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SOME MORE OBSERVATIONS #2
Why does every town in France, no matter how big or how small has its own carousel? From Avignonto Nice and Antibes to Nimes& Cannes, there were brightly lit merry-go-rounds filled with children. As parents and grandparents gazed lovingly, & snapped photos of their offspring, the garlands of colored balls gracefully went round & round. One particularly blazing merry-go-round had a revolving upper level, which offered a panoramic view. Is it that the French want to hold on to a piece of their childhood, and these carousels maintain a spirit of whimsy in an often difficult world? Whatever the answer is, the oomph music could be heard for blocks creating an imaginary magnetic field, drawing children of all ages to it source, even us who took pictures of every single one, for our next publication, The Carousels of France , a follow up to our last expose, The Bathrooms of Isreal .
Why do all fruits and vegetables taste better here? The fragrant strawberries, brightly red and bursting with flavor beckon to us as we walk through the crowded market. One bite and your taste buds are treated to the very essence of what a berry should taste like. We gorge ourselves on tomatoes that pop with juice bringing a smile to our faces as the juices run down our chins. But we quickly wipe up the mess, because keeping clean is rule #1. These duds have to last for 4 months!
And why, for God’s sake, is everything uphill?????? The steps, streets, hills, trails, all point upward. We know what comes up must come down, but European cities must defy gravity, because an inordinate amount of time is spent walking UP! And we just plain refuse to do it anymore. True we may just find ourselves going in circles, but we will not, and cannot go up anymore!!
Here we are in Italy, the land of espresso, and I cannot get even one cup. Every morning, Fred relishes his, but these descendants of Michelangelo and DaVinci, have still not discovered decaf!! So each morning as the rich, frothy and fragrant brew is placed in front of Fred, he greedily sips deeply as I gaze longingly, pout and continue to have Espresso Envy!
WHEN IS ENOUGH ENOUGH?????
After seeing some fabulous photos of an area called Cinque Terre, on the Rivera di Levante in Italy, I knew we just had to go. There is nothing I love more than a rugged coastline, with waves crashing against jagged rocks. But Cinque Terre was that and more. It is comprised of an area carved out of cliffs, perched high above the Mediterranean Sea, with 5, thus the Cinque, tiny picturesque towns. The only problem is, that in order to make the most of your stay, and hey I am all about maximizing my time, you must hike from town to town. Okay, I say to myself, we can do that.
We set out on a gorgeous sunny day, with temps promising to be in the upper twenties, (low 80’s). Riomaggiore is quaint town #1, and the trail to Manarola town #2, is a cakewalk. It is nothing more than an easy 20 minute stroll along a well paved path. The vistas of the tiny villages, terraced farms and sea below are breathtaking. We meet Lindsay & Chris, newlyweds who are staying at our B&B, and decide to share this wonderful experience together. They are personal trainers & physical therapists in their late twenties & early thirties, who live in Baltimore, and are perfect physical specimens. In spite of the company, we are feeling confident. After a short breather through Manarola, we proceed to Corniglia, town #3. This path is a bit more challenging, and takes about 45 minutes to complete. The pavement is long gone, & is replaced with dirt, gravel, irregular rocks & boulders. Instead of flat, the trail has a bit more of an uphill incline, and in many places, there are no guardrails protecting you from dangerously falling over the edge. By this time, it is midday, and the sun is intense. When we get to Corniglia, we are hot, sweaty, dirty and tired. We are huffing & puffing, but we still have our sense of adventure and humor. But glutton that I am, I read that the hike from here to Vernazza, town #4, is the most scenic, & will only take an additional 90 minutes. And anyone who knows me knows, that is all the motivation I require to venture forth. Because God forbid we should miss something.
But our next challenge is to actually reach the town of Corniglia. And in order to do that, we must climb a steep, zigzagging staircase of incredible height. As we climb, we stop several times to admire the landscape, or actually to catch our breath, (Fred & I, not Lindsay & Chris). Undaunted, we foolishly proceed. The trail from town #3 to #4 is incredibly challenging, with 75% of it uphill. The trail becomes even more narrow than before, & it is paved with boulders whose teeth jaggedly gnaw up at you. At a particularly steep portion, there is a wooden fence, but as I am grasping it to steady myself, a loose nail rips into my arm. Certain that I will become stricken with lockjaw, (which of course I haven’t, & it really was a pretty small gash), immediately we clean the cut with antiseptics.
Shortly after this, we insist that Lindsay & Chris venture forward without us because we are only slowing them down. Reluctantly, they agree, and are off in a flash. We plod on, dragging our aching feet and legs, silently begging that the torture would come to an end. It had gotten to the “point of no return,” and we were not having fun anymore. We did not care about the views or the sparkling Mediterranean far below us. The only thing we wanted was for this interminable agony to end.
And it finally did. We arrived in Vernazza 30 minutes after our newlywed pals, covered from head to toe in sweat, dirt, gravel & grim. My once white socks were now black. They were waiting for us in a café with lots of cold water & 2 comfortable chairs. They commiserated with us & even told us that they found the hike difficult, but I really think they just said that to make us feel better.
In retrospect, we are happy we did it, but we know that was the “last round-up” for us, because we are NEVER attempting anything like that again. It comes under the heading of, we should have quit while we were still having a great time. Cinque Terre is for the young & physically fit. If we ever return, we will relax & view the towns from the ferries that cruise gracefully from village to village, which is exactly how we made it to Monterosso del Mare, town #5.
STUPIDO
Because we had to replenish some of our waning supplies, like water, and the most essential, wine, we had to make a stop at a supermarket outside of Milan. While waiting to check-out, we could not help but notice behind us, a young mother with a toddler in a stroller. The little boy was attempting to put a bungee type strap around his neck, and every time he did this, his mom, would cup her hand, with fingers pointed together, like only an Italian can, and she would shout at him, “STUPIDO!!!” This word and her hand gesture has become our mantra.
Friday night, we arrived late to Siena. Because all the inns & hotels within the old walled city were booked, we were sadly forced to stay about 1 mile away. (This “no reservations” bit is not working for me, but more on that later). We had a dinner reservation at 8PM right outside the Piazza del Campo in the center of Old Siena & we were running late. Cars are not allowed within the city walls, & the front desk attendant gave us instructions to the closest parking lot. (Between parking fees & tolls, we have spent a fortune!!)
The sun had set, and the streets were darkening quickly. We parked the car, and quickly tried to make our way to the Piazza. Tuscany is filled with fabulous hill towns, which dot the landscape, but Siena is not a hill town, it is a mountain town. From the exit of the parking lot, we gazed in horror at the steepest uphill climb imaginable. Even though we vowed not to climb anymore, we “thought” we had no choice if we wanted to reach the beauty which Siena offered.
We struggled our way to the top of this incredible incline, praying that it would all be worth it, and it was. Our first views of the Piazza, at dusk and illuminated for the evening, were breathtaking. The restaurant was incredible & we meet the loveliest couple. The husband, Ed, a professional photographer who is working on a book on Tuscany, gave us lots of tips and advice, which we would follow in the days to come.
