Ravenna

The train system in Italy is excellent by any standard. It is (generally) on time. It is (for the most part) affordable. And it is quite far-reaching. However, after spending a grand total of 6+ hours on the train yesterday I think that both Stefano and I are feeling a little less love for the train today. We just need a little time away - absence makes the heart grow fonder and all.

Ravenna, yesterday's destination, is about 3 hours from Milan. If you take the 7:00am Eurostar from Milan to Bologna, and then the 8:45am regional train from Bologna to Ravenna - you will be in Ravenna at about half past ten in the morning. And what, you might ask, warrants a trek to Ravenna (beyond our quest to see as much of Italy as we can in the time that we have)?

Aside from being one of Italy's small charmers, Ravenna is apparently the "home of the most celebrated mosaics in Western art." I'm quoting directly from 1,000 Places to See Before you Die; A Traveler's Life List. It boasts a gigantic section on Italy and every time we visit a new city we check to see if it, by chance, warranted an official place on the list. I'm happy to report that our little visit to Ravenna allowed us to cross one more destination off of the 1,000.



We landed at Ravenna's train station and immediately headed out in quest of coffee and pastry. This is our usual system. We work up an appetite on the train by alternating between cat naps and extreme boredom and then burst into town with a need for caffeine and sugar. We shared a small café with an older lady reading the paper in the corner. We drank coffee while Stefano launched blizzards of powdered sugar off of his brioche and onto his clothes. My Nutella pastry was less messy but no less sweet. And with that recharge we were headed into town.

One of the best things about Italy is the concept of the piazza. The piazza is the town square, the center, the place through which everyone passes and in which everything happens. All roads lead to the piazza and arriving in an Italian town a traveler can simply follow the flow into the main piazza. No map needed. It's a beautiful thing.



These piazzas are always filled with people milling about chatting, drinking coffee at small tables, passing through. They are filled with bicycles and babies and dogs. Fountains and columns and people holding hands. They are wonderful slices of life and immediately project the personality of the place into the public sphere. Ravenna's Piazza del Popolo is no different and in the course of the day featured a wedding (arborio rice being thrown at the bride and groom), a presentation by the local ambulance crew (clad in their neon orange uniforms), and a host of people just living their lives.

From the piazza we headed in search of mosaics. The mosaics for which Ravenna is known are found in various locations - each location putting up a good fight in the battle for the most unassuming exterior. However, it's the luxuriously decorated interiors of these 5th and 6th century structures that are astounding. Absolutely astounding.



Craning your head back in the Basilica di San Vitale, which was completed in 548 AD and was the inspiration for the Hagia Sofia built 10 years later in Constantinople, gives an extraordinary view. The mosaics are stunning and beautiful vistas that sparkle with color and light. It's very difficult to understand how 1,500 year old flecks of marble and stone can add up to these incredible scenes so many years later. I am by no means a mosaic expert but I will say that these mosaics are beyond pretty. And that anyone putting these things together 1,500 years ago had to have been some kind of genius. The turquoise color alone is well worth the visit.

(P.S. I think we also found the name of our future dog among the mosaics. Now to the small matter of figuring out which kind of puppy our allergic Stefano just might be able to tolerate.)

A short walk away is the Mausoleo di Galla Placidia, a small 5th century mausoleum said to house the tomb of Galla Placidia, sister of Rome's last emperor. It's small and dark and the light that does filter in through the alabaster-slabbed windows catches the mosaics, making them twinkle. The vaulted ceiling is covered in stars and the walls feature everything from flying cows to celestial visions. Again, the age of the place and the marvelous condition it's in is simply overwhelming.



The Battistero Neoniano (5th century) and the Basilica di San Apollinare Nuovo (6th century) are also covered in mosaics. It's best to just take a seat (if one is available) and let your eyes wander over the intricate designs. You start to think about the history here. About how Ravenna was the western capital of the Byzantine empire for 200 years. How it had also been a capital of eastern Rome during its fall. Sitting in that place, 1,500 years later, looking at tiny bits of stone stuck to an ancient ceiling, you start to think of how very new the United States is. And how amazing it is to be in a place that's so very old.

Dante's tomb is also in Ravenna and let me warn you - the tomb, like half of Italy, is currently under renovation. So while we can say we were within five feet of Dante's grave, we cannot say that we saw it. It's behind obligatory construction netting, like half of Italy, and we were not permitted even a glimpse.



