the natale recital

"Buon natale... tutti voi!" I will never be able to describe the energetic cacaphony that accompanied these lyrics. Belted-out by a teeming mass of seven-year-olds during their school Christmas recital, it was as if we were all engulfed in a swirling jumble of sugar & spice and... caffeine. And all other stimulants known to man. At one point the singing became screaming - pure and simple - and I don't know if they ever went back.

What's truly amazing about this experience is the universality of "The Christmas Recital." Our Italian friends took us to their Italian son's recital in an Italian school in Italy and it was still held in an auditorium that doubled as a gymnasium. Fathers still stood in every available space pointing their cameras at the stage. And the directors of the production - in this case a group of energetic nuns and one very harried lay person - still seemed far more concerned about the specifics of the performance than the children. We might as well have been in middle America.

As for the children... the distracted and/or slow-footed among them missed their cues and ran onstage several beats behind, and the invisible wall between the stage and the audience gave way as kids vigorously waved to family members in the crowd. And the singing itself was deliciously, if not always, off-key.

While the biggest difference was the language, the excellent thing about the kids' off-key holiday warbling is that we understood everything they said. Italian children, in general, are much easier to understand than their adult brethren. Maybe it's the high voices that annunciate each and every syllable. Or it could be the outrageously simple sentence construction. No matter - when children are talking (or singing) we feel like masters of the Italian language.

There were a few cultural differences including several characters that don't usually show up in American holiday recitals. One was Beffana, the witch who brings good children presents on January 6. And another was the giant dancing panettone - the traditional Milan Christmas cake - portrayed by a kid wearing a large painted cardboard box and tights.

Not surprisingly, after the show everyone headed downstairs to a giant open space overrun by screaming kids. Adults stood around eating giant slabs of panettone and pan d'oro while children gulped down platefuls of potato chips and giant glasses of Coca Cola. The nuns flitted around the room, calmly greeting children who by now were absolutely overrun by sugar and caffeine.

Each child, though, did pause at some point to give their family a large golden angel made of spray-painted pasta. We were ecstatic to see that in the country that has elevated pasta to an art form, the beloved shells, tubes and wheels are still used by elementary school kids to make stuff for their moms.

As we left the school that evening the hallways were quiet. Ballerina costumes hung outside empty classrooms, their tutus deflated and limp. A large and lonely panettone box sat on the floor, its child actor long gone. And the nuns busied themselves with sweeping up.

But now we know. A Christmas recital is a Christmas recital the world over. There will always be a basketball net visible from the stage. And a child waving when she should be singing. And a bunch of pasta glued together and spray-painted gold.

Even in Milan.

Buon natale e buone feste.

willkommen to bolzano

We don't speak German but the people of Bolzano think we do. They ask us questions we can't answer. They say things we don't understand. And all the while they serve strange and wonderful foods that don't belong in Italy at all.

But accepted principles of geography say Bolzano sits squarely in Italy. So when people speak to us in German, and we go ahead and respond in Italian, we feel only half bad about our brutta figura. We don't intend an affront to the language of our hosts, it's just that the only phrase we know in German is that unfortunate combination of words in which a US president identified himself as a doughnut.



Bolzano is in the very north of Italy, surrounded by mountains and saturated with the flavors and traditions of neighboring Austria. The buildings, people, and foods of Bolzano are distant relatives of the cities that we've visited in southern Italy. In fact, describing the north and south of Italy as "distant relatives" could be stretching it. Bolzano is the nephew of Bari in the way your Dad's good friend from work can be your Uncle. Those kinds of relatives.

This unique mix of Italian traditions with those of its neighbors to the north render Bolzano a very festive place for a Christmas market. Who doesn't find drinking mulled wine and eating plates of steaming polenta with gorgonzola - surrounded by a dramatic crown of mountains - an incredibly festive experience? You might as well start singing "On the First Day of Christmas..." as soon as you step off the train.



When every bakery is filled with heaping mounds of sugar-glazed gingerbread and the streets are teeming with giant pretzels you feel like you've been transported to another place. A place where hearty people eat sauerkraut and giant dumplings and don't put on stilettos to swing by the grocery store.

But the secret of Christmas time in Bolzano is no secret: our train from Milan was packed solid and people had resorted to sitting in the corridors. After three+ hours on the train we all streamed off and invaded the city with our holiday joy, not stopping until we'd personally amassed several new Christmas ornaments, at least one mug of hot chocolate, and a paper bag full of cookies that - meno male - taste the way cookies are supposed to taste.



Saturday was crisp & cold, and Bolzano - with its twinkling Christmas lights and decorations - was the perfect fairytale town. It was almost as if Santa was going to come zooming over the mountains on his sleigh and make a grand entrance smack in the middle of the Christmas market. At least it seemed that way to me. Then again, a little mulled wine in the afternoon makes anything seem possible...

since we're in the neighborhood

Venice has spoiled us. It has taken us into its thin crooked pathways and dumped us out into its cramped piazzas. It has then shoved us - stumbling - back into tiny paths and towards the next open space.

We've been the rat squeezing through the python and have always used a fluttering gut sense to navigate the tight corridors of this city. And it's been incredible. Our one true secret to Venice is staying, for the most part, away from everybody else.