On Sunday, we planned on spending the entire day in Siena, especially because of the festivities for St. Catherine, but we knew there was no way we were attempting to climb that Everest of a path. We knew there just had to be a bus, or even a taxi we could pay to assist us in ascending to the top. As we were questioning people at the front desk at the hotel, they quizzically looked at us as if it was the most ridiculous question on earth and said, “All you need to do is take the escalator.” We gazed incredulously at her and retorted, “NO!!!” “Oh yes,” she replied.
And that is what we did. Just a few feet from the exit of the parking lot, there is a little sign, which of course we did not see in the dark, for an escalator. But not one or even 2 escalators. You must go up 6 full sized escalators in order to reach Siena. And even then, there are more steps to climb, but most of the difficult stuff has been done for you. As we reentered the Piazza del Campo, this time ablaze in sunshine, we could only look at each other, cup our hand point our fingers together and shout, “Stupidio!!
DISAPPOINTMENT IN FLORENCE
I am not one for disappointment. As a rule, I try never to take no for an answer. But on this trip, I mean adventure, this rule has not applied. Since we mistakenly believed that we would have Europe to ourselves since it was, “off-season,” we made no reservations, foolishly thinking that we could pop in anywhere at anytime and stay where we wanted. Well, not!!!!!!!!!!! We have rarely, with the exception of Disney World during Christmas week, seen huger crowds. We have stayed in flop houses, where I slept fully clothed because I did not want the sheets to touch my skin, but I did not complain and ventured forth. When in Milan, we could not view Da Vinci’s Last Supper because all the tickets had been sold out for weeks; I reassured myself there was still the glory of the Duomo, with its incredible rooftop views, and the Galleria to enjoy. When we attempted to obtain advance tickets for the Uffici and Acadamia in Florence, & they too were sold out, I once again, reassured myself that no one can detract from the beauty of Florence, and we would still go and revel in what we could.
Since most museums are closed on Monday, and we could not get in anyway, we decided to make our journey then, believing it to be the day with the least visitors. We had been advised not to drive within Florence; it was recommended that we take the bus. And this is exactly what we did. We planned on getting there early, spending the entire day, having an early dinner & catching an 8PM bus back to Siena.
It was a rainy & gloomy day, but we were undaunted as we boarded the bus for the fifty minute ride to the center of Florence. As we arrived, the rain ceased, & the sky lightened, and we took this as a positive sign. After doing some shopping and buying some tasty morsels for lunch at the Central Market, we made our way to the Duomo for a leisurely visit.
From blocks away, we began to hear a mysterious rumble. Not knowing what it was, we continued forward. As we got closer and closer to the Duomo, all that was visible was a solid wall of humanity. Even though it was early, the line for admittance snaked around & around the structure, with the overflow spewing out in all directions. Having only one day in town, we knew we could not wait on such a ginormous line, but even the experience of admiring the architecture’s exterior, and the glory of the Baptistery were marred by the sea of humans.
Sadly this experience was recreated at the Medici Chapels, the Santa Croce, and Santa Maria Novella. At the Ponte Vecchio, we saved footsteps, because we were just swept across on a giant wave of reveling vacationers. Maybe Italy, particularly Florencehas become too popular. Possibly, like the Galapagos, or Machu Pichu, the city needs to limit the number of visitors, but with such unpleasant conditions, the magnificence which is Florence cannot be appreciated.
At 3PM, the skies opened up, and it began to pour. The raindrops matched our disappointment, and we sadly decided that there was really nothing left for us in Florence. But before doing so, we took one last try at visitng the Duomo, hoping the crowds had dissipated once the rain had begun, but that too did not occur. Sadly, we made our way back to the bus terminal, appeasing ourselves that at least, for once, we would have an early evening.
After boarding the 3:40PM bus, we relaxed, and awaited our speedy return. Unfortunately, because of the rain & traffic, we did not return to the hotel until 7PM! After four weeks of turning the other check & having a stiff upper lip, we concluded that we were indeed entitled to be disappointed in our fiasco which was Florence. But tomorrow is another day, and it is onward to the Etruscan tombs, outside of Rome at Tarquina, & then to glorious Positano on the Amalfi Coast. The sun will be shining, or not, & we will be on our way!!
THIS LITTLE PIGGY WENT TO MARKET
Europeans are obsessed with pigs and pig products. Since arriving, we have eaten: salami, salumi, Iberian ham, pates with pork liver, pieces of ham with parsley in gelatin, (a Burgundy region favorite) proscuitto, speck, roast sucking pig, wild boar chops, wild boar ragu, porchetta (an entire pig which is split down the middle, bones removed, & the entire pig is rolled, tied, roasted and sliced), mortadella, dried sausage (pork & wild boar with pistachios, truffles, wine, fennel, hot peppers, etc, etc.), chorizo, bacon, pork chops, grilled sausages, ribs, ham, fried or sautéed pork rinds and on and on & on.
Very often, we sampled these delicacies as we grazed through the local markets, munching on all the goodies offered by the vendors. As our coats began to glisten with an incredible shimmer and our tails became permanently curled, I finally had to draw the line in Montalcino, one of Tuscany’s hill towns. As the sweet young lady offered us a shimmering sample of, what we thought was a slice of creamy white cheese on Italian bread, I momentarily hesitated and inquired what it was I was about to eat. When she replied, “Lardo (Lard),” my hand abruptly halted halfway to my mouth, and I knew my honeymoon with Mr. Pig was over.
Now I am proud to say, as difficult as it may be because I am surrounded by those oinkers everywhere, I can go for days without a pork product passing my lips.
And yes folks, those are snouts, tongues, livers, kidneys & testicles, all ready for the fry pan!!!
PROMISES TO KEEP
As I was growing up, there was a close member of my family, who will remain nameless, who always made promises and rarely kept them. Each and every time this occurred, the disappointment was overwhelming. Because as a child, with all my heart I naively believed in those promises, never realizing that, as well intentioned as they might have been, they were never meant to be kept.
Therefore once reaching adulthood, I fully realized the “power of the promise.” When Jessica was growing up, I was particularly aware of not making promises I could not keep, and even though I often had to resort to the dreaded, “We’ll see,” or “Maybe,” I tried my best never to make a promise unless I was 100% sure I could deliver.
But promises to myself, I often broke. I promise to loose weight, I promise to exercise regularly, I promise not to sweat the small stuff, and all these oaths fell by the wayside. I’m not saying I did not keep any promises I made to myself, but they certainly were not ironclad.
Therefore, several weeks ago, when Fred and I visited the exact spot where he & I put our 5 year plan into motion, it was quite an emotional moment. It was in Lyon, on a beautiful sunny Sunday afternoon at the end of August, after a fabulous stay at Cour Des Loges, while sitting at a café, overlooking the cathedral that we decided we wanted to, “Always be in Vacationland, and travel forever.” It was on that very day that Fred said, “Why not…... we can do that if……….” And the rest is history.
After we visited the Relais et Chateau hotel, we sat down at the exact same table at the café we shared all those years ago, on yet another gorgeous sunny afternoon, that I was moved to tears, (granted if you know me, that do not take much). The feeling of accomplishment was overwhelming. Even though during the process of putting that five year plan into action, we had our doubts and reservations, we still were able to see it through to fruition, and it felt damn wonderful.
