Notes from a broad

All Aboard: Let's Go to Liguria

2011-07-03T13:45:00.000-07:00

I've had a few questions via private message on Trip Advisor about how I planned my day trips in Liguria using Genoa (Genova) as my home base and I thought that others might benefit from my answers. Thus, this post.

To start, yes. I think Genova is an excellent home base for the region, all four provinces of Liguria (Genova, Imperia, La Spezia, Savona). Most of the places that tourists want to visit are along the coast and are well serviced by train, bus, boat, or some combination thereof, either from Genova or using other towns in the region as your starting point.

As a travel photographer, much of my day trip planning from any home base begins at my computer. Guidebooks, photo tomes, travel shows and mags or movies are a nice resource, but I find that simply spending some time online with Google Maps, Flickr, and other sites is a great source of information and discovery when it comes to deciding where I want to go. Beaten path destinations are easy enough to research, but it's the un- or lesser touristed towns that I'm more interested in identifying and visiting, and to find them I have to get a little more creative than Rick Steves' Europe and the like.

Using the method described above, I generally start on Google Maps at my home base (e.g., Genova) and surf down or around the map for interesting-sounding city names. I pick a city and look it up on Google Images and Flickr or elsewhere and if it looks like a place I might enjoy spending a few hours, I delve deeper, searching for train, bus, or boat schedules to determine if it's a feasible day trip.

This approach works for me, and works for pretty much anywhere you'd like to go and trip by day from. Especially in Europe where public transportation is generally pretty fantastic.

For Liguria specifically, I settled on the following towns as my day trip destinations from Genova: Alassio, Albenga, Albisola, Boccadasse, Bogliasco, Bonassola, Camogli, Campo Ligure, Celle Ligure, Cervo, Cinque Terre, Cogoleto, Finalborgo, Laiguelia, Lerici, Nervi, Noli, Pieve Ligure, Portofino, Portovenere, San Terenzo, Santa Margherita Ligure, Sarzana, Sestri Levante, Sori, Tellaro, and Varazze.

Once I had a list of places I wanted to visit, I organized them into manageable chunks. I listed them out in order of their distance from Genova and worked backwards with train, bus, and boat schedules to figure out how many I could reasonably and leisurely enjoy in a day. The furthest I was willing to travel was three hours, so I figured out which far-lying cities fit within that max, chose a few, and worked backwards. The daily plan was to go from Genova to the furthest point, and make stops along the route home. That makes the most sense to me because who wants to have a three-hour schlep home at the end of a long day when you're tired and just want to be in bed already?

After I'd sorted those details I looked at how many travel days I had total, and began cutting. The list of cities two paragraphs above comprises my final cut. In the end, I didn't make it to all because I fell wildly ill with a lovely cold on the second week of my two-week trip. But had I been healthy all 13 travel days, I likely would have made it to every stop on the list.

In the olden days before my iPod touch, I would use MS Word to type up all my custom travel details. These days, I create a document in Google Docs and access it on the fly - sans WiFi, even - with the gogo Docs app. Couldn't be more convenient. I also rely on my iPod touch to make changes to my plans on the fly by going online with Safari to check bus, train, and boat schedules (with WiFi access). Because I was staying at a B&B where WiFi was included, it was always available in the mornings or afternoons before I wanted to head out. It was perfect. Further, I could also make changes to my plans on the fly, on the fly (sans WiFi). For example, if I thought I might like to stay for a longer or shorter duration of time somewhere, I could simply pull out my iPod and take a quick pic of bus, train, or boat schedules and consult them as I needed. Awesome, right?

Screenshots from portions of my Genoa 2011 Google Docs custom guide:

With a little work (or a lot, in the end) I had a document that best prepared me to focus on enjoying the trip and not scrambling each day to figure out where I should begin, end, what the timing of transportation between towns was like, how many towns I could reasonably see in a day, etc. I did not, I repeat - I did (and do not) - plan my trip down to the minute. I just got the minutia out of the way so that I could get from A to B smoothly and get to enjoying B already before moving on to C, carefree. See? Much more enjoyable vacationing, that way. It's easy to get flustered in a foreign country and planning like this puts me at ease and minimizes that sort of stress.

I used the following sites and apps for this trip, both in pre-travel planning and in Genova:

il Borgo di Genova
I can't recommend this place highly enough. Alessandra and Giovanni are the best. And I don't say that lightly. They truly tops!

ATC La Spezia
Province of La Spezia bus information.

Commissione di Garanzia e Sciopero
Commission of Strikes.

Consorzio Marittimo Turistico 5 Terre
Golf of Poets and Cinque Terre boats.

Ferrovie dello Stato Italiane
Italian State Railways' official site.

Google Translate
Both the website and the iPod app.

Italy Strikes
One of several sources to track strikes.

Rail Europe
Gives some idea of schedules and prices, but not exhaustive.

Regione Liguria Transport Timetable
Bookmark this site. It will be your best friend in planning and on the once you're on the ground in Liguria. An invaluable source for train and bus timetables and options between all towns throughout the region of Liguria, in all four provinces (Genova, Imperia, La Spezia, Savona).

Strikes in Italy
One of several sources to track strikes.

Trenitalia
The Italian railway system's official site.

ViaggiaTreno
Another helpful Trenitalia site.

ViaMichelin
Better maps for Europe than Google.

An idea of ticket prices:

Bus tickets were from 1,50 to 3,00 each way from various towns. I took the bus from the train station at La Spezia to Lerici (and back), from Lerici to Tellaro, from Genova to Nervi, and from Sarzana to La Spezia (to the train station).

Corsa Semplice train tickets were 6,60 for 90km; 3,00 for 30 km; and 2,40 for 20km rides.

Genova Brignole to Camogli was 20km and 2,40 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

Genova Brignole to Campo Ligure was 33km and 3,50 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

Genova Brignole to Sori was 15km and 2,10 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

Genova Brignole to La Spezia Centrale was 13,50 for a Classe 2 Eurostar seat.

Genova Brignole to La Spezia Central was 87km and 6,60 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

Genova Brignole to Manarola (one of the Cinque Terre towns) was 79km and 6,00 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

La Spezia Centrale to Sarzana was 16km and 2,40 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

Monterosso to Genova Brignole was 71km and 6,00 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

Riomaggiore to Genova Brignole was 80 and also 6,00 for a Classe 2 treno ordinario seat.

Note that you have six - yes, 6 - hours from the time of validation (you must validate your train ticket before boarding the train, otherwise you face a fine if caught) to get from A (partenza) to B (arrivo) as printed on your ticket. If you plan well, you can see several towns on a single one-way train ticket, en route from A to B. This is where all that pre-travel planning can really pay off to save you precious time and money.

Do you have any questions for me? If not, how about a question for you: What are some of your favorite day trips from Genoa or elsewhere in Liguria by train, bus, or boat?

Get off the Couch [or the Computer] and Go!

2011-04-20T17:22:00.000-07:00

Question: Why are some people happy to venture afar sans a fellow traveler in tow, while other would-be adventurers pass precious time at home (when they could be away) waiting for family, friends, or partners to find either the time, money, desire, or some combination thereof, to get out and about abroad?

Answer: Sheer fear. Of the unknown. Of potential loneliness. Of who knows what. I can't tell you the number of times a friend has said something like, "Oh, you're so brave to travel by yourself." Or, "I've always wanted to go to _______. But I don't like traveling alone and can't find anyone to go with me." And when I ask if they've ever actually tried solo travel, the answer is invariably, "No."

I can understand the hesitation. The idea of roaming alone used to freak me out, too. And I still can't cotton to the idea of things like remote solo hikes or driving across the country by my lonesome. Too many real life horror stories spring to mind! But anyway. It wasn't until a friend invited me along on a trip to Europe that I finally got to Europe. Had I not had someone to hold my hand on that maiden voyage, I may well still be sitting at home dreaming of gondola rides down the Grand Canal, staring up at the actual Eiffel Tower (rather than that half-pint knockoff in Vegas), partaking of bona fide French pastries - hot out of a French oven, in France, and a million other priceless, cherished experiences, nuanced and not.

Europe in particular - I can say having been now, many times alone - is a joy to navigate without crutches. I mean, travel companions. There's so much to see and do, whether for a fee or for free, getting bored is hardly an option. And though the big, looming-L (loneliness) is a constant possibility, it's not to be feared. Feeling lonely is just a natural facet of being, after all. It's a mood that can strike anyone, anywhere, and at any time. Whether one is actually alone or not.

How often have we felt lonely at a party or among friends and family or with a romantic partner? It happens. C'est la vie, from time to time. And we get through it somehow, don't we? So don't let something lame like the mere possibility of a little loneliness, so commonplace and insignificant - in the grand scheme of things - stop you from taking a trip by yourself. Plus, when you're traveling alone, it's nearly impossible to avoid striking up a conversation of some kind with strangers. You'll meet people. Really, you will. Unless you go out of your way not to interact with anyone, that is! And yes, you can meet people and have a conversation, even if all you speak is English. How do you suppose someone from say, China and someone from Portugal are going to communicate with each other, beyond gestures? Why in English, of course.

Whether it's asking for directions, shop hours, how to find the nearest metro, or any number of queries one might expect from an out-of-towner, you're going to have myriad opportunities to make a buddy. Even if it's just a temporary connection.

And speaking of connections, have you not seen Before Sunrise or Before Sunset? What about Bread and Tulips? Lost in Translation? L'Auberge Espagnole? Surely you got sucked into the Eat, Pray, Love blitz or were at least vaguely aware of the basic storyline.

Where ever it is you've always dreamed of going, chances are it's a trip that you can safely take alone (provided you use common sense). If the destination is a bit more daring, you may have to organize a spot with a tour group or take a class of some kind, but hey - instant travel companions, right? You have only to be open to a different kind of trip, when traveling alone. Take the plunge without expectations and just enjoy it. You never know who you might meet or the kind of time you may have. Essentially, if you have the means and the free time, it boils down to Nike and De Niro - Just do it (Nike). If you don't go, you'll never know (Robert De Niro). And that - not going, never knowing - would truly be a senseless tragedy.

8/24/2011: Celebrate senior solo travel! Solo travel sites and tips for the mature traveler

8/15/2011: 19 Indispensable Resources for Solo Travelers

What is holding you back from a solo adventure afar? If you used to be afraid or hesitant to travel alone, what finally got you to go? How did the trip turn out? For those who love solo travel as I do, what movies, books, blogs, or other media would you recommend to those who are still a bit timid when it comes to this kind of travel?

Woulda Coulda Shoulda

2011-01-31T14:26:00.000-08:00

I gotta study abroad. It's never too late, methinks. Even if it's à la Christine on an extended work/stay/study afar, après college (or well after, in my case). Thanks for the inspiration, Anne.

Giving Thanks on [and for] America's Riviera

2010-12-10T22:29:00.000-08:00

I had the pleasure of spending an extended Thanksgiving holiday this year with family (you're the host with the most, Dames) and a friend (you're a trooper for driving up and hanging out, Kurt) in Santa Barbara - the coastal California town that bills itself as The American Riviera.

Having been to both the French and Italian versions, I was skeptical about the comparison. Though I'd been to S.B. once before on a quick day trip up from L.A., I couldn't recall being struck by anything resembling a riviera vibe. But then, there's not much that I can recall from that early visit; I think it comprised a quick lunch downtown, and that's it. Maybe it was on a drive up to San Fran along Hwy 1? I can't be sure (early onset Alzheimer's, what can I say).

Anyway ... in addition to spending a little cherished quality time with family, I had a lot of free time to amble about town. And amble I did. Left to my own devices in a new place, I can while away the hours in no time, accomplishing a lot or a little. It's all the same to me (fun). This trip was pretty low-key in terms of accomplishments. But the one thing I did go buck wild with and really tackle in satisfying fashion was the Spanish tile situation. Santa Barbara is crawling with the critters. My favorite application was adorning the city's many steps and staircases. With eyes were on permanent peel, I was amply rewarded for the effort. Check it out.

Gorgeous, right?

I only wish I'd been maybe a hair more productive on the photographic front and taken a few shots of the drop-dead lush 'n lovely hills - the drive we took up there through Montecito and beyond was fairytale-caliber beautiful - or at least one of the amazing technicolor sunsets (with a full moon, to boot). Oh well. Next time. There was plenty I didn't get around to. So I shall return soon (prepare your bowling arm, Damon) and hopefully it'll be a tad warmer; particularly after dark so I won't have to brave the elements to break out the camera - the 33F nights were a bit crispy for my comfort, though inside by the fire was quite cozy.

Despite the chilly and very un-Riviera-like nights, what a fitting trip to kick off my 2011 travel plans - fresh off my visit to America's Riviera (which is exactly what it looks and feels like), I've got my sights set on a spring stint in the Italian Riviera and a fall fling on the French. Even though I've been to both regions in years past, those trips weren't well captured because, at the time, I had only a crappy little point-and-shoot. So I've got high hopes for the photos this time around.

Oh là là! It's going to be magnifique.

In the meantime, keep your eyes peeled for more pretty pictures from Santa Barbara in my Flickr stream, on Etsy, and via iStock and elsewhere. The post-processing fun has only just begun (but first I have to clear out a backlog of far more pressing photographic work, so please be patient).

Fall into the Gap

2010-08-29T19:21:00.000-07:00

The gap year, that is. The gap what, you say? Are you an American? That's probably the problem then. A sabbatical or gap year away from one's career is not uncommon in Australia or the UK (or elsewhere in Europe and perhaps Canada), but it's largely a completely foreign concept to the typical overworked and under-traveled American.

There's also the gap year after high school and before college that is commonplace in Europe, when kids travel to immerse themselves in another culture, explore specific interests, work, and/or volunteer. But that's not the year I'm talking about. I'm talking about walking away from one's career for a year. At least.

Though I don't like its touting of Elizabeth Gilbert's best-selling piece of BS (how nice to get a $200,000 advance to go and travel the world and write about it) - "Eat Pray Love" - I do like what Meet, Plan, Go is about - helping people make their gap-year dreams a reality.

I only just learned about the group, having stumbled upon a blurb announcing an upcoming event (for which I am now on the waiting list; guess I'm not the only American hankering for a career break). At any rate, hope the spirit of the gap year catches on Stateside. We Americans could definitely use a real vacation from our workaday lives - the three-day weekend a few times a year just doesn't cut it. Neither does a two-week trip, once in a blue moon!

While I wish it would transpire sooner rather than later, I'm just beginning to gear up for my gap year - five years in advance of when I'm aiming to take it. And, in truth, I'm hoping it'll extend well beyond a single year and transition into a new full-time "career" altogether.

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Meet, Plan, Go: Seeking to teach Americans about the benefits of extended travel via a gap year or career break. The group helps to motivate prospective travelers, help them build contacts and resources necessary to planning their year off, and get them on their way to making concrete steps forward toward a sabbatical.

Transitions Abroad: Portal for work abroad, study abroad, cultural travel overseas, and international living. While the site looks a tad janky, it's recommended or referenced all over the place. For instance, Yale. Ivy League approval says to me it's kosher and worth delving into without hesitation.

Interim Programs: The first - founded in 1980 - and longest-running gap-year counseling organization in the United States. The group has designed creative gap-year opportunities for thousands of people of all ages. It has an extensive database of program options.

Projects Abroad: The leading volunteer projects abroad organization, offering a diverse range of projects internationally. Promises that your experience will be far more worthwhile and genuine than that of the average tourist.

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8/23/2011: Career break travel myths - Lonely Planet

10/12/2010: Tips for making that dream trip - dropping everything to roam the globe for a year - a reality. From The New York Times' Practical Traveler.

15 Days

2010-08-05T15:06:00.000-07:00

So many places to see, so little paid leave.

A certain day in December 2010 marks year three with my present employer. How do I know this? Because I've been counting down the days since the day I started to maxing out my paid-leave accrual - 15 days. Add on a paid personal day and a handful of paid holidays, and as it goes for working Americans, I actually have it pretty good. I take my time off seriously. Seriously! Though when I get instant messages from my European friends on one of their two (or even three!) three-week paid vacations, I must tell you. I feel pretty, well, not good about my pretty good American time off.

Why don't Americans have longer vacations?

Why, indeed.

How much annual paid leave do you get? How about unpaid leave? How much vacation time do you actually take off, at one time? Three days? One week? Two weeks? More? Is the amount of time you take at a go dependent on what you can afford or how long your company culture or official policy allows, no matter how much time you have banked?

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11/09/2010 - Oh, to be born a Brit.

Aid for Ash Cloud Affected Travelers

2010-05-09T09:32:00.000-07:00

In light of my own recent experience, I thought it might be handy to dedicate a post to enlightening links and info for those affected by the ongoing volcanic eruption in Iceland and the resulting clouds of ash that hinder, or otherwise hamper, air travel. It's probably even more beneficial to be up on some of this stuff before your trip is even booked.

★ On what to know before you go:

List o' lessons from the Practical Traveler at The New York Times.

★ On affordable accommodations (i.e., free):

http://www.couchsurfing.org/

★ On European airspace (the latest):

http://twitter.com/eurocontrol

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/in_depth/europe/2010/iceland_volcano/default.stm

★ On reimbursement from the airlines:

"Today thousands of consumers affected by flight disruptions are still rightly clamoring for their rights to be respected in practice," said EU Health and Consumer Policy Commissioner John Dalli.

"My message to them is: do not hesitate to claim what is yours. If an airline or a tour operator continues to ignore your rights, a European Consumer Centre near you can be your next port of call," he added. Source.

On 4 May 2010, the network of European Consumer Centres (ECC-Net) published a practical complaint package, which is designed to help consumers affected by recent flight disruptions to exercise their consumer rights guaranteed under EU laws. The package includes a standard complaint letter, contact details of all airlines and other practical advice. Source.

Your rights as an air passenger apply to flight cancellations or delays caused by the volcanic ash cloud. They include (see source).

If the canceled flight has been purchased as part of a package holiday, you have more extended rights. If you have not yet started your trip you have the right to obtain a refund for the entire package (including e.g. the flight and the hotel) and if you are stranded you have the right to assistance on the spot.

You can find more information here (see source).

If you are affected by the situation, you should contact your airlines or travel agents first. If you booked a package holiday you can download a complaint form here (see source).

If you only booked an airline ticket, you can find a similar complaint form here (see source).

You should first send your complaint to your airline or your travel agent. You can search for the contact details of your airline's head office in the membership directory of these airline associations (see source).

If you are experiencing problems having your consumer rights respected, you are advised to contact a European Consumer Centre, a national consumer organization or a national enforcement body.

A European Consumer Centre (ECC) supported by the European Commission exists in every EU country as well as in Iceland and Norway. All the ECCs are working together to ensure a coordinated response to the crisis. Your local ECC can help and advise you. Find a European Consumer Centre near you.

If you do not reach an agreement with your airline or your travel agent and the value of your claim is less than 2000 €, you can under some conditions use the small claims procedure to resolve the dispute. Your local European Consumer Centre can give you more information and advice on this procedure. Source.

★ On being stuck in Paris (yay and yikes, both):

http://www.davidlebovitz.com/archives/2010/04/10_things_to_do_stuck_stranded_in_paris_france.html

Paris is for Survivors

2010-05-04T18:33:00.000-07:00

In celebration of my (gasp) 35th birthday, I'd planned (over a year ago!) to spend four splendid spring days in Paris and another 12 on the French Riviera, using Nice as a home base from which to flit from one picturesque hill- or seaside town to the next, with a final night in Paris before flying back home the following afternoon. Sounded dreamy to me, too. Well, what was to be a dream trip come true morphed into a nightmare of sorts at 2AM on the dot, the day I was to depart.

Having been fully packed nearly a week before, I was looking forward to an easy-breezy crack-of-dawn departure. Wake up at 2AM with an hour to shower and dress before rolling out the door and catching my 3AM shuttle to the airport. Instead, I woke up at 2AM to a voicemail that my landlord had not received my April rent check (14 days into the month, at that point). The last time that happened, I got a notice on my door to "pay rent in 3 days or quit" (eviction proceedings would begin). So, as you might imagine, this is the last news I wanted to hear at 2AM the day I'm leaving the country for two+ weeks.

I frantically spent the next 50 minutes trying in vain (half because I was only half awake and the other half because online banking isn't what it should be and 24-hour customer support by phone isn't an offering where I bank) to get the matter sorted. The remaining 10 minutes I spent brushing my teeth, washing my face, and throwing on my clothes, sans shower. Sans shower before a 6AM flight, followed by a 5-hour layover (in Toronto), followed by (finally) the flight to Paris. That is many, many hours to be without a shower and in transit via the close-quarters airborne nastiness that is economy-class modern commercial aviation. Yuck! (I'm not the camping type, can you tell?)

At any rate, I finally got to Paris. But only by the grace of god, or rather, France, which had yet to close its air space due to the volcanic eruption in Iceland. In preparation for landing, our pilot announced that we'd taken a 1-hour and 300+ kilometer detour around "a cloud of volcanic ash" and that it hadn't been noted in the flight-tracking info that we could follow along with on our personal TV monitors, and he was sorry. We all just looked at each other like, whatever. So you cleared a cloud. Who cares? Just land the freaking plane already.

It wasn't until the following day when I began to receive wild emails from family and friends -- Did you make it? Are you stuck in Toronto? Why haven't you contacted us to let us know you're okay?!! -- that I realized the gravity of the situation; I hadn't seen the news or read the papers, as I was just trying to get over my jet lag and directly into vacation mode.

Mon dieu. What a Debbie Downer the impact of Iceland was, once I started tuning into the latest via TV and the Internet. It freaked me out. It killed vacation mode (which was already suffering due to the stress of my missing rent check). It jiggered with my travel plans.

Come day five, the day I was to fly to Nice, I'd come to find out my flight was canceled. Which, at that point, I was expecting. I'd spent several hours the day before at a train station to inquire about riding the rails down to Nice if air travel was not to be an option. In short, I came up short here as well because there was a train strike in the south of France in addition to train tickets being outlandishly expensive and in short supply per the strike and the airport closures across much of Europe.

And so, I embraced the reality that I would be stuck in Paris for the duration of my vacation. At which point I promptly got sick with a wicked cold (of course), requiring that I spend much of my first week at the hotel and in bed. And when it wasn't the jet lag or the cold or the stress of not knowing if my rent check would ever arrive or if the volcano would keep me in Paris indefinitely (how long should I wait before lining up a job?), it was problems with my back-up bank (a huge international bank with no listed number for Americans travelING (hint hint) overseas to call should their card be lost or stolen or whatever), suffering a semi-severe burn to my gums from a piping hot falafel, or other bodily ailments that would be TMI to detail here (even for open-book me).

In brief, I find it something of a miracle that I managed to enjoy myself at all. But then, I was in Paris. And Paris is, even under the worst of circumstances or annoyances, a pretty damn enjoyable place.

While the point of Nice was to experience something that is renown to be so very nice, it was also (and moreso) to see something new. Although I do love to return to favorite cities, I find that I take fewer and fewer photos upon my return trips because as I get to know a place more intimately, the familiarity does little to inspire fresh photography. Unfortunately, that's just the way it seems to work, for me. The more a place becomes home, the fewer images I make (just like at home). Which is why I had only planned to be in Paris for four days. Having gone to Venice the year before (where I've also been multiple times and twice for one month at a time), I was really (really) looking forward to the newness of Nice. It was going to be oh so nice, and would result in a glut of colorful and inspired new pictures. Something that I was in urgent need of, both professionally and personally.

But Nice was not to be. So I made a point in Paris to venture into corners of the city that I'd not seen before and to hit a few of the touristy spots or things-to-do that I'd always avoided like the proverbial plague. In desperate need of inspiration, I was now open to braving an evening (never a morning or an afternoon, per the hordes) at the Louvre. But although I even made it to Versailles (finally), I didn't get around to (finally) going up in the Eiffel Tower. And I must say, thank god I've already been to Paris on a number of occasions and wasn't looking forward to seeing or photographing the Eiffel Tower, or the Arch de Triomphe, or a handful of other monuments that scream "Paris" because it seemed as though they are all currently undergoing major restoration or maintenance work that detracts (and majorly) from the expected aesthetic awe.

In the end, I discovered a passion for the city's pretty portals. Of which Paris has no shortage. There are delicious doors in a rainbow of paints and patinas around every corner. And I have the pictures to prove it!

And while I would love to regale you with stories, I don't actually have that many. This trip was far from exciting, I think per the non-newness of Paris (for me). I did serendipitously meet more than my fair share of interesting or (purely) entertaining people, but those moments aren't nearly so worth recounting as the half-day spent with an old friend who just happened to be in town at the end of my trip.

After a leisurely lunch at La Grande Mosquée of Paris (wonderful Algerian food in an amazing setting that makes you feel a million miles away from France and transported directly to North Africa; can't recommend it highly enough, even just for mint tea in the garden), window shopping, treats-come-true from La Pâtisserie des Rèves, and just doing whatever, my friend and I decided to have dinner at Angelina's before taking advantage of the reduced crowds and fare offered up by the Louvre every Wednesday and Friday (the only way to see the Louvre, in my opinion; it's 6 Euros after 6PM and stays open until 10PM on these evenings).