We ate in an excellent osteria and I had one of the finest glasses of wine I've had in this country. In our wanderings we managed to find milkshakes (hallelujah!) and an excellent rosemary piadina -- an unleavened bread that is unique to this area. We also stumbled across the salted dark chocolate that we have been looking for since first tasting it almost a year ago at the Torino chocolate fest. Turns out it's produced in this region and so by wandering into a random sweetshop we were able to be reunited with our long lost chocolate love.



Special mention should also be made that Ravenna is a bicycle town. There are strips of light stone running down the centers of the pedestrian streets and this is where the bikes roam. There are entire families, and older folks, and ladies in high heels. There are baskets filled with flowers, with grocery shopping, with dogs. People are smoking cigarettes, talking on cell phones, ringing their bells at the walkers they're about to run into. But no one ever runs into anyone. And little kids wield their balloon swords while Mom peddles and grandmas wear their fur coats magically keeping them out of the gears. And life surges on. A life found only in Italian streets. And Italian piazzas.

Ravenna was wonderful for its mosaics but it was more wonderful for its people. Its flavor. And its piazza. There's just something about a piazza...

quiet night

This was our first overnight trip to Venice and so was also our first time wandering its honeycombs after dark. I say "honeycombs" because for me Venice is a city built of miniature quadrants and pathways.

Petite canals turning around corners, isolating buildings and pathways. Diminutive bridges connecting one cube of land to the next. An ingenious webbing of tiny plots that as a whole becomes Venice.

And at night, the cracks and corners are illuminated. Hidden light crosses the canals and skitters across the surface. Boat traffic slows and the waters still. Windows at water's edge spill a mystery glow into the night.



All the while your footfalls bounce off of surrounding walls and thin corridors spill you into dark piazzas with long-quiet wells closed with heavy iron lids. The canals, now quiet murky mirrors, stay still and silent.

You know you will find your hotel - know that it must be out there somewhere - but it still feels as if Venice might just have swallowed it whole. And now waits quietly for you to discover its mischief.

wandering venice

Wandering around the streets of Venice last weekend was not only an exercise in not getting lost, but also in costume admiration. Peppered into the crowd of regularly-dressed people were those in full costume. These costumed moving targets render all of Venice into an obstacle course of sorts because as they make their way through any crowd, inevitably the crowd will stop. It will part. It will reassemble in an unpredictable way with camera-wielding individuals moving at the costumed revelers and all others moving away. Now this scenario is easy to picture on a large throughway, even an average Milano sidewalk. But in Venice where you're navigating tiny spaces and out of the way bridges, this is a challenge. Enjoyable, yes. But a challenge.



The quest through Carnevale in itself is also somewhat exhausting. It warrants quiet time here and there. A rest. A break. Some people are able to recharge in the sunshine on a bench. Others, like us, go to the Guggenheim or the Palazzo Grassi to view modern and contemporary art. Nothing like a steer suspended in formaldehyde to get those energy levels back up!



For some reason, children in costume never seem to tire. They are always able to dig into their bag of confetti to hurl that one last fistful at an unsuspecting adult. Going over one of the main bridges we were ideally placed behind a 10-year old cowboy-hat-wearing cowgirl who just couldn't resist throwing confetti at everyone. And for some reason, probably because we were all packed so close together on the bridge, none of the adults saw it coming. Not a one. Each recoiled as the colorful paper bits hit them in the face. And then they would look around to find the assailant as if that mattered. By the time they caught a glimpse of her she was on to her next target.



There seemed to be a few regulars wandering around town. Older folks with dogs. With newspapers. With a walk that said they knew exactly where they were. Though they were the rarity it was nice to see them there, to know that not everyone was just passing through.



To live in Venice can't be easy. The gondola traffic alone has got to drive you mad. All of the striped gondoliers shuttling couples past romantic vistas. It's a real world vision of Disney World's "It's a Small World" ride. And then there are the couples drinking wine along the canals, eating plates of the wonderful little tapas so popular in Venice.



Wait a minute... that was us. A wine glass perched at the canal's edge. Watching passers-by make their way up and over the bridge. Wondering why we'd never had an anchovy on top of a pearl onion before. And wondering if we should go back into the bar and get another.

We didn't. But only because there was a gelato shop next door. So we went in there instead.

Carnevale a Venezia

Carnevale in Venezia is well-attended and well worth the effort. The city may be packed with tourists, and you may need to flee to the modern art museums during the day for breathing space (as we did), but Carnevale in Venice is too grand an event not to warrant a visit.



