Last Few Days...

It's been a fantastic couple days, and I'm going to say a prayer to good old St. John the Baptist for being the patron saint of such a wonderful little town. It's hard for me even to keep my eyes on the computer to type - there is a slight breeze across the ocean from Vernazza, and the water is perfectly still, swallowing up the golden setting sun. Even at almost 8 at night, kids are still splashing by the shore, kicking a soccer ball around, and sunbathers lay out, dead asleep and happily frying.
I cannot say enough good things about this place. I should work for the Tourist Information. Minimum, they should let me stay here forever. Not too much to ask.
Friday night I went to eat at Il Pozzo, the restaurant my cousin Valentina's mother's brother used to own. It's funny, explaining that odd relation to Italians makes sense. "Ahhhh", they see. It's not strange to call everyone older then you Aunt, Uncle, Zia, Zio, Godmother, even when you have no idea how they are even related.
I had my first introduction to raw anchovies that were significantly pricier then the marinated or lemon drenched kind, but tasted like you were eating the sweet sea. Olive oil, lemon, parsley - again, simple and not killing the fish with a million flavors. For my secondi, I had wild mushrooms sauteed in white wine, lemon, garlic and parsley. It may not seem that mushrooms could be enough to make up a main course that must hold its own against beef and huge cauldrons of mussels, but these mushrooms were potentially one of the best things I've ever eaten. They don't have them every night, my waiter informed me, for like all good things, it depends solely on how many are picked that day from the woods. Meaty, firm, and cooked lightly - almost al dente- bathed in everything wonderful in the world. Wine, garlic, oil. Again, I may have set a record in food ingestion.
After, I went to the beach disco with some girls I know from TCNJ who happened to be in Monterosso. The wonders of Facebook. We lost each other in the madness of dancing and bad 80's music (DJ's are another thing apparently we have one up on Italy with), but I found my friends Steffania and Manuela and spent a good amount of the night observing a beach full of dancing fools of literally every age.
Yesterday, more beach with Steffi, reading, and being lazy with a long break to eat a fantastic panino with soft, warm mozzarella, olive tapenade, fresh basil and tomatoes. [Sidenote: a panino is one single sandwich. Panini is more then one. Cappucino is one. Cappucini is more then one. And I will save my rant on the pronunciation of certain words ('gal-a-mad' and 'marr-scah-pon', anyone?) for another time. America, get it together.] The focaccia was crunchy and had olive oil spotting the napkin, oozing off the bread and signifying perfection. After more beach and a nap that may have been too long to actually constitute a nap, I ate a simple anchovy dinner and watched the USA lose. Drunk Americans started to stumble in to the bar, and I easily pretended I didn't understand their ranting. Needless to say, they closed the bar early to head off any other messy Americans. "Friends of yours?" Emma teased.
We then piled into Manuel's porsche (obviously. What else would he drive?) and drove the winding hilly roads of Cinque Terre to the next town, Levanto, which local boy Andrea warned me was "the best town in the world, ever". "I don't know if anyone told you, Cri, but the sun kisses Levanto. The moon, it kisses it too", he sighed out the window of the car, dramatically clutching his heart. "Ayyy, only Levanto, Madonna mia," Manuel objected, rolling his eyes, slowing the car to wave his hands in a classic Italian objection. "It kisses Monterosso too". Then the conversation turned to what I can only assume was a friendly rivalry of the two towns that the guys must have been having for years. Silvia, Steffi and I laughed. Silvia, in her charming, terrible English tapped my shoulder - I turn around and she shrugs, brushing a stray dark bang out of her jet black eyes.
"Men."
I'm beginning to understand that such a sentiment can be felt by women in any language.
In Levanto, we went to a beach party and a birratca owned by a friend of the group. Silvia and Andrea are from Levanto, and with every four steps, we had to stop for a few minutes of catching up with whoever happened to walk by. The birrateca, however, was fantastic. They had a huge selection of over 100 bottles of Italian and imported beers, and their friend was enthusiastically explaining the merits of this hop or that style to me as though he hadn't met a girl interested in beer in his whole life. Maybe he hasn't, but it was a great time and on the ride home, blasting U2, laughing at my friends butcher the words in their broken English ("one love, one life" became "one pizza, one knife"), I realized for the trillionth time how incredibly lucky I am and how much I'm going to miss this place. It even makes me comfortable to trip and stumble over my Italian, as I see how carefree they all are about slaughtering English. "I smell like a pork," Andrea lamented, as Silvia playfully smacked his arm. I then tried to explain the difference between saying you smell like a pig, ande you smell like a roast pork, but I think it was lost by then. And don't even get them started on the ridiculousness of the words "chicken and kitchen", or "falls and false". "Price and prize" nearly started a fight. Ah, Italia. Cri #1 made me swear I would be better at Italian next time I come back, and is insisting I come back in August. "Why no?" she asks, worried. "You no like it here?" I explained jobs and school and the responsibilities that come with my life, and she was still confused. Gesturing to the ocean, the sky the mountains, she looked at me seriously, her eyes wide. "Cri cri, it's MONTEROSSO".
Without explanation, I knew what she meant. Sure, the sun and moon may kiss Levanto (I'm sorry Andrea), but they clearly shine only on Monterosso.
Anyone for a few days in Italy in August? :)

