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.