What exactly is Carnevale, you ask? I'm not sure. By the looks of it, Carnevale involves wandering the city dressed head-to-toe in elaborate costume and occasionally lifting your mask a bit to enjoy a 10:00am glass of wine at the coffee bar. If you're a child it's your opportunity to unabashedly launch handfuls of confetti at all passers-by while if you're a young adult your aim is to launch, instead, bottles of wine down your throat.



For all of the Bacchanalean behavior, it's a somewhat organized affair. You wind your way down to the Piazza San Marco -- the Piazza of postcards and pigeons fame -- and either strut around showing yourself off, or stand around watching the others strut. There are also performances scheduled throughout the day and night; the most enthralling involving either rock music or fire. (It's hard not to be impressed by a 15 foot flaming stick figure. I should also mention that the early 90's dance music leading up to the performance was top rate. I don't know when I last heard Rhythm is a Dancer, Mr. Vain, and Show Me Love in one continuous set. We weren't ashamed to shake a tail feather in the Piazza.)



You can watch giant men, in giant ball gowns with hoop skirts underneath, work their way through the crowds. You can watch tiny, adorable Winnie the Poohs charm everyone in their path. (We couldn't get a good shot of Pooh because everywhere he went the crowd converged around him. Even drunken teens were enamoured and would stop dancing to crouch down and give him a tap on the head or take his picture.) And you can watch Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf take a load off and rest a while.



Piazza San Marco was covered in confetti and crammed with people. The mood was joyful and the folks in costume would pause to let everyone else take their photos. There was impromptu singing and long conga lines of young people swirling through the crowds -- the line getting longer and longer with each spiral around the square. Vendors with carts covered in masks lurked at the edges while husbands balanced cameras on their wive's heads in order to steady the nighttime shots.



What a wonderful place to be. With art and illustrations projected on these historic buildings and the bell tower. With live music and dance. With wine and fire and confetti fluttering in the air. The nights were crisp and clear and Stefano and I stood in the midst of it all, soaking it in.



And after the concert the crowds filtered out into the maze of tiny Venetian streets. Costumes drifting over the pavement, the canals reflecting color and light. Is there a better place for Carnevale to unfold?

pompeii is for lovers (of history)

On August 29th, 79 A.D. Pompeii disappeared under a catastrophic heap of hot mud and volcanic ash. Mount Vesuvius had been threatening smoke and ash for several days and when it finally erupted a 30 foot blanket of volcanic rubble fell to earth and choked the life out of Pompeii. What had been a fully-functioning Roman city of 20,000 instead became Roman life brought to a halt.

Discovered in the 1600s, excavations didn't start until 1748 and continue still today. Pompeii is estimated to cover 164 acres with 75% officially unearthed. What you can see, and explore, is shocking for its modernity and artistic development. And also for its resemblance to the cities we all still wander today.



When you walk the streets of Pompeii, you are actually walking on paved streets. There are sidewalks and water troughs and ruts where wagons ran the road raw. There are doorways, and tiling, and political slogans crawling across walls in elongated red script. There are bakeries with ovens and large grindstone mills that once transformed wheat to flour.

Pompeii is a ghost town and you really feel the absence of its inhabitants. There are tourists - speaking every language - and the smart ones have brought a picnic lunch. (We only brought cookies and water.) But there is no one there who looks the part. No one running the flour mills. No one leading a wagon through the wheel ruts. What you feel is the absence of life and the absence of those who called this place home. This is no Williamsburg.



There is amazing art to be found in Pompeii and you get the sense that Pompeiians were great fans of art and life in general. There's a gusto lying beneath the dustiness and the sun-bleached rock. There are murals painted in vivid colors and complex mosaics with shocking detail. It's hard to believe that this city's moment in the spectrum of time was 2000 years ago. 2000 years... A lot has happened since then but as they say, a lot has stayed the same.

It's hard not to mention that the world's oldest profession was well underway 2000 years ago. There are the frescos and stone slab beds to prove it. In fact, one of the only - if not the only - buildings in all of Pompeii to be outfitted with electrical power (to aid the visitor's sightseeing abilities) is one of the brothels. The erotic illustrations above the various rooms are highly illuminated and very visible. Not all the art in Pompeii is what one might term high art. Some of it gets pretty low.