The Ocean Was On Fire

There is so much that can be said for Italian hospitality. It really puts Americans to shame. Of course, we have Italy beat on clothes dryers, water pressure and bathtubs, but they really are steps beyond us in treating perfect strangers like they're family, and acting astounded that we take it with such surprise.
I'm back in Monterosso, and staying at one of the B&B's that my friend's family owns. They absolutely would not accept payment, and the room is beautiful - overlooking the sea, breezy, and huge. They brushed off my attempts to pay, saying how glad they were to have me back. The sentiment is returned tenfold - Monterosso is a world away from Malta. And it certainly felt like that after my travel marathon yesterday. As I lugged my suitcases through every possible form of transportation, I arrived in town at dinnertime. Bringing my tired, plane exhausted self to the restaurant my friends work at, they had a huge plate of pasta whipped up, which I inhaled in under five minutes. It was spicy, salty, and very Calabrian - pepperoncini, anchovies, capers, pine nuts, soft cherry tomatoes and whole smashed cloves of garlic. My quality of life skyrocketed after just a few bites. I had little idea of how much better the night could get.
June 24th is the feast day of St. John the Baptist, Monterosso's patron saint, and after the anchovy festival (which I sadly missed), the celebration continued through the night - and for the rest of the weekend. The moon was full and silver, glimmering across the dark, twinkling ocean. As if that wasn't a beautiful enough picture, to celebrate the holiday, all the children set candles out to sea on little paper boats. The sea looked like it was on fire with hundreds of little candles, burning red orange and cutting through the inky darkness. Then the fireworks began - booming thunder and streaks of light and color over the ocean, so close to the cliffs I winced a few times thinking they were sure to fizzle down onto our heads. The streets were packed for the display - fireworks have that effect of immediately making everyone revert back to childhood. With each pop and whistle, everyone can't help but grin, awestruck - eyes glued to the vivid streaks in the sky.
Today was another perfect day. The beach was like I have never seen it, and I understand why my friends, spoiled by its perfection, were complaining about it when the weather wasn't as good earlier in the season. The water was without waves, still and clear, like a plate of glass. You could see through the aquarium water to the colorful rocks lining the bottom, and it seemed like everyone in Cinque Terre was floating along peacefully, bobbing in blissful happiness in the bathtub water. This is my kind of ocean.
I spent a good deal of time reading, but even more time just thinking and watching the children playing, counting the sailboats drifting by on the horizon. My solitude was occasionally interrupted by Emma and her family, a few lounge chairs down, gearing up for the Chile football/soccer match tonight. "Chi-Chi-Chi! Le-Le-Le!" erupted every few minutes, and their enthusiasm was a nice break from the morbid soccer depression that had moved over Italy like a dark cloud after the poor World Cup ending yesterday. My friends even went to far as to throw their Italy shirts out, cursing, kicking the garbage can. My pitiful reassurances that they at least did better then France certainly did not help. Lesson learned.
Aside from sport related issues, If you are in a bad mood in Monterosso, I cannot help you. You must have done something terrible in a former life that you will never be able to atone to. - I couldn't help but think, like a broken record, that this is the happiest I've ever been. I squinted in the warm sun, smiling, occasionally getting up to dip in the water and show off my world famous dog paddle or eat a piece of bruscette. The ocean was filled with fire last night - of candles, saints and fireworks, but today, blissfully oblivious to anywhere else in the world, it truly sparkled again, just in a different way.

Saħħa, Malta

Ironically, after all of the "technical difficulties" I stumbled through in Malta, there is wonderful, functioning, FREE wifi at the Malta Airport (the only airport in Malta, so it does not merit a fancier name). The past few days have been rather relaxing. I spend one day in Mehellia Bay, laying by the beach and reapplying sunscreen obsessively, scared to death of the unhealthy red color of many of my other beach goers. I think it's easy to forget that Malta lies at a further south latitude then north Africa. You certainly wouldn't run around Northern Africa with SPF 15, would you?
I did some more shopping in Sliema after the beach - its hard, after this long away and with limited access to a clothes washer, everything I brought seems to have lost its luster. I'm attempting to restrain myself, but I am doing much better then I thought I would have. Ah, well. That's what vacation is for.
I dined at the Avenue, the restaurant owned by my hotel in Paceville. It was strongly recommended by some British tourists, and breaking my own culinary rule to never trust British restaurant recommendations (I'm sorry, but it's true. Fool me once, shame on you, food me twice...) I ate there and picked some safe bets - bruscette, mixed salad, sauteed mushrooms. All of it was fine, but not noteworthy. The clientele seemed to enjoy the huge portions of mostly fried food and the odd curry dish or two - again, mostly British.
Yesterday I took another long, bumpy bus ride to the north of the island to Gozo, then to Paradise Bay, a secluded beach a 1-2 km hike behind the ferry dock. It was worth the hike and the million stairs. There were fewer then twenty people on the beach, and the beachside restaurant actually served some really good, traditional Maltese food. I had juicy, chargrilled chicken breast with honey, lemon zest and fresh thyme with a salad, but I was impressed that a small beach grill would be so ambitious to serve Maltese favorites, like fried rabbit.
England won the game last night, and as a cab driver remarked to me, the Maltese cheer so strongly for the British because their fledgling soccer team isn't any good. People were, literally, dancing in the streets and creating such a fuss that it took my little bus about an hour to go what is normally about a 15 minute ride. And they say the Americans create spectacles.
Dinner last night was at a sub par Maltese restaurant in St. Julians. The only thing of note was a soup called "widow's soup", consisting of spices, cauliflower, hard boiled egg, peas, tomatoes, carrots, vinegar, honey, and beautiful chunks of Maltese goats cheese, peppery and with a tang and texture like feta, that slightly melted in, giving the soup a silky mouth feel. The soup I was served wasn't fantastic. The tomato base was too acidic, too much like a jarred tomato paste consistency, but it piqued my interest enough to know that it has the right ingredients to be a winner - one I will certainly try and recreate when I get home. I can never resist a good soup.
Now, its the Malta airport, then a transfer in Rome, a flight to Genoa, a bus to the train station, and a train to Monterosso. I'm pretty sure there is not a form of transportation that I will not cover today (camel?) and I have read my way through all of my books. The Maltese bookstore pretty much carries only American romance novels a la Danielle Steel, but I did manage to scrounge up a copy of the "best of" Hemingway. And though I'm running around the Mediterranean today, no single trip is longer then an hour - plane, train, etc, which makes it more bearable.
Saħħa, Malta e Ciao Italia!

Caponata, Churches and Cumin. Ah, Malta.

