, I set out, ready to explore the Yorkshire Dales. I’ve worked in this area for 3 years but have never had a full, uninterrupted day to really explore – until now!

In my trusty rental car, I headed to Coldstone Cuts first. The roads in this part of the UK would put the Amalfi Coast to shame. True, the drops aren't quite as drastic, but the lanes are much more narrow, curvy, hilly and in case that wasn't enough, don’t forget to stay on the left! Thank goodness the British are polite drivers, unlike the Italians. Sorry. I digress. Back to Coldstones Cut… Designed by artist Andrew Sabin, the interactive sculpture (think David Bowie’s Labyrinth, only with better views and no Goblin King) overlooks the Coldstone Quarry on one side and sweeping views of the dales in every other direction. The quarry itself is in a curious position. It’s one of the largest quarries in the country but totally hidden from sight unless you’re inside the Coldstone Cut sculpture. As you wind your way through the high-walled labyrinth, right about the time you’re considering giving in to the urge to climb the walls to catch a glimpse of the sights beyond, the walls get lower and the sculpture gives way to breathtaking views.

On my walk back to the parking lot from the sculpture, I passed an old man and his dog. As we got closer, I smiled. He grinned, tipped his cap and gave me a big, “Cherrio!” Have I mentioned yet that I love this country?

As I drove towards my next stop, Bolton Abbey, the sun peaked out from behind the clouds and set the country side aglow. By the time I paid 6-pounds to park and then wandered my way on to the estate that houses the old Bolton priory, the sun was completely out from behind the clouds warming my cheeks and making the sights all the more beautiful. The Abbey is in the middle of 30,000 acres and sits on the banks of the River Wharfe. While the old 12^th century priory is beautiful, my favorite part of the day wasn't wandering through the ruins. Oh, no! My favorite part of the day was shakily making my way across the stepping stones that stretched from one bank of the deceptively deep, deceptively swift river to the other. From the shore, it looked like child’s play. From the middle of the river, standing on a wobbly stone, realizing the next step is further away than you realized and the water is actually waist deep not ankle deep, things got a little more serious. It’s all fun and games ‘til someone falls in the river.

I’m happy to report I made it to the other side without any major incidents. I then spent the next hour camped out on the rocks, watching other unsuspecting tourists wobble their way across. Some turned back after a few stones and one little girl fell in. The sun was out and warm but it certainly wasn't warm enough for a swim! Traffic across the stepping stones seemed to be a one-way affair, so I used the bridge to head back. As I ambled my way along the river bank, listening to the trickle of the water, sun on my face, not a care in the world, I stepped right in a big ol’ pile of cow poop. Nothing could ruin the beautiful day for me though! I sighed. Then giggled. And just dragged my feet in the tall grass the whole way back to the car. I was as good as new by the time I made it back to the car park.

Settled back on the right side of the car – I meant to open the wrong door, I was just throwing my bag in the passenger seat, swear – I programmed my GPS (also known as the one item I would grab on the way out if my house was on fire) to take me to Wensleydale Creamery. Anyone who’s seen the classic British claymation show, Wallace and Gromit, should recognize that name. It’s Wallace’s cheese of choice and after sampling their many varieties (they had cheese with pineapple! cheese with jalapenos! cheese with caramelized onions! cheese with cranberries!) I can see why. Of all the cheeses I tried, my favorite was the traditional Wensleydale with ginger.

The Creamery has an interesting history, having been saved from the brink of closing twice – once in 1930’s by local legend Kit Calvert and again in the 1990’s. In the 90’s the Creamery actually did shut down for about 6 months, resulting in 59 lost jobs (20% of the entire town’s population). A few of the old employees banded together though, bought out the big corporate owners and re-opened. Today, their cheese business seems to be thriving with more than 200 employees and lots and lots of very happy, very full customers… and the cheese lovers all lived happily ever after.

