Frizzante!

Our first exposure to Italy came at the beginning of our trip.  We flew through Milan. Cruising on the people mover toward immigration, I saw something funny.  Two businessmen were chatting and one of them put down his briefcase so he could talk ;-)

People really do talk with their hands in Italy.  At least, when they have something important to say they do.

Italian gives you something to work with.  It gives you words like frizzante.

Is that for real?  People say frizzante and don't even crack a smile.  In English we don't even have one word like frizzante.  Italian is loaded with fun words.  In fact (I'm going to get nailed for this), it almost sounds like a made-up language.  It's like someone started out speaking Spanish, and thought, "This is too dry.  Too subdued.  There's not enough...flair." 

We practiced saying frizzante a lot.  It wasn't just sparkling water that was frizzante.  Anything vibrant was fair game.  Like this donkey above.  I wouldn't even have noticed these guys except that I heard one of the strangest noises...like a cross between a whinny and a squeak toy.  Well, let's just say that they donkeys were...uh...getting a little frizzante in the field.

Italian stallion.  Tee hee ;-)       

Sorry.  I think maybe, because I'm 1/4 Italian myself I can get away with goofing on Italy.  But really, how Italian am I?  At the train station in Milan, a guy unapologetically pushed his way in front of me in line, and then pulled a sucker move pretending he'd knocked his change under the cash register (he didn't have enough money for his drink).  

Did the presence of nuns cruising through the station deter this guy's dishonesty?  No...  I was incensed!  "That guy's such a liar," I said to the cashier.  The cashier just shrugged his shoulders like "whatever."  Whatever?

Well, clearly, the food part of my Italian nature is intact.  I like the food culture in Italy (you can't see it, but I'm waving my hands).

When we arrived in Lake Como, we stopped for groceries at a little store called Dino Market in the town of Lenno.  Light years away from the kind of corner store you might find in say...New York or SF even.

Walking into Dino Market was like walking into your grandmother's tidy, well-organized kitchen.  A grocery is a serious thing here.  The people behind the counter with the beautiful cheeses and fresh pasta are important people.  And when you're in their store, they take care of you.  You don't walk in and grab some tomatoes...actually, you don't even walk in and look at the tomatoes.  It is a major faux pas to touch the produce.  They fetch the tomatoes for you, after advising you what the different tomatoes are like.  When they have discussed and selected your items for you, they check you out, hand you your bags, and say goodbye...as if this had been a meaningful interaction.

It's kind of intense.  But you get really good stuff.  Like the wonderful creamy cheese pictured above.  Or this excellent butter (the package was sealed with grommets!).

Or these sunshine-in-a-shell eggs.  I practically cried they were so beautiful. 

And while we mourned the loss of our morning baguettes and puzzled at the dry, fluffy Italian bread...the focaccia, oh my goodness.  Chewy, crunchy-salty, olive-oil-buttery, leaving us with greasy paws.  This is from a chain bakery in Menaggio called Il Fornaio.  Crazy thing...this looks like the same Il Fornaio I grew up with in the Bay Area!  Only I don't remember the focaccia being quite this good.

I don't know if we lucked out, or if it's usual to equip kitchens this well...but our flat's kitchen in Menaggio was fantastic.  Besides having sharp Henckels knives and every imaginable kitchen tool, the kitchen was really intelligently laid-out.

One thing I really liked was the hidden drying racks above the sink for putting hand-wash items that didn't fit into the (elegantly hidden) dishwasher.

There was also a super garbage-and-recycling system under the sink.  Do you see how there are two drawers?  And you can keep your dish soap and scrubbies in the top drawer, but still access the lower garbage drawer through the cutout without opening it too?  Great design!

Ok, so here I am raving about the kitchen in this flat.  The whole point of this flat was not what was inside.  It was this...

This was my first experience of Alpenglow.  Absolutely awesomely gorgeous.

Which is not to say this view wasn't exquisite at other times of day...

When I wasn't in the kitchen, I was out on the terrace, trying to soak up as much of this blueness as I could.  Even when I was staring at the computer!