Several weeks hence, while visiting Positano, yet another promise was completed. This one took almost 20 years to realize. For our joint 15th anniversaries, Dee, Ira, Fred and I took an almost 3 week trip to Italy and Switzerland. From Sorrento, we hired a car and driver who took us on a tour of the Amalfi Coast. As part of that day, en route to Amalfi, we stopped in Positano for a short, but memorable visit. At dusk as we returned to our hotel, we once again passed Positano, and could not help but be enraptured by its twinkling lights. At that moment, Fred and I vowed to return.
And here we are, sitting in a lovely restaurant, carved out of the rock which makes up Positano, and even though it is raining, the lights of Positano are still twinkling, and once again we are smitten by its spell, I am overwhelmed by the emotion of actually being here, and keeping a promise to myself, and it fells so incredibly satisfying. So much so, that I might have to reconsider my promise policy. Just maybe, I have to start putting that 100% completion rate into effect when it comes to me. Fred, please sign me up for Weight Watchers, but not until we return.
PS. Please forgive our indulgence with all the pictures of Positano. Even in the rain and fog, there is something very mystical about being there. We felt as if we had taken refuge in a paradise at the bottom of the world, and the rest of the universe above did not exist. I guess that is why we met so many honeymooners. Wow, we cannot wait to return, but hopefully in less then 20 years!!!!
PAESTUM TO PALERMO, THE GOOD, THE BAD, AND THE DISGUST
While perusing the Michelin guide, as we were planning our European Odyssey, we came across a three starred attraction that we knew very little about. Located just a mere 90 minutes south of Positano, Paestum seemed like a perfect stop to make before embarking to Sicily. Coupled with the fact that we were able to reserve a 4 star hotel, with pool & private beach for 59 Euros, including breakfast and parking, Paestumbecame one of our must sees.
Listed as an archeological wonder, we arrived with heightened interest. And we were literally blown away with its majesty. Located on a vast plain in Campaniafilled with wild grasses & a profusion of multi-colored flowers, Paestum contained the ruins of an entire ancient Greek city. Besides the remnants of an amphitheater, gymnasium, forum, and remnants of various parts of the agora and residential neighborhoods, yes you heard right, entire neighborhoods, there were three, not one or two, but three temples, all of which were in astonishing condition. As we strolled the acres and acres of ruins, we were left speechless by the breath of this site, and the silent tales it told of its former inhabitants. The temples, flood lit in the moonlight, left us with a heighten sense of awe, and we marveled at how Paestum was a precious gem of a surprise.
In stark contrast, we were warned about Palermo, but nothing prepared us for what we saw, heard or smelled. Anarchy is the only word to use to describe the traffic. It was literally dog eat dog, and every scooter, bike, pedestrian or car for themselves. Traffic laws, if there were any, were never enforced, and at every intersection, there was a jangled mess of metal, with every conveyance fighting to out maneuver the other.
On our first morning, hungry for breakfast, with great anticipation we headed for Palermo’s famous Vucciria Market. Amongst the stalls of rotted fruits and vegetables, were mounds of trash and garbage. Angry and mangy stray mutts patrolled the aisles, awaiting any juicy morsel which may fall their way. Piles of their excrement marked their territories. One vendor, who was selling unidentifiable animal entrails, had a hard working assistant, who did nothing other than swat away the flies which swarmed hungrily above. The feted stench assaulted our nostrils, and nauseated, and sick to our stomachs, we could not escape fast enough.
We assured ourselves, that when we reached the Old Quarter, and Palermo’s famed palaces, churches and cathedral, the city would reveal another side to her personality. But this was not to be. The filth continued to be pervasive, and beggars with babies in their arms lined the avenues and the steps of every house of worship. Gangs of young thugs loitered on every street corner, and we could only wonder why they were not in school. Graffiti reined supreme, and almost every building was scarred by it. To make matters even worse, ancient mosaics were completely draped for restoration, and there were no monuments, museums or sights which offered solace.
Luckily for us, we were staying at a 5 star hotel just minutes east of Palermo, which was a restored 19th century villa with a magnificent pool, right on the Mediterranean Sea. Once we drove within its protective walls, we left all the ugliness and squalor behind, and entered into an oasis of grandeur and luxury, reassured by the fact that, you win some & you loose some, and there would be lots more winners to come.
AN EVENING WITH ANNA MARIA MUSCO DOMINICI
All of you knew I was an avid reader of GOURMET magazine. Particularly because we were in the process of planning our jaunt around the world, whenever I saw an intriguing article, I would rip it out, and add it to my travel file. In the September 2006 issue, I read an article about Home Food, which was an Italian company which fostered the love of Italian culinary traditions. And in order to perpetuate these customs, they had a network of “cesarinas,” or home cooks, whom they screened very carefully, from all over the country who invited travelers into their home to share a meal. This repast would be made up of dishes, typical to the area in which the hostesses lived, and all the ingredients would be from local purveyors. This was right up my alley.
After months of correspondence, part of that being several questionnaires that Fred and I both had to complete, we were able to coordinate dates, and be invited to a dinner for the night of May 11th, in Palermo, Sicily.
With only the name and address of the cesarina, and time our event would begin, with much trepidation we arrived promptly at Via Ricasoli, 59 – VII floor Attic, and we wondered exactly what that might mean. After several days in Palermo, we had visions of Anne Frank, dark and dank narrow staircases, high dormered windows allowing little or no light to enter, and slanted low slung ceilings that poor Fred would have to duck all evening.
After parking, in what appeared to be a much improved section of town, we could not help but notice that the apartment building we were about to enter, had Cartier Jewelers as its first floor occupant. “Not a bad sign,” we thought. Then when we proceeded to ring Anna Maria’s intercom button, we noticed that her name was the only on for the seventh floor. Hmmmmmmm, things were beginning to look up.
As the elevator door opened, we were greeted by a diminutive woman, with a smile that defied anything she lacked in height. With her husband Matteo, a former banker by her side, the two of them welcomed us as if we were long lost relatives. Next we entered their world of culture, refinement and exceptional taste. Inquiring if we wanted to admire her garden, Anna Maria proudly led us out to a wrap around terrace, which occupied the entire width and length of the building. At sunset, with views on one side of Palermo harbor and the Mediterranean, and the rooftops of Palermo with its surrounding mountaintops in the distance on the other side, we became a part of her little bit of heaven. Lined with terra cotta pots of all shapes and sizes, which were filled with two-toned hibiscuses, roses of every size and color, and fragrant vines of two different varieties of jasmine, Anna beamed as if introducing us to her offspring, which indeed they were. This was not an attic or even an apartment; it was the home she and Matteo had lived in for 47 years, and where they had lovingly raised their three children, alongside their flowers and shrubs.
