We don't call him piano man. He's piano dude. Probably because we don't really like him.
Our hotel is right next to a tunnel that runs between the train station/beach area and the main town. There is a nice downward slope towards the main town, so piano dude sets up his keyboard at the top of the tunnel and his music just filters down, all the way through my window.
My only problem with this setup is that piano dude is really terrible. He has a very limited repertoire and he adds so many frills and runs and extras that it just... Well, it just ruins everything. One of the songs he chooses to butcher was written by Andrew Lloyd Webber. Were he dead, this rendition would make Sir Webber roll in his grave.
Fortunately, piano dude has a counterpart. Guitar man. Much more pleasant to listen to. Also less memorable, but oh well. In this case I think that's a good thing.
My window opens up all the way - there's a glass layer and a shutter layer and no screen in between, so you get directly at that ocean air. I love this window. I was so sad to leave it today. Because even though it has the perfect acoustic qualities to bring Memories directly to my ears when I'm trying to take a nap, it also brings in all sorts o other, more pleasant noises. Like the sound of waves, when the sea isn't so still that it looks like a lake. Or the sound of Italian men gossiping in the square below. Construction, replacing broken bricks with fresh ones, slapping down wet cement. Tour groups being led by tall, flag-wielding guides. Loud tourists. Ambulances. Rain. Roaring thunder. Trains and their whistles. All of these things can be heard through the open window, as clear as day. It's my favorite thing about our room, and something I will rather miss.
Thursday, May 31, 2012
A story about a duck
Tonight was my last night with my family - early in the morning they return to the US and I go to Vienna. So, of course, we had a delightful, multi-course meal. My sister insisted ahead of time that she wasn't hungry but ordered 3 courses with the best of them.
During dinner, the conversation turned to her upcoming year in Australia, working on a ranch. She expressed a wish to participate in the hunting and subsequent eating of a kangaroo, which I can absolutely relate to. When I was in Argentina I decided if I was going to eat living things, I should be ok with killing them too. I never actually learned to butcher something humanely, but I avidly watched the expert slaughter of several rabbits.
But I digress.
My grandma interjects at this point, telling us "Oh babies, I have a story for you. About a duck"
A little background is needed here. My grandma was born in Chile, moved at some point to Argentina where she met my grandpa, who was an OB/GYN, and they later moved to Paraguay where my dad spent most of his childhood. So, in Paraguay, they had a milkman. And it just so happens that one day my grandpa delivered this man's child. One day, the milk man showed up at the door bearing not only dairy but also a live duck, to say thank you. "It was horrible!" says my grandma. It's feet were bound, and as she took the duck, she dropped the poor thing. Then, not knowing what to do with it, she took it to the utility room in the back (where the washing machine was) and just left it there. When my grandpa got home she asked him to please kill it for her because she didn't know how, but he protested that he was a healer! He couldn't be killing things! So three or four weeks went by.
At this point in the story, I interject. "So, you just left the duck in that room for a month? With it's feet still tied up?" Yes. "Did you feed it, or did it just die of starvation?" She fed it.
At this point, we are cracking up, unable to contain our laughter. My grandma is laughing so hard she can barely continue the story. But somehow, she does.
After a month passed, she decided she just had to do something about this duck. Clearly. So she put the duck in a shopping back and schlepped all the way across town to her mother's house, where she showed my grandma how to butcher a duck. "It was so horrible!" she said again. And after that she doesn't remember what happened - presumably they cooked the duck and ate it.
During dinner, the conversation turned to her upcoming year in Australia, working on a ranch. She expressed a wish to participate in the hunting and subsequent eating of a kangaroo, which I can absolutely relate to. When I was in Argentina I decided if I was going to eat living things, I should be ok with killing them too. I never actually learned to butcher something humanely, but I avidly watched the expert slaughter of several rabbits.
But I digress.
My grandma interjects at this point, telling us "Oh babies, I have a story for you. About a duck"
A little background is needed here. My grandma was born in Chile, moved at some point to Argentina where she met my grandpa, who was an OB/GYN, and they later moved to Paraguay where my dad spent most of his childhood. So, in Paraguay, they had a milkman. And it just so happens that one day my grandpa delivered this man's child. One day, the milk man showed up at the door bearing not only dairy but also a live duck, to say thank you. "It was horrible!" says my grandma. It's feet were bound, and as she took the duck, she dropped the poor thing. Then, not knowing what to do with it, she took it to the utility room in the back (where the washing machine was) and just left it there. When my grandpa got home she asked him to please kill it for her because she didn't know how, but he protested that he was a healer! He couldn't be killing things! So three or four weeks went by.
At this point in the story, I interject. "So, you just left the duck in that room for a month? With it's feet still tied up?" Yes. "Did you feed it, or did it just die of starvation?" She fed it.
At this point, we are cracking up, unable to contain our laughter. My grandma is laughing so hard she can barely continue the story. But somehow, she does.
After a month passed, she decided she just had to do something about this duck. Clearly. So she put the duck in a shopping back and schlepped all the way across town to her mother's house, where she showed my grandma how to butcher a duck. "It was so horrible!" she said again. And after that she doesn't remember what happened - presumably they cooked the duck and ate it.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
oddsbobs
Here are a few little things I've encountered here that I've enjoyed or made me smile:
paddle boats with slides
Old Italian men carrying packages and walking their dogs
liters of house wine
raindrops on a still ocean
signs that warn you not to play trumpets in the streets?
the tiny train-like things that run through the vineyards
delicious yet cheap local beer
the most beautiful legumes I've ever seen, accompanied by gorgeous apricots
paddle boats with slides
Old Italian men carrying packages and walking their dogs
liters of house wine
raindrops on a still ocean
signs that warn you not to play trumpets in the streets?
the tiny train-like things that run through the vineyards
delicious yet cheap local beer
the most beautiful legumes I've ever seen, accompanied by gorgeous apricots
Via dell'Amore
Most of the time, when there hasn't been a recent flood, you can hike from the first 5terre town to the last, on trail #2. This year only the portion from Monterosso to Vernazza is open, and, of course, the Via dell'Amore, from Manarola to Riomaggiore.
This is really more of a stroll than a hike, but what a lovely stroll it is. Crowded? Yes. Cheesy? Absolutely. But lovely nonetheless.
The walkway is covered with graffiti espousing eternal love in dozens of languages. Any available fence, wire or handrail is bristling with locks placed there by lovers who believe (I guess) that their love will last as long as the lock does. This makes me wonder about the other things I saw put up along the way - luggage tags, silly bands, even paper towels. What were those, one night stands?
But there's something comforting about the sheer number of locks on this path. Every single one was put up by some lovestruck couple - maybe teenagers, maybe 75 year olds celebrating their 50th anniversary. It doesn't really matter. The point is that all of those locks represent people who believe in love. Not just any love, but their love. This may be cheesy, but so what? And maybe I'm not one of those people (but maybe I am, who knows?), but it's nice to know that so many individuals have that kind of faith in good things like true love. You know what I mean?
This is really more of a stroll than a hike, but what a lovely stroll it is. Crowded? Yes. Cheesy? Absolutely. But lovely nonetheless.
The walkway is covered with graffiti espousing eternal love in dozens of languages. Any available fence, wire or handrail is bristling with locks placed there by lovers who believe (I guess) that their love will last as long as the lock does. This makes me wonder about the other things I saw put up along the way - luggage tags, silly bands, even paper towels. What were those, one night stands?