Often, when we travel, we try and relate places to other place we've already been, even if we are really reaching in our attempts to see something familiar. It's not a good or a bad habit, I think it's only natural. A dreary city surrounded by lush green can remind me of Ireland, the same way that an archway that catches a shadow just so can remind me of Rome - even in Princeton.
Malta, however, defies all recognition or region. The best way I could explain it is to say it looks like a rockier, dustier Sicily with the architecture of a Catholic Northern Africa. I'm aware that this makes little sense, but I've spent the better part of the day trying to wrap my head around what Malta really is, and how to best describe it. Even before I arrived here, it was hard. "So, is it part of Italy?" "Is it French or something?" No, it's its own independent little country, one that threw the EU into a tumble when it joined, for almost no one speaks Maltese. They use the Euro, but only recently, and they certainly do not recharge Italian cell phones, a topic still riling my blood. I traded my perfectly functioning cell phone for a slow wifi connection and zero cell phone. That's what I get for complaining.
The cities are dirty and dusty, but, like many Middle Eastern and African cities - bright. Whitewashed from the sun that beats down, unapologetic, showing every crack, crevice and chip. The color of the sand and rock matches the buildings that seem to dangerously sprout out of nowhere as they lean on each other precariously, like adobe houses curiously peering down to a roaring sea. The water here is clear, and the usual one million shades of blue, but the waves on the Northeast of the island, by Paceville (pronounced PAH-CHAY-VILLE)and St. Julian's, are vicious, and the current looks strong even from a distance. Sunbathers lay on smooth rock, like Nevada desert stone, instead of sand, dipping into tidal pools to escape the currents.
The language, both written and spoken, is mind blowing. Similar to Arabic, but not Arabian at all. Signs written with words that have no rhyme or reason to our eyes. The letters are familiar, but the words could simply be the creative scratchings of a child.
The people are dark eyed and curious. They will follow you for blocks, selling the usual market wares, speaking in a disturbingly British accented English before stepping back into the shadows of their quiet Maltese. Black, white, tan - Maltese is a designation that has no color barrier. A man, glistening obsidian, walks arm in arm with a alabaster pale woman with inky eyes and curly golden hair that seems to follow no rules or order, laughing and joking in their secret language. Churches hide on every block, the same colors of the sand and the rock but intricately, lovingly and delicately carved. Malta, for whatever its influences, is a strongly Catholic nation. From almost every part of the capital city of Valletta and its neighbor across the bay, Sliema, you can see a glimmer of the sapphire sea behind a fort or a yacht or a bustling market that makes you think of Aladdin.
The buses are charming and quirky leftovers from 1950, packed with tourists, locals, chickens, babies, fruit and bad Hawaiian shirts as they careen down narrow roads twisting over the ever present sea. A woman carries something on her head, African style, as a couple in Dolce and Gabbana follow. Malta is truly a mystery, and it's food is as entrancing puzzle, like the culture surrounding it.
I knew going here that the food would be the most interesting thing, and I was surprised that several people I asked about it (Maltese people, to boot) significantly downplayed the Middle Eastern - Turkish -Greek- Northern African influences in their cuisine. "It's like Italian food," my cab driver insisted, his dark eyes fixed to mine in the rear view mirror. "We are not African". Pride? Prejudice? Americans don't like African dishes do they? We had better not let the secret out.
Say what they will, but their food tells a different story.
Lunch was at Rubino in Valletta, serving traditional Maltese food since 1904, which was my first good sign. Second, they have no menu. It is completely based on what is fresh that day. Another wonderful sign. The mixed appetizer plate confused my taste buds so much I actually laughed out loud. Pumpkin, cubed, in what I could best surmise to be a play on the Sicilian "agrodolce" - sweet and sour. Cous cous with sumac, capers and carrots. Caponata with prunes and vinegar- jammy, sour and addictive. Pepperonata, Calabrian style, with cumin and garlic. Salted anchovies with parsley, lemon and garlic. Bread, served crusty and warm with a ricotta cheese that was as sweet and rich as a mascarpone, with a hint of cinnamon. A black bean dip drizzled with honey and fresh garlic. My main was local pork, cut thin and marinated in fresh honey and thyme, grilled, and served with a generous squeeze of lemon.
Dinner, at I Malta in Paceville. Rabbit, braised and stuffed with wine and currants - good, but slightly annoyed at the concessions made to the hordes of British tourists that invade this quiet, beautiful rock. When I am to get a side of potatoes, I do not want french fries.
However, in terms of what is "Maltese", all of it is mind blowing.
Food, like travel, can sometimes lead you to try and label it, or compare it to something familiar. You squint your eyes and try and see through a lens to focus on what it tastes like, looks like, or reminds you of. Your head twists around new flavors and ideas as you realize a place and a cuisine like this cannot be described easily, though you try and try in vain. It's beautifully complex and simply effortless - a natural fusion of cultures and ingredients before such a cooking style became fashionable. Unique from the region, but of it. Once you accept that fact, it gets easier. You don't need to adjust your focus.
You just need to see Malta with a different set of eyes.

