Inspiring Adventures with Sage and Christy

Letters from the Eternal City.

2010-09-24T15:54:00.000-07:00

Well lads,

We have been exposed to much, but the gorging that took place in the cellar of this medieval Tuscan village has topped the lot. We have heard fables of the snow white cattle and succulent hare that make up the cuisine that these people spread around, and now I lie here listless with a belly full of the stuff. One wonders how an ounce of work gets done the whole year. We supped in the painted basement of a converted carriage house – all corridors and doglegged hallways. The ceiling hung low with arched beams and bronze arms holding torches. But lo the food needed no concealing, potent and pure from the country side was the call. But let me back-track to catch you up.

Since our hasty flight from the Balkans, we spent a whirling night and day in the eternal city of Rome. Our carriage pulled us in just in time to catch the last of twilight and dine al-fresco at a table of revolutionaries making plans for the next Republic. Food was secondary or tertiary to copious amounts of inky-black wine. To walk off our malaise and dizzies, we strolled ‘round the great monuments of the city by twilight. I tell you the coliseum was veritably alive with the ghosts of those poor slaves eaten whole by the lions. Later, we retired to our chamber all in a heap and slept, mouth open, clear till dawn. Alas, no amount of wine could induce a slumber that would fend off the infernal racket that greeted us with the sunrise. All manner of cart and truck bouncing over the loose cobbles, muleteer a’holloring. We were up and about at our station for coffee and pastries earlier than was reasonable.

We then made use of the elaborate system of underground train to pay visit to the City of the Pope. I can confirm that the church is indeed doing alright for itself by the look of things. It would appear that each member of the order and his neighbor can afford to be cast in marble and set aloft on the arcades before his days are out. But that I should join the organization just to ensure such a lasting impression for later generations to enjoy. Promptly it was time once again to board a train, and take up a nap. That gentle rocking is just the thing for bones wearied by ancient cobles. To the Tuscan region for us by way of Pisa, where I was told to expect a great bell tower that veritably defies gravity. I will report truthfully what my eyes saw with my next correspondence.

Yours with dour disposition and discord,

Sage

Letters from the Balkans: A Wedding goes on in Serbia

2010-09-22T10:27:00.000-07:00

Kindest Sirs,

I trust this finds you and yours well. I find myself in that jewel of the Balkans: Serbia. For no good reason , the whole experience makes me think of you all. Maybe it's the prevalence of black hair, or the Cyrillic lettering. In any event, traveled here via aircraft from Spain. Luggage was lost on the way, which boded poorly as our final destination is three long hours from the airport. But lo, here it arrives presently on horse and cart. Yesterday we had occasion to attend a Serbian wedding (the main intent of our visit here). To claim it a spectacle is to claim the great war itself a scuffle. My day began at 8:00am drinking plum brandy while fitting the groom with silken tie. A motorcade through town flags a'waving led us to the house of the bride to barter for her hand. I'm no money changer, but I believe the agreed upon price came to $23US. A reasonable sum, ne, a bargain. By car again to the church. A standing affair with much incense and a nearly fainting bride. stiflingly hot. Then to the second floor banquet room at a swell hotel overlooking a handsome statue of a soldier of the war with bayonette and stoic look. The festivities, band, fireworks, cordials and all lasted clear till morn. Presently I find myself exhausted, slumped into a deep leather reading chair contemplating a small Rakia, counting blessings for my lot. I will dispatch again soon. Meantime wishing you well.

Dear Sirs,

Since my last dispatch, I have repaired myself nicely. One marvels at the healing properties derived from the strong liquors that these fine folk ply one with. The air itself is the very definition of refreshing. I have taken to sleeping rather late as seems to be the custom. Morn will find me nestled into a wicker chair taking my coffee on a marble table of the type you and I frequented in our days in the Marrais. Lo that I could read these confounded papers and take in the daily news of this place. Instead I simply enjoy them as a child to picture books. But a blessing that the biggest news is Sport and parade and not bloodshed nor uprisings. We have also enjoyed many a fine sup at the hands of our hosts. I tell you sir that just when a man feels his gut can take no more is certainly the moment when an entire roast animal will be brought to the table. I still can find no rhyme or reason to the progress of the meals here. Only that one must be ever diligent and take things slowly. It also takes some getting used to these folks custom of paint thinner aperetifs moved on directly to copious flagons of ale. Nary a cup of wine to be found in the house.
Presently we are in hasty flight by hired car to run us back to the metropolis of Belgrade. We have not seen much of that ancient mass of humanity, but I am assured that it features the styles and fashions typical of the continent. A contemporary poet I supped with declared it as Paris of 1920. I suppose that makes our precious Kraljevo the Lyon. A fine thought to me.

The Entire White Coast of Spain is Speckled in Golf Development Complexes

2010-09-19T16:09:00.000-07:00

The entire white coast of Spain is speckled in golf development complexes. This succeeds in adding an air of elegance to the actual cities themselves. We are in a bus, descending winding roads into the coastal town of Malaga. Malaga is tall and tan and hazy from sea mist. The boulevards are wide and as the climate allows, folded in the arms of tall palm trees. The city is a-bustle. Electric and alive in contrast to the hollowness of the whitewashed vacation homes lying vacant along this stretch of coast.

Malaga is ours for one night, and we will make the most of it. We have no expectations other than to walk and eat repeatedly until cultural courtesy or time no longer allow for it. We start our stroll down the grandest of the grand boulevards that our Hotelier knows about. It is awash in people at this evening hour. The setting sun deepens the rusty hue of the looming building facades. A single turn puts us into a warren of pedestrian streets lined with shops and cafes alive with business. Tables are filling quickly at this, the best time of day to take a seat, take a drink, and inhale the beauty. We sit in a grand square, savoring small glasses of cold beer and watching the faces of the inhabitants. While we sit, the cathedral bells peal the hour.

Before the night is over, we will have visited six dining establishments, having savoured drinks and food at each. We will have solved many of the world problems, posed very poignant philosophical questions and debated such severe topics as “what culture can rightfully lay claim to Churros?”. We will also be gifted with a chance encounter Flamenco performance that, although undoubtedly crafted for tourists, took our breath away and brought all but the most jaded or inebriated to tears.

But this will unfold in the proper order in an appropriate time frame. For now, we are just sitting.