In this incredible setting, she offered us appetizers of freshly fried crespelle (flat crispy pancake type wedges made with chickpea flour), as Matteo uncorked a bottle of chilled Prosceco, which he deftly poured into crystal flutes. Along with this course, and every successive one, in halting English, our hostess regaled us with the origin and historical significance of each dish, made completely with her own hands, as well as with tales of the cultural importance of these dishes and their ingredients. Through the next three hours, with Matteo proudly assisting her, we were enchanted with each new epicurean delight, and Anna Maria’s animated enthusiasm. Her passion for the food and her Sicilian roots, led us to a new understanding of this region we were visiting.
Since we all knew, I shared this passion with our hostess, I was able to explain to her many similarities between our culinary experiences. As soon as Anna realized that I fully comprehended the concepts she was attempting to explain, her face lit up with joy and excitement, knowing that as far as food was concerned we were kindred spirits.
With after dinner drinks in hand, we retired to the living room, where our hostess shared her bit of notoriety with us. Firstly, she reminisced as she shared a book written about her father, Angelo Musco, a famous Sicilian actor, who Pirandello wrote plays expressly for. Then we perused several books about Sicilian cooking, and in each one there were articles in which Anna Maria and her food was featured. Finally she gave us a copy of the September, 2006 issue of GOURMET Magazine, and on the page immediately following the article about Home Food, which I had saved all those months, there were photos of our host and hostess and her culinary delights. Who knew we would spend such an incredible evening with culinary royalty?
Below is the full menu of delicacies we savored:
Crespelle & Proseco
Smoked tuna, radicchio, fresh fennel, and orange salad dressed with fresh orange juice and extra virgin olive oil
Potato string beans, hard boiled egg salad with evoo
Zucchini stuffed with cheese, mortadella & breadcrumbs
Stuffed Tomatoes
Chardonnay
Timbale of fresh spaghetti, three varieties of mushrooms (button, dried porcini and elephant ears) & a veal & Marsalawine ragu
Red wine
Caponata topped with roasted almonds
Milk pudding with wild strawberries
Mini cannolo
Individual glaceed peaches (which were sponge cakes in the shape of peaches filled with pistachio glace)
Strawberry sorbet
Homemade cinnamon grapa
Liquor from the island of Pantelleria
MI CASA ES SU CASA
At this point, we have stayed in sixteen hotels, inns or B&B’s, and let me tell you it is SERVICE which makes all the difference. The bread may not have been the freshest at breakfast, the sheets may have been a bit frayed, or the room may have faced a noisy street, all this would be forgotten if the hotel staff or innkeeper made you feel welcome. And it is not always price which has set the standard. We have been treated horribly at a hotel we were paying top dollar for and wonderfully someplace we got at a rock bottom price.
Because we were arriving in Barcelonaon a very busy Saturday night, we had to contact six different places on the list of possible accommodations we had compiled, but to no avail. Much to our dismay, every place was booked sold. In desperation, we consulted the Frommer’s guide, and as luck would have it, we found a hotel. It was way out of our price range, but did we have a choice? The Albinoni was a four star contemporary hotel with an incredible location, right on the Portal Del Angles, right smack in the center of town. But not once, and not even by one employee, but multiple times, by Massimo and Juan, two different attendants at the front desk, we were treated rudely and disrespectfully. Would we ever recommend this hotel……NEVER!! And in this world of Trip Advisor, everyone is a critic, and once a review goes out on the World Wide Web, it is out there for the entire world to read.
Then there was Villa Vauban on the French Rivierain Villefranche- Sur- Mer. It had a wonderful location, overlooking the citadel and Mediterraneanbeyond, was decorated with lovely traditional furnishings, and best of all, it was within our budget. But Peter and his wife, we did not even know her name because our meeting was so brief, were absentee innkeepers. They used the three nights we stayed with them to leave, yes leave. They gave us the key to our room & the front door, put up a sign at the reception desk that it was closed, and they were out of there. What if we needed something, had a question, or wanted a recommendation, well too bad on us!! Again, would we recommend it………..NEVER!!
Then we get to our favorite category, those special gems, the hotel employees or innkeepers who have made us feel like honored guests. Yes it was the team of concierges at the five star Villa Igiea in Palermo, who even when all hotel workers participated in a national strike, they were there to provide whatever was needed. But it was also Christine in Vezelay or Natalie in Carcassone, who made it their personal mission to retrieve our missing luggage, and Sophia in Paestum who resolved all our problems when attempting to make reservations for the Bari to Dubrovnik ferry. And Sabrina in Siracusa, who when we showed up on her doorstep a day early for our reservation, and she could not accommodate us, called several places until we had a room, and understanding our disappointment, invited us to join her for breakfast the next morning. And of course there was Ivana, Vinka and Nika, our three lovelies from Dubrovnik. With a passion for the city, and all of Croatia, they jointly planned out every day and evening for us, all the while arguing among themselves which would be the better choice. These were just some of the incredible people who have enhanced our travels. Would we recommend these establishments, …..DAMN RIGHT, and we would enthusiastically do so.
Whether the experience was positive or negative, we have learned so much about hospitality, and we thank them all, obviously some more than others.
Please stay tuned for “Mi Casa Part Deux,” or “Thank You for Being Inhospitable” (When We Took Lemons & Made Lemoncello!)
A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME
While in Italy, as Fred and I explored the temples, forums or amphitheaters of the amazing Greek and Roman ruins, from Paestum, to Segesta to Siracusa, to the Valley of the Temples, we could not help but observe something. With each explanation of the site, whether it was on a sign, in a brochure, or as part of an audio guide, when the ancient civilizations were referred to, the word “Cult” was used over and over. Correct me if I am wrong, but wasn’t their belief in polytheism a religion? Weren’t Zeus, Hera and Aphrodite gods and goddesses for goodness sake? Wasn’t that what we learned in elementary school and again in ninth grade World History? These were not Hare Krishners who sold paper flowers in Penn Station. These folks created the foundations for our western civilization. From literature, to politics, to mathematics, science, philosophy and the theater, we have the Greeks and Romans to thank, except in my case when it comes to math and science.
And whether we call it a cult or religion, the cities, temples, aqueducts and theaters they left behind are incredible. They stand as silent sentries of the past, overflowing with knowledge and history, beckoning all into their mesmerizing midst.
Hopefully some of our photos will do these ancestors justice, and you will be awed by them as were. Hopefully, you have read “Paestumto Palermo,” and enjoyed the photos. Now we have included pictures of the wealth of ruins in Sicily, including those in: Segesta, Selinunte, The Valley of the Temples in Agrigento, Villa Imperiale near Piazza Armerina, Siracusa and Taormina.
THE FLOWERS THAT BLOOM IN THE SPRING, “TRA LA”
I loved beautiful gardens. Every spring I envisioned myself relaxing amongst rows and rows of blossoming flowers. Year after year, I spent untold amounts of money at Home Depot, Hicks and Frank’s, and even at pricey Martin Viette, making every attempt to nurture my garden into abundant bloom. But sadly to no avail. I must admit, my garden and flowerpots looked okay, but were never as resplendent as I had hoped. I watered, I weeded, I fed, I dead-headed, I even resorted to having entire conversations with them and playing symphonic music, but with little or no effect. No matter what I did, I could not coach those suckers to flower. In the backyard, I had three sorry looking rose vines, they were too scrawny to call bushes, and if I was successful in coaxing one or two flowers off each, I was lucky. Every spring, I bought and planted new perennials, which by definition, should miraculously reappear every year, but sadly, not in my garden. I was ashamed to admit it, but my reputation as having a, “black thumb, spread far and wide.