There are, though, the frescoes within the Villa of the Mysteries. This villa, slightly off the beaten path but worth the detour, features rooms brimming with color and majesty -- four walls covered in ancient storytelling and beautifully tiled floors skating along below. The art in the above room is said to depict the the initiation rite for females into the cult of Dionysus. With the marble flooring and gorgeous painting there is nothing about this place that says 2000 years ago. You spend your day re-examining your understanding and assumptions of ancient history. And wondering where, exactly, all the dogs came from.

It's the one thing I remember clearly about my visit to Pompeii with my sister over 10 years ago: the sun-stricken dogs laying all over the place. And they're still there. Just lazing about. Another thing I remember clearly is that we took a ride with an Italian family in their very small car, with its cardboard floor, to get to Pompeii. Apparently we had wandered very far off track in trying to find the main gate and this family just picked us up and took us there. You would call it hitch-hiking except we didn't ask for the ride. It just sort of happened. But I digress.

There are grand baths at Pompeii, separated into sections for women and men. There are columns and temples. Cemeteries and theaters. A giant coliseum with seats rising towards the sky. This place is complex and immense and you get exhausted wandering its streets.



There are casts of the human victims whose shapes were preserved under the ash. The faces are tormented and the bodies contorted. They are in contrast to the elegance of the art with which their lives had been surrounded, natural disaster reducing them to the basic elements once again. Its a blunt reality check. That on these streets there had been people selling their wares, walking their children, drinking their wine and then one day it all went away.

How these places have been extracted from the ash I do not know. But here they are, standing again. And standing in strength. You realize that the loss of Pompeii and its people in 79 A.D. is a gift to us today. Where else can you feel, actually touch, the way ancient Romans lived. Where can you lay a hand to the stones that paved their streets? Linger an eye along the frescos that decorated their lives?



Pompeii is one of those places. And as much as it feels old, and disturbing, and historic, it feels - at its heart - real. And this is the best part. We read history books. We hear lectures and lessons. But in Pompeii we walk Roman streets and walk through Roman doorways.

And keep a Roman eye on that volcano in the distance.

amalfi coast'n

The Costiera Amalfitana is one long, gorgeous stretch of aquamarine and green, and is touted as one of Europe's finest coastlines. It runs along the southern side of Sorrento's peninsula and is identified with the towns of Positano, Amalfi and Ravello among others. Speaking from recent experience I would also mention that it seems to be one of Europe's sheerest coastlines. As in cliffs. Cliffs that the bus hugs, throttling its way down the winding and motorcycle-clogged Italian road.

Naples is a short train ride away from Sorrento and from Sorrento you can take the bus to towns along the Amalfi coast. There are also excellent pastry and promenade opportunities in Sorrento. Before catching our bus we hit the streets with the rest of the town and rolled up to a great café.



The baristas all wore dapper almond-shaped caps and resembled something between short-order cooks in an American diner and flight attendants of the 1960's. And not only did they have great little hats (as did many of the baristas in Napoli) but they also dust your macchiato with a cocoa powder smiley face.

When we got on the bus there was a sign above the driver that basically said "whatever you do, don't bother this guy - he's driving." In fact, there were two signs saying this. One went so far as to say it was "prohibited." And there was a picture of a saint. We should have known.



We'd received advice to sit on the right side of the bus and at the beginning of the ride we didn't quite understand the significance. There were a few good views but there were also a lot of views of olive and orange trees. Nice, yes, but not something you need to sit on a certain side of the bus to see. But, wait. As the bus wound its way up and over the peninsula we go to the side with the views. And the cliffs. And the drama.

It was stunning. Aqua water as far as the eye could see. Cliffs so sheer you couldn't see their faces. And tiny pebbled beaches in nooks and crannies. There were small colorful towns clinging to steep slopes and others perched high above the sea. There were islands dotting the turquoise horizon and sun riding the water like shocks of glitter. It was marvelous.

And it made me nauseous.

So nauseous that I had to move to the other side of the bus. The wrong side of the bus. And Stefano said I turned green. We had opted to go all the way to Amalfi, bypassing Positano with plans to return to it on the way back. This meant an hour-long ride which sounded great when we'd made the plans.

However, in practice, it didn't sound very good at all. It sounded awful. Apparently the cold I had was impacting my equilibrium and this was impacting my ability to ride a bus without feeling so nauseous I could cry. The good news is that I didn't cry. And I didn't throw up.

And as requested, I didn't talk to the driver.