With 19 Euro big salads (with the tangy mustard dressing, you can't go wrong; worth each and every Euro) and its world famous hot chocolate, Angelina's is an old (founded in 1903) and swanky joint on the ritzy Rue de Rivoli in the heart of Paris.

Wrapping up our meal and in mid-chat, my friend suddenly let loose a blood-curdling scream. I turned to look in the general direction where the horror seemed to be sourced, and witnessed a small mouse weaving its way frantically toward the wall and into a hole one table over from ours.

Lucky for Angelina's, they were closing in under 20 minutes and the palatially proportioned dining area wasn't overflowing as it is nearly every afternoon. Even still, there were plenty of people and after the scream, you could hear a pin drop. Several ladies at table near us asked what had so upset my companion, and they were visibly upset to learn it was rodent-related.

The best part was, perhaps, the manager's cool estimation of events (we're doing some renovation and construction work, and so there are mice, and you've already finished your meal, so why not just leave) and suggestion that we not mention it to anyone.

They say there's no such thing as a free lunch. Perhaps we noshed on mouse droppings and that's what made the salad so good, though I'm hoping not. I'm just glad the bill was forgiven, and get the feeling ours wasn't the first waived with regard to a Remy sighting. And while he did suggest we not recount our experience, we didn't shake on it or anything, so I can't feel too bad about going public with it here. Plus, there's no such thing as a free lunch (or dinner). For either party!

In closing I am happy to report that my rent check was finally received toward the tail end of my time in Paris. I had three whole days to enjoy without that hanging over my head, and with things looking pretty quiet on the volcano front. So that was nice.

What was not nice was the trek home. At the airport in Paris, I was asked to remove each and every item from my camera bag and place it in a plastic bin. Two DSLR bodies. Four lenses. Six external hard drives. And I don't know how many batteries and cords and memory cards. It was total bull merde, if you ask me. I thought that'd be the worst of it, but I had to empty my camera bag all over again in Montreal. Took nearly 40 minutes and if I hadn't sprinted to the gate directly after, I would have missed my connection to Toronto. As it was I got there right as they were announcing the final boarding call.

Toronto should have been a breeze. I had 2 hours to kill before my flight on to San Francisco. Sadly though, most of it was killed in customs. Air Canada flights had been delayed all day due to a reduced number of customs agents. The line was unreal. All said an done, the customs affair took a good hour and 20 minutes. Then there was security. I was starting to freak that I'd miss my flight home and be stuck in Canada for the night, but -- praise the lord -- the security agent I got was an angel. I simply said to him that I was a photographer and that my backpack was full of camera and camera-related gear and could he please allow it to go through the scanner without unpacking the contents. Whether because he was just a nice guy or because he could perhaps sense that I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he chipperly said sure. No problem.

Whew!

That time-saver bought me just enough on the clock to buy a drink and a snack before boarding began. And it got even better. So many people were delayed or otherwise detained in the customs debacle that the flight was only half full, if that. I got an aisle seat, and between me and the nice man seated by the window (a fellow shutterbug with whom I shared a lovely conversation about travel and travel photography) was luxurious emptiness. Hassle-free security screening, awesome. But no middle-seat travel companion on the last long leg home? Priceless.

As for Nice, I hope it's still as nice as they say when I mange to (finally) get there. One day.

Update, Saturday, May 8, 2010: "The eruption of the glacier-capped volcano has shown no signs of stopping since it began belching ash April 13. It last erupted from 1821 to 1823." So, with no end to the eruption in sight, it appears that ash cloud related airport closures and flight delays, cancellations, or rerouting will continue. Indefinitely. Therefore, it's handy (if not of the utmost importance) to know your rights when your European travel plans fall through. And, ideally, know before you go!

Update, Sunday, May 9, 2010: I have an all ash cloud post now, which I will try to keep updated with fresh and relevant info; so long as the Icelandic volcano remains an issue to air travel.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Footnotes

2009-11-04T11:32:00.000-08:00

Pieces of Venice
36 Hours in Venice | NYTimes
Vanishing Venice | National Geographic
Venice Versus the Sea | National Geographic
Why Are the Venetians Fleeing Venice? | Newsweek
Acqua Veritas | DW-TV Global 3000, Story at 20:00 into video
City Known for Its Water Turns to Tap to Cut Trash | NYTimes

Pieces of Paris
Whining | David Lebovitz, an American in Paris
Paris Posts | Nichole Robertson, Little Brown Pen
Paris 26 Gigapixels | Interactive virtual tour of Paris

NEW York

2009-09-07T18:16:00.000-07:00

While my friends were at work, I played. And generally ran myself ragged walking, busing, and riding the rails all over Manhattan.

For New Yorkers it was hot, but not hot as hell. For me, it was blazing hip-hop R&B a little too loud at 80+ degrees Fahrenheit, and humid. I'm glad it didn't rain and wasn't 90F or hotter, but damn. I could have showered five times a day and still felt funky.

Even though it was blazing bullets, I still wanted to be out-and-about outside. So much so that I didn't even hit any of the many museums that I'd planned on visiting. That said, I did make a point to visit many a museum store.

Other than a few minor purchases at museum shops, I didn't buy much. A few pairs of fun $5 earrings (talk about a cheap thrill) and a cute little etching of the classic "I ♥ New York" sentiment scrawled on a t-shirt by an artist selling her limited edition prints on the street near the Museum of Modern Art. That and a bunch of swim gear; I want to join a masters swim team and had been having the darnedest time finding a brick-and-mortar sporting goods store at home. I rightly figured that if I could find a Speedo retailer anywhere, it'd be Manhattan. Praise the lord people still shop the old-fashioned way - in person - there.

Did I mention that it was hot? Had I not had my camera gear to worry about, I would have ditched my bag and ran a lap, too.

Once upon a time I was accepted to NYU and Columbia, went for a visit, and ultimately declined their generous offers. Occasionally I wonder if I made a mistake in choosing UCLA, but on each of my handful of visits to New York since I regret nothing anew. While New York is a vibrant and exciting city to be sure, I am not a traditional big city girl (yeah, L.A. is a big city, but it's very different in big city feel and layout from a Manhattan). Visits to the Big Apple are fantastic (especially when you have good friends there to visit), but I think living there would be too much for crunchy California me. That said, you couldn't pay me to live in Los Angeles again, but if you paid me enough you just might be able to coax me into the luxe life in New York. It'd have to be a really pretty penny though and I just don't see that ever happening. Good thing making mountains of money and living in New York isn't a priority in my life.

I don't do double-decker tour busing. But maybe I should reconsider. I bet people snap some pretty sweet photos from up there.

I meant to see a show, but it never came to pass. Next time.

This is the kind of pretty penny Big Apple posh that a girl could get used to. Looks like Paris, but without all the bloody bureaucracy. Delicious living, if you can afford it.

My favorite aspect of New York is by far the mix of old and new architecture. I love the majestic Old World look and feel of the city, but I'm also strangely taken with the imposing scope and scale of the city's many towering structures of glass and steel. The way they make one feel small and insignificant as you pass below is frightening and awe-inspiring, both. Even some of the old brownstones and other buildings with a European charm and flair appear so large as to make you feel a flea. Frightening-fantastic architecture. That's New York to me, in a proverbial nutshell. I don't think I could ever tire of gawking at the buildings and snapping my impressions.

Well, that's about it. I came, I saw, I snapped. I got a lot of sun and had a lot of fun. I hope to repeat the experience again, many times, in the years ahead. Thanks again to Alexis and Fatimah both, and happy 35 ladies! Glad we got to spend a few too short days together in this milestone year. Cheers.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Paris On My Mind

2009-07-30T13:28:00.000-07:00

In preparation for my next trip to Paris, which will be next spring and not soon enough, I've been wading through the Flickr photo fields and elsewhere online for info and inspiration. Half the fun of taking a trip is mapping out the details in the days prior, right? It should also be in brushing up on mon français, but I haven't quite got 'round to embarking on that particular portion of the blast, just yet. Anywho, thanks to my Married amie, I've recently discovered the joys of whining à la David Lebovitz. And by discovered I mean instantly obsessed. So much so that I bought the book after reading only a handful of his blog entries, and have it in hand today via Amazon Prime. Oh how I love my Amazon Prime. Et mon brand-spanking new Sweet Life. Perhaps the perfect and perfectly drôle companion for Sedaris' soujourn en France. I imagine les deux Davides are good friends. And if they're not, they should be. Immédiatement.

Venice Revisited

2009-05-23T19:35:00.000-07:00

Visit number five, to be exact.

Other than my very first trip to Venice, this is my second visit to the fabled city, with friends. Lovely, but very much different than seeing the city alone. No better, no worse. Just different. Less intimate, I think.

Being there with two first-timers allowed for a few first-time experiences for the tour guide, too. My first gondola ride was a highlight in that category, for sure. It's so smooth and, well - serene. Really. I know it sounds cliche, but it truly was. As you'd expect to experience it in a dream, not your unscripted and oft lackluster-letdown of a reality. We hired a gondolier off the main drag, in a backstreet canal near our Castello home base. And yes, we hired him mainly for his dashing good looks. Christian was his name, I think. The 40-minute glide through heaven ran us 80 Euros in total. Split between the three of us, it was quite the deal when you consider how idyllic the surroundings, how cute the captain, and how smoothly serene the ride itself.

By the end of the trip I'd pretty well worn both my friends and myself ragged with sight-seeing. All the Venice standards, plus lesser known churches, nooks, and many a canal-lined cranny. It was wonderful to wander the streets again, seeing how much I remembered and finding how easy it was to get lost. Still. But by far the favorite part of the trip was seeing my friends there and picking up a few new ones, meeting their kids and loved ones. It wasn't nearly enough time, but the time I had I am grateful for. And besides, I'll be back. I'll always be back.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Death Becomes Her by Marisa Allegra Williams | Make Your Own Book

Happy St. Patrick's Day

2009-03-17T14:49:00.000-07:00

Go behind the Green Door.
Signed prints available at http://risamay.etsy.com exclusively.

Anticipation

2009-03-07T12:28:00.000-08:00

I think Regina Nadelson hit the nail on the head when she mused, "Most travel is best of all in the anticipation or the remembering; the reality has more to do with losing your luggage." Though I've never lost my luggage, knock on my IKEA wood-derivative desk.

Now fully in anticipation of my upcoming trip to Venice, I've been strolling down memory lane and enjoying a look back at past visits. I've even retooled a picture or two to make the dusty dreamy and new again.

Allora. Enough reminiscing. Back to reality and brushing up on the basics of Italian. I'm happy with what I've been able to learn and retain over the last eight-odd months, but I should really be far further along by now. My research on the Venetian dialect has made no progress since my July post last year though, I'm afraid. Where does the time go?

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Vìva Venièxia

2008-07-03T15:52:00.000-07:00

Venetian is a Romance language spoken by about 2 million people mainly in Venice and the surrounding area, and also in Trieste, Croatia, Slovenia, Mexico and Brazil. The language is more closely related to French and Spanish than it is to Italian.

When Venice was an independent republic (between the 9th and 18th centuries), the Venetian language enjoyed considerable prestige. However literary Venetian lost out the the Tuscan dialect, which eventually became the national language of Italy.

Today Venetian has no official status.

Ciào! Which is to say, in its original Venetian meaning well before it was embraced by the whole of Italy and the world over as the chic way to say hello or goodbye, I am your slave or I am your servant.

Though I am most certainly not your slave, it is my hope that this blog serves you well in either the way of entertainment or education. Or both.

If I had no want for money, I'd spend a substantial amount of my ample free time traveling and learning the language of each country or region on my itinerary. For lesser known or "unofficial" languages however, learning on your own outside of immersion - i.e., living there and coercing the locals to engage you patiently in conversation on a regular basis - can be difficult. That seems to be the case with the Venetian or Venet dialect. At least if you're a native English speaker, with only a passing grasp of official Italiano. As there is far more written for Italian-Venetian vs. English-Venetian interests or learning.

I'm hoping to learn more (both Italian and Venetian), but for the time being these are the only helpful resources I've come across (for the Venetian dialect). If you know of something else handy or enlightening about the Venetian dialect, piàxare. Post a comment. Gràsie in advance!

Venetian Language Online Dictionaries
http://www.elgalepin.com/
http://www.dizsionario.org/dizsionario.php

Venetian Language Rules of Engagement
http://www.sitoveneto.org/rules.html
http://www.sitoveneto.org/some_persuasions_about_venetian.html

Venetian Language Phonetics and Pronunciation
http://www.veneto.org/gvu/
http://www.veneto.org/language/galepin/how_read.html
http://www.sitoveneto.org/one_writing_many_pronunciations.html

Venetian Language Resource Bibliography
http://www.veneto.org/language/galepin/bibliography.html

Venetian Language Variations in Brazil and Mexico

In Rio Grando do Sul, Santa Catarina e Paranà (states of Brasil), about five million people speak a koinè based on ancient Vicentino-Trevigiano variant moderated by other north-italic languages (in the last century immigrants came even from Trentino, Friuli, Lombardia) and influenced by Portuguese. This Venetan koinè is the said to be newest romance language and its speakers call it "Taliàn" , i.e. Italian in opposition to Brasilian, i.e. Portuguese, that is the main language. Indeed, Talian is not Italian!

In the town of Chipilo, Mexico, people speak a Trevigiano-Belunese variant as most of the immigrants came from the town of Segusino, in the northern part of the province of Treviso. It's influenced by Spanish.

and from another source:
When you pass through Chipilo, Mexico (about one hundred miles outside Mexico City), you might mistake it for Veneto, Italy.
For the last one hundred and fifteen years, the people of Chipilo have spoken Venet, the main language of Veneto, almost exclusively. Time seems not to have passed much there, as the Venet people in Chipilo have preserved their heritage.
On any given day in Chipilo, you can travel from the shoe store owned by Bortolotti to the supermarket run by the Minutti family to the Stefanoni-operated dairy. The last names of the original fifty or so families who traveled here in 1882 with only some rags and hopes of a new country are still pervasive in this quaint Central American town.
One of the largest companies in Chipilo is an international company called Seguisino, a word taken form the mother country of Italy. The company makes a Venet specialty: imitated antique furniture.
Their ancestors first came to the small Mexican village in 1882, searching for fertile land to farm and to run away from the poverty that was plaguing Veneto at the time.
Although the village is very reminiscent of Veneto, Chipiloís citizens do not think of themselves as Italians. While they share a language and culture with their relatives, they see themselves as members of a different race of people.
The two cultures are similar, yet distinctly different. Veneto has progressed and has changed much in the last century while Chipilo remains as a sort of isolated throwback to a different time.
Just as in Veneto, the three thousand citizens of Chipilo speak Venet, which is a language in the Romantic tradition, like Italian or French. Although the language has strong Latin roots, it also contains many words of Germanic origin, especially in the more mountainous regions.
The Venet language can be characterized by softly articulating some words, while changing from voiceless to voiced consonants at other times. At the same time, Venet speakers avoid lengthening consonants in their speech.

Examples from a Venetian Blog

ENGLISH: May you help me?
ITALIAN: Potresti aiutarmi?
VENETIAN: Ti me dà na man?

ENGLISH: I'd like to book a hotel in Venice.
ITALIAN: Vorrei prenotare un albergo a Venezia.
VENETIAN: Voria prenotar un albergo a Venexia.

ENGLISH: What's your name?
ITALIAN: Come ti chiami?
VENETIAN: Come ti te ciami?

Selected Travel Phrases

Where is my room?
Dove xela la me camera?

Where is the beach?
Dove xela la spiajia?

Where is the bar?
Dove xelo el bar?

Don't touch me there!
No stà tocarme lì!

And, as Published in The Telegraph

Please can I have the bill?
Ti mi fa el conto?

I don't believe it!
No ghe credo!

Please can you pass me a fork/spoon/glass?
Pasame el piron/scuglier/bicer?

Why do I have to pay double?
Parcossa go dar pagar el dopio?

I'm bankrupt.
A sò restà in braghe de tela.
(Lit: I'm left wearing light trousers)

Do you think I am made of money?
Pensi che go le man sbùxe?
(Lit: Do you think I have holes in my hands?)

I'm never coming back to Venice!
Mi no tornarò piu a Venesia!

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Eat, Pray, Loathe Venice

2008-06-18T15:20:00.000-07:00

Serene like they say? Well, yeah. In a slit your wrists, suicidal sort of way. If that's your thing then, sure. Dive right into the book. Personally, I'm hoping the movie's more enjoyable. If nothing else, I'm banking on its shot-on-location, eye-candy appeal.

I'm in the middle of the oft touted and much recommended Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert and just had to vent on her Venice bit, for a bit.

Anyone else miffed by her dark take on La Serenissima?

I'm still enjoying the book (generally), but ...

"Her cheer, her optimism - they in no way match this stinky, slow, sinking, mysterious, silent, weird city. Venice seems like a wonderful city in which to die a slow and alcoholic death, or to lose a loved one, or to lose the murder weapon with which the loved one was lost in the first place. Seeing Venice, I'm grateful that I chose to live in Rome instead. I don't think I would have gotten off the antidepressants quite so quick here. Venice is beautiful, but like a Bergman movie is beautiful; you can admire it, but you don't really want to live in it."

Oh, but it gets better. Meaning, of course, worse.

"The beautiful young Venetian woman who owns the restaurant near where we are staying is miserable with her fate. She hates Venice. She swears that everyone who lives in Venice regards it as a tomb."

Sounds like our traveling author met a depressed woman in Venice and allowed this one person's view of the city to reinforce her own negative first impressions as fact. But, now that Ms. Gilbert is on her merry way to happiness without help (i.e., sans antidepressants), it seems she can no longer recognize clinical angst in others and take what such sad souls say with a grain of salt.

Sigh. Just had to get that off my chest. As you were.

So. Love it or loathe it? Elizabeth Gilbert's take on Venice, that is. Post away! Please use the comments feature to share your own Eat, Pray, Love (or Loathe) thoughts rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

State of the Union's Approach to Travel

2008-04-27T15:53:00.000-07:00

A leisurely vacation overseas escapes the vast majority of American working dreamers. For most U.S. workers - lacking the time or the money, or both - traveling abroad essentially amounts to an unattainable or once in a lifetime (if they're lucky) luxury.

Having just returned from a quick four-day visit to Montreal, I was already lamenting having to wait a full calendar year to accrue the allotted 12 days of paid time off so that I could take something more akin to what I consider a real vacation. For me, if there isn't a trip on the horizon I'm just not a happy camper. So I put in for my time away next spring, this spring. That's how serious I am about taking time off. I was chatting about this with a friend in Paris and he mentioned to me that the new job he's considering offers―now would be the time to sit down and brace yourself before reading on―48 days of paid vacation. Um, yeah. I was floored, too.

I was reminded of that scene in Sicko where, "Sitting at a restaurant table with a bunch of American ex-pats in Paris, Moore is treated to a jaw-dropping recitation of the perks of social democracy: 30 days of vacation time, unlimited sick days, full child care, social workers who come to help new parents adjust to the strains and challenges of child-rearing." - Ezra Klein

In stark sobering contrast to what workaday Americans are guaranteed, in the way of paid time off in particular: "We guarantee zero. Absolutely none. That's why one out of 10 full-time American employees, and more than six out of 10 part-time employees, get no vacation. And even among workers with paid vacation benefits, the average number of days enjoyed is a mere 12. In other words, even those of us who are lucky enough to get some vacation typically receive just over a third of what the French are guaranteed." - Ezra Klein

Sigh. And a very heavy one, at that.

I'm now one of those Americans who enjoys "a mere 12" paid vacation days. After three years with the company that will increase to a whopping 15. If it weren't for the the fact that I love the company, the work, and the people, I couldn't commit to such a setup. Not unless there were the possibility of unpaid leave, which is what I enjoyed at my former place of employment.

Although, to quote Ezra Klein - "Very few individual workers in the United States can ask for four weeks of vacation. It is not only outside the benefits of their job but far outside the culture of our workplace. The incentives for most every individual, particularly if they want to keep their position and amass a reputation as a good employee, is to abide by those norms," I worked up the gall to ask my last employer for unlimited unpaid leave in addition to the standard two weeks (i.e., only 10 days) he outlined in the company benefits package. For some crazy reason, my request was deemed reasonable and I got my wish. It was fantastic. I even took it a step further when I opted for less monthly income in favor of a four-day work week.

That arrangement lasted for nearly six travelicious years before I decided it was time to move on and pursue my work as an artist more seriously, along with a career/day job that more closely matched personal passions; first and foremost, my love of travel. I consider myself exceptionally lucky to have found just such a place and position. Although I lost my lobby for unpaid leave in lieu of more fully-funded with my new employer, the fact that I enjoy my work counts immensely. Not many people―American or otherwise―can say that.

All that said, this still strikes me as shockingly medieval. This being where the U.S. ranks with the rest of the industrialized world in time paid to step away from the grindstone and catch up on some much needed R&R:

Kinda makes you want to scream and wish you'd been born a Brit or a Brazilian, right?

The reason it's so hard to get a vacation and so hard to enjoy one when you manage to squeeze part of one in is that the U.S. is the only country in the industrialized world without a minimum paid-leave law. As you can see from the chart [above], we've got a death grip on last place in the paid-leave standings. The first column details figures for statutory minimum annual leave and the right-hand column lists combined mandated leave with average additional time off by agreement with employers.

One of the most frequent remarks I'd encounter on my extended two, three, and four week trips abroad in the last five years is how atypical my length of leisure was for an American. Americans are often criticized for being an insular clan of overworked folks who take quick trips of five to seven days abroad and aim to squeeze in as much as possible within that tiny time frame. Going from Venice to Florence to Rome in the space of five or seven days doesn't sound like leisure to me; it sounds like stressful work. How can one possibly achieve a state of relaxation when so much time is spent traveling and sprinting about on the vacation itself? But given that "the average number of days enjoyed is a mere 12," what's a Yank to do? Spend the whole 12 on a single trip without saving time for family events or other piecemeal days off needed throughout the year? It's not like most companies allow a plethora of "personal days" or sick leave. That's right. For many Americans, sick time can often dip into vacation time because we're also lacking a logical allotment of paid sick leave.

It's kind of sad―though it's brought me unmeasurable pleasure, but I'm more and more thankful to be single and without dependents. Life is expensive these days and it's difficult to coordinate time off with friends, family, and partners. Especially when you're unwilling to take a five or seven day trip to somewhere 10 or more hours away by plane. I can't even imagine affording a real vacation, with kids. Let alone enjoying one! Not that it's not possible for those of us making less than $100,000 a year. I'm just saying that I can't imagine it.

In conclusion, I think that when one's government does not espouse or encourage a proper vacation by law, it is unarguably apparent that said government does not truly expect its people to be citizens of the world. Particularly puzzling when the nation in question is one of the richest in the Western World. The part that shouldn't come as a shock, then, is that in the United States, the vast majority of Americans can afford to be nothing other than what they are: untraveled people whose idea of a vacation is a three-day weekend (often spent working, from home!) It might also explain why Americans can be such ugly travelers, as they say. We don't get out much. Out of the country, that is. Our culture both in and outside of the workplace doesn't allow for much else (lack of support or mandate from the federal government; professional/social peer and personal pressure to work longer hours and to value material rewards rather than experiential rewards like vacations). Coupled with the ever increasing cost of living and the well-traveled American becomes the true overseas oddity. It's the truth, and it's a travesty.

Update: August 5, 2010 - Why don't Americans have longer vacations?

Sources:

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

A broad at home

2008-04-26T08:48:00.000-07:00

Take-home trips: Titillating travel designed for use at home or away.

While either ramping up for a trip and seeking inspiration or just because, I read these books and found them to be entertaining or informative or both. At the very least, definitely worth delving into. Thought you might derive some virtual vacationing pleasure from them, too. Alphabetical by country and continent, note that the books themselves appear in no particular order of preference or importance. The list includes fiction and non-fiction titles, both. If it's not here, it is quite possible that I found the tome insufferable and wouldn't recommend it to a soul. For example, I can't do Frances Mayes. After attempting Under the Tuscan Sun on more than one occasion, I finally gave up for sheer boredom. While I did get through A Thousand Days in Venice, I found it flat and devoid of any real charm; an accomplishment for a book set in Venice, one of the most charming cities in the world. But that's no reason to read it. On the contrary! Anyway. As with my "When in ... " list, I'll try to keep this collection of recommended reading fresh. So check back periodically for the latest suggestions.

Travel with a capital T

The Art of Travel, by Alain de Botton

Cuba

Dirty Havana Trilogy, by Pedro Juan Gutierrez

England

Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson
The Other Boleyn Girl, by Philippa Gregory

Europe

Neither Here nor There: Travels in Europe, by Bill Bryson
A Perfect Red: Empire, Espionage, and the Quest for
the Color of Desire, by Amy Butler Greenfield

France

Paris to the Moon, by Adam Gopnik
Athenais: The Life of Louis XIV's Mistress,
the Real Queen of France, by Lisa Hilton
A Place in the World Called Paris, by Susan Sontag
A Year in Provence, by Peter Mayle
Toujours Provence, by Peter Mayle
Encore Provence, by Peter Mayle
French Lessons: Adventures with Knife, Fork, and Corkscrew,
by Peter Mayle
A Year in the Merde, by Stephen Clarke
In the Merde for Love, by Stephen Clarke
The Sweet Life in Paris, by David Lebovitz
Mediterranean Summer, by David Shalleck
Mistress of the Sun, by Sandra Gulland

Iran

The Complete Persepolis, by Marjane Satrapi

Set in Venice and peppered with truth about the town, Donna Leon's Guido Brunetti Mysteries are always good reads.