But there's something comforting about the sheer number of locks on this path. Every single one was put up by some lovestruck couple - maybe teenagers, maybe 75 year olds celebrating their 50th anniversary. It doesn't really matter. The point is that all of those locks represent people who believe in love. Not just any love, but their love. This may be cheesy, but so what? And maybe I'm not one of those people (but maybe I am, who knows?), but it's nice to know that so many individuals have that kind of faith in good things like true love. You know what I mean?
Ristorante Ciak la Lampara
When I went to Seattle, Blythe joked that our tour of the city was really just a food tour. Let's just say that's how I like to travel. Food is, in my opinion, one of the greatest pleasures of life, and one that I am quick to enjoy. My food preferences have broadened steadily as the years have passed, and now I can safely say that there are few things I dislike and almost nothing I won't try.
Since the Italian leg of my journey is really a family vacation, and we are in a rather sleepy spot, we have fallen into a nice routine of meeting for breakfast, venturing out to the beach, for a hike, or to visit another town before lunch, then relaxing on our own until dinner. Our days are really structured around meals, and these meals have been pretty spectacular so far. The seafood here is so fresh, and when you order grilled or baked fish it comes to the table "still looking at you" as my grandma said.
I have concluded that I like my food to still be looking at me. At least when it's fish.
We have been making our way around the different restaurants surrounding our hotel, as well as in some of the other towns. Every meal has been delicious - we have had mussels, prawns, clams, stuffed anchovies, grilled fish, baked fish, gnocchi, every shape of pasta you've ever heard of, pesto sauce, pomodoro sauce, insalata caprese, pizza, bruschetta, risotto, melon e prosciutto, focaccia, gelato, tiramisu, lemon tart, walnut tart... and wine. Many bottles of wine.
I could literally drown in the mere memory of all this delicious food, but one particular experience stands out from the crowd. The restaurant is called Ciak la Lampara, and the first night we went there they had newly opened doors after the flooding. The walls were barely painted, the chalkboards hanging everywhere were bare except for one huge message: "Yes, we're back!"
First of all, the way this had been working in Switzerland was the waiter would very formally add glasses, remove silverware etc. and bring the wine list, then take the order. Here, although he brought the wine list, our waiter insisted that we order one particular wine. It's very good, he said, very good. No need for you to even consider anything else. When he brought it he sloshed it into the glasses, not caring at all if he dripped a little on the tablecloth. I loved it, because that's exactly the way I pour wine - it seemed very homey. Then the food was served family style, and our lovely waiter served us from the larger plates. And promptly dropped half a dozen gnocchi all over the table, chair and floor. I was really starting to like this guy. I, myself, am one of the clumsiest people I know.
All this sets the scene. Very relaxed, informal despite the white table cloths, all quite friendly.
Then, we taste the gnocchi. It was covered in pesto sauce, a particular specialty of the region. It was meant to be a first course, but I was convinced I wouldn't even be able to finish my helping much less the food that was meant to come afterward. But that was before I tasted it.
Oh my.
The dumplings were perfect, the pesto the most flavorful and delightful I could ever have imagined, directly from the mortar and pestle to my plate. We not only polished off the enormous platter, I refused to let the waiter remove said platter until I had used bread to sop up every last drop of that delicious sauce. He was cool with it.
Next, the main courses. They brought my fish to the table all alone on it's white plate, looking quite glumly at me with it's little fishy eyeball. My mind immediately flashed to my last attempt to eat an entire fish in Ecuador, which ended badly both for me and the fish. But I needn't have worried. Our super skilled waiter, using only a large fork and spoon, proceeded to behead, skin, and de-bone my fish for me, leaving only the tender white meat behind. What I have described so far would have made this one of the more memorable dining experiences of my life (I cannot overstate the quality of that pesto) but the meal was far from done. The fish was unequivocally the most delicious I have ever tasted. The flavor was so clean, so fresh, and so unmarred by unnecessary condiment that I refused to put lemon on it lest I ruin that perfection. I wax poetic, but goodness me, that fish... I recently watched a TED talk about a chef and his love affair with a fish. He should try this fish.
But wait, there's more! My dad is quite fond of mussels, so of course they come out next. A huge, steaming tureen of mussels, enough to feed all three of us. It was my first time trying mussels, and I haven't been able to stop eating them since. Not that I would want to. Tiny little morsels of delicate flesh, sometimes with the odd grain of sand that just serves to remind you how little distance these creatures had to travel to arrive at your table. And the broth, so salty and rich, couldn't be discarded - my dad literally slurped it from his bowl. In the middle of the restaurant. If you know my dad, you know that is the highest recommendation he could give.
Another note about the restaurants here: I had a notion that if a restaurant was near a main drag and had its menu in multiple languages, it probably wasn't a good bet. I think Cinque Terre is an exception to this rule. It doesn't matter how many languages they write the menu in. Or how bad the translations are (angry pasta, anyone?). All these restaurants are great.
Last night, we had a lovely dinner. Delicious fish, pasta - the usual homemade Italian delight. Then, the waitress comes out, and in her very pleasant accented English recites the dessert menu. She says that the tiramisu is the best - the best in the square. In the whole town. No - in the world. And she says this with such feeling, such genuine pleasure in the memory of this dessert, that I am almost forced to order it.
Let me tell you.
This tiramisu may, in fact, be the best in the world. I have obviously not tasted every tiramisu in the world, but my experience has led me to believe that this would be a reasonable conclusion.
So, if you want the best food EVER, go to Italy. That's my advice to you.
Since the Italian leg of my journey is really a family vacation, and we are in a rather sleepy spot, we have fallen into a nice routine of meeting for breakfast, venturing out to the beach, for a hike, or to visit another town before lunch, then relaxing on our own until dinner. Our days are really structured around meals, and these meals have been pretty spectacular so far. The seafood here is so fresh, and when you order grilled or baked fish it comes to the table "still looking at you" as my grandma said.
I have concluded that I like my food to still be looking at me. At least when it's fish.
We have been making our way around the different restaurants surrounding our hotel, as well as in some of the other towns. Every meal has been delicious - we have had mussels, prawns, clams, stuffed anchovies, grilled fish, baked fish, gnocchi, every shape of pasta you've ever heard of, pesto sauce, pomodoro sauce, insalata caprese, pizza, bruschetta, risotto, melon e prosciutto, focaccia, gelato, tiramisu, lemon tart, walnut tart... and wine. Many bottles of wine.
I could literally drown in the mere memory of all this delicious food, but one particular experience stands out from the crowd. The restaurant is called Ciak la Lampara, and the first night we went there they had newly opened doors after the flooding. The walls were barely painted, the chalkboards hanging everywhere were bare except for one huge message: "Yes, we're back!"
First of all, the way this had been working in Switzerland was the waiter would very formally add glasses, remove silverware etc. and bring the wine list, then take the order. Here, although he brought the wine list, our waiter insisted that we order one particular wine. It's very good, he said, very good. No need for you to even consider anything else. When he brought it he sloshed it into the glasses, not caring at all if he dripped a little on the tablecloth. I loved it, because that's exactly the way I pour wine - it seemed very homey. Then the food was served family style, and our lovely waiter served us from the larger plates. And promptly dropped half a dozen gnocchi all over the table, chair and floor. I was really starting to like this guy. I, myself, am one of the clumsiest people I know.