It's impossible to escape tourism and tourists in Venice - and who are we kidding, we're tourists with a capital "T." And the Venice of postcards and guidebooks, the Venice that captures the imagination of popular touristic culture, might be found out front of St. Mark's. That's certainly the place where you can find yourself covered in pigeons, and easily pay €25 for a bellini - but that's not the Venice we've come to see.



Our sights, rather, are set on other places. Like Campo Santa Margherita and its central tree casting veins of shadow on the cobblestones. It's there that we follow poodles chasing poodles: a brown one chasing a black one chasing a grey one. You've never seen poodles so happy to be alive.

Olivia, too, was molto felice. Not only did she have the chance to chase a pigeon out of a café but the 4 month old cocker spaniel also had a pretty good vantage for the morning's brioche crumbs sprinkled on the floor. We had our cappucci next to Olivia's owner (who we'd already met outside) and then walked out to the Christmas market to drink mulled wine. Surrounded by all that water you can't help but keep drinking.

Unfortunately, eating in Venice is sometimes less ideal. The restaurants are not known as the finest in Italy, as they usually rely on a more tolerant touristic palate rather than the demands of local clientele. While this may or may not have influenced our decision not to eat dinner the night we arrived (we, instead, stayed in our room and enjoying the glories of a rare splurge on a rather nice hotel located on a rather grand canal) we do know of a place where the food is indeed fit for the locals that fill the bar.



It's the same place we go every time. We stand along the water, our plate of stuzzichetti set on the canal wall and our bright orange spritzes - with hunks of fragrant lemon hide - giving us yet another drink in this town threaded with liquid. We eat hunks of bread topped with miraculous things. Cloud-light ricotta with gobs of squash puree; tuna crisscrossed by thin wisps of leek. There are far too many combinations to choose from.

Another love of ours are 50 cent traghetto rides across the grand canal. For less than the cost of a caffe you get a gondola ride replete with drama and boat rocking. Not only does your gondola have to cross Venice's main throughway and its many threads of nautical traffic but you also have to enter and exit the gondola without falling out. The gondoliers make it look easy but I've never felt more uncoordinated than when trying to gracefully extricate myself from an undulating gondola.



We took care in the mirror shop, too, having a pretty good idea of what a shop full of mirrors can do to your luck if you're not careful. And these were special mirrors - convex and able to capture the entire room with their fish eye optics. We were surrounded by tens of images of ourselves, and of the mirrors, and of the couple who arrived there before us and wouldn't stop chatting with the owner. But we'd had an eye on these mirrors since several visits past and weren't to be easily dissuaded. We waited our turn, no mirrors were broken, and we made it out with one new mirror and only the bad luck with which we'd entered.

Weaving through Venice on our way back to the train station we walked into a one-man marionette performance that had quickly captured the attention of a piazza's worth of kids and adults. We also happened to find a very fine cup of hot chocolate. Not only was the hot chocolate capped with a decadent mass of whipped cream but we had a small pastry filled with zabaglione on the side. Cold weather warrants such things.



Some people want something else from Venice. They want pigeons instead of poodles. Gondola rides for thirty minutes instead of three. Guided tours instead of hypnotic wanderings. But for us, Venice will always be that strange combination of random elements along random paths. And if it wasn't, then we wouldn't love Venice the way we do.

padova knows how to eat

Before last Friday, Padova still sat on our Northern Italy to-do list. So to take advantage of the long weekend (Friday, December 7th was a holiday in Milan), and to cross one more great place off our list, we took the train to Padova.

A day trip for us generally consists of arriving in a city and then spending most of the morning and afternoon wandering around eating. We'll occasionally poke our heads into churches and wander through museums, but after a year and a half of churches and museums and eating, we've found that one of the three activities most consistently holds our attention: the eating.

In addition to many other positive attributes, Padova is an excellent place to eat. Our day started with the standard brioche and cappuccino but quickly escalated into something far grander when we entered a miraculous 120-year old bakery piled high with the most delicious creations. We left with several chocolate and raisin buns but also a generous slice of marron glaces cheesecake. The cheesecake didn't make it but a few steps away from its former home before we stopped in our tracks and ate it all. The ricotta was light and the marron glaces (candied chestnuts) created a syrupy top that was rich, sugary, and wonderful.



The bakery is only one shop in an excellent covered market that boasts nearly a square block of fine food vendors. There are traditional stalls that run down the center of the market, and bricks & mortar shops along the edges. The never-ending supply of cheese, meat, seafood, sweets, bread and wine is beyond luxurious and warrants at least an hour to explore. And that's only if you're riding your bicycle past the shops at high speeds -- which, as is the norm in Italy, some people were actually doing.



In this covered market we found what we would now nominate as the best salami shop in Italy and on different occasions throughout the day purchased thinly sliced sheets of goose salami (aka heaven), wild boar prosciutto, and deer prosciutto. We ate every single slice, but not before stopping in a bar/café in the market for a glass of lightly fizzy moscato.



We had our lunch (cured meats, bread, various sweets) in the courtyard of the basilica that holds the relics of Saint Anthony. Not only did that mean we were within a stone's throw of Saint Anthony's miraculously preserved tongue but we also shared the courtyard with a storm of ravenous pigeons and a group of young nuns. Half of the nuns hated pigeons and shooed them away while the other half loved pigeons and kept luring them back with food, resulting in a consistent ebb and flow of pigeon activity. Lunch was a bizarre pleasure thanks to the Sisters.