Italy

Pompeii: A novel, by Robert Harris
The Smell of the Night: An Inspector Montalbano Mystery,
by Andrea Camilleri
The World of Venice: Revised Edition, by Jan Morris
Venice Observed, by Mary McCarthy
The City of Falling Angels, by John Berendt
Fatal Remedies:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Death and Judgement:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Dressed for Death:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Death at La Fenice:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Through a Glass, Darkly:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Quietly in Their Sleep:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Death in a Strange Country:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
A Noble Radiance:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Acqua Alta:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Doctored Evidence:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Uniform Justice:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Blood from a Stone:
A Commissario Guido Brunetti Mystery, by Donna Leon
Falling Palace: A Romance of Naples, by Dan Hofstadter
A Venetian Affair: A True Tale of Forbidden Love
in the 18th Century, by Andrea di Robilant
Dreaming Venice, Photos by Fernando Bertuzzi
Italian Dreams, Photos by Steven Rothfeld
La Bella Figura: A Field Guide to the Italian Mind,
by Beppe Severgnini
Pagan Holiday, by Tony Perrottet
Mediterranean Summer, by David Shalleck
Imprimateur, by Monaldi & Sorti

Hawaiians have some of the most beautiful proverbs and poetical sayings anywhere. A joy to collect and read.

United States

I'm a Stranger Here Myself: Notes on Returning to America
after 20 Years Away, by Bill Bryson
The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America,
by Bill Bryson
Ciao, America!: An Italian Discovers the U.S.,
by Beppe Severgnini
In the Garden of Good and Evil, by John Berendt
Olelo No'Eau: Hawaiian Proverbs and Poetical Sayings, by Mary Kawena Pukui

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Montreal notes from a broad

2008-04-19T09:45:00.000-07:00

Cocoa Loco
It isn't often that one meets a brownie worth blogging about. But I encountered (and inhaled) just such a specimen on my quick introduction to Canada, via Montréal. Based on the photos and descriptions found in my Eat Shop Montreal, I made it a top priority to swing by Cocoa Locale. Come rain or shine. It ended up being a shockingly cold day, made all the more frigid by an icy and persistent precipitation. But I made it to Cocoa Locale in one wet piece, just before closing. My choices were an entire key lime pie or two slices of the much touted (per my pre-trip research) Valrhona spicy brownie. Being that it was my birthday weekend and I'd already had more sweets than was either healthy or warranted, I opted for the brownies in luau of the pie (Mais oui - that luau was for you, Jenny.) Oh man. Score. The taste, the texture. The spicy kick! Far more delicious than a brownie should be and gone before I was ready to stop savoring. You must go to Montréal and have one. You simply must.

Airport Encounters
As per usual, the airport proved the place to make the acquaintance of friendly strangers: A new mother and her happy daughter (the little girl of 6-months smiled so much that I smiled so much my cheeks cramped up!) on the way to Montréal; a Venezuelan mother taking the first plane trip of her life (well the second, technically, because she didn't arrive in Canada by osmosis) after visiting her grandchildren in Montréal, on her way back home via Toronto (where I met her). The new mom was Italian, born in Lucca, now living in Napa. Though she'd love to return to Europe sooner rather than later, her family and friends still in Italy assure her the best opportunities to be had remain Stateside. With so many people out of work and unable to afford homes (even those like her best friend, a lawyer), la vita isn't so dolce as it should be for many Italians (and Spaniards, and, and, and) per the move to the Euro, which has made the gap between rich and poor only the grander (or more grandiose). Just because the Euro is up and the Dollar down does not spell wealth and celebration for all those paid in the favored currency. On the contrary. People are struggling now as ever and perhaps even moreso. Unable to find work. Unable to afford property. And all the while the cost of basics like bread and milk and eggs rises. As for the mother from Venezuela, she attached herself to me immediately based first on the assumption that I must speak Spanish (Hablas español, sí? Pero usted es de México o de América Latina, sí? No? Negra? Qué?) and then out of sheer nueva-traveler fear and the fact that I can in fact speak Spanish. Kinda. Painfully poco though. Loco poco even (particularly after spending the last three months brushing up on the French I'd last studied as a student some 15 years ago; as for el español, it's been about 12 to 13 years). And her Venezuelan accent didn't help any. I may not be Mexican, but it is Mexican Spanish one learns in California schools (makes practical sense, sí?) So I think the misunderstanding went both ways. I can't think of an example to use, but on words I knew that I knew, her pronunciation was vastly different from the Spanish I'd been taught. Reminds me of learning Spanish at UCLA and my mother asking, "What the hell am I paying them to teach you?" Being a Spanish teacher herself (and shame on the woman for not raising me bilingually, or trilingually; she also teaches French) she didn't understand the benefit of one's learning Spanish in California with an Argentinian pronunciation or dialect. It's true it was pretty useless given the circumstances, but it was fun and I did learn basic Spanish, in the end (I also didn't continue on with that particular professor.) Anyway, back to my lost in translation experience at the Toronto airport. Every time I tried to think of the Spanish I'd deliver a French-Italian-Spanglish fiction that only made sense to me and caused my new friend's brow to crinkle in confusion. I'd try again and eventually put together something loosely reminiscent of the desired language in that it finally made the vaguest of sense, I think, because she'd relax a little and Sí a lot. I got her on the plane and to her connecting flight in the end, and that's all that matters. Sí?

Cafe Culture
I found the cafe life in Montréal to be among the friendliest and most open anywhere. Though I was only in town for three full days, I felt like a fixture in an old haunt from the moment I set foot in Olive + Gourmando. On my first visit to this most delightful of cafes, just down the street from where I was staying, I met a New Yorker who has a flat in Old Montréal. My little piece of Europe, she called it. Our conversation threaded from travel, to reality TV, to the cost of living and the growing gap between rich and poor, to the economy in general, to bankruptcy, to art, and back to travel. Nicest New Yorker I've ever met. On my second visit to the same cafe the next day I met a native of Montréal. We chatted. We watched the passersby and took note of the impeccably chic clientele who glided in and out of the posh boutique across the street. Before I left she gave me her cell number, a few city tips, and invited (and treated) me to coffee (I had a hot chocolate, actually) the morning of my birthday at Cafe Olympico (another cafe with a very friendly, all-in-the-family feel) in Mile End. How nice was that?

Bilingual Bliss
Well before coming to Québec, I'd cooked up a romantic notion of it based on nothing more than the knowledge that both French and English are spoken here. Being something of a rudimentary Francophile, not nearly fluent in the language, there is a certain coolness and comfort factor in knowing that one can use either language and likely be understood (rather than laughed at, the way one's less than commanding grasp of French can sometimes be received in the environs of say, Paris.) My imagined Montréal did not disappoint, in this regard. It was wonderful. I'd been brushing up on my French for a month or three and it proved to be worth the effort. I could read signs and menus and descriptions of things with little difficulty. When people spoke to me directly I think I fared alright. But eavesdropping on conversations of two or more people proved fruitless. I blame the Québécois accent and dialect. Not the French one leans in school, but we'll come to that later. The Montréalaise woman I met at Olive + Gourmando who treated me to a birthday hot chocolate seemed to mirror my sentiment about the uniquely Franglais culture one finds only in Québec. She spent some time living in London and noted that, "I really missed the French." A marvelous Montréalais man I had the pleasure of talking with explained that, "Québec is a separate country, whether it is officially recognized or not." He pointed to the language for support; "How can you claim to know a place if you don't speak the language? I am modest enough to say that while I know something of English-speaking Canada, I do not know it. My English is okay, but it is not my first language." He makes a good point. Even if one knows or speaks some French, unless one also knows Québécois specifically, one can never truly know Québec.

Fun with Québécois
I studied up on my French, when I should have been learning to Speak Québec! I had no idea there are so many distinct and nuanced differences in everything from pronunciation to structure. I suppose I should have guessed as much; judging from how English is or can sound worlds apart within the U.S. itself or as compared to the various dialects of Mother England, Australia, etc.) Oh well. When I go back I'll have a native phrase or two to kick around like a local. Learning beaucoup from my souvenir copy of Speak Québec! by Daniel Kraus. If you can't find one at home, there'll be plenty for sale au Canada. It's a great little livre and one of the only English-Québécois (as opposed to French-Québécois) resources out there.

A few of my favorite entries:

An?- The Québécois equivalent of, Huh?
Atchoumer - To sneeze. From the onomatopoeia, "Atchoo!"
Avoir un face de boeuf - To be in a bad mood. Literally, to have a face of beef.
Avoir les baguettes en l'air - To gesticulate wildly.
Avoir juste le cul et les dents - 1. To have no personality. 2. To be extremely thin. Literally, to have just an ass and teeth.
Avoir le feu au cul - A rude expression meaning, to be furious. Literally, to have fire in one's ass.
Avoir du fun - To have fun, to have a good time.
Avoir vu neiger - To have experience. Literally, to have seen it snow before.
Baptême! - Shit! Literally, Baptism.
Chat sauvage - Chat is cat. Chat sauvage is raccoon. What a great way to describe a raccoon.
Être game - To be game, to be willing.
Faker - To fake, to pretend.
Flusher - To purge, to flush, to dump. Ils sortent plus ensemble, elle l'a flushé il ya a trois mois. They're not going out anymore, she dumped him three months ago.
Il n'y a pas de trouble! - No problem!
Kodak - Camera.
Kossé? - What is it? A condensation or deformation of the French, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
Oreilles de Christ - Fried pig ears.
Parlure - Slang.
Péter de la broue - To brag about one's abilities. Literally, to fart suds.
Pis - 1. And, next 2. "So?" 3. "What's new?" Pis toi? And you? Et pis? And so?
Quessé? - Another form of "What is it?" from the French, "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"
Questa? - What do you have? What's wrong? From the French, "Qu'est-ce que tu as?"
Shafter - To give someone the shaft.
Swinger - Nope. Not the noun. A verb. To party, to dance, to have a good time.
Tiguidou - Okey-dokey.
Tourlou - Toodleoo. Used as "goodbye".
Trippant(e) - Impressive, amazing.
Tripper - To dig something, to find something cool, to really like something.
Zozo - Idiotic, foolish.

Snow Pants
Is that a dog? No. OMG. It's a cat! I met a girl walking her cat on a little harness and a leash. The cat was stopping every few feet to window shop. Yes, to window shop. A long-haired orange beauty, "Mooshe" looked like a lion up close. A lion with snow pants. His fur was so long that it swayed and billowed in the breeze like a pair of pants one might sport in the dead of a snowy winter. Much like the snowy winter he was plodding through right then, on the streets of Montréal. His owner kindly gave me directions to the street I was seeking and she swooped him up and began to carry him. "He gets tired of walking sometimes. Especially today. We've been walking for nearly two hours." "How'd you train him to walk on a leash," I wondered aloud. "It's easy if you train them from when they're kittens. I've done it several times before." I would have never believed it if I hadn't seen it firsthand. And unfortunately you'll just have to take my word for it since I didn't snap a picture. Anyhow, something to remember for when and if I ever find myself on the market for kittens.

A special merci to Liz for turning me on to the term, snow pants. Parfait man. Parfait.

Mall Mania
Montréal boasts an underground city spanning some 19 miles of passageways with 11 subways, 2 railway stations, over 10,000 parking spaces, 37 movie theaters, and 18,000 businesses. Over 500,000 people traverse this subterranean city beneath the city each day. I don't know exactly how many malls they've got down there, but I can say that it's a whole bunch of them and that on a Saturday afternoon when it's raining ice outside, the mall situation below is absolute mayhem. I browsed a bookstore at street-level, exited the same store two floors down, and wandered through three distinct malls before deciding I was completely lost and that there were far too many people to enjoy myself. The first Metro sign I saw I bolted and made my way out of Hades shopping hell. It's a nice idea, but not my idea of fun. Something to see on your first trip to Montréal though. I'd never seen anything like it before (and hope never to see, again.)

L'Architecture
If the dollar continues to dip and you find yourself craving a trip to Paris for the cafe culture, la langue, or l'architecture, hop on a plane to Montréal instead. Or Québec City. I'm told that Québec City's old town is far larger than that of Montréal with architecture that is even more quaint and charming and French-European. Québec City is also said to be more conservative and traditionally French. Many people there do not speak any English.

Airport Security and Other Jokes that Aren't Amusing
Why is it so difficult to uphold consistent security rules from airport to airport, or even in a single airport? I flew from San Francisco to Toronto with the same stupid little ladies' Coach pocketknife key chain that I've had on my keys for years. Meaning, it's flown with me to Hawaii, Los Angeles, and Europe multiple times post-9/11 without ever having been confiscated. Truth be told, I didn't even know there was a legitimate blade on the damn thing. When the security person at Toronto showed it to me, I was genuinely shocked, but pointed out that one would be hard-pressed to do any real cutting with the pathetic-looking thing. Scissors and nail file in the event of an emergency is all I'd ever used it for. It was a gift. Would I like to check it for C$7 or lose it? I'm going to miss my flight. Happy birthday. It's my birthday, but keep it. It's yours now lady. The two gentlemen behind me weren't quite so curt with their security situation. A special lighter that they'd specifically been told could be brought on the plane no more than 10 seconds earlier by another security type was now an issue. "You should have checked with the rest of your baggage, sir. I don't care what that woman told you. She's wrong. Check it for C$7 or lose it. Your choice." Being that they were also about to miss their connecting flight, they opted for a loss. But not after losing it with the security guard pretty heatedly (though briefly), first.

Sí, nevando.
On the way home, waiting for my flight from Montréal to Toronto, it started snowing pretty convincingly. "Nevando?" I asked my friend from Venezuela. "Sí, nevando." I don't know how I remembered the Spanish for that. Thought it was one of my muddled, made-up words.

Extreme Passenger
I don't know the how's and why's of it, but I'm continually blessed with making the acquaintance of nice (if not plain interesting) folks when I fly. The flight home didn't pan out any different. Though this was certainly one of the more interesting people I've met on a plane. Extremely interesting. A fellow "mutt" (with a far more interesting mix; thought his last name was Portuguese but he said no, Spanish-East Indian and that his roots are a melange of French-Egyptian, Spanish-East Indian, Caribbean-Canadian, and who knows what all else) and self-proclaimed "extreme traveler", the man in the middle (I had the window) had gone sky-diving, bungie-jumping, mountain-climbing; you name it. Next on his list? Swimming with sharks and night-diving. No joke. He was dead serious. Anything sporty and dangerous, he's all about it. Sharks or scuba-diving in the dark. Hmmm. I can't decide which is more terrifying or insane, or both. What a nice guy though. Offered to show me around Toronto if I ever get out there for a visit. Total sweetheart. Assuming he hasn't had an extreme accident of some kind (which wouldn't be a shocker), I look forward to the (terror-free) tour.

On est Back
In Québécois, rather than using the typical French nous form for we, the on form is used with verbs and conjugations. Thus, "On est Back" rather than "Nous sommes Back". The use of the English word "back" is très Québécois. According to my copy of Speak Québec!, English words are folded in with the French to enhance an idea or to express an extreme. And now, I leave you with some Québécois hip-hop. Note, I didn't say it was good. But it's what's popular at the moment, unfortunately. Perhaps when je suis (pronounced "chwee" in Québécois) back one day, something a little more flavorable will be in fashion.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

When in ...

2008-04-06T08:19:00.000-07:00

A trip to Venice is not complete without a visit to Alberto Valese's shop. Alberto makes beautiful marbled papers and books. All by hand.

When in Rome. Though I've not been there, yet. But you know. That sort of thing. Was just reminiscing about the highlights of trips past and thought I'd put together a broad list of things missed (as in looking forward to seeing or doing, again.) And, therefore, things not to be missed. Anywho, check back periodically. I'll try to keep this little collection of lists up to date as I discover new things one must endeavor to experience when in where ever. I've even included some Stateside favorites.

When in Amsterdam

Day trip by train to Haarlem
Day trip by bus to Keukenhof Gardens

When in Barcelona

Get lost in the Barri Gotic
Eat lots of hot chocolate (too thick to drink)
Day trip by train to the beach town of Sitges
Day trip by train to the town of Girona on the Riu Onyar
Food to go from Farga
Picnic at Parc Guell
Watch the sunset from the roof of Casa Mila (aka La Pedrera, same thing)
Watch whatever's playing at the Coliseum Cinema

When in Berkeley

Go gourmet with your glace, Ici
Go cocoa-loco at Bittersweet, The Chocolate Cafe
Enjoy an order of the best crispy chicken tacos on the planet at Cactus Taqueria

When in Budapest

Enjoy the Fisherman's Bastion and surrounding Buda Castle Hill sites at sunrise, before the shops open and the bus loads of tourists arrive to alter the ambiance
Have a piece of paradise at Ruszwurm while you're up on Castle Hill in Buda
Return at sunset for the view of Pest
Lounge for hours in the baths at Gellert
Day or night, gawk at the grandeur of Heroes Square
Sit for a bit in the Great Synagogue on Dohany Street
Ogle the door at St. Stephen's Basilica
Wander around and ogle the architecture

When in Dubrovnik

Explore the old town at sunrise (it will be all yours) and again at sunset (when you'll have to share)
Day trip by bus to Cavtat
Day trip by bus to Korcula
Day trip by bus to The Bay of Kotor and the town of Kotor in Montenegro
Eat lots of dried figs
Eat lots of pastries from Niko

When in Liguria, on the Italian Riviera

Day trip by train to Camogli
Day trip by train to each of the Cinque Terre
Day trip by train to Santa Margherita
Day trip by train to Sestri Levante
Day trip by train and bus to Portofino
Day trip by train and bus to Portovenere
Far a whole lot of niente

When in Hawaii, on the island of Oahu

Rent a car and get as far away from Honolulu-Waikiki as possible
Hope for a slice (or two) of homemade Okinawan (which is to say, purple) sweet potato pie with fresh haupia from The Food Company in Kailua
Lounge on Lanikai Beach
Eat a pineapple burger at Kua'Aina Sandwich in Haleiwa
Enjoy the big sand, sun, and fun of Waimea Bay
Head for the hills and escape everything at the Mu-ryang-sa Korean temple

When in Montreal

While away the hours at Olive + Gourmando (351 Rue Saint-Paul Ouest)
Dessert from Cocoa Locale (4807 Avenue du Parc)
Or from Les Glaceurs (453 Rue Saint-Sulpice)
Book-browsing (or buying, if you're up for a supreme splurge) at Librissime (62 Rue Saint-Paul Ouest)
Pick a church or two to sample in addition to a requisite visit to the Basilique Notre-Dame. Lots of lovely churches, if I do say so myself. And I've not a(n organized) religious bone in my body.

When in Paris

Wander around with your spiral bound copy of Michelin Paris Par Arrondissements and a keen sense of curiosity and adventure
Skip the Louvre (or go on a Wednesday or Friday night after 6PM when it stays open until 10PM, the crowds have thinned, and it costs less, to boot) and go straight for a hot chocolate with Chantilly at Angelina's
Walk it off in the Tuileries
Catch a sunrise at La Tour Eiffel (tout seul) and then, later, share a sunset with the hordes
Repeat with Sacre Coeur
And again with the Place des Vosges
Have plenty of pastries from Paul
Macaroons and tarts from Laduree
Lots of L'As du Fallafel (34 Rue des Rossiers, Paris, 75004)
Beaucoup de glace from Berthillon
Hot and sweet mint tea at the Grande Mosquée de Paris and a meal fit for a sultan, inside
And of course, shop til you drop

When in San Francisco

Pretend you're in Paris and get yourself over to la pâtisserie Miette, and/or one of Bay Bread's little Paris-parfaît Boulangeries

When in Sorrento

Eat lots of gelato from Primavera (on the Corso Italia) or Davide
Drink in the sunset with a glass of something special at Hotel Bellevue Syrene
Day trip by train to Ercolano (Herculaneum)
Day trip by ferry to the island of Procida
Day trip by ferry to the island of Capri
Indulge in the moist chocolate magnificence of a torta caprese and a warm, handmade waffle cone with icy fresh gelato from Raffaele Buonacore (Via Vittorio Emanuele 35, Capri)
Visit the Blue Grotto
Visit the Villa San Michele
Day trip by train to Naples (and keep a close eye and a firm grip on your valuables)
Visit the cloister of Santa Chiara in Naples
Day trip by bus or boat to Positano
Day trip by bus or boat to Amalfi
Visit the crypt of the Basilica Sant' Andrea and lounge on the steps
Day trip by bus to Ravello
Visit the Villa Cimbrone

When in Venice

Item number one, get lost
Ponder the leaning tower of San Pietro di Castello
Ponder the leaning tower of San Giorgio dei Greci and the golden interior of its church
Sunrise in St. Mark's Square and sunset there too, at Caffe Florian or elsewhere on the Piazza San Marco
Sunset with a picnic on the steps of the church at San Giorgio Maggiore
Sit for a bit and contemplate the largest oil painting in the world in the Doge's Palace
Savor several flavors from Gelateria Nico
Ginger gelato and other unique mouth-watering choices from Alaska
Keep your eyes peeled at all times for shops carrying uniquely delicious genius of glass designer Barbara Proverbio
Drinks and dinner at Centrale
Paper/goods from Alberto Valese
Paper/goods from Paolo Olbi
Acqua tint etchings from Cadore
Chocolates to die for from Vizio Virtù
View from the campanile of San Giorgio Maggiore
View from the campanile of San Marco
Day trip by train to Padua (Padova)
Day trip by train to Vicenza
Day trip by train to Verona
Day trip by train to Bassano del Grappa
Day trip by train to Bologna
Day trip by water bus to the island of Burano
Day trip by train to Treviso

When in Vienna

Spend endless hours, rain or shine, at the bistro-cafe Le Bol (Neuer Markt 14)

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Oahu notes from a broad

2007-11-15T05:51:00.000-08:00

The first time I ventured to Hawaii (to the island of Oahu), I was lucky enough to stay with an old friend who'd just moved there from The Mainland, as locals call that big continental bit of the United States, just over yonder across the Pacific. Since that first visit over 10 years ago, I've been back many times and have also explored a couple other islands in the chain. But my first is still my favorite, despite its also being the most populated and touristed. Thankfully, I know how and where to escape the droves. In order to do that, wheels are essential. Which reminds me again of my first trip (to Oahu) and of the instant illiteracy I felt as I tried to navigate streets with names like:

Kapukawai Street (Waipahu): Handsome
Kupu'eu Place (Waipahu): Hero, wondrous one
Lakimau Street (Diamond Head): Always lucky
Lakoloa Place (Kalihi): Very rich, prosperous
Lalawai Drive ('Aiea): Successful, well-to-do
Pahukula Place (Kuli'ou'ou): Chest of gold
'Apake'e Street (Wai'anae): Deceitful
Kahekili Highway (Kane'ohe): Thunder
Kaie'e Street ('Ewa Beach): Tidal wave
Kalapu Street ('Ewa Beach): Ghost
Ka'onawai Place (Manoa): The liquid intoxicant
Nakiu Place (McCully): The spies
Na'opala Lane (Kalihi): Rubbish
'Aikanaka Place/Road ('Ewa Beach): To eat human flesh
'Ilipilo Street (Kailua): Smelly skin
Kauhako Street/Place (Hawai'i Kai): The dragged large intestines
Mo'omuku Place (Kuli'ou'ou): Mutilated lizard
Lumi'au'au Street (Waipahu): Bathroom
Helekula Way/Place (Wai'anae): To go to school
Ki'ona'ole Road (Kane'ohe): Without dung heaps
Komai'a Drive (Manoa): Dragging bananas
Ki'i'oni'oni Loop/Place (Wai'alae): Motion pictures, movies
Wai'aka Place (McCully): Laughing water
'Ano'ilei Place (Hau'ula): Cherished, sweetheart
Hanakealoha Place (Palolo Valley): Love-making
Ho'oha'i Street/Place (Pearl City): To flirt
Pa'ale'a Street (Palolo Valley): Pleasure-loving
Poli'ala Street (Waimanalo): Fragrant breast
'Eu Lane (Kalihi): Rascal
Lukini Place ('Ewa Beach): Perfume
Kani'ahe Street/Place (Wahiawa): To giggle or laugh softly
Wela Street/Lane (Kaimuki): Lust, passion
Kuewa Drive (Waialua): Wanderer, homeless
Nalulu Place (Wai'alae 'Iki): A dull headache
Meahala Street (Waipahu): Sinner
Hepa Street (Waipahu): Idiot, imbecile, moron
Kahalewai Place (Hale'iwa): Prison, jail
Pokapahu Place (Diamond Head): Bursting bullet
'Onaha Street (Kahala): Bow-legged
Kalena Street (Wahiawa): The lazy one
Ma'ipalaoa Road (Wai'anae): Whale genitals
'Iole Street/Place (Kane'ohe): Hawaiian rat
Ka'uku Place (Hawai'i Kai): Louse
Kaluamo'o Street (Kailua): Lizard pit
Ke Ala Mano Street (Kalihi Valley): Shark's road
Miula Street ('Ewa Beach): Mule
Popoi'a Road (Kailua): Fish rot

Source

Granted, of course, I didn't know the meanings of such street names. Not that it would have helped me find my way any better. I don't know what I was expecting on that first trip, other than for Hawaii to be an even more Americanized, Disney version of its former or true self. So though confused, I was pleasantly surprised by something so simple as the plethora of Hawaiian street names, in Hawaiian. Hawaii, at present, can still be a very watered down take on its authentic past, but there are pockets of authenticity (both things modern and things throwback). An attempt is being made to reclaim what was lost and remake history into something relevant for today. Reclaiming the language is a first step. And I'm happy to report that my friend's children are learning the mother tongue of their island home. Very cool. It's such a beautiful language. Both written and spoken. Once you get the basics down, even a mainlander like me can learn to read the street signs at a good clip and get from point A to point B without any difficulty!