All this sets the scene. Very relaxed, informal despite the white table cloths, all quite friendly.
Then, we taste the gnocchi. It was covered in pesto sauce, a particular specialty of the region. It was meant to be a first course, but I was convinced I wouldn't even be able to finish my helping much less the food that was meant to come afterward. But that was before I tasted it.
Oh my.
The dumplings were perfect, the pesto the most flavorful and delightful I could ever have imagined, directly from the mortar and pestle to my plate. We not only polished off the enormous platter, I refused to let the waiter remove said platter until I had used bread to sop up every last drop of that delicious sauce. He was cool with it.
Next, the main courses. They brought my fish to the table all alone on it's white plate, looking quite glumly at me with it's little fishy eyeball. My mind immediately flashed to my last attempt to eat an entire fish in Ecuador, which ended badly both for me and the fish. But I needn't have worried. Our super skilled waiter, using only a large fork and spoon, proceeded to behead, skin, and de-bone my fish for me, leaving only the tender white meat behind. What I have described so far would have made this one of the more memorable dining experiences of my life (I cannot overstate the quality of that pesto) but the meal was far from done. The fish was unequivocally the most delicious I have ever tasted. The flavor was so clean, so fresh, and so unmarred by unnecessary condiment that I refused to put lemon on it lest I ruin that perfection. I wax poetic, but goodness me, that fish... I recently watched a TED talk about a chef and his love affair with a fish. He should try this fish.
But wait, there's more! My dad is quite fond of mussels, so of course they come out next. A huge, steaming tureen of mussels, enough to feed all three of us. It was my first time trying mussels, and I haven't been able to stop eating them since. Not that I would want to. Tiny little morsels of delicate flesh, sometimes with the odd grain of sand that just serves to remind you how little distance these creatures had to travel to arrive at your table. And the broth, so salty and rich, couldn't be discarded - my dad literally slurped it from his bowl. In the middle of the restaurant. If you know my dad, you know that is the highest recommendation he could give.
Another note about the restaurants here: I had a notion that if a restaurant was near a main drag and had its menu in multiple languages, it probably wasn't a good bet. I think Cinque Terre is an exception to this rule. It doesn't matter how many languages they write the menu in. Or how bad the translations are (angry pasta, anyone?). All these restaurants are great.
Last night, we had a lovely dinner. Delicious fish, pasta - the usual homemade Italian delight. Then, the waitress comes out, and in her very pleasant accented English recites the dessert menu. She says that the tiramisu is the best - the best in the square. In the whole town. No - in the world. And she says this with such feeling, such genuine pleasure in the memory of this dessert, that I am almost forced to order it.
Let me tell you.
This tiramisu may, in fact, be the best in the world. I have obviously not tasted every tiramisu in the world, but my experience has led me to believe that this would be a reasonable conclusion.
So, if you want the best food EVER, go to Italy. That's my advice to you.
Tuesday, May 29, 2012
These lizards are leapin'... or falling...
One of the great appeals of 5terre is the hiking. It is a national park right on the sea, so the trails are pretty awesome. There are all sorts, from a 20 minute stroll down a flat, flagstone pathway between Manarola and Riomaggiore called la Via dell'Amore, to a 12 hour trek on craggy, wooded hilltops from Monterosso to Porto Venere.
One of the first things I noticed while hiking was an abundance of lizards. Seriously, these things were everywhere - little brown ones and very brightly colored green ones. When the sun is out, the paths are littered with them, and if you come suddenly around a bend you might catch a glimpse of one as it runs away - otherwise, you're constantly surrounded with the sound of them rustling through the leaves.
These lizards do this funny thing. When I first saw it, I thought it was just that one silly lizard. It was resting on a wooden handrail as we came down the path, and started running away down the rail. We kept walking, it kept running. This continued until, quite suddenly, the little guy just fell right down to the ground. It was very clumsy and very noisy, not graceful at all. But I kept seeing it happen, again and again. One was sitting at the end of a tree branch as we approached, and after fumbling around in the leaves for a moment, crashed to the underbrush. I would have sworn these were, in fact, leapin' lizards, if they had but a bit more finesse... but no. They're just falling lizards.
This morning, while hiking from Monterosso to Levanto, something happened about an hour in. We hadn't seen anyone, then all of a sudden there was a convergence of at least 4 different groups of people. We all greeted each other - hello, good morning, bonjour, buon giorno, whathaveyou. And one man laughed, waved his hands in the air, and said all of the above in English, Italian, French, and German. Clearly not an American (he hem), he made a good point - when you encounter someone on one of these trails, who knows what language they speak? This is such a popular tourist destination, people come from all over. Not to mention the fact that this is becoming more and more of a global world, where you can live anywhere if you have the means and the will to do so. Who knows any more? I know some guys who are Russian, live in Colorado, and may be working in Ghana someday. Really, who knows? But my point is this: I had been greeting people with a smile and a cheery buon giorno, because we are in Italy after all. But I didn't stop to think whether they would understand me or not - it doesn't really matter. The intent behind a friendly greeting is clear, regardless of whether you understand the language being spoken. A smile goes a long way.
Something else I noticed was an abundance of small children on the trails. And I'm talking really small. From infants strapped on backs to toddlers being helped over rocks, these parents are not afraid to tackle a 3 hour climb with a kid in tow. I applaud them and their well-behaved, enthusiastic children!
Insects also abound, and have the courtesy of perching on flowers purely for my benefit, I'm convinced. I stopped to take a close-up photo of a bug so many times, I talked myself into the need for a macro lens for my camera in one short afternoon.
It's the season for flowers here as well. Summer is coming later than usual, the water is still a bit chilly, but the flowers are still in full bloom. Jasmine seems to be particularly popular around here, and it's just amazing - you're walking along, and suddenly this heady smell just surrounds you, almost overpowering but perfectly balanced by the fresh smell of sea air.
The views from the cliffs, the bugs and flowers and cute children and, best of all, the cold birra Moretti on tap waiting for you at the bottom of the trail, all come together to make 5terre one of my very favorite hiking spots.
One of the first things I noticed while hiking was an abundance of lizards. Seriously, these things were everywhere - little brown ones and very brightly colored green ones. When the sun is out, the paths are littered with them, and if you come suddenly around a bend you might catch a glimpse of one as it runs away - otherwise, you're constantly surrounded with the sound of them rustling through the leaves.
These lizards do this funny thing. When I first saw it, I thought it was just that one silly lizard. It was resting on a wooden handrail as we came down the path, and started running away down the rail. We kept walking, it kept running. This continued until, quite suddenly, the little guy just fell right down to the ground. It was very clumsy and very noisy, not graceful at all. But I kept seeing it happen, again and again. One was sitting at the end of a tree branch as we approached, and after fumbling around in the leaves for a moment, crashed to the underbrush. I would have sworn these were, in fact, leapin' lizards, if they had but a bit more finesse... but no. They're just falling lizards.
This morning, while hiking from Monterosso to Levanto, something happened about an hour in. We hadn't seen anyone, then all of a sudden there was a convergence of at least 4 different groups of people. We all greeted each other - hello, good morning, bonjour, buon giorno, whathaveyou. And one man laughed, waved his hands in the air, and said all of the above in English, Italian, French, and German. Clearly not an American (he hem), he made a good point - when you encounter someone on one of these trails, who knows what language they speak? This is such a popular tourist destination, people come from all over. Not to mention the fact that this is becoming more and more of a global world, where you can live anywhere if you have the means and the will to do so. Who knows any more? I know some guys who are Russian, live in Colorado, and may be working in Ghana someday. Really, who knows? But my point is this: I had been greeting people with a smile and a cheery buon giorno, because we are in Italy after all. But I didn't stop to think whether they would understand me or not - it doesn't really matter. The intent behind a friendly greeting is clear, regardless of whether you understand the language being spoken. A smile goes a long way.