In addition to the relics of Saint Anthony, Padova is also host to one of the most famous sets of frescos in the world. Completed by Giotto in 1303 these frescoes pre-date the work of Michelangelo and Da Vinci and initiated the soft style and perspective for which both of these artists are known. The frescoes fill the Scrovegni Chapel and not only feature seductive depictions of the vices but also a giant blue devil eating humans as they pass down into the opposite of heaven.

And not to be outdone by the hermetically-sealed entry system of the Last Supper in Milan, the Scrovegni Chapel has also installed a "state of the art" entry system to preserve the frescoes. While it feels more like an "automatic door" than "space age technology," if its installation means that people can continue to see the frescos I'm all for it.

Padova is also home to one of the oldest universities in the world. Established in 1221, Padova University gives the city a youthful kick in the pants and tries to keep the townspeople guessing. Last weekend the trees near several University buildings were papered-over with comic drawings of recent grads depicting both the highest - and lowest - moments of their teenage existences. There was also a lot of fanfare as graduating students were pelted with paint, eggs, and all manners of liquids by friends and relatives.



After zooming through the art museum connected to the Scrovegni Chapel we headed back to the city center to give one last go at food consumption. Luckily, we ran into one of the Padovan traditions that we'd read about but hadn't yet seen. A seafood vendor in the piazza was selling boiled fresh octopus. They were disgusting and gorgeous - slippery tentacled lumps of purple that came out of the pot steaming hot and were promptly sliced up by the vendor, then covered in green sauce and oil.

We might not have dug in so heartily had a couple already standing at the vendor not been eating a plate full of the stuff with big smiles on their faces. We couldn't resist. They hung around as we dug into our own plate of octopus and were very happy to see us enjoy it. The woman of the couple insisted that we eat every last bite (including the inner workings) while the man admitted that he was from Milan and had never tried this dish before today. In the end we "Milanese" agreed it was most excellent.



After eating every last tentacle we headed to the train station where we actually delayed a train from leaving the station by hitting the "Open Door" button at the very last second - we were that close to missing the train entirely. Once on the train, we settled in for our half hour ride to Venice. Because when you're that close to a city you love you can't go home without first swinging by.

a milano thanksgiving

It happened over dinner at our friends' house last month. They were asking us about Thanksgiving - they're Italian - and we were gushing about how it's just like you see in the movies. A giant turkey. Pumpkin pie. All the family around. And that's when we decided we had to have a "finta" Thanksgiving, a fake Thanksgiving, to show them what it's like.

We were lucky that we had the chance to do some American shopping on our trip home for Thanksgiving. On the return flight to Milan we must have dragged back an entire suitcase devoted to Thanksgiving mandatories: a can of jellied cranberries, two boxes of Stove Top, Durkee onions, jars of gravy, canned pumpkin... There's nothing like a suitcase full of food unavailable in Italy to remind you that Thanksgiving only happens in America.

The turkey, however, wasn't something we could bring back from the States. And so Stefano had to find one here.

You can find truffles and panettone and Parmagiano Reggiano and a million kinds of wine, but Italy is not the place you want to be when it's time to find a turkey. Why? Because they don't come easy and they don't come cheap.

Stefano special-ordered a fresh turkey from the butcher (there's no such thing as Butterball here) and when we picked it up at the butcher shop the guy basically held it up by one leg, random feathers fluttering onto the counter, and asked if it was ok. It was heavier than we'd ordered and at 7.90 euro/kilo that makes a difference. But it was also the only one they had. Which meant that it was fine.



As we walked home with this giant, soft bird body it looked like Stefano was carrying around a swaddled child. At 14 pounds it was a respectable Thanksgiving turkey by American standards. But apparently, by Italian standards, a 14-lb-anything is gigantic. So large and hulking, in fact, that there was no hope of fitting it in our oven.

So on the day of fake Thanksgiving, Stefano spent a fair amount of time shuttling between the kitchen of our friend (and neighbor) with her gloriously gigantic American oven and our apartment with its petite Easy Bake version. Big thanks to our friend and her oven because without them our dramatic golden bird would have been more McNugget sized.

Our oven focused on the green bean casserole and the mac and cheese. But before you get the idea that our oven was configured to bake both of these at the same time I should say that we had to jerry-rig an additional oven shelf with a cooling rack. As in, we laid a cooling rack across the baking pan of mac and cheese, and balanced the green bean casserole on top of it. Because our oven only comes with one shelf. That's why Stefano had to bake each of his two homemade pumpkin pies one at a time.



Everyone enjoyed the meal and we were happy to see the Italians and Americans alike going back for seconds. We kept our Stove Top secret when complimented on the deliciousness of our stuffing, and Stefano was pleased when one of the guests said the pumpkin pie was one of the best he'd ever had. In fact, the entire meal was beyond excellent, and thanks go to Stefano for a great meal and for the patience to make it in an Italian kitchen.