The Art of the Beachside Bar Perfected: Sage on The Spanish Chiringuito

2010-09-17T16:50:00.000-07:00

The seafood at the Chiringuito is very good. The proximity to blue ocean and persistent breeze make the seafood and the drinks that accompany it at the Chiringuito excellent.

The beachside bar is not unique to Spain. Anywhere sun shines on ocean, people lounge and they eat and they drink. What makes the Spanish version of this activity so special is the same passion for café culture that makes every Spanish eating and drinking excursion wildly successful: An insistence on taking time to savor - like a nectar - the ingredients of the surroundings, the conversation and whatever is served. The Chiringuito is a small shanty perched on wobbly wooden planks at the end of a narrow wooden walkway. The Chiringuito then extends a tongue of shaded lounge chairs as far as is practically possible toward the line where water meets sand.

One approaches and sits - like all Spanish cafes - without invitation. The server knows you have arrived and saunters over to take your order. The question is elementary as you will undoubtedly order one of two things in the piercing heat: a small, cold beer or the perfumed glass of cold red wine and citrus soda called Tinto de Verrano. The Chiringuito also serves food… bracingly fresh seafood… the kind that tastes like the breeze off of the sea. You sit; the first drinks arrive with alarming speed, at which point everything else slows down. Shade is everywhere, neighboring conversations get lost in the constant breeze. Second and third drinks are the same as the first and follow-up food is ordered by pointing at the sizzling earthenware bowls that pass you on the way to more seasoned guests.

I am told the Chiringuito came under attack when Spain was admitted to the European Union. Attempts to standardize rules of sea-side development insisted that no private business could lawfully occupy the very sand that runs up to the surf. Spain simply ignored the request. Looking at the lithe, tan, sunglassed patrons, I can easily imagine the immovable force they would present on “strike” or rather during a sit-in. Thus the Chiringuito lives on, unchanged in a country that claims the art of relaxation as homegrown. I am glad to join in and can’t help myself from engaging in long-winded discussions about “why not” and “what-if” at my beach? The discussion peters out as the sun dips, the breeze picks up and my glass is refilled.

When Aperetivos Turns into Tapas, Turns into the Best Kind of Dinner

2010-09-16T13:50:00.000-07:00

The day was truncated and looked destined to end early. We had risen at noon. A rarity attributed to our liberal experimentation with neck pillows and homeopathic jet-lag remedy on our Paris flight. Through careful execution, we still managed to fit in the requisite daytime Andalusian activities, chiefly, drinking café con leche on the plaza and taking a siesta next to the pool. As dusk brushed the sky pink and violet, we embarked on our ritual stroll through the Carrefour market with intention of procuring the provisions of southern Spanish life: Ham, Cheese, wine, bread and chocolate. We envisioned rationing these things out over a few lazy sessions on the veranda in the coming hot dry days. Surely on this night we would make up for our dereliction and seek out an ornate feast on the public square and a concert in the park. Not to be.

Experienced readers will know that we didn’t make it out of the market without tearing into the heel of the bread and lifting paper-thin slices of salty jamon to our mouths.

Upon our return to the flat, a silent consensus led us to spread out our entire bounty on the heavy wood dining table under the rafters. Grandmother Juanita Marsh, the patriarch of the family sat with us, and as happens unexpectedly and magically, she joined us in an impromptu session of aperetivo, tapas and storytelling. The lesson in observation comes in the recognition that in any other circumstance, one might be overly-aware of time and goals and the need to make it out on the town for dinner. But I and all were simultaneously aware that what we were experiencing at the table was the magic that one strives to create each time we set out for a contrived meal experience. We all unconsciously submitted and let the night take its own form.

We sat and we lived: ate, drank, narrated, listened and laughed. By letting go of agenda and script, by embracing what we had before us, we were rewarded with a never-ending night of Juanita recounting 70 years of fables and tales of homecoming games, missed trains and high school dances. Our souls were fed and our fantasies fueled. My constantly humming mental webs of mortality, meaning, direction and virtue were- at least momentarily- silenced by the spellbinding accounts of Grandmother Marsh’s rich life. AI sat silenced, childlike in my fascination with the storyline.

This is the ultimate lesson in stepping outside of our constructed life to spend even one afternoon with those who we love, but often deem ancillary characters in our life. Travel is but a vehicle whose real use is the change of perspective that allows us to ignore time, forget our own stories and simply listen and learn from lives already lived.

The Smell of Strong Coffee and Duty-free in the morning.

2010-09-16T13:32:00.000-07:00

No matter how many times I get on a plan to cross the Atlantic to Europe. No matter how jaded and uncertain I feel, or how much guilt of dereliction I carry with me from escaping the work world, landing in a bustling foreign airport after a long night of bad airplane movies and worse airplane food delivers a jolt of positivity to my spirit. The feeling cannot be conjured by force of will, it occurs as a rush only when I am off the jet-way and thoroughly in the terminal. The energy is intoxicating: The bigger the airport, the better. This morning it is Paris – Charles De Gaulle- and the smell of strong coffee, sweet pastries and duty free perfume is a dizzying elixir to the senses. The nuances, though trivial to some, add up to the ultimate frontier for me. They erase any apprehensions I have about wandering of to Europe with no real agenda other than being a connoisseur.

The first elements of atmosphere are the graphics and signage. The scene is scores of bleary eyed Americans deciphering the glowing screens of cryptic connecting flight information. In this case, listing flights chronologically rather than alphabetically. (Why, shouldn’t I be more familiar with the exact time of my connecting departure than the destination.) The architectural awe comes next. Daylight pours in through glass and lacy concrete. Bold colors mix with organic shapes. No structure or tiny detail neglected. The personal style differences are everywhere: clothing, hair styles, eyeglasses, all of these things encountered without even leaving the airport. Then there is the food, at its best at this early hour. The smell comes first, pungent coffee and the yeast smell of risen pastries. A French airport breakfast is the great reward for having suffered through a ten-hour flight. A small croissant next to a miniature café au lait is inevitably the first travel picture I take.

Simply observing these nuances is a justifiable activity and agenda for me. Opening the senses to the variances in the small facets of everyday life is a hobby I can fully immerse in. Every country is different, but the continental consistency is in the concentration of experience, be it taste, smell or sight that exists in each ingredient.