Something else I noticed was an abundance of small children on the trails. And I'm talking really small. From infants strapped on backs to toddlers being helped over rocks, these parents are not afraid to tackle a 3 hour climb with a kid in tow. I applaud them and their well-behaved, enthusiastic children!
Insects also abound, and have the courtesy of perching on flowers purely for my benefit, I'm convinced. I stopped to take a close-up photo of a bug so many times, I talked myself into the need for a macro lens for my camera in one short afternoon.
It's the season for flowers here as well. Summer is coming later than usual, the water is still a bit chilly, but the flowers are still in full bloom. Jasmine seems to be particularly popular around here, and it's just amazing - you're walking along, and suddenly this heady smell just surrounds you, almost overpowering but perfectly balanced by the fresh smell of sea air.
The views from the cliffs, the bugs and flowers and cute children and, best of all, the cold birra Moretti on tap waiting for you at the bottom of the trail, all come together to make 5terre one of my very favorite hiking spots.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Mama Mia! Allora, va bene
For the second time in my life, I find myself in the lovely little string of coastal towns 5 Terre. Last time I was here was my first trip in Europe, my first extended time away from home AND from family, and I was 10 years old. Needless to say it was a completely different experience. We went hiking on beautiful paths among the cliffs overlooking the Mediterranean and all I could do was complain about the heat and the carbonated water. I had the chance to try mussels literally plucked from the ocean at my feet, but refused. Well, we live and learn.
This time around, I can't get enough of any of it - the ocean, the hiking, the sea food.
We're staying in Monterosso al Mare, the northernmost of the 5 and I think the "last". It's the only town with a beach, and it's relatively flat compared with the other towns. Monterosso and Vernazza, the next town over, were both hit very hard by terrible floods and mudslides on October 25th last year. While there are certainly tourists aplenty, it's clear that the town is much less crowded than it should be this time of year. There is construction going on everywhere, still repairing odds and ends from the damage that was done. The date 25.10.11 is spray-painted on the sides of buildings, and on every street there are pictures posted showing what that spot looked like covered in water and mud, and sporting cars that were picked up by the water and crashed into doors and stairwells.
I'm glad that by coming here we're supporting the rebuilding of the town. It's really amazing how much they have repaired in such a short time - despite the ubiquitous construction, things mostly look back to normal.
And let me tell you how enjoyable that normalcy is.
First of all, we are in Italy. I don't speak Italian. I speak decent Spanish, and Italian is kind of like Spanish - except when it's not. So I've been learning a few things. I was delighted to discover that the locals frequently (and vehemently) use the phrase "mama mia!" Another word I hear often is "allora", which is used at the beginning of sentences, sort of like saying "so, ..." Va bene is a useful term, roughly meaning "it's all good", to be used in any and all situations. Do you need more wine? Va bene. Is the food good? Va bene. I'll be out in a minute. Va bene. I also learned the correct way to pronounce grazie - the e is absolutely not silent. In fact, I don't think any vowels in Italian are ever silent. They are all cheerful, mellow, musical. This is how I view the language as a whole - happy and musical. I find myself walking along and randomly spouting out Italian words - ciao bella! allora! bellissimo! buon giornio! arrivederci! It's marvelous fun.
The people in Italy are wonderful as well. I am a big people watcher, and luckily my window looks right over a main square in town where old Italian men congregate to chat, yell to passersby, and gesticulate wildly when the occasion calls for it. The atmosphere here is very laid back, very chill. I rather like it, I think this would be a wonderful place to retire. I could spend my golden years in a little garden overlooking the ocean in Corneglia, hanging over my garden fence and yelling to my neighbors in Italian about the weather. Yes, I think that would be quite perfect.
I have been trying to take photos of locals on the sly - which is tricky, because I have a rather large camera. This guy made it pretty easy though. I have no idea if he's Italian (snoring sounds the same in every language), but he seems to perfectly embody the Italian attitude I appreciate so much.
This time around, I can't get enough of any of it - the ocean, the hiking, the sea food.
We're staying in Monterosso al Mare, the northernmost of the 5 and I think the "last". It's the only town with a beach, and it's relatively flat compared with the other towns. Monterosso and Vernazza, the next town over, were both hit very hard by terrible floods and mudslides on October 25th last year. While there are certainly tourists aplenty, it's clear that the town is much less crowded than it should be this time of year. There is construction going on everywhere, still repairing odds and ends from the damage that was done. The date 25.10.11 is spray-painted on the sides of buildings, and on every street there are pictures posted showing what that spot looked like covered in water and mud, and sporting cars that were picked up by the water and crashed into doors and stairwells.
I'm glad that by coming here we're supporting the rebuilding of the town. It's really amazing how much they have repaired in such a short time - despite the ubiquitous construction, things mostly look back to normal.
And let me tell you how enjoyable that normalcy is.
First of all, we are in Italy. I don't speak Italian. I speak decent Spanish, and Italian is kind of like Spanish - except when it's not. So I've been learning a few things. I was delighted to discover that the locals frequently (and vehemently) use the phrase "mama mia!" Another word I hear often is "allora", which is used at the beginning of sentences, sort of like saying "so, ..." Va bene is a useful term, roughly meaning "it's all good", to be used in any and all situations. Do you need more wine? Va bene. Is the food good? Va bene. I'll be out in a minute. Va bene. I also learned the correct way to pronounce grazie - the e is absolutely not silent. In fact, I don't think any vowels in Italian are ever silent. They are all cheerful, mellow, musical. This is how I view the language as a whole - happy and musical. I find myself walking along and randomly spouting out Italian words - ciao bella! allora! bellissimo! buon giornio! arrivederci! It's marvelous fun.
The people in Italy are wonderful as well. I am a big people watcher, and luckily my window looks right over a main square in town where old Italian men congregate to chat, yell to passersby, and gesticulate wildly when the occasion calls for it. The atmosphere here is very laid back, very chill. I rather like it, I think this would be a wonderful place to retire. I could spend my golden years in a little garden overlooking the ocean in Corneglia, hanging over my garden fence and yelling to my neighbors in Italian about the weather. Yes, I think that would be quite perfect.
I have been trying to take photos of locals on the sly - which is tricky, because I have a rather large camera. This guy made it pretty easy though. I have no idea if he's Italian (snoring sounds the same in every language), but he seems to perfectly embody the Italian attitude I appreciate so much.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Graduation and other happenings
So my sister graduated from college on Sunday. This is simultaneously mind blowing and not a big deal (for me that is, I'm sure it's a very big deal for her). She's not that much younger than me, and now that she can legally drink all over the world and has a BA, there is literally nothing that draws attention to our age difference. In fact, most of her friends either asked who was older or specifically if I was younger. Because of this age-equivalence I feel, it seems so obvious that she should be done with college simply because I am. But several times during the ceremony (which was very long and very boring), upon hearing voracious applause for other graduates, I was suddenly struck by intense nostalgia for my own time in college and the days when I thought of her as my baby sister, and it made my heart ache for her that it was over. But that was more of a fleeting sensation - honestly, I spent the majority of the ceremony wondering when it would be over. I can only assume (and hope) that it was more meaningful to those actually graduating.