When we got to Amalfi I peeled myself from the bus seat I'd been laying on and Stefano, in a moment of utter brilliance and perfect understanding of Italy, made a beeline to the pharmacy. It was not only Sunday (egads!) but it was one o'clock (heavens, no!) in the afternoon. The fact that it was open at all was something of a miracle. No sooner had Stefano bought me a package of Travel Gum and stepped out the front door, then the pharmacy closed up tight.



As I chewed my magical gum and started to feel much better we went on a hunt to find food in the off-season. Amalfi is a beachside town and so it wasn't exactly hopping in early February. We did find an Italian version of grilled cheese, several pieces of pizza, and a pastry or two. I was feeling better and it was a beautiful place. So many colorful buildings, the nook and crannies Italian towns are known for, and of the course the laundry drying outside. Even from the entrance of a church with signs reminding visitors of the dignity of the place, you could see someone's towels and aprons flapping in the breeze. If you don't love that, you don't love Italy.

We went to the shore and walked the beach. You can easily imagine the summer there. What were open spreads of beach for us, would become strangled with beach umbrellas and towels, chairs and sunbathers. We preferred it as it was - empty, quiet, and a touch too crisp. It was perfect.



We took the bus back to Positano and followed gravity down to the shoreline there. It was the same sort of quiet, and the same turquoise waters. Churches and homes clung to the steep grades and teens played soccer on the deserted beach. A scraggy artist painted the seashore and older people watched kids chase dogs.

There were no sunbathers. No sunhat sellers. Rowboats sat on the shore, upended and waiting for the season. It was perfect and verging on solitary. Except when we wove our way back up to the bus stop. Suddenly we had found a crowd and we all waited at the side of the road. Everyone had their own way of passing the time, mainly griping about the bus not arriving and/or smoking. We just sat there hoping our toes would not fall victim to the next fast car zipping along the coastal path.

Apparently we were lucky. When the bus arrived we were all able to board and there were seats for all. In peak season, we've since heard, you're often left waiting for several buses before you find an opening. All the better for the off-season. And more the better because I didn't get nauseous on the ride back. I just kept chewing that magical gum.

And not talking to the driver.

amore on the water

Taking a walk along the Bay of Naples is vastly different than strolling around Milan. There is no grey matte finish to the sky. You can see the sun and confirm its existence. The water shimmers and flows. You remember that even in cities there can be a touch of nature. Or an entire coast.

Naples and Milan, both in Italy but with a large swath of the country in between them, share one firm commonality. The traffic may be far more hectic in Naples. There may be larger and more fierce swarms of scooters leading off at every traffic light. And there is certainly a local dialect that trumps any and all Italian language skills I've managed to accumulate. But...

This is still Italy. And so this is still the land of unabashed public affection.



This couple could be anywhere from Milano to Napoli; they have all the basic requirements. They have a motor scooter. They have their shared admiration. And they have, without a doubt, no shame in canoodling in public.

To them, I say good for you. It's a fact that many Italians live with their parents well into their thirties. So everyone, including their parents, probably prefers that they share their romantic antics away from home. Along a busy street. Perhaps on the sea shore as the sun sets behind a colorful jumble of homes.



It bears repeating that in my brief Italian experience this appears to be quite normal from North to South. In fact it made me feel at home in Naples. Because even though I couldn't understand what many of the locals were saying, I knew that, by the look of things, they were still quite Italian.

ah napoli

They're lucky they got us to leave.

The apartment we stayed in while visiting Naples last week looks out not only on the sea, and on the island of Capri, but also on Vesuvius and most of downtown Naples. We had never shared space with a volcano before. Had never thought so much about the way a city, like Pompeii, could grow and thrive and then simply, one day, disappear under hot clouds of ash.

It's not hard to imagine why the south of Italy, and Naples in particular, seems to be so connected to the ebb and flow of life, the highs and lows. They sit between the sea and the storm, the cool waves and the lava.



Each morning we awoke to the sun rising over Vesuvius, and birds starting to circle over the water. The shadows of palm trees with their jagged fronds slowly took on the light and became crowns of glorious green vegetation. At night the sun dropped behind the city, laying a blanket of pink and purple across the sky. It's a charmed place.



Fraught with problems, sure. Known for having issues, yes. But you cannot get me to say anything less than positive about this city. About Napoli.

It's a city with a heart. A vivid wild heart that thumps out of the enoteca and lines the streets with laughing, emotive Italians. A heart that lives in food so good and so real that you can't believe you could be so lucky. A beat that strums in espresso so strong that each tiny cup of coffee is served with a companion glass of water.

This is a place with a personality. It screams love me or leave me.