Bordeaux and the Pyrenees: Visiting Family and Chasing the Tour De France 2010

2010-08-15T13:08:00.000-07:00

The Art of the Aperitif: L’apero!

2010-08-10T21:31:00.000-07:00

Regardless of what you call it: Apertivo, Aperitif, Appetizer, the subtle art of starting your evening with something that lifts your spirits and sets your stomach right is alive and well tonight in a back yard in southern France. Soothsayers speak volumes of the length of time that a Frenchman can dedicate to a single meal. This is no exaggeration, but must be considered with the addendum of L’apero. L’apero is an activity, A ritual that serves as the initial 90 minutes of your dining clock. At first glance, another excuse to drink. Upon closer examination, l’apero along with its continental counterparts is a very calculated way to make the most of time, friends and the meal that will soon be on offer. The idea of an appetizer is exactly that: pungent drink and small food morsels that both prepare and pad your stomach for the impending indulgence. Traveling through the continent, the commonalities of the ritual become evident:

The drink is thin and herbal, or bitter in nature. No strong booze, no wine and nothing filling. Most cocktails as we know them serve this purpose. Throughout southern France, it is Pastis: licorice / anise liquor made cloudy as it is poured into mineral water. In Italy, Iitwas bright red Campari or Apero, both concoctions of guarded recipes of herbal bitters.

The food is equally specific: salty, crunchy, briny: all things that encourage the stomach to make preparations for feast. No cheese, no Bread… Nothing to create a premature sense of fullness.

It is during L’apero, that one realizes just how purposefully and conservatively these cultures eat and drink. Every sip is taken as an event, rolled on the tongue and savored. The foods are never eaten as satiation, but rather as tastes and textures between sips of drink.

Despite the emphasis an outsider puts on food and drink, to the locals, the marquee ingredient of l’apero is communion with friends and family. Bursts of laugher and passionate conversation escalate as glasses are touched and olives, pickles and crackers are munched. It is in the midst of this activity that one understands that without company, food is just eating and beverage is just drinking. In order for these acts to have meaning, they must be shared over conversation, ribbing and posturing.

Entire books could be written on the subtleties of this sacrement as it is translated into different cultures: Ouzo, Pacharan, Martini, Pastis and Sprizes; Pretzels, chips, olives and almonds. Maybe the documentation already exists, or maybe that’s my next book. For now however, I am on my second Ricard in the back garden of a Bordeaux vineyard home. I know not what will be served for dinner, but the mood has been set for me to eat it slowly, purposefully, in reasonable quantity, and in concert with a drawn out conversation. Wine, bread, a salad course, a cheese course, some elaborate custard desert and small strong coffee will be involved, but these are topics for another day.

World Cup Viewed from a Spanish Oasis in San Diego

2010-06-22T21:40:00.000-07:00

5:45 am: Bleary eyed and still slightly shaky. The missing half-hour of sleep seems to make all the difference in the world. Not knowing what to expect, there is certainly a moment of wondering whether its all worth the waking our. Soon however, I will be awash in red and gold jerseys, jacked up on multiple coffee concoctions and sliding crispy Spanish churros into my mouth in a bar packed with Spanish speakers. It's World Cup season, and when a restaurant like Costa Brava has a mind to pair the early morning matches with a traditional Spanish breakfast, you can be sure the throngs of expats will turn out.

I arrive exactly at kick-off, crossing the threshold of overgrown ivy that segregates this oasis of Iberian sensation from the gray sky of another San Diego june-gloom, beach-town morning. The noises of anxiety and anticipation swell exactly as I enter. Three-small wooden steps, and I am transported. All eyes are oblivious to me, rather fixed on the screen where the drama will unfold. I settle into one of the last wicker chairs and make fast friends with Andres, a Spanish speaker dressed for the workday that will follow his breakfast of toast and Football. The most novel ingredient for me is the consistency of the breakfast itself. There is no deviation. Cafe con Leche and toast. The oddity is the marquee combination of Chocolate and Churros. The former, a thickened brew, barely a drinkable texture. The latter, crisp pastries under a slurry of grain sugar. The churros plunge into the chocolate - thick enough to stand them upright - and soften to the perfect consistency for consumption. At this early hour - 7:15 to be exact - there are also the life-stylers, sliding back their first, and second beers - Estrella de Galicias - warming up for what promises to be a banner day of sucking the marrow from life. I sit and watch, standing when appropriate, yelling throughout, as Spain squanders opportunities. When the action lulls, I settle-up, shake hands with my table-friends and walk out into the ocean air, still heavy with marine fog. Gladly, I will miss the outpour of emotion that accompanies Spain's losing 0-1 to Switzerland. Redemption will come for the team and fans another day. For me, the novelty of starting my day with passion drowned in Chocolate is more than enough to put a day-long smile on my face.

MOVIE 11 A Tuscan Feast... in our flat.

2010-04-22T21:39:00.000-07:00

MOVIE 10 Siena on a Moped: Wind in your hair as the vines buzz by

2010-04-22T21:20:00.000-07:00

MOVIE 9 Italy: Food (and drink) adventures in Siena

2010-04-22T21:10:00.000-07:00

MOVIE 8 SPAIN to ITALY: Valencia to Pisa. Farewell to the Family. Hello Tuscany.