On Saturday morning, the whole family took a little trip to Italy (nbd) to a market in Ponte Tresa. Everything from the new JLo CD to red leather jackets to cured meats were on sale at this market. The pizza was absolutely delicious, and I averted a minor crisis when I dropped my scalding hot slice, tried unsuccessfully to catch it with my other hand but burned it instead on the hot cheese, and then in an amazingly lucky and determined effort caught it before it hit the ground. So, I pretty much dropped it twice then caught it. I only lost a few drops of marinara sauce! In this lovely little border town we also got some fantastic hazelnut gelatto (my all-time favorite flavor), which has led me to the conviction that it's simply not worth it to settle for ice cream when something as delightful as gelatto exists.
On the single sunny day that I enjoyed in Lugano, I walked around the lake and took in an art exhibit at a museum in the park. The artist was Tony Cragg, and his stuff seriously impressed me. The museum was practically empty and the Swiss attendants were very insistent that one follow the order of the exhibit exactly, so I was alone to enjoy the pieces in silence (apart from the very loud creaking of the floors on the upper level). There were examples of his work with many different media, but my favorite were some watercolors of landscapes, but the effect of a landscape was achieved using only 0s and 1s, like binary code. The exhibit seemed to be centered around several ideas, one of which was the creation of wholly different and very fluid things from geometric, small building blocks. The more I see of modern art, the more I "get it".
We did an awful lot of walking in Lugano, which was great. It's very hilly, so I'm considering it training for when I move to San Francisco (whenever that happens). However, some people can't (or don't want to) handle the hills, so they have a lovely little contraption called a funicular that goes between the train station and downtown/the lake. We rode it once just for fun - I probably could have walked up the hill faster, but that just wouldn't have been touristy enough for that particular moment.
There were a lot of multi-family dinners that included a lot of wine, a lot of coffee, and a LOT of pasta. Also the most deliciously light, cloud-like gnocchi I have ever tasted in my life. It was agreed that while the sauce was lacking in flavor, the delicate little potato dumplings were the pinnacle of perfection, quite literally the most apt usage of the term "melt-in-your-mouth" that I have ever experienced. These gnocchi are what little sprouting potatoes should someday aspire to be.
A lot of the celebratory activities in the week centered around food, wine, and friendly company. I met a lot of wonderful people, I wholeheartedly approve of my sister's choice of college companions. And, hopefully, friends for a lot longer than that. The hard part about going to school in another country is that when you leave, you LEAVE. Everyone goes back whence they came, and to stay in touch with everyone becomes that much harder. But these are people who love to travel, and goodness knows where they will all end up in their lives, so we can only hope for the best.
On Saturday morning, the whole family took a little trip to Italy (nbd) to a market in Ponte Tresa. Everything from the new JLo CD to red leather jackets to cured meats were on sale at this market. The pizza was absolutely delicious, and I averted a minor crisis when I dropped my scalding hot slice, tried unsuccessfully to catch it with my other hand but burned it instead on the hot cheese, and then in an amazingly lucky and determined effort caught it before it hit the ground. So, I pretty much dropped it twice then caught it. I only lost a few drops of marinara sauce! In this lovely little border town we also got some fantastic hazelnut gelatto (my all-time favorite flavor), which has led me to the conviction that it's simply not worth it to settle for ice cream when something as delightful as gelatto exists.
On the single sunny day that I enjoyed in Lugano, I walked around the lake and took in an art exhibit at a museum in the park. The artist was Tony Cragg, and his stuff seriously impressed me. The museum was practically empty and the Swiss attendants were very insistent that one follow the order of the exhibit exactly, so I was alone to enjoy the pieces in silence (apart from the very loud creaking of the floors on the upper level). There were examples of his work with many different media, but my favorite were some watercolors of landscapes, but the effect of a landscape was achieved using only 0s and 1s, like binary code. The exhibit seemed to be centered around several ideas, one of which was the creation of wholly different and very fluid things from geometric, small building blocks. The more I see of modern art, the more I "get it".
We did an awful lot of walking in Lugano, which was great. It's very hilly, so I'm considering it training for when I move to San Francisco (whenever that happens). However, some people can't (or don't want to) handle the hills, so they have a lovely little contraption called a funicular that goes between the train station and downtown/the lake. We rode it once just for fun - I probably could have walked up the hill faster, but that just wouldn't have been touristy enough for that particular moment.
There were a lot of multi-family dinners that included a lot of wine, a lot of coffee, and a LOT of pasta. Also the most deliciously light, cloud-like gnocchi I have ever tasted in my life. It was agreed that while the sauce was lacking in flavor, the delicate little potato dumplings were the pinnacle of perfection, quite literally the most apt usage of the term "melt-in-your-mouth" that I have ever experienced. These gnocchi are what little sprouting potatoes should someday aspire to be.
A lot of the celebratory activities in the week centered around food, wine, and friendly company. I met a lot of wonderful people, I wholeheartedly approve of my sister's choice of college companions. And, hopefully, friends for a lot longer than that. The hard part about going to school in another country is that when you leave, you LEAVE. Everyone goes back whence they came, and to stay in touch with everyone becomes that much harder. But these are people who love to travel, and goodness knows where they will all end up in their lives, so we can only hope for the best.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
Getting to Lugano
I was lucky enough to get a flight from LA to Dusseldorf, Germany, and from there it was a short hop to Zurich. The first flight was delightfully empty - I got a pair of seats, aisle and window, all to myself. To top it off, they served wine with dinner and a digestif afterwards. It was quite luxurious.
When I arrived in Zurich I caught a train to Lugano, which was another 3 hours through BEAUTIFUL scenery. There was luscious grass, fields full of wild flowers beneath mountains covered in varying shades of green which gave way to snow-frosted pine trees. It was just breathtaking. At some point we went through a valley where it was snowing like crazy, at which point I had a minor freak out about the contents of my suitcase and the distinct lack of really warm clothes, but the weather was much warmer in Lugano. My sister met me at the station (but not before I tried, unsuccessfully, to find her dorm myself) and I will be spending the next week or so here with her doing graduation-oriented celebratory things.
When I arrived in Zurich I caught a train to Lugano, which was another 3 hours through BEAUTIFUL scenery. There was luscious grass, fields full of wild flowers beneath mountains covered in varying shades of green which gave way to snow-frosted pine trees. It was just breathtaking. At some point we went through a valley where it was snowing like crazy, at which point I had a minor freak out about the contents of my suitcase and the distinct lack of really warm clothes, but the weather was much warmer in Lugano. My sister met me at the station (but not before I tried, unsuccessfully, to find her dorm myself) and I will be spending the next week or so here with her doing graduation-oriented celebratory things.
Monday, May 14, 2012
Nooks and books
I really love to read. At the height of my reading career, probably around 10th grade, I was tearing through at least 3 books a week. Granted, these were mostly fantasy novels, but it serves to illustrate my point nonetheless.
Not only do I love to read, I love books. The smell of an ancient out-of-print volume in the public library is comparable to the smell of pine sap in the mountains in May. I could set up a cot and literally live inside of a used bookstore. I just got back from a two week trip - I left with 2 books, I came back with 8. I have more books than articles of clothing. And that statement is not qualified by how you define "article of clothing."