We left New York on April 4th, and there was very little evidence of spring. Some crocuses and daffodils were peeking their heads up out of the ground, but that was about it. Arriving in Vezelay, France the next day, you would have thought we traveled through time instead of just space. Outside the window of our inn, the blossoms on the trees were bursting with color, creating gentle carpets of petals below. While driving the country roads, the car would be covered with feathery while pollen, which snowed down upon us as we went on our way.
As the weeks progressed, we marveled at the profusion of wildflowers everywhere. Vivid pinks, yellows, reds, oranges, and purples sprung from every nook and cranny. Between every brick in the road, creeping over every fence, along every road and highway, cascading down walls, even poking through the black lava rocks on the side of Mount Etna, were huge bunches of the most magnificent flowers. They pushed their way between the ancient Greek columns and sprouted from their roofs. While driving along, whether we were in a city or a small town, nothing could prevent these blossoms from bursting forth. Roses, snapdragons, bougainvilleas, poppies and daisies were everywhere. We would survey the landscape, and observe a massive patchwork of vibrant colors as far as the eye could see. And every single day, we were thrilled to be able to observe this incredible rebirth. Springtime, what an incredible time to travel.
But no one was tending these vast expanses. No one was nurturing these plants as I had mine, so could someone please tell me what did I do wrong???
TIMING IS EVERYTHING
We all know this to be true. Landing that dream job, finding that just right apartment, or buying that gorgeous Prada handbag for 50% off, could all depend on being in the right place at the right time. The same holds true for our travels. I have vented about some of the things we have missed out on. Such as this morning in Taormina, when we had planned to spend the entire day relaxing on the gorgeous beach at Isola Bella, and we arose to black skies and pouring rain. But on the other hand, what about all the times we hit it just right?
Our first full day in Barcelona, Spain was a Sunday. We took a historical walking tour of the Old Quarter, which left us right in front of the cathedral at, the Placa de San Jaumne, at noon. Noticing that a group of musicians were setting up their instruments on the front steps, we waited around to discover what was going to happen. Slowly the musicians began to play, and as their notes grew in momentum, men and women began to gather, throw their jackets into a pile, and join hands and dance. Joyously, one circle formed, and then another, and still another, until the entire square was filled with dancers, young and old, performing the sardana, the national dance of Catalonia, which they have done on Sunday at noon for as long as anyone could remember. Some were proficient and knew all the steps, some just swayed to the music, but one thing was evident, they found joy in their traditions and customs, and were we privileged to be a part of this celebration.
Then on April 19th, we were perusing the stalls at the market in Nice, France. As we admired the candied and glaceed fruits which one vendor had beautifully displayed, we heard a commotion, and noticed a bevy of photographers and videographers. Quickly, we approached one of them, and inquired as to what all the fuss was about. Expecting to hear that Brad and Angelina were approaching, they informed us they were in the Press Corp assigned to follow Francois Bayrou, one of the French Presidential candidates, and he was indeed campaigning and working the crowd at the market.
Later on that same day, as we were strolling the Promenade des Anglais, along the beach, and yet again we were surrounded by photographers, thinking Bayrou was stalking us, we soon noticed that no the color of the t-shirts the supporters were wearing had changed. Instead of an ocean of red shirts, we now saw only waves of blue. Because this time it was Nicholas Sarkozy shaking hands with the crowds.
Since we now were personally involved with the French Presidential Election, we soon discovered that in three days there would be the first round election, between the three candidates, Bayrou, Sarkozy, and Segolene Royal to determine which two candidates would be in the final run off. Now we all know that Bayrou was knocked out of the race on April 22nd, and on May 6th, Nicholas Sarkozy went on to defeat Royal and succeed Jacques Chirac as French President. I often wonder, if it was Royal we had met, if the results would have differed? J
Several weeks later we arrived in Agrigento, Sicily, in order to visit the Valley of the Temples. At the ticket office, when Fred attempted to buy tickets, we were surprised to find out that admission was free. In fact all admissions would be gratis for the entire upcoming seven days because it was “Culture Week” throughout Italy. Boy oh boy we loved every day of Culture Week, and our wallet did too. Maybe we needed to convince all members of the European Union to institute 2007, A Year of Culture, because now every time we shell out $$ for admission tickets, we sure miss Italy.
After this on May 14thwhile in Siracusa, we were thrilled to discover that we would be able to take part in one of the two times each year that there was a celebration for Santa Lucia, the patron saint of the city. Just as we had perfect timing in Siena, when we were a part of the festivities for their patron saint, Catherine. Sabrina, our wonderful innkeeper, regaled us with the tale of how one spring hundreds of years ago, there was a devastating famine. And even though Santa Lucia’s feast day was in December, the local priests decreed that they would parade her sacred statue, and the relic of her finger, through the streets of Ortigia, the old quarter of the city. And according to local folklore, sure enough several days later, ships arrived with provisions for the inhabitants, thereby ending their weeks of hunger, which began a yearly tradition. And that very evening at 11:00 PM, after a glorious fireworks display over the marina, we were part of the holy procession, with the huge silvery statue of Santa Lucia held aloft by eight pallbearers in medieval costume. Also held high, and preceding her, was the ornate silver box, which contained a relic of her finger. Church bells were ringing, and prayers were being chanted as the participants snaked their way to the Duomo which bore her name. Where were the cameras? Was this really a documentary for the Travel Channel?
The following day when we visited the Duomo, which was built utilizing the columns from an ancient Greek temple, (to the victor belonged the spoils), we expected to be able to visit with Santa Lucia once again. “Oh no,” we were informed. The statue is never seen except on her feast day in December and on her festival day in May, which we were thrilled we were a part of.
Also while in Siracusa, we were luckily able to participate in the Instituto Nazionale Del Drama Antico’s 43rdAnnual Greek Theater Festival. Running a mere six weeks long, from May 10 – June 24, it provided an opportunity to attend the Teatro Greco di Siracusa, and see a production of an ancient Greek tragedy, spoken in modern Italian of course.
At sunset, we sat on the stone steps, carved out of rock thousands of years before, (thankfully we sat on cushions, those stones would really hurt!!), and gazed out at the same incredible landscape the ancients had. And even though we did not understand one word of Eracle by Euripides, (that is not exactly true, the actors must have ranted the word “morte” or death at least 100 times) we sat in awe at the atmosphere of our surroundings and the passion with which the actors played their roles.
Afterwards, Fred and I attempted to put the plot together. And since this was not one of the plays I had ever read, I must make it my business to research it and find out just what all that hand wringing, hair wrenching and grisly deaths were all about.
Being the incredibly flexible (yeah right), travelers we are, we left Taorminaa day early, and we are now driving three quarters of the way to Bari, Italy, where we will catch the ferry to Dubrovniktomorrow. Let’s just hope our timing is just right, and we will find a room for the night. But hey there’s always the car!