And let me add one more thanks - for the mounds of leftovers that kept us fed for a week. There's nothing like a fridge full of leftover turkey and stuffing to make a house feel like home.

giving grazie

Thanksgiving is best spent at home. Preferably in your parents' completely redecorated living room that is so ben fatto (well done) that when you walk through the door you don't know where you are. It's best spent with new babies and your sister's new boyfriend, and twenty-pound turkeys that went into the oven hours before a single guest even thought of arriving.

Thanksgiving is a time for green bean casserole. And Jell-o molds. And stuffing that your cousin left at home because now they're traveling with a baby and it's hard to remember everything.

And it goes without saying that thanks are given for our families and our friends. For health, for happiness, and certainly for all managing to get together in one place at the same time.

It's also time to give thanks for all of the little things that we miss about home. Those silly simple things that haunt you when you're far away.



We're thankful for the rediscovery of garlic - a spice Italian food (in America) is known for but which lays surprisingly low in Italian cuisine, at least that of the North. But in Chicago, you can coat sweet, giant shrimp in olive oil and garlic and find yourself in a small slice of savory heaven.



We're thankful for international cuisine. Hours after landing in Chicago, despite the lingering fatigue of a ten hour flight - and the onset of the resulting jet lag - we high-tailed it to the nearest Mexican restaurant. Chips and salsa we missed you! Another night was spent at the Polish restaurant where in addition to hearty potato pancakes and sauerkraut (previously found only in Krakow), we found the second best license plate in the world: BUNS. Could there be a more perfect companion to BTTR LV which we found on a ferry in 2005? (To jog your memory check out my October 2005 blog entries.)



And no matter how hard it's raining - and how many friends you run into by chance even though you didn't tell anyone you were coming home for Thanksgiving - don't forget Thai food. It's the food that we miss most and there's a restaurant on Chicago's north side whose dishes are second only to those served in Thailand. We ordered far more than we could eat but fearlessly ate it all. We know that our next pad thai is a long time coming.



We're thankful for Chicago - the city - with its skyscrapers and shopping and lakeside parks with giant metal beans dropped into the middle of them. With the bean and its smooth curves reflecting and distorting the city so that you just stare at the reflections of the buildings shooting sharply into the sky and think, "There are none of these in Milan." And it's true. There is never that vertical tug, that energy moving up, up, up. I came out of Union Station - the main train station in downtown Chicago - and I got tears in my eyes. Who knew I missed this place so much.



We're thankful for the cold. And not "Milano" cold, but real cold. The kind that comes with snow and bites at your skin and makes you wish you brought your gloves. That cold with a screaming wind that brings snow on Thanksgiving morning and lines the tree branches with thin white stripes. And what about a deer crowned with antlers running across the front yard, grunting out its steamy breath? In Chicago, it's winter and it's cold and that's how November is supposed to feel.



We're thankful for hot dogs and American coffee and breakfast. Those simple things that are so very American. I don't even eat hot dogs and I can appreciate the joy of a Chicago style hot dog with its sloppy piles of chilis and relish and pickle slices. And American coffee in giant cups that waitresses keep filling up whether you ask them to or not. And breakfast... Oh sweet breakfast. Omelets and waffles and pancakes. Everything with butter. And then just one more cup of coffee.



This year's Thanksgiving was special for many reasons. And sitting there together on Thursday, the group of us in one room until nearly midnight, I think we all knew it.

Maybe that's part of what made it so special - the knowledge that we're all so very lucky, and the luxury to enjoy that feeling together.

colazione a rovereto

We've achieved a small milestone, a first ever occurrence: the three brioche breakfast. Di solito, that is to say "usually", on Saturdays we look forward to stopping at a bar and indulging in a cappuccino and brioche each. It's just one of those things that makes Saturday in Italy special. We know that wherever we're going, and whenever we get off the train, our special breakfast awaits.

Before even arriving in Rovereto we knew we would have a cappuccino and brioche breakfast, and upon arriving the first thing we did was look around for a suitable locale. Eventually, we found a great bar with gorgeous pastries piled high on the counter and in their displays. It was very difficult to choose, but we did. And, as usual, we both enjoyed our brioche and coffee.

But then, as if in an action film from the 1980's, time slowed... Stefano and I both looked at the gorgeous untouched pastries still sitting on the counter. Then we looked at each other. Then we looked at the pastries again. There was no going back.... We locked eyes and nodded.

"Signore, we'd like another brioche."

And that was the moment our decadent Italian lifestyle hit a high note with the three brioche breakfast. But, trust me, you would have behaved the same. All of those delicious pastries, stuffed with cream and studded with nuts, swirled and curled and gorgeously baked...



Fully satiated we wandered our way to Rovereto's weekend market which, for once, resembled the markets we love to scour in the United States. It was a gathering of collectors of oddball items selling random objects of equivalently random value. In our experience it's far more delightful to explore buckets of old junk than delicately organized rows of precious antiques.

And in fact, we walked away with a gem of a find: a wooden shopping list pre-printed with the essential items an Italian household might need. Next to each of these items is a hole into which you place a small peg to indicate need. Now I'm not going to dispute the Italian version of what's important but just to give you an idea of priorities, I'll name a few: salame, pancetta, prosciutto, vino, formaggio, caffé. And such a gloriously utilitarian item cost us a mere 2 euro. Even with today's falling dollar, that's a steal.