This passion for books causes some issues for me. First of all, I am nowhere near settled in my life, and every time I move I am struck by just HOW MANY there are, and just how much they weigh. I have sold, donated or otherwise given away dozens (possibly hundreds) of books each time I move, but they continue to accumulate. And I've decided I'm ok with this - my books are worth the extra headache on moving day.
But travel is another story. I am about to leave for a 3 month jaunt across the ocean, and of course there will be plenty of opportunity to read. Planes, trains, nights when I'm too tired to leave the hostel, cafés where I will really just be "reading" as a pretense for people watching. The idea of traveling, especially for so long, without any reading material is, in a word, unthinkable. But to carry enough books with me to last the trip is also completely ludicrous. Enter the nook. Not a book, but an acceptable replacement for the sake of lighter packing.
I'm not really sure how I feel about the kindle and the nook, the e-readers that threaten to make paper books a thing of the past. I don't truly believe this will ever happen, there are far too many individuals out there like me who see reading not just as an activity but a complete experience, one which requires the act of turning a page, the sound of the paper, the feel of it under your fingers. So, for the moment, I appreciate my nook for it's digital storage capacity, but little else.
As a true compromise, I decided to bring one paper book with me. I wondered what to bring for several weeks, polling friends, asking that English majors weigh in with their expert opinions. I finally decided on Catcher in the Rye. I read it in high school, and have wanted to revisit it for years, purely because of the almost visceral reaction it provoked in me. Although not necessarily an enjoyable reaction, I credit it to the excellence of the literature. So, when I moved after high school, Catcher was among the many books I gave to my local library.
I have been searching for a used copy of this book for the past month or so, with absolutely no success. I have a very romanticized idea in my mind of what a well-loved book looks like. Yellowed or worn with age, perhaps watermarked, dog-eared, coffee stains. Any of the above, really. And then, wonder of wonders, just such a book falls directly into my hands in Seattle. My lovely friend Blythe had a beautiful old copy of the book, and offered to lend it to me. My mind was immediately filled with visions of coffee spills, unexpected rainfall, the book leaping out of my bag to drown in the English Channel. No, no, I protested, knowing my clumsy self I would invariably lose or destroy this lovely little red book. In that case, take it as a gift, she said.
I cannot express in words how in love I am with this book. And I'm no longer afraid to dog ear it or drop it in the ocean (as long as I can fish it back out), because that will only give it more character.
Not only do I love to read, I love books. The smell of an ancient out-of-print volume in the public library is comparable to the smell of pine sap in the mountains in May. I could set up a cot and literally live inside of a used bookstore. I just got back from a two week trip - I left with 2 books, I came back with 8. I have more books than articles of clothing. And that statement is not qualified by how you define "article of clothing."
This passion for books causes some issues for me. First of all, I am nowhere near settled in my life, and every time I move I am struck by just HOW MANY there are, and just how much they weigh. I have sold, donated or otherwise given away dozens (possibly hundreds) of books each time I move, but they continue to accumulate. And I've decided I'm ok with this - my books are worth the extra headache on moving day.
But travel is another story. I am about to leave for a 3 month jaunt across the ocean, and of course there will be plenty of opportunity to read. Planes, trains, nights when I'm too tired to leave the hostel, cafés where I will really just be "reading" as a pretense for people watching. The idea of traveling, especially for so long, without any reading material is, in a word, unthinkable. But to carry enough books with me to last the trip is also completely ludicrous. Enter the nook. Not a book, but an acceptable replacement for the sake of lighter packing.
I'm not really sure how I feel about the kindle and the nook, the e-readers that threaten to make paper books a thing of the past. I don't truly believe this will ever happen, there are far too many individuals out there like me who see reading not just as an activity but a complete experience, one which requires the act of turning a page, the sound of the paper, the feel of it under your fingers. So, for the moment, I appreciate my nook for it's digital storage capacity, but little else.
As a true compromise, I decided to bring one paper book with me. I wondered what to bring for several weeks, polling friends, asking that English majors weigh in with their expert opinions. I finally decided on Catcher in the Rye. I read it in high school, and have wanted to revisit it for years, purely because of the almost visceral reaction it provoked in me. Although not necessarily an enjoyable reaction, I credit it to the excellence of the literature. So, when I moved after high school, Catcher was among the many books I gave to my local library.
I have been searching for a used copy of this book for the past month or so, with absolutely no success. I have a very romanticized idea in my mind of what a well-loved book looks like. Yellowed or worn with age, perhaps watermarked, dog-eared, coffee stains. Any of the above, really. And then, wonder of wonders, just such a book falls directly into my hands in Seattle. My lovely friend Blythe had a beautiful old copy of the book, and offered to lend it to me. My mind was immediately filled with visions of coffee spills, unexpected rainfall, the book leaping out of my bag to drown in the English Channel. No, no, I protested, knowing my clumsy self I would invariably lose or destroy this lovely little red book. In that case, take it as a gift, she said.
I cannot express in words how in love I am with this book. And I'm no longer afraid to dog ear it or drop it in the ocean (as long as I can fish it back out), because that will only give it more character.
the how and the where
I leave on Tuesday for Switzerland - my sister is graduating from college, which is kind of a big deal, so I'm hopping on a plane and flying over there to crash on her couch and distract her from packing for a few days.
After all the graduation hoopla is over we're doing a family vacation in Cinque Terre, after which everyone will fly back home, leaving me to start my solo adventure around Europe. This trip is really the reason I started this blog, and now it's finally here! Well, almost here. So, as I'm finishing up my last minute packing and preparations, I thought I would write a little about how I plan on traveling, and some potential locations I might visit.
THE HOW
Two words neatly sum up how I want to travel: light, spontaneous. I have a backpack (larger than a school bag but smaller than a camping pack) and a large purse, and anything that doesn't fit isn't coming. I want to be able to walk all day with my "luggage" if I need to, because who knows if I'll need to? I also don't have too much planned. As of this moment nothing is scheduled except my departing flight. That means no reservations of any kind after I leave Italy. While I do have a rough "itinerary", it's more of an idea of what could potentially happen. I want to leave everything open to spur of the moment decisions. I am also staying in hostels (dorm style) to meet interesting people and save my money for the things that I care more about, like delicious food and opera tickets.
THE WHERE
Since I don't know for sure where I'm going yet, I'll lay out my rough guide. First Switzerland, to see my sister in her cap and gown. Next, Cinque Terre, to spend 10 days with my family. Then it's on my own, and off to... Vienna, Slovenia, Bratislava, Budapest, Krakow, Prague, Cesky Krumlov, Salzburg, Munich, Berlin, Copenhagen (?), Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris, and a big finish in the UK. I plan on WWOOFing for about 4 weeks at the end of the trip because it's an inexpensive way to extend my time abroad, not to mention an amazing experience all on its own.
The only certainty is that I'll stay in Europe and the UK the entire time, and that I am ending up in either England, Scotland or Ireland. Everything in the middle has yet to be decided, and you will find out as I do.
After all the graduation hoopla is over we're doing a family vacation in Cinque Terre, after which everyone will fly back home, leaving me to start my solo adventure around Europe. This trip is really the reason I started this blog, and now it's finally here! Well, almost here. So, as I'm finishing up my last minute packing and preparations, I thought I would write a little about how I plan on traveling, and some potential locations I might visit.