2009-09-30T00:05:00.000-07:00

MOVIE 7 SPAIN: Valencia, Flaming Bulls and Flaming Cauldrons

2009-09-23T16:34:00.000-07:00

Siena, Italy: The Life of the Morning

2009-09-21T22:28:00.000-07:00

On our last day in Siena, I make a point of waking early to catch glimpses of the town I’ve known typically by night. I grab a Cornetto and Tea and head out on foot. The sun is a pale yellow at this hour, and the few active trucks create large noises that echo forever in the empty narrow streets. I walk down a favorite set of wide stairs and happen upon a squat stone building capped with a small bronze of an elephant. The Elephant carries a castle on its saddled back. This odd animal is one of the many unique mascots of the various Contrade, neighborhoods of Siena. (I’ve since learned that each of these seventeen historic neighborhoods has its own chapel and museum. This, I think, was the latter). Around the back of the building is one of my favorite views of Siena: The green and yellow rolling hills to the left and the typical imposing brick hulk of a monastery straight up the hill in front of me. I’ve often made the mistake of thinking that such a building could serve as landmark in the Old Town, only to learn that as impressive as it is, it has equally impressive, similar-looking counterparts. I walk on to the south edge of town, hugging the east side of the valley that Siena flows into. The Valley melts into a university that explains the heavy foot and moped traffic constantly parading in front of my flat. This morning the university is quiet, surrounded by damp lawns and a sky full of small black birds. The first bells of the morning ring out as I pass by the Basilica at the front gates. Skirting the tall, gold and black fence, I reach the high stone-arch of the Porta Romana, one of a handful of openings that punctuate the medieval walls that surround Siena. Later, I wind my journey to take a winding path up to the town center. I pass small alleys flanked by dirt patches converted to small gardens. Climbing up from one such garden, I come across a worker in bright blue overalls using a pressure sprayer to clean the bird droppings off of the bases of buildings: a practicality that I had never considered. I pass by the cars stacking up at the site of the farmers market and climb a last steep pitch of narrow alley that opens out onto the sunlit expanse of Piazza del Campo. The Piazza at dawn is serene: Emptied of children running with balloons, picnicking families and gelato-toting couples. The red brick paving, damp from being hosed down, reflects plates of sunlight. Echoes rattle round the crescent walls as the fancy bars start un-stacking wicker chairs to set out for the imminent crowds. I sit and watch the scene develop. It is easy to picture the whole day evolving and passing before one’s eyes.My early morning journey would continue on to the old Fortress and a stroll through the high neighborhoods for Croissants, but it is this pause at the heart of the town that embodies all of what is enchanting about Siena.

Siena, Italy: An abbreviated tour of the Top shelf.

2009-09-21T20:59:00.001-07:00

I stared at the high glass shelves with their mysterious bottles backed by mirror. I’d had two coffees and had been wandering, studying the stonework of the medieval facades of Siena since early morning. My mind was full of all manner of zany ideas about The Plague, religion and what should come next. I glanced up to notice the stoic bartender staring at the top of my head. She had a nose ring and miniature dreadlocks of jet black hair. We hadn’t been communicating perfectly, on account of my insistence on flexing my seven-word Italian vocabulary. It was clear that she wanted to know what came next. What I thought was a great idea dawned on me. It would turn out to be short lived.

I was going to march my way through a shot or snifter from each of the elaborately decorated cut-glass liquor bottles on the top shelf. There were perhaps six of them. It was a perfect plan. The bottles were too beautiful to be ignored: each with a shiny crest of gold letters, some embossed animal figure and fine print writing trailing off toward the bottom. Each looked about the same shade of watery amber. I asked for a glass of the first. The bartender sort of scoffed, unimpressed, perhaps keen to my plan due to my un-strategic selection from the top left of the shelf. When pushed for a description, the most elaborate that she could proffer was “cognac”. Fair enough, I thought. She reached high, poured swiftly and slid me the short glass with a half-inch of the stuff in the bottom. She left me with a look from under her eyes like vampires in movies give. I nodded and swirled the stuff, sure that I was in for a great mission. The liquor fairly well evaporated right under my nose. The high notes of the stuff made nothing but fumes. I took a slug, winced, and sat for a while with the swish in my mouth. I swallowed, and tried my hardest to taste it. Nothing came, so my impression of it remains at the smell. I sipped the glass down to half of its original contents and deduced that I couldn’t go on with any pleasure. After a moment of hesitation, I ordered a third coffee and poured the remainder of the liquor into the short white cup. In this manner, I made it through exactly one taste of the alluring bottles on that top shelf. I would go on to pay the bill, say something witty to garner a smile from the Vampire and retire to my 2^nd floor room to write for the rest of the evening.

Sage

Day 15: Tuscany on a Moped

2009-09-17T21:37:00.000-07:00

The wind whistles up and the air warms each time we crest another hill. Occasionally, drops of rain sting as they sprinkle down from fast moving silver clouds high above us. We are hunched over a moped, buzzing along, alone on the winding roads of Tuscany. Long sun shadows glide across the hills which show all shades of tan and brown. The tan is perhaps hay, and the brown is rough, upturned earth, ready for a new season of planting. The steeper slopes are green vines, heavy with grapes. The moped provides a proximity and pace that are an ideal way to take in both the patchwork overview and the bright details that make Tuscany so vivid.

Our mornings in Siena all start rather similar; we walk down two flights of wide stone stairs in dim light before opening a wide arched door directly to the street. This Streets of Siena are all narrow and tall. One must look straight up to gauge the weather; usually a cloudless blue sky, though the sunlight only shows as a long stripe on the ground. The heat is obvious even in the early morning. We stick to the shaded side of the street as we walk toward the Piazza for our Tea and pastries. We frequent a corner café that looks across to a pizza restaurant. This restaurant is unremarkable except for an elaborately carved freeze over its large open doorways. The freeze is centered on a detailed relief carving of Madonna and Child. The carving sits behind a plate of weathered glass, hinting at importance. Stone and metal works like this are what make Siena a city of sitting and studying. History is everywhere, just a consequence of the rent. It is possible to sit at one cafe and scan over dozens of carvings and reliefs speculating at their history.

This day, we walk from the café out into the wide open piazza. From there, it is uphill, along old bricks to the whirling modern center where the buses circle. We negotiate with a Mr. Claudio to procure our moped. He scribbles on our map to indicate suggested routes and ideal goals. We promptly misread all of it and wind around the old walled city for twenty minutes before we are righted on a path to the county side. Our destination today is the hill town of Pienza. Pienza is another of our romanticized destination, where we once walked in on a cold autumn day to a hot bowl of chickpea soup studded with truffle and olive oil. We have talked about returning ever since.