Having crossed everything off the ‘must-see’ list for the day, I started off back towards the hotel. About an hour in to the drive, it started drizzling a bit. Nothing major, just enough to make a faint rainbow. A few minutes before 6pm, I realized a couple of things. First, that the setting sun was blinding me, making the odds of my running in to a sheep or off the side of the road that much higher. And second, that THE SUN WAS SETTING over the Yorkshire Dales and I was worried about hitting a sheep. I found a safe spot to pull off the road, conveniently right beside a bench. (There are walking paths all over the country side and lots of benches for the hikers to rest and just gaze at the views.) As the sun hit the horizon and started to disappear, I felt something ping off my head. I ignored it for a second until it happened again and then again and again. I ripped my gaze off the sunset and realized it was hailing. Not to be phased by ice the size of gumballs, I zipped my coat a little higher, wrapped my scarf a little tighter and gazed on. The sunset was magnificent – fiery orange and reds and pinks – and totally worth dealing with the cold hail. Quite the perfect ending to the perfect day in the Yorkshire Dales.

Buon Anno

Auguri!

I spent another holiday with Enrichetta, my landlady, and her family today as we rang in the new year together. Apparently, it's tradition in Italy to feast on seafood at the first of the year. When Loretta, Enrichetta's daughter, asked me if I liked fish, I squared my shoulders, answered, "Si!" and prepared myself for suction cups and tentacles. There were a lot of both but… everything was SO delicious! Not only eating but actually enjoying seafood. Who would have thought?!

Our menu:

Antipasti

Sliced tuscan bread with raw salmon/lemon and tuna/olives

Octopus and potatoes

Prawns and lentils

Primi

Spaghetti with mixed seafood (lobster, clams, shrimp, squid and octopus)

Secondi

White, lake fish with carrots, zucchini and fennel

Jumbo prawns

Dolci

Pineapple, orange (fresh off their tree outside) and grapes

Dried figs, dates and nuts

Panettone with dark chocolate and grappa

Ricotta torte

Almond cookies

All of this (oh, that's right, we're not done yet) was followed by a spumante toast and cafe.

After stuffing ourselves, I was introduced to an Italian card game that, despite playing for over 2 hours, I still don't understand. Loretta's husband, Giuseppe, helped me through though, and I didn't loose too terribly.

If today's afternoon, surrounded by my surrogate Italian family (no hot grandsons today, unfortunately, but you can't win them all) was any indication, I'd certainly say I'm in for a wonderful 2012!

Brrr

Prague in one word? COLD. So, so cold.

Arriving from 60-degree, sunny Pisa, the minute we stepped outside of the Prague airport, I gasped. An actual, oh-my-gosh, I just stubbed my toe or bashed my funny bone and no it's not funny, audible gasp. The 40-degree, humid air in Prague hit me, like, well, a wall of ice. Good thing I packed that winter coat and gloves and scarf...

The day we arrived, we ventured out in the cold to explore the area and find a Black Light Theatre per Rick Steve's suggestion. The city is beautiful. Full of art-nouveau architecture and wide, cobble-stone streets. Unfortunately, I can't say such nice things about the black light performance. We saw Aspects of Alice at TaFantastika. I only have one thing to say to Rick about this one... like Cirque du Soleil my BUTT.

The show was, at best, a middle-school quality production full of bad music, bad props, bad acting and bad costumes. (When there were even costumes to be found. I'm not going to get in to the bit of "artistic nudity.") Perhaps if it was still 1960 and perhaps if we were all high, it might be enjoyable. But, I live in 2011, was not high and most certainly not impressed. Give this one a miss if you're ever in Prague and looking to get out of the cold, dear readers. Our last night in the city, we saw a beautiful classical concert in Smetana Hall at the Municipal House. That almost made up for the black light debacle. Almost.

On our way back to the hotel, we stopped for dinner and heat at a typical Czech restaurant. We all enjoyed our piping hot soup (I had Grandma's Potato) and Czech beer.

The next morning, another cold, grey day greeted us. (Did I accidentally get off the plane in Russia? ) We bundled up and left the warmth of our hotel. For 4 hours, we traipsed around Prague with Kate, our guide on the Sandeman Free Tour. (Guides expect a tip at the end of the tour, so much like everything in life, it isn't really free.) We walked from Old Town Square to New and the Charles Bridge to the Jewish Quarter. At every stop, before sharing the history of the sight, Kate would lead us all in aerobics to warm everyone up, or at the least, fend off the hypothermia.