But enough about street names and navigation. Let's talk beaches. They're all different and unique and for me anyway, they do not blend into a single strip of sun and sand. I've surveyed strips from Kauai, Oahu, and Maui and have a list of clearly defined favorites. But at the top of my list is Lanikai, the chain's most honored beach; it's won Best Beach awards for years (and years).

On this last trip, I was out one postcard-perfect afternoon, snapping photos of the twin Mokulua Islands. A woman came up and stood next to me. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Perfect day." I agreed with her and we struck up a little conversation. She was from Germany, on vacation with her husband who was back at their hotel taking a nap. Typical of Germans, she and her husband were exceptionally well traveled. She rattled off for me, as proof, all of the beach-ladened countries that they'd visited over the years. So, when she told me that Lanikai was "by far" the most beautiful and "perfect" beach in the world, I didn't question her. Though I hadn't seen nearly as many beaches with which to compare it, I agreed wholeheartedly. "Some beaches have nice scenery to look out on, but the sand is too big. Other beaches have powder fine sand and nothing to gaze at. Others have both perfect sand and scenery, but the water isn't clear or the waves are too rough or it's too cold. Lanikai has everything. Everything about it is perfect. The sand, the scenery, crystal clear water that is as calm as a lake. Perfect. Don't bother traveling the world in search of the perfect beach. Trust me. You've already found it."

Lucky me. (And lucky you! Now you know where to find the world's best beach, too.)

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

The Beach Beckons by Marisa Allegra Williams | Make Your Own Book

Sorrento notes from a broad

2007-05-22T16:12:00.000-07:00

Well, that's what happens when you enjoy a trip to its fullest and opt out of the detailed mass email to family and friends. You start to forget. What was so funny. What was so cool. What was what. Sigh. But at least you've got those warm and fuzzy memories, right? Fuzzier than warm with the passage of time, to be sure. Here's the little that I can remember from those three wanton weeks in the land of lemons and limoncello. In bullet form, no less. Probably not even mildly exciting enough to warrant sharing (or reading), but here goes. Knock yourself out.

Naples had been on my list of places to visit for a long while. Mainly because it was held in such high esteem by a boy I once pedestaled. Thinking we had the same taste, or at least something similar, I was looking forward to exploring and developing my own amore for the city. Not to be. The city's allure was absolutely lost on me. While I get why other people may deeply dig Napoli, people who likely love the grittier edge and energy of New York City, for example ... I didn't dig it. The friend I was traveling with passed three attempts at having her purse snatched with admirable calm (and a vice grip on her bag). Especially in the face the big picture. I've never experienced such free-flowing chaos in a European city before. This was my first trip to Southern Italy and I scoffed at all the warnings from every Northern Italian I'd met who'd warned me away from Campania. And Naples in particular. Worth a visit, to be sure; don't get me wrong. Naples is just a whole hell of a lot poorer, dirtier, and fringe than I was expecting. I'd read so much about how the city had been cleaned up and made safer. And perhaps that is the case. But it begs the question, What was Naples like before the big PR effort? No fewer than seven couples saying at the tiny B&B (the Casa Astarita in Sorrento and I'd highly recommend it, by the way) with us over the course of sixteen nights had their wallets, purses, or bags stolen either on the train to/from Naples or in Naples itself. I'm happy to say that both my travel companion and myself came away from our two day trips to Naples with all of our belongings. Peace of mind though, not so much. As one local from the Sorrento area told us, "I don't like going to Naples. If I do have to go, I always take a shower when I get home to Sorrento. Naples makes you feel so dirty." Dirty and unnerved. A simple stroll down the street can be a triumphant, death defying experience. Try it sometime in the Spanish Quarter. I dare you. Diving into the Spanish Quarter proper isn't even necessary, if you're feeling a little chicken. Just walk straight up the Via Toledo and you'll immediately be plenty on edge navigating the onslaught of people, mopeds, and cars. All traveling at top speed, often going the wrong way (the scooters and the cars), and nearly always without helmets (the scooters). Unfortunately, a banged up moped being driven by a young woman with a kid under ten and a baby, maybe even a family dog, all without helmets, doing hairpin turns at a blinding clip against traffic down the tiny side streets and up onto the sidewalks through packs of pedestrians is not an uncommon sight. Anyway, Naples is (in a word) intense. And not in my favorite fashion. But I'm glad I went and I might even go back, someday. The frescoed and hand-painted tile cloister of Santa Chiara church, for example, is definitely worth experiencing again.
If you ever go to Sorrento and get hungry, I'd recommend swinging by L'Abate or Photo for lunch and/or dinner. L'Abate had the best funghi (mushroom) pizza and Photo's ravioli was to die for fresh and delicious. If you get thirsty, imbibe a drink and a sunset from the terrace of Hotel Syrene. Amazing view of Vesuvius, the Bay of Naples, and the coast. Delightful. Very romantic. As for gelato, Primavera on the Corso Italia has a dizzying array of flavors and portions fit to fill the tummy of every over-eating American in town. I actually preferred it to the much touted Davide. Buon appetito.
Easter week processions on the island of Procida are where it's at. Go for Good Friday and spend the day.
How do all these women manage to walk the uneven cobblestone streets in stilettos? I just don't understand. I'd break my neck and my ass.
What's in fashion at the moment are jeans tucked into boots. It's unattractive if you ask me, but everyone's doing it. And I mean everyone. All the ladies, that is.
The guys are rocking bomber jackets and argyle sweaters. Don't ask me why.
Everyone has a pair of crazy, tricked out jeans with chains and embroidery or studs or some crap decorating nearly every inch of the denim. Especially the real estate at the rear. My favorite are the jeans spelling out RICH across the ass. Turns out it's a designer's name and not necessarily about wealth. Although I'd hazard a guess that the double entendre is intended.
Riding a bus along the Amalfi Coast is pretty darn spectacular. A little nauseating, but in a good way. Scary, sure. But oh the fun you'll have telling friends and family when you get home. Seriously it's not so bad. My friend had a bit of motion sickness but even she was glad to take the ride. We got lots of great pics. The views are incredible.
Boat rides along the Amalfi coast and to the islands of Capri, Ischia, and Procida are a must. If you go to Ischia, visit the gardens at La Mortella near Forio. Gorgeous.
Namesake of the coast it once dominated, Amalfi is a charming town with the most incredible church. If the exterior doesn't make you swoon, the crypt surely will. Once you've been in a few European churches, they start to all look the same. Don't skip this one. The cloister isn't anything special (the frescoes and mosaics are badly damaged, though nice) and the church itself is okay, but the crypt is incredible.
We met three inspiring and interesting American couples who were each on marathon trips. A seriously atypical situation for stock from the United States. I go away for two, three, four weeks at a time and pick one or two cities to call home for the duration of the trip. A travel timeframe and tactic that ceaselessly impresses Europeans who are used to encountering Americans enjoying (though how is that possible?) the Grand Tour in five days; ten, tops. At any rate, I quickly envied each of the three couples in question. The first were sailing around the world. From the American Midwest, they'd paid off their house and made good on a promise to then leave work behind for unrushed, indefinite travel. When we bumped into these two in Ravello, they informed us that they'd be wintering in Turkey and had been sailing and living on their boat (saved lots of would-be hotel monies) for three years. Yup. Three years. The second couple were living in Italy for a year and traveling all over the country and to other parts of Europe as well. Visit their http://www.expatsinitaly.com/cjumbria/ for wonderful entries and photos. The last couple was in fact a family of three with a young, soon-to-be teenage son. They weren't sure how long they'd be traveling and had already been away from their home on the East Coast for over a year. The boy asked if he could windsurf in Amalfi. "Wait until we're in Aruba in a few months. The windsurfing will be great there." Some bank of childhood memories this kid's racking up, eh?
Yes. People talk with their hands. Moreso here than in Northern Italy, I think. There's more unabashed staring, too. Because you're attractive, because you're unattractive, because you're obviously a foreigner, because ... oh, who the hell knows. I'm used to Europeans staring, for whatever reason, but for my friend (her first trip to Italy) it was a new experience. The staring is definitely more intense in Italy. In my experience. I have no idea what exactly it's all about. But I've learned to ignore it. When all else fails, just stare back and turn it into a contest.
So the Blue Grotto on Capri. Should you go, should you not go. I say go. Sure you only get five minutes inside the grotto, but it's creepy and why would you really want to be in there any longer than you have to? Go in the afternoon when the sun gives the grotto its most intense and glowing blue. The color is truly amazing. But it's creepy town. I'm telling you. You take a motor boat to the outside of the grotto, hop in a row boat and pray you don't capsize and fall in, lay down flat in the boat to enter the grotto so's you don't smash your head in on the top of the cave enterance, row around for a few minutes, snap a few photos, and you're done. Seems expensive until you hop back on the motor boat and tour around the rest of the island. All in all the whole excursion takes about an hour. It's worth it. The Villa San Michele was also advisable. Not as grand as Villas Rufolo or Cimbrone in Ravello, Villa San Michele is cozy and charming with lovely grounds and a great view.
The Bourbon palace at Caserta, built to rival Versailles, did at one time; that much is clear. The royal apartments are spectacular, but like the rest of Napoli and the surrounding area, the splendor has fallen into a somewhat dingy bout of prime past. Work is being done to restore former glory, and I look forward to viewing the fruits of this monumental (and no doubt pricey) labor. My friend and I didn't have the energy to venture the mile or two into the famed gardens. But then that gives me another reason to return.
Pompeii is bigger than you think. A lot bigger. We spent six hours there and didn't see everything. The one must-see site for me was the Villa dei Misteri (Villa of the Mysteries). On a much smaller scale, but far more interesting in many ways, is Ercolano or Herculaneum. A smaller, once seaside town, we saw all of Ercolano in two hours. It was fantastic. While Pompeii was buried in ash, Ercolano was done in by a pyroclastic flow of molten lava, mud, and gas. This allowed for the amazing preservation of items you rarely find from ancient times. Items like wooden doors, staircases, furniture. And papyrus "books" from the time. We're talking 79 A.D. folks. How wild is that? The Villa dei Papyri (Villa of the Papyrus) where over 1,000 papyrus scrolls were discovered in the 1700s was the inspiration for Getty's Malibu museum (the old one, not the newer one). Having seen both sites, if I had to choose just one to recommend it'd be Ercolano. Without a doubt. Smaller, but better preserved, more intimate, and to me, more interesting.
The surprise hit of the trip that wasn't even on the original list of sites to see turned out to be Villa Reggina at the Capo di Sorrento. A ruin of a seaside Roman villa, the site is serene and downright beautiful with a private cove, sea arch, and views to Sorrento. Take the public bus from Sorrento (short ride) and hike down to the ruin.
And the award for most entertaining and memorable framing of the question, "What are you?" goes to a lovable restaurant owner who asked, instead, "What's your generation? Hawaii?" Ah ha. Good times, good times.

And that's about all I can remember for the purpose of recounting. Ciao for now.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Conjuring Campania by Marisa Allegra Williams | Make Your Own Book

Farewell to a friend

2007-01-31T16:11:00.000-08:00

Franco Mazzucco, A silversmith with a heart of gold.

I wrote the piece above in loving memory of Franco Mazzucco, whom I had the pleasure of befriending on one of my extended trips to Venice. One of the last silversmiths in Italy to work in the traditional way, by hand, Franco's passing is a great loss to his craft, his family, friends, and admirers of his art.

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As it turns out, the third time was a charm. Myfirst two week-long visits to Venice had been so quintessentially dreamy anddelightful that I planned a third escape to La Serenissima and madearrangements to languish in this lavish waterlogged paradise of decayingdecadence for a full month. When you're in love (person or city, no matter),you devote as much quality time getting to know and enjoying your muse as youcan possibly afford. Right? Being a long distance love affair with one of thepriciest grande dames of them all, I was lucky to find accommodations allowingme to spend more than just a few days in Venice – let alone an entire month.

Hoping to find that intimate essence of Venice which eludes the day tripping,Grand Tour tourist, I fancied myself a traveler and intended to spend my monthlost — and incrementally found — as the city revealed herself to me a littlemore each day. Not speaking a lick of Italian and having been told thatVenetians are typically quite private, I assumed this would be a highlypersonal and something of a lonely journey. I couldn't have been more wrong.

Traveling alone and on a budget can be a challenge at times, especially whenventuring to a famously expensive city like Venice. But after scouring theInternet for deals and recommendations from other travelers, I happened upon areal gem — the Ca' del Dose. A recently renovated room with a TV, privateshower, toilet, and a bidet, cozily suited for one at only 50 Euros a night inlow season, with breakfast included? Sold! Not only was it highly recommendedand reasonably priced, the Ca' del Dose is ideally located in an authenticallyVenetian corner of the city where local life flourishes despite the daily tideof tourists.

Not long after I'd checked into the hotel, I discovered that the best featureof my happenstance home was not the price, the location, or even the private ensuite bathroom and shower (a luxury much coveted by the vacationingpopulation as often as is affordable). The loveliest aspect of the Ca' del Doseis without a doubt its delightful owners, Anna and Marco Lucchini. The coupletook a particular interest in me; curious and protective of a lone femaletraveler. Each day they would check in to ask what my plans were, how my visitwas going, share a recommendation, and always to offer help. Peppered with lotsof smiles and laughter, we became fast friends. Before long I found myselfaccompanying Anna on her errands around the city, walking her home after work,and even sharing lunches and a dinner or three.

Flanked by the scents and sounds of Al Scalinetto to the right of my room andthe "tink! tink! tink!" of the silversmith's workshop to the left,Ca' del Dose was a welcome reprieve of low-key authentic Venice after a morningor afternoon of fighting the throngs of tourists for a bit of peace inparadise. I always looked forward to "coming home" each day andhaving a chat with my new friends. Of the many neighborhood charactersintroduced to me by Anna, Franco Mazzucco quickly became one of my favorites.His was the workshop next door. Without the use of modern machinery, Franco weldedand chiseled by hand the most detailed and delicate of works of art in silverthat I had ever seen. Sometimes, when Anna wasn't available to act astranslator, Franco and I would communicate in a broken babble of Italian andEnglish; often involving an array of hand gestures colorful by even Italianstandards and ending in shrugs and cheek-cramping laughter. More often still, Iwould just stop by to watch Franco work for a while and admire his shinycreations — platters, shell shaped dishes, goblets, bowls, boxes, crosses,mirrors, frames, figurines — all createdby hand for wealthy patrons and private collectors.

As my month rapidly melted into a series of cherished memories, I began todread the end and wish I'd been able to lavish more time getting to know thecity and a small group of people I was growing to adore and regard as extendedfamily. The kind souls in this corner of the labyrinth had made my stay so warmand memorable, I would have done anything to demonstrate my appreciation. Sowhen the opportunity presented itself, I jumped at the chance! Anna called alittle meeting with Franco to explain that they had been unsuccessfullypursuing an American client of Franco's who had not paid him in full for alarge piece that had taken Franco several months to complete. Anna had tried tocontact the American via email and telephone on Franco's behalf, to no avail.And now that we were all friends, perhaps I might be more successful — beingmyself an American.

After months of international phone tag, faxes, and email, Franco was finallypaid in full. A year later, I returned to Venice to relax and celebrate.

Not unlike my experience the previous year, my fourth trip and second fullmonth in Venice was flawlessly delightful. When I arrived, Franco greeted mewith a smile and a long-stem silver rose. He'd already mailed me two handmadesilver picture frames as thanks for helping him collect from the American. Ithanked him again for his many kind gifts and insisted that he allow me to takehe and his wife, along with Anna and Marco, out to dinner to celebrate. This ofcourse never came to pass because Franco instead arranged an incrediblehome-cooked meal at his house, prepared by his lovely wife Maria, for which hehad spent a day in the mountains north of Venice picking fresh wild mushrooms.As if this weren't thanks enough, Franco saved the most generous gift of allfor my farewell.

One of the handmade items that I'd helped Franco get paid for was a large quadriga— a replica of the famous four bronze horses that grace Basilica San Marco.I'd seen pictures of the piece as part of the collections process. On one of mydaily visits to Franco's workshop I asked him how much a small quadriga mightcost to commission. He never got around to answering my question, but he didget around to making me the quadriga. Four silver horses prancing proudly atopa slab of rose-colored marble. I was speechless and asked what it cost, andcould I pay him for it in installments, but he wouldn't hear of it. Francoexplained that I travelled a lot and had spent much time in Venice — coming toknow it as a second home — but that maybe now I would spend my month-longvacations creating similar roots and relationships in new cities. Look atthe quadriga and remember. What a beautiful gift.

I knew in my heart that Franco was right. With a list of dream destinationslong enough to fill two lifetimes' worth of yearly vacations, it was unlikelythat I would be spending another solid month in Venice anytime soon. Not longafter I'd settled back in at home and the New Year rolled around, I got the badnews. Franco had become ill and passed away. It had all happened so quickly andtook everyone — family, friends, all — by surprise. The jovial, generous,well-loved family man and artist who had been so kind to me was gone. Not onlyhad Venice lost a son, but a piece of her history and tradition as well.

The last silversmith in Venice, Franco had learned his craft from his father.As the times and the economy had changed, fewer and fewer of Italy's youngpeople were apprenticing and choosing a career in the traditional or old arts.Franco was the last of a handful of craftsmen throughout Italy who work silverin the old way, by hand rather than by machine. The work was hard and many longhours might go into the making of one small piece. Though the end results wereunique, one-of-a-kind works of art, there simply wasn't the reliable demand forsuch priceless treasures necessary to make this career more appealing to ayoung artist than say that of a graphic designer. And so it is in this way thatItaly, Europe, and the rest of the world continues to lose whole art forms.When given the choice between a passion and a paycheck, it is the paycheck thatwins out — by necessity. It seems that the arts are hardest hit with thisreality, as one can plainly see in a city with such a rich artistic past asVenice. Franco was the last silversmith, and how long will it be before thecity loses her last handmade paper masters, bookbinders, or glassblowers? Withmore and more of these goods made on the cheap and imported from China,Venetians will tell you that the end looms ever nearer. It was Franco's hopeand it is my hope that something might be done to preserve and encourage thesedying arts to flourish in the city where they enjoyed such a celebrated andvital life.

My fondest memory of Franco is my last. On the second to last day of my trip,Franco asked me where I was planning on going. Had I been to the Chiesa deiGreci? No. I hadn't been to the Greek Orthodox Church. Was it nearby? Justaround the corner from here. It is one of my favorite churches in Venice. Veryinteresting. Very beautiful. I know you and you will love it. It will move youto tears. And on this recommendation I spent both that very day and aportion of my last in this church. The first day it was full of tourists so Idecided to return the next morning when it might be a bit quieter. I was verylucky and returned to find the church completely deserted, docent and all. Filledwith art all in gold, I sat for over an hour in silent, watery-eyed awe. It wasthe sort of unexpectedly moving experience one most often finds abroad in afabled place like Venice, and takes home to relish for a lifetime. Thanks to mysilversmith with a heart of gold, it is for me but one of many.

Practical Information:

Franco Mazzucco

http://www.francomazzucco.com/

Franco's works are available for viewingand purchase by appointment only. Contact Franco's wife, Maria, to scheduleyour visit: 0039.41.5229292. Please note that Maria does notspeak English fluently. If you are uncomfortable speaking Italian, the kindfolks at Ca' del Dose might be willing to help you make your arrangements withMaria.

Ca' del Dose

http://www.cadeldose.com/

Map to the bed and breakfast

Calle del Dose, Castello,3801 - 30122 Venice, Italy

+39.041.5209887 Phone

+39.041.5209887 Fax

Al Scalinetto

Map to the restaurant

Calle del Dose, Castello, 3803 - 30122 Venice, Italy

Open for lunch and dinner, but hours vary. Check in with the restaurant andmake a reservation if possible. Small establishment and popular with bothlocals and tourists, so sometimes difficult to get a table.

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Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Dubrovnik notes from a broad

2006-12-02T13:49:00.002-08:00

Dobar dan! That's hello in Croatian. Kako ste? How are you?

Dreamy Dubrovnik
I couldn't have asked for a dreamier welcome to Dubrovnik. Crystal clear weather and water, and a sunset wedding in Stari Grad (the old walled part of the city). Beautiful bride. Everyone in the wedding party looked like a Mediterranean model. Well, Adriatic (technically), I suppose. Musicians escorted the newlyweds, guests, and tourists down the Stradun (the main drag) as the guests and the musicians sang some sort of song that sounded old and one can only assume traditional. In addition to singing, the wedding party guests danced and love-jones-ed as the trail of bliss floated outside the city walls at a snail's pace and then into cars and off into the twilight. All the while hordes of swallows swooped and sang from the rooftops. It was way cool man. To say the least. As for Dubrovnik. Perfection. I love it there. The people are wonderful as the city is beautiful. Which is to say, very. Looks kinda like the French Riviera to me, both in terms of the vegetation and the architecture. With a little Italy thrown in for flair.

Save the Kittens
Like Greece, and to a lesser degree Venice, Dubrovnik and the surrounding area is littered with feral cats. And where there are feral cats, there are kittens. My mother used to feed the feral cats at a local park when I was a kid and she firmly instilled in me a bleeding and soft heart for the furry creatures. Especially the wild ones. So it was deeply difficult for me to resist spending all of my allotted money to burn on the wild and wildly adorable kittens here. I'd focus my efforts on the grown ups, but the kittens are just too cute and skinny to ignore. All my concern was for them! Some people (locals) do put out a bit of food and water for them, but if I were here 24/7 these little guys would be heaps plumper. I saw a grown male cat attack a sweet little kitten over some food that was left by a bleeding heart. I didn't think twice before batting him away and trying to coax the kitten back out of the rocks so s/he could eat. To no avail. Another adult lunged and the scraps were gone. Sigh. And this guy is a member of the cutest litter possible. One white and orange, one black, one black and white, one white and tigerish. All with brilliant blue eyes. They are uncannily cute and I wish I could take them all home with me. Seriously thinking of relocating to the area so that I can look after them. And get them all spade and neutered.

Death in Dubrovnik
I watched a dim dove get run over by my slow-moving bus. It waited until the bus passed over it and then tried to fly up, no doubt. As the bus drove off it was trailed by a tail of feathers. No body though. Guess it's still under the bus...

Arguments in Paradise
As you may have learned by now, I like to eavesdrop. It's part of the fun on any good vacation to Europe, in particular. With so many people and languages swirling about, no one knows what you speak or comprehend until or unless you open your mouth. So if you pretend not to understand, people will often keep talking. And louder even. I've heard lots of good arguments in Budapest and Dubrovnik now, but my favorite was the old couple on the bus the other day, on their way into Dubrovnik (I'm staying just outside the old town). The husband apparently assumed they were headed into town to watch the sunset. The wife thought differently: "I've seen a sunset before. I've seen lots of sunsets. It's my 80th birthday and I want to have dinner in peace." The husband: "I know you've seen a sunset. So have I. But sunsets are peaceful. Romantic even. What if we had dinner at a restaurant with a view of the sea and the sunset. Would you like that?" The wife: "I told you. I've seen a sunset. And romance. Ha! Don't make me laugh. You don't know the first thing about romance. So I'll just go with the original plan. Dinner." You get the gist. It got uglier and then I didn't get to hear the end because we reached our stop and all got off the bus.

TV Time
I love satellite TV. It's such a treat since I don't have cable at home. And no, I don't want cable. It's too expensive and all I'd do every night and weekend is sit on my already fat ass and watch shit like 24/7 Law and Order, Flavor of Love, music videos, movies, etc. Anyway. CSI with Croatian subtitles. Ahhh... Gary Dourdan. Glad they don't dub it. But I'm sure he'd still be just as sexy. Even in Croatian (which to me sounds like Slavic Italian and is slightly sexy in and of itself). Next we have German MTV. Huh-larious. You get to see German rappers and hear stuff like, "und meinen homies..." There's weird English peppered everywhere. It's highly entertaining. I also watched a half hour of Pimp My Ride International.