Occasionally the neighbor's boxer with the rubber chicken would snap me out of the rapture...

Or maybe it was his owner's strong Dutch voice singing "I was right and you were wrong...doo-da, doo-da," to the tune of Yankee Doodle.

That's just what traveling is like.  It's weird sometimes.  Like when we were training out of Italy and suddenly were told that everyone was getting on a bus to the next station (with our five suitcases).  And then, packed cheek by jowel in the bus, riding through the Dolomites, we found ourselves listening to...Reggae Nights.  Yeah, those flower boxes really remind me of Jimmy Cliff.  E too.  He's jammin' over there in seat 3B.

Part of what makes things a little bit weird here is that the beauty is so intense.  So things that are ordinary or odd can be shocking.

Riding the open-deck ferry to Bellagio, I was lulled into a kind of bliss, feeling like I had stepped into a painting...

But then, when I got there, it appeared that a boatload of other tourists had stepped into that painting with me and were trodding heavily over the beautiful flowery walkways and jockeying for benches from which to bliss out.

Or a friend asked me, "Don't you remember the marriage scene in Star Wars where they're standing in a villa on the edge of a lake?"  And I think, yeah, that's where E goes to the gym.

How can you go to the gym in a place like that?

But people are leading ordinary lives here.  One afternoon, hoofing it from the only parking place I could find one town over, I came across...rock climbers.

And blackberries.  Good Lord, this feels like the Pacific Northwest (a place I have been avoiding like the plague since escaping its soggy skies fifteen years ago).

Actually, Menaggio is a hiker's paradise.  And there are pathways snaking all through the town and up into the hills.  There's even a serious hike where you have to hold into chains to reach the Refugio Menaggio.  Since we are not members of the Club Alpino Italiano, we didn't attempt that one.

But we did enjoy some more leisurely strolls up paved pathways, in and out of farmland, with (of course) phenomenal views...

Until we came across a slightly jarring sign: "Cardano Nuclear Storage."  I am kicking myself for not taking a picture because I can't find any mention of it in English or Italian online.  Strange thing was...I'd just finished a mystery novel set in Venice called Death in a Strange Country, where nuclear waste was at the heart of the mystery.

Well, so that's life.  This place that is like a dream for us is part of a living, breathing Italy.

That said, wandering through the neighborhoods, I did have some charming experiences like receiving a cat escort up to a pretty church, that had the most beautiful handmade lace...

This was something that left a real impression on me.  This lace in Menaggio was a reminder that the larger town of Como at the base of the lake is a textile -- and specifically silk -- manufacturing center.

When I went to Como itself, window-shopping (gelato in hand), was a real pleasure.  After months of browsing past chain stores in HK, Spain, and France, I found myself gazing on these beautiful necklaces at a shop called Benzoni.

Do you see, in the topmost necklace, with the gray-green ribbon, that's a piece of gray-green granite at the center?  That's so cool.  And a reminder that we were just an hour from Milan, where inspiration for much of the  frizzante throughout the world originates.

Passing through Milan's central station on the way out, I got another taste of the aesthetic yumminess that I imagine permeates the city -- in this art deco mosaic.  

While I might not be all Italian, I would love to come back to Milan for more of this...

Bookmarking the Riviera

I took this photo in France, uploaded it in Italy, and am finally putting fingertips to keyboard in Germany.

This is nuts.  And I have only myself to blame.  I planned this part of the trip.

On travel forums, there's always some tiresome person exhorting an excited tourist to "go slow" and "visit fewer places."  These people drive me nuts.  It's like sitting someone down in front of a feast of every imaginable delicacy and advising them to eat a small, balanced meal of mostly fruits and vegetables.  Meanwhile, you're eyeing the chorizo and roquefort and tortelloni and dunkelweiss.

The annoying thing is...these people are right.

We are finding that, the longer we travel, the slower we need to go.  These days, we agree that two weeks is the bare minimum we can tolerate touching down in a new place.

Our one week in Cannes was the briefest skim across the surface of a region -- the Riviera -- we both would really like to visit again.