We buzz out into the country side along winding unmarked roads. Cars pass us and we pull over frequently to check bearings and to wander on foot through the orchards and vineyards on the roadside. Each bend in the road reveals some ancient stone farmhouse that sends one into a fit of daydreaming. Occasionally, we pause under a broad chestnut tree as a rain cloud passes over us. We make our date with Pienza, wander the narrow alleys and walk around the town perimeter savoring the view from each point. In all directions the patchwork hills roll down and then gradually back up to even smaller hill-towns, or solitary farmhouses. After our fill of views and Gelato, we mount the moped for the ride back. The sun starts on its downward run, and the shadows of the lanky Cypress Pines grow long. We turn off at a blue and white sign pointing towards one of the many wine cellars that dot the region. The long straight driveway leads gently uphill, along gray gravel with orderly rows of trees casting little circles of shadow. The moped crests under an old stone archway and the scene opens to a massive farmhouse surrounded by rounds of manicured turf and a smooth dirt car park. We are the only visitors. We cut the engine and lean the moped near a black enamel hose hitch and settle in to the silence that is left. The wind and a few odd birds are all the noise. We walk through a low arch, into a courtyard adorned with a dry fountain and a small dog lying in shade. One wall of the courtyard is penetrated by a single open doorway. We duck to enter and wait for our eyes to adjust to the gloom. The room inside opens up to vaulted ceilings and huge wooden casks tapped to dispense wine. A mother and daughter team man an empty wine barrel desk and engage us to sample their various vintages. Communication is spotty, but we manage to translate our gratitude. The wine is inky dark and sweet. Crusts of bread and crumbs of cheese lie on a plate for a chaser.

Back on the moped, we race against the sun to make the walls of Siena hoping to avoid relying on the miniature headlight of our moped. We crest the town square just as the sky begins a shift from pinks to purples. Claudio is waiting at the moped shop to hear our stories and our opinions of his home turf. We do our best to show him our path, and he does his best to show us where we have to go next time. We shake hands and walk off into the night. The air is still warm and humid, with a trace of deep blue in the sky. Even with such a full day, we still get to look forward to the rituals of a drink on the Piazza and an open air dinner under the stars.

Day 13: Pisa to Siena: Into the Heart of Tuscany

2009-09-12T23:21:00.000-07:00

We awake in Pisa , our stout floor fan unable to compete with the hot air of morning. We pack up and take one more turn through the old Royal Hotel. After offering thanks to the hoteliers, we head out for a walk through Pisa. The streets are busy with real people going about their real lives: cars clamor, students rush about and shop keepers lean on their counters staring into space. We head in the general direction of the Plaza of Miracles, which plays host to the infamous leaning tower, and make it not 100 meters before we are waylaid by Gelato. To be fair, this is an outfit that we had spied the night before and promised to visit. Cone in hand, we stick to shaded streets and arcades to complete our journey. The crowd systematically transforms into a more expected mosaic of tourist colors, large, black cameras, white socks and all manner of sandal-type footwear.

Once in view of the stocky tower, we pull off for a proper lunch. We are early and sit where we please as tourists and miniature cars parade by. We order Tuscan beans in red sauce, a fantastically thin pizza with creamy Burrata and aperitifs of murky, homemade bitters. As we finish, a busker playing accordion completes the scene. We cross to the plaza, make our round of the Tower, and spend some time in the cool echoes of the Duomo. Satisfied, we nod heads and work away from the lawn and its armada of trinket touts. We visit the Royal Hotel Vitoria for the last time to pick up our bags, and trundle off to the Pisa train station.

A rattling ride, one transfer and one custard filled croissant later, we are rolling up the slopes toward Siena. The scene outside the train window is impossibly Tuscan exactly as it is painted and photographed: Rows of leaning sunflowers, dry fields of grain and grape vines sagging with fruit. Puffs of seed pass by on the breeze as the tracks run alongside a sloping riverbed. Siena is a red, stone, hill-top town of former city-state glory, perfectly preserved in its medieval heyday. We have visited twice before, soaking in every moment, unsure if we should ever be back. As with many hill towns, the train drops off in a valley and one must wind up the crooked streets to make the main plaza. Siena’s plaza, “Piaza del Campo” is one of our favorite places on the planet: Large, open, and paved with hatched brick. The Piaza slopes down at the perfect angle for sitting, lounging and realizing Tuscany. At all times, couples can be seen seated, holding hands. The variety being the food they share: Gelato during the day, square slices of Pizza at dusk, and Gelato again at night. On this first evening we celebrate our arrival with a long exhale and a wistful look over the scene from the heights of the decidedly un-tropical Key Largo bar. The sky becomes amber and the clock-tower shadow grows long. We sip Campari and Soda to alert our stomachs of an impending feast.

We head down winding stone steps, passing bronze horse-hitches and iron lanterns toward Trattoria Pepei. In the past, we made a spontaneous pilgrimage from South France to dine at this very restaurant. Pepei is a cluster of close tables with candles and simple cloths. Diners look east over rolling hills peaked with red farm houses and monasteries. We come here primarily for the romantic memory of one dish: Pici. Pici is a long, thick, hand rolled pasta noodle, perfectly chewy and rough to attract condiment. Our fondest memories are of this noodle wound in Boar Ragu, Bacon and Onion, or simple pepper and cheese. Tonight it is the latter. We also order large raviolis in a sauce of butter, and of sage so fresh that it stings the mouth. Our server takes a liking to us, proffering up an open bottle of sweet Vin Santo and plates of crumbly biscotti. We leave the table, satisfied and wobbly. We climb a dark alley and emerge into the orange light of the Piazza. The clock tower is ringing. A square fountain at the top of the Piazza has marble wolves with water running from their mouths. The movement of light through the blue water paints shapes up onto the surrounding buildings. Couples stroll and sit, leaning on one-another. A small girl plays out on a violin. We forego gelato (a rarity) and simply watch the moon rise up over the arches of the building.

Siena embodies so much of what we romanticize when we head off for continental Europe. It is a city where meals with views are cherished and the surrounding hills are bright with produce on the vine. Each street narrows and constricts then suddenly opens up to a courtyard or a view of the hills. Among the buildings, every carved freeze and façade tells a story of the past. Staring long enough, one can feel the dust blow off and the stone heal itself into the form it once held. We have visited few other places where so much time can be spent sitting and re-assembling ones surroundings.

Day 12 Valencia to Pisa: A feeling of Italy

2009-09-12T12:15:00.000-07:00

We knew we were in Italy as soon as the humid air seeped into the open door of the airplane. Realistically, we knew we were aimed at Italy by the din of conversation and arguing aboard our 2 hour Ryanair flight. Italy seems always in conversation, always in motion. Spain is certainly a place for the feast and the celebration, but Italy has a crackle about it even in the mundane.

This morning we had our last breakfast in Spain. We packed in the quiet hotness of midday, and drove as a family to the airport. The expected tears and longing looks ensued: Those between family members who assumed how much time will pass before a reunion, and who recall just how impactful and enjoyable the recent events have been.