And we fell in love.

valle dei templi

Just to review, Sicily (Sicilia) is the island about to get punted by Italy's boot. It sits in the Mediterranean, surrounded by blue ocean and blue sky, under a glowing blanket of sun. The soil is more orange than brown and spills out in craggy rocks and under large cactus groupings.

The benefit of taking a two-hour train ride across the island is the striking terrain streaming past the window. We were headed south from Palermo to Agrigento to visit the Valley of the Temples (Valle dei Templi) and although it was an early morning train - and it was a Sunday - we stayed up to watch the show. Our train started along the sea, paralleling stone beaches and deep blue waters. And then the train turned inward and crossed the island.



The land was gorgeous and raw, with the tough glow of something baking in the sun for ages. There are rough reaching hills and miles of flatlands pooling at their bases. Orange and lemon trees. Yellow grasses rolling down embankments. Patches of yellow soil tiger-striping the land where vegetation hasn't taken hold. Single trees, and their shadows, spotting isolated stretches. One ruined stone cottage in 5 miles of lonely land.

It was a very different view than we're used to seeing and we thoroughly enjoyed it. That's the wonder of Europe's trains - not only do you get where you're going, generally economically and on time - but you also get to see what passes along the way.



We landed at the Agrigento train station and began the always amusing process of figuring out how to reach our true destination. After a 7 euro map (unnecessary), several free maps (slightly more necessary), 2 coffees (not the way we like them), a run to catch the bus (successful), a bus ride (also successful), and a dusty walk along the side of the road we had reached the Temple Valley.

At this point I should add that the average Sicilian speaks Italian in a very different way than the average Milanese. Credit it to geographical differences but the Italian language down south is a lot less vocally precise than the Italian spoken up north. So while the people we ran into in the tourism industry spoke very annunciated Italian - presumably because they are used to dealing with Italians from all over the country - the average folks on the street were a challenge to understand. Neither of us understood an overheard conversation among locals in the same way.



But we did find the Valley of the Temples and the ruins there are absolutely stunning. These are acknowledged to be some of the finest Greek ruins in the world and date from as early as 6th century BC. There are four specific areas with standing columns, two of them consisting of very complete temples. And the additional marvel is that you simply walk from one to the next. We took about 3+ hours to view the sites but that's because we like to linger (and take a few photos along the way). The woman who'd rented us our audio guide estimated it would take about an hour and a half -- I guess you can run through if you have somewhere else you'd rather be than wandering amongst ancient Greek temples under a cloudless sky.



You wander among the fallen stones and think of what these places looked like in their heyday, how they showcased the power of the region, and stood far taller than anything people of that time had ever seen. Standing in prominent view of the sea, these temples sent the message to all water-going arrivals that this place was a strong, vital area. Still standing today, glowing in the winter sun, the message was quite the same.

It was surreal to be in an Italy that felt so different. Not only was the weather slightly unnerving (70 degrees and sunny instead of 50 degrees and grey) but the setting... Grecian temples and palm trees... would be unfathomable up north. Sure, we've got some Roman ruins, and ok, the sun comes out occasionally, but a place like Agrigento - and Sicily in general - is a wonderful shock to the system. I doubt, though, that a Sicilian visiting Milan would find the shock they receive quite as invigorating.

drinks for due

After a Saturday afternoon exploring Palermo we were walking along minding our own business. Enjoying the sidewalk (there actually was one), keeping an eye out for when the sidewalk might unexpectedly cease to exist, and doing our best to ignore Palermo's most heavily-used communication method: the car horn.

We were feeling a bit worn as we'd woken up in Milan at 3:30am that morning. That's early enough that you can call your family back in the States and they won't have gone to bed yet. I know this because I called my Mom. And she hadn't gone to bed.

At 4:30am the cab came and dropped us off at the train station. We had to catch a bus to the airport because the train wasn't running yet. Too early for the train is definitely too early for humans. So we waited for the 5:00am bus to Malpensa. Sure, we could pop for an 80 euro cab ride but that means we'd have to feel equally good about similarly wise uses of money such as dental floss made of gold and 6 inch crocodile stilettos.

When the bus finally decided to stop taunting us from a block away - where it had been parked for a good ten minutes - and drive on over, we boarded. I should point out that the ragazzo (young man) driving the bus was listening to dance music. Very rapid dance music. And it was still pitch black out. It really felt like we were going to a dance club along with a busload of our newest friends and all of our suitcases.