THE PARING DOWN OF OUR PEUGOT 407
Booking a car was one of the first things we did, when we began to plan our European Odyssey. Comfort and trunk size were our two priorities. Since we would be driving for ten weeks, we wanted to make sure that the vehicle we chose could fit both us and our luggage, with some degree of ease. Therefore, we selected a shiny brand new, silver, four door, Peugeot 407, which was roughly the size of a Toyota Camry. This was certainly not large by American standards, where the roads were littered with SUV’s. Little did we know then that our priorities were totally off base.
As we began our journey, we could not help but notice that our car was Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians. All around us swarmed motor scooters and Smart cars. We marveled at the tininess of the Smarts, and wondered if their drivers were able to unscrew their arms and legs in order to fit in. On the six lanes of the autostrada, those babies could not even make it up to the speed limit, and we laughed as we were soon leaving them in the dust as they put-putted along.
But once we left those four lane highways, Fred was faced with the challenge of driving in a maze of roads and streets, with high stone walls, which were constructed hundreds of years ago, when they only had to allow clearance for an occasional horse and carriage. And one thing we learned, and we learned fast, those walls were immovable, unlike the sheet metal body of our poor 407.
When you bought a brand new car, it was always the first scratch which hurt the most, and it was at the end of our very first week, that the Peugeot’s tale of woe began. It was on a dark drizzly night as we entered the walled medieval city of Carcassone, France. As often happened, we had over planned our day, and as we struggled to find our way to the Hotel Don Juan, the sun had set, and the narrow streets darkened. And Fred thinking he could maneuver the car around an extremely tight curve was shocked to hear the dreaded sound of metal crunching against stone.
After a lot of yelling, screaming, cursing, and checking the car’s lease agreement, to make sure the insurance covered the damage, Fred recovered, and happily did not allow this mishap to spoil our evening or the rest of the trip. And that was a very good thing, because this was to be only the first of many assaults made on our poor Peugeot.
Future attacks were launched by other stone walls in Cefalu, Sicily, another car, in Agrigento, while trying to angle out of a maze of narrow alleys, a high brick curb which always got in our way as we pulled out of the tiny street our b&b was on in Siracusa. And Fred had hardened and no longer felt the pain of all the bumps and bruises which appeared almost daily on our 407. And we were reassured by the fact that at least she was not being held together by duct tape, as our rental car was in England after Fred had run into the low brick wall in the Avis parking lot just after we had picked up the car, well at least not yet.
In fact, Fred came up with a new invention, which we thought about patenting. It would be an expandable car, which would have a small body for city driving, and then could be pumped up to a larger size for the autostrada.
Now we have decided that size does matter, and the Peugeot needs to go on a little diet in order to survive the jungle of European streets. And as we are about to arrive in Croatia, we have realized that we are doing her a service by paring her down slowly, but surely until she is the size of one of those Smart cars. Hey they are not called Smart for nothing, and we know it was them who have had the last laugh, as they watched our poor dented and mangled 407 as it whizzed by. In Vienna, we even found a convertible, this way you could be Smart and sporty at the same time, but I think you may have to unscrew your head as well as arms and legs in order to fit in!
MI CASA ES SU CASA PART DEUX – THANKS YOU FOR BEING INHOSPI
Since leaving New York seven weeks ago, we have stayed in twenty odd hotels, inns and bed and breakfasts. And we have certainly had our share of clunkers. Some we got stuck with because everything else was completely booked, (I will never go without reservations again!), and we just had to settle for what was left, or sometimes Fred and I just made poor choices. In two instances, we made the worst possible choice.
Once we arrived in Sicily, we realized it would be beneficial to spend three nights in Taormina before we headed to Bari, Italy to catch the overnight ferry. In our haste to find a suitable hotel, we did not do as much research as we should have. We did not realize that there were two parts of Taormina, one was the magical town which sat high above the Ionian Sea, and the other was comprised of the gorgeous beaches down by the shore. Unfortunately, the hotel we selected was at neither. Sadly, the Hotel Carollo was located at the railroad station, which was fine if you needed to catch a quick train, but not so good for us. Unfortunately, we had given our credit card as a deposit, and even though we tried everything, they would not allow us to leave without forfeiting our money. So after having a cry, we checked in and I vowed to make the best of it.
To add insult to injury, that first afternoon, a bus pulled up in front and instantly the hotel was packed with our favorite, a tour group. Soon, the employees made it very clear that we were incidental, and they were there only to assist the “groupies.” At least three times they demanded we move our car in order to make room for the bus. At breakfast, we were left the dregs after the vultures had cleared the plates clean. But we refused to allow these minor inconveniences to mar our love for Taormina. That was until 10:00 PM on the second evening.
That was when not once, not twice, but three times, the front desk attendant and the irate tour bus driver pounded on our door demanding we move the car yet again.
We could not believe the nerve that the hotel would give our room number to the bus driver, and allowed him to intrude on our privacy. Especially since all this occurred while Fred was attending his monthly board of directors meeting via the internet. We were so angry we could spit!! Honestly, who could sleep after that?
The next morning, when we awoke to pouring rain, we knew the day we planned to spend at the beach was ruined, and figured we should get a jump start on our drive to Bari. We stormed down to the reception desk and informed them we were leaving. But yet again, they reminded us that we had booked for three nights, and we were obligated to pay for all, whether we remained or not. This was when we played our trump card, and used the incident of the previous evening to our advantage. Informing them we no longer felt safe, since they had given our room number to that damn bus driver. After much arguing, eventually they acquiesced and allowed us to leave.
We spent much of the day driving, and skirted the arch of the boot of Italy, (who the heck goes to the arch anyway?), and found a lovely hotel, run by the friendliest people, and had a delightful evening. The next morning, instead of driving directly to the ferry, we had the time to visit an ancient Temple dedicated to the Goddess Hera, and then we discovered the wonders of Alberobello, the Terre de Truille and Zona Monumental. This area was scattered with round, white washed homes, topped with gray conical roofs. For luck, some of the roofs were painted with white pagan symbols. Were we still in Roman Catholic Italy? When strolling among 1,400 of these truilles, we felt like we were in the mystical land of the trolls. After this we enjoyed a delicious lunch in a truille, and then we were off and visited the underground wonders of the Grotto de Castellana. Thank you Hotel Carollo, not because you treated us so shamefully, but by leaving we were able to make so many new discoveries.
Then while visiting Croatia, we knew we wanted to travel from Dubrovnik to Split, but where would we stay when we got there? In town, at the beach, on one of the islands, we just had too many choices. After reading many reviews on Trip Advisor, (it’s the last time we use them), we decided to stay at the Villa Adriatica on the island of Brac, and (the c has a little v above it and is therefore pronounced with a ch sound). Because we had to take a 75 minute ferry ride to the island, we would have to sacrifice sightseeing in Split. Okay, we could do that in exchange for a fabulous beach resort on the Adriatic. After all, we needed some R & R. Hey traveling is a lot of work.