THE HOW
Two words neatly sum up how I want to travel: light, spontaneous. I have a backpack (larger than a school bag but smaller than a camping pack) and a large purse, and anything that doesn't fit isn't coming. I want to be able to walk all day with my "luggage" if I need to, because who knows if I'll need to? I also don't have too much planned. As of this moment nothing is scheduled except my departing flight. That means no reservations of any kind after I leave Italy. While I do have a rough "itinerary", it's more of an idea of what could potentially happen. I want to leave everything open to spur of the moment decisions. I am also staying in hostels (dorm style) to meet interesting people and save my money for the things that I care more about, like delicious food and opera tickets.
THE WHERE
Since I don't know for sure where I'm going yet, I'll lay out my rough guide. First Switzerland, to see my sister in her cap and gown. Next, Cinque Terre, to spend 10 days with my family. Then it's on my own, and off to... Vienna, Slovenia, Bratislava, Budapest, Krakow, Prague, Cesky Krumlov, Salzburg, Munich, Berlin, Copenhagen (?), Amsterdam, Brussels, Paris, and a big finish in the UK. I plan on WWOOFing for about 4 weeks at the end of the trip because it's an inexpensive way to extend my time abroad, not to mention an amazing experience all on its own.
The only certainty is that I'll stay in Europe and the UK the entire time, and that I am ending up in either England, Scotland or Ireland. Everything in the middle has yet to be decided, and you will find out as I do.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Whimsy in Seattle
I met Blythe (codename usage will commence now) back in elementary school. She lived in Colorado for a year and a bit, and we had grand times together. We belted out musical numbers (Fiddler on the Roof was a favorite). We stained the fence in her backyard, along with ourselves, which led to a long time spent scrubbing our skin with turpentine. We had a "glamour day" when we dressed up in our fanciest clothes and took photos. We generally just had a lot of fun.
Then she moved to Taiwan.
Skip ahead 12 years. Thanks to facebook and a mutual certainty that we would still like each other, I find myself in the Seattle airport, hugging someone who is most definitely not in elementary school any more. We didn't really stay in touch over all those years, so we had the fun of getting to know each other all over again - and it was just wonderful!
I am not the type of person who has oodles of friends - I have a smaller number of people who I really adore, and I like it that way. I am lucky enough to have the most wonderful individuals in my life, and they have set the bar very high, so I rarely add anyone to my list of close friends. Blythe, however, has found a permanent home on that list. We got along swimmingly - in fact, we have so much in common that we began exclaiming loudly over any differences we happened upon. It was the most marvelous thing, we had the kind of engrossing conversations that you stay up late and lose sleep for, and not just about what we had missed in each others lives, but the kind of conversation you have with people you've known for years, the people who already know all about your life but you still find things to talk about anyways.
Now, let me regale you with tales of our exploits in Seattle (of which there were many), and pictures to prove it.
First of all, I was awoken my first morning by the delicious smell of coffee wafting into my room. That isn't the kind of thing I experience every day, so it was all the more delightful. Then, I got to drink this delicious coffee while we chatted over breakfast. This may seem like a little thing - and I suppose it is. But don't underestimate the amount of enjoyment I (and Blythe) get from little things, because then this story won't be any fun at all.
Our first stop was the Pike Place Market. I was enthralled with the idea of an indoor farmers market, and was walking around with my camera glued to my hand. We visited Rachel the piggy bank, a very accommodating and cold brass hog on whom we sat.
We got macaroons at a bakery filled with the most heavenly scents I could conjure, cheese curds at a shop down the street, and a cup of coffee at the original Starbucks. I very quickly realized the need to pay attention to how much coffee I was drinking, otherwise I would probably drown in the stuff. Ridiculous though this may be, something about being in Seattle made coffee more enjoyable. Perhaps it was the rain.
Then we went to the gum wall. I had never heard of this place before, never even imagined that such a place existed. But it does, and I have now contributed a wad of green, minty gum to the riot of spit-coated color. I will consider it to be my Seattle right-of-passage.
For dinner, we went to a restaurant that serves sushi on a conveyor belt! If I need to explain why this is exciting, perhaps this is not the blog for you.
The next day was even BETTER, if that's at all possible.
We began with more chatting and coffee. Let me reiterate just how lovely this is. Then we went to see the Fremont Troll, a huge troll statue under a bridge that is simultaneously imposing and strangely friendly. I had a lovely time patting his hair and looking up his nose.
Then we went to a delightful toy store called Archie McPhee's, where we spent a long time taking silly pictures and playing with finger puppets while simultaneously deciding how we would decorate our pizzas at lunch.
Yes, you read that right. We created scenes with plastic toys on our pizzas. It was fantastic.
Blythe had a parmesan pathway where a garden gnome was lovingly pushing a pram with rubber chickens and walking his pet skunk.
My pizza featured dinosaurs passed out under palm trees, windsurfing, playing badminton and wearing tophats, all while avoiding the sea monster trying to eat them all.
We also drank out of silly straws shaped like spectacles.
This was pretty much the most fun I've ever had playing with my food.
Dinner that night was even more exciting than the sushi conveyor belt. How is this possible? One might ask. Well, let me tell you. The most exciting dinner of all is when it consists entirely of dessert. Apple crisp and bread pudding, pretty much two of the most delicious things ever created.
We did many other wonderful things, including smelling lilacs, ascending the space needle, eating delicious tiny egg rolls and pad thai, going to an INSECT ZOO (yeah, that was pretty exciting for me), and generally enjoying our life filled with whimsy.
In conclusion: Seattle rocked my socks off.
Then she moved to Taiwan.
Skip ahead 12 years. Thanks to facebook and a mutual certainty that we would still like each other, I find myself in the Seattle airport, hugging someone who is most definitely not in elementary school any more. We didn't really stay in touch over all those years, so we had the fun of getting to know each other all over again - and it was just wonderful!
I am not the type of person who has oodles of friends - I have a smaller number of people who I really adore, and I like it that way. I am lucky enough to have the most wonderful individuals in my life, and they have set the bar very high, so I rarely add anyone to my list of close friends. Blythe, however, has found a permanent home on that list. We got along swimmingly - in fact, we have so much in common that we began exclaiming loudly over any differences we happened upon. It was the most marvelous thing, we had the kind of engrossing conversations that you stay up late and lose sleep for, and not just about what we had missed in each others lives, but the kind of conversation you have with people you've known for years, the people who already know all about your life but you still find things to talk about anyways.
Now, let me regale you with tales of our exploits in Seattle (of which there were many), and pictures to prove it.
First of all, I was awoken my first morning by the delicious smell of coffee wafting into my room. That isn't the kind of thing I experience every day, so it was all the more delightful. Then, I got to drink this delicious coffee while we chatted over breakfast. This may seem like a little thing - and I suppose it is. But don't underestimate the amount of enjoyment I (and Blythe) get from little things, because then this story won't be any fun at all.
Our first stop was the Pike Place Market. I was enthralled with the idea of an indoor farmers market, and was walking around with my camera glued to my hand. We visited Rachel the piggy bank, a very accommodating and cold brass hog on whom we sat.
We got macaroons at a bakery filled with the most heavenly scents I could conjure, cheese curds at a shop down the street, and a cup of coffee at the original Starbucks. I very quickly realized the need to pay attention to how much coffee I was drinking, otherwise I would probably drown in the stuff. Ridiculous though this may be, something about being in Seattle made coffee more enjoyable. Perhaps it was the rain.