We parted company and we dove immediately into the mild chaos that is Ryanair. This was our first experience on the airline and can be summed up most concisely as a public bus ride in the air. Hard plastic and minimal employee interaction marked our boarding. In the few hours that we were airborne, the crew found time to ply us with four-Euro water, six-Euro microwaved ham sandwiches and all manner of duty free perfumes and Spirits. Our plane, laden with Italians, buzzed along with discussion between rows. Children crawled through isle-ways. Upon landing in Pisa, our crowd burst into spontaneous applause, this was repeated when the doors were opened, and again in baggage claim when the conveyor belts started moving.

We pushed our small suitcases out into the warm night air. The setting sun showed pink on the underside of the fast moving clouds scattered above us. We hopped into the first taxi we spotted and gave the driver the name of our hotel. The drive was fast, short and full of roundabouts. In short order, we whirled around the train station, darted through the narrow old quarter and crossed over the wide, smooth River Arno.

Our Hotel: The Royal Hotel Victoria, was a perfect welcome to the country. A relic of a building, perhaps last updated in the 1920’s, the place nearly wreaked of a laidback lifestyle of expatriates, writers and grand vacationers. Lounges and salons consumed the center of every floor. Each was filled with old wood furniture and desks in writing nooks. Generations of books filled shelves, large, gold framed mirrors hung on the massive plaster walls. The floors and stairs were worn marble in black and white checkered patterns. The linchpin of charm was that this grand old hotel had only a single fourth-floor shower to serve all of its 30 rooms. This I suppose is why it is today considered a bargain hotel. Our room was massive. Old carved keys opened the tall door, and full height windows with layers of curtains looked out to the street scene below. Air conditioning was an ancient floor fan. Beside the bed was a wood chair and typing desk. Opposite was a heavy, mirrored armoire.

Our room also had a bidet and a sink with separate hot and cold knobs. Each floor of the hotel had an outdoor lounge with slow moving ceiling fans, wicker chairs and glass topped tables. Some overlooked the city behind us; some overlooked the still blackness of the flowing Arno. In our short stay in Pisa, we could not get enough of this hotel. We spent all hours exploring and chatting in high-backed chairs at the various public spaces. One expected to see Lindbergh, Fitzgerald or Hemmingway tucked into the many reading nooks.

As night fell in earnest, we marched out in search of food. Pisa was quiet this night, and we had limited choices. We crossed the Arno on a low, wide, arched bridge and tucked into an alley lit by refurbished lanterns. The only restaurant visible glowed yellow with two small tables in front. The occupying diners conversed loudly and smoked. We were the only diners seated inside. The Osteria was clearly a family affair; we were approached as Italians as we settled in. The room was hot in an authentic way. Dusty wine bottles leaned in every nook, old chandeliers re-fitted hung low from the vaulted brick ceiling. The daughter working the floor disappeared and reappeared so that the chef-father came out from the steaming kitchen, wearing a whitish tank-top, to take our order. He directed us to what he felt best that day and practiced his English proudly. We were served hearty pasta in red sauce, the thin noodles having been pressed through a square die. We also ate house-made raviolis filled with a light cheese concoction.

We sat, drinking wine from a jug, discussing and digesting, letting the scene soak in. We crossed back over the bridge to seek gelato for dessert. Night having fallen, the students were out filling each small plaza with mopeds and cigarette smoke. We weaved our way through the throngs and emerged with a single scoop of mint gelato on a cone. We leaned against a statue base and watched the well-dressed swirl around us. At the bottom of the cone we headed in for the night. We marched through the brass and marble lobby and up the wide staircases to our room. Breeze flowed in off the river as the day drew to an end.

MOVIE 6 SPAIN: Valencia: Celebrating with the Llisterri's

2009-09-11T10:52:00.000-07:00

Day 11 Valencia: Celebration through food (and more food)

2009-09-08T14:54:00.001-07:00

In Spain, when lofty plans of action don’t come through and one finds oneself at a loss for the next memorable activity, food is a fantastic default. A visitor also notices that the mention of unique food stuff is likely to elicit a passionate response and a scramble to discover and deliver said food stuff. This day in Valencia was a case study in the pairing of these behaviors

Morning sees us oversleep and awake ready for a meal. A dangerous place to be in the Spanish culture as this state will lead to overconsumption that will haunt one later. This morning, we eat in preparation of the possibility of an outdoor adventure of hiking and waterfalls. The consumption is a gamble. The breakfast spread at Christy’s father’s house as laid out by Mari-Carmen is unwavering in its bounty: Yogurts, Cheese, Fruit and this morning: perfectly creamy scrambled eggs. Despite our increasing experience, we consume too much. Over the course of digesting and discussing we happen upon the topic of traditional Gazpacho from the region of La Mancha, a concoction of bread, garlic and savory broths served cold. The mere mention of the delicacy sends Christy’s father into a whirlwind of phone calls and activity trying to line up the experience. Alas, it being Sunday, all other families feasting too, we are too late to secure said Gazpacho de La Mancha. It is made clear that we are, however, in for a fantastic celebratory lunch. It is worth mentioning here, that since arriving in the presence of Christy’s father every eating occurrence has had the scale and quality of “celebratory”.

Not sure of the destination, we dress up enough to match Christy’s younger half sister Maria Del Mar, so that we are not shown up to. It is explained that we are heading to the Valencian waterfront for a classy Sunday seafood and Paella experience. We do not put up a fight.

The Valencian waterfront is all beauty and business. Tanned beachgoers frolic in chalky turquoise water and in the distance, huge cranes sway over the active port. Beach bars line the boardwalk, and families’ parade up and down the wide promenade. After a cursory stroll ourselves, we step through the tall glass doors of a pristine, white table cloth restaurant already filled with reveling Valencian families. We are ushered to a large rectangular table, adorned with the full complement of flatware, crockery and glasses. The sunlight glows through the frosted glass floor-to-ceiling windows. Not moments after we are seated, the onslaught begins. Icy white wine and cold beer are laid out in pitchers, the table is gilt with bowls of mussels in clear broth studded with garlic cloves. Plates of salted fried fish occupy the corners. The white wine is replaced with a ruby red Valencian merlot, and the plates of seafood make way for the giant pan of Paella. The rice is deep amber adorned with an aquarium of white shrimp, crawfish and small lobsters. The circular steel pan is divided into territories and consumed slowly over conversation of family and travel adventures.