Fricco, Friuli and Fathers

It's always been odd to me how one can - and frequently does - say that they love "Italian" food. It's like saying, "I love green things" or "My favorite food is chewable". Nonsensical. Italian food, as Friuli has shown me, can be more varied then I even imagined. Of course I noticed the dramatic difference in the offal of Rome and the fried, spicy oil of Calabria - the beans, steak and unsalted bread of Florence and the wild boar salami of Chianti. I've eaten the light, flaky fish and dark greens of Salerno, and the mouthwatering pesto of Liguria. And I have certainly had more then my share of prosciutto in Parma, and buffalo mozzarella, still warm and fresher then I could have imagined possible. The idea that Italian food cannot be lumped into a category simply defined is an idea not lost to me, and the importance of locality, seasonality and simplicity are the only things that these cuisines seem to have in common.
But nothing prepared me for wurst in rice salad. Or "cotto", cooked ham dressed with spicy brown mustard. And my favorite - fricco. A fried potato and cheese "latke" which is the most typical dish of Friuli, the most Northeastern part of Italy. Pastries that look suspiciously like rugalach. Udine is an old city, with architecture that mirrors Venice but a language that mirrors Slovenia and Austria, both only 15 km away. The local dialect is full of "j's" and words ending with "c's", and looking up at the gray, chipping marble and the even grayer, drizzling sky, its not an imagination that Eastern Europe is, literally, a stone's throw away. The people are blonde and pale, light eyes and strong noses, with lilting dialects and hearty mountain food that would amusingly confuse someone who says they "love Italian food". A rice salad, lovingly prepared by Valentina's father, with olives, capers, peas, wurst, cheese and oil - dressed with, of all things, mayonnaise - was delicious, but threw even me for a loop. Fricco, though addictive as all cheese and potato fried things are, sits in your stomach as and good Eastern European food could. Valentina's parents put together a feast for us, of all the local dishes with a few Calabrian ones thrown in belying their origins, though the family has been in Udine for over 60 years. Fried peppers in oil brought back a familiar childhood smell, but the spedini, marinated pork and skewered sausage in red wine, was a new and addictive way to prepare an old "American barbeque" favorite.
Valentina and her family are incredibly gracious. I slept in her room while she took the guest room, and this morning she took me to Cividale, a small Medieval town on the Slovenian border founded by Ceasar and home to a fantastic Celtic tomb down a harrowing flight of stairs. The town was beautiful in the "spitting" (as she put it) rain, and though Valentina lamented the poor weather, for me it seemed strangely appropriate to the region. She says that Friuli should but up a canopy over the whole region, and after maybe a third of they year of straight rain, I would think so too. However, as a tourist, its perfect and even a little romantic mixed with a touch of creepy. A graying Medieval town, overlooking a rushing river - it wasn't just the Celtic tomb that made me think of Ireland. Street vendors, opening up, frying pans of fricco and the beautiful smells wafting down the narrow alleyways as the Church bells rang deafening in my ear. A reminder, to everyone, that it is Sunday, and you should be somewhere else...not huffing fricco aromas in the streets adjacent to a bridge aptly titled "ponte diavolo".
After a quick tour of Treviso via public transit, I now sit at the Malta airport, as of yet unscathed from my first Ryanair adventure. On a side note about Italian trains, buses and the like - if you cannot manage them, you are an idiot. It is the easiest thing I have ever seen, and I'm floored by everyone who told me it was difficult. I will exchange words with all of you when I get home.
I really did enjoy Udine, and even more, I enjoyed Valentina and her family. She is incredibly smart - speaks 4 languages perfectly - and her family, with their open arms and insistence on more (and more) food really reminded me of my own. There is something so soothing about mothers and fathers, especially when I haven't seen my own in so long.
Oh, and Happy Father's Day to my wonderful, amazing father who would have had a field day at the Celtic tombs today :) Thank you for teaching me the respect for cultures and diversity that made me want to go out and see this whole wide world. Love you.

**I left my heart in Monterosso...and my luggage

Finally in Udine after an insanely long train ride that was made significantly less stressful thanks to my friends in Monterosso and my cousin in Udine. I use the term cousin loosely, because I think it comes down to being a 3rd cousin 75 times removed or something else geneologically awkward, so cousin is simply easier. I left all my heavy things in Monterosso so Ryanair (who I fly to Malta) will not bleed me dry on overweight baggage fees, and my friends helped me get a ticket on the new, super fast train to Udine. Then Valentina picked me up at the station in Udine, and I'm staying in her house til Sunday, when I go to Treviso then fly to Malta. I'm already getting ecstatic at the thought of free wifi. It's not hot showers or huge coffee I miss, but wifi. Coming from somoeone as technologically inept as I am, this is a groundbreaking statement.
So, my last night in Monterosso was spent running around town at a terrible reggae party on the beach, and packing up my things to leave my windowless, oddly scented room yesterday. I asked Cristina and Emma about where I should stay when I come back the 24th, and they told me they would have to find me somewhere since I clearly cannot do it myself. One less thing to do, thankfully.
After getting to Udine, I went to see my cousin's friend sing in his metal band at an outdoor festival in the town park. It was certainly interesting, and I was actually thrilled at seeing something totally new. Churches, gelato, museums- been there. Even an organic honey farm and the Fort Knox of cheese. Italian death metal? Now I can happily check that off my list.
Valentina's parents are so sweet and in keeping with a tradition I am more then familiar with, keep trying to feed me. Her father, at breakfast this morning, decided to show me all the foods he wants to feed me for lunch, proudly taking out raw marinating meat and chopped vegetables, explaining how we will eat them. He even excitedly informed me that he had looked up the score of the Lakers-Celtics game for me (I'm not a basketball fan to that extent), so I could know who won in American sports. And it's comforting to know my family isn't the only one that would vacuum the floor every night.
Also, the sweet dessert wine from Monterosso I presented her family with as a "thank you" was a huge hit. Apparently, my "aunt" has a brother who lives in Monterosso, and actually owns the restaurant where I ate the salt crusted bronzini. It's reassuring how the more I seem to travel to expand my view of the world, to see different cultures and meet different people, the smaller the world actually gets, the more people and places I have in common with the others I meet.
We shall see how this theory holds up in Malta...

I left my heart in Monterosso...