When we arrived, the “Villa” was nothing but a crumby motel, and it wasn’t even on the beach. It was only a few blocks away, but the beach was ugly and faced the ferry terminal to boot. In addition, where were all the amenities that were listed on their website? There was no free WI-FI, the air conditioner had not been turned on even though the temps were well into the 80’s, the toilet kept running, etc., etc. And of course when we inquired and then complained, the receptionist was not happy. But what broke the camel’s back? It was when we sat on their “terrace,” and I used the term generously, and brought down our own bottle of wine. Well in a classy joint like theirs, we were not allowed to commit such a heinous act! With this, the owner arrived, told us we complained too much, and that we had to pack our bags and get out. In fact she even refused to return our passports until she was sure we had not vandalized her hotel. Boy oh boy, she must have made some profit by selling one measly bottle of wine. In fact she even called the Policija, who arrived pretty promptly to make sure we vacated the premises, all the while she was threatening us that we should be scared of being in her country. Can you imagine??
After packing up, being interrogated by Barney Fife, and taking the 75 minute ferry ride, we arrived back in Splitat 9:00 PM. Aggravated and exhausted, (we had gotten up at 5:30 AM, and drove three and one half hours from Dubrovnik, in order to catch the 11 AM ferry to Brac), what were we going to do? We did not have the strength to go door to door, from hotel to hotel, in an effort to find a room. But we did remember that there was a Le Meridian Hotel about five kilometers outside of Split, right on the beach, and even though it was way out of our price range, we knew we just had to bite the bullet, at least for tonight.
When we arrived they not only gave us a room with a sea view, they gave it to us at a fabulous price. They then took us in hand, found us some place to eat and handled all the necessary details, allowing us to relax for the first time in hours. I loved five star hotels.
Everything ended up happily ever after. We ended up staying two nights at Le Meridan and adored it, especially the infinity pool overlooking the Adriatic, and Splitturned out to be an amazing treasure. From the splendid seafront promenade to the Old Cityand Diocletian’s Palace, we loved it all. And we have the owner of the Villa Adriatica to thank for it.
We certainly took lemons and made lemoncello, who needs the lemonade? But I cannot wait to log on to Trip Advisor and lambaste both these horrible hotels and their most inhospitable actions! Even if just one person reads my review, we would have gotten our revenge.
FROZEN IN TIME
While traveling throughout Europe, everyday we glimpsed into its long and monumental history. But sprinkled amongst the past were always signs of the present. Whether it was the Millennium Spire in Barcelona, the brand new skyscrapers soaring through the sky on the outskirts of Vienna, the stark white promenade in Split with its wild futuristic awnings and lighting, or Frank Gehry’s Tancici Dum, (AKA Fred & Ginger, who were the architect’s inspirations), on the banks of the Vltava River in Prague, the present was always encroaching on the past. But we were fortunate enough to visit two (make that three) places, which in spite of all seemed, like Rip Van Winkle, frozen in time and completely untouched by the here and now.
It was a mere sixteen short years since they were fighting for their lives against the Serbs, and the incredible Croatians, or Croats, have rebuilt a country they can be proud of. The old city of Dubrovnik, or “Dub,” as the hitchhiker’s sign read, (obviously he had a limited amount of cardboard), was so perfect, we thought we were on a Hollywood movie set. Jutting out into the sapphire blue waters of the Adriatic, its medieval walls stood bold and proud.
Once we passed through the Pile Gate to Old Town, we were transported back to a time when Dubrovnik reigned supreme throughout the Adriatic region. Its immaculately clean, narrow alleyways, lined with shops, and vendors who hawked their fresh fruits and vegetables, stood as it had for centuries. And as we climbed the entire circumference of the ramparts of this once fortified city, we were in awe of its beauty. It was so difficult to phantom that only a short time ago, all the terra cotta colored rooftops, except for ten, were destroyed during the battles which were so recently fought. The stunning views of the Adriaticbrought tears to my eyes, (hey we know that does not take much), as we watched sailboats slowly glide through the gentle waves. We ascended the very narrow road, which led us up to the Summit, the hollowed ground on which one of the last battles was waged. As we gazed down at, “Dubrovnik on a Platter, (which was how our darling girls from our hotel described it), we imagined the grandeur of its past. (I have also included some pictures of the picturesque environs of “Dub,” and in northern Croatiaas well).
Before heading to Prague, we stopped to visit, Cesky Krumlov, a tiny town, on the banks of the Vltava River in the southern Bohemian region of the Czech Republic. Other than the fact that it had been awarded three stars in most of the guide books we had read, we knew very little about this hamlet. But it did not take long for us to become enchanted by its splendor. Like Dubrovnik, no cars were allowed within the historic town, and the smooth cobblestones spoke of its 1,000 year history, dating back to the time of the powerful and wealthy Rozmberk family in 1302.
Divided into two parts, we discovered the wonders of the Inner Town, before we trudged the steep way up to the Latran, and its Gothic chateau. From its gardens, we could not believe our eyes. The scenes which were laid out below were identical to those which could have been viewed for centuries before. The blue sky, and white puffy clouds encircled the Bell Tower and Cathedrals, emblazoned with intricate graffito, (I guess even then there was graffiti, but at that time it was a much sought after legitimate element of architecture), which left us breathless.
I was writing this addendum from along the Romantic Road, in Rothenburg Ob Der Tauber, Germany, an incredibly preserved 13th century medieval town. Wow, it looked just like a children’s pop-up book of Grimm’s fairy tales. By the way, the schneballen pastries were delicious!! (sort of like kichel dough, formed into a ball, see photo, fried, and then either dipped in chocolate or rolled in cinnamon and sugar), I will not bore you with any other information, but we were there just in time for the celebration of Corpus Christi. Hopefully the photos spoke for themselves.
You know I am all for my modern conveniences and creature comforts: air-conditioning, the computer, (I do have a love/hate relationship with that one), and what about Velcro? But isn’t it inspiring that there are still these precious gems which can be visited, which open a tiny doorway to life as it once was, teaching us so many lessons for the future.
You know Fred just had to include the photo of the bears. They lived at the bottom of the moat which surrounded the Cesky Castle. Damn if that bear did not have a smile on his face. In fact, that may become my next blog topic, “The Copulating Habits of European Animals!” J
Sorry for all the photos, but we promise you will enjoy them.
HUNGARIAN NATIONAL SECURITY, WHAT NATIONAL SECURITY?
Fred and I were just sick and tired of being told, “No.” There were no rooms, no there was no tour, no not today, no not here. Enough with no, so we decided to take decisive action when we arrived for a tour of Budapest’s Parliament Building, and were told, “No more tickets today!”
I must digress, and share with you the fact that some of you all ready know. I was a person who generally ignored locked doors and signs which read, No Admittance. For me, all I had to do was follow my Three Simple Rules in order to pass through those velvet ropes:
1- Look nonchalant
2- Do not make eye contact
3- Try to blend and act as if you belonged
Hey it even worked at the El Conquistador Hotel in Puerto Rico. Fred and I were there during an NBA Conference. And one night there was an exclusive, members only cocktail party which I decided to go to. Now I certainly was not a seven foot tall black man, nor could I qualify as the “eye candy,” each of them had on their arms, however, I followed my Three Simple Rules, and bingo, there I was at the bar, drinking free golden margaritas.