Then we went to the gum wall. I had never heard of this place before, never even imagined that such a place existed. But it does, and I have now contributed a wad of green, minty gum to the riot of spit-coated color. I will consider it to be my Seattle right-of-passage.
For dinner, we went to a restaurant that serves sushi on a conveyor belt! If I need to explain why this is exciting, perhaps this is not the blog for you.
The next day was even BETTER, if that's at all possible.
We began with more chatting and coffee. Let me reiterate just how lovely this is. Then we went to see the Fremont Troll, a huge troll statue under a bridge that is simultaneously imposing and strangely friendly. I had a lovely time patting his hair and looking up his nose.
Then we went to a delightful toy store called Archie McPhee's, where we spent a long time taking silly pictures and playing with finger puppets while simultaneously deciding how we would decorate our pizzas at lunch.
Yes, you read that right. We created scenes with plastic toys on our pizzas. It was fantastic.
Blythe had a parmesan pathway where a garden gnome was lovingly pushing a pram with rubber chickens and walking his pet skunk.
My pizza featured dinosaurs passed out under palm trees, windsurfing, playing badminton and wearing tophats, all while avoiding the sea monster trying to eat them all.
We also drank out of silly straws shaped like spectacles.
This was pretty much the most fun I've ever had playing with my food.
Dinner that night was even more exciting than the sushi conveyor belt. How is this possible? One might ask. Well, let me tell you. The most exciting dinner of all is when it consists entirely of dessert. Apple crisp and bread pudding, pretty much two of the most delicious things ever created.
We did many other wonderful things, including smelling lilacs, ascending the space needle, eating delicious tiny egg rolls and pad thai, going to an INSECT ZOO (yeah, that was pretty exciting for me), and generally enjoying our life filled with whimsy.
In conclusion: Seattle rocked my socks off.
Friday, May 11, 2012
“If you’re alive, you can’t be bored in San Francisco. If you’re not alive, San Francisco will bring you to life.” W. Saroyan
Last week I took a trip to San Francisco. It was a really wonderful time, seeing an old friend and meeting new people. I had been to the city before, but never really experienced it the way I did this time around. Of course I did some of the traditional tourist-y things like ride the cable car and eat chowder at Fisherman’s Wharf, but I also got a peek at the real city, the place people live their day-to-day lives. And I fell madly in love with it.
It’s a funny thing, the idea of a hometown. For some people it’s very clear, the place where you were born and grew up and still live is and always will be your hometown. For some people it’s very clear because they’ve never lived any one place long enough to have a hometown. Then there are people like me. People who don’t know where to call home but there’s no good reason why. I lived in Southern California for a good chunk of my childhood. Then I moved to Colorado, and lived there for most of my formative years (High School, College). For a while after we moved, I was “from California”. After about a decade, I was “from Colorado”. Then, I “moved” back to SoCal, and proceeded to live in other places for months at a time. When people would ask me where I was from, I would get confused. Sometimes I would say “LA”. Sometimes I would say “Boulder” or “Denver” or “Colorado”. Sometimes I would say “well, I live in California right now, but really I’m from Colorado”.
Seriously?
Clearly, I have felt the need for a hometown for several years now. At some point I decided not to worry about it. I’m young, I want to see the world, I can just live in different places until I find out where home is going to be. This is what I figured. Well, things don’t always happen according to plan. Last week, way ahead of schedule, I realized that San Francisco is the place for me. I can't really explain what happened, except to say that the city literally hooked me, like Santiago and the marlin, and it is not letting go come hell or high water.
It’s a funny thing, the idea of a hometown. For some people it’s very clear, the place where you were born and grew up and still live is and always will be your hometown. For some people it’s very clear because they’ve never lived any one place long enough to have a hometown. Then there are people like me. People who don’t know where to call home but there’s no good reason why. I lived in Southern California for a good chunk of my childhood. Then I moved to Colorado, and lived there for most of my formative years (High School, College). For a while after we moved, I was “from California”. After about a decade, I was “from Colorado”. Then, I “moved” back to SoCal, and proceeded to live in other places for months at a time. When people would ask me where I was from, I would get confused. Sometimes I would say “LA”. Sometimes I would say “Boulder” or “Denver” or “Colorado”. Sometimes I would say “well, I live in California right now, but really I’m from Colorado”.
Seriously?
Clearly, I have felt the need for a hometown for several years now. At some point I decided not to worry about it. I’m young, I want to see the world, I can just live in different places until I find out where home is going to be. This is what I figured. Well, things don’t always happen according to plan. Last week, way ahead of schedule, I realized that San Francisco is the place for me. I can't really explain what happened, except to say that the city literally hooked me, like Santiago and the marlin, and it is not letting go come hell or high water.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
the what
trav·el [ˈtravəl]
v. make a journey, typically of some length or abroad.
v. go or be moved from place to place
Beyond the multiple dictionary definitions of the word travel, we each have our own perception of the word - what it means in practice, experience, and how one views the world.
For many years I believed all “real” travel to be international. This seems to be a fairly pervasive assumption, given the presence of the qualifying term “abroad” in the dictionary definition. I have since realized how ridiculous that notion is. Being a resident of the United States, one of the larger countries in the world (geographically speaking), I not only have a wide variety of cities and natural vistas to appreciate, but also a plethora of sub-cultures with which I have absolutely no experience. Each region, state, city, or neighborhood within a city, can have its own distinctive flavor. And this is, of course, true in most every country, regardless of its size.
Another opinion I had about travel centers around the second definition – physically moving yourself from one country to another. If you did that, you were traveling. You were getting all the mind-opening benefits of travel, learning about other people and how they live, seeing that we are not all the same and that’s what makes the world such an interesting place. To me, these were the most important components of travel, and they happened automatically when you left home. I have discarded that belief as well. It’s completely possible to travel all the way to the other side of the world and not really change how you perceive or think about anything. I know, because I’ve done it. It all depends on the individual and how they choose to experience the fact that they are physically located in a new and different place. Just being there isn’t enough. It’s far too easy to allow your views to shape the world around you instead of really experiencing it.
v. make a journey, typically of some length or abroad.
v. go or be moved from place to place
Beyond the multiple dictionary definitions of the word travel, we each have our own perception of the word - what it means in practice, experience, and how one views the world.
For many years I believed all “real” travel to be international. This seems to be a fairly pervasive assumption, given the presence of the qualifying term “abroad” in the dictionary definition. I have since realized how ridiculous that notion is. Being a resident of the United States, one of the larger countries in the world (geographically speaking), I not only have a wide variety of cities and natural vistas to appreciate, but also a plethora of sub-cultures with which I have absolutely no experience. Each region, state, city, or neighborhood within a city, can have its own distinctive flavor. And this is, of course, true in most every country, regardless of its size.
Another opinion I had about travel centers around the second definition – physically moving yourself from one country to another. If you did that, you were traveling. You were getting all the mind-opening benefits of travel, learning about other people and how they live, seeing that we are not all the same and that’s what makes the world such an interesting place. To me, these were the most important components of travel, and they happened automatically when you left home. I have discarded that belief as well. It’s completely possible to travel all the way to the other side of the world and not really change how you perceive or think about anything. I know, because I’ve done it. It all depends on the individual and how they choose to experience the fact that they are physically located in a new and different place. Just being there isn’t enough. It’s far too easy to allow your views to shape the world around you instead of really experiencing it.
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