Rovereto is also the perfect place to shop for the foods on your shopping list. We found not only the perfect salumeria but also two world class candy/chocolate shops. In fact, we were so involved in shopping for basic necessities (ie chocolate, vino and formaggio) that we nearly forgot to visit the musuem for which the town is famous.

Before heading to the MART (Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art) we stopped for lunch. Being in the Trentino region, close to Austria, does have it's gastronomic benefits and the food we had was tinged with glorious Austrian heartiness.



The restaurant where we ate filled-up fast with locals. In fact, the proprieters were turning away potential customers left and right because there was no more space. We knew we had come to the right place not only because we were surrounded by locals but because the food was so darn good.

My meal was like a head-on collision between dumplings and gnocchi with spinach, cheese and butter thrown in. Stefano had a pasta dish heaped with salami meat sauce. We also shared a polenta dish with mushrooms and cheese, and finished with the best apple strudel we've ever had.

After a shot of grappa to dull the pain of how much polenta with cheese costs, we went to the MART where we found minimal exhibits because we just happened to visit in that small crack of time between big exhibits. We were, however, very lucky to catch the exhibit on futurist artist Fortunato Depero and loved his unique vision.



The museum building itself is also fairly striking. A bit of a riff on the Pantheon, it's a tall circular structure with a hole in the center of the roof. The lines of its structure - white against the blue sky - were as much art as the collection we were unable to see. But despite the fact that most of the collection seemed to be in some form of transition we were happy to see what we did.

Before catching our train back to Milano we did some serious food shopping and then stopped for a drink. Happy to set down our shopping bags we each had a Spritz with Aperol and marveled over how much better potato chips taste around apertivo hour. Also, our setting was superb: we were smack-dab in front of a bounce house filled with italian children, sans shoes, hopping their way into early evening.

We left as the bounce houses were being put to rest, their bouncy-ness dissipating into the night at the hands of the maintenance men who had been waiting in the wings for just that moment... when their eyes could meet and they could agree that now was the time to shoo all the screaming kids away and deflate these giant abominations.

Kind of like when our eyes met and we agreed to indulge in the third brioche. Except there were no crying children at the café that morning. Only the cries of our cholesterol counts slowly inching towards the stratosphere...

Pasticceria: Pasticceria Andreotta, Via Roma 9, tel: 0464.421.291
Restaurant: Vecchia Trattoria Birrara Scala delle Torre, Via Scala delle Torre 7, tel: 0464.437.100

all saints

By coincidence, we spent All Saint's Day exactly where we were supposed to: the cemetery. Our timing was by chance; we were taking advantage of a day off to visit Milan's Cimetario Monumentale but most other visitors seemed to have come be pay their respects.

It was fairly crowded. There were husband's balancing large potted plants and cell phones, while wives gave directions and guided them along the paths. Grown sons scrubbed-down statues while their children watched and their elderly mothers gave never-ending streams of suggestions. And most all graves had fresh flowers or candles burning nearby.



The cemetery itself is a sprawling place with thousands of graves ornamented in a full spectrum of artistic styles. And fall has finally come in Milan so the leaves had turned, giving large swathes of the cemetery a blanket of yellow and orange. It's a beautiful place to wander, exploring the art and memories kept there.

But it doesn't take long to fixate on the inevitable... the nagging idea that everything, and everyone, comes to the same end. It's when you stop seeing the beauty of the place, and can only think of your eventual arrival, that it's best to speed away on your bicycle and rejoin the hum and buzz of the city. Hoping that on your way, the unruly Milano traffic doesn't send you right back from where you came.

f is for fumare

We can go ahead and cross "Go to Soccer Game" off of our Italy To-Do list. While we're at it we can also eliminate "Smoke a Pack of Cigarettes in Two Hours" and "Learn Italian Swear Words."

Soccer is a beautiful flow of athleticism and momentum and I envy the athletes' superhuman coordination; watching a ball get kicked around has never been so entrancing. And we were lucky enough to see a game in which the final score was 4-1 (forza Inter!) which meant five goals were scored. That brings a lot of excitement to the relatively short 90-minute competition.

Unfortunately, in those 90 minutes, I think we smoked at least a pack of cigarettes each. Because while smoking "inside" is prohibited in Italy, the stadium seems to be considered "outside" and every chain smoker in Milan was there. Honestly, the guys beside and behind us (and for the most part the stadium is filled with guys) were smoking the entire time. It reminded us of an over-crowded Chicago bar right before the concert starts.

Except that back in Chicago we wouldn't have had the opportunity to also indulge in an Italian profanities crash course. While starting out with the usual "Mamma mia!" and "Ma dai!" to show their irritation, the fans soon digressed into a colorful display of vulgarity that wasn't wasted on us. We know enough of the language to notice when conversation heard in polite company is completely thrown out the window. La Scala this was not.

Overall, though, it was a worthwhile experience. We even enjoyed the high-tech entry system designed to thwart soccer hooligans from ruining the game. What with the single-person mechanized entry gates and the metal detecting, we could have been visiting the Royal Jewels. But no, the only similarity to London was the dense fog filling the stadium, which had nothing to do with nature.