It went a little something like this...

Upper deck TGV high speed train from Paris to Cannes (French trains are good!).  Five hours to relax, have lunch and coffee, read the Kindle ;-)

Tumble off the train with the other beachy travelers and their kids, hoof five heavy suitcases down one set of stairs and up another, elbow our way to the front of the taxi line and..."impossible."  Of course, no taxi driver will have us and all our bags.  Eventually we strongarm some guy into taking us, and we get the scenic route to our sweet little flat...where a very organized British expat actually helps us carry a suitcase.

He shows us the view out the back window, "That's La Californie, where all of the rich people live."

What a funny thought.  Every day I'm aware of how fortunate I am to be taking this trip.  More than a lifetime of travel, all in a single year.

Where we've touched down in Cannes is decidedly middle class.  And we both like it, a lot.  First off, we like our comfortable little flat.  It's sunny with stone floors and a well-equipped kitchen (and a nice collection of English-language mystery novels).

Down the street is a megaplex grocery store, as well as an excellent halal butcher and small North African grocery.  The woman who helped me at the grocery was awesome.  She tempted me with an entire deli case of pastries and explained that the thin raw pancakes they sold were for filling with seasoned meat and deep frying.  I think it's called brick or brik, and you might have tried it in the form of "Moroccan cigars." 

On the same street there was a couscous restaurant called Le Maghreb that was always packed.

Perhaps you, like I, have heard the word "Maghreb" before but don't know what it means.  I think it's worth quoting the whole first paragraph of the Wikipedia entry:

The Maghreb (Arabic: المغرب, Berber: Tamazɣa) is usually defined as much or most of the region of Northwest Africa, west of Egypt. The traditional definition as being the region including the Atlas Mountains and the coastal plains of Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, and (usually) Libya, was later superseded, especially since the 1989 formation of the Arab Maghreb Union, by the inclusion of a fifth nation, Mauritania, and of the disputed territory of Western Sahara (mostly controlled by Morocco). During the Al-Andalus era in Spain, the Maghreb's inhabitants, Maghrebis, were known as "Moors";[1] the Muslim areas of Spain in those times were usually included in contemporary definitions of the Maghreb---hence the use of 'Moor' or 'Moors' to describe the Muslim inhabitants of Spain by Christian and other Western sources.

Interestingly, there's a thinktank in DC devoted to educating the US about this region.  It's called The Maghreb Center, started in 2006.

So it turns out, our little neighborhood was a microcosm of that culture.  Or that's what the guy at the couscous restaurant told me.  You see, we had time to chat.  I had rushed in, mistakenly thinking that the plats à emporter sign outside meant I could bop in and quickly get some couscous and lamb skewers for dinner.  

Ha ha ha. What ensued was a comedy of cross-cultural nuttiness:

• I walk in at 6:45 and am told to come back at 7.
• I come back at 7 and the guy asks me for my plates.  ?  It turns out, in France, or perhaps just at this restaurant, the customer, not the restaurant, provides the vessels.
• At 7:15 I return with plates and Tupperware.  The men behind the counter look at me quizzically.  "Are these your plates?"  Yes.  Turns out I was supposed to bring two metal pots, one with a steamer bottom. They say they will loan me some dishes.  It then becomes apparent that the order which I gave 20 minutes ago never reached the kitchen.
• 7:20.  Several other people have come in with metal pots (or couscousiers).  Some are sitting outside waiting.  Very little food has left the kitchen.
• 7:30.  I start receiving text messages from E ("Everything OK?").
• 7:40.  I have been offered drinks and chatted with the counter guy about plans to visit the US.  Still no food.
• 7:45.  More inbound text messages.  One of my Tupperware containers emerges.
• 8pm.  Finally I arrive at home with our "takeout." 

And after all that, I'd love to tell you the food was fantastic.  But it was just ok.

We had better couscous at the more touristy Le Riad.  Better, not fantastic.  That said, I love the combination of buttery-scented steamed couscous, stewed carrots, turnips, and chickpeas, and -- hooray -- harissa, dried spices (cumin and coriander?  thyme?), and pickled veggies.  Whoops, and meat.