Bird Watching
Before leaving the Bay, I thought I'd seen the world's largest hummingbird at my local Longs Drugs. If you're into birds, the one near where I live is the spot. Its huge indoor-outdoor garden selection of plants both local and exotic draws quite the winged crowd. My mom and I asked our cashier if the birds could go in and out: "Oh yes. They have the doors timed. They love it here. Build nests and frequent aisle 11 for birdseed." And just when I thought I'd seen it all, a huge red-breasted hummer cruised the length of the store from gardening down to the pharmacy. Looking for cold medicine, I imagine. Later my mom found the little guy feasting feverishly on five varieties of flowers. She motioned to me to come over and I could hardly believe what I was seeing. This kid was huge and so into his flowers that he could care less that we were only inches away from his royal redness. It was the coolest hummingbird experience I've ever had. Until now. I was sitting on a rock outcrop near my hotel (the Hotel Zagreb in Lapad, which is perfect, by the way and I highly recommend it if you want to visit Dubrovnik), watching the sun rise and shine on the serene blue-green water of the Adriatic when a mammoth hummingbird floated by - hovering low, just above the water. He was majestic. With the golden morning light on his back his feathers blazed a bright turquoise blue - almost the color of the water below him. He later zoomed by me again, headed in the opposite direction, disappearing directly into the blinding sunlight.

Hummingbee-Bird
On one of my day trips to the crazy-cute town of Cavtat (pronounced Tsavtat; the 'ts' like that in 'cats') I walked straight through the city, which is to say I hiked over it. Cavtat town is mostly on hill. All stone houses and small lanes. All of these towns here remind me of Venice, except for the hills, because Venice is 100% flat (save the bridges and plentiful stairs in all the buildings). Anyway, on this hike through town, I'd reached the top of the city and started down the back way. It required I go through a narrow lane, a stone stairway really, passing by vegetables, figs, and flowers in what looked like a community garden. The garden was to my right, the flowers to my left. It was a little loud and scary because the flowers were being worked over by what sounded like thousands of busy, buzzing bees. It might well have been thousands. But i didn't bother to count. I've never been stung and I was hoping to keep it that way. Just as I was starting to dart cautiously down the hill, a HUGE bee caught my eye and I froze. I'd never seen a bee, bumble or otherwise, that beefy before. And what a weird tongue... I leaned in a little closer and realized it wasn't a huge bee, but a teeny-tiny hummingbird with a tail colored to look like that of a striped bumble. Amazing! After that sighting, I saw another in Dubrovnik (nearly caught and consumed by a hungry little hunting kitten), and one more in the little walled town of Ston. It's the only time I've really wished I had a zoom lens so I could get a good picture of something so small and wonderful, like this. Oh well. I even tried to Google this little guy for you, but came up with nothing.

A special shout out and thank you to Jason for finding images of these mysterious and elusive little creatures. You rock. Click here to see pictures of the wild bumbles. Find even more images and info by surfing on over here.

Inquiring Irish
On my 25 minute walk around the peninsula of Cavtat (amazing panoramic views of Dubrovnik, other towns, and islands in the Adriatic abound) I was stopped by an old Irish man. He wanted to know where I was from and when I told him near San Francisco. With that out of the way, he then wondered if I'd ever been to "Lake Tay'oh" (that's Lake Tahoe for those of you who don't speak Irish; neither do I, so it took me a long pause to compute and respond, "No. Never actually been to Lake Tahoe.").

Bay of Grey
It was an unfortunately very grey day when I visited the bay and town of Kotor in nearby Montenegro. Montenegro is officially it's own country now, by the way. Literally just happened. Serbia is on it's own now, too. But it's still Bosnia & Herzegovina together. For how long, I have no idea. Despite the dreary weather, it was a lovely trip. The Republic of Montenegro is picturesque and poor. People only make 300 Euros per month, on average. Makes Croatians seem rich, which they are absolutely not. The bay is huge and amazing and the town of Kotor is wonderful. It was inevitable that I would like it because for many 100s of years it belonged to and was carved out by my favorite old republic; that of Venice. Unlike Venice though, it has hills. And like Venice, it is also an UNESCO World Heritage site. I visited Kotor and its bay via the Elite travel agency; one of many travel agencies here that arrange day trips in the region. As I suspected, I was one of the youngest (the youngest) day trippers and one of the only ones without a plethora of white or silver hair. It was a long day and I was blessed with the natural entertainment of what I regard as the world's funniest people: the British. There were two couples whom I was planted in between for the duration of the long boat ride out on the bay and they were bloody fucking hilarious. One in their 40s and the other in their 50s, they were also among the "younger" couples on this excursion. They had me in stitches with jokes ("This is the English speaking group, love. You sure that includes you?" - Poking fun at Americans and our "English") that spanned everything from politics, to sheep, to Germans, Australians, New Zealanders, and the French. There were a few off-color jokes from one of the wives about "Negroes" that I let slide because they weren't hyper-offensive and I didn't feel like getting into it since I was having such a good time otherwise. The boat came complete with a kitchen in which whole fish were grilled (with the heads) and served up for lunch along with feta, tomatoes, onions, and plenty of wine. The fish were bony and I decided to dine on the dried figs I'd brought along (typical of the region). My English friends proceeded to get sloshed and tell ever dirtier jokes and stories. It was fantastic. The one brief serious moment came when I asked what they all thought of Romania and Bulgaria being approved to join the EU in January of 2007. The former banker in his 40s quickly sobered up and let rip his disapproval and began to explain to me in strictly economic terms why the EU was headed for disaster and break-up. Each of the four agreed. And then it was back to bashing Germans. One husband told a true story of six Germans killed on a safari (via hot air balloon) in South Africa. "Bloody shame about that. I hope they were able to fix the balloon." Ouch.

Damn Them Dirty Old Men
I made the mistake of venturing into a shop at the end of a small lane of the Stradun, at the beckoning of what seemed a nice shop keep. Wrong! The nasty old man grabbed and kissed my hand, shuffled me into his store, and then tried to kiss me! Can you fucking believe that? He was mumbling something about "nero" and as I pushed him away I said "Black?" "Yes. Black. Black is so beautiful. Your skin is so... (kissing sound). I close shop at 7. May I take you for a drink?" Hell mother fucking no you can't take me for a drink! (Shudder) You're like what, 65, fat as hell, and butt ugly. What would make you think in your wildest dreams that a girl my age would consent to some sick shit like that? Men. I'll never understand where they muster the nerve from sometimes. That's now one of two little lanes I'm avoiding like the plague. The other...

Younger Man, Still Dirty
On my way to buy pastries and dinner from this great bakery (Niko) I was stopped (grabbed, really) by this guy in his early 40s. "Where are you from? Do you live here? I have seen you every day and I find you to be very interesting. I have a restaurant, just here. May I cook something for you and talk to you for a while?" Again, hell no. I get that I'm something of a pink poodle within this haven of homogeneity, but the attention is creepy nonetheless. I just can't get used to it. And the methods for getting my attention are a lot too hands-on. I don't feel unsafe, I just feel mildly violated. (Well, more than mild in the case of the old man.) Why do people think it's okay to put their hands on you? Look, talk. But don't touch. Is that not a basic, universal code of conduct between strangers?

Tiny Dubrovnik
Dubrovnik is tiny. For some reason I was expecting something more on the scale of half a Venice, which can take at least a month to get to know intimately. You can know Dubrovnik like the back of your hand in a day. Two, tops.

Itsy Bitsy Korcula Town
I thought Dubrovnik was tiny. Well, the town of Korcula on the island of Korcula is itsy bitsy. I was worried that two hours to wander around wouldn't be nearly enough. Wrong again. You can know Korcula Town like the back of your hand in oh, say 30 minutes. 45, tops.

Passegiata a la Croatia
As in Italy, everyone takes an evening stroll before dinner. It's not called a passegiata here, but it's essentially the same thing. Tons of old people, couples, and parents with kids in strollers. Strolling. And all these women with the babies and toddlers. How is it that they all have size 0 to 6 figures? They all look like models. Seriously. It's very intimidating. You'd never find this many shapely, attractive women in the States. Even in a town like Los Angeles or Miami. There everyone looks plastic. These women are au natural and they're all perfect. It's sick. In a good way.

Kids Will Be Kids
On the bus ride back to Dubrovnik from Cavtat, it was just about the time kids were getting out of school. I sat in the back of the bus with about five bad asses under the age of 13 who were throwing trash out the windows, flipping off cars and passersby, yelling to their friends and probably cursing to strangers (it was all in Croatian, mind you).

Figs, Olives, and Pomegranates Galore
The terrain here is very rocky, watery, and green. Dubrovnik and the rest of the region is surrounded by white limestone cliffs peppered with the happy apple green of the same pines you find in the south of France, the deep green of the same cypress trees you find in Tuscany, fig trees, and olive trees. In some parts there are also vineyards. The ones on the hills remind me of the vineyards in the Cinque Terre town of Corniglia. It's actually harvest time, so you see people out working in the heat, collecting the grapes.

Illegal Dumping in Plain Sight
I was on my favorite little beach one afternoon, near my hotel, and was unfortunately witness to some illegal dumping. A little Australian girl, old enough to know better, had taken a crap in her bikini and then disposed of the waste on the shoreline. Na-sty. Her mom didn't see and everyone else was too zoned out in a sunbathing stupor to notice.

Getting Treated Like a Local
I patronized Niko so many times that the ladies there all know me. One was particularly nice and told me which items were fresh and which weren't. Prior to helping me I watched her sell day-old pastries to tourists.

Death Defying Drive
I'm going to Sorrento for two-and-a-half weeks in April to explore the Amalfi Coast. My day trip to Korcula proved good prep for Italy, I think. The driving here along the coast is similarly death defying. On the way back the bus was hugging the outside lane and if you looked over the edge and down the rocky cliffs, you could indeed see many (too many) rusted out skeletons of vehicles past.

Immigration Issues
There was an interesting, though sensational, series of articles in the September 11th international edition of Newsweek that I picked up for kicks. Made me wonder if Hungary and Croatia are really as homogeneous as they seem (I couldn't tell a Croat from a Serb from a Montenegrin from a Bosnia-Herzegovian if you were offering to pay me my weight in platinum for the correct answer), and for how long this will hold true. The articles addressed the causes and effects of various international immigration (and integration) issues. Here are some stats to think about...

In 2002, the number of Moroccans moving to Spain outnumbered Ecuadorans doing the same thing. In 2005 the Ecuadorans are now coming to Spain in larger numbers than Moroccans. Similar situation in Italy where in 2000 more Moroccans moved to Italy than did Albanians. Now more Albanians are moving in to call Italy home than are Moroccans.

In 2004 unemployment among Britain's 1.6 million Muslims was 3 times the national average. For Muslim men in the UK the unemployment rate is 13% vs. the 3-8% for men of other religions.

600,000 Eastern Europeans came to live and work in the UK in 2004-2005. This is the single largest wave of immigration in Britain's history. Most of these immigrants from the last two years were Polish. According to the UK's government stats, 97% of these 600,000 immigrants found employment.

Quote from a Muslim business owner in West London, "If your name is Mohammad and you speak English, or Richard and you don't, employers will pick Richard."

Burmese are moving to Thailand for a better life. As are people from Bangladesh, moving to Mozambique. Argentine job ads are placed in Bolivian newspapers.

Of 191 million total global migrants...

...61 million people move from developing nations to another developing country. (poor to poor)

...62 million people move from developing nations to developed nations. (poor to rich)

...53 million people move between developed nations. (rich to rich)

...14 million people move from developed nations to developing countries (rich to poor)

War Photo Limited Exhibition Center
Dubrovnik has an excellent little museum of war photography. There is a standing exhibit of images from the recent war, and then exhibits that come and go. I saw a really heart-wrenching exhibit here of images from war-torn Africa. Really gruesome, awful stuff. Sigh. But no one cares about Africa. As Anderson Cooper said on CNN the same night.

Anderson Cooper on Africa
He gave a great report on CNN. Discussing Chad, Sudan, and the Congo region and the worst atrocities taking place in the Darfur region at the moment.

The Whitest Person on the Beach
While I was reading one day on the beach, this Australian couple next to me got up to leave. The girl started singing, "I'm the whitest person on the beeeach! I'm the whitest person..." I started laughing and she nearly screamed. Wasn't expecting anyone nearby to speak English. We had a little chat and I informed her that, actually, the Irish couple over yonder was, technically, the whitest on the beach. And the most likely to be burnt at the end of their holiday.

You Know, the Italians Eat Cats
This old man who lives near the harbor stopped to talk to me as I was playing with four of the locals (cats). "You like cats? You want to take one home with you? Take your pick. We all love animals here. We all feed them. You know the Italians eat cats. They have a special recipe. During WWII you could get good money for a big cat. Big like a rabbit. We also had Jews in Dubrovnik in WWII. Did you know that? We had Jewish streets and a synagogue and about 30 Jewish families. We took the names off the streets and had everything Jewish removed to protect the people." After this ramble, he went on to tackle the United States for me. "America is a very bad country. You seem like a nice woman, but your country is evil. I am sorry to tell you. [Yes, yes. I am well aware.] It does some good things but many more bad things. Democracy is good, but not the American way of democracy. America is not a democracy. It is corrupt and does as it pleases. Like all other bad republics, it will pay a price. It is too bad, America." He then went on to explain to me that after a hellish muddle through miles of red tape, Croatians can still be denied entry to the U.S. when they arrive at customs. Visa or no visa.

A Silent Sentiment, Spoken
I met a very nice (and very handsome) Croatian painter from Zagreb (the capital city) who comes to Dubrovnik for 6-7 months each year to sell his work. He was 36 and old enough to remember life in the former Yugoslavia. Says it was much better than capitalism. He lit a cigarette and launched into a 30 minute tirade about the evils of capitalism (and, of course, of the United States) and how much better the former system had been. I was surprised and said, "No one ever tells you that." He said that it's a common sentiment, but not popular to give voice to. For fear that you'll be labeled nostalgic. "People used to have the money to buy a car. Everyone had a flat and plenty of food. We could all take a summer and a winter holiday with friends or family. Life was better. Now we have rich and many more poor. Too many."

Furball Fiesta
I broke down and bought a bounty of food for the local felines. Thought they deserved a free feast on my last kuna (Croatian money). Bought 25 USD worth of food and walked all over the city feeding my favorite cats. It was wunderbar.

From Me to You
My friend at the popular Niko bakery in the walled portion of Dubrovnik gave me everything I bought on my last day as a gift, she said, "From me to you."

Queue at Your Own Risk
Before I'd been to Europe I'd only ever heard the rumors that Europeans don't know how to line up according to the unwritten rules of common courtesy and etiquette. Well, that's a generalization that I'm afraid is true from France to Croatia. The Too-Short "get in where you fit in..." song comes to mind. Little old ladies will literally push you out of the way to climb ahead of you onto the bus, in the checkout line at the market, at the deli. It's a free-for-all. You've got to be either wacky patient or an asshole. When the little old lady with a cart full of groceries tried to cut me in line at the market, and I had only a bottle of water to pay for, I decided to be the asshole. I'm quite happy with my decision. She was not. She huffed off to a line nearby and nearly ran over a woman and child with her cart to fly ahead of them. I think she caught them off guard enough that they didn't protest and let her in.

Others Abroad
Short video of Michael Palin's travels in Croatia.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Budapest notes from a broad

2006-12-02T13:49:00.001-08:00

Jó napot. Hogy van? [Pronunciation: Yow nopot. Hod-yuh vun?] That's "Hello. How are you?" in Hungarian.

Auf Wiedersehn und Aloha
On the BART ride to SFO I met a fortysomething German couple who'd stopped for two nights in SF before continuing on to Hawaii. I gave them advice on what to do and see on Oahu and Maui. They said it was a lifelong dream to visit Hawaii and they were visibly excited. San Francisco was nice but dirty, they said. I agreed.

Four Generations
My flight to Budapest wasn't direct. Connected in Amsterdam. In the KLM check-in line at SFO people were chattering in many languages, returning to work or starting a vacation. One of the loudest groups in line that you couldn't help but eavesdrop on comprised four women, obviously related. I finally gathered that it was a daughter, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother—four generations—on their way to Sicily. The daughter was in her early 20s. She'd planned the trip and was taking her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother to Italy for the first time. They were Italian-American originally from Sicily. What a handful, but what a cool trip. I'm hoping that I can take my mom to Kiev one day so that we can see where her father's family is from. I say hoping because harping on that woman to get her passport has been a project for two years running.

Swiss Kiss
I had my own front and center seat to an uninterrupted hour-long make out session, Euro-style. The couple right in front of me in the KLM check-in line was bursting with love and French kisses. Necking. Hands under shirts. The whole bit. Luckily they were paying passing attention to the ebb and flow of the line, so I didn't have to physically interrupt and ask them to please stop love-Jones-ing each other down and either move forward or get a room. When they weren't demonstrating for everyone how to properly administer a French kiss, they were chattering and whispering sweet nothings in ears. In French. Typical Frenchies. Or so I thought. When we got to the front of the line and all pulled out our passports, theirs were Swiss.

Danish Delights
My knowledge of history is crap. With the focus on European History in the U.S. school system you'd think we'd all retain a little more of the basics. I don't know about you, but after I made the grade I think I hit the mental delete key because I can recall embarrassingly little of said subject matter. Luckily it's still more than the average American so I didn't fare too badly in my 10 hour conversation with the Danes sitting with me on the way to Amsterdam. Our discussion covered everything from the harsh hideousness of the Dutch language (we were in agreement) to the Danish language (related to and sounds like a softer variety of German) to the history of Denmark (I had no idea that the Danes once ruled England, Norway, Sweden, Greenland, and a nice chunk of Northern Germany) to why the Danes deeply dislike the Germans (lost land to Germany) and so on and so forth. History led to geography and we laughed at how poor the average American's knowledge of geography is. The number of Americans this couple met who didn't furrow their brow when told, "No. We aren't British. We're Danish." was evidently nil. Not a one knew where Denmark is located or that it’s a country. Beyond that, few knew where to place Iraq on the map ("The Middle East? Where's that? It must be somewhere in Arabia or Egypt, right?") with any passing degree of accuracy when the couple brought up the war. Geography became a sort of game with the Danes and the Americans. It was easy entertainment. They were traveling through the great states of Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona. Nothing against said states, but I couldn't say that I was surprised. The random Californian might have fared little better. The best part of the convo was when the husband (it was a couple celebrating the wife's 50th b-day; the husband was a sprightly 72—bikes 20 miles a day!!) explained how inferior American English is to British English. We were again in agreement. It's all about the accent. British English is just bloody lovelier to listen to. Wouldn't you agree, love?

A Little Pre-Flight Foreplay
In any other setting or circumstances, my security experience at Schipol would have been considered foreplay. If you've never had an "experimental" experience with someone of your same sex, I think this could count. Passenger screening and safety in Amsterdam is intensively thorough and hands-on, shall we say. And that's all I have to say about that.

Beautiful Budapest
I don't know what I was expecting, but what I wasn't expecting is to become in any way enamored of Budapest. I thought I was just coming to visit a good American friend having a bit of a hard and lonely time settling in to her job and life in Hungary. For starters, I thought Budapest was in Eastern Europe. It is, after all, in the Lonely Planet Eastern Europe guidebook. Wrong. As Hungarians will tell you, Hungary (Poland and the Czech Republic, too) is in Central Europe. I was expecting to see more Turkish influence (the Turks ruled from about 1500 to 1650) but what I found or feel is only a slight variation on all things Western European. I guess I'm really referring to and taken with the architecture and ambiance. It's very Paris. More Paris than Paris even. The castle district in Buda is not unlike Montmartre on its hill. You don't have the Seine but you do have the Danube (Duna in Hungarian) and the lovely bridges connecting the Buda side with the Pest side. The buildings are amazing. Tons of fin de siècle and art nouveau masterpieces (thanks to 200 years of Habsburg Austrian rule) in various states of refurbishment or decay. More so and more beautiful than those in Paris, it seems. Both my friend and I (and many others undoubtedly) hope that the city isn't restored to perfection like Prague. I've never been to Prague but from the pictures it is a bit too picture-perfect. Part of what makes cities like Paris and Venice so charming IMHO, is that they aren't perfect. Some buildings are renovated down to the last detail of former glory while others are left to their delightful demise. Perfection is boring and I hope Budapest doesn't become that. There is deconstruction and reconstruction around every corner. It's amazing. I've never been in a city undergoing so much change from street to street. I've also never been in a city with so many Burger King's, Mac Donald's, Subway's, Pizza Hut's, KFC's, and wall-to-wall commercial brand name products. There’s even a TGI Friday’s in Budapest. How crazy is that? There is little unique or individual here in the way of clothing, jewelry, style, lifestyle, etc. It's like the country went full speed ahead from Communism to cookie-cutter this and that Capitalism. Oh well. Perhaps that will come later. For now it's a good thing because there isn't a damn thing I wanted to buy and take home with me. And a penny saved is a penny earned. Right?

Budapest Isn’t Burning
Yes there's political unrest, demonstrations, and riots here in Budapest at the moment. While I didn’t see any of the action with my own eyes, I read about it and saw pictures in all the papers. Budapest is a big city, so you can be here and have no clue that there's any mayhem going down. The protests began when the world received confirmation that the Prime Minister is a lying sack of shit who cheated his people and his way into office. What’s even more confounding is that the PM refuses to resign even as he admits that he didn't win the election fair and square (!!!). On the bright side, at least the Hungarians now know that all of their darkest suspicions are true and not just crackpot "conspiracy theory".

Buda and Pest
Before coming to Budapest I only vaguely knew or understood that the two used to be considered entirely separate cities. There are other areas too, always referred to here by name. Including Buda and Pest. My friend lives in Buda and works in Pest. She's got the best of both worlds here. Buda is quiet and semi-secluded feeling and is similar in serenity and ambiance somehow to Montmartre vs. Paris proper. Especially up on the hill in the castle district. The Fisherman's Bastion is made of white stone and looks very Montmartre, Sacre Coeur. You can even take a Funicular up if you don't want to burn your thighs climbing the stairs. Just like Montmartre.

Out of Sight, Out of Style
Well, now I understand why there is so little left of the Turks. According to one of my guidebooks (the one that gives Turkey passing, honorable mention), after the withdrawal of the Turks the old city of Buda was rebuilt. Design and construction began in the Baroque style (late 17th-18th century) and there is obvious Western European influence from Italy, Austria, and Germany. Next came Neoclassical and "The Golden Age" (19th century) with monumental structures flaunting columns and Greek facades. You'll find a lot of this style in Pest. On the heels of Neoclassical from 1850 on you have the Hungarian styles known as Eclecticism and then Secession (late 19th century). What I like most about a lot of these old buildings all is their interior courtyards with balconies, gardens, patios, and a whole separate, secret life away from the hustle and bustle of the city streets. Über-cool.

Kávéház Central
Kávéház is a coffee house or café. I remember reading in one of my books at home that Budapest had more coffee houses at one time than any other city in Europe. Popular in the 19th century through the 1930s and 1940s, many of the fancy old cafés are being renovated to their former gilded glory. I've visited a few and can vouch for the gild. They are truly glorious. Many have free international newspapers and you can read, write, eat, and lounge all day in luxury. And at the present exchange rate, it's quite the affordable luxury. Alcohol is notably cheap too, by the way. I've had more kir royals in under a week than I've had in months. You can have a kir for about 220 forints (a little over $ 1USD) or a kir royal for just double that. It's always happy hour in Hungary!

Bon Apetito
"I'm Hungarian." That's what our waitress told us (in Hungarian) when we asked her in English, French, Spanish, and German if this particular wine we wanted to try with dinner was dry or sweet. This chick is dealing with tourists all day, every day and she clearly hates it. Across the street from the Hilton Hotel in Buda, the restaurant does get some Hungarians (the table of Buda birthday girls behind us) but everyone else appeared to be from out of town. Way out of town. This woman, no more than 25 if I had to throw down a bet, was so rude. The French aren't even this rude (never to me anyway). She immediately passed us on to her sweet and patient coworker (26, maybe) whose English was not much better but offered to fetch us the Sommelier (not sure if I spelled that right; the dude who knows the wines). Over a leisurely dinner of penne and ravioli (Hungarian fare isn't good enough to goulash every night) we watched our original waitress roll her eyes multiple times and provide exceptionally poor service to the American couple at the table next to ours. She didn't even try to hide her disdain. It was bad. More than that it was hilariously unbelievable. I just kept smiling at her to piss her off even more. I think it worked. Despite dumping us on her coworker, she delivered bread to our table; we had to point to either wheat or white in her little basket and she'd scoop the bounty onto our plate with her fancy silver spoon thingie. My friend pointed to the wheat and the girl didn't skip a beat in immediately scooping out a white roll instead and then prancing off without a glance. She also delivered our food. Flustered by her attitude, my friend accidentally said "No" to her question "Ravioli?" and pointed at me. When we switched dishes she waltzed back over, looked at me like I was born an idiot (and yesterday) and said, "That's the penne. That's the ravioli." Fuck you biotch. Vafanculo. I know what the fuck ravioli is. Damn. My hope is that she takes a trip to the States with that attitude and lack of language. Americans are generally patient and helpful with strangers to a fault (or so I've been told by foreigners), but don't let the stranger in question be rude. We can turn on your ass in a hot second. I'd like to see that girl roll her eyes at the wait staff of a sommelier spot anywhere in the U.S. Actually, doesn't even have to be a step above two stars. Actually... I'd rather see a Parisian go off on her. Oh yeah. Now that would be magnifique.