Maybe there's a reason why every female's soccer ticket is discounted by 10 euro. (They know your gender because your ticket has your name on it, and you must present I.D. to enter.) Although the women I saw at the game seemed to fit right in with the general mood of the place. Cheering, smoking and swearing. With the most time spent on - you guessed it - the smoking.

F is for fumare.

the off season

There's a reason they call it the "off season." Maybe it's the cold weather. Or the wind. Or the windy cold weather. But what's clear is that Sardegna in October is not the Sardegna of postcards and travel agency posters. The beaches aren't blanketed with golden Italians taking in the sun. And the sun, for that matter, often doesn't come out at all.

But the Sardgena that we explored, and that we appreciated, wasn't hibernating at all. Rustic Sardegna was there in all its wild and untamed glory. The greatest part of this island, and what it has in spades, is the feeling that this place has yet to be overrun. The land is still rough and ruddy - the hordes haven't yet come along to polish it up.



We started our visit in Alghero which is touted as a mini Barcelona for the Catalan personality (and language) left behind by its previous conquerors. Being October, the beachfront bars and restaurants weren't the thumping social hubs that might develop in the summer but the sea was still there with its magenta sunsets and views of Capo Caccia in the distance.

We ate well enough in Alghero. One night was spent in a family place where de-boning the fresh fish we enjoyed was as ceremonial as the dramatic dishing of the paella - referred to as seafood risotto in Italian. We also went to a restaurant highly-lauded for its cheese selection and indeed the highlight was a wonderful plate of gnochetti enveloped in creamy gorgonzola and scattered with chopped cacao beans - such a brilliant combination of flavors and textures.



The lowlight of this restaurant was a young British lad at a nearby table who spent his entire dining experience quizzing his parents about Star Wars minutia. Each sentence was some version of: "Mummy/Daddy, if the death star encountered -- (insert various players from the star Wars saga) who would win?" I wish we could say that for our trouble we learned a lot about the Death Star and its powers, but the parents had far more hushed voices than their child so while we were privy to the questions, the answers will ever remain well-guarded secrets.



The seas were a little choppy during our visit but we took a boat out to Capo Caccia to see the Grotta di Nettuno (aka Neptune's Cove). It's a grotto at the base of a dramatic promontory point and it's filled with stalactites and stalagmites. (In Italian: "stalagtiti" and "stalagmiti" which sounds so goofily beautiful.) The cave is also the site of one of the largest saltwater lakes in Europe whose waters eerily reflect the rock formations above.



From Alghero we took several buses to get to Cala Gonone at the other side of the island. This cove of a community is known for its incredible beaches, turquoise waters, and unspoiled nature. The beaches along the coast are renowned to be some of the most beautiful in the world and you can reach them by either taking a boat or taking a hike. But as the boats generally aren't running in the off season so we decided to hike to one of the beaches - Cala Luna.

We'd been told it was a 2 hour hike so we headed off down the highway and after about an hour of walking, we thought we'd found the trailhead and we went in that direction. For almost two hours we clambered through a deep canyon of rocks and wild olive trees with craggy walls and caves rising around us. We kept following the well-worn path and wondered just when this legendary beach was going to make an appearance. With every curve of the canyon we thought we might come upon it. But there was no sound, not even muted, of waves breaking against a cliffy shore and the only thing we eventually found was a pack of Brits who'd just scaled down the canyon wall.



This group was kind enough to enlighten us to the fact that there was no beach at the end of the line and that we were headed only to the ravine that they'd just climbed down. In fact, the beach was in the opposite direction. So, following the Brits in their helmets and climbing gear, we turned around and climbed back in the original direction. The climbers eventually pointed out our correct path and we followed it.

This time the path was in a generally upward direction. It was very rocky and we soon realized that rather than the beach being a two hour hike from our hotel it was actually a two hour climb from this point. We found this out because we kept running into hikers on their way back from the beach who would, no matter how far along we'd gone, tell us that we had over an hour to go. Really.

When we asked the first group of hikers, 20 minutes into our own hike, how much longer it was to get to the beach their leader said that they'd been walking for one hour and that they were "fast" walkers. When we asked what they'd thought of the beach the woman actually said, "It was... how do you say...? Disappointing. It was disappointing."

Ok, great - thanks for those encouraging words.



Our second appraisal came after our brief lunch break in which we spent most of the time regretting our decision to wear Tevas for the hike. Thinking it would be two hours max, and that we'd eventually end up in the water, the sporty sandals originally sounded very appealing. But after about 4 hours of rocky climbing we were praying for a shoe shop along the rocky cliffs but instead ran into a couple coming back from the beach.

The man had their baby on his back and swore that we had over an hour of tough hiking to go. He said that the most dramatic part of the beach was deeply flooded and that you couldn't even reach the water. He also told us that we should "beware of the darkness" because the sun would soon be setting and we didn't want to have to find our way back in the dark.

Again thanks for the pep talk.

We soldiered on for about 15 minutes more before we came to a very deep and steep ravine that we were going to have to traverse to keep up with the path. It was then that we took serious stock of the situation, and our battered feet, and decided it would probably be best to turn around. It was a hard decision to make but the ravine was deep, our feet were killing us, and apparently the beach was flooded anyway. Plus, if you've seen a horror film you know better than to ignore the advice of any character who warns you to "beware of the darkness."