Yum.  Harissa, which I'm going to try making soon, typically contains a couple kinds of dried peppers, caraway, coriander, cumin, dried mint, lemon and garlic.  Here's an NPR story all about it.

It would be very hard to live in a culture without hot food.  My favorite cuisines these days are Sichuan and Mexican.  North African could join the pack if we could find some better restaurants...

Still, we preferred French baguettes to Tunisian baked bread.  And since this was our last week in France, we ate it every chance we could get.  (As opposed to when we were in Paris.)  Happily, we were three blocks from L'Epi d'Or, which had lines out the door before breakfast, lunch, and dinner. 

Here I am on the French Riviera, trying to educate myself about couscous ;-) I don't think that's why most people come to Cannes.  They come for the sun!  In Ferraris, on cruise ships, on the packed local train.  It's not just a ritzy place.  Everyone comes here. Cannes is a year-round conference destination, so there's a full-time population and a range of accommodations, 30-Euro-beaches and free beaches, palm trees and pine trees...

During our stay, there was an electronic music festival, an antique fair, and a fireworks contest.  I've never seen fireworks like that.  It started out with spy movie music, moved on to opera, and had understated moments like the sound of waves with little blue explosions lighting up the horizon...

I myself did not lie on the beach.  It was too d*** hot!  I hopped on the train and went exploring.  The trains in France are so awesome!  You can go so many places and it's so easy.

You can go to places like...

Hong Kong?

I called E.  "You're not going to believe this..."

Instead of escalators, they have elevators.  But otherwise, it's extremely expensive, densely packed housing in a tiny space...with great views.

E came back with me the next day and we plonked ourselves down with homemade sandwiches in front of the Nouveau Musée National de Monaco.  Nice white umbrellas, million-dollar view, nobody bugged us.  Pretty good!

That's just one kind of millionaires' scene on the Riviera.  There's something slightly tacky about Monaco.  Not so, Antibes.  Antibes rocks that kind of low-key cool affected by people who have long since tired of glitz.  You pull up your yacht in front of the 16th century Fort Carré, step out in your Saint James stripes, and restock the boat from the fancy food shops in town.

Ooh la la, people have been doing this for years...

Antibes just looks cool.  I had to have my picture taken there too.  One reason is Spanish artist Jaume Plensa's white steel sculpture called Nomade, standing all by itself on the ramparts of Port Vauban (the largest Marina in Europe).  Who should I find marveling and chat-chat-chatting all around the sculpture?  A big Italian family.

Italians know a thing or two about looking good, I'd say.  And actually, this was the second time recently that Italians have insisted on taking a photo for me when I was trying to snap my own picture.

Check this out, first photo I'm the photographer (not very flattering, is it?)

Next photo, Italian photographer.  Much better, eh?  But we'll get to Italians next post.

My last stop on the Riviera was Nice.  After a long walk through a not-so-attractive city, I winced upon reaching the water.  This would have made a fantastic running route, instead of weaving through Cannes' crowded walkway.

And jeez, look at that water!

All that open room to run (and bike) and that beautiful water...perfect place for a triathlon.  They did an Ironman in Nice in June.  If I were an ironperson, like my friend HM, I'd be all over this one.

Poof.  One week gone.  I didn't go to the Chapel du Rosaire (Matisse Chapel) or the Matisse Museum or the Picasso Museum or the Maeght Foundation or the Fragonard Perfume Museum...

That's what they don't tell you about traveling too fast.

Your little nerve endings can't handle it.  I practically blew a gasket in Paris and now all of this amazing stuff.  I can't absorb it.  Sometimes I take a picture and hope when I'm not so overwhelmed I can take in the rest of it in...  Meanwhile I'm struggling to do basic arithmetic I'm so overwhelmed.

And who's to blame for this exquisite torture of an unending banquet of new and amazing experiences?  Me!  I planned it.

So what's next?  Lake-friggin'-Como.  Stendhal Syndrome here I come!