Fall into a Sin
Waiting in line to buy train tickets to Vienna, the girl ahead of us had a rather memorable and large tattoo at the small of her back. A rattle snake or a cobra coiled (not sure which because her shirt covered the top half of the tat) with the phrase "Fall into a Sin" underneath. She was Hungarian and looked every bit your stereotypical Eastern Bloc sex worker. That might have been her boyfriend with her. His name might also have been John.

International Relations from Vienna to Budapest
On the train ride back to Budapest from Vienna, we were in a car with a Romanian woman making a crazy long trip (like 14 hours) from somewhere in Spain to Bucharest (which is in Romania for those of you not in the know) and a Hungarian student on his way home for a few days. He struck up a convo with us and my friend did most of the talking. It started in German and they started to speak English for my benefit (my friend is fluent in German). He was studying International Relations in Vienna and so we weren't too impressed with a few of his comments. He'd just come from Oktoberfest in Berlin or Munich (I can't remember which) and said, "It was great. The strangest thing was to see the Black and Turkish people wearing traditional dress." He was talking about lederhosen. He also said that he really enjoyed Berlin as a city, but that there were "some places you just don't want to go because it's all Turkish." My friend later explained to me that in Kreutzberg (not sure if I spelled it right) there is a large Turkish population and it's often referred to as "Little Istanbul." Otherwise he was very nice and asked lots of questions about how we liked Hungary, if we thought people's English was good, what Americans knew about Budapest and Hungary, what we thought of the war in Iraq and if Americans really encountered the war on a daily basis, and if life in the U.S. was really all that different from life in Hungary or Germany.

Monica Lewinsky in Budapest
There's a big street here called Bajcsy-Zsilinszky and the second part sounds a lot like Lewinsky to me. I can say Lewinsky. I can't say Zsilinszky, apparently. So when talking to my friend, I simply refered to it as Monica Lewinsky. Much easier. I wonder if there's a Clinton Street, too?

More Fun with Facts and Ignorance
I would have thought that anyone who knows Sacramento is the capital of California would at least have heard of San Francisco. But I was wrong. The guy who sold me my Soviet and Hungarian stamps (found my perfect souvenirs after all) asked where I was from and was stumped when I said "California. Near San Francisco." He asked if that was near Sacramento and if there were many Mexicans in California. I told him yes, and that California used to be part of Mexico in fact. His turn to stump me. When did Mexico lose California and when did California become a state? Shit. Hell if I know. Where's Google when you need it? Some time in the 1800s was all I was willing to hazard. Before 1850. I think.

Cake, Confusion, and Smiles
I was having cake for breakfast for the umpteenth time, my third visit to the Ruszwurm Café near the Fisherman's Bastion in Buda. If you ever have the chance to swing by here, the Ruszwurm Torta or creme pastry (the specialty of the house) is to die for. Two flaky-crisp layers of pastry are separated by a generous mountain of creamy deliciousness that tastes somewhere dreamily in between whipped cream and custard. I was just about to dive into this perfect piece of unparalleled yummyness when two senior citizens speaking a language that sounded only slightly Slavic but not enough to be Russian began gesturing at the two empty wicker chairs opposite me. I smiled and nodded and they made themselves comfortable at our tiny little outdoor table. When the waitress came over to take their order, confusion ensued. She only spoke Hungarian, they only spoke this Slavic sounding something or other, and I didn't speak a lick of either. After much pointing and flailing of hands, they were served two pieces of cake like mine and two coffees. I guess it wasn't what they'd asked for, but they smiled and laughed and so I smiled and laughed with them. There was a lot of smiling going on. And then there was a lot of screaming when we were nearly killed by a crazed cream-bee. He wanted our cakes, and badly. It was scary (my friend and I actually met a meat-bee over the weekend when we went to the town of Pecs; that was way scary, too—my friend actually abandoned a third of her sandwich as a peace offering to the bee). After the cream-bee saga they kept repeating a question that I didn't understand. Then they started saying, "Africa?" and pointing to me. Then they pointed to themselves and said something that I understood to be Krakow. And I said, "Oh. Poland?" They nodded happily. I said, "No Africa. San Francisco. California. United States. American." I got back Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. Cool. We're making progress. Then the question became, "Espanol?" Shit. I just kept saying no. They looked really confused and kept repeating, "Espanol?" I then tried in the plainest English possible to tackle they're need to place me racially and ethnically. "Father, Black. Mother, White." Frowns of confusion. "Um... Father, African and Native American." Nods. "Mother, White, Western Europe, and Russian." Semi-nods. Then one bolted up and broke her camera out. "You pretty smile." She took my picture with her friend. I decided I needed a visual record of these characters, so I took my camera out and took their picture, too. I paid my bill and tried to say good bye. They said "Espanol?" a few more times and then what sounded like "Dozvidenya" (good bye in Russian). I said, "Russian? Ruskie?" "Nem. Nem. Polish!" Okay. Too many languages that are 99.99% foreign to me going on here. I was beginning to develop a mild migraine and it was only 11:30 in the morning. I hadn't had enough to eat and was on a sugar high but still slightly delirious from hunger (normally I'd love a situation like this, but not under dietary duress). So I repeated the new word twice, gave them one last big Spanish smile (by which I think they probably meant Mexican), and walked away.

Welcome to My World
When I recounted my morning with the Poles to my friend later that day, she only sighed knowingly and said, "Welcome to my world." Her roots are equally esoteric; German and Ethiopian. Only to further confuse inquiring minds with her perfect American English, fluent German, and bits of Dutch, French, Spanish, Italian, and now Hungarian. After my encounter at Ruszwurm I understand why she sticks soundly to "I'm American" without giving up any further details. I need to maybe adopt that tactic. The only problem is it frustrates the questioning party and rarely stops the attempts to dig a little deeper. That's why when I can't handle another question (whether verbal or via silent stare) I always resort to being Hawaiian. It’s an easy lie. I look it, the people speak English, and I’ve been there many multiple times. Sometimes it's just easier to lie about these things and move on.

Don't We All
Having now heard Polish, I am certain this kid I saw on the tram was in fact speaking Russian with his friend. He was maybe 15 or 16 and had scrawled on his forearm in black ballpoint pen "I wish I had an angel."

Hen or Stag?
Walking to the tram home last night after dinner, I noticed a herd of men sporting identical t-shirts and being shepherded by one of the pack toward an Irish pub. They were speaking a British varietal of English and as soon as they passed I immediately started chuckling and muttering to myself. I'm so easily entertained. It's pathetic really, I know. My friend asked me what their shirts said and all I caught was something about stags. "Ooohhh. Oh god." What? Apparently Amsterdam (where she lived a few years back) used to be the British port of party for soon-to-be-ex bachelors (stags) and bachelorettes (hens). It got to be so bad that when you called to make reservations for such a shindig you'd have to lie when asked, "Hen or stag?" because if you said yes the restaurant or lounge or whatever would say, "Go fly your crazy UK party kite somewhere else. Another country, preferably." The rowdy reputation of drunken, partying Brits proceeds them. So Amsterdam is old news and Budapest is the new spot to get wasted for three days and nights straight, in honor of the groom or bride-to-be. As I said, drinks are cheap here and places to purchase them are plentiful, so I can see why Budapest is the budding party town of choice for people paid in Pounds. Bet they're drinking double what they were in Holland.

Dancing till Dawn
I went out with my friend and a friend of hers to four clubs in a single night. I do believe that's a record for this self-described hermit. My favorite was the club in the mall near my friend’s apartment. A club in a mall. It was actually amazingly upscale and packed. Well, the go-go dancers wearing thongs and bikini tops took it down a notch to semi-sleazy for me, but the men seemed to enjoy them well enough. And no. This was a club with a DJ and everyday people dancing. Not a strip joint. And the bars in the mall were still open, serving alcohol, and jumpin' at 3AM!! Budapest is definitely a party town.

Thermal R&R at Gellért
As you can imagine, if you know me, I was half dead the next day and deathly ill (killer cold, my second this vacation). So we took it easy and went to the thermal baths at Gellért for a few hours. I was hoping to do more thermal bathing before going home, but not to be. Too sick. Gellért was amazing though. Gorgeous architecture, two women-only baths, two saunas, one co-ed thermal bath and a mineral water swimming pool in pink marble. Niiiiiiiiice. I could have lounged around there all day. The only thing that took some getting used to was the nudity (in the single sex area, of course). I guess I'd never really seen an old (and I mean old-old, ready to kick the bucket tomorrow maybe) woman naked. All I could think was, oh my god. So that's what all us ladies are gonna look like over the next few decades, eh. The female body really doesn't age gracefully, does it? Guess men's bodies don't fare too well when tested by time either. I'm guessing. No need to see the proof though. No thank you!

The Trip Home
After a bad version of Thai from a lovely Pest restaurant called Old Amsterdam (What was I thinking? Wait. I know. I was thinking I'm sick of Hungarian food and the Italian alternatives and maybe this will actually be enjoyably edible. And spicy! Wrong. Soy sauce city. Barforific.), my friend and I made it home and to bed around midnight. At 4 o'clock in the morning the alarm went off and it was time to get going. So sleepy. So sick. So ready to be home already. When are they gonna get that whole teleporting thing off the ground?

The Malev (Hungarian Airlines) flight from Budapest to Amsterdam was an hour or so late but without incident and (thankfully) without conversation. My seatmates were an elderly Romanian couple who rubbed the Hungarian stewardesses the wrong way. I think mainly because they spoke neither Hungarian nor English and were asking for wine with their breakfast. Wine and then coffee. Oh, the EU is just one big, growing, happy family. Not! No one I've talked to is jazzed about Romania and Bulgaria joining in January. And Turkey. Turkey. Given the strong feelings Western Europeans have about each other, Central Europeans, and Eastern Europeans, I think there'll be riots if Turkey "gets in." There's a lot of joking, but all "Europeans" have strong and deep feelings of discord for one another. There's a lot of history here and a lot of hard feelings, to say the least.

Lucky for me, Schipol Airport is well designed. Making it easy (albeit something of a distance) to sprint from one gate to another. Because transfer passengers have to go through an additional security checkpoint, my flight was "boarding" an hour and 20 minutes before takeoff. This wouldn't have bothered me half as much if I were feeling healthy (the run nearly killed me) and if I hadn't spotted a Paul at the outset of my jog to gate E28. French pastries. Mmmm... Hungary has great cakes at their many coffee houses, but not great pastries. Not like in France. Croatia was a bit better, but not by much. Anyway, the delights of Paul were not to be mine this day. Just as I was making peace with this painful reality, I passed through security (and received the Schipol special pat down, again) and was asked (along with many others) to open my carry-on bags. I forgot about the no liquids going to the U.S. rule. So did everyone else. Many of us sick, there was a congregation of folks around the bag screeners downing liters of liquids. Not only did they try and take my water (I'm sick so I downed it) but they took my cheap and pretty lip gloss that I bought in Dubrovnik. C'mon. Give me a fucking break! I'd like to see what inventive new rules are instated when terrorists find a way to make clothing explosive. Or some other such thing that will only make travel that much more of a laughable hassle for the masses.

Four hours of sleep. Two hours of waiting at the airport in Budapest. Two hours to get to Amsterdam. An hour and a half there. Followed by a sleepless and snotty ten hour flight home. The woman to my right was none too pleased with my coughing, hacking up goodies into my plastic Hungarian Szupermarkt bag, and the endless blowing of my nose. The twentysomething surfer boy who looked to be from Hawaii, sitting to my left, could care less and was possibly even impressed. Five hours into the flight and after getting up countless times to let me out for a bathroom break, he struck up a conversation. Turns out he was Hawaiian and 20 from Kaneohe on Oahu. Looks just like my youngest brother (and in fact the stewardesses asked if we needed just one Customs form, since we were clearly family). He was a sweetheart. Told me all about his month long travels in Europe, his first time. Though he was robbed of everything in Barcelona (he and his friends decided to save a little money by sleeping on the beach), he said that he'd met so many amazing people and made such good new friends from all over that he didn't mind losing all of his possessions and having to call home, beg his parents for money, get a new passport, etc. That's definitely the attitude best taken while traveling. He couldn't wait to get home and "jump in the ocean." Europe had been wonderful, but his skin was itchy and flaky all over after a month out of the idyllic Hawaiian humidity. True that. My skin and hair are never so healthy as on a visit to Hawaii. He showed me sketches of his soon-to-be first tattoo (paid for by a biker uncle from Texas) that will cover the entire real estate of his right arm. I had to stop myself from attempting to talk him out of it and constantly mutter mentally, "This is not your brother Brandon. Tell this kid the tattoo will look great. You're not his big sister. This arm is of no relation to you."

We tried to sleep through Cars and Nacho Libre (ah, Jack), but watched Mission Impossible 3 and agreed that without the sound and with the Dutch subtitles (it was a KLM flight) the movie was actually entertaining. And then, bam. Bounce landing and we were home. Well, I was home. My Hawaiian friend still had a five hour flight to Honolulu.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

General travel notes gleaned from a broad

2006-11-01T13:09:00.000-08:00

Negotiating for Goods
Don't be afraid to try your hand at a little negotiating. I was a pathetic wheeler and dealer until I watched friends and others do it so often that I was deluded into thinking I could get discounts too, if I'd just grow the balls and give it a go. The first few attempts were failures, but I've got the hang of it now. I think ... My approach is absolutely basic. Rather than pay with a credit card, I always try to pay in cash. And even when I know it's going to go on a card, I still ask for a discount. The dance goes something like this: "How much for this purse if I pay in cash?" ... "How much each if I buy two? Three?" ... "I think I want three, actually. But I don't have the cash on me, so I'd like to put them on a card. If you can still offer them to me at that price, it's a deal." Cash or card, I can usually walk away with a 10% to 20% discount on a single item or more, for multiple items. Cash and the purchase of multiple items is the key to getting good deals in boutiques and small, non-chain stores all over Europe.

Negotiating for Accommodations
I'm one of those travelers who makes all of my hotel reservations before I leave home. I hate wasting the better part of a day looking for a room, when I'm already beat-down exhausted and lifeless after a long train or airplane ride. Upon arrival to any city, I just want to check in, shower, maybe take a nap, and then hit the pavement to find something to eat before getting a lay of the land and going photo-loco. I've learned that for hotels, I'm not good at cutting a deal in the flesh. It's just too difficult for me. I'm tired and desperate and it's written all over my face. No one is going to give me a break in that situation when it's obvious I'm seconds from crumbling like a cookie for a price that's probably higher than what they'd charge anyone else. So I take care of these details Stateside, usually via Internet. With more and more hotels, B&Bs, pensions, hostels, etc. offering online booking, negotiations are easier than ever. I will say that if you're staying for less than three nights in high season, for example, you're unlikely to get a discount of any kind. Three nights or less in low season, maybe. But to really get a good deal, regardless of the travel season, you should ideally be spending at least five to seven consecutive nights or more. Similar to negotiating a lower price on goods, ask what the rates or discounts are for longer stays and payment in cash. You can often get a good discount for longer stays even if you put it on a card. A higher number of nights is always going to be your strongest point of leverage. Add to that a bill settled in cash and you should score yourself the discount of the decade. I've got as much as 30% or more off per night by staying longer and paying in cash. A more typical discount would be 10% to 20% for a similar length of stay on plastic.

Meeting People
I think it's far easier to form friendships and make acquaintances on trips alone. I'm sure this has a lot to do with the perpetual need for help, directions, the time, an explanation, and bouts of boredom or loneliness. And from what I understand, it's still a lot harder for men to approach strangers than it is for women. Which makes sense. I can see how the solo male with a strange accent and a lonely look in the eye can be a little lost in translation and unfairly treated as strange or creepy. Especially by the ladies. But this is by no means a hard and fast rule. Men can make friends in foreign lands too, of course. Anyway, while I'm not particularly friendly with the guy needing directions or trying to strike up a conversation at home, I'm far more open (albeit cautious) abroad. I ask for directions, the time, give others directions or the time, comment on people's clothing, ask them what they're eating that looks and smells so good (or gross), etc. In short, I'm friendly. And while I'm not always looking for a new chum, I have made a few good ones afar just by being nice. Even when the conversation with a stranger doesn't blossom into bosom buddyhood, it's the little, seemingly insignificant and spontaneous encounters away from home that can make a trip most memorable and enjoyable. So talk to people. Be nice. And even if someone gives you a curt, cold as ice reply (or worse—a cold shoulder), let it roll off your back and chat up someone else. Some of the worst conversations and interactions overseas make for some of the best travel stories anyway. Am I right? And guys, if you feel that you just can't go it alone, bring along my favorite male travel companion—Bill Bryson—and you'll be just fine. He'll have you laughing and in good spirits even when you feel more like crying in your coffee at the nearest café.

The Lone Lady
While I now prefer to wander sans sidekick, I found it quite difficult, at first, to enjoy traveling alone. More than anything else I was afraid. Of what, I'm not quite sure. Bouts of loneliness and boredom. The mumbled comments and creepy sidelong glances of foreign men. Not having any friends in the places I'd be visiting. Not being able to speak or read the language and accidentally ordering sweetbreads (barf) or bull's balls (double barf) or something similarly disgusting that foodies might delight in and coo, "Oh, the flavor is so delicate. It's exotic and yet familiar. I dare say it tastes a bit like chicken." Et cetera. By employing all the obvious precautions on numerous trips by my lonesome, I've never had a bad trip and, on the contrary, have so loved the time by myself that I now look forward to solo travel almost more than that with friends. Roving alone opens up doors, opportunities, and experiences that simply aren't available to the lovers, the friends, or the family of five. The number of people on a trip and their relationship to each other is absolutely a factor in the sort of experience or encounters one can expect on vacation. When you're by yourself you're forced to seek out and interact more with strangers for help, for advice, for company. Your comfort zone expands and contracts as you learn to trust yourself and adjust to the unfamiliar. In addition to a unique kind of travel experience, solo voyages will also send you home with a deeper understanding of yourself. Not every trip is peppered with transcendent life altering epiphanies, but each leg of travel you take on alone is profoundly personal and will contribute to your growth and development in some small way. Travel is transformative, to be sure. Mostly though, traveling alone is great fun. Pure and simple. It might take a few tries to master, but if you give it a handful of chances, chances are it will become enjoyably addictive.

Curb your Emissions
But not your enthusiasm. In Europe in particular, it's easier to travel in a more eco-friendly way. Most European cities are connected to each other via rail and with high-speed lines between many of the most popular destinations, train travel is often as fast as and even easier than flying. Sometimes however, for financial or other reasons, it's impossible to avoid booking a flight. If you feel guilty like I do about the massive CO2 emissions racked up by air travel, there is something you can do to help offset your individual contribution to global warming: Visit TerraPass.com to calculate your flight emissions and then purchase one of TerraPass' products to offset or balance out your emissions. Your TerraPass purchase results in the reduction of carbon dioxide emissions elsewhere. By supporting industrial efficiency and renewable, clean energy projects around the world, TerraPass guarantees a reduction in CO2 emissions, which in turn offsets or balances out the global warming impact of your air travel on the environment. Pretty cool, eh? I just learned about TerraPass in September of 2006 after reading a report on a similar program from the British firm ClimateCare. If you've got to travel by air, offsetting your CO2 emissions seems like the best way to make a difference and help curb the disastrous effects of global warming. Both US-based TerraPass and UK-based ClimateCare also offer offset programs for other sources of CO2 emissions, like cars.

Just how much carbon dioxide emissions are we really talking here? Well, four round-trip cross-country flights create about as much CO2 per passenger as the average driver accrues in an entire year... over 10,000 lbs of CO2. Since 'eco-friendly flying' is clearly a contradiction in terms, I think supporting the environment via TerraPass is a wonderful way for everyone to make a significant contribution to the solution. Hence forward, anytime I plan to board a plane I also plan to buy a TerraPass!

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Venice notes from a broad

2005-11-05T11:13:00.000-08:00

For a month in the fall of 2004 and another in the fall of 2005, I passed a particularly glorious time in Venice; taking pictures and getting to know the city and its resoundingly wonderful residents. I am happy to report that after only two months (well, maybe approaching three in total, if you count my first two, too short trips in the fall of 2000 and that of 2003) Venice now feels for me like a genuine home away from home, complete with family, friends, pets, enemies, likes and dislikes, all. I hope to collect many such second homes over the course of my travels and my life, but even if I do, I am certain that none could or will compare to the unique culmination of beauty, warmth, and generosity that I have found in Venice. Once you come to know the place (and therefore the people) intimately, Venice takes on an air of charming delight so thick and wholly enveloping that you can't possibly satiate your senses, self, or soul on a single, standalone visit. And that's when you know you'll be back again—and again—as often as your pocketbook (and employer) will permit, for the rest of your days. Yadda, yadda, yadda, Venice is a place that I deeply dig. If you've never been before and are on your way for the first time, I hope you're delighted with what you discover.

Get Lost
In Venice, the best advice and probably the oldest advice anyone can give you is to get lost. Don't take offense. Take it literally! One of the safest cities in Europe, you should feel free to wander the streets day or night without a shred of fear. As a woman who often travels solo, Venice is a heavenly experience for this reason alone. Be wild. Leave the map in the hotel room. "If you don't know where you want to go any road will take you there," is a traditional African proverb that will work wonders for you in The Serene Republic of Venice. With that hot tip out of the way, I can get to sharing with you a few of my less profound thoughts and experiences with La Serenissima. Enjoy.

Great Expectations
The first time I visited Venice was also my first trip to Europe, in the fall of 2000. It was a whirlwind trip; Paris to Verona to Venice to Florence to Marseilles and back to Paris with a friend who'd lived and traveled extensively throughout Western Europe and who had ceased to sigh or be impressed. Having spent 25 years dreaming through travel magazines and coffee table books about what certain cities around the world must be like in person, I had high expectations for this place called Venice. It looked hopelessly romantic and a true timeless beauty, despite the crumbling facades and water-logged ground floors. I wanted it to be as pretty as the pictures and to make my spine tingle with glee at the first sight of it. And to her credit, she did not disappoint. Referred to often as a woman, I'll go with the historical flow and do the same. Though I am not a lesbian, this is most certainly a lady that any girl could fall in love with. And so I did. Stepping through the doors and down the steps to the square outside the train station, I think I actually had to choke back tears of delight and boundless joy. It was love at first sight and after four trips, two of which were for a month at a time, I don't have a bad thing to say about this long distance relationship. Venice is a city to adore, and so she has been by countless numbers over her long history. From her youth into the graceful charm of old age, people come to see, people come to stay, people come and fall in love. And if they're lucky as I have been, they come back. Again and again until they don't know if this is the sixth time or the sixteenth. Because there is always more. More shortcuts and dead end streets to discover. A museum you didn't have time for last year. Another gelato from Da Nico. Another print from Bac Art and some quality time with the owners' adorable Jack Russells, Stella and Ottone. And maybe just a few more sheets of handmarbled paper from Alberto Valese or Paolo Olbi.

Ditto
Mary McCarthy said essentially the same thing in the 1960s: "Nothing can be said here, including this statement, that has not been said before." Ditto that, indeed. With all that's been written and all the photos that have been taken, you'd think there was nothing special to see or feel here that you couldn't cull from an existing book or picture. And still people take pictures and pen prose about the old girl. A fact which screams how special this city is in all its redundant, touristic, and historic glory. Don't skip it and don't breeze in on a day trip. Give it the time and the attention that a city of its stature and allure deserves. Spend at least a couple nights or more, at a minimum. Although Venice is a quintessentially expensive town, remember that this is Europe and it's often possible to strike a deal with smaller hotels, pensions, and B&Bs. If you're staying for a total of seven nights or more in any season, you can more than likely score a discount of 10% to 20% or even more. This might not pan out in high season, but it never hurts to ask. And offer to pay in cash. That can also net you a discounted rate. Too bad wheeling and dealing like this isn't more common Stateside. Oh vell. Back to Venice before I veer off into a diatribe about the cost of accommodations in Hawaii these days.

Is That a Fact?
Did you know that in 18th century Venice, masks were an integral part of the daily attire? Like wigs, fans, and beauty spots, Venetians sported masks on a daily basis. Such was the custom from October to Lent, except for the nine days before Christmas. Everyone wore a mask: from the doge to the market maiden selling vegetables. It might also interest you to know that Venice is composed of 118 islands, 200 canals, and 400 bridges. It was an independent republic for the thousand years between 697 (the year of the first Doge) and 1797 (when Napoleon strolled in and abolished the republic, then sold it to the Austrians); a record for independent rule that may well remain unbroken. Of the 66,000 residents in Venice proper today, 28,000 are over 60 years old and 3,768 are children (these figures were current as of 2003). Or how about this. In 16th century Venice, at the dawn of tourism, the city had 11,654 registered tax-paying prostitutes. Pretty pazzo, eh? 'Pazzo' is Italian for crazy, by the way.

ESL Entertainment
CNN World News Italian weather correspondent on Hurricane Rita: "The sea is upset, it is getting much worse as the hours come by."