It took us almost 3 hours to get back to our hotel and when we got there we sat on our balcony, overlooking the sea and the sunset, and listened to the waves slapping the rocks. We had beer, Coca Cola and Pringles and we'd taken off our Tevas long before. To hell with Cala Luna - we were pretty happy to just sit there.

The next day we joined an excursion to an ancient settlement at the top of a mountain. The settlement, Tiscali, is in a collapsed cave where thousands of years ago the eventual inhabitants found a site both protected by the elements (as there is a wide overhanging rim remaining) and also an ideal micro climate where plants and trees thrive. It's also quite easy to defend your position and your settlement when you are literally at the top of a mountain. For the same reasons, reaching this settlement makes for quite a hike.

First we took a ride in a Land Rover through the Lanaitto valley and into the mountains. I've never been in a Land Rover before and I've never been in a car that drove on any of the kind of surfaces we drove along. It was straight out of a movie - rocky and uneven, steep and scary. We had our seatbelts on because if we didn't we wouldn't have stayed in the rover for long. I was shocked the tires didn't pop. And after so much city living I was shocked to find out that SUVs actually have a purpose.



The hike was steep and rocky and our guide Gian Paolo took us along a path that wasn't always clear. At times we were accompanied by his second wife who was a tough cookie if not a little crazy - she was an adventure-driven retiree who thought her husband was too much of a chatter and took to perching on cliff edges to kill time while Gian Paolo told us about the vegetation. Our co-hikers were a nice German couple who spoke perfect English and thankfully were not as expert as some of the other Germans we've run into on our hiking adventures.

The views along the path were stunning and raw and so were the rocks. You could rarely put your hands down without first checking to see if a sharp rock would take a chunk out of you if you did. The mineral make-up of the rocks makes it so that the stone erodes away easily and then flows into the mountain where it carves out caves and drips itself into stalactites. Left behind on the surface are ridged groves of sharp rocks - stunning but not comforting when you're hiking on steep paths covered in loose rocks.



We eventually made our way to the top, and looked over the rim into the collapsed cave. You could see the rubble of the community far below and the small glen replete with trees and brush. We kept hiking to the slash in the wall where we entered this once-covered space now open to the elements. We wandered past the ruins along the edges where the rim formed a protective awning from weather and sun and understood how the inhabitants would have found this place such an ideal shelter.

Our lunch was at a makeshift table and benches in front of the park ranger's simple cabin. The meal was three types of cheese, soft bread, salami and wine from an empty juice jug. Yep, wine. Leave it to the Italians to drink wine while hiking steep mountains.



We joined in on the wine drinking and also on the discussion. Lino, the park ranger, took a break from his solitary work as custodian of the ruins and joined in for some chatting on the topic of nature vs. nurture. You know your Italian has come along in strides when you can keep up with an Italian "discussion." It was only when Lino dropped into the Sardo dialect that we lost his trail. But by then it was time for small shots of espresso before getting back on the trail. Again, leave it to the Italians to make espresso on a hike.

The way back down was more tenuous than the way up and even involved clinging to a rope while slinking down a steep rock face. The return trail itself had been blazed by our guide who was proud of the fact that it was not "as boring and easy" as the other way. As if boring and easy are to be avoided...

After our mountain hike we rode to a mysterious cave to learn about how once a year, in wintertime, the caving system becomes so filled with water, that its multiple layers and lakes give way and come rushing out of the cave, flooding the riverbed and roads below. “Sa Oche” as its known in local dialect is very large and goes on for many miles - but its multiple levels are not for amateurs and we only nosed in for a few yards before it became too dark to continue. Thankfully, Gian Paolo told us that when the flood is coming there's a loud noise to alert you of the approaching deluge. Meno male we were met with complete silence.



It's here that I should mention Sardegna's excellent appreciation for, and ability in, the realm of baked goods. Nowhere in Italy is the cookie so well understood as on this island. Here, they're sweet and soft and seem to involve a rotating cast of almond, honey and orange flavors. They even use sprinkles! These cookies are not only delicious but beautiful -- bringing instant joy to our room at the bed and breakfast which had been brazenly decorated in various jungle prints.

The finest bakery we found was in Nuoro and was run by two sisters: one who was a cheerful sort and ran the front counter, the other who seemed a touch more sour-faced and remained in the back. The sweet perfume when we walked in was heavenly... It immediately transported us far away from this rainy tiny town overrun with ragazzi (teenagers) playing grab-ass while waiting for the bus home for lunch.



Sardegna in October is not Sardegna in August. And that can be a fine thing. Unless, of course, you want to squeeze yourself in at the beach and work on a wicked sun burn. Because there are a lot of people who head there to do just that. But not us.

As I was saying, there's a reason for the "off season"... and it may be us: the only two people who think Sardegna is more fun without the sun.