I'm never leaving Monterosso. I canceled Venice, for a multitude of reasons, the biggest being a strike of the water taxi drivers, leaving the only transportation option as private gondolas, which can be insanely expensive. This means I have an 8 hour, 4 train trip to Udine on Friday morning, and then fly to Malta Sunday night. However, my friends here said to just leave my obscenely heavy collection of Italian specialty foods with them and then come back after Malta to get them and spend a few more days here. Kind of their way of guaranteeing I come back - like I need any forcing.
The game was fantastic the other night, even if Italy tied. I was sitting at a table surrounded in a torrent of Italian, cheering, singing - blissfully playing along in my Italia shirt. They broke open a huge bottle of prosecco, and we all signed it to display on the restaurant shelves. The street party went on well itno the night. Last night, a group of us went to dinner, and Cristina and I attempted to communicate better - she said after she drank more prosecco, her English would be fine. It didn't improve dramatically, but she was certainly funnier. We ordered a huge bronzino, crusted in sea salt and baked - the flesh was moist and drizzled with olive oil. At Manuels urging, I ate the flesh by the head - it was so delicious, and he insisted it was the best part of the fish.
Fish is pretty much it here. A cafe by my restaurant has my lifelong loyalty for serving the only mixed seafood antipasto plate I have ever been able to eat. Smoked salmon, tuna and swordfish carpaccio, lemon anchovies, salted anchovies, anchovies and capers stuffed in sundried tomatoes, and tuna stuffed in small cherry tomatoes. Lemon, olive oil and cinque terre white wine. Perfection.
Also the bruschette here is out of this world. Fresh tomatoes, pesto, lardo - all on bread rubbed lightly with garlic, charred and drizzled generously with green oil until they practically shimmer. Not much more is needed for an ideal lunch.
After dinner last night we went to Fast Bar for a drink, and Manuel bought Cristina and I (the due Cristina's, or "Cree's", which is the adorable nickname for Cristina) roses from a man who came in selling them. Cristina and I then attempted to resell them to American tourists for a 100% profit, and started concocting ridiculous life stories when they asked. I'm now a painter from Soho with two dogs who has been living here for 6 years. It was really priceless.
There is not so much to write here. My days literally consist of waking up, coming to Pasticceria Laura to have a cafe and torta, checking email, strolling around, eating lunch, sitting on the beach, swimming, reading, napping, calling friends and family, showering, eating dinner, sitting at the Cantina and watching football and laughing with my new friends, then going over to Damien's after the Cantina closes and watching football recaps as everyone tries to teach me Italian so I'm not as lost in the rapid torrent of language surrounding me. Google imaging New York City, and showing everyone the streets I love. Cristina offered to switch lives for a month. I have no problem with that.
Today I did something different, though - I watched Love Boat dubbed in Italian. I'm hoping I learn it through osmosis.
I have really fallen in love with this town. Though I've been here before, seeing it like a local is a whole new world. I would move here in a second, imagining my life, waking up and smiling, spending my days working and swimming. Even the rain isn't bothering me - it's like saying that you won the lottery, but it wasn't enough money. Ridiculous. I'm in one of the most beautiful places in the world. Complaining about rain is just being ungrateful for what I'm experiencing here. As much as I can logically say that Italy isn't a fantasy, and that there are problems and a history that lie underneath the beautiful exterior, as I wake up and inhale the sea water and squint at the sun over the rooftops, it's hard to keep that thought in mind. Here, everything seems absolutely perfect.

Soccer and Sun

I think I have become easygoing. I have always been envious of people who are spontaneous. People who aren't planners and don't give themselves panic attacks on the little scheduling details of life. Taking a huge trip like this is a good way to learn your lesson. Sit down, relax - stroll, don't walk. If you want to do something, do it. Why not?
So, I've decided to stay in Monterosso and cut out Ferrara entirely, which means Wednesday I will be taking a 7 hour, two train ride to Venice, which I am surprisingly ok with. I really just love this town so much, and coupled with the World Cup and they new friends I've made - I see no reason to rush off to another city and do a whirlwind tour. I'm perfectly happy sitting around eating anchovies and looking at the slightly overcast sea. Sadly, Manuel's Guesthouse was booked the next two nights - as was most everything else in town - so the owner made a few calls and found me a very cheap room in town, rented by a wonderful Filipino woman. Sadly, you really do get what you pay for. The room is fine, but there is a really odd smell that actually made me laugh. Like sour nailpolish remover or something equally as unpleasant. And there are no windows. I don't really spend so much time in the room anyway, so I'm not totally disturbed by a strange odor, but needless to say, I have certainly stayed in nicer places.
Dinner last night was pleasant - at Il Moretto. It was overpriced, but the anchovies were good and the pasta and pesto fresh. My insalata miste arrived with olive oil and balsamico in plastic spray bottles. Grade=F. Not acceptable in my book, and not even a free lemoncello will make me go back. Spray salad dressing? It makes me cringe enough in the USA, and in Italy it borders on terrifying. Plus, the people next to me ordered french fries. That drives me crazy. If I am eating in a region known for something, that is what I order, even if I'm not wild about it. I don't care for white wine, but that is what they make here so that is what I drink. Hence, my obesita from too much time in Tuscanny. For me, however, it is a necessary travel attitude to adopt. Do as the Romans do (or Ligurians, Florentines, so forth. You get the idea).
The Cantina I've been going to is home to the friendliest waitstaff I have ever encountered, and for some reason, they seem to like me. Last night I stayed after with the group and chatted and laughed - everyone is from all over the world, and really well traveled, so it's just nice to sit down and exchange stories. They invited me to their World Cup party at another bar tonight - they reserved a table and one of the girls gave me an extra Italia shirt (even though she's from Chile, but I'm not arguing). And tomorrow, another girl, also named Cristina, invited me out on her boat if the weather is nice with her and her sister and boyfriend. It wasn't a hard sell. Ferrara simply cannot compete.
The sun seems to be coming out again, which is fantastic. The weather here is so fickle. Rain then sun twenty times in the same day. I'm surprisingly ok with that too. Just a little bit of sun is enough to make everyone flock back to the beach, dotted with huge umbrellas every color of the rainbow. It's like we're all waiting today, sipping on cafe, taking a little longer to talk with a friend. Monterosso is biding its time - for sun or for soccer. I'll take either.

Beach Detour!