Boldest Beggars on Earth
A bold and fearless pigeon nearly pecked my eyes out in a crafty peck-to-kill operation to eliminate me and then enjoy my two thin crust slices of spinach and ricotta pizza for himself. Shaken at first, I wasn't having it and he sauntered off in defeat; only to attack someone else further down the way for a sandwich.

Unwanted Affection
I was meandering back to my hotel after walking a friend to the train station and I was exhausted. I got lost and caught up in a crowd of people made to wait while a group of drunk and singing young Italians took a photo or five. When they finally allowed the crowd to pass through, one of the drunkest (and least attractive) grabbed me from behind and swung me around to kiss me sloppily on the cheek. *Snap* Someone took a picture. I let it go and asked him the time. I had to be back at a certain time to meet another friend for dinner. "For you, my Polynesian principessa, the time is 6:35 in the evening." Great. Thanks. He then grabbed me for another kiss, but seeing that he was aiming closer to the bocca I pushed him away and remarked, "Ma dai. Cazzo. Che sboro!" From the look of horror in his eyes, I could tell that this was not the response he'd expected. His friends and I had a good laugh and I went on my way. (I can barely speak a lick of decipherable Italian, but boy can I curse like a proper Venetian sailor; which is, to say, like the typical gondolier.)

Cursing up a Storm
One of the fun things about really getting to know a place that you're visiting overseas is making friends and learning the language. I took junior high and high school French, three years of high school German, and a year of college level Spanish. I've managed to retain enough French and Spanish to get by comfortably, but my memory of German was vaporized at some point between high school graduation and my 30th birthday. Although I have no prior experience with Italian, I've developed a basic understanding and can generally feign my way successfully through most conversations and Italian television programming. The one bit of Italian that I have come close to mastering, and would indeed consider myself to be something of an expert on, is cursing. In learning the language and local dialect from my Venetian friends, I inevitably honed in on and asked questions about words or phrases I heard them using but could not translate or understand. I happen to have quite an ear for the profane, it would seem. Here's a brief look at some of the dirtier bits of Italian that I picked up (and at times put to good use):

Cazzo: Cock.

Cacchio: A "softer" version of cazzo; perhaps more like dick or prick.

Fica: Vulgar euphamism for the female cazzo counterpart.

Figlio di puttana: Son of a bitch.

Merda: Shit.

Testa di merda: Shithead.

Minchia: The Sicilian version of cazzo.

Che Sboro: Something so graphically and specifically crass with regard to the male anatomy and its reproductive functionality, that I'm too shy and prudish to even translate it for you here, online. But I'm sure you can find another site that does. In fact, About.com has a great Italian adult slang dictionary. The entry you're looking for is sbrodare. Enjoy.

Vaffanculo: Fuck off! Fuck you!

Vacca: A vulgar way to call a cow or a woman.

Stronzo(a): The rough equivalent asshole or bitch.

Quella vacca di tua madre (Italian) / Quea vaca de to mare (Venetian dialect):
Need I translate this, really?

Rompipalle: One who breaks the balls. A ball breaker.

Andate tutti a 'fanculo!: You can all go fuck yourselves!

Nessuno me lo ficca in culo!: Nobody fucks me up the ass!

Tua madre si da per niente!: Your mother gives it away!

The Marine Gigolo Has Lost His Marbles
I overheard a group of Canadian tourists talking while we all waited for the vaporetto back to Venice, on Murano. This one guy said, "I've traveled around the world three times as a marine gigolo... I teach bridge or dancing for a few hours a day and the cruise is free, for me. I've been doing this since I retired 20 years ago. It's a great exchange. I'm going on a three-week cruise of the Greek Islands next week... Bridge? Oh, anyone can play bridge so long as you've got at lease a few marbles left."

All in the Familia
On the vaporetto home to Lido, these three 16-year-olds got on and sat in front of me. The boat was packed to overflowing. It was the end-of-day commute hour. The three adolescents in question comprised a guy and two girls; twins. The guy was on the left end, then the twins to his right. He starts making out with the one sitting next to him, his hand affectionately stroking the hair of the twin on the far end. Everyone was staring, confused. The twin on the far end was massaging his back. At first I thought, "Girl in the middle, you haven't got a clue what's going on. You poor, pimple-prone thing! Your scampy sister and your man are going at it, behind your back. Literally!" Then I thought, "Well, Europeans are more affectionate in general, so maybe this is normal." But then, a few minutes later the boy leans over to kiss the twin at the far end as the twin in the middle necks her sister. Everyone on the vaporetto was mortified, and riveted; men, women, and a large under-age audience of varying ages—the whole lot of us. You just don't see something like that every day.

Will this really inspire people to go out and breed?
CNN correspondent and expert discussing France's recent tax-break to couples having a second or third or fourth (or fourteenth) child: "But Charles, is this recent move by the French government really going to have an impact on the dwindling population in France? Will this really inspire people to go out and breed?" They went on to discuss similar attempts to inspire "breeding" throughout Europe, as the population replenishment across the continent continues to plummet. "Charles, in your expert opinion, can Europe or will Europe ever recover?" Without hesitation, Charles: "No."

Kinda Cannibalism
I watched a seagull eat a dead pigeon one afternoon. Technically that's kinda cannibalism, yes? Like a gorilla eating monkey brains. It made me kinda queasy.

Sobbing Stilettos
All of the women on all of the soap operas here wear spikey toed, three inch+ heeled stilettos. And all of them are crying in every other scene. I don't know how it happened, but I got hooked. I just had to know what was upsetting all these women. You know? Lucky for me the lady on the plane ride home had become similarly addicted over her vacation and we were able to compare notes and fill the other in on missed episodes. Too bad we'll never know how all the drama ended. We have our hunches though.

Cycling Stilettos
I went to Padova for the afternoon one weekend. Sitting and eating a gelato I counted no fewer than 36 women on bikes cycle by me, in stilettos. No helmets.

Just Passing Through
I've always been fascinated with the phenomenon of "passing." Historically, light-skinned Blacks were occasionally able to "pass" for White and reap the social and economic benefits therein, in pre and post Civil War America. It's an odd state of being, sometimes, when you realize that you don't to fit neatly into the racial or ethnic boxes that so many people hold up as the standard or only options. While I have been known to encourage an erroneous ethnic assumption or two (most often in Hawai'i to enjoy various kama'aina discounts and privileges), I more often find myself inadvertently "passing" for a whole host of racial and ethnic groups, or some combination thereof. I don't find this out, often times, until I get asked "the question" (as I like to call it).

According to Merriam-Webster, race may be defined as, "a family, tribe, people, or nation belonging to the same stock; a class or kind of people unified by community interests, habits or characteristics ; a division of mankind possessing traits that are transmissible by descent and sufficient to characterize it as a distinct human type." Ethnic, as in an ethnic group or minority, may be defined as, "of or relating to large groups of people classed according to common racial, national, tribal, religious, linguistic, or cultural origin or background." I give you these definitions here because I find that they are generally silly and of no use when discussing, in particular, someone (like myself) of mixed race or ethnicity. Both at home and abroad, the most common question asked of me by a stranger after, "Pardon me, but do you know what time it is?" is undoubtedly, "What are you?" Well, of course, I'm human. But that's not the reply they're hunting for. "No, I mean what race are you?" Depending on my mood and whether or not I think the inquisitive individual in question is worth the time of day, I might answer in any number of ways. Lately I've just been offering up, "Black." To which a flurry of follow-up questions usually flow, something like this: "Black? But your hair is straight? I thought you were Mexican, or Native American—you know, Red Indian. Or maybe Polynesian or maybe even East Indian. No? How about West Indian? Really? Not even close, you say? But where are your parents from? Where were you born? What ethnicity are you?" It goes on and on as the person proceeds to rattle off all of their various theories and uneducated guesses as to my racial and ethnic origins. The vast majority of the time these intensely curious folks have no idea what the difference between race and ethnicity really is. Not that this knowledge would help them to pull my background any more successfully out of their proverbial ass. After 20+ years of this line of questioning, I'm not annoyed by the need for strangers to know the details of my DNA so much as I'm just tired of it. Who the fuck cares where I'm from or "what" my parents are? What difference does it make to you? When you're traveling you always meet strangers and it's perfectly normal and even polite to ask where someone is from. But to ask "what" they are—which is exactly the way the question is phrased 9 politically and grammatically incorrect times out of 10—is just not kosher. At least rephrase your question so that my being descended from humans is a given. That's all I ask. And, to answer your question, I'm a fun fusion of race and ethnicity. A mélange. A medley. I'm multiracial. My mom's White and my dad's Black. But if you simply must know more, I'm the end result of the following groups of people marrying, sexing it up, and producing children: African-Americans (I prefer the term Black), European-Americans and Europeans (let's just do the blanket thing and refer to these groups as White), Native Americans (Choctaw Nation and who knows what else), Ukrainian Jews from the Kiev region (racially White, ethnically Russian Jews). That's as detailed on the DNA as I'm willing to delve, for the general public. So no more questions, please. It was nice to meet you, too.

California, a Nice Town
One of the Senegalese faux bag peddlers asked me where I was from. "Ah, California. A nice town."

Niggers are Dangerous
I don't know that I would call it a benefit, but another odd feature of both intentional and innocently mistaken racial or ethnic identity is the off-color comments and opinions that one overhears or, in exceptionally weird situations, is the direct recipient thereof. You find that you are like a secret agent of sorts; when people don't know "what" you are—whether or not you know that they don't know—they can feel very comfortable (sometimes too comfortable) and free to engage you in an open and frank discussion wherein they express any number of sentiments or theories relating to one of the peoples who makes up your person in such a manner that you might find highly offensive (and often do). I will give you two examples. In college, I had a lovely group of East Indian American friends who, I found out a year or so into the friendships, assumed that I too was of East Indian origins. I only discovered this because out one night having a good time, the mood turned hostile when a series of not-so-nice jokes about Black people were casually shared and received with howling laughter and follow-up comments in equally poor taste. In a silent furor, I tried to decide whether to say something and what. Before I could decide on a plan of action and assemble a collection of carefully chosen words, the group noticed my changed demeanor and inquired as to what might be the matter. And so it went. (They were all quite shocked to learn of my actual, largely West African American slave origins and the small Red as opposed to Yellow Indian elements. Yadda, yadda, yadda, all was eventually forgiven, but not forgotten, and we managed to remain good friends.)

On this trip, however, I had my first encounter with the n-word. I truly didn't see it coming. I was having a pleasant enough conversation with an Italian girl about cities in Italy that I have yet to visit. I simply said that every Italian I'd met had warned me never to venture to Naples without a friend or a small posse because it is so exceptionally dangerous in Naples, in their Northern Italian opinion. The girl with whom I was pleasantly conversing then said, "Naples is dangerous? Milan is dangerous." Milan? Why Milan? How is it dangerous? "You see all of these people selling the fake bags in Venice? The niggers from Africa? Well Milan is full of niggers. And niggers are dangerous. Very dangerous." Reeeeally. You don't say (well, you wouldn't have said that to me if you'd known I was part nigger, myself—nearly 50% by blood and 100%-so according to the American "one drop rule.") Frankly, the girl was lucky I'm not fully Red Indian (or what's more offensive, In'jun?); I was very tempted to locate the nearest sharp object and pull a Pochahontas (i.e., scalp her). Or, it was later pointed out to me, I could have simply beat her ass and walked away without so much as a word. Leaving her on the floor in the fetal position bewildered and confused at how such a sweet brown-skinned, but non-nigger-looking girl had suddenly become so violently dangerous. Instead I just let it go. It was my last day in Venice and I didn't want it further marred by taking this ignorant chick to school. For all I know she wasn't even aware that the word is offensive. To say nothing of her statement that Black people are dangerous. Anyhow. You see how things can get a little dicey in passing, so to speak.

Cruising
Dwarfing the buildings by several stories, watching cruise ships roll in and out of Venice is certainly something to behold. Never gets old. Always surreal. And always fun to stand on the Riva degli Schiavoni with a crowd of other onlookers, waving a warm welcome or bidding a fond farewell.

Under Construction
One good reason to revisit Venice as often as possible is that something you want to see is always, inevitably going to be closed or scaffolded for renovation. A few of the pictures I was hoping to take are therefore impossible, on this trip. For the last three years (and thus the last three trips), for example, the bell tower in Piazza San Marco has been blocked by scaffolding. Midway through this trip, scaffolding went up to envelop one of my favorite churches, that of San Zaccharia.

La Biennale di Venezia
The Venice Biennale is an international art exhibition-competition-festival, citywide-megaplex-museum sort of thing. Although I've been in Venice during several Biennale's, I'd never been to the main exhibits at the Italian Pavilion in the Giardini or the other large exhibition space at the Arsenale. In addition to these two main event spaces, there are artists from all over the world on exhibit all over the city. It's insane and overwhelming and a few of the smaller satellite exhibits are typically all I've been able to handle (I'm not a big big-museum person, I prefer smaller museums; been to the Louvre twice in total for maybe two hours in all). The satellite exhibits are usually free. The two main events are not free. This year, due to a foul week of rain, I splurged and spent 15 whole Euros to see some of the most disturbing, hilarious, and nightmare-inducing art around. Most of it is unworthy of mention. But there were a few highlights: a hilarious faux trailer for a faux remake of Gore Vidal's Caligula, a video titled "Skin" in which a woman shaves herself head to toe (eyebrows, hair, pits, beaver, legs; everything) and then proceeds to walk around town (strangely there was a large congregation of men "appreciating" this particular piece d'art), a 20-plus foot chandelier fashioned entirely of (unused) tampons, an elevated walk-through tunnel covered entirely (both walls and the ceiling) in (used) teabags, a walk-through wind tunnel that all of the perfectly coiffed women (except me) avoided, the Guerilla Girls.

Shitty Art
A Venetian friend asked me how the Biennale was and I told him it was a collection of weird, quasi-artistic curiosities, at best. He shook his head and rolled his eyes in complete understanding and told me that he went once, many years ago, and has never ventured back since. One year, he said, scandal ensued when an artist used actual excrement as the material for a sculpture. What did this brilliant, cutting-edge sculptor fashion with all of the merde he'd collected, you ask? A huge pile of shit, of course. That's definitely worth 15 Euros to see (and likely to smell, as well; although my friend assured me that by the time of the exhibition, it was a dry and odorless pile of shit). Don't you think?

XXX Art
The same friend then told me that another year there was a similar stink because some equally quacky artist used live, nude men and women in his piece de perfection. In some cases the men and women were just posing as fleshy sculptures, but in other cases... and keep in mind that the Biennale is a non-rated art event, allowing children of all ages, with or without adult supervision (during my two-day visit there were in fact international packs of teens running wild through the whole thing yelling and screaming with laughter, in many cases)... In other cases the men and women were doing the freak nasty for everyone to "appreciate" and ponder, under the guise of "art." Since when are live sex shows art and not plain old porn? Anyway, I had a good laugh with my friend and noted that the teens likely had a good time at the Biennale that year.

Public Art and Expression
While Venice is undoubtedly a beautiful city, it is nonetheless a city. As a major tourist center and a living, breathing town full of life, one should expect all the charms and disappointments of an urban landscape. Venice may feel rural and removed at times, but do not be misled. Venice is a major city. Like Paris, New York, London, et al ad nauseum, Venice is home to that international adolescent who finds it perfectly acceptable to go against the grain (and the law) in the name of public self-expression. Meaning graffiti. Sometimes achieving the profound or the surreal, most often these displays are loud and awful, unartistic and ugly. After so many visits to Venice I have accepted it as a part of the city and even, at times, found it to be the subject of my photographs. Graffiti in one form or another has existed since the time of the Romans, the Egyptians, and probably even earlier. No longer chiseled or carved into stone walls, it's now painted on in bright, vivid colors. Love it or hate it, graffiti is going to be a part of your experience in Venice.

Si, Sono Americana
One thing that traveling has taught me is that I am undoubtedly (for better or worse) American. Although I enjoy these three to four-week photo-extravaganza stints elsewhere, I no longer have regrets about not doing a study abroad trip in college or the desire to pack up and move to Italy. A month at a time without access to kitchen facilities of my own, here and there, elsewhere, is often plenty for me. There have passed overseas moments, for example, when I would have happily paid as much as 50 Euros for a single taco or a burrito or some good Thai, Chinese, or Indian food (if said fare were to suddenly materialize). I'd even do cartwheels for Japanese food at certain points (not my favorite world cuisine, but when it's good it is good). If I could afford it I'd fly to Paris just to have a falaffel on the Rue des Rosiers at L'As du Falaffel. At least in France you have a bit more variety in the way of food available. Italy is just so... blandly Italian (when you're hungry and wanting something spicy and non-Italian, in particular). We're spoiled by the variety of good food available, every day; especially in California. My Venetian friends are (understandably) afraid of Indian and Chinese food; only having tried both once or twice here in Italy. I urged them to come visit me Stateside one day and promised them that the Far East eats would be better (edible) in California. They remain skeptical.

Caffé Culture
Two hundred years ago Piazza San Marco had 27 coffee houses. Florian's and Quadri's are the only two surviving 18th century coffee houses on the square.

Caffé Quadri
I'd never sat at Quadri's or Florian's (too expensive for a still-establishing-herself-and-intermittently-starving artist), but a friend trained in from Verona to spend the day with me and we splurged. The tab came to 26,50 euros for a moro (coffee, hot chocolate, and cream, for me), a cappuccino (for her), and the "fee" for the privilege of sitting at a Quadri table (as opposed to loitering in the square for free, like everyone else) while listening to the live, outdoor orchestra. I have to say that in the end it was a decidedly delightful experience that we managed to stretch out over a number of warm, sunny hours. If you're going to spend that much on liquids and music, you may as well take your sweet time and truly enjoy it with a friend or a good book.

Snippets and Bits
I overheard these things either walking around, on the vaporetto, at a caffé, or outside my window at the Ca' del Dose. For whatever reason they amused me and/or are typical of what you overhear all the time, in Venice.

"Two more bridges and I'm done." (American)

"We'll make it if we go slowly." (American with a Texas-sounding accent)

"They've got mirrors to hold so you don't have to crane your neck in order to view the Tiepolo's and Tintoretto's and such on the ceiling. Isn't that lovely, dear?" (British accent)

"I think we got ripped off by about 15 euros, each. Maybe 25. I hate this city. I'm so fucking ready to go home. No. I take that back. I hate Europe." (American)

"I had no idea Venice was so big." (Australian)

"What a beautiful city," says a woman.
"Yes, the most beautiful," replies the man. (Italians speaking in Italian)

"I haven't a clue how to get back." (American)

"Dude, maybe we should go back the way we came." (American surfer-sounding teens)

"Frank, pull out the map for god's sake. We're lost." (Americans)

"Sharon, it could be midnight before we find the hotel and it's pouring rain. We're screwed. Completely screwed." (Americans at approximately 11PM, outside my Ca' del Dose window)

Better Late Than Never
I was sitting and reading in the late afternoon sunshine on the campo at the end of the Calle del Dose and two women sitting on the next bench asked me the time. One introduced herself to me as Sophia from Ontario, Canada and we got to talking. She told me that she and her best friend were on the "European Tour" which, I learned, means a whirlwind trip across Europe in the span of about three weeks (London-Paris-Barcelona-Nice-Venice-Rome-Vienna-etc.) "I should have taken this trip when I was 40, not 70. But better late than never, right?" Instant fans of my financially unstable, photographer-artist, globe-trotting lifestyle, they demanded my email address and pledged the desire to buy a copy of the handmade limited edition book on Venice that I'd begin working on when I returned home. "I'm sure this is the one and only trip in my life that I will take to Venice, to all of these cities most probably. I'm old and I'm tired and I really should have traveled more when I was younger. I don't know why I didn't. But what you're doing is wonderful and I would love to share a few of your memories and make them my own. I'm so glad to meet you." Very nice women and confirmation that it's okay to both follow your dreams and live today, rather than postponing some of the best bits of life until you're too creaky and exhausted to enjoy them as you would have liked.

Friday the 17th
I learned from an Italian frend that 17 is the unlucky number in Italy, not 13. "I don't know why, but it's 17 here. Only in Italy. Thirteen everywhere else. Even in Spain. Here we do not have number 17 apartments or floors in buildings and such, for the most part. That is why. It is very unlucky. But I was born on the 17th of May, so I know it is a silly superstition!"

"I was stoned in Berkeley, once."
I was standing in line for the campanile in Piazza San Marco and the straight-laced, late 40-something couple in front of me asked if I knew what time the campanile opened. They were from Seattle. I said I was from Berkeley. The man immediately informed me, "I was stoned in Berkeley, once. I was in the navy, stationed at Alameda. My friends and I had gone to a movie in Berkeley, I think it was a documentary on Woodstock. This was in 1970 or so. Anyway, we were all stoned and there was an earthquake during the movie. This big chandelier overhead was shaking and everything. But I was so stoned I thought it was the guy in the seat behind me, kicking my chair. It was really trippy." His wife had this look of horror on her face, and just said, "I didn't know him then. And I was a good girl." Sure, sure.

Censorship in Italy? Fuck that!
There is in fact little to no censorship on Italian TV or radio, I've learned. I watched the Italian movie Natale sul Nilo one night on regular (non-cable) TV and was both proud (my Italian needs more than a lot of work, so the following is for me a feat) and shocked to pick out "cazzo," "cacchio," and "va fan culo" from the more titillating bits of dialogue. This, however, did not compare to the shock and lack of pride I felt on numerous trips to the supermarket and to a small card shop in picturesque Bassano del Grappa where the radio belted out the latest British and American hits, in uncensored English. In Bassano I was the lone tourist and therefore the only one in the shop to take in and appreciate the tasteless misogyny, set to a catchy, toe-tapping beat: "Fuck you you hoe, you treated me wack. Fuck you you bitch, I don't want you back…" In the grocery stores though, on more than one occasion, I overheard Americans or Brits or Aussies express a similar state of appall that such music would be played a) on the radio, uncensored, and b) in a supermarket, of all places. But then, we're in Italy and the average Italian is far from possessing a fluent command of the English language. So really, they could care less. (I have a sneaking suspicion that the kids know what this stuff means and think it's "cool." Like their similarly lost and vapid American or generally English-speaking counterparts. Egads.)

Headbands... For Men
One particular style (passing fad, I hope) here that I couldn't help but notice (and dislike) is headbands on men. Not fabric headbands like the soccer players or other athletes sometimes wear. I mean the hard plastic colored headbands of varying girths that I wore when I was in elementary school. It's a not uncommon accessory here for the men with that stereotypically Italian long, but not too long, but not short haircut. Renaissance-retro, I call it. You know what I mean. Think David. But with a headband.

O' Madonna!
I told you early on that Venice has just over 60,000 residents. Guess how many tourists Venice sees each year? No fewer than 14 million. Mamma mia that's a lotta people!

Pee for Free
If you find yourself in Venice and needing to use the WC but don't want to use one of the 70-cent or 1+ euro paying sort found about town or at the train station, relax. Dart into Quadri's if you're in the San Marco area (far nicer than Florian's loo, across the piazza) or into the cafe bathroom at the train station. Generally speaking, cafes with a bustling business won't ask you any questions because they won't know for sure if you're a paying customer or not. So look as innocent as possible and just... go.

Even the Blind See the Beauty
I was walking, strolling quite slowly, really, down a street and admiring the doors and the bricks and the random beauty. There was a smallish crowd of three people huddled in front of a majestic old door with visibly worn brass fixtures. A silver haired woman was fondling the door knocker that I could plainly see was the head of an old, brass lion. A split-second later I noticed her walking stick and the way her friend was holding and guiding her arm up to the lion. "It's so delicate, the face and the mane. He's beautiful. Exquisite," she said. She was blind, but only in the obvious way. Like me, she was a tourist in Venice. Come to see, come to experience, come to appreciate the beauty. It was one of those unexpected and poignant lapses in time that instantly effects you and you won't soon forget ( i.e., I started crying and had to continue on, on my walk).

Lunch on a Bench
I went to the store and bought a bit of a particular Italian salami I consider to be a little slice of heaven (15 slices, to be exact), along with fresh bread and cheese. I picked a bench and a campo and parked it there to eat my cardiac-arresting lunch. A boy and girl of about 9 and 10 sat down next to me and, prattling in German, proceeded to feed several slices of bread to an increasingly large flock of winged rats. Several minutes later after I'd completed my picnic and started scribbling notes in my journal, some asshole (a teenager) came bolting into the square with the aim of scaring away the pigeons. He succeeded in his mission and the three of us, the two kids and myself, screamed in unison as the birds flew directly at us in a rabid flurry of fear. Luckily no one was bird-bombed in the process and (so far as I'm aware) we also (narrowly) escaped infection from a bout of the latest strain of avian flu.

Buried Alive
I witnessed three (quite stupid) boys of about 12 or 13 lie down in the middle of St. Mark's Square while a fourth young man (stupid, but clearly slightly smarter as he wasn't among those lying in pigeon shit) proceeded to pour bag after bag of corn over his friends. Covered in corn, the three idiots were quickly covered in pigeons. Buried in pigeons, in fact. Being pecked to death, it appeared, by each and every bird who could get a beak within striking range. You couldn't see the boys, for the pigeons. And myself an idiot, I didn't have my camera.