The meal is brought to a close with the obligatory miniature coffees and digestive liqueurs and we exit at our leisure through the now empty restaurant. Though the appropriate time for a siesta, we have grander plans of adventure. In the car, we whisk through a few roundabouts and are soon wrapped in the tall narrow streets of downtown Valencia. It is decides that we will visit the patron Virgin and the giant church and government buildings that surround her. We enter in reverence, deposit our coins, and light our candles. We then walk out into the bright daylight and pass through the gates of James the Conqueror: the once-deep moat now filled with shrubs and floodlights. We stop for a series of family pictures. An intense siesta seems inevitable, but we are sold on the idea of one additional food adventure. We cross the busy tree lined street. Taxis and small cars curve effortlessly to avoid us. We are headed for a Basque cider house. Even 30 meters away, one can observe the intense revelry and long bar of toothpick studded foodstuffs inside. We enter as if regulars, and are offered seating at high stools. Cask aged Cider jets out of spigots, hissing into rock glasses that are lined up in front of us. All manner of fried croquettes and miniature sandwiches are placed behind those. Not two hours off of our lunch feast, we make a good showing and nibble sandwiches. The barely-sweet cider refreshes and is consumed and replenished four times over. Coffee and tea all around keeps us conscious and we pile in the car for the drive home under a sunset of pink and orange.

Once home, Christy’s half brother Pablo arrives with his Girlfriend and we take seats outside in the cooling night air, amid light conversation. Like an apparition, Javier arrives outside with the customary clay cauldron and the spirits required for the traditional Galician punch that we have been anticipating all day. The spectacle and intensity of the ceremony that follows is mesmerizing. The cauldron is filled with a combination of pure, homebrewed, Galician spirits, fresh-cut citrus, coffee beans and sugar. The punch is swirled round with a pottery spoon. The house lights are extinguished, the cauldron is lighted, and a swirl of blue and yellow flame is cascaded over and over until the drink is concentrated down to a smoky, earthy elixir. We all take part in ceremonial songs and incantations before drinking from small earthenware cups. The whole of the ceremony is truly consuming and one is left feeling a part of a newly invented culture.

It would be quite a day to say we bid farewells and went to sleep purged of ill-intentioned spirits, but this being Spain, we instead sat down to a long table of Braised Rabbit, Green Salad, and vinegary white beans.

We often make light of the celebration of food we encountered in our visit to Valencia, but the reality is that the need to make the most of every single second of family encounter means that every morsel of food was taken in revelry. Each and every meal had the splendor of a festival, because this was one of only a handful of times that this family gets to share in each other’s company. The diversity and depth of the table is a great way to express love and celebrate the value and venue of reconnecting with family and heritage.

Day 10 Valencia: Bulls with Balls of Fire: Read On

2009-09-05T13:10:00.000-07:00

One can only spend so many days in Spain without encountering bulls in close proximity. For us, this occurred on our tenth day in the country, in a small rural village, where posters peeling off the stone walls read simply: 6 cows, 2 bulls, one with balls of fire. “Embolado” as it appears in Spanish indicates the Valencian tradition of bulls running through the streets at night with some flaming compound (Napalm comes to mind), applied to the horns. This was to be our bull experience.

The day started calm enough. We had been put up in a converted plantation home the night before. The renovated ranch lay on a sprawling active orange orchard. We rose late and took breakfast alone in an enormous salon filled with heavy wood furniture and an eclectic assortment of modern Valencian art. The spread was not taken for granted: house made breads, yogurt, fresh orange juice from the plantation and spoonfuls of Nutella. We mounted an expedition to explore the grounds. Horseback and bicycle were presented as options, but we decided to go on foot. We succumbed after about twenty minutes, Driven back to the shade of the ranch by the pulsing heat and humidity of the valley.

We rejoined the family and made the long drive back to the house in the hills above Valencia. The air was much cooler and much drier and we sat out on the terrace and played games as neighboring farms burned brush. Dusk hangs forever in this part of the country. The sky made its slow show of colors and we gathered inside to learn a few tricks of the Spanish kitchen. Calm flashes of movement and a complete spread was laid out on the table. Mushrooms stuffed with Jamon, marinated shark, and a thoroughly refreshing salad of smoked fish and avocado. A moment passed where it appeared our day might end, but it being only midnight, a second wind was inevitable. We struck up an animated discussion of digestive liquors, and before we knew it, we were sampling all manner of herbal concoctions. This proved to be the elixir needed to inspire a mission back into the village to see the bulls. The streets into town grew narrow and windy and we could sense the presence of a crowd.

We hiked up a narrow alley, turned a corner and were presented with an explosion of people, young and old, seated at movable picnic tables, filling the streets. These revelers were wrapping up oil soaked paper table cloths. Snail shells crunched under foot. The entire village was in attendance. Rockets went up to warn of the impending chaos. We showed the small, red-nosed man our tickets and climbed the stairs of the stadium. Underfoot, beneath the elevated bleachers hundreds of anxious locals loitered and chattered. A continuous wall of green iron bars separated them from the damp dirt arena. A raspy voice on the microphone, and the din of the crowd escalated. Tanned men with sleeves rolled up pushed a shed sized metal box close to the corral of the arena. Then noises occurred in an order of: scraping of metal on stone, crash of metal, rattle of stick against iron bars, explosion of splintering wood. With this last, the first “vaca”, a sort of very angry cow was loosed in the ring. Jet black, with a complement of horns and intense eyes, the fury rivaled that of any wild animal. A dozen young Spaniard men scurried about the inside of the ring, waving shirts and capes to draw the cow. The frothing cow charged repeatedly and the Spaniards would slip to safety behind the iron bars. This went on far about twenty minutes at which point the cow was coaxed back into the corral and a slightly fiercer cow was loosed in the ring. As the poster promised, the fourth round saw a muscled, tan and white bull charge into the dirt arena. This animal was altogether different. Half again as big as the cows, taut and purposeful in its movements. A thick hump of muscle between its shoulder tensed with every charge. The bull rumbled more than ran as it gained speed towards the shirt-waiving Spaniards. The bull also possessed the power to uproot the various wood structures that the men would taunt from. Each time this occurred, the crowd roared with excitement and maybe fear. The bull was also very aggressive in chasing the men of the arena into the safety bars. Horns would rattle against metal as the bull stabbed with the right horn and then the left, at one point getting its head through the bars for a fleeting, moment of panic. Content with the show, we left before the bulls took to the streets.