On the tour, we learned that Prague is the capital city of a relatively young country. In 1989, after almost 40 years of Communist rule, Czechoslovakia declared their independence in the Velvet Revolution and the Communist regime crumbled. Then, in 1993, the country again changed course and split into 2 new countries -- the Czech Republic and Slovakia. Meaning the Prague that is the capital of the Czech Republic is just 18 years old. And, cold. Don't forget cold.

Monday, our last full day in Prague, it wasn't quite so cold. The sun showed its face a few times! We caught lucky glimpses of the astronomical clock and Prague Castle bathed in sunlight and a beautiful sunset over the Charles Bridge. I even managed to shrug off my winter coat for about 30 seconds to pose for a picture in front of Lennon Wall!

(Photos coming tomorrow!)

Ilha Lilás

Once upon a time, I flew to a tiny island in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. While on this island, I went hiking with friends...

On the drive back from this hike, we got stuck in a goat jam. Seriously.

Safely out of the goat jam, I set out an a tour of the island.

I visited Biscoitos and its beautiful lava rock formations where the locals go swimming in the summer-time.

I met a basket maker...

... and a bootlegger. Still serious.

And we all lived happily ever after!

THE END

Lisboa

Ok, ok... I take back (most of) the bad things I said about Lisbon. In the past 5 or 6 visits to the city, I've faced short layovers on my way to and from the Azores, required to spend the night and half a day or so due to genius flight scheduling. As a result, I came to label the city as dirty, crowded, ugly, noisy, so on and so forth. This time around, I intentionally scheduled a whopping 3-nights in Lisbon. I started a little Brownie troop at one of the international schools last year. So, the extra time was warranted. I'm not going to lie though, I also was sure to leave myself a full day for sightseeing.

Sunday morning, I awoke to a knock on my door at 10am. Room service! One of the many hotel tricks I've discovered in my travels is that room service breakfast is often cheaper than the breakfast served in the on-site restaurant. I paid 11-euro for the room service while they charged 17-euro for the restaurant buffet. Plus, I got to stay in my PJs a little longer. Win, win!

So, after breakfast in bed, I drug myself out of the hotel (one of the downfalls of traveling alone is that its way too easy to talk yourself into staying in the room all day) and went in search of a big, red tourist bus. Within 10 minutes of planting myself at what I thought was the bus stop, I spotted one, stopped about a block up the road from where I was waiting. I made a run for it and reached the bus right as it was pulling off. I decided to wait at this new found stop. 10 minutes later, a big, yellow tourist bus stops a block back down the road, right where I was waiting earlier. Another run for it. Another miss. I walk dejectedly back up the road. Another 10 minutes pass and a 3rd bus stops ACROSS THE BUSY STREET. Not my day. I decided to stay put and wait it out. (Wo)man versus big, red/yellow tourist buses. About an hour and a half after first leaving the hotel, I finally climb aboard a bus!

Because my hotel was a bit off the beaten path, I had a long ride to the center. The bus took me through the part of town that hosted the World Expo in 1998, looped back around to the Alfama neighborhood (which I'd get to know better Monday evening) and up to the Marques de Pombal. I changed buses here and headed towards my ultimate destination (finally!), Torre de Belem. I'd been advised to try out the tasty Pasteis de Belem too but I swear, I was going mostly for the Torre.

When I hopped off the bus, I was greeted with a face full of salty air (being near the water and all) and this view:

After checking out the mini-castle, I promenaded down the sidewalk, following the water. Along the way, I spotted a few women on the beach, frantically picking up something and throwing it in a plastic shopping bag. Curious, I kicked off my shoes and wandered down to see what was up. They were collecting perfectly shaped, tiny seashells. One of the women told me she uses the shells in jewlery. I spotted a nice one and pocketed it as a free little souvenir of my time in Lisbon.

Moving further down the water, I spotted a market across a giant, 6-lane road. How to cross, how to cross... Not wanting to risk my life for a few hand-made goods, I went off in search of a pedestrian over or under pass. I found one what seemed like miles away, crossed over and traipsed all the way back to my market. It turned out to be a great find! Markets can be hit or miss in Europe and luckily this one was a hit with original jewlery, art work and unique antiques. After browsing every stall, I headed off towards Pasteis de Belem (PDM), recent purchases in tow.