All through Europe, I followed these rules religiously, and never had a problem using the bathroom at any of the finest hotels. Forget about public facilities, I just waltzed into a hotel lobby, followed my Three Simple Rules, and immediate access was mine.
Now getting back to Parliament. Disgusted, yet again to hear the dreaded word, No, I decided to take decisive action when I sighted a group of elderly, shall we say Slavic looking men and women of “peasant stock,” awaiting admittance. The fashion police would have had a field day with these folks. And if any one of them dared to light up a cigarette, they would have all simultaneously exploded from the overuse of polyester. And we will not even begin discussing their lack of dental care.
It had been extremely hot in Europe for weeks, and let’s just say Fred and I did not look our best. The few clothes we had brought with us had been washed and washed and washed, until threadbare. The amount of make-up I wore lessened every day because the perspiration ran down my face in rivulets, my hair had become a bushy mess, and my color, after eight weeks of not seeing a bottle of dye, well you get the picture. But even so, we could not imagine ourselves “blending,” with this motley group, but I knew we just had to give it a try.
Therefore, as the uniformed guard opened the gate, we positioned ourselves in the middle of the group, and even though we did not have the tickets they had, we followed my three simple rules, (in this case I instituted Rule #4 – DO NOT SPEAK A WORD!) and we passed right through the gates. At the security check point, we thought we might be discovered, but no, we just put our bags on the conveyor belt, they went through the metal detector, we were issued security wrist bands, each of which had a big red dot, obviously still in use from their Communist days, and we were inside the hollowed halls.
Even though we did not understand one word spoken by the Hungarian guide, or instructions given by the Hungarian security guards, we adhered to my Four Simple Rules, and were treated to the glorious interior architecture, frescoes, and carpets, as well as the opulent crown jewels of St. Stephen. As we entered an elegantly decorated gallery, we did not have to understand the language to realize the room was chock full of European Union propaganda posters. In this case, the flashy, brightly colored photos communicated all they wanted us to know.
As we strolled from chamber to chamber, we could not help but notice another couple, made up of two young men, who we thought were as conspicuous as we thought we were. They were in their late twenties – early thirties, dressed in a funky urban style, and did not seem to be simply traveling companions. As they whispered intimately to each other in Spanish, I had to wonder if my three simple rules had become internationally known.
We just loved Budapest. It was a jewel box of a city, with incredible treasures to be found inside. The ironic Statue Park, where all the discarded Communist statues were exhibited, had the funniest t-shirts, such as The Three Terrors (Stalin, Lenin & Mao), European Tour from 1917 – 1991, with all the European countries listed on the back. In contrast, the House of Terror revealed a much more somber side. This building was where the horrors of the Nazi and Communist regimes were enforced and were now memorialized. And the Szechenyi Thermal Baths in City Park, those really soothed our battered and beaten bodies. (My God we were walking miles a day in the hot sun, and it was still all uphill!). Then, one night we went wine tasting, in the bowels of the ancient Faust Wine Cellars. As we sipped, and sipped and sipped, we were regaled with the Gregorian chant version of 80’s rock music. It was a blast. But more than anything else, the amazing architecture, of an old world grand European capitol was evident everywhere you glimpsed, from along its wide handsome boulevards to the shores of the beautiful Danube.
IT’S GOOD TO BE KING, OR EVEN BETTER HOLY ROMAN EMPEROR
The Hapsburgs had it all, power, wealth, influence, wealth, prestige, wealth, well you got the idea. The marriages of their children, into the other royal families of Europe spread their name, and offspring throughout the continent. It was inbreeding at its finest, but hey we will not go there. From Budapestto Vienna, and then on to Prague, all we heard about were the Hapsburgs.
Used as a summer palace during Maria Theresa’s forty year reign, Schonbrunn Palace, with its 1,441 rooms, was built to rival Versailles, (no way!!). We guessed after Maria Theresa married off her daughter, Marie Antoinette to Louis XVI, she had to make sure she had as grand a ballroom as her daughter. The interiors, many ornamented with 23 1/2 karat gold, attested to the opulent lifestyle lived there.
Set smack in the middle of Vienna, the Hufborg Palacewas a feast for the eyes. Used as their winter palace, it was comprised of over 2,600 rooms, with only a fraction open to the public. While in the Kaiserappartements or Imperial Apartments, as we perused their finely polished bakeware, which shone like glass, I felt homesick for the marvelous collection I had amassed during all my years of entertaining. The hundreds of molds, bombs, terrines and poachers filled me with envy. (Shayne, I hoped you were enjoying them all). Cleaning, laundry, grocery shopping, those chores, were certainly not missed, but cooking…………., yes I knew that was something I longed for. Believe it or not, we were sick of going out to a restaurant for every meal. And I felt twinges of longing for my Portmerion and Haviland Limoges as we gazed at the hundreds of porcelain and golden services used by the Hapsburg family for private and state affairs.
But the most amazing pieces were in the Schatzkammer or Imperial Treasury. On display were the Royal vestments and robes, woven of the finest silk and velvet, with gold threads and encrusted with millions of pearls and precious stones. If that was not luxurious enough, over their shoulders they would be wrapped in ermine fur. The dazzling golden crown jewels, studded with precious gems the size of chicken eggs, left our mouths agape. The golden orbs, (who cannot use a golden orb? Even I had not considered that as a fashion accessory, and you know that is what I live for), scepters, swords and scabbards decorated with diamonds, sapphires and rubies, were countless in number. We could not imagine how during a coronation, when cloaked in these incredible, and extremely heavy, adornments any human being could possibly rise from a kneeling position and walk to his throne. For that alone, those Hapsburgs must have been super humans indeed.
Then it got me thinking and longing for all my precious baubles, left locked up in an old, dark, ugly, and hopefully not smelly, metal safe deposit box. I did not even have the forethought to line it in velvet before leaving. How could I have been so callous? I just hope they will still dazzle for me upon our return.
Lastly we stopped at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, or Museum of Art History, located across the street from the Hofburg, which housed the artwork amassed by the Hapsburgs. Its incredible collection included many rare artifacts from the Ancient Greek and Roman periods, as well as works by the greatest European masters, many of which were plundered, (oh the spoils of war) or outright stolen from the countries they belonged to.
And it finally struck us, we really never had any great masterpieces, except for our Dee Weinstock, so that just made us more homesick, (can you be homesick if you no longer have a home??), for everyone we know and love. So lots of hugs and kisses to all, and we will see you before we know it.
And when we finally got to Bruges, Belgium, guess who was part of their history too, of course the Hapsburgs.
One evening, there was a special light show, accompanied by an organ concert at St. Stephan’s Basilica; therefore we included a few pictures from that as well.
Sadly, the biggest disappointment in Vienna was the pastries. All trip, I could not wait to dig my teeth into those renowned morsels of decadence, namely, Sacher and Dobos torte. And even though we tried them at Demel, the city’s premiere patisserie, we found them dry and lacking in what we considered perfection. We even tried an apple poppy seed torte, and that too fell short. Hmmmmmmm….. These people were really into their poppy seeds, or mohn, but unfortunately there were no mohn kichel in sight. Mom, we really miss you and those delectable goodies too!