It's so difficult to write and post photos without a reliable internet connection. The internet point in town offers wifi, but it's pretty expensive - 2 euro for 30 mins, and my pictures seem to take years to load, so apologies, and eventually I'll have some up.
Which brings me to "town". I took something of a detour after my last night in Firenze, which was Friday. We went to a nice dinner and to the rooftop bar at the Continental for some drinks, and I realized that I was absolutely exhausted. The class schedule was pretty intense, and my body started yelling at me that five hours of sleep a night was not enough, so I decided to do what anyone would do when they are feeling stressed out. I headed as fast as I could to the nearest beach.
I canceled my four nights in Ferrara, and decided to instead spend three here, in Monterosso al Mare, in Cinque Terre, the "Italian Riviera". It's a series of five towns carved into the rocks overlooking the ocean that were isolated from the rest of the country for several centuries, and plagued by pirates. Everyone loves a good pirate tale. And a good pesto tale - they claim to have invented it here. Frank and I stayed here a few years ago, so I knew it was a great place - alas, it took three trains to get here, and I realized carrying my body weight in luggage wasn't possible, so I'm going to have to mail a significant amount of accumulated nonsense back to the states tomorrow.
I'm staying at Manuel's Guesthouse, which is full of bright, airy and clean rooms overlooking the whole town. The tragic downside is that it's about 200 steps to get to it, something I didn't know until I showed up with my 100 lbs of junk. I almost cried, but the man who runs the place, Lorenzo, was amazing and carried it all up for me. It's got a beautiful patio with a breathtaking view - emphasis on breathtaking, which is how you feel after climbing those stairs. I seem to have discovered a knack for picking places with too many stairs, especially of the crumbling, narrow and poorly lit variety.
Dinner last night was at Cantina de Miki, and more fantastic anchovies in lemon, white wine, and pesto bruscette. I'm loving the absence of the heavier tuscan cuisine. More anchovies and beach today at Ristorante Belvedere - I'm missing Monterosso's anchovy festival by 3 days, and I'm not happy about it. You cannot avoid seafood here. Like Scilla, anchovies are everywhere, and I'm enjoying every bite of my favorite little fish, and nothing pairs better then eating them overlooking the clear, bathwater warm, blue sea. Everyone here is so relaxed and happy. I would be too if I lived here. Like one of those knicknacks people have hanging around their house at the Jersey Shore "Life is better at the beach". Well, it is, and more so when that beach is attached to a town full of pastel homes perched into the mountains. They look like they could just tumble into the glassy sea, shattering the blue with their orange, chipped tiles and dusty, colorful facades. And let's not forget this beach is in Italy, which automatically gives it a pretty high happiness rating.
I watched the game last night, and came to the hard realization that I need to learn about soccer, and quickly. It's all they talk about here. Even the Ghana/Serbia game had the bars packed this afternoon, and I'm willing to bet no one here is from either of those countries, though I did cheer for Ghana. Serbian names scare me with all those "c" endings. Italy plays tomorrow night, and I'm really excited for that - they make it enjoyable even if you don't follow soccer, but I do need to get a shirt or something. Even the guy who set up my beach chair told me so, and he was deadly serious. I don't mess around with soccer fans. If they tell me to do something, I do it. I'm on their turf.
Forza Italia!

The Lost Southern Italy Files Volume 4, 9 giugno

I don't know if I'm depressed to actually put together my presentation for the conference on Friday, be on this bus for the next 6 hours, be leaving the South (again), or have to run around Europe by myself again for the next few weeks. Or a combination of all these factors.
Last night in Eboli we had dinner at a pretty low key pizzaria until the chef brought out what I'm pretty sure was a karaoke machine that "fell off the back of a truck". He insisted that Americans loved karaoke, and a few people in our group got up to sing just to stop him from singing. Really terrible, but also really funny.
Another early morning to a coffee roaster in Salerno called Castorino. It's impossible (and very bad planning) to do a tour through a translator in a roasting and grinding warehouse. I couldn't hear anything that was said, but it was thankfully short and I had two much needed espressi at the end. From here, we went to the ancient Minerva gardens, used to grown tons of medicinal herbs and flowers built into a building that looks like it could fall off a cliff overlooking the sea. Based on ancient humoral theory, the garden is segmented into the different "humors" and the herbs and fruits are planted accordingly with temperature and light. We had some refreshing infusion tea sitting at chipped tables overlooking the beautiful town - licorice root, rosemary and mint was perfect on such a hot day, paired with biscotti made with hazelnuts from the trees growing under the unrelenting sun.
Lunch was basic pizza, and we strolled to the main Basilica in town, complete with the requisite Padre Pio, the favorite Saint of Southern Italy, and one of my favorites. We are now on what might be one of the longest bus rides I have ever been on in addition to being incredibly unnecessary when Italy has such an extensive and well connected rail system. I understand it's hard to organize trains with transfers for such a large group, but I hate wasting nine hours sitting on a bus. Our professors though are good spirited about it. Lisa bought sfoiatelle filled with sour cherries, my favorite Italian pastry prepared in a way I've never tasted. I didn't know it could have been any better. We passed around wild strawberries, small and sweet, and drank cold prosecco out of plastic cups from the Autogrill (the most amazing rest stop in the history of highways), listening to music and planning out the rest of our summers. Joe said it best - it's just nice to have made friends with a group of people who are so obsessed with food and dining in NYC as we all are. I hope we actually do half the things we've talked about. It's shaping up to be quite a fantastic rest of the summer.