Blame the Chinese
I think the Chinese are blamed both jokingly and in earnest for more than a few things, in Venice. I've encountered many shopkeepers who say that more and more of the glass items are not made on Murano or in Venice, but are imported fakes from China. Glass shops are bought or opened by Chinese merchants and they do not support the local glass workers; they import the cheap crap from China. And then there's the curiosity about what's happened to Venice's cats. Molin, the cat who frequents the campo behind the Ca' del Dose and who all the locals of the 'hood know and love was missing for three days. One such local was asking everyone if they'd seen him, recently. "Marisa, have you seen Molin? I hope the Chinese didn't get him." She laughed when she said this (in Italian), but I got the feeling she was only half kidding. On another occasion I was talking to another Venetian friend about some of the wonderful cats I'd met and photographed on this visit and he told me that 10 or 12 years ago Venice had a significantly larger population of miniature lions. "I don't know what happened. All I know is that the Chinese started moving into Venice in large numbers around that time, and the number of cats then plummeted." He smirked and said he was only kidding, although these are the facts and no one knows why the feral cat population (always fed and loved by the Venetians) has dwindled in recent years; coinciding with a spike in the Chinese immigrant population.

Amore Mio!
In a small quiet canal near the Via Garibaldi on a Sunday morning, a father and son were walking to grandpa's house. The little boy couldn't have been more than 3 or 4. "Nonno! (grandfather)" he started yelling, when he saw his grandfather standing in his boat. "Amore mio!" the grandfather bellowed, at a very high volume; he sang it moreso than he said it. The grandfather kept singing, "Amore mio! Amore mio!" in a bellowing base.

Ciao Papa
One morning while I was out wandering in search of my next photo-opp, I heard a chirping "Ciao, papa! Ciao, papa!" from a balcony above. I craned my head upward to see a boy and a girl (twins about four or five years old, I think) leaning through the marble balcony and calling down to their father who was preparing himself to float off to work in his little blue boat, below.

Campari Red Passion
Thanks to Michelle Marcos and David James, to kind and attentive random readers of my travel drivel who took the time to find and email me a link, you can now view for yourself my favorite Italian commercial from this particular trip to Venice. It's an ad for Campari Red Passion. Check it out. But be warned: it's a bit racy.

Walking on Water
The rain was so heavy for so long one morning that nearly every corner of the city seemed to hover at the brink of biblical flooding. Along the Grand Canal I got off the vaporetto at San Zaccharia and walked down the wooden plank pier thing to "land"; slightly scary and remarkably akin to walking on water. The water was exactly level with the pier. Just beginning to slosh over and submerge it into the murky green canal. Then there's the acqua alta catwalk action one has often to maneuver in such situations. Walking on those planks they set out when flooding occurs is no walk in the park. With only one long series of planks for all traffic both coming and going (and when you factor in all the people with suitcases and generally oversized luggage it really gets hairy) to say that it's an accident waiting to happen is, if you ask me, the understatement of the Venetian year.

Cashing in on Superstition
Before I left for Venice, an Italian-American friend suggested I refrain from killing any spiders on my trip because Italians are very superstitions, she said, and believe that arachnids equal earning power. This would be a tall order because my own personal superstition about spiders is that they equal bites. While I did unfairly assassinate one such creature in my hotel room over the course of my month afar, I also spared one when I got home and spirited him out of doors, to safety (for the both of us). My change of heart was inspired by a Venetian friend who, on my last night in Venice and my last dinner at her house, saw a not-so-small spider tiptoeing across the TV screen and instantly scooped him up in her bare hands and dropped him out the nearest open window with a cheerful, "Oh, a spider! They bring money." So to test this theory, I'll now be doing the same. I'll let you know how it works out. Lord knows I could always use help where the replenishing flow of currency is concerned.

A Venetian's Life
Life in Venice is expensive and intrusive. Around every corner there likely lurks a tourist or two (me being one of them), at the very least. Many armed with the latest high-tech camera or video recorder, ready and aiming to capture anything and everything that passes before their electronic eyes (my photography isn't quite so brazenly invasive, or so I hope). Your laundry, your life; you (and anything you may have once displayed in the public's field of vision) are destined for someone else's photo album and holiday DVD. The privacy we take for granted elsewhere is nowhere to be found in a city such as Venice. It is no wonder that the Venetians are a seemingly cold bunch, apt to hide and quick to dart down the nearest alley and out of view.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Elegant Decline by Marisa Allegra Williams | Make Your Own Book

Paris notes from a broad

2005-05-15T10:52:00.000-07:00

In the spring of 2005 I ventured to Paris for three weeks with a dual purpose: Take pretty pictures and turn 30. I traveled with a good friend (American) in addition to meeting up with another good friend (French). About half the time was spent with friends, the other half alone. It was a lovely trip and a picture perfect place to pass the final hours of my 20s as I (forcibly though pleasantly, in the end) entered my 30s. This is a small and carelessly edited selection about the more (as well as less) titillating bits of my trip that I emailed home to family, friends, and foes. Bon appétit.

In an old house in Paris - That was covered with vines - Lived twelve little girls - In two straight lines. They left the house at half-past nine - In two straight lines, rain or shine. The smallest one was Madeline | Ludwig Belemans, 1956

Paris Dreams
Without consciously knowing it, I've been dreaming of Paris since I was a little girl. Perhaps your mother read you bedtime stories about Madeline, too. It's a funny thing to discover a whole city lodged in one's subconscious and not even know it'd been thriving there since before you can remember. Venice is different because I sought it out quite consciously and lavished it with daydreams. The pictures I found in my mother's coffee table books and magazines weren't accompanied by sweet little stories for sleepy little girls. Paris on the other hand had been ingrained. And deeply so. Not only did my mother lull me to bed with fictional Paris, but from time to time she'd talk about her experiences and memories of visiting the city and traveling through Europe. In the end it wasn't quite the way I'd imagined it for Madeline or my mother, I suppose. But then, it wasn't all that different either. At some point, childhood fantasy and photographic reality meet to comprise a city that is just what you would expect it to be: Magnifique.

Haute Drame at SFO
When I went to check in at SFO the nice Air France clerk suddenly morphed into mysterieuse mode and excused herself with an "I'll be right back," before disappearing behind a large set of compound-caliber double doors. Ten to fifteen minutes later she emerged with a blank look on her face and I asked if there was anything the matter. "No, there's nothing wrong. I had to photocopy your passport." Uh, come again? What legitimate reason would require that you need a copy of my passport? She mumbled something. What? She mumbled again. What? "You're on the FBI list." (!!!!!) What the fuck? Long story short, if one is a photographer who travels with any degree of frequency outside of the continental U.S. you're evidently automatically put on the/an FBI list. This is what a reliable source told me and I haven't done the follow-up footwork of my own to verify it as fact. I don't particularly see how or why my photo trips to Paris and the like would be of interest to the Feds or why a filed photocopy of my passport would come in handy, but there's a lot about my government's various rules, regulations, and policies that strike me as, well, odd. Anyway, Big Brother is watching. Now that I think about it, I've always had "special" treatment at customs in Europe where they require me to crack open my suitcase and any other bags in my possession to inspect absolutely everything. On the way home it's real cute when they even demand to see what's inside the bag that I assure them is just an uninteresting and dirty assembly of socks and underwear. Nice.

Captive at CDG
I couldn't have been happier when the plane finally landed at Charles de Gaulle International Airport in Paris. It was a long, direct flight from San Francisco and I was more than ready for it to be over. It was clear that my fellow passengers shared my enthusiasm for the end of our journey and couldn't wait to get the hell off the plane, too. Seatbelts were unbuckled and a cramped combination of milling and scrambling to collect carry-on bags began even before we parked at the gate. Stupid, anxious us. There was some kind of "probleme" that kept everyone on the aircraft without the flow of chilled, recycled air for 45 uncomfortable and excruciatingly molasses-like minutes. Five minutes more and there would have been a riot. I say this sincerely because I'm relatively sure I would have been the one who started said display of onboard civil disobedience.

Heavy Petting
This little tidbit is nearly just as I typed it from an Internet café to my friends and family back home. I've preserved this long paragraph in its original form because there is no better way to enjoy a startling side story that arises in said Internet café. Enjoy.

Senegalese men really think I'm hot. Apparently. (Apparently this segment of the male population is in dire need of some serious corrective lens disbursement—asap.) While I might have considered going out for a drink or even to dinner with a particular Senegalese gentleman that I met on this trip to Paris, the desire instantly disappeared the instant he pulled me close to him, mere minutes into a seemingly harmless and quite normal getting-to-know-you conversation (Where are you from? I am from Senegal. Oh, I thought you were from Mexique or Morocco, perhaps.) I suddenly found myself in a position far too similar to a chokehold with my head to his chest and him petting—yes, petting—my hair. Under other circumstances I would quite enjoy a fine-ass man stoking my hair, but in this instance it was definitely petting and was absolutely unwelcome. I halfway struggled to get away, but decided that it couldn't last for another moment or two so I should just "go with the flow." (Oh wow, pause—a guy just sat down next to me and logged on to a hardcore porn site! I only looked over because of the mumbled moaning noises he's making as he types and looks at the page. Good fucking lord. It's 10:26AM and we're in a hugely public Internet café. Get a home computer and an ISP buddy). Sure enough the forced and awkward affection passed soon enough and then he had the nerve to ask me out. I decided he had to be semi crazy to behave in such a manner in front of his coworkers and all the clients (he worked in a different Internet café from the one I'm currently patronizing), so I opted for the "Oh I can't. I have a boyfriend back home and it wouldn't be right." story. My imaginary man usually comes in handy and successfully wards off all unwanted suitors, but it didn't seem to phase this guy. He wouldn't take no for an answer so I followed up with "Well, maybe. I'm here visiting friends for my birthday and I have to check with them first. They have made wall-to-wall plans for me and so I really can't say when I'll be free next." He accepted the maybe and rejected my simple goodbye with more forced affection—this time a very over-the-top, more-than-friends, far too long and loving kiss-kiss on each cheek (Euro-style). I'm not sure now what's worse. The porn palace I'm presently writing from or the petting zoo down the way. Dare I try a third time to find a decent G-rated Internet café in this city? Does one exist??

The Louvre
It's not that you should skip the Louvre. Not entirely anyway. The museum is just so massive that you should skip the majority of the galleries and just focus on one or two that you really want to see. I've only been to the Louvre once in three visits to Paris. I'm a huge fan of Ancient Egyptian art and so this was the collection that I focused on. And this alone wore me out in a single afternoon. I managed to squeeze in the Winged Victory of Samothrace and called it a day. Personally, I like my art overload in smaller doses and settings. This time around I chose to OD at the more intimate Musee d'Orsay. Like several other museums in Paris, the Musee d'Orsay and the Louvre are admission-free for tout-le-monde on the first Sunday of each month. I took advantage of this on my last visit and got to the museum first thing that Sunday. Getting there early before the crowds made all the difference. My friend and I got to roam around for free with many of the galleries all to ourselves. It was really nice. And because the d'Orsay isn't a behemoth like the Louvre, we were able to breeze through the entire museum in time for an early lunch. Parfait.

Fun with Fondue
In general, I love French food. I've never ventured to try escargot or some of the other fare that I'm quite convinced would require a sprint to the nearest toilette for an upchuck, but whatever. Southern French food is my personal favorite. But I'm generally always willing to try something new. One night with a Parisian buddy as my guide, I had some typical French food that was absolutely atypical to me—fondue. It's not the way I'd always thought of or known fondue, with warm bread and gooey cheese. It was this other thing (I've already forgotten the name) where you're delivered a platter of raw beef and another platter of yummy potatoes. You cook the meat yourself in a little pot of boiling oil. Quaint. Dangerous. Disgusting? The meat wasn't seasoned at all (quelle dommage) and instead you spiced it up by dipping your questionably cooked chunks of cattle in two unmarked sauces, which both looked to be mayonnaise-based (C'est ou les toilettes, s'il vous plait?). It wasn't half bad and I left happily stuffed, in the end. If I ever go back to a place like that I want to try yet another kind of fondue where you cook your meat not in oil but on a small hot slab of stone. Several other tables had chosen that method of culinary French flair, and it looked equally, adventurously, fantastique-ly fun.

The French Grill
I'd like to comment now on French dentistry and oral hygiene, or lack thereof. My friend and I had a waiter one afternoon whose grill rivaled that of the infamously gnarled and tea-stained choppers of the British. I was prepared to write it off as a freak occurrence, rather than make a sweepingly generalized assumption that this was a prime example of the standard French or perhaps specifically Parisian smile. But after two weeks of so many jacked smiles I began to wonder how much worse teeth in the UK really are, or if in fact that's just a myth that the French created to deflect attention away from their own dire need for twice yearly cleanings and a mouthful of orthodontia.

Email, Porn, and a Little Self-Gratification au Publique
I ventured back to the super cheap Internet café and although no one sat next to me looking at porn there was a guy in front of me looking at porn with his right hand and with his left... Unbelievable. And there was a girl at the end of his row who was totally oblivious. Suddenly the 2,50 Euro per 15 minute Internet café looked attractively affordable.

Rue de Rodents
There's a pharmacy off the Rue de Rivoli that has a huge window display of rats in old steel traps caught in Paris in the early 1900s. I laughed out loud in passing because not ten minutes before I saw a strikingly similar rat the size of a well-fed kitten strolling down the gutter. I guess they haven't set out too many of those traps for a while.

Prelude to the Paris Riots
On the way to drinking, after a movie, my friend and I had to walk through Les Halles, which is supposed to be a bit unsafe at night. We made our way through about 20 police officers swarming around to ask any and every Black, African, or Arab looking teenager for his or her papers. My friend said this is typical and of course, unfortunate. A couple of the officers were eyeballing me, but I just started speaking English louder with my White ami and we strode through without any trouble. Sigh.

Age Ain't Nothin' but a Number
When my American friend was in town she kept commenting on how youthfully dressed the geriatrics are here. I always seemed to be looking the other direction at a monument or something, and missed these freakish episodes of over 70 French fashion. But one day, finally, I came face to face (or back/ass to face, as it happened) with one of these hip older ladies. I was walking home (I fell in love with my hotel. It genuinely came to feel like home.) from the Place des Vosges and found myself admiring the shoes trotting along in front of me. They were what I like to call mini-stilettos—about one inch high as opposed to three or six—and they were to die for. Then I noticed the ultra chic jeans and began mumbling to myself in disgust at all the tiny figures here who sport overpriced denim. I gave the coif a look and thought that was pretty amazing too—professionally colored the most delightful multi-faceted blonde—and just when I was about to speed-pass this twentysomething fille, I noticed the hump. She had a hump in her back to rival Quasimodo's and it was really protruding quite unfortunately underneath her fancy white rabbit fur coat. I was so shocked that I almost tripped and catapulted myself into her bobbing hump. But thankfully I didn't because surely I would have taken her down with me and inevitably broken her 90-year-old hip! I raced ahead to get a glimpse of this lady's face and sure enough, to my utter shock and dismay, she looked to be days, perhaps hours, from a rapidly approaching death. I think the pope looked better his last few days than this woman did. Despite the layers of Lancôme, there was no hiding the fact that 80 was well over ten years ago for this grande dame. I thought about asking her to stop and pose for a picture, but couldn't think of a way to do it without laughing and inspiring her to beat me with her oversized Louis Vuitton handbag.

Black Like Me
In talking to my mother about my trip, I realized that I forgot to include one interesting aspect of the chokehold-petting story. The headlock took place right after I answered the question about my nationality and then my ethnicity/race. I should really give more consideration to just sticking with a claim on Hawaii as a place of origin, I guess. When I explained to the Senegalese Frenchie that my father was Black and my mother White it was at that precise moment that he went for the affectionate, if not affectionately scary, embrace (peppered with petting) as he mused, "Ahhh! You're Black like me!!" Yes, yes I am. Sort of. But after he released me and before I bolted for the door, we had a brief exchange about my father. "Where in Africa are his people from?" Uh, are you kidding me? Hello, slavery! I can't be any more specific than somewhere in West Africa. "But he does not know where his people are from??" he replies in utter shock and confusion. No, no. He does not know where his people are from, as is the case with the vast majority of Black Americans.

A Stroll in the Gutter
I really had to rely on my Berkeley jaywalking skills here. I don't recall this from past visits but in trailing my friend from bar to bar, much of the trek took place in the middle of the street it, seemed. Parisians walk in the road, in the gutter, and are constantly being missed (just) by speeding cars. It reminds me a bit of crossing streets in NYC but a pinch less life threatening, though it appears to be far more dangerous. Go figure.

La Tour Eiffel
Third visit and I still haven't made it up the tower. Not even half way. For some reason, it just never happens. And now I can't decide if it would be more interesting or somehow romantic if I never ventured up. You know? Or maybe I roll the dice and save that treat for some sad visit in my old age when I think I'm seeing Paris for my last time. That would be kinda cool, too. Or maybe I finally go up and the dashing man on my arm proposes to me when we get to the top! Okay. Now I'm just getting carried away. Leave it to Paris to get you dreaming up all of the most idyllic or ironic scenarios.

Vacating in France
It's fun listening to French people lament their short vacations of 25 to 27 days, respectively. "It's just not enough! I should find another job where the employers are more reasonable. My friend Jean-Claude has 32 paid days off." So the conversation went as I laughed. French people that I've met generally agree that although it might be fun to work in the States for a few years, they couldn't handle the inevitable lack of paid leave and so they stay in France, where life is more livable. Even with only 25 paid days off in a calendar year. C'est la vie, indeed!

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Camogli notes from a broad

2003-11-30T13:22:00.000-08:00

In the fall of 2003 after visiting a friend in Paris and then traveling together to Antibes, I tripped on by train alone to the Ligurian town of Camogli. Like Villefranche, I based my burning desire to visit on a single photograph I'd seen somewhere online. I'd been curious about this entire region and thought that Camogli would be as good a town as any to call home for a week or so of riviera exploration. Happy to say I was right.

Camogli? How do you know about Camogli?
I have an adorable and wonderful friend whose family is Croatian-Italian with roots in Istria and Camogli. Nobody much talks about the town of Camogli so when I told this friend that I was going to be staying there she was shocked that I'd heard of (or remembered her mentioning) such a small and out of the way Italian town. She was even more surprised that based on a single photo I had decided to stay there for a string of nights. Part of her surprise was also concern, I think. From Genoa to La Spezia, the coast of Italy is dotted with small seaside fishing villages. Many of which are still small and minimally touristed. In recent years however the region has become an increasingly hot travel destination for Americans and Europeans other than the Milanese crowd that has always flocked here. Or at least flocked earlier than the others. Perhaps they were the trendsetters. Whoever started the Cinque Terre craze, Rick Steves has certainly perpetuated the excitement. As Steves has said on his show and in his guidebooks, Vernazza is his favorite of the five terre. And it's no surprise then that the town is hopping with hordes of Rick Steves cohorts, guidebook in hand. And of all the towns spread out over this stretch of coastline, Portofino is perhaps regarded as the biggest sellout to mass tourism. These towns are small. Tiny, really. And so any influx of outsiders completely alters the ambiance. I'm certain that in high season tourists outnumber the locals by a landslide. My friend's concern then is understandable. These are still living towns, if you will. Like Venice, they are populated with locals trying to strike a balance between the tourist industry and normal, daily life. Camogli definitely felt like an Italian village. There were few tourists and I got a lot of looks from the locals like, "Who are you? Why are you here? How do you know about Camogli?" Not in a bad or unwelcoming way. More like a, "Oh shit. First Portofino, then the Cinque Terre, now Camgoli. It's the beginning of the end." So long as everyone and their mother doesn't open up their homes like a hotel for rent the way they do in Vernazza, I think the people of Camogli can sleep easy and nearly overnight-tourist-free for the near term.

Day Trippers' Delight
It's easy to see why this area is so adored by outsiders. It's crazy cute and delightful. From Genoa to La Spezia you can hop on and off the train all day, day after day, checking out new towns and beaches. I absolutely adored each of the Cinque Terre, Camogli, Portofino, Portovenere, and Sestri Levante. The only town I didn't feel particularly warm and fuzzy about was Bonassola.

Bonassola Bitter
If you end up checking out the town of Bonassola, you'll probably find a little bakery-focacceria di (or is it da?) Marisa. Good food. Stank Marisa. I was so tickled to see my name on a shop and to meet the owner that I repeated several times for the focacceria Marisa, "Sonno Marisa anche. Mia nome e Marisa! Anche!!" She clearly wasn't as tickled as I was. She didn't even crack a smile. She did, however, give me several Euros worth of change in 10-cent or smaller pieces. I was pissed, but what was I to do? I decided to take the high road and show this manner-less Marisa that I was above her petty pennies. Being a woman of a color other than Lily White, I never know if the funkiness I sometimes encounter abroad has to do with a generic chip on someone's shoulder or if I'm on the receiving end of a little old-fashioned racism. It's not always clear. If I spoke more Italian, I would have asked the woman point blank. From one Marisa to another.

Walking Warning
It's been so long that I can no longer recall which guidebook misled me to believe that the walk from Santa Margherita to Portofino would be a short, sweet stroll. If I could unearth this info from memory, I'd write the authors a nasty note. It was flat. I'll give them that. Short and sweet it was not. Try long and sweaty. Longer and sweatier if you're mentally unprepared to trek alongside a winding two-lane road being navigated at unnervingly high speeds by stereotypically wild Italian drivers. I'm lucky I made it to Portofino in one piece. The walk itself was memorably scenic. To your right is the road and to your left is the water. Winding in and out along the coast, you can never quite see what's around the next bend, and you're constantly sure that beyond the next jut of land your final destination will be revealed in all its picturesque perfection. Nope. More trees on the hill ahead and a spattering of houses. But no Portofino. Not for a-ways. Without food or water to sustain me on this journey, I relied on anger to keep me going. Of the few fellow trekkers that I passed along the way, all reassured me that I was headed in the right direction. Well, that was at least something. Trudging along, I raced against the setting sun and stumbled into Portofino on the cusp of twilight. The light was wonderful and the beauty of the buildings aglow in the fading light was enough to quell my furor and quench my thirst for vengeance. I bought an overpriced San Benedetto Frizzante and a candy bar from one of the few shops still open, took a five-minute zip around the tiny harbor of a town, and caught the next bus back to Santa Margherita. Journey and giorno complete. I slept that night, I do recall and quite clearly, like a sack of sore and intermittently cramping bricks. Oh wait. I just Googled "walking to Portofino from Santa Margherita" and guess who I found touting the trail. Steves. Rick Steves. From About.com and I quote: "Travel guru Rick Steves says that the trail between the two towns is one of the favorites of hikers. The distance is only about 3 miles, or 5 kilometers." Three miles doesn't sound like much for the physically fit, but try that walk and tell me if it doesn't feel more like five or six. Maybe if I hadn't started the walk starving it would have been faster and more enjoyable. I'm not so certain the distance was spelled out in exact miles. I swear the recommendation gave the impression the walk was a quick 20 to 30 minute saunter. Oh vell. At least I know now. And so do you.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.

Antibes notes from a broad

2003-11-20T13:14:00.000-08:00

In the fall of 2003 I was invited to spend a few days in the South of France with a childhood friend who was then living in Paris. After first visiting in Paris, my friend and I flew down to the Cote d'Azur and stayed in one of her friend's empty houses in Antibes. Pretty brutal connections I have, eh? It was a once in a lifetime trip (the friend now lives elsewhere) and I can't say that it wasn't delightful.

Day Tripping on the Train
While my friend baked herself on the beach, I (who suffers from easily excitable and horrifically unattractive heat rash) spent the majority of my afternoons shuttling from one town to the next on the train. I love it that Europe is so jam-packed with adorable destinations, one after the other, so many of which are easily and affordably accessible for the day by rail. I stopped in Cannes or Nice and didn't make it out of the train station. Seemed seedy and dirty and I couldn't muster the enthusiasm to venture into the city itself and find the cool, clean bits. So back on the train, I headed first to Villefranche and then futher on to Monte Carlo. Monte Carlo was beyond clean. You could eat off the streets there and not worry your pretty little head about ingesting so much as a single germ. Less sterile but no less delightful was Villefranche. Based on a single picture I'd seen before I left for France, I knew I wanted to try and get there if I could. Villefranche is now my favorite village of the Cote d'Azur, after cute and compact Cassis. A pastel pedestrian paradise, I'd love to go back and spend a few nights one day.

Juan Les Pins
On the Cap d'Antibes you have the city of Antibes where you'll find the old town or Vieux Antibes and around the cap you've got the modern Juan les Pins. We were staying in Juan les Pins. Nice beaches but no cute old town. Juan les Pins is dreamy (great beaches, bars, clubs, etc.), don't get me wrong. But Vieux Antibes has all the charming old character that you'd expect from this region of the French Riviera. If I had it to do over again I think I'd prefer to crash in Antibes proper. I have a soft spot for waking up in the center of picturesque European fishing towns or medieval villages. The charm is tangible.

That's all I recall. The rest of the time, which is to say the majority of the time, I was lit on pina coladas.

Questions? Ask away! Please use the comments feature to ask questions rather than contacting Marisa directly. That way everyone can learn a thing or two, too.