As I approached PDM, I was greeted by a mob of people milling around outside in what was their attempt at a queue. (Not surprisingly, about every 60 seconds, a yelling match would ensue when an Italian tried to waltz directly to the front, leaving a lot of angry and vocal people in his/her wake.) I stood and laughed at the scene for a few minutes before taking advantage of the insider scoop I'd learned the night before. From the outside, it seems like the shop is tiny with almost no seating. So, most tourists queue up outside, resigned to take away. However, wander a few steps in and you realize the place is actually massive. Room after room presents itself, filled with the smell of their world famous pastel.

I quickly got a table and ordered a pastel and port. When the pastel arrived, I topped it with powdered sugar and cinnamon. (It took spying on a near-by table to realize the shakers weren't salt and pepper.) A sip of port and a melt-in-your-mouth, warm, creamy goodness bite of pastel and I was in heaven. The pastel was so good, I asked the waitress to bring me one more, por favor.

Happy with my pastel experience, I settled the bill (just 6-euro, quite the bargain!) and headed out. As it turns out, I lingered just a little bit too long in Belem; the buses (or, the tourist ones at least) had all stopped running. Being a brave, independent traveller, I gathered my courage and what little sense of direction I posses and headed below ground.

Traveling alone almost never bothers me anymore UNTIL moments like this, when you find yourself in a metro station, deciphering a tri-color, dot-laden map. What I wouldn't give to have someone I could confirm with, "Hey. We take the blue line to the red line and then continue on 2 more stops to our hotel, right?" But, when you travel alone, there's none of that. You just study the map extra hard, hold your breath and hop on a train. I'm not going to confess here how many times I've had to stop dead in my tracks, make a complete 180 and head back the way I came. Luckily, the Lisbon metro is pretty simple and easy to understand. I found my stop on the first try, spotted my tall hotel about 3 blocks away as soon as I got above ground and called it a day.

Monday, I went to the International School for a quick meeting with the Headmaster. More importantly -- in my world anyhow -- I met 5 little Girl Scout Brownies to sing songs. I taught them the Bean Song (my dog green likes to roam!), the Button Factory Song (Hi, my name is Joe!), the Milk Song (Just give me that milk, moo moo moo moo!) and the girls' favorite, the Blackbird Song. You know, the one where the blackbird flies in the country store and Pfttts on everything. Ahh, I impart such important life lessons on today's girls. After the fun song session, we headed back in to Lisbon. (The school sits above Lisbon in a beautiful town called Sintra.)

That evening, I met Sara, a friend of a friend for dinner. Some days, I swear, I've never met a stranger. Knowing I had a 7am flight (meaning a 5am taxi ride to the airport) and having been particularly extroverted for the last 7 days of business travel, it was actually more like I was forced to have dinner with a friend of a friend... at first. Almost immediately, I warmed up to Sara though and realized I was in for a fun night.

We hopped on the metro and headed to the Alfama neighborhood. Sara described this part of town as, "soulful, back alleys full of locals..." and she was right! Seemingly worlds away from the hustle and bustle of Lisbon, the Alfama area is an eclectic, funky part of town with small, hole-in-the-wall restaurants. Many of these restaurants were advertising live Fado that evening. I dropped hints for a few minutes before Sara asked, "Do you want to see Fado?" Um, yes! Fado is traditional, Portuguese folk music, full of longing for lost love. When I told Sara the music sounded eerie and melancholy, she explained to me that Portugal was a country of explorers for a very long time. Many people lost their lovers to new lands and expeditions and this love lost and longing lead to Fado. Well, that explains it.

We ordered a typical dish of cod fish stew (not my favorite, I'll admit, but edible) and listened to the 12-string guitar for hours. With my taxi ride to the airport just hours away, we eventually pulled ourselves away from the music so that I could get a couple hours of sleep.

I left Lisbon the next morning (if you can even call 5am morning) with the Fado still ringing in my ears and waved goodbye (for now) to this city.

Welcome Back

In honor of my dad, I'm going to attempt a return to this blogging business. I've been all over the place since I last wrote -- from Lake Como to Berlin (both for pleasure) and New York to London (both for work). So, I'm not going to try to fill in the blanks of everything you've missed but rather pick up from yesterday morning...

