tofu soup and tea

A couple of weekends ago we headed out to visit the largest and best preserved palace in Seoul but first stopped at a small mom and pop restaurant for lunch. My tofu soup came out rapidly boiling and spicy, and Stefano-shi's ramen hit the spot. Unfortunately when we left the restaurant what had started as a cloudy day had transformed into a rainy one and we were without umbrellas.

Two umbrellas from a subway vendor later and we were back on our way to the palace. But then it started to rain harder and the puddles got deeper and we decided this was no day to tour the many acres of palace grounds. It was, instead, a day to drink tea among Insadong's art galleries.



My plum tea tasted like fruit juice simmered in sweet syrup and had three pine nuts bobbing on the surface. Stefano-shi had a five flavor tea that was bitter, salty, sweet, sour and strange. We shared a plate of rice pastries and watched the rain continue to patter outside. And before heading home we stopped at our favorite arcade for a couple of rounds of couples' video games.

So it wasn't the day we'd expected but I can't complain. I discovered three perfect rainy day accompaniments: tofu soup, sweet plum tea, and couples' video games. Rainy days will never be the same.

our next president

Something big has happened, something absolutely monumental. And to try to say what it means, to try to summarize it in a few sentences, could never do it justice. Here I am, thousands of miles and a handful of time zones away and I could still feel the electric hum of votes being cast and counted, and tipping slowly, steadily, and then all in a rush towards this amazing jolt to history and our times. I will never forget how it felt to be this excited about what an individual could do for our country. And I will always remember the thrill that real hope can inspire, the dizzying sensation that this thing could really happen. And now here we are, in a different place, with a different perspective, thinking of the possibilities that lie before us. And after Tuesday, isn't anything possible?

november 4, 2008

For those of you wondering whether the U.S. presidential election is big news around the world, I give you today's headlines in Korea. I may not be able to read the front page, but I can certainly identify photos of Barack Obama and John McCain when I see them.

Italy is also apparently keeping a keen eye on the election details and when we talked with some Italian friends this weekend they wanted to know what happened with the "zia" of Barack.

Just to put things in perspective, how about naming the president of South Korea... without using google. Extra credit goes to anyone who can name his opponent in the most recent election.

As I post this entry, Americans are waking up and heading to the polls... and making the news that we'll all read about tomorrow.

il vino e il polvo

When we started our dusty trek to the winery, and took those first steps out of La Morra and into the vineyards, we seemed to be headed in the right direction. But then something happened and we went su (up) when we should of gone giu (down). And then giu (down) when we should have gone su (up).

The vineyards seemed to run well into forever, with line after line of grapevines shooting into the distance like pinstripes. Somewhere along the way we lost track of the trail markers and didn't know if we were supposed to go up and over the hill standing in our way or not. Turns out we were.

So, after a long dusty haul - that included going over the hill - we arrived at the Renato Ratti winery, pant cuffs stuffed with yellow silt and shoes that looked like we'd recently undertaken a lunar landing. When we rang the bell and apologized for being so late the voice that squawked out of the call box made sure to clarify..."TWO HOURS late"...and then paused for effect.



I think we gained back some of their respect when we explained that we'd walked to the winery - yes, on foot - and gotten lost in the process. The small piles of dust that sprinkled across their floors in our wake seemed to confirm our story. We even got a glass of water before we embarked on our belated tour of the wine museum.

The tour was short, dank, and musty as Stefano and I followed one of the winery employees through an old monastery. We could make out barrels in the basement (where not all of the lights were working) and came to appreciate the unique shapes of wine bottles from the region. There was a collection of historic wine labels and photos of the man who started it all. In all honesty it was a lot of fun roaming around the small museum - and this was before the wine sampling made everything even better.



The Renato Ratti tasting room overlooks a horizon lined with grapevines and a region known for incredible wines. We sat there, wineglasses in hand, appreciating the fact that our jeans were coated with the very same dust that supported the growth of the grapes we were drinking. And these weren't just any grapes. These were nebbiolo and barbera. Grapes that become Barolo and Barbaresco, the wines people across the world recognize by their first names.



When the wines crossed our tongues in that place and after that walk, they tasted better than they have tasted anywhere else in the world. They tasted like the sun that had slowed us, and the dust that coated us. They tasted of the stories we'd heard, and a little of the impatience that had squawked at us for being late. They tasted like a day in La Morra.

And they tasted beyond perfect after a visiting Canadian cardiologist gave us a ride back to town. He not only saved us from an uphill walk back, but he should also be credited with keeping us from likely getting lost again. His generosity not only meant that we were able to catch the last bus back to Bra, but it also gave us the extra time we needed for a quick pre-bus meal. We had a glass of wine, some cheese, cured meats, a little bagna cauda...



and maybe just a little bit of dust.

burano with a b

The island of Burano is a vaporetto ride from Venice and is not to be confused with Murano, the island whose name is synonymous with glassblowing. Burano - with a B - is the farther out island of the two and is known for its lace making and the vivid hues of its homes. It's also the island to visit when Venice seems a little more crowded than usual, or when you'd like to see just how big Italian mosquitoes can get.



Now, don't get me wrong, there are certainly tourists in Burano - and souvenir shops as well - but there are fewer of both out here. Instead, Burano's crowds are of the brick and mortar variety. They don't surge and they don't run you ragged; they simply stand still and simmer in the sun. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder these buildings are slathered in the red of cherries, the green of avocado skins, and the pink of Pepto-Bismal. They are the colors that buildings never are.

We wandered the pedestrian ways along the canals and tucked into stone backyards where laundry hung. We ran from the mosquitoes, marveled at a tipping tower, and started running again. We drank caffé made by a barista who ran the New York marathon in almost half the time I did and we took scads of photos in front of walls of every color.



Buildings may not usually be these colors, but after an afternoon in Burano you'll finally ask "why not?"