Once on the road we realized that the layer of fog we awaken to every morning in gray Milan ain't nothin'. It's but a sad little sheet of air that needs a diet so it hangs low. On the highway to the airport we saw real fog. Fog so thick you couldn't see anything more than a few feet in front of you. Nothing. And this is a few feet in front of a bus driving on the highway...

Luckily we got off the highway for a few miles and instead tried our luck with winding roads and fewer street lights. And as soon as we'd gotten back on the highway - dance music still thumping - we got caught in a traffic jam. Nothing like a 5am traffic jam in dense fog to drench you with positive feelings and excitement for the weekend. And the cherry on top? That was the 5 car pile-up we drove past along the side of the road.

But rest assured we made it to Malpensa on time. Only had two Italians cut in front of us in line and they made the rare gesture of asking if it was okay as they did so. Our plane had understandable problems taking-off on time but once in the air it was but a mere hour and a half to Palermo.

We landed on Sicilia (Sicily) under a golden sun, amidst palm trees and blue sky. What a gorgeous difference - it felt like summer with spring temperatures.

But after a day of exploring wild Palermo (more entries to follow) our early morning wake-up was dragging us down.

That's when we passed the pictured vendor across from the Duomo. We'd not have noticed it except for the sharp and enticing scent of lemons that wrapped around us both as we walked by. It was the scent of a field of lemons split open, lemony goodness absolutely everywhere.

But it was really just in this little stand. And more importantly, it was in what the two people standing in front of it were drinking.



We ordered two. Immediately. And watched the barman craft them. There were fresh lemons and fresh oranges. Seltzer and syrup. The whole thing was shaken and stirred until it developed a froth and all the bits of lemon pulp had floated to the top.

It was a wild ride, this drink. Tart beyond tart. Biting and fizzy. Great and unbearable all at once. Hallelujah for a challenge. And I feel no less a woman for asking for a bit of sugar. And then some more.

I can't tell you what the drink was called. But I can tell you where to go. Across the street from the Palermo Duomo. It's in an alley nook of sorts and it's manned by one guy. Unless he has to step away for a minute and then his friend covers for him. Don't ask his friend what the drink is called, he doesn't know.

And neither do we. We just know that it tastes like Palermo in the early evening after a long day of travel and sun. And car horns. In Palermo you just can't escape the car horns.

molto chiaro

This sign in the window of a very modern Milano café reads: Looking for young ladies. Maximum age 25. Evening work. Waiting tables.

There's a tie for the aspect that I appreciate most about this sign. I can't decide whether it's the sheer brazenness of the qualifications they've listed as necessary for employment (being a female and being under 25) or if it's the absolute impossibility of this sign ever showing up in the United States.

The Milanese don't ask much of their city. Just the freedom to drive around on the sidewalks when street traffic is heavy and the social permission to smoke cigarettes with abandon despite international health warnings. As long as these basic rights are guaranteed, equal opportunity hiring doesn't seem to come up.

Besides, the work year is only 11 months long in Italy. What with everyone on vacation in August, there's not much time to focus on workplace improvements.

la strada

I love the streets of Milan. Each its own short sweep of Italian life. Of Italian sun. Of Italian style.

No amount of slow-moving Italians keeping me from getting to work on time. No number of motor scooters nudging up behind me on a skinny sidewalk. No asphalt turned syrupy sticky in the August sun. Nothing can keep me from appreciating a walk down a Milan street.

Why bother chasing down the giants if you can't love the small wonders along the way?

auguroni

It's only fitting that my 100th post be the first of a new year and so I say buone feste e buon anno to all! (Happy holidays and happy new year!)

We're settled back in Milan after a whirlwind December that saw far too many flights through Heathrow on the way to other destinations but happily also saw visits to and from many of those we love most. There were travels to Miami and Chicago - with a stop at Heathrow in both directions. And there was a visit to Newcastle (UK) with a stop at Heathrow again in both directions - with the added drama of diverting into Paris on the way home due to a medical emergency on the plane.

With all the talk of flying, and Heathrow, my belated gift to you this holiday season is our "December 2006: Travel Findings and Tips" highlighting just a few of the things we've concluded during this well-traveled month. The photos of Milano awash in holiday glow should get us back into the holiday spirit.



Number 1: Do not fly through Heathrow.