On Sunday, my dad and I said our 'goodbyes' in front of the Rome airport's Hilton Garden Inn after a whirlwind 2-week vacation/tour of Italy from top to bottom. I hopped on the bus to the airport and held on tight as the driver flew through one stop sign after another. An unknowing American tourist sitting in the seat to my left remarked in earnest to his wife, "Those stop signs must be for someone else..." Uh-huh. Right.

As we approached the airport, our fearless driver spotted a traffic jam in his parking spot. We were still 50-feet away when the horn honking started. In case his morning wasn't already ruined by the Land Rover parked diagonally across 2 lanes of traffic, a ballsy taxi driver then decided to try his luck. Disregarding his stop sign, as traffic started moving again, the taxi wormed its way in front of our bus. I could see our driver weighing the pros and cons of a side-swipe to the taxi with the bus but luckily for all involved, he refrained. Instead, he threw open his window, started yelling and took both hands off the wheel to start in on the "Vaffanculo" hand gestures. I swear, the man actually screamed, "Che parte di stop non capite?" Or, in English, "What part of stop don't you understand, asshole?" The guilty taxi driver stopped in front of us to plead his case with an unsympathetic police officer before moving on. Our bus driver pulled in to his hard earned parking spot but not before stopping to bid "Buongiorno" to the police officer. The doors opened and we all piled off.

This exciting ride was a fitting ending to an equally exciting 2-weeks with my dad. He landed in Rome on September 17 and we didn't stop going until we parted for our separate flights yesterday. Highlights included:

- Matera! A pre-historic town of recently restored cave dwellings. This place was unlike anywhere I'd ever been. Our hotel was literally in a cave -- humidity and all -- and we discovered the world's best pizza at Oi' Mari, a hole in the wall (Get it? Town of caves? Hole in the wall? Ha, ha, ha...) spot at the bottom of Matera.

- The beautiful Amalfi Coast and the less than beautiful driving. I haven't decided if the spectacular scenery and doting hospitality of our Mafia-run hotel makes up for the insane driving here. We stayed in Praiano, right in the middle, between Amalfi and Positano. Every day we faced driving like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tsv7rMEJx3M.

- Dinner with my friends Sandra and Ale. We ate, we drank and my Dad and Ale talked photography while Sandra and I gossiped about work (it's what we do) all night.

- A return to the Isola di Capraia, possibly my favorite spot in Italy. After an early morning ferry ride from Livorno on Saturday we blew off treking for beers and a nap by the pool. We made up for our lazy day on Sunday though with a 3-hour trek along the coast and a private boat ride around the island, complete with a stop for swimming in the crystal-clear, cool Mediterranean Ocean.

- Lake Garda, with a day trip to the Dolomiti Mountains (i.e. my favorite place on earth). I breathed in the mountain air, wore a sweater and long pants most days and just generally enjoyed being in the north of Italy (where things are cleaner, quieter, calmer...) for a few days. Garda is a beautiful, serene spot, glowing blue in the day time, pink at dusk and twinkling with lights after dark. On our 3rd day there, we took a sail boat across the lake and back. It seemed as if the lake was just made for sailing. We stayed in a so-so hotel in Malcesine -- while the hotel was nothing special, we did discover an amazing restaurant thanks to TripAdvisor. If you're ever in the area, be sure to plan for a meal (or two or three) at Al Gondoliere (www.algondoliere.com). I'm still dreaming about their ravioli in pistachio sauce.

Dad arrived back in Charlotte yesterday afternoon and I went back to work today but life doesn't go back to "normal" for me anytime soon. So, there's hope yet for more of these stories. I'll spend a week and a half in Portugal (mostly work, some play) soon. A quick 4-day trip to Prague at the end of October. Prague is on my bucket list! I love crossing places off the list... (Ok, ok... and adding a magnet to my collection.) Then, a week in Houston, Texas for the big Girl Scout National Convention (Happy 100th Birthday to us!), followed by 2-weeks at home in Charlotte in November. Somewhere between then and the end of the year, I hope to squeeze in trips to London, Amsterdam and Germany. Whew. 2012 is going to be here before I know it!

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.

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.