The Lost Southern Italy Files Volume 3, 8 giugno

The word of the day is...organic!
We are spending a few days in the Campagna region, and continuing off of our local produce theme yesterday, we had dinner last night at a unique pizzaria that takes their ingredients very seriously. The tomatoes must be whole san marzano, the mozzarella must be unrefrigerated buffalo milk, the basil fresh picked. Literally in the middle of nowhere, a few kilometers outside of Eboli, the place filled to capacity at about 9-9:30, families with children, laughing and eating pizza with a gusto I haven't seen in a long time. The whole area smells of wood, burning and crackling in the old brick oven, and the pizza, perfectly thin, was charred to perfection. Top five pizzas in my lifetime, though I would love to do an impossible side by side tasting with Keste on Bleeker Street.
The Hotel was actually much better, but the "wifi" was useless. Not having access to internet is more disconcerting then I would have thought. It's funny how used to technology even someone as unadapted as I am can become.
Today we visited Italy's premier organic water buffalo farm where they produce mozzarella, ricotta, buffalo milk yogurt and gelato. Tangy, rich and sweet, the yogurt was a decadent way to start the day, and the cheese we sampled was just oozing with fresh milk, satisfyingly warm and fresh - only made a half hour before we ate it.
We then went onto Campagnia's live agriculture museum farm of sorts. For free, but publicly and EU funded, they educate and give produce and seeds to farmers and individuals to promote organic and sustainable farming practices. We plowed through the loose soil through lanes of cherry trees, told to pick what we liked. Hands stained red with the sweet juice, and five varieties of cherry later, we tried apricots, succulent and huge, and ate until we were stuffed. There is truly nothing in the world like reaching up and plucking a tender fruit from the tree, warm from the sun, and biting into the flesh standing in the middle of a Southern Italian farm with a gentle sea breeze rustling over the neat rows of trees. Amazing.
Ansel Keyes museum, and lunch on the beach, splashing in bathwater warm water, crystal blue and green. Sitting on the rocks, overlooking the vast sea, drinking prosecco and eating panzanella - it simply cannot be better then this.
It's so good to be back down south. Not that there is anything wrong with the North, it's just different. Like chocolate and vanilla, we have our own preferences that do not require explanation. Driving on roads that overlook sharp rocky cliffs that drop into a still topaz sea speckled with seaweed, our bus looks like it might just tilt over and fall. Bright orange tiled houses, clotheslines drying a "football" uniform, and old man smoking a cigarette and smiling makes me smile, all that brighter. I just feel better being down here.

The Lost Southern Italy Files Volume 2, 6-7 giugno

I'm not used to doing a tour at such a hectic pace. Our program is winding down, and the next few days will be spend in the south. Not Calabria south, but Salerno and Naples south. We trudged onto the bus at 6 am, which was more then a little unpleasant after such a late dinner and long day on the 6th, which was Jackie's official birthday. We went shopping in Roma (again), and then got some intensely flavored pear and apple sorbetto at San Crispino, by the Pantheon. Afternoon bellinis and prosecco at the beautiful rooftop bar at the Hotel Raphael was a great way to just relax and look over the vast expanse of the city below. The service, however, was terrible. No one comes to Rome for snotty British waiters who, in all seriousness, roll their eyes when you order a bottle of wine under 50 euro. Dinner was a group dinner with wine expert Ian D'Agata - by the Trevi Fountain, Il Traconi. We had some serious Roman specialties - fried zucchini blossoms, bucatini alla matriciana, sage green braised artichokes. And salted bread. It was an incredible amount of food, and the amount of traveling we we had to do today was not expected or pleasant.
Driving through Napoli with a quick photo stop, then onto a terrible lunch at Pompeii. It was the biggest tourist trap I have ever seen, and the food was unedible. I think eating the dust off of the ancient ruins would have been more flavorful. Pompeii is the second most visited archeological site in the world behind the Pyramids in Egypt, and the largest in the world. It is overwhelming, and very sad to me. I appreciate seeing this ancient city so beautifully preserved, but there is something so haunting about seeing the lives of these people halted in midstep.
Another few hours of driving to the small fishing town of Casal Belino, where we greeted the fishing boats as they came in with their catch. There is a fishermen strike tomorrow, so many of the boats with singing names like Santa Maria and Angela Madre didn't go out, sitting there in the setting sun, lightly bobbing in the clear water. I didn't realize Italy's love for striking extended to all careers. Those who were not allergic to shrimp -which means everyone but me- tried the raw, clear shrimp with a light squeeze of lemon. The fishermen proudly showed off their catch, ecstatic about the attention they were getting over their mounds of vividly colored, saltwater dripping shrimp, crabs, octopus and shark.
Southern Italy is beautiful - it needs not be said. But this is not "Under the Tuscan Sun". The reality of life in Italy is very different from the romantic history painted. When you go to smaller towns, it's easy to see the glimpses of poverty that are so masked in what many American's perceive to be the "Italian" experience. The "Mediterranian Diet" isn't a spa program - it was a way of life based on heartbreaking poverty. They didn't have any money to have any other options. Our professor, born and raised in Roma, recalls a time in the 1970's when it was not possible to leave the house on weekends due to riots and rampant terrorism. It's easier to imagine this Italy when you're not dreamily staring at the Colosseum, driving through rolling hills, watching children farming huge fields with the harsh sun beaming down. Italy can seem easy, but it's not. "Imagining" history is not as important as remembering it, and when people open their eyes a little wider and see small towns without tourism, it's hard to forget.

The Lost Southern Italy Files Volume 1, 5 giugno

I want to be a professional bee veteranan. Or honey taster. At the Alce Nero production facility we visited outside of Bologna yesterday, I was introduced to two new career options. Alce Nero is one of Italy's biggest producer of organic products and honeys, all of which are produced entirely in Italy - no products are shipped in from Spain, Turkey, France - which I've learned is a frequent practice in many products, specifically olive oil. Alce Nero, the Italian translation of the Black Elk, was founded after the owners were inspired by the Native American traditions of respecting land and agriculture. The honeys were amazing, specifically the chestnut from Tuscanny and the orange blossom from Calabria. Alce Nero also has a line of products called Libra Terre, which are grown on lands reclaimed from the mafia. They farm these lands in Sicily and Calabria under some incredibly dangerous conditions. In retaliation, the mafia frequently sends threats, burns down fields, and destroys their equiptment. The farmers, all young and clearly dedicated, have no help from the government after being given their land. The pepperoncini pesto I picked up was not only the spicy, oily spread I love, but also has a great reason to buy it. The highlight of the day was Pegah asking our male professor, Fabio Parasecoli, about a small bottle she though was organic detergent. He awkwardly tried to explain it was something "feminine". I'm not sure who was more embarassed, but that combined with the beautiful organic greens for lunch made for a wonderful start to a cloudless, sunny day.
The biodynamic vineyard, unfortunitely, was not as impressive. It was another two hour os so drive up into the mountains, and though I respect the fact that they are a small production facility and don't have the access to equiptment and decor of the larger vineyards, it seemed like the men running the vineyard weren't as enthusiastic as they could be about their unique methods of production. I'm sure there is more then a little "something" that gets lost in translation, but excitement and passion can be seen through any language barrier. It was just a little disheartening after such a long ride. And the wine was not that great. It's just a little too much bus travel for two days - about 12 hours total.
We returned to Firenze, and went to our favorite bar of beautiful people in Piazza Strozzi. Everyone is dripping in Prada, Gucci and Dior, and after such a long day in the hot sun, I certainly did not fit in. With a drink is included the lavish buffet inside, so for the price of a Negroni, you can score a pretty filling meal of appetizers that I'm more then certain the twig thin women at the door have never tasted.
Most importantly, this was a whole day without cured meat products. We are on our way to Roma (again, for me) for a few days, then on to Salerno and Pompeii, returning to Firenze on Wednesday. Tonight, we celebrate the birth of Miss Jackie London, and have a group dinner at a craft beer bar in Trastevere. I've come up with the title for my paper - "From Grapes to Grain: The Cultural and Historical Reasons for Italy's Booming Craft Beer Business". Now I just have to get a presentation ready for Friday.