The Bol Embolado is a tradition of many villages near Valencia in which the bull is fitted with a flaming contraption between its horns or a flammable compound on its horns and is loosed in the street for more taunting by the adventurous locals. Occasionally, this bull is fitted with unpredictable fireworks that add to the chaos. We decided to skip this phase of the fiasco and stumbled home as our second wind wore off. The night was still humid so we turned on the fans as we fell into a sleep of exhaustion.

The second and third wind is a skill that must be honed in order to negotiate the haphazard energy levels required of the Spanish lifestyle. One finds ones hosts eating, sleeping, drinking and running from enraged livestock at very unpredictable times. This rise and fall of energy combined with a nagging lack of sleep gives most experiences a dreamlike haze. It is this haze that provides memories of Spain a patina and a permanent place in the psyche.

MOVIE 5 SPAIN: Granada: Tea, Alhambra and more good food

2009-09-04T16:47:00.000-07:00

Day 9: Twenty Four Hours of Fiesta with the Llisterri Family

2009-09-04T01:54:00.001-07:00

Our first full day in Valencia sees us plunged straight into the thick of the thing. Having visited with Christy’s Father and his Family before, we know what things to expect, and sleep is not one of them. We wake up early, partly because of the heat, partly because of the bellowing voice of Christy’s father, Javier singing out. The table is already covered with an impressive breakfast spread: Breads, fruits, honey, and the always welcome triangle of Manchego cheese. There is also a plate of paper-thin sliced Jamon Serrano. We consume cautiously, knowing through experience, that food will be a constant in the coming days. As things often happen in Spain, our departure springs without warning. The family pushes back from the breakfast table and we are whisked into the car for the commencement of our day’s adventures. We have gleaned that we are off to a nearby beach town to hook up with various aunts, uncles and cousins. The combination of beach and said aunts and uncles can only mean a heavy dose of partying will ensue.

We drive along the Valencian coast to a small beach town called Oliva. We manage to sleep most of the way, our bodies no doubt aware of the impending onslaught. Some winding and wandering along tiny coastal roads and we approach the beach house. A gaggle of our relative’s wave and holler from the third floor balcony. The party begins as soon as we enter the door. We are physically passed round the room and introduced to all manner of friends of the family. The din that that surrounds us is constant. Once familiarized, the entire entourage funnels out the door and down the long sandy spit to the ocean. The Valencia Ocean is bright blue. A stiff breeze blows on-shore and birds hang silent overhead. The breeze and sight of water are instantly cooling. We walk along the shore only meters before tucking into the first of what will be many beach bars (Chiringuitos). This first one is a simple thatch roof over a circular bar of lacquered wood. The bar has bottled drinks and a single chrome beer tap beaded with moisture. We mill about long enough to pass around stories and catch up with seldom seen family members. Almost on cue, the entire cast stands up around us and we are walking up the beach to the next Chiringuito. This one is smaller than the last, with thin bamboo posts holding up a palm frond shelter. We stay long enough for one drink of cold beer in a frosted plastic highball glass. Then, it is determined that we should take lunch.

We are thrilled because lunch at the Valencian coast inevitably means steaming pans of Paella. We are not disappointed. We tuck into an elegant white seaside cottage. In due order, two Paellas are served, one at each table. They are each as big as bicycle wheels. One is traditional Paella of pink shrimp, bright red crawfish and chunks of tender fish. The fragrance is of the sea, with the musty smell of Saffron overlaid. The second table hosts mixed Paella, thick with pieces of chicken, sausage and rabbit. The rice and the crispy so carat on the bottom has a pungent, earthy flavor. Also on the table are freshwater shrimp in greens, spiced olives and tiny, purple shellfish, the size of miniature clams. These shellfish are a recurring theme: explained as a local delicacy, eaten by the plateful. We still do not know their proper name. The affair is washed down with jugs of jewel-red sangria and cold white wine. Time dissolves as we converse, dance, perform skits and break into song. Impersonations and jokes have the same tone in any language and without full comprehension; one is still brought to tears with laughter. We are served coffees and liqueurs and granted enough time to digest as determined by the family. This is about 5 minutes. We are then mobile once again, headed back to the water. We are told to expect a very unique beach bar experience, akin to an Ibiza Discoteca, replete with non-stop dancing and music. This is exactly what we encounter. The beach bar has a long acrylic bar, over which brightly colored drinks glide on their way to tanned, beautiful patrons. Glittering bikinis, Speedos and giant sunglasses are the uniform.

We sit in striped lounge chairs and sip long Gin and Tonics while the dancing thumps along around us. Intermittently, we dance, chat, and swim in the bathtub-warm ocean. The sun slips behind the castle on the rocky point to our south. The sky turns hazy pink and we gather our belongings and head back to the beach house. Somehow the dance party is already waiting as we arrive. Sweet snacks are laid out on the table, impromptu dance lessons ensue and the revelry doesn’t miss a beat. Dusk into night becomes a blur of people departing and reinforcements arriving. Food and drink are constantly replenished.

The good feeling of the celebration is the type possible when families converge. We are treated as true royalty in the spirit of Prodigal Sons. We are honored and elated as we soak in every minute.

When our hosts can see that we are no longer able to exert effort, they whisk us off for one last surprise. Rather than allow us to pass out on a lumpy couch, they drive us up to a nearby Orange Orchard turned rustic resort, where they have booked us a room. We drive trance-like through the dark coastal night, the sound of bugs growing louder until we are in pitch blackness. The resort is visible only as we turn the last corner. We round a bubbling, stone fountain and walk up a colorful stairway to lucky room number 13. Long goodbyes are said with steady, fixed gazes. These are looks shared between family in utter bliss of one another’s attendance. We fall asleep on top of the blankets as the air cools and the night bugs quiet down. The warmth of food, drink and love of family fill our hearts.

MOVIE 4 SPAIN: Churros, The Forge, Polo Match and a Chiringuito Visit

2009-09-03T16:41:00.000-07:00