Really. We've come to the conclusion that the extra expense of avoiding Heathrow is well worth it. The place is a crazy mash of too many people, too many terminals, too many duty free shops, and too many perfumes for sale in the aforementioned duty free shops. Plus, for those of you who are geographically challenged let me remind you that Heathrow is located in ye olde England. And England uses the pound. And right now the pound is whomping on the dollar at an average rate of 2 to 1. The problem with this little equation is that it means you can't afford anything in the approximately 2 million duty free shops at Heathrow, and you certainly can't afford any of the food in the restaurants. So you will be tired, aggravated (because you've probably missed your connecting flight as we did on the way back from Thailand in October), and starving (the previously noted "can't afford the food" problem.) You will inevitably break down, use your credit card to buy a $7 sandwich in a little plastic container, fight the throngs for a place to sit, and then wonder why you didn't just pop for the direct flight. Hell, the difference in ticket price is probably pretty close to the meal you're buying at Heathrow anyway.



Number 2: Citrus Shred is a liquid.

Now, I'm all for security. 100% without a doubt a fan of rules and regulations. But I'm still irked that we couldn't bring in our carry-on bags the one English product my husband had been craving. Sure, I had guessed it would happen. And in my heart I think I knew that jams and jellies might not be what the Department of Homeland Security wants to see showing up in your carry-on, but I had held out hope that the citrus shred would make it through the x-ray. It didn't. It got chucked into the oversize plastic tub filled with orphaned full-size hair mousses, tubs of moisturizers, and half-finished bottles of water. So word to the wise - if you're not checking your bags, don't bring anything that's over 100mL unless it's solid as a rock. And even though the very same authorities insist you can only bring one butane lighter aboard the plane, if you'd like to bring a few more then simply point into the abstract distance beyond the metal detectors saying that the extra one is for your "brother" and you can bring as many lighters onboard as you'd like. So remember, no jelly... but lots and lots of lighter fluid.

Number 3: Do not eat BA food.

British Airways has a habit of serving terrible food. Maybe you can order a special meal -- vegetarian or kosher or something else someone has put a half a second of extra thought into -- but the regular stuff is just not going to work. At 7am there was an attempt to serve us a sausage and onion relish "sandwich," the use of the word "sandwich" being a little optimistic. It was a split bun that had a split grey sausage laying along the cut. Under the grayish tube was a speckling of brown which I assume to be the relish. This is what I gleamed from the people across the aisle who must have been starving because they actually ate it. There were so many sandwiches handed back to the flight attendant that I'm sure the plane did not need to restock for the next flight. It's a tough call to say whether the grey sausage was better than the cheese+cheese+butter sandwich that we had been served on an earlier flight. I haven't eaten either. I appreciate that BA is trying to be a cut above the rest by serving food and drinks during the flight without an extra charge. But I'll also point out that BA's fares are far more than a Southwest Airlines or an Easy Jet ticket. So there should be food. And right now, I'd assert that there isn't.



Number 4: The English are a fine people, uniquely suited to in-flight conversation.

Despite having an airport I wish to never see again and a currency I can't very well afford the English have provided the finest in-flight conversation we've found. There was the British oil worker returning home from an oil rig in the Caspian Sea who had a unique perspective on family and work. He has one month "on," working 16 hour days, and then one month "off," when he visits his family and catches up on lost time, taking the kids to school, tying their shoes, and trying to get away for visits to Italy with his wife. We also met a woman heading to New Zealand to visit her son who has started a new life in a new country. She was excited to see her grandchildren but had felt very guilty leaving her own ill father behind in England. She also insisted that Charles will never be King because he just isn't the right type, what with the Camilla Parker Bowles affair and all. These people really added a perspective to our visit to England that you can't get bopping about on the streets on your own. I may despise Heathrow, and feel abused by the pound, but I'll have a chat with a Brit on a plane any time.



Number 5: Bring your running shoes.

And get out there. Nothing beats having a run, or a walk, in a different place. You'll feel the pace of a city as you run your way through it; you'll feel the sun, the shade, the showers. You will run past houses and rivers and egrets and squirrels. You'll stumble through history and happenstance and see what kind of grass grows in which kinds of places. Miami will be warm and cold in the morning, and Chicago will be snowy and biting, and Newcastle will strike you with gale force winds along the Tyne. But you will know these places better for your efforts - you will have mental pictures that go beyond a tourists snaps. All for the space of a shoebox in your suitcase.

Bonus Tip Number 6: Go.

You must shake it up. You must leave the norms in the dust. If you don't get up and out, you will never know what it is you love most about where you are. And you will certainly never know what you're missing.

And on we go into 2007.