The cure for a parmigiano addiction...

...is to eat it at four separate places in one day. For every meal.
We started at 7 am, getting a bus to Parma, which is a beautiful but unpleasantly long three hour ride. We arrived at a parmigiano reggiano producer, and it was as wonderful and, as my roommate would stress, "artesinal", as anyone could hope for. All made by hand, stirred in shining copper pots in tradition handed down for centuries. The men making it never spoke to each other, simply lifting, stirring - moving in a rhythm that they have been doing with years of steady practice. The aging room was like a Fort Knox cheese vault. Literally, floor to ceiling, wall to wall, DOCP cheese. The smell was mouth watering. A sampling after with some local wine was an interesting way to start the day, and if I had any inkling of what cheese trauma would come, I would have stopped at two pieces.
Back on the bus, we drove through Parma, which is a breathtaking town full of vivid orange roofs and muted gray facades will forest green mountains rolling in the background. We arrived at another production facility, this one specializing in something very close to my heart - proscuitto di parma. Another tasting, more parmigiano with aged balsamico, and slices of buttery soft, silken proscuitto that melt in your mouth in an artery clogging, addictive way. The tour was another sensory explosion, and the legs of prosciutto aging were so tempting. Like the parmigiano, it was a wall of beautiful pork.
Then, on to the Barilla factory, the biggest mill in Europe and the biggest producer of Italian pasta in the world. It was impressive, but somewhat disheartening to go from such small producers who took such intense pride in their work, to go to such a large, bright, labeled and bland factory with workers staring, unblinking, unsmiling.
Lunch there was actually one of the worst meals I have ever had. The cheese and prosciutto were, alas the high point. All I wanted, again, was any sight of a vegetable. Lunch line boiled steak masked in an unidentifiable sauce, and tagliatelle with a heartless bolognese was what we were delivered.
After, it was on to "Academia Barilla", their teaching institute, library and conference center. The kitchens were state of the art, and I looked at the Kitchen Aid showcase with envy. The final nail in my coffin was yet another cheese tasting, added to an olive oil and balsamic tasting. My tastebuds were revolting. It was good, but enough was enough.
Stuffed, we came home, another three hours on the bus, and a collective whine about obesity.
A beautiful day, but sometimes you know when you have had too much of a good thing.
Thank God tomorrow is an organic honey farm and biodynamic vineyard.

Happy Birthday To Me

27 is the age that most Italian women marry, as was pointed out to me at class yesterday. For a perfect start to my birthday, we had a wine tasting at 9 am, which actually included a fantastic Calabrian red called Balbium. The lecture was given by Ian D'Agata, director if the wine academy in Rome, and he actually told me he just did a BBC interview on the growing role of microbreweries in Italy, which was some nice research related news. After a quick salad with my produce from the market yesterday (I butchered the poor vegetables with a plastic butter knife), we had two more lectures on the political history of Italy, which should be made into a series of mini-dramas.
La Giostra for dinner with some wonderful new friends, and we celebrated a birthday as anyone should - with more burrata, five kinds of pasta - including one decadently topped with the biggest mound of shaved white truffles I have ever seen- steak with balsamico, grilled bronzini, fried artichokes, a huge sacher torte for dessert, and maybe a little too much wine.
Wednesday was foiled by a thunderstorm, so our planned post birthday picnic was out of the question, but the weather cleared up and we headed out of town to have dinner on an urban Tuscan farm - this family opened their home to us and cooked us a fantastic meal with their house smoked meats, frittata, zucchini and thyme from their garden, "meatloaf", and stewed chicken with olives, and some delicious al dente pasta with fresh tomatoes and oil. The son did most of the cooking, encouraging us to "drink up" (through translation), for they had 60 more bottles from the local producer in the cellar. His mother and sister were beyond hospitable, letting us roam over their small and ever shrinking farm that is continuously being slurped up by the city as they keep building hotels, movie theaters and mini malls. What had been their property and family tradition for over 700 years, starting as sharecroppers is ending with them scraping away at a living selling their produce at the Sant Ambrosio Market. These are not rich people, and calling their farm rustic would be a gross exaggeration. But they are sweet and full of kisses and smiles, and literally gave us all they had, running out to get gluten free products for Jackie, emptying their cupboard of produce, opening a bottle of 2001 vin santo. Hearing it was my birthday, the sister ran into the house to wrap me up a pair of earrings, heavy silver with small purple stones. Not only did they insist on having us all over, they were ecstatic to do so, and enjoyed every minute of it, even though they understood only a few words of English. It's so refreshing to see people with so little, and realize that these are things that do not matter to them. Offering money would have been a slap in their face, which our Professor said she had learned in past experiences - this is the highlight of their year. They get to show off, and rightfully so. The food was amazing. What they value is sharing their culture and seeing our huge smiles - what an amazing lesson learned.