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Excursions, Dorgali: Co-op Ghivine, www.ghivine.com, cell: 338.83.41.618

Pastries, Nuoro: Il Golosastro di Sorelle Mele, Corso Garibaldi 173/175, 0784.37955

Restaurant, Alghero: Taverna Paradiso di Lombardi Patrizia, via P. Umberto 27, tel: 079.978.001

Hotel, Cala Gonone: Hotel Cala Luna, Lungomare Palmasera 6, www.hotelcalaluna.com, tel: 0784.93133

get thee to alba

Alba is stuffed to the gills with the best this country has to offer and Alba's Truffle Festival is truly one of the finest activities to take place in all of Italy. You eat and drink your way through the exhibit hall and if you're anything like us you'll wander out with shopping bags full of terribly delicious things you've purchased along the way. It's decadent and luxurious, and all for the gentle cost of 6 euro (1 euro entry fee + 5 euro for a wine glass to fill up as you wander through the festival).

We went to the truffle festival last year and were amazed. It was our introduction to the pungent world of truffles and we came out with a newfound passion and appreciation for the strange and furtive fungus. We were worried that the wonder and joy of last year's festival might not be matched a second time around.



But we shouldn't have worried. This year was just as good as last, if not better.

In fact, our hotel was a whole lot better due 100% to Stefano's foresight and planning. Last year we threw a plan together at the last minute and were extremely lucky to even find an available room with a bed - bathroom down the hall be damned.

This year we realized that the hotel where we had a room (with bathroom!) was actually owned by our favorite Alba pasticceria, which also happens to be one of the best pasticcerias in all of Italy. It's downstairs from the hotel and just guess where the hotel's guests enjoy their breakfast... Oh, yes... that's right. Hotel guests go right downstairs for the best pastries, cakes and coffees in Italy.



There is also, across from one of our favorite Alba gastronomias, one of the finest gelaterias in Italy. We feel confident in this assessment as we eat a lot of gelato and we eat it all over Italy. This gelato is some of the creamiest and most flavorful that we've had - and its prices are right on par with normal. You don't need to be "fancy" to serve great gelato - you just need to serve great gelato. And this place does.

We ate dinner in a great restaurant again due to Stefano's long range planning. He found a renowned slow food restaurant that despite being very warm and filled with German tourists, had great food. We ate what seemed like handfuls of truffles atop our plates. Thankfully they were of the black, and less costly, variety as this year prices for white truffles have skyrocketed into the stratosphere and left our price range long ago.



Earlier in the day there was also a human tower in the main piazza. Yep, there was a human tower made entirely of people in green shirts that had apparently come from Spain. We were informed of their provenance when we asked a shopkeeper why a lot of people in green shirts were amassing in the piazza. The woman answered matter-of-factly that it was because they were from Spain. As if that answered our question.

In fact, this group had trained in Spain, was made up of Italians, and was executing human towers based on Spanish techniques and traditions. There was even a small child who would climb up the human towers to perch at the top; the towers were so high that she wore a helmet.



A grouping of vintage automobiles also happened to have formed while we were taking a walk around town. Our timing was perfect as we had just long enough to wander through the cars admiring age-old attention to detail and fine craftsmanship before they lined up to chug away. It was in a cloud of gasoline fumes and gears failing to catch that we watched the vintage parade tool off into the distance. Had we taken fifteen more minutes admiring the human tower we might have missed the show.

But at this point the auto show and the human pyramids were cherries on top of an already great weekend. After all, we were in Alba - wandering in the land of truffles, fine cheeses, and full-bodied red wines. And while I don't generally dive into wine before noon you can't help yourself at the truffle fest. It's the same logic you use to eat all the chocolate, cheese, truffle butter, truffle pasta, and hazelnut cake samples that you can.



On Sunday before catching our string of three (3!) trains back home to Milano we stopped in a fresh pasta shop where piles of pasta were laid out in the display cases. The kind women behind the counter pile it, by weight, into paper packages for you to take home and feast upon.

We left with two packages: one with small little pasta sacks filled with fonduta and another with the same style of pasta filled with black truffles. The prices were great, the pasta was incredible, and the advice of the pasta ladies was right on target. (They made sure we didn't take gnocchi on the long train ride home -- it wouldn't have held its form -- and told us exactly how long to leave our pasta in boiling water.)

Before making it home to cook our pasta we met a truffle hunter on the train. (By chance he happens to be the man on the far right in the first photo.) He was headed to a friend's daughter's wedding lunch and was more concerned that Stefano and I eventually have children than about sharing his truffle secrets. However, he did tell us that this year has not been a bountiful one for truffles and that he likes to hunt for them from about 6-10:00am in the morning. Every morning.



My question of what would happen if a truffle-hunting dog wandered into the exhibit hall of the truffle fest - would he go mad with the overwhelming smell of truffles? - was met with laughter. But he was very serious when he hopped off the train and uttered his parting words. He told us we had to find time to "comprare" children. We assume this is a colloquial phrase and does not literally mean we should find some time to purchase children. At least we hope not.

We, too, have some advice to share: if you have the time, the inclination, and the space in your stomach you must visit the Alba truffle festival at least once in your life. It's been one of our best finds in all of Italy. And we didn't need a truffle dog to point that out.

Recommendations
Hotel: Albergo San Lorenzo - tel: 0173.362406
Pasticceria: Golosi di Salute - tel: 0173.442983
Fresh pasta: Corino - tel: 0173.440272
Gelateria: Sacchero Gelato e Cioccolato - Via Vitt. Emanuele 32
Ristorante: Osteria dell'Arco